Cake.

Sliding into a muted birthday weekend here, muted, dulled by the shadow of a pandemic blocking out the light, making it hard to make plans, making it hard to be me, unless defined by Lochlan's explanation in which I dance in a circle made by their hands, from a young age til now, in an ever-widening space in which the grass is soft and green and tangled with flowers. I can spin and spin and spin in the rain and I can't get hurt, even if I fall. They won't catch me, as they don't break the perimeter, they won't break the bond, they won't let go but I can get up and keep going, forever, as they watch me, watch over me.

That's beautiful, I tell him as I smack my black rye toast, fucking hideously annoyed and spoiled rotten and anxious to do everything from have breakfast at Trolls to ride the rides inside my brain to not have to spend the day shovelling soil, delivered from a place out of town but in huge quantities for my gardens.

Peanut. That's all he has to say sometimes and I understand I'm being unreasonable. I just want a birthday like the others have been. Magical. Without equal. We can defer-

No! It has to be the right day! I continue to smack my toast, wallowing in my annoyance. It's the only thing I have left to do.

Five kilometres to couch.

And I'll wait for that woman
Until then I will wait alone

The new routine is to crawl out of bed reluctantly, throw on my technical gear for rain, save for shoes. I wear the lightest most breathable running shoes I own since my feet are going to get wet anyway and Caleb and I meet to run to the top of the hill to the playground in Cypress and back home. We average five kilometers or more each morning (which sounds like nothing until you realize the intensity of the incline), a half hour to begin the routine of day from the time we set our watches in the driveway to when we collapse on the front porch and hit End.

My heart rate remains that of a hummingbird. His is an easy measured lope. We'll never match up in workout stats. Bigger, taller people burn more and go harder, small people go further, as I add a third more steps just to keep up with him.

I don't miss running but God do I love that high at the end.

And the focus for the rest of the day as I don't flutter quite so hard all the time. I wear out my body and it's as if my mind gives in.

Caleb on the other hand, uses it as foreplay. He wants the time, wants the visual. He considers exercise a necessary precursor to performing well in bed and I don't know if he's right or not, as PJ has incredible moves and a bit of a beer gut. PJ only runs if you hold a loaded weapon to his head and even then he'll be like come ON, man.

(Whoops. Shhh.)

We don't talk when we run. At all. It's considered 'public' or something (he doesn't talk when he fucks, either as a data point though) and other than seeing a bunny today up on the trail we barely spoke to one another. He is busy watching me, busy planning out the rest of his day, hoping to include me in it, all the way through the end to the next and I am busy yelling BUNNY inside my brain and then looking for the next bunny, hoping it's not a bear because I'm getting tired.

(I carry bear spray when I run. Well, it's tiny so it's actually dog/mugger spray but I could at least surprise a bear enough with it to get away or at least get a headstart.

Caleb could probably just control the bear with a hefty payout. It worked for New Jake, right? Except that he's still a wildcard at the end of the day and I just try to avoid him.)

Lochlan does not want to run. Lochlan wants to sleep and then Lochlan can't understand why I can't stay awake past eight at night. I am tired. I don't know why I get up at so early anymore except that's when you catch the bunnies and the sun and the Devil on a good day, that's for certain.

Win stupid prizes, too, they say.

OOoohhhh. Did I tell you I discovered Apollo Under Fire? I went looking for Submersed, after listening to Flicker from the new City Burials album by Katatonia and wondered briefly if it was a cover. Then I went to make a fire playlist and realized Submersed was missing from iTunes.

(iTunes eats things. Did you know? One day you just wake up and stuff is missing. It SUCKS.)

But then I followed the trail of musical breadcrumbs left by Donald Carpenter and found this band. Apollo Under Fire, and they have one whole self-titled album out but it's solid and beautiful and really freaking GOOD and I love days like this.

Also returned Submersed to my revolving favorites list and can't believe I didn't notice for so long.

But it's fixed.

Also fixed is the shower drain in our ensuite. It's sealed so it's a bit of a pain and I figured between Lochlan, Ben and at the worst, New Jake's ingenuity as a handyman or an actual professional called in, we could fix it. Lochlan said it was my fault. I blamed him, handily. His hair's been longer longer, right?

Then I got to work and fixed it! Alone! Ha!

It was all blonde. I have enough to make a whole extra person here with this hair. Or at least some highly efficient voodoo dolls. Either way, it's fixed and I have one of those confidence-bursts from not freaking out and calling someone, and now I'm off to the bank to finish signing the paperwork for my deal which is all approved and ready for me to deploy.

The Devil watches me from the shadows and smiles, proud of his little contextual prodigy, with dollar signs in her eyes, sleeves rolled up, ready to do all of his dirty work because the cut is too much to turn down.

When Lochlan finds out the amount it will be enough at least to offset his sudden desire to wash me down the drain and into the sea. His eyes will go wide and he'll have that moment of doubt but then resignation as it's not all that different from the way things are now. We just raised the stakes a little in order to raise the reward.

Okay, a lot. We raised them a lot.

If you want to be a big player you have to play the big games, Neamhchiontach.

Vikings.

Just for fun they all ('all' meaning PJ, Duncan, Dalton, Gage, Lochlan and John) let me shave the sides of their heads and put braids in their hair. Just a few here and there with silver rings for decoration.

Just...well, DAMN.

No one is ever allowed to revert back.

Skol.

Netflix is upping it's game and so is Liam (I mean Chris).

We watched Extraction last night. I spent the entire first half thinking it was the Lesser Hemsworth starring in it, since that's what I call him. Poor Liam, always in the shadow of his larger, older brother or so I think. Liam was in The Hunger Games and Chris, the actual Hemsworth, is Thor. 

Then Lochlan ever so kindly leaned over and said in my ear, This is Thor. 

What?

This is Chris Hemsworth. 

Then why does he have his brother's hair? 

I remain suspicious for the remainder of the movie, wondering secretly if Liam decided he needed to up his game, got buff, became ridiculously John Wick-like and then passed his brother in an easy sprint, now becoming The Greatest Hemsworth. 

(I Google nothing, forgive me)

Liam did not, and this IS Chris.

