A Schizophrenic Pen

Thumbing through the latest copy of The Author (the house journal for the Society of Authors), I discovered a website called 'I write Like' (www.iwl.me). In order to discover whose style one is unknowingly emulating, you enter a few paragraphs of your own prose into the site and, hey presto, it caters to your writer's weary ego by coming up with some literary giant.

I entered the first two paragraphs of my novel and found that my style is decidedly akin to Dan Brown. A pretty promising start, I thought.

That was until I tried the second chapter, and found that I had inexplicably become Agatha Christie. However, by the middle of the novel, the great Dame had left the stage and H. P. Lovecraft had taken over.

Confused (or rather 'bemused'), I decided to enter a few paragraphs of an award winning short story from a few years ago, and discovered that I had once been a James Joyce write-a-like.

At least, rather akin to Tony Blair, I should in due course be able to get my work onto several different shelves in Waterstones.

So that is all right then...I think...

Reflections of a Tourident

The following article first appeared in Pissouri Contact 46, 10 October 2009 (http://www.about-pissouri.com)

It is possible (albeit unlikely) that the Oxford English Dictionary will one day include the following entry:

tourident
–
noun. 1 a person who is new to, and still learning about, a community, but who owns and occasionally resides in a property within that community. 2 a cross between a tourist and a resident.

My wife (Linda) and I are touridents in respect to Pissouri, having taken possession of our new apartment in the village in the spring of this year, and only managing three short visits thus far. However, there are advantages in being in such a position.

One benefit is that Pissouri is still an open book to us. We know what the picture on the cover looks like, and have read the blurb on the fly-leaf. However, we have thus far only progressed through the first few chapters of the contents, and most of the story is yet to reveal itself to us. Some characters appear on a regular basis, there are constant introductions to new ones, and many more exist, of whom we have only heard snippets and have yet to physically meet. Meanwhile, we are gradually treated to two unravelling storylines, where the historical meets the contemporary; tradition meets modernity; Cypriot meets newcomer; different cultures interact. The result is a plot worthy of that classic English novelist, Thomas Hardy, and just as enjoyable.

One aspect which is very evident to us is that Pissouri is a community. It is not just a collection of disparate individuals, who happen to live near to each other (as is often found in cities). Furthermore, Pissouri is a friendly community, consisting of individuals who know each other, who live and work together, who share interests and visions, who depend upon each other, and who strive to achieve collective goals for the better of the society in which they reside. That is the outward face of Pissouri. For the new-comer, whether it is the casual day-tripper, or the tourident, Pissouri has the appearance of a congenial family.

However, like all extended families, there are naturally disagreements, arguments, irritations, clashes of personalities and, inevitably, a few 'black sheep' whose actions are unpleasant and disturbing. Linda and I have now 'read sufficient pages' of the narrative, to understand some of these issues. However, far from spoiling the 'picture postcard' image of Pissouri, these issues make Pissouri even more genuine; even more of a community; even more of a family. Perhaps surprisingly to some, therein lies the village's strength. Families must learn to live with each other and make allowances for the likes and dislikes of individual members. Where there are differing points of view, compromises have to be reached and harmony restored. That is the richness of family life. Without such interaction, relationships are bland and nothing is achieved. Diversity of thought should bring people closer together in order to find and develop the common ground. That is, I believe, what is happening in Pissouri, and has probably been happening for many years past. The rich tapestry which is the modern Pissouri is the summation of all that has gone before. The beauty is that every now and again, someone will twist the kaleidoscope and the picture will shift slightly again, bringing new dimensions to what is already priceless.

My thoughts will probably say nothing new to those members of the collective community of Pissouri who were either born in the village, or who have been resident for many years. However, as a tourident, we are looking at the community with a fresh set of eyes, and what we see is, overall, a power for the good. Linda and I feel that we have recently married into a new extended family. We are slowly getting to know how the family 'ticks', but what we have learned thus far is that Pissouri is a friendly and welcoming community, and one to be valued. It is a community we are glad to have joined.

And remember, when the word 'tourident' does enter the Oxford English Dictionary, it was here that you first read it!

