Astronomical phenomenons like egos and moons.

The moon came up large and red. We toasted in the freezing cold rain with a flask that was barely more than half-full and that was fine with me. A few whoops and hollers at the sky and everyone mostly dwindled away, back to bed because it was too early to be navigating those steps in the dark.

I need to finish turning this point into my evil lair. I would dig down into the ground in order to have an inside access point that opens onto the beach. That would be perfect. Like Mirage in The Incredibles. A little door opens in the cliff and in you go.

The stairs were hard enough on the way down but going back up at six in the morning in a sleepy day-drunk sort of stupor was a hundred times worse. I asked Lochlan for a piggy back. He swore at me as John laughed and offered me one, if it was okay but Lochlan of course said it wasn't because if he doesn't trust himself then he's not trusting anyone else.

Story of my life, right there. But I'm still drunk so what do I know?

Anyway, the moon was amazing and now it's over, the frigid air newly felt after such an intense pause in life. The cool blue-grey of the morning belied the fiery red ball we witnessed and left a pall on an otherwise profoundly exciting way to start an average Wednesday in January. When we returned to the house, Lochlan fired up a pan of eggs and I methodically made toast to go with it. We fall into a weird traditional routine that hasn't changed much, even in spite of long absences from each other, in many years. He likes marmalade on his toast, I prefer honey. He likes his yolks easy, I like mine medium. He likes to read over breakfast, I like to talk.

Since he was mildly drunk and moderately tired, we got eggs over hard, jam on toast and silence as we both watched the birds out the window, vaguely sad that the spell of the moon was broken in such a pedestrian manner.

Caleb came in, rested and organized, having missed the blue moon party altogether.

Ah. Just the girl I was looking for. I'd like to borrow you in a little while, if I may. 

No, Lochlan said, but he never turned his gaze away from the sea. Not today. And he reached across the table and held my hand. He knew where it was without even looking.

A super-duper, blue-blood moon (Goodnight, Bridget).

Tonight is going to be very exciting indeed, as the skies have cleared just in time for the super blue blood moon and lunar eclipse visible to everyone who lives in this, the Ring of Fire, a lovely description but also a scary prospect, as every time there's a big earthquake somewhere I fret just a bit.

At least with tornado warnings, we knew what to do. We put our shoes by the basement door. In case of a funnel cloud, any basement worth its salt would save you.

Not so much an earthquake. Everything turns to ruin and your shoes better be by the nearest exterior door, because you'll have to leave. Or so I think. I have no training in what to do if one hits, other than if the house is no longer liveable or no one is home we have a meeting place away from the house where everyone is to go. That's where we'll regroup and figure out our next move.

(Honestly my only thought is that I'll present Caleb's black card at the Fairmont Pacific Rim and we'll live like kings until it all blows over. Lochlan says that isn't very productive, reasonable or mature and my only answer to that was look who it's coming from. Someone who isn't the least bit productive, reasonable OR mature but I'm also the person who packed the bug-out bags so be nice to me or yours will contain only useless items like a muffin tin, a rubber duck and a pair of leg warmers.)

Our meeting place is not the Fairmont Pacific Rim, or even De Beers or Tiffany, as I suggested.

(You said choose a landmark, Lochlan. 

I mean like a park or a mountain close by, Peanut. Something that will still be intact after the fact.)

It's easier to just pretend it will never happen.

We've survived a few tornadoes. A couple of floods. Some life-and-death moments, definitely some deaths. We've gotten through a shit-ton of hurricanes. We've had a 4.2 earthquake that rolled the floors once already and made me feel really fucking weird, but otherwise I'm not interested in the Big One.

Unless you're talking about something else entirely.

In which case, I'm all ears.

(As long as you're not all talk.)

***

The only reason I brought all of this up is because of the Ring of Fire designation for eclipse-viewing and the fact that people act weird when there's a full moon. Everything is hurried and strangely off, nothing is settled until the sun comes up again and it seems more prevalent on the coast for sure. Closer to the water, naturally where the moon tries to pull her sea-blanket up to her nose, maybe to be coy, most certainly to be destructive as she refuses to acknowledge that it's time to sleep, dammit.

Reminds me of someone I know, Lochlan says.

"Lot 666, then, a chandelier in pieces!"

In spite of this endless rain as of late (a sure harbinger of spring in the Pacific Northwest), the buds have popped on the cherry trees, blossoms threatening to bloom a pastel pink against the dark grey sky.

I can't hear them opening though, I finally replaced my Original London Cast recording of Phantom of the Opera, circa 1987 and it's GLORIOUS. It will join the others in a good solid stack of hours of listening and entertaining pleasure.

It was the first one I adored, quickly followed by Hair, Miss Saigon, Les Miserables and RENT. These five I can sing just about all the words to, with much enthusiasm if you ask anyone who knows me. These are the best ones, I think.

This is Lochlan's fault as always.

He proclaims to 'not remember the words' but he's biting his tongue, he's clamped his cheeks shut and he's trying not to laugh. Just like he used to once I came out of the shell I retreated into after transitioning from the midway to the circus, from childhood to adulthood, from victim to survivor.

From wallflower to performer, and I never looked back. These taught me I could be anyone and I was never shy for even half a second ever again.

So that's not a bad thing, and boy does this sound wonderful remastered, played on a whole-home hybrid system fine-tuned especially for my ears.

Say you love me every waking moment
Turn my head with talk of summertime
Say you need me with you now and always
Promise me that all you say is true
That's all I ask of you

Deluge Jesus.

It's pouring and black today, the sea calm enough to swim in, but who would want to and so we stayed home today, finishing off the jar of chunky peanut butter on homemade bread and drinking coffee while the water ran down the windows in thick rivers of soaking rain.

I kind of love days like this, truth be told. Ruth has her boyfriend over, Henry slept in, I slept in, the dog slept in and we're all up now, the kids are in the theatre watching Geostorm (so good!) and I just finished booking a bunch of our phones to go to Apple next weekend for battery replacements.

Because oy. Both kids' phones are on life support by lunchtime suddenly and Lochlan's phone isn't far behind and since we're all scattered so far during the days I need them to be able to make contact if they need to and not have a dead phone in an emergency. At least they're getting fixed. I have a seven plus, it fits in no pockets but the battery life so far is incredible.

And the pictures it takes are amazing but honestly it's HUGE as fuck and I don't think I'd get one this big ever again.

Sam went out for early service and left the lunchtime one to his second, coming home, running in the door, still soaked before realizing he left his satchel and had to go back out to his car and get it. Now we're making seriously belated grilled cheese sandwiches for whoever is around (I just put out a message on our group SMS but not the 911 one) and shortly they'll start funneling in. I hope we made enough.

Here's a little cautionary tale about how to miss your whole Saturday.

My love for Pad Kee Mao and other assorted noodle dishes caught up with me as we tried a new Thai restaurant on Friday night and barring the fact that we had to eat with surprisingly heavy forks (an ABOMINATION), were offered no chopsticks and the starter came at the glorious, bitter end I thought we might have found a new haunt. It's nice to have new places to eat.

(I should have taken all of those signs as an omen. But I was hungry.)

Then this morning I almost died, as the worst headache I've had in fifteen years woke me up, if not for the nightmares beating it to the job, and only when I threw up at eleven did I feel any better. I slept until three and it took me until seven to be myself again.

