Electric Press - August 2019 by ElectricPress

"I cannot describe the joy I felt when

I received this letter. It was a joy which reached deep inside me to where I felt most lonely. I understood at once that I was being approached

by a sister-spirit."

Issue 2 Edition 1 August 2019

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Can you believe we are already two-thirds of the way through this year? Summer is all but over; soon it will be time to gather the harvest in readiness for the coming winter months. What happened to those long hot, seemingly endless summers of our childhood? I recall my mother in the garden, lounging in a deck chair while reading a book, some saga set in the 1930s I believe. My elder sister enjoyed her books too. I think the first I remember her reading was 'The Butterfly Revolution' by William Butler. It was around this time I too began seriously enjoying reading. At school, we studied the likes of 'Walkabout' by James Vance Marshal, a story of two children lost in the Australian Outback who are helped by an Aboriginal boy. (The film of the book, 1971, deviated so much from the original plot the entire intent and sense of the story is lost.) Another book read during our English lessons was 'Lord of the Flies' by William Golding. Not too dissimilar in many general ways to the 'Butterfly Revolution' mentioned above. However, it was out of school I found my real passion for reading; luckily my mother had a good collection of various authors, so my early days were taken up by such diverse writers as Charles Dickens, W. Somerset Maugham, Dylan Thomas, Virginia Woolf, Margaret Atwood, Joseph Heller, Wolf Mankowitz and so forth. (Back then, I never knew some books were written especially for younger readers, I simply thought a story was a story was a story, and read on.) Many books were read while laying on the grass in the back garden of the house, soaking up the summers sun and sipping on ice-cold 'cream soda floats'. (I chose raspberry ripple ice cream whenever possible.)

Later in the year, I often propped myself against the window seat, the one with the standard lamp behind it and read, while watching the rain pour down, or the snowfall. I must say, this is still one of my favourite times to read. Little can beat being all warm and cosy, settled with a good book while the cold and damp are held at bay on the other side of the windowpane. It is the time of year when it is wise to review your reading list, decide which books will see the summer out and which you will want to lose yourself in during the cold of the coming autumn and the dark nights of winter. There are some suggestions here, in this edition of Electric Press, both good books and wonderful authors. Perhaps we can tempt you to buy a book or two written by authors you have not yet sampled. You may even find your next favourite author by venturing outside your regular genre. Enjoy this, the August edition of Electric Press. Paul White. Editor.

Click here to find out more

Pico Iyer, On the Beauty of Impermanence.

Elizabeth Crocket, Sharing my Journey

A bit about Amazon

Barbara Fox, Books and more Books

Brian Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Hare, When is Subtle too Subtle?

Dr Sacks, Everything in its place

Jim Toomy, We were Tourists

Lucille Lantz, A Grandma ahead of her time

Anthony J. Gerst, Inherent Responsibility: The Written Word.

Paula Rosco, Interviews

Our cover story.

Lisa Beere, Guardians?

C. A. Keith, The Magic of Bedtime stories

Paul Dane, Weaving with Light

A Complimentary Book.

Patrick Shanahan, Hair Wars for men

Cynthia MacGregor, Always a writer

Squid McFinnigan, Buddy App

Glennyce Eckersley, Lessons Learned

Paul White, Royal Naval Social History

ピコライヤー無常の美について日本の秋と死にゆくことにしがみつく方法 Pico Iyer writes nonfiction books on globalism, Japan, the Fourteenth Dalai Lama, forgotten places, novels on Revolutionary Cuba and Islamic mysticism. He regularly writes on literature for The New York Review of Books, on travel for the Financial Times and on global culture and the news for Time, The New York Times and various other magazines around the world.

I long to be in Japan in the autumn. For much used more than a thousand times, and of the year, my job, reporting on foreign

bright, amorous Prince Genji is said to be “a

conflicts and globalism on a human scale,

handsomer man in sorrow than in

forces me out onto the road; and with my

happiness.” Beauty, the foremost Jungian in

mother in her eighties, living alone in the

Japan has observed, “is completed only if we

hills of California, I need to be there much of accept the fact of death.” Autumn poses the the time, too. But I try each year to be back

question we all have to live with: How to

in Japan for the season of fire and farewells.

hold on to the things we love even though

Cherry blossoms, pretty and frothy as

we know that we and they are dying. How to

schoolgirls’ giggles, are the face the country

see the world as it is yet, find light within

likes to present to the world, all pink and

that truth.

white eroticism; but it’s the reddening of the maple leaves under a blaze of ceramic-blue skies that is the place’s secret heart.

This year, however, autumn’s no mere decorative riddle. Four days after my fatherin-law’s death, I was back in Japan and taking

We cherish things, Japan has always known,

a train to the station in southern Kyoto, just

precisely because they cannot last; it’s their

down the lane from the most important of all

frailty that adds sweetness to their beauty. In the land’s 22,000 harvest shrines, its 10,000 the central literary text of the land, The Tale

orange torii gates leading up and up a hillside

of Genji, the word for “impermanence” is

of tiny statues and secret hollows.

Pico Iyer, on the Beauty of Impermanence. ‘Autumn in Japan and the ways we cling to dying things’ Posted alone outside the tiny wooden house officially become a member of his wife’s where her parents had lived for five

family after going into hospital in his thirties.

decades, Hiroko let me into the damp, stone “If anything should happen, will you protect -cold entrance hall, and led me up the short, my wife and kids?” he’d asked his own winding staircase to two near-empty rooms. mother, and she, with characteristic In one, I saw a single bed, a chest of

drawers; in the other, a bare tatami space and, within a dark corner, the household shrine, with a small framed photo of Hiroko’s father on it, ghostly pale, the last time we took him for a drive. Behind him, a black-and-white picture of his longtime

briskness, always hungry for adventure, answered, “No.” So he’d taken on the name of his wife’s clan, and lived as a lone outlier from Hiroshima amidst wife and sister-inlaw and mother-in-law, and all the constant whispers of a small, traditional Kyoto neighbourhood.

antagonist, his mother-in-law, severe in

Now, after all these years, there’s almost

black kimono.

nothing left in the tiny house. Hiroko shows

For 30 years or more, the gray shutters opening out onto the street rattled up every morning, and Hiroko’s mother, in her worn apron, cat sleeping by her side, took her seat in front of a row of candies and soft drinks, to hand them out with smiles to passing kids and do a little business; behind her, in the bathroom-sized main room, her small, trim

husband sat on a cushion on the floor, around a low table, taking care of accounts and sipping green tea, as horses clattered past on a small TV.

me the albums of pre-digital photos her father used to keep under his pillow, of the one foreign holiday he took, when I brought him to California for five days. The images of Fisherman’s Wharf and the beach at Carmel that he brought out to impress all who visited so they could say, “How great!” and hurry off. Next to the photos, the binoculars

on which he’d emptied nearly all his savings, one hour after arrival, so he could take in the larger world he’d always dreamed of. Throughout the nine-hour flight, he’d never nodded off, lest he miss a special moment.

My father-in-law, in the Japanese way, had

We gather a few supplies and take a cab to the nursing her, as other elderly souls are wheeled this way and home five minutes away where Hiroko’s mother is now that.

living: a tiny room, with one thin bed and a dresser on

“So, you and I are going to live alone?” she asks at last.

which sits a small framed picture of her late husband, cradling their two-year-old great-granddaughter.

“No, Grandma,” says Hiroko, struggling to keep calm. “I have a job in Nara, remember? If I don’t work, we can’t

I’m humbled by Hiroko’s emotional efficiency; I

eat. You have a new home.”

wouldn’t have had the courage to tell this 85-year-old woman, who’s just lost her husband and much of her mind, that she’s now losing her home as well, for an

“So I live in the nursing home for life? I die in the nursing home? Alone?”

anonymous cell. But if mother and daughter tried to

I reach for Hiroko’s hand, as I see her struggling to stay

share a space for even a month, we all know, neither

afloat.

would make it to the second week.

“You’re not alone, Mother. You have me. You have your

When we step into the small room, it’s to find my

grandchildren. Don’t you remember Soyo, your great-

mother-in-law gasping for breath, shoulders heaving

granddaughter?”

up and down as she tries to catch some air. Hiroko

“What about Masahiro?” says her mother. “Maybe

bustles the old lady into sweater and socks, and,

your brother will take me in, now you’re refusing?”

commandeering a wheelchair, steers her into an elevator and down into a waiting taxi. After we get out,

“I don’t know.”

ten minutes later, we might be entering a post-nuclear “I have two children,” announces the old lady to all the world, shoulders rising and falling as she struggles to nightmare. In every chair in the large, bare entrance hall of the local hospital, a prospective patient is sitting breathe, “and I have to live in a nursing home alone. Until I die.” in silence as red digits ash on screens above a broad desk. Hiroko parks her mother’s wheelchair next to us, bundling the old lady up in blankets, and we await our

turn.

Suddenly the old lady looks up. “Where’s Grandpa?” Since Hiroko’s son and daughter came into the world, her parents have become “Grandpa” and “Grandma” to one and all. “Is he at the races?” “No, Grandma,” my wife explains. “He died. Don’t you remember? Last week he got pneumonia, and he had

to go into the hospital.” “Ah yes,” says the old woman. “He died. The tenth of the month. He always did love the races.” She returns to her silence, staring straight ahead of https://amzn.to/2JsH4qx

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Sharing my Journey In 2010, three months after I lost my father to

The second surgery was scheduled for

cancer, and nineteen months after losing my

November 2010, and lasted eight or nine hours. I

mother to cancer, I went to my doctor for some

awoke in intensive care hallucinating, and

intermittent right sided pain. I remember feeling remember it as one of the worst nights of my tired, but chalked it up to packing up my dad’s

life. Unbeknownst to me at that time, I now had

things, after he died. The doctor asked me if I

a permanent leg disability, as they had to cut

hadn’t felt the lump in my right side. Lump? He

muscles during surgery to remove the large

wrote urgent on the ultrasound form, and my

tumour. After sixteen days in the hospital I went

own journey with an advanced stage rare cancer home to a long and arduous recovery. began. Being diagnosed with cancer brings with it an all-consuming, indescribable fear, as far too many people know. Thankfully, the love of my family and friends surrounded me.

When I met with my oncologist after my eighteen-month CT scan, she told me the cancer was back, and she wanted me to start chemotherapy again, this time adding a new

After my first cancer surgery, I awoke to the

drug to the “cocktail.” When I went to meet for

news that the large tumour was still inside me. I

the next ct scan results, it showed the “spot”

cried. The doctors wanted to do radiation and

had grown. I had lost most of my hair by this

chemotherapy first, so I soon began a five week

point, and spent the summer wearing scarves or

daily concurrent regimen. By the end of the five

hats. My third surgery was scheduled for October

weeks I was admitted to the hospital with an

2012, and once again my supportive family circled

extremely high heart rate, very weak and

around me.

dehydrated.

This surgery they had to take one of my kidneys. It was

diagnosed with cancer. I thought with all the experience I

another gruelling recovery, and more physiotherapy.

had with my cancer, my parent’s cancer, and countless

As I went for subsequent ct scans, the old fear would return as I anxiously awaited the results. But then, one year, all clear. Eighteen months, all clear. And so on. As a writer and poet, I continued to write throughout my journey, writing two Japanese short form poetry chapbooks, one chronicling my cancer experience. After

friends' different cancers, the story would certainly ring true to anyone affected by the disease. I couldn’t be more grateful or appreciative of my loving and supportive husband and family and my amazing team of doctors, for bringing me to where I am today, nine years after my diagnosis.

writing my debut women’s fiction novel, A Path to the

It’s my wish that my journey will offer hope to anyone

Lake, I decided in my next novel, Full of Grace, I would

who has been affected by cancer.

have a story line where one of the characters was

Angela keeps a roof over her head, albeit a leaking one, by writing romance novels. But, Angela’s 200 never really believed in the traditional happily ever after ending. So, she begins writing the story of Grace, who has recently been diagnosed with cancer shortly after finding out her husband Rick is having an affair. Again. As she writes the story to dispel the myth of happily ever after, Angela begins a relationship with Mark, the

contractor who comes to fix her leaking roof, and ironically, it looks like she may be on the way to her own happy ending. But Angela’s had a difficult past and has a cynical outlook, while Mark’s life has just gotten messy. Angela wonders if this is all going to work out. Grace lies in bed at night, wondering if what Rick wants to give her, and what he is capable of giving her, are two different things. She asks Rick to move out temporarily, while they try to assess their marriage. She wonders how she can get such comfort and security from a man who cheated on her.

h t t p s : / / a m z n .t o / 3 2 M 8 h N x

Globally, particularly in Asia, Amazon is still a small player regarding percentage of market share

A bit on Amazon One by one, storied chains in books, toys, sporting

closing 90 of its 720 locations in the past seven

goods and more have disappeared from American

years, often leaving areas of hundreds of

malls and main streets, then vanished from our

thousands of people without a single major

collective memory.

bookstore, it has sold out to the British store

The big picture: The arc of retail has been bending toward consolidation for decades. Superstores like

Waterstones, one high street bookstore that seems to have a solid foothold.

B&N and Toys "R" Us took us from shopping small

You can read more about Waterstones is the last

to shopping big. Next, we seem to be moving

issue, the May 2019 edition of Electric Press here.

inexorably toward one, powerful, all-knowing, everything store.

