Listen in to my new unscripted, unfiltered and on occasion unhinged podcast, Journaling with PT.

Most episodes were uploaded from previously recorded audio journal entries.

Initially my entries were to serve the purpose of documenting my experiences when writing was inaccessible. As a result my iPhone 11 became the sole device of choice.

Presently, the podcast is available on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, Google Podcast and Amazon Music.

Cover Art by PT Russell

From the Inside, Thoughts on Therapy, a Story Idea and Mental Fortitude, is the third episode and feaures a raw, unscripted journal entry recorded April, 20, 2023.

In the entry I took pause to express the numerous thoughts I had experienced at that particular time.

Like our physical health and wellness, our mental health is equally as important, and should be championed to the nth degree.

I hope the episode helps you to formulate your own self assessments to ostensibly evaluate your own mental state at convenient intervals.

It is necessary to protect it at all cause and to remember above all else to be kind to yourself always.

The Show’s FULL Transcript is Available Below:

“Thursday, April 20, 2023.

It ‘s still 2023. Well I don’ have to say the year, do I have to say the year? It ‘s 2023. It’s not gonna suddenly be 2024 or go back in time to 2022 or 2021 or…

Wouldn’t that be something? That’s another- I guess that would be an idea for a short story or something. I’m sure it’s been done before by Steven Spielberg or Stephen King or one of the Stevens.

Yeah so… A story about time that shifts from day to day. You don’t know where you’ll end up, Kinda like Quantum Leap. Quantum Leap had a whole intricate, I guess premise in addition to the time travelling bit. But , with this device and there’s always something to solve and you know, but just something different that you, you don’t know what’s going to happen. It could be like a Twilight Zone episode right where you wake up it’s one day in a certain year and then and then it happens that you’re somewhere else. But then it can be gradual right? Like it’s like a dream at first. You think you’re dreaming but what’s happening is that you’re actually shifting until you’re in this place or that; or the person is in this place or that until they can actually realize that can actually stay. And not in a Back to the Future thing where there’s a DeLorean or there’s some time device or what not. This is just, it’s just happening, because time is collapsing…upon itself… in such a way…that it’s affecting those who are not clairvoyant but it’s something that’s happening in the spirit realm.

The Spirit World, the spirit world is causing a shift where it wants to manifest itself into the physical or something, Yes! I’m on to something here. I think it would be beautiful. I think it would be most beautiful.

But anyway, it’s a new day, I just came back from the therapist. I won’t say the therapist because it seems so impersonal, she’s a beautiful woman. When I hear that I’m going to her, I immediately feel a sense of calm. And I think, I think she’s a wonderful person. I feel an ease when I hear her name, when I hear her voice. You know, it’s mellifluous. She has that voice, she has a voice for what she does, she has a face for what she does, she embodies what she does. And so. I’m in a good place whenever I leave her office, I’m always in a good place. My heart is alight, there’s a light that shines, that wasn’t there before. And if it was there, if it was slightly dimmed, then it’s illuminated even more, when I leave her office. When I leave her office I feel like a new person. It feels like one person goes in and then another comes out. I don’t know why I feel this way, I can’t understand it, all of the physiology and the psychology behind it but I just know that- and it’s not- I don’t know. Maybe she’ll figure it out. Maybe she’ll help me figure it out one day. Maybe I’ll figure it out. Maybe I’ll get- maybe something epiphanous happens and then all of a sudden I’ll just know okay, this is what happened then.

The only thing I can say in this moment while I’m sitting here- I went to the – I’m at the Visual Arts Centre, you know at her recommendation, and I decided to walk down here, and I said you know what, it’s a nice day, I’ll walk back to the hotel. I have my walking shoes on just in case I wanted to do that and I totally feel like doing it. I feel empowered today. My feet feel strong, my legs are sturdy and ready. I’m ready for whatever the day brings, you know, I feel strong in my legs and strong in my mind. My body is a unit that works together like a machine; a nicely oiled machine, it’s oiled in all the right places

So, yeah, just a couple- it feels like maybe my circuit board needs some dusting, but besides that everything’s working, circuit board- you know, just something’s a little, you know a little dusting here and there- it causes a trip of a circuit here and there. It may switch off when it should be on- but for the most part I’m working.