Everyone else is fine. 

I'm especially susceptible to Chinese Restaurant Syndrome, or so it's called, a bit of a misnomer as it seems to cover any foreign food and any symptoms but in the migraine headache world it means the worst headache you've ever had, and mine was right up there.

I'm stupidly sensitive to glutamate, but only in very large quantities so I don't know if I can research what is safe to eat on the menu or not, I just know I get all excited over noodles and new restaurants and I'm still thrilled we finally went to this spot as we've been driving by for a couple of years and never pulled the trigger before. Little did I know I was pulling it on myself.

So today all I had to eat was a slice of homemade bread with honey and then a small plate of mashed potatoes. My phone was off, my door was closed and everyone had to go out so Henry was tasked with keeping an eye on me with instructions to drive me to the ER if I got worse.

(Which I've only had to do about eight times. I love headaches.)

God bless him, he checked on me every fifteen minutes, scared to death. On the last check I was awake and up and sweaty. He wrinkled his nose and gave me a hug anyway, and sadly I don't think I can ever go back to our favorite new restaurant again.

Merciful, ferocious, fearless.

Carry me through this world alive
I feel no more, the suffering
Bury me in this cold light
I feed the wolf and shed my skin

Last night was Burns Night and I pulled myself together just long enough to roll out a very fancy, very Scottish dinner replete with whiskey and a piper near and dear to my heart.

I was hoping the cacophony from Ben's bagpipes (thanks to the rain he performed INSIDE which, well, never again) might obscure the fact that instead of haggis I managed to get my hands on a good sized Stornoway black pudding which I boiled up and served with turnips, carrots, potatoes and the bread I made earlier.

One bite in though, Lochlan noticed. I should have started serving him drinks at lunchtime.

Hey, so did you hear about the.....wait, is this...black pudding? 

He looks at our plates, then at me.

I forgot to pre-order. I'm sorry. It totally left my mind. But it's...uh...hagg-ish, right? 

He didn't say anything. No one said anything.

Then he started laughing.

And he laughed until he was red in the face and exhausted and silly and teary eyed.

And then he pulled his chair in closer, winking at me. Alright boys, we're having haggish! Dig in!

"It never appealed to me to be the same as everyone."

And when it comes to shove and I can't see you through the black
I'm going to scream your name till you come back

I realize I left you hanging back there in 2009, with Ruth about to turn ten when I was on the hunt for a replacement breadmaker.

She'll be nineteen on her next birthday. Jesus fucking Christ.

And I did get a new machine, in 2010. It's so industrial it makes three-pound horizontal loaves and is made by Black & Decker. I don't remember if I actually bought it at the hardware store but it's likely that I did. I was a little surprised to come home and realize that it didn't have to be connected to the air compressor to work, it just plugs into a standard kitchen outlet.

Now that I think of it, I suppose it's old now too, like the last one that lasted nine years. Should I start looking for a replacement? Must check and see if DeWalt or Ryobi makes them. I'll look next time we go back to the hardware store.

(I'm only kind of kidding.)

It's churning away right now, this monstrosity of a breadmaker, knocking around the counter in time with Demon Hunter. I hear nothing else. It's sort of funny. Who knew Through the Black had such a catchy beat?

Well, I did, but did Black & Decker do this on purpose?

(I'm not breaking any bottles today, so there's that. Though Joel and I went for a long drive last night, we accomplished little. I still mostly hate him but he seems the most knowledgeable at times and attributed my sudden lashing out to stress, and depression and a host of vague labels I abhor. He also said I'm not manic (for the armchair psychiatrists out there) and he's not concerned about anything else, as I have a good track record of being able to maintain a polite and thoroughly upbeat demeanor for the sake of the people around me that sometimes caves into a hole all at once. Only certain people set it off, however. Namely Caleb, which makes sense.

So I'm not going to offer him any bread once it's done baking. He can make his own.

(Also from that link, I never listened to David Cook again after that afternoon and I still haven't told you things that would make you like me more, but hate everyone else in the process so yeah. I shouldn't ever read back through this blog. Ever.)

I would hide from me too except I'm very easy to find.

Yesterday went from fun exciting office work to all-out stress and by ten I took Caleb's champagne offer, snatched the bottle from him, smashed the bottle against the rail, threatened him with the jagged glass of the neck I was holding and promptly burst into tears.

One should always be as threatening as possible while crying, shouldn't they? How do you hold and console a person who's trying to talk to you through great heaving, hitching sobs while they jab a broken bottle in your direction?

You don't. You leave it to a team who will corner and then immobilize her, take her fun new weapon and suggest she change out of her office clothes into warm pajamas and go the fuck to sleep, as the book goes.

And so she did.

I always wanted a reputation as a crazy, tough chick and yet I still don't have it. Instead this morning they're treating me like a small child. PJ made me hot chocolate for breakfast. Lochlan cut my toast into four strips, sprinkled them with cinnamon sugar and for a moment there I was worried he would try to feed me, too. They've got their kid-gloves on and they're concerned with my snappage as am I, but honestly Caleb just picked the wrong time, words and beverage and I'm fairly sure my next alcoholic drink will be served in a plastic cup, if I get a drink ever again, I mean, but really it's the end of January and shit's worse than ever but if you ask me to my face I'll tell you I'm doing just fine, though who's going to ask? Our resolution to talk for four hours a day already fell by the wayside. Or maybe they gave up.

Pretty sure Joel is on the way. Guess I can't exactly make bottlenauts while he talks, can I?

Tuesdays with Jesus (and Gayle Waters-Waters).

I was going to post a huge lengthy thing of monstrous proportions but then Sam got overwhelmed at work and needed an office manager for the day! So yippee! I got to put on a pretty dress and shoes (and a big sweater because it's freaking COLD in here and I'm still looking for the thermostat, of which Sam won't say where it is located for REASONS like the electricity/gas budget) and answer the phone and file things and organize his office and call for deliveries and schedule the shit out of everyone and oversee the continued efforts in unsticking the windows that were painted shut and should probably be sanded down, you know, if they ever get them open without breaking them.

The best parts include fielding excited/nervous wedding questions by phone and spoiling Sam rotten with bottomless coffee and decent food. In addition to stocking the kitchen I ordered Vietnamese food to be delivered for lunch. I don't think he ever has hot food unless he's home. We sat in his office watching Chris Fleming videos and snorting with laughter while we tried to navigate rice with chopsticks and it was over far too soon but he's super busy and didn't really count on just about everyone on his staff being out with the flu so there you go.

Yes, I sanitized everything. It was the first thing I did when I arrived. Went through an entire can of Lysol wipes. I may stop in on the way home and pick up a few more, just in case.

On the whiteboard it says 67 SLEEPS TIL EASTER.

No pressure, right?

Intentional shadows.

But you see it's not me
It's not my family
In your head, in your head they are fighting

I woke up with Ben's huge headphones on, my phone with three adaptors plugged in and the Cranberries on repeat because that's what Lochlan picked for me, and since he always picks the music he'll never pick metal if he can help it.

Supposedly while I slept they all trucked down to the beach for a family meeting by the sea, in the rain and wind, there out of necessity, eschewing comfort in case I walked in if they did it in the house or yard. The kids were off to school early and prepared thanks to PJ but no one woke me up as I was up very late and there you have it. I came down around nine-thirty and asked where Lochlan was and PJ says to me,

After the meeting he went for groceries with Ben. 

