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Monday, January 31, 2005

So Saturday night was like, the drunkest ever!

Actually, it probably was for me. Drunk enough to remember only shards. I remember beautiful smiles and asking to hug, and making sure platonic hugs weren't misconstrued and then some more hugging. And trying to impersonate someone sober (which I'm sure I wasn't that bad at) and falling over and sitting on the stairs, head in hands, wondering what the fuck it was in my drinks.
And dancing and noting how I could move (I couldn't) and wondering at her sparkling house and watching the ambulance man walk past upstairs. And talking to people who found me hilarious and finding them instantly likeable and finding mutual acquaintances in a web that spans North London. And then half of a bus ride home, pride at remembering my coat.

I realised belatedly that my memory has cast a web of haze over everything, so it seems I was drunk the whole time.

I described the effect as 'temporaneous' to my mother.

Saturday, January 29, 2005

And as I came back from fencing a demon stared at me from his car window, intent on running me over. I didn't like him or his beard.

Car drivers don't like me. I ride a bike and do stupid things. Their fear expressed through horns. Their insults bouncing off of my shiny yellow helmet (not).

I hear someone shout 'ginger' at me. It's ridiculous to the point of laughable, the issue of hair colour.

My friend's dropping school, joining the army. Flapjacks are cooking in my oven. On the subject of him though, the removed part of myself notes my own, innate middle-classness. The outer part of me tries to joke about it. Predictable banter. He was almost crying. Life has dealt him a mix of the absurd and the terrible. He tells me that he's probably going to miss Iraq anyway.
How can it be a life when the government has you on contract? They're preying on the vulnerable, to use expendably in illegal wars that the public don't want.
Oil's bought with blood. The army are there to ensure our quality of life stays the same, even if it means keeping other peoples' down. They'll be deployed where 'necessary'. Not where there's human rights abuse, but where there's money.
After all, I suppose defence funding is huge. They have to get some return on the money, right?
There's a monetary prediction of every war. Depressing to think of the people whose job it is to add up the cost of every army funeral, against what there is to be stolen. And the job of the people who lie for a living, telling us it's all for a good reason. It's all for a good reason... It's all for a good reason...

Friday, January 28, 2005

I'm home early because the world has left me loose, out of school due to kindness and fast work. I went to the library and discovered the concession fees are only for CDs, not movies. Which left me with no money.

Today's been empty. I even had lunchtime free. It felt so weird. Let off a leash for the first time in ages.

I've almost got manageable homework as well.

So my plan is to watch Elephant (again) with Daphney, hug her until she's almost broken, say I'll miss her and then on Saturday do my job, go to party and on Sunday recover with her, after doing slight homework.

Thursday, January 27, 2005

I'm the distracted one today. Looking around for my memories. My brain handles one or two things only.

Homework exists as well, and so does real work. Shelves being put up.

I can't wait to be in my new room. I almost am.

German involves words that we don't know and a waste of life. Chemistry was fun. Stupidly badly prepared of course, but I filled two beautiful sheets with writing that described the macroscopic actions of millions and millions of di-elemental compounds. The same two elements, next to each other again and again to eternity. They get disrupted by another one or two or heat, and fall apart.

recombining of course.

It feels odd to hold an element. It's too pure. Too basic to explain to my vision the world. My brain can cope with it alright, I guess. I can accept on one level, and ignore on another.

and if I think like this just with chemistry, imagine what I'll be like when I start particle physics.

Lunch was the primary school again, and I realised that I'm the biggest person in the entire building. Male presence needed there. I wondered what to do about the kid who's a shit. He's mean and disruptive and causes pain everywhere. He attacks people.
I want to believe there's something good somewhere in him, but I don't.

I had the privilege of an assembly on university admissions. Scary (ish). But still, I'll just not believe some of what he said.
Writing my personal statement should be easy though. It appears to be about bullshitting that your life's ambition is whatever you happen to be applying for. (since I dropped English I can't spell).
It'll be easy to lie. It won't hurt putting down my love for science, because I'll pretend it's literature and that I'm just lucky, because it won't hurt so bad if I get rejected.

Anyway, it's not like I'm going soon. I have a year and a half of school. Then a year of voluntary work overseas hopefully, which I'm looking at now.

I hope I do volunteer, and that someone I know comes with me and we have the best time. Ever.

Tuesday, January 25, 2005

I looked at the streets, and wondered why it wasn't odd to think that the sodium-yellow stains will disappear come morning. (I have five minutes on this computer).

My brain accepts too much. I want a part of it to regress back into eternal wonder at the world. I can't stay here longer. My back hurts.

Monday, January 24, 2005

Two things, because my feet are frozen and work needs to be done.

A) Leticia is writing again. (I don't know what else to say about it).

B) I fenced ok, hit my goal.

