Note to Self (92) My revolution

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I fell upon an old short story I wrote a few months ago when I started my journey into the writing world, and I grew the desire to edit it in order to repost it as part of my blog. But something felt strange. I read the first few words and I hated it. I hated all of it. Did I write this? How could it be?

My mind twisted and turned at 100 mph. I wanted to fix everything, make it look nice, make it sound fresh and modern, the same way I write today. Yet, I couldn’t change anything. Like a point in time, it marked a stop I made and I had left, not looking back, always moving forward, perfecting my prose and my thoughts at the speed of a comet.

My evolution shocked me, and at the same time impressed me.

I didn’t realize how far I had come, how much heart I distilled inside my stories and how my characters morphed to become a purer reflection of my soul. My first steps were awkward, but you learn to crawl before you learn to walk. So it felt great.

I didn’t publish the story. I left it on the side of the road, never to be read again, because it wasn’t supposed to be shared. This was an experiment. A mistake that needed to be made in order for me to progress and blossom as a writer.

I however wondered whether my style would reach a peak and suddenly collapse, words not flowing like they used to, ideas entangled in dusty cobwebs deep inside my crazy mind, and my imagination would stop working, my muse abandoning me to seduce another writer, younger, smarter, more ambitious that I’d ever be….

How would I know when it was time to quit? I feared giving my readers leftovers instead of surprising new flavors. I secretly prayed not to ever face a lack of inspiration. I looked at these old words, and like a family picture, I smiled at the dimples on my chubby face and my curly toddler hair…. I reached maturity faster than I had hoped. It almost happened without me noticing….

I found my truth by writing. Don’t take it away from me too soon. I wish to enjoy it as long as I can, and I promise to let go when I sense it, oh how I promise to let go, and yet I never want to forget the wonderful feeling I experienced while putting all these words on paper. Like playing a beautiful composition, I reached heaven for a little while….

Muse, don’t leave me. Let me experience a few more revolutions before you decide to close the curtain on me. Please. Just a little longer, it wasn’t a mere dream, it felt real and I liked it, because writing is who I am, and what I want to be. Always. Never. Nothing’s supposed to last forever?

I simply realized I was only a drop in the pond, but what a drop I was.

My revolution had just begun.

Guest Post (8) Phil Stern

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Hello all!! Time for a guest post. Today I welcome Phil Stern. Please follow him: @thebullyears titled after The Bull Years, a novel of America’s most disillusioned generation (available now on Kindle and Smashwords) and @philstern100.

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Literary Foreplay

 

The ebook revolution allows authors, and readers, to let it all hang out.

Remember television before Sex And The City? Bland and almost sexless, it would have been unthinkable to have four professional women sedately sitting in a restaurant discussing orgasms and vibrators. But now, it’s the standard. Today one couldn’t have a successful cable show without a healthy dose of sex and nudity, and even broadcast television is much racier than before. A revolution had taken place before our eyes, yet its full impact would take several years to settle in.

The same is going on with e-publishing. Sex has gone literary mainstream, and the genie’s never going back in the bottle. Without literary agents and publishers to censor such work, it’s going directly from writers to readers in the blink of a digital eye. And just like with cable television, the publishing industry at-large is finding a far greater acceptance of such material than they had ever dreamed possible.

However, there needs to be some steak with the sizzle, and writers need to remember that sex in of itself doesn’t always sell. A new breed of literary star will soon emerge from this titanic collision of the publishing and digital worlds, authors who can bring erotic sensations to tantalizing life, creating sexual tension and conflict, engaging readers in the deepest, most primal way imaginable, while also spinning a good story. Character, plot, writing style… all require the same caring, loving attention to craft that good writing always demanded.

So always be a writer first, and an erotic writer second. After all, just think what Sex And The City would have been like if the characters didn’t have jobs, apartments, and full social lives?  Just poor, wild women having sex on park benches with anyone who wandered by.

