Or perhaps even Nicaragua…
Of course the problem arises from the fact that I felt very related to these bright and open nuns, mostly Europeans (and two bright Americans), much more in rapport with them than with people at Gethsemani (with many of whom I am nevertheless on very good terms-after all most of them were my students or novices at one time or other. Yet we have so little in common!).
I must not kid myself about this. But it would certainly be very good to live alone in the cove at Bear Harbor and come in once a week to give the nuns a talk and pick up supplies. This is at least for Lent. I think Fr. Flavian would allow it—but he has not committed himself. (He left today for the Abbots’ meeting.)
May 28, 1968
Sunday, after three violent thunderstorms in the night, it rained hard all day. After dinner I went to Loretto for a conversation with some contemplative nun Superiors and Bishop Breitenbeck. The nuns, including Mother Angela of Savannah Carmel, Sr. Elaine Michael from Allegany, Mother Jane from Jackson Carmel, Mother Francis of the New Orleans Poor Clares, Sr. Elizabeth of the Carmel of Roxbury—are here for conferences.
Once again, realization of the paralyzing problems of these contemplative convents and of their need. Bishop Breitenbeck wants to help them—few can. We talked of some possibilities, and I said I would try to reach the Pope through Fr. F[iliberto Guala] in Frattocchie. Many of the convents were afraid of any change, don’t know what to do, preserve silly or inhuman regulations and customs, are under attack from all sides, and see hope only in utter conservatism—which means purely and simply their extinction. Others want to develop and are prevented from doing so.
Although it does not seem to be my “line” to think in institutional terms, still there are people involved who badly need help. And those who are concerned enough to come here are really alert and well informed and want to do something. I have given them two talks based on Marcuse, others on the “Feminine Mystique” (as in California), and on Zen, etc.
Sr. Anita (Fr. John of the Cross’s sister) came from Cleveland (Carmel) and I was delighted to see her so alive, unspoiled, spontaneous—a great nun. I was the one who advised her to go to Cleveland Carmel. Her Prioress seems like a good sort too.
I haven’t had time for anything else but these conferences. The other day, before the nuns came, I got the second issue of Monks Pond assembled and sent a few copies out.
Last night there was a big race riot in Louisville. Shops wrecked on 4th Street and all the rest. Curfew. National Guard. It is probably still going on to some extent. There is going to be more and more of this everywhere. Obviously there is no hope of the Poor People’s March achieving anything.
Phil Berrigan has been sentenced to 6 years in prison for pouring blood in the draft files in Baltimore and will also be tried with Dan for burning other draft files. Six years.’ It is a bit of a shock to find one’s friends so concretely and tangibly on the outs with society. In a way, both Phil and Dan are saying openly and plainly what all of us know in our hearts: that this is a totalitarian society in which freedom is pure illusion. Their way of saying it is a bit blunt, and a lot of people are so dazed by the statement that they don’t grasp it at all. Those of us who do grasp it are, to say the least, sobered. If in fact I basically agree with them, then how long will I myself be out of jail? I suppose I can say “as long as I don’t make a special effort to get in”—which is what they did. All I can say is that I haven’t deliberately broken any laws. But one of these days I may find myself in a position where I will have to.
June 4, 1968
Storms, rains and floods over Pentecost.
The nuns’ meeting was tiring for me—two sessions daily lasting about 3 hours each at which naturally I had to do most of the talking. Too much. And while I only planned on 3 days there were two extra ½, days, with Sunday and Monday. I do not have the art of doing this well—I put too much into it. And am evidently driven by illusions I am unaware of. Probably the old narcissism. Anyway the result of it all is a feeling that psychologically I don’t need this anymore. I can do the work if they need it, but it is certainly not necessary for me. Hence I’ll be more free about it and expect a certain residue of ambivalence in myself. Certainly the complex business of being a “personality” and of exorcising the public demon it involves—all this is too much. And it perpetuates itself in the doing. Conclusion: there are probably others around who could do this job for the nuns better and more comfortably than 1. Though there is a tendency to tell me that I have a sort of charism for it. I take that with a grain of salt. But certainly I can and must help them.
