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

Considerably irritated by Ana Perla’s assumption of the role of sensei, or teacher (on the pretext that she was the only one able to sit in the full lotus position) and her presumptuousness in directing the meditations, I retaliated by coughing and clearing my throat constantly. No one seemed to notice me. Everyone had surrounded themselves with small and medium-size Buddha statues, vases with flowers, and reproductions of Mayan objects. Ana Perla, a 100 percent lesbian, wore Tibetan bracelets that could not hide the large scars from the numerous suicide attempts that resulted from her unhappy love affairs. Now, having shaved her head, she seemed to believe she had become saintlike, immune to such passions. To guide us all in the sublimation of hormones, she had us engage in chanting endless repetitions of the famous mantra from the Heart Sutra (Gate, gate, paragate, parasamgate, bodhi svaha *17), like frogs croaking at the moon on the edge of an ancient lake. And she offered a translation that was as original as it was deceitful: “I thrust, I thrust, deeper inside, deeper into the depths, orgasm, blessing.”

Convinced that Ejo had disappeared for good into his native land and disgusted by the idolatry of his disciples, I decided to leave the community. I wanted to take the cat with me but realized that it would provoke a serious scandal. They had elevated the feline to the rank of a representative of the master. Ana Perla swore that she could see a golden aura around its head.

Once again, I found myself walking down Insurgentes Avenue fuming with rage. At an intersection, I noticed the boy that I had attacked several months earlier. This time, he was accompanied by several others who, like himself, were dressed in tight jeans and sleeveless shirts and who attempted to attract the attention of men in passing cars. I thought of changing sidewalks but did not. One of Ejo’s koans came to me: “Why do you not see what you do not see?” And I thought: “What I see, I see only from my point of view, depending on my good or bad mood. The world is an extension of my mind. If I totally ignore them, these kids will ignore me. I will walk past them, invisible.”

But either I had not been able to erase them from my mind or else my interpretation of the koan was wrong. As soon as I drew near them, they all leaped upon me, knocking me to the ground, and kicking me repeatedly. “You macho turd! We’ll teach you some respect!”

What could I do, with five against one? I protected my head as best I could and allowed my body to receive the punishment without protest, taking refuge in my spirit. The blows did not prevent me from remembering another koan: “A monk asked Master Ummon: *18‘What happens when the leaves wilt and fall from the tree?’ Ummon answered: ‘An autumn wind blows from my heart.’”

What is irremediable deserves to be loved. With this in mind, I accepted the beating that I could not avoid — partly because I deserved it and also because I felt my life was not in danger, though I would have some bad bruises to deal with later. These boys would not take the risk of committing a serious crime, but my calm evaporated when they started to drag me into an alley, pulling down my pants. In the stinking shadows of the place, I could see their penises were out. My hair stood on end. No koan could convince me to let myself be raped! I started kicking back and screaming, but they immobilized me, holding me flat on the ground, my face against the pavement and my legs spread. Accompanied by a chorus of mocking hoots and insults, a deft hand was rubbing saliva into my anus — but their laughter died suddenly at the sound of a female voice.

“Leave him alone! He belongs to me!”

Obeying this order instantly, the aggressors desisted and left, making the sign of the cross as if confronted by the Holy Virgin herself.

I had thought that all my Zen meditation had rid me of the pride of ego, but as I lay in that stinking, dark alley, my pants down to my knees, limp and crumpled as a dead mollusk and shaking with nervous tension and pain, I found myself suddenly sobbing like a humiliated child.

“Don’t be ashamed, my boy. Don’t give so much importance to being penetrated. These kids aren’t evil. I know them well. They always come to me when they get sick. They attacked you because you offended one of them. Anyway, they’re professionals — even if they had done it to you, they wouldn’t have hurt you. Perhaps they wanted to make you accept your yielding side, which men suppress beneath their hairy chests because of their contempt for women. Come now; get up and come with me. I live very close by, near the taco shop. Look, your knees are raw and bleeding. I’ll disinfect them for you.”

The woman before me was dressed with stark simplicity, and the dignity of her bearing and gestures made me trust her. As we walked toward the taco shop, she spoke to me.

“That day, when you attacked that poor boy, you were talking out loud to yourself without realizing it as you walked down the street. You walked right past me, but you didn’t even see me. I heard you insulting yourself [here she produced a perfect imitation of my voice and accent]: ‘I’m a spiritual whore, inviting the Buddha to possess me and offer me enlightenment as payment.’ You despise yourself and you despise those boys — but you don’t understand that they, just like you, are offering a service. They help their clients (most of them husbands and fathers) to discharge their homosexual impulses, and you serve the goddesses. By meditating, you develop consciousness, and that is what the goddesses created us to have. Their divine game is for the entire material universe to become conscious. At the end of time, this cosmos is to become pure spirit. In making your body more subtle, you help the supreme Mother Creators accomplish their task. You were right when you said [and again, her imitation was perfect]: ‘I’ve had enough! Meditating, immobile as a corpse, serves no purpose!’ When you transform your body into a statue, you are following the wrong path. It is one that the goddesses have already exhausted: the materialization of spirit. All that your eyes see, all that you hear, taste, and touch are petrified divinities. Within every stone, plant, and animal, a consciousness is trapped and must be liberated — not through destruction, but through mutation. You may not believe it, but what you call reality is essentially a song of love. Everything — even excrement — must have wings. You must realize that even these prostitutes are, in a sense, saints — as saintly as that beggar woman sleeping next to the garbage cans. The Other is the one you see in yourself.”

Next to the taco shop, between high, peeling walls, an alley appeared. At its end we arrived at a dilapidated spiral stairway. Filling my nostrils was a greasy cloud of smoke that came from the chimney of the taco kitchen, where tortillas were cooked over coals. I began to cough. The stench was unbearable. Without seeming to notice it, doña Magdalena climbed the stairs with the dignity of a queen. We arrived at a steel-plated door. It was so low that we both had to bow our heads in order to enter. I heard her murmur: “Humility is the key that opens all doors.”

In her small apartment, a sweet perfume filled the air, banishing the greasy odor. “It is copal,” she explained. “It is used in temples and also in tombs.”

The room was rectangular, with one small window and bare white walls. Instead of electric light, there were long, thick wax candles placed in each corner. In the center, under a small awning, was a massage table. Behind a curtain, there was a small toilet. Behind another, there was a small kitchen. A medium-size wooden case served as a closet.

Doña Magdalena invited me to sit on the massage table. No sooner was I sitting upon the cotton padding than she was rubbing the bruises on my face with a cream that smelled of benzoin. My pain was soothed quickly.