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 . . .
I'm like a pencil;
Still I write.
is a writer/photographer in Toronto.
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logical and chronological
Art is what art does.
There are no rules, and
the boundaries are trampled
with footprints of those
who dare to step over. Art
is both public, and deeply
personal. It is never the same,
and the attraction is uniquely
If the art comes from
what is in your heart, you will
never copy anyone. Be original.
No two souls feel the same way.
Participate in the process,
create for your self, and people
will find their way to your art.
This weekend in Toronto,
ART IS EVERYWHERE.
From sunset on Saturday to
Sunday’s sunrise, there will be
art and artists taking part in
There is something for everybody
right through the night, and it is
FREE. Google it, look for it, talk
about it, support it and, most
importantly, ENJOY IT.
Isn’t that what art is all about?
sharing some of my poetry
as one of the many performers in
KORSI at The Gardiner Museum.
I’ll be reading at 8:30 p.m., and
then later in the night, or early in
the morn, some time between
dusk and dawn.
I won’t be the only poet, and there
will be belly dancing, singing,
palm reading, story telling, and
a lot of music. KORSI, an installation
by Toronto’s Maziar Ghaderi,
follows a reinterpreted Iranian
tradition in the spirit of community
Come and share the night
The Gardiner Museum
111 Queens Park
Oct. 1 – 2 7 p.m. – 7 a.m.
Last night I sat in the rain, just
thinking, just watching, just
feeling droplets settle on my skin
and taking up space in the fabric
of my coat, or my life. Just sitting,
just being, just seeing, thinking
of really nothing, or absolutely
everything. There were many things
I could have been doing, so many
things I have to get done, but
right then nothing was as important
as watching the rain. Feeling
each drop. Thinking or not. Just
being, just feeling nothing could
wash off of me; not my intention,
not my spirit, nor the thoughts or
ideals I hold close. My eyeglasses
became spattered, my vision
unclear, but everything seemed
to make sense within this
kaleidoscope of light and emotion.
Hardly seeing, just simply being.
Nothing was going, and everything
stayed, like me, and for a spell
I was all that remained. Me.
There were other things I should
have been doing, but some nights
you just have to sit and
find solace in the unremarkable.
Poetry: it is what I do. Well, it’s not
all I do (and I should do more) but,
I do it a lot. I think it, a lot. I write it.
Sometimes it seems to write itself, but
I take all responsibility for what flows
from my pencil.
I’ll even admit to owning it as it sits in
my notebook, or on some random
scrap of paper, before it appears here,
or there. Or somewhere.
I have always believed a poem is not
a poem until it is shared.
This weekend (Saturday in fact) I’ll be
sharing some of my poetry as part of
Toronto’s Nuit Blanche, as one of the
many performers in
at The Gardiner Museum.
I’ll be reading at 8:30 p.m., and then
later in the night, or early in the morn,
some time between dusk and dawn
(it’s one of those all night things).
I won’t be the only poet, and there will
be belly dancing, singing, palm reading,
story telling, and a lot of music.
KORSI, an installation by Toronto’s Maziar
Ghaderi, follows a reinterpreted Iranian
tradition in the spirit of community and
Come and share the night
The Gardiner Museum, 111 Queens Park
Oct. 1 – 2 7 p.m. – 7 a.m.
Should I stumble, as I am most certainly to do, pay no attention
to the rip on my trousers, or swollen bruise on my knee. I have many
more scars, and they have become a better part of who I am. As if
character marks on the surface of the antique table, or the
cumulative incidental nicks and scratches on a ’61 Telecaster
lessen the intended beauty and purpose.
If I fall, and you discover me in the gutter, I will not need assistance
returning to my feet, but would appreciate
a hankie to dust off my skin, and perhaps a fresh bandage
to mask the blood spilling from within.
When, at a street corner, I seem stalled or uncertain, please
pass me by. There is no need for directions, as
I am probably just deciding if it is choice or a chance. We come
across many paths, and they all move forward. I have an idea
where I am going, and might later become sidetracked,
or choose a cross street. You would be best thinking
I will someday find my destination, than feeling you had led me astray.
It’s not that I am above asking if uncertain, but
I would find it more purposeful
to step ahead unknowingly, than to have you feel a burden
Should we cross paths again, and you find me in repose, or
a terminal state of confusion, you would be better off continuing
along the cracked sidewalk. It is not that I wouldn’t enjoy the company,
it’s just that I cannot answer your why. Share a smile, however.
I do collect moments, as souvenirs,
and what better way to remember anybody
than to know you shed a little light.
Later, when you catch sight of me in a park; on the bench;
under a tree, near that fountain, with my camera, or a journal,
please leave me to my silence. Know that poetry
is having its way with me, and I have already shared
the crusts of my sandwich with the pigeons. Generosity comes
in many forms, and I am grateful for each of life’s experiences.
As you take in this fresh autumn chill, do not be concerned
for my welfare. I will find the warmth, as I always do.
Yet, should you feel cold, or uncomfortable, do not hesitate taking
my sweater to cover your shoulders. The garment,
like me, may be tattered and frayed, but in it you will find comfort.
Return it to me when it is no longer useful. I have others.
If I were to unexpectedly bump into you at the market,
and we are as surprised then as we had been when,
remember how we once shared something,
and we are both better off because of it.
We were not strangers, not then, not now.
© 2016 j.g. lewis