Go round.

your love is a symphony
all around me
running through me
your love is a melody
underneath me
running to me
your love is a song

the dawn is fire bright
against the city lights
the clouds are glowing now
the moon is blacking out

I've been keeping my mind wide open

I've had numerous requests for a picture of the gate and of the rosebush. Not sure if you're going to examine the photos for the spectre of the preacher man or if you simply want a better idea of exactly where we bought.

I may concede on the rosebush later this week but not the gate, for the gate is an incredibly distinctive piece of architecture visible from the road (the roses are not, mercifully) and if you think I'm going to turn this journal into a map of the stars, I will marinate gleefully in your disappointment for the remainder of this day.

This time, things will be different.

I don't know, actually. I still get huge gaping pangs of fear and moments of extreme loneliness and it's been a week in the house. I still have moments of wow-I-could-walk-right-into-this-train-and-poof but it's tempered by hope and quieted by surprise.

Maybe it's so astounding that we're not forced to live at such a visceral level against the elements. Maybe that is the secret. (Oh joy. I can't wait until we get the three months of straight black clouds and constant rain that people talk about.) I'm obviously a fair-weather nightmare, in spite of my attempts to always pin that label to Lochlan's flannel shirt.

It is pretty here, and yes, the mountains are beautiful.

I hope they never erupt.

I hope I never see a bear in my front yard either.

I'm almost done with the boxes, and I've even summoned the moving company back to pick up the four-foot-wide stack of empty, flattened ones, and I'm thrilled to bits at the fact that we're chipping away at this quite nicely and finding a little room for things after all. It's becoming our house. Lochlan has his space, Daniel and Schuyler have a whole floor to themselves and are obviously honeymooning since we haven't seen them much at all, and Ben and I have our own entire wing with windows and space fitting for the giant rockstar that he is. Space for guests as well. It's really nice. It's very new and modern and the culture shock of that alone keeps me in permanent wonder.

I hope that never gets old, that feeling right there.

And the children are thriving, a mere three days into their new school. And aside from the neverending stream of jokes about Stepford and Children of the Corn (because damn. The parts here that aren't rugged forsaken coastline are pure country) they have made dozens of new friends, Ruth is teaching her friends to draw and Henry is being taught soccer by his friends. The teachers hand out fresh fruit for rewards in class and they have movie days outside and gym outside and free time outside and they're both so pink and healthy looking I have added sunscreen to our morning routine. Appetites. Good sleeps. Infinite smiles.

They have a good long walk to get there and home and I refuse to let the boys ferry them back and forth. They have lunch at school. The school has spirit and active parents and a principal who does band-aid duty and a lot of Bridget-handholding already as we learned the ropes in a school with a budget that allows for wonderful things and fulfilled, well-rounded children.

That's why we're here, after all. It wasn't a fresh start just for me. It was a risky grab for a rusted brass ring, the only one I saw out of the corner of my eye and when I turned my head I lost sight of it. I jumped anyway and I felt myself falling and then suddenly I had it and I closed both tiny dirty fists around it and I'll never let go.

Ever.

To the sea.

When I first saw you
I was deep in clean blue water
The sun was shining
Calling me to come and see you
I touched your soft skin
And you jumped in
With your eyes closed
And a smile upon your face

No one told me Jack Johnson grew a beard. Maybe save for Switchfoot, I've spent a lot of time away from quiet music recently because I didn't deserve quiet music and instead I immersed myself in screaming anger and incessant power.

I have forgotten where I'm going with this. I'm distracted tonight. My hands hurt from the dish soap. It's so harsh and I still found myself hurriedly scrubbing the few things that don't fit in the time machine, the rush to return to the comfort of the living room causing me to forget to put on gloves. Then suddenly it's eight and there are lunches to make and showers to supervise and dogs to walk and the evening disappears in a flurry of sundaes promised but never fetched and now the thought is in my head of a peanut-sprinkled hot fudge vanilla ice cream bowl and I can't remove it so instead I spent a few minutes on the top floor, all to myself, admiring the wall to wall white carpets and the walk-in closets because I'm used to hardwood, no storage, if you please and so I hung my new dresses with room to spare and then I came out and turned off the light and closed the door.

The closet has a window, you know, that's how big it is.

Oh and the anger is in my head. Unquiet as always. Quiet on the outside, mayhem on the in.

Do I deserve some quiet or should I go force more angry music into my head? Is it time to enjoy things or am I too busy holding on to fear and remembering to be grateful so that I don't become complacent. I never want to appear to take anything for granted ever, to the point that I would hang a sign around my neck just in case there was even an inkling that someone might think otherwise.

When I let my guard down, things go wrong and I'll be strung up high until the moment comes when everything goes black in a single blink without enough time to feel regret.

Trust me, I've proven it over and over. I won't tempt fate ever again. I love Ben and he's here and we're together and I'm not going to risk his love on trying to fulfill your ridiculous perception of what optimism means so just, please, let it go. I know life. I've lived life. While you were in your bubble, mine had already smashed upon the rocks and I've been loose for years, wandering alone. Sometimes alone. Sometimes now I have company in my alone and that's him.

When I saw Ben this afternoon I noticed the lurch is still there. The one where my heart snaps gently against my ribcage from the inside and almost knocks me over. Plaid. Flannel. Beard. Smile. Love. All the wonderful things I missed all day and then I am rewarded with my kiss for being good and still being present and productive and then we come home and family time settles in and there's a new routine forming. We lost the bath one, we lost some of the late night talks because we've shifted so that we're up with the sun and asleep with the sun which is healthier anyway. Routines will be molded and fine-tuned as we go.

Maybe some quiet music in my head to sleep by. I will do my best.

Gothic rose windows.

That's what they fight most over now, the fact that my happy place or the place that I go to when I need emergency mental escape is not merely the pantry but instead it's a memory that I keep that they were never present for. That's the argument now. And none of this is to be confused with the concrete room underground where I keep my ghosts in captivity. That's the very sad place. Are we straight now? Good.

Also never mind the wine. Things happen. I took the numb because the angry, bitter and terrified is exhausting. You would do the same. I had Ben's blessing to have a drink and then three, four and five more because terrified Bridget is just completely unreasonable and numb Bridget is just unsteady and pretty damned quiet. She wants whispered reassurance and a chest on which to rest her head. No more than that is ever required from Miss Numb. The only fallout is it could be days before I regain my full expanded vocabulary and my mental reflexes. It will also be days before I permit myself to do it again, lest anyone assume I am headed down Ben's road to find him and maybe pull him off the wagon or something.

The happy place is Jacob's beach house.

Maybe you knew that or remembered it from early posts. Maybe I just haven't talked about it for a while. It was a place I would go when I wanted to catch a break, unwind, or just hang out with Jake. I never seemed out of place there, there was always a spot in the driveway for my car, something good to eat or Jacob would be just magically preparing to cook as I arrived, there was always a quiet airy chair in front of the big windows that overlooked the Atlantic and wine in the fridge so I could be micro-numb, or marginally numb or whatever Jacob would permit without saying a damned thing. I never seemed to interrupt him when I would show up at all hours of the day or night. Weekdays, weekends, holidays and even twice in a day sometimes, he was always glad to see me and would drop everything to spend time talking with me or not talking and just being with me.

I would drive up, and grab my bag out of the passenger seat and run up the stairs and across the porch and the door would be open but I would knock as I came in and he would put down whatever he was doing and come and greet me, always in his casual uniform of a pale blue dress shirt, frayed slim jeans, bare feet and his University ring. I would get a hug (since it's sort of a mandatory Bridget-greeting and has been for my friends for thirty years at least because emotionally I am still eight years old, sometimes seventeen if it's a very good day.) He would check me over without acknowledging that he was doing so and then we would pour wine and talk. Sometimes he would fire up some water for pasta and I would make a salad for two, sometimes we'd just take the wine and sit in front of the window and pick each other's brains.

We only walked the beach when the wind was very low because if it was up I couldn't hear him well enough and he didn't find that fair to me.

Sometimes if I didn't feel like talking I would go for a swim, and he would meet me at the door with a towel afterward and then I would borrow one of his shirts and hang out in a wet bikini for the remainder of the day in his living room which wasn't a living room at all but a white painted floor, white beadboard walls, and two chairs. Nothing else. One chair rocked, one did not.

Jacob always blushed when he would hand me the towel and sometimes he would ask if I was cold, but then he would frown because he was afraid I might check myself and agree and cover myself up and I know he wanted to see me. I know he wanted to touch me but we hardly ever touched save for the welcoming hugs. I always felt that if I touched him I would snap, crackle and explode somehow and it might be painful and he might vanish.