Damn, it was a good movie. So good I mowed right through an entire bag of Swedish Fish and I don't even like Swedish Fish, and now my stomach is a big ball of xantham gum and stress.

Bee balm up to my knees.

Today isn't so pretty even as the sun conducts an endless fight with the heavy rains. The boys conduct endless fights with each other and with me and I finally took off to buy some supplies and found even more toilet paper, hand sanitizer and all sorts of dry goods and came home in a much better frame of mind. It's sunny now but beautifully windy and I just want things to go back to routine.

Not every day will be a good day, Sam says, rubbing my back as I finish my noodles. Lunch is curry noodles with five tall glasses of cold water. We are relentless in our efforts to try our best to do the things we always do, though and so it is a typical Saturday.

I know. I nod in his direction and then go back to my bowl. Really not wanting the encouragement or the platitudes today. I just want my noodles and a little company, if you're not inclined to pick me apart. That's all.

On the upside, we have a whole case of curry noodles now.

Exhibition indeed.

How are you doing today, Bridge?

John's finally back and finally out of quarantine. Idiot was overseas when this all went down and he got stuck for a while and then came home the first week of April and we put him somewhere safe (Batman's guest house) and he's FREEEEEEEEEE at last and wants my cooking.

(Which is funny. I sent him a foil-wrapped meal every freaking night at dinner time for sixteen nights straight. I'd like a medal for that.)

As long as they're still determined to hold the South Shore Exhibition I am doing great. If they cancel it I'm giving up on life.

Oh, you're going this year?

No, we're not traveling for at least eight months. You?

Oh, I'll be home for a long time. He laughs. Love his face. Love his longer hair and road beard. Hope he keeps it, though usually they tend to until I point out how much I love it and then the next day it's either gone or barely stubble anymore so I'll keep my mouth shut please and thank you. You know if things get really bad take Caleb up on that personal Ferris wheel offer or carousel or whatever and we'll stay home forever. 

It was the permit thing. We couldn't do it. 

So what?

You need permission from someone-

No one's checking anything right now, Bridget.

Oh my God, you're right. 

Got the Italian theme right.

This morning when I stepped into my underwear in a hurry after a shower that was way too long and places I was supposed to be, I missed the hole for my left leg and wound up sticking my toes into the lace trim, tearing it off, swearing because this is one of my prettiest pairs and it figures that I don't even have enough grace to get dressed in the morning, like a normal person.

Probably because I'm not a normal person.

I part my hair in the middle, add a berry lip stain and put on all-black. My hair will wave out wild and the clothes say I'm serious in spite of it.

I am driven downtown where I conduct my first big real estate transaction without any assistance. Caleb is there but he says nothing. He wants to see what I come up with.

And I do great. I sign my name on all the papers and I walk out with a better deal than he could have gotten, probably because I'm sweeter and that's deadly sometimes.

Outside he holds his hand so high in the air for a high-five I wonder if he's signaling an air-taxi but but he has forgotten to do it at shoulder-level so I make a pass at it and succeed.

That was a stunning and appreciable event, Neamhchiontach. 

Thanks. I think. Now I have to go home and research whatever it is that I just talked them into. 

You've secured your future, and that of your children. 

Have I, though? This could go south. I'm amazed that any deals still go down in the middle (at the end?) of a pandemic. Plus the future was well-secured years ago.

That's when the best deals happen. When everything is flatlined and everyone is looking the other way. 

This actually doesn't help me. 

Oh, it will in the long run. And that's all that matters. 

He kisses my cheek when we get home, letting me out with my satchel of papers right beside the side door to the kitchen and continues down to his parking place further down the driveway. Lochlan comes out in bare feet, flannel shirt with only three buttons buttoned and I might not make it into the house for my knees have lost their ability to hold up the rest of my body suddenly.

Done with business? How did it go?

The charm still works. 

Ah. Good! Omelets then? To celebrate? And more coffee?

Yes, please. You should have heard my stomach all morning. It was like a Raptor. 

Bird or basketball player?

Dinosaur!

Ah. 

Over the best omelets we've ever had I regaled him with not only the underwear story but then the gatekeeping one where Caleb asked me if I could still name all of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Sure I can..I love the movies. I watched the show because it came on before The Price is Right in the mornings when I was just home from a half-day at university. We only had one channel. It was the only thing on.

And then I realized I could name about three. Maybe.

Uh. Yeah, I can! I posture for effect. Fettuccine, Ravioli, Meatball and Parmesan!

He looks at me for a second and bursts out laughing. Then Lochlan does too, hearing the story.  I'm so pleased I can still entertain them, sitting here in my ripped undies. I don't want for much, truth be told, real estate deals or not. 

Not today's post but I wrote it over the weekend and don't know where to shove it so here.

How's..things? Caleb's standing in the patio door frame, looking surprised that I'm around at all. I don't think he expected to find me bringing in the bin from sorting the recycling, something we do at least twice a day anyway. I'm not sure if I'm above that or if he thought I would be somewhere chewing off pieces of my own face right now. Maybe we should both be more grateful and less surprised.

What, no hug? I drop the bin and hold my arms out. I don't have to ask him twice. He folds me in against his chest, pressing his lips against the top of my skull.

I was worried. I asked that they give you to me, that they not medicate you.

Clean. I hold my hands up in surrender. Since when are you an advocate for pushing through that kind of event? This is the man who gave me drugs right through my twenties to keep me from remembering that he abused me and also lays claim to all the fun we had.

Or something.

Since I realized it's just an endless circle if it goes that way. Ahh. I was so worried. You don't know how relieved I am to see you today.

You can come see me whenever.

Lochlan asked me not to. A power move after I asked him to not pull out the drugs as a solution.

What will he say if I ask him what happened?

He'll say that I asked for you. To look after you and he declined because he needs to man up.

So how does that spin into a power move?

I know him better than you do. I dearly wanted to be the one to hold you through this.

You weren't around.

I'm sorry, Bridget. He looks completely destroyed. I don't think he's slept. I'm doing so good as long as you don't mention names or ghosts or anything. It's either the calm before the storm or it really wasn't bad enough to invoke Joel chasing me down the hall with a needleful of forgetfulness.

