Napoleon Bonaparte escapes from Elba on February 26, 1815

One of the Romantics

Bonaparte on the Bridge of Arcole here by Antoine-Jean Gros

The little Emperor was a romantic in an uncomplimentary sense, for he by defying calm judgment and ignoring a reasonable view of things squander his ideal chasing God only know what.

And here again by Antoine-Jean Gros

He was the first and most famous of the romantic self-deceivers of the Regency era. He had almost all of Western Europe safely in his grasp when he allowed Supreme Power and his restless insatiable ambitions to clouding his judgment. Still, by then he was already more sluggish in mind and body than he had been but a decade before when he came to power.

Napoleon Bonaparte Crossing the Alps by Delaroche

One of his oldest friends, Marmont, said of him: ‘Napoleon was at this period living in a non-existent world, created by his own imagination. He built structures in the air, he took his desires for realities, and gave his orders as if he was ignorant of the true state of affairs and as if the actual facts had been hidden from him on purpose.’

NAPOLEON painted by Horace Vernet

Had he been attending to the realities of his situation, before attempting anything else he would have gone down into Spain himself, collected 200,000 of his veterans, and swept Wellington and his British Expeditionary Force into the sea. As it was, now half in dreamland, he pulled out some of his best troops from Spain in order to take Russia.

We all know now how it would end but we don't think any less of the little dear now do we?

A lovely weekend to all,

Simone

The Gluttony of Want Defeats the Havoc Caused by Desire Too Often in My Incapable Hands

Or my panic at not having written a word of my latest manuscript in a fortnight.

The Balance of the Zodiac by Luis Ricardo Falero

All I ever truly want is to write well the initial idea brought to me by my fantastic muse, only the instant there is promise on the page, I panic. I get in my own way and soon I’m consumed by fear that I don’t have what it takes to see, to the end, the brilliant beginning.

And now it has happened to me with my fourth novel Lancaster. My muse sent me a line of dialogue from which four brilliant chapters formed in no time at all only now, at the beginning of the fifth, I’m paralyzed. I haven’t written a word of Lancaster in well over two weeks and the terror of defeat is starting to affect my equilibrium.

I keep telling myself to simply sit down and write, then if it is rotten, at least I would have made the attempt. It’s that, or go on holiday. Build a hut on some distant shore with my man Friday and chart the tide by day and the stars by night.

There is, of course, that alternative that no writer really wants to admit publicly to needing but secretly accepts they should have on speed dial. The dreaded therapist, or rather my salvation and the one who will get me to understand why I can’t write past my insecurities.

That and why it is that I keep having a dream where I share a taxi with George Clooney riding west as the sun rises behind us only to be distracted by the driver whom I’m convinced is the Dalai Lama... And all this because his name tag asks, ‘Do you know the meaning of life?’

You know, I think all this is due in large part, to the fact that Mercury and not Venus rules my sign.

Thursdays and I are always at odds.

I hope you are all happy and well,

Simone

Eunice Kathleen Waymon better known as Nina Simone and One of My 100 Women that Inspires

I was named in part for her and have relished this tiny link to her for as long as I can remember.

Nina Simone's regal bearing and commanding stage presence earned her the title "High Priestess of Soul". Her live performances were regarded not as mere concerts, but as happenings. In a single concert she could be a singer, pianist, dancer, actress, or activist, all simultaneously.

After the success of her debut album Little Girl Blue, Simone signed a contract with Colpix Records, after a string of studio and live albums. Colpix relinquished all creative control, including the choice of material that would be recorded, to her in exchange for her contracting with them. Simone, who at this point only performed popular music to make money to continue her classical music studies, was bold with her demand for control over her music because she was indifferent about having a recording contract. She would keep this attitude towards the record industry for most of her career. I admire this about her almost as much as her musical talent.

Follow this link and experience her here

And this link to listen to her genius here

She is for me a sentimental favorite and I do hope you will embrace her with some affection.

And just like that we have arrived at the middle of the week.

My love, my care,

Simone.

Today I Mourn John Keats

He died in the evening on February 23, 1821 at his friend Severn's home in Rome. He had been slowly dying and was bitterly disappointed each day to find himself still alive, in a world to which he had long said his goodbyes.

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John Keats, in 1814, was a proper surgeon’s apprentice when he was driven out of his mind by provocative young women in muslin so sheer they offered glimpses of breasts that had him rhapsodising.

He wrote more and more and more verses, though he felt these were too much like other men's verses and when he realised this, he was almost suicidal. He even declared that unless he could turn himself into a real poet, life would not be worth living.

