Waiting

I am obligated to hold off on publishing  A Morningstar romance until it is reviewed by Pam or Larry. I committed myself to do so... hold on.

A Morningstar Romance

I sent off copies of the manuscript of A Morningstar Romance to Larry Read and Pam Hanna, as promised. It is essentially what I posted on this site but I cleaned up the typos and grammar as best I could and will be submitting it to be published upon their review. I enjoyed writing it and reliving those magical months from February until June of 1970 on the high plateau that was cut through by the Rio Grand north of the town of Taos New Mexico. I wasn't  there very long at all chronologically but it was as though I'd passed a lifetime on the mesa at Morningstar and it was a memory that was beginning to fade before I wrote the novel, A Time Ago and Then. I also thought that some of these people might still be around and hoped that they would enjoy reading the experience of light and joy from one of the those who merely passed through Morningstar East.

     It was in trying to build a model of The Kiva that inspired me to write this memoir and it was in seeking out photos of Morningstar New Mexico that I made contact with Pam Hanna (Read). This was one of those serendipitous things because, unknown to me at the time, it was her then husband, Larry Read, that came up with the design for the Kiva. My model shows eight timbers but I was to find out from Pam that it was actually ten timbers that made up the self-supporting architecture of the roof. The hole it covered was dynamited out of the hard soil and then the tiers were dug out by hand below an adobe brick wall of a few feet that circled the hole. The wall had placed in it windows made of wine bottles planted there for stained glass lighting that made the Kiva a small cathedral. A non-supporting pole with steps cut in it went through the hole at the center of the roof to the ground for entering and exiting.

     There are plenty pics of the shelters in the original Morningstar West in Sonoma County but I still have not been able to find many pictures of the pueblo, or magical Kiva, at Morningstar New Mexico. Though I have a good memory of the Kiva, I only have a vague idea of how the actual pueblo was laid out in detail other than it was a triangle arrangement with about three rooms in each wing. One wing on the north side stood alone but the two other wings were joined in a sideways V with the south wing positioned east/west. In the midst of these was a small plaza where the grain grinder became the communal place to pick up on whatever was going on. There was also an adobe oven outside...maybe twenty feet to the north and on the east side of the pueblo where flat-breads and so on were baked. I am hoping someone will help me round out this short memoir before I go to publishing it.

     I call this memoir a romance because, in on sense, it is a love story. In another more classical concept of a romance it is a faded looking back to an ideal memory. It is painterly romantic for the beauty and powerful landscape it all takes place in. It romanticizes the people to some degree because I remember so little that I give only a glazed over perspective of their most positive qualities in my memoir. I do so because I've heard enough about the negative aspects of communal attempts at creating an alternative social and spiritual reality. The influence of psychedelic drugs, the misuse and positive use of them, had to be touched on, however, because so much that drove us all to the high mesa above Arroyo Hondo had to do with a spiritual quest that opened our minds via LSD and other mind-altering natural substances. The negativity of my own alcoholism was featured too because I felt the need to explain why I couldn't stay there and had to move on. It is all covered in this blog that I used as a rough draft.

Departure

     Dennis wasn’t around the fire-pit at the parking lot all that much. His bailiwick was mostly at the Kiva where he spoke of Jamaica and how one could go to the mountains there and hang out with the growers of Jamaican weed. He had a good grasp of the history of the country and seemed to know a lot about the people. Not too many of us had smoked what would become known as the “bud” of the plant so Dennis was able to intrigue a few of us about his experience. He told us about how these people in the mountains held onto the “bud” and exported only the “shake”. He knew some of them and was welcome in their homes.

     We sat and listened intently as he told us a bit of the history of the island: how the Spanish exploited the natives there from Columbus on; how they had fled the Spanish to the Cockpit Country in the mountains; how after that the British brought the slave trade, big time, to the island that some of the slaves escaped to the Cock-pit Country too; how these people mixed with the natives to become what is known as Rastafarians. Furthermore, what sealed the deal was what he told us about how some Rastas believed that white hippies were the reincarnation of the Indians who were wiped out by the Spaniards. Therefore, for the most part, we would be welcome in the Cockpit Country even though not so much in Kingston where mountain myths hold less sway. Rasta culture and Reggie music wasn’t heard off yet, so these people with marijuana spliffs tucked into the weave of hair matted into dreadlocks sounded exotic enough to be discovered for ourselves. I wanted to go and had visions of myself settling down in the mountains with a beautiful black Rasta woman to make babies and smoke the bud from marijuana grown off the wild land of my front porch.