Well, first of all, I've got the list and second, WHAT MEETING?

Guess you weren't invited, Bridge. PJ grins at me.

Is there a body count? 

No and as an extra bonus we even talked Dalton out of leaving. He and Duncan were forced to make up and Caleb took a few hits from both of them for their ignorance.

I wouldn't call it that-

Call it whatever you want. They got their pound of flesh from Caleb and then somehow your husband wrangled it all back into a tightly-knit army. I watched him do it and I still don't know how he pulled it off. Then he decided he would look after the mornings' chores on your behalf. Text him if you need something specific that can't wait though. You know damn well all he'll buy will be bread, a roast and endless vegetables.

Aw fuck. Wait, Ben's with him?

Yeah.

Then don't fret. Ben will get the good stuff. Ben is a terrible grocery shopping but in the best way. Not only can he carry the entire load from the truck into the house without help but he can talk you into buying ice cream in bulk. So what's the verdict?

Everyone's cool. Feelings are smoothed over and Caleb has his Disney villain status fully reinstated. I think Dalton was one of the few remaining who didn't know the whole story.

Who else is left?

I don't know if anyone is left, Bridge. Maybe Gage. Andrew? Actually I don't know about that whole household, but you might want to hold your own meetings so that no one freaks out like Dalton did. This isn't the kind of thing you should keep from them, and what you've already said isn't enough.

PJ-

Times have changed, Bridget. We've changed.

Hollow wind.

I spent most of the overnight hours sitting in the library or on the front porch with Duncan, trying to soothe his wild ego, mend his close relationship with his brother through absolution, and repair whatever fractured friendship we seem to have ended up with. I didn't realize how terribly hurt he's been over some of my words and feelings, how sad he feels that I think of him the way I do, and how betrayed he would feel that I kept on, steamrolling through this point leaving a swath of broken hearts and destruction while I look for a way to fix my own broken heart and fail, every single day, over and over again.

He took it to heart, so personally he says he's different now and that's what I've always wanted and yet have always tried to avoid. I don't want them to get sucked into my gravity field but I can't see any other way to manage this.

We talked for days. He knows things about me he didn't know before, maybe. Things he's guessed at, partial truths with huge gaps now closed. I broke his heart again on purpose, with intent this time so that he would not have any lingering questions and now we start over with a new friendship, with a whole new relationship on a new level. Maybe one with all of our weaknesses and mistakes still close enough to touch but maybe he'll not be hurt by the things I do or don't do, as it were.

Why didn't you tell me everything the first time? 

Because I don't want hate to have a place here. It's a point-blank shot to the heart. It serves no purpose to make the boys enemies of each other.

Why did you lie? You said there were no secrets, Bridget, nothing left that we didn't know. 

I still love him. I still want to protect him. I want to protect you. I want to protect me. 

He doesn't deserve it. Caleb deserves nothing from any of us. 

Well, life never turns out the way you plan for it to, does it? 

No. It doesn't. The grief on Duncan's face mirrors my own.

This is what I would have spared you until the day I die. There's no reason you should have to figure out how to live with this. 

There's no reason you have to live with it alone when we're all here to help.

I really haven't been a hundred percent, fighting the flu, feeling really good at small moments and really, really awful at others. I haven't been able to listen to the entire single The Banished Heart as of yet without interruption thanks to my beautiful household. I did, however, manage to cram the entire first (and last) season of The Mist into the past three days, because why not?

It was really good. I wanted absolutely EVERYONE to die save for Frances Conroy, as always.

I went to Muji and was so thoroughly underwhelmed it was almost criminal. Also the huge pet store with all the sweet tiny dogs is gone. I knew they passed a bylaw preventing selling pets in pet stores here but I forgot and now Metropolis will be forever underwhelming too. I didn't agree with selling dogs like that but what a respite in a retail wasteland to go in and cuddle them.

Both kids are feeling better, at least. Perfect. Just in time for me to go down.

But isn't that how it always goes?

On the upside, I got a lot of things accomplished that were bothering me and still have some more issues to deal with. Namely the odd unauthorized jealousy that Caleb has flaring up because of Dalton and he isn't the only one.

Duncan's really, really pissed off.

And I don't feel well enough to fight with words. Not this week. Not today.

Banished Heart indeed. There. Got my listen-though. Gotta go. He's shouting again.

Friday.

Be right back. I'm drinking semi-bulletproof coffee, listening to the second single from The Banished Heart and ordering just about every single thing in stock from Ewa i Walla while the Salish sea roils and churns in the rain.

Damn. What a beautiful day.

Clap your hands.

Happiness is poison, goes the quote about writers. Songwriters, authors, anyone who creates goes under this umbrella to stay dry against the river of blood that threatens to expand our minds until we're too content to find the words, too blissed-out to put it down on paper, too fucking thrilled to get it out and make it work and twist that darkness until it sucks the air and the light from all around us.

That's how it's always been, and Lord help them, they don't know what to do with me when I'm happy or sad. The de facto state for them is protect and entertain and anything else is simply a perk, a bug or a cog in the gears that fucks the whole thing up and takes us right off the rails but so far so good. We always seem to find our way back.

It's not boy gossip you'll find today, just contentment. Sort of like how you feel when you are in on the secret that the cool kids know. And this new change isn't a change, just a curiosity fulfilled. And this new day isn't dark, it isn't light, it's muted somewhere in between, as I said. Content. Entertained. Protected.

Safe.

Poisonous.

Yeah.

Rack Ops and Good Cookies.

Neamhchiontach. 

Yes? 

I'd like a word. 

PJ stares at Caleb for a really long minute and then grabs his phone off the counter and wanders downstairs to see what Dalton is up to. I know what Dalton is up to. He was sleeping when I left. So was Lochlan and dammit if that wasn't a fun sleepover. Dammit if I didn't want to leave.

What is it? 

What have you done? 

Today? I made coffee, caught up on laundry and had the front brakes replaced on the-

With Dalton. 

No, he didn't come with me to do the brakes. PJ picked me up and-

Were you with him last evening?

Define 'with'. 

Bridget-

WHAT?

Finally I'll be seven feet tall.

(We're literally doing nothing today, so here.)

Ben let me shave his winter beard today. It's twelve degrees in the sun. It's the calm before the storm, I know it. I see it coming a mile away as we drop one by one from the flu, as the snow looms on the horizon line, just beyond the mountains, threatening to spill down past the highway, an avalanche of typical January weather anywhere else, a ridiculous unnecessary anomaly here. He's going to regret his bare cold face within days but within a week of not shaving again he'll have the start of a new disguise.

He already went for a haircut. I already decided I'm not cutting my hair in 2018. Not even once, which will be interesting as I have a pixie right now that needs a trim but also can be tousled just right thanks to the built-in heavy salt air, so it still looks cute as fuck.

Give it a couple months and I'm going to look like a maniac but I have an assortment of headbands, hats and bobby pins to wrestle it into some semblance of something and I'll leave it like that until it hits my waist again. I love cutting it all off but I miss it too. Desperately sometimes. It can be a perfect curtain of privacy anywhere I go and I've grown tired of strangers commenting (however sweetly) on my expressiveness, or my eye color or my smile, since that curtain of hair is gone.