To a Friend who sent me some Roses

by John Keats

AS late I rambled in the happy fields,

What time the sky-lark shakes the tremulous dew

From his lush clover covert; - when anew

Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields:

I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields,

A fresh-blown musk-rose; ’twas the first that threw

Its sweets upon the summer: graceful it grew

As is the wand that queen Titania wields.

And, as I feasted on its fragrancy,

I thought the garden-rose it far excell’d:

But when, O Wells! thy roses came to me

My sense with their deliciousness was spell’d:

Soft voices had they, that with tender plea

Whisper’d of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquell’d.

Keats painted here by his friend Joseph Severn

Keats was the first of the romantic poets to go, next was Shelley and two years later was Byron. This left poor Wordsworth who years later wrote:

Fast has brother followed brother,

From sunshine to the sunless land!

Warm regards,

Simone

The Root of all Freedoms

Today I participating in the 1k Words/a picture is worth a thousand words BlogFest hosted by Ralfast.

My Picture

My story

On a desperate whim, Evie saved $64,000, the equivalent of a full year’s salary in eighteen months by moving back home with her parents, teaching summer school, night school and offering private tutorial atop her regular teaching job.

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She was still not sure where she had first heard about the gypsy that would, for the mere sacrifice of a year’s salary, tell you the course of your true happiness, but there she was with her hard-earned money in a shoe box standing in a Zen garden, around the corner from the China Town at Spadina.
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Though, the truth of the matter is she had pretty much been heading here since her break up with Mr. Merrill Lynch two years ago. He kept telling her in a voice reminiscent of that movie Wall Street, that she "wouldn’t amount to much if she did not play hard ball.” His saying so, always made her defensive and she would end up mocking his firm’s cult-like conduct.

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Poor guy. It hadn’t been his fault and she knew two months in that they hadn’t a future. She had gone for drinks with him, a few of his colleagues and their dates, all of them in their Brooks Brothers suits, efficient haircuts and Blackberries looking like grown-up Children of the Corn. Each gave her pitied looks, when she told them she taught English at an all-girl's private high school before one of them simply declared that he did not see the point of that since, ‘nobody reads anymore.’
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Scarily enough, they all agreed.

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They broke up a few weeks later and the thing is that she missed him for a long time though not for the reasons one aught to. He was very efficient and goal-oriented in all aspects of life - even in bed. She missed his eager, downright determined approach to seeing her cum every time. Hell, she even missed his happy little self-congratulatory cheer at the end.
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Though why he should be the catalyst to her gripping a small, self-earned fortune to her chest in some stranger's yard when her life until him had been just as tragic she would never know. Maybe she should leave and try to remember first how she had heard of the gypsy. It was too late. She’d been spotted by someone who was looking at her as if he was expecting her.

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The gypsy was not at all, as she had expected. She'd thought maybe an old woman with a European accent, kind of like the ones you see on television but instead he was a soulful twenty-something.
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He resembled one of those guys that sold hemp and cannabis paraphernalia on Queen Street West except for his eyes. They seemed a thousand years old. That and he had a voice that did not at all fit with his appearance. It was steady, humble and sure.

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After scolding her for walking around with that amount of cash, he had her put one thousand dollars of the money in an ugly clay urn. “That,” he told her, “Will be my fee. The rest, you and I will decide on together once you have told me why you came.”
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Can you imagine it? She there with her year's salary, hoping for guidance only to have him ask her ‘why she has come.’ Surly he was the worst gypsy in the history of the world and still she had spent the entire Saturday afternoon with him making homemade pasta and sauce with tomatoes from his garden in the backyard.

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She couldn’t remember having said anything of herself or her life but she must have for sometime after they had eaten and watched several episodes from the Faulty Towers marathon on BBC Canada he made a pot of tea and said, “You have said enough and now we must decide where you go from here.”
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He poured her a cup of the sweet red tea, which he had her drink while he put, in front of her a compass, three business cards and a pendant bearing the likeness of St Anne. Then he said, “Those are for you. The cards are for a real estate agent, a money manager and travel agent. You are to go Argentina for ten days next winter. The compass, you will need on the third day you’re in Argentina. On that day you are to rise with the sun and head north for three hours starting at seven o’clock the rest will reveal itself to you. Oh and the pendant is of the patron saint of childbirth. It is to help you through your first pregnancy.”

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Evie had a million questions following this but the gypsy would say no more than, “Trust yourself and those I’ve sent you to. Now leave one of your cards in place of one of mine on the table by the door and give it to one you feel deserving of my guidance."

My love, my care,

Simone

An Excerpt From What Is To Be David and Margaret's Story

The initial musings are here and now I have the first few pages but I still don't know if there is enough original material there for a full novel.

William McGregor Paxton's The Sisters

This bit is a little advice from Collette a once brilliant courtesan turn respectable lady as offered to our dear Margaret.

