The Golden Rulers

   I stayed at the kiva and hiked around the mesa’s perimeter… on down far enough away to forage for wood. The area nearest the pueblo was pretty much picked clean of any fallen wood so one had to go further away to gather windfalls, dry branches and twigs. Firewood was always needed as it was winter and everyone burned wood. Those drums, small and large, were very efficient and needed very little wood to heat up a space and cook with. There were prickly pear cactus, sage brush and piñón trees all around the mesa for foraging. The high chaparral was something new and magical even though it was winter and the months of dormancy had hidden the glory of most the plant life.

   The kiva’s little transient group spent most of the cold days hunkered down… talking, reading, playing instruments and tripping. Somehow, it seems now, there was always a hit or two of acid or chillum of pot to smoke. One of us, Shep, was but a kid… burnt-out speed-freak. He had a good heart but there were times he’d space out and shout, “I’ll do the fixing, Jude!”  God only knows what agony of despair he was going through most of the time. Others would talk about their experiences with super-natural; or political beliefs and what they hoped for in life. Overall it was positive even though at times we got on each other’s nerves. I was there about a week when I came down with a bug that had me curled up on the top tier of the kiva in my bag sweating out a fever that had floored me.

   The fever and chills… weakness… so weak I could barely climb out to piss and shit. I thought it was the end for me. In the midst of the fever I though I was dreaming when Jason, a wild looking mountain man with braided blond hair, woke me. He held a plate of blue stuff and a jar of some kind of hot tea: roasted blue cornmeal and honey. “Eat it; it will break your fever.”

    I pulled up some of the concoction on a large spoon to my mouth and believed what Jason had said. As the sweet mixture was washed down with cautious sips of the tea, I felt as though I would be okay (I think it might have been Mormon Tea). Furthermore, my heart was touched because I didn’t even know Jason but he still nursed me with his concoction. Of course, my mind went back to its usual skeptical self as soon as he left but I fell into a deep slumber awaking only until the next day. I got out of my bag feeling well enough to climb out of the kiva to thank Jason. He had gone back to his place down of the Rio Hondo.

   After that I felt as though I ought to get out of the kiva and make my own space. There was an empty improvised wikiup available (made the usual way with a circle of bent saplings, tied together into a dome, leaving a hole at the top for the smoke of the fire-pit in the center). It must have been too leaky for its former occupant because an attempt to seal it with concrete dipped burlap draped over it made for a somewhat ugly piece of work. Still, I could make myself a little more independent there and, after I made it home, a few others from the kiva moved in with me. I wasn’t too happy about that but the spirit there was one of open sharing and my heart couldn’t go against that current.

   I would, during my time in the kiva, and at the community meeting place… the grain grinder in the pueblo’s triangle plaza, learn more about what Morningstar was about from casual conversations. My skepticism had me wondering exactly who the leaders of the community were. I knew that it was an egalitarian commune but I thought that there must be some leaders, elected or not, to organize things… like building the kiva and pueblo. I heard the theory but couldn’t believe Morningstar could survive without some sort of leadership, or council, to see that the needs of the community would be met. Whenever I’d ask anyone, a smirky-smile and perhaps, a short explanation that Love was the leadership, and that the only rule was the Golden Rule, was all I got for an answer.

   None of the people I met talked about a philosophical war going on between Morningstar and the other occupants of the property, The Reality Construction Company. There was a war however because of the huge abyss of thought behind the two communes. Reality Construction folks had an organized and closed commune based on certain Anarchic-Marxist principles fused with a post-apocalypse withdrawal from society in general. The friction between the two was most likely based on a sneering tolerance of the supposed hippy-dippy free-love naivety of Morningstar. Time would prove out which ideal would last. I have no idea but it would seem most probable that a fusion of the two would eventually prevail. As an experiment, however, I believe in my heart that the Morningstar principle would be the bolder and more experimental in the long run. Innovation thrives in the open and tyranny grows like a mold in the dark.

   Conversations by the fireside… cooking over an open fire in the wikiup… curled up in my bag around the fire pit: those were sweet nights I will always hold dear to my heart. I was alone but happy. I was alone but loosely connected to the commune at the grain grinder. After a time I saw that a little A-frame in the goat pasture was uninhabited. It was slightly larger than a pup-tent… more than adequate for one person but two could sleep there comfortably. A small fireplace at one end … only big enough for twigs to burn was plenty to heat the space. A fire pit outside in front was good for cooking. Some nights I would be lulled to sleep with my head out the door to watch the parade of stars over the mesa.... so bright they alone were enough to light up the pasture. Others nights I read by the light of a kerosene lamp. Kerosene lamps were good enough for reading if the chimney was kept clean and the wick trimmed. I haven’t had such a cozy hut since then.

   I have to mention the goats. Charley Goat was the Alpha Goat of the herd. He made sure anyone entering the pasture knew it too. Often times he’s come up to me with his head bent inviting me to a pushing contest. Putting a hand on his forehead between his horns would be enough of a challenge to begin a long and losing proposition that ended only when I’d find a place to exit the fenced pasture working my way to the gate. To give up would be a hazardous alternative because that would only give Charley a chance to charge with a full on head butt.

