The faceless princess.

Booked a vet appointment, an appointment to get my Driving license renewed and then I went to see how far they were booking in advance for the full Class 5 license for Henry and discovered he has to wait another year to take it, as it's a full two years between the Novice license he got last spring (one step up from a learners, he can drive alone with a big green N on the back of the vehicle and there are restrictions on the numbers of passengers, and the Class 5 which is full and unrestricted and best yet, no magnets to lose/forget about/scratch the paint/be stolen. Also it's a damn prize for him at this point as none of his friends have more than a learners, save for one, and right now that friend does all the driving mostly because Henry doesn't love to drive but he loves to ride along. 

Then too soon I looked for T4s and T4As and T2022s and whatever the hell else I need but as I said everyone has til the end of this month to get their things to me and then I will do my best. Until then I guess I am off the hook for taxes, which is sort of nice as a reprieve, though I also like to have it all over with. 

The windchill has it at minus eight right now but the sun is shining so, so bright.  I head next door where Daniel is anxious to give me a winter weather pampering skincare treatment. Or something. I don't know but I love spending time with him so off I go.

***

Daniel is reading out instructions and outcomes and I sit in the makeup chair in their gorgeous big bathroom while he puts scary things on my face and laments the hilarity that I've never had girlfriends and Bailey (my older sister) is very out of touch and so I ignore basic beauty standards most of the time and revert to whatever the boys do because they are all very fastidious about hygiene and appearances, truth be told. 

Albeit in a super-contrived, totally casual way. 

(snort)

He's doing a glycolic acid peel and tells me that in a couple of days my skin will start peeling but just to do a little moisturizer over it and not pick at it. 

Um. WHAT? Why would you put acid on my face?

It's not that kind of acid. 

You just said after forty-eight hours my face will melt off. Jesus Christ, Dan. 

No I did not and this is a basic exfoliation that everyone uses once a month. 

What's wrong with my facecloth? 

It can't get deep down into your pores. 

What's wrong with my pores?

They get dirty. 

No, they don't. I wash my face. 

With what? 

Soap. Duh. 

He actually screams in falsetto gay. I love it so much. Never use soap on your face! 

What do I use then? 

Cleanser. 

Like....soap.

Didn't you used to buy skincare from Sephora? 

It was all greasy or creamy and I never felt clean so back to soap. I tried though.

What do you use? 

Rosewater spray and garnier eye bag cooling gel stuff. Lip stain. 

That's it? 

That's my whole routine. OH and I use hairdressing oil when I get flyaways or static.

Right. Can't forget that. Well. Should we go shopping or go to a spa? 

No. 

Whyyyyyyyy Bridget. 

I hate being touched. 

He bursts out laughing and winks at me. Such tiny lies. 

No. Like massage or pedicures or haircuts. Don't touch me. You guys are fine though. 

Then I have to be your esthetician. 

I'm never putting acid on my face again. The only thing I have going for me is my face and now it's going to slide off in the sun on Thursday. What will I do now? 

I told you the steps. 

Right. Moisturize! That will fix everything. 

It will though! You'll see!

Evil definitely didn't die tonight and probably won't any time soon.

Yesterday was crystal shopping and Newfoundland fried chicken and a run to donate some stuff that was languishing unused, like redundant snowboarding gear and jackets. So many jackets, some brand new. Also winemaking supplies as we just do small gallon batches now as it's a smaller footprint that way and easier to control quality outcomes. 

Productive for a long week. 

And last night was my movie choice so of course I picked Halloween Kills. 

Save for any of the scenes inside the hospital and that fucking Tommy (who still can't act, after watching Anthony Michael Hall in thirty years worth of movies) it was perfect, though the back and forth between James Jude Courtney and Nick Castle playing Michael left me clearly understanding who was who by the way they walk. Nick is larger and walks with purpose in a menacing way. Jude looks like he's finessing every move, a serial killer Sinatra and it's distracting and almost amusing save for the fact that everyone's screaming. 

A solid 9/10. Poor Haddonfield. They never can catch a break.

Duncan fell asleep during the absolute loudest of the screaming, his head in my lap and Ben followed shortly thereafter against Lochlan's shoulder just as the plot was going into overdrive. I didn't even feel tired once.

Nothing to report.

My phone woke me up to let me know the Queen has Covid. But of course she's going to keep working because God forbid she take a damn day off. At 95. After 70 years ruling over the monarchy. 

I wonder if that's how I know I'm royal. Because I think I got Covid over Christmas and still hosted a big holiday. Don't worry. I was the last to get it, as everyone else was sick first even as I tried my best to stay safe and make people isolate and stay away (MY KINGDOM MY RULES) and still it didn't work and it's not like we can get tested or could have been tested because my province said no tests for the public to use at home and if you've been fully vaccinated just stay home and get better. So we'll never know and sometimes Schrodinger's plague is nice because we can just weaponize denial, as always.

It's Sunday but Jesus didn't come. He probably has Covid too and that's fine. We weren't going to visit him today because Sam is still off and we go to support Sam moreso than anything else and Sam ministers to the point so thoroughly that no one feels the need to worship offsite. Also the sun is shining but it's supposed to rain so I had hopes of that cozy weekend continuing ad infinitum. It would have been so lovely. According to the weather it still is supposed to be awful overnight and that pleases me as when everyone is off and home and tucked away it's when I am at my happiest. 

I had a wonderful day yesterday. Tattoos and burgers and random dance parties. The tiniest of walks with the dog, who can't go very far and I slept in an extra couple of hours and today I feel a little more in control. 

That's so nice. Sounds dumb but if you only knew me.

Okay but-

(This is your Bridget on four hours of sleep. Thanks, August. Well, I mean hell yes, thank you, August.)

What are you doing? 

Researching brain tumors. 

Why? 

The headaches, Locket. And now my eyes are super-sensitive to light suddenly and they burn by the end of the day and I'm waking up every morning with headaches again. 

It's stress. 

It never stops though. And I look up 'eyes sensitive' and I have like every symptom on this list. I'm dizzy all the time, my hearing is gone. My eyes hurt. My head hurts. My eyes have gotten much worse over the past few years. My whole mood has gone to shit. Look at this-

I'm not going to dignify your whim this morning, Peanut. You're fine. You've been saying this for decades and we've just had a long bout of stress-

Some of the tumors are slow-growing, you know. Someday you're going to find out I was right. 

So what should we do? 

I need a head transplant. Clearly it's the safest option. 

Where do we find another Bridget-head? 

At the cheese farm. 

What? 

Long story I told Dalton about a cheese farm and how it was the best place to raise herds of cheese free-range. But now I have to add a patch of back-up heads. I wonder if they need full sun-

Oh my god. Tell me all about it. 

Over dinner. It's a very long tale. 

But if you can remember it it means no tumor. 

Hope you're right. 

5 4 3 2 1.

Where is he right now for you? 

I don't know. Maybe a little snappish. I lick sugar off my fingers and turn the page of my book as he gets up to go make us coffee and croissants. I brought over a whole tray of chocolate ones. If I leave them at home PJ will just eat them and then lament the comfort level of his jeans waistband. The bed sways gently on the ropes. The big gooseneck lamp on this side is casting a warm light on such a dim rainy day and I've been here since fiveish. I couldn't stay home. Couldn't be outside. Didn't dare duck into Caleb's wing or anyone else's for that matter and I couldn't get Lochlan to wake up enough to understand the gravity of my panic in a meaningful way. He spends his life sleeping with one eye open and after a fashion he will eventually crash. Don't we all. I can't fault him for that. I have a whole team here and I need to be more proactive in utilizing it. 

August comes back with a coffee cup and saucer, placing it on the night table. He doesn't bring me a second croissant. One is lots. I'm getting spoiled and I'm getting the third degree too. He's got a gift for being charming and stern at the same time but in a totally different way from Caleb. 

Thank you. 

Chocolate in the sheets. 

I'll strip the bed before I go. 

Leave it. I like your perfume. 

I'm not wearing..oh. I get it. He is snappish too but out of loneliness, not from a lack of privacy or understanding. 

He's in here. I tap my head. It's dark and I locked the door. So you can sound the alarm, I guess. 

I'm not going to do that. 

How come?

He's under control. 

For the moment. 

Sometimes it's by the moment that you live. By the day. Like the program. 

They should have one for this. 

They do. 

It doesn't work for everyone. 

No, some people just don't have the luck with it. 

That's me. No-luck Bridget. 

You can have some of mine, then, to see you through. 

You have some luck today?

You're here, so yes, I definitely do.

1,2,3, let's burn.

What a week. I did nothing except let my anxiety run free, unchecked. Now I know what Lochlan would go through when he would give me free reign to run the fields between shows or walk the beach for hours in the moonlight, something I miss dearly but we can't really do it here. The breakneck staircase sees to that. Caleb wanted to build something safer. An elevator. Or carve out some of the backyard, losing real estate to make for a more gradual decline but we decided that was too super-villainy (even for him) so we did not. 

I opted not to do a lot of things. We didn't grocery shop. We could live for months on what's in the house and the deep freezers and sometimes it's good to just not. I opted not to worry about paperwork. I actually did some taxes, today in fact. I put on Ateez really loud (this week I like Answer best) and organized all my paperwork. I made a huge sloppy martini with three olives and then I made no apologies to go along with it. I swore at Lochlan and he laughed in my face, lovingly. 

You're too sweet for me. I put my hands against his cheeks.

I think you've got that backwards. I get a kiss on the nose for my trouble. Couldn't get rid of him if I tried. I stopped trying years ago. 

But it did end okay. Caleb did the fending off. The attack. The guarding. The vicious showing of the teeth to the world and I came in at the back, holding up the lantern, showing it was only me and people would do whatever I needed. It was a long week but I asked for help and I got it. I loathe doing it and I did it because Lochlan asked me too. Hoping this coming week will be better. Have to burn those pajamas first.

