When we arrived at Yellow Springs, I was reminded of the opening scene from the movie, “2001,
A Space Odyssey.” A dozen or so apes were dancing in a circle
around a large black obelisk, jumping up and down, waving their arms, in a ritual of pre-historic consciousness-raising. I stood there, mouth and mind agape, trying to make sense of the sights, sounds and
smells at Yellow Springs. The commune’s idea of religion, apparently, was
for man to return to his primate roots and re-pattern ten million years of faulty evolution.
Or maybe not. Honestly I didn’t have a clue.
When one of the apes offered me a barbecued veggie burger, I understood what I had been observing. The simian ritual I had imagined was nothing more exotic than a Sunday barbeque.
That didn’t explain the outfits. The apes were
pretty obviously men in monkey costumes. Of course, the same could be said of
“2001.” The simian leader introduced himself as Monkey-in-the-Middle-of-the-Void,
but most of the apes called him Stanley.
Stanley’s
monkey religion was an attempt to find meaning in the changes that time had wrought on his life. If you could take a peek beneath his fake fur, you would find Stanley Nussbaum, urban guerilla. A minor celebrity among sixties radicals, missing since the explosion in Mexico City, Stanley Nussbaum’s
campaign of civil disobedience was already fading from the pages of the daily papers and the synapses of the American conscience.
“You may remember, a few years ago, a minor explosion in Mexico City? On the run, I ducked into a community theater, looking for a place to hide. The only costumes I found in storage were a musketeer, a gorilla and a nun.
I chose the gorilla. Imagine if I had chosen differently, today I might
be Sister-in-the-Middle-of-the-Void.”
“From beneath my fur,” Stanley continued,
“I began to see things more clearly. I realized that there was a nation
within the nation, a nation of walking wounded, kids who were disillusioned by Nixon’s America,
but who were equally unable to deal with the alternatives. That’s when
I began to hear about other gorillas popping up.”
“Not that everyone here at Yellow Springs wears a gorilla suit.
Far from it. Yellow Springs is a haven for anyone who doesn’t fit
into the middle-class American plan - radicals, potheads, runaways, orphans and waifs, the abused, the confused and the easily
amused.”
As Stanley talked, a young ape female sat quietly at
his side. Even covered in fur, I could tell she was pretty. “C’mon Stanley, don’t be so dramatic. Some of us are just here for the hot monkey love.” And she gave me a smile that went straight to my groin.
Stanley chuckled.
“I’m sorry. I’m being rude.” He turned back and looked at me closely. “Max, right? Meet Francesca. Francesca…Max. And Max… don’t believe anything Francesca tells you.”
The Yellow Springs Monkey Farm was home for the burned out, dropped out, dried up and disillusioned,
those who, having survived drugs and protest could not survive the cynicism of the Nixon presidency and had nothing left to
do with their lives but hide out in the desert - some disguised as a gorilla, many more hiding in plain sight - and pass the
day in purposeless activity. And they were all deeply, madly, unrequitedly, in
love with Francesca.
I spent the summer of 1974 living at Yellow Springs Monkey Farm.
Nothing much happened that summer. Richard Nixon resigned in disgrace,
but I mean nothing much happened to me. I did my share of the chores and smoked
my share of the weed. I joined the long line of men pining for Francesca’s
attention, and went to bed each night, alone. I studied Stanley’s
brand of Buddhism, and became a regular member of his prayer group.
“The essential challenge to the serious Buddhist,” according to Monkey, “is to
achieve enlightenment, release from the cycle of death and rebirth. But for some
Buddhists, the goal is not individual enlightenment, but universal enlightenment. These
Buddhists believe that there are special individuals… bodhisattvas… who have achieved individual enlightenment,
but who choose to remain in the world, helping the rest of us on the spiritual path.”
Stanley was on a roll.
“Gradually, more and more people will get the message (that there is no message). Soon there will be more and more bodhisattvas wandering the earth, helping an ever smaller number
who still haven’t figured it out. Eventually we all get there, but there
has to be a moment when there’s just one unenlightened slob left, one guy who just doesn’t get it, one loser who
is standing in the way of universal enlightenment. And that hold-out, he’s
what I like to call the last bodhisattva, ‘cause after he gets it, there’s no one left to help.”
Stanley had been building to this point for months and as we listened, we patted ourselves on the
back for we understood his lesson… that we were the bodhisattvas, small in number now, but growing every day, the spiritual
leaders, at the head of the parade.