Revelry, reverie and wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Can't you just take a leave of absence?

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

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

Who would you have chosen?

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

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

Why.

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

Because you don't trust him.

Because I don't trust you.

Ouch, Jake.

Exactly, Bridget, ouch.

August.

Working.

Dalt.

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

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

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

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

Are you comfortable with him?

Yes.

Then there's nothing more to be said.

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

When is my next pill?

Jacob frowned.

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

They don't work, Jacob. It hurts.

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

He was going to...lead.

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

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

Me and Jake.

Never Enough.

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

He would know.

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

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

Two (Defined as synergy).

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

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

Maybe they will be someday.

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

Why not? It seems to be our thing.

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

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

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

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

We have a plan.

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

Lightbulbs made of sand.

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

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

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

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

Not anymore.

Slow to warm up.

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

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

He is determined.

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

Everyone says Don't you just love the mountains?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bridget. Not the ocean, silly.

Me.

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

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

Scriptlash.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here.

Here too.

And this.

Best for last.

No, this one. I really love this one.

Larger than life.

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

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

Peter's gone.

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

What a very long day.