Boy Bewildered

I look at Daphney and she's my bedroom Nefertiti. Not in any real way of course, just that it's what my brain calls her. Pale skin, black hair. In my shirt looking curled up and safe.
Today we went round her friend's house, sat on the couch and joked and talked and I love it. I love seeing her: how she fawns and makes people feel safe and genuinely believes it all too. She's trying too hard, of course, but lovelily so. And she's different around me. Which means I'm maybe the only one seeing her for real (which makes my inner man uncurl from his ball and stretch). Either that or it's a different fake, but pfff...

She said she can be free new year's if I want, but I said don't be ridiculous. Go to your party and drink and whatever it is you do. I want to do something with her, because I'm a closet romantic. But I won't. How can I make it as perfect as what I'll dream?

Speaking of dreams, my mother told me she had a nightmare, that Daphney was pregnant. It paranoided me about 15%, because accidents can happen. But that's a hurdle I don't need.

So yeah, new year's eve I'll most likely be sitting here or in bed. Maybe I'll follow Lucinda somwhere though, which would be great, but unlikely. Ah well. School soon, so work. Night.

"the heels stretched my height to a good 6'2'' or so" says Etoile, and that's made me wow for at least a day. Women I know shrink themselves. If you're above 5 10 as a girl, well dear, heels are out and demure is in.

But this is England, and although things have changed, they haven't gone far enough. Still women use that irritating falsetto, and pantos and fart jokes are the classics...

I don't know what I'm trying to say really. Should I get a double bed for my room? It's a decision I need to make.

But yeah, Etoile: you're awesome is basically the main gist. I can't extrapolate further than that. Night!

I've spent time compiling a backlog of every post of Leticia's posts ever, and it's kind of closure. Should I read them all again though? It's just going to re-open every emotion I ever felt reading it (which was practically every emotion), and she's gone forever. Hm.

What I mean is, I've copied and pasted every word in case it disappears. I can live with memories, but not shadows of memories. I suppose I might print it out one day, or something.

Am I just an obsessive fool? *furrows brow*
I guess...

In brighter news, I'm decorating my room and it's slow slow slow going, which means my eyes are kinda glazed and my hands dusty. But it'll be gallery-white, with outlandish splashes of colour and inappropriate things glued to the walls. Sales receipts, road signs... And maybe I'll get my monkey bars!

Now today I have eaten too much, and my relationship with my mother disintegrates like a newspaper umbrella. I'm sure she's losing it, because she's irrationally angry and finds all the wrong words. Which I then find in every other sentence of hers. But oh well.

I'm writing this on my knees, because the chair is downstairs to accommodate our guests. These holidays aren't relaxing at all, really. Every piece of free time is taken ungranted, and the only way to win is to be attritional. If Mum feels unappreciated, she's trying to put it back on me. 'Fran sleeps 'til twelve every day, Fran go walk the dog! Fran you haven't done anything today!'

But oh well. I'll win somehow, and I really should start doing homework. So oppressive it is... Every piece I do will come back twofold anyway, because it's a 'light' load for the holidays.

My towel smells of waffles when I take it off the rail; my mouth tastes of chocolate dust. I want onion soup. And snow. Is that too much? I'm quite bored with feeling down, and home. Why can't Mum see? She's destroying the centre of my life. She's got no right to tell me what to do, when she's never home and when she is she's semtex.

So, I think I'll spend time casually shirking responsibilities, going out and feeling constricted. Which is probably what I want to feel, or else I wouldn't let myself. I'm such a poser...

Today's a day for being festive and stuff, and I'm all suffused with dusty love...

Daphney got me a Leticia Mckenzie t-shirt, which I absolutely adore her for. And her present isn't even made yet, but will be somewhere approaching cool I hope. Oh, speaking of Leticia Mckenzie, she's maybe dead. Or gone, but what's the difference? I can sorta understand it if she is just gone, but, y'know. It'd be nice to have a signing-off post or something. I promise I'll never go away without telling you. Maybe I'm inflating my own importance, and maybe it's just a part of blog life for people to disappear. But even if I die, I'll try to leave instructions with someone to finish this off. (This all seems a bit serious...)