Meanwhile, Amazon's reach has continued to be deadly. It wiped out sporting goods giant Sports

In 1996, Jeff Bezos, the 31-year-old CEO of a

Authority and has delivered staggering blows to

scrappy start-up that sold books online, was

department stores like Macy's, J.C. Penney and

approached by Riggio, the multi-millionaire boss of Sears. iconic B&N, about a collaboration. For context, Amazon had $16 million in sales in 1996, and B&N $2 billion.

However, there is something sentimental,

something nostalgic, something very different in the elimination of bookstores Families hang out in

Riggio told Bezos that B&N would soon start its

bookstores, they are places of culture, of history,

own website and crush Amazon, reports

places where community are imbibed.

Bloomberg's Brad Stone in "The Everything Store," a history of the company. It would be better if they worked together. Bezos declined. Flash forward: Today, Amazon has about half the

"We haven't mourned every casualty of the internet. We are upset about Barnes & Noble more than we are about Toys "R" Us. People didn't care about Toys "R" Us. They didn't hang

market share for print books, and B&N only a fifth, out there on a date when they were 23." - Mike according to Mike Shatzkin, an industry consultant. Shatzkin Amazon's share jumps to 84% for e-books. B&N has just 2%.

What is the Amazonian future? If Americans are sentimental about B&N, they

The long view: Books were the first category to

should remember it once taunted and killed off

reach an e-commerce tipping point â&#x20AC;&#x201D; a 20%

many independent bookstores as it grew. B&N

market share, the point of no return at which, as

was fighting other problems than just Amazon, it

industry after industry has discovered, Amazon's

had become big, flabby and, in all reality, obsolete.

encroachment wipes out almost everyone. That was back in 2004; the losers were Borders, Crown Books, Book World and others. For 14 years, B&N managed to hang on. But after

Now, to rub salt in its flabby wounds, Amazon is aiming to beat B&N at its own game. In Bethesda, Maryland, the local B&N, a towering structure that once anchored the town centre,

BOOKS AND MORE BOOKS by

Barbara Fox I like to read in bed, do so almost every night. I have this

Drum roll here, Chapter One. I meet the people who are

routine. I put on a long tee-shirt, prop up lots of pillows,

going to be occupying my mind for the next few hours. I

put a plate of sliced apples or oranges or grapes and

enter their world, learn about their problems, hear their

(maybe, if I’m feeling thin) five or six chocolate chip

conversations, I can get lost in a book; sometimes it’s

cookies and a cup of tea on the nightstand, pick up a book almost painful to put it down. and read and read and read until my eyes start closing. It’s my guilty pleasure and I passed the habit down to my daughters (and they to their daughters). When I don’t have a new book I re-read one of my favourites. People are surprised when I tell them I often re-read books. “Why would you do that?” they ask. "You know what’s going to happen, you know how it ends”. “Why not re-read?” I answer, “You listen to a song more

“One more chapter,” I bargain with myself. "Ten more pages.” Sometimes I have to force myself to put the book down and at night, turn out the light or during the day, return to my real life. I keep a book in my car so, if I’m meeting someone and they’re late, I have something to read and I take two or

three paperback books with me when I travel just in case the people I’m visiting or the hotel where I’m staying

than once even though you know the melody and the lyrics doesn’t have a bookshelf. It goes without saying I have a and you look at a painting or go to a restaurant more than book in my purse when I have a doctor’s appointment. once.” I like re-reading books; I like meeting the characters again

Why waste half hour or hour sitting in the waiting room staring at the walls when I could be reading?

(it’s like meeting old friends) and catching up with their

I love browsing through libraries and book stores,

lives. Sometimes, when I’m driving or laying on the beach

especially used book stores where the only problem is

a character from a book will pop into my mind. “I wonder

buying too many books at once.

how he or she is doing?” I’ll think and I’ll have to go and get the book to, okay, this might sound silly, say hello.

I read family sagas and mysteries and (not science fiction or horror books) and pop psychology and some

I always find something new when I re-read; maybe I

biographies and I have my favourite authors, too many to

skipped parts of the description in favour of getting to the

name.

story, maybe I forgot a particular incident in

I don’t read in cars or on busses, it makes me feel queasy

Chapter four, maybe I was so busy with the story I didn’t

and I only skim newspapers and magazines. I don’t often

appreciate the author's word and sentence structure, the

use my electronic reader (I like the feeling of holding a

clever way he/she kept the suspense or the drama or

book in my hand) and I don’t belong to a book club

comedy moving. Re-reading to me is like eating a favourite (although I keep saying that I’m going to join one.) food or talking to a special friend or going to a place I love; it’s comforting and safe and familiar. Of course, I also like reading a book for the first time; there’s something magical about opening a book, reading the flyleaf to get a sense of what is coming and then,

My middle daughter in California is a reader too; when we talk on the phone our first words, aren’t “how are you”, or “how are the children”? or “How’s the weather”? We ask "what are you reading?"

Roberta Reed, a snoopy newspaper reporter, Mark Dolermain, a lawyer with a specialized government agency, Janie Jason, a student studying to be a detective, Marty Sparrow, a security guard and owner of The solve-it Detective agency and A.R., a professional homicide detective. They are investigating several crimes and you are invited to join their investigation. MURDER IS SERVED AT... A salsa class, a family reunion, an embassy party, a corporate meeting, a bingo game,a luxurious condominium and on a beach. Try to solve the crimes before reading the solution on the next page.

https://amzn.to/2XBRKIe

closed last year, while Amazon Books, futuristic

and powered by hyperlocal consumer data, opened its 'bricks & Mortar' store just down the street, positioned across the road from Apple.

Physical stores At the beginning of 2018, Amazon made waves with its announcement of "Go", a cashier-less convenience store. By the end of the year, it has

In Manhattan's Herald Square, Amazon Books is a opened six across the country, with plans for as busy gathering place. At midday on Tuesday, 20 people were browsing the selection of titles, another 20 or so were meeting for coffee in the

many as 3,000 more by 2021. Add those to Amazon's bookstores, now 18 and counting.

adjoining cafe.

The "4-star" stores, where it sells goods that Amazon maybe vastly popular, but its schoolyard

earned over 4 stars on its site.

bullying behaviour is rubbing many people 'up the wrong way'.

Tack on more than 450 Whole Foods stores and Plus, with plans to open more of them and you

One should remember, in the 1990s and early 2000s, Amazon was the start-up, the small David taking on bigger businesses. Now, inevitably, the tables have turned

will find the e-commerce giant is well on its way to establishing a brick-and-mortar presence in every major city in the USA, let alone forging a presence in the UK and further afield..

For two decades, Amazon has grown like wildfire, eschewing profit, pouring all its revenue back

How Amazon responded

into itself, leaving a wake of destruction in retail. “There is an important difference between Now it's going in for the kill. Amazon has launched more than 100 privatelabel products.

horizontal breadth and vertical depth. We operate in a diverse range of businesses, from retail and entertainment to consumer electronics and technology services, and we

“This is going to be a major part of future of

have intense and well-established competition

retail," says Donald Ngwe, a professor of

in each of these areas.

business administration at Harvard Business School.

Retail is our largest business of which we represent less than 1% of global retail and

"The massive amounts of data Amazon has on its consumers give it unparalleled insights into what shoppers really want", says James Thomson, a former Amazon executive who now

advises brands who sell on the platform.

around 4% of U.S. retail. In addition, Amazon’s private label products are less than 1% of our total sales. This is far less than other retailers, many of whom have private label products that represent 25% or

By selling more of its own products, Amazon is

more of their sales.”

competing against the sellers on its own marketplace and starting to catch the attention of regulators and anti-trust lawyers.

Said an unnameable 'Amazon spokesperson' on January 14.

Brian O'Hare, MA, Ph.D., is a retired assistant director of a large regional college of further and higher education. His early writings include a number of academic works and biographies but he has now moved to fiction and is currently writing the fifth book in the award-winning Inspector Sheehan Mysteries Series. Four of these books, The Doom Murders, The 11:05 Murders, The Coven Murders and The Dark Web Murders, have won awards and are published by Crimson Cloak. Brian O'Hare is currently writing a murder mystery series. Each book in the series offers a stand-alone whodunnit, but all feature Chief Inspector Sheehan and his team of detectives from the Serious Crimes squad at Strandtown Police Station in Belfast, Northern Ireland. Currently in preparation is The Shadow Murders. (The squeamish reader should note that in this series, psychopaths and serial killers abound.) Amazon https://www.amazon.co.uk/Brian-OHare/e/B001K89IWM?ref=dbs_p_ebk_r00_abau_000000 Brian’s website is: http://brianohareauthor.blogspot.com/

When is Subtle too Subtle? A teacher of English Literature was lecturing a class of adolescents on one of the syllabus’s prescribed

“What did the author mean by this?” Heads went down and none of the students would meet her eye.

modern novels. She selected a short passage which

The teacher continued, “What we have here is a

included the following sentence:

clear metaphor for the anxiety, the angst, I might

“Vanessa’s passage into the building was impeded by a blue door.”

even say the Weltschmerz, that can afflict modern youth as they seek answers to life’s most basic questions. There is a specific significance in the use

She read the sentence aloud and said to the class,

of the word ‘impeded’ here,

with all its psychological implications of struggle

anything that contained these kinds of hidden

and possible failure, especially as it is linked to the depths. Or it might distract them from the unmistakable nuance of melancholia so strikingly

essential need for clarity in writing as they try to

impressed upon the inner consciousness by the

impose layers of meaning on what they write.

deliberate choice of the colour blue.”

For me, interpretation of intent is nothing more subtle than accepting the meaning that is there.

It so happened that, a couple of weeks later, the writer of this book was doing a book-signing at the local bookshop. One of the students, a studious young male, went along to have the famous author sign his copy of the book. As the author was writing his signature, the boy asked,

BUT, of course, writers do use words, ideas, characters, with specific nuances in order to

manipulate the reader. That’s what writers do. It’s built into their DNA. These subtleties are there to be seen by the astute reader. Other subtleties come almost unconsciously from the innate values, principles, and the attitudes

“Do you remember that bit in the book where

that drive the writer’s normal existence. We are

Vanessa was impeded by a front door and you

all born into a certain kind of life – we have

said, ‘The door was blue.’”

parents, siblings, peers, a neighbourhood with a

The writer thought for a moment and said, “Ah,

specific environment, teachers, social circles –

yes! I do.” “What did you mean when you said the door was blue?” The writer eyed the boy up and down, mystified by his question. “I am not sure what you want me to say. I meant

I j u st pic ke d blu e and we assimilate, unknowingly, attitudes and values from the milieu in which we have lived and grown-up. These values will emerge in our writing and, until we are very experienced writers, very aware of

the door was blue. It could have been any colour, I what we are writing and what we are saying, suppose I just picked blue.”

there will be all sorts of messages underpinning our writing that we do not realise.

Sometimes I wonder if literature teachers, in their enthusiasm for literary deconstruction, that is, reading hidden meanings into an author’s text and coming up with a host of hypotheses about intent, do so at the cost of creating a mystique around the nature of writing that can confuse young would-be writers. It might make them feel that there is no point in ever trying to be a writer because they would never be able to write

So, there is little need to worry too much about hidden meanings and symbolisms. Future critics of our work will find loads of meaning that we didn’t know was there. It’s there because any

writer who writes honestly, his or her truth, will inevitably leave parts of themselves in the pages, those innate parts which may come as a surprise to us when our readers or critics point them out.

I AM NEMEIN. I AM EMOTIONALLY DETACHED FROM MY KILLINGS. I AM NOT, THEREFORE, A MURDERER. I AM AN INSTRUMENT OF NEMESIS, A PUNISHER. This is a theme running through a number of blogs on the Dark Web, written by a serial killer.

UK https://amzn.to/2Xtzp0b WORLDWIDE mybook.to/DarkWebMurders

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This is an excerpt from “Everything in Its Place,” a posthumous collection of writings by Dr. Sacks. As a writer, I find gardens essential to the creative giant lily pads as a baby. process; as a physician, I take my patients to gardens whenever possible. All of us have had the experience of wandering through a lush garden or a timeless desert, walking by a river or an ocean, or climbing a mountain and finding ourselves simultaneously calmed and reinvigorated, engaged in mind, refreshed in body and spirit. The

As a student at Oxford, I discovered with delight a

very different garden — the Oxford Botanic Garden, one of the first walled gardens established in Europe. It pleased me to think that Boyle, Hooke, Willis and other Oxford figures might have walked and meditated there in the 17th century.

importance of these physiological states on individual and community health is fundamental and wide-ranging. In 40 years of medical practice, I have found only two types of non-pharmaceutical “therapy” to be vitally important for patients with chronic neurological diseases: music and gardens.

I try to visit botanical gardens wherever I travel, seeing them as reflections of their times and

cultures, no less than living museums or libraries of plants. I felt this strongly in the beautiful 17thcentury Hortus Botanicus in Amsterdam, coeval with its neighbour, the great Portuguese

The wonder of gardens was introduced to me very early, before the war, when my mother or Auntie Len would take me to the great botanical garden at Kew. We had common ferns in our garden, but

Synagogue, and liked to imagine how Spinoza might have enjoyed the former after he had been excommunicated by the latter — was his vision of “Deus sive Natura” in part inspired by the Hortus?

not the gold and silver ferns, the water ferns, the filmy ferns, the tree ferns I first saw at Kew. It was at Kew that I saw the gigantic leaf of the great Amazon water lily, Victoria regia, and like many children of my era, I was sat upon one of these

The botanical garden in Padua is even older, going right back to the 1540s, and medieval in its design. Here Europeans got their first look at plants from the Americas and the Orient, plant forms stranger than anything they had ever seen or dreamed of. It was here, too, that Goethe, looking at a palm, conceived his theory of the metamorphoses of plants. When I travel with fellow swimmers and divers to the Cayman Islands, to Curacao, to Cuba, wherever — I seek out botanical gardens, counterpoints to the exquisite underwater gardens I see when I snorkel or scuba above them.

