We walk like thieves through sunlight and shadows, attempting to pickpocket the colours temporarily brightening our surroundings. Shades of burgundy, fuchsia, and tangerine. More than yellow and orange. Too soon this will be gone.
  It is like this each October. Random flowers still trying. Windblown leaves over cracked asphalt, in days soon to be wrinkled and weary brown, and then unnoticeable.
  It’s only natural.
  Dew is soupy on the windshield in the morning, and soon we shall see our breath.
  The aura of Autumn; cooler breezes; short days, and those shorter yet to come.
  We move briskly through this season, trying to keep up with the changes, but our soul wants to slow, to even find the stillness we avoid in hectic summers.
  We seek comfort in woolly sweaters and the textures of our domain. The scarves and gloves that have been hiding at the back of the closet suddenly appear on the bureau, as if waiting to be pressed into action. We want to enjoy the present, but, habitually, fear the harsh winter ahead. It always is.
  Within our homes we organize, knowing we will spend more time inside.
  It is nesting. It’s natural. It is our way. We seek familiarity.
  Even the music we listen to takes on a different tone. We react, or relate, to more contemplative lyrics, find melody in varied time signatures, or recall certain movements that harbour feelings of family, and justice, and togetherness. Even if we feel alone.
  Days move with the voracity of a poem, and we hunger for a place, a person, or a thing.
  Something.
  Outside trees shed their leaves, and birds say farewell as they follow familiar routes. Naturally.
  It is time, and we watch it fly by.
  This is us. This is now.
We look around, and we look ahead.

©2017 j.g. lewis

As a kid living on the Canadian prairies, Rolling Stone was my bible.

I started reading the magazine — then a newsprint tabloid without staples — when I was 12 years old. Through the years, through the magazine, I learned about culture, counterculture and pop culture, politics, protest, human rights, intellectual debate and, of course, music.

Music was my initial interest in the then-monthly tabloid, but the rag was about so much more. Rolling Stone spoke of real life beyond my sleepy city.

As I grew up, so too did the magazine. The format and size changed, the newsprint became a higher quality stock (stapled) and then it became glossy. As it evolved, the magazine remained under the stewardship of Jann Wenner, who launched the project as a 21-year-old college dropout 50 years ago.

Rolling Stone was the voice of the generation, and through the years the work of Tom Wolfe, Hunter S. Thompson, P.J. O’Rourke and Annie Leibovitz (among so many others) graced the pages. This was the journalism that inspired me to enter the newspaper world.

Last week Wenner announced he was selling his controlling interest in the magazine. A sad day really, but sadly just a sign of the times.

We have all heard, and continue hearing, about the demise of traditional media in this digital age. Newspapers have, for years, been downsizing or dropping off the face of the planet. Magazines are fighting both decreased circulation and advertising revenue.

To remain in the game, family-owned Wenner Media has been ridding itself of its other publications (US Weekly and Men’s Journal) in past years. Last year it sold 49 percent of Rolling Stone to a Japanese music technology company. The once-independent publisher is independent no more.

Now I can romanticize about how much the magazine once meant to me (10 years ago I purchased a CD boxed set containing every issue of its first four decades), but truth be told, I cannot remember the last time I actually purchased a copy off the newsstand. It might have been the issue with Barack Obama’s exit interview (written by Wenner), but chances are I read that story online. I read a lot of Rolling Stone content online, it’s always good, and now always free.

I used to subscribe. Then I just picked up issues when something on the cover moved me. Then some of the artists on the cover, or the stories, stopped speaking to me. At one time I used to base most of my music choices on the publication’s album reviews. That, then, was how we heard about new music. Now when an album is released you can actually listen to some (or all) of the album online before you decide to buy or download.

Times they are a changing, with both music and magazines.

I will still read Rolling Stone articles as they drop into my newsfeed, and this may continue after Rolling Stone is sold. Wenner and his son Gus, the magazine CEO, indicate they wish to stay on after the enterprise is sold, but in this age of corporate control, that’s not how it often works out.

I’ll be less likely to read Rolling Stone material knowing Wenner is not as involved, or as committed, as he once was. It was his vision that guided the magazine, and I liked his view. When he is no longer making those decisions, the Rolling Stone brand will no longer speak, to me, with the same voice.

Maybe this is stating what has already happened. For Rolling Stone, like anything else, is no longer what it was.

As natural as it may be, or as untimely as it may seem, the death of a loved one is the most difficult experience we encounter in our lives.

It is never easy. A life has ended.

Relationships, whether family or friend, are built over time. We build our lives around other people. It is what makes us human. We learn together, we live together, and we experience life, uniquely, with those we are close to. Sometimes it is trying, but always it is necessary.

Memories are forged just by being there, and then, on those moments when the other person is not, we are left with only reminders.

We remember birthdays, vacations, significant events like Sunday afternoons and years and years of personal interaction. The seasons change and so do we. It takes time to build memories and even longer to let them breathe.

You will remember, on and off – especially in the days immediately after a death – of what that person meant. Cherish those afterthoughts. Know you were there when you needed to be. Know your love, and your presence, made a difference. It will not make the death any easier, but it will make it real.

