Special Gifts

 j.lewis aka Jim Lewis

  

 Lizard and Watch 4 by jlewis

 By Sharon Waller Knutson

 Jim Lewis, a poet, fiction writer, editor, artist and photographer shares one of his pieces of graphic art, a short fiction piece and four poems.

 I have had a lifelong interest in words and visual art,” Jim says. “As a schoolboy in grades 4 – 7, I lived on the Navajo Reservation and had access to a monthly bookmobile. During that time, I read nearly a book a day, thinking nothing of it. Looking back, I’m astounded,

 “The first poem I remember writing was at age 8. It was a 3-page homage to Maid Marian, written in pencil on a Big Chief tablet. My mother was highly skeptical that I was the author, but that didn’t dissuade me. Early start, and I’m still going.

 “When I was in high school, I bought a “fancy camera” – a Pentax SLR and started looking at everything as a potential photograph. However, my real engagement in photography blossomed with the advent of digital cameras. No film to purchase or develop, no waste.

 “I’m not skilled at drawing or painting, but discovered that programs like Photoshop offer limitless creativity for graphic art. The picture of the Lizard and Watch is a good example.”

 

Graffiti

 

He watched her stirring the ice cubes in her drink and mumbled “Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin. That’s how I feel about you most days.”

She shook her head. “What?”

 “Weighed and wanting,” he answered, trying to emphasize how different they were.

It wasn’t that she missed the reference; she missed most of them. “Cogito, ergo sum” was as Greek to her as “Eureka!” Lines or concepts from science, literature, theater, movies—even a cartoonish, “Ehhhh, what’s up, doc?” all produced the same frustrated look.

When they first met, he thought she was the cutest girl he had ever known. He loved having an audience for his stories and quotes. Before long, though, the frequency of her questions dropped off.  He found himself irritated when she didn’t “get it” but didn’t ask what he meant.

How could someone so attractive could know so little? Early on, he had considered proposing, but now wondered how they could stand each other for forty or fifty years. It was clear the relationship was going nowhere, and he needed to end it.  Today.

He scribbled on his napkin as he smirked “The writing is on the wall.” Handing her the napkin, he stood up to leave. “It means goodbye.”

She stirred the ice cubes again before unfolding the napkin.  It took a minute to realize it was upside down.  His writing, like his conversations, was hard to decipher.  Thinking back to their first meeting, she remembered how impressed she had been.  He could quote phrases from books on any topic.  And he liked her. 

They dated for several months, always going places he chose.  They weren’t bad, but he seemed to just choose venues where he could show off.  Initially interesting and exciting, it wasn’t long before he became intolerable.  The stories behind his endless quotes lost their appeal, and she asked less and less often for clarification.

She had tried for a while to involve him in things she liked.  Reading to children at the library. Dancing.  A movie just for fun.  Somehow, he couldn’t be bothered, saying he needed things more suited to his talents.  It was clear that the relationship was going nowhere, but she wasn’t sure how to end it. 

She stirred the last ice cube slowly, replaying his most recent arrogance. 

His biblical quote had annoyed her, but not because she missed the reference.  She remembered the story of Daniel and the writing on the wall from their third date.  No, the irritation was that he talked in riddles, as though challenging her to understand him.  Weighed and wanting—he meant her, oblivious to the idea that she had also measured him, and there were deficiencies.

She looked at the napkin again, with his smug dismissal.  “Fire and ice.  Oil and water.  Me and you.”  With a smile of relief, she crumpled the napkin and laid it on the table, realizing that she felt as free as a bird.

 

group therapy

 

today, the therapist said

we talk about loss

 

a collective gasp. not loss—

we've all lost so many

 

LOSS, she emphasized

of anything besides a person

 

we relaxed a little. she asked

so who has lost something this week

 

after the first expected wisecrack

"i lost my mind", she got serious

 

what about your wrinkled old bodies

any changes there? a whisper, then

 

a roar of comments that sounded like

well, like an organ recital of sorts

 

bowels, bladders, porous bones

prostates, pancreas, kidney stones

 

the list swelling until there were

more malfunctions than there are organs

 

in the human body. she waited us out.

next question: what have you NOT lost?