Fr. Eudes came back from the Abbots’ meeting with an invitation to me to become “Editor-in-chief” of a new publication project, translations of the Cistercian Fathers. Obviously I can’t take on such a job, even as a figure head-another phoney role. But I suppose I will have to be at least nominally a member of the board.
Still not able to use the washroom and toilet though the fixtures are there. No septic tank yet. The job was begun over four months ago. I don’t complain and don’t especially care. But it would not do to make repeated demands. People are getting a little critical of hermits, especially as Dom James, five miles away, requires a certain amount of attention. The people who do his chores for him are getting very critical of the situation (e.g. Bro. Nicholas on Sunday when Hilarion and I had to be driven out there). This reflects on the rest of us. I’ll keep my trap shut, and I do try to ask for as little as possible (and do as much as I possibly can for myself).
Yesterday Fr. Baldwin asked me to give an afternoon session to the Novice Masters’ meeting (next week)—this, of course, in the hermitage. OK. But it is another ambiguous situation. Visiting the famous hermit, satisfying one’s curiosity as to what he is up to, noticing if there are empty beer cans in the kitchen, etc. And then the inevitable conference, dialogue, maybe a jazz record, to introduce them to Coltrane. That is what my life is becoming here. I cannot be completely adjusted to it. But what can I do about it? It would be just as false to say “no” to everybody and just keep to myself as if! possibly could make my own world and live in it without interference by anybody else. That would be even more unrealistic.
What I hope to do is to go into retreat for July and August—or for part of them anyhow. Even that won’t be complete. Phil Stark (S.J.) is coming to help out with typing then.
Useless nostalgia for Needle Rock, Bear Harbor, the Redwoods!
June 5, 1968. Ember Wednesday (pentecost)
Yesterday a letter came from Aunt Ka in New Zealand, about Aunt Kit’s death in the Wahine disaster. Ka has had an enormous amount of mail to answer on account of it, of course—it being world news. They have had more trouble there, storms, earthquakes, etc. She is shaken by all these things.
This morning is cool, clear. The woods heavy with the scent of honeysuckle, and never so lush (with all the rain). I am about finished with Marcuse’s One Dimensional Man—a good and important book. It was sent by the Asphodel Bookshop in exchange for some copies of Monks Pond. I agree with most of it except for the idea of a future in which science absorbs all metaphysics and final causes and means become ends in themselves. It seems to be a vicious circle.
Lax is supposed to be coming from Colorado and may arrive today. I was glad to have a quiet, more or less free day yesterday (apart from writing letters).
8:45 a.m. A few minutes ago Fr. Hilarion and John Willett came up in the truck with a 5 gallon can of water and told me Robert Kennedy had been shot in Los Angeles, after winning the California primary. A young 25-year-old man shot him almost at point blank range “to save my country”—a right-wing fanatic? Kennedy was still alive and being operated on. I hope he survives! Above all for the sake of his family.
8:15 p.m. I said Mass for Robert Kennedy when I went down today. News kept coming through: bullet removed from his brain, he is alive but will remain in critical condition for 36 hours. About the assassin—all kinds of rumors.
—
“The police won’t reveal anything about him.”
—According to Br. Wilfrid, the man “couldn’t speak a word of English and nobody could understand him-probably a Communist.”
—According to someone else he had worked all evening side by side with Kennedy in the campaign Headquarters—probably a “Democrat”!
—Tonight it is said he came originally from Jordan. Though he is an American citizen his statement that he shot K. “because I love my country” is to be interpreted as pro-Arab and anti-Israel. It remains to be seen if this is really the story. It sounds a bit fishy to me, so far.