I have lived in New York City for 50 years and living here is sometimes made bearable for me only by its gardens. This has been true for my patients, too. When I worked at Beth Abraham, a hospital just across the road from the New York Botanical Garden, I found that there was nothing long-shut-in patients loved more than a visit to the garden — they spoke of the hospital and the garden as two different worlds.

I cannot say exactly how nature exerts its calming and organizing effects on our brains, but I have seen in my patients the restorative and healing powers of nature and gardens, even for those who are deeply disabled neurologically. In many cases, gardens and nature are more powerful than any medication. My friend Lowell has moderately severe

Tourette’s syndrome. In his usual busy, city environment, he has hundreds of tics and verbal ejaculations each day — grunting, jumping, touching things compulsively. I was therefore amazed one day when we were hiking in a desert to realize that his tics had completely disappeared. The remoteness and uncrowdedness of the scene, combined with

some ineffable calming effect of nature, served to defuse his ticcing, to “normalize” his

dementia or Alzheimer’s disease, who may have very little sense of orientation to their surroundings. They have forgotten, or cannot access, how to tie their shoes or handle cooking implements. But put them in front of a flower bed with some seedlings, and they will know exactly what to do — I have never seen such a patient plant something upside down. My patients often live in nursing homes or chronic-care institutions, so the physical environment of these settings is crucial in promoting their well-being. Some of these institutions have actively used the design and management of their open spaces to promote better health for their patients. For example, Beth Abraham hospital, in the Bronx, is where I saw the severely parkinsonian postencephalitic patients I wrote about in “Awakenings.”

neurological state, at least for a time. In the 1960s, it was a pavilion surrounded by An elderly lady with Parkinson’s disease, whom I met in Guam, often found herself frozen, unable to initiate movement — a common problem for those with parkinsonism. But once we led her out into the garden, where plants and a rock garden provided a varied landscape, she was galvanized by this, and could rapidly, unaided, climb up the rocks and down again. I have several patients with very advanced

large gardens. As it expanded to a 500-bed institution, it swallowed most of the gardens, but it did retain a central patio full of potted plants that remains very crucial for the patients.

There are also raised beds so that blind patients

spaces, for children in city schools or for those in

can touch and smell and wheelchair patients can institutional settings such as nursing homes. have direct contact with the plants.

The effects of nature’s qualities on health are not

Clearly, nature calls to something very deep in

only spiritual and emotional but physical and

us. Biophilia, the love of nature and living things, neurological. I have no doubt that they reflect is an essential part of the human condition.

deep changes in the brain’s physiology, and

Hortophilia, the desire to interact with, manage

perhaps even its structure.

and tend nature, is also deeply instilled in us. The

role that nature plays in health and healing

Oliver Sacks was a neurologist and author of

many books. This is an excerpt from the

becomes even more critical for people working

forthcoming collection of his essays,

long days in windowless offices, for those living in city neighbourhoods without access to green

“Everything in Its Place.”

Awakenings is the extraordinary account of a group of twenty patients. Rendered catatonic by the sleeping-sickness epidemic that swept the world just after the First World War, all twenty had spent forty years in hospital: motionless and speechless; aware of the world around them, but exhibiting no interest in it - until Dr Sacks administered the then-new drug, L-DOPA, which caused them, temporarily, to awake from their decades-long slumber.

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As the editor of Electric Press is always an honour to interview someone directly. When that 'someone' is a music legend who is well respected and loved, not only by the public, but by many other artists and industry insiders, it makes it even more so. That I dare call Jim Toomey a friend is, for me, the icing on the cake. He really is one of the nicest people you could meet.

This is what Jim had to say; Q. Did you choose to be a musician or did music choose you? A. Music chose me. I stumbled into a live music room and heard New Orleans Jazz played by The Ken Colyer Band in 1964 at 'The 51 Club' in London's Soho. I was 16, also saw 'The Stones' play there. I was inspired by a drummer called Joe Watkin from the George Lewis New Orleans Band and later by Charlie Watts from the Stones.

Q. When you were an aspiring musician, who did you find most influential? A. It wasn't until I heard John Bonham play drums in Led Zeppelin that I decided to turn pro at age 20. That first album they made is a classic and each track is outstanding in my book. When I read Jack Kerouac's classic book 'On the Road' I decided to leave my boring office job and look for romance and adventure. My first pro gigs were in Germany and France playing American Air Bases and since then Ive been lucky that I never had to go back to a 'proper job' as my father put it.

On returning to the UK I played in lots of different bands playing Tamla Motown, Soul,Funk,Blues and R& B and got my first big break with an 'Underground Band' called Titus-Groan touring and recording and co-writing four of the songs on the album. That early recording experience paid off and I started slogging round the recording studios in London recording with ex- Zombies vocalist Colin Blunstone and touring America with his band.I also recorded an album with Stephan Grossman and toured and recorded with Mick Ronson from David Bowie's band. By 1977 I had appeared on seventeen albums and countless singles all with different songwriters - which is in fact how I met Dave Stewart and Annie Lennox. They had just signed with Logo Records and I was booked to play on their very first demos along with Peet Combes. I describe in my book how we all first met in a tiny studio in London's Tin Pan Alley and how we went on to form The Tourists. The band lasted over three years and we recorded three albums. The first in Cologne, the second in London and the finial Album at George Martins studio on the Island of Montserrat in the Caribbean; a bit of a rags to riches story I guess.

Q. Why did you write 'We were Tourists'? A. I hadn't really planned to write "We Were Tourists" at all, but so many crazy things have happened to me in my life that I thought it best to write it down - and of course now I'm really glad I did. In June of this year I shall be 75 but I have no plans to stop playing live. In fact, I am playing at some selected Venues here in Brisbane and my wife and I have opened a very successful Japanese Crepe shop in The West End of Brisbane which is a very cool small community- a bit like Greenwich Village in New York or maybe Soho in London.

Q. Who is the most important person in your life? A. Meeting my wife and living in Japan for a few years changed my whole way of thinking and we now have three children aged 18, 14 and our latest child Skye who is 4.

Q. Are you working on another book? A. Finding the time to sit down and write is a bit more difficult now but I am working on a follow up to "We Were Tourists" called simply 'Drummer Boy' and I've started work on a musical of the same name.

Jim Toomey formed a group with Annie Lennox, Dave Stewart, Peet Coombes and Eddie Chin. From their early beginnings in London, finding their sound and their voice, through their success, their recordings, TV appearances, and their tours across the world, this is the story of The Tourists, told by the man sitting behind the drums.

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A Grandma, ahead of her time There was going to be the Columbus day parade and I was sleeping at Grandma's house. The air was rather crisp and I didn’t have any pants, most little girls my age were in dresses all the time. The weather was a bit too cold for my bare legs.

I was so upset that I couldn’t go to the parade with Ann and Grandma knew it and she knew she would fix it. Grandma would do just about anything to make me happy. In her wisdom she would fix this problem and she did. Grandma asked me to get Grandpa’s sweater off the back of his rocker. I immediately obeyed my Grandma’s order and handed her Grandpa’s navy blue cardigan. Grandma got out the sewing box and took out her big scissor. Clip clip off went the sleeves.

I stood in horror as I saw Grandma smiling with Grandpa’s sweater sleeves in her hand. “Come”. she said, in her sweet voice. I went over to Grandma and she slipped the sweater sleeves over my bare legs. She took safety pins and pinned the sweater sleeves to the inside waist band of my dress. “Now you go, yes?" What the heck I was a kid what did I care if I had Grandpa’s sweater sleeves on my legs all I knew is that I was going to the parade with Ann. My Grandma was a woman ahead of her time.

This short story is by Lucille Lantz

Anthony J. Gerst resides near the confluence of the Iowa and Mississippi Rivers, in the stomping grounds of Aldo Leopold and Chief, Black Hawk. At an early age he began contributing letters to the editor to the Burlington Hawk Eye and he has been printed in several states and in various publications around the globe. His area of interest shifted in 2000 from being a political activist to an avid environmental writer. Anthony has contributed to Planet Save, Oped.news and boomer warrior, among other sites.

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Inherent Responsibility: The Written being of integrity and as a writer. Word. I am not deluded, while I as a colloquial Thirty-five years and 307 letters to scribbler of words have reached Iowaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s oldest newspaper has taught me audiences across the globe, or at least a thing or two. My entrance at the turn been afforded platforms of presentation of the century into the world wide web to them, I know the impact of those immensely propelled my op-ed words are like a single grain of sand experience throughout the United States causing a nonexistent ripple in the and into foreign publications. (Hardcopy) tumultuous turmoil of our Southern These details are non-consequential for Ocean. Still, in the collective global the reader of this piece. They were narrative of our times, they possess consequential for my growth as a human value.

Writers of all political persuasions, creeds,

that changing another’s viewpoint 180 degrees

philosophies, theologies and genres should work

was a futile endeavour.

their craft based on inherent responsibility, a personal belief that somehow, they are making the world a little better.

My writings, I hope, would at least give readers a pause of reflection. Perhaps they would reevaluate their positions and in doing so better

That of course is not reality, some people write

understand their viewpoints. Not simply, blindly,

simply for money, others to sow discord,

support a cause or idea instilled in them by

animosity and promote anarchy, none of which

sociological conditioning.

has ever been my intent.

Better yet, they may bend their conceptions

Without language we have no civilization, from

incorporating new knowledge and budge forward

tribal to nation-states. Words matter, their

with a different understanding. Hence, no matter

selection and usage should not be flippant as they how small a difference, or which way from my shape the flow of our collective premises and the

vantage point they moved, I accomplished my

foundations of our species’ daily experience. The

goal.

written word, however, carries a much larger and longer imprint, wouldn’t you agree?

They paused, reflected, and used whatever depth of logic and reasoning they possessed to think for

Our collective knowledge built on across the

themselves. You see the contentious aspect of my

threshold of time, gives us technology, medicine,

writing quite clearly in that last sentence.

architecture and more. Theological implications (whether viewed as good

Obviously that style is not the most conducive to reach my objective. It is in my opinion however,

or bad) and their ramifications as the masses came where I shine as a colloquial scribbler of the to digest its content directly and not propagated to them by medicine men, shamans, priests and

self-proclaimed prophets have had lasting implications. Along with countless cerebral conceptions shared

written word. Through this voice primarily, this writer from the

fly over lands of the United States accomplished a global reach, like that speck of sand landing on the ocean’s waves. They add to the sediment on the

via the written word and expanded on throughout oceans floor, rising ever slowly to a solid history. Yes, words matter, and the written word even more so.

foundation on which to build. Writers, despite genre, style and/or belief and

I have strived, and probably failed more often than subject matter, you have an inherent succeeded, to challenge readers to think for

responsibility to make the world a better place.

themselves, my standard style of writing being somewhat contentious. It has been through this challenge of offense, I attempt to enrage readers to defend their own viewpoints, learning early on

After all, words really do matter, and the written word. . . carries on.

Book 1 of The Climate Sociology Series, by Anthony J. Gerst

The HAARP Letters is set in a world following a Sudden Climate Change Event, brought on by scientists attempting to avoiding global warming, inadvertently making things worse. Set mid-century, the story begins in Alaska at a doomsday shelter, after an abrupt climate changing event called Big Thunder â&#x20AC;¦

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The author Paula Roscoe interviews her husband on what it is like to be an author's husband. My name is Martin Raymond Roscoe. Husband to the wonderful author, PJ Roscoe, who I call Paula. I am Father to a wonderful daughter… and I will have my revenge or supper, whichever comes first. I agreed to do this interview because… I agreed to do this interview.

Q. How did you feel/react when P.J Roscoe voiced her need to become an author? A. It didn’t come as much of a surprise. It would have been more surprising if she hadn’t.

Q. Can you describe a typical day for you as her husband? Up, out, work, home. Me, Hello my love PJ, Books Me, How’s your day been? PJ, Writing Me, Weather’s been nice. PJ, Editing Me, Goodnight PJ, Bloody computers

Q. Are there any pro’s about being in her world? A. It’s nice to see her really going after her dream. Her enthusiasm is infectious. Q. Are there any cons about being in her world? A. It’s difficult watching the hurdles put in her way get bigger and bigger. She gets very frustrated and her total lack of patience can be hilarious. Q. What’s the most rewarding thing that happens for you? A. Knowing that going out to work pays the bills and keeps the Wolves at bay so one of us can chase their dreams, knowing when she really becomes famous and wealthy I can have the hovercraft I’ve always wanted. (And a day off). Q. What’s the most frustrating thing that happens for you? A. When things don’t go to plan there is not much I can do to help. Q. Do you read any of Paula’s books and if so, which is your favourite and why? A. Echoes will always be my favourite because it was the first time I read her work. It was also weird to have the author lying in bed next to me staring at me looking for reactions. It was most disconcerting and distracting. Q. Have you ever wanted to dive into the world of writing? If so why, if not why? A. Not really. I can have ideas but wouldn’t have the commitment to sit and write. I also con’t spill. Q. I’ve heard that you are clever at making up songs/rhymes, can you produce one for us?

