Such looseness in personal contact may be a result of widespread marijuana usage; certainly it is associated with it. One of the riskiest experiments of the new government was to deliberately make marijuana a common weed. Not only were legal prohibitions ended, but free top-quality seeds were distributed, in a campaign aimed at providing “do-it-yourself highs.” The result is that every house and apartment can have its own garden or windowbox where the hemp is grown. It is as if, among us, we had a third tap in the kitchen which provided free beer. But most Ecotopians seem to smoke marijuana with considerable discretion, and it is likely that the worst feature of the policy is that it deprives the government of a large source of tax revenue.
(June 23) Last night I made my move. Nerves must have woken me about two o’clock; suddenly felt overwhelmingly anxious to get out of here. Looked around cautiously, surprised they would all be asleep at once; they’ve grown lax about watching me. Marie, I noticed with a tic of envy, had crawled in with Ron: damn. I felt around for my clothes, wormed into them under the covers. Picked up my shoes, slid softly to the door, and got out. Quiet outside, no wind stirring. Went barefoot for a while; it felt good. Headed away from the concentration of buildings, uphill—once over the brow of the hill I’d be in the clear. There was a half moon, so I could pick my way all right.
Coming to a clearing on top of a rise, found a small square structure raised on posts, a kind of pavilion with a roof but no walls. Fascinated for some reason, I crept up the ladder for a quick look around. It appeared my route was well chosen. In the moonlight the scene had an unearthly beauty. Saw a huge owl coasting along silently, and realized I could hear the creek, even though it was 50 yards away.
Suddenly there was a rustle and thump directly below the floor of the pavilion, and then a heartstopping scream. I froze utterly, against one of the posts that supported the roof—not daring to look down through the ladder hole. Dogs instantly began barking in the resort, and in a moment I saw a large tan shape loping off toward the woods—a mountain lion, carrying the rabbit it had seized under the pavilion! By the time I grasped what had happened, and my blood had unfrozen a little, it was too late—two large dogs appeared barking and sniffing, and a few yards behind them was Wince. I wasn’t sure if he had spotted me, but clearly my absence had been noticed; the game was up. I crawled down, rather shakily. “Lion killed a rabbit right under the platform,” I said. “That set the dogs barking.”
“Scary, isn’t it?” Wince said. “Nice night though. How do you like the moon-viewing porch?” “So that’s what it is. Actually I was sitting on it, viewing the moon, when that damned monster struck.”
He eyed me quietly. “Out for a little walk, huh? Nasty scare number two.” “For me, anyway,” I said.
“For all of us.” We walked back to the cabin. Evidently the others were out searching for me too, but after a bit they came back. Nobody accused me of anything, but a kind of disappointment merit hung in the air. I felt depressed and confused. For the rest of the night somebody sat guard, reading a paperback in the corner. Marie went back to her own bed.
After breakfast, finally decided I must face the fact I will stay depressed for a while, and could use some company—so I phoned Marissa. She isn’t at all worried my captors are up to anything sinister; didn’t exactly make light of my anxieties, but seemed to imply they were pretty excessive. She is doing heavy tree-cutting today, but will come down late tonight or tomorrow. I must get myself together a little, somehow.
(June 25) Dream: I am at home in New York, in my apartment. It must be night, and I am working on a column. I get a tremendous urge to talk to Marissa. I pick up the phone. I give the international operator the instructions, and there is a pause. “I’m sorry, sir, but we cannot complete that call.” “Why not?” “We are not allowed to carry traffic to San Francisco at this time.” We argue about a possible Vancouver routing, me feeling increasingly frustrated and desperate, the operator driving me crazy with her mindless “I’m sorry you feel that way, sir.” Is something wrong? Has war broken out? All she will say is that she is doing her job. I wake up, furious, thinking of that maniac Jerry in the San Francisco wire office, who used to piss me off because he’d never just do his job. Jerry would have given me a hard time, maybe, but he would have worked out some clever way to get my call through, even if it had to go via Timbuctu, because he could tell it mattered.
