The Trip Part Three

The past is here, so read it first:
The Trip Part One, The Trip Part Two

Tuesday 6th November, 2007

Give me a map and life will follow. From the moment we arrived at Video Bum Stop, I thought north was south and east was west. I was suffering from reversed polarity. For the second time, I headed off in the opposite direction. After passing Barcelona Nord bus terminal, and remaining on foot, I turned to discover that the buildings were back to front. Their crumbling facades and gaping balconies, filled with lost hope and detritus, said nothing to me about my life. I couldn’t imagine anyone spending time on those balconies; except to jump off in a head first dive. An existence, as miserable as those balconies, would warrant self destruction. An abandoned sports ground lay below.

I arrived at La Cuitadella Park and realised my error. I was seeing everything the wrong way up. A line of lonely ping pong tables stood before me; just as they had the day before. I walked past the Cascada. A Cascada isn’t a Cascada when it doesn’t cascade. It wasn’t a Cascada after all. An Emily isn’t an Emily without chocolate milk. I sucked until my straw was empty, became someone else, and faced north instead of south. The politicians in the parliament building were waking up and a large stone mammoth asked me if he might do the same. If the wind changes direction you'll get stuck like that. Sometimes you’re stuck with being exactly what you are.

Carrer Napols took me north. Before long, signs in English and German warned me to be wary. Local ladies clutched at their handbags in fear of fatty food. I did the same. A man in shorts looked oblivious; a prime target for an amateur on the make. I turned a corner and found myself in the tourist hell hole of the Sagrada Familia. It wasn’t so bad; I sat in a portable cabin and enjoyed the facilities. A toilet stole my wee. The sink returned it clean and all was well. Outside, Avinguda de Gaudi beckoned and a young mother begged. I looked back at the Basilica and imagined what Barcelona would look like without scaffolding and cranes. It looked like Hove with the summertime blues. Architects, artists, labour and time; the pipes and boards will ruin you. Symbiotically, world domination is theirs. The gaps that exist within the giant ladders temporary frames are merely holes in your vision, labour and love. You can’t frame art with scaffolding; its ugliness draws in the eye and devours attention.

We can stare into the spaces and try to blot out the metal, wood and bits of crap, and try to envisage the whole. We can pretend to convince ourselves that we can see the beauty. Space can have its place; space can inspire. The empty space where a building once stood, the enchanted space within a narrow street, the communal space that turns a highway into a social causeway; the Avinguda de Gaudi. With a landscape view of the Sagrada Familia and the Hospital de Sant Creu, this could be a brazen street; a brazen space. It could be magnet for all those tat vendors, thieves, second rate artists and idiots the world over. Yet it seems to exist in ignorance of place and slumbers peacefully within the city’s heart. It is a relaxed communal space, and its gentle emptiness is far more inspiring than the monstrosity that sits at its end, with its evil and haunting facade. Do you think I’m being harsh about the Bastardilica? Orwell considered it to be "one of the most hideous buildings in the world", Evelyn Waugh couldn't be fucked to even get out of his cab to look at the work of crud, and Picasso suggested that we "Send Gaudi and the Sagrada Familia to Hell." Yeah, perhaps God doesn’t like it either.

Perhaps God, like me, prefers the road that takes you away. Perhaps God, like me, wonders if he really exists. Avinguda de Gaudi did seem to exist and I wondered if it might be the diminutive cousin of Avinguda Diagonal. Cutting right through the grid, it provides a brief relief from quadrilateral living and a life ruled by rectangles. With a direct route to the emergency ward, and a chance to recover from the religious fervour of Kodak moments, I followed the boulevard to find men in white coats, and women that wash brighter.

A gnarly old gypsy woman sat in mock shame at the corner of Hospital de Sant Creu’s entrance. She rested her begging board between her feet and presented the world with a mouth full of dirty rotten teeth. She had feigned shame so very many times that she looked like an actress going through the motions of a tired old play. She battered not an eyelid as I immortalised her depravity. This was one that I could feel no heart for. As I stole her soul with each click of my picture box, I became an inhumane voyeur. My humanity was soon returned in the form of a sweet angelic child, looking down on me with great sadness from Nostra Senyora de Montserrat.

