First half for the lovers, second for the haters.

So what gives me the right
To think that I could throw away a life?
Even mine
And what makes you believe
That you could get away with getting old?
Overlapping me
Maybe to lose or to save your soul
Is a choice of how you fill the hole

And the rain got in

I post today in honour of the memory of one of my favourite singers of all time. You wonder why we coddle Ben so badly and keep him up and moving when he gets down? You think I'm the one with demons? My demons are 6'4" and 5'10" respectively. One has white blonde hair, one chestnut. Both are blue-eyed and mostly harmless now. They have names and nicknames too, Cole (Trey) and Jacob (Preacher)

Ben's demons are forty stories tall, he doesn't know their names or what they look like because when they're coming for him he turns and runs, and I don't want them to catch up to him alone in the bathroom of a hotel far from home because the thought of that is the saddest thing in the world to me. Rest peacefully, Chris Cornell. Your demons can't find you now.

[Technical details for the gatekeepers, which I rarely stoop to. There's a search bar at the top, to your left, assholes but here. I hate reading old posts. Fuck you. 

March 2007 (This is the oldest one and also features the worst sex 'accident' I've ever had.)

July 2010  (news that Soundgarden is reuniting.)

July 2011 (Bought Soundgarden tickets. So Excited.)

July 2011 again (Live Soundgarden show review)

March 2016 (Solo album Higher Truth came out and I LOVED it.)

There's more but now I'm even sadder. Happy now? Do I get to be a fan today by your standards? Hey, thanks.]

Meta Spaghetta.

The sea is a dark smoky teal today. I'm watching it as I finish spaghetti with my homemade meat sauce. It's lukewarm but it's still warmer than being outside. Outside is twelve degrees and windy, almost-rainy and cold. I've got Cole's sweater on. I wash the spaghetti down with a glass of whiskey and drop my fork into the bowl. I'm finished. Dinner was a free for all. Ruth is working, Henry is out with Caleb (doing hey-you're-not-actually-my-father-after-all and son things and getting dinner at the end and Lochlan's putting the camper back together after a last-minute decision to put fireproof insulation between the outer shell and the inside walls. I don't know what code is for that but he knows how quickly a camper can go up and he worries about me falling asleep in it. I sleep so lightly it's not an issue but he has decided it is the issue du jour. I should point out that yes, campers go up fast when you deliberately burn them to the ground but he might not appreciate that.

Sleeping dogs and all that.

Ben offered me a swim with a laugh. It's too cold and once I have Cole's sweater on I'm loathe to take it off. This sweater is the opposite of Cole. It's warm and soft and comfortable. It doesn't make demands or take out anger or jealousy on me. It doesn't hand me off and then demand that I feel nothing. It hasn't left or died or hurt me. It's the good parts of Cole. I've tried to get rid of it. I've destroyed it and it keeps finding its way back to me. Kind of like Ben and his cat-burglar heart, sneaking in and taking all the good stuff if you fall asleep with your windows open, when the night is a dark smoky teal and the spaghetti is long cold and left on the table beside a half-asleep princess, who still marvels that she is the one that got away.

Bluesday.

Today I planted peas, beans, carrots, sweet peppers, chives and cucumbers in the little greenhouse. It's cold at night but not too cold and they're safe. I didn't have any tomato seeds at all or I would have done some of those. I may wait and get seedlings so they have a better footing. Last year the tomatoes drove me crazy. Maybe I'll do cherry tomatoes in pots. Maybe I'll skip them altogether. We'll see.

I have garlic, rosemary, sage, basil and lavender to do in the smaller gardens. Plus pumpkins, corn and sunflowers which go straight into the ground as seeds in another two weeks or so. No rush. I don't need to have a barren yard September first. The growing season will extend beyond that in this zone so-

You didn't come here for my gardening? Figures.

Ben is doing a lot better. He's back to himself. The tender, doubtful expression is gone and he seems good. The thief of hearts returns, just as I left him.