I couldn't do today so I put on fresh Hello Kitty pajamas, poured a hot cup of coffee, brushed my teeth and left my phone on DND. I sent Caleb out in front of everyone who came at me, aggressively or otherwise and I hid like a small child in a basket of clean laundry while the wolf did my bidding against the dark. Sometimes you need a wolf instead of a magician. Illusions are better than everything else but trust me, results are good too. He is a Devil in the streets too, you know and so who better than to fix everything I broke while in my panic of getting used to living differently. A new hole opened and we have to remember to go around this one too and some days..

You just forget.

Too today. May it be short and sweet.

Can you imagine. It's 2022 and some poor public health officials had to announce they were banning DANCING. I mean, what in the Footloose-bullshit small-town decision is that? But at the same time I don't go clubbing but when I did, let me tell you. 

I might have died for not being able to dance. 

Dramatic but true. And now I have to go watch Footloose again but honestly I am completely caught up in Hometown Cha Cha Cha now and so it's going to have to go to the back of my list.

(I'm for mandates if it keeps people out of the hospital. All for them.)

Also I called the shop and the parts are in and they are working on my Jeep now. Do I believe them? I want to. Hopefully my luck is now turning a tight circle. I hate not being in control. Maybe it'll be ready before the end of the week. I lament how lucky I am, as someone told me a story last week that they read about someone who worked in a forge and if you fall into the molten metal crucible they actually have a pole and will push you under, out of kindness/mercy since if you survive there will be little left. 

That horrified me and it stuck with me and I felt selfish and bougie for complaining about one of my cars being in the shop too long. 

Henry pointed out that I'm allowed to have problems, I'm allowed to vent or be stressed. Since I am mindful of others' hardships it's not vacuous tone-deaf complaining. He's smarter than I will ever be, that's for sure and that's all the gratitude I need for today. 

At least I can dance. It's like a Wednesday without the hump as we are over it.

Shhh. I think they forgot.

 Do you want oatmeal or a bagel for breakfast? It's not lost on me that PJ is doing that thing where you give your toddler the choice between two things and then they feel like they're calling the shots because otherwise they would just say they don't want anything or they want something that isn't available. 

Oatmeal, I guess. 

Big coffee?

Biggest you can find. Please.

He puts back the mug he had pulled out and finds the big BB8 two-hander for me. It's pouring rain. I did not want to leave Ben and Lochlan snoozing with the fire burning out and the sound of the heavy downpour against the windows but PJ and I have a longstanding coffee date in the kitchen every Monday at six-thirty where we go over my planner and sort out the week. This week maybe groceries but probably not. Hopefully my Jeep will be back (LONG STORY). Maybe someone will buy me dinner tonight. Maybe the rain will stop in time for a long walk and hopefully the house will magically clean itself but I drew the short straw for the week so the floors are mine to do. Maybe it won't be so bad. I want to glaze some pieces too to fire next week when the weather is better. I found the actual Olympics app where I can watch skating while I paint and I want to see Ruth on her day off as well. 

Also I need to make a big beef stew for tonight because it's also my night to do dinner but here is my ever-present keeper right-hand man, my unintentional but fiercely loyal ride-or-die fake husband/nanny to help like he never stops doing. He even managed to get rid of Caleb last evening with some completely intentional ego-blows that sent Caleb off to his wing because he had some paperwork he wanted to look over. 

Tax time hasn't even hit yet. Suddenly no one's dispersing forms until Feb. 28 and filing isn't open until the 22nd, I think and I'm not in any rush for once. 

That's where we are on a Monday, anyway. 

Barefoot in the yard.

On the slack line since it's still daylight after supper and it's nice out, two things that haven't happened simultaneously in MONTHS and I'm not letting the chance slip by, like my skills have since I'm not permitted to set this up near the pool or the garage. Ours is on a stand, about five feet off the ground and it's not like I could put it up anywhere else as the stands are well-anchored and the grass is soft when I fuck up. My focus is completely absent, my centre of gravity is missing after having children, I think and my drive outweighs my desire in spades as I want to retain the talents without doing the training. I need the training so here I am, daily when I can. My strength is waning horribly. Lochlan keeps his up. I get tired walking up a second flight of steps lately, further possible confirmation that I did get the virus before Christmas and have simply managed to white-knuckle through it the way I do through everything else. 

Neamhchiontach.

Ah. Distractions. 

What? I yell, thrusting my arms out to the sides. I can pretend I've got this, but only if I don't fall off. 

You're supposed to have a spotter so you don't breaking your little fucking neck out here. 

Lochlan knows where I am. 

The hell he does or he would be here or have sent me out with you. 

If you stand that close to me I can't do anything-

If you fall and land on your head you'll be doing even less. 

Nice. 

He's got his arms out like I am a cat in a tree, ready to jump. I ignore him and try to concentrate but it's pointless so instead I tuck my arms in and do a dramatic swoon, falling right where he was hoping I would. 

Oh. He smells like cedar, coffee and cilantro. Nice. He puts me upright, on my feet. 

See? Safe. 

With the devil? I highly doubt it.

If I could go back and change one thing it would be anyone stalling on a Netflix series before it's finished. Making me start it and wait months to finish.

What would you like to do today?

Dream-plans or actual plans?

Start with dream plans, then and we'll go from there. 

I want to buy those huge shearling couches and put them in place of all of our couches and beds. Every room. 

Okay, actual plans. Caleb laughs his rakish chuckle upon seeing my dream plans turned out to be fairly harmless but not achievable because shearling is too hard to clean so I would never actually do it. Not with a black cat in the house, anyway. 

Besides, our couches are all comfy and old and broken in hard. Whenever I sit on a brand-new couch anywhere I am stricken by how terrible uncomfortable it is. 

Maybe velvet, then. Velvet is never a bad choice for anything.

I can get behind that. 

Perfect. I'll make a list. 

Honestly if this were winter anywhere else a long drive down the seashore then back through the countryside/woods and then a hot dinner and a glass of wine and a movie but this is the west coast and it's going to be sunny and upwards of ten degrees and so it's all seashore all the time and then probably steaks on the barbecue for dinner and then we'll wrap up Lost in Space (hate it) and Lucifer (love it so much) and then finish getting hooked on Hometown Cha-cha-cha. We haven't even started the new season of Ozark yet but apparently we need to finish the rest first. I already bailed on Arcane. I just wasn't in the mood but at the same time it was interesting. I don't think we watch enough television and then I lose momentum. 

I relay all of this to Caleb and he points out I can always spend the weekend with him and it would be more to my liking. 

Oh I bet it would. More to his, I think he means.

Barometers.

Struggling with big pictures, small victories, optimism, faith and delibilitating self-doubt today. 

Yep, sounds like a Friday to me. Many good things, many bad things, many normal everyday things that are like mountains in the way of my path moving forward and all of it is just average to everyone but still a mountain to me. I understand perspective and I understand stress. I understand my anxiety and how it manifests as fear and I understand the sun on my face will fix fully half of it and a good nights' sleep the other. Hopefully I can pull off one or the other, if not both. The sun and sleep, I mean. I can't pull my face off. Well I could and underneath is a tiny shrieking mouse with nowhere left to hide. 

On the upside we have nachos. There's a new season of the English speaking Love Is Blind (as much as I loved the colombia version it was also a culture shock I never made it past and found it so distracting. Not even in a bad way, I just felt like they were all bad actors in the end) and Daniel and I have a sound plan to get hooked on Netflix K-Dramas this weekend if it kills us. 

So see? My mind is a rollercoaster and I'm not taller enough to qualify to ride the fucking thing.

The ghosts are all home. I gathered them up into a squad. I keep my eye on them. I childproofed my brain so they can't get into any trouble and within the chorus of laughter I learned it wouldn't work.

It's from Etsy. That's all I know.

I just noticed that Lochlan spent all of yesterday walking around with my big soft yellow scrunchie around his wrist. I look terrible in yellow, but I can't be deterred because it makes me think of spring and so every year or six I buy a soft yellow sweater and this year I knew better but PJ got me a huge pack of velvet scrunchies when I said I was never cutting my hair again and I constantly have it tied up in a knot or a big messy bun on the nape of my neck and the yellow one turned out to be that perfect shade of Easter-pale yellow I adore. 

Don't picture it with grey/white/blonde hair though. So awful. And don't picture it with red either. Even worse. But I took it off yesterday when we went to unplug the kiln (EVERYTHING WORKED) and it caught on my sleeve and flew to the floor and Lochlan bent to pick it up, and knowing I didn't want to put it on right that moment as my head was cold, the sun had already set and I put on my beanie to go across to the studio and so he put the scrunchie on his wrist and it remained there until the morning when he took it off and left it on the bathroom counter. I have a huge basket of scrunchies there. Every color and pattern you can imagine but mostly velvet or corduroy. Satin falls right off. I hate scratchy fabrics and twill for scrunchies. They have to be soft. I chucked all my hair sticks and claws and forks and combs and clips. All that's left is a small tin of bobby pins and this huge basket. 

Not that you asked, but those gestures of his are the ones that give me oxygen when I feel like I can't breathe at all.

Production princess.

I lay in bed with the pillows over my head while Lochlan performed the mother of all pep-talks this morning. He was determined to make sure that I got up today since I didn't really on Monday or Tuesday for that matter. Well, I went and had my shot on Monday morning but since then it's been a fog, a benign February malaise and a struggle to get moving. 

But I can't resist a reaction to his performance any more than he can ever resist giving one and so, lured by the promise of good coffee and some hot eggs and toast, I went and took a long shower. The rash is mostly gone. My arm is itchy. It's still sore and I have a headache stupidly swollen lymph nodes but I'm up now, with clean hair, dressed in warm leggings and a hoodie and a knitted hat, because my ears are cold and I can't make it stop. 