(You would be surprised. I have one of those faces that goes from looking like I'm about to cry to the most joyous mirthful expression in the universe. It's...I mean, it's fun but it's exhausting to check my expression when I'm out so people don't ask if I'm okay. Or I'm smiling and they want in on the good news but it's something dumb, like the time I said I was going to be Pyramid Head for Halloween this coming year, from Silent Hill. The boys can be the sexy faceless nurses this time (I did that already). I'll go shirtless, wear culottes and a bloody apron, have a huge helmet on and carry a machete. Except Ben called it a 'mah-chette' with a hard ch sound and I laughed so hard coffee came out my nose. People wanted in on the laughter. It was dumb but I couldn't catch my breath long enough to even share it.)

So that's the plan.

I mean, that's the plan today but I'm just daydreaming. I want to eat pizza (without plates, straight from the box like they do in the movies), and watch the rest of Lucifer because it's so campy and profound all at once and I want to avoid Duncan just a little bit though if you offer someone Bridget, pizza and endless television Duncan just appears as if by magic, as he's one of the cuddliest laziest fuckers I've ever met.

I want to snooze but not miss anything. I want to still be able to touch a beard if I need to (PJ is willing, able and ready, or so he pointed out when Ben left for the haircut with the promise that upon his return I could give him an Amish chinstrap beard before shaving it all off. Actually once I did that he turned and made it into a weird pointy goatee and no way in hell was that staying but if you ask me? Between us he's the one with the expressive face, the striking dark eyes, the easy, subliminal half-smile, the perfect skin with no lines on it save for such faint ones around his eyes when he laughs.

That's the face people should comment on but Ben will turn away in a crowd so you're not sure it's actually him, or he'll duck beneath the edge of his jacket hood or the brim of his hat.

That's a shame.

There at the edge of the world right is returned to me, caught on the wind and tucked safely into my arms to remain. I control the weather just as I control their hearts, here by the sea.

Apologies came swiftly once again as we stumbled into yet another year, tripping over words and misguided attempts to repair or replace broken things. Broken things like hearts, minds and promises. Rainy things like moods and nights. Ugly things like jealousy and longing and loneliness.

And we fail but then we get up and run again, clutching that sharp edge so tightly we bleed our souls out so that they run together in a river, marbled, mixed, indistinguishable once more. We finish each others' sentences, comfort each other when there is no light and find that light to pass along, when necessary.

Here at the edge of the world left is the open arms, the open doors, the open minds of that marbled river, the tides rising and falling with need. The hearts breathing like lungs, rising and falling with emotions, sheared clean by that edge once again.

But they grow back.

There at the edge is where she stands. Where she bleeds. Where she cries. Where she grieves. Where she loves.

Shell Jesus.

(Now I want to go to Trolls for dinner.)

You didn't miss last week. What are you talking about? Sam's coffee breath wakes me up completely as I stand in the front hall helping him tie his Windsor knot. He'll never be pulled together. We're practically twins in that. In fact, you told me twice it was boring.

That's why I forgot. Sorry. I kiss his cheek and he heads out the door. I'm still in pajamas, about to have some coffee breath of my own. I'm not going to church, off the hook since I went last week when very few of the boys did. Sam absolved me over an early breakfast and now I'm kicking myself for getting up at all when I could have slept in. I could have slept for hours but Lochlan practically shoved me out of bed.

Go dig some clams for the Lord. 

And he laughed weakly and was asleep again before I had both my legs properly underneath me enough to walk away.

Christian, Andrew, Schuy and Danny represented the point this morning but I'm awake anyway. I make a big cup of coffee and dump some sweetened condensed milk into it before pouring the whole thing into a travel mug and heading for the door. I shrug into my wool wrap and boots and take my cup across the driveway to the stable. It's heated now and completely weathertight so I can leave my art supplies here. I have a small cupboard with a bluetooth speaker on top and all of my paints and sketchbooks are neatly organized inside.

There's a small table and chair and my easel stands in front of the south-facing windows. Lots of light, actually, and a cozy little space to have some time to myself which is something I need but somehow got used to never having as I'm perfectly happy to have someone close by to molest and touch and tickle and just be with. And so I never decompress. One of my Christmas gifts this year was the boys winterizing this, somehow without me knowing. It has electric heat now and better lighting too and I don't have to worry about the pipes for the work sink freezing ever again.

I pull out a tiny canvas board, barely six by four inches, and paint a clam for Lochlan. It's not very good, as I do it from memory but somehow it makes me feel better. They get ideas and we go and do them. I get ideas and I get made fun of. I miss spending time at the water doing things. All we do is walk and talk on the beach these days. There's no building sandcastles or collecting shells. There's rarely swimming. It's always a psychic workload. I've grown to dread the walks just because they involve so much introspection, admission and enlightenment. Ideas to try. Restoration to embark on. Penance to pay. Healing to be done.

Dreading being within touching distance of the ocean, dreading going to it, dreading being near it isn't an association I want to have, ever and I'm angry that it's come to this. I don't want to walk anymore. I'll sit in the fucking library or lie in bed and talk til I'm blue in the face if that's what you want but don't turn the only place where I can breathe into something awful.

When I'm happy with Lochlan's painting I set it aside to dry and work on some other little projects. I'm between ideas so I draw and learn and experiment. Sometimes I write. Sometimes I just putter around and think.

I would stay all day but we have plans so when my phone starts blowing up I collect my mug  and the painting and put my boots back on for the trip across the driveway. I even resent the boots today but bare feet in the winter bring shouts of disapproval and disappointed looks. When I get inside I take the painting to show Lochlan.

Made you something. 

Oh! Hey! This is great! It's a UFO! I like it. Very stylized. 

I nod, mouth set in a line and force a smile. Enjoy. 

I know it's a clam, Bridget. 

How do you know it's a clam? 

The happy face. It totally gives it away. He bursts into laughter. I love it. 

It means you don't have to take me clam-digging. We have one now. 

Jesus. If that's all it takes, paint me a show, Baby.

I can do that. 

Be a lot harder than a mollusk. 

Not really. He was difficult as fuck. I mean, look at him! He has a face!

Not sure my heart HAS cockles, but if it does, they're warm.

Lochlan's only consolation was that Caleb was kind. It brings a strange sort of relief to him when he expects the worst. He was further heartened that Caleb couldn't calm me down, that he doesn't have the range of soothing mechanisms that Lochlan has always had from the first moment, those nurturing, comforting capacities he's only ever denied me once.

Once.

Once is the hard part. The part that keeps him at almost-arms length. The part that makes it so easy to keep Caleb here close enough to touch as some sort of permanent punishment. That one moment when Lochlan faltered just enough and I saw that he was human and fallible and a goddamned teenage boy and maybe he and Caleb weren't all that different after all and how everything was still wrong even if we were in love because I wasn't old enough to self-validate my feelings, and yet my feelings didn't count because I was still a child.

I don't know if I'll ever forgive anyone for that. They're selective. The good feelings are acceptable, encouraged and noticed. The bad ones are wrong, shove them under the rug, don't let them see the light of day, bury this shit like we should have buried her and then we wouldn't have to live like this, under the risk of not knowing when she would tell, who she would tell, when she might implode.