   The first night I stayed in the A-frame, I awoke to a thump-clump on the roof. I peered out the door to see Charlie perched on top. I suppose he was making sure I knew in uncertain terms that he was the king of the mountain. Charlie spent his days guarding his harem and I admired his protective persistence. He allowed few to get near the other goats except for one of the women (I think it was Pam) from the pueblo who came out to milk them.

Escape to Paradise

    Having had that mountain-top experience I hungered to find people to share it with. After I was discharged I hung out in North Beach selling underground rags, the Berkeley Barb, and so on at the hub of Grant and Broadway or down the street in front of the topless bars. It gave me enough money to eat and enough contact with others but the scene in San Francisco was going to the dogs… street dogs, runaways, heroine addicts, speed freaks and those who preyed on them. The psychedelic revolution I’d hoped to become a part of had moved elsewhere and I had almost given up hope when the Rolling Stones came to Altamont Speedway. That gathering turned out to be a fiasco almost directly opposite of Woodstock… it was touted as Woodstock West but I saw the whole thing through the lens of LSD and it was not anything I wanted to have anything to do with. I stayed on there with a rag-tag group that had been foraging for whatever was left in the field… at first it was sandwiches and pot… later we were the clean-up crew and lived in the race track tower. My experience there is covered with detail in A Time Ago and Then published as an E-book in Smashwords.com.

      I left there for Hollywood to see what that scene was about but it was decaying faster than San Francisco. It was depressing and, when word got out that there was a Free Land movement in Taos New Mexico, my road-dog buddy, Norman, and I put our thumbs-out. I was introduced to the magic of New Mexico on a ride that picked us up at a corner we stood at for hours. A woman in her forties (which was an ancient age to us then) told us of the mystery and power of the landscape. She had been a Black Jack dealer in Vegas who one day packed up and moved to Questa. She was familiar with the communes in Taos and encouraged us to find one we liked and explained the history and philosophy of each that she knew of.

     I wish I could remember that wonder woman’s name, I think it was Maggie, but time has clouded the old muscle between my ears. I do remember being dazzled by her spiritual awareness as she drove that Volkswagen bus, weaving back and forth over the center line, gesturing with abandon and shouting over the rattle of the engine so affectionately, the sights and history we passed through.
We came to Taos where she had friends that were mostly musicians. I have no idea where it was or who the house belonged to but we sat and talked, played music into the night as a pipe was passed around, into the late hours of the night to the light of a small kerosene lantern common everywhere. There was no electricity and flatbread was cooked on the top of a fifty-gallon drum made into a wood-burning stove. Those drums would be common everywhere.
 
     One of these folks explained that New Buffalo and Morningstar were the closest and most open communes. However, New Buffalo, being the first communed in the region, was pretty much full up and harder to get into. It was explained that Morningstar and the Reality Construction Company were on the same property owned by Michael Duncan and were close by. Of the two, Morningstar was friendliest to newcomers and allowed anyone to join.... if that is the right word ... it was more like welcomed in. There was no visible leadership and the only rule was Love. It sounded like the kind of place I needed to air out because I had enough of authority in the Navy… street corner gurus, cultish Christian preachers and manipulators of every sort in Hollywood. The whole bit about Charlie Manson had gone down already by then and the wild chaos and disappointment at Altamont had sucked my soul dry of what little hope I still desperately held on to. I just had to check it out. It sounded like the vision I had for my future on the beach in Waikiki. Could it be fulfilled here? Could I find honesty and love in such a community? If there was hope, could I find it at Morningstar?

     We woke with sunrise and headed eleven miles north to Arroyo Hondo. Maggie knew the history of the town and how the Mexican and native rebellion shed blood in this little town a hundred years before: How mountain men like Kit Carson and others were part of battles in Arroyo Hondo and Taos: how the rebel leaders were all hanged after the army defeated them. She briefly told us about it all as the Volkswagen passed the general store, church and homes on the only street that headed towards a mesa beyond the town. A dirt road led us up a winding path held to the sides of an arroyo switching from one side to the other passing a geodesic dome and climbed up a series of S-curves to the top where a parking lot with a few vehicles were parked. This was as far on the mesa as any motor vehicles were allowed.

     At the parking lot was a fire-pit with a few scrubby looking men sat passing a jug of wine. One of the fireside fellows hit us up for spare change towards another jug. I had a few quarters and dimes on me and gave them a couple. I took a hit off the jug but I can’t remember much other than what some of these guys looked like: no names come to mind. Maggie led us across the field to a newly constructed pueblo.

     The buildings were arranged in a triangle and each held three or four living spaces. We went to the first that was occupied by Little Joe and Kathie. Little Joe was a trimly built native with long black braids and Kathie was a petite reddish-blond haired woman with bright blue green eyes. They knew Maggie and greeted us warmly. After a few friendly minutes Little Joe showed us the Kiva, a round hogan building with adobe bricks a couple feet up from the ground around a pit with two tiers and a floor. Another fifty-gallon drum burned wood to heat it. Though there were portholes of light from windows made of wine bottles set into the adobe it was dark and only shadows of people could be seen until my eyes adjusted to it. This was where transients were able to have shelter temporarily as a kiva is usually a ceremonial structure and not used as a dwelling.

