Castaneda was a fraud and also a bodhisattva

This morning at 6:30a when I was picked up for work at Hollister and Modoc I decided to stop by Java Station on the bike ride home. because I decided this so early in the day it was in my mind the whole time and made the day never end. it was very hot under the new dark tarp and during my mandatory breaks I sprawled in the folding chair and daydream-slept.

I had thought the day would be lovely because I had not been around certain lovely coworkers for a week, but mostly because the first song on Morning Becomes Eclectic was "Dear Prudence". but then the radio degraded into dizzying and yet, paradoxically, extremely dull yammering about presidential politics and WAMU collapsing. and that was the end of magic.

Finally it was time to leave and after Friday rush hour traffic we made it back and my bike was not stolen. I walked it to Java Station and got an iced coffee from the attractive, competent, professional barista. I collapsed into a mustard velvet chair. I stirred my drink and felt amazing for a moment as I reopened A Separate Reality (Carlos Castaneda, 1971).



I read and sipped slowly. It reminded me of some things I already know, and as I biked home I smiled at the growing pulsing trees with the not-so-secret knowledge that everything exists instantly and no longer.