The hospital, a mere 100 years old, was designed by Domènech i Montaner. A collection of pavilions, adorned with medieval artistry, open into courtyards of communal space. Domènech i Montaner tried to capture an aesthetic harmony which would aid the recovery of the hospital’s visitors. I soon felt fully recovered from the excessive nature of the Sagrada Familia and very much at home. Avinguda de Gaudi takes its heart from Domènech not from the tram splattered Antoni. It is like a child forced to carry the name of a famous, pompous, strict and overbearing father.

Unfortunately, lovely old buildings are not suitable for the demands of modern medicine. Modern life only appreciates beauty in history and not in the now. We have batteries now, and we have Dildos. I walked past a blocky white monstrosity of a building on the north side of the hospital grounds, in part still a construction site. This is where all future medicine will give life and take life away; patients will probably die of cold disharmony. I’ve heard that white coats are unhygienic too. Colour is important in sanitation.

I walked west. A long line of elderly chatter women spread across the benches of Ronda del Guinardo. Did they speak English, I wondered as I read an instruction to ‘Kill the Mrs and have some fun’? Do they scorn or laugh at such mischief as they pass away another day? I laughed, and wondered if I was living in a cartoon. English is often the language of the street artist and the vandal. The area seemed to be an odd mix of suburban living and urban deprivation. This was the hour of the elderly. When they have served their time in hell, the old will walk the earth.

At the Placa del Nen de la Putila, Parc del Guinardo begins. On a wall, opposite the park, all of the questions that we bypass are answered in the spray paint of a single person’s soul. The short road of petty complaint fulfils our misery, but sometimes, someone, somewhere is filled with inspiration.
I stared at the African lady holding her baby; the face of acceptance, the fate of disparity; tears rolled down her hardened cheeks. Peace and equality; wasn’t that always the dream? The belief, that even though it’s an insurmountable ambition, and, even though it’s less likely than self implosion or an alien invasion that ends us all, it should always be the goal, the aim, the guide and the vision. A beautifully coloured CND symbol completed my thoughts.

Meanwhile, a group of eight year olds were letting fists fly. They didn’t stop the dream; they just validated it. Intervention came, but only after I had pointed my picture box more times than once too often. It was brief; the mothers were in preparation for an eternity of dialogue on public seating. A child lay on the ground clutching his stomach. The fight will go on; may be today, may be tomorrow, and may be into old age. The child who dreamt of peace will carry a small pocket of sadness forever. The punches will become more powerful, and power will ultimately get to rule. Power always gets to rule; it also has many guises.

Parc del Guinardo hosted few during my visit. It is a park for locals with a vista and Mediterranean foliage. On my way up, I gazed over the south and I could see the Dildo standing tall above the sprawl. Blocks of high rise buildings, interspersed by gaping avenues, filled both the gently sloping land and my slightly squinting eyes. I climbed higher, and then right at the very top, an old man began what appeared to be a walk of daily ritual. We played an unprompted game of follow my leader, but neither of us felt very much like that person, so we took it in turns. I took photos and he took time. Time was his to cherish, and the view was mine to catch; we shared our assets well. If it hadn’t been for him, I might have missed that private world hidden behind a chained off route; and the chance to capture memories that almost seem like a dream. We shared a smile, a gesture and then we swapped places and did it all over again. A bridge over the valley, in the secret route of my unexpected guide, showed the street art below and the Sagrada Familia standing piously over the city. I was closer to something beautiful here; an old man taking a slow walk along his favourite hill-top path; King of the City, King of Nothing and King of Everything.

A short walk along the Carrer de Muhlberg led me into Parc del Carmel and past more gangs of the ever-loitering elderly. This time old men lined the benches and chatted like women. Some stared at me; a stranger in their midst, unwrinkled and a woman at that. I enjoyed the mismatched nature of the men; the well-dressed and ill-clad sat together, enjoying the slowness of time and the joy of expression. There was something slightly wicked in their manner; like aged scallywags. I felt like I should be offering japes, jokes, stolen churros and tales of innocent wickedness. I felt like an intruder in a mock-covert world.

