Jodorowsky, Alejandro - Psychomagic - The Transformative Power of Shamanic Psychotherapy

What was your first impression?

In Mexico, it is easy to determine the social class to which a man belongs simply by looking at him physically. Castaneda has the appearance of a truck driver.

What!

Yes, he looks like any other man on the street. He is not fat, but very stocky, with curly hair and a nose slightly flattened: a Mexican of the popular class. But, as soon as he opens his mouth, he is transformed into a prince; behind each of his words one senses a huge culture.

It gives the impression of wisdom?

More than wisdom, of friendliness. Quickly we became friends. He dressed simply and was having a nice fillet, washed down with a Beaujolais . . . It seemed like it wasn’t Don Juan but rather Castaneda who was featured in the books. I found myself caught up again in his tone, his voice, that was how it seemed . . .

In your opinion do his books narrate real stories or fiction?

It is difficult to say. My impression is that they are based on a real experience except for the parts that elaborate and introduce concepts extracted from universal esoteric literature. In his books you find Zen, the Upanishads, the tarots, work with dreams . . . One thing is for sure: he went all over Mexico in order to do his investigations.

Do you believe in the existence of Don Juan?

No. I believe that this character is a genius invention of Castaneda, who, of course, has met a number of Yaqui witches.

How did the conversation in the hotel room develop?

In the first place, he called to tell me he would arrive five minutes early. Such gentlemanliness affected me. Then, when he arrived, I said, “I don’t know if you are a madman, a genius, a swindler, or if you tell the truth.” He assured me that he said only the truth, and immediately afterwards he told me an incredible story, of how Don Juan, with a simple slap on the back, projected him forty kilometers away—because he had been distracted by a woman who passed by. He also talked to me about the sex life of Don Juan, who was capable of ejaculating fifteen times in a row. On the other hand, it appeared to me that Castaneda himself liked women a lot. He asked me if we might make a movie together. Hollywood had offered him a lot of money, but he didn’t want Don Juan to be Anthony Quinn . . . Then he began to have diarrhea, with a lot of pain in his stomach, something that, he said, never happened to him, ever. I also had strong pains in the liver and in the right leg. It was strange that those pains came when we started to make plans for a joint project. The pain made us crawl about the room. I called a taxi and accompanied him to his hotel. Then I went to have Pachita operate on me. I had insisted that Castaneda go meet that exceptional woman, but he did not appear. I had to stay in bed for three days. Once recovered, I called the hotel, but he had left. I did not ever see him again: Life separated us. A warrior doesn’t leave footprints.

That is to say, he seemed to be at the same time a con and a very interesting person . . .

He told me his stories of Don Juan with such conviction . . . I am accustomed to the theater, to actors, and he did not seem to be a liar. Maybe he’s both crazy and a genius?

In your opinion, what has been Castaneda’s contribution?

His contribution has been immense. He created a fountain of different knowledge, a South American fountain. He revived the concept of the spiritual warrior. He put into motion the present notion of waking dreams. Without a doubt, he published too much, but the American publishers made him sign contracts for hundreds of books. And he always, in spite of everything, had something new to say. His books reveal a lot of forgotten things. In this regard truth or fantasy is of little importance. If it is a trap, it is a sacred trap.

As a Chilean with Russian roots, having lived a long time in Mexico, you are truly not the prototype of the western worshiper of the Goddess Reason.

It is true. I am relatively crazy, as you know.

Oh, yes . . . (sigh)

But my madness, my excesses, remain rooted in a culture that is nevertheless very modern. Like it or not, I am the product of a materialistic society, which claims to maintain an “objective” rapport with the world. My most extreme boldness is always placed within this context; we can’t get away from that. I exaggerate, maybe, to emphasize the contradictions and the dead ends, but that doesn’t make it false. To be a sorcerer or a shaman is to live in a shamanic world. For my own part, I do not believe enough in primitive magic for me myself to become a magician.

That is why, while I wanted to learn from Pachita, I never envisioned receiving her gift in order to take my turn to become a healer. I would even say that I always refused.

Without a doubt, you don’t believe enough in magic to become a magician; but you believe all the same . . .

The fact is that I can’t say what is truth and what is fantasy. But I quickly realized that to learn from Pachita, it was necessary to adopt a clear stance and to act as if I absolutely didn’t believe at all.

Why?

If I had come from the principle that all this could be true, that magic as such could be a reality, I would very quickly have found myself at a dead end. I would have endeavored to follow her magic trail, to become myself a magician, and I would have achieved only partial or mediocre results because one cannot become a shaman by saying, “All this could be true. ” So I forced myself to act as if this could not be anything but false. By “false,” I do not want to say nonexistent—one was well obliged to acknowledge the healing and the strange phenomena that arose around Pachita—but better if it could be explained by an ensemble of psycho-physiological laws. I thus found myself able to truly learn from this woman something that I could then reuse in my context.

To . . .

To know the way to use the language of objects and the symbolic vocabulary in order to produce certain affects in people; basically, how specifically to direct the unconscious in its own language, be that by words, by objects, by acts. That’s what I learned from Pachita!

Pachita was truly exceptional, but she was part of a tradition.

Of course, and that is why, after having met her, I concerned myself with the function of magic in all primitive cultures. I read hundreds of books on the subject to try to glean some universal elements that I could use in a conscious way in my own practice. I do not want to belabor this, but I want to give you some examples. All cultures have an idea of the power of the word, the conviction that desire expressed in a healthy way leads to fulfillment. But often, the name of God or the spirit is reinforced by its association to an image. The ancients knew intuitively that the unconscious is receptive not only to the oral language but also to shapes, images, and objects. In addition, the Egyptians accorded a capital importance to the written word. It was more about what was written than about what was said. In Psychomagic, I often ask people to draft letters, not so much for where the letters go or what they say as for the mere act of writing and of instilling these missives with therapeutic virtues. Another universal practice is that of purification, ablution rituals. In Babylon, during the healing ceremonies, the exorcists enjoined the patient to undress, to throw all their old clothes away (symbolic of the old me), and to dress anew. The Egyptians considered purification a prerequisite to the reciting of magic formulas, as is witnessed in ancient texts. I’ve forgotten the exact source, but this greatly inspired me: “If a man recites this formula for his own use, he must be coated in oil and ointment, the censer in the hand and filled with burning incenses; he must have a good quality natron in the mouth; he must be dressed in new clothing, after washing in flowing waters, to be wearing white sandals, and to have painted the image of Ma’at in fresh india ink on the tongue.” According to this, it is not unusual that I ask those who come for a consultation to take a bath, to have an enema, because I know that this act, in innocent appearance, greatly influences their psychology; it puts them in a different disposition. If someone dreads going to see his mother, I suggest rinsing the mouth seven times before the meeting and filling pockets with lavender. These details suffice to make them approach the meeting in a different way.