Mythos & Marginalia

2015 – 2025: a decade of days

  • Sending Holiday Cheer

    Year after year, for what seemed like weeks and weeks, my mother used to sit at the dining room table and write Christmas cards to friends and family.

       It was correspondence she enjoyed. It was a practice she was diligent about maintaining.

    Some of the cards were addressed to faraway places, other envelopes were stamped and sent to houses right down the street.

      It was her way of sending holiday cheer.

    Mom had a list she would update as required, or when a card from somebody else would arrive with a new address. Any change of address notice that had arrived throughout the year would be checked against the list to ensure accuracy.

      Each card was a handwritten. There were no photocopied form letters, and rarely was there a family photograph; it was just her beautiful handwriting.

      This was her way of telling people that all was well in the Lewis household, and her way of letting others know they were in her thoughts.

      I did not realize the true value of one of these cards until after I had moved away to another city and received one in the mail. The warmth of the season was abundantly clear. A Christmas card extends the spirit.

      I have been nowhere near as diligent with my holiday cards. I went through a few years where I didn’t send any at all. Through a few moves I’ve misplaced addresses, or lost contact with many people on my list (I’m not particularly good at keeping up with lists, or friendships in some cases), and we move around more frequently now than we did decades ago.

      It takes a little more effort to keep up with faraway friends.

      I’ve been trying a little harder over the past few years to re-establish my personal practice of sending cards. I sent off a few yesterday, and will write a few more throughout this week. I intended on starting earlier, but I’m a little behind. . . or perhaps that is simply a convenient excuse.

      I haven’t been in touch with some of the people on my list for a while (or longer), but now is a good time, I think, to make contact.

    Writing a Christmas card takes very little time, and too much time has already passed between some people.

     

    © 2018 j.g. lewis

     

    © 2018 j.g. lewis

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  • Arbitrary Illusions

    Daily we make up our lies with
    pieces of the truth, indemnifying
    ourselves from the current reality.
    Hesitancy takes time, various stages
    of indecision come back to hinder.
    Arbitrary illusions provide a depth
    only the imagination will grant.
    Seize the moment, the inspiration,
    in the obvious unaccounted for.
    Can you face up to the falsities?
    Time heals all wounds, but only if
    you loosen the bandages, only if
    you believe you have been hurt.

    © 2022 j.g. lewis

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  • Where Is Here

    In any language, a scream is a scream,

    a cry is a cry, and a tear

    a tear.

    At a sidewalk café or concert hall,

    laughter should be laughter, and music

    should be heard. In a civilized nation,

    life should be lived without fear,

    and with the freedom

    to enjoy simple pleasures,

    to give, and to love, as we do.

     

    Think not of them, idealistically, but

    of you and of me. Life, and our

    civil lives,

    now compressed to fight or flight.

    In any language, on any night,

    thoughts remain

    bursting with pain, the

    shadow of terrorism rising

    again. In every country, our hearts

    have been crushed.

     

    Restless night, clouded by sorrow and

    the news. The images, and views,

    the questions,

    the why, and why there. Again,

    why? Knowing, without question,

    it could be anywhere. The streets are

    not safe, not tonight, in any country.

    Where is here. You cannot see, or

    comprehend inhumanity. Not on

    that scale, or of that type.

     

    In every language, evil lurks, unexpectedly

    displaying its brutal cowardice. We cannot

    be shocked,

    for it happens, on so many levels,

    in so many countries, to many people

    on too many streets. Blood is blood.

    Knives at home, elsewhere guns

    or worse. We see it. We know it.

    Yet, on a global scale, our minds

    are numb.

     

    Hatred begets violence, justice benign

    against those who chose to

    use themselves

    as weapons of destruction. We

    are not safe, not there, not here.

    These damaged souls believe

    in what they believe; wholly

    and without question.

    If there is no understanding,

    there is only resistance.

     

    Prayers, or a hymn, cannot be offered to

    unbelievers, for they will not, or chose not,

    to listen.

    Guided by spirits, their Gods, and dictators

    who know nothing but this atrocious devotion

    to another type of mankind. Historically

    and now, they cannot know love

    or recognize the value of

    a human life. For they

    cannot be human.

     

    Grieving, raging, and still, beneath our

    confusion, above our cries for revenge

    or retribution,

    lies a love, unpronounced but unfolding.

    A heartbeat, sympathies and empathy

    to the powerless struggles,

    in every language. We, as a civilization,

    in any nation, must stand

    united in our sense of humanity,

    and do so with a fortified will.

     

    We must continue believing in love,

    and hope, charity, and trust,

    and peace.

    Right now, however, there is so little

    to those words. We must have faith,

    in what we believe, in every heart,

    in every body. Difficult to imagine,

    but we must. To deny

    this resurgence of compassion

    is to give in to all this terror stands for.

     © 2015 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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  • A Shadow Only Follows

    I wish to leave
    my shadow behind,
    no longer
    do I require a reminder
    of where I am.
    Translucent darkness
    with rough edges, its ability
    to stretch the truth
    serves no purpose.
    I am tired of its lazy ways,
    the constant need
    for attachment
    and a deviant reflection
    of where I stand.
    Never knowing
    its own direction, this shadow
    has seen too much of me,
    hiding when I could
    use support,
    believing it knows me
    all too well, and carrying
    the scent
    of my scattered past.
    A shadow only follows,
    more suitable for
    someone else to hide away.
    Darkness,
    I’m not going there.
    I see the light.

    © 2017 j.g. lewis

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