The Active Side Of Infinity ©1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 0 - Chapter 01. Syntax.

The Active Side Of Infinity ©1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 0 - Chapter 02. The Other Syntax.

The Active Side Of Infinity ©1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 0 - Chapter 03. Introduction.

This book is a collection of the memorable events in my life.

I gathered them following the recommendation of don Juan Matus.

Don Juan was a Yaqui Indian shaman nagual from Mexico.

As a teacher, he tried for thirteen years to make me aware of the cognitive world of the shamans who lived in Mexico in ancient times.

Don Juan Matus's suggestion- that I gather my memorable events- was made as if it were a casual suggestion; something that occurred to him on the spur of the moment. He presented his suggestion as if it were something no different from any other concern of my everyday life.

That was don Juan's style of teaching. He veiled the importance of certain maneuvers behind the mundane. In this fashion, he hid the sting of finality.

As time went by, Don Juan revealed to me that the shamans of ancient Mexico had conceived of this collection of memorable events as a bona-fide device to stir caches of energy that exist within our-selves.

The ancient shamans explained these caches as being composed of energy that originates in our body itself. However, those caches of energy become displaced and pushed out of our immediate reach by the circumstances of our daily lives.

In this sense, for don Juan and the shamans of his lineage, the collection of memorable events was a means for redeploying their unused energy.

The prerequisite for this collection was the "genuine", and "all-consuming", act of putting together the sum total of my emotions and realizations; without sparing anything.

According to don Juan, the shamans of his lineage were convinced that the collection of memorable events was a vehicle for the emotional and energetic adjustment necessary for venturing, in terms of perception, into the unknown.

He described the total goal of the shamanistic knowledge that he handled as being the preparation for facing the definitive journey that every human being has to take at the end of his or her life.

Don Juan said, that through their discipline and resolve, shamans were capable of retaining their individual awareness and purpose after death.

The vague idealistic state that modern man calls 'life after death', for shamans, is a concrete region filled to capacity with practical affairs; a state that bears a similar functional practicality to the affairs of our daily lives, though of a different order.

Don Juan considered that, for shamans, collecting the memorable events in their lives was the preparation for their entrance into that concrete region the shamans called the active side of infinity.

One afternoon, Don Juan and I were under his ramada. It was a loose structure made of thin poles of bamboo. The ramada looked like a roofed porch, and it provided partial shading from the sun, but it did not provide any protection from the rain.

Under the ramada were some small, sturdy freight boxes there that served as benches. Their freight brands were faded, and appeared to be more ornamentation than identification.

I was sitting on one of the boxes, and my back was against the front wall of the house.

Don Juan was sitting on another box, and he was leaning back against one of the bamboo poles supporting the ramada.

I had just driven in a few minutes earlier after a daylong ride in hot and humid weather. I was nervous, fidgety, and sweaty.

Don Juan began talking to me as soon as I had comfortably settled down on the box. With a broad smile, he commented that overweight people hardly ever know how to fight fatness. The smile that played on his lips gave me an inkling that he was not being facetious. He was just pointing out to me, in a most direct and at the same time indirect way, that I was overweight.

I became so nervous that I tipped over the freight box on which I was sitting and my back banged very hard against the thin wall of the house. The impact shook the house to its foundations.

Don Juan looked at me inquiringly, but instead of asking me if I was all right, he instead assured me that I had not cracked the house.

Then he expansively explained to me that his house was a temporary dwelling for him; that he really lived somewhere else.

When I asked him where he really lived, he stared at me.

His look was not belligerent, but was rather a firm deterrent to improper questions.

But I did not comprehend what he wanted, and I was about to ask the same question again when he stopped me.

Don Juan said firmly, "Questions of that sort are not asked around here. Ask anything you wish about procedures or ideas. However, when, if ever, I am ready to tell you where I live, I will tell you without your having to ask me."

I instantly felt rejected. My face turned red involuntarily. I was definitely offended.

Don Juan's explosion of laughter added immensely to my chagrin. Not only had he rejected me, he had insulted me and then laughed at me.

He went on, saying, "I live here temporarily, because this is a magical center. In fact, I live here because of you."

That statement unraveled me. I could not believe it. I thought that he was probably saying that to ease my irritation at being insulted. Unable to contain my curiosity, I finally asked him, "Are you really living here because of me?"

In an even tone, he said, "Yes. I have to groom you. You are like me. Now I will repeat to you what I have already told you.

"The quest of every nagual, or leader, in every generation of shamans, or sorcerers, is to find a new man or woman who, like himself, shows a double energetic structure.

"I saw this feature in you when we were in the bus depot in Nogales. When I see your energy, I see two balls of luminosity superimposed, one on top of the other, and that feature binds us together. I can not refuse you any more than you can refuse me."

His words caused a most strange agitation in me. An instant before I had been angry, but now I wanted to weep.

He went on, saying that he wanted to start me off on something shamans called the warriors' way, backed by the strength of the area where he lived which was the center of very strong emotions and reactions. Warlike people had lived there for thousands of years, soaking the land with their concern with war.

Don Juan at that time lived in the state of Sonora in northern Mexico, about a hundred miles south of the city of Guaymas. I always went there to visit him under the auspices of conducting my fieldwork.

I was genuinely worried after hearing that the concern with war was something that I would need someday. I had already learned to take everything he said with the utmost seriousness.

I asked, "Do I need to enter into war, don Juan?"

He smiled, and said, "You bet your boots. When you have absorbed all there is to be absorbed in this area, I will move away."

I had no grounds to doubt what he was saying, but I could not conceive of him as living anywhere else. He was absolutely part of everything that surrounded him.

His house, however, seemed indeed to be a temporary dwelling. It was a shack typical of the Yaqui farmers. It was made out of wattle and daub with a flat, thatched roof. It had one big room for eating and sleeping, and had a roofless kitchen in the back.

He said, "It is very difficult to deal with overweight people."

Don Juan's statement seemed to be a non sequitur, but it was not. He was simply going back to the subject he had introduced before I had interrupted him by hitting my back on the wall of his house.

Don Juan shook his head slowly from side to side, and said, "A minute ago, you hit my house like a demolition ball. What an impact! An impact worthy of a portly man."

I had the uncomfortable feeling that he was talking to me from the point of view of someone who had given up on me. I immediately took on a defensive attitude and began talking.

He listened, smirking, to my frantic explanations that my weight was normal for my bone structure.

Don Juan conceded facetiously, "That is right. You have big bones. You could probably carry thirty more pounds with great ease and no one, I assure you, no one would notice. I would not notice."

His mocking smile told me that I was definitely pudgy. He asked me then about my health in general, and I went on talking, desperately trying to get out of any further comment about my weight. He changed the subject himself.

Don Juan, with a dead-pan expression, asked, "What is new with your eccentricities and aberrations?"

I, idiotically, answered that they were okay.

'Eccentricities and aberrations' was how he labeled my interest in being a collector. At that time, I had taken up, with renewed zeal, something that I had enjoyed doing all my life; collecting anything collectible. I collected magazines, stamps, records, World War II paraphernalia such as daggers, military helmets, flags, etc.

I, with the air of a martyr who is being forced to do something odious, said, "All I can tell you, don Juan, about my aberrations, is that I am trying to sell my collections,"

As if he really believed it, don Juan said, "To be a collector is not such a bad idea. The crux of the matter is not that you collect, but what you collect.

"You collect junk; worthless objects that imprison you as surely as your pet dog does. You can not just up and leave if you have your pet to look after, or if you have to worry about what would happen to your collections if you were not around."

I protested, saying, "I am seriously looking for buyers, don Juan, believe me."

He retorted, "No, no. Do not feel that I am accusing you of anything. In fact, I like your collector's spirit. I just do not like your collections, that is all.

"I would like, though, to engage your collector's eye. I would like to propose to you a worthwhile collection."

Don Juan paused for a long moment.

He seemed to be in search of words; or perhaps it was only a dramatic, well-placed hesitation. He looked at me with a deep, penetrating stare.

Then don Juan went on, saying, "Every warrior, as a matter of duty, collects a special album; an album that reveals the warrior's personality; an album that attests to the circumstances of his life."

In an argumentative tone, I asked, "Why do you call this a collection, don Juan? Or an album, for that matter?"

He replied, "Because it is both. But above all, it is like an album of pictures made out of memories; pictures made out of the recollection of memorable events."

I asked, "Are those memorable events memorable in some specific way?"

He replied, "They are memorable because they have a special significance in one's life. My proposal is that you assemble this album by putting in it the complete account of various events that have had profound significance for you."

I said forcefully, "Every event in my life has had profound significance for me, don Juan!"

I instantly felt the impact of my own pomposity.

Don Juan smiled, apparently enjoying my reactions immensely, and said, "Not really. Not every event in your life has had profound significance for you.

"There are a few, however, that I would consider likely to have changed things for you; to have illuminated your path. Ordinarily, events that change our path are impersonal affairs, and yet are extremely personal."

I, knowing I was lying, said, "I am not trying to be difficult, don Juan, but believe me, everything that has happened to me meets those qualifications,"

Immediately after voicing my statement, I wanted to apologize, but don Juan did not pay attention to me. It was as if I had not said a thing.

He said, "Do not think about this album in terms of banalities, or in terms of a trivial rehashing of your life experiences."

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and tried to quiet my mind. I was talking to myself frantically about my insoluble problem.

I most certainly did not like to visit don Juan at all. In his presence, I felt threatened. He verbally accosted me and did not leave me any room whatsoever to show my worth. I detested losing face every time I opened my mouth. I detested being the fool.

But there was another voice inside me; a voice that came from a greater depth; more distant; almost faint.

In the midst of my barrages of dialogue, I heard myself saying that it was too late for me to turn back.

But it was not really my voice or my thoughts that I was experiencing. It was, rather, like an unknown voice that said I was too far gone into don Juan's world, and that I needed him more than I needed air.

The voice seemed to say to me, "Say whatever you wish, but if you were not the egomaniac that you are, you would not be so chagrined."

Don Juan, just as if he had been listening to, or reading my thoughts, said, "That is the voice of your other mind."

My body jumped involuntarily. My fright was so intense that tears came to my eyes. I confessed to don Juan the whole nature of my turmoil.

He said, "Your conflict is a very natural one, and believe you me, I do not exacerbate you that much. I am not the type.

"I have some stories to tell you about what my teacher, the nagual Julian, used to do to me.

"I detested him with my entire being.

"I was very young, and I saw how women adored him; gave themselves to him like anything. And when I tried to say hello to them, they would turn against me like lionesses ready to bite my head off. They hated my guts and loved him. How do you think I felt?"

I asked with more than genuine interest, "How did you resolve this conflict, don Juan?"

He declared, "I did not resolve anything. It, the conflict or whatever, was the result of the battle between my two minds. Every one of us human beings has two minds.

One is a foreign installation. It brings us conflict, self-assertion, doubts, and hopelessness.

The other mind is totally ours. It is like a faint voice that always brings us order, directness, and purpose."

My fixation on my own mental concatenations was so intense that I completely missed what don Juan had said. I could clearly remember every one of his words, but they had no meaning for me.

Don Juan looked directly into my eyes, and very calmly repeated what he had just said.

I was still incapable of grasping what he meant. I could not focus my attention on his words.

I said, "For some strange reason, don Juan, I can not concentrate on what you are telling me."

Don Juan smiled expansively and said, "I understand perfectly why you can not, and so will you someday at the same time that you resolve the conflict of whether you like me or not; the day you cease to be the me-me-me-me center of the world.

He continued, saying, "In the meantime, let us put the topic of our two minds aside, and go back to the idea of preparing your album of memorable events.

"I should add that such an album is an exercise in discipline and impartiality. Consider this album to be an act of war."

Regarding my both liking and not liking to see him, Don Juan's assertion, that my conflict was going to end whenever I abandoned my ego-centrism, was no solution for me.

In fact, that assertion made me angrier. It frustrated me all the more. And when I heard don Juan speak of the album as an act of war, I lashed out at him with all my poison.

I said in a tone of protest, "The idea that this is a collection of events is already hard to understand. On top of all this, when you call it an album and you say that such an album is an act of war, that is too much for me. It is too obscure. Being obscure makes the metaphor lose its meaning."

Don Juan replied calmly, "How strange! It is the opposite for me. Such an album being an act of war has all the meaning in the world for me. I would not like my album of memorable events to be anything but an act of war."

I wanted to argue my point further and explain to him that I did understand the idea of an album of memorable events, but that I objected to the perplexing way he was describing it. I thought of myself in those days as an advocate of clarity and functionalism in the use of language.

Don Juan did not comment on my belligerent mood. He only nodded his head as if he were fully agreeing with me.

After a while, I either completely ran out of energy, or I got a gigantic surge of it. All of a sudden without any effort on my part, I realized the futility of my outbursts. I felt embarrassed no end.

I asked don Juan in earnest, "What possesses me to act the way I do?"

At that instant I was utterly baffled. I was so shaken by my realization that without any volition on my part, I began to weep.

Don Juan said reassuringly, "Do not worry about stupid details. Every one of us, male and female, is like this."

I asked, "Do you mean, don Juan, that we are naturally petty and contradictory?"

He replied, "No. We are not naturally petty and contradictory. Our pettiness and contradictions are, rather, the result of a conflict that afflicts every one of us. But only sorcerers are painfully and hopelessly aware of the conflict of our two minds."

Don Juan peered at me. His eyes were like two black charcoals.

I said, "You have been telling me on and on about our two minds, but my brain can not register what you are saying. Why?"

He said, "You will get to know why in due time. For the present, it will be sufficient that I repeat to you what I have said before about our two minds.

"One mind we use daily for everything we do is a foreign installation.

"The other is our true mind; the product of all our life experiences; the one that rarely speaks because it has been defeated and relegated to obscurity."

I said, "I think that the crux of the matter is that the concept of the mind being a foreign installation is so outlandish that my mind refuses to take it seriously."

I felt that I had made a real discovery.

Don Juan did not comment on what I had said. He continued explaining the issue of the two minds as if I had not said a word.

He continued by saying, "To resolve the conflict of the two minds is a matter of intending it.

"Intent is a force that exists in the universe. Sorcerers beckon intent by voicing the word intent loud and clear. When sorcerers beckon intent, it comes to them and sets up the path for attainment. In this way, sorcerers always accomplish what they set out to do."

I asked, "Do you mean, don Juan, that sorcerers get anything they want, even if it is something petty and arbitrary?"

He replied, "No. I did not mean that. Intent can be called, of course, for anything, but sorcerers have found out, the hard way, that intent comes to them only for something that is abstract. That is the safety valve for sorcerers; otherwise they would be unbearable.

"In your case, beckoning intent to resolve the conflict of your two minds, or to hear the voice of your true mind is not a petty or arbitrary matter; quite the contrary. It is ethereal and abstract, and is as vital to you as anything can be."

Don Juan paused for a moment and then he began to talk again about the album.

He said, "My own album, being an act of war, demanded a super-careful selection.

"It is now a precise collection of the unforgettable moments of my life, and everything that led me to those moments. I have concentrated in my collection all that has been and will be meaningful to me. In my opinion, a warrior's album is something most concrete; something so to-the-point that it is shattering."

I had no clue as to what don Juan wanted, and yet I did understand him to perfection.

He advised me to sit down, alone, and let my thoughts, memories, and ideas come to me freely.

He recommended that I make an effort to let the voice from the depths of me speak out and tell me what to select.

Don Juan told me then to go inside the house and lie down on a bed that I had there. It was made of wooden boxes and dozens of empty burlap sacks that served as a mattress. My whole body ached, and when I lay on the bed it was actually extremely comfortable.

I took don Juan's suggestions to heart and began to think about my past; looking for events that had left a mark on me. I soon realized that my assertion, that every event in my life had been meaningful, was nonsense.

As I pressed myself to recollect, I found that I did not even know where to start. Through my mind ran endless disassociated thoughts and memories of events that had happened to me, but I could not decide whether or not they had had any meaning for me.

The impression I got was that nothing had had any significance whatsoever. It looked as if I had gone through life like a corpse; empowered to walk and talk, but not to feel anything.

Having no concentration whatsoever to pursue the subject beyond a shallow attempt, I gave up and fell asleep.

When I woke up hours later, don Juan asked me, "Did you have any success?"

Instead of being at ease after sleeping and resting, I was again moody and belligerent.

I barked, "No, I did not have any success!"

He asked, "Did you hear that voice from the depths of you?"

I lied, saying, "I think I did."

Don Juan inquired in an urgent tone, "What did it say to you?"

I muttered, "I can not think of it, don Juan."

Don Juan patted me forcefully on the back, and said, "Ah, you are back in your daily mind: Your daily mind has taken over again. Let us relax it by talking about your collection of memorable events.

"I should tell you that the selection of what to put in your album is not an easy matter. That is the reason I say that making this album is an act of war. You have to remake yourself ten times over in order to know what to select."

I clearly understood then, if only for a second, that I had two minds. However, the thought was so vague that I lost it instantly.

What remained was just the sensation of an incapacity to fulfill don Juan's requirement. Instead of graciously accepting my incapacity, though, I allowed it to become a threatening affair.

The driving force of my life in those days was to appear always in a good light. To be incompetent was the equivalent of being a loser; something that was thoroughly intolerable to me. Since I did not know how to respond to the challenge don Juan was posing, I did the only thing I knew how to do: I got angry.

I said, "I have got to think a great deal more about this, don Juan. I have got to give my mind some time to settle on the idea."

Don Juan reassured me, saying, "Of course, of course. Take all the time in the world; but hurry."

Nothing else was said about the subject at that time.

At home, I forgot about the album completely. But one day quite abruptly in the middle of a lecture I was attending, the imperious command to search for the memorable events of my life hit me like a bodily jolt. A nervous spasm shook my entire body from head to toe.

I began to work in earnest. It took me months to rehash experiences in my life that I believed were meaningful to me. However, upon examining my collection, I realized that I was dealing only with ideas that had no substance whatsoever. The events I remembered were just vague points of reference that I remembered abstractly.

Once again, I had the most unsettling suspicion that I had been reared just to act without ever stopping to feel anything.

One of the vaguest events I recalled, but which I wanted to make memorable at any cost, was the day I found out I had been admitted to graduate school at UCLA.

Yet no matter how hard I tried, I could not remember what I had been doing that day. There was nothing interesting or unique that I remembered about that day, except for the idea that it had to be memorable. Entering graduate school should have made me happy or proud of myself, but it did not.

Another sample in my collection was the day I almost got married to Kay Condor. Her last name was not really Condor, but she had changed it because she wanted to be an actress. Her ticket to fame was that she actually looked like Carole Lombard.

That day was memorable in my mind not so much because of the events that took place, but because she was beautiful and wanted to marry me. She was a head taller than I was which made her all the more interesting to me.

I was thrilled with the idea of marrying a tall woman in a church ceremony. I rented a gray tuxedo. The pants were quite wide for my height. They were not bell-bottoms. They were just wide, and that bothered me no end.

Another thing that annoyed me immensely was that the sleeves of the pink shirt I had bought for the occasion were about three inches too long. I had to use rubber bands to hold them up.

Outside of that, everything was perfect until the moment when the guests and I found out that Kay Condor had gotten cold feet, and was not going to show up. Being a very proper young lady, she had sent me a note of apology by motorcycle messenger.

She wrote that she did not believe in divorce, and that she could not commit herself for the rest of her days to someone who did not quite share her views on life. She reminded me that I snickered every time I said the name 'Condor'; something that showed a total lack of respect for her person.

She said that she had discussed the matter with her mother. Both of them loved me dearly, but not enough to make me part of their family. She added that, bravely and wisely, we all had to cut our losses.

My state of mind had been one of total numbness.

When I tried to recollect that day, I could not remember whether I felt horribly humiliated at being left standing in front of a lot of people in my gray, rented tuxedo with the wide-legged pants, or whether I was crushed because Kay Condor did not marry me.

These were the only two events I was capable of isolating with clarity. They were meager examples, but after rehashing them, I had succeeded in re-dressing them as tales of philosophical acceptance. I thought of myself as a being who goes through life with no real feelings, who has only intellectual views of everything.

Taking don Juan's metaphors as models, I even constructed one of my own: I was a being who lives his life vicariously in terms of what it should be.

I believed, for instance, that the day I was admitted to graduate school at UCLA should have been a memorable day. Since it was not, I tried my best to imbue it with an importance I was far from feeling.

A similar thing happened with the day I nearly married Kay Condor. It should have been a devastating day for me, but it was not. At the moment of recollecting it, I knew that there was nothing there and yet I began to work as hard as I could to construct what I thought I should have felt.

The next time I went to don Juan's house, I presented to him my two samples of memorable events as soon as I arrived.

Don Juan declared, "This is a pile of nonsense. None of it will do. The stories are related exclusively to you as a person who thinks, feels, cries, or does not feel anything at all.

"The memorable events of a shaman's album are affairs that will stand the test of time because they have nothing to do with him, and yet he is in the thick of them. He will always be in the thick of them for the duration of his life, and perhaps beyond, but not quite personally."

His words left me feeling dejected; totally defeated. I sincerely believed in those days that don Juan was an intransigent old man who found special delight in making me feel stupid.

His manner reminded me of a master craftsman I had met at a sculptor's foundry where I worked while going to art school. The master artisan used to criticize and find flaws with everything his advanced apprentices did, and would demand that they correct their work according to his recommendations.

His apprentices would turn around, and pretend to correct their work. I remember the glee of the master when, upon being presented with the same work, he would say, "Now you have a real thing!"

Don Juan, shaking me out of my recollection, said, "Do not feel bad. In my time, I was in the same spot. For years, not only did I not know what to choose, I thought I had no experiences to choose from. It seemed that nothing had ever happened to me.

"Of course, everything had happened to me, but in my effort to defend the idea of myself, I had no time or inclination to notice anything."

I asked, "Can you tell me, don Juan, specifically, what is wrong with my stories? I know that they are nothing, but the rest of my life is just like that."

He replied, "I will repeat this to you: The stories of a warrior's album are not personal. Your story of the day you were admitted to school is nothing but your assertion about you as the center of everything. You feel, you do not feel; you realize, you do not realize. Do you see what I mean? All of the story is just you."

I asked, "But how can it be otherwise, don Juan?"

He answered, "In your other story, you almost touch on what I want, but you turn it again into something extremely personal. I know that you could add more details, but all those details would be an extension of your person and nothing else."

I protested, saying, "I sincerely cannot see your point, don Juan. Every story seen through the eyes of the witness has to be, perforce, personal."

Don Juan smiled, delighted as usual by my confusion, and said, "Yes, yes, of course, but then they are not stories for a warrior's album. They are stories for other purposes.

"The memorable events we are after have the dark touch of the impersonal. That touch permeates them. I do not know how else to explain this."

I believed then that I had a moment of inspiration, and that I understood what he meant by the dark touch of the impersonal. I thought that he meant something a bit morbid, and darkness meant that for me.

I related to him a story from my childhood.

One of my older cousins was in medical school. He was an intern, and one day he took me to the morgue. He assured me that a young man owed it to himself to see dead people because that sight was very educational. It demonstrated the transitory-ness of life.

He harangued me, on and on, in order to convince me to go. The more he talked about how unimportant we were in death, the more curious I became. I had never seen a corpse, and in the end, my curiosity to see one overwhelmed me and I went with him.

He showed me various corpses and succeeded in scaring me stiff. I found nothing educational or illuminating about them. They were, outright, the most frightening things I had ever seen.

As he talked to me, he kept looking at his watch as if he were waiting for someone who was going to show up at any moment. He obviously wanted to keep me in the morgue longer than my strength permitted. Being the competitive creature that I was, I believed that he was testing my endurance; my manhood.

I clenched my teeth, and made up my mind to stay until the bitter end. The bitter end came in a way that I had not dreamed of.

A corpse that was covered with a sheet actually moved up with a rattle on the marble table where all the corpses were lying as if it were getting ready to sit up. It made a burping sound that was so awful that it burned through me, and will remain in my memory for the rest of my life.

My cousin, the doctor, the scientist, explained that it was the corpse of a man who had died of tuberculosis, and that his lungs had been eaten away by bacilli that had left enormous holes filled with air. He said that in cases like this, when the air changed temperature, it sometimes forced the body to sit up or at least convulse.

Don Juan shook his head from side to side, and said, "No, you have not gotten it yet. That is merely a story about your fear. I would have been scared to death myself. However, being scared like that does not illuminate anyone's path. But I am curious to know what happened to you."

I replied, "I yelled like a banshee. My cousin called me a coward; a yellow-belly, for hiding my face against his chest, and for getting sick to my stomach all over him."

I had definitely hooked on to a morbid strand in my life. I came up with another story about a sixteen year old boy I knew in high school who had a glandular disease and grew to a gigantic height. His heart did not grow at the same rate as the rest of his body and one day he died of heart failure.

I went with another boy to the mortuary out of morbid curiosity. The mortician, who was perhaps more morbid than the two of us, opened the back door, and let us in. He showed us his masterpiece. He had put the gigantic boy, who had been over seven feet, seven inches tall, into a coffin for a normal person by sawing off his legs. He showed us how he had arranged his legs as if the dead boy were holding them with his arms like two trophies.

The fright I experienced then was comparable to the fright I had experienced in the morgue as a child, but this new fright was not a physical reaction. It was a reaction of psychological revulsion.

Don Juan said, "You are almost there. However, your story is still too personal. It is revolting, and it does makes me sick, but I see great potential."

Don Juan and I laughed at the horror found in situations of everyday life. By then I was hopelessly lost in the morbid strands I had caught and released.

I told him then the story of my best friend, Roy Goldpiss. He actually had a Polish surname, but his friends called him Goldpiss because whatever he touched, he turned to gold. He was a great businessman.

His talent for business made him a super-ambitious being. He wanted to be the richest man in the world. However, he found that the competition was too tough.

According to him, doing business alone he could not possibly compete, for instance, with the head of an Islamic sect who got paid his weight in gold every year. The head of the sect would fatten himself as much as his body allowed him before he was weighed.

Then my friend Roy lowered his sights to being the richest man in the United States. However, the competition in this sector was ferocious.

He went down another notch: Perhaps he could be the richest man in California. He was too late for that, too. He gave up hope that with his chains of pizza and ice cream parlors, he could ever rise in the business world to compete with the established families who owned California.

Roy then settled for being the richest man in Woodland Hills, the suburb of Los Angeles where he lived. Unfortunately for him, down the street from his house lived Mr. Marsh, who owned factories that produced A-one quality mattresses all over the United States, and he was rich beyond belief.

Roy's frustration knew no limits. His drive to accomplish was so intense that it finally impaired his health. One day he died from an aneurysm in his brain.

His death brought, as a consequence, my third visit to a morgue or a mortuary. Roy's wife begged me, as his best friend, to make sure that the corpse was properly dressed.

I went to the funeral parlor where I was led by a male secretary to the inner chambers. At the precise moment I arrived, the mortician was at a high marble-topped table working on Roy's corpse which had already entered rigor mortis.

The mortician was forcefully pushing up the corners of the upper lip with the index and little finger of his right hand while he held his middle finger against his palm. As a grotesque smile appeared on Roy's dead face, the mortician half-turned to me, and said in a servile tone, "I hope all this is to your satisfaction, sir."

Roy's wife, and it will never be known whether she liked him or not, decided to bury him with all the garishness that, in her opinion, his life deserved. She had bought a very expensive coffin; a custom-made affair that looked like a telephone booth. She had gotten the idea from a movie. Roy was going to be buried sitting, as if he were making a business call on the telephone.

I did not stay for the ceremony. I left in the midst of a most violent reaction; a mixture of impotence and anger; the kind of anger that could not be vented on anyone.

Don Juan laughingly commented, "You certainly are morbid today. But in spite of that, or perhaps because of that, you are almost there. You are touching it."

I never ceased to marvel at the way in which my mood changed every time I went to see don Juan. I always arrived moody, grouchy, filled with self-assertions and doubts. After a while, my mood would mysteriously change, and I would become more expansive by degrees until I was as calm as I had ever been.

However, my new mood was always couched in my old vocabulary, and my usual way of talking then was that of a totally dissatisfied person who is containing himself from complaining out loud, but whose endless complaints are implied at every turn of the conversation.

In my habitual tone of veiled complaint, I asked, "Can you give me an example of a memorable event from your album, don Juan? If I knew the pattern you were after, I might be able to come up with something. As it is, I am whistling hopelessly in the dark."

With a stern look in his eyes, Don Juan said, "Do not explain yourself so much. Sorcerers say that in every explanation there is a hidden apology. So, when you are explaining why you can not do this or that, you are really apologizing for your shortcomings; hoping that whoever is listening to you will have the kindness to understand them."

My most useful maneuver, when I was attacked, had always been to turn my attackers off by not listening to them. Don Juan, however, had the disgusting ability to trap every bit of my attention. No matter how he attacked me, no matter what he said, he always managed to have me riveted to his every word.

On this occasion, what he was saying about me did not please me at all because it was the naked truth.

I avoided his eyes. I felt, as usual, defeated, but it was a peculiar defeat this time. It did not bother me as it would have if it had happened in the world of everyday life, or right after I had arrived at his house.

After a very long silence, don Juan spoke to me again, saying, "I will do better than give you an example of a memorable event from my album. I will give you a memorable event from your own life; one that should go for sure in your collection. Or I should say, if I were you, I would certainly put it in my collection of memorable events."

I thought don Juan was joking and I laughed stupidly.

He said cuttingly, "This is not a laughing matter. I am serious. You once told me a story that fits the bill."

I asked, "What story is that, don Juan?"

He said, "The story of 'figures in front of a mirror'. Tell me that story again, but this time tell it to me in all the detail you can remember."

I began to retell the story in a cursory fashion.

He stopped me and demanded a careful, detailed narration, starting at the beginning.

I tried again, but my second rendition did not satisfy him.

Don Juan proposed, "Let us go for a walk. When you walk, you are much more accurate than when you are sitting down. It is not an idle idea that you should pace back and forth when you try to relate something."

We had been sitting, as we usually did during the day, under the house ramada. I had developed a pattern: Whenever I sat there, I always did it on the same spot with my back against the wall. Don Juan sat in various places under the ramada, but never on the same spot.

We went for a hike at the worst time of the day; noon. He outfitted me with an old straw hat as he always did whenever we went out in the heat of the sun.

We walked for a long time in complete silence. I tried to the best of my ability to force myself to remember all the details of the story. It was mid-afternoon when we sat down under the shade of some tall bushes, and I retold the full story.

Years before, while I was studying sculpture in a fine arts school in Italy, I had a close friend, Eddie; a Scotsman who was studying art in order to become an art critic.

What stood out most vividly in my mind about him, and had to do with the story I was telling don Juan, was the bombastic idea he had of himself. He thought he was the most licentious, lusty, all-around scholar and craftsman; a man of the Renaissance. Licentious he was, but lustiness was something in complete contradiction to his bony, dry, serious person.

He was a vicarious follower of the English philosopher Bertrand Russell, and Eddie dreamed of applying the principles of logical positivism to art criticism. His desire to be an all-around scholar and craftsman was perhaps his wildest fantasy because he was a procrastinator. Work was his nemesis.

His dubious specialty was not art criticism, but rather a personal knowledge of all the prostitutes of the local bordellos of which there were plenty. The colorful and lengthy accounts he used to give me, in order to keep me, according to him, up to date about all the marvelous things he did in the world of his specialty, were delightful. It was not surprising to me, therefore, that one day he came to my apartment, all excited, nearly out of breath, and told me that something extraordinary had happened to him, and that he wanted to share it with me.

In the Oxford accent he affected every time he talked to me, he excitedly said, "I say, old man, you must see this for yourself!

He paced the room nervously, and said, "It is hard to describe, but I know it is something you will appreciate. It is something the impression of which will last you for a lifetime. I am going to give you a marvelous gift for life. Do you understand?"

I understood that he was a hysterical Scotsman. It was always my pleasure to humor him and tag along. I had never regretted it.

I said to him, "Calm down. Calm down, Eddie. What are you trying to tell me?"

He related to me that he had been in a bordello, where he had found an unbelievable woman who did an incredible thing she called 'figures in front of a mirror'. He assured me repeatedly, almost stuttering, that I owed it to myself to experience this unbelievable event personally.

Since he knew I did not have any money, he said, "I say, do not worry about money! I have already paid the price. All you have to do is go with me. Madame Ludmilla will show you her 'figures in front of a mirror.' It is a blast!"

In a fit of uncontrollable glee, Eddie laughed uproariously, oblivious to his bad teeth, which he normally hid behind a tight-lipped smile or laugh, and said, "I say, it is absolutely great!"

My curiosity mounted by the minute. I was more than willing to participate in his new delight. Eddie drove me to the outskirts of the city.

We stopped in front of a dusty, badly kept building. The paint was peeling off the walls. It had the air of having been a hotel at one time; a hotel that had been turned into an apartment building. I could see the remnants of a hotel sign that seemed to have been ripped to pieces. On the front of the building there were rows of dirty single balconies filled with flowerpots, or draped with carpets put out to dry.

At the entrance to the building were two dark, shady-looking men wearing pointed black shoes that seemed too tight on their feet. They greeted Eddie effusively. They had black, shifty, menacing eyes. Both of them were wearing shiny light-blue suits, also too tight for their bulky bodies.

One of them opened the door for Eddie. They did not even look at me.

We went up two flights of stairs on a dilapidated staircase that at one time must have been luxurious.

Eddie led the way and walked the length of an empty, hotel-like corridor with doors on both sides. All the doors were painted in the same drab, dark, olive green. Every door had a brass number tarnished with age, and barely visible against the painted wood.

Eddie stopped in front of a door. I noticed the number 112 on it. He rapped repeatedly. The door opened, and a round, short woman with bleached-blonde hair beckoned us in without saying a word. She was wearing a red silk robe with feathery, flouncy sleeves and red slippers with furry balls on top. Once we were inside a small hall, and she had closed the door behind us, she greeted Eddie in terribly accented English. "Hallo, Eddie. You brought friend, eh?"

Eddie shook her hand, and then kissed it, gallantly. He acted as if he were most calm, yet I noticed his unconscious gestures of being ill at ease.

"How are you today, Madame Ludmilla?" he said, trying to sound like an American and flubbing it.

I never discovered why Eddie always wanted to sound like an American whenever he was transacting business in those houses of ill repute. I had the suspicion that he did it because Americans were known to be wealthy, and he wanted to establish his rich man's bona fides with them.

Eddie turned to me and said in his phony American accent, "I leave you in good hands, kiddo."

He sounded so awful, so foreign to my ears, that I laughed out loud. Madame Ludmilla did not seem perturbed at all by my explosion of mirth. Eddie kissed Madame Ludmilla's hand again, and left.

"You speak English, my boy?" she shouted as if I were deaf. "You look Eyipcian, or perhaps Torkish."

I assured Madame Ludmilla that I was neither, and that I did speak English. She asked me then if I fancied her 'figures in front of a mirror'. I did not know what to say. I just nodded my head affirmatively.

"I give you good show," she assured me. "Figures in front of a mirror is only foreplay. When you are hot and ready, tell me to stop."

From the small hall where we were standing we walked into a dark and eerie room. The windows were heavily curtained. There were some low-voltage light bulbs on fixtures attached to the wall. The bulbs were shaped like tubes and protruded straight out at right angles from the wall.

There was a profusion of objects around the room: pieces of furniture like small chests of drawers, antique tables and chairs, a roll-top desk set against the wall crammed with papers, pencils, rulers, and at least a dozen pairs of scissors. Madame Ludmilla made me sit down on an old stuffed chair.

"The bed is in the other room, darling," she said, pointing to the other side of the room. "This is my antisala. Here I give show to get you hot and ready."

She dropped her red robe, kicked off her slippers, and opened the double doors of two armoires standing side by side against the wall. Attached to the inside of each door was a full-length mirror.

"And now the music, my boy," Madame Ludmilla said, then cranked a Victrola that appeared to be in mint condition, shiny, like new. She put on a record. The music was a haunting melody that reminded me of a circus march.

"And now my show," she said, and began to twirl around to the accompaniment of the haunting melody. The skin of Madame Ludmilla's body was tight, for the most part, and extraordinarily white; though she was not young. She must have been in her well-lived late forties.

Her belly sagged, not a great deal, but a bit, and so did her voluminous breasts. The skin of her face also sagged into noticeable jowls. She had a small nose and heavily painted red lips. She wore thick black mascara. She brought to mind the prototype of an aging prostitute. Yet there was something childlike about her; a girlish abandon and trust; a sweetness that jolted me.

"And now, figures in front of a mirror," Madame Ludmilla announced while the music continued.

"Leg, leg, leg!" she said, kicking one leg up in the air, and then the other, in time with the music. She had her right hand on top of her head, like a little girl who is not sure that she can perform the movements.

"Turn, turn, turn!" she said, turning like a top.

"Butt, butt, butt!" she said then, showing me her bare behind like a cancan dancer.

She repeated the sequence over and over until the music began to fade when the Victrola's spring wound down. I had the feeling that Madame Ludmilla was twirling away into the distance, becoming smaller and smaller as the music faded.

Some despair and loneliness that I did not know existed in me came to the surface from the depths of my very being. It made me get up and run like a madman out of the room, down the stairs, out of the building, and into the street.

Eddie was standing outside the door talking to the two men in light-blue shiny suits. Seeing me running like that, he began to laugh uproariously.

"Was it not a blast?" he said, still trying to sound like an American. "'Figures in front of a mirror is only the foreplay.' What a thing! What a thing!"

The first time I had mentioned the story to don Juan, I had told him that I had been deeply affected by the haunting melody and the old prostitute clumsily twirling to the music; and I had been deeply affected also by the realization of how callous my friend was.

When I had finished retelling my story to don Juan as we sat in the hills of a range of mountains in Sonora, I was shaking; mysteriously affected by something quite undefined.

"That story," don Juan said, "should go in your album of memorable events. Your friend, without having any idea of what he was doing, gave you, as he himself said, something that will indeed last you for a lifetime."

I declared, "I see this as a sad story, don Juan, but that is all."

Don Juan replied, "It is indeed a sad story, just like your other stories; but what makes it different and memorable to me is that it touches every one of us human beings; not just you, like your other tales.

"You see, like Madame Ludmilla, every one of us, young and old alike, is making figures in front of a mirror in one way or another. Tally what you know about people. Think of any human being on this earth, and you will know, without the shadow of a doubt, that no matter who they are, or what they think of themselves, or what they do, the result of their actions is always the same: senseless figures in front of a mirror."

The Active Side Of Infinity ©1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 1 - Chapter 04. A Journey of Power.

At the time I met don Juan, I was a fairly studious anthropology student, and I wanted to begin my career as a professional anthropologist by publishing as much as possible. I was bent on climbing the academic ladder, and in my calculations, I had determined that the first step was to collect data on the uses of medicinal plants by the Indians of the southwestern United States.

I first asked a professor of anthropology who had worked in that area for advice about my project. He was a prominent ethnologist who had published extensively in the late thirties and early forties on the California Indians and the Indians of the Southwest and Sonora, Mexico. He patiently listened to my exposition.

My idea was to write a paper, call it 'Ethnobotanical Data', and publish it in a journal that dealt exclusively with anthropological issues of the southwestern United States.

I proposed to collect medicinal plants, take the samples to the Botanical Garden at UCLA to be properly identified, and then describe why and how the Indians of the Southwest used them. I envisioned collecting thousands of entries. I even envisioned publishing a small encyclopedia on the subject.

The professor smiled forgivingly at me. "I do not want to dampen your enthusiasm," he said in a tired voice, "but I can not help commenting negatively on your eagerness. Eagerness is welcome in anthropology, but it must be properly channeled. We are still in the golden age of anthropology.

"It was my luck to study with Alfred Krober and Robert Lowie, two pillars of social science. I have not betrayed their trust. Anthropology is still the master discipline. Every other discipline should stem from anthropology.

"The entire field of history, for example, should be called 'historical anthropology,' and the field of philosophy should be called 'philosophical anthropology.' Man should be the measure of everything. Therefore, anthropology, the study of man, should be the core of every other discipline. Someday, it will."

I looked at him, bewildered. He was, in my estimation, a totally passive, benevolent old professor who had recently had a heart attack. I seemed to have struck a chord of passion in him.

He continued, saying, "Do you not think that you should pay more attention to your formal studies? Rather than doing fieldwork, would it not be better for you to study linguistics? We have in the department here one of the most prominent linguists in the world. If I were you, I would be sitting at his feet, catching any drift emanating from him.

"We also have a superb authority in comparative religions. And there are some exceptionally competent anthropologists here who have done work on kinship systems in cultures all over the world from the point of view of linguistics, and from the point of view of cognition. You need a lot of preparation. To think that you could do fieldwork now is a travesty. Plunge into your books, young man. That is my advice."

Stubbornly, I took my proposition to another professor; a younger one. He was not in any way more helpful. He laughed at me openly. He told me that the paper I wanted to write was a Mickey Mouse paper, and that it was not anthropology by any stretch of the imagination.

"Anthropologists nowadays," he said professorially, "are concerned with issues that have relevance. Medical and pharmaceutical scientists have done endless research on every possible medicinal plant in the world. There is no longer any bone to chew on there. Your kind of data collecting belongs to the turn of the nineteenth century. Now it is nearly two hundred years later. There is such a thing as progress, you know."

Then he proceeded to give me a definition and a justification of progress and perfectibility as two issues of philosophical discourse which he said were most relevant to anthropology.

"Anthropology is the only discipline in existence," he continued, "which can clearly substantiate the concept of perfectibility and progress. Thank God that there is still a ray of hope in the midst of the cynicism of our times.

"Only anthropology can show the actual development of culture and social organization. Only anthropologists can prove to mankind beyond the shadow of a doubt the progress of human knowledge. Culture evolves, and only anthropologists can present samples of societies that fit definite cubbyholes in a line of progress and perfectibility.

"That is anthropology for you! Not some puny fieldwork, which is not fieldwork at all, but mere masturbation."

It was a blow on the head to me. As a last resort, I went to Arizona to talk to anthropologists who were actually doing field work there. By then, I was ready to give up on the whole idea. I understood what the two professors were trying to tell me. I could not have agreed with them more. My attempts at doing fieldwork were definitely simpleminded.

Yet I wanted to get my feet wet in the field. I did not want to do only library research.

In Arizona, I met with an extremely seasoned anthropologist who had written copiously on the Yaqui Indians of Arizona as well as those of Sonora, Mexico. He was extremely kind. He did not run me down, nor did he give me any advice. He only commented that the Indian societies of the Southwest were extremely isolationist, and that foreigners, especially those of Hispanic origin, were distrusted, even abhorred, by those Indians.

A younger colleague of his, however, was more outspoken. He said that I was better off reading herbalists' books. He was an authority in the field, and his opinion was that anything to be known about medicinal plants from the Southwest had already been classified and talked about in various publications.

He went as far as to say that the sources of any Indian curer of the day were precisely those publications rather than any traditional knowledge. He finished me off with the assertion that if there still were any traditional curing practices, the Indians would not divulge them to a stranger.

"Do something worthwhile," he advised me. "Look into urban anthropology. There is a lot of money for studies on alcoholism among Indians in the big city, for example. Now that is something that any anthropologist can do easily. Go and get drunk with local Indians in a bar.

"Then arrange whatever you find out about them in terms of statistics. Turn everything into numbers. Urban anthropology is a real field."

There was nothing else for me to do except to take the advice of those experienced social scientists. I decided to fly back to Los Angeles, but another anthropologist friend of mine named Bill let me know then that he was going to drive throughout Arizona and New Mexico, visiting all the places where he had done work in the past, renewing in this fashion his relationships with the people who had been his anthropological informants.

"You are welcome to come with me," he said. "I am not going to do any work. I am just going to visit with them, have a few drinks with them, and bullshit with them. I bought gifts for them- blankets, booze, jackets, ammunition for twenty-two caliber rifles. My car is loaded with goodies.

"I usually drive alone whenever I go to see them, but by myself I always run the risk of falling asleep. You could keep me company, keep me from dozing off, or drive a little bit if I am too drunk."

I felt so despondent that I turned him down.

"I am very sorry, Bill," I said. "The trip will not do for me. I see no point in pursuing this idea of fieldwork any longer."

"Do not give up without a fight," Bill said in a tone of paternal concern. "Give all you have to the fight, and if it licks you, then it is okay to give up, but not before. Come with me and see how you like the Southwest."

He put his arm around my shoulders. I could not help noticing how immensely heavy his arm was. He was tall and husky, but in recent years his body had acquired a strange rigidity. He had lost his boyish quality. His round face was no longer filled, youthful, the way it had been. Now it was a worried face.

I believed that he worried because he was losing his hair, but at times it seemed to me that it was something more than that. And it was not that he was fatter. His body was heavy in ways that were impossible to explain. I noticed it in the way that he walked, and got up, and sat down. Bill seemed to me to be fighting gravity with every fiber of his being, in everything he did.

Disregarding my feelings of defeat, I started on a journey with him. We visited every place in Arizona and New Mexico where there were Indians.

One of the end results of this trip was that I found out that my anthropologist friend had two definite facets to his person. He explained to me that his opinions as a professional anthropologist were very measured, and congruous with the anthropological thought of the day, but that as a private person, his anthropological fieldwork had given him a wealth of experiences that he never talked about. These experiences were not congruous with the anthropological thought of the day because they were events that were impossible to catalog.

During the course of our trip, he would invariably have some drinks with his ex-informants, and feel very relaxed afterward. I would take the wheel then and drive as he sat in the passenger seat taking sips from his bottle of thirty year old Ballantine's. It was then that Bill would talk about his uncataloged experiences.

"I have never believed in ghosts," he said abruptly one day. "I never went in for apparitions and floating essences; voices in the dark. You know. I had a very pragmatic, serious upbringing. Science had always been my compass.

"But then, working in the field, all kinds of weird crap began to filter through to me. For instance, I went with some Indians one night on a vision quest. They were going to actually initiate me by some painful business of piercing the muscles of my chest. They were preparing a sweat lodge in the woods.

"I had resigned myself to withstand the pain. I took a couple of drinks to give me strength. And then the man who was going to intercede for me with the people who actually performed the ceremony, yelled in horror, and pointed at a dark, shadowy figure walking toward us.

"When the shadowy figure came closer to me," Bill went on, "I noticed that what I had in front of me was an old Indian dressed in the weirdest getup you could imagine. He had the paraphernalia of shamans. The man I was with that night fainted shamelessly at the sight of the old man.

"The old man came to me and pointed a finger at my chest. His finger was just skin and bone. He babbled incomprehensible things to me. By then, the rest of the people had seen the old man, and started to rush silently toward me.

"The old man turned to look at them, and every one of them froze. He harangued them for a moment. His voice was something unforgettable. It was as if he were talking from a tube, or as if he had something attached to his mouth that carried the words out of him. I swear to you that I saw the man talking inside his body, and his mouth broadcasting the words as a mechanical apparatus.

"After haranguing the men, the old man continued walking, past me, past them, and disappeared, swallowed by the darkness."

Bill said that the plan to have an initiation ceremony went to pot. It was never performed; and the men, including the shamans in charge, were shaking in their boots. He stated that they were so frightened that they disbanded and left.

"People who had been friends for years," Bill went on, "never spoke to each other again. They claimed that what they had seen was the apparition of an incredibly old shaman, and that it would bring bad luck to talk about it among themselves. In fact, they said that the mere act of setting eyes on one another would bring them bad luck. Most of them moved away from the area."

"Why did they feel that talking to each other or seeing each other would bring them bad luck?" I asked him.

"Those are their beliefs," he replied. "A vision of that nature means to them that the apparition spoke to each of them individually. To have a vision of that nature is, for them, the luck of a lifetime."

"And what was the individual thing that the vision told each of them?" I asked.

"Beats me," he replied. "They never explained anything to me. Every time I asked them, they entered into a profound state of numbness. They had not seen anything; they had not heard anything.

"Years after the event, the man who had fainted next to me swore to me that he had just faked the faint because he was so frightened that he did not want to face the old man; and that what the old man had to say was understood by everybody at a level other than language comprehension."

Bill said that in his case, what the apparition voiced to him he understood as having to do with his health and his expectations in life.

"What do you mean by that?" I asked him.

"Things are not that good for me," he confessed. "My body does not feel well."

"But do you know what is really the matter with you?" I asked.

"Oh, yes," he said nonchalantly. "Doctors have told me. But I am not gonna worry about it, or even think about it."

Bill's revelations left me feeling thoroughly uneasy. This was a facet of his person that I did not know. I had always thought that he was a tough old cookie. I could never conceive of him as vulnerable. I did not like our exchange. It was, however, too late for me to retreat. Our trip continued.

On another occasion, he confided that the shamans of the Southwest were capable of transforming themselves into different entities, and that the categorization schemes of 'bear shaman', or 'mountain lion shaman', etc., should not be taken as euphemisms or metaphors because they were not.

"Would you believe it," he said in a tone of great admiration, "that there are some shamans who actually become bears, or mountain lions, or eagles? I am not exaggerating, nor am I fabricating anything when I say that once I witnessed the transformation of a shaman who called himself 'River Man', or 'River Shaman', or 'Proceeding from River and Returning to River.'

"I was out in the mountains of New Mexico with this shaman. I was driving for him. He trusted me, and he was going in search of his origin- or so he said. We were walking along a river when he suddenly got very excited. He told me to move away from the shore to some high rocks, and hide there; put a blanket over my head and shoulders, and peek through it so I would not miss what he was about to do."

"What was he going to do?" I asked him, incapable of containing myself.

"I did not know," he said. "Your guess would have been as good as mine. I had no way of conceiving of what he was going to do. He just walked into the water, fully dressed. When the water reached him at mid-calf, because it was a wide but shallow river, the shaman simply vanished; disappeared.

"Prior to entering the water, he had whispered in my ear that I should go downstream and wait for him. He told me the exact spot to wait. I, of course, did not believe a word of what he was saying, so at first I could not remember where he had said I had to wait for him, but then I found the spot and I saw the shaman coming out of the water. It sounds stupid to say 'coming out of the water.' I saw the shaman turning into water and then being remade out of the water. Can you believe that?"

I had no comments on his stories. It was impossible for me to believe him, but I could not disbelieve him either. He was a very serious man. The only possible explanation that I could think of was that as we continued our trip he drank more and more every day. He had in the trunk of the car a box of twenty-four bottles of Scotch for only himself. He actually drank like a fish.

"I have always been partial to the esoteric mutations of shamans," he said to me another day. "It is not that I can explain the mutations, or even believe that they take place, but as an intellectual exercise I am very interested in considering that mutations into snakes and mountain lions are not as difficult as what the water shaman did.

"It is at moments like this, when I engage my intellect in such a fashion, that I cease to be an anthropologist and I begin to react, following a gut feeling. My gut feeling is that those shamans certainly do something that can not be measured scientifically or even talked about intelligently.

"For instance, there are cloud shamans who turn into clouds, into mist. I have never seen this happen, but I knew a cloud shaman. I never saw him disappearing or turning into mist in front of my eyes as I saw that other shaman turning into water right in front of me. But I chased that cloud shaman once, and he simply vanished in an area where there was no place for him to hide. Although I did not see him turning into a cloud, he disappeared. I could not explain where he went. There were no rocks or vegetation around the place where he ended up. I was there half a minute after he was, but the shaman was gone.

"I chased that man all over the place for information," Bill went on. "He would not give me the time of day. He was very friendly to me, but that was all."

Bill told me endless other stories about strife and political factions among Indians in different Indian reservations; or stories about personal vendettas, animosities, friendships, etc., etc., which did not interest me in the least.

On the other hand, his stories about shamans' mutations and apparitions had caused a true emotional upheaval in me. I was at once both fascinated and appalled by them. However, when I tried to think about why I was fascinated or appalled, I could not tell. All I could have said was that his stories about shamans hit me at an unknown, visceral level.

Another realization brought by this trip was that I verified for myself that the Indian societies of the Southwest were indeed closed to outsiders. I finally came to accept that I did need a great deal of preparation in the science of anthropology, and that it was more functional to do anthropological fieldwork in an area with which I was familiar, or one in which I had an entree.

When the journey ended, Bill drove me to the Greyhound bus depot in Nogales, Arizona, for my return trip to Los Angeles. As we were sitting in the waiting area before the bus came, he consoled me in a paternal manner, reminding me that failures were a matter of course in anthropological fieldwork, and that they meant only the hardening of one's purpose, or the coming to maturity of an anthropologist.

Abruptly, he leaned over and pointed with a slight movement of his chin to the other side of the room. "I think that old man sitting on the bench by the corner over there is the man I told you about," he whispered in my ear. "I am not quite sure because I have had him in front of me, face-to-face, only once."

"What man is that? What did you tell me about him?" I asked.

"When we were talking about shamans and shamans' transformations, I told you that I had once met a cloud shaman."

"Yes, yes, I remember that," I said. "Is that man the cloud shaman?"

"No," he said emphatically. "But I think he is a companion or a teacher of the cloud shaman. I saw both of them together in the distance various times, many years ago."

I did remember Bill mentioning in a very casual manner, although not in relation to the cloud shaman, that he knew about the existence of a mysterious old man who was a retired shaman; an old Indian misanthrope from Yuma who had once been a terrifying sorcerer. The relationship of the old man to the cloud shaman was never voiced by my friend, but obviously it was foremost in Bill's mind to the point where he believed that he had told me about him.

A strange anxiety suddenly possessed me and made me jump out of my seat. As if I had no volition of my own, I approached the old man and immediately began a long tirade on how much I knew about medicinal plants and shamanism among the American Indians of the plains and their Siberian ancestors.

As a secondary theme, I mentioned to the old man that I knew that he was a shaman. I concluded by assuring him that it would be thoroughly beneficial for him to talk to me at length.

"If nothing else," I said petulantly "we could swap stories. You tell me yours and I will tell you mine."

The old man kept his eyes lowered until the last moment. Then he peered at me. "I am Juan Matus," he said, looking me squarely in the eyes.

My tirade should not have ended by any means, but for no reason that I could discern, I felt that there was nothing more I could have said. I wanted to tell him my name. He raised his hand to the height of my lips as if to prevent me from saying it.

At that instant, a bus pulled up to the bus stop. The old man muttered that it was the bus he had to take, then he earnestly asked me to look him up so we could talk with more ease and swap stories. There was an ironic smirk on the comer of his mouth when he said that.

With an incredible agility for a man his age- I figured he must have been in his eighties- he covered, in a few leaps, the fifty yards between the bench where he was sitting and the door of the bus. As if the bus had stopped just to pick him up, it moved away as soon as he had jumped in and the door had closed.

After the old man left, I went back to the bench where Bill was sitting.

"What did he say, what did he say?" he asked excitedly.

"He told me to look him up, and come to his house to visit," I said. "He even said that we could talk there."

"But what did you say to him to get him to invite you to his house?" he demanded.

I told Bill that I had used my best sales pitch, and that I had promised the old man to reveal to him everything I knew from the point of view of my reading about medicinal plants.

Bill obviously did not believe me. He accused me of holding out on him. "I know the people around this area," he said belligerently, "and that old man is a very strange fart. He does not talk to anybody, Indians included. Why would he talk to you; a perfect stranger? You are not even cute!"

It was obvious that Bill was annoyed with me. I could not figure out why though. I did not dare ask him for an explanation. He gave me the impression of being a bit jealous. Perhaps he felt that I had succeeded where he had failed.

However, my success had been so inadvertent that it did not mean anything to me. Except for Bill's casual remarks, I did not have any conception of how difficult it was to approach that old man, and I could not have cared less. At the time, I found nothing remarkable in the exchange. It baffled me that Bill was so upset about it.

"Do you know where his house is?" I asked him.

"I do not have the foggiest idea," he answered curtly. "I have heard people from this area say that he does not live anywhere, that he just appears here and there unexpectedly, but that is a lot of horse-shit. He probably lives in some shack in Nogales, Mexico."

"Why is he so important?" I asked him. My question made me gather enough courage to add, "You seem to be upset because he talked to me. Why?"

Without any ado, he admitted that he was chagrined because he knew how useless it was to try to talk to that man. "That old man is as rude as anyone can be," he added. "At best, he stares at you without saying a word when you talk to him. At other times, he does not even look at you. He treats you as if you did not exist.

"The one time I tried to talk to him, he brutally turned me down. Do you know what he said to me? He said, 'If I were you, I would not waste my energy opening my mouth. Save it. You need it.' If he were not such an old fart, I would have punched him in the nose."

I pointed out to Bill that to call him an 'old' man was more a figure of speech than an actual description.

The Indian did not really appear to be that old, although he was definitely old. He possessed a tremendous vigor and agility. I felt that Bill would have failed miserably if he had tried to punch him in the nose. That old Indian was powerful. In fact, he was downright scary.

I did not voice my thoughts. I let Bill go on telling me how disgusted he was at the nastiness of that old man, and how he would have dealt with him had it not been for the fact that the old man was so feeble.

"Who do you think could give me some information about where he might live?" I asked him.

"Perhaps some people in Yuma," he replied, a bit more relaxed. "Maybe the people I introduced you to at the beginning of our trip. You would not lose anything by asking them. Tell them that I sent you to them."

I changed my plans right then and instead of going back to Los Angeles, I went directly to Yuma, Arizona. I saw the people to whom Bill had introduced me. They did not know where the old Indian lived, but their comments about him inflamed my curiosity even more.

They said that he was not from Yuma, but from Sonora, Mexico, and that in his youth he had been a fearsome sorcerer who did incantations and put spells on people; but that he had mellowed with age, turning into an ascetic hermit.

They remarked that although he was a Yaqui Indian, he had once run around with a group of Mexican men who seemed to be extremely knowledgeable about bewitching practices. They all agreed that they had not seen those men in the area for ages.

One of the men added that the old man was contemporaneous with his grandfather, but that while his grandfather was senile and bedridden, the sorcerer seemed to be more vigorous than ever. The same man referred me to some people in Hermosillo, the capital of Sonora, who might know the old man and who might be able to tell me more about him.

The prospect of going to Mexico was not at all appealing to me. Sonora was too far away from my area of interest. Besides, I reasoned that I was better off doing urban anthropology after all, and I went back to Los Angeles. But before leaving for Los Angeles, I canvassed the area of Yuma, searching for information about the old man. No one knew anything about him.

As the bus drove to Los Angeles, I experienced a unique sensation. On the one hand, I felt totally cured of my obsession with fieldwork or my interest in the old man. On the other hand, I felt a strange nostalgia. It was, truthfully, something I had never felt before. Its newness struck me profoundly.

It was a mixture of anxiety and longing, as if I were missing something of tremendous importance. I had the clear sensation as I approached Los Angeles that whatever had been acting on me around Yuma had begun to fade with distance; but its fading only increased my unwarranted longing.

The Active Side Of Infinity ©1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 1 - Chapter 05. The Intent of Infinity.

"I want you", don Juan said to me, "to think deliberately about every detail of what transpired between you and those two men, Jorge Campos and Lucas Coronado, who are the ones who really delivered you to me; and then tell me all about it."

I found his request very difficult to fulfill, and yet I actually enjoyed remembering everything those two had said to me. Don Juan wanted every detail possible; something that forced me to push my memory to its limits.

In Yuma, Arizona, I had been given the names and addresses of some people in Mexico who, I was told, might be able to shed light on the mystery of the old man I had met in the bus depot.

The story don Juan wanted me to recollect began in the city of to Guaymas, in Sonora, Mexico.

The people I went to see not only did not know any retired old shaman, they even doubted that such a man had ever existed.

They were all filled to the brim, however, with scary stories about Yaqui shamans, and about the belligerent general mood of the Yaqui Indians.

They insinuated that perhaps in Vicam, a railroad-station town between the cities of Guaymas and Ciudad Obregon, I might find someone who could perhaps steer me in the proper direction.

I asked them, "Is there anyone in particular I could look up?"

One of the men suggested, "Your best bet would be to talk to a field inspector of the official government bank. The bank has a lot of field inspectors. They know all the Indians of the area because the bank is the government institution that buys their crops. Every Yaqui is a farmer, and the proprietor of a parcel of land that he can call his own as long as he cultivates it."

I asked, "Do you know any field inspectors?"

They looked at each other, and smiled apologetically at me. They did not know any, but strongly recommended that I should approach one of those inspectors on my own, and put my case to him.

In Vicam Station, my attempts at making contact with the field inspectors of the government bank were a total disaster. I met three of them, but when I told them what I wanted, every one of them looked at me with utter distrust.

They immediately suspected that I was a spy sent there by the Yankees to cause problems that they could not clearly define, but about which they made wild speculations ranging from political agitation to industrial espionage. It was the unsubstantiated belief of everyone around that there were copper deposits in the lands of the Yaqui Indians, and that the Yankees coveted them.

After this resounding failure, I retreated to the city of Guaymas, and stayed at a hotel that was very close to a fabulous restaurant. I went to the restaurant three times a day. The food was superb. I liked it so much that I stayed in Guaymas for over a week. I practically lived in the restaurant, and became, in this manner, acquainted with the owner, Mr. Reyes.

One afternoon while I was eating, Mr. Reyes came to my table with another man whom he introduced to me as Jorge Campos- a full-blooded Yaqui Indian entrepreneur who had lived in Arizona in his youth, who spoke English perfectly, and who was more American than any American. Mr. Reyes praised him as a true example of how hard work and dedication could develop a person into an exceptional man.

Mr. Reyes left and Jorge Campos sat down next to me, and immediately took over. He pretended to be modest, and denied all praise; but it was obvious that he was as pleased as punch with what Mr. Reyes had said about him.

At first sight, I had the clear impression that Jorge Campos was an entrepreneur of the particular kind that one finds in bars or on crowded corners of main streets trying to sell an idea; or simply trying to find a way to con people out of their savings.

Mr. Campos was very pleasant looking, around six feet tall and lean, but with a high pot belly like a habitual drinker of hard liquor. He had a very dark complexion with a touch of green to it, and wore expensive blue jeans and shiny cowboy boots with pointed toes and angular heels as if he needed to dig them into the ground to stop being dragged by a lassoed steer.

He was wearing an impeccably ironed gray plaid shirt. In its right pocket was a plastic pocket guard into which he had inserted a row of pens. I had seen the same pocket guard among office workers who did not want to stain their shirt pockets with ink.

His attire also included an expensive looking fringed reddish brown suede jacket, and a tall Texas style cowboy hat.

His round face was expressionless. He had no wrinkles even though he seemed to be in his early fifties.

For some unknown reason, I believed that he was dangerous.

"Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Campos," I said in Spanish, extending my hand to him.

"Let us dispense with the formalities," he responded, also in Spanish, shaking my hand vigorously. "I like to treat young people as equals regardless of age differences. Call me Jorge."

He was quiet for a moment, no doubt assessing my reaction. I did not know what to say. I certainly did not want to humor him, nor did I want to take him seriously.

"I am curious to know what you are doing in Guaymas," he went on casually. "You do not seem to be a tourist, nor do you seem to be interested in deep-sea fishing."

"I am an anthropology student," I said, "and I am trying to establish my credentials with the local Indians in order to do some field research."

"And I am a businessman," he said. "My business is to supply information; to be the go-between. You have the need, I have the commodity. I charge for my services. However, my services are guaranteed. If you do not get satisfaction, you do not have to pay me."

"If your business is to supply information," I said, "I will gladly pay you whatever you charge."

"Ah!" he exclaimed. "You certainly need a guide; someone with more education than the average Indian here to show you around. Do you have a grant from the United States government or from another big institution?"

"Yes," I lied. "I have a grant from the Esoterical Foundation of Los Angeles."

When I said that, I actually saw a glint of greed in his eyes. "Ah!" he exclaimed again. "How big is that institution?"

"Fairly big," I said.

"My goodness! Is that so?" he said, as if my words were an explanation that he had wanted to hear. "And now, may I ask you, if you do not mind, how big is your grant? How much money did they give you?"

"A few thousand dollars to do preliminary fieldwork," I lied again, to see what he would say.

Relishing his words, he said, "Ah! I like people who are direct. I am sure that you and I are going to reach an agreement. I offer you my services as a guide and as a key that can open many secret doors among the Yaquis. As you can see by my general appearance, I am a man of taste and means."

"Oh, yes, definitely you are a man of good taste," I asserted.

"What I am saying to you," he said, "is that for a small fee, which you will find most reasonable, I will steer you to the right people; people to whom you could ask any question you want. And for some very little more, I will translate their words to you, verbatim, into Spanish or English. I can also speak French and German, but I have the feeling that those languages do not interest you."

"You are right, you are so very right," I said. "Those languages do not interest me at all. But how much would your fees be?"

"Ah! My fees!" he said, and took a leather covered notebook out of his back pocket, and flipped it open in front of my face. He scribbled quick notes on it, flipped it closed again, and put it in his pocket with precision and speed. I was sure that he wanted to give me the impression of being efficient and fast at calculating figures.

"I will charge you fifty dollars a day," he said, "with transportation, plus my meals. I mean, when you eat, I eat. What do you say?"

At that moment, he leaned over to me and, almost in a whisper, said that we should shift into English because he did not want people to know the nature of our transactions. He began to speak to me then in something that was not English at all.

I was at a loss. I did not know how to respond. I began to fret nervously as the man kept on talking gibberish with the most natural air. He did not bat an eyelash. He moved his hands in a very animated fashion and pointed around him as if he were instructing me.

I did not have the impression that he was speaking in tongues. I thought perhaps he was speaking the Yaqui language.

When people came around our table and looked at us, I nodded and said to Jorge Campos, "Yes, yes, indeed." At one point I said, "You could say that again," and this sounded so funny to me that I broke into a belly laugh.

He also laughed heartily, as if I had said the funniest thing possible.

He must have noticed that I was finally at my wits' end, and before I could get up and tell him to get lost, he started to speak Spanish again.

"I do not want to tire you with my silly observations," he said. "But if I am going to be your guide, as I think I am going to be, we will be spending long hours chatting. I was testing you just now, to see if you are a good conversationalist. If I am going to spend time with you driving, I need someone by me who could be a good receptor and initiator. I am glad to tell you that you are both."

Then he stood up, shook my hand, and left.

As if on cue, the owner came to my table, smiling and shaking his head from side to side like a little bear.

"Is he not a fabulous guy?" he asked me.

I did not want to commit myself to a statement.

Mr. Reyes volunteered that Jorge Campos was at that moment a go-between in an extremely delicate and profitable transaction. He said that some mining companies in the United States were interested in the iron and copper deposits that belonged to the Yaqui Indians, and that Jorge Campos was there in line to collect perhaps a five million dollar fee.

I knew then that Jorge Campos was a con man. There were no iron or copper deposits on the lands owned by the Yaqui Indians. If there had been any, private enterprises would have already moved the Yaquis out of those lands and relocated them somewhere else.

I said, "He is fabulous; the most wonderful guy I ever met. How can I get in touch with him again?"

Mr. Reyes said, "Do not worry about that. Jorge asked me all about you. He has been watching you since you came. He will probably come and knock on your door later today or tomorrow."

Mr. Reyes was right. A couple of hours later, somebody woke me from my afternoon nap. It was Jorge Campos.

I had intended to leave Guaymas in the early evening, and drive all night to California. I explained to him that I was leaving, but that I would come back in a month or so.

"Ah! But you must stay now that I have decided to be your guide," he said.

"I am sorry, but we will have to wait for this because my time is very limited now," I replied.

I knew that Jorge Campos was a crook, yet I decided to reveal to him that I already had an informant who was waiting to work with me, and that I had met him in Arizona. I described the old man and said that his name was Juan Matus, and that other people had characterized him as a shaman.

Jorge Campos smiled at me broadly.

I asked him if he knew the old man.

"Ah, yes, I know him," he said jovially. "You may say that we are good friends." Without being invited, Jorge Campos came into the room and sat down at the table just inside the balcony.

"Does he live around here?" I asked.

"He certainly does," he assured me.

"Would you take me to him?"

"I do not see why not," he said. "I would need a couple of days to make my own inquiries, just to make sure that he is there, and then we will go and see him."

I knew that he was lying, yet I did not want to believe it. I even thought that my initial distrust had perhaps been ill-founded. He seemed so convincing at that moment.

"However," he continued, "in order to take you to see the man, I will charge you a flat fee. My honorarium will be two hundred dollars."

That amount was more than I had at my disposal. I politely declined, and said that I did not have enough money with me.

"I do not want to appear mercenary," he said with his most winning smile, "but how much money can you afford? You must take into consideration that I have to do a little bribing. The Yaqui Indians are very private, but there are always ways. There are always doors that open with a magical key- money."

In spite of all my misgivings, I was convinced that Jorge Campos was my entry not only into the Yaqui world, but to finding the old man who had intrigued me so much. I did not want to haggle over money. I was almost embarrassed to offer him the fifty dollars I had in my pocket.

"I am at the end of my stay here," I said as a sort of apology, "so I have nearly run out of money. I have only fifty dollars left."

Jorge Campos stretched his long legs under the table, and crossed his arms behind his head, tipping his hat over his face.

"I will take your fifty dollars and your watch," he said shamelessly. "But for that money, I will take you to meet a minor shaman.

"Do not get impatient," he warned me, as if I were going to protest. "We must step carefully up the ladder, from the lower ranks to the man himself who I assure you is at the very top."

"And when could I meet this minor shaman?" I asked, handing him the money and my watch.

"Right now!" he replied as he sat up straight, and eagerly grabbed the money and the watch. "Let us go! There is not a minute to waste!"

We got into my car and he directed me to head off for the town of Potam, one of the traditional Yaqui towns along the Yaqui River.

As we drove, he revealed to me that we were going to meet Lucas Coronado, a man who was known for his sorcery feats, his shamanistic trances, and for the magnificent masks that he made for the Yaqui festivities of Lent.

Then he shifted the conversation to the old man, and what he said was in total contradiction to what others had said to me about the man. While they had described him as a hermit and retired shaman, Jorge Campos portrayed him as the most prominent curer and sorcerer of the area, a man whose fame had turned him into a nearly inaccessible figure.

He paused, like an actor, and then he delivered his blow: He said that to talk to the old man on a steady basis, the way anthropologists like to do, was going to cost me at least two thousand dollars.

I was going to protest such a drastic hike in price, but he anticipated me.

"For two hundred dollars, I could take you to him," he said. "Out of those two hundred dollars, I would clear about thirty. The rest would go for bribes. But to talk to him at length will cost more. You yourself could figure that out. He has actual bodyguards; people who protect him. I have to sweet-talk them and come up with dough for them.

"In the end," he continued, "I will give you a total account with receipts and everything for your taxes. Then you will know that my commission for setting it all up is minimal."

I felt a wave of admiration for him. He was aware of everything, even receipts for income tax. He was quiet for a while as if calculating his minimal profit. I had nothing to say. I was busy calculating myself, trying to figure out a way to get two thousand dollars. I even thought of really applying for a grant.

I asked, "But are you sure the old man would talk to me?"

"Of course," he assured me. "Not only would he talk to you, he is going to perform sorcery for you for what you pay him. Then you could work out an agreement with him as to how much you could pay him for further lessons."

Jorge Campos kept silent again for a while, peering into my eyes.

"Do you think that you could pay me the two thousand dollars?" he asked in a tone so purposefully indifferent that I instantly knew it was a sham.

"Oh, yes, I can easily afford that," I lied reassuringly.

He could not disguise his glee.

"Good boy! Good boy!" he cheered. "We are going to have a ball!"

I tried to ask him some general questions about the old man, but he forcefully cut me off. "Save all this for the man himself. He will be all yours," he said, smiling.

He began to tell me then about his life in the United States and about his business aspirations; and to my utter bewilderment, since I had already classified him as a phony who did not speak a word of English, he shifted into English.

"You do speak English!" I exclaimed without any attempt at hiding my surprise.

"Of course I do, my boy," he said, affecting a Texan accent, which he carried on for the duration of our conversation. "I told you, I wanted to test you, to see if you are resourceful. You are. In fact, you are quite clever, I may say."

His command of English was superb, and he delighted me with jokes and stories.

In no time at all, we were in Potam. He directed me to a house on the outskirts of town. We got out of the car. He led the way, calling loudly in Spanish for Lucas Coronado.

We heard a voice from the back of the house that said, also in Spanish, "Come over here."

There was a man behind a small shack, sitting on the ground, on a goatskin. He was holding a piece of wood with his bare feet while he worked on it with a chisel and a mallet. By holding the piece of wood in place with the pressure of his feet, he had fashioned a stupendous potter's turning wheel, so to speak. His feet turned the piece as his hands worked the chisel.

I had never seen anything like this in my life. He was making a mask, hollowing it with a curved chisel. His control of his feet in holding the wood and turning it around was remarkable.

The man was very thin. He had a thin face with angular features, high cheekbones, and a dark, copperish complexion. The skin of his face and neck seemed to be stretched to the maximum. He sported a thin, droopy mustache that gave his angular face a malevolent slant. He had an aquiline nose with a very thin bridge, and fierce black eyes. His extremely black eyebrows appeared as if they had been drawn on with a pencil, and so did his jet black hair, combed backward on his head.

I had never seen a more hostile face. The image that came to mind looking at him was that of an Italian poisoner of the era of the Medicis. The words 'truculent' and 'saturnine' seemed to be the most apt descriptions when I focused my attention on Lucas Coronado's face.

I noticed that while he was sitting on the ground holding the piece of wood with his feet, the bones of his legs were so long that his knees came to his shoulders. When we approached him, he stopped working and stood up. He was taller than Jorge Campos, and as thin as a rail. As a gesture of deference to us, I suppose, he put on his guaraches.

"Come in, come in," he said without smiling.

I had a strange feeling then that Lucas Coronado did not know how to smile.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" he asked Jorge Campos.

"I have brought this young man here because he wants to ask you some questions about your art," Jorge Campos said in a most patronizing tone. "I vouched that you would answer his questions truthfully."

"Oh, that is no problem, that is no problem," Lucas Coronado assured me, sizing me up with his cold stare.

He shifted into a different language then, which I presumed to be Yaqui. He and Jorge Campos got into an animated conversation that lasted for some time. Both of them acted as if I did not exist. Then Jorge Campos turned to me.

"We have a little problem here," he said. "Lucas has just informed me that this is a very busy season for him since the festivities are approaching; so he will not be able to answer all the questions that you ask him, but he will at another time."

"Yes, yes, most certainly," Lucas Coronado said to me in Spanish. "At another time, indeed; at another time."

"We have to cut our visit short," Jorge Campos said, "but I will bring you back again."

As we were leaving, I felt moved to express to Lucas Coronado my admiration for his stupendous technique of working with his hands and feet. He looked at me as if I were mad, his eyes widening with surprise.