It's fine. It seems like the worst has passed. 

I'm so glad. 

Thanks for the offer to take over. 

I'd do anything for you. 

Then I appreciate you letting Lochlan deal with it. He needs to learn-

I know, Neamhchiontach. He didn't run away. It's a first.

Oh, I'm kidding. We actually have a ridiculously cohesive militarized home menu plan.

Down the imaginary hopscotch-blocks on the sidewalk, making up the game as I go along.

Quiet-quiet-LOUD! I shout, two feet on the final rectangle that has a capital L on it.

What are you doing?

Making my brain tired so it will sleep. 

Is it working?

Of course not. Does it ever?

Vodka shots?

Maybe later. I'm winning. 

Winning what?

Maybe a chance to be together-enough to join you all at dinner. 

I think you've done it. 

Have I, though? 

Until you start drawing actual blocks on the kitchen floor, yes. 

Oh. Good to know. That was next. I roll up the sidewalk into my brain, snapping it out so it rolls all the way up in a rush and follow PJ to the butler's pantry to find some stuff for dinner.

I thought I was going to get a technicolor dream sleep through some powerful tranquilizers but instead he planned a camping trip.

The camper at the end of the yard, near the fence but back far enough to still have a view, as it's at the top of a gentle slope so you can see the water over the fence another fifty yards away.

A little campfire, the tiny lights strung up everywhere and the heaviest blankets we own. No wi-fi. Hot dogs over the fire and wine. No condiments. Just like the old days where we had to go to a diner for ketchup except instead of half a can of flat ginger ale for me (too young to drink on the road) I got to have wine too.

What happened to the benzo train?, I ask him finally, in the morning, once he stopped talking until I stopped freaking out and was able to sleep, in his arms, under the blankets. Under the stars, except the stars were outside the camper and we were inside.

I can handle this. You just need a change of direction and a voice to lead you back away from the edge. 

I nod. I need to be morning-drunk like this, is what I need. To remain in this tiny insular uncomplicated world where there are no clocks and there's no wifi. This is glorious. As long as we can make a fire, store and cook enough food for two and the weather holds (but even if it doesn't) this is good. He's right. I listened to him all night. We passed the wine bottle back and forth. He talked until his voice started to catch on memories and then we put the fire out, went inside, locked the door and slept until past noon.

It didn't need to be a show, he said finally and I know this. I'm here for you, he said and I know this.

I love you, he said.

And I know this.

You know when you wake up wondering WHAT WAS HE LISTENING TO WHAT WAS IT SOMEBODY TELL ME THIS IS IMPORTANT JESUS FUCKING CHRIST ITS NOT A HARD QUESTION

Don't do it, Peanut. 

I think I have to. I pushed him away and went down to the piano, where I punched out REO Speedwagon's Can't Fight This Feeling at top volume. Hit all the right notes too when I sang. Everyone was up and at 'em by the time I was finished and I feel a lot better for some reason. I need people to help pull me out when the crazy train starts circling the hole of Despair.

(Had a good laugh in Ozark with the REO Speedwagon stuff -no spoilers because I'm not even finished it yet) but damn. REO and Jason Bateman in the same moment and I'm twelve again, I swear. Two of my favorite things in life, no lie. The rest are ectoplasmic, and harder to explain, I'm sorry.)

Pedals and everything. You can play that piano so fucking loud it would wake the dead but they keep telling me that's a euphemism even though I keep trying.

Peanut-

He can read my mind today, that train stopped on the tracks for what seems like hours now. This isn't natural. It's loaded. It's full. So many cars. So flammable. Blocking everything. Maybe this is a terrorist event. Maybe we should all get out of here in case it blows up. He can't see the break in the tracks, he's too far behind me for that this morning.

(Up and at 'em, boys!)

Maybe it's loaded with benzos, Lochlan offers helpfully. Finally.

God, I hope so.

The metaphor is water and the meaning has drowned.

Breaks my heart to see you cry
In the wake of incomplete time

The clouds are weighted today, heavy, obscuring the sun as it tries to burn off the pain of the point. I think it's going to stick around a little longer and keep trying, and the pain will be here forever to fight back.

Caleb's bitterness is sleepy this morning, and I have a new habit for the past several weeks of getting up early and going to crawl in with him, like I did with Lochlan for years and years and then PJ after that.

Time doesn't want to let go, making me crawl over the same lines over and over again, waiting for the end, waiting for a hand up but instead I trigger the mines and they blow me to smithereens, history destroying me only to have the hope of a future build me up again.

I'm not one of your bad dreams, Neamhchiontach. A lazy tender kiss is pressed through the hardest part of my skull, making it's way inside my brain to tenderize it. I'm just a man who has made mistakes. You won't find one who hasn't. The difference is most of them run away and I come back to face the one I hurt, to make it up to her. I pledged my life to you to fix this and for him to dismiss what we have every chance he gets is hurtful.

You all take the moment you're in to build yourself back up. You're doing it now.

There's a perspective I didn't consider. Another kiss, hard against my temple and his arms are tight. He is awake now, savoring the dense light, smoothing his hand over the pain, washing out the ripples and tears just under the surface of the water before another wave undoes all of his hard work. I just don't want him to build himself at my expense.

Diabhal-

You're here, that's all that matters. What would you like to do today?

May we fill the pool?

That's...phrased as asking permission. 

It works better with you.

With...me?

Can we fill it?

Go back. What do you mean?

You don't like my impulsiveness-

I LOVE your impulsiveness, what are you-

Whenever I just blurt out a plan you push it down. 

I'm sorry, Neamhchiontach. The last thing I want is for you to feel you communicate best with me in a formal tone.

Like that?

I'm sorry?

Don't be. I ignore his request for clarification. Does he need it? I doubt it. I slide out of his arms and out of his bed and head back into the hall. He says my name once but doesn't push it. I don't feel settled, I feel like I'm picking a fight if I continue this trajectory. Better to just go back to Lochlan where I don't have to play head games or word games. Back to where the clouds can't push me down on a day when I need to be up.  