After writing another couple of letters I had a quiet afternoon—it was hot—over on Linton Farm. We are getting real June weather now. Hot, bright, with big cumulus clouds all over the sky and some wind in the right places. Dan Walsh is not here and no one knows where he is (nothing especially new about that). A card from Lax says he will be here later than he expected. Maybe next week?
June 6, 1968
More sorrow. I went down to the monastery with my laundry—saw the flag at half-mast and asked someone if R. Kennedy were dead. Of course, he was! The news was very depressing: there seemed to have been so much hope he would survive. I sent a telegram to Ethel. I wonder where Dan is.
A murder is bad enough in itself—but a political assassination of one whose brother has already been the victim of one, and when R.K. was in a good position to get the Presidential Nomination and even the presidency: it is shattering. He was liberal enough—though not by any means an ideal candidate: but he had possibilities and the country as a whole liked him: would have accepted him.
The most disturbing thing about it is something hard to formulate: but it seems to be another step toward degradation and totalism on part of the whole country. It will be used as an excuse for tightening up police control—“law and order”—and then in fact not to stop murderers but to silence protest, and jail non-conformists. And to prevent the kind of change Kennedy might have wanted to effect politically. The situation seems to me very grave.
I don’t expect McCarthy to be nominated. Johnson’s machine is too powerful. If it is a choice between Humphrey and Nixon, Tweedledee and Tweedledum—in fact, two nonentities—I can’t vote at all. Still less for a goof like Reagan. And how vote for Rockefeller? He may be fairly capable but, like all these others, he will push the Vietnam War to its limit.
If McCarthy is not nominated I don’t see my way to voting for anybody.
I wonder what effect this will have on the country—the people, or does it matter? They will be perhaps more docile about accepting another step toward a police state.
Meanwhile, of course, there will be more murders. They will become more and more part of political life. The definitive way of making one’s point—i.e. for right wingers and fanatics of any kind.
I did some work on Lograire, morning and afternoon. It is hot. Drinking too much sweetened tea. Some of Lograire depresses me, but the O’Hare canto seemed good today. Perhaps because I can think of nothing I’d like better than to fly back to California. Maybe that’s pure delusion. Perhaps I need to go much further: for instance the letter from Margaret Gardiner about the Orkneys made a lot of sense to me. The islands are gradually getting deserted. No one would bother anybody there!!
June 7, 1968
When I was having supper, Bro. Richard called to ask if I knew where Dan was. Nobody seems to know. A telegram came from the Kennedys asking him to the funeral. He can’t be found.
Bro. Victor’s theory of the assassination: “The Mafia? Same for Martin Luther King. And the guy who shot King has been ground up into mincemeat. They’ll never find him.” Why the Mafia should have wanted to kill M. L. King is not explained.
An intercom phone was finally put in the hermitage two weeks ago. It is useful. Most people don’t yet know about it. Three calls in two weeks, and I made one call: all to do with guests: the nuns, Bishop Breitenbeck, Dan, and Bob Lax. Now a telegram from Kansas City says Bob arrives tomorrow evening. I have to go to Lexington (during the day) to hear John Niles’ setting of several songs (mine and translations of Cuadra, Cortes, etc.).
I had a good talk with Fr. Flavian. He seems open to the idea of my spending some time in solitude by the Pacific, and even perhaps going to Asia to see some Buddhist centers.
Meanwhile, whether I ever get to Asia or not, I see the importance of real seriousness about meditative discipline—not just quiet and privacy (which I don’t always have anyway), and deepening. Have really reached the point in my life where one thing only is important: call it “liberation” or whatever you like. Though I may write or not, I no longer need to and will more and more refuse to write so many prefaces and articles. (But really the ones I do write I am interested in. Even then I am losing interest.)
I know I have been through all this before, but now it does seem to be more decisive. Now I do think it is final.
