Self-aware? Nah.

The Collective is a mosaic, born of broken glass and shells, cemented back together into a beautiful image so distracting you forget the destruction required to make it. That's us. That's honestly us.

Caleb is thrilled with Batman's rare revelations, excited to be in first place, all the while knowing his brother is sick with a need no one should have.

I have half a mind to cancel the birthday as well, an impulsive desire of my own in which the evil isn't rewarded while the good remain unfulfilled.

But I never go that way. I never meet them in their games, truth be told, I don't manipulate one against another anymore nor do I look past the end of my fingertips to see anything other than what's in it for me. A problem in itself, mind you, but also a far less complicated one overall.

Batman came back around last night anyway and we spoke of it, biting back the difficult sins like lust and greed, trying to smother everything with a thin lacquer of values, opaque to the harsh sheen of the facts, ma'am and yes, it's a problem.

I need a clone, a spine, or a personal assistant. I need a megaphone or a billboard maybe. It will tell them how I feel. It will be backlit with my moods. Red for STOP FUCKING TOUCHING ME and blue for when I've fallen into the hole.

I need them to understand that things are going to have to change.

I need to stand behind Lochlan for a little bit while he fights a battle without a smug expression or a wounded heart, and I need everyone to just take a few steps back so I can run off in front, instead of running after everyone all the time.

It's so tenuously good right now and they're trying to ruin it, best they can.

Manifesting a difference (keep on moving).

There's beauty in the butterfly
But also in the moth
There's beauty in the sinner before and after he got lost
There's beauty in the traitor if freedom's on the line
There's beauty in the outcast if beauty saves your life
And I keep on moving

Batman smooths my bangs back and takes my whiskey, putting it on the side table while pulling me in closer on his lap. He hugs me against his chest and I feel a deep sigh from his as he exhales into my hair.

Your hair has gotten so long.

You saw me a week ago.

Touching it. I like it.

All millionaires have the same moves. The same abject comments on appearances, which isn't warranted or welcomed but they do it anyway as if their mere approval is influence. I secretly vow never to cut it again.

(Oh I'm KIDDING. Christ. They all have varying opinions on my hair. If I want it long I grow it out. If I decide I can't stand it for another minute, I chop it all off. It's just hair.)

It's been more than a week, Bridget. His hands loop around my hips. He seems so content and I reach over for my drink and bring it back so there's at least something between us other than my dress and his shirt and pants.

It's been more than a year. He continues as he picks up his own glass and empties it into his face decisively, as if he has been dared.

You have quotas?

Oh, it was a flip comment and there goes the glass, sailing through the air in slow motion, exploding against the doorframe in a shower of stars.

Turn off the music.

I bit my lip and leave his arms to do as he asks. I guess I hit a nerve and my spirit animal told him everything he needed to know tonight.

There's beauty in the knowing and in the wishing that you could
Like magic ain't a miracle
Just your cards misunderstood
Well there's beauty in our doing
Though diminished in our name
The same beauty in a snowfall is also in a flame
There's beauty in creation as there's beauty in its loss
There's beauty in the sinner before and after he got lost
And I keep on moving

*(If you need a refresher, my spirit animal is Matthew Good and he put out a brand new album that is likely the most beautiful one of all.)

Annual conversations, annual best-laid plans.

(I don't even think I have to name names so I'll let you guess and answer it tomorrow.)

What are you giving up this year?

Who, you mean?

Bridge-

I thought about giving up campfire smells or music or sugar or the Devil but then I realized I could work on myself a little.

Go on.

So I'll try to give up boundless worrying.

No more fretting?

Right.

How's that going?

It's really rough.

He laughs and pulls me in, planting a kiss on the top of my head, I'm just happy I'm not on the list.

So I gather you're not giving me up for Lent this year?

Wouldn't dream of it.

Mu-sea-um.

 I got lazy this afternoon while doing a warm-up painting and instead of going upstairs to my extensive collection of shells and sea glass, organized in giant glass jars on a table in a windowed hall, I googled for sea urchin shell photos.

To my dismay I found a whole heaping pile of sand dollar photographs, which is sad until I noticed a bunch of heart-shaped sand dollar ones.

And now it's my dream to find a heart-shaped sand dollar because I definitely need one of those. Please don't tell me it's an exclusive region-specific anomaly, I'd rather just keep searching. That's what I did with the glass fishing floats, of which I have three now. I'll go to the ends of the earth to find things and then I keep them dear.

Aristotle's lanterns, indeed.

I'm not so much a mermaid, but a scavenger. A collector, I assure Lochlan.

A beneficiary, he suggests, to be kind.

Updated with actual useful chitchat.

I went all the way out to the valley early to clear my head, talking to Mark on the phone via bluetooth about a future project sometime soon (before my birthday, maybe) and stopped to deliver the Porsche's big summer tires, gas up where it's cheap and then I was home just a little while ago, voices quiet in my head, no one listening in (anymore, anyway) and big plans to have coffee with Sam on the patio.

