“…having five windows in a row built as an extension to his Funeral Home. Each window is six feet long and will contain a body in its coffin….”
“So many people want to come by and see the remains of a relative or friend…but they just don’t have time. This way they can drive by and just keep on going.”
“The deceased will be lying in a lighted window, sort of tilted to the front, so they can conveniently be seen,” he added.
“It’s purely imagination,” he said. “I dreamed it one night.”
“Another thing,” he noted, “people won’t have to dress up to view the remains.”
Curiosity seekers?
“We expect these, but we think they will eventually tire.”
Each window will contain a name plaque and each will have wall-to-wall carpeting and drapes.
Ah! The wisdom of dreams!
More attacks in The Record. A devout Catholic is burning my books. 1 must be godless, as I wish to save lives rather than kill Commies for Christ.
Saw Fr. [indecipherable] from Minnesota yesterday. He distributed a pamphlet to 800 high-school seniors in his town, telling them to resist the draft. A very honest, simple guy. He “wonders about his future.”
Went out again to my small west pond and did some Zen. It was right. When I came back, I saw two cars waiting by my gate. I hid in the cedars until three priests appeared, disappointed. They drove off, and I returned to the hermitage.
March 16, 1968
Warmer. Rain in the night. Frogs again. At first the waterhole—(four feet long at most) had one frog or two. Now they are a small nation, loud in the night. The innocent nation, chanting blissfully in praise of the spring rain. Last evening I pruned a few little trees—including the beeches I had planted.
Today I have to go down to see Fr. Vernon Robertson, who evidently wants to get me involved in something—and I will try not to. He has been pestering me to come to Louisville to give a talk at Bellarmine. And this is confirming me in my resolution to keep out of all that.
Almost every day I have to write a letter to someone refusing an invitation to attend a conference, or a workshop, or to give talks on the contemplative life, or poetry, etc. I can see more and more clearly how for me this would be a sheer waste, a Pascalian diversion, participation in a common delusion. (For others, no: they have the grace and mission to go around talking.) For me what matters is silence, meditation—and writing: but writing is secondary. To willingly and deliberately abandon this to go out and talk would be stupidity—for me. And for others, retirement into my kind of solitude would be equally stupid. They could not do it—and I could not do what they do.
March 20, 1968
In the last couple of days Parrish’s men have been back, raised the walls of the chapel wing, which is very small but adds a lot to the hermitage both inside and out—gives it a more interesting shape outside—more of a “line.” And, inside, gives it a whole new feeling—a new dimension of space with the SW window of the kitchen transformed into a door going somewhere. And I realized that this was what the house has been needing.
The floor has not been poured yet because the plumbers had not put the pipe in yet. (Yesterday Br. Martin and Bob M. began with that.) ’Iaday it may rain and the concrete mixer might not be able to get here.
Abbots are beginning to arrive for Dom Flavian’s blessing which is tomorrow. Yesterday I had a talk with Dom Edward of Berryville, former Superior of the Spencer foundation in Chile. A nice fellow—is from South Africa. Fairly progressive. We walked down the back road and out into the bottoms and returned. Nothing really new was said. The usual questions: new liturgy, communication, community, friendships, trouble with Rome, Antoniutti, new Delegate, etc. These are things in which Abbots and monks are all very much involved and yet I can’t see much in them that is of decisive importance or even real newness. Mostly a matter of catching up with things that needed to be done years ago—but couldn’t.
The same applies to the contemplative communities of nuns. Three Superiors were here Monday. Mother Francis of the New Orleans Poor Clares, Mother Philomena of the Chicago Poor Clares and Mother Jane of the Carmel in Jackson, Mississippi.
I am not sure it was a good idea to make those tapes last year—the “thinking out loud” ones for the various groups of sisters. Well—not a bad idea either. Perhaps they were some use. But seeing the transcripts I have been sobered and jolted. The result is an appalling, semi-articulate mish-mash of sentences that don’t end, or vanish in mid air, of cliches, idiot colloquialisms, vague suppositions, intuitions that don’t get anywhere, feeble humor, etc. It is good to see how bad this kind of thing can get. How sloppy, how untrue to my real thinking in many ways. Mere disorganized spontaneity is not enough. At one point I found myself sounding like Timothy Leary!
Incredible things in the news. New laws (in New York) permitting police to shoot to kill if they even suspect someone might be carrying a weapon, or if they resist arrest! Rumors of prison camps being prepared for the summer rioters (probably with some basis of truth). Utter corruption and hopelessness of South Vietnam, where the Americans are really being beaten—but where they may resort to tactical nuclear weapons. A sudden (late) awakening of Congress to the gravity of the situation, the lies they have believed (Tonkin Gulf incident, Pueblo incident), the mistakes they have made. Even the general public is perhaps beginning to get some idea of the enormity of the wrong that has been done by the Johnson administration. The country itself is almost on the verge of an economic crisis. One gets the sense that suddenly everyone—including business (Wall Street Journal, etc.)—is waking up and trying to prevent a disaster before it is too late.