We had not yet heard of Reggie Music

     During this period of making plans for departure we got a strange visit from a man at the dome. I remember that dried fruit and nuts were all he ate. That didn't seem so strange to me then as almost everyone I'd met in those days was on some sort of esoteric diet. It wasn't strange either that he carried with him a set of Tarot cards. Several times people had done things like throw coins, or sticks, reading I-Ching or cards for us, but this was different. The guy said he wanted to do a reading for me... just one reading... but for me. He fasted a day and then sat down in the dome and laid out the cards. His reading said I would be imprisoned by the end of July for three months and that I would go through a very dark period for several months after that. However, he said that I would come through it all well enough. I don't remember much more about the reading but it turned out to be more than prescient... his reading was absolutely on target... down to the details of months and the depth of the journey. I disregarded it at the time but I would be able to digest his reading since then and am in awe of it. The tribulations of those times can be read about in A Time Ago and Then from the chapters following our experiences in Jamaica and the curse of Hoss Baz.

     I talked with Byron about leaving; about how my drinking was getting out of hand and that I felt I was being called to go to Jamaica. Byron agreed that I should go where the spirit takes me and that there was only so much room in New Mexico. I began planning with Stanley and Dennis to figure out how we were going to get there. I had applied for unemployment benefits when I first arrived at the mesa but I never followed through. It turned out that it was probably a good thing because, with those back checks, we had plenty to get us to Jamaica.

     There were five of us… Dennis would need no help because he would sell his little Hillman in Miami that we’d all crammed ourselves into for the trip across America. My checks paid the airfare for the rest of us. Two were turned back at customs so that made for three getting through to another adventure free wheeling through the mountains and seashores of what was then an island paradise. That was how we left Taos, New Mexico and, though I’d always planned on going back, I never returned. Dennis stayed in Jamaica while Stan and I made it back to Miami where my troubles had just begun. This was the place I entered under a mountain of despair described in Gilgamesh… the oldest account of suffering on record.

     This adventure took me through a couple of years wandering until I lit in Santa Barbara, California. Santa Brabara has been my home since then (except for a couple of years when I took a job facilitating prison arts at Vacaville for the Arts in Corrections Program) but I have found a spiritual vortex in this place almost equal to what I experienced in Taos.

Arroyo Hondo Incident

     Something happened after Magic Mary’s bash that must have unraveled me. I spent more and more time at the fire-pit at the parking lot and less time anywhere else. There was an almost constant quest for spare change enough to make a run down to Arroyo Hondo for a jug. It is hard to imagine how it was done because, after all, it was mostly a minus-cash economy. However, most often, someone came up with a little extra from whatever money they had coming in, or maybe a new arrival… a hippy tourist or two… I couldn’t have kept myself drunk all the time but, whenever I could, I was.

     Now, I gotta say something about Red Mountain wine. It had a twist-off cap… no cork sniffin’ here… It was sold in one gallon jugs that were to be tipped over to one's lips on the fore-arm and anchored with a finger through the ear. Burgundy was the usual fare and it cost a whopping $1.89. It was cheap and nourishing in a sad way. We passed the jug around that same as we would a joint in a communal manner but the most sanitary minded among us wiped the brim off with their sleeve before taking a toke. Sometimes a hit or two or ten of acid would spike it off on special occasions but most of the time it was consumed straight out of the jug.

     Someone, I don’t recall who, left a 1949 International Harvester flatbed truck in the parking lot and gave me the keys. I recon that whoever had the keys in their possession had ownership of the truck. It was perfect for hauling people into Taos or making runs down to Arroyo Hondo for a jug or two of Red Mountain. Many good intelligent people have no idea how to double clutch a stick shift truck and that was also a good deal of why I was given the keys.