I looked up, as I pretended not to stare. Further up the hill, a long strip of fencing cut across the greenery, providing a place for spray cans and tags - in unskilled hands - to deface the view. I carried on westwards and at a high point, in an area all of their own, a series of stones said something that I could not understand. The last two words, the last two stones, pronounced ‘Sant Just’. Just, justice, dark grey stones in a desolate place. I felt like I was being told something wise, profound and meaningful

For some time, I have been confused about these stones. Was there a Saint Just in Catalonia or Spain? Or was this a reference to Saint Just of the French Revolution; someone not associated with the direct history of the Catalan people? After some investigation, I may have found my answers. “The order of today is the disorder of tomorrow”. Or perhaps the ignorance of today is the propaganda of tomorrow. Or perhaps I have discovered truth. All alone in the Carmel hills they have sat for eight not so very long years. They repeat the words of Louis Antoine Saint-Just, who, with an anti-royalist poem, took to the French Revolution from its outbreak in 1789. He died just five years later - at a mere 27 - for his cause and for his beliefs. What relevance do his words have to the people of Barcelona? Or do they weigh heavy on humankind the world over?

Perhaps the Scotsman, Ian Hamilton Finlay, can help. Finlay has never seen the stones in place; he hasn’t left his home in Stonypath, Dunsyre, for more than thirty years. A man that doesn’t move, a man that remains in situ; this is the kind of man has time to ponder the questions that you and I will endlessly fail to answer. This is the kind of man that inspires. The Carmel hill stones are based on a sculpture in his garden after all. The man that never goes out can have great influence on this unimaginative world. The art of art is regurgitating old ideas; and who better to regurgitate than an inert man, in a remote location, with time on his hands to steal. The art of art is replication; who better to replicate than a man who hasn’t seen anything new or inspirational since the day he feared life itself.

Are you reading this as a housebound hermit? Would you like to make the same piece of art a thousand times over, but each time with a little difference? Well, a language based piece of art can be replicated 2,261 times over, at present count, when one changes just the written vernacular alone. If you’re on the internet, then here’s my guide to making art that merely imitates original thought and requires no deep delving into your fragile soul. It can truly inspire, and lacks any innovation whatsoever.
First of all, whilst remaining exactly where you are now, visit a search engine and source a website dedicated to the quotes of the living and dead; preferably one that quotes great historical figures or philosophers, and not Britney Spears. Find a phrase that resonates and has timeless implications and make sure you that bookmark it for future reference. The most important part of this stage is not to contemplate or come up with any phrase of your own. There are greater minds than yours - one’s that occasionally venture outside for instance - the aim is to steal, and not to pioneer.

Secondly, using Babelfish, or another language conversion based tool, translate your phrase into as many languages as you feel ready to utilise. If you’re feeling adventurous contemplate Braille. Please note; you have still not had to leave your chair, but this may be something you should start to prepare for.

Thirdly, after readying yourself for a little activity, use fridge magnets or newspaper clippings – or any other material that provides readymade letters – to turn your finely filched phrase into art. Readymade letters in various forms can be ordered via the internet if you find yourself bereft. The main aim is to get the letters and words in the right order, and not to mix up the different languages; that is, unless you’re feeling particularly exploratory.

Fourthly, and this may be the part where you stumble, whilst using a poking device, such as a pole or a stick, push the finished piece of artwork into your garden. If you are not in possession of a poking device of any kind or do not have a garden, I suggest hanging your art from any windows you haven’t permanently locked shut. I realise this means some strenuous activity, and perhaps even the intake of outside air, but the main premise of Step Four is to ensure that passersby can see your art. By creating your own gallery, in your own space, you won’t have to leave the house, spend any time in wanky buildings, or converse with tosspots other than your own dear self.

