Hell is caffeinated.

We found you sleeping by your lover's stone
A ream of paper and a telephone
A broken bow
Across a long lost violin

Your lover's angel told the captain's man
It never ends the way we had it planned
And kissed her palm
And placed it on your dreaming head

It's a sad day when your boss asks you to bring your violin to work and then makes you play for a cup of coffee.

I would have played for free, but he buys the very good coffee that I told him I liked. The Sumatra beans from the Human Bean, ground very fine. Served black, in a cup as large as one's head. That was my gift for my song today and now I'm in the throes of setting up my new (work) laptop and pretending that this morning didn't bother me one bit.

The contractor came by with his new plans, and Ben's surprise went out the window. The original suggestion of making the old turret into a widow's walk was shot down before he finished describing it. Simply because of the implications. Can't do it. Don't want to do it. Dear God. So Ben came up with the idea of taking out the windows in the upper old porch which is now a playroom and glassing in the walls to make an atrium. More usable than the turret, and then we could have plants. So many plants. All sun all the time. Bridget remains in the house instead of being on the roof.

Only he meant for it to be a secret for me and I stood like a fool and grinned at the contractor and told him that he needed to call Ben, that I wasn't supposed to know.

He said he would try, sheepishly. Then the car was waiting and I almost forgot it was time to go to work. Mike (Caleb's driver) waited patiently while I ran around collecting my bimbo shoes (whoops.) and pulling on my boots and got two laptops and he met me halfway up the sidewalk and handed me a Blackberry BOLD (HELLO!) and on it was a message to bring the violin so I went back in the house and got my case while Mike put everything else in the car.

And now I'm here. I think I figured out the coffeemaker and have pointed out bosses don't take their employees out to every meal and I brought a pear and a banana even and I won't starve. Caleb smiled (again. Stop that.) and pointed out few employees would adhere to a dress code the likes of his. I pointed out few girls like me would fail to indulge someone in a fetish and he asked me if that was so.

I just stared at him and then we both dropped it and started talking at the same time. About the weather.

I think it's already been a long week and I'm ready for a day off. Just from the psychological pressure. I'm the ninety-pound weakling and he is the bully.

Only holy, has Caleb been a busy beaver. Not only do I have a Bold which is awesome and my Blackberry curve is now happily living in my bra because the bold can be the bat-phone, but he had a desk made for me. A desk made from a Victorian gate, with a glass top and inlays made of beach glass and mother of pearl. And he put it in front of the big window in his office so that I can look out over the city. With a big comfortable overstuffed parlour chair I can curl up in. And it defies his masculine sensibilities because he has this behemoth of a wooden medieval desk already in the centre of the room and this beautiful little thing throws off the whole look. It's out of place.

Oh, wait. I just described Bridget, didn't I?

Actually, Caleb came up with that one.

He is spoiling me because after yesterday I don't think either one of us thinks this is going to work. But we're both too stubborn to give up without a fight. Okay, maybe that's just me and I'm projecting.

That's what seven cups of coffee will do for you.

Wait, what was I talking about again?

Far too fast to pacify you.

In a year of fallen angels
Broken hands and boys in danger
Pray the lord might pacify you
Ain't no telling what he's up to

Let's enjoy a little morning coffee with Bridget, shall we? As she begins her first day at work, as assistant to Mr. C____, who, as bosses go, is incredibly indulgent so far.

I knew Caleb was sending a car for me, which is silly considering the Lexus has been in my driveway for two days. But he himself showed up in the 350z again, which handled poorly in the snow but I could see that he was enjoying ferrying me around and a lot of times I think Caleb has made so much money that he pretends to be working and he doesn't have to work at all.

He took me out for breakfast to celebrate my first day of work, and of course I wasn't hungry because I didn't know he was going to do that and I had already eaten but I had coffee and a warm piece of pecan pie that I ate half of, while he had an egg white omelet and bacon and steamed vegetables because he will not allow himself to gain an ounce. It was this vanity I was marveling over when I found another. The lines at the corners of his eyes that are not as pronounced as Cole's were because I think Caleb rarely smiles.

Unless I'm there.

He has smiled through most of the morning, I'm surprised there aren't feathers sticking out of his mouth.