Instead she reminds them daily that feelings are feelings and you don't get to choose which ones are the ones you will nurture. Instead she teaches them that people are stronger than they sometimes look. Instead she finds a way to live around it, through it and without it too and it seems to be working mostly fine, though the experts (both in-house and out) tell you it's so unhealthy it might be a first and what the fuck, Bridget, eventually it's going to implode. Either they are, you are or all of this will.

If you live on borrowed time, do it well, because you'll never be able to afford to pay it back, let alone with interest.

I want to go clam-digging, I announce abruptly and Lochlan's all well and good to take me until he pauses.

Do they have clams here?

I have no idea. 

Look it up. 

Yes. Plus oysters and cockles. 

I've never seen cockles here. 

Just outside Nanaimo. 

You want to do this today? 

Maybe. I don't know. 

I need a new video card and Ruth has to get her school supplies for second semester. Then at four Christian wants me to pick him up while his truck's getting serviced. Uh. Can we go tomorrow?

No, I missed church last week. 

I don't think Sam cares, Bridge. 

I don't go for him. 

I don't think Jake cares either. 

Wow. 

Well, wow, you want to drive for half a day to dig clams? 

I want to leave here. 

Elaborate. 

It's cabin fever, that's all. I hate January. 

I thought Ben fixed January. 

He only showed up for a bit and he's already gone again. 

Lochlan stops what he's doing and comes over to me, pulling my hands in against his chest, kissing my forehead, my nose, my mouth.

I'm here. You don't have to run. 

Everyone's crushing me with their sweetness. I'm fine. I don't need to be coddled.

Really?

Seriously. 

Then we're not going to the island this weekend. 

Lochlan! 

You said you didn't need to be coddled!

Clam-digging isn't coddling!

It is in fucking JANUARY, Bridge!

"History repeats itself, first as tragedy, second as farce." -Karl Marx.

The sound in my mouth
It gets so loud
It gets so loud
Little words can slip out
Words like sorry
I'm so sorry

To his credit he waited until Ben disappeared again, until Lochlan was in an exceedingly good mood and until he noticed that I had bitten my nails to the quick.

Neamhchiontach, you're still tense. 

Just having a hard time letting go of tension. It takes more than a few days, I think. 

Your hands-

I hide them in the sleeves of my sweater. Just nerves, that's all. 

I can fix that. 

It's late. I raised my eyebrows. He nodded and held out his hand.

I woke up this morning directly underneath a river of hemlocks, rain beating down on the glass, filtered through the trees straight into my eyes. His room is warm. The fur blankets are warm and cozy. The rain is cozy. I lie there biting my nails again and he doesn't open his eyes. Stop. Would you like to have them done so you can't bite them?

Caleb is sleepy, after half a night of trying to fit together conventionally. No doors, no violence, no drugs, no booze. Just him, hands empty, heart almost-full, holding out his arms for me, keeping his weight just right, taking his time, amping up affection levels to a point he rarely reaches, being sweet. I never know what to do when he's like this. It makes it harder still.

No. Thank you. 

I don't like this. You have the hands of an eight-year-old. 

Eleven. I correct him automatically.

He watches my expression of anticipation, my dare. My quiet reminder. Time to go, Baby Girl. Your Magician will be antsy. 

No, he's resigned. 

Resigned, is he? Good to know. 

(I'm sure somewhere Ben has Lochlan in a headlock.)

Yeah, I can go. I get dressed as he watches and instantly start biting my nails again.

I failed. 

Pardon? 

I was going to make you less tense. That was the point. How do I do that? 

Be anyone but you.

Who needs a title? I've got a Ben.

And after this world is out of reach
Sober and silent, faded and violent
Hopeless, I fight to fall between
Never surrender, out of the embers
Save a space inside for me

I don't know what it is about Januaries but they seem to be a Ben-thing, in that he just comes out from hiding and positively blooms. He's present. He's engaged and engaging. He's charming and sweet and affectionate and funny. He's around. He checks the schedule and shows up on time, or early. He talks us into things. He's Ben again.

He goes through debilitating times too where he'll disappear for weeks and then months and then he appears like magic and I love it so much. It's made me look forward to the after-Christmas period where usually all I do is complain about the days still being short, in spite of promises that they'll soon be longer.

I'm not going to assume his presence has anything to do with my health scare. It doesn't. I could set my seasonal-watch by Ben sightings alone, and he's been this way for years so it isn't me, it's him.

But I'll take it.

So will Lochlan.

So will everyone, actually, as he's been helping PJ in the kitchen, he went and did a little work with Caleb in home repair (Caleb isn't...uh...handy but Ben wasn't about to let him waste two or three hundred dollars calling a plumber to change out a new tap after Caleb tightened one too hard and broke it. Ben learned his skills from the others and shows it off every chance he gets.) and he went over to visit with Batman and Jay. He and John are going rain-golfing shortly even.

Snort.

(It's freaking cold.)

He even went and met Joel for coffee last evening. He's down to a meeting twice a week otherwise which is nice because he's home more. He's charmed the dog. He's rested. He's up to date. He's now trying to figure out what projects to take for spring and what to pass on. He's in demand but choosing carefully. He is not, contrary to rumors, hitting the road again.

(Indefinitely not so whatever you heard it's wrong.)

He is making lunch for me as I type. Right now. I don't know what it is. He told me not to worry about it when I asked. That makes me nervous, because when he says that it means he's making something weird.

He just came and read over my shoulder and he insists it's nothing weird.

Call Loch. It's ready. 

Okay. But what is it?

The world revolves around me.

In spite of sayings to the contrary, it actually does.

I poked around the internet this morning. Every old blog that I used to follow long abandoned now, tumbleweeds rolling through, save for one or two that are updated sporadically in fits and spurts with many apologies. I guess Youtube is the way to go now, or Instagram stories, which I don't get at all. Ruth and Henry use Snapchat, I tried once and now have a picture of myself and Christian on my phone with dog ears (which has become comedy gold, mind you) but I like to write.

It keeps me from going crazy.

I managed to have a major, terrifying health scare over the holidays and it was resolved on Monday. I have an all-clear. I was scared but I was also prepared. I didn't look it up. I told very few. I didn't tell my mom, and now she's mad. I followed instructions diligently and I spent from Dec 19 to January 8th waiting.

Waiting is hard. Your brain conjures up results without any information and you make decisions for every outcome and the one you want, which requires no decisions at all to be made after the fact is the one you get which makes you think you've just ducked as a bullet whizzed over your head and you're grateful beyond measure.

And then you are relieved but it floods in slowly. It takes days to stop clenching teeth and fists. Days to breathe again. Days to feel like you used to. Life begins today. Today is the first day, they say, of the rest of your life and finally that stupid saying makes sense.

I think grief has aged me. It's made me fearful of stupid things and very big things alike. This was some sort of resignation. I was ready to be told my time has been shortened. The boys were ready to fight. But it hasn't been shortened now and they don't have to fight.

Now we meet in the middle.

But yeah, my world revolves around me, so there's another saying that makes sense. Just like when Lochlan had so much trouble healing a broken arm we revolved around him. The world revolves around whoever is in the center. Yours revolves around you, too. Congratulations.