"You have never seen anyone working on a mask?" he hissed through clenched teeth. "Where are you from? Mars?"

I felt stupid. I tried to explain that his technique was quite new to me. He seemed ready to hit me on the head.

Jorge Campos said to me in English that I had offended Lucas Coronado with my comments. He had understood my praise as a veiled way of making fun of his poverty. My words had been to him an ironic statement of how poor and helpless he was.

"But it is the opposite," I said. "I think he is magnificent!"

"Do not try to tell him anything like that," Jorge Campos retorted. "These people are trained to receive and dispense insults in a most covert form. He thinks it is odd that you run him down when you do not even know him, and make fun of the fact that he cannot afford a vise to hold his sculpture."

I felt totally at a loss. The last thing I wanted was to foul up my only possible contact. Jorge Campos seemed to be utterly aware of my chagrin.

"Buy one of his masks," he advised me.

I told him that I intended to drive to Los Angeles in one lap, without stopping, and that I had just sufficient money to buy gasoline and food.

"Well, give him your leather jacket," he said matter-of-factly in a confidential, helpful tone. "Otherwise, you are going to anger him, and all he will remember about you will be your insults. But do not tell him that his masks are beautiful. Just buy one."

When I told Lucas Coronado that I wanted to trade my leather jacket for one of his masks, he grinned with satisfaction. He took the jacket, and put it on. He walked to his house, but before he entered, he did some strange gyrations. He knelt in front of some sort of religious altar, and moved his arms as if to stretch them, and rubbed his hands on the sides of the jacket.

He went inside the house, and brought out a bundle wrapped in newspapers which he handed to me. I wanted to ask him some questions. He excused himself, saying that he had to work; but added that if I wanted, I could come back at another time.

On the way back to the city of Guaymas, Jorge Campos asked me to open the bundle. He wanted to make sure that Lucas Coronado had not cheated me. I did not care to open the bundle. My only concern was the possibility that I could come back by myself to talk to Lucas Coronado. I was elated.

"I must see what you have," Jorge Campos insisted. "Stop the car, please. Not under any conditions, or for any reasons whatsoever would I endanger my clients. You paid me to render some services to you. That man is a genuine shaman, and therefore very dangerous. Because you have offended him, he may have given you a witchcraft bundle. If that is the case, we have to bury it quickly in this area."

I felt a wave of nausea, and stopped the car. With extreme care, I took out the bundle. Jorge Campos snatched it out of my hands, and opened it. It contained three beautifully made traditional Yaqui masks.

Jorge Campos mentioned, in a casual, disinterested tone, that it would be only proper that I give him one of them.

I reasoned that since he had not yet taken me to see the old man, I had to preserve my connection with him. I gladly gave him one of the masks.

"If you allow me to choose, I would rather take that one," he said, pointing.

I told him to go ahead. The masks did not mean anything to me. I had gotten what I was after. I would have given him the other two masks as well, but I wanted to show them to my anthropologist friends.

"These masks are nothing extraordinary," Jorge Campos declared. "You can buy them in any store in town. They sell them to tourists there."

I had seen the Yaqui masks that were sold in the stores in town. They were very rude masks in comparison to the ones I had, and Jorge Campos had indeed picked out the best.

I left him in the city and headed for Los Angeles. Before I said good-bye, he reminded me that I practically owed him two thousand dollars because he was going to start his bribing and working toward taking me to meet the big man.

"Do you think that you could give me my two thousand dollars the next time you come?" he asked daringly.

His question put me in a terrible position. I believed that to tell him the truth, that I doubted it, would have made him drop me. I was convinced then that in spite of his patent greed, he was my usher.

In a noncommittal tone, I said, "I will do my best to have the money."

"You gotta do better than that, boy," he retorted forcefully, almost angrily. "I am going to spend money on my own setting up this meeting, and I must have some reassurance on your part. I know that you are a very serious young man. How much is your car worth? Do you have the pink slip?"

I told him what my car was worth, and that I did have the pink slip, but he seemed satisfied only when I gave him my word that I would bring him the money in cash on my next visit.

Five months later, I went back to Guaymas to see Jorge Campos. Two thousand dollars at that time was a considerable amount of money, especially for a student. I thought that if perhaps he were willing to take partial payments, I would be more than happy to commit myself to pay that amount in installments.

I could not find Jorge Campos anywhere in Guaymas. I asked the owner of the restaurant. He was as baffled as I was about his disappearance.

"He has just vanished," he said. "I am sure he went back to Arizona, or to Texas, where he has business."

I took a chance, and went to see Lucas Coronado by myself. I arrived at his house at midday. I could not find him either.

I asked his neighbors if they knew where he might be. They looked at me belligerently and did not dignify me with an answer.

I left, but went by his house again in the late afternoon. I did not expect anything at all. In fact, I was prepared to leave for Los Angeles immediately.

To my surprise, Lucas Coronado was not only there, but was extremely friendly to me. He frankly expressed his approval on seeing that I had come without Jorge Campos who he said was an outright pain in the ass. He complained that Jorge Campos, to whom he referred as a renegade Yaqui Indian, took delight in exploiting his fellow Yaquis.

I gave Lucas Coronado some gifts that I had brought him, and bought from him three masks, an exquisitely carved staff, and a pair of rattling leggings made out of the cocoons of some insects from the desert; leggings which the Yaquis used in their traditional dances. Then I took him to Guaymas for dinner.

I saw him every day for the five days that I remained in the area, and he gave me endless amounts of information about the Yaquis, their history and social organization, and the meaning and nature of their festivities. I was having such fun as a field-worker that I even felt reluctant to ask him if he knew anything about the old shaman.

Overcoming second thoughts, I finally asked Lucas Coronado if he knew the old man whom Jorge Campos had assured me was such a prominent shaman. Lucas Coronado seemed perplexed. He assured me that, to his knowledge, no such man had ever existed in that part of the country, and that Jorge Campos was a crook who only wanted to cheat me out of my money.

Hearing Lucas Coronado deny the existence of that old man had a terrible, unexpected impact on me. In one instant, it became evident to me that I really did not give a damn about field-work. I only cared about finding that old man.

I knew then that meeting the old shaman had indeed been the culmination of something that had nothing to do with my desires, aspirations, or even thoughts as an anthropologist.

I wondered more than ever who in the hell that old man was. Without any inhibitory checks, I began to rant and yell in frustration. I stomped on the floor.

Lucas Coronado was quite taken aback by my display. He looked at me, bewildered, and then started to laugh. I had no idea that he could laugh.

I apologized to him for my outburst of anger and frustration. I could not explain why I was so out of sorts. Lucas Coronado seemed to understand my quandary.

He said, "Things like that happen in this area."

I had no idea to what he was referring, nor did I want to ask him. I was deadly afraid of the easiness with which he took offense. A peculiarity of the Yaquis was the facility they had to feel offended. They seemed to be perennially on their toes, looking out for insults that were too subtle to be noticed by anyone else.

He continued, saying, "There are magical beings living in the mountains around here, and they can act on people. They make people go veritably mad. People rant and rave under their influence, and when they finally calm down, exhausted, they do not have any clue as to why they exploded."

I asked, "Do you think that is what happened to me?"

"Definitely," he replied with total conviction. "You already have a predisposition to going bonkers at the drop of a hat, but you are also very contained. Today, you were not contained. You went bananas over nothing."

"It is not over nothing," I assured him. "I did not know it until now, but to me that old man is the driving force of all my efforts."

Lucas Coronado kept quiet, as if in deep thought. Then he began to pace up and down.

"Do you know any old man who lives around here, but is not quite from this area?" I asked him.

He did not understand my question. I had to explain to him that the old Indian I had met was perhaps like Jorge Campos; a Yaqui who had lived somewhere else.

Lucas Coronado explained that the surname Matus was quite common in that area, but that he did not know any Matus whose first name was Juan. He seemed despondent. Then he had a moment of insight, and stated that because the man was old, he might have another name, and that perhaps he had given me a working name; not his real one.

"The only old man I know," he went on, "is Ignacio Flores's father. He comes to see his son from time to time, but he comes from Mexico City. Come to think of it, he is Ignacio's father, but he does not seem that old. But he is old. Ignacio's old, too. His father seems younger, though."

He laughed heartily at his realization. Apparently, he had never thought about the youth of the old man until that moment. He kept on shaking his head, as if in disbelief. I, on the other hand, was elated beyond measure.

"That is the man!" I yelled without knowing why.

Lucas Coronado did not know where Ignacio Flores actually lived, but he was very accommodating. He directed me to drive to a nearby Yaqui town where he found Ignacio Flores for me.

Lucas Coronado had warned me that Ignacio Flores had been a career soldier in his youth, and that he still had the bearing of a military man.

Ignacio Flores was a big, corpulent man, perhaps in his mid-sixties. He had an enormous mustache. That and the fierceness of his eyes made him, for me, the personification of a ferocious soldier. He had a dark complexion. His hair was still jet black in spite of his years.

His forceful, gravelly voice seemed to be trained solely to give commands. I had the impression that he had been a cavalry man.

He walked as if he were still wearing spurs, and for some strange reason impossible to fathom, I heard the sound of spurs when he walked.

Lucas Coronado introduced me to him, and said that I had come from Arizona to see his father whom I had met in Nogales. Ignacio Flores did not seem surprised at all.

"Oh yes," he said. "My father travels a great deal." Without any other preliminaries, he directed us to where we could find his father. He did not come with us; I thought out of politeness. He excused himself and marched away as if he were keeping step in a parade.

I prepared myself to go to the old man's house with Lucas Coronado. Instead, he politely declined. He wanted me to drive him back to his house.

"I think you found the man you were looking for, and I feel that you should be alone," he said.

I marveled at how extraordinarily polite these Yaqui Indians were, and yet at the same time, so fierce. I had been told that the Yaquis were savages who had no qualms about killing anyone. As far as I was concerned, though, their most remarkable feature was their politeness and consideration.

I drove to the house of Ignacio Flores's father, and there I found the man I was looking for.

At the end of my account, I said to don Juan, "I wonder why Jorge Campos lied and told me that he knew you."

"He did not lie to you," don Juan said with the conviction of someone who was condoning Jorge Campos's behavior. "He did not even misrepresent himself. He thought you were an easy mark, and was going to cheat you. He could not carry out his plan, though, because infinity overpowered him. Do you know that he disappeared soon after he met you, never to be found?

"Jorge Campos was a most meaningful personage for you," he continued. "You will find in whatever transpired between the two of you a sort of guiding blueprint- because he is the representation of your life."

"Why? I am not a crook!" I protested.

He laughed, as if he knew something that I did not. The next thing I knew, I found myself in the midst of an extensive explanation of my actions, my ideals, and my expectations.

However, a strange thought urged me to consider with the same fervor with which I was explaining myself, that under certain circumstances I might be like Jorge Campos. I found the thought inadmissible, and I used all my available energy to try to disprove it. However, down in the depths of myself, I did not care to apologize if I were like Jorge Campos.

When I voiced my dilemma, don Juan laughed so hard that he choked, many times.

"If I were you," he commented, "I would listen to my inner voice. What difference would it make if you were like Jorge Campos: a crook! He was a cheap crook. You are more elaborate. This is the power of the recounting. This is why sorcerers use it. It puts you into contact with something that you did not even suspect existed in you."

I wanted to leave right then. Don Juan knew exactly how I felt.

"Do not listen to the superficial voice that makes you angry," he said commandingly. "Listen to that deeper voice that is going to guide you from now on; the voice that is laughing. Listen to it! And laugh with it. Laugh! Laugh!"

His words were like a hypnotic command to me. Against my will, I began to laugh. Never had I been so happy. I felt free; unmasked.

Don Juan said, "Recount to yourself the story of Jorge Campos, over and over. You will find endless wealth in it. Every detail is part of a map. It is the nature of infinity, once we cross a certain threshold, to put a blueprint in front of us."

He peered at me for a long time, but he did not merely glance as before. He gazed intently at me.

He finally said, "One deed which Jorge Campos could not avoid performing was to put you in contact with the other man, Lucas Coronado, who is as meaningful to you as Jorge Campos himself; maybe even more.

In the course of recounting the story of those two men, I had realized that I had spent more time with Lucas Coronado than with Jorge Campos; however, our exchanges had not been as intense, and were marked by enormous lagoons of silence. Lucas Coronado was not by nature a talkative man, and by some strange twist, whenever he was silent he managed to drag me with him into that state.

"Lucas Coronado is the other part of your map," don Juan said. "Do not you find it strange that he is a sculptor, like yourself; a super-sensitive artist who was, like yourself at one time, in search of a sponsor for his art? He looked for a sponsor just like you looked for a woman; a lover of the arts, who would sponsor your creativity."

I entered into another terrifying struggle. This time my struggle was between my absolute certainty that I had not mentioned this aspect of my life to him, the fact that all of it was true, and the fact that I was unable to find an explanation for how he could have obtained this information.

Again, I wanted to leave right away. But once more, the impulse was overpowered by a voice that came from a deep place. Without any coaxing, I began to laugh heartily. Some part of me, at a profound level, did not give a hoot about finding out how don Juan had gotten that information. The fact that he had it, and had displayed it in such a delicate but conniving manner was a delightful maneuver to witness. It was of no consequence that the superficial part of me got angry and wanted to leave.

"Very good," don Juan said to me, patting me forcefully on the back, "very good."

He was pensive for a moment, as if he were perhaps seeing things invisible to the average eye.

"Jorge Campos and Lucas Coronado are the two ends of an axis," he said. "That axis is you; at one end, a ruthless, shameless, crass mercenary who takes care of himself; hideous, but indestructible. At the other end, a super-sensitive, tormented artist, weak and vulnerable.

"That should have been the map of your life, were it not for the appearance of another possibility; the one that opened up when you crossed the threshold of infinity. You searched for me, and you found me; and so, you did cross the threshold.

"The intent of infinity told me to look for someone like you. I found you, thus I crossed the threshold myself."

The conversation ended at that point. Don Juan went into one of his habitual long periods of total silence.

It was only at the end of the day when we had returned to his house and we were sitting under his ramada cooling off from the long hike we had taken, that he broke his silence.

Don Juan went on, saying, "In your recounting of what happened between you and Jorge Campos, and you and Lucas Coronado, I found, and I hope you did, too, a very disturbing factor.

"For me, it is an omen. It points to the end of an era, meaning that whatever was standing there cannot remain. Very flimsy elements brought you to me. None of them could stand on their own. This is what I drew from your recounting."

I remembered that don Juan had revealed to me one day that Lucas Coronado was terminally ill. He had some health condition that was slowly consuming him.

"I have sent word to him through my son Ignacio about what he should do to cure himself," don Juan went on, "but he thinks it is nonsense, and does not want to hear it. It is not Lucas's fault. The entire human race does not want to hear anything. They hear only what they want to hear."

I remembered that I had prevailed upon don Juan to tell me what I could say to Lucas Coronado to help him alleviate his physical pain and mental anguish. Don Juan not only told me what to tell him, but asserted that if Lucas Coronado wanted to, he could easily cure himself.

Nevertheless, when I delivered don Juan's message, Lucas Coronado looked at me as if I had lost my mind. Then he shifted into a brilliant, and, had I been a Yaqui, a deeply insulting portrayal of a man who is bored to death by someone's unwarranted insistence. I thought that only a Yaqui Indian could be so subtle.

"Those things do not help me," he finally said defiantly, angered by my lack of sensibility. "It does not really matter. We all have to die. But do not you dare believe that I have lost hope. I am going to get some money from the government bank. I will get an advance on my crops, and then I will get enough money to buy something that will cure me, ipso facto. Its name is Vi-ta-mi-nol."

I asked, "What is Vitaminol?"

"It is something that is advertised on the radio," he said with the innocence of a child. "It cures everything. It is recommended for people who do not eat meat or fish or fowl every day. It is recommended for people like myself who can barely keep body and soul together."

In my eagerness to help Lucas Coronado, I committed right then the biggest blunder imaginable in a society of such hypersensitive beings as the Yaquis. I offered to give him the money to buy Vitaminol. His cold stare was the measure of how deeply I had hurt him. My stupidity was unforgivable. Very softly, Lucas Coronado said that he was capable of affording Vitaminol himself.

I went back to don Juan's house. I felt like weeping. My eagerness had betrayed me.

"Do not waste your energy worrying about things like that," don Juan said coldly. "Lucas Coronado is locked in a vicious cycle, but so are you. So is everyone. He has Vitaminol, which he trusts will cure everything, and resolve every one of his problems. At the moment, he can not afford it, but he has great hopes that he eventually will be able to."

Don Juan peered at me with his piercing eyes. "I told you that Lucas Coronado's acts are the map of your life," he said. "Believe you me, they are. Lucas Coronado pointed out Vitaminol to you, and he did it so powerfully and painfully that he hurt you and made you weep."

Don Juan stopped talking then. It was a long and most effective pause. "And do not tell me that you do not understand what I mean," he said. "One way or another, we all have our own version of Vitaminol."

The Active Side Of Infinity ©1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 1 - Chapter 06. Who Was Don Juan Matus, Really?

The part of my account of meeting don Juan that he did not want to hear about was my feelings and impressions on that fateful day when I walked into his house: the contradictory clash between my expectations and the reality of the situation, and the effect that was caused in me by a cluster of the most extravagant ideas I had ever heard.

"That is more in the line of confession than in the line of events," he had said to me once when I tried to tell him about all this.

"You could not be more wrong, don Juan," I began, but I stopped. Something in the way he looked at me made me realize that he was right. Whatever I was going to say could have sounded only like lip service, flattery. What had taken place on our first real meeting, however, was of transcendental importance to me, an event of ultimate consequence.

During my first encounter with don Juan, in the bus depot in Nogales, Arizona, something of an unusual nature had happened to me, but it had come to me cushioned in my concerns with the presentation of the self. I had wanted to impress don Juan, and in attempting to do so I had focused all my attention on the act of selling my wares, so to speak. It was only months later that a strange residue of forgotten events began to appear.

One day, out of nowhere, and with no coaxing or coaching on my part, I recollected with extraordinary clarity something that had completely bypassed me during my actual encounter with don Juan. When he had stopped me from telling him my name, he had peered into my eyes and had numbed me with his look. There was infinitely more that I could have said to him about myself. I could have expounded on my knowledge and worth for hours if his look had not completely cut me off.

In light of this new realization, I reconsidered everything that had happened to me on that occasion. My unavoidable conclusion was that I had experienced the interruption of some mysterious flow that kept me going; a flow that had never been interrupted before, at least not in the manner in which don Juan had done it.

When I tried to describe to any of my friends what I had physically experienced, a strange perspiration began to cover my entire body; the same perspiration that I had experienced when don Juan had given me that look. I had been, at that moment, not only incapable of voicing a single word, but incapable of having a single thought.

For some time after, I dwelt on the physical sensation of this interruption for which I found no rational explanation. I argued for a while that don Juan must have hypnotized me, but then my memory told me that he had not given any hypnotic commands, nor had he made any movements that could have trapped my attention.

In fact, he had merely glanced at me. It was the intensity of that glance that had made it appear as if he had stared at me for a long time. It had obsessed me, and had rendered me discombobulated at a deep physical level.

When I finally had don Juan in front of me again, the first thing I noticed about him was that he did not look at all as I had imagined him during all the time I had tried to find him. I had fabricated an image of the man I had met at the bus depot, which I perfected every day by allegedly remembering more details.

In my mind, he was an old man, still very strong and nimble, yet almost frail. The man facing me was muscular and decisive. He moved with agility, but not nimbleness. His steps were firm, and, at the same time, light. He exuded vitality and purpose.

My composite memory was not at all in harmony with the real thing. I thought he had short, white hair and an extremely dark complexion. His hair was longer, and not as white as I had imagined. His complexion was not that dark either. I could have sworn that his features were birdlike, because of his age. But that was not so either. His face was full, almost round. In one glance, the most outstanding feature of the man looking at me was his dark eyes, which shone with a peculiar, dancing glow.

Something that had bypassed me completely in my prior assessment of him was the fact that his total countenance was that of an athlete. His shoulders were broad, his stomach flat. He seemed to be planted firmly on the ground. There was no feebleness to his knees, no tremor in his upper limbs. I had imagined detecting a slight tremor in his head and arms, as if he were nervous and unsteady. I had also imagined him to be about five feet six inches tall, three inches shorter than his actual height.

Don Juan had not seemed surprised to see me. I wanted to tell him how difficult it had been for me to find him. I would have liked to be congratulated by him on my titanic efforts, but he just laughed at me, teasingly.

"Your efforts are not important," he said. "What is important is that you found my place. Sit down, sit down," he said, enticing me, pointing to one of the freight boxes under his ramada, and patting me on my back; but it was not a friendly pat.

It felt like he had slapped me on the back although he never actually touched me. His quasi-slap created a strange, unstable sensation, which appeared abruptly and disappeared before I had time to grasp what it was.

What was left in me as a result was a strange peace. I felt at ease. My mind was crystal clear. I had no expectations; no desires. My usual nervousness and sweaty hands- the marks of my existence- were suddenly gone.

"Now you will understand everything I am going to say to you," don Juan said to me, looking into my eyes as he had done in the bus depot.

Ordinarily, I would have found his statement perfunctory, perhaps rhetorical, but when he said it, I could only assure him repeatedly and sincerely that I would understand anything he said to me. He looked me in the eyes again with a ferocious intensity.

"I am Juan Matus," he said, sitting down on another freight box, a few feet away, facing me. "This is my name, and I voice it because, with it, I am making a bridge for you to cross over to where I am."

He stared at me for an instant before he started talking again.

"I am a sorcerer," he went on. "I belong to a lineage of sorcerers that has lasted for twenty-seven generations. I am the 'nagual' of my generation."

He explained to me that the leader of a party of sorcerers like himself was called the nagual, and that this was a generic term applied to a sorcerer in each generation who had some specific energetic configuration that set him apart from the others- not in terms of superiority or inferiority, or anything of the like, but in terms of the capacity to be responsible.

"Only the nagual," he said, "has the energetic capacity to be responsible for the fate of his cohorts. Every one of his cohorts knows this, and they accede. The nagual can be a man or a woman. In the time of the sorcerers who were the founders of my lineage, women were, by rule, the naguals. Their natural pragmatism, the product of their femaleness, led my lineage into pits of practicalities from which they could barely emerge. Then, the males took over, and led my lineage into pits of imbecility from which we are barely emerging now.

"Since the time of the nagual Lujan, who lived about two hundred years ago," he went on, "there has been a joint nexus of effort, shared by a man and a woman. The nagual man brings sobriety; the nagual woman brings innovation."

I wanted to ask him at this point if there was a woman in his life who was the nagual, but the depth of my concentration did not allow me to formulate the question. Instead, he himself formulated it for me.

"Is there a nagual woman in my life?" he asked. "No, there is not any. I am a solitary sorcerer. I have my cohorts, though. At the moment, they are not around."

A thought came with uncontainable vigor into my mind. At that instant, I remembered what some people in Yuma had told me about don Juan running with a party of Mexican men who seemed to be very versed in sorcery maneuvers.

"To be a sorcerer," don Juan continued, "does not mean to practice witchcraft, or to work to affect people, or to be possessed by demons. To be a sorcerer means to reach a level of awareness that makes inconceivable things available.

The term 'sorcery' is inadequate to express what sorcerers do, and so is the term 'shamanism.' The actions of sorcerers are exclusively in the realm of the abstract; the impersonal. Sorcerers struggle to reach a goal that has nothing to do with the quests of an average man. Sorcerers' aspirations are to reach infinity, and to be conscious of it."

Don Juan continued, saying that the task of sorcerers was to face infinity, and that they plunged into it daily, as a fisherman plunges into the sea. It was such an overwhelming task that sorcerers had to state their names before venturing into it. He reminded me that, in Nogales, he had stated his name before any interaction had taken place between us. He had, in this manner, asserted his individuality in front of the infinite.

I understood with unequaled clarity what he was explaining. I did not have to ask him for clarifications. My keenness of thought should have surprised me, but it did not at all.

I knew at that moment that I had always been crystal clear, merely playing dumb for someone else's benefit.

"Without you knowing anything about it," he continued, "I started you on a traditional quest. You are the man I was looking for. My quest ended when I found you, and yours when you found me now."

Don Juan explained to me that, as the nagual of his generation, he was in search of an individual who had a specific energetic configuration, adequate to ensure the continuity of his lineage. He said that at a given moment, the nagual of each generation for twenty-seven successive generations had entered into the most nerve-racking experience of their lives: the search for succession.

Looking me straight in the eyes, he stated that what made human beings into sorcerers was their capacity to perceive energy directly as it flows in the universe, and that when sorcerers perceive a human being in this fashion, they see a luminous ball, or a luminous egg-shaped figure.

His contention was that human beings are not only capable of seeing energy directly as it flows in the universe, but that they actually do see it, although they are not deliberately conscious of seeing it.

He made right then the most crucial distinction for sorcerers; the distinction between the general state of being aware, and the particular state of being deliberately conscious of something.

He categorized all human beings as possessing awareness, in a general sense, which permits them to see energy directly, and he categorized sorcerers as the only human beings who were deliberately conscious of seeing energy directly.

He then defined awareness as 'energy', and energy as constant flux; a luminous vibration that was never stationary, but always moving of its own accord.

He asserted that when a human being was seen, he was perceived as a conglomerate of energy fields held together by the most mysterious force in the universe: a binding, agglutinating, vibratory force that holds energy fields together in a cohesive unit.

He further explained that the nagual was a specific sorcerer in each generation whom the other sorcerers were able to see, not as a single luminous ball but as a set of two spheres of luminosity fused, one over the other.

"This feature of doubleness," he continued, "permits the nagual to perform maneuvers that are rather difficult for an average sorcerer. For example, the nagual is a connoisseur of the force that holds us together as a cohesive unit. The nagual could place his full attention, for a fraction of a second, on that force, and numb the other person.

"I did that to you at the bus depot because I wanted to stop your barrage of me, me, me, me, me, me, me. I wanted you to find me, and cut the crap.

"The sorcerers of my lineage maintained," don Juan went on, "that the presence of a double being-a nagual- is sufficient to clarify things for us. What is odd about it, is that the presence of the nagual clarifies things in a veiled fashion. It happened to me when I met the nagual Julian, my teacher. His presence baffled me for years because every time I was around him, I could think clearly, but when he moved away, I became the same idiot that I had always been.

"I had the privilege," don Juan went on, "of actually meeting and dealing with two naguals.

"For six years, at the request of the nagual Elias, who was the teacher of the nagual Julian, I went to live with him. The nagual Elias is the one who reared me, so to speak. It was a rare privilege. I had a ringside seat for watching what a nagual really is.

"The nagual Elias and the nagual Julian were two men of tremendously different temperaments. The nagual Elias was quieter, and lost in the darkness of his silence.

"The nagual Julian was bombastic; a compulsive talker. It seemed that he lived to dazzle women. There were more women in his life than one would care to think about.

"Yet both of them were astoundingly alike in that there was nothing inside them. They were empty. The nagual Elias was a collection of astounding, haunting stories of regions unknown. The nagual Julian was a collection of stories that would have anybody in stitches, sprawled on the ground laughing.

"Whenever I tried to pin down 'the man' in them, the real man, the way I could pinpoint 'the man' in my father, or 'the man' in everybody I knew, I found nothing. Instead of a real person inside them, there was a bunch of stories about persons unknown. Each of the two men had his own flair, but the end result was just the same: emptiness; an emptiness that reflected not the world, but infinity."

Don Juan went on explaining that the moment one crosses a peculiar threshold in infinity, either deliberately or, as in my case, unwittingly, everything that happens to one from then on is no longer exclusively in one's own domain, but enters into the realm of infinity.

"When we met in Arizona, both of us crossed a peculiar threshold," he continued. "And this threshold was not decided by either one of us, but by infinity itself.

"Infinity is everything that surrounds us." He said this and made a broad gesture with his arms. "The sorcerers of my lineage call it infinity, the spirit, the dark sea of awareness, and say that it is something that exists out there and rules our lives."

I was truly capable of comprehending everything he was saying, and yet I did not know what the hell he was talking about. I asked if crossing the threshold had been an accidental event, born of unpredictable circumstances ruled by chance.

He answered that his steps and mine were guided by infinity, and that circumstances that seemed to be ruled by chance were in essence ruled by the active side of infinity. He called it intent.

"What put you and me together," he went on, "was the intent of infinity. It is impossible to determine what this intent of infinity is, yet it is there, as palpable as you and I are.

"Sorcerers say that it is a tremor in the air. The advantage of sorcerers is to know that the tremor in the air exists, and to know to acquiesce to it without any further ado. For sorcerers, there is no pondering, wondering, or speculating.

"They know that all they have is the possibility of merging with the intent of infinity, and they just do it."

Nothing could have been clearer to me than those statements. As far as I was concerned, the truth of what he was telling me was so self-evident that it did not permit me to ponder how such absurd assertions could have sounded so rational. I knew that everything that don Juan was saying was not only a truism, but I could corroborate it by referring to my own being. I knew about everything that he was saying. I had the sensation that I had lived every twist of his description.

Our interchange ended then. Something seemed to deflate inside me.

It was at that instant that the thought crossed my mind that I was losing my marbles. I had been blinded by weird statements and had lost every conceivable sense of objectivity. Accordingly, I left don Juan's house in a real hurry, feeling threatened to the core by an unseen enemy. Don Juan walked me to my car, fully cognizant of what was going on inside me.

"Do not worry," he said, putting his hand on my shoulder. You are not going crazy. What you felt was a gentle tap of infinity."

As time went by, I was able to corroborate what don Juan had said about his two teachers. Don Juan Matus was exactly as he had described those two men to be. I would go as far as saying that he was an extraordinary blend of both of them; on the one hand, extremely quiet and introspective; on the other, extremely open and funny.

The most accurate statement about what a nagual is, which he voiced the day I found him, was that a nagual is empty, and the nagual's emptiness does not reflect the world, but reflects infinity.

Nothing could have been more true than this in reference to don Juan Matus. His emptiness reflected infinity. There was no boisterousness on his part, or assertions about the self. There was not a speck of a need to have either grievances or remorse.

His was the emptiness of a 'warrior-traveler', seasoned to the point where he does not take anything for granted; a warrior traveler who does not underestimate or overestimate anything; a quiet, disciplined fighter whose elegance is so extreme that no one, no matter how hard they try to look, will ever find the seam where all that complexity has come together.

The Active Side Of Infinity ©1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 2 - Chapter 07. The Deep Concerns of Everyday Life.

I went to Sonora to see don Juan. I had to discuss with him the most serious event of that moment in my life. I needed his advice.

When I arrived at his house, I barely went through the formality of greeting him. I sat down and blurted out my turmoil.

"Calm down, calm down," don Juan said. "Nothing can be that bad!"

"What is happening to me, don Juan?" I asked. It was a rhetorical question on my part.

"It is the workings of infinity," he replied. "Something happened to your way of perceiving the day you met me. Your sensation of nervousness is due to the subliminal realization that your time is up.

"You are aware of it, but not deliberately conscious of it. You feel the absence of time, and that makes you impatient.

"I know this, for it happened to me and to all the sorcerers of my lineage. At a given time, a whole era in my life or their lives ended. Now it is your turn. You have simply run out of time."

He demanded then a total account of whatever had happened to me. He said that it had to be a full account, sparing no details. He was not after sketchy descriptions. He wanted me to air the full impact of what was troubling me.

"Let us have this talk, as they say in your world, by the book," he said. "Let us enter into the realm of formal talks."

Don Juan explained that the shamans of ancient Mexico had developed the idea of formal versus informal talks, and used both of them as devices for teaching and guiding their disciples. Formal talks were, for them, summations that they made from time to time of everything that they had taught or said to their disciples. Informal talks were daily elucidations in which things were explained without reference to anything but the phenomenon itself under scrutiny.

"Sorcerers keep nothing to themselves," he continued. "To empty themselves in this fashion is a sorcerers' maneuver. It leads them to abandon the fortress of the self."

I began my story, telling don Juan that the circumstances of my life had never permitted me to be introspective. As far back in my past as I could remember, my daily life had been filled to the brim with pragmatic problems that had clamored for immediate resolution.

I remembered that my favorite uncle had told me that he was appalled at having found out that I had never received a gift for Christmas or for my birthday. I had come to live in my father's family's home not too long before my uncle made that statement. He commiserated with me about the unfairness of my situation. He even apologized, although it had nothing to do with him.

"It is disgusting, my boy," he said, shaking with feeling. "I want you to know that I am behind you one hundred percent whenever the moment comes to redress wrongdoings."

He insisted over and over that I had to forgive the people who had wronged me. From what he said, I formed the impression that he wanted me to confront my father with his finding and accuse him of indolence and neglect, and then, of course, forgive him.

My uncle failed to see that I did not feel wronged at all. What he was asking me to do required an introspective nature that would make me respond to the barbs of psychological mistreatment once they were pointed out to me. I assured my uncle that I was going to think about it, but not at the moment; because, at that very instant my girlfriend was signaling me desperately to 'hurry up' from the living room where she was waiting for me.

I never had the opportunity to think about it, but my uncle must have talked to my father because I got a gift from him; a package neatly wrapped up with ribbon and all, and a little card that said "Sorry." I curiously and eagerly ripped the wrappings.

There was a cardboard box, and inside it there was a beautiful toy; a tiny boat with a winding key attached to the steam pipe. It could be used by children to play with while they took baths in the bathtub. My father had thoroughly forgotten that I was already fifteen years old, and was for all practical purposes a man.

Then, as I reached my adult years, I was still incapable of serious introspection. So it was quite a novelty when one day, years later, I found myself in the throes of a strange emotional agitation which seemed to increase as time went by. I discarded it, attributing it to natural processes of the mind or the body; processes that enter into action periodically for no reason at all, or are perhaps triggered by biochemical processes within the body itself. I thought nothing of it.

However, the agitation increased and its pressure forced me to believe that I had arrived at a moment in life when what I needed was a drastic change. There was something in me that demanded a rearrangement of my life. This urge to rearrange everything was familiar. I had felt it in the past, but it had been dormant for a long time.

I was committed to studying anthropology, and this commitment was so strong that not to study anthropology was never part of my proposed drastic change. It did not occur to me to drop out of school and do something else. The first thing that came to mind was that I needed to change schools, and go somewhere else far away from Los Angeles.

Before I undertook a change of that magnitude, I wanted to test the waters, so to speak. I enrolled in a full summer load of classes at a school in another city. The most important course, for me, was a class in anthropology taught by a foremost authority on the Indians of the Andean region. It was my belief that if I focused my studies on an area that was emotionally accessible to me, I would have a better opportunity to do anthropological field-work in a serious manner when the time came. I considered my knowledge of South America as giving me a better entree into any given Indian society there.

At the same time that I registered for school, I got a job as a research assistant to a psychiatrist who was the older brother of one of my friends. He wanted to do a content analysis of excerpts from some innocuous tapes of 'question and answer' sessions with young men and women about their problems arising from overwork in school, unfulfilled expectations, not being understood at home, frustrating love affairs, etc. The tapes were over five years old and were going to be destroyed, but before they were, random numbers were allotted to each reel, and following a table of random numbers, reels were picked by the psychiatrist and his research assistants, and were scanned for excerpts that could be analyzed.

On the first day of class in the new school, the anthropology professor talked about his academic bona fides and dazzled his students with the scope of his knowledge and his publications. He was a tall, slender man in his mid-forties, with shifty blue eyes. What struck me the most about his physical appearance was that his eyes were rendered enormous behind glasses for correcting far-sightedness, and each of his eyes gave the impression that it was rotating in an opposite direction from the other when he moved his head as he spoke. I knew that that could not be true. It was, however, a very disconcerting image. He was extremely well dressed for an anthropologist, who in my day were famous for their super-casual attire. Archaeologists, for example, were described by their students as creatures lost in carbon-14 dating who never took a bath.

However, for reasons unbeknownst to me, what really set him apart was not his physical appearance, or his erudition, but his speech pattern. He pronounced every word as clearly as anyone I had ever heard, and emphasized certain words by elongating them. He had a markedly foreign intonation, but I knew that it was an affectation. He pronounced certain phrases like an Englishman and others like a revivalist preacher.

He fascinated me from the start despite his enormous pomposity. His self-importance was so blatant that it ceased to be an issue after the first five minutes of his class; classes which were always bombastic displays of knowledge cushioned in wild assertions about himself. His command of the audience was sensational. None of the students I talked to felt anything but supreme admiration for this extraordinary man. I earnestly thought that everything was moving along nicely, and that this move to another school in another city was going to be easy and uneventful, but thoroughly positive. I liked my new surroundings.

At my job, I became completely engrossed in listening to the tapes to the point where I would sneak into the office, and listen not to excerpts, but to entire tapes. What fascinated me beyond measure, at first, was the fact that I heard myself speaking in every one of those tapes.

As the weeks went by and I heard more tapes, my fascination turned to sheer horror. Every line that was spoken, including the psychiatrist's questions, was mine. Those people were speaking from the depths of my own being.

The revulsion that I experienced was something unique for me. Never had I dreamed that I could be repeated endlessly in every man or woman I heard speaking on the tapes. My sense of individuality, which had been ingrained in me from birth, tumbled down hopelessly under the impact of this colossal discovery.

I began then an odious process of trying to restore myself. I unconsciously made a ludicrous attempt at introspection. I tried to wriggle out of my predicament by endlessly talking to myself. I rehashed in my mind all the possible rationales that would support my sense of uniqueness, and then I talked out loud to myself about them. I even experienced something quite revolutionary to me; waking myself up many times by my loud talking in my sleep, discoursing about my value and distinctiveness.

Then, one horrifying day, I suffered another deadly blow. In the wee hours of the night, I was woken up by an insistent knocking on my door. It was not a mild, timid knock, but what my friends called a 'Gestapo knock'. The door was about to come off its hinges. I jumped out of bed and opened the peephole. The person who was knocking on the door was my boss, the psychiatrist. My being his younger brother's friend seemed to have created an avenue of communication with him. He had befriended me without any hesitation, and there he was on my doorstep. I turned on the light and opened the door.

"Please come in," I said. "What happened?"

It was three o'clock in the morning, and by his livid expression, and his sunken eyes, I knew that he was deeply upset. He came in and sat down. His pride and joy, his black mane of longish hair, was falling all over his face. He did not make any effort to comb his hair back, the way he usually wore it. I liked him very much because he was an older version of my friend in Los Angeles, with black, heavy eyebrows, penetrating brown eyes, a square jaw, and thick lips. His upper lip seemed to have an extra fold inside, which at times, when he smiled in a certain way, gave the impression that he had a double upper lip. He always talked about the shape of his nose, which he described as an impertinent, pushy nose. I thought he was extremely sure of himself, and opinionated beyond belief. He claimed that in his profession those qualities were winning cards.

"What happened!" he repeated with a tone of mockery, his double upper lip trembling uncontrollably. "Anyone can tell that everything has happened to me tonight."

He sat down in a chair. He seemed dizzy, disoriented, looking for words. He got up and went to the couch, slumping down on it.

"It is not only that I have the responsibility of my patients," he went on, "but my research grant, my wife and kids, and now another fucking pressure has been added to it, and what burns me up is that it was my own fault, my own stupidity for putting my trust in a stupid cunt!

"I will tell you, Carlos," he continued, "there is nothing more appalling, disgusting, fucking nauseating than the insensitivity of women. I am not a woman hater, you know that! But at this moment it seems to me that every single cunt is just a cunt! Duplicitous and vile!"

I did not know what to say. Whatever he was telling me did not need affirmation or contradiction. I would not have dared to contradict him anyway. I did not have the ammunition for it. I was very tired. I wanted to go back to sleep, but he kept on talking as if his life depended on it.

"You know Theresa Manning, do you not?" he asked me in a forceful, accusatory manner.

For an instant, I believed that he was accusing me of having something to do with his young, beautiful, student secretary. Without giving me time to respond, he continued talking.

"Theresa Manning is an asshole. She is a schnook! A stupid, inconsiderate woman who has no incentive in life other than balling anyone with a bit of fame and notoriety. I thought she was intelligent and sensitive. I thought she had something, some understanding, some empathy, something that one would like to share, or hold as precious all to oneself. I do not know, but that is the picture that she painted for me, when in reality she is lewd and degenerate, and, I may add, incurably gross."

As he kept on talking, a strange picture began to emerge. Apparently, the psychiatrist had just had a bad experience involving his secretary.

"Since the day she came to work for me," he went on, "I knew that she was attracted to me sexually, but she never came around to saying it. It was all in the innuendos and the looks. Well, fuck it! This afternoon I got sick and tired of pussyfooting around, and I came right to the point. I went up to her desk and said, 'I know what you want, and you know what I want.'"

He went into a great, elaborate rendition of how forcefully he had told her that he expected her in his apartment across the street from school at 11:30 P.M., and that he did not alter his routines for anybody; that he read and worked and drank wine until one o'clock, at which time he retired to the bedroom. He kept an apartment in town as well as the house he and his wife and children lived in in the suburbs.

"I was so confident that the affair was going to pan out; turn into something memorable," he said and sighed. His voice acquired the mellow tone of someone confiding something intimate. "I even gave her the key to my apartment," he said, and his voice cracked.

"Very dutifully, she came at eleven-thirty," he went on. "She let herself in with her own key, and sneaked into the bedroom like a shadow. That excited me terribly. I knew that she was not going to be any trouble for me. She knew her role. She probably fell asleep on the bed. Or maybe she watched TV. I became engrossed in my work, and I did not care what the heck she did. I knew that I had her in the bag.

"But the moment I came into the bedroom," he continued, his voice tense and constricted, as if he were morally offended, "Theresa jumped on me like an animal and went for my dick. She did not even give me time to put down the bottle and the two glasses I was carrying. I had enough presence of mind to put my two Baccarat glasses on the floor without breaking them. The bottle flew across the room when she grabbed my balls as if they were made out of rocks. I wanted to hit her. I actually yelled in pain, but that did not faze her. She giggled insanely, because she thought I was being cute and sexy. She said so, as if to placate me."

Shaking his head with contained rage, he said that the woman was so friggin' eager and utterly selfish that she did not take into account that a man needs a moment's peace, he needs to feel at ease, at home, in friendly surroundings. Instead of showing consideration and understanding, as her role demanded, Theresa Manning pulled his sexual organs out of his pants with the expertise of someone who had done it hundreds of times.

"The result of all this shit," he said, "was that my sensuality retreated in horror. I was emotionally emasculated. My body abhorred that fucking woman, instantly. Yet my lust prevented me from throwing her out in the street."

He said that he decided then that instead of losing face by his impotence, miserably, the way he was bound to, he would have oral sex with her, and make her have an orgasm- put her at his mercy- but his body had rejected the woman so thoroughly that he could not do it.

"The woman was not even beautiful anymore," he said, "but plain. Whenever she is dressed up, the clothes that she wears hide the bulges of her hips. She actually looks okay. But when she is naked, she is a sack of bulging white flesh! The slenderness that she presents when she is clothed is fake. It does not exist."

Venom poured out of the psychiatrist in ways that I would never have imagined. He was shaking with rage. He wanted desperately to appear cool, and kept on smoking cigarette after cigarette.

He said that the oral sex was even more maddening and disgusting, and that he was just about to vomit when the friggin' woman actually kicked him in the belly, rolled him out of his own bed onto the floor, and called him an impotent faggot.

At this point in his narration, the psychiatrist's eyes were burning with hatred. His mouth was quivering. He was pale.

"I have to use your bathroom," he said. "I want to take a bath. I am reeking. Believe it or not, I have pussy breath."

He was actually weeping, and I would have given anything in the world not to be there. Perhaps it was my fatigue, or the mesmeric quality of his voice, or the inanity of the situation that created the illusion that I was listening not to the psychiatrist but to the voice of a male supplicant on one of his tapes complaining about minor problems turned into gigantic affairs by talking obsessively about them. My ordeal ended around nine o'clock in one morning. It was time for me to go to class and time for the psychiatrist to go and see his own shrink.

I went to class then, highly charged with a burning anxiety and a tremendous sensation of discomfort and uselessness. There, I received the final blow; the blow that caused my attempt at a drastic change to collapse. No volition of my own was involved in its collapse. It just happened; not only as if it had been scheduled, but as if its progression had been accelerated by some unknown hand.

The anthropology professor began his lecture about a group of Indians from the high plateaus of Bolivia and Peru, the Aymara. He called them the "ey-MEH-ra," elongating the name as if his pronunciation of it was the only accurate one in existence. He said that the making of chicha- which is pronounced "CHEE-cha," but which he pronounced "CHAHI-cha," an alcoholic beverage made from fermented corn- was in the realm of a sect of priestesses who were considered semi-divine by the Aymara. He said, in a tone of revelation, that those women were in charge of making the cooked corn into a mush ready for fermentation by chewing and spitting it, adding in this manner an enzyme found in human saliva. The whole class shrieked with contained horror at the mention of human saliva.

The professor seemed to be tickled pink. He laughed in little spurts. It was the chuckle of a nasty child. He went on to say that the women were expert chewers, and he called them the "chahi-cha chewers." He looked at the front row of the classroom, where most of the young women were sitting, and he delivered his punch line.

"I was p-r-r-rivileged," he said with a strange quasi-foreign intonation, "to be asked to sleep with one of the chahi-cha chewers. The art of chewing the chahi-cha mush makes them develop the muscles around their throat and cheeks to the point that they can do wonders with them."

He looked at his bewildered audience and paused for a long time, punctuating the pause with his giggles. "I am sure you get my drift," he said, and went into fits of hysterical laughter.

The class went wild with the professor's innuendo. The lecture was interrupted by at least five minutes of laughter and a barrage of questions that the professor declined to answer, emitting more silly giggles.

I felt so compressed by the pressure of the tapes, the psychiatrist's story, and the professor's "chahi-cha chewers" that in one instantaneous sweep I quit the job, quit school, and drove back to L.A.

"Whatever happened to me with the psychiatrist and the professor of anthropology," I said to don Juan, "has plunged me into an unknown emotional state. I can only call it introspection. I have been talking to myself without stop."

"Your malady is a very simple one," don Juan said, shaking with laughter.

Apparently my situation delighted him. It was a delight I could not share, because I failed to see the humor in it.

"Your world is coming to an end," he said. "It is the end of an era for you. Do you think that the world you have known all your life is going to leave you peacefully- without any fuss or muss? No! It will wriggle underneath you, and hit you with its tail."

The Active Side Of Infinity ©1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 2 - Chapter 08. The View I Could Not Stand.

Los Angeles had always been home for me. My choice of Los Angeles had not been volitional. To me, staying in Los Angeles has always been the equivalent of having been born there, perhaps even more than that. My emotional attachment to it has always been total. My love for the city of Los Angeles has always been so intense, so much a part of me, that I have never had to voice it. I have never had to review it or renew it, ever.

I had, in Los Angeles, my family of friends. They were to me part of my immediate milieu, meaning that I had accepted them totally, the way I had accepted the city. One of my friends made the statement once, half in fun, that all of us hated each other cordially. Doubtless, they could afford feelings like that themselves, for they had other emotional arrangements at their disposal, like parents and wives and husbands. I had only my friends in Los Angeles.

For whatever reason, I was each one's confidant. Every one of them poured out to me their problems and vicissitudes. My friends were so close to me that I had never acknowledged their problems or tribulations as anything but normal. I could talk for hours to them about the very same things that had horrified me in the psychiatrist and his tapes.

Furthermore, I had never realized that every one of my friends was astoundingly similar to the psychiatrist and the professor of anthropology. I had never noticed how tense my friends were. All of them smoked compulsively, like the psychiatrist, but it had never been obvious to me because I smoked just as much myself and was just as tense.

Their affectation in speech was another thing that had never been apparent to me, although it was there. They always affected a twang of the western United States, but they were very aware of what they were doing.

Nor had I ever noticed their blatant innuendos about a sensuality that they were incapable of feeling, except intellectually.

The real confrontation with myself began when I was faced with the dilemma of my friend Pete. He came to see me, all battered. He had a swollen mouth, and a red and swollen left eye that had obviously been hit and was turning blue already. Before I had time to ask him what had happened to him, he blurted out that his wife, Patricia, had gone to a real estate brokers' convention over the weekend, in relation to her job, and that something terrible had happened to her. The way Pete looked, I thought that perhaps Patricia had been injured, or even killed, in an accident.

"Is she all right?" I asked, genuinely concerned.

"Of course she is all right," he barked. "She is a bitch and a whore, and nothing happens to bitch whores except that they get frigged, and they like it!"

Pete was rabid. He was shaking, nearly convulsing. His bushy, curly hair was sticking out every which way. Usually, he combed it carefully and slicked his natural curls into place. Now, he looked as wild as a Tasmanian devil.

"Everything was normal until today," my friend continued. "Then, this morning, after I came out of the shower, she snapped a towel at my naked butt, and that is what made me aware of her shit! I knew instantly that she had been frigging someone else."

I was puzzled by his line of reasoning. I questioned him further. I asked him how snapping a towel could reveal anything of this sort to anybody.

"It would not reveal anything to assholes!" he said with pure venom in his voice. "But I know Patricia, and on Thursday, before she went to the brokers' convention, she could not snap a towel! In fact, she has never been able to snap a towel in all the time we have been married. Somebody must have taught her to do it, while they were naked! So I grabbed her by the throat, and choked the truth out of her! Yes! She has been frigging her boss!"

Pete said that he went to Patricia's office to have it out with her boss, but the man was heavily protected by bodyguards. They threw him out into the parking lot. He wanted to smash the windows of the office, throw rocks at them, but the bodyguards said that if he did that, he would land in jail, or even worse, he would get a bullet in his head.

"Are they the ones who beat you up, Pete?" I asked him.

"No," he said, dejected. "I walked down the street and went into the sales office of a used car lot. I punched the first salesman who came to talk to me. The man was shocked, but he did not get angry. He said, 'Calm down, sir, calm down! There is room for negotiation.' When I punched him again in the mouth, he got pissed off. He was a big guy, and he hit me in the mouth and the eye, and knocked me out.

"When I came to my senses," Pete continued, "I was lying on the couch in their office. I heard an ambulance approaching. I knew they were coming for me, so I got up and ran out. Then I came to see you."

He began to weep uncontrollably. He got sick to his stomach. He was a mess. I called his wife, and in less than ten minutes she was in the apartment. She knelt in front of Pete, and swore that she loved only him; that everything else she did was pure imbecility and that theirs was a love that was a matter of life or death. The others were nothing. She did not even remember them.

Both of them wept to their hearts' content, and of course they forgave each other. Patricia was wearing sunglasses to hide the hematoma by her right eye where Pete had apparently hit her: Pete was left-handed. Both of them were oblivious to my presence, and when they left, they did not seem to know I was there. They just walked out, leaving the door open, hugging each other.

Life seemed to continue for me as it always had. My friends acted with me as they always did. We were, as usual, involved in going to parties, or the movies, or just simply 'chewing the fat', or looking for restaurants where they offered 'all you can eat' for the price of one meal.

However, despite this pseudo-normality, a strange new factor seemed to have entered my life. As the subject who was experiencing it, it appeared to me that, all of a sudden, I had become extremely narrow-minded. I had begun to judge my friends in the same way I had judged the psychiatrist and the professor of anthropology. Who was I, anyway, to set myself up in judgment of anyone else?

I felt an immense sense of guilt. To judge my friends created a mood previously unknown to me. But what I considered to be even worse was that not only was I judging them, I was finding their problems and tribulations astoundingly banal.

I was the same man. They were my same friends. I had heard their complaints and renditions of their situations hundreds of times, and I had not ever felt anything except a deep identification with whatever I had been listening to. My horror at discovering this new mood in myself was staggering.

The aphorism that 'when it rains it pours' could not have been more true for me at that moment in my life.

The total disintegration of my way of life came when my friend Rodrigo Cummings asked me to take him to the Burbank airport. From there he was going to fly to New York. It was a very dramatic and desperate maneuver on his part. He considered it his damnation to be caught in Los Angeles.

For the rest of his friends, it was a big joke, and a fact, that he had tried to drive across country to New York various times; and every time he had tried to do it, his car had broken down. Once, he had gone as far as Salt Lake City before his car collapsed. It needed a new motor and he had to junk it there. Most of the time, his cars petered out in the suburbs of Los Angeles.

"What happens to your cars, Rodrigo?" I asked him once, driven by truthful curiosity.

"I do not know," he replied with a veiled sense of guilt. And then, in a voice worthy of the professor of anthropology in his role of revivalist preacher, he said, "Perhaps it is because when I hit the road, I accelerate because I feel free. I usually open all my windows. I want the wind to blow on my face. I feel that I am a kid in search of something new."

It was obvious to me that his cars, which were always jalopies, were no longer capable of speeding, and he just simply burned their motors out.

From Salt Lake City, Rodrigo had returned to Los Angeles, hitchhiking. Of course, he could have hitchhiked to New York, but it had never occurred to him. Rodrigo seemed to be afflicted by the same condition that afflicted me: an unconscious passion for Los Angeles which he wanted to refuse at any cost.

Another time, his car was in excellent mechanical condition. It could have made the whole trip with ease, but Rodrigo was apparently not in any condition to leave Los Angeles. He drove as far as San Bernadino, where he went to see a movie- The Ten Commandments. This movie, for reasons known only to Rodrigo, created in him an unbeatable nostalgia for L.A. He came back, and wept, telling me how the shagging city of Los Angeles had built a fence around him that did not let him go through. His wife was delighted that he had not gone.

His girlfriend, Melissa, was even more delighted, although also chagrined because she had to give back the dictionaries that he had given her.

His last desperate attempt to reach New York by plane was rendered even more dramatic because he borrowed money from his friends to pay for the ticket. He said that in this fashion, since he did not intend to repay them, he was making sure that he would not come back.

I put his suitcases in the trunk of my car and headed with him for the Burbank airport. He remarked that the plane did not leave until seven o'clock. It was early afternoon, and we had plenty of time to go and see a movie. Besides, he wanted to take one last look at Hollywood Boulevard; the center of our lives and activities.

We went to see an epic in Technicolor and Cinerama. It was a long, excruciating movie that seemed to rivet Rodrigo's attention. When we got out of the movie, it was already getting dark. I rushed to Burbank in the midst of heavy traffic. He demanded that we go on surface streets rather than the freeway, which was jammed at that hour. The plane was just leaving when we reached the airport. That was the final straw. Meek and defeated, Rodrigo went to a cashier and presented his ticket to get his money back. The cashier wrote down his name and gave him a receipt and said that his money would be sent within six to twelve weeks from Tennessee, where the accounting offices of the airline were located.

We drove back to the apartment building where we both lived. Since he had not said good-bye to anybody this time, for fear of losing face, nobody had ever noticed that he had tried to leave one more time. The only drawback was that he had sold his car. He asked me to drive him to his parents' house, because his dad was going to give him the money he had spent on the ticket.

His father had always been, as far back as I could remember, the man who had bailed Rodrigo out of every problematic situation that he had ever gotten into. The father's slogan was 'Have no fear, Rodrigo Senior is here!' After he heard Rodrigo's request for a loan to pay his other loan, the father looked at my friend with the saddest expression that I had ever seen. He was having terrible financial difficulties himself.

Putting his arm around his son's shoulders, he said, "I can not help you this time, my boy. Now you should have fear, because Rodrigo Senior is no longer here."

I wanted desperately to identify with my friend, to feel his drama the way I always had, but I could not. I only focused on the father's statement. It sounded to me so final that it galvanized me.

I sought don Juan's company avidly. I left everything pending in Los Angeles and made a trip to Sonora. I told him about the strange mood that I had entered into with my friends. Sobbing with remorse, I said to him that I had begun to judge them.

"Do not get so worked up over nothing," don Juan said calmly. "You already know that a whole era in your life is coming to an end, but an era does not really come to an end until the king dies."

"What do you mean by that, don Juan?"

"You are the king, and you are just like your friends. That is the truth that makes you shake in your boots. One thing you can do is to accept it at face value, which, of course, you can not do. The other thing you can do is to say, 'I am not like that, I am not like that,' and repeat to yourself that you are not like that. I promise you, however, that a moment will come when you will realize that you are like that."

The Active Side Of Infinity ©1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 2 - Chapter 09. The Unavoidable Appointment.

There was something that kept nagging at me in the back of my mind. I had to answer a most important letter I had received, and I had to do it at any cost. My anthropologist friend who was responsible for my meeting don Juan Matus had written me a letter a couple of months earlier. He wanted to know how I was doing in my studies of anthropology, and urged me to pay him a visit.

What had prevented me from doing it was a mixture of indolence and a deep desire to please. I composed three long letters. On rereading each of them, I found them so trite and obsequious that I tore them up.

I could not express in them the depth of my gratitude; the depth of my feelings for him. I rationalized my delay in answering with a genuine resolve to go to see him, and tell him personally what I was doing with don Juan Matus; but I kept postponing my imminent trip because I was not sure what it was that I was doing with don Juan. I wanted someday to show my friend real results. As it was, I had only vague sketches of possibilities, which, in his demanding eyes, would not have been anthropological fieldwork anyway.

One day I found out that he had died. His death brought to me one of those dangerous silent depressions. I had no way to express what I felt because what I was feeling was not fully formulated in my mind. It was a mixture of dejection, despondency, and abhorrence at myself for not having answered his letter; for not having gone to see him.

I paid a visit to don Juan Matus soon after that. On arriving at his house, I sat down on one of the crates under his ramada and tried to search for words that would not sound banal to express my sense of dejection over the death of my friend. For reasons incomprehensible to me, don Juan knew the origin of my turmoil, and the overt reason for my visit to him.

"Yes," don Juan said dryly. "I know that your friend, the anthropologist who guided you to meet me, has died. For whatever reasons, I knew exactly the moment he died. I saw it."

His statements jolted me to my foundations.

"I saw it coming a long time ago. I even told you about it, but you disregarded what I said. I am sure that you do not even remember it."

I remembered every word he had said, but it had no meaning for me at the time he had said it.

Don Juan had stated that a detail deeply related to our meeting, but not part of it, was the fact that he had seen my anthropologist friend as a dying man.

"I saw death as an outside force already opening your friend," he had said to me. "Every one of us has an energetic fissure, an energetic crack below the navel. That crack, which sorcerers call the gap, is closed when a man is in his prime."

He had said that, normally, all that is discernible to the sorcerer's eye is a tenuous discoloration in the otherwise whitish glow of the luminous sphere. But when a man is close to dying, that gap becomes quite apparent. He had assured me that my friend's gap was wide open.

"What is the significance of all this, don Juan?" I had asked perfunctorily.

"The significance is a terminal one," he had replied. "The spirit was signaling to me that something was coming to an end. I thought it was my life that was coming to an end, and I accepted it as gracefully as I could.

It dawned on me much, much later that it was not my life that was coming to an end, but my entire lineage."

I did not know what he was talking about. But how could I have taken all that seriously? As far as I was concerned, it was, at the time he said it, like everything else in my life; just talk.

"Your friend himself told you, though not in so many words, that he was dying," don Juan said. "You acknowledged what he was saying just as you acknowledged what I said; but in both cases, you chose to bypass it."

I had no comments to make. I was overwhelmed by what he was saying. I wanted to sink into the crate I was sitting on; to disappear, swallowed up by the earth.

"It is not your fault that you bypass things like this," he went on. "It is youth. You have so many things to do, so many people around you. You are not alert. You never learned to be alert, anyway."

In the vein of defending the last bastion of myself- my idea that I was watchful- I pointed out to don Juan that I had been in life and death situations that required my quick wit and vigilance. It was not that I lacked the capacity to be alert, but that I lacked the orientation for setting an appropriate list of priorities. Therefore, everything was either important or unimportant to me.

"To be alert does not mean to be watchful," don Juan said. "For sorcerers, to be alert means to be aware of the true underlying fabric of the everyday world that seems extraneous to the interaction of the moment.

"On the trip that you took with your friend before you met me, you noticed only the details that were obvious. You did not notice how his death was absorbing him, and yet something in you knew it."

I began to protest, to tell him that what he was saying was not true.

"Do not hide yourself behind banalities," he said in an accusing tone. "Stand up, if only for the moment you are with me. Assume responsibility for what you know.

"Do not get lost in the extraneous threads of the world around you; or in unimportant distractions from what is really going on in the fabric around you.

If you had not been so concerned with yourself and your problems, you would have known that that was his last trip. You would have noticed that he was closing his accounts; seeing the people who helped him; saying good-bye to them.

"Your anthropologist friend had talked to me once," don Juan went on. "I remembered him so clearly that I was not surprised at all when he brought you to me at that bus depot.

"I could not help him when he had talked to me. He was not the man I was looking for, but I wished him well from my sorcerer's emptiness, from my sorcerer's silence.

"For this reason, I know that on his last trip, he was saying thank you to the people who counted in his life."

I admitted to don Juan that he was so very right, that there had been so many details that I had been aware of, but that they had not meant a thing to me at the time; such as, for instance, my friend's ecstasy in watching the scenery around us. He would stop the car just to watch, for hours on end, the mountains in the distance, or the riverbed, or the desert.

I discarded this as the idiotic sentimentality of a middle-aged man. I even made vague hints to him that perhaps he was drinking too much. He told me that in dire cases a drink would allow a man a moment of peace and detachment, a moment long enough to savor something unrepeatable.

"That was, for a fact, the trip for his eyes only," don Juan said. "Sorcerers take such a trip, and, in it, nothing counts except what their eyes can absorb. Your friend was unburdening himself of everything superfluous."

I confessed to don Juan that I had disregarded what he had said to me about my dying friend because, at an unknown level, I had known that it was true.

"Sorcerers never say things idly," he said. "I am most careful about what I say to you or to anybody else. The difference between you and me is that I do not have any time at all, and I act accordingly. You, on the other hand, believe that you have all the time in the world, and you act accordingly. The end result of our individual behaviors is that I measure everything I do and say, and you do not."

I conceded that he was right, but I assured him that whatever he was saying did not alleviate my turmoil, or my sadness. I blurted out then, uncontrollably, every nuance of my confused feelings. I told him that I was not in search of advice. I wanted him to prescribe a sorcerer's way to end my anguish. I believed I was really interested in getting from him some natural relaxant, an organic Valium, and I said so to him. Don Juan shook his head in bewilderment.

"You are too much," he said. "Next you are going to ask for a sorcerer's medication to remove everything annoying from you, with no effort at all on your part- just the effort of swallowing whatever is given. The more awful the taste, the better the results. That is your Western man's motto. You want results- one potion and you are cured.

"Sorcerers face things in a different way," don Juan continued. "Since they do not have any time to spare, they give themselves fully to what is in front of them.

"Your turmoil is the result of your lack of sobriety. You did not have the sobriety to thank your friend properly. That happens to every one of us. We never express what we feel, and when we want to, it is too late, because we have run out of time.

"It is not only your friend who ran out of time. You, too, ran out of it.

"You should have thanked him profusely in Arizona. He took the trouble to take you around, and whether you understand it or not, in the bus depot he gave you his best shot. But the moment when you should have thanked him, you were angry with him- you were judging him: He was nasty to you, or whatever.

"And then you postponed seeing him. In reality, what you did was to postpone thanking him. Now you are stuck with a ghost on your tail. You will never be able to pay what you owe him."

I understood the immensity of what he was saying. Never had I faced my actions in such a light. In fact, I had never thanked anyone, ever.

Don Juan pushed his barb even deeper. "Your friend knew that he was dying," he said. "He wrote you one final letter to find out about your doings. Perhaps unbeknownst to him, or to you, you were his last thought."

The weight of don Juan's words was too much for my shoulders. I collapsed. I felt that I had to lie down. My head was spinning. Maybe it was the setting. I had made the terrible mistake of arriving at don Juan's house in the late afternoon. The setting sun seemed astoundingly golden, and the reflections on the bare mountains to the east of don Juan's house were gold and purple. The sky did not have a speck of a cloud. Nothing seemed to move. It was as if the whole world were hiding, but its presence was overpowering. The quietness of the Sonoran desert was like a dagger. It went to the marrow of my bones. I wanted to leave, to get in my car and drive away. I wanted to be in the city; to get lost in its noise.

"You are having a taste of infinity," don Juan said with grave finality. "I know it, because I have been in your shoes. You want to run away, to plunge into something human, warm, contradictory, stupid, who cares? You want to forget the death of your friend.

"But infinity will not let you." His voice mellowed. "It has gripped you in its merciless clutches."

"What can I do now, don Juan?" I asked.

"The only thing you can do," don Juan said, "is to keep the memory of your friend fresh; to keep it alive for the rest of your life and perhaps even beyond. Sorcerers express, in this fashion, the thanks that they can no longer voice. You may think it is a silly way, but that is the best sorcerers can do."

It was my own sadness, doubtless, which made me believe that the typically ebullient don Juan was as sad as I was. I discarded the thought immediately. That could not be possible.

"Sadness, for sorcerers, is not personal," don Juan said, again erupting into my thoughts. "It is not quite sadness. It is a wave of energy that comes from the depths of the cosmos, and hits sorcerers when they are receptive; when they are like radios capable of catching radio waves.

"The sorcerers of olden times, who gave us the entire format of sorcery, believed that there is sadness in the universe, as a force, or a condition; like light; like intent. And that this perennial force acts especially on sorcerers- particularly because they no longer have any defensive shields. They cannot hide behind their friends or their studies. They cannot hide behind love, or hatred, or happiness, or misery. They can not hide behind anything.

"The condition of sorcerers," don Juan went on, "is that sadness, for them, is abstract. It does not come from coveting or lacking something, or from self-importance. It does not come from me. It comes from infinity. The sadness you feel for not thanking your friend is already leaning in that direction.

"My teacher, the nagual Julian," he went on, "was a fabulous actor. He actually worked professionally in the theater. He had a favorite story that he used to tell in his theater sessions. He used to push me into terrible outbursts of anguish with it. He said that it was a story for warriors who had everything and yet felt the sting of the universal sadness. I always thought he was telling it for me, personally."

Don Juan then paraphrased his teacher, telling me that the story referred to a man suffering from profound melancholy.

The man went to see the best doctors of his day and every one of those doctors failed to help him. He finally came to the office of a leading doctor, a healer of the soul.

The doctor suggested to his patient that perhaps he could find solace, and the end of his melancholy, in love. The man responded that love was no problem for him, that he was loved perhaps like no one else in the world.

The doctor's next suggestion was that maybe the patient should undertake a voyage and see other parts of the world. The man responded that, without exaggeration, he had been in every corner of the world.

The doctor recommended hobbies like the arts, sports, etc. The man responded to every one of his recommendations in the same terms: He had done that and had had no relief.

The doctor suspected that the man was possibly an incurable liar. He could not have done all those things, as he claimed. But being a good healer, the doctor had a final insight.

"Ah!" the doctor exclaimed. "I have the perfect solution for you, sir. You must attend a performance of the greatest comedian of our day. He will delight you to the point where you will forget every twist of your melancholy. You must attend a performance of the Great Garrick!"

Don Juan said that the man looked at the doctor with the saddest look you can imagine, and said, "Doctor, if that is your recommendation, I am a lost man, and have no cure. I am Garrick."

The Active Side Of Infinity ©1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 2 - Chapter 10. The Breaking Point.

Inner silence is a state of profound quietude.

Don Juan defined inner silence as a state of being in which thoughts were canceled out, and I could function from a level other than that of daily awareness. He stressed that inner silence meant the suspension of the perennial companion of thoughts; the suspension of my internal dialogue.

"The old sorcerers," don Juan said, "called this state inner silence because it is a state in which perception does not depend on using the senses as we are accustomed to. What is at work during inner silence is another faculty that man has; the faculty that makes him a magical being; the very faculty that has been curtailed- not by man himself, but by some extraneous influence."

"What is this extraneous influence that curtails the magical faculty of man?" I asked.

"That," don Juan replied, "is the topic for a future explanation, and is not a subject of our present discussion, even though it is indeed a most serious aspect of the sorcery of the shamans of ancient Mexico.

"Inner silence," he continued, "is the stand from which everything stems in sorcery. In other words, everything we do leads to that stand, which, like everything else in the world of sorcerers, does not reveal itself unless something gigantic shakes us."

Don Juan said that the sorcerers of ancient Mexico devised endless ways to shake themselves, or other sorcery practitioners at their foundations in order to reach that coveted state of inner silence. They considered the most farfetched acts, which may seem totally unrelated to the pursuit of inner silence- such as jumping into waterfalls or spending nights hanging upside down from the top branch of a tree- to be key methods that brought inner silence into being.

Following the rationale of the sorcerers of ancient Mexico, don Juan stated categorically that inner silence is accrued; accumulated.

In my case, he struggled to guide me to construct a core of inner silence in myself, and then add to it, second by second on every occasion I practiced it. He explained that the sorcerers of ancient Mexico discovered that each individual had a different threshold of inner silence in terms of time; meaning that inner silence must be kept by each one of us for the length of time of our specific threshold before it can work.

"What did those sorcerers consider the sign that inner silence is working, don Juan?" I asked.

"Inner silence works from the moment you begin to accrue it," he replied. "What the old sorcerers were after was the final, dramatic, end result of reaching that individual threshold of silence. Some very talented practitioners need only a few minutes of silence to reach that coveted goal. Others, less talented, need long periods of silence, perhaps more than one hour of complete quietude, before they reach the desired result. The desired result is what the old sorcerers called stopping the world; the moment when everything around us ceases to be what it has always been.

"This is the moment when sorcerers return to the true nature of man," don Juan went on. "The old sorcerers also called it total freedom. It is the moment when 'man the slave' becomes 'man the free being' capable of feats of perception that defy our linear imagination."

Don Juan assured me that inner silence is the avenue that leads to a true suspension of judgment- to a moment when sensory data emanating from the universe at large ceases to be interpreted by the senses; a moment when cognition ceases to be the force which, through usage and repetition, decides the nature of the world.

"Sorcerers need a breaking point for the workings of inner silence to set in," don Juan said. "The breaking point is like the mortar that a mason puts between bricks. It is only when the mortar hardens that the loose bricks become a structure."

From the beginning of our association, don Juan had drilled into me the value and the necessity of inner silence. I did my best to follow his suggestions by accumulating inner silence second by second. I had no means to measure the effect of this accumulation, nor did I have any means to judge whether or not I had reached any threshold. I simply aimed doggedly at accruing it, not just to please don Juan, but because the act of accumulating it had become a challenge in itself.

One day, don Juan and I were taking a leisurely stroll in the main plaza of Hermosillo. It was the early afternoon of a cloudy day. The heat was dry, and actually very pleasant. There were lots of people walking around. There were stores around the plaza. I had been to Hermosillo many times, and yet I had never noticed the stores. I knew that they were there, but their presence was not something I had been consciously aware of. I could not have made a map of that plaza if my life depended on it. That day, as I walked with don Juan, I was trying to locate and identify the stores. I searched for something to use as a mnemonic device that would stir my recollection for later use.

"As I have told you before, many times," don Juan said, jolting me out of my concentration, "every sorcerer I know, male or female, sooner or later arrives at a breaking point in their lives."

"Do you mean that they have a mental breakdown or something like that?" I asked

"No, no," he said, laughing. "Mental breakdowns are for persons who indulge in themselves. Sorcerers are not persons. What I mean is that at a given moment, the continuity of their lives has to break in order for inner silence to set in and become an active part of their structures.

"It is very, very important," don Juan went on, "that you yourself deliberately arrive at that breaking point, or that you create it artificially, and intelligently."

"What do you mean by that, don Juan?" I asked, caught in his intriguing reasoning.

"Your breaking point" he said, "is to discontinue your life as you know it. You have done everything I told you, dutifully and accurately. If you are talented, you never show it. That seems to be your style. You are not slow, but you act as if you were. You are very sure of yourself, but you act as if you were insecure. You are not timid, and yet you act as if you were afraid of people. Everything you do points at one single spot; your need to break all that, ruthlessly."

"But in what way, don Juan? What do you have in mind?" I asked, genuinely frantic.

"I think everything boils down to one act," he said. "You must leave your friends. You must say good-bye to them, for good. It is not possible for you to continue on the warriors' path carrying your personal history with you, and unless you discontinue your way of life, I will not be able to go ahead with my instruction."

"Now, now, now, don Juan," I said, "I have to put my foot down. You are asking too much of me. To be frank with you, I do not think I can do it. My friends are my family; my points of reference."

"Precisely, precisely," he remarked. "They are your points of reference. Therefore, they have to go. Sorcerers have only one point of reference: infinity."

"But how do you want me to proceed, don Juan?" I asked in a plaintive voice. His request was driving me up the wall.

"You must simply leave," he said matter-of-factly. "Leave any way you can."

"But where would I go?" I asked.

"My recommendation is that you rent a room in one of those chintzy hotels you know," he said. "The uglier the place, the better. If the room has drab green carpet, and drab green drapes, and drab green walls, so much the better- a place comparable to that hotel I showed you once in Los Angeles."

I laughed nervously at my recollection of a time when I was driving with don Juan through the industrial side of Los Angeles, where there were only warehouses and dilapidated hotels for transients. One hotel in particular attracted don Juan's attention because of its bombastic name: Edward the Seventh. We stopped across the street from it for a moment to look at it.

"That hotel over there," don Juan said, pointing at it, "is to me the true representation of life on Earth for the average person. If you are lucky, or ruthless, you will get a room with a view of the street, where you will see this endless parade of human misery. If you are not that lucky, or that ruthless, you will get a room on the inside, with windows to the wall of the next building. Think of spending a lifetime torn between those two views, envying the view of the street if you are inside, and envying the view of the wall if you are on the outside, tired of looking out."

Don Juan's metaphor bothered me no end, for I had taken it all in.

Now, faced with the possibility of having to rent a room in a hotel comparable to the Edward the Seventh, I did not know what to say or which way to go.

"What do you want me to do there, don Juan?" I asked.

"A sorcerer uses a place like that to die," he said, looking at me with an unblinking stare. "You have never been alone in your life. This is the time to do it. You will stay in that room until you die."

His request scared me, but at the same time, it made me laugh.

"Not that I am going to do it, don Juan," I said, "but what would be the criteria to know that I am dead?- unless you want me to actually die physically."

"No," he said, "I do not want your body to die physically. I want your person to die. The two are very different affairs. In essence, your person has very little to do with your body. Your person is your mind, and believe you me, your mind is not yours."

"What is this nonsense, don Juan, that my mind is not mine?" I heard myself asking with a nervous twang in my voice.

"I will tell you about that subject someday," he said, "but not while you are cushioned by your friends.