Cerebral Tai Chi.

'Travel can be one of the most rewarding forms of introspection.'

So wrote Lawrence Durrell in his 1957 book, Bitter Lemons of Cyprus. He later described the necessary travelling companions in order to achieve this utopia; namely, loneliness and time, declaring them as 'those two companions without whom no journey can yield us anything'.

He was, of course, writing about his time in that wonderfully complex, Mediterranean retreat otherwise known as the Birth Place of Aphrodite. Indeed, it is where I am now writing, accompanied by a welcoming, though yet still cool, morning sun; its rays reflected by the expanse of yellow wild flowers and intensely luxuriant grasslands which rise behind my home here. The only sound is that of sparrows in a nearby carob tree, interspersed by the distant call of a wood-pigeon, and the soft mewing of a ginger cat, which has seated itself expectantly on the terrace outside my kitchen door, and which now stares back at me in the hope that I have something more exciting on offer than the occasional man-made 'meow' I return to it in the spirit of trans-cultural friendship.

Durrell is a writer I immediately warmed to. His work speaks of a man who understands the enormity of the mundane, the intrinsic value of indolence, the desirability of solitude, and the wealth of material residing just out of reach within the grey cells of one's mind, just waiting to be freed by the onset of some melancholically-induced cerebral exercise.

Cyprus is an island which allows for all of that. It is impossible to ignore the whispers from centuries past that filter through the rocks, like vapours through the pores of a living, yet antiquated, historical tome. 'Listen to me,' the land murmurs; 'listen and feel; listen and learn; listen and understand.'

So I listen, alone and unrushed. I allow the sounds of nature to filter through the labyrinth of neurones which somehow act as the repository of my thoughts; I let the rocky terraces speak to me of the island's origins and the tales of centuries past, laid down within it like seams of history, layer upon eventful layer, and I feel my mind tuning in to that same wavelength which endeared itself to Durrell, as it has to so many writers over the centuries. Yet, as I do so, my thoughts stretch, not just back down the monumental ages belonging to this island, but laterally across to the other side of the world, to the Caribbean Sea, where I sailed less than two months ago, and where, alone and with all the time in the world to muse, I cerebrally travelled back not just centuries, but through millennia, to the time of the world's earliest existence. It was a cathartic moment, and one which I tried to capture in a haiku:

Wave laps against wave:

wind's primeval voice echoes

from the start of time.

That, I believe is precisely what Durrell understood could be achieved from travelling introspectively, with time and solitude as one's companions. It is achieved through bouts of unmoving contemplation; that splendid quality the Moslems know as kayf. It requires no more than the gentle stretching of the grey cells. However, the reward is immeasurable.

Reggie Tyrwhitt Illustrations

The North Lincolnshire market town of Barton upon Humber has seen many illustrious names over its long and distinguished history. Names such as Isaac Pitman (inventor of Pitman's shorthand), Samuel Wilderspin (pioneer of infant education), Ken Harrison (cartoonist of Desperate Dan fame), and Chad Varah (founder of the Samaritans) are just a few of such illuminaries in the town's annals.

Now, we have another star continuing to keep Barton on Humber firmly on the map as home to men of distinction. Without further ado, allow me to introduce Reggie Tyrwhitt, a man to whom the pencil is but a sixth digit of his right hand; a man who will faithfully portray your family castle (whether it be Georgian townhouse, country retreat, or resplendent folly) in splendid reproductions of lead, ink and watercolour; a man who will capture the idiosyncrasy of your dinner party, the foibles of your shooting party, or the disgrace of your golfing match in less than the time it takes for you to reach for a pencil-sharpener...

Reggie Tyrwhitt, who has the distinction of having exhibited at the Hungerford Gallery, is now available to illustrate (at a very reasonable price) your greetings cards, postcards, book-plates, invitations, menus and letterheads, etc. in a unique style of your choosing.

Take a peak today at his website and start planning your new stationery for 2010!

Reggie Tyrwhitt Illustrations
http://www.reggietyrwhitt-illustrations.co.uk

Now, who do I know who could illustrate my next poetry collection....