To address all the people who pointed out that Sam has asked me to come work for him many times over and I have refused, and yet here I am, working for my devil of a brother in law, let me just say this. Working for Sam is beyond difficult because I spend my day staring at or walking in and out of Jacob's old office.

That hell is worse than this one.

This one so far is not so bad. So far work-wise I have ordered new business cards with Caleb's new information on them, I have arranged for a huge Christmas tree to be delivered to the loft on December thirteenth and he's asked me if I can show him how to use his Blackberry when we come back from lunch. Oh and I charmed his doorman. To absolute pieces.

Basically I think my job description is to let Caleb watch me walk around in his loft in my ridiculously high heels. If he's going to pay me this much money to do that, then yes, Lochlan, I am selling out. No better than a whore? That's great, thank you.

There is something in it for me, too. You seem to forget that.

Like a Scorpions song, only much more profound.

Something about wind and change.

The winds here are warm. Winter seems to be holding back. Perhaps Autumn has kidnapped Jack Frost and our usual minus twenty mornings aren't appearing as scheduled. It gave me an extra breath to prepare for the cold. I was ready weeks ago. The boots and coats and mittens and everything out in their places. Shovels at the ready and we have had to shovel once. The back steps are bare.

I like this. More like home, less like this godforsaken city that's putting me through a seventh winter even though I vowed I would get out of here years and years ago. If everything happens for a reason then I would like to know the reasons for this. I think I might be making my peace with this city at last.

Change comes in the form of noticing this morning that it's November sixteenth and the kids have only had a very minor cold each and a one-day stomach flu around Thanksgiving. The three years previous to this had us in front of the vampire cowboy doctor at least four times by this date, inhalers every night, coughing constantly and exhausted beyond repair.

Here's the part where I squeeze my eyes tightly shit and then crack one open for a quick peek around, in case Jinx heard me. She's the one that hears her name and then comes and fixes what she missed. So within two days I expect the germs and the snow to descend on my big old house in a flood of ruin.

Pleasepleaseplease just miss this house this year.

In other changes. We went to the early service and are home already (thank you Sam for your words this morning, clearly directed at us). Seth and Ben have already made out a list for the week. Ben seems more confident and has limitless enthusiasm and very few cravings today. This is living life one day at a time to the fullest.

And I start work tomorrow in the lair of the demon of the business underworld. I'm halfway excited. The other half of me is cautious, as usual. One must be cautious when one meets the devil on his own proving ground. And I have all kinds of things to prove.

Not to him, though. To ME.

Nothing doing.

On this Saturday night the mercury is dropping fast and we're all tucked in for the night. Only this night is a little different. Even though the Leafs are playing the Canucks and later on the UFC fight to end all UFC fights is scheduled to be on, we have the TV off, the friends are home (thank you PJ for the hugs and coffee and thank you Seth for looking after Ben today) and we've lit a roaring fire and are going to spend the evening matching our fingertips under a blanket on the couch.

Just us, just two silly fools who have names that begin with the letter B, just the ones covered with sadness and effort and tattoos and then tomorrow the day starts all over again. And it will be another good one, just like today.

Goodnight.

If it's Saturday I talk to myself out loud. Wait, nevermind.

When the sun clears the dark away I sit quietly, legs crossed, eyes closed, left abandoned in a moment but only for a moment with a kiss on the forehead that means meeting time, he'll be back and I hear the doors close and then a thud as the truck door closes and the rumble of life from the big beast with FORD stamped on the back.

Seth seems nice, since two years ago I was briefly introduced but did not talk with him at any length. Last night he sat at the kitchen table and I watched him watching us. He does not take notes or act as if he's thinking about anything of importance, in fact, he acts a lot like August. You wouldn't know what he does for a living and when I remarked last evening that being stuck here for the next ten weeks or so doesn't seem like much of a living at all on his part, he let his warm blue eyes rest on me and he smiled, telling me candidly that he averages three clients a year, and then the rest of the time he does whatever he wants, that he is well-compensated. He likes what he does and he doesn't consider it work.

Ben will do well again. He wants to do well, he just doesn't have the self-discipline required to do it on his own. Self-discipline isn't something Ben comes with. It's sold separately. Like batteries.

Seth will be Ben's batteries. Ben is going to do a lot of really hard work.

