Topic: I was Carlos Castaneda

[Jahn]

"He hold out his hand. I take it in mine and we shake "Carlos", he says. "Carlos Castaneda".

There was a power in the handshake, like without that left my mind blank. I don’t know how it worked. I can only say I felt more drained than charged as a result.
-   “The Carlos Castaneda?” I ask at last
He grins, lift his hands in the air and spins around on his right foot before clicking his heels at a standstill again to present himself.

“But you can’t be”
“Why not? I’m a writer. You’re a writer. We both find ourselves in this ancient French village. It’s natural that we should meet.”
“But you’re dead.”The smile goes from his face and he flashes into anger.
“Who told you so?”
“It was reported. I read your obituary. Your body was burned and the ashes spread over the Arizona desert.”

“Details,” he says. “Mere details.” He steps further into the room and slumps into one of the armchairs.

/.../

I sit on the sofa to face him, with the window behind me, and wait for an explanation.

-   “So dear boy.” As he speaks he shifts his body to sit upright. “You think that death is the end?”
-   “No.”
-   “Of course not. But look at you. See how much work you still have to do. It seems that my death freaks you out. Makes you too stupid to speak. How are you going to cope with your own death when it comes?”
-   “Did you really die?”
-   “That’s good. It is good that you ask the question. It means you can accept the possibility that I’ll say yea. Well, poor Martin, that is my answer. Yes. Yes, Carlos Castaneda did die.”
-   “So you’re not  him?”
-   If I’m not, then who am I?”
-   “You tell me.”
-   “OK. Let’s stop playing games. You’re locked inside a temporal frame, closed into your own worldview, so I will answer in your own language. I’ll use a tense that you can understand. I was Carlos Castaneda.”

 I was Carlos Castaneda - The Afterlife dialogues. Martin Goodman, Three Rivers Press, 2001. page 5.

[Jahn]

"So tell me, Martin. Recount your adventures in Peru.
-   How do you know I was there?
-   As I was dying I returned to the country of my birth
-   /…/
-   I returned in energy to the country of my birth as I lay dying in Los Angeles.
-   There I hear my name called. It is a part of a conversation. And who is taking part in this conversation? Yourself. Remember it.
I hear a command, not a question. As I concentrate, the conversation slips back into my mind.
In Cuzco? I ask him.
He nods.
But that was nothing. A passing reference.
-   "What you call a passing reference was a slander that breathed foulness on my life, but no matter, I was simply intrigued. You spoke my name, I took my chance. My name breathed out of your body, and with your next breath you took my essence in. I reached you in the highlands of Peru. You took me into the Amazonian jungle. That is my secret. That is why I have come. We will take that journey together. But first, please set the scene. Recall that conversation to get us started."

page 15

[Jahn]

Carlos unscrews the lid of the flask and pours me another cup of tea.
“So you think we’ve forgotten the mountains” he observes while I drink.
“You think they’ve let us go?”
The sun has risen during my story, and it strikes color from the summit of Canigou.
“I think so,” I admit.
“So the Incas knew the secret of worshipping mountains, and now it’s lost?”
“Maybe.”
He passes me the monocular. I lift it to my eye, and Canigou leaps back in sharp detail.
“Awesome?”  he asks.
I lower the monocular and nod.

“Excuse a dead man’s wisdom, Martin, and let me tell you this. When something has roused you to awe, when it has felt the touch of your worship, it will never let you go. It’s the case with mountains. It’s the case with life.”
We both stare at the Pyrenean mountains in silence.
“So we’re all right then,” I say. “The mountains are still looking after us.”
“Far from it. They don’t let go, but we can still fight to be free. Fight with our intelligence. See through the patterns that hold us. You know your Old testament?”
Page 53

“Only as stories.  I’ve never studied it much. It doesn’t appeal to be honest. It’s too full of war and vengeance, one tribe of Israel battling against another.”
“So you understand? You see a pattern?”
I turn from the mountains and look at him, understanding nothing.

“Where does our myth start, Martin? The Garden of Eden, a place where four mighty rivers find their source, therefore obviously located on a mountain. Or after the Flood, where Noah leads man and beast down the slopes of Ararat.  Does Judaism hail from the moment  Moses receives the Ten commandments on Mount Sinai? Or maybe it’s when Abraham is spared the slaughter of his son Isaac on the summit of Mount Moriah, when the Lord of that mountain promises to secure the future Judaism through future descendants.”

“When the new Messiah arrives, of course he must make his appearance on Mount Zion and honor the prophecies that herald him. Jesus is born on the heights of Bethlehem. The devil leads him to a mountaintop for the last of his trials in the desert, and on such home ground Jesus has the power to resist. His disciples learn his worth after climbing with him to witness his transfiguration on the summit of Mount Tabor, his face flushed with light as Moses appears to him there and God speak out of the clouds. He is crucified on a hilltop, on Calvary, and after his resurrection appears to his disciples on a mountainside in Galilee."

