Our pockets were empty, yet freedom was cheap. It was at the time; more than four decades ago, but more importantly, two weeks before summer would come to an abrupt end.

Not much longer would it be until friendships we had known for more than a while would be separated by new classes, new people, and new schools. It was the ‘70s. Summers, then, moved slowly. July could take forever, and then August allowed time to prepare, or adjust to, the concept of September.

Somehow we thought we needed one last adventure. We had known adventure before, but this was different. This was a big step; five young teenagers would test boundaries and stretch the long summer evenings deeper into the night.

Together we made a decision to see what the darkness of the city held. We decided to sneak out of our comfortable homes and meet up after our parents and the rest of our families were asleep.

That was the plan. In fact, that was the only thing planned: sneaking out to see what was there.

Nothing nefarious was involved, you might even call it innocent curiosity, or tame. Brandon was a sleepy town at the best of times, but we needed to see more. We were sneaking away from everything that mattered to see what else was out there.

Five of us planned the night, only four of us made it (one friend managed to actually fall asleep in the excitement leading up to it all). We knew where we would meet, and what time. Talk about nervous, wondering what was ahead as I quietly tiptoed down the stairs in stocking feet, holding my breath until I slipped out the back door and let it click shut. I did not exhale until I had my sneakers tied and I sprinted across the grass and into the darkness.

We met each other with a sense of excitement. The fact our fifth member didn’t show up (and we did wait) seemed to add an element of danger.

Not having a set route, we set out as if the world was laid out for us. The farther we walked, the further we realized how big this city was. We wandered without a care, too young to know what freedom really meant, but knowing this was close.

We stopped by our old elementary school, sitting for a while on the back steps, just outside of the lights. We made our way to the baseball diamond where we used to play and hung out in the dugout. We even passed by the 7-11, visiting for a bit with a couple of older guys, but we didn’t go in. We had no money. We didn’t have the time.

Our thirst was quenched from a stranger’s garden hose, the taste of summer dribbling down our chin. Freedom was intoxicating.

Hours passed. We kept walking, eventually coming to rest in the middle of the soccer field behind the high school. We lay flat on the grass, stared up at the heavens, and talked.

What did we talk about? I’ve become forgetful with age, but politics at the time were of no concern. The latest music? Perhaps, but we’d probably already talked about that as we made our way through the familiar and unfamiliar lanes and streets. No doubt we talked about girls; always a topic near and dear to the yet unbroken hearts of any group of 15-year-old boys, but after a while nothing was said.

It’s a big sky at 4 a.m. There was no way to fill that space with how little we knew and how much less we had seen. Sometimes it is in communal silence when you realize the insignificance of where you were, or are. Silently, I’m sure, we were questioning why or wondering how.

Nights allow for true reflection of the self in relation to this tiny little world. Nights are when we discover the need for darkness, and the silence that comes with it

Slowly we watched the world become a little bit brighter. The colours at the bottom edge of the sky began reminding us that morning always follows night, and by sunup we needed to be back in our respective beds.

As sure as we decided we could sneak away, we realized that our adventure had nearly come to an end. Each of us walked our own way home, each of us a little bolder, or more daring, than we had been five hours ago.

I think of this not as a memory, but as a feeling. I’m not sure if it was a sense of accomplishment, or just one of knowing that I did something I had never done before, and only four other people would know that exact same feeling.

In a few weeks our lives would take us in a new direction, and off and on through the night we had been wondering where this life would take us. We experienced the freedom and still didn’t know, but we now had a glimpse at possibilities only night can afford. It seemed to matter to us then.

Stepping briskly as I approached my house, the nervousness I held back as I was leaving began to surface as I faced another major concern. So much planning had gone into sneaking out of the house that I had never considered how I would sneak back in.

I never thought that far ahead. I never thought I had to.

Not only must you plan for darkness, but you also need to remember how it feels when you make it through to the light.

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

Athletic aesthetic meets trustworthy tradition in a truly elegant blend of
form and function. Poetry in motion, even stationary, any bicycle is a
thing of wonder. Historically, so little has changed. The power of the
person, two wheels with a chain, time and again. Compelling simplicity.
Ageless grace. More than transportation; more than a method of getting
from there to here. Miles of smiles, the ride of your life found on a bike.

It’s one of those things that promises so much, but takes so little to become involved with; a book exchange.

It’s not that different from those chain letters that used to surface decades ago, or those personal exchange campaigns (I remember one involving bottles of whisky). It’s a Facebook thing of late, and totally trusting the person whose newsfeed I read it on, I got involved. I felt it was perfect for summer reading (and there is plenty of summer left).

The idea is to send a favorite book to the person whose name you are provided, then send out a specialized message to those who respond to the message on your own feed.

Figuring out the system was easy, deciding what favorite book to send was far more difficult.

I have many, many favourite books. Recently, as part of another FB exchange, I posted only the covers of seven favorite books, and I realized I could have kept posting. Books, and reading, have been an important part of my life.

Books enrich life. Each book you read tells you something more about life, the world, or yourself. It’s one of the reasons we keep on reading. A book takes you places, always.

Given this exchange is ‘worldwide’ in nature, I decided I should send something from my home country. Canada has so many fine authors, and even more wonderful books. Many of my favourites are Canadian, so deciding which one to send was tough.

Michael Ondaatje’s The English Patient would have been a good choice. The 1992 novel was just recognized as the best work of fiction from the last five decades of the Man Booker prize, but it was not my favorite. I’ve also enjoyed, throughout my life, the literature of Mordicai Richler. The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz is a perennial favorite, and the words of Carol Shields have often captivated me.

Instead I decided on A Complicated Kindness, the book which won Mariam Toews the Governor General Award in 2004, and many other top honours. It’s a damn good book, on so many levels, with Nomi, the 16-year-old protagonist, dealing with life in an ass-backwards, deeply religious community. There is a great deal of family reflection in her struggle to find both meaning and belonging.

It’s not a coming of age story, but more one of coming into being.

Heartfelt and horrific at the same time, A Complicated Kindness is full of emotion and a strong sense of place. It’s the type of novel that makes you want to read more of the author’s work, and I have. Toews is a masterful storyteller who weaves geographic and cultural references, and a particular wit. throughout her work.

A Complicated Kindness resonated with me. I could feel the landscape of East Village — a fictionalized version of Toews’ hometown of Steinback, Manitoba — and I know well the time and dates of the book. I grew up in the same province. and lived not that far away, in another prairie city surrounded by wheat and silence. I could feel the Canada described in the novel, and I wanted somebody else to feel it too.

The world needs more Canada is a theme promoted by a Canadian book chain, and I couldn’t agree more.

If you would like to be involved in this worldwide book exchange, reply to the link on my personal Facebook page. You are only required to send out one book and should receive more than 30 books in response. What a great way to increase your summer reading list.

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