R.I.P. Joe Casey

Leonard Cohen (above) would have found a kindred spirit in Joe Casey. Writer, poet, painter, searcher, recluse, Joe was an echo from the '60s, a polarising figure within the Paterson diocese of the Catholic church who inspired and outraged in equal measure, and who was a dear friend of mine. Joe Casey passed away this week at the age of 70. He wrote in a recent email that he was ill and no longer ambulatory. As Cohen sings, that's not an ideal condition for a man accustomed to testing limits:

Like a bird
on the wire
Like a drunk in some old midnight choir
I have tried
in my way
To be free.

These words, and that deep, smoke-stained voice, embody the spirit of a man born just before WWII on the poor Irish side of Morristown, NJ who would strive to expand his mission within the most cloistered of organisations -- the Catholic church -- and soar and suffer in equal measure.

Joe was a regular visitor to my grandmother's house in Lake Parsippany during his time as a parish priest at St Christopher's church in the late '60s and early '70s. My grandmother -- a larger-than-life woman who left Hell's Kitchen for the 'utopia' of North Jersey in the late '50s for the sake of my grandfather's health -- was the sun for a solar system of nine children, umpteen grandkids, swarms of cousins and fellow escapees from the old NYC neighborhood. Her house was an epicentre for birthday parties, Baptism/Communion/Confirmations, graduations, holiday gatherings and afternoon beer soirees. Back in the States I've got a photo of a young Joe Casey baptising my brother Kevin at St Christopher's in 1968, an occasion that was surely followed by a noisy gathering around grandma's kitchen table. Joe often spoke about his early days at St Christopher's and the tremendous generosity shown by 'Mrs Wall' and the many occupants of 10 Jacksonville Drive. It's no surprise he performed the service at grandma's funeral in 2001 and remains a beloved figure in the Wall family.

After knowing him peripherally it was suggested by my stepmom that I visit Joe at his office at Fairleigh Dickinson University in Madison, NJ in 1989. Turned out no one on Earth was better suited to hear my sniveling, over-educated, suburban drivel than Joe, and not only because he performed such disagreeable duties as an FDU counselor. He saw something in me worth drilling down to, worth getting me to recognise and, most importantly, value. Frankness is easily shared with strangers but Joe applied it with equal force among those closest to him. Besides a handful of teachers and university professors, Joe was the first person to detonate the putrid mountain of excuses I'd constructed to justify the side-stepping of a writing career. He was blunt, sometimes brutally so, and never accepted a first answer as the truest answer -- a trait that generated loyalty among friends and colleagues but led to years of conflict within the intractable boundaries of his diocese.

Joe's kick up the backside helped land me a writing gig in NYC at the old Paramount Building on Columbus Circle in early 1990. My professional writing career had begun in earnest, as had my connection to Joe. Over the next 16 years our friendship grew from occasional visits to his place at the OMEGA compound in Mt Freedom, NJ to co-inhabitor of a bungalow in Sweet Valley, PA. (There's many photos I'd love to share of this magnificent hideaway, but they're all back in the States.)

It's impossible to overstate the importance of Sweet Valley to my oftentimes chaotic life. Joe gutted the bungalow and rebuilt it in his image. Its walls were covered with his art collection -- many of the artists were FDU colleagues -- and his own paintings. His books filled a half dozen floor-to-ceiling bookshelves; his library was my introduction to Vonnegut, Armistead Maupin, Bukowski, J.P. Donleavy, Robinson Davies, Cormac McCarthy, John Irving, Bulgakov, Paul Auster, Mailer, DeLillo, Annie Proulx and others. The tiny kitchen was a maze of shelves and pockets filled with spices, oils, legumes and always, always, coffee beans from Porto Rico Import Co. on Bleecker St in the Village (my contribution).

I could write a book about Sweet Valley. Maybe, someday, I will. For Joe it was a place to retreat and build and be alone with his thoughts in a forgotten corner of Northeast Pennsylvania. He was a familiar face at the hardware store and locals' diner and exchanged pleasantries, and sometimes favors, with neighbors. One, a quiet man named Gary who I was told 'worked at a toilet factory', would plow the tiny road that snaked along a hilltop and provided access to the row of post-WWII bungalows that were once summer cottages for mining executives from Wilkes-Barre, 30 miles to the southeast.

