It can’t always be beautiful.

I have been reminded of this over the past couple of weeks as I make my way through a hard edit on a manuscript I’d like to think is near completion.

Comments in my editor’s overview, notes along the margin, and highlights throughout the pages are references to the word beautiful. Further remarks ask for further clarification, synonyms, or other ways of explaining what kind of beauty it was, or is.

Now I know I have a handful of go-to words I am continually trying to restrict in copy; words like just, as in it just fits or they are just words. I also use like a lot, like as in as if. Now is pretty common too, and I know it, when I speak of the now and when, or right now. . . or write now.

But never had I considered the word beautiful as one of my sticking points.

I enjoy beauty. I like what it represents, and how it feels. I like to believe everyone has an inner beauty, and as I’ve tried to find other words that can encompass so much, realize there are few that even come close.

It is a beautiful word. Unfortunately, it is a word I overuse.

In the never-ending edit, at certain points, I can come up with a phrase or description to paint the picture of what it means or why it was used but, when it comes down to it, there are few words you can replace it with.

Beautiful.

On my desk is Roget’s Super Thesaurus 4th edition (super being a word nowhere near as strong as beautiful) and it lists a dozen options, but the words won’t fit where I want them to go.

My Oxford dictionary describes the word as “a combination of qualities such as shape, colour, etc., that pleases the aesthetic senses, esp. the sight” and “a combination of qualities that pleases the intellectual or moral sense”.

It is a pretty lofty definition that demonstrates how so much worth can be squeezed into a single word. When one word can say it all I defer to Stunk and White’s most useful rule of writing (omit needless words), and in doing so I have come to accept beautiful as one of the most powerful words.

Beauty is a thing of wonder. I often look for, or see, beauty as a means of, perhaps, steering my attention from the sadness of a day, or an unsolvable resolution.

I have lived beauty, loved beauty, and have searched for, found, and photographed objects, scenes, and people with both an obvious or uncertain beauty. I look out for beautiful words; words I use whether writing a poem or a story. I hope what I write will read beautifully, flaws and all.

Beauty is subjective, at times hard to describe, because it is not always physical or tangible. You can see it, but also feel it, or taste and smell and dream it. It is as tactile as it is invisible.

That one word, or any derivative, can describe so much: a sunrise, scent, memories, the strains of a cello, my daughter’s voice or smile. It can also sum up the lyrics of a balled, that one particular movement of an utterly complex symphony, a painting, necktie, or a guitar lick by Ry Cooder or Jimi Hendrix

Beautiful can hardly even describe the words of Pablo Neruda’s soul-shaking, heart-stopping scripture of wisdom and honesty, and I am only reading translations. I cannot fathom the true splendor of the man’s poetry spoken in his native tongue, or how much more beautiful it would feel if I could read and understand Spanish

But that is beauty that I know, and I have known more, and others may see it differently. We have all witnessed, touched, dreamt, or admired beauty and each of us may describe it differently. Nonetheless, it is what it is

Perhaps that is why I’m having some difficulty rephrasing parts of the manuscript as I have to envision scenes that are not entirely my own. While I can alter my narrative, adjust the settings and circumstance on the page, I also have to rethink dialogue that fits each of the characters I have created. We all speak and think differently, as does each of the characters in the story.

In a passage where a character stands face-to-face with the object of his desire, what else would a middle-aged man say when presented with a naked body than: “You are beautiful.”

It’s not a particularly complex scene, and this man is not a particularly complicated character. I mean, he is a nice man, a humble man (a paramedic by vocation), perhaps even an ordinary man. He, in this instance, would impulsively use the first words that would pop into his mind.

He is a regular guy, certainly not a poet or a scholar, so he wouldn’t dig into his Shakespearean vernacular and come up with “Thou, in the flesh, lessens the starriest of skies, illuminating a wonder and glory of which I could never imagine.” Come to think of it, I, as a poet, in a moment like this, could only utter something as simple, and as meaningful, as “You are beautiful”, and not because it is one of my standard go-to words.

How else would a young woman emerging from her awkward teenage years, and one who lacks confidence yet wishes to be admired, explain to an artist her wish to be captured on canvas other than “I want to be as beautiful as your painting.”

I’ve tried to come up with natural, and fitting, dialogue for these same scenes over and over, and after deleting, and altering, and questioning, have put the words right back where they were.

Beautiful works when nothing else can.

Now I will continue to work on the manuscript, and I will search out and apply alternative phrases, words and descriptions, and I will not stop until I get it right.

