‘Life is beautiful!’ I exclaimed, and set to like a demon. And in less than fifteen minutes I had written over ten whole pages, the world for as far back as I could remember never having seemed so good. All I could think of as I made my way home was how I could ever have been so stupid as to worry my head about Boyle. And whether Sandy McGloin had been serious or not! Which made it all the more ridiculous when I broke into a sweat passing by Boyle Henry’s house and caught a glimpse of his wife moving about inside. But I did. The perspiration was rolling off me, in fact.
And as I sat there naked to the waist — I’d taken off my shirt and hung it over the sink to dry — I tried to see reason and convince myself of how stupid such a reaction had been, which is a much harder thing to do than you’d think.
Those Ten Pages …
… have survived all right in a box file in the archive. But they make absolutely no sense and are mostly concerned with the songs of the birds and the noise the water was making. Another piece from the same file written around the same time on, for a change, beautiful vellum, wherever that came out of — a certain principal’s office, most likely — is, in the main, much more comprehensible.
Some Notes by Joseph Mary Tallon … The Reservoir, Towards Dusk …
Working on the script and reading Dorothea Brande every day has consolidated the sense of inner peace and I can feel it getting stronger. It’s a really wonderful feeling and, I think, all the better for having been earned. It is obviously also bound to pay marvellous dividends in terms of the script’s actual quality. I feel emboldened — is that the word? — even my using it being testimony to the veracity of what I’m saying. Meaning the manner in which everything seems to be conspiring to assist me in my quest as a- inverted commas here, I guess — creative person! What I find particularly helpful, it must be said, is the feedback I receive from the students regarding the nature and quality of my work. That has become increasingly beneficial.
There was a visiting group here from Sandymount in Dublin, and they told us they found a lot of the psychotherapy work we’ve been doing very interesting and original. It isn’t, of course, directly connected to the creative studies course as such, but the possibilities of it seemed so powerful that when I came across the text by Dorothy Heathcote completely by accident during the course of my researches I felt it was much too valuable an opportunity to pass up. I thought it absolutely incomparable, in fact, dealing as it does with the nature of personality — our fears and anxieties and so forth. There was no doubt in my mind that it was related, however indirectly, to the work we were doing on the Youth and Creative Arts Awareness Programme.
At first, I have to confess, I was just the tiniest bit sceptical about some of Heath cote’s assertions and suggestions. But not now. And not just because it has worked for me either, but because I’ve witnessed its effects on others. Some of the students, for example, have really come out of themselves. And it doesn’t have to be anything complicated, with lines to learn and blah blah blah. You don’t need that. So much of it lends itself to improvisation. Take for example our script of The Big Fellow, the bones of which I put together in a few minutes lying here on the grass by the reservoir. When I embarked on that project, I had nothing, only a sheet of paper containing the merest skeleton of the idea. I was out there on a wing and a prayer, to be honest with you, and did not have the faintest clue whether it was going to work or not.
All I had said to the students beforehand was that I was going to work from this ‘blueprint of words’ to try and devise a piece that would enable one to confront one’s fears. So I filled them in on the entire story concerning the Big Fellow and how me and Bennett had heard our neighbour Willie Markham dying in his house long ago on an otherwise beautiful summer’s day. His voice rattling like chains in a bucket as we gazed through his window and saw them all crying. With the Big Fellow standing in there, staring at them and smiling his wry but arctic smile.
Once I’d told the story — I went into great detail, describing the bubbling tar and the kids playing ball — I recruited one of them to play the Big Fellow character.
Myself, I donned my aviator shades, the US army jacket (yes, I still had it), the orange palm-print Hawaiian shirt and my Doc Martens. Became, effectively, for the purposes of the session, the old me.
The student in question, I have to say, was excellent. He did exactly as I requested, stood there immobile, casting a long shadow of … foreboding, I guess. Then I set about him, jabbing what was supposed to be a pistol — in reality, however, a walking stick — at his throat as I shouted: ‘Fuck you! The Big Fellow! What a bollocks! You think I’m afraid of you? Well, phoo-ee! But somehow I don’t think so!’
When he didn’t respond — it really was a wonderful performance — I demonstrated to the students how the sole effect of it was to enrage me further, shouting as loud as I could until I became so hoarse and exhausted that I began to sink to my knees. ‘The Big Fellow! Him and his big fucking hat! And his great big fucking cigar!’ I cried. ‘You’re a miserable fucking lousy fucking cunt! A big lousy, fat-headed bastard! You wanna know something, you fuck fuck fuck?’
There were some of them a little concerned, you could see that. And a number of them did ask whether it was necessary for it to be quite so realistic. But that’s when I got up and took my clipboard from my assistant. I flicked my tongue against the back of my teeth and then tapped two fingers on the clipboard.
‘No,’ I explained as I paced the grass the better to order my thoughts, ‘You see, that’s the way not to do it! That’s the way to the anger that rebounds on you! And who does it tear apart? The Big Fellow? Do you see him looking scared? Do you? Ask yourself!’