I went out with him and loaded up the kiln. First glaze firing at home. I'm so excited. He hates the setup and wants to see and easier, more permanent setup than wheeling it out of the studio, but for now it still works and on rainy days I will build while on sunny days I will fire. The worst weather will see me rest and while all of this goes down my mind floats a mutiny through to the open sea, easily passing through the rapids to where the fresh water meets the salt and wind, sails tattered, boards battered, nerves shot to hell. 

You made it! He exclaims triumphantly when I return to the house after heading back to the studio solo,  checking to make sure the cycle is complete and the kiln is now beginning the long impatient cooldown cycle before I can open it. The rule is a hundred and fifty degrees, no sooner. A rule I agree to because it's a time saver in the long run, and because any hotter and you risk ruining the whole load. 

I did. I get a kiss on the hat (forehead-adjacent) and a huge smile from him. First one all week.

Today the arm is more sore and now decorated with a pinprick rash, and my throat and head hurt so bad I've drunk a whole container of grapefruit juice in a day. Ben is telling me to sleep, Lochlan wants me to stay awake, Caleb just wants to see the meds keep coming so I don't bolt or hide or turn myself inside out. I wanted to sew some things and I wanted to watch a movie but I don't have the energy for either. I feel like I've lost control of my life and the only way to quell the panic comes in the form of a fistful of pills from Lochlan (or PJ or Caleb) every eight to twelve hours and then I have a little respite.

Or I'm allergic and the rash is from that and not the booster shot and I feel kind of dumb, as we seem to be a few short weeks away from dropping all the mandates, all the passports, all the requirements and I still think I want to be a recluse but then I also want to go to a concert or hell, eat a Monte Cristo in the booth at my favourite spot that makes them, since they add turkey and it's real turkey, not lunchmeat-turkey but I also liked grocery shopping at seven in the morning and I liked the excuse of just staying in. 

Maybe I should live in my bed. The hermit-starlet. The reckless recluse. The grieving little monster, always. 

Someone asked where I was and I suppose I should answer but I wasn't sure if they meant physically, emotionally or spiritually so maybe I shouldn't answer at all? 

Physically I'm lying in bed watching Vogue's 73 questions (every now and then I catch up) and the Olympic figure skating and playing Christmas Mansion 3, still hoping that by next Christmas my village is ready at long last. I should have started this game last April instead of after Halloween but I persevere. 

I'm so jacked out on pills I can't feel a thing. It's good, this. The alternative is feeling too much, too deep, too hard and I can't. Not strong enough. Will never be strong enough and I hate that things change. Just when you get comfortable. Just when you think you can take a breath some part of your life, your comfort-mechanism gets yanked out of your heart and there's a huge hole. A huge one, so big you fall in every time you take a step forward and you climb out and try again and the sunsets hurt and the sunrise is so hopeful until you remember and death is a horrible thing but it's the only certainty, ever and here it is again because I got too comfortable, I guess. 

I'll be okay, I just might not post or I might post all the time. The only promises I make are to those around me, as always. I was already in a hole of sorts. This fashioned a lid for the hole and I was already inside and it took days to crawl out. I pulled my sweater around me and went for my booster shot and they played Lady and The Tramp in the waiting room for fifteen minutes afterward but I couldn't think about it. They gave me another sticker and now my arm is sore. I've lost five pounds from ignoring everything Lochlan tries to get me to eat and I just want to know when this won't feel so awful. 

Don't worry. It wasn't one of my precious boys.

They said it was a phase.

(I used to call him Trey but that seems too familiar any more.)

Cole and I are lying on our backs in the gazebo, watching the clouds rolls in, bringing the wind and the rain post haste. My coffee cup is near my left hand, forgotten and cold. Bitter, like me. Bitter, like my bones pressed against the damp boards in an ache of February the likes of which I've never seen. 

Cole is quiet. I took away his mouth. Left some of the good parts so I could still see that his face was trying to break into a smile when he read my shirt this morning. 

It's pink with holographic pastel rainbow balloon letters. It says I LICKED IT SO IT'S MINE. I only wear it as a pajama shirt thanks to my hard rebound back to black and so it's paired with navy fleece joggers from Gap that shrunk somehow so Dalton gave them to me to wear and they fit perfectly.

Cole reaches over to me and touches my face as I close my eyes against the brightening sky. I don't flinch anymore when he does that. Right now I think if I could go back I would have met him eye to eye, hurt him right back, made sure he knew how it felt to be treated the way he treated me and taught me that was love. The way he let his brother continue to terrorize me even as I asked him if we could move away, if we could start over, if we could somehow get away from him and yet he followed and then they all did too, just to keep an eye. New cities every ten years, new streets to remember, new lives to fill and here he is, lying next to me on a cold hard floor touching me while I fight to make something hurt so I don't cave in. 

Bridge!

A voice from the right and I lift my head, looking through Cole to see Lochlan on the patio. His face. Can he see him too? Do I have to explain why Cole doesn't have a mouth? 

Come inside. No one's with you? Fucking hell. Come now. 

(Like a dog. Here, Bridget. Good girl.)

Cole laughs silently (I can tell by his eyes) and I push him off the cliff. He leaves the grey sweater behind and I stand up, pulling it up around me in the sudden chill, hit the button on the heater that still doesn't work to turn it off and obediently go inside, making sure that the rain soaks up my pants from the grass. Hitting every puddle, taking my sweet time, making him wait while I try to remember what I did with Jake. I think he's in the freezer. That or in the loft above the garage.

 Here, typing my little worn, split fingers around the edge of a gaping black hole, and trying not to fall in.

Bad men.

I still don't know what PJ's retaliation was because Batman decided to kidnap me and is pacing and texting Caleb nonstop all afternoon so that I cannot overhear (ha) his threats or maybe they're promises, I don't know. Batman is prone to some scary, violent tendencies in a way that never really touches me, and every now and then he'll stare lovingly at me or pull my hair back and look at my ear. Sometimes he squeezes my hand. Sometimes my shoulder. Other times he quickly walks out of the room. In any case, he's going for a world record, as Caleb will put his phone down and pretend he doesn't see messages when pressed, so the threats must be right frightening at this point. They've been typing furiously for hours. 

New Jake thinks it's amusing. He thinks I play them. He thinks this is the long con and I already told him he was right, though I have no need to con Batman. Batman is just lonely. Well, I mean they all are, but I have no reason to con Batman. He's been nothing but wonderful to me my whole life and while he tries to be hands off, he knows I have a ridiculous penchant, no, rather, a kink maybe, for downright intense men and that I don't always understand my own boundaries and I have a terrible understanding of love and affection and a horrible addiction besides the axe to grind that I drag behind me because it's so heavy. 

Finally he hangs it up.

What would it take, Bridget? He says it softly. I think I misheard. 

I think you all have scolded him lots, I return. 

What if I took over the finances for you and you banish him?

I'm not going to do that. It's a whisper directly into his face and I flinch when his expression shifts so fast from kindness to rage and he turns and fires his phone into the french doors and yells, at last. 

Why the hell not?! Does he have something over you? Now is the time to tell me. Something has to be done. 

Leave him alone. Please. For me. 

Reaching a point where that's not going to be an option for much longer, Princess. He invokes the P-word and I shut down. They've weaponized the most treasured term of endearment I have ever had, twisting my fairy tale into the dark legend it's now become. 

He hurts people, Bridget. He hurt you. Multiple times. Thousands of times, probably. He hurt Ben. He's hurt all of us by what he's done and the only reason he exists is because you've built him a guilded candy cage in your mind and we can't break through it. 

Right so mind your own. 

That's it. You just going to let him chip away. A little piece of Bridge every time until there's nothing left. 

What a way to go. I head to the door, stop to pick up his phone which I bring back to him, and then pause with my hand on the knob. I'm going home. Touch him and I banish all of you, instead. 

This isn't going to be up to you, honey. 

Yes, it is.

Fun Monday facts.

I weirdly easily and annoyingly learned all of the words to Fancy Like and have been wandering around the house singing it at the top of my lungs all morning. Every time someone asks me to stop I suggest they pay the lady. I made four hundred and twelve dollars inside of half an hour. 

PJ and Lochlan had a major disagreement and Lochlan tried to follow PJ into his wing to talk about it and PJ slammed the door in his face and locked it. So Lochlan went and got a few sheets of wood and the drill and screwed the door shut (don't worry, PJ lives on the ground floor so if there's a fire he can get out) and then ordered PJ's favourite meal for lunch and ate it right outside the door (a toasted roast beef sandwich and sprouts on rye and steak fries from a local place) while PJ threatened extreme bodily harm from the other side of the door. Lochlan was taking a risk. PJ usually climbs out the window and storms back into the house. I think he's building the drama. Should be fun later. I feel another glitter bomb is coming. I just wonder from where. 

Caleb bit through the top of my ear last night. I did not feel it until I realized my hair was sticky (with BLOOD you gross fucks). I'm sure next Lochlan will shut him in a box, screw it shut and light it on fire as he sends it out to sea. Monster funeral. Ben cleaned my ear for me because Lochlan's hand was shaking too much. 

Schuyler came out of retirement officially. Says he was never really in it, as people still needed him. He's going to try again in a couple of years once he downsizes his project list. You would think that would have been the first thing he did. These boys are so good at fighting and working and so bad at relaxing. 

I watched Finch. The Tom Hanks movie? It was so good. I thought it was going to be Chappie 2. Luckily it was not. I also watched the Candyman remake. Sequel? Whatever. It was also really good save for the fact that they kept trying to paint the candyman as a misunderstood neighbor one minute and a demon the next. Like which is it? Also levitating in broad daylight is never a good horror trope. It just looks fucking dumb. But other than that the movie was high quality. I am most excited for the next Texas Chainsaw Massacre, which will be a direct sequel to the one that came out when I was two but I saw it when I was nine or ten and it was part of a long succession of now beloved slasher favourites. 

