| some signposts |
[Dec. 27th, 2010|01:39 pm] |
This is my personal blog, in which I write about whatever I want. Sometimes what I write concerns Zendik. But I've been gone from the farm more than three years now, and its presence has faded. So if you've come seeking information about everybody's favorite West Virginia cult (well, not everybody's--I suspect the Hare Krishnas prefer New Vrindaban), here are some signposts:
My writings about Zendik-as-cult are concentrated around December 2005/January 2006; that was when I discovered I'd been in a cult, and began investigating what that meant. Also, in October/November 2005 there are a few entries (private when I posted them, now public) in which I began to admit to myself that I had doubts about Zendik, and maybe didn't want to go back. Those entries afford a peek into the psyche of one who is still a believer, but beginning to break free.
There are, of course, references to Zendik throughout my three-plus years of blog entries, but if you want the concentrated download, feel free to head straight for it.
Now available on MySpace Music: "The Ballad of Zendik Farm," in which we learn the history of "Larry and Carol," and imagine an alternate universe in which (C)arol comes to her senses.
Coming not quite as soon, but sometime in the foreseeable future, to a book store near you: "Protest, Romance, Paean, Revenge: Story of a Zendik." |
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| The more the Zendiks "change," the more they stay the same.... |
[Sep. 11th, 2009|07:19 pm] |
The official Zendik line these days seems to be: "We've changed! We're no longer a commune, we're an arts foundation! Never mind the bad old days!" (Um, excuse me, the correct term is "cult," not "commune," but maybe that goes without saying.)
A few thoughts:
For years, those Zendiks sent out onto the Internet to stab at conciliation have been disowning the bad old days - saying yes, bad shit happened in the past, what can you do, nobody's perfect, let's all be bigger than that and move on. In the early 2000s Zendiks were saying yeah, we did some harsh therapies in the '90s, we're not like that anymore. Meanwhile members were still being psychologically obliterated in group "therapy" sessions, mothers were still being separated from their children, etc. So yes, the outward forms had changed, but the essentially coercive and destructive nature of the place was very much intact. You'll excuse me if I take the current protestations of conversion with a shaker - no, make that an entire mine - full of salt.
What would make me believe the Zendiks had actually changed, not just in form but in essence?
Evidence. Cold, hard evidence. A property deed with every current Zendik's name on it. Photographs or photocopies of checks signed by a whole passel of different people. Debit cards issued - and used - in the names of the many. Confirmation - maybe five, ten years down the road - that a Zendik woman other than Fawn had given birth to a child and never endured a forced separation from that child.
Art. Introspective, honest art. Writing by Zendiks about the Zendik experience that admits of the contradictions within it, the pain & fear inherent in it, the degradation & sacrifice of dignity that has certainly been and most likely still is a huge part of living there. Writing that includes real, deep questioning of what the group is doing & why, and why that individual cleaves to this Zendik path & rejects all others. Writing that explores doubts about what Zendik is & does, doubts about what the writer is doing there. Show me a piece in the Zendik magazine describing the immolating fear of being demolished by one's peers - and there will be change I can believe in.
Apology. Humble inquiry. Arol has never humbly & precisely apologized to the people she's hurt & humiliated. Instead she rails against those who persecute her on the Internet. I'll believe Arol's changed when I read an account of her life that matches up with the account given by many outside the farm who've known her for decades. I'll believe Arol's changed when the Zendik website no longer portrays Wulf as a hero and her as a heroine. I'll believe she's changed when she can humbly write, or say, to specific individuals, "This is how I've wronged you. And this is why I'm sorry. What can I do to make things right between us?"
I do not say there is no agreement between follower and leader; I do not claim that we who took Arol as our mistress had no part in the carnage that followed. I do say she's never admitted her contribution to the ruins. I do say she raves.
Some seed the rumor that Arol's power over her minions has dwindled. This may or may not be true. What's certain: Her delusions remain. |
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| in the shadow of the rock rose |
[Aug. 9th, 2009|04:37 pm] |
Sunday afternoon in the office...we need to massage our lists in QuickBooks, as we are at the dawn of a new era of responsibility in record-keeping. Also we need to finish clearing out & cleaning the indoor part of the depot. It will be a place of spacious & immaculate comfort, once we're done.