I left him..

Oh, there's an expression I won't use again, up there now with stupid inconsequential but devastating ones like dead tired and falling for you.

Bossy

Ben smells like soap and cedar. He had a blisteringly hot shower right before bed, arriving under the quilts still warm and slightly pink to the touch. By the time he finishes with me I was also warm and pink to the touch. He tells me to stop holding my breath so I ask him if he'd hold it for a while, that I'm tired. He laughs, asking me point-blank if I want sleep.

I shake my head. No. I want you. 

More? 

Please.

I'll get crucified tomorrow when you fall asleep in your rice krispies. 

We'll deal with that tomorrow. 

***

Bridge! The fuck. There's milk dripping on the floor. 

I was leaning on one elbow over my bowl. I closed my eyes for just a second and my arm slipped and my chin hit the rim, sending a waterfall of milk and rice krispies cascading to the tile floor. PJ is impressed. He mopped the main level floors yesterday.

Ooh. Sorry! I sit up and scoop the bowl back up but it's too late. Sam smiles at me, taking the bowl from me. Duncan puts some toast in for me instead while PJ comes around with the sponge to clean up the mess I'm perfectly capable of cleaning up. I'm just so tired.

When the toast is ready, Duncan slathers it with honey and brings it to the table. He pulls out a chair for me and sits next to me to keep me talking, chewing with my mouth open, while I eat.

Maybe you should go back on your meds for this. PJ has no patience today either. Who needs sleep again? Me or him?

Once upon a time I took some really awful amphetamines for this, but they took my anxiety and cranked it through the roof. It's better to be sleepy than crazy, Peej, I remind him.

Til you crash while you're driving. 

If I'm sleepy I don't drive. It's only when I can let myself relax that it happens anyway. 

He puts the stools back under the island ledge. For now. 

Rice krispies are just boring, that's all. My defence fails to spare any pity from them at all.

I'll talk to Ben, Sam says and abruptly runs his hand down my head. It's an uncharacteristically affectionate move from him and everything starts shutting down. I choke on my toast and Duncan slaps my back. PJ puts a glass of juice in front of me.

Drink. I think you should go back up and sleep. You're not doing well today. 

I'm fine. It wasn't- I turn to look at Sam and he has no idea he just pulled a Jake-move. I'll make sure I get to sleep early tonight. Ben will understand. They all do. Sam sits down and I lean against him, putting my head against his shoulder. I was about to say something when I jerk awake again.

Not fine, Bridget. I'm taking you up so you can go back to bed for a bit. Now. Finish your juice. Good girl. Now say goodnight. 

I had plans-

Cancel them.

Backwards masking.

What would you like to do this afternoon, Neamhchiontach?

Paint our faces like butterflies, blow bubbles and dance on the beach. Maybe go get some pho. 

With the face paint still on?

Of course. We're not savages. 

He frowns. No way in his hell am I getting any of that. He marvels that I didn't just make up something civilized for his ease of saying he could grant all my wishes. I mean, I'd like to go roller-blading too or kayaking but I'm also scared shitless of both of those things and those feel more like things I should do than things I want to do. And what I want to do is paint my face like a butterfly.

He's wrestling with his response and it's winning. I can see it pushing him right out of the circle.

How about lunch? 

Pho would be good. I mentioned it already. They HATE pho. Hate it. I like it. It's weird. But I'll concede on the pho if I can paint your face. 

His head drops and he wishes the ground would cough up a normal person, no doubt. A trophy-girlfriend. Someone predictable.

(Ha. That's dumb. Who likes normal?)

But we still have to go out fully painted. 

Bridget-

I get it. You're not ready for full-on weird. 

Oh, I am. 

So I can paint your face?

No. 

Drat. You know who will let me paint their faces without complaining? 

Who? 

Anyone but you. Just sayin'. 

We don't have a round table but I think I might fix that.

