At the Edge of Ireland Read online

  One writer suggested that Ezra Pound, Paul Klee, Jean Dubuffet, and Jean-Michel Basquiat were key influences on his work and that “anyone privileged enough to watch him paint is struck by an analogy with gardening—He tends the grounds of his pictures with the same devotion as a gardener.” Apparently his key implements are palette knives (often one in each hand) and large decorator painting brushes.

  Unfortunately I was not “privileged enough” to see the man in action, but there were other things I was curious about—most notably what I tend to label as “The Vivaldi” approach to creativity, where similar themes and arrangements recur again and again in a string of different works.

  “Did Sufism lead to any changes in your art?” Ever since John had mentioned his sudden conversion, I’d sensed he’d wanted to tell me more.

  “Oh boy, yes—although it’s hard to be specific. In fact, it’s difficult, actually, to recall what I was like before I became Sufi. But I’m very much involved in their world—their explanation of our mutual integration in a web, a vast web of connections. If I suffer from anything now, it’s me as a Muslim in a non-Muslim world. I’m particularly skeptical, as you may have gathered, of paternal institutions like the World Bank, the IMF, and the mindless damage they do and the corruption and horror stories they generate. I’m also very skeptical of ‘New Age Business’ in general. It can be so insular and greedy. It needs to be ‘cleansed.’ [Ironically his words were highly predictive of the financial calamities that arose round the world a year or so later!] Proponents of it should celebrate the month of Ramadan instead—you lose some of that glib civilized veneer, and by your daily fasting, you learn—you’re reminded—what it’s like to be poor every day of the year. When you remove the prestige of food and drink, you become much more humble and vulnerable. You also begin to recognize that you don’t really exist, and neither do I. It’s a long explanation…but, well, on the Night of Power toward the end of Ramadan—for those who are open to it—your identity becomes like a wave of light, and you hardly exist at all. It’s as though the heavens open and Allah sends down his messengers and his knowledge.”

  It would be impossible to recollect all the meanderings and abrupt direction-shifts of our long and wide-ranging conversation. Fortunately, however, my loyal little tape recorder whirled and whirred away in my pocket, and I picked up a remarkable range of Kingerleeisms over the course of our first two-hour meeting. I include a random selection:

  “I’m seventy and I’ve been vagabonding most of my life, but on Beara I found myself in the footsteps of the Celtic revival artists and everything changed.”

  “I want fewer and fewer things and an ever-enlarging life.” “I’m really only interested in people who are trying to promote tolerance, empathy and understanding.”

  “The World Bank and the IMF and a lot of the ‘do-good’ organizations are ironically great stiflers of compassion. They kill millions of people a year with their financial structures and terrible burdens of usury. I’ve lost a lot of friends arguing about all this.” [His argument reminded me of Ezra Pound’s outrages at the scourges of bankers and “international finance.”]

  “The more ‘good’ things you do, the more ‘bad’ things you end up creating. You know, that old chestnut ‘No good deed ever goes unpunished’! Or that other one: ‘Every action creates an equal and opposite reaction.’”

  “Poor old USA. It’s damned if it does and damned if it doesn’t. The world always turns to the USA in any crisis—and then sits back and sneers and criticizes while the USA tries to respond—which it normally does pretty badly.”

  “Amateur ‘artists’ wait for inspiration. The rest of us rise up every morning, splash our bodies, and get down to hard work.”

  “Picasso was a great rediscoverer. Sometimes I think I’d like to ‘reinvent myself every day,’ like he suggested all artists should do. But I also like boundaries. Limitlessness can lead to insanity. But so can success! Picasso also said ‘Of all the things God sends you—poverty, injustice, hunger, lack of recognition—fame is the hardest to deal with’!”

  “The best joy of life is spontaneity—to be a slave to the second!”

  “Some of us can go back mentally—believe it or not—to their very first feast on the rich milk from their mother’s breast…You get an amazing sense of where we all come from when that happens.”

