Waiting for the lilacs.

What have you done, Bridget?

I conjured up ghosts. My ghosts. I didn't do anything to you.

But you have, don't you see? They're my ghosts too. I have to live up to them. Surpass them.

I can't see right now. Come back later when I'm composed, okay? Please.

I'm afraid this can't wait.

You're afraid? What about me? If I knew I could do that before I wouldn't have wasted all this time.

So it was a waste. After all of this.

That's not what I mean and you know it. It was there all along, that's all.

Are you sure?

Completely.

So what happens next?

Nothing. It's done. But it's there and that's what I needed to know. Someone should have told me.

No one is as brave as you are sometimes. We didn't know.

Well, we know now, don't we, Benjamin? And I'm not brave, I'm just crazy.

The Hero of 1968.

So if you ain't lonely then why'd you let me in,
Pulling me from the wreckage?
And you smile-but smiling's just a phase
And I can't get caught in your forever.

I'm lying on the ancient, expensive studio carpeting, the kind you could lob grenades onto and you still might not hear the explosion, the kind that is dull beige and boring as all hell, mostly like the rest of this room with it's smoked reflective glass and polished wood and black equipment and few touches of art or style here and there that try to render it avant-garde and relevant. I'm not sure if relevance has had a place here since Ben was born, but he likes it because it means he's being productive. Actually, he is being produced, but still, potato-potahto.

And I know (because I can feel the vibrations in the floor ever so softly and you wouldn't feel them at all) that he is pacing behind the glass, like a caged lion.

Lochlan is sitting here with his hand on the small of my back and my children are with Satan because he thought he would entertain them with a webcam and his gigantic TV as monitor so they can say hi to his mother back home. She'll love it, they'll love it and I get a break or something, which is nice. But I promised I wouldn't talk about villains today. Only heroes.

This hero wears a big skull ring on his right hand, but never in public-public. In public (squared) he dresses just like all the kids who buy tickets to see the circus show when it comes to their town: jeans, t-shirt, sneakers. Unassuming. Just like you.

Oh, but not you, internet. You assume. That's okay. Open books spark dialogues and questions and curiosity and sometimes nothing is better than to have your interest stoked up and burning along at a lightning clip.

So you explain to me why Lochlan puddle-jumped his way back. Don't you usually? I create drama so that he will return? I cause things to go my way and pull him back into my orbit? I play games with his head and leave him unable to know for sure which place is home?

None of the above.

He loves me. Pure and simple. Or maybe it's desecrated, complicated. Dirty love. Mixed-up, tangled, broken and rusted love that should be tossed but it's kept and treasured and exploited for comfort, for sentimentality.

For sport.

Somewhere behind the glass the inherited hero plays a chord and hatches his plans. Somewhere behind the glass the hero seeks his own comfort in watching us. Somewhere behind the glass is my very own Jekyll and Hyde. A monster masquerading as a man.

At least that is the analysis of the villain. And we all know whose side he's on.

I'm done apologizing for my life. I don't need to answer to you, I only need to answer to them. And they have a strict Don't ask, don't tell policy firmly in place.

Fire Everything: texts from last night.

Okay, you win. I'm a convert.

HAHAHAHAHAHA

I'm sorry but he is so hot it's sick.

Kirk?

Nero.

The Romulan?

YES.

Bridget, you're impossible

When's the DVD come out?

That's Eric Bana.

It is not.

Yes.

Liar.

Truth. Hulk. Your lukewarm hunk. You called him a lunk.

No, I called him a lurmk. He's improved then. A whole lot.

I'll buy you a poster.

Awesome.

Should I let Ben know he has competition?

You know Eric's people?

Bridget.

I know. But DAMN. That movie was AWESOME.

Rockernauts.

Beautiful little bird,
I'll fix your broken wings.
I'll let you lie here till you
fly away from me.

