Reckless Enbridgetment.

Hi, stupid little me here.

Still so angry.

I'm not alone though. I thought I'd share the wealth and so I made sure that my fear and feelings of betrayal were contagious.

I made a date for tonight. Because I'm impulsive and petulant and dumb and about fifty other names that I have been called since yesterday afternoon.

A date with Caleb.

Who'll be here in half an hour. He was calling yesterday because he's only here two nights and he has a letter for me. I shipped him a few more books from cleaning out Cole's work stuff and apparently Cole wrote another letter and had been using it as a bookmark in something he was reading.

A letter that has July 1st written on the envelope, says Caleb. Which means Cole would have written it less than two weeks before his death.

I could care less about Caleb. I want that letter so badly I'm in tears just thinking about it. It's a second chance at the closure I never got. I sit here and say that I have closure, that it's done, and really it never goes anywhere past remembering that my fights with Cole are one-sided and rather skewed these days, but they still go on.

Oh and don't worry, Jacob deserves it. He came back and broke the rest of my beautiful french door into matchsticks and he came charging into the room in a rage at how I was wallowing and I needed to snap out of it and I actually jumped over the loveseat and I ran out the back door into the snow without shoes on. He stopped moving and told me to come inside and I screamed at him to get away from me. He triggered some sort of hysteria.

I don't even know. I can't think.

He didn't stay here last night but I imagine he slept in the garage or in the truck so that he wouldn't be far, unless he walked down to his old office. I gave him back his phone so I could reach him but I never called him, he called me this morning and we fought just a little more and I told him to go fuck himself and that I had a sitter and a date and that if he thought I was going to behave exactly as he wanted me to for the rest of his life well, oh, boy, someone is terribly, horribly, awfully mistaken.

See, Bridget isn't well.

No, she really isn't and I'm so very fucking sorry. I need help, not more control. Please, God, Jake isn't listening to me.

And I'm not even half drunk yet, since I've still got half a drink here to finish before Caleb arrives. Because as mad as I am, I've always been more afraid of Caleb than I ever will be of Jake.

And I wish he would go with me tonight. I'm really fucking scared and not nearly as brave as my anger would lie and tell you I was.

In threes, Princess. In threes.

Blink and you would have missed it. I wrote a brief rant about public school and then opted to call the school and work it out, thus removing the need for the post in the first place. My apologies.

I have to write about other things anyway.

    You're coming back down
    You say you feel lost can I help you find it
    When you come around
    From time to time we all are blinded
    You're coming back down
    You don't have to tell me what you're feeling
    I know what you're going through
    I won't be the one that lets go of you

    I think it's time to just move on
    When you come back down
    If you land on your feet
    I hope you find a way to make it back to me
    When you come around
    I'll be there for you
    Don't have to be alone with what you're going through
I don't like to talk so much about work, I try to just tick through my list and do it and it isn't a very hard job, really because I can wax and ramble and rock and roll on and on and only have to go back and flick out the nonsense later and it all falls into place after a few tweaks and a little polish.

A short while ago I actually had to duck as a roughly bound copy of something new I have been working on was thrown at me. Though of course now the story has changed and it was thrown at the wall and his strength was as usual misjudged (because he has no idea how strong he really is) and yet anger and frustration and sadness overtook him and he didn't bother trying to maintain his self-control just like he doesn't maintain it in other areas anymore, as a perk of comfort in one's own environment.

Was thrown.

Paper cutting through the air and the binding exploding which meant my eighty pages or so are now out of order and all over this room. Everywhere.

A work that has nothing to do with him but he saw too much of me in my central character and he didn't appreciate the context and I have never apologized for anything I've written professionally and I don't plan to start because I don't use our lives as fodder in my work. No matter how hard it is to explain how parts of you wind up diluted in your stories, others will simply see through your intentions and put you there, willing or not. And with the kinds of things I usually write, it's not a place he wanted to visualize me any more than he has in awful situations as it is.

Which makes the whole chucking a book at your harmless and nonthreatening spouse a most harmful and completely threatening gesture. This is the physical equivalent of me throwing a book at Ruth. Which I would never do.

I may have been too surprised to react properly.I withered a gaze at him and burst into tears and walked the fuck out on him. I went to the den and locked the door because as much as he likes to remove doors from their frames, this door is very large, very solid and very pretty and I knew he wouldn't want to break it.

He knocked on it for almost half an hour while I tried to gather up and sort through my papers with my shaking hands and I was doing great at ignoring his pleas until I looked to the table by the window and saw my once-intact cellphone lying there in about 4 pieces.

What happened to my phone, Jacob?