Mostly though I talked and he listened and sometimes when I wouldn't talk he would tell me stories from his travels and they were always somehow appropriate for what ever was going on at the moment. I could take something away from the conversation or find another angle from which to view a situation. He was good at listening and counseling too and he still shows up when I need him. He is the happy place, and finally I've managed to get him back into the sunlight so that the reflection on his beautiful hair blinds even those who can't see him and I've bought a place that's not all that different from the place he used to have except that instead of a lawn made of sand I have actual grass and a medieval wooden gate and a rosebush that's losing petals in the most glorious way, into the wind, coated with salt and sun. I'm so happy he's here now and I don't have to run down the concrete tunnels anymore. Those weren't Jake. The room wasn't Jake, it was cold and frightening and there was hardly any sun save for what Jacob could make in wishes.

Cole is still there, as far as I know. Almost went to see him last night. Glad I didn't or I never would have known that Jake was waiting for me by the gate.

The myth of Echo and Narcissus.

I can feel you falling away
No longer the lost
No longer the same
And I can see you starting to break
I'll keep you alive if you show me the way
Forever and ever the scars will remain
I'm falling apart
Leave me here forever in the dark

I'm supposed to be making dessert but instead of putting ice cream on pie I'm breathing into a paper bag. The devil came for dinner and tonight he's talking over and around me and I am pickled in evil now. It's in my hair, the fumes are in my clothes, it's caked under my nails and even my teeth are coated in Caleb's malevolence tonight. He isn't happy and I am too insolent to give a fuck.

Bridget's busy running around the countryside, buying big clean jars of honey and fresh new potatoes and driving with all the windows down and the stereo up, and price-comparing colored pencils for school and folding towels to put away and unpacking even more boxes and...

..completely ignoring him.

Snort.

Tonight he bent Ben's arms back to grab the olive branch that he surreptitiously wedged into Ben's hands and he pretty much invited himself out to the rugged, less-densely populated cliffs to give me the lovely mental picture of pushing him off one of them. So I made spaghetti because Caleb hates spaghetti but Henry adores it so what was he going to do other than take a few bites and then attempt to continue to top up my glass of wine while he spoke with the children about their first day at their new school, managing to mask his disdain for all things publicly funded and therefore uncontrollable by him (see example: BRIDGET).

After the first two glasses I suddenly realized what he was doing and stopped drinking. Fool me twice, shame on all of us. For fuck's sake. Nothing ever changes. I wish he would go home. Instead he asks Ben how he thinks I'm doing and then he watches me while I sit there and scowl at him, smoothing ruffles, fluttering fingers that give me away. Nervous. Anticipatory. Exhausted and impressionable. Worn down. Suggestible. Defeated. Helpless. Ben will eventually create the rescue inside my head with a carefully logical set of phrases that Lochlan gifted to him ages ago and I will go to Bridgetworld where everything is lilacs and Mozart and beach glass and chocolate-chip cookie dough and beards and hearts and arms that don't want to hurt me except in only the good ways and not the ways in which I need to trade more pain for less pain with demonstrative fear.

As usual, I say too much. As usual, it's out of a desperation that only a clean white page can possibly understand because the depth isn't visible to anyone save for the princess and the devil. The knights turn a blind eye and the night a heavy hand.

Stupid ice cream is melting.

Audio Secrecy.

Found my stereo this morning.

Everything's going to be okay.

Cosmopolitan backwoods and impossible to describe.

When she's near
The new years here
And there is not a resolution that I can't do
I see things clearly when she's near me
When she's near me all the world is new

I'm waiting for the day
When i am on her mind (she's all mine)
I'm waiting for the day
When loves no longer blind, blind

Remember all of those boxes I packed so carefully throughout March? Yes, well, they're here and the adventure part of the move is just about finished, aside from exploring our new surroundings thoroughly.

It's a tough adjustment when nothing at all is familiar. Learning the mechanisms of fledgling cities poised on the brink of cool. Figuring out recycling methods and schools. Did I tell you? The children begin school tomorrow. They have no supplies. I have not opened their clothes yet. Nothing is ready. It's full-day school here, they will not come home for lunch and with Ben returning to work tomorrow too I'm a little unsure how I will feel rattling around in my new ski-chalet type modern castle all by myself.

The kitchen is unpacked, as is the living room, or most of it. I sold my giant armoire with my old house and now I'm wondering where the heck I'm going to put things, even though this house is twice as large, and where the old house had a whopping three tiny closets, this one has eight, plus I have gone from four decent sized kitchen cabinets to fourteen.

No worries. Seriously. I will find space, though we will probably purchase more shelves. Because IKEA, you know. Do I need to say more?

Oh and the teeny tiny little robin's egg blue table? It's mine again! I have reclaimed it and I'm not budging this time.

The beard will go again today. I unpacked Ben's shaving kit so he will go from extreme wildman to civilized ken doll in a few swipes and some carefully navigated sideburns and then grow it out all over again. I wish he would leave it but I believe I can understand how it must feel to have hair on your face when it's twenty-three degrees in the sun.

And today is Mother's Day and I'm hoping to do two loads of laundry, make three lunches, unpack at least twenty more boxes and maybe slip out to see Iron Man. My own mom is in New York this week and I won't speak with her until she comes back and so I'm foundering a little bit but we don't make a huge show of these days anyway, so I would much rather call it a nice Sunday with full sunshine and a wide open schedule than anything else. I hope there are a lot more of these in our future, because the fridge is full, the lawn is mowed and I have candles around the bathtub and finally enough dishes to run the time machine without feeling guilty.

Did I tell you how much I love this house? Everything is digital. I push buttons and things come on. I can turn on more than one light per floor without blowing a fuse and the furnace was born after my children so I don't have to worry about being cold. Ever again.

Oh and yesterday my neighbor informed us that bears wander over sometimes. Right into my yard.

If you've been a reader since the beginning you have heard how much I love bears (I do not, that's pure sarcasm) based on one of the final camping trips Cole and I took to Keji before we moved to the wild west. I won't tell the story again, I need to go wake up the children. I'm not going to think about it again until one appears with a picnic basket and a jar of honey.

Happy Mother's Day.

Good on purpose.

Tomorrow if all goes well we'll be plunged back into a sea of cardboard, but we'll have our things back at last. This is especially poignant for Ben, who has been living out of a hockey bag since New Year's, and is ready to stop now.

I tried to make today good on purpose. It began at five in a flurry of sheets and toothbrushes and then once Ben was off to work at 6:30, I opted to make the kids breakfast and then I ran a hot bubble bath. The big soaker tub is my favorite thing about this house and I plan to use it more often than not. Coffee, in a borrowed pot, strong and black. Then some laundry and playtime with kids and pup and then we opted for a long walk to check out the route to school and a park along the way. Met another mom and her children and then we set out for the mailbox and home. Lunch and then some more serious cleaning. Washed all the floors, washed down the walls, did the window panes (again) and tracks.

I kept finding bumblebee carcasses jammed between the locks and the sills. So not happy having to pluck out the crunchy little bodies with my fingernails but now everything is clean. Brought in the recycling bins. Drove down to the farmer's market and found there was no parking, they're setting up tents for a plank salmon supper tonight, oh and if we are around Sunday there's a fair with free gifts to the first fifty moms. And welcome, we are happy to have you here.

I have gone backwards in time.

Made another pot of coffee and put my hair up in a low twist, tonight we have a party to go to and then tomorrow the truck arrives. I haven't decided how they are going to fit an eighteen-wheeler up this hill yet but they insist I shouldn't fret about that sort of thing.

Right.

Then I'll be down to organizing bagged lunches and changing our address, fiddling with the neverending budget and finding my way around. That and looking forward to late nights with Ben. Once the kids have put out their lights and gone to sleep we go and fill the soaker tub to the brim with bubbles and we light candles and have a nice long bath together before bed. It's rather glorious, thank you for asking, and though sleep is still short, it's been deeper. Maybe that routine will change eventually but for this week I cherish it.

And Henry and I came to an impasse at the store. He wants spaghetti every meal. And cookies, but that's another story. The spaghetti request never ends. Should you ask him twenty minutes after eating spaghetti what he wants for his next dinner he'll say spaghetti. Lunch? Spaghetti. Breakfast? Spaghetti. Snack? Spaghetti please. But I persist, and cook it once a week but no more. We all like spaghetti but every six or seven days is lots. So today I see the canned Chef-Boy-is-Mommy-Lazy spaghetti and I point it out to Henry, thinking he will want to buy twenty cans and proclaim me to be the best mom on the planet.

He wrinkled up his nose and said he didn't want to buy it. Not even one can to try.

When we came home I asked him why he didn't want it.

It's in a can, mommy.

So?

