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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than cash . . .
why can’t our lives be guided by poetry?
a more consistent thought lately.
I’m reading more, I’m writing more,
I’m believing more. Lately.
It is poetry month.
Why now, I don’t know, and why just one month?
Why not every month?
It matters not; but it does.
Here, as well, people are sharing their work, their words,
and people are talking about their favorite
I am not sure if most people talk
Doesn’t it have to rhyme?
Not all of the time . . . not for everyone.
If not a poem, then
is mainly misunderstood.
But how? The language is so direct,
it cuts out the crap, rarely are there ums and awes,
any hesitation is purposeful.
Poets do not stumble on words. Poets respect words, poets
Words are currency, for a poet. Why not for everybody?
celebrates language, any language . . .
I must admit envy as, recently,
two people, here on this screen, shared a poem
(in fact, a poem about poetry) across the ocean,
in the language in which it was intended.
Okay, it wasn’t envy. It was jealousy: pure and simple.
For I have always enjoyed Neruda,
(I keep a small volume on my office desk to remind myself, in the middle of
the day, when I’m infected by the banal corporate culture [an oxymoron?]
I open the pages to remind myself how words are to be used, correctly).
I enjoy Neruda, in the only language I know.
I read translations.
what is lost in translation?
How much more wonderful are his words
in his native tongue?
Perhaps I should learn Español?
Or maybe I can be satisfied in knowing
I don’t really know,
(and they really know not each other)
took a few sentences,
to share, both a language
and a poem.
Separated by an ocean, and time zones,
and communicating not with lips, but through a screen,
two people shared something in common.
That is how powerful poetry
and should be.
It should bring people together.
Lovers, warriors, politicians and their prey
might better understand themselves and each other
if they thought more in poetry, than in whatever else
they might be thinking.
This is not a poem.
This is simply
caffeine-free morning thoughts,
nothing more really,
than a long-winded statement
I like poetry
(in April, or any month)
and maybe why
you do too.
@2014 j.g. lewis
Originally published on Rebelle Society, September 2014 www.rebellesociety.com
Above photograph features EPITHALAMIUM by Pablo Neruda