One more sentence, one more thought, one more
photograph, to seal the day, to put it all away for
a night. A restless night,
a night where I will struggle, I will not rest
                      not now, so again I am back to
one more word, one more sentence, one more
chapter. Ideas, bought and paid for, with everything
that I possess and all I do not have.
                                                   Credit then,
paid now, for what may be enjoyed later.

I am all over the place. If mindful, it is now more of
being hyper-aware. For should a minute go by, and
I miss a sound that may make all the difference, I will
                           perhaps spend a lifetime attempting to
                     capture that moment, and the one before.
One more idea, one more opportunity, one more
sentence. I think, at times, what keeps me awake
is the thought or image of what needs to be done.
It might be words, or a landscape, for one
                                         often needs the other
                                       to be fully complete, or
presented as I see them. I need to feel more.

I want to make my thoughts count. Perception. A
certain type of beauty, that, for some, may be rough
or disturbing, yet that, in itself, is a wonder that
keeps me awake, and will not rest, as I should. But can’t.
                     Insomnia: the word itself is dirty,
                     tarnished with realizations of what
happened, or will and might. I choose not to succumb
to a chronic belief that sleep alone will cure a life, but
instead decide to find the bounty within my darkness,
to make it come alive.

                                             Should I find sleeplessness, I
will discover the challenge in this vulnerability, taking
the time, one more time, to reclaim it as mine with
one more chance, one more breath, one more
taste.
                                 To seek out beauty, is to find it.
                      To continue looking is to find it again.

So while you sleep, or when you wake, come join me.
Be drawn, like gravity, to sidewalk shadows only neon
can know, nostalgic music screaming from passing
cars, and the silent click of my camera, or my voice.
                                                            The wind will whisper,
its drunken breath oozing the sensual scent of autumn,
subsidizing the nocturnal opus. Aided and abetted
by the din of sleepless traffic, the vacant streetcar is
            a solo cello sustaining the deft melody.
                              The struggle of sleep is a physical need,
                          it robs you of thought, fills you with greed
for one more photograph, one more sentence, one more
kiss.
© 2015 j.g. lewis

You would like to think it is the first thought of the day, but until your lips have met, nothing counts as thought.

Lying in bed, your mind may go elsewhere; to other people, places, issues, and situations, though you are unable to complete any other mental transaction until you’ve had a taste. You think, or try. Hell, it may even be classified as dreaming as you are not fully conscious, but in your head you can see the object of your desire. You know it is a few steps away, and this vision alone may be enough to get you on your feet.

You stumble. The knees are weak, balance not quite right, your head is not clear, yet you are now vertical and pulled across the floor. It’s attraction, like gravity.

Then you can only look.

It’s delirium, it is not a decision, not at all; you know what you want, and you know what you have to do to make it happen. Again, not even thought, but more like autopilot as you reach out, hands shaking slightly. Collecting your wits, you manage to take hold of reality.

One, two, three heaping scoops, perhaps one more for good measure. Hurriedly you dole out the correct amount, or the customary amount, an amount that will work. Past experience, daily practice, and good habit all come together.

Seizing the handle of the carafe, first with both hands, you pour just the right quantity of water, careful as can be, knowing too much will weaken your efforts and too little will leave an aftertaste. Pure instinct and blind faith guides the water to its intended destination. No spills, no time for all that, you know that if you get this right you will soon find the balance required. The clear glass vessel now where it needs to be, with one swift action you press the button and power up.

Still you stare. Nothing happens, not right away. A shade of self-doubt, there is a moment, or two, of second-guessing and then the sound that allows everything else to happen. The small, imperative, appliance gurgles. You know, right then, it is a better place, and you will soon begin to step into the life you have woken up to.

You listen, and then, like magic, you watch as a few drops, then a dribble to a trickle as the true nectar of the gods streams out. Life is about to get better.

