Hello September,
such a surprise to see you before me,

not even a rumour of your impending arrival.

           So unlike the ninth month

to simply arrive unannounced,
as your usually-reliable predecessor will often
drop subtle hints;

the chill at night, even a warning of frost at times.
We often stop and admire those early sunsets with
that melancholic mood you feel
                   when the end is near.

August seemed to drag its heels, this year,

as summer instead gave us this unrelenting heat
by day, and all those sweaty nights. Night after
night, days without rain. No reminders
                      of what time it was.

One month seemed to become larger than intended,

flowing right into the next.

September usually stands alone.
Now it arrives without a rest,

and I just notice.

 

© 2021 j.g. lewis

 

We probably don’t need to be reminded,
every day, people in this world, in this life,
are hurting. Even yourself.
You can feel it, some days more than others.
Most times you are able to
get past the doubt and delusion
for a little while. Most times. It comes back.
You know. You don’t need to be reminded,
but you are. Often.
A scrap of paper, a certain date, a song
from a passing car, can easily evoke
feelings of anger, of discontent,
of a pain greater than discomfort. It’s there,
in the pit of your being. Cracks flow
deep beyond the surface. It is ugly,
and unwanted. A true hurt. A scar slices deep
into the marrow of your existence.
Fractures and faults. You know hurting,
or inching your way through the pain,
can make you stronger. You are not sure
how. Or when.
You do not know why. You know it hurts,
and you hate to be reminded.
How strong do you need to be?
How do you find empathy?
How is it you can see
circumstances have changed over the years,
but not the cause of the pain.
All that remains is the hurt.

©2017 j.g. lewis

 

Two nights ago, I was listening to The London Howlin’ Wolf Sessions, the 1971 album where the Chicago bluesman is backed by Eric Clapton, Steve Winwood, Bill Wyman, and Charlie Watts.
   Yesterday, walking home from a mid-day appointment in downtown Toronto, a hopped-up ‘70s muscle car stopped at a red light, the sounds of Shattered (from the Rolling Stone’s 1978 Some Girls) blaring through its open windows. It’s one of those songs where you especially notice the strength, simplicity, and sophistication of Charlie Watts’ drumming.
   When I arrived home yesterday, I heard the news that Watts had died, at age 80, peacefully in his sleep.
   Often you hear the news of a famous musician passing away, but so few cause me to reflect as I have been.
   See, as far as I’m concerned, Charlie Watts was always there.
   He was the heartbeat of the Rolling Stones; in fact, he was a Rolling Stone about as long as I’ve been a human being.
   The music was always there. Certain Rolling Stones albums, or songs, mark my life as they do most anybody from my generation (or older or younger).
   As a drummer in my younger days, I always marveled at how Watts could get such a big sound from a small kit. He was not flashy, yet his jazzy inflections tastefully or tenderly anchored the band’s blues-based sound.
   Watts did not compete for attention, but allowed the space for his band mates to create.
   You could hear him, right there.
   I was a big fan. I’ve got more Charlie Watts solo albums than I do those by any other individual Rolling Stone.
   Somehow today, I cherish these albums a little more than I did yesterday.
   R.I.P. Charlie Watts.

Brightening sky, the questioning why,
each day.     World not awake, not yet,
and neither are you.     Off to work, or
off to where?               The road ahead,
you only stare.
This is not living, but coping. Existing,
at this hour.          We do
what we must, as we can, in the space
stretching between silence and
satisfaction.                         Biding time,
tempted by what we know
and what we need.     Questioning why.
Another try, day for day,
find your way.                   Another wait.
Familiar road.    Days the same, no one
to blame, but your self.    If you choose,
if you see,
if you try, if you feel.
The bills arrive, of that we know.
Is this the only way to go?              Live,
  as you can, and must, amid the truth,
 without the trust.       Questioning sky,
common day, recognizable road,
is there another way?
   It is as much about how you navigate
                     your way through daylight,
                  as it is through the darkness.
Take the time, know what is right,
sustain yourself through the light.

© 2016 j.g. lewis

To simply call it an ‘escape’ would be an indication that I don’t like where I am. But I do.

So, I’m calling it a ‘detour’: a couple of hundred miles in a car with a bagful of intentions, a set destination, and plenty of space for distractions.

I left my watch at home.

My mobile device is here if I really need to know, but time was of very little consequence for the past four days or so. If it turns into five days remains to be seen, but I have no objections to this certain sense of freedom.

Inspiration often takes so little time, if you allow yourself the space.

The devices we use to keep us informed about the news of the world, or our family and friends, as handy as they are (as convenient they may be) often take away from what really matters; time to ourselves.

It’s funny how you recharge, when you are unplugged.

It can mean you don’t do what you usually do. Even better when you do only what choose to do, and you do it any way you want to do it. You might not even do what you planned. You may even do it without any knowledge of what is happening anywhere else, for a time.

This is your time.

Does it really matter if the weather app says it will rain at three, or five . . . or even at all?

Sometimes knowing too much can take away from random spontaneity.

Life will do as it does, if allowed.

For the past couple of days, I did exactly what I needed to do, and I will eventually return home with a resolve to do it a little more.