My liberated love. Bonjour, mon amour. I spent
too much time at the gambling table and didn't
dance with anyone at the 1930s ball organised
by La Baronne de Paname at Salle Colonne last
night. I felt that the spirit of my gangster
papa might have been with me and my wing girl Katie,
or maybe it was my stellar late mama, especially
when we were winning the roulette in between
enjoying our friends on stage and on the dance
floor where mere mortals mingled. I'm not one
of them, obviously; I'm a poet, and we poets
think we'll live forever, even with the sadness
of the world. Especially with the sadness of
the world. Turning down offers for a dance was
proven to be profitable for my current aching
back and mixing champagne and aperol spritz, at
same price per glass, was proven to be safe for
my gambling and my head the morning after. In
any case, my glamorous gold lurex gown is still
intact and my white marabou stole is still white.
And my heart? My heart is doing just fine, I
think. My heart is still my heart, trying to
dictate my thinking even when I'm thinking to
get it aligned with my head. Or was it just my
body in its strife to detach certain sensations
from an expired desire? Having been absent from
running for a few days doesn't help, though the
innocent flirting, and the occasional less-so,
which is rare, has kept me feeling rather fit
even when I'm actually under the weather, just
a little. My little heart, pretending to be big,
who gets the hurt from my strong conviction,
can handle it. But perhaps I lied when I said
my heart didn't need soothing when I broke it
with my rational decision -- to break up in December,
for example. -- or at least I was confused. Now,
after waves of pain, guilt and even anger, which
surprised my heart a little, I know my rational
conviction, my principles are what soothe my
pain because they give meaning to it, and meaning
is as important as life itself, if not more.
My meaningful pain doesn't take away my capacity
to love, Paris, and I'm loving you meaningfully,
you handsome, quirky, elegant, old-fashioned
and philosophical thing. I'm loving my host family,
my coffee dates and bar hopping with my friends,
my impromptu bouillon or Indonesian restaurant
suppers, my artist friends' vernissages and my
poetic walk, long or short. I'm loving the causes
of my wild laughter as equally as my quiet moments
in the crowd, sometimes in the middle of a conversation.
I'm loving the Parisians' compliments as much
as the times they leave me alone to read my books,
sometimes in French, because I can read with
my heart --I've learned to say 'tantôt' instead
of 'parfois' from Guy de Maupassant recently. I'll
let you debate the utilisation of it with your
gorgeous intellectual neighbours while I meditate
to minimise the number of lovers I need in one
monthly cycle. You'll be surprised how well I
meditate if you've experienced my cheeky smile.
The river Seine is fuller than usual last time
I checked, covering the parts where I used to
picnic in the Quartier Latin, and the crackling
Beethoven's Symphony No. 9 on the record player
is drowning my non -existent plans for the rest
of the day. I'm biting my coffee -washed red
lip, thinking of you and feeling how close I
feel to you right this moment, exactly because
you liberate me. Paris, le 20 février 2026. Je
t 'embrasse.