One night, seeking to enrich my view, which was usually in the horizontal plane, I threw my head back as far as I could to see what it would be like to see along a vertical line. I was distracted by the sight of a cobweb on a lamp: at its center, the web’s weaver crouched, waiting. A fly buzzed around the lamp. Instead of feeling sorry for myself, seeing the neglected state of my room—which Sara grudgingly cleaned once a month to satisfy the critical eye of her mother, who complained of the stench of Matucana when she came to visit us—I imagined the different degrees of a story, organizing them into a scale ranging from the lowest to the highest level of consciousness. At the lowest degree, not conceiving of change, striving always to remain what they think they are, the fly spends its life trying to avoid the spider while the spider spends its life trying to catch the fly. At a higher degree the fly, perceiving the spider’s carnivorous desire as an input of energy, loses its fear, accepts that it is food, and sacrifices itself. The spider, meanwhile, learns to put itself in the place of the fly and decides to give up trying to catch it, even to the point of starving itself to death. At a third degree, the fly voluntarily enters into the sticky trap and when it is devoured by the spider invades its cells, its soul, and transforms it into a luminous being. The two creatures, thus amalgamated, are a new entity: neither fly nor spider but both at the same time. At a fourth degree the spider-fly, realizing that the light that inhabits it is not of its own making, that it is a servant whose master is an impersonal inexhaustible energy, breaks free from the web and, attracted by the light, rises up until it is immersed in the sun. At the fifth degree, similar to the first, the spider waits in its web, hoping to catch a fly. But now the spider is not crouching, it is showing itself openly, without greed, and the fly, without distress or unnecessary buzzing around, flies directly toward the web. Change, transmutation, and adoration have submerged the menacing reality in a bath of joy. The hunt has become a dance in which continuous death is accompanied by continuous birth.
Suddenly, without any movement of the legs announcing it, the spider let out a long thread and made as if to drop down on me. I gave a cry of fear and dodged it, my armchair tipped over, and I fell backward onto the floor. I grabbed my shoes, put them on my hands like gloves, and with a single clap crushed the innocent creature. I felt sorry, not for it but for myself. Thanks to the derelict state my room had fallen into I was able to realize that in spite of these imaginative pleasures I did not feel any better emotionally. The images I created might be jewels, but the chest they were kept in, which is to say myself, was worthless. I was using my imagination in a limited form. I had dedicated myself to creating mental representations. This technique certainly opened up dreamlike paths, showed the way to sublime ideals, and provided elements for making works of art, but it did not change the incomplete manner in which I perceived myself. My body still appeared to me as a ghastly enemy, no more or less than a nest inhabited by death, and I was afraid to use it to its fullest extent. My sex organs were filling themselves with shame in order to dissimulate the fear of creating. My heart was immersing itself in malice and indifference to the world in order to avoid developing sublime feelings. My mind was invoking human weakness in order to ignore its power to change the world. Anything infinite, however well I could imagine it, gave me visceral dread. My animal side wanted a small space, a lair, a short amount of time, “I’ll only last as long as my body,” an opaque consciousness, relegating me to a life in the shadows avoiding responsibilities, an unvarying life bolstered by rigid habits in which change was considered a hidden aspect of death. I decided to free myself from these images, this mental celebration that concealed an avoidance of my organic nature, and to investigate a form of creation by means of my sensations. I thought, “When I hear sad news, I have no desire to move; I feel heavy, dense. By contrast, when the news is good, I want to dance; I feel light, agile. The facts that I know from words or visual images do not change my body, but they do change my perception of it. It must be possible to transform my perception of myself by my own will!”
I began an intense series of exercises. At night, once the insults and occasional blows between my father and mother had ceased, once my sister had stopped playing Chopin exercises on her white piano and the silence spread like balsam over a wound, I sat naked in my wooden chair and began to relax my muscles in order to concentrate and meditate. Unfortunately, several times during each night, trains passed directly below my window with deafening whistles. This noise, like a lance, left a bloody gash at the center of my spirit. I struggled for several weeks not to defend myself, to let the sound traverse my consciousness without retaining it, to pay it no attention and continue with my exercise. When I achieved this, I was able to immerse myself in my meditations without any apprehension. I conquered the flies, which were even more of a nuisance than the trains, in the same manner. Even though I closed the curtains and plunged myself into darkness, those insects never ceased buzzing and circulating, irritating my skin as they walked on it. Added to this, the apartment where we lived had no heating or air conditioning, and the heat and cold were intolerable at times. All these difficulties sharpened my capacity for concentration.
