Uncertainty can often
blur your surroundings.
The map is always there,
the lines signify the path
you need to follow.
You simply have to find
It is all in your hands.
© 2017 j.g. lewis
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 . . .
There is very little that can be said about Eric Clapton that hasn’t already been said; except I saw him last night.
I’ve been listening to the musician, in all stages of his career, over the past five decades and he has been around even longer than that.
Through the years I’ve grown to appreciate Clapton more as a performer, recording artist, and as one of the greatest guitarists of all time, but I’ve never seen him live; until last night.
He was everything (and more) that I expected, playing selections from his lengthy career, and paying homage not only the blues artists who have influenced him but also to friends no longer with us.
Clapton and his band kicked of the Toronto concert with a cover of The Band’s The Shape I’m in, a fitting tribute to his longtime Canadian friend Robbie Robertson. Then, later, a tune he once recorded with Tina Turner: Tearing Us Apart.
The show was filled with both popular hits and selections you could tell he felt like playing. With a catalogue like Clapton’s there could have been even more hits, but he did what he had to do.
At age 79, Clapton’s seemingly effortless prowess on electric and acoustic guitar was both mature and effective. There were a lot of “wow” moments.
It was quite an evening.
What else can I say?
I'm like a pencil;
Still I write.
is a writer/photographer in Toronto.
Enter your email to receive notification of significant posts. Don't worry, I won't clog up your inbox or sell your data
I don’t do umbrellas.
Well, I do… or I have, but it is always a temporary thing.
It seems I can never keep a bumbershoot in my possession.
Who knows how many I have lost, or misplaced, or left behind at unknown points along my journey? I have purchased, been gifted, and found more umbrellas than I dare to count. Many have been abandoned in cabs, coffee shops or cocktail lounges, business meetings, funerals, hotel rooms, or hanging on the coat rack at some soon-forgotten lover’s apartment (I do remember the quick getaway in the pre-dawn hours, only to be reminded by the downpour on the wet tenement steps the moment I got outside).
I will not spend another dollar on something I am sure to lose again, the money far better spent on lottery tickets where there is an even greater chance of a return.
Instead, on those mornings where rain has arrived or is threatening, I choose to don this old reliable Tilley hat that my father gave me some 30 years ago. With an almost umbrella-sized brim (protecting my eyeglasses from errant or evident splish-splash), it is ugly, utilitarian, and utterly useful; with hands-free convenience, it does what it is supposed to do, promises nothing more, and is there when I need it.
I haven’t lost it yet.