Magic Maya and forces from beyond (pt.1)

Easter and the Easter Peyote Ceremony 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 gives me cause to wonder. 

I spent time with the goats but I also spent time down at the Dome with the girls and Stanley. This had to do with it being warm, and a good place to shoot the shit and relax, along with a bit of curiosity about the novelty of their threesome.

I involved myself in projects getting going on the mesa. The community got together and put up a sturdy chicken coup for some control over the laying hens and to protect them from The bobcats, coyotes, and mountain lions, that had to be kept away from the chickens. As in everything else the leadership was more or less invisible… or barely visible.

Before night fell, or during a break in the afternoon, I hung out at the Dome before going back up on the mesa to the goat pasture. On one such afternoon, we could hear a vehicle from a distance coming towards us on the gravel road. Visitors were few so the graveling of tires alerted all four of us to see who it might. We were expecting, perhaps, some more hippie tourists. We stood by the road . An ex-speed-freak, who called himself Shep, came running up to us from where he’d been watching the road from his freakin-post at the point of the mesa facing the valley. From this vantage, the panorama of the whole Arroyo Hondo village to the Rio Grande was spread out before him and that helped to salve his paranoia.

I wasn’t sure what we were supposed to do about it even though Shep's paranoia was sometimes right, more often than not, in fact. Shep dashed up the hill to warn the others on 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, men in their thirties wearing suites got out of the sedan. I couldn’t help but notice the spit-shine on their shoes getting dusty. Dust was everywhere and caked everything on the road to us. One of them held a binder and approached while the other flashed a badge.

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

“Well, up the hill… but not here.”

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 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 but I answered first, “Sure, won’t hurt anything.” I'd caught a glimpse of some of the pictures and those pictures were not unlike 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 on the mesa.

The agent paused on each page. I looked at the pictures, hoping not to recognize anyone on one hand, but thinking of how I could warn whoever it was if I did spot a fugitive from justice, on the other. As the pages were flipped I did recognize one girl, Candy, who had arrived only a few days before. Under her photo was her birthday; May something, 1957. She had paired up with Shep, coincidentally, 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, nowhere near ripe. I had mixed feelings about it. So many run-away kids were on the streets in those days that a thirteen year old girl with a sixteen year old guy 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 to obstruct a federal investigation?”

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, Sir, and you've worn-out your welcome… good-bye.”

I was a little surprised when the Feds got back in their sedan, turned it around and went the other way towards the gate as commanded. I was expecting them to arrest me for obstruction of injustice 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. When I got to the Pueblo everyone was already gathered together listening to Shep.

“What did they want?” Brian asked.

“Just showed me some pictures. I didn’t recognize anyone…” I added, “You know, high school yearbook pictures.”

 Brian looked at Shep and Candy… “Well, anytime some radical bombs a bank in Ann Arbor they send up some agents the next day to see if we have any mad bombers in hiding. If anyone has any warrants or is on the lam, it might be a good idea to stay out of sight a few weeks.”

Shep came to me with Candy in tow afterwards. “What should we do? I know they’re here looking for Candy.”

“What makes you say so?” I could understand the paranoia but the urgency with which Shep asked was not easily dismissed.

 Shep eyes were darting back and forth and he was looking over his shoulder as though the government sedan might be pulling up at any time. He whispered, “Her dad is the chief of police in her home town.”

“Whew!” I didn’t want to seem overly alarmed but Candy’s picture was in the binder and I had a strong feeling Shep’s paranoia was well founded in this case. I asked, “How old are you, Candy?”

Candy hesitated but let out the usual lie… “I’m eighteen.”

“You know that Shep can be in deep shit if you are not telling the truth?” 

I felt uncomfortable thinking about her age and rechecked the math in my mind. She could have passed for a very young looking sixteen but eighteen was stretching it more than a bit.

Shep offered, “Maybe we’ll just hike up to the creek and camp out a few days until this blows over.” 

Chapter 13. The Easter Ceremony

There was plenty to be flipped about as the Easter Peyote Ceremony was in preparation and the whole area beyond the Risingstar commune was involved in it. I had never thought of peyote as being anything but a drug like synthetic psilocybin, mescaline or LSD. The trip to and back from Laredo gave me an insight into the spirituality of them as medicine. As I talked with Mason and Marcos, I also thought about the implications of my casual attitude towards the spirit world. Respect that bordered on awe was evoked.

On the trip back, Marcos looked at me as though he’d read my mind and said, “Ride with it… don’t resist it.”

The customary ritual of the Peyote Ceremony broke from the Native American Church’s tradition not only in that white people were to be the principle participants but that women were also going to be allowed to participate in the tent. Traditionally, women prepare the breakfast for the men who participate. In this case the ceremony would have one guide from the Taos Pueblo to make sure the ceremony was conducted in accordance with ritual tradition although he would have no role in the observance itself. Still, many women preferred not to attend; but to prepare and serve the breakfast instead. Though some of the prayers would be in the native language most of the prayers were to be in English so that all in attendance would be able to participate.

I fasted three days prior to the ceremony and was happy to find that fasting was not all that difficult for me. Getting up at first light, I drank a tea from sage or juniper but after that the thought of food was mostly a habitual urge and easily dismissed. As the evening approached my enthusiasm grew.