"The criteria that indicates that a sorcerer is dead," he went on, "is when it makes no difference to him whether he has company or whether he is alone. The day you do not covet the company of your friends, whom you use as shields, that is the day that your person dies. What do you say? Are you game?"

"I can not do it, don Juan," I said. "It is useless that I try to lie to you. I can not leave my friends."

"It is perfectly all right," he said, unperturbed. My statement did not seem to affect him in the least. "I will not be able to talk to you anymore, but let us say that during our time together you have learned a great deal. You have learned things that will make you very strong, regardless of whether you come back or you stray away."

He patted me on the back and said good-bye to me. He turned around and simply disappeared among the people in the plaza, as if he had merged with them. For an instant, I had the strange sensation that the people in the plaza were like a curtain that he had opened and then disappeared behind. The end had come, as did everything else in don Juan's world: swiftly and unpredictably. Suddenly, the end of don Juan's world was upon me. I was in the throes of it, and I did not even know how I had gotten into it.

I should have been crushed. Yet I was not. I did not know why, but I was elated. I marveled at the facility with which everything had ended. Don Juan was indeed an elegant being. There were no recriminations or anger or anything of that sort at all. I got in my car and drove, happy as a lark. I was ebullient. How extraordinary that everything had ended so swiftly, I thought, so painlessly.

My trip home was uneventful. In Los Angeles, being in my familiar surroundings, I noticed that I had derived an enormous amount of energy from my last exchange with don Juan. I was actually very happy, very relaxed, and I resumed what I considered to be my normal life with renewed zest. All my tribulations with my friends, and my realizations about them, everything that I had said to don Juan in reference to this, were thoroughly forgotten. It was as if something had erased all that from my mind. I marveled a couple of times at the facility I had in forgetting something that had been so meaningful; and in forgetting it so thoroughly.

Everything was as expected. There was one single inconsistency in the otherwise neat paradigm of my new old life: I distinctly remembered don Juan saying to me that my departing from the sorcerers' world was purely academic, and that I would be back.

I remembered writing down every word of our exchange. According to my normal linear reasoning and memory, don Juan had never made those statements. How could I remember things that had never taken place? I pondered uselessly. My pseudo-recollection was strange enough to make a case for it, but then I decided that there was no point in reflecting on it. As far as I was concerned, I was out of don Juan's milieu.

Following don Juan's suggestions in reference to my behavior with those who had favored me in any way, I had come to a earthshaking decision for myself: I resolved to honor and to thank my friends before it was too late.

One incident involving my friend Rodrigo, however, toppled my new paradigm and sent it tumbling down to its total destruction.

My attitude toward Rodrigo changed radically when I vanquished my competitiveness with him. I found out that it was the easiest thing in the world for me to project 100 percent into whatever Rodrigo did. In fact, I was exactly like him, but I did not know it until I stopped competing with him. Then the truth emerged for me with maddening vividness.

One of Rodrigo's foremost wishes was to finish college. Every semester, he registered for school and took as many courses as was permitted. Then, as the semester progressed, he dropped them one by one. Sometimes he would withdraw from school altogether. At other times he would keep one three-unit course all the way through to the bitter end.

During the most recent semester, he had kept a course in sociology because he liked it. The final exam was approaching. He told me that he had three weeks to study; to read the textbook for the course. He thought that that was an exorbitant amount of time to read merely six hundred pages. He considered himself something of a speed reader, with a high level of retention; in his opinion, he had a nearly 100 percent photographic memory.

He thought he had a great deal of time before the exam, so he asked me if I would help him recondition his car for his paper route. He wanted to take the right door off in order to throw the paper through that opening with his right hand instead of over the roof with his left.

I pointed out to him that he was left-handed, to which he retorted that among his many abilities, which none of his friends noticed, was that of being ambidextrous. He was right about that: I had never noticed it myself.

After I helped him to take the door off, he decided to rip out the roof lining, which was badly torn. He said that his car was in optimum mechanical condition, and so he was going to take it to Tijuana, Mexico- which, as a good Angeleno of the day, he called 'TJ'- to have it relined for a few bucks.

"We could use a trip," he said with glee. He even selected the friends he would like to take. "In TJ, I am sure that you will go to look for used books, because you are an asshole. The rest of us will go to a bordello. I know quite a few."

It took us a week to rip out all the lining and sand the metal surface to prepare it for its new lining. Rodrigo had two weeks left to study then, and he still considered that to be too much time.

He engaged me then in helping him paint his apartment and redo the floors. It took us over a week to paint it and sand the hardwood floors. He did not want to paint over the wallpaper in one room. We had to rent a machine that removed wallpaper by applying steam to it.

Naturally, neither Rodrigo nor I knew how to use the machine properly, and we botched the job horrendously. We ended up having to use Topping; a very fine mixture of plaster of paris and other substances that gives a wall a smooth surface.

After all these endeavors, Rodrigo ended up having only two days left to cram six hundred pages into his head. He went frantically into an all-day and all-night reading marathon, with the help of amphetamine.

Rodrigo did go to school the day of the exam, and did sit down at his desk, and did get the multiple-choice exam sheet.

What he did not do was stay awake to take the exam. His body slumped forward, and his head hit the desk with a terrifying thud.

The exam had to be suspended for a while. The sociology teacher became hysterical, and so did the students sitting around Rodrigo. His body was stiff and icy cold. The whole class suspected the worst: They thought he had died of a heart attack. Paramedics were summoned to remove him. After a cursory examination, they pronounced Rodrigo profoundly asleep and took him to a hospital to sleep the effect of the amphetamines off.

My projection into Rodrigo Cummings was so total that it frightened me. I was exactly like him. The similarity became untenable to me. In an act of what I considered to be total, suicidal nihilism, I rented a room in a dilapidated hotel in Hollywood.

The carpets were green and had terrible cigarette burns that had obviously been snuffed out before they turned into full-fledged fires. It had green drapes and drab green walls. The blinking sign of the hotel shone all night through the window.

I ended up doing exactly what don Juan had requested, but in a roundabout way. I did not do it to fulfill any of don Juan's requirements or with the intention of patching up our differences. I did stay in that hotel room for months on end, until my person, like don Juan had proposed, died; or at least until it truthfully made no difference to me whether I had company or I was alone.

After leaving the hotel, I went to live alone, closer to school. I continued my studies of anthropology, which had never been interrupted, and I started a very profitable business with a lady partner.

Everything seemed perfectly in order until one day when the realization hit me like a kick in the head that I was going to spend the rest of my life worrying about my business, or worrying about the phantom choice between being an academic or a businessman, or worrying about my partner's foibles and shenanigans.

True desperation pierced the depths of my being. For the first time in my life, despite all the things that I had done and seen, I had no way out. I was completely lost. I seriously began to toy with the idea of the most pragmatic and painless way to end my days.

One morning, a loud and insistent knocking woke me up. I thought it was the landlady, and I was sure that if I did not answer, she would enter with her passkey.

I opened the door, and there was don Juan! I was so surprised that I was numb. I stammered and stuttered, incapable of saying a word. I wanted to kiss his hand, to kneel in front of him. Don Juan came in and sat down with great ease on the edge of my bed.

"I made the trip to Los Angeles," he said, "just to see you."

I wanted to take him to breakfast, but he said that he had other things to attend to, and that he had only a moment to talk to me. I hurriedly told him about my experience in the hotel. His presence had created such havoc that not for a second did it occur to me to ask him how he had found out where I lived. I told don Juan how intensely I regretted having said what I had in Hermosillo.

"You do not have to apologize," he assured me. "Every one of us does the same thing. Once, I ran away from the sorcerers' world myself, and I had to nearly die to realize my stupidity.

"The important issue is to arrive at a breaking point in whatever way, and that is exactly what you have done. Inner silence is becoming real for you. This is the reason I am here in front of you, talking to you. Do you see what I mean?"

I thought I understood what he meant. I thought that he had intuited or read, the way he read things in the air, that I was at my wits' end and that he had come to bail me out.

"You have no time to lose," he said. "You must dissolve your business enterprise within an hour, because one hour is all I can afford to wait- not because I do not want to wait, but because infinity is pressing me mercilessly. Let us say that infinity is giving you one hour to cancel yourself out.

"For infinity, the only worthwhile enterprise of a warrior is freedom. Any other enterprise is fraudulent. Can you dissolve everything in one hour?"

I did not have to assure him that I could. I knew that I had to do it. Don Juan told me then that once I had succeeded in dissolving everything, he was going to wait for me at the marketplace in a town in Mexico. In my effort to think about the dissolution of my business, I overlooked what he was saying. He repeated it and, of course, I thought he was joking.

"How can I reach that town, don Juan? Do you want me to drive, to take a plane?" I asked.

"Dissolve your business first," he commanded. "Then the solution will come. But remember, I will be waiting for you only for an hour."

He left the apartment, and I feverishly endeavored to dissolve everything I had. Naturally, it took me more than an hour, but I did not stop to consider this because once I had set the dissolution of the business in motion, its momentum carried me.

It was only when I was through that the real dilemma faced me. I knew then that I had failed hopelessly. I was left with no business, and no possibilities of ever reaching don Juan.

I went to my bed and sought the only solace I could think of: quietude; silence. In order to facilitate the advent of inner silence, don Juan had taught me a way to sit down on my bed, with the knees bent and the soles of the feet touching, the hands pushing the feet together by holding the ankles. He had given me a thick dowel that I always kept at hand wherever I went. It was cut to a fourteen-inch length to support the weight of my head if I leaned over and put the dowel on the floor between my feet, and then placed the other end, which was cushioned, on the spot in the middle of my forehead. Every time I adopted this position, I fell sound asleep in a matter of seconds.

I must have fallen asleep with my usual facility because I dreamed that I was in the Mexican town where don Juan had said he was going to meet me. I had always been intrigued by this town. The marketplace was open one day a week, and the farmers who lived in the area brought their products there to be sold.

What fascinated me the most about that town was the paved road that led to it. At the very entrance to the town, it went over a steep hill. I had sat many times on a bench by a stand that sold cheese, and had looked at that hill. I would see people who were coming into town with their donkeys and their loads, but I would see their heads first; as they kept approaching I would see more of their bodies, until the moment they were on the very top of the hill, when I would see their entire bodies. It seemed to me always that they were emerging from the earth, either slowly or very fast, depending on their speed.

In my dream, don Juan was waiting for me by the cheese stand. I approached him.

"You made it from your inner silence," he said, patting me on the back. "You did reach your breaking point. For a moment, I had begun to lose hope. But I stuck around, knowing that you would make it."

In that dream, we went for a stroll. I was happier than I had ever been. The dream was so vivid, so terrifyingly real, that it left me no doubts that I had resolved the problem, even if my resolving it was only a dream-fantasy.

Don Juan laughed, shaking his head. He had definitely read my thoughts. "You are not in a mere dream," he said, "but who am I to tell you that? You will know it yourself someday- that there are no dreams from inner silence- because you will choose to know it."

The Active Side Of Infinity ©1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 2 - Chapter 11. The Measurements of Cognition.

'The end of an era' was, for don Juan, an accurate description of a process that shamans go through in dismantling the structure of the world they know in order to replace it with another way of understanding the world around them. Don Juan Matus, as a teacher, endeavored from the very instant we met to introduce me to the cognitive world of the shamans of ancient Mexico.

The term 'cognition' was, for me at that time, a bone of tremendous contention. I understood it as the process by which we recognize the world around us. Certain things fall within the realm of that process and are easily recognized by us all. Other things do not, and remain, therefore, as oddities, things for which we nave no adequate comprehension.

Don Juan maintained, from the start of our association, that the world of the sorcerers of ancient Mexico was different from ours; not in a shallow way, but different in the way in which the process of cognition was arranged.

He maintained that in our world, our cognition requires the interpretation of sensory data.

He said that the universe is composed of an infinite number of energy fields that exist in the universe at large as luminous filaments. Those luminous filaments act on man as an organism. The response of the organism is to turn those energy fields into sensory data. Sensory data is then interpreted, and that interpretation becomes our cognitive system.

My understanding of cognition forced me to believe that all humans respond to pressure from the world at large using a universal process; similar to language being a universal process.

I reasoned that, just as there is a different syntax for every language, naturally there must simply be a slightly different arrangement for every system of cognitive interpretation in the world.

What I desperately wanted don Juan to say was that their different cognitive system was the equivalent of having a different language but that it was a language nonetheless.

Don Juan's assertion that the shamans of ancient Mexico had a different cognitive system, however, was for me equivalent to saying that they had a different way of communicating that had nothing to do with language.

'The end of an era' meant to don Juan that the units of a foreign cognition were beginning to take hold. The units of my normal cognition, no matter how pleasant and rewarding I felt they had been for me, were beginning to fade. A grave moment in the life of a thinking man!

Perhaps my most cherished unit was my academic life. Unenlightened as I was, anything that threatened my academia I felt as a threat to the very core of my being; especially if the attack was veiled or unnoticed.

And so it happened with a professor in whom I had put all my trust, Professor Lorca.

I had enrolled in Professor Lorca's course on cognition because he was recommended to me as one of the most brilliant academics in existence.

Professor Lorca was rather handsome, with blond hair neatly combed to the side. His forehead was smooth, wrinkle-free, giving the appearance of someone who had never worried in his life. His clothes were extremely well tailored. He did not wear a tie; a feature that gave him a boyish look. He would put on a tie only to face important people.

On my memorable first class with Professor Lorca, I was bewildered and nervous at seeing how he paced back and forth for minutes that stretched themselves into an eternity for me. Professor Lorca kept on moving his thin, clenched lips up and down, adding immensities to the tension he was generating in that closed-window, stuffy room. Suddenly, he stopped walking. He stood in the center of the room, a few feet from where I was sitting, and, banging a carefully rolled newspaper on the podium, he began to talk.

"It will never be known..." he began.

Everyone in the room at once started anxiously taking notes.

"It will never be known," he repeated, "what a toad is feeling while he sits at the bottom of a pond and interprets the toad world around him." His voice carried a tremendous force and finality. "So, what do you think this thing is?" He waved the newspaper over his head.

He went on to read to the class an article in the newspaper in which the work of a biologist was reported. The scientist was quoted as describing what frogs felt when insects swam above their heads.

"This article shows the carelessness of the reporter, who has obviously misquoted the scientist," Professor Lorca asserted with the authority of a full professor.

"A scientist, no matter how shoddy his work might be, would never allow himself to anthropomorphize the results of his research, unless, of course, he is a nincompoop."

With this as an introduction, he delivered a most brilliant lecture on the insular quality of our cognitive system; or the cognitive system of any organism, for that matter.

He brought to me, in his initial lecture, a barrage of new ideas and made them extremely simple, ready for use.

The most novel idea to me was that every individual of every species on this earth interprets the world around it, using data reported by its specialized senses. He asserted that human beings cannot even imagine what it must be like, for example, to be in a world ruled by echolocation, as in the world of bats, where any inferred point of reference could not even be conceived of by the human mind.

He made it quite clear that, from that point of view, no two cognitive systems could be alike among species.

As I left the auditorium at the end of the hour and a half lecture, I felt that I had been bowled over by the brilliance of Professor Lorca's mind. From then on, I was his confirmed admirer. I found his lectures more than stimulating and thought provoking. His were the only lectures I had ever looked forward to attending. All his eccentricities meant nothing to me in comparison with his excellence as a teacher and as an innovative thinker in the realm of psychology.

When I first attended the class of Professor Lorca, I had been working with don Juan Matus for almost two years. It was a well established pattern of behavior with me, accustomed as I was to routines, to tell don Juan everything that happened to me in my everyday world.

On the first opportunity I had, I related to him what was taking place with Professor Lorca. I praised Professor Lorca to the skies and told don Juan unabashedly that Professor Lorca was my role model. Don Juan seemed very impressed with my display of genuine admiration, yet he gave me a strange warning.

"Do not admire people from afar," he said. "That is the surest way to create mythological beings. Get close to your professor, talk to him, see what he is like as a man. Test him. If your professor's behavior is the result of his conviction that he is a being who is going to die, then everything he does, no matter how strange, must be premeditated and final. If what he says turns out to be just words, he is not worth a hoot."

I was insulted no end by what I considered to be don Juan's callousness. I thought he was a little bit jealous of my feelings for Professor Lorca. Once that thought was formulated in my mind I felt relieved. I understood everything.

"Tell me, don Juan," I said to end the conversation on a different note, "what is a being that is going to die, really? I have heard you talk about it so many times, but you have not actually defined it for me."

"Human beings are beings that are going to die," he said.

"Sorcerers firmly maintain that the only way to have a grip on our world, and on what we do in it, is by fully accepting that we are beings on the way to dying. Without this basic acceptance, our lives, our doings, and the world in which we live are unmanageable affairs."

"But is the mere acceptance of this so far-reaching?" I asked in a tone of quasi-protest.

"You bet your life!" don Juan said, smiling. "However, it is not the mere acceptance that does the trick. We have to embody that acceptance and live it all the way through. Sorcerers throughout the ages have said that the view of our death is the most sobering view that exists.

What is wrong with us human beings, and has been wrong since time immemorial, is that without ever stating it in so many words, we believe that we have entered the realm of immortality. We behave as if we were never going to die- an infantile arrogance. But even more injurious than this sense of immortality is what comes with it: the sense that we can engulf this inconceivable universe with our minds."

A most deadly juxtaposition of ideas had me mercilessly in its grip between don Juan's wisdom and Professor Lorca's knowledge. Both were difficult, obscure, all-encompassing, and most appealing. There was nothing for me to do except follow the course of events and go with them wherever they might take me.

I followed to the letter don Juan's suggestion about approaching Professor Lorca. I tried for the whole semester to get close to him; to talk to him. I went religiously to his office during his office hours, but he never seemed to have any time for me. But even though I could not speak to him, I admired him unbiasedly. I even accepted that he would never talk to me. It did not matter to me. What mattered were the ideas that I gathered from his magnificent classes.

I reported to don Juan all my intellectual findings. I had done extensive reading on cognition. Don Juan Matus urged me, more than ever, to establish direct contact with the source of my intellectual revolution.

"It is imperative that you speak to him," he said with a note of urgency in his voice. "Sorcerers do not admire people in a vacuum. They talk to them. They get to know them. They establish points of reference. They compare.

"What you are doing is a little bit infantile. You are admiring from a distance. It is very much like what happens to a man who is afraid of women. Finally, his gonads overrule his fear and compel him to worship the first woman who says 'hello' to him."

I tried doubly hard to approach Professor Lorca, but he was like an impenetrable fortress. When I talked to don Juan about my difficulties, he explained that sorcerers viewed any kind of activity with people, no matter how minute or unimportant, as a battlefield. In that battlefield, sorcerers performed their best magic; their best effort.

He assured me that the trick to being at ease in such situations, a thing that had never been my forte, was to face our opponents openly.

He expressed his abhorrence of timid souls who shy away from interaction to the point where even though they interact, they merely infer or deduce, in terms of their own psychological states, what is going on without actually perceiving what is really going on. They interact without ever being part of the interaction.

"Always look at the man who is involved in a tug of war with you," he continued. "Do not just pull the rope. Look up and see his eyes. You will know then that he is a man, just like you. No matter what he is saying, no matter what he is doing, he is shaking in his boots, just like you. A look like that renders the opponent helpless, if only for an instant. Deliver your blow then."

One day, luck was with me: I cornered Professor Lorca in the hall outside his office.

"Professor Lorca," I said, "do you have a free moment so I could talk to you?"

"Who in the hell are you?" he said with the most natural air, as if I were his best friend and he were merely asking me how I felt that day.

Professor Lorca was as rude as anyone could be, but his words did not have the effect of rudeness on me. He grinned at me with tight lips, as if encouraging me to leave or to say something meaningful.

"I am an anthropology student, Professor Lorca," I said. "I am involved in a field situation where I have the opportunity to learn about the cognitive system of sorcerers."

Professor Lorca looked at me with suspicion and annoyance. His eyes seemed to be two blue points filled with spite. He combed his hair backward with his hand, as if it had fallen on his face.

"I work with a real sorcerer in Mexico," I continued, trying to encourage a response. "He is a real sorcerer, mind you. It has taken me over a year just to warm him up so he would consent to talk to me."

Professor Lorca's face relaxed. He opened his mouth and, waving a most delicate hand in front of my eyes, as if he were twirling pizza dough with it, he spoke to me. I could not help noticing his enameled gold cuff links, which matched his greenish blazer to perfection.

"And what do you want from me?" he said.

"I want you to hear me out for a moment," I said, "and see if whatever I am doing may interest you."

He made a gesture of reluctance and resignation with his shoulders, opened the door of his office, and invited me to come in. I knew that I had no time at all to waste and I gave him a very direct description of my field situation. I told him that I was being taught procedures that had nothing to do with what I had found in the anthropological literature about shamanism.

He moved his lips for a moment without saying a word. When he spoke, he pointed out that the flaw of anthropologists in general had been that they never allow themselves sufficient time to become fully cognizant of all the nuances of the particular cognitive system used by the people they are studying.

He defined 'cognition' as a system of interpretation, which through usage makes it possible for individuals to utilize, with the utmost expertise, all the nuances of meaning that make up the particular social milieu under consideration.

Professor Lorca's words illuminated the total scope of my field-work. Without gaining command of all the nuances of the cognitive system of the shamans of ancient Mexico, it would have been thoroughly superfluous for me to formulate any idea about that world. If Professor Lorca had not said another word to me, what he had just voiced would have been more than sufficient. What followed was a marvelous discourse on cognition.

"Your problem," Professor Lorca said, "is that the cognitive system of our everyday world with which we are all familiar, virtually from the day we are born, is not the same as the cognitive system of the sorcerers' world."

This statement created a state of euphoria in me. I thanked Professor Lorca profusely, and assured him that there was only one course of action in my case: to follow his ideas through hell or high water.

"What I have told you, of course, is general knowledge," he said as he ushered me out of his office. "Anyone who reads is aware of what I have been telling you."

We parted almost friends. My account to don Juan of my success in approaching Professor Lorca was met with a strange reaction. Don Juan seemed, on the one hand, to be elated, and on the other, concerned.

"I have the feeling that your professor is not quite what he claims to be," he said. "That is, of course, from a sorcerer's point of view. Perhaps it would be wise to quit now, before all this becomes too involved and consuming. One of the high arts of sorcerers is to know when to stop. It appears to me that you have gotten from your professor all you can get from him."

I immediately reacted with a barrage of defenses on behalf of Professor Lorca. Don Juan calmed me down. He said that it was not his intention to criticize or judge anybody, but that to his knowledge, very few people knew when to quit, and even fewer knew how to actually utilize their knowledge.

In spite of don Juan's warnings, I did not quit. Instead, I became Professor Lorca's faithful student, follower, and admirer. He seemed to take a genuine interest in my work, although he felt frustrated no end with my reluctance and inability to formulate clear-cut concepts about the cognitive system of the sorcerers' world.

One day, Professor Lorca formulated for me the concept of the scientist-visitor to another cognitive world. He conceded that he was willing to be open-minded, and as a social scientist toy with the possibility of a different cognitive system.

He envisioned an actual research in which protocols would be gathered and analyzed. Problems of cognition would be devised and given to the shamans I knew to measure, for instance, their capacity to focus their cognition on two diverse aspects of behavior. He thought that the test would begin with a simple paradigm in which they would try to comprehend and retain written text that they read while they played poker. The test would escalate, to measure, for instance, their capacity to focus their cognition on complex things that were being said to them while they slept, and so on. Professor Lorca wanted a linguistic analysis to be performed on the shamans' utterances. He wanted an actual measurement of their responses in terms of their speed and accuracy, and other variables that would become prevalent as the project progressed.

Don Juan veritably laughed his head off when I told him about Professor Lorca's proposed measurements of the cognition of shamans.

"Now, I truly like your professor," he said. "But you can not be serious about this idea of measuring our cognition. What could your professor get out of measuring our responses? He will get the conviction that we are a bunch of morons, because that is what we are. We cannot possibly be more intelligent, faster than the average man.

"It is not his fault, though, to believe he can make measurements of cognition across worlds. The fault is yours. You have failed to express to your professor that when sorcerers talk about the cognitive world of the shamans of ancient Mexico they are talking about things for which we have no equivalent in the world of everyday life.

"For instance, perceiving energy directly as it flows in the universe is a unit of cognition that shamans live by. They see how energy flows, and they follow its flow.

"If its flow is obstructed, they move away to do something entirely different. Shamans see lines in the universe. Their art, or their job, is to choose the line that will take them perception-wise to regions that have no name. You can say that shamans react immediately to the lines of the universe. They see human beings as luminous balls, and they search in them for their flow of energy. Naturally, they react instantly to this sight. It is part of their cognition."

I told don Juan that I could not possibly talk about all this to Professor Lorca because I had not done any of the things that he was describing. My cognition had remained the same.

"Ah!" he exclaimed. "It is simply that you have not had the time yet to embody the units of cognition of the shamans' world."

I left don Juan's house more confused than ever. There was a voice inside me that virtually demanded that I end all endeavors with Professor Lorca.

I understood how right don Juan was when he said to me once that the practicalities that scientists were interested in were conducive to building more and more complex machines.

They were not the practicalities that changed an individual's life course from within. They were not geared to reaching the vastness of the universe as a personal, experiential affair.

The stupendous machines in existence, or those in the making, were cultural affairs, the attainment of which had to be enjoyed vicariously, even by the creators of those machines themselves. The only reward for them was monetary.

In pointing out all of that to me, don Juan had succeeded in placing me in a more inquisitive frame of mind. I really began to question the ideas of Professor Lorca, something I had never done before. Meanwhile, Professor Lorca kept spouting astounding truths about cognition. Each declaration was more severe than the preceding one and, therefore, more incisive.

At the end of my second semester with Professor Lorca, I had reached an impasse. Don Juan's and Professor Lorca's ideas were on parallel tracks, and there was no way on earth for me to bridge the two lines of thought.

I understood Professor Lorca's drive to qualify and quantify the study of cognition. Cybernetics was just around the corner at that time, and that practical aspect of the studies of cognition was a reality.

But don Juan's world was also a reality, though it was one which could not be measured with the standard tools of cognition. I had been privileged to witness it, in don Juan's actions, but I had not experienced it myself. I felt that that was the drawback that made bridging those two worlds impossible.

I told all this to don Juan on one of my visits to him. He said that what I considered to be my drawback, and therefore the factor that made bridging these two worlds impossible, was not accurate. In his opinion, the flaw was something more encompassing than one man's individual circumstances.

"Perhaps you can recall what I said to you about one of our biggest flaws as average human beings," he said.

I could not recall anything in particular. He had pointed out so many flaws that plagued us as average human beings that my mind reeled.

"You want something specific," I said, "and I can not think of it."

"The big flaw I am talking about," he said, "is something you ought to bear in mind every second of your existence. For me, it is the issue of issues, which I will repeat to you over and over until it comes out of your ears."

After a long moment, I gave up any further attempt to remember.

"We are beings on our way to dying," he said. "We are not immortal, but we behave as if we were. This is the flaw that brings us down as individuals and will bring us down as a species someday."

Don Juan stated that the sorcerers' advantage over their average fellow men is that sorcerers know that they are beings on their way to dying and they do not let themselves deviate from that knowledge. He emphasized that an enormous effort must be employed in order to elicit and maintain this knowledge as a total certainty.

"Why is it so hard for us to admit something that is so truthful?" I asked, bewildered by the magnitude of our internal contradiction.

"It is really not man's fault," he said in a conciliatory tone. "Someday, I will tell you more about the forces that drive a man to act like an ass."

There was not anything else to say. The silence that followed was ominous. I did not even want to know what the forces were that don Juan was referring to.

"It is no great feat for me to assess your professor at a distance," don Juan went on. "He is an immortal scientist. He is never going to die. And when it comes to any concerns about dying, I am sure that he has taken care of them already. He has a plot to be buried in, and a hefty life insurance policy that will take care of his family. Having fulfilled those two mandates, he does not think about death anymore. He thinks only about his work.

"Professor Lorca makes sense when he talks," don Juan continued, "because he is prepared to use words accurately. But he is not prepared to take himself seriously as a man who is going to die. Being immortal, he would not know how to do that.

"It makes no difference what complex machines scientists can build. The machines can in no way help anyone face the unavoidable appointment: the appointment with infinity.

"The nagual Julian used to tell me," he went on, "about the conquering generals of ancient Rome. When they would return home victorious, gigantic parades were staged to honor them.

"Displaying the treasures that they had won, and the defeated people that they had turned into slaves, the conquerors paraded; riding in their war chariots. Riding with them was always a slave whose job was to whisper in their ear that all fame and glory is but transitory.

"If we are victorious in any way," don Juan went on, "we do not have anyone to whisper in our ear that our victories are fleeting.

"Sorcerers, however, do have the upper hand. As beings on their way to dying, they have someone whispering in their ear that everything is ephemeral. The whisperer is death; the infallible adviser; the only one who will not ever tell you a lie."

The Active Side Of Infinity ©1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 2 - Chapter 12. Saying Thank You.

"Warrior travelers do not leave any debts unpaid," don Juan said.

"What are you talking about, don Juan?" I asked.

"It is time that you square certain indebtedness you have incurred in the course of your life," he said. "Not that you will ever pay in full, mind you, but you must make a gesture. You must make a token payment in order to atone; in order to appease infinity.

"You told me about your two friends who meant so much to you, Patricia Turner and Sandra Flanagan. It is time for you to go and find them, and to make to each of them one gift in which you spend everything you have. You have to make two gifts that will leave you penniless. That is the gesture."

"I do not know where they are, don Juan," I said, almost in a mood of protest.

"To find them is your challenge. In your search for them, you will not leave any stone unturned.

"What you intend to do is something very simple, and yet nearly impossible. You want to cross over the threshold of personal indebtedness and in one sweep be free in order to proceed. If you cannot cross that threshold, there will not be any point in trying to continue with me."

"But where did you get the idea of this task for me?" I asked. "Did you invent it yourself because you think it is appropriate?"

"I do not invent anything," he said matter-of-factly. "I got this task from infinity itself. It is not easy for me to say all this to you. If you think that I am enjoying myself pink with your tribulations, you are wrong.

"The success of your mission means more to me than it does to you. If you fail, you have very little to lose. What? Your visits to me. Big deal. But I would lose you, and that means to me losing either the continuity of my lineage or the possibility of your closing it with a golden key."

Don Juan stopped talking. He always knew when my mind became feverish with thoughts.

"I have told you over and over that warrior travelers are pragmatists," he went on. "They are not involved in sentimentalism, or nostalgia, or melancholy. For warrior travelers, there is only struggle, and it is a struggle with no end.

"If you think that you have come here to find peace, or that this is a lull in your life, you are wrong. This task of paying your debts is not guided by any feelings that you know about. It is guided by the purest sentiment; the sentiment of a warrior traveler who is about to dive into infinity. And just before he does, he turns around to say thank you to those who favored him.

"You must face this task with all the gravity it deserves," he continued. "It is your last stop before infinity swallows you. In fact, unless a warrior traveler is in a sublime state of being, infinity will not touch him with a ten foot pole. So, do not spare yourself. Do not spare any effort. Push it mercilessly, but elegantly, all the way through."

I had met the two people don Juan had referred to as 'my two friends who meant so much to me' while going to junior college. I used to live in the garage apartment of the house belonging to Patricia Turner's parents.

In exchange for room and board, I took care of vacuuming the pool, raking the leaves, putting the trash out, and making breakfast for Patricia and myself. I was also the handyman in the house as well as the family chauffeur. I drove Mrs. Turner to do her shopping, and I bought liquor for Mr. Turner, which I had to sneak into the house and then into his studio.

He was an insurance executive who was a solitary drinker. He had promised his family that he was not going to touch the bottle ever again after some serious family altercations due to his excessive drinking.

He confessed to me that he had tapered off enormously, but that he needed a swig from time to time. His studio was, of course, off limits to everybody except me. I was supposed to go in to clean it, but what I really did was hide his bottles inside a beam that appeared to support an arch in the ceiling in the studio, but that was actually hollow. I had to sneak the bottles in, and sneak the empties out and dump them at the market.

Patricia was a drama and music major in college and a fabulous singer. Her goal was to sing in musicals on Broadway. It goes without saying that I fell head over heels in love with Patricia Turner. She was very slim and athletic, a brunette with angular features, and was about a head taller than I am; my ultimate requisite for going bananas over any woman.

I seemed to fulfill a deep need in her; the need to nurture someone, especially after she realized that her daddy trusted me implicitly. She became my little mommy. I could not even open my mouth without her consent. She watched me like a hawk. She even wrote term papers for me, read textbooks, and gave me synopses of them.

And I liked it, but not because I wanted to be nurtured. I do not think that that need was ever part of my cognition. I relished the fact that she did it. I relished her company.

She used to take me to the movies daily. She had passes to all the big movie theaters in Los Angeles that had been given to her father courtesy of some movie moguls. Mr. Turner never used them himself. He felt that it was beneath his dignity to flash movie passes.

The movie clerks always made the recipients of such passes sign a receipt. Patricia had no qualms about signing anything, but sometimes the nasty clerks wanted Mr. Turner to sign. When I went to do that, they were not satisfied with only the signature of Mr. Turner. They demanded a driver's license.

One of them, a sassy young guy, made a remark that cracked him up, and me, too, but which sent Patricia into a fit of fury.

"I think you are Mr. Turd," he said with the nastiest smile you could imagine, "not Mr. Turner."

I could have sloughed off the remark, but then he subjected us to the profound humiliation of refusing us entrance to see Hercules starring Steve Reeves.

Usually, we went everywhere with Patricia's best friend, Sandra Flanagan, who lived next door with her parents. Sandra was quite the opposite of Patricia. She was just as tall, but her face was round, with rosy cheeks and a sensuous mouth. She was healthier than a raccoon.

She had no interest in singing. She was only interested in the sensual pleasures of the body. She could eat and drink anything and digest it; and the feature that finished me off about her was that after she had polished off her own plate, she managed to do the same with mine; a thing that, being a picky eater, I had never been able to do in all my life.

She was also extremely athletic, but in a rough, wholesome way. She could punch like a man and kick like a mule.

As a courtesy to Patricia, I used to do the same chores for Sandra's parents that I did for hers: vacuuming their pool, raking the leaves from their lawn, taking the trash out on trash day, and incinerating papers and flammable trash. That was the time in Los Angeles when the air pollution was increased by the use of backyard incinerators.

Perhaps it was because of the proximity, or the ease of those young women that I ended up madly in love with both of them.

I went to seek advice from a very strange young man who was my friend; Nicholas van Hooten. He had two girlfriends, and he lived with both of them; apparently in a state of bliss. He began by giving me, he said, the simplest advice: how to behave in a movie theater if you had two girlfriends.

He said that whenever he went to a movie with his two girlfriends, all his attention was always centered on whoever sat to his left. After a while, the two girls would go to the bathroom and, on their return, he would have them change the seating arrangement. Anna would sit where Betty had been sitting, and nobody around them was the wiser.

He assured me that this was the first step in a long process of breaking the girls into a matter-of-fact acceptance of the trio situation; Nicholas was rather corny, and he used the trite French expression 'menage a trois'.

I followed his advice and went to a theater that showed silent movies on Fairfax Avenue in Los Angeles with Patricia and Sandy. I sat Patricia to my left and poured all my attention on her. They went to the bathroom, and when they returned I told them to switch places. I started then to do what Nicholas van Hooten had advised, but Patricia would not put up with any nonsense like that. She stood up and left the theater, offended, humiliated, and raving mad. I wanted to run after her and apologize, but Sandra stopped me.

"Let her go," she said with a poisonous smile. "She is a big girl. She has enough money to get a taxi and go home."

I fell for it and remained in the theater kissing Sandra, rather nervously, and filled with guilt. I was in the middle of a passionate kiss when I felt someone pulling me backward by the hair. It was Patricia. The row of seats was loose and tilted backward. Athletic Patricia jumped out of the way before the seats where we were sitting crashed on the row of seats behind. I heard the frightened screams of two movie watchers who were sitting at the end of the row, by the aisle.

Nicholas van Hooten's tip was miserable advice. Patricia, Sandra, and I returned home in absolute silence. We patched up our differences, in the midst of very weird promises, tears- the works.

The outcome of our three sided relationship was that, in the end, we nearly destroyed ourselves. We were not prepared for such an endeavor. We did not know how to resolve the problems of affection, morality, duty, and social mores.

I could not leave one of them for the other, and they could not leave me. One day, at the climax of a tremendous upheaval, and out of sheer desperation, all three of us fled in different directions, never to see one another again.

I felt devastated. Nothing of what I did could erase their impact on my life. I left Los Angeles and got busy with endless things in an effort to placate my longing.

Without exaggerating in the least, I can sincerely say that I fell into the depths of hell- I believed- never to emerge again.

If it had not been for the influence that don Juan had on my life and my person, I would never have survived my private demons. I told don Juan that I knew that whatever I had done was wrong; that I had no business engaging such wonderful people in such sordid, stupid shenanigans that I had no preparation to face.

"What was wrong," don Juan said, "was that the three of you were lost egomaniacs. Your self-importance nearly destroyed you. If you do not have self-importance, you have only feelings.

"Humor me," he went on, "and do the following simple and direct exercise that could mean the world to you: Remove from your memory of those two girls any statements that you make to yourself such as 'She said this or that to me, and she yelled, and the other one yelled, at me!' and remain at the level of your feelings. If you had not been so self-important, what would you have had as the irreducible residue?"

"My unbiased love for them," I said, nearly choking.

"And is it less today than it was then?" don Juan asked.

"No, it is not, don Juan," I said in truthfulness, and I felt the same pang of anguish that had chased me for years.

"This time, embrace them from your silence," he said. "Do not be a meager asshole. Embrace them totally for the last time. But intend that this is the last time on Earth. Intend it from your darkness. If you are worth your salt," he went on, "when you make your gift to them, you will sum up your entire life twice. Acts of this nature make warriors airborne, almost vaporous."

Following don Juan's commands, I took the task to heart. I realized that if I did not emerge victorious, don Juan was not the only one who was going to lose out. I would also lose something, and whatever I was going to lose was as important to me as what don Juan had described as being important to him. I was going to lose my chance to face infinity and be conscious of it.

The memory of Patricia Turner and Sandra Flanagan put me in a terrible frame of mind. The devastating sense of irreparable loss that had chased me all these years was as vivid as ever. When don Juan exacerbated that feeling, I knew for a fact that there are certain things that can remain with us, in don Juan's terms, for life and perhaps beyond. I had to find Patricia Turner and Sandra Flanagan.

Don Juan's final recommendation was that if I did find them, I could not stay with them. I could have time only to atone; to envelop each of them with all the affection I felt; without the angry voices of recrimination, self-pity, or egomania.

I embarked on the colossal task of finding out what had become of them, where they were. I began by asking questions of the people who knew their parents. Their parents had moved out of Los Angeles, and nobody could give me a lead as to where to find them. There was no one to talk to. I thought of putting a personal ad in the paper. But then I thought that perhaps they had moved out of California. I finally had to hire a private investigator. Through his connections with official offices of records and whatnot, he located them within a couple of weeks.

They lived in New York, a short distance from one other, and their friendship was as close as it had ever been. I went to New York and tackled Patricia Turner first. She had not made it to stardom on Broadway the way she had wanted to, but she was part of a production. I did not want to know whether it was in the capacity of a performer or as management.

I visited her in her office. She did not tell me what she did. She was shocked to see me. What we did was just sit together and hold hands and weep. I did not tell her what I did either. I said that I had come to see her because I wanted to give her a gift that would express my gratitude, and that I was embarking on a journey from which I did not intend to come back.

"Why such ominous words?" she asked, apparently genuinely alarmed. "What are you planning to do? Are you ill? You do not look ill."

"It was a metaphorical statement," I assured her. "I am going back to South America, and I intend to seek my fortune there. The competition is ferocious, and the circumstances are very harsh, that is all. If I want to succeed, I will have to give all I have to it."

She seemed relieved, and hugged me. She looked the same, except much bigger, much more powerful, more mature, very elegant. I kissed her hands and the most overwhelming affection enveloped me. Don Juan was right. Deprived of recriminations, all I had were feelings.

"I want to make you a gift, Patricia Turner," I said. "Ask me anything you want, and if it is within my means, I will get it for you."

"Did you strike it rich?" she said and laughed. "What is great about you is that you never had anything, and you never will. Sandra and I talk about you nearly every day. We imagine you parking cars, living off women, et cetera, et cetera. I am sorry, we can not help ourselves, but we still love you."

I insisted that she tell me what she wanted. She began to weep and laugh at the same time.

"Are you going to buy me a mink coat?" she asked me between sobs.

I ruffled her hair and said that I would.

"If you do not like it, you take it back to the store and get the money back," I said.

She laughed and punched me the way she used to. She had to go back to work, and we parted after I promised her that I would come back again to see her, but that if I did not, I wanted her to understand that the force of my life was pulling me every which way, yet I would keep the memory of her in me for the rest of my life and perhaps beyond.

I did return, but only to see from a distance how they delivered the mink coat to her. I heard her screams of delight.

That part of my task was finished. I left, but I was not vaporous, the way don Juan had said I was going to be. I had opened up an old wound and it had started to bleed.

It was not quite raining outside: It was a fine mist that seemed to penetrate all the way to the marrow of my bones.

Next, I went to see Sandra Flanagan. She lived in one of the suburbs of New York that is reached by train. I knocked on her door. Sandra opened it and looked at me as if I were a ghost. All the color drained out of her face. She was more beautiful than ever, perhaps because she had filled out and looked as big as a house.

"Why, you, you, you!" she stammered, not quite capable of articulating my name.

She sobbed, and she seemed indignant and reproachful for a moment. I did not give her the chance to continue. My silence was total. In the end, it affected her. She let me in and we sat down in her living room.

"What are you doing here?" she said, quite a bit calmer. "You can not stay! I am a married woman! I have three children! And I am very happy in my marriage."

Shooting her words out rapidly, like a machine gun, she told me that her husband was very dependable, not too imaginative but a good man, that he was not sensual, that she had to be very careful because he tired very easily when they made love, that he got sick easily and sometimes could not go to work, but that he had managed to produce three beautiful children, and that after her third child, her husband, whose name seemed to be Herbert, had just simply quit. He did not have it anymore, but it did not matter to her.

I tried to calm her down by assuring her over and over that I had come to visit her only for a moment, that it was not my intention to alter her life or to bother her in any way. I described to her how hard it had been to find her.

"I have come here to say good-bye to you," I said, "and to tell you that you are the love of my life. I want to make you a token gift, a symbol of my gratitude and my undying affection."

She seemed to be deeply affected. She smiled openly the way she used to. The separation between her teeth made her look childlike. I commented to her that she was more beautiful than ever, which was the truth to me.

She laughed and said that she was going on a strict diet, and if she had known that I was coming to see her, she would have started her diet a long time ago. But she would start now, and I would find her the next time as lean as she had always been.

She reiterated the horror of our life together and how profoundly affected she had been. She had even thought, in spite of being a devout Catholic, of committing suicide, but she had found in her children the solace that she needed. Whatever we had done were quirks of youth that would never be vacuumed away, but had to be swept under the rug.

When I asked if there was some gift that I could make to her as a token of my gratitude and affection for her, she laughed and said exactly what Patricia Turner had said: that I did not have a pot to piss in, nor would I ever have one, because that is the way I was made. I insisted that she name something.

"Can you buy me a station wagon where all my children could fit?" she said, laughing. "I want a Pontiac, or an Oldsmobile, with all the trimmings."

She said that knowing in her heart of hearts that I could not possibly make her such a gift. But I did.

I drove the dealer's car, following him as he delivered the station wagon to her the next day, and from the parked car where I was hiding, I heard her surprise.

But congruous with her sensual being, her surprise was not an expression of delight. It was a bodily reaction, a sob of anguish, of bewilderment. She cried, but I knew that she was not crying because she had received the gift. She was expressing a longing that had echoes in me. I crumpled in the seat of the car.

On my train ride to New York, and my flight to Los Angeles, the feeling that persisted was that my life was running out: It was running out of me like clutched sand. I did not feel in any way liberated or changed by saying thank you and good-bye.

Quite the contrary, I felt the burden of that weird affection more deeply than ever. I felt like weeping. What ran through my mind over and over were the titles that my friend Rodrigo Cummings had invented for books that were never to be written. He specialized in writing titles.

His favorite was "We will All Die in Hollywood". Another was "We will Never Change". And my favorite, the one that I bought for ten dollars, was "From the Life and Sins of Rodrigo Cummings." All those titles played in my mind. I was Rodrigo Cummings, and I was stuck in time and space, and I did love two women more than my life, and that would never change. And like the rest of my friends, I would die in Hollywood.

I told don Juan all of this in my report of what I considered to be my pseudo-success. He discarded it shamelessly. He said that what I felt was merely the result of indulging and self-pity, and that in order to say good-bye and thank you, and really mean it and sustain it, sorcerers had to remake themselves.

"Vanquish your self-pity right now," he demanded. "Vanquish the idea that you are hurt and what do you have as the irreducible residue?"

What I had as the irreducible residue was the feeling that I had made my ultimate gift to both of them. Not in the spirit of renewing anything, or harming anyone, including myself, but in the true spirit that don Juan had tried to point out to me- in the spirit of a warrior traveler whose only virtue, as he had said, is to keep alive the memory of whatever has affected him; whose only way to say thank you and good-bye was by this act of magic: of storing in his silence whatever he has loved.

The Active Side Of Infinity ©1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 3 - Chapter 13. The Usher.

I was in don Juan's house in Sonora, sound asleep in my bed, when he woke me up. I had stayed up practically all night, mulling over concepts that he had explained to me.

"You have rested enough," he said firmly, almost gruffly, as he shook me by the shoulders. "Do not indulge in being fatigued. Your fatigue is more than fatigue. Its a desire not to be bothered. Something in you resents being bothered. But it is most important that you exacerbate that part of you until it breaks down. Let us go for a hike."

Don Juan was right. There was some part of me that resented immensely being bothered. I wanted to sleep for days and not think about don Juan's sorcery concepts anymore. Thoroughly against my will, I got up and followed him. Don Juan had prepared a meal, which I devoured as if I had not eaten for days, and then we walked out of the house and headed east, toward the mountains. I had been so dazed that I had not noticed that it was early morning until I saw the sun, which was right above the eastern range of mountains. I wanted to comment to don Juan that I had slept all night without moving, but he hushed me. He said that we were going to go on an expedition to the mountains to search for specific plants.

"What are you going to do with the plants you are going to collect, don Juan?" I asked him as soon as we had started off.

"They are not for me," he said with a grin. "They are for a friend of mine, a botanist and pharmacist. He makes potions with them."

"Is he a Yaqui, don Juan? Does he live here in Sonora?" I asked.

"No, he is not a Yaqui, and he does not live here in Sonora. You will meet him someday."

"Is he a sorcerer, don Juan?"

"Yes, he is," he replied dryly.

I asked him then if I could take some of the plants to be identified at the Botanical Garden at UCLA.

"Surely, surely!" he said.

I had found out in the past that whenever he said "surely," he did not mean it. It was obvious that he had no intention whatsoever of giving me any specimens for identification. I became very curious about his sorcerer friend, and asked him to tell me more about him, perhaps describe him, telling me where he lived and how he got to meet him.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!" don Juan said, as if I were a horse. "Hold it, hold it! Who are you? Professor Lorca? Do you want to study his cognitive system?"

We went deep into the arid foothills. Don Juan walked steadily for hours. I thought that the task of the day was going to be just to walk. He finally stopped and sat down on the shaded side of the foothills.

"It is time that you start on one of the biggest projects of sorcery," don Juan said.

"What is this project of sorcery that you are talking about, don Juan?" I inquired.

"It is called the recapitulation," he said. "The old sorcerers used to call it recounting the events of your life, and for them, it started as a simple technique; a device to aid them in remembering what they were doing and saying to their disciples. For their disciples, the technique had the same value: It allowed them to remember what their teachers had said and done to them. It took terrible social upheavals, like being conquered and vanquished several times, before the old sorcerers realized that their technique had far-reaching effects."

"Are you referring, don Juan, to the Spanish conquest?" I asked.

"No," he said. "That was just the icing on the cake. There were other upheavals before that, more devastating. When the Spaniards got here, the old sorcerers did not exist any longer. The disciples of those who had survived other upheavals were very cagey by then. They knew how to take care of themselves. It is that new crop of sorcerers who renamed the old sorcerers' technique recapitulation.

"There is an enormous premium on time," he continued. "For sorcerers in general, time is of the essence. The challenge I am faced with is that in a very compact unit of time I must cram into you everything there is to know about sorcery as an abstract proposition, but in order to do that I have to build the necessary space in you."

"What space? What are you talking about, don Juan?"

"The premise of sorcerers is that in order to bring something in, there must be a space to put it in," he said. "If you are filled to the brim with the items of everyday life, there is no space for anything new. That space must be built. Do you see what I mean? The sorcerers of olden times believed that the recapitulation of your life made that space. It does, and much more, of course.

"The way sorcerers perform the recapitulation is very formal," he went on. "It consists of writing a list of all the people they have met, from the present to the very beginning of their lives. Once they have that list, they take the first person on it and recollect everything they can about that person. And I mean everything, every detail. It is better to recapitulate from the present to the past, because the memories of the present are fresh, and in this manner, the recollection ability is honed. What practitioners do is to recollect and breathe. They inhale slowly and deliberately, fanning the head from right to left, in a barely noticeable swing, and exhale in the same fashion."

He said that the inhalations and exhalations should be natural. If they were too rapid, one would enter into something that he called tiring breaths; breaths that required slower breathing afterward in order to calm down the muscles.

"And what do you want me to do, don Juan, with all this?" I asked.

"You begin making your list today," he said. "Divide it by years, by occupations, arrange it in any order you want to, but make it sequential, with the most recent person first, and end with Mommy and Daddy. And then, remember everything about them. No more ado than that. As you practice, you will realize what you are doing."

On my next visit to his house, I told don Juan that I had been meticulously going through the events of my life, and that it was very difficult for me to adhere to his strict format and follow my list of persons one by one. Ordinarily, my recapitulation took me every which way. I let the events decide the direction of my recollection.

What I did, which was volitional, was to adhere to a general unit of time. For instance, I had begun with the people in the anthropology department, but I let my recollection pull me to anywhere in time, from the present to the day I started attending school at UCLA.

I told don Juan that an odd thing I found out, which I had completely forgotten, was that I had no idea that UCLA existed until one night when my girlfriend's roommate from college came to Los Angeles and we picked her up at the airport. She was going to study musicology at UCLA.

Her plane arrived in the early evening, and she asked me if I could take her to the campus so she could take a look at the place where she was going to spend the next four years of her life. I knew where the campus was, for I had driven past its entrance on Sunset Boulevard endless times on my way to the beach. I had never been on the campus, though.

It was during the semester break. The few people that we found directed us to the music department. The campus was deserted, but what I witnessed subjectively was the most exquisite thing I have ever seen. It was a delight to my eyes. The buildings seemed to be alive with some energy of their own.

What was going to be a very cursory visit to the music department turned out to be a gigantic tour of the entire campus. I fell in love with UCLA. I mentioned to don Juan that the only thing that marred my ecstasy was my girlfriend's annoyance at my insistence on walking through the huge campus.

"What the hell could there be in here?" she yelled at me in protest. "It is as if you have never seen a university campus in your life! You have seen one, you have seen them all. I think you are just trying to impress my friend with your sensitivity!"

I was not, and I vehemently told them that I was genuinely impressed by the beauty of my surroundings. I sensed so much hope in those buildings, so much promise, and yet I could not express my subjective state.

"I have been in school nearly all my life," my girlfriend said through clenched teeth, "and I am sick and tired of it! Nobody is going to find shit in here! All you find is guff, and they do not even prepare you to meet your responsibilities in life."

When I mentioned that I would like to attend school here, she became even more furious.

"Get a job!" she screamed. "Go and meet life from eight to five, and cut the crap! That is what life is: a job from eight to five, forty hours a week! See what it does to you! Look at me. I am super educated now, and I am not fit for a job."

All I knew was that I had never seen a place so beautiful. I made a promise then that I would go to school at UCLA, no matter what, come hell or high water. My desire had everything to do with me, and yet it was not driven by the need for immediate gratification. It was more in the realm of awe.

I told don Juan that my girlfriend's annoyance had been so jarring to me that it forced me to look at her in a different light, and that to my recollection, that was the first time ever that a commentary had aroused such a deep reaction in me. I saw facets of character in my girlfriend that I had not seen before; facets that scared me stiff.

"I think I judged her terribly," I said to don Juan. "After our visit to the campus, we drifted apart. It was as if UCLA had come between us like a wedge. I know that it is stupid to think this way."

"It is not stupid," don Juan said. "It was a perfectly valid reaction. While you were walking on the campus, I am sure that you had a bout with intent. You intended being there, and anything that was opposed to it you had to let go.

"But do not overdo it," he went on. "The touch of warrior travelers is very light, although it is cultivated. The hand of a warrior traveler begins as a heavy, gripping, iron hand but becomes like the hand of a ghost, a hand made of gossamer. Warrior travelers leave no marks, no tracks. That is the challenge for warrior travelers."

Don Juan's comments made me sink into a deep, morose state of recriminations against myself, for I knew, from the little bit of my recounting, that I was extremely heavy-handed, obsessive, and domineering. I told don Juan about my ruminations.

"The power of the recapitulation," don Juan said, "is that it stirs up all the garbage of our lives and brings it to the surface."

Then don Juan delineated the intricacies of awareness and perception, which were the basis of the recapitulation. He began by saying that he was going to present an arrangement of concepts that I should not take as sorcerers' 'theories' under any conditions, because it was an arrangement formulated by the shamans of ancient Mexico as a result of seeing energy directly as it flows in the universe.

He warned me that he would present the units of this arrangement to me without any attempt at classifying them or ranking them by any predetermined standard.

"I am not interested in classifications," he went on. "You have been classifying everything all your life. Now you are going to be forced to stay away from classifications.

"The other day, when I asked you if you knew anything about clouds, you gave me the names of all the clouds and the percentage of moisture that one should expect from each one of them. You were a veritable weatherman. But when I asked you if you knew what you could do with the clouds personally, you had no idea what I was talking about.

"Classifications have a world of their own," he continued. "After you begin to classify anything, the classification becomes alive, and it rules you. But since classifications never started as energy giving affairs, they always remain like dead logs. They are not trees; they are merely logs."

He explained that the sorcerers of ancient Mexico saw that the universe at large is composed of energy fields in the form of luminous filaments. They saw zillions of them, wherever they turned to see. They also saw that those energy fields arrange themselves into currents of luminous fibers, streams that are constant, perennial forces in the universe, and that the current or stream of filaments that is related to the recapitulation was named by those sorcerers 'the dark sea of awareness', and also 'the Eagle'.

He stated that those sorcerers also found out that every creature in the universe is attached to the dark sea of awareness at a round point of luminosity that was apparent when those creatures were perceived as energy. On that point of luminosity, which the sorcerers of ancient Mexico called the assemblage point, don Juan said that perception was assembled by a mysterious aspect of the dark sea of awareness.

Don Juan asserted that on the assemblage point of human beings, zillions of energy fields from the universe at large, in the form of luminous filaments, converge and go through it. These energy fields are converted into sensory data, and the sensory data is then interpreted and perceived as the world we know.

Don Juan further explained that what turns the luminous fibers into sensory data is the dark sea of awareness. Sorcerers see this transformation and call it the glow of awareness; a sheen that extends like a halo around the assemblage point. He warned me then that he was going to make a statement which, in the understanding of sorcerers, was central to comprehending the scope of the recapitulation.

Putting an enormous emphasis on his words, he said that what we call the senses in organisms is nothing but degrees of awareness. He maintained that if we accept that the senses are the dark sea of awareness, we have to admit that the interpretation that the senses make of sensory data is also the dark sea of awareness.

He explained at length that to face the world around us in the terms that we do is the result of the interpretation system of mankind with which every human being is equipped. He also said that every organism in existence has to have an interpretation system that permits it to function in its surroundings.

"The sorcerers who came after the apocalyptic upheavals I told you about," he continued, "saw that at the moment of death, the dark sea of awareness sucked in, so to speak, through the assemblage point, the awareness of living creatures. They also saw that the dark sea of awareness had a moment's, let us say, hesitation when it was faced with sorcerers who had done a recounting of their lives. Unbeknownst to them, some had done it so thoroughly that the dark sea of awareness took their awareness in the form of their life experiences, but did not touch their life force.

Sorcerers had found out a gigantic truth about the forces of the universe: The dark sea of awareness wants only our life experiences, not our life force."

The premises of don Juan's elucidation were incomprehensible to me. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I was vaguely and yet deeply cognizant of how functional the premises of his explanation were.

"Sorcerers believe," don Juan went on, "that as we recapitulate our lives, all the debris, as I told you, comes to the surface. We realize our inconsistencies, our repetitions, but something in us puts up a tremendous resistance to recapitulating. Sorcerers say that the road is free only after a gigantic upheaval, after the appearance on our screen of the memory of an event that shakes our foundations with its terrifying clarity of detail. It is the event that drags us to the actual moment that we lived it. Sorcerers call that event the usher, because from then on every event we touch on is relived, not merely remembered.

"Walking is always something that precipitates memories," don Juan went on. "The sorcerers of ancient Mexico believed that everything we live we store as a sensation on the backs of the legs. They considered the backs of the legs to be the warehouse of man's personal history. So, let us go for a walk in the hills now." We walked until it was almost dark.

"I think I have made you walk long enough," don Juan said when we were back at his house, "to have you ready to begin this sorcerers' maneuver of finding an usher: an event in your life that you will remember with such clarity that it will serve as a spotlight to illuminate everything else in your recapitulation with the same, or comparable, clarity.

"Do what sorcerers call recapitulating pieces of a puzzle. Something will lead you to remember the event that will serve as your usher."

He left me alone, giving me one last warning. "Give it your best shot," he said. "Do your best."

I was extremely silent for a moment, perhaps due to the silence around me. I experienced, then, a vibration, a sort of jolt in my chest. I had difficulty breathing, but suddenly something opened up in my chest that allowed me to take a deep breath, and a total view of a forgotten event of my childhood burst into my memory, as if it had been held captive and was suddenly released.

I was at my grandfather's studio, where he had a billiard table, and I was playing billiards with him. I was almost nine years old then. My grandfather was quite a skillful player, and compulsively he had taught me every play he knew until I was good enough to have a serious match with him. We spent endless hours playing billiards. I became so proficient at it that one day I defeated him. From that day on, he was incapable of winning. Many a time I deliberately threw the game, just to be nice to him, but he knew it and would become furious with me. Once, he got so upset that he hit me on the top of the head with the cue.

To my grandfather's chagrin and delight, by the time I was nine years old, I could make carom after carom without stopping. He became so frustrated and impatient in a game with me once that he threw down his cue and told me to play by myself. My compulsive nature made it possible for me to compete with myself and work the same play on and on until I got it perfectly.

One day, a man notorious in town for his gambling connections, the owner of a billiards house, came to visit my grandfather. They were talking and playing billiards as I happened to enter the room. I instantly tried to retreat, but my grandfather grabbed me and pulled me in.

"This is my grandson," he said to the man.

"Very pleased to meet you," the man said. He looked at me sternly, and then extended his hand, which was the size of the head of a normal person.

I was horrified. His enormous burst of laughter told me that he was cognizant of my discomfort. He told me that his name was Falelo Quiroga, and I mumbled my name.

He was very tall, and extremely well dressed. He was wearing a double-breasted blue pinstriped suit with beautifully tapered trousers. He must have been in his early fifties then, but he was trim and fit except for a slight bulge in his midsection. He was not fat; he seemed to cultivate the look of a man who is well fed and is not in need of anything. Most of the people in my hometown were gaunt. They were people who labored hard to earn a living and had no time for niceties. Falelo Quiroga appeared to be the opposite. His whole demeanor was that of a man who had time only for niceties.

He was pleasant-looking. He had a bland, well-shaven face with kind blue eyes. He had the air and the confidence of a doctor. People in my town used to say that he was capable of putting anyone at ease, and that he should have been a priest, a lawyer, or a doctor instead of a gambler. They also used to say that he made more money gambling than all the doctors and lawyers in town put together made by working.

His hair was black, and carefully combed. It was obviously thinning considerably. He tried to hide his receding hairline by combing his hair over his forehead. He had a square jaw and an absolutely winning smile. He had big, white teeth, which were well cared for; the ultimate novelty in an area where tooth decay was monumental. Two other remarkable features of Falelo Quiroga, for me, were his enormous feet and his handmade, black patent-leather shoes. I was fascinated by the fact that his shoes did not squeak at all as he walked back and forth in the room. I was accustomed to hearing my grandfather's approach by the squeak of the soles of his shoes.

"My grandson plays billiards very well," my grandfather said nonchalantly to Falelo Quiroga. "Why do I not give him my cue and let him play with you while I watch?""

"This child plays billiards?" the big man asked my grandfather with a laugh.

"Oh, he does," my grandfather assured him. "Of course, not as well as you do, Falelo. Why do you not try him? And to make it interesting for you, so you will not be patronizing my grandson, let us bet a little money. What do you say if we bet this much?"

He put a thick wad of crumpled-up bills on the table and smiled at Falelo Quiroga, shaking his head from side to side as if daring the big man to take his bet.

"My oh my, that much, eh?" Falelo Quiroga said, looking at me questioningly. He opened his wallet then and pulled out some neatly folded bills. This, for me, was another surprising detail. My grandfather's habit was to carry his money in every one of his pockets, all crumpled up. When he needed to pay for something, he had to straighten out the bills in order to count them.

Falelo Quiroga did not say it, but I knew that he felt like a highway robber. He smiled at my grandfather and, obviously out of respect for him, he put his money on the table. My grandfather, acting as the arbiter, set the game at a certain number of caroms and flipped a coin to see who would start first. Falelo Quiroga won.

"You better give it all you have, without holding back," my grandfather urged him. "Do not have any qualms about demolishing this twerp and winning my money!"

Falelo Quiroga, following my grandfather's advice, played as hard as he was able, but at one point he missed one carom by a hair. I took the cue. I thought I was going to faint, but seeing my grandfather's glee- he was jumping up and down- calmed me, and besides, it irked me to see Falelo Quiroga about to split his sides laughing when he saw the way I held the cue. I could not lean over the table, as billiards is normally played, because of my height. But my grandfather, with painstaking patience and determination, had taught me an alternative way of playing. By extending my arm all the way back, I held the cue nearly above my shoulders, to the side.

"What does he do when he has to reach the middle of the table?" Falelo Quiroga asked, laughing.

"He hangs on the edge of the table," my grandfather said matter-of-factly. "It is permissible, you know."

My grandfather came to me and whispered through clenched teeth that if I tried to be polite and lose he was going to break all the cues on my head. I knew he did not mean it. This was just his way of expressing his confidence in me.

I won easily. My grandfather was delighted beyond description, but strangely enough, so was Falelo Quiroga. He laughed as he went around the pool table, slapping its edges. My grandfather praised me to the skies. He revealed to Quiroga my best score, and joked that I had excelled because he had found the way to lure me to practice: coffee with Danish pastries.

"You do not say, you do not say!" Quiroga kept repeating. He said good-bye; my grandfather picked up the bet money, and the incident was forgotten. My grandfather promised to take me to a restaurant and buy me the best meal in town, but he never did. He was very stingy. He was known to be a lavish spender only with women.

Two days later, two enormous men affiliated with Falelo Quiroga came to me at the time that I got out from school and was leaving.

"Falelo Quiroga wants to see you," one of them said in a guttural tone. "He wants you to go to his place and have some coffee and Danish pastries with him."

If he had not said coffee and Danish pastries, I probably would have run away from them. I remembered then that my grandfather had told Falelo Quiroga that I would sell my soul for coffee and Danish pastries. I gladly went with them. However, I could not walk as fast as they did, so one of them, the one whose name was Guillermo Falcon, picked me up and cradled me in his huge arms. He laughed through crooked teeth.

"You better enjoy the ride, kid," he said. His breath was terrible. "Have you ever been carried by anyone? Judging by the way you wriggle, never!" He giggled grotesquely.

Fortunately, Falelo Quiroga's place was not too far from the school. Mr. Falcon deposited me on a couch in an office. Falelo Quiroga was there, sitting behind a huge desk. He stood up and shook hands with me. He immediately had some coffee and delicious pastries brought to me, and the two of us sat there chatting amiably about my grandfather's chicken farm. He asked me if I would like to have more pastries, and I said that I would not mind if I did. He laughed, and he himself brought me a whole tray of unbelievably delicious pastries from the next room.

After I had veritably gorged myself, he politely asked me if I would consider coming to his billiards place in the wee hours of the night to play a couple of friendly games with some people of his choice. He casually mentioned that a considerable amount of money was going to be involved.

He openly expressed his trust in my skill, and added that he was going to pay me, for my time and my effort, a percentage of the winning money. He further stated that he knew the mentality of my family. They would have found it improper that he give me money, even though it was pay. So he promised to put the money in the bank in a special account for me, or more practical yet, he would cover any purchase that I made in any of the stores in town, or the food I consumed in any restaurant in town.

I did not believe a word of what he was saying. I knew that Falelo Quiroga was a crook, a racketeer. I liked, however, the idea of playing billiards with people I did not know, and I struck a bargain with him.

"Will you give me some coffee and Danish pastries like the ones you gave me today?" I said.

"Of course, my boy," he replied. "If you come to play for me, I will buy you the bakery! I will have the baker bake them just for you. Take my word."

I warned Falelo Quiroga that the only drawback was my incapacity to get out of my house. I had too many aunts who watched me like hawks, and besides, my bedroom was on the second floor.

"That is no problem," Falelo Quiroga assured me. "You are quite small. Mr. Falcon will catch you if you jump from your window into his arms. He is as big as a house! I recommend that you go to bed early tonight. Mr. Falcon will wake you up by whistling and throwing rocks at your window. You have to watch out, though! He is an impatient man."

I went home in the midst of the most astounding excitation. I could not go to sleep. I was quite awake when I heard Mr. Falcon whistling and throwing small pebbles against the glass panes of the window. I opened the window. Mr. Falcon was right below me, on the street.

"Jump into my arms, kid," he said to me in a constricted voice, which he tried to modulate into a loud whisper. "If you do not aim at my arms, I will drop you and you will die. Remember that. Do not make me run around. Just aim at my arms. Jump! Jump!"

I did, and he caught me with the ease of someone catching a bag of cotton. He put me down and told me to run. He said that I was a child awakened from a deep sleep, and that he had to make me run so I would be fully awake by the time I got to the billiards house.

I played that night with two men, and I won both games. I had the most delicious coffee and pastries that one could imagine. Personally, I was in heaven. It was around seven in the morning when I returned home. Nobody had noticed my absence. It was time to go to school. For all practical purposes, everything was normal except for the fact that I was so tired that I could not keep my eyes open all day.

From that day on, Falelo Quiroga sent Mr. Falcon to pick me up two or three times a week, and I won every game that he made me play. And faithful to his promise, he paid for anything that I bought, including meals at my favorite Chinese restaurant, where I used to go daily. Sometimes, I even invited my friends, whom I mortified no end by running out of the restaurant screaming when the waiter brought the bill. They were amazed at the fact that they were never taken to the police for consuming food and not paying for it.

What was an ordeal for me was that I had never conceived of the fact that I would have to contend with the hopes and expectations of all the people who bet on me. The ordeal of ordeals, however, took place when a crack player from a nearby city challenged Falelo Quiroga and backed his challenge with a giant bet. The night of the game was an inauspicious night. My grandfather became ill and could not fall asleep. The entire family was in an uproar. It appeared that nobody went to bed. I doubted that I had any possibility of sneaking out of my bedroom, but Mr. Falcon's whistling and the pebbles hitting the glass of my window were so insistent that I took a chance and jumped from my window into Mr. Falcon's arms.

It seemed that every male in town had congregated at the billiards place. Anguished faces silently begged me not to lose. Some of the men boldly assured me that they had bet their houses and all their belongings.

One man, in a half-joking tone, said that he had bet his wife; if I did not win, he would be a cuckold that night, or a murderer. He did not specify whether he meant he would kill his wife in order not to be a cuckold, or me, for losing the game.

Falelo Quiroga paced back and forth. He had hired a masseur to massage me. He wanted me relaxed. The masseur put hot towels on my arms and wrists and cold towels on my forehead. He put on my feet the most comfortable, soft shoes that I had ever worn. They had hard, military heels and arch supports. Falelo Quiroga even outfitted me with a beret to keep my hair from falling in my face, as well as a pair of loose overalls with a belt.

Half of the people around the billiard table were strangers from another town. They glared at me. They gave me the feeling that they wanted me dead.

Falelo Quiroga flipped a coin to decide who would go first. My opponent was a Brazilian of Chinese descent, young, round-faced, very spiffy and confident. He started first, and he made a staggering amount of caroms. I knew by the color of his face that Falelo Quiroga was about to have a heart attack, and so were the other people who had bet everything they had on me.

I played very well that night, and as I approached the number of caroms that the other man had made, the nervousness of the ones who had bet on me reached its peak. Falelo Quiroga was the most hysterical of them all. He yelled at everybody and demanded that someone open the windows because the cigarette smoke made the air unbreathable for me. He wanted the masseur to relax my arms and shoulders. Finally, I had to stop everyone, and in a real hurry, I made the eight caroms that I needed to win. The euphoria of those who had bet on me was indescribable. I was oblivious to all that, for it was already morning and they had to take me home in a hurry.

My exhaustion that day knew no limits. Very obligingly, Falelo Quiroga did not send for me for a whole week. However, one afternoon, Mr. Falcon picked me up from school and took me to the billiards house. Falelo Quiroga was extremely serious. He did not even offer me coffee or Danish pastries. He sent everybody out of his office and got directly to the point. He pulled his chair close to me.

"I have put a lot of money in the bank for you," he said very solemnly. "I am true to what I promised you. I give you my word that I will always look after you. You know that! Now, if you do what I am going to tell you to do, you will make so much money that you will not have to work a day in your life. I want you to lose your next game by one carom. I know that you can do it. But I want you to miss by only a hair. The more dramatic, the better."

I was dumbfounded. All of this was incomprehensible to me. Falelo Quiroga repeated his request and further explained that he was going to bet anonymously all he had against me, and that that was the nature of our new deal.

"Mr. Falcon has been guarding you for months," he said. "All I need to tell you is that Mr. Falcon uses all his force to protect you, but he could do the opposite with the same strength."

Falelo Quiroga's threat could not have been more obvious. He must have seen in my face the horror that I felt, for he relaxed and laughed.

"Oh, but do not worry about things like that," he said reassuringly, "because we are brothers."

This was the first time in my life that I had been placed in an untenable position. I wanted with all my might to run away from Falelo Quiroga, from the fear that he had evoked in me. But at the same time, and with equal force, I wanted to stay. I wanted the ease of being able to buy anything I wanted from any store, and above all, the ease of being able to eat at any restaurant of my choice, without paying. I was never confronted, however, with having to choose one or the other.

Unexpectedly, at least for me, my grandfather moved to another area, quite distant. It was as if he knew what was going on, and he sent me ahead of everyone else. I doubted that he actually knew what was taking place. It seemed that sending me away was one of his usual intuitive actions.

Don Juan's return brought me out of my recollection. I had lost track of time. I should have been famished but I was not hungry at all. I was filled with nervous energy. Don Juan lit a kerosene lantern and hung it from a nail on the wall. Its dim light cast strange, dancing shadows in the room. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the semidarkness.

I entered then into a state of profound sadness. It was a strangely detached feeling, a far-reaching longing that came from that semidarkness, or perhaps from the sensation of being trapped. I was so tired that I wanted to leave, but at the same time, and with the same force, I wanted to stay.

Don Juan's voice brought me a measure of control. He appeared to know the reason for and the depth of my turmoil, and modulated his voice to fit the occasion. The severity of his tone helped me to gain control over something that could easily have turned into a hysterical reaction to fatigue and mental stimulation.

"To recount events is magical for sorcerers," he said. "It is not just telling stories. It is seeing the underlying fabric of events. This is the reason recounting is so important and vast."

At his request, I told don Juan the event I had recollected.

"How appropriate," he said, and chuckled with delight. "The only commentary I can make is that warrior travelers roll with the punches. They go wherever the impulse may take them. The power of warrior travelers is to be alert, to get maximum effect from minimal impulse. And above all, their power lies in not interfering.

Events have a force, a gravity of their own, and travelers are just travelers. Everything around them is for their eyes alone. In this fashion, travelers construct the meaning of every situation without ever asking how it happened this way or that way.

"Today, you remembered an event that sums up your total life," he continued. "You are always faced with a situation that is the same as the one that you never resolved. You never really had to choose whether to accept or reject Falelo Quiroga's crooked deal.

"Infinity always puts us in this terrible position of having to choose," he went on. "We want infinity, but at the same time, we want to run away from it. You want to tell me to go and jump in a lake, but at the same time you are compelled to stay. It would be infinitely easier for you to just be compelled to stay."

The Active Side Of Infinity ©1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 3 - Chapter 14. The Interplay of Energy on the Horizon.

The clarity the usher brought a new impetus to my recapitulation. A new mood replaced the old one. From then on, I began to recollect events in my life with maddening clarity. It was exactly as if a barrier had been built inside me that had kept me holding rigidly on to meager and unclear memories, and the usher had smashed it.

My memory faculty had been for me, prior to that event, a vague way of referring to things that had happened, but which I wanted most of the time to forget. Basically, I had no interest whatsoever in remembering anything of my life. Therefore, I honestly saw absolutely no point in this futile exercise of recapitulating, which don Juan had practically imposed on me. For me, it was a chore that tired me instantly and did nothing but point out my incapacity for concentrating.

I had dutifully made, nevertheless, lists of people, and I had engaged in a haphazard effort of quasi-remembering my interactions with them. My lack of clarity in bringing those people into focus did not dissuade me. I fulfilled what I considered to be my duty, regardless of the way I really felt.

With practice, the clarity of my recollection improved, I thought remarkably. I was able to descend, so to speak, on certain choice events with a fair amount of keenness that was at once scary and rewarding. After don Juan presented me with the idea of the usher, however, the power of my recollection became something for which I had no name.

Following my list of people made the recapitulation extremely formal and exigent, the way don Juan wanted it. But from time to time, something in me got loose; something that forced me to focus on events unrelated to my list; events whose clarity was so maddening that I was caught and submerged in them, perhaps even more intensely than I had been when I had lived the experiences themselves. Every time I recapitulated in such a fashion, I had a degree of detachment which allowed me to see things I had disregarded when I had really been in the throes of them.

