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

 

Sometime over the coming weeks, but certainly by the impending new year, this website will undergo a few changes. You might even see them as they evolve.

It’s time for both change and a new year, and an alteration to the way I conduct myself and display my daily thoughts: I write every damn day.

Daunted by the insidious infiltration of routine, I have become frustrated. To combat the daily delirium, I’ve considered certain options by planning ahead (something so unlike me: I’m more of a spur of the moment kind of guy).

To be honest, I need a little more time to tend to the bigger picture, but I cannot ignore the space I have carved out here for almost a decade.

It’s time to step ahead.

I am looking forward to the change, and the specifics will become apparent in the coming weeks. I hope you enjoy the change of pace, as much as I will.

12/09/2024                                                                                                                      j.g.l.

 

these days

Shorter days, lower temperatures,
less daylight to accomplish what
needs to be done.
More and more artificial light
crowding our night.
These days, fewer and fewer
places to go. You still need to get
there, even if it is only home.
What awaits you?
Are you in a rush to arrive, or
can you take it slow?
Do you have choice?
Only you can know.

© 2020 j.g. lewis

 

December 6, 1989

Thirty years ago, 14 women were killed because they were women.

Read that again, in case you didn’t feel the impact:

35 years ago, 14 women were killed because they were women.

In Canada: in Montreal: thirty years ago, on this day.

December 6, 1989.

École Polytechnique. The Montreal Massacre.

It was more than a mass shooting.

I remember.

The world changed that day.

It has not changed enough.

I will not take up space today to spit out my thoughts on gun control or public safety.

I will not criticize today, here, those who continue to exhibit such blatant disregard for my fellow human beings, or the hypocrisy and/or misogyny of those people, or politicians, or corporations who try to hide behind flimsy excuses and transparent policies of diversity and inclusion. Or those who do not do enough to enforce, enhance, and encourage respect in the workplace, our communities, or countries.

Today is not my day for that. 

In Canada, today is National Day of Remembrance and Action on Violence Against Women. 

It is a day for remembering the event, yes, but more so remembering the vital lives of the women who were hunted down and killed by a single man.

Today  — as I do each year on the anniversary of this senseless tragedy — I will repeat the names of the 14 women whose lives were snuffed out by hatred, gender discrimination and attitudes which have prevailed in the years since.

Our daughters, sisters, mothers and lovers face these injustices each day, in a country that prides itself on a satisfying and sufficient way of life.

Violence against women is still here, it is systematic, and it is wrong. We all know it.

The lives of the women killed, not their deaths, must remain an example. I dislike the popular term ‘Legacy of pain’, but I still feel it.

These names must never be forgotten:

Geneviève Bergeron
Hélène Colgan
Nathalie Croteau
Barbara Daigneault
Anne-Marie Edward
Maud Haviernick
Maryse Laganière 
Maryse Leclair 
Anne-Marie Lemay
Sonia Pelletier 
Michèle Richard
Annie St-Arneault
Annie Turcotte
Barbara Klucznik-Widajewicz

 

My heart goes out to the families, friends, partners, and loved ones who grieve for these significant women.

I grieve with you.

12/06/2024                                                                                                                                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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logical and chronological

archives

word upon word

Posted on September 2, 2023 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 tense?
   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 while.
   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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