It is not what I was expecting, and everything I expected, should it happen,  
   For three years plus I’ve managed to steer clear. I followed precautions, I did what I thought needed to be done, and it still happened. 
   At first it felt like a strong cold; swift and unexpected, and far too early for the flu. The symptoms, the cough, the headache and chills, had me doubting but was it 12 or 24 hours into it I was sure. 
   COVID-19 hit me hard. 
   The fatigue, brain fog, delusional sleep, cough, congestion and headache; my body felt brittle. I couldn’t get up; I didn’t feel like moving and was pretty sure I couldn’t. Then, there was the lack of taste, lack of appetite, total lack of motivation. 
   A simple at-home test confirmed the reality I had been living with for much longer than I expected. 
   For months now health officials have been cautioning against the latest strain. Over these past years I’ve masked up, washed and regularly sanitized my hands. I’ve been vaccinated with regular booster shoots as recommended, as available. Actually, I was expecting I would receive my next shot next month, the latest in a series of boosters that would protect me from this ugly virus. 
   Still it happened. 
   COVID-19 is still, very much, a reality. 
   I wasn’t able to do the things I usually do. I didn’t feel much like doing anything. Today might be the first day I’ve really felt like doing something. 
   It’s an improvement I can only hope will keep me moving forward.
 

A sign of the times past.
Our Technicolor reality has changed.
We no longer repair but replace.
Technology that lasted, no longer does.
Obsolescence is expected in our progress,
high definition lives defined now by a
landfill wasteland full of discarded electronics.
No longer serviceable.
We no longer watch like we used to.
We no longer can.
© 2023 j.g. lewis 

Embracing reminders of who we were, not
who we are not, we remain convinced of
this confusion and seldom make the right
assumption in moments where we wish
to define ourselves. We will need any sort
of control over any areas of a life that is
primarily accessible to all. What we share,
when we share, occasionally goes beyond
intimacy expected in the moment. Caution,
isolated thought amongst the many you are
thinking or have thought; why or why not.
We need to breathe for our self, even mere
mouthfuls of tainted air can absolve you of
the guilt, even temporarily. Little freedom.
This cruel reality is replacing the ordinary.

© 2023 j.g. lewis

Unorganized, like my life, I have stacks and stacks of words piled high.
   Hardcover notebooks and coil-bound scribblers with pages torn out or splattered with coffee, the cover crinkled or nonexistent, sticky notes peering out all over the place, their purpose no longer evident.
   A mass of words; random thoughts, heartfelt prose, messages of anger and liberation, or letters never sent. The skeletons of lonely poems are sketched out in some, partially presented prose full of rhyme and reason set out in others. This is my life.
   This is what I write.
   My handwriting as inconsistent as my days, it gets messy, it gets erased, sketches out a questionable trail, but I leave my mark. I hear the pencil press my soul into the paper. Sometimes I can hear the pain.
   I write. Often. All the time, and maybe not enough.
   While some of my works make it into a manuscript, essay, or rant, the rest of the notes rest silently between the covers. Right there, as sure as I am.
   I write things down to remind myself, perhaps for convenience, or maybe inspiration. I feel thoughts are better contained splayed out on a page than circulating through my mind (that can get dangerous).
   It doesn’t matter so much what I write as much as what I write into it. Details matter: questions to somebody who is not around, a laundry list of lost and found; theories that wake me at night, or delicious morning thoughts because I have them. There are disturbing missives when I can’t bare to say the words aloud, guilty pleasures are often allowed, and the remainder of the sentences and stanzas are held hostage. Until later.
       There have been magnificent ideas (at least at the time), or scenes that belong in a book of mine.
   I write out my life more for myself than those who are allowed a glimpse into this restless being.
   What then of those who do not write?
   What do people do when they think they have something to say? What about those who do not collect daring thoughts, or mundane messages that unexpectedly arrive? Do they leave memory to chance?
   Do they remember specific nights, purposeful conversations, a daughter’s encouraging words, or the events that seem to make it or break it in present tense?
   Do they not make plans, or set goals?
   How do they account for their sins, or the substance of their self? Have they none, or do they not care? Are they unconcerned about where they have been, or what they have put themselves through?
   Or why? How? And what about the when, as it changes over and again?
   I spend unaccountable hours writing for me and my accountability.
   I write not for proof, or validity, but to simply ensure these voices I hear have space to breathe. Thoughts without a place are uncontrollable, but give them a home, a notebook or journal, and they will behave (to a degree) for a while.
   I write because I want to read my own depth (which can be both narrow and flat, but entirely mine).
   I write because I need to write.
   I write because I don’t remember what it is like not to write, and I don’t want to forget.

© 2018 j.g. lewis

It is the summer when they are missed the most, I suppose, when you count on the shade from the heat or shelter from the rain. We often take trees for granted. 
    Until they are gone. 
    Then you notice. 
    Before the spring, trees were cleared from a nearby park I’d often walk through on the way to here or there. Under the pretense of progress, 61 trees were struck from the local landscape to further underground construction of another subway line to further connect this city. 
    They clear-cut the park. 
    The 70-year-old healthy, mature trees were removed from the scenery. There was less noise than the protest efforts that went into trying to save eight 200-year-old trees further down the street for the same subway line. Those too, after a session in the courts, were also cut away from our environment. 
    Sadly. 
    We count on trees. 
    We benefit from the shelter and shade, the carbon dioxide exchange trees naturally provide, and the continued beauty through the seasons. We marvel at the canopy of leafy greens in summer, and the brilliant shift into vibrant autumn colours. Then, as the foliage leaves us when temperatures drop and the winds pick up, we anticipate through the winter the colour that returns with spring. 
    It is a cycle that repeats itself again and again. 
    Until they are taken away. 
    Trees are not temporary.  
    Trees are not a convenience or an extravagance. From seedlings to saplings and as they evolve further, each year of growth, another ring, another year; it was a thing you counted on. Growth.  
    Growth is measured differently in downtown Toronto where cranes and condominiums and office towers steal away more of the street-level sunlight. Already lacking green space, there are fewer and fewer trees to break up the patterns of concrete, steel, and glass. 
    This is the era of progress we live in. Each time a tree is removed we are left with a little less beauty.