The tepee filled as people filed in before sunset. I took a seat on the right side facing the door. Brian, who was the eldest of the folks at Risingstar, sat at the head, opposite the door and behind the Peyote Chief that was placed in the center of a mound. The mound was a crescent whose arc appeared that side of the fire pit. Marcos, as Roadman, sat on his left and Samuel’s woman, Sandra, sat on his right. She was the natural for her size alone but her matronly carriage commended her for the leadership role of the women and I supposed that is why she merited the honored seating.

Brian explained, with a few comments from Marcos, how the ceremony was to proceed and the roles of each facilitator. Mason was the Fireman whose duty was to oversee, not only the fire, but also tended the door flap and seating arrangement. Mason stacked sticks for the fire in a V, pointing to the Peyote Chief on the crescent mound away from the door.

Brian started things off with a prayer in Native language accompanied by Marcos; whereby they beat the drum in a steady unvaried beat as they chanted. When they had made their invocation with a prayer cigarette, Bull Durham wrapped in a dried corn husk, the drum was passed. The beat of the drum was also carried by the Thunder Stick. The Thunder Stick was a walking-stick adorned with feathers and a string of bells wrapped the length of it. It was held vertical and pounded the ground, chinging the bells, to a steady rhythm of chinga-chinga-chinga along with the drum. The affect was quite hypnotic as these instruments were passed with each person offering an introductory prayer. I wondered when we would eat the peyote. My mind fixated on the large bowl with peyote medicine cut up in it just sitting there. A bowl of peyote tea with gourd ladle preceded it. I soon forgot about it as the prayers and the beat reverberated in my head, replacing almost all anxieties and concern for when in the hell we were ever going to get high. These sounds reverberated steadily via the drum, the chants, and the thunder stick, for at least an hour before I realized that I was high already and I hadn’t eaten any peyote yet.

There were prayers for healing; there were prayers for prosperity; there were prayers for spiritual guidance; and there were prayers for any and everything. Some prayed to the “Great Spirit”; some Prayed to Jesus; some prayed to no one in particular, and another hour passed. After the prayers and the drums made a complete circuit of the tepee, the tea was passed. The drum, the Thunder Stick, and the prayers, continued as the tea and medicine were passed. Mason placed more sticks on the fire. I noticed the arrangement of the sticks in a “V”, the crescent mound, the peyote Chief, took on the resemblance of drawings I’d seen of a Thunderbird.

One fellow, David, who had been staying in the kiva, was known for his Bible thumping. When the bowl with the tea got to him he stood and, holding a Bible open in front of him, he began preaching; “Satan is in the drum. Satan is in the bells.”

The drum and the Thunder Stick stopped.

“Satan is in the Tea. Satan is in the Peyote. There is no chief but Jesus. There is no salvation but in the Lord. You are all damned to hell unless you repent!” and he went past Mason out the door…

Perhaps he’s expecting us to follow him out the door or sacrifice him to pagan gods? I thought.

Marcos’ eyes had a look of grave concern.

Mason asked, “Can we continue with the integrity of the circle broken?”

Marcos nodded.

Brian’s eyes followed suit, then he lifted his gaze and spoke, “Grand Father, we thank you.”

The drums and the Thunder Stick started up again.

A bucket also followed the bowls of medicine and tea for vomit. Mason made sure everyone was able to have the bucket in an unplanned but beautifully choreographed ballet.

The rhythmic circle spiraled higher but it came to a dead stop as the flap of the door opened to a tall dark man with a lever-action Winchester rifle decorated with painted patterns and adorned with beads. Once more, the drum stopped, the thunder-stick’s chinga stopped. It was so incongruous that I felt a tinge of foreboding after the business of the last interruption still fresh on everyone’s mind. Was he sent as an angel of death?

Brian spoke, “Welcome, Angelo.”

Angelo didn’t answer. His intense gaze went around the tepee. He locked eyes with each person… one by one. I was curious as my eyes met Angelo’s.

He spoke, “Playin’ cowboys and Indians, eh?” He then departed out the door without another word.

Mason grinned: “This Bodhisattva moment has been brought to us by the Cosmic Construction Company.”

And the drum picked up where it left off. The distractions of the Bible Thumper and the Bodhisattva interruption melded into the vibration and reverberation of the constant drum beat.

I had expected some sort of wild hallucinations and was eager to lose control and would allow the spirit of peyote to take me, ala Castenada, where it willed. However, there were no Don Juan, malevolent or benevolent, spirit type visitations for me. I halfway expected to find myself naked, wandering the mesa, babbling incoherent revelations from on high. But what I got was an increasing clarity with each chant and a transcendent love for the participants in the tipi. The first light of morning came as Mason scattered the ashes in the fire pit and Brian led an invocation ending the meeting.

I stepped out into the dawn of the day; a special marriage of earth on my bare feet greeted me simultaneously with sweetness in the air that I could taste. Over at the Pueblo, tables had been prepared with bowls of roasted blue-cornmeal and honey, which served to break our fast. Prickly-pear fruit and pinion nuts greeted my taste buds but I had very little appetite for food. The sunrise colors across the sky radiated as the light changed. It was mostly a revelation of love like nothing I’d ever felt before. It was universal.

I saw the Bible Thumper, David, and I loved him and his agitation. David was busying himself with haranguing the women serving the breakfast as I approached him asking, “Tell me about Jesus.”

“You ate the peyote?” David queried.

“Yes.”

“You must repent of this idolatry,” David hardly paused.

