Coffee and corduroy.

When you reach the part where the heartaches come
The hero would be me
But heroes often fail
And you won't read that book again
Because the ending's just too hard to take

I was banned from taking my coffee down to the beach this morning, forced to drink it by the fire, where I sweat because suddenly the kitchen is so warm and I miss the beach so much. The steps get covered with a fine neck-breaker of frost, as Lochlan calls it and so the trip will be made for lunch, if anyone is actually free.

It's a very thick layer of white out there and when I let the dog out into the side garden it was really chilly indeed. Which is ironic as I want to garden so bad, since yesterday I noticed all of the larkspur and poppy I planted two years ago that failed miserably is suddenly growing like mad.

I want to plant things to grow, for when times are better. Hopefully soon but not until the earth remains warm overnight. I always try to rush things. It's barely April.

***

I may paint the property for you, since I'm not allowed to post photos and honestly you'll be hard-pressed to look at it and figure out where we live. You know the general neighborhood but the properties are pretty private so unless you approach from the water you wouldn't be able to find me at all. And I want to show you things so you can see exactly what I mean when I talk about different things.

***

I chose American Moon for our -suspicions- theme night yesterday. We made mystery foil packets of different foods and cooked them in shifts at the barbecue so no one would know what was what, played Risk and watched conspiracy movies. My foil packet was chicken and carrots, asparagus and tarragon, and I was so relieved as some of them were salmon and I would have had to trade.

No one likes to trade dinner. Boys just want to dig in so it would have gotten so ugly.

We've got a glass fishbowl on the counter and have filled it with folded slips of paper with random words and time periods on them (you add one as it comes to you) and are doing dinner-and-a-movie nights almost every night, as long as there are six or more people interested. Some nights we just disappear into our own selves so it depends.

American Moon was ridiculously informative, save for the parts about lighting on the set moon. That drove me batshit. The rest was good fun and now I'm a believer in disbelief. For today anyway. Tomorrow I will deny at gunpoint that I ever question the Apollo program because I will not debate that sort of thing in mixed company.

(But if you one hundred percent believe in things without even the tiniest seed of doubt I don't think I will ever let you in all the way. Why would I?)

(I feel the exact same way if you don't believe in magic even a little bit. Get out of my sight. Seriously.)

Today I am planning on finishing up laundry, painting a picture to send faraway, helping Sam with editing his Easter Sunday podcast, and then probably working on digital illustration for a while. I'm going to make penne with garlic and tomatoes for dinner.

And I'm listening to Gordon Lightfoot this morning, which has gotten a super-appreciative nod from every single boy to venture through the kitchen this morning. It's comforting. Like wrapping yourself in a brown corduroy and polyester couch, settling in to watch cartoons, a big bowl of Apple Jacks in your arms and a plan to go out and roller skate in the sun after real breakfast later with the boys down the street.

I guess I know what I'm really going to do today. 

*looks around, still laments the lack of a huge corduroy couch*

*shops online*

(Muhahahahahah)

Anthroposophic Collective.

Come on little lady, give us a smile
No, I ain't got nothing to smile about
I got no one to smile for
I've waited a while for
A moment to say I don't owe you a Goddamn thing

Sorry for the typographical errors if you're a reader who visits the same day I post. I usually get ten minutes alone at my tiny desk in the corner of the kitchen to whip off an entry and I rarely have time to linger over it so I usually just hit publish as someone comes in and starts talking and then the next morning when I do it all over again, I go to log in and the previous days errors will jump off the page at me. So then I can fix and republish and some of you never see what sort of terrible writer I am if I'm not paying attention (and even sometimes when I am).

***

Today is painting day. And probably sous-vide burgers (finished on the grill) and homemade french fries and it's also Henry's last day of work for two weeks as he gave up a bunch of shifts to help out a coworker hurting for cash with which to pay rent. I asked him to keep me plugged in and will pay the rent myself if necessary but I like to see the ingenuity of the young, for that's where you learn the best lessons that stick with you for life and that's how we got to this place.

I don't spend money. Never have. The greatest shopping spree that I think I've had in the past twenty years was that time that for my birthday (six or maybe even five years ago), Ben took me out shopping and told me to buy whatever I wanted. I bought a sketchbook and a pack of Copic fineliners at Colours, five pairs of pretty new underwear at La Vie En Rose, a new charm (I think it was a planet) at Pandora and two books I was wanting to read at Chapters plus a new set of lipsticks from Nudestix I think, at Sephora.There may have been a cute shirt from Forever 21 in there too but those days won't be coming back, pandemic or not.

