20 Apr 08

Month 4

My routine – roll out of bed, cook cheese on toast, stare at the computer all day except to eat, take a shower, stand on my head – was interrupted for ten days by a visitor from Canada, Cat Eyes, a reader of this blog who sent books to Tucson prison, and introduced me to such authors as Gabriel García Márquez, Yann Martel, and Gil Courtemanche. For ten days I endeavoured to immerse Cat Eyes, a French-speaking graphic-design graduate, in the cultural offerings of the English Northwest.

“It’s interesting to see the moss and plants growing on the roofs,” Cat Eyes said as we travelled to Liverpool (the European Capital of Culture for 2008). “The chimneys look like terracota plant pots. And the pointy-roof train-station houses remind me of the Gingerbread House from Hansel and Gretel.”
At the Albert Dock we spent three hours at the Tate Liverpool pondered paintings, including three Picassoes. Cat Eyes relished the exhibition of the work of the only female member of the Nouveau Réalisme movement, Niki de Saint Phalle, a self-taught artist who used to shoot her paintings and sculpures with a .22 caliber rifle to make them bleed from pockets filled with paint and foodstuffs.
Having served time at the supermaximum prison in Florence that houses Arizona’s death row, I preferred Electric Chair over Marilyn in the Andy Warhol room. To me it symbolised the barbarism of a justice system whose corruption DNA evidence continues to expose.

At the International Slavery Museum we learned that the Manchester-Liverpool railway we had used that day was financed by the proceeds of slavery, and that the Penny Lane popularised by the Beatles was named after the slave-ship owner James Penny.

In the Walker Art Gallery a suspicion I had formulated at the Tate Liverpool was confirmed: gazing at art for hours on end causes my brain to ache. Out of all of the galleries we visited, I appreciated the Walker Art Gallery the most, especially the painting of Henry VIII by a pupil of Hans Holbein, and I related to the mood evoked by James Campbell’s painting Waiting for Legal Advice.

At the World Museum Liverpool we met up with Gary, a former lecturer colleague of Mum’s, who’s now the curator demonstrator in the museum’s Natural History Centre. He prefers to be called the “bug man,” a title conferred on him by the swarms of visiting children because he’s in charge of showing them the dangerous spiders. With his white hair, black trench coat, and Irish brogue, I’m surprised Gary hasn’t been typecast as a hit man. Rare are the sentences to come out of his mouth without the word “shite” in them – a vocal aberration he credits his lack of success at job interviews to. Which is surprising because his portfolio of degrees includes two PhDs (Psychology and Animal Behaviour), two MScs (Neurobiology and Information Services), a Psychology BA and a PGCE in Mathematics.
“All these qualifications I did years ago, that seemed important at the time, are shite now. I was a different individual and part of another era. All I ever wanted to do was act, write, talk and have my own TV chat show where I make fun of politicians, entrepreneurs, celebrities, religious loonies, right-wing tossers and all those who create the shite society is in. Sadly, here I am in the museum and in the council, being told what to do by those very cretins I despise.”

Gary treated us to lunch at the vegetarian restaurant, the Green Fish. On the streets of Liverpool, an assortment of characters greeted him. In the café at the Foundation for Art and Creative Technology, he introduced us to Hal Lever, the author of a book that couldn’t be about Hammy: I'm Not Drunk, Honest! Following a traffic accident, Hal suffered a coma and a tracheotomy. He slurs his speech, so the police often arrest him for drunkenness. During one arrest, he fell forward and was charged with “trying to headbutt a policeman.”
When Hal left we were joined by Gary’s friend, Hamish, a giraffe-sized astrologist who can tell your star sign by looking at the back of your neck. Hamish plays the guitar and lives entirely off nuts.
At the Philharmonic pub, Gary said, “Hamish inhabits that special place accessable only through pseudoscience and mysticism. A kind of latter-day John the Baptist who’s relaced religion and bath day with astrology and hocus-pocus. Frank Zappa’s son’s name Moonunit, would be a better label for him. He’s not of this earth, but another star system in the constellation Sagittarius where cranberries, nuts and lentils are held in highest esteem as part of the godhead. He’s wonderful and I can listen to him for minutes in small doses. Like that gobshite, George Bush, it takes a few minutes to realise he’s not speaking English as we know it, but the fun is thinking that he does and trying to interpret what he’s saying.”

We watched two plays at the Liverpool Playhouse: Arthur Miller’s The Man Who Had All The Luck, and a play I had to study at St. Joseph’s High School: Romeo and Juliet. Every seat was full for the latter, and in the gallery I swooned in the heat as if I were in a jail cell in Arizona. During the intermission, the playgoers mobbed the bar and toilets rendering peeing a social occasion, and at high rates of speed schoolchildren zigzagged everywhere including up and down the fire escapes – if only the Bard of Avon could have seen it. At the Everyman we saw Samuel Beckett’s End Game, and the acting of Matthew Kelly – playing a blind man in a wheel chair wearing dark glasses, thus limited to voice inflexion and gestures – was a tour de force.

My friend and former punk-rock partner from the Seventies, Julian, who lectures on art and graphic design, showed us around Manchester. We visited some smaller galleries, and took a tram to the Lowry Centre, a touring venue at the Salford Quays.
Not quite the same Salford I used to brave regularly nearly twenty years ago to visit a girlfriend. I remember blocks of dilapidated and graffitied council flats, and the Salford Skinheads chasing me back to my car, but their Doc Martens always failed to catch up with my British Knights.
Fast forward to science fiction. Crossing the footbridge to get to the Lowry, I admired the arc-shaped glass facades of the waterfront highrises and the penthouse rooftops. Further away, the nine cranes piercing the sky seemed to be guarding over all of the colossal new constructions.
The Lowry building is a cluster of geometric shapes, including a curved piece of mirrored metal on A-shaped pillars, which floats above the entrance like a ship’s sail. The colours of the sky – dirty clouds bathing in lavender water – were captured by the reflective metal and glass exterior. Indoors, purple walls and electric-orange stairwells greeted us. Ascending the elevator, I felt hypnotised.
Much art debate poured forth from Julian and Cat Eyes in what seemed to me a foreign language. Julian even penned criticisms of the Lowry and posted them in the comments box. I didn’t think Lowry could paint until I saw the Man with Red Eyes, which is what I saw in the mirror after a weekend of partying.