"We love the things we love for what they are." ~Robert Frost.

Ben did finally turn into a giant smoking pumpkin, leaving us sometime in the predawn hours when it was dark and quiet, handing me back off again to Lochlan, who pulled me into his arms, buried his face in the crook of my neck where it tickles and fell asleep. But before that he first reaffirmed everything he feels for me, talking the entire time he made love to me about how we're meant to be together for life and it doesn't matter who or what drifts in and out of our lives in the interim, that Jake is a memory and Ben a mirage. Caleb? Just a bad dream, Peanut. It's okay.

I fell asleep underneath him when we finally stopped moving and woke up much the same and he squeezed me tight against him, back in charge, back in possession.

At least four weeks in the studio now, give or take a meal.

Cause I
I cannot start to crumble
So come on and try
Try to shut me and cut me down

I won't be silenced
You can't keep me quiet
Won't tremble when you try it
All I know is I won't go speechless
Speechless

One of my more fun Bridget Can't Do Self-Care routines involves singing all the Disney songs at top volume around the house all day. I warm up with tunes from The Little Mermaid and Moana, then move on to Coco, then Beauty and the Beast, back around with with Aladdin and eventually I'll devolve into Frozen because why not?

I don't really like Disney movies per se but I've seen everything because kids. Kids make you watch it all.

I love musicals though. That much I don't have to say again.

I got a Ben-Day as a bonus today. Ben won't sing along with me and asks me to stop while laughing. Lochlan never asks me to stop, never ever but Ben has had enough half a song in.

Ben is here because he doesn't feel comfortable leaving me to the wolves if half of them are Russian and so he's handed Duncan off to August and Sam (or as I like to call them, The Holy Triad of Hotness) (Shhhhhhhhh) and he's presented himself to me, not needing a deadline to return to work for once.

He smiles at me as he tells me this and I am rapt, crushed by the weight of his easy charm, and how different he is from Lochlan. Ben is my giant frat-boy, my Everything-Will-Be-Okay, he's...

He's what Lochlan used to be before the weight of a different kind crushed everything. It wasn't charm, it was fear. It was regret and damage and defeat.

Ben brings back the weightlessness of Life Before. Lochlan has device-handoff in Ben, who brings us back around to being out from the weight. He's a beautiful departure from everything and God, I love him so, in a way I don't love anyone else.

What do you want for lunch?

That's a silly question.

Is it? He grins salaciously.

It totally is!

Huh. We should go find your husband and bring him with us.

Yes. Wait. Where? Where are we going?

Upstairs. For lunch. Go get him, Bee.

Okay. I run off across the lawn to find Lochlan who is wrenching through his quarantine and likes to do as much as he possibly can before asking for help but most of the time when I go looking for him he's juggling tools and singing. It's kind of ridiculous. We're meant for greater things than entertaining the boys of Point Perdition, I swear.

I run right into him and almost get stabbed by a Robertson. Or maybe it's a Phillips. Maybe it's a Hex, like me. 

Jesus, Peanut. Be careful.  Such a dad. Christ. This makes my brain hurt.

Got a second?

For you, always. Now he sounds like Ben.

Come inside?

Sure.

I have a surprise for you.

Is it a Ben?

Maybe!

Awesome. Oh, my heart. He missed him too.

What am I doing right now, Ben asks?

  

Nothing.

A lot of people are reaching out.

And I'm not a sociable person, truthfully.

I'm ridiculously awkward and have a tendency to throw on an act, be it weird or perfectly normal, I never know what's going to come out. I have eight hundred emails here and I'm trying to reply in order of how much I like you. Corey called me direct and I told him it was my number, and who did he want, I'd give him theirs, or I would let them know he was calling and they could call him back but he said he wanted to talk to me, and I asked why, almost rudely. The only time he wants to talk to me anymore is to talk me into something for his work and I don't make music videos or single covers anymore unless there's a lot of money involved or it's something insane like a pool full of bubbles and fire but no, he just wanted to catch up and see how I was.

Which was nice and he is good, though he hates where he is currently and already broke up with his girlfriend. So clearly he's bored and he called me. I get that. We had a nice chat and when this is over I invited him out for supper.

Then the Russians showed up which was really fun, as we scrambled to figure out how to tell them we aren't accepting visitors and finally Caleb went out to the porch and while misguided, they were concerned that I had been feeling poorly and wanted to see for themselves that I was better. I walked out on the porch and when I got to where Caleb was he stopped me so I could go no further. The driver walked to the bottom of the steps and laid down a huge bouquet of roses for me and Easter chocolate for the children. They reminded us to call if we needed anything and then the two black cars reversed down the driveway, one a Ghost, one a Mercedes.

Jesus Christ.

We came back in and made coffee and breakfast quite robotically after that. I can't believe they didn't trust their own doctors not to lie to them. What the fuck. Caleb is shellshocked. I'm just angry that the doctor is giving updates about my private health issues to a bunch of mob-

Bridget, you know that's how he gets paid. 

I thought you paid him to do house calls. 

I do, but he's on their payroll. They know everything. 

I thought this was finished. 

It is. 

Then why were they just in my driveway demanding proof that I'm fine from a simple ear infection?

I think the old guy is fond of you. 

Yeah, well, I'm scared of him. 

Then Robin called but I let it go to message because I didn't want to vent all over him and he finally called Dylan who relayed all of Robin's concerns by shouting them across the room until I made the throat-slitting motion and he stopped and I'm not supposed to mention Dylan anyway.

Lochlan squeezed my hand and says the only way I can spin it is to be glad there are a lot of people high up looking out for me.

I look at him and nod. What's your name again?

Bridget. There's no use being nervous. 

The mafia didn't just show up looking for proof you were alright. I need to get Caleb out from under them-

He made his bed-

With me in it!

It's fine. They're out for a drive. They want to help. Lochlan, who has spent his entire life around shady folk, folks on the run, folks up to no good and people looking to escape the wrong they've caused is completely at peace with all of it.

If they come back no one open the gates. I'll talk to them on coms. They don't get to be here at my house. 