      Most of the drinking was pretty non-violent but there were sometimes flare ups now and then. Once, a few of us had been sitting inside of one of the vans parked by the fire pit. I think we were probably getting ready to ride into Taos. One of the regulars was called Red for his red locks of hair braided and beaded. He was a Vet too, with some pretty heavy… walking time-bomb… Viet Nam War baggage… wearing a fringed deerskin jacket and a belt with a k-bar knife… he could be somewhat menacing. The van had a wood floor and, while we were waiting to get rolling, Red pulled out his knife and proceeded to flick it… sticking it to the floor… he did so deliberately getting closer and closer to some of us sitting cross legged in the cramped van. One flick put the knife between my knees, barely missing me. Though it was well aimed I was getting tirte of his intimidation and as soon as the knife stuck I went into automatic reflexive action flying across the van and with both hands around his neck U flattened him to the floor boards. “I don’t need a fucking knife to take you out Red... God damn you… now back off!”

     Red avoided me as much as he could after that incident and I too avoided making eye contact with him. But there was an evening when the us boyos were hanging out at the fire pit and we’d collected enough for a jug of wine. Gleefully, I headed down the winding dirt track from the mesa through the village on to the gas station/store where highway three cut through town. Down and back because of the road, I lumbered in the truck all the way up to the parking lot… it was about a forty-five minute trip. Passing the jug, unopened, across and over the fire pit, a spark popped up out of a stick like it was a spitting viper… it caught me on the forearm and I let go of the jug just as another hand almost grasped it. I’m telling ya, that damned jug went down to meet one of the stones around the pit to a bloodycrashingshardsaflyin’red-winesplashing end. Silence hung over those who saw it all happen like they were witness to the death of a dear one.

     The silence was broken with the first insult, “You fuckin’ fool… What are we gonna do now?”
Then Red said, without hesitation, “That one was for Mother Earth…Now, we’re gonna pool our cash for another one… that’s what were gonna do now.” He was referring to the custom we had borrowed from our Native Pueblo friends… even for the most hard core winos… to spill the first of a jug to the earth out of respect for Mama Earth.

     So, Red and I got back in the truck with enough cash for one jug from the group and another jug I got myself with money I had intended to use for a sack of pinto beans… oh well, food or wine… wine won the debate that night. I atoned for my crime well enough then and there were no hard feelings. That, the incident with ole Crewcut, and another one down at the saloon in Arroyo Hondo were the only occasions where anyone resorted to violence in any of the time I was there at the mesa in spite of all the drinking. 

     The showdown at the saloon was the other time I saw the naked face of violence threaten to undermine the ideal I’d hoped top find on the high plateau of Taos. One evening a bunch of us went down to the joint on the highway down in Arroyo Hondo. I don’t recall why but we all were hanging out in the bar and dancing to the juke box. The cowboys; and, what I suppose would be considered rednecks, sat in their booths watching us with evil eyes…. commenting snidely. Beatrice was there dancing with Willie… his Afro and skin color disturbed them greatly…. We could hear words like “nigger-lovers" and so on… I also remember that Linda and Joe with his braided jet-black Native hair called for some insults too… "white whore", "Injun" and etc. There had to be seven or eight of us… out-numbered the cowboys… but that didn’t stop them from commenting louder about how we smelled and how hard it was to discern whether or not we were girls or boys.

     It got a bit nasty so we all decided it would be best to leave after a few more cowboys entered the place. It was then, as we were leaving, that some pushing and shoving on the way to the truck called for some action. Joe got to the truck first and pulled out a tire iron and swung it in front of the most aggressive taunt-monger, holding him off until we got in the truck. They feared a wild “Injun” wielding iron enough that we were able to depart unscathed. The truck bounced and graveled up the road to the mesa with a tense crew looking back through the dust cloud to see if we were being followed. It was a the unashamed bias and racism that fueled the aggression and it was perhaps the first time I’d been exposed to the venom most people of color were quite sadly accustomed to. I was white-by conflicted... was I really non-violent or was I allowing myself to be protected by Willie and Joe?

