It still looks good, shines brightly, and responds intuitively to my touch. It is, at times, slow, but that’s to be expected with age.

Unfortunately, technology moves much too fast in this digital age and I’m being forced to replace the sexy laptop that has served me so well for almost eight years.

A 17” Apple MacBook Pro, with everything you could squeeze into it at the time; the fastest processor and the most memory. I bought quality that would last, and it has.

Even though it has been primarily used for writing (its intended purpose) I’ve filled it up with years and years of photographs and treasured music. It has become the home base for my website, and I find it hard to comprehend how many hours I’ve faced this screen.

Not once has it been in for repair, and the computer still has power in its original battery (though remains plugged in most of the time). A battery shouldn’t be expected to last forever, and I’m learning a computer shouldn’t either.

I’ve tried to keep up with the frequency of updates, changes in operating systems, and have added a few things, chosen an additional browser, and have learned workarounds with programs that can no longer be updated. Hell, I’m still working with Aperture, the photo software that Apple decided to not only stop marketing, but stopped providing support.

It is a problem, and it’s not only with Apple. Obsolescence is standard on every computer, laptop, or tablet manufactured. Four to six years is the expected lifespan.

Yes, the mercurial pace of technology has forced so much change. Much of the change is not because end users are demanding it; most of the change is simply because the computer companies are throwing it out there to prove they are can be more innovative than the others.

Innovation comes with a price, and a cost.

Each time a new feature, or model, is introduced, it forces the consumer to (eventually) stop using something that is still productive. For instance, the latest generation of Macs now use USB-C ports. What this means is that everything you plug into the new computer will have to fit into the smaller orifice. It also means that everything you presently own that operates with a USB (and this means anything from a thumb drive to a camera connector or iPhone cord) will not work with the new port.

What they are doing is guaranteeing you will replace the unit after a certain amount of time: even if it is still working fine. You will also have to replace other components because of changes with the change.

There is no trade-in value to this old Mac. I will still continue to use it for photography, until I can find photo software that will allow the creativity and consistency that Aperture does (or did).

And I will adjust to the new model. I mean, who doesn’t want something new, right? Right? But this time around I won’t buy the biggest screen, and I probably won’t upgrade the memory or maybe not even opt for the fastest processor. Whatever I buy is certain to be faster that what I have now.

I probably bought more than I needed eight years ago, so this time around I guess I’m not looking to get the most out of the machine. Or I’m not going to buy into the perception that size and speed means quality.

I like to buy quality that lasts, but I’m going to have to settle for quality that lasts four to six years.

 

 

For many of us, Mothers exist
only in memory.
We had our time, but never enough.
Unconditional love, never
realized or respected.
Even then, as we grew older,
even, then, as did they too,
we remained
a child in their eyes,
in their heart,
in their thoughts.
They wanted only the best for us,
and gave all they had.
So much to learn,
patience and understanding
taught by example.
Wisdom in hindsight.
The words, the voice, the comfort
comes in small doses
when you need it most.

Maybe a certain day with flowers
and cards to celebrate
is not enough. How could it be?
Isn’t it every day, not just
the once-in-a-while,
when the love shows through?
Let peace be, ceremoniously.
Cherish the moments,
so much to yearn.
They only wanted the best for us
and would sacrifice
their comfort for ours.
For many of us
only scattered memories,
with moments for some
still to come.
Either way
there is always time
to whisper
I love you Mom.

©2017 j.g. lewis

It has served me well for more than 25 years, having endured winter storms and torrential rainfall, travels to distant sandy beaches, carrying everything from camera equipment, picnic lunches, and library books, to sweaty yoga towels.

My packsack has been with me through a lot. I’ve routinely treated it with mink oil, dubbin, saddle dressing, and a miscellaneous range of lotions and potions through the years, but it has also been mistreated, even abused.

Still it survives. Each day, particularly over the past six or seven years, it is called into action and still looks good. In fact, like many good leather accessories, it may even look better as the years pass and it takes on a heritage look.