After that dream, lay awake for a while. Looked around the cabin; my captors were, surprisingly, all asleep again. Maybe they no longer cared. In my imagination I saw myself getting up, sneaking off, hiking to the train, probably making it across the border near Los Angeles by the time they woke up. Could be back in New York by dinner time! Max would still be at the office. I could get hold of Francine, we could hit the town, celebrate my safe return.
Why didn’t it sound more inviting? I goaded my imagination on a little, toward the end of the evening with Francine, and the Jelicious new tricks she was always coming up with. Nothing. All I felt was the warmth of my blankets, the slight chill of country air on my face, and an enormous inclination to just lie there, snug, waiting for dawn, waiting for whatever would happen next.
Marie’s eyes opened and she looked over and saw I was awake. “You look better,” she whispered. “Go back to sleep!” Then the silly kid blew me a kiss. Next thing I knew it was morning.
Everyone else went down to the baths early, but I didn’t feel like it—afraid of my flu coming back or something. Ron stayed with me, sitting in the corner, reading some poetry. I decided to kill a little time by putting my clothes in order. Shook out my New York clothes, laid everything out neatly. Then, just fooling around, thought I’d put on my regular shirt, see how I look—it’s been seven weeks since I last wore it, and I had the feeling I’ve lost some weight out here. It felt sort of comfortable slipping into my cool drip-dry shirt, and I tucked it into the snug pants—first time in weeks that I have had a shirt tucked in. Belt a little loose, but not too bad—one extra notch. Figured what the hell, might as well put on a tie too, just to see what it looks like. I walked over to the mirror, putting the tie around my neck and absently beginning to tie it.
Suddenly I caught sight of myself in the mirror. The hair stood up on the back of my neck. I looked awful, I didn’t look human! My image was tight, stiff. I sat down, stunned. Then, curious, I finished tying the tie, and put on the jacket besides, and went over to the mirror again. This time the ugly American me was almost sickening—I really thought I might have to throw up. I was filled with the desire to get into the hot water of the baths. My body longed to get out of those terrible clothes and sink into the lovely supporting water, and just float there. I pulled the clothes off, threw on a robe, and told Ron (who had watched my clothes experiment without comment) that I wanted to go down to the baths now.
We took the baths for a long time—I couldn’t bear to get out, and sat neck-deep, staring at the water splashing from the pipe, listening to the complicated sounds it made. My body floated weightlessly in the warm, comforting water, feeling only the slightest of sensations. I closed my eyes and sank deeper, with practically nothing but my nose above the water. I lost all sense of horizon, of place—all sense of everything except the steady gurgling of the water coming to me from deep inside the warm earth. I have no idea how long I remained in that state, but suddenly I heard my own voice saying, “I am going to stay in Ecotopia!”—startlingly loud and clear. All at once my head felt light again—and I realized I must have been fighting off saying that for weeks. I stood, rising up out of the water, dripping and smiling and quivering. The quiet of the room was split by shrieks of joy from Marie, and we all staggered up the steps, everybody patting me on the back and hugging me: five grown people, naked, prancing around and laughing and yelling.
We went out into the sweating room, getting curious smiles from people dozing there. Then Vince threw on his big towel like a poncho and dashed out, returning in a minute with Marissa—it seems she had come dow
n late the day before, but they had told her they thought I was about to “break through,” as they put it, and she had decided she didn’t want to influence the process by her presence, no matter how badly she wanted to see me. She looked splendidly radiant. We hugged and cried a lot, the tears feeling liberating and warming, and the others held onto us, obviously very pleased with themselves. Then we got up, threw on our clothes, and went outside. There was a spot nearby with an accumulation of soft dry pine needles, and we began dancing around, kicking them in the air and sliding on them and leaping, Marissa and I doing a sort of courtship dance in the middle, and then walking off together past the moon-viewing porch, up the hill to the foot of a large oak tree, where the spring grass had remained thick and green. We made love slowly, solemnly, feeling the earth heavy and solid beneath us, resting our beings on it, smelling its richness and fertility. When I am with Marissa I feel like all the lusts of the universe are focused through me and onto her; it is supremely intimate and yet almost impersonal at the same time. Afterward she smiled lazily. “Good place to conceive a child,” she said, glancing around at the oak. But she wouldn’t tell me whether she was in her fertile period, or whether she still had her loop in. “It’s my body,” was all she would say. Knowing the kind of commitment she feels to family and the continuity of generations, the idea was profoundly scary—yet I seem to be ready for it.
