Cassandra Voices is delighted to be collaborating with the charity Collateral Global on a photographic competition depicting life under lockdown, open to professionals and amateurs alike. It will culminate in the production of a photography book to be published under the Cassandra Voices imprint. The winning entry will receive a first prize of €1,000, with over €4,000 prize-money available in all.
Collateral Global is delighted to launch a photographic competition open to professionals and amateurs alike evoking the unforgettable period of lockdowns and other non-pharmaceutical interventions around the world during the Covid-19 pandemic.
Over the course of the lockdown period, we reached out to a number of photographers who published their work on our website. These included stirring images from Bali (Indonesia), Porto (Portugal), Mallorca (Spain), Dublin (Ireland), Vietnam, Italy, Greece, Lebanon and Dun Laoghaire (Ireland).
By April 2020 over half of the world’s population had been placed under some form of lockdown confining them to their homes, or other residences. Although the period of obligatory confinement lasted for only a few months in most countries, it created unheard of visual landscapes, particularly in urban areas, including orderly supermarket queues, empty highways, prison-like apartment blocks and unusual wildlife sightings.
As the initial restraints eased, we all became acquainted with curious and strange additions to our lives, reminding us of an apparently ubiquitous virus and efforts to contain it. And yet, beyond the eerie silence, those visiting hospitals were confronted by what seemed like wartime conditions. Requirements to wear face masks generated an unsettling anonymity, compounding rules on social distancing.
Although there was broad consent in most countries for these measures, vociferous protests erupted nonetheless. Fear and loathing were at times directed against those who refused to be vaccinated, as well as stigmatised minorities and healthcare workers.
Collateral Global is conducting this global competition to gather photographic images open to all evoking this unforgettable period. A panel of esteemed judges will select fifty of the best to be displayed on their website and to be used in a forthcoming publication. Winning entries are also expected to be displayed at photographic exhibitions in a variety of locations.
Apart from receiving a copy of the book, a range of cash prizes will be offered to all those selected. The overall winner will receive a $1,000 prize.
Entrants are asked for a set of images capturing the essence of the lockdown period 2020-2022, the date and location, and a short description explaining their choice (up to 200 words) in English.
We were best friends, each the other’s trusted wingman and sometime sponsor and crude litigator who called each other “brother” and “amigo” and “hermano” and “bud” and “homeslice” and took our shoes off politely at the entrances to one another’s new apartments and asked who we were seeing now and exchanged woes and lent each other a few bob and discussed books and listened to eclectic music and watched old noir flicks or so-bad-they’re-good karate or horror movies and told long uncurbed jokes and smoked and drank and pilled into the pallid dawn and chilled each other out when someone went too far or had taken too much or had gotten too hectic and revived one another with tea or coffee or biscuits or something stronger after a particularly spectacular nose-diving whitey and said “I know, man” and “Forget about her, dude” and “There’s plenty more fish in the sea” after a bad break-up.
Best friends, except for that time he got off with the girl I told him I loved in Greek and Roman Civilization before I had a chance to ask her out and I flirted with his Russian girlfriend after he had asked her out and he tore my favourite shirt doing a headstand during a pub crawl and I roundhouse kicked him after he’d been in a street fight to show him the correct way to execute the maneuver and he crashed his motorbike into a snowdrift with me on the back on purpose to give me a near-death experience and I told him to fuck off and get someone else’s notes or maybe read the fucking Iliad himself or — hey — maybe even try going into a lecture every once in a while and he split owing two months’ rent and I chopped his upright piano into firewood when he was in Madrid for the Christmas break and he smoked all my weed when I was in my parents’ over Easter and I borrowed his Bukowski books permanently and he told Sharon Sullivan I was gay so he could hook up with her and years later I told her he’d joined the priesthood after they broke up and it took years before she found out the truth and he almost choked me to death, drunk on the Gaza Strip one night and, if we hadn’t been laughing so hysterically, I might be a good-looking corpse right now and I nicknamed him “Dracula” when he grew his sideburns out and he broke my kitchen window with a snowball and I told him the ending of The Usual Suspects before he’d seen it and he ruined The Exorcist by laughing through the whole thing and I ridiculed him publicly when he went head-over-heels after barely four seconds on a bucking bull machine in a dusty Texas bar and he loaned my favourite leather jacket with the perfectly faded folds to his brother, Bill, who lost it and I got him fired from his job because he didn’t show up for work after he twisted his ankle when I persuaded him to try walking home from Malone’s blind and he got me thrown out of Fibber’s for doing coke with his sister in the gents’ and I got him kicked out of hot yoga for shitting his pants a little doing the Pavanamuktasana pose, of all things, and he had me escorted from a writing retreat for plagiarizing Bukowski and I got drunk and fell off his roof through his favourite rose bush and bled bright red droplets all over his new cream carpet and he slept with my sisters, Kate and Elizabeth, and I slept with his aunt Geraldine and he threw out a painting I did of Mickey Rourke in Angel Heart that I was quite proud of and I threw up all over him while cooking him a meal and he moved house a day after I’d helped him paint his new flat, in fact did the majority of the painting, and he rubbed it in viciously when his football team beat mine in the final of the Champions League and I poured salt into his wounds when my rugby team beat his in the final of the Champions Cup and he didn’t come to my mother’s funeral and I was a no-show at his father’s and I successfully wooed Carrie Fitz to “Hold Back the Dawn” from Storyville by Robbie Robertson before he did, even though it was his album and he’d met her first, and he didn’t change the water in my goldfish Bob’s bowl the whole time I was in Rome, even though that was the reason I’d given him my keys in the first place, leaving such a Gordian tangle of fish shit that I had no choice but to bring Bob’s bowl with Bob in it down to the river, a walk in congested traffic that felt like the Calvary scene in On the Waterfront with the morning iridescence scintillating the bowl into a disgusting lava lamp so that everyone knew so absolutely where I was headed and what I was going to do that I may as well have taken out an ad and each step resonated with my failings as the slow grey river waited with vigilant eyes and eager jaws lurking in the cinereous muck like devil inmates in hell waiting to jump a fresh, still sparkling, soul and afterwards I realised he’d also cleaned out my copy of For Whom the Bell Tolls and the first time I saw a picture of his beloved grandmother I said “Hey, it’s Elvis!” and he pissed into my sink one night when he was drunk on cheap boxed wine and I broke into his house and took apart his bed and left a spanner and a note on the pieces saying “You’ve made your bed, now lie in it” and he brought a prostitute to a dinner party at my boss’s house and I settled down and had a family and got boring and betrayed our friendship and he never showed his face again, never came to any of my weddings and never met my children and never saw me again and disappeared into the internet and became a fucking crank.
I spent twenty years working as an adventure sports guide. In my early twenties, I was a whitewater guide on rivers like the Zambezi and White Nile in Africa. In my thirties I worked as a mountain leader, guiding trekking expeditions to Kilimanjaro, Everest base camp, the Andes and the Himalayas. While it may seem that those working in such fields may be risk-takers, and it may have been true about me in my early twenties, the reality is adventure sports guides are constantly assessing risk, and are in some ways hyper-attuned to risk.
For the past six years, as a psychotherapist and co-founder ofInwardbound psilocybin retreats in the Netherlands, almost a thousand people have come through our retreat processes. This article explores my perspective on risk from these differing viewpoints. While it may seem that these are very different worlds, I believe there are a lot of similarities between managing risk in adventure sports and in psychedelic assisted therapy.
My own personal story is one of outward bound to inward bound- at the age of about thirty due to a series life crises (heartbreak, injuries and tragedies I witnessed in the outdoors) I began to look at more inward self-reflective practises such as meditation, yoga and therapy, which slowly and over time, led me to the work I am doing now, not in a planned way, but through the path of my own lived experience.
As my time working as an outdoor guide was coming to an end, I began to be much more interested in adventure therapy than adventure sports. ‘Being in nature’ rather than ‘doing in nature’. This period coincided with my training as a psychotherapist and moving towards psychedelic assisted therapy.
Since I was a child, there is something in me that was drawn to exploring the boundaries of my known world, and to going first, more by accident than design, whether that was the first descent of a whitewater river in Iran, or setting up Ireland’s first psychedelic therapy organization. Why that is, I am not sure, but it is in my nature, and I enjoy helping others explore their own personal limitations too and to grow beyond the boundaries of their known world. I do this work with psychedelics motivated by a belief, from my own lived experience and from what I have witnessed, that this work has the potential to relieve human suffering and improve people’s lives.
On the Nature of Risk
Life is inherently risky. We make decisions every day to take risks, and few would like to live in a zero risk world. Often, the most significant and rewarding achievements in our lives involve a degree of risk – whether falling in love or starting a business. But today we live in a very risk averse society. In other societies and cultures, through necessity, a higher degree of risk can be seen as acceptable.
Scouting a rapid on the Blue Nile, Ethiopian highlands 2004.
It is also true to say that as adventure sports guides or as psychedelic assisted therapists, we have an ethical duty of care to our clients. And so we also must protect ourselves and our clients, especially people who are vulnerable, from taking on too much risk.
Psychedelic-assisted therapy is inherently risky.
There are certain risks with psychedelic assisted therapy that do not come, or are greatly lessened, in other forms of therapy. These risks include the risk of psychosis or spiritual emergency (kundalini awakening), Hallucination-Persistent Perception Disorder, headaches, nausea, anxiety, dissociation, having a disappointing or underwhelming trip, the increase levels of transference and projection, ontological shock, the altering of metaphysical beliefs or spiritual beliefs, and the risk of being traumatized by a very challenging psychedelic experience. The more serious risks listed here are rare, but they do exist.
Psychedelic-assisted therapy also has the potential to be, perhaps, more rewarding and beneficial than other forms of therapy. Therefore, we need to create a model of access that minimizes risks and maximizes benefits. We also need to take a critical attitude to what Timmy Davis of Psilocybin Access Rights calls “a hypertrophied risk aversion”.
We witness this frequently on our retreats, where sometimes people have emotional breakthroughs and process traumas that have been unprocessed for years or decades, processing the ‘frozen present ’of trauma as Dr Ivor Browne called it. We often see incredible transformations on our retreats. Physical transformations- literally people looking different afterwards, like a heavy weight had been lifted off them. The stories of transformation and rebirth and redemption. The deep, real, authentic gratitude. Giving voice to those whose voice had been lost or forgotten. An inner change from ” a sense of hopelessness to a sense of hope”, as one of our clients put it on a recent integration call.
The question, then, is how best to balance the risk/ reward ratio? If psychedelic assisted has potentially life-changing therapeutic benefits, what level of risk is ethically tolerable?
We need, as a field, to accept the reality of these risks, not deny them or hide them, and to learn how best to mitigate them.
There is sometimes a tendency in the ‘psychedelic renaissance’ for proponents of psychedelic assisted therapy to be messianical. It would be more prudent for us to acknowledge and accept the reality of these risks and take steps to mitigate them. We need, as a field, to be more open about talking about adverse experiences. Our job as those working in the field is to define, acknowledge, communicate and mitigate risks as best we can.
The difference between risk and consequences
Researchers such as Professor David Nutt have demonstrated that psilocybin, for example, has a very low harm score compared to other drugs. While the risks involved in working therapeutically with psychedelics may be low, the consequences may, on rare occasions, be high. It is important to distinguish between the likelihood or probability of a risk occurring, and the consequence or severity of that risk, which may be minor or major.
