chair until I was facing the wall.
"What
a waste," he said in a loud sigh, after I described what I had seen .
"You have exhausted nearly all your energy. Restrain yourself. A warrior
needs focus. Who gives a damn about wings on a luminous cocoon?"
He said
that heightened awareness was like a springboard. From it one could jump into
infinity. He stressed, over and over, that when the assemblage point was
dislodged, it either became lodged again at a position very near its customary
one or continued moving on into infinity.
"People
have no idea of the strange power we carry within ourselves," he went on.
"At this moment, for instance, you have the means to reach infinity. If
you continue with your needless behavior, you may succeed in pushing your
assemblage point beyond a certain threshold, from which there is no
return."
I
understood the peril he was talking about, or rather I had the bodily sensation
that I was standing on the brink of an abyss, and that if I leaned forward I
would fall into it.
"Your
assemblage point moved to heightened awareness," he continued,
"because I have lent you my energy."
We ate in
silence, very simple food. Don Juan did not allow me to drink coffee or tea.
"While you are using my energy," he said, "you're not in your
own time. You are in mine. I drink water."
As we were
walking back to my car I felt a bit nauseous. I staggered and almost lost my
balance. It was a sensation similar to that of walking while wearing glasses
for the first time.
"Get
hold of yourself," don Juan said, smiling. "Where we're going, you'll
need to be extremely precise."
He told me
to drive across the international border into the twin city of Nogales, Mexico. While I was driving, he gave me directions: which street to take, when to make
right or left hand turns, how fast to go.
"I
know this area," I said quite peeved. "Tell me where you want to go
and I'll take you there. Like a taxi driver."
"O.K.,"
he said. "Take me to 1573 Heavenward Avenue."
I did not
know Heavenward Avenue, or if such a street really existed. In fact, I had the suspicion
he had just concocted a name to embarrass me. I kept silent. There was a
mocking glint in his shiny eyes.
"Egomania
is a real tyrant," he said. "We must work ceaselessly to dethrone
it."
He
continued to tell me how to drive. Finally he asked me to stop in front of a
one-story, light-beige house on a corner lot, in a well-to-do neighborhood.
There was
something about the house that immediately caught my eye: a thick layer of
ocher gravel all around it. The solid street door, the window sashes, and the
house trim were all painted ocher, like the gravel. All the visible windows had
closed Venetian blinds. To all appearances it was a typical suburban
middle-class dwelling.
We got out
of the car. Don Juan led the way. He did not knock or open the door with a key,
but when we got to it, the door opened silently on oiled hinges - all by
itself, as far as I could detect.
Don Juan
quickly entered. He did not invite me in. I just followed him. I was curious to
see who had opened the door from the inside, but there was no one there.
The
interior of the house was very soothing. There were no pictures on the smooth,
scrupulously clean walls. There were no lamps or book shelves either. A golden
yellow tile floor contrasted most pleasingly with the off-white color of the
walls. We were in a small and narrow hall that opened into a spacious living
room with a high ceiling and a brick fireplace. Half the room was completely
empty, but next to the fireplace was a semicircle of expensive furniture: two
large beige couches in the middle, flanked by two armchairs covered in fabric
of the same color. There was a heavy, round, solid oak coffee table in the
center. Judging from what I was seeing around the house, the people who lived
there appeared to be well off, but frugal. And they obviously liked to sit
around the fire.
Two men,
perhaps in their mid-fifties, sat in the armchairs. They
"What
a waste," he said in a loud sigh, after I described what I had seen .
"You have exhausted nearly all your energy. Restrain yourself. A warrior
needs focus. Who gives a damn about wings on a luminous cocoon?"
He said
that heightened awareness was like a springboard. From it one could jump into
infinity. He stressed, over and over, that when the assemblage point was
dislodged, it either became lodged again at a position very near its customary
one or continued moving on into infinity.
"People
have no idea of the strange power we carry within ourselves," he went on.
"At this moment, for instance, you have the means to reach infinity. If
you continue with your needless behavior, you may succeed in pushing your
assemblage point beyond a certain threshold, from which there is no
return."
I
understood the peril he was talking about, or rather I had the bodily sensation
that I was standing on the brink of an abyss, and that if I leaned forward I
would fall into it.
"Your
assemblage point moved to heightened awareness," he continued,
"because I have lent you my energy."
We ate in
silence, very simple food. Don Juan did not allow me to drink coffee or tea.
"While you are using my energy," he said, "you're not in your
own time. You are in mine. I drink water."
As we were
walking back to my car I felt a bit nauseous. I staggered and almost lost my
balance. It was a sensation similar to that of walking while wearing glasses
for the first time.
"Get
hold of yourself," don Juan said, smiling. "Where we're going, you'll
need to be extremely precise."
He told me
to drive across the international border into the twin city of Nogales, Mexico. While I was driving, he gave me directions: which street to take, when to make
right or left hand turns, how fast to go.
"I
know this area," I said quite peeved. "Tell me where you want to go
and I'll take you there. Like a taxi driver."
"O.K.,"
he said. "Take me to 1573 Heavenward Avenue."
I did not
know Heavenward Avenue, or if such a street really existed. In fact, I had the suspicion
he had just concocted a name to embarrass me. I kept silent. There was a
mocking glint in his shiny eyes.
"Egomania
is a real tyrant," he said. "We must work ceaselessly to dethrone
it."
He
continued to tell me how to drive. Finally he asked me to stop in front of a
one-story, light-beige house on a corner lot, in a well-to-do neighborhood.
There was
something about the house that immediately caught my eye: a thick layer of
ocher gravel all around it. The solid street door, the window sashes, and the
house trim were all painted ocher, like the gravel. All the visible windows had
closed Venetian blinds. To all appearances it was a typical suburban
middle-class dwelling.
We got out
of the car. Don Juan led the way. He did not knock or open the door with a key,
but when we got to it, the door opened silently on oiled hinges - all by
itself, as far as I could detect.
Don Juan
quickly entered. He did not invite me in. I just followed him. I was curious to
see who had opened the door from the inside, but there was no one there.
The
interior of the house was very soothing. There were no pictures on the smooth,
scrupulously clean walls. There were no lamps or book shelves either. A golden
yellow tile floor contrasted most pleasingly with the off-white color of the
walls. We were in a small and narrow hall that opened into a spacious living
room with a high ceiling and a brick fireplace. Half the room was completely
empty, but next to the fireplace was a semicircle of expensive furniture: two
large beige couches in the middle, flanked by two armchairs covered in fabric
of the same color. There was a heavy, round, solid oak coffee table in the
center. Judging from what I was seeing around the house, the people who lived
there appeared to be well off, but frugal. And they obviously liked to sit
around the fire.
Two men,
perhaps in their mid-fifties, sat in the armchairs. They
Similar Books
