This was the last time I was ever to see him. I gave Jacqueline some money to buy flowers for his wife and adopted daughter.
“The wife and daughter could not bear the harshness of Ejo’s life between the city and the Sierra,” Jacqueline told me. “Tomiko married in the United States. She lives in Texas with her husband and three children. Michiko lives with them.”
Two years later, Jacqueline called me in Paris. In tears, she announced the death of Ejo Takata. I tried to console her. “Yes, Jacqueline, it hurts. It really hurts terribly — but life continues. When a branch is cut from the tree, it never comes back and the scar always remains on the trunk. The tree covers it over with new cells, and then new sprouts appear from it. The wound underneath the bark becomes a haven for mushrooms that fall from the tree and nourish the soil in which it grows.”
I received a fax from the Tarahumara disciple who now directed Ejo’s group and had taken the title of Roshi Silencio. He asked me for a thousand dollars to build a stupa, a Buddhist monument that would contain the master’s ashes and, later, those of his disciples. Instead of sending him a contribution for such a project, I sent a poem:
A pound of ashes,
a thousand pounds of ashes,
what is the difference?
The Master’s ashes
are my ashes.
When the wind carries away my remains,
the Master’s remains are dispersed with me.
A stupa does not give peace
when it is a stupa of death
seen without a master.
May his tomb
not be the tomb
of those who are afraid to traverse alone
the dissolution of their consciousness.
APPENDIX
A Collection of Anecdotes
“I never surrendered, because the more you struggle, the more possibilities you have of winning and receiving help. It has always been in the last minutes, when everything seemed lost that someone came to help me go beyond my limits.”
SILVER KANE, DISPARA, DISPARA, DISPARA
(SHOOT, SHOOT, SHOOT)
Some readers may wonder what practical purpose koans serve. Granted, they express deep metaphysical questions — but what use are they in everyday life? Can a correct response to “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” ever help us find our place in contemporary society? I would answer yes. These seemingly insoluble enigmas that I spent countless hours struggling against and working with under Ejo Takata’s guidance have gradually forged my character. Years later, I was able to apply them to many occasions in life, especially when I was confronted with a crucial choice. Reality repeatedly put me in situations where I was faced with seemingly insoluble problems. I was forced to allow myself to be guided by some kind of incomprehensible intelligence so that I became like a famished hunter on the alert for game: a solution that would emerge suddenly from the depths of my being. There have been countless such occasions. Here are a few examples.
In 1967, in a Paris café, I met my friend Jorge Edwards. He was with Pablo Neruda, a genius poet, yet also a devoted worshipper of his own ego. Jorge later wrote this about our encounter in his book Adios, Poeta:
Once, in the Coupole Café in Montparnasse, around midnight, we were having a bite to eat and some wine. Sitting nearby was Alejandro Jodorowsky, one of the most interesting figures of my generation of Chileans. He had emigrated early and never returned. . I invited him to our table, and introduced him to Neruda.
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Neruda said, with the best of intentions.
“And I’ve also heard a lot about you,” replied Alejandro.
This terse exchange was utterly cold. As you might expect, the conversation never got off the ground.
As Ejo Takata had told me: “If you meet a Buddha on the road, cut off his head.”
As I was finishing the shooting of El Topo and beginning the editing process, I discovered that an essential scene had a serious flaw: a yellow scratch ran through the image from top to bottom. Federico Landeros, the editor, exclaimed: “It’s a disaster — we can’t use this shot.” But I had neither the time nor the money to do it over. What could I do? Edit it out? Instead, I answered him: “If what I am saying in this scene is really important, no one will notice this scratch. Let’s pretend it doesn’t exist and keep the take.” Which we did.
Thirty years have passed, and no one has ever noticed this terrible flaw.
At the premiere of El Topo in England, I was summoned to the department of film censorship. It was a hypocritical office, and people were barely aware that it even existed. Some very polite bureaucrats informed me: “In this country, there are many depraved people. We cannot allow the scene where you wipe your bloody hands on the naked breasts of the actress. We need your authorization to cut it, and also your promise to keep this cut a secret. If you refuse, El Topo will not be shown in England.”
I wondered if I should I accept this mutilation, which violated all my principles. But then I exclaimed to myself: “The Venus de Milo had her arms cut off, but she is still a great work of art!” So I agreed, but only on condition that I be allowed to make the cut myself so that it would be properly done. This was granted, and they lent me a moviola editing machine.
When George Harrison learned that his company, Apple, was going to produce my film The Holy Mountain on John Lennon’s recommendation, he asked to read the script. Then he expressed a desire to play the lead role, that of the thief. Dressed completely in white, he received me in his elegant suite at the Plaza Hotel in New York. He offered me some melon juice with cinnamon and congratulated me on the script. He said that he was prepared to play the role on condition that we cut one scene, which he read aloud: “At an octagonal sink, next to a veritable hippopotamus, the alchemist bathes the thief, turns him over on his back, his buttocks facing the camera, and rubs soap over his anus.”
With an amiable grin, he said, “It’s quite out of the question for me to expose my anus in public.”
I felt as if the sky had fallen in. In those days, for me, a film was not a commercial or merely a work of art. I wanted this film to be the record of a sacred experience capable of enlightening an audience. For this, I needed actors — but only those who were prepared to put aside their egos. If Harrison played the lead role, it was important that he provide an example of total humility, exposing himself with the innocence of a child. This shot lasted only ten seconds, but it was vital to the work. It was obvious that if George Harrison played the role, the film would be assured of worldwide success, making millions — but this success would weaken the film, catering to the squeamishness of a famous musician. What a difficult koan!
Abruptly, and in total defiance of my own rationality, I rejected Harrison and hired a modest, young Mexican comedian to play the role of the thief. It was a choice between self-honesty and money and fame.