From:
david.j.worrell@gmail.com
The Teachings of Don Carlos - Part 6
Mike Sager | Scary Monsters and Super Freaks | Thunder’s Mouth Press | December, 2003 | 85 minutes (21,125 words)
***
The Follower parked his dusty blue Hyundai at the curb in front of Spalding Mortuary, a nondescript brick building in a run-down industrial district just east of Culver City. It was Monday, June 22, 1998, around ten a.m. Though the morning sun was bright,
the air was cool; Greg Mamishian was wearing his favorite jacket, a tan corduroy sportscoat with suede elbow patches that once belonged to Carlos. Greg
sat silent for a few moments, listening to the engine tick off heat, a short man, fifty years old,
with close cropped gray hair and an elfin sparkle in his eyes, girding himself for another mission.
For the past two and a half years, Greg and his wife Gabi had made a hobby of following Carlos. They’d sat outside his compound for hundreds of hours, watching the comings and goings, trying to read between the lines. They’d trailed the Nagual and
his party to restaurants and movies, to inner circle practice groups. They’d videotaped him at every opportunity, collected and processed his trash, made what they considered an anthropological study of his life. Along the way, they’d learned much
about the great man and the doings of his inner circle, and much about themselves. Every couple needs a binding interest; in an odd, wonderful way, Carlos had become theirs.
It had been more than nine months now since that magical summer night when the fierce Chacmol had caught them red-handed stealing the trash. Though they’d promised the woman from Cleargreen that they were done with their innocent surveillance —
thereby avoiding a formal complaint to the police — they’d only lasted about a week before their curiosity and determination had gotten the better of them, and they’d renewed their activities in earnest. Besides changing the time of their trash
runs to 3 a.m., things proceeded pretty much as before. The Followers, as Greg had dubbed them, were back in business.
Then, one Sunday afternoon in late February 1998, sitting at their regular post, in a no-parking zone diagonally across the quiet intersection from Carlos’s low-slung compound, the Followers saw a car pull up to the Pandora Avenue gate, a blue Ford
Crown Victoria that belonged to one of the Chacmools. As it slowed to a stop, several members of the inner circle came quickly out of the house, moved toward
the back door of the car. Riveted, Greg and Gabi watched in disbelief as they ministered to the
great man, helping him gingerly out of the back seat, hauling him to his feet. For some time it had been obvious that Carlos’s vision had been failing; they’d found insulin syringes and prescription medicine bottles in the trash.
Now it was clear
that his health had taken a dramatic turn for the worse. Carlos was thin and fragile, floppy like a rag doll. His skin was grayish green, his hair was very short, there were dark circles around his eyes; he had the skeletal appearance of an internee in a
concentration camp. He didn’t so much walk as shuffle, supported on either side by Chacmools, steadied from behind by the Blue Scout.
[Yes. I have personally seen all of the most interesting items they
collected from the trash, which also confirm Carlos's health issues
and dire condition, and have seen all the best clips from their
video footage as well. Right before he died, Carlos looked like shit.]
Gabi looked at Greg, Greg looked at Gabi. A wave of extreme sadness washed over
them. There was no mistaking the fact that Carlos was dying, that their marvelous folly would soon be coming to an end. At the edge of the sadness was something else, a sort
of bitter aftertaste of disappointment: If Carlos was planning, as he’d promised, to leave the Earth in full awareness with his boots on, in a flash of
light for the Second Attention like Don Juan, he had better hurry. From the looks of him, he didn’
t have much time.
Over the next weeks and months, the Followers saw no more of Carlos. His public
appearances at seminars and workshops ended; the private classes at the dance studio came to a halt; he never again went out for a movie or a meal.
[Too sick to go out any more.]
