Because a tensegrity workshop was about to be held in Phoenix, Arizona, Thomas Roop, a reporter from this state, traveled to Los Angeles, where Castaneda lives, to interview him. And his interview was published in the newspaper 'The Arizona Republic' on August 3, 1997 (my comments are in parentheses and in purple).
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A Luminous Encounter: The elusive Castaneda turns out to be a complex man. An "ordinary egg" makes contact with the literary sorcerer Carlos Castaneda.
(Don Juan says that humans, viewed energetically, are "luminous eggs," and since Thomas Roop is an ordinary man, that's why he defines himself as "an ordinary egg.")
I could have asked him anything.
"I am your prisoner," Castaneda said.
We talked about crows. I wanted to know specifically how one can tell when a raven isn't really a raven (but rather a nahual transformed into a raven).
"You must observe its energy," Castaneda said. "A raven that is a sorcerer has an amber glow."
He didn't tell me what color a normal raven has, but anyway, this doesn't matter until I can see the pure energy.
Castaneda does; he says he's been doing it for many years. He started seeing people as energy forms, or "luminous eggs," in the cafeteria at UCLA when he was working on his doctorate in anthropology some thirty years ago.
That's how my lunch with Castaneda began. It was a Thursday, at 2 p.m. We arranged to meet at a Cuban restaurant near West Hollywood. I didn't know until the last minute where I would meet Castaneda. His staff said that's how Castaneda does these things. He reads energy to determine the location of his appointments and many other matters. "Everything we do is an interpretation of energy," Castaneda said.
For a long time, I feared I would find Castaneda in Los Angeles without an address, a test of my unwavering determination and courage to speak with the enigmatic author, legendary cult figure, and author of nine bestsellers, including his classic "The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge."
And here we are, just two luminous eggs having lunch. In my best Spanish, I ordered "moros y cristianos" (what Cubans call white rice with black beans) and "tostones" (fried plantains).
He looked at his menu and in perfect English, ordered: "Number 12." Steak with potatoes.
I felt incredibly stupid.
The interview was about Castaneda's Tensegrity Workshop, which is being held in Phoenix next weekend. His people told me I should fly to Los Angeles because Castaneda doesn't give phone interviews. In fact, he rarely gives interviews.
Entire decades have passed without a glimpse of Castaneda. Since then, he would occasionally surface. A lecture here. Another there. Only to disappear again.
(Thomas Roop had not investigated properly because Castaneda did give quite a few interviews, and starting in 1993 he and his group began giving many workshops.)
Having read his nine books (several times) and sharing a common interest in cultural anthropology, metaphysics, and especially Yaqui mysticism, my assemblage point —a term Castaneda uses to define a center of perception— was eager to seize this rare opportunity.
However, I was told there were some strict rules, including no photos and no recording his voice. I was allowed to use a laptop, but I chose to simply listen and "remember" (though I did scribble a few notes blindly under the table on a reporter's notepad).
In retrospect, and in the tradition of shamanic synchronicity, I suppose that lunch wasn't really a mere accident. Just two weeks before the interview, I mentioned to someone how surprised I was that Castaneda hadn't yet crossed my path. And lo and behold, there was that raven (Castaneda recounted in one of his books how he transformed into a raven).
A few days before I learned about the interview, I was awakened at six in the morning by the thunderous caw of the largest raven I've ever seen. It was perched at the very top of a yucca tree trunk outside my backyard.
The raven cried so loudly that the echo reverberated off the nearby mountains, creating an effect similar to thunder. I approached the bird, but it wasn't afraid. It glanced at me once, then focused all its attention behind it, filling the air with its calls. I lost sight of the bird for just a moment to see how my cat would react. When I looked again, the crow had vanished.
Castaneda was interested in my story about the crow, but offered no explanation. Crows and ravens, as anyone who changes shape knows, are popular forms of travel in the Americas.
Relatively little is known about Castaneda. De-emphasizing the self and erasing personal history is how Castaneda's line of seers has managed to become warriors of true knowledge. That's why photos and recordings are forbidden.
"There is nothing for Carlos Castaneda," he said. "Personality is a pretense. Fame? Success? Who said that? If we weren't so caught up in ourselves, we wouldn't do so many terrible things to ourselves."
Nevertheless, some recordings exist, and Castaneda himself lets slip some personal details, both then and now.
Apparently, Castaneda was born about 70 years ago in Peru and was raised by a hedonistic grandfather. But he has spent most of his life in Los Angeles. He graduated from Hollywood High School and received his bachelor's degree in Anthropology from UCLA. For a short time, he taught cultural anthropology at the University of California, Irvine.
Castaneda doesn't stand out in a crowd. In fact, you'd probably never see him in a crowd. He is diminutive, not much taller than 5 feet, and must weigh less than 90 pounds. His thick hair is mostly gray and combed back. He likes to joke about how people usually describe him: resembling a gardener or chauffeur or a Mexican waiter.
The Los Angeles writer Bruce Wagner once asked him how he should describe his appearance. Castaneda suggested Lee Marvin as a model.
Sitting in front of me, dressed in amber, with a short-sleeved shirt and khaki pants, his hair slicked back with mousse, he reminds me of an iconoclastic retired professor, the "do not" professor, having lunch. Except this professor [Castaneda] has the sorcerer's eye, the left one, which grips your conscience with inconceivable force.
