True, for months during my delirious waking dream that resembled a bad acid trip I prayed for a healer. My desperation registered in some corner of the cosmos. It wasn't Carlos Castaneda who appeared, but instead a pseudo master who wore the same hat.
Otherworldly visions and occurrences started enveloping me in the basement room at Ginny’s. Early hallucinations left no doubt that Castaneda was a consummate sorcerer. Me, the only one in the know, out of all of his fans. I had the proof!
This "healer” was anything but. Carlos led me through DC traffic whispering he'd love to have coffee with me. I believed in transformations that mysteriously enabled practitioners to be in two places at once. Coffee, sure - that sounded like a real possibility.
Years. The tragedy of complete emotional and psychic isolation. You can have people right there with you and not know how to relate to a single one of them. You're either prone to outbursts or suspicious that you might be invisible. You are as absolutely alone as it is possible for a human to be.
In “Carlos Castaneda” I had the antidote. He offered rescue. But I was now fully schizophrenic. Voices. I’d known they indicated a serious mental disorder. But failed to understand I’d succumbed. Instead I wanted to celebrate! They were "brujos," sorcerers and witches. We might meet for coffee ...
Malevolence. That's the only word to describe what these dueling spirits, energy fragments from some kind of natural disaster, represent to me at this late date. (I used to hear a dozen voices at the same time. Now it's down to two.) There isn't a single pleasant experience that they don't immediately attempt to reverse. By threats and provocations.
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