Meanwhile, the level of activity at the compound increased dramatically. People
came and went in shifts several times a day, bringing with them medical supplies and covered dishes of food. The members of the inner circle all got new cars, mostly mid-
sized Fords. A new roof was put on the house, many other small repairs were made as well; the Followers got the feeling that the place was being readied for sale. When landscapers arrived and began tearing up the internal courtyard of the compound, the
Followers wondered if they were digging a grave. Then one evening they observed
Taisha Abelar packing her van with stacks of files and documents and a big cooler full of supplies. She was in an obvious hurry. The Followers wondered: Were they taking
Carlos to Mexico to die? In mid-April, Gabi and Greg observed what seemed to be
a flurry of packing and cleaning and organizing. Their trash take that week was
unbelievably fruitful: clothes, statues and knicknacks, flatware, curtains, supplies — there
were 16 bags, more than twice the normal amount. Once upon a time they’d have
been overjoyed by such fabulous gleanings. Now they felt only curiosity and sorrow.
[Getting ready to make a run for it.]
During the week of April 22, Greg and Gabi left off their surveillance in favor
of a rare, seven-day vacation to Kauai, the honeymoon they hadn’t yet gotten around to taking. When they returned, tanned and rested, the first thing they did was drive to
Carlos’s compound.
The place was empty. There was no one there. No cars, no people, no furniture inside. The only thing in the trash can was some construction debris and a few fast food wrappers. Several trips over the next few days confirmed their suspicions: The Sorcerer
and his party had disappeared.
Had he died like a man? Had he left like a sorcerer?
For the next six weeks, things at the compound remained unchanged. Meanwhile, phone lines and Internet chat rooms were buzzing with speculation. There were rumors that Carlos and his party had bought a big luxury yacht and had embarked
on a world cruise.
Others said that the inner circle had taken Carlos to Mexico to “leave.” Still others posited that Carlos had died and the Witches had committed suicide
in solidarity. Everyone associated, it seemed, had an opinion. Cleargreen remained suspiciously
mum, continuing to schedule new seminars, carrying on business as usual.
[I think some of this last part is fictionalized. Greg and Gabi did find
some literature about yachts in their trash, leading to speculation that
they might be thinking about going to sea. But... it was not widely known
that anything was going on. I myself heard no such 'rumors'.]
Then, in mid June, C.J. Castaneda received a notice from the probate court in Los Angeles. On April 27, 1998, the letter informed him, Carlos Castaneda had died. Though C.J. and Margaret were mentioned in the will, they were left nothing of the estate,
which some estimated to be worth as much as $20 million. In the six-page document, which was signed and dated April 23, Carlos explicitly distanced himself from his Cho-cho, stating in Article 1 that “although I once treated him as if he were my son, C.
J. Castaneda is not my son, natural or adopted.” All monies and property and future rights to his work were bequeathed to something called The Eagle’s Trust, the officers of which were members of Carlos’s inner circle, men and women who also served
as the officers of Cleargreen, Toltec Artists and the other corporations. Outraged that Cleargreen had failed to exercise common decency and notify him of his Kiki’s death, hurt that he’d been disavowed and disinherited by the only father he had ever
known, C.J. called the Los Angeles Times and tipped them off to the death. Later, he would initiate a suit against Cleargreen and Carlos’s executors, claiming that the will was a fraud. After nine months of legal wrangling, C.J. would drop the suit.
[It is consistent with everything I heard and know that Carlos did
indeed cut of CJ intentionally.]
The story ran on the front page of the Times on Friday, June 19. “Carlos Castaneda … apparently died two months ago in the same way that he lived: quietly, secretly, mysteriously?”
According to his death certificate, the Times story said, Carlos had died of liver cancer on April 27, at the age of 72. In typical Carlos fashion, the death certificate listed his occupation as “teacher,” and his employer as the Beverly Hills School
District, for which he’d never worked. It also said that he had never been married. Immediately following the death, it was reported, his body had been cremated, his ashes spirited away to Mexico. Explaining why no one was notified
about his passing,
Carlos’s long-time lawyer, Debra Drooze, was quoted as saying: “He didn’t
like attention. He always made sure people did not take his picture or record his voice. He didn’t like the spotlight. Knowing that, I didn’t take it upon myself to issue
a press release.”
