The trick is in what one emphasizes. We either make ourselves miserable, or we make ourselves happy. The amount of work is the same. –Carlos Castaneda

Well if the amount of work is the same, I’ll take happy. Any day. Truth be told, life’s been a little rough lately. Like most moms, extra work and not much time have dominated my life. Holiday energy can be great, until it’s not. I love this time of year and yet the gifts to buy, decorations to adorn, and the meals to make can overwhelm even the superist of super moms. So why do we do it?

Like Carlos, I’ve reaped a new perspective and do what I love. I sing Falalala very loud. Write. And I spend time with my family and friends. What I don’t like? Overly tired kids.  Bah Humbug people. Traffic. Plus, one cookie party is enough, isn’t it?  Who cares if we skip bows and ribbons? Isn’t it more important to cut paper snowflakes with our kids than prepare the Martha Meal? Let’s cut down on the holiday hubbub that makes us miserable and spend the extra time making happy.

Maybe we should all order pizza to celebrate. After all Canadian Bacon’s a distant cousin of the holiday ham, right? Either way, emphasizing the happy may be the key to survival during the season of light. Think Joy. And above all the reason for the season.

This is one of the most penetrative passages I’ve come across in Don Juan’s wisdom… It accounts the stopping of our internal dialogue, and how frightening such a thing can be…

—————————————————

In May of 1971, I paid don Juan the last visit of my apprenticeship. I went to see him on that occasion in the same spirit I had gone to see him during the ten years of our association; that is to say, I was once again seeking the amenity of his company. His friend don Genaro, a Mazatec Indian sorcerer, was with him. I had seen both of them during my previous visit six months earlier. I was considering whether or not to ask them if they had been together all that time, when don Genaro explained that he liked the northern desert so much that he had returned just in time to see me. Both of them laughed as if they knew a secret.

“I came back just for you, ” don Genaro said.
“That’s true,” don Juan echoed.
I reminded don Genaro that the last time I had been there, his attempts to help me to “stop the world” had been disastrous for me. That was my friendly way of letting him know that I was afraid of him. He laughed uncontrollably, shaking his body and kicking his legs like a child. Don Juan avoided looking at me and also laughed. “You’re not going to try to help me anymore, are you, don Genaro?” I asked.

My question threw both of them into spasms of laughter. Don Genaro rolled on the ground, laughing, then lay on his stomach and began to swim on the floor. When I saw him doing that I knew I was lost. At that moment my body somehow became aware that I had arrived at the end. I did not know what that end was. My personal tendency to dramatization and my previous experience with don Genaro made me believe that it might be the end of my life. During my last visit to them, don Genaro had attempted to push me to the brink of “stopping the world.” His efforts had been so bizarre and direct that don Juan himself had had to tell me to leave. Don Genaro’s demonstrations of “power” were so extraordinary and so baffling that they forced me to a total re-evaluation of myself. I went home, reviewed the notes that I had taken in the very beginning of my apprenticeship, and a whole new feeling mysteriously set in on me, although I had not been fully aware of it until I saw don Genaro swimming on the floor.

The act of swimming on the floor, which was congruous with other strange and bewildering acts he had performed in front of my very eyes, started as he was lying face down. He was first laughing so hard that his body shook as in a convulsion, then he began kicking, and finally the movement of his legs became coordinated with a paddling movement of his arms, and don Genaro started to slide on the ground as if he were lying on a board fitted with ball bearings. He changed directions various times and covered the entire area of the front of don Juan’s house, manoeuvring around me and don Juan.

Don Genaro had clowned in front of me before, and every time he had done it don Juan had asserted that I had been on the brink of “seeing.” My failure to “see” was a result of my insistence on trying to explain every one of don Genaro’s actions from a rational point of view. This time I was on guard and when he began to swim I did not attempt to explain or understand the event. I simply watched him. Yet I could not avoid the sensation of being dumbfounded. He was actually sliding on his stomach and chest. My eyes began to cross as I watched him. I felt a surge of apprehension. I was convinced that if I did not explain what was happening I would “see,” and that thought filled me with an extraordinary anxiety. My nervous anticipation was so great that in some way I was back at the same point, locked once more in some rational endeavour.

Don Juan must have been watching me. He suddenly tapped me; I automatically turned to face him, and for an instant I took my eyes away from don Genaro. When I looked at him again he was standing by me with his head slightly tilted and his chin almost resting on my right shoulder. I had a delayed startled reaction. I looked at him for a second and then I jumped back. His expression of feigned surprise was so comical that I laughed hysterically. I could not help being aware, however, that my laughter was unusual. My body shook with nervous spasms originating from the middle part of my stomach. Don Genaro put his hand on my stomach and the convulsion- like ripples ceased.

“This little Carlos is always so exaggerated!” he exclaimed as if he were a fastidious man. Then he added, imitating don Juan’s voice and mannerisms, “Don’t you know that a warrior never laughs that way?”
His caricature of don Juan was so perfect that I laughed even harder. Then both of them left together and were gone for over two hours, until about midday. When they returned they sat in the area in front of don Juan’s house. They did not say a word. They seemed to be sleepy, tired, almost absent-minded. They stayed motionless for a long time, yet they seemed to be so comfortable and relaxed. Don Juan’s mouth was slightly opened, as if he were really asleep, but his hands were clasped over his lap and his thumbs moved rhythmically. I fretted and changed sitting positions for a while, then I began to feel a soothing placidity. I must have fallen asleep. Don Juan’s chuckle woke me up. I opened my eyes. Both of them were staring at me.

“If you don’t talk, you fall asleep,” don Juan said, laughing.
“I’m afraid I do,” I said.
Don Genaro lay on his back and began to kick his legs in the air. I thought for a moment that he was going to start his disturbing clowning again, but he went back right away to his cross-legged sitting position.

“There is something you ought to be aware of by now,” don Juan said. “I call it the cubic centimeter of chance. All of us, whether or not we are warriors, have a cubic centimeter of chance that pops out in front of our eyes from time to time. The difference between an average man and a warrior is that the warrior is aware of this, and one of his tasks is to be alert, deliberately waiting, so that when his cubic centimeter pops out he has the necessary speed, the prowess to pick it up.

“Chance, good luck, personal power, or whatever you may call it, is a peculiar state of affairs. It is like a very small stick that comes out in front of us and invites us to pluck it. Usually we are too busy, or too preoccupied, or just too stupid and lazy to realize that that is our cubic centimeter of luck. A warrior, on the other hand, is always alert and tight and has the spring, the gumption necessary to grab it.”

“Is your life very tight?” don Genaro asked me abruptly.
“I think it is,” I said with conviction.

“Do you think that you can pluck your cubic centimeter of luck?” don Juan asked me with a tone of incredulity.
“I believe I do that all the time,” I said.

“I think you are only alert about things you know,” don Juan said.
“Maybe I’m kidding myself, but I do believe that nowadays I am more aware than at any other time in my life,” I said and really meant it.
Don Genaro nodded his head in approval. “Yes,” he said softly, as if talking to himself. “Little Carlos is really tight, and absolutely alert.”

I felt that they were humoring me. I thought that perhaps my assertion about my alleged condition of tightness may have annoyed them.

“I didn’t mean to brag,” I said.
Don Genaro arched his eyebrows and enlarged his nostrils.
He glanced at my notebook and pretended to be writing.
“I think Carlos is tighter than ever,” don Juan said to don Genaro.
“Maybe he’s too tight,” don Genaro snapped.
“He may very well be,” don Juan conceded.
I did not know what to interject at that point so I remained quiet.
“Do you remember the time when I jammed your car?” don Juan asked casually.

His question was abrupt and unrelated to what we had been talking about. He was referring to a time when I could not start the engine of my car until he said I could. I remarked that no one could forget such an event. “That was nothing,” don Juan asserted in a factual tone. “Nothing at all. True, Genaro?”
“True,” don Genaro said indifferently.
“What do you mean?” I said in a tone of protest. “What you did that day was something truly beyond my comprehension.”
“That’s not saying much,” don Genaro retorted.
They both laughed loudly and then don Juan patted me on the back.
“Genaro can do something much better than jamming your car,” he went on. “True, Genaro?”

“True,” don Genaro replied, puckering up his lips like a child.
“What can he do?” I asked, trying to sound unruffled.
“Genaro can take your whole car away!” don Juan exclaimed in a booming voice; and then he added in the same tone, “True, Genaro?”
“True!” don Genaro retorted in the loudest human tone I had ever heard.

I jumped involuntarily. My body was convulsed by three or four nervous spasms.
“What do you mean; he can take my whole car away?” I asked.
“What did I mean, Genaro?” don Juan asked.
“You meant that I can get into his car, turn the motor on, and drive away,” don Genaro replied with unconvincing seriousness.
“Take the car away, Genaro,” don Juan urged him in a joking tone.
“It’s done!” don Genaro said, frowning and looking at me askew. I noticed that as he frowned his eyebrows rippled, making the look in his eyes mischievous and penetrating.
“All right!” don Juan said calmly. “Let’s go down there and examine the car.”

“Yes!” don Genaro echoed. “Let’s go down there and examine the car.”
They stood up, very slowly. For an instant I did not know what to do, but don Juan signalled me to stand up. We began walking up the small hill in front of don Juan’s house. Both of them flanked me, don Juan to my right and don Genaro to my left. They were perhaps six or seven feet ahead of me, always within my full field of vision.

“Let’s examine the car,” don Genaro said again.
Don Juan moved his hands as if he were spinning an invisible thread; don Genaro did likewise and repeated, “Let’s examine the car.”
They walked with a sort of bounce. Their steps were longer than usual, and their hands moved as though they were whipping or batting some invisible objects in front of them. I had never seen don Juan clowning like that and felt almost embarrassed to look at him. We reached the top and I looked down to the area at the foot of the hill, some fifty yards away, where I had parked my car. My stomach contracted with a jolt. The car was not there! I ran down the hill. My car was not anywhere in sight. I experienced a moment of great confusion. I was disoriented. My car had been parked there since I had arrived early in the morning. Perhaps half an hour before, I had come down to get a new pad of writing paper. At that time I had thought of leaving the windows open because of the excessive heat, but the number of mosquitoes and other flying insects that abounded in the area had made me change my mind, and I had left the car locked as usual.

I looked all around again. I refused to believe that my car was gone. I walked to the edge of the cleared area. Don Juan and don Genaro joined me and stood by me, doing exactly what I was doing, peering into the distance to see if the car was somewhere in sight. I had a moment of euphoria that gave way to a disconcerting sense of annoyance. They seemed to have noticed it and began to walk around me, moving their hands as if they were rolling dough in them.
“What do you think happened to the car, Genaro?” don Juan asked in a meek tone.

“I drove it away,” don Genaro said and made the most astounding motion of shifting gears and steering. He bent his legs as though he were sitting, and remained in that position for a few moments, obviously sustained only by the muscles of his legs; then he shifted his weight to his right leg and stretched his left foot to mimic the action on the clutch. He made the sound of a motor with his lips; and finally, to top everything, he pretended to have hit a bump in the road and bobbed up and down, giving me the complete sensation of an inept driver that bounces without letting go of the steering wheel.