/…./

Jews, Christians, Muslims, they struggle through the centuries, slay each other in thousands, for the right to claim to the heights of Jerusalem. In the name of God, Jews and Arabs, Christians and Moslems, Catholics and protestants, regularly slaughter one another. Our planet stinks of religious massacres. Have you ever thought why?”
“It has to do with mountains?” I ask.

Page 54 and 55

[Jahn]

Then he died. On April 27th 1998. It was some two months before the death was reported, and about two months after then that we meet.
August 21st to be precise.

I’m jumping ahead of myself, but then I’m excited. It’s not that he came back from the dead. That’s wild enough, but he’ll explain it. It’s that he chose to come back to me.
The first drops of rain fall. They bounce off his head, and give an extra sheen to the silver hair with its curls drawn back across his scalp. I stop on my walk and begin to get wet too, not because he looks at me because he doesn’t. He has never seen me before, yet he yells my name out loud against the thunderclaps as he looks up at the naked body of the crucified Christ.
“Martin!”
It’s a cry for help. I do nothing but stop where I am.
“Come here and look at this!”
I step up to his side, and we both raise our heads to the face of Jesus.
“Tell me what’s wrong about this, and what’s right.”

“Is this a riddle?” I ask.
“The only riddle is why I am asking you, and not telling you. “
“It’s wrong that Jesus was killed?” I suggest.
“You have a simple mind. Maybe that’s a virtue in you. Can you absorb all that I am going to tell you? We’ll see. First I will tell you what is wrong about this statue. It is pathetic that this crucifix is here.

People paid good money to have this piece of wood carved, painted and erected. What purpose does it serve? Every time they come and go along this road, they are faced with death. Christ is not about dying. He is about eternal life. Not death, but resurrection. If people want a symbol by the side of the road, then let them build an empty tomb. At least such a structure could shelter passers-by from the rain. Come on, Martin. We will go to your home and get dry.”

He shakes his head to sling water from his hair into my face, and starts off down the road into the village. I am impressed by his language. His voice is gentle, with a slight trace of a Spanish accent to give it distinction, but the flow of his words is beautiful.

pp 1-2

[Jahn]

Jews, Christians, Muslims, they struggle through the centuries, slay each other in thousands, for the right to claim to the heights of Jerusalem. In the name of God, Jews and Arabs, Christians and Moslems, Catholics and protestants, regularly slaughter one another. Our planet stinks of religious massacres. Have you ever thought why?”
“It has to do with mountains?” I ask.

Page 54 and 55

"One thing to know, before you give your heart to mountains. They are powerfully jealous of each other. Pledge loyalty to one and it expects you to be faithful. Followers of religions believe they are following the one God. They are wrong."
/.../

"Devotees of religions worship the Lord of a mountain. They are mountain's cohorts, and will battle the world to proclaim dominion over the earth. Call it Islam, Judaism, Christianity, any factions, even the Mormons of America with their own message brought down from their own mountain, they are all moutain religions. Don't think mountains have let people go. Never think that."
 pp 55

[Jahn]

"He hold out his hand. I take it in mine and we shake "Carlos", he says. "Carlos Castaneda".

There was a power in the handshake, like without that left my mind blank. I don’t know how it worked. I can only say I felt more drained than charged as a result.
-   “The Carlos Castaneda?” I ask at last
He grins, lift his hands in the air and spins around on his right foot before clicking his heels at a standstill again to present himself.

“But you can’t be”
“Why not? I’m a writer. You’re a writer. We both find ourselves in this ancient French village. It’s natural that we should meet.”
“But you’re dead.”The smile goes from his face and he flashes into anger.
“Who told you so?”
“It was reported. I read your obituary. Your body was burned and the ashes spread over the Arizona desert.”

“Details,” he says. “Mere details.” He steps further into the room and slumps into one of the armchairs.

/.../

I sit on the sofa to face him, with the window behind me, and wait for an explanation.

-   “So dear boy.” As he speaks he shifts his body to sit upright. “You think that death is the end?”
-   “No.”
-   “Of course not. But look at you. See how much work you still have to do. It seems that my death freaks you out. Makes you too stupid to speak. How are you going to cope with your own death when it comes?”
-   “Did you really die?”
-   “That’s good. It is good that you ask the question. It means you can accept the possibility that I’ll say yea. Well, poor Martin, that is my answer. Yes. Yes, Carlos Castaneda did die.”
-   “So you’re not  him?”
-   If I’m not, then who am I?”
-   “You tell me.”
-   “OK. Let’s stop playing games. You’re locked inside a temporal frame, closed into your own worldview, so I will answer in your own language. I’ll use a tense that you can understand. I was Carlos Castaneda.”

 I was Carlos Castaneda - The Afterlife dialogues. Martin Goodman, Three Rivers Press, 2001. page 5.

[erik]

So the claim is that Carlos evaded the beak of Eagle. Apparently, he had the power to keep it together.
Or he wrote a pile of rubbish about the Eagle's role in post-death processes and Toltec stuff.
Do you have the power?
Fancy tale is nice to think about, read and get emotional.
What's the situation with real power?