Caleb has been calling you.

What happened to my phone, Jacob?

He left eight text messages and around 6 voice mails.

Jacob, just answer my question, please.

Why is he calling you, Bridget? Why now?

Jake! You're scaring me!

I threw it.

What are you, the hulk now? Am I going to come out there and see you in ripped-up purple pants with green skin? What in the fuck is wrong with you?

I'm sorry, Bridge, just open the door.

Fine.
I crossed the room and opened the door and stood there.

I need your phone then, Jake.

Here.

He passed it to me and I stepped back and shut the door on him again.

And I unfairly leveraged my entire history against and I told him he was acting like Cole.

He hit the door once so hard and I knew it broke but he was smart enough to walk away. That or he figured out he was being scary and he stopped. Maybe he scared himself because scaring me wasn't enough to stop him?

And I'm still in here, aren't I?

And it's great that this room has it's own entrance from the outside and all because Jacob used to do his counseling from here and so I could run from this bullshit but frankly, my coat and car keys are somewhere else and I really don't feel like I should be afraid enough to want to leave my own house.

However, I am.

Wow.

The Gingerbread Man.

Yesterday afternoon I heard my name being called from outside Ruth's window and so I went over and stuck my head out, expecting to see Jacob on the roof of the porch. He wanted to poke around up there, a few of our neighbors are having issues with the snow melting and coming inside their homes and let's face it, any excuse to be up high somewhere death-defying and Jacob will be first in line.

He didn't seem to still be up there. I pulled back in and heard my name again. Out I peeked once more.

Look up, princess.

I craned my head around and was met with Jacob's face grinning at me over the edge of the roof. On top of the house. Our 3 story Victorian house that towers over the neighborhood like the Gothic mansion that it is. He was framed in gingerbread.

Are you tethered, Jacob?

Of course not. Now go down to the street so you can see.
I ran downstairs. Fuck! My heart was in my mouth. I was scared. It's winter. It's icy. Dangerous. He's insane. I'm going to watch him fall. He's going to die in front of me and I'll be two for two. Lord help us all.

I ran right out into the street and turned and he was standing there on the peak waving to me. His splayed-finger friendly How you doing? wave.

Jacob! Come down from there, you fool!

In a moment, princess. I just have to do one thing.

What is it? We don't have any water coming in.

Not worried about leaks.

What, then?

I LOVE YOU BRIDGET!

He yelled it so loud it reverberated off every building on our block and echoed in my ears, a sweet experience that I rode like a rollercoaster as his voice faded away.

Then he started to make his way back down, his mission accomplished. Me, I was still standing in the road with tears running down my face remembering something he said to me a few years ago on a night after Cole had snubbed spending time with me in favor of a better offer of a night out without me. Jake had said,

If you were mine, I would shout my love for you from the rooftops.

Jacob is leafing through our history with his phonographic memory and fixing it, fulfilling each wish and moment, the promises and-

No idea what I was about to think next, for my neighbor's car horn jolted me back into the present and I realized I was still standing in the middle of the street. And then Jacob was there, safely back on earth and he grabbed my hand and pulled me back onto the sidewalk into his arms. He was grinning, still in that completely foolish way, nodding while he used the end of his scarf to dry my face.

You remember.

I do.

So?

I love you, Jacob.

And I love you, Bridge. And I want everyone to hear it when I say it.

and then from next door,

Don't worry, Jake! We heard you! Congratulations!
And a new talent was born, tandem blushing. So now we can both run away together and join the freak circus I left so long ago. Come one, come all, see the blushing blondes!

And Jacob is no longer allowed on the roof.

Inspired by God (and the relentless communicator).

Oh shit, she's rambling again.

In all seriousness, I try not to phone it in. So now that things are re-buttoned and turned back rightside-out here and I can try and fix my hair that Jacob managed to pull out, let's continue. Because I have work to do and he's already left because absolutely no one expected him to stop working and of course he hasn't, really. Today he's going to help clean two shelters and then he has fundraising meetings this afternoon. Bless his heart, I encouraged him to keep doing the things he loves to do because he wouldn't be Jacob if he didn't.

Now...have you noticed anything? Different? Like things are better lately? More better than not? Different things that we have changed and done and hardcore therapy attendance, perfect medicating and a whole lot of love and things appear to be looking up.

Up, guys. Up. Like a hot air balloon in Bridget's beautiful blue skies.