What's up, Bridge?

I just miss you. Usually you would have come to me a week ago to make sure the pancakes were planned for tonight and that we were all ready with our pledges for Lent and this year nothing. The last time there was nothing I didn't know you and hadn't met you yet.

What are planning to give up this year? 

Apparently, you. 

Bridge, I've been-

Busy. I know. Matt has replaced us all. 

You told me to be independent. 

So you switched from needing us to needing him? I haven't even done that ever and look at my loves.

We're trying not to turn Matt into the point's unwelcome interloper. 

If he wasn't welcome he wouldn't be here. It's almost as if you two are skulking around in the off hours and we haven't seen you at all. 

A lot was said about him coming back, Bridge. 

And it's the end of February and all is still well?

All is well. 

Then come for dinner tonight. We're having pancakes. We'll go around the table and set our intentions and have a good time. 

Okay. 

Okay?

Yes. 
 

Not biting.

Lochlan's laugh is bitter and somewhat incredulous. So he's just going to go along behind me and appropriate my ideas? 

I don't know what he's doing. 

Don't worry, I'll be asking him. I'd rather he engage you on his big failure trips like last year. Works better for me. Fire is my thing, not his. His thing is money and he can have it. 

So that's a no?

Hell yeah it's a no, but I'll be the bad guy. 

***

Late last evening Caleb knocks on the doorframe. I look over my shoulder from where I sit wrapped in a blanket on the front porch, my Irish coffee all but forgotten as I draw while listening to the Blackout podcast. I finished Gaslight and I must say I'm really enjoying these while I paint. You get sucked right in but you don't have to take your focus off your work.

You can come out, no need to knock. This is a public space. 

I like your delineations on spaces here on the point. 

It seems to work. What's up?

You look very cozy. 

I'm enjoying the rain. 

So again I've missed the mark trying to plan an evening with all of your favourite elements, according to Pyro. I've chosen a bit of a re-do on your Valentine's Day and I'd like to plan something a little different with you now. I was mistaken in trying to keep it close to home, I think.

Diabhal. 

Yes, Neamhchiontach. 

It's your birthday, what would be fun? 

Dinner at a jazz club and some dancing, maybe a movie after.

Then that's what we should do.Though you know I'll sleep through the movie.

I know. Then you can stay the night. 

He's never going to allow-

It's just wishful thinking, Neamhchiontach. Let an old man have that. 

One of us is going down.

The new single, Hunting Grounds is out off the upcoming Mother album from in this moment and the refrain (the title above) made me laugh. The song is a direct descendant of Sexual Hallucination though, and I don't really love it. Not because I'm a prude but because I feel like an intruder when I listen to both. The In-Between (the first single) is absolutely stunning in comparison.

But one of us is going down.

It's true. This morning, shoved under the door conveniently after Lochlan and Benjamin left for breakfast and then church with Sam, leaving me to sleep as Japanese food still manages to give me a pounding headache at least one time out of every three trips (yes I drank a ton of water last night to counteract the possibility, I think I'm going to have to give it up regardless) I found a gray envelope. Wax-sealed with an X, my initials scrawled on the front in case a single B was mistaken and appropriated by Benjamin, who isn't home anyway and Caleb knows that.

BRC. 

He'll never get it right.

I don't open it, I just bring it with me down the hall in through two doors and he is fastening the top button on a dress shirt. Oh, someone's going to church.

Big date?

Depends. Are we going to the service?

I'm not. Ben and Loch did. 

They left you?

For three hours.

Was that smart?

Depends. I hold up the envelope.

You asked for more notice and so I have sent you an invitation. What do you think? Did you open it?

I'm not going on an Alaskan do-over. 

If we try that again we'll do Finland instead. Jesus. 

What is it then?

Open it and see. 

Just tell me. 

He stares at me wearily and then goes back to his own more affable reflection. It's an evening event a little closer to home. I'm not shooting so far to wind up far from home fighting with you, when I would just like to mark another trip around the sun with someone I love in a special way. 

I can't take the curiosity anymore and I rip open the envelope, scanning his handwriting.

Oh. Why didn't you say so?

I like to make things special, as I said. 

What time?

It's on the paper-

Oh, right. I will be there. 

I thought we could leave together. 

Right. Yes. Sorry. 

I'm delighted you accepted so readily. 

It sounds like fun and it's appropriate right now. (Appropriate, says the girl with one husband, two ghosts, two formal boyfriends and a handful of completely informal, casual ones.)

You and Lochlan are doing well and you don't have any screws to turn. 

No, jetting off to far-flung corners of the planet with a boyfriend who's in virtual jail for almost biting your ear off would be foolish and hypocritical. 

I am aware, Neamhchiontach, and that's one of the reasons I scaled things back this year. 

I like simple things, Diabhal. 

