Don’t look for me amidst words I write
between the lines or in the night. My handwriting
always rough at best, the journal is a daily test
not to myself, as much as time.
The pages stained, the thoughts are mine.
Coffee spills or drops of rain, tears
in certain places, among streaks of blood
(paper cuts) are both things I’ve done, and
things I must.
Personal. Private, page after page, book into
book, rarely do I take a second look.
I can, when I choose. I write. Memories now,
or they will be soon, a thought du jour,
there is always room between newspaper clippings
and obituaries, postage stamps and all the necessaries;
the weather, the cities, the price of gas, a few jokes
and then, a certain laugh. I never know what
I will discover, as I fill the space
between the covers.
Inspiration from a tea bag tag, a picture from a
product tag, instructions to a game, a recipe or two,
the phone number of someone I once knew.
Stories of redemption, or reflection, coupons
never redeemed, wishes and promises not once
what they seemed.
Directions to a house I’ll never visit again. Excuses
or reasons I never explain. An expired lottery ticket,
a book mark now, I always wonder the when
and the how.
Concert tickets, and transit passes, accounts of
dreams now only ashes. A label from a bottle
of premium champagne, reminders I’m reminded of,
again and again.
Let’s face it, we don’t always remember, and in years
we never will. You can write them down and still
the history in the making, of interest to myself.
Only once a kiss and tell.
The journal is, essentially, a travelogue: inner thoughts,
outward concerns as I evolve. The pencil continues
to scratch, the words keep running. It’s not
who I have become, but what I am becoming.

©2018 j.g. lewis

Sixteen times per minute,
twenty-two thousand breaths
in a day. No time
like the present.
There are no other excuses, but
there are always other ways.
Breathe. Choose today
to speak up when you can,
push out the latent sorrow,
guilt, and anguish
only you can understand.
Inhale. There is no life, no
oxygen, like this day. Despite
our selected perceptions,
there is not a
single breath to waste.

©2018 j.g. lewis

The seasonal lights dim, holidays soon will draw to a close, and we return to day-to-day living. Still we cannot forget circumstances, and the need for giving.

So many of us are fortunate to have a roof over our head, food in the fridge, and money in the bank. Sadly, others are not.

We all see the need.

We live in uncertain times. In this vast global community, or just down the street, we all know of needs that current resources will not meet. Budgets are stretched, programs require increased funding, and, more than ever, we are being asked to help our fellow beings.

Choose a charity, or two, and provide what you can. Money is good, but so is your time.

Not a hand out, but a hand up; a familiar adage we have all heard before. Regularly, but more so in the festive season, we are asked to help those unable to care for themselves.

This season of sharing is the season of caring, and we cannot simply stop.

Keep giving, continue living , and remember the spirit of the season is more than forgiving.

Do your part, do what you can. Know your heart and lend a hand.

Your whisper fair warns us, yet still
we are surprised. The calendar’s last page,
and we are left feeling more. Always.
Winter: a beginning comes near the end,
while the end craves new beginnings.
The longest season, physically, or
spiritually. Consistency, year over year,
over year, from one into the next.
Cold, as it is darker. Light is appreciated,
and necessary. We grow up knowing,
the facts of this season. Always,
our lives marked by winter.
Time, and years, have become forgotten,
but we are reminded. The soil
and silence, frozen. Our insular existence,
non-secular pain, wind-chafed emotions,
a reminder again. We desire
a warm touch; December, January or
otherwise. Hope, as with autumn’s last leaf,
dangling in a greater stillness.
A confessional. Always. Dormancy
until early spring, what we allow or when
we embrace. Silence. Darkness.
We need not be surprised.
Impulse knows. We have been here before.

©2017 j.g. lewis

What is so offensive about clothing that celebrates the season?

I am familiar with the trend over past years to mock seasonal sweaters; it is often included in the banter of shock-rock disc jockeys and morning show hosts looking for laughs, or the rants of unoriginal stand-up comedians filling allotted time at comedy clubs across the country. And, yes, it is supposedly in jest, but at the heart of it all is the need to poke fun at a clothing style, and ultimately at those who choose to wear the garments, past or present.

It has become humour of the lowest common denominator; jokes that go past what people wear, to attacking what many people consider the most wonderful time of the year.

Adorning a seasonal sweater is a personal choice, like any article of clothing we may (or may not) wear. Some, in fact many, people enjoy bringing out certain sweaters to celebrate the season. It is their way of brightening the days and weeks of the holiday season. To these people, the season is not ugly; the sweaters are not ugly.

But ridicule? That is ugly.

My mother used to wear seasonal sweaters. This was in the ‘70s, and I was wearing ultra-wide flare jeans and sky-high platform shoes. Was it ugly, or simply the fashion of the times?

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, as is ugliness. Beauty is subjective, so when clothing is a matter of mass production, the “ugly” sweater one person may select could be something totally delightful to another.

Five years ago I watched a mother with her teenage special-needs daughter sorting through the racks of sweaters in a department store. Overly bright, and obviously seasonal, these sweaters were adorned appliqués of snowmen, candy canes, Christmas stockings, and all those familiar festive images. The pair was searching for matching sweaters with blinking lights, and they were laughing, giggling, and enjoying a mother/daughter moment.

I realized, as I watched the glowing smile on the daughter’s face, that these “ugly Christmas sweaters” were anything but unattractive, unpleasant, or morally revolting. These sweaters were totally special, and exactly what they were looking for.

So what, in the eyes of some people, makes these sweaters ugly?

This is the time of year people chose to decks their halls with boughs, bells, garland, and fake snow. Coloured lights on houses and trees light up neighborhoods. Is wearing a sweater that highlights the season really all that different? Yes, some of the sweaters are somewhat garish, (certainly not my style), but why should I be critical, especially this time of year.

Why call these sweaters “ugly”? Why not call them “festive”, as what they display, and what they represent, coordinates so well with everything else that surrounds us in this overly-commercialized time of the year.

There are office parties and ‘Ugly Sweater Days’ at local businesses. Do the people who plan these events not consider how these actions may be interpreted by others? Why risk offending a customer? What about those coworkers who fear wearing a favourite sweater for fear of ridicule, gossip, and back talk at the office?

Is there really a place in our workplace for degrading or demeaning people for what they wear? Do we honestly need to have a day to make fun of personal taste? Along with food and shelter, clothing is considered a basic need; is it something to be attacked?

Yeah, yeah, yeah. . . I have told – and laughed at – my unfair share of tasteless (even racist) jokes. I am not innocent, nor am I politically correct, prudish, or proper. I enjoy sarcasm, humour and comedy (especially dark), and believe laughter can, and will, lighten up a moment. But laughter at the expense of others? I think not.

We already live with enough “ugly” in this world. The drastic effects of climate change starving polar bears: that’s ugly. A self-obsessed, self-confessed pussy-grabbing president who flirts with nuclear war between tweets and tantrums: that’s ugly. The fact there are people in our communities who cannot put food on the table, or have no place to call home. . . that’s really ugly.

A soft, colourful sweater that offers a smile, and warmth to a society that has growing cold, is anything but ugly.

©2017 j.g. lewis