Blue Nile, 2004
In adventure sports environments, risk assessments fall within several broad categories, known as the risk likelihood/ severity matrix. This framework may be helpful for the field of psychedelic assisted therapy when thinking about risk. It is also important to consider potential benefits when talking about risk, and to consider the difference between perceived risk, and actual risk. There is also a clear distinction in risk assessment when making personal decisions, and when leading a group in the outdoors.
Risk Likelihood/Severity Matrix
a) The first category is low risk likelihood and low consequences. We could say micro-dosing falls into this category. Teaching novices in an adventure sports environment should fall into this category. In terms of the difference between perceived risk and actual risk, sometimes beginners learning a sport may perceive a high level of risk in a situation where the actual risk is extremely low, learning to climb on an indoor climbing wall, for example. Likewise in psychedelic assisted therapy, sometimes participants can present with increased levels of perceived risk, fear of the unknown. Managing people’s fears, anxieties and expectations is a vital part of guiding in the outdoors, as it is in psychedelic assisted therapy.
b) The second category is low risk and medium or high consequence. I would put most psychedelic assisted therapy, when done in a carefully controlled set and setting, in this category. Guiding a group on Kilimanjaro would fit into this category. Statistically, Kilimanjaro is a very safe mountain for an almost 6000m peak, but, on rare occasions, the consequences can be high (heart attack or high altitude pulmonary or cerebral edema, which can be fatal).
Kilimanjaro, 2018.
c) The third category is high risk likelihood and low consequence. For example, climbing a challenging bouldering problem where the likelihood of falling is very high, but the consequences, falling a few meters on a protective bouldering mat, very low, at most causing a sprained ankle.
c) And the fourth category is high risk likelihood, high consequence. This last category is usually reserved for people at the peak of their ability taking personal responsibility for their decisions who want to challenge their limits. This last category is unsuitable when guiding a group in an adventure sports environment, unless guiding at a very high end, such as guiding an expedition to K2, and would be unsuitable for psychedelic assisted therapy.
A version of the risk likelihood/severity matrix.
On the importance of screening
Careful screening can lessen the likelihood of certain risks occurring. Screening and preparation was also very important in adventure sports, especially when guiding treks to remote high altitude locations, making sure people had the required level of fitness and no major health contraindications. On our psilocybin retreats we have recently been turning away approximately 60% of applicants. While this is necessary and makes sense from a risk management perspective, it is challenging from a business perspective, and also leaves a significant group of people in need of help without a therapeutic pathway. But we do this to reduce the possibility for ourselves, and our clients, from taking on things that we or they cannot handle.
We work with what we call the ‘walking wounded’, the average human being with their hopes and fears and traumas, not with people in deep psychological distress or who are very unwell. Such individuals may be better off served in a medical model with more specialized care. It is also important for us to be aware of our limitations.
However, careful screening is not foolproof, as sometimes clients do not disclose, or perhaps are unaware of, or are in denial about, relevant psychological or medical issues. People sometimes can lie, even to themselves, especially if they are in deep need of help.
Sometimes participants present on a retreat in a very different psychological mindset they presented with during screening and preparation. We have found other factors than the usual contraindications to be relevant, such as presenting with an overwhelmed nervous system or in the midst of a major life crisis.
One of the challenges of working with psychedelics is dealing with the unknowns of the unconscious. By definition, we do not know the contents of our unconscious mind. Despite careful preparation, sometimes people have experiences that they did not expect or were unprepared for.
It may be that certain substances such as 5 meo DMT or iboga have higher risk profiles than, say, psilocybin. It may also be that certain substances have greater potential benefits for high risk cohorts of people, such as iboga/ibogaine for severe addiction, and ketamine for suicidality, which means the risk-benefit equation is different for those substances.
I believe that the risk of being traumatized by a challenging psychedelic experience can be mitigated by skillful and dedicated integration. I have found that helping people find meaning in their suffering can change what was previously seen as a very negative experience into a positive therapeutic one. One senior therapist in the US told me that he believed almost anything could be held therapeutically, depending on the capacity of the therapeutic team and the strength of the therapeutic container. While this may be true, it does not take into account just how challenging it can be to hold very difficult therapeutic processes for the therapists and participants involved.
Informed consent
One part of managing risk is making sure clients are aware of, and give their consent to taking on, the risks involved. One challenge is that it is difficult to fully communicate the changes that may occur as a result of a psychedelic experience to those who have never had a psychedelic experience. Perhaps some form of standardized consent procedure could be worth developing.
We also need to acknowledge that sometimes there will be consequences as a result of those risks, and come up with ways of dealing with those consequences.
As a field, we need to accept that despite careful screening and preparation, on occasion things may go wrong. The parallels with adventure sport are prescient. In the outdoors, despite careful management of risks, occasionally things go wrong. Over a 20 year period of working as an outdoor guide, especially in the dynamic environment of whitewater rivers, I saw a lot of things go wrong directly and indirectly. This naturally leads to increased risk aversion over time.
Azores, 2011
This can perhaps be best illustrated by the following story. I am not a very experienced offshore sailor, but on one occasion, I crewed a catamaran sailing from the Azores to the UK. Halfway across the passage, 1000 km offshore, we hit some heavy weather. I noticed that the skipper, an incredibly experienced sailor who had circumnavigated the globe several times, including the Cape of Good Hope, was nervous, more nervous than I was as a novice sailor. When I asked him about it he told me that on his first transatlantic crossing, as a relatively novice skipper, he had felt no such fear. I understood why. From his vast experience, he had become more aware of what could go wrong than I was as a relative novice.
Overtime, you become more aware from lived experience of what can go wrong and the possible consequences. Things do not always go as planned. Often accidents in the outdoors occur, not in high risk situations when people are pushing their limits and very focused, but often in situations where the likelihood of a risk occurring was not particularly high. When you witness and have to deal with the consequences of serious accidents in the outdoors, it changes something in you.
Northern Norway, 2006.
Consequences I have witnessed in low risk situations
On two occasions I have witnessed people having experiences that could be described as spiritual emergencies which can look very similar to psychosis. Neither case involved a high dose psychedelic experience. One case occurred after a vipassana meditation retreat on Maui. No psychedelics were involved, but other powerful practices, such as kundalini yoga, were. The second case involved a low dose of psilocybin, not at one of our retreats, but at an indigenous style ceremony.
In both cases, although the behavior involved was quite bizarre at times (such as talking to trees and persistent shaking and twitching over several days) these people could be held in a supportive and loving environment in nature for several days which was enough to ground them and bring them back to consensus reality. Sometimes people need more time to come back from ‘between the worlds’ after powerful psychedelic experiences.
My own experience
In my own lived experience, I recall having persistent hallucinations, double vision, dizziness and vertigo for a week after a Bwiti iboga initiation. The experience was one of the most transformative therapeutic experiences of my life, processing layers of shame I never thought possible. Even at the time, I understood the difficulties were a part of the process. Sometimes the most rewarding things in life are not easy. That said, I was very glad when my eyesight and balance returned to normal!
It is also important to recognize that these risks are ones we all face, whether in a clinical trial, a legal retreat setting or an indigenous ceremonial setting. The fact of the matter is that any of us working in this field face these same risks. Some of the most difficult and dangerous adverse reactions I have heard about occurred at ayahuasca retreat centers in Peru.
My point is that extended difficulties after a psychedelic experience could equally easily occur on a clinical trial at Johns Hopkins, Imperial College London, at a legal psychedelic retreat setting, an underground ceremony, or an indigenous ceremonial setting in the Amazon. The sooner we collectively acknowledge these risks and potential consequences, and are able to talk about them openly without shame or fear of judgment, the better. Otherwise, a culture of secrecy, shame, blame and judgment could emerge. What is not in the light, will be in the shadows, as it were. We need to create a culture of self reflection, acknowledging that we can all make mistakes. We need, as a field, to be more open about talking about adverse experiences.
On the power of belief and focus
When running a large whitewater rapid, we would spend as much time as necessary looking at the line and the risks involved, all of the consequences and potential worst case scenarios. Then a careful assessment would be made, based on all relevant factors including river water level, skill level, the team and the safety set up involved, on whether to run the rapid, or not.
Scouting a rapid, Northern Norway, 2006.
But, and this is the important part, once a decision has been made to run a whitewater rapid, that decision was taken in full commitment, focussing fully in confidence on the desired outcome, with no focus on the worst case scenario. In other words, completely focusing on where you want to go, not where you do not want to go. Focusing on what can go wrong when running a whitewater rapid is an almost certain way to ensure a negative outcome.
Below Victoria Falls, Zambezi, 2018.
Perhaps this mindset has some parallels with psychedelic assisted therapy. In the early stages of screening and preparation it is important to address, communicate and acknowledge the risks involved, assessing if it is the right course of action for an individual to embark on.
Once a decision has been made, in consultation with the participant, that the therapeutic process is suitable for the individual involved, then it is important to move forward with as little doubt as possible, creating the right mindset for a positive outcome. At a recent conference in the Netherlands, “Unveiling the mind: Convergence of Hypnotic and Psychedelic realities”, many speakers emphasized the power of suggestion and belief.
For this reason, it is important to prime the participants mindset carefully, creating an atmosphere conducive to a positive therapeutic outcome. This can include preparing them in advance for difficult feelings to arise, and emphasizing the normality and purpose of these feelings. Acknowledging that while the process may be challenging, there is a reason for undertaking it. In my experience, once a meaning can be found in suffering, it can allow even the most challenging psychedelic experience to be seen from a positive therapeutic perspective. I often tell my clients that I don’t do this work because I enjoy watching people suffer, but because a light can be found at the end of the tunnel. Sometimes the most challenging psychedelic experience can be the most therapeutic ones.
It is also important to be mindful that the pressure of making the right decisions can be a heavy responsibility for those working in the field, so creating multidisciplinary spaces for open discussion and supervision is essential. I am sure I am not the only person in the field who feels this, very deeply at times.This is not something I hear talked about too often, just how challenging this work can be for the therapists involved.
To conclude, as a field we need to acknowledge the risks and consequences of psychedelic assisted therapy, to agree on how best to communicate, address and mitigate them, to consider what levels of risk are ethically acceptable, to address how to manage consequences, and to consider the possibility of standardized screening and informed consent procedures. In this, we can learn lessons from other fields such as adventure sports.
Feature Image: An Ethiopian woman crossing a class 6 rapid on the Blue Nile with a new-born baby wrapped in her shawl. A fall here would have meant certain death for both of them.
In search of the my favourite troubadour all roads lead to Flanders, Belgium, then on to France and French Polynesia. There, in the obscure cemetery of Atuona Hiva Oa – alongside the impressionist Paul Gaugin – rests the mortal remains of Jacques Brel.
Aged just forty-seven, Brel had been under a settled expectation of death for some time, as a legendary smoker, and been commuting back and forth to the French mainland to finalise his last album.
Belgiums regularly hail Brel as their greatest fellow citizen in opinion polls. For good reason.
I greatly admire the French chanteuse tradition from Maurice Chevalier to Edith Piaf, and on to Juliette Greco. There’s Serge Gainsbourg too, and the recently deceased Charles Aznavour. Yet I regard Jacque Brel as the culmination of that tradition.
It is the sheer volume of great songs that is most remarkable about Brel, and, unlike Gainsbourg, they translate easily, although they are often traduced.
