Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
—From “O Captain! My Captain!” by Walt Whitman
The casket was on the big screened porch, his body interred within. It was a simple and elegant casket, not professional but well-made. Built of pine and stained golden brown, the sides of the hinged lid rose and then made a 45-degree turn, and again to make a flat top. A student had built the casket at his request decades before.
Sitting beside the casket on the porch I thought for a moment about why it looked strange and I realized it was the ceramic knob on the edge of the lid. It gave the impression of a kitchen cabinet with a door that one would open and close frequently, rather than just once, in the manner of a casket. I recalled that the man whose body was inside had already made use of the vessel. He often practiced lying in it in the tradition of his namesake and hero, Saint Francis.
The body inside belonged to my teacher and spiritual father, a man named Frank Crocitto. I met Frank when I was 16. Barely a day passed that I didn’t see him for the next 15 years.
Frank was a teacher in the inner work tradition of George Ivanovitch Gurdjieff. I first met him because my mother had been attending his classes and the changes in her bearing and demeanor were undeniable. I noticed that her movements had become more deliberate and attentive as she moved about the house, and that she seemed to be making an effort to listen. On this basis I agreed to attend his classes, despite all the teenage instincts against doing something one’s mother recommends.
Frank’s teaching was elegant in its simplicity. Ideas about psychology and cosmology seemed to emerge from a boundless spring, and yet they all seemed to be of a piece, held in constellation by a powerful unifying principle. Mostly I was impressed with Frank’s presence and person. He struck me as a rare example of someone who practiced what he preached.
Listening to Frank speak was a real pleasure, in part because his Brooklyn-tinged voice seemed to resonate in every cavity of his body. He was like a human sounding board. And he delivered his lectures artfully, extemporaneously but always with a central point, a clear arc of exposition, and in every case the talks concluded with an exercise or task meant to elucidate the teaching.
The practice was both simple and incredibly difficult. A few examples out of hundreds: Stop periodically and bring attention to your senses; try to retain this inner awareness in the midst of activity; do one thing at a time; be the observer in yourself; strive to have your attention directed rather than captured; be of service; remember that you are never the problem.
Together with Frank’s artful teaching was the vortex of activity and effort that surrounded him like a whirlwind. We gathered for meetings, intensive weekends of physical work digging, building, painting—all while attempting inner exercises and meditation. He had been in theater in his previous life and adapted or wrote and directed plays that we worked on as actors, stagehands, and set builders.
We mounted a play called “Let Man Live” by Swedish author Pär Lagerkvist. The characters were historic martyrs—Socrates, Christ, Paolo and Francesca, the victim of a South Carolina lynching, Joan of Arc, Giordano Bruno. Frank had thrown his back out and had to be carried into the theater for rehearsals. He was clearly in pain, and directed the actors while lying flat on a beach chair. I was in awe at the palpable force of creative will emanating from his helpless form.
In the late `80s, Frank and our group bought a property on the edge of New Paltz. It had been Sunnyside Poultry Farm, and once we moved onto the property the name became simply Sunnyside. It was a 13-acre property with several houses, barns, and outbuildings, many on the cusp of dereliction. From among perhaps 100 students, 12 of us joined Frank and became settlers.
Sunnyside was a new chapter, with continuous work repairing, renovating, and improving the property. In one case, we dug out the basement of the old barn, jackhammering rock-hard Rosendale cement late into every evening so a new foundation could be laid under the massive structure.
Following Frank’s audacious example, students began many projects within the context of the work including a bookstore, a children’s school, and a magazine. I recall the conversation with Frank when I told him I wanted to start Chronogram.
“Yes!” he said with enthusiasm, “But only on one condition. Don’t quit.”
Frank Anthony Crocitto, born July 7, 1937, died March 27, 2024, was a teacher, artist, poet, playwright, director, and in his waning years became proficient with a lasso. Frank was the spiritual director of Discovery Institute and contributed dozens of columns to Chronogram in the early issues of the magazine, many of which were collected in the book Insight is Better Than Ice Cream and a few are still available on the Chronogram website.
This article appears in May 2024.
