Alejandro Jodorowsky - The Spiritual Journey of Alejandro Jodorowsky - The Creator of El Topo

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Jodorowsky’s memoirs of his experiences with Master Takata and the group of wisewomen-magiciennes-who influenced his spiritual growth
• Reveals Jodorowsky turning the same unsparing spiritual vision seen in El Topo to his own spiritual quest
• Shows how the author’s spiritual insight and progress was catalyzed repeatedly by wisewoman shamans and healers
In 1970, John Lennon introduced to the world Alejandro Jodorowsky and the movie, El Topo, that he wrote, starred in, and directed. The movie and its author instantly became a counterculture icon. The New York Times said the film “demands to be seen,” and Newsweek called it “An Extraordinary Movie!” But that was only the beginning of the story and the controversy of El Topo, and the journey of its brilliant creator. His spiritual quest began with the Japanese master Ejo Takata, the man who introduced him to the practice of meditation, Zen Buddhism, and the wisdom of the koans. Yet in this autobiographical account of his spiritual journey, Jodorowsky reveals that it was a small group of wisewomen, far removed from the world of Buddhism, who initiated him and taught him how to put the wisdom he had learned from his master into practice.
At the direction of Takata, Jodorowsky became a student of the surrealist painter Leonora Carrington, thus beginning a journey in which vital spiritual lessons were transmitted to him by various women who were masters of their particular crafts. These women included Doña Magdalena, who taught him “initiatic” or spiritual massage; the powerful Mexican actress known as La Tigresa (the “tigress”); and Reyna D’Assia, daughter of the famed spiritual teacher G. I. Gurdjieff. Other important wisewomen on Jodorowsky’s spiritual path include María Sabina, the priestess of the sacred mushrooms; the healer Pachita; and the Chilean singer Violeta Parra. The teachings of these women enabled him to discard the emotional armor that was hindering his advancement on the path of spiritual awareness and enlightenment.

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A long, silver limousine with a chauffeur dressed like a Mexican cavalier pulled up in front of us. I got her inside and sat beside her. We began fondling and kissing each other with brutal, drunken lust. A small overhead lamp cast a dim light in the interior of the car.

“Turn it off, faggot!” she ordered the chauffeur.

“I can’t, boss; my orders are to have it lit at all times.”

“No one spies on me!” She smashed the lamp with her fist and wiped the blood from her knuckles on the seat of the car.

“And lower that fucking mirror — if you try to spy on us, I’ll tear out your eyes!” Obediently, the chauffeur lowered the rearview mirror, relying only on the side-view mirrors as he drove. Then, with no witnesses in sight, we attempted to make love in the shadows, but we both passed out.

When I awoke, I had lost all sense of time. The Tigress snored, her head on my lap. The car was gliding through quiet streets in a wealthy neighborhood. Only high walls could be seen, hiding the houses behind them. We pulled up before a vast edifice, an imitation medieval castle built out of cement. The front gate lowered like a drawbridge. The Tigress awoke abruptly and gave me a strange look. I thought she was going to bite me, but then she smiled and looked carefully out the window. “Get out with your head lowered, and go inside fast. Don’t let them get a photograph of your face. The caliph has spies in the house across the street.”

I did so and entered the anteroom of the castle. I was standing in front of the statue of an enormous devil with raised wings and a huge phallus. Offerings of flowers, marzipan fruits, and incense sticks were scattered at its feet. As in the Frou-Frou, everything was colored red and gold.

The Tigress waited for an old lady dressed in a Huichol Indian costume to turn the handle that raised the gate. She took me by the hand, saying, “The chauffeur will sleep in the limousine. When you leave, wake him up and tell him to take you to a taxi stand. Never let him take you to your house. I think he is also a spy. If they find out where you live, they could send guerillas there to castrate you. Now come with me!”

She led me through her castle. In the kitchen there was barely room for an enormous Chinese banquet table with twelve chairs decorated with monks and dragons. In the saloon I saw a magnificent 1950s phonograph and awnings decorated with photos of various Mexican presidents, especially Diaz Ordaz, with his big mouth and his tiny, fanatical iguana eyes.

We crossed a small cactus garden, arriving at her bedroom door. I drew back in surprise, seeing that a real, live tiger seemed to be lying there! She gave a cruel chuckle. “Whoever wants paradise must deserve it. Stroke his back. If he growls, it means he accepts you and you can go in. But if he doesn’t like you — well, I won’t say what will happen.”