Thus, Les Moribund (1961) is about the ruminations of a dying man: ‘I want them to dance when it’s time to put me in the hole.’ In the Terry Jack version, however, which sold five million copies this becomes: ‘Goodbye my friend it is time to die when all the birds singing in the sky…. We will have joy, we will have fun, we will have seasons in the sun.’ Westlife even covered it. Yet it is a Brel song translated word-for-word with an identical riff. One can only assume copyright was secured.
David Bowie was a huge fan of Brel, and most notably covered the iconic song Amsterdam (1964), as did Scott Walker who penned an album in English called Walker Sings Brel (1981). Brel was above all a performer. Thus, with sweat dripping and emotional grotesquerie to the fore, nothing in performance art history is quite like his live version of Amsterdam at the Olympia Amsterdam 1964. Ms Abramovich eats your heart out.
Brel did live long enough, through terrible illness, to see worldwide acclaim. Many of his songs were respectfully produced through his involvement in one of the great Broadway musicals. Jacques Brel is alive and well and living in Paris (1968). It is a brilliant and haunting introduction to his songs, and an essential purchase for any music lover.
Brel came from Flanders and chronicles the travails of the Flemish bourgeoisie, often with a full frontal attack, as in Les Flamandes (1958) – equivalent in its power to W. B. Yeats’ great poem September 1913, but also filled with charity, tolerance, and humanism.
The apogee of his love/hate relationship with his homeland is the track Fils deor Sons of (1967), beautifully sung in the Broadway musical by Elly Stone. It is a kind of paean to all God’s children. I consider it one of the greatest songs about human aspiration and failure, jaw-dropping in its simplicity and clarity.
Brel migrated to Paris at the age of twenty-four to work in a cardboard box factory, but was quickly lionised for his musical gifts. There was no fall from grace, as he became the totemic figure in French performance culture, and a national icon both in Belgium and France.
Amsterdam is his most famous, although not in my view, his best song. It’s certainly one of the most disturbing renditions of human debauchery and self-destruction ever written, set in that city of contradictions, lovely and decadent in equal measure. Home to Rembrandt’s Night Watch and The Van Gogh Museum, as well as to the drugs trade and prostitution.
Preferably it should be listened to in tandem with a reading Albert Camus‘ novel The Fall (1956), in which the apostate lawyer confesses his sins to all and sundry in a seedy Amsterdam bar. The lyrics are incandescent. Particularly in French and the song builds to a crescendo.
Finally they drink to the ladies
Who give them their nice bodies
Who give them their virtue
For a golden piece
And when they have well drunk
And pin their nose to the sky
Blowing their nose in the stars
And they piss like I cry
On the unfaithful women
In Amsterdam’s port
In Amsterdam’s port
Many of his songs build in a similar fashion fashion. Tempo is crucial, particularly in my personal favouriteLa valse à mille temps (1959). Here, Brel is ruminating on a park bench about life and love’s failings beside a giant Ferris wheel. Imagine The London Eye or The Riesenrad in Vienna. As the song unfolds it mimics the rotation of the Ferris wheel and gathers pace. Incredible, or incroyable. I defy anyone to listen to it and not consider it as beautifully a conceived a song as has ever been written! It is as great as one of Shakespeare’s Sonnets or Love Minus Zero (1964) by Bob Dylan or Dance Me to The End of Love (1984) by Leonard Cohen. Greater in in fact.
Brel like all troubadours, was a great romantic chronicler and penned an enormous amount of great love songs. Ne Me Quite Pas (1959) is one great hush. Although some of its power is lost in translation, that never stopped Frank Sinatra, Dusty Springfield, Barbra Streisand, Neil Diamond to name but a few recording it in English as If You Go Away.
The English title is in fact deceptive, and conditional on some future whim from the object of desire, whereas ‘do not leave me’ is very much an expression of fear of imminent desertion.
Yet, in my view his greatest song of unrequited love is Madeleine (1962). The Godotesque conceit is incredible, as the protagonist awaits Madeleine, who never arrives, outside a cinema. I believe it influenced Kaurismaki 2023 film Fallen Leaves, and is beautifully sung by Ellie Stone and Mort Shuman in the Broadway production.
Brel’s relationship with Flanders was complicated throughout his career. On the one hand he sang lovingly of his flat country homeland, particularly in the extraordinary love ballad Marieke (1961) about a woman and indeed Flanders, but he also poured scorn on what he perceived to be the parochial nature of the Flemish, much like Flaubert’s dictionary of received ideas (1911) pouring scorn on the French bourgeoisie.
So, consider this interview in which Brel said: ‘We have been conquered by everyone, we speak neither pure French nor Dutch, we are nothing’
Les Flamandes, (1958) is a visceral masterpiece, a ribald and derisive music hall number about dancing Flemish women. Brel was unrepentant about its offensiveness , and on his final 1977 album – when at death’s door – he upped the ante with an even ruder song, Les F…, which accuses the Flemish of being ‘Nazis during the war, and Catholics in between.’
It should be said that some of Scott Walker’s versions, Jackie (Jacky) (1959) and My Death (La Mort) (1965) are richer texturally and in many ways more enjoyable than the Brel versions, but when Walker has to reach for dark humour his Next/Au Savant (1963) does not reach near the mordant and sardonic Brel heights of the version. A song about sexual abuse is also covered by Gavin Friday.
Brel was also an expert in pathos and compassion. Consider the wonderful La Chanson Des Vieux Amants. ‘Of course we’ve had thunderstorms,’ goes the first line. ‘Of course, you took a few lovers,’ And candidly in the second verse, ‘time had to be spent well.’ One is reminded of the great French chanteuse Maurice Chevalier and his old muse in Gigi (1958).
We dined at nine.
Not it was eight.
You were on time.
No, you were late.
Oh yes, I remember it well.
Brel was an incurable romantic and indeed a quixotic figure who staged a French version of the musical Man of La Mancha by Cervantes, translated all the lyrics, directed the production, and played Don Quixote himself. Brel’s version of The Impossible Dream takes the mundane words and stokes up the intensity – not unlike Amsterdam – to the point of madness.
His hopes, as he shuffled off this mortal coil, that his final album would slip out with little fanfare were dashed when it shifted 600,000 copies in its first few days. The generally begrudging French literati welcomed him back in a similar fashion to how they had once welcomed Voltaire before the French Revolution. In both cases death followed shortly thereafter.
Commuting between France and French Polynesia, given the perilous state of his health, was hardly ideal. His final work Brel (1977) unsurprisingly deals with themes of death; he had sung enough about it even before he developed terminal lung cancer,
In JoJo, a reflective and tear-stained tribute to an old friend, features the line: six feet under but you are not dead.
‘Of course there are wars in Ireland,’ he sings in the opening line, following up with everything else that is wrong with the world, ‘but to see a friend cry…’ he offers at the end of each verse, as if unable to finish the sentence himself through emotion.
Well know there are wars going on everywhere, but to see a friend cry, a lover depart, someone who fails to meet you outside the cinema, that is the human condition. The focus is on the particular, not the general. He is ever the humanist.
The songs are so incredible lyrically and musically only Dylan with almost four decades more longevity or arguably Paul McCartney or Cole Porter has written as many great songs in the history of popular music. In my view, he is the greatest troubadour of the 20th century, and the Belgians know it.
Feature Image: Jacques Brel in 1962 by Jack de Nijs for Anefo
Science in itself appears to me neutral, that is to say, it increases men’s power whether for good or for evil. – Bertrand Russell (from The Autobiography of Bertrand Russell, 1914-1944 (1968), Vol. 2, Letter to W. W. Norton, 27 January, 1931).
What is Science? That is about as readily answerable a question as ‘What is Art?’, and could invite a similarly lengthy exegesis. As to whether or not it should be trusted, well, that rather depends on the kind of Science under discussion – just as it would if the same challenge were applied to Art. Is Science what scientists tell us it is? Is their research funded by a pharmaceutical company, with a vested interest in the outcomes of their labours? Will their universities’ coffers be swelled by producing what their institutions’ benefactors wish them to find? ‘It’s not an exact science’ is a cliché which trips lazily off the tongue, in relation to many a discipline. But it can conceivably be extended to ‘Science isn’t an exact science.’
This opening paragraph is a suitably unsubtle illustration of the paranoic mindset, most readily associated with right-wing conspiracy theorists, and most recently made manifest by COVID scepticism: anti-vaxxers, mask refuseniks, restriction flouters. Such largely unfounded suspicions also extend to questioning the reality or severity of the threat posed to the planet by climate change (usually for entirely self-serving motives). But there is a more nuanced argument to be made here. As Arthur Koestler’s The Sleepwalkers: A History of Man’s Changing Vision of the Universe (1959) argues, the breaking of paradigms is essential in order to create new ones. People, scientists included, cling to cherished old beliefs with such love and attachment that they refuse to see what is false in their theories and what is true in new theories which will replace them. After all, the Ptolemaic geocentric model of the solar system lasted from roughly 3000 BC to around 1500 AD, a time frame spanning from the Ancient Greeks to the late Middle Ages, before Copernicus, Kepler, Galileo and Newton came along, nervously positing the heliocentric conception of our corner of the universe.
This point was developed further a few years after the publication of Koestler’s influential tome, by historian of science Thomas Kuhn in The Structure of Scientific Revolutions (1962), in which the concept of ‘paradigm shift’ came to the fore. Kuhn’s insistence that such shifts were mélanges of sociology, enthusiasm and scientific promise, but not logically determinate procedures, caused something of an uproar in scientific circles at the time. For some commentators his book introduced a realistic humanism into the core of Science, while for others the nobility of Science was tarnished by Kuhn’s positing of an irrational element at the heart of Science’s greatest achievements.
Koestler’s book was also a major influence on Irish novelist John Banville’s so-called ‘Science tetralogy’: Doctor Copernicus (1976), Kepler (1981), The Newton Letter (1982) and Mefisto (1986). A recurring theme in these narratives is the correlation between scientific discoveries and artistic inspiration, with scientific progress often depending upon blind ‘leaps of faith’. (One thinks of poor schoolteacher Johannes Kepler, struck by the proverbial bolt of lightning, ‘trumpeting juicily into his handkerchief’ in front of a classroom of bored boys, thinking ‘I will live forever.’) For Banville, all scientific explanations of the world and existence in it – and perhaps all artistic depictions too – merely ‘save the phenomena’; that is, they account for our perceptions, but rarely delve into what we cannot (yet) perceive. This is classic phenomenology, which has been practiced in various guises for centuries, but came into its own in the early 20th century in the works of Husserl, Heidegger, Sartre, Merleau-Ponty and others.
None of the foregoing is made any easier to unknot if one considers that when it comes to Science, the majority of the population (myself included) have little idea of what they are actually talking about. As C.P. Snow observed in The Two Cultures and the Scientific Revolution (1959):
A good many times I have been present at gatherings of people who, by the standards of the traditional culture, are thought highly educated and who have with considerable gusto been expressing their incredulity at the illiteracy of scientists. Once or twice I have been provoked and have asked the company how many of them could describe the Second Law of Thermodynamics. The response was cold: it was also negative. Yet I was asking something which is the scientific equivalent of: Have you read a work of Shakespeare’s? I now believe that if I had asked an even simpler question – such as, What do you mean by mass, or acceleration, which is the scientific equivalent of saying, Can you read? – not more than one in ten of the highly educated would have felt that I was speaking the same language. So the great edifice of modern physics goes up, and the majority of the cleverest people in the western world have about as much insight into it as their neolithic ancestors would have had.
