It's Not a Trick, Old Dog
"Okay, now look over your left shoulder and tell me what you see," he instructed.
I did so, turning around in the direction Carlos said, until I couldn't go any further. But I didn't glimpse anything, and I wanted to, so I twisted harder, pushing myself far as I could physically stretch. Still, I saw nothing, however, the strenuous movement caused an agonizing spasm to shoot up my back, and immediately I groaned in agony and gave up.
"What's the matter?" Carlos queried. "Why did you quit?"
"I hurt my back," I explained, "and I didn't see a thing."
"Try again. Push through your suffering and tell me what you see."
Feeling very sarcastic about failing the exercise, especially in such a miserable fashion, I decided I wanted to somehow express my hurt feelings to Castaneda.
"Oh, okay, I think I see something," I feigned.
"Yes? Good," he replied, "now describe it to me."
"It's a...oh my God, what is it? Uh, it's a... oh, it's a Goddamned pain in my ass!" I exclaimed.
Carlos rolled his big, brown orbs and winced, causing many wise rows of crow's feet to appear.
"I'm saddened," he professed, "and you are hopeless. I cannot waste any more of my precious time on you."
Slowly, he began inching away from me.
"No, wait! I'm sorry, I'm sorry." I pledged. "Please let me try it again. I'll be serious this time, I promise."
Carlos answered me by entering into a state of motionlessness. His arms and elbows locked in stride position, his knees and fingers went slightly bent, his head cocked barely to one side, and his stare aimed directly at the sunny day's late afternoon horizon. The fiery ball cut in at a sharp angle to us then, yet Carlos faced the scorching light without blinking.
I peered straight into his frozen mask and saw billowing reflections of the yellow star's burning gases in the irises of his Yaqui Indian eyes! At first, I thought he might go blind if he remained in such a vulnerable position, but more importantly, I selfishly believed his stopping meant he'd forgiven me for my silly trespass, so I started right up again.
"I can do this Carlos, I assure you." I said, "Even though I'm starting out much later in life and the odds are piling up against me, with your assistance I know I can become a fully aware human being."
His silence met the air as I released it from my lungs, and discouraged, I tried again.
"You have no idea how grateful I am you're helping me." I swore. "I really, really, really appreciate it. I can't do this without you, you know, so thank you a million times over for helping me."
Still nothing, and now disheartened, I went at the Shaman for a third time. "I don't have a chance in hell without you Carlos! Please, please, please don't give up on me!" I pitifully begged. And when this didn't work, I did the only thing remaining I could: wait.
I awoke prone on the desert floor, draped in a colorful serape. Feeling an intense thirst, I groggily rolled to my right, and there, only a foot away, sat a huge tarantula. An irrational fear of the harmless creature tightly gripped me, and my first instinct yelled, "quickly rise to a crawl, stand fast, and head in the opposite direction!"
But I didn't. I just rolled the other way, and on my left side rested another, this one even bigger and closer than the first. I screamed, like a man falling from the height of a great cliff, and sprang to my feet, hopping up and down on the ground beneath me. Nervously, I scanned for the scary spiders, but found no signs of them.
"You were dreaming," Castaneda told me. His voice sounded calm and crisp, like small waves breaking upon a sandy shore.
"The arachnids and I shared the dream with you," he continued. "I spoke with them, and they have explained to me you are a very fearful and doubtful man. Yes, they told me they have never seen so much fear and doubt in a man. But they also said they sensed something special in you, something rare, which is a good heart. And so I've decided because your heart is good, I will continue to teach you."
In a sea taka heartbeat, we were sitting in the living room of his large multi-dwelling property in Los Angeles, drinking tea and talking about the authenticity of Don Juan as a Bonafide Yaqui sorcerer.
"I now accept all the criticism with an open but obviously dead heart," he began, "and freely admit to making up almost the entire odyssey. To be honest, my mystical experiences as told in the stories of don Juan Matus are mostly fictional accounts based on my friendship with fellow artist Ramón Medina Silva, a Huichol Mara 'Kame or shaman who was murdered in a brawl in 1971."