Things like not babying me, he's treating me with all the confidence in the world, a hopeful optimism and respect that I've been drawing strength from, instead of watching him conduct life strung tight as a drum and knowing he's so goddamned worried, well that only made things harder. Now it seems like he's breathing for both of us and that power and faith that I get from him is growing, spreading. Also the talking, he's talking to me again instead of being afraid to step on toes or undo any progress I may have made under the direction of my psychiatrist. He's waded back in, with his jeans rolled up and has refused to let me drown. And that has helped more than anything.

My music is back. Phish. The dozens of traded shows and the collection I built during my life with Cole that reminded me of him so awfully much that I asked my friends to take it away and when Jacob pulled it all out I didn't die when I listened. I've had a few rough spots but otherwise I realized it was my music, not Cole's, not ours collectively, but mine. It feels good. My warm bath.

And sleep. I can sleep, sometimes. Not one hundred percent, but sometimes I do and it's a start.

And hey, no one said it would be easy. I've still got a million miles to go but I've got a map and a companion or three and some tunes to take me home and we'll get there. Every day is a little bit better and sometimes I drop a bowl and it shatters and I jump and then I laugh because it wasn't thrown and the ghosts are fading and Bridget is getting there. Every day, just a little bit better.

    Welcome this is a Farmhouse
    we have cluster flies alas
    And this time of year is bad
    We are so very sorry,
    There is little we can do
    But swat them

    She didn't beg oh, not enough
    She didn't stay when things got tough
    I told a lie and she got mad
    She wasn't there when things got bad

    I never ever saw the northern lights
    I never really heard of cluster flies
    Never ever saw the stars so bright
    In the farmhouse things will be alright

    Woke this morning to the stinging lash
    Every man rise from the ash
    Each betrayal begins with trust
    Every man returns to dust

Or maybe this is phoning it in, for you just read a list of my transcribed renumerations and a chronic peptalk from inside my head.

Have a good day, in any case.

Thursday.

It's a test, isn't it?

Hmm?

This. You. Us. You're testing me to see if I'll stay.

Yes. That's exactly what I'm doing here, Jacob.

I knew it.

So get the fuck out.

I'm not going anywhere, princess.

Okay, then you passed.

Yay. What do I get?

What would you like?
(silence and a huge grin)

Oh, it figures. I knew you were here for the sex.

Right. You're not that good.

Take that back.

Yeah, actually maybe I should.

Smart thing.

Does that mean I can get some?

Sure. What are you doing after breakfast?

A princess! Am I a lucky guy or what?

Free birds, blackbirds, magpies and an owl.

(Oh hello, you've walked in on a random stream of consciousness.)

Birds seem to be some sort of metaphor in our lives. Before I could safely identify Jacob here I referred to him as J and called him my friend, my free bird, who I had set free and he came back anyway. Blackbird for a treasured song, magpie because I like the word though if I do recall without searching too far there is something sinister about magpies. Owls because of the owl jokes, appropriate for all ages when so much of this world is not, an innocent nod to a haven in the little tiny cabin that we can escape to every so often when it's warm enough and sometimes even when it's not. Feeling safe.

Magnets and copper and reiki and the power of positive thinking and lovebeads and peace vibes, holistic mindfucks aren't going to do this. Eating a raw diet and living a world devoid of negativity isn't going to do it. Immersing myself in some songs and a red hot bath aren't going to do anything at all.

All of it an up and a down on a long and hilly Sunday drive, where when the sun dips low and a rumble ripples through our stomach while we stop for a picnic by the river and look at each other in surprise, as if we were so grateful for the company, it being the one person we would have most wished to be with right then.

And later when you awaken from a dream that wasn't good, covered with sweat and gasping for breath you rise into the protective arms of that person you wished for once again and you forget the details and the feelings and the fears and he tells you of the river. And the bird that he saw while you ignored nature within reach and licked blackberry jam off the tips of your fingers.

You hear the birds outside your window in a grayscale morning, the cold icicles of winter's final push clearing a path around your warmth and the chirps remind you of March which is about to step into your life for the first time all year.

You wind a scarf around your neck like a European fashion doll and someone offers you a cup of tea and it warms you right out to the edges of your bones like that warm bath and you wish you had a switch for these sensations...and others.

And a vintage pattern triggers a memory from dozens of years ago in which you snuck a gingerbread cookie into your room where there was a little Christmas tree decorated with red balls and glitzy tinsel and your turtleneck was three sizes too big but not for long because you just noticed you can see over the top of your bureau and in the mirror your little cherub face is covered with crumbs, crumbs laced through your curly blonde pigtails and crumbs all over your chubby little hands but you don't care.

Because there are birds outside your window and a brownie owl on your wall.

And a man singing Blackbird in your future, but you don't know about him yet.

Poor heart.

