Quiet joy. It's quiet, Paris. The rain is dancing
lightly on the pier and on the deck and I feel
as light--ben it's just getting heavier all
of a sudden. Now it's tiptoeing again. Getting
heavy again. And back to its lightness. You get
the idea. Yet, all the same, it feels quiet in
my world. First night sleeping on my neighbour's
boat was a quiet success (chatty owner is still
in India, that's why), except for when the record
player decided to play my Bach vinyl on its own.
Ten minutes after Brandenburg Concerto No. 1
in F Major, which was the last song on side one,
ended, for two seconds only, and only twice,
while I was on a call with my crazy and talented
classical improviser pianist friend Julian, quietly
talking about fugue, which I'm quietly learning
about, about his Mahjong winning, and a few projects.
Shh, quiet, before the posh spirit says hello
again. Once again, I've made a new space into
a home with my personal belongings and arrangement,
with minor leaks, water supply and thermostat
behaviour dealt with quietly. I'm smiling, Paris;
that last sentence made me smile. The lemongrass
scent coming out of the humidifier makes me smile.
My feet are starting to feel chilly while I'm
sitting on a chair cross-legged in front of
a large freestanding mirror--thoroughly cleaned,
with my computer on my lap--hence it's called
a laptop, and I'm smiling because I have my oil
-filled radiator in this room ready to be turned
on. Quietly. My adaptability that helps me feel
at home in a new space makes me smile. I'm smiling
at my quietly sore legs from running three kilo meters
every single morning for the last five days.
You'll understand that this is an achievement
when I tell you that my set goal after starting
about six weeks ago is still just five minutes,
so that I am always sure I'll reach that goal
when I step outside in my cute running gear
(well, the running gear is okay, but I'm cute),
so that I get to hype myself up after five minutes.
And that almost always boosts my mood and motivates
me to run longer. There are days that I only
run for five minutes, but they are rare and they
still make me feel great. It reinforces my belief
that I can handle anything, all that bliss ahead
of me. I haven't always been running first thing
in the morning--after the meditation. Sometimes
it's in the afternoon or in the evening and
I've been chill about it. My flexibility makes
me smile. The meditation is getting quieter,
without music, and longer, closer to an hour
again. And that makes me ache. Sorry, I meant
smile. And slightly hornier than usual, actually.
Imagine that. Shh. Breathe. Writing is going
well. Excuse me? Writing is getting quietly exciting
now as I have set a stage for scenes and conversations
that quietly come to me as I calm my libido down--
I mean, as I go about my day. Same, same; sexual
energy and creative energy is one and the same.
Right? Doesn't matter. Something is quietly flourishing
inside of me and it is joyful. It is joyful when
I'm cooking, it is joyful when I'm being spoiled
by a restaurant. It is joyful when I'm making
my own coffee, it is joyful when I pay just under
five quid for a flat white. It is joyful when
I'm running, it is joyful when I'm sitting still.
It is joyful when I'm with my daughter or with
my son, who just quietly turned 21 this week,
and it is joyful when I'm alone with myself.
It is joyful when someone says I look beautiful,
it is joyful when someone takes their time to
reply to my text. It is joyful when it's sunny,
and it is even more joyful when it's raining
(I'm rare, I know). Quietly, Paris, everything that
I want is gaining momentum. Joyfully, Paris,
I know that everything that I am is gaining momentum.
Like clouds, as beautiful as ones I saw above
Van Gogh's grave in Auvers-sur-Oise, gathering
and getting thicker. When it rains, it pours,
well, or it drizzles like English rain, quietly,
persistently, joyfully. Either way, Paris, I'm
already wet. londres, le 25 janvier 2026 je t’embrasse !