He said He was a Shaman and I believed him. Every word was like magic.  He read Castaneda, and so I read Castaneda, I drank Castaneda. I can still quote Castaneda in my sleep. I sat at his feet, and he talked in mantras.  He was always broke. He was mean when he was high, and sweet when he was drunk, and he pronounced the Indian word for his name but I forgot it, it was too weird. He read me stories by Rudyard Kipling, “The cat that walked by itself” was his favorite.

He bought me a hundred dollar engagement ring from Sears, but by then I had met my husband to be, our paths were moving in opposite directions, the endless flow of pain, joy, and luminosity. Now they say Castaneda made it all up. That he was a charlatan. That Don Juan wasn’t real after all. I don’t think any of that matters now, especially at night, when I’m flying over his house, the one with the peeling blue shutters.

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