Now this is just the beginning. With a little practice, you can work your way up to sculptures, perhaps using household items such as doors or fireplaces, and other materials easily accessible to the committed recluse. If you discover yourself to have true talent, you might want to consider obtaining funding from private investors or government programmes. With financial backing you could develop towards materials such as large blocks of recycled Montjüic stone, sourced by a never ending supply of super-keen travelling lackeys.

Material such as Montjüic stone, particularly when salvaged from the military barracks of Girona, in northeast Catalonia, is the essence to feeding a true art form. Materials steeped in military history and a phrase inspired by a true revolutionary spirit, can confuse, confound and ultimately add meaning to art.

Eight years ago, far from home, and under Findlay’s will, the aforementioned Montjüic stone was sourced. Meanwhile, Findlay sat back in his chair, reading quotes on the internet and playing with fuzzy felt letters. A man that never leaves his home has a lot of time to relinquish his assignments, but it’s good not to lose touch with the project’s original inspiration or aims. An email may suddenly arrive from the outside world and insist on some kind of decision.

This happened to Findlay and the key to his success is that he was prepared. Findlay stared briefly at a digital photograph of the Montjüic stones, and then glanced down at his fuzzy felt. On noting that the stone was the exactly same colour as one of his favourite pieces of fluffy fabric, he declared “Och aye, that’s perfect. Now come back and change me socks”. Housebound men don’t like to change their own socks; it involves knee bending activities, which is not dissimilar from walking, and walking could lead to something unacceptable.

With the agonising part of the project over, and having been relieved of venturing beyond his front door, you should take the time to picture Findlay, the inspiration for your new career in art, chiselling away at the Montjüic stone. Can you see him now, in his hermit-hovel at the arse end of the world, trembling with fear? “The order of today is the disorder of tomorrow.” There are so many reasons not to go out.

Imagine away, but, really, you have quite an imagination there. Have you considered art? The inscription that I found on those sweet Barcelonan hills wasn’t carved by Findlay at all. Those Findlay stones, all that Findlay work, all of those Findlay exhibitions are a con. In this instance, the hero is one simply named and rarely recognised Peter Coates. It was Peter that travelled to Barcelona and inscribed the stones in situ. Meanwhile, Findlay pondered about how many more times he could get paid for one idea and others peoples graft. How many written languages are there again? See, the aim is really to get all the credit whilst doing absolutely nothing. From the outset you have to delegate. Before you start to cut words out of magazines and look up phrases on the interweb, see if there is someone else who might do it for you.

Some of us aren’t so indolent. Well, Saint Just wasn’t. I probably am. Not only did Saint Just inspire lazybones Ian Hamilton Finlay, he also inspired the one and only Albert Camus. More than 50 years ago, Camus took Just’s life and works as his inspiration for another famous arrangement of words: ‘The Rebel’.

So there we have it: one man has been inspired to get other people to inscribe a Just sentence into as many languages as he can get paid for. And if we go back a few more years into the human construct of time, another man has been moved to analyse the progression of rebellion and revolution, towards enlightenment and freedom, throughout all history. Camus’ cautionary tale tells us that revolutions, their ideals, and the idealists that lead them, can end up in despotism and tyranny. The order of today IS the disorder of tomorrow. You have been warned. Remember that next time you’re inspired to start a revolution. The stones do look mighty fine. Well done to Saint Just and well done to Peter Coates. Go fuck yourself Findlay. Make up sentence yourself, and do a bit of carving. I don’t even mind if you do it at home or if you carve up your fuzzy felt. I don’t even care if it’s shit. Just get off your arse and give it a go. Okay, he died last year. I have high hopes.

In stark contrast to the place of words, and my trip into a spiritually uplifting nowhere land, I suddenly found myself in Parc Guell. I looked about myself in bewilderment, and readjusted my mind to disregard bus load upon bus load of brain dead tourists. The sun had come out and I settled into a suntrap at the tourist vista. I sat down on a ledge facing the city, and vaguely registered the brain dead follow. I watched the city, soaked up the sun and rested my hot and weary feet. In a mild coma, I watched as couples, groups and a single white female sat beside me. They had their fill, committed something to visual memory, left and were replaced. I could see the scaffolding on the Bastardilicia. Finally, a group joined me that I could not blinker my eyes to; or shade my psyche from. I was at risk of being adorned with an al fresco meal. It was time to move on.