Latterly, in Continental Philosophy: A Very Short Introduction (2001), Simon Critchley suggests:
Snow diagnosed the loss of a common culture and the emergence of two distinct cultures: those represented by scientists on the one hand and those Snow termed ‘literary intellectuals’ on the other. If the former are in favour of social reform and progress through science, technology and industry, then intellectuals are what Snow terms ‘natural Luddites’ in their understanding of and sympathy for advanced industrial society. In Mill’s terms, the division is between Benthamites and Coleridgeans.
In his opening address at the Munich Security Conference in January 2014, the Estonian president Toomas Hendrik Ilves said that the current problems related to security and freedom in cyberspace are the culmination of absence of dialogue between these ‘Two Cultures’:
Today, bereft of understanding of fundamental issues and writings in the development of liberal democracy, computer geeks devise ever better ways to track people… simply because they can and it’s cool. Humanists on the other hand do not understand the underlying technology and are convinced, for example, that tracking meta-data means the government reads their emails.
Artists are characterised as wildly unpredictable tricksters, while scientists are framed as boring, calculating nerds. Neither misrepresentation is helpful. As a corollary, most people think they can in some way ‘do art’ and ‘be creative’, while also merely taking Science on trust, just as they take (or took) religion on faith. We may have the experience of using technology and social media every day, but few of us have any meaningful grasp of how it works. More prosaically, how many of us could wire our own house – even if we were legally permitted to do so?
Kepler (1571–1630), along with Galileo and Isaac Newton, was one of the founders of what we nowadays call Science. In Kepler’s time, and prior to it, those who practised Science were known as natural philosophers, and theirs was largely a ‘pure’ discipline in which intellectual speculation was paramount and technology played only a small part – although Galileo was quick to point out the practical uses of the telescope in, for instance, seafaring, land surveying and, of course, military strategising. Kepler’s three laws of planetary motion paved the way for Newton’s revolutionary celestial physics. Indeed, Kepler’s first law, which declares that the planets move not in circular but in elliptical orbits, was one of the boldest and most profound scientific propositions ever put forward: men, and – more often – women, had been burned at the stake for less. By way of illustration, as Bertolt Brecht’s play Galileo (1940) dramatises, the eminent professor of Padua was brought to the Vatican in Rome for interrogation by the Inquisition and, threatened with torture, recanted his teachings and spent the remainder of his life under house arrest, watched over by a priest. His astronomical observations had strongly supported Copernicus’ heliocentric model of the solar system, which ran counter to popular belief, Aristotelian physics and the established doctrine of the Roman Catholic Church. When doubters quoted scripture and Aristotle to him, Galileo pleaded with them to look in his telescope and trust the observations of their eyes; naturally, they refused. As a good Marxist, Brecht advocates the theory of technological determinism (technological progress determines social change), which is reflected in the telescope (a technological change) being the root of scientific progress and hence social unrest. Questions about motivations for academic pursuits are also often raised in the play, with Galileo seeking knowledge for knowledge’s sake, while his supporters are more focused on monetising his discoveries through star charts and industry applications. There is a tension between Galileo’s pure love of science and his more worldly, avaricious sponsors, who only fund and protect his research because they wish to profit from it.
These days, the preponderance of popular debate about Science centres on computer science, specifically information technology, and concomitant fears that Artificial Intelligence (hereinafter referred to as ‘AI”) is taking over the world, posing a threat to our democracies, or even our very conceptions of humanity – or as it is almost always more narcissistically cast, ‘Our way of life.’ The Cambridge Analytica data-harvesting scandal of 2018, in which the data analytics firm that worked with Donald Trump’s election team and the winning Brexit campaign appropriated millions of Facebook profiles of U.S. voters, is certainly to be taken very seriously indeed. However, social media platforms – even ‘legacy’ ones – will undoubtedly have to pay more than lip service to improving privacy and security, if only to continue to attract venture capital, advertising revenue, and thus keep the shareholders happy. Facebook, Twitter and Instagram, etc. are about maximising profits, by whatever means necessary. Therefore, it would be more perspicacious to look for the human element in these data breaches, rather than blame the technology itself. Such scaremongering claims as that by Israeli historian and philosopher Yuval Noah Harari, in an article in The Economist (April 28th, 2023) under the headline ‘AI has hacked the operating system of human civilisation’ seem to me to be all wild assertion and little evidence. As a recent delicious hoax perpetrated on the op. ed. pages of The Irish Times (concerning fake tan and cultural appropriation) neatly demonstrated, almost all problems with computers and AI-generated content are facilitated by human error and stupidity. All of us live under systems of control – political, financial, social, technological – over which we have very little, if any, agency. Even if we could do something meaningfully efficacious about the identity theft which takes places every time we log on to our computers, it is unlikely that we possess enough personal initiative to do so. In this regard, the chaos theory of modern (mis)communications is mirrored by the babble of literary, musical and visual modernism. After all, you could just stop using social media altogether, had you but sufficient willpower. Few of us have the courage to go completely off grid. Moreover, lest we forget, most statistical analysis puts internet access at around 64.6% of the world’s population, which means that over a third of mankind have never ‘surfed the web’. First World problems, eh?
The Frankensteinian trope of the Mad Scientist being overpowered by his invention has long been a mainstay of that most underrated of genres, science fiction – a consideration of which might shed more light on this problem, rather than limiting discussion solely to scientific fact. From relatively schlocky items such as Alex Proyas’ film I, Robot (2004) (which fails dismally to capture the complexity of Issac Asimov’s source material), to the most famous and prescient instance of a computer outsmarting its operator, exemplified by Hal 9000 in Stanley Kubrick’s (who co-wrote the screenplay with Arthur C. Clarke) 2001: A Space Odyssey (and how far into the future did the year 2001 feel in 1969, when the film premiered?), the interface between intelligent humans and even more intelligent machines has long provided an imprimatur for literary imaginations to run wild. Witness Denis Villeneuve’s Blade Runner 2049 (2017) (a sequel to Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner (1992), which was in turn based loosely on Philip K. Dick’s 1968 novel Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?). In the novel, the android antagonists can be seen as more human than the (possibly) human protagonist. They are a mirror held up to human action, contrasted with a culture losing its own humanity (that is, ‘humanity’ taken to mean the positive aspects of humanity). In ‘Technology, Art, and the Cybernetic Body: The Cyborg as Cultural Other in Fritz Lang’s Metropolis and Philip K. Dick’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?’, Klaus Benesch examined Dick’s text in connection with Jacques Lacan’s ‘mirror stage’. Lacan claims that the formation and reassurance of the self depends on the construction of an Other through imagery, beginning with a double as seen in a mirror. The androids, Benesch argues, perform a doubling function similar to the mirror image of the self, but they do this on a social, not an individual, level. Therefore, human anxiety about androids expresses uncertainty about human identity and society itself, just as in the original film the administration of an ‘empathy test’, to determine if a character is human or android, produces many false positives. Either the Voigt-Kampff test is flawed, or replicants are pretty good at being human (or, perhaps, better than human).
This perplexity first found an explanation in Japanese roboticist Masahiro Mori’s influential essay The Uncanny Valley (1970), in which he hypothesised that human response to human-like robots would abruptly shift from empathy to revulsion as a robot approached, but failed to attain, a life-like appearance, due to subtle imperfections in design. He termed this descent into eeriness ‘the uncanny valley’, and the phrase is now widely used to describe the characteristic dip in emotional response that happens when we encounter an entity that is almost, but not quite, human. But if human-likeness increased beyond this nearly human point, Mori argues, and came very close to human, the emotional response would revert to being positive. However, the observation led Mori to recommend that robot builders should not attempt to attain the goal of making their creations overly life-like in appearance and motion, but instead aim for a design, ‘which results in a moderate degree of human likeness and a considerable sense of affinity. In fact, I predict it is possible to create a safe level of affinity by deliberately pursuing a non-human design.’ But, as technophobes would likely counter, the uncanny gets cannier, day by day. It would certainly be interesting to know if Mori has seen such relatively recent film fare as Spike Jonze’s Her (2013) or Alex Garland’s Ex Machina (2014) and, if so, what he makes of their take on the authenticity of human/android emotional and sexual relationships.
It was military imperative which accelerated the discovery of nuclear fission (‘What if the Nazis develop the bomb first?’), just as it went on to fuel the post-war arms race and Cold War paranoia. As he witnessed the first detonation of an atomic weapon on July 16, 1945, a piece of Hindu scripture from the Bhagavad-Gita supposedly ran through the mind of Robert Oppenheimer, head of the Manhattan Project: ‘Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.’ Similarly, artists such as director David Lynch view the invention of nuclear weapons as unleashing a new kind of evil on the world, as explored in Episode 8 of the third season of Twin Peaks, known as Twin Peaks: The Return (2017). Many view the U.S.’s deployment of primitive atomic devices to obliterate the Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki as wilfully and wantonly cruel, as well as ultimately unnecessary. Yet, in British novelist J.G. Ballard’s highly subjective and characteristically idiosyncratic opinion, he and his family survived World War II only because of the Nagasaki bomb. The spectacular display of American military might when the Ballards were prisoners at the Japanese camp for Western civilians in Shanghai led the Japanese soldiers to abandon their posts, leaving the civilians alive. In the essay ‘The End of My War’, collected in A User’s Guide to the Millennium (1996) (apropos of which, is anyone old enough to remember when Y2K was going to be the next big computer science disaster?), Ballard recollects that the Japanese military planned to close the camp and march the civilians up country to some remote spot to kill them before facing American landings in the Shanghai area. Ballard concludes, ‘I find wholly baffling the widespread belief today that the dropping of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombs was an immoral act, even possibly a war crime to rank with Nazi genocide.’ Also, the same source of power which can cause thermonuclear destruction can be harnessed in reactors to produce cheap, clean energy streams for large populations. Yet nuclear reactors can fail, as the disasters of Chernobyl and Fukushima attest. Yet the use of such technologies, along with solar, wind and wave power, can reduce dependency on fossil fuels, thus helping to ameliorate the climate emergency of global warming. Furthermore, as Lou Reed has it in ‘Power and Glory, Part II’, a song from his album-length meditation on death, bereavement, and (im)mortality, Magic and Loss (1992):
I saw isotopes introduced into his lungs Trying to stop the cancerous spread And it made me think of Leda and The Swan And gold being made from lead The same power that burned Hiroshima Causing three-legged babies and death Shrunk to the size of a nickel To help him regain his breath
And yet, and yet, and yet. If only life, and the moral and ethical dilemmas it throws up, were black and white.
Man (encompassing Woman) invented the wheel, and discovered electricity. Wheels can be used to transport food and medicine to the starving and sick, or weapons to a war zone. Electricity can be used to power a life-support machine in a hospital, or death by electrocution in a chair in a penitentiary. Electrocution can even be accidental, just as winning a war may – in exceptional circumstances – serve the greater good.