Halloween still tops the list but I also haven't seen Halloween Kills yet. Ruth told me it was bad so I'm waiting a bit just to soften the blow. I will still love it I bet. I'm terrible with that. But my ear doesn't hurt, at least. Duncan has some good painkillers. Or whatever it was. Mixed messages all the time, as always.

Absent Jesus, present Devil.

Coffee, cats and rain alone this morning. It's dark. No one got up early. I might not have slept more than a minute, as I tried tucking in against Ben and couldn't get warm or comfortable enough and so I got up at six. Jesus isn't getting a visit today, it's cold, rainy and miserable and the only thing I'm leaving the house for is a quick visit to Ruth before lunch. The boys staggered in one at a time and the coffee flowed, seemingly from one cup into the next and so on until a river of sweet caffeine opened everyone's eyes wide enough to greet the day. 

Hard to believe this is the downslide into a dozen years here. So much longer than I thought we'd stay. Lunar New Year, Groundhog Day, my booster shot and The Olympics are all up next. I can't breathe, and everything that goes wrong feels like the last straw. The days are growing longer minute by agonizing minute and I know damn well things will be better soon. It just doesn't feel like it today. 

Caleb rubs his thumb across the space between my eyes and smiles gently, as if to reassure. He fails but I let him have it anyway.

Ticket to ride.

Snowblind Friend is playing through the speakers. Lochlan taps one foot against the hard-packed ground while we wait in the blazing sun. He lifts one skinny arm up to shield his face as he squints at me. The hem of his green and white striped t-shirt rises up above his jeans when he does it and I see freckled skin along his hip. If he tucked his t-shirt in like I do it probably wouldn't do that, I think and sweat rolls down my forehead, pressing my bangs to my own freckled skin.

He said he wanted heaven but praying was too slow, so he bought a ticket to an airline made of snowwwwwwww-

What does that even mean? Like he wants to go somewhere to cold, to church?

No, Bridget. I'll tell you when you're older.

Why can't I know today? 

Remember that guy sitting in the doorway a month ago? The one that didn't know where he was? And you said he had flour all over his nose holes? It means that. Doing drugs that are bad. 

Not like from the doctor? 

No, like from the shaman. 

Oh.

(The shaman was someone who lurked around the fringe and supplied people on the tour with their own brand of heaven for their day off. Or maybe for every day, I don't know.)

Stars on 45 comes on, the Beatles medley. My favourite. I shake my butt and Lochlan frowns and shakes his head once. It means stop.  

Why don't you go and get some lemonade and wait for me over by Melody? Melody was the lady on this tour who oversees the food trucks. She's very nice. She told me she killed her husband and hit the road. I asked her how she did it and she told me I was too young to hear those kinds of horror stories but that I would grown up in a world with one less monster. I told Lochlan this and he laughed and said he wouldn't be surprised. 

I want to wait with you though. 

You'll burn. Go. 

I don't argue with him. I take the five dollar bill and go get two lemonades. Melody won't take my money so I stuff it in the tip jar and she winks at me. She'll give it back to Lochlan tonight I bet. Everyone spoils us as we are the youngest people on the tour and what they know is that Lochlan is old enough to be emancipated and he has guardianship of me, that I am his little sister and we're escaping bad, drunk parents. For some reason everyone here is also escaping something so they accept it as gospel and give us free food and easier jobs. They look out for us.

And some of them prey on us, and so Lochlan waits patiently outside the office for the rest of his paycheck, as only half of it was in the envelope when he was handed it earlier at circle meeting. 

He says he always keeps track of his hours and this isn't the kind of advantage he worries about people trying to take. That money problems will always be fixed if you ask people to be straight up with you. 

I shake my butt a little under the awning while I sip my lemonade and hold Lochlan's in my left hand. His ice is melting and I finally see him disappearing into the office. He comes out three minutes later with another envelope and holds it up. Victory. Maybe the boss thought he wouldn't count every last dollar but he always taught me to do that and said it's up to me to see that it's right, no one else and to never assume. 

I hold up his lemonade in return and some of it sloshes down my arm, dripping off my elbow onto my Nikes. He smiles really big and heads over, just as the Beatles medley ends. I don't hear what's next. I get a kiss on the cheek and a showman's flourish in his Thank you, Miss as he takes the cup and drinks it in one go, shaking his hair off his face, grimacing at the sour-sweetness of the drink.

The reluctant storyteller.

I threw a chair off the front porch this morning in a rage-panic. Went down and picked it up and wrestled it back up the steps while Lochlan watched but did not help, even as I scratched the dark green paint on the floor of the porch because the chair is wooden, large and heavy. I scream again as I finally shove it back into place and wonder how I managed to get it over the rail in the first place. 

Feel better? He says, looking out across the drive toward the woods. 

Nope, I admit. 

Want to go for a walk?

Too cold. 

Everything's fine, Bridget. In a while this will be another tale, down the road.

I know he's right but I really hate this feeling. Panic is only marginally better than outright fear and I don't want to feel either one.

Bonus post: The way to a girl's cold, dead heart.

Lochlan just came home with a pick me up for me. McDonald's french fries and a big bag of colour-changing fire pinecones. He really knows the way to cheer me up. It's only marginally better than his usual drugstore bag of goodies with the lip balm, Archie comics and nail polish in a weird color, gummy bears, fruit-scented pen and notebook and a hair tie. I'm a simple girl. Seriously.

Sidewalk chalk but I do spells with mine.

Rickety little Jeep is all fixed now and happily back in the drive waiting for the next round of snow (or repairs, but hopefully the snow will come first.) Every time a boy looks at it they wistfully point out they could have done the work. PJ laughed in repairman when he found out how much I paid for my repairs and what they ended up doing but hey, at least there's a carfax record now, something we never got when we bought it. LOL. I was too busy fighting to get an inspection report, which took a week or near to and once I got that in my hands I forgot about damned near everything else. 

I may call and ask for it. Then I have the full record for the vehicle. 

In other news, it's fucking minus whatever and my fingers are split wide open and I was racking my brains to remember what I used to use on them in the prairies to soothe and heal them. 

Lanolin. Pure lanolin. 

Found my tube and now I'm good to go. 

Also Duncan is being cute today and I'm so dead.

Last of my kind, for sure.

Burns night was a mad success. I enjoyed a single glass of mead but did not have anything after that. Cleanup was quick and the Scottish folk music channel was playing softly in the background. 

In my bid to live completely off-grid with nothing more complicated than an oil lamp wick to deal with or maybe the wheel on my buggy might fall off and I'll have to make a new axle out of a tree branch or something, the boys decided to go full Smart Home (before it was only a few rooms, none of which I ever go into) much to my dismay, and now every time I want to turn on music, a light switch or (probably) a man, I have to announce it, prefacing it with Hey, Google! Or Okay, Google! 

It's somewhat magical and somewhat infuriating, which is how I describe Lochlan most times so no surprise there. It's really neat. It solves a weird, longterm problem of having too many lights on solitary switches on some of the different floors and it also solves the problem of me trying to connect my phone to bluetooth, an Olympic feat best left to the professional tech athletes in the house. I am full on amateur. It never works. If it does I am surprised and then can't replicate it again for weeks. 

Very frustrating. 

So this solves half a problem and creates a half-dozen more in the process. 

But the boys think it's cool. 

They spend all day sneakily changing the colours of the lights of rooms I am in.

Nursing my wrath to keep it warm.

The neighbourhood looks terrible right now. The post-winter, pre-spring death of last summer is still in the air. The fog and dim heavy cloud cover keeps it dark, and everything is wet leaves, mud or damp brick. The trees are bare and wind-ravaged, the birds have left, and even the water is roiling, black. 

The only shining light is Jacob, standing by the new, far edge of the circle driveway.

The gang is coming back on the weekend or early next week to add an outdoor lockable cover for my kiln and to fix up a couple of tiny leftover issues, like mainly how I found a very large pile of broken bricks in the woods just past where the lawn ended before. I texted a picture to Ransom and told him he forgot something and he has five days to collect it. He said Saturday. And then he texted sorry, but he didn't know. 

And here I was so thrilled about everything else. I don't like it when someone hides or leaves waste materials after a job. It's as close to a dealbreaker as I can get save for jobs that run way over. I told Caleb next work project that arrives on the point may see me leave it forever. I just want some peace and quiet. 

Does it scare your ghosts away? He says, his voice in a serious tone. 

I look up at him and he looks sad and resigned. Maybe he sees them too. 

Sometimes. 

I think that's it for a while. They did a good job though. 

I nod. PJ now leaves his Jeep all the way around past the house almost to the point where the circle rejoins the long driveway. He goes out often and likes to make things easy. I get pride of place right in front of the porch steps but like I said or maybe I didn't. My vintage Jeep has sprung a tantrum and needs to go in the shop tomorrow morning because no one has the time or energy to fix it anymore. Least of all, me. 

The job is well-done. I like driving on the brick. Jacob clasps his hands behind his back and glowers at Caleb, watching us but unable to do anything about our proximity. I am leaning back against Caleb who leans against the rail. I told him we needed to rake the leaves and he had them do it and now it looks better and I think I'll stick to walking the dog down to the cliff and back or maybe to Batman's french doors and back so I don't have to see the sorry post-Christmas state of life on the Outside. 

We may be out of time for that. The Devil shoots his cuff and checks his beautiful watch. It's after four. Time to start supper. He drew the short card and has to help me make a Burns Night Supper. Whiskey, candles lit with no electricity otherwise, and sausage instead of haggis, mashed potatoes and a veggie, since the haggis is hard to find and only truly liked by half the point, or maybe a third, and Lochlan didn't want me travelling anywhere other than our regular grocery store anyway due to health order constraints on the population so it's a bit of a relief and I'll be drunk by dinner time anyway, if I'm lucky. 

