P J Curtis, Irish Author.
On day two of my journey, the retreat leader offered up a talk by an author he was particularly enamoured of. On our bus trip from Shannon to Connemara we stopped for breakfast in Ennis, a very oldy worldy, pretty town. The Grand Hotel put us back in the 1800s. What a Joy!
PJ is a man of exceptional humility. Quiet, succinct, respectful. He wasn’t quite sure why a group of writers would want to hear him speak. What did he have to say that anyone would be interested in? I think at this point, my heart stopped. Here is a man whose is huge, huge, in the literary world.
One of the most stunning contribution to the literary world by bringing the plight of Ireland’s past to light. And he thinks people are not interested? I guess, my fears for myself and my writing are not weird, singular or inconsequential.
Beatings as a child, he tells of his ‘normal’ childhood in the sixties, by teachers, parents, priest. Horrible beatings with brooms, fists, canes. All manner of things were consisted punishable including creativity was a sin. For everyone, but especially women. Musical instruments, playing, seeking to go on the advanced school, theatre and singing, all sins that needed to be hidden from the eye of the priest. Drunkenness, domestic violence – reactions to the enormous hardships faced by all played a major feature in family life. PJ painted a picture, without bitterness or resentment, of things that would make a person cringe. That was life as he knew it. Abuse, hardship, brutality, a crushing of things creative, things Irish and things human. That was the terrible secret he knew he had to expose, allow the light to shine on it. To heal a nation.
When PJ was a teen he knew he had this mission. Not entertainment but to offer a lesson, a teaching, a service that his bones told him he could not shirk from. And for this no thanks have come his way from his homeland; his sales are mostly outside Ireland. Yet he lives in Ireland. Quietly. His neighbours’ reaction to him did not make him flee. His reasons for doing it in the first place was compassion. Deep down inside, it was a path that was given to him, demanded of him, not to be rejected as too painful. Nor was he allowed the excuse that he wasn’t brave enough to face the results. It was as if he wasn’t given a choice. The aftermath was the personal price he had to pay. His response nonetheless was “Yes. I will do this. Because I love Ireland.”
His talk gave me goosebumps. He has courage. Wow. Courage to speak the unspeakable. And Wisdom. How often have I covered over something? It’s too painful, too embarrassing. I don’t know how to face it. If I don’t say it out load, it will go away. No one will know. I cannot say – other people will be hurt. It is not my place to say. Excuses. Excuses. Well. I don’t know. It made me ask myself, can I measure up to this kind of courage. The thing about pain is that it hurts. It hurts equally with all sentient beings. Why did my father say my grandmother came from Hungry when I ask why does she have that accent. He obviously had pain too. It’s a world I don’t know. I can’t walk in his shoes.
So the secrets that are held, do they go away? Of course not. What does painful things do when tucked away tightly with no air? They rot. Am I still going over my falling in ballet class as a child? The less than brilliant things I did sometimes while raising my children? The replay loop doesn’t stop and it produces a malaise over the things I do and am. Sooner or later, of course too soon is definitely too soon, they have to come out, allowed, accepted, forgiven, (to self mostly – who said I have to be perfect?) learn the lesson that the lessons offer. PJ voiced this.
Bitterness is toxic. Looking on the denuded hills, trees mowed for Elizabeth’s war ships, Irish food taken for English plates, left women, children, old, sick to starve along to roads, this had to have a fallout imagine a nation of PTSD? We make a race of imagining a world closer to what we think is our body/mind shape. Comfort. Comfort. Make the pain go away. Ha, ha, aren’t we good at deluding ourselves.
What did I see when I saw him, heard him, spoke to him? I saw ‘a hero is a humble man!’ A compassionate man. A man totally in love with his nation. Please don’t read pride. Read love, in the gentlest, most vulnerable way, convicted, undaunted. What do I learn from this? Heart and soul unblocks the fear. Healing from the heart is the only healing. My father had a pain he could not understand. His defense is the only defense he could bring to play – lies, cover up and brutality.
PJ compassion is compulsive – not in his ability to deny. Good on you. Thank you PJ for what you give to me. I don’t have the right (ha, ha, the ability) to dictate others’ responses to the things I write. What arrogance it is to attempt to write for vilification. I came here to this retreat seeking self-vilification. I think I want to correct this fault. Fault? All these wonderful people all have doubts. If it is OK by for them, who am I to question this delicate human condition. Maybe a writer has doubts and that I what drives him to write.
I am reminded of Bill Reid’s sculpture “Spirit of Haida Gwaii”
This internationally renowned scupture has been reproduced all over the world. A bronze casting , The Black Canoe, is in Washington D C. Another , The Jade Canoe, first in the Canadian Museum of History and later went to the Vancouver International Airport. It is also pictured on the Canadian Twenty dollar bill.