[Ke-ke wan]

I would like to read this book!  Seems fascinating. 
Do you know what else is interesting and is never, ever mention in Toltec slash CC slash Sorcery circles?

CC  and JC both born on Dec 25th.

Capricorns. 

[Jahn]

So the claim is that Carlos evaded the beak of Eagle. Apparently, he had the power to keep it together.

One thing that aligned Goodman and Castaneda was the use of a certain drug from the Amazonas, the Ayahuasca.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ayahuasca

Or he wrote a pile of rubbish about the Eagle's role in post-death processes and Toltec stuff.

Well, Carlos Castaneda was outstanding in his field, top of the line of sorcery and warriorship.
And as he stated several times "I invented nothing".
Think about that! And see how much the boundary moves beyond imagination.
And for me lost soul from 1955, I know that Carlos didn't invent anything on his own, (except one tiny detail about a tale that has no value).

Do you have the power?

What Power?
I might have the Power to transform when I die, that is all.
I would not come and write a book with someone who lives his life, when I am dead.

Fancy tale is nice to think about, read and get emotional.

Ask Goodman if his meeting with Castaneda should be sorted in as a tale. I am quite sure that they met, in the way that Martin describe it, Martin was never a fan of CC, despite this Martins book is soaked with CC Teachings.

[Ke-ke wan]

I am on the edge of my seat, this book has really drawn me in. 

[Jahn]

I would like to read this book!  Seems fascinating. 
Do you know what else is interesting and is never, ever mention in Toltec slash CC slash Sorcery circles?

CC  and JC both born on Dec 25th.

Capricorns.

Born on Christmas day was my father too, 1922, while Carlos Arana Castaneda was born in Lima, Peru 1925.

[Jahn]

"Not all stories are meant to be told. After writing the first episodes, I set this bok aside. It seemed enough to have survived the personal experience, and there was still a lot to learn from the lessons I had received. I doubted my strength to bring this particular book into being and thus engage with the energy of the World. So I thank my mother, Kay O'Neill for Reading that early portion and urging me to continue. you might notice from the nature of this book what an unusual mother I have.

She was my first lesson in breaking bounds."

Martin Goodman, I was Carlos Castaneda, the author Acknowledgement, pp ix.

[erik]

Well, Carlos Castaneda was outstanding in his field, top of the line of sorcery and warriorship.
And as he stated several times "I invented nothing".
Think about that! And see how much the boundary moves beyond imagination.
And for me lost soul from 1955, I know that Carlos didn't invent anything on his own, (except one tiny detail about a tale that has no value).

Hence, the Eagle and shredding human consciousnesses.

Nice, mental idea.That we may die, I mean.
Because that is exactly what we not do.
Death is only a transformation from one state to another, everyone in this business knows this.

It seems that Toltrecs were pretty sure that people disintegrate upon death, unless...
Thus, death is, with incredibly rare exceptions, very-very finite event. Mere transformation from consciousness to dissipated energy.

[Jahn]

“The Romans kept to their time schedule when they crucified Christ. He went along with it, but still had his own agenda to complete. He came back and picked up his body, and carried on. As with the Romans, so with cancer for me. I let it have its say. Now I’m back. It’s a delight to be free of it.”

How did you manage it?

“This is the magic of logic. Even when something is palpable insane, like conversing with a dead writer who’s strolled into you home, logic has a structure that can keep a conversation going."

 Christ’s body  was smothered in oils, wrapped in cloth, and laid in a tomb. You were cremated there was nothing left but dust.

“You are asking me to justify my existence?” Carlos ask [this is a typical CC sentence].

Tell me how a man can compose himself out of dust?

“You know this already. You know a human body is formed from the matters of combusted stars.”

That’s physics. We’re talking metaphysics.

“I’ll tell you why I’m back. The cause before the effect. Does that makes sense?”

And then you tell me the effect? You’ll tell me how you did it?

“If you can’t work it out yourself.”

OK, I agree.

“You have any drink in this house?”

Wine. Beer. Whisky.

“Whisky!”

The thought cheers him.

“Straight up. No ice. As it comes.”

I pour one for him, then one for myself – which I water down. He holds the tumbler near his nose, sniffs, and smiles. The vaporous smell of it seems enough for now. He doesn’t drink.

“So,” he says. “My story. Because it bores me, because it is everything I want to escape, I will be brief. Pay attention. This bears no repetition.” [Also a typical CC statement, this is it].

The Afterlife Dialogues pp 7-8.

[Jahn]

"I returned in energy to the country of my birth as I lay dying in Los Angeles. There I hear my name called. It is a part of a conversation. And who is taking part in this conversatin? Yourself. Remember it."

I hear a command, not a question. As I concentrate, the conversation slips back into my mind. In Cuzco I ask him.
He nods.  - But that was nothing. A passing reference.

"What you call a passing reference was a slander that breathed foulness on my life, but no matter. I was simply intrigued. You spoke my name. I took my chance. My name breathed out of your body, and with your next breath you took my essence in. I reached you in the highlands of Peru. You took me into the Amazonian jungle. That is my secret. That is why I have come. We will take that journey together."