A week from yesterday we leave for Maine. Which means this is the week of getting things done. The apartment must be cleaned & ordered, as must our affairs here at work. That way we'll be able to enjoy our first vacation in forever, hallelujah. I look forward to crickets at night & berry-picking in sunlight. Here the traffic roars outside our door and the Rock Rose building pants without ceasing. Who would have thought a behemoth of brick & metal would be capable of such ardent speech & heavy breathing? |
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| heavy loads & extra strength |
[Jul. 25th, 2009|10:30 am] |
Stuck on Carmine between 7th & Bedford, waiting for Gregg to arrive with a replacement for the Lynch's flat front tire. Thank goodness it waited till after my last drop to blow--I'll be glad to get the flat fixed and get home, but in the meantime I can enjoy this time out of time without worrying about being late.
I was afraid of the pizza run for a while--I feared I might be unequal to a quarter-ton load, after months of doing trike deliveries only sporadically. It seems, however, that my native strength is greater than I was thinking. The load's no problem, even with the added weight of the eighty-pound battery. (Most of us at RR have a love-hate relationship with the Lynch, our only cargo trike boasting an electric assist: On the one hand it helps you up the hills with heavy loads; on the other hands when you've no load at all it's still so danged heavy!) Also I've learned that if I stand up on the pedals I can haul like a superhero with no assist at all. |
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| digging in dirt |
[Jul. 20th, 2009|06:57 pm] |
A moment to myself, after months in a whirlwind. Is it settling now? Perhaps. I'm looking to buy a computer, finally, having come to terms with the fact that I will not be hand-writing the final draft of my book on pristine moleskine. For better or worse, I am a creature of the keyboard generation, accustomed to cutting, pasting and saving as. The good news is I can take the purchase off my taxes.
New York City is, as always, a blessing and a curse. My boyfriend and I have moved to a one-bedroom apartment a few blocks from Penn Station. Thanks to the real estate bust we're only paying a few dollars more for articulated space plus backyard than we were paying for one-room studio plus fire escape. The yard is paved, save for a slight strip of highly suspect soil along the back wall. But that doesn't mean I can't grow food: A couple weeks after moving in I built two 3' x 6' raised beds for all manner of vegetables, and a couple weeks later I sheet-mulched the dirt strip and sowed it with blue potatoes and sunflowers. Who knows whether I'll end up growing enough this year to offset the costs of installation (which I also plan to take off my taxes)--even if I don't, though, I'll be gaining invaluable knowledge. I'd much rather learn--really learn, through trial and error--to grow food now, with truck-hauled sustenance as cushion, than wait in uneasy ignorance for the last seconds of ancient sunlight.
These are the days of miracle and wonder, yes? I have work that draws me into the bustling world and a boyfriend who's the soul of adventure. I wasn't planning on becoming a responsible adult, or paying rent, or juggling giant trikes for a living...but here I am, possessed, at last, of a place to stand. |
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| the tiff between thinking and dreaming |
[May. 7th, 2009|07:07 pm] |
It's always cold in the office. I'm told the tile floor is responsible. Will it be cool here in summer, then? Will this place be a haven when every other leaves me dripping and scorched?
I wonder what good transfusion will do. I've cried, "Amputate!" over and over, though the limbs to meet the ax are as dear to me, some days, as little children. Is it cynicism that whispers, We cannot do it all? Or healthy suspicion of wishful thinking?
For years I believed in magic, I saw our hope so bright. Now I find myself allergic to fantasies neither recognized as such nor duly plotted out.
Will your dream manifest because you believe and insist? Or will your grip on the whole of it kill the parts that are real, that do work, that shape rows of hard earth? Please--keep your rose-colored contacts--so long as they don't blur your vision. |
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| whatever we lose like a you or a me |
[Apr. 25th, 2009|09:13 am] |
Saturday morning, sunny and warm. I suppose the coming of spring is always a big deal, but it's especially significant after winters spent trundling a 160-pound trike around in the cold. When you've no cocoon...the weather's moods sweep straight through you.