“Tell me about Jesus,” I asked again.

“There is nothing but Hell and damnation ahead for you unless you turn away from this paganism and accept Jesus into your heart.”

I was drawing David away from the tables and but this was not my intention. I had no intention. I loved David in that moment and wanted David to know he was loved and appreciated. “Tell me about Jesus.”

“You know about Jesus. Don’t tempt the Lord your God,” David answered bitterly.

At least he recognized the question, I thought. We were walking away from the Pueblo now and towards the goat pasture, far away from the tables. The women were no longer being harassed.

“It makes no difference what I know about Jesus. I don’t know what you know… so, tell me what you know about Jesus.” Holy bullshit! I thought; this guy is stalling and very probably knows nothing about the God he so sorely wishes us to fear.

Charlie sauntered over to David and David put his hand out to scruff Charlie’s head between the horns. Charlie gave a push and David pushed back… Big mistake… Out of love, I might have warned him but I knew David wouldn’t listen anyway. Charlie pushed back bowing his head down and putting some weight behind with all four legs planted firmly to the earth.

“I know God loves you….unnngggh!” he was leaning into Charlie with all he had. Charlie hadn’t even begun yet. “So much that he gave his only S…. s… son of a bitch!” and Charlie gave him a thrust sending Davis back… “Call him off, damn you! How do you get this fucker to back off!” He shouted out his despair.

“You don’t,” I answered, knowing full well that poor David couldn’t surrender. Charlie wouldn’t have it under any circumstance, “Sorry, David, you’re in it for the duration.”

“The duration of what?”

“Step aside and let go as fast as you can and run like hell to the fence!”

David did just that… Charlie lunged past where David was standing but David was too slow getting to the fence. Charlie was right there behind him lowering his head and putting his horns to good effect, lifting David, and his Holy Bible, over and out of the yard by at least ten feet. David never followed me out to the goat pasture after that day.

Chapter 12. Easter Peyote Hunt

I found comfort in the solitude of the goat pasture. I had plenty of time to reflect on what it was that had happened when Sunflower showed up that day. The fact that she moved on meant something to me too. I didn’t know what it meant but I knew it meant something to digest about love, relationships, and my spirit, she saw as large, shrinking because I had been grasping to appease the loneliness of that same spirit. She saw it and loved me for it. Why couldn’t I?

I spent my time exploring the arroyos and mesas around the property and venturing up the road to Arroyo Seco, the village on the way up to the Taos Ski area. Arroyo Seco was more than a stop for skiers. It had an old hacienda style house where there was an art school. I’d spent a few days watching artisans throw pots on a wheel or making equally precise and beautiful pots with a coil technique smoothed over and burnished the way pots have been made for millennia before the wheel.

I had always wanted to study art and learn some of these techniques but I knew it would take a considerable commitment in time and discipline that I would have to try at a later date.

I knew I was on a quest. I wasn’t sure what it was a quest for either but I sensed that this quest had some further exploring to do before settling in to any demanding discipline. I simply understood that there was no rush and that if I didn’t get it in this lifetime perhaps the next one would do it for me. I love you Sunflower.

Down at the Dome, Stan and the girls had quite a thing going for them. The three of them were a tandem team and Stan always had a shit-eating grin on his face. He had completed his mission in life and there was nothing else for him to do but enjoy the blessings of the day. I went down occasionally to visit. The Dome had a fifty-gallon-drum wood-burning stove like the kiva. The bed was situated on a loft built about eight feet above. Hot air rises so it didn’t take much to heat the loft. However, to visit the place, it was colder below the loft. Visitors were more comfortable climbing up into the loft and sharing the bed. It was an especially cozy arrangement conducive to all kinds of hanky-panky if that was the inclination. However, I had little desire beyond curiosity to try much of anything, even though I was invited to. It was apparent that Stan had sewn up that threesome and, as far as Deborah and Leah were concerned, that was it… they loved Stan and Stan was young enough, with libido enough, to handle it.

Occasionally Stan would show up at the A-frame to chat a spell, or just plain take a breather, but he nevertheless seemed to have his mind back there at the Dome.

I was curious whether such an arrangement was one that could be sustained. I had to ask, “So, how’s it going with the girls, Stan,”

“Man, you wouldn’t believe it.” he groaned.

I had to laugh at the sheepish look on Stan’s mug, “You holding-up okay, pal?” 

“Well, the first few nights were one big fuck-fest but we have settled into a routine. These girls are twisted, man.” There was barely a hint of complaining… it was more of a simple realistic appraisal.

I goaded, “Ain’t your pecker raw?”

Stan took a serious pose, “You can only do it so many times before the urge slows down.”

I changed the subject, “Say, I hear Mason, Joe and one of the Injuns from the Pueblo are taking that jeep to Laredo and harvest some peyote.”

“Where’s Laredo?”

“Texas… way down on the border… Mexico. I understand the desert’s the only place where peyote grows in the USA. It takes some guts and luck to get the stuff out of there.”

“It just grows wild? Why don’t more people go ta’ get it? There can’t be that many cops around the desert.”

“You got the Texas Rangers, Border Patrol and banditos… they have a lock on the area. You know, if a van full of hippies comes out of the desert they are sure to get noticed and checked out. That is why you kinda have to have some Injuns with you… religious freedom and all that.”

“What do you mean… religion?”

“You heard of the Native American Church?”