I spent today re-reading The Amber Spyglass which is... Just lovely. This time I've read all the poetry quotations at the start of the chapters out loud and twice, and marvelled at the words, and the worlds in the book.

Even though there's been no snow (what a surprise), today's been pretty ok. I wanna send my love out in quanta to everyone who's ever read my site, or who reads it, or even everyone who could receive it. So I'm concentrating now, and I'm thinking of how it feels to almost cry or almost leap, and all the surplus energy I've ever stored from not doing so is going straight out in love.

I'm smiling now, and will be for days. Merry Christmas everybody! ^_^

I'm all jazzed up.

Tomorrow's action packed, including a visit to make a return at a boring store (yuck) and having a jovial Christmas Eve. It should be ok I guess. Up before nine, out of the door and running to the train.

Anyway, I've got a couple gigs in the next week or so, and live music gets into me right from the moment my jeans begin to vibrate.

We're going as a family to a family friend tomorrow, which should be as boring as this sentence. And there, guzzling and gluttony, and perhaps a movie or something.

You know I'm American or something right? I mean, parents are and I am by extension. I'm English to me, but I'm told words like movie are not from here (use film), and pacifier isn't either (it's a dummy).

I don't care anymore. Trying to fake an English accent since I was seven leaves me with a dumb mix of rhotic Rs and estuary dialect. Language comes naturally, and everyone has their own blend. Mine, however, is mixed up as arabica with Bordeaux.

I saw 'Garden State' with my family. It was rubbish. Utterly vacuous and predictable and yuck. Oh well. It makes me want to see 'Eternal Sunshine' again, which is approximately 935862 times better and with basically the same premise.

I tried to write a story, I really did. I started three and realised two were the same, and gave up because it was pain. And playing after I couldn't see the ping pong ball (but still won). (Ok, it was against my brother).

Speaking of him, he's a monster when he's not on his ritalin (or whatever it is). Today he ate about half the cupboards, then hid in the pantry (yes we have a room called the pantry) and ate cereal out of the box. He's 15. And then wildwildwild all through everything. That boy needs a marathon or something...

Is it wrong to medicate him? Or is it bringing out his 'true self'. I don't know. I can't tell. Anyway, need some sleeeeeeeeeep. Bye

Yesterday I collapsed into my grateful bed after talking to Lucinda for hours, and Daphney's smell was everywhere. I hugged my duvet and tried to inhale her. So near, so far. I want her as part of me; the feeling keenest when she's nowhere near. I think it made me woozy, and I'm still not recovered.

Christmas is a prime way to spot normality. I know a few normal people, and frankly, I can't believe it. I spot them when they've bought a facial massage for their mother, or some other meaningless and completely average gift. I mean, it's not that it's not a nice present. It's meant well, it'll be received well.

But how? It's all in the same vein to me as, I dunno... Maybe proposing to someone in a hot air balloon. Indelibly naff. I don't understand how some of that stuff happens... Do normal people really have the relationship problems detailed so enthusiastically in magazines? Do people make up this crap to me? I heard today about someone calling themselves 'Dr Love' at a party, before trying to eat someone's face off. I don't understand at all...

How can people have that lack of self-awareness? I mean, drink must help somewhat, but... Wearing a shirt with the slogan 'I've lost my number, can I have yours?' just gives me a look of blank.

With the romance, I understand the sentiment. I understand wanting to do something wunnerful for someone else, really I do. But when it comes to being completely and devotedly unironic, that's where I draw the line. Calling someone 'Mrs (insert your surname)', expressing your love in cliches. Ideally, she'd laugh at you. But no. Instead people walk around in their own fairy-tales, each trying to find their ideal person inside someone it isn't.

I think this is just my manifestation of Christmas spirit...

Mm... I saw Daphney and we shopped. It was good. She got a cute fiftie's dress, I got stuff from H+M. Then we went home... It was good. There was a blog post that was writing itself in my head, but I'm tired from last night with her.