I worked my way down the hill, along wide well-trodden footpaths, and soon found myself surrounded by colourful buildings and Gaudi androids. Do the children playing in the school grounds in Parc Guell envy their counterparts learning about Gaudi on the other side of the fence? Or are they just sick of it all? This was my third day in Barcelona and I was sick of it all. I was sick of it all despite loving the parks nooks and crannies, delighting in the fairy tale church and house, and being enchanted by the mosaic creatures that greet you on the stairwell. It was truly beautiful, but it was a bustling tourist ghetto, and cheap jewellery was on ‘special offer for you madam’. Of course, a man’s greatness is rarely recognised in his time and the park was actually another of Gaudi’s unsuccessful housing ventures. The beautiful park is not the work of Gaudi at all, but I should credit him for the Hansel and Gretel like church. Churches made of gingerbread could be revolutionary. Watch out Camus.

I walked out. The androids were using a road to the right; I headed left and then south. I passed some graffiti stating ‘Libertino’ on a wooden gate. I was tempted to knock. Are you free thinking radicals? Are you cool? Can I hang out and hope that you don’t turn into oppressive despots? Instead, I walked southward to Passeig de Sant Joan. There were no anarchists, revolutionaries, free radicals or antioxidants. Two homeless - or very unkempt - old men sat on a bench conversing brightly. November Catalonian sunshine is like the first warm day of spring breaking through the perpetually overcast sky of England; it brings out the brightness in peoples’ hearts and the goodness of any street, field or abandoned hovel. It even brings cheer to the destitute.

Like the other wide avenues, Passeig de Sant Joan, has cars running along each side of a large communal promenade. It’s a great city for walking, and probably the best ‘planned’ city that I have ever had the fortune to roam. I passed the Monument a Jacint Verdaguer; a motionless Catalan poet lording it up on a plinth. I wished that we had roads with promenades running straight through them back in the land of my birth. Consumption free promenades without even a vending booth to turn a soft social arena into a dirty capitalist den. Much further down, I passed a statue of a small starving boy that moved me. I was moving anyway, but that’s by the by. I’d seen lost hope.

Back at Arse de Trump, I decided to return to Video Bum Stop, or at least to use the facilities. I discovered that nearby, in hiding, was a modern complex with a library at ground level. I felt nosey, like an anthropologist investigating an unknown tribe. I furtively ambled through the building, nearly joined a Thai Chi class and then found a supermarket deep down in the basement. What an all encompassing building this was, concealed and full of many delights. I came away with a bag of food to provide me with goodies for the following day’s excursion. I had succumbed to capitalism.

Night was drawing in early, and I wanted to see the sea. Unfortunately, access to the artificial beaches is not possible directly south, and by the time I had got to any place worth sitting; it was no longer a warm and sunny day. I could see the triangular shape of the Edifici Forum in the distance. It didn’t look far away; I headed geekward. Multiple parks rolled by to my left and the beaches seemed to repeat on a loop. My feet were sore; I had been walking all day, and it seemed to be a lot further than I remembered.

People became fewer and then, as though I had been caught in the middle of an hour glass, they grew once more. Bongo players drummed without rhythm on the beach. Like a well-trained sniffer dog, I was sensing something. I had a scent, and suddenly it was more powerful than ever. Hippies! Flowing skirts, saris, unkempt hair, a tepee sitting rebelliously on a finely cut lawn. Hippies! Large groups of people gathered into smaller groups. Their conversations lacked Spanish gesture and carried a tone of mysticism. A lady walked along the beach with the expression of having discovered a miracle. What a beach, the best beach on earth. What people, the best people on earth. The world is so beautiful, and the sand is making love to my toes.

