Fog Autumn Valley by Leonid Afremov: a stream of consciousness

If you know anything about this painter, it will be rather redundant to mention that his favourite season is autumn. It is not hard to imagine why. The delightful colours of nature, the hues of red, orange and yellow would make it impossible for anyone not to feel a sense of coziness and optimism.

In this oil painting, Fog Autumn Valley, the artist Leonid Afremov represents with great emotion and soul the bright landscape around him. Using his palette knife technique, he manages to capture the beauty of nature and the sensation of strolling along a quiet autumn alley.

But why does he mention fog in the title? Well, just take a look at how easily he managed to portray it on canvas. The bright colours certainly cannot be called blurred, but by adding another source of light - a street lamp - he illuminates the neighbouring tree with a delicate yellow shade. Plus, you can notice where the light of the lantern does not reach. It is highlighted by a hue of purple and turquoise.

I’ll admit, I had no idea what I was doing when I sat down and started scribbling on my notebook. I remember going for a bike ride to the seaside, looking at autumn leaves as I went back home and almost falling, because I got distracted and almost hit a street sign. This painting automatically came to mind. The rest of the night was a blur. One second I was looking at a blank page and the next I had written my first stream of consciousness. Or at least that’s what I tried to experiment with. As a disclaimer, I have to point out that I took some liberties with the style. It surely isn’t your traditional Virginia Woolf, James Joyce stream of consciousness. It is more of a stream of thoughts.
That being said, I hope you enjoy.

My mum doesn’t like me riding in the dark

Mum doesn’t like me riding in the dark. It is dangerous. Streets without headlights. I should have known. Too late.The sun started to set. She is going to be furious. Rush to the gate. Pearls of sweat running down my forehead, I might catch a cold. She has always warned me about it. Nothing ever happened. She would lose her mind. I’m still here. The beach not far away. My house nowhere to be seen. Hands clutching around the handlebar. Grip tightening with each bump. I have always hated this street. The strangest sensations within me. I shake my head. I have to go on. Faster. One pedal stroke after the other. Gusts of wind in my hair. Childhood wind. The spectacles of my glasses stained with grains of sand. Foggy vision. Blurry trees ahead of me. My eyes stinging. The cold autumn air. An endless stream of needles digging into my skin. My grandma’s needles. Silence in the living room. I wish I’d brought a jacket. How could have I known? So long to walk away from the beach.The mesmerising sea. Shiny surface. Waves crashing against the shore. Water splashing my shoes. Shaking my feet, drying them off. It didn’t bother me as a kid. Run and run until no breath in my lungs. The joy of cold drops landing on my skin. I hate it now. The crusty surface of dried salt on my clothes. It grosses me out. My mother would be so angry. My socks wet. It gives you a cold. The chill in my bones, water reached my toes. My head feels light. I am tired. What a long way to go. The end of the lane far away. Backpack rubs against my skin. Goosebumps on my arms. Cool sweat under leather shoulder straps. I hate it. Keep going. Wheels turn faster and faster. I am uneasy. Invisible blacktop, covered by leaves. Scarlet, crimson, red, orange, yellow painting. My first bike. The fear of slipping. Naked trees above me.Tall, menacing branches. Shimmery, silver, tapered fingers. Grab me. Mum doesn't like me riding in the dark. She's right. Someone lurking behind swirled trunks. Muscles flex under my hand. Need a breather. Burning calves. Keep going. Gaze on the tarmac. Can’t see it. Amber rainbow below me. The colour of autumn leaves. I’d never watched it. Rosey shades like sunrise.My sister. She was exhausted. Her first all-nighter. I shake my head. Laughing. Heavy eyelids. Yellow leaves. Red. The orange ones. The peel of pomegranates dotting my garden. My grandfather hated them. Clashed with our house. Notes out of tune. I loved them. My father, too. Still living with us. Spring, spinning around in the garden. Head twisting. I didn't care. Lost in a haze. Pure delight. Blissful unawareness I miss. Time, its meaning I ignored. Why is life a limitless marathon?A race? Catch the bus in the morning. Get words down on a page. Tick tasks off a list. Dry throat. It hurts. Maybe. It itches. Maybe. Not sure. Get home. Sun going down. Melancholy. The end of another day. Nothing to celebrate. Hate endings. The last pages of a book. Last minutes of a movie. Last songs on albums. Sunsets. After, true spectacle. People turning on lights in houses. Different shades. Windows around me. Each a story. Each a role. Landscape palette. Better than leaves. Wheels. Dry crunching. Cracking. The sky. Blue nuance, grey hue. It's late. Move. Mum doesn't like me riding in the dark.