“Naw, can’t say as I have.” Stan had the endearing quality of being honest about what he did know and what he didn’t know.

“Well, Mason says peyote is a sacrament in the Native American Church…”

“No kiddin’, like bread and wine?”

“Yah, Stan, like bread and wine. I’m gonna go with ‘em. We want to bring some back for Easter.”

I had been mulling it over… the risks and all, but my talk with Stan erased some of those fears. I knew nothing of the laws around peyote and depended on everyone else’s knowledge in this case. I looked forward to spending some road-time with Mason and Joe… and, hell, a real shaman type dude, Marcos, from the Taos Pueblo.

We started out at daybreak after eating some peyote. The shaman was a regular looking guy in his fifties with close-cropped salt-n’-pepper hair, a pair of silver tipped walkers and a black Sundance Kid hat with silver around the hat-band. His name was Marcos. Marcos held three dried pieces from a pouch of the sacred cacti to the sky and, before passing them to us, he prayed, “Grand Father, we thank you for protecting and guiding us,” and to the Chief (a piece of dried peyote he held from a pouch), “We thank you for a safe return trip home. We will respect your house and take only what we need…”

The jeep rolled out through Taos and cut over at Albuquerque and on down the eastern side of the State through Roswell and Carlsbad where the caverns are. I felt the peyote moving me to stay silent and listen as the others spoke haltingly. We took turns driving, only stopping to gas up, replenish our water or take a leak. We had a bucket to puke in if the peyote made us nauseous, and it did. The highway took on a kaleidoscope of vivid electric color as the desert opened-up to us. I felt especially protected and trusted these men with my life in a way that I hadn’t never trusted anyone. Mason turned to face me while driving to ask, “Max, how you doing?”

I answered, “Who’s this Chief? Are we meeting him there?”

There was laughter from Joe and Mason. Mason explained, “Peyote grows in clusters. There’s always one from which all the others originate. He’s the Chief.”

“Then the Chief’s a peyote button.”

Marcos corrected me gently, “Buttons are something you put on a shirt. To be respectful of their power, we call their spirit, medicine.”

It was the middle of the night by the time the jeep pulled off the highway and came to a stop in the desert where Marcos busied himself with gathering a stick here or there of deadwood. We rolled out our bags around the small fire. I worried about rattlesnakes, tarantulas and scorpions. Marcos seemed to have read my mind: “You have nothing to fear. We thanked Grandfather for protection already.”

I kept my boots inside my bag anyway. I didn’t want to stick my feet into a scorpion stinger in the morning. We picked up where we left off on the Interstate and then south to the Mexican border as the sun rose in the east. We were in Peyote Country and Marcos knew exactly where we would turn off the highway down a dirt road and head out on foot with burlap bags folded up under our arms. We walked through the dust and sandy landscape. The rocks and creosote bushes vibrated with molecules in the air around them. Everything was resonating harmony.

About a quarter-mile from where we parked the jeep, Marcos stopped. Mason and Joe froze in synch with Marcos but I still took a few more steps. Marcos spoke quietly, “See Max, Grand Father led us here and his spirit is in the Rattler.” He pointed about ten feet in front of his silver-toed boot with a stick he’d been carrying.

A huge, eight-inch thick, rattlesnake was coiled up and his tail rattled a warning. I realized that the place in which the snake was coiled was a clump of cacti of an olive-green color with a grayish fuzz. “There’s the Chief.” Marcos said barely above a whisper. They waited. I was in no hurry to challenge the rattler for the medicine and Marcos had no intention of disturbing the rattler any further. Eventually the rattler moved off as Marcos prayed: “Thank you Grandfather for leading us to the Chief and thank you for this blessing.”

The rattlesnake watched from aside, sunning on a rock, as the bags were filled with his medicine. Three bags were for the various pueblos around Taos and one bag was for the Risingstar commune. Each bag had a different Chief kept separate from the rest. But the second biggest Chief was going to the Taos Pueblo. Now the trick was to get the bags back to the jeep and then back to Taos.

The riskiest part of the trip was from where we were in the desert to the route that joins the highway from Laredo to San Antonio. It was there that we had to cross empty desert watched by the Border Patrol and the Texas Rangers. None of these law enforcement agencies had any respect for the 1^st Amendment Rights of Native Americans at the time even though the Native American Church was guaranteed those rights whenever taken to court on the matter. What would happen if we were stopped would most likely turn into a confiscation of the “contraband” and we could, all four, end up in jail for an undetermined length of time, awaiting a decision from a judge who would have read, and understood, the First Amendment to the Constitution.

The plan was make it to the well-travelled I-10. From there we would be okay if we stayed within the speed limit and drove sanely. On the way, however, we found ourselves surrounded by several vehicles with Texas Ranger and Border Patrol markings.

Out of nowhere they appeared! I was sure I’d spend the rest of my life in a Texas jail or Federal Prison. Marcos, Joe and Mason seemed to be unmoved by any of the shouting and commands coming from behind pulled guns of the various agencies. “Show your hands and come out with them clasped behind your heads!” called out a voice from a bullhorn.

We complied as we, one by one, came out of the jeep spread-eagle, face-down on the desert dust and sand as the officers talked back and forth in low murmurs for what seemed an eternity. The three burlap bags of peyote were in plain sight as Marcos looked at me saying, “Don’t worry… remember? They belong to our Grandfather.”

