We live now, and always have,
as hunters and gatherers.
Along our path we collect
small scraps of our being,
slowly assembling the quilt
that surrounds us.
Experiences, information,
or misguided moments and
memories become fabric
we wrap ourselves in. Lonely,
or cold, we search for a stitch
of humanity in threadbare
motives and flimsy excuses.
It is not always comfortable.
It is who we are,
not what we have become.

© 2020 j.g. lewis

A three-day weekend with not a lot to do, I spent a great deal of it shopping some of Toronto’s fine record shops. Yes, Record Store Day is a few months away, but it’s not like I need an excuse to search for some new vinyl.
   Nothing brightens a cold winter’s day like music.
   I had no specific music in mind, and I keep a list in my head (and on my mobile device) of rarities I’m always searching for; though some days you’ve just got to get out and search for something.
   Music is, and has been for most of my life, my strongest vice or addiction.
   I bought my first Bob a Dylan LP on the Monday. Yes, for the first time in 49 years of buying recorded music I finally bought a Dylan album. It was by no means a spontaneous decision. I’ve been thinking about buying this particular album for more than 40 years, since it was released in 1979.
   Slow Train Coming: I’ve heard most of it, at various times, in bits and pieces, on FM radio or at friend’s home. I’ve even picked up the CD a couple of times, at garages sales, thrift stores, or assorted clearance bins, but something else always captured my imagination.
   I always felt there was more worthwhile music than a Bob Dylan album.
   There’s only one other time I came remotely close to buying Dylan, and that was for the song Knocking On Heavens Door (from the Pat Garrett & Billy The Kid soundtrack), but I never bought it. I just couldn’t. Not for the song and mainly because of Dylan’s voice.
   No matter how introspective, or amazing, his songwriting was or is, I simply could not deal with a voice that is as annoying to me as Tiny Tim, Leonard Cohen, Siouxsie Sioux, or Brittany Spears.
   Yes, I realize now (and I supposed I always have) that Dylan is an icon. I’ve read about him in the pages of Rolling Stone for almost as long as I’ve been buying albums. I know the songwriter has few peers in his genre, or on the level of this popular musician, but I could not bother buying his music.
Besides, you could always hear his songs on many other albums by so many other musicians. I could fill a page with artists who have covered Dylan’s songs. Hell, I could fill a page with artists who have recorded Blowin’ In The Wind, or Mr. Tambourine Man. Or I Shall Be Released.
   Yes, he is that good a craftsman; I would never even joke about the man’s songwriting skills. Lyrically he is astounding; I mean, he did win a Nobel Prize for poetry in 2016.
   The man can’t sing (his voice can only be described as ‘honest), but he does have a certain place in rock and roll history. I became somewhat enamored with the guy about a decade ago when he had his own show on Sirus XM Satellite Radio. I’d tune in more regularly than I’d care to admit, and listen to the music that caught his ear, or what he listened to as a kid. I was often pacified by his storytelling abilities.
   I also enjoyed reading about his life through the eyes of Joni Mitchell and Robbie Robertson in either of their fairly recent autobiographies. Despite the occasional differences each of the musicians documented in the pages, there was respect for the man.
   I guess I finally acknowledged my respect for his talent by buying one of his records on the weekend.
   It was probably because I’ve always, sort of, kind of liked the song Gotta Serve Somebody. Maybe it was for the message itself?
   Maybe I’ve softened, maybe his voice is recorded a little better this time around (producer Jerry Wexler did have his soulful ways of working), or maybe it was Mark Knofler’s guitar work that had been calling to me (Knofler himself having been accused of a Dylan-esque voice when he came onto the scene with Dire Straits).
   Point is, music will often find a place in your life. It may be a new style, or band, or something from your past. Maybe it is a certain melody or lyric that brings forth an important  moment.
Or maybe, like the times, I am a changing.
Slow Train, I’ve come to realize over the past few days, is one damn good album. I probably should have bought it decades ago.

Never underestimate
the power of a six-buck bouquet, a
shared newspaper or gift of a pencil.
Simplicity. Given, without expectation.
Demand comes to all-too-easy in days
that move with unintended velocity
and mixed emotions.
To put a price on kindness is
to devalue a gesture or sentiment.
Everything comes with a cost, perhaps
even at a cost. You should not ponder
it’s worth, or yours. Words, at times,
are not easy. Acceptance can be difficult.

Remember to say thank you,
as you give or are given. Gifts
do not need to be boastful. Gratitude
need not be uncomfortable,
it should, however, be memorable.
We often forget kind words, flowers
after they have wilted. Tossed away.
Small blessings are not short lived,
there to remind us more of
who we are, Not what we have.
To receive is to give.
Acceptance is realization of truth,
or trust. Or thought. Remain thankful.

© 2020 j.g. lewis

Music: its always there; if you choose to listen.
  Whether through the radio, on your mobile device, car or home stereo, music is one of those things that makes or marks your time on this earth. Music adds colour and vitality to your life. It keeps you company when you are solemn or sad, can lift your spirits, or take the party to the next level.
  There is nothing else you can do, actively or passively, the same way as you can listen to recorded music. It can play while you read, or cook, or do housework or study. You can’t do that with the television.
  I grew up in a household where music was always playing; my mother made sure of that. The radio was always on. My first record was Alice Cooper’s Killer and I played it a lot (it’s what you do when you only have one record). As my collection expanded, so to did my musical taste(s). I like to think I only listen to good music; that my time spent listening was well wasted.
  I have, for nearly five decades, regularly, faithfully and passionately listened to music. It became more than a reason to spend my allowance or cash earned mowing lawns, washing dishes, or setting pins at the bowling alley.
  Absorbed in music and pop culture, I’d read about it in the pages of Rolling Stone as a teenager. Later I’d write about it myself in a weekly column in a daily newspaper for three years.
  I collected albums, and I still do
  I began to wonder (one of those things I often do) how much music I have listened to in my lifetime. Further; I wondered how much music I listen to in a single year.
  Last year I decided I’d keep track.
  I began keeping a list(s) of all the albums I would place on a turntable, slap into the CD player, or play on my iPod or mobile device. I tracked only albums I would play completely. If I skipped past one of those songs that I simply never liked (Mother on The Police’s Synchronicity immediately comes to mind), the album did not make it on my list. If I didn’t listen to the whole album while driving from there to here, or if I nodded off part way through, I also did not make the list.
  In total, I listened to 1,063 albums in 2019.
  I’m still not sure if that is a lot, or just average. Even if there were couple of albums I didn’t write down, it’s not even three albums a day. I do know there were days I listened to far more than that, and a few days I listened to no music at all, so I can’t be sure if last year was an average year. I do know none of it was average music.

We listen.
We speak.
We talk.
We exchange knowledge
and information.
We wait for a response.
We listen closely (most of the time)
to what others say, often
we feel the words.
We don’t, as often as we should,
say what we should.
We wait to hear recognition or acknowledgement
about who we are or what we have done, but
have we done all that we need to do, or all that
we could, to find the understanding
required of us?
We wait for answers to questions that come
without notice, without reason, without thought,
and still we want a thoughtful response.
We continue waiting.
What do we require?
We know not all questions have answers;
we have heard the silence. We know it well.
What do we need to hear, and know,
to feel whole, or present, or loved?
What do we do when the words don’t come?
What can we say to show we are there to talk, and
to listen. How should we respond when
we know we don’t always say what we mean?
We don’t say it like we mean it.
We speak.
We talk.
We listen.

© 2020 j.g. lewis