Anyway, afterwards and in the languid search for missing clothes, I picked up her panties (hate that word but not gonna do anything about it). Inside was white powder, brown powder and white goo. Now, the white goo is almost explicable (even though there's no way they were in the line of fire). But the two powders? I think one was cinnamon, and one sugar (just guessing... There were no taste tests or forensic examinations). It's pretty funny to think of viable scenarios. Actually, I haven't even thought of one yet. Unless people really do bake cakes in their pants.

Last night's lesson is that Rocky Horror music makes sex better.

And... My writing's in that annoying style. Oh well. I love being with her. I love feeling her tentative hands on my back, and staring at her eyes (not into...) and seeing her staring back. And shit, I promised you a story for tomorrow.

I've been thinking a lot about what to write. I find voices easier, and I've thought of a few. But I'm still embarrassed about most of them. It'll just be easier if I sit down and write and write, so I think I will.

Late at night, Daphney asked, with the mixture of tenderness and incision and simplicity that only exhaustion gives her, if I was happy. I told her I had been worried about us. But that's just who I am. And happy's what I am too. So yeah, I'm happy. And looking at her lying next to me, feeling her arm around me loosely, glimpsing moments of love. It's enough to make sure I'm never lying to her when I say that of course I'm happy. Dear, you're here. How could I not be?

First off, I'm sorry so much of my writing has been about Daphney. It's thoroughly ridiculous. I used to refrain from mentioning her, but I decided to just write what was in my mind. And I guess that's her.

Oh well. Also, does anyone know how to update their Blogger profile so that it doesn't give me the same post-number every time? I'm sick of seeing that I've written 103 posts. It's a most unsatisfying number.

Today I played ping pong and mopped and did work at home. I love sports. Anything I can compete at really. The thrill of the muscle-brain sychronisation steadily getting better, and the (simple) pleasure of thwacking the ball. Tock tock tock tock tock tock swish... Damn, missed. It's a journey away from real life at least.

All of my cuddly friends are offline... I just need someone around who's warm. My ideal hugging partner doesn't live anywhere near me. She has huge (perfect) breasts that also feel like radiators. Hugging her is like hugging a hearth made of silk and pillows.

I've had a shower today already, but I think a bath is necessary too. (WTG?? I just spell-checked and it didn't recognise the word 'blogger') I know baths are kinda, y'know... Somewhat whimsical and somewhat like throwing a blanket over your head, but oh well. I love them. If they wanted an image change, someone just needs a Haagen Daaz-style advertising campaign making them all sultry and decadent and stuff. But that would be too easy... Baths are my concession to romanticism (or part of it), and they should stay that way. A shower is so impersonal... Like a love-letter in Comic Sans (except obviously not as sickening... I mean you don't have to break up with someone for liking showers.)

I'm sick of watching uninspired screen names appear on msn. Bye!

I wrote last night but it's somewhere else, and I'll put it up some other time.

Quelle surprise, Daphney's busy again. And she hung up on me this morning. I feel like I've had enough, really. I can't remember the last time we had decent sex and she's becoming moody and insincere. Of course, I'll probably change my mind when I see her next, but still. I'm all kranky this morning... Sucks. She was with me all night in my head, and the super-imagination of sleepiness conjured her up in my arms, all huggly. I thought I would see her today, but I have to wait.

I'm just gonna have to talk to her I think.

I wrote this last night, but was d/c so am sticking it where it should be...

My family's delayed Christmas by a week, which suits me fine and makes me feel part of the 'oddball' family I always thought we'd look if we were dramatised. My dad walks around naked, my mum affects an English accent when people come around, and my brother is just hyperactive and large. Oh, and of course I'm the narrator, providing the bridge between viewer and "ker-azy" family.

Anyway, today a kid I may not have told you about gave me a thank-you note and a pen. It was so sweet... I had helped him previously I guess, although nothing spectacular. Thank-yous are sublime.

Ping pong table was set up today as well. I have to admit, my father had a brain-wave that only sleep could possibly achieve. He solved the problem in perfectly, actually. Very impressive.