I think I've reached the absolute definition of bitter/sweet today. Not sure whether I should kiss or throttle my husband.

What in the hell is this called, Jacob? Jam band therapy?

Can you still play Pebbles and Marbles?

No.

Is that a no meaning you can't or a no meaning you won't?

Both, neither. I don't know, really.

I'm singing it.

I hear you, Jacob.

Then I'll do another.

You're trying to break me, aren't you?

No, I'm going to desensitize you. If there's anything I'm sure of about you, princess, it's that you live by your music and maybe that is part of the problem.

What do you mean by that? I shouldn't enjoy my music?

No, you lost half your soundtrack with him and those were your songs too.

I know.

And you miss them.

Badly.

So take them back and make them yours.

Sounds easier than it seems.

Like everything you've ever done.

Desensitized.

Right. You can do this, Bridge.

I really missed Free.

There's my girl.

Fuck me. This is yet another goddamned found fragment of the map that will take me home. Go Bridget.

Go spin.

Fast enough for me.

Hey.

Musical entries for a musical week.

It's a sick day, collectively, though Jacob has one meeting this afternoon. I'm spending my day in wool tights and a skirt and one of Jacob's giant sweaters and a bun that isn't going to last long because wisps are escaping all over the place like rats jumping from a sinking ship.

I hate to get dressed some days but I never know half the time who will show up on my doorstep so I'll never be the kind of girl who hangs out in yoga pants and a dirty shirt. Though I would love too, some days.

Today I'm working on a story for children. One about princesses and dreams. Oh, the ironies. For inspiration I was gazing at pictures of Kylemore Abbey, Lichtenstein, Burg Eltz and Neuschwanstein. All of my favorite castles from when I was growing up and I dreamed of places I had never been in this life and so my father took me to the library where I would spend hours pouring over books about Castles, traveling in Europe and medieval history until I had tracked down everything I may have seen in my sleep.

Princesses aren't made, they are born. Sometimes in the wrong lifetimes, perhaps. Sometimes in many lifetimes in a row. Sometimes they don't even know.

And sometimes they know all along.

This morning Jacob picked up his guitar and sang while the kids finished their toast. He played three notes and I recognized them instantly and I looked at him curiously and he stopped and put the guitar down again. Then he said the hell with it and he took it back up and played the whole damned thing and sang the words and I actually didn't implode or anything remotely frightening.

    It's time I sling the baskets off this overburdened horse
    Sink my toes into the ground and set a different course
    Cause if I were here and you were there
    I'd meet you in between
    And not until my dying day, confess what I have seen.
He was playing Horse. Then he played four other songs off Rift and very slowly the pain crept in around the edges of my heart and ached like a dull knife lodged in bone. Then very quietly he said one thing, and then went out and slammed the door and lifted it right off the hinges in the process, once again. He was back five minutes later with the box of CDs that he had put away last May.

My entire Phish collection, bless his heart.

Curse his fair and good intentions.

(Shhh. Not out loud.)

Dead people aren't going to decide what I want to hear, Bridget.

Switchfoot goodness for a Monday morning.

Hi. Good morning, I have the flu.

And Jacob will be just about nowhere in this post, for we're going to briefly switch (thanks Loch for pointing out the pun) to fangirl mode. Just for a day, I've earned this.

I have pictures because I made a last minute early morning run to the store and bought a Canon Elph to take to the show. Because Cole's giant Rebel does me no good most of the time.

I'm still tired from the legendary Switchfoot hangover I have read so much about. I'm sad that it's over and yet thrilled and relieved that I finally saw one of their epic live shows, having followed the trail of tour news, photos, daily foot entries and fan accounts. I crossed sides. I have arrived after loving this band for years and years from afar.

I might be changed forever. Okay, shut up, Bridget, no one cares for your drama.

We lined up two hours before showtime (seeing Jon and Andy separately outside!) and so we secured a front row position just to the left of the microphone, which I could reach out and touch, it was so close. Cooooool.

Jacob who may or may not have given me the flu reluctantly opted out earlier that day because he was too miserable to go so I took Christian with us. He was extremely thrilled to go, he is as crazy as I am.

Copeland came out first and played for 45 minutes, 9 songs. They were really good, very tight, nice songs. I can only describe them as a darker version of the early Switchfoot. I loved their song Sleep. I have to pick up the album. Then the lights went out and the fastest set up/breakdown ever took place as they got ready for Switchfoot.

Someone came over to the edge of the stage and gave Ruth and Henry guitar picks that say Switchfoot on them.

Holy freaking cow holy freaking cow.