If I wanted to develop my sensory imagination, before anything else I had to liberate it from the tyranny of weight. The planet, always present in my body through its force of attraction, was telling me, “You are mine, from me you came and to me you will return.” I felt that what was heaviest was darkness. I filled myself with it, a dense material, painful, overwhelming. I filled my feet with its blackness, then my legs, and the rest of my body. Having become a skin that was filled with tar, I breathed in as deeply as I could and exhaled the magma from my feet, replacing it with light. I emptied my legs, my arms, my torso, my head; I was a hide filled with glowing energy. I felt lighter and lighter. It seemed to me as if I would jump twenty meters when I took a step. The absence of the sensation of weight filled me with joy, with a desire to live, and made me breathe in deeply. My spirit was no longer invaded by psychological garbage, by gloomy serpents of shadow. I wanted to get dressed and go out for a walk. So I did. It was four in the morning. This working class neighborhood, with its dark streetlights (thieves had stolen the bulbs), was almost completely obscured in darkness. I walked along feeling as luminous as the moon, occasionally taking little jumps. Suddenly I saw three evil-looking men approaching. Prudently, I changed my course. Seeing my defensive movement, they fanned out. One pulled a club, the other a knife, and the third a pistol. I set out running toward San Pablo Street, the central artery of the neighborhood, where trains passed and a bar might still be open. “Stop, dickhead!” they shouted. I let out a cry of distress, sounding like a pig squealing in the slaughterhouse. Not a single window opened! Not a door! There was I, who had just recently been weightless, galloping along, feeling heavier than an elephant under the indifferent sky, the fecal footprint of fear growing in my pants. Feeling the pain of shattered dignity, I set all my hopes on getting to the main street. But it was dark! They were ten meters behind me. Giving up, vanquished, trembling, I stopped and waited for the bandits. They came at me and knocked me to the ground with a punch in the stomach. With agonized calm, I begged them not to kill me, to take everything from me, because I was a poet. They searched my pockets, finding a crumpled banknote and my school papers. After examining the papers meticulously, they returned them to me, along with the money, then saluted and explained that they were police and had mistaken me for a thief. “Young man, next time don’t run away, because that makes you look suspicious!” With my body and soul aching, I walked on to San Pablo. There, just around the corner at a café a group of people were playing cards under the light of a gas lamp. A few more steps and I would have been safe! If they really had been muggers, they could have slit my throat like a cow’s and left me there, a few steps from salvation. At that moment, I swore that I would always sustain my efforts until I had no drop of energy left and that I would never abandon a task I began until I finis
hed it.
I continued my work after I returned to my room. I had met terror face-to-face, a paralyzing sensation of oppression that turned me into an animal. In that realm, where beings devour each other, fear is the essential element of survival. To ascend from animal to human is to escape fear. Fear of what? Animals have no concept of death because they perceive themselves only as matter. Their essential fear is that of losing the corporeal form. I felt the threats to my body that were present like never before. Flesh was bound to age, sicken, die; it had to be nourished and protected. Along with the fear of losing my body came the need to have a lair. Being descended from the Jews, who had been nomads for centuries, I had no homeland, no roots, no burrow. How could I rid myself of this anguish? Should I imitate Buddha, renouncing earthly life, disassociating myself from my body as well as my “ego,” returning to the impersonality of the original energy, liberating myself from the chain of reincarnation? Thanks to the atheism that Jaime had inculcated in me this seemed like a fairytale, a coward’s way out. “The sword that cuts everything will not cut you when you become the sword.” Thinking thus, I decided to become that which caused my terror.
In my preceding exercises I had begun by imagining myself filled with black magma, which was then expelled so that light could inhabit me. But the mythological dragon, being immortal, cannot be conquered by killing but only by seduction. Thus one must accept being its food. I returned to imagining my feet full of that nefarious tar. Then, instead of identifying with my feet, I made myself one with the black stuff. I was the threat; I was the bringer of death; I was the nothing with its carnivorous cravings. I moved up through my legs, filled my pelvis, my trunk, my arms, my head, and erased all traces of morality, becoming a thick evil. With a phenomenal effort, I abandoned my attachment to my human form and turned loose. Leaving the carnal vessel I grew out in all directions like a voracious mass and began to overtake the building, the city, the country, the planet, the galaxy, finally filling the universe and continuing my infinite expansion. Stars lived within me, space monsters, demons, ambiguous entities, insidious ghosts, demented murderers, rats, vipers, venomous insects . . . Then I imagined the inverse: the infinite menace, the mortal shadow, began to invade space from all points and inundated the cosmos, advancing toward me. It swallowed galaxies, our solar system, the planet, the South American continent, Chile, Santiago, the neighborhood of Matucana, my house, my room, and finally concentrated itself on my body. While I occupied the universe, the universe also accumulated beneath my skin. I felt invincible, I was the evil, and there was nothing that could frighten me, least of all my father.