Joan Baez and the Crewcut

     Hanging out at the dome we heard another car graveling its way toward us. This time it had a very unlikely couple: a young, long haired, kid with a middle-aged dude in a crew cut looking like a Nark or FBI. They stopped their rent-a-car at the dome and introduced themselves. We asked the kid about their situation and he told me that the guy was okay and that he’d rented the car in LA but just wanted to get away. I was suspicious about him but, what the hell, all kinds of folks ended up at Morningstar.

     The two pitched a little dome tent in front of the pueblo. A few days later a party of some sort was going on. I think it was a special occasion whereby we had been roasting a kid goat for it. There was plenty of wine and other stuff and this crew-cut dude got way outa hand. He was hitting on a dark haired woman and carrying on and I was also drunk and in no mood to put up with his antics… we almost went at it. Somehow we didn’t… I think it was Byron who broke us up. I was crushed out of shame for letting this guy evoke my old violent behavior. I made the connection with wine but felt powerless as far as doing anything about it. I felt that my sojourn at Morningstar was coming to an end and a renewed feeling of hopelessness had begun to seep into my conscience.

     The dark haired woman seemed oddly familiar. She comforted me after I apologized profusely and had been crying on her shoulder about my sudden outburst of violence. She assured me that it was okay what I'd done and that she thought I was a saint for doing so. As I was attracted to her and fed on her compassion, my interest perked up. She must have sensed my awakened libido so she told me she was married to a guy who was in prison for dodging the draft and that she was celibate until he would be released.. His name just happened to be David. I always wondered if it was… hmmm … naw… a coincidence? Taking advantage of my newly ordained sainthood and, being drunk and horny, I hit on her pretty heavy. However, my sainthood was disregarded and she rejected my advances. I will always wonder whether or not her name was Joan... as in Joan Baez. Really, had I been ordained a saint and rejected by Joan Baez?!!!

     The next day some of us, along with Magic Mary, decided we needed some pot and no one had any. Magic Mary said she knew someone in Ranch De Taos who had some but we needed transportation. Crewcut was very hungover but handed the keys of his rent-a-car to a go-getter named Dennis… one of the new guys staying at the kiva. So, four or five of us headed into town with Magic Mary and, as we passed through Taos, a cruiser got behind us and followed us all the way through town. We were finally pulled over in front of a bar. As Magic Mary was awaiting trial for the previous bust she wanted nothing to do with these cops. She was not so eager to be nailed for some minor offense. We had no idea how legit this rent-a-car was and had no idea who this Crewcut was. Anticipating the worst and, in the confusion of what was going on with some of us distracting and clowning with the cops, she asked to be excused to use the women’s room in the bar. I think it was Linda who was with us and she went to the restroom with Mary. She came back alone after about fifteen minutes. Mary had slipped out the back door but the cops seemed to be unconcerned about where she went or who she was. They were focused on the car. Dennis told them about the guy on the mesa and flat out asked the patrolman whether Crewcut was a Nark or something. It was kind of funny when I think back on it.

     After the cop checked on Dennis’ driver’s license, we were put in two squad cars to follow Dennis in the rent-a-car to the mesa. The cops just wanted to talk to the Crewcut to see if the car was rented by him. I suspected that there was more to it than that… was he an agent? Was he sent up to reconnoiter and find out what was going on up there? These things were common at Morningstar in California. Folks up on the mesa who’d come from there had endured worse and had the attitude… “let them check on us all they want.”

     We told the cops that they had to stay with their cars in the parking lot and that we would retrieve Crewcut for them. They obliged, much to my surprise. Regardless, once Crewcut was awakened from his hangover and checked out by the cops, they departed. Crewcut left soon after and the Kid stayed. I’ll never know exactly what that business was all about but I have my ideas.

    Dennis was an unusual character that I will have much more to do with soon.

The Tobacco Incident

     Shep was an interesting character. He had evidently been a speed freak before coming to Morningstar… his brain completely fried. At the oddest times he shouted out, “I’ll do the fixing, Jude!” It was like he had Tourette's syndrome. Other than his usual silence he was a friendly enough guy and didn’t stray too much from company. I just wondered what hell he had been through and hoped he could come out of it. I’m not sure where he came from or very much about him at all, but before he hooked up with Candy, he wandered around the mesa saying nothing much to anyone. He was much more communicative after that tryst.

