©2023 j.g. lewis
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later
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This Ugly Virus
It is not what I was expecting, and everything I expected, should it happen,
For three years plus I’ve managed to steer clear. I followed precautions, I did what I thought needed to be done, and it still happened.
At first it felt like a strong cold; swift and unexpected, and far too early for the flu. The symptoms, the cough, the headache and chills, had me doubting but was it 12 or 24 hours into it I was sure.
COVID-19 hit me hard.
The fatigue, brain fog, delusional sleep, cough, congestion and headache; my body felt brittle. I couldn’t get up; I didn’t feel like moving and was pretty sure I couldn’t. Then, there was the lack of taste, lack of appetite, total lack of motivation.
A simple at-home test confirmed the reality I had been living with for much longer than I expected.
For months now health officials have been cautioning against the latest strain. Over these past years I’ve masked up, washed and regularly sanitized my hands. I’ve been vaccinated with regular booster shoots as recommended, as available. Actually, I was expecting I would receive my next shot next month, the latest in a series of boosters that would protect me from this ugly virus.
Still it happened.
COVID-19 is still, very much, a reality.
I wasn’t able to do the things I usually do. I didn’t feel much like doing anything. Today might be the first day I’ve really felt like doing something.
It’s an improvement I can only hope will keep me moving forward.
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No longer serviceable
A sign of the times past.
Our Technicolor reality has changed.
We no longer repair but replace.
Technology that lasted, no longer does.
Obsolescence is expected in our progress,
high definition lives defined now by a
landfill wasteland full of discarded electronics.
No longer serviceable.
We no longer watch like we used to.
We no longer can.
© 2023 j.g. lewis -
assumption
Embracing reminders of who we were, not
who we are not, we remain convinced of
this confusion and seldom make the right
assumption in moments where we wish
to define ourselves. We will need any sort
of control over any areas of a life that is
primarily accessible to all. What we share,
when we share, occasionally goes beyond
intimacy expected in the moment. Caution,
isolated thought amongst the many you are
thinking or have thought; why or why not.
We need to breathe for our self, even mere
mouthfuls of tainted air can absolve you of
the guilt, even temporarily. Little freedom.
This cruel reality is replacing the ordinary.© 2023 j.g. lewis
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word upon word
Unorganized, like my life, I have stacks and stacks of words piled high.
Hardcover notebooks and coil-bound scribblers with pages torn out or splattered with coffee, the cover crinkled or nonexistent, sticky notes peering out all over the place, their purpose no longer evident.
A mass of words; random thoughts, heartfelt prose, messages of anger and liberation, or letters never sent. The skeletons of lonely poems are sketched out in some, partially presented prose full of rhyme and reason set out in others. This is my life.
This is what I write.
My handwriting as inconsistent as my days, it gets messy, it gets erased, sketches out a questionable trail, but I leave my mark. I hear the pencil press my soul into the paper. Sometimes I can hear the pain.
I write. Often. All the time, and maybe not enough.
While some of my works make it into a manuscript, essay, or rant, the rest of the notes rest silently between the covers. Right there, as sure as I am.
I write things down to remind myself, perhaps for convenience, or maybe inspiration. I feel thoughts are better contained splayed out on a page than circulating through my mind (that can get dangerous).
It doesn’t matter so much what I write as much as what I write into it. Details matter: questions to somebody who is not around, a laundry list of lost and found; theories that wake me at night, or delicious morning thoughts because I have them. There are disturbing missives when I can’t bare to say the words aloud, guilty pleasures are often allowed, and the remainder of the sentences and stanzas are held hostage. Until later. There have been magnificent ideas (at least at the time), or scenes that belong in a book of mine.
I write out my life more for myself than those who are allowed a glimpse into this restless being.
What then of those who do not write?
What do people do when they think they have something to say? What about those who do not collect daring thoughts, or mundane messages that unexpectedly arrive? Do they leave memory to chance?
Do they remember specific nights, purposeful conversations, a daughter’s encouraging words, or the events that seem to make it or break it in present tense?
Do they not make plans, or set goals?
How do they account for their sins, or the substance of their self? Have they none, or do they not care? Are they unconcerned about where they have been, or what they have put themselves through?
Or why? How? And what about the when, as it changes over and again?
I spend unaccountable hours writing for me and my accountability.
I write not for proof, or validity, but to simply ensure these voices I hear have space to breathe. Thoughts without a place are uncontrollable, but give them a home, a notebook or journal, and they will behave (to a degree) for a while.
I write because I want to read my own depth (which can be both narrow and flat, but entirely mine).
I write because I need to write.
I write because I don’t remember what it is like not to write, and I don’t want to forget.© 2018 j.g. lewis