In other news I recovered quickly from yesterday, and am completely fine and once again mostly convinced Daphney will stick around me. (Of course; I may have other ideas).

I went to the cinema and saw the Lemony Snicket movie, which is fantastically anachronistic and is generally funny (in parts). And I like Jim Carrey in most things anyway, so thumbs up.

I went with a girl, called... Seph. There's some history between us (a kiss and nothing more) and we're (to me) excellent friends. She asked me out for today and I agreed, and it was perfectly pleasant and well and cool and cozy, until she picked up my hand from her grip and asked: "what's this?" I looked at her, blank as a vampire's looking glass. I had told her I would never cheat just a few minutes previously, and in discussion mentioned that my only unrealistic ambition is to find my ideal woman. And just generally told her the reason Daphney was not who I talked about to her was because I was more secure and boasting is just a sign of my insecurity. And... And... What's UP?! Why can't I hug and hold hands when it's freezing out, and why can't people realise that a hug is just friendship and that I value that physical representation of friendship absolutely. (Note: I understand what she feels, and what I would do if a girl acted like I did. But I also know I adore hugs.)

She said she's just making it hard on herself. Very hard. And I'm sorry for that. I love her, I just don't want her to be a lover. My eyes flared, telling her what I felt so I didn't have to speak it.
And then she walked away, her eyes betraying her hidden hurt, and didn't look back once.

I phoned Daphney on the way home, on a cold lonesome bus. She was busy. I won't talk to her until Sunday or some such nonsense. She's busy; with people she doesn't adore and doing things she's reluctant to tell me. After lying about her blog, she lied about smoking weed until pressed (yuck by the way. There's a part of me that I hate that wants her to sit in a tower until seeing me again every time). More untruthfulness and lies and not caring, and I have to go. I feel like we're in boats and the current's split in the river. She's drifting away, not being open, not calling or missing me. (This is a lie. It's how I feel this moment, and I'm conjuring up examples in my head of how she loves me).

I guess it's that kind of day. Melancholy, and tamely so. Teenage self-pitying and whining. Perfect for the last day of term, then.

I took the trains to Camden, walked around with a map in my hand trying to find a store. The trains there make crying-baby noises, and the people come straight out of comic sketches.
Someone's dog got loose and bit a guy in the thigh as I watched. I was fairly nervous of all the kids who walk too near me,with a glint of threat in my mind.

Anyway, I Don't really like the dark at all. I'm phobic of haunted houses (yes the fairground ones), and hate hate hate the early dusk and late dawn.

All those cookies I baked were for nothing; the playgroup was cancelled because people hadn't turned up yesterday or the day before. But I've turned up every week all year on Thursday with my friend, and I had made all that effort and I wanted to see cheery faces and a mad scramble for the cookies.
Oh well, it's the same reaction I'll get in school anyway.

Today I also learnt my Gaydar is spectacularly, majestically wrong. The boy (who I thought was wonderfully and huggably gay) was kissing his girlfriend.

I've been reading 'The Importance of Being Earnest' out loud on the train, and 'Playing with Infinity' not out loud on the train. One's genius, and that's what there is to say about it. The maths one is meant to be friendly, and sort of is. But it's done with a lot of hand-waving and she doesn't realise that brief isn't friendly, but just confusing. It's still good though.

If I become a teacher I don't want to be seen as a failure. I'll so need to be appreciated, and I'm sure I won't be enthralling enough for them. Most jobs don't matter: incompetence means nothing, because it's just a corporation. If you fuck up teaching, you can fuck up someone's life or their complete comprehension and love of a subject.

Risk-reward structure... mmmmm..

Today was meant to be a free afternoon, with cookie-baking and maybe some gentle canoodling. Daphney fought with her parents and was late. We tried to set up a ping-pong table and failed, leading to my father forcing a bolt somewhere wrong and breaking it. Shit.

It's ok though; we're a handy family, and things will work out. I sent Daphney a text telling her I shouldn't treat her like such a robot, because I just work next to her in the house. It's not fair on her though, because... Well just because she deserves constant and physical thanks (ahem...) I mean it wouldn't be all that hard to make her some hot chocolate.

