Mythos & Marginalia

life notes; flaws and all

j.g. lewis

original content and images ©j.g. lewis

a daily breath...

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 . . .

Mondays are just young Fridays

It wasn’t about age; it is still about the music.
   I, and an almost-full arena, took in a spectacular concert last night as The Who played Toronto.
   Augmented by a full orchestra, the timeless British band gave us two hours of absolute magic; full of the sonic glory you expect from guys who have, at several points in history, proved that rock and roll is what it is.
   The Who could have spent the evening simply trotting out a career’s worth of hits, but instead opened with a string of compositions from the rock opera Tommy. Later in the night we were treated to a solid set from Quadrophenia. Both albums go well back into the ‘70s.
   Of course they played, and played well, the songs that many people know more from the CSI television series, but several of the big hits where left out (they did not play I Can See For Miles my absolute favourite song ever), but that was okay. Last night was all about the music.
   I’ve long considered The Who to be mostly about Pete Townshend, the guitarist who wrote much of the band’s catalogue. Now, at 77 years of age, Townshend is still in fine form. But so is lead singer and front man Roger Daltry, 78, singing and screaming in a manner that defies age.
   I’ve seen the band a couple of times in my lifetime, and chances are I will not have the opportunity to see them again. This may be The Who’s last tour, but then Townshend said he would quit touring in 1982.
   So there is hope, and there is still the music.

10/03/2022                                                                     j.g.l.

 

Giving Into Time

Gardens across the city are looking tired.

The flowers and foliage have for months been growing, blooming, celebrating the glorious sunshine and making our days on this big, beautiful planet ever more enjoyable.

But, come October, even the most curated gardens and manicured lawns are showing signs of wear and tear from the dipping nocturnal temperatures, lack of rain, care, or even neglect.

The cycle from spring, through summer, and now autumn, becomes more obvious each day. Daisies, Black-eyed Susan, Echinacea, once-boastful geraniums and hydrangeas are giving into time.

I can’t even find a dahlia anywhere.

Our landscape is getting darker.

The colours of flowers we count on to fill our lives will soon only be available in photographs, florist shops, or bouquets of the day at the market. We take it wherever we can, whenever we can, but we will wait patiently for next year’s gardens to bring back the everyday joy as the cycle will begin once again.

10/02/2022                                                                            j.g.l.

Truth and Reconciliation

truth
comes at a cost

honour
those who have already paid

respect
the process

healing
takes time

forgiveness
takes even longer

 

In Canada, September 30 marks the National Day for Truth and Reconciliation. This day honours the Survivors of residential schools, the children who never returned home, and their families and communities.
Orange Shirt Day is an indigenous-led grassroots commemorative day intended to raise awareness of the individual, family and community inter- generational impacts of residential schools and to promote the concept of “Every Child Matters”.

09/30/2022                                                                            j.g.l.

I'm like a pencil;
sometimes sharp,
most days
well-rounded,
other times
dull or
occasionally
broken.
Still I write.

j.g. lewis
is a writer/photographer in Toronto.

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Mondays are just young Fridays

Posted on March 14, 2016 by j.g.lewis Leave a comment

 

Enlight1

She smiled at me last evening,
quickly. Emerging
from her darkness in a slight
crescent shape, she smiled,
just briefly, from her
brand new phase.
Then she was gone, barely a wink.
As the evening progressed all
I could do was think, and I hadn’t
recently, not much, not of her.
Occasionally yes, but mostly a
blur. I had been ignoring,
or trying, I will admit, avoiding
for a while.
Once a major inspiration, she
provided clarity to my work.
Then, a while back, I began
paying less attention
to the Moon,
and she to me.
I know I’m not the first writer,
poet, painter, or musician
to be seduced by the heavenly
globe. Men stronger than I
have been seduced, captivated,
controlled by her presence,
and many have produced
words far more eloquent
than I. But, for a few years,
what the Moon and I had
was more than anything, than
any of them could know.
It was an exquisite relationship
based on understanding, and
communication, and,
despite the distance, love.
In her shadow I produced work
I could truly be proud of.
Always a puzzle, I’m still uncertain
when things began to fall apart.
No longer did I feel her pull.
I went silent.
I tried to move on.
A letter written, but never sent,
now rumpled in a coat pocket,
envelope creased
and postage stamp bent.
I was so sure I could
release myself from her gravity,
but never was I able to drop it
in the post box.
Altering my path, changing goals,
searching for another muse,
I went about my ways.
I continued moving, breathing,
trying, striving.
Rarely would I look up, at least
not high enough, or long enough.
The times I tried
she was not there, hiding
behind the clouds, or facing
another direction.
I felt I had grown up, or
grown away, from her pull.
Yesterday was different.
Suddenly I wanted to see her,
and for her to see me.
I wanted her to know I was
still alive, and I was still trying,
and I still wanted more time.
I wanted her to see
it was still me.
I took a long walk and I searched
through my darkness. The clouds
had corrupted the sky, mostly,
and although there were
a few show-off stars
smiling down in their usual
attention-seeking manner, she
was nowhere to be found.
Still I knew she was there, and
I presume she knew I was looking.
She often, or always, knew
what I was thinking, what I was
planning, and what I was doing.
I think she knows now.
And I think I need
her inspiration, again.
I’m now on the verge of
something much larger than
I had envisioned, something
quite magical. I know
I could use her support to bolster
my confidence. She could do that,
then, and used to offer willingly.
I believe she could do that again.
We have not spent the time like
we used to, but we could.
I’d like that.
I know things will not
be the same, they can’t be
when time has passed, and
you can’t assign blame, but
I know there is
something worthy.
There. Here.
Now.
All too often we shut something
out of our life; an idea, a passion,
a person.
We can’t see past the clouds,
so we stop looking.
In doing so, we lock away
a little bit of our self,
we close off that part of our brain,
or heart, and our being.
We are no longer complete
if we cannot admit the difference,
or damage, it can cause.
You have to be willing to allow
things from your past back
into your life.
They found a way there for
a reason, and the seasons might
change or circumstance always
differ, and once reunited
it may feel stiffer.
But in time, if given the time, you
become stronger from a
reintroduction; this time past
the wonder and initial seduction.
True, with the nature of time,
you evolve, perhaps find the
answers to puzzles once unsolved.
It doesn’t need to be the same as
before. It could get stronger, or
deeper, or in other ways more.
I’ve looked for the moon many
times, but last night was different.
There was hope, unexplained yes,
but still it was there.
It was yearning and deliberate,
it warmed the night air.It was
a change I realized, and I speak
only for myself, it was certain,
and true.
Open up your eyes, and your
mind, think of what can be done
with the passage of time.
Finding out what you love is
never enough, but it provides
one more reason
to keep looking up.
                                                                                j.g.l.

 

 

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