But, in doing so, I will continue to see the beauty of the story as it unfolds.

We take this life not for granted, but one hour,
one day, moment by moment, not knowing when we
will no longer count. Displaced, you in your wisdom
continue the route among daily delusions and
deep-seated anonymity. Colours change,
green to amber, we rush ahead, instead of slowing
or stopping for the red and allowing traffic
to move along its hurried way.
Seldom still, we balance our lives on myth,
emotion and complications. The things we carry
become a burden.
Not often enough do we remove ourselves from the
concrete and corruption of a common urban existence
to seek comfort elsewhere; away
from city sounds we have become accustomed to.
Far away, there, where noise is noticed for
what it is, and mostly silence. Natural.
Birds, however small and hardly noticed, cry out
with intention and command our attention.
As autumn passes swiftly.
We take this time not for granted, but one hour,
one whisper, moment to moment, not knowing when
we began counting. At any point the weather will
take away the splendor we barely find space to absorb,
though we know we must.
Cold winds have been hesitant of late.
Call us fortunate, for now, yet not entirely.
We watch the sky, waiting for a sign, or a message;
one we may have been too stifled to observe.
Maybe the moon, as it shifts, with you beneath it, has
captured your fancy. You notice it more
in a nocturnal setting away from the day in
day out clamor of life, as you know it.
Each day given, each day taken,
should be an opportunity or reminder
there are lessons beyond this meaningful sky.
You pay less attention to the intangibles
and shadows of former thoughts.
We take this life not for granted, but one breath,
one season, moment upon moment, not realizing
how much it counts. We drift, not alone,
but separate among others.
© 2016 j.g. lewis

You may have missed it (it was pretty easy to miss) but last Saturday was International Cassette Store Day and, let’s face it, the outdated format hasn’t been making much noise for years.

At one point the tidy little package was even outselling the LP record, but both formats slipped into the ditch after the compact disc arrived on the scene.

Inspired by the resurgence of vinyl sales in past years and, of course, by Record Store Day (the third Saturday of April), a day celebrating the cassette was introduced four years ago by manufacturers of the once-popular music source.

But we shouldn’t expect cassettes to even come close to the renewed popularity of vinyl. The equipment required to play the tapes is not readily available, and the source itself was never that reliable to begin with.

The increase in sales of the cassettes in the ‘80s was spurred on by the equipment of the day. The Walkman (granddaddy of the iPod), big-assed boom boxes, and introduction of factory-installed stereo systems in just about every automobile promoted the portability of cassette tapes. You could take your favorite music with you (something so commonplace today, but difficult then).

Music never sounded as good on cassette as it did on LP, and the packaging had even less cover art and liner notes than a CD, but portability was the magic that popularized the format.

Yet, as portable as it was, magnetic tape never responded well to the elements and could easily be spoiled by exposure to sunlight and too much heat (conditions easily found in a locked car on an average July day). The small section of exposed tape in the actual cassette would, eventually, create some sort of problem. It was not perfect.

I was never a fan of store-bought, off-the-rack, pre-recorded cassettes, but will admit to a love affair with the blank tape. It was there, on a blank 90-minute TDK, that I would be allowed to create mixtapes from the thousands of records I owned.

A mixtape was a self-made product where you would pick and choose the correct music for the moment. A mixtape was created for yourself, or shared with and given to family, friends, and lovers.

A mixtape was all about you; it showed what you were listening to, where you were emotionally, and what you were feeling at the time.

It reflected time.

Now you couldn’t just slap a bunch of tunes on a tape and call it effective. I mean, it would do (sort of) but to create the perfect tape (well, really any mixtape at all) took time. It wasn’t like today’s assortment of digital downloads, and iTunes, where a few keystrokes and a couple of minutes could result in a playlist. No, to create the perfect mixtape took time. Real time.

To record a mixtape took even more time than 90-minute tape you were working with. You had to set recording levels for each song, and master the pause/play button. You had to know, to feel, which song would work next, or when you would add the right song into the mix. You could easily spend a couple of hours creating a tape, but it was worth it every second.

Sometimes your selection of tunes would be radically changed because the vibe of a certain song spontaneously reminded you of another song from the year or decade before. It was more about feeling than format, and as you built up the playlist it would go back and forth through genres as you explored album after album trying to create the perfect mix.

On my mixes you might find Rickie Lee Jones or Patsy Cline next to The Clash, Talking Heads behind Television, or The Who followed by (Winnipeg bands) the Mongrels, Les Pucks, Harlequin, or Popular Mechanix. The Doors might play before or after Pearl Harbor & The Explosions, The Police, or Bruce Cockburn. It was what you did to fill the time you loved with what you loved.