Don Genaro’s pantomime was stupendous. Don Juan laughed until he was out of breath. I wanted to join them in their mirth but I was unable to relax. I felt threatened and ill at ease. An anxiety that had no precedence in my life possessed me. I felt I was burning up inside and began kicking small rocks on the ground and ended up hurling them with an unconscious and unpredictable fury. It was as if the wrath was actually outside of myself and had suddenly enveloped me. Then the feeling of annoyance left me, as mysteriously as it had hit me. I took a deep breath and felt better. I did not dare to look at don Juan. My display of anger embarrassed me, but at the same time I wanted to laugh. Don Juan came to my side and patted me on the back. Don Genaro put his arm on my shoulder.

“It’s all right!” don Genaro said. “Indulge yourself. Punch yourself in the nose and bleed. Then you can get a rock and knock your teeth out. It’ll feel good! And if that doesn’t help, you can mash your balls with the same rock on that big boulder over there.”
Don Juan giggled.
I told them that I was ashamed of myself for having behaved so poorly. I did not know what had gotten into me. Don Juan said that he was sure I knew exactly what was going on, that I was pretending not to know, and that it was the act of pretending that made me angry.

Don Genaro was unusually comforting; he patted my back repeatedly.
“It happens to all of us,” don Juan said.
“What do you mean by that, don Juan?” don Genaro asked, imitating my voice, mocking my habit of asking don Juan questions.
Don Juan said some absurd things like “When the world is upside down we are right side up, but when the world is right side up we are upside down. Now when the world and we are right side up, we think we are upside down. . . .” He went on and on, talking gibberish while don Genaro mimicked my taking notes. He wrote on an invisible pad, enlarging his nostrils as he moved his hand, keeping his eyes wide open and fixed on don Juan. Don Genaro had caught on to my efforts to write without looking at my pad in order to avoid altering the natural flow of conversation. His portrayal was genuinely hilarious.

I suddenly felt very at ease, happy. Their laughter was soothing. For a moment I let go and had a belly laugh. But then my mind entered into a new state of apprehension, confusion, and annoyance. I thought that whatever was taking place there was impossible; in fact, it was inconceivable according to the logical order by which I am accustomed to judge the world at hand. Yet, as the perceiver, I perceived that my car was not there.

The thought occurred to me, as it always had happened when don Juan had confronted me with inexplicable phenomena, that I was being tricked by ordinary means. My mind had always, under stress, involuntarily and consistently repeated the same construct. I began to consider how many confederates don Juan and don Genaro would have needed in order to lift my car and remove it from where I had parked it. I was absolutely sure that I had compulsively locked the doors; the handbrake was on; it was in gear; and the steering wheel was locked. In order to move it they would have had to lift it up bodily. That task would have required a labor force that I was convinced neither of them could have brought together. Another possibility was that someone in agreement with them had broken into my car, wired it, and driven it away. To do that would have required a specialized knowledge that was beyond their means. The only other possible explanation was that perhaps they were mesmerizing me. Their movements were so novel to me and so suspicious that I entered into a spin of rationalizations. I thought that if they were hypnotizing me I was then in a state of altered consciousness.

In my experience with don Juan I had noticed that in such states one is incapable of keeping a consistent mental record of the passage of time. There had never been an enduring order, in matters of passage of time, in all the states of nonordinary reality I had experienced, and my conclusion was that if I kept myself alert a moment would come when I would lose my order of sequential time. As if, for example, I were looking at a mountain at a given moment, and then in my next moment of awareness I found myself looking at a valley in the opposite direction, but without remembering having turned around. I felt that if something of that nature would happen to me I could then explain what was taking place with my car as, perhaps, a case of hypnosis. I decided that the only thing I could do was to watch every detail with excruciating thoroughness.

“Where’s my car?” I asked, addressing both of them.
“Where’s the car, Genaro?” don Juan asked with a look of utmost seriousness.

Don Genaro began turning over small rocks and looking underneath them. He worked feverishly over the whole flat area where I had parked my car. He actually turned over every rock. At times he would pretend to get angry and he would hurl the rock into the bushes. Don Juan seemed to enjoy the scene beyond words. He giggled and chuckled and was almost oblivious to my presence.

Don Genaro had just finished hurling a rock in a display of sham frustration when he came upon a good-sized boulder, the only large and heavy rock in the parking area. He attempted to turn it over but it was too heavy and too deeply imbedded in the ground. He struggled and puffed until he was perspiring. Then he sat on the rock and called don Juan to help him. Don Juan turned to me with a beaming smile and said, “Come on, let’s give Genaro a hand.”

“What’s he doing?” I asked.
“He’s looking for your car,” don Juan said in a casual and factual tone.
“For heaven’s sake! How can he find it under the rocks?” I protested.
“For heaven’s sake, why not?” don Genaro retorted and both of them roared with laughter.
We could not budge the rock. Don Juan suggested that we go to the house and look for a thick piece of wood to use as a lever. On our way to the house I told them that their acts were absurd and that whatever they were doing to me was unnecessary.

Don Genaro peered at me. “Genaro is a very thorough man,” don Juan said with a serious expression. “He’s as thorough and meticulous as you are. You yourself said that you never leave a stone unturned. He’s doing the same.” Don Genaro patted me on the shoulder and said that don Juan was absolutely right and that, in fact, he wanted to be like me. He looked at me with an insane glint and opened his nostrils.

Don Juan clapped his hands and threw his hat to the ground. After a long search around the house for a thick piece of wood, don Genaro found a long and fairly thick tree trunk, a part of a house beam. He put it across his shoulders and we started back to the place where my car had been.

As we were going up the small hill and were about to reach a bend in the trail from where I would see the flat parking area, I had a sudden insight. It occurred to me that I was going to find my car before they did, but when I looked down, there was no car at the foot of the hill. Don Juan and don Genaro must have understood what I had had in mind and ran after me, laughing uproariously.

Once we got to the bottom of the hill they immediately went to work. I watched them for a few moments. Their acts were incomprehensible. They were not pretending that they were working; they were actually immersed in the task of turning over a boulder to see if my car was underneath. That was too much for me and I joined them. They puffed and yelled and don Genaro howled like a coyote. They were soaked in perspiration. I noticed how terribly strong their bodies were, especially don Juan’s. Next to them I was a flabby young man. Very soon I was also perspiring copiously. Finally we succeeded in turning over the boulder and don Genaro examined the dirt underneath the rock with the most maddening patience and thoroughness.
“No. It isn’t here,” he announced.

That statement brought both of them down to the ground with laughter. I laughed nervously. Don Juan seemed to have true spasms of pain and covered his face and lay down as his body shook with laughter. “In which direction do we go now?” don Genaro asked after a long rest. Don Juan pointed with a nod of his head.
“Where are we going?” I asked.

“To look for your car!” don Juan said and did not crack a smile.
They again flanked me as we walked into the brush. We had only covered a few yards when don Genaro signalled us to stop. He tiptoed to a round bush a few steps away, looked in the inside branches for a few moments, and said that the car was not there.

We kept on walking for a while and then don Genaro made a gesture with his hand to be quiet. He arched his back as he stood on his toes and extended his arms over his head. His fingers were contracted like a claw. From where I stood, don Genaro’s body had the shape of a letter S. He maintained that position for an instant and then virtually plunged headfirst on a long twig with dry leaves. He carefully lifted it up and examined it and again remarked that the car was not there.

As we walked into the deep chaparral he looked behind bushes and climbed small paloverde trees to look into their foliage, only to conclude that the car was not there either.

Meanwhile I kept a most meticulous mental record of everything I touched or saw. My sequential and orderly view of the world around me was as continuous as it had always been. I touched rocks, bushes, trees. I shifted my view from the foreground to the background by looking out of one eye and then out of the other. By all calculations I was walking in the chaparral as I had done scores of times during my ordinary life.

Next don Genaro lay down on his stomach and asked us to do likewise. He rested his chin on his clasped hands. Don Juan did the same. Both of them stared at a series of small protuberances on the ground that looked like minute hills. Suddenly don Genaro made a sweeping movement with his right hand and clasped something. He hurriedly stood up and so did don Juan. Don Genaro held his clasped hand in front of us and signalled us to come closer and look. Then he slowly began to open his hand. When it was half open a big black object flew away. The motion was so sudden and the flying object was so big that I jumped back and nearly lost my balance. Don Juan propped me up.

“That wasn’t the car,” don Genaro complained. “It was a goddamn fly. Sorry!” Both of them scrutinized me. They were standing in front of me and were not looking directly at me but out of the corners of their eyes. It was a prolonged look.

“It was a fly, wasn’t it?” don Genaro asked me.
“I think so,” I said.
“Don’t think,” don Juan ordered me imperiously. “What did you see?”
“I saw something as big as a crow flying out of his hand,” I said.
My statement was congruous with what I had perceived and was not intended as a joke, but they took it as perhaps the most hilarious statement that anyone had made that day. Both of them jumped up and down and laughed until they choked. “I think Carlos has had enough,” don Juan said. His voice sounded hoarse from laughing. Don Genaro said that he was about to find my car, that the feeling was getting hotter and hotter. Don Juan said we were in a rugged area and that to find the car there was not a desirable thing. Don Genaro took off his hat and rearranged the strap with a piece of string from his pouch, then he attached his woollen belt to a yellow tassel affixed to the brim of the hat.

“I’m making a kite out of my hat,” he said to me.
I watched him and I knew that he was joking. I had always considered myself to be an expert on kites. When I was a child I used to make the most complex kites and I knew that the brim of the straw hat was too brittle to resist the wind. The hat’s crown, on the other hand, was too deep and the wind would circulate inside it, making it impossible to lift the hat off the ground.
“You don’t think it’ll fly, do you?” don Juan asked me.
“I know it won’t,” I said.

Don Genaro was unconcerned and finished attaching a long string to his kite-hat. It was a windy day and don Genaro ran downhill as don Juan held his hat, then don Genaro pulled the string and the damn thing actually flew.

“Look, look at the kite!” don Genaro yelled. It bobbed a couple of times but it remained in the air.
“Don’t take your eyes off of the kite,” don Juan said firmly. For a moment I felt dizzy. Looking at the kite, I had had a complete recollection of another time; it was as if I were flying a kite myself, as I used to, when it was windy in the hills of my home town. For a brief moment the recollection engulfed me and I lost my awareness of the passage of time.

I heard don Genaro yelling something and I saw the hat bobbing up and down and then falling to the ground, where my car was. It all took place with such speed that I did not have a clear picture of what had happened. I became dizzy and absent-minded. My mind held on to a very confusing image. I either saw don Genaro’s hat turning into my car, or I saw the hat falling over on top of the car. I wanted to believe the latter, that don Genaro had used his hat to point at my car. Not that it really mattered, one thing was as awesome as the other, but just the same my mind hooked on that arbitrary detail in order to keep my original mental balance.
“Don’t fight it,” I heard don Juan saying. I felt that something inside me was about to surface. Thoughts and images came in uncontrollable waves as if I were falling asleep. I stared at the car dumbfounded. It was sitting on a rocky flat area about a hundred feet away. It actually looked as if someone had just placed it there. I ran towards it and began to examine it.

“Goddammit!” don Juan exclaimed. “Don’t stare at the car. Stop the world!”