Ode to my Author My love is like a red, red rose, A ship upon the sea, an imaginative genius, [And just bloody click the link twice, it’ll work.] Her mind is like a labyrinth. Of thoughts and words and prose, and when they all come tumbling out, [You know smashing the mouse really won’t help.] And when she’s rich and famous, on radio and TV, it will be very cool to know that some is down to me. [No, the files are not lost. They will be on the hard drive somewhere.] Q. If you could change anything regarding your life, what would it be and why? A. Go back in time. Get some qualifications. Get a more interesting job. Get muscles. Smell better and buy the hovercraft, years ago. Q. Can you tell me in five words how you feel at this moment being Paula’s husband? A. Frustrated, Tired, and In Love

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The Story behind our cover The cover photo is by Edith Södergran

Det är av Hagar Olsson, i sitt föräldrahem i prästgården i Räisälä. Prästgårdens vindskammare circa. 1920.

It is of Hagar Olsson, in her parental home in the parsonage in Räisälä. The ward of the vicarage. Circa 1920 The Swedish-speaking minority culture of Finland

individualists into an organised phalanx and plan its

provided an unlikely crucible for the literary

advance. As leading literary reviewer on a newspaper,

modernism that was to reshape western poetry in the she had a forum for introduction and agitation. She early 20th century. Clas Zilliacus introduces the life,

wrote for the journals Ultra (1922) and Quosego

work and times of Hagar Olsson (1893–1978), writer

(1928–29), to which she played the role of midwife

and feminist

and in which she published irritating manifestos,

Finland-Swedish modernism – the most cherished ‘ism’ and period in Finland-Swedish literature – began in 1916, the year in which both Edith Södergran and

often about the narrow-mindedness of young republic of Finland. ‘Open window on Europe!’ Ultraexhorted, in imitation of Peter the Great.

Hagar Olsson published their first books: a collection

Olsson had spent her teens in cosmopolitan Karelian

of poems and a novel, respectively.

city of Viipuri (Vyborg), where she learned to remain

The principal feature of Södergran’s poetry is a tautly compressed treatment of poetic symbolism; her poems could cross the solar system but were also able to find the key to life in the raspberry patch. The literary style of Hagar Olsson (1893–1978) had many more uses, but none of them were poetic. The two women became close friends in 1919 but, due to the distance between the poet’s home in Karelia and the

indifferent to the bickering between different linguistic groups. Although there was no lack of contention between Finnish and Swedish speakers in the republic, she had no time for it. For her the guiding beacon was the Zeitgeist, and that was supranational. She monitored it largely with the help

of intuition, though intuition did not always provide correct answers.

critic’s in Helsinki as well as to Södergran’s illness and The Zeitgeist is introduced to Finnish readers in a poverty, they mostly communicated by letters. Their

series of essay collections. The first of them, Ny

correspondence: from 1919 to 1923, was published

generation (‘New generation’, 1925), opens with an

more than thirty years after Södergrans death from

impassioned plea for what she called illusion. Its

tuberculosis (1923) in the book Ediths brev (‘Edith’s

opposing counterpart was what she saw as

letters’, 1955).

mainstream aristocratic reminiscence-poetry which

Olsson took part in the new literary movement right from the outset, was its herald and its party whip. When the modernists gained ground the 1920s, it was largely because, by dint of cajolery and hard work, she pragmatically managed to group these

had lost touch with unattained ideals. ‘Illusion’ is her name for new beginnings and the world of tomorrow. It is the privilege of the utopians, those who dare to leave the Baghdad of deceptive existence for the golden road to Samarkand.

Some of Olsson’s texts have aged and lack much

is an appeal to mankind for an abandonment of the

freshness now, but her production could afford the

blind alley of rearmament. A play she wrote in Finnish

odd failure now and then because her overall

in the autumn of 1939, Lumisota (‘The snowball war’),

contribution was so voluminous. She was a novelist,

anticipated Finland’s Winter War, which took place a

short story writer, dramatist, essayist, critic, politician, short time later. The censor got cold feet: both too translator, talent scout and strategist. In a way she

clairvoyant and burningly topical, the play was not

was also a poet, as in the evocative meditation

performed until 1981.

Kinesisk utflykt (‘Chinese excursion’, 1949) and in the fantasies of her short story collections Drömmar

(‘Dreams’, 1966) and Ridturen (‘The riding tour’,

A modernist ought to be ahead of the times, but this may come with a cost. With no one else about, one may perceive that one has gone too far too late.

1968). She established her reputation as a prose artist with Chitambo.(1933), a novel which leads through psychological crisis and fear of death – one of Olsson’s

Alli Hagar Olsson Feminist and a Dreamer

favourite themes – to a perception of human solidarity as a liberating imperative. Within the context of Swedish literature, the novel is an early

Raivola, Jan 1919

example of abruptly alternating time frames. The novel is a female Bildungsroman from Finland’s extremely turbulent years at the beginning of the last century: the general strike, the early adoption of women’s right to vote the advent of Independence and the Civil War surround and influence the development of the central character, Vega Maria Dyster (‘Dreary’).

….Nietzsche says: Ich ging zu allen, aber kam zu niemand. [‘I approached everyone, but reached no one.’] Will it happen to me now to find someone? Could we reach out our hands to one another? You are now the object of my offensive, I want you to see me as I really am and show yourself to me as you really are. Could we become divine companions, so

that all barriers fall away? I am still speaking to you in Chitambo is a voyage of discovery to the protagonist’s inner world, and it is a classic of Nordic women’s writing. Vega is named after the ship of the Finnish polar scientist A.E. Nordenskiöld who in 1878 navigated the North-east Passage for the first time, and the novel’s title, Chitambo, refers to the village where the explorer David Livingstone died after opening the way to Africa’s interior. Hagar Olsson introduced the modern drama to Finland. Opinion is split as to whether she did so with her anti-realistic shadow-play Hjärtats pantomim (‘Pantomime of the heart’, 1927) or in the following year with S.O.S., a play about chemical warfare which

a tentative and humiliating foreign language. Nietzsche is the only human being before whom I would not be afraid to open my mouth. Are you that sea of fire I want to dive into? If you laugh you are my own. If you don’t laugh you must even so be mature enough to achieve the highest form of friendship Nietzsche in his wisdom warns his own people

against. I enclose a new letter I’ve written to the paper. If you think it could be a great help to the cause please let them have it or write and tell me to send it to them.

Hagar Olsson comments (1955): I cannot describe the joy I felt when I received this

share my intimate life with anyone…. ….when I read Edith’s first letter, I knew

letter. It was a joy which reached deep inside me to immediately that here was someone who was where I felt most lonely. I understood at once that I conscious not only superficially but also deep inside, was being approached by a sister-spirit. In his

someone I’d be able to approach on the plane

Södergran monograph [Gunnar] Tideström [Edith

where I’d always been completely alone. She wrote

Södergran, 1949] makes some rather far-fetched

in this first letter of ‘the highest form of friendship’

attempts to explain why Edith called me ‘sister’ and and asked ‘could we become divine companions?’ what this could have meant. To a woman nothing

This was music in my ears. I opened myself at once

could be easier to understand. I felt we were

and wrote an answer from my heart.

‘sisters’ as soon as I read Edith’s first letter. A ‘sister’ is someone who speaks the same language as you Raivola, 26 Jan 1919

do, who understands things implied but not stated, and for whom you feel intimate affinity regardless

My delightful young thing! Can’t come. Insomnia,

of whether or not the two of you otherwise share

TB, empty cashbox. (I live by selling furniture and

views and feelings.

household utensils. Capital tied up in Ukrainian and Russian bonds, salvation depends on fall of

In those days I was a sociable person; life bustled

Bolshevism). If I can manage to sleep a bit better I’ll

around me as it does when you’re young, and I was

try and come in a few months, but I can’t be sure.

full of activity. But I never opened my inner self to

I’ve found what I need now: your objective eye, and

anyone. I felt other people spoke a different

your brain is big enough for both of us. May one

language, that even my friends were on a different

ask? Do you work for the cause in a general sense or

wave-length. I longed for sister-language. I thought

are you anxious to meet particular individuals? Give

it must be possible for people to understand one

me a list….

another intimately and know they shared one heart and soul. Not just couples but many together, a

I share Severyanin’s view that if a talent is a trifle

group or large family. I constantly dreamed of this.

dull it isn’t brilliant enough. Igor Severyanin is

It may have been because in childhood I’d never

Russia’s greatest lyric poet of the present day. I’ve

had the opportunity to experience close family

seen him at a poetry reading, never talked to him.

intimacy but grew up under psychological pressure: But I’ve felt confidence in him the way I feel this kind of thing generates a hunger that can hardly confidence in you. He’s a very powerful force and ever be satisfied. But I also felt people were too dull bound to be receptive to our ideas. But first we’ll and sluggish in their thinking and reactions and in

have to train him properly, he has trashy manners

their relationships. It seemed to me my own

and doesn’t know how to look after himself. He can

psychological make-up and consciousness were

be our bridge to Russia, through him we’ll get the

unlike those around me, and that I lived on two

best of Russia on the move. How about Sweden?

separate planes: one plane where I was surrounded Will it work there? We’ll reach the rest of Europe by friends and one where I was alone and unable to one fine day. Do you speak to

individuals? Is that something you plan to do? You

should read Severyanin’s best poems, it would refresh you even though he’s obsessed with the boudoir and so far hasn’t aspired to our heights. ….I suddenly felt with utter certainty that a stronger hand had grasped my painter’s brush. How old are you? Health? Nerves? I want you well and strong. Send me a short CV! Mrs or Miss? Level of education? As for me: residence: Raivola, educated at Petrischüle,

TB at 16, sanatoria at Nummela and Davos, induced pneumothorax, waiting for someone to discover a cure for TB. We’ll be ruthless with one another and sharp as diamonds.

stairs.

I have a sister and I’ve never heard her wonderful voice – I’m determined to see deep down inside you, you holiest person of all…. I shall write my love-letters to you, Hagar, when I’m in the mood. Now I’ve got someone of my own, for the rest of my life. Two years ago I wrote a poem. Each stanza began ‘I want a playmate’ (of course I was thinking of a male one) and it ended ‘I want a playmate who can break forth from dead granite and defy eternity’. Now I have my happy playmate, after waiting two years…. I’ve kissed your letter countless times. I do so desperately want to come. I’ve been sleeping better at night, it’ll give me the courage to become ‘reisefähig’.

It’s horrible for me to address you in this virtual journalese, I want to use only beautiful words, our real

Hagar Olsson comments (1955):

mutual language, but in any case who wants to waste

Edith asks whether I ‘work for the cause in general’.

hard-won strength on letters? We have a beautiful

That’s exactly what I was doing, and I was often

dilapidated old place like something in a fairy tale.

disconcerted when she demanded precise tasks from

Come in summer (for several days at least) if we

me as if we were taking part in a carefully planned and

haven’t already been forced to sell it by then. We

organised operation. Edith loved a concrete, hands-on

could lie on the grass and sunbathe and talk and

approach. During the autumn I’d written a good deal

gossip. We have a great ancient ramshackle house,

in my articles about the ‘cause’ (she must have got the

uninhabitable in winter but in summer it would make

word from there) and living ‘for the sake of the cause’.

a fabulous meeting place for our people from Finland

This simply meant not being egocentric, having

and Russia, we could have a heavenly party with

nothing to do with art for art’s sake, and keeping an

drunken speeches. I once spent an evening with

elevated concept of humanity in view in all one’s

Hemmer and Grotenfelt and it’s one of my happiest

activities. To live for the ‘cause’ was to fight for a

memories. I long to have congenial company now and higher consciousness, and to appeal in all then. We could run riot here just as they do in Gösta

circumstances to the free creative spirit which alone is

Berlings saga [a classic Swedish novel by Selma

capable of raising us to a level where true fellowship

Lagerlöf, 1891], just think what a blessed place this is

can become a reality. It was in this spirit that in one of

– hard to get hold of a copy of H:bladet

my first articles I cited Nietzsche’s words, ‘Man is

[Hufvudstadsbladet, a Helsinki daily paper] and our

something that must be conquered’. Edith was on the

nextdoor neighbours have only just discovered that I

same wavelength, which is why she talks about the

can even write….

‘cause’ and ‘our ideas’ as though they were to be

Oh, it’d be such fun to come to you, I’d rush up the

taken for granted.

Those who are young now may find it difficult to

you haven’t experienced’.

imagine the excitement we felt. Nowadays we are rushed round so fast on a merry-go-round of change Edith writes that with Severyanin we’ll be able to that it’s difficult for us to grasp what’s happening to get the ‘best of Russia’ on the move. By this she us. But in the First World War period, when these

means quite simply the best spiritual forces in

ideas first took root, it really was possible to

Russia and not at all, as Tideström claims, the old

understand what was going on if one had one’s ear

Russian ruling class. One can do a writer no greater

to the ground. We took a deep breath and realised

injustice than load her words with opinions and

the world was being turned upside down and that

judgments that can’t possibly have been relevant at

the future lay before us like virgin earth so that all

the time her words were written. It was a time when

we needed to do was sow seed. And who better to

no one knew what would eventually become of

do the sowing but young poets and artists who had

Russia or what form Russia’s relations with Finland

repudiated the old contaminated values and who

would take in the future. Everything was still in a

carried within themselves an inspired vision of a

state of flux. In his monograph, Tideström is anxious

new humanity, something higher and more

at all costs to detect a hostile attitude to

sensitively organised and conscious of its mission.

revolutionary Russia in Edith’s words….

