You are here.
What remains of what was
matters less and less as
distance replaces the time
between then and this.
That was then.
This is now.
original content and images ©j.g. lewis
A thought du jour, my daily breath includes collected and conceived observations, questions of life, fortune cookie philosophies, reminders, messages of peace and simplicity, unsolicited advice, inspirations, quotes and words that got me thinking. They may get you thinking too . . .
What has been heard, what has been said, after 24 or 27 months give or take? More or less, what was said (even wished) was mainly, and above all else, that we wanted things to return to normal.
We were longing for the everyday day-to-day, the regular way, sort of; or at least, some semblance of such. We wanted, we said, to be with people again, doing the things we usually did.
We wanted to see smiles, again, on stranger’s faces, we said from behind our masks and wanting so much for our lips to be read as much as our expressions of joy. Or reality. Or anything other than what it was for the 26 or 25 months of what came to be.
We weren’t asking for much, really, or nothing any more spectacular than what life grants us on any given day. We wanted the ordinary, if nothing else.
What we have known is not over. How we are living, coping, or struggling, is not the same as it was eight months, or 11 months, back (or 25 or 23). It was a long time, and longer still will be this shadow of a virus that has hung over us (more than a footnote, and still not quite a chapter) in this never-ending story.
What was, or what is, close to some kind of normal, feels closer now. Dare we say it? We wished it, didn’t we, and here we are now more than two years later, finally gathering in parks and parades, galleries, shopping malls, and back at the office.
Masked or unmasked, we might not be as close as we were before, but we are working on it. Aren’t we? Can’t we now see, or hear and experience life, a little bit like we did before?
Yes, we want more, but right now this is as good as it gets for those of us still cautious, yet relieved, that we are here to see what’s going on.
It is, or seems to be, a return to the usual, the normal, and the everyday ways. For some of us it will never happen, for many of us it will never be, but for all of us there is a new (or another) opportunity for ordinary.
The ordinary: after all we have been through, that may even be better than it sounds.
I'm like a pencil;
Still I write.
is a writer/photographer in Toronto.
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I’m not sure I can kneel down before you, or
give in to your power. Not like before.
A situation such that I am unsure whom or what
I can trust, let alone myself. Still I look up.
Here I stand, pockets full of dust, starry eyes
gazing through the ozone. Toxins leech freely
into the atmosphere. Degradation of the night sky
deprives us of opportunity to see
what we once believed. You are there.
See me for what I am as I try to listen
through misaligned radio frequencies.
I cannot know where you have been.
You hide. It is your way.
My hands are not big enough
to grasp the message.
I’m not looking for the sky to save me, nor
am I waiting for the time to be right. I need
to go home now and find what is so far away.
I’ve lost my balance.
I’m losing my fear of heights.
Equality may never be, the darkness and bright
allow us only to see what we want, not what
we could have been. A level of light is expected,
my immeasurable impatience is being taunted.
However you look at it, whether you believe
in you, or believe me, this poetic justice
is all I have known. Your shadow remains
blended with the heavens. A starry night
will not dissuade your presence
in the lives you alter, or the ones you destroy.
Yet, in this moment, I know I would try again.
How could I not?
The option of a moonless night
is more of what I have been living, than how I
want to live. Between particles of unknown origin
in an ever-increasing pool of light pollution, space
junk, and refracted thought of a thousand
nameless faceless constellations,
you are still there.
I’m not looking for the sky to save me.
© 2016 j.g. lewis