The first time in which the recollection of an event shook me to my foundations happened after I had given a lecture at a college in Oregon. The students in charge of organizing the lecture took me and another anthropology friend of mine to a house to spend the night.

I was going to go to a motel, but they insisted, for our comfort, on taking us to this house. They said that it was in the country, and there were no noises, the quietest place in the world, with no telephones, no interference from the outside world. I, like the fool that I was, agreed to go with them. Don Juan had not only warned me to always be a solitary bird, he had demanded that I observe his recommendation, something that I did most of the time, but there were occasions when the gregarious creature in me took the upper hand.

The committee took us to the house, quite a distance from Portland, of a professor who was on sabbatical. Very swiftly, they turned on the lights inside and outside of the house, which was located on a hill with spotlights all around it. With the spotlights on, the house must have been visible from five miles away. After that, the committee took off as fast as they could, some-thing that surprised me because I thought they were going to stay and talk. The house was a wooden A-frame, small, but very well constructed. It had an enormous living room and a mezzanine above it where the bedroom was. Right above, at the apex of the A-frame, there was a life-size crucifix hanging from a strange rotating hinge, which was drilled into the head of the figure. The spotlights on the wall were focused on the crucifix. It was quite an impressive sight, especially when it rotated, squeaking as if the hinge needed oil.

The bathroom of the house was another sight. It had mirrored tiles on the ceiling, the walls, and the floor, and it was illuminated with a reddish light. There was no way to go to the bathroom without seeing yourself from every conceivable angle. I enjoyed all those features of the house, which seemed to me stupendous.

When the time came for me to go to sleep, however, I encountered a serious problem because there was only one narrow, hard, quite monastic bed and my anthropologist friend was close to having pneumonia, wheezing and retching phlegm every time he coughed. He went straight for the bed and passed out. I looked for a place to sleep. I could not find one. That house was barren of comforts. Besides, it was cold. The committee had turned on the lights, but not the heater. I looked for the heater. My search was fruitless, as was my search for the switch to the spotlights or to any of the lights in the house, for that matter. The switches were there on the walls, but they seemed to be overruled by the effect of some main switch. The lights were on, and I had no way to turn them off.

The only place I could find to sleep was on a thin throw rug, and the only thing I found with which I could cover myself was the tanned hide of a giant French poodle. Obviously, it had been the pet of the house and had been preserved; it had shiny black-marble eyes and an open mouth with the tongue hanging out. I put the head of the poodle skin toward my knees. I still had to cover myself with the tanned rear end, which was on my neck. Its preserved head was like a hard object between my knees, quite unsettling! If it had been dark, it would not have been as bad. I gathered a bundle of washcloths and used them as a pillow. I used as many as possible to cover the hide of the French poodle the best way I could. I could not sleep all night.

It was then, as I lay there cursing myself silently for being so stupid and not following don Juan's recommendation, that I had the first maddeningly clear recollection of my entire life. I had recollected the event that don Juan had called the usher with equal clarity, but my tendency had always been to half disregard what happened to me when I was with don Juan, on the basis that in his presence anything was possible. This time, however, I was alone.

Years before I met don Juan, I had worked painting signs on buildings. My boss's name was Luigi Palma. One day Luigi got a contract to paint a sign, advertising the sale and rental of bridal gowns and tuxedos, on the back wall of an old building. The owner of the store in the building wanted to catch the eye of possible customers with a large display. Luigi was going to paint a bride and groom, and I was going to do the lettering. We went to the flat roof of the building and set up a scaffold.

I was quite apprehensive although I had no overt reason to be so. I had painted dozens of signs on high buildings. Luigi thought that I was beginning to be afraid of heights, but that my fear was going to pass. When the time came to start working, he lowered the scaffold a few feet from the roof and jumped onto its flat boards. He went to one side, while I stood on the other in order to be totally out of his way. He was the artist.

Luigi began to show off. His painting movements were so erratic and agitated that the scaffold moved back and forth. I became dizzy. I wanted to go back to the flat roof, using the pretext that I needed more paint and other painters' paraphernalia. I grabbed the edge of the wall that fringed the flat roof and tried to hoist myself up, but the tips of my feet got stuck in the boards of the scaffold.

I tried to pull my feet and the scaffold toward the wall; the harder I pulled, the farther away I pushed the scaffold from the wall. Instead of helping me untangle my feet, Luigi sat down and braced himself with the cords that attached the scaffold to the flat roof. He crossed himself and looked at me in horror. From his sitting position, he knelt, weeping quietly as he recited the Lord's Prayer.

I held on to the edge of the wall for dear life. What gave me the desperate strength to endure was the certainty that if I was in control, I could keep the scaffold from moving farther and farther away. I was not going to lose my grip and fall thirteen floors to my death.

Luigi, being a compulsive taskmaster to the bitter end, yelled to me, in the midst of tears, that I should pray. He swore that both of us were going to fall to our deaths, and that the least we could do was to pray for the salvation of our souls. For a moment, I deliberated about whether it was functional to pray. I opted to yell for help. People in the building must have heard my yelling and sent for the firemen. I sincerely thought that it had taken only two or three seconds after I began to yell for the firemen to come onto the roof and grab Luigi and me and secure the scaffold.

In reality, I had hung on to the side of the building for at least twenty minutes. When the firemen finally pulled me onto the roof, I had lost any vestige of control. I vomited on the hard floor of the roof, sick to my stomach from fear and the odious smell of melted tar. It was a very hot day; the tar on the cracks of the scratchy roofing sheets was melting in the heat.

The ordeal had been so frightening and embarrassing that I did not want to remember it, and I ended up hallucinating that the firemen had pulled me into a warm, yellow room. They had then put me in a supremely comfortable bed, and I had fallen peacefully asleep, safe, wearing my pajamas, delivered from danger.

My second recollection was another blast of incommensurable force. I was talking amiably to a group of friends when, for no apparent reason I could account for, I suddenly lost my breath under the impact of a thought; a memory which was vague for an instant, and then became an engrossing experience. Its force was so intense that I had to excuse myself and retreat for a moment to a corner.

My friends seemed to understand my reaction. They disbanded without any comments.

What I was remembering was an incident that had taken place in my last year of high school.

My best friend and I used to walk to school, passing a big mansion with a black wrought iron fence at least seven feet high and ending in pointed spikes. Behind the fence was an extensive, well-kept green lawn, and a huge, ferocious German shepherd dog.

Every day, we used to tease the dog and let him charge at us. He stopped physically at the wrought iron fence, but his rage seemed to cross over to us. My friend delighted in engaging the dog every day in a contest of mind over matter. He used to stand a few inches from the dog's snout which protruded between the iron bars at least six inches into the street, and my friend would bare his teeth, just like the dog did.

"Yield, yield!" my friend shouted every time. "Obey! Obey! I am more powerful than you!"

His daily displays of mental power, which lasted at least five minutes, never affected the dog, outside of leaving him more furious than ever. My friend assured me daily, as part of his ritual, that the dog was either going to obey him or die in front of us of heart failure brought about by rage. His conviction was so intense that I believed that the dog was going to drop dead any day.

One morning, when we came around, the dog was not there. We waited for a moment, but he did not show up. Then we saw him, at the end of the extensive lawn. He seemed to be busy there, so we slowly began to walk away. From the corner of my eye, I noticed that the dog was running at full speed, toward us. When he was perhaps six or seven feet from the fence, he took a gigantic leap over it. I was sure that he was going to rip his belly on the spikes. He barely cleared them and fell onto the street like a sack of potatoes.

I thought for a moment that he was dead, but he was only stunned. Suddenly, he got up, and instead of chasing after the one who had brought about his rage, he ran after me. I jumped onto the roof of a car, but the car was nothing for the dog. He took a leap and was nearly on top of me. I scrambled down and climbed the first tree that was within reach, a flimsy little tree that could barely support my weight. I was sure that it would snap in the middle, sending me right into the dog's jaws to be mauled to death.

In the tree, I was nearly out of his reach. But the dog jumped again, and snapped his teeth, catching me by the seat of my pants and ripping them. His teeth actually nicked my buttocks. The moment I was safe at the top of the tree, the dog left. He just ran up the street, perhaps looking for my friend.

At the infirmary in school, the nurse told me that I had to ask the owner of the dog for a certificate of rabies vaccination.

"You must look into this," she said severely. "You may have rabies already. If the owner refuses to show you the vaccination certificate, you are within your rights to call the police."

I talked to the caretaker of the mansion where the dog lived. He accused me of luring the owner's most valuable dog, a pedigreed animal, out into the street.

"You better watch out, boy!" he said in an angry tone. "The dog got lost. The owner will send you to jail if you keep on bothering us."

"But I may have rabies," I said in a sincerely terrified tone.

"I do not give a shit if you have the bubonic plague," the man snapped. "Scram!"

"I will call the police," I said.

"Call whoever you like," he retorted. "You call the police, and we will turn them against you. In this house, we have enough clout to do that!"

I believed him, so I lied to the nurse and said that the dog could not be found, and that it had no owner.

"Oh my god!" the woman exclaimed. "Then brace yourself for the worst. I may have to send you to the doctor." She gave me a long list of symptoms that I should look for or wait for until they manifested themselves. She said that the injections for rabies were extremely painful, and that they had to be administered subcutaneously on the area of the abdomen.

"I would not wish that treatment on my worst enemy," she said, plunging me into a horrid nightmare.

What followed was my first real depression. I just lay in my bed feeling every one of the symptoms enumerated by the nurse. I ended up going to the school infirmary, and begging the woman to give me the treatment for rabies, no matter how painful. I made a huge scene. I became hysterical. I did not have rabies, but I had totally lost my control.

I related to don Juan my two recollections in all their detail, sparing nothing. He did not make any comments. He nodded a few times.

"In both recollections, don Juan," I said, feeling myself the urgency of my voice, "I was as hysterical as anyone could be. My body was trembling. I was sick to my stomach.

"I do not want to say it was as if I were in the experiences, because that is not the truth. I was in the experiences themselves both times. And when I could not take them anymore, I jumped into my life now. For me, that was a jump into the future. I had the power of going over time. My jump into the past was not abrupt. The event developed slowly, as memories do. It was at the end that I did jump abruptly into the future: my life now."

"Something in you has begun to collapse for sure," he finally said. "It has been collapsing all along, but it repaired itself very quickly every time its supports failed. My feeling is that it is now collapsing totally."

After another long silence, don Juan explained that the sorcerers of ancient Mexico believed that, as he had told me already, we had two minds, and only one of them was truly ours. I had always understood don Juan as saying that there were two parts to our minds, and one of them was always silent because expression was denied to it by the force of the other part. Whatever don Juan had said, I had taken as a metaphorical way to explain, perhaps, the apparent dominance of the left hemisphere of the brain over the right, or something of the like.

"There is a secret option to the recapitulation," don Juan said.

"Just like I told you that there is a secret option to dying, an option that only sorcerers take. In the case of dying, the secret option is that human beings could retain their life force and relinquish only their awareness, the product of their lives.

"In the case of the recapitulation, the secret option that only sorcerers take is to choose to enhance their true minds.

"The haunting memory of your recollections," he went on, "could come only from your true mind, whereas, the other mind that we all have and share is, I would say, a cheap model; economy strength; one size fits all.

"But this is a subject that we will discuss later. What is at stake now is the advent of a disintegrating force. But not a force that is disintegrating you- I do not mean it that way.

"It is disintegrating what the sorcerers call the foreign installation, which exists in you and in every other human being. The natural result of the force that is descending on you and is disintegrating your foreign installation is that it pulls a sorcerer out of their syntax."

I had listened carefully to don Juan, but I could not say that I had understood what he had said. For some strange reason, which was to me as unknown as the cause of my vivid recollections, I could not ask him any questions.

"I know how difficult it is for you," don Juan said all of a sudden, "to deal with this facet of your life. Every sorcerer that I know has gone through it. The males going through it suffer infinitely more damage than the females. I suppose it is the condition of women to be more durable.

"The sorcerers of ancient Mexico, acting as a group, tried their best to buttress the impact of this disintegrating force. In our day, we have no means of acting as a group, so we must brace ourselves to face in solitude a force that will sweep us away from language because there is no way to describe adequately what is going on."

Don Juan was right in that I was at a loss for explanations or ways of describing the effect that those recollections had had on me. Don Juan had told me that sorcerers face the unknown in the most common incidents one can imagine.

When they are confronted with the unknown, and cannot interpret what they are perceiving, they have to rely on an outside source for direction. Don Juan had called that source infinity, or the voice of the spirit, and had said that if sorcerers do not try to be rational about what can not be rationalized, the spirit unerringly tells them 'what is what'.

Don Juan had guided me to accept the idea that infinity was a force that had a voice, which in a sense is true, but not altogether accurate; and he had guided me to accept that infinity was conscious of itself, which for all practical purposes is accurate.

Consequently, he had prepared me to be ready to listen to that voice and always act efficiently, but without antecedents, using as little as possible the railings of the a priori.

I waited impatiently for the voice of the spirit to tell me the meaning of my recollections, but nothing happened.

Then one day, I was in a bookstore when a girl recognized me and came over to talk to me. She was tall and slim, and had an insecure, little girl's voice. I was trying to make her feel at ease when I was suddenly accosted by an instantaneous energetic change.

It was as if an alarm had been triggered in me, and as it had happened in the past, without any volition on my part whatsoever, I recollected another completely forgotten event in my life.

The memory of my grandparents' house flooded me. It was a veritable avalanche so intense that it was devastating, and once more, I had to retreat to a corner. My body shook, as if I had taken a chill.

I must have been eight years old. My grandfather was talking to me. He had begun by telling me that it was his utmost duty to set me straight. I had two cousins who were my age: Alfredo and Luis. My grandfather demanded mercilessly that I admit that my cousin Alfredo was really beautiful. In my vision, I heard my grandfather's raspy, constricted voice.

"Alfredo does not need any introductions," he had said to me on that occasion. "He needs only to be present and the doors will fly open for him because everybody practices the cult of beauty. Everybody likes beautiful people. They envy them, but they certainly seek their company. Take it from me. I am handsome, would you not say?"

I sincerely agreed with my grandfather. He was certainly a very handsome man, small-boned, with laughing blue eyes and an exquisitely chiseled face with beautiful cheekbones. Everything seemed to be perfectly balanced in his face-his nose, his mouth, his eyes, his pointed jaw. He had blond hair growing on his ears, a feature that gave him an elf-like appearance. He knew everything about himself, and he exploited his attributes to the maximum. Women adored him; first, according to him, for his beauty, and second, because he posed no threat to them. He, of course, took full advantage of all this.

"Your cousin Alfredo is a winner," my grandfather went on. "He will never have to crash a party because he will be the first one on the list of guests. Have you ever noticed how people stop in the street to look at him, and how they want to touch him?

"He is so beautiful that I am afraid he is going to turn out to be an asshole, but that is a different story. Let us say that he will be the most welcome asshole you have ever met."

My grandfather compared my cousin Luis with Alfredo. He said that Luis was homely, and a little bit stupid, but that he had a heart of gold. And then he brought me into the picture.

"If we are going to proceed with our explanation," he continued, "you have to admit in sincerity that Alfredo is beautiful and Luis is good. Now, let us take you. You are neither handsome nor good. You are a veritable son of a bitch.

Nobody's going to invite you to a party. You will have to get used to the idea that if you want to be at a party, you will have to crash it. Doors will never be open for you the way they will be open for Alfredo for being beautiful, and for Luis for being good, so you will have to get in through the window."

His analysis of his three grandsons was so accurate that he made me weep with the finality of what he had said. The more I wept, the happier he became. He finished his case with a most deleterious admonition.

"There is no need to feel bad," he said, "because there is nothing more exciting than getting in through the window. To do that, you have to be clever and on your toes. You have to watch everything, and be prepared for endless humiliations.

"If you have to go in through the window," he went on, "it is because you are definitely not on the list of guests; therefore, your presence is not welcome at all, so you have to work your butt off to stay. The only way I know is by possessing everybody. Scream! Demand! Advise! Make them feel that you are in charge! How could they throw you out if you are in charge?"

Remembering this scene caused a profound upheaval in me. I had buried this incident so deeply that I had forgotten all about it. What I had remembered all along, however, was his admonition to be in charge, which he must have repeated to me over and over throughout the years.

I did not have a chance to examine this event, or ponder it, because another forgotten memory surfaced with the same force. In it, I was with the girl I had been engaged to. At that time, both of us were saving money to be married and have a house of our own. I heard myself demanding that we have a joint checking account; I would not have it any other way. I felt an imperative need to lecture her on frugality. I heard myself telling her where to buy her clothes, and what the top affordable price should be.

Then I saw myself giving driving lessons to her younger sister and going veritably berserk when she said that she was planning to move out of her parents' house. Forcefully, I threatened her with canceling my lessons. She wept, confessing that she was having an affair with her boss. I jumped out of the car and began kicking the door.

However, that was not all. I heard myself telling my fiancee's father not to move to Oregon, where he planned to go. I shouted at the top of my voice that it was a stupid move. I really believed that my reasonings against it were unbeatable.

I presented him with budget figures in which I had meticulously calculated his losses. When he did not pay any attention to me, I slammed the door and left, shaking with rage. I found my fiancee in the living room, playing her guitar. I pulled it out of her hands and yelled at her that she embraced the guitar instead of playing it, as if it were more than an object.

My desire to impose my will extended all across the board. I made no distinctions. Whoever was close to me was there for me to possess and mold, following my whims.

I no longer had to ponder the significance of my vivid visions because an unquestionable certainty invaded me as if coming from outside me.

It told me that my weak point was the idea that I had to be the man in the director's chair at all times. It had been a deeply ingrained concept with me that I not only had to be in charge, but I had to be in control of any situation.

The way in which I had been brought up had reinforced this drive, which must have been arbitrary at its onset, but had turned, in my adulthood, into a deep necessity.

I was aware, beyond any doubt, that what was at stake was infinity. Don Juan had portrayed it as a conscious force that deliberately intervenes in the lives of sorcerers. And now it was intervening in mine. I knew that infinity was pointing out to me, through the vivid recollection of those forgotten experiences, the intensity and the depth of my drive for control, and thus preparing me for something transcendental to myself.

I knew with frightening certainty that something was going to bar any possibility of my being in control, and that I needed, more than anything else, sobriety, fluidity, and abandon in order to face the things that I felt were coming to me.

Naturally, I told all this to don Juan, elaborating to my heart's content on my speculations and inspirational insights about the possible significance of my recollections.

Don Juan laughed good-humoredly. "All this is psychological exaggeration on your part, wishful thinking," he said. "You are, as usual, seeking explanations with linear cause and effect.

"Each of your recollections becomes more and more vivid, more and more maddening to you, because as I told you already, you have entered an irreversible process. Your true mind is emerging, waking up from a state of lifelong lethargy.

"Infinity is claiming you," he continued. "Whatever means it uses to point that out to you cannot have any other reason, any other cause, any other value than that. What you should do, however, is to be prepared for the onslaughts of infinity. You must be in a state of continuously bracing yourself for a blow of tremendous magnitude. That is the sane, sober way in which sorcerers face infinity."

Don Juan's words left me with a bad taste in my mouth. I actually sensed the assault coming on me, and feared it. Since I had spent my entire life hiding behind some superfluous activity, I immersed myself in work. I gave lectures in classes taught by my friends in different schools in southern California. I wrote copiously. I could say without exaggeration that I threw dozens of manuscripts into the garbage can because they did not fulfill an indispensable requirement that don Juan had described to me as the mark of something that is acceptable by infinity.

He had said that everything I did had to be an act of sorcery; an act free from encroaching expectations, fears of failure, hopes of success; free from the 'cult of me'. Everything I did had to be impromptu; a work of magic where I freely opened myself to the impulses of the infinite.

One night, I was sitting at my desk preparing myself for my daily activity of writing. I felt a moment of grogginess. I thought that I was feeling dizzy because I had gotten up too quickly from my mat where I had been doing my exercises.

My vision blurred. I saw yellow spots in front of my eyes. I thought I was going to faint. The fainting spell got worse. There was an enormous red spot in front of me. I began to breathe deeply, trying to quiet whatever agitation was causing this visual distortion.

I became extraordinarily silent, to the point where I noticed that I was surrounded by impenetrable darkness. The thought crossed my mind that I had fainted. However, I could feel the chair, my desk. I could feel everything around me from inside the darkness that surrounded me.

Don Juan had said that the sorcerers of his lineage considered that one of the most coveted results of inner silence was a specific interplay of energy, which is always heralded by a strong emotion. He felt that my recollections were the means to agitate me to the extreme, where I would experience this interplay. Such an interplay manifested itself in terms of hues that were projected on any horizon in the world of everyday life, be it a mountain, the sky, a wall, or simply the palms of the hands. He had explained that this interplay of hues begins with the appearance of a tenuous brushstroke of lavender on the horizon. In time, this lavender brushstroke starts to expand until it covers the visible horizon, like advancing storm clouds.

He assured me that a dot of a peculiar, rich, pomegranate red shows up, as if bursting from the lavender clouds. He stated that as sorcerers become more disciplined and experienced, the dot of pomegranate expands and finally explodes into thoughts or visions, or in the case of a literate man, into written words; sorcerers either see visions engendered by energy, hear thoughts being voiced as words, or read written words.

That night at my desk, I did not see any lavender brushstrokes, nor did I see any advancing clouds. I was sure that I did not have the discipline that sorcerers require for such an interplay of energy, but I had an enormous dot of pomegranate red in front of me. This enormous dot, without any preliminaries, exploded into disassociated words that I read as if they were on a sheet of paper coming out of a typewriter. The words moved at such tremendous speed in front of me that it was impossible to read anything. Then I heard a voice describing something to me. Again, the speed of the voice was wrong for my ears. The words were garbled, making it impossible to hear anything that would make sense.

As if that were not enough, I began to see liverish scenes like one sees in dreams after a heavy meal. They were baroque, dark, ominous. I began to twirl, and I did so until I got sick to my stomach. The whole event ended there. I felt the effect of whatever had happened to me in every muscle of my body. I was exhausted. This violent intervention had made me angry and frustrated.

I rushed to don Juan's house to tell him about this happening. I sensed that I needed his help more than ever.

"There is nothing gentle about sorcerers or sorcery," don Juan commented after he heard my story. "This was the first time that infinity descended on you in such a fashion. It was like a blitz. It was a total takeover of your faculties. Insofar as the speed of your visions is concerned, you yourself will have to learn to adjust it. For some sorcerers, that is the job of a lifetime. But from now on, energy will appear to you as if it were being projected onto a movie screen.

"Whether or not you understand the projection," he went on, "is another matter. In order to make an accurate interpretation, you need experience. My recommendation is that you should not be bashful, and you should begin now. Read energy on the wall! Your true mind is emerging, and it has nothing to do with the mind that is a foreign installation. Let your true mind adjust the speed. Be silent, and do not fret, no matter what happens."

"But, don Juan, is all this possible? Can one actually read energy as if it were a text?" I asked, overwhelmed by the idea.

"Of course it is possible!" he retorted. "In your case, it is not only possible, it is happening to you."

"But why reading it, as if it were a text?" I insisted, but it was a rhetorical insistence.

"It is an affectation on your part," he said. "If you read the text, you could repeat it verbatim. However, if you tried to be a viewer of infinity instead of a reader of infinity, you would find that you could not describe whatever you were viewing, and you would end up babbling inanities, incapable of verbalizing what you witness. The same thing if you tried to hear it. This is, of course, specific to you. Anyway, infinity chooses. The warrior-traveler simply acquiesces to the choice.

"But above all," he added after a calculated pause, "do not be overwhelmed by the event because you cannot describe it. It is an event beyond the syntax of our language."

The Active Side Of Infinity ©1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 3 - Chapter 15. Journeys Through the Dark Sea of Awareness.

"We can speak a little more clearly now about inner silence " don Juan said.

His statement was such a non sequitur that it startled me. He had been talking to me all afternoon about the vicissitudes that the Yaqui Indians had suffered after the big Yaqui wars of the twenties, when they were deported by the Mexican government from their native homeland in the state of Sonora, in northern Mexico, to work in sugarcane plantations in central and southern Mexico. The Mexican government had had problems with endemic wars with the Yaqui Indians for years. Don Juan told me some astounding, poignant Yaqui stories of political intrigue and betrayal, deprivation and human misery.

I had the feeling that don Juan was setting me up for something because he knew that those stories were my 'cup of tea', so to speak. I had at that time an exaggerated sense of social justice and fair play.

"Circumstances around you have made it possible for you to have more energy," he went on. "You have started the recapitulation of your life; you have looked at your friends for the first time as if they were in a display window; you arrived at your breaking point, all by yourself, driven by your own needs; you canceled your business; and above all, you have accrued enough inner silence. All of these made it possible for you to make a journey through the dark sea of awareness.

"Meeting me in that town of our choice was that journey," he continued. "I know that a crucial question almost reached the surface in you, and that for an instant, you wondered if I really came to your house. My coming to see you was not a dream for you. I was real, was I not?"

"You were as real as anything could be," I said.

I had nearly forgotten about those events, but I remembered that it did seem strange to me that he had found my apartment. I had discarded my astonishment by the simple process of assuming that he had asked someone for my new address, although, if I had been pressed, I would not have been able to come up with the identity of anyone who would have known where I lived.

"Let us clarify this point," he continued. "In my terms, which are the terms of the sorcerers of ancient Mexico, I was as real as I could have been, and as such, I actually went to your place from my inner silence to tell you about the requisite of infinity, and to warn you that you were about to run out of time. And you, in turn, from your inner silence, veritably went to that town of our choice to tell me that you had succeeded in fulfilling the requisite of infinity.

"In your terms, which are the terms of the average man, it was a dream-fantasy in both instances. You had a dream-fantasy that I came to your place without knowing the address, and then you had a dream-fantasy that you went to see me. As far as I am concerned, as a sorcerer, what you consider your dream-fantasy of meeting me in that town was as real as the two of us talking here today."

I confessed to don Juan that there was no possibility of my framing those events in a pattern of thought proper to Western man. I said that to think of them in terms of dream-fantasy was to create a false category that could not stand up under scrutiny, and that the only quasi-explanation that was vaguely possible was another aspect of his knowledge: dreaming.

"No, it is not dreaming," he said emphatically. "This is something more direct, and more mysterious. By the way, I have a new definition of dreaming for you today, more in accordance with your state of being.

"Dreaming is the act of changing the point of attachment with the dark sea of awareness. If you view it in this fashion, it is a very simple concept, and a very simple maneuver. It takes all you have to realize it, but it is not an impossibility, nor is it something surrounded with mystical clouds.

"Dreaming is a term that has always bugged the hell out of me," he continued, "because it weakens a very powerful act. It makes the act sound arbitrary. It gives it a sense of being a fantasy, and this is the only thing it is not. I tried to change the term myself, but it is too ingrained.

"Maybe someday you could change it yourself, although, as with everything else in sorcery, I am afraid that by the time you could actually do it, you will not give a damn about it because it will not make any difference what it is called anymore."

Don Juan had explained at great length, during the entire time that I had known him, that dreaming was an art, discovered by the sorcerers of ancient Mexico, by means of which ordinary dreams were transformed into bona-fide entrances to other worlds of perception. He advocated, in any way he could, the advent of something he called dreaming attention, which was the capacity to pay a special kind of attention, or to place a special kind of awareness on the elements of an ordinary dream.

I had followed meticulously all his recommendations and had succeeded in commanding my awareness to remain fixed on the elements of a dream. The idea that don Juan proposed was not to set out deliberately to have a desired dream, but to fix one's attention on the component elements of whatever dream presented itself.

Then don Juan had showed me energetically what the sorcerers of ancient Mexico considered to be the origin of dreaming: the displacement of the assemblage point. He said that the assemblage point was displaced very naturally during sleep, but that to see the displacement was a bit difficult because it required an aggressive mood, and that such an aggressive mood had been the predilection of the sorcerers of ancient Mexico. Those sorcerers, according to don Juan, had found all the premises of their sorcery by means of this mood.

"It is a very predatory mood," don Juan went on. "It is not difficult at all to enter into it, because man is a predator by nature. You could see, aggressively, anybody in this little village, or perhaps someone far away, while they are asleep; anyone would do for the purpose at hand. What is important is that you arrive at a complete sense of indifference. You are in search of something, and you are out to get it. You are going to go out looking for a person, searching like a feline, like an animal of prey, for someone to descend on."

Don Juan had told me, laughing at my apparent chagrin, that the difficulty with this technique was the mood, and that I could not be passive in the act of seeing, for the sight was not something to watch but to act upon.

It might have been the power of his suggestion, but that day, when he had told me all this, I felt astoundingly aggressive. Every muscle of my body was filled to the brim with energy, and in my dreaming practice I did go after someone. I was not interested in who that someone might have been. I needed someone who was asleep, and some force I was aware of, without being fully conscious of it, had guided me to find that someone.

I never knew who the person was, but while I was seeing that person, I felt don Juan's presence. It was a strange sensation of knowing that someone was with me by an undetermined sensation of proximity that was happening at a level of awareness that was not part of anything that I had ever experienced. I could only focus my attention on the individual at rest. I knew that he was a male, but I do not know how I knew that. I knew that he was asleep because the ball of energy that human beings ordinarily are was a little bit flat. It was expanded laterally.

And then I saw the assemblage point at a position different from the habitual one, which is right behind the shoulder blades. In this instance, it had been displaced to the right of where it should have been, and a bit lower. I calculated that in this case it had moved to the side of the ribs. Another thing that I noticed was that there was no stability to it. It fluctuated erratically and then abruptly went back to its normal position. I had the clear sensation that, obviously, my presence, and don Juan's, had awakened the individual. I had experienced a profusion of blurred images right after that, and then I woke up back in the place where I had started.

Don Juan had also told me all along that sorcerers were divided into two groups: one group was dreamers; the other was stalkers. The dreamers were those who had a great facility for displacing the assemblage point. The stalkers were those who had a great facility for maintaining the assemblage point fixed on that new position. Dreamers and stalkers complemented each other, and worked in pairs, affecting one another with their given proclivities.

Don Juan had assured me that the displacement and the fixation of the assemblage point could be realized at will by means of the sorcerers' iron-handed discipline. He said that the sorcerers of his lineage believed that there were at least six hundred points within the luminous sphere that we are, that when reached at will by the assemblage point, can each give us a totally inclusive world; meaning that, if our assemblage point is displaced to any of those points and remains fixed on it, we will perceive a world as inclusive and total as the world of everyday life, but a different world nevertheless.

Don Juan had further explained that the art of sorcery is to manipulate the assemblage point and make it change positions at will on the luminous spheres that human beings are. The result of this manipulation is a shift in the point of contact with the dark sea of awareness, which brings as its concomitant a different bundle of zillions of energy fields in the form of luminous filaments that converge on the assemblage point.

The consequence of new energy fields converging on the assemblage point is that awareness of a different sort than that which is necessary for perceiving the world of everyday life enters into action, turning the new energy fields into sensory data, sensory data that is interpreted and perceived as a different world because the energy fields that engender it are different from the habitual ones.

Don Juan had asserted that an accurate definition of sorcery as a practice would be to say that sorcery is the manipulation of the assemblage point for purposes of changing its focal point of contact with the dark sea of awareness, thus making it possible to perceive other worlds.

Don Juan had said that the art of the stalkers enters into play after the assemblage point has been displaced. Maintaining the assemblage point fixed in its new position assures sorcerers that they will perceive whatever new world they enter in its absolute completeness, exactly as we do in the world of ordinary affairs. For the sorcerers of don Juan's lineage, the world of everyday life was but one fold of a total world consisting of at least six hundred folds.

Don Juan went back again to the topic under discussion: my journeys through the dark sea of awareness. He said that what I had done from my inner silence was very similar to what is done in dreaming when one is asleep. However, when journeying through the dark sea of awareness, there was no interruption of any sort caused by going to sleep, nor was there any attempt whatsoever at controlling one's attention while having a dream. The journey through the dark sea of awareness entailed an immediate response. There was an overpowering sensation of the here and now. Don Juan lamented the fact that some idiotic sorcerers had given the name dreaming-awake to this act of reaching the dark sea of awareness directly, making the term dreaming even more ridiculous.

"When you thought that you had the dream-fantasy of going to that town of our choice," he continued, "you had actually placed your assemblage point directly on a specific position on the dark sea of awareness that allows the journey. Then the dark sea of awareness supplied you with whatever was necessary to carry on that journey. There is no way whatsoever to choose that place at will. Sorcerers say that inner silence selects it unerringly. Simple, is it not?"

He explained to me then the intricacies of choice. He said that choice, for warrior-travelers, was not really the act of choosing, but rather the act of acquiescing elegantly to the solicitations of infinity.

"Infinity chooses," he said. "The art of the warrior-traveler is to have the ability to move with the slightest insinuation; the art of acquiescing to every command of infinity. For this, a warrior-traveler needs prowess, strength, and above everything else, sobriety. All those three put together give, as a result, elegance!"

After a moment's pause, I went back to the subject that intrigued me the most.

"But it is unbelievable that I actually went to that town, don Juan, in body and soul," I said.

"It is unbelievable, but it is not unlivable," he said. "The universe has no limits, and the possibilities at play in the universe at large are indeed incommensurable. So do not fall prey to the axiom, 'I believe only what I see,' because it is the dumbest stand one can possibly take."

Don Juan's elucidation had been crystal clear. It made sense, but I did not know where it made sense; certainly not in my daily world of usual affairs. Don Juan assured me then, unleashing a great trepidation in me, that there was only one way in which sorcerers could handle all this information: to taste it through experience, because the mind was incapable of taking in all that stimulation.

"What do you want me to do, don Juan?" I asked.

"You must deliberately journey through the dark sea of awareness," he replied, "but you will never know how this is done. Let us say that inner silence does it, following inexplicable ways; ways that cannot be understood, but only practiced."

Don Juan had me sit down on my bed and adopt the position that fostered inner silence. I usually fell asleep instantly whenever I adopted this position. However, when I was with don Juan, his presence always made it impossible for me to fall asleep; instead, I entered into a veritable state of complete quietude. This time, after an instant of silence, I found myself walking. Don Juan was guiding me by holding my arm as we walked.

We were no longer in his house. We were walking in a Yaqui town I had never been in before. I knew of the town's existence; I had been close to it many times, but I had been made to turn around by the sheer hostility of the people who lived around it. It was a town where it was nearly impossible for a stranger to enter. The only non-Yaquis who had free access to that town were the supervisors from the federal bank because of the fact that the bank bought the crops from the Yaqui farmers. The endless negotiations of the Yaqui farmers revolved around getting cash advances from the bank on the basis of a near-speculation process about future crops.

I instantly recognized the town from the descriptions of people who had been there. As if to increase my astonishment, don Juan whispered in my ear that we were in the Yaqui town in question. I wanted to ask him how we had gotten there, but I could not articulate my words. There were a large number of Indians talking in argumentative tones. Tempers seemed to flare. I did not understand a word of what they were saying, but the moment I conceived of the thought that I could not understand, something cleared up. It was very much as if more light went into the scene. Things became very defined and neat, and I understood what the people were saying although I did not know how. I did not speak their language. The words were definitely understandable to me, not singularly, but in clusters, as if my mind could pick up whole patterns of thought.

I could say in earnest that I got the shock of a lifetime, not so much because I understood what they were saying but because of the content of what they were saying. Those people were indeed warlike. They were not Western men at all. Their propositions were propositions of strife, warfare, strategy. They were measuring their strength, their striking resources, and lamenting the fact that they had no power to deliver their blows. I registered in my body the anguish of their impotence. All they had were sticks and stones to fight high-technology weapons. They mourned the fact that they had no leaders. They coveted, more than anything else one could imagine, the rise of some charismatic fighter who could galvanize them.

I heard then the voice of cynicism; one of them expressed a thought that seemed to devastate everyone equally, including me, for I seemed to be an indivisible part of them. He said that they were defeated beyond salvation, because if at a given moment one of them had the charisma to rise up and rally them, he would be betrayed because of envy and jealousy and hurt feelings.

I wanted to comment to don Juan on what was happening to me, but I could not voice a single word. Only don Juan could talk.

"The Yaquis are not unique in their pettiness," he said in my ear. "It is a condition in which human beings are trapped, a condition that is not even human, but imposed from the outside."

I felt my mouth opening and closing involuntarily as I tried desperately to ask a question that I could not even conceive of. My mind was blank, void of thoughts. Don Juan and I were in the middle of a circle of people, but none of them seemed to have noticed us. I did not record any movement, reaction, or furtive glance that may have indicated that they were aware of us.

The next instant, I found myself in a Mexican town built around a railroad station, a town located about a mile and a half east of where don Juan lived. Don Juan and I were in the middle of the street by the government bank.

Immediately afterward, I saw one of the strangest sights I had ever been witness to in don Juan's world. I was seeing energy as it flows in the universe, but I was not seeing human beings as spherical or oblong blobs of energy. The people around me were, in one instant, the normal beings of everyday life, and in the next instant, they were strange creatures. It was as if the ball of energy that we are were transparent; it was like a halo around an insect-like core. That core did not have a primate's shape. There were no skeletal pieces, so I was not seeing people as if I had X-ray vision that went to the bone core. At the core of people there were, rather, geometric shapes made of what seemed to be hard vibrations of matter. That core was like letters of the alphabet. A capital T seemed to be the main structural support. An inverted thick L was suspended in front of the T; the Greek letter for delta, which went almost to the floor, was at the bottom of the vertical bar of the T, and seemed to be a support for the whole structure. On top of the letter T, I saw a rope-like strand, perhaps an inch in diameter; it went through the top of the luminous sphere, as if what I was seeing were indeed a gigantic bead hanging from the top like a drooping gem.

Once, don Juan had presented to me a metaphor to describe the energetic union of strands of human beings. He had said that the sorcerers of ancient Mexico described those strands as a curtain made from beads strung on a string. I had taken this description literally, and thought that the string went through the conglomerate of energy fields that we are from head to toe. The attaching string I was seeing made the round shape of the energy fields of human beings look more like a pendant. I did not see, however, any other creature being strung by the same string. Every single creature that I saw was a geometrically patterned being that had a sort of string on the upper part of its spherical halo. The string reminded me immensely of the segmented worm-like shapes that some of us see with the eyelids half closed when we are in sunlight.

Don Juan and I walked in the town from one end to the other, and I saw literally scores of geometrically patterned creatures. My ability to see them was unstable in the extreme. I would see them for an instant, and then I would lose sight of them and I would be faced with average people.

Soon, I became exhausted, and I could see only normal people. Don Juan said that it was time to go back home, and again, something in me lost my usual sense of continuity. I found myself in don Juan's house without having the slightest notion as to how I had covered the distance from the town to the house.

I lay down in my bed and tried desperately to recollect, to call back my memory, to probe the depths of my very being for a clue as to how I had gone to the Yaqui town, and to the railroad-station town. I did not believe that they had been dream-fantasies, because the scenes were too detailed to be anything but real, and yet they could not possibly have been real.

"You are wasting your time," don Juan said, laughing. "I guarantee you that you will never know how we got from the house to the Yaqui town, and from the Yaqui town to the railroad station, and from the railroad station to the house. There was a break in the continuity of time. That is what inner silence does."

He patiently explained to me that the interruption of that flow of continuity that makes the world understandable to us is sorcery. He remarked that I had journeyed that day through the dark sea of awareness, and that I had seen people as they are, engaged in people's business. And then I had seen the strand of energy that joins specific lines of human beings.

Don Juan reiterated to me over and over that I had witnessed something specific and inexplicable. I had understood what people were saying, without knowing their language, and I had seen the strand of energy that connected human beings to certain other beings, and I had selected those aspects through an act of intending it.

He stressed the fact that this intending I had done was not something conscious or volitional. The intending had been done at a deep level, and had been ruled by necessity. I had needed to become cognizant of some of the possibilities of journeying through the dark sea of awareness, and my inner silence had guided intent- a perennial force in the universe- to fulfill that need.

The Active Side Of Infinity ©1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 3 - Chapter 16. Inorganic Awareness.

At a given moment in my apprenticeship, don Juan revealed to me the complexity of his life situation. He had maintained, to my chagrin and despondency, that he lived in the shack in the state of Sonora, Mexico, because that shack depicted my state of awareness. I did not quite believe that he really meant that I was so meager, nor did I believe that he had other places to live, as he was claiming.

It turned out that he was right on both counts. My state of awareness was very meager, and he did have other places where he could live, infinitely more comfortable than the shack where I had first found him. Nor was he the solitary sorcerer that I had thought him to be. He was leader of a group of fifteen other warrior travelers: ten women and five men.

My surprise was gigantic when he took me to his house in central Mexico, where he and his companion sorcerers lived.

"Did you live in Sonora just because of me, don Juan?" I asked him, unable to stand the responsibility which filled me with guilt and remorse and a sensation of worthlessness. "Well, I did not actually live there," he said, laughing. "I just met you there."

"But-but-but you never knew when I was coming to see you, don Juan," I said. "I had no means to let you know!"

"Well, if you remember correctly," he said, "there were many, many times when you did not find me. You had to sit patiently and wait for me, for days sometimes."

"Did you fly from here to Guaymas, don Juan?" I asked him in earnest. I thought that the shortest way would have been to take a plane.

"No, I did not fly to Guaymas," he said with a big smile. "I flew directly, to the shack where you were waiting."

I knew that he was purposefully telling me something that my linear mind could not understand or accept; something that was confusing me no end. I was at the level of awareness, in those days, when I asked myself incessantly a fatal question: What if all that don Juan says is true?

I did not want to ask him any more questions, because I was hopelessly lost, trying to bridge our two tracks of thought and action.

In his new surroundings, don Juan began painstakingly to instruct me in a more complex facet of his knowledge; a facet that required all my attention; a facet in which merely suspending judgment was not enough. This was the time when I had to plummet down into the depths of his knowledge. I had to cease to be objective, and at the same time I had to desist from being subjective.

One day, I was helping don Juan clean some bamboo poles in the back of his house. He asked me to put on some working gloves, because, he said, the splinters of bamboo were very sharp and easily caused infections. He directed me on how to use a knife to clean the bamboo. I became immersed in the work. When don Juan began to talk to me, I had to stop working in order to pay attention. He told me that I had worked long enough, and that we should go into the house.

He asked me to sit down in a very comfortable armchair in his spacious, almost empty living room. He gave me some nuts, dried apricots, and slices of cheese, neatly arranged on a plate. I protested that I wanted to finish cleaning the bamboo. I did not want to eat. But he did not pay attention to me. He recommended that I nibble slowly and carefully, for I would need a steady supply of food in order to be alert and attentive to what he was going to tell me.

"You already know," he began, "that there exists in the universe a perennial force, which the sorcerers of ancient Mexico called the dark sea of awareness. While they were at the maximum of their perceiving power, they saw something that made them shake in their pantaloonies, if they were wearing any. They saw that the dark sea of awareness is responsible not only for the awareness of organisms, but also for the awareness of entities that do not have an organism."

"What is this, don Juan, beings without an organism that have awareness?" I asked, astonished, for he had never mentioned such an idea before.

"The old shamans discovered that the entire universe is composed of twin forces," he began, "forces that are at the same time opposed and complementary to each other. It is inescapable that our world is a twin world. Its opposite and complementary world is one populated by beings that have awareness, but not an organism. For this reason, the old shamans called them inorganic beings."

"And where is this world, don Juan?" I asked, munching unconsciously on a piece of dried apricot.

Here, where you and I are sitting," he replied matter-of-factly, but laughing outright at my nervousness. "I told you that it is our twin world, so it is intimately related to us. The sorcerers of ancient Mexico did not think like you do in terms of space and time. They thought exclusively in terms of awareness. Two types of awareness coexist without ever impinging on each other, because each type is entirely different from the other. The old shamans faced this problem of coexistence without concerning themselves with time and space. They reasoned that the degree of awareness of organic beings and the degree of awareness of inorganic beings were so different that both could coexist with the most minimal interference."

"Can we perceive those inorganic beings, don Juan?" I asked. "We certainly can," he replied. "Sorcerers do it at will. Average people do it, but they do not realize that they are doing it because they are not conscious of the existence of a twin world. When they think of a twin world, they enter into all kinds of mental masturbation, but it has never occurred to them that their fantasies have their origin in a subliminal knowledge that all of us have: that we are not alone."

I was riveted by don Juan's words. Suddenly, I had become voraciously hungry. There was an emptiness in the pit of my stomach. All I could do was to listen as carefully as I could, and eat.

"The difficulty with your facing things in terms of time and space," he continued, "is that you only notice if something has landed in the space and time at your disposal, which is very limited.

"Sorcerers, on the other hand, have a vast field on which they can notice if something extraneous has landed. Lots of entities from the universe at large, entities that possess awareness but not an organism, land in the field of awareness of our world, or the field of awareness of its twin world, without an average human being ever noticing them. The entities that land on our field of awareness, or the field of awareness of our twin world, belong to other worlds that exist besides our world and its twin. The universe at large is crammed to the brim with worlds of awareness, organic and inorganic."

Don Juan continued talking and said that those sorcerers knew when inorganic awareness from other worlds besides our twin world had landed in their field of awareness. He said that as every human being on this earth would do, those shamans made endless classifications of different types of this energy that has awareness. They knew them by the general term inorganic beings.

"Do those inorganic beings have life like we have life?" I asked.

"If you think that life is to be aware, then they do have life," he said. "I suppose it would be accurate to say that if life can be measured by the intensity, the sharpness, the duration of that awareness, I can sincerely say that they are more alive than you and I."

"Do those inorganic beings die, don Juan?" I asked.

Don Juan chuckled for a moment before he answered. "If you call death the termination of awareness, yes, they die. Their awareness ends. Their death is rather like the death of a human being, and at the same time, it is not, because the death of human beings has a hidden option. It is something like a clause in a legal document, a clause that is written in tiny letters that you can barely see. You have to use a magnifying glass to read it, and yet it is the most important clause of the document."

"What is the hidden option, don Juan?"

"Death's hidden option is exclusively for sorcerers. They are the only ones who have, to my knowledge, read the fine print. For them, the option is pertinent and functional. For average human beings, death means the termination of their awareness, the end of their organisms.

"For the inorganic beings, death means the same: the end of their awareness. In both cases, the impact of death is the act of being sucked into the dark sea of awareness, Their individual awareness, loaded with their life experiences, breaks its boundaries, and awareness as energy spills out into the dark sea of awareness."

"But what is death's hidden option that is picked up only by sorcerers, don Juan?" I asked.

"For a sorcerer, death is a unifying factor. Instead of disintegrating the organism, as is ordinarily the case, death unifies it."

"How can death unify anything?" I protested.

"Death for a sorcerer," he said, "terminates the reign of individual moods in the body. The old sorcerers believed it was the dominion of the different parts of the body that ruled the moods and the actions of the total body; parts that become dysfunctional drag the rest of the body to chaos, such as, for instance, when you yourself get sick from eating junk. In that case, the mood of your stomach affects everything else. Death eradicates the dominion of those individual parts. It unifies their awareness into one single unit."

"Do you mean that after they die, sorcerers are still aware?" I asked.

"For sorcerers, death is an act of unification that employs every bit of their energy. You are thinking of death as a corpse in front of you, a body on which decay has settled. For sorcerers, when the act of unification takes place, there is no corpse. There is no decay.

"Their bodies in their entirety have been turned into energy, energy possessing awareness that is not fragmented. The boundaries that are set up by the organism, boundaries which are broken down by death, are still functioning in the case of sorcerers, although they are no longer visible to the naked eye.

"I know that you are dying to ask me," he continued with a broad smile, "if whatever I am describing is the soul that goes to hell or heaven. No, it is not the soul. What happens to sorcerers, when they pick up that hidden option of death, is that they turn into inorganic beings, very specialized, high-speed inorganic beings, beings capable of stupendous maneuvers of perception. Sorcerers enter then into what the shamans of ancient Mexico called their definitive journey. Infinity becomes their realm of action."

"Do you mean by this, don Juan, that they become eternal?"

"My sobriety as a sorcerer tells me," he said, "that their awareness will terminate, the way inorganic beings' awareness terminates, but I have not seen this happen. I have no firsthand knowledge of it. The old sorcerers believed that the awareness of this type of inorganic being would last as long as the earth is alive. The earth is their matrix. As long as it prevails, their awareness continues. To me, this is a most reasonable statement."

The continuity and order of don Juan's explanation had been, for me, superb. I had no way whatsoever in which to contribute. He left me with a sensation of mystery and unvoiced expectations to be fulfilled.

On my next visit to don Juan, I began my conversation by asking him eagerly a question that was foremost in my mind.

"Is there a possibility, don Juan, that ghosts and apparitions really exist?"

"Whatever you may call a ghost or an apparition," he said, "when it is scrutinized by a sorcerer, boils down to one issue- it is possible that any of those ghostlike apparitions may be a conglomeration of energy fields that have awareness, and which we turn into things we know. If that is the case, then the apparitions have energy. Sorcerers call them energy generating configurations. Or, no energy emanates from them, in which case they are phantasmagorical creations, usually of a very strong person- strong in terms of awareness.

"One story that intrigued me immensely," don Juan continued, "was the story you told me once about your aunt. Do you remember it?"

I had told don Juan that when I was fourteen years old I had gone to live in my father's sister's house. She lived in a gigantic house that had three patios with living accommodations in between each of them- bedrooms, living rooms, etc.

The first patio was very austere, cobble-stoned. They told me that it was a colonial house and this first patio was where horse-drawn carriages had gone in.

The second patio was a beautiful orchard zigzagged by brick lanes of Moorish design and filled with fruit trees.

The third patio was covered with flowerpots hanging from the eaves of the roof, birds in cages, and a colonial-style fountain in the middle of it with running water, as well as a large area fenced with chicken wire, set aside for my aunt's prized fighting cocks, her predilection in life.

My aunt made available to me a whole apartment right in front of the fruit orchard. I thought I was going to have the time of my life there. I could eat all the fruit that I wanted. No one else in the household touched the fruit of any of those trees, for reasons that were never revealed to me.

The household was composed of my aunt, a tall, round-faced chubby lady in her fifties, very jovial, a great raconteur, and full of eccentricities that she hid behind a formal facade and the appearance of devout Catholicism. There was a butler, a tall, imposing man in his early forties who had been a sergeant-major in the army and had been lured out of the service to occupy the better-paid position of butler, bodyguard, and all-around man in my aunt's house. His wife, a beautiful young woman, was my aunt's companion, cook, and confidante. The couple also had a daughter, a chubby little girl who looked exactly like my aunt. The likeness was so strong that my aunt had adopted her legally.

Those four were the quietest people I had ever met. They lived a very sedate life, punctuated only by the eccentricities of my aunt, who, on the spur of the moment, would decide to take trips, or buy promising new fighting cocks, train them, and actually have serious contests in which enormous sums of money were involved. She tended her fighting cocks with loving care, sometimes all day long. She wore thick leather gloves and stiff leather leggings to keep the fighting cocks from spurring her.

I spent two stupendous months living in my aunt's house. She taught me music in the afternoons, and told me endless stories about my family's ancestors. My living situation was ideal for me because I used to go out with my friends and did not have to report the time I came back to anybody. Sometimes I used to spend hours without falling asleep, lying on my bed. I used to keep my window open to let the smell of orange blossoms fill my room. Whenever I was lying there awake, I would hear someone walking down a long corridor that ran the length of the whole property on the north side, joining all the patios of the house. This corridor had beautiful arches and a tiled floor. There were four light bulbs of minimal voltage that dimly illuminated the corridor, lights that were turned on at six o'clock every evening and turned off at six in the morning.

I asked my aunt if anyone walked at night and stopped at my window, because whoever was walking always stopped by my window, turned around, and walked back again toward the main entrance of the house.

"Do not trouble yourself with nonsense, dear," my aunt said, smiling. "It is probably my butler, making his rounds. Big deal! Were you frightened?"

"No, I was not frightened," I said, "I just got curious, because your butler walks up to my room every night. Sometimes his steps wake me up."

She discarded my inquiry in a matter-of-fact fashion, saying that the butler had been a military man and was habituated to making his rounds, as a sentry would. I accepted her explanation.

One day, I mentioned to the butler that his steps were just too loud, and asked if he would make his rounds by my window with a little more care so as to let me sleep.

"I do not know what you are talking about!" he said in a gruff voice.

"My aunt told me that you make your rounds at night," I said.

"I never do such a thing!" he said, his eyes flaring with disgust.

"But who walks by my window then?"

"Nobody walks by your window. You are imagining things. Just go back to sleep. Do not go around stirring things up. I am telling you this for your own good."

Nothing could have been worse for me in those years than someone telling me that they were doing something for my own good. That night, as soon as I began to hear the footsteps, I got out of my bed and stood behind the wall that led to the entrance of my apartment. When I calculated that whoever was walking was by the second bulb, I just stuck my head out to look down the corridor. The steps stopped abruptly, and there was no one in sight. The dimly illuminated corridor was deserted. If somebody had been walking there, they would not have had time to hide because there was no place to hide. There were only bare walls.

My fright was so immense that I woke up the whole household screaming my head off. My aunt and her butler tried to calm me down by telling me that I was imagining all that, but my agitation was so intense that both of them sheepishly confessed, in the end that something which was unknown to them walked in that house every night.

Don Juan had said that it was almost surely my aunt who walked at night. That is to say, some aspect of her awareness over which she had no volitional control. He believed that this phenomenon obeyed a sense of playfulness or mystery that she cultivated. Don Juan was sure that it was not a far-fetched idea that my aunt, at a subliminal level, was not only making all those noises happen, but that she was capable of much more complex manipulations of awareness. Don Juan had also said that to be completely fair, he had to admit the possibility that the steps were the product of inorganic awareness.

Don Juan said that the inorganic beings who populated our twin world were considered, by the sorcerers of his lineage, to be our relatives. Those shamans believed that it was futile to make friends with our inorganic family members because the demands levied on us for such friendships were always exorbitant. He said that that type of inorganic being, who are our first cousins, communicate with us incessantly, but that their communication with us is not at the level of conscious awareness. In other words, we know all about them in a subliminal way, while they know all about us in a deliberate, conscious manner.

"The energy from our first cousins is a drag!" don Juan went on. "They are as fucked up as we are. Let us say that the organic and inorganic beings of our twin worlds are the children of two sisters who live next door to each other. They are exactly alike although they look different. They cannot help us, and we cannot help them. Perhaps we could join together, and make a fabulous family business corporation, but that has not happened. Both branches of the family are extremely touchy and take offense over nothing, a typical relationship between touchy first cousins. The crux of the matter, the sorcerers of ancient Mexico believed, is that both human beings and inorganic beings from the twin worlds are profound egomaniacs."

According to don Juan, another classification that the sorcerers of ancient Mexico made of the inorganic beings was that of scouts, or explorers, and by this they meant inorganic beings that came from the depths of the universe, and which were possessors of awareness infinitely sharper and faster than that of human beings.

Don Juan asserted that the old sorcerers had spent generations polishing their classification schemes, and their conclusions were that certain types of inorganic beings from the category of scouts or explorers, because of their vivaciousness, were akin to man. They could make liaisons and establish a symbiotic relation with men. The old sorcerers called these kinds of inorganic beings the allies.

Don Juan explained that the crucial mistake of those shamans with reference to this type of inorganic being was to attribute human characteristics to that impersonal energy and to believe that they could harness it. They thought of those blocks of energy as their helpers, and they relied on them without comprehending that, being pure energy, they did not have the power to sustain any effort.

"I have told you all there is to know about inorganic beings," don Juan said abruptly. "The only way you can put this to the test is by means of direct experience."

I did not ask him what he wanted me to do. A deep fear made my body rattle with nervous spasms that burst like a volcanic eruption from my solar plexus and extended down to the tips of my toes and up to my upper trunk.

"Today, we will go to look for some inorganic beings," he announced.

Don Juan ordered me to sit on my bed and adopt again the position that fostered inner silence, I followed his command with unusual ease. Normally, I would have been reluctant, perhaps not overtly, but I would have felt a twinge of reluctance nonetheless.

I had a vague thought that by the time I sat down, I was already in a state of inner silence. My thoughts were no longer clear. I felt an impenetrable darkness surrounding me, making me feel as if I were falling asleep. My body was utterly motionless, either because I had no intention of setting up any commands to move or because I just could not formulate them.

A moment later, I found myself with don Juan, walking in the Sonoran desert. I recognized the surroundings. I had been there with him so many times that I had memorized every feature of it. It was the end of the day, and the light of the setting sun created in me a mood of desperation. I walked automatically, aware that I was feeling in my body sensations that were not accompanied by thoughts. I was not describing to myself my state of being. I wanted to tell this to don Juan, but the desire to communicate my bodily sensations to him vanished in an instant.

Don Juan said, very slowly, and in a low, grave voice, that the dry riverbed on which we were walking was a most appropriate place for our business at hand, and that I should sit on a small boulder, alone, while he went and sat on another boulder about fifty feet away. I did not ask don Juan, as I ordinarily would have, what I was supposed to do. I knew what I had to do. I heard then the rustling steps of people walking through the bushes that were sparsely scattered around. There was not enough moisture in the area to allow the heavy growth of underbrush. Some sturdy bushes grew there, with a space of perhaps ten or fifteen feet between them.

I saw then two men approaching. They seemed to be local men, perhaps Yaqui Indians from one of the Yaqui towns in the vicinity. They came and stood by me. One of them nonchalantly asked me how I had been. I wanted to smile at him, laugh, but I could not. My face was extremely rigid. Yet I was ebullient. I wanted to jump up and down, but I could not. I told him that I had been fine. Then I asked them who they were. I said to them that I did not know them, and yet I sensed an extraordinary familiarity with them- One of the men said, matter-of-factly, that they were my allies.

I stared at them, trying to memorize their features, but their features changed. They seemed to mold themselves to the mood of my stare. No thoughts were involved. Everything was a matter guided by visceral sensations. I stared at them long enough to erase their features completely, and finally, I was facing two shiny blobs of luminosity that vibrated. The blobs of luminosity did not have boundaries. They seemed to sustain themselves cohesively from within. At times, they became flat, wide. Then they would take on a verticality again, at the height of a man.

Suddenly, I felt don Juan's arm hooking my right arm and pulling me from the boulder. He said that it was time to go. The next moment, I was in his house again, in central Mexico, more bewildered than ever.

"Today, you found inorganic awareness, and then you saw it as it really is," he said. "Energy is the irreducible residue of everything. As far as we are concerned, to see energy directly is the bottom line for a human being. Perhaps there are other things beyond that, but they are not available to us."

Don Juan asserted all this over and over, and every time he said it, his words seemed to solidify me more and more, to help me return to my normal state.

I told don Juan everything I had witnessed; everything I had heard. Don Juan explained to me that I had succeeded that day in transforming the anthropomorphic shape of the inorganic beings into their essence: impersonal energy aware of itself.

"You are now in the position of having embodied the realization," he said, "that it is our cognition, which is in essence an interpretation system, that curtails our resources. Our cognitive interpretation system is what tells us what the parameters of our possibilities are. And since we have been using that system of interpretation all our lives, we cannot possibly dare to go against its dictums.

"The energy of those inorganic beings pushes us," don Juan went on, "and we interpret that push as we may, depending on our mood. The most sober thing to do, for a sorcerer, is to relegate those entities to an abstract level: The fewer interpretations sorcerers make, the better off they are.

"From now on," he continued, "whenever you are confronted with the strange sight of an apparition, hold your ground and gaze at it with an inflexible attitude. If it is an inorganic being, your interpretation of it will fall off like dead leaves. If nothing happens, it is just a chicken-shit aberration of your mind, which is not your mind anyway."

The Active Side Of Infinity ©1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 3 - Chapter 17. The Clear View.

For the first time in my life, I had found myself in a total quandary as to how to behave in the world. The world around me had not changed. It definitely stemmed from a flaw in me.

Don Juan's personal influence upon me, and my deep engagement in all the activities stemming from his practices were taking their toll on me; causing in me a serious incapacity to deal with my fellow men.

I had examined my problem and concluded that my flaw was my compulsion to measure everyone using don Juan as a yardstick.

Don Juan was, in my estimate, a being who lived his life profes­sionally in every aspect of the term. Every one of his acts, no matter how insignificant, counted.

I, on the other hand, was surrounded by people who believed that they were immortal beings; people who contradicted themselves every step of the way. They were beings whose acts could never be accounted for.

It was an unfair game. The cards were stacked against the people I encountered. I had become accustomed to don Juan's unalterable behavior; to his total lack of self-importance; and to the unfathomable scope of his intellect.

Very few of the people I knew were even aware that there existed another pattern of behavior that fostered those qualities. Most of them knew only the behavioral pattern of self-reflection, which renders men weak and contorted.

Consequently, I was having a very difficult time in my aca­demic studies. I was losing sight of them. I tried desperately to find a rationale that would justify my academic endeavors.

The only thing that came to my aid and gave me a connection, however flimsy, to academia was the recommendation that don Juan had made to me once that warrior travelers should have a romance with knowledge, in whatever form knowledge was presented.

Don Juan had defined the concept of warrior travelers by saying that it referred to sorcerer seers who traveled in the dark sea of awareness as total freedom warriors.

He had added that all human beings were travelers of the dark sea of awareness whether they were aware of it or not; and that this Earth can be considered as a station on their journey.

And for extraneous reasons, which don Juan did not care to divulge at the time, the bulk of the travelers have interrupted their voyage.

He said that human beings were caught in a sort of eddy; a cur­rent that went in circles, giving them the impression of moving while they were, in essence, stationary.

He maintained that sor­cerers were the only opponents of whatever force kept human beings prisoners, and that by means of their discipline sorcerers broke loose from its grip and continued their journey of awareness.

What precipitated the final chaotic upheaval in my academic life was my incapacity to focus my interest on topics of anthropo­logical concern that did not mean a hoot to me, not because of their lack of appeal but because they were mostly matters where words and concepts had to be manipulated, as in a legal docu­ment, to obtain a given result that would establish precedents. It was argued that human knowledge is built in such a fashion, and that the effort of every individual was a building block in con­structing a system of knowledge.

The example that was put to me was that of the legal system by which we live, and which is of invaluable importance to us. However, my romantic notions at the time impeded me from conceiving of myself as a 'barrister at anthropology'.

I had bought, lock, stock, and barrel, the concept that anthropology should be the matrix of all human endeavor, or the measure of man.

Don Juan, a consummate pragmatist, a true 'warrior traveler' of the unknown, said that I was full of prunes. He said that it did not matter that the anthropological topics proposed to me were maneuvers of words and concepts, that what was important was the exercise of discipline.

"It does not make any difference," he said to me one time, "how good a reader you are, and how many wonderful books you can read. What is important is that you have the discipline to read what you do not want to read. The crux of the sorcerers' exercise of going to school is in what you refuse, not in what you accept."

I decided to take some time off from my studies and went to work in the art department of a company that made decals. My job engaged my efforts and thoughts to their fullest extent. My challenge was to carry out the tasks assigned to me as perfectly and as rapidly as I could. To set up the vinyl sheets with the images to be processed by silk-screening into decals was a standard procedure that would not admit of any innovation, and the efficiency of the worker was measured by exactness and speed.

I became a workaholic and enjoyed myself tremendously.

The director of the art department and I became fast friends. He practically took me under his wing. His name was Ernest Lipton. I admired and respected him immensely. He was a fine artist and a magnificent craftsman.

His flaw was his softness, his incredible consideration for others, which bordered on passivity.

For example, one day we were driving out of the parking lot of a restaurant where we had eaten lunch. Very politely, he waited for another car to pull out of the parking space in front of him. The driver obviously did not see us, and began to back out at a con­siderable speed.

Ernest Lipton could easily have blown his horn to attract the man's attention to watch where he was going. Instead, he sat, grinning like an idiot as the guy crashed into his car. Then he turned and apologized to me. "Gee, I could have blown my horn," he said, "but it is so frigging loud, it embarrasses me."

The guy who had backed up into Ernest's car was furious and had to be placated.

"Do not worry," Ernest said. "There is no damage to your car. Besides, you only smashed my headlights; I was going to replace them anyway."

Another day, in the same restaurant, some Japanese people, clients of the decal company and Ernest Lipton's guests for lunch, were talk­ing animatedly to us, asking questions. The waiter came with the food and cleared the table of some of the salad plates, making room, the best way he could on the narrow table, for the huge hot plates of the entree.

One of the Japanese clients needed more space. He pushed his plate forward. The push set Ernest's plate in motion and it began to slide off the table. Again, Ernest could have warned the man, but he did not. He sat there grinning until the plate fell in his lap.

On another occasion, I went to his house to help him put up some rafters over his patio, where he was going to let a grape vine grow for partial shade and fruit. We prearranged the rafters into a huge frame and then lifted one side and bolted it to some beams. Ernest was a tall, very strong man, and using a length of two-by-four as a hoisting device, he lifted the other end for me to fit the bolts into holes that were already drilled into the supporting beams. But before I had a chance to put in the bolts there was an insistent knock on the door and Ernest asked me to see who it was while he held the frame of rafters.

His wife was at the door with her grocery packages. She engaged me in a lengthy conversation and I forgot about Ernest. I even helped her to put her groceries away. In the middle of arranging her celery bundles, I remembered that my friend was still holding the frame of rafters, and knowing him, I knew that he would still be at the job, expecting everybody else to have the consideration that he himself had.

I rushed desperately to the backyard, and there he was on the ground. He had collapsed from the exhaustion of holding the heavy wooden frame. He looked like a rag doll. We had to call his friends to lend a hand and hoist up the frame of rafters- he could not do it anymore. He had to go to bed. He thought for sure that he had a hernia.

The classic story about Ernest Lipton was that one day he went hiking for the weekend in the San Bernardino Mountains with some friends. They camped in the mountains for the night.

While everybody was sleeping, Ernest Lipton went to the bushes, and being such a considerate man, he walked some distance from the camp so as not to bother anybody. He slipped in the darkness and rolled down the side of the mountain. He told his friends afterward that he knew for a fact that he was falling to his death at the bottom of the valley.

He was lucky in that he grabbed on to a ledge with the tips of his fingers. He held on to it for hours, searching in the dark with his feet for any support, because his arms were about to give in- he was going to hold on until his death.

By extending his legs as wide as he could, he found tiny protuberances in the rock that helped him to hold on. He stayed stuck to the rock, like the decals that he made, until there was enough light for him to realize that he was only a foot from the ground.

"Ernest, you could have yelled for help!" his friends com­plained.

"Gee, I did not think there was any use," he replied. "Who could have heard me? I thought I had rolled down at least a mile into the valley. Besides, everyone was asleep."

The final blow came for me when Ernest Lipton, who spent two hours daily commuting back and forth from his house to the shop, decided to buy an economy car, a Volkswagen Beetle, and began measuring how many miles he got per gallon of gasoline.

I was extremely surprised when he announced one morning that he had reached 125 miles per gallon. Being a very exact man, he qualified his statement, saying that most of his driving was not done in the city, but on the freeway, although at the peak hour of traffic, he had to slow down and accelerate quite often. A week later, he said that he had reached the 250 miles per gallon mark.

This marvelous event escalated until he reached an unbeliev­able figure: 645 miles to a gallon. His friends told him that he should enter this figure into the logs of the Volkswagen company. Ernest Lipton was as pleased as punch, and gloated, saying that he would not know what to do if he reached the thousand-mile mark. His friends told him that he should claim a miracle.

This extraordinary situation went on until one morning when he caught one of his friends, who for months had been playing the oldest gag in the book on him, adding gasoline to his tank. Every morning he had been adding three or four cups so that Ernest's gas gauge was never on empty.

Ernest Lipton was nearly angry. His harshest comment was, "Gee! Is this supposed to be funny?"

I had known for weeks that his friends were playing that gag on him, but I was unable to intervene. I felt that it was none of my business. The people who were playing the gag on Ernest Lipton were his lifelong friends. I was a newcomer. When I saw his look of disappointment and hurt, and his incapacity to get angry, I felt a wave of guilt and anxiety. I was facing again an old enemy of mine. I despised Ernest Lipton, and at the same time, I liked him immensely. He was helpless.

The real truth of the matter was that Ernest Lipton looked like my father. His thick glasses and his receding hairline, as well as the stubble of graying beard that he could never quite shave com­pletely, brought my father's features to mind. He had the same straight, pointed nose and pointed chin. But seeing Ernest Lipton's inability to get angry and punch the jokers in the nose was what really clinched his likeness to my father for me and pushed it beyond the threshold of safety.

I remembered how my father had been madly in love with the sister of his best friend. I spotted her one day in a resort town, holding hands with a young man. Her mother was with her as a chaperone. The girl seemed so happy. The two young people looked at each other, enraptured. As far as I could see, it was young love at its best.

When I saw my father, I told him, relishing every instant of my recounting with all the malice of my ten years, that his girlfriend had a real boyfriend. He was taken aback. He did not believe me.

"But have you said anything at all to the girl?" I asked him dar­ingly- "Does she know that you are in love with her?"

"Do not be stupid, you little creep!" he snapped at me. "I do not have to tell any woman any shit of that sort!" Like a spoiled child, he looked at me petulantly, his lips trembling with rage.

"She is mine! She should know that she is my woman without my having to tell her anything!"

He declared all this with the certainty of a child who has had everything in life given to him without having to fight for it.

At the apex of my form, I delivered my punch line. "Well," I said, "I think she expected someone to tell her that, and someone has just beaten you to it."

I was prepared to jump out of his reach and run because I thought he would slash at me with all the fury in the world, but instead, he crumpled down and began to weep. He asked me, sob­bing uncontrollably, that since I was capable of anything, would I please spy on the girl for him and tell him what was going on?

I despised my father beyond anything I could say, and at the same time I loved him with a sadness that was unmatched. I cursed myself for precipitating that shame on him.

Ernest Lipton reminded me of my father so much that I quit my job, alleging that I had to go back to school. I did not want to increase the burden that I already carried on my shoulders. I had never forgiven myself for causing my father that anguish, and I had never forgiven him for being so cowardly.

I went back to school and began the gigantic task of reintegrating myself into my studies of anthropology. What made this reintegration very difficult was the fact that if there was someone I could have worked with with ease and delight because of his admirable touch, his daring curiosity, and his willingness to expand his knowledge without getting flustered or defending. indefensible points, it was someone outside my department, an archaeologist. It was because of his influence that I had become interested in fieldwork in the first place. Perhaps because of the fact that he actually went into the field, literally to dig out infor­mation, his practicality was an oasis of sobriety for me. He was the only one who had encouraged me to go ahead and do field-work because I had nothing to lose.

"Lose it all, and you will gain it all," he told me once, the sound­est advice that I ever got in academia. If I followed don Juan's advice, and worked toward correcting my obsession with self-reflection, I veritably had nothing to lose and everything to gain. But this possibility had not been in the cards for me at that time.

When I told don Juan about the difficulty I encountered in find­ing a professor to work with, I thought that his reaction to what I said was vicious. He called me a petty fart, and worse. He told me what I already knew: that if I were not so tense, I could have worked successfully with anybody in academia, or in business.

"'Warrior travelers' do not complain," don Juan went on. "They take everything that infinity hands them as a challenge. A chal­lenge is a challenge. It is not personal. It cannot be taken as a curse or a blessing. A warrior-traveler either wins the challenge or the challenge demolishes him. It is more exciting to win, so win!"

I told him that it was easy for him or anyone else to say that, but to carry it out was another matter, and that my tribulations were insoluble because they originated in the incapacity of my fellow men to be consistent.

"It is not the people around you who are at fault," he said. "They can not help themselves. The fault is with you, because you can help yourself, but you are bent on judging them, at a deep level of silence. Any idiot can judge. If you judge them, you will only get the worst out of them. All of us human beings are prisoners, and it is that prison that makes us act in such a miserable way. Your challenge is to take people as they are! Leave people alone."

"You are absolutely wrong this time, don Juan," I said. "Believe me, I have no interest whatsoever in judging them, or entangling myself with them in any way."

"You do understand what I am talking about," he insisted doggedly. "If you are not conscious of your desire to judge them," he continued, "you are in even worse shape than I thought. This is the flaw of warrior-travelers when they begin to resume their journeys. They get cocky, out of hand."

I admitted to don Juan that my complaints were petty in the extreme. I knew that much. I said to him that I was confronted with daily events, events that had the nefarious quality of wear­ing down all my resolve, and that I was embarrassed to relate to don Juan the incidents that weighed heavily on my mind.

"Come on," he urged me. "Out with it! Do not have any secrets from me. I am an empty tube. Whatever you say to me will be pro­jected out into infinity."

"All I have are miserable complaints," I said. "I am exactly like all the people I know. There is no way to talk to a single one of them without hearing an overt or a covert complaint."

I related to don Juan how in even the simplest dialogues my friends managed to sneak in an endless number of complaints, such as in a dialogue like this one:

"How is everything, Jim?"

"Oh, fine, fine, Cal." A huge silence would follow.

I would be obliged to say, "Is there something wrong, Jim?"

"No! Everything is great. I have a bit of a problem with Mel, but you know how Mel is-selfish and shitty. But you have to take your friends as they come, true? He could, of course, have a little more consideration. But what the heck. He is himself. He always puts the burden on you- take me or leave me. He is been doing that since we were twelve, so it is really my fault. Why in the heck do I have to take him?"

"Well, you are right, Jim, you know Mel is very hard, yes. Yeah!"

"Well, speaking of shitty people, you are no better than Mel, Cal. I can never count on you," etc. Another classic dialogue was:

"How are you doing, Alex? How is your married life?"

"Oh, just great. For the first time, I am eating on time, home-cooked meals, but I am getting fat. There is nothing for me to do except watch TV. I used to go out with you guys, but now I can not. Theresa does not let me. Of course, I could tell her to go and shag herself, but I do not want to hurt her. I feel content, but miser­able."

And Alex had been the most miserable guy before he got mar­ried. He was the one whose classic joke was to tell his friends, every time we ran into him, "Hey, come to my car, I want to introduce you to my bitch."

He enjoyed himself pink with our crushed expectations when we would see that what he had in his car was a female dog. He introduced his 'bitch' to all his friends. We were shocked when he actually married Theresa, a long-distance runner. They met at a marathon when Alex fainted. They were in the mountains, and Theresa had to revive him by any means.

So she pissed on his face. After that, Alex was her prisoner. She had marked her terri­tory. His friends used to say, "Her pissy prisoner." His friends thought she was the true bitch who had turned weird Alex into a fat dog.

Don Juan and I laughed for a while. Then he looked at me with a serious expression.