I looked at them over the top of the clipboard. My eyes widened as I inspected them all individually. The air seemed to literally vibrate with anticipation. ‘Well?’ I asked. They shuffled about a bit but didn’t respond. Why would they when they knew the answer? I nodded a number of times in an attitude of deep but authoritative contemplation and said: ‘No! There’s only one person that that course of action will tear apart. Only one person, friends. And that person is -’
There was no need to state the obvious. There was a general air of recognition and assent.
‘Now,’ I continued, ‘now we’ll see what happens when you re-route that anger.’
So we went through the whole thing again, the big difference being that just when I was supposed to begin my outburst as I had in the first dramatization, this time I cast the walking stick as far as I possibly could from me and embraced the student as warmly as I could. There was a bit of a laugh when I did it too hard and my actor went: ‘Ow!’
But they got the point as, in an inspired move, he sank to his knees, supplicant. I clapped heartily.
‘You see!’ I cried. ‘The aggressor has sheathed his sword, knowing it to have become redundant!’
We had a great discussion afterwards about violence and its corrosive nature. One of the Sandymount visitors actually said that it was one of the most illuminating sessions she had ever experienced, and that was something coming from someone who’d been giving lectures herself for years. On our way home I invited some of the students out to the caravan for a drink and ensured they were aware of the depth of my appreciation. I have a feeling in the years ahead we’re going to hear more from some of those guys. And gals — excuse me! Oops! There you go again, Joey!
I opened a letter I’d received from the Ulster Bank regarding the whereabouts of Johnston Farrell. I felt myself consumed by admiration when I read about his having left the financial game now once and for all in order to become a full-time writer. ‘Hey, Johnston, my man!’ I said as I thumped my palm with my fist. ‘You’re showing us all how to do it! You’re setting the standard here!’
But accepting that placed a lot of responsibility on my shoulders too. So, straight away, I got out some paper, writing away throughout the night.
When the morning light at last crept in, I have to say I
was feeling triumphant. Except that when I read what I’d written, it didn’t seem to make any sense. It was like something a druggie might come up with, in fact. Except I wasn’t on drugs any more, was If I was so taken aback, I thought: I’ll send it off to Allen Ginsberg! There’s a chance that he might like it!
I still remained somewhat perplexed, however. So I had a cup of tea and, when I’d drunk it, went back to my masterpiece to read it again. I was full sure that this time it would yield up its meaning.
But it didn’t.
(The following piece I found stapled to the back of an ‘Asstd Jottings and Observations’ notebook and covered in heavy ink and pencil markings, not to mention various circles and exclamation marks!)
Thinking Back on Dr Carmody — Here in the Caravan Late — No Date
You know something? When you look back on anything you do, there are always going to be things you regret, and that is as true of me as anybody else and what I would have to say when I consider my position right here and now, having had a chance to weigh up the pros and cons and to try and be fair to everyone, if I had a chance to do it all again, one thing I would do, I have to say, is make a much greater effort to understand Dr Carmody’s position. To realize that when someone comes barging into your office in a highly emotional state, nine times out of ten you’ll find there’s a good reason.
For the truth is — and I can see that clearly now — that she wasn’t exceeding her authority, which I, at that time, considered her to be. Perhaps what I had difficulty understanding was that although I was in charge of the Youth Community Arts and Drama Lab. (inc. Cinematic Arts) — a completely separate endeavour but still under the umbrella of the Creative Arts Awareness Scheme — my overall responsibilities were, in fact, very limited. She, on the other hand, was directly answerable to the management committee of the college and the various cross-border committees without whom the project wouldn’t have existed in the first place. She also, remember, had, on top of this, to run her own day-to-day affairs. So I think I may have jumped the gun there.
No, I would acknowledge that I definitely did.
It’s just that I was so taken up with everything I was doing — my head was scrambled with all the suggestions the kids were giving me and which I had requested from them, of course, as part of the ‘brainstorming laboratory’ experiment (there were students running in and out every five minutes with notes and cassettes and CDs) — that I think I was beginning to think the place couldn’t properly function without the activity of my little ‘Andy Warhol-style factory’, as one of the kids had called it despite the fact that he was way before their time. Some of those kids were really hip to the beat. I feel so embarrassed looking back on it now, though, I really do, especially when I think of the speech that I made, turning the pen around in my hand and staring at her like she was somehow answerable to me.’
Some of the things you say … I can remember little enough of it, to tell you the truth. All I know is there was a lot of stuff about ‘privilege’ and ‘duty’ and being ‘imbued with a sense of responsibility’. Towards seeing the job through, I think I meant. ‘I’ve put a lot of work into this, Dr Carmody,’ I remember saying to her, ‘and it means a lot to me. I have a lot of responsibility to these students. I’m not going to start something and then abandon ship halfway through —and if you think I am, then, Doctor, you’ve another think coming. That’s not what we’re about here.’
