Part 1, Robert Meets Alain, is here
Part 2, Circles and Lines, is here
Part 3, Under the Bigtop, is here
Part 4, An Invitation to Tea, is here
San Francisco, 1982
The task of maintaining the Münchhausen-scale fantasy of The Center for the
Unity of All Mankind now fell to just four people. The life-support medium was the journal All One: as long as the remaining micro-cultists were kept busy spinning about on tasks supporting the journal's self-publication, conversation could
continue about Alain being at the epicenter of an expansion of human
consciousness. That estate in the Napa Valley might yet materialize; world
leaders, eager for guidance, could be queuing up in the wings. Artists-in-residence could
still be visualized, obediently creating to The Center’s spiritual and
aesthetic standards. Archimedes the goat,
the Center’s planned mascot, might yet gambol in grassy pastures. And perhaps George
Lucas might stop wasting his time on those silly Star Wars films to turn
his attention to Alain’s movie-making ideas.
Or not.
After countless revisions, the premiere issue of All
One—Alain’s thoughts about how mankind
could expand its consciousness through an institute under his direction—was sent,
gratis, to a carefully calibrated mailing list, mostly gleaned from
Krishnamurti's organization. When interest did not ensue and it became apparent that cash
contributions would not be forthcoming, All One sank quickly, pulling the chimerical Center for the
Unity of All Mankind in with it as it went under. When the waters closed over the roiling mess, the
micro-cult itself had vanished, too.
Blame for the failure of The Center for the Unity of All Mankind to manifest was subtly but surely apportioned during Sacrosanct Wednesdays, which Robert duly recorded in dismaying detail. The narrative was underscored by the high thin whine of knives being sharpened in the distance. Soon, each of the four remaining micro-cultists was summoned, in turn, to Alain's home.
These were the unreconstructed loyalists, hard-shell true believers who had made Alain the singular focus of
their inner lives for more than a decade. There was virtually
nothing about them that he did not know through the roles he'd claimed over the years—guru, father figure, confessor, psychotherapist, physician, and sole, bottom-line authority on
the correct interpretation of life’s mysteries. Now he called forth and
laid bare the most intimate and profound of their past confidences, serving up their errors and shortcomings as proof of their lack of worth as he formally “gave up” on them.
In most irreparable relationship breaches—divorces, family feuds, business deals gone south—there is equal opportunity for bad behavior by both sides. Each party knows where the other is most vulnerable and can decide whether, and where, to attack. This was not the case with Alain's unilateral exit interviews. For many years, he had enforced full, intensely
personal disclosure to him by setting
himself up as the ultimate
authority on everything. This flow of intimate information was entirely one-way; he exercised extraordinary caution to keep details about his own life secret. After 11 years none of us knew why Alain left Krishnamurti’s service, what happened to the concert career that began with such promise, why he was so squirrely about sex, or any other personal information as might generally be imparted over the course of 11 years of extended contact and hundreds of shared meals. He told us, over and over again, only what was consistent with the powers he'd assumed: that his was a deeper understanding of life, that he knew much more
than we. That we should trust his
superior wisdom over our own judgment. That we should trust him.
Some did, a few much more than
the rest. Robert, of course, was in the latter cohort. The betrayals he and others described and discussed—endlessly—were specific and absolute: Kafkaesque nightmares in which one's parent, priest, teacher, shrink, and physician convene to pass biting, bitter judgments that one feels powerless to refute. Such a bizarre scenario could occur only because the individuals so judged had long ago ceded personal responsibility to a man whose measure of moral authority was, in the end, definitively revealed by his actions toward them.
There were—still are—many imponderables about why Alain chose such a bruising way to end the assiduously cultivated guru-devotee relationships. He was leaving San Francisco to set up shop as a homeopathic practitioner in another state, and the relationships could have been allowed to attenuate gradually, even gracefully, in the final few months before everyone moved on. There could have have been respect—if not for those who had trusted him so blindly, so implicitly, then for the intense experiences that he and they shared over many years. Perhaps a fresh perspective from inside normal emotional boundaries could have offered new insights and connections. There could have been a nuanced legacy. There wasn't.
Alain left San Francisco more than a quarter century ago. None of the former micro-cultists, save one, has seen him since. It took a while, but eventually we all stopped picking
at our wounds, and as soon as we did, we healed.
Next: An unexpected encounter in an unlikely place.