I was intrigued. I felt like a misfit; a person from some crasser age, with a sneering attitude towards new age twaddle. I knew I looked right for the part, but I felt wrong inside; wrong and nosey. In the foyer of the conference hall, I had expected to be discovered. A large auditorium was laid out with stalls, and surrounded by elevated seating. Something big was happening, and the atmosphere was cultish. Then outside I discovered a poster. It said Amma Mata Amritanandamayi, Darshan en Barcelona, Dias 5, 6, y 7 de noviembre, 2007. Behind the writing, a smiling Indian lady held her hands together.

“To be in Her presence is to experience the best that life has to offer...a river of unconditional love, accepting anyone and everyone, and cleansing all their impurities. Luminous rays of grace, radiating wisdom and joy... like the earth bearing us on her bosom. By her love, consoling us, nourishing us, instilling faith in us... in whose presence, the innocence of a child awakens within... the world becomes a wonder. Such this and more is Mata Amritanandamayi Devi, Amma, Mother of Immortal Bliss. Come... Meditate...” I was surrounded by people who had come to visit a hugging saint. Did I say I have sneering attitude towards new age twaddle?

Online, you can view a video of her trip to Barcelona. Of herself she says: "Amma's hugs and kisses should not be considered ordinary. When Amma embraces or kisses someone, it is a process of purification and inner healing. Amma is transmitting a part of Her pure, vital energy into Her children. It also allows them to experience true, unconditional love. When Amma holds someone it can help to awaken the dormant spiritual energy within them, which will eventually take them to the ultimate goal of Self-realization." Yes, she does refer to herself in the third person. Perhaps she has to distance herself from her own fabulous stream of bollocks. Fucking brilliant.

I was happily enthralled. At the time, I was also blissfully unaware of why the people around me were filled with a strange and freakish serenity. I was excited by whatever could lead people to gladly camp in their cheap domes tents, illegally erected in the comfort zone of a tarmac car park. I felt like Jane Gooddall.

I walked further and further and the sky got darker. Should I be wandering along the beach front alone, I thought. Darkness comes so fast. I looked about myself. There were a few lone females walking too. I looked about myself again and they were gone. It’s okay, I thought, joggers, there are still joggers; joggers will scare off the rapists won’t they? Then I was in a dark car park all alone. It’s not far; just walk fast but with confidence. And separated by one dark and scary car park, unaware of each other’s very existence, hippies and corporate geeks live out a very different existence. I was more scared of the geeks. They were yet to come.

I arrived at the Edifici Forum to find a group of zombie geeks stood outside. They were mingling with the trees at dusk. With slow movements and vacant stares they had gathered on the grass. As I waited amongst them, whilst trying not to look too noticeably living, thousands more sluggishly left the building. The auditorium alone has a capacity of 3,200 and the building was filled to capacity. Some wore identifying wallets, and others were branded with Microsoft satchels. I carefully watched as a man with an active mind escaped the building unharmed. His Mohican and sweet soft flesh would no doubt mark him out for the kill eventually. At the time his ‘if then else’ mumbling chant allowed him life. I hope he had it in him to graduate to a mock ‘Zombie.IsValid = True’.

Eventually, with the passing of time, I feared for My Geek. Was he brain dead and trapped in a test environment? Then flash news: fearing the worst, he had escaped before my arrival. He was already enjoying the delights of Video Bum Stop; it was I who was at risk. Barely quelling my panic, I lost my statute like composure and fled. Using just the compass of my mind, a fast pace swept me through the dark and threatening streets. Would opening my map sell me out to these creatures of the night? With a sigh of relief, I found myself on Avinguda Diagonal; it was like my hazy Sunday morning but dark. It was the bookend to a very normal pleasant day, where people converse softly and no crows or hags heckle and lure ill-fate. Couples held hands, rollerbladers drifted by, dogs sniffed at the world and I felt safe. It all felt so fantastically normal and as though night had become day. Avinguda Diagonal is one hell of an avenue.

I passed The Dildo, opted against a shortcut through a poorly lit spit of a park, traversed a roundabout, and wormed my way back. Only when a road split into two, and became the streets with no name, did I lose my bearings. A supermarket foyer provided me with the light and safety to check my navigational paper. Home was just a corner away. A series of videos spilled from My Geek’s laptop and the swing of my soft bottom’s gait finally came to a gentle stop.