I tried pedicabbing again last night, and ended up in a puddle by the Hudson River. I'll try again today, and possibly tomorrow. What finally got me out there again, strangely enough, was not desperation for money or the myth of quick riches--it was desire to ride the trike. I itch for it when I don't do it. It's the city-street equivalent of pulling an endless stream of wheelbarrows over level gravel--tough on the lungs (sometimes), a boon for the muscles, luscious & fluid once steering has become second nature. Now I weave through stopped traffic for the fun of it, to see how tight a space I can negotiate. I'm getting used to the size of the pedicab body, which is slightly wider on top than the cargo box. It's just plain fun to drive a large pedal-powered vehicle through the streets of a city still largely hostage to the gas-guzzling metal box. Who knows what might happen? Who knows what adventure might unfold in the passenger seat? I have my troubles with selling, with approaching people--perhaps I always will--but there's something about this pursuit that enthralls me. It seems I'll keep going. |
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| how we'll find mercy |
[Apr. 10th, 2009|10:07 am] |
I dreamed last night that I was captured, with many others, and taken to a red-rock-and-sagebrush land bordered by a high, spiked, wrought-iron fence. Instinct said, Disperse, so I set out walking a knobby ridge with a train track running alongside it. In the pink beginnings of dark a train approached--long and sleek, with warm orange light suffusing the cars and spilling out onto the landscape. I'd told myself that if a train came I wouldn't take it, but I had no food, and night was falling, and the train was tempting. Many fellow travelers on the train face of the ridge swept down the steep slope and into the cars. I considered doing the same. But I knew if I did I'd be sorry. So I kept walking and, when I peered down the far face of the ridge, saw that that side was speckled with many more who'd resisted the caressing tangerine glow--many more who knew that though the ridge was rocky and the light fading, we were better off adrift in wilderness than trapped in train cars.
After walking a little longer I decided to turn back and try my luck at escaping the compound bounded by wrought-iron fence. In sight of the gates, I told a boy, maybe ten or eleven, to cover the green vegetables in his blue plastic bag with a sweatshirt or something, so others wouldn't see the food and grab it from him. I kissed him, figuring if he never made it out he might never know how it felt to kiss a woman. I pointed towards the gates and told him, You could just slip out; they might not see you. Then I headed for the gates myself.
What does the dream mean? It's tempting to think we'll always have cars to ride in and movies to go to. But we may not. Hence, hugging the harsh work of home-making in rough country, as rain screams and wind howls around us, is, at last, how we'll find mercy. |
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| the life of the world to come |
[Mar. 14th, 2009|11:53 am] |
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What I dream about as I deliver cupcakes and catering and cleansing potions to people and entities who have far too much money is using the rickshaw van to haul vegetables, compost, firewood, water. I imagine a route dictated not by a succession of delivery windows but by who needs what most. What if I could see in my mind's eye the faces at the ends of my lines, the smiles of pleasure and grins of relief soon to greet me? What if I were dispatched not to the highest bid but the greatest need? What if pedicabs replaced family cars and cargo trikes became matters of fact? I know I have always had trouble obeying the whims of the market; I believe before long these shifts I wish for will come. |
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| welcome to the machine gun |
[Feb. 28th, 2009|09:34 am] |
Yesterday outside Grand Central (on the west side of Lexington, just north of 42nd) I passed two cops: one sporting a K-9 badge on his uniform, the other wearing a pith helmet and wielding a machine gun. I know there are National Guard guys in fatigues hanging out in Penn Station--I used to see them when I took the LIRR to BBS in Bayside--but I don't remember whether they carry machine guns. The only time I clearly remember encountering a machine-gun-toting cop in New York City was last September, at the big protest against the bailout--one was posted along the march route, in front of some kind of emergency vehicle (an ambulance, maybe?).
Yesterday, as I walked by the brute-looking man with the deadly weapon, I said out loud to myself, "Why does he have a machine gun?" It was a rhetorical question, I guess, and the woman walking right in front of me was the only other human who heard it. I was speeding towards the Grand Central Market entrance at the time, hot to drop off my deliveries, and didn't really entertain the notion of stopping. But once inside the building I began thinking,"Why not ask the guy?" A citizen's response to a cop with a machine gun is supposed (by those handing out the machine guns, I guess) to be some version of the one I had: Don't look too close, hurry on by. You have the GDP to contribute to, and very little time. I felt that I should avoid eye contact with this man, I should not engage him, I should not get too close to him--my instinct to avoid him was as strong--and almost as involuntary--as my instinct to bear to the left when a semi is passing me on the right. This is a terrible problem. Why? Because we the people of New York are meant to become inured to this kind of sight, we are meant to quail before these shows of force, while growing used to them.