The packsack, however, was becoming a little rough around the edges. Threads were slowly unraveling, a few seams were splitting, and one particular spot had actually worn through.

For the past couple of years I’ve been searching for a leather messenger bag, not to replace my packsack, but to augment its use. I had come to the silent realization that despite its well-earned antique appearance, there were occasions when it may not have looked as if it belonged.

I knew I needed a more formal bag, with a little more structure, but I wasn’t going to buy just anything. I wasn’t going to settle, and I had a list of features I required. I wanted one that would last, presumably, as long as my current companion.

I finally found the perfect sidekick about a month back. A handsome bag, it has the right amount of pockets and compartments to haul around what I need (and I’ve been carrying a lot), a thick, firm strap, and luxurious pebbled leather finish. I know it will last, as leather does.

Now, I have no intention of tossing out ‘old reliable’, or hanging it in the back of the closet. I feel there is still a lot of life left in it, so I took it to a proper shoemaker. A family business in downtown Toronto, it was obvious the cobbler had the skills and equipment to restore the bag’s majesty.

Parts of it were patched, seams were sewn up right, and the stitching on the weary straps was re-sewn. It was not a cheap renovation, but will give the bag another couple of decades. I’m sure. It won’t see the daily action it was accustomed to (my new bag is doing what it should), but it is sure to become a weekender, or used for less formal late-night carousing or wandering about the city.

I made a conscious decision to repair the packsack and give it a new life. I suppose I wanted to rebel (who me?) in some way against this disposable society we live in. Everything, nowadays, has obsolescence built into it.

Luggage, furniture, and household goods: they don’t make things like they used to, and this seems to suit today’s popular attitude favoring replacement.

If the car starts having problems, many times people don’t bother fixing, but simply get a new one. Should the heel pad fall off a pair of loafers, they are not repaired, but replaced with new shoes. If a lover, partner, or spouse starts giving you grief, you don’t work on fixing the situation, but go looking for a new one.

Replacing is quicker and easier than caring and repairing, and everyone wants easy.

Lasting quality has become a thing of the past; but quality lasts, and keeps on lasting.

Perspective,
perception, space
between each line.
The subject
bare, a body
in its most poetic form.
Two-minute sketch,
a pose,
little time to see behind
the image.
Like any other person,
a life, nobody truly knows.
Exposed. Angles and
curves, skin, illustration,
details, expression,
impression
of all that is there, and
what is accounted for.
Here. Now.
Depiction of a moment,
reality marked
by seconds.
A figure captured
on paper. Briefly.
Deliberate, though
inconclusive, pencil stroke
softening, straightening,
shading, sorting out
what is on display.
Temporarily.
Art is not
what is there,
rather what you see.
Time defines authenticity.
Another page, a different pose.
Two minutes; all you know.

© 2017 j.g. lewis

If I had known that, I would
also be alone;
alone inside my head, where thoughts
would circulate like the blood
inside my body
between my ribs. Also
between my lips,
where words would no longer flow.

There were now only my eyes
with nowhere
to look, no more beauty to absorb
because inside my head, so many things
crowd the memories
I had attempted to build.
And I think; I think that:
I am still here.

Anger sits, between my ribs.
I am still here
watching my blood switching from
red to blue, as if it is a habit. Automatically
I scream hopelessly from the outside.
Hopeless on the inside. Help me.
I want to get out from here
desperate on the outside.

Those who surround me, strangers,
do not see.
They turn a deaf ear, since it is
but my loneliness following me everywhere.
Maybe a year, maybe even longer,
I am still here. My anger, I keep it,
there is no exit from the outside.
Here is not near.

A smile had, once, looked at me,
believed in me.
Happiness cut through me, finally.
A hand offered support, and this option
I loved, as only I could.
Whoever can say, who was aware,
that so much could be built upon a smile
and so much could be taken away.
© 2013 j.g. lewis