Today’s rain washed away most
       of the evidence of winter.
The water has spilled over the river’s banks
       but is receding.
                                    The air is fragrant
       with the change of season.
       Maybe it is because the dust has settled for a bit
       but I could smell spring as I walked the streets.
At one point, this afternoon, it was like nighttime
       in the middle of the day,
                                     the windshield wipers kept time
       to the rhythm of life.
This evening, however, just after the sun had
       disappeared altogether, low-lying clouds
       hovered just above
       and in patches.
Stars shone through the clouds
       like freckles on a lover’s skin, peeking out of the
       crisp sheets.
                              Spring brings optimism
       and hope.
You hear people on the streets again,
       they too are pleased.
       Just wait for summer.
                             I can feel peace,
                                                            can you?
        © 2006 j.g. lewis

Image: Wet Prairies
Artist: Steve Repa – 1977

Ten years ago, in a journal, I wrote this for my daughter. An early spring then,
as it is now. Seasons may change, but poetry remains, as does optimism and hope.

                                      Awaken the night
                                                                        feeling a fire,
                      new moon of fortune, new moon desire.
     Headlights randomly spray
                                              stray light           in the wake
     of a few restless souls, little left
                                                                             to forsake.

   Window cracked slightly, aware of the noise,
 discounting discomfort, confronting a choice.
          A season of change and mysterious ways
          growing weary of colour,
and
         tired of the days.

A breath wholly taken in the good name of fear,
               exhale in silence,
                         the silence found here.
Winter is going, but never soon enough,
it’s the waiting for the waiting that
                                        makes it so tough.

     Test pattern sheds light on the night’s darkest hour
     before pre-dawn confusion from a much higher power.
     Sanctimonious lessons in a stiff designer suit
                                  no lack of words, she knows what to do.

                       Obey,
                                  fall in line
                      or
                                           fall out of grace,
     Heaven, in her good judgment,
                                                               is a judgmental place.
New moon wonder,
new moon is now,
                       unconscious thought enlightens somehow.

To be mindful of a future only makes sense
      stop reviewing past actions in solely past tense.
Breathe it all in,
                             as you listen and learn,
      question your morals and for what you may yearn.

     No dreams for the restless, wandering their way,
     few thoughts for the weary with so much to say.
New moon,
new cycle,      falls into sight
                    dilemmas become clearer when the days become bright.
©2016 j.g. lewis

People put a lot of thought into what they wear every day, but how much consideration goes into what is worn each night?

Some people strip down to nothing, while others fall into bed wearing what is convenient or clean (or not), but like anything else, whatever you are doing, it is important to always dress for the occasion.

We dress for success, adhere to a dress code at the office, or dress up for a date or social function. We may adorn our Sunday best for a more formal event, or dress down for the gym, but fashion and function no longer get the nighttime attention they once did, at lest as far as men are concerned. I recently shopped one of the oldest, and largest, department stores in the city, and could not find one complete pair of traditional pajamas. It’s enough to cause a sleepless night, particularly with this retailer’s fashion-forward focus.

Humans spend a significant amount of time in bed — sleeping away approximately a third of our lives — it’s only fitting that you dress for the time. For some people that means yesterday’s sweatpants and a threadbare T-shirt, togs more appropriate for yard work or painting the fence.

Why on earth would you dress like that for something as important as sleep? I wouldn’t dream of it. Your body craves rest as much as it does comfort. We all know how a bad night’s sleep can affect a good day at the office. Old workout clothes won’t cut it for me, I dress for the purpose in pajamas you see.

I won’t pass comment on those who chose to sleep in the raw. I do; have; and will again, sleep in the buff (depending on company and circumstance) and I will not argue that sleeping in the most natural state is truly pleasurable, unrestrictive, and quite necessary on certain occasions (summer’s heat and humidity being just one example). But for all intents and purposes, I am a pajamas man.

And I’m not at all trying to perpetuate any sort of playboy image. Hugh Hefner was famous for his smoking jackets and silk pajamas (he claimed to work at night, a lot, so the clothing was most practical), however I have not the budget, nor the affection, for silk (not on my body anyway). I like pajamas for the practicality, 100 per cent cotton that breathes and becomes more comfortable over time. Pajamas will last forever; if used solely for sleep there is little wear and tear as most of your nocturnal activity is mental and not physical.