Inside the market, I came up with the idea of posing my question to the armed man himself, on my way back to my rickshaw. This idea scared me a little, but also seemed logical--if I don't want to form the habit of tacitly accepting military displays on the streets of my city, then perhaps I ought to open my mouth when I see them.
Alas, when I exited the market, I saw that the two policemen and their van had departed. Also I was relieved--I could certainly have faced hostility in response to my inquiry. This, again, is a problem: If the job of the police is to protect me from violence, why is it that the demographic I most regularly feel afraid of is...the police?
I've done a couple illegal things in my life: I've hitch-hiked on Interstate highways, I've attempted to get to Las Vegas on a Greyhound bus without paying for a ticket. Maybe I've done a few other things the law asserts I should not do. In general, though, I'm the kind of person who ought to have nothing to fear from those whose job is to protect and serve--if, that is, you accept the idea that cops are fair and only go after the guilty. In our current Error of Terror I feel as though I could be accused at any time of plotting against the republic, on the flimsiest of pretexts. The problem is not necessarily that this will happen, but that I fear it: Whoever's handing out the machine guns has got me where he/she/it wants me--in a state of perpetual low-level anxiety that I feel is personal to me, and therefore keep private.
My pet name for the area south of Chambers Street (which contains City Hall, Wall Street, the site of the World Trade Center) is "the police state"--I feel like I'm entering a scene from Soylent Green or Children of Men when I venture down there. The heavy, spiked blockades that look like clawed frontloader buckets sunk into the asphalt give me the willies--they make me feel like I'm subject to some insidious siege, whose purpose is being kept from me. And then there are of course the cops everywhere, one of whom sneered to me--while I was stopped at a red light a couple months ago--that my rickshaw van was the perfect vehicle for transporting suicide bombs. Does he feel even more fear than I do, as a result of perpetuating the terror delusion for a living? Or has his fear been transmuted into a rabid, adrenaline-fueled drive to pounce the moment a potential threat presents itself? I don't know. Seeing the man with the machine gun yesterday made me want to retreat to the hinterlands. The fact of his presence on a busy street at midday--unexplained and unjustified--was in itself an act of violence. |
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| as for me I've come to know |
[Feb. 3rd, 2009|08:48 pm] |
"I can't wait to play the same species my whole life."
That was the line in my head this morning, upon waking. There's one thing I want it to mean--I don't know if I'm right.
You know, when you start wishing the cusp-of-morning oracle would give you some particular instruction, that the consequence of following said instruction is a thing you want, but fear to claim. The sentence could be saying anything; my fanciful interpretation tells me, I'm wishing I could stay. |
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| the dark to climb over, the wand to come by |
[Jan. 19th, 2009|01:30 am] |
My Inbox is empty, save for one message received quite recently. Everything else has been dispatched, sorted, responded to. How beautiful. I never realize how sorely unanswered mail irks me, till I get it all taken care of.
* * *
We are having some troubles, here in Hell's Kitchen; we are having some fears. For the moment they've receded...and I'm certain they'll return. However: I just the other day (while aestivating) read a book called Embracing Fear, which advises replying to neurotic threats of what will happen if you dare with this all-purpose verbal shrug: "I'll risk it." |
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| for those who missed my reading... |
[Jan. 18th, 2009|10:40 pm] |
...I am going to post the two sections of my book I read thereat.
This one, which is about 9.5 pages long, recounts a selling trip I went on just after Christmas 2003. I was part of a girl crew deployed to hawk Zendik propaganda at Phish's annual series of New Year's shows in Miami.
( Miami Phish )
This one, which is just over 3 pages long, recounts the tale of Stuffed Station Wagon Man, whom I met in August 2002 while hitch-hiking to Alaska (during a 2-month "out" from Zendik).
( Stuffed Station Wagon Man ) |
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| the leaving trike |
[Jan. 3rd, 2009|06:59 pm] |
It's Saturday night and I need to sort my stuff. The prospect daunts me, so I'm procrastinating. Also I'm feeling the end of an age...this place gave me strength and peace when I needed it. I've loved orange winter sunshine through south-facing windows for sixteen years. And I no longer live here.
I guess I'm moving on; I guess I'm growing up. What worries me most is the sense that some morning I'll rise without energy, without muscle for making money. Thus far I've always managed to care for myself; certainly adrenaline kicks in--should all else fail--when survival is at stake. Still--when I wake in the wee hours, I can't quite believe I'm doing this.