    Other folks had their own quirks. One guy, who had a hogan on the other side of the mesa called himself “Strider” after a character from the Tolkien Trilogy. Once, right after a tremendous thunderstorm had passed over the mesa, he came dashing across to the A-frame exclaiming that he’d seen a UFO. I had watched the same thunderstorm and marveled over its power and beauty but had seen no such thing. But, like everyone else, I humored him to some degree but did not discount it as an authentic observation.

    At one point a pair of guys… brothers from the Dakotas or Nebraska, had shown up and planted an umbrella tent near the latrine and parking lot. They had been dodging the draft and claimed to be evading the FBI… cut off from their family. They had all the camp gear needed for such an adventure: Coleman lantern; air mattresses; Coleman stove; their tent was a luxury palace compared to the primitive conditions some of us had. I spent some time with them out of curiosity and the fact that their camp was between the goat pasture and the pueblo. They told me about how their dad disowned them and before that had confessed that when he saw hippies hitchhiking he had to resist the temptation to swerve his car to run them down. After hearing that, whenever I hitchhiked  I paid more attention to approaching vehicles.

    Then there was a woman everyone called Magic Mary. Magic Mary lived in an adobe at the side of the highway on the outskirts of Taos. She was a forty-something artist who hosted a celebration of her birthday. Almost every one, including freeloaders like me, had convened at her place. There was plenty of Red Mountain and acid around for all of us. It was an all day and all-night affair that was accompanied by musicians at times and a stereo with a collection of record albums playing full blast otherwise. I’m not even sure whether or not all of us were welcome when I think back on it.

    Magic Mary had been recently busted... a U-Haul truck loaded with bails of marijuana… she, and her husband had been arraigned and she was out on bail awaiting trial. He was still locked up. This might have been a source of tension but it only showed itself once that I can recall. There were several of us who had dropped a considerable amount of acid and were sitting in a room tripping to the stereo when a man came into the room sniffing and gesturing… “Does anyone smell gas?” sniffing some more… “No kidding, I smell gas.”

     The power of suggestion maybe… we were all tripping… some agreed, “Yes, I smell gas!” and hastily left the room… others just sat on the floor and couch sniffing… agreeing and disagreeing… what was this guy up to? I sniffed, smelling nothing but the smell of pot everywhere… then that smell turned to the odor of gas… then back to pot… what was it? I was about to get off my ass and leave the room just in case when someone lit a match, “Look we would all be dead now if it was gas!” he declared.

    Any time I was offered a hit of acid, I took it. I’m not sure now how many I dropped but it was over a dozen… plus what was already in the Red Mountain. I was so very fucked up. I had a pouch of tobacco that one of the women hit me up to roll one. It just happened that I had previously insulted her a few days before back at the dome… I thought it to be nothing and, truthfully, I thought I was just making a joke… at least I thought it was funny. I don’t remember the joke at all but I do remember that I had used the "C" word. She had rightfully taken offense at whatever I said and harbored such resentment that she refused to return the pouch and papers after she rolled one. Tripping my brains out, I decided that I had been wrong but that she would have to give me my tobacco back. We hounded each other for what seemed like hours and, only after a complete act of contrition on my part, did she return the pouch… albeit, half gone. I have never made an off color joke demeaning women since then and have a hard time even writing the “C” word to this day. These things seem trivial but made a hell of an impression on my acid drenched brain.

     The party at Magic Mary’s broke up long after I had left. Arroyo Hondo is eleven miles north of Taos but I considered walking just to get out of the madness in there or in my head... which is which! Someone offered me a ride on the back of a flat bed truck and I rolled around there all the way to the mesa. I know I had to be pretty damned blasted from all the Red Mountain spiked with acid but to tell the truth I don’t think I got near as high on all of that as I did from the few bites off  peyote buttons previous to that… something about alcohol and LSD… just plain don’t mix. Wine simply flattens the... takes the edge off acid and what is the use in that?

