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Butterfly Kiss

With my paintbrush in hand, sculpting titanium on my Indian's feathers, I hear the sound of raindrops in the middle of the night, pounding the rooftop of my studio like a beating drum. Each beat in rhythm with Sting's "A Thousand Years" and at that moment, a gust of wind blow the french doors open... "a thousand times the mysteries unfold themselves like galaxies in my head" and I hear a voice whisper, "that was me blowing you a kiss..." as Sting sings, I dream. My dream wakes me, I write and sketch quickly... and fall back asleep. A butterfly flutters weightless from lavender to lavender as horns honk and distant sirens sound. I feel the brush of its wings against my cheek, aroused and awake... I complete my painting, "A Butterfly Kiss." As I walk along the cobblestone streets, I'm filled with memories of my magical year, moments in time, seconds saved, lighting up inside me...the city sounds beat in my heart, rik rak in the air, setting me free. A walk I distinctly remember, alligator steps both unique and strident, arms in motion with veins in sculpted marble revealing and disappearing. Propellers hum, as maps of islands, countless, float below me from a place where I was born. These cobblestones beneath my soles lead me along a path of passion and expression. I find myself on a rooftop, under a moonlit sky. The lights dazzle and sparkle among window panes of glass, each hiding a story of love, awakening my muse within me. The cityscape carved like mountains against a deep blue lacquered sky with snow cap peaks of water towers jutting out before me. I imagine all seven towers coming alive like rockets ignited, taking to the sky leaving behind their little ladders for those that dared to climb. A waterfall pours over me, as if the water towers along crosby and beyond have erupted all at once. A butterfly kiss awakens me again, I collapse to the sight of shining stars cascading down below onto the city streets, like a waterfall of diamonds, alive with street lamps and life passing by. As Sara tells a story beside Lucy's forest, the Indian reminds us that "water renews, air breathes, the deer brings peace and the touch of an eagle's wing strengthens our journey." And the fox races by whispering ...follow your passion... I can hear Charles Aznavour sing "She" from inside a brasserie. With its beautiful lyrics echoing off the mahogany walls, "I'll take her laughter and her tears and make them all my souvenirs, for where she goes I've got to be..." I rush in. As I sip my 1942, ice rocks clinking against the glass, French music surrounds me while invisible lovers dance by the totem pole. I imagine myself at the Savoy, with French maids pampering and champagne flowing...memories like little souvenirs: a blueberry, a hat, a hill with its root, the moonlight and coffee... all swirling in my mind, treasures that I have collected now passionately painted on my canvases in this year of 2017. My souvenirs... And boom boom boom! just like that, my painting is complete, washed by love, waterfalls and an indian... the stars are shining bright in the night sky tonight, twinkling reflections in "tes yeux sont très bleus." And now my french painting begins...awaiting the mysteries of 2018.

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