Those emotions you feel are real.

The grief will pass, the sorrow will subside, and the feelings will leave an imprint forever on your life.

Take comfort, and take time to think, to relive, and to reflect. It will take a while, but let that time be a constant reminder of the gratitude you have for all that they were.

It took the recent death of Steely Dan co-founder Walter Becker to remind me how public grief is no longer a slow process.

It’s instant, like fast food; digested incautiously and no longer savoured.

Grief. We put it out there on social media, like what we eat, how we love (or hate), or vote, as an instantaneous response to the feelings welling up inside of us. We Tweet personal thoughts, or post on Instagram or Facebook. Somehow, however, by freely broadcasting our personal beliefs on any or all platforms, everything somehow seems less personal.

Strong reaction to the death of an artist is nothing new. Every generation mourns the loss of the singer/songwriter, or musician, or performer that marked the time and space in our collective lives. Not that long ago we would have heard the news on radio, television, or read about it in the newspaper. Or we would be informed by a friend or acquaintance.

I remember being the one to break the news of John Lennon’s murder to close friends who were greater fans than I. Word travelled swiftly and, yes, there was a public outpouring of communal grief, but nothing anywhere as thick or as prolific as it is in this digital age. Not long ago it was more word of mouth or heart to heart.

The news of Elvis Presley’s death in the ’70s, or that of Kurt Cobain’s 1994 suicide, circulated in similar ways. It was swift, but not instantaneous.

Grief, like anything else, it is quicker now.

Within minutes of reading (on the internet) about Becker’s passing at the age 67, I was pulled in to a heartfelt tribute by his friend, bandmate, and writing partner Donald Fagen. Not much later I was reading memories written out by Rickie Lee Jones. The next morning, I was hearing a stranger’s account to a fellow stranger in an anonymous coffee line as he was tapping out something on his mobile device.

Social media is now how we learn about life’s moments. No longer do we wait for news at the top of the hour or the end of the day. We hear about it, many times over, within minutes or seconds of a public announcement.

It is understandable how news of the deaths of artists like David Bowie or Prince would quickly catch on, but nowadays even lesser-known musicians who were nowhere near as popular, now have lives that are immediately celebrated by fans of the music. The width and depth of social media and the determined efforts by a relatively small fan base made the musicians bigger than they had ever been.

And that’s good, it is respectful. The world is full of performers who never made it “big” — not like Michael Jackson or Whitney Houston big — but they did have fans, supporters, and believers. The beauty of social media is that those who may have felt isolated in their grief could see support from others, like them, who felt the artist was significant. That is good.

It was not always like that. A couple of decades ago I might have noticed a small obituary in the back pages of Rolling Stone paying tribute to a guitarist or drummer who played in such and such a band. Sometimes it was the one-hit wonders where the band was not even ‘big’ and its members were even less. These small articles on the small artists focused on deaths that may have taken place weeks earlier, and this was the first time anybody had really heard about it.

It would not have happened that way these days.

Everybody now pitches in with a few words, or memories shared. The pictures and posts stack up daily like flowers near a tombstone. Just look at your news feed and you will find someone’s impressions of a favorite album, or concert, or a certain event that a certain song reminds a certain person of (the true power of music and its ability to take you back). I’ve done it myself.

Of course I have memories of Steely Dan, and of Becker’s role, but I needn’t bother telling you how I crank up the volume as soon as the opening notes of Reelin’ In the Years comes on the airwaves. Or how many times I’ve popped Aja on the turntable (or CD player) because I couldn’t find anything else in my thousands of albums that fit my mood. Aja always would.

You can read those type of thoughts all over the internet; thoughts of how someone was such a dedicated fan, or how many times they saw the musician live, and all of a sudden it becomes one-upmanship.

It’s quick. It’s too quick.

It eviscerates the pain, and it takes away from the time you might need to reflect, or to deal with the emotions the work, song, or voice conjures up. We need more time to let it settle in.

Let’s let the grieving last a little longer. It’s sad, so sad, when we lose something that once meant so much. And we can commiserate with friends and our internet brethren, but let’s do it respectfully.

The death may have been instant. But our reaction to it need not be.
©2017 j.g. lewis

yesterday
       today
was
      tomorrow
             I had so much to do
      things I had put off
   consciously or
unconsciously              it mattered not
         I was determined to get them
done
   one (or all of them)
by
   one
done             today
when it was tomorrow
           it seemed easier
           it seemed manageable
           it seemed as if there would
be time
           when today
                        was tomorrow

yet as tomorrow came,
            as it always does
            as yesterday lost hold of
the hours and
its way
and tomorrow just happened
        anyway
it seemed
                                  as if
           time had passed me by
                                  as if a day;
                       today or any day
slipped off the calendar
falling like a rose petal or
            disgraced politician
into the basket of days misspent
or wasted
days which promised more
                     but delivered less
tomorrows do that
they never quite live up to
today
                   and all too often
                           become a yesterday

© 2014 j.g.lewis