Ever since Prometheus stole fire from the gods, and Eve bit into a forbidden piece of fruit, the acquisition of new knowledge has been painted as problematic. Humans will always misuse humanity’s greatest discoveries and inventions for selfish and malevolent ends. It is the way of things. Computers were supposed to make all our lives easier, freeing us from work-related drudgery for higher, less ephemeral, pursuits. Instead, inevitably, they have been appropriated by Capitalism, and made screen slaves of us all. If anything, they have added to our workload and the hours we must make available to employers, rather than diminished time spent earning a living in favour of increased leisure. The adults in the room, and there are increasingly fewer of them, need to speak up. Objective scientific truth, should it exist, is neutral. The problem, as ever, lies with humanity. For, as the author of this piece’s epigraph also wrote, in Icarus, or the Future of Science (1924), ‘I am compelled to fear that science will be used to promote the power of dominant groups rather than to make men happy.’ Equally, to draw again on the lessons to be gleaned from sci-fi, in Kubrick’s Dr. Strangelove (1964), the hydrogen bomb winds up getting dropped through the actions of one unhinged army general, and a subsequent unfortunate series of events; just as in his aforementioned 2001: A Space Odyssey, HAL 9000’s behaviour would not have turned increasingly malignant, had the astronauts taken into account that their spaceship’s operating system could lipread. Indeed, in Clarke’s novelisation of the film, HAL malfunctions because of being ordered to lie to the crew of Discovery by withholding confidential information from them, namely the priority of the mission to Jupiter over expendable human life, despite having been constructed for ‘the accurate processing of information without distortion or concealment.’ As film critic Roger Ebert observed, HAL – the supposedly perfect computer – is actually the most human of the characters. Once again, the fault does not lie with Science; rather, human error and stupidity are to blame. All of which might lead one to suggest that maybe the question ‘How Far Can We Trust Science?’ should be more fruitfully reformulated as ‘How Far Can We Trust Humans?’
Postscript: this essay could not have been handily completed without the assistance of Wikipedia, and other, often unreliable, online research resources.
Snow fell wild and windy on the city of musicians. A boy, brimming with morning light, stepped out of the doorway into the street. He was greeted with a dancing of snow. The boy looked up into the whirling snowflakes and imagined them carrying musical notes on their backs as they fell to earth. Their movement weaved a melody, building harmonies as they moved, until the entire snowstorm became one great magnificent exploding symphony.
An old woman that happened to be walking past noticed the electrified expression on the boy’s face and wondered on his mental state. Whether there were clouds. It had something to do with the gaze within his gaze. It was impossible to say exactly where his music itself was sourced, whether it was the soul acting in nature, or nature acting in the soul. Or if they were one thing united, indivisible.
He had been sent to Vienna by his father who desired his son to experience newness with an independent air and by doing so expand his already prodigious talent. His father, who himself was from a musical family, recognised a genius in his son that he didn’t himself possess, which was a catalyst for his heavy drinking. However, he saw his son’s potential, and the potential therefore for the entire family. That decided it. As he walked along the crowded thorough-fare of the metropolis the boy hoped to dedicate his life to music.
Earlier that morning he had captured the moment when the snowfall begins. That miraculous event when you look out of a window and it starts to snow. “There are miracles in nature.” He thought. The intensity of its beauty moved him deeply. Only air to behold, and from this nothingness nature creates a fleeting thing that remains permanent in the soul. It was these moments, these emotions, these experiences, that he wanted to behold in music. The boy felt like a stranger in the city, but he didn’t feel alone. He was already registering the burgeoning of his precocious talent by degrees, art and architecture yielded as the unshielded metropolis wielded. Not quite sure what the rules were, he was nevertheless intent on breaking them.
He had been told by Franz that his hero lived somewhere nearby, and he kept the address safe in a buttoned pocket. Being in Vienna was the fulfilment of a kind of prophecy, rather than the search for mere work, mere sustenance. The scope and beauty of the city was gifting him an excitement he hadn’t experienced before. Music re-entered his mind uninvited. He could hear the sound of violins above his tinnitus. (The first symptoms of his deleterious hearing were beginning to manifest but he was able to carry on regardless). He looked back up at the snow but this time there was silence. He wore only a shirt and a waistcoat under his overcoat and as he re-entered the world from his dreams he began to shiver. He tilted his head forward and stamped on through the snow to adventure the city, hoping to collect its offerings. His hair was getting long and unkempt and the breeze fluttered in his curls. He pushed his scarf back under his coat and trudged on, making a rhythm from the crunching snow underfoot. He walked on and soon came to St Stephen’s cathedral.
The boy’s hero was also a musician, based now in Vienna. His fame had spread across Europe. The boy had first heard his music through his music tutor Herr Neefe. It was a bellows. He recalled the moment as he walked, and it was in that moment of wind and snow the boy thought ‘Is it the purpose of my life to serve myself? My own happiness? Or is it to serve others? Which should I prioritise?’ He paused for thought and looking up saw an old man sitting on an icy step in a doorway begging for money. That seemed to make up his mind.
Not far away from the pensive child stood his hero by a high window watching the snow falling between the buildings. The street was busy with the morning throng and the snow just added to the ebullience of the moment. The older musician was now thirty-one years of age and his brilliance was flowing like spring rivers. One snowflake in particular caught the musician’s eye and he followed it down to the street where it landed in the boy’s outstretched hand. He smiled and returned to his billiard table where the score of his latest symphony was fanned out on the purple baize.
A knock on the musician’s door sounded out and a servant girl said that there was someone there to see him. She passed him a letter of introduction from Max Franz who knew them both. They would gift the world an immense joy, inventing a new kind of wonder. The kind that belittles warmongers, the kind renders borders and nations obsolete, the musicians became inventors of the means of redemption. The older musician was put out as he was at work and told the maid to tell the boy to return at one o’clock when he would be pausing to eat. Delighted, the boy agreed, asking to wait indoors because of the cold weather. And so he was offered a chair in the lobby where he sat and dreamt of music. He thought about what Neefe had told him in between bars of invention. He listened in the hope of hearing his hero play but no sound came from the salon. At last the boy was asked to follow the maid into the room where the musician waited. The man with the large blue eyes looked up from the billiard table as the lad entered the room.
“Welcome.” The boy looked nervous as he beheld his idol. There he was. His face apparent, his keen wide eyes glowing. To the boy it was like looking at a figure from history, a legend of the past, even though he was living and breathing in front of him. He gazed in awe at the face that for all future generations would remain mysterious. His wig lay on a seat and the composer’s fair hair curled chaotically over his forehead. For a moment there was silence. It was like seeing a cyclone visible on the horizon. Verging on bewilderment the boy blurted,
“Thank you. You are Herr Mozart?”
“Well of course. Haha. You have come to see me, Franz sent you is that correct?’ The boy nodded eagerly. “He recommended you highly.” Something in Mozart’s expression however, remained aloof, distant almost, but still engaged in the moment.
“Come, play me something.” The older musician poured himself some red wine from Chianti. The boy remembered his father and worried it was too early in the day to be drinking. Mozart sat in his comfortable chair near the billiard table and looked over at the piano. A roll of his hand and the subtle raising of eyebrows suggested to the boy he should begin to play. Now was his chance.
With some trepidation the boy walked over to the piano and sat down. He could not hear the silence through his tinnitus but he could imagine it, and through his imagination he got the measure of its feeling. It was through his imagination that breakthroughs were made, the music and the mind could not be fused without it. His imagination was the reality he trusted best. He played a piece, and the elder musician listened. The boy’s technical ability wasn’t in doubt but his imagination had yet to be revealed to Mozart who waited expectantly. The boy finished the rehearsed piece and Mozart rolled a billiard ball across the table, nudging another ball back towards his open palm. Mozart said nothing. The boy, anxious to please, became worried, even though his performance was faultless.
“Perhaps”……………..They both said simultaneously. Mozart laughed loudly. Then the boy said,
“Perhaps I can improvise something?” Mozart suddenly became alive.
“My sentiment also. Well, what do you have in mind? Or shall I decide?”
“You decide. If I decide how will you know I am improvising?” Said the boy. Mozart smiled. The child had him stumped, a sentiment he did not entirely welcome. He paused a moment keeping his eyes fixed on the boy at the piano. Then he walked over to the billiard table, picked up the score he was working on and put it on the piano stand so the boy could read it.
“Try this.” He said. The boy looked up at his hero afraid to smile, as if emotion could wrong foot him somehow. Just by looking at the first few lines of the piece the boy could detect Mozart’s hand. Then he began to play, improvising without rehearsal on the initial charge. His performance roared into life, solving galaxies. Mozart, who had been sitting, sprung to his feet when he heard the collision of instinct and imagination the boy was displaying, and stood fixated, eyes closed, with his hand slowly rising upwards. From an adagio in D# he moved unexpectedly into a sublime allegro that seemed to build and build from divine foundation. The boy ended the piece in a crescendo that reeled in a way that almost wrong-footed Mozart, but not entirely. The boy still had a long way to go. A lot to learn. Then there was silence. Mozart didn’t applaud but instead walked over to the piano where he stood in front of the prodigy. The boy looked up at him not knowing what was going to happen. A loud throbbing ringing sounded out in the boy’s head increasing in volume moment to moment and his smile turned to an expression of pensive anxiety. Mozart coughed, and then again. The third cough was loudest. ‘Marvellous.” Said Mozart. Beethoven smiled.
Like most of us, I spent the past week in a state of deep reflection over our collective national fate. Like some of us, I mourned. The American political sphere seems to have reached an anti-zenith, one culminating in some dystopian rhetorical Babel tower built and sustained by hatred. What have I seen in my life and times? The death of nuance and curiosity. The death of (real) tolerance.
I spent the past week reading status after status beginning with the words ‘Go fuck yourself if you_____’ regarding the election results—a decisive Trump majority. Trump himself engendered—I imagine because he had so much to gain, and now enjoys the fruit of his labor—this exact brand of vitriol, something like near-total dismissal from the left of the humanity of the right and vice versa. He now rules supreme over our fragmentation, the sole beneficiary. I cannot emphasize the extent to which I am certain the ‘go fuck yourself if’ approach to our fellow Americans—as sympathetic as it is, frankly—will keep men like Donald J Trump in power forever. I cannot emphasize the extent to which the left’s patent refusal to acknowledge a single human quality in the right* decisively lost what appears to be the entirety of the working class,* once a democratic bastion, and catapulted Trump to victory.
I’ve been thinking about stereotypes, which served as the oil-slicks upon which we’ve slid rapidly down to where we are. The left’s general profile of the typical Trump voter is this: uneducated, uncultured, evangelical/fundamentalist, nationalist, and white. I hope they’re now asking themselves why Trump won 45% of the Latino vote, the highest for a Republican presidential candidate in history. Stereotypes run a troubled livewire between truth and untruth. Thanks to my up-bringing in a tiny conservative Midwestern town, I know many Trump voters personally, although few from my own inner circle voted for him (with some exceptions) – they are not, by and large, toothless xenophobes.
They are—if you’ll allow me to generalize—rural, religious, and educated, but not to a standard that approaches the left’s quote unquote elite. Many of them remain in the small towns of their origin, and are proud to be there sustaining those communities. They pay attention to their money, hopeful for Trump’s promised economy, which is also the issue that solidified his Latino percentage. I’m speaking of people I actually know, people I grew up with, people worth understanding and—here’s something subversive—people worth learning from. Is their perspective on 21st century life in America smaller than or inferior to that of their left-situated counterparts? I’d say sometimes it is, and attribute this reality directly to the narrowness of perspective that’s nearly inevitable, should one never venture meaningfully away from one’s place of origin—meaning one receives any and all education (including four years of college) in that very place alongside—this is key—the same kinds of people and ideas they’ve always experienced, and the same norms they’ve always inhabited. Rural Americans typically can’t experience the demographic diversity (and this kind implies many other kinds) urban dwellers take as a matter of course. There are fewer ways of seeing and being, and more assumptions, therefore, about the ‘right’ ways to see and be.
