Some part of me is always in Paris. I know she’s a shabby arrogant bitch who would shrug off my impudent fan mail but I just can’t stop writing them. I could tell her she’s just a heap of stones arranged around a muddy river. I could tell her she’s not as French as I am, that her cool gaze was international and more security cordon than cordon bleu. And she would shrug and rain on me, lifting her skirt above the red and grey reflecting cobbles to show a tease of petticoat.
So, for a while I gave up the fan mail. This time I did a whole novel. I know she won’t care.She won’t read it. She’ll sell it secondhand for fifty cents on a Sunday market stall on la rive gauche. I walk in the tear stained footprints of the wasted and decadent greats. I hum along to the metro jazz and long to soften her lips of stone. A woman should not feel this way – but Paris – I love you so so much.
Don’t tell me she’s male. No – Paris knows more of love than any man! Tell me I’m wrong guys – please.
Emma Thinx: In a language with genders go for the plural. Get the max.
It’s Calin day. Feel the love and just bloody well do it!
Just to let you all know that today 21st Janvier in France it is international hug and cuddle day and my name “Calin” translates into English as hug or cuddle. In Paris the talk is of machine gunners, extra police and more laws to keep us all safe. Chiefs of police explain waves of arrests and findings of weapons of death and hate. For sure the world and the French psyche are soaked in futile blood and the fear of more. Since all l’horreur and la violence I have kept my mouth shut. Pronouncements by light weight hackette story writers would seem gratuitous and trivial. But – WOW – how unstoppable is the power of gorgeous sex, romance and decadent trivial fun. Where is the jazz and the champagne fizz of French kissing in my beloved Paris? Look guys – just give it all up. Surrender to the truth of life, get drunk, fall in love, light a fire, throw on a hopeless poem of impossible longing, let the depth of a lover’s eyes pull you down and down until you find compassion for all the world in your own pleading helplessness. Only my jealousy of young love is greater than my sympathy. Oldies – kiss and remember. Youngsters – kiss and make your memories. Today is Câlin day in Paris. Emma Thinx: La soupe of gods is love. Suck it up.
You don’t need an excuse to write about Paris. Paris is une permission in itself. This week-end I had the chance to spend the evening in the city of lovers. I dined at the Vaudeville Brasserie which is just by the Bourse de Paris. It was succulanimous food served by a charming waiter named José from Nicaragua. For some reason his maitre constantly interfered with the poor guy’s work in some kind of
Emma deep in Parisian research. You gotta live it to write it.
attempted public humiliation. He didn’t bite or fire back. His service was impeccable. Where I come from the tormentor would have been waking up with a crowd around him. I would have applauded. If you travel to Paris head for the 2nd Arrondissement and treat yourself to oysters and magret de canard at the Vaudeville. Ask for José and tell him Emma sent you.
I once commented that most people’s troubles result directly from other people. Why why why are some people such utter shits? Why? We are a world of angry people. Some people are shits because they are angry. The others are angry because of the shits. It’s enough to make me circle viciously looking for an outlet. Ah! There you are… I rode the Metro with all the late late lovers. I dreamed of my next
passion patrol book set mainly in France. I thought back to Freddie and Anna as love swept them away along the Seine in Knockout. I thought of books and the great traditions of literature…..OK, I’d had a few glasses of wine (the champagne doesn’t count does it)……Paris – c’est une permission. Emma Thinx: You’re the boss of you – give yourself permission.
I think the word ambiance is French. If it isn’t I claim it by its Gallic sounding-ness. Nowhere has more ambiance than Paris. In fact there is so much ambiance in Paris that the very word conjures up an existentialist smoke filled café on any pavement near you wherever you are. Just the other day I was there seeing one of my progeny who is spending a year there. Could I be envious? Perish the thought!
I pointed my camera at a couple of tourist traps and found myself even more trapped in the essence of the place. Tourism makes the tangential view the only possible escape from la carte postale. The featured pix are from around le Sacré Coeur area of Paris. Trouble not, I’m not about to bore you with my montage. I love short stories and the whole art of keeping things concise. Readers of my verbiage may be groaning in disbelief to know this! Here is a short and very clever documentary film made in Paris by some fabulous young film makers. The words are French but the truth is universal. All I can say is that my own diet will start again on Tuesday. Maybe next week. Enjoy les religieuses. Emma thinx: If all the world’s a stage, who wrote my bloody script?
There is often a conflict in my mind between the artistic and the commercial. Recently I have been working on some poetry and videos to publicise my next book and my last one. Poetry was my first teenage expression of myself as a writer. I remember how I used to look at drab terraced urban houses and watch the red of passion bleeding out into the grey pool of everyday. The folk who queued with me for tube trains and buses had known first kisses, and shared with me the aching expectation of wholeness that LOVE, and only love, would bring.
Like many women, I have known the desert and the jungle of love. Somewhere deep down in me has always been the defeatist clerk, telling me to forget the Romance and warm my lips on the cold bottom line. I think this voice is in a lot of us. It is the reason I write Romance. When I wrote “Knockout” I took my readers to Paris to some moments I had lived myself. A week or so ago, I completed a video in which the text is taken from the book. It’s not a sell. It’s a truth of my life just a little overdressed.
Emma thinx: Love is letting go, but get a grip on him first.
A man has appeared in court in London charged with assaulting a police dog that was chasing him. Somehow I suspect that if he had assaulted a police officer very little would have been made of it. The alleged villain is called Lukasz Sklepowski, 28 years of no fixed address. The dog is named “Zincan”. I bet the get well cards and choco dog treats are already arriving at Scotland Yard. In 1982 a horse of the household Cavalry was injured in a terrorist nail bomb outrage in London. The horse received more cards and gifts than all the soldiers killed and injured that day. Sefton eventually recovered enough to return to duty. It was probably the biggest PR mistake that the IRA ever made. To me it seems only fair that poor beasts with no choice should be seen as special heroes. Those old newsreel shots of mules being craned onto boats to go to war do pull a tender chord.
Of course it is romantic to think of Mountain Rescue Dogs. Given the chance I would like to go out with rugged guys and rescue mountains in return for some chocolate and a head massage. All manner of special rescue and crotch sniffing drug dogs deserve our applause. Some working mutts will never make the front page, yet their contribution to our lives is beyond price. We need look no further than Alf – the workshop dog. Imagine the problem of a bus coming back from a trip with football supporters. In addition to beer cans, sweet wrappings and crisp packets, there are certain to be all manner of Kentucky fried wings and burger bits all around the cabin. Alf is placed on board by his handler and within minutes every shred of chicken batter and burger bap is discovered and devoured. If ever a dog deserves the eco-reycle medal of gallantry it is Alf.
I’ve just come back from the movies where I have been watching Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris. This is a simply fabulous film. It is witty, philosophical and just so sumptuously photographed. It is worth seeing just for the pictures of Paris. There is a great cameo role by Carla Bruni, wife of President Sarkozy. I always find that kinda stuff weird – like watching a U.S. president in a cowboy film. Nah – that’s just too far fetched.
Emma thinx: A spider would make 2 four legged friends