I was going to stay up there the whole weekend, but caught a lift so I could see Daphney on Sunday. I don't understand everything that goes on in her head. Or even more than the eensiest bit of it, to be honest. Anything I've learned is hard work, dug out of her protective stance and pieced together from anything I've ever read, ever. How can bad fiction tell me more about who she is than she can?
And worse, she thinks I know what's in her mind or what she's feeling. I hate seeing her removed from me. She's on my lap, she has her arms around me and the next moment she's away. I hate asking her mechanically if she's ok. Are you ok? I say, again and again. It's annoying and rubbish, but in-built. Corrected in next edition Fran, maybe.
All I want is to feel her cuddle up to me. To surprise me. To run to me with her heart gaping open, for me to fix it.

See, the thing is, I feel at the moment I'm bleeding myself into her. And I don't know if I can keep doing it.

Thursday, January 20, 2005

I'm going to a fencing tournament this entire weekend. I'll be gone, from almost everything. Up into the wilderness of Stoke...Bye!

Wednesday, January 19, 2005

That post's gone. It wasn't any good anyway.

My girlfriend's going out with her girlfriend today. The most insane bolus, perched between joy and jealousy rose in my stomach. I love the thought of her with a girlfriend. All fuzzy. (By the way, they're not going out. But I consider them like that). Some days the absolutely beautiful thought of them hugging or dancing has me all tingly.

But still, I want to see her so bad I can feel it, hard.

When I saw her last, she said I made her 'all squiggly'. What else could I want?

I thought about my writing, and decided you probably don't know me. So I'll try and write something about why I am, soon. Or maybe just who I am. Or simpler still, what's happened. Bye!

Tuesday, January 18, 2005

This made me laugh. Seems to capture the essence of her writing rather perfectly.

I plodded to school as well as I could on a bicycle. I've never been hit. I've hit one person who stepped out from behind an ice-cream truck, and he dropped his ice cream. His friends asked me to buy him more, but I said no. He's lucky he avoided the calories.

I'm kind of obsessed actually. With body, form, fitness, eating. When I get home my mind shorts out, until I've devoured. Whatever's there, goes. It feels like... I don't know.

And then I'll wish to uneat everything.

Every morning I'll feel fat or thin, and if I feel thin I'll have a good day. If I feel fat everything's worse than before. I'm crowded, swollen. Claustrophobic. Pallid and wasting my life in this body. I can't move, can't open my eyes.

Fat isn't me. I weigh less than ever in my life, but euphoria only lasts when the weight's going down.

It's an empty pastime. Damaging and perpetuated by every bit of me. I scream at myself to stop thinking about it. Or to eat less. Or to not worry.

There's some things that happen in life where you expect everything to change. Like losing weight; like getting a girlfriend. But my life doesn't go as I'd expect. Things change when you're focused elsewhere. Everything moves faster when you're not concentrating on it. Look away for too long, and you won't come back to where you left from. And change is hard, if nothing else. Hard...

Monday, January 17, 2005

Raining today, which isn't surprising or exciting. It soaks into my jeans, making me wonder how cold my thighs can get, and whether rain water will stain my clothes.

Today I wore a (pink) small (pink) H+M (pink) top underneath a comfort jumper. It got too hot, I took my jumper off. And remembered, belatedly. I was mildly embarrassed. The teacher got some sunglasses.

I also remembered how vain I was too. Flexing my muscles in my "inconspicuous" manner, I heard a 'wow, he has really big muscles' and blushed again. Now I looked like a wanker, too.

Today's been long. Already my eyes want to close, my fingers feeling slightly numb as I try and type properly. My back hurts, as always. It hurts because of fencing, and posture, and computer and bike and everything.

My writing is rubbish sometimes.

Sunday, January 16, 2005

I woke up, rolled over and looked at my hair. It was moving to my heartbeat. After fights, breakfast, I went looking for hooks for my room. There's a wall full of them now, each with an imaginary purpose that I'll remember wistfully later. Shoe hooks, big hooks, metal hooks, book hooks...

My favourite device is a spring-loaded clasp. It says push on one side, and reminds me of Alice because of that. It's utterly useless, and I bought four. (I know my description is rubbish. Use your imagination...)

I have a huge mirror hung pretentiously wonky, and I'm tired of working and wish to lie down into the floor, and Rip Van Winkle myself into two weeks the future, when everything's nicely finished.

But my room will be nice. It's big.

My brother got me mascara for Christmas, y'know. Haven't tried it out yet, probably won't. But I'd love to pretend I had pretty eyelashes, and apply it ever so carefully to complete my face for the day. I'd love the looks I got from people at school or the street. I don't mind being looked at. At least it lets me know I'm there...

Saturday, January 15, 2005

I watch the sky when I'm walking. People tell me they watch their feet, to know they're making progress. Can't take looking ahead, to see their destination still at the horizon of the cluttered vision.