(I miss Forever 21. So does Ruth. H&M just isn't the SAME.)

But yeah. The haul cost something like $157 and it was incredible. I got to pick out everything and I felt like a princess. Ben had no idea what was going on with me because he went prepared to spend thousands but that was back when he though All Girls Are The Same, Right? and had been used to higher-maintenance ones?

And then I think we had Vietnamese take out for lunch and it was one of the best days ever. I can't wait to do that again though my favorite art store is gone now, Forever 21 is gone. I don't think I'll need another Pandora charm as long as I live, as I have an armful of bracelets and boy are they heavy to wear. I have tons of reading material, currently slogging through The Boy in The Striped Pajamas and am full up on undies and lipstick, both of which I hardly ever wear anymore.

(Hi mom.)

I miss the mall. I haven't had chance to see if I can get Vietnamese take out by phone yet. Do we have what? Skip the dishes? I don't know. Do we? I don't have it. I don't think I want it. Can't I drive to a place? I'll look into it later.

This is the irony. If I tell Caleb that I want Vietnamese food there will be some of my favorites, a selection here inside of an hour. But that's no fun. I told you, the best lessons are the ones you learn on your own.

Rocky.

Give a girl a good cup of coffee from the thermos and a walk on a cold windy beach and I'll show you someone who can almost forget everything and be a blank, clear and wonderful slate from which to move forward.

Then she'll come inside, warm up and forget all of the moments she just blankly experienced and life will come rushing back in a tide-avalanche and we'll need to start from scratch, I think, trying again tomorrow.

The ghosts came back. All I had to do was think about one of them, and he was there in a dream. Or maybe it was a nightmare?

How did you sleep? They ask.

Fine, I lie. And you?

Sudden Intense Privacy.

I can see it if I keep my head held high
Arms open wide
Heart full, clear eyes
All the doubts all the lies are too heavy to hold so why even try?
You don't have to do this all on your own
This fragile life that you hold is too heavy to carry alone so why even try?
All of the doubts
All of the lies
All of the fears
All of the tears that you've cried
Are too heavy to carry alone
So why even try?

On a day that saw the ferries stop coming to Horseshoe Bay, the world suddenly got quiet. I can hear the waves break on the rocks. I can hear my neighbour's giant wind-chimes way up the hill. I can hear the transitions in vocals in the Colony House album I'm listening to (Leave What's Lost Behind) and I can hear Ben's exasperated breathing as he argues quietly into the phone fifteen feet back from shore, content to accompany me but only if he can get his calls done outside and far from the house, where surprisingly the wi-fi is a little better than it is inside.

I wonder when the ferries will come back. I wonder when the Man will stop telling me how many loaves of bread I can buy in one shopping trip. I wonder when gas will go back over a dollar a litre and I wonder if I should put all of my cash in the washing machine in case it's diseased like the outside world. In case you're from away, our Canadian dollar bills are flexible plastic rectangles that smell like maple syrup and are fully washable.

It's worth nothing now. Clean or not. No one will accept it, it's only worth something like sixty-five cents to every American dollar it's matched to and I'm really beginning to hate all of this. 

I still don't fear getting this virus, though my ear is feeling better and my allergies are now moving in to take centre stage. The cherry blossoms in the orchard are blooming and I wait with zero patience for the lilac buds to fill in and open up, filling the whole point with the most beautiful perfume in the world. I wait to sow my vegetable seeds in the garden so I can gather what I need for dinner without two trips down the highway. I wait for life to resume at the pace I complained so bitterly about before. I wait for Ben to finish his endless work and I wish I could help him finish sooner. I wait for Duncan to straighten back up, never expecting that he would have cracked first out of all of us.

I wait for the ghosts to come back but I haven't heard anything for ages.

Complimentary versus complementary.

Lunch is bruised apples with cinnamon-sugar in the cold sunshine and a well-weighted debate between PJ and I about how I feel we should maybe be doing more to support those of us flagging under the weight of endless quarantine, and he feels Duncan and anyone else who chooses now to start a fight should be frozen right out because we're all adults and insulting people is not the best way to go about this at all.

He wins for logic, I win for compassion. At least some things never change.

Someone to watch over (me).

It's weird how in when things are ticking along those of us who are damaged or perpetually wrecked are supported and held up by those who seemingly have their shit together and then when something catastrophic happens those of us who are damaged somehow pull together and make a herculean one-eighty and lift up those who had their shit together, until they suddenly didn't anymore.