All the species, included people struggle to steer the canoe we’re on, in the right or one direction. It is incredibly hard. Are we not all brothers of a single cause to find truth, happiness, beauty, love. The struggle, blockages, mis-steps, insecurities and feelings that we need to defend against the unseen enemy – all are simply part of the deal – when we signed up to be humans – it’s what we do with all this. Am I better at being good than I was yesterday, last year? The job was never going to be easy. Sometimes we get it right and it’s easy, and thanks very much for those times, it in the bad time we must keep trying. So let’s just do it. Fight the good fight. My grandmother would say, we’re all in this together. Oh, yes – my First Nations Grandmother.
So glad to have spent this time together, PJ Curtis
“Half way to no where is every where.”
“If you cannot articulate the fear – it still has power over you.”
The cows and sheep
Why are the cows and sheep lying on the grass? They do certainly look well cared for. More like pets than factory produce. Munching contentedly in their gardens. No cramped boxes for these treasures, they walk at will along to road to find a better taste. The few cars that share the road don’t frighten them. Drivers take care of the little beasties. They know they won’t be struck. (Joke: What is a Connemara traffic jam? – Two sheep on the road.) My but our bus driver is skilled! I swear the bus is wider than the lane. Round and round, up and down. Was this where the idea for roller coasters came from?
It is so nice. The wee beasties stop munching to look at us in our bus. Their intelligent eye, observes from an all-knowing position. “You’re not from around here, are you?” “Are you enjoying your stay?” “So long. See you again.”
The thing is, it rains a little bit every day. Or a lot. And when the sun comes out, the world is stunning. But the grass is always wet. The sheep and the cows will get arthritis.
Unknown man.
cannot decide what to eat for dinner,” remarks, to no one in particular, an immaculate, gracious gentleman, walking with other viewers around D’Arcy Castle.
“Sorry?” the woman beside him starts.
“I can’t think what to eat tonight.”
“Oh, – are you staying at the Renvyle Hotel?”
“Oh, yes. I came here on the bus with you to this place. I like to come to this ruin. D’Arcy Castle.”
“It’s lovely. The bay. The sea. It’s gorgeous!”
“The view is fine,” he eyes roaming unhurried over the vista.
“Fine? Is there something more – with the castle, for you? You’ve been here before?”
“Yes. I’ve been here many times. A favourite place with my wife.”
“That’s nice. Is she here?”
He looks at the woman, “Oh, yes.”
After a bit she says, “What do you think you will have for dinner?”
“My wife likes the Plaice.” He smiles.
“Do you come here often?”
“Yes. My wife and I have been coming up for here every year for 28 years.”
“Where are you from?”
“Limerick.”
“I’d like to meet your wife.”
His eye return to that unhurried gaze over the ruins. For a moment he doesn’t speak. “She passed away this spring.”
D’Arcy Castle
This is D’Arcy’s Castle near the town of Clifden erected by John d’Arcy (1785-1839) in 1815. He is renowned for bringing industry and many livelihoods to the area. The British owned the land in his day so all original inhabitants were ‘tenants’ on their own land and homes. Any excuse (including owning traditional accoutrements, playing music, speaking their own language – sounds like North American First Nations eh?) would earn them double or triple rent or eviction. The idea, here as other places in the British Empire was to replace the indigenous people in order to have all the lands and resources for the crown and given to wealthy supporters. D’Arcy is remembered for finding this NOT RIGHT. He actually tried to help his neighbours by creating jobs and food sources (only potatoes were left for them to eat) and for this, the people are grateful to this day. He even created a couple of work houses. From our understanding these were horrible places, cruel, heartless, lethal, but here it meant staying alive! The best of a worse situation.
The Great Hunger
The history here is that the Great Famine is called The Great Hunger. Connemara is a word that can mean congested. Apparently there were lots and lots of people here when the British arrived and plundered the country. When the potato blight came 40 %, it is estimated, perished from no food. Another 20 %, emigrated. 2/3 of the population gone within 30 – 50 years. After the people were gone it became a wild, isolated, scary and place and the people crushed with saddness. The Irish today choose to refer to the disaster as The Great Hunger because famine is a ‘natural’ disaster and they don’t feel there is anything natural about what happened to them. It is a haunting place as the old stone houses of the departed cannot be taken down. So many are left as monuments to the holocaust or reinhabited by family. |
A wee bit of relief:
When Phil Cousineau lived here for a year, there was a little grocery/convenience store. He was in collecting his groceries when in through the window his neighbour’s donkey poked his nose.
“Good morning Billy,” greeted the shop-keeper. “Come on in.” He went to the door and opened it. Billy walked in and stood near the shelves. He had a basket strapped to his side with a piece of paper in it – a grocery list, for heaven sakes! The items were collected and placed in his basket, then the keeper opened the door. Out goes Billy back to his house a mile or two down the road.
Coffinship Poems
By the side of a road in Mayo County, modestly stands a bronze sculpture. No hopp-la, no flashing lights, no warning. “The Coffin Ship” Phil called it. Writers all, we are here to experience a retreat in Lovely, lovely Ireland. Special excursion to Yeat’s burial place with a stop along the way to see a monument.