Anticipation. Soon. You blink. You wait and you can wait, secure in your mind that you will be rewarded, and now have enough confidence to, perhaps, get a few things done while you are waiting. There’s not enough time here to tackle anything major; you won’t check your phone for messages, you won’t unload the dishwasher, or put away the pots from last night’s dinner. There is not the time, nor patience. Not then. You won’t even think about what the day calls for. There is enough time for the morning pee. You might even brush your teeth, should it not require too much manual dexterity, but mostly your mind is on nothing else but your coffee.

Still gurgling, the coffee maker is now spewing out the most beautiful stream of consciousness, you mind will allow for nothing else but contemplation on the taste that lies ahead. You consider, just briefly, seizing a cup and beginning the process now, but you’re not ready. It is not ready, not fully brewed, and despite your want, your need, and the temptation, you know you can (and must) wait a few seconds longer.

There are a few final drips while you take out the cream, or milk, and find whatever sweet stuff you may need to make it taste just right. We all have our preferences, and it may be a sin to discount what others add, or neglect to add, to their cup of joe. Some people will take it straight up, black and bold and unbothered. Others will obsessively mix and measure. It matters not. Not really. It is an individual thing and, in the grand scheme, matters less about what goes in than what you get out of it. You know what you need, and that is all you need to know, especially right now, as this taste of morning ecstasy is moments away.

You shake, your stir, you prepare your mind and mouth for what is about to happen
as you lift the cup gently and carefully, stopping but a breath away from your lips. You hold the cup close and steady, pulling the scintillating scent of the anticipated deliciousness through your nostrils. You can feel your self come alive.

A smile, you purse your lips and allow the first sip into your body. Your eyes brighten, your blood begins racing. You sip, you let the liquid rest in your mouth, just a moment, eyes now shut, before you swallow, and then again.

Your life suddenly has a purpose. Your day is about to begin.

You cannot rush this moment. Taking the few steps to the table and, without placing the cup down, settling into the chair, you park yourself to allow the body to catch up with the mind.

It would appear to be a mere cup of coffee, to many people, but to you it is more. It is passport to the life force that will pull your mind, limbs, and soul and into one united being.

It’s not just coffee. It is never just coffee.

It might be a vice, yes, but it is not an addiction (at least not one you will admit). You could get through the day without a cup, but why would you try? Why deny a pleasure that is so simple, so easily obtained, and so necessary to maintaining nature’s balance?

Like art, good art, coffee appeals to all the senses. There is the initial scent of the bean, the sound of the process, the tantalizing sight and smell of the deep, dark, liquid. The touch of the soulful warmth, in your hands and on your lips, is tactile and tangible and tasty.

It is absolute, and pure, satisfaction.

Believe it or not, there are people who can, and do, make it through the day without coffee. I suppose it’s personal, and I’m all for freedom of choice, but I do have to question those who may decide to begin their day with a cup of tea. I do enjoy tea (maybe later in the day or in the evening) but morning calls for confidence, and withered and weak leaves do not inspire in the same manner as the beautiful bean.

I’m also allowing a little latitude here for those who may favor decaf. I know there may be joy in the smell, the taste, and the warmth of decaffeinated coffee, but I can’t imagine being satisfied with a beverage that has been stripped of its substance. Not me. Not in the morning. No way.

Caffeine itself is the most commonly used mood-altering drug in the world, and I will not forgo that which is legal, easily obtainable, and part of a product that is so damned delicious. Of course, like any drug (legal or not), moderation is key, but I’m not going to dwell on that. Not first thing in the morning. My metabolism is kicking in, my neurons are firing on all cylinders, and I won’t waste this time of day considering any harmful or hindering side effects.

Right now is all about the coffee, after which you are able to step forward with clarity, with intention, and with all the faculties in which you were blessed. With this power you are able to make decisions, set goals, pick away at a crossword, cope with irrational people, find your fire and, again, breathe with the rhythm of your world.

You may, at times throughout the day, stop and top off your psyche with another cup, but nothing compares to the first cup of the day. The sun has risen, the air smells a little better and you are alive, again.