And at the end of the day, that wouldn’t have been very interesting at all, would it?

Note to Self (91) The power of writing

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I looked outside my window and stared at the sky. A colorful arc of light brightened gray clouds. It was a smile after the storm, a sign things were getting back to normal. Beautiful. Peaceful. Simply magical.

Life took a toll on me. Dragged me through mud, hurt me everywhere, made my heart bleed and my head explode. Yet, I survived. I made it. I considered myself a champion. Stronger than ever. I could defeat an army of haters and still come back victorious. Nothing scared me anymore. I let my thoughts digress and reminisced about the day I sat on the top of my hill, staring at the horizon, feeling a bit awkward, insecure about my looks, my intelligence, my future…. I believed nobody would ever want me, like me, appreciate my company. I believed my freedom would be limited to the world I knew, and I despised this world so much, it saddened me to imagine being stuck here forever.

Determination. Strength. Will power. I woke up and stood my ground. So what if nobody liked me? If boys found me ugly? If classmates called me stupid? I felt good enough to keep fighting. Nothing would stand in my way. Nothing would make me stall. Like the rainbow after the storm, I’d pierce through clouds and shine over earth, bringing a smile to everybody’s faces.

And suddenly, a book caught my attention – an excellent read I’d suggest to anybody: Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand. Beyond the philosophical ideas and the political stance she supported, she introduced to the world a series of characters that believed in themselves and never walked away from their inner truths. They displayed confidence, self-control, maturity, passion. I fell in love with the writing, and with the story. I adored it so much; I considered this read to be a milestone. What I thought had been written by somebody else, as if the author had entered my mind and learned my darkest secrets. These words spoke to me with so much reality; I didn’t know how I could exist without them. They impressed me. They changed me. They transformed my vision of the world. Mostly, they made me a better individual.

I hope to have the same power with my words. Writing a story that will mean so much to the reader that his/her life will be altered forever. I want my story to have a meaning. To deliver a message. To make people feel great about themselves, to empower them. To make them feel reborn.

Like any other form of art, writing is the trigger of something bigger. I’d rather try and fail, than not try at all. But I want to be part of this. I dream of the day my books will stand on a library shelf, and a hand will grab one of them, browse through the pages and learn something new. Only then, I’ll consider my job done.

Note to Self (90) My artistic rebellion

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My life has always been about writing. Already as a little kid, I knew I wanted to be a writer when I grew up.

Words are my thing.

It’s difficult to explain to people who don’t write why I enjoy doing it so much. Some see it as a complex intellectual exercise; others simply don’t understand the point.

I agree, in comparison to painting, acting, singing or dancing, writing could make you look like a boring nerd in the eyes of many. I have no cool break moves to show you. I’m completely inept at drawing anything containing more than two dimensions. I suck at acting, because I laugh all the time. And singing? Um. Yeah, I could sing, but after five minutes I’d lose my voice.

So here you have it. I’m mediocre at every other art beside writing. Putting words down on paper is what excites me, relaxes me and helps me escape from my every day routine.

There’s a little something you should know about me. I didn’t always live in New York. I didn’t always speak English either. I was born in a small town in the center of France, and I stayed there until my fifteenth birthday. After that, my family moved to the South and we enjoyed the sun and the beaches of the French Riviera. When I was 22, I fell in love with a New Yorker, and I moved out.

I didn’t simply change address and buy a house 500 miles further North. I had to go through an entire process to obtain a visa, find a place to live, continue my legal studies, and… See, there’s something else about me.

I never felt French, and I always wanted out.

There were many reasons for that feeling to grow and develop. I was bullied as a kid, and never really found my place. Wherever I went, I didn’t like it. People acted weird, didn’t understand me, and also rejected my German origins. After many years, I simply had enough. I got the opportunity to find somebody who allowed me to make my dream come true. I left thinking I’d never return to Europe, at least, not permanently. My chosen identity was American.

