Waves. Three days until I'm with you again, Paris.
I want to talk to you about waves. Not only the
ones that came and went rocking the boat my friends
let me use on the Thames for a few days last
week and test, or rather train, my balance, which
I got used to rather fast. I want to talk to
you about the other waves too, and how at times
I am soothed by them like a baby, other times
they turn my stomach upside down and make me
feel dizzy. So dizzy beyond my determination,
though my determination could keep me standing.
At times. I was unaware of the waves while swimming
in the Seine this summer. I knew it was a long
way down from where I was floating, but it didn't
make me shiver either. It's always when I'm out
of you that I feel this way. Carrying waves
inside of me and constantly trying to settle
them. To settle myself. Without a destination.
Without a solid plan. Are you it? Or is it just
me? With the visa requirements (fuck Brexit),
I don't know if I can have you soon enough. But
do I have me? The waves are at it again, asking
me to feel comfortable with the uncomfortable
question. Though the answer is ultimately yes.
The waves follow still. But why do I quiver?
Waves aren't something unfamiliar to me. I took
a midnight ferry leaving my hometown 23 years
ago with a bag full of dreams, uncertainty and
tomorrow's lunch only. I wasn't chasing a man.
I wasn't chasing money. And suspiciously, I was
already famous in the country. I was only hoping
to find myself and feel at home, and make a few
hundred thousand rupiahs from publishing poems
in Indonesian national newspapers every so often
to survive the big city of Jakarta, though, believe
it or not, Paris was already my dream then. The
French romantic conversational pocketbook I read
for free after school in a Gramedia bookstore
in Lampung was my distressed witness. A year
later, waves of confusion from my sister's death
took me to another city. A year after that, came
waves of motherhood when I was barely 20--the
biggest of waves, and the best. Waves after waves,
and ones I couldn't possibly ride, simply because
I created them for myself and everyone around
me, have come and gone. And here I am, about to
move out of my beautiful flat in Wimbledon days
before my 41st birthday, with no forwarding address
and too many vague plans, including a Paris event
planning venture, simply because I'm that good
with people, without current reliable income
or hefty savings, except for a couple of flats
with mortgages, having to remove my blooming
vintage corner because the main shop is closing
down, and all I want to do is talk about waves.
There I said it. And I feel less queasy already.
My friend who owns the boat told me recently
that if I felt woozy from the waves, it would
be better to go upstairs and out to look at the
water and aligned my mind with the waves. I think
she's onto something here. Don't I have you, Paris?
And two cool, independent and loving kids who
are bizarrely proud of their dizzy mother, a
silly boyfriend who is supportive of all my giddy
dreams and whims, and a few good friends who
have witnessed my waves, old and new, and still
dare believe in me. And when all other plans
fail, does it matter when I still have me? With
all my waves? Sherborne. Le 31 août 2025. Je
t'embrasse.