Even thou who mournst the daisies fate, that fate is thine. Jacob's voice in my head like a sudden spike of pain.

You okay, Neamhchiontach? 

Fine.

Dark; crowned with blackberry thorns.

It's official. Sam's breakfasts might be even better than the ones at Troll's, though with Troll's there are no dishes, no cleanup, no pans to wash. And you usually get a bill that makes it cost more than buying separate ingredients at the grocery store and making it yourself. I'm not sure if the lack of cleanup makes the difference worth it or not. 

I could do that math, but between you and me I am exceedingly nervous about being in public these days and to be certain there is no price on peace of mind, at least to me, and so I think Sam would be a good short-order cook as long as Matt is away but it won't be long and I will be back to fending for breakfast for myself while everyone else does the same. 

Jacob waved from the edge of the woods to me when I went to take some things out to the stables. 

I waved back, reflexively and then caught myself. There you are, I think. Hiding in the fucking woods. That would be Cole's doing, sure as I live and breathe. Cole loves the woods. Jacob loves the beach. They were complete and total opposites and my brain has awkwardly put them together as companions, almost and so they are always together and must compromise. I find they take long periods in turn, like a season almost and then-

Where are you, Peanut? 

In a fog maybe. Camping my projects and my pet projects too, I think. Sorry.

It's fine. Ready? 

I nod and follow him back toward the garage. We are warm and fed and ready to go and do the repairs that Sam and I dutifully logged on the weekend. It won't take long. Lochlan loves this chore. Sam doesn't have to go because he made breakfast for everyone. Win-win.

Foggy Jesus/Withdrawals.

I can't see anything this morning. Our whole world is encased in a thick fog. The ocean is gone, hell, the gazebo is gone. Matt is gone on a quick trip home to see family and Sam didn't really want to travel right now so they amicably agreed to miss each other and then everyone else got pissed off when I said we would keep Sam company until Matt comes back on Wednesday. He was sent in the jet which, I KNOW I KNOW carbon footprint but also CORONAVIRUS so there.

(Also I have zero input on that. Caleb offered. Matt accepted. I don't think he even wanted to go before that. It's a duty visit and those suck balls.)

I am playing a quiet/sappy playlist through my air pods and enjoying this very much Maritimer-specific weather for once. It's freaking cold out but doable in a hoodie, and we are walking the property as we try to do at least once a week to check for problems, changes, updating our list on what's been done and what hasn't, checking to see if anything big and weird washed up on the beach (I wait for the ubiquitous west coast shoe with a foot inside but it hasn't happened. I'm telling the truth. Yes, I love bones but never from people. Unless they're teeth. I love teeth.), if any parts of the fence have been broken, if any trees have fallen or if any outbuildings are insecure (like yours truly). 

Sam isn't saying much of anything. I think he's tired. I know I wore him to smithereens and he swore in the dark and fell asleep next to Lochlan, forehead pressed against Lochlan's shoulder and I laughed so quietly and Lochlan smiled and said it was probably for the best. We're a huge comfort mechanism for Sam and he for us. No explanations no apologies and no boundaries whatsoever, there. 

I am singing along with The Weeknd and abruptly Sam turns back and laughs silently at me, or so I think. I pull out an air pod and he suggests I turn it down slightly so I can hear myself. If I can hear I can sing in key. If I can't hear myself I will...not. And it is funny but it's also mildly stinging and so I fall back further, letting my notebook swing in my hand as I follow him. No more singing then, he can have silence. Besides, Ben and Lochlan are still asleep and since Sam is off for his sabbatical I don't understand why we're the ones up working early on a Sunday but we are also the ones who are the early birds, chirping at the clouds, marvelling at the rain, watching for the sun. Sam says a quick prayer before we walk out the door and now here we are, sniping at each other lovingly as we go. 

He's promised to make me coffee and eggs Benedict with crab cakes AND English muffins when we go in and he even said a double-order of hash browns is possible if I want. 

That's why I didn't throw the notebook at him back and stomp off into the fog already. 

I'm not dumb.

Nameless, graceless, oh and untouchable too.

Ben was on a facetime call on his laptop and I thought he was on speakerphone so I came right up beside him only to be caught onscreen. He's on with someone he sometimes writes with/for and is giving advice or maybe they're just shooting the shit and I try to sneak away before I can be acknowledged, stepping back around so the laptop faces away.

Hey...is that...she looks so familiar. Hey did that girl used to be on your Canadian tours sometimes? She wasn't with you though. A friend, I think you said. 

We're together now. 

Funny, Since you said friend before, I went for that sweet little piece of ass so hard. She looked like a deer in the headlights when I tried to talk to her. I was right beside her during your set. Looked right at me, almost through me and then just turned and left. She said nothing. She was cold-

She's deaf. 

What's that? She was playing at it to avoid me? 

No, she's actually deaf. But since my speakers are up loud she can hear you now so keep it respectful as I'd hate to have to end the call. 

No harm, no foul, man. 

Maybe apologize to my lady, who is still in the room. 

I am sorry, Miss...? I didn't catch your name. I didn't mean to be crass. I am appreciative of your beauty to the point where I forgot to be polite. Please accept my apologies. 

Ben is smiling at me. He's amused. Tour times are far in the past now. This right here is one of the reasons I rarely visited him backstage. I would go and give my regards to people I knew and on my way back I would be ambushed by people I didn't. Tours were a little hedonistic and weird, to say the least. 

I stick my middle finger up at Ben and he cackles in his drawl behind the screen. This guy can't see me and Ben moves along. All good, man. No worries. Thanks for that. Now did you need my manager to send you details-

With that I leave the room. I have actual cold icky chills from that feeling and I want to be up by the fire where it's warm. Maybe Caleb can pour me a brandy. Maybe I could pretend I was someone else but for some reason they always remember me so easily.

MIA.

The very good news is the heavy-machinery part of the driveway is done (after four long days of noise) and the very Bougie part of having a whole team laying bricks by hand has begun. It's a thankless, tedious, back-breaking job and I intend to reward each team member aside from whatever Ransom is paying. I've already ordered them hot breakfasts and hot lunches each day and bring them tea and lemonade in between meals and Ransom is mad that they take far too many breaks here. 

Have you laid brick? I dare you to try it and tell me a lot of breaks aren't required. 

He didn't dare say anything else and the hot meals will continue, though apparently they will be finished by Saturday night. 

I mean, that's pretty good. And next week will be quiet. I hope. I did a huge grocery shop with Ben. Surprisingly there are still no good cereals (Kelloggs is having a moment. A stop work order, I believe so no product due to labour disputes) and God knows where all the spices went, but I can make my own Italian seasoning and I did find pepper and I will use fresh stuff dried and stored from last year's gardens for everything else. 

Next week is a car week, as my vintage Jeep needs some TLC...A starter motor and some liquid or linkage for the four-wheel-drive. I don't know. It bit the biscuit over the last snow event and while I could buy a starter and bolt it on, I just want it done and no one wants to work on it with me so I will pay stupid labour costs to the garage too. Why not, I'm on a roll here. 

Then the cats. Oh yes. The cats. One is terminal as I said yesterday and lives on pain meds and cuddles these days with a super-short prognosis, and the other has an auto-immune disease and needs meds now too and suddenly the pets are all ancient, the kids are all grown up, Lochlan has an errant white streak appearing at his temple and all of the boys are staring down advanced middle age and I am here still stuck at seventeen and screaming for them to slow down so I can keep up. 

There's your barometer, I tell Sam, who sits patiently at the big table in the kitchen, iPad, notebook, phone, bible and coffee cup in front of him. 

Sounds like a good one. Not too busy, not too bored, not too panicked, didn't mention ghosts even once, worried more about your Apple Jacks than your devil and not the least bit worried about your own mental health. To what do you attribute the change today?

The noise finished so I'm grateful. And also the full moon is over. Oh, and the days are getting longer and have you seen Jake cause I can't find him at all lately.

George likes to add spaces and Bridget isn't impressed.

If the editing is wonky again let me just tell you George drags himself through life like a depressed sloth and no matter how fast I get going on a keyboard he is rife with insolence, determined to do his own thing here, and I am left also annoyed but in the dust. He has control over my dominate hand and control he will, even as I rail and go back time and time again to add the words he refused to type, change the words he added in spite of what I wanted to write and fix up the cadence, grammar and punctuation. I still see things I missed and I'm too headachey-tired to bother fixing it all a fourth time here today so never fucking mind, George. You win. Happy now?

In other news, the weather looks like it is going to hold for the weekend and I can fire my kiln. I'm very excited about this but also I did not make enough things and now I'm sad because as always life is about having all the time in the world and then suddenly having none (George tried to write now right there, gosh I hate him sometimes). On the upside the good weather for our region is coming, and the bad is retreating. The days will be longer and so I'm excited to have more time, not less with which to experiment and try things and make things. Even if it's all little trinkets and gifts for people. I've always wanted to do this. 

Schuyler asked me about marketing last night, as in if I have a plan to sell things. Maybe locally? I also had an invitation to sell my wares on a relative's website but I am only thinking about that for now, and not really sure what to do. Let me focus on being happy with what I make first and then I will worry about the rest of it. 

In any case, at least George likes to make things with me. Maybe he was a repressed fifties business man and he wanted to be a creative gay? Who knows. I just know we're both happier lately when we're not writing, which is an absolute first for me and a horrible, strange feeling overall. It will come back. I hope. 

I feel like I've somehow tested positive for pandemic-fatigue. Or maybe it's life-fatigue. I just know one of my cats is terminal, the other two pets ancient and hardly mobile, the whole house seems so empty without Ruth and I'm all but torturing Henry with frettish attention and the fact that life is still shut down and everything is awful is beginning to catch up with me in a way I didn't expect. For once it's not the dead, it's the living that's the problem and this is new. I hate it, for the record. At least the ghost emotions were predictable.

Recipe for a good night's sleep.