Since Marcos was driving, he was asked if the vehicle was registered to him. He answered no but Mason butted in, “It’s in my name.”

“Do you have a valid driver’s license?”

Mason answered, “Yes.”

“How about you?” the Ranger asked Marcos.

“Yes.”

“What are you doing out here?” The Border patrol officer asked Marcos.

Several minutes passed and, so far, they hadn’t looked in the jeep, nor had they asked to be shown Mason’s license or registration of the vehicle. Marcos answered, “I am showing my friends my Grandfather’s house.”

I couldn’t figure what it was that saved the day but, as suddenly as we had been surrounded, the officers got back in their vehicles and tore off into the desert.

“See what I mean, we have Grandfather’s protection,” Marcos grinned for the first time the whole trip. “This has happened before.”

When we got back to Risingstar, I was on another plane of existence. I wasn’t sure what I believed but I was sure that something was happening on that high altar of the earth called Taos. Something was happening and, it seemed that the more I tried to define it, the more elusive it was. There was a hand in all of this for sure. I couldn’t wait to tell Stan and the girls about it. I rushed to the Dome full of excitement and bubbling with enthusiasm. The peyote hadn’t worn off yet and everything was still vibrating when I related the whole story of the peyote Chief, the rattlesnake, Grandfather, the Border Patrol, and the Texas Rangers. Stan was looking at me like I was nuts. I caught myself babbling on and wondered too if I hadn’t completely flipped.

Chapter 11. Sunflower & The Georgia Peaches

Ghost moved on after about two weeks, leaving Stan without the bread truck for a flop. The seemingly tiny space in the A-frame was just big enough to house two people comfortably, with about a foot in between when we were in our bags. So, I offered him a spot.

I had acquired a small library consisting of a Bible, biographies of W.C. Fields and Nicola Tesla (who was completely unknown then), and a copy of the Aquarian Gospel of Saint Thomas. Stan didn’t seem to have a need for reading but sat by the fire outside on those cold nights as I curled up with a book inside.

One such night, Stan came in from the cold as I was reading, “What’cha readin’; the Bible?”

“The Gospel of John,”

Stan crawled into his bag. “I’m fuckin’ bored…” he clasped his hands behind his head, “I ain’t religious or nothin’ but can you read what you’re readin’ to me?”

“Sure, boss, don’t mind at all.”

“I like hearin’ stuff but I can’t read.”

“Did you ever want to?” I had known a few people who couldn’t read but knew that it was extremely rare to have any of them admit it. Most sort of got by through school, and even the military, by faking it or memorizing whole passages … God knows how.

“Yah, I wanted to, but by the time I wanted to, I’d dropped out of school to run the streets.”

“Okay, so I’ll start from the start:” I read, “In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God, and the word was God. The same was in the beginning with God. All things were made by Him; and without Him was not anything made that was made…”

“Why didn’t it just say; in the beginning God made everything?” Stan wasn’t being a wise ass. Stan had little tolerance for making the simple complex and he had a good instinct for making the complex simple.

Stan listened to me read for several nights. He enjoyed the biography of W.C. Fields the most. But when we talked Stan talked mostly about women. “These girls,” he said with his usual candor, “most of ‘em don’t wear no underwear… no panties… You notice that”

“Yah sure,” I couldn’t deny I’d paid attention to one of them who always sat open-legged on a chair or on the ground.

“You see her, Joe’s ole lady, Kate?” Stan continued, “You think she’s a tease or does she even know that she was pointing her pussy straight at me while we were eating the other day.”

“Uh-huh…”

“Well, she got red pubes and she ain’t shy about flashin’ ‘em.”

“Yah, but she’s Joes ole lady and I wouldn’t want to tangle with him over her.” I cautioned.

“Why, he’s so bad?” Stan sounded disappointed. They were drinking Red Mountain they acquired on the trip into town and it was drawing the street punk out of Stan.

“Let me tell you about what happened a week before you guys got here. We all were hanging out by the fire and the girls decided they wanted to go down to Arroyo Hondo and dance to some juke box music.”

“So, Sam and his ole lady Sandra, Joe and Kate, and a few others all piled into that ’49 International flat-bed and went down to the bar and grill down the hill.” After a pause to make sure Ralph was paying attention, I continued, “We all got inside and there were about a dozen rednecks hanging out at the bar. Now Sam, being six-foot-seven and black with an afro and white woman stood out enough, but Sandra, being a big beautiful blonde, made them the object of some muttering from the boys in the booths.”

“Oh, I see …”

“Yah, then there was Joe; a pure blood, reservation Papago… dancing with Kate and the rest of us were dancing too, when the remarks started getting louder… something was said about Injuns and white girls who fuck Injuns… Well, Joe stopped dancing right there and took one of the cowboy’s beers and poured it out on the table right there! He said something about how white boys can’t handle firewater and oughta go home… back to Europe, where they came from. Meanwhile Samuel sort of ushered us all out back to the truck as Joe backed out the door facing the cowboys… must have been four or five that had gotten up…, I could hear Samuel saying, ‘We don’t want no trouble… we’re just going to walk out to our truck and we’ll be gone… as we got out the door everyone piled onto the flatbed of the truck except Joe… he was backing out slowly with the cowboys right after him. Joe made a break for the truck and grabbed a tire iron from it. Those cowboys were right on his ass. He spun around with that tire iron, jet-black braids swinging left to right… right to left and whacked the lead cowboy smack across the face!”