Though I could now see that the cat was not so big, the hair on my neck was bristling and my body was trembling. Nevertheless, my pride made me not only stroke the beast but also massage its neck. Soon, not only did it growl, it turned over on its back with lazy sensuality and offered me its stomach to scratch. The Tigress now made fun of me: “Actually, it’s a harmless ocelot. I’ve had its teeth and claws removed.” And she pushed me into the room.

The bed was round with blood-red silk sheets and covers. At the head there was an enormous seashell ten feet high and about seven feet wide with a predictable gold color. On one side of the bed was a holster with a large revolver and extra ammunition.

“Now the tourist visit is over. Get undressed.”

Lighting a violet candle, she turned out the lights. I found myself stretched out next to the naked Tigress in the middle of the red circle. I tried to excite her by caressing her smooth, cold body with my humid hands. It felt as though it was not flesh I was touching. Her breasts, her legs, and her buttocks were as hard as marble. Also, she was totally passive, which caused my erotic passion to wither. In a few seconds, my phallus became a mere penis.

Seeing this, she demanded, without an ounce of sympathy: “You must do everything. I have no reason to do anything at all.”

“But. .” I stammered, “it’s impossible like this. After all that mezcal, fatigue, and danger, you won’t even participate. It’s too difficult. .”

“Shut up. I don’t want to hear your excuses. If you don’t get it up, I’ll tell the journalists and all Mexico will know that you’re impotent.”

It was a serious threat. She had important connections to the media. If I did not succeed, I would be humiliated by banner headlines in the newspapers.

I concentrated as never before. Rummaging in all my pornographic memories, I opened the doors to everything bestial in myself. After a short but agonizing moment, I had an erection. Fearing that it might be short-lived, I climbed immediately onto the statue and, with the aid of saliva, began to penetrate her indifferent vagina — but she stopped me. “Calm down, artist. You’ve proved that you can do it. Even more important, you’ve proved it to yourself. That’s enough. I don’t need your sperm. What I want is your talent. With this act, we’ve signed a contract. We’re going to work together. I have a big project, but now I want you to let me sleep. Leave quickly. The caliph could arrive at any moment, and what belongs to him. . never mind. Come to the theater tomorrow.”

She inserted earplugs, closed her eyes, turned over on her stomach, and fell into such a deep sleep that it seemed like an implosion.

The object of lust for thousands of Mexicans, not only because of her voluptuous curves (artificial or not) but also because of her legend as the presidential whore, the Tigress had attained a status of mythic femininity rivaled only by the Virgin of Guadalupe. In spite or because of this, she now occupied the summit of my mental pyramid. She was an authentic warrior, knowing how to survive and prevail in a world dominated by corrupt politicians. If she had to give her body, she managed to do it without dishonor, distancing herself from it and transforming herself into an invulnerable and implacable creature. The people had reason to elevate her to a popularity comparable to that of the dark Virgin — for this woman was able to maintain an impenetrable purity in her mind. To seduce her, to succeed in inflaming her real desire, to become the soul of her inward castle seemed like an impossibility to me. I knew that she regarded our relationship as a game of chess in which I was a simple pawn to be moved by her — and this fascinated me. I was curious to see how she would use me, and I wondered how I would be able to transform this humiliating situation into a victory. A true koan!

As I waited on the stage for her to finish her autographs, Chucho bustled up to me, whispering with a confidential air, “Hey, you — I don’t know why I should take a liking to you, but that’s how it is. I’m offering you a warning. That woman is a real witch. Her chauffeur, who knows quite a few things, told me (for a bribe) that he drove her to a sordid neighborhood where sorcerers live, and that they sold her a plant that had been germinated in the sperm of a hanged man. Who did they hang to get the sperm? We’ll never know. Did they also splatter the poor Christian with dog’s blood? We’ll never know. The Tigress paid a big wad of bills for that plant. Then she peeled the plant, sprinkled it with lemon juice, and ate it. Ugh —how dreadful! But that’s not all. A week ago, they brought her a live badger. She called me into her dressing room and made me hold the poor animal down while she slit its throat. That’s exactly what she did. Then she took a black knife and dug through the dead animal’s organs, looking for something. I was so horrified I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, she was holding a small bone, and she put it into a powerful blender with I don’t know what horrible liquid inside it, ground it all together, and drank the mixture. It’s obvious that woman is capable of doing anything to obtain power. You be careful or you’ll wind up like that little badger’s bone.”

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