June 13, 1968. Corpus Christi
After several days of clammy Kentucky heat, a bright day, bright and clear as September. The plumbers finally came, put in the septic tank, connected the water pipes—and I have a working bathroom at last. After shoveling some dirt that had been left, I took a shower, and drank shandygaff (for by chance I had a can of English ginger beer, very expensive, left by Jonathan Greene). The hills were particularly beautiful and green.
Bob Lax came Saturday night, when I was getting home from a day at Niles’s in Lexington, listening to his setting for poems of mine and for translations of Cuadra, Cortes, Carrera A. Again, I enjoyed being in that house and seeing Bob Shepherd’s place on Pebblebrook Farm, but nevertheless it was a tiring day. Good visit with Lax—but several picnics I also found exhausting in the very hot weather. The O’Callaghans with their children, Tuesday, for example. Better yesterday when it was cooler and only Jonathan Greene came over. We took some photos in the woods, at the station, at the distillery, which I hoped would be good.
This morning I did a little more work on Lograire. Lax left after dinner. I don’t know if he should return to Greece. Kalymnos seems to be the only place he really likes anywhere. I don’t blame him. But also I don’t trust a police state sustained by C.I.A.
The other night when it was too hot to go to bed, I was sitting up with nothing on but a pair of underpants when a couple of admirers suddenly appeared in front of the cottage. I told them to get the hell out, thereby once again ruining my image. But one of them wrote a very nice note of apology nevertheless. And today I met a couple of others standing looking in awe at the “No Trespassing” sign. Brief conversation by the stile. One is to do an MIT thesis on my early poems. Meanwhile I was a bit depressed by a longish dissertation on my work Oames Baker’s—the first formal one, I guess). It was all right, he had done a lot of work, read an enormous amount of my writing (certainly not all of it!) and was highly sympathetic to my ideas. That was all fine. Yet the whole thing showed me clearly so many limitations in my work. So much that has been provisional, inconclusive, half-baked. I have always said too much, too soon. And then had to revise my opinions. My own work is to me extremely dissatisfying. It seems trivial. I hardly have the heart to continue with it—certainly not with the old stuff. But is the new any better?
Would I do better creative work alone out by the Pacific? I have a feeling I probably would. Gracie Jones sent some pictures of the Redwoods and of the shore at Needle Rock. I remember those extraordinary days.
June 14, 1968
Another fine day.
I had a good talk with Fr. Flavian. He had received a letter from the Prior of our monastery in Indonesia. The latter, assuming I was going to the regional meeting of Asian Abbots at Bangkok, asked if! could preach a retreat at Rawa Seneng [Trappist monastery in Indonesia]. Fr. Flavian said I could do this if! wanted to—and I want to. It is an opportunity to get to Asia and to get some badly needed experience. However-it is a long way off. Five months at least.
It will mean not taking on any more writing jobs for nex
t winter, as I hope to go to Japan too, see some Zen places, and perhaps go from there to San Francisco and the northern coast.
Needle Rock is, I guess, within sight of Cape Mendocino and hence is one of the points south of Canada that are nearest to Asia. Spanish ships from the Philippines used to steer for Krig Peak, which is behind the cape. Then go south along the coast to San Francisco.
June 15, 1968. Saturday
Finally got back to my routine of Saturday fasting. Went out in the sun to Linton’s farm and got a good burn on my shoulders, reading a little about Islam mystics and feeling once again something like myself. The visits have been a drag, no matter how much I like Lax, Jonathan Greene, Ron Seitz, Dick Sisto, etc. I just need to have long periods of no talking and no special thinking and immediate contact with the sun, the grass, the dirt, the leaves. Undistracted by statements, jokes, opinions, news. And undistracted by my own ideas, my own writing.
I got home and shaved on the porch and had my one meal about 3:30 p.m. Then fell on the bed in a stupor, slept an hour, got up and said Office, read a few Zen texts in Spanish in Cona Franca and finally some Rene Char (which Jonathan Greene left with me) which I very much enjoyed again. Fascination of his language and line:
The Other Side of the Mountain Page 16