Never having seen a picture of this monument I was vulnerable. I came along the path through some trees and then my heart stopped. This thing modestly articulates a holocaust. At home I had heard in a whitewash version about the potato blight that had lead to enormous numbers of Irish dying or fleeing their country. The Irish have a slightly different perspective and ways of remembering and showing the genocide through starvation, forces eviction, theft of land, crops, livestock. Not prepared for this. Arrested. Paralyzed. Dumbed by my heart’s hand over my mouth.
It isn’t something I will ever be able to un-see.
I totally disconnected from reality. Remained so. How long? I don’t know. Somehow, however my Grandmother came and stood beside me. I felt her next to my right arm. She didn’t speak. Her lips, eyes, arms – not moving. She and the Nakota are a package that sit tucked closely underneath my RAM space waiting. I’ve not yet found a way to live with the appalling 400 years of the European mistreatment. It niggles 24/7. Waiting to be attended to. Understood. It’s a bit like I sit on a bridge with no connections at either end. Well, this visit to the Irish monument took it out of neutral and firmly placed it in gear.
Sometime later I knew Gramma Brown said something to me. It took some hours to pull her words out of the ether.
“Speak.” Or “Take me home.” What was it she was saying? Or did I imagine the voice?
Is she talking to me? Am I worthy? Am I able? Will anyone here me? Listen to me? Huh. I guess that’s irrelevant. As far as my responsibility goes. I want to think it is her. “I am honoured Gramma.”
She is silent.
“Can we do it together?”
She’s not rushing to tell me how to do this.“Speak louder, Gramma.”
Smiling.
“OK. I guess I’ll hear you when I’m ready” I need some help here. “No?” Please Gramma. “OK. I guess I’ll hear you when it’s time.” Is this what is happening? Am I getting it? “Now?” What do I think I hear that word. “ Oh dear. Me, eh?” Why do I think this is right?
“OK. I’ll listen harder.”
So now what do I do?
I guess I do what I say I believe. Take a step. I do believe the universe will provide the net. I stepped away from my home in White Rock with nothing but one suitcase and no plans and I have not fallen off the end of the earth.
Coffinship Poems
My tether to a conscious
buoy slips its ring,
Disquiet waves shake me.
I drift, I rock, I contract.
My mind finds feet
and walks me on,
away from my body
I don’t know where.
Vajrasattva Samayan
slowly round this lewd stupa
manuparlaya, I circuit
this obscene announcement.
Your ugly hardness presses against
my arm, though three-feet-distance
cushions me from your bronze
hull, masts and black bones
Your ribs’ seductive sharpness
jab between my ribs, fit, score and
remind, – another time, across the sea
in a land-locked prairie
Not me. Not me. I speak for
Another, in another time,
in a land-locked prairie
across the sea to dreams.
When forced from their land in the Dakotas,
my Grandmother’s people commanded
to march, to starve, to separate. And die.
A holocaust with which I cannot yet reconciled.
Where are we going, young
Mariners, roiling down and up
on this frozen strange sea? Stop!
The cold, picks my cheek and neck.
Is it my body or my soul
you command to circum-ambulate
you and your ship? Separating
me from warmth. From fleeing.
In ghastly grins
your teeth clack
Like doldrums’ rigging
Flapping defiance
Shaking off stinking flesh
While you still
Cling to your crossing
Into an endless tide.
Your stars-dimmed eyes
gawking, blank palates,
In their hollowed perception,
List and lose the goal.
Your voice is so loud
I can’t hear your words
I’m listening, I’m trying,
but I can’t make them out.
Ah, now breathing,
our fingers entwine
your bone, my flesh.
I can hear you now.
Your sound on my tips
in the between life, we walk.
I on the bridge and you,
cast off from the shore.
Both lost, both not found
We’ll walk on the bridge
Unconnected to life, until
Understanding joins us to life.
On the Road
Catleen pulls her family,
they’re passed caring.
Catleen pulls her family,
Dares not let go.
Along the end road
passed reason
passed sanity
passed breath
She’ll keep on
Pulling her family
She’ll not let go
On the end road
Frail feet brake
on the stones
tears gone
long-a-go
Her gift
from her grandmother
impervious and whole
walks on the end road
Passing others
starved on the road
evicted from homeland
evicted from life
An iron soul
carried deep
and safe
her gift
Catleen pulls her family
how long it takes
because
grandmothers don’t let go
Sharing
We’ll walk on
together
or alone
we’ve done that forever
because we carry
the future in our bodies
the past in our souls
and we carry the present
to make it through this day
“till the job goes to our daughters
Ships in the Night
I walk for another, who cannot speak
I speak for another, who cannot walk
in her own homeland, a long time ago
And walk ‘til I understand
I can be her for now,
Listen to her silenced lips
Now that I’ve seen in this ship
that shared nightmare, destiny
