Mythos & Marginalia

2015 – 2025: a decade of days

  • continued commitment

    There are now fewer pages left in my journal than there are days in this year.
       Perfect timing, really, for a new decade is approaching and I will begin the New Year with a brand new journal.
       I’ve been keeping a journal with solid regularity for well more than 25 years. 
       I had tried before, at different points in my life, to maintain some sort of journal, diary, or account of my life, but those attempts always ended up incomplete. The books got lost, or I got lost (or lost interest), or couldn’t really find the time.
       Life is often like that, you find it hard to find the time to do things you really want to do.
       It takes more than commitment; it takes continued commitment.
       My journals are full of life, as it happens. Trips, trials and tribulations, events attended, tales about people I’ve met; people who have died, people who left, and those who are still with me.
       It becomes personal history. For me.
       It is important to me.
       I write every day, but not always in my journal. I’ve got a several manuscripts on the go, in varying stages of undress, and there is something on this site every day. Then there is poetry, and letters to friends and family scattered across this amazing planet. 
       I write every damn day.
       The journaling is different, always by hand, always by pencil, I write both the consequential and inconsequential in my journal, as it happens and usually when it happens.
       Sometimes I will glue in an article from the newspaper, other times a postage stamp or concert ticket, or include a quote from somebody that has inspired me.
    It’s pretty random, at times it is messy (like life), at times my thoughts are not complete, but the journal has a purpose.
       This current journal is the second book I have filled this year. It began with a move back to Winnipeg and continues to describe weekends out and about as I continue to rediscover a city I thought I knew well. The pages are full of deep thoughts, random considerations, and memories of people, places, and music. 
       You learn a lot about yourself as you write, and you continue learning as you write. That is the value of a journal.
       Journaling is sort of like the quote I jotted down in one of my journal’s from the past:
         “Learn from yesterday, live
          for today, look to tomorrow,
          rest this afternoon.”
                             -Charles Schultz

     

    © 2019 j.g. lewis

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  • winter will

    Winter will come
    without warning, but 
    it is not unexpected.
    Winter will know when
    you are at your weakest.
    Winter will weaken 
    you further. Willingly.
    Winter will wait and 
    winter will know.
    Winter’s will arrives
    with spirit and snow.

    © 2019 j.g. lewis

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  • why is it so?

    Subjective or suggestive, visually,
    physically, experimentally accounting for
    a specific period of time.
    Inevitably art confronts the realities faced
    to the point where we are allowed a view
    beyond what is presented to why it is so.

    More complicated than mathematics, as
    simple as politics, lines converging into
    our present from past
    misunderstandings. Can you not see
    or hear the tonal range, words dripping
    from a page? Open your mind.

    A camera recording what is not always there
    but should be. Possibility or probability,
    classic or contemporary.
    This is art. Representational mystery,
    soothing reckless souls, enraptured and
    necessary to deal with the pain of life itself.

    © 2023 j.g. lewis

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  • trail of thought

    Even in this new day, as we only try to wake from the darkness that enveloped us, comforted or confused us, through the night; even as we give pause to immediate thoughts in the disquiet of the world, this city, this coffee shop (or wherever you find yourself). Even then (or now) as we struggle less and less with the inspiration and more and more with our intentions, we are never quite sure if we will find or have found the clarity we seek. It is naturally, even organically, a process we value, a practice we attempt, that is far less than pedantic and far more than studied. It occurs on its own, full of questions and comments, each random line on the page is purposeful if only because the pencil leaves a trail of thought and indications you are alive and wondering, at all times, as we should be… shouldn’t we? Let not the questions cast doubt on what you know, but instead observe where the answers take you. Surely you are alive enough to count yourself in? This is the pattern of life: to question, to observe, to make use of your time — in whatever manner — to express yourself beyond the boundaries of what you have been told. Is there a better reason to write every damn day?

    © 2022 j.g. lewis

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  • how does it feel from the inside

    Collar upturned, scarf scratching 

    against the skin, eyes tearing as furious winds 

    find their way, we protect ourselves 

    from the intermittently indifferent month 

    of November. As only we can.

    Atmosphere duly moistened 

    by pent up frustration in joys not found, 

    unfostered friendships, and decline 

    in the value of our self-worth, 

    deceit flows freely in these darker hours. 

    Our hardened hearts impervious 

    to even favoured words, we can hardly 

    hear ourselves speak, and better we not.

    Each question delivered during these days

    cannot summon an answer; even decisions 

    arrived at in November will wait.

    December, with its warmer spirit and

    delicate snow is then a softer month 

    for broken promises or shattered hearts.

    We count not the days, but tolerate 

    this month of indecision, our time instead 

    sorting out emotions, impositions, 

    and lack of interest. 

    How does it feel from the inside?

    The bitter cold slams against our silhouette, 

    while souls cry out for attention, admonition, 

    gentle hands or comfortable shoulder.

    Even young bones creak loudly against 

    this change of season. 

    Even old souls forever remember 

    the intolerable month of November.

    © 2021 j.g. lewis

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