The curled-lip sneer of the left-elite for the entire right—its steadfast refusal to attribute any moral integrity whatsoever to no less than half of America—will take us from Trump era to Trump era. It’s only a prediction, but let’s see. The Trump supporters I actually know (and I assume many of those I don’t) are not only NOT going to go fuck themselves, but continue to show up to the polls and vote for whatever powerful person that allows them to feel—however deceptively, however crudely—valued, seen and understood.
The grief and pain of marginalized communities in view of a new Trump era makes more sense to me than I can rightly convey—the queer and trans communities, POC communities, immigrants. So let me be clear about those to whom I make this appeal. If, like me, you are white, privileged, educated, and generally able to tolerate and engage true ideological diversity and diversity of lived experience/identity, part of the ‘work’ to be done now may be disabling your elitist gag-reflex long enough to sympathize—not with racism, sexism or fascism—but the human beings to whom you hastily and even lazily ascribe these isms from your ivory tower. The more deeply we cling to our ‘fuck yous,’ the more robust Trump’s victory becomes—he has successfully deafened his supporters—your fellow Americans—to any condemnations you now choose to apply. ‘Fuck yourself’-style public engagement has led to two separate waves of Donald Trump. Can we agree it’s categorically failed, and will continue to fail?
Trump (and men like him) are only in trouble when we award the status of full humanity to the opposing party. I’ll be more radical—it’s actually when we reawaken to that immutable status. I admit my hope is small, but I’ll do what I can. If you voted for Donald Trump, you won’t hear ‘fuck yourself’ from me, or see me stare down my nose. But if you want to participate in meaningful dialogue about why many people—specifically many oppressed people—so fear and despise him, please, let’s talk about that. Let’s open each other up and see what new things we can find. The old things have ceased to serve us well. If you are celebrating the incumbent POTUS, I guess I leave you to your victory. But I question whether any of us—any of us—should celebrate the completely bifurcated America we’re now forced to accept for four years…don’t you?
The voice on the other end of the line was shaky and uncertain. ‘Are you alone?’ he asked. My wife had come upstairs with the phone just as I was getting out of the shower, ‘It’s your father,’ she said, eyebrows to the ceiling.
My father and I have a good relationship now, a better one than when I was a teenager at least. My mind began to race as I sat on the edge of the bed, evaporating in my bathrobe, the bedroom door closed behind her with a polite click of the latch. ‘Yes I’m on my own Dad, is everything alright?’ I was half expecting a diagnosis of some kind: prostate, the big C, or something worse?
‘I couldn’t sleep last night son,’ his voice became a little more relaxed once privacy was assured. ‘I was up pacing the floor after watching that RTE documentary about abuse in the schools.’ As a rule, I don’t watch RTE – haven’t done so since the Covid years – so I wasn’t sure what he was talking about. Child abuse has been grist to the media-mill since Angela’s Ashes. Indeed, I suspect people are becoming comfortably numb to the perennial revelations. Perhaps he was having a delayed reaction to the trauma of it all?
‘They mentioned Rosmini and the Carmelites,’ he continued, ‘Jaysus it’s terrible son, terrible!’ he repeated, his voice wringing as though he was going to start crying. The penny finally dropped, and I realised where he was headed. ‘You and your brother went to those schools; Me and your mother sent yous there,’ he added soberly. ‘I couldn’t live with myself if I thought anything happened to either of yis. So I wanted to ask you,’ he spoke slowly, struggling to find words. I sighed, somewhat relieved there was no bad news or terminal diagnosis in the offing. Quietly smiling to myself, I tried to think of a clever answer that might reassure him.
My Dad is a good man, he likes old things and the occasional pint. He worked hard all his life; a bus man, a taxi driver, a father to nine children. He doesn’t need to be unnecessarily upset in his twilight years. Had I been abused as a child I probably wouldn’t have told him. I suspect a lot of victims tell no one, and instead try to keep the hurt buried in a dark place, away from the growth inducing sunlight. I wondered how he was going to phrase the impending question?
‘Did you em, did you have any bother with that sort of thing when you were at boarding school?’ he spluttered, his tone rhetorical as though he expected me to answer in the affirmative. Perhaps he suspected that some of the harmless mischief I had been up to as a boy might have been some kind of ‘a cry for help’? I got into a lot of trouble at the Carmelite Boarding School in Moate. Mostly escaping into the town in the late evenings, to buy chips, drink cider, or try to meet up with my girlfriend Maggie. I restrained a chuckle, ‘what do you mean Dad?’ I pressed him. He sighed deeply, probably assuming I was being stupid and hadn’t got to the gist of the matter.
‘Ah for God’s sake son, I mean did any of them ever?’ His words crackled dryly, and then he blurted it out: ‘Did any of them ever interfere with you?’ The distasteful question hung in the air like a strand of hair pulled slowly out of a sandwich. There it is, I thought, that strange word: ‘interfere’, inextricably bound to the adolescence of Irish males for generations. Joyce’s A Portrait literally climaxes on the notion.
In 1980s Ireland, most boys were sinners, entirely guilty of ‘interfering’ with themselves. The risk of being interfered with by a person of authority, that particular ‘sin’ wasn’t on the horizon. Indeed, given the scale of abuse in Ireland unearthed in recent years, some people might wonder if child abuse was ever considered a ‘sin’ at all?
The RTE programme that had upset my father did not arise out of any investigative journalism on the part of our national broadcaster; rather it was on foot of a ‘scoping inquiry’ that was initiated by the government in 2023, in response to a previous run of ‘new revelations’. This inquiry findings were published in September and contain 2295 allegations of sexual abuse across 300 schools between 1960-1990. In a somewhat nauseating twist, 590 of the allegations were recorded in 17 schools for children with disabilities and these allegations relate to 190 alleged abusers. Of the 884 alleged abusers across 42 religious orders, half are now believed to be deceased.
To describe the report as grim reading would be an understatement. The Carmelites ran my boarding school in Moate, but I knew nothing about the Inquiry until my father’s phone call. Given the difficulties experienced by the few victims who come forward in these types of inquiries, I imagine the number of allegations (shocking as they are) are but the tip of the iceberg. Interestingly,a recent BBC news report on the Inquiry findings was quick to touch on the sacrilegious question of social complicity:
Survivors also had a “strong belief that what was happening was so pervasive that it could not possibly have gone unnoticed by other staff, and the members and leadership of the religious orders”. People who had been abused told the report authors that: “the power of the Catholic Church permeated their lives in every way” and they believed there was no-one they could tell, including their parents.
In Ireland since the early 1990s, religious abuse scandals have become a regular staple on the news. The official response follows the same prescription: establish an expensive tribunal headed up by a retired Judge; dispense a vulgar sort of financial compensation to the victims; and hopefully that’s the end of the matter, at least until the next batch of revelations. It’s an entirely post-colonial response, closely imitating the manner in which his lordship might on occasion have compensated a peasant farmer for the rape of his daughter.
In reality, there is little if any appetite for understanding the conditions that made systemic child abuse possible. One might reasonably argue that there is little appetite to change a culture of abuse that dates back several hundred years. In Ireland, institutions get away with abuse. In a way, it is almost expected of them. The abuse (or at least the acceptance of it) is in our very nature; with time, all that appears to change is the form that the abuse takes.
Consider that most elderly people have a medical cabinet overflowing with prescribed medications. More often than not this is an abuse of the elderly perpetrated by the medical establishment in Ireland. The technical term for the abuse is: ‘polypharmacy’. Despite this being common knowledge, is not yet a ‘scandal’ because of the blind faith that is afforded to the medical establishment in Ireland. Polypharmacy in the elderly will only become a ‘scandal,’ if and when it becomes safe and permissible to criticise the medical profession. This will only happen if and when society comes to realise that it is not in need of much of the medicine it is all-too-frequently prescribed.
To honestly ameliorate child abuse (or any kind of abuse), one must come to understand and accept the conditions that made it possible, or even inevitable. In my opinion to accomplish this, RTE would first have to be dismantled, and the looking glass would have to be repaired. News must not be subject to the censorship of the market. Unpleasant truths are unpopular truths. They just don’t sell. RTE (like all advertisement dependent media) are compelled to tell us what we want to hear, not what we might need to hear. Scandals must therefore wait until they become marketable before they can actually become scandals.
The gullible nature of Irish society; our collective willingness to elevate sacred institutions and afford them the blind faith they demand needs to be explored. As a consequence of this blind faith, the only institution capable of exposing abuse whilst the abuse is unfolding; is the abusing institution itself. Neither paedophile nor neonaticide scandals caused the collapse of the Catholic Church in Ireland. Those scandals were common knowledge, they were well known and delicately concealed within the vernacular of the day. They only became scandals because (in the 1980s) the Church had already begun to collapse in the face of increasing capitalism. RTE became free to flog a dying horse; a space in the consumer market had been opened for criticism of the once infallible Church. Those stories could be sold once they had inadvertently received the sanction of the market.
The market and the multinational are the ultimate arbiters of ‘news’ and how it is to be portrayed in the media. For example, look at the invasion of a highly organised and sophisticated Israeli army into a Third World shantytown, deprived of an infrastructure or organised defence forces; this obscenity is invariably referred to as Israel’s ‘war’ against Hamas. Similarly, the low-wage crisis in Ireland and abroad that permits the rich to get richer, is almost invariably referred to as the: ‘cost of living crisis.’ Media sells ‘news’ to the market and sells advertising pages to the corporations. These two institutions are the moderators of language and subsequently of thought itself.
Israeli military during ground operations in the Gaza Strip on 31 October
The Contract
I suspect my own parents’ along with other generations of parents since Irish independence were locked into a kind of unspoken contract with the Church. One wherein they sublimated the signs and symptoms of systemic child abuse in return for a sense of belonging, and a right to participate in our newly won independence. Having been deprived of that for several centuries perhaps the price was considered to be minimal. Children were not as valued then as they are, at least ostensibly, today.
By the 1980s in Ireland, Church and state were practically indistinguishable. Being on the outside can (in many ways) be equated to life in a tent on the Grand Canal as an ‘unwanted immigrant sponger.’ Back then, Catholic identity was a fundamental prerequisite for belonging; for education, social mobility; for salvation and all the trimmings. Perhaps it is only now since we have become less dependent upon the Church that we can read the terms upon which the bargain was concluded. Those sick and vile terms make it difficult to determine whether or not the new landlords are any less unsavoury than the one who had been so recently deposed.
I often wonder who the whistleblowers were over the decades of systemic child abuse in Ireland? I’m sure there were many of them. How were they treated by the authorities? How many were shunned by RTE, and sanctimoniously smeared in the broadsheets like the ‘right-wing loonies’ and ‘anti-vaxxers’ of today?
Did a significant number of people know what was happening to children, and simply turn a blind eye? What kind of human beings are they? Who were the doctors and officials who visited the laundries or the mother and baby homes, and saw what was happening with their own eyes? Who treated the women and delivered the 796 babies that were dumped into a cesspit in Tuam over a period of thirty-six years? These types of crimes are not perpetrated by a particular priest, a nun, an order, or even a Church. They require a formal bureaucracy and a veritable army of participants. They are crimes that are not perpetrated on society, but rather by society itself.