Then as in a dream I heard him yelling, “Genaro’s hat! Genaro’s hat!”
I looked at them. They were staring at me directly. Their eyes were piercing. I felt a pain in my stomach. I had an instantaneous headache and got ill. Don Juan and don Genaro looked at me curiously. I sat by the car for a while and then, quite automatically, I unlocked the door and let don Genaro get in the back seat. Don Juan followed him and sat next to him. I thought that was strange because he usually sat in the front seat. I drove my car to don Juan’s house in a sort of haze. I was not myself at all. My stomach was very upset, and the feeling of nausea demolished all my sobriety. I drove mechanically.

I heard don Juan and don Genaro in the back seat laughing and giggling like children. I heard don Juan asking me, “Are we getting closer?”
It was at that point that I took deliberate notice of the road. We were actually very close to his house.
“We’re about to get there,” I muttered.
They howled with laughter. They clapped their hands and slapped their thighs. When we arrived at the house I automatically jumped out of the car and opened the door for them. Don Genaro stepped out first and congratulated me for what he said was the nicest and smoothest ride he had ever taken in his life. Don Juan said the same. I did not pay much attention to them. I locked my car and barely made it to the house. I heard don Juan and don Genaro roaring with laughter before I fell asleep.

The next day as soon as I woke up I began asking don Juan questions. He was cutting firewood in the back of his house, but don Genaro was nowhere in sight. He said that there was nothing to talk about. I pointed out that I had succeeded in remaining aloof and had observed don Genaro’s “swimming on the floor” without wanting or demanding any explanation whatsoever, but my restraint had not helped me to understand what was taking place. Then, after the disappearance of the car, I became automatically locked in seeking a logical explanation, but that did not help me either. I told don Juan that my insistence on finding explanations was not something that I had arbitrarily devised myself, just to be difficult, but was something so deeply ingrained in me that it overruled every other consideration. “It’s like a disease,” I said.

“There are no diseases,” don Juan replied calmly. “There is only indulging. And you indulge yourself in trying to explain everything. Explanations are no longer necessary in your case.”

I insisted that I could function only under conditions of order and understanding. I reminded him that I had drastically changed my personality during the time of our association, and that the condition that had made that change possible was that I had been capable of explaining to myself the reasons for that change. Don Juan laughed softly. He did not speak for a long time.

“You are very clever,” he finally said. “You go back to where you have always been. This time you are finished though. You have no place to go back to. I will not explain anything to you anymore. Whatever Genaro did to you yesterday he did it to your body, so let your body decide what’s what.”

Don Juan’s tone was friendly but unusually detached and that made me feel an overwhelming loneliness. I expressed my feelings of sadness. He smiled. His fingers gently clasped the top of my hand. “We both are beings who are going to die,” he said softly. “There is no more time for what we used to do. Now you must employ all the not-doing I have taught you and stop the world.”

—————and the explanation of what happened—————–

We were quiet for a long time. Don Juan had his hands clasped over his stomach. His thumbs moved almost imperceptibly. “Genaro will also have to go with us to that valley,” he said all of a sudden. “He is the one who has helped you to stop the world.”

Don Juan looked at me with piercing eyes. “I will tell you one more thing,” he said and laughed. “It really does matter now. Genaro never moved your car from the world of ordinary men the other day. He simply forced you to look at the world like sorcerers do, and your car was not in that world. Genaro wanted to soften your certainty. His clowning told your body about the absurdity of trying to understand everything. And when he flew his kite you almost saw. You found your car and you were in both worlds. The reason we nearly split our guts laughing was because you really thought you were driving us back from where you thought you had found your car.”
“But how did he force me to see the world as sorcerers do?”

“I was with him. We both know that world. Once one knows that world all one needs to bring it about is to use that extra ring of power I have told you sorcerers have. Genaro can do that as easily as snapping his fingers. He kept you busy turning over rocks in order to distract your thoughts and allow your body to see.”

I told him that the events of the last three days had done some irreparable damage to my idea of the world. I said that during the ten years I had been associated with him I had never been so moved, not even during the times I had ingested psychotropic plants.
“Power plants are only an aid,” don Juan said. “The real thing is when the body realizes that it can see. Only then is one capable of knowing that the world we look at every day is only a description. My intent has been to show you that.”
-    From Carlos Castaneda’s Journey to Ixtlan.

“Olhe cada caminho com cuidado e atenção e percorra-o tantas vezes quantas julgar necessárias.
Então, faça a si mesmo e apenas a si mesmo uma pergunta: esse caminho tem coração?”

"A diferença fundamental entre o homem comum e o guerreiro, é que o guerreiro encara tudo como desafio, enquanto o homem comum encara tudo como bênção ou maldição."

Um grande abraço a todos

Azi ar trebui să scriu. După un week-end pe care-l simt în oase deodată cu oboseala insatisfacției că toamna – când s-o văd și eu – a ținut numai o zi, sunt făcută dintr-o materie plutitoare.

Ionuț Andrișan se psihanaliza zilele trecute pe blog și, citind, am alunecat într-un deja vu din care deși fac eforturi de a ieși, nu reușesc.

Există vise premonitorii? Sau atunci când dormim cineva călătorește cu sufletul nostru printre stele, pe alte planete locuite de alte forme de viață? Am scris anterior într-o postare că între 18 și 21 de ani a fost cea mai fastă perioadă din viața mea. Cu lecturi, entuziasm, prieteni adevărați, pace și inspirație. Apoi, am alunecat în viață cu tot cu visele mele pe care mi le-am zdrobit de caldarâm de multe ori. M-am ridicat de fiecare dată. Până acum.  Am visat, într-o noapte de vară plină de stelele pe care puteam să le-ating, un vis care mă urmărește cum mă urmărește îngerul meu personal. Doi adolescenți, unul blond și celălalt brunet, au venit din cer cu o carte. Au coborât la mine-n odaie și au deschis Cartea. Au citit, pe rând, pasaje din ea. Fraze pe care le-auzeam direct cu mintea, nu cu urechile. Au închis cartea, m-au privit îndelung, cu gravitate și apoi au dispărut.

Cei care se îndeletnicesc cu scrisul știu că inspirația vine când vine. Deși corpul tău face mișcările pe care le-a-nvățat, ca un mecanism, ceva din tine e ”conectat” în altă parte. Mi s-a întâmplat să am revelația că scriu ceea ce fusese scris dinainte în cartea din care-mi citiseră cei doi adolescenți din vis.

Dacă ați citit cărțile lui Carlos Castaneda, ați putut descoperi ”latura activă a infinității”, acea parte din noi veșnică, neperisabilă, sacră.

Există în om o forță nebănuită de care nu e nici măcar conștient. Doar din când în când are acces limitat la fulgurațiile ei.

Dacă vrea să iasă din Tenebre și, trecând prin ritualul călătoriei inițiatice, să-și valorifice și să scoată la lumină Dumnezeul din sine.

E atât de simplu… Dar, ca să ajungi la simplitatea magică a eliberării de sine, trebuie să ”arzi” toată murdăria ce ”e în mod fatal legată/ de o mână de pământ”… Cum? Cred că fiecare are calea lui proprie…

“We either make ourselves miserable, or we make ourselves strong. The amount of work is the same.”

– Carlos Castaneda

Float my Boat

5″ x 7″ Atelier Interactive Acrylic
on Black Gessoed Ampersand Aquabord Panel

This is my last post until the 18th. I am leaving to go to Port Townsend, Washington for Don Tiller’s acrylic workshop. (I am so excited.) Then I’ll take a ferry over to Whidbey Island, to spend a few days with my little sister. Have a good week and I’ll see you when I get back. Happy Veteran’s Day to all of our veterans!

About Carlos Castaneda

Carlos Castaneda, the Peruvian-born new age writer, is known for his book series about his apprenticeship with Don Juan Matus, the Toltec shaman, including A Separate Reality and Journey to Ixtlan. The books are about the nature of perception and include many hallucinatory experiences. It is unknown how much of his writing was factual. He wrote the first three books as an anthropology student at UCLA, and they quickly gained cult success. He was born in 1925 and died in 1998.

For the FCC: I do not receive anything from the manufacturers or suppliers of products mentioned in today’s blog post. I just tell you what I like.

One day each year (usually on my birthday) I take time to read the passage below from Carlos Castaneda’s The Teachings of Don Juan and recommit to what feels best for me – a path with heart.

“For me there is only traveling on the paths that have heart, on any path that may have heart. There, I travel, and the only worthwhile challenge is to traverse its full length, and there I travel looking, looking breathlessly.”

What path will you travel?

Today I am grateful to Lorna Roberts for bringing the above quote to my consciousness back in the mid 1990’s, and for helping me to see that a path with heart lies within.

I am grateful to my parents for having the strength, courage and wisdom to bring me into this world and for providing me with great comfort for many years.

I am grateful for the fruitful abundance of this planet and all the beings who walk here with us.

I am happy and grateful to have work that I love, friends who tell me the truth, peace of mind, music to dance to, a bed to sleep in, the ability to travel around the world, time for stillness, silence and conscious breathing, laughter and tears, and a peaceful and prosperous re-birth year.

Amen.

Thanks and peace to all!

Joe

“I am already given to the power that rules my fate. And I cling to nothing, so I will have nothing to defend. I have no thoughts, so I will see. I fear nothing, so I will remember myself. Detached and at ease, I will dart past the eagle to be free.” – The Eagle’s Gift

This quote spun through my mind all night. It has been one of my favorite quotes for many years. My thoughts, last night, encompassed the meaning of karma, the beliefs surrounding it, its effects and the illusion of it.

The Buddhists say that everything is an illusion. If this is so then karma must be an illusion as well. For most Americans, karma functions like fate, i.e. bad karma/good karma and is far too often associated with punishment/reward. In the true Buddhist sense, however, the word karma is more aligned with the sorcerers meaning of the word intent. The basic meaning of karma is action and the best definition for intent is the movable force. 

The goal of every Toltec warrior is to achieve ultimate freedom. To be able to walk through life free from attachments, perceptions, delusions and illusions as well as the opportunity to walk the fine line of being in the world but not of it.

To maintain a western belief of karmic retribution would place unwarranted limitations upon a warrior of freedom. Freedom would become elusive as a warrior maintains the belief that they have to be karmically indebted for a deed or misdeed. To maintain this perceptual basis and to believe that punishments or the fruits of karma will carry into the next lifetime ultimately burden a warrior and weighs him down.

I am already given to the power that rules my fate.  Don’t worry, be happy! Be an impeccable warrior; don’t lose energy to the illusion.

I cling to nothing, so I have nothing to defend.  Fluidity! Life is a journey, not a mystery to be solved. To defend is to act from a point of self-importance that can throw one completely off-center and create anger and ill-will.  

I have no thoughts, so I will see.  The power of silence! Dismiss the thoughts as they arise and celebrate your ability to be in your power and as one with the universe, the indescribable force.

I fear nothing so I will remember myself. Reclaim your personal power. Stand firm in your center, your cosmic center of your life force essence and maintain that connection.

Detached and at ease, I will dart past the eagle to be free. Cling to nothing. Recapitulate, erase personal history, maintain integrity, be impeccable and don’t buy into “illusory constructs”.

“Accept your fate in humbleness. The course of a warrior’s destiny is unalterable. The challenge is how far he can go within those rigid bounds, how impeccable he can be within those rigid bounds. If there are obstacles in his path, the warrior strives impeccably to overcome them. If he finds unbearable hardship and pain on his path, he weeps, but all his tears put together could not move the line of his destiny the breadth of one hair. Fulfill your fate as a warrior not as a petty person.” – The Eagle’s Gift

In summary I find that our entire existence remains in question and can only say “Question the Answers!”