The Eyes of Hoover

The Easter Peyote Ceremony and Vision Quest impacted me in ways that were not at all mysterious, given the circumstances. However, much of what occurred, the coincidences and serendipity of several of the encounters, still give me cause to wonder.  After that sometimes I hung out down at the Dome with the Georgia Peaches and Stanley. This had more to do with it being warm and a good place to shoot the shit and relax than curiosity about the novelty of the threesome they had goin’ on. There were also projects on the mesa that I involved myself in. The community got together to put up a sturdy chicken coup. The bobcats, coyotes, and mountain lions had to be kept away from the chickens and some control over the laying hens had to be established. As in everything else the leadership was more or less invisible… or barely visible.

     Sound carried so well that any vehicle coming up towards us on the gravel road could be heard far in advance from the mesa and even down in the draw where the dome was on the road below. On one such afternoon the gravelling of tires alerted the four of us as we stood by the road to see who it might be. A young paranoid speed freak named Shep had been watching from a point on the mesa and came running down to us a few minutes ahead of the car warning that it was a sedan like kind the Feds use. I wasn’t sure what we were supposed to do about it if it were the Feds. Shep dashed up to the mesa and left us wondering. Stan and the girls went inside the Dome but I stayed out front just to see. The sedan pulled off the road in front of the Dome. Two, crew-cut-six-foot-plus-suites in their thirties got out of the sedan. I couldn’t help but notice the spit-shine on their shoes getting dusty. One of them held a binder and approached while the other flashed a badge from his wallet.

     “FBI: Do you live here?” The man with the badge asked the obvious. I wanted to say no but thought better of it.

     Stan opened the door enough to see what was going on but was not going to let them in the Dome.

     “I live here… what do you want?”

     “We just need you to check out some pictures and tell us whether you’ve seen any of these people here.” The agent with the binder said it in such a way that I could see he wasn’t asking for cooperation, he was ordering it.

     Stan was going to close the door right then and there but I answered first, “Sure, won’t hurt anything.” I had caught a glimpse of some of the pictures and those pictures were like high school year-book pictures. I knew I could honestly say I hadn’t seen any of these folks because this was a collection of clean-cut suburban white boys and girls in letter jackets and glee club sweaters: a world apart from anyone now on the mesa.

     The agent paused on each page as I looked at the pictures, hoping not to recognize anyone. As the pages were flipped I did recognize one girl who had arrived only a few days before. I think she called herself Candy. Under her photo was her real name and birthday... 1957! She had paired up with Shep, coincidently, and I knew she was very young. This birthday put her at around thirteen. Shep was only about fifteen or sixteen himself… but the girl was … well, jail-bait. When I first saw her at the kiva I was sure she was very young… but thirteen! I did have mixed feelings about it. So many run-away kids were on the streets in those days that a thirteen year old girl with a young kid hardly turned a head.

     The agent caught me hesitating at her picture and I knew it. I would have to bluff my way out of it if I was going to trip-up this guy. I wished I could get to Shep to warn him but decided to simply shrug my shoulders, “Naw, nothing here… haven’t seen any of ‘em.”

     “Are you sure, now?” The agent wasn’t buying it. “You know it is a federal crime of perjury to obstruct a federal investigation. Any statement you make is subject to Federal Law.”

     That did it, “You know, none of these kids look anything like these picture now. If I were looking straight at someone I grew up with I couldn’t recognize them.” I took a deep breath and made like I knew what I was talking about; “Now, this is private property and you are wearing out your welcome… good-bye, sir.”
  
    I was a little surprised when the Feds turned their sedan around and went the other way. I was expecting them to put me in cuffs and plow further onto the property. I took the same shortcut to the top of the mesa that Shep had taken before the Feds arrived.

    I found Shep and Candy in front of the Kiva and warned them that the FBI had Candy’s picture in their folder. Shep then told me that her dad is the chief of police in her home town back in Florida. Candy couldn’t pass herself off as eighteen so they stayed out of sight from then on. I wished them well but, when I think of it now, I wonder about all the kids who’d left their homes… their mothers and fathers… brothers and sisters… who had escaped to the streets. Though she was relatively safe at Morningstar, the streets were pretty vicious for anyone that young. I don’t know how the others felt about it but I still harbor some guilt that I helped to cover for her and Shep. I didn’t want to see him go to some juvenile joint and I didn’t want to see her returned to what could have been an abusive home. Who knows now what I could have done. The times were very different back in those days and it never occurred to me then… what? I still don’t know.