So...so that means it's like two weeks old.

Good point, little man. Gross.

Thirty-nine is a freshwater lake in the mountains and it seems beautiful but it's cold and unfamiliar so I am sticking my toes in and then retreating. I'm going to take my time easing into it. I will get used to it eventually. I will define it and own it. I'll be able to say it without the accompanying facial expression that leaves people incredibly amused.

What the fuck? Thirty-nine? But I don't look OH MY GOD THAT MEANS FORTY IS NEXT.

It is but we'll cover that next year, okay? Please. It's been a long year. One step at a time.

I'll just spread my towel here by the water's edge and consider the breeze for a few moments.

On Tuesday night Ben built us a bed. It's low and large and more solid than anything I've ever seen. We choose a very good proper adult mattress for it and new king-sized pillows. This followed a trip to buy beds for the children. It doesn't seem like the moving truck is ever going to arrive, though I am receiving daily updates, presently it is in the prairies but working slowly toward the coast and should be here on the weekend but really at this point I have come to expect nothing and will keep you posted.

Last night was presents and cake and song and paintings of a girl with yellow hair and it was wonderful and touching and overwhelming and I am exhausted. I had such a wonderful day. Ben chose the most wonderful gifts for me and I'm rather stunned by the expense and afraid to touch anything because I'm sure it's too much and we should send them back but at the same time I really really love what he's chosen and the fact that he wanted me to have such nice things. He's thrilled to be in the house. Thrilled with his bed. Thrilled with everything about the neighborhood we chose and the decisions we have made. Content would be a better word. He's got his commute down to a science and he loves the distance due to the ability to decompress on his return trip. Leave the bright lights behind, rockstar, and come home to the woods.

I'm not sure I enjoy the added time away from him but I will adjust.

I'm up to my ankles in the water now but you haven't been paying attention, have you?

And today I realized that I have caught some stomach bug that has left me with painful cramps and a blistering headache and crushing fatigue. I chalked it up to stress. To being Miss Rigid-Can't-Relax but then it grew to epic proportions and Ben began to complain as well. We've caught something somewhere. It will pass. I'm going to run errands shortly and then come home and rest. Nothing else is necessary. I'm waiting and doing little things. I'm not used to errands that require a car. We are far from certain things. Though there is enough within reach that we don't NEED to drive, it will be a necessary evil most of the time. Like birthdays and waiting for moving trucks and weathering illnesses, learning how to manage stress and sitting on the floor because you don't have a chair. Like ice cold glacier-fed lakes, volcanoes, giant slugs and black widow spiders.

Like turning thirty-nine.

Going for a quick swim, I'll be back later.

Threes and Nines.

I wiped my hands on my cheeks, leaving streaks of dust and dirt. I'm sure there's some poetic name for the color of centuries of dust mixed in with tears. If so, I don't know what it is.

You look even more tired. I didn't think it was possible.

I'm doing my best.

You keep telling people that. Is anyone listening, princess?

Ask them.

I'm asking you.

I ignored him. I always come up with these questions late at night, and I wasn't about to let him steamroll me with his Jacob Knows Better routine. I've seen it before. I lived it for a while.

Not long enough.

What does it feel like to know that I'm two years older today than you will ever be? What happens when I'm old? Will you still be the same?

Am I the same?

No.

Bridget, why do you ask me questions you already know the answers to? Don't you trust your own answers?

Nope.

Why not?

Everything that can go wrong does, Jake.

Last night didn't go wrong.

You have a terrible way of showing up for events you're not invited to, mister.

That aside. Ben built you a bed. Then he drew a bath. Last night was nice for you. Right through to leaving the house. Yes. And today is your birthday. Happy Birthday Princess. What did you ask for?

Sleep. Karma. Escape.

Any luck?

Nope.

Ask for something money can buy, then.

Money is evil.

Everything is evil, princess. Pick and choose. We've talked about this before.

It isn't fair, Jacob.

I know, baby. You're doing great thought.

Yes, please mollify me. I'm loving that.

Don't be ungrateful.

I'm telling you that's the last thing I am.

Then let it go.

I CAN'T.

Evil finds you then, princess.

So let it come.

You disappoint me, Bridget. I thought you were so tough.

I was but that's over now. Now I'm just me again.

The girl who doesn't like birthdays?

Yes. That's the one.

Extremes in coastal living: the early days.

Did you see the Krispy Kremes? I know. Those things are crack. I've had four doughnuts today plus birthday cake (again)(not mine) and I'll be rolling into the new house tomorrow at any rate. Thank heavens it's downhill all the way.

That's what it's been so far, hasn't it? We actually left the condominium a few days earlier than planned due to a mixup and came out into the countryside to hang out with Lochlan's family. We're surrounded by horses here. It's a lot like Nolan's only more lush and far larger than the the little grove on the prairie where Ben and I fell in love. It's downright picture-perfect, like a postcard only without a hint of familiarity so far and Ben keeps patiently driving me around my new neighborhood and we practice left-right-left so I can memorize the way home and the way to the grocery store because for the first time in oh, thirty-eight years or so I'm going to enter car culture, where everyone drives everywhere because there is nothing within walking distance and the hills are so steep I fear for my life sometimes.

The house is still remote but I'm finally beginning to get flutters of excitement here and there like fireflies you can see just after the sun goes down.

The very first thing I took notice of today were the outlets on the outside of the house. For my tiny white lights. The expanse of verandah that will hold my favorite all-weather chairs and the windchimes I hear best. I didn't catch them the first time, just like I failed to notice there's a blooming lilac and a dogwood tree in my yard and both are flowering presently.

Last evening we stood outside and listened to the frogs and peepers and crickets and holy, it was LOUD. I heard them before Ben had the door open all the way and it was glorious. It was just like Greenfield, actually, only without the Medway river muffling everything save for the sound of the occasional car traveling swiftly through on the way to lonely nowhere.

(I only spent a few weeks there each summer (for fifteen years, mind you) growing up and oddly that is the first thing this reminds me of.)

The farmer's market here is packed, the strawberries run cheap and there are honey bees and horses and waterfalls and festivals around every bend. Like a movie only not, once again because it's real life. Except that I have to drive to my mailbox. I don't know where it is yet.

We've decided to stay on here until our moving truck arrives, rather than try and rough it in the house. A relief and a setback, because if I can go in the house tomorrow I know I won't want to leave, but really we can't sleep on the floor and we don't have dishes and pots and pans and blankets and anything. It's all on the truck and it would just be more comfortable to stay on a few more days than risk getting out of sorts any more than we are.

And we are. Ben's going into month five living out of a suitcase and the children have run out of patience for change. Different foods, different schedules and the total lack of familiarity take a toll on everyone. We need to just hold out a few more days. That's all.

Just a few more. We can manage. Character building, they call it. Sigh.

No more cross-country moves ever. Stick a fork in me, I'm so done I'm burnt and completely inedible, looks like you'll have to get take out after all.

Adapt or die, princess.

Indeed, Jacob. I am doing my best.

Notes from nomads.

Good morning.

The only headlines you need to know this morning are that Rob Zombie is on his way here and that Gabriel Aubrey is single again.

There are not enough hours in the day for this princess, let me tell you.

More later, I have things to do but hey, thanks for the coffee!

Edited to add: I think Twitter will be where it's at for the next five days or so, we're moving into the house and everything should be hooked up and rolling by mid next week. Follow me and you can follow along.

It's worth it for this: http://splashpage.mtv.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/04/thor1.jpg

Damn. I love a man in armor.

You're welcome. Wish me luck.

Living reflection from a dream.

This afternoon I have resorted to snorting coffee off the table in rows and pinching myself until I yelp involuntarily just to stay awake. Not sure if it's the anxiety that makes me want to curl up and sleep or the exhaustion of this adventure. Either way when I do finally lie down beside Ben late at night my eyes blow open like the doors on the fire station after five alarms and I remain like that, watching the city, for hours until eventually they close. Usually against the sun because it's very bright first thing in the morning.

Tonight is our last night in the city-proper and maybe that will help. Maybe it's the loveliness of the view. Maybe it's the noise. Maybe traffic. Construction. Density. Hell, maybe it's the fumes from the seven dozen different Starbucks and Blenz stores that dot the downtown like raindrops.

I should maybe switch to tea but Jake tried that already and all I did was sip it like a proper lady and every single time I would ask him if it was supposed to taste all canny and weird and hot-watery like this and he would sigh and offer me milk and sugar and I'd wrinkle up my nose until it was halfway up my face and point out that the last thing a hardcore princess needs is sugar. Or milk for that matter.

Pffft.