Halloween III: The Season of the Witch

 

Halloween III: Season of the Witch is a 1982 horror film and the third installment in the Halloween series. Directed by Tommy Lee Wallace and starring Tom Atkins, Stacey Nelkin and Dan O’Herlihy. The film is based on an original screenplay by Nigel Kneale and focuses on an evil scheme by the owner of a mask company to kill the children of America on Halloween night through a series of popular Halloween masks – a witch, a jack-o’-lantern, and a skull.

Season of the Witch is unrelated to the previous films featuring the character Michael Myers, and was intended to begin Halloween as an anthology series, releasing a new Halloween storyline every year. The only connection this movie has with the others in the series is a scene where the trailer for Halloween is on TV. Besides wholly abandoning the Michael Myers plotline, Halloween III departs from the slasher film genre which the original Halloween spawned in 1978. The focus on a psychopathic killer is replaced by a “mad scientist and witchcraft” theme. Moreover, the frequency of graphic violence and gore is less than that of Halloween II (1981), although scenes that depict the deaths of characters remain intense.

Produced on a budget of $2.5 million, Halloween III grossed $14.4 million at the box office in the United States, making it the poorest performing film in the Halloween series at the time. In addition to relatively weak box office returns, most critics gave the film negative reviews. Where Halloween had broken new ground and was imitated by many genre films following in its wake, this third installment seemed hackneyed to many: one critic twenty years later suggests that if Halloween III was not part of the Halloween series, then it would simply be “a fairly nondescript eighties horror flick, no worse and no better than many others.”

Trivia:

• The original writer of the story was Nigel Kneale but he sued the producers to take his name off the movie after seeing how violent it was.
• A milk factory was used for the setting of the Silver Shamrock factory.
• After Michael Myers died at the end of Halloween II (1981), the plan by John Carpenter was to make a new “Halloween” movie each year, each telling a different Halloween-related story. After this movie underperformed at the box office, the film-makers decided to bring Michael back to life for future sequels.
• The tagline “The night nobody comes home” is a play on the original Halloween movie’s tagline, “The night HE came home.”
• Michael Myers does appear briefly in this film, on a television advertising the original Halloween (1978). It comes near the beginning when Dan Challis is drinking in a bar.
• When Challis fills in the register at the motel office, he scans the list of names for evidence of Ellie’s father’s stay. All of the other names on the list are the names of the crew.
• The small town of Santa Mira was also the setting for Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956).
• The voice of the operator that Challis keeps getting when he tries to call out of Santa Mira is Jamie Lee Curtis.
• The book that Marge Guttman is reading before her death in the motel room is “The Eagle’s Gift” by Carlos Castaneda.
• The music playing on the radio when Marge Guttman notices the tag on the floor was also played in John Carpenter’s The Fog (1980).
• Supposedly, part of the genesis of this film came from a comment made by film critic Rex Reed. Reed panned Halloween II (1981), saying it was so bad that, “If they make a Halloween III, I’ll turn in my press card.”
• The voice of the announcer in the Silver Shamrock commercials and radio spots is that of the film’s writer/director Tommy Lee Wallace.
• “Season of the Witch” was the original working title of Martin Scorsese’s Mean Streets (1973). “Season Of The Witch” is also the name of a song by Donovan and an alternative name for the George A. Romero film Hungry Wives (1972). Also the name of an upcoming Nicolas Cage movie: Season of the Witch (2010).
• A novelization of the film was published in 1982 by science-fiction writer Dennis Etchison under the pseudonym Jack Martin. Despite the film’s commercial failure, the book became a best-seller and was even reissued two years after the film’s release, in 1984.
• Using the original molds, the skull, witch, and jack-o’-lantern masks seen in the film were mass-produced by Don Post Studios and sold in retail stores to promote the film’s release.
• ‘John Carpenter’ revealed in an interview with Gilles Boulenger (for the book John Carpenter: The Prince of Darkness) that the original director for Halloween III: Season of the Witch was ‘Joe Dante’.
• Dick Warlock, the stunt man who played Michael Myers in Halloween II (1981), is credited under ‘assassin’ in the credits.
• The film’s original director, ‘Joe Dante’, approached Nigel Kneale to write the film while Kneale was temporarily living in Hollywood writing the remake of Creature from the Black Lagoon (1954) for director John Landis that was never made due to budget cost. Dante wanted a new and different story than the two previous films in the series, so he suggested Kneale write a treatment around the word Halloween. The producers liked the idea, and after Joe Dante moved on to another project, producer John Carpenter’s regular collaborator, Tommy Lee Wallace, came in as the new director. Kneale initially blamed the drastic changes to his script on executive producer ‘Dino De Laurentiis’ not understanding his dialogue when it was translated to Italian. Kneale requested his writing screen credit be removed once his comical mystery screenplay was rewritten by an uncredited Carpenter, and then later Wallace (who received sole screen credit as writer), to include more gore and simplify the story.
• Garn Stephens refused to wear the prosthetic mask during the misfire scene. So a body double was used to complete the scene.

As we end our work week, here’s a quotation that really hit home for me.  And, it really helps to put things in perspective a bit as well.  The second quotation, sums it up pretty well also (in my humble opinion).  Happy Friday!

“The trick is in what one emphasizes. We either make ourselves miserable, or we make ourselves strong. The amount of work is
the same.”  — Carlos Castaneda

“The meaning of life is to give life meaning.”    — Ken Hudgins

September 20, 2009

I had been charting my fertility and ovulation for a few months. Though I found it interesting (and helpful to keep track of my monthly cycle, when I began bleeding and so forth), I never seemed to be “regular” enough to make sense of the chart. I suppose if I stuck with it for a while I might notice some patterns, and I am definitely not suggesting that these charts are useless in any way – I think all women should keep track of their cycles. But my temperature, which was supposed to increase when I was ovulating and then go back down, once suggested that I never ovulated, and another time never went back down, suggesting that I was pregnant when I wasn’t. I also didn’t seem to notice any consistencies with my cervical secretions, which is another great, and I think the most sound, way to notice when you are ovulating.  So, frustrated, I didn’t keep track in September, feeling a bit guilty about it – feeling a bit lazy. But, having a sense of the way the chart worked in my head, I mentally kept track of my period that month and estimated (and felt intuitively) when my most fertile days were. Lincoln and I were also having frequent sex, so I was confident that one of the days we had intercourse would be the right one, not to mention that sperm live in your body for a couple days (under the right cervical fluidity) and was hopeful that all would be in place if conception was meant to happen this month. For some reason, I just wasn’t worried about keeping track either. I just knew that it would happen in September.

My birthday is September 22, the fall Equinox. I have always found that to be significant – a powerful birthday. Not to mention I am, for lack of better terms, “pagan” or “nature oriented” in spiritual beliefs and indeed, the equinoxes and solstices are of great importance. On the 20th of September, late at night (so really it was the wee early hours of the 21st) Lincoln and I made passionate love. We are wonderful love-makers. We believe in the sacredness and power of sex and “worship” each other, and the beauty of life, through our copulation. I myself am very apt at practicing tantra, (“sex magic”) in which I am able to harness and move my sexual energy as it rises through my body, recycling it, focusing it, and then expending it at the right moment with immense intent and love behind it, casting it onto anything I want to put emphasis behind. Usually it is just my love for Lincoln and our union, sending my energy down my body, through his penis, into him. But sometimes, there are specific issues I like to focus on. This night, as has been the case lately, I focused my intent on conceiving.

Human orgasm is The Strongest, most potent type of energy that flows through our bodies and we shouldn’t just let it fly out of us undeliberately, at least not every time – I try to never let that happen. (I will talk more about tantra and sex magic in other postings…) Lincoln is the key, though. I had not discovered this type of power until he and I united. When we come together, it is like two hot wires get fused together and zzzzzing! There is an electrical current that runs through our bodies when we are physically connected (though I can channel this energy, often referred to as Kundalini energy, when I masturbate as well). But I am more able to enjoy the process when I am with Lincoln because I can look into his eyes, feel his body moving, really become one with another human being, which is amazing – such a true gift; intimate connection with others is what life is all about. There is so much love between us, and it was certainly there that early morning of September 21st. “Wouldn’t it be funny if I conceived on my birthday?” I mused to Lincoln. Because if I did conceive now, I knew that nine months later would be the Summer Solstice – another remarkable day to be born. I played with this idea in my mind.

Carlos Castaneda’s teachings suggest that a person will not be a powerful, well-balanced individual unless both parents orgasmed during conception. Now, I take Castaneda’s teachings with a grain of salt, and I take Carlos himself with half a grain, but I think what we can get out of that belief is that both partners should be tuned in – focused, passionate, happy, sensual, enjoying themselves and each other, powerful, supportive, equal, and fully present in that moment. Of  course conception can happen without such pleasantries,  and there is also in vitro fertilization and so on: I am not suggesting such an individual born to an occasion lacking two present people of coital mutuality will be a poorly developed, miserable person of low capabilities in this world. But, don’t we all just agree that under the best of circumstances, a loving and joyful couple orgasming in bliss would be the best choice you’d want to be conceived under? And just to set things straight, I believe that I myself was probably not conceived under such ideal conditions – my mother has never spoken positively about sex,especially with my father, whom she is now divorced from, and doesn’t like when I talk about sex. Carlos would suggest that a person like me has a lot of recapitulation and energy work to do, which I have, but I am not here to tout Castaneda teachings in the least. All I am really trying to say is: I had a big, explosive, electrifying orgasm that night, as did Lincoln, and then, as he remained in me, beaming in after glow, I came again, mentally (and physically as much as one can) using my orgasm to urge his miraculous sperm to flow where they needed to, channeling them, coaxing them, directing them.

We held each other for a while, as we always do, until he naturally shrank out of me. This is my favorite time of all, for we are both buzzing, completely entangled with each other, petting, kissing, adoring, whispering, nuzzling, body parts lusciously wrapped around the beloved, bathing in each other’s dewy scents. The entire world is us; we are Eden – pure, naked, glorified, delicious.

We separated and were lying next to each other silently in the darkness. About 5 minutes passed since we fucked and then suddenly:

A haunting, fascinating chorus of coyotes began to howl, bark, sing, chant - it was incredibly eery and magnificent all at once. The sound grew louder and louder  – right outside our window. I thought they might just jump up on the porch and charge right through the walls of the house! Then I felt it, during the rich chorus of cries and laughs, I felt myself expanding inside, in my middle, in my uterus. It was like I had no middle body – like my body dissolved and I was wide, wide as the earth – the universe – itself. I was almost queezy from this open, expansive feeling. It felt like when you go over a roller coaster and your “stomach drops.” Then I was looking down at myself from above, like an out-of-body experience. I saw my face – eyes wide, mouth in half-open shock in the revelation of the moment – all I could see was my face and chest -  a tunnel vision with me at the end. At first I floated above, watching myself for a pause, then a swoooosh and down through the tunnel, into myself I went. Back in my body, I was tingling, and once again focused on the yips of the dogs. A huge grin, fat and dumb, like a egoless child, smeared across my face. I knew. I knew I had conceived right at that moment. The coyotes continued their call, and I knew they were connected to the conception  – the events synchronistic. I thanked the dogs, the yelps fading away as they retreated to the woods.  As if I heard a voice, I understood that the child was to be named Coyote.