The Visual Arts Centre, there’s some interesting exhibits there, something different where nature’s involved. It’s called Anoxic (Memory), something or other her, I have to double check. And, it’s an incorporation of materials from nature, trees and soil, and mosses, and fermentation going on there. I’ve never seen anything like it. At first I was taken aback, I said, Okay what’s this? But I went to the… I didn’t take a picture of the one upstairs, but the display upstairs it’s like a representation of a swamp or – but I saw it as something instead of like a dark swamp because of fermentation and decomposition, and all of these other things that are happening simultaneously; there’s this dark water and the place is surrounded by, dirt, and limbs, and stems, and leaves and flies and the whole bit.

And I think for me it was like it represented where I was. This is how I read into what I was seeing. As I came face to face with my emotions. The emotions that I had. It’s like the darkness of the water represents all of the stuff that I excreted in the last season. It’s excrement, that’s all that is. It’s things I want far away from me. People, toxicity, all of it is in that bog, in that water. And it’s sinking, it’s shifting and changing, it’s coalescing with whatever’s around that area, and it’s being eaten by itself. It’s decomposing into nothingness. And so this is what I saw. I had a very emotional experience with that exhibit; and I’m happy I came in here.

I came in here for copies of the magazine but I’m leaving here with, I won’t say a new sense of purpose, it’s not that deep… but what’s happened is that it’s opened something else inside of me. Between the session with my wonderful therapist, whose name I won’t just in case. I don’t know where this particular journal entry is going to end up so for anonymity, for her sake I will not mention her name.

But, between that wonderful session – there’s something just so cathartic about having someone who understands and they’re helping you through . They can see from the outside in, right? And they have all of the tools that you need . So when I’m away from her I feel like I have the toolbox, and it’s not locked any more, because before it was locked. It was locked and I had keys, but I couldn’t figure out which key opened the toolbox. But with her and this wonderful counselor from another society/foundation and, same thing, it’s another toolbox, or it’s apart of it. I have these keys but I couldn’t get in.

Which one was it?

Sometimes I’ll fumble, sometimes I- thought it was this one – shake around the lock- nothing – and then – and then it ‘s gone. But anyways, now the toolbox is open. I know which key opens the box, right? I know which key opens the box. The box is open and then I can see all of the tools. — Okay, for this one I need a screwdriver, Phillips or flathead– okay for this one I need that–this one I need that. It could be — I said a toolbox , becuase I was thinking , oh, my painting, I could use that as an illustration but I prefer to use a toolbox because tools get things done. If you have the right tool you can work more efficiently.

Let ‘s say you needed to secure something to a wall or something like that. I guess you can use pegs or something. Sometimes you need a nail. Where are the nails? Where are the screws?

Sometimes it’s better to use a screw than a nail. Anyway…

I’m just enjoying this brook right here, it’s very soothing. I’m renewed and refreshed. Reinvigorated. Invigorated, Reinvigorated. Replenished. We need more replienshable people in the world. People who help to restore rather than deplete.

We need to delete the depleters. Delete them from our lives. Delete the things that deplete.

I think I’ll end there, I think I’ll end there because this entry has nothing to do with everything else but has everything to do with everything else all at once.

It’s a good day.”

If you are in a place where you may need to speak with someone, please call a local hospital, they have many resources available.

Stay Safe.

ANOXIC MEMORY was an exhibition created by artist Maria Simmons.

“The Turquoise Valley” (Collage and Acrylic on 18×24 Gallery Canvas) was created by artist PT Russell and is available for collecting.

Please email below for price.

©PT Russell 2023 All Rights Reserved

Contact for inquiries.

Magazine Post

I’m grateful to Odd Ball Magazine for including my artwork, “Reckoning” in their June edition.

Please read and share.


Is a visual depiction of  the marriage between  conflict and symbiosis. 

The Klansman and the nun are disparate individuals in appearance but share similar pronouncements of their faith.

Underneath the emblematic attire, stand two human beings whose deliberate convictions compel them.

In the end, both their decisions are subject to ethical adjudication.

(Written by PT Russell)

(Oil Pastel on 9×12 inch Canson Pastel Paper)

©PT Russell 2023 All Rights Reserved

Contact for inquiries.

Camp Samac Art Festival

Photo Credit PT Russell 2022

October 15 and 16 was refreshingly spent admiring the picturesque grounds of Camp Samac in Oshawa, Ontario.