I'm not sorry to discover this. I had a feeling it was true, it's nice to have it confirmed. It's nice to know that my boys are relieved and thrilled that I'm okay. It's good to be loved. It's incredible to be loved this much.

And words will never be enough to describe this life, so I need the full allotted time to try and do it anyway.

Also, I've asked if we can do Christmas over again but they all said no.

(Thanks for respecting the odd moments when I ask for privacy. I only posted this to quiet the predictable (but seriously misguided) pregnancy rumors. Stop it already.)

Travel diaries and best sleeps.

I couldn't get up this morning, lying in bed tracing the numbers on the back of Lochlan's neck while he slept instead. The numbers represent the sum of the miles he traveled with the show. He kept a log. He kept a diary. Then Caleb stole it and when Lochlan got it back he realized that it wasn't what was on the pages that was important after all. He had it all in his head. The things he wanted desperately to remember, his favorite quotes and these numbers, he had tattooed all over the place and the rest he let burn.

He burns everything, including the bridges behind him as he runs. We build them again and he comes back long enough to set them alight before taking off once more. If he had wings I-

He doesn't.

He never will. He'll live forever and so I'm not even going to finish that thought. Instead I'll just marvel at the distance he'll go to be who he wants to be.

He's made it and circled back again.

He's tired.

Last night he followed me wordlessly across the driveway, up the steps and down the narrow glass patio to Caleb's front door. I opened it and Lochlan reached up over my head and closed it again, pulling me out of the way with a cry of surprise, taking my hand, leading me back down the steps, back across the driveway, pulling me inside through the door, locking it, throwing the bolts without looking, for he was glaring mildly at me instead. I nod at his expression and he softens so visibly guilt shoots through me like a thunderbolt. I wasn't doing anything, I was just going for that second drink, the first dry in my throat from the morning, long forgotten in taste. That's all.

He presses me against the door with a kiss, twisting my hands up against the window, pushing himself against me. He disengages so we can breathe.

Stay put. Our foreheads are pressed together. I can't nod but I try and he finishes the motion for me. He takes my hand and pulls me up the steps and through the house. Upstairs. Lights off, doors locked as we go. Inside our room he repeats himself in case I missed it.

Stay put. Stay here. And I can deal with things just fine. I asked you if you wanted me to come. Don't let him blame it on me if you said no. They want me to treat you like an adult and I'm trying, Peanut but you make it hard. Don't let him undermine me like that. 

I'm sorry. I whisper it to him but he's already kissing me more, stripping us down, wapping me in blankets and then holding his finger out meaning stay here and he goes and starts a fire. The room still feels so cold but we'll warm up. We'll get there.

I always have woken up first in the morning. I've always remained right where I am (as instructed, always), studying him. The semi-crooked smile he sleeps with. The eyebrows, pale yet disapproving, as if the top half of his face doesn't match the bottom. The way his curls refuse to sync up together and spill over each other. I can wrap them around my wrist without stretching them. Rarely do I see such huge curls in the wild. The color of his hair as it changes from one season to the next, now dark winter red at the ends, summer strawberry blonde at the ends, meeting in the middle in a hope for spring. His nose that he hates that I love. A little bit bigger than normal giving him a friendly appearance that a perfect nose would have interrupted. Too perfect isn't good and good isn't in being too perfect.

Now I trace the lines on his face and he grunts in protest and turns away. But he leaves his arm wrapped around me so I don't stray too far, my hand on his heart, just covering the lower case letter b tattooed there, right where it should be.

Story of my life, right here.

Written on his skin.

Good news.

You look like you could use a drink.

Is this a test? 

No? Why do you ask?

Because if I say yes I don't want eight different people coming out of the woodwork to tell me what a terrible idea it is. 

How about this? One drink. One visit to the King Tide and then I'll bring you back. 

Sounds perfect. 

I could feel my body visibly relaxing as I stood on the landing just above the final string of steps to the beach. They're underwater, this is as far as we can go. We can head the other way and walk out on the docks but I like to walk the beach so this is as good as it's going to get.

I don't have glasses. Caleb takes the bottle and drinks straight from it. Then he hands it to me and I do the same. It burns so beautifully on the way down.

To good news, he says.

Amen, I follow.

How are you? 

I'll sleep tonight. Maybe I'll be back over for a dram first. 

I'll wait up. 

You don't have to. If you're tired-

I would have gone with you. 

Had to go by myself. 

What if it hadn't been good news? 

Then next visit I would have brought you and Loch. 

Lochlan doesn't do so well with-

He'll learn, just like the rest of us. 

Jesus Benjamin (welcome to completely different levels of alertness and morning-ness).

Ben is on point this morning, waking me up early to get ready (he's already dressed for church), then while I'm in the shower he make us coffee and bagels, which were ready just as I came out in my robe to get dressed. We pile back into bed to try to wake up Lochlan so we can eat together. Lochlan is reluctant and sleepy and beautiful. I struggle to hold my cup and plate level between that distracting view and Ben moving, which threatens to upend my breakfast but only a little.

Lochlan manages half a cup of coffee and three bites of my bagel before asking if he can sleep. Ben grants him his request like a dad, but he's eyeing the untouched third bagel. I eye him and he catches me.

Fight you for it? 

You're on. 

I reach up and tickle him under his arms and he retaliates by pinning me down. I shriek, Lochlan curses very loudly and Ben clamps his hand over my mouth, tickling me all over with his other hand until I'm shaking and muffled-screaming and thrashing like a maniac.

Lochlan gets up and goes into the bathroom and doesn't come back out while we lie there, church clothes askew, breathing heavily and laughing softly.

Ben looks at the clock. Fuck, we gotta go. 

Okay. 

He gets up, tucking himself back together and pulls me to my feet. I straighten my dress, find my shoes and take off the one remaining earring. I don't where the other one went. Fuck. I fix my hair and grab a lipstick and my bag off the dresser.

Love you, Locket! I call through the door.

Wait! 

He flings the door open, towel in hand. Come back for lunch. I'll be awake then. 

I nod. I'll pray for your heathen soul. 

Good luck with that. Love you Peanut.

He plants a morning-breath kiss on me and Ben pulls me out the door.

***

Church was quiet and boring and empty and raining. It's not hard to hear Sam when the rain beats down on the roof but it's hard to stay awake. Every time my head went down Ben would squeeze his arm tightly around me. I think he thought I was going to fall on my shoes, collapsing face-first into a puddle on the floor in front of the bench.

Honestly I probably would have.

PJ smirked the whole time. He finds my narcolepsy hilarious. Where's Loch? He asked.

Home. He's up but wasn't in time to come today.

Lucky bastard, PJ says under his breath.

Hey, you don't have to come, I tell him. No one forced you. 

I feel guilty if I don't, PJ says and Ben chuckles. Sam's eyes find us, twinkling. He thinks he's said something clever. I nod at him for the confidence boost and he carries on. I can't even remember his sermon though, maybe it's the traditional understated January malaise. The days are still short and dark, the weather is typical, deplorable and our minds are elsewhere.

Sam lets us out early and we were all home in record time. His second-in-command looks after second service today. It will be more crowded with the later crowd and less personal, somehow.

When we get home Lochlan has tomato soup and grilled cheese ready to roll. Ben eats four sandwiches before I finish half of one. Lochlan is dressed, his hair's under control and he's alert and nice. He's so cranky sometimes. He and Ben share a smile as they both get up at the same time to clear plates.

