WEBVTT

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It feels quiet. It feels quiet, Paris. London

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is sunny from my bedroom on the barge and it

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feels quiet. I haven't tested how it feels outside

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but I'm imagining it feels fresh and pleasant

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and possibly not so quiet. Tenderness fills my

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heart as my daughter is comfortably sleeping

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on my bed. After a day assez chargée yesterday,

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seeing Phil Porter's 'Blink' performed brilliantly

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at King's Head Theatre in Islington in the afternoon,

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after helping me move my stuff from my neighbour's

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boat back onto my boat, clothes thrifting and

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book shopping, shawarma on the bus and a hot

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drink with cake before witnessing a tiring version

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of Bram Stroker's 'Dracula' starring only Cynthia

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Erivo at Noel Coward Theatre in the evening.

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The heating is working on both barges, and I

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am appreciating my restful time being in one

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city, namely London, for a solid four-night,

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after my typical inspiring chaotic schedules,

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even if there seems to be so much to do each

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day still. I am being good and patient with my

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knee recovery, following a hard fall right on

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the kneecap on the wet pier six weeks ago, meaning

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I'm trying so hard not to run, only doing gentle

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exercises at home and poetic walks in between

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errands. It feels quiet Paris, even with the

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aeroplane and ambulance noises and the banging

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sounds of the sides of the barge hitting the

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pier. It feels quiet even with the drums of the

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world being beaten so violently and so predictably.

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Yet I guess it is not a quiet before the storm

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for ones who brave the wind constantly, who live

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every day and die once only. It feels like a

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gap between ideas and manifestations and I am

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trying to stay grounded and trust the process.

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What does that even mean? I am trying not to

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question if I am on the right path still. Can

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one be on the wrong path when wishing only good

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things? Can one be on the wrong path wishing

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no harms on others? Is it enough, wishing and

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wanting? And which others? Is there only one?

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I feel that my questions about the world are

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no longer fake. Not because it costs thirty percent more

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to keep warm and cook compared to last month

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while salaries haven't gone up for years. I feel

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that my questions about the world are no longer

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fake because my daughter is currently peacefully

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sleeping on my bed. I've moved to the kitchen

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upstairs, made Sumatran coffee in the French

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press, having had to rewrite all the paragraphs

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above, which got lost due to a computer glitch

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on my travel through the red winding metal stairs

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and watched two pink-footed Egyptian geese walk

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on the pier before flying and disappearing above

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my boat. Smiling, and even chuckling, I wasn't

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complaining about the loss of the written words.

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For as long as the essence is within me, and

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as long as I am free, I can still recreate them.

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What else is within me that I can create and

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recreate? Could poetry be enough to liberate

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myself and others? And which others? My daughter

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is now awake, and an 'I love you' text from my

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son has just landed. And suddenly, It feels like

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you're just the icing on the cake, Paris. Are

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you? Are you just a representation of everything

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that I have become, or are you my training ground

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because I am always becoming? It feels quiet,

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Paris. Only little foams on the choppy surface

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of the deep river answered my impractical questions.

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My heart is walking its poetic walks while my

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mind is running its errands. My body is almost

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still, except for the movements my hands make,

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writing these few quiet words, wishing the storm

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never arrives. londres, le 15 mars 2026, je t'embrasse!