“Shit, then what happened?”

“He shouted out to Sam to get the truck out of there and he let out a war-whoop going after those cowboys like he was Crazy-fuckin’-Horse. It was amazing! Then Sam turned the truck around and drove straight for the crowd while Joe grabbed a side rail on the flat-bed and leapt into the back like it was his horse in a Cowboy and Indian movie… we hauled ass out of there but, thankfully, no one followed.”

“I see what you mean now.” Stan admitted as we headed for a special meeting at the kiva.

Down at the Kiva the group had gotten together to introduce the new folks to meditation. We all, even the winos from the parking lot, went down to see what it was all about. I was slightly buzzed from the wine, and so was Stan, as we sat there with the group watching and listening to Samuel.

Sitting in the lotus position, he spoke, “When we greet each other we ask, ‘How ya’ doin’?’ We hardly give it a thought and answer automatically; ‘Fine, I’m doin’ just fine.’ If the truth were known we might not be doin’ so well at all. In fact, things might be fucked up worse than ever… but we say ‘fine’. We can’t be authentic with other people because we aren’t authentic with ourselves. Meditation isn’t about navel-gazing as much as it is about uncovering the layers of the onion through the unconscious by means of chanting or focusing on our bodies through our breath.”

It went like that as Samuel taught about the word, “OM”, and how to say it correctly without trying to sound pretty or melodic; but rather to let it out from the belly…. aaaaahhhhh, OM… and then he went into a bit on chanting. He brought up the Nichiren Buddhist chant of “Nam-Yoho Renge Kyo” that I had been introduced to in Hollywood. Samuel was a good teacher and I absorbed most of what he to say… especially since I had sobered up a bit. Surprisingly, Stan was soaking it up too.

When we got back to the A-frame, Stan brought up the subject of women again. “You know, there ain’t any available girls around here.”

“Yah?” I wondered where this conversation was going but I knew Stan well enough to know that he was earnest.

“What if we chanted for pussy? Eh?” Stan was grinning, “Let’s see if this crap is bullshit or not.”

I wondered, saying, “Hmmm… How would we do that? Say we just chanted the word, Pussy?”

“That sounds good to me… Pussy!”

We were both laying there flat on our backs with our hands clasped behind our heads… I said “Pussy!” and then Stan said, “Pussy.” I answered with “Pussy.” And we went on like that for a good fifteen minutes… in unison and back and forth: “Pussy… Om, pussy… Om, pussy… Om, pussy… Om, pussy… Om, pussy… Om, pussy… Om, pussy… aaah… Om!”

“Do you think it worked?” Stan asked.

“Do you see any pussy here… now?” I answered.

Stan was puzzled, “Maybe we didn’t chant long or hard enough.”

Such faith; Stan had expected two women to show up there out of the night after fifteen minutes of chanting.

We went to sleep.

The next morning, we awoke to the usual breakfast of oatmeal with raisons. A new red and white VW van was in the parking lot. After breakfast, we went over to the Pueblo where there was music coming from one of the rooms with the door open and several people inside.

I walked in the door to see a gorgeous brown-eyed, jet-black-frizzy-haired, dark-skin, girl playing a twelve-string accompanied by a long-straight-haired redhead playing a mandolin. I locked eyes on the dark, frizzy-headed, one and she stopped playing to ask me, “Do you know where we can get a bath around here? We’ve been driving all night to get to this place.”

“Yah, sure,” Stan jumped on it like a lightning bolt… and looking at me, exclaimed, “Chanting does work.”

“There is a pond a bit from here, but it is cold… still got ice on most of it,” I ventured. One of the peculiarities with the high desert was that it might be freezing with snow on the ground in the shade but, in the sun, if protected from the wind, you could sunbathe.

“Let’s go then,” Frizzy introduced herself, “I’m Sunflower and this is my friend, Debby.”

I was a bit dazed as I led the group down to the pond. Once there the girls immediately put out a couple of blankets they’d hauled with them and stripped down. Stan followed suite and I slipped out of my denims too. I was in awe of being in the presence of such beauty. The sunlight played with reflections of water glimmering off goose-bumped flesh as wondrous and anything else in nature’s display. I quickly headed for the water and dove in while the others tested the water one toe at a time. The icy-cold of it was a shock but I was not one to prolong agony. Swimming vigorously back to the bank, Sunflower dove over my head and into the icy water. Coming up from the dive screaming gleefully shocked she grabbed me from behind as Stan and Debby dove in behind her. I felt her perky, chilled, nipples press in against my back as I fell back into the pond. There was no escaping the thrill and the chill of it.

Yes, there was sex. There was talk of this and that. I had not been so fulfilled since the Pillow Shack with Mary. I wasn’t about to allow the moment to go unappreciated. Making love in the sun out under the New Mexico sky was more than sex for me. It was a holy moment in time, forever sacred in the open delight of sense for the sweet quality of it. This, I thought, is what making love ought to be… for I was making love… despite the casual nature of it. I was in, on, and above love, as the passion mounted and subsided.

Sunflower hung out with me and the rest of the folks there in the Pueblo for a while. I began feeling like I wanted to cut her away from the herd to keep her for myself. She played the twelve-string guitar in the small room where we’d first met, sweetly strumming and falling into a rhythmic flow of words and images unlike anything I’d ever heard before. As I watched I pictured the bucolic life of the two of us standing barefoot in corn fields and making babies together. Back in the A-frame we made love into the night.