I also tried to forget my passion for writing.

How did this happen? I just got busy becoming a lawyer, and I thought such distractions should end since I’d undertake a serious career. Plus, I didn’t think my English was good enough for me to write fancy novels. I decided to simply erase this part of my life. I was married. Time to act like an adult, I thought. Writing belonged to the dead world of my childhood.

Things, however, didn’t stop for me here.

It certainly took a while to realize what I was missing, but these years didn’t go to waste. On the opposite, I built a new range of emotions and feelings I wasn’t aware of before. I matured, like a good wine. Everything happened for a reason, and I knew exactly why I picked up writing again. The divorce was just the trigger of something much bigger.

I realized my English wasn’t different from what you hear in movies, or directly on the streets of New York City. I spoke like everybody else, even managed to mimic the accent. I blended in, not to become different, just a better version of my old self.

From that moment on, possibilities were endless.

Words flowed easily once I let them pour down my page. There was no way of stopping them from invading my every day routine, reminding me how much fun it was to play with them in the first place. I don’t think I’d have achieved such a level of dedication had I not gone through everything I put up with. The good and the bad, they made me who I am today.

I use these words to talk about my life, and mostly New York City. When I reminisce about the old Europe, I feel a bit strange. I haven’t forgotten my roots. I even sometimes miss them, but could I ever go back and settle down? I’m not so sure about this. I really like it here, despite all the flaws and issues people deal with, it’s still a nice place to live. I don’t think I’d have found such a welcoming environment where I grew up.

These feelings are mine, obviously. Other people will tell you the United States sucks balls. They don’t know anything about history, and they don’t care about soccer. Their food’s crap and they tend to impose their vision of the free world onto everybody else. This is a stereotyped version of what certain individuals could actually say.

Everything’s possible. Just seize the right opportunity and embrace the journey. There’s no perfect place anywhere, unless you make it your own. I transformed my existence by moving away to a new country, but mostly, I took control of everything in my life so I could find happiness in everything I did.

New York City has become the background for my stories and is the greatest source of inspiration I’ll use for now. Yet, I won’t stop here. Who knows? I might end up leaving the US to go some place else, very far away from the noise and the crowd.

Come look for me in fifty years and you’ll find me sitting in the middle of nowhere, writing under a willow on my laptop. Yep. Writing offers certain luxuries like that. Call it insanity, or addiction. I personally found the perfect term to define this state of mind.

I branded it “artistic rebellion”.

Note to Self (89) Friends

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A thought keeps hitting me on the back of the head. A thought that annoys me, angers me, upsets me. I want to get rid of that feeling but it keeps coming back, nagging me. Nibbling then biting, eating my flesh, wanting my full attention.

I finally listen. Somebody’s been unfair to me. Who? A friend.

Friends. Weird animals that come into one’s life and make a difference. Sometimes good, sometimes bad. There are the temporary friends, who pass and go, and then the more permanent ones, that stay and evolve with you. Marriage is the union of two friends. Friendship triggers trust, dedication, commitment. If you really want to be part of someone’s life, you have to make certain sacrifices. Find time to hang out. Talk. Share secrets. Laugh.

Humans usually are social animals. Of course, I vent and I rant about living in an 8 million inhabitant megatown and how much I hate people. I see them everywhere, so much I run away from them. Still… At the end of the day when I come home, I wish I had a friend to confide into. A presence who told me I mattered.

While being alone is certainly fun, it gets dull after a while.

So here I am. Upset. More sad actually, than really concerned at this point. I made the cruel experience that certain people don’t like to stick around too much. They make you believe that they like you, they actually need you, and they’re thankful to have you in their lives. And then poof! Magic, they’re gone. No phone calls, no emails, no communication whatsoever.