Through this morning ritual you are better able to comprehend everything and face all that comes at you. Anything is possible, with coffee by your side, especially another day.

© 2015 j.g. lewis

Words, lyrics, poems, and quotes; some things just stick with you. I have, forever, been a collector of inspiring words from insightful writers.

I remember copying this quote from the newspaper in about 1992, and tucking it in my wallet. The quote struck a chord, as many will do, but most of the good ones are carried around in my head and not my wallet. Theses words spoke to me and I felt I needed to look at them more often, to remind myself, to be myself, and to make something of my self.

William Penn’s words have, in so many ways, become a maxim or mantra for how I try to live, or how I would like to live.

We are all on a path, through this one life, and maybe others. Along the way we meet, or pass, or interact, with people each day. Everybody, essentially, is just like us. We all put our pants or panties on one leg at a time. We all have issues we are forced to deal with, jobs or careers we love or hate, and people who rely on us to do our part, to be a link in life’s chain. We all experience joy, or suffer heartbreak or disappointment in varying degrees, and we all have blood pulsing through our veins and thoughts flowing through our heads.

And just as we all appreciate kindness offered to us, we should always make the effort to show kindness, return the kindness, or offer it unexpectedly.

The Golden Rule we are taught as children reads; ‘Do unto others, as you would have them do unto you.’

My favored quote is not that different than the Golden Rule, in principle, but I believe there is more to Penn’s words. It speaks to action, and reactions, to effort and outcome. It speaks to individualism, to personally taking responsibility for helping create a better planet for all of us to walk on. In so much, it speaks more to the self than it does to others.

The Golden Rule, or ethic of reciprocity, differs from Penn’s thoughts in that he held no expectations, other than to your self. Penn makes no mention of your efforts being reciprocated, only that you give of yourself freely and without expectation. He asks that you do it now, not to defer or neglect.

The quote has followed me around for decades, and rested in a few wallets, but when I switched up wallets a while back, the clipping and the photos attached did not make the change. Just as you go through periods where you try to lighten your load, or declutter and carry less baggage around, I took the insert out of the billfold and tucked it away.
Coincidently, or not, this was also a time where I became more focused on ‘me’ than I ever have been, and a period where what I needed to do became a priority. Unconsciously, or perhaps consciously, I did less for others, or less to keep the general balance of the world on course and I concentrated more on my own piece of the planet.

It followed a time where I felt like I was doing something, or everything, for somebody else. I became mentally and physically exhausted, was tired of bearing the brunt, and noticed I was doing nothing for myself, not really, other than working for the sake of living. It seemed as if I merely existed. There was little enjoyment, I noticed, all of a sudden, I wasn’t reading, I stopped listening to music. I stopped being the person I wanted to be.

So I tried to do all I had to do, tried to be the person I thought I had to be, and in this period of what might only be called selfishness, I became so focused on one aspect that everything else began not to matter.

I had even stopped caring for my self, and thus began to care less for other people.

You need balance in your life, and you create that equilibrium by doing for others, or providing service to one community or another. You practice empathy, and exercise humility and humanity; you offer kindness and fairness both to those known to you and total strangers. In dong so, you become a positive force to others, and to your self.

If you neglect those around you, you begin to isolate yourself and defer the reasons to find enjoyment in the patterns of life.

You pass through this life only once, it can only be more rewarding to everybody if you share pieces of yourself along the way.

© 2015 j.g. lewis

 

If a star should fall tonight
would you even notice?
Beyond the bandwidth of your rationalizations,
a succession of contradictions and explanations,
would you mind or will it matter
if a star fell to the earth? Would
you even hear the shatter?

Millions of people, like constellations,
dealing with insurmountable issues of trust
and faith, and complex relations,
whosoever can take the time, find the conscious mind
to pay attention to an innocuous occasion
like a falling star,
or the possibilities of such.

