Thursday, November 3, 2011

Fear Of Darkness A serial novel by Joe Lake.

So far: Julie’s husband has had an accident, after which he disappears. At the police station the next morning, in the two-way mirror over the counter, Julie sees the door open by itself and when she looks, a young couple enter. “Vampires,” she thinks but is told that it is a trick of the light. Next, the campervan is back at Cooee and she wakes to find her husband in bed with her and notices two marks on her neck when she takes a dream-like excursion through the universe.)

But she is here in her campervan at Cooee beach with her husband still asleep beside her. She sits up in bed and stares at the ceiling and then she decides to ring her sister in Melbourne. She picks up the mobile telephone and speed dials. “Rosemary? It’s me, Julie. How are you? All right? Yes, I’m fine. The reason I ring is to ask you something. Do you know me as a stable person, I mean, am I normal? Yes, yes, I know you think so. What I want to ask you is: Some peculiar things have been happening to us lately - like a dream. We’ve had visitors who may have drugged us and I’ve lost touch with reality. At first we thought they were religious, but then, later, I woke up and I forgot who I was. I sat in the kitchen and nothing came into my head. It was like waking from an anaesthetic. I felt light-headed. When Bob had his operation, afterwards, when he came to, he didn’t recognise me, only later when his eyes cleared. Could they have put something into our drinks? What do you think? I’m not sure. Perhaps they tried to make us relax. The fact is, Rosy, I remember nothing, not a thing. I had a kind of experience where I floated and became a huge being as I engulfed the universe but that was just an illusion. Sometimes I feel like I’ve created everything I stand for. Of course, I stand for nothing these days now that we are retired and Bob takes care of the bills and any problems that arise. He’s the creator of my destiny - not, I think. All these problems began, sis, when someone tried to frighten us in the park and then our van was rocked which turned out to be a playful kind of introduction to the neighbours. Then Bob disappeared and later I saw people who had no reflection in a mirror and I tried to tell the police but they said that it was a trick of the light. Ever since then I’ve been light-headed and then, suddenly, from nowhere, Bob was back. He’s asleep right next to me. What? You want us to come to Melbourne? We can’t, especially now that we’ve made such good friends here in Burnie. Why don’t you come over here and see us? There’s always a spare bunk in the Winnebago where you can sleep. We’d pick you up in Devonport from the ferry and you can stay with us and help me straighten out this mess that I seem to be in. I can’t do it by myself, sis. Please!” They exchanged some more pleasantries and then she disconnected the mobile.

(To be continued next month)


Joe Lake's poem.

Sonnet

What causes love to hammer at my heart?

What need is this demand to procreate?

What meteorite has pierced me with its dart?

What bells are chiming as I contemplate?

It’s not a god who calls me to repent

And not my conscience that demands a clone;

Nor did your eyes demand me to attend

Where I have need and fear to be alone.

You are the chosen other of my dreams

Whose every cell projects perfection’s choice,

Where you exist in love’s created schemes

To wear a queen’s tiara perfect poise.

You are the cause and the effect of all;

An archetype’s quintessence to enthral.

© Joe Lake

Joe Lake's poem.

Sonnet

What causes love to hammer at my heart?

What need is this demand to procreate?

What meteorite has pierced me with its dart?

What bells are chiming as I contemplate?

It’s not a god who calls me to repent

And not my conscience that demands a clone;

Nor did your eyes demand me to attend

Where I have need and fear to be alone.

You are the chosen other of my dreams

Whose every cell projects perfection’s choice,

Where you exist in love’s created schemes

To wear a queen’s tiara perfect poise.

You are the cause and the effect of all;

An archetype’s quintessence to enthral.

© Joe Lake

Joe Lake’s Opinion

We enjoyed participating at the Wynyard RSL’s Bush Poetry event where my poem, Tasmanian Tiger In The Night, appeared appropriately as the wonderful film The Hunter about the Tassie Tiger was showing at the Metro Cinema, Burnie.

You can follow us on the internet blog: Tasmania’s Europa Poets’ Gazette. When we first put it up with Google, we left out the Tasmanian part and some slimming company in England came up whenever we typed in the gazette. Google, thankfully, has taken the slimming part off.