I have one person in mind. Maybe that person’s reading this post right now. If that person even cares about spending the time to read my work anymore. Because a few months ago, I still thought that person cared. I still believed that we could walk into the writing world together, hand in hand, and share what needed to be shared. But just like magic, that person disappeared. First, I thought I was dreaming. Imagining things. No, it couldn’t be. We were friends. We wanted to enjoy this adventure together. We had projects. We had ambition as a team. Then the relationship slowly started to deteriorate. No fights. No arguments. Just nothing to share anymore. Belittling comments. Misunderstandings. Now… Complete silence. It feels like I’ve been left on the side of the road with my heavy suitcase, and I’m taking the train by myself. In a total opposite direction.

How crazy is that? As if the world suddenly started revolving counter-clockwise. I don’t know what to think. I’ve seen that too many times to even feel hurt by it. Yet, I still get hurt. What a fool I was to believe we could be friends. Real friends for life. Another temporary stop. Another failed undertaking at establishing a relationship that could last.

Friends. It’s like spending Christmas with my former in-laws. More often than not, they’re full of s***. I still find people who I trust. And begin a new journey with. So the road is never empty for too long.

In every cloud, there’s a silver lining. I just have to keep looking for it.

Note to Self (88) To my first crush

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He bore a girl’s name. Camille. Short, blond hair, freckled face, brown eyes and a huge grin. Ten years old. Last year of elementary school before graduation to secondary school.

That boy liked me. A lot. He used to play soccer during recess and he always yelled my name every time he scored a goal. He stared at me every hour of class. He sent me notes. He tried to grab my hand.

What did I do in return? Nothing. I was nine years old and boys didn’t interest me. I found them gross, awkward, stupid. I had started writing my first novel at the time and I knew what to make of my life at that point. This Camille was really the last of my concerns.

But he persisted. I remained as cold as ice. The game continued until the last day of class. I already knew which new school I’d go to and it wasn’t the same one as Camille. Despite living in a small town, changing schools meant never seeing each other again. And I was happy about it.

I wonder what he thought. Maybe he wanted a last memory of me. My girlfriends were already fond of giving first kisses, some of them had become pros at it. Eek. Hit me in the face before putting your lips on mine. This was a restricted area. Nobody, absolutely nobody, would have access.

We were having a “party” in the classroom. Cakes, soft drinks, board games. Last day. I had spent the whole afternoon with my girlfriends. Playing and chatting. Eating. Killing time.

Camille suddenly came and pulled me to a more discrete corner.

“I have something to ask you.” he said.

“Ok. What is it?” I replied.

“Would you go out with me?”

The world stopped moving. I looked at him and I exploded in laughter.

“Are you out of your mind?” I said. “No way. Not in the entire universe. This will never happen.”

And I left. He stood there, not knowing what else to do. I stormed out of the corner where he had trapped me and I came back to the classroom. As if nothing happened.

Twenty minutes later, that chapter of my life was officially over. I packed my things and ran outside, the warm breeze welcoming me into my school free summer.

I never saw Camille again. He vanished from my life completely.

I had probably broken his heart.

I learned my lesson four years later when I fell in love with a boy in my class. The infamous Steve. Loving somebody without being loved in return. The worst thing in the world.

Camille, I’m sorry if I hurt you. I understand now how you must have felt, and I acted like an asshole. I hope you’ll forgive me. Who knows? Maybe you’ll buy one of my books someday, not even knowing it was me, the nine year old dorky looking girl who rejected you like a dish rag on the last day of school.

And just for that, I’ll love you too.

Note to Self (87) Sleep

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Sleep. Why do I need it? Why does it matter anymore? I want to drown in a pool of dreams and never wake up, until I’ll find an exit from my plight by leaving my eyes shut. I am the vessel that carries a new breed of thinking, never to be stopped by the boundaries of our time. I wish not to be heard and misunderstood because it will add to the burden that I’ll carry on my journey to deliverance.

It isn’t easy to see through the darkness, yet I feel like a king among the blindness. I lose track of myself and seek another light, a fire of hope dragging me out of the hole that consumes me every day a little bit more.

