It feels quiet. It feels quiet, Paris. London
is sunny from my bedroom on the barge and it
feels quiet. I haven't tested how it feels outside
but I'm imagining it feels fresh and pleasant
and possibly not so quiet. Tenderness fills my
heart as my daughter is comfortably sleeping
on my bed. After a day assez chargée yesterday,
seeing Phil Porter's 'Blink' performed brilliantly
at King's Head Theatre in Islington in the afternoon,
after helping me move my stuff from my neighbour's
boat back onto my boat, clothes thrifting and
book shopping, shawarma on the bus and a hot
drink with cake before witnessing a tiring version
of Bram Stroker's 'Dracula' starring only Cynthia
Erivo at Noel Coward Theatre in the evening.
The heating is working on both barges, and I
am appreciating my restful time being in one
city, namely London, for a solid four-night,
after my typical inspiring chaotic schedules,
even if there seems to be so much to do each
day still. I am being good and patient with my
knee recovery, following a hard fall right on
the kneecap on the wet pier six weeks ago, meaning
I'm trying so hard not to run, only doing gentle
exercises at home and poetic walks in between
errands. It feels quiet Paris, even with the
aeroplane and ambulance noises and the banging
sounds of the sides of the barge hitting the
pier. It feels quiet even with the drums of the
world being beaten so violently and so predictably.
Yet I guess it is not a quiet before the storm
for ones who brave the wind constantly, who live
every day and die once only. It feels like a
gap between ideas and manifestations and I am
trying to stay grounded and trust the process.
What does that even mean? I am trying not to
question if I am on the right path still. Can
one be on the wrong path when wishing only good
things? Can one be on the wrong path wishing
no harms on others? Is it enough, wishing and
wanting? And which others? Is there only one?
I feel that my questions about the world are
no longer fake. Not because it costs thirty percent more
to keep warm and cook compared to last month
while salaries haven't gone up for years. I feel
that my questions about the world are no longer
fake because my daughter is currently peacefully
sleeping on my bed. I've moved to the kitchen
upstairs, made Sumatran coffee in the French
press, having had to rewrite all the paragraphs
above, which got lost due to a computer glitch
on my travel through the red winding metal stairs
and watched two pink-footed Egyptian geese walk
on the pier before flying and disappearing above
my boat. Smiling, and even chuckling, I wasn't
complaining about the loss of the written words.
For as long as the essence is within me, and
as long as I am free, I can still recreate them.
What else is within me that I can create and
recreate? Could poetry be enough to liberate
myself and others? And which others? My daughter
is now awake, and an 'I love you' text from my
son has just landed. And suddenly, It feels like
you're just the icing on the cake, Paris. Are
you? Are you just a representation of everything
that I have become, or are you my training ground
because I am always becoming? It feels quiet,
Paris. Only little foams on the choppy surface
of the deep river answered my impractical questions.
My heart is walking its poetic walks while my
mind is running its errands. My body is almost
still, except for the movements my hands make,
writing these few quiet words, wishing the storm
never arrives. londres, le 15 mars 2026, je t'embrasse!