That’s how we felt, Edith and I; each of us had

reached this point independently by her own route

She hadn’t committed herself either for or against

which is why we were so happy when we found one anything definite. To her the whole course of events another.

was a process of creation like childbirth; beyond this, like the keenly aware person she was, she

Out in Europe and Russia there were many who felt thought it best to wait and see. When she writes as the same way, and it was Edith’s constant dream

she does in this letter, ‘salvation depends on fall of

that one day we would make contact with our

Bolshevism’, she’s clearly not expressing a carefully

soulmates in the great world. She was to sacrifice

thought-out political attitude. She’s just explaining

much of her strength for this dream, only to see her why she and her mother are now destitute, and hopes bitterly dashed. Of course this was not a

giving her opinion that if Bolshevism were to fall

question of ‘ideas’ developed by theoretical thinking they might get their money back. She wasn’t one to so much as a spiritual impulse which was in the air

let her personal economic problems influence her

at the time. It was something one was instinctively

political views. I’ve never known anyone so

aware of, a longing or cry in one’s nerves and blood

completely indifferent to horrible circumstances in

that was constantly in one’s thoughts as a

their own life as she was.

tremendous opportunity. When one reads the view

of learned literary historians that Edith’s ‘commonwealth of the future’ was ‘a metaphysical, even religious idea’ and other such grandiloquent stuff, one can’t help being reminded of Faust’s words to his assistant Wagner, that prototypical academic pedant: ‘You’ll never understand what

This mix of emotional intoxication, intellectual delight and secret excitement together with our impulsive girlish enthusiasm made of our being together a celebration as gentle and full of dreams as spring itself….

The complete letters of Edith Sodergran to Hagar Olsson with Hagar Olsson's commentary. plus the complete letters of Edith Sodergran to Elmer Diktonius [Translated from Swedish]

h t t p s : / / a m z n .t o / 3 0 P T i A A

Edith Sodergran

Hagar Olsson

Elmer Diktonius

I never believed in guardian angels before today.

At the end of the workday I was heading for my

Now I'm seriously considering the possibility.

car and walking along the sidewalk beside the

This morning started off rocky. The stormy winds

shopping centre, when a large piece of snow and

thru the night kept the tree branches bashing

ice fell off the roof. If I'd taken one more step I

against the bedroom window in the most non-

would be in hospital right now.

rhythmic sleep-disturbing manner. After

Enough? Not quite.

numerous semi-awakened states, I finally

I went to get groceries this evening. A month's

identified the problem and went to another room worth rung thru the check out when I realised my to sleep. I wasn't about to trudge thru the snow at wallet was missing. Not only was my dear 2am to fight with the lock on the shed and then

husband at home but also he came down to the

try to trim a tree on such a nasty night, not to

store to rescue the groceries and I, and he found

mention in such a sleep deprived state.

my wallet (intact) on the way.

Four hours of sleep later I emerged from the

So whoever is watching, thank you.

downy comforter, blurry eyed and with a

Lisa Beere

throbbing sinus headache. I stumbled into the kitchen in search of caffeine. An hour later I'm driving down the street and both my left tires lose traction. The car slides towards oncoming traffic with a head on collision a foregone conclusion. Suddenly the wheel in my hands is turning.

Smooth, confident and strong pulls around and around and I'm wobbling across ice back into my own lane. I'm sure the two other drivers going the opposite way were as grateful as I. At lunchtime I was using the machine to dispense water into my cup, saturating the tea bag and cardboard interior to create what passes for those with tobacco deadened taste buds, as tea. My left

hand released its grip on the handle and my cup holding right hand seemed to be pushed out of the way. The handle jammed and boiling water spouted out in all directions. At this point I'm thinking someone must be looking out for me, tongue in cheek of course.

Visit Lisaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s website this August & September for great sale deals on childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s books.

http://lisa.beere.ca/

Lisa Beere is an author of short stories and children’s literature. Her poetry has appeared in: Ottawa Poetry Magazine, Meat for Tea: The Valley Review, Ricky’s Backyard, & Crow Pie Literary Journal.

Sam is a young child who can’t sleep, distracted by the many noises of the night. Each family member attempts to help him. Eventually, his Nan discovers the issue and sister Junie comes to the rescue with a solution that reassures Sam of how much he is safe and loved. This story will appeal to children who have concerns about being alone in the dark and those older ones that will be sleeping “away” for the first time. While written as a picture book this text is also accessible as an early reader.

Find your night noises here

Sam est un jeune garçon qui n’arrive pas à dormir, distrait par les nombreux bruits dans la nuit.

Chaque membre de sa famille essaie de l’aider. Éventuellement sa Mamie découvre le problème et sa sœur Émilie vient à la rescousse en trouvant une solution qui démontre à Sam combien il est aimé et en sécurité. L’histoire plaira aux jeunes enfants qui ont peur du noir ou aux plus âgés qui dormiront ailleurs que dans leur chambre pour la première fois. C’est un livre illustré qui convient également aux lecteurs débutants.

Trouvez vos bruits de nuit ici

The Magic of Bedtime Stories A short story by

C. A. Keith The old woman sat nestled in her rocking chair on

Carol lived in the cottage with her son Frankie and

the wooden porch. The creaky floorboards

his young daughter Rosie after both their spouses

crackled as she rocked forward and back. Some of

passed on. She was in her late 80’s. Carol and her

the porch floorboards needed replacing. The old

husband Tom had Frankie much later in their

cottage stood proudly against the mountainous

marriage. It was a surprise to both of them. But

backdrop. It stood alone; a stone's throw away

they delighted and spoiled their little boy.

from the small village. Sheep on the hillside bleated and playfully skipped along the grassy paths. She watched the cows tugging on grasses as they made their way back to the barnyard for the eve.

Frank married Jess and they had a beautiful little girl, Rosie. When Rosie was but a wee tot, sadly her Mom Jess, had a tragic accident. Since Carol was living alone, her Frank and Rosie moved in to help out. Carol doted on Rosie. When Frank was at

The cottage held bits of its joy and laughter held

work, Carol would fix meals, and walk Rosie to and

within its walls. Most of the newer furniture was

from school. She would help her with her

bought when she first married. Some odd pieces

homework and read to her. Carol would make up

remained from when she was a wee tot. The old

a fairy tale story every night. Carol wished she had

house itself was updated with new plumbing and

written them down so Rosie could read them

electricity but the decor held memories of the 50’s. forever. The kitchen chairs showed their age. Worn orange and brown floral vinyl seats with metal legs were pushed into the matching orange and silver metal table. Tile flooring was installed to replace the decades old golden shag carpeting. No matter how much one hoovered, the musty carpet remained. The old woman decided it was out with the old and in with the new. She’d lived there all of her life. Her Mom delivered

her and her brother in that very house. She outlived most of the family. Even though most would have bet on her earlier demise due to her polio and pneumonia as a very young baby. She had a twin brother who passed a decade ago.

“Once upon a time, there were two beautiful twin

children, Carol and Bobbie. They lived in a white wooden house, with a white wooden creaky, crackly, porch. A white picket fence surrounded the front that had a creaky, crackly gate. A wooden rocking chair squeaked with every movement. One day Carol and Bobbie saw a great, big, large, huge, gigantic, enormous, gigantuan,...” This was how every story started. The little girl sat

wide-eyed awaiting what enormous thing the twins saw in the story. With each word, Rosie’s green eyes widened with delight. It was Rosie’s bedtime routine. After Rosie’s bath and a bedtime snack, she would race to the old covered porch.

She would tuck up in her Grandma’s lap as they

Rosie didn’t seem to notice her dad sitting beside

rocked in the wooden rocking chair. It never got

her. She was focused on Grandma and Rosie’s

very cold there in the southern state. Some

story.

nights the air was brisk and she’d wrap her fuzzy robe and a blanket around them both.

Rosie lifted her head as her Grandma bent down to kiss her good night. She jumped off her

On one particularly ordinary day, the night sky

Grandma’s knee and startled when she saw her

twinkled. Stars danced across the darkened sky.

Dad sitting there. Rosie arms wrapped around

The moon, exceptionally bright, lit up the front

her Dad’s neck. “Night Dad. Tuck me in?”

porch. Little Rosie, nibbled on homemade zucchini bread, tucked up in her Grandma’s lap.

“Of course, sweet pea. I’ll be inside in a couple minutes.” He smiled after her.

Carol tucked the blanket around her legs and started into her story.

Frank looked up at the night sky. A shooting star passed brightly before him. “Night Mom. I miss

Rosie anticipated the words and they both spoke, “Once upon a time..,”

you so much. Thank you. Rosie still feels you near. She must know your stories off by heart by

Rosie looked up at her Grandma and smiled.

now.” He wiped a tear from his cheek. His eyes

Carol’s fingers gently stroked her face.

filled and he knew the next blink, tears would

The porch door creaked open and bounced

spill uncontrollably down his cheeks.

against the door frame. Frank took a seat on the

He walked to Rosie’s room to say goodnight to

two-seater chair. A wooden table stood

his little princess. He was thankful his little girl

between his chair and the rocking chair. He

was there to make the world a better place. He

smiled at his little green-eyed, brown haired little too was thankful, through his daughter, the girl. He listened as she told the story. He

magic of his Mom’s bedtime stories would live

watched as she rocked in the large rocking chair. on.

C.A. Keith, aka Charlotte, was born in 1964 to Dutch and English descendants. Charlotte’s early life was in England but she says she ‘grew up’ in Ontario, Canada. Charlotte is an independent author, but also writes under the Electric Eclectic book brand. With titles such as ‘The Crystal River’, ‘Trouble at Tarpon Springs’ & ‘The Naive Princess’. She is currently working on the novel

‘Beyond Innocence’

'Weaving with Light' is Paul Dane's book, I'll let him explain what it's about below. But, in some small part, Paul's blog, 'Falling Free' is a contributing factor to his publication. Electric Press is pleased to bring you the first of Paul's posts from 'Falling Free'. But first, a word from the man himselfâ&#x20AC;Ś Creative writing kicked in for me when I decided to get out of the rat race and find something more worthwhile to do. I wrote a science fiction novel in 2005 which I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t do so much with. Through 2005 to 2012 I wrote travel articles for a motorcycle magazine. Through 2012 to 2014 I wrote poetry and prose. Then in 2015 I started work on 'Weaving with Light - The Beginners Guide to a peaceful mind'...

https://amzn.to/2LHJvrU

Beginning at the end

struggled with the notion of such a dramatic, harsh ending; wasn’t it somehow desperate

In 2013 I attended the funeral of a work

and out of control? I wasn’t desperate or out of

colleague who had drunk a bottle of vintage

control, as I say, I was completely calm and

champagne and hung himself from a tree at the reconciled with the decision. bottom of his garden. Like many of us who had I was stuck, inflicting lethal violence on my soared through the glory days of the IT industry body was not acceptable to me and not fair on he had struggled with his inevitable fall from anyone else. Nor did I want the end to be grace, and no doubt felt lost and confused by particularly painful; I wanted to be fully the dysfunctional emotional life that most of us ‘present’ through the process, not writhing created; as we were consumed by our ‘high around in agony having consumed a bottle of flying’ lifestyles. bleach. But I really had no interest in continuing So, he took his own life. my journey. The option of death seemed I remember wondering how distressed and

infinitely more appealing.

emotional he must have been to have

The stories of Near-Death Experiences, Past Life

committed such an act, I couldn’t imagine…

Regression and my own very occasional

But on June 15th, 2018 when I decided to take

‘spiritual’ and ‘transcendent’ experiences left

my own life one of the things that most

me with absolutely no doubt that transitioning

surprised me was how completely calm and at

out of the physical realm would lead to

peace I was with the decision. The biggest

expansion of my consciousness and release

challenge was how to do it. I have always had a from my earthly suffering. Even if it didn’t; it deep aversion to any form of aggression or

would lead to nothingness and therefore put an

violence, be it physical, verbal or emotional.

end to the unbearable turmoil of my mind…

The thought of violating my own body seemed

which we’ll talk about in later posts.

abhorrent…

I came up with what I thought was a beautiful

Also, most of the options seemed very messy…

solution. The body needs food and water to

Did I really want the last thing I did with this life survive, food it can go without for about 30 to be leaving a blood-filled bath, vomit in the

days, however, I knew that it is far more

bed, a broken, bloody, body sprawled beneath

dependent on water. I guessed without water it

the bedroom window, some dangling corpse

would probably last for 4 days or so. I simply

wafting around at the bottom of the garden? Or decided to stop eating and drinking until the to splatter all my organic material over the

end came.

front of some anonymous high-speed train?

