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.
If it is now, then
too long I have waited. Shadows of moments past
blur
one into the next
and I remained confounded
by all that has happened since.
This time I take for granted
can no longer be shared. I have already experienced
the ripeness of the moment, the cool breeze
that arrives with autumn, knowing
there is still so much ahead of me.
© 2024 j.g. lewis
About a month ago I signed up for a program looking into mobility and healthy aging, anchored by weekly two-hour sessions at a local community center focusing on exercise, nutrition and information with a physiotherapist, dietitian and public nurse.
The group-based sessions are “focused on increasing knowledge, skills, and behaviors related to activity, healthy eating and available community supports for older adults.”
I am, after all, an older adult. I knew that when I signed up for the program — administered by McMaster University — that were looking for study participants aged 55+.
It was only after I arrived at the first session and was waiting for the program to begin that the term “older adult” had an impact on me.
As I browed through the information brochures in front of me, I read, over and over, references to this age group: “Physical activity for older adults”, “24-hour movement guidelines for older adults”, “Active Aging Canada”, and “Canada Food Guide Tips for Seniors” with a thorough collection of tasty recipes enhanced with key ingredients for “older adults”
Then there was the newsletter with a headline that really affected me: “Looking to make the most of your Golden Years”
Really?
Is this the “stage of life” that I have entered?
Now, I have not officially retired, I do not yet receive my pensions (government or career-related). I am almost hallway through my 63rd year and less than a few years away from receiving those lifetime benefits so, in my government’s eyes, I am close to being a true “senior citizen”.
But I am not sure I feel like it.
I am indeed at the lower end of the “baby boomer” classification, a demographic I have belonged to my entire life (and totally dislike the recent negative connotations of the term “boomer”). This group has aged, grown up with me, and is commonly accepted now as “seniors”. It is a sliding scale that begins at age 55 or 60 is, in fact, the age group I am now in.
The decades have blurred one into another.
But “Golden Years”?
How can that be?
I admitted, long ago, to being middle-aged. I think that started half a lifetime ago when my father retired and joined the ranks of a senior.
But am I now what he was then?
You are what you admit.
I’m older. I have never really been accused of being mature, and since I was a kid was told, many times, to act my age.
How can I be nostalgic about my youth when, most of the time, I still feel youthful?
Is it time to accept the obvious?
I guess, if I am going to accept the seniors rate at the cinema, gladly take advantage of the discounts and special “seniors” offers from many retailers, and reduced rate on public transportation, then I must start admitting I am in fact a senior . . . or an “older adult”.
I am.
This week, perhaps at this “seniors” session, I started to believe it.
It’s a lot to think about.
This week’s session included a cooking demonstration, exercise class and a lot of discussion about living and aging. Each of the program participants are at different stages of “adulthood”. Outside of a couple of the presenters, I was, I think, the youngest person in this group of older adults (I still have difficulty writing that phrase).
That itself is thought provoking.
I am truly looking forward to retirement and have been mentally preparing myself for a couple of years. I’ve got plans and so many things I want to do at this age and stage of life. Most of my plans revolve around the sort of things that a regular work week gets in the way of.
Whether or not these are, in fact, the golden years, or that I am entering the “Autumn of my life” hasn’t really been something I’ve though a lot about.
But I am now.
When did that happen?
How long will it keep happening.?
© 2024 j.g. lewis
Each line speaks in ever-present tense, past
shadows whispering still, amidst perpetual
foresight. Memories commence for a stanza
or two, if you are prepared to listen.
© 2024 j.g. lewis
As summer fades, as they always do, I took a moment yesterday to browse through photographs I’ve made over the past few months to remind myself where I have been living.
This will be my last summer in Toronto, a city that has been home for a decade.
When I first arrived here, I began to spend many hours and days wandering the city with my camera, both as a means of familiarizing myself with this huge metropolis and also refamiliarizing myself with camera skills I had not been using as much as I should have. I was inspired by new landscapes and the sheer magnitude of the city’s size, and over the years have indulged in the street photography that was available for me.
This past summer, as I’ve been focusing more on other aspects of visual art, I did not venture out with my equipment as often as I should have. Still, I found some time to capture images of the places and people in a city that now feels like home.
I have never been inside a safe injection site (I have no need) but regularly pass by one such place in my neighborhood. I do, however, see the signs everywhere because the activity that goes on inside these facilities spills out onto the street.
Discarded needles along sidewalks and city parks are, at times, as obvious as dog shit and encampment tents.
This city has long had an illegal drug problem. I hesitate to call it a crisis as it is only one plank in the many issues of poverty, homelessness, and crime that we live with in the reality of Toronto. It is more than it is, and too much for this city council to handle.
A recent announcement by our provincial government has, again, brought the existence of safe injection sites to the top of concerns discussed and debated. The Tories intend to close more than half of the 17 existing locations in this province in short order. They, instead, have a multi-million-dollar concept to better care for the addicted and afflicted.
The government have been working on this plan after a review of safe injection sites sparked by the shooting death of a young mother last summer. The woman, walking home with groceries on a sunny afternoon, was caught in the middle of a shootout between rival drug dealers who operate near one of these “safe” sites.
This provincial government has long avoided dealing with the drug crisis. There has been talk of, for some time (but no action), increasing rehabilitation centers to help people get off the drugs they rely on. Through the years both overdoses and fatalities increased exponentially.
The Ford government’s announcement, it says, is designed to stop all that.
Problem is, this is a Conservative government who cannot keep emergency rooms open, sustain a necessary number of hospital beds, and have not provided either enough mental health supports or rehabilitation facilities, nor shelter beds or social housing.
So, all these planned closures in favour of proposed HART HUBS — ‘Homeless and Addiction Recovery Treatment’ — is so suspect. There are currently no options in place so the closure of these existing facilities by next spring will result in more overdoses, more deaths, and increased pressure on an already overtaxed emergency services system. Ambulances and paramedics are now run ragged.
It is a problem with costly solutions we are still not sure will work.
The city is unsafe in so many ways — gun violence, poor planning and traffic congestion leading to increased deaths of cyclists and pedestrians — and now this.
City council is financially unable to deal with what is before us due to both the financial mismanagement of the past and its current need or desire to spend much-needed capital on attracting events like FIFA soccer in a few years. There is a focus on bringing visitors here, instead of caring for those who call this place home.
Some city councilors are paying more attention to the issues than they ever have before; some are grandstanding you might say (I do), but the action is mainly (and rightfully) criticizing other levels of government rather than doing what is needed.
Yes, it is a multi-level issue requiring a multi-pronged approach, but nobody is dealing with any of these issues deeply enough or quickly enough.
And, so far, death on the street is the final and finite result. We need action, not simply reaction.
© 2024 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.