I was told later, by a very intuitive, shamanic friend, that the feeling I felt at the moment of conception seemed right on, for what really happens at the moment the sperm and egg meet is a huge cataclysmic explosion – on a microscopic scale, of course, but such a potent boom, regardless of size, could no doubt be felt in my body as well as understood by my consciousness and the electric field which is in and around my body. No one really knows what technically happens to set in motion that divine spark of life, but that spark felt like a wildfire within me, there was no mistaking it . This friend also told me that Coyote is a strong name, animal totem speaking. He was impressed when I told him about the event – so impressed that two days later he suddenly brought it up again just to reinforce just how moved and in agreement he was with the name. He said that where he lives in British Columbia, he knows a man who goes by the name Coyote – a  Medicine Man, who he says is a wise and powerful man indeed.

Lincoln played indifferent, though I didn’t expect him to get overly excited about any name I suggested – he’s just chill like that. I know he really likes it, even though he finds it a bit odd for a name – he gets it. He recognizes the significance and plays coy with me, smiling with a controlled, gentle grin. Because ultimately he realizes that I am going to name the baby what I want and he’s just going to step back and let me. Unless he felt absolute negative vibes with the name, I don’t think he’d interfere with what I want the name to be.

Now I sing to Coyote, and I imagine it’s spirit running with the wild dogs while I dream. I have a feeling it is a boy, even though Lincoln and I were hoping for a girl. Coyote would make a strong wild woman, though, which would be beautiful to see. But I have no slant anymore either way. I am just thrilled to be pregnant, in awe that I was chosen to carry and mother this amazing person – a wise and powerful person indeed.

***Please see the post “Coyote Spirit” for coyote totem meanings and more beautiful images***

Also, there will be a posting or page on fertility charting – what it is and how to get started with yours.

And as mentioned above, I will blog on tantra, sex magic, and kundalini as well.  Stay in touch, friend!

In Harold’s story, a ship piloted by Beings of unknown origin arrives on earth with a solution to the insurmountable problems facing humanity. So I figure, okay . . . aliens. But this storyline actually has some resonance in Western culture. There’s often a moment pictured in religious texts where God returns to correct the wrongs of humanity and establish Heaven on Earth. Here is an amazing science fact: Sir Issac Newton calculated the date 2060 as the year Christ would return, or variously, as when the world ends. The father of modern science was also a religious man.

Using his extraordinary powers of calculation, Newton tried to extract scientific information from the Bible. Though the political climate in the 17th century required decorum around all matters pertaining to the Bible, Newton held the heretical belief that the Christ could not be equal to God. Newton’s universe required a creator beyond and more powerful than anything known to man. The Trinity was poppycock, a doctrine without reason. Anyway, Newton risked his tenure at Cambridge in applying reason to the Bible.

Aliens? Yes. What about the aliens? Let’s risk a bit of scientific heresy and research the extraterrestrial hypothesis. If I am going to write a story that deals with aliens, I must understand my subject – as much as it can be known to humans anyway. To begin, I performed my obligatory Google search and found a primer on the subject, a documentary by James Fox called, Out of the Blue. This film turned my complacent view of aliens on its head. It’s not just a pop culture phenomenon?

I spend hours upon hours pouring through books on mysticism. I enjoy a good mystery. So after years of reading books, why haven’t I ever enjoyed the literature on UFOs? The answer is simple self-respect. The UFO literature is entirely discredited. Powell’s Books, the largest bookstore in the world, stores these books alongside Speculative Histories of Atlantis. A sticker on the shelf declares the warning to customers: this section under surveillance of security cameras. There is a virtual force field of paranoia surrounding the shelf. You feel irrational just browsing the section. What’s more, you feel that it’s dangerous to read books penned by crazies. Ah, at last, I’ve found my people. . . . Some serious mystery! But, can I endure this? Can I survive it?

The last time I devoured the works of a legitimate madman, six years of spellbound fascination ended with a sleepless night reading his wife’s expose and crying in the shower the next morning. Talk about self-respect. I had been betrayed. Carlos Castaneda had lied. I was utterly bereft. I wanted to believe there were sorcerers from ancient Mexico who taught a young university student how to travel in other dimensions. I didn’t want my hero to be just another manipulative authority figure. I took this betrayal personally: the authority figure I chose to believe was a madman. What about the last six years I held to his claims of another reality, and tried to reach it?

My foray into the new age began with a will to believe. I wanted Don Juan to be real. Unfortunately, Castaneda’s journey teaches us something all too human about human nature. His books are about power. The story of Castaneda’s real life concludes the tale upon a dark note: the abuse of power. He became a tyrannical cult leader at the end of his life. But really, no investigation of power is complete without a good look at its ability to corrupt an individual.

I wanted to escape the deception and violence humanity employs in the maintenance of power, only to find myself devoured by the tyranny of one man’s imagination. (I concede that Journey to Ixltan, Tales of Power, The Second Ring of Power, The Eagle’s Gift, The Fire From Within, ah the list goes on . . . these are all good reads. This is more fantasy and science fiction than you could ever hope to find in the actual fantasy and sci-fi section of the library. And the novels are best read in combination with the books written by his wives. Yes, there were more than one – even though Castaneda claimed to be celibate. The most notable is Amy Wallace’s book, The Sorcerer’s Apprentice, My Life With Carlos Castaneda.)

Okay, so this is just to explain. . . . When I started to investigate UFOs, aliens, and government cover-ups, I was not to be duped. The UFO literature is not my first exposure to humans spinning tales of great mysteries. But what I found after just a few days of research was more than I could account to fantasy. I emailed Harold with links to the videos. I figured any alien story could only benefit from this. This material was rich!

But what to start with? There is just so much good stuff. . . . ah hell, I figure a statement by former, Canadian Minister of Defense, Paul Hellyer, videotapped at a press conference saying that extraterrestrial vehicles are a documented fact. That’s a good a start.

Here is Harold’s response:

This is interesting. I have met Rep. Kucinich on several (non-UFO related) occasions and he believes that UFO’s exist. Like Paul Hellyer, he is completely opposed to the weaponization of space.

I believe that there are flying objects which are unidentified. I have trouble believing that these objects are advanced ships inhabited by extra terrestrials.

My theories: they are probably military aircraft from our own time or from the far future.

In my opinion, if our current rate of technological progress continues, future humans could evolve to have larger heads and smaller bodies.

Alternatively, a time travel journey may require a specific type of trans-human created to handle the effects of the trip.

These theories seem more probable to me than extraterrestrial visitation.

*

We all have a legitimate desire to understand the nature of reality. That’s science; but as I have discovered, science has a political cast. My sudden appointment to help Harold write science fiction led me to phenomenon beyond the accepted boundary of scientific inquiry. No worries. This was something of a reappointment – accustomed to the strangest stuff out there, I have finally found a subject that exceeds everything I have so far encountered, both in it’s power to intrigue and to scare the daylights out of me.

Self importance is our greatest enemy. Think about it – what weakens us is feeling offended by the deeds and misdeeds of our fellowmen. Our self importance requires that we spend most of our lives offended by someone.
–Carlos Castaneda

.
O is for Orange
2.5″ x 3.5″ Watercolor & Ink

Today, I was looking at Leslie White’s wonderful Blog and I checked out an artist on her blogroll, Rog Lyngaas’. Oh my! Go see his beautiful Idaho landscapes. It’s fun to discover new artists.

Carlos Castaneda (25 December 1925 – 27 April 1998) was a Peruvian-born American author. Starting with The Teachings of Don Juan in 1968, Castaneda wrote a series of books that describe his purported training in traditional Mesoamerican shamanism. His 12 books have sold more than 8 million copies in 17 languages. The books and Castaneda, who rarely spoke in public about his work, have been controversial for many years. Supporters claim the books are either true or at least valuable works of philosophy and descriptions of practices which enable an increased awareness. Critics have tended to claim that the books are works of fiction, citing what they see as their internal contradictions and Castaneda’s description of a peyote culture that, to them, did not exist.

In his books, Castaneda narrated in first person what he claimed were his experiences under the tutelage of a Yaqui shaman named Don Juan Matus whom he met in 1960. Castaneda wrote that he was identified by Don Juan Matus as having the energetic configuration of a “nagual,” who, if the spirit chose, could become a leader of a party of seers. He also used the term “nagual” to signify that part of perception which is in the realm of the unknown yet still reachable by man, implying that, for his party of seers, Don Juan was in some way a connection to that unknown. Castaneda often referred to this unknown realm as nonordinary reality, which indicated that this realm was indeed a reality, but radically different from the ordinary reality experienced by human beings who are well engaged in everyday activities as part of their social conditioning.

İÇİNDEKİLER

Doğan Cüceloğlu´nun Önsözü ile…

Çevirmenin Önsözü

Juan Yoliliztli´nin Önsözü

Armando Torres´nin Önsözü

BİRİNCİ BÖLÜM

BİLGİYLE BİR ROMANS

1 Büyücüler Devrimi

2 Kişisel Önemlilik

3 Savaşçının Yolu

4 Ölüm Bilinci

5 Enerjisel Drenaj

6 Özetleme

7 Sessizliğin Eşiği

İKİNCİ BÖLÜM

SAVAŞÇININ SÖYLEŞİSİ

1 Kavramsal Doygunluk

Bir İnançlar Envanteri

İnanmaksızın İnanmak

Sessizlik Uygulaması

2 Asgari Şans

Usta İhtiyaç Değildir

Kendi Kendini Tanıma

6 Nagual ile Karşılaşma

3 Erk Bitkileri

Sabitlenme Kapanı

Rüya ve Uyanıklık

Algının Kapısı

Rüya Çifti

4 İz Sürme Sanatını Öğrenmek

Nagualın İşareti

Küçük Tiranın İzini Sürmek

5 Algının Bağdaşıklığı

Bilinç Asalakları

Zihinselliği Kaybetmek

Birleşim Noktasının Hareketi

6 Birleşim Noktasının Varlığını Sürdürmesi

Periyodik Varlıklar

Büyücünün Alternatifi

Son Seçim

7 Eski Meksika Görücüleri

Köklere Dönüş Yolculuğu

İkinci Dikkatin Antenleri

8 Nagualın Teyit Edilmesi

Esasa Dönüş

İnanıyorum Çünkü İstiyorum

9 Bilginin Yeni Bir Aşaması

Randevu Rüyayladır

Öğretiyi Kitlelere Taşımak

Bilgiyle Bir Romans

Sihirli Geçişler

10 Hattın Sonu

Yolun Evrimi

Yeni Çağın Görücüleri

Entelektüel Hazırlık

Nagualın İşi

Ölü Mahzeninde Buluşma

ÜÇÜNCÜ BÖLÜM

ÜÇ ÇATALLI NAGUAL KURALI

Önsöz

Yora

Kural Nedir

Kural’ın Kaynağı

Kişisel Olmayan Bir Oluşum

Bir Klanın Biçimlenişi

Klanın Yapısı

Kural’ın Amacı

Üç Çatallı Naguallar

Üç Çatallı Naguala Dair Kuralın Payı

Günümüz Görücülerinin İşi

DÖRDÜNCÜ BÖLÜM

GÜNÜMÜZDE ESKİ GÖRÜCÜLERİN DÜNYASI

Doğan Cüceloğlu’nun Önsözü

Pek yaptığım bir şey olmadığı halde, Nagual İle Karşılaşma-

Büyücüler Devrimi’ne önsöz yazmaya gönüllü oldum. Büyücülük

bana olumsuz çağrışımlar yaptıran bir kelime. Türk Dil

Kurumu Sözlüğü, ‘büyü’ kelimesi için şu tanımı yapıyor: Tabiat

kanunlarına aykırı sonuçlar elde etmek iddiasında olanların

başvurdukları gizli işlem ve davranışlara verilen genel ad, afsun,

efsun, sihir, füsun, bağı. ‘Büyücülük’ için, Büyücünün yaptığı iş,

bağıcılık, efsunculuk, afsunculuk, sihirbazlık diyor.