Anyway, Amazon stuff reached me at last, so at least I have the Rocky Horror Picture Show soundtrack to keep me company (even if the cd-holding-bobbles are broken).

I should be asleep by now, but I'm waking up at 6 30 to bake the cookies I failed to do today.

So I'll just write.

I've changed in my life (obviously). And oh well, authoritarian mother is forcing me away. Bye.

I'm going crazy firstly: I'm reading random words as Leticia.

Ahem. Ignoring that, I dreamt that I slept with someone from class, and she assured me that it was a dream so I was allowed to cheat. Then she disappeared.

Marigold seems to want more LSD and other assorted drugs than sleep or a future... She sounds pretty out of it, and all I can do is crack shit jokes and tell her gently to cut it out.

I want to bake Xmas cookies for the kids at the group tomorrow, and Daphney's coming to help. It would be fun if I knew where the cookie cutters/ food colouring/ silver sugar baubles were. Ah well, it'll be ok anyway.

I think I've found something I want to do in life, even if it is a bit specific. It combines a lot: teaching smart kids; teaching in America; living in a city. I think I'll email the principal and ask what qualifications I would need. Is that crazy? Probably. For one I don't think it would be fair to jet off to America straight away... After all England needs teachers, they're well-paid and the government heavily subsidises their training. And I don't just want to help already priviledged kids. But I don't want to teach to an exam syllabus either.
Oh well, I have a few years to decide.

I want to start writing creatively... I can think of some opening lines... Like: 'My parents realised they didn't love me on...' Or 'London night is a colour I like' (have I mentioned that line before?)

Maybe I should just practise... Oh well. Effort's never been my strong point. I'll try and write something by... Next Wednesday, and then I'll see what you think.

I'm in this house now, and writing this laying in bed (uncomfortably) on a wirelessly-connected laptop. I haven't done any homework (I know; how daring) and won't.

The house is big at least, even if we have to wait for a shower to come in. I guess it'll provide me with plenty of excuses to complain at least...

I found some writing during the moving I had done ages ago. Not only did it mainly suck, but my style hasn't gone anywhere (at least not when I'm writing fiction). Actually, seeing as that's basically the last thing I wrote...

Hm... The point is, I can tell I'm tired by my writing and will leave now. Bye!

It seems like a time since I wrote. Friday I went to a poetry reading at at teacher's house. After everyone but me and my close friends had left, we sat in his lounge listening to Small Faces and pondering out loud.
There was a musk of poignancy. His house must be so cold usually, with no one there and just volumes and volumes of books for love. For about three moments everything focussed in my mind and I let tears form behind my eyes, secret but comforting.

Today I sealed the floors in my new house, and blared music all over them straight after and danced all on my own with a broom for company.

I thought it would be so easy to write after Friday, and I imagine it would've been before I was chased from the computer by my father. And the next thing to happen was being woken up, and then I went and worked.

It's all grey and concrete there, but I got a break to go coach fencing. I love kids...

Anyway I have to soak in a bath and do maths and more besides. Bye!

Oh it's Christmas time, has been for months. Everything's glammed up in a way that says 'buy', and still the days are still zipping.

Everything in this temporary house smells, so I perfume it by eating digestives. I'm avoiding any work again, and hope the weekend has some semblance of vacation about it. It should. With any luck Daphney's father's returned, and I'll be able to bring her over to help us work in the new house. She's so peaceful with a purpose. A serenity plays her brows into concentration and she smiles to herself.

I dreamt I woke up next to her and saw it was 6 07. Two hours before we had to get up, and a sur-perfect morning waited.
Until my friend walked in with a basketball, but that's just dreams I guess.

Anyway. Chemistry assessment was depressing, and physics felt lighter than usual. I think it was the breeze and the fact the teacher actually had a lesson plan.

I want to teach when I'm older (I think). In America (pipe-dream). First lesson would be an introduction: a chance to get used to my bizarre English accent. I'm sure I would be lame and try and be 'down with the kids' (or the equivalent future passé expression).

