My dancing heart. Bonjour, Paris. Can I think
while dancing? I think not. I think with my heart
and my heart is dancing. You are me and I am
with you. My heart is dancing and ideas start
pouring in. Yes, even without the rain, English
rain that seems so far in the distance now that
I have laid my eyes on the Seine again this morning.
They appear before me like images from a movie,
like things that have happened for me, and they
are as real as the tears that touch my smiling
lips that I can taste it. Ah, to be free! Ah,
to be uncompromisingly oneself! What a blissful
curse it may seem to be, to walk one solitary
miles and smile at ordinary girls flying by,
for there is nothing ordinary about girls flying
by while you're walking your solitary miles,
let alone by the Seine. I smile when something
makes me cry, for there is nothing ordinary about
being touched by something, by anything at all.
I don't want to seek anymore, Paris. I don't want
to seek you or myself or where you and myself
come from. I just want to be the true you, my
true self, the truth. You'd say I'm losing my
mind, Paris, talking this way, but my mind has
to melt to flow with my heart, which has been
melting every hard decision presented before
my eyes, that my eyes become watery, for more
images like in a movie come to me as my heart
is dancing where life is flowing, that I think
with my heart. Can I think while my heart is
dancing? I think not. I spent almost a week with
my pier neighbour in Chelsea on his charmingly rustic
barge without central heating--we're working
on it. But with hot water supply and endless
passionate conversations over hot meals we cooked
for each other. Last night, my friends Sandy
and Julien in Nation welcomed me back into their
warm family home with delicious soup--I had two
helpings, one for my tummy, one for my soul.
I ran two miles this morning and walked a little
along the Seine, spying Notre Dame in the distance
with giddiness in my body before picking up mini
viennoiseries from local boulangerie. I am now
back in bed, sitting here not feeling blue, spilling
my heart to you. Paris, Paris, que je m'en fous.
For ah, to feel loved. Ah, to feel abundant and
free, to constantly be in the right place at
the right time is the only way to be. It's the
only way to see when one sees with one's heart,
with one's dancing heart at that. The shadow
of the balcony flowers on the white curtains
have disappeared. The day is getting higher.
And it is soon time to get ready and lunch with
my Katie and break her heart a little when I
tell her I have now made up my mind that I won't
be going to Barcelona with her this week. But
she'll understand. She and my dear friend Fabiola
in the warmer part of the continent will understand.
I have a momentum going with something I'm currently
writing. And I am in the right place at the right
time to keep it going. Their understanding shall
mend their hearts and their love shall make their
hearts dance like mine. I'm loving you, Paris.
The words are flying, assembling themselves around
me. The scenes are directing themselves for me.
Things are happening for me. The feelings are
beautifully flowing as my heart is dancing. To
allow. Can my heart think while dancing? Does
it need to? paris, le 8 février 2026. je t 'embrasse.