 

a bit of silence after the previous storm

then a murmur, a crescendo, and smiles

 

i can still hear. my heart hasn't stopped

my sight's okay. lungs are fine

 

i don't need those damned diapers yet

i can walk without a cane or walker

 

the list grew and grew until

everyone in the group had found

 

something worth celebrating,

reasons to say "hallelujah!"

 

so the organ recital was over and we

said thank you for the reminder

 

be grateful for what you have

not hateful for what you've lost

 

she doesn't say much, but friend,

that therapist is one hell of a conductor

 

 

twenty-three and me and a stranger

 

if, in another what-if twist of life

i were to do one of those dna tests

and learn that my family were not

matched to me at all, or maybe

one parent or the other, perhaps

half a sibling or some such

 

what would i do, what would i think

would i be devastated, destroyed

betrayed by the revelation and

would the non-matched parent

have some explaining to do

that hadn't been done already

 

would i look at the results and shrug

unconcerned with however it happened

because i've learned that life is

about imperfect people and that

whatever they did or didn't doesn't

change how they loved me

 

could i, if the deception slash betrayal

had never been revealed, the tryst

kept hidden, just take a deep breath

put a match to the corner of the paper

or a full-delete to the email and

go on with my life, grateful for all

i had been given by people who cared

who will never be less than family

 

honestly, i don't know what i would do

i've been betrayed myself a time or two

done my own share of things to cover up

none of which changes how i feel about

people i love and who love me back

 

it's an old question, i know — is it

always better to swing the sword of truth

when you know how sharp both edges are

or to keep that bitter weapon sheathed

and let compassion rule the day?

 

denim dreams

 

denims fit me loosely then

my extra small

and skinny butt

so hard to fit

 

but dreams are not concerned

with the size of the boy

only his imagination, and boy

did i have that in spades

 

in those jeans i flew to mars

and beyond, distant galaxies

a mere playground for exploits

fueled by stories from heinlein,

bradbury, leguin, others

 

i blame high school with its

shift in fashion to slacks

and tucked-in shirts

for the trading

of otherworld ambitions

for grown-up aspirations

 

my head no longer filled

with science-fiction

just science, music,

and words of adolescent longing

 

but astronomy and life are made

of orbits, and i have come back

to denim dreams to find distant stars

waiting to welcome me back, still

unconcerned with the fit of my jeans.

 

relative to something worse

 

it's inevitable, with the internet

that gives equal access

to every opinion, unless you pay more

and then you can have more access

to more people who don't want your opinion

but who will gladly argue that your opinion

as given is flawed, as though subjective

is somehow subject to scrutiny. it's an opinion

for crying out loud and it's mine

 

so when someone posts about a difficulty

they are facing, like having gotten on the wrong bus

or the right bus, but too soon or too late

or maybe a child is being bullied lightly,

or you can't seem to shed the fifty extra pounds

that keep your knees in pain and the "old flame"

turned down to a pilot light, or that your job

isn't all it could be - always concluded as being

"first world problems," here comes a rebuttal that

ukraine, somalia, palestine, zimbabwe, syria

and an unending list of other countries

where war, pestilence, hunger, corruption

along with every other possible horrible thing

are the everyday - they all have it worse, far worse

 

so yes, the fact that my newest diagnosis is something

like right cervical radiculopathy may be nothing to the man

who has stayed behind in kiev and no longer knows where

his family is — i get that and my heart goes out to him —

but it doesn't make the seven out of ten bolt of lightning

that zings down my arm when i tilt my head back hurt any less

or make it easier for me to try to finish a chart note

for someone who has been found incompetent to stand trial

nor does it get me an appointment for an mri any faster

 

these comparisons, these constant invalidations of my troubles,

of your troubles, help no one. they only mock whatever is wrong

by saying it's not so bad relative to "[fill in this blank]" so we can see

we have nothing to complain about. but my pain is not relative

to earthquakes in turkey or famine in sudan or bombs in gaza.

my seven of ten pain tonight is relative to the worst pain i have

personally endured. who has the right to tell me that my pain

has no value? who has the right to say that a widow's grief

has lasted too long? that a skinny kid being teased is overreacting?

you see where this is going? who has the right to tell me or you

that what we feel can only be quantified by comparison?

 

who indeed, has that right?

 

 For more about jlewis:

https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2023/06/storyteller-of-week.html

www.jlewisweb.com