How can we take seriously
that which happens in the heavens
while this planet demands so much attention
to serious matters. Somewhere, nearby, a neighbor screams,
the night is not quiet as it once seemed.
If you slept through it all
will the stars even fall?
Who would even notice or wake to the sound?
Does it even matter when you are not around?

Always in darkness, we know not how
to embrace it, or to end it.
Should a star fall from the sky
would you know who might have sent it?
Are you willing to guess, are you willing to receive it?
As we stay, as we do, entangled in temporary lives
filled with perpetual motion,
a star falls, and we seldom heed the sight or
take time to amend our emotions.
All of us stuck in the middle of something,
nearer to the end, always in the darkness.

When the star falls, cutting through the clouds,
diamond-sharp edges tearing at the canvas
of your semi-comfortable existence,
releasing the inevitable. Blood drawn,
spilling out, time and again.
Would you recognize what is hidden,
or understand the mind a falling star can damage?

Your soul or conscience telling you
what you don’t want to hear, thoughts teeming
with contempt and abject fear. Wide-eyed awake
still with no sight, making excuses to yourself
for excusing another life.
The galaxies you once noticed
have turned their backs on you.
One star, any star, any star will do.
If a star falls from the sky,
and it will,
will it come close.

Darkness ever strong,
discomfort goes too long, likewise your shame.
You can’t forgive your silence, or forget your
indiscretions, as you shoulder all the blame.
Destined to repeat past mistakes, time
and again,
when the star falls before you,
will you recognize the pain?

Should a star fall from your life, another
luminary gone, and so too the brightness,
will you slip back into the bottle?
It has comforted you before.
Can you close up all the curtains, again, and hide
behind your door
trying to banish all reminders.
Will you try to validate your presence
with another hand, replacing thoughts
of how it happened
with those you cannot understand.
If a star falls in the night
will you be awake enough to feel it?

Let them fall, slipping hastily through the air,
down, down,
crashing down,
let them see you there.
Perhaps they will stick around, for
now is never
what was planned,
and you know it rarely it is.
If a star falls from the night
is it worthwhile trying to find it?

© 2015 j.g. lewis

Overused and underappreciated, the common pencil does not get the credit it deserves.

We rave about advances in technology, the introduction of shiny new tablets and mobile devices, and we often hear about how the pen is mightier than the sword, but rarely do we hear someone speak affectionately about the pencil.

“A writer uses a pen instead of a scalpel or blowtorch.”
– Michael Ondaatje

The pen gets all the credit, but the pencil does all the work.

With a crayon, we learn to express ourselves with scribbles and bursts of colour long before we can even understand the concept of vocabulary, but once we have found our voice, the pencil is the next brave step we take in communicating.

Probably the most important writing we will ever do — the process of learning how to form each stroke, dot, and curve of those 26 letters — was done with a pencil. That’s when we begin to arrange the alphabet into something meaningful; it’s when we try, it’s when we dare, and it is when we make mistakes. We learn, then, to rely on the eraser conveniently attached to the pencil top.

I’ve always liked pencils. In fact, I prefer a pencil to the pen. Most likely, it’s because I am left-handed and abhor the stain that builds up on the flesh as you write from left to right, dragging the underside of your hand across all you have accomplished. This factor alone has precluded me from ever using a fountain pen (easily the most admirable of writing instruments) so I have, through the years, developed infinity for the common pencil. Yes, the pencil leaves a shadow, but it is easily washed away.

Above all else, it is the utilitarian nature of the pencil that keeps me connected. The pencil is always available. The pencil is uncomplicated; it does what it does, and does so without promising to do any more.

There is nothing confusing about a pencil. There are no caps to remove (or lose), no buttons to press, and there is no complex inner mechanism involving springs and tubes. A pencil has no clip and it slips easily into a pocket, or behind the ear. A pencil is economical and was designed to be used to its fullest efficiency. When the tip becomes dull, you sharpen the lead and continue to write. As the pencil, again, becomes dull, it is once again sharpened. After repeated sharpening, as the nub becomes too tiny to fit comfortably in your hand, you simply take a new pencil (indeed a moment of celebration) and begin anew.