The 39th annual art show was successfully hosted by the Oshawa Art Association.

I must declare that it was certainly great fun, though at times there was standing room only.

Fifty plus artists including myself, displayed works of art throughout a rustic council hall, and welcomed an eager throng of art enthusiasts as they perused the aisles.

What a marvel it was to behold such a diverse collective of gifted artists, showcasing works from paintings on live wood to unique soapstone sculptures.

Cheers to a most exhilarating and educational event!

Photo Credit Jhulie
Photo Credit Mary Cook

City of Oshawa Councillor, Rick Kerr was gracious enough to support myself and fellow artists at the Camp Samac Art Festival.

I found him to be quite personable, articulate and genuiely invested in the local art community.

Photo Credit Annie Gee
Photo Credit Annie Gee

Lake Samac. Photo Credit PT Russell 2022

©PT Russell 2022 All Rights Reserved

Email: for inquiries.

ArtFest 2022

Pleasant weather, beautiful people and a peaceful milieu made ArtFest in the city of Pickering such a joy to attend.

I had a few artworks on display yet many visitors specifically inquired about my whimsical postcards.

It was delightful to see children with playful energy and big smiles enjoying the art as well!

Two lovely senior ladies passing by in their walkers stopped to look at impasto miniatures on the table. It melted my heart the way their faces lit up when I offered the pieces for them to feel the texture.

A Gift of Art is hosting their 15th Annual Art Show at the Newcastle Arena, Saturday july 16th and Sunday July 17th between 10:00 AM and 4:00 PM.

Art by PT Russell will be in the mix with a colourful selection of original art.


Art Collector John Philips holding a 5×5 painting on Birchwood
Raffle Winner Christine won one of my signed prints!

©PT Russell 2022 All Rights Reserved

Email: for inquiries.


Hidden in a stratum of emotional existence lies Netherworld, a plain where one is lost in a crimson world of agonizing solitude.

A place where a soul rises from the vortices of darkness into the blaring light of life.

On November 1, 2021 a piece I created titled, “Netherworld”  was published in Peastsmoke online journal. The art compliments midwife Ann Montgomery’s nonfiction account of sexual crimes against women in The Republic of the Congo.

**A note of WARNING: some description is quite graphic**

©PT Russell 2021 All Rights Reserved

Email: for inquiries.

Favourite Art Supplies

Recently, I had the fine pleasure of sharing my three favourite art supplies on the Art Supply Posse Podcast.

I’ve done a fair amount of exploration with various mediums and continue to do so unapologetically.

Despite my affinity for stockpiling crafty appurtenances there are a few handy staples always on rotation in my studio.

If you are an artist, an art aficionado or just curious about art in general take a few minutes to listen in.

Email: for inquiries or additional information.


Art By ©PT Russell 2020

Surrey driver feel the breeze Canting hooves on cobbled streets

Bay Street Nassau Downtown trot Keeping rhythm pulling cart

Handsome horse equine grace Earns his keep champion pace

Sunburned arms red as lobster Salt air streams into my nostrils

Bouncing springs squeak underfoot School boy selling papers shout

In the distance cruise ships peak Seaport closer at Potter’s Cay

Lignum Vitae national tree Shade the sidewalk watching me

©PT Russell 2020 All Rights Reserved

“Lucky Black Boy”

Short Story written by PT Russell

Art By Andret John

Shrieking wails, carried by the churning wind above, deafens me as the darkness steals my sight.

The ocean water is warm and murky. Its salty froth burns my nostrils and stings my eyes. I am surrounded by haunting voices inside and outside of my throbbing head. It’s too loud. I can’t think. All of my waning energy is spent on breathing in the briney air and swimming for my life. My arms claw through debris and foam while my battered body moves with the surging waves, protesting against the shifting current. The evil tempest wants to pull me out to sea, out to my death. My legs are numb — one must be broken but they kick with a fury I cannot explain.

I will live and not die. Not tonight.

“Swim! Swim!”

Desperate shouts behind urge me to keep going, not to look back, that I’m going the right way. But the further I swim the sadder I become. My home is gone, so is my mother and baby brother. The black water rushed in and took them away.