  As with Tim and Leanne, I left John Kingerlee much later than I intended. It had been a remarkable few hours. At times I felt we had skirted the edges of malicious minefields and the possibility of actual physical confrontation over economic and social issues. But then there were moments of great warmth, and the whole experience ended almost blissfully. It reminded me of a paraphrase quote of Kurt Vonnegut’s—“There’s only one rule I know of here on earth—Goddamn it, we’ve just got to be kind to one another.”

  John was even gracious about one of my earlier books—Seasons on Harris. I brought a copy to show him what I hoped to produce on Beara. He studied the book and its illustrations very intently, and I was preparing myself for another of his verbal assaults. But instead he looked at me, smiled a truly genuine smile, and said, “David, I’m envious. I couldn’t do what you’ve done here. The artwork is particularly beautiful.”

  That, I thought, deserved a handshake and a hug and I reached out to grab him. He suddenly looked startled—almost afraid. Then he explained. “So sorry—it’s Ramadan. I can’t…”

  “Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry too. I didn’t know.”

  “Don’t worry, even my wife, Mo, can’t touch me during Ramadan. But I owe you one when it’s over next week.”

  I haven’t had that hug…yet.

  17

  The Enumerator Cometh

  IT WAS A BALMY SUMMER EVENING. Anne and I were enjoying our 6 P.M. glasses of wine at the patio table overlooking the bay, and all seemed at peace with the world until…

  “Hello? Hello?” (with a very heavy emphasis on the Hs.) “Can I…in?”

  We turned. A young lady with a long cascade of black hair framing her rather gaunt face stood at our garden gate and seemed reluctant to open it. Across her shoulders was a large canvas bag—something like a mailman might carry. But the mailman had already been. Hours ago.

  “Sure, come on in,” Anne said, beaming her usual welcoming smile.

  “Ah, zank you, zank you.” The young lady seemed a little nervous. I stood up and offered my seat, but she seemed to prefer standing as she reached deep into her overlarge bag.

  “I am your enum…enumer…enum…” She was obviously having problems explaining who she was, but as whatever word she tried to pronounce was unfamiliar to us, we couldn’t do much more than smile encouragingly and wait. Eventually she found the correct sequence of syllables.

  “Enum-er-ator. Enumerator…yes…I am your enumerator. I am sorry. I am not from Ireland. I am from the Poland,” she finally explained and stood waiting for our reaction. Which—beyond a questioning expression—was not forthcoming. We had no idea what an enumerator said or did, so we waited for her to continue. We were, however, familiar with Poland and wondered if that might ultimately be a fruitful line of chat.

  “You know about big national census?” she asked hopefully.

  “Census?” I said. “No, we know nothing about any census.”

  “But it has been on the TV…on the radio…for many weeks. All about it…big census. For all country…”

  We looked at each other and shrugged.

  “No, never heard of it,” I said. “But we haven’t been here very long. We don’t live here. We’re just visiting…we’re not Irish…”

  “That is not matter,” said the Polish lady with emphasis. Now she sounded more certain of herself and her ability to deal with the minutiae of bureaucratic legalities. Her voice took on a more strident tone. “No, it is not matter at all. This form is for you. Please take.”

  “But we don’t live here—we’re British, and we live in America. We’re just here for a few wee
ks…”

  “Pliss,” the lady said. “Is law. Everybody must fill form. Everyone in Ireland…”

  I thought I’d try one more time. “I’m sorry, but we are not Irish, we’re renting this place, so we shouldn’t be filling out any census forms. Otherwise your numbers will include hundreds, maybe thousands, of foreign tourists and travelers. It would be a very strange census!”

  But our lady enumerator would have none of this. She had a job to do and seemed to relish her little arena of newfound authority.

  “No!” she said again with a definite degree of determination. “It is law that if you do not fill in you will be punish. Very much…”

  “Punished?” I asked.

  “With a fine of twenty-five thousand euro and maybe—imprisonment. It is law!”

