I am supposed to write, I say. I'm supposed to
say something, Paris. Your embrace, the memory
of it, is now two days old and my daughter has
just left mine, and London's, along with some of
my makeup brushes. I'm supposed to write and
I'm late and I don't care because cuddling my
daughter all night and morning feels like an
achievement. I'm being quiet, or trying to
be. I've been trying to separate anger and frustration
from pain, and I'm prepared to surrender. No
more theories, however impractical my mind could
be. No more worries, hopefully. What about nightmares
and memories? How to deal with them gracefully?
I said no more theories, sorry. I had been busy
scheming and planning my exit. But exit from
what? London? Having to deal with tax returns
instead of that messy pile of poems? And why --
because it is hard to be alone and deal with
all those? Why -- because being alone is where
I'm unloved most? No more whys. No more exit
plans. I'm working on my surrender. I'm rebuilding
my trust with my body, with my breathing, and some
kir royal or Hendricks and light tonic with a slice
of cucumber and four ice cubes when it's appropriate.
I'm working on love, and that discomfort in the
centre of my belly needs to be taken care of.
Or else, I'll think another appendix surgery
might be coming. I'm working on accepting that
the road to paradise involves tunnels and disruptions,
even the Northern Line, if you're feeling lucky.
So what if I still have to do my well -paying
day job while living in Wimbledon instead of
living in a stylish boat (or a mansion, whichever
comes first -- surrender, remember?) in Paris and
running my concept pop -up restaurant? So what
if I still have to see my boyfriend for a few
days at a time instead of thriving in his arms
every bloody (or non -bloody) day? Well, that is
a lot of what, actually. But this is not 2016,
Paris. I'm not going to recklessly decide to
be with you and say to hell with the rest of
the world only because I didn't know how to regulate
my pathetic impulses, however close I felt to
jumping off a cliff then, only to discover some
part of myself. Hell, I'm still not great at
regulating them, but here's luck. Here's luck
to calm, here's luck to feeling jittery only
in the face of creativity -- and some other sexy
endeavours, obviously!