We were alone. He had my face in his hands and his weight on my whole heart, lowering himself slowly into me, never breaking his gaze. It's a nightly reinvention for us. A show, just for us. An intense, quick-burning but slow-smouldering act of contrition against everything (and everyone) else. By the time our hipbones touch I am desperate for the inevitable quickening of our pace which always follow a languid, almost-hesitant to the point of torturous beginning. He always looks for my doubt and he can extinguish it quickly, an errant spark left to burn before being put out for safety. Lochlan was my very first true lover and he will be my last. That alone gives us a depth that no one else can touch. 

A kiss followed by one hand moving away while the other slides down around my neck. The one that moves away is now against my hip, flattening my pelvis out for him as the gentleness leaves us in favour of that desperation I referenced before. I pull the sheets up around us with both arms and then give up if only to hold on to something that isn't moving at all. Then I give up on that too and hold his arms, muscles flexing them almost too big for me to hold onto so I am clutching his shoulders.

Are you looking for a handle? He whispers with a laugh as he pulls back and flips me onto my face. Pulling my hips up while I laugh into the blankets I am flattened out once more, this time under the weight of his own heart, and I close my eyes. He takes my  hands and pulls them up above my head where he gathers them in one of his hands, and his other hand presses my stomach up so that my back is pressed against his chest and abdomen. The whole world ignites in this space now and the darkness is left behind. His lips press against my temple, his breath ragged in my hair. I am a captive audience. I am a meal. I am flammable, combustible-girl for Lochlan's very own brand of fire. I am sent to the moon while he circles around the stars, joining me on the surface to see the earth, just for a moment.

And we are warm at last. His breathing slows, his hands unclench, his whole body relaxes as he lies down beside me, pulling me up and into his arms, letting my hands fall. A kiss against my lips and his fingers to smooth away the hair from my face and his own and he presses his forehead in hard against mine. 

Good? 

So good, I whisper back.

He nods and pulls my shoulders in close so my head tucks underneath his chin. We are both asleep in seconds. 

Useful idiot.

One good thing about Ransom is he'll always ask for my list. He knocked on the door yesterday late afternoon and Dalton got it and then all of the sudden Ransom is in my kitchen, masked up, as per house rules if you don't live on the point, asking me if I have anything else for him to do. There's always a honey-do list on the side of the fridge with things that Have To Be Done and yesterday was no exception. 

There's the caulking at the bottom of the stairs, the screen door needs to be replaced on Duncan's door and on August's and caulking the kids' bathroom so check the others, the step at the bottom of the sauna is rotted through and if you can find out what's taking my electrician so long. Just kidding, that one is on me. 

I cough and he asks when I booked.Then he says to just have PJ call and cancel and Ransom's guy will do it. 

It was done by four-thirty and now I have an operating kiln and no time to try it out. 

Actually there's a little problem with the fact that it needs to be outside. I would wheel it out on a dolly. I'm not concerned. But I need a roof over it so the stables need a porch. Then they won't be stables anymore and it will just be a fully-fledged house and I can just go live in it and get away from these-

Anything else? 

No, that's it thank you. 

He winks and turns and leaves. Just like that. Perfect. 

Dalton asks which crystal he should bring down to fix the vibes in the room now. 

All of them. 

PJ laughs from the couch where he waits for me. Right beside Lochlan. Lochlan is where those vibes came from. He likes Ransom less than I do.

I'm not going near the front of the house today. That's where all the noise is.

Today's t-shirt reads ONLY THE BLONDE SURVIVE. I love it. Matt got it for me in an airport overseas somewhere and it's starting to pill slightly. It also pulls just a little in the front and the cut is perfect for a girl. Nipped in at the waist and skims over my hips perfectly. Sleeves actually fit. When I wear Ben's XL men's shirts it's like putting on a black garbage bag. Shapeless but soft. I threw on green leggings with it, since the shirt is ivory with pink bands at the arms and neck and I look like a little kid fresh out of her snowsuit, complete with messed up hair. I dried my hair with a blow dryer but I couldn't find my brush. Then I started coughing anyway and added a sweater to my outfit because within an hour Lochlan will demand I put one on.

Cue a hot chocolate, because damn near everyone's trained now. 

And we've hit that part of January where not only did most of the boys go for a dry January if they aren't already in recovery, but they really went for a dry January, in that the remainder of the solitary men almost one by one gave up the faint hope in their dating apps and unsubscribed and deleted them off their phones. 

They do this every year. 

It always makes me vaguely sad but also mindful of years past when the desperate, poor-decision panic would set in so that people would not be alone for the holidays and the boys would make a go of burgeoning relationships in one of the most stressful periods of the year. It never ended well. I doubt it ever would, except in rare occasions and I see this as an armchair anthropologist, always. I've watched these boys my whole life and life is a roller coaster with free admission, for sure.

PJ has his head in my lap as I sit by the fire gingerly holding my piping hot drink over his head and trying to take sips as he laments the state of the world, that this wasn't what he intended but that he also wouldn't change a thing and he can't quantify why he feels fulfilled but he does. It's a stream of consciousness existential crisis and he has a few each year. 

I'll indulge him until he's good and finished because he's had nothing but time for me. I braid his beard while he talks and look at the colour of his eyes and the flecks of light in his irises and I will lament the almost-waste of a perfect man save for the fact that he did say he was fulfilled and maybe not becoming a husband and father but still having the role for the best years of his life is enough. 

This is a man who cried a little the other day when Ruth came in and told him how many paintings she sold over the holidays and how much she made by doing so. He's always got patience and concern and pure love for all of us and it shows. PJ's love language is service and I'm glad he's never let that part of him shut down. 

He's also the world's most comfortable human weighted blanket. 

He's also rude and completely incorrigible and I love him for that too.

I love that my face is mere inches from your-

Padraig! Don't be gross. We were having a moment. 

We could have a moment-

Hush, you.

Unspoiled.

What is happening with the fountain?

They're going to change it up. A Cherub, maybe. You choose.

Medusa. 

Bridg-

You told me to choose! That makes the most sense, honestly. 

The fountain is getting a big upgrade. And they'll be removing the little pond altogether and just making it look like the rest. Perennials. Etc. etc. Work starts tomorrow because of course, ofc. ofc. Just delay someone else's project so you can pull a whole team and come harass Bridget and overcharge and just..GOD. I wish we could get a new contractor. Emmett is 'unavailable' (I love that word so much) and Ransom is weirdly free. 

RIIIIIIIGHT. 

Yes, so Medusa. 

We'll discuss it. What if we got some koi-

No. Take the pond out, please. It should never have been there in the first place. No one was going to look after it. 

Caleb looks so defeated. We're trying to make this a paradise for you, Neamhchiontach. When you are happy, we'll be happy. 

I thaw a tiny bit. I liked it before. 

It was muddy and deteriorating pavement. 

I know. Now it's just so...sterile. 

Your input is what makes it less so. He's so gentle with his words. 

The fountain is ridiculous. What if we take it out? 

And put in? 

An apple tree with a swing and a garden of flowers around it. Some more lampposts.

Done. 

Oh, thank God. 

You hate the fountain that much?

It looks like when you drive up to a hotel. It's dumb looking. I want a home, not a house. 

I start coughing again and he says that's enough for now and heads off to make hot chocolate for me. It's like a bottomless cup. 

He returns in five minutes with a cup on a plate and some cut up apples. Good, I wasn't about to indulge you with the Medusa anyway.

No Easy.

In a commune full of big, strapping, ridiculously-healthy men it's almost hilarious how the germs go in circles, bypassing everyone with any seriousness until they get to me. The weakest link. The runt, as it were, feral girl prone to every last crumb of sickness and once I get and develop it into a full-blown illness then I give it back to everyone, they work through it and then it lingers only to infect me once more. 

It's not Covid. I've been tested twice now. It's just the flu. Probably because I sleep three or four hours a night and just run on white-knuckle breath-held vibrations and that never changes. Lochlan was running a mild fever too this morning almost as if on instruction, as the doctor said this will run it's course in a few days and to call him if anyone spikes a fever over 104 or if we can't keep control of the symptoms. I worry slightly about Caleb and about New Jake who are both men with health concerns but they both seem fine. 

(Do not even ask me why New Jake wouldn't be fine because I ain't talking.) 

Daniel has the sniffles but no fever. PJ coughed once and Caleb glared at him until he lied and said he breathed his coffee by mistake instead of swallowing it, and otherwise everything seems good so at least it's not pneumonia (I still have at least eight weeks to get that and I'm sure there's one with my name on it waiting in the wings, as ever) and it's not bronchitis. The other favourite.

I lamented being sick all the time and Lochlan pointed out germs are heavier than air so it makes sense if I'm shorter I catch more. Like krill for a baleen whale. I'm just walking through life filtering them with my teeth. 

A vision.

Indeed.

Bathic content.

(I'm doing nothing but waiting so here's a post about nothing.)

Lochlan reaches up and turns on the light on the chest of drawers. My face is illuminated in the mirror. Delirious eyes, wild hair. Pink cheeks. He kisses my shoulder, without taking his eyes from mine in our reflection.

Bathtime. 

I close my eyes and he leads me into the big ensuite and I am put on the chair to not fall over while he runs the water in the tub. He adds a capful of rose oil and a capful of bubbles and then one of salts too (which takes away a lot of the bubbles) and then he comes back and takes off the Hello Kitty pajamas I am still wearing. 

We can burn these. 

They're my favourite. 

I'll get you a new set. He kisses my forehead (should we burn that too? I feel like I already am, from the inside out) and I'm neck-deep in bubbles finally. I lie back against the little pillow and instantly slide down so that just my face is visible. 

Good? Lochlan appears upside down above me. 

Come in with me. 

After I wash your hair. 