     I put my gear down and, after getting to know some of the folks, I climbed out the hole in the center of the roof on a pole with steps carved into it for a ladder. I could see that the pole wasn’t a support for the timbers that radiated over the space below. The ends of timbers around the hole we climbed out of were notched; one was placed on top of the other so that the simplicity and strength of it was in their mutual support. I had never seen anything like it. To me it symbolized what communal living would be about. I was anxious to see how true this was and, when I was told by Jason how they had all worked together to put those timbers in place standing under them in faith that they wouldn’t be crushed if it failed as each let go of their end… what a wonder!

     Norm said he was going to keep going with Maggie and I understood. We’d had some adventures together and I had grown fond of him but I was glad he’d found a companion in Maggie. The Volkswagen left down the grade and that was the last I’d seen of either of them. So there I was, alone and on the plateau of another adventure that would affect my outlook on life from that day on.

     The next days holed up in the kiva were interesting enough; the people I met there and all, but I needed to get out on my own. There was one place on the side of the small arroyo near the pueblo that a couple lived that was also built into the ground with adobe bricks a few feet high having only a piece of cloth for a door. It was incredibly cozy and warm. It was clear to me that these people had accomplished much and had done some amazing work the summer before. They were all hunkered down for the winter but I understood that they had labored hard for their dream. Could I make their dream my own? Could I become a part of that dream? I hoped so.

    

Conception

My time at Morningstar in New Mexico was a short but powerful one that was well-spent. I was young, in my early twenties then, and so were the others on the mesa. I don’t recall anyone over thirty but there might have been. The prism of time distorts the memory but it was in trying to sort out the who, whats, and whens of that period when I wrote the novel, A Time Ago and Then. In doing so I became curious about the people and the place that was so crucial to who I was to become. I have retained the vision, and the compassion, of that group of young people whose creative vision put together such a remarkably courageous attempt at communal living and that memory is still with me today, even though I have moved on.

   I wrote the novel as a fiction and it didn’t occur to me to even consider going to the internet for research then. I was recalling that experience as I’d seen it without any outside input. I have no regrets about that because most of what I had written was true to the facts with only a few adventures exaggerated or completely made-up in the interest of telling a story over any factual considerations. After I had written it, however, I searched for pictures on the internet for the adobe pueblo and fantastic kiva to no avail. Plenty of New Buffalo but very few of the mesa on the other side of Arroyo Hondo. I wanted so badly to refresh my memory of the buildings these people had put together and to see pictures of the people that I had once been so fond of. I assumed that, because I am getting older that some of these people were getting on in years too, my chance of making contact with any of them was getting shorter as time takes its toll.

  
 I did find a website, the Morningstar Scrapbook, which had much of the history of the commune’s battles with Sonoma County and some of the people who’d founded Morningstar East in Taos New Mexico. After leaving a comment on Ramon’s site he'd passed it on to Pam Hanna because I’d mentioned the amazing roof of the pueblo’s kiva. Pam was the mate of Larry Read who’d come up with the design and made it happen. I let Pam know that my fictionalized version of Morningstar was based on my experience there but that, since it, A Time Ago and Then, is fiction some of it, while truthful, is not factual. Pam expressed that her reticence about fictionalized versions of Morningstar was caused by T.C. Boyle’s use of “narrative skill to malign, characterize & misrepresent us”. I am happy to have her blessing and this inspires me further to call this memoir a Morningstar Romance. It will have insights about the place and the people I met on that plateau of my own experience in Taos and I hope to be as honest and clear about my own experience there and little more.

The Journey Begins:

     I had just gotten out of the US Navy in the fall of 1969 and wanted so badly to become involved in the San Francisco scene that I had left four years before. My experience in the Navy was mild compared to those who’d been sent to the front in Viet Nam but it was a miserable four years of a moral compromise nonetheless. My first psychedelic “trip” had been taken while attached to the Medical Holding Company on Ford Island in Pearl Harbor after recovering from a broken back and awaiting my discharge. I was on the beach in Waikiki where I had gone through a powerful eye-opening spiritual transformation.

     Every lie I had ever told…lived… or otherwise convinced myself of, was revealed in stark detail. This was not a disturbing revelation because, after ceding to this spiritual void I had been living in, I was able to transcend guilt and shame to actually see a harmony and sense to it all… whatever “it all” was. It was one of those mountain-top experiences that so many people had undergone via the vehicle of LSD, peyote or psilocybin. I saw my alcoholism as a a silly obsession… a diversion… a clouding… that kept me from living fully in the light of what I understood to be God… the creative energy… the Heart of Compassion… that was The Reality. It was more akin being able to see music… every note of an orchestra in the rhythms and harmony… colors and forms… patterns really… than it was a vision of God but I saw God in “it all”.