Anyway, it's exciting to have a (partial) purpose. It's something to build on.

At the lunch-club today (for the kids), it was so cute. There's one kid who looks like a riverboat dealer, with an exquisite memory and a will to win at cards. There's another who's so cute he should be packaged up and sold as a (bouncing) happy pill. And a few who mischievously ask my friend for a date; who call me 'a big hard man'.

Next week I'm baking them holiday cookies (all non-religious. If I can resist the lure of icing a Christmas tree on). Now I'm off to walk my doggly... I wonder what to get her for Christmas actually...

Daphney's worried, her father's disappeared and she seems grey to the point of fade. Being useful, I'm going to write for it momentarily here before worrying, or going to bed.

(Don't worry, disappeared is only temporary and not important yet)

Going to bed looks preferable. Night.

My early day's already gone, spent sparingly on dog-walking and talking. Wise? No. But oh well...

There's an excuse, and it might actually qualify as a story. I was browsing some of my favourite blogs, surfing the links and seeing where I ended up. I found a girl's blog of the kind I adore: all raw emotion, filtered through bad spelling and a peculiar style. Every post the style evolves, like she's lowering herself into a comfort bath. (Oh Marcy, yours isn't like that in case you're wondering. It's perfect perfect).

So I read every post, and then stopped and my mind had a chance to catch up. I knew this writing, her story. Everything was familiar. A sick sense of incest rose in my throat: it's too private... It's like walking in on an anorexic about to eat a slice of cake. I'm scared their shame at discovery will stunt their self-perception forever. She may never write down what she feels so openly, never have that freedom if she knows I'm there.

(z is a really ugly letter in this typescript). The blog was Daphney's. I was mentioned three times: I have an enviable family. I am grouped with teachers and parents in types of people. She thinks she's gonna screw us up.

I phoned her, and asked her if she had a blog. She said no. Are you sure? Are you sure? Are you sure? I don't believe you. I was right, of course. She "remembered".

It was hers, but not real and not private and not really anything. She and a friend has set it up of boredom.

When I had started it though, before I knew it was hers, I thought it was someone new and amazing. Everything about her drew me in. I wanted to know this girl, to hold her. And isn't it stunningly, Godlily lucky that I do know her? I know her and have her to be near me, which is beyond sunny and into the empyrean.

Not even statistics will damage my mood, so I'm off to do work before a hell-cloud comes my way. Bye!

Well it's almost the new day, so I'm going to stretch, rejoice in finished homework, and nab the chocolate from the advent calendar.

I've been working to bad music, seeing as it brings back fond memories and the accompanying mood, which is perfect for concentration. If you're wondering, today tipped far far far towards the spiffy, and my woes were all unfounded.

It's that time of night when everything except the computer fan's still, and (ooh it's just gone midnight) romance is in my head. Romance as in 'I wish I was riding my bike' or 'if I was wearing those trousers and that shirt and was at the beach, this time would be when I disentangle myself from my love and look deep into their face. And the moon would light their nose and I'd smile, and we'd hug and walk arm in arm'.

My dream-world is too predictable though. Just put in a western love-fantasy and mix it with Six Feet Under-style high-school truisms and (pseudo)profundity, and you're there!

Sorry I've been away, but it's been a weekend of working. Fun, but work nonetheless...

I'm sure I had a post sitting in my stomach, prepared to burst onto the page, but maybe I lost it when I had lunch. Can't remember now anyway.

Today's been a mouse-trapped night-time kitchen floor, where you should turn on a light but won't, because it's a fun game this way. Oh, and because waking people up in my explosive house would be equivalent to throwing yourself down a mineshaft.
And look at that laboured analogy...

Oh well. So yeah, today's been a bit spiffy and a bit iffy, and whether one will out-weigh the other by night-time is anyone's guess. On the plus, lots of fun but virtuous extra-curric., including videos, talks and lit. society. No statistics test after all and a surprising amount of time to do homework also fit onto that side.
On the minus... Actually not much, except German work that needs urgent completion.