Nothing ever made sense. It wasn’t supposed to. I listened to the voice of my subconscious and I followed the path to freedom. But I found nothing. On the contrary, I discovered hatred, loss, jealousy and misery, all combined in so many shapes and forms I couldn’t tell which one was which.

I have been fooled into believing that I could trust anyone. I was meant to be alone, wandering the streets of this maze in search of a better future. My mind took me elsewhere. To a different dimension. To a different realm. I cruised and waited for the right opportunity to jump off the ride, and I saw for the first time.

My eyes sent messages to my brain and I dissected the information with much care, not letting one single bit of data go to waste. I never thought I could travel this far.

I don’t need to sleep. I don’t need to breathe. I moved over, and I long for the existence that this condition bestowed upon me.

I am the alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end, the circle of infinity. I have risen to a new level. Immortality.

Guest Post (7) Dennis Sheehan

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Welcome to Dennis once again – he’s giving us more of his beautiful prose to read!! I’m very excited to have him on this platform, please follow him on Twitter @bydennissheehan and @dennissheehan.

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There is something very comforting in experiencing a power outage. Earlier this evening the storm raged, wind, rain and hail. It came down with a ferocity as if God was angry and wanted to wash away our inadequacies. Before the final downpour the power went off. Disquieting at first, it is now a peaceful and comforting situation.

Engulfed in the quiet of the evening in the dark, there is peace. I have no background noise, no distractions and no light. I am alone with only the illusions presented to me by the slightly moving branches of trees outside which are backlit only by the moon. The slight movement of the branches dissects the moonlight in a beautiful harmonic dance, of which I am normally unaware because of my modern distractions.

If the television was never invented, would it be missed? Would man have more time to think and imagine? Would we spend more time enjoying each other instead of the fabricated personalities of TV stars? Would we devote more time to helping others or at least interacting with our friends and neighbors instead of mindlessly watching someone else’s lives unfold on our flat screens? It is interesting to think that only when these distractions are taken away do we question ourselves and our validity.

In the dark quiet of a blackout, I am asking myself these questions. I am becoming frightened with the fact I am not sure I want an answer. I have become comfortable, fully immersed in the comforts of modern day consumerism. Is this why people are afraid of the dark? Do we not want to experience the realization of our empty stagnant lives? Are we afraid of the answers we get when we actually think? Could I have done more, lived more or loved more?

The peace and solace I experienced earlier has left me alone, I am now consumed with the reality of my disheveled life. I am starting to feel claustrophobic, I am experiencing a tightness in my chest, I feel alone.

Please God, turn the TV back on, I can’t stand it anymore……..

In the light of day things look better, my TV is back on, the sun is shinning and I have an overwhelming feeling of warmth and happiness. I ask only one thing out of life, please don’t leave me alone in the dark again.

Note to Self (86) For Krystal

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Lost in a million year old fog, I climbed up the mountain, trying to catch sight of my prey.

I believe it lingered by a crevasse after one of my arrows penetrated one of its front legs, but I stood too far to have a good aim at its heart. The white fur blended with the snow. I had to get closer. I didn’t quite feel the similar fear my peers experienced before they all perished at the bottom of the giant pit a few hours earlier while I miraculously survived. Yet, I could sense my courage slowly abandoning me as I continued to move forward. Who wanted me to be here today, alive, strong and determined to destroy the creature haunting the dreams of all? The light of truth had shown itself to me while a crescent moon designed a smile in the dark night, and I listened to the words of the fairy who delicately landed on my shoulder in my sleep.

She assured me everything would ultimately be alright if I kept faith. She whispered a song in my ear and forced me to keep my eyes shut. I pictured her sitting by my side, slowly humming the lyrics of an ancient tune I had never heard before, and in a language I didn’t recognize. Yet, I understood her.