And I speak too soon.

Jesus. I feel like a princess again. You're all spoiling me. 

They take all of the plates they're holding and pile them in front of and all around me. I just won the chore with that comment.

Nice.

One for all.

August swings lazily in his bed, calling out instructions across the room for the Breville that I am attempting to navigate while my brain wanders off to dangerous places, knowing he's possibly not wearing anything under that quilt, that the fire roars high in the woodstove and that I don't have to do a single thing today other than make a couple of decent cups of espresso here and then dump out the contents of my brain for him to examine.

Come in. 

I heard him call out sleepily when I knocked on the door, the rain beating down on my head, frozen to the bone just from the short trip across the driveway. I need to keep a coat by the side door, I think. When I turned the knob and peeked in I saw a large form still in bed.

Oh! If I woke you I'm sorry. 

I said come in. If I had said nothing then I was asleep. I was already awake. Just not up yet. He pulls himself up to a sitting position and the quilt comes to rest at his waist. No shirt. The room is warm from the fire. It's new so I know he's not just being polite.

I can come back if you'd like to get ready before we visit. 

What haven't you already seen, Bridge? Just come in and I'll teach you to use the coffeemaker. 

I close the door behind me as water drips all over the floor around me.

We need a driveway canopy. 

Ha. That will just encourage me.

I don't mind. It's working. 

Yeah. 

I get to work making the coffees. It's fumbly at first but I can see the ritual emerging. Just a series of steps, like everything else.

I bring a tray with two small cups and two muffins toward the bed but he howls in protest, sending me back toward the living area. August's biggest pet peeve in life is eating in bed, though once he came for a pizza party with Ben and I and I didn't hear any complaints. He'll drink in bed. He just insists he feels a bit like the Princess and the Pea if he feels a crumb underneath him as he sleeps.

Can't say I blame him.

He gets up and I am almost profoundly disappointed to see he's wearing pajama pants.

God.

No really, I am. But it's better that he's dressed for breakfast. He pulls on a clean t-shirt (that might be too small) and my brain forgets why I'm here. It's too busy negotiating a different kind of breakfast and wondering if it would be rude to ask him to just never ever comb his hair again and squinting just a little bit while he talks to turn him into Jacob.

But he catches me handily. Stop. 

What?

Zoning out. 

Sorry, it's early. 

It's ten. 

Right.  

The deal is every morning at ten we spend an hour, find a focus and then you see how the rest of the day goes. He smiles and I nod. It is working. It's working well, though I have moments when I just can't seem to get a grip and then it passes. 2018 is going to be the year of living gracefully as well as gratefully, together. No fists, no raised voices, no ultimatums, no tears.

Ha. That last one though. Good luck. Unless he meant for them. Men cry, they just do it in private.

We're working on balance. Control (a whole different kind than the one historically used by Caleb. Who knew there was more than one kind?). Seeking out the light. Happiness. Cohesiveness. Love.

(That's my favorite one.)

Every day at twelve sharp Lochlan crosses the driveway too and August makes him a cup of espresso and he gets a brief update and they do that short man-hug thing where they basically smash chests and thump each other twice on the back before we leave. By this time generally I've had four cups and I float across the driveway with Lochlan, who holds my string very tightly so I don't drift up into the clouds and he asks if I'm good, if it was a good talk and I usually say yes or if it was tough I say I'm glad I did it anyway and then we make our plans for the rest of the day.

In the evenings at nine it switches out to Sam, who is tasked with breaking down the events of the day and seeing how I fared. Damage control, attitude readjustment and a full commitment to August's methods. Consistency. Cohesiveness. Love. Sam and I talk quietly on the porch under the watchful eye of our Lady Grey teas while the rain pours down around the edges of our atoll and we see how hard it was for me to keep the focus, discuss what may have derailed me or how I navigated the hard parts of the day and we plot the course on a map of my heart to see how far I managed to get.

Every night at ten sharp Lochlan opens the front door and I hand him my tea to finish and he gets a brief update. Sam doesn't do the man-hug thing, instead giving a full on, arms around Lochlan squeeze that holds for five or ten seconds, depending on how the day went. This time I take the cups and go inside and Lochlan takes my place for a half hour or so,  talking with Sam about the day and how he found it. How he's coping with it. How to process it. How to let me grow up when emotionally we're stuck in the teenage years seemingly forever.

Sam and August talk after that, together or so I learned a couple of days ago, supporting each other, choosing to work together instead of giving out mixed messages or conflicting methods.

Took us awhile, this. We'll get where we need to be.

Together, Lochlan says.

Yeah. 

Twice a day, every day.

There's nothing better than five victories for a rainy Friday morning. The world looks normal again, dim and soaked through, rich in petrichor. My favorite. It looks downright strange here when it's sunny or when it snows, for that matter. Like the words don't fit the picture. It's almost a relief when it rains again which I'd never thought I'd hear myself say.

So I wrote it down instead.

The five victories are small but mighty. The new single is beautiful. I had the laundry done and all of the bathrooms cleaned before nine this morning. Decapitated had all the charges dropped, mainly because their accuser had a previous incident in which she lied to law enforcement about being hit by a boyfriend, or so I read online this morning (don't even get me started about groupies and tour busses), I managed to bang out a full sixty percent of my biggest project yesterday alone, somehow, I don't how but I'm very happy with it, and I figured out what was hurting my gums so much on one side, after switching to a soft toothbrush and flossing like a madwoman, feeling like there was coconut? maybe from a chocolate but this morning I was like okay, this is it. I flossed very enthusiastically and a tiny piece of hull from popcorn came out of hiding. A piece of hull that doesn't break down and the last time I had popcorn was for Star Wars on Dec. 16.

That's three weeks. What the fuck. It didn't really start to bother me until about four days ago and I'm never having popcorn again. Ever. Henry can finish the last bit in the pantry. I'm not buying it, eating it or suffering it ever again. Not like it's good for us anyway.

Speaking of healthy things, people are always asking me if we have a home gym.

We used to, in castle times. It was mostly an unused room with an elliptical and a giant Weber (Nordic?) gym thing that you could do eighty million exercises on with pulleys and weights and stuff. I used it. Jake used it. The kids used it as a jungle gym. Ben used it to show us how dumb it actually was.

Then we gave it all away in favor of fresh air. Who needs to be inside when the coldest it ever gets here is minus ten?

So we go outside. The boys have endless means to get exercise. They shove each other. They swim back to shore after being thrown off the cliff. They stairclimb. They follow me around. They wrestle. They...uh...box. We run sometimes. Sex is a good means of exercise, bring your friends and everyone gets healthy, right? We also have house chores like raking leaves, chopping wood and hell if you've run out of easy things there's a unicycle in the garage that is incredibly difficult to ride and possibly a better core workout than anything else.

I must have had fifty emails asking me about resolutions this year, what I do to stay in shape (jesus, can't you READ?), if I plan to improve myself, etc. etc. and really this is where the popcorn comes in. I have a problem with sugar but also with popcorn because I'll eat popcorn to stay awake during movies because they're long and warm and it's dark and these are the perfect conditions for narcoleptic Bridget to pass out cold and miss everything.

But I don't eat healthy air-popped organic whatever, I'll take what PJ or Ben didn't want which is usually greasy, nuclear extra-buttered cardboard.