If you are interested in miniatures, like the one below, I’ll have some in the ArtEx2011, The 24th Cradle Coast Rotary Art Exhibition, to be held at the Gawler Room, Central Coast Civic Centre, from November 11-20.

We Imagine

We Imagine

They die young,

Peacefully,

Suddenly,

Quiet for them,

Or violent and loud?

They can’t read the death notice,

They are gone,

We imagine peaceful is easy,

That suddenly hurts so much,

We are here, observers,

Dying plays with our minds,

We hope we know

as we reflect against the din

of The Underground,

Rocking train rushing on,

Like our lives,

Stations disappearing

as the black hole swallows,

We should have done more,

And loved more,

Swept up, as we were, in the Rush-Hour,

That’s our excuse,

Suddenly it’s Knightsbridge,

Or was it Baron’s Court?

The Circle Line, round and round,

Or Bakerloo in the draught of stale air?

This morning was abrupt,

Nothing gentle,

Angrily off to work

in the Glass House,

Shrill tone of phone is agony,

Being not here is neither

calm nor aggressive,

It’s nothing.

“All change at Cockfosters”,

End of the line.

© Michael Garrad September 2011

We Imagine

We Imagine

They die young,

Peacefully,

Suddenly,

Quiet for them,

Or violent and loud?

They can’t read the death notice,

They are gone,

We imagine peaceful is easy,

That suddenly hurts so much,

We are here, observers,

Dying plays with our minds,

We hope we know

as we reflect against the din

of The Underground,

Rocking train rushing on,

Like our lives,

Stations disappearing

as the black hole swallows,

We should have done more,

And loved more,

Swept up, as we were, in the Rush-Hour,

That’s our excuse,

Suddenly it’s Knightsbridge,

Or was it Baron’s Court?

The Circle Line, round and round,

Or Bakerloo in the draught of stale air?

This morning was abrupt,

Nothing gentle,

Angrily off to work

in the Glass House,

Shrill tone of phone is agony,

Being not here is neither

calm nor aggressive,

It’s nothing.

“All change at Cockfosters”,

End of the line.

© Michael Garrad September 2011

My View with Michael Garrad

How many ways are there to give up smoking cigarettes? Well, about a million! No, that’s an exaggeration perhaps.

Those who have given up extol the virtues of “being free”. And good luck to them!

Not quite that simple. Even though the “free ones” tell you it was as easy as winning the Archibald and Booker prizes!

So “comfortable” for those who can look back in anger with pinkish lungs again!

Not everyone is a successful artist or author. No, indeed! Many of us just plod along without anyone too bothered whether we are alive or dead.

But, hey, write a book about the joys of giving up smokes and the world pays attention! And the money rolls in. Numerous book launches and, oh, the royalties, lucrative lecture circuits, perhaps even a movie contract!

Hindsight is wonderful. “What a filthy, disgusting habit it is!”

Find me a fail-safe way of “giving up” (not hypnosis, nicotine patches, drugs, being locked in a monastery for six months or isolated on a fresh-air mountain top) and I might, just might, think about it...over another cigarette!

My View with Michael Garrad

How many ways are there to give up smoking cigarettes? Well, about a million! No, that’s an exaggeration perhaps.

Those who have given up extol the virtues of “being free”. And good luck to them!

Not quite that simple. Even though the “free ones” tell you it was as easy as winning the Archibald and Booker prizes!

So “comfortable” for those who can look back in anger with pinkish lungs again!

Not everyone is a successful artist or author. No, indeed! Many of us just plod along without anyone too bothered whether we are alive or dead.

But, hey, write a book about the joys of giving up smokes and the world pays attention! And the money rolls in. Numerous book launches and, oh, the royalties, lucrative lecture circuits, perhaps even a movie contract!

Hindsight is wonderful. “What a filthy, disgusting habit it is!”

Find me a fail-safe way of “giving up” (not hypnosis, nicotine patches, drugs, being locked in a monastery for six months or isolated on a fresh-air mountain top) and I might, just might, think about it...over another cigarette!