We went to see King Arthur: Legend of the Sword this afternoon. It was so very clever, so metal, so fast and so beautiful done. I would go back and see it again tomorrow, maybe. I loved it. I hope it does well. Then I came out blind into the cold sun and we made our way home, my head stuffed full of swordfights, giant rats and incredibly witty storytelling, all tied neatly into some of the most stunning visuals I've ever seen onscreen. It's a keeper, and I'm very picky when it comes to knights and medieval films.

It was a distraction in a day that sees some improvement over all. Ben is Lochlan's phoenix, resurrected in flames over and over again. Perpetual lives, while I watch from the sidelines, all the effort I have on what is a magnificently limited physical budget these days. I am getting better but still coughing too much, still low on energy and high on short-temperedness. It will get better. Ben will get better. He did that thing where he got cocky and dialed back on a lot of his support mechanisms, quickly finding out it was too soon.

It's always too soon and rarely a good move. So everything was brought back to where it was, only he dropped a bit and has to climb back up to where he was. His frustration and embarrassment is evident in spite of reassurance that he's out there doing the work to protect himself, that he should be damn proud. Fuck embarrassment. No one's laughing at him. Everyone loves him beyond measure. That's what helps him fall asleep at night, one arm around me, one hand on Lochlan. Safe. Protected. Sober. Okay for the moment.

The sword in the stone for him is clear-headedness and no one's going to take it from him. I'll be his knight. While I'm bumping along in armor that's too big dragging a shield that's too heavy, they can laugh at me all they want. But no one would. That's the best thing about the Collective. Instead, someone will step in and take the shield from me to carry, and the rest of them will stand in front of and behind Ben. Protecting him, holding him up, pushing him forward, having his back.

Smart as a Saturniid.

Who is this?

Ne Obliviscaris. It's their acoustic arrangement of Painters of the Tempest Part II, Movement III: Curator.

It's beautiful.

You should hear the original.

But Caleb isn't really paying attention, standing here on the front porch in the near dark, gazing at me with that truncated half-smile,  moreso with his eyes than his mouth. His hand comes up to touch my face and I flinch automatically and the smile is gone. A soft kiss lands on my lips. He doesn't close his eyes. I don't close mine. He steps back out of my personal space and asks for my evening in return. So he can apologize properly, profoundly, for what was a tense and unwelcome week solely due to his jealousy. Not the birthday week I was hoping for (because oh, I envision so many things and the anticipation paralyzes me regardless), instead a tough navigate through conflictingly-charted waters ending on an island with no name.

It has a name, he says without turning. Point Perdition. You named it.

I did. I go back inside without answering his request and Lochlan asks if I want the music off.

Maybe. Not like I can hear it when I move. If we can talk over it it may as well be off, because I can't strain hard enough to catch a note.

Hey. He says as he comes back (the remote is in the kitchen for the sound).

Losing my grip, Locket.

You're not going anywhere, Peanut. I gotcha. We're going to go up and have a nap with Ben. He's feeling similar. Looks like I have my hands full tonight.

I can get Sam, if you-

I can handle this. 

We bundled in with popcorn and watched documentaries on Netflix until I was asleep and Ben was calm enough to try to close his eyes. We locked the door. We left two very dim lights on. We boarded up access to the outside world but the impending storm never came. When we emerged, somewhat pale and shaken, worn through for holding on, we realized Lochlan was right.

He did great. No one lost their shit or fell in a hole on his watch and now I know all sorts of things about the world's worst prisons, the Ganges river in India, and the secret lives of bodyguards, one of which I seem to have right now.

Bird on a hill.

(Oh but from such a young age you told me I couldn't trust anyone.)

You think they're not just like me, Bridget? You think they don't think the same way? We're wolves. We eat our young. We take you out into the night and devour you alive. The same ones you run to when you're scared want to hurt you the same way I do. Just enough.