He sits on the little stool by the tub where I normally keep my phone and washes my hair for me before stripping down and sliding into the tub behind me. The water is now up to my shoulders and I'm still sitting up. He lies back and I use him as a pillow. I offer sleepily to wash his hair and he says he doesn't want salt in it. 

Salt should be in everything, I point out. 

Tomorrow you can have a saltwater bath then. 

I don't know what he means but I close my eyes and breathe in the steam and my throat feels a little better. The doctor is coming after lunch today. He would have been over first thing but he is flying back. It's fine. I'm not going anywhere. Other people have far worse problems. Get to me when you get to me, I think and before I know it our time is up in the tub, because Lochlan doesn't want me to overheat. 

I could live in the bathtub.

Come on, mermaid. Let's get you dry. He steps out and towels his skin off quickly, giving me the most wonderful show while he's doing it. His milk-pink skin, freckles scattered everywhere like sun stars, hair still tied back, woodchopping/fire throwing muscles threatening to blow his white-collar cover, as ever. Tattoos damned never everywhere now and I love it. He was late to the game, but took it up eventually.

What are you staring at?

You. 

Let me return the favour then. He holds out his hands and I take them, stepping ungracefully over the very high side of the tub. He wraps me up in a giant towel and lets the water out of the tub and then comes back.  

Oops. Forgot your hair.

It's fine. 

Another towel and he blots my whole head. (One of the advantages of being with a man with super crazy curls is he doesn't rub your head dry like he's polishing wax off a car. My hair used to be straw for a while there, right through the Cole/Jake/Ben years, but now it's shiny and soft again. God, my brain's going everywhere. It's probably a prion disease). 

I am combed and dressed in clean clothes. A warm baggy sweater and comfortable soft jeans. Matching Lochlan only his sweater is a navy and mine a robin's egg blue. Our jeans are the same shade of dark indigo and he goes back, after a thought, and gets socks for me. Thick cream-coloured wool socks that feel so nice. I am the barefoot princess, usually. 

I wait for a hat and a coat, possibly, but he seems satisfied at last. 

Breakfast-

-I'm starving.

God, I love it when we can read each other's minds. Good girl, he says, and I go weak in the knees.

Hello sicky.

Two in the morning and there's a knock at the door. I startle awake because I'm a light sleeper. Lochlan's hand grips mine and then lets go as he turns over. He's in dreams, at the fair, no doubt. His happy place. Way back at the start. 

I open the door just a little. The Devil's face in shadow from the light from the windows at each end of the hall. 

Neamhchiontach. Will you come to me? 

I study his face in the dark. The expression holds, as if cast in stone and I meet his eyes. Yes. 

I come back to the nightstand for my phone while he waits by the door. Lochlan touches my hand and then makes his warning. 

You bite her again and I'll kill you. 

You have my word. Caleb says it softly in order not to wake up Ben. 

I close the door gently and we move down the hall, around the corner and to his door. He bends down to kiss me on the forehead and then opens the door and waits for me to enter first. His rooms are dark. He wagered on me saying no, or not being allowed. He turns on a few low lights and the gas fireplace and then comes back close to me, pulling me in against his chest, tucking his head down toward mine, breathing in my hair. 

He exhales slowly, as if he has been holding himself tense and ready.  I hold my breath like a line thrown from a ship and I'm in the water. As hard as I can. It forces me to cough and he just holds tighter, smoothing his hand up and down my back as if to soothe me. His hand is warm. 

For once. 

When I stop long enough for him to relax again he steps back away from me, shrugging out of his jacket in one motion. It's fine wool but he lets it fall to the floor in a crumple anyway, and then he takes his cufflinks off. He doesn't unbutton his shirt though and he steps closer again, hands around the hem of my Hello Kitty pajama top. It's a glorified t-shirt. Soft and thin. He pulls it up gently and I raise my arms over my head dutifully. The shirt joins the jacket. He takes his shirt off quickly and pulls me back in to his warmth and I don't mind. It's cold. 

The sound of the rain against the windows drowns out anything he has said so far, or maybe he's said nothing. Either way we stare at each other but don't speak. He lets his pants fall so he's down to his briefs and I'm still in my pants, shivering now. I look at my shirt and he snatches it up, pulling it back over my head, threading my limbs through the holes. 

For now, he reassures himself and again, I say nothing. 

He leads me down the hall into the dark and I can appreciate his form. Strong and tall. Confident in a way that only comes with time and money. A sudden confidence compared to the acting he did at my bedroom door. Just vulnerable enough for me to drop my guards and then back to predictable devil. 

He takes his time. He takes all night, almost. I am not released for sleep just yet though. He isn't finished with me yet. 

And then I cough again and he stops. 

Bridget, are you sick? 

I didn't think I was. It's just a tickle. 

By morning there is a roaring fever to accompany that cough and I can hardly move. No one blames him, though. I am still in my pajamas, and they are stuck to me as I sweat right through them. It wasn't cold. It was chills. It wasn't a delirious dream, it was a fever dream. The best and worst kind all at once.

Honoured.

Home to the Devil and the magician who take notes and are collaborating this morning on breakfast. There's a roaring fire in the woodstove, all my tiny lights are lit and nothing else and the rain pours down outside like a punishment for something dire. They are making marshmallow fluff toast and hot chocolate mixed with coffee. My very own early cafe mocha, as it were. Lochlan makes a last-minute healthy choice to peel an orange, as is his custom so that I don't die of scurvy but I always feel like Veruca Salt at the chocolate factory in life. 

Or maybe that's Augustus Gloop. 

Shakti. Lochlan's voice floods into my head. It's amusing. Caleb can't hear him in here.

Either way, I am well-fed, rested-up, touched-out and content right at this moment. I reach up to hit the pause and Caleb takes credit. Almost instantly, before my finger can touch that invisible but necessary button, he crows that he knew it would work. Lochlan glowers at him but says nothing and I let my arm come back in close against my body for warmth. Not pausing right here, suddenly I'd like to hurry through. Suddenly my handknit sweater isn't warm enough and the fire's heat isn't reaching me and the coffee's grown cold in the cup. 

Lochlan feels it and comes and pulls me in against him, his arm tight around me, fist holding me to his heartbeat. A kiss on the top of my head stakes his claim and I am written into the logs as his forever. I always thought I never deserved it maybe, or that he was simply too good to be true. Oftentimes I thought I would never be good enough or that his standards were so high I couldn't see over the top and then he reminds me that life is simple, that we have what we need and we have each other and I can't hear the devil any more and then Lochlan works his magic and I can't see the devil either and it's a moment I can finally breathe.

Unsavage garden.

Eating Pad Thai in Schuyler's bed, watching Emily in Paris because Daniel offered and I'm not saying no to any of the three offers-their bed, good Thai food and endless feel-good Netflix, and feel-good only. 

Today will not be a sad day, Schuyler proclaimed, remote held high. 

That was yesterday and well, we're still here. This is the very definition of a safe place. There are no ghosts, no frowning allowed and no tears unless we are Working Through Shit and no safe words because these men pay close attention and find no joy whatsoever in hurting people to get off. They also don't throw out sharpened words meant to hurt and they're always up to speed on who in the house needs a little S&D, their very own brand of TLC. 

It involves ones favourite meal, a bunch of happy shows or music, and absolutely no clothing, or clothing optional in winter, as I've been dozing in Ben's big t-shirt all day, as is my habit. I feel almost whole again as neither the ghosts nor the demons can touch me in here.

Told you, Daniel says, and he kisses my nose. Better?

Almost. I yawn again. Schuyler winks at me.

That's it then, we're keeping you for the week.

Build the ark, I'm coming for you.

Ben isn't doing cocaine. He's all about the self-disparaging jokes these days, and yet they take a while. He thinks slower than he used to. The words, the thoughts and plans are all there in his head but his head healed a little thicker than it was before, he says, and so it takes a little longer for everything to come out. 

I always always tease him when he says this, as he has always been thick-headed. Stubborn. Aren't we all. 

And we have have as many bad days as good, here on the point. The barometer is never just for me, though I can be as quiet as they can when things aren't just right. Only I can't fake it along through the hours. I just get more and more wound up, fingers clenched, teeth clenched, miserably tight and miserable indeed and then I explode or I melt, depending on the issue and everyone gets to see everything and I get to keep nothing to myself. 

It's healthier but I hate being the bad guy. 

And so does Ben but Ben is in survival mode. For those who say it's nice to retire before sixty with a catalogue the likes of which he has, for those who say more money is so lovely and that rich people shouldn't complain, for those who do nothing but snark before me from their faceless keyboards, words stabbing my tattooed skin like daggers, drawing endless blood, endless rivers of black and the floods carry us all away, I can only say one thing. 

Fuck you.

8:03/4:31 (we're the worst).

Caleb is at the bedroom door. 

I have something for you, Neamhchiontach. 

Lochlan looks up from his book. We are hibernating today. Having hygge (which is the danish word for fun, if you want to be technical). Clean pajamas, a small fire that we let go out because it got so warm we opened all the windows instead, and breakfast for three, in bed, and I lost a fork and Ben went looking for it which made us all howl with laughter. Then...um...new sheets and more clean pajamas because fork is a similar word to, and sometimes used as, another word that makes sense in the bedroom and then I catnapped and now I'm starving. I have closed the windows because the sun is headed for the cliff of horizon and it's time for another dark cold night and I even checked the sunrise and sunset times and it feels like we aren't getting anywhere here. A few lights on and both boys are now reading. We're unplugged, an acoustic BLB. Off the grid. Well, the lights are electric and so are our hearts but that's it, today. 

What is it? 

He holds out his hand and drops it low. It's a carved lepidolite heart. 

How did you know? 

I was reading up. This one is for restlessness and anxiety. 

Where did you get it? 

I went to a little shop that sells all the crystals. 

Ohhhh and you left me home? 

It was near another store where I was already running errands so I thought I would take a look. 

I love it, it's beautiful. Thank you! 

