I was a sensitive child. I was so sensitive that the sounds of someone
chewing made me upset. I was a light sleeper. I was also a slob,
a knee-jerk rebel, and something of a nerd when it came to doing
things like making friends with girls. Nonetheless, I decided
that I could work out whatever I needed to work out in a healthier
environment than at home; the countdown to the last day of high school,
after which I planned to set out on my own, began when I was
around fifteen. Meanwhile, I read a lot and spent time with friends,
some of whom also enjoyed hiking and bicycling.
In the summer of 1976, when I was sixteen, I bicycled from the White
Mountains of New Hampshire to Boston with people from an outing club.
One morning, as I watched my traveling companions prepare their daily dose
of hallucinogens, I realized that I wanted to be part of their fellowship.
The desire, however, was checked by a gut-level impulse to avoid drugs,
so Jim, a sinewy guy stooped over a pot of boiling morning glory seeds,
turned me on instead to The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way
of Knowledge. This was a popular account of Carlos Castaneda's
purported apprenticeship with Yaqui Indian medicine man Juan Matus,
or Don Juan.
From the cover of the book peered a menacing and surreal painting
of a crow.
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