Mythos & Marginalia

life notes; flaws and all

j.g. lewis

original content and images ©j.g. lewis

a daily breath...

A thought du jour, my daily breath includes collected and conceived observations, questions of life, fortune cookie philosophies, reminders, messages of peace and simplicity, unsolicited advice, inspirations, quotes and words that got me thinking. They may get you thinking too . . .

cloud songs

    Kismet, naturally or unexpectedly,
holds sway on this or any other day.
       If we choose to notice.
       If we permit ourselves to linger
a moment or three in a transitive state 
between elements of darkness and bright, 
           morning quells emotions and
   disruptive thoughts we once embraced.

03/26/2024                                                                                     j.g.l.

Mondays are just young Fridays

Dented, bruised, scuffed up and circumstantial, the imperfections are obvious.
   It goes past superficial.
   Seeking more than a cover-up, healing is necessary.
   Hope is less than present but needed, so I try to do what I need to do. Each attempt to repair the damage that is done — the day-in-day out flaws that have become ingrained in my psyche — is another step.
   It takes effort. It takes encouragement, and it takes understanding even if I can’t completely comprehend the history that led up to the marks on the façade.
   I need to do the work.
   At times trying is the best I can do when I know I want to do better.

03/25/2024                                                                                                  j.g.l.

the weather still

‘When’ is a question greater than ‘why’.
   Important it is to know ‘when’ something will happen, rather than ‘what’ or ‘where’, because ‘when’ always involves a wait (that’s ‘when’ the ‘why’ kicks in).
   Our patience is tested.
   ‘When will we get there’ or ‘when is it time’? Both questions of our youth, at least, questions of mine.
   Spring has arrived, but ‘when’ will it come? The weather still indicates winter is hardly done.
   How can we wait, or ‘why’ is it we must? You might only find the answers ‘when’ you are ready to trust.

© 2022 j.g. lewis

I'm like a pencil;
sometimes sharp,
most days
well-rounded,
other times
dull or
occasionally
broken.
Still I write.

j.g. lewis
is a writer/photographer in Toronto.

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Some Kind Of Salvation

Posted on December 16, 2016 by j.g.lewis Leave a comment

Handel’s Messiah crackles from a plastic radio, enough
to mask the comings and goings of anonymous neighbours
or drugged-out strangers across the hall. Time doesn’t matter
after midnight or later. Single mattress, scratchy blanket
stained with sweat and sorrow. Always alone. Humble room
in a derelict Eastside hotel; a symbol of how
something once full of purpose can go so desperately
wrong. It is not home, but it will have to do.
 
Sleeping as often as he wakes, to sirens, gunshots
and screams, a drunk or delusional singing White Christmas
to everyone awake or anyone who cares.
Mental illness wanders the Eastside; feeble minds and hard lives
part of the landscape. It is never white around here, always
grey and ugly. Rarely does he see the mountains. Day
by day. Meetings most mornings, if only for the free coffee.
Hot meals at the mission fill his stomach and his time.
 
Not much else to do but wait for welfare, another Wednesday,
 or a day without rain. When the waiting is done, he will wait
again, watching what’s left of this society walk on by. He
no longer feels a part of it, and is not sure if
he ever did. Always on the outside. Passed by. Beneath
the streaky window, alley littered with bottles sniffed
dry, orphaned needles, spent condoms,
crack whores and men like him, or worse.
 
He no longer plays guitar like he did, or at all. Gnarled knuckles,
arthritis deep within his fingers, and knees. And conscience.
The instrument collects dust in the corner, a depiction of both
something he once could do and something of value. He owns
so little and has even less. Three years sober and friends are
no longer convenient.  What else to do when
you no longer drink, and who else wants to do nothing
with somebody else. One day at a time.
 
Waiting. He can’t call it healthy. He can’t even call it
living, but existing will do. For now. Nights are a constant
battle. It is always dark, and wet. Rain into sleet. Winter months
are difficult for those on the street. He is more fortunate,
having found some sort of salvation. He does have something
to be thankful for. It is safer in this room, sheltered from the
violence, reading yesterday’s news and the only book he owns,
listening to talk radio and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes.
 
 
Ashtray overflowing, Bible opened on the table, blurry snapshot
taped to the wall. A boy on Santa’s knee, smile reflecting the
spirit of the season. Decades ago. He was hardly a father. It is
hard to regret what you can’t remember. It’s harder not to know
what it would feel like. Family. Who knows where anybody lives
now. Who would know he is here. Time doesn’t matter.
Christmas is only a word on the Eastside.
There aren’t enough hallelujahs to go around.
 
©2016 j.g. lewis

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