Mythos & Marginalia

life notes between the lines and along the edges

  • unrealized intentions

    Imprints we leave on this planet, not always obvious, at times
    apparent to so few. Each impression, even those certain to wash
    away or be trampled upon by others, remains long past a fickle
    expiry date. We call into question our rites and responsibilities,
    some of which, or will be, the reason for continued depletion of
    a world greedily inherited. Borrowed time. We need have less
    of ourselves in the physical realm we leave behind. Walk softly.
    Speak loudly. To acknowledge our failings, try as we might to
    discourage unhealthy practices and advise those who we can and
    those who will follow: humanity depends on far more than words.
    Take action. Rage on; you may curse and wake the neighbours, or
    scream until you are hoarse. Scornful lamentation expected now,
    of course, considering we have clogged all our rivers with shit and
    oil, and acid rain. Our skies flush with tactile toxins, ozone long
    forgotten, we do it again and again. How have we not listened or
    learned? Again, walk softly but speak loudly. Let someone else
    know someone cares. Hypocrisy is not based in obvious honesty.
    Beyond reckless integrity there lies responsibility. Grief. Guilt,
    we are all to blame; again, part of this life’s shame. Politics deny
    and deceive, as much as the many men speaking lies; any wonder
    we are in this mess made up of unrealized intentions? To change,
    as the climate has, we can ill-afford a cautious stance. There shall
    not be a second chance, not again. We’ve wasted time, our breath,
    a planet now inching close to death. Cocksure conspiracy theories
    be damned, so little time to spare if we don’t react now. Speak up.

    © 2022 j.g. lewis

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  • Always

    Your whisper fair warns us, yet still

    we are surprised. The calendar’s last page,

    and we are left feeling more. Always.

    Winter: a beginning comes near the end,

    while the end craves new beginnings.

    The longest season, physically, or

    spiritually. Consistency, year over year,

    over year, from one into the next.

    Cold, as it is darker. Light is appreciated,

    and necessary. We grow up knowing,

    the facts of this season. Always,

    our lives marked by winter.

    Time, and years, have become forgotten,

    but we are reminded. The soil

    and silence, frozen. Our insular existence,

    non-secular pain, wind-chafed emotions,

    a reminder again. We desire

    a warm touch; December, January or

    otherwise. Hope, as with autumn’s last leaf,

    dangling in a greater stillness.

    A confessional. Always. Dormancy

    until early spring, what we allow or when

    we embrace. Silence. Darkness.

    We need not be surprised.

    Impulse knows. We have been here before.

    ©2017 j.g. lewis

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  • Humanity and Homelessness

    Hourly we see the signs and statistics, daily and nightly, more than we need to and not as often as we should.
       We only see pieces, but never the complete picture.
       In an article a few months ago, the Toronto Star reported “an unrelenting increase in homelessness.” In one year, as of August, the number of actively homeless people in Toronto went from 8,479 to 9,724.
       More or less, at last count, give or take. The numbers are an underestimation of the crisis. Shocking and convenient, but how accurate can the assessment of an impermanent and transient population be?
       We see the problems daily, but not solutions. The politics of poverty hold much of the blame, but not the sole responsibility, and we see only pieces of the puzzle that don’t fit.
       There are social agencies, non-profit charities and church groups doing their damndest to stuff a finger in the dike. Lack of social housing, mental health issues some of us will never know (but we will know of), drug and alcohol addiction, and violence, all contribute to the flood they are facing.
       Our government, provincially, has confused homelessness with housing and its plans and promises going forward contain no real hope for unhoused, the unhealthy or the unholy, all out of luck, out of time, but never out of eyesight.
       On top of everything, inflation is climbing and the COVID-19 pandemic aftermath continues, as certain as it exists.
       Toronto’s shelter system, emergency or otherwise, is stretched to capacity. Nightly, as winter continues to come, the wicked winds leave little room for even the brave inside. Outside of overflowing shelters, the bold struggle to find a place in all-night coffee shops, cardboard upon cold concrete of tenement steps, or in tent cities that continue in city parks..
       It is a puzzle indeed, and not a pretty picture.
       Charity is a start, but it is never enough.
       Humanity hinders as often as it heals.
       How can we care for each other?
       Most of us have something to give, many of us have more than we ask for, while some of us can only ask because there is nothing left to give and even less to live for.
       This is the emotional ground that we walk on: daily, nightly, hourly.
       An incomplete puzzle, do we only see the pieces we want to see?
       Do we shield our eyes from that which makes us uncomfortable?
       Can we not consider the comfort of others?

    © 2022 j.g. lewis

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  • Sending Holiday Cheer

    Year after year, for what seemed like weeks and weeks, my mother used to sit at the dining room table and write Christmas cards to friends and family.

       It was correspondence she enjoyed. It was a practice she was diligent about maintaining.

    Some of the cards were addressed to faraway places, other envelopes were stamped and sent to houses right down the street.

      It was her way of sending holiday cheer.

    Mom had a list she would update as required, or when a card from somebody else would arrive with a new address. Any change of address notice that had arrived throughout the year would be checked against the list to ensure accuracy.

      Each card was a handwritten. There were no photocopied form letters, and rarely was there a family photograph; it was just her beautiful handwriting.

      This was her way of telling people that all was well in the Lewis household, and her way of letting others know they were in her thoughts.

      I did not realize the true value of one of these cards until after I had moved away to another city and received one in the mail. The warmth of the season was abundantly clear. A Christmas card extends the spirit.

      I have been nowhere near as diligent with my holiday cards. I went through a few years where I didn’t send any at all. Through a few moves I’ve misplaced addresses, or lost contact with many people on my list (I’m not particularly good at keeping up with lists, or friendships in some cases), and we move around more frequently now than we did decades ago.

      It takes a little more effort to keep up with faraway friends.

      I’ve been trying a little harder over the past few years to re-establish my personal practice of sending cards. I sent off a few yesterday, and will write a few more throughout this week. I intended on starting earlier, but I’m a little behind. . . or perhaps that is simply a convenient excuse.

      I haven’t been in touch with some of the people on my list for a while (or longer), but now is a good time, I think, to make contact.

    Writing a Christmas card takes very little time, and too much time has already passed between some people.

     

    © 2018 j.g. lewis

     

    © 2018 j.g. lewis

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  • Arbitrary Illusions

    Daily we make up our lies with
    pieces of the truth, indemnifying
    ourselves from the current reality.
    Hesitancy takes time, various stages
    of indecision come back to hinder.
    Arbitrary illusions provide a depth
    only the imagination will grant.
    Seize the moment, the inspiration,
    in the obvious unaccounted for.
    Can you face up to the falsities?
    Time heals all wounds, but only if
    you loosen the bandages, only if
    you believe you have been hurt.

    © 2022 j.g. lewis

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