  I was slowly moving toward the region of blood-pressure territory. “I’ve never heard of anything so bloody stupid in…”

  Anne could see my patience was running out in this increasing cacophony of miscommunication, so she jumped in with her “let’s all calm down” demeanor, which she invariably demonstrates to great effect wherever we go and whenever I’m approaching the ballistic “rockets-away” stage.

  So I left Anne to accept the form on our behalf and make some complimentary comments about its extensive content. And a few less complimentary suggestions, such as:

  “This is a rather odd question here, number eleven. How many children have you given birth to…?”

  “Yes, I see it,” said the enumerator. “There is problem?”

  “Because then it says underneath ‘This question is for women only.’”

  Our enumerator remained unamused.

  “And there are some interesting choices for ‘ethnic or cultural background,’” said Anne. “For example, what is an ‘Irish traveler’—is that like the old tinker gypsies? Romanies? Or ‘Black Irish’—that sounds like a term Queen Victoria might have used…”

  Again, no reaction. Just a rather grim-faced look from our Polish lady, who we felt must really be missing the good old days of Polish communism, when a mere nod from a loyal informer could have sent the two of us into Warsaw’s deepest dungeons.

  It was my turn. I scanned the form. “Here’s an interesting question—‘Can you speak Irish—answer if age three or over.’ First, what does ‘speak Irish’ mean? I imagine every Irishman has some smattering of Gaelic in his vocabulary. But the age-three thing is curious. I’d have thought that anyone younger than three who was speaking fluent Irish would be of far more interest than the older ones. Just think—you’d be able to identify all your child prodigies in a flash…”

  It was hopeless. The enumerator was determined not to be amused or distracted from her mission. Even when I pointed out that the whole form was legally invalid, as it guaranteed total privacy and anonymity and yet required names, addresses, phone numbers, and signatures.

  “Okay,” said Anne. “Why don’t you leave the forms with us and we’ll have a look at them.”

  Not good enough. Our enumerator was now determined to assert her authority. “I am come back here early Monday. Please have census forms ready for me…”

  “We’ll be out on Monday,” I said.

  “Well, please leave under mat outside. If not here, then it will be penalty. Twenty-five thousand euro.”

  “Good-bye,” I said.

  “I not making laws…I just doing job.”

  I was about to remind her that such a remark has often been used throughout history (and particularly in Poland!) to justify the most heinous of crimes when one of my other selves—the far more gentle and empathetic self—suddenly popped out and he decided to take another approach.

  “Listen”—big sigh of surrender here—“you look like you’ve been going all day and it can’t be an easy job. How about a cup of tea?” (Ah—the British solution to all adversities.) “Why don’t you sit down and take a break for a while…”

  The enumerator looked as surprised as I was by this unexpected shift of mood, but she remained suspicious. “I sorry—I don’t have time…”

  “Just five minutes…you’ll feel a lot better…”

  More hesitancy. And then, like the shaft of sudden sunshine through gloomy clouds, she smiled a truly warm smile. “Thank you. This is so very kind…”

  And so we all sat around the patio table together and talked about Poland. Anne had spent an extensive period in that country teaching alongside her Polish colleagues and preparing graduate students to provide services to visually impaired adults. She’d enjoyed her time spent in Warsaw, so the two of them compared notes on their favorite haunts and restaurants in the city. It was obvious our enumerator missed her family in Poland. But when she left she was still smiling. And we did complete the census form, and we did leave it under the mat on Monday.

  Sometimes it’s better just to go along with a wink, a nod, and a smile.

  18

  Luka Bloom

  (and Christy Moore)

  I LIKED LUKA BLOOM EVEN BEFORE I met him. And not just because his real name is Barry Moore and he’s the younger brother of Christy Moore, one of Ireland’s best loved and most notorious folksingers. And not just because I once missed by a week one of his folk club performances in Yorkshire, England. Luka appeared with Christy when he was barely fourteen and I, at around twenty or so, was still occasionally performing in folk clubs with my sister Lynne (she with the Joan Baez–like voice—at least in my opinion). And not just because a few years ago he’d toured the States playing with one of my favorite female country groups, the Dixie Chicks. And not just because he was coming to Beara specifically to perform a benefit concert for the emerging spiritual care hospice at the Dzogchen Center and we’d managed to finagle a couple of grab-’em-fast tickets from the owner of the whole foods store in Castletownbere.