She asked me to gather the courage to leave the village and find the beast before it was too late. It had to be killed before the full moon, or the unthinkable would occur. An army of devilish beings would wake up from the underground and colonize earth, leaving no room for the living, and turning the world into an ocean of sickness and death.

“How?” I asked. “What can I do to defeat it?” More words poured into my mouth, but my throat felt too parched to utter a sound.

She told me to hunt the beast, by day and night, and she insisted to never lose sight of it. Once I got near, I’d simply target the animal’s heart and pierce it with a golden arrow that she quickly placed in the palm of my hand. Manufactured by the Council of a Thousand Souls, the small weapon held magical properties, she added.

“Why me?” I ventured, but she’d disappeared.

She briefly reappeared and quickly smiled before putting a finger on her lips. I’d know why when the time was right.

I didn’t know whether that moment had come… Pressing the golden arrow against the tight muscles of my stomach, I marched forward, searching for the beast. The wind started to rise and snow obscured my field of vision, making it extremely difficult to locate the eight foot long shape precisely. I could see my breath vanishing in front of me, the last sign I had not frozen to death in these hostile conditions.

I covered my face with the scarf Amanda had given me on the day of my departure. Kissing me on the forehead, she prayed for my safe and sound return. Many men had accepted to join me during this dangerous journey. Unbeknownst to me they would all die a few days later and leave me on my own to complete the mission.

My legs gave way, but I maintained a steady balance, my eyes locked on the white mass ahead. Following the sparse drops of blood staining the snow, I geared my bow and prepared to aim.

Suddenly, I heard a loud growl. I looked to my left and to my right, piercing the fog to find the origin of the sound. Nothing. I kept moving.

“I’m going to kill you…” I thought. “Show yourself!”

I held my breath, convinced that I heard something again. Was it only the wind playing with my mind? I hadn’t slept in so long but the adrenaline kept me in alert. I could see the dusk in the sky, and soon the moon lit up, showing me an almost perfectly round disc. Tomorrow, it would be full.

I lost track of time, and the night fell on me like a heavy cloak of sadness. I stared at the stars, thinking of Amanda and the men I lost. Tears rolled down my face, and I wiped them away. I had to stay awake. I came so close to winning the battle; I couldn’t give up now.

I woke up to the growl of a hurting and bloodthirsty monster exhaling its putrefied air directly into my nostrils, and I screamed. I must have accidentally fallen asleep.

The arrow. Where was the arrow? I grabbed my side, but couldn’t feel it. Had I lost it? The creature growled again, and I saw its enormous teeth quickly snapping at me. I pulled back, rolled to my side, and ran away.

The leg injury had worsened, and had caused a clear handicap dramatically slowing the animal down. But that monster could still move. I could see the spot where the white fur had turned a brownish color because of the oozing wound. I also observed the threatening claws digging in the ground, as if the creature was sharpening them before attacking me.

Facing a dangerous stare from a few feet away, I glanced at my surroundings in search of the golden arrow. The snow covered everything. It would take me a lot of luck to find the precious weapon; the sunlight reflection created a mirror-like surface on the ground.

The bloody eyes swiftly locked with mine, and I read death in them. Not knowing what to do, I panicked. The beast could sense my fear and advanced in my direction.

I needed a miracle. I thought of Amanda and the children waiting for me at home. Daddy wouldn’t come back a hero. In fact, daddy would never come back.

Tears I couldn’t control welled in my eyes, and I prayed for forgiveness. As I lost myself in the silence of my despair, I heard a high-pitched female voice call my name.

“Michael…. Sing that melody and the arrow will appear… Come on… Sing along with me…”

The little fairy of my dreams grabbed my hand and guided me out of the darkness. The words resonated with so much strength I felt my mind explode inside my skull. My voice was shy, but she helped me and together we sang gloriously until I noticed a strange glow in the snow.

“Here it is!” she said. “Now, go get it and kill the monster before it’s too late!”

