A Yank in Liverpool

Welcome to my very first blog post.  Sometimes it will be about life in Liverpool, sometimes it will be a political rant, sometimes it will be a Tarot of the Month blurb...basically whatever I feel like whenever I feel like. When I write articles for magazines, I am focused and disciplined and write for a particular audience about some cultural event or icon and their impact today. I want to use this forum as a stream of consciousness free flow of thought ... just let it go and see where it takes us.

So yes. I am a Yank. I hail from the North Shore of greater Boston and here I am now, in Olde England. I get to live here because my grandparents were Greek, so I scored a Greek passport, and was allowed entry in pre-Brexit times. I've been here for almost five years and two years out of that time has been spent in and out of lockdown. I came here flush enough to buy my own place, kit it out in a way that sent people into orgasmic spasms of awe, spent money on gigs in London and Manchester, and had a prolonged adventure in Stratford Upon Avon.  Now I'm so broke that all the money I have in the world is tied up in the flat I own which sits directly in the middle of clubland and I am lulled to sleep by the low-end of really crappy DJ techno nonsense. At first it kept me awake. Then I discovered titanium based earplugs. These things are designed for DJs so it blocks the low end. After almost 2 years here, I went into slave labour as an ESL teacher, so I started going to bed early. It worked...going to bed early, having a specific time I had to be up...the earplugs and everything. I was no longer falling asleep as the sun came up and waking up when the sun was sitting mid-sky thinking about going down. When lockdown happened, my job went away and the clubs were shut and it was almost too quiet, but I still wanted to maintain that structure. I lulled myself to sleep with the monotonous cadence of amateur true crime podcasters talking about dismemberment and acid baths. No bad dreams, just blissful sleep. Now that everything has kicked in again and I have a huge library of such subject matter, I no longer need the earplugs. I go to bed before 1 am, switch on the podcasts, and am fast asleep before all hell breaks loose.

So, you may ask, why on earth would I have bought a 6 floor walk up, drafty loft apartment in the middle of town which is chock full of teenaged amateur drinkers, screeching girls, football chanting chavs, and generally uncouth and/or insane people and really crap music? Well. There were a few reasons that seemed dead wise at the time.  Firstly, impatience combined with a skewed sort of pragmatism. Exposed brick, huge half moon widows, 2 bathrooms, and more storage than one can fill, plus an aesthetic that took me back to my early 20s when I would see such loft apartments in independent films and I would think, "someday, someday"...be careful what you ask for.  Also, bear in mind, that when I moved here I did not know a soul. All my British friends were way down South in London Town or even further in Surrey and Sussex. Others were way up north in the wilds of Scotland; not necessarily in the highlands or any such untamed tundra, but because it's Scotland it just has to be wild. Also, I did not know the city at all, and thought it best to live dead centre and work my way outward, not knowing at the time, that the more desirable areas like Lark Lane and Penny Lane would have been affordable to me then, but untouchable to me now. Yes, I'll make a profit on this when it sells, and it is under agreement at the moment, but, with inflation and post pandemic real estate insanity, I can't afford much. Now, if I were gainfully employed, I could rent an apartment and air bnb my place...I could move to Norway and do a course in Ibsen studies and air bnb my place, I could go back to the states and finagle around a little and eat some good food and hang with my peeps and air bnb my place, but I am not gainfully employed. So please go to my website and buy some art, get a reading, enrol in a class or hire me as a writer. You won't be sorry and neither will I.

But, my friends, do not despair...I'm done with despair on this subject, at least. I have had a hell of a ride. I live in an amazing apartment. I have made scores of "mates" and some of the best friends anyone could ask for and they are actually more like family than friends. This is a rare thing...especially as you get older. Corrine, a life long Scouser and closest to my age is one of the most loyal, loving, unselfish and giving people I have ever met, in any place I've ever lived. Yox has proven to be a caring, empathetic, loyal friend, and South African Neil, always willing to lend a hand, give a ride, advise, and assure. Then there's Ro, who began as my hair stylist keeping me on the forefront of the Who's Who by association, and Delia, another lifelong Scouser whose legacy is the lifeblood of this city, has dubbed me an adopted Scouser, and this is high praise indeed. All these people make it hard for me to even think about leaving...but my mind does stray to the market towns of Yorkshire, the village life, the quintessential English life I crave...but what I really want, the best of all possible worlds is the river views of The Dingle right here in Liverpool where my heart is set. What a journey behind me, what a journey in front of me.

I love Liverpool. Not just because it's where it all started with the Beatles that led to everything else with many by-roads and crossroads, and not because it's the home of Echo and the Bunnymen and Teardrop Explodes which exemplify my early 80s identity and ethic and is ever so close to Manchester ...Joy Division and everything that came after...no, not because of all of that...it's part of it, but the streets, the people, the vibe, it feels like home. It is home...but that's the conundrum...so is New York, so is Oslo, so are so many places....

So this is my first blog. and here you'll find more musings on Liverpool, memories of the past 5 years of the Yank as a Scouse Experience;  some exhilarating, some difficult, some scary, some hopeful. I'll be trying to get to the very core of why I'm here, peeling it all away and reflecting..."looking through a glass onion" and what I hope to accomplish simply by being here, as a writer, as an artist, as a teacher, as a woman.

I am striving to give this city what it gave to me as I looked across the Atlantic toward its docks...and I will not leave til I have done that, if I leave at all. Because when I first arrived, Gerry Marsden was singing in my ear, "And here I'll stay"....

So,  stay tuned.