That explains Lochlan. He laughs and then rolls his eyes. You set up that joke perfectly. Give me some credit. 

You have to earn credit. 

Oh, I know, Bridget. I want to get back to good birthdays and I think this will do it. 

I always said a beach bonfire with dinner and slow-dancing by the sea fixes everything. 

Well then let's see if it fixes this. How is your headache this morning?

Oh, he knows me so well it's criminal.

If I burn all the suitcases they can keep all their promises.

Benjamin and Daniel came back early this morning, waking up the whole house thanks to their earlier vagueness on when the flight was actually coming in, when they were planning to leave and what the fuck taxi company they would take to get home since they couldn't give PJ a definitive answer. He would have picked them up, though probably not at four this morning. They were home by six, and I was so happy to be woken up early on my only day to sleep in it's ironic.

Schuyler suddenly had blinders on, giving Ben a warm punch-hug, closed fists against each other's backs before moving to Daniel to envelope him in the sweetest, longest hug I've ever been fortunate to witness. Tears even, from everyone as they are rarely apart and hardly ever for this long.

They head off with promises to return to head out for our big welcome home dinner tonight, already booked at a little Japanese restaurant that's happy to give us an entire room on a week's notice and we stop to marvel at Ben's presence in this house, a space he fills that was so sorely lacking all week. At the end of the day Ben is a constant now, a six-foot-four security blanket, a wall that we can close in or lean on or protect ourselves with.

He and Loch had an equally long hug which was beautiful to see. They were speaking softly in each other's ears and I couldn't hear the words. Then he came for me, finally. From largest to smallest, I guess and I was off the ground in his arms, still half-asleep and in dreams but half-awake and...still in dreams.

The airplane fuel smell hit me like a wall, catch in my throat, tears triggered again.

Going to make that the last trip this year. Embargo for 2020, Ben says to me. He puts me down and presents his little finger to my face. Pinky-swear, he says solemnly.

It's February. You can't say that yet. 

Oh, I can and I am. Pinky-swear me, Bee. Come on. Don't leave me hanging.

It's a pep-talk! It's rambles. It's a ramble-talk! A pep ramble! It's an attempt, fuck off.

I've said before one of the upsides of waking up, raring to go at five or shortly after is that the energy that comes from being a morning person enables me to get all of my big crazy chores done before nine a.m. and then (be asleep by 8pm, sharp, yegads) I have more time to job hunt, spring clean, draw and crawl right up inside my own skull, a dark and warm host to the parasite that is my mind.

Some day I'll find the off switch and it will be bittersweet because I'm pretty sure that Jacob already found his and it's death and nothing else.

So I'm doomed to fret and worry through my days, but I'm at once an escapee AND high-functioning.

No, YOU figure it out.

Joel figures it out but only after Sam does what he can. Sam told me to go tick through my list, so I did the chores, did the budget, paid the bills, folded the laundry (including ALL the sheets and towels) and called to order in the summer tires for the Porsche because they are of no use to me now and I need to take them over to be sold with the car.

I also still need to pick up the new Jeep but it's...not...ready. ARGH.

I wish everyone lived moved-forward like me instead of these slow late-morning starts which stretch into early evenings because that's dumb and I have an agenda to keep, which is to continue moving forward at a breakneck pace until I crash into a wall.

And I don't even want to be a sad read anymore. I've had enough. I cringe when bloggers happily parse their diagnoses, and talk about meds and suicide and depression and death, even. I did that. I've been doing that nonstop, frankly, for a damn long time.

So ha! Bridget picks herself up by her bootstraps now! Or maybe someone else does. They must be strong, and her boots are only a little worn, but still fit and are comfortable, and honestly we're going to move forward even if I have to put my back up against my own life and push with my legs.

You heard it here first. 

Also, please come home, Daniel, I don't have enough energy to keep up with them. I thought I did and I was wrong.

(snort).

Smell the roses. And the oil.

I am changing beds and waiting for the Jeep to be ready at the dealership. It's having some things done. I don't know what things, supposedly they will give me a list. They're going to make it nice. That was a condition of selling it to me. I am the sweetest, most polite cutthroat negotiator you will ever find. I want it perfect and I want promises so if you make any, I won't forget.  I think it will be ready during rush-hour. Sometime between when Henry has to go to work and when he needs a pick up. I may have to enlist every driver in the house tonight to get things done and I am tired of dealerships and garages and tire-smell and parking and being nice to people and generally I want to go crawl up into bed and keep drinking wine and watching Netflix and dozing off every five minutes with Lochlan and Schuy because at least that's relaxing.

Just a note, yes, they offered to look after all of it but it's my mess, I'll see it through so I am. Even though I am mega-stressed but really it's just one little stick in a whole bird's nest over here.

At least the beds are all changed the final round of sheets and pillowcases is in the dryer. I should have used the clothesline. It's sunny and beautiful out today. It feels like spring.