I have pulled our things together and what a nightmare. Fourteen pieces of luggage because there are seven of us. Some are small pieces like backpacks and some are very large and heavy rolling hockey bags and I'm a little concerned now that it won't fit in my car but really we'll figure it out. Not like it all needs to fit in the trunk of a taxi to go to the airport in a hurry. I foresee an hour or two tomorrow in which we simply heave and squish the bags into different combinations to see what works. I foresee a very uncomfortable ride out into the mountains.

I'm rather glad I didn't embark on the crazy shopping trips I was offered. And I'm glad I deferred when we stopped at IKEA (three times) because really we travel incredibly light for a month on the road stretched across three seasons and four provinces, pets included.

So kiss my ass because everyone else offered this adventure basically said no, because it seems impossible so it must be.

It isn't.

You just need to be adventurous and step outside of your comfort zone and trust me, if I can do that, anyone can. In fact, I grew tired and wandered away from my old comfort zone in error and never found the darned thing again but Ben here, well, he promised he would just build me a new one.

And I'm holding him to that.

I'm also holding him to the promises that yes, all this shit will fit in the car and that someday I definitely will sleep. And maybe even breathe. Which means it must be a custom-fit comfort zone complete with nerve gas piped in.

I hope it has a coffee maker.

And a bed.

And a bowl of tangerines.

Overwhelmed as one would be, placed in my position.

My birthday present this year.

TOOL.

In concert.

This July.

Live. So that Bridget can hear them with her own broken ears.

Oh my GOD.

And I thought waking up to the news that they've possibly found Noah's Ark was pretty amazing.

"Between two evils, I always pick the one I never tried before." ~Mae West

Driven by the strangle of vain
Showing no mercy, I'll do it again
Open up your eyes
You keep on crying, baby I'll bleed you dry
Skies are beneath me
I see a storm bubbling up from the sea

And it's coming closer
And it's coming closer

You shock my bones,
Leaving me stranded all in love on my own
What do you think of me?
Where am I now, baby where do I sleep?
Feels so good when I'm home
2000 years of chasing taking its toll

I'm not really listening. I'm playing music in my head while I try to quiet the waves of frustration and fear rolling through my brain. It's not working, nothing is working and I'm forced to drop back into the present, into my chair in the flames in front of Caleb while he paces back and forth in front of me, annoyed that I interrupted his plans with family business.

Have you asked him how he feels?

He's feeding me your answers. Too much time with you. I don't like it.

John is well compensated for his loyalty.

That's how you buy company, isn't it, Cale?

You tell me, princess. Tell them how much you cost me.

Going after the rest of my friends isn't above you, is it?

He's very valuable to me. I enjoy having someone I can trust around.

Do you have to make this so complicated?

Yes, I do, Bridget. Things have changed. I have to position myself so that things like Jacob are never allowed to happen again.

Excuse me?

Jacob prevented me from spending any time with you or with the children. That can't be allowed to be repeated.

You killed him.

I beg your pardon.

You did something or said something to Jake. I don't know. You did something to him and then he was gone. What did you do to him?

Bridget, I think you need some rest.

Give me my friends back.

(Hysterical edge on that one. Whoops. Calm down. Breathe. Fail. Stand up. Be ready to run.)

You wanted a way to keep from having to watch them leave all the time and we found a way to accomplish that. And now you want something else. I can almost see why Lochlan is perpetually frustrated by you. You're never happy with anything even after we bend over backwards to try to please you.

I like the way you lump yourself in with them.

Why wouldn't I?

Because I'm the one always bending to please you and it's never good enough and you always want more.

Perhaps it's a family trait.

I'm not your family.

I wish you wouldn't say things like that.

You promised you would leave them alone in exchange for me.

And I DON'T HAVE YOU, DO I?

He bellowed it at me, right in my face and I shrank back and stumbled over the edge of the chair and sat down with a thump. Almost on the floor but not quite.

You have too much. Too much say. Too much power. Too much control.

And it's the only thing that keeps you in line.

It's a steel fairy tale, motherfucker. It isn't real and I hate you.

Oh. I love it when you mix trash with treasure.

Call Mike back. Then you can be creepy times two. John isn't going to be your puppet any more than Ben or PJ.

Then tell me something, Bridget.

What?

Who will you give up? Because I find this very interesting.

It isn't. I just protect my friends.

There's a very fine line here, princess and I think we both know you're playing a game without knowing all of the rules.

I'm done here, Cale. Goodnight.

He grabbed my arm as I stood up to pass him, squeezing it hard.

Sit down, Bridget.

I shook my arm but he didn't let go. He turned to stone and I cried out.

Let go. Fuck!

Everything continues as it has. No changes.

He pulled me in until we were eye to eye and I could let the rest of his face melt away, focusing on his eyes, pulling the shades up one after another until they were the medium shade of blue, somewhere in between Caleb and Jacob's blue eyes. Regular blue like Cole's with the long black eyelashes. Kind eyes suddenly, softened by proximity, blurred with fatigue, flashing resentment and undisguised want.

Bridget, are you listening?

Yes. (No, fucker, I'm not. DIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIE.)

You can surround yourself with as many friends and as much money as you can possibly find and I will still control you. Do you get that? Ben can't save you and neither can Batman. Do you understand me?

Yes. (At a loss here suddenly as the fear comes back and I start fumbling around in the dark, feeling for something in particular.)

Now we're done, Br-

I abruptly found the volume knob in my head and turned it up loud. I didn't want to hear anymore.

Heading to a family meeting. Just one thing.

When are you gonna come down
When are you going to land
I should have stayed on the farm
I should have listened to my old man

You know you can't hold me forever
I didn't sign up with you
I'm not a present for your friends to open
This boy's too young to be singing the blues

I hope the tooth fairy finds Henry tonight. He's not in his own bed. We're in transition you see, so we took the extra step of leaving the tooth in a mug on the counter with a note just in case she's not on her game. I think she will be though. She's pretty good about these things.

Ben and I are playing Youtube trivia (Elton John included) and I'm biting my tongue not to point out that Jackson Browne's Running on Empty is a little too close in style to Say you Love Me by Fleetwood Mac.

I don't know how. It just does. They're both good though. 8-track goodness indeed. The tooth fairy will probably skip us on account of how far down we can drag the coolness quotient in the room.

We'll work on it. I swear. Later. Meeting time.

Torment, heretofore.

Ani ohev otakh.

Productive weekend. Managed to secure invites to three separate parties this afternoon and tonight I drove us back downtown from the new house, an hour outside the city, vaguely grey-knuckled and tense, seeing nothing but the lane in front of me because that's how I drive. Ask me to look at something and I'll veer right out of my lane and into a forbidden one. I requested the radio be on and was denied. Poor Ben rarely gets a chance to witness my driving skills or see the extent to which I blast music while I try and remember where it was that I was supposed to be going before I forgot.

I'm going to be a scathing riot in my Alzheimer years. Coupled with the narcolepsy I can see why I'm so popular now. (While she's coherent.) Eventually I'll fall asleep somewhere inconvenient and they'll just leave me there, propped against a large flowerpot and when I wake up I'll have forgotten where I belong and simply wander away into the ether. I'm not sure if that prospect is a comfort or a curse but it seems to be the only clear eventuality in a life where nothing can ever be nailed down, pinkie-sworn or planned too far in advance.

I'm running on noxious fumes at this point. Carbon monoxide and poisonous dreams lead to a hazy kind of tolerance and capability, floating just above the level of breathable panic, classed as on-alert without having to take ones feet off the chair to go investigate. Ready for anything, prepared for nothing, assume the worst, be grateful for the best and not budge an inch. The first things to go are grace, generosity and patience and they left in a hurry, forgetting important things like nice pens and monogrammed umbrellas.

The city is honking and blowing up like gangbusters here. Our team won! It's wonderful. It's warm, we're in shirts and sweaters. This morning I took the early chore of puppy walk and we ventured down to the water once again to smell the sea weed and greet the herons who are not afraid of me or the dog anymore. We have become fixtures, like statues, frozen, asleep, forgotten, forgetful.

Peaceful.

The confidence boost of a working machine loaded with fresh words, some pretty new things to replace old tired dresses that the boys are weary of seeing me in and some plans for a little fun ahead plus the achievement of driving far and driving early, home into the twilight sun, from the mountains into the glass and concrete jungle when I had planned to possibly navigate a drive around my new neighborhood around two weeks from now possibly a few blocks if I had a decent map, have given me a little tiny measure of oxygen to breathe to keep me going through the next tough part.

Closing costs. More lawyers. More appointments. More walks to the water and drives to the mansion. More kisses from Ben and cookies stolen by Henry. More pictures drawn by and taken of Ruth. More hockey. More sunshine. More waiting as we hope for a moving truck on time and a key for the mailbox. Which isn't anywhere near the house on the hill, perched above the water. Unreachable, untouchable, cold. More isolated than I expected, more comfort than I assumed.