Whenever I get to writing the bad, it deserts me and everything feels all fairy again... Which of course it should, seeing as I'm middle-class rich and rosy. Oh hush, I know I have a right to sadness too, but that doesn't mean I'm justified in expressing it. Who knows? Maybe my sadness is just a raindrop on my head when others are being poured on. Or maybe writing is therapeutic.

I'm generally a happy person I guess, although some people find my incessant and fairly odd grin disturbing.

Another plus was discovering these pictures of Galois. An odd, pretty mathematician who is probably much more important than those pursed lips. And who brightened up my day.

I know I said I'd write more on Northern Lights, but I'm in the process of being homework-involved and have to go.

p.s. it feels good to write again, even if I'm sure my writing style is passionately whimsical and unimportant. Not that I mind - tangential is how I am, and I'll stay like it.

My face splits into a blur on the webcam, my mouth twisted up in a rictus of wrongness. Long sleepless days make the world a fractal...

Today has been a long sleepless day. I'm moving back into my semi-finished house soon. I woke up dreaming of the maths problem I spent hours on last night, only solving later today (after a lot of head-crushing frustration). It wasn't even that hard a problem.

Today was ok. A few free lessons, a few moments of sunshine and some of cold. Yesterday during the play-hour for the junior school down the road a hilarious riot happened. We built a huge tower of jenga blocks. Well, huge at least for children. As each one came to examine it another would grab them and chuck them backwards, sometimes head-over heels to protect the tower. Then it fell, and the boys all went ape. I waded in, promising (foolishly) that when everything was put away, then they could wrestle. It was packed in 23 seconds, leaving two minutes of chaos.

I grabbed a couple of them, lifting them off the floor like a helicopter rescue. Some of them are lighter than flour, and come off the floor like they're frozen absolutely horizontal.

Then lunch was over, and I put them down for their hours of boredom and distraction and incompetent teaching.

Primary school could be the basis for everything. Instead it teaches you to read, write, misbehave and survive. Not bad lessons, but not enough.

I re-read Northern Lights over the last few nights. It's beautiful.

There are some things I like a ton and some I stop at and think about. Some passages make my heart flutter like there's a bat in my ribcage, and some leave me thinking he's tried too hard. And some where he gets lazy.

Spoilers ahead though... Highlight to read.

Something I've looked at again and again is: 'Farder Coram's smile was a hesitant, rich, complicated expression that trembled across his face like sunlight chasing shadows on a windy march day'.
This sentence is a dream. The form is so perfect. Slowslowslowfastacceleratespeedslower. When you're reading chasing you're at terminal velocity, and then a slow come-down. And the words flicker in and out of my mind during the daytime. Something beautiful to carry with me.

One poor sleepy sentence is 'the silky feeling of moonlight on our skin'. Said by a mysterious, beautiful and ephemeral witch, who was obviously feeling a bit lazy with her language.

And emotional pieces? Well, there are plenty.

Morals? Everything has its nature. Everything is best true to its nature. Daemons would make life more fun. The church is bad. Experience is good.

Anyway, I'll try and expand on some of my own laziness later. Off for maths and more reading.

Comfort words are great sometimes. They feature in my personal (speaking) vocabulary way too much, and mean to me a warm, fleece-lined hug with someone so great at it as to render you a part of them for a minute. As in an imaginary, furry puppet filled with hot-water bottle entrails that radiate their heat onto you.

> Huggy (huggable, huggly, etc.)
> Snuggly (snugglicious)
> Cuddly
> Nuzzling

There's a lot more of course. It's simple too. Just take a word and infantilise it. If it sounds sufficiently gurgly then it's probably alright.

I know my saccharine-frosted world is painfully childish, and I can't stay there for extended periods of time either. But sometimes, I just want to curl into a secret and let the world flow over my head. And the best way to hide is behind a smile.

'a blaze of honesty is a fine decoy' - Steve Aylett, Shamanspace

It's a good thing to know. Misleading people is easier if you utilise the truth.

But yeah, using comfort words makes me feel part of a fantasy world, where everything is warm and friendly. I like it like that.