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 . . .

Mondays are just young Fridays

The sun is just coming up, the weather is especially pleasant for this time of the year and the 10-day forecast indicates it will stay that way for quite some time.

   Not a drop of rain is expected for the foreseeable future and these summer-like temperatures, even through the nights, will continue.

   There are better days ahead.

   My morning coffee is bold and sweet — sort of like me — and, for the most part, my schedule is clear enough to allow me to take advantage of where I am. It’s a good place to be.

   I have a few things I need to do but, more so, I have a lot of things I want to do. I hope this mindful mood will allow me to get them done.

   Optimism is a wonderful thing, and it is easily obtained if you permit yourself to believe it is possible.

09/16/2024                                                                                                      j.g.l.

we can’t remember

We won’t admit
we share the pain.
We tell ourselves
again and again
we are different.
We don’t know
what anyone feels,
or how anyone
deals with this now.
We can’t remember.
We don’t know
how to behave
like we used to.

© 2021 j.g. lewis

cloud songs

     Days, weeks, then months 

     and years drift by. 

Not always noticeable, or even 

memorable, the time behind us 

simply accumulates.    All in all, 

     the sum of its parts leads to 

     a life well-lived, if you take  

             a moment to notice.

 

09/10/2024                                                                                                  j.g.l. 

09/17/2024

concepts of a plan

My sketchbooks get messy. Even the one I began days ago is now showing the inconsistent and immeasurable thoughts of a cluttered mind. But, mainly, it’s all good (considering the many connotations of that word).

   Mostly, I am a writer and photographer (many days one more than the other). Like the tattered notebook I use to carelessly jot down random scrabble, immediate ideas and nonsensical everyday drama that may someday make it into a poem, essay, or manuscript, the sketchbook is only a stop in my creative process.

   What is contained within the book may or may not make it to another level or format, but I know it is there for me to use whenever, or however, I decide to use it. 

   Earlier this year, after all my oil paints, solvents, brushes and canvases were packed away in preparation for a relocation, I purchased a modest set of watercolour paints, oil pastels, ink, and a big sketchbook to keep content my creativity. I filled that book up over the summer; more of a means of coping than creating.

   My sketchbook, in so many ways, after what I endured or experimented with these past months, become a form of art therapy that was available to me.

   In its essence, my sketchbook is full of plans, or concepts of a plan. At times it is experimental — I’m currently concerned over underpainting, the colour wheel, and the uncalculated risks of layering watercolours — a lot of what I do in this sketchbook is conceptual practice exercises with media or texture and perspectives not quite clear to me at the moment of creation. Nonetheless they serve a purpose in this, at times, cruel and compilated world.

   Art needs a place in your life or mind and a sketchbook, if nothing else, allows you that time. Like life itself, indeed it does get messy.

09/15/2024                                                                                                                j.g.l.

Friday the 13th

It is not that you can’t, or

even that you won’t. It is 

what it is, whether you do 

or you don’t.

Today or really any day, try 

to do what you need to do

to become a better you.

I know it seems hard, as

many days seem like a test,

yet despite unlucky numbers, 

today you should try to do 

your best.

Whether you are beginning

your day, or struggling with

the middle, seek to soothe

your beleaguered soul with 

a poem, rhyme, or a riddle.

 

09/13/2024                                                                                                               j.g.l.

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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logical and chronological

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My January Breath

Posted on January 7, 2015 Leave a comment

 

January Breath

My January Breath

Snowflakes. Only movement.                                                                                                                           Twilight comes until twilight goes.                                                                                                              Daylight leaves too early. Swiftly.                                                                                                                 The deeper the night, the colder                                                                                                            the darkness.

My January breath suspended,                                                                                                                 my thoughts wishing to go                                                                                                        somewhere. Anywhere, other                                                                                                                than here. A deafening                                                                                                                         winter silence.

The air is slow.Still. Almost.                                                                                                                   Alone, even in the shadow                                                                                                                            of the streetlamps. Nobody to                                                                                                              shield your ears from the cold,                                                                                                                   or dampen the inevitable.

Pointless the task, reviewing patterns                                                                                                   and paths carved into the cartography of                                                                                              the ego. Realization. What once was,                                                                                                     may never be. This season                                                                                                                       stays the longest.

Even with full sunlight. The wind,                                                                                                     should it decide, rips through me.                                                                                                      Harsh. I am not here, not really.                                                                                                 Permanent as my                                                                                                                                 January breath.

Flurries obscure constellations and                                                                                                         the moon. Isolation. The circumference                                                                                                   of my being is reduced. Limited.                                                                                                      Blinded by temporal                                                                                                                             beauty, or tears.

Nothing has happened, or is                                                                                                        happening. The brazen wind chill                                                                                                    clashes with body heat, the atmosphere                                                                                                the victor. Obvious. The world                                                                                                                 still gets in your eyes.

Time agape with a grey known only                                                                                                           to the night. A solitary trek through the                                                                                      ordinary. Undisturbed. Each step resonates                                                                                         the soul-crunching scream of                                                                                                                      a thousand snowflakes.

Beneath winter’s fickle facade, the ice                                                                                             cracks. The fragility of the planet apparent.                                                                            Vulnerable. Each season has precious moments.                                                                             Gone. Time stands still. This is                                                                                                                   my January breath.

Only Wednesday

Posted on December 31, 2014 // 1 Comment

IMG_5467

 

Only Wednesday

Wednesday sits naked                                                                                                                               and ordinary                                                                                                                                          waiting

between the bookends of social Saturday
and restive Sunday. The day is                                                                                                                little more

than a cluster of hours or a stop on the                                                                                        treadmill. Indecisive and                                                                                                                       lonely

nobody chooses a Wednesday. Nothing                                                                                       happens                                                                                                                                                           on a Wednesday

and it’s the same each week.

 

Sept 11/01, a Tuesday. London Subway bombings: July 7/05, a Tuesday, also July 21/05, and also a Tuesday. Assassinations: John Lennon on a Monday, Martin Luther King Jr. a Thursday, and John F. Kennedy a Friday. Kurt Cobain’s body was discovered on a Wednesday, but he chose his way out three days earlier. Nothing happens on a Wednesday.

There are fewer concerts mid-week, and opening night is never a Wednesday. They never open the Olympics on a Wednesday. Nobody gets married on a Wednesday.

Yet I will choose Wednesday, or I will start with a Wednesday. I’ll begin with a page, a place where I can plant my thoughts. I have many thoughts, each week, every day (even on Wednesday), but I will commit to posting something once a week. There are seven days to choose from, and I chose Wednesday.

Now I may post something else on some other day, I’m like that (a true Gemini). If I am moved or if I have time, if the stars align or the moon gives me a nudge, or if something is really bothering me, I won’t wait for Wednesday. But I will post something each Wednesday.

Something will happen each Wednesday, every week. Right here. If you want to see, or wish to be reminded, sign up. There will also be a daily breath (usually 140 characters or less) and it will not be limited to Wednesday, but will, or should, arrive every day.

Until Wednesday . . .

-j-

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