of mine.
Could they have civilized us, the White Monks? They’d have had a crack. Giraldus Cambrensis writing at the turn of the twelfth century, the golden age of the Cistercians, the age of the Abbot of Clairvaux, of whom it was said that mothers hid their sons and wives their husbands when he was about, though he cautioned he would have all men accepting his Benedictine rule leave their bodies at his gate, says of their impact on the rude Welsh: ‘Give them a wilderness or forest and in a few years you will find a dignified abbey in the midst of smiling plenty.’ Plus a few men who despite a pabulum of beech leaves and beer are literate in Latin. Perhaps the problem was not so much the delectable beers they brew (viz Chimay, ‘look dear I’m only having one’, stocked at Jim Murphy’s Airport Cellars, afizz with abbey well water and Father Theodore’s yeast) as the Strict Observance: nothing to smile over there when breasting a bar. A pocket of silence hereabout would be quickly dealt with. No silence in Grabben Gullen. No silence at the Albion, which is pretty much all that remains of old Grabby. Breast the bar as a thoughtful silent man at the Albion, you’ll hear the words in no time, ‘Ya got a name?’ Whilst outside the pub the grapevine has withered. I didn’t know my grandfather had died till a week after the funeral. Inside the pub, as you’d expect, it’s yap yap yap, they never let up. Christ, how I hate the sound of the human voice! Talk is the human spirit, according to Samuel Beckett, but we need to overcome it or risk ending up, as Samuel Beckett did, a gibbering head in a bin. Silence is the means. I am wholly in favour of penitential silence as practiced at Port Arthur’s Benthamite Prison, which warders patrolled in felt slippers communicating through sign language. Port Arthur’s Separate penitents were kept strict one-out in total silence. Even at compulsory attendance in chapel they were kept isolated in separate stalls, one-out in their own personal exercise yards. Goulburn was built in the style of The Joy in Dublin to accommodate the Crofton system in which the felon did solitary for the first nine months of his sentence and untoward speech earned him a hardwood gag; but those days, sadly, are over. To cite St Isaac of Nineveh: Above all love abstinence in speech for it brings you nearer the fruit. The tongue cannot express it. First of all let us force ourselves to abstain from speech; then from this abstinence will be born in us something which leads to silence itself. When you put on one side of the scales all the works of this life of a monk and on the other silence you will find the latter outweighs the former.
Bentham’s original categories of 1791 still appertain: daring raw offenders, quiet raw offenders, decent females, dissolute females, daring old offenders, quiet old offenders and thoroughbred offenders.
We are not, thankfully, wholly devoid of holy men in Mulwaree, for we have our Orthodox Antiochians, and the Holy Cross Seminary of the schismatic Society of Saint Pious the Tenth (SSPX), just a few klicks down the Braidwood Road from Wakefield Park where you get your backside trackside, is very much in business in this Year of Our Lord 2015 as it dates from post-Vatican Two. Housed since 1988 at Inveralochy, the usual dog’s breakfast of incongruent structures sprawled around a hilltop homestead built in 1833 that became St Michael’s Agricultural and Trades College, run by the Christian Brothers, who siphoned off most of the orphans from St John’s Boys’ Orphanage, run by the Mercy Sisters; thereafter a WHO drug rehab; if you took a mass there Sunday morning the priest would both turn his back to you and speak in Latin. The liturgy is deemed to be between the priest and the Lord and I am there to eavesdrop. A layman is but an intruder. The purport of the SSPX, according to its website, is ‘the priesthood and all that pertains to the priesthood and nothing but what concerns it’.
But the most prominent hilltop building you will see as you whiz down the Hume, watching out for rozzers who hide beneath Windellama Road, is the nursing home used to be Gill Memorial Home for Boys, operated by the Sallies between 1936 and 1979, that two-storey building of dark brick with the tower at the summit of the Auburn Street hill, one block up from the huge ex-St John’s Orphanage, heritage-listed now fire-damaged haunt of druggies and taggers. You can see the Gill building from the CBD as well as from the Hume bypass. It was in the Gill building during the nineteen-sixties and -seventies that foundlings as young as six years were routinely anally raped and ‘tortured’ (which just means flogged, put in cages, made to eat their own vomit, stand in the dining room with soiled sheets on their heads if they’d wet the bed, that kind of thing, forget the ‘torture’, bad boys need correction) by various Salvation Army male personnel, according to evidence recently presented to the Royal Commission into Institutional Responses to Child Sexual Abuse. At A-wing in protection where rockies while away their days, they mix with each other but not with other inmates, the modern warder’s job being largely to protect inmates from other inmates. Rockies — rock spiders, pedos — have urine and faeces hurled at them, are jibed and spat at by other inmates and classified by other inmates as ‘putrid’ ‘very putrid’ and ‘very very putrid’. A man who has raped a six-year old boy would be classified ‘very putrid’.
And so platinum-blond Passionist Father Simon of Cyrene Bourke, an orphan from St John’s who headed for the Presentation Retreat rather than St Michael’s Ag and Trade upon graduation to year four from St Brigid’s School, run by the Mercy Sisters, thereafter St Patrick’s College, run by the Christian Brothers, the last a cesspit of paedophilia on a par with St Stanislaus in Bathurst, was a regular buzzacott, as evidenced by his fellow felons having classified him as ‘very very putrid’.
That said, I never saw his case file. I couldn’t find his warrant file and I don’t know, if he’s buried, where. It isn’t Rookwood.
Often in denial and frequently in tears; that’s your typical rocky. Bourke would have been about as popular with fellow scumbags as Pell’s housemate Gerald Ridsdale, the priest who in 1982 installed a fourteen-year-old boy in his Mortlake presbytery bedroom.
A mullion from a gabled bay at Cappoquin in Munster
A rosary of ebony, an omega and alpha
Embroidered on a chasuble the colour of alfalfa
No longer cut the mustard for Breadalbane or Taralga
But say what you will of Sister Pat
She’d spank your arse and leave it at that
While you still have eyes, before they are covered in dust, fill them with tears. To mourn and shed tears is a gift of the passionless. If the tears of a man who for a time weeps and mourns can not only lead him to passionlessness but even completely clear and free his mind of all memory of passions, what can be said of those who day and night exercise themselves in this doing with knowledge?
St Isaac of Nineveh
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