I am not.

I'm going to continue on this path for a bit. No pills, no therapy, just a new routine that is slightly busier, which means I have less time to let my brain crash around inside my skull. Bridget's idle brain is her worst enemy and time is her nemesis and between the two, she's been cultivating destruction all by herself.

She does that, you know. The tiny tornado, flattening very big structures and causing fear in people for no reason at all. A glitch when all conditions are right.

I don't want to go through life being known like that.

Maybe I'm too late.

No, dammit. There is always time. If I ever learned anything from Jake, there is time for me. Of course, there was no time for him, but there's time for me, there's time for Ben and there's time to get it right.

Limitless chances, princess. Just do the best you can.

Do you think if I fill those empty spaces in my head his voice will stop finding a way in?

Is that what I even want?

And with that, I must go, because PJ is here. To fill my empty head with coffee and my arms with some really good hugs, I hope.

This post is not about Caleb.

When I was a little girl growing up on a beach somewhere on the East coast, I thought the devil was cool. I figured he was about 35 years old, chain-smoked king-sized cigarettes and had tattoos. He wore a lot of black, usually biker clothes or funeral director with a wild-west-twist suits, and he listened to heavy metal. In my head he was a combination of Ozzy Osbourne, Mick Jagger and James Hetfield all rolled up in one man, but better looking. Scorching, smoking hot.

And Jesus was a wimp. One of the uncool kids, sitting in his room with his record player and out of date seventies garb, fringed faded jeans, love beads and flowing white shirt with his long wavy hair and a beard to die for, spinning Simon and Garfunkel or perhaps some Nick Drake while he waited and hoped for the heathens to settle down. While he prayed for them to be good people.

For some reason Jesus was impossibly eighteen years old in my head.

And emo.

Both images are forever stuck at a point when I was eight years old, like most ideals I have. Possibly this might be where my brain stopped growing. In fact, I might be almost one hundred percent sure of that, since I still like to play with the Rubik's cube when I pass one. Sometimes to the point where I am late for an appointment or miss a call, because hey, if I can get this side all red, maybe I can get this side all white and how the hell do people do these again?

Must be nice to be so smart.

But this post is not even about how smart or how dumb Bridget is.

No, this post is about Seth.

Seth is a guy who fixes lives. And he is a friend of Ben's. And two years ago when Ben went off his rocker completely and came on to me in one drunken, dangerous night, Seth was the guy who flew out here the next day and stood close to Ben for weeks on end, pointing out the pieces, and Ben picked up those pieces and managed to put his life back together and stayed sober for over a year. Seth is coming back and they're going to pick up the pieces yet again because the first time Ben couldn't hold on to them. Seth is someone who will shadow Ben, schedule him and basically become his new best friend. He will evaluate and get him all the help he needs and then in twelve weeks hopefully Ben will be at a better place and he'll be able to go back on the road because the night job is calling again.

Thankfully Ben does well with direction and he does even better with deadlines and all he needs is a push because life got to be a little much and he's been veering wildly between being Jesus and being the devil himself lately.

(I do realize that I am no picnic to live with either. No one likes the beautiful fucked-up ones with the maturity of your average eight-year old.)

And so I'm hoping that when Ben has to go back out there into the world where the devil comes in many forms but so does Jesus and so you better watch out for both, that Seth might stick around and maybe give me a little direction, some guidance, a plan of some sort because I am currently without one and I'm sure the recent levelness of my head is due solely to the fact Ben keeps my hands and that single-digit head of mine really busy. In twelve weeks that vanishes for a bit again and I might lose that kid.

I don't want to lose that kid.

Thankfully the kid isn't old enough to drive, she's in her room listening to the Stones and to Black Sabbath and even to a little bit of Drake.

And fine, yes, Simon and Garfunkel.

Polarity begins with a B.

Yesterday's double post was not supposed to be that way. Sometimes I empty my head and then I save it and delete it later but that 'publish' button seems awfully close to the 'save' one when your fingers are cold and I'll just be thankful it was an innocuous entry.

Now, can I ask that you take a day off from the mean emails? I don't ask very often so I'll ask twice in this month because I don't need them today. Please. Thank you.