Misprint of the Week

The cruise company, P&O, take pride in the presentation of all aspects of their service. However, I thought that the following announcement, printed in the ship's daily newspaper (Horizons) during my recent cruise on Artemis, was taking their concern for the welfare of their passengers just a little too far:

'Lifts
We are pleased to advise that the spare parts for the aft lift has arrived onboard and repairs will commence forthwith. Between now and Barbados all ship's lifts will also undergo survey and safety inspections, which means that all ship's lifts will be subject to interruptions in service from time to time. Every effort will be made to minimise disruption. We apologise for any incontinence caused.'

My imagination keeps conjuring up a picture of passengers attempting to climb the stairs with their legs crossed...

All Things are Relative

Mr Bargewick is not a man known for his sense of humour; at least not by me within the timeframe of the twenty years during which he has been a patient of mine.

I am uncertain as to whether his origins are truly of Lincolnshire descent, or whether, some seventy something years ago, he was hewn out of North Yorkshire limestone and then transported to the territories south of the Humber River. What is very evident is that he doesn't like communicating. Once called from the waiting room, his face assumes the appearance of a foreboding, craggy outcrop of fissured rock. Couple that with his verbal ability to articulate each word as though it was meant to be the first syllable of the next, with the resulting sound drawn out into rambling sentences devoid of punctuation or, indeed, any discernable structure, and all delivered at a volume that makes an earth worm sound positively noisy, and you will start to have some idea of the character of the man I am alluding to.

One thing is for certain: I have never before seen him smile. It took a recent, prolonged cold snap, with snow falling over several days, for me to see that a sense of humour, albeit dour, lay beneath the rugged exterior. However, first I must tell you about the weather.

Like much of the United Kingdom, Lincolnshire has just seen its heaviest snow falls for some thirty years. Over a couple of weeks, each day had seen new layers added to those of previous days, causing considerable inconvenience to everyone, and not least to those living in rural areas. Mr Bargewick is one such person, living in a village six miles from the market town. The fact that he had been able to get to the surgery on time for his appointment was commendable, and I made a suitably appreciative comment.

"Aye," he mumbled. "It's been a long time since we've had such a sharp frost."

Momentarily speechless, I turned to the window, beyond which the wall was surmounted by a layer of snow some six inches thick. Returning my gaze to my patient, I shook my amused head, and replied:

"When I was in Ireland last year and happened to be soaked by a deluge which the locals dismissed as nothing more than a 'slight mist', I thought then that I had heard the best of understatements. However, yours beats that hands down. That, Mr Bargewick," I continued, gesticulating to the view beyond the window, "is six inches of snow...it is not a 'sharp frost'!"

I grinned with incredulity, and an amazing thing happened. Mr Bargewick's face burst into a broad smile and for the first time in twenty years, I heard him give a deep chortle of laughter, as though even he was amused at the dryness of his own wit.

In life, some nuts are harder to crack than others. People are much the same. Some wear their emotions on their sleeves, whilst others have solid defences. It has taken twenty years to find a crack in Mr Bargewick's hard exterior. However, it was definitely worth the wait, as it is unique moments like that which add to the delight of general medical practice.

Epicurea - Our Holiday Apartment in Cyprus

Newly furnished, our apartment in Cyprus is now available for short vacations or for that longer period to escape the English winter!

Idyllically situated in the traditional village of Pissouri, Epicurea is only five minutes drive from Pissouri Bay, and fifteen minutes from two first class golf courses (Aphrodite Hills and The Secret Valley). Photographs of Epicurea and Pissouri can be found at:

www.holidaylettings.co.uk/rentals/pissouri/100324

Book Review - The Time Traveler's Wife

The Time Traveler’s Wife
Author: Audrey Niffenegger
Published 2004
Vintage £7.99 ISBN 0 099 46446 2

For doctors who are troubled by the concepts of post viral fatigue syndrome and fibromyalgia, The Time Traveler’s Wife may present a slight difficulty. However, if the reader suspends disbelief and is prepared to go with the flow, then this book offers an extraordinary tale along the lines of The Time Machine meets Gone With The Wind.