I have never had such a feeling of the strange madness that possesses this country. And yet there is still some hope—based not on reason but on a basic good will and a luck that might still hold. Or is there a basic good will? Has it all been mortgaged to a police state? Are we already there? We may be!
The red sun came up under a shaggy horn of blood and purple cloud and has now disappeared.
March 21, 1968. St. Benedict
Rain for two days. The carpenters got some of the frame for the roof on yesterday, but were much interrupted by rain. At night I awoke with the rain beating down heavily and wondered if the foundation were flooded, and if it would overflow into the kitchen. There was no way of seeing, without going out into the downpour. But it worried me and I lay awake awhile, listening to the frogs.
Today—the Abbatial Blessing. Dom Flavian looked happy, and there were many abbots around. I got out fast so as not to get involved with them. Dom James preached—the same sermon he preached for twenty years here—against “activism”—only with much more emotional intensity. He was all worked up. Probably because of that recent NCR article which I haven’t seen.
Before the Mass I spoke to Archbishop McDonough, who was very cordial, as usual, and gave me permission to have the Blessed Sacrament reserved when my chapel is finished. But Bishop Maloney looked at me as if he thought I was going to toss a Molotov cocktail into the Cathedral.
This afternoon, because of the rain, no workmen came, and I took advantage of the quiet to write my review of the Arasteh book, Final Integration, which I found excellent. A very warm and good letter came from Walter Weisskopf, about my reply to his article in ICIS. I was moved by his letter. He worries much as I do, and is not an optimist àla [Herbert] Marcuse. Neither am I.
March 22, 1968
More than twelve hours of snow. A real blizzard, sometimes blinding to be out in. One of the heaviest snows I have ever seen here—though it was wet and a lot of it melted. Otherwise it would have been much deeper. But when I went out after supper it was almost up to my knees—deeper in places. During supper two tall pines out in front of the hermitage crashed down due to the weight of icy snow on them, and the dark woods rang from time to time with ominous cracks and crashes. I have hesitated to go to bed—and am sitting up waiting for the storm to let up. I think i
t is calming down now—or the snow is turning to fine, small rain.
A fantastic fact. China has 750 million people half of whom are under thirty. Can we begin to grasp something of what that means? That this is not necessarily our world? But for some Americans this simple fact may prove an irresistible temptation to genocide. The horror of it!
March 23, 1968
A strange and difficult night. Snow continued to fall most of the night and I could hear the big pines hanging over the house and cracking with their load. I slept with all my clothes on, coat and shoes, in case my bedroom should suddenly be filled with snowy branches and pieces of the roof.
Got up frequently and went out on to the porch, into the clouds of cold, blowing snow. Then back to bed and to strange dreams.
This morning there are a few clouds left, but it is clear, freezing, and the old moon rides up there in the clear. A flight of excited starlings passes in front of the moon.
And Anitharmon named the Female, Jerusalem the holy
Wond’ring she saw the Lamb of God within Veil
The divine Vision seen within the inmost recess
Of fair Jerusalem’s bosom in a gently beaming fire
Blake, Four Zoas {“Night the Eighth”}
March 26, 1968
Sun bright and warm on Sunday and Monday has nevertheless not melted all the snow. The woods are a shambles. Fallen and uprooted pines everywhere. But anyway, two good afternoons of sun—one over on Linton’s, in the desolate brushy area that looks toward Boone’s, the other at the hidden pond: standing in rubber boots in the water of the spillway with the current tugging gently at my feet.
Mother Philomena of the Chicago Poor Clares, and six of the nuns, were here yesterday. I had a brief visit with them. They go to their new convent April 1.
This morning I tried to read some Karl Rahner. Heavy, plodding, uninteresting stuff. Probably there’s a point in it somewhere later, something important. But he is trying to convince theologians and bishops, and I am neither. Why bother reading him? (Though I have in the past liked some of his stuff, viz. “The Dynamic Element in the Church.”)
And then Hugo Rahner. I have read bits of a new book (Theology of Proclamation). But I come to this:
“Through the historical visibility of the Papacy our faith must experience the divinity of the Church and seek it with anxious love…. Loving faith will discover there hidden divinity…surrendered to the human element. Only in this most bitter visibility does the invisible become comprehensible.”15
Quite apart from the Church doctrine on the Papacy—the tone of the statement, the manner, the resonances, make me impatient and suspicious. Most of the time I don’t bother about the Papacy one way or another. I accept it and hope for the best. This kind of writing tempts me to active questioning and to doubt. So anyone who does not experience the invisible divinity by looking at Pope Paul is a “gnostic”? Especially if he claims to experience the presence of God somewhere else—in his own heart for example? How can I believe this does not reflect in Rahner an unconscious bad faith, bred of his Jesuit hangups? A willful effort to convince himself? And to use me to help him do it!
The kenoticism of Altizer seems to me more open and more honest. (The Blake book.)16
But is this whole kenotic thing too much of a mannerism?
I obey Church authority because I trust God to bring good out of their errors as well as out of their good will. Because we are all sinners anyway, all subject to error, and because if we deal charitably and humbly with one another, the Spirit will take care of the rest. But there is such a thing as an idolatry of office, and I don’t yet believe the Pope is another incarnation!