"These are the ups and downs of daily living," don Juan said. "You win, and you lose, and you do not know when you win or when you lose. This is the price one pays for living under the rule of self-reflection. There is nothing that I can say to you, and there is nothing that you can say to yourself.

I could only recom­mend that you not feel guilty because you are an asshole, but that you strive to end the dominion of self-reflection. Go back to school. Do not give up yet."

My interest in remaining in academia was waning considerably. I began to live on automatic pilot. I felt heavy, despondent.

However, I noticed that my mind was not involved. I did not calculate anything, or set up any goals or expectations of any sort. My thoughts were not obsessive, but my feelings were. I tried to conceptualize this dichotomy dichotomy between a quiet mind and turbulent turbulent feelings. It was in this frame of mindlessness and overwhelmed feelings that I walked one day from Haines Hall, where the anthropology depart­ment was, to the cafeteria to eat my lunch.

I was suddenly accosted by a strange tremor. I thought I was going to faint, and I sat down on some brick steps. I saw yellow spots in front of my eyes. I had the sensation that I was spinning. I was sure that I was going to get sick to my stomach. My vision became blurry, and finally I could not see a thing. My physical dis­comfort was so total and intense that it did not leave room for a single thought.

I had only bodily sensations of fear and anxiety mixed with elation, and a strange anticipation that I was at the threshold of a gigantic event. They were sensations without the counterpart of thought. At a given moment, I no longer knew whether I was sitting or standing. I was surrounded by the most impenetrable darkness one can imagine, and then, I saw energy as it flowed in the universe.

I saw a succession of luminous spheres walking toward me or away from me. I saw them one at a time, as don Juan had always told me one sees them. I knew they were different individuals because of their differences in size.

I examined the details of their structures. Their luminosity and their roundness were made of fibers that seemed to be stuck together. They were thin or thick fibers. Every one of those luminous figures had a thick, shaggy covering. They looked like some strange, luminous, furry animals, or gigantic round insects covered with luminous hair.

What was the most shocking thing to me was the realization that I had seen those furry insects all my life. Every occasion on which don Juan had made me deliberately see them seemed to me at that moment to be like a detour that I had taken with him. I remembered every instance of his help in making me see people as luminous spheres, and all of those instances were set apart from the bulk of seeing to which I was having access now.

I knew then, as beyond the shadow of a doubt, that I had perceived energy as it flows in the universe all my life, on my own, without anybody's help. Such a realization was overwhelming to me. I felt infinitely, vulnerable, frail. I needed to seek cover; to hide somewhere.

It was exactly like the dream that most of us seem to have at one time or another in which we find ourselves naked and do not know what to do. I felt more than naked; I felt unprotected, weak, and I dreaded returning to my normal state. In a vague way, I sensed that I was lying down. I braced myself for my return to normality. I conceived of the idea that I was going to find myself lying on the brick walk, twitching convulsively, surrounded by a whole circle of spectators.

The sensation that I was lying down became more and more accentuated. I felt that I could move my eyes. I could see light through my closed eyelids, but I dreaded opening them. The odd part was that I did not hear any of those people that I imagined were around me. I heard no noise at all. At last, I ventured open­ing my eyes. I was on my bed, in my office apartment by the cor­ner of Wilshire and Westwood boulevards.

I became quite hysterical upon finding myself in my bed. But for some reason that was beyond my grasp, I calmed down almost immediately. My hysteria was replaced by a bodily indifference, or by a state of bodily satisfaction, something like what one feels after a good meal.

However, I could not quiet my mind. It had been the most shocking thing imaginable for me to realize that I had perceived energy directly all my life. How in the world could it have been possible that I had not known? What had been pre­venting me from gaining access to that facet of my being? Don Juan had said that every human being has the potential to see energy directly. What he had not said was that every human being already sees energy directly but does not know it.

I put that question to a psychiatrist friend. He could not shed any light on my quandary. He thought that my reaction was the result of fatigue and over-stimulation. He gave me a prescription for Valium and told me to rest.

I had not dared mention to anyone that I had woken up in my bed without being able to account for how I had gotten there. Therefore, my haste to see don Juan was more than justified. I flew to Mexico City as soon as I could, rented a car, and drove to where he lived.

"You have done all this before!" don Juan said, laughing, when I narrated my mind-boggling experience to him. "There are only two things that are new. One is that now you have perceived energy all by yourself. What you did was to stop the world, and then you realized that you have always seen energy as it flows in the universe, as every human being does, but without knowing it deliberately. The other new thing is that you have traveled from your inner silence all by yourself.

"You know, without my having to tell you, that anything is pos­sible if one departs from inner silence. This time your fear and vul­nerability made it possible for you to end up in your bed, which is not really that far from the UCLA campus. If you would not indulge in your surprise, you would realize that what you did is nothing, nothing extraordinary for a warrior traveler.

"But the issue which is of the utmost importance is not knowing that you have always perceived energy directly, or your journey­ing from inner silence, but, rather, a twofold affair.

"First, you expe­rienced something which the sorcerers of ancient Mexico called the clear view, or losing the human form; the time when human pettiness vanishes, as if it had been a patch of fog looming over us, a fog that slowly clears up and dissipates.

"But under no circumstances must you consider this accomplishment as an end.

"The sorcerers' world is not an immutable immutable world like the world of everyday life, where they tell you that once you reach a goal, you remain a winner forever.

"In the sorcerers' world, to arrive at a cer­tain goal means that you have simply acquired the most efficient tools to continue your fight, which, by the way, will never end.

"The second part of this twofold matter is that you experienced the most maddening question for the hearts of human beings. You expressed it yourself when you asked yourself the questions: 'How in the world could it have been possible that I did not know that I had perceived energy directly all my life? What had been pre­venting me from gaining access to that facet of my being?'"

The Active Side Of Infinity ©1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 3 - Chapter 18. Mud Shadows.

To sit in silence with don Juan was one of the most enjoyable experiences I knew.

We were comfortably sitting on some stuffed chairs in the back of his house in the mountains of central Mexico. It was late afternoon. There was a pleasant breeze. The sun was behind the house, at our backs. Its fading light created exquisite shades of green in the big trees in the backyard.

There were big trees growing around his house, and beyond it, which obliterated the sight of the city where he lived. This always gave me the impression that I was in the wilderness; a different wilderness than the barren Sonoran desert, but wilderness nonetheless.

"Today, we are going to discuss a most serious topic in sorcery," don Juan said abruptly, "and we are going to begin by talking about the energy body."

Sitting at the back of his house in central Mexico that day, don Juan said that the energy body was of key importance in whatever was taking place in my life.

He saw that it was an energetic fact that my energy body, instead of moving away from me as normally happens, was approaching me with great speed.

"What does it mean that it is approaching me?" I asked.

Smiling, don Juan said, "It means that something is going to knock the daylights out of you. A tremendous degree of control is going to come into your life, but not your control; the energy body's control."

I asked, "Do you mean that some outside force will control me?"

"There are scores of outside forces controlling you at this moment," don Juan replied. "The control that I am referring to is something outside the domain of language.

"It is your control and at the same time it is not. It cannot be classified, but it can certainly be experienced. And above all, it can certainly be manipulated.

"Remember this: This control can be manipulated to your total advantage, of course, which is not your advantage, but the energy body's advantage.

"However, the energy body is you. So we could go on forever like dogs biting their own tails trying to describe this. Language is inadequate. All these experiences are beyond syntax."

Darkness had descended very quickly. The foliage of the trees that had been glowing green a little while before was now very dark and heavy.

Don Juan said that if I paid close attention to the darkness of the foliage without focusing my eyes, and if I sort of looked at it from the corner of my eye, I would see a fleeting shadow crossing my field of vision.

He said, "This is the appropriate time of day for doing what I am asking you to do. It takes a moment to engage the necessary attention in you to do it. Do not stop until you catch that fleeting black shadow."

I did see some strange fleeting black shadow projected on the foliage of the trees. It was either one shadow going back and forth, or there were various fleeting shadows moving from left to right, right to left and straight up in the air.

They looked like fat black fish to me; enormous fish. It was as if gigantic swordfish were flying in the air. I was engrossed in the sight.

Then, finally, it scared me. Although, it became too dark to see the foliage, I could still see the fleeting black shadows.

"What is it, don Juan?" I asked. "I see fleeting black shadows all over the place."

"Ah," he said, "that is the universe at large; incommensurable, nonlinear, and outside the realm of syntax.

"The sorcerers of ancient Mexico were the first ones to see those fleeting shadows, so the sorcerers followed them around. They saw them as you are seeing them, and they saw them as energy that flows in the universe.

"And those sorcerers discovered something transcendental."

He stopped talking and looked at me. His pause was perfectly placed. He stopped talking when I was hanging by a thread.

I asked, "What did they discover, don Juan?"

"They discovered that we have a companion for life," he said, as clearly as he could. "We have a predator that came from the depths of the cosmos, and took over the rule of our lives. Human beings are its prisoners. The predator is our lord and master.

"It has rendered us docile; helpless. If we want to protest, it suppresses our protest. If we want to act independently, it demands that we do not do so."

It was very dark around us, and that seemed to curtail any expression on my part. If it had been daylight, I would have laughed my head off. In the dark, I felt quite inhibited.

"It is pitch black around us," don Juan said, "but if you look out of the corner of your eye, you will still see fleeting shadows jumping all around you."

He was right. I could still see them. Their movement made me dizzy. Don Juan turned on the light, and that seemed to dissipate everything.

Don Juan said, "You have arrived, by your effort alone, to what the shamans of ancient Mexico called the topic of topics.

"I have been beating around the bush all this time, insinuating to you that something is holding us prisoner. Indeed we are held prisoner! This was an energetic fact for the sorcerers of ancient Mexico."

"Why has this predator taken over in the fashion that you are describing, don Juan?" I asked. "There must be a logical explanation."

"There is an explanation," don Juan replied, "which is the simplest explanation in the world.

"They took over because we are food for them, and they squeeze us mercilessly because we are their sustenance.

"Just as we rear chickens in chicken coops, gallineros, the predators rear us in human coops, humaneros. Therefore, their food is always available to them."

I felt that my head was shaking violently from side to side. I could not express my profound sense of unease and discontentment, but my body moved to bring it to the surface. I shook from head to toe without any volition on my part.

I heard myself saying, "No, no, no, no. This is absurd, don Juan. What you are saying is something monstrous. It simply can not be true, for sorcerers, or for average men, or for anyone."

"Why not?" don Juan asked calmly. "Why not? Because it infuriates you?"

"Yes, it infuriates me," I retorted. "Those claims are monstrous!"

"Well," he said, "you have not heard all the claims yet. Wait a bit longer and see how you feel.

"I am going to subject you to a blitz. That is, I am going to subject your mind to tremendous onslaughts; and you cannot get up and leave because you are caught. Not because I am holding you prisoner, but because something in you will prevent you from leaving while another part of you is going to go truthfully berserk. So brace yourself!"

There was something in me which I felt was a 'glutton for punishment'. He was right. I would not have left the house for the world; and yet I did not like one bit the inanities he was spouting.

Don Juan said, "I want to appeal to your analytical mind. Think for a moment, and tell me how you would explain the contradiction between the intelligence of man the engineer, and the stupidity of his systems of beliefs; or the stupidity of his contradictory behavior.

"Sorcerers believe that the predators have given us our systems of beliefs; our ideas of good and evil; our social mores. The predators are the ones who set up our hopes and expectations, and dreams of success or failure. They have given us covetousness, greed, and cowardice. It is the predators who make us complacent, routinary, and egomaniacal."

"But how can they do this, don Juan?" I asked, somehow angered further by what he was saying. "Do they whisper all that in our ears while we are asleep?"

"No, they do not do it that way. That is idiotic!" don Juan said, smiling. "They are infinitely more efficient and organized than that.

"In order to keep us obedient, meek and weak, the predators engaged themselves in a stupendous maneuver- stupendous, of course, from the point of view of a fighting strategist; a horrendous maneuver from the point of view of those who suffer it.

"They gave us their mind! Do you hear me? The predators give us their mind which becomes our mind. The predators' mind is baroque, contradictory, morose, and filled with the fear of being discovered any minute now.

"I know that even though you have never suffered hunger," he went on, "you have food anxiety which is none other than the anxiety of the predator who fears that any moment now its maneuver is going to be uncovered, and its food is going to be denied.

"Through the mind, which after all is their mind, the predators inject into the lives of human beings whatever is convenient for them. The predators ensure in this manner a degree of security to act as a buffer against their fear."

"It is not that I can not accept all this at face value, don Juan," I said. "I could, but there is something so odious about it that it actually repels me. It forces me to take a contradictory stand.

"If it is true that they eat us, how do they do it?"

Don Juan had a broad smile on his face. He was as pleased as punch.

He explained that sorcerers see infant human beings as strange, luminous balls of energy covered from the top to the bottom with a glowing coat something like a plastic cover that is adjusted tightly over their cocoon of energy.

He said that that glowing coat of awareness was what the predators consumed, and that when a human being reached adulthood, all that was left of that glowing coat of awareness was a narrow fringe that went from the ground to the top of the toes. That fringe permitted mankind to continue living, but only barely.

As if I were in a dream, I heard don Juan explaining that, to his knowledge, man was the only species that had the glowing coat of awareness outside that luminous cocoon. Therefore, he became easy prey for an awareness of a different order; such as the heavy awareness of the predator.

He then made the most damaging statement he had made so far. He said that this narrow fringe of awareness was the epicenter of self-reflection where man was irremediably caught.

By playing on our self-reflection, which is the only point of awareness left to us, the predators create flares of awareness that they proceed to consume in a ruthless, predatory fashion.

They give us inane problems that force those flares of awareness to rise, and in this manner they keep us alive in order for them to be fed with the energetic flare of our pseudo-concerns.

There must have been something in what don Juan was saying which was so devastating to me that at that point I actually got sick to my stomach.

After a moment's pause long enough for me to recover, I asked don Juan, "But why is it that the sorcerers of ancient Mexico and all sorcerers today, although they see the predators, do not do anything about it?"

"There is nothing that you and I can do about it," don Juan said in a grave, sad voice. "All we can do is discipline ourselves to the point where they will not touch us.

"How can you ask your fellow men to go through those rigors of discipline? They will laugh and make fun of you; and the more aggressive ones will beat the shit out of you- and not so much because they do not believe it.

"Down in the depths of every human being, there is an ancestral, visceral knowledge about the predators' existence."

My analytical mind swung back and forth like a yo-yo. It left me and came back, and left me and came back again. Whatever don Juan was proposing was preposterous, incredible.

At the same time, it was a most reasonable thing; so simple. It explained every kind of human contradiction I could think of.

But how could one have taken all this seriously? Don Juan was pushing me into the path of an avalanche that would take me down forever.

I felt another wave of a threatening sensation. The wave did not stem from me, yet it was attached to me. Don Juan was doing something to me, mysteriously positive and terribly negative at the same time. I sensed it as an attempt to cut a thin film that seemed to be glued to me.

His eyes were fixed on mine in an unblinking stare. He moved his eyes away, and began to talk without looking at me anymore.

"Whenever doubts plague you to a dangerous point," he said, "do something pragmatic about it. Turn off the light. Pierce the darkness; find out what you can see."

He got up to turn off the lights. I stopped him.

"No, no, don Juan," I said, "do not turn off the lights. I am doing okay."

What I felt then was a most unusual, for me, fear of the darkness. The mere thought of it made me pant. I definitely knew something viscerally, but I would not dare touch it, or bring it to the surface, not in a million years!

"You saw the fleeting shadows against the trees," don Juan said, sitting back against his chair. "That is pretty good. I would like you to see them inside this room. You are not seeing anything. You are just merely catching fleeting images. You have enough energy for that."

I feared that don Juan would get up anyway and turn off the lights, which he did. Two seconds later, I was screaming my head off. Not only did I catch a glimpse of those fleeting images, I heard them buzzing by my ears.

Don Juan doubled up with laughter as he turned on the lights.

"What a temperamental fellow!" he said. "A total disbeliever, on the one hand; and a total pragmatist on the other.

"You must arrange this internal fight, otherwise you are going to swell up like a big toad and burst."

Don Juan kept on pushing his barb deeper and deeper into me. "The sorcerers of ancient Mexico," he said, "saw the predator. They called it the flyer because it leaps through the air. It is not a pretty sight. It is a big shadow, impenetrably dark, a black shadow that jumps through the air. Then, it lands flat on the ground.

"The sorcerers of ancient Mexico were quite ill at ease with the idea of when it made its appearance on Earth. They reasoned that man must have been a complete being at one point, with stupendous insights and feats of awareness that are mythological legends nowadays. And then everything seems to disappear, and we have now a sedated man."

I wanted to get angry and call him a paranoiac, but somehow the righteousness that was usually just underneath the surface of my being was not there.

Something in me was beyond the point of asking myself my favorite question: What if all that he said is true? At the moment he was talking to me that night, in my heart of hearts, I felt that all of what he was saying was true, but at the same time and with equal force, I felt that all that he was saying was absurdity itself.

"What are you saying, don Juan?" I asked feebly. My throat was constricted. I could hardly breathe.

"What I am saying is that what we have against us is not a simple predator. It is very smart and organized. It follows a methodical system to render us useless. Man, the magical being that he is destined to be, is no longer magical. He is an average piece of meat. There are no more dreams for man but the dreams of an animal who is being raised to become a piece of meat: trite, conventional, imbecilic."

Don Juan's words were eliciting a strange, bodily reaction in me comparable to the sensation of nausea. It was as if I were going to get sick to my stomach again. But the nausea was coming from the bottom of my being, from the marrow of my bones. I convulsed involuntarily.

Don Juan shook me by the shoulders forcefully. I felt my neck wobbling back and forth under the impact of his grip. The maneuver calmed me down at once. I felt more in control.

"This predator," don Juan said, "which, of course, is an inorganic being, is not altogether invisible to us as other inorganic beings are. I think as children we do see it, but we decide it is so horrific that we do not want to think about it.

"Children, of course, could insist on focusing on the sight, but everybody else around them dissuades them from doing so.

Continuing, he said, "The only alternative left for mankind is discipline. Discipline is the only deterrent.

"But by discipline I do not mean harsh routines. I do not mean waking up every morning at five-thirty and throwing cold water on yourself until you are blue.

"Sorcerers understand discipline as the capacity to face with serenity odds that are not included in our expectations. For sorcerers, discipline is an art; the art of facing infinity without flinching; not because they are strong and tough, but because they are filled with awe."

"In what way would the sorcerers' discipline be a deterrent to the flyers?" I asked.

Don Juan scrutinized my face as if to discover any signs of my disbelief. He said, "Sorcerers say that discipline makes the glowing coat of awareness unpalatable to the flyer.

"The result is that the predators become bewildered. An inedible glowing coat of awareness is not part of their cognition, I suppose. After being bewildered, they do not have any recourse other than refraining from continuing their nefarious task.

He continued, saying, "If the predators do not eat our glowing coat of awareness for a while, it will keep on growing. Simplifying this matter to the extreme, I can say that sorcerers, by means of their discipline, push the predators away long enough to allow their glowing coat of awareness to grow beyond the level of the toes. Once it goes beyond the level of the toes, it grows back to its natural size.

"The sorcerers of ancient Mexico used to say that the glowing coat of awareness is like a tree. If it is not pruned, it grows to its natural size and volume. As awareness reaches levels higher than the toes, tremendous maneuvers of perception become a matter of course.

"The grand trick of those sorcerers of ancient times," don Juan continued, "was to burden the flyers' mind with discipline.

"Sorcerers found out that if they taxed the flyers' mind with inner silence, the foreign installation would flee, and give any one of the practitioners involved in this maneuver the total certainty of the mind's foreign origin.

"The foreign installation comes back, I assure you, but not as strong; and a process begins in which the fleeing of the flyers' mind becomes routine until one day it flees permanently.

"That is the day when you have to rely on your own devices which are nearly zero. A sad day indeed! There is no one to tell you what to do. There is no mind of foreign origin to dictate the imbecilities you are accustomed to.

"My teacher, the nagual Julian, used to warn all his disciples," don Juan continued, "that this was the toughest day in a sorcerer's life for the real mind that belongs to us.

"The sum total of our experience after a lifetime of domination has been rendered shy, insecure, and shifty.

"Personally, I would say that the real battle of sorcerers begins at that moment. The rest is merely preparation."

I became genuinely agitated. I wanted to know more, and yet a strange feeling in me clamored for me to stop. It alluded to dark results and punishment, something like the wrath of God descending on me for tampering with something veiled by God himself. I made a supreme effort to allow my curiosity to win.

I heard myself say, "What-what-what do you mean, by taxing the flyers' mind?"

"Discipline taxes the foreign mind no end," he replied. "So, through their discipline, sorcerers vanquish the foreign installation."

I was overwhelmed by his statements. I believed that don Juan was either certifiably insane or that he was telling me something so awesome that it froze everything in me.

I noticed, however how quickly I rallied my energy to deny everything he had said. After an instant of panic, I began to laugh, as if don Juan had told me a joke. I even heard myself saying, "Don Juan, don Juan, you are incorrigible!"

Don Juan seemed to understand everything I was experiencing. He shook his head from side to side, and raised his eyes to the heavens in a gesture of mock despair.

He said, "I am so incorrigible, that I am going to give the flyers' mind which you carry inside you one more jolt. I am going to reveal to you one of the most extraordinary secrets of sorcery. I am going to describe to you a finding that took sorcerers thousands of years to verify and consolidate."

He looked at me, smiled maliciously, and said, "The flyers' mind flees forever when a sorcerer succeeds in grabbing on to the vibrating force that holds us together as a conglomerate of energy fields. If a sorcerer maintains that pressure long enough, the flyers' mind flees in defeat. And that is exactly what you are going to do; hold on to the energy that binds you together."

I had the most inexplicable reaction I could have imagined. Something in me actually shook, as if it had received a jolt. I entered into a state of unwarranted fear, which I immediately associated with my religious background.

Don Juan looked at me from head to toe.

"You are fearing the wrath of God, are you not?" he said. "Rest assured, that is not your fear. It is the flyers' fear, because it knows that you will do exactly as I am telling you."

His words did not calm me at all. I felt worse. I was actually convulsing involuntarily, and I had no means to stop it.

"Do not worry," don Juan said calmly. "I know for a fact that those attacks wear off very quickly. The flyer's mind has no concentration whatsoever."

After a moment, everything stopped as don Juan had predicted. To say again that I was bewildered is a euphemism.

This was the first time in my life ever, with don Juan or alone, that I did not know whether I was coming or going.

I wanted to get out of the chair and walk around, but I was deathly afraid. I was filled with rational assertions, and at the same time I was filled with an infantile fear.

I began to breathe deeply as a cold perspiration covered my entire body. I had somehow unleashed on myself a most godawful sight: black, fleeting shadows jumping all around me wherever I turned.

I closed my eyes and rested my head on the arm of the stuffed chair. "I do not know which way to turn, don Juan," I said. "Tonight, you have really succeeded in getting me lost."

Don Juan said, "You are being torn by an internal struggle.

"Down in the depths of you, you know that you are incapable of refusing the agreement that an indispensable part of you, your glowing coat of awareness, is going to serve as an incomprehensible source of nourishment to, naturally, incomprehensible entities.

"And another part of you will stand against this situation with all its might.

"The sorcerers' revolution," he continued, "is that they refuse to honor agreements in which they did not participate.

"Nobody ever asked me if I would consent to being eaten by beings of a different kind of awareness. My parents just brought me into this world to be food, like themselves, and that is the end of the story."

Don Juan stood up from his chair and stretched his arms and legs. "We have been sitting here for hours. It is time to go into the house. I am going to eat. Do you want to eat with me?"

I declined. My stomach was in an uproar.

"I think you had better go to sleep," he said. "The blitz has devastated you."

I did not need any further coaxing. I collapsed onto my bed, and fell asleep like the dead.

At home, as time went by, the idea of the flyers became one of the main fixations of my life. I got to the point where I felt that don Juan was absolutely right about them. No matter how hard I tried, I could not discard his logic.

The more I thought about it, and the more I talked to and observed myself, and my fellow men, the more intense the conviction that something was rendering us incapable of any activity or any interaction or any thought that did not have the self as its focal point.

My concern, as well as the concern of everyone I knew or talked to, was the self.

Since I could not find any explanation for such universal homogeneity, I believed that don Juan's line of thought was the most appropriate way of elucidating the phenomenon.

I went as deeply as I could into readings about myths and legends. In reading, I experienced something I had never felt before: Each of the books I read was an interpretation of myths and legends. In each one of those books, a homogeneous mind was palpable.

The styles differed, but the drive behind the words was homogeneously the same: Even though the theme was something as abstract as myths and legends, the authors always managed to insert statements about themselves. The homogeneous drive behind every one of those books was not the stated theme of the book. Instead, it was self-service. I had never felt this before.

I attributed my reaction to don Juan's influence. The unavoidable question that I posed to myself was: Is he influencing me to see this, or is there really a foreign mind dictating everything we do?

I lapsed, perforce, into denial again, and I went insanely from denial to acceptance to denial. Something in me knew that whatever don Juan was driving at was an energetic fact; but something equally important in me knew that all of that was guff.

The end result of my internal struggle was a sense of foreboding; the sense of something imminently dangerous coming at me.

I made extensive anthropological inquiries into the subject of the flyers in other cultures, but I could not find any references to them anywhere. Don Juan seemed to be the only source of information about this matter.

The next time I saw him, I instantly jumped to talk about the flyers.

I said, "I have tried my best to be rational about this subject matter, but I can not. There are moments when I fully agree with you about the predators."

"Focus your attention on the fleeting shadows that you actually see," don Juan said with a smile.

I told don Juan that those fleeting shadows were going to be the end of my rational life. I saw them everywhere.

Since I had left his house, I was incapable of going to sleep in the dark. To sleep with the lights on did not bother me at all. The moment I turned the lights off, however, everything around me began to jump. I never saw complete figures or shapes. All I saw were fleeting black shadows.

"The flyers' mind has not left you," don Juan said. "It has been seriously injured. It is trying its best to rearrange its relationship with you. But something in you is severed forever. The flyer knows that. The real danger is that the flyers' mind may win by getting you tired and forcing you to quit by playing the contradiction between what it says and what I say.

"You see, the flyers' mind has no competitors," don Juan continued. "When it proposes something, it agrees with its own proposition, and it makes you believe that you have done something of worth.

"The flyers' mind will say to you that whatever Juan Matus is telling you is pure nonsense, and then the same mind will agree with its own proposition, 'Yes, of course, it is nonsense,' you will say. That is the way they overcome us.

"The flyers are an essential part of the universe," he went on, "and they must be taken as what they really are- awesome, monstrous. They are the means by which the universe tests us.

"We are energetic probes created by the universe," he continued as if he were oblivious to my presence, "and it is because we are possessors of energy that has awareness that we are the means by which the universe becomes aware of itself.

"The flyers are the implacable challengers. They cannot be taken as anything else. If we succeed in doing that, the universe allows us to continue."

I wanted don Juan to say more. But he said only, "The blitz ended the last time you were here. There is only so much to be said about the flyers. It is time for another kind of maneuver."

I could not sleep that night. I fell into a light sleep in the early hours of the morning until don Juan dragged me out of my bed and took me for a hike in the mountains.

Where he lived, the configuration of the land was very different from that of the Sonoran desert, but he told me not to indulge in comparison; that after walking for a quarter of a mile, every place in the world was just the same.

He said, "Sightseeing is for people in cars. They go at great speed without any effort on their part. Sightseeing is not for walkers.

"For instance, when you are riding in a car, you may see a gigantic mountain whose sight overwhelms you with its beauty. The sight of the same mountain will not overwhelm you in the same manner if you look at it while you are going on foot. It will overwhelm you in a different way, especially if you have to climb it or go around it."

It was very hot that morning. We walked on a dry riverbed. One thing that this valley and the Sonoran desert had in common was their millions of insects. The gnats and flies all around me were like dive-bombers that aimed at my nostrils, eyes, and ears. Don Juan told me not to pay attention to their buzzing.

"Do not try to disperse them with your hand," he uttered in a firm tone. "Intend them away. Set up an energy barrier around you. Be silent, and from your silence the barrier will be constructed. Nobody knows how this is done. It is one of those things that the old sorcerers called energetic facts. Shut off your internal dialogue. That is all it takes.

"I want to propose a weird idea to you," don Juan went on as he kept walking ahead of me.

I had to accelerate my steps to be closer to him so as not to miss anything he said.

"I have to stress," he said, "that this is a weird idea that will find endless resistance in you. I will tell you beforehand that you will not accept it easily. But the fact that it is weird should not be a deterrent. You are a social scientist. Therefore, your mind is always open to inquiry, is that not so?"

Don Juan was shamelessly making fun of me. I knew it, but it did not bother me. Perhaps due to the fact that he was walking so fast and I had to make a tremendous effort to keep up with him, his sarcasm just sloughed off me, and instead of making me feisty, it made me laugh.

My undivided attention was focused on what he was saying, and the insects either stopped bothering me because I had intended a barrier of energy around me, or because I was so busy listening to don Juan that I did not care about their buzzing around me anymore.

"The weird idea," he said slowly, measuring the effect of his words, "is that every human being on this earth seems to have exactly the same reactions, the same thoughts, the same feelings. They seem to respond in more or less the same way to the same stimuli. Those reactions seem to be sort of fogged up by the language they speak, but if we scrape that off, they are exactly the same reactions that besiege every human being on Earth.

"I would like you to become curious about this, as a social scientist, of course, and see if you could formally account for such homogeneity."

Don Juan collected a series of plants. Some of them could hardly be seen. They seemed to be more in the realm of algae, moss. I held his bag open, and we did not speak anymore. When he had enough plants, he headed back for his house, walking as fast as he could. He said that he wanted to clean and separate those plants, and put them in a proper order before they dried up too much.

I was deeply involved in thinking about the task he had delineated for me. I began by trying to review in my mind if I knew of any articles or papers written on this subject. I thought that I would have to research it, and I decided to begin my research by reading all the works available on 'national character'. I got enthusiastic about the topic, in a haphazard way, and I really wanted to start for home right away because I wanted to take his task to heart; but before we reached his house, don Juan sat down on a high ledge overlooking the valley. He did not say anything for a while. He was not out of breath. I could not conceive of why he had stopped to sit down.

"The task of the day for you," he said abruptly, in a foreboding tone, "is one of the most mysterious things of sorcery, something that goes beyond language; beyond explanations.

"We went for a hike today, and we talked because the mystery of sorcery must be cushioned in the mundane. It must stem from nothing, and go back again to nothing. That is the art of warrior travelers; to go through the eye of a needle unnoticed.

"So, brace yourself by propping your back against this rock wall, as far as possible from the edge. I will be by you, in case you faint or fall down."

"What are you planning to do, don Juan?" I asked, and my alarm was so patent that I noticed it, and lowered my voice.

"I want you to cross your legs, and enter into inner silence," he said. "Let us say that you want to find out what articles you could look for to discredit or substantiate what I have asked you to do in your academic milieu. Enter into inner silence, but do not fall asleep. This is not a journey through the dark sea of awareness. This is seeing from inner silence."

It was rather difficult for me to enter into inner silence without falling asleep. I fought a nearly invincible desire to fall asleep.

I succeeded, and found myself looking at the bottom of the valley from an impenetrable darkness around me. And then, I saw something that chilled me to the marrow of my bones. I saw a gigantic shadow, perhaps fifteen feet across, leaping in the air and then landing with a silent thud. I felt the thud in my bones, but I did not hear it.

"They are really heavy," don Juan said in my ear. He was holding me by the left arm, as hard as he could.

I saw something that looked like a mud shadow wiggle on the ground, and then take another gigantic leap, perhaps fifty feet long, and land again, with the same ominous silent thud.

I fought not to lose my concentration. I was frightened beyond anything I could rationally use as a description. I kept my eyes fixed on the jumping shadow on the bottom of the valley.

Then I heard a most peculiar buzzing, a mixture of the sound of flapping wings and the buzzing of a radio whose dial has not quite picked up the frequency of a radio station, and the thud that followed was something unforgettable. It shook don Juan and me to the core- a gigantic black mud shadow had just landed by our feet.

"Do not be frightened," don Juan said imperiously. "Keep your inner silence and it will move away."

I was shivering from head to toe. I had the clear knowledge that if I did not keep my inner silence alive, the mud shadow would cover me up like a blanket and suffocate me.

Without losing the darkness around me, I screamed at the top of my voice. Never had I been so angry, so utterly frustrated. The mud shadow took another leap, clearly to the bottom of the valley. I kept on screaming, shaking my legs. I wanted to shake off whatever might come to eat me. My state of nervousness was so intense that I lost track of time. Perhaps I fainted.

When I came to my senses, I was lying in my bed in don Juan's house. There was a towel, soaked in icy-cold water, wrapped around my forehead. I was burning with fever. One of don Juan's female cohorts rubbed my back, chest, and forehead with rubbing alcohol, but this did not relieve me. The heat I was experiencing came from within myself. It was wrath and impotence that generated it.

Don Juan laughed as if what was happening to me was the funniest thing in the world. Peals of laughter came out of him in an endless barrage.

"I would never have thought that you would take seeing a flyer so much to heart," he said.

He took me by the hand, and led me to the back of his house where he dunked me in a huge tub of water, fully clothed- shoes, watch, everything.

"My watch, my watch!" I screamed.

Don Juan twisted with laughter. "You should not wear a watch when you come to see me," he said. "Now you have fouled up your watch!"

I took off my watch, and put it by the side of the tub. I remembered that it was waterproof and that nothing would happen to it.

Being dunked in the tub helped me enormously. When don Juan pulled me out of the freezing water, I had gained a degree of control.

"That sight is preposterous!" I kept on repeating, unable to say anything else.

The predator don Juan had described was not something benevolent. It was enormously heavy, gross, indifferent. I felt its disregard for us. Doubtless, it had crushed us ages ago, making us, as don Juan had said, weak, vulnerable, and docile.

I took off my wet clothes, covered myself with a poncho, sat in my bed, and veritably wept my head off; but not for myself. I had my wrath, and my unbending intent not to let them eat me.

I wept for my fellow men, especially for my father. I never knew until that instant that I loved him so much.

"He never had a chance," I heard myself repeating, over and over, as if the words were not really mine. My poor father, the most considerate being I knew, so tender, so gentle, so helpless.

The Active Side Of Infinity ©1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 4 - Chapter 19. The Jump into the Abyss.

There was only one trail leading to the flat mesa. Once we were on the mesa itself, I realized that it was not as extensive as it had appeared when I had looked at it from a distance. The vegetation on the mesa was not different from the vegetation below: faded green woody shrubs that had the ambiguous appearance of trees.

At first, I did not see the chasm. It was only when don Juan led me to it that I became aware that the mesa ended in a precipice. It was not really a mesa, but merely the flat top of a good-sized mountain. The mountain was round and eroded on its east and south faces. However, on part of its west and north sides, it seemed to have been cut with a knife. From the edge of the precipice, I was able to see the bottom of the ravine, perhaps six hundred feet below. It was covered with the same woody shrubs that grew everywhere.

A whole row of small mountains to the south and to the north of that mountaintop gave the clear impression that they had been part of a gigantic canyon, millions of years old, dug out by a no longer existing river. The edges of that canyon had been erased by erosion. At certain points they had been leveled with the ground. The only portion still intact was the area where I was standing.

"It is solid rock," don Juan said as if he were reading my thoughts. He pointed with his chin toward the bottom of the ravine. "If anything were to fall down from this edge to the bottom, it would get smashed to flakes on the rock, down there."

This was the initial dialogue between don Juan and myself that day on that mountaintop. Prior to going there, he had told me that his time on Earth had come to an end. He was leaving on his definitive journey.

His statements were devastating to me. I truly lost my grip, and entered into a blissful state of fragmentation, perhaps similar to what people experience when they have a mental breakdown. But there was a core fragment of myself that remained cohesive: the me of my childhood. The rest was vagueness, incertitude. I had been fragmented for so long that to become fragmented once again was the only way out of my devastation.

A most peculiar interplay between different levels of my awareness took place afterward. Don Juan, his cohort don Genaro, two of his apprentices, Pablito and Nestor, and I had climbed to that mountaintop. Pablito, Nestor, and I were there to take care of our last task as apprentices: to jump into an abyss, a most mysterious affair which don Juan had explained to me at various levels of awareness, but which has remained an enigma to me to this day.

Don Juan jokingly said that I should get my writing pad and start taking notes about our last moments together. He gently poked me in the ribs and assured me, as he hid his laughter, that it would have been only proper since I had started on the warrior' travelers' path by taking notes.

Don Genaro cut in and said that other warrior travelers before us had stood on that same flat mountaintop before embarking on their journey to the unknown.

Don Juan turned to me and in a soft voice said that soon I would be entering into infinity by the force of my personal power, and that he and don Genaro were there only to bid me farewell. Don Genaro cut in again and said that I was there also to do the same for them.

"Once you have entered into infinity," don Juan said, "you can not depend on us to bring you back. Your decision is needed then. Only you can decide whether or not to return. I must also warn you that few warrior travelers survive this type of encounter with infinity. Infinity is enticing beyond belief. A warrior traveler finds that to return to the world of disorder, compulsion, noise, and pain is a most unappealing affair. You must know that your decision to stay or to return is not a matter of a reasonable choice, but a matter of intending it.

"If you choose not to return," he continued, "you will disappear as if the earth had swallowed you. But if you choose to come back, you must tighten your belt and wait like a true warrior traveler until your task, whatever it might be, is finished; either in success or in defeat."

A very subtle change began to take place in my awareness then. I started to remember faces of people, but I was not sure I had met them. Strange feelings of anguish and affection started to mount.

Don Juan's voice was no longer audible. I longed for people I sincerely doubted I had ever met. I was suddenly possessed by the most unbearable love for those persons, whoever they may have been. My feelings for them were beyond words, and yet I could not tell who they were. I only sensed their presence, as if I had lived another life before, or as if I were feeling for people in a dream. I sensed that their outside forms shifted: They began by being tall and ended up petite. What was left intact was their essence; the very thing that produced my unbearable longing for them.

Don Juan came to my side and said to me, "The agreement was that you remain in the awareness of the daily world." His voice was harsh and authoritative. "Today you are going to fulfill a concrete task," he went on, "the last link of a long chain; and you must do it in your utmost mood of reason."

I had never heard don Juan talk to me in that tone of voice. He was a different man at that instant, yet he was thoroughly familiar to me. I meekly obeyed him and went back to the awareness of the world of everyday life. I did not know that I was doing this, however. To me, it appeared, on that day, as if I had acquiesced to don Juan out of fear and respect.

Don Juan spoke to me next in the tone I was accustomed to. What he said was also very familiar. He said that the backbone of a warrior traveler is humbleness and efficiency; acting without expecting anything, and withstanding anything that lies ahead of him.

I went at that point through another shift in my level of awareness. My mind focused on a thought, or a feeling of anguish. I knew then that I had made a pact with some people to die with them, and I could not remember who they were. I felt, without the shadow of a doubt, that it was wrong that I should die alone. My anguish became unbearable.

Don Juan spoke to me. "We are alone," he said. "That is our condition, but to die alone is not to die in loneliness."

I took big gulps of air to erase my tension. As I breathed deeply, my mind became clear.

"The great issue with us males is our frailty," he went on. "When our awareness begins to grow, it grows like a column, right on the midpoint of our luminous being, from the ground up. That column has to reach a considerable height before we can rely on it.

"At this time in your life, as a sorcerer, you easily lose your grip on your new awareness. When you do that, you forget everything you have done and seen on the warrior travelers' path because your consciousness shifts back to the awareness of your everyday life.

"I have explained to you that the task of every male sorcerer is to reclaim everything he has done and seen on the warrior travelers' path while he was on new levels of awareness. The problem of every male sorcerer is that he easily forgets because his awareness loses its new level and falls to the ground at the drop of a hat."

"I understand exactly what you are saying, don Juan," I said.

"Perhaps this is the first time I have come to the full realization of why I forget everything, and why I remember everything later. I have always believed that my shifts were due to a personal pathological condition: I know now why these changes take place, yet I can not verbalize what I know."

"Do not worry about verbalizations," don Juan said. "You will verbalize all you want in due time. Today, you must act on your inner silence; on what you know without knowing. You know to perfection what you have to do, but this knowledge is not quite formulated in your thoughts yet."

On the level of concrete thoughts or sensations, all I had were vague feelings of knowing something that was not part of my mind. I had, then, the clearest sense of having taken a huge step down: Something seemed to have dropped inside me. It was almost a jolt. I knew that I had entered into another level of awareness at that instant.

Don Juan told me then that it is obligatory that a warrior traveler say good-bye to all the people he leaves behind. He must say his good-bye in a loud and clear voice so that his shout and his feelings will remain forever recorded in those mountains.

I hesitated for a long time, not out of bashfulness, but because I did not know whom to include in my thanks. I had completely internalized the sorcerers' concept that warrior travelers can not owe anything to anyone.

Don Juan had drilled a sorcerers' axiom into me: "Warrior travelers pay elegantly, generously, and with unequaled ease every favor, every service rendered to them. In this manner, they get rid of the burden of being indebted."

I had paid, or I was in the process of paying, everyone who had honored me with their care or concern. I had recapitulated my life to such an extent that I had not left a single stone unturned. I truthfully believed in those days that I did not owe anything to anyone. I expressed my beliefs and hesitation to don Juan.

Don Juan said that I had indeed recapitulated my life thoroughly, but he added that I was far from being free of indebtedness.

"How about your ghosts?" he went on. "Those you can no longer touch?"

He knew what he was talking about. During my recapitulation, I had recounted to him every incident of my life. Out of the hundreds of incidents that I related to him, he had isolated three as samples of indebtedness that I incurred very early in life, and added to that, my indebtedness to the person who was instrumental in my meeting him. I had thanked my friend profusely, and I had sensations that something out there acknowledged my thanks. The other three had remained stories from my life; stories of people who had given me an inconceivable gift, and whom I had never thanked.

One of these stories had to do with a man I had known when I was a child. His name was Mr. Leandro Acosta. He was my grandfather's arch-enemy; his true nemesis.

My grandfather had accused this man repeatedly of stealing chickens from his chicken farm. The man was not a vagrant, but someone who did not have a steady, definite job. He was a maverick of sorts, a gambler, a master of many trades: handyman, self-styled curer, hunter and provider of plant and insect specimens for local herbalists and curers and any kind of bird or mammal life for taxidermists or pet shops.

People believed that he made tons of money, but that he could not keep it or invest it. His detractors and friends alike believed that he could have established the most prosperous business in the area, doing what he knew best- searching for plants and hunting animals- but that he was cursed with a strange disease of the spirit that made him restless; incapable of tending to anything for any length of time.

One day, while I was taking a stroll on the edge of my grandfather's farm, I noticed that someone was watching me from between the thick bushes at the forest's edge. It was Mr. Acosta. He was squatting inside the bushes of the jungle itself. He would have been totally out of sight had it not been for my sharp eight year old eyes.

"No wonder my grandfather thinks that he comes to steal chickens," I thought. I believed that no one else but me could have noticed him: He was utterly concealed by his motionlessness. I had caught the difference between the bushes and his silhouette by feeling rather than sight. I approached him. The fact that people rejected him so viciously, or liked him so passionately, intrigued me no end.

"What are you doing there, Mr. Acosta?" I asked daringly.

"I am taking a shit while I look at your grandfather's farm," he said, "so you better scram before I get up unless you like the smell of shit."

I moved away a short distance. I wanted to know if he was really doing what he was claiming. He was. He got up. I thought he was going to leave the bush and come onto my grandfather's land and perhaps walk across to the road, but he did not. He began to walk inward, into the jungle.

"Hey, hey, Mr. Acosta!" I yelled. "Can I come with you?"

I noticed that he had stopped walking. It was again more a feeling than an actual sight because the bush was so thick.

"You can certainly come with me if you can find an entry into the bush," he said.

That was not difficult for me. In my hours of idleness, I had marked an entry into the bush with a good-sized rock. I had found out through an endless process of trial and error that there was a crawling space there, which if I followed for three or four yards turned into an actual trail on which I could stand up and walk.

Mr. Acosta came to me and said, "Bravo, kid! You have done it. Yes, come with me if you want to."

That was the beginning of my association with Mr. Leandro Acosta. We went on daily hunting expeditions. Our association became so obvious- since I was gone from the house from dawn to sunset without anybody ever knowing where I went- that finally my grandfather admonished me severely.

"You must select your acquaintances," he said, "or you will end up being like them. I will not tolerate this man affecting you in any way imaginable. He could certainly transmit to you his elan, yes. And he could influence your mind to be just like his; useless. I Am telling you, if you do not put an end to this, I will. I will send the authorities after him on charges of stealing my chickens, because you know damn well that he comes every day and steals them."

I tried to show my grandfather the absurdity of his charges. Mr. Acosta did not have to steal chickens. He had the vastness of that jungle at his command. He could have drawn from that jungle anything he wanted. But my arguments infuriated my grandfather even more.

I realized then that my grandfather secretly envied Mr. Acosta's freedom, and Mr. Acosta was transformed for me by this realization from a nice hunter into the ultimate expression of what is at the same time both forbidden and desired.

I attempted to curtail my encounters with Mr. Acosta, but the lure was just too overwhelming for me. Then, one day, Mr. Acosta and three of his friends proposed that I do something that Mr. Acosta had never done before: catch a vulture alive, uninjured.

He explained to me that the vultures of the area, which were enormous with a five to six-foot wingspan, had seven different types of flesh in their bodies; and each one of those seven types served a specific curative purpose. He said that the desired state was that the vulture's body not be injured. The vulture had to be killed by tranquilizer, not by violence. It was easy to shoot them, but in that case, the meat lost its curative value.

So the art was to catch them alive, a thing that he had never done. He had figured out, though, that with my help and the help of his three friends he had the problem licked. He assured me that his was a natural conclusion arrived at after hundreds of occasions on which he had observed the behavior of vultures.

"We need a dead donkey in order to perform this feat; something which we have," he declared ebulliently.

He looked at me, waiting for me to ask the question of what would be done with the dead donkey. Since the question was not asked, he proceeded.

"We remove the intestines, and we put some sticks in there to keep the roundness of the belly.

"The leader of the turkey vultures is the king: He is the biggest; the most intelligent," he went on. "No sharper eyes exist. That is what makes him a king. He will be the one who will spot the dead donkey, and the first who will land on it. He will land downwind from the donkey to really smell that it is dead. The intestines and soft organs that we are going to draw out of the donkey's belly we will pile by his rear end, outside. This way, it looks like a wild cat has already eaten some of it.

"Then, lazily, the vulture will come closer to the donkey. He will take his time. He will come hopping-flying, and then he will land on the dead donkey's hip and begin to rock the donkey's body. He would turn it over if it were not for the four sticks that we will stake into the ground as part of the armature. He will stand on the hip for a while, and that will be the clue for other vultures to come and land there in the vicinity. Only when he has three or four of his companions down with him will the king vulture begin his work."

"And what is my role in all this, Mr. Acosta?" I asked.

"You hide inside the donkey," he said with a deadpan expression. "Nothing to it. I give you a pair of specially designed leather gloves, and you sit there and wait until the king turkey vulture rips the anus of the dead donkey open with his enormous powerful beak and sticks his head in to begin eating. Then you grab him by the neck with both hands, and do not let go.

"My three friends and I will be hiding on horseback in a deep ravine. I will be watching the operation with binoculars. When I see that you have grabbed the king vulture by the neck, we will come at full gallop, and throw ourselves on top of the vulture and subdue him."

"Can you subdue that vulture, Mr. Acosta?" I asked him. Not that I doubted his skill, I just wanted to be assured.

"Of course I can!" he said with all the confidence in the world. "We are all going to be wearing gloves and leather leggings. The vulture's talons are quite powerful. They could break a shinbone like a twig."

There was no way out for me. I was caught; nailed by an exorbitant excitation. My admiration for Mr. Leandro Acosta knew no limits at that moment. I saw him as a true hunter; resourceful, cunning, knowledgeable.

"Okay, let us do it then!" I said.

"That is my boy!" said Mr. Acosta. "I expected as much from you." He had put a thick blanket behind his saddle, and one of his friends just lifted me up and put me on Mr. Acosta's horse, right behind the saddle, sitting on the blanket.

"Hold on to the saddle," Mr. Acosta said, "and as you hold on to the saddle, hold the blanket, too."

We took off at a leisurely trot. We rode for perhaps an hour until we came to some flat, dry, desolate lands. We stopped by a tent that resembled a vendor's stand in a market. It had a flat roof for shade. Underneath that roof was a dead brown donkey. It did not seem that old. It looked like an adolescent donkey.

Neither Mr. Acosta nor his friends explained to me whether they had found or killed the dead donkey. I waited for them to tell me, but I was not going to ask. While they made the preparations, Mr. Acosta explained that the tent was in place because vultures were on the lookout from huge distances out there, circling very high, out of sight, but certainly capable of seeing everything that was going on.

"Those creatures are creatures of sight alone," Mr. Acosta said. "They have miserable ears, and their noses are not as good as their eyes. We have to plug every hole of the carcass. I do not want you to be peeking out of any hole, because they will see your eye, and never come down. They must see nothing."

They put some sticks inside the donkey's belly and crossed them, leaving enough room for me to crawl in. At one moment I finally ventured the question that I was dying to ask.

"Tell me, Mr. Acosta, this donkey surely died of illness, did he not? Do you think its disease could affect me?"

Mr. Acosta raised his eyes to the sky. "Come on! You cannot be that dumb. Donkey's diseases cannot be transmitted to man. Let us live this adventure and not worry about stupid details. If I were shorter, I would be inside that donkey's belly myself. Do you know what it is to catch the king of turkey buzzards?"

I believed him. His words were sufficient to set up a cloak of unequaled confidence over me. I was not going to get sick, and miss the event of events.

The dreaded moment came when Mr. Acosta put me inside the donkey. Then they stretched the skin over the armature and began to sew it closed. They left, nevertheless, a large area open at the bottom, against the ground, for air to circulate in. The horrendous moment for me came when the skin was finally closed over my head like the lid of a coffin. I breathed hard, thinking only about the excitement of grabbing the king of vultures by the neck.

Mr. Acosta gave me last minute instructions. He said that he would let me know by a whistle that resembled a bird-call when the king vulture was flying around and when it had landed, so as to keep me informed and prevent me from fretting or getting impatient. Then I heard them pulling down the tent, followed by their horses galloping away. It was a good thing that they had not left a single space open to look out from because that is what I would have done. The temptation to look up, and see what was going on was nearly irresistible.

A long time went by in which I did not think of anything. Then I heard Mr. Acosta's whistling, and I presumed the king vulture was circling around. My presumption turned to certainty when I heard the flapping of powerful wings, and then suddenly, the dead donkey's body began to rock as if it were in a windstorm. Then I felt a weight on the donkey's body, and I knew that the king vulture had landed on the donkey and was not moving anymore. I heard the flapping of other wings and the whistling of Mr. Acosta in the distance. Then I braced myself for the inevitable. The body of the donkey began to shake as something started to rip the skin.

Then, suddenly, a huge, ugly head with a red crest, an enormous beak, and a piercing, open eye burst in. I yelled with fright and grabbed the neck with both hands. I think I stunned the king vulture for an instant because he did not do anything, which gave me the opportunity to grab his neck even harder, and then all hell broke loose.

He ceased to be stunned and began to pull with such force that I was smashed against the structure, and in the next instant I was partially out of the donkey's body, armature and all, holding on to the neck of the invading beast for dear life.

I heard Mr. Acosta's galloping horse in the distance. I heard him yelling, "Let go, boy, let go, he is going to fly away with you!"

The king vulture indeed was going to either fly away with me holding on to his neck or rip me apart with the force of his talons. The reason he could not reach me was because his head was sunk halfway into the viscera and the armature. His talons kept slipping on the loose intestines and they never actually touched me. Another thing that saved me was that the force of the vulture was involved in pulling his neck out from my clasp and he could not move his talons far forward enough to really injure me. The next thing I knew, Mr. Acosta had landed on top of the vulture at the precise moment that my leather gloves came off my hands.

Mr. Acosta was beside himself with joy. "We have done it, boy. We have done it!" he said. "The next time, we will have longer stakes on the ground that the vulture cannot yank out, and you will be strapped to the structure."

My relationship with Mr. Acosta had lasted long enough for us to catch a vulture. Then my interest in following him disappeared as mysteriously as it had appeared and I never really had the opportunity to thank him for all the things that he had taught me.

Don Juan said that he had taught me the patience of a hunter at the best time to learn it; and above all, he had taught me to draw from solitariness all the comfort that a hunter needs.

"You cannot confuse solitude with solitariness," don Juan explained to me once. "Solitude for me is psychological, of the mind. Solitariness is physical. One is debilitating, the other comforting."

For all this, don Juan had said, I was indebted to Mr. Acosta forever whether or not I understood indebtedness the way warrior travelers understand it.

The second person don Juan thought I was indebted to was a ten year old child I had known growing up. His name was Armando Velez. Just like his name, he was extremely dignified, and starchy; a little old man. I liked him very much because he was firm and yet very friendly. He was someone who could not easily be intimidated. He would fight anyone if he needed to, and yet he was not a bully at all.

The two of us used to go on fishing expeditions. We used to catch very small fish that lived under rocks and had to be gathered by hand. We would put the tiny fish we caught to dry in the sun and eat them raw, all day sometimes.

I also liked the fact that he was very resourceful and clever as well as being ambidextrous. He could throw a rock with his left hand farther than with his right. We had endless competitive games in which, to my ultimate chagrin, he always won. He used to sort of apologize to me for winning by saying, "If I slow down and let you win, you will hate me. It will be an affront to your manhood. So try harder."

Because of his excessively starchy behavior, we used to call him 'Senor Velez', but the 'Senor' was shortened to 'Sho', a custom typical of the region in South America where I come from.

One day, Sho Velez asked me something quite unusual. He began his request, naturally, as a challenge to me. "I bet anything," he said, "that I know something that you would not dare do."

"What are you talking about, Sho Velez?"

"You would not dare go down a river in a raft."

"Oh yes I would. I have done it in a flooded river. I got stranded on an island for eight days once. They had to drift food to me."

This was the truth. My other best friend was a child nicknamed Crazy Shepherd. We got stranded in a flood on an island once; with no way for anyone to rescue us. Townspeople expected the flood to overrun the island and kill us both. They drifted baskets of food down the river in the hope that they would land on the island, which they did. They kept us alive in this fashion until the water had subsided enough for them to reach us with a raft and pull us to the banks of the river.

"No, this is a different affair," Sho Velez continued with his erudite attitude. "This one implies going on a raft on a subterranean river."

He pointed out that a huge section of a local river went through a mountain. That subterranean section of the river had always been a most intriguing place for me. Its entrance into the mountain was a foreboding cave of considerable size, always filled with bats and smelling of ammonia. Children of the area were told that it was the entrance to hell: sulfur fumes, heat, stench.

"You bet your friggin' boots, Sho Velez, that I will never go near that river in my lifetime!" I said, yelling. "Not in ten lifetimes! You have to be really crazy to do something like that."

Sho Velez's serious face got even more solemn. "Oh," he said, "then I will have to do it all by myself. I thought for a minute that I could goad you into going with me. I was wrong. My loss."

"Hey, Sho Velez, what is with you? Why in the world would you go into that hellish place?"

"I have to," he said in his gruff little voice. "You see, my father is as crazy as you are, except that he is a father and a husband. He has six people who depend on him. Otherwise, he would be as crazy as a goat. My two sisters, my two brothers, my mother and I depend on him. He is everything to us."

I did not know who Sho Velez's father was. I had never seen him. I did not know what he did for a living. Sho Velez revealed that his father was a businessman, and that everything that he owned was on the line, so to speak.

"My father has constructed a raft and wants to go. He wants to make that expedition. My mother says that he is just letting off steam, but I do not trust him," Sho Velez continued. "I have seen your crazy look in his eyes. One of these days, he will do it, and I am sure that he will die. So, I am going to take his raft and go into that river myself. I know that I will die, but my father will not."

I felt something like an electric shock go through my neck, and I heard myself saying in the most agitated tone one can imagine, "I will do it, Sho Velez, I will do it. Yes, yes, it will be great! I will go with you!"

Sho Velez had a smirk on his face. I understood it as a smirk of happiness at the fact that I was going with him, not at the fact that he had succeeded in luring me. He expressed that feeling in his next sentence. "I know that if you are with me, I will survive," he said.

I did not care whether Sho Velez survived or not. What had galvanized me was his courage. I knew that Sho Velez had the guts to do what he was saying. He and Crazy Shepherd were the only gutsy kids in town. They both had something that I considered unique and unheard of: courage. No one else in that whole town had any. I had tested them all. As far as I was concerned, every one of them was dead, including the love of my life, my grandfather. I knew this without the shadow of a doubt when I was ten. Sho Velez's daring was a staggering realization for me. I wanted to be with him to the bitter end.

We made plans to meet at the crack of dawn, which we did, and the two of us carried his father's lightweight raft for three or four miles out of town, into some low, green mountains to the entrance of the cave where the river became subterranean. The smell of bat manure was overwhelming. We crawled on the raft and pushed ourselves into the stream. The raft was equipped with flashlights, which we had to turn on immediately. It was pitch black inside the mountain and humid and hot. The water was deep enough for the raft and fast enough that we did not need to paddle.

The flashlights would create grotesque shadows. Sho Velez whispered in my ear that perhaps it was better not to look at all, because it was truly something more than frightening. He was right; it was nauseating, oppressive. The lights stirred bats so that they began to fly around us, flapping their wings aimlessly. As we traveled deeper into the cave, there were not even bats anymore, just stagnant air that was heavy and hard to breathe. After what seemed like hours to me, we came to a sort of pool where the water was very deep: It hardly moved. It looked as if the main stream had been dammed.

"We are stuck," Sho Velez whispered in my ear again. "There is no way for the raft to go through, and there is no way for us to go back."

The current was just too great for us to even attempt a return trip. We decided that we had to find a way out. I realized then that if we stood on top of the raft, we could touch the ceiling of the cave, which meant that the water had been dammed almost all the way to the top of the cave. At the entrance it was cathedral-like, maybe fifty feet high. My only conclusion was that we were on top of a pool that was about fifty feet deep.

We tied the raft to a rock and began to swim downward into the depths, trying to feel for a movement of water, a current. Everything was humid and hot on the surface but very cold a few feet below. My body felt the change in temperature and I became frightened; a strange animal fear that I had never felt before. I surfaced. Sho Velez must have felt the same. We bumped into each other on the surface.

"I think we are close to dying," he said solemnly.

I did not share his solemnity or his desire to die. I searched frantically for an opening. Flood-waters must have carried rocks that had created a dam. I found a hole big enough for my ten-year-old body to go through. I pulled Sho Velez down and showed the hole to him. It was impossible for the raft to go through it. We pulled our clothes from the raft and tied them into a very tight bundle and swam downward with them until we found the hole again and went through it.

We ended up on a water slide, like the ones in an amusement park. Rocks covered with lichen and moss allowed us to slide for a great distance without being injured at all. Then we came into an enormous cathedral-like cave, where the water continued flowing, waist deep. We saw the light of the sky at the end of the cave and waded out. Without saying a word, we spread out our clothes and let them dry in the sun, then headed back for town. Sho Velez was nearly inconsolable because he had lost his father's raft.

"My father would have died there," he finally conceded. "His body would never have gone through the hole we went through. He is too big for it. My father is a big, fat man," he said. "But he would have been strong enough to walk his way back to the entrance."

I doubted it. As I remembered, at times, due to the inclination, the current was astoundingly fast. I conceded that perhaps a desperate, big man could have finally walked his way out with the aid of ropes and a lot of effort.

The issue of whether Sho Velez's father would have died there or not was not resolved then, but that did not matter to me. What mattered was that for the first time in my life I had felt the sting of envy. Sho Velez was the only being I have ever envied in my life. He had someone to die for, and he had proved to me that he would do it: I had no one to die for, and I had proved nothing at all.

In a symbolic fashion, I gave Sho Velez the total cake. His triumph was complete. I bowed out. That was his town, those were his people, and he was the best among them as far as I was concerned. When we parted that day, I spoke a banality that turned out to be a deep truth when I said, "Be the king of them, Sho Velez. You are the best."

I never spoke to him again. I purposely ended my friendship with him. I felt that this was the only gesture I could make to denote how profoundly I had been affected by him.

Don Juan believed that my indebtedness to Sho Velez was imperishable, that he was the only one who had ever taught me that we must have something we could die for before we could think that we have something to live for.

"If you have nothing to die for," don Juan said to me once, "how can you claim that you have something to live for? The two go hand in hand, with death at the helm."

The third person don Juan thought I was indebted to beyond my life and my death was my grandmother on my mother's side. In my blind affection for my grandfather- the male- I had forgotten the real source of strength in that household: my very eccentric grandmother.

Many years before I came to their household, she had saved a local Indian from being lynched. He had been accused of being a sorcerer. Some irate young men were actually hanging him from a tree on my grandmother's property. She came upon the lynching and stopped it. All the lynchers seemed to have been her godsons and they would not dare go against her. She pulled the man down, and took him home to cure him. The rope had already cut a deep wound on his neck.

His wounds healed, but he never left my grandmother's side. He claimed that his life had ended the day of the lynching, and that whatever new life he had no longer belonged to him: It belonged to her. Being a man of his word, he dedicated his life to serving my grandmother. He was her valet, 'major-domo', and counselor.

My aunts said that it was he who had advised my grandmother to adopt a newborn orphan child as her son, something that they resented more than bitterly. When I came into my grandparents' house, my grandmother's adopted son was already in his late thirties; and she had sent him to study in France.

One afternoon, out of the blue, a most elegantly dressed husky man got out of a taxi in front of the house. The driver carried his leather suitcases to the patio. The husky man tipped the driver generously.

I noticed in one glance that the husky man's features were very striking. He had long, curly hair, long, curly eyelashes. He was extremely handsome without being physically beautiful. His best feature was, however, his beaming, open smile, which he immediately turned on me.

"May I ask your name, young man?" he said with the most beautiful stage voice I had ever heard.

The fact that he had addressed me as young man had won me over instantly. "My name is Carlos Aranha, sir," I said, "and may I ask in turn, what is yours?"

He made a gesture of mock surprise. He opened his eyes wide and jumped backward as if he had been attacked. Then he began to laugh uproariously.

At the sound of his laughter, my grandmother came out to the patio. When she saw the husky man, she screamed like a small girl and threw her arms around him in a most affectionate embrace. He lifted her up as if she weighed nothing and twirled her around. I noticed then that he was very tall. His huskiness hid his height. He actually had the body of a professional fighter. He seemed to notice that I was eyeing him. He flexed his biceps.

"I have done some boxing in my day, sir," he said, thoroughly aware of what I was thinking.

My grandmother introduced him to me. She said that he was her son Antoine; her baby; the apple of her eye. She said that he was a dramatist; a theater director; a writer; a poet.

The fact that he was so athletic was his winning ticket with me.

I did not understand at first that he was adopted. I noticed, however, that he did not look at all like the rest of the family. While every one of the members of my family were corpses that walked, he was alive; vital from the inside out. We hit it off marvelously. I liked the fact that he worked out every day, punching a bag. I liked immensely that, not only did he punch the bag, he kicked it, too, in the most astounding style; a mixture of boxing and kicking. His body was as hard as a rock.

One day Antoine confessed to me that his only fervent desire in life was to be a writer of note.

"I have everything," he said. "Life has been very generous to me. The only thing I do not have is the only thing I want: talent. The muses do not like me. I appreciate what I read, but I cannot create anything that I like to read. That is my torment; I lack the discipline or the charm to entice the muses, so my life is as empty as anything can be."

Antoine went on to tell me that the one reality that he had was his mother. He called my grandmother his bastion, his support, his twin soul. He ended up by voicing a very disturbing thought to me.

He said, "If I did not have my mother, I would not live."

I realized then how profoundly tied he was to my grandmother. All the horror stories that my aunts had told me about the spoiled child Antoine became suddenly very vivid for me. My grandmother had really spoiled him beyond salvation.

Yet they seemed so very happy together. I saw them sitting for hours on end; his head on her lap as if he were still a child. I had never heard my grandmother converse with anybody for such lengths of time.

Abruptly, one day Antoine started to produce a lot of writing. He began to direct a play at the local theater, a play that he had written himself. When it was staged, it became an instant success. His poems were published in the local paper. He seemed to have hit a creative streak.

But only a few months later it all came to an end. The editor of the town's paper publicly denounced Antoine: He accused him of plagiarism and published in the paper the proof of Antoine's guilt.

My grandmother, of course, would not hear of her son's misbehavior. She explained it all as a case of profound envy. Every one of those people in that town was envious of the elegance; the style of her son. They were envious of his personality; of his wit. Indeed, he was the personification of elegance and savoir faire.

But he was a plagiarist for sure. There was no doubt about it.

Antoine never explained his behavior to anyone. I liked him too much to ask him anything about it. Besides, I did not care. His reasons were his reasons, as far as I was concerned.

But something was broken: From then on, our lives moved in leaps and bounds, so to speak. Things changed so drastically in the house from one day to the next that I grew accustomed to expect anything; the best or the worst.

One night my grandmother walked into Antoine's room in a most dramatic fashion. There was a look of hardness in her eyes that I had never seen before. Her lips trembled as she spoke.

"Something terrible has happened, Antoine," she began.

Antoine interrupted her. He begged her to let him explain.

She cut him off abruptly. "No, Antoine, no," she said firmly. "This has nothing to do with you. It has to do with me. At this very difficult time for you, something of greater importance yet has happened. Antoine, my dear son, I have run out of time.

"I want you to understand that this is inevitable," she went on. "I have to leave, but you must remain. You are the sum total of everything that I have done in this life. Good or bad, Antoine, you are all I am. Give life a try. In the end, we will be together again anyway. Meanwhile, however, 'do', Antoine: Do. Whatever, it does not matter what, as long as you do."

I saw Antoine's body as it shivered with anguish. I saw how he contracted his total being; all the muscles of his body; all his strength. It was as if he had shifted gears from his problem, which was like a river, to the ocean.

"Promise me that you will not die until you die!" she shouted at him.

Antoine nodded his head.

My grandmother, the next day, on the advice of her Indian sorcerer counselor, sold all her holdings, which were quite sizable, and turned the money over to her son Antoine. And the following day, very early in the morning, the strangest scene that I had ever witnessed took place in front of my ten year old eyes; the moment in which Antoine said good-bye to his mother. It was a scene as unreal as the set of a moving picture; unreal in the sense that it seemed to have been concocted; written down somewhere; created by a series of adjustments that a writer makes and a director carries out.

The patio of my grandparents' house was the setting. Antoine was the main protagonist; his mother the leading actress. Antoine was traveling that day. He was going to the port. He was going to catch an Italian liner and go over the Atlantic to Europe on a leisurely cruise. He was as elegantly dressed as ever. A taxi driver was waiting for him outside the house, blowing the horn of his taxi impatiently.

I had witnessed Antoine's last feverish night when he tried as desperately as anyone can try to write a poem for his mother.

"It is crap," he said to me. "Everything that I write is crap. I am a nobody."

I assured him, even though I was nobody to assure him, that whatever he was writing was great. At one moment, I got carried away and stepped over certain boundaries I should never have crossed.

"Take it from me, Antoine," I yelled. "I am a worse nobody than you! You have a mother. I have nothing. Whatever you are writing is fine."

Very politely, he asked me to leave his room. I had succeeded in making him feel stupid; having to listen to advice from a nobody kid. I bitterly regretted my outburst. I would have liked him to keep on being my friend.

Antoine had his elegant overcoat neatly folded, draped over his right shoulder. He was wearing a most beautiful green suit of English cashmere.

My grandmother spoke. "You have to hurry up, dear," she said. "Time is of the essence. You have to leave. If you do not, these people will kill you for the money."

She was referring to her daughters, and their husbands, who were beyond fury when they found out that their mother had quietly disinherited them; and that the hideous Antoine, their arch-enemy, was going to get away with everything that was rightfully theirs.

"I am sorry I have to put you through all this," my grandmother apologized. "But, as you know, time is independent of our wishes."

Antoine spoke with his grave, beautifully modulated voice. He sounded more than ever like a stage actor. "It will take but a minute, Mother," he said. "I would like to read something that I have written for you."

It was a poem of thanks. When he had finished reading, he paused. There was such a wealth of feeling in the air; such a tremor.

"It was sheer beauty, Antoine," my grandmother said, sighing. "It expressed everything that you wanted to say. Everything that I wanted to hear." She paused for an instant. Then her lips broke into an exquisite smile.

"Plagiarized, Antoine?" she asked.

Antoine's smile in response to his mother was equally beaming. "Of course, Mother," he said. "Of course."

They embraced, weeping. The horn of the taxi sounded more impatient yet. Antoine looked at me where I was hiding under the stairway. He nodded his head slightly, as if to say, "Good-bye. Take care."

Then he turned around, and without looking at his mother again, he ran toward the door. He was thirty-seven years old, but he looked like he was sixty, he seemed to carry such a gigantic weight on his shoulders. He stopped before he reached the door, when he heard his mother's voice admonishing him for the last time.

"Do not turn around to look, Antoine," she said. "Do not turn around to look, ever. Be happy, and do. Do! There is the trick. Do!"

The scene filled me with a strange sadness that lasts to this day; a most inexplicable melancholy that don Juan explained as my first-time knowledge that we do run out of time.

The next day my grandmother left with her 'counselor/ manservant/ valet' on a journey to a mythical place called Rondonia, where her sorcerer-helper was going to elicit her cure. My grandmother was terminally ill, although I did not know it.

She never returned, and don Juan explained the selling of her holdings and giving them to Antoine as a supreme sorcerers' maneuver executed by her counselor to detach her from the care of her family. They were so angry with Mother for her deed that they did not care whether or not she returned. I had the feeling that they did not even realize that she had left.

On the top of that flat mountain, I recollected those three events as if they had happened only an instant before. When I expressed my thanks to those three persons, I succeeded in bringing them back to that mountaintop. At the end of my shouting, my loneliness was something inexpressible. I was weeping uncontrollably.

Don Juan very patiently explained to me that loneliness is inadmissible in a warrior. He said that warrior travelers can count on one being on which they can focus all their love; all their care: this marvelous Earth, the mother, the matrix, the epicenter of everything we are and everything we do; the very being to which all of us return; the very being that allows warrior travelers to leave on their definitive journey.

Don Genaro proceeded to perform then an act of magical intent for my benefit. Lying on his stomach, he executed a series of dazzling movements. He became a blob of luminosity that seemed to be swimming as if the ground were a pool.

Don Juan said that it was Genaro's way of hugging the immense earth, and that in spite of the difference in size, the earth acknowledged Genaro's gesture. The sight of Genaro's movements, and the explanation of them replaced my loneliness with sublime joy.

"I can not stand the idea that you are leaving, don Juan," I heard myself saying. The sound of my voice and what I had said made me feel embarrassed. When I began to sob, involuntarily, driven by self-pity, I felt even more chagrined. "What is the matter with me, don Juan?" I muttered. "I am not ordinarily like this."

"What is happening to you is that your awareness is on your toes again," he replied, laughing.

Then I lost any vestige of control and gave myself fully to my feelings of dejection and despair.

"I am going to be left alone," I said in a shrieking voice. "What is going to happen to me? What is going to become of me?"

"Let us put it this way," don Juan said calmly. "In order for me to leave this world and face the unknown, I need all my strength, all my forbearance, all my luck; but above all, I need every bit of a warrior traveler's guts of steel. To remain behind and fare like a warrior traveler, you need everything of what I myself need. To venture out there, the way we are going to, is no joking matter; but neither is it to stay behind."

I had an emotional outburst, and kissed his hand.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" he said. "Next thing you are going to make a shrine for my guaraches!"

The anguish that gripped me turned from self-pity to a feeling of unequaled loss. "You are leaving!" I muttered. "My god! Leaving forever!"

At that moment don Juan did something to me that he had done repeatedly since the first day I had met him. His face puffed up as if the deep breath he was taking inflated him. He tapped my back forcefully with the palm of his left hand and said, "Get up from your toes! Lift yourself up!"

In the next instant, I was once again coherent, complete, in control. I knew what was expected of me. There was no longer any hesitation on my part, or any concern about myself. I did not care what was going to happen to me when don Juan left. I knew that his departure was imminent. He looked at me, and in that look his eyes said it all.

"We will never be together again," he said softly. "You do not need my help anymore; and I do not want to offer it to you because if you are worth your salt as a warrior traveler, you will spit in my eye for offering it to you.

"Beyond a certain point, the only joy of a warrior traveler is his aloneness. I would not like you to try to help me either. Once I leave, I am gone. Do not think about me, for I will not think about you. If you are a worthy warrior traveler, be impeccable! Take care of your world. Honor it: Guard it with your life!"

He moved away from me. The moment was beyond self-pity or tears or happiness. He shook his head as if to say good-bye, or as if he were acknowledging what I felt.

"Forget the self and you will fear nothing in whatever level of awareness you find yourself to be," he said.

He had an outburst of levity. He teased me for the last time on this Earth.

"I hope you find love!" he said.

He raised his palm toward me and stretched his fingers like a child, then contracted them against the palm.

"Ciao," he said

I knew that it was futile to feel sorry or to regret anything; and that it was as difficult for me to stay behind as it was for don Juan to leave. Both of us were caught in an irreversible energetic maneuver that neither of us could stop.

Nevertheless, I wanted to join don Juan, follow him wherever he went. The thought crossed my mind that perhaps if I died, he would take me with him.

I saw then how don Juan Matus, the nagual, led the fifteen other seers who were his companions- his wards, his delight- one by one to disappear in the haze of that mesa toward the north.

I saw how every one of them turned into a blob of luminosity, and together they ascended and floated above the mountaintop like phantom lights in the sky. They circled above the mountain once, as don Juan had said they would do: their last survey; the one for their eyes only; their last look at this marvelous Earth. And then they vanished.

I knew what I had to do. I had run out of time. I took off at my top speed toward the precipice and leaped into the abyss. I felt the wind on my face for a moment, and then the most merciful blackness swallowed me like a peaceful subterranean river.

The Active Side Of Infinity © 1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 4 - Chapter 20. The Return Trip.

I was vaguely aware of the loud noise of a motor that seemed to be racing in a stationary position. I thought that the attendants were fixing a car in the parking lot at the back of the building where I had my office/apartment. The noise became so intense that it finally caused me to wake up.