He nods. I know he's putting on a brave show for me, just like he does every time the doctor shows up and he knows a report will be made.

The doctor is an easy perk. Use who you know. 

Is that riffing on 'Keep your enemies closer'?

Maybe. 

I vow to spend the rest of the day on the beach, my phone upstairs in a drawer. There are two different places I can hide down there and pretend the world isn't real, which was nice for a moment or two as an escape but now it seems like an absolute necessity.

Updates and introspection and denial, oh my.

Not even sure if I mentioned it since every day pretty much feels like a cross between a Sunday and a struggle, not going to lie, it's hard to keep momentum right now and I feel so behind, like all I do are chores and a huge amount of fretting, and I can't just relax at all. I drank three things of cognac last night and still nothing. I finished The Boy in The Striped Pajamas and wow, that ended far differently than I expected and Lochlan bought me a treasure-trove of brushes for Procreate and put them all of Google Drive and wouldn't you know..

File not supported.

And I don't know how to change that and I don't want to ask him to fix it. They're on the home server, I'll add it to the list of Things I Have To Do.

I need a vacation. From technology, maybe.

In other news, since I forgot what I was talking about and what I failed to mention, or may have, it's that we've lifted the in-house quarantine and every house is fair game now, as Schuyler is having a great vacation and even Batman stopped leaving. Henry is off until this coming weekend and so no need to isolate from each other. We've pooled the dwindling Twinkie Supply and movie nights are ridiculously well-attended, even though the last movie we watched was a real banger from 1999, The Ninth Gate.

Okay, fine, it was good. The theme was Thriller. I figured we'd end up watching Michael Jackson music videos on a loop but no such luck. I went for a long bike ride around the neighborhood, found every curb to be my friend where I could find one but otherwise it's frightening being out there with cars and stuff.

I hate it but I went because participation means you're happy, or something.

I went because I'm probably in shit anyway for heading straight to the loft and not coming back last night, prefering to waltz into the kitchen via the side door this morning causing at least eight heads to turn while I muttered WHAT? and walked right through, up the steps only to die a thousand deaths once I was out of sight because I forgot they're all home all the time now.

Lochlan came up and asked if I was alright.

It's August, not Caleb, I spat at him.

It's Jacob. Endless Jake. It's not August. 

I'm fine. 

You're so not fine it's a miracle you breathe most days, he says and turns on his heel, heading back to his coffee and his brothers because you can take a good thing and drive nails through it with a Saturday night hammer and who's going to stop you if that's how it works. We can make up later.

Because he's right.

August doesn't need to know this but sometimes it's Jake.

And I'm not sorry and no one gets an apology because it's Sunday and Jesus is coming back and-

It's Monday isn't it? Jesus is already here. He's standing right behind me, one hand covering his beautiful face, shaking his head at the things I do and why he wasted all this effort on me only to watch me chuck it into the sea.

I didn't chuck it yet but I might.

On the upside, August didn't tell me to leave. Probably because I never told him it was Jake. Having a great day here, how about you?

Naked faith (AKA Happy Easter).

(Hello Tornado.)

Sam's podcast was released live without a hitch this morning for Easter service, along with explicit and thorough instructions on the website and as well offers of a paper copy of the sermon to be emailed or even post-mailed if necessary to anyone who called or emailed and requested such. It's a weird and comforting thing to listen to him preach through my headphones. His voice is comforting and soft, authoritative and convicted. He talks about Jesus like he's a friend, a member of the Collective soon to return.

I suppose he is, though we are, as always, reluctant to welcome strangers.

He's been here before, Sam reminds me and I press resume, as I want to hear it again. I'm almost blissfully thankful that I have few recorded examples of Jacob's voice. If I listen to him it's a knife through the heart, making it hard to breathe.

Lochlan comes by, yanking out the knife, wiping it on his cargo pants, putting it in the sink to wash, staunching the flow of blood, mixed with misery to make it rainbow-glittery, bringing me back to life. He asks if I'm done with church yet, saying he would like a trip down to the water if I want a swim, still a little angry that I went for one yesterday with Duncan but without a swimsuit.

Duncan didn't swim though, I reminded Lochlan at the time.

I know, he scowls. And had I known I would have gone, he says, sending me up in flames.

When we get down to the beach I strip out of my clothes, still dressed in tattoos and grandeur.

Well? He says. Sink or swim. 

But I don't run into the water, away from his eyes like I did with Duncan. Instead I move in close so I am right in front of him, the wind whipping my hair into my eyes and mouth, looking like a tornado with nowhere to touch down.

Come in with me. 

He looks out at the water, then up at the steps and then back at me. Then he says Okay, and takes off his clothes. We run into the freezing cold water holding hands and then run back out before we get our hair wet.

Best Easter service ever. If Jesus comes back right this second, he's going to get an eyeful.

Early birthday suit.

We did not fill the pool but since I needed to swim and have zero ability to understand things like consequences, I made a brief plea to have a quick dip in the ocean, expecting everyone to shut me down. We already did all the yard work and cleanup from the winter this morning, finishing what I started a couple of weeks ago, mowed the grass, power-washed absolutely everything and omg I'm so hot and so tired, I just want a swim.

But Duncan offered to go down to the beach with me, while everyone else begged off and so off we went, mildly awkward at first and then comfortable as he said he's doing well he just had a moment and it's passed and next time it comes around he knows what to do.

At the bottom I realized it's twenty degrees and because I was working in the gardens I'm not dressed for swimming with my customary bikini under cut offs and a sweater. Fuck. I turn to go back up and he tells me it's fine. That if we're here I should swim anyway because he's not climbing up only to come back down. That what's the difference between undies and a swimsuit?

But like I said I have a tendency lately not to wear those either.

Oh. Well, I'll look away until you're in. 

Fine by me. 

So my first real swim of the year in two-degree water with a fine ice-surface or so it seemed was in my birthday suit and it felt GREAT.

And Duncan never looked the other way, not for even a second. I struggled to put on shorts and my sweater over wet skin and he watched and laughed and occasionally reached out to steady me. On the way back up he said he wish he knew who the bigger mess was, me or him, and I answered that it was me for sure, through chattering teeth.

