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. 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 1,
ended. For two seconds only, and only twice,
while I was on a call with my crazy and talented
classical improviser pianist friend Julien, 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
misbehaviour 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
kilometers 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. London, January 25, 1926.