More Bridget. Renewable resource. Thought I was done for at last, turns out I am not. Not quite anyway.

Hello Steve.

Hi! Hi! Hi! Bridget's very excited tonight. Why?

Macbook Pro.

Goodbye windows (Jesus, just get the fuck out, I'm so done with you), goodbye cheap disposable laptops. As soon as I can figure out how to stop hitting caps lock and how to make the system font a little bigger for my tired eyes I'll be all set. Kind of like a new three-thousand-dollar typewriter ribbon makes everything clear as day.

Ben keeps talking about time machines and command keyboard shortcuts. I'm all just like "But how LOUD does it get?"

Because really, that's why I bought my car. Because there are sub woofers UNDER the front seats so you can feel the music. And now I have it in my fingertips.

And actually I didn't spend any money and this isn't a new Macbook. Ben got a new one and I was gifted his old one and that was really convenient, I think. I was just pretty much done with my old machine and he wanted the guts from the new rollout and a little more screen real estate. He's a big guy. He needs space.

I just needed something that works without a timer ticking in the background, rushing me over words, falling, stumbling, stuttering to the point where it was becoming a chore instead of a pleasure, knowing if I was very lucky I might get ten months out of my purchase.

And woah.

Ben just fixed something. He said he would never do it (I was supposed to fix my own problems and he would just be here but you know what? I spent the entire winter fixing everything and I am done) and so he did it. Thank you honey. And thank you too, Steve for saving me from Bill and his stupid Windows 7 upgrade. I think that pretty much finished me off.

I'm coming up only to hold you under
I'm coming up only to show you wrong
And to know you is hard; we wonder
To know you all wrong; we warn.

Really too late to call,
So we wait for morning to wake you
That's all we got
And to know me as hardly golden
Is to know me all wrong, they warn.

At every occasion, I'll be ready for the funeral

Madness mollified.

Last last night Ben dug out the hard drive that I protected with my life on the trip here. It contains the music. All of it. What could ever be more important that that?

I fired it up this afternoon.

And I've been relaxed ever since. It soothes. It fixes everything. It makes my brain orderly and quiet. And now the words are bursting at the seams, I am wiggling in my chair and everything feels a thousand pounds lighter.

Don't diagnose me, I'm just saying.

I AM NOT THE DIFFICULT ONE.

Snort.

(Now is not the time to point out that I have my Blackberry loaded up and headphones at the ready. It isn't the same. Not by a long shot.)

Ears burning/no flames.

She paints her eyes as black as night, now
Pulls those shades down tight
Yeah, she gives a smile when the pain comes,
The pain's gonna make everything alright

Says she talks to angels,
They call her out by her name
She talks to angels,
Says they call her out by her name

She keeps a lock of hair in her pocket
She wears a cross around her neck
Yes, the hair is from a little boy
And the cross is someone she has not met, not yet

Familiar places and feelings. Rough warmth. He slid his slowly lips down along my earlobe, tracing my skin, pulling my hair away and continuing until he ended the kiss in the hollow of my throat. His hands went around my hips, making a path of bruises he could follow home. He sighed and we fell into easy actions. I ran my hands over his skin. I always feel as if I can touch his emotions through his skin. He is all fire and passion, determination and quiet rage.

I fell asleep sometime between five and seven, tangled in sheets of pure silver, eyes closing in spite of the sun rising in front of me over the water.

I woke up to an empty room. I got up and wrapped the sheet around me and ventured into the hall and further, making a circuit of the entire loft and there was no one there. I frowned and went back to bed.

No, really. I did.

I'll wait. Someone will come back. They always come back. Bridget needs coffee. Bridget needs reassurance. Bridget needs something to wear.

I checked my phone for messages and the usual morning greetings from PJ and Lochlan were there. Fifteen texts from Caleb that I'll never read. I put the phone back down and I must have drifted off again because there was a gentle knock at the door and I answered abruptly, startled. Ben doesn't knock. What the fuck.

Who's there?

The door opened and Batman just walks right into my life after another long absence.

Hello Bridget, I brought you some coffee.

I thought you were a dream!

No, not a dream, maybe just a quick vision though. I have a plane to catch.

I'm glad you came though.

Me too.

I took the coffee he held out and suffered a rare moment of self-consciousness suddenly, tucking the sheet more snugly around my torso, lifting my chin in some outward effort to remain dignified in spite of the fact that I still had no clothes.

He laughed and held out a shopping bag.

PJ sent these along for you.

I took the bag and looked inside. Jeans. Plaid shirt. Hairbrush. Ballet flats. God bless PJ for having the brains I don't.

Another knock brought Ben back into the room with a wrapped warm croissant. Because Bridget needs coffee and also sugar for her thin blood. I took it and ate it in four bites. I'm still licking my fingers when Batman smiles and says it's time for him to go. Probably because Bridget has no shame. Same thing that would have brought him here in the first place.

What in the hell were you thinking about just now?

How beautiful you are, and how lucky this assclown is.

Mmm. He brings me breakfast. He gets all my love.

Something in his eyes changed and he repeated himself.

I brought you coffee.

The visit was over. Stinging. Wish he would stay too.

Thank you. For everything.

You have my new number?

Do I? Is it in my phone?

Yes.

Then yes, I have it.

He laughed again, formally this time and I got a kiss on the ear and a flash of memory again and then he and Ben left, ostensibly to talk about hockey and music and money on the way to the airport. I took another sip of coffee and then picked up my phone. He actually put it in my contacts under Batman. With a happy face.

I laughed. I'll only see him if something goes wrong again and even then, I am never the one who calls him. He calls me and all I have to do is not answer the correct way and he is on a plane or fixing things remotely. It's a power I have never abused on purpose and the boys have never questioned even once.

Ever.

That kind of power puts Satan to shame. And he knows it. You should see the messages from HIM in my phone. He wanted investors, I brought him the only investor he'll ever require. Speaking of electronics bursting into flames. Blackberry on ice today, just in case so no emails. I'm not even going to grace you with my attention today so keep your indignation to yourself.

Revelry, reverie and wrong.

Bloody Mary breakfast busting up the street
Brothers fighting, when's the baby gonna sleep
Heaving ship too sails away
Said it's a culmination of a story and a goodbye session
It's a tick of our time and the tic in her head that made me feel so strange
So I could call you baby, I could call you, dammit, it's a one in a million

This is why people take vacations. To get away from it all. Instead I am zipping into that dress and those shoes and I'll tuck the newest pale pink lipgloss into my little bag with my BlackBerry and I'll go and stand and smile and press hands that won't let go and ignore eyes that won't stop looking and then Caleb's plans go smoothly and everyone profits and is happy.

They are the sandwich and I appear to be the meat.

As always, it's a little funny, a little sad and a little bit necessary too. But I will entertain myself with separate songs in my head and the amusing little thought that tomorrow I'm going back to the drugstore and I'm going to get myself one of the lipglosses I bought for Ruth, because it smells just like cake.

Who's going to pass that up? Not I, said the princess to the fly.

Ten more sleeps in the glass kingdom and then we go to the mansion on the hill for good. Then I should have routine. And words! I might even find them. I'm sure I packed them somewhere, hopefully in the box labeled Open Me First.

(I'm kidding. I have billions of words. They're just no longer compatible with this laptop/piece of shit. I'm still stubborn. I want to see it burst into flames and only then will I admit defeat. Hey, come to think of it, isn't that how Satan feels about his playthings? I guess I'm in for a rough night.)

Ben brought me an orchid. A beautiful white one, cut in a glass column. It's breathtaking.

Can't you just take a leave of absence?

I've had so much time away, princess. Staring at you while you sleep is fun and everything but I think Ben will be able to look after you just fine for a few hours each day and I'll be home by supper.

You really think Ben is the best choice for this? He doesn't have an unselfish bone in his body.

Who would you have chosen?

I don't know...PJ, Lochlan maybe.

PJ has his hands full with the kids, and he can't look after them if he's taking care of you. And Lochlan isn't a good choice.

Why.

That isn't a question so it won't be answered, princess. We both know why.

Because you don't trust him.

Because I don't trust you.

Ouch, Jake.

Exactly, Bridget, ouch.

August.

Working.

Dalt.

Leaving in two days. Ben is free right now and he's closest to you in a different way.

I don't think he's cut out for this.

Bridget, he loves you without needing anything in return. He's the only friend you have who doesn't pull selfish tricks in exchange for your time. I actually trust Ben.

Tucker. Have you noticed the nicknames he gives me? Do you know what MILF stands for, Jake?

