![]() We met two nights a week for discussions in loft spaces in Lower Manhattan. We didn’t do anything you expect a cult might. We did not engage in satanic activities, have loaded weapons, have apocalyptic visions, or believe in aliens coming to save mankind. We did not live in an Upstate hippie compound with kids running around in rags with faraway gazes. Some cooked, others served, everyone cleaned up, and two senior members were granted the privilege of doing “teacher service” for the home’s owner, the widow, our leader, and our world: Sharon.Īt the peak, there were hundreds of us. Whenever we gathered, we worked together like a well-oiled machine (a “microcosmos” we called it). The atmosphere at the shiva was somber but also celebratory. That afternoon, we had just returned from burying Alex Horn at the Shaarey Pardes Accabonac Grove, a cemetery off Old Stone Highway in Springs that - like everything about our group - is hidden away, almost unseen. By the time I left in 2013, it had consumed my life for 23 years. The memory is difficult for me, bringing up feelings of fondness and friendship but also anger and shame - an emotional paradox that defined a large part of my adult life and still weighs on me today. It triggers memories of a clear, cool autumn afternoon in 2007 when I sat at a huge picnic table in the shady backyard of one of the unassuming wood-shingled houses there with two dozen friends, toasting, feasting, and recalling the life of the recently deceased co-founder of our ultra-secret organization. ![]() ![]() I get flashbacks passing a certain dead-end street that cuts through the Water Mill farmlands. East reached out to Sharon Gans and the School, but they declined to comment. Editor’s Note: To protect the identity and privacy of individuals the author knew when he was involved in the group in question, members’ names have been changed.
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