  I think one of the primary reasons for my liking this man, whom I’d never met before, was the occasional snippet of his songs on the local radio—some from his Before Sleep Comes album, which he describes as “nine soft songs for insomniacs,” and others from his latest and strangely powerful Innocence album. The DJ had asked him in an interview about the odd mix of themes, from gentle songs of love and forgiveness to strident antiwar and antidiscrimination ballads to roaring chorus songs of immigration and emigration. Luka chuckled and answered very softly that they all came from his own grab bag of personal experiences and then added: “See, life’s really an endless stream of challenges, and for this singer at least, the most important ingredient to hang on to is innocence and our wonder at the whole world.”

  Immediately I heard that I was back in the heady 1960s, immersed in that enticing world of folk music, during which time I even made a record with my sister (no—it was never a best seller, in fact it was never released). And although I’ve never used that word innocence before to describe the era, I knew Luka had captured its essence perfectly. We were indeed “innocent.” Even the big names in the British and American folk field—Martin Carthy, Ewen MacColl, Peggy Seeger, Pete Seeger, and all the Irish groups too, most of whom had ample opportunity to pursue lives of hedonistic rock star excess (yes, even folksingers had “groupies”)—were mostly modest, soft-spoken, even self-effacing individuals who truly believed in their troubadour tales of courageous battles and deep romance and chivalrously noble behavior.

  There were notable exceptions, of course, and occasional overindulgences of free-flowing beer and other more exotic stimulants, but for the most part we were a good-natured, earnest, well-intentioned lot. Which I guess could explain moments of outrage when the order of things in our little world was disturbed—when, for example, Scottish-born Donovan tried to copycat Bob Dylan; when there were rumors that not all of Alan Lomax’s “authentic” Appalachian folk songs were truly authentic; when there was confusion over how really pro-Communist Pete Seeger was—and oh! of course, the tirade of disgust when Bob Dylan shifted from solo acoustic guitar and harmonica to full-amp-blasting, Fender Stratocaster–screech
ing, drum-thumping rock band renditions of “Maggie’s Farm,” “Mr. Tambourine Man,” and “How Many Roads.” How our indignation boiled over at such a betrayal!

  Similar indignation greeted Christy Moore when he left Ireland’s most popular traditional folk group, Planxty, which combined singing with Irish dance music on Liam Og O’Floinn’s uilleann pipes backed by acoustic guitar and bazouki, to form Moving Hearts in 1981. People still remember the shock they had when they first heard this new hybrid folk-jazz-rock fusion featuring saxophones, solid guitar and bass, synthesizer keyboard, and other exotic electronics. And even though their first album was a top-all-the-charts hit in Ireland and many of their songs had strident antiestablishment messages so beloved by the younger liberal-minded generation, Christy decided it was all getting far too political and propaganda-doctrinaire. So he returned once again to his folk roots and solo career, and until recent illnesses limited his performances, he played on—fiery and focused as ever for almost twenty more years.

  “When I sing on a stage to an audience, I go into a place which is very special,” he said recently. “I am locked into a white space that is seldom penetrated. Nothing is quite like it and I am thankful for the key to whatever it is.”

  Christy had that knack—that key—for getting to the heart of the matter, a wide range of matters. You feel—in fact, if you’ve read his song-laced autobiography, One Voice—My Life in Song, you’ll know how his own hard experiences in life (many self-inflicted, this man was never a saint) have shaped his strident views. For example, Christy’s take on materialism: “There’s a great emptiness in those lives dedicated to the acquisition of wealth and power.”