Before the Dear,                                                  before the date,

a letter is nothing more than a receptive, yet vacant, page; nothing
there except intention and will to communicate.

All those thoughts, where you were, what you sought, a point
of view, daily news, perhaps of no consequence to someone who
was not there, and that may be the whole point of a letter.

Handwriting, immediate, as it was, scratches steadily across the
paper. An occasional pause, yet the mind flows freely. Topics 
appear out of nowhere; the weather, where you are, how is it there?

Of course you write, of course you care, you tell it like it is, you’ve
got something more to say, and no better way to say it than a letter.

Your Truly
j.g. lewis

Do you write letters, collect stamps, and maintain a relationship with a penpal across the globe?
I do. Monthly-ish letters from a gentleman across the waters, over the past couple of years, have broadened my perspective and enriched my personal life.
We are looking to form a small, yet effective, letter-writing group with an international flavour. There are two of us, right now, but we are looking for a few more dedicated souls who will, with some regularity, share words and thoughts, memories, and a little bit of themselves.
I tried setting this up a number of years ago but, perhaps because of the number of people who were first involved, the exercise dissipated to what it is now: two guys sharing life stories from the other side of the globe.
Both of us believe it could be more. We envision five or seven people responding or replying, writing among ourselves, and sharing a connection that surpasses the theme-like groups you find of Facebook.
This will be unlike electronic communication. Letter writing takes time. There is always a wait for the postal service (some countries are swifter than others) but when a personally addressed enveloped arrives in your mailbox you get a feeling that simply cannot be matched by an email or text message.
We have no real expectations of the group (other than a bit of commitment), but seek writers who will respond, by hand, to letters they receive. We intend to let this unfold as it may, and hope it will take on a life of its own. We hope to begin group activity in the fall.
This will be a non-judgmental group where courtesy is respected and respect is expected.
If this interests you, send a few sentences telling us why you think you would be a good fit to soultalk@mythosandmarginalia.com
This initial email will be the only “electronic” communication we anticipate being required in getting this group off the ground.

Instant communication, instant connection
to all the things you don’t need to know, while
delaying access to what you want to know better.

Algorithms substitute advertising for real content,
tell the part of the story a corporation can profit from.

An era where human beings have faster and greater
access to knowledge and information, we are mostly
pacified by empty words, pretty pictures, and
trumped up tales of misfortune, instead of
searching for the truth.

Depth is now disposable.

Conveniently forgotten.

Now, content with content, what we learn lingers
only as long as our interest is answered. Then
we are hijacked on this information highway by
bright signs indicating a turn in our attention.

Memory amiss. Gone in an instant.

What do we really know?

 

© 2022 j.g. lewis

     Pocket change
                   feeds the greedy meter,
   vending machines: soda pop,
     condom, or a packet of gum.
                  The constant jingle-jangle
     trumps empty pockets.
           Not wealth; but necessary.
         Everlasting value, heavy metal
   cold, hard cash. Lucre or lolly,
     random coinage, specific amounts;
                           it is what we carry.

   We spend more than our time.
            Streetcar fare. Legal tender:
     nickels, dimes, quarters,
   a dollar or two, even a penny
for your thoughts.
                     For all it is worth.
   Petty cash. Chump change; a pittance.
      Spare change? asks the panhandler.
     Anything helps.
                It all adds up to a valuation
                measured in dollars and sense.

© 2022 j.g. lewis

Devious minds, intimacy in kind, we
struggle with familiar strangers. All of us,
each one of them.

Discomfort is obvious, bewildering.
The greater the distance, the closer
it comes to moral destruction.

Ironically, we have lost so much faith.
Confidence or insecurity, one in the same,
depending on the view.

Wisdom found in the history books; rarely
do we crack the spines. Politicians and thieves now
the easiest marks. Poor excuses.

Everybody wants something, and somebody,
to blame. Vast nations of nobodies remain
unaccountable for perennial shame.

You can’t tell me anything, anytime,
that will make a difference. Why
would I listen?

I can be nothing, or nobody, to you
so I need not provide a reason. Fact.
Few have the information

Nobody knows. Few care. I am silent.
What can I say? Still you ask. Requests
fall on closed ears.

Noise. Always with the queries,
insecurity always there. Ever-present.
We know so little of each other.

I too have questions. Always. I often do
Tell me about your problems,
tell me about you

© 2018 j.g. lewis

I’m nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there’s a pair of us — don’t tell!
They’d banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
– Emily Dickinson

The health crisis we continue to suffer through is at
best inconsistent, and at worst a dangerous descent
into a system systematically infected by political
opportunists and fully-fledged false charm.