Never gives you more than you can handle.

This is my life
It's not what it was before
All these feelings I've shared
And these are my dreams
That I'd never lived before

The pansy blooms are upside-down today, giving up in their search for the sun. The leaves disintegrate, plastering themselves all over the wrought iron fence, the stone path and the metal door that lead into my house. The wind licks my future, tasting it and alternately returning for a greater helping and recoiling in disgust. Today every friend is an enemy and every enemy a comfort. Up is down and in is out. Today I can't get a purchase on learning from the past and finding my place in the present. I'm afraid I'm holding everyone up or perhaps they might be leaving me behind.

A book in the tall grass with a lantern on a hot September night, tire swing bumping gently against the rubber soles of my shoes that are worn smooth and ragged from a summerworth of running to catch up to the boys, catch up to the fun, catch up to the fireflies that make my breath catch in my throat with their simple beauty and then that same breath chokes me because I know that it's September and I know we're leaving soon and I can't have this comfort, I can't keep this place and I can't even do well-enough a job of bringing it back inside my head when I need it now. And I no longer remember what the ocean sounds like because I've never heard it enough and I'm never sure if what is done is done in spite of me or because of me.

I wonder if I'll ever catch up.

It's a rainy day today, pinning ghosts to the crumbling walls and counting pieces of leaves stuck to the stained glass from the outside in. And I'm wondering if I'll ever be okay.

That little clown, look, she's talking to herself.

I was patient. I waited for morning. I'm still not seeing whatever it is that should be there now. I'm not fine. I don't know how people think stringing together my new words out of old words, spending hours and days arranging the ones I want, searching for beauty in a blown-out nuclear winter wouldn't be a tip-off that I've overstretched and pulled something.

I can't juggle men. I can't even lift one, let alone keep them all in the air in this circus sideshow. I can't manage their hearts and their feelings and their expectations and their moods any better than I can manage my own. I have stopped writing about some of them altogether when it gets to be too much and I've stopped talking out loud half the time, instead choosing to sit on benches and on cold floors texting spaceless, thoughtless messages out into the ether waiting for someone to say the magic words that will somehow take all of this away and leave me be.

Lochlan doesn't need to be here. I am perfectly capable of fucking up my own life out of his reach. I was perfectly fine having meltdowns he didn't know about and sometimes, well, holy hell, it's actually pretty fun to make my own decisions.

Ben doesn't need another keeper. He has a dozen already.

Oh but there's Cole's hierarchy and I'll never outrun that. There are the mistakes and missteps I have made in the wake of Jacob's flight that I'll never be forgiven for and there is hell to pay, always, for whichever talent of few I sold my soul to the devil for. Under duress, I might add, for I don't recall willingly giving up a damned thing.

Lochlan's place is right up front. Shotgun, now, I guess. Best view in the house, none of the work.

So as usual, there is no point. I just have to work through it, roll with it and possible punch its lights out. But you know who was really happy to see Lochlan move back? My kids. And for that, maybe this is gold under tarnish after all.

I'll be over here continuing my act. Show's not over yet, folks.

So I spy on her, I lie to her, I make promises I cannot keep
Then I hear her laughter rising, rising from the deep
And I make her prove her love for me, I take all that I can take
And I push her to the limit to see if she will break

Well, there is nothing like an ambush on a Monday afternoon, and please forgive me for leapfrogging over topics, I will catch up eventually but for now I need to put this down somewhere because I've gotten gloriously paper-thin in the span of hours.

Lochlan is moving back. Permanently. As in, he's bought the house down the street and is now pulling a Jacob on me and I went to the bench and I expected Jacob to tell me how I should feel about that but Jacob didn't have any answers for me because he's sometimes all over the place and sometimes he is nowhere at all.

Part of me is really happy. Loch has been gone for over two years. I was sad when he left. Our relationship is different long distance. Everything is harder. His arrivals and departure wreak havoc on my universe, his need to exert control and supervision from afar don't fly when there's a twenty-hour drive between. And he's been miserable because everyone is here, all of his friends. And because his ex-girlfriend is taking Hope and moving back to the west coast so there is nothing left for him in the hot potato save for overpriced rent and great lakes weather.

He's coming home. Well, as relative as home can be, since that's what we call it here now. Only took seven years to make that leap.

Some people will think this is just another ploy by Lochlan to win me back. Others will blame Ben for not being together-enough to give anyone the confidence to be further than arm's length in case I need them. Still more people are going to call us all fucked up and indulging in a free-wheeling sort of commune.

Personally, I was just thrilled that my heart didn't lurch when I found out. When Lochlan looked into my eyes and told me he was coming back and he'd be here all the time instead of months here and weeks there, my heart didn't leap and it didn't flex. I was glad but not in that way. Not in the way like every time Ben ever showed up on my doorstep a year and a half ago. Not the way Ben does now. Just in a content way, and I know it's going to make Lochlan sad when he reads that but it's something that has to be said.

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.