Carlos Castenada, Don Juan Matus adlı Yaqui Kızılderili ile

yıllarca bir sosyal antropoloji öğrencisi olarak çalışmış ve onun

öğretilerini kitaplarında anlatmıştır. Castaneda’nın kitaplarını yıllar

önce İngilizcelerinden okudum; bir yıl önce ise Türkçelerini

okudum. O kitaplarda “büyücülük” adı altında dile getirilen temel

felsefe ve yaşam anlayışı, bilimsel düşüncenin temelleri üzerine

kurulmuş çağdaş uygarlık anlayışından farklı; hem de çok farklı.

Bilimsel tutuma güveniyorum. Bilimsel yaklaşımın temelinde

gerçeğe ve akla koşulsuz saygı vardır. Ne var ki, bilim ve aklı

tek başına yeterli görmüyorum. Çağdaş yaşamın temellerinden

birinin “bilimsel tutum,” diğerinin de “gönül” olması gerektiğine

inanıyorum. Aklın gücü kadar gönlün rehberliğine de gereksinmemiz

olduğunu sezinliyorum.

Bu noktada kendimi bir çelişki içinde görüyorum: bir yandan

bilimsel tutuma inanıyorum, bir yandan da bilimsel yaklaşıma ve

insan aklına çok ters düşen “büyücü” yaklaşımını anlatan bir kitaba

önsöz yazıyorum.

Niçin? Çünkü bu kitapta da “savaşçının yolu” ile ilgili önemli

bilgiler ve gözlemler var ve benim ilgilendiğim alan bu. Kendi

yazdığım Savaşçı* adlı kitapta, “Savaşçı kimdir ve savaşçı olmak

niçin önemlidir?” sorusunu irdeledim. Ben bir psikoloğum ve benim

(* Cüceloğlu, Doğan, Anlamlı ve Coşkulu Bir Yaşam İçin Savaşçı,

İstanbul, Remzi Kitabevi.) “insan” anlayışımla, savaşçı kimliği arasında bir çelişki görmüyorum.

Daha da ileri giderek şunu söyleyeceğim; gerçek bir bilim insanı olabilmek

için kişinin savaşçı ruhuna sahip olması gerekir.

Savaşçının tavrıyla ilgili kitapta yazılı bazı cümlelere bakın:

“Savaşçı özgürlüğün kişisel bir seçim olduğunu bilir ve özgürlüğü

için sorumluluk alır. Sorumluluk bilinci olmadan kişinin olgun

bir insan olması olanaksızdır.”

“Savaşçının savaşı kendi zaaflarına karşı yürütülür. İtaat etmek

barış anlamına gelmez. İçsel sessizlik ve disiplin kazanmadan barışa

ulaşamazsın.”

“Savaşçı, toplumsallaşırken ödüllendirme ve cezalandırmayla evcilleştirildiğimizin

bilincindedir; uysalca yaşamaya ve ölmeye alıştırılmış

olan insanlardan biri olmaktan çıkıp özgürlüğünü seçer ve

bu seçimden sorumluluk alır.”

Anadolu çocuğu olarak büyümüş biri için “Savaşçının tavrı” tanıdık,

bildik bir tavırdır. Ama bu ülkenin insanının çoğu sigarayı bırakamaz,

boğazına kadar öfkeye gömülmüştür, haset içindedir, sonunda

çöpe atılacak eşyaları alabilmek için çocuklarına vereceği zamandan

insafsızca çalar ve bütün bunların hiçbirinden sorumluluk almaz. Sürekli

şikâyet eder, yaşamında olup bitenden başkalarını suçlar.

Bu kitapta ifade edilen bir fikre tam anlamıyla katılıyorum: “Günümüz

insanının trajedisi; kendi toplumsal koşulları değil, kendini

değiştirme iradesinden yoksunluğudur. Kolektif devrimleri hayal

etmek çok kolaydır, fakat gerçekten kendini değiştirmek için, merhamet

dilenmeye son vermek, egoyu silmek, alışkanlıkları ve kaprisleri

bırakmak… İşte bu tamamen farklıdır!”

Kültür robotu olduğunuzun farkındaysanız ve özgürlüğünüzü arayış

içinde kendi anlam verme sisteminizi oluşturmak istiyorsanız, bu

kitabın değişik yerlerine serpiştirilmiş önemli ipuçları bulacaksınız.

Bu kitapta yazılı tüm fikirleri ve uygulamaları onaylamıyorum, bazılarını

ciddi kuşkuyla karşılıyorum; ama özgürlüğünü arayan bir “savaşçı

adayı” için önemli kaynaklardan biri olabileceğine inanıyorum.

