Notes for a long weekend.

Close your eyes, so many days go by
Easy to find what's wrong, harder to find what's right
I believe in you, I can show you that
I can see right through all your empty lies
I won't stay long in this world so wrong
Say goodbye, as we dance with the devil tonight
Don't you dare look at him in the eye
As we dance with the devil tonight

We had a family meeting last night and Ben is going to have the support he needs just like he always has. He calls his own shots, and we will back him no matter what they are. We're family, all of us and that means something you don't even need to understand.

He's sitting outside on the patio, watching the ocean, smoking cigarette after cigarette after cigarette. He's been out there since five-something this morning.

When I ask him if he wants to make a round-trip Krispy Kreme-fetching excursion on the weekend, he smiles briefly and nods once and then his eyes go back to the water.

I didn't expect him to drop first. I'm supposed to be the crazy one and yet I'm still running on adrenaline and I can't seem to get off this. I'm still doing everything, not a wobble, not an inability to leave the house or a attempt to give it to anything, I've found a way to keep choking the panic back and it seems to keep staying down. Not sure if that will fail or fade any time soon but for now we are still steamrolling along, Bridget having spread out her blanket, straight at all corners, and into the middle I have heaped my favorite books, toys and boys and I gathered it all up and I'm dragging it along like a six-year-old who has decided to run away from home, only this is home now and I still don't recognize anything save for my old pink camouflage converse all-stars, because they are sitting inside the back door because I wear them to walk the dog because that's all they are good for.

This blanket is heavy. Boys keep falling out of the folds in the blanket when I lose my vigilance and I'm wondering if I grew up a little or if, like Ben, I'm a ticking time bomb doomed to go off sooner or later.

It's so tiring going back to load them back in again. But I'm still doing it. If you ask me, I'll tell you I don't have a choice. But honestly?

I haven't checked in a while.

(if you are keeping score, Batman leads Satan by a huge margin. Huge. I'm sure Satan was considering going to the Russians for backing and I don't even want to think about that.)

Hiding keys and secret words.

I'm not making any more drama. Ben finally came down off his high horse to have an entire conversation with me with no one else present for once and I understand him a whole lot better when he isn't engulfed in the Jesus beams that shoot out of his guitar or marinated in the forgetful juice. Sometimes he can be so completely normal and charming it's difficult to remember why I'm angry with him in the first place.

Difficult but not impossible. He has work to do. Again, always.

It doesn't mean I'm not still entertaining counter-offers, if only for their amusement value, because no one likes amusement like the circus girl. I have been forwarding the emails from batman and Satan to each other, so they're well aware they are upbidding each other and they can continue to do so until they get bored and leave the game. At which point I'll do what I planned to do in the first place.

Nothing.

Except maybe have another ride on the back of someone's motorcycle. It takes the world away and replaces it with wind and speed and I like that. I like it a lot.

The bridge is always the best part of a song.

The next tattoo:

Every now and then I see you dreaming
Every now and then I see you cry
Every now and then I see you reaching
Reaching for the other side
What are you waiting for?

from Switchfoot's Hello Hurricane. That's my album. Mine.

Gravity is overrated.

I think it was Gore Vidal who said "It's not enough for me to win, you have to lose.

That's just stellar, isn't it? I would laugh but it's just so mean. Twenty bucks says Caleb has it engraved into his bathroom mirror, repeating it every day while he shaves. It wouldn't surprise me one bit.

He offered me the moon and I have forwarded it along for counter-offers. The moon is not something I would want, I'm much more partial to Pluto anyway. Highest bidder wins and I will strap on a big tank of oxygen, pull a mask down over my nose and mouth and breath in earth-air in my new outer space home. Someone will have to come and build me a closet for my dresses and put in a plug somewhere for my curling iron so I will be astro-cute and then from there I'll detonate this planet remotely and blow you all to kingdom come.

But aha! Please. I already took a bunch of the cutest earthlings, specifically the ones with beards and flannel shirts and carpentry skills and musician hands and I stuffed them into the backs of the rockets so they could tag along.

Because I don't want to ever be lonely.

A lie come true.

Fine, everything is just fine. Seriously. He'll be okay. Apparently people who know a lot more than I do are working behind the scenes and everything is perfectly normal and this is to be expected.