It’s not like a pen, neither an expensive instrument that has to be refilled with ink, or a cheap one made to be used and then tossed away. The pencil leaves little waste behind, and much of it is biodegradable, while a plastic pen is destined to sit in a landfill for years and years.

But let’s not bother thinking about the dead pencil after its work is done, let’s instead talk about the magic a pencil can inspire.

Quickly and easily, a pencil can make dreams come alive. Somehow the pencil makes writing a wholly tactile experience. I’m drawn to the romance of the hearty scratch as the lead meanders across the paper, the pencil sounding out progress. The trail of graphite grey left on the page, whether 2B or not 2B, tells my story. With each pencil stroke there is less of me, but more of myself. You can hear it in the writing, unlike a pen with its smooth ballpoint.

While thought, itself, begins the writing process, the pencil is the next step, transforming snippets and sentences from the idle mind into a workable form. My notebooks and journals are written primarily in pencil as I plan, plot, and structure my projects and poetry. These words, what is written right here, began with notes penciled into a scribbler, random thoughts I jotted down, latter riffing with the reason before sitting down a tapping out the details.

Nothing else feels like the true connection of the familiar hexagon as you take a pencil in hand and place your thoughts directly onto the page. Should you err, the eraser is right there. Pens do not allow the same flexibility; a mistake is a mistake, and those mistakes are often inedible, or are not corrected as efficiently. Show me an ink eraser that actually works without leaving behind a silent smudge, or removing the patina from the paper.

There mere fact that permanence of pen and ink allows less room for revision may be the cause of silent insecurity when using a pen. We are more cautious when writing with a pen. As human beings we all fear mistakes, even more so the inability to make corrections. With the pen allowing less latitude, I’m more inclined towards the pencil.

Pencils take the likelihood of mistakes into account.

Responding to mood and emotion, the same pencil can just as easily leave a crisp line as it can a powerfully thick mark. Each stroke leaves a track on the paper, and you can be as bold as you wish, knowing you can change up your phrasing and rearrange the words with confidence.

Not only does a pencil have a purpose, its purpose is true. A pencil will work anywhere, in rain, in heat, even in the soul-crushing frigidity of a -40 degree Manitoba winter. And it will work until it no longer can, and then make room for another pencil.

In these days of debate as to whether cursive writing should be continued in the school system, we might even want to take a step back and look at writing instruments, and the use of the pencil itself.

Laptops and tablets are used in the classroom at earlier levels, denying the student the pure pleasure of using a pencil and letting their thoughts wander across the blank page. We are blessed with fingers and thumbs (the digit which separates us from the animals) to hold a pencil, and the manual dexterity to communicate with our hands, and to leave our mark. I’m not sure the thumb tapping and swiping allows the same development of fine motor skills (or the thought process for that matter). Handwriting: if we don’t use it, do we then lose it?

Now, I’m not particularly fussy about my pencils. I do, indeed, have favorites brands, but mostly I write with what is available. I have, many times, marveled at the Blackwing pencils available online, but have yet to give in to temptation and place an order. I know, of course, I would fully appreciate the benefits of such a luxurious item, but ordering (and waiting) tends to go against my impatient nature and inability to plan in advance.

And (in full disclosure of one of my few nerdy traits) I always carry a few spare pencils, with a sharpener, in my pencil case.

Like a kid, I am attracted to the pencil colours and designs often available seasonally, but these less-than-serious offerings are just momentary infatuations. Though I have a couple of skull and crossbones pencils I save for particularly dangerous writing, I’m pretty much content with the standard yellow pencil.

Much like people, it is not what’s on the outside, but the inner core that truly matters.

© 2015 j.g. lewis

“No one has yet tested the pencil to see how many words it can write.”
– Xi Chuan