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.

 

Nothing is closer than it appears,
anxiety reminding me of threadbare fears,
debt and delusion won’t find me here;
night driving takes it away.
I do not look back, but glance
at what I’ve passed, headlights meet my eyes
at the mirror, time has lapsed,
rear view explains I won’t see them again.
From where to there, somewhere,
then back again. I drive.
Beyond the highway, white lines, traffic signs,
eyes align, taking it in and ignoring it all.
If you can see past the sunset
you will always believe
life sorts itself out at any speed.

Streetlights shed halogen haze,
bleary-eyed travellers flowing either way.
Cars, end to end. Hypnotic blend,
eyes fixed, eyes focused, straight ahead.
Night driving leads me away and returns,
again. Depending on the view.
Spit-second living, rarely comprehending.
Where is everybody going; not always home,
not always knowing. Destination uncertain,
we are all passengers
of our own accord. Mistakes,
complications and reparations.
It’s taking and giving and letting it flow.
Driving. Night has no secrets.
Night always knows.

© 2018 j.g. lewis

   Because I cry,

     it does not mean
     I am weak.

It does not make me sensitive
to anything other than
                         life itself.

I have strong feelings.

     I attach meaning to
     each notion I have.

Emotions,
like afflictions,
are a dime a dozen.

The cost is not always obvious.

     It is a price I pay

                     in tears.

 

08/11/2021                                                      j.g.l.

                         Scant silken stream
                                               dividing line
                                         between reality
                                        and sensuality
                                                         softly
                                            floating upwards
                                                filling space
                                           between the ribs
                                                inhale
                                            sandalwood
                                   lavender or patchouli
                                       jasmine
                                     at night
                                ease the mind
                                  wipe away
                                     remains of the day
                                        you can’t stop
                                              time
                                      but you can
                                         make it
                                            bearable
                                               scent
                                      the swiftest route
                                           to memory
                                             or comfort
                                          as you retreat
                                            from
                                         negative forces
                                  the essence of the moment
                                           returns
                                            a gentle
                                        equilibrium
                                          meditation
                                        moments
                                     for the self
                                         marginalize
                                   negative influences
                                               neutralize
                                  behaviours and patterns
                                                 creating
                                         an environment
                                              of hope
                                           and awareness
                               strengthen the senses
                                               soften
                                          your world

© 2016 j.g. lewis

 

 

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