I realized years afterwards that these two girls had come to get laid with no strings attached. They weren’t looking for anything else... no commitment beyond the ole Yam-ah-Yum.

“How long do you plan on staying here?” I asked, thinking of corn fields, bare feet and babies.

“We are heading out first thing tomorrow.” She nuzzled her nose into my neck by the shoulder.

My mind raced… my Gawd! Thinking of the scene in Easy Rider where Fonda said he had to be moving on… the commentary in my head said her choice was too much like Fonda’s character, Captain America’s, last chance to be human and settle down before going off to New Orleans to meet his fate. “Do you know there are alternative universes where you stay here with me?”

“I would like that… I really would, but I have a boutique on Sunset that needs my attention.” She turned serious.

“But…”

“No… don’t argue.” She rolled on top of me, “This is a special moment. Perhaps in the alternative universe you speak of, we are already in it and doing it… hmmm… but I need to do what I am doing, Max.”

I understood and I certainly knew better than to argue while bodily engaged.

The warmth of the little hearth filled the A-frame as we lay there afterwards. She explained further, “When I saw you first walk in the door of that room in the Pueblo, your spirit occupied the whole room. I had to make love to you… I just had to. But I can see now that you are trying to make your spirit smaller to accommodate me…”

Sunflower left the next day leaving Debby and Debby’s sister, Leah. I hadn’t noticed that Debby had a sister with her. Leah had spent the day before visiting an old friend at the geodesic dome next to the road on the way up. There was no chance I would have seen her, even had I not been so busy with Sunflower. I went back to the A-frame and the goats while Stan moved in the geodesic dome with Debby and Leah. The man-friend Leah had been visiting at the dome left for L.A. with Sunflower, so Stan had the whole dome and the two sisters to himself.

Chapter 10. The Goat Pasture

The mesa was divided, east of the pueblo, by a barbed wire fence beyond which was a pasture for a herd of goats. A hundred feet in from the gate of the fenced area was a small A-frame, not much bigger than a pup-tent. I asked around to find out who lived there and it was presently vacant. There were a few temporary structures from the previous year around the property. They were lived in until the more permanent pueblo or hogans were built (the burlap/concrete wickiup I mentioned was one such place).

I liked the idea of living among the goats and moved into the A-frame after sharing the wickiup with a half-dozen other young men for a week or two. The A-frame was comfortable; having a hinged door and at the other end, a small adobe hearth (about one square foot in size) with a tin chimney jutting out of the tin roof. A couple sticks was enough fuel to warm it up keep and had elbow room enough for two people. Though it’s height wasn’t enough for standing, I could crouch and sit with ease. Outside, in front, was a larger fire-pit with iron tripod for hanging a pot and a grill for a cast-iron frying pan. It was almost a full kitchen for me: good for oatmeal, beans, rice and frying-up anything else… occasionally eggs and tortillas.

My first night sleeping in the A-frame was one of tremendous relief. At last I had a place of my own. I sat by the open fire pit after sunset under the stars and, as the coals burned down, I retired inside the A-frame taking some of the live coals to start a fire in the hearth. I wrote in my journal: First night… at home, high above the plain and deep inside my castle, I will sleep well tonight. I snuffed the flame in the kerosene lamp and drifted off to sleep.

I awoke just before sunrise to the sound of hooves on the roof. I came out of the A-frame to see what was on the roof. Charley, the alpha goat, greeted me with a, “Eah-eh-eh-a-a-ah!” It was the beginning of a testy but sweet relationship. Charley made sure that I knew exactly who was in-charge of things in his pasture by sneaking up and gently butting me from behind as I walked from the A-frame to the gate. The trick was not to react in any manner. If I was to make a break and run for it, I would have been run down and I can say from experience, run down rather violently. To stand my ground and push back was an even bigger mistake because goats love to push back. It wasn’t enough to push back a little and try to walk away. Once the pushback had been initiated you were committed until something like a Huey med-evac-ed your dumbass.

I was pleased with my digs and enjoyed the solitude of living in the goat pasture. There was something that felt biblical about it. After a couple weeks, I had been sitting by my fire pit and enjoying a pot of rice and beans. Across the mesa a dark cloud approached at eye level. It looked apocalyptic as it neared. The sky was clear otherwise but soon the black bottom of a thunderhead took up the whole sky. It was ominous enough that I was struck with fear for a moment and, as a bolt of lightning burst from the belly of the cloud fifty feet from where I was sitting, I felt naked and exposed. It exploded with such force I found myself flat on the ground. The storm wasn’t done with me yet; with bolts of lightning thundering, booming a barrage, a cannonade, lightning and hail stones striking and drumming the earth all around my naked spot on the mesa. Awe replaced fear as I surrendered to the fact that there was absolutely nothing I could do… there was nowhere to run or hide. My little A-frame was the most prominent thing to cower in on the entire mesa. I saw the goats huddled, huddled down together under the piñón trees for protection from the hail stones and rain. Charlie bravely stood his ground and watched over his girls and kids. Even goats heed the call of leadership and its attendant responsibilities in the face of horror. Charlie had earned his stripes as Alpha Goat on this and countless other occasions. I cowered in the A-frame.

The storm passed almost as fast as it arrived. I crawled out from the cover of the A-frame; the odor of argon-electricity and fresh rainfall had wakened my senses. I didn’t know it at the time but the tin roof made a perfect Faraday cage that would’ve protected me.