He didn't argue with me though.

Under the rabbit sea.

We took breakfast down to the dock today. No frost on the steps, no bone-chilling morning air. Just sunlight, a brisk cool breeze and a lineup of boys with baskets and a girl with a bag over her shoulder because I need one hand for the rail and one for Lochlan's hand.

Ben even came with us.

And also Caleb, Sam, Matt, August, Dunk, Dalton, PJ and Gage because it was Good Friday service on the water. We set up my huge round tablecloth with the tiny pompoms all the way around and sat around the edge of it, laying out fruit, sticky buns and muffins, hard boiled eggs and a plate of bacon and ham. We had three thermoses of hot coffee and one of tea and we ate quietly and then lingered over saved coffee while Sam conducted a brief service, complete with a sermon and then Ben played a song on his guitar and sang along with it and Dalton joined in on harmony at the end and then we sat in relative silence, enjoying the sun and each other. No one had a phone or an ipad or a grudge. No one had somewhere better to be or was too busy at work. Everyone sat quietly enjoying their coffee, picking out the remaining fruit bites to nab and watching the waves lap quietly against the shore.

I watched the bunny head float by in the water, attached to no one and I began to laugh out loud. I'm thinking it's ruined now but it pretty much was before, and this seems like the perfect time to end that tradition and maybe start this new one.

A vicious kind of catch (Hold the stereo! I'm goin' in).

My favorite thing in the world to do when I wake up feeling weird is to blast Veruca Salt's Loneliness is Worse through the house on eleven and wait for someone to notice.

It's not so much passive-aggressive as it is a bellowing, plaintive cry for help. It's a beautiful bridge in the middle, too. The only sad part are the drums, honestly. Geez. A little more on the hi hats, would you? Christ. That's how I play drums and I can only play a little. I play bass too. And violin, piano and french horn. Harmonica. And give me a set of bagpipes or an accordion and I can hold my damn own, truth be told. I have all sorts of gifts. The problem is, none of them are useful.

Salt is always followed by Twenty One Pilots Trees song. That song reverberates through the house like a ray of God-light, shining into every corner until the beams force out everything dark. It's beautiful. But boy, do they hate these mornings, because it's a boots-on-the-ground type of day and they've atrophied into human man-sloths, content to watch fifteen hours of television or read endlessly. Everyone has a screen. Everyone is a zombie now. Maybe we do have a virus. Maybe this is the end.

May is calling. So much in that month. I really want to go shopping. I want to go to restaurants. I want to walk on the big beaches. I want to celebrate birthdays without chains and life without restrictions and every morning now I wake up bursting out of my skin and then spend the morning stuffing everything back inside just to function.

If this is the end though, I'm not afraid. I know that they're going to let go of my hands and I'm going to go flying across the rainbow bridge as fast as my legs can carry me into Jake's arms like a dog and he's going to be so happy to see me but sad that it was so soon and I didn't get to experience my full life. He's going to blame all of us and not even remember how much of a hypocrite he was, not even finishing his thirties. It's hard to believe in real life he never aged but in my dreams he continues to do it steadily and regularly.

I shouldn't listen to Trees before breakfast. Because loneliness is worse. In the end this irony is my most formidable enemy and I can't seem to win.

The devil was once an angel, too.

Fragile hearts in these fragile times often break before they ever find
That there's hope inside of this shadowland
Written in the sky and stone and printed on our hands
So why do I always measure the truth with the weight of a lie?
Nothing's broken inside of me for good I'm healing in time the way I should
I can see it if I keep my head held high
Arms open wide
Heart full, clear eyes
All the doubts all the lies are too heavy to hold so why even try?

This morning I managed to snag my favorite enamel camp mug for coffee, and it was warm when I came downstairs. Warm enough for cut-off denim shorts and my Colony House hoodie. No need for a fire this morning. The sun was already beaming down on the point and it feels like everything might be okay. Or at least as okay as it ever was, in case we hoped for some massive snowball of improvement tagging along when our routine resumes someday.

PJ usually takes my mug. It has a huge handle and so he finds it comfortable. Plus it has a stable base and isn't top-heavy like the matching ones that came with the plates when we bought four sets for the house. PJ isn't all that concerned with putting his cup down on a stable base and will absentmindedly place it on the corner of a laptop or the arm of the couch. He was used to things a certain way, and I guess today he'll have to be disappointed as he takes one of the white mugs with the tiny base and be careful with it. It's a Wednesday. Monday is done, the full moon is done, and when I went to the grocery store today, every shelf was full. It was like the good old days, when they had everything and then some. I was happy to get everything I wanted and some extras and get home with no fuss. It was a nice change.

Sigh. It's going to be a good day. A bright day. No dark, no clouds. Just sunshine and coffee and the rest of my book and yes, I'm drawing the property for you but it's going to take a while, as I have a time-sensitive project that needs my attention first.

Besides, I need a little more sleep too and I'm waiting for that to catch up with me but with a second cup of coffee, I'm wondering if it even will.

I had some brandy last night, a toast, clinked far too slowly against Caleb's glass in celebration of a better week this week after a rocky start. He took our glasses in one hand and my face in the other and kissed me until I saw the stars outside through the ceiling as if it wasn't even there.

I held my breath until I fell through the black, letting go of my breath along with everything else and in my oxygen-deprived dreams Loch made an executive decision to bring Caleb along into our private night. Whether to keep an eye on him or give him a break, maybe in light of seeing how this forced isolation is affecting us all, he's found some patience after all.

He found a lot of things. They get along so well sometimes it's as if they're sharing one mind and sometimes their heart doubles to hold me too and it's like the greatest amusement park ride you've ever been on, trust me.

And then I slept, locked in between hell and magic, secure in the holy tragedy of my past, present and probable future, perfectly content and not overly warm or even overly weird.

It was nice. We've scheduled another time. See if Caleb can remain on his best behavior. See if Lochlan doesn't turn possessive. Find a way to keep all the hearts and minds in sync and fight off the despair of this maybe becoming the way things are forever.

They won't be but what if they are?

Vaguely English.