Are you comfortable with him?

Yes.

Then there's nothing more to be said.

He smiled at me and leaned forward to kiss my forehead, careful not to touch my shoulder. Earlier that hour he had brushed it when he brushed my hair for me and I screamed in pain. Cole had dislocated it when he threw me to the wall. The splint did nothing. I wanted a full-body bubble and way more drugs than they gave me.

When is my next pill?

Jacob frowned.

You had it ten minutes ago, princess. Give it a chance.

They don't work, Jacob. It hurts.

He set his mouth in a line and looked away. I knew that it was taking everything he had not to go and see Cole and kill him but I needed him here. I needed to build my army against Cole and against Caleb and Jake was going to lead.

He was going to...lead.

He isn't leading and I need to ask him why because he promised. He promised so many things.

This morning I threw the jar against the window and I left the mess. No one is allowed in that room except for me.

Me and Jake.

Never Enough.

The second track is just epic in a sort of late-night, driving home from the beach on a hot summer night all sleepy-like kind of way. Yes, very Pink Floyd, Bridgie says Lochlan.

He would know.

Watched the rest of filming, then went for take-out of fish and chips. It was fun but it's cold tonight so we're inside. A far cry from last night, or last summer even, or the summer of 1985 if Lochlan wants to be REALLY picky.

(Lochie, in case you've already forgotten, the stereo in your father's truck was broken that summer.)

Two (Defined as synergy).

Two years ago yesterday I married the long shot in the crowd and I believe Lochlan is still pissed about it. In fact, I'm sure of it, since he told me so this morning just as Ben walked back in through the door with the wet dog, coffees for everyone and a blueberry muffin for his hungry, sleepy bride.

I love Ben. He goes out into the rain foraging for breakfast because I forgot to buy sugar yesterday even though I promised and he likes his coffee sweet. Because we went out for dinner to a family burger joint last night to celebrate and colored on the placements and watched hockey playoffs and lingered forever so that I could order wine by the glass because it's definitely wine for one for the rest of my life. Ben, Ruth and Henry have developed some sort of need to drink chocolate milkshakes everywhere we go as if they are milkshake critics writing for the New York Times.

Maybe they will be someday.

He has had patience and he's been difficult too, but I am mostly harder to handle so we exchange passes for each other and I continue to chip away at setting up life here and he continues to work long hours and shop for boats when he isn't working, even though he knows the idea of spending a lot of time on a boat alternately terrifies me and puts me in that unpredictable position of being the one who will say we should go for it and before you know it we'll have made another impulsive decision that sets the entire collective on its proverbial ear.

Why not? It seems to be our thing.

Actually, Ben is my thing, I think. He's the perfect blend of good and evil, tattoos and clean-cut swagger. Sweet and completely obnoxious. Flashing dark eyes and kind smile. He still eats my lipgloss and fights his demons and exhibits generous quantities of patience and he keeps my feet off the ground when I spend too much time worrying about things I can't control. I think he envies my push-button courage as much as I admire his endless disparaging optimism.

It was exactly how I picture normal life would be if anything about us were normal, but since it isn't then I'll just say it's pretty damned awesome.

All these years I have known him I still only know when he's kidding by weighing the ridiculousness of his behavior against the expression on his face. We're the character twins, content to do everything the hard way when everyone else rides along on the tide of status quo and fitting in. We never have fit in, always on the fringe of the group. Always watched. Life under the microscope is mostly a forgotten hazard of breathing now and we remain protective of each other in a way that bring most people to their knees. It isn't something we can help, it's just the way it is. It's powerful. It blows my mind.

And as we sat last night with our eyes glued to the home team onscreen and our fingers clutching sticky crayons in what has to be the loudest restaurant in the city it is clear we know exactly what we're doing.

We have a plan.

And it seems to involve a lot of french fries, penalties and tic-tac-toe.

Lightbulbs made of sand.

The ball is rolling, quickly, swiftly. Downhill. Picking up speed and snowballing into life on the west coast. I have called the movers this morning, while still in my robe, holding my coffee and pacing back and forth looking for the sweet spot that would enable me to talk without hearing the echo of my own voice back to me. They will return the call within a couple of days with a date for me to mark on the calendar to be at the new house with my checklists in hand so I can ensure delivery of our things. My music. My violin. A full ninety percent of Ben's gear. The children's toys and books and bedrooms and the big green comfy couch I can fall asleep on far easier than I ever expected. The big wooden desk that Jacob anchored himself behind and the pictures. All of the pictures. I have them here on DVDs but it isn't the same.

For those of you playing the rousing game of Where's Bridget? using my tweets, be brave, you have to apply to see them now. Hey, if I can be brave enough to post what I'm doing then you can come right up and say hello. It isn't nice to be stalked and the boys will not play that game. Open books all around and we will get along just fine. Okay?

Late last night Ben and I decided yesterday was the best day ever and he said that he was so happy we were finally here with him. That comment, spoken out of the blue served to melt about a thousand of the broken shards of my heart back together again. It was one of the sweetest things I have ever heard, which is good because he has said it before but last night he just blurted it out and it took on fresh meaning in the dark as we lay in the clouds of white cotton overlooking the harbor with all of the twinkling lights of returning sailboats and people spending the currency of their own evenings.

There will be more days like yesterday. So many more. I'm so happy here. It's like a giant weight has been lifted. The momentary frustration of a trip to the beach cut short was just that. I'm not mad. I just suddenly realized I'm not going anywhere. I'm home. And the beach is RIGHT HERE. I don't have to leave it.

Not anymore.

Slow to warm up.

Little surfer, little one
Made my heart come all undone
Do you love me?
Do you surfer girl?
(Surfer girl my little surfer girl)

I have watched you on the shore
Standing by the ocean's roar
Do you love me?
Do you surfer girl?

He is determined.

Hours climbing up and down probably active volcanoes, across suspension bridges, down semi-washed out footpaths and herded like human touristic sheep onto creaky, rickety gondolas in order to be ankle-deep in snow, still in my t-shirt and sneakers from the twenty-degree broiled city sidewalk a half-hour previously. Hours in the deep dark woods chasing slugs across footbridges and marveling at the width of the giant redwoods. Standing inside the hollow ones, climbing over the fallen ones, everywhere a carpet of pine needles and fresh new beginnings, found just under the moss.

Everyone says Don't you just love the mountains?

I'm not all that sure yet, truthfully. Apparently this one is covered in snow and the other four are volcanoes. What do you think? Oh and should I love that it will cost me eleven thousand dollars to snowboard for a half-day?

I don't say that out loud though. I merely look down the mountain toward the beach and point silently but then off we go in another direction at three thousand miles an hour. And then finally at the end, a slow drive home with a detour into the park and through to the ice cream stand and down to the beach where I found two huge colorful pieces of beach glass in less than ten seconds flat and then the dog started EATING sand so we had to leave before we had ever really arrived.

We can go back, I think. The sand beaches with endless sandbars, covered with shells are what I crave but these are almost too civilized, too close to people and buildings and cars. And the other ones are creepily remote and covered with huge rocks and violent and downright dangerous.

(Bridget definitely isn't in Kansas anymore, is she?)

I can appreciate the radical difference between the edgy, wild pacific coast in sharp contrast to the holiday-postcard Atlantic seaside. I can relish it. I will sink my teeth into it and digest it like it's the singlemost important meal of my life. I will embrace it, collect all of the glass from it and tell it my thoughts, wash away my worries and soothe my tired, broken skin in it and we will be forever friends, lovers reunited so closely that everyone steps away for fear of being crushed with the weight of mutual admiration.

He was wearing his heavy jacket and we were tired. And the dog was eating sand. And so I said my silent goodbyes and I vowed to come back and I'm somewhat sure now that there's a well-planned effort underway to keep me off the beach and away from the ocean for more than just a few minutes at a time so that I don't come completely unglued.

It wouldn't be the first time. She's a powerful force, you know.

Bridget. Not the ocean, silly.

Me.

Until you learn to control her, it's best not to do anything that might get her going. You know how it is. He's doing his very best to find the balance between massive relief and total damaging surrender, and I don't blame him for it. Not even a little bit.

He's doing a really good job, actually. The very best one can.

Scriptlash.

Avert your eyes. Don't stare in wonderment at the living accident in front of you. And whatever you do don't stand so close to the flames. They may char the wreckage but they'll also lick at your heels until the backs of your perfect polished shoes are blackened sufficiently to remove the reflection of the people you're always walking away from.

The words are hardest when the sleep is lacking. Or maybe not. The writer has no desires when she doesn't sleep. No writing, no eating, no plans to be made. No brushing of the hair, no effort to find those proper black polished shoes, no effort to play nice or be aware. Just tiny annoyed raising of the eyebrows over heavy black circles for eyes (buttons if you wish) and a gloss-painted scowl shaped in a bow.