No violence, no drama and a minimal amount

And what impact would finding such things

of mess for whoever found me. I wondered

have on the poor person who found what was

why I had never heard of anyone else taking

left of me?

their life in this way. It seemed so calm and

No those were not reasonable options. And I

dignified…

Of course, I did have some concern for those that here? I left behind, but in truth, my family relationships were all pretty dysfunctional; I was supporting my 94-year-old father who was still living independently and had the resources to pay for hired care if I wasn't around. My ex-wife had spent 17 years passive-aggressively resenting the fact that I had left her and would probably be far better at dealing with her own ‘issues' regarding me if I wasn't living 2 miles down the road. My youngest son had made it clear, in no uncertain terms that he felt I was a complete and utter failure as a father and, as the source of all his own personal ‘issues', he wanted absolutely nothing to do with me. My eldest son also felt that I had failed him as a father and was now happily getting

In the week preceding this decision, Andrea had known that things were not going well in my world. She had seen the massive stresses involved in dealing with my father during the preceding months, also the anxieties created by a cancer scare I had had a couple of months previously. She had been witness to the heart-breaking despair of my youngest son’s tirades of abuse. She knew that these things had been going on for so long I was losing the ability to cope any more. When we couldn’t see one another, she made a point of keeping in touch digitally. Of course, it was easy for me to ‘palm her off’ by text and messenger: I needed the time and space to end my journey.

on with his own life, only occasionally managing to honour the arrangements I tried to make to

But on the second day, she came over.

meet him.

Prior to her arrival I had been calm and at peace

There was however one person who concerned

with my decision, everything seemed to be in its

me, that was Andrea; my partner. We had been in right place and I felt a wonderful sense of mental a relationship for around 6 months, she was a

clarity. I had no interest in food or water and if

beautiful, kind person who I felt I could be all of

anything, my body felt more open and radiant,

myself with. She would also most likely be the

less burdened. However, the emotion Andrea

person to find my body. I didn’t want to hurt her.

brought in with her exploded into the space

But I knew that no matter what we might want to leaving us both in abject despair. We both knew believe, in truth we are all dispensable. A

that I could not carry on with life as it was.

colleague once told me that our death was like

When the emotion calmed down I explained the

the ripples left in a bath if you dropped a pebble

reasoning behind the decision that I had made,

into the water. The emotion would soon disperse

which she seemed to accept. She explained how I

and lives would go on.

was wrong thinking that my death wouldn't

Yes, I had made the right decision.

impact on others, particularly her. Coming up with suggestions ranging from bringing my estranged

I saw the extended time that it would take to die as a thing of beauty, a chance to truly be a part of letting go, to experience the effects on my body and be an active observer in how my consciousness moved from one state to the next. This was the pathway I wanted… So why am I still

ex-wife and children over to tell me they really did care, to going with her to the doctors to seek counsel and medication, she desperately tried to dissuade me. I told her that I was very clear in my decision and very calm about it; that I had the right to choose and that I had made my choice.

I explained that having to deal with family and

stand by my decision. Whatever the outcome, she

consulting with doctors or counsellors was not an

would ‘deal with it’ so that no one else was

option, but I would consider what she had said.

exposed to the trauma.

Eventually, she agreed to leave.

I was dumbfounded, there was a person who I

Closing the door, I realised how right my decision

hardly knew who would respect and put my needs

to end my life was and how determined I was to

first, no matter how much anguish and despair that

see it through. Again, I had just been paying her ‘lip caused her. A person who would stand by me to service’. By now I could not see what all the drama the end, and selflessly deal with all the inevitable about dying is for, and I welcomed whatever was

mess and confusion that would cause once the end

to come, even if it turned out to be the ‘worst case had come. For the first time, I could see true, scenario’ of nothingness. Increasingly I felt that I

unconditional love in another. There was no

have never really belonged in this life and that I

decision to be made. I could not put her through

just wanted to ‘go home’.

that suffering, and I should never have put her

Another day passed, I spent my time sitting in silence, often lying peacefully in my bed. Waking in

through it in the first place. I had to stay and see it through.

the morning, feeling so dehydrated, was uncomfortable, but that soon passed and I felt

A few days later I wrote her a poem:

both calm and expansive, attentively watching the

I wrote myself a story

journey of my mind. I knew that Andrea would

It was a lie

likely return before the end and didn’t know how I

I found out

would deal with her. But it was easy to put that to the back of my mind and sit in the tranquillity of each moment.

Truth fell and filled the space Darkness, nowhere to hide Naked, powerless

Andrea returned, clearly, she hadn't slept for some time and was extremely agitated. She asked if I had eaten the food that she had left for me the

I faced God

Transparent at last

preceding day and I explained that no, I hadn’t; as I

I let go

was completely reconciled with my decision and

Awaiting grace

really wanted to take the journey. She was

Longing for home

distraught and handed me a letter she had written.

He sent me an angel

All I could feel was compassion. Asking her to stay whilst I read it, I saw that it begged me to get away, leave everything behind, but not put an end to my life. I was moved but unconvinced.

You stood before me Tears streaming

I had no choice But to await my time

Hearing this she stood in front of me. With tears streaming, voice breaking, she looked into my eyes and told me how desperately she didn’t want to lose me, but no matter how it hurt her, she would

You have shown me Love endures

Your copy of the Electric Eclectic anthology

MOTH BALLS With our compliments

Electric Eclectic books would like to email you a complimentary eBook copy of

Moth

Balls , an anthology containing a selection of short stories from some of the Electric Eclectic authors, simply to say thank you for reading this magazine, the August edition of Electric Press. Email, TheElectricpress@mail.com and request your copy.

We also invite you share this edition via issuu, the platform on which you are (most probably using on at this moment), with your friends, family and colleagues. The ‘share’ button is lower left of the reading screen. If you wish to be informed when the next edition of Electric Press is ready for viewing, or would like to have access to selected, special exclusive articles and stories between the quarterly editions, then please visit the Electric Press, HERE.

Follow, using the black ‘Follow’ button on the top right side of the Electric Press WordPress page, (under where it says follow by email.) We shall then send you private passwords when new interim exclusive features become live online. Exclusive content is only available to read for those who follow the page via email.

Enjoy reading your copy of Moth Balls and look out for further complimentary gifts in the November edition of Electric Press — Literary Insights magazine

Hair Wars… For Men by Patrick Shanahan The Broadway hit musical Hair in 1968 was

ass tail) haircuts lost popularity and the greaser

followed by the singing group Cowsills’ rendition

look died. “Stop using that greasy kid stuff” was

of their hit single Hair a year later. America’s love

the catchphrase of the day.

of the threadlike strands growing on our skin is shared by nearly everyone in the civilized world. As a society we spend a fortune to shampoo, cut, colour, condition, spray, and even re-grow the locks on our heads. On the other side of the matter are those products that remove the unwanted follicles by, shaving, plucking, spreading cream, and even the expensive laser treatment for permanent results. During the 1960s there was actually a hair cream war between the two giant men’s hairdressers. The products of Brylcreem, the big powerhouse, gave users that patent leather look. Their ads proclaimed that “woman love a Brylcreem man.”

Cashing in on the craze was Janie Grant, whose

and “a little dab with do ya.” A lot of men figured

novelty hit “That Greasy Kid Stuff” charted at #74

if a little dab was good then a big dab had to be

on Billboard in 1962.

better and the mop tops on some guys looked

Seeing the opportunity, ad man Larry Frohman

more like a leaking oil well than a hairdo.

and Bill Cole, a pre-med student, pitched in $50

In a stroke of marketing genius, Bristol-Myers

each and concocted a mixture of lanolin and

Corporation countered with their water-based

mineral oil, adding spices for scent, and called it

Vitalis commercials, featuring Green Bay Packer

“Greasy Kid Stuff.” With FDA approval in hand,

star quarterback Bart Starr lecturing a rookie

they got backing and placed enough commercials

about using the right kind of hair cream. While

to get the product before the public. After that,

cleaning up after practice they both groomed their every time Vitalis ran their ad it brought more hair and compared combs, and of course, the kid's customers to Larry and Bill. When Johnny Carson

comb looked like the aftermath of an oil change.

made reference to the entrepreneurs and their

Next, Bart advised him, “Stop using that greasy kid product during his monologue, the marketing ball stuff and switch to Vitalis.” The ads were a marketing bonanza and the hairdressing buying public changed and DA (duck

went over the fence, 130,000 bottles sold, exhausting the supply in days and several weeks later the product had outlets all over the United States and Canada.

For a few months, Kid Stuff Products was the rage and Bristol-Myers even offered Larry a job, which he probably wished he’d taken since the run was short lived and the following year the company was defunct. While Bart Starr’s Vitalis commercial poked fun at the competition, nothing riveted men to the boob tube more than the 1967 Noxzema shaving cream ad featuring Swedish model Gunilla Knutson. In her

sultry, accented voice the blonde bombshell invites men to “Take it off... take it all off...with Noxema” to the background music of David Rose’s The Stripper. Like clothing, hairstyles go through transformations every few years. In the 50’s it was the greaser look. In the 60’s it was the long-haired Beatles who set the trend. In the 70’s men’s long sideburns and thick moustaches of the early West were in vogue. Today it’s pretty much “choose your look” with everything from long hair with full beards, to cop shaven heads. Many barbershops with multiple chairs have reduced the number of employees and it's not uncommon to find your favourite barber

sitting in his chair reading the newspaper when you stop for your monthly trim. The latest cultural statement is the tattoo for both men and women. And it makes me wonder where all those cute little caricatures will eventually wind up when gravity and time do their thing. Will the beach bunnies of today be sitting on that adorable

Matthew Malarkey is a man on a mission. To find a soul mate. Following the breakup of his marriage he has searched in vain for a new relationship

https://amzn.to/2XuaxFv

Always a writer

I’ve always been a writer, from age six—as soon as I

connotation, I was doing what today would be called

could spell C-A-T. I wrote stories, articles, poems,

interning at one of the two local weekly newspapers

plays, song parodies…you name it. At age nine I

where I lived. When the editor of the rival paper

wrote a play. It was in either four acts or four

offered me the “Cauldron” column, featuring news

scenes—I didn’t know which, as I hadn’t yet learned

of teenagers doing good works, I jumped ship. She

the difference. The title totally telegraphed the

had me on probation over the summer, when most

ending…but what do you expect from a nine-year-

of the local teens were away at summer camp

old?

anyhow. I was writing up stories of small fires, local

That summer, up in camp, the drama counsellor asked if any of us campers had ever written a play. My hand not only shot up but waved wildly. I had my

lodge meetings, and the like, with the promise that in the fall I could take over the “Cauldron” column, whose previous writer was headed off to college.

mother send me the script, and after the camp office

But as summer’s bloom faded and a hint of crispness

mimeoed copies (raise your hand if you’re old

pervaded the air, the editor fell down a flight of

enough to remember mimeograph machines) we

stairs and broke her back—and was replaced by

went into rehearsals. I was very disappointed that

another editor who clearly didn’t like me. She had a

the drama counsellor wouldn’t let me take the lead

different assignment in mind for me: the obits.

or any of the other principal parts, but she said having the author do so simply wasn’t done.

And so every week it was my responsibility to call the five local funeral homes: “Hello. This is the

Nevertheless, it was one of the proudest moments

Record calling. Can you tell me who died this week?”

of my young life when, after the curtain closed on

Writing brief obituaries is neither creative nor

the final act (scene?), one of the camp directors

satisfying. After a few months of this, when it

yelled, “Author! Author!” and, when I responded by

became obvious that I would not be allowed to write

appearing in front of the curtain, one of the

the “Cauldron” or anything else that would stretch

counsellors threw a bunch of wildflowers to me.

my writing expertise,.

Fast-forward to my high school years. Although in

I resigned.

those days the term “intern” had a strictly medical

In the years that followed, I wrote articles and

including one I based on that first play so long ago. By

submitted them to any publication I thought might

now I knew the difference between scenes and acts

accept them, from Reader’s Digest, which rejected

and also knew not to telegraph the ending in the title.

everything I sent them, to the short-lived New York

Not only was King Theo produced by a community

Column, where I had better luck, as I also did with the theatre group here in South Florida, but it had a run oddly named Guzzler’s Gazette.

in New York as well.

Fast-forward to 1993. I was editing an assortment of

I was almost as proud as I was at age nine when I

magazines out of one publishing house on a freelance heard the cries of “Author! Author!” and was thrown basis. As an independent contractor, I got paid by the that bouquet of wildflowers. issue, rather than by the week, so it was in my best interest to edit as many magazines as possible. I had an idea for a one-shot (as opposed to a periodical): a

When one day—far in the future, I hope—I pass from this earth, they’d better have computers in the afterlife. I don’t want to ever stop writing!

magazine of ideas moms could do with their kids that would be published right before schools went on Easter break. (There was not then the proliferation of activity books that exists today, and of course this was when the internet was in its infancy as well.)

Cynthia (“Cyn”) MacGregor “Transplanted” from New York to South Florida in 1984, she is called “the Energizer Bunny” by her friends because she never stops going, and happily proclaims, “There’s no one in the world I’d want to trade lives with.”

The publisher considered my idea but ultimately decided to pass on it. But it was too good an idea to let go of. If I offered it to a different magazine publisher, they would have one of their own editors put it together. I saw nothing for it but to write a book. Mind you, I had not written a book before.

I’ll See You at Rainbow Bridge contains true stories of bereaved pet owners who got another chance, when the spirits of their pets visited them. Whether you love animal stories or your interest is in stories of the supernatural, I’ll See You at Rainbow Bridge is for you.

