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 . . .

these days

tomorrow is another chance

but what about today?

11/29/2022                                                                                                               j.g.l.

Mondays are just young Fridays

Morning fog limits perspective.
As much surprise as wonder,
as isolating as illuminating,
we naturally want to see further.
Your vantage point stays the same.
Captivated throughout the day,
you may well stand where you are,
only the focal point broadens.Daylight eventually finds its way,
you can easily see the difference.
Darkness will come, it always does,
the view will be different tomorrow.
11/28/2022                                                                                                                                                                                        j.g.l.

be content

hold the image
speak the silence
feel the clarity

11/27/2022                                                                                                                 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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Like Jazz

Posted on April 20, 2016 by j.g.lewis Leave a comment

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                                   Rhythm and pattern easily obscured, it’s what you feel,
                                   not what is heard. Polyphonic syncopation,                     bass line
      holds the inspiration                 well before anticipation, a rush of melody pushes
            to the fore                              you hear it again, but never have before.
                        Rim shot crack
            cymbals crash,
                    the beat is burning, and falls
                    like ash.                                      It marches and it swings,
                                                                         like laughter, it is tears.
                          Emotionally charged, by no means irreverent, it suddenly switches gears.
             History more than the future, a time though, never passed.
             As definite as prayer,
             cool as a sweaty glass.                             Full moon rising
                                                                                  heroin highs
                                                                                  the music lives on
                                                                                  the player only dies.
Straight up from the psyche, deep down in the core, no matter the decade,
more than less though less is more.                                Solo piano
                   full of vigor                            the notes interpret all you have known.
                   Time signature changes, on a dime, or rolled up bill, the rhythm method,
                   it comes from the gut
                   no matter how it is played or how it is cut.                        Free form.
It is life, it is living, it is solid, it is forgiving. As simple or as complex as a saxophone riff,
no four-chord progressions.                         Never boring.                                  Never stiff.
Wholly original, as much as it is copied, and studied, sweated over, with notes cast asunder, improvisation,              muddied by emotion
                                        perpetual motion,          realization, over and under.
                  Though practiced                 it is free, it is glossy, and messed up, so dirty it is clean.
Quietly you dream, completely obsessed.                           A blue note cries out
                                                                                                       to lovers
                                                                                                       and all the others,
calmer, smoother sounds, longer linear melodic lines, you don’t listen as much
               as you go for a ride.                           Off the charts,
it’s art and it’s plastered with culture,
a contradiction not comprehensible, it is not responsible
                                              should you dream a life totally possessed.
More about attitude than instrument of choice, the minor keys and major chords create it’s own noise. Structured silence played oh-so-slow in parts of deep reflection, blood rushing through the vein, it steps back then it rises up, triumphantly, again. Again
and again, and again.
                         Only a genre is to say night is just darkness, or a day is but a year,
        it goes down easy with dinner, or a six pack of beer, seedy downtown club
        or a scratchy vinyl disc
it comes with a purpose, arrives full of risk. It nourishes the soul from a rhythm, whatever it has,                  whatever it be
                                                     we should all live like jazz.

© 2016 j.g. lewis

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