ÇEVİRMENİN ÖNSÖZÜ

Tensegriti çalışmaları için görüştüğüm bir arkadaşın kitaplarından ve kitaplarının Türkçe´ye çevirilmesinden bahsederken, arkadaşın bana doğallıkla Armando Torres´nin kitabını çevirmemi önermesiyle başlayan bir süreç, nihayet bir kitap çevirisi olarak sonuçlandı.
Henüz Türkiye´deyken, bir sessizlik anında yakaladığım bir izi takip ederek ulaştığım Victor Sanchez´in Don Carlos’un Öğretileri kitabında ve onun ardından peşine düştüğüm Carlos Castaneda kitaplarında bulduğum bilgelikler, sanki o güne kadar içimde boşluğunu duyumsadığım bir şeyi belirginleştiriyordu. Zaten bildiğim ama bir türlü bilince çıkaramadığım bir şeyin peşine belki de çocukluğumdan beri düşmüştüm, belki gün batımını seyre daldığım bir akşamüsütünün, sonsuzluğun hüznünü bana hissettirdiği bir çocukluk anından beri. Armando Torres´nin kitabı hayatımızın bir anında hepimizin hissettiği, ve çoğumuzun onu gelip geçici bir şiirsellik addederek nostalji raflarına kaldırdığı; hüznümüzün derinliğinde ne olduğu sorusuna yanıt verebilecek bilgelikler ve uygulamalar yolunun bir adresi niteliğinde.
Armando Torres, bize olası iki seçenekten biriymişçesine dayatılan, ve aslında tek bir şeyin iki yüzünden ibaret olan ikilemler içinde, -birlikte yaşanılan toplumla ortaklaşmak adına- çocukluğumuzdan itibaren geliştirdiğimiz kişisel bir tarihin koşullanmış devamcıları olmamız dışında, bir alternatifimizin olabileceğini anlatıyor.
İnsanı kusursuz birer savaşçı olmaya yönelten Carlos Castaneda kitaplarını, kolaycı bir yaklaşımla bilmem kaç maddede mutluluk öğrettiğini söyleyen kitaplarla aynı raflarda görmek bana hep dokunuyordu. Hakkında hiçbir şey bilmediğimiz şeyleri bile, o güne kadar bilgi muamelesi yaptığımız bir malumatın yardımıyla etiketleyip belirli bir benzerlik kategorisine alıyoruz, sonuçta öğrenmeye de bu benzerliklerden yola çıkarak başlıyoruz, bilgi yolunu en başından bu şekilde kapatıyoruz. Ne tesadüf, yıllar sonra çevirdiğim bu kitapta, C.Castaneda´nın da kendi kitaplarıyla ilgili aynı dertten muzdarib olduğunu görecektim. Armando Torres aktarıyor: “Ziyaret ettiğimiz kitapçıların birinde, Görmek başlıklı kitaplarından birinin bir örneğini bulduk. Bir Yaqui Büyücüsünün Öğretileri. Kitap roman reyonunda bulunuyordu ve bu onun çok canını sıktı. Bu durumu, insanlar kendilerini kuşatan gizemi tahayyül bile edemedikleri güncellikleri tarafından nasıl da massediliyorlar, diye yorumladı.” Biz bunu hep yapıyoruz, yani bir şeyleri etiketleyip bir kenara koymayı.
Ne yazık ki bu hoyrat sınıflandırma tavrının, binlerce yıllık bir bilgi geleneğinin temsilcilerinden biri olan ve özellikle “kendi yeni çağ kavramının Nev Age’la, çadaş mistik hareketle hiçbir alakasının olmadığı”nı açıklayan Carlos Castaneda kitaplarının/yoldaşlarının kitaplarının üzerinde; “Benim tanıdığım Kızılderililer, sierralı *(sierra:dağ) kardeşlerim, Nev Age edebiyatının Kızılderililerine benzemiyorlar.” diyen Victor Sanchez´in kitabının üzerinde Nev Age biçiminde cisimlendiğini görebiliyoruz. Tam da sınıflandırma alışkanlıklarından haklı olarak şikayet eden, bu alışkanlığın bilgiye ulaşılmasının önünde nasıl bir tıkaç işlevi gördüğünü anlatan insanların, ne dediklerine bakılmaksızın, âdeta “yok yok, siz öyle değil böylesinizdir” dercesine, kendilerine rağmen, olmadıkları bir şey halinde kapaktan Nev Age Dizisi içinde okura sunulması hayli öznel bir tutumdur. Bu tutum, Che Guevara´nın “liberal düşünürler dizisi” içinde sunulması kadar abestir. Yazarı ve okuduğunu anlayan okuru yok saymaktır.
Ksenofanes’in, “Eğer öküzlerin ve atların elleri olsaydı ve resim yapmasını da bilselerdi öküzler öküzlere, atlar atlara benzeyen tanrılar yapacaklardı.” sözünü hatırlatmadan edemeyeceğim. İnsanın evren karşısındaki tavrı, tam da bu insanbiçimci yaklaşımdır. Bu insanın kendine yabancılaşması, kendi yarattığının buyruğuna girmesidir. Kendini her şeyin merkezine koyan bu tavrın birer modeli gibi yaşadığımız egosantrik hayatlar, bizi kendi gerçeğimize yabancılaştırıyor; hatta kimi zaman bilimsellik kisvesi altında. Keza bu anlayışla malûl olmayan tek bir toplumsal gözeneğimiz kalmamıştır. Suyu başından bulandıran bir şeyler vardır…
Suyun berrak aktığı kaynağa dönmek için, yani neredeyse biz daha doğar doğmaz algı gerçeğimizin suyunu bulandıran toplumsal ilişkilerin bize tek gerçeklik gibi dayattığı günlük bilişselliğimizin dışında, bir başka bilişsellik olabileceğini kavramak için, evrene ve onun bir parçası olan insana bütünlüklü bir bakış, bizden çalınmış temel bir ihtiyaçtır. Aklın ve onun başkâtibi dilin bu sonsuzlukta sadece birer öğe olduğunu ve evrendeki her şeyin onlardan sorulamayacağını, tanımlamalar dünyamızın tek gerçek olamayacağını, ancak dilin ve aklın sınırını zorlayıp aştığımızda anlayabileceğiz. Peki bu olası mıdır?
Carlos Castaneda kitaplarında ve Toltek bilgi yöntemine atıfta bulunan başka kitaplarda olduğu gibi, bu kitapta da, aklın, dilin bir sınırı olduğu, onun ötesinde tanımlanamaz bir dünya olduğu, kendi rutinleri içinde yaşayanların inanamayacağı bir biçimde, kimi zaman örnekler de verilerek anlatılıyor. Aklımız bizlere öyle derin biçimde hükmediyor ki, bizler Carlos Castaneda´nın anlattığı kimi şeyleri kendi deneyimlerimizde doğruladığımızda bile, kuşkusuz inanmakta zorlanacağız. Carlos Castaneda´nın yaşadığı her sıradışı deneyiminin ardından aklının devreye girerek onu bir çelişki yumağı içine düşürmesinden kurtulması yıllarını aldı. Anlatılanları doğrulamanın tek yolu, bu uzun ve zorlu farkındalık savaşına girmek.
Bu savaşın stratejik hedefi egodur: Bu savaşçı yolda kazanılan kimi başarılar, egonun nihai yenilgisini hedeflemediği müddetçe sadece birer Pirus zaferi olarak kalacaktır. Egoyu yıkmak için yola çıktığımızı söylediğimiz bir savaşta bile egomuzu cilalamakla meşgul olabiliriz, kendimize karşı çok dürüst olmak zorundayız. Nagual Don Juan Matus sonradan kendisi de nagual olacak çömezi Castaneda´ya, “Kral ölmeden devir kapanmış sayılmaz.”, diyordu. Kral kendi saltanatını korumak için her türlü kurnazlığa başvuran egomuzdur; işte bundan dolayı içimizdeki kralın hesaba katılmadığı her özgürleşme savaşı akamete uğramakta.
Bilginin daha fazla insanın eline ulaşmasıyla birlikte -ki bu istenen ve sevindirici bir şey- Carlos Castaneda okurları açısından giderek büyümekte olan kimi risklere dikkat çekmek istiyorum:
Artık daha çok insan Carlos Castaneda´dayı referans göstererek konuşuyor, ama sadece konuşuyor, ya da egosu artık Carlos Castaneda´dan yapılan hoş alıntılarla konuşuyor. “Ben uygulama yapıyorum” diyenlerin bir kısmı ise her an için bir hoca/usta ya da bu sıfatların yerini dolduran bir başka sıfat ile karşımıza çıkmak için sabırsızlanıyor, bazıları da çoktan bu sıfatlardan biriyle karşımıza geçmiş durumda. Kimileri daha şimdiden bugüne kadar yürüttükleri “spiritüel ticari” etkinliklerinin yanına bir de tensegritiyi eklemişler, Doğulu üstadlar koleksiyonlarının yanında artık bir de Nev-Age etiketi yapıştırdıkları Carlos Castaneda var. Sanal ortamlarda mantar gibi üreyen ve günlük hayatlara doğru yayılan; ” … birinci aşamaya inisie oldum sonra (…) master oldum, ayrıca falancadan şu eğitimi aldım, filancadan bu eğitimi aldım” benzeri cümleler eşliğinde, “spiritüel CV”leriyle karşımıza çıkan gurulara/gurucuklara, Don Juan Matus´un muhtemel yanıtı, “Kendi kendini kandırma (…)! İnsanlığın durumu gerçekten seni ilgilendirseydi, bir domuz gibi davranmazdın.” olurdu herhâlde. Tensegriti için ya da Carlos Castaneda´nın bahsettiği başka uygulamalar için, daha da doğrusu farkındalığımızı geliştirmemiz ve Tin ile aramızdaki bağı açığa çıkarmamız için, kendine herhangi bir “sıfat” yapıştırmış birilerine ihtiyacımız yok, hele hele de birilerine para ödemeye! Tensegriti ve diğer uygulamalarda, dünyanın hiçbir yerinde kimse usta olarak kabul edilmiyor ve kimseye de para ödenmiyor, bunun aksi davranışlara da hoş gözle bakılmıyor, bu her şeyden önce Castaneda aracılığıyla anlatılanlara ters. Tensegriti için Sihirli Geçişler kitabından ve artık Youtube´de de bulunabilen Cleargreen´in videolarından ve elbette bilginin paylaşıldığı ve herkesin birer öğrenci olarak kabul gördüğü grup etkinliklerinden yararlanılabilinir; bilginin kardeşçe paylaşılmasından daha güzel ne olabilir ki, doğru tutum paylaşmaktır, yoksa bilgiyi satmak ya da bir şeyleri pazarlamak için bilgiyi bir promosyon unsuru olarak kullanmak değil. Alaaddin´in sihirli lambasından çıkan cin gibi, bize istediğimiz her şeyi gerçekleştirebileceğini söyleyenleri ciddiye almamak gerekiyor. Savaşçının/savaşçı olmak isteyenin Tin ile bağını açığa çıkarmak için, kendindeki erkten ötesine ihtiyacı yok.
Diğer bir mesele ise kitaplarda masalımsı gelen şeylerin uygulamayla birlikte somutlaşacağı gerçeğinin unutulması. Tensegriti de dahil olmak üzere Castaneda´nın bahsettiği uygulamalar, bizi yeni bir algılama eşiğine getirecektir, ve eğer bir savaşçı hayatı sürdürülmüyorsa bu durum uygulayıcı için kimi riskler içerebilir; kozmik enerjiyle ihtiyatsız bir temas çıplak elle yüksek gerilim hattına dokunmak gibidir. Eğer uygulama yapılacaksa ve insanlara uygulamalar tavsiye edilecekse, bir savaşçı hayatı yaşanması gerektiği unutulmamalı/unutturulmamalı, egomuzun göz ardı edildiği etkinlikler anlamlı olmadığı gibi ciddi riskler de taşıyor, bunun çok önemli bir örneği bu kitapta var.
Kimi Castaneda okurlarında gözlemlenen ve kaçınılması gereken bir başka handikap ise, elinde çekiçten başka bir şey olmadığı için her şeye çivi muamelesi yapan insanlar gibi, okunulan/öğrenilen kimi kavramların durumun somutluğu gözetilmeksizin her yerde kullanılıyor olması. Kuyunun dibindeki kurbağa gibi gökyüzü tasviri yapmamak için okuma alanının/perspektifin geniş tutulması gerekiyor, hiç değilse Carlos Castaneda kitaplarında hangi alt okumalar mevcut olabilir diye durup düşünmek, belki bizim daha geniş bir okuma listesine sahip olmamızı sağlayabilir. Carlos Castaneda´nın dediği gibi; “Artık cehalet kabul edilemez (…) Geçmişte ritüellere duyulan muhabbete benzer şekilde, entelekt de günümüz Toltek’inin tesellisidir.”
Bu sonsuzluk denizinde, dümeninde ölümün olduğu birer sandal hayatlarımız; öyleyse bu dönüş yolculuğunu sonsuzluk denizine yaraşır, savaşçı bir ruhla yaşamalıyız, günlük çıkarlarımızın sığ sularında ölerek değil, içimize çektiğimiz her nefesin sonsuzluktan bir parça olduğunu bilerek. Bu gerçeği bize hatırlatan, bilginin bizlere ulaşmasında niyetleriyle hep yanımızda olan, adını bildiğimiz ya da bilmediğimiz tüm bilgi savaşçılarına, ve Carlos Castaneda’nın Armando Torres´ye ölümünden sonra yayınlanmak üzere aktardığı bu değerli bilgileri bizimle paylaştığı için Armando Torres´ye buradan teşekkür ediyorum.
Erk öyküleri devam ediyor, belki de bu kitap birisi için kendi erk öyküsünün başlangıcı olacak, kim bilir…
Hasan Hüseyin Mert

Intent in the Castaneda sense is to surrender and to be in the flow, to be connected with the greater force or the Indescribable Force that surrounds us at all times.  To softly touch upon infinity with barely a ripple.

My own experience with manifesting has strengthened my ability to manifest.  Each time I “put it out there” and manifest something serves to further validate the endless possibilities and potential that we each have to fully construct and create our reality.  It has become clear to have no attachment to outcome and to be careful what you ask for.

While in the Yucatan this month, my traveling companion and partnered warrior on this path of knowledge and awareness joined me in simultaneous connection with intent and we walked an amazing tale of power into existence.  Months ago, in the early planning stages of our journey to the Yucatan we created the intention of sharing in sacred ceremony with a Mayan shaman to further open the gateways to higher levels of awareness. We had asked several people if they knew of anyone and did some research on the internet to no avail.

Spending an afternoon in Tulum led us to a beautiful store of esoteric hand-crafted items, artwork and jewelry.  It was the only store of its kind amidst the typical wave of tourist type wares that are available.  The owner was clearly Toltec, an artist of awareness.  We had each located an item that seemed to be made specifically for each of us.  As we sealed our transaction with the artist it occurred to me to inquire about the ceremony.  He directed us to someone that he himself and done ceremony with.  Now our task was to find this shaman, somewhere out in the jungle.

We traveled to a locale that seemed to vibrate with luminosity and approached a gentleman who collected an entry fee into one of many cenotes in the area.  A cenote is essentially an underground, fresh-water river that houses its own eco-system and is accessible through sink holes that reveal crystal clear water.  Sometimes called a cenote sagrado or sacred well, they were once thought to contain offerings to the Mayan god of water, Chac, a rain diety.

Seconds later another man literally materialized out of nowhere and was standing to my left.  He asked, in Spanish, if we could give him a ride to the cenote.  Sure, why not and he got into the car with us.  We asked him if he knew of a local mayan shaman and he said yes then told us a series of methods through which we may find him.  We dropped him off, explored the cenote and followed one of his leads by chatting to yet another person.  She tells us she only speaks Mayan and then laughs and lets us know, in Spanish, that he is inaccessible at the time, to come back the next day.  We get back in our car to leave realizing that, perhaps, this is not meant to be when we notice two Mayan men hitchhiking.  We pulled over to let them in and realized immediately that they were extremely intoxicated as the whole car began to reek of alcohol.

They were friendly and we offered them some tortilla chips.  As we started to chat we asked them if they knew where we might locate the shaman.  Excitedly they said yes and the older one starts to animatedly give us directions telling us to turn left here and to the right there until we approach a clearing surrounded by a beautiful lush area and he directs us to pull in.  The four of us get out of the car and a small Mayan woman walks towards us.  The older of the two men we had picked up starts to tell her, in the Mayan language, that we are looking for the shaman.  She begins to tell us he is not around when suddenly he appears, seemingly out of nowhere.

The long of the short is that the two of us wound up doing a beautiful and powerful ceremony the following evening with a Mayan shaman who, in the beginning, was so elusive and once we were able to truly connect with intent and the original intention set so many months before everything unfolded as it was obviously meant to be.

The shaman has his own private cenote not too far from his ceremonial space.  He told us that once the ceremony ends he will lead us there so we can dip into the cool, dark waters as a means of grounding and closing the portals.  This reminds me very much of how don Juan used to bring Carlos back from his journeys. 