Ben is like that.

So is Daniel.

And Batman.

But probably not me, as I am chaotic truthful on a good day, and not too great in a crisis, it turns out.What I am good at though, is sounding alarms when I see a limb flop off the edge of the wagon, it's tip dragging on the ground, be it a finger or toe. The owner of said appendage will assure me it's fine, not a problem, but my brain followed by my mouth will being to shout that there's a problem.

(Wow, that paints a glorious picture of an eight-year-old girl, sticky jam-braids and all, running around the kitchen island and out into the yard, yelling WEEEEE WOOOOO WEEEEE WOOOO like she's an ambulance.)

(And that's exactly what I did.)

Duncan said I was being foolish and alarmist, that he's fine. That everything's fine and he has it under control but that's what they all say just as everything goes to shit. He put his arms around me and gave me his best charming Lizard King smile and I didn't fall for it (WEEEE WOOOO) and he's angry at me for jumping to the inevitable conclusion and it will be followed by remorse and he will seek forgiveness and open back up soon, I hope.

In the meantime, now I'm 'always fucking in the way', 'an endless tease', and 'a spoiled brat'.

A deep shuddering breath and an attempt to remind myself that it's not my friend talking, it's his alter-ego, the Drunk Lizard, who is a flaming asshole frankly, but it's difficult because they speak the truth when liquid fire burns away their core values, leaving them craven angry souls looking for temporary comfort in permanent times.

And I hate it. But so does he and so my comfort today is in knowing there is a whole host of sponsors and support here within, and that we're no longer going to worry about the houses keeping separate anymore because we can't afford it. Fools rush in where angels fear to tread, don't they?

Ironic. All this solvency and I can't buy the things I need. 

So much hidden baggage in one post I might need a rolling cart.

A visit from the young Russian doc yesterday evening revealed the cause of my fever to be a simple ear infection and both Caleb and Lochlan practically hit the floor in relief.

I wasn't worried. I'm a goddamned tank. I'll be looking after everyone until the bitter end. It's what I do. I've graduated to delivering hot lunches to everyone's desks each day just after noonish and tea after two. I've taken over several chores and I've done great, ear infection and fever or not.

The doc declined to want to treat this, telling me to take paracetamol and to take it easy. He stares at Caleb the entire time he says this, as if it's Caleb's fault we don't have a team of militarized housekeepers to do things so that I'm not doing them, as I should be treasured.

This is the same man who told me I should invest in a lot of plastic surgery to be perfect and offers it every. single. visit.

God, I hate them all.

Lochlan's done with the doctor and walks out. We can deal with an ear infection. I will slow down. I need to stop mothering perfectly-capable boys and I need to take care of myself a little better.

(Okay a lot but I have a hard time with that.)

I'm glad it's not anything worse. And I know I have to take care now not to get rundown but we're not testing for anything because I'm okay, and because others need it more. And I'm not listening to any of the told-you-sos that asked me to pack up my world and move to Rhode Island, Montauk or Portugal, respectively because well, let's not talk about US healthcare or what I know about Portugese health care but I want to be home and we should be home and so we are home, and home we'll stay.

Besides, Duncan is falling off the wagon and they're not seeing it. And travelling while that's happening sucks worse than anything. I did it with Ben once and it made things ten times worse.

No surrender, no surprise.

Where did you go?
You're still in my mind
Still light of May
Shone from your eyes
Can you see this out?
Can you see this out?

The best thing about Caleb is that in the early hours, and in the mornings, he is a different cut, affectionate and loving, gentle and kind. There's something about the remains of the day poisoning his blood, making him crazy, making him seek out someone to punish, usually himself if you stay out of his way. You, if you get in it. His soul will come pouring out to suffocate you. He is the very definition of tormented.

Or maybe he's just afraid of the dark. I don't dare ask as his arms slide around my back, pulling me in close against him. I feel him exhale against me, clutching me tight, kissing my hair, my face, my neck, forcing my face up so he can kiss underneath my jawline before landing on the prize of my lips.

You're here.

You're awake.

I heard you in the hall.

Good ears, holy.

I can sense you, that's all. 

He smiles against my mouth, here in the predawn, and I close my eyes. It's like being locked in a vise. It's a different kind of affection from the physically strongest person I know.

Stay until morning. Please, Neamhchiontach.

I nod and his arms tighten, rolling me onto my back, my face forced up once again as he kisses down my throat, pulling his arms out to work at taking off my clothes. Once he has enough things off he pulls me back up against him, biting my lower lip gently on his way past, jutting his chin against the top of my head, hurting beautifully.

