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

Very early this morning, I couldn’t help but glance westward to the brilliant full moon hovering above the CN tower and office buildings of downtown Toronto. The lights inside the sky-high structures not nearly as bright as Luna, but nonetheless picturesque.
   It was a beautiful scene capturing the city I live in and the celestial delight that has guided me for as long as I remember.
   And, I without my camera.
   Pre-coffee, I was not awake enough, or wise enough, to reach into my pocket and at least snap a few shots with my mobile device. I didn’t think, at the time, my simple phone would do the Moon any justice. I instead held the scene in my head.
   While there is a certain convenience to the trusty mobile device, I prefer to use my camera where I have a greater selection of focal lengths and can more artistically control the light entering the lens.
   The camera, I feel, gives me the control I need. Even in the darkness.
   It is all about control.
   I have spent a lifetime learning the intricacies and settings of a camera and its lenses, both digitally and in the more traditional film format. A true camera allows me to make photographs and not simply take snapshots. I like to control and compose as I go through this life. My camera allows me to do that, when I have it with me.
   I later searched the digital files of my computer to find one photo or anther of the Full Moon. I have many times captured both the subject and its essence, but I did not this morning.
   I will however remember this morning’s Moon.
   And I will regret not being prepared enough, or aware enough, to capture what was before me. I did not have the control I wanted.

02/26/2026                                                                                   j.g.l.

times change

When do you decide to make a change?
   Are there circumstances that force you to rearrange the way you run your life?
   Health concerns, living arrangements, sudden interests, or new people and possibilities.
   Change is not always organic.
   Sometimes we have to fight with old habits and patterns, while other times change just happens (good or bad). We still need to rethink what is important.
   How do you decide, and where do you begin?
   The answers can be found, only, within.

© 2019 j.g. lewis


Words intentionally scribbled in an old notebook, a quote from someone or somewhere. that often comes to mind.
   ‘Do what is right, not what is easy.’
   Many people have said it (or variations of such), so attributing the inspirational words to somebody specific is more difficult to understand than the moral itself.
   A powerful thought from someone who probably thinks more than me (and I do a lot). It is not easy, and sometimes my thoughts are not right, but I try to own them.

02/23/2024                                                                                           j.g.l.

I'm like a pencil;
sometimes sharp,
most days
other times
dull or
Still I write.

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

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Word Upon Word

Posted on July 31, 2021 by j.g.lewis Leave a comment

Unorganized, like my life, I have stacks and stacks of words piled high.

   Hardcover notebooks and coil-bound scribblers with pages torn out or

splattered with coffee, the cover crinkled or nonexistent, sticky notes peering

out all over the place, their purpose no longer evident.

   A mass of words; random thoughts, heartfelt prose, messages of anger and

liberation, or letters never sent. The skeletons of lonely poems are sketched

out in some, partially presented prose full of rhyme and reason set out in

others. This is my life.

   This is what I write.

   My handwriting as inconsistent as my days, it gets messy, it gets erased,

sketches out a questionable trail, but I leave my mark. I hear the pencil press

my soul into the paper. Sometimes I can hear the pain.

   I write. Often. All the time, and, maybe not enough.

   While some of my works make it into a manuscript, essay, or rant, the rest of

the notes rest silently between the covers. Right there, as sure as I am.

   I write things down to remind myself, perhaps for convenience, or maybe

inspiration. I feel thoughts are better contained splayed out on a page than

circulating through my mind (that can get dangerous).

   It doesn’t matter so much what I write as much as what I write into it.

Details matter: questions to somebody who is not around, a laundry list of

lost and found; theories that wake me at night, or delicious morning thoughts

because I have them. There are disturbing missives when I can’t bare to say

the words aloud, guilty pleasures are often allowed, and the remainder of the

sentences and stanzas are held hostage. Until later.

   There have been magnificent ideas (at least at the time), or scenes that

belong in a book of mine.

   I write out my life more for myself than those who are allowed a glimpse

into this restless being.

   What then of those who do not write?

   What do people do when they think they have something to say? What about

those who do not collect daring thoughts, or mundane messages that

unexpectedly arrive? Do they leave memory to chance?

   Do they remember specific nights, purposeful conversations, a daughter’s

encouraging words, or the events that seem to make it or break it in present


   Do they not make plans, or set goals?

   How do they account for their sins, or the substance of their self? Have they

none, or do they not care? Are they unconcerned about where they have

been, or what they have put themselves through?

   Or why? How? And what about the when, as it changes over and again?

   I spend unaccountable hours writing for me and my accountability.

   I write not for proof, or validity, but to simply ensure these voices I hear

have space to breathe. Thoughts without a place are uncontrollable, but give

them a home, a notebook or journal, and they will behave (to a degree) for a


   I write because I want to read my own depth (which can be both narrow and

flat, but entirely mine).

   I write because I need to write.

   I write because I don’t remember what it is like not to write, and I don’t

want to forget.

© 2018 j.g. lewis

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