Unless you're a total newcomer, there's no point in asking where I've been these past three days because you already know. Nobody even came forward to wake me up, to say "It's all a dream, miracles don't happen."
If ever I doubted that this log was more than a personal notepad and has acquired a following (including a handful of people as far away on this planet from France as it seems possible to be when I look at the globe), you've laid that notion to rest with your comments, e-mails and even -- good heavens -- 'phone calls.
But what's with you people?
One of you, quite mad, has married me off.
Some want more writing about sex, not the four-letter word, but the act of love, leaping to the totally irresponsible and irrational conclusion that because I chose not to have any for the past dozen years, I'll be less boring about it than those who spend their playtime trying out every imaginable suggestion at Tantra.com.
Others want to know her name, what she does for a living, where she comes from, where she lives, whether she likes her chocolate dark or milk (it was Laurent who got that one started), whether we met on the Internet, and even how old she is.
And the men (Michel, Philippe...) are every bit as bad as the women (except perhaps for the Wildcat, but that's only normal). Even the sometimes sensible Cindy, who long ago won a prize for the best succinct self-description ever to land in my e-mail, comments on the power of the "first kiss" as if others are bound to follow, when I've told you no such thing.
As if to make up for that, Cindy has since contented herself with a "hunk (Dusting my Brain...) 'o nerdly love" (I'm relieved to see that the French page on this six-inch desktop fantasy offers only a Babel Fish translation, which guarantees total confusion and myriad misunderstandings).
Where I've been is to every cliché in the book and some I've only just discovered. Nearly sleepless nights. Lack of more than a purely functional appetite. The dark side of the moon. The gates of heaven. The other place. And blogger's block again.
Her name, for those who have been totally inattentive, is E. No, I didn't meet her on the Net, but right here in Paris, about two months ago. She's American (I also told you that before, but some people have brains like sieves). I haven't seen her since Monday night, but since I've obviously thought of almost nothing else, how do you expect me to blog?
The kiss was a miracle. One miracle, in the very same month when I also had to look death full in the face, is enough for me. This is no fairy tale.
Women like E. don't come without other attachments in their lives. If there have been any small miracles since Monday, it's that she's still talking to me even though I have broken almost every rule in the book of "common sense" and paid not the slightest heed to my wisest advisors.
 By rights -- whatever those are -- I should already be broken-hearted or dead and possibly both.
Today came the final slash of the knife through the fraying tether that has just kept my feet on the ground, and that from the most unexpected quarter.
Though this is the Sunday of my working week (while still being Friday for most people in France), I kept my appointment with Dr G., the "psychosomatic shrink". Given the depth of her experience, the wisdom in all our previous encounters, the astonishing range of the reading matter on bookshelves where it is apparent that the dozens of volumes are not just there for show but have actually been read and digested, I expected a cold shower.
I didn't get one.
Instead she gave me encouragement, grounds for hope and a key to a domain where anything resembling conventional morality has no place...
And on that note, I'm suspending this blog until further notice. It could be days, it might be months.
When my heart, body and spirit are all singing the same music, I can go on reading you all, and shall, but I won't be able to write without being boring. At least I can still write to E a bit better than this.
Until she took up the job, there has been a muse behind my every word.
But E's no mere muse.
I may seem to have gone into final fantasy mode, but E's no fantasy either, not even just a lifelong dream come true. She's got a heart of her own and must do what she will with it.
I did promise her a flower.
That's easy for once. There's only the one.
I'll be back. One way or another. There's no saying when. And I have no more to say about E. It's not on this blog that I'm going to set down the two things that still remain to be said to her.
10:01:01 PM link 
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