By Carlos Castaneda
"A guy of information is free...he has no honor, no dignity, no kin, no domestic, no state, yet in basic terms lifestyles to be lived."--don JuanIn 1961 a tender anthropologist subjected himself to a rare apprenticeship to carry again a desirable glimpse of a Yaqui Indian's international of "non-ordinary fact" and the tricky and unsafe highway a guy needs to shuttle to turn into "a guy of knowledge." but at the deliver of that international, demanding to all that we think, he drew back.Then in 1968, Carlos Castaneda lower back to Mexico, to don Juan and his hallucinogenic medications, and to an international of expertise no guy from our Western civilization had ever entered sooner than.
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Additional resources for A Separate Reality: Further Conversations with Don Juan
My benefactor taught me to do that, and for years before I had my own ally I watched for allies among crowds of people and every time I saw one it taught me something. You found three together. " He did not say anything else until we finished assembling the rabbit trap. Then he turned to me and said suddenly, as if he had just remembered it, that another important thing about the allies was that if one found two of them they were always two of the same kind. The two allies he saw were two men, he said; and since I had seen two men and one woman he concluded that my experience was even more unusual.
I had to talk to him while we worked, but he had made a joke and said that of the two of us only I could move my hands and my mouth at the same time. We finally sat down to rest and I blurted out a question. " "You have to learn to see in order to know that. " "No. " "Try me, don Juan. " "No. You must do it yourself. " "I see both ways. When I want to look at the world I see it the way you do. " "Things don't change. " "No. " He laughed and did not answer for some time, but seemed to be thinking.
He did not look back; he just stretched his arms and yawned. "No," he said. "Death never stops. " We arrived in northeastern Mexico June 13. Two old Indian women, who looked alike and seemed to be sisters, and four girls were gathered at the door of a small adobe house. There was a hut behind the house and a dilapidated barn that had only part of its roof and one wall left. The women were apparently waiting for us; they must have spotted my car by the dust it raised on the dirt road after I left the paved highway a couple of miles away.