WEBVTT

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Waves. Three days until I'm with you again, Paris.

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I want to talk to you about waves. Not only the

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ones that came and went rocking the boat my friends

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let me use on the Thames for a few days last

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week and test, or rather train, my balance, which

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I got used to rather fast. I want to talk to

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you about the other waves too, and how at times

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I am soothed by them like a baby, other times

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they turn my stomach upside down and make me

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feel dizzy. So dizzy beyond my determination,

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though my determination could keep me standing.

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At times. I was unaware of the waves while swimming

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in the Seine this summer. I knew it was a long

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way down from where I was floating, but it didn't

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make me shiver either. It's always when I'm out

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of you that I feel this way. Carrying waves

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inside of me and constantly trying to settle

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them. To settle myself. Without a destination.

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Without a solid plan. Are you it? Or is it just

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me? With the visa requirements  (fuck Brexit),

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I don't know if I can have you soon enough. But

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do I have me? The waves are at it again, asking

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me to feel comfortable with the uncomfortable

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question. Though the answer is ultimately yes.

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The waves follow still. But why do I quiver?

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Waves aren't something unfamiliar to me. I took

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a midnight ferry leaving my hometown 23 years

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ago with a bag full of dreams, uncertainty and

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tomorrow's lunch only. I wasn't chasing a man.

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I wasn't chasing money. And suspiciously, I was

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already famous in the country. I was only hoping

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to find myself and feel at home, and make a few

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hundred thousand rupiahs from publishing poems

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in Indonesian national newspapers every so often

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to survive the big city of Jakarta, though, believe

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it or not, Paris was already my dream then. The

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French romantic conversational pocketbook I read

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for free after school in a Gramedia bookstore

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in Lampung was my distressed witness. A year

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later, waves of confusion from my sister's death

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took me to another city. A year after that, came

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waves of motherhood when I was barely 20--the

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biggest of waves, and the best. Waves after waves,

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and ones I couldn't possibly ride, simply because

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I created them for myself and everyone around

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me, have come and gone. And here I am, about to

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move out of my beautiful flat in Wimbledon days

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before my 41st birthday, with no forwarding address

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and too many vague plans, including a Paris event

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planning venture, simply because I'm that good

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with people, without current reliable income

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or hefty savings, except for a couple of flats

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with mortgages, having to remove my blooming

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vintage corner because the main shop is closing

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down, and all I want to do is talk about waves.

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There I said it. And I feel less queasy already.

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My friend who owns the boat told me recently

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that if I felt woozy from the waves, it would

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be better to go upstairs and out to look at the

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water and aligned my mind with the waves. I think

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she's onto something here. Don't I have you, Paris?

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And two cool, independent and loving kids who

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are bizarrely proud of their dizzy mother, a

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silly boyfriend who is supportive of all my giddy

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dreams and whims, and a few good friends who

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have witnessed my waves, old and new, and still

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dare believe in me. And when all other plans

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fail, does it matter when I still have me? With

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all my waves? Sherborne. Le 31 août 2025. Je

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t'embrasse.
