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It is decided that we should have lunch. I offer to pay but they won’t hear of it. “We have money,” Allen says, “we’re just cheap.” Peter walks the winter sidewalks of the city in a stiff-legged hunch, blowing kisses to onlookers in bus windows, stopping to talk to an old lady, muttering “oh yes yes yes yes yes yes.” I translate menus posted on the windows of cafes and restaurants and eventually we settle on a Chinese restaurant. During the meal, Peter eats voraciously, smacking, slurping, groaning, humming. At one point Allen tries to restrain him from eating more than his share. Peter lifts his plate from the table, and shovels the food piled on it into his mouth. When his plate is empty he raises it to his mouth with both hands and licks it clean with grunts of pleasure, then takes possession of the leftover rice, dowses it liberally with hot sauce and spoons it down, muttering “ummmm, ummmmm, very good, very good, very good.” Allen regards him with a mixture of amused disapproval and fond indulgence, rather as a forbearing parent might regard a mischievous child.
As we eat our lunch, Allen asks me if I have read Tom Clark’s Poetry Wars . ( The Great Naropa Poetry Wars , published in 1980 recounts an incident that occurred during a Buddhist retreat under the direction of Ginsberg’s guru, Chogyam Trungpa, where at the command of Trungpa the poets W.S. Merwin and Dana Naone were seized in their rooms and forcibly and publicly stripped of their clothing.) Yes, I have read the book, I say. Allen says that although he was himself not present at the now notorious retreat, he has spoken with many who were present and has concluded that Tom Clark’s account of the incident is “unrecognizably distorted.” Clark, he says, has shown himself to be more than spiteful in this matter, indeed, “paranoid, psychotic.” In Clark’s book, Allen says, his statements regarding the parties concerned in the incident are quoted out of context. He had, in fact, said a number of good things about Merwin as a person and a poet, but Clark had perversely chosen to print only the negative remarks he had made. It was, of course, true that he had said that he would rather read Trunpa’s poems than Merwin’s. Indeed, he still finds Trungpa’s poems “more interesting” than those of Merwin. But Clark’s depiction of Trungpa surrounded by armed bodyguards was nothing more than “a paranoid fantasy.” The misrepresentations disseminated by Clark had been harmful for the Naropa Institute which had found itself accused of “Buddhist fascism.” And for attempting to defend Trungpa, Allen himself had been labelled a “Stalinist.”
My offer to accompany Peter to the hospital while Steven and Allen go the National Gallery is accepted. In the emergency room I translate information to the desk nurse and then sit waiting with Peter. I ask him if the cut on his foot hurts him. “No,” he says, “it feels good. Pain is good medicine. It clears consciousness.” He says that with practice, through meditation, you can learn to isolate the pain and diminish it, perceiving it as only a small part of your whole body and a small part of your total consciousness. From his trouser pocket he draws forth a book that he recommends to me. It is The Life and Teaching of Naropa by Herbert V. Guenther, published by Oxford University Press, 1963. I ask Peter if he still plays the banjo. He did until recently, he says, but in Amsterdam he got so angry that he smashed his banjo to pieces. He got angry at President Reagan. “Reagan wants to kill everybody,” Peter says. Peter’s foot is treated and he is given a tetanus booster. We rendezvous with the others at the National Gallery.
Allen is primarily interested in seeing the work of the Danish painter Nicolai Abildgaard (1743 – 1809). He has recently seen and admired some of Abildgaard’s paintings in the city of Aarhus after giving a reading there. Allen says he is intrigued by the connection between Abildgaard and Henry Fuseli and through Fuseli to William Blake. Peter and Steven are now feeling tired and return to Lotte Thomsen’s apartment for a nap. Allen and I view the museum’s collection of Abildgaard paintings. I translate titles. Allen is unhurried, focused, engaged and attentive in regarding the paintings, amused by Abildgaard’s allegorical painting “The Cultural History of Europe,” in which the figure representing Culture sleeps while fierce battles rage all about. Abildgaard’s canvases depicting Philoctetes, Anakreon, Sappho, and Ossian also draw his admiration. Another Danish painter singled out for praise by Ginsberg is L.A. Ring (1854 – 1933). We pause before his melancholy painting titled ”In the Churchyard of Flong,” which depicts an old woman with wrinkled countenance and faded blue eyes sitting with hands folded on her lap before a grave in a country churchyard. The dates of birth and death inscribed on the cross at which she stares indicate that the grave is that of her late husband. She sits beneath a leafless winter tree. The churchyard is set among barren fields. Far in the distance can be discerned the steeples of a church. Allen comments upon her facial expression, the grief, the desolation and despair, the utter lack of hope and illusion. She is thinking, he says, back to her girlhood and the notions of life she held then and she is thinking forward to her own death. Life is not what she once thought it to be, he observes, life is death and it has always been so even when as a girl she thought otherwise. The church so small and insignificant in the misty distance can offer her no comfort or consolation. She is alone, he says, with her stark awareness of “the enormity and finality of death.”

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