The story is about the relationship between the principal characters, Henry and Clare.

Henry, a librarian, has a rare genetic disorder called Chrono-Impairment. The condition causes him to be repeatedly transported into his past or future, with little warning or control over when it happens or where he goes.

‘It feels exactly like one of those dreams in which you suddenly realise that you have to take a test you haven’t studied for and you aren’t wearing any clothes. And you’ve left your wallet behind.’

For me, that paragraph most aptly portrays the nightmarish condition Henry is subjected to.

As a chrono-displaced person, Henry first meets his future wife, Clare, in a meadow behind her family home, when he is thirty-six and she is six years old. From such a beginning, an extraordinary love story develops and they subsequently marry when Henry is thirty and Clare, now an artist, is twenty-two.

The book charts the complexities of their relationship, with the narrative being alternatively provided by the voices of Henry and Clare as they describe the pain, torment and uncertainty of the unpredictable periods of separation that puts an unfathomable strain on their marriage. The reader is drawn into their story as they relate the desperate quest to find a genetically engineered cure for Henry’s affliction and their heart-rending attempts to have a child.

At first, I found the whole concept disorientating and was left struggling for terms of reference in respect to Henry’s time travel. However, once I stopped referring back to previous chapters, in an attempt to form some type of time-line, and simply accepted each chronological change as stated, then the book became much more enjoyable.

The Time Traveler’s Wife is the first novel by Audrey Niffenegger, herself an artist and a professor of writing in Chicago. The American connection is given away by the spelling of the title. References to various items no doubt familiar to the average American citizen may cause difficulties for many British readers; for example, I still have no idea as to what I would be receiving if I ordered ‘duch wursts and spaetzle’ in a restaurant. However, such references are far enough apart as to avoid causing distraction from the story itself.

I am neither a fan of science fiction or romantic novels. That said, I easily read this over one wet weekend. The success of the tale can be measured by the fact that it sometimes made me laugh aloud, whilst other parts were poignant enough to bring a lump to my throat. It is an extraordinary story, which remains in one’s mind long after the book is finished. I thoroughly recommend it.


Post script:

The film of the book is now in UK cinemas. I saw it last night and found it to be a sound representation of the original book. Normally, I would recommend that a book is read before seeing a film. However, this one does a good job of standing alone on the big screen. Despite being familiar with the story, my emotions were still disrupted as the film progressed, which I guess is a sign of a good tale...

Empty Rhetoric

When Gordon Brown became Prime Minister, I wrote the following poem, based on his own words. I think the verdict is now indeed 'empty rhetoric'!


Choleric Musings
(On the day Gordon Brown became Prime Minister)


‘I have heard the need for change.
…now let the work of change begin.’

Footage of journeys along The Mall;
political metamorphosis by Royal Assent.
Traditional photo-shoot at number 10
of this nation’s primary (Scottish) gent.

‘I remember words…which matter a great deal today:
“I will try my utmost”.’

Forgive a somewhat jaded view
from a veteran of decades past.
Successive governments have promised as much;
will your offerings be the ones to last?

‘I will build a government that uses all the talents.’

Are you capable of bringing stability?
Will your changes be climacteric?
Will patients see improvements they seek?
Are your sound-bites empty rhetoric?


© Copyright 2007 Dr Robert M Jaggs-Fowler

The Magic Flute in Fifty Words

A few years ago I accepted the challenge of describing a named opera in no more than fifty words. It is not an easy task! However, the result is shared below:


The Magic Flute

Romance parallels Masonic ritual.

Through luminary initiation and the assistance of three genii, ophidiophobic, muted, magic-flautist Tamino and lovelorn, tipsy, campanological Papageno rescue suicidal Pamina from the debauched Moor, Monostatos, and unite her with Tamino. Papageno discovers his feathery amour, Papagena; Sarastro is pardoned and the evil Nocturnal Queen banished.


I now challenge you to try your own hand at one!

Happy Easter

A very Happy Easter to you all.

May the Christian spirit of peace, harmony, love, trust and understanding be with you now and for always, whatever faith you profess.

Our World depends on it.