I keep my hands behind my back because otherwise in return I get the tall dark scowls hidden by beards as I type my letters on everything. Palms of hands, arms, shoulders, the back of Henry's head. The armrest built into the door of Caleb's car. The counter while I wait to ask the concierge directions and the cold marble shelf in the lobby where I sometimes wait for the car. White tablecloths in restaurants where I struggle to pronounce the offerings and Ben orders for me instead or I point and smile and do my best and then they remove the cards and I can resume the endless parade of finger-words playing a story out across my travels that amuses me endlessly.

I don't need to be entertained and if you watch me long enough, neither do you.

Thank #$*& it's Friday, Mom.

The day has bested me. But all's well that ends well. We're just hanging out listening to some music, eating pizza, taking pictures and sitting with our toes up on the railing. You can too.

Here.

Here too.

And this.

Best for last.

No, this one. I really love this one.

Larger than life.

September sun blowing golden hair
Now keep in mind son
She was never there
October's rust
Bisecting black storm clouds
Only the deaf hear my silent shouts

Yet in the dark, still he screams your name
Nights living death with witch rhymes insane
Ten years amassed, para toda mi vida?
Lost man in time, was his name Peter?

Peter's gone.

And I have a pain that stretches from the center of my back all the way up into my neck and under my hairline and the ranks close in tightly as the sun goes down. This is not fair. And it isn't right.

What a very long day.

God Sends.

Today I am thankful for the health and happiness of my children. My husband's patience, affection and humor in difficult times. I'm thankful for cheese and generous dog owners who like to socialize their pets. I'm thankful for creaky elevators that reach their floor successfully and for rainbows at five in the afternoon after a rainstorm missed by only seconds. I'm thankful for Advil Liquigels as always and for Kraft Dinner, in a pinch.

I am thankful for choices, options and offers and for a cool breeze on a hot day. I'm thankful for the view of the water and for the future and routine within, eventually. I'm glad we are here. I'm thankful for wine and for sleep and for being held when I just can't take another minute and I'm thankful for the afternoon coffee that is slowly getting better or maybe I just don't care anymore. I'm thankful for fat wallets and blue t-shirts and brand new socks and clean mirrors. I'm thankful that I finally stopped being afraid of things and took a leap when I wanted to bury myself in a closet full of things and hide until they all stopped looking for me. I'm thankful for chocolate chips at breakfast and salt at dinner and everything in between. I'm thankful for the pennies we found today by the fountain for double wishes and I'm thankful for another day to fight my way through because it's worth it.

Stereo types: Notes from a city, three weeks in.

At first glance I didn't think I'd be able to figure anything out. My only thought was sheer panic when I discovered that we really didn't bring enough clothes. Not by a long shot. I had organized for five outfits each, consisting of layers because we arrived here in spring. Summer is coming but the mountains are also RIGHT there, so snowy clothes but also things for a hot sunny seaside-walk kind of day.

Good luck.

Ruth has already lost one sweater, and Ben and I discovered that most of our regular wardrobe fell victim to renovating and construction on our previous house and none of it is city-worthy, for when you look closely you can see flecks of paint, some tiny holes and a lot of wear from spending winters up to our earlobes in hardware and tools. All of this stuff is better suited to the aisles of Home Depot and not trendy Hollywood North, oh no, not at all.

(Henry's only issue is that he averages a size a month in growth and is already out of two outfits completely.)

I learned quickly on to eliminate the prairies entirely from conversations when someone would ask me where I am from and talk about Nova Scotia instead. I learned that a cup from Starbucks in hand here doesn't make you stick out like a sore thumb, it makes you fit in. I learned that I can't afford to shop downtown much at all, unless I stick to mass-market chains because I have no use for D&G jeans or anything that cost more than $50, frankly. I mean, look at what I brought! Obviously I can't be trusted with nice things.

I also learned things about Vancouver that really surprise me. There are places that charge a mint to let a family explore and places right next door to those that are free. Both will be equally fun and equally impressive and equally busy.

I learned everyone here smokes.

I learned that everyone is from somewhere else and no one is fond of the real estate prices here. I learned how to walk uphill and how to navigate an elevator with a small perky dog, a coffee, umbrella, handbag, two children, a bag of groceries and the stupid key fob that must be pressed when the floor button is pressed with some sort of coordinated finesse or you'll end up stuck in the lobby for all eternity.

Which has happened so many times I am ashamed.

And people here love dogs and blondes because both are usually undeniably approachable and I learned that men who drive Rolls Royces and Ferraris are somewhat desperate after a certain age. And no one closes their blinds, EVER, but I may have mentioned that before.

I learned I should have packed a printer and fax machine and a third phone for when I'm waiting for callbacks and I learned that cats will shed for weeks after air travel. On everything.

I learned that no one blinks when a celebrity walks by but traffic will come to a standstill when a group of Japanese girls reaches the corner. Especially if they are in plaid skirts and high heels. Most of them seem to be but I don't see any private schools around here. And I would like them to teach me how to walk uphill in high heels because I can't seem to figure it out on my own.

I learned what DTES really looks like. Now that the Olympics are over, the tarnish has returned along with the people under the Shakespeare windows at the Carnegie Centre. When I am driven past them in my expensive new car I see people shooting up, I see people having bad trips, and people buying more bad trips. I see people organizing their belongings for the night on the sidewalk and I see men dressed like women soliciting for sex on the corner and then you blink and you're driving past Gucci, then Hermes, and then Coach.

It's ironic and frightening and sickening and suddenly part of my life as I lament the state of my wardrobe and fret over how long it took to get the money for the sale of my beautiful castle in a far away land. I can't help them. That much I know. I learned that the emotions that play through me when we drive through are not unique but felt by everyone.

I have learned I can't look at the pictures of my old house yet. I can't allow a second to poke around in the dark corners of my head to try on how I feel now that we've been away from it for twenty-three days. I am too busy getting to know this new place. A place where the pizza and donairs taste just like home and the seaweed smells exactly the same but a place where you can walk on the beach at night and not get mugged and mercifully also not get stared at for that tiny hole in the front of your favorite shirt (but only because it's night time and you're on the beach and all of the pretension has fallen away in favor of the awe of sunset over the water. And because you put on that jacket at the last minute. Face it, Bridget, you have a long way to go, style-wise.)

This is a place where you can raise your eyes to the mountaintops and see snow collecting there while down beside the water you collect sweaters from the children because they are sweating. I am learning. Sweaters before lunch, not after.

Tomorrow I have another list of things to get done, and I'll still be amazed by the fashion and the money and the people who smoke with one arm and hug trees with the other. I'll add to the weekend-list of things to see when Ben doesn't have to work and I'll continue to chip away at things like standing out and blending in and enjoying this new alien landscape where everything is beautiful except for the parts that are ugly. Vancouver is a human being. The water is her heart, the DTES is her worst day spent and the endless money is her passion. What a woman. What a place. What a strange and wonderful place.

Ben says I type too hard and broke it. Hahaha (Wait. Really?)

It was supposed to be a moment of high regard. A brightness that would leave you speechless, a sight that would render you blind. A force that would be remembered for all eternity and eventually a legend.

Instead it's going to be a quiet, miserable non-event. A painful misery no one will ever see. It will be over before anyone has time to say Is anyone there? before they move on to the next leaf, reading the stories with their rapid-fire schizophrenic attention spans, most likely while talking on the phone and perhaps eating something. In a hurry. Distracted. Busy.

Dumb luck is a gift some would pay for and yet it's never available when one goes shopping. Relax is a state we are not worthy enough to consider. Try to read too much into anything and I will horrify you with my efforts to keep you the hell away. I will be behind it in the dark with my apron gathered up tightly, picking up the leaves and stacking them alphabetically in one hand while I wipe away tears with the other.

It was supposed to be instant. Like a cake mix. Like a flash from a bulb.

Ben and I have been very busy rescuing ourselves (long stories, all of them) from all of the hazards and pitfalls lately, left to defend ourselves from life like teenagers the first week out of the nest. I went from having to be in charge twenty-four hours a day to not having enough resolve left to deal with fuck-all and so I turned around and upended the load into his lap and he picked it up and dealt with it and things are better now.

Maybe it's him after all. Ben and daylight and warmth and a whole new jar begun of sea glass just from two short sunset walks on the beach and plans to spend time and have fun and it would be great if Bonham would stop click-clacking all around at night, tap dancing into the bedroom and chasing the cat out, standing up on my side of the bed wanting to cuddle or maybe take a walk outside at some ruthless hour. Argh. The furry baby who doesn't sleep through the night. I really really need sleep. I need a vacation. I need time to get used to this...Pacific Northbest.

