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.
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