If you have a list I would like to help you collect them all. 

Like Pokemon? Lochlan calls from inside. 

Hush, you. 

Gotta catch em all, Ben laughs in that slow, infectious drawl he does now. 

Hey man, I read that crystals are taking over the world. Caleb is defensive but light.

I told you! Well, not really but they're so pretty. 

Yes, I like the display in the hall and since you work hard to keep the decorating as woodsy-masculine as you can it's good if you can have something to remind us all that a beautiful woman lives here too. 

I didn't know you cared, Diabhal! Lochlan is in hysterics. 

Shut the fuck up and try harder, Lasraichean, Caleb all but sings it over my head, in through the door. 

And I laugh and hold the cool stone up to my cheek. That was a term of endearment, meaning flame. They're comfort-sparring, today.

Shall I put it with the others? Caleb smiles. So pleased. 

No, I have to cleanse it and then charge it first. 

This is...oddly complicated. 

Not really. They work best when they are cleaned, renewed and charged up with power. 

And how do you do that? 

Either put them in soapy water, sunlight or moonlight and then put them on the white plate with the carvings for a day or two. 

Oh, I see. Then their power is...unleashed? 

I mean, kind of. It's hard to explain. 

Works for me, Lochlan grins, still determined to tease Caleb any chance he gets as he ducks between us. Going to get Chinese food. Need anything else? 

Rain, I call after him. 

Huh? Oh, that day. Ha. You. Lochlan points at me and winks and then he's gone and it's just me, the rock and the devil and a really sleepy Ben nodding off into his pages. 

Thank you again. 

Drink later? 

Maybe tomorrow or the next evening. I have plans tonight.

What rock do I get for loneliness? 

Cocaine, Ben says and he starts laughing again, awake after all.

 It's snowing again. 

*#@%#$&@*!.

매 순간을 치고받아!

Things toasted until they're burnt, martini olives, k-pop and doom metal playlists that alternate between the two, velvet hair ties and Ozark. 

Sam is rapid-fire. Fast. Okay, name the perfect day. 

It's raining like crazy. Lochlan and I wake up, make love, have a long hot bubble bath and then make eggs and toast and coffee. Then we paint for a little while and then go for a walk on the beach, pop into a little restaurant for chinese food. After we get home again we change into dry clothes and watch a movie and then make love again and go to sleep by ten. 

Specific. 

It happens around once every five or six years, just by chance. It's the best day ever. 

I'll make a note of that. I think Matt would be up for it. Sam laughs. Now, a barometre on today. 

I still hate the snow and I'm worn down and I hate this time of year anyway but daylight brings perspective that I don't seem to possess at night hence the drinking, and everything will be okay. 

The drinking. Address this. 

I honestly don't think the three martinis I had this week, spread out across seven days are cause for alarm. 

What would be?

Three a night. 

Definitely. 

Though, having a second is not the end of the world. 

But can you not have any for a week? 

Yes, but I fear the unchecked anxiety will just kill me faster, to be fair. 

To be fair you're not taking your med-

I HATE the side effects. Sam, you know. (Really hard to not full-on whine here but I tried.)

Which is worse?

Side-effects, every time. 

We can keep looking-

I said I was done being a test subject and I meant it, Sam. 

I understand. 

Keep going with the questions, this is fun. 

Favourite song. 

Right this second? The Real by Ateez. 

Hahahahaha that's amazing. 

It's a banger. Just like my life. 

Sam smiles but it's not his practiced, professional smile. It's full-on, with teeth. 

What's happening?

Sam is dissecting my brain in real-time. 

And? 

Sam turns to Lochlan. You're right. It's full of cotton candy and glitter. 

Better than wet clouds, like sometimes. Lochlan smiles back. No teeth though.

Chum deureogayu/춤 들어가유.

George wouldn't let me shovel the sixty million feet of snow we got today so I'm inside spooling up the dance party and making hot chocolate for when everyone is finished and comes back inside. This is oddly one of my favourite things, when there are gloves, hats, jackets and boots flung damn near everywhere, with puddles of snow melting on the floor. 

I hate the snow proper, though, don't get me wrong. It makes me claustrophobic. It's exhausting to get rid of, and it makes it hard to go places, emergency or otherwise and I think fewer people understand that then I would like but that's neither here nor there today and our driveway is completely shoveled. Can't wait until it's fifty percent longer by Easter or whenever the snow is gone and the work begins. 

I want to run though. So bad and the treadmill doesn't cut it. Ben sped it up all the way and then a little more still and I was running flat out and it's just not the same. He put on a video of a jaunt through the mountains of Switzerland and asked if that was better. No, of course not. It will pass. I just need to stay distracted. His eyebrows go up. 

Oh, I can distract you. 

Oh, really? How's that? 

Jump off. I obey his order. No point slowing the machine down and making a graceful exit when one can fly off like a maniac. Someday one of us is going to die playing on this thing and it will probably be me. I already chipped a tooth on it because my timing was off. It's a death trap and it's only good for bad weather or total boredom. It's actually good for nothing, come to think of it. Speed. That's it. 

I did a front walkover over Lochlan's chair last night and misjudged my spatial awareness level for the night and had to be rescued as it were so I'm not really up to running hard anyway. I think I stretched my back and my hamstrings further than they've ever been and now they are adventurers for life. 

I should know better than to be trying acrobatics without a sufficient warm up. Lochlan never ever let me miss the full warmup even if I was still eating dinner. More than once I did stretches with a pizza crust between my teeth, admonishings from Lochlan to put it down or finish it already so I don't choke. I would take my sweet time finishing, just to make him crazy. 

Okay, I'm off. I turn back to laugh at Ben. I stuck the landing, anyway. Now I wait for the distraction. 

Oh, you are the distraction. Wait til they come inside. 

Why? 

Remember that time in the back of the truck? 

Yes. (Oh my God. Found it.)

Thought maybe for old times sake.

You thought for old times sake we should freeze our asses off? 

Yes. Yes I did. He laughs slowly, picking up speed. Just like my run, right out of my mind.

Where can I move where there are still seasons but no weather bombs, domes, tornados, fires, snowstorms or earthquakes?

The snow keeps coming and this just makes my plea for a baby plow/4x4 for yard work that much more interesting. I could just order one but that's no fun. I like it when they do it on my behalf. Hell, not like I'm having much luck this week. I tried to order a custom G wagon for Caleb in robin's egg blue and I got precisely nowhere. I tried to do some taxes and got nowhere. I tried to get motivated and got nowhere. I keep finding the mornings drag and the afternoons rush by and I did buy something today, so there. I ordered a labradorite sphere. I'm hella excited. It looks neat. If all goes well I'll go back for a lepidolite bowl or maybe an agate one or maybe both but that's for another day. Look, a girl has to have something to do when it's snowing this much and there's nowhere to go. 

We're not even going to talk about the necronomicron infection (oh do I mean Omicron? No. Je refuse.) I think at least 4 of us have. 

And we're definitely not going to talk about Schuyler's eyeliner today because some of us might spontaneously combust. Oh my Lord the fire is turned up to seventeen with that one. 

(The fire measurement being the dial on a gas fireplace in my house but whatever, he's making his own fire today.)

I told you there was nothing happening and now I'm going to go make four shepherd's pies.

Arcane, indeed.

Why don't you love who I am?
What we could have been

 

Tuesday is a slow-motion weekday today, the first true day maybe. Ruth came over and we took a long walk around the neighbourhood, Henry and Lochlan hovering just enough on the icier sidewalks but then forging ahead, deep in conversation far out of reach. The rain is heavier now and I'm glad it held off. 

 

Caleb remains behind us. Walking steadily. Not looking up. Ears tuned keenly forward but adding nothing to the conversation. Ruth is stronger than he is and they both know it and so he is charming but guarded now that she has come into her own. The older she gets the more favourites she plays but she also does not forget or look coldly on her time being raised partially by him too. The rest she knows and we just don't talk about it, but she understands I keep no secrets from her or her brother and the tension with Caleb will forever be a tangent presence. 

I'm reading Dave Grohl's biography and I'm struck by how he glosses over major formative aspects of his childhood in order to wax platitudes on the other side and how that's exactly what we all do once we are past the hard parts. It's a coping mechanism and an eroded emotion. It's water under the bridge you burned. It's the way it's done and you just hope to do better with your own children, only they are still attempting to raise me together as a pack and rarely does that work, if ever.

Green light red light (yellow light, blue).

This morning I am back to business, trying to get quotes for the kiln outlet, trying to order Caleb the vehicle I said I thought he should get and he agreed, trying to begin year end tax forms and trying to pull the whole house back together in one day and at some point this morning Lochlan put his hand on the top of my head and told me to spend the week doing Nothing with a capital N because everything is delayed/shut-down/not in a rush anyway. 

Huh. I mean, okay. If I haaaaave toooooooo. I already caught up on all my chores (laundry up to date, living room is cleaned and my art studio is rearranged to be more user-friendly and the floors have been done. All of them. Everything.), no one's answering the phones at the two different electricians I called for quotes, Mercedes told me the chips are scarce and they'll let me know about ordering the vehicle I want for Caleb and did we want to look at their preowned inventory? (no, thank you we can wait or we'll move on) and why would there be tax forms out? It's January fucking third. 

I cough and Lochlan says see? He's mildly concerned. I have a really bad cold suddenly not really I was sick through Christmas and it's worse now) and I have resorted to carrying around my Victorian embroidered handkerchief with a few drops of thieves oil on it or I can't breathe at all here. I'm big on natural remedies because I hate chemicals but I also hate this feeling so I'm counting down the hours until the Nyquil coma. That's the best part of being sick: the five or sick hours of oblivion that stuff affords me. I don't know what's in and I don't know if I care. I just want to feel better so I downloaded a show no one else wants to watch (Emily in Paris, season 2) and I have my afternoon all planned.  

Fun.