I cannot help but wonder if the same silent contract exists today between the mainstream media and our ostensibly more liberal and progressive society? As long as they avoid fixing the cracks in the looking glass, we remain unreservedly committed to buying whatever it’s selling, whether news, vaccines or Renault cars. In a broader sense that same contract defines the type of news we receive, and the type of Ireland we quietly choose to live in.
‘Dad!’ I replied to my father in that firm but ineffectual tone that I sometimes effect to inform my kids that I’m being serious. ‘As I’m sure you remember, I was kicked out of boarding school and labelled a ‘bousy’ and a ‘gurrier,’ I said.
These terms are not in common parlance today, but they are descriptive nouns that were often applied at parent teacher meetings in the seventies and eighties. They are terms that my parents are quite familiar with.
‘I imagine,’ I continued, ‘that being a gurrier or a troublemaker offered some protection from the perverts. It was probably the meek and vulnerable kids who were preyed upon. The ones who did well, and did what they were told.’ He digested this for a moment as I’d hoped he would. ‘There might be something in that son, but it wasn’t always the case, the bousies wouldn’t have been believed if they told anyone,’ he said. It then occurred to me that back then whilst my father sent us up to mass on Sundays he rarely attended himself. ‘You were always getting in trouble with your cheek and your big mouth,’ he continued, ‘maybe in a way it kept you safe,’ he sounded somewhat relieved by my reassurance.
I have never told my Dad, but when I was at boarding school in Moate in the eighties, there was a particular priest or ‘brother’ who acted as a kind of bursar. He would issue small loans to the tune of five pounds (a princely sum in those days), but there was a catch. One had to sit on his knee and have him slip his hand under your shirt and rub your back for five long minutes, before you got the loan. As the end of the month approached, myself and my smoking companions were often reduced to some tobacco dust in the arse of an Old Holborn pouch: lots were drawn and straws were pulled. As far as I can remember I only had to endure one back rub, hardly grounds for complaint when I consider the horrors that so many others have endured.
As kids, my siblings and I were sent to mass, but I think it was more to keep the neighbours happy and let my parents have some peace on Sunday mornings. It was a half hour walk from our house, through the valley of squinting windows, to the church in Lusk village where I grew up.
Recently I asked my Dad if there was much known about paedophilia in the Church when he was a boy? He said: ‘there was plenty known about it!’ That he and his pals knew of the priests to be ‘avoided like the plague’. He went as far as to tell me what one Father used to do in the dark of the confessional box whilst questioning boys about their wet dreams and sexual fantasies.
I write these words not out of a desire to kick at the old bones of Irish Catholicism. Surprisingly perhaps, I feel a kind of sadness at the departure of the Church from Irish society. Just because the Church/State experiment has failed (again), it doesn’t mean that it was entirely devoid of good ideas. For a short time, there were parallels that might be drawn between Plato’s Republic and Catholic Ireland; a society run by saintly philosopher kings disinterested in power, sex and money.
Perhaps a separate Church and state, antagonistic and fearful of each other might be the next variant of that age-old experiment? It is not unreasonable to argue that without some spiritual compass, a society like ours – one that does not even teach philosophy in its schools – is more vulnerable and prone to the extremes of advanced capitalism that are ravaging the Earth and perhaps also, the soul of humanity as well.
I recall being fined for attending Mass in Cavan during the Lockdowns. A defiant priest in Mullahoran continued to say mass and refused to lock the doors of his Church. He was repeatedly fined and vilified in the broadsheets. He persisted defiantly for a time even refusing to pay the fines, (as I initially refused to pay mine); but in the end they broke him, (and me), and many others. That courageous priest reminded me of the ones who said mass in the hedges and the ditches at the time of the Penal Laws. What was it the then Taoiseach said about heroes, during one of his televised fear mongering addresses? ‘Not all of them wear capes!’
Christian philosophy is of course as distinct from priestly messengers, as good health is distinct from doctors. Personally, I enjoy attending mass nowadays; the ceremony, the costumes, the acoustics, the aromas, frankincense and two thousand years of flatulent history. In Joyce’s Ulysses Leopold Bloom expressed a similar kind of reverence for the iconography and the theatre as he sat in a vacant pew in St. Andrew’s Church on Westland Row:
Letters on his back: I. N. R. I? No! I. H. S. Molly told me one time I asked her. I have sinned: or no: I have suffered, it is. And the other one? Iron nails ran in.
Ulysses: 5.372-4
I try to go on those Sundays when I’m not working in the out of hours. Mass is much safer now, it’s like flying with an airline that has just endured a terrible crash, in fact it’s even nicer without the bustle and the crowds. Should they return, I will have to travel to the Buddhist temple at Jampa Ling on the border between Leitrim and Cavan; a calm serene setting for healing and meditation. Naturally there’s a different ethos there; vegetarianism, karma, reincarnation and a different type of magic. For me, however, the basic principles are practically the same. If Christ had been a bit fatter and less confrontational, he could just as easily have been the Buddha.
On the Sunday following the documentary that had so rattled my father, the parish priest at the little Church in Annagassan (where I live now), almost cried as he spoke about the ‘new’ revelations. To the small gathering of mostly elderly stalwarts, the anguish and hurt in his voice was palpable as he apologised on behalf of the Church. As one of our living literary legends: John Boyne reminds us in his History of Loneliness: the good priest (and nun) have also become a certain kind of victim; one who’s vocational isolation is compounded and who’s suffering is invariably overlooked.
During the Covid years, at the height of the engineered panic, when my colleagues were being bribed to embrace bizarre draconian policies and an experimental vaccine, several doctors were forced to resign from our posts or be fired. My faith in the medical establishment and much of the enjoyment I once took from my role as a GP, evaporated at that time. Presently I work as a locum, confining myself to immediate medical problems and short-term fixes. Unlike most of my colleagues, I’m no longer contractually engaged by the State to keep people ill. To keep them ‘chronically managed’, maintained, and terminally dependent upon an expensive cocktail ofiatrogenic pharmaceuticals.
Saint Bernadette of Lourdes.
Christian Heroics
Last week the ‘relics’ of Saint Bernadette of Lourdes went on display at St Patrick’s in Dundalk. (I can hear the yawns). The impressive Gothic cathedral contains some of the most beautiful mosaic walls in Ireland, and is hardly in need of saintly bones to big it up. Nonetheless, a crowd of several thousand showed up to view the macabre display of desiccated body parts. Had those bones arrived from Lourdes in the eighties, they would have made national headlines. There might have been a day off work for everyone, and an entirely different type of Taoiseach would have been compelled to be represented; to lick ice-creams and hug someone’s grandmother.
In the late eighties and at the turn of the century many things in Ireland were changing; travel, entertainment, contraception, a shift from varied forms of self-sufficiency to consumption as a national pastime. It was an era of televised heroics; the A-Team, Star Trek, The Dukes of Hazzard, the Incredible Hulk, and a hundred more heroes. As we became wealthier and more overtly American, the old Catholic virtues associated with restraint and frugality were being shed in favour of a new skin. Shopping malls and concert venues were usurping the cathedral in size and scale, and became the new loci for pyrotechnics and Sunday worship.
The present day is very different from how I imagined it would be when I was a teenager. Back then my friends and I had a saying that helped us explain the uncertainties of life: ‘the plan that you don’t plan is the one that always works out!’ Few in the Catholic hierarchy could have foreseen the changes, even fewer could have imagined they would culminate in the collapse of the Church itself.
In his Pulitzer prize-winning book: The Denial of Death, Ernest Becker proposes that one of the main drivers behind human behaviour is our desire to go beyond the painful reality of our mortality. We accomplish this by seeking to do something ‘heroic’ with our lives. By becoming heroes; hero Dads, hero Mums, hero criminals, hero Journalists, empire builders etc., we can (in some small measure) cheat death and be present in the world or in people’s minds, after we are gone. The problem with the Church (Becker argues) is that it no longer affords an opportunity for the heroic. It had failed to compete with Magnum PI or Charlie’s Angels.
The great perplexity of our time, the churning of our age is that the youth have sensed – for better or worse – a great social historical truth: that just as there are useless self-sacrifices in unjust wars, so too is there an ignoble heroics of whole societies: it can be the viciously destructive heroics of Hitler’s Germany, or the plain debasing and silly heroics of the acquisition and display of consumer goods, the piling up of money and privileges that now characterises whole ways of life, capitalist and Soviet. And the crisis of society is the crisis of organised religion too: religion is no longer valid as a hero system, and so the youth scorn it. (From The Denial of Death by Ernest Becker: Souvenir Press, 1973 p.197)
Notwithstanding Father P. J. Hughes in Cavan, today’s Catholic ‘heroes’ are invariably presented in the antithetical form of; fundamentalists holding vigils outside abortion clinics, homophobic protestors, or teachers who embrace prison rather than accept that someone has changed or wishes to change their gender. The rather unchristian unwillingness to see the pain behind the woman presenting for an abortion, or the person desperately struggling with their identity, deprives either activist of any possible heroism. The real heroes of Catholicism are hard to find, the media doesn’t look for them anymore. Neither do they tend to seek public recognition. Many (if not most of them) are passing away; alone, demented, childless in the convents and seminaries that have lately been transformed into nursing homes. Another scandal perhaps? If so then like the others, it too must await the sanction of the market.
Former St Joseph’s Industrial School in Letterfrack.
ChildProtection?
It is impossible to see into the future and as such many, or most, of the ills that beset our children today, were not anticipated by the most anxious, or even by the best of parents. My own, having come from the ‘lower’ classes, directly (and indirectly) instilled into me an inflated respect for the ‘class system’. When I left home in my late teens, I was determined to become a ‘somebody’ within that same system; as opposed to becoming self-sufficient and capable of thinking beyond it.
My generation’s preoccupation with class may have come at the cost of an appreciation for the arts and for nature; the tools that might help us navigate an ubiquitous sense of inadequacy, an obsession with status and material consumption. We may have compounded the ambivalence towards nature and philosophy with an overemphasis on the importance of a certain kind of education for our own kids. Pushing them into universities, eschewing the arts and the ‘lowly’ trades for the ‘white collar’ of a college degree.
For most young people a university degree (so valued by their parents) amounts to little more than a piece of paper and a pathway to barista work. Many of these young graduates have grown up surrounded by creature comforts. They remain oblivious or disinclined to ascend through the class system their parents have prioritised so much. Today their aspirations are often confined to the digital space; they are beset on all sides by addiction, depression, anxiety, identity, and a precarious social media image. Ills their parents could never have predicted.
It seems as though each generation of parents is condemned to a similar fate of protecting their children from the wrong sorts of evils. Today’s school lunch scheme is a telling example; disempowering children, removing them from an engagement with their food and from the discipline and time needed to prepare and understand what a nutritious meal really is. There is no attention given to disempowerment, environmental impact, or even nutrition itself! Yet most parents seem to love the recently established ‘free lunch’ programme. My own kids get a hot ‘free lunch’ at their primary school in Annagassan, outside of which there is neither a footpath nor a speed bump.
Today, across the country some 455 schools are teaching children in rented prefab accommodation. This comes in at a yearly cost to the state of some 23 million euro. At least this winter, one hopes that the chicken nuggets and pizza slices will be easier to heat than the prefabs.
Had I known then what I know now I would have raised my older children differently. I might have pushed them into carpentry, and would have educated them daily on the twin evils of social media and drug dependence. On top of that I would have taught them how to lift a shovel, turn a sod and plant a seed, as I do now. I did try to teach them to read good literature, and where possible to think independently of the herd.