Anyway, Lochlan has cobbled my machine together long enough to say hello to you and I am the stubbornnest little thing you will ever meet because I'm not spending money on another goddamned laptop in this lifetime unless it's made of pipe dreams and free-range cheese so take what you can get and know if I must I'll send word via BlackBerry which is the modern day method of princess telegram anyhow. Ask anyone. I've been running a mobile office for weeks with it already and at night I park it in a cold glass of water because it's usually smoking by the time I go to bed.

Wait. Don't take that literally. BlackBerries don't like water. They do like being used and used well. I just wish maybe the screen were a tiny bit bigger and then I could chuck the damn computer right out the window. I might anyway.

PS. I saw a Nissan Pao today and I want one! One painted in shades of lime and tangerine, please, with a stainless steel roof rack for my snowboard. I told Satan (oh, he of the 350Z) that he would soon be outclassed and he laughed and laughed and then forbade me to buy one.

You know what that will bring. Nothing but misery for him.

(Snort.)

Precedent.

Late into the evenings I would pull on dry jeans and a damp t-shirt over a still-soaked bathing suit and comb my fingers through my wet, tangled hair. I would fetch the stick I had leaning up against a tree, tied with a frayed piece of pink yarn so that none of the boys would steal it and I would seek out Lochlan, throwing myself down beside him at the campfire. He would pass me a hot dog and I would roast it slowly while I listened. That was my space. As the evening grew late I would get tired and rest my head on his shoulder. When he got tired of that he would shrug violently until I woke up and sat up straight, and sometimes he would find a hoodie and wrap it around me and put his arm around my shoulders and hold me close while he nursed a single beer for hours and smile quietly at nothing in particular. Those were some of the best sleeps I ever had. He lives at one hundred and forty degrees.

Like everything with Lochlan, it depended on his mood. Something that hasn't changed much since he was fourteen. Sometimes I think those were the very best days of my life and other times I see how little I have changed, and how I grew to crave that physical intimacy of touch beyond anything else I will ever need. How he will sit back and wait for me but never come to meet me halfway. On anything.

He is still like that. Hot and cold. In the mood or not. You can ask him what's wrong and he'll look at you like you have suddenly sprouted an extra nose or a third arm, or he'll mutter something about being tired to blow you off. The cues leading to that question would be the same. Maddening. So like Lochlan.

Yes, for the past thirty years, he has been the same.

Hey Bridget, here's your hot dog.

What's on it?

Dried mackerel flakes. Just try it, you'll love it.

Really?

Trust me, I know you, princess.

And he smiles at nothing. I still don't understand him at all.

Now everything is easy cause of you.

So. We bought a house. A very big house in the forest with a wonderful yard and a veranda (verandah looks so much nicer, and is as proper, according to my sources), a huge kitchen, and more closets and bathrooms than I think I have ever seen in one place at one time. There are many fireplaces and outside you can hear crickets. There are places to hide inside and out. It's not too far from a good school or from the water (frontage for days, all around a point) and the weather here is mild, so ironically, there are big coat closets in each entryway but we will never need our big coats again. (Unless we go snowboarding, which will be often, let me tell you, though I still currently get hives when I see snow. Think that will pass?) The house has a time machine also. Ben was quick to point that out. I won't have to wash dishes! A breakfast bar. New construction so no hundred-year old surprises, it was built after Henry was born. Modern character. Good, we were due for a change there. We finish up our details over the next week or so. Inspection, final banking details, driving past it repeatedly (though we can barely see it from the road) with big smiles if all goes well. I will promise to try to be excited but by nature I tend to be on edge until every last i is dotted and t is crossed and then I am thrilled. Only then. Maybe talk to me after the bank, after the inspection and after the moving truck is gone and I see happens with that. So early May, come back and get your barometer then, when all of it sinks in. Really I'm still just getting used to this. I've been here just two weeks now and we already have a house. Ben and the children are excited beyond words, so I will just grab their coattails and ride along on their happiness. It is exciting overall. New starts are good for the soul, but new starts in breathtakingly beautiful places are even better. This city is a gift and suddenly every day is my birthday. Even in the rain, even when I can't sleep, I can say that I fell in love again but this time it brings no jealousy. Maybe this only makes sense if you're here. Like when Ben was trying to describe it and I dismissed his words before. Now that I'm here I totally get it. And I hope that the rest of April goes smoothly, right on through and into May and then I will have another one of those birthday things and will spend it unpacking I bet, unless Ben comes up with a plan to sweep me off my feet for the day. Both would be equally wonderful. In our new house. With room for EVERYONE. (Fine, I'm excited. A little.)

My offer was accepted.

Holy fucking shit.

MAKE THE PHONE STOP RINGING.

Who in the hell wheels and deals at nine at night?

Not me. I want to go to bed now please. I can't take it.

Equivocal rain.

You feed the fire that burned us all
When you lied
To feel the pain that spurs you on
Black inside

Waiting for news sometime in the next hour. Could be good news and sheer panic or it could be relief and resolve. We shall see.

Last night I went along and dutifully weighed in on everything that was presented to me by strangers who want to spend my money the way they see fit and in the midst of it Ben and I decided we wanted to be the children and we fired up a lovely argument which made most of the evening unbearable and tense.

I stayed at the penthouse last night only because now when I get angry I tend to just give up and give in. I'll stand behind Caleb for a while and study my own fingerprints because he makes the biggest impact. I'm not sure if I like that or it's the only avenue because I'm exhausted and unsure and ridiculously relieved to be here. I don't know which way is which or which end is up. I'm not sure it matters now what the issue was. We made up. We made out. Case closed. As usual a collective sigh of resigned frustration rises in a chorus. She's not leaving him. Fuck.

(Ben, I mean. Jesus, people.)

In other news, Ben fixed my keyboard. Victory chores. We came out here and some of the goo must have softened and reactivated in the ocean humidity because suddenly all of the major important letters and directional keys were stuck fast and it was so incredibly frustrating. He pulled most of them off and then looked at me. I merely pointed out that I get my money's worth. I buy cheap, disposable laptops and I eat over them, drink over them and cry over them until the words are released in proper order and the letters are stuck down fast. Then a little over a year later I start again. This laptop is worse than the last one though because the old one had nice loud speakers and this one does not.It's been a battle to hear anything from the tinny little speakers and I've been due a new one for a while.

The boys insist it be an Apple product but I resist because I like the threadbare, worn, industrial-type machines, not the sleek hipster ones. I don't want perky bouncing icons and that strange reflective silver. I want something in black, as always and not something new to learn OS-wise, because my brain is completely full up and I am busy learning everything new again. Besides, the old letter placement and temperamental Windows is like a favorite old blanket: it no longer keeps me warm, it's just a comfort thing.

It has to be a magnificently sad day when a sixteen-month-old Acer Aspire is a comfort object. I must be losing my mind.

Wait. Oh, yes. There's one of the posters in the pile from a long time ago:

LOST: One princess mind. Last seen on the East coast, circa 1997.

I can't wait for the day that I get to bitch about my old Macbook Pro, like the boys do. Before they lovingly pet the things and possibly feed them treats. What does a Macbook eat, I wonder? Oh yes, cash. Om nom nom.

Really though, it is inevitable. I do understand that for what I pay in disposable Windows machines I have already paid for the computer I should have purchased, instead of the one that I have.

But the space bar. It works again! And shift. And $, ironically enough.

Not sure for how long, and as I said, I am waiting for news and that news dictates the efforts of the coming days. Cross your fingers or perhaps leave them open if you enjoy seeing me fail. It makes no difference to me at all.

I think I gave up and I gave out and then I gave in and somehow I woke up a state of comfortable flux, snow white duvet hiding the sins of the dark from the bright white of another day, another chance even. I took it. I took the leap. I made the calls and I signed my name and I took the papers I was given and I listened carefully to the instructions and maybe we will land somewhere safe or maybe we'll just keep falling for a bit. Either option is fine tonight, oddly.

Not a good thing, just the state of affairs this evening. It always frightens me most when I am just ambivalent and nothing more.

.skaerf lortnoC .uoy fo llA

I've seen all of the decadence one person can absorb for one night. Bathrooms that outnumber bedrooms, marble this, that and the other, gas stoves wider than my car, decor that is going to make my belongings look like third-rate castoffs and lovely protected green spaces all around everything so maybe, just maybe, I will be able to sit on my new front veranda and hear the crickets.

If everyone would just shut the hell up, I might.

I'm at the penthouse tonight if anyone needs me. Quiet here, no crickets, only flames.