Wish me luck, orange sunshine; wish me luck, weathered rugs. Wish me well, ten-year-old turkey feet; wish me well, pearlescent trunk. |
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| remember the new |
[Jan. 2nd, 2009|03:05 pm] |
It's the next stage of life, now. The Christmas frenzy has ended, the gardening season won't start for another three months--I get a little respite, some time to plot. Also the chance, this morning and afternoon, to sit with a single chapter and inquire what its purpose is. I've written so much of the story in moments, but the moments need meanings, and coherence. Those that don't fit will have to go; thank god this last patch of pouring self into other pursuits has hatched detachment. Now it's clear, I only need one road trip to Miami...I'm abundantly fine with killing my darlings, once they've turned to cardboard.
Gentle snow, against red brick...a black cat on a cushion at my elbow...who would have thought I'd find this kind of quiet on the busiest island on earth? |
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| 12/27 reading from zendik memoir at kgb bar |
[Dec. 27th, 2008|07:24 am] |
On Saturday December 27th I'll be reading from my Zendik memoir-in-progress (currently titled Luscious, Intoxicating, Rotten: Fruits of Five Years in a Hippie Cult) at the KGB Bar. My friends and fellow Byrdcliffe alumnae Nicole Skeltys (writer, musician) and Katherine Burger (playwright) will be reading as well. Below is a complete listing for the event. Hope to see you there!
STRAY STORIES...of jilted brides, cult rejects, and mysterious one-armed men. Nicole Skeltys, Helen Newman and Katherine Burger spin twisted, rollicking yarns at KGB Bar (85 East 4th Street, NYC) on Saturday, December 27 from 7-9pm. Free. For more info go here. |
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| Helen's Handmade Gift Cards... |
[Dec. 25th, 2008|05:08 pm] |
...are back for the 2008 holiday season! I call them gift cards because each card is both a vehicle for holiday greetings (or any other message) and a small work of art, suitable for framing. If funds are short—and your list is long—try my two-in-one greeting & gift solution! This year’s offerings include ten 5”x7” designs, two 4”x5.5” designs, and an all-new bargain pack—save $10 on ten 5”x7” cards when you order the Full-Spectrum Collection.
Helen’s Handmade cards are an elegant alternative to mass-market kitsch and ecological indifference. The paper my cards are printed and mounted on—as well as the envelopes they come with—are made of 100% post-consumer recycled paper. And 5% of each purchase will be donated to The Philadelphia Orchard Project, which works with community organizations to plant and tend urban fruit trees. Go here to find out more about the most luscious non-profit ever. |
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| the look of the light |
[Dec. 12th, 2008|05:28 am] |
Yesterday near 6th and Canal the sidewalks and scaffolding were bleached in glare, and it was only faith in traffic lights that persuaded me to brave the crosswalk. I spent the day on foot, and in tunnels, which was not what I desired. But I learned that if you talk long enough, if you stand calmly in one spot and roll slowly over the same ground, someone who knows the terrain better than you do will most likely offer the one thought you were wishing for, but would never have come to on your own. I used to know that. I used to know the rules would bend for us, the gates would open--there was always a route around, a way in. "No" always meant "not yet" or "try again elsewhere."
It's time I used my powers for good. The powers themselves are neutral; the taint on them will fade with scrubbing. This is vital, as is practicing holding a handstand--how else will I invert my vision of what's possible? How else will I learn to walk on my hands? |
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| always ourselves we find in the sea |
[Nov. 24th, 2008|10:41 am] |
Now we are engaged in a great civil war. We need to rewrite one episode plus aftermath for a reading we are giving on our birthday. One of us wants to edit the text before us; the other wants to start from scratch and see what new insights surge to the fore. We are pretty much agreed that it's time to switch from present to past tense--present tense was a useful device for keeping us honest and focused through the first few drafts but is now acting as a ring of poison darts separating the blind young protagonist from the older wiser narrator. It's time for them to start seeing through each other's eyes and speaking in each other's tongues. And--perhaps?--it's time to quit being scared of recreating what's there. We won't lose what we've already nurtured by birthing new versions.
How I treasure these stretches alone, sifting through mounds of Times New Roman for the essence of my tale that's yet to end, and over...shaping and tending my mute creature, my fetal fait accompli, my animate sculpture. Some days I don't ask myself, How did I get here? On Mondays I always do. |
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