There's a fun thing about Caleb. When he's singing along with James Blunt or even Chris Martin, Caleb's accent is almost audible again. It's a very slight heightened received-pronounciation and it's a treat to my ears because he stuffs it as far inside as he can and only sets it free when he is half-drunk or very tired indeed, and neither of those conditions have I seen in a very long time, frankly.

But last night we burned dinner, got in a bickery-fight and made up over a late glass of brandy by the fire, so I technically began and ended my day in flames under a full moon and that's okay. Mondays be like that.

He sang to me briefly, my head propped against his shoulder, drink forgotten, eyes open and fully hypnotized by the flames, white spirals into nothingness. A Bullwinkle cartoon, an inevitable end to a long stretch of not trying hard enough, I guess and so I had resolved to try harder tomorrow.

And so far I am. I'm up at a good hour. Coffee's almost gone from my cup (already reheated it once), have not seen the devil since around eleven pm last night when I bid goodnight to him, his expression one of pure naked surprise, having assumed I would follow through, and I'm finishing the laundry while I dance all around the news without reading any of it any more.

My phone just buzzed and it's Caleb, awake and ready to stuff rejection as far inside as he can, setting his needs free and cloaking his surprise in determination, but whether it be real or fake is not important right now. What matters is that he needs to feel like he wins.

Tonight we'll bring the brandy up with us. 
 XOCXC

To which I reply because full moons are for tiny wolves and devils alike:

Okay 
XOB

I'm not sure why we put our initials but we do it more often than not. It's a tiny ritual of a different kind, I guess. I usually leave it off when I'm relaying things we've written to a page. I don't know why that's important. It's probably not, really.

Coffee and corduroy.

When you reach the part where the heartaches come
The hero would be me
But heroes often fail
And you won't read that book again
Because the ending's just too hard to take

I was banned from taking my coffee down to the beach this morning, forced to drink it by the fire, where I sweat because suddenly the kitchen is so warm and I miss the beach so much. The steps get covered with a fine neck-breaker of frost, as Lochlan calls it and so the trip will be made for lunch, if anyone is actually free.

It's a very thick layer of white out there and when I let the dog out into the side garden it was really chilly indeed. Which is ironic as I want to garden so bad, since yesterday I noticed all of the larkspur and poppy I planted two years ago that failed miserably is suddenly growing like mad.

I want to plant things to grow, for when times are better. Hopefully soon but not until the earth remains warm overnight. I always try to rush things. It's barely April.

***

I may paint the property for you, since I'm not allowed to post photos and honestly you'll be hard-pressed to look at it and figure out where we live. You know the general neighborhood but the properties are pretty private so unless you approach from the water you wouldn't be able to find me at all. And I want to show you things so you can see exactly what I mean when I talk about different things.

***

I chose American Moon for our -suspicions- theme night yesterday. We made mystery foil packets of different foods and cooked them in shifts at the barbecue so no one would know what was what, played Risk and watched conspiracy movies. My foil packet was chicken and carrots, asparagus and tarragon, and I was so relieved as some of them were salmon and I would have had to trade.

No one likes to trade dinner. Boys just want to dig in so it would have gotten so ugly.

We've got a glass fishbowl on the counter and have filled it with folded slips of paper with random words and time periods on them (you add one as it comes to you) and are doing dinner-and-a-movie nights almost every night, as long as there are six or more people interested. Some nights we just disappear into our own selves so it depends.

American Moon was ridiculously informative, save for the parts about lighting on the set moon. That drove me batshit. The rest was good fun and now I'm a believer in disbelief. For today anyway. Tomorrow I will deny at gunpoint that I ever question the Apollo program because I will not debate that sort of thing in mixed company.

(But if you one hundred percent believe in things without even the tiniest seed of doubt I don't think I will ever let you in all the way. Why would I?)

(I feel the exact same way if you don't believe in magic even a little bit. Get out of my sight. Seriously.)

Today I am planning on finishing up laundry, painting a picture to send faraway, helping Sam with editing his Easter Sunday podcast, and then probably working on digital illustration for a while. I'm going to make penne with garlic and tomatoes for dinner.

And I'm listening to Gordon Lightfoot this morning, which has gotten a super-appreciative nod from every single boy to venture through the kitchen this morning. It's comforting. Like wrapping yourself in a brown corduroy and polyester couch, settling in to watch cartoons, a big bowl of Apple Jacks in your arms and a plan to go out and roller skate in the sun after real breakfast later with the boys down the street.

I guess I know what I'm really going to do today. 

*looks around, still laments the lack of a huge corduroy couch*

*shops online*

(Muhahahahahah)

Anthroposophic Collective.

Come on little lady, give us a smile
No, I ain't got nothing to smile about
I got no one to smile for
I've waited a while for
A moment to say I don't owe you a Goddamn thing

Sorry for the typographical errors if you're a reader who visits the same day I post. I usually get ten minutes alone at my tiny desk in the corner of the kitchen to whip off an entry and I rarely have time to linger over it so I usually just hit publish as someone comes in and starts talking and then the next morning when I do it all over again, I go to log in and the previous days errors will jump off the page at me. So then I can fix and republish and some of you never see what sort of terrible writer I am if I'm not paying attention (and even sometimes when I am).

***

Today is painting day. And probably sous-vide burgers (finished on the grill) and homemade french fries and it's also Henry's last day of work for two weeks as he gave up a bunch of shifts to help out a coworker hurting for cash with which to pay rent. I asked him to keep me plugged in and will pay the rent myself if necessary but I like to see the ingenuity of the young, for that's where you learn the best lessons that stick with you for life and that's how we got to this place.

I don't spend money. Never have. The greatest shopping spree that I think I've had in the past twenty years was that time that for my birthday (six or maybe even five years ago), Ben took me out shopping and told me to buy whatever I wanted. I bought a sketchbook and a pack of Copic fineliners at Colours, five pairs of pretty new underwear at La Vie En Rose, a new charm (I think it was a planet) at Pandora and two books I was wanting to read at Chapters plus a new set of lipsticks from Nudestix I think, at Sephora.There may have been a cute shirt from Forever 21 in there too but those days won't be coming back, pandemic or not.