The next day, on their website, Cleargreen issued a statement to the faithful. Their position was a bit different than the lawyer’s. “Carlos Castaneda left the world the same way that his teacher, Don Juan Matus did: with full awareness,” the
statement read in part. “The cognition of our world of everyday life does not
provide for a description of a phenomenon such as this. So in keeping with the terms of legalities and record keeping that the world of everyday life requires, Carlos
Castaneda was declared to have died.”
[Yes. This was the cult line, which they maintained for many years.
Only a couple of years ago did Cleargreen finally admit CC simply died.]
Having read both the article in the Times and the posting on the Web, Greg and Gabi, like many others, didn’t know what to think. So many odd and wonderful things had happened in connection with Carlos, so many mystical events and occurrences that
seemed to have no explanation in the world of ordinary reality. Now they wanted
to know how the story ended. They needed to know the truth. Had he died like a man? Had he left like a sorcerer? Which was it? For so many years now, Gabi and
Greg and
countless others around the world had set their reality compass by the teachings of Carlos and Don Juan. There was a need for some kind of closure. It
didn’t help any that all the Witches had disappeared. When asked, Cleargreen would only say that the
Witches were “traveling.”
[To this day we do not know what really happened to most of them.]
Using the detective skills he’d honed to a sharp edge over the last several years, Greg tracked down Carlos’s death certificate. A little leg work revealed that Carlos’s body had not been taken to the mortuary that was specified, but to a different
place, one with an unlisted telephone number called the Spalding Mortuary.
And so it was, on the Monday morning following the announcement of Carlos’s death in the L.A. Times, that Greg got out of his car and walked through the unlocked door of a nondescript brick building in a run-down industrial district
just east of Culver
City. He was going to get to the bottom of this mystery, once and for all.
He was met in the hallway by a tall, elderly black gentleman, who kindly asked his business. Standing there in the dark hallway, wearing the corduroy sportscoat that had once belonged to Carlos himself, Greg explained that Spalding Mortuary had recently
cremated the remains of a man named Carlos Castaneda. This man, Greg continued,
had claimed to be a great and powerful sorcerer and had followers all over the world. Though his teachings were many, Greg explained, first among them was the
notion that an
enlightened sorcerer does not die a normal death, but rather is consumed by something called “the fire from within,” a sort of spontaneous combustion, wherein he gathers his mortal energy and leaves for the next realm, taking his body with him.
“I am here to find out the truth,” Greg told the elderly gentleman in his typically earnest but ironic style. “What I want to know is this: Did he burn
with the fire from within? Or did you burn him?”
The gentleman regarded Greg for several long moments—trying, no doubt, to decide what to do. Greg seemed harmless enough. He was polite and appeared sane. He was obviously deeply aggrieved. But what Greg was saying, well—he’d seen and heard many
things in his years in the mortuary business, but this took it all: he’d never heard anything so ridiculous in his life. “Please sit down,” he said at last.
After ten minutes or so, a well-dressed, older woman appeared before Greg and asked him to repeat his business. She listened intently, nodding her head, wearing a sympathetic face. Until, that is, he got to the part about “the fire from within.” She
reared back her head and laughed out loud.
Greg looked at the woman and smiled. He raised his hands, palms up, shrugged his shoulders. She was a tall, heavyset, regal woman, the model of a family matriarch. She leaned down and put her arms around Greg, gave him a tender, motherly hug. “He has
gone to a better place,” she said, patting his back.
Greg stepped back from her embrace. “I know that,” he said, regarding her quizzically. “But what I want to know is: which better place. Are you sure you cremated him?”
“I watched it myself,” she said confidently.
“You’re positive?”
“His spirit is gone, baby.”
Greg thanked the woman, turned and went outside, to his car. He opened the door, started to get in, then stopped himself. He felt numb, an odd mixture of disappointment and relief. For what must have been the one millionth time over the six years, the
words of scholar Richard DeMille floated through his mind. Castaneda wasn’t a
common con man, he lied to bring us the truth. His stories are packed with truth, though they are not true stories, which he said they are…. This is a sham-man bearing
gifts, an ambiguous spellbinder dealing simultaneously in contrary commodities—wisdom and deception.
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