Too many goodbyes this week. Too many things at once and too much upheaval and the flu caught up with me yesterday and I alternately vomited and cried through much of the day. Didn't I tell you I'm stupendously beautiful at all times? And you believed me. Not sure what that makes you, but I fear I might be more human than all other humans combined, in the purest of forms, because...

Because I don't have the fuck it gene.

That one ability to just let things go. Distract, roll it off. Fade out. I can't do that. I worry things to bits, leaving them bloody and on life support and then I can sweep them under my skirt and sit on them so no one sees how bad I have made it and sometimes, like yesterday they rip everything back and there is my mess and oh, goodness, Bridget, what have you done?

I just stood there with my hands behind my back and I shrugged. I don't know. I can't help it. It just happens and I've asked for help in fixing it and the help doesn't seem to work so I just flutter for now. I flutter in between the bloody mess and worry and the okay so-so's and try to make it work. Mostly I think I pull it off and then enough rockernauts take off and one more thing tips the balance and the universe that keeps my fuck it gene dangling far out of my reach tips away and I fall to the bottom.

I climbed up again. On the sun-side this time. No worries. I will just keep trying.

Good thing the 'nauts are tethered via boomerangs. I know they'll come back. It's still hard though.

The Nomad of Metropolis and other true stories.

Dalton's nickname is Teflon Jesus. Long story I won't tell today. But here's one I will tell instead.

Teflon Jesus sits back and picks up my cup, taking a sip while raising his eyebrows at me in question. I offer a belated nod and continue to let my legs swing, bare toes feeling along the light breeze while the sun bakes the top of my head. The balcony offers little shade, in spite of the heavy coating of ornate white wrought iron icing that decorates the front of the building Jesus lives in.

Jesus smiles and continues to tune his old guitar. I study him while he does it. Slight beard, long uncombed russet curls that gave birth to part of his nickname years ago. Threadbare red shirt and charming soft grin while he listens and adjusts and thinks up questions for me. I pick up the teacup from his side of the balcony railing and take another sip of the now-lukewarm green tea, and the soft wail of a crying baby fills my ears from somewhere below us in a building stacked with people who come and go almost as much as we seem to.

Jesus is one of Jacob's friends who travels extensively, one of his friends that he would press fifty dollars into a handshake for without a word and sleep easier knowing that Jesus would go and get some food and a good book to take on his next adventure, Jesus who doesn't think people should be confined indoors ever or in shoes, which is how he and Jake could see eye to eye and he frowns at my sandals discarded by the door.

He tells me that I'm young, that I should see the world, that I have seen a lot of the bad and it's time to go see the good. That I could go with him and we could hang out, I'll buy postcards and he'll spend all of his charm, buying girls with open rooms where he can get company and a hot shower and then make his heartbreaks and move to the next city, somehow marvelling that he has not had to purchase a hotel room to sleep in since the early part of this century and still his friends give him cash because he's the technical hobo of the group.

He asks me if I'm going to continue Jacob's traditions and I say no. He smiles again, broadly, for usually he just preaches, kind of like Jake and I listen, kind of like Bridget used to, but my world is different now.

Jesus is leaving for the summer and fall, heading down some other coasts to pick up girls and do the job he loves. He says the people are kind on the road and the weather never changes. I'm here to get the keys to his mailbox downtown and a raff of cheques and instructions so that he can sublet this beautiful place and make more money while he still does less work. I have four interviews this week to find a suitable renter. His requirements are few and it should be easy, like it is every year when he goes again.

If it wasn't for the spiral staircase made of iron that ascends to heaven, he would have given this apartment up years ago. It's cold, there is no water pressure and his kitchen is a five foot long one-piece unit with a three-quarter fridge, a chipped porcelain sink and a stove that works for lighting cigarettes and boiling water if you have the time, but not much else. I used to want to live here, but Jesus always told me I deserved better.