He does not stop until I shudder against him and then he relaxes just enough, not letting go. I am asleep in seconds, breathing evenly against his shoulder and the last thing I hear is his usual whisper before I go under. Is tú mo ghrá-

Níl, Diabhal.

When I wake up the spell is broken, the bitterness of the new day beginning to seep back in around the edges with the petrichor.  

Go back to your love.  Get out. English, so there's no mistake.

I remember eternity.

Woke up the house this morning playing the piano for I Remember, though I may have been singing just a little (okay it was loud) because if one good thing has come out of this quarantine, it's that Les Friction came out of retirement and I might have screamed out loud when I got the Youtube notification. Four years of absolute silence and I was sure they had ghosted me, but I didn't give up on them, and now here I am back in my Sunday-hole, listening to music that slices my skin open and runs it's icy fingers over my skull so lovingly I would succumb if not for the hope for more of the same.

Everyone had to be up anyway. Lochlan wants to play Alyx (I played it last night with the Oculus and WOOOOOOW, I landed on my face trying to get an upclose view of the bug under glass and then took off running around the city like a maniac), Ruth had an online rollerskating sale to peruse and Henry has to work.

(Boy that sucks, let me tell you and I'd rather he didn't go but he also is okay with it and likes the dangerous work pay add-on he gets so eh. I can't be a helicopter mom here. Not right now anyway.)

I've already Facetimed with Sam and Matt and am jealous of their flannel-covered early morning, hair tousled, beards coming in hot, gorgeous bookends with no middle. Their story is their own but we're all figuring if they can remain hunkered in a small cottage (okay, it's not small, exactly) together for weeks then we're good. They're good. Everything will be okay.

Sam said he absolutely hates not being able to touch me (I don't think he meant in that way) and Matt smiled at him, nodding. Not sure but I think that may have been an early Easter miracle anyway as Matt used to look off into the distance and fight to keep his expression neutral.

Sam says God will protect us, and my fever is only 102. Hallelujah.

Maybe to make sure you were okay.

Floodlight dreams go drifting past
All the lines we could've had
Distant loves floating above
Close these eyes, they've seen enough

Caught the butterfly, broke its wings then put it on display
Stripped of all its beauty once it could not fly high away
Oh, still alive like a passerby overdosed on gamma rays
Another god's creation destined to be thrown away

Oomph, I think Gigaton is winning the race for my heart, a full twenty-percent block I set aside for weekly new music or books or art or anything that just barges in through all the scar tissue and starts plucking at the strings holding everything together, threatening to tear it all apart with beauty.

Seven O'Clock, in particular. This is a song like Black. This song doesn't let up, though it's a slow starter. Retrograde is another. I am so content with this album that seems to bridge the gap between his solo efforts, like the soundtrack for Into The Wild, and Pearl Jam classic frenetic and angry works. Eddie Vedder should voice audiobooks, though if he isn't singing I daresay I don't want to hear it. But I can hear, with Ben's headphones, the true sound of his age now. All men's voices deepen and slow down at this age. It's actually a wonderful thing, all unpredictable sparks now tempered with experience. This is a perfect Lochlan-album. He will love it.

He is sleeping though. Begging me off with a mumbled comment, something about noon. I got up, let the dog out, put the laundry in, made coffee, got a long sleepy hug from the Devil, who isn't up either but managed to find words to ask me to stay (I didn't but he was asleep again in seconds) and am plotting a nice long day of painting and listening to this album while the rain pours outside. Though I will probably temper this with Moving Walls, Matthew Good's latest, though it's a tougher listen because instead of plucking strings it just stabs, relentlessly.

(Oh my God The Heights. It hurts so good.)

***

I watch them at dinner, and after. We grabbed a trayful of junkfood last night, intending to get Birds of Prey and enjoy a fun movie night but instead we slogged through 3/4 of Chernobyl, an event that took place easily yesterday. It's not a feel-good project, that's for sure. Caleb was twenty-four when it happened. Lochlan twenty. I was newly fifteen years old and headed like a freight train for Cole, not looking at the news, just bitter and broken-hearted over losing Lochlan still and determined to stick it to him so good he'd regret it for the rest of his life.

I did. I regretted it too though and so did absolutely everyone but in the end the events of that entire year and beyond became the history-glue that made this Collective what it is today.

Whatever that is. A bunch of sleepy boys not interested in engaging a rainy Pacific Saturday and a girl with a bottomless cup of coffee and broken ears to match her heart.