After a while we went down the hill, found the others, and went into the baths for a last quick time. Then we headed back to the city, and went to the Cove. Somehow a great party had already been prepared. (Ecotopians are good at impromptu celebrations!) Much to my surprise, Marissa’s brother Ben was in the forefront of everything, and played chief host with enthusiasm as great as his earlier bitterness: huge bear hugs and backslapping.
When I decided to publicly thank my mysterious captors for taking me to the hot springs when I was in such bad shape, they insisted Ben share in the honors. “Well,” he said, “I will now divulge a state secret. You know, Will, I got so mad I went to Vera Allwen to try and get you thrown out of the country. She wouldn’t have any of that. But she thought the hot springs might do you some good, help you get through it all.”
I was dumbfounded: that weird old woman must have seen what was going on in my mind when I didn’t know it myself. “After all,” Ron whispered to me, “Ben did manage to protect his sister!” It was too much. I began crying openly, happily, amid those shining faces.
As I write this all down, it is early the next morning. Marissa is still sleeping, black hair a tangle on the pillow. I begin to see that I have fallen in love with her country as much as with Marissa. A new self has been coming to life within me here, thanks to both her and her people. This new me is a stranger, an Ecotopian, and his advent fills me with terror, excitement, and strength…. But I am ready for it at last. I don’t know what it will all mean, how we will live, or even where. But all the possibilities seem natural and inviting. I want to stay at the forest camp for a while—have never lived in such close touch with natural surroundings, and would like to know what it’s like to work with my hands. There are painful breaks ahead with Francine and Pat. I have decided, though, to ask Pat to send the kids out for the summer. If it takes a diplomatic passport, well, the President owes me a favor! And I want to try out some different kinds of writing. There are a lot more things about Ecotopia that the rest of the world needs badly to know. Maybe I can help in that.
EDITOR’S EPILOGUE
The foregoing text has been printed from the notebook and news stories written by William Weston during his trip to Ecotopia. Despite the questionable or controversial nature of some of the notebook entries, we have respected Weston’s wishes in keeping the text just as he wrote it. Readers may also be interested in the following note, which was enclosed with the notebook when it arrived at the Times-Post offices, addressed to the editor-in-chief:
Dear Max—
You told me to go ahead and write the whole story, but I realized, once I had gotten into it, that I couldn’t really do that. So I am sending you my notebook, even though I’m not sure what, if anything, you can do with it. As far as I’m concerned you can pass it around the office, put it in the archives, or print it. (Intact or not at all, please.) I’ve decided not to come back, Max. You’ll understand why from the notebook. But thank you for sending me on this assignment, when neither you nor I knew where it might lead. It led me home.
—WILL
About the Author
ERNEST CALLENBACH is also the author of Ecotopia Emerging, The Ecotopian Encyclopedia, and Publisher’s Lunch. He is the co-author of The Art of Friendship and Humphrey the Wayward Whale (with Christine Leefeldt) and of A Citizen Legislature (with Michael Phillips). He edits natural history books and the journal Film Quarterly at the University of California Press, and lectures on environmental topics all over the world.
RL 10, Il age 14 and up
ECOTOPIA
A Bantam Book
Bantam New Age and the accompanying figure design as well as the statement “the search for meaning, growth and change” are trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1975 by Ernest Callenbach.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address: Bantam Books.
Library of Congree Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Callenbach. Ernest
Ecotopia : the notebooks and reports of William Weston.
p. cm
Reprint Originally published: Berkeley, Calif.: Banan Tree Books, 1975
eISBN: 978-0-307-57456-5
I. Title.
PS3553.A424E35 1990
813′.54—dc20 89-17692
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036
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Ernest Callenbach, Ecotopia
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