At that late hour of the night, naked as I was, I began slowly walking around the apartment. I walked crouching forward like a hungry beast. My eyes adjusted to the darkness very quickly, and my sense of hearing became sharper, I could hear the slightest creak, and from far off I could hear the deep breathing of Jaime, Sara, and Raquel. Also, my olfactory sense perceived the different smells that filled the house like never before: the sweet scent of damp sheets, the rancid floorboards, the sulfur in the air, the salty smell of the walls. I went into my sister’s room. Because the windows were kept closed for fear of thieves, the heat made it necessary for her to sleep naked, with her legs spread. I put my nose a few inches from her crotch and smelled it . . . Both my pleasure and my disgust were such that the blackness of my heart seemed to transform itself into a tarantula. I imagined myself violating her, then ripping open her belly with my fangs to devour her guts. I savored the sight of this forbidden orifice for a long moment, then slipped into the master bedroom. There was my mother, leaning against my father’s back. They were sleeping so deeply that they seemed like wax statues. I was invaded by a gigantic anger. I felt sure that I could rip open their jugulars with a single bite. Sara deserved my hatred because her foolish passivity made her complicit with Jaime. Without lifting a finger, she allowed my father to enjoy terrifying me. It was he who had taken pains to make me into a coward because he felt obliged to assert his dubious manhood and needed to overcome his problems with his gay brother. He who had taken me to the beach and made me stick my legs into pools where he knew octopuses lived, distracting me and keeping me there until one of those viscous animals wrapped its tentacles around my ankle. He who let me scream for a little while, then came to me laughing, pulled the suckers off my skin, bashed the animal against the rocks, then stuck his hand under the root of the tentacles and lifted the monster’s hood under my nose, turning it inside out. “They’re harmless. Don’t scream like a little girl; learn to be brave!” But how can a five-year-old child be brave when an adult forces him to hold onto his back, arms around his neck, as he runs into the raging ocean waves? There, clinging to my father like a limpet, I shut my eyes, wrinkled my nose, clenched my jaw, and endured the ordeal as he, roaring like a lion, threw himself under the giant waves again and again, riding them just as they broke. Despite my young age, I knew that if I let go I would die by drowning. The cold water of the Pacific Ocean seemed to turn my body into ice. My fingers were getting stiff. The force of the waves would tear me off Jaime’s powerful back. I began to scream. Jaime, furious, deposited me back on the beach while spitting the word “coward!” over and over again, not noticing that my lips were blue with cold. “Stop shaking, sissy! You have to learn to overcome fear!”
Well, now I had won. The guilty couple was there, defenseless, at the mercy of my hatred. I took a flowerpot full of moist soil in which worms had grown instead of the carnation seeds Sara had planted and with feline delicacy crawled onto the bed. Crouching, I emptied it out between their intertwined legs. I saw the masses of worms squirming very near to their crotches; the demon who protects the denizens of the night ensured that they did not awaken. I returned to my room, happy like never before, and fell asleep knowing that reality would no longer be the same . . . Neither Jaime nor Sara ever commented on the incident. Why? The event was so strange, so impossible, that their minds erased it like a bad dream.
Little by little, I understood that the being I perceived myself to be was not exactly the being I was. Moreover, the consciousness I perceived was not exactly my true consciousness but a distortion of it, brought about by my family and my education in school. I saw myself as my parents and teachers saw me. I saw with the eyes of others. My child’s brain, like a piece of wax, had been sculpted into the shape of the judgment of others. I concentrated on my hooked nose. I thought of the memories it contained—contempt, ridicule, name-calling, Pinocchio, Big Nose, Tuna Fish, Vulture, Wandering Jew—and then, the contemptuous stares of Jaime and Raquel, so proud of their straight noses. And finally, the indifference of my mother, who had erased me from her soul after they cut off my blond locks and left only some short dark hair. “Yes, I feel ugly, horrible, this enormous, monstrous bony nose that is not mine, I do not want it, it has invaded me, it is a vampire stuck to my face.” Once I had precisely delineated this feeling of disgust, I began to change it. The hooked nose that had been imposed on me must be conquered. I softened its boundaries, made it a ductile and malleable mass, perfumed it, filled it with love, light, and goodness, and finally I gave it sublime beauty. Little by little, I expanded this beauty across my face, my hair, my head, and then, like luminous water, over my entire body, washing away the cruel looks and revealing the beauty I deserved. I turned on the radio and heard a piece by Berlioz. Letting the accusations of ugliness fall away like tattered rags I began dancing, allowing my body to make graceful, delicate, beautiful movements. I felt that this beauty of form was inundating my soul. Something was opening up in my consciousness, and I realized that this assumed beauty was like a flower, spreading its perfume all over the world.