Well, thank you for clearing that up, once again.

Look. I'm not good at this. Hell, I'm not good at the whole 'wife' thing anyway. My track record is that by being a wife I managed to kill two other men, and now I seem to be hellbent on going for a hat trick. Apparently I kill via stress. Because like Lochlan always tells me, I'm impossible.

They just keep trying anyway. Most people would run screaming the other way. Ben will hold me out to the wolves with one hand and the other hand is wrapped around the neck of a bottle and every now and then he laughs and takes a long drink and staggers where he stands and then he drops the bottle to the ground and it smashes and he rakes his hand through his dark hair in frustration and shakes me, feet off the ground.

Why do you do this to me?

I close my eyes. If I go somewhere else, maybe to the roses with Jake, maybe to the empty tunnel to wait for Cole, I'll disappear and Ben won't see me. But then he won't see me, you see? And there is that small matter of the promise I made once upon a late winter night on a farm far removed from civilization in that place where the land is flat but the sky is forever. The promise was that even when he couldn't control things he ought to be able to, even when everything is broken and we can't get anything to go back or stay together that we would. Stay together.

No matter what.

I'll take my place in front of him while he rages. Fay Wray protection King Kong from those who want to parade him around for show, to live off his talents and his marketability and I'll keep them back as long as I can, and somewhere in the darkness of his mind he understands that I am on his side and maybe that's what the promise meant to him.

Only he wasn't supposed to just give up like this again. That's the part I don't really understand and so I'm just going to hold onto my promise while I hold onto him, and maybe it will be enough. I'll wrap my arms around his neck and press myself into his flannel shirt and hold on as tight as I can, standing in a pool of broken glass.

I'm not going to be the poster child for people who are married to people in recovery. I don't know a damned thing about it. I just give you the words I have in my heart and hope you don't misunderstand them too badly.

No filler.

It's a beautiful day, actually. A nice light breeze, sunshine, clear and seventeen, which is my favorite weather-you can wear a sweater or not, pinned around your shoulders and otherwise it's good for strappy blue-green embroidered dresses and pretty sage green ballet flats. They talked about thunderstorms earlier but you'll never get the kind you see in the prairies so I'm not concerned yet. I've been to the bank to change addresses and collect some spending cash and to the farmer's market for fresh fruit and some more tomatoes. I went for coffee with Duncan, Daniel and Joel and I've come home now to fold the mountain of laundry that's waiting for me and do a few things around the house before I run up the hill to get the children for the afternoon. They'll be pleased, I also picked up cheese and strawberries. They love those for afternoon snacks.

Ben is home, headphones on, writing, madly. He kind of looks like me when I am very wobbly in a different way and he kind of looks like he always has, save for the glass beside him, that isn't orange juice lately but whiskey and water because he wants to burn, because he wants to float and be creative and forget and just be without that weight that never truly lifts. This is the magic hour when he is quiet. God help the first one of you who breaks that today.

I might join him if I had that sort of personality that allows for letting go but I do not, I have to be forced, and lately there has been enough of that.

Going to go sit outside in the sun, as soon as my chores are finished.

I don't want your concern.

Dreams in color.

Talking to herself
there's no one else who needs to know
She tells herself
Memories back when she was bold and strong
And waiting for the world to come along
Swears she knew it, now she swears he's gone

She lies and says she's in love with him, can't find a better man
She dreams in color, she dreams in red, can't find a better man

I heard the lyrics to that song today. Actually heard-heard them since the stereo was loud enough and all of the windows on the main level were closed against the ceaseless rain.

And then I cried because I always assumed the song was one lauding the hero of her heart, not lamenting the lack of courage to leave someone. How horrible. I cried not because it's a sad subject but because I can no longer enjoy the song. What's the point? It's sad. I don't like sad things. Like myself.

Ben fell off the wagon and he fell hard and I'm not good at this and nothing works and it just breaks when I touch it. It breaks. Into a million little pieces and I can never find them all so the light shines through the holes, blinding everyone. That's sort of where we are now. Standing around in the aftermath with one hand raised to shield our eyes so we can see where we're going.