I silently cursed the boys who ran the parking lot for fixing their car right under my bedroom window. I was hot, sweaty, and tired. I sat up on the edge of my bed, then had the most painful cramps in my calves. I rubbed them for a moment. They seemed to have contracted so tightly that I was afraid that I would have horrendous bruises.

I automatically headed for the bathroom to look for some liniment. I could not walk. I was dizzy. I fell down; something that had never happened to me before. When I had regained a minimum of control, I noticed that I was not worried at all about the cramps in my calves. I had always been a near hypochondriac. An unusual pain in my calves such as the one I was having now would ordinarily have thrown me into a chaotic state of anxiety.

I went then to the window to close it, although I could not hear the noise anymore. I realized that the window was locked and that it was dark outside. It was night! The room was stuffy.

I opened the windows. I could not understand why I had closed them. The night air was cool and fresh. The parking lot was empty. It occurred to me that the noise must have been made by a car accelerating in the alley between the parking lot and my building. I thought nothing of it anymore, and went to my bed to go back to sleep, I lay across it with my feet on the floor. I wanted to sleep in this fashion to help the circulation in my calves, which were very sore, but I was not sure whether it would have been better to keep them down, or perhaps lift them up on a pillow.

As I was beginning to rest comfortably and fall asleep again, a thought came to my mind with such ferocious force that it made me stand up in one single reflex. I had jumped into an abyss in Mexico! The next thought that I had was a quasi-logical deduction: Since I had jumped into the abyss deliberately in order to die, I must now be a ghost.

How strange, I thought, that I should return, in ghostlike form, to my office/apartment on the corner of Westwood and Wilshire in Los Angeles after I had died. No wonder my feelings were not the same. But if I were a ghost, I reasoned, why would I have felt the blast of fresh air on my face, or the pain in my calves?

I touched the sheets of my bed: They felt real to me. So did its metal frame. I went to the bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror.

By the looks of me, I could easily have been a ghost. I looked like hell. My eyes were sunken, with huge black circles under them. I was dehydrated, or dead. In an automatic reaction, I drank water straight from the tap. I could actually swallow it. I drank gulp after gulp, as if I had not drunk water for days.

I felt my deep inhalations. I was alive! By god, I was alive! I knew it beyond the shadow of a doubt, but I was not elated, as I should have been.

A most unusual thought crossed my mind then: I had died and revived before. I was accustomed to it: It meant nothing to me. The vividness of the thought, however, made it into a quasi-memory. It was a quasi-memory that did not stem from situations in which my life had been endangered. It was something quite different from that.

It was, rather, a vague knowledge of something that could never have happened, and had no reason whatsoever to be in my thoughts.

And yet, there was no doubt in my mind that I had jumped into an abyss in Mexico. I was now in my apartment in Los Angeles, over three thousand miles from where I had jumped, with no recollection whatsoever of having made the return trip.

In an automatic fashion, I ran the water in the tub and sat in it. I did not feel the warmth of the water. I was chilled to the bone. Don Juan had taught me that at moments of crisis, such as this one, one must use running water as a cleansing factor. I remembered this and got under the shower. I let the warm water run over my body for perhaps over an hour.

I wanted to think calmly and rationally about what was happening to me but I could not. Thoughts seemed to have been erased from my mind. I was thoughtless yet I was filled to capacity with sensations that came to my whole body in barrages that I was incapable of examining. All I was able to do was to feel their onslaughts and let them go through me.

The only conscious choice I made was to get dressed and leave. I went to eat breakfast; something I always did at any time of the day or night, at Ship's Restaurant on Wilshire, a block away from my office/apartment.

I had walked from my office to Ship's so many times that I knew every step of the way. The same walk this time was a novelty for me. I did not feel my steps. It was as if I had a cushion under my feet, or as if the sidewalk were carpeted. I practically glided.

I was suddenly at the door of the restaurant after what I thought might have been only two or three steps. I knew that I could swallow food because I had drunk water in my apartment. I also knew that I could talk because I had cleared my throat and cursed while the water ran on me. I walked into the restaurant as I had always done. I sat at the counter and a waitress who knew me came to me.

"You do not look too good today, dear," she said. "Do you have the flu?"

"No," I replied, trying to sound cheerful. "I have been working too hard. I have been up for twenty-four hours straight writing a paper for a class. By the way, what day is today?"

She looked at her watch and gave me the date, explaining that she had a special watch that was a calendar, too, a gift from her daughter. She also gave me the time: 3:15 A.M.

I ordered steak and eggs, hash browned potatoes, and buttered white toast. When she went away to fill my order, another wave of horror flooded my mind: Had it been only an illusion that I had jumped into that abyss in Mexico, at twilight the previous day? But even if the jump had been only an illusion, how could I have returned to L.A. from such a remote place only ten hours later? Had I slept for ten hours? Or was it that it had taken ten hours for me to fly, slide, float, or whatever to Los Angeles? To have traveled by conventional means to Los Angeles from the place where I had jumped into the abyss was out of the question, since it would have taken two days just to travel to Mexico City from the place where I had jumped.

Another strange thought emerged in my mind. It had the same clarity of my quasi-memory of having died and revived before; and the same quality of being totally foreign to me: My continuity was now broken beyond repair.

I had really died, one way or another, at the bottom of that gully. It was impossible to comprehend my being alive; having breakfast at Ship's. It was impossible for me to look back into my past and see the uninterrupted line of continuous events that all of us see when we look into the past.

The only explanation available to me was that I had followed don Juan's directives; I had moved my assemblage point to a position that prevented my death, and from my inner silence I had made the return journey to L.A. There was no other rationale for me to hold on to.

For the first time ever, this line of thought was thoroughly acceptable to me, and thoroughly satisfactory. It did not really explain anything, but it certainly pointed out a pragmatic procedure that I had tested before in a mild form when I met don Juan in that town of our choice; and this thought seemed to put all my being at ease.

Vivid thoughts began to emerge in my mind. They had the unique quality of clarifying issues. The first one that erupted had to do with something that had plagued me all along. Don Juan had described it as a common occurrence among male sorcerers: my incapacity to remember events that had transpired while I was in states of heightened awareness.

Don Juan had explained heightened awareness as a minute displacement of my assemblage point, which he achieved, every time I saw him, by actually pushing forcefully on my back. He helped me, with such displacements, to engage energy fields that were ordinarily peripheral to my awareness.

In other words, the energy fields that were usually on the edge of my assemblage point became central to it during that displacement. A displacement of this nature had two consequences for me: an extraordinary keenness of thought and perception; and the incapacity to remember, once I was back in my normal state of awareness, what had transpired while I had been in that other state.

My relationship with my cohorts had been an example of both of these consequences. I had cohorts; don Juan's other apprentices; companions for my definitive journey. I interacted with them only in heightened awareness. The clarity and scope of our interaction was supreme.

The drawback for me was that in my daily life they were only poignant quasi-memories that drove me to desperation with anxiety and expectations. I could say that I lived my normal life on the perennial lookout for somebody who was going to appear all of a sudden in front of me; perhaps emerging from an office building; perhaps turning a corner and bumping into me. Wherever I went, my eyes darted everywhere, ceaselessly and involuntarily, looking for people who did not exist and yet existed like no one else.

While I sat at Ship's that morning, everything that had happened to me in heightened awareness, to the most minute detail, in all the years with don Juan became again a continuous memory without interruption.

Don Juan had lamented that a male sorcerer, who is the nagual, perforce had to be fragmented because of the bulk of his energetic mass. He said that in each fragment lived a specific range of a total scope of activity; and the events that the male sorcerer had experienced in each fragment had to be joined someday to give a complete, conscious picture of everything that had taken place in his total life.

Looking into my eyes, he had told me that that unification takes years to accomplish, and that he had been told of cases of naguals who never reached the total scope of their activities in a conscious manner, and lived fragmented.

What I experienced that morning at Ship's was beyond anything I could have imagined in my wildest fantasies. Don Juan had said to me time after time that the world of sorcerers was not an immutable world, where the word is final, and unchanging; but that it is a world of eternal fluctuation where nothing should be taken for granted.

The jump into the abyss had modified my cognition so drastically that it allowed now the entrance of possibilities both portentous and indescribable.

But anything that I could have said about the unification of my cognitive fragments would have paled in comparison to the reality of it. That fateful morning at Ship's, I experienced something infinitely more potent than I did the day that I saw energy as it flows in the universe for the first time- the day that after having been on the campus of UCLA, I ended up in the bed of my office/apartment without actually going home in the fashion my cognitive system demanded in order for the whole event to be real.

In Ship's, I integrated all the fragments of my being. I had acted in each one of them with perfect certainty and consistency, and yet I had had no idea that I had done that. I was, in essence, a gigantic puzzle, and to fit each piece of that puzzle into place produced an effect that had no name.

I sat at the counter at Ship's, perspiring profusely, pondering uselessly, and obsessively asking myself questions that could not be answered. How could all this be possible? How could I have been fragmented in such a fashion? Who are we really? Certainly not the people all of us have been led to believe we are. I had memories of events that had never happened, as far as some core of myself was concerned. I could not even weep.

"A sorcerer weeps when he is fragmented," don Juan had said to me once. "When he is complete, he is taken by a shiver that has the potential, because it is so intense, of ending his life."

I was experiencing such a shiver! I doubted that I would ever meet my cohorts again. It appeared to me that all of them had left with don Juan. I was alone.

I wanted to think about it; to mourn my loss; to plunge into a satisfying sadness the way I had always done. I could not. There was nothing to mourn; nothing to feel sad about. Nothing mattered. All of us were warrior travelers, and all of us had been swallowed by infinity.

All along, I had listened to don Juan talk about the warrior traveler. I had liked the description immensely, and I had identified with it on a purely emotional basis. Yet I had never felt what he really meant by that, regardless of how many times he had explained his meaning to me.

That night, at the counter of Ship's, I knew what don Juan had been talking about. I was a warrior traveler. Only energetic facts were meaningful for me. All the rest were trimmings that had no importance at all.

That night, while I sat waiting for my food, another vivid thought erupted in my mind. I felt a wave of empathy, a wave of identification with don Juan's premises. I had finally reached the goal of his teachings: I was one with him as I had never been before.

It had never been the case that I had been just fighting don Juan or his concepts, which were revolutionary for me because they did not fulfill the linearity of my thoughts as a Western man.

Rather, it was that don Juan's precision in presenting his concepts had always scared me half to death. His efficiency had appeared to be dogmatism. It was that appearance that had forced me to seek elucidations, and had made me act, all along, as if I had been a reluctant believer.

Yes, I had jumped into an abyss, I said to myself, and I did not die, because, before I reached the bottom of that gully, I let the dark sea of awareness swallow me. I surrendered to it without fears or regrets. And that dark sea had supplied me with whatever was necessary for me not to die, and to end up in my bed in L.A. This explanation would have explained nothing to me two days before. At three in the morning, in Ship's, it meant everything to me.

I banged my hand on the table as if I were alone in the room. People looked at me and smiled knowingly. I did not care.

My mind was focused on an insoluble dilemma: I was alive despite the fact that I had jumped into an abyss in order to die ten hours before. I knew that such a dilemma could never be resolved. My normal cognition required a linear explanation in order to be satisfied, and linear explanations were not possible. That was the crux of the interruption of continuity. Don Juan had said that that interruption was sorcery. I knew this now, as clearly as I was capable of.

How right don Juan had been when he had said that in order for me to stay behind, I needed all my strength, all my forbearance, and above all, a warrior traveler's guts of steel.

I wanted to think about don Juan, but I could not. Besides, I did not care about don Juan. There seemed to be a giant barrier between us.

I truly believed at that moment that the foreign thought that had been insinuating itself to me since I had woken up was true: I was someone else. An exchange had taken place at the moment of my jump.

Otherwise, I would have relished the thought of don Juan: I would have longed for him. I would have even felt a twinge of resentment because he had not taken me with him. That would have been my normal self. I truthfully was not the same. This thought gained momentum until it invaded all my being. Any residue of my old self that I may have retained vanished then.

A new mood took over. I was alone! Don Juan had left me inside a dream as his agent provocateur. I felt my body begin to lose its rigidity: It became flexible, by degrees, until I could breathe deeply and freely. I laughed out loud. I did not care that people were staring at me, and were not smiling this time. I was alone, and there was nothing I could have done about it.

I had the physical sensation of actually entering into a passageway; a passageway that had a force of its own. It pulled me in. It was a silent passageway. Don Juan was that passageway; quiet and immense.

This was the first time ever that I felt that don Juan was void of physicality. There was no room for sentimentality or longing. I could not possibly have missed him because he was there as a depersonalized emotion that lured me in.

The passageway challenged me. I had a sensation of ebullience; ease. Yes, I could travel that passageway, alone or in company, perhaps forever. And to do this was not an imposition for me, nor was it a pleasure.

It was more than the beginning of the definitive journey; the unavoidable fate of a warrior-traveler. It was the beginning of a new era. I should have been weeping with the realization that I had found that passageway, but I was not. I was facing infinity at Ship's. How extraordinary. I felt a chill on my back. I heard don Juan's voice saying that the universe was indeed unfathomable.

At that moment, the back door of the restaurant, the one that led to the parking lot, opened and a strange character entered: a man perhaps in his early forties, disheveled and emaciated, but with rather handsome features. I had seen him for years roaming around UCLA, mingling with the students. Someone had told me that he was an outpatient of the nearby Veterans' Hospital. He seemed to be mentally unbalanced. I had seen him time after time at Ship's, huddled over a cup of coffee, always at the same end of the counter. I had also seen how he waited outside, looking through the window, watching for his favorite stool to become vacant if someone was sitting there.

When he entered the restaurant, he sat at his usual place, and then he looked at me. Our eyes met. The next thing I knew, he had let out a formidable scream that chilled me, and everyone present, to the bone.

Everyone looked at me, wide-eyed, some of them with unchewed food in their mouths. Obviously, they thought I had screamed. I had set up the precedents by banging the counter and then laughing out loud.

The man jumped off his stool and ran out of the restaurant, turning back to stare at me while, with his hands, he made agitated gestures over his head.

I succumbed to an impulsive urge and ran after the man. I wanted him to tell me what he had seen in me that had made him scream. I overtook him in the parking lot and asked him to tell me why he had screamed. He covered his eyes and screamed again, even louder. He was like a child, frightened by a nightmare, screaming at the top of his lungs. I left him and went back to the restaurant.

"What happened to you, dear?" the waitress asked with a concerned look. "I thought you ran out on me."

"I just went to see a friend," I said.

The waitress looked at me, and made a gesture of mock annoyance and surprise.

"Is that guy your friend?" she asked.

"The only friend I have in the world," I said.

And that was the truth, if I could define 'friend' as someone who sees through the veneer that covers you and knows where you really come from.

Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda.

Series Introductions - Introduction.

Don Juan Matus, a master sorcerer- a nagual, as master sorcerers are called when they lead a group of other sorcerers- introduced me to the world of shamans who lived in Mexico in ancient times.

Don Juan was an Indian who was born in Yuma, Arizona. His father was a Yaqui Indian from Sonora, Mexico, and his mother was presumably a Yuma Indian from Arizona. Don Juan lived in Arizona until he was ten years old. He was then taken by his father to Sonora, Mexico, where they were caught in the endemic Yaqui wars against the Mexicans. His father was killed, and as a ten-year-old child, don Juan ended up in Southern Mexico, where he grew up with relatives.

At the age of twenty, he came in contact with a master sorcerer. His name was Julian Osorio. He introduced don Juan into a lineage of sorcerers that was twenty-five generations long.

The nagual Julian was not an Indian at all, but the son of European immigrants to Mexico. Don Juan related to me that the nagual Julian had been an actor, and that he was a dashing person; a raconteur, a mime, adored by everybody, influential, commanding. In one of his theatrical tours to the provinces, the actor Julian Osorio fell under the influence of another nagual, Elias Ulloa, who transmitted to him the knowledge of his lineage of sorcerers.

Don Juan Matus, following the tradition of his lineage of shamans, taught some bodily movements which he called magical passes to his four disciples: Taisha Abelar, Florinda Donner-Grau, Carol Tiggs, and me. He taught the passes to us in the same spirit in which they had been taught for generations; with one notable departure. He eliminated the excessive ritual which had for generations surrounded the teaching and performance of those magical passes.

Don Juan's comments in this respect were that ritual had lost its impetus as new generations of practitioners became more interested in efficiency and functionalism. He recommended to me, however, that under no circumstances should I talk about the magical passes with any of his disciples or with people in general. His reasons were that the magical passes pertained exclusively to each person, and that their effect was so shattering that it was better just to practice them without discussing them.

Don Juan Matus taught me everything he knew about the sorcerers of his lineage. He stated, asserted, affirmed, and explained to me every nuance of his knowledge. Therefore, everything I say about the magical passes is a direct result of his instruction.

The magical passes were not invented. They were discovered by the shamans of don Juan's lineage who lived in Mexico in ancient times while they were in shamanistic states of heightened awareness. The discovery of the magical passes was quite accidental. It began as very simple queries about the nature of an incredible sensation of well-being that those shamans experienced in those states of heightened awareness when they held certain bodily positions, or when they moved their limbs in some specific manner. Their sensation of well-being had been so intense that their drive to repeat those movements in their normal awareness became the focus of all their endeavors.

By all appearances, they succeeded in their task, and found themselves the possessors of a very complex series of movements that, when practiced, yielded them tremendous results in terms of mental and physical prowess. In fact, the results of performing these movements were so dramatic that they called them magical passes. They taught them for generations only to shaman initiates on a personal basis following elaborate rituals and secret ceremonies.

Don Juan Matus, in teaching the magical passes, departed radically from tradition. Such a departure forced don Juan to reformulate the pragmatic goal of the magical passes. He presented this goal to me not so much as the enhancement of mental and physical balance, as it had been in the past, but as the practical possibility of redeploying energy. He explained that such a departure was due to the influence of the two naguals who had preceded him.

It was the belief of the sorcerers of don Juan's lineage that there is an inherent amount of energy existing in each one of us; an amount which is not subject to the onslaughts of outside forces for augmenting it or for decreasing it. They believed that this quantity of energy was sufficient to accomplish something which those sorcerers deemed to be the obsession of every man on Earth; breaking the parameters of normal perception.

Don Juan Matus was convinced that our incapacity to break those parameters was induced by our culture and social milieu. He maintained that our culture and social milieu deployed every bit of our inherent energy in fulfilling established behavioral patterns which do not allow us to break those parameters of normal perception.

"Why in the world would I, or anyone else, want to break those parameters?" I asked don Juan on one occasion.

"Breaking those parameters is the unavoidable issue of mankind," he replied. "Breaking them means the entrance into unthinkable worlds of a pragmatic value in no way different from the value of our world of everyday life. Regardless of whether or not we accept this premise, we are obsessed with breaking those parameters, and we fail miserably at it; hence the profusion of drugs and stimulants and religious rituals and ceremonies among modern man."

"Why do you think we have failed so miserably, don Juan?" I asked.

"Our failure to fulfill our subliminal wish," he said, "is due to the fact that we tackle it in a helter-skelter way. Our tools are too crude. They are equivalent to trying to bring down a wall by ramming it with the head. Man never considers this breakage in terms of energy. For sorcerers, success is determined only by the accessibility or the inaccessibility energy.

"Since it is impossible," he continued, "to augment our inherent energy, the only avenue open for the sorcerers of ancient Mexico was the redeployment of that inherent energy. For them, this process of redeployment began with the magical passes, and the way they affected the physical body."

While imparting his instructions, Don Juan stressed in every possible way the fact that the enormous emphasis the shamans of his lineage had put on physical prowess and mental well-being had lasted to the present day. I was able to corroborate the truth of his statements by observing him and his fifteen sorcerer companions. Their superb physical and mental balance was the most obvious feature about them.

I once asked him directly why sorcerers put so much stock in the physical side of man. I had always thought that he himself was a spiritual man. Don Juan's reply was a total surprise to me.

"Shamans are not spiritual at all," don Juan said. "They are very practical beings. It is a well-known fact, however, that shamans are generally regarded as eccentric, or even insane. Perhaps that is what makes you think that they are spiritual.

"They seem insane because they are trying to explain things that cannot be adequately described with words. In the course of such futile attempts to give complete explanations that cannot be completed under any circumstances, they must touch on matters outside the coherence of the average man. So of course their explanations seem to be senseless.

"You need," he went on, "a pliable body if you want physical prowess and level headedness. These are the two most important issues in the lives of shamans because they bring forth sobriety and pragmatism; the only indispensable requisites for entering into other realms of perception.

"To navigate in a genuine way in the unknown, requires an attitude of daring, but not one of recklessness. In order to establish a balance between audacity and recklessness, a sorcerer has to be extremely sober, cautious, skillful, and in superb physical condition."

"But why in superb physical condition, don Juan?" I asked. "Is the desire or the will to journey into the unknown not enough?"

"Not in your pissy life!" he replied rather brusquely. "Just to conceive facing the unknown- much less entering into it- requires guts of steel, and a body that would be capable of holding those guts. What would be the point of being gutsy if you do not have mental alertness, physical prowess, and adequate muscles?"

The superb physical condition that don Juan had steadily advocated from the first day of our association- the product of the rigorous execution of the magical passes- was, by all indications, the first step toward the redeployment of our inherent energy. This redeployment of energy was, in don Juan's view, the most crucial issue in the lives of shamans, as well as in the life of any individual.

Redeployment of energy is a process which consists of transporting, from one place to another, energy which already exists within us. This energy has been displaced from centers of vitality in the body, which require that displaced energy in order to bring forth a balance between mental alertness and physical prowess.

The shamans of don Juan's lineage were deeply engaged with the redeployment of their inherent energy. This involvement was not an intellectual endeavor; nor was it the product of induction, nor deduction, nor logical conclusions. It was the result of their ability to perceive energy as it flowed in the universe.

"Those sorcerers called this ability to perceive energy as it flowed in the universe 'seeing'," don Juan explained to me. "They described seeing as a state of heightened awareness in which the human body is capable of perceiving energy as a flow; a current; a wind like vibration. To see energy as it flows in the universe is the product of a momentary halt of the system of interpretation proper to human beings."

"What is this system of interpretation, don Juan?" I asked.

"The shamans of ancient Mexico found out," he replied, "that every part of the human body is engaged, in one way or another, in turning this vibratory flow into some form of sensory input. The sum total of this bombardment of sensory input is then, through usage, turned into the system of interpretation that makes human beings capable of perceiving the world the way they do.

"To make this system of interpretation come to a halt," he went on, "was the result of tremendous discipline on the part of the sorcerers of ancient Mexico. They called this halt 'seeing', and made it the cornerstone of their knowledge. To see energy as it flowed in the universe was, for them, an essential tool that they employed in making their classificatory schemes.

For instance, they conceived the total universe available to the perception of human beings as an onion like affair, consisting of thousands of layers. The saw that the daily world of human beings is but one such layer. Consequently, they also saw that other layers are not only accessible to human perception, but are part of man's natural heritage."

Another issue of tremendous value in the knowledge of those sorcerers, an issue which was also a consequence of their capacity to see energy as it flowed in the universe, was the discovery of the human energetic configuration. This human energetic configuration was, for them, a conglomerate of energy fields agglutinated together by a vibratory force that bound those energy fields into a luminous ball of energy.

For the sorcerers of don Juan's lineage, a human being has an oblong shape like an egg, or a round shape like a ball. Thus, they called them luminous eggs or luminous balls. This sphere of luminosity was considered by them to be our true self- true in the sense that it is irreducible in terms of energy. It is irreducible because the totality of human resources are engaged in the act of perceiving it directly as energy.

Those shamans discovered that on the back face of this luminous ball there is a point of greater brilliance. They figured out through their processes of observing energy directly that this point is key in the act of our turning energy into sensory data, and then our interpreting it. For this reason, they called it the assemblage point, and deemed that perception is indeed assembled there.

They described the assemblage point as being located behind the shoulder blades, an arm's length away from them. They also found out that the assemblage point for the entire human race is located on the same spot, thus giving every human being an entirely similar view of the world.

A finding of tremendous value for them, and for shamans of succeeding generations, was that the location of the assemblage point on that spot is the result of usage and socialization. For this reason, they considered it to be an arbitrary position which gives merely the illusion of being final and irreducible.

A product of this illusion is the seemingly unshakable conviction of human beings that the world they deal with daily is the only world that exists, and that its finality is undeniable.

"Believe me," don Juan said to me once, "this sense of finality about the world is a mere illusion. Due to the fact that it is never challenged, it stands as the only possible view. To see energy as it flows in the universe is the tool for challenging it.

"Through seeing, the sorcerers of my lineage arrived at the conclusion that there are indeed a staggering number of worlds available to man's perception. They described those worlds as being all-inclusive realms; realms where one can act and struggle. In other words, they are worlds where one can live and die, as in this world of everyday life."

During the thirteen years of my association with him, don Juan taught me the basic steps toward accomplishing this feat of seeing. I have discussed those steps in all of my previous writings, but never have I touched on the magical passes as a key point in this process.

He taught me a great number of them. But along with that wealth of knowledge, don Juan also left me with the certainty that I was the last link of his lineage.

Accepting that I was the last link of his lineage automatically implied for me the task of finding new ways to disseminate the knowledge of his lineage, since its continuity was no longer an issue.

I need to clarify a very important point in this regard. Don Juan Matus had not been interested in teaching his knowledge to the masses. He had been interested in perpetuating his lineage.

His three other disciples and I were chosen, he said, by the spirit itself. He had no active part in those choices. He said we were the means to ensure his lineage's perpetuation. Therefore, he engaged himself in a titanic effort to teach us all he knew about sorcery, or shamanism, and about the development of his lineage.

In the course of training me, he later came to realize that my energetic configuration was so vastly different from his own that it could not mean anything else but the end of his line. I told him that I resented enormously his interpretation of whatever invisible difference existed between us. I did not like the burden of being the last of his line, nor did I understand his reasoning.

"The shamans of ancient Mexico," he said to me once, "believed that choice, as human beings understand it, is the precondition of the cognitive world of man, but that it is only a benevolent interpretation of something which is found when awareness ventures beyond the cushion of our world, a benevolent interpretation of acquiescence. Human beings are in the throes of forces that pull them every which way. The art of sorcerers is not really to choose, but to be subtle enough to acquiesce.

"Sorcerers, although they seem to make nothing else but decisions, make no decisions at all," he went on. "I did not decide to choose you, and I did not decide that you would be the way you are. Since I could not choose to whom I would impart my knowledge, I had to accept whomever the spirit was offering me. And that person was you, and you are energetically capable only of ending, not of continuing."

He maintained that the ending of his line had nothing to do with him or his efforts, or with his success or failure as a sorcerer seeking total freedom. He understood it as something that had to do with a choice exercised beyond the human level, not by beings or entities, but by the impersonal forces of the universe.

Finally, I came to accept what don Juan called my fate. Accepting it put me face to face with another issue that he referred to as locking the door when you leave. That is to say, I assumed the responsibility of deciding exactly what to do with everything he had taught me and carrying out my decision impeccably.

First of all, I asked myself the crucial question of what to do with the magical passes: the facet of don Juan's knowledge most imbued with pragmatism and function. I decided to use the magical passes, and teach them to whoever wanted to learn them. My decision to end the secrecy that had surrounded them for an undetermined length of time was, naturally, the corollary of my total conviction that I am indeed the end of don Juan's lineage.

It became inconceivable to me that I should carry secrets which were not even mine. To shroud the magical passes in secrecy was not my decision. It was my decision, however, to end such a condition.

I endeavored from then on to come up with a more generic form of each magical pass; a form suitable to everyone. This resulted in a configuration of slightly modified forms of each one of the magical passes. I have called this new configuration of movements Tensegrity; a term which belongs to architecture, where it means 'the property of skeleton structures that employ continuous tension members and discontinuous compression members in such a way that each member operates with the maximum efficiency and economy'.

In order to explain what the magical passes of the sorcerers who lived in Mexico in ancient times are, I would like to make a clarification. 'Ancient times' meant, for don Juan, a time ten thousand years ago and beyond; a figure that seems incongruous if examined from the point of view of the classificatory schemes of modern scholars. When I confronted don Juan with the discrepancy between his estimate and what I considered to be a more realistic one, he remained adamant in his conviction. He believed it to be a fact that people who lived in the New World ten thousand years ago were deeply concerned with matters of the universe and perception that modern man has not even begun to fathom.

Regardless of our differing chronological interpretations, the effectiveness of the magical passes is undeniable to me, and I feel obligated to elucidate the subject strictly following the manner in which it was presented to me. The directness of their effect on me has had a deep influence on the way in which I deal with them. What I am presenting in this work is an intimate reflection of that influence.

Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda.

Series Introductions - Magical Passes.

The first time don Juan talked to me at length about magical passes was when he made a derogatory comment about my weight.

"You are way too chubby," he said, looking at me from head to toe shaking his head in disapproval. "You are one step from being fat. Wear and tear is beginning to show in you. Like any other member of our race, you are developing a lump of fat on your neck, like a bull. It is time that you take seriously one of the sorcerers' greatest findings: the magical passes."

"What magical passes are you talking about, don Juan?" I asked. "You never mentioned this topic to me before. Or, if you have, it must have been so lightly that I can not recall anything about it."

"Not only have I told you a great deal about magical passes," he said, "you know a great number of them already. I have been teaching them to you all along."

As far as I was concerned, it was not true that he had taught me any magical passes all along. I protested vehemently.

"Do not be so passionate about defending your wonderful self," he joked, making a ridiculous gesture of apology with his eyebrows. "What I meant to say is that you imitate everything I do, so I have been cashing in on your imitation capacity. I have shown you various magical passes, all along, and you have always taken them to be my delight in cracking my joints. I like the way you interpret them: cracking my joints! We are going to keep on referring to them in that manner.

"I have shown you ten different ways of cracking my joints," he continued. "Each one of them is a magical pass that fits to perfection my body and yours. You could say that those ten magical passes are in your line and mine. They belong to us personally and individually, as they belonged to other sorcerers who were just like the two of us in the twenty-five generations that preceded us."

The magical passes don Juan was referring to, as he himself had said, were ways in which I thought he cracked his joints. He used to move his arms, legs, torso, and hips in specific ways, I thought, in order to create a maximum stretch of his muscles, bones, and ligaments. The result of these stretching movements, from my point of view, was a succession of cracking sounds which I always thought that he was producing for my amazement and amusement. He, indeed, had asked me time and time again to imitate him. In a challenging manner, he had even dared me to memorize the movements and repeat them at home until I could get my joints to make cracking noises, just like his.

I had never succeeded in reproducing the sounds, yet I had definitely but unwittingly learned all the movements. I know now that not achieving that cracking sound was a blessing in disguise, because the muscles and tendons of the arms and back should never be stressed to that point. Don Juan was born with a facility to crack the joints of his arms and back, just as some people have the facility to crack their knuckles.

"How did the old sorcerers invent those magical passes, don Juan?" I asked.

"Nobody invented them," he said sternly. "To think that they were invented implies instantly the intervention of the mind, and this is not the case when it comes to those magical passes. They were, rather, discovered by the old shamans. I was told that it all began with the extraordinary sensation of well-being that those shamans experienced when they were in shamanistic states of heightened awareness. They felt such tremendous, enthralling vigor that they struggled to repeat it in their hours of vigil.

"At first," don Juan explained to me once, "those shamans believed that it was a mood of well-being that heightened awareness created in general. Soon, they found out that not all the states of shamanistic heightened awareness which they entered produced in them the same sensation of well-being. A more careful scrutiny revealed to them that whenever that sensation of well-being occurred, they had always been engaged in some specific kind of bodily movement. They realized that while they were in states of heightened awareness, their bodies moved involuntarily in certain ways, and that those certain ways were indeed the cause of that unusual sensation of physical and mental plenitude."

Don Juan speculated that it had always appeared to him that the movements that the bodies of those shamans executed automatically in heightened awareness were a sort of hidden heritage of mankind; something that had been put in deep storage to be revealed only to those who were looking for it. He portrayed those sorcerers as deep-sea divers who, without knowing it, reclaimed it.

Don Juan said that those sorcerers arduously began to piece together some of the movements they remembered. Their efforts paid off. They were capable of re-creating movements that had seemed to them to be automatic reactions of the body in a state of heightened awareness.

Encouraged by their success, they were capable of re-creating hundreds of movements which they performed without ever attempting to classify them into an understandable scheme. Their idea was that in heightened awareness, the movements happened spontaneously; and that there was a force that guided their effect without the intervention of their volition.

Don Juan commented that the nature of the ancient sorcerers' findings always led him to believe that those sorcerers were extraordinary people because the movements that they discovered were never revealed in the same fashion to modern shamans who also entered into heightened awareness.

He thought that perhaps this was because modern shamans had learned the movements beforehand in some fashion or another from their predecessors; or perhaps because the sorcerers of ancient times had more energetic mass.

"What do you mean, don Juan, that they had more energetic mass?" I asked. "Were they bigger men?"

"I do not think they were physically any bigger," he said, "but energetically, they appeared to the eye of a seer as an oblong shape. They called themselves luminous eggs. I have never seen a luminous egg in my life. All I have seen are luminous balls. It is presumable, then, that man has lost some energetic mass over the generations."

Don Juan explained to me that to a seer, the universe is composed of an infinite number of energy fields. They appear to the eye of the seer as luminous filaments that shoot out every which way. Don Juan said that those filaments crisscross through the luminous balls that human beings are, and that it was reasonable to assume that if human beings were once oblong shapes, like eggs, they were much higher than a ball. Therefore, energy fields that touched human beings at the crown of the luminous egg are no longer touching them now that they are luminous balls. Don Juan felt that this meant to him a loss of energy mass, which seemed to have been crucial for the purpose of reclaiming that hidden treasure: the magical passes.

"Why are the passes of the old shamans called magical passes, don Juan?" I asked him on one occasion.

"They are not just called magical passes," he said, "they are magical! They produce an effect that cannot be accounted for by means of ordinary explanations. These movements are not physical exercises or mere postures of the body. They are real attempts at reaching an optimal state of being.

"The magic of the movements," he went on, "is a subtle change that the practitioners experience on executing them. It is an ephemeral quality that the movement brings to their physical and mental states; a kind of shine; a light in the eyes. This subtle change is a touch of the spirit. It is as if the practitioners, through the movements, re-establish an unused link with the life force that sustains them."

He further explained that another reason that the movements are called magical passes is that by means of practicing them, shamans are transported in terms of perception to other states of being in which they can sense the world in an indescribable manner.

"Because of this quality, because of this magic," don Juan said to me, "the passes must be practiced not as exercises, but as a way of beckoning power."

"But can they be taken as physical movements, although they have never been taken as such?" I asked.

"You can practice them any way you wish," don Juan replied. "The magical passes enhance awareness, regardless of how you take them. The intelligent thing would be to take them as what they are: Magical passes that on being practiced lead the practitioner to drop the mask of socialization."

"What is the mask of socialization?" I asked.

"The veneer that all of us defend and die for," he said. "The veneer we acquire in the world. The one that prevents us from reaching all our potential. The one that makes us believe we are immortal. The intent of thousands of sorcerers permeates these movements. Executing them, even in a casual way, makes the mind come to a halt."

"What do you mean that they make the mind come to a halt?" I asked.

"Everything," he said, "that we do in the world, we recognize and identify by converting it into lines of similarity; lines of things that are strung together by purpose. For example, if I say to you fork, this immediately brings to your mind the idea of spoon, knife, tablecloth, napkin, plate, cup and saucer, glass of wine, chili con carne, banquet, birthday, fiesta. You could certainly go on naming things strung together by purpose, nearly forever. Everything we do is strung like this. The strange part for sorcerers is that they see that all these lines of affinity, all these hues of things strung together by purpose, are associated with man's idea that things are unchangeable and forever, like the word of God."

"I do not see, don Juan, why you bring the word of God into this elucidation. What does the word of God have to do with what you are trying to explain?"

"Everything!" he replied. "It seems to be that in our minds, the entire universe is like the word of God: absolute and unchanging. This is the way we conduct ourselves. In the depths of our minds, there is a checking device that does not permit us to stop to examine that the word of God, as we accept it and believe it to be, pertains to a dead world. A live world, on the other hand, is in constant flux. It moves. It changes. It reverses itself.

"The most abstract reason why the magical passes of the sorcerers of my lineage are magical," he went on, "is that in practicing them, the body of the practitioner realizes that everything, instead of being an unbroken chain of objects that have affinity for each other, is a current, a flux. And if everything in the universe is a flux or a current, that current can be stopped. A dam can be put on it, and in this manner its flux can be halted or deviated."

Don Juan explained to me on one occasion the overall effect that the practice of the magical passes had on the sorcerers of his lineage, and correlated this effect with what would happen to modern practitioners.

"The sorcerers of my lineage," he said, "were shocked half to death upon realizing that practicing their magical passes brought about the halt of the otherwise uninterrupted flux of things. They constructed a series of metaphors to describe this halt, and in their effort to explain it, or reconsider it, they flubbed it. They lapsed into ritual and ceremony. They began to enact the act of halting the flux of things. They believed that if certain ceremonies and rituals were focused on a definite aspect of their magical passes, the magical passes themselves would beckon a specific result. Very soon, the number and complexity of their rituals and ceremonies became more encumbering than the number of their magical passes.

"It is very important," he went on, "to focus the attention of the practitioner on some definite aspect of the magical passes. However, that fixation should be light, funny, and void of morbidity and grimness. They should be done for the hell of it without really expecting returns."

He gave the example of one of his cohorts, a sorcerer by the name of Silvio Manuel, whose delight and predilection was to adapt the magical passes of the sorcerers of ancient times to the steps of his modern dancing. Don Juan described Silvio Manuel as a superb acrobat and dancer who actually danced the magical passes.

"The nagual Elias Ulloa," don Juan continued, "was the most prominent innovator of my lineage. He was the one who threw all the ritual out the window, so to speak, and practiced the magical passes exclusively for the purpose for which they were originally used at one time in the remote past; for the purpose of redeploying energy.

"The nagual Julian Osorio, who came after him," don Juan continued, "was the one who gave ritual the final death blow. Since he was a bona fide professional actor who at one time had made his living acting in the theater, he put enormous stock into what sorcerers called the shamanistic theater. He called it the theater of infinity, and into it, he poured all the magical passes that were available to him. Every movement of his characters was imbued to the gills with magical passes. Not only that, but he turned the theater into a new avenue for teaching them. Between the nagual Julian, the actor of infinity, and Silvio Manuel, the dancer of infinity, they had the whole thing pegged down. A new era was on the horizon! The era of pure redeployment!"

Don Juan's explanation of redeployment was that human beings are perceived as conglomerates of energy fields; sealed energetic units that have definite boundaries which do not permit the entrance or the exit of energy. Therefore, the energy existing within that conglomerate of energy fields is all that each human individual can count on.

"The natural tendency of human beings," he said, "is to push energy away from the centers of vitality, which are located: on the right side of the body at the edge of the rib cage on the area of the liver and gallbladder; on the left side of the body, again, at the edge of the rib cage on the area of the pancreas and spleen; on the back directly behind the other two centers around the kidneys and above them on the area of the adrenal glands; at the base of the neck on the V spot made by the sternum and clavicle; and around the uterus and ovaries in women."

"How do human beings push this energy away, don Juan?" I asked.

"By worrying," he replied. "By succumbing to the stress of everyday life. The duress of daily actions takes its toll on the body."

"And what happens to this energy, don Juan?" I asked.

"It gathers on the periphery of the luminous ball," he said, "sometimes to the point of making a thick bark like deposit. The magical passes relate to the total human being as a physical body, and as a conglomerate of energy fields. They agitate the energy that has been accumulated in the luminous ball and return it to the physical body itself. The magical passes engage both the body itself as a physical entity that suffers the dispersion of energy, and the body as an energetic entity which is capable of redeploying that dispersed energy.

"Having energy on the periphery of the luminous ball," he continued, "energy that is not being redeployed, is as useless as not having any energy at all. It is truly a terrifying situation to have a surplus of energy stashed away; inaccessible for all practical purposes. It is like being in the desert, dying of dehydration, while you carry a tank of water that you cannot open, because you do not have any tools. In that desert, you can not even find a rock to bang it with."

The true magic of the magical passes is the fact that they cause crusted-down energy to enter again into the centers of vitality, hence the feeling of well-being and prowess which is the practitioner's experience.

The sorcerers of don Juan's lineage- before they entered into their excessive ritualism and ceremony- had formulated the basis for this redeployment. They called it saturation; meaning that they inundated their bodies with a profusion of magical passes in order to allow the force that binds us together to guide those magical passes to cause the maximum redeployment of energy.

I asked him once, without really meaning to be sarcastic, "But don Juan, are you telling me that every time you crack your joints, or every time I try to imitate you, we are really redeploying energy!"

"Every time we execute a magical pass," he replied, "we are indeed altering the basic structures of our beings. Energy which is ordinarily crusted down is released and begins to enter into the vortexes of vitality of the body. Only by means of that reclaimed energy can we put up a dike; a barrier to contain an otherwise uncontainable and always deleterious flow."

I asked don Juan to give me an example of putting a dam on what he was calling a deleterious flow. I told him that I wanted to visualize it in my mind.

"I will give you an example," he said. "For instance, at my age, I should be prey to high blood pressure. If I went to see a doctor, the doctor, upon seeing me, would assume that I must be an old Indian, plagued with uncertainties, frustrations, and bad diet; all of this, naturally, resulting in a most expected and predictable condition of high blood pressure: an acceptable corollary of my age.

"I do not have any problems with high blood pressure," he went on, "not because I am stronger than the average man or because of my genetic frame, but because my magical passes have made my body break through any patterns of behavior that result in high blood pressure. I can truthfully say that every time I crack my joints following the execution of a magical pass, I am blocking off the flow of expectations and behavior that ordinarily result in high blood pressure at my age.

"Another example I can give you is the agility of my knees," he continued. "Have you not noticed how much more agile I am than you? When it comes to moving my knees, I am a kid! With my magical passes, I put a dam on the current of behavior and physicality that makes the knees of people, both men and women, stiff with age."

One of the most annoying feelings I had ever experienced was caused by the fact that don Juan Matus, although he could have been my grandfather, was infinitely younger than I. In comparison, I was stiff, opinionated, repetitious. I was senile.

He, on the other hand, was fresh, inventive, agile, and resourceful. In short, he possessed something which, although I was young, I did not possess: youth. He delighted in telling me repeatedly that young age was not youth, and that young age was in no way a deterrent to senility. He pointed out that if I watched my fellow men carefully and dispassionately, I would be able to corroborate that by the time they reached twenty years of age, they were already senile, repeating themselves inanely.

"How is it possible, don Juan," I said, "that you could be younger than I?"

"I have vanquished my mind," he said, opening his eyes wide to denote bewilderment. "I do not have a mind to tell me that it is time to be old. I do not honor agreements in which I did not participate. Remember this. It is not just a slogan for sorcerers to say that they do not honor agreements in which they did not participate. To be plagued by old age is one such agreement."

We were silent for a long time. Don Juan seemed to be waiting, I thought, for the effect that his words might cause in me. What I thought to be my psychological unity was further ripped apart by a clearly dual response on my part. On one level, I repudiated with all my might the nonsense that don Juan was verbalizing; on another level, however, I could not fail to notice how accurate his remarks were.

Don Juan was old, and yet he was not old at all. He was ages younger than I. He was free from encumbering thoughts and habit patterns. He was roaming around in incredible worlds. He was free, while I was imprisoned by heavy thought patterns and habits; by petty and futile considerations about myself, which I felt on that occasion for the first time were not even mine.

I asked don Juan on another occasion something that had been bothering me for a long time. He had stated that the sorcerers of ancient Mexico had discovered the magical passes as some sort of hidden treasure placed in storage for man to find. I wanted to know who would put something like that in storage for man. The only idea that I could come up with was derived from Catholicism. I thought of God doing it, or a guardian angel, or the Holy Spirit.

"It is not the Holy Spirit," he said, "which is only holy to you because you are secretly a Catholic. And certainly it is not God; a benevolent father as you understand God. Nor is it a goddess; a nurturing mother watching over the affairs of men as many people believe to be the case.

"It is rather an impersonal force that has endless things in storage for those who dare to seek them. It is a force in the universe; just as light and gravity are forces. This impersonal force is an agglutinate factor; a vibratory force that joins the conglomerate of energy fields that human beings are into one concise, cohesive unit. This vibratory force is the factor that does not allow the entrance or the exit of energy from the luminous ball.

"The sorcerers of ancient Mexico," he went on, "believed that the performance of their magical passes was the only factor that prepared and led the body to the otherworldly verification of the existence of that agglutinating force."

From don Juan's explanations, I derived the conclusion that the vibratory force he spoke about which agglutinates our fields of energy is apparently similar to what modern-day astronomers believe must happen at the core of all the galaxies that exist in the cosmos. They believe that at their cores, a force of incalculable strength holds the stars of galaxies in place. This force, called a 'black hole', is a theoretical construct which seems to be the most reasonable explanation as to why stars do not fly away, driven by their own rotational speeds.

Don Juan said that the old sorcerers knew that human beings, taken as conglomerates of energy fields, are held together not by energetic wrappings or energetic ligaments, but by some sort of vibration that renders everything at once alive and in place. Don Juan explained that those sorcerers, by means of their practices and their discipline, became capable of handling that vibratory force once they were fully conscious of it. Their expertise in dealing with it became so extraordinary that their actions were transformed into legends; mythological events that existed only as fables. For instance, one of the stories that don Juan told about the ancient sorcerers was that they were capable of dissolving their physical mass by merely placing their full consciousness and intent on that force.

Don Juan stated that, although they were capable of actually going through a pinhole if they deemed it necessary, they were never quite satisfied with the result of this maneuver of dissolving their mass. The reason for their discontent was that once their mass was dissolved, their capacity to act vanished. They were left with the ability of only witnessing events in which they were incapable of participating.

Their ensuing frustration, the result of being unable to act, turned, according to don Juan, into their damning flaw: their obsession with uncovering the nature of that vibratory force; an obsession driven by their concreteness, which made them want to hold and control that force. Their fervent desire was to strike from the ghostlike condition of masslessness; something which Jon Juan said could not ever be accomplished.

Modern-day practitioners, the cultural heirs of those sorcerers of antiquity, found out that it is not possible to be concrete and utilitarian about that vibratory force. Modern-day practitioners have opted for the only rational alternative: to become conscious of that force with no other purpose in sight except the elegance and well-being brought about by knowledge.

Don Juan said to me once, "The only permissible time when modern-day sorcerers use the power of this vibratory agglutinating force is when they burn from within; when the time comes for them to leave this world. It is simplicity itself for sorcerers to place their absolute and total consciousness on the binding force with the intent to burn; and off they go like a puff of air."

Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda.

Series Introductions - Tensegrity.

'Tensegrity' is the modern version of the magical passes of the shamans of ancient Mexico. The word Tensegrity is a most appropriate definition, because it is a mixture of the two terms 'tension' and 'integrity'. These terms express the two driving forces of the magical passes.

Tension is the activity created by contracting and relaxing the tendons and muscles of the body. Integrity is the act of regarding the body as a sound, complete, perfect unit.

Tensegrity is taught as a system of movements because that is the only manner in which the mysterious and vast subject of the magical passes could be faced in a modern setting. The people who now practice Tensegrity are not shaman practitioners in search of shamanistic alternatives that involve rigorous discipline, exertion, and hardships. Therefore, the emphasis of the magical passes has to be on their value as movements, and all the consequences that such movements bring forth.

Don Juan Matus explained that the ancient Mexican sorcerers of his lineage, in relating to the magical passes, first strove to saturate themselves with movement.

They arranged every posture and movement of the body that they could remember into groups. They believed that the longer the group, the greater its effect of saturation; and the greater the need for the practitioners to use their memory to recall it.

The shamans of don Juan's lineage, after arranging the magical passes into long groups and practicing them as sequences, deemed that this criterion of saturation had fulfilled its purposes, and they dropped it. From then on, what was sought was the opposite: the fragmentation of the long groups into single segments, which were practiced as individual, independent units. The manner in which don Juan Matus taught the magical passes to his four disciples- Taisha Abelar, Florinda Donner-Grau, Carol Tiggs, and myself- was the product of this drive for fragmentation.

Don Juan's personal opinion was that the benefit of practicing the long groups was patently obvious; such practice forced the shaman initiates to use their kinesthetic memory. He considered the use of kinesthetic memory to be a real bonus, which those shamans had stumbled upon accidentally, and which had the marvelous effect of shutting off the noise of the mind: the internal dialogue.

Don Juan had explained to me that the way in which we reinforce our perception of the world, and keep it fixed at a certain level of efficiency and function, is by talking to ourselves.

"The entire human race," he said to me on one occasion, "keeps a determined level of function and efficiency by means of the internal dialogue. The internal dialogue is the key to maintaining the assemblage point stationary at the position shared by the entire human race: at the height of the shoulder blades, an arm's length away from them.

"By accomplishing the opposite of the internal dialogue," he went on, "that is to say, maintaining inner silence, practitioners can break the fixation of their assemblage points, and thus acquire an extraordinary fluidity of perception."

The practice of Tensegrity has been arranged around the performance of the long groups, which in Tensegrity have been renamed 'series' to avoid the generic implication of calling them just groups, as don Juan called them. In order to accomplish this arrangement, it was necessary to reestablish the criteria of saturation which had prompted the creation of the long groups. It took the practitioners of Tensegrity years of meticulous and concentrated work to reassemble a great number of the dismembered groups.

Reestablishing the criteria of saturation by performing the long series gave as a result something which don Juan had already defined as the modern goal of the magical passes: the redeployment of energy.

Don Juan was convinced that this had always been the unspoken goal of the magical passes even at the time of the old sorcerers. The old sorcerers did not seem to have known this, but even if they did, they never conceptualized it in those terms. By all indications, what the old sorcerers sought avidly and experienced as a sensation of well-being and plenitude when they performed the magical passes was, in essence, the effect of unused energy being reclaimed by the centers of vitality in the body.

In Tensegrity, the long groups have been reassembled, and a great number of the fragments have been kept as single, functioning units. These single units have been strung together by purpose- for instance, the purpose of intending, or the purpose of recapitulation, or the purpose of inner silence, and so on- creating in this fashion the Tensegrity series. In this manner, a system has been achieved in which the best results are obtained by performing long sequences of movements that definitely tax the kinesthetic memory of the practitioners.

In every other respect, the way Tensegrity is taught is a faithful reproduction of the way in which don Juan taught the magical passes to his disciples. He inundated us with a profusion of detail, and let our minds be bewildered by the number and variety of magical passes taught to us; and let us be bewildered by the implication that each of the passes individually was a pathway to infinity.

His disciples spent years overwhelmed, confused, and above all despondent, because they felt that being inundated in such a manner was an unfair onslaught on them.

"When I teach you the magical passes," he explained to me once when I questioned him about the subject, "I am following the traditional sorcerers' device of clouding your linear view. By saturating your I kinesthetic memory, I am creating a pathway for you to inner silence.

"Since all of us," he continued, "are filled to the brim with the doings and undoings of the world of everyday life, we have very little room for kinesthetic memory. You may have noticed that you have none. When, you want to imitate my movements, you cannot remain facing me. You have to stand side by side with me in order to establish in your own body what is right and what is left.

"Now, if a long sequence of movements were presented to you, it would take you weeks of repetition to remember all the movements. While you are trying to memorize the movements, you have to make room for them in your memory by pushing other things out of the way. That was the effect that the old sorcerers sought."

Don Juan's contention was that if his disciples kept on doggedly practicing the magical passes in spite of their confusion, they would arrive at a threshold when their redeployed energy would tip the scales, and they would be able to handle the magical passes with absolute clarity.

When don Juan made those statements, I could hardly believe them. Nevertheless, at one moment, just as he had said, I ceased to be confused and despondent. In a most mysterious way, the magical passes, since they are magical, arranged themselves into extraordinary sequences that cleared up everything. Don Juan explained that the clarity I was experiencing was the result of the redeployment of my energy.

The concern of people practicing Tensegrity nowadays matches exactly my concern and the concern of don Juan's other disciples when we first began to perform the magical passes. They feel bewildered by the number of movements. I reiterate to them what don Juan reiterated to me over and over; that what is of supreme importance is to practice whatever Tensegrity sequence is remembered.

The saturation that has been carried on will give, in the end, the results sought by the shamans of ancient Mexico: the redeployment of energy, and its three concomitants: the shutting off of the internal dialogue, the possibility for inner silence, and the fluidity of the assemblage point.

As a personal assessment, I can say that by saturating me with the magical passes, don Juan accomplished two formidable feats. Firstly, he brought to the surface a flock of hidden resources that I had but did not know existed- such as the ability to concentrate and the ability to remember detail; and secondly, he gently broke my obsession with my linear mode of interpretation.

When I questioned don Juan about what I was experiencing in this respect, he explained, "What is happening to you is that you are feeling the advent of inner silence when your internal dialogue has been minimally offset. A new flux of things has begun to enter into your field of perception. These things were always there on the periphery of your general awareness, but you never had enough energy to be deliberately conscious of them. As you chase away your internal dialogue, other items of awareness begin to fill in the empty space, so to speak.

"The new flux of energy," he went on, "which the magical passes have brought to your centers of vitality is making your assemblage point more fluid. Your assemblage point is no longer rigidly palisaded. You are no longer driven by our ancestral fears which make us incapable of taking a step in any direction. Sorcerers say that energy makes us free, and that is the absolute truth."

The ideal state of Tensegrity practitioners in relation to the Tensegrity movements is the same as the ideal state of a practitioner of shamanism in relation to the execution of the magical passes. Both are being led by the movements themselves into an unprecedented culmination. From there, the practitioners of Tensegrity will be able to execute- by themselves and for whatever effect they see fit without any coaching from outside sources- any movement from the bulk of movements with which they have been saturated. They will be able to execute any movement with precision and speed as they walk, or eat, or rest, or do anything; because they will have the energy to do so.

The execution of the magical passes, as shown in Tensegrity, does not necessarily require a particular space or prearranged time. However, the movements should be done away from sharp currents of air. Don Juan dreaded currents of air on a perspiring body. He firmly believed that not every current of air was caused by the rising or lowering of temperature in the atmosphere, and that some currents of air were actually caused by conglomerates of consolidated energy fields moving purposefully through space.

Don Juan was convinced that such conglomerates of energy fields possessed a specific type of awareness particularly deleterious because human beings cannot ordinarily detect them and become exposed to them indiscriminately. The deleterious effect of such conglomerates of energy fields is especially prevalent in a large metropolis where they could be easily disguised as, if nothing else, the momentum created by the speed of passing automobiles.

Something else to bear in mind when practicing Tensegrity is that since the goal of the magical passes is something foreign to Western man, an effort should be made to keep the practice of Tensegrity detached from the concerns of our daily world. The practice of Tensegrity should not be mixed with elements with which we are already thoroughly familiar, such as conversation, music, or the sound of a radio or TV newsman reporting the news, no matter how muffled the sound might be.

The setting of modern urban life facilitates the formation of groups, and under these circumstances, the only manner in which Tensegrity can he taught and practiced in the seminars and workshops is in groups of practitioners. Practicing in groups is beneficial in many aspects and deleterious in others. It is beneficial because it allows the creation of a consensus of movement and the opportunity to learn by examination and comparison. It is deleterious because it fosters the reliance on others, and the emergence of syntactic commands and solicitations dealing with hierarchy.

Don Juan conceived that since the totality of human behavior was ruled by language, human beings have learned to respond to what he called syntactic commands, praising or deprecatory formulas built into language- for example, the responses that each individual makes, or elicits in others, with slogans such as, "No problem. Piece of cake. It is time to worry. You could do better. I can not do it. My butt is too big. I am the best. I am the worst in the world. I could live with that. I am coping. Everything is going to be okay," etc., etc. Don Juan maintained that what sorcerers have always wanted, as a basic rule of thumb, is to run away from activities derived from syntactic commands.

Originally, as don Juan described it, the magical passes were performed by the shamans of ancient Mexico individually and in solitariness, on the spur of the moment, or as the necessity arose. He taught them to his disciples in the same fashion. Don Juan stated that for the shaman practitioners, the challenge of performing the magical passes has always been to execute them perfectly; holding in mind only the abstract view of their perfect execution. Ideally, Tensegrity should be taught and practiced in the same fashion.

However, the conditions of modern life and the fact that the goal of the magical passes has been formulated to apply to a great number of people make it imperative that a new approach be taken. Tensegrity should be practiced in whatever form is easiest, either in groups, or alone, or both.

In my particular case, the practice of Tensegrity in very large groups has been more than ideal because it has given me the unique opportunity of witnessing something which don Juan Matus and all the sorcerers of his lineage never did: the effects of human mass. Don Juan and all the shamans of his lineage, which he considered to be twenty-seven generations long, never were capable of witnessing the effects of human mass. They practiced the magical passes alone or in groups of up to five practitioners. For them, the magical passes were highly individualistic.

If the number of Tensegrity practitioners is in the hundreds, an energetic current is nearly instantaneously formed among them. This energetic current, which a shaman could easily see, creates in the practitioners a sense of urgency. It is like a vibratory wind that sweeps through them, and gives them the primary elements of purpose. I have been privileged to see something I considered to be a portentous sight: the awakening of purpose; the energetic basis of man. Don Juan Matus used to call this unbending intent. He taught me that unbending intent is the essential tool of those who journeyed into the unknown.

A very important issue to consider when practicing Tensegrity is that the movements must be executed with the idea that the benefit of the magical passes comes by itself. This idea must be stressed at any cost. At the beginning, it is very difficult to discern the fact that Tensegrity is not a standard system of movements for developing the body. It indeed develops the body, but only as a by-product of a more transcendental effect. By redeploying unused energy, the magical passes can conduce the practitioner to a level of awareness in which the parameters of normal, traditional perception are canceled out by the fact that they are expanded. The practitioner can thus be allowed even to enter into unimaginable worlds.

"But why would I want to enter into those worlds?" I asked don Juan when he described this post-effect of the magical passes.

"Because you are a creature of awareness; a perceiver, like the rest of us," he said. "Human beings are on a journey of awareness which has been momentarily interrupted by extraneous forces. Believe me, we are magical creatures of awareness. If we do not have this conviction, we have nothing."

He further explained that human beings, from the moment their journey of awareness was interrupted, have been caught in an eddy, so to speak, and are spinning around, having the impression of moving with the current, and yet remaining stationary.

"Take my word," don Juan went on, "because mine are not arbitrary statements. My word is the result of corroborating for myself what the shamans of ancient Mexico found out: that we human beings are magical beings."

It has taken me thirty years of hard discipline to come to a point where don Juan's statements are recognizable, and their validity is established beyond the shadow of a doubt. I know now that human beings are creatures of awareness involved in an evolutionary journey of awareness; beings indeed unknown to themselves; filled to the brim with incredible resources that can be used.

Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda.

Series Introductions - Six Series Of Tensegrity.

The six series which are going to be discussed are the following:

1. The Series for Preparing Intent

2. The Series for the Womb

3. The Series of the Five Concerns: The Westwood Series

4. The Separation of the Left Body and the Right Body: The Heat Series

5. The Masculinity Series

6. The Series for Devices Used in Conjunction with Specific Magical Passes

The particular magical passes of Tensegrity that comprise each of the six series conform with a criterion of maximum efficiency. In other words, each magical pass is a precise ingredient of a formula. This is a replica of the way in which the long series of magical passes were originally used. Each series was sufficient in itself to produce the maximum release of redeploy-able energy.

In executing the magical passes, there are certain things that must be taken into consideration in order to perform the movements with maximum efficiency.

1. All the magical passes of the six series can be repeated as many times as desired, unless otherwise specified. If they are first done with the left side of the body, they must be repeated an equal number of times with the right side. As a rule, every magical pass of the six series begins with the left side.




2. The feet are kept separate by a distance equivalent to the shoulders' width. This is a balanced way to distribute the weight of the body. If the legs are spread too far apart, the balance of the body is impaired. The same thing happens if they are too close together. The best way to arrive at this distance is to begin from a position where the two feet are close together (fig. 1).

   The tips of the feet are then pivoted on the fixed heels and opened in a letter V shape (fig. 2). Shifting the weight to the tips of the feet, the heels are pivoted out to the sides an equal distance (fig. 3). The tips of the feet are brought into parallel alignment, and the distance between the feet is roughly the width of the shoulders. Further adjustment may be necessary here in order to reach that desired width and to get the optimal balance of the body.




3. During the execution of all the magical passes of Tensegrity, the knees are kept slightly bent, so that when one is looking down, the kneecaps block the view of the tips of the feet (figs. 4, 5), except in the case of specific magical passes in which the knees have to be locked. Such cases are indicated in the description of those passes. To have the knees locked does not mean that the hamstrings are injuriously tense, but rather that they are locked in a gentle way, without unnecessary force.

   This position of bending the knees is a modern addition to the execution of the magical passes; one that stems from influences of recent times. One of the leaders of don Juan Matus's lineage was the nagual Lujan, a sailor from China whose original name was something like Lo Ban.

   He came to Mexico around the turn of the nineteenth century, and stayed there for the rest of his life. One of the women sorcerers in don Juan Matus's own party went to the Orient and studied martial arts. Don Juan Matus himself recommended that his disciples learn to move in a disciplined fashion by taking up some form of martial arts training.

   Another issue to consider in reference to the slightly bent knees is that when the legs are moved forward in a kicking motion, the knees are never whipped. Rather, the whole leg should be moved by the tension of the muscles of the thighs. Moving in this fashion, the tendons of the knees are never injured.




4. The back muscles of the legs must be tensed (fig. 6). This is a very difficult accomplishment. Most people can learn quite easily to tense the front muscles of the legs, but the back muscles of the legs still remain flaccid. Don Juan said that the back muscles of the thighs are where personal history is always stored in the body. According to him, feelings find their home there and get stagnant. He maintained that difficulty in changing behavior patterns could be easily attributed to the flaccidity of the back muscles of the thighs.




5. While performing all these magical passes, the arms are always kept slightly bent at the elbows- never fully extended- when they are moved to strike, preventing, in this manner, the tendons of the elbows from becoming irritated (fig. 7).




6. The thumb must always be kept in a locked position, meaning that it is folded over the edge of the hand. It should never stick out (fig. 8). The sorcerers of don Juan's lineage considered the thumb to be a crucial element in terms of energy and function. They believed that at the base of the thumb exist points where energy can become stagnant, and points that can regulate the flow of energy in the body. In order to avoid unnecessary stress on the thumb or injury resulting from jolting the hand forcefully, they adopted the measure of pressing the thumbs against the inside edges of the hands.




7. When the hand is made into a fist, the little finger is raised to avoid an angular fist (fig. 9) in which the middle, fourth, and fifth fingers droop. The idea is that in making a square fist (fig. 10), the fourth and fifth fingers have to be raised, thus creating a peculiar tension in the axilla, a tension which is most desirable for general well-being.




8. The hands, when they have to be opened, are fully extended. The tendons of the back of the hand are at work, presenting the palm as an even, flat surface (fig. 11). Don Juan preferred a flat palm to counteract the tendency (established, he felt, through socialization) to present the hand as a hollow palm (fig. 12).

   He said that a hollow palm was the palm of a beggar, and that whoever practices the magical passes is a warrior, not a beggar in the least.




9. When the fingers have to be contracted at the second knuckle and bent tightly over the palm, the tendons on the back of the hand are tensed to the maximum, especially the tendons of the thumb (fig. 13). This tension of the tendons creates a pressure on the wrists and forearms, areas which sorcerers of ancient Mexico believed were key in promoting health and well-being.




10. In many Tensegrity movements, the wrists have to be bent forward or backward to an approximately ninety-degree angle by contracting the tendons of the forearm (fig. 14). This bending must be accomplished slowly, because most of the time the wrist is quite inflexible, and it is important that the wrist acquire the flexibility to turn the back of the hand to make a maximum angle with the forearm.




11. Another important issue in the practice of Tensegrity is an act which has been termed turning the body on. This is a unique act in which all the muscles of the body, and specifically the diaphragm, are contracted in one instant. The muscles of the stomach and abdomen are jolted, as are the muscles around the shoulders and shoulder blades. The arms and legs are tensed in unison with equal force, but only for an instant (figs. 15, 16). As practitioners of Tensegrity progress in their practice, they can learn to sustain this tension for a while longer.

    Turning the body on has nothing to do with the state of perennial bodily tension that seems to be the mark of our times. When the body is tense with preoccupation or overwork, and the muscles of the neck are as hard as they can be, the body is not in any way turned on. Relaxing the muscles or arriving at a state of tranquility is not turning the body off, either. The idea of the sorcerers of ancient Mexico was that with their magical passes, the body was alerted: It was made to be ready for action. Don Juan Matus termed this condition turning the body on. He said that when the muscular tension of turning the body on ceases, the body is turned off naturally.




12. Breath and breathing were, according to don Juan, of supreme importance for the sorcerers of ancient Mexico. They divided breath into breathing with the tops of the lungs, breathing with the midsection of the lungs, and breathing with the abdomen (figs. 17, 18, 19). Breathing by expanding the diaphragm they called the animal breath, and they practiced it assiduously, don Juan said, for longevity and health.

    It was don Juan Matus's belief that many of the health problems of modern man could be easily corrected by deep breathing. He maintained that the tendency of human beings nowadays is to take shallow breaths. One of the aims of the sorcerers of ancient Mexico was to train their bodies, by means of the magical passes, to inhale and exhale deeply.

    It is highly recommended, therefore, in the movements of Tensegrity that call for deep inhalations and exhalations, that these be accomplished by slowing down the inflow or outflow of air in order to make the inhalations and exhalations longer and more profound.

    Another important issue concerning the breathing in Tensegrity is that breathing is normal while executing the Tensegrity movements, unless otherwise specified in the description of any given magical pass.




13. Another consideration in performing the Tensegrity movements is the realization that has to come to practitioners that Tensegrity is in essence the interplay between relaxing and tensing the muscles of choice parts of the body in order to arrive at a most coveted physical explosion, which the sorcerers of ancient Mexico knew only as the energy of the tendons. This is a veritable explosion of the nerves and tendons below or at the core of the muscles.

    Given that Tensegrity is the tension and relaxation of muscles, the intensity of the muscle tension, and the length of time that the muscles are kept in that state in any given magical pass, depends on the strength of the participant. It is recommended that at the beginning of the practice, the tension be minimal and the length of time as brief as possible. As the body gets warmer, the tension should become greater and the length of time extended, but always in a moderate fashion.

Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda.

The First Series: First Group - Mashing Energy for Intent.

Don Juan gave me explanations which covered all the nuances of every group of magical passes which are the core of the long Tensegrity Series.

"Energy which is essential for handling intent," he said when he was explaining to me the energetic implications of this group, "is continuously dispelled from the vital centers located around the liver, pancreas, and kidneys; and settles down at the bottom of the luminous sphere that we are.

"This energy ought to be constantly stirred and rerouted. The sorcerers of my lineage were very emphatic in recommending a systematic and controlled stirring of energy with the legs and feet. However, long walks, which were an unavoidable feature of their lives, resulted in an excessive stirring of energy which served no purpose."

In don Juan's view, energy for intending that was stirred up excessively ended up further depleting the centers of vitality, and long walks were their nemesis for this reason.

The inflow of excessive energy had to be balanced by the execution of specific magical passes performed while they were walking.

Don Juan Matus told me that this set of fifteen magical passes functions to stir energy with the feet and legs, and was considered by the shamans of his lineage to be the most effective way of doing what they called 'mashing energy'. He stated that each of the steps is a magical pass which has a built-in control for the mashing of energy. Practitioners can repeat these magical passes hundreds of times, if they so desire, without worrying about an excessive stirring of energy.

The first five magical passes of this group allow practitioners a quick surge of energy, in cases when energy is needed in the midsection or the groin, or, for instance, when they need to perform a long-distance run or a quick climbing of rocks or trees.

1. Grinding Energy with Three Toe Pivots of the Feet

Among other things, this pass is used to gain balance for the passes which follow.

The feet start about shoulder length apart pointing straight ahead. The body pivots on the balls of the feet from right to left and left to right in unison. The heels are slightly off the ground while swiveling, and touch the ground when the feet reach the maximum slant.

The first movement is to the left. After the third touch of the heels to the right, the feet return to a straight position.

For each of the first three passes, there is a pause that lasts an instant, and then the feet are swiveled three times again. The effect of these passes is increased by making the grinding of energy a discontinuous affair.

It is important to notice that in all the first three magical passes of this series, a key issue is the engagement of the arms, which move back and forth briskly.

The arms are kept bent at the elbows with the hands pointing out, palms facing each other. The arms move with an impulse from the shoulders and the shoulder blades. This movement of the arms in unison with the legs, as in walking (the right arm moves when the left leg moves, and vice versa), accounts for a total engagement of the limbs and the internal organs (figs. 20, 21).

A physical by-product of grinding energy in this fashion is an increase in circulation in the feet, calves, and thighs up to the groin area. Shamans throughout the centuries have also used it to restore flexibility to limbs that were injured in daily use.

2. Grinding Energy with Three Heel Pivots of the Feet

In the second pass, the weight of the body is shifted to the heels, and the pivoting is done on them with the toes slightly off the ground while swiveling, and touching the ground when the feet reach the maximum slant.

The feet are swiveled on the heels, in the same manner as in the previous magical pass, three times.

A physical by-product of this magical pass is a quick surge of energy for instances of running or fleeing danger, or for anything that requires a quick intervention.

3. Grinding Energy by a Sideways Slide of the Feet

Both feet, pivoting on the heels, move to the left; they pivot on the balls of the feet to the left again. Next, they pivot a third time, still to the left, but on the heels again (figs. 22, 23, 24).

The sequence is reversed by pivoting on the heels to the right; next, on the balls of the feet to the right; and then on the heels again, to the right.

A physical consequence of these three magical passes is the spurring of the circulation in the total body.

4. Mixing Energy by Striking the Floor with the Heels

This magical pass resembles walking in place. The knee moves up briskly while the tip of the foot rests on the ground. The weight of the body is carried by the other leg. The body weight shifts back and forth, resting on whichever leg stays put, while the other one performs the movement. The arms are moved in the same fashion as in the previous magical passes (fig. 25).

A physical consequence of this magical pass and the following one is very much like that of the three preceding magical passes: a sensation of well-being that permeates the pelvic region after performing the movements.

5. Mixing Energy by Striking the Ground with the Heels Three Times

This magical pass is exactly like the preceding one, with the exception that the movement of the knees and feet is not continuous. It is interrupted after the heels are brought to the ground three times, in an alternating fashion. The sequence is left, right, left- pause- right, left, right, and so on.

6. Gathering Energy with the Soles of the Feet and Moving It Up the Inner Legs

The soles of the left and the right foot move alternately up the inner part of the opposite leg, almost brushing it. It is important to arch the legs a little bit by standing with the knees bent (fig. 26).

In this magical pass, energy for intending is forced up the inner side of the legs, which shamans consider to be the storage place of kinesthetic memory. This magical pass is used as an aid to release the memory of movements, or to facilitate retaining the memory of new ones.

7. Stirring Energy with the Knees

The knee of the left leg is bent and swung to the right as far as it can reach, as if to give a sideways kick with the knee, while the trunk and the arms arc gently twisted as far as possible in the opposite direction (fig. 27). The left leg is then brought back to a standing position. The same movement is performed with the right knee, alternating then back and forth.

8. Pushing the Energy Stirred with the Knees into the Trunk

This magical pass is the energetic continuation of the preceding one. The left knee, bent to the maximum, is pushed up as far as possible into the trunk. The trunk is bent slightly forward. At the moment the knee is pushed up, the tip of the foot points to the ground (fig. 28). The same movement is performed with the right leg, alternating then between the two legs.

Pointing the foot to the ground ensures that the tendons of the ankles are tense, in order to jolt minute centers there where energy accumulates. Shamans consider those centers to be perhaps the most important in the lower limbs, so important that they could awaken the rest of the minute energy centers in the body through the performance of this magical pass. This magical pass and the preceding one are executed together for the purpose of projecting the energy for intending gathered with the knees up into the two centers of vitality around the liver and the pancreas.

9. Kicking Energy in Front and in Back of the Body

A front kick of the left leg is followed by a hook kick to the back with the right leg (figs. 29, 30). Then the order is reversed and a front kick is made with the right leg, followed by a hook kick to the back with the left leg.

The arms are kept to the sides, because this magical pass engages only the lower limbs, giving them flexibility. The aim is to lift the leg that kicks to the front as high as possible, and the leg that kicks to the back also as high as possible. When executing the back kick, the trunk should bend slightly forward to facilitate the movement. This slight bending forward of the trunk is used as a natural means of absorbing the energy stirred with the limbs.

This magical pass is performed to aid the body when problems of digestion arise, due to a change in diet, or when there is a need to travel over great distances.

10. Lifting Energy from the Soles of the Feet

The left knee is bent acutely as it is lifted toward the trunk, as far up as possible. The trunk is bent slightly forward, almost touching the knee. The arms jut down, making a vise that grabs the sole of the foot (fig. 31).

The ideal would be to grab the sole of the foot in a very light fashion, releasing it immediately. The foot comes down to the ground as the arms and hands, with a powerful jolt that engages the shoulders and pectoral muscles, lift up along the sides of the legs to the level of the pancreas and spleen (fig. 32).

The same movements are performed with the right foot and arm, lifting the hands from the feet to the level of the liver and gallbladder. The movements are performed alternating between the two legs.

As in the case of the previous magical pass, bending the trunk forward allows the energy from the soles of the feet to be transferred to the two vital centers of energy around the liver and the pancreas.

This magical pass is used to aid the attainment of flexibility, and to relieve problems of digestion.

Shamans call the last five magical passes of this group Steps in Nature. They are magical passes that practitioners can perform as they walk, or conduct business, or even as they are sitting, talking to people. Their function is gathering energy with the feet and using it with the legs for situations in which concentration and the quick use of memory are required.

11. Pushing Down a Wall of Energy

The left foot, with the knee acutely bent, is lifted to the height of the hips; then it pushes forward with the tip of the foot arched upward, as if pushing away a solid object (fig. 33). As soon as the foot is brought down, the right foot is lifted in the same fashion and the movement is repeated, alternating the feet.

12. Stepping Over a Barrier of Energy

The left leg is nimbly lifted as if going over a hurdle which is located edgewise in front of the body. The leg makes a circle from left to right (fig. 34), and once the foot lands, the other leg is lifted to perform the same movement.