I take the envelope full of his important papers and wait for his arms to close around me, the scratchy hemp of his red shirt and the fresh honey smell of his hair invading my space long enough for one of his rare hugs and then he stops and puts his hand around mine. I look into his dark-pine eyes and he smiles.

Is Ben going to be okay?

Yes.

Good. I'll see you for Christmas?

You'd better. You haven't made it to a Christmas dinner in five years.

He smiles at the sun but says nothing, and within hours he is gone again.

My wife, she is scared of men with chocolate face.

All my life I've tried to be good
Or at least to myself
You did what you thought you should
But it hurt me like hell

The lack of sleep and plethora of cake and arms to hold me are going to do me in, you know that? Last night was AMAZING, but best of all was the cake that said Happy 18th birthday with a man in a speedo made of icing. On the cake. No, really. He was on the cake. Ruth would not eat any part of the picture of the man. I thought it was hilarious.

I don't know anyone who would actually wear a speedo in real life, unless you count the time PJ showed up at a Halloween party dressed as Borat. Yes, that outfit worn in the movie. The green number. One of PJ's finest moments. Thanks to him I have memorized a whole slew of quotes from the film, including the title for my entry today.

But I digress.

I'm headed out to lunch with Dalton but Dalton is stalling because that's what he does and so I can enjoy a little more cake which spoils my lunch but that's okay because a lot of times Dalton forgets about the meal-part of time spent together. Then hopefully I will be home before it rains, home in time to snuggle with my beloved and maybe fall asleep after dinner for just a little bit because my eyes feel heavy and my heart feels light and I suppose that's better than the other way around.

(P.S. Benjamin organized one heaven of a night for Miss Bridget and is doing a terrific job of late, being home and being himself. The only reason I haven't written about him so much is that he likes to be dark and mysterious. Drives you nuts, doesn't it?)

Dalton is ready. Speaking of mysterious. I will tell you about him tomorrow.

Satellites, fireworks and other things you can't see in daylight.

And it's been a long December and there's reason to believe
Maybe this year will be better than the last
I can't remember all the times I tried to tell my myself
To hold on to these moments as they pass
And it's one more day up in the canyon
And it's one more night in Hollywood
It's been so long since I've seen the ocean
Guess I should

I guess it's inevitable. You can't outrun days on the calendar. Hell, we can't even get something proficient enough to clock the speed at which time flies past us let alone try to keep up.

Today is all mine and I stupidly sat down at the piano and the intro to A Long December came flying out of my fingertips and I wanted to put it back in but it wouldn't go and that always leads to the stereo and before you know it I have set the mood for the day and I didn't mean to do that to this day. So on this day, I turned the music off.

Because this day is my birthday.

Another year is gone and I still haven't learned to ride a ferris wheel without screaming or change a tire. Maybe that will happen this year, but maybe it won't. Maybe I'll still feel queasy after eating a whole bag of blue cotton candy and maybe I'll use up the fourteen brand new lipglosses in my makeup bag. Maybe my hair will grow fast and be as long as the princess hair that I chopped off last fall when I realized that some princesses don't get to live an easy life and maybe I must not be a princess after all. Maybe, just maybe, I'll get away for a few far-away trips this year.

Maybe I'll find where I left my patience and maybe I'll relax long enough to get a good night's sleep. Maybe the summer of this year will be glorious and cool and the winter short and sweet. Maybe I'll somehow overcome my beloved addiction to cake and hugs and maybe pigs will grow wings. Whichever way my year goes, I know it will be okay.

I've got my kids and I've got my love and I don't think I really need anything else.

Running in the woods.

We brought spring home with us last night, pulling up to the house in the warmth of the most beautiful evening, the air trailing the scent of horses, hay and coffee behind us, truck covered with dust, children with heavy eyes from enough fresh air to last them forever.