I did the same thing again, with more strength. My father’s gaze had trapped me in a corset of weakness. I chose my testicles as a starting point and filled them with an energy that spread through my body. Once I was completely full of this energy I tried to send it out through my fingers and toes, and with those twent
y rays to transfix the world, reshaping its negativity to make it positive; but I encountered locks. In my soul there were prohibitions against being myself, requiring that I retain my conditioning, forcing me to live by the norms I had received through an ossified tradition. “You must not eat pork, you must not marry a Catholic, marriage is for life, money is earned through suffering, if you are not perfect you are worthless, you must be and act like everyone else, if you do not get your diploma you will fail in life . . .” Family guardians appeared at my least attempt to transgress these crazy ideas, brandishing swords to castrate me. “How dare you? What do you take yourself for? Who are you to change the rules? If you do this, you’ll die of hunger! We are ashamed of you! You’re mad; come to your senses! Everyone will reject and despise you; you are destroying yourself! You’ll lose our love!” I felt like a dog covered with fleas. I realized my parents had abused me on all levels. On the intellectual level they had blocked off paths leading to the infinite with scathing, aggressive, sarcastic words, portraying themselves as clairvoyant, omnipotent, forcing me to see the world through their colored lenses. They had abused me emotionally with their cruelty, making me feel that they preferred my sister, creating a sordid trio of dependency, jealousy, and love-hate with her. They had bargained with me: “for us to love you, you have to do this or that, you have to be so and so, you have to buy the affection we give you at a high price.” They had abused me sexually, my mother because she hid all manifestations of passion beneath a veil of shame, passing herself off as a saint, and my father because he seduced his customers in front of me, hiding scurrilous insinuations beneath a mask of mirth. They had abused me on the material plane: I do not remember my mother ever cooking a meal, which was always done by a servant. I do not remember any cuddling, ever being taken out for a walk, ever having my birthday celebrated, ever being given a toy, ever being given a nice room. I slept on old stitched-up sheets, had plain curtains in my room dyed a hideous shade of burgundy, never had a nice ceiling light in my room, my bookshelves were made of old boards propped up on bricks, and I was always enrolled in horrible public schools. And what’s more every Saturday, when the other boys were relaxing or going to parties, I had to “pay” for what my parents gave me by staying in the shop, protecting the goods from the greed of thieves. And now I, this abused child, was abusing myself, trying every instant to reproduce the things that had traumatized me. Because they made fun of me, I sought out friends who despised me. Because they did not love me, I was forced to enter into relationships with people who could never love me. Because they ridiculed creativity, they made me doubt my values, sinking me into depression. By not giving me material things they made me pathologically shy, preventing me from going into a store to buy what I needed. I had made myself into my own bitter prisoner. “I have been despised, I have been punished, so now I do nothing, I am worth nothing, I do not have the right to exist.” Unable to feel at peace, I was being persecuted by a horde of ancient furies. I began to shake myself as if to throw this old pain, this infantile anger, these grudges, these chains, away from my body. Enough! This is not me, this depression is not mine, they have not won, they will not stop me from doing what I want to do! Off, invading fleas! My inner universe belongs to me, I am taking possession of it, I am occupying it, exterminating what is superfluous! I opened myself to mental energies; I received them from the depths of the Earth and projected them into the sky; at the same time I received them from immeasurable space and projected them toward the center of the planet. I was a receiving and transmitting channel! I did the same with emotional, sexual, and physical energy: I plunged them into the bottomless void. Every idea, every feeling, every desire, every need touched my soul saying, “You are me!” These were usurping entities. The empty being, capable of containing the universe, did not know what it was and yet was living, loving, creating.
The Dance of Reality: A Psychomagical Autobiography Page 9