13. Kicking a Lateral Gate

This is a kick-push with the soles of the feet. The left leg is lifted to mid-calf and the foot pushes to the right of the body as if to hit a solid object, using the total sole of the foot as a striking surface (fig. 35). The foot is retrieved then to the left side, and the same movement is repeated with the right leg and foot.

14. Cracking a Nugget of Energy

The left foot is lifted with the tip pointing acutely to the ground. The knee protrudes straight forward, deeply bent. Then the foot descends with a controlled motion, striking toward the ground as if it were cracking a nugget (fig. 36). Once the tip of the foot strikes, the foot is returned to its original standing position and the same movement is repeated with the other leg and foot.

15. Scraping Off the Mud of Energy

The left foot is lifted a few inches above the ground; the entire leg is brought forward and then pushed backward sharply, with the foot lightly brushing the ground as if it were scraping something off the sole of the foot (fig. 37). The weight of the body is carried by the opposite leg, and the trunk leans a bit forward in order to engage the muscles of the stomach as this magical pass is executed. Once the left foot returns to its normal position, the same movement is repeated with the right foot and leg.

Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda.

The First Series: Second Group - Stirring Up Energy for Intent.

The ten magical passes of the second group have to do with stirring up energy for intending from areas just below the knees, above the head, around the kidneys, the liver and pancreas, the solar plexus, and the neck. Each of these magical passes is a tool that stirs up exclusively the energy pertinent to intending, which is accumulated on those areas. Shamans consider these magical passes to be essential for daily living, because for them, life is ruled by intent. This set of magical passes is perhaps for shamans what a cup of coffee is for modern man: The slogan of the day, "I am not myself until I drink my cappuccino," or the slogan of a past generation, "I am not awake until I drink my cup of Java," is rendered for them as "I am not ready for anything until I have performed these magical passes." The second group of this series begins by the act that has been termed turning the body on. (See three pages back: "The Series Introductions - Six Series of Tensegrity", figs. 15, 16.)

16. Stirring Up Energy with the Feet and the Arms

After the body has been turned on, it is held in a slightly stooped-over position (fig. 38). The weight is placed on the right leg while the left leg makes a complete circle, brushing the ground with the tips of the toes, and landing on the ball of the foot, in front of the body. The left arm, in synchronization with the leg, makes a circle, the top of which goes above the level of the head (fig. 39).

There is a slight pause of the leg and arm and they draw two more circles in succession, making a total of three (fig. 40). The rhythm of this magical pass is given by counting one, slight pause, one-one, then a very slight pause, two, pause, two-two, then a very slight pause, and so on. The same movement is performed with the right leg and arm.

This magical pass stirs energy at the bottom of the luminous ball with the feet, and projects it with the arms to the area just above the head.

17. Rolling Energy on the Adrenals

The forearms are placed behind the body, over the area of the kidneys and adrenals. The elbows are bent at a ninety-degree angle and the hands are held in fists, a few inches away from the body, without touching it. The fists move downward in a rotational fashion, one on top of the other, beginning with the left fist moving downward; the right fist follows, moving downward as the left fist moves back up. The trunk leans slightly forward (fig. 41).

Then the movement is reversed, and the fists roll in the opposite direction as the trunk leans slightly backward (fig. 42). Leaning the body forward and backward in this fashion engages the muscles of the upper arms and the shoulders.

This magical pass is used to supply the energy of intending to the adrenals and kidneys.

18. Stirring up Energy for the Adrenals

The trunk is bent forward, with the knees protruding beyond the line of the toes. The hands rest above the kneecaps, the fingers draping over them. The left hand then rotates to the right over the kneecap, making the elbow protrude as far forward as possible in alignment with the left knee (fig. 43). At the same time, the right forearm, with the hand still above the kneecap, rests us full length over the right thigh, while the right knee is straightened engaging the hamstring. It is important to move only the knees, and not to swing the rear end from side to side.

The same movements are performed with the right arm and leg (fig. 44). This magical pass is employed for stirring up the energy of intending around the kidneys and adrenals. It brings the practitioner long-range endurance and a sensation of daring and self-confidence.

19. Fusing Left and Right Energy

A deep inhalation is taken. A very slow exhalation begins as the left forearm is brought in front of the shoulders, with the elbow bent at a ninety-degree angle. The wrist is bent backward as acutely as possible, with the fingers pointing forward, and the palm of the hand facing to the right (fig. 45).

While the arm maintains this position, the trunk is bent forward sharply until the protruding left arm reaches the level of the knees. The left elbow must be kept from sagging toward the floor, and must be maintained away from the knees, and as far forward as possible. The slow exhalation continues, as the right arm makes a full circle over the head and the right hand comes to rest an inch or two away from the fingers of the left hand. The palm of the right hand faces the body and the fingers point toward the floor. The head is facing downward, with the neck held straight. The exhalation ends, and a deep breath is taken in that position. All the muscles of the back and the arms and legs are contracted as the air is slowly and deeply inhaled (fig. 46).

The body straightens up as an exhalation is made, and the complete magical pass is started again with the right arm.

The maximum stretch of the arms forward permits the creation of an opening in the energetic vortex of the center of the kidneys and adrenals; such an opening allows the optimal utilization of redeployed energy. This magical pass is essential for the redeployment of energy to that center, which accounts, in general terms, for an overall vitality and youth of the body.

20. Piercing the Body with a Beam of Energy

The left arm is placed against the body in front of the navel, and the right arm just behind the body at the same level. The wrists are bent sharply, and the fingers point to the floor. The palm of the left hand faces right, and the palm of the right hand faces left (fig. 47).

The fingertips of both hands are raised briskly to point in a straight line forward and backward. The whole body is tensed and the knees are bent at the instant that the fingers point forward and backward (fig. 48). The hands are kept in that position for a moment. Then the muscles are relaxed, the legs are straightened, and the arms are swiveled around until the right arm is in front and the left behind. As at the beginning of this magical pass, the fingertips point to the floor, and are raised again briskly to point in a straight line forward and backward, again with a light exhalation; the knees are bent. By means of this magical pass, a dividing line is established in the middle of the body, which separates left energy and right energy.

21. Twisting Energy Over Two Centers of Vitality

It is a good idea to begin by placing the hands facing each other, as a device to keep the hands in line. The fingers are kept open and clawed, as if to grab the lid of a jar the size of the hand. Then the right hand is placed over the area of the pancreas and spleen, facing the body. The left hand is placed behind the body, over the area of the left kidney and adrenal, also with the palm facing the body. Both wrists are then bent backward sharply, as the trunk turns as far to the left as possible, keeping the knees in place. Next, both hands pivot at the wrists in unison, in a side-to-side movement, as if to unscrew the lids of two jars, one on the pancreas and spleen, and the other on the left kidney (fig. 49).

The same movement is executed by reversing the order, putting the left hand in the front, at the level of the liver and gallbladder and the right arm in the back at the level of the right kidney.

With the aid of this magical pass, energy is stirred on the three main centers of vitality: the liver and gallbladder, the pancreas and spleen, and the kidneys and adrenals. It is an indispensable magical pass for those who have to be on the lookout. It facilitates an all-around awareness and it increases the practitioners' sensibility to their surroundings.

22. The Half-Circle of Energy

A half-circle is drawn with the left hand, commencing in front of the face. The hand moves slightly to the right until it reaches the level of the right shoulder (fig. 50). There the hand turns and draws the inner edge of a half-circle close to the left side of the body (fig. 51).

The hand turns again in the back (fig. 52) and draws the outer edge of the half-circle, then returns to its initial position (fig. 53). The complete half-circle is slanted from the level of the eyes, in front, to a level below the rear end, in the back. It is important to follow the movement of the hand with the eyes. Once the half-circle drawn with the left arm is completed, another one is drawn with the right arm, surrounding the body in this fashion with two half-circles. These two half-circles are drawn to stir energy and to facilitate the sliding of energy from above the head to the region of the adrenals. This magical pass is a vehicle for acquiring intense, sustained sobriety.

23. Stirring Energy Around the Neck

The left hand, with the palm facing upward, and the right hand, with the palm facing downward, are placed in front of the body, at the level of the solar plexus. The right hand is on top of the left, nearly touching it. The elbows are bent sharply. A deep breath is taken; the arms are raised slightly as the trunk is made to rotate as far to the left as possible without moving the legs, especially the knees, which are slightly bent in order to avoid any unnecessary stress on the tendons. The head is kept in alignment with the trunk and shoulders. An exhalation begins as the elbows are then gently pulled away from each other to a maximum stretch, keeping the wrists straight (fig. 54). An inhalation is taken. An exhalation begins when the head is turned very gently to the back to face the left elbow, and then to the front to face the right elbow; the rotation of the head back and forth is repeated two more times as the exhalation ends.

The trunk is turned to the front, and the hands reverse position there. The right hand is made to face upward while the left hand is made to face downward, on top of the right one. An inhalation is taken again. The trunk is then turned to the right, and the same movements are repeated on the right.

Shamans believe that a special type of energy for intending is dispersed from the center for decisions, located in the hollow V spot at the base of the neck, and that this energy is exclusively gathered with this magical pass.

24. Kneading Energy with a Push of the Shoulder Blades

Both arms are placed in front of the face, at the level of the eyes, with the elbows bent enough to give the arms a bow-like appearance (fig. 55). The trunk is bent forward slightly, in order to allow the shoulder blades to expand laterally. The movement begins by pushing the left arm forward while it is kept arched and tense (fig. 56). The right arm follows; and the arms move in an alternating fashion. It is important to note that the arms are kept extremely tense. The palms of the hands face forward and the fingertips face each other. The driving force of the arms is created by the deep movement of the shoulder blades and the tenseness of the stomach muscles.

Shamans believe that energy on the ganglia around the shoulder blades gets easily stuck and becomes stagnant, bringing about the decay of the center for decisions, located on the V spot at the base of the neck. This magical pass is employed to stir that energy.

25. Stirring Energy Above the Head and Cracking It

The left arm moves in a relaxed fashion, making two and a half circles above and around the head (fig. 57). Those circles are then cracked with the outer edge of the forearm and the hand, which comes down forcefully, but very slowly (fig. 58). The impact is absorbed by the stomach muscles, which are tensed at that moment. The muscles of the arm are kept fight, in order to avoid injuries to the tendons which could occur if the muscles of the arm were loose, or if the arm were whipped. Air is exhaled lightly as the arm strikes downward. The same movement is repeated with the right arm.

The energy stirred and cracked in this fashion is allowed to seep downward over the entire body. When practitioners are overtired, and can not afford to go to sleep, executing this magical pass dispels sleepiness and brings forth a sensation of temporary alertness.

Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda.

The First Series: Third Group - Gathering Energy for Intent.

The nine magical passes of the third group are employed to bring to the three centers of vitality around the liver, the pancreas, and the kidneys the specialized energy which has been stirred up by the magical passes of the previous group. The magical passes of this group must be performed slowly and with ultimate deliberation. Shamans recommend that the state of mind on executing these passes be one of total silence and the unwavering intent to gather the energy necessary for intending.

All of the magical passes of the third group begin with a fast shake of the hands, which are held at the sides of the body, with the arms hanging at a normal position. The hands shake as if the fingers were vibrating downward, taken by a tremor. A vibration of this nature was thought to be the means to stir energy around the hips and also the means to stimulate minute centers of energy where energy could get stagnant on the backs of the hands and the wrists.

The overall effect of the first three magical passes of this group is one of general vitality and well-being, since energy is carried to the three main vital centers in the lower part of the body.

26. Reaching for Energy Stirred Below the Knees

A small jump forward is made with the left leg, which is propelled by the right one. The trunk is bent markedly forward, and the left arm is stretched out to grab something that is almost at the floor level (fig. 59). The left leg is then retrieved to a standing position, and the left palm brushes immediately over the vital center of energy on the right: the liver and gallbladder.

The same movement is repeated with the right leg and arm, brushing the palm over the vital center on the left: the pancreas and spleen.

27. Transporting Front Energy to the Adrenals

A deep inhalation is taken while the hands shake. Then the left arm shoots straight in front of the body ;it the level of the shoulders with the palm of the hand turned toward the left, as all the air is sharply exhaled (fig. 60). Next, a very slow inhalation begins while the wrist rotates from left to right, making a complete circle, as if scooping a ball of solid matter (fig. 61).

Then the inhalation continues while the wrist rotates hack again to its initial position with the palm facing to the left. Next, us if carrying the ball, the left arm makes a semi-circle, keeping the same shoulder level; this movement ends when the back of the bent wrist is placed over the left kidney. It is important that the continuous inhalation be made to last for the duration of the swinging of the arm from front to back.

As this swinging movement is executed, the right arm makes a circular movement to the front of the body, ending when the hack of the bent wrist is brought to touch the area just above the pubis. The head is turned to the left to face the back (fig. 62). Next, the left hand, which is holding the ball, turns to face the body and smashes the Kill against the left kidney and adrenal. The palm is then gently rubbed over that area as an exhalation is made.

The same movement is executed by reversing the arms and turning the head to the right.

28. Scooping Energy from the Left and the Right

The arms are moved to the sides of the body and then raised with the hands curled inward toward the body, brushing upward against the torso to reach the armpits, as a deep inhalation is taken (fig. 63). Next, the arms are extended laterally, with the palms down, as the air is exhaled forcefully. A deep inhalation is taken then as the hands are cupped and made to rotate on the wrists until the palms face up, as if scooping something solid (fig. 64). Next, the hands are brought back to the shoulder level by bending the elbows sharply as the inhalation continues (fig. 65). This movement engages the shoulder blades and the muscles of the neck. After holding this position for a moment, the arms are extended laterally again, with a sharp exhalation. The palms face front. The palms of the hands are cupped and made to rotate backward, again as if scooping a solid substance.

The slightly cupped hands are brought back to the shoulder level as before. These movements are repeated one more time, for a total of three. The palms then rub gently over the two vital centers around the liver and around the pancreas as the air is exhaled.

29. Cracking the Circle of Energy

A circle is made by moving the left arm to the right shoulder (fig. 66), then close around the front of the body to the back (fig. 67) and out again to in front of the face (fig. 68). This movement of the left arm is coordinated with the same movement done with the right arm. Both arms move in an alternate fashion, creating a slanted circle around the total body. Then a backward step to the left is taken with the right foot, followed by a step to the right taken with the left foot, so as to turn around to face the opposite direction. The left arm is arched then around the left side of the circle, as if the circle were a solid object movement which the left arm presses against the armpit and chest area. The right arm then performs the same on the right side, treating the circle as if it were a solid object (fig. 69). A deep breath is taken, and the circle is cracked from both sides by tensing the whole body, especially the arms, which are brought together to the chest.

The palms then rub gently on the respective centers of vitality on the front of the body as the air is exhaled. The uses of this pass are quite esoteric, because they have to do with the clarity of intent needed for decision making. This magical pass is used for .pleading the energy of decisions accumulated around the neck.

30. Gathering Energy from the Front of the Body, Right Above the Head

A deep inhalation is taken as the hands shake. Both arms are brought to level of the face with clenched fists, crossed in an X, with the left arm closer to the face, and the inside of the fisted palms toward the face. The arms are then extended a few inches to the front as the wrists are made to rotate on each other until the fisted palms are facing down (fig. 70). From this position, the left shoulder and shoulder blade are extended forward, an exhalation begins. The left shoulder is pulled back as the right one comes forward. Next, the crossed arms are lifted above the head and the exhalation ends.

A slow, deep inhalation is taken as the crossed arms make a complete circle, moving to the right around the front of the body, almost to the level of the knees, then to the left, and back to their initial position, right above the head (fig. 71).

Then the arms are forcefully separated as a long exhalation begins (fig. 72).

From there, the arms move as far back as possible, as the exhalation continues, drawing a circle which is completed when the fists are brought to the front to the level of the eyes, with the inside of the fisted palms toward the face (fig. 73).

Then the arms are crossed again. The wrists pivot on each other as the hands are opened and are placed against the body, the right hand on the area of the pancreas and spleen, and the left hand on the area of the liver and gallbladder. The body bends forward at the waist, at a ninety-degree angle, as the exhalation ends (fig. 74).

The use of this magical pass is twofold. First, it stirs energy around the shoulder blades and transports it to a place above the head. From there, it makes the energy circulate in a broad circle that touches the edges of the luminous sphere. Second, it mixes the energy of the left and the right by placing it on the two centers of vitality around the pancreas and the liver, with each hand on the opposite center.

Mixing energy in such a fashion provides a jolt of great magnitude to the respective centers of vitality. As the practitioners became more proficient in their practice, the jolt becomes more acute, and acquires the quality of a filter of energy, which is an incomprehensible statement until this pass is practiced. The sensation that accompanies it could be described as breathing mentholated air.

31. Stirring and Grabbing Energy from Below the Knees and Above the Head

An inhalation is taken as the hands shake. Both hands are brought up by the sides of the body to the level of the waist, and held relaxed. The knees are bent as the left hand is pushed downward with the wrist turned so that the palm faces outward, away from the body, as if it were reaching into a bucket full of liquid substance. This movement is performed at the same time that the right hand shoots up above the head with equal force; the right wrist is also turned so that the palm faces outward, away from the body (fig. 75).

A slow exhalation begins when both arms reach their maximum extension. The wrists are returned with great force to a straight position at the same time that the hands clasp into fists, as if grabbing something solid. Keeping the fists clenched, the exhalation continues while the right arm is brought down and the left arm is brought up to the level of the waist, slowly and with great strength, as if wading through a heavy liquid (fig. 76).

Then the palms rub gently on the areas of the liver and gallbladder and the pancreas and spleen. The knees are straightened and the exhalation ends at this point (fig. 77).

The same movement is executed by shifting the arms; the right arm plunges downward while the left arm pushes upward.

The energy for intending that is extracted from below the knees and above the head in this magical pass can also be rubbed on the areas of the left and right kidneys.

32. Mixing Energy of the Left and the Right

An inhalation is taken as the hands shake. The left arm reaches diagonally to the extreme right above the head and in line with the right shoulder as an exhalation begins (fig. 78). The hand grabs as if clasping a handful of matter, yanks it out, and brings it to a position above the head and in line with the left shoulder, where the exhalation ends. The left hand remains clasped, and a sharp inhalation is taken as the left arm circles backward (fig. 79), ending in a fisted position at the level of the eyes. The fist is then brought down with an exhalation to the vital center around the pancreas, slowly, but with great force, and the palm rubs softly on that area (fig. 80).

The same movement is repeated with the right arm, but instead of moving in a backward circle, the right arm moves in a frontward circle.

In the belief of shamans, the energy of the two sides of the body is different. The energy of the left is portrayed as being undular, and the energy of the right as being circular. This magical pass is used to apply circular energy to the left and undular energy to the right in order to strengthen the centers of vitality around the liver and pancreas by the inflow of slightly different energy.

33. Grabbing Energy from Above the Head for the Two Vital Centers

Starting at the level of the ear, the left arm circles forward twice (fig. 81) and is then extended over the head, as if to grab something (fig. 82). As this movement is executed, a deep breath is taken, winch ends at the moment that the hand grabs upward as if to fetch something above the head. Don Juan recommended that the eyes select, with a quick glance upward, the target for the hand to grab. Whatever is selected and grabbed is then yanked forcefully downward and placed over the vital center around the pancreas and spleen. The air is exhaled at this point. The same movement is performed with the right arm, and the energy is placed over the center around the liver and gallbladder.

According to shamans, the energy of intent tends to gravitate downward, and a more rarefied aspect of the same energy remains in the area above the head. This energy is gathered with this magical pass.

34. Reaching for Energy Above the Head

The left arm is extended upward as far as possible, with the hand open as if to grab something. At the same time, the body is propelled upward with the right leg. When the jump reaches its maximum height, the hand turns inward at the wrist, making a hook with the forearm (fig. 83), which then slowly and forcefully scoops downward. The left hand rubs immediately around the vital center of the pancreas and spleen.

This movement is performed with the right arm in exactly the same fashion as it was done with the left. The right hand immediately brushes across the vital center around the liver and gallbladder.

Shamans believe that the energy stored around the periphery of the luminous sphere that human beings are can be stirred and gathered by jumping forcefully upward. This magical pass is used as a help to dispel problems brought about by concentrating on a given task for long periods of time.

Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda.

The First Series: Fourth Group - Breathing In the Energy of Intent.

The three magical passes of this group are for stirring, gathering, and transporting energy for intent from three centers- around the feet, on the ankles, and right below the kneecaps- and placing it on the centers of vitality around the kidneys, the liver, the pancreas, the womb, and the genitals. The recommendation to practitioners on the execution of these magical passes is that since they are accompanied by breaths, the inhalations and exhalations should be slow and profound; and that there should be a crystal clear intent on the part of the practitioners that the adrenals receive an instantaneous boost while the deep breaths are taken.

35. Dragging Energy from the Kneecaps Along the Front of the Thighs

A deep inhalation is taken as the arms hang by the sides and the hands waver in a continuous tremor, as if stirring a gaseous matter. An exhalation begins as the hands are lifted to the waist, and the palms of the hands strike down in unison, on each side of the body, with great force (fig. 84). The arms are only slightly bent, so that the palms of the hands are a few inches below the stomach. The hands are three or four inches apart, held at ninety-degree angles with the forearms, the fingers pointing forward. Slowly and without touching, the hands make one circle inward toward the front of the body; the muscles of the arms, stomach, and legs are fully contracted (fig. 85). A second circle is drawn in the same fashion as the air is totally expelled through clenched teeth.

Another deep inhalation is taken, and the air is slowly exhaled as three more inward circles are drawn in front of the body. The hands are then retrieved to the front of the hips, and they slide down the front of die thighs with the heels of the palms, fingers slightly turned up, all the way to the kneecaps. The air is fully exhaled then. A third deep inhalation is taken while the tips of the fingers press the bottom of the kneecaps. The head is held facing downward, in line with the spine (fig. 86). Then, as the bent knees are straightened, the hands, with the fingers clawed, are dragged up the thighs to the hips, as the air is slowly exhaled. With the last portion of the exhalation, the hands are then brushed on the respective centers of vitality around the pancreas and the liver.

36. Dragging Energy from the Sides of the Legs

A deep inhalation is taken as the hands, held by the sides of the body, shake with a continuous tremor. The hands strike down exactly as in the previous magical pass. An exhalation begins there, while the hands draw, in a similar fashion, two small outward circles by the sides of the body. The muscles of the arms, stomach, and legs are tensed to the maximum. The elbows are held fight but slightly bent (fig. 87).

After the two circles have been drawn, all the air is expelled, and a deep inhalation is taken. Three more outward circles are drawn as the air is slowly exhaled. The hands are then brought to the sides of the hips. The fingers are slightly raised as the heels of the hands rub all the way down the sides of the legs until the fingers reach the outside knobs of the ankles. The head is facing downward, in line with the body (fig. 88). The exhalation ends there, and a deep inhalation is taken with the index and middle fingers pressing the bottom of the knobs (fig. 89). A slow exhalation begins as the hands, with the fingers clawed, are dragged up the sides of the legs to the hips. The exhalation is completed while the palms are brushed on the two respective centers of vitality.

37. Dragging Energy from the Front of the Legs

Again, a deep inhalation is taken as the hands, held by the sides of the body, are shaken. Both arms make a circle by the sides of the body, beginning toward the back, and going over the head (fig. 90) to strike forcefully in front of the body with the palms down and the fingers pointing forward. A slow exhalation begins there, while the hands, starting with the left, move forward and backward three times in alternating succession, as if sliding over a smooth surface. The exhalation ends when the heels of both hands are touching the rib cage (fig. 91). A deep inhalation is taken then. The left hand moves in a sliding motion to the left followed by the right hand sliding to the right; this sequence is executed a total of three times in alternating succession. They end with the heels of the palms against the rib cage, the thumbs nearly touching each other (fig. 92). Next, both hands are made to slide down the front of the legs until they reach the tendons on the front of the ankles (fig. 93).

The exhalation ends there. A deep inhalation is taken as the tendon is tensed by lifting the big toe until the tendon seems to pop/up; the index and middle fingers of each hand vibrate the tendons by pressing on them (fig. 94). With the fingers clawed, the hands are dragged up the front of the legs to the hips as a slow exhalation begins. The palms are gently rubbed on the centers of vitality as the exhalation ends.

Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda.

The Second Series: First Group - Magical Passes Belonging to Taisha Abelar.

The three magical passes of this group are geared to gathering energy for the womb from six specific areas: the left and right front of the body, the left and right sides of the body at the height of the hips, and from behind the shoulder blades and above the head. The explanation that The shamans of ancient Mexico gave was that energy especially suited for the womb accumulates on those areas, and that the movements of these magical passes are the appropriate antennas that gather that energy exclusively.

1. Extracting Energy from the Front of the Body with the Index and Middle Fingers

The first sensation that a Tensegrity practitioner seeks while executing this magical pass is a pressure on the tendons of the back of the hand, a sensation which is obtained by opening the index and middle fingers as far as possible while they are fully extended. The last two fingers are curled over the palm of the hand, and the thumb holds them in place (fig. 95).

The magical pass starts by placing the left foot in front of the body in a T position, perpendicular to the right one. The left arm and the left leg make a series of synchronized forward circling movements. The leg circles by first lifting the ball of the foot, and then the whole foot, and a step is taken that rolls forward in the air and ends on the heel, with the toes up, as the body leans forward, creating pressure on a muscle on the front of the left calf.

In synchronization with this movement, the left arm rotates forward over the head, also making a complete circle. The index and middle fingers are fully extended, and the palm faces to the right. The pressure on the tendons of the back of the hand has to be maintained with maximum stress during the entire movement (fig. 96). At the end of the third circling movement of the arm and foot, the entire foot is placed on the ground with a forceful stomp, shifting the weight of the body forward. At the same time, the arm shoots out in a stabbing motion, with the index and middle fingers fully extended and the palm of the hand facing right; the muscles of the entire left side of the body are kept tense and contracted (fig. 97).

An undulating movement is made, as if drawing, with the two extended fingers pointing forward, a letter S that is lying on its side. The wrist is bent so that the fingers point upward once the S is completed (fig. 98). Next, the wrist bends so the fingers again point forward and the S is cut in half with a horizontal stroke of the two fingers from right to left. Then the wrist is bent so the two fingers point upward once more, and a sweeping movement is made from left to right with the palm turned toward the face. The palm of the hand is turned to face outward, as the arm sweeps from right to left. The left arm is retrieved to the level of the chest, and two forward stabbing motions are executed with the fingers fully extended and the palm of the hand facing downward. The palm of the hand is turned toward the face once more, and the hand sweeps again from left to right and from right to left, exactly as before.

The body leans back slightly, shifting the weight to the back leg. Then the hand, with the two fingers curved like a claw, reaches out at waist level in front of the body as if to grab something, contracting the muscles and tendons of the forearm and hand as if forcefully extracting some heavy substance (fig. 99). The clawed hand is retrieved to the side of the body. All the fingers of the hand are then fully extended, with The thumb locked and the fingers separated at the middle and fourth fingers, making a letter V, which is brushed over the womb, or over the sexual organs, in the case of men (fig. 100). A quick jump is made to shift legs, so that the right foot is in front of the left one, again making a T. The same movements are repeated with the right arm and leg.

2. Jumping to Stir Energy for the Womb and Grabbing It with the Hand

This magical pass begins by placing the right foot perpendicular to the left one in a T position. A tap is made with the right heel; this tap serves as an impulse for a small hop of the right foot which ends with the right toes pointing forward, followed immediately by a one-step lateral hop of the left foot that ends with the left heel on the ground, perpendicular to the right foot. The rest of the left foot touches the ground, shifting the weight to the left leg, as the left arm moves in a grabbing motion to clasp something in front of the body with a clawed hand (fig. 101). The hand then rubs gently on the area of the left ovary.

A tap of the left heel serves as an impulse for a sequence of movements that is a mirror image of the preceding ones.

Energy stirred up by the motion of the feet in this magical pass bounces upward, is caught with each hand in turn, and is placed over the uterus and the left and the right ovaries.

3. Slapping Energy on the Ovaries

The third magical pass begins by circling the left arm over the head, to the back, in toward the shoulder blades, and out again to the front until it reaches the level of the chin; the palm faces up. The hand draws another circle that goes up and over toward the right; it continues downward, all the way to the right waist and then sweeps upward over the head, completing the figure of a number eight. The palm flips to face the front (fig. 102). Then the hand descends forcefully, as if slapping the area just in front of the left ovary (fig. 103). The hand then brushes gently on the area of the left ovary. The same pattern is repeated with the right arm.

Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda.

The Second Series: Second Group - A Magical Pass Directly Related to Florinda Donner-Grau.

In this group, there is only one magical pass. The effect of this magical pass is utterly congruous with the personality of Florinda Donner-Grau. Don Juan Matus regarded her as being very straightforward, so to-the-point that sometimes her directness became unbearable. Her activities in the sorcerers' world, as a consequence of her directness, have always been geared toward the goal of evolution, or the transformation of the womb from a receptacle and promoter of fertility to an organ of awareness, through which thoughts which are not part of our normal cognition can be processed.

4. Sphinx Paws

This magical pass begins with a quick, deep inhalation. The air is sharply exhaled with a forceful strike of the wrists to the front of the body. This is achieved with the hands turned downward sharply, at right angles to the forearms; the fingers point to the ground, and the striking surface is the backs of the hands at the wrists. The hands are pulled upward to the level of the shoulders, the palms facing forward, in a straight line with the forearms. A deep inhalation is taken. The hands are held in this position as the trunk turns to the left. The hands then strike, with the palms down, to the level of the hips (fig. 104). The air is exhaled sharply. The hands are raised above the shoulders again as the trunk turns to the front, and a deep inhalation is taken. With the hands still above the shoulders, the trunk is turned to the right. Next both hands strike, with the palms down, to the level of the hips as the air is exhaled.

Both hands move then to the right of the body, with the palms slightly cupped and turned to the left, as if to scoop a liquid substance. Both arms move from right to left to right, drawing the figure of a reclining number eight in front of the body. This is achieved by first moving the arms all the way to the left, following a twist of the waist, and then returning back to the right, following a reverse twist of the waist. The slightly cupped palms are turned to face the right, as if to continue scooping a liquid substance in the opposite direction (fig. 105).

As the figure eight is completed, the left hand stops to rest on the left hip, while the right arm continues moving to the right; the arm goes up over the head and makes a big loop to the back that ends when the hand is brought back to the front, to the level of the chin; the palm of the hand faces up. The hand continues moving, making another loop to the left, going in front of the face, over the left shoulder. Next it moves in a straight line across the body at the level of the hip, cutting through the figure eight (fig. 106). From there, the palm moves back toward the body and is made to slide over the right ovary, as if the hand were a knife that comes to rest in its sheath.

The exact same movements are performed, but striking to the right side of the body first, in order to allow the left arm to execute the last movement.

Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda.

The Second Series: Third Group - Magical Passes That Have to Do Exclusively with Carol Tiggs.

The three magical passes of the third group deal with the energy that is directly on the area of the womb. This emphasis makes these three magical passes extraordinarily potent. Moderation is strongly recommended in order to bring the sensations of awakening the womb to a manageable level. In this fashion the linear-minded interpretation of these sensations as premenstrual pangs or heaviness on the ovaries can be avoided.

Don Juan Matus told his three female disciples that the secondary functions of the womb, upon being awakened by the appropriate magical passes, give the sensorial input of discomfort, but that what takes place at an energetic level is the influx of energy into the vortex of the womb. Energy which has, up to this point, remained unused and on the periphery of the luminous sphere is suddenly dropped into that vortex.

5. Packing Energy on the Womb

The first magical pass begins by bringing the two hands to the area of the womb. The wrists are bent sharply, and the hands are cupped, the lingers pointing to the womb.

The two hands are extended so that the tips of the fingers point inward each other. Then they make an ample circle, first going upward and out, and then down, with both hands together, ending right over the womb (fig. 107).

Next, the hands separate to the width of the body (fig. 108), and are brought forcefully toward the center of the womb as if thick ball were being squashed. The same movement is repeated, and the hands are brought closer together, as if the ball were being further squashed. Then it is torn apart by a powerful movement of the hands, which grab and rip (fig. 109).

The hands are then brushed over the area of the uterus and the ovaries.

6. Stirring and Guiding Energy Directly into the Womb

This magical pass begins with an exhalation as the arms are stretched out in front of the body, with the backs of the hands touching. A deep breath is taken as the arms move laterally away from each other, drawing half-circles which end with the forearms touching in front of the body at the level of the chest, and the arms extended forward with the elbows slightly bent. The palms face up. Then the trunk bends forward slightly as the forearms move backward so that the elbows are moored on the solar plexus with the forearms still touching, side by side (fig. 110).

Next, a slow exhalation begins, which must last through the following movements. The back side of the left wrist is placed on top of the inner side of the right wrist, maneuvering the arms to make the figure of the letter X; the wrists rotate so that the palms circle in toward the body, and then back out to face front, without losing the X shape of the wrists; the left hand ends up on top of the right one (fig. 111).

The hands are made into fists and separated vigorously (fig. 112), and then brought to the area of the left and right ovaries as the exhalation ends.

7. Squeezing Out Injurious Energy from the Ovaries

The left hand is held in front of the body with the palm up. The elbow is bent at a right angle and tucked against the rib cage. The index and middle fingers of the left hand are extended while the thumb holds the other two fingers against the palm. The two extended fingers of the left hand are grabbed from underneath by the right hand, and squeezed as if drawing something from the base of the two extended fingers of the left hand and making it move to the tips (fig. 113).

Then the right hand shakes vigorously whatever it drew from those two fingers with a backhanded, downward striking motion on the right side of the body. The left thumb releases the other two fingers, and the hand is held in a letter V shape, with the index and middle fingers together, and the fourth and fifth fingers together. The palm of the hand is lightly brushed over the area of the left ovary. The same movements are repeated with the right hand.

For the second part of this magical pass, the trunk is bent sharply forward. The left arm hangs in between the legs, the elbow cushioned against the umbilical region. Exactly the same movements performed in the first part of the magical pass are executed again, except this time the two extended fingers of the left hand are grabbed by the right hand from above (figs. 114, 115).

The same movements are repeated on the right.

Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda.

The Second Series: Fourth Group - Magical Passes That Belong to the Blue Scout.

The magical passes of this group are the natural conclusion of the whole series. An impersonal mood is the driving force of this group of passes. The inhalations and exhalations are sharp, but not deep, and the movements are accompanied by an explosive hissing sound of air being expelled.

The value of the Blue Scout's magical passes resides in the capacity of each of them to give the womb the hardness that it requires in order to arrive at its secondary functions, which can be easily defined, in the case of the Blue Scout, as the ability to be alert without pause. The criticism of sorcerers about our normal state of being is that we seem to be perennially on automatic pilot; we say things that we do not mean to say, we ignore things that we should not ignore. In other words, we are aware of what surrounds us only in very short spurts. Most of the time, we function on sheer momentum, habit, and that habit is, in essence, to be oblivious to everything. The idea of the sorcerers of ancient Mexico was that, in women, the womb is the organ that can resolve this impasse, and for that, it needs to acquire hardness.

8. Drawing Energy from the Front with Insect Antennas

The index and middle fingers are held by the sides of the chest in a letter V position, while the thumbs press the other two fingers against the palms; the palms are up (fig. 116).

Next, the palms turn downward, and the two fingers strike out in front of the body, as a sharp exhalation is made, with clenched teeth and a hissing, whistle-like sound (fig. 117).

A deep inhalation is taken as the hands are retrieved with the palms up to the sides of the chest. The same movement is repeated one more time, and the palms of the hands are brushed on the area of the ovaries, with the fingers separated between the middle and fourth fingers.

9. Drawing Energy from the Sides at an Angle

This magical pass begins by pivoting on the right foot and putting the left leg in front, at a forty-five-degree angle. The right foot is the horizontal bar of the letter T, and the left foot, the vertical. The body rocks back and forth. Then the left elbow is bent, and the hand is brought to The level of the chest with the palm up. The index and middle fingers are held in the shape of the letter V. The thumb holds the other two fingers against the palm (fig. 118).

A strike is made, leaning the body forward sharply. The palm of the hand turns down as the fingers strike. The air is exhaled with a hiss (fig. 119).

An inhalation is taken as the kind retrieves to the side of the chest with the palm up. The palm of the hand is then lightly brushed on the left ovary, with the fingers separated between the middle and fourth fingers.

A jump is taken to switch feet and face a new direction to the right, still at a forty-five degree angle. The same movements arc repeated with the right arm.

10. Drawing Energy Laterally with an Insect Cut

The hands are held on the sides of the chest, with the index and middle fingers of each hand in a V shape and the thumbs holding the other two fingers against the palms. The palms face up. Remaining at the level of the chest, the hands are pivoted on the heels of the palms and brought to face each other. Next, a hissing exhalation is made as both arms are fully extended laterally, with the palms facing the front. The index and middle fingers are moved with a cutting motion as if they were indeed scissors, as the exhalation ends in a whistle-like fashion (fig. 120).

An inhalation is taken as the arms are retrieved; the elbows are down, and the arms come to rest on the sides of the body by the chest hands pointing sideways (fig. 121).

Next the hands are pivoted on the heel of the palm so the index and middle fingers point to the front The fingers are then separated at the middle and fourth fingers, and a hissing exhalation is made as the palms of the hands brush over the area of the ovaries.

11. Drilling Energy from Between the Feet with Each Hand

A deep inhalation is taken. A long hissing exhalation follows while the left hand descends with a rotating movement of the wrist, which makes the hand resemble a drill that seems to perforate a substance in front of the body between the legs. Then the index and middle fingers make a two-pronged claw and grab something from the area between the feet (fig. 122) and pull it upward, with a deep inhalation, to the level of the hips. The arm moves over the head to the back of the body and the palm is placed on the area of the left kidney and adrenal (fig. 123)

The left hand is held there while the right hand performs the same movements. Once the right hand is placed on the area of the right kidney and adrenal, an inhalation is taken. The left hand moves over the head to the front of the body, and brushes, with the fingers separated at the middle and fourth fingers, over the left ovary. This movement of the arm from back to front is accompanied by the whistle-like sound of a sharp exhalation. Another deep inhalation is taken, and the right hand is brought to the right ovary in the same fashion.

12. Drilling Energy from Between the Feet with Both Hands

This magical pass is similar to the preceding one, except that instead of performing the movements separately, the hands execute the drilling movements in unison. Then the index and middle fingers of both hands make two-pronged claws, and grab something from the area between the feet at the same time.

They return to the level of the hips, and then circle around the sides of the body to the area of the kidneys and adrenals; a deep breath is taken as the palms rub those areas (fig. 124).

Then an exhalation is made as the arms draw another circle around the sides of the body to the front to brush the area over the left and right ovaries with the fingers of each hand separated at the middle. Again, this movement of the arms from back to front is accompanied by a whistle-like exhalation.

Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda.

The Third Series: First Group - The Center for Decisions.

The most important topic for the shamans who lived in Mexico in ancient times, and for all the shamans of don Juan's lineage, was the center for decisions. Shamans are convinced, by the practical results of their endeavors, that there is a spot on the human body which accounts for decision making, the V spot- the area on the crest of the sternum at the base of the neck, where the clavicles meet to form a letter V. It is a center where energy is rarefied to the point of being tremendously subtle, and it stores a specific type of energy which shamans are incapable of defining.

They are utterly certain, however, that they can feel the presence of that energy, and its effects. It is the belief of shamans that this special energy is always pushed out of that center very early in the lives of human beings, and it never returns to it, thus depriving human beings of something perhaps more important than all the energy of the other centers combined: the capacity to make decisions.

In relation to the issue of making decisions, don Juan expressed the hard opinion of the sorcerers of his lineage. Their observations, over the centuries, had led them to conclude that human beings are incapable of making decisions, and that for this reason, they have created the social order: gigantic institutions that assume responsibility for decision making. They let those gigantic institutions decide for them, and they merely fulfill the decisions already made on their behalf.

The V spot at the base of the neck was, for those shamans, a place of such importance that they rarely touched it with their hands; if it was touched, the touch was ritualistic and always performed by someone else with the aid of an object. They used highly polished pieces of hardwood or polished bones of animals, utilizing the round head of the bone so as to have an object of the perfect contour, the size of the hollow spot on the neck. They would press with those bones or pieces of wood to create pressure on the borders of that hollow spot. Those objects were also used, although rarely, for self-massage, or for what we understand nowadays as acupressure.

"How did they come to find out that that hollow spot is the center for decisions!" I asked don Juan once.

"Every center of energy in the body," he replied, "shows a concentration of energy; a sort of vortex of energy, like a funnel that actually seems to rotate counterclockwise from the perspective of the seer who gazes into it. The strength of a particular center depends on the force of that movement. If it barely moves, the center is exhausted, depleted of energy.

"When the sorcerers of ancient times," don Juan continued, "were scanning the body with their seeing eye, they noticed the presence of those vortexes. They became very curious about them, and made a map of them."

"Are there many such centers in the body, don Juan?" I asked.

"There are hundreds of them," he replied, "if not thousands! One can say that a human being is nothing else but a conglomerate of thousands of twirling vortexes, some of them so very small that they are, let us say, like pinholes, but very important pinholes. Most of the vortexes are vortexes of energy. Energy flows freely through them, or is stuck in them. There are, however, six which are so enormous that they deserve special treatment. They are centers of life and vitality. Energy there is never stuck, but sometimes the supply of energy is so scarce that the center barely rotates."

Don Juan explained that those enormous centers of vitality were located on six areas of the body. He enumerated them in terms of the importance that shamans accorded them.

The first was on the area of the liver and gallbladder; the second on the area of the pancreas and spleen; the third on the area of the kidneys and adrenals; and the fourth on the hollow spot at the base of the neck on the frontal part of the body. The fifth was around the womb, and the sixth was on the top of the head.

The fifth center, pertinent only to women, had, according to what don Juan said, a special kind of energy that gave sorcerers the impression of liquidness. It was a feature that only some women had. It seemed to serve as a natural filter that screened out superfluous influences.

The sixth center, located on top of the head, don Juan described as something more than an anomaly, and refrained absolutely from having anything to do with it. He portrayed it as possessing not a circular vortex of energy, like the others, but a pendulum-like, back-and-forth movement somehow reminiscent of the beating of a heart.

"Why is the energy of that center so different, don Juan?" I asked him.

"That sixth center of energy," he said, "does not quite belong to man. You see, we human beings are under siege, so to speak. That center has been taken over by an invader, an unseen predator. And the only way to overcome this predator is by fortifying all the other centers."

"Is it not a bit paranoiac to feel that we are under siege, don Juan?" I asked.

"Well, maybe for you, but certainly not for me," he replied. "I see energy, and I see that the energy over the center on the top of the head does not fluctuate like the energy of the other centers. It has a back-and-forth movement, quite disgusting, and quite foreign. I also see that in a sorcerer who has been capable of vanquishing the mind, which sorcerers call a foreign installation, the fluctuation of that center has become exactly like the fluctuation of all the others."

Don Juan, throughout the years of my apprenticeship, systematically refused to talk about that sixth center. On this occasion when he was telling me about the centers of vitality, he dismissed my frantic probes, rather rudely, and began to talk about the fourth center, the center for decisions.

"This fourth center," he said, "has a special type of energy, which appears to the eye of the seer as possessing a unique transparency, something that could be described as resembling water: energy so fluid that it seems liquid. The liquid appearance of this special energy is the mark of a filter-like quality of the center for decisions itself, which screens any energy coming to it, and draws from it only the aspect of it that is liquid-like. Such a quality of liquidness is a uniform and consistent feature of this center. Sorcerers also call it the watery center.

"The rotation of the energy at the center for decisions is the weakest of them all," he went on. "That is why man can rarely decide anything. Sorcerers see that after they practice certain magical passes, that center becomes active, and they can certainly make decisions to their hearts' content, while they could not even take a first step before."

Don Juan was quite emphatic about the fact that the shamans of ancient Mexico had an aversion that bordered on phobia about touching their own hollow spot at the base of the neck. The only way in which they accepted any interference whatsoever with that spot was through the use of their magical passes, which reinforce that center by bringing dispersed energy to it, clearing away, in this manner, any hesitation in decision making born out of the natural energy dispersion brought about by the wear and tear of everyday life.

"A human being," don Juan said, "perceived as a conglomerate of energy fields, is a concrete and sealed unit into which no energy can be injected, and from which no energy can escape. The feeling of losing energy, which all of us experience at one time or another, is the result of energy being chased away, dispersed from the five enormous natural centers of life and vitality. Any sense of gaining energy is due to the redeployment of energy previously dispersed from those centers. That is to say, The energy is relocated onto those five centers of life and vitality."

Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda.

The Third Series: First Group - The Magical Passes for the Center for Decisions.

1. Bringing Energy to the Center for Decisions with a Back-and Forth Motion of the Hands and Arms with the Palms Turned Downward. The arms shoot out to the front at a forty-five-degree angle with an exhalation, the palms of the hands facing down (fig. 125).

Then they are retrieved to the sides of the chest, under the axilla, with an inhalation. The shoulders are raised in order to main the same degree of inclination (fig. 126).

In the second facet of this movement, the arms are extended downward with an inhalation, and pulled back with an exhalation.

2. Bringing Energy to the Center for Decisions with a Back-and-Forth Motion of the Hands and Arms with the Palms Turned Upward

This magical pass is like the preceding one, and it is executed in exactly the same fashion, except that it is done with the palms of the hands turned upward (fig. 127).

The inhalations and exhalations are also exactly as in the preceding movement. Air is exhaled as the hands and arms move forward at a forty-five-degree level of inclination, and it is inhaled as the arms move backward. Then air is inhaled as the hands and arms move downward, and exhaled as the hands and arms retrieve.

3. Bringing Energy to the Center for Decisions with a Circular Motion of the Hands and Arms with the Palms Turned Downward

This magical pass begins exactly like the first one of this group, except that when the hands reach their fully extended position, two complete circles are drawn with the hands and the arms going away from each other to reach a point about six inches beyond the rib cage. When the hands complete the circles (fig. 128), the arms are retrieved to the sides of the rib cage under the axilla.

This magical pass consists of two facets. In the first, air is exhaled as the circles are drawn and inhaled as the arms are retrieved backward. In the second, air is inhaled as the hands and arms draw the circles and exhaled as the arms are retrieved.

4. Bringing Energy to the Center for Decisions in a Circular Motion of the Hands and Arms with the Palms Turned Upward

This magical pass is exactly like the preceding one, with the same two facets of inhalation and exhalation, but the two circles are drawn by the hands and arms with the palms of the hands turned upward (fig. 129).

5. Bringing Energy to the Center for Decisions from the Midsection of the Body

The arms are bent at the elbows and kept high, at the level of the shoulders. The fingers are kept loosely pointing toward the V spot, but without touching it (fig. 130).

The arms move in a teeter-totter fashion from right to left and left to right. The motion is not accomplished by moving the shoulders or the hips, but by the contraction of the muscles of the stomach, which moves the midsection to the right, to the left, and to the right again, and so on.

6. Bringing Energy to the Center for Decisions from the Area of the Shoulder Blades

The arms are bent, as in the previous movement, hut the shoulders are rounded so that the elbows are heavily drawn toward the front. The left hand is placed on top of the right. The fingers are held loose, pointing toward the V spot without touching n, and the chin juts out and rests on the hollow spot between the thumb and index finger of the left Figure 130 hand (fig. 131).

The bent elbows are pushed forward, extending the shoulder blades, one at a time, to the maximum.

7. Stirring Energy Around the Center for Decisions with a Bent Wrist

Both hands are brought to the V spot on the base of the neck, without touching it. The hands are gently curved; the fingers point at the center for decisions. Then the hands begin to move, the left first, followed by the right, as if stirring a liquid substance around that area, or as if they were fanning air into the V spot with a series of gentle movements of each hand; these movements are accomplished by extending the whole arm laterally and then bringing it back to the area in front of the V spot (fig. 132).

Then the left arm strikes out in front of the V spot, with the hand turned sharply inward, using the wrist and the back of the hand as a striking surface (fig. 133).

The right arm executes the same movement. In this manner, a series of forceful blows are delivered to the area right in front of the V spot.

8. Transferring Energy from the Two Centers of Vitality on the Front of the Body to the Center for Decisions

Both hands are brought to the area of the pancreas and spleen, a few inches in front of the body. The left hand, with the palm turned upward, is held four or five inches below the right one, which has the palm turned downward. The left forearm is held at a ninety-degree angle, extended straight out to the front. The right forearm is also at a ninety-degree angle, but held close to the body, so that the fingertips point to the left (fig. 134).

The left hand makes two inward circles about a foot in diameter around the area of the pancreas and spleen. Once it has completed the second circle, the right hand shoots out to the front and strikes with the edge of the hand, to the area an arm's length in front of the liver and gallbladder (fig.135).

The exact same movements are performed on the other side of the body by reversing the position of the hands, which arc brought to the area of the liver and gallbladder, with the right hand circling and the left hand striking forward to the area an arm's length in front of the pancreas and spleen.

9. Bringing Energy to the Center for Decisions from the Knees

The left hand and arm draw two circles about a foot in diameter in front of the V spot, a bit toward the left (fig. 136).

The palm of the hand is facing downward. Once the second circle has been drawn, the forearm is raised to the level of the shoulder and the hand strikes away from the (ace, diagonally to the right, at the level of the V spot, with a flick of the wrist, as if holding a whip (fig. 137). The same movements are performed with the right hand.

Then a deep inhalation is taken, and an exhalation follows as the hands and arms slide downward until they reach the tops of the knees, with the palms facing up. A deep inhalation is taken there and the arms are raised, with the left arm in the lead; the right arm crosses over the left as they go over the head until the fingers rest on the back of the neck. The breath is held as the top of the trunk moves three times in succession in a teeter-totter motion; the left shoulder goes down first, then the right, and so on (fig. 138).

Then the air is exhaled as the arms and hands move back downward to the tops of the knees, again with the palms of the hands facing up.

A deep inhalation is taken, and then the air is exhaled as the hands are raised from the knees to the level of the V spot, with the fingers pointing toward it, without touching it (fig. 139).

The hands are brought once more to the knees with an exhalation. A final deep inhalation is taken and the hands are raised to the level of the eyes, and then brought down to the sides as the air is exhaled.

The next three magical passes, according to don Juan, transfer energy which belongs only to the center for decisions from the frontal edge of the luminous sphere, where it has accumulated over the years, to the back, and then from the back of the luminous sphere to the front. He said that this energy transferred back and forth goes through the V spot, which acts as a filter, utilizing only the energy that is proper to it and discarding the rest. He pointed out that because of this selective process of the V spot, it is essential to perform these three magical passes as many times as possible.

10. Energy Going Through the Center for Decisions from the Front to the Back and the Back to the Front with Two Blows

A deep inhalation is taken. Then the air is slowly exhaled as the left arm strikes out at the level of the solar plexus, with the palm of the hand turned upward; the palm is held flat and the fingers are together.

Then the hand is clasped into a fist. The arm moves to the back, striking from the height of the hips with a backhand blow (fig. 140). The exhalation ends as the hand opens.

Another deep inhalation is taken. A slow exhalation follows while the palm of the open hand, still in back of the body, taps ten times as if lightly hitting a solid round object. Then the hand is clasped into a fist before the arm moves to the front in a swing-like punch that strikes an area in front of the V spot, an arm's length away from it (fig. 141).

The hand opens as if releasing something held in it. The arm moves down, back, and then over the head and strikes with the palm down in front of the V spot, as if breaking whatever it has released. The exhalation ends then (fig. 142).

The same sequence of movements is repeated with the right arm.

11. Transferring Energy from the Front to the Back and the Back to the Front with the Hook of the Arm

A deep inhalation is made. Then the air is slowly exhaled as the left .inn moves forward with the palm of the hand turned upward. The hand is quickly clasped into a fist. The fisted hand rotates until the back of the hand is turned upward and strikes over the shoulder to the back. The fisted palm faces upward. The hand opens and turns to face downward, and the exhalation ends. Another deep inhalation is taken. Then a slow exhalation begins as the hand, made into a downward hook, scoops three times, as if rolling a solid substance into a ball (fig. 143).

The ball is tossed upward to the level of the head with a flick of the hand and forearm (fig. 144), and quickly grabbed with the hand bent again at the wrist like a hook (fig. 145).

The arm moves to the front, then to the height of the right shoulder and strikes forward to an area right in front of the V spot an arm's length away from it, using the wrist and the back of the hand as a striking surface (fig. 146).

The hand then opens as if to release whatever it had trapped, and the arm moves down to the back and over the head to strike it with great force with the flat palm. The exhalation ends as the whole body shakes with the force of the strike. The same movements are repeated with the other arm.

12. Transferring Energy from the Front to the Back and the Back to the Front with Three Blows

A deep inhalation is taken. A slow exhalation follows as the left arm strikes forward with the hand open, the flat palm turned upward. The hand is quickly clasped into a fist, and the arm retrieves as if to deliver an elbow blow to the back. Then it moves laterally to the right and delivers a side punch with the forearm rubbing on the body (fig. 147).

The elbow is retrieved again as if to deliver an elbow blow to the back. The arm is extended and moved out to the left side and to the back, to deliver the fourth blow behind the body with the back of the fisted hand. The exhalation ends as the hand opens (fig. 148).

A deep inhalation is taken again. A slow exhalation follows as the hand, bent downward into a hook, scoops three times. Then the hand grabs as if it were clasping something solid (fig. 149).

The arm swings to the front at the level of the center for decisions. It continues to the right shoulder; there the forearm makes a loop upward and delivers a back-fist blow to the area in front of the V spot, an arm's length away from it (fig. 150).

The hand opens as if to release something that it was clasping. Then it moves down, goes behind the body, comes above the head, with the palm of the hand down, and smashes whatever it released with a forceful blow of the open hand. The slow exhalation ends there (fig. 151).

The same movements are repeated with the right arm.

Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda.

The Third Series: Second Group - The Recapitulation.

The recapitulation, according to what don Juan taught his disciples, was a technique discovered by the sorcerers of ancient Mexico, and used by every shaman practitioner from then on, to view and relive all the experiences of their lives, in order to achieve two transcendental goals: one, the abstract goal of fulfilling a universal code that demands that awareness must be relinquished at the moment of death; and two, the extremely pragmatic goal of acquiring perceptual fluidity.

He said that the formulation of their first goal was the result of observations that those sorcerers made by means of their capacity to see energy directly as it flows in the universe. They had seen that there exists in the universe a gigantic force, an immense conglomerate of energy fields which they called the Eagle, or the dark sea of awareness. They observed that the dark sea of awareness is the force that lends awareness to all living beings, from viruses to men. They believed that it lends awareness to a newborn being, and that this being enhances that awareness by means of its life experiences until a moment in which the force demands its return.

In the understanding of those sorcerers, all living beings die because they are forced to return the awareness lent to them. Sorcerers throughout the ages have understood that there is no way for what modern man calls our linear mode of thinking to explain such a phenomenon, because there is no room for a cause-and-effect line of reasoning as to why and how awareness is lent and then taken back. The sorcerers of ancient Mexico viewed it as an energetic fact of the universe, a fact that can not be explained in terms of cause and effect, or in terms of a purpose which can be determined a priori.

The sorcerers of don Juan's lineage believed that to recapitulate meant to give the dark sea of awareness what it was seeking: their life experiences. They believed that by means of the recapitulation, however, they could acquire a degree of control that could permit them to separate their life experiences from their life force. For them, the two were not inextricably intertwined; they were joined only circumstantially.

Those sorcerers affirmed that the dark sea of awareness does not want to take the lives of human beings; it wants only their life experiences. Lack of discipline in human beings prevents them from separating the two forces, and in the end, they lose their lives, when it is meant that they lose only the force of their life experiences. Those sorcerers viewed the recapitulation as the procedure by which they could give the dark sea of awareness a substitute for their lives. They gave up their life experiences by recounting them, but they retained their life force.

The perceptual claims of sorcerers, when examined in terms of the linear concepts of our Western world, make no sense whatsoever. Western civilization has been in contact with the shamans of the New World for five hundred years, and there has never been a genuine attempt on the part of scholars to formulate a serious philosophical discourse based on statements made by those shamans. For instance, the recapitulation may seem to any member of the Western world to be congruous with psychoanalysis, something in the line of a psychological procedure, a sort of self-help technique. Nothing could be further from the truth.

According to don Juan Matus, man always loses by default. In the case of the premises of sorcery, he believed that Western man is missing a tremendous opportunity for the enhancement of his awareness, and that the way in which Western man relates himself to the universe, life, and awareness is only one of a multiplicity of options.

To recapitulate, for shaman practitioners, means to give to an incomprehensible force- the dark sea of awareness- the very thing it seems to be looking for: their life experiences, that is to say, the awareness that they have enhanced through those very life experiences. Since don Juan could not possibly explain these phenomena to me in terms of standard logic, he said that all that sorcerers could aspire to do was to accomplish the feat of training their life force without knowing how it was done. He also said that there were thousands of sorcerers who had achieved this. They had retained their life force after they had given the dark sea of awareness the force of their life experiences. This meant to don Juan that those sorcerers did not die in the usual sense in which we understand death, but that they transcended it by retaining their life force and vanishing from the face of the earth, embarked on a definitive journey of perception.

The belief of the shamans of don Juan's lineage was that when death takes place in this fashion, all of our being is turned into energy, a special kind of energy that retains the mark of our individuality. Don Juan tried to explain this in a metaphorical sense, saying that we are composed of a number of single nations: the nation of the lungs, the nation of the heart, the nation of the stomach, the nation of the kidneys, and so on. Each of these nations sometimes works independently of the others, but at the moment of death, all of them are unified into one single entity. The sorcerers of don Juan's lineage called this state total freedom. For those sorcerers, death is a unifier, and not an annihilator, as it is for the average man.

"Is this state immortality, don Juan?" I asked.

"This is in no way immortality," he replied. "It is merely the entrance into an evolutionary process, using the only medium for evolution that man has at his disposal: awareness. The sorcerers of my lineage were convinced that man could not evolve biologically any further; therefore, they considered man's awareness to be the only medium for evolution. At the moment of dying, sorcerers are not annihilated by death, but are transformed into inorganic beings; beings that have awareness, but not an organism. To be transformed into an inorganic being was evolution for them, and it meant that a new, indescribable type of awareness was lent to them, an awareness that would last for veritably millions of years, but which would also someday have to be returned to the giver: the dark sea of awareness."

One of the most important findings of the shamans of don Juan's lineage was that, like everything else in the universe, our world is a combination of two opposing, and at the same time complementary, forces. One of those forces is the world we know, which those sorcerers called the world of organic beings. The other force is something they called the world of inorganic beings.

"The world of inorganic beings," don Juan said, "is populated by beings that possess awareness, but not an organism. They are conglomerates of energy fields, just like we are. To the eye of a seer, instead of being luminous, as human beings are, they are rather opaque. They are not round, but long, candle-like energetic configurations. They are, in essence, conglomerates of energy fields which have cohesion and boundaries just like we do. They are held together by the same agglutinating force that holds our energy fields together."

"Where is this inorganic world, don Juan?" I asked.

"It is our twin world," he replied. "It occupies the same time and space as our world, but the type of awareness of our world is so different from the type of awareness of the inorganic world that we never notice the presence of inorganic beings, although they do notice ours."

"Are those inorganic beings human beings that have evolved?" I asked.

"Not at all!" he exclaimed. "The inorganic beings of our twin world have been intrinsically inorganic from the start, the same way that we have always been intrinsically organic beings, also from the start. They are beings whose consciousness can evolve just like ours, and it doubtlessly does, but I have no firsthand knowledge of how this happens. What I do know, however, is that a human being whose awareness has evolved is a bright, luminescent, round inorganic being of a special kind."

Don Juan gave me a series of descriptions of this evolutionary process, which I always took to be poetic metaphors. I singled out the one that pleased me the most, which was total freedom. I fancied a human being that enters into total freedom to be the most courageous, the most imaginative being possible. Don Juan said that I was not fancying anything at all - that to enter into total freedom, a human being must call on his or her sublime side, which, he said, human beings have, but which it never occurs to them to use.

Don Juan described the second, the pragmatic goal of the recapitulation as the acquisition of fluidity. The sorcerers' rationale behind this had to do with one of the most elusive subjects of sorcery: the assemblage point; a point of intense luminosity the size of a tennis ball, perceivable when sorcerers see a human being as a conglomerate of energy fields.

Sorcerers like don Juan see that trillions of energy fields in the form of filaments of light from the universe at large converge on the assemblage point and go through it. This confluence of filaments gives the assemblage point its brilliancy. The assemblage point makes it possible for a human being to perceive those trillions of energy filaments by turning them into sensorial data.

The assemblage point then interprets this data as the world of everyday life, that is to say, in terms of human socialization and human potential.

To recapitulate is to relive every, or nearly every, experience that we have had, and in doing so to displace the assemblage point, ever so slightly or a great deal, propelling it by the force of memory to adopt the position that it had when the event being recapitulated took place. This act of going back and forth from previous positions to the current one gives the shaman practitioners the necessary fluidity to withstand extraordinary odds in their journeys into infinity. To the Tensegrity practitioners, the recapitulation gives the necessary fluidity to withstand odds which are not in any way part of their habitual cognition.

The recapitulation as a formal procedure was done in ancient times by recollecting every person the practitioners knew and every experience in which they had taken part. Don Juan suggested that in my case, which is the case of modern man, I make a written list of all the persons that I had met in my life, as a mnemonic device. Once I had written that list, he proceeded to tell me how to use it. I had to take the first person on the list, which went backwards in time from the present to the time of my very first life experience, and set up, in my memory, my last interaction with that first person on my list. This act is called arranging the event to be recapitulated.

A detailed recollection of minutiae is required as the proper means to hone one's capacity to remember. This recollection entails getting all the pertinent physical details, such as the surroundings where the event being recollected took place. Once the event is arranged, one should enter into the locale itself, as if actually going into it, paying special attention to any relevant physical configurations. If, for instance, the interaction took place in an office, what should be remembered is the floor, the doors, the walls, the pictures, the windows, the desks, the objects on the desks, everything that could have been observed in a glance and then forgotten.

The recapitulation as a formal procedure must begin by the recounting of events that have just taken place. In this fashion, the primacy of the experience takes precedence. Something that has just happened is something that one can remember with great accuracy. Sorcerers always count on the fact that human beings are capable of storing detailed information that they are not aware of, and that that detail is what the dark sea of awareness is after.

The actual recapitulation of the event requires that one breathe deeply, fanning the head, so to speak, very slowly and gently from side to side, beginning on one side, left or right, whichever. This fanning of the head was done as many times as needed, while remembering all the details accessible. Don Juan said that sorcerers talked about this act as breathing in all of one's own feelings spent in the event being recollected, and expelling all the unwanted moods and extraneous feelings that were left with us.

Sorcerers believe that the mystery of the recapitulation lies in the act of inhaling and exhaling. Since breathing is a life-sustaining function, sorcerers are certain that by means of it, one can also deliver to the dark sea of awareness the facsimile of one's life experiences. When I pressed don Juan for a rational explanation of this idea, his position was that things like the recapitulation could only be experienced, not explained. He said that in the act of doing, one can find liberation, and that to explain it was to dissipate our energy in fruitless efforts. His invitation was congruous with everything related to his knowledge: the invitation to take action.

The list of names is used in the recapitulation as a mnemonic device that propels memory into an inconceivable journey. Sorcerers' position in this respect is that remembering events that have just taken place prepares the ground for remembering events more distant in time with the same clarity and immediacy. To recollect experiences in this way is to relive them, and to draw from this recollection an extraordinary impetus that is capable of stirring energy dispersed from our centers of vitality, and returning it to them. Sorcerers refer to this redeployment of energy that the recapitulation causes as gaining fluidity after giving the dark sea of awareness what it is looking for.

On a more mundane level, the recapitulation gives practitioners the capacity to examine the repetition in their lives. Recapitulating can convince them, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that all of us are at the mercy of forces which ultimately make no sense, although at first sight they seem perfectly reasonable; such as being at the mercy of courtship. It seems that for some people, courtship is the pursuit of a lifetime. I have personally heard from people of advanced age that the only ideal that they had was to find a perfect companion, and that their aspiration was to have perhaps one year of happiness in love.

Don Juan Matus used to say to me, over my vehement protests, that the problem was that nobody really wanted to love anybody, but that every one of us wanted to be loved. He said that this obsession with courtship, taken at face value, was the most natural thing in the world to us. To hear a seventy-five year old man or woman say that they are still in search of a perfect companion is an affirmation of something idealistic, romantic, beautiful. However, to examine this obsession in the context of the endless repetitions of a lifetime makes it appear as it really is: something grotesque.

Don Juan assured me that if any behavioral change is going to be accomplished, it has to be done through the recapitulation, since it is the only vehicle that can enhance awareness by liberating one from the unvoiced demands of socialization, which are so automatic, so taken for granted, that they are not even noticed under normal conditions, much less examined.

The actual act of recapitulating is a lifetime endeavor. It takes years to exhaust the list of people, especially for those who have made the acquaintance of and have interacted with thousands of individuals. This list is augmented by the memory of impersonal events in which no people are involved, but which have to be examined because they are somehow related to the person being recapitulated.

Don Juan asserted that what the sorcerers of ancient Mexico sought avidly in recapitulating was the memory of interaction, because in interaction lie the deep effects of socialization, which they struggled to overcome by any means available.

Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda.

The Third Series: Second Group - The Magical Passes for the Recapitulation.

The recapitulation affects something that don Juan called the energy body. He formally explained the energy body as a conglomerate of energy fields that are the mirror image of the energy fields that make up the human body when it is seen directly as energy. He said that in the case of sorcerers, the physical body and the energy body are one single unit. The magical passes for the recapitulation bring the energy body to the physical body, which are essential for navigating into the unknown.

13. Forging the Trunk of the Energy Body

Don Juan said that the trunk of the energy body was forged with three strikes delivered with the palms of the hands. The hands are held at the level of the ears with the palms facing forward, and from that position they strike forward, at the level of the shoulders, as if they were striking the shoulders of a well-developed body. The hands then move back to their original position around the ears, with the palms facing forward, and strike the mid-trunk of that imaginary body at the level of the chest. The second strike is not as wide as the first one, and the third strike is much narrower, because it strikes the waistline of a triangular-shaped trunk (fig. 152).

14. Slapping the Energy Body

The left and the right hands each come down from above the head. The palm of each hand bears down, creating a current of energy that defines each arm, forearm, and hand of the energy body. The left hand hits across the body to strike the left hand of the energy body (fig. 153) and then the right hand does the same. It hits across the body to strike the right hand of the energy body. This magical pass defines the arms and forearms, especially the hands, of the energy body.

15. Spreading the Energy Body Laterally The wrists are crossed in the shape of a letter X in front of the body, almost touching it. The wrists are held bent backwards at a ninety-degree angle to the forearm, at the level of the solar plexus. The left wrist is on top of the right one (fig. 154). From there, the hands spread to the sides in unison, in a slow motion, as if they met with tremendous resistance (fig. 155).

When the arms reach their maximum aperture, they are brought back to the center, with the palms turned at a ninety-degree angle in relation to the forearms, creating in this fashion the sensation of pushing solid matter from both sides to the center of the body. The left hand crosses on top of the right as the hands get ready for another lateral strike.

While the physical body as a conglomerate of energy fields has super-defined boundaries, the energy body lacks that feature. Spreading energy laterally gives the energy body the defined boundaries that it lacks.

16. Establishing the Core of the Energy Body

The forearms are held in a vertical position at the level of the chest, with the elbows kept in close to the body, at the width of the trunk. The wrists are snapped back gently, and then forward with great force, without moving the forearms (fig. 156).

The human body, as a conglomerate of energy fields, has not only super-defined boundaries, but a core of compact luminosity, which shamans call the band of man, or the energy fields with which man is most familiar. The idea of shamans is that within the luminous sphere, which is also the totality of man's energetic possibilities, there are areas of energy of which human beings are not at all aware. Those are the energy fields located at the maximum distance from the band of man. To establish the core of the energy body is to fortify the energy body in order for it to venture into those areas of unknown energy.

17. Forging the Heels and the Calves of the Energy Body

The left foot is held in front of the body with the heel raised to mid-calf. The heel is turned out to a position perpendicular to the other leg. Then the left heel strikes to the right as if a kick with the heel were being delivered, about six or seven inches away from the shinbone of the right leg (figs. 157, 158).

The same movement is then executed with the other leg.

18. Forging the Knees of the Energy Body

This magical pass has two facets. In the first facet the left knee is bent and raised to the level of the hips, or if possible even higher. The total weight of the body is placed on the right leg, which stands with the knee slightly bent forward. Three circles are drawn with the left knee, moving it inward toward the groin (fig. 159).

The same movement is repeated with the right leg.

In the second facet of this magical pass, the movements are repeated again with each leg, but I Ins time, the knee draws an outward circle (fig. 160).

19. Forging the Thighs of the Energy Body

Beginning with an exhalation, the body bends slightly at the knees as the hands slide down the thinks. The hands stop on top of the kneecaps, and then they are pulled back up the thighs to the level of the hips with an inhalation, as if they were dragging a solid substance. There is a slight quality of a claw to each hand. The body straightens as this part of the movement is executed (fig. 161).

With the opposite breathing pattern, the movement is repeated, inhaling as the knees bend and the hands go down to the tops of the kneecaps, and exhaling as they are pulled back.

20. Stirring Up Personal History by Making It Flexible

This magical pass stretches the hamstring and relaxes it by bringing each leg, one at a time, bent at the knee, to strike the buttocks with a gentle tap of the heel (fig. 162).

The left heel strikes the left buttock, and the right heel strikes the right one.

Shamans put an enormous emphasis on tightening the muscles of the backs of the thighs. They believe that the fighter those muscles, the greater the facility of the practitioner to identify and get rid of behavioral patterns that are useless.

21. Stirring Up Personal History with the Heel to the Ground by Tapping It Repeatedly

The right leg is set at a ninety-degree angle with the left. The left foot is placed as far as possible in front of the body as the body almost sits on the right leg. The tension and contraction of the back muscles of the right leg are maximum, as is the stretching of the back muscles of the left leg. The left leg taps the ground repeatedly with the heel (fig. 163).

The same movements are then executed with the other leg.

22. Stirring Up Personal History with the Heel to the Ground by Sustaining That Position

The same movements are executed in this magical pass as in the previous one, again with each leg, but instead of tapping with the heel, the body is kept at an even tension by holding the stretch of the leg (fig. 164).

The following four magical passes, since they entail deep inhalations and exhalations, have to be done sparingly.

23. The Recapitulation Wings

A deep inhalation is taken as both forearms are raised to the level of the shoulders, with the hands at the level of the ears, palms facing forward. The forearms are held vertically and equidistant from Figure 164 each other. An exhalation follows as the forearms are pulled back as far as possible without slanting them in any direction (fig. 165).

Another deep inhalation is taken. Within the duration of one long exhalation, both arms each draw a winglike semicircle, beginning with the left arm moving forward as far as it can be extended and then laterally, drawing a semicircle to the back as far as possible. The arm makes a curve at the end of this extension and returns to the front (fig. 166) to its initial resting position by the side of the body (fig. 167).

Then the right arm follows the same pattern within the same exhalation. Once these movements are completed, a deep abdominal breath is taken.

24. The Window of Recapitulation

The first part of this magical pass is exactly like the preceding one; a deep breath is taken with the hands raised to the ear level, with the palms facing forward. The forearms maintain a perfect verticality. This is followed by a long exhalation as the arms are pulled backwards. A deep inhalation is taken as the elbows are extended laterally at the level of the shoulders. The hands are bent at a ninety-degree angle in relation to the forearms, the fingers pointing upward. The hands are slowly pushed toward the center of the body until the forearms cross. The left arm is held closer to the body and the right arm is placed in front of the left. The hands create in this fashion what don Juan called the window of recapitulation: an opening in front of the eyes that looks like a small window, through which, don Juan affirmed, a practitioner could peer into infinity (fig. 168).

A deep exhalation follows as the body straightens; the elbows are extended laterally and the hands are straightened out and kept at the same level as the elbows (fig. 169).

25. The Five Deep Breaths

The beginning of this magical pass is exactly like the previous two. At the second inhalation, the arms go down and cross at the level of the knees as the practitioner adopts a semi-squatting position. The hands are placed behind the knees; the right hand grabs the tendons in back of the left knee, and the left hand, with the left forearm on top of the right, grabs the tendons in back of the right knee. The index and middle fingers grab the outer tendons there and the thumb is wrapped around the inner part of the knee. The exhalation ends then, and a deep inhalation is taken, accompanied by pressing the tendon (fig. 170). Five breaths are taken in this fashion.

This magical pass causes the back to be straight and the head to be in alignment with the spine, and is used to take deep breaths that fill the top as well as the lower part of the lungs by pushing the diaphragm downward.

26. Drawing Energy from the Feet

The first part of this magical pass is exactly the same as the beginning of the other three of this series. On the second inhalation, the forearms go down and wrap around the ankles, going from the inside to the outside as the practitioner adopts a squatting position. The backs of the hands rest on top of the toes, and in this fashion, three deep inhalations and three deep exhalations are made (fig. 171). After the last exhalation, the body straightens as a deep inhalation is taken to finish the magical pass.

The only glow of awareness left in human beings is at the bottom of Their luminous spheres, a fringe that extends in a circle and reaches the level of the toes. With this magical pass, that fringe is tapped with the Kicks of the fingers, and stirred with the breath.

Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda.

The Third Series: Third Group - Dreaming.

Don Juan Matus defined dreaming as the act of using normal dreams as a bona fide entrance for human awareness into other realms of perceiving; This definition implied for him that ordinary dreams could be used as a hatch that led perception into other regions of energy different from the energy of the world of everyday life, and yet utterly similar to it at a basic core. The result of such an entrance was, for sorcerers, the perception of veritable worlds where they could live or die, worlds which were astoundingly different from ours, and yet utterly similar.

Pressed for a linear explanation of this contradiction, don Juan Matus reiterated the standard position of sorcerers; that the answers to all those questions were in the practice, not in the intellectual inquiry. He said that in order to talk about such possibilities, we would have to use the syntax of language, whatever language we spoke, and that syntax, by the force of usage, limits the possibilities of expression. The syntax of any language refers only to perceptual possibilities found in the world in which we live.

Don Juan made a significant differentiation, in Spanish, between two verbs: one was to dream, sonar; and the other was ensueno, which is to dream the way sorcerers dream. In English, there is no clear distinction between these two states: the normal dreaming, sueno, and the more complex state that sorcerers call ensueno.