My throat burns because I swallowed some of the wicked water. Someone like me pushed my head down into it. I struggled to keep them off but they were screaming for help and they couldn’t swim. I saw the hood of a car, maybe white or grey, that swayed back and forth under the water. The floods had gobbled it too.

My uncle beats them off with a piece of plywood and tells me again to keep going. For a moment, I use their limp body to rest but they start sinking and the painful fight against the water is back on.

The storm is fierce and mean: it strips away your spirit, soul and self-respect.

It’s getting harder to breathe and swim and live… My muscles are giving up but my mind wills them to move. The rope tied around my waist connects me to my uncle. He is all I have now. Another big gust of wind rips out of the night sky and hurls us over the steepled rooftop of a weeping church.

Where is God?

My whole town is buried under water.

Will there ever be other children and games of marbles in the sand?

My friends have probably sunk to the bottom by now.

Can they see me?

Are they proud?

I’m swimming for them too.

Uncle is wheezing, he is swimming slower and slower; his growling shouts have become sputtering whispers. He’s coughing up the black water. I know he is tired, his head must be aching. Our ceiling fell on top of him and burst it open, while I hid beneath his belly.

He can’t keep up anymore and I need to check on him. But before I can turn to him, he tells me to keep going, that he’s ok…

I can go faster now, I have a second wind; there’s a light bleaching the darkness up ahead. I believe they can help me and my uncle.

I can’t hear him anymore and most of the screams around me have also stopped. My body glides ahead easily through the bouncy waves. My good uncle untied the rope. I guess he is finally free.

I should give up too, so I can be with my family. I can hug my mother and kiss my brother and run barefoot on the hot dirt roads, racing with my friends. I always won. They always said my legs used to spin like a bicycle wheel. But my uncle’s voice is pounding in my head. It speaks louder in death than it did in life. It scolds me like a warning and I have to listen.

The light is closer but I am still afraid. There are so many bodies floating around me and I will have to crawl over them. Everyone looks like me, blackened by the shadows of the ugly night. They are faceless but we are all the same. We are all dead.

I swallow more water and choke. I fight to keep my head up but it’s impossible, because the wind is beating down hard. An angry tornado swoops in, whipping over the water. Bodies, including mine are snatched up and thrown through the air…

The booming wind bring a scary silence as it spins me like a wooden top. Dizziness, then the blackness takes me whole.

My back and side hurt.

Does this mean that I’m alive?

I land on top of a capsized boat; it drifts in the wasteland of what used to be a marina. I jump off the boat and catch the metal railing of the building it slams into; just before the broken vessel washes out into the ocean. I hold onto the railing with jelly arms and a strong leg. The wet rail turns into melting lard — I lose my grip and my wrinkled fingers open as I fall.

“I have come for you,” the water declares with its greedy mouth.

I close my eyes because my strength has long gone. It is my turn to leave this world. Time was short for me and the storm takes young and old.

Mother’s sweet brown face smiles down on me. My hands reach up for her.

We finally meet again…

The woman who catches me before I die is not my mother — she was a strict teacher from primary school. She pulls me up into her arms, and brings my head to rest on her warm bosom.

She whispers in my clogged ear, “You are one lucky black boy.”

Also published in The Penmen Review and Magazine.

©PT Russell 2020 All Rights Reserved for inquiries


🌟🎉Happy New Year everyone🎉🌟

I hope 2022 is gracious and brings you a deluge of great news!!!

Newsboy represents confident resilience.

Despite the negativity that circulates in our daily lives, he is a harbinger of glad tidings.

He is also a messenger of hope, a reminder that with just a speck of faith the spoken word will yield positive results.

Let us try to be more kind to ourselves this year and decree only good things for our future.

Art by PT Russell


Description: A boy wearing Government High School uniform sells newspapers On Bay Street, Nassau, Bahamas.

Medium: Oil on Gallery Canvas

Size: 12×16

©PT Russell 2022 All Rights Reserved

Email: for inquiries.

“Happy Hour”

Sketch by PT Russell

A politician and a voter celebrate their government’s recent change in administration.

The artwork is a Mixed Media sketch from a collection of drawings I did dubbed, “Night Scribbles.”

Happy Hour was sketched on 9×12 Canson Watercolor paper.

©PT Russell 2021 All Rights Reserved

Email: for inquiries.