It was at that point she lost her temper, directly after which everything went completely askew. And not a little unpleasant, which is regrettable, for she is not entirely blameless either, a lot of the things she said being not only without foundation but quite unnecessarily vindictive. ‘Do you think I’m the only one who’s noticed this, what’s been going on in here of late? You running around the place giving orders and winding the kids up to high … doh — it’s a school we’re running here, Mr Tallon, not a -
‘Not a! Not a! What are you talking about Carmody! Say what you fucking mean, madam!’ J was on the verge of demanding, the fact that she was on edge having a similar effect on me. But fortunately I didn’t. Not that there’d have been an opportunity now she’d really gotten into her stride, pacing up and down, taking her glasses off and putting them on again as she continued: ‘Can you please explain to me all this technical jargon you use? Do the students know what you’re on about half the time, do you think, Mr Tallon? I was going by the hall, why, only last Monday morning, and I stopped for a moment or two to listen to what you were saying — quite frankly, I didn’t understand one word of the language you used! Post-modern this, exegesis that! Where are you getting all this? Honestly!’
I think it was her saying that more than anything that stopped me in my tracks. It flagrantly trivialized all the studying I’d been doing, and was so much at odds with the enthusiasm I’d been getting from the kids. She asked me something then, but I didn’t respond. I suppose the dominant emotion I felt was hurt. I know it might sound childish, because at the end of the day you’re supposed to be a professional, but slighted — yes, definitely — was the emotion I felt. As well as that, I knew in my heart and soul she’d been building up to this. Someone doesn’t call into your office on all sorts of unconvincing pretexts without having something they want to get off their chest. It’s just that they’re finding it difficult to do it. That is what decided me once and for all on abandoning my strategy of seeming ‘compliant’.
‘Look!’ I said. ‘Look, Doctor! I’ve had enough of this!’, slamming both palms down on the desk and eyeballing her. Catching my breath as I demanded — almost plaintively, as I guess I can acknowledge now — ‘Why, Dr Carmody?’
I could see she was taken aback, but I had had enough experience of her and what she was capable of than to go and start underestimating her now. But even then I wasn’t quite prepared.
What I had to endure after that can only be described as ‘deeply upsetting’. She proved to be what can only be described as unrelenting — insatiable, perhaps, might be a more apposite word — in her desire for …
I have never seen anything quite like it, to be honest with you.
‘Don’t you realize,’ she hectored, ‘don’t you realize you are on probation here — which has already, in case you hadn’t noticed, been considerably extended — and that your special circumstances — in the light of the peace process and the changing atmosphere in the country — were not without significance in your appointment? Not to mention the persistence of Fr Connolly! Whose philanthropy in your case is beginning to seem quite misplaced, regardless of his friendship with your mother after your father … abandoned you! Look, I know your family circumstances were difficult, that your father’s absence and your mother’s … emotional difficulties have adversely affected you and that Fr Connolly wants to do all he can to help, particularly after your time in prison, which I know must have been difficult. And don’t get me wrong, for despite your atrocious actions in whatever year it was — 1976 — I’m all for rehabilitation because I think the community as a whole will benefit if we address these problems in a humanitarian manner. It enriches us too, Joseph, I know that! But where is the evidence that this sense of duty and responsibility is reciprocated? If we want to find out just how much you care, Joseph, where would we look? Or are you treating all of this as some great big joke? Do you think the community is a cow to be milked? Is that what all this means to you? Some great big silly old joke to you? Because that’s how it appears to me, if you don’t mind me saying so!’
I responded glumly as she stood there staring with her hands on her hips. ‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t think it’s a great big silly old joke. I’m sorry, Dr Carmody, if that happens to disappoint you. But the fact is, I don’t.’
I lowered my head, but without losing dignity. When I raised it again, she was standing over by the window with both her arms folded. A few of the teachers were making their way across the quadrangle towards their cars, laughing about something. She turned and continued: ‘W
hy then do you continue to flaunt the most basic of requirements to behave in this flagrantly irresponsible manner? Have you any idea just how parlous your position is and that only for the aforementioned well-meaning clergyman your position within these walls, which you may or may not have noticed is a second-level educational institution attended by very impressionable young people, would most certainly have been reconsidered long ago?’
So that, then, was what she thought of my scripts and workshops and the little experimental films which we were doing as a run-up to my forthcoming ‘main feature’.
Very well, Doctor, thank you for that, I remember thinking to myself. At least that much is clear.
But I needn’t have thought she was finished yet. She was drawing her breath again and plucking at her bowstring in preparation for the discharge of one final arrow, both lethal and perfectly aimed.
‘Which I could understand,’ she continued, ‘as I say, if you were capable of communicating your ideas and intentions to your students, instead of going off on tangents and saying, which you do, as far as I can see, literally the first thing that comes into your head. I’ve listened to you, Mr Tallon, I’ve heard you, and if it doesn’t make sense to me, heaven knows what the students must think of it!’
It was only through drawing on reserves of self-control which I wouldn’t have dreamed were at my disposal that I succeeded in holding my tongue. I felt like coughing politely and responding: ‘The students, in my estimation, Dr Carmody, appear to have no difficulty with it whatsoever.’
But there would have been no point. She was still rabbiting on, sighing, folding her arms, unfolding them. Then turning to glare and go ‘Hmm hmm hmmph?’
I remember being so seriously aggrieved by her outburst that after she was gone I was numbed and literally incapable of moving for at least five minutes.
Call Me the Breeze: A Novel Page 26