Change is upon us once again on this marathon swim of a life in which I'm given precious seconds, a wave sweeping over my head, in which to take a deep breath and dive back down for more. Beginning on Monday, when I begin work (no worries, I will have time to journal), Ben will begin work as well, because he's been lying in his own road to hell being repeatedly run over by a large, heavy wagon loaded down with his life's tragedies, disappointments and pressures, bottled in liquid form so he can at once be mired in and escape from darker memories and an incredibly skewed outlook on life now that's getting in the way.

I will be watching him, encouraging and supporting him and hopefully learning from him. Because Ben is a lot like Bridget, needing to be flung to the bottom repeatedly before change will be called for, before things move, and then when the change occurs we usually run for the hills because good things have become the things we fear.

We're bad for each other. With a soft spot a mile wide for Ben, I will coddle and enable him to the brink of ruin because I have always tried to give him an ease in life that no one else gives him and I don't know why but it's there. Whatever I could do, I would do for him. And he's been much the same way for me and I don't expect people to understand because when they were off playing soccer or volleyball or got up to get and fill a plate at a barbecue or dinner, Ben and I were usually sitting together somewhere talking. We've talked about every last thing on earth there was to talk about and then some more. We know the inside of each other's brains so well that I knew yesterday that he was safe and that he would come home with change in mind because we know sometimes when things get harder instead of easier it's really time to move some stuff around because the feng shui is fucked again and if we just align things better, good fortune will follow.

Hey, at least we take turns.

At least this time I KNOW he's in danger, instead of being fooled.

And me? I'm doing okay. Worried, nervous about Monday, heck, nervous about every day but in a whole other completely selfish way worrying about Benjamin keeps my head busy and we all know what a good thing that is. And it isn't lost on me that he's exactly like me, and I have to admit that seeing him self-destruct repeatedly is like looking in a mirror. I always say I'll change and improve and do whatever I need to do to get past this place where I am stuck, mired in a purgatory and I can't seem to pick a side. I need to pick a side. Ben needs to pick a side.

I really hope we pick the same side.

Falling for you.

I fall for candy apples and new charcoal pencils. And for cute black shoes. I fall for unbaked chocolate chip cookie dough and yarn in shades of pale blue. I fall for seashells and sand dunes and smooth river stones. I fall for leather satchels and new credit cards and white-ripe tomatoes. I fall for plaintive guitar leads and jingle bells and odd noises and sometimes odd things. I like beads and tictacs and marbles and tactile things and light, the way light hits the rooms in my house.

I love voices. Particularly male voices, particularly when they sing. Hard songs with painful emotionally drained verses and powerful choruses. I fall in love with the voices of singers I'll never meet, fall for their words, for the catch at the end of the hook, for the way it's all packaged together and for the gift of pinning that song onto a memory that it will trigger forever when I hear it.

I can be allowed that. It's one of the few vices I wish to keep.

The red pen.

Born to bear and read to all
The details of our ending.
To write it down for all the world to see.
But I forgot my pen,

This morning held a write-in. A ritual began and then abandoned as life took over. Chris and Joel and I invaded the diner with our colored pens and printed drafts and ordered breakfast and began to pass around our offerings, their research papers and my short stories. We edit each other's works, when time permits, and there are strict rules in place. We don't critique content, we only work with making sure the spelling, formats, syntax and tenses are watertight, editing-wise, and then the work must be accompanied by a full and complete breakfast (i.e. something hot, Bridget.), followed by at least half a dozen coffee refills.

It's been a long time since the last one but it was nice to be prepared with stories I have managed to put down and print off, surprising myself. Still writing. Still ticking, still going, still trying to create something worth creating.

They will call this my dark period, which is kind of funny, since the stories are not all that dark, just different. Maybe a little deeper. I don't know, really, that's for future critics to decide.

I ate hash browns and bacon until I was stuffed and drank coffee until I was floating on caffeine and I had to really fight both Chris and Joel not to go easy on my errors, not let things slide just to give me a break and I was hard on both of them, especially on Joel's tendency to use his Newfie colloquialisms.

I have a lot of work to do now before the next write-in, which will be moved to Fridays once a month to accommodate my new job, and so for the day, that's all I'm going to write here. See you tomorrow.

Harder than I thought.

