It’s popular, and it’s alarming.
   Plagiarism has become a bigger problem than ever, and more apparent as social media further casts its spell across every platform and screen. Instagram, Facebook, and Pinterest are all full of bright shiny examples; you see it all the time.
   It’s out there. It is trending.
   A disturbing, disrespectful act, plagiarism is stealing, passing off the ideas or words of another person as one’s own. Examples lack credit or attribution.
   I’ve called out a couple of people over the past few months for blatant misuse of quotes belonging to someone else.
   One person, a couple of times on her social media feeds, matched lovely quotes (including one by T.S. Eliot) with beautiful black and white photographs of herself.
   The combination looked great, but nowhere was the poet credited with the original genius.
   Another influencer — in a stylized format featuring her name and image — used the words of a popular motivational speaker. An earlier post, in the same branded format, featured a paraphrased quote by Toni Morrison.
   The Instagram post was made to look like influencer was the one offering up such compelling advice.
   It was so wrong.
   I sent a comment to the owner of the post (but not the words), informing her the quote belonged to someone else. “It’s great to be inspired, but share the credit,” I said.
   She quickly responded: “I had no clue it was him as it’s just a widely shared quote without his name.”
   See, that’s the problem; nobody does the research. Nobody takes the time to find the source of their inspiration. Nobody bothers.
   It’s sad because the same device used to create the post has the capability to trace the source of the statement. A Google search is so easy.
   Attribution is important. Behind every quotable quote is a writer, an artist or musician, politician or fortune cookie philosopher who laboured over the correct phrasing or came to them in a flash of brilliance.
   They deserve the credit for the deep thought or clever observation. But, these days, they don’t get it.
   Now, I’m not saying that the people I called out are not capable of such profound thought, but it seems they don’t even try. One of them, by simply taking a phrase that has already made its rounds on the Internet, shows how little she was trying to come up with eye-catching content.
   It’s really too bad.
   Plagiarism is a despicable, duplicitous act. It is ethically wrong, morally reprehensible, spiritually bankrupt, and grounds for dismissal in the halls of academia. It should be a source of shame to anyone who seriously commits such a tasteless endeavor.
   Plagiarism is fraudulent, leaves little to the imagination, and corrupts the concept of free thought. No matter how brave and bold the original work was, it becomes empty of its meaning when it is bastardized.
   I’m not saying that every time you plagiarize a kitten dies, or another COVID-19 variant is released unto the world, for it is more serious than that.  Each time you claim the words of others as your own; you dilute the original message of a fellow human being. At the same time, you weaken your own content.
   Be creative. If there is a point you are trying to make, or you are attempting to inspire or provide insight, use your own words (or give credit where credit is due).
   If you chose to pass along an inspiring quote, be inspired yes, but provide attribution (and don’t just hide it deep down in your content).
   Show you know who said it.
   Show you know what you are talking about.
   Show that creativity is more than a pretty picture and a few happy words
   Show the true worth of the words.
   You’ll feel better about it.
   Believe in yourself, and others will believe it too.
   Be authentic.
   Be you.

 

© 2021 j.g. lewis

 

I struggled with it. Yesterday, when the flow was right and each letter appeared to be
falling into the correct order, and as each word seemed to propel me along, I stopped.

A dead stop, an unmitigated stop. An unintended stop; it was more than a pause, more
than a period. A stop, a full stop; a debilitating stop.

One word.

One word was all that was stopping me from continuing with a deeply personal poem I’d
been working on. It was a one-syllable word at that.

I didn’t want to use it.

I searched for alternatives, but nothing else worked. Not one other word, or a series
thereof, could substitute for the word I had used. No other word could convey the rage, or
the frustration, in the exact way this word did.

Fuck.

The F word: it’s one of those words. It’s one of those words that traditionally raise
eyebrows. It’s one of those words you are told, as a kid, you shouldn’t say. It was a bad
word. I remember my brother said, “fuck”, one time, in the company of my parents. It
was the only time. I recall Mom’s eyes bugging out, and Dad always had that look when
he turned angry. I learned then I wasn’t going to make the same mistake, ever. Fuck, no
way.

Yes, its one of those words, one of those fucking words there are really no replacements
for, certainly in certain circumstances and depending, of course, on its usage. Check you
thesaurus; in many or most (probably all) there are no offerings. I’ve got Roget’s Super
Thesaurus 4th Edition on my desk, and it’s not in there. It’s not even offered as a
synonym under ‘intercourse’ (which casts doubt upon the book jacket’s “Amazingly
Comprehensive” claim).

I don’t use it often, not as often as I should or feel like (more in dialogue than
description), and it really has lost its shock appeal; you hear it often in movies and music.

It’s one of those words.

It’s one of those words that has been censored, avoided, painted over, hushed, and stifled for generations. It still appears on public broadcaster’s list of words you cannot say on the
airwaves. It’s one of those words that will get bleeped out. It’s one of those words that
would get your mouth washed out with soap, or get you sent to the principal’s office. It’s a bad word.

It’s one of those words there are no real replacements for, like ‘peace’ (and I realize the
folks at Roget have listed a handful of options for this word but, when you think about it.
there are no synonyms, not in the true sense of the word).

Now fuck is in the dictionary, noun and verb (Oxford here). ‘Sexual intercourse’, ‘mess
about’, ‘fool around’, and, ah, there it is: ‘expressing anger’ (I knew it fit into what I was
writing). It’s no longer listed as slang, as it once was, but it is listed as “A highly taboo
word.”