We arrived the next evening promptly as he had requested and he presented us with a spread of fresh, tropical fruit and water as a means of hydrating ourselves in preparation of the temazcal we would be entering.  A temezcal is similar to a sweat lodge.  We had brought traditional offerings of loose tobacco, pure cocoa chocolate, copal and corn.  He had us place these upon his alter and then later gave us each a bit of everything to offer to the fire along with our intentions of healing and wholeness for mama tierra (mother earth).  He called in the energies and directions of jaguar/east, eagle/south, humanity/west and plumed serpent/north all the while the sounds of the jungle surrounding us.

Then we entered the temazcal and as he began singing a song in Spanish to honor our human connectedness to earth, water, air, and fire we began our beautiful, gentle, spiraling plunge into the unique but familiar realm of nonordinary reality.  As his words in both Mayan and Spanish guided us on this journey we knew that we had not met just any Mayan shaman but had, in fact, met a Toltec Warrior who is committed to la consciencia (awareness) and el conocimiento (knowledge) and el libertad (freedom).  His energy and ours merged in a way that we knew that we knew each other and he said, “somos hermanos” (we are brothers), and he took us deeper into the journey.

“Warriors speak of shamanism as a magical, mysterious bird which has paused in its flight for a moment in order to give man hope and purpose; warriors live under the wing of that bird, which they call the bird of wisdom, the bird of freedom.”  ~ Carlos Castaneda, The Wheel of Time

Siempre le llamé así, como a él le gustaba: El Muerto. Tenía traza de Charles Manson: barba poblada, párpados imóviles. Dibujaba manchas en un bloc. A veces vendía las láminas, con un éxito proporcional a su débil constancia y a la calidad de las manchas.

En uno de los bolsillos del gabán escondía una piedra. Decía:

Para defenderme.

Cada día sustituía la piedra por otra.

Los enemigos también cambian.

Vivía con Flor, una estudiante de Magisterio que venía de un pueblo costero del norte. La recuerdo rubia y sonriendo.

Nos visitaban con cierta frecuencia: té, hachís y algo de música. Al él le gustaba Erik Satie; a ella, como a todos, los Beatles. No importaba lo que te gustase en aquellos tiempos, nadie te incineraba por ser tú mismo.

El Muerto era tétrico y nos hacía gracia: leía los evangelios gnósticos y a Carlos Castaneda, pero ese pecado era colectivo. También se untaba el pene con pimienta y miel antes del sexo y me enseñó la fórmula mágica contra el ataque de un animal. Aún puedo citarla:

Lo’ma zath aio’n achthase ma… zal balamao’n e’eioy.

Procedía de la Ecloga ex papyris magicis, de Johanne Opsopoeo. Lo comprobé porque yo no tenía demasiadas ocupaciones, malgastaba las mañanas en la Biblioteca Nacional y recelaba de la suficiencia y la bondad de alguien que guardaba el bolsillo una piedra distinta cada día.

Flor y El Muerto rompieron en pocos meses. No fue una sorpresa para nadie: eran un tártaro y una muñequita.

Ela pidió refugio en casa, no tenía a dónde ir: se instaló en el sofá del salón, protegida por los discos de los Beatles. Tenía miedo, pero algunas muñequitas no hablan. Yo también tenía miedo.

El Muerto empezó a llamar a los pocos días. A todas horas, también de noche, pronunciando alguna de aquellas rogativas:

Borka borka phrix phrix rix.

O:

Achach amixag ouch thip lai lai lamlai lai lam mail.

Luego, sin añadir nada más, colgaba.

Yo transcribía fonéticamente lo que creía entender en un cuaderno que tenía preparado cerca del teléfono. Descubrí que eran invocaciones egipcias de Simón el Mago, el proto evangelista que defendía la tesis del matrimonio de Dios con Ennoia, la mujer que, en sucesivas reencarnaciones, sería Helena de Troya y Helene, la prostituta esclava de Tiro a la que Simón liberó y con la que se desposó para predicar, presentándose como “Dios y Ennoia”.

El Muerto era muy literario, pero me hacía la vida imposible con las llamadas y sus jaculatorias, que no cesaron después de que Flor regresase a aquel pueblo del Norte donde sólo tenía que preocuparse por encontrar algo para no morirse de tedio los sábados por la tarde.

Una mañana, en el Rastro, El Muerto y yo nos cruzamos.

Vino en mi busca desde el puesto donde exhibía sus impenetrables dibujos en tinta negra. Supe que su mano, en el bolsillo del tabardo oscuro, sujetaba la piedra de ese día, la piedra de cada día.

Dije:

Ieoyo’e'ie’iae’a ie’o'yoei.

El Muerto dudó durante unos segundos, quizá dos o tres, quizá menos: a veces el tiempo no concuerda con la vida y no sabes cómo dividirlo.

Cuando mi piedra le golpeó en la sien, se derrumbó como una marioneta a la que cortasen los hilos.

La última vez que vi al Muerto, estaba en el suelo. Los cordones de sangre le dibujaban manchas sobre la camisa negra. Se parecían a sus dibujos.

Lo que antecede no es una pretensión literaria, por lo demás vana e inútil dado mi estado. Todo es riguroso y cierto como el discurrir del tiempo en el asiento trasero de un coche policial.

2
pretty tyrants

‘don juan did not dicuss the mastery of awareness with me until months later. we were at that time in the house where the nagual’s party lived.
“let’s go for a walk,” don juan said to me, placing his hands on my shoulder. “or better yet, let’s go to the town’s square, where there are a lot of people, and sit down and talk.”
i was surprised when he spoke to me, as i had been in the house for a couple of days then and he had not said so much as hello.

as don juan and me were leaving the house, la gorda intercepted us and demanded that we take her along. she seemed determined not to take no for an answer.
don juan in a very stern voice told her that he had to discuss something in private with me.
“you’re going to talk about me,” la gorda said, her tone and gestures betraying both suspicion and annoyance.
“you’re right,” don juan replied dryly. he moved past her without turning to look at her. i followed him, and we walked in silence to the towns square.

when we sat down i asked him what on earth we could find to discuss about la gorda. i was still smarting from her look of menance when we left the house.
“we have nothing to discuss about la gorda or anybody else,” he said. “i told her that just to provoke her inormous self-importance.
and it worked. she is furious with us. if i know her, by now she will have talked to herself long enough to have build up her confidence and her righteous indignation at having been refused and made to look like a fool. i wouln’t be surprised if she barges in on us here, at the park bench”

“if we’re not going to talk about la gorda, what are we going to dicuss?” i asked.

“we’re going to continue the discussion we started in oaxaca,” he replied “to understand the explanation of awareness will require your utmost effort and your willingness to shift back and forth between levels of awareness. while we are involved in our discussion i will demand your total concentration and patience.”

half-complaining, i told him that he had made me very uncomfortable by refusing to talk to me for the past two days.
he looked at me and arched his brows. a smile played on his lips and vanished.
i realized that he was letting me know i was no better than la gorda.
“i was provoking your self-importance,” he said with a frown. “self-importance is our greatest enemy. think about it – what weakens us is feeling offended by the deeds and misdeeds of our fellow men. our self-importance requires that we spend most of our lives offended by someone.
the new seers recommended that every effort should be made to eradicate self-importance from the lives of warriors.
i have followed that recommendation, and much of my endeavours with you has been geared to show you that without self-importance we are unvulnerable.”

as i listeded, his eyes suddenly became very shiny.
i was thinking to myself that he seemed to be on the verge of laughter and there was no reason for it when i was startled by an abrupt, painful slap on the right side of my face.
i jumped up from the bench. la gorda was standing behind me, her hand still raised. her face was flushed with anger.
“now you can say what you like about me and with more justification,” she shouted. “if you have anything to say, however, say it to my face!”

her outburst appeared to have exhausted her, because she sat down on the cement and began to weep.
don juan was transfixed with inexpressible glee.
i was frozen with her sheer fury. la gorda glared at me and turned to don juan and meekly told him that we had no right to criticize her.

don juan laughed so hard he doubled over almost to the ground. he couldn’t even speak. he tried two or three times to say something to me, then finally got up and walked away, his body still shaking with spasms of laughter.

i was about to run after him, still glowering at la gorda – at that moment i found her despicable – when something extraordinary happened to me.
i found what don juan had found so hilarious.
la gorda and me were horrendously alike.
our self-importance was monumental. my surprise and fury and being slapped were just like la gorda’s feelings of anger and suspicion.

don juan was right. the burden of self-importanceis a terrible encumbrance.

i ran after him then, elated, the tears flowing down my cheeks. i caught up with him and told him what i had realized.
his eyes were shining with mischievousness and delight.
“what should i do about la gorda?” i asked

“nothing,” he replied. “realizations are always personal.

he changed the subject and said that the omens were telling us to to continue our discussion back at his house, either in a large room with comfortable chairs or in the back partio, which had a roofed corridor around it.
he said that whenever he conducted his explanation inside the house, those two areas would be off limits to everyone else.

we went back to the house. don juan told everyone what la gorda had done. the delight all the seers showed in taunting her made la gorda’s position extremely uncomfortable.
“self-importance can’t be faught with niceties.” don juan commented when i expressed my concern about la gorda.
then he asked everyone to leave the room. we sat down and don juan began his explanations.

he said that seers, old and new, are devided into two categories.
the first one is made up for those who are willing to exercise self-restraint and can channel their activities toward pragmatic goals, which would benefit other seers an man in general.
the other category consists of those who don’t care about self-restraint or about any pragmatic goals. it is the consensus among seers that the latter have failed to resolve the problem of self-importance.

“self-importance is not something simple and naive,” he explained. “on the one hand, it is the core of everything that is good in us, and on the other hand, the core of everything that is rotten.
to get rid of the self-importance that is rotten requires a masterpiece of strategy. seers, through the ages, have given the highest praise to those who have accomplished it.”

i complained that the idea of eradicating self-importance, although very appealing to me at times, was really incomprehensible; i told him that i found his directives for getting rid of it so vague i could not follow them.
“i’ve said to you many times,” he said, “that in order to follow the path of knowledge one has to be very imaginative. you see, in the path of knowledge nothing is as clear as we’d like it to be.”

my discomfort made me argue that his admonitions about self-importance reminded me of catholic dictums. after a lifetime of being told about the evils of sin, i had become callous.
“warriors fight self-importance as a matter of strategy, not principle,” he replied. “your mistake is to understand what i say in terms of morality.”
“i see you as a high moral man, don juan. ” i insisted.
“you’ve noticed my impeccability, that’s all,” he said.
“impeccability, as well as getting rid of self-importnace, is too vague a concept to be of any value to me, ” i remarked.
don juan choked with laughter, and i challenged him to explain impeccability.

“impeccability is nothing else but proper use of energy,” he said. “my statements have no inkling of morality. i’ve saved energy and that makes me impeccable. to understand this, you have to save enogh energy yourself.”

we were quiet for a long time … ….

i wanted to think about what he had said. suddenly he started talking again.

. …
.. ….. …… ..

— carlos castaneda,THE FIRE FROM WITHIN —-

Carlos Castañeda (1925 – 1998) foi um escritor bresileiro.

Uma ótima semana para todos, à meia luz.

“Muita luz é como muita sombra: não deixa ver.” Carlos Castañeda.