But yeah, I look up. The stars are drowned out by the raucous light pollution of the sleepy houses, but I still see Orion. Unrelated:

There are about 6.02 * 10^23 molecules in a mole. There have been about 4.32 *10^17 seconds since the universe began. Or 4.32 *10^20 milliseconds. This means that for every MILLISECOND since time began, there are over 1000 molecules in just one mole. Wait: a mole is like 12 grams of soot. Or like 24 litres of air, which is only the size of like a ten foot cube. These are all rough estimates, but. . . . . . . . . Massive.

Anyway, I like looking at the sky because it moves faster than the ground. And it's beautiful. It means I'm not alone, because there's other people, just like me, eternally looking up. And some day, when I'm alone and scared, I'll sit and look at the sky.

On another note, today I ran, noticing my shadow escaping me as I got further from the yellow lights. Light is everything. Light, light light, light, light. I love it. My sight is imperfect, leaving things mysteriously illuminated and oddly, disturbingly beautiful. Oooh is that the time? Is this really my writing? Why does Hendrix's 'star-spangled banner- actually sound good? Something must be odd. Bye!

Wednesday, January 12, 2005

When I read, or think, or look around, unhappy people spring out. I want to help them. Every one, I want to reach an arm around and hug, until barriers between us rot open and the tidal wave of maggot-infested, dark thoughts spring into me and out of them.
Or at least, I think I do. How can I be sure? People around me suffer, and I feel myself disengaging with them. Why? For myself. Because I couldn't handle watching someone slip away, if I fail?

There's billions of people who could use someone. But how many can I throw myself out to? How many even want me? Not many.

I don't get it, really. And here, in the eternal cliché: why so much pain?

Why do I look at everyone complaining about everything? Boys, girls, looks, ability. They need someone who I could be, I'm sure. Which is what bugs me.
I can't be that great. There must be so many good people, latched onto someone they've chosen to help out. To experience something better. Or trying to help out several, reaching arms out everywhere.

Most of humanity must be good, right? Mustn't it?

I got my first ever paycheque today (fine yesterday, pedants). I feel unalive. It is, however, far too late. Tomorrow afternoon I desire to cash the cheque, finish my book, and go to bed early.

Team America comes out Friday here. I expect a terribly unfunny film, but being surprised would be lovely.

I've been dreaming a lot of words. Last night I read a novel, by my dad (in a dream...) It was fantastic, but it's thoroughly gone. My mind is taunting me. But I suppose it's only the virtue of sleeping perception that made it good anyway, and writing it down would be plagiarism.

Tuesday, January 11, 2005

A learner driver was in front of my garage, but not all the way. I cycled into the driveway; he reversed.

MAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah DRIVEWAY! Primal man leapt from my soul and beat its fists on my chest, my face livid.

Then I shook.

Today also, we created a demonstration of Brownian motion. Blew smoke into a chamber, watched the light circle around. It looks like dust. Purposeless dust. Pre-conscious, fascinating dust. I kept a couple of the smoke things, to fill vacancies with smoke. Won't it be hilarious when someone opens that butter dish? (no)

I'm so dazy. Maths homework, or else I'll be awake past 12 and then I'll have to read. Bye

Monday, January 10, 2005

I woke up today with words around my brain. I had pieced them together in the night, and they're gone now. I need a book by my bed, to write in.

The whole weekend I was tired and with Daphney. Today I was invited to a birthday party, and I can't go because of fencing. I've finally found some people I genuinely love and want to be with, and it's not happening. On the positive side though, I'm learning to click my neck.

I started reading Joyce (A Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Man) and it's good. Amazingly, intriguingly clever. We started it at school, and already the library's copy has taken up residence in my bedroom.

I don't know where my life's escaped to. Parts of it are alive only in the living, and past the moment they disappear. Other parts are to dwell on, but there are less of them now. I'd tell you more, I swear, if I had time. I love writing, but it's become so easy to be distracted. Every article on the Guardian begs reading or at least a gentle look. Every book I own wants me. Time is wrestled from schoolwork, only to be spent on crap. If my life had structure, I think. If my life had direction..

But of course, I don't really want those things. I just want time. And after that, companionship. What else is there? Why can I only think of two things I need? Why don't I stop writing?

Friday, January 07, 2005

Morning cold, shower burns my nipples. Fuck the plumbing. My eye's aren't even open yet... And two hour's homework to fit into 40 minuts.

Thursday, January 06, 2005

I'm wearing red. On another note:

Do you love me?
Cheap question.
Do you?
Do you?
I asked first.
Yeah, so? You wanna know more than I do.
ohh... Why are you like this?
Like what?
You know.
Yeah so? Because.
Do you love me?
Where did that come from?
Well exactly. You're unfair. You can't ask me and escape declaring it. That's a shit way to say I love you.
I know... But... I've never...
Go away.
I love you.
You too *smile*

If you're wondering, blue wins. And yeah, it's a conflict.

