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Occult doctrine of Carlos Castaneda: the urban Stalking

The problem is that Momoy has since been taken out of her ritualistic context for mundane recreational use, whose unwary users should look into why Datura is called Jimson weed, or Jamestown weed in the US. They are reported to have spent eleven days going literally insane. The Tongva tribe call it Manit. Mexicans call stramonium and inoxia, Tolguacha, or Toloache, whose power will enable a practitioner to enter into the surrealist realities of their deep subconscious , which can be a cathartic experience.

It has a long tradition of being used for conducting prophecies and oracles similar to Brugmansia sanguinea. The Aztecs also used Thorn Apple, which they called Mixitl. The Nazi regime as well as the CIA used scopolamine as part of their interrogations, with the hope of using it like a truth serum. But it was untrustworthy due to the ensuing hallucinations it induced. However, should the dream be a nightmare, the practitioner will not be free of its horrors, until the affects of Datura have subsided.

Datura is believed to be the sacred plant of the Hindu God Shiva Nataraja; for via its use Shiva the [shaman] Lord of Yoga was therefore able to contact Kali, who is the Momoy queen of ghosts, the mother of the dead. The seeds were also used as a narcotic ingredient in ritual beer. On the night of the 30th of November Gypsies would place the seeds of Thorn Apple outdoors; the next day they would then throw them into a fire.

If the seeds cracked loudly, then the winter would be hard and dry. The seeds were also used for shamanistic divination rites; such as those conducted by Lapp shamans, which involved the placement of nine to twenty-one seeds upon a marked animal skin of a drum. The number of the seeds is curious, which is similar to the dosage of the Mixe ritual for a man and a woman.

But then Datura was originally brought to Mexico by the European colonists, some of whom no doubt remembered their pre-Christian Momoy heritage, since there is a similarity of ritualistic usage between cultures. Overall, it does appear that Momoy has travelled far and wide as a ghost, housed within a plant, which be as her hallucinogenic body, her dangerous flesh.

She is a Great Countess and a Mighty Princess and appears in the visionary form of a most beautiful and noble Woman. But only when she to ride and be ridden by him upon the Casting Couch within those most Erotic lucid dreams she will induce after evoking her Succubus archetype of the Fallen Anima. She also knows of all things Past, Present and to come of Futures beckoning back.

When a heterosexual male practitioner conjures Iposi, he can assume the alternate persona of a famous Actor within a lucid dream, which Iposi will empower. Truth be told, these missions had been the catalyst. Every couple needs a hobby, a binding interest; in an odd, wonderful way, the Sorcerer had become theirs. Greg had dubbed them the Followers. The pun, of course, was intended. Gabi supplied the vision, the ideas, the tenacity. She read the omens, established the energetic connection, tracked the phantom, stood vigil against inorganic predators seeking to appropriate their energy.

So what if the Sorcerer made fun of his sandals? He raised one finger in the air, Gene Wilder as Dr. She pinched her thin lips with her thumb and first two fingers. Usually, her voice carried the hard residual edge of her German accent. Tonight it sounded soft and anxious. Something was bothering her. One of the things that irked her most about their estrangement from the Sorcerer was the fact that it had come at a time when she was beginning to make real progress. It had happened towards the end of an evening in the rented dance studio in Santa Monica where the group practiced their Magical Passes—martial art-like movements designed to gather energy.

Since then, it seemed, the magic and the revelations had grown stronger and stronger. Over the months of their surveillance, like Greg, she had continued to practice the passes—they had, in fact, just come from their regular practice group, one of the hundreds of independent cells that formed across the globe. The Sorcerer called it the Emissary. It answered her questions, guided her choices, told her unwaveringly that this quest of theirs was supported by universal intent. It also told her, on this particular Tuesday night in the summer of , to be careful.

Something was different. Something was wrong.

Table of contents

She could feel it. The yellowish stucco compound occupied a large corner lot in the tidy neighborhood of Westwood Village, not far from the campus of UCLA. A rambling, L-shaped building with shallow peaks and a shingle roof, it had bars on the windows and a large, internal courtyard, all of it obscured from view by a foot privet hedge that ran along the street sides of the property.


From their parking place on the southwest corner of Pandora and Eastborne Avenues, the Followers could watch both gated entrances of the compound, each of which carried a separate address. The right side, on Eastborne, seemed to be used only by male visitors. The left side symbolized the mysterious, the unknown—the Nagual.

The Sorcerer was also known as the Nagual, the last of a line of shamans that stretched back thousands of years to the Toltecs, the pre-Hispanic Indians who inhabited the central and northern regions of Mexico prior to the Mayans. The left entrance, on Pandora, was used by the Sorcerer and his women: the three Witches, the Chacmols, the Blue Scout, the Electric Warrior, the other female members of the inner circle. To the rest of the world, the Sorcerer was known as Carlos Castaneda. Castaneda himself became a cult figure—seldom seen, nearly mythological, a cross between Timothy Leary and L.

Ron Hubbard: a short, dapper, nut-brown Buddha-with-an-attitude who likened his own appearance to a Mexican bellhop.

The Followers, over the course of their investigations, had begun to figure it out. They were particularly proud of their videos. The magazine ended up running an abstract drawing on the cover.

For more than eighteen months now, at least three times a week, Greg and Gabi had made these clandestine pilgrimages. They followed the Sorcerer and his party to restaurants and movies, to inner-circle practice groups.

See a Problem?

On the one hand, what they were doing felt kind of tacky and intrusive, like they were peeping toms or paparazzi, or maybe more like they were children watching their parents have sex. On the other, it felt like a legitimate—albeit amateur—anthropological exercise. The Sorcerer himself had earned a Ph. His own journey had begun as a undergraduate inquiry into ethnobotany, a study of the natural hallucinogenic plants of the southwest.

In a way, the Followers considered their actions a sort of academic homage.

Amy Wallace – Acid Heroes

And besides, they knew in their hearts that their motives were pure, that their energetic connection was strong and true. They meant no harm to the Sorcerer. Indeed, they liked him. They respected him. They just wanted to be close. The Sorcerer always talked about seeking non-ordinary reality. It was hard to explain, but this was theirs. At last, Greg and Gabi exited the Hyundai.

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They clicked the doors quietly closed, crossed the street, stepping carefully, wearing dark clothes. As was their custom, they started at the Eastborne side of the property, began working their way nonchalantly along the perimeter, arm in arm, like a couple on their evening constitutional.

Raccoons were certainly not uncommon in the area, but the Followers had been to the neighborhood at all times of day and night and had never noticed any before. They watched raptly as the furry critters perambulated unhurriedly west-bound along the sidewalk, a darling little Disney grouping. The last one in line was a bit plump. It struggled to keep up. The Followers followed the raccoons around the corner, north on Pandora.

Twice, the mother broke rank, circled around, coaxed the fat baby with her nose to hurry up, then went back to her place in line.

The Ethnopoetics of Shamanism

The father, the mother, the first baby disappeared. The last one, the fat one, stopped and turned around. Greg took a step forward. The fat baby vanished through the hedge. A large black moth flew out of the hedge. It hovered in the air for a second or two, right in front of his face, so close that he could feel the disturbance of the air, the flutter of tiny wings tickling the tip of his ample Armenian nose. A palpable sense of alarm overcame him, a strong suggestion to Keep Out.

He stood up quickly, his eyes like saucers. For several long moments the Followers stood riveted to their places on the sidewalk.