It took me almost our full weekend there to convince Ben that his white-knuckle grip on the air we were breathing could be loosened, that he could sleep, that he could do whatever he wanted. We went in town and poked through antique stores and had breakfast out while Nolan kept the kids happy at the farm. We talked for hours into the night. We got hot and dusty on the walks around the property, through the woods, turning back at the swollen creek that is still over and around the footbridge, cutting us off from picnic rock. We opted to let the busy week ahead slip away for the moment in favor of savoring the present. We barbecued dinner and mucked stalls and late in the night Ben would wake me up and take me quietly, keeping his hand over my mouth, holding me tightly against him, stifling any sound I wanted to make as he kissed my shoulders and whispered to me, driving hard against me, returning us to those early days when I fell in love with him in spite of things he thinks he should have been ashamed of but somehow isn't anymore.

So we're home now, tired and achy, muscles used for farm work that see little use here in the city, running shoes all but destroyed by dust and rocks and mud, me favoring my right ankle twisted on a tree root because I am too soft to run in the woods, preferring the gritty cement sidewalk and the diesel smell of the traffic to my right.

Ben would like to move there. Ben still thinks he can have it all somehow, his own flawed faith, thinking he can keep his head down and go unnoticed and at the same time fit right in. Still thinking he can force change from within by going without, still assuming that everyone hates him because so far he hasn't proven a damn thing.

But I never asked him to.

I never said that he had to be the hero now. I never said that life had to be perfect, or that I wanted a whole laundry list of things done and said or engineered on my behalf.

I could have stayed easily. Hanging laundry out over the porch railing to the crab apple tree on the other side of the turn-around drive, picking peas in the summer from the garden that seems to get little attention for the bounty it produces and talking to the horses, who seem to understand our troubles better than any kind of therapist or friend and I'm not trying to insult anyone when I say that, it's just a truth I can't ignore.

I could live there forever if only someone would ask.

I could.

She seemed dressed in all of me
Stretched across my shame,
All the torment and the pain
Leaked through and covered me.

I'd do anything to have her to myself,
Just to have her for myself.
Now I don't know what to do,
I don't know what to do
When she makes me sad.

She is everything to me,
The unrequited dream,
The song that no one sings,
The unattainable.
She's a myth that I have to believe in,
All I need to make it real is one more reason.

But I won't let this build up inside of me.
I won't let this build up inside of me.
I won't let this build up inside of me.
I won't let this build up inside of me.

I'm dropping a quote here that I saw today. I don't have time to look up who said it but it's amazing. If you know, pass it on so I can credit the proper source.

All that matters in the end, is how well did you live, how well did you love
and how much did you learn?

I'll beg for you.

I have all my Stone Temple Pilots CDs packed and ready to roll. Lessons well studied from Jacob in the firm refusal to give up the music I love because it hurts, instead I embrace it because it belongs to me and not my ghosts. That lesson took a few tries but now I have it down pat.

I'm filling my veins with coffee and my bag with warm clothes, because tonight we're heading to the farm for the weekend. Just the four of us, and since Nolan is now Ben's sponsor, he'll be somewhere safe.

Still Remains drifts through my head this morning, a song I know as well as the number of heartbeats each child puts out in the space of a minute when they sleep because I've never heard them breathing when they rest. A song I have inked into my soul via my skin, stretched so thin sometimes but still armor against the past.

There's excitement in changing routines for the weekend, exchanging the usual weekend for horse rides and barn work and food that always, always tastes better. Bundled up in Nolan's quilts, we'll sit in the rocking chairs on the porch and drink coffee, and inside we always find a roaring fire and hot chocolate late at night. Sleeping where the stars are closer works wonders. Being together works wonders too.

Pick a song and sing a yellow nectarine
Take a bath, I'll drink the water that you leave
If you should die before me
Ask if you can bring a friend
Pick a flower, hold your breath and drift away

See you on Monday. (In which I whine about feeling like my glasses make me look old. Perhaps it's that I can see myself in the mirror now in full HD rez and hole-lee, does something ever have to be done about what stares back.)