I dreamt about Daphney. Naked in the corner, she ran away and told me to wait until tomorrow.

How do people write a lot? Anything I do loses itself in the first page. How can you extrapolate a tale? Whatever.

What else is up? Uh, I don't know. I thought more about writing, but it's still stupid. My ideas would be ok for half a page.

Tomorrow I'm going to a gig with Daphney. It should be amazing. I'll keep you posted (yes, all of you ether mites that crawl across the page).

Wednesday, January 05, 2005

Blogger just deleted my post. Fucker.

Oh well. School makes me ill. I lose my mindset of enjoyable learning, and get one that makes me do no homework, until late late late. Oh well. I'm pleased my German oral went well, and pleased that the internet hasn't ruined my eyes yet. I've been chatting for a long time. Wasting my life away , trying to supplement other people's.

I love people. Mainly women, but people. Men are flatter. Not all of them, and some are terribly earnest. Actually, Lucinda's boyfriend is such a nice guy. I talked to him for a while. Easy to relate to, nice build and size and undemanding, accommodating personality. I didn't think I'd like him (what with my preposterous and fictional crush on Lucinda).

Anyway, I'm all in love with life, even if it may be delirium. I can't write more. I've read too much fantastic stuff to consider mine worth doing. Bye!

Tuesday, January 04, 2005

I'm avoiding German work.

The rain

strings of beady light
illuminate the air underneath
me. But I walk through it.
My movements are underneath
me. Me is where I see from.

the lamp lights through
the rain. It drizzles into

Anyway, don't know why I started that. I don't know if I love blogging. I love it more than work, but not more than the thought of it. It's more fun to have the post resting in your belly, because it won't come out the same when you type it.

That's like everything I do really. The vision just gets eroded until it's almost the same as what I've produced. When I'm older, it might be different (not). Older isn't a place I really want to go to, actually. It seems that that's when potential should become realised, and maybe I'll be found out as not all that great.

Oh well, I'm 17 for as long as any other age, I guess.

p.s. Etoile, what is your email?

I dreamt of taking an English exam by accident, and doing worse than terribly. Then I walked up a long, circular flight of stairs and then into a school, where it's open as an orphanage because of the tsunami. Then I'm about to play chess.

Today was harder to wake up to. I have school in 40 minutes. Can't remember what's on my timetable, or how much work I have(n't) done. Ah well, I know I did maths. Which I don't have today.

The holidays are over. How? When? (why?)
School is meant to encourage us to learn freely; to relish information and knowledge. But instead, in the holidays I mostly lazed around. Oh well, back to (skipping) work and deadlines. It'll be ok, I promise.

Sunday, January 02, 2005

The office door's wedged open, we're working on my room. It is going well, and the lights I picked out are black and dominating; they watch like sentinels. I hope they give me nightmares.

I watched Spirited Away today, with Daphney curled close. Romance is in my mind. I think I'm as close to love as I've ever been. Night.

Saturday, January 01, 2005

Last year (last night) I found a party to go to, at around eight. Lucinda gave me an invite into the odd filmic world she inhabits. At least a score of movies swirled in my head, all finding a way to superimpose themselves onto reality. Every time someone got off the bus, I would see them at a later stop. Odd...

So on the way there it was one bus, with only one gang to negotiate. They left me fairly well alone: I don't radiate my fear too well to drunks. Once there, I waited for Lucinda and listened in to people. Americans looking at the tube map didn't thank me as I pointed out their road to them, but they weren't sober I guess. If that's an excuse.

At the party I followed Lucinda out to the back, grabbing some drink and adding rum. Then watched her bring a container out, filled to overflowing with rolled joints. Shitloads and shitloads of weed, all in the circle I was standing in. It was good.

Then I smoked too much and ended up woozier than dizzy, with a girl on my lap and a cigarette in her hand. And then recovered, going back inside for the new year and Withnail & I. Hours slipping by like abandoned skis.

The party was awesome, firstly. Like a social fulfillment. Lucinda's group of friends is welcoming, intellectual, warm, funny and not at all strange to me. She looks radiant with weed, by the way. She can take so much. Her glances at me were beyond as well. Her smile stretches further when she's with her friends, her boyfriend. Her smile says that I'm welcome, and I love it.

I stayed until four, leaving when everyone else bedded down. The trains were wide awake and empty. Personal carriages back to my house, leaving me space to look at myself in the windows, and wonder what was going on. Didn't care about the new year. Then I reached home, and my bed extended its warmth to my feet.

This year should be good... I'm happy, and maybe it'll last.

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