Come on, fuck off: “highly taboo”?
It might have been taboo, at one time, like even before my Grandparents were
procreating. Yes, there are times when the word just doesn’t seem appropriate (but they
did, by my calculation at least four times), but these days most everybody uses the word,
from politicians to sweet little Grade 3 students, and their mothers.

You hear it all the time; sometimes it is not well used, and other times it is placed
properly. A lot of times it’s as common as ‘um’ or ‘uh’ or ‘like’, like, you know, like,
like that (and I’m sure you do).

It is a word that means so much, and can say so much. It is a word like love (and if you
love, you are probably going to fuck, but you don’t have to love to fuck then it’s just sex
and if it’s just sex then you are going to fuck a lot . . . but I digress).

I’ve heard fuck described as the Swiss Army Knife of words: a word for all purposes
(perhaps not all occasions). It’s so utilitarian, with many functions. It describes rage (fuck
you) and joy or happiness (fuck yeah), sheer disappointment (oh fuck), sexuality and
sensuality (depending on the accent), be it a mistake or a misfit (fuck up), and for a one
syllable word there are so many inflections which make it sound bigger.

It is a useful word, in the right circumstances, and it is a wholeheartedly purposeful word. Fuck is a great curse word. It could, or can I suppose, be a hurtful word. But there are
many and more hateful words in the vernacular that are publicly acceptable and are used far too often. I can think of words associated with any of the isms (racism, sexism,
fascism, capitalism) that I find more offensive, and you can say those words on television
and get away with it (it still doesn’t make it right).

It should probably be used more than it is, but it may never be. There are far too many
stigmas, stereotypes and old wives tales that will continue to silence the word. Sadly.
This world has made progress in so many ways. Times have changed: women can vote
(at least on my continent), my gay friends can marry, and even prime time television
images can graphically illustrate the actions involved when fucking (they just can’t show
certain parts).

Still you can’t say fuck, not everywhere, not when you want to or need to. Not always.
It’s a bad word. Fuck.

But yesterday, despite my best efforts to find another, it was a good word.

It was the right word.

Fuck yeah.

© 2015 j,g, lewis

 

   mid-winter depression a state of mind
comes with the cold

               everything happens as it always has

       you felt it less
   when you were younger

          thinking less of who you are
    or what you had
                  and more of what comes next

     it is surreal
                  a time of the year
                  when you don’t want to believe
                  what you were led to doubt

                  days-old snow and salt stains
   suspended
                  as if nothing is happening

                remains of the days
   sediment of continual mistakes

the sentiment of our leftover pain

            with mean-spirited weather
                and the threat of more

                                     there is no warmth

 

© 2021 j.g. lewis

Lifeless mitten lays in wait. Abandoned, stiff
atop a crunchy snow bank. The sidewalk
passes by, unknowing. Throbbing red fingers,
a child’s frostbitten hand, shiver beneath a
coat sleeve. Somewhere. Seeking warmth,
comfort against winter’s harsh reality.

Unclaimed. A mitten separated from its
purpose. We all, young and older, leave
pieces of ourselves scattered throughout time.
Paperbacks, pens, sunglasses, yoga mats,
carelessly or accidentally discarded.
A laundromat sock with no mate.

Possessions or promises, more lost
than found. Feelings, emotions cast
astray. Hopelessly lost. A lone mitten,
pieces of ourselves. Where do we
go when a bit of us is missing, when
our purpose is unrealized?

Where then, when we seek warmth.
are we? Waiting to be reunited with
missing parts? Another hand to hold?
Another day. Our fingers still numb, the
lone mitten still there. The sidewalk
passes by. We remain incomplete.

It’s been a year since I last hugged my daughter.
One year.
I have never gone this long without feeling her touch.
We talk on the phone, send text messages and share photos electronically, or write letters (a lot). We communicate; we always have.
But since this whole coronavirus thing began, we have not seen each other.
It hurts.
We are close. We live a province apart, but with some frequency we manage to spend time together. I fly there or she flies here.
Our time together is spent visiting galleries, or catching a play or concert, or we shop for vinyl, always walking the streets and talking about whatever comes to mind.
What we do is not as important as who we do it with.
And there are always hugs.
Nothing feels like a hug from my daughter. It is full-bodied and so powerful it reaches down to my soul. It reminds me who I am, and cements the deepest, most significant relationship I have ever had.
I have been a father to my daughter longer than I was a son to my mother.
It is a touching relationship.
Now I know, right now, there are people who have gone just as long (or longer) without true contact with loved ones. I know there are people who live closer than we do, and they too have been unable to share a hug, a meal, or time with the significant people in their lives.
I feel for them.
Human beings are social creatures, meant to have contact with one another, and for a year now we haven’t been able to interact with people as it was meant to be: as it should be.
This virus continues to change the way we live our lives. I’m not sure how much longer this will last, or how I will continue to handle it.
Last fall, when we thought it might have been possible, I almost drove to see my daughter. It would take a couple of days, but I hadn’t really been anywhere for months and, let’s face it, I’d drive anywhere for a hug from her.
But, it really wasn’t safe to do so. COVID-19 cases, then, were on the uptick there and they weren’t getting any lower here. And we had to think about all those other people, and how this virus was being spread, and how we couldn’t chance it.
I would not want to knowingly spread this virus, especially to her.
So I stayed home.
And I’ve been here for a year without seeing my daughter face to face.
We still talk and text. We keep in touch, its what we do, but I could really use a hug.
I spoke with her yesterday. We talked about how long it had been, but more about how we knew we would again see each other when all of this is over.
We just don’t know when that will be.
That is the uncertainty of this pandemic. That might be the loneliest thing of all.