What are we: seven, eight days into a federal election in Canada? I’ve lost count.

Already I’m sick and tired of the dubious and deceitful nature of party politics and the inglorious leaders marching their sheep into battle.

You see, in Canada at least, elections are no longer about the candidate, but the cause. Voters have only one vote, and the person elected is only now recognized as a digit in the grand total that will put one person (one party) into power.

There were, perhaps, days — and it may well have been long before I could vote — when you could count on the local candidate to support and defend the constituency they were elected to represent. In those days, perhaps, honest people did honest work. Honestly.

Now, I realize this may sound like an old man ranting about how things were in the old days, but I suppose I’ve accepted that I am older now, and I’ve grown tired of the same old song.

Federal elections and — to a (marginally) lesser extent — provincial elections, have become routine. It’s the same old thing, over and over again; from the structured spin a party delivers in over-hyped platforms, to the manner in which the media will cover a campaign race.

It is a system where reporters follow around the chosen ones, waiting for crumbs to be dropped at structured points along the campaign trail. Access to the leaders, or the candidates, is regimented or, at times, non-existent. Every aspect of the branded campaign is designed to be strategically introduced during heavily choreographed presentations rather than addressing true societal concerns in a timely matter.

It’s all about controlling the narrative.

Political parties will respond only to their own polls. Politicians will only provide prepared answers. Politicians will only repeat the same answers. Reporters are given no time for follow through. It appears as if some reporters have no interest in follow-up.

It is a flawed system that counts on the electorate not caring or not bothering. It assumes disinterest and dismisses the intellect of the voter.

It is action and reaction until voting day, and then inaction through the years to follow. It is a flawed mechanism built on errors and ignorance.

There is a pattern to the errors, but even worse, an acceptance of the pattern; even an outright reliance on a perception of the continued stupidity of the electorate. Why else would a politician say things that cannot be backed up, or make statements that can never be validated? Never, at any point, will they acknowledge past mistakes.

And there are so many mistakes. Time is not an unproven principle.

We hear the same things, and we listen to them again, time after time; particularly at election time. Politicians lie, they cheat, and, sadly, are accountable only to their party. Politicians give politics a bad name.

We seem to accept that. We end up with the governments we deserve. Don’t accept what is offered, because it is rarely provided.

If we want something different, we cannot allow things to be done the same way they have been done. We, the electorate, deserve change. Don’t just ask for it; demand it.

Do not trust, or reward, the incompetence we have come to accept.

© 2019 j.g. lewis

What you have has nothing to do
with what you have been given.
It’s not fate,
it’s not kismet, and it’s not obvious.
It is what we choose to allow.
Many times, how we live is simply a choice.
Other times you have to ask.
We all have so much to do. Obligations.
Survival: doing what needs to be done.
What is expected is not often clear, or
not always possible.
Sometimes, if you have too many options,
you make the wrong choices.
Try to choose carefully, decide what
will fit into the current situation.
Accept the reality.
Choosing is difficult,
and often contentious. You need to know
where you are, more than where to start.
Admit your mistakes
early in the process. Honesty is always easier.

© 2019 j.g. lewis

A handwritten letter says what nothing else can,

A handwritten letter offers something deeper than what we’ve become accustomed to in this era of instant communication.

Yes, we tap out quick missives in reply to today’s email and text messages. We respond, with a sentence or series of words, to a social media post, but it is always more reaction than interaction.

The width and breadth of a traditional handwritten letter goes deeper and wider. A few lines, a couple of pages, perhaps a bit of history or update on a current reality; each letter of every word contains something you just don’t get from an email.

Correspondence — communication in handwritten form — is to be appreciated and respected for exactly what it is; a truthful rendering on a person’s thoughts, feelings, or theories. There is a certain intimacy involved in the inherent honesty of a letter.

You write differently, perhaps more truthfully, when you commit words to a page by pen or pencil. You forgo the convenience of a keyboard and bypass the spellcheck and cut-and-paste familiarity of this virtual realm we live in.

You tell the story of an adventure, or future plans, in greater detail when you write by hand. Between the salutation and the sign-off, the words on the page take on a life of their own. There is a change in the tense, the texture, and the tone of how, and what, we write.

Outside of the eraser on a pencil (the original word processor) which allows you to catch the occasional error or slightly modify a sentence, words land on the page as you think and as you go.

You read differently, more observantly, when you look over the pages of a handwritten letter. The brain, overly-accustomed to the increased amount of text we consume in a single day, has to process the information in what has become an unfamiliar manner.

The eyes register the information more keenly — with less physical strain on the eyeball than what is required to read off an illuminated screen — and follow each curve and line of every letter, at times struggling with the varied uniformity of each person’s interpretation of the alphabet. It can be a challenge to read someone else’s handwriting, but there is an appreciation that another human being took the time to mindfully communicate.

A handwritten letter takes time. Thoughts captured on paper one day could take days or weeks to arrive at the intended destination. There is not the immediacy of electronic communication, but there is not the need.

A handwritten letter is timeless.

 

        Confused by what is important,
   outside of the deception,
   outside of the party lines,
          guided by misplaced trust.
  We have become
disciples of those with
   as many faces
        as hands.
    Did you know
             the ramifications of what they’re
        saying or the power
        they have?
                           Politics.
I wonder what is important
      outside of the violence
      outside of the gleaming excesses.
          I don’t think this world
   needs to hear more political apologies
every single day.
  We all lead hectic lives,
  we think – or hope – that I or anyone
can be forgiven for forgetting
     what happened when
     we trusted
leadership and looking forward.
        No accountability.
     We do not
  blame – or fault – you, I or anyone
trapped by this contagion, this sin
   brought on
     by ego and ignorance.
        Politics. The evil within.

 

© 2019 j.g. lewis

We seek shelter, a leafy tree,
tenement steps, even pressing closer
to a random building
in hopes we may be spared.
                  It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
Ignoring the signs, we forget the distinction
between lightning and thunder,
not counting the seconds between,
or caring.
Overcast, overcome with the immediacy
of the moment. Summer weather
a reminder of the turmoil we live with,
                              or clouds we live under.
A day as promising as a politician’s smile,
just as deceiving. Unnoticed, but not
unexpected. Forced,
by chance, to deal with inclement emotions
and torrential pain. Crushing humidity,
atmospheric pressure bucking
under its own weight. Our thoughts
hold us hostage.
                        Days rarely go as planned.
Night will come, as surely as our breath.
Here we are, huddled with strangers,
waiting out another storm.

© 2019 j.g. lewis