The answers are far less certain
than even last week, to all those
perennial questions or solutions
you might seek.
What do you believe, or
what do you believe in?
Come Monday, you have fewer
questions than you had last week.
For a while there are less doubts
in what you believe.
Whom do you believe in,
and who believes in you?
11/18/2024 j.g.l.
We want to know what
we don’t know, or hadn’t thought of,
or forgot.
What mattered then,
or what mattered when, shifts over time.
We notice.
Perception is what you don’t see.
Deception is what know.
You see it differently through your aloneness.
The truth behind a lie,
you question how and why.
It made sense.
Anticipation keeps us waiting
for only so long. Will it matter
if you felt it never did?
© 2021 j.g. lewis
Slow down: even with the ideas that come to quicky. Take the time to acknowledge the feelings that arrive, as they arrive.
Write it down. How else will you remember what you were thinking?
Print neatly. You hardly understand the thoughts at the time, why make it more difficult to comprehend weeks or years from now?
Follow your own logic; only you need to truly make sense of what is happening, or all that has happened.
Pay attention to the lessons of the past. Be mindful that not all are worth repeating.
Clarity. Make corrections as you go. Flaws become more difficult to correct the longer you live with them.
11/14/2024 j.g.l.
As of late, for reasons as varied as they are non-existent, I have not been writing in the manner of which I have come to expect of myself. I am neither as prolific nor as detailed as, I feel, I usually am.
My poetry, while still insightful, does not command the length or breadth I feel I am capable of. Revisions to a manuscript I have toiled away on for some time have become painful (perhaps a sign that the work is closer to completion than I care to acknowledge), and my mind wanders to another project that requires the same diligence.
My daily writing is less than it once was (I feel guilty about that), and even the scant sentences I jot down in my journal seem to only document my time here on earth. Nothing extravagant, nothing more than a slight glimpse of where I am. Nothing that memorable, sadly.
I’ve been feeling for months that I am ready to embark on another kind of writing but have yet to determine exactly what that might be. I am full or ideas, characters, dialogue and circumstance, but it doesn’t quite feel like it has the backbone it needs to pull me in a certain direction. I even, a few weeks back, bought a fresh new notebook to keep these thoughts separate from all the others. The notes I have included in this book are random, undeveloped, at times personal, and (as of yet) make little sense. I reread these notes, almost daily, and I am inspired enough to clarify or expand on certain streams of thought, but it needs a more definite direction.
Perhaps I do as well?
11/17/2024 j.g.l.
What brings you here, anywhere
really? Out of habit, curiosity, or
happenstance? Each one of us
has patterns; a nature of being.
It is how we experience our time
in this place, on this planet, in
this city or another. Confusion.
A delusion? We are grounded by
behaviours, many of which we
will not realize or acknowledge.
Primarily, it is how we function.
Action or response to any given
situation. Stimulation, capitulation,
barely interpretation of that which
surrounds us. Still, here we are.
Nevertheless. In the midst of it all.
11/15/2024 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.
Of Patience and Pain
Saturday night in the ER, it could be 11 or
thereabouts. Time matters not when you are
waiting. Each visitor here has a purpose,
they would not be here had they not. Incessant
florescent lighting obliterates all time. It
could be morning, as easily as it is night.
Settling into chairs of modicum comfort, we wait.
Mothers clutch screaming children, a husband
and a wife, not speaking. Who knows what each
is feeling? Minutes pass slower, punctuated by
coughing and crying. Conversations about nothing,
ailments and symptoms. Disease. I am here, alone.
Why bother someone else with a pain I cannot
control; a pain only I can explain. It is personal.
We all sit, amidst yesterday’s newspaper and
someone else’s problems. We muster the patience
to deal with the sickness, the boredom, the pain,
and the antiseptic scent of helplessness.
An elderly couple sits, three hours now, immune
to the commotion of reckless drunks with bloody
noses. They are quiet, respectful. More people come
and go. And wait. Gradually others take their turn, as
the rest of us wait, not knowing when our time
will come. We hope it is soon, but know it is not.
The elderly gentleman does not remove his hat. She,
tired and hurting, rests her head on his shoulder. He
is her strength. He is there for her, as always and now.
At one point he stands, takes her arm and guides
her to the washroom. He waits outside, as if guarding
his cherished possession. She is there for him. Always.
All those hours in the ER, he held her hand the
entire time. I know nothing of her ailments or
of their history, but I recognize, can plainly see,
all that is there. Love. In his palm, it is in their
lives. A type of love I do not own, perhaps a kind
of love I might have known. Not here.
This couple, a lifetime of love that keeps them
holding hands, in sickness and in health. Closer
now. Till death do them part. Patience, even
through the commotion of the ER and all they
have experienced in life. Love. Time matters
not, when you have the patience required.
The all-important Hyphen
The hyphen: there is really not a lot to it.
At first glance, a small stroke using up less ink than a capital I (or lower
case for that matter), the hyphen holds many roles but is mainly used as a
joiner.
The hyphen brings words together.
Conveniently located adjacent to the numerals on your keyboard, the hyphen is
one of those reliable punctuation marks in a writer’s tool kit. It’s fairly
popular, rather practical, occasionally suffers from overuse, but has never
really been one of my go-to keys; I’m more of a semicolon guy.
The hyphen’s use and usefulness cannot be ignored. It’s helps modify and can
brighten up even the most euphorically-sunny day, further define a well-dressed
man in a made-to-measure three-piece suit, and can attach lovers joined by their
wedding vows. The hyphen, many times, can also be used to delineate parts within
a written date, or represent a span in time.