Except for Ben, Ben is sitting on the floor and I can't get him to move at all. Not even to play a song.

Oddly appreciative.

Today was punctuated by the early morning slug army and the discovery of the grove, spiced with wasps and bookended with a new-sticky-summer-tires drive up the mountain to a lake fed by a glacier and none of it was salted but it was bigger than Bridget's heart and so I could appreciate it and otherwise between the cardboard and the branches and the sand my hands are very sore tonight and I still can't manage a full deep breath which is cutting into my quality of life at this point and I realized how incredibly capable we are in spite of the fact that we never feel like we know what we're doing.

So there you go.

Goodnight. Hurts to type. Or maybe I just don't feel like reporting to the vultures sometimes. I like it here though. Even the scary remote parts and the expensive parts are adventure and learning what's essential versus blind foolishness and I like that I can pull over on the side of the road and for a five dollar bill and a smile come away with a jar of honey, a flat of strawberries and three pounds of green beans to snap, already salted by the ocean air.

That's strangely comforting.

The wire walker and the twenty-four-hour man.

The circus is in full swing again and we haven't had time to even restock the concessions or sweep out the smaller tents. One elephant is loose and Bridget's braids unraveled the better part of four hours ago. There's a tear in her costume and a smudge of dirt on her forehead but pay her no mind, she's just but one part of the big show and there is so much here to see tonight.

My tightrope is woven with disquietude now, my balancing pole cast in fear. This part of the act seems blindly simple and yet it's the hardest part of all. You don't know until you're up here. You don't know so don't presume, just hold your breath and try not to audibly gasp when I wobble. If enough of you make the same sound it might carry to my ears and then I'll become distracted and make a mistake and then it will be the biggest Tragedy On Earth. Ringling Brothers. Death becomes Us. The Circus of Ghosts and Best Laid Plans. Don't miss it. You'll be sorry if you did.

I used to get a lump in my throat when I saw the tents going up. I would scratch out the lines in the dust from the games we were playing and I would grab my stickers and my candy and walk right up to the tent and duck underneath before they had time to secure the pegs. Sticker on my leg, cotton candy on my breath, I would watch with admiration as Lochlan worked to fulfill his duties. Usually by the time the tent went up he was packing up the leftover signs to head off early to the next town to post the next round of roadside arrows and gritty signs pointing the way. He used to say it was no life. He would shake his head at me as I drew lines in the dirt and balanced all the way down, arms out gracefully, hair still stuck in my mouth if it wasn't stuck in my ponytail. Smiling professionally, because I would become the youngest, prettiest Jill ever to charm the farmers and the townspeople too.

Oh, just you wait, Lochie.

Bridge, this is no life for you.

There's more love under this tent than in the ten thousand homes in this town.

Says you. These people are rough. You're too young to run with this crowd.

You're here.

I'm only on for five towns, remember?

We could go from coast to coast, think about how much fun it would be!

Go home, Bridgie. Go play with your Barbies.

I'll show you.

Have Barbie Circus even. You could do that.

Cole would take me.

Cole doesn't work here.

He would if I asked.

Don't you dare, Bridget.

What do you care?

Cole can't bring you into this.

Then what's your worry?

That Caleb would instead.

Caleb? Why would he care?

He would do anything you asked.

He's twenty-one, he's much too old for the circus.

It's not the circus that would keep his interest, bee.

Gross. I'm thirteen.

It's true, though.

That's creepy.

Bridget, don't kid yourself.

Can we talk about something else then?

Sure, what?

What costume I'm going to wear when I walk the high wire.

No. Because you're going to go home now.

I'm never going to marry you, you know that?

Oh, and why not?

You're not fun. There's no dreaming with you. Only logic. You're boring.

I could be worse.

How?

I could be impossible, like you.

Yeah well, at least I know that when I grow up I'm going to live an exciting life. What are you going to do?

I don't know yet, but I hope it doesn't involve scraping you off the floor of the big top.

But would you if it did?

Of course I would. I love you, Bridgie, and I'll take the bag of your blood and guts and hair home to your mother and tell her you were very brave.

Good. Because someone will have to.

Yeah, somehow I don't see Cole sticking around for that part.

What about Caleb?

He would probably engineer your death just for the publicity.