Despite tearing through all of the sports shops in the Manchester Arndale Shopping Centre and interrogating many a salesperson, we could not meet the demand of Cat Eyes’ son: a football with the name of his favourite team on it: Manchester United.
In the Cornerhouse we viewed art pertaining to the problems faced by women in India, and devoured pita bread and hummus in the café.

We travelled to North Wales with three professional walkers: Mum, Dad and their friend Paul. As if running late for a siege, they blitzed up the gentle slopes of Conwy Mountain, whereas I lagged behind, panting, amazed at the prowess of the sexagenarians. The surface of the mountain was a quilted blanket of grass in many shades of green. Below us, yachts dotted the estuary of the River Conwy, and the breaking waves kaleidoscoped patterns in the golden sands. Three hours later, I longed to be laid out on a massage table somewhere, or at least to be stooled and in the company of my computer. Near the summit, the walkers settled on flat stones and picnicked on Kitkats and thermos coffee. While Cat Eye’s sketched, I ate a banana.
We visited Conwy castle, built for Edward I (also known as Longshanks) between 1283 and 1289, as part of his “iron ring” to contain the Welsh. We ascended the stone spiral staircases of two of the castles eight round towers. At the top, Cat Eyes sketched the castle while the pigeons and seagulls hiding in the crevices eyeballed her suspiciously. On the wall adjacent to us, a jackdaw landed.

Cat Eyes brought Hammy a gift: Neige Ice Cider 12% alcohol.
“Thanks a lot, mate,” said Hammy to Cat Eyes over pints at the Ring O’ Bells. “I’m saving this for St. George’s Day. It’ll be the first drink I have at eight in the morning. I’m up at five cooking beef stewed slowly in Newcastle Brown Ale.”
“Your accent is difficult,” Cat Eyes said.
“I’ve been drinking. If you think I’m hard to understand go in that room over there we call the cage. You wouldn’t understand a bloody thing they say.”
“You should hear the pirate voice when he’s really drunk,” I said.
“What’s the whole point of drinking so much?” Cat Eyes asked.
“The whole point! To get drunk basically. There’s no point.” Picking up on Cat Eyes French accent, Hammy said, “I can read French. About eighty percent. I can read it. I was reading Sartre at the Sixth Form College in French.”
“I didn’t know you read Sartre,” I said.
“He wrote Huis Clos,” Hammy said. “I read it a lot more when I started smoking pot heavily.”
“Isn’t that where his hell-is-other-people quote comes from?” I asked.
“The characters in Huis Clos are in a room they can never leave,” Cat Eyes said. Forced to face each other. No escape even when they get on each others nerves. I wouldn’t mind reading Huis Clos again, to see how I interpret it.”
“It’s a child’s book,” Hammy said. “Like Janet and John.”
“A text that simplified doesn’t mean it’s childlike,” Cat Eyes said. “You have to read between the lines, you know. It’s not an easy text. I would qualify it on the same level as Beckett’s End Game, with the sense of subtle and absurd.”
“Are you an existentialist, Hammy?” I asked.
“I dunno. Maybe. My philosophy is this: if you can sit down, you sit down; if you can lie down, you lie down; and if it’s wet, you drink it.”
We laughed.
“Are you still worshipping Dionysius?” I asked.
“Yes! The grape, the wheat, the rye, and anything else. I’m thinking of making my own religion up anyway. I’ll call it Hamas.”
“A drinking religion?” I said.
“Yes, going back to the old pagan times.”
“What will the sacred drink be?”
“The way I look at things we celebrate the coming of something or other. Actually, I’m going to celebrate the coming of the new day. It’s guaranteed every night, so I can promise me followers it’ll happen.”
“Will you celebrate the arrival of the day with Stella or spirits?” I asked.
“Whatever. Cows blood if you want.”
“I feel buzzed,” Cat Eyes said after drinking a quarter of a pint of cider.
“That’s good,” Hammy said. “That’s the way it should be. Let it develop. Don’t fight it. That’s the whole point of it”
“I’m very sensitive,” Cat Eyes said. “Just a sip of wine spreads throughout my body.”
“Excellent!” Hammy said. “I’ll have to go to Canada and try whatever you’re drinking. I want a pint of it.”

Cat Eyes had booked her trip to England before I met Posh Bird. I told Posh Bird that Cat Eyes was coming for a cultural visit, and she seemed to understand. Until last Friday.
“You’ve turned my life into a chick flick,” Posh Bird said.
“I didn’t mean to,” I said. “Are we still going out this Saturday?”
“That’s what I’m calling about. I’m going out with my friends on Saturday.”
“OK.”
“Well, actually, I’ve met someone.”
“Met someone. Just recently?”
“Yes. While she was here visiting you, I met someone. And what's funny is I met him at the gym when I was sweaty and minging. I really like him.”
The next day I emailed Posh Bird: “You shot me through the heart with an AK-47 yesterday.”
Today Posh Bird rang. It seems to be over.

*

I am applying to do a MA in Contemporary Literature at Liverpool University.

*

And finally, here's the link to my new website, which is still under development:

http://www.shaunattwood.com/

*
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below

*

Copyright © 2007-2008 Shaun P. Attwood