I suppose the weight of the hyphen really just occurred to me as I, again,
thought of my father and of his recent passing. I glance at his obituary and the
88 years summed up with a simple keystroke. Beneath his name sits a date of
birth and a date of passing; important dates indeed, but what of all the years
in between?
My father was just that, a true father. A Dad. But he was also son, and a
brother as well. He was a husband, uncle, brother-in-law, and a friend,
colleague, partner and co-worker. With each of those roles came responsibilities
he never seemed to shirk in a life filled with events and occasions, holidays,
graduations, weddings and anniversaries, career advancement, new cars and homes,
and fatherhood.
All those hours spent guiding his children, the lessons learned and wisdom
passed on, all represented by an insignificant hyphen.
It got me thinking about all the time between the start and stop of his life,
and mine. He made so much of his time on this planet, and I am just here.
I’m living in the hyphen right now and I have no idea when my full stop might
come. I would like to think the present is just another comma in the pages of a
life that still has many sentences and chapters to go, but maybe it’s time to be
more.
There are goals still not realized, and a purpose not fully defined. I have a
great deal to offer my family and friends, and to those I have yet to meet.
There is more life to live, and more air to breathe. I’d like to think there are
many hyphens still within my grasp.
I guess its about deciding to make the hyphen important and squeezing as many
memories and moments into this one small dash. I need now to be more open to
changes that will inevitably happen, to be prepared to accept compromise and
compassion.
It’s also time now to start paying attention to the smaller hyphens, the ones
that fall between self and awareness, or realization. Or preservation. Call it
self-examination. I don’t think I’m much different than any of us presented with
our middle-aged life (talk about a shocking hyphen). We all look at where we
were, and consider where we are going. How we will get there, and where exactly
is “there”?
I know I need to worry less about situations beyond my control, to be less
suspicious of others, and make myself more susceptible to options and emotions
presented to me. I need to be a more-reliable brother, and father. I need to be
a better friend, and I need to be able to become a stronger person. I need to
forgive more and criticize less (myself and others). I need to show a greater
aptitude for gratitude.
I need to live my life more by the example set by my father, and less like the
reckless self-absorbed teenager who once doubted his advice.
As stubborn as I am, I’ll still live by my words (or I will try), but in doing
so I will pay more attention to the hyphenation, beginning with less self-doubt and
more self-respect.
Decision Time
What will I do today? This week?
Each day I ask this, of myself. I ask this of others;
daily, hourly . . . each second of every minute I ask questions,
and
with each question comes a decision.
We all make decisions
all the time.
Continually.
Where to go, what to do, what to buy, whether to stay,
what to say,
how to say it, how to ask a question. ?????
All decisions.
Each and every act, goal, accomplishment or
failure, begins with a decision.
How can I be sure the decisions I make are right, or proper, or ethical . . . even moral?
I can’t.
I can try.
I can leverage all my knowledge and experience, and hope, and plan,
but even then I can’t be sure the decisions I make, at that time, are correct.
I am like everybody else.
We all struggle with decisions.
Many, or even most, of the decisions we make involve someone else. In fact, many of the decisions we make must function, or cooperate, or align, with decisions made by others.
And that is hard.
Even the simple decisions we must make are hard.
Every decision is one of hundreds of inter-connected, though seemingly unrelated, decisions made each day.
Life is a cumulative series of decisions.
Your decisions impact the lives of those around you; those you love
or those who, just by their nature of being where they are or what they are,
are just there.
Every day.
Every day we make decisions.
You decide how you will be viewed, how you will be remembered,
how you will be accepted, or how you will accept others.
All decisions.
We wake and walk upon each decision we make.
Some, in fact most, decisions are irreversible; resolution is not even in your hands.
And the decisions made by others may possibly be the most difficult decisions to deal with.
You are forced, without having to decide, to deal with the consequences
you had never intended.
One decision leads to another, and there is always the danger of collateral damage.
And if we don’t question the decisions made by others, we wonder: why they did that; why they said that; why they left, or let you go?
All are questions fuelled by decisions, and decisions made without your input. Mainly
decisions made with little care or without concern for you.
Then again it’s not the actual decision that hurts, as much as it’s how you react to the decision.
If you don’t react properly, there is certain to be conflict.
Decisions can lead to arguments, as much as agreement, or conclusion, or worry . . .
Without decisions we do little, or nothing, to contribute to
this grand parade we call life.
Think about it.
There, right there, that’s a decision; you have to decide how you will think about it
and what you will think about.
What will you think?
What choice will you make?
If you don’t make a choice, you are leaving it up to a chance, or fate. Kismet.
And taking a chance is nowhere near effective as making a decision.
It might be easier, at the time,
but really it’s not.
Not at all.
When we make the decision to leave it up in the air — to leave it to chance — that in itself
is a decision; not one to be taken lightly,
and one that can only lead to indecision.
Indecision can kill you, if not physically then morally, or spiritually.
Just as the wrong decision, or even the right decision at the wrong time, can
take its toll on how life should, or could, be lived.
With decision comes responsibility.
We own each decision we make, and every mistake made.
Spur-of-the-moment decisions often haunt us the longest.
So how do you make the right decision, without worry, without regret?
I suppose, above all else, it’s a matter of being flexible, and even more so,
being fair.
If you are making a decision it should be made in fairness, and with intention.
And it should be made for all the reasons that are good and whole,
and right.
Not just right for you, but those you care about.
Think about it.
Ask yourself: What do I want . . . what do I really want?
Or,
is what I have what I really want?
Is it?
Make that decision.
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
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-
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.
