Year three settles in, months and weeks of
pandemic pain, what little
    has been gained.    Still unknown how much
    we have lost.
Social distancing affected all of us, isolation increases
   the uneasy relationship between
    propaganda and fact peddled by social media and
supported by those unwilling to accept the truth.
   Them who claim it to be freedom
     show no empathy
   to those who have lost
    partners, parents and possibilities.

© 2022 j.g. lewis

   So much more than flesh and tissue,
the human heart, of intricate design, responsible naturally
for each second time allows. A complicated array of vessels
and ventricles of immodest proportion,
its importance need not be reinforced. A vital organ.
A muscle; strong, steady. Purposeful. With the lungs
it functions, beneath ribs woven
to shield us from life’s catastrophes. If we should say
the heart is more important than the brain, we would
then again, have to think of how it functions,
or when it faults.
   Humans are complicated, from the start.
   Do we lead with our head, or follow the heart?
Secure in its biological habitat.    Protected.    And we,
as we grow, endeavor to understand emotions, and feelings,
and complications, as blood rushes through our veins,
as we learn to live, or love, in pain.
      Heartbeat.      Heart break.      Heart ache.
Trusting less in the function, less of the body,
we build walls, a facade, to hide behind.
Having lost before, or even since then,
   we protect our self.
    So much more than function or folly,
a human’s heart; the complicated array of flesh and veins,
of sordid pasts and rumpled pain. Strength we can find,
a purpose of which to remind.
If the heart is more important than the brain,
we shall learn to try, and will love again.

©2018 j.g. lewis

Caught up in the fragility of the moment, or
situation, or of the mind, we are all fighting battles.

War exists, one way or another, in our minds;
in this life. These times are tough.

So caught up in the bigger picture, all the
little things go unnoticed. Reality check.

In this city, guns and violence on the street,
in the school, forever on the news.

This year’s twelfth or thirteenth homicide
perpetrator was 14-years-old; the victim 18.

The laws are there but no one cares; they
simply want their freedoms. Regardless.

Politics is blood sport. Promises or ideology
mixed with anger, fear, and stupidity.

Common sense and sanity; one is not the other.
Neither exists in the state of now, or again.

No declaration or participation, there is no peace.
Is everything else is too important?

© 2022 j.g. lewis

Restless now. Really for months, an urge
a need, to do something. Feel something.
An interest in objects, as much as anything.
Certain things mark a time. A sugar bowl, a
cookie tin; items, almost sacred. Empty, at
a glance, yet brimming with moments.

Grandmother long gone, she now finds
herself in a place. Voices. Ushered forward
by a child, young woman now, and held back
by memories. Her flesh, her blood, those
who raised her. Comfort. Restless still.
Words and thoughts, she wants to write.

She wants to write, but never has. Not like
this. Father’s firm disposition, a mother’s
tenderness, a voice that softened her reality.
She wants to write, like she wants to believe.
Decisions made, not regretted, but pondered.
The ink is fresh, the pen permanent.

A snap of memories, broken, diminished joys
not of parenthood, but of partners. She wants to
write about love; past and present and perhaps
more. She wants to write like she wants to breathe.
Ink flows smoothly. Her blood. History always
an interest, this is more personal.

Shameless, blameless admissions, only to herself
and a page presenting itself as a stranger. Now
it offers its skin as a lover. The smooth, thick pen,
heavy and hard between her fingers, finds a rhythm.
An object desired. She wants to write, like she
wants to feel. She has, and will again.

Never like this. Minute details reiterate her faults. The
pen’s nib, ever constant, captures lives left behind,
but still within. If only her heart, if not in her life.
The pen moves forward, she still there. Now. Every
letter, each stanza reveals a voice. A need.
She wants to write, like she wants to bleed.

©2015 j.g. lewis

 

 

©2015 j.g. lewis

 

I just bought a new turntable. My last one simply wore out, as they tend to do (in my experience). I’ve owned five turntables in my lifetime. They all, essentially, do the same thing; they turn round and round and play my beloved records.

I listen to a lot of music, and over the decades I have changed, replaced, or upgraded each individual component of my stereo system many times. I have blown out speakers and blown up amplifiers, updated tape decks and equalizers and switched out receivers and compact disc players, but the precious turntable has outlasted them all. They have all served me well.

The most surprising thing about my most recent purchase is I actually bought the equipment at an actual stereo store. I’m not a big online shopper and I believe that turntables, like shoes, need to be touched and tried out before purchase.

Thing is, there are not a lot of actual stereo shops in existence, even in this country’s largest city. The couple of stores that I knew of have closed down in the last five years, and it seems this pandemic has closed a couple more.

There are those big-box electronics stores where you can get computers, wall-sized televisions, vacuums and, I suppose, turntables, but I wanted to test a few, listen, and ask questions of somebody who knew what they were talking out.

I had gone into a record store where they had a small range of equipment, but staff were unable to inform me of the wow or flutter rate, the anti-skate capabilities, or even if they were direct drive or belt-drive components.

So, I drove way across town to an independent shop that has been in business for more than 30 years. Yes, over the years the store has changed with the trends, particularly as home theatre became more of a need, want, or demand in the market place. But, this place still sold stereo systems, and components, and had a great selection of turntables.

Technology has changed greatly through the decades, but when it comes down to it, a turntable is a weighted platter spinning a record at a controlled speed with the needle at the end of a tone arm pulling the magic from the grooves in a slab of vinyl.

The salesman, who was about my age, knew the importance of the turntable, recognized what I was looking for, and answered all my questions. He even played a favourite record of mine from 40 years ago.

I was sold. I probably spent more than I thought I would, but appreciated this investment once I got it home and hooked up. It sounds great. It should last a decade or two. I hope.

I sincerely doubt that, when it comes time to replace this turntable, there will be stereo stores anywhere on the retail landscape. If there is, will there be salesmen around who know the product and the purpose as well as this guy did?