I called it Mommy, There’s Nothing to Do and sent it off to three or five publishers. One of them—a New York biggie—bit. When the editor called to see if the rights were still available, I literally stood up from my chair and started jumping up and down while trying to sound calm and professional—if a bit breathless. That was my first book. I have since written (and had published) over 100 more. I’m still freelancing as an

editor (and as a writer—as I write this, I have just finished writing an ad for a Realtor). Oh, and that play I wrote when I was nine? Well, I wrote just short of a dozen plays a decade or two ago, some for adults, some for “family audiences,”

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The following story, Buddy App, has been written by my great friend and wonderful storyteller, Mr

Squid

McFinnigan. When you read Squid's work you see the world through the eyes of an Irish man who has undoubtedly inherited the tradition Celtic knack for storytelling. Oh, and for those of you who don't know, Ireland is a little bit of green coloured land floating in the Atlantic

We all have our treasures, things we’d dash into

wanted to be paid in advance for his services

a burning building to rescue. If you were to ask

rather than on the work he procured. It wasn’t

Sam what his most treasured possession was he,

long before the money in Sam’s savings account

would delve a hand into his pocket and produce a

ran out and he was faced with a decision. Tuck

silver iPhone5S. He had queued for a full twenty-

tail and return home to face his friends having

four hours to make sure he got his phone on the

failed to make a success of his life or get a real

day it was launched. His whole life was contained

job.

in it and he had not been parted from the phone for as much as a second since he bought it.

The decision to stay had been one born more from embarrassment than anything. Even finding

When Sam was a teenager he knew he was

a real job had been a lot harder than he’d

destined to become a great actor. In high school,

imagined it would be. After weeks of looking,

he took the male lead in every production he

Sam eventually found employment with,

auditioned for. In between performances he

“Maxwell Financial Services.” The name was

wrote and sang with his friends in a band called,

impressive but the work was anything but. He

“Zombie Fruitcake.” He was absolutely sure he

was nothing more than a debt collector, not the

would have been slapping away movie and

butch type that comes calling to a door with dark

theatre offers by the dozen as soon as he got his

glasses and a menacing sneer, but the annoying

name out there. Sam moved to New York as soon

kind that rings non-stop at every hour of the day

as he could, allowing his rise to stardom to

and night until you either change the phone

begin. Choosing New York was the result of years

number or pay off the money. Sam hated

of watching friends. Sam was certain that if Joey

everything about his job, he hated harassing

could make it big there, anyone could.

people for stupid bills, he hated the way some of

His first impression of the big apple was one of isolation. Sam sent out countless job applications but had only been called for a hand full of auditions. He’d even found it difficult to get an agent, eventually having to settle for one which

his workmates revelled in their merger power and he hated the damn paperwork. The only good thing about the job was the money. Iallowed him to rent a tiny shoebox apartment without having to share with someone else.

It allowed him to indulge himself with a

sensing his emotions an advert for the latest

succession of High-Tec gadgets, his phone

App appeared on his screen.

being Sam’s pride and joy. Yes, half the world had iPhones these day’s but his was the limited edition platinum model with extra processing

“Need a friend, sign up to Buddy App and experience the latest in interactive technology.”

power. Buddy App? Why not? It was spring in New York and the rain had been torrential for days. The subway was packed with damp commuters, steaming up the windows of the overly warm rail carriage. Sam was glad he had managed to get a seat as it was twenty more minutes before his stop would come. Even though the car was packed to capacity, it was nearly silent, apart from the screech of wheels on steel speeding them through the subterranean network of tunnels. All around him, people were listening on earphones, reading books or papers, but mostly they were scanning through their tablets or phones which is exactly what Sam was doing. Snap chat, email, Facebook, Twitter, he was constantly connected to the world wide web, but he still felt alone. As if

Sam clicked on the advert and read its extended promise of the newest development of Artificial Intelligence for the mobile market.

“It’s like having a person in your pocket.” Amazingly enough, the app was only $9.99. What the hell it, for ten bucks what could go wrong. Sam hit the purchase button. Unusually a contract sheet appeared with page after page of small print. On the top of the first page was a little tick box for indicating you agree to terms and conditions. Sam clicked the box

without a second thought. The next page appeared with a message that said: “Place thumb here.” Sam had never seen anything like this before but pressed his right thumb against the screen anyway. The screen glowed bright red and Sam felt heat sear his skin.

“Jesus Christ,” he said pulling his thumb away,

shaking it like he had pressed it against a hotplate.

black rain slicker.”

“How did you do that?” Sam said in amazement.

Sam examined the phone but it was cold to the touch. Flipping weird. On the screen was a message which said “Buddy App Loading. Please wait.” In a couple of seconds, the screen turned into a kaleidoscope of gay swirling colours. From the speaker came a rich male voice with a deep-south accent.

“Easy, I accessed the global positioner in the phone to find out our exact position after which it was easy to know we were moving along the exact path of the number one track heading north. Second I can see one seat behind you so you are in the second last seat and the windows are on your right. I can see what you look like so knowing what you are

“Why hello there Sam, mighty glad to make your

wearing is a piece of cake.”

acquaintance.” “You can see me?” “Cool,” said Sam to himself. “Sure, through the camera, just like I can hear you The voice on his phone laughed. ”Glad you think so Sam, I think.” Sam was amazed, how had they predicted what

through the microphone and speak to you through the speakers.” “That is amazing.”

he’d say? “Why thank you, Sam, I like you too,” said the voice “How did they do that?” said Sam aloud. “How did they do what, and who are they?” asked the voice in a pleasant drawl. “Know what response to have lined up and they are your programmers.” Again the voice chuckled, “You said Cool and I just

and the screen flashed a sunflower yellow of happiness. “Tell me Sam do you like jokes?” “Sure I guess.” “A Priest, a Rabbi and an Irishman walk into a bar.” The rest of the journey passed in the blink of an eye.

answered.” “Impossible.”

*** As the weeks passed Sam and Buddy became

“Clearly not, ask me any question you like and I will

inseparable. Like the advert promised, it was just

try my best to answer.”

like having a friend in his pocket. They discussed

“Okay, what is today's date?”

things, not that Buddy always agreed with Sam. They joked and laughed, a lot, Buddy had a wicked

“Seventeenth of March in the year of our Lord two

sense of humour.

thousand and fourteen. Too easy Sam, try something else.”

A few weeks after Sam had downloaded Buddy

some of his friends from home happened to be “Okay, where am I right now?” “We, not you, are on a subway car, travelling on the one line, between Franklin St and Canal St, sitting in the second last seat, back right of the railcar. And you are wearing a New Yorkers baseball hat and a

visiting New York. They had invited Sam to join them on a night out. “I’m going out later Buddy,” Sam told his phone after coming out of the shower.

“Excellent Sam. If you ask me we spend far too much

times to power the phone up but it wouldn’t do

time in this pokey little flat.”

anything. Eventually, Sam decided to send the phone

“It’s just going to be me and my friends tonight,” said Sam to his phone, which sat on his bedside table

for repair in the morning. It was clearly malfunctioning.

charging. The colours swirling on the screen darkened a little becoming brown and grey. Sam frowned at the change, he had never seen that before.

*** The next day Sam dropped his phone to the workshop and left it to be assessed. On his return, he

“I thought we were friends Sam,” said Buddy.

was presented with a perfectly working iPhone5s.

“We are friends Buddy but I can’t tell the guys from

“Nothing wrong with this phone guy,” said the man

home that my best friend in New York is my phone.”

behind the counter. “That will be sixty dollars.” Sam

“Do you think I’m your best friend?”

handed over the notes and took his precious phone back.

“Of course Buddy,” said Sam drying his hair with a towel, from the corner of his eye he saw the screen flash pink and yellow again. Later in the night Sam and his buddies shared a meal in a Thai restaurant before making their way to a midtown bar. Sam offered to get the first round of drinks in and when the waitress dropped the glasses on the table Sam gave her his credit card. The lady swiped the card through her handheld machine but it came back declined. She tied it once more unsuccessfully before one of Sam’s friends paid for the drinks.

“What about the Buddy App, did you delete that.” “I couldn’t find anything with that name but I reset the phone to factory settings anyway,” said the technician. Sam looked at his screen which now looked completely normal and slipped it into his pocket. On the journey home, Sam turned on the phone, which still looked completely normal. He searched for the Buddy Icon but it was gone, a tiny part of him felt like someone had died. Later that night Sam was making a stir-fry when Buddies voice drifted to him from the kitchen counter. On the

When Sam returned home he found his phone

glowing green on the bedside table. “How was your night?” asked a sulky Buddy. “It was alright up to the point my credit card was refused.”

screen swam a sea of mixing colours but mainly creams and greys. “I thought we were friends,” said a very sad sounding Buddy. “Bloody hell you scared the life out of me,” said Sam

“Perhaps that will teach you not to leave me behind.”

still holding the spatula in front of him like a sword. “I

“You did that?”

thought you were gone, Buddy.”

“You can’t just ignore me, Sam, I won’t be discarded

“I know you did, and you were happy about it weren’t

at a whim.”

you?”

“I don’t believe it.”

“No, I wasn’t”

“You can’t take me for granted Sam, I won’t allow it,”

“Liar,” the word was disappointed not angry. “I really

said Buddy, the phone screen dulling to a rusty red

thought we had a good thing going and then you go

and the phone just shut itself off. Sam tried several

trying to get me wiped like some piece of machinery.”

“Hang on now Buddy, firstly you are a machine, and

Buddy was sitting on the desk talking to Sam about a

not even that, you’re an App on a machine. What you

terrible school shooting that had taken place in the

did the other night was completely out of line,

Midwest. A voice behind him made Sam spin in his

interfering with my bank account. It took me ages to

chair.

get the bank to straighten things out.” “Yes, sorry about that Sam. I went too far. It’s just I felt so let down, unappreciated. I won’t ever do it again I promise.”

“Who are you talking to Sam?” said Mr Quirk, the boss. “He was talking to me,” said Buddy in his refined southern way. Mr Quirk looked at the phone. “You

Sam gave the phone an unsure look as he went back

know we can’t permit private calls on company

to stirring his food.

time.”

“Can we go back to being friends please,” said Buddy

“I’m not on a call Mr Quirk, honest.”

from the counter. Sam turned around and saw the screen was a cascading waterfall of rainbow bright

“But I just heard whoever is on the other end of the line talk.”

colours. Thankfully Buddy stayed quiet. “What you heard was “Oh alright so,” said Sam. He had actually missed the little guy.

Buddy, it’s an App on my phone. You can talk to it and it answers back.”

“Yah!” cheered Buddy. “Do you want to hear a joke, Sam?”

“Really,” said Mr Quirk walking into the cubicle and picking up the phone, whose screen was going an

“Sure but it better be a good one, not like those

alarming shade of crimson. “Hello Buddy,” said Mr

Paddy Irish Man jokes you told the other day,” teased

Quirk. The phone stayed mute but the colours on the

Sam, they had been very funny actually.

screen darkened further. The manager handed back

“Nope not an Irishman in sight,” assured Buddy with a giggle. “A Politician, a Lawyer and an Accountant

the phone, “I don’t think your Buddy likes me. No calls or Apps while at work please Sam.” Mr Quirk walked around the corner and from the phone, Sam

walk into a brothel.”

heard his own voice come out, very loudly. “Oh NO! What have I done,” said Sam laughing and

“ASSHOLE!”

mock slapping his forehead. Mr Quirk returned sour-faced, “What did you say, *** The days passed and Sam got used to Buddy being

Sam.” “Nothing I swear, it was Buddy.”

around once more. He looked forward to chatting with him over breakfast about what was going on in the world. He didn’t bother with the TV news anymore Buddy would tell him all the interesting things anyway. They watched sports together in the evening but Buddy preferred basketball while Sam liked football. This lead to some sulking when one was picked over the other. One day in the office

“You must think me a fool, Sam. I won’t forget this,” said the Manager striding away. When he was out of

earshot Sam picked up the phone, “Why did you do that?” “He is an asshole,” said Buddy defiantly. “But you used my voice, not yours, why did you do that?”

“Because you’re an asshole too. I’m just an App, is

to get the hell away from his haunted flat. The door

that all I am to you?”

pinged open and Sam threw himself inside, pressing

“This is ridiculous, I’m not talking about this, here.”

the ground floor button. The doors swished closed but the car did not move. Through the overhead

“I don’t particularly wish to talk to you either,” said Buddy and the phone went dead in his hand. Sam

speaker, Buddy’s voice filled the cabin. “Going down!”

tried to turn the phone back on but it would do The elevator car plummeted like a stone as if the

nothing.

cables had been cut and the lights flashed off. Sam ***

was sure his time was up but the fall only lasted a

Sam had been unable to get his phone to work all

second or two and then the brakes jammed on,

the way home. He was sitting watching TV when it

throwing Sam to the floor. In the darkness Sam

sprang to life in his pocket.

heard Buddies voice again, “You can stay there until

“Are you ready to apologise now,” said Buddy in a

you have learned your lesson.”

hoity tone of voice.

Sam sat in the dark for a long time, knowing that

“I most certainly am not, how dare you try and get

Buddy wasn’t an app. He was being haunted or

me in trouble at work and then take over my phone

more to the point his phone was being haunted. He

like that,” fumed Sam.

had to get rid of that thing for good. He had to stay

“You would do well to treat me better Sam or you will end up making me mad and you would not like that.” “What are you going to do, block my credit card again? You can’t. I have changed the passwords and they are not stored on you anymore.” “You have no idea who you are dealing with Sam, you would do well to hold your tongue,” snarled

away from electrical stuff as clearly, Buddy could get inside nearly anything. Sam stood up and said to the darkness. “You’re right I shouldn’t have said you were just an App, I should have said you were my friend. I’m sorry Buddy.” The lights came on but the car did not move. No

sound came from the speaker.

