I dropped into a record store the other day, as I am prone to do, for no particular reason other than looking around and listening. This has been a habit of mine for decades.
   I’m always on the search for new music, or I’m searching for five or seven particular albums that I have on a mental list: albums that need to be heard, or replaced, or rediscovered. Yeah, yeah, I know; I could probably spend a few hours online to find those exact titles I am looking for, but it goes against my nature (and this habit I’ve developed over the decades).
   I simply love the tactile experience of shopping for music. There is a thrill in flipping through the bins and being reminded of certain artists or certain songs.
I will admit I am especially fond of (even obsessed with) vinyl. I’ve got thousands of records, even after culling, selling, or passing on to my daughter (who has been genetically predisposed to my condition), but I also have boxes and boxes of compact discs I listen to frequently.
   In walking about the record store, I came across a young couple that had recently bought a turntable and were beginning to build a record collection (as seems to the fashionable thing to do these days). These were members of a generation even younger than my daughter, a generation who grew up with the compact disc, the MP3 player, and then streaming. I’ve got compact discs older than they were.
   Then I heard one to tell the other how much “better the music sounds on vinyl”.
   Given my druthers, I will admit my preference is for the classic 12 inch 33 1/3 LP, but it is not as much about the sound as it is for the packaging.
   The album cover — the paintings, illustrations, and the photographs — allowed you to hold in your hands a piece of art with history and lyrics, liner notes you could actually read (unlike the microscopic text on a CD sleeve).
   But I will argue that when it comes to music, the media or method of listening matters far less than the song itself.
   Music appeals to the senses, not just the sound. Listening engages a sensory perception as much as memory recognition.
   It’s not so much about how you hear it.
   Many of my all-time favorite songs I first heard on a transistor radio, or the dashboard delight of my parent’s car.
   The Doors song Riders on the Storm, on compact disc, or re-mastered vinyl still does not sound as good as it did in my Dad’s station wagon on a rainy night of driving on a summer vacation in 1972.
   Or listening to Rush on a friend’s 8-track on the drive to high school. I’ve listened to earsplitting heavy metal on a crappy stereo at mind-numbing volume, and through the tape hiss and crackling speakers it still sounded damn amazing.
   I’ve been collecting records since I was 12. I have since replaced Alice Cooper’s Killer with a re-mastered issue on 180-gram vinyl and, like everybody else, first replaced many of my early album favorites on compact disc when that media came alive in the mid-80s.
   And yes, I lived with the bright, crystal clear (yet compressed) reproduction of the sound and enjoyed the convenience of the shiny silver disc in the car and at home. Quite frankly, I truly enjoyed not having to get up from the sofa every 21 or 22 minutes to flip the record over.
   I also enjoyed the convenience of listening to cassettes in my Walkman or in the car. Come to think of it, much of the music I listened to in my early life blared from a magical cassette system in my Subaru, where album after album, or song after song, had been diligently recorded onto the convenient 90-minute tapes (remember those mixed tapes we used to make?).
   But I’m still not sure I can fully endorse one method of listening over another.
There is so much memory attached to many of our favorite songs; where we were, whom we were with, and the reminders of the concerts and clubs we saw those bands at; all important details in the life of a song. The greatest music is etched into our soul.
   I love the snap, crackle and pop on some of my vintage vinyl as much as I thoroughly enjoy the complete playback of an album that is allowed with a compact disc. Actually I prefer my classical music on CD (even my jazz) because of the clarity and dynamics.
   Still, you have to admit there is that certain satisfaction with the time-tested turntable. Perhaps it’s the excitement (or is it anticipation) that builds up in those seconds between the needle dropping on the record’s groves before the guitar chords of that one particular song or album brings it all to life..
   I won’t say that music sounds better on vinyl, perhaps it just sounds more authentic.

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.

© 2017 j.g. lewis

 

 

I’m tired of the flimsy arguments, disjointed facts, blatant lies and conspiracy theories surrounding the COVID-19 vaccine. I’ve had my fill of the ludicrous claims and insipid internet-inspired insensitivity of the anti-vaxers.

I’m getting my third shot today; another jab; a booster, if you will.

It’s necessary: that’s what the science says. Quite frankly, that’s good enough for me.

Thunk about it.

One year ago we were firmly set in the second wave of this coronavirus in Canada. There was a major lockdown in Ontario with businesses shuttered and movement was restricted. The only hope, then, was a vaccine which was finally administered here late last December.

During this period, and beyond, most of us masked up, diligently remained socially distant, and stayed home. What has happened since then provides overwhelming proof that vaccines work.

In my country — in my province particularly — we have witnessed the COVID-19 case count and the corresponding death rate drop considerably and substantially since the vaccine(s) were introduced and more and more people have been vaccinated.

With Ontario cases now edging upwards (again) with the spread of the Delta variant, the cases are mainly among those who have not yet been vaccinated. . . or those who refuse to be vaccinated.

They have just begun vaccinating the 5 to 11 age category in this country, and all that can do is help us reach the herd immunity that will help counter the herd mentality of the ignorant and unknowing who have decided this whole pandemic thing is a hoax.

I’m not interested in hearing any more of the bullshit. This virus is deadly.

I’m getting my booster shot today and expect I’ll get another one in a year’s time. I’m almost convinced it will be like the flu shot I’ve been getting every year (including this one).

I have been vaccinated, as required, for any disease science deemed worthy of a vaccine since before I could make that decision for myself.

I consider myself fortunate to have access to vaccines throughout my lifetime; especially today.

It’s a moon, only a moon; one of many moons
in this incomprehensibly immeasurable universe, but
it is the Moon we know. It is the one we identify with.
Burning more brightly than it has in decades,
people are talking like they’ve never before noticed.
Light reflecting, radiance filling the space
that is our darkness. It has always been there.
We all stare up. We wonder. You never wonder
like you do under a full moon. In awe of the light,
we seek out contentment
but do we consider what it illuminates?
Not all of it is good.
There is far too much bitterness, and shouting.
All this blame and shame. It is ugly and unnecessary,
fodder for gossip and hatred, and worse.
Nightfall is a blessing, as much as a curse. The issues
that separate us are still there at dawn.
Many times we use the blackness as an excuse to
ignore what is not always visible. We close our eyes,
hoping our problems disappear. They wait for morning,
perhaps magnified. It’s brighter, harder to ignore
what you forget, or neglect, or abhor.
Is there a message in the Moon, all this light, and
what it might be saying? It comes at a time
when we need to listen, and take a closer look
at all that surrounds us. The Moon
casts its gentle wisdom; it does in any phase.
It does not have to be full to have a purpose.
The courage is there. Always. Chose to see what
needs to be done, what has to be said. Shine on.

 

©2016 j.g.lewis

 

 

 

 

 

We want to know what
we don’t know, or hadn’t thought of,
or forgot.

What mattered then,
or what mattered when, shifts over time.
We notice.

Perception is what you don’t see.
Deception is what know.
You see it differently through your aloneness.

The truth behind a lie,
you question how and why.
It made sense.

Anticipation keeps us waiting
for only so long. Will it matter
if you felt it never did?

 

© 2021 j.g. lewis