(I miss Forever 21. So does Ruth. H&M just isn't the SAME.)

But yeah. The haul cost something like $157 and it was incredible. I got to pick out everything and I felt like a princess. Ben had no idea what was going on with me because he went prepared to spend thousands but that was back when he though All Girls Are The Same, Right? and had been used to higher-maintenance ones?

And then I think we had Vietnamese take out for lunch and it was one of the best days ever. I can't wait to do that again though my favorite art store is gone now, Forever 21 is gone. I don't think I'll need another Pandora charm as long as I live, as I have an armful of bracelets and boy are they heavy to wear. I have tons of reading material, currently slogging through The Boy in The Striped Pajamas and am full up on undies and lipstick, both of which I hardly ever wear anymore.

(Hi mom.)

I miss the mall. I haven't had chance to see if I can get Vietnamese take out by phone yet. Do we have what? Skip the dishes? I don't know. Do we? I don't have it. I don't think I want it. Can't I drive to a place? I'll look into it later.

This is the irony. If I tell Caleb that I want Vietnamese food there will be some of my favorites, a selection here inside of an hour. But that's no fun. I told you, the best lessons are the ones you learn on your own.

Rocky.

Give a girl a good cup of coffee from the thermos and a walk on a cold windy beach and I'll show you someone who can almost forget everything and be a blank, clear and wonderful slate from which to move forward.

Then she'll come inside, warm up and forget all of the moments she just blankly experienced and life will come rushing back in a tide-avalanche and we'll need to start from scratch, I think, trying again tomorrow.

The ghosts came back. All I had to do was think about one of them, and he was there in a dream. Or maybe it was a nightmare?

How did you sleep? They ask.

Fine, I lie. And you?

Sudden Intense Privacy.

I can see it if I keep my head held high
Arms open wide
Heart full, clear eyes
All the doubts all the lies are too heavy to hold so why even try?
You don't have to do this all on your own
This fragile life that you hold is too heavy to carry alone so why even try?
All of the doubts
All of the lies
All of the fears
All of the tears that you've cried
Are too heavy to carry alone
So why even try?

On a day that saw the ferries stop coming to Horseshoe Bay, the world suddenly got quiet. I can hear the waves break on the rocks. I can hear my neighbour's giant wind-chimes way up the hill. I can hear the transitions in vocals in the Colony House album I'm listening to (Leave What's Lost Behind) and I can hear Ben's exasperated breathing as he argues quietly into the phone fifteen feet back from shore, content to accompany me but only if he can get his calls done outside and far from the house, where surprisingly the wi-fi is a little better than it is inside.

I wonder when the ferries will come back. I wonder when the Man will stop telling me how many loaves of bread I can buy in one shopping trip. I wonder when gas will go back over a dollar a litre and I wonder if I should put all of my cash in the washing machine in case it's diseased like the outside world. In case you're from away, our Canadian dollar bills are flexible plastic rectangles that smell like maple syrup and are fully washable.

It's worth nothing now. Clean or not. No one will accept it, it's only worth something like sixty-five cents to every American dollar it's matched to and I'm really beginning to hate all of this. 

I still don't fear getting this virus, though my ear is feeling better and my allergies are now moving in to take centre stage. The cherry blossoms in the orchard are blooming and I wait with zero patience for the lilac buds to fill in and open up, filling the whole point with the most beautiful perfume in the world. I wait to sow my vegetable seeds in the garden so I can gather what I need for dinner without two trips down the highway. I wait for life to resume at the pace I complained so bitterly about before. I wait for Ben to finish his endless work and I wish I could help him finish sooner. I wait for Duncan to straighten back up, never expecting that he would have cracked first out of all of us.

I wait for the ghosts to come back but I haven't heard anything for ages.

Complimentary versus complementary.

Lunch is bruised apples with cinnamon-sugar in the cold sunshine and a well-weighted debate between PJ and I about how I feel we should maybe be doing more to support those of us flagging under the weight of endless quarantine, and he feels Duncan and anyone else who chooses now to start a fight should be frozen right out because we're all adults and insulting people is not the best way to go about this at all.

He wins for logic, I win for compassion. At least some things never change.

Someone to watch over (me).

It's weird how in when things are ticking along those of us who are damaged or perpetually wrecked are supported and held up by those who seemingly have their shit together and then when something catastrophic happens those of us who are damaged somehow pull together and make a herculean one-eighty and lift up those who had their shit together, until they suddenly didn't anymore.

Ben is like that.

So is Daniel.

And Batman.

But probably not me, as I am chaotic truthful on a good day, and not too great in a crisis, it turns out.What I am good at though, is sounding alarms when I see a limb flop off the edge of the wagon, it's tip dragging on the ground, be it a finger or toe. The owner of said appendage will assure me it's fine, not a problem, but my brain followed by my mouth will being to shout that there's a problem.

(Wow, that paints a glorious picture of an eight-year-old girl, sticky jam-braids and all, running around the kitchen island and out into the yard, yelling WEEEEE WOOOOO WEEEEE WOOOO like she's an ambulance.)

(And that's exactly what I did.)

Duncan said I was being foolish and alarmist, that he's fine. That everything's fine and he has it under control but that's what they all say just as everything goes to shit. He put his arms around me and gave me his best charming Lizard King smile and I didn't fall for it (WEEEE WOOOO) and he's angry at me for jumping to the inevitable conclusion and it will be followed by remorse and he will seek forgiveness and open back up soon, I hope.

In the meantime, now I'm 'always fucking in the way', 'an endless tease', and 'a spoiled brat'.

A deep shuddering breath and an attempt to remind myself that it's not my friend talking, it's his alter-ego, the Drunk Lizard, who is a flaming asshole frankly, but it's difficult because they speak the truth when liquid fire burns away their core values, leaving them craven angry souls looking for temporary comfort in permanent times.

And I hate it. But so does he and so my comfort today is in knowing there is a whole host of sponsors and support here within, and that we're no longer going to worry about the houses keeping separate anymore because we can't afford it. Fools rush in where angels fear to tread, don't they?

Ironic. All this solvency and I can't buy the things I need.