I’m speaking, primarily, of men’s sleepwear here; the silk and style of women’s negligee has little to do with pajamas and purpose, at least in the present context.

Replacing the more unisex nightshirt in the late 1800s, the two-piece pajama option became a staple of a gentleman’s wardrobe by the 1930s. For the longest time it was not thought proper for women to wear pajamas, until Coco Chanel changed it up in the 1920s (about the same time her fabulous #5 perfume was introduced). Like many of her early designs, Chanel modeled her PJs after the men’s version; proof that the traditional nightwear can be quite fashionable indeed.

From the jersey knit Star Trek-styled PJs of my youth, to my present button up preference, the nightwear has been a part of my sleep routine since my mother’s ‘get ready for bed’ instructions included bath time and my jammies.

I used to travel for business, frequently, and PJs were essential when packing for a week on the road. Sleeping in strange beds night after night — hotel sheets never quite feel right and the mattresses were not always to your liking — you could always count on pajamas to make a bed feel more like home. The feeling of something familiar against your skin can make a great difference in both the quantity and quality of sleep you receive each night.

There is also a psychological advantage in dressing for bed. In removing your clothing you strip away the demons, dogma, and detritus of the day. Following a shower or bath, after scrubbing off all the sins and sanctimonious bullshit that has stuck to your skin, you button up freshly laundered PJs, slip between the sheets, and take the first steps from daytime busy to nighttime bliss.

Pajamas prepare you, mentally, for a few hours of sleep, and if you are lucky they dress you up for your dreams.

I got a library card last week. I’ve been meaning to get one for while, having moved to a new city some time ago, but never really found the time.

It’s not like I haven’t been reading; I brought a box of books with me, and have picked up a lot of new material along the way (I’m a sucker for a used bookstore), but it had been a while since I’d done something as normal, or as regular, as dropping into a library. Since moving, I’ve replaced all the documents required when you arrive in a new province, and had even renewed my passport, but in doing all the stuff that needed to be done, I never found the time to do what I wanted to do.

A library card, in so many ways, is like a passport. Once in your possession, the card can take you wherever you want to go, allowing you to explore foreign countries, meet new characters, and explore the world without ever leaving your city.

As a kid, regular bus trips to the library were commonplace. I learned very early that if you want to know anything, if you want to learn about something, you could always find the answers in a book from the library. I remember when the Brandon Public Library moved from the dusty, musty basement of a historic building to expansive (by the city’s standards) sun-drenched premises.

During University, the library was a place to duck out of the hustle and bustle of the campus, sequester yourself in the quiet under the guise of research, and maybe even catch the occasional nap.

As a young parent, Saturdays were library day with my daughter, where she’d select the maximum amount of books (and many times the same favorites) for her pre-bedtime reading. Books were more than a treat.

In Winnipeg we celebrated the opening of the Millennium Library, a magnificent structure with comfortable places to read, and functional Wi-Fi workspaces where you could plug in or tune out. Just as comforting, but in such a different way, was the Cornish branch; the same library my father used to ride his bicycle to in his younger years. The breadth of the selection at the Cornish was never as great as the downtown facility, but the room spoke to me.

All libraries provide a similar sort of comfort. Often, as an excuse to get away from my regular writing desk, I’d haul my laptop or scribbler down to a Winnipeg library and work away, inspired by a new setting. I’ve written short stories based on what I saw at the library, characters have been developed, or described, from the people I would see wandering through the stacks or waiting in line.

I’d also find three or six books from the holdings, usually an author I’d never read (or heard of), a novel a friend had recommended, or a volume of poetry from one of the masters. I always, still to this day, keep some kind of poetry book in my packsack, a way to take a break from the everyday and become motivated by someone else’s words. You can always find poetry in any library. You can find, pretty much, everything.

The beauty of a library is that it offers so much, and thanks to Melvil Dewey and his unparalleled system for classifying every subject known to mankind, you can generally find what you are looking for. And more. It’s amazing how the Dewey Decimal System, a program created more than 140 years ago, using digits, few letters and a well-place decimal point, still functions supremely well in this digital age.