It's so delicious. I'll eat it until it's gone and then I get that bird-at-a-wedding feeling like I might explode.

So I'm going to do better in 2018, mostly because I didn't want to have to go to the dentist. I hate the dentist, and not because I'm afraid but because this dentist is a business based on profit instead of health and I resent that I have to research and question every little thing.
I should switch but what a pain. Actually I feel like I have to stay to guard the others against the same tactics they try on me. Long story. Anyway. It's a day of small victories and that's what's important.

(Really though, I'm trying hard not to laugh at the people who profess to be longtime readers who ask me how I stay in shape. You must have Black Mirror's Arkangel filters on your eyeballs, I guess.)

Wait! I forgot the weirdest victory of all. Which was finding out after wearing it for TWO whole years that my Cirque Du Soleil sweater has pockets.

Hallelujah.

Edit: Also I learned all these years when I've been chewing on pencils to get the weird shivery spark feeling in my head and to make the pencil ferrules flat as pancakes I was just acknowledging my future self who would get spoiled on Christmas 2017 with a fistful of Blackwing Palomino pencils, which have a distinct flattened ferrule already and are too expensive and beautiful to chew on anyway.  God I love these things and aren't you glad someone suggested I just dump the contents of my brain all over blogger today?

Yeah, I'm just killing time before dinner because someone said there might be chopsticks involved. HELL YEAH.

Sublimity all around me.

Day is reborn
Fight with folded hands
Pain left below
The life-

And I can't figure out the rest.

EDIT: GOT IT!

The lifeless live again

(Red cold river)

 I can't feel anything at all
This life has left me cold and damp
I can't feel anything at all
This love has led me to the end

Ears. They're somewhat broken but just enough to frustrate me. Whoops.

(Also shhhhhh. There's a chorus for you. You're welcome.)

But WHO CARES? New Breaking Benjamin single out tomorrow and the teasers sound incredible and I want to cry for all of the weird emotions that bubble up within. It's the same feeling I get when I listen to Pachebel or Shostakovich or...the new Bladerunner soundtrack. I don't even want to explain it but it's incredible. Like a whole-body orgasm.

Listen to this (Chaconne in F Minor) the whole way through UP VERY LOUDLY and tell me you don't feel something. 

Who the hell is going to deny themselves that?

Not me, said the little deaf girl in the corner.

(PS. That's my absolute favourite piece. Especially from about 6:20 to around 7:00 minutes in. Want another recommendation? Seriously. Listen to Winter or Blue by Oceans of Slumber. They have a new album coming in March and I'm salivating just waiting for it.)

Actually I'm not in the corner today. Today I may have turned a corner though I'm threatened back into at any moment and have to keep fighting not to give in. Things are okay with a twenty-percent chance of dread which seems high but actually isn't. I have an appointment next week that's weighing on me and I have to start booking the vehicles for their quarterly servicings, which is a chore I despise but one the boys will put off until before you know it they've missed three in a row and it threatens warranties and makes me somewhat irritated so I do it myself. That's minor though. I can do that. The first thing is just...a WEIGHT.

And I have to mop. I hate that. Pretty sure I could promise/trade sexual favours for someone else doing it but I should probably just do it myself.

And I need to finish two fairly large projects I have on the go but that corner. It just looks so warm and inviting and I could put myself back in there and listen to this song snippet on a loop and gosh, I hope it's not a fucking Spotify exclusive or anything. I don't believe in Spotify on principal. It's the Amazon of the music world, delivering little profits to the creators of the content Spotify gets rich off of. And don't get me started on 'renting' your music.

But I'm not here to talk politics, no sir. I'm here to entertain.

I'm not even here to entertain today. I only do that for money. I used to do it for fame but then I realized money was better. And it feels weird to have such a normal life with such normal things happening. An oil change or five. A trip to the bank. A trip to the hospital. A big chore, job well done. A new song to listen to. A very old song to listen to. Such a far cry from the lights and the danger and the excitement of the show. Now the show is a cold empty beach and the blocked-out noise of the world and I wouldn't trade that for anything.

Metalhead.

Today I'm thinking over how Black Mirror went down. How the stories are structured, like all good stories are, in that some start you at the very beginning, holding your hand, walking you through the major points to an eventual conclusion that wraps everything up neatly with a bow while others drop you violently into the action without apology or explanation and then leave you wondering, feeling as if you really enjoyed the ride, you just have little idea what started it or how it's all going to turn out. 

I like both formats very much, though I also feel as if when I write I give too much information up front and I'm working on getting better at this. 

Slowly. 

It's a great watch if you love to be tense and uncomfortable, viceral in your hatred of a fictional character or several and don't mind a lack of closure, here and there. Really great. 

(If you really want to know Crocodile is my favorite episode. Metalhead actually clocks in at number three.)

I'm also thinking about how Coco went down, because we watched that over the weekend too, and it's probably the first and last time I'll sit through a movie starring Gael García Bernal without being keenly aware of him (sorry, but he's beautiful. Watch The Motorcycle Diaries) since I didn't know it was his voice until the credits. Pixar never fails to disappoint and I was strangely elated to confirm that people are right, it's nothing like Book Of Life. 

There, two things for you to do while I try and swim out of my Monday quicksand. Especially since it's actually Wednesday. 

Sneaking in to breathe a sigh of relief.

This Christmas they got along. We didn't get thrown out of any restaurants for infighting, they didn't throw any surprise haymakers at one another and I didn't end up being the rope in a lifelong tug of war, somehow. They got along.

We had more meals together as a complete Collective than any other time in our history. There were surprise days off taken and surprise work taken over to get it done faster and better if more hands were in on it.

We had a good time. We celebrated Christmas and New Years, Solstice and Hanukkah too. We got a little sleep but never enough and we go into the rest of this week on a new yet familiar ground without impossible resolutions but simply plans to be better, try harder and do more and less all at once.

We ran out of Champagne with no plans to have any more as it was a slow build to popping corks off the ceiling Sunday night and gently smashing the rims of our glasses together in cries of Sláinte! and Cheers! that took almost to 12:02 to get that first sip.

But here we are and I didn't even hesitate the first time I wrote 2018. It rolls off so easily and I hope that means a year of good things.

We got the trees down and the decorations down. Everything outside stays up and lit. I'm in no rush to change that. There's a mugful of candy canes on the counter with which to stir hot chocolate until they're gone and the days are getting longer already.

Hello 2018.

Happy New Year! I'm starting my day with bulletproof coffee, eggs Benedict and a beautiful sunny day here on the Salish Sea. I woke up clear-headed and energetic and we've already watered the plants, finished the laundry, given the dog a bath (he. smells. so. good.) and been out for brunch, at a place that was sort of eerily empty considering the holiday, but delicious nonetheless.

Lochlan is also bright-eyed and bushy-haired.  We're going to finish watching the new Season of Black Mirror now and then plot dinner plans because I'm thinking spaghetti would be a wonderful first meal of the year. Everyone is up and it feels more like Easter and less like New Years, probably because the rain took away the remainder of the snow from our neighborhood and everything dried out and I can actually handle winters if they're only going to be a week or two long, I think.

What's gotten into you, Peanut? 

SUNSHINE.

I like it.

Yeah, me too!