Without losing sight of the animal staring at me, I moved as fast as possible. As I reached the glowing spot, I dipped my hand in the snow and looked away for half a second, long enough for the beast to lunge at me with all its weight and knock me over. I hadn’t realized how close I stood. I violently bit my tongue and choked on my own blood, pushing against the oversized body with all the strength I had left, but it was too heavy to move. It growled, probably wanting to bite my head.

I slowly stopped breathing, my body surrendering to the exhaustion I had imposed upon myself, the last bit of stamina gone.

I drifted and traveled to a far away land. Amanda was smiling, waiting for me with open arms. I had come so close. How could I disappoint her now?

I felt the arrow clutched in my hand. My face pressed directly against the monster’s heart. I couldn’t miss.

I let out all my pain by stabbing as hard as I could, blood pouring over me like a leaking conduit of dark slime, covering my eyes, burning my ears, and my nose. I felt the hot liquid running down on me, and I coughed until I passed out.

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I smelled her scent right next to me, and as I touched her hair, I smiled. Amanda lied there with me, her fingers intertwined with mine, our love stronger than ever. I felt like I had reached the gates of heaven, and didn’t want to let go. Had I finally succeeded and vanquished the evil beast endangering the sake of our world?

“Shhhh…” I heard her say to me. “You had a bad dream. It’s ok now…. It’s ok…”

She gently kissed my forehead and I looked into her eyes, confused.

“So…” I asked. “I never defeated a terrifying beast at the top of a mountain with a golden arrow manufactured by the Council of a Thousand Souls?”

Amanda laughed and titled her head back, her hair gracefully dripping down her back.

“What are you talking about, hon? You’re a horror writer. Not a fantasy writer. What have you been drinking lately?”

I didn’t know. This was the first time such a dream had ever happened to me… Maybe I should stop exchanging ideas with other writers who didn’t fancy horror as much as I did. Or maybe horror and fantasy weren’t that far apart after all.

“I think I got an idea for a story…” I said and I got out of bed, the little fairy perched on my shoulder whispering an ancient lullaby in my ear.

Guest Post (6) Dennis Sheehan

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Dennis is becoming a regular on the Manicheans. Please follow him on Twitter @bydennissheehan and @dennissheehan.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Dennis Sheehan!

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I painted a water color on paper which I entitled “White Nights”.

I had painted many paintings before, some in water colors, some in acrylic and others in oils but none held the significance of this one in my mind. As I painted White Nights, each stroke of the brush transferred memories from my subconscious to my mind’s eye. I lost myself to a world I had left years before. As I mixed various shades of purples and diluted them in water, I became immersed in the swirls of the Neva. The cold enveloped me as it had done when I swam in the icy water. As I climbed the stone embankment, in my mind, the shades of rose and pink filled me with the remembrance of white nights in St. Petersburg.

Still standing in front of my easel in my small studio, I walked the promenade along the Neva. I saw the couples holding hands and young lovers kissing, I saw the drunks and the musicians, I heard the music and the sad romantic songs of the Russian gypsies. I was once again there.

I painted the tall steeples of St Paul’s Cathedral, the memories of old revolutions filled my mind. I was now encompassed in the red haze of Russian White Nights. I had traveled back to a time I stood in front of the Children’s Ballet and looked across the river at a scene draped in a red, the river was no longer cold and black, it was a vibrant purple with its swirls highlighted in a golden shimmer that appeared to be contrived rather than real.

With each brush stroke I went further into the past, I emerged into a day long forgotten, I walked the River’s edge along the tree lined park of the Winter Palace, I stared up at the green and gilded facade of the Hermitage which now had much deeper tones due to the strange auras of White Nights. I stood in front of the statue at the Admiralty gazing up at St. Izack’s Church. All that is good about Russia was there in White Nights.

I was cold, tired and conscious once more. My painting was done. When I stepped back to view it I realized, I had really travelled back. I saw in my painting a time and place I had been.