You could do that with a mix tape; create a world you wanted to listen to past the then-boring radio of Brandon, and outside the reach of Winnipeg’s CITI FM.

In creating the playlist, you created the tempo, and I have made hundreds of tapes for myself and friends; music to drive to, music for running, music for sleeping, being, or dancing.

Mixtapes provided something more than music, they offered a feeling you just can’t get from a streaming service or computer-generated playlist based on past listens and likes.

A mixtape was organic, and now it is nostalgic.

Come under my blanket, literally or metaphorically.
Share my words, and time, beneath this moonless sky. Breathe
deeply. There is warmth here; we have a place to discover,
to dream, and to make this world a little smaller.

You are not like me. Obviously. The voice is foreign. Your skin
is different; or maybe it is mine. But let’s put those differences
on the table and sit, as equals, as strangers, as humans, under
the canopy of night, united by what makes us the same.

How different can we be? You are here. So am I. Should we all
not be allowed a place for art, for dancing, and dialogue, and
just allowing things to happen. Shouldn’t this city, this place
of all places, allow for a naturally-occurring random acts of belonging.

We belong here; we are all here, more likely than not strangers.
Regardless of where we come from, or where we have been,
there are more commonalities than differences. There has to be,
we are the same. We are all right here. Right now.

Can you let go of what you are used to? Can you imagine
becoming comfortable with the uncomfortable? Can we
as a species, as a people, as a force, take back the negativity
that exists outside this blanket? Can we try?

Communication, unhindered by race, or faith, or morals and
mindset, should be the easiest way to absolve the madness
that occurs daily on this planet. If poetry is the language,
it matters less about the accent and more about the intent.

You have a voice, and it is lovely, and unique, and has
a purpose. Speak up. Share, let others know how you feel, and
what you deal with daily, weekly, and now. You belong.
Come under the cover, and make room for others.
© 2014 j.g. lewis

Thank you Maziar Ghaderi, for the opportunity of performing in Korsi at The Gardiner Museum during Toronto’s Nuit Blanche last Saturday. Korsi, a reinterpretation of the Iranian tradition, truly fostered a sense of belonging.

           Should I stumble, as I am most certainly to do, pay no attention
        to the rip on my trousers, or swollen bruise on my knee. I have many
   more scars,     and they have become a better part of who I am.     As if
       character marks on the surface of the antique table, or the
 cumulative incidental nicks and scratches on a ’61 Telecaster
                                    lessen the intended beauty and purpose.
       If I fall, and you discover me in the gutter, I will not need assistance
 returning to my feet, but would appreciate
        a hankie to dust off my skin, and perhaps a fresh bandage
        to mask the blood spilling from within.
              When, at a street corner, I seem stalled or uncertain, please
              pass me by. There is no need for directions, as
   I am probably just deciding if it is choice or a chance. We come
   across many paths, and they all move forward. I have an idea
 where I am going, and might later become sidetracked,
     or choose a cross street. You would be best thinking
     I will someday find my destination, than feeling you had led me astray.
 It’s not that I am above asking if uncertain, but
                           I would find it more purposeful
 to step ahead unknowingly, than to have you feel a burden
 or responsibility.
                     Should we cross paths again, and you find me in repose, or
           a terminal state of confusion, you would be better off continuing
 along the cracked sidewalk. It is not that I wouldn’t enjoy the company,
 it’s just that I cannot answer your why. Share a smile, however.
                                                 I do collect moments, as souvenirs,
                                  and what better way to remember anybody
                                                than to know you shed a little light.
                        Later, when you catch sight of me in a park; on the bench;
                 under a tree, near that fountain, with my camera, or a journal,
        please leave me to my silence. Know that poetry
 is having its way with me, and I have already shared
 the crusts of my sandwich with the pigeons.               Generosity comes
                 in many forms, and I am grateful for each of life’s experiences.
      As you take in this fresh autumn chill, do not be concerned
      for my welfare. I will find the warmth, as I always do.
 Yet, should you feel cold, or uncomfortable, do not hesitate taking
 my sweater to cover your shoulders.                             The garment,
 like me, may be tattered and frayed, but in it you will find comfort.
              Return it to me when it is no longer useful.     I have others.
      If I were to unexpectedly bump into you at the market,
            and we are as surprised then as we had been when,
                           remember how we once shared something,
                                 and we are both better off because of it.
                                                     We were not strangers, not then, not now.
© 2016 j.g. lewis