I am breathless, hitching gasps for air mixed with sobs. Sweat sticks my hair to my face and fear keeps me paralyzed in place.

I lie underneath them and I understand what he means. My currency is myself. My debts are never paid. My safety a tightrope I can't seem to balance on because terror makes it twang against the pulleys. Fear is quicksand, gravity, a weighted anchor in a churning sea and I'm drowning but I'm still alive.

Liar. But my accusation bounces off him like a errant bee. Lochlan isn't like the rest of you.

You'll understand it better when you're older. He's already turning. It's only a matter of time.

Turning into what?

A werewolf.

No he isn't!

Watch him and see. Watch him when no one's watching him.

And I did and he never turned. He marched right up to the dark and put on yet another show, a pretense at being all the things he thought he had to be and then he shed that skin like a snake and went back to being himself. And I was never so relieved.

***

Crow came for everyone for supper, delivered in the form of a gift for August, from Caleb mostly with the others chipping in. A Breville. Daniel and Sam taught him how to use it, while Caleb swore to me he won't engage in petty fights any longer, that he'll save his hills for bigger stakes, that he'll make sure it's worth it instead of kicking the dirt out from underneath where they stand in hopes that they'll fall.

No one here is beneath you, I told him as I sipped what had to be the ninth espresso made tonight, as August gets the hang of it and takes over from Sam's directions.

Understood.

(All these espressos are the equivalent of a Mountain Dew, which is the second thing you'll discover upon meeting me. No one is permitted to give me Mountain Dew. I react badly and begin to paint the house. I stayed up for three days once. I learned to do cartwheels starting with my left hand. I was holding a drink in my right. I still have the scar. And they don't give me Mountain Dew anymore.)

Put it down, Peanut. Ah. Here's someone who remembers Bridget doing the Dew.

Hi, Lochlan! 

Want some? August is enjoying this.

It's nine o'clock at night, Aug. 

Oh shit. Sorry man. She seemed to like it. 

How many, Bridge?

Like, seven? 

Oh Jesus. Lochlan gives me a withering gaze. August says goodbyes and reminds us to come back for breakfast or if we can't sleep. Caleb shoots him the most terrible look while I nod at lightning speed, a hummingbird-girl.

Deep cuts.

That's the biggest downside of living in a communal environment. Aside from a glaring lack of privacy (we have lots of space, we just have lots of people too), living in close quarters with so many passionate people with our hearts all strung out on a line is that our fighting styles are vastly different. Vastly. And everything seems to raise the stakes until they stab us through, stuck deep into those bleeding hearts for no reason other than to attempt to prove a point, usually at someone else's expense.

Caleb tends to organize us into the little classes he has made up inside his head, with rich people like himself, Batman and Ben at the proverbial top and normal people like Schuyler, Sam and Christian, Dalton and Duncan in the middle and then the gutter rats at the bottom seem to be me and Lochlan, always called out for whatever decision we make as clearly not informed/educated/wealthy enough to understand whatever gravity we find ourselves in. Then there are those he just doesn't like, marginalized in a way only Caleb can pull off. That's August, in a class by himself, clearly, who never did a thing wrong in his life save for touching me (which isn't as big a deal as you might think and for which he is not to be blamed) and apparently that's the biggest sin going.

No one gives PJ any flack for the same thing but whatever, Caleb. I get who you think the threat is and who isn't.

Me, if I decide I'm going to take you up on your fight it will be the hill I die on, even if it's stupid and pointless. I don't get mad. I get frustrated. I cry. I'll withdraw, sure, but the minute I turn around and decide I'm going in (hold my beer), you'd better realize what you're up against and I think Caleb did this morning as I lit him up once again like an unwelcome hangover sunrise and told him if he EVER said a negative word or even thought a negative thought about someone I care about ever again that we would take our stuff and go and he could live here alone in his perfect existence and we would go back to a patchwork of houses and whatever or maybe (gasp) buy a bigger house somewhere else, maybe back East, and fuck his stupid need to try and prop himself up by tearing the others down and fuck his stupid expensive espresso and fuck fighting for the stupidest reasons.