About that time an old bread-truck rumbled up into the parking lot between the goat pasture and the pueblo. I walked over to check out the new arrivals. The winos at the parking lot fire pit had headed for shelter when the storm dumped its load so I was there before they returned to pan-handle a jug from the newcomers. The driver, a middle-aged man in a fringed jacket, jumped out as soon as the bread-truck stopped.

I offered a greeting, “Hello…”

The guy ignored me as he pulled out his prick and took a leak on the rear tire of the truck. A young man with curly jet-black hair and black leather motorcycle jacket came out the other side “I’m Stan and that’s Ghost. He don’t talk much… you want some bread n’ peanut butter?”

Ghost went back into the truck and brought out the loaf of white bread and, with a good-sized skinning knife, popped the lid off a jumbo government surplus can of peanut butter. Using the same knife, he slathered the thick oily goo onto a couple slices while I watched as I would when anyone pulls out a knife that size.  

“I see…” I took the bread without thinking about it when he passed one he’d prepared for me. I felt obligated to repay the gesture. I pointed towards the pasture, saying, “I got some rice and beans over in that A-frame.”

Stan was enthusiastic about my offer, he finished off his slice, half-complaining, “Great, this shit’s good but it gets old. We gots a couple mess kits I kin bring.”

We walked to the A-frame. Ghost hesitated at the fence eying Charlie, who was taking notice at the strangers entering his domain.

“Avoid eye contact and you’ll be okay.” I assured him, “Where are you all coming from?” I asked, more to make friendly noises than out of curiosity.

“Detroit, we drove straight through. We were on the way to L.A. but a hitch-hiker in Kansas told us about Taos and free land… or at least a place to crash for a week or two.”

“Hey, I heard that rumor in L.A. That’s how I got here. I wonder where these stories get started?”

Several minutes went by as we noshed on bread and beans before Ghost spoke, “There was an article in Newsweek.”

“Oh?” I hadn’t opened a newspaper or magazine since Altamont.

“Yah,” Stan offered, “It said there were communes and homestead land in Northern New Mexico and hippie chicks and shit from all over are leaving the cities and getting back to nature here.”

The courtyard between the wings of the pueblo had a table where a common meal was served. Everyone pooled whatever they had. It was a chance to get together, make plans and whatever. The organizing that got done got done there. Not everyone participated in the common meal as it was characteristically an open-ended affair. However, it was an opportunity to feel a part of, and contribute to, the group.

“Let’s take what’s left here to the pueblo, I’ll introduce you to the people.”

We enjoyed a brown rice concoction with some chicken pieces stir-fried into it. Alongside of that was a tortilla type bread called chipâté made of several whole grains. When I first got there, I heard folks talk of macro-biotic diet but had no idea what that meant except for lots of brown rice, whole grains, beans and, for the non-vegetarians, some meat like chicken... rarely beef. If anything was sweetened, raw sugar or honey was preferred. If salted, iodized table-salt was taboo, sea-salt was the regimen.

Ghost was quiet but for an occasional grunt or observation of no more than two or three words and Stan did the most of the talking for him. It seemed not to matter to anyone. People were welcoming. Besides the landscape, the thunder and lightning, the mountains and streams, I enjoyed these moments of comradeship the most. Even though Ghost was near mute, people had no trouble warming up to him and he to them.

Most of the people had food-stamps. The irony of that back-to-the-land policy became evident to me when Ghost took some of us into Taos in his bread truck and we applied for food-stamps. Thus, thanks to the so called “establishment”, food wasn’t as much a problem as water.

Every household had a couple of heavy glass five-gallon water bottles or cans that got filled whenever anyone with a vehicle went into town. At Arroyo Hondo the cans were filled with tap-water from the gas station. Otherwise, one had to hike; with a five-gallon plastic can, that fit neatly into most standard back packs, over the mesa a half-mile to a small creek that emptied into a pond. A pond had been made by bull-dozer that dammed up the creek before winter set in.

During my stay, the creek water posed no problem but, as the weather warmed up in late spring, dysentery became a real problem. A well was in the plan to be drilled as soon as the group got enough cash to pay for it. But there was no progress on the well in the time I was there. We settled then for filling up our cans with tap-water down in town.

Ghost took some of us into town once again to get provisions and water. Several folks piled into the van and we made for a happy group. Passing the Foster Freeze, some yakked about how organic food rendered greasy hamburgers a disgusting food choice. At the Organic Food Co-op I was introduced to all kinds of foods I hadn’t heard of. My favorite was Halvah bars made from honey and tahini. It was there that I discovered tahini, blue corn-meal and several varieties of wild honey. For those of us awaiting approval for food stamps, the Co-op was generous with a line of credit that almost everyone I knew abused.

Being winter, coupled with the high altitude, there was very little need for refrigeration, so we also bought huge five and ten-pound logs of sharp cheddar cheese. On the way back, by consensus, it was decided that the van pull over at the Foster Freeze. No one turned down the offer of a greasy hamburger and milk shake as a reward for our dietary diligence… especially those who maligned bourgeois values and food only a few hours before. All, except for Ghost, Stanley and I, expressed certain guilt for their weakness and betrayal of culinary values.

Stanley said to me, as we finished off some salty fries and ketsup, “Them’s Booshy-washy guilt trips.”