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Tucked in a corner of the living room, I’d sipped surreptitious glimpses of firm biceps browned by farmer tans, frayed cuffs over muddy work boots, roughened hands resting on comfortably slung tool belts. She grabbed its shafts, and I followed her up a dirt track, past a manufactured home on stilts – the Mobile.I’d savored the notes of a new music of male names: Dymion. I’d heard it was overcrowded, and that its residents would ascend to the much larger Addition once it was finished.With a fierce downswing, she drove it deep in the earth.Her hair slipped from a loose knot and tumbled in blond hanks to her shoulders, veiling the iridescent dreamcatchers dangling from her ears.To learn sources of food, water, warmth, and shelter, beyond “the supermarket,” “the tap,” “the furnace,” and “the landlord.” I sought a story broader and sweatier than the one I’d grown up in.Touring villages rooted in the back-to-the-land movement seemed like a good start.I began spinning a fantasy about Zendik mating the night I arrived.
They warned that Zendik warmed as you pushed towards the center. I was to pick one of each and mark it with my name, in felt-tip pen on masking tape.Back home in Brooklyn I’d taken the ferry to Staten Island for Friday-night dinner at Ganas, where most of the men were pale or gray-haired and the aim of the full-group mealtime discussion – an example, I was told, of “feedback therapy” – seemed to be to elicit bewildered, angry tears from the two women at the center of the ring. “You guys go on road trips to hand out magazines, right? I’d crumpled under the neutral cruelty of brush-off after brush-off, while my partner, laughing and bantering, had rapidly emptied his satchel. I wondered what would earn me a bed here, among women.Soon after that I’d sold myself on visiting Zendik – using its listing, its fledgling web site, and a phone conversation with Zylem, the veteran Zendik in charge of recruiting. * * * The next morning, after breakfast, I reported for my first Zendik work assignment: helping dig a trench for running power cables from the Farmhouse to the dance studio.“You’ll be on quarantine for ten days,” she said, “which means you can’t cook or wash dishes or eat from the same dishes we eat from.” “Okay,” I said, feeling as though I’d just broken out in sores only I couldn’t see. “I saw it in was an encyclopedia of well over a thousand groups, most in North America, most devoted to homesteading.No commune I’d visited before Zendik had placed me on quarantine. “It’s just that we live so close to each other,” she said. I’d ordered it the previous winter and pored over it in my Harvard dorm room.