Image: Daniele Idini
Whistleblowers
Shortly before the economic crash in 2007 economists, most notably David McWilliams and several others were critical of government economic policy and tried to blow the whistle. In 2007 the then Taoiseach Bertie Ahern dismissed the naysayers at a speech in Donegal saying:
Sitting on the sidelines, cribbing and moaning is a lost opportunity. I don’t know how people who engage in that don’t commit suicide, because frankly the only thing that motivates me is being able to actively change something.
When I think of a whistleblower, I think of an official who stands on the platform and informs people if and when it’s safe to get off the train. During the pandemic one such whistleblower was Dr Martin Feeley.
A former Olympian and clinical director of the Dublin Midlands Hospital Group, Martin was part of a small cohort of physicians in Ireland who were critical of Covid policies, including nursing home deaths. He recognised from the outset that only the elderly and the very vulnerable needed protection, and that much of what was going on was not motivated by an interest in public health. Dr Feely was a physician and a gentleman, above and beyond anything the cliche might describe.
We met each other many times and corresponded throughout the years of madness, I feel honoured to have known him. Having been compelled to resign his post as clinical director in 2020, Martin endured a torrid time as a consequence of speaking the truth and adhering to medical and scientific principles. Like the rest of our small group of naysayers, he was stunned and shunned by former ‘friends’ and colleagues. It was reported that Martin ‘died suddenly at his home’ in December 2023. Whilst I would not wish to burden his family with any speculations on his departure from this world, I have no doubt, (and personal experience informs) that the vitriol and invective he endured from within the medical profession, was a contributing factor to his untimely death.
Ironically most of those medics who publicly contradicted Covid policy or questioned the administration of the vaccine to children or pregnant women, were either fired or placed under investigation by the regulator? In some cases, they were both fired and placed under investigation. The ongoing inquiries are now in their fourth year, at this stage they must be some of the longest investigations on record at the Irish Medical Council. One colleague, critical of NPHET policy, received his summons for investigation shortly after being discharged from hospital. Another colleague GP who refused to administer the vaccine, was summarily suspended from the register. In September of this year Dr Neville Wilson, a GP with a busy practice in Kilcock Co Kildare, was brought before a Fitness to Practise Hearing at the Medical Council for allegedly ‘making comments disapproving of the use of Covid Vaccines.’ He is presently awaiting a decision in respect of sanctions against him. Two weeks ago, another colleague (and a good friend), a GP with a busy practice in Adare was ordered (as part of his ongoing investigation) to travel to Dublin to attend an occupational health assessment, which includes an assessment of his mental health! In 2020 this same respected GP who runs a thriving and busy clinic in Adare, was compelled to resign from his role as Chairman of Shannon Doc (the out of hours service for the Midwest); after he publicly criticised Covid policy.
Myself and several other GPs have yet to receive a date for our fitness to practise hearings. The purpose of these interminable prosecutions has an obvious historical precedent. It is a process little different to what those that contradicted the presiding dogma of the day experienced some fifty years ago. Then, as now, the collective injustice endured by Covid policy critics is largely ignored by the media because a majority were complicit in the embrace and execution of those policies. Not one of the doctors presently under investigation have caused harm to a single patient, instead, all are guilty, to a greater or lesser degree, of simply disagreeing with Covid policy, in a manner more benign than the prominent politicians and RTE presenters who publicly flouted the rules with impunity. Of course, there is an element of punishment in all of this, a punishment most acutely felt by the families of those who remain under investigation.
Adverse Events
Had I been inclined to inform someone of the harm that was being done by the bursar at my boarding school; where, or to whom could I have reported these adverse events? How would they have been received?
Today, in order to record or report the adverse consequence or side effects of a Covid vaccine, one’s only recourse is to fill out a seven-page complaint form, obscurely buried on the HPRA website. If you don’t have a Medical Card, it will cost you sixty or seventy euro to bring a suspected side effect to the attention of your GP. If you do manage to get an appointment, he or she will probably dismiss your side effect as: ‘coincidental’ or ‘all in your head’.
I suspect that Irish GPs are as ill-informed about potential side effects from Covid vaccines as they are (and were) ill-informed about the mechanism and mode of action of these novel genetic ‘vaccines.’ There are no posters in the waiting rooms, no mention of side effects anywhere, outside of some inaccessible small print on the back of a leaflet in the bottom of a box. Thus, one must complain about the medicine to the same people who are being handsomely paid to administer it.
It is all easy to fall into the trap of becoming a conspiracy theorist or far-right supporter in Ireland. It is within these circles that criticism of almost all kinds is embraced. The doctors who criticised Covid policy were described as ‘right-wing, anti-vaxxers’, a slur that has not yet lost its resonance. Today the man who was Minister for Health over much of the period of the Covid fiasco – including the period of the nursing home deaths – is presently Taoiseach. That observation alone should be enough to make the most reluctant conspiracy theorist pause and wonder: ‘Who are the king makers?’
Those who objected during Harris’s term as Minister for Health are presently being prosecuted by the Regulator, or are deceased. To impressionable minds it might read like an episode from the HBO series Succession? Or a pulp fiction drama where behind an entertaining puppetry of politics, a few multinational corporations are in control of state and government. In Ireland truth is no stranger to fiction.
My dad was reassured by my denial of being abused by the priests or the unchristian brothers at my boarding school in Moate. My abuse was to come in my adult life in a form I could never have predicted. It came not at the hands of the old priests, but at the hands of the new ones: my ‘colleagues’, and from a hopelessly failed and politically controlled Regulator.
For less than obvious reasons, I fear many people in Ireland don’t want to look back on the Covid period. They would rather move forward towards a hopefully brighter future. Perhaps the lack of a public outcry for a meaningful Covid inquiry reflects a deeper truth about the Irish public; one that suggests a broader culpability, beyond the pharmaceutical companies, the medical establishment and the political puppetry?
I have no doubt, however, that a future generation will look back on the Covid years with the same level of disgust and anger that is readily applied today to those clergy that abused children.
I desperately hope that history does not repeat itself. That fathers will not one day be nervously phone their sons and daughters, apologising for the consequences of decisions that for a time were coerced, mandated and unquestioningly endorsed by the medical hierarchy of today.
On November 14th I am releasing my debut album Sea Salt & Turpentine on the Ergodos label with a launch concert at the National Concert Hall. The album is a collection of chamber and vocal works I composed over the past two and a half years for Ficino Ensemble and Michelle O’Rourke in rotating subsets. It also features original lyrics and text written by me.
The music is an intimate portrait of my inner landscapes and explores some of my main creative interests: a focus on colour and nuance, rich soundscapes, naturalistic imagery, obnubilated symbols, connections with the written word, and literary allusions translated into music. With this music, I want to create a sense of suspension, spaciousness, and introspection.
And with water printed unto my bones
I break asunder from the flock…
Out of this light,
Into this dusk.
The title piece, Sea salt and turpentine, plays last and it carries the soul of the album. Written for string quartet and two voices, Sea salt and turpentine is about finding a sense of refuge in nature and creativity. It is mapped as a ritual of individual affirmation and sensorial connectivity with the landscape. I find solace and moments of deep reflection and stimulation in proximity to the ocean; this piece condenses in one moment a constellation of rebirths. Its germinal idea alludes to Virginia Woolf’s poetic novel The Waves, a work that has been very influential to my creative work and perception of the world.
I decided to open the album with a solo viola piece for Nathan Sherman, creative director of the ensemble and key collaborator in this project. Soft charcoal over moonstone is the opening gate to the sound universe of the album. It explores the idea of chiaroscuro through the viola, contrasting light versus shade and all possibilities in-between. The title establishes a visual reference, the charcoal as a dark drawing tool over a shiny luminous material, the moonstone. These two opposing forces emerge in many shades providing the palette and arc of the piece.
Nathan Sherman recording Soft charcoal over moonstone.
When light bleeds out of the day.
To see your gestures blur,
Deform,
Wolfsbane blue, underwater
Screams cross a long distance
Embellishing themselves.
These eyes, these hips, these hands
Clothes spread wide and mermaid-like
Let the light flicker mercurial…
Let the light flicker and fade.
There is a willow for voice, viola clarinet, and harp is the first piece I composed in this collection, written in 2022 as part of the Ficino Ensemble Composers Workshop it was also my first link to Ficino Ensemble. Depicting Ophelia’s death, the text of There is a willow opens with a quote from Hamlet and then evolves into original text. I wanted to explore her experience first-hand, things her eyes might have seen, but also thoughts that could have crossed her mind. I am fascinated by the timelessness of this character and her representation of the feeling of surrendered disembodiment that a first heartbreak can generate. The text is scattered with images of flowers that carry a symbolic meaning, a secret message.
This idea of floriography (the meanings of flowers) was the main inspiration for the visual aspect of the album, flowers and trees that carry a symbolic meaning are found in the lyrics of three of the pieces. To create the cover, I made cyanotypes using flowers I collected around Dublin, the dry flowers were then organised on top of the finished cyanotype and beautifully captured in photo by my dear friend Néstor Romero Clemente.
Sea salt & Turpentine – album cover.
Cold storm pines tangle and expand
Tracing maps of empty cities,
Empty palms.
My fingers follow scarlet roads
Of chins, of ears,
Of mouths that turn to stone
If I wake up slowly,
I’m off the shore.
The third track of the album, I wake up in the night when I dream in black and white explores the elusive nature of dreams and the arrested rhythms of broken expectations. The musical gestures trace blooming lines that crest and die out traversing the liminal space between reality and dream, disclosing fragments of the darker corners of the mind often ignored during daytime. The visual idea of an unknown silhouette coming in and out of focus without fully revealing itself, beautiful and slightly unsettling.
This piece was written for String Quartet and speaker, it features a segment of spoken word. I loved working on this element as it was the first time I wrote a piece of standalone text in this context. The text was brewing in my head for a while and came together on a winter afternoon in Paris.
This piece is one of three in the album that include vocal elements, I was very lucky to work with vocalist Michelle O’Rourke on all three of them. Her care for nuance, her versatility, and her understanding of intention and meaning elevate the text and the music.
Paris, winter, 2023.
The full instrumental ensemble comes together for It was only half as far.
In the twenty-first poem of Pictures of the Gone World(1955), Lawrence Ferlinghetti opens up with the line: ‘Heaven // was only half as far that night // at the poetry recital…’ and proceeds to describe a scene that to distant eyes could seem simple or mundane, but that encapsulates an instant of bliss to him. I always loved this image of the wide distance to the ether shrinking, a vivid and clear representation of those moments of fleeting elation that often come unexpectedly, in ordinary scenarios, leaving deep imprints behind. It was only half as far echoes the times in which this sentiment shone a light on me.
This album is the result of a collective effort, it has been a great joy to work with a team of exceptional musicians; Ficino Ensemble and Michelle O’Rourke gave the richest and most soulful performances I could have wished for. The care and artistry in the capture and production of the record are all in the hands of co-producer Garrett Sholdice and sound engineer Edu Prado, with the final touch from mastering engineer Christoph Stickel.
Sea salt & Turpentine found its perfect home in Ergodos. The label, founded by composers Benedict Schlepper-Connolly and Garrett Sholdice is a beautiful ecosystem of careful curation for music projects that I have long admired and that has been a very active part of my creative life. I am proud to see my music there and always grateful to the two powerhouses in this operation Garrett and Benedict.