A small lake was nestled in a ridge behind tall pines. The property's Depression-era outhouse held a lawn mower, gardening tools and hornets' nests. Joe turned a small, collapsing garage into a storage bin for the pea coal we'd feed into a battered coal-burning stove that was more sensitive than a teething infant. He constructed a small deck for summertime grilling and used spare windows from a neighbor's renovation to enclose the porch, creating a perfect spot to witness the sun's morning rays cascade above distant mountains. Wilkes-Barre's local public radio station, Leonard Cohen, Tom Waits, Enya, Lou Reed, Mahler and many more eclectic sounds played through speakers wired in every room. The bathroom was rustic, and dry seasons would result in orange water dripping from pipes Joe and I had jerry-rigged over one particularly productive weekend.

It was not pretentious. It was a humble temple to spirituality, thought, seclusion and creativity. It was Joe Casey.

After leaving FDU Joe was chaplain at Morristown Memorial Hospital and then the infamous Greystone Park hospital where his patient-first mentality made him a favourite with the afflicted and intellectual thorn to bureaucracy. A two-and-a-half hour drive through western NJ, the Poconos and the Wilkes-Barre/Scranton valley was the price for a calm, nourishing space. A price both of us were eager to pay, and a price with rewards I reap to this day.

When Joe wasn't in Sweet Valley he lived at the Assumption Church rectory in Morristown, not far from his childhood home. He had a flourishing social life. Many bigshots and barflies desired an audience with 'Father Joe'. I'd sometimes meet him for a couple of pints at The Office or Dublin Pub or, if the night was going to be serious, the Calaloo Cafe. (Such nights generally resulted in me staying in a spare room at the rectory.) I traveled to Rochester, MN in 1997 to visit Joe during one of his stays there, a trip that resulted in an experience in a small Illinois town that may play in your local cinema someday AND my one and only Native American sweat lodge ceremony on a snow-covered Minnesota hillside. I visited him again in Rochester under different circumstances in the spring of 2006, but that's a story for another day.

Joe was close to his sister Trish, whom I first met when she worked at the Black Forest Inn in Stanhope, NJ many years ago. Saw her again when Joe's mom passed away. A difficult time for all, especially Joe, who had a loving but sometimes fractious relationship with his mother. I was familiar with the effect Joe's prickly independence had on his family.

Joe had friends throughout the US and the world. All knew him as a caring, cantankerous soul who stood on equal ground with his 'flock' whether they be parishioners in North Jersey, villagers in Guatemala, churchgoers in small Pennsylvania towns or patients in mental hospitals. I was lucky to know him as a multi-layered individual: a brave writer, prolific reader, expressionist artist, scholar, builder, lover of French food and afternoon espresso. He was far and away the most complicated person I've ever known. One who more than anyone made me who I am today.

Joe sold the Sweet Valley bungalow in 2006, around the same time I moved to Australia. He eventually acquired a property in Belize, north of Guatemala, and split his time between there and Morristown. I'll regret for the rest of my days not remaining in touch with him regularly over the past 5 years.

I visited a local tavern yesterday afternoon to toast my departed friend and be alone in a crowd. After settling in with a pint of porter and my notepad a man sitting nearby asked a question. An hour and two rounds of porter later I'd befriended a Scotsman named Duncan, a Brisbane lad new to Melbourne after spending 8 years living and working in London and Southeast Asia. We met as strangers and parted as kindred spirits. Walking home through winter rain I was reminded of Joe's intolerance for the inane, his hunger for connection countered by a need for occasional solitude, his commitment to the real. I felt his restless, curious spirit walking beside me and maybe, hopefully, within me. Joe would scoff at such sentimental claptrap, but since the first piece of advice he ever gave me was 'You can't tell yourself how to feel', I think he'd approve of the honesty.

FYI, from Joe's obituary:
"In lieu of flowers, Father Joe specifically requested: 'Anyone wishing to memorialize my departure should plant a perennial flowering plant, tree or evergreen in some place which wants a little more beauty, or make a donation to: The Christian Foundation for Children and the Aging, One Elmwood Avenue, Kansas, 66103.'"