Libraries have adapted through the years, as movies, music, and magazines have all been added to the collections. Along with the histories and mysteries, there is always something that can take your mind away from the day-in-day-out stuff we all deal with. The price is always right.

Library cards are free, but they are infinitely valuable. Time with a book is always well spent.

Joyous music, handmade cigars, sandy beaches, and classic cars; very little has changed in Cuba. In fact, very little has had the opportunity to change since the United States government introduced severe economic sanctions more than 50 years ago.

Those of us on the outside, those who occasionally fly down for a winter vacation, really have no idea of the impact of those changes, other than what we see; a country stuck in the past.

We are, apparently, on the verge of greater change as the Cuban and U.S. governments have announced a deal to restore commercial air traffic for the first time in decades. The agreement is yet another step in normalizing trade between the two countries, an initiative President Barack Obama announced in late 2014.

Recently the New York Times online offered a video highlighting the trendy side of the country, focused on Havana with its art, food and culture. This is a country looking forward to change, and the potential economic spinoff of all those tourists anxious to see the history, or drink a Mojito where Hemmingway once whet his whistle.

There is also a fear that the country, Havana in particular, will lose its historic look and feel and take on a more North American style. It may happen, yes, but it will not happen quickly.

Cuba, right now, moves slowly. No, it moves very slowly. Afternoon Siestas are still the norm, and there is not the rush of commerce. Shopping centers are found in name only, and there is very little on the shelves when it is offered. Much of the wares are beyond the modest means of the country’s population.

Efficiency could be a generation, or two, away. Easily. Let’s just say there is a big gap between rhetoric and reality.

Reality is a throwback to the 50s, most noticeable in the classic Oldsmobile, Chevrolet, Chrysler, and Ford autos that rumble down the streets. Vintage American cars, noisy, that have been lovingly restored, or maintained, by generations of owners. A cab driver will happily tell you his grandfather owned the car. He won’t tell you which parts from how many others cars have been used to keep the vehicle moving, but it is obvious.

Sadly, the beautiful period architecture that dates from the 1920s to the 1950s, has not been as well maintained, if at all. Decay and deterioration is disguised as charm, but there is no mistaking the tired and crumbling facades. Many of the dilapidated structures are still inhabited; others just sit vacant and wondering. You see it all over the city. An abandoned Catholic church stands weather-beaten and lonely, evident of the religious clashes during the Revolution. A headless St. Tomas still stands guard in front of the once-ornate structure, the bold marble cross now broken, but still offering hope.

When a friend cautions you against falling bricks, you are best to heed the advice and be cautious in certain areas.

Currently there is a strip of old buildings down by the waterfront — on the historic Malecón — being demolished, presumably to make space for new hotels and apartments. Tearing them down is easy; rebuilding the area will not be as swift, or as believable.

In any urban centre, any work revitalizing the core area involves displacing the poor and removing housing stock from a city’s inventory. One can only wonder where the people will go.

One also has to wonder how cooperative a communist government can truly be when dealing with potential capitalist business partners? There is, literally, a ton of money required to make up for the decades of neglect. Profit is the driving force of capitalism; communism has not the same concerns.

Still, even as it sits, the country remains an affordable option for Canadian and European tourists. It can be relaxing, the climate is wonderful, and the pace is slow. And you can still find a little magic along the way.

In Old Havana, there are a few galleries, artists, and artisans, in between the tiny tourist tuck shops selling T-shirts and offshore key chains and trinkets. You can find a craftsman who will make you the most succulent cigar, or settle into a café in the afternoon and catch a traditional Cuban combo. Late night you can still step into a jazz club and hear the likes of 70s Grammy winner Oscar Valdés and his band Diákara. Within blocks of the club you can dance salsa until the wee hours.

Downtown you will still find a few of the glorious, and well-cared-for, hotels that offer a bit of luxury and comfort that is appreciated. In between the old American cars, you will also find a newer higher grade of foreign car than the plentiful Ladas and Daewoos.

There is a certain dichotomy between the old and the new, and the shadow of history looms large over the city. And it will for some time. That is, in many ways, its charm, as much as it is the cross it will bear as it moves forward. Slowly.