The art of dreaming, according to what don Juan taught, originated in a very casual observation that the shamans of ancient Mexico made when they saw people who were asleep. They noticed that during sleep the assemblage point was displaced in a very natural, easy way from its habitual position, and that it moved anywhere along the periphery of the luminous sphere, or to any place in the interior of it. Correlating their seeing with the reports of the people who had been observed sleeping, they realized that the greater the observed displacement of the assemblage point, the more astounding the reports of events and scenes experienced in dreams.

After this observation took hold of them, those sorcerers began to look avidly for opportunities to displace their own assemblage points. They ended up using psychotropic plants to accomplish this. Very quickly, they realized that the displacement brought about by using these plants was erratic, forced, and out of control. In the midst of this failure, nonetheless they discovered one thing of great value. They called it dreaming attention.

Don Juan explained this phenomenon, referring first to the daily awareness of human beings as the attention placed on the elements of the world of everyday life. He pointed out that human beings took only a cursory and yet sustained look at everything that surrounded them.

More than examining things, human beings simply established the presence of those elements by a special type of attention, a specific aspect of their general awareness. His contention was that the same type of cursory and yet sustained "look," so to speak, could be applied to the elements of an ordinary dream. He called this other, specific aspect of general awareness dreaming attention or the capacity that practitioners acquire to maintain their awareness unwaveringly fixed on the items of their dreams.

The cultivation of dreaming attention gave the sorcerers of don Juan's lineage a basic taxonomy of dreams. They found out that most of their dreams were imagery, products of the cognition of their daily world; however, there were some which escaped that classification. Such dreams were veritable states of heightened awareness in which the elements of the dream were not mere imagery, but energy-generating affairs. Dreams which had energy-generating elements were, for those shamans, dreams in which they were capable of seeing energy as it (lowed in the universe.

Those shamans were able to focus their dreaming attention on any element of their dreams, and found out, in this fashion, that there are two kinds of dreams. One is the dreams that we are all familiar with, in which phantasmagorical elements come into play, something which we could categorize as the product of our mentality, our psyche; perhaps something that has to do with our neurological makeup. The other kind of dreams they called energy-generating dreams. Don Juan said that those sorcerers of ancient times found themselves in dreams which were not dreams, but actual visitations made in a dreamlike state to bona fide places other than this world - real places, just like the world in which we live; places where the objects of the dream generated energy, just as lives, or animals, or even rocks generate energy in our daily world, for a seeing sorcerer.

Their visions of such places were, however, for those shamans, too fleeting, too temporary, to be of any value to them. They attributed this flaw to the fact that their assemblage points could not be held fixed for any considerable time at the position to which they had been displaced. Their attempts to remedy the situation resulted in the other high art of sorcery: the art of stalking.

Don Juan defined the two arts very clearly one day when he said to me that the art of dreaming consisted of purposely displacing the assemblage point from its habitual position. The art of stalking consisted in volitionally making it stay fixed on the new position to which it had been displaced.

This fixation allowed the shamans of ancient Mexico the opportunity to witness other worlds in their full extent. Don Juan said that some of those sorcerers never returned from their journeys. In other words, they opted for staying there, wherever "there" might have been.

"When the old sorcerers finished mapping human beings as luminous spheres," don Juan said to me once, "they had discovered no less than six hundred spots in the total luminous sphere that were the sites of bona fide worlds. Meaning that, if the assemblage point became attached to any of those places, the result was the entrance of the practitioner into a total new world."

"But where are those six hundred other worlds, don Juan?" I asked.

"The only answer to that question is incomprehensible," he said, laughing. "It is the essence of sorcery, and yet it means nothing to the average mind. Those six hundred worlds are in the position of the assemblage point. Incalculable amounts of energy are required to make sense out of this answer. We have the energy. What we lack is the facility or disposition to use it."

I could add that nothing could be truer than all these statements, and yet, nothing could make less sense.

Don Juan explained usual perception in the terms in which the sorcerers of his lineage understood it. The assemblage point, at its habitual location, receives an inflow of energy fields from the universe at large in the form of luminous filaments, numbering in the trillions. Since its position is consistently the same, it stood to sorcerers' reasoning that the same energy fields, in the form of luminous filaments, converge on the assemblage point and go through it, giving as a consistent result the perception of the world that we know. Those sorcerers arrived at the unavoidable conclusion that if the assemblage point were displaced to another position, another set of energy filaments would go through it, resulting in the perception of a world that, by definition, was not the same as the world of everyday life.

In don Juan's opinion, what human beings ordinarily regard as perceiving is rather the act of interpreting sensory data. He maintained that from the moment of birth, everything around us supplies us with a possibility of interpretation, and that with time, this possibility turns into a full system by means of which we conduct all of our perceptual transactions in the world.

He pointed out that the assemblage point is not only the center where perception is assembled, but also the center where the interpretation of sensory data is accomplished, so that if it were to change locations, it would interpret the new influx of energy fields in very much the same terms in which it interprets the world of everyday life. The result of this new interpretation is the perception of a world which is strangely similar to ours, and yet intrinsically different. Don Juan said that energetically, those other worlds are as different from ours as they could possibly be. It is only the interpretation of the assemblage point which accounts for the seeming similarities.

Don Juan called for a new syntax that could be used in order to express this wondrous quality of the assemblage point and the possibilities of perception brought about by dreaming. He conceded, however, that perhaps the present syntax of our language could be forced to cover it if this experience became available to any one of us, and not merely to shaman initiates.

Something related to dreaming that was of tremendous interest to me, hut which bewildered me to no end, was don Juan's statement that there was really no procedure to speak of that would teach anyone how to dream. He said that more than anything else, dreaming was an arduous effort on the part of the practitioners to put themselves in contact with the indescribable all-pervading force that the sorcerers of ancient Mexico called intent. Once this link was established, dreaming also mysteriously became established. Don Juan asserted that this linkage could be accomplished following any pattern that implied discipline.

When I asked him to give me a succinct explanation of the procedures involved, he laughed at me.

"To venture into the world of sorcerers," he said, "is not like learning to drive a car. To drive a car, you need manuals and instructions. To dream, you need to intend it."

"But how can I intend it?" I insisted.

"The only way you could intend it is by intending it," he declared. "One of the most difficult things for a man of our day to accept is a lack of procedure. Modern man is in the throes of manuals, praxes, methods, steps loading to. He is ceaselessly taking notes, making diagrams, deeply involved in the 'know-how.' But in the world of sorcerers, procedures and rituals are mere designs to attract and focus attention. They are devices used to force a focusing of interest and determination. They have no other value."

What don Juan considered to be of supreme importance in order to dream is the rigorous execution of the magical passes: the only device that the sorcerers of his lineage used to aid the displacement of the assemblage point. The execution of the magical passes gave those sorcerers the stability and the energy necessary to call forth their dreaming attention, without which there was no possibility of dreaming for them. Without the emergence of dreaming attention, practitioners could aspire, at best, to have lucid dreams about phantasmagorical worlds. They could perhaps have views of worlds that generate energy, but these would make no sense to them whatsoever in the absence of an all-inclusive rationale that would properly categorize them.

Once the shamans of don Juan's lineage had developed their dreaming attention, they realized that they had tapped on the doors of infinity. They had succeeded in enlarging the parameters of their normal perception. They discovered that their normal state of awareness was infinitely more varied than it had been before the advent of their dreaming attention. From that point on, those sorcerers could truthfully venture into the unknown.

"The aphorism," don Juan said to me once, "that 'the sky is the limit' was most applicable to the sorcerers of ancient times. They certainly outdid themselves."

"Was it really true for them that the sky was the limit, don Juan?" I asked.

"This question could be answered only by each of us individually," he said, smiling expansively. "They gave us the tools. It is up to us individually to use them or refuse them. In essence, we are alone in front of infinity, and the issue of whether or not we are capable of reaching our limits has to be answered personally."

Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

The Third Series: Third Group - The Magical Passes for Dreaming.

27. Getting the Assemblage Point Loose

The left arm, with the palm of the hand turned upward, reaches over the area behind the shoulder blades, as the trunk leans a bit forward. Then the arm is brought in an underhanded motion from the left side of the body to the front, moving in an upward thrust in front of the face, with the palm of the left hand turned to face the left. The fingers are held together (figs. 172, 173). This magical pass is executed by each arm in succession. The knees are kept bent for greater stability and thrusting force.

28. Forcing the Assemblage Point to Drop Down

The back is kept as straight as possible. The knees are locked. The left arm, fully stretched, is placed at the hack, a few inches away from the body. The hand is bent at a ninety-degree angle in relation to the forearm; the palm faces downward and the fully stretched fingers point backward. The fully stretched right arm is placed in front in the same position: with the wrist bent at a ninety-degree angle, the palm facing downward, the fingers pointing forward.

The head turns in the direction of the arm that is kept at the back, and a total stretch of the tendons ()l the legs and arms takes place at that instant. This tension of the tendons is held for a moment (fig. 174).

The same movement is repeated with the right arm in hack and the left in front.

29. Enticing the Assemblage Point to Drop by Drawing Energy from the Adrenals and Transferring It to the Front

The left arm is placed behind the body at the level of the kidneys, as far to the right as it can reach; the hand is held like a claw. The clawed hand moves across the kidney area from right to left as if dragging a solid substance. The right arm is held in its normal position by the side of the thigh.

Next, the left hand moves to the front; the palm is held flat, on the right side, against the liver and gallbladder. The left hand moves across the front of the body to the left, the area of the pancreas and spleen, as if smoothing the surface of a solid substance; at the same time the right hand, held like a claw behind the body, moves from left to right over the kidneys as if dragging a solid substance.

Then the right hand is placed on the front of the body; the palm is held flat against the area of the pancreas and spleen. The hand moves across the front of the body to the area of the liver and gallbladder, as if smoothing a rough surface, while the clawed left hand moves again across the area of the kidneys from right to left as if dragging a solid substance (figs. 175, 176). The knees are kept bent for greater stability and force.

30. Playing Out the A and B Types of Energy

The right forearm, bent in a vertical position, at a ninety-degree angle, is centered in front of the body, with the elbow almost at the level of the shoulders, and the palm of the hand facing left. The left forearm, bent at the elbow and held in a horizontal position, is placed with the back of the hand underneath the right elbow. The eyes, without focusing on either forearm, keep a peripheral view of both of them. The pressure of the right arm is downward, while the pressure of the left arm is upward. The two forces act simultaneously on both arms; they are kept under this tension for a moment (fig. 177).

Then the same movement is executed by reversing the order and position of the arms.

The shamans of ancient Mexico believed that everything in the universe is composed of dual forces, and that human beings are subjected to that duality in every aspect of their lives. At the level of energy, they considered that two forces are at play. Don Juan called them the A and B forces. The A force is employed ordinarily in our daily affairs, and is represented by a straight vertical line. The B force is ordinarily an obscure one which rarely enters into action, and it is kept lying down. It is represented by a horizontal line drawn to the left of the vertical one, at its base, making in this fashion a reversed capital letter L.

Shamans, men and women, were the only ones who, in don Juan's view, had been capable of turning the force B, which is ordinarily lying down horizontally, out of use, into an active vertical line. And consequently, they had succeeded in putting force A to rest. This process was represented by drawing a horizontal line at the base of the vertical one, in its right, and making, as a result, a capital letter L. Don Juan portrayed this magical pass as the one which best exemplified this duality and the effort of the sorcerers to reverse its effects.

31. Pulling the Energy Body to the Front

The arms are kept at shoulder level with the elbows bent. The hands overlap each other, and they are turned with the palms down. A circle is made with the hands rotating around each other; the movement is inward, toward the face (fig. 178).

They rotate three times around each other; then the left arm is thrust forward with the hand in a fist, as if to strike an invisible target in front of the body, an arm's length away from it (fig. 179).

Three more circles are drawn with both hands, and then the right arm strikes in the same fashion as the left one.

32. Hurling the Assemblage Point Like a Knife over the Shoulder

The left hand reaches over the head to the area behind the shoulder blades and grabs, as if holding a solid object. Then it moves over the head to the front of the body, with the motion of hurling something forward. The knees are kept bent for hurling stability. The same movement is repeated with the right arm (figs. 180, 181).

This magical pass is an actual attempt to hurl the assemblage point, in order to displace it from its habitual position. The practitioner holds the assemblage point as if it were a knife. Something in the intent of hurling the assemblage point causes a profound effect toward the actual displacement of it.

33. Hurling the Assemblage Point Like a Knife from the Back by the Waist

The knees are kept bent as the body leans forward. Then the left arm reaches to the back, from the side, to the area behind the shoulder blades, grabs onto something as if it were solid, and hurls it forward from the waist, with a flick of the wrist, as if hurling a flat disk, or a knife (figs. 182, 183). The same movements are repeated with the right hand.

34. Hurling the Assemblage Point Like a Disk from the Shoulder

A deep rotation of the waist is made to the left, which propels the right arm to swing to the left side of the left leg. Then the motion of the waist, moving in the opposite direction, propels the left arm to swing to the right side of the right leg. Another motion of the waist propels the right arm to swing again to the left side of the left leg. At this point the left hand reaches back instantly with a circular motion to grab onto something as if it were solid, from the area behind the shoulder blades (fig. 184).

The left hand takes it in a swinging circular motion to the front of the body and up to the level of the right shoulder. The palm of the clenched hand faces upward. From this position, the left hand, with a flick of the wrist, makes a hurling motion, as if to hurl forward something solid, like a disk (fig. 185).

The legs are kept bent slightly at the knees and a great pressure is exerted at the back of the thighs. The right arm, with the elbow slightly bent, is extended behind the body to give stability to the act of hurling a disk. This position is held for a moment, while the left arm maintains the position of having just hurled an object. The same movements are repeated with the other arm.

35. Hurling the Assemblage Point Like a Ball Above the Head

The left hand moves back quickly to the area behind the shoulder blades and grabs something, as if it were solid (fig. 186). The arm rotates twice in a big circle above the head as if to gain impulse (fig. 187) and makes the motion of hurling a ball forward (fig. 188). The knees are kept bent. These movements are repeated with the right hand.

Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda.

The Third Series: Fourth Group - Inner Silence.

Don Juan said that inner silence was the state most avidly sought by the shamans of ancient Mexico. He defined it as a natural state of human perception in which thoughts are blocked off and all of man's faculties operate from a level of awareness which does not require the utilization of our daily cognitive system.

Inner silence has always been associated with darkness, for the shamans of don Juan's lineage, perhaps because human perception, deprived of its habitual companion, the internal dialogue, falls into something that resembles a dark pit. He said that the body functions as usual, hut awareness becomes sharper. Decisions are instantaneous, and seem to stem from a special sort of knowledge which is deprived of thought verbalizations.

Human perception functioning in a condition of inner silence, according to don Juan, is capable of reaching indescribable levels. Some of those levels of perception are worlds in themselves, and not at all like the worlds reached through dreaming. They are indescribable states, inexplicable in terms of the linear paradigms that the habitual state of human perception employs for explaining the universe.

Inner silence, in don Juan's understanding, is the matrix for a gigantic step of evolution: silent knowledge, or the level of human awareness where knowing is automatic and instantaneous. Knowledge at this level is not the product of cerebral cogitation or logical induction and deduction, or of generalizations based on similarities and dissimilarities. There is nothing a priori at the level of silent knowledge, nothing that could constitute a body of knowledge, for everything is imminently now. Complex pieces of information could be grasped without any cognitive preliminaries.

Don Juan believed that silent knowledge was insinuated to early man, but that early man was not really the possessor of silent knowledge. Such an insinuation was infinitely stronger than what modern man experiences, where the bulk of knowledge is the product of rote learning. It is a sorcerers' axiom that although we have lost that insinuation, the avenue that leads to silent knowledge will always be open to man by means of inner silence.

Don Juan Matus taught the hard line of his lineage: that inner silence must be gained by a consistent pressure of discipline. It has to be accrued or stored, bit by bit, second by second. In other words, one has to force oneself to be silent, even if it is only for a few seconds. According to don Juan, it was common knowledge among sorcerers that if one persists in this, persistence overcomes habit, and thus, it is possible to arrive at a threshold of accrued seconds or minutes, which differs from person to person. If the threshold of inner silence is ten minutes for a given individual, for instance, then once this threshold is reached, inner silence happens by itself, of its own accord, so to speak.

I was warned beforehand that there was no possible way of knowing what my individual threshold might be, and that the only way of finding this out was through direct experience. This is exactly what happened to me. Following don Juan's suggestion, I had persisted in forcing myself to remain silent, and one day, while walking at .UCLA, I reached my mysterious threshold. I knew I had reached it because in one instant, I experienced something don Juan had described at length to me. He had called it stopping the world. In the blink of an eye, the world ceased to be what it was, and for the first time in my life, I became conscious that I was seeing energy as it flowed in the universe. I had to sit down on some brick steps. I knew that I was sitting on some brick steps, but 1 knew it only intellectually, through memory. Exponentially, 1 was resting on energy. I myself was energy, and so was everything around me. I had canceled out my interpretation system.

After seeing energy directly, I realized something which became the horror of my day, something that no one could explain to me satisfactorily except don Juan. I became conscious that although I was seeing for the first time in my life, I had been seeing energy as it flows in the universe all my life, but I had not been conscious of it. To see energy as it flows in the universe was not the novelty. The novelty was the query that arose with such fury that it made me surface back into the world of everyday life. I asked myself what had been keeping me from realizing that I had been seeing energy as it flows in the universe all my life.

"There are two issues at stake here," don Juan explained to me, when I asked him about this maddening contradiction. "One is general awareness. The other is particular, deliberate consciousness. Every human being in the world is aware, in general terms, of seeing energy as it flows in the universe. However, only sorcerers are particularly and deliberately conscious of it. To become conscious of something that you are generally aware of requires energy, and the iron-hand discipline needed to get it. Your inner silence, the product of discipline and energy, bridged the gap between general awareness and particular consciousness."

Don Juan stressed, in every way he was able, the value of a pragmatic attitude in order to buttress the advent of inner silence. He defined a pragmatic attitude as the capacity to absorb any contingency that might appear along The way. He himself was, to me, the living example of such an attitude. There was not any uncertainty or liability that his mere presence would not dispel.

He reiterated every time he could that the effects of inner silence were very unsettling, and that the only deterrent to this condition was the pragmatic attitude which was the product of a superbly pliable, agile, strong body. He said that for sorcerers, the physical body was the only entity that made any sense to them, and that there was no such thing as a dualism between body and mind. He further stated that the physical body involved both the body and the mind as we knew them, and that in order to counterbalance the physical body as a holistic unit, sorcerers considered another configuration of energy which was reached through inner silence: the energy body. He explained that what I had experienced .it the moment in which I had stopped the world was the resurgence of my energy body, and that this configuration of energy was the one which had always been able to see energy as it flowed in the universe.

Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda.

The Third Series: Fourth Group - The Magical Passes That Aid The Attainment Of Inner Silence.

36. Drawing Two Half-Circles with Each Foot

The total weight of the body is on the right leg. The left foot is placed half a step in front of it, and it slides on the floor, drawing a half-circle to the left; the ball of the foot comes to rest almost touching the right heel. From there, it draws another half-circle to the back (fig. 189).

These circles are drawn with the ball of the left foot. The heel is kept off the ground, in order to make the movement smooth and uniform.

The movement is reversed and two more half-circles are drawn in this fashion, starting from the back and going to the front. The same movements are executed with the right foot after the whole weight of the body is transferred to the left leg. The knee of the leg that supports the weight is bent for strength and stability.

37. Drawing a Half-Moon with Each Foot

The weight of the body is placed on the right leg. The left foot goes half a step in front of the right one, drawing a wide semicircle on the ground around the body from the front, to the left, to the back of the body. This semicircle is drawn with the ball of the foot (fig. 190).

Another semicircle is drawn from the back to the front, in the same fashion. The same movements are executed with the right leg, after transferring the weight to the left leg.

38. The Scarecrow in the Wind with the Arms Down

The arms are kept extended laterally at the level of the shoulders with the elbows bent and the forearms dangling downward at a strict ninety-degree angle. The forearms swing freely from side to side, as if moved by the wind alone. The forearms and the wrists are kept straight and vertical. The knees are locked (fig. 191).

39. The Scarecrow in the Wind with the Arms Up

Just as in the preceding magical pass, the arms are extended laterally at the level of the shoulders, except the forearms are turned upward, bent at a ninety-degree angle. The forearms and wrists are kept straight and vertical (fig. 192).

Then they swing freely downward to the front (fig. 193) and upward again. The knees are locked.

40. Pushing Energy Backward with the Full Arm

The elbows are acutely bent and the forearms held fight against the sides of the body, as high as possible, with the hands held in fists (fig.194).

As an exhalation is made, the forearms are fully extended downward and backward as high as possible. The knees are locked, and the trunk bends slightly forward (fig. 195).

As an inhalation is made, the arms are then brought forward to the original position by bending the elbows. Then the breathing is reversed as this movement is repeated; instead of exhaling as the arms are pulled backwards, an inhalation is taken. An exhalation follows as the elbows are bent and the forearms are brought upward against the axilla.

41. Pivoting the Forearm

The arms are held in front of the body with the elbows bent and the forearms vertical. Each hand is bent at the wrist, resembling the head of a bird, which is at eye level, with the fingers pointing toward the face (fig. 196). Keeping the elbows vertical and straight, the wrists are flipped back and forth, pivoting on the forearms, making the fingers of the hands move from pointing at the face to pointing forward (fig. 197).

The knees are kept bent for stability and strength.

42. Moving Energy in a Ripple

The knees are kept straight, and the trunk stoops over. Both arms are kept dangling at the sides. The left arm moves forward with three ripples of the hand, as if the hand were following the contour of a surface with three half-circles on it (fig. 198).

Next, the hand cuts across the front of the body in a straight line from left to right, then from right to left (fig. 199), and moves backward at the side of the body with three more ripples, drawing in this fashion the thick shape of an inverted capital letter L - at least six inches thick. The same movements are repeated with the right arm.

43. The T Energy of the Hands

The two forearms are held at right angles right in front of the solar plexus, making the shape of a letter T. The left hand is the horizontal bar of the letter T with the palm turned upward. The right hand is the vertical bar of the letter T with the palm turned downward (fig. 200).

Next, the hands turn back and forth at the same time with considerable force. The palm of the left hand is turned to face downward, and the palm of the right hand is turned to face upward, both hands maintaining the same letter T shape (fig. 201).

These same movements are executed again, placing the right hand as the horizontal bar of the letter T and the left hand as the vertical one.

44. Pressing Energy with the Thumbs

The forearms, bent at the elbows, are held right in front of the body in a perfectly horizontal position, maintaining the width of the body. The fingers are curled in a loose fist, and the thumbs are held straight, cradled on the curled index fingers (figs. 202, 203).

An intermittent pressure is exerted between the thumb and the index finger and the curled fingers against the palm of the hand. They contract and relax, spreading the impulse to the arms. The knees are kept bent for stability.

45. Drawing an Acute Angle with the Arms Between the Legs

The knees are locked, with the hamstrings as fight as possible. The trunk is bent forward, with the head almost at the level of the knees. The arms dangle in front and, moving repeatedly forward and backward, they draw an acute angle with its vertex between the legs (figs. 204, 205).

46. Drawing an Acute Angle with the Arms in Front of the Face

The knees are locked, with the hamstrings as fight as possible. The trunk is bent forward, with the head almost at the level of the knees. The arms dangle in front of the body and, moving repeatedly from the Kick to the front, they draw an acute angle, with its vertex in front of the face (figs. 206, 207).

47. Drawing a Circle of Energy Between the Legs and in Front of the Body

The knees are kept locked, with the hamstrings as fight as possible. The trunk is bent forward, with the head almost at the level of the knees. The arms dangle in front of the body. The two arms cross at the wrists, the left forearm on top of the right one. The crossed arms swing back between the legs (fig. 208).

From there, each one makes an outward circle in front of the face. At the end of the circle, the arms point forward, the left wrist on top of the right one (fig. 209).

From there, they draw two inward circles that end between the legs, with the wrists crossed once more in the initial position.

Then the right wrist is made to rest on top of the left one, and the same movements are repeated.

48. Three Fingers on the Floor

The arms are brought slowly over the head as a deep inhalation is taken. A slow exhalation begins while the arms are brought all the way down to the floor, keeping the knees locked and the hamstrings as fight as possible. The index and middle fingers of each hand touch the floor a foot in front of the body, and then the thumb is also brought to rest on , the floor (fig. 210).

A deep inhalation is taken while that position is held. The body straightens, and the arms are raised above the head. The air is exhaled as the arms come down to the level of the waist.

49. The Knuckles on the Toes

The arms are raised above the head as a deep inhalation is taken. As the air is exhaled, the arms are brought all the way down to the floor, keeping the knees locked and the hamstrings as fight as possible. The knuckles are brought to rest on top of the toes as the exhalation ends (fig. 211).

A deep inhalation is taken while that position is held. The body straightens, and the arms are raised above the head. The exhalation begins when the arms are brought down to the level of the waist.

50. Drawing Energy from the Floor with the Breath

A deep inhalation is taken as the arms are raised above the head; the knees are kept bent. The exhalation begins as the trunk turns to the left and bends down as far as possible. The hands, with the palms down, come to rest around the left foot, with the right hand in front of the foot and the left hand behind it; they move back and forth five rimes as the exhalation ends (fig. 212).

A deep inhalation is taken then, and the body straightens as the arms move over the head. The trunk turns to the right, and the exhalation begins as the trunk bends down as far as possible. The exhalation ends after the hands move back and forth five times by the right foot. Another deep breath is taken, and the body straightens up as the arms move above the head and the trunk pivots to face the front; then the arms come down as the air is exhaled.

Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda.

The Fourth Series: First Group - Stirring Energy on the Left Body and the Right Body.

The first group comprises sixteen magical passes that stir the energy of the left body and the right body, each independently from the other. Each magical pass is performed with either the left arm or the right arm, and in some cases with both at the same time. The arms never go, however, beyond the vertical line that separates the two bodies.

1. Gathering Energy in a Ball from the Front of the Left and the Right Bodies and Breaking It with the Back of the Hand

With the palm of the hand slightly curved and facing the right, the left arm circles inward twice in front of the body (fig. 213).

All the muscles of the arm are held tense as this circular motion is executed. Then the back of the hand strikes forcefully to the left as if breaking the top of a ball gathered with the movement of the arm (fig. 214).

The hand strikes a point an arm's length away from the body above the shoulders, at a forty-five-degree angle. While this strike is being executed, all the muscles are kept tense, including the muscles of the arms, a tension that permits controlling the strike. The impact is felt on the areas of the pancreas and spleen and the left kidney and adrenals.

The same movements are repeated on the right side, and the impact is felt on the areas of the liver and the right kidney and adrenals.

2. Gathering Energy of the Left and Right Bodies in a Circle Which Is Perforated with the Tips of the Fingers

The left forearm is held in front of the body, at a ninety-degree angle in relation to it. The wrist is kept straight. The palm of the hand faces to the right as the fingers point to the front. The thumb is kept locked. As in the previous magical pass, the forearm circles twice, going from the left up to the level of the shoulder and turning toward tin- center of the body (fig.215).

The elbow is then quickly pulled all the way back, and the circle drawn by the forearm is perforated by the tips of the fingers in a forward thrust (fig. 216).

The elbow is moved all the way back once more in order to gain striking power, and then the hand shoots forward again. The same sequence of movements is performed with the right arm.

3. Hoisting Left and Right Energy Upward

Both knees are slightly bent. The left knee is then raised to the level of the pancreas, fully bent, while the foot is held with the toes pointing to the ground. At the same time that this movement is performed, the left forearm shoots upward until it reaches a point at a forty-five-degree angle with the body; the elbow is kept tight against the body. Both the leg and the arm move in total synchronicity, jolting the midsection (fig. 217).

The same movements are repeated with The right leg and the right arm. The tendency of energy is to sink, and it is of great importance to spread it upward to The midsection of the body. It is the belief of shamans that the left body is ruled by the area of the pancreas and spleen, and the right body by the area of the liver and gallbladder. Shamans understand this process of hoisting energy as a maneuver to energize those two centers separately.

4. The Up-and-Down Pressure

The left elbow is raised in front of the body to the level of the shoulder, bent at a ninety-degree angle with the forearm. The hand is clenched in a fist, and the wrist is bent toward the right as acutely as possible (fig. 218).

Using the elbow as a pivot by keeping it at the same position, the forearm is bent downward until it reaches the area right in front of the solar plexus (fig. 219).

The forearm then returns to the upright position. The same movement is performed with the right arm.

This magical pass is used to stir up the energy that exists in an arc between a point just above the head and in line with the left shoulder and a point right above the solar plexus.

5. The Inward Turn

The first part of this magical pass is exactly like the first part of the preceding one, but instead of bending the forearm downward, it is made to rotate inwardly, making a complete circle, pivoting on the elbow at a forty-five-degree angle with the body. The top of the circle is at a point just above the ear and in line with the left shoulder. The wrist is also made to rotate as the circle is drawn (fig. 220).

The same movement is performed with the right hand.

6. The Outward Turn

This magical pass is almost identical to the preceding one, except that instead of turning the left forearm to the right to make a circle, it turns to the left (fig. 221).

It makes what don Juan called an outward circle, as opposed to the circle made in the previous magical pass, which he called an inward circle.

The same movement is performed with the right hand.

In this magical pass, the energy stirred is part of the arc of energy dealt with in the two preceding magical passes. The fourth, fifth, and sixth magical passes of this group are performed together. Shamans have found out, by means of their seeing, that human beings have enormous caches of unused energy lying around inside their luminous spheres. They have also found out, in this manner, that these magical passes stir the energy dispersed from the respective centers of vitality - the one around the liver and the one around the pancreas - which stays suspended for quite a while before it begins to sink down to the bottom of the luminous sphere.

7. A High Push with the Fists

The arms are held in front of the body at the level of the shoulders. The hands are fisted with the palms turned inward the ground. The elbows are bent. The left hand strikes forward with a short punch, without first retrieving the elbow to gain strength. The left hand is retrieved to its initial position; the right hand follows with another similar punch and is then retrieved to its original position (fig. 222).

The strike of the fists comes from the contraction of the muscles of the arms, shoulder blades, and abdomen.

8. A Low Push with the Fists

The elbows are bent at a ninety-degree angle and kept at the level of the waist. They do not touch the body, but are kept an inch or two away from it. The hands are clenched in fists with the palms facing each other. The left forearm moves to strike in a short punch, driven by the muscles of the stomach, which contract in unison with the muscles of the arm and the shoulder blade (fig. 223).

After striking, the forearm is retrieved instantly, as if the punch has generated the force to push the arm back. The right arm moves immediately afterward in the same fashion. Just as in the preceding pass, the elbows do not move back to gain striking strength; the strength is derived solely from the muscular tension of the abdomen, arms, and shoulder blades.

9. A Wheel with the Fingers Contracted at the Middle Joints

The elbows are kept at the level of the waist over the areas of the pancreas and spleen, and the liver and gallbladder. The wrists are kept straight; the palms of the hands face each other while the fingers are tightly clenched at the second knuckle. The thumbs are locked (fig. 224).

The elbows move forward and away from the body. The left hand circles in a vertical rasping motion, as if the bent knuckles were rasping a surface in front of the body. Then the right hand does the same. The two hands move in an alternate fashion in such a manner (fig. 225).

The muscles of the abdomen are kept as fight as possible in order to give impetus to this movement.

10. Smoothing Energy Out in Front of the Body

The flat palm of the left hand, which faces forward, is raised to a level just above the head, in front of the body. The palm slides downward in a slanted line and comes to the level of the pancreas and spleen, as if it were smoothing out a vertical surface. Without stopping there, it continues moving to the back; the body rotates to the left to allow the arm to come fully over the head. The hand, with the palm facing downward, then comes down with great force, as if to slap a rubbery substance in front of the area of the pancreas and spleen (fig. 226).

Exactly the same movements are performed with The right arm, but using the area of the liver and gallbladder as the striking point.

11. Hitting Energy in Front of the Face with an Upward Thrust of the Fist

The trunk turns slightly to the left in order to allow the left arm two full backward rotations going first to the front, above the head, then to the kick, where the palm turns slightly inward as if to scoop something from the back (fig. 227).

The movement ends at the second turn with an upward thrust of the fisted hand in front of the face (fig. 228).

This magical pass is repeated with the right arm in exactly the same sequence.

12. Hammering Energy in Front of the Left and Right Bodies

One and a half forward circles are made with the arm, followed by a downward strike; the body rotates slightly in order to allow the left arm a full rotation starting from its initial position by the side of the thigh to the back, above the head, to the front, and again to the side of the thigh. As this circle is made, the palm is made to rotate at the wrist as if the hand were scooping up some viscous matter (fig. 229).

From its initial position, the arm moves again to the back and above the head, where the hand turns into a fist that strikes down, with great force, at a point in front of and above the pancreas and spleen, using the soft edge of the hand like a hammer as the striking surface (fig. 230). The same movements are repeated with the right arm.

13. Drawing Two Outward Circles of Energy and Smashing Them by the Navel

Both arms move in unison up the front of the body, out to the sides, and around, like a swimming stroke, to draw two winglike circles at forty-five-degree angles to the front of the body (fig. 231).

Then the circles are broken at the bottom, at the level of the navel, with a forceful strike of both hands. The hands are bent at a ninety-degree angle in relation to the forearms, with the fingers pointing forward. The force of the strike makes the palms of the hands come within a few inches of each other (fig. 232).

14. Drawing Two Circles of Energy Laterally with the Index and Middle Fingers Extended

The index and middle fingers of both hands are fully extended, while I ho third and fourth fingers are held by the thumbs against the palms.

The arms circle in unison from their normal position at the sides to above the head and then laterally to the sides of the body at forty-five degree angles toward the back (fig. 233).

When the full circle is nearly completed, the fingers contract into fists, leaving the second knuckles of the middle fingers protruding. The movement ends as the fists, with the palms facing the body, strike forward and upward, to the level of the chin (fig. 234).

15. Stirring the Energy Around the Temples

A long inhalation is taken. An exhalation begins as the arms are brought to a point above the head, where they clasp into fists; the palms of the fisted hands face the front of the body. From there they strike downward with a back-fist blow to a point right above the hips (fig. 235).

The fisted hands move to the sides of the body, drawing lateral half-circles that bring the fists to an area a few inches in front of the forehead and five or six inches away from each other. The fisted palms face outward (fig. 236).

While the exhalation still lasts, the fists are brought to rest on the temples for an instant. The body leans backward a bit by bending slightly at the knees to gain spring and momentum, and then the arms are brought forcefully down, without straightening the elbows, to strike behind the body on either side with the backs of the fisted hands (fig. 237). The exhalation ends there.

16. Projecting a Small Circle of Energy Out in Front of the Body

From its natural position by the side of the thigh, the left arm moves outward laterally; the palm of the hand faces the right. It draws a small circle as the palm turns downward, comes to the area of the pancreas and spleen, and continues moving left to the level of the waist. The elbow protrudes acutely (fig. 238a); the hand turns into a fist. The palm of the fisted hand faces the ground. The fist strikes with a short blow to the front, as if to pierce the circle it has drawn (fig. 238b).

The movement is continuous; it is not interrupted when the hand turns into a fist, but stops only when the punch has been delivered. The blow gives an intense jolt to the center of vitality located around the pancreas and spleen. The same movement is executed with the right hand, the strike of which jolts the liver and gallbladder.

Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda.

The Fourth Series: Second Group - Mixing Energy from the Left Body and the Right Body.

The second group consists of fourteen magical passes that mix the energy of both bodies at their respective centers of vitality. The shamans of ancient Mexico believed that mixing energy in this fashion makes it possible to separate the energy of both bodies more readily by dropping unfamiliar energy into them, a process which they described as exacerbating the centers of vitality.

17. Bunching Necessary Energy and Dispersing Unnecessary Energy

This magical pass entails movements that could best be described as pushing something solid across the front of the body with the palm of the hand, and dragging it back across the front of the body with the back of the hand.

It starts with the left arm kept close to the body, by the waist, with the forearm bent at a ninety-degree angle. The forearm is brought closer to the body as the movement begins, and the hand is bent back at the wrist. The palm of the left hand faces right; the thumb is locked. Then, as if a great force were opposing it, it moves across the body to the extreme right, without the elbow losing its ninety-degree angle (fig. 239).

From there, again as if a great force were opposing it, the hand is dragged as far left as it can reach without losing the ninety-degree angle of the elbow, with the palm still facing the right (fig. 240).

During this entire sequence of movements, the muscles of the left body are contracted to the maximum, and the right arm is held immobile against the right leg.

The same sequence of movements is repeated with the right arm and hand.

18. Piling Energy onto the Left and Right Bodies

The weight is placed on the right leg. The knee is slightly bent for support and balance. The left leg and arm, which are kept semi-tense, sweep in front of the body in an arc from left to right, in unison. The left foot and the left hand end at a position just to the right of the body. The outer edge of the left foot touches the ground. The fingertips of the left hand point down as the sweep is made (fig. 241).

Then both the left leg and the left arm return to their original positions.

The exact sequence is repeated by sweeping the right leg and arm to the left.

19. Gathering Energy with One Arm and Striking It with the Other

Don Juan said that with this magical pass, energy was stirred and collected with the movement of one arm and was struck with the movement of the opposite arm. He believed that striking, with one hand, energy which had been gathered by the other, allowed the entrance of energy into one body from sources belonging to the other body, something which was never done under normal conditions.

The left arm moves up to the level of the eyes. The wrist is slightly bent backwards; in this position, going from left to right and back again, the hand draws the figure of an oval, about a foot and a half wide and as long as the width of the body (fig. 242).

Then the hand, with the palm facing down, moves across at eye level from left to right as if cutting through, with the tips of the fingers, the figure which it has drawn (fig. 243).

At the moment that the left hand reaches the level of the right shoulder, the right hand, which is held at waist level with the cupped palm turned upward, shoots forward, striking with the heel of the hand, to hit the spot in the middle of the oval drawn by the left hand, as the left hand is slowly brought down (fig. 244).

As it strikes, the palm of the right hand is facing forward, and the fingers are slightly curved, permitting in this fashion the necessary contour of the palm to strike a round surface. The strike ends with the elbow slightly bent, to avoid over stretching the tendons.

The same movements are performed beginning with the right arm.

20. Gathering Energy with the Arms and Legs

The body pivots slightly to the right on the ball of the right foot; the left leg juts out at a forty-five-degree angle, with the knee bent to give a forward slant to the trunk. The body is made to rock three times, as if to gain momentum. Then the left arm scoops downward as if to grab something at the level of the left knee (fig. 245).

The body leans back, and with that impulse, the lower part of the left leg, from the knee down, is brought close to the groin, almost touching it with the heel; the left hand swiftly brushes the vital area of the liver and gallbladder, on the right (fig. 246).

The same sequence of movements is repeated with the right leg and arm, which bring the gathered energy to the center of vitality located around the pancreas and spleen, on the left.

21. Moving Energy from the Left and the Right Shoulders

The left arm moves from its natural position hanging by the left thigh to the right shoulder, where it grabs something, and the hand turns into a fist. This movement is propelled by a sharp twist of the waist to the right. The knees are slightly bent to allow this turning movement. The acutely bent elbow is not allowed to sag, but is kept at the level of the shoulders (fig. 247).

Propelled by a straightening of the waist, the fist is then moved away from the right shoulder in an upward arc, striking, with the back of the hand, a point slightly above the head and in line with the left shoulder (fig. 248).

The hand opens there as if to drop something that is held in the fist. The same- sequence of movements is repeated with the right arm.

22. Gathering Energy from One Body and Dispersing It on the Other

Beginning from its natural position by the left thigh, the left arm draws an arc from left to right, crossing in front of the pubis until it reaches the extreme right. This movement is aided by a slight turn of the waist. From there, the arm continues moving in a circle above the head, to the height and level of the left shoulder. It cuts across then to the level of the right shoulder. There, the hand turns into a fist, as if grabbing something, with the palm down (Fig. 249).

Next, the fist hits a point at the height of the head, an arm's length away from it. The blow is delivered with the soft edge of the hand, using the hand as if it were a hammer.

The arm is fully extended, but slightly curved at the elbow (fig. 250).

The same movements are repeated with the right arm.

23. Hammering Energy from the Left Shoulder and the Right Shoulder on the Midpoint in Front of the Face

The left arm is moved above the head. The elbow is bent at a ninety-degree angle. The hand turns there into a fist, with the palm facing upward. Then it strikes from the left, with the soft edge of the hand, the division line of the left and right body, in front of the face. The body leans slightly to the left as this strike is made (fig. 251).

The fisted hand keeps on moving until it almost touches the right shoulder; the palm turns there so that it faces downward. Then it makes a similar strike, this time from the right; the body leans to the right (fig. 252).

This same sequence of movements is repeated with the right arm.

A reservoir of neutral energy can be built by this magical pass, meaning energy which can easily be used by either the left body or the right body.

24. A Strike with the Hand Fisted at the Second Knuckle

Both arms are lifted to the level of the neck, the elbows held at ninety-degree angles. The hands are held with the fingers bent at the second knuckle and held tightly over the palm (figs. 253, 254).

From this position, tin- left hand strikes. The strike is a powerful swing made to the right, .11 toss the line of the right shoulder, but without greatly moving the arm. 1 In- arm is driven by a powerful rightward twist of the waist (fig. 255).

The right arm moves in the same fashion beyond the line of the left shoulder, driven by an instantaneous leftward twist of the waist.

25. Grabbing Energy from the Shoulders and Smashing It on the Centers of Vitality

The left arm moves to the right shoulder, and the hand turns into a fist, as if grabbing something (fig. 256). The elbow is kept bent at a ninety degree angle. Then the fist is forcefully brought back to the left side by the waist (fig. 257).

It stays there for an instant to gain impulse, and then the fist shoots across the body to the right, the fisted palm facing the body, to strike through a point by the area of the liver and gallbladder (fig. 258).

The same movement is repeated with the right arm, which strikes across the area of the pancreas and spleen.

26. Pushing Energy to the Sides with the Elbows

Both arms are brought to the level of the shoulders, the elbows bent sharply and protruding straight out. The wrists are crossed making a letter X, the left forearm on top of the right one. The hands, clenched into fists, touch the pectoral muscles at the edges of the axilla; the left fist touches the edges of the right axilla and the right fist the edges of the left axilla (fig. 259).

The elbows are then forcefully brought out to the sides in line with the shoulders, as if to give an elbow blow to the sides (fig. 260). This movement is repeated with the right arm on top of the left.

27. Drawing Two Inward Circles of Energy in Front of the Body and Crushing Them Out to the Sides

As a deep breath is taken, the arms circle in unison from their natural position at the sides of the thighs, to the line that separates the left and the right bodies. This movement ends with the forearms crossed over the chest. The fingers are kept tightly together, pointing upward, the thumbs locked; the wrists are bent at ninety-degree angles. The left arm is on top of the right one. The locked thumb of the left hand touches the pectoral muscle of the right body, and the locked thumb of the right hand touches the pectoral muscle of the left body (fig. 261).

The inhalation ends there. A quick exhalation is made as the arms are spread apart forcefully with the hands clenched into fists, each striking, with the back of the hand, a point on the respective sides above the head (fig. 262).

The same movements are repeated with the right arm on top of the left.

28. Striking Energy in Front of the Body and on the Left and Right with Both Fists

The hands are clenched into fists at the level of the waist. The palms of the fists face each other. Both hands are lifted to the level of the eyes and strike forcefully downward in unison at two points in front of the groin; they hit the target with the soft part of the fists (fig. 263).

From there, the arms swing in unison, making an upward arc to the left as the whole trunk leans toward the left, following the impulse of the arms. The fists strike with the knuckles (fig. 264).

The fists return to deliver another blow to the same points in front of the groin. From there, the arms swing in unison, making an upward arc to the right as the whole trunk leans toward the right, following the impulse of the arms. The fists strike with the knuckles. The fists move one more time to deliver a blow with the soft edge of the hands to the same two points in front of the groin.

29. Striking Energy in Front of the Body with Both Fists and on the Left and the Right

The beginning of this magical pass is exactly like the preceding one (fig. 265).

Once the strike is completed, both arms are lifted like hammers to the level of the head, and the trunk is made to turn sharply to the left. The two fists strike two points in front of the left hip (fig. 266).

The arms lift again to the height of the head, the palms of the hands are opened, and they descend to strike the same two points (fig. 267).

The arms are raised again to the level of the head. The hands turn into fists to strike the same points once again. The forearms are raised to the level of the head, the body turns to face the front, and the fists are slammed down on the same points in front of the groin.

The same sequence of movements is repeated with the trunk turned sharply to the right.

30. Smashing Energy with the Wrists Above the Head and on the Left and the Right

Both hands are raised above the head, with the wrists touching and the palms curved as if holding a ball (fig. 268).

Then the trunk turns to the left, as both arms move sharply to the left of the waist without disengaging the wrists, which rotate on each other to accommodate the new position of the hands. The palm of the left hand faces upward, and the palm of the right hand faces downward (fig. 269).

Both arms are moved to the point above the head again, still without disengaging the wrists, which rotate to adopt their initial position.

The same sequence of movements is performed by bringing the hands sharply to a point to the right of the waist. The movement ends by bringing the hands back to their starting position above the head.

Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda.

The Fourth Series: Third Group - Moving the Energy of the Left Body and the Right Body with the Breath.

The third group consists of nine magical passes that employ inhalations and exhalations as their driving force to either further separate or join the two bodies. As already stated, in the view of the sorcerers of don Juan's lineage, putting a dab of energy from one body into any vital center of the other creates a much sought-for momentary agitation in that center. The sorcerers of ancient Mexico, according to what don Juan taught, considered this mixing to be extremely beneficial because it breaks the fixed, routine input of those centers. Those sorcerers felt that breathing is a key issue in the separation of the left body and the right body.

31. The Breath for the Upper Fringe of the Lungs

The arms, with the hands clenched into fists, are raised to the forehead with a deep inhalation; the palms of the fisted hands face down. The fists are three or four inches from each other, right in front of the forehead, as the inhalation ends (fig. 270).

An exhalation is made as the arms spread forcefully to two lateral points to the sides and even with the shoulders (fig. 271).

The hands relax and open. The wrists cross in front of the head and a deep inhalation is taken as the arms make two big circles the length of the arms, going from the front, up over the head, and to the sides. The inhalation ends as the hands come to rest by the waist, with the palms up (fig. 272).

A slow exhalation is made then, while the hands are raised along the edges of the rib cage, to the level of the axillae. The exhalation ends as the shoulders are pushed up, as if the force of the hands were making them rise (fig. 273).

This breath is a true bonus because it allows the mobilization of the upper part of the lungs, a thing which hardly ever happens under normal conditions.

32. Offering the Breath

The left arm draws a circle as a deep inhalation is taken. It moves from the front to above the head, to the back, to the front again; as the arm rotates, the trunk turns to the left, to allow the arm to move in a full circle. The inhalation ends when the circle is completed. The palm of the hand is held at the level of the chin; it faces up, and the wrist is bent at a ninety-degree angle. The posture of the practitioner is that of one who is offering something which is placed on the palm. The trunk is bent forward (fig. 274).

The palm of the hand is then turned to face down, and an exhalation begins while the arm moves slowly and powerfully downward (fig. 275) to rest on the left side by the thigh; the palm is still facing down, and the back of the hand maintains the ninety-degree angle in relation to the forearm.

The same sequence of movements is executed with the right arm.

33. Moving Energy with the Breath from the Top of the Head to the Vital Centers

The wrists of both arms are slightly bent; the palms of the hands are semi-curled. With the hands in this position, the tips of the fingers brush upward along the front of the body and over the head as a deep inhalation is made (fig. 276).

When the arms reach their full extension above the head, the hands are straightened and the wrists are turned back at a ninety-degree angle. The inhalation ends there. While the hands are brought down, the air is held, and the index finger of each hand is raised; the other fingers are held against the palm, bent at the second knuckle, and the thumbs are locked. Both arms are retrieved to the level of the chest, with the back of the hands against the axillae.

A deep exhalation begins then as the arms are slowly extended straight forward until the elbows are gently locked. A deep inhalation then is taken as the hands are retrieved back to the position against the axillae, still with the index fingers raised, the wrists bent backwards, the palms facing forward. A slow exhalation begins while the hands move upward in a circle that first reaches above the head and then continues downward, making a complete forward circle without changing the position of the index fingers. The hands come to rest by the sides of the rib cage (fig. 277).

The exhalation ends as the hands are pushed downward to the sides of the hips.

34. Shattering Energy with the Breath

As a deep inhalation is taken, the left hand moves in a wide side circle from the front, to above the head, to the back. The trunk turns to the left to facilitate the full rotation of the arm. The inhalation ends when the arm has made a full turn and stops at a place to the side of the head and above it. The palm of the hand faces forward; the wrist is slightly turned back (fig. 278).

A slow exhalation begins then as the arm makes another wide side circle in the opposite direction, going from the front down to the back, then above the head, and to the front again. When the circle is completed, the arm is brought to a point just in front of the right shoulder as the exhalation continues. The palm is facing the body and lightly touches the right shoulder (fig. 279).

Then the arm shoots out laterally with the hand clenched in a fist and strikes, with the back of the hand, a point an arm's length away from the left shoulder at the height of the head (fig. 280).

The exhalation ends there. The same sequence of movements is repeated with the right arm.

35. The Monkey Breath

The knees are slightly bent. The arms are lifted slowly over the head as the upper part of the lungs is filled with air. Then the knees become locked and the body is fully extended upward. This breath can be taken either with the heels on the ground, or on the tips of the toes. The breath is held as the arms move downward and the body stoops slightly forward, contracting the diaphragm; the knees are bent again. The exhalation begins when the hands reach the level of the waist. At the same time, the index fingers are extended and point to the ground; the other fingers are contracted over the palms of the hands. The hands continue moving downward as all the air is exhaled (fig. 281).

While exhaling, the diaphragm is held fight in order to avoid pushing it downward with the exhaling air.

36. The Altitude Breath

The legs are held as straight as possible. An inhalation begins while the shoulders slowly rotate from Figure 281 the front to the back with the arms bent at the elbows. When the rotation and the inhalation end, the arms are kept in the initial position (fig. 282).

The exhalation begins by raising the hands to the level of the shoulders and extending the arms as far forward as possible with the palms facing the ground.

Next, an inhalation is taken as the palms of the hands are turned upward. The elbows are bent and pulled all the way back, and the shoulders are raised. The inhalation ends with the maximum upward stretch of the shoulders (fig. 283).

An exhalation is made as the palms are turned to face the ground and the hands and shoulders push downward; the hands are bent backward at the wrists as far as possible, and the arms are held straight at the sides of the body.

37. The Lateral Breath

As an inhalation begins, the arms move from their natural position by the sides of the thighs in a circle toward the center of the body, ending with the arms crossed; the palms face outward, and the wrists are fully bent so that the fingertips point upward (fig. 284).

The inhalation continues while the two arms are pushed out laterally. As the arms move, the palms of the hands first face forward; when the movement ends, they face away from each other. The inhalation ends at the maximum extension of the arms. The body is kept as erect as possible (fig. 285).

An exhalation is made by bending the arms at the elbows as the palms of the hands, with the fingertips raised upward, come toward the center of the body, pass it, and cross to end at the opposite edges of the body. The left forearm is on top of the right. The body is contracted at the mid-section, and the knees are bent (fig. 286).

38. The Butterfly Breath

The arms are bent at the elbows and held in front of the chest. The left forearm is held above the right one without touching it; the wrists are straight and the hands are clenched into fists. The knees are bent, and the body stoops forward markedly (fig. 287).

As an inhalation begins, the arms separate and move up over the head and out to the left and right. As the inhalation continues, the arms straighten as they circle, going down, to the sides, and around the shoulders, and then fold back to their initial position over the chest. Maintaining their position, the arms are raised over the head, as the breath is held and the body straightens at the waist (fig. 288).

Then the arms are brought down to the level of the umbilical region as the body goes back into the initial stooped-forward position, with bent knees.

The body holds that stooped-forward position steadily, and an exhalation is made by repeating the same movements of the arms done for the inhalation. As the air is expelled, the diaphragm is kept in a fight position.

39. Breathing Out Through the Elbows

At the beginning of this movement, the legs are kept straight. As a deep breath is taken, the arms make outward circles above the head and around the sides of the body. The inhalation ends with the arms pointing straight out to the front, elbows bent, at the level of the waist. The palms are held straight and facing each other; the fingers are together.

An exhalation begins as the hands point to the ground at a forty-five-degree angle. The knees are bent and the body leans forward (fig. 289).

I lie exhalation continues while the arms, bent at the elbows in a ninety-degree angle, are raised over the head. The body straightens and leans backward slightly. This is achieved by bending the knees, rather than the back. The exhalation ends with the abdominal muscles tensed to the maximum; the head is tilted slightly backward (fig. 290).

Practicing this breath creates the sensation that air is being expelled through the elbows.

Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda.

The Fourth Series: Fourth Group - The Predilection of the Left Body and the Right Body.

This group is composed of five magical passes for the left body executed in a sequence, and three magical passes for the right body. According to don Juan Matus, the predilection of the left body is silence, while the predilection of the right body is chatter, noise, sequential order. He said that it is the right body which forces us to march, because it likes parades, and it is most delighted with choreography, sequences, and arrangements that entail classification by size.

Don Juan recommended that the performance of each movement of the magical passes for the right be repeated many times, as the practitioners count, and that it is very important to set up beforehand the number of times in which any given movement is going to be repeated, because prediction is the forte of the right body. If the practitioners set up any number beforehand and fulfill it, the pleasure of the right body is indescribable.

In the practice of Tensegrity, however, both the magical passes for the left body and the magical passes for the right body are performed in complete silence. If the silence of the left body can be made to overlap onto the right body, the act of saturation can become a direct way to enter what don Juan called the most coveted state that the shamans of every generation sought: inner silence.

Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda.

The Fifth Series: First Group - Magical Passes In Which The Hands Are Moved In Unison But Held Separately.

1. Fists Above the Shoulders

The hands are held by the sides, clasped into fists, the palms facing up. They are raised then to a point above the head by bending the elbows so the forearms are at a ninety-degree angle with the upper arms. The driving force of this movement is equally divided between the muscles of the arms and the contraction of the muscles of the abdomen. As the fists are raised and the muscles of the front of the body are tensed, the body leans slightly backward by bending the knees (fig. 404).

The arms, with hands fisted, are brought down to the sides of the thighs by straightening the elbows a bit; as the arms move down, the body leans forward, contracting the muscles of the back and the diaphragm (fig. 405).

2. Using a Cutting Tool in Each Hand

The hands are made into fists, with the palms facing each other at the level of the waist (fig. 406).

From there, they move in a downward strike to the level of the groin, a foot and a half away from it, always keeping the width of the body as the distance between the fists (fig. 407).

Once the fists strike, they are retrieved to the position where they started, by the edge of the rib cage.

3. Polishing a High Table with the Palms of the Hands

The arms are raised to the level of the axillae. The palms of the hands face down. The elbows, acutely bent, protrude sharply behind the back (fig. 408).

Both arms are brought briskly forward to the maximum extension, as if the palms were actually polishing a hard surface. The hands are kept at a distance which equals the width of the body (fig. 409).

From there, they are retrieved with equal force to the position where the movement began (fig. 408).

4. Tapping Energy with Both Hands

Both arms are raised to the front, at the level of the shoulders. The hands are held in angular fists, meaning that the position of the fingers slants down heavily as they are held against the palm of the hands. The thumbs are held on top of the outer edge of the index fingers (fig. 410).

The palms of the hands face each other. A sharp jolt of the wrists makes the fists go down slightly, but with great force. The level of the wrists never changes; in other words, only the hand pivots down on the wrists.

The counter movement is to raise the fists with a jolt without changing the position of the wrists (fig. 411).

This magical pass is, for shamans, one of the best sources for exercising the tendon energy of the arms, because of the number of energy points that exist around the wrists, the backs of the hands, the palms, and the fingers.

5. Jolting Energy

This magical pass is the companion to the preceding one. It begins by raising both arms to the front at the level of the shoulders. The hands are held in angular fists, just as in the preceding magical pass, except that in this one, the palms of the hands are turned to face downward. The fists are moved in toward the body by a jolt of the wrists. Its counterbalancing movement is another jolt of the wrists that sends the fists outward so that the thumbs make a straight line with the rest of the forearm (fig. 412).

In order to execute this magical pass, it is required that the muscles of the abdomen are intensely used. It is the action of those muscles which actually directs the jolting of the wrists.

6. Pulling a Rope of Energy

The hands are held in front of the body, at the line that separates the left and the right bodies, as if they were holding a thick rope that hangs from above; the left hand is on top of the right (fig. 413).

The magical pass consists in jolting both wrists and making the hands jerk down in a short, powerful movement. As this movement is executed, the muscles of the abdomen contract, and the arms drop down slightly by bending the knees (fig. 414).

Its counterbalancing movement is a jerk of the wrists that jolts the hands upward as the knees and the trunk straighten up a bit (fig. 413).

7. Pushing Down a Pole of Energy

The hands are held to the left of the body, the left hand at the level of the ear, eight or nine inches above the right hand, which is held at the shoulder. They are held as if they were grabbing a thick pole. The palm of the left hand faces the right; and the palm of the right hand faces left. The left hand is the leading hand, by virtue of being on top, and guides the movement (fig. 415).

The muscles of the back by the area of the adrenals and the muscles of the abdomen contract, and a powerful push sends both arms downward to the side of the right thigh and the waist, as if they were indeed holding on to a pole (fig. 416).

The hands change position there; the right hand moves to a place by the right ear and becomes the leading hand, and the left moves below, by the shoulder, as if the hands were changing poles. The same movements are repeated.

8. Cut ting Energy with One Hand at a Time

The fists arc raised on the sides until they touch the edge of the rib cage; the palms of the fists face each other (fig. 417).

The left arm moves down in a diagonal line to a point two feet away from the thigh (fig. 418); then it is retrieved (fig. 417). The right arm immediately performs the same movements.

9. Using a Plane of Energy

The left hand is raised to the level of the navel and made into a fist; the elbow is bent at a ninety-degree angle and is held close to the rib cage (fig. 419).

The right palm moves as if to slam on top of the left fist. The right hand stops an inch away from the left (fig. 420).

Then it moves four or five inches in front of the fist, in a sharp, cutting movement, as if cutting with the edge of the hand (fig. 421).

The left arm is retrieved all the way back by making the elbow protrude backward as far as it can, while the right hand is also retrieved, following the left hand and keeping the same distance (fig. 422).

Then, maintaining the same distance between the hands, both the left and the right arm shoot forward to a point a foot and a half or two feet away from the waist.

The same movements are repeated with the fist of the right arm.

10. Striking Energy with a Spike of Energy

The left arm is raised to the level of the shoulders with the elbow bent at a ninety-degree angle. The hand is held as if it had the hilt of a dagger in its grip; the palm faces down. The elbow strikes backward in an arc to a point at the height of the left shoulder, at a forty-five-degree angle behind it (fig. 423).

Then the arm returns with a strike along the same arc to its initial position.

The same movement is repeated with the other arm.

Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda.

The Fifth Series: Second Group - The Magical Passes For Focusing Tendon Energy.

11. Clasping Hands

Both forearms are brought forward in front of the navel. The bent elbows almost touch the rib cage. The hands are made to clasp, the left hand on top. The fingers of each hand grab the other hand forcefully (fig. 424).

All the muscles of the arms and the back are contracted. Then the tense muscles are relaxed and the hands change positions so that the right hand is on top of the left, without letting go of each other, using the hard part of the palm at the base of the fingers as a pivoting surface; the muscles of the arms and back are contracted again.

The same movements are repeated, beginning with the right hand on top

12. Left and Right Body Clasp

The forearms are brought in front of the body, again at the level of the navel. This time, however, the right forearm is held extended out in a straight line with the hip. It is held close to the rib cage while the left forearm, with the elbow away from the body, puts the left hand over the right one in a clasping position. Great pressure is applied to the palms and the fingers of each hand by the tension of the muscles of the arms, the back, and the abdomen. The tension is relaxed, and the hands are made to pivot on each other's palms, as they move across the body from right to left. There, they are forcefully clasped again, using the same muscles, this time with the right hand on top (fig. 425).

The same movements are repeated from this position.

13. The Sharp Turn of the Two Bodies

The hands are clasped at the level of the waist, to the right. The left hand is on top of the right. In this magical pass, (In- squeeze- of the hands is not as pronounced as the one in the two preceding ones, because what is sought is a sharp turn of the two bodies, rather than the sharp strikes of the two preceding passes.

The clasped hands are made to draw a small circle to the right that goes from the front to the back, and ends in the same position where it started. Since the leading hand is the left hand, by the fact that it is on top, the circle is drawn following the impulse of the left arm, which pushes the hands out first to the right, and around in a circle to the right of the body (fig. 426).

Then the clasped hands move across the front of the body to the left side. Another circle is drawn there, again following the impulse of the left hand. Being on top, it pulls the other hand to make a circle that goes to the back first, out to the left, and back to the place where it started (fig. 427).

The same sequence of movements is performed with the right hand in the lead, starting at the left by the waist. This time, the impulse of the right arm is followed in order to draw the circle, which goes to the left first, and then back to the same place where it started (fig. 428).

The clasped hands move across the front of the body to the right side by the waist. There, following the impulse of the leading hand, they are pulled back, then to the right, and back where they started, making a circle (fig. 429).

It is important that as the circles are drawn, the trunk of the body is turned sharply to the side. The legs remain in the same position, without compensating for the turn by letting the knees sag.

14. Pushing Clasped Energy with the Elbow and Forearm

The hands are clasped by the right side at the level of the shoulder. The upper part of the right arm is held fight against the chest, and the elbow is sharply bent with the forearm held in a vertical position. With the palm of the right hand facing up, the back of the hand is held in a ninety-degree angle with the forearm (fig. 430).

The elbow of the left arm is extended in front of the left shoulder, held at a ninety-degree position. The two hands clasp forcefully (fig. 431).

The right arm slowly pushes the left one forward by straightening the elbow quite a bit. At the same time that the clasped hands are pushed forward, the left shoulder and shoulder blade are also pushed forward to maintain the ninety-degree angle of the left elbow (fig. 432).

The right arm retrieves the left hand to the initial position.

The clasped hands are shifted to the left side by pivoting on the palms, and the same movements are repeated there.

15. The Short Stab with the Hands Clasped

The hands are clasped at the right side, just as in the preceding magical pass. This lime, however, the hands are at the level of the waist, and the right arm, instead of slowly pushing the left one forward, stabs fast (fig. 433).

It is a powerful movement that requires the contraction of the muscles of the arms and the back. The clasped hands are brought forcefully to the left, as if to augment the driving force of the left elbow, which is pushed all the way to the back (fig. 434).

The clasped hands move around the front of the body to the right, as if to aid again a powerful movement of the right elbow which is thrown all the way to the back.

The same sequence of movements is performed by starting it on the left side with the right hand in the lead.

It is important to note that when the clasped hands are stabbed to the front, the hand at the bottom gives the direction, but the force is supplied by the leading hand, which is on top.

16. Jolting Energy with Clasped Hands

The hands are clasped to the right; the right elbow and upper arm are held against the side of the rib cage. The elbow of the right arm is at a ninety-degree angle with the extended right forearm. The left elbow is also held at a ninety-degree angle, at a straight line away from the left pectoral muscle (fig. 435).

The right arm lifts the left one, changing the position of the elbows from a ninety-degree angle to a forty-five. The clasped hands reach the level of the right shoulder (fig. 436).

Then they are made to jolt with a very short movement in which only the wrist is involved. The clasped hands hit down, but without changing the level at which they are held (fig. 437).

From there, the clasped hands are retrieved to the left near the waist, in a forceful movement that makes the left elbow protrude at the back (fig. 438).

The wrists are rotated and the hands made to pivot on each other, reversing their position. The same movements are repeated on the left.

17. Jolting Energy by the Knees

The hands are clasped to the right by the thigh. They change positions slightly by the supporting right hand, which is on the bottom, becoming slightly more vertical with a twist of the wrist, held in check by the pressure of the left hand (fig. 439).

Both hands swing to the left, following the contour of the knees, and deliver a strike, the potency of which is enhanced by a downward pull of the wrists (fig. 440).

The hands change position by rotating on each other's palms, and the same movements are repeated from left to right.

18. Driving Down a Spike of Energy

The hands are clasped vertically with the left hand in the lead, at a point about a foot from the navel, right on the division line between the left and right bodies. Both hands are lifted a few inches with a slight jolt made by bending the wrists without moving the forearms. Then they are brought down with the same jolt of the wrists (fig. 441).

This magical pass engages the deep muscles of the abdomen. The same movements are performed with the right hand in the lead.

19. Using the Hands Like a Hatchet

The hands are clasped at the right. Both are lifted to the level of the shoulder (fig. 442).

Then they deliver a diagonal strike that takes them to the level of the left hip (fig. 443).

The same movements are done on the left.

20. Hammering a Spike of Energy

The hands are clasped at the right. They swing to the level of the shoulders, aided by a rotation of the trunk to the right. Making a small vertical circle in front of the right shoulder, the hands are brought to the division line between the two bodies and down to the level of the waist as if to hammer a spike of energy there (fig. 444).

The same movements are done on the left side.

Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda.

The Fifth Series: Third Group - The Magical Passes for Building Endurance.

21. Cutting Energy in an Arc

The hands are clasped on the right, fight against the crest of the hipbone. The left hand is on top of the right. The right elbow protrudes to the back, and the left forearm is held against the stomach. In a powerful extended strike, the clasped hands slice in a horizontal arc across the area in front of the body as if going through a heavy substance. It is as if the hands were holding a knife, or a sword, or a cutting instrument that rips something solid in front of the body (fig. 445).

All the muscles of the arm, the abdomen, the chest, and the back are used. The muscles of the legs are tensed to lend stability to the movement. On the left side, the hands are pivoted. The right hand is on top, in the lead, and another powerful cut takes place.

22. Slashing Energy with a Sword-like Cut

The hands are clasped with the left hand on top of the right in front of the right shoulder (fig. 446).

A powerful jolt of the wrists and the arms makes the hands move forward about a foot, delivering a powerful blow. From there, they cut across to a point on the left, at the level of the shoulder. The end result is a movement that resembles cutting something heavy with a sword. From that point on the left, the arms change position by rotating, without losing their clasping position. The right hand takes the lead and gets on top, and again slashes across to a point about two feet away from the right shoulder (fig. 447).

The initial position of the hands are changed, and the movements begin on the left.

23. Slashing Energy with a Diagonal Cut

The clasped hands are raised to the level of the right ear and pushed forward, as if to stab something solid located in front of the body (fig. 448).

From there, they slash down to a place about a foot away from the side of the left kneecap (fig. 449).

On that point, the hands rotate at the wrists to change positions so that the right hand takes the lead on top. It is as if the cutting instrument that the hands seem to be holding is made to change directions before it slashes from left to right, following the contour of the knees (fig. 450).

The hands change place, and the whole sequence is done again, starting from the left.

24. Carrying Energy from the Right Shoulder to the Left Knee

The clasped hands are held at waist level on the right. They change positions slightly by the supporting right hand, which is on the bottom, becoming slightly more vertical with a twist of the wrist, which is held by the pressure of the left hand. The hands are quickly raised to a point by the top of the head, on the right side (fig. 451).

Leading with the elbow, they are brought down to shoulder level with great force. From there, they slash down in a diagonal cut to a place about a foot away from the left side of the kneecap. The strike is aided by a quick downward turn of the wrists (fig. 452).

The hands pivot to change places, and the whole sequence is done again, starting from the left.

25. Slashing Energy by the Knees

The hands are clasped on the right side by the waist (fig. 453).

They are brought in a powerful downward strike to the level of the knees, as the trunk stoops forward slightly. Then they cut an arc in front of the knees from right to left, to a point four or five inches away from the left side of the kneecap (fig. 454).

Then the clasped hands are brought back forcefully to a point a few inches to the right of the right knee. The performance of both cutting strikes is aided by a very powerful jolt of the wrists.

The same movement is performed starting by the waist on the left. In order to perform this magical pass correctly, practitioners need to engage, rather than the muscles of the arms and the legs, the deep muscles of the abdomen.

26. The Digging Bar of Energy

The clasped hands are held in front of the stomach, with the left hand on top as the leading hand. They are shifted then to a vertical position in front of the stomach on the line that separates the two bodies. In a quick movement, they are brought to a point above the head, as if still following the same line. From there, they are made to strike down in a straight line to the place where the magical pass began (fig. 455).

The hands change positions, to have the right hand in the lead, and the movement is repeated. Don Juan called this movement stirring energy with a digging bar.

27. The Big Slash

The clasped hands start on the right, by the waist. They are quickly raised above the head, over the right shoulder (fig. 456).

The wrists jolt back to gain strength, and a powerful diagonal strike is delivered that slashes Figure 455 energy in front of the body, as if cutting through a sheet. The strike ends at a point four or five inches to the left of the left knee (fig. 457).

The same movement is repeated starting from the left.

28. The Sledgehammer

With the left hand in the lead, the hands are clasped together in front of the stomach on the vertical line that divides the left and the right bodies. The palms are held vertical for an instant before the hands are brought to the right of the body and above the head to hang for another instant by the neck, as if holding a heavy sledgehammer. They move over the head in a deliberate and powerful swing (fig. 458) and are brought to bear on the spot from which they began to move, exactly as if the hands themselves were a heavy sledgehammer (fig. 459).

The hands change positions, and the same movements are started on the left.

29. Cutting a Circle of Energy

The hands are clasped by the right shoulder to begin this magical pass (fig. 460).

Then they are pushed forward as far as the right arm can go without fully extending the elbow. From there, the clasped hands cut a circle the width of the body from right to left, as if they were indeed holding a cutting instrument. In order to perform this movement, the left, leading hand, which is on top, must reverse positions when it reaches the turn of the circle on the left; with the hands still clasped, they flip at the turn of the circle so that the right hand takes the lead by being on top (fig. 461) and finishes drawing the circle.

The same sequence of movements is performed, starting on the left, with the right hand in the lead.

30. The Back-and-Forth Slash

The hands are clasped on the right, with the left hand in the lead. A powerful blow pushes the hands forward, about two feet away from the chest. Then, they slash, as if they were holding a sword, as far to the left as the arms allow them without completely extending the elbows (fig. 462).

There, the hands change positions. The right hand becomes the leading hand on top and a counter-slash is performed, which takes the clasped hands all the way to a point on the right side, a few inches to the right of where this magical pass started (fig. 463).

The same sequence of movements is repeated, starting on the left, with the right hand in the lead.

Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda.

The Sixth Series: Devices - First Category.

This first category of magical passes that use the help of a device consists of sixteen magical passes aided by the Teflon balls. Eight of these magical passes are performed on the left arm and wrist, and eight on the points of the liver and gallbladder, the pancreas and spleen, the bridge of the nose, the temples, and the crown of the head. The sorcerers of ancient Mexico considered the first eight magical passes to be the first step toward the liberation of the left body from the unwarranted dominion of the right body.

1. The first movement pertains to the outer side of the main tendon of the biceps of the left arm. A ball is applied to that hollow spot and made to vibrate by moving it back and forth with a slight pressure (figs. 464, 465).

2. In the second movement, a ball is held in the hollow palm of the right hand, with the thumb holding it securely (fig. 466).

A firm but light pressure is applied to the ball, which is made to rub from the left wrist to a point one hand's width away from the wrist (fig. 467).

The ball is rubbed back and forth in the canal created by the tendons of the wrist (fig. 468).

3. The ball is lightly pressed at a point on the left forearm a hand's width away from the wrist (figs. 469, 470).

4. A moderate pressure is applied at the wrist of the left arm with the index finger of the right hand on a spot next to the head of the forearm bone (fig. 471).

The right thumb anchors the hand on the inside of the wrist (fig. 472) and moves the hand back and forth (figs. 473, 474).

5. The ball is applied to the inner side of the tendon of the left biceps, and it is made to vibrate with a slight pressure (figs. 475, 476).

6. A vibration is applied to the hollow spot at the back of the elbow to the left of the elbow proper. The palm of the left hand is twisted and turned outward to allow maximum opening of that area (fig. 477). The ball is rubbed there.

7. Moderate pressure is applied to a spot in the middle of the upper left arm, on the hollow spot where the triceps joins the bone (figs. 478, 479).

8. The left elbow is bent sharply and is rolled forward, engaging the left shoulder blade, to disperse tendon energy to the whole left body (fig. 480).

The remaining eight magical passes of this first category pertain to the upper body and three centers of energy: the gallbladder and liver, the pancreas and spleen, and the head.

9. The balls are held with both hands, pressed and pushed deeply upward, but with only slight pressure, just under, the sides of the rib cage by the liver and the pancreas (fig. 481). Then they are made to vibrate firmly but lightly on those areas.

10. The ball held with the right hand is applied then with a slight pressure to the area just above the sinus, between the eyebrows, and is made to vibrate there (fig. 482).

11. Both balls are applied to the temples and made to vibrate lightly (fig. 483).

12. The ball held with the right hand is applied to the very top of the head and is made to vibrate there (fig. 484).

13-16. The same sequence is repeated, but instead of being made to vibrate, the balls are pressed against those centers of energy. During this second set of movements, both balls are pressed on the sides of the rib cage, by the liver and the pancreas. Then the ball held with the left hand is pressed on the area above the sinus. Both balls are pressed on the temples, and then the ball held with the left hand is pressed on the top of the head.

Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda.

The Sixth Series: Devices - Second Category.

The second category comprises the uses of the leather weight for the purpose of creating a steady pressure on a larger area of tendon energy. There are two magical passes used in conjunction with the leather weight.

The hand positions for both of these magical passes are shown here with the practitioner standing. The actual practice of these magical passes is performed lying flat on the back with the leather weight pressing right above the navel or on either of the other two choice spots on the abdomen: below the navel, or above it by the solar plexus, if placing the weight on them is more comfortable.

17. The Five Points of Silence Around the Chest

The little fingers of both hands are placed on the edges of the rib cage about two inches from the tip of the sternum, and the thumbs are extended as far up on the chest as possible. The remaining three fingers fall evenly spread in the space between the thumb and the little finger. A vibratory pressure is exerted with all five fingers of each hand (fig. 485).

18. Pressing the Midpoint Between the Rib Cage and the Crest of the Hipbone

The little finger and the fourth finger of each hand rest on the crests of the hips while the thumbs rest on the lower edge of the rib cage on each side. Slight pressure is applied on those two points. The index and middle fingers automatically press points midway between the crests of the hips and the edge of the rib cage (fig. 486).