What can we do as we no longer touch?

When the handshake offers danger, and even a first bump comes too close, how can we — in this period of physical distancing — mark an occasion or relationship while we try to stay apart for safety sake?

Even a smile has lost its power as those of us who are COVID-19 cautious, courteous, and correct now shield their face with a mask of some sort (and if you are not, you should be).

And in this world (perhaps now more than ever) a wink carries certain undertones, while a nod is unnoticeable or not nearly enough.

I think its time to bring the peace sign back into favour.

The peace sign is easy. It says more than a wave, displays greater optimism than a simple thumbs up, and is there a better greeting, salutation or sign off than wishing somebody peace? I think not.

Peace: is there a better word? Couldn’t this planet use more peace?

I learned to flip the peace sign in the late sixties. To me, it came at a time when things were far out and cool. I saw it on television, if I remember correctly; perhaps during television coverage of the hippies and the flower children, or Woodstock, or from the media photos of John Lennon, Janis Joplin or Jimi Henrix. Peace out.

Everyone, at that time, was doing it, it seemed. Even the kids on my street, all of us under 10 and wondering, not knowing what it meant or anything about a counterculture, but if The Monkees were doing it, it was “cool” with us.

It should be now. Again.

Of course, we learned from our moms, dads, dads or teachers that the V symbol of palm out, two fingers up also meant victory, but it seemed we wanted to give peace a chance.

Decades later, I still do.

Peace.

 

Once a field, now a park,
once a sapling. Now a tree we only notice
when we want to.

Through years and decades; centuries
this city has grown around it, sucking up
its precious oxygen.

Burly limbs stretch out to shelter
in rains, shade from a sun growing
hotter each day .

Through years, decades, and centuries.
We notice only when
we want to.

© 2020 j.g.l.

   Summer doesn’t speak;
it whispers a conscious melody
to high-heeled fashionistas with open toes,
sunburnt brats with runny noses, and
old men who know
evening air is sweeter
when dusk has had its way.     Humidity.
Sweat of the glass,
                               Tanqueray and tonic
will take away the pain,
Mosquito bites, lonely nights
sitting on an ever- creaky veranda,
Dinah Washington crackles from the speaker.

Suddenly you appear. . .

   Any other day
flowers stand taller, like
the younger women strolling by,
getting younger by the day.
Watch them
                       and wipe
the perspiration from your brow;
the once-crisp handkerchief has
soaked up many nights of lustful thoughts.
Old men just grow older,
the meaning comes with age.     Humility.
Summer lasts as long
as a savings account wastefully spent.

Then you are gone. . .

   Over time
most of the flowers will perish
well before first frost,
mostly from neglect.     Naturally.
We will all grow tired
of looking at them,
                                or forget the beauty.
Our minds go to other places.
Yet summer, in its capricious wisdom,
will breathe again
to those of us who will listen.
To young women
and older men.

© 2018 j.g. lewis

*selected lyrics from Invitation.
Written by Bronislaw Kaper/Paul Francis Webster,
the jazz standard was memorably recorded
by Dinah Washington in 1962. Has desire ever
been captured more sensually in a musical state?

We are, right now, captive in a moment where we are questioning everything we have known.
   All of us want answers.
   Too many of us have been isolated for too long. We now doubt everything from our faith to our practices, our governments, science, and each other; even those we are closest to.
   More so, we question ourselves and will continue to do so as long as this pandemic threat continues.
   We are tired of the distance. There is a gulf between what we used to know and all we can’t understand.
   We no longer trust. We can’t.
   We haven’t bottomed out (not yet), financially, morally, or spiritually but we don’t even know how close we are. We cannot know how deep this well runs, nor can we feel how empty it is.
   We have lost touch.
   We lack human contact. We are tired of looking at everything from a distance.   We have lost perspective.
   We have grown tired of waiting. We are tired of wanting.
Each of us is questioning where we are, what we have, and when we will get out of this mess.
   There is no answer. Sadly, we wouldn’t believe it if there were.
   Nothing is normal.
   When will this end?
   Will we go back to the way things once were?
   Do we go back to what we were doing (can we go back) or will we allow our thoughts to wander. Can we wonder?
   Can we still dream?
   Are our dreams relevant? Are there some dreams we’ve held onto which can no longer be salvaged?
   I have no answers.
   I have no more questions than the next human. My voice is restricted to what I know, and I’m not even sure if there is value in knowing any more.
   I no longer understand.

It’s 9:23 a.m. on Wednesday. The street is not silent as cars and bikes stream by on this hot summer morning..
   A young woman sits quietly on a metal bench in the shadow of the condominium across the street, knapsack across her lap and lighter in hand, the small flame heating up whatever she has in her hand. An older guy stands over her, looking down, syringe in hand, oblivious as I walk by.
   The street corner is littered with take-away coffee cups, plastic bottles, bags, blue straps and used syringes.
   This has become a common street corner scene in downtown Toronto.
   Last Sunday, about 8:30 p.m., I watched one man help another man find a vein on the same sidewalk bench, and then stick a needle in his arm.
   Sure enough, the needle was there the next morning, along with others.
   Sadly Sunday evening’s scene was 50 steps away from a safe injection site that offers supervised drug injection by harm-reduction workers. The facility was open at the time, but this did not make a difference to these users.
   It’s sad that any addiction has come to this point.
   It is even sadder that those who chose to use do so on city streets where the remains of their deeds are tossed away in places people, children, and dogs walk regularly.
   There is evidence of hard drug use on these streets pretty much each day. Used syringes are becoming as common as discarded facemasks. I often phone 311 and provide a description and coordinates, often more then one needle at a time, in several different places.
   The next day those needles, or hypodermic syringes, may not be there, but others are.
   Daily I walk these streets, usually early morning when there are fewer people out and about. Social distancing is easier. Daily exercise is necessary.
   Each day I become more concerned for my safety and for that of my neighbours.
   When the safe injection site opened, much was said about this facility making the streets safer.
   What we have seen is an influx of traffic.
   The streets are not safer; not for those who pass by.