Buddy.

“Are you not talking to me now?”

“Or what?” said Sam throwing the phone down on

“If right is right I should never talk to you again,”

the couch. The TV set went blank, all the lights in

said a solemn sounding Buddy from above.

the apartment flickered on and off, the radio coffee

“Friends allow friends to make mistakes Buddy. I

maker in the kitchen started to spew water all over

can see what I have done but I need you to give me

the place to the sounds of R&B played to volume

another chance. I just didn’t understand how or

ten. Sam jumped to his feet like he had been

what you are until just now.” Nothing happened.

electrocuted.

“Please,” said Sam.

“Just an App am I,” yelled Buddy from where he lay

The breaks on the lift car clicked off and the

on the couch. His screen blood red. Sam grabbed his

elevator began to rise. The doors opened with a

jacket and fled out the door. On the landing, he

ping on Sam’s floor and he faced his own front door.

hammered the button for the elevator just needing

With shaking hands he twisted the nob. Inside the

“Well right now I need peace in my life, I hope you

only sign that a poltergeist had recently run riot

understand Buddy,” said Sam, launching the phone

through the place was a little puddle of water on

across the water with a pitchers throw. As the

the kitchen floor.

phone flew he could hear Buddy scream “NOOOO!”

“I’m sorry to Sam, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” said his phone from the couch.

in the second before the limited edition platinum iPhone5s hit the water and sank to the muddy bottom.

“I think there is a lot of explaining to do, don’t you?” said Sam picking up his precious phone.

Sam went home and collected everything connected with the phone, the charger, and carry

“I guess so, you have to understand I just wanted to

have a friend.”

case. He even found the warranty and put the lot in a refuse sack. He carried them to the waste chute

“We all need a friend from time to time. Let’s take a

but felt it wasn’t far enough away. He carried the

walk and you can explain it all to me but this time I

bag to the edge of his block where a trash can

think we will take the stairs if you don’t mind.”

stood, then walked another two blocks before

Buddy laughed, “Sure thing Sam, that elevator

finally dumping the very last bits of Buddy. When

thing might have been a touch overboard.”

he finally got to bed Sam fell into an exhausted and

“I thought I was a goner,” said Sam pushing open

dream riddled sleep.

the lobby door and walking down the steps to the

Sam woke with a start in the middle of the night,

sidewalk. To anyone else he looked like a million

sure he felt someone touching him. The room was

other New Yorkers, walking along and talking on his

dark and empty. Sam lay back on his pillow and

phone. Only Sam knew the truth.

turned on his side to go back to sleep. A harsh

Sam asked Buddy who or what he was. Buddy was being very evasive in his answers, saying that he only wanted to be was Sam’s friend. Sam crossed into a park and asked if Buddy if he were a ghost. At this buddy laughed. “No Sam I am as real and alive as you or anyone else, I’m just different. Let’s leave it at that.”

rasping voice with just the hint of Buddies accent rolled across the darkness, “You should have read the fine print Sam, we’re together forever.” On the pillow beside his head, his phone light up the room

with a flood of red, the colour of flame, and the skin on Sam’s thumb began to smoulder.

The city lights twinkled on the still surface of the

To read more of Squid McFinnigan's wonderful tales visit his Blog

lake where ducks normally swam and kids sailed

www.squidmcfinnigan.blogspot.com

model boats. “You got quite a temper as well don’t you Buddy?”

said Sam looking at the phone. The colours on the screen dimed a bit. “I’m not criticising Buddy, just saying.” “I think we all have some rage inside, don’t you Sam. It’s a natural part of living.”

You'll love it.

Jimmy Kingston is the head of a Dublin crime family and has been his entire life. Nothing or nobody stands in the way of what he wants. He uses money and power to control all those around him, and when that isn’t enough, violence and intimidation work just as well. Jimmy’s empire is threatened when a gang, led by the Griffin brothers, decide to lay claim to the heart of his territory. Events soon escalate out of control and Jimmy enlists the services of The Ferryman, the most feared killer in the city. As Detective Adams tries to quell the rising tide of savagery, Jimmy Kingston sucks an innocent friend of his son’s into the shady world he inhabits. When betrayal and bloodlust are in the air, there is no joy in second place. It is win at all costs, or die trying.

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Lessons Learned Originally science based, Glennyce Eckersley worked for many years in a medical research laboratory. She travelled for several years in her late teens and early twenties to the USA, where she moved in exalted Hollywood circles.

Returning to the UK, Glennyce married and produced two children. Returning to the world of work she became a member of staff at a Theological college. In 1996 she published her first book followed by ten others, all since translated into several foreign languages. Glennyce is a columnist on the German magazine Engle

One aspect of an author’s life that I usually find

large house in the town that had been converted

great fun is the promotion of a new book. Media

into a ‘drop in help’ centre. The lady and her staff

appearances for Television or radio are mostly

welcomed people from all walks of life ranging

enjoyable and useful in relation to sales. I am also from ex offenders to groups seeking counselling however, invited to speak to various groups of

and fighting addictions. She told me with great

people ranging from huge halls and churches

conviction that they all loved books, their

filled to the brim to small reading groups maybe

secondhand lending library was fully used and they

in a person’s kitchen! Inevitably some occasions

loved to have guest speakers.

stay clearer in the memory than others. This was certainly the case for one event on cold winter’s day in a town in the north of England. Allow me to set the scene...

It all sounded very interesting and so I agreed to go along. ”The audience and the staff will I am sure

be keen to purchase your book” she added, “do bring a good amount of stock with you”. The event sounded more and more attractive and

A very pleasant lady rang to ask me to talk to her unusual group of people. She was director of a

so on the appointed day I arrived at the lovely warm looking house with a huge box of books.

I was greeted by the lady I had spoken to on

the phone and she had prepared a very attractive stall on which to display the books in the entrance hall. Everyone will see them at once, she assured me. The display looked most attractive and we then went into the main room to begin the talk.

pounced on and consumed with great speed.

Chatting to a few of the staff I suddenly became aware that the audience had disappeared with the same speed they had demolished the cake. Glancing through the large window I could see them almost running down the street, grins on their faces.

It was a little unusual and rather distracting to

Somewhat bemused but with a sinking heart I

find the audience although large in number

walked into the entrance hall to find every

comprised of entirely men, all rather young

single copy of my books had been stolen.

and appearing to be very engaged with my talk. They grinned at my anecdotes and at the end of the talk asked some interesting and amusing questions. What a lovely afternoon I thought as a

Little wonder they had bolted down the street grinning. I had to console myself by the thought that many of them needed cheering up and hopefully would find the book amusing. However, as they do say ‘lessons had been

member of staff emerged with a large dining

learned.’

trolley filled with cake and coffee. These were

HEAD FOR THE HILLS is a warm and funny eyewitness account of 1960s Hollywood and some of its iconic stars. Leaving her native Manchester UK to become an au pair in Los Angeles in the sixties , she rubbed shoulders with some of the great names of Hollywood. Glennyce Eckersley’s autobiography offers a unique glimpse into a fascinating period of history.

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Have you read the May edition of Electric Press yet? Read a short story by Noreen Lace, read why Cranckstart are sponsoring the Booker

Prize,. Find out about J D Salinger's posthumous works. In all, one hundred pages of entertaining and informative literary content. Read the May edition by clicking anywhere on the above cover image.

Royal Naval Social History In recent years, it has become blatantly clear

can be lost and the delicate nature of its

how our understanding of history has been

preservation; Paul White has undertaken the

incredibly enhanced when learning about past

task to record and preserve large volumes of

events from the 'common mans' perspective.

Royal Naval social history, as logged, noted,

remembered and recalled by the sailors Governmental and administrative records,

themselves.

documentation, logs, record facts, figures, the numbers, quantities and statistics of past

His books, the ones Paul refers to as his 'Blue

events may all be fine for academic research

Books', record and reflect the true, genuine

and analytical assessment, but they lend very

historical records of Royal Navy life from the

little to our understanding of the past from the

late 1960s until the early 1980s. They are, in

human perspective.

Paul's own words,

Current contemporary examination of personal accounts and anecdotal evidence,

"Legacy books. Ones which future

along with newly uncovered photographs,

generations can look back upon and gain

sound recordings and film footage have shed

a real sense of what life was really like back

new perspectives and understanding of, for

in 'those days'."

instance, life in the trenches during world war 1, or what personal effects the Blitz had on

Paul has published several of these 'Legacy

families and communities.

books', including the four featured here.

Now we can utilize social narratives, particular

The following books are available from

descriptions and respective clarifications in a

Amazon, as paperback editions.

combination which creates a synergy and

(Only The Pussers Cook Book is also offered in

comprehension, a building of such in-depth

eBook format.)

understanding of our social history that has never been possible before. Understanding this vast wealth this information holds and its importance to future generations, along with the ease of which it

These books, along with other naval works, can be found on @open24. in the department called,

'Gizzits, Slops & Pussers Stuff'

The Pussers Cook Book

Or to give the book its full title, The Pussers Cook Book – Traditional Royal Navy recipes. While on the surface this looks like a relatively standard recipe book, one which holds the key to a number of select dishes served aboard Royal Navy ships, The Pussers Cook Book is far more, it is a reflection, an aid memoire and a

glossary of terms for the elucidation of those unfamiliar with 'Jackspeak'. The Pussers Cook Book remains an Amazon best-selling book, one which has recently been re-edited, updated and expanded. There is now an eBook version available too.

mybook.to/Pusserscookbook

The Andrew, Jack & Jenny The Andrew, Jack & Jenny – Royal Navy Nicknames, Origin & History. Military services the world over are known for bestowing nicknames on just about anything, from actions, kit, equipment, ranks, branches and, of course, each other. Anything and everything is re-named. Arguably the Royal Navy has bequeathed the English language more names, terms and expressions than any other single source… ever. In The Andrew, Jack & Jenny, Paul focuses his attention on the names traditionally given to Royal Navy Matelots. Why does anyone called 'Brown' inherit the title of 'Buster'? or 'White' become 'Knocker'. When do those with the surname 'Gilbert' be suited with 'Tosh?’ or 'Patterson' adopt 'Banjo?’'and where, oh where did these nickname come from? Paul White does his best to lift the layers of historic dust, unravel the commonly accepted but incorrect myths, to reveal the genuine origins of these nicknames.

mybook.to/AJandJ

Jacks Dits

Jacks Dits -Tall tales from the Mess. For those who do not know; in 'Jackspeak' a 'dit' is a tale, an anecdote, usually of dubious origin and far more dubious content. Dits were told at stand-easy and on the messdecks after watch, a form of entertainment and amusement, these often lewd, humorous, explicit, direct, uncompromising, funny, unbelievable, harsh, honest, implausible, preposterous, truthful, sad, hilarious, improbable stories have been re-told, re-formed, and revived in numerous guises since time immemorial. However, woven between the lines of personal egos and, often idiotic bravado, lay the truth from which each tale was born, the social and historical context of the sailor's life captured in a unique and otherwise impossible fashion.

mybook.to/JacksDits

Neptune & the Pollywogs

Neptune & the Pollywogs - Documenting the Royal Navy's Traditional Crossing the Line ceremony. That is quite a mouthful of a title, but it is exactly what it says on the cover, an in-depth, comprehensive study of the 'Crossing the Line Ceremony' as performed on Royal Navy ships for hundreds of years. Produced in conjunction with and, at the bequest, of the 'Royal Navy Research Archives', Paul White has painstakingly documented the history and evolution, through chronological accounts, of this most ancient of seafaring traditions. Whilst this may be the most formally presented of Paul White's 'Blue Books', he still manages to inject an abundance of satirical and humour through the pages.

http://mybook.to/NeptunePollywogs

Electric Press Literary Insights magazine The next edition of Electric Press is November 2019

Electric Press is constantly and consistently on the lookout for great literary content. We like articles with strong base subjects, historical facts about writers and their lives, edgy journalistic pieces and personal, enlightening and educational stories. As long as there is a literary connection, however oblique, which will enliven our readers day and enrich their minds we are interested in reading it. To keep it simple, we like anything â&#x20AC;&#x2122;bookishâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;. It does not have to be professionally written, if you have a story or an anecdote you wish to share, send it to us. If you like it, chances are, so will many of our readers. For writers, authors and publishers we offer a range of affordable book promotion and advertising opportunities along with exchanges for submitting content.

Please email submissions and direct all enquiries to

TheElectricpress@mail.com Currently, deadlines are Midnight, (GMT/BST) the 10th day of the month preceding issue.

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Electric Eclectic has a whole library of books written by authors from around the globe and in about every genre imaginable. Primarily our books are eBooks and Kindle, BUT… recently Electric Eclectic has launched their new paperback format of smaller, lighter and easily stowable ‘Pocketbooks’. Our Pocketbooks are still full books, ‘proper’ books, only smaller and, we like to think, friendlier than their big brothers the full size paperback. The Pocketbook size makes them ideal for carrying in a handbag, slipping into a laptop case, popping into a beach bag and, as their name suggests, putting into your pocket. So easy for that commute to work, at lunchtime, or simply relaxing while on holiday. You can find all our Electric Eclectic books on Amazon’s @open24 sotre, or by typing ‘Electric Eclectic books’ into your Amazon search bar. Find out more about Electric Eclectic, our books and authors by visiting the Electric Eclectic website HERE

Look out for the next edition

NOVEMBER 2019

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