March 28, 1968
Sr. Luke, back from the meeting of Vicars for Religious in Detroit, and soon off to Rome to fight the Curia for American nuns (in the storm over the IHMs [Immaculate Heart of Mary Sisters] and Cardinal McIntyre) came over today. We (she and I and another Sister) went for a walk up the road toward the firetower, got a ride in the forester’s truck, climbed the tower, and had a good afternoon. She said Mother Jane and Mother Francis did well at the Vicars’ meeting. (Re: meetings of contemplative Superiors.)
A stupid problem has arisen with Robert Williams, the Negro singer, about the Freedom Songs I wrote at his request and gave him two or three years ago. He never got anywhere with them. He showed them to [Alexander] Peloquin, and Peloquin wanted to compose and produce them with someone else. And I guess that has been the source of the trouble. I have not been too clear about what has happened—whether Williams transferred the rights to Peloquin or not. Peloquin wants to produce them at this year’s Liturgical Conference, asked if I objected. I said “no” as long as it was all right with Williams. Williams seemed to have no objection at first, then a day later came through with a virulent letter calling me an un-Christian traitor, etc. Now the atmosphere is heavy with threats and accusations. Probably the real trouble is with Peloquin, but Williams has been too confused and unrealistic about it too. And very masochistic. I suppose that’s easy to say!
Then on top of all that, today a curious letter came from “The Woman of the Apocalypse.” Quite imaginative and colorful and “apocalyptic”: how not? It seems part of her mission includes “marriage”—and I am not sure how intimately this is supposed to concern me. She accuses me of being afraid. Yes, I am. How much of this wild stuff am I going to have to contend with? When you add up the people who send in bizarre prophetic or “metaphysical” books—letters, accusations, petitions, suggestions…Most of which I no longer even read. That includes a multitude of good and even excellent “causes.” Being a writer has its hazards.
Worked a little with the new Canon FX John Griffin17 had lent me—a marvelous apparatus. I think it is going to be very good.
Yesterday I killed three spiders, two in the hermitage, and one in the jakes, because all looked like the poisonous kind (Brown recluses). I am pretty sure they were, and am taking no chances.
A very good talk for a couple of hours with Winston King yesterday. He is a good person to know—well up on his Buddhism and I think deeply interested in meditation. He spoke of Shibuyama Roshi (whom I would like to meet), and others. Lent me some copies of Psycholofia with good stuff in them—I enjoyed a couple of articles on Monta therapy this morning.
The concrete mixer has still not got up my hill. The wing is roofed but has no floor, and consequently nothing has been done on the inside.
The mockingbird who has policed the rose-fence all winter now has a mate (who came out of nowhere). He sings so sweetly, and does not chase the cardinals. They are nesting in the rose-bushes of the fence.
Two wild ducks went by fast in the evening when I was saying Compline. Only two! The sky should have been dark with them!
March 30, 1968
Dogs barking in the dark woods. The east sky streaked with blue and orange, pale dawn.
I have given up on Hugo Rahner’s Theology of Prodamation and on Skinner’s Walden Two—I see the “importance” of the latter but it bores me. I forget the dozen other books I have given up on lately. But last evening I was reading The Essential Lenny Bruce and almost blew my mind. Completely gone in laughter, the kind that doubles you up and almost makes you roll on the floor. Surely that is some indication of the healthiness, and sanity of this satire which so many people regarded as “obscene.” In reality, it is much more pure than the sinister doubletalk of the “moral” murderers and cops. Lenny Bruce was one of the few who were really clean.
Yesterday, hot spring afternoon, the plumbers fixed up the pipes in the new addition so the floor could finally be poured. I cut down some of the (hundreds of) small pines that were bent down to the ground in the blizzard and can’t recover. Freddy Hicks is to cut up the big ones and take away saw-logs from them. He was here saying he would vote for Bobby Kennedy. A lot of people would, I think, if he got the nomination. It might be harder for him to get nominated than elected. The power of the Johnson machine. In spite of the noise of
the war hawks I think the majority of people in this country are utterly sick of Johnson and recognize his falsity.
Five books on (one by) Joyce arrived for review, for the Sewanee [Review] Plenty of time. They don’t need it until November.
Dom Flavian was talking yesterday about perhaps taking me to the General Chapter as translator—after which I might go to Tilburg in Holland, where I have been invited, etc. But the prospect does not appeal to me in the least. Still, I told him that though I didn’t particularly want to go I would do so if he thought fit.
April 6, 1968
I have a week to write about, and one of the more turbulent ones in my quiet life. Passion Week of 1968—including the Saturday before it. That was a beautiful day, peaceful in the morning. Then I went down and had lunch with Maurice Lavanoux and William Schickel…and some of the monks. Peaceful enough. M. Lavanoux had come to see the Church, and liked it. A pleasant lunch and good conversation.
After that I went out to the Gatehouse where four college girls from St. Louis were waiting for me. We were supposed to do a tape interview for a magazine at Washington University. But their tape recorder broke down, and wouldn’t work in the Gatehouse. So I took them up to the hermitage to record on mine.
The Other Side of the Mountain Page 10