(The brain is off-leash today, this is what results.)

Starting this day in a thick gray sweater that is wool but is not itchy, having poured oil all over my skin this morning in a bid to seal in the moisture, pulling on my slim jeans and my green cowboy boots quietly so as not to stir anyone, I could creep downstairs and pull almost an hour out of thin air from which to think without talking, be without being.

For lack of comparison past height, adoration and that odd brand of faith let's say that Ben has obsessions of a different sort and that they come in liquid form. Last night he left for a meeting and came home slightly drunk and I don't know how that happens or what kinds of Alcoholics Anonymous meetings serve beer but it was really interesting from a sociological point of view to watch him come in and decide how he was going to play it. He chose unwisely, trying to pretend he was fine, only he wasn't trembling and wouldn't touch me and the hesitated when he tried to leave his stance against the counter in the kitchen and that split-second was enough for me to see and then I went to him for a hug, not to confirm or test but because I'm Bridget and I like hugs, I like physical contact and he pushed me away and told me not to judge him. I asked him if he remembered who I was and that I would always be the last person to pass judgement on him but he just defended and said he knew who I was, he was drunk, for god's sake and maybe I could just let him celebrate winning the girl of his dreams away from all the better guys without raining on the goddamned parade.

As if I wasn't even that girl.

Ten more minutes and I could see his undirected ire building and I was forced to trick him and have the most ridiculous picture in my head now of running back down the hallway between the kitchen and the back door and locking my beautiful husband behind the other side because when he has had that much he is unpredictable and I am scared. He yelled some horrible thing between the door jambs at me, things about wishing he had stayed out, about the cute girl with the long black hair who could have rocked his night and he wouldn't have to put up with me, or maybe he should go back and get her and bring her here and I can join them and loosen up a bit. Then he pounded on the door so hard I jumped a hundred feet in the air and in spirit banged my head on the attic and then the trees and then the power lines and then the clouds.

And then he stopped but it was moments too late. I had PJ and Chris on speed dial to come and clean up the mess that is their friend because those comparisons in the few rare places that lead me back to Cole can also be the ones that make me fear for myself and the comparisons to Jake are the ones that make me fear for the future and I get this giant, wet, cold slap in the face once again that we aren't making a sweet, idyllic life here, we're simply choosing to be together in between our own personal freakouts and it isn't very pretty, no matter how many lovely and rare words I pull off the pile on the floor to arrange.

I don't hear anything else and then gradually within ten or fifteen minutes I hear voices toward the back of the house, more than one and I know the other guys are here. I hear their sure and confident voices making statements about what will happen next and then a roar erupts from Ben because he doesn't want to leave, he wants to be let in his own house, he wants to be with his wife, he's supposed to be there for her. Is it too much pressure? Sure. Yes. Sometimes it is. Sometimes I think I should set him free but he doesn't want to be set free and I don't want to be without him. I run back down the hallway and open the door and both PJ and Chris are standing in the sitting room and Ben is sitting in the chair holding his head like he does when he has just crossed from unreasonable to surrender.

I run across that little room and throw myself in his arms and hold him as tight as I can. He says that he is sorry but I don't hear him so he says it louder and stops halfway through the word sorry. I shake my head because I don't care what his problems are if he's here. And he says he'll never get mad at me and doesn't understand why I call everyone when I'm afraid instead of just telling him. But there are nights still burned into my head that called for me to be protected from him and I made promises to others on behalf of my children that I must keep so I called. He understands, for their sakes and for mine and he falls deeper in despair but I pull him back up as hard as I can, our fingers slipping even as they grab just a little higher, tighter. Don't let go. Please, God, don't let go. Just hang on to me and I'll hang on to you and then when we get a little stronger and there's just a little more time under our belts, this won't be so hard. it won't be something that requires interventions and stern talks and more empty promises and more reassurances that yes, I changed my mind, you guys can go home now, we're okay and they shake their heads and mentally place labels across our foreheads because the old ones faded and peeled off in the sun but the words on them don't change but we don't really care and I will always flinch when someone's hands fly out and he will always drink when someone's judgement flies out, maybe it's so ingrained now it's just hopeless. Finally there are others who also are not perfect. Finally there is someone out there just like me, we think. Isn't that awesome?