“To get your husband to look at you for a second time takes no more than practiced slide of hand. You want him engaged, so we start with your skin. We’ll bathe you in milk and perfume your skin with a whisper of scandal. Only the merest hint mind you. This will feed his senses and nurture in him interest anew but we must be mindful to always make certain your natural essence linger just beneath the surface. After all what we have set out to do is remind him of the you he fell in love with. Are you alright Countess?”

“I’m somewhat overwhelmed by all the to dos but please go on I’ll adapt.”

Collette smiled in the way of one who knew all too well, what was at stake before proceeding with, “You’ll want to layer your mystique.”

“But I haven’t any mystique.”

“Nonsense, now be a Dear and don’t interrupt there is much we must cover and I’m expected elsewhere outside of this hour.”

“My apologies,” Margaret said with humbleness well beyond her own nature and Collette continued as before.

“And even in this we must always be mindful to keep you centre, we don’t want you replaced by the things I’m imparting. We want him always well aware at day’s end that at the core of his desire is his want for you. The frocks, perfume and the new approach is to be ornamental for the last thing you want is to employ it as occupation you’ll have to maintain when your focus aught to be your happy marriage.”

“How will I do that?”

“You are interrupting again my dear.”

“Forgive it, my anxiety precedes me.”

“Nerves aren’t permitted my Dear for they lead to folly and I simply cannot abide an unsteady female.”

“It is conquered, I guarantee it,” Margaret said with regal rise of chin, “You have all my full attention.”

“Your attire must always hint at your desire for him and because you are fair of hair I suggest we introduce a few pieces of red to your wardrobe. This too is to be done sparingly. We move forward boldly but we do so in inches so long before you ever lay hand on your unsuspecting husband you would have touched him in away that both engaged and aroused. Now we have you dress for purpose and him rapt in want we cultivate in him urgency.” Collette held a moment when Margaret appeared to pale then she said. “My Dear Countess, you are the very image of a beset heroine.”

“I’ll admit to feeling set upon but I shall persevere,” Margaret said with all the confidence she could muster. It was enough to convince Collette to proceed even if she was little more watchful of her companion this time round. She also thoughtfully interjected a measure of comfort in her instructions when she spoke next.

“All right now this bit is critical and I’ll tell you ahead of time that it will seem daunting but I’m confident you’ll see it through.”

To say Margaret was made frantic at Collette’s attempt at comfort would be akin to saying deep is the ocean relative to my cup of tea but she bore it well, for a moment at any rate.

“You are going to have to look half aroused yourself whenever you are in company with your husband. It may seem an ordeal but you are to make an effort to appear as flush as lust fulfilled.”

“Here pray tell how do you propose I manage that feat?” Margaret all but yelled.

“As naturally as possible,” Collette said without falter. “We pitch your cheek to blush, rub your lips to plump and see you look him directly in the eyes oh also if you could manage erect nipples-”

“I beg your pardon,” Margaret said above a gasp.

“That will take no more than practiced fingers and the proper garment to show it to advantage,” Collette said before demonstrating with dexterous show of hand to an instantly awed Margaret. “There you see and now the stage is set for your reveal. Oh and this is to remain paramount for though you have placed yourself in my capable hands the task is yours and yours alone, so fearless you must be.”

A brilliant weekend to you all,
Simone

What Does It Say To You?

The 1k words BlogFest hosted by Ralfast and brought to my attention by the brilliant Carol from RandomWriterlyThoughts . It is precisely the sort of thing that appeals to me for art and writing is involved.

Yes, one thousand words, as in a picture is worth a thousand words.

Or is it?

That’s is the question and it is up you to answer it as part of the 1K Words BlogFest. Take a picture, any picture (preferably one you own or is in the public domain) and post it to your blog. Then write a short story/account based on the picture you posted. The story must be a thousand words or less (hence the name). Once posted, link back to this post.

Please enter the name of your blog in the Mister Linky widget or post it on the reply section. I will update this post daily with new links as they appear (if they are not in the Mr. Linky).The

BlogFest kicks off on February 22nd.

I've already signed up and I think you should too. Why? Because it's going to be lots of fun, that's why!

The piece above is Evelyn de Morgan's Angel of Death.

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Also, I'm taking part in Fiona Robyn's Blogsplash on March first



Fiona Robyn is going to blog her next novel, Thaw (Snowbooks), starting on the 1st of March 2010. The novel follows 32 year old Ruth’s diary over three months as she decides whether or not to carry on living. To help spread the word she’s organising a Blogsplash, where blogs will publish the first page of Ruth’s diary simultaneously (and a link to the blog). She’s aiming to get 1000 blogs involved – if you’d be interested in joining in, email her at fiona@fionarobyn.com or find out more information here.

Warm regards,

Simone