Everything I ever wanted to see, I saw. I was dripped on, sweat on, I made eye contact, I got to grab hands and sing along. Jon jumped off the piano, he sang into the guitar, he ran up to the balcony and sang two whole songs from back there. He chatted with a group from the US who drove up to see their sixth show and they requested and received a quick rendition of Chem 6A. A kid was pulled up to play cowbell. It was terrific.

Here's the setlist:

Stars, Oh Gravity, Canadian Dream, Gone, 4:12, The Blues (which won the voting contest online), This is your Life, Happy is a Yuppie Word, Shadow Proves the Sunshine, Awakening, Dirty Second Hands, Amateur Lovers, We are One Tonight, Faust, Midas and Myself, Easier than Love, Meant to Live and the encore was Let Your Love Be Strong and Dare You to Move.

Sigh.

They played Happy is a Yuppie Word. My all-time favorite song of theirs, and the song that contains the line that I took for one of my tattoos, that matches the tagline of my journal here.

Nothing in the world could fail me now.

Jerome came down and gave the children two more guitar picks right at the end of Gone, and we thanked him. Drew played endlessly right above us and Jon watched Ruthie jump up and down while he sang. They probably thought we were nuts for having two little kids in the front but there was no crowd surfing and no one was rough. It was perfect. The music was loud, the band was so tight, and so friendly and just plan talented beyond belief. I was surprised at how quiet Tim and Chad were, overall, though there was a crazy percussion, dance-party going on onstage during Shadow and then again during Faust.

They invited the crowd to go to the waterslides in the adjoining hotel after the show. They were terrific. Let your Love be Strong was a silent room and a watchful moment of beauty. Dare you to Move made me cry. But in a good way.

After the show the lights came up and the same man who brought over the guitar picks during setup handed me a coveted setlist. I was stunned. I gave one of the picks to a girl from North Dakota who I had befriended by the stage to share the joy. We went out into the lobby and snagged a few of the limited edition Gravity, eh? Oh Canada Switchfoot Tour 2007 t-shirts and then we went home. Because hello, little kids, midnight. Oh Lord.

Where I lay awake with my ears ringing and my heart racing for the remainder of the night. Because it was that much fun.

Thank you Switchfoot. You totally rock my world.

Oh, and video! I have video but the compression is so amazing I can't figure out where to put it online. When I figure it out I'll update. I got Happy is a Yuppie Word and Let Your Love be Strong in their entirety as well as the bridges of Dirty Second Hands and We are One Tonight plus the cool Chad/Jerome percussion dance from Faust. Working on putting them somewhere. If I can ever accomplish this, I'll let you know.

Slow motions.

Okay, now that's a porn title. But this isn't porn unless you count library books among your fetishes.

I said library books, not librarians.

Naughty.

Yesterday we swung by the city library on the way home from an appointment, Jake wanted to find some woodworking plans and I am trying to learn to cook properly studying quantum physics and so we both went down to the nonfiction/reference areas and started off in different aisles.

Libraries for me are a time-space rift. I am in sensory overload the moment I walk in, so many words, so many endless possibilities, the smell of the pages, the choice. I was sitting on the floor gathering up my finds and was headed to track down Jacob when a book fell off the shelf behind me. I must have bumped it out so I leaned back to pick it up to return it when another one fell down. So I stacked both and stood up and put them back. I turned to gather up my books and another book fell down.

I must be slow. I just kept picking them up and putting them back.

When I returned the fifth book to the shelf another popped out right in front of me and in the space where it had been rested the blue eyes I love so much, crinkled up with mischievousness. Then he laughed, pushing the whole row of books down on me and I sat there and smiled at him, and he hunched down and smiled at me through the hole that he made in the wall while other people watched us with amusement and a solitary older gentleman scowled at hearing laughter in amongst the silent, dusty tomes.

Jacob then impulsively stuck his whole head right through the shelf for a kiss and got stuck.

A series of fortunate events followed as tools were sent for and a heck of a lot more laughter began to rise up from the 600 section. Even from the gentleman who had turned his scowl into a mighty guffaw as he regarded the impromptu rescue mission.

Eventually Jacob was pulled out almost completely unscathed if not just a tiny bit embarrassed and has a torn shirt and a two inch gouge on his shoulder from where the metal shelf bracket carved out a defensive battle wound. Those things are sharp, I expected him to emerge much worse than he did.

We were then instructed in future visits to carry out that sort of activity upstairs in adult fiction or that the very least over in self-help. We nodded soberly, deciding now was probably not the best moment to point out at least we were in the cooking section.

The next time we go I hope I find a book about learning how not to laugh when it's inappropriate to do so.