The rage comes out of somewhere deep, maybe the deep unheated end of the Bridget pool and you don't want to be on the receiving side of it ever, no you don't.

Everyone looked vaguely scared by the time breakfast was over and I had to leave, taking my toast and tea out to the pool and then ignoring it in favor of a swim (the pool is heated, don't worry I won't catch pneumonia since I just had it. FML) because I couldn't even switch gears back and I couldn't stop shaking so I thought a break would bring me back around.

I'm not allowed to swim alone, however and so Lochlan followed me out, across the lawn with his bowl of cereal held in two hands and he didn't look like he was having crowflakes or rice crowkies or crow-ee-os or anything like that he just looked concerned and a little shellshocked and kind of also impressed by my temper so I let him stay (I don't have a choice, they like to let me pretend I do and it WORKS) and I swam back and forth, practicing my form as Sam taught me and tiring myself out and when I finished six fairly slow laps a bunch of people were there, just chilling, with their various breakfast dishes and coffee cups and I came to the ladder and asked if everyone could go back inside, that I'm fine, that I need to go in.

We're good, Ben says. As if they should stay for support. Not realizing that I didn't have a suit. I just took off my pajamas and dove into the pool. I don't think first.

Ok fine. I got out. Marched with confidence all the way around to where my pajamas and my toast were, picked up a piece of toast and stuck it in my mouth while I pulled on my pajama bottoms over wet skin and tried to pull on the top too but everything was pulling and binding and I didn't open the shed where the towels are (it's too early) and so I said fuck it and balled up my clothes and put them under one arm, took my dishes and made my way back across the lawn and inside the house buck naked, where I left my dishes on the counter and went straight upstairs to shower and dress.

God love them all, no one moved or said a word.

I bought a Porsche wearing pajama shorts once, just to be a dick.

That feeling you get when you defend someone's perfect execution of an espresso (tiny cup, light foam layer, superheated water) only to find out it's instant and he makes it with a kettle every time is that feeling that you've shed some sort of facet of yourself, a fake persona that begs to be set free from all of the put-upons.

Liberating.

This is also exactly the way I feel when I walk into a makeup store fresh-faced. I want to tell them to ease off the judgement, that I'm shopping, for Christs sake. That's a notch below yard work on my chore totem-pole and so why would I dress up or bother putting on makeup for it? Makeup is for fancy nights out, not for the mall, in my universe but then again, I was raised by wolves.

Wolves don't wear makeup. And BOY, do people judge the shit out of you if you head into a place without being covered in the thing you're seeking. Maybe I ran out and that's why I'm here with none on. Maybe I don't know the difference between commercial-made espresso or even espresso made with a machine instead of a kettle and jar setup.

Here's the difference. I'm not fucking pretentious! THAT'S WHY.

Oy. It totally touched a nerve. Wait until I get into visiting car-dealerships in my gardening clothes. STOP FUCKING JUDGING PEOPLE.

Yes, I do it too, because it's human nature, but mostly I do it sweetly, with a lovely fully-fleshed out story to go with what I think I see. It's far less malicious and far more entertaining. And I usually forget that everyone is making fun of me because I'm sheltered or whatever thing they're harping on in any given day.

I don't even know why I wrote this, other than Caleb thought he could take August down a peg by pointing out the espresso he makes (that's so good) is from a kettle and a mix and since I didn't care I got called naive. Which is neither here nor there but pissed me off a ton because it feels just like when I go in Sephora or Mac and they ASSume that since I'm not wearing makeup, I must not know how to use it and that's how I developed my fun story about how it's a shitty chore, shopping is. The higher-end the store, the more they love Caleb and hate me, basically.

It's a ramble. Sorry.

He is one of them and I am, clearly, one of me.