But all descriptions are disappointing and fragile. Castaneda doesn't have just one "look." He has several. His appearance changes with his mood, which shifts easily. Like his teachers Don Juan and Don Genaro, he laughs, curses, produces otherworldly voices, and makes strange sounds with his lips. Suddenly, he becomes fierce as well as convincing, and eloquently expresses his thoughts on the nature of things.
Castaneda is complex; I expected this. At times, he speaks in a different language. I expected this as well. It is impossible for most of us, luminous eggs, to understand all the ideas. Don Juan said that we understand nothing at all, and that true knowledge is not achieved through our intellect.
I did not expect Castaneda's immense sense of humor. "We must laugh to maintain our balance," he would say. He told me stories that cannot be repeated in this publication. I believe he based them on common events. He was particularly interested in the story of the Virginia fertility specialist, a certain Cecil Jacobson, who is now in prison for using his own semen to impregnate more than 70 of his patients.
We didn't discuss peyote or mescalito or the smoke, but he showed me on a napkin how to cut the tip of a barrel cactus and collect its juice. "You must drink only a little to rejuvenate yourself," Castaneda said, and he mouthed his lips in approval.
Arizona is particularly important in Castaneda's saga. He met Don Juan in Nogales, Arizona, and spent a great deal of time in that state during his apprenticeship and even afterward.
Castaneda's eyes brighten when he recalls his Arizona years. "Arizona is a magical place," Castaneda said, "the Sonoran Desert has a specific confluence."
He said he couldn't return to Arizona because it brings back too many strong and painful memories. "A warrior knows that everything he sees he will never see again," Castaneda said, "I would truly weep, but I mustn't because I need all my strength."
Castaneda didn't like his steak. He said it smelled like excrement. He dismissed him and shared another of his thoughts: "The Universe is not predictable, no matter what scientists tell you," Castaneda said.
This is a theme he insists on: that we are truly alone.
"We are all alone." "God doesn't love you, believe me."
The problem, Castaneda insists, is that we are so trapped in our own egos that we never see the bigger picture of existence. We are not individuals surrounded by other individuals, or houses, or shopping malls.
"We are individuals surrounded by infinity."
Castaneda doesn't say what he will do that day, but he is still writing.
Next year, Simon & Schuster will publish a 30th-anniversary edition of "The Teachings of Don Juan," with a new preface by Castaneda. And there will also be a new book next year published by HarperCollins, "Magical Passes: The Practical Wisdom of the Shamans of Ancient Mexico." Castaneda has also completed what he calls his "last book," with the working title "The Active Side of Infinity."
"I don't think I can write anything else," Castaneda says. "The universe is predatory. This produces profound waves of sadness that takes its toll on me. This ontological sadness, you see it coming, then you feel it upon you. Even the path with heart is not a walk in the park.”
Castaneda cannot remain with us much longer. He has already told his staff. “But he will not die a physical death,” said Kylie Lundahl, a Tensegrity instructor or “energy tracker.” “He will disappear the way Don Juan did.” He knows it won't be long before that happens.
The goal of Don Juan's line of Mexican seers was to complete what they called the "abstract flight," to "disappear with their entire being" into infinity, to vanish with their boots on, as they say. Don Juan's master and his group supposedly did this in 1973.
But Castaneda may have a problem in this regard. One gets the feeling from reading his later books and from personal conversations that something is amiss.
Before leaving this world, Don Juan Matus made it clear to Castaneda and his other apprentices that his line of ancient Mexican seers would end with Castaneda, the last "nagual." Something in the energetic configuration of the aforementioned seers was not conducive to continuing the lineage. So, in essence, Castaneda and his group were left with the task of "closing" the line.
Is it possible that Castaneda, like E.T., has become stranded in this world?
Is there something Don Juan neglected to tell him about conserving enough personal power for abstract flight?
During our lunch, which lasted almost three hours, I couldn't help but occasionally tear myself away from his left eye and wonder what he saw radiating from my energy body—no doubt disgusting and pink from many loads of diet cola and sugar-free gum.
I also wondered if he knew more about the raven.
We said goodbye in the restaurant's parking lot. He said he liked me and enjoyed our conversation.
I said, "We're strange monkeys."
He smiled but didn't reply. There was no need. For a moment, Castaneda's predatory universe ensnared me with one of its waves of sadness as I recalled what he had said about a warrior knowing that everything he sees, he will never see again.
I took a few steps toward my rental car, wondering if Castaneda would truly achieve this connection with his abstract flight. I sincerely hope that So be it.
When I looked back, Castaneda, like a raven, had vanished.
MY OPINION OF THIS INTERVIEW
Thomas Roop shared almost nothing from his interview with Castaneda, to the point that he could have saved himself the trip, and what they did say I don't consider relevant. This was probably the last interview Castaneda gave, since nine months later Castaneda died — and yes, he died as on ordinary man by a physical death.
THOMAS ROOP'S BLOG
1) The events that took place before he went to interview Castaneda, including his encounter with this raven (which I believe was an ordinary raven).
2) His meeting with Castaneda, in which he provides more details about the interview and reveals that Kylie Lundahl accompanied Castaneda.
3) And the interview he subsequently conducted with Margaret Runyan, who was Castaneda's first American wife.
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