Ad Hominem.

Divide the dream into the flesh
Kaleidoscope and candle eyes
Empty winds scrape on the soul
But never stop to realize

I don't think I protested until things changed in the dark and it became a contest. I don't think I fought back or struggled until I realized I was no longer getting enough air to sufficiently remain lucid, present in the tangle of limbs I was to sort through and straighten out. Hands gripping my ribcage, lifting me, crushing me. Wrists pinned. My mouth was dry, my eyes watered, my breath came in labored gasps but I couldn't speak. I couldn't say anything, couldn't cry out, couldn't stop it. Powerless, left without even that one word that stops every action immediately and without regret. Without that word I had to disengage from my body and wait them out. Without that word I had to go and find a place inside my head that I haven't been to in a very long time and I had to open up the shutters and sweep out the cobwebs and relight the fire in the fireplace. I stayed there so long I lost track of time and suddenly the air came rushing back and I was pulled out of my now-cozy, welcoming place. Shutters smashed and splintered against the clapboard and the fire blew out in the rush and I was back in the dark, in the pain, in the moment I left and I found the word just in the nick of time and I yelled it because I knew if they didn't hear me that one time, they would never hear me again.

This time the word uttered in panic brought regret trailing along by her fingers behind it. This time the word brought strong arms closing around me, then one removed, hand held out to stop the advance of time. Eyes raised in warning, a hush spilling from between rough lips connecting with the flaxen crown kept safely away from precisely where it was placed. Rage lashed out from a darker corner as if some terrible hunger had been awakened and with that same regret, it shrank away to nothing when the first light of the sun reached us, leaving behind the curls and kind eyes and logic I always think I know but don't. I haven't left the safer place, though, not when I can revolve like a little planet in the gravitational ring around the black-haired, vicious and passionate princess-keeper I have now.

Effective.

And safer than I once thought.

Wolves in my dreams.

Raise your hand if you slept through Wolverine last night.

(Sheepishly puts up hand, averts eyes, blushes mildly.)

Bridget!

In my defense, the 30-second guy yelling at the sky while he ate his cereal on Youtube was better.

The movie was awesome, though.

Reviews are subjective. It wasn't for me, I guess.

You're such a girly-girl.

Yeah, I don't know how that happened.

We figured you'd be all Hugh-drooly and happy to lick him with your eyes for two straight hours.

See, on any given night, I would totally have done that and thanked you afterward, but honestly, I was just really freaking tired.

You stayed awake for Crank 2.

Please. That's Jason Statham. There's not a woman on earth who would sleep through one of his movies.

You're impossible.

And rested! Are we going to go back and see Star Trek again this weekend?

Just right: a story without guarantees.

You're here.

I have failed to compare them successfully and now I know why. There is plausible deniability here and I wanted so many things. Love me like Jake did, but keep me safe while you're holding me out to the wolves, like Cole did. Be dark and passionate and quietly crazy like Cole but be goofy and impulsive and immature like Jake was. Don't mince words like Cole did, say what's in your heart, in your head, like Jake did. Don't leave me like Jake did, try to keep me. Like Cole did.

I have it all. When I had nothing left there was nowhere to go but up. Three friends with three incredibly distinct personalities and the one guy everyone thought would be dead first seems to be the only one who remains. The only one who hasn't heard his eulogy or left anyone behind smiles and proclaims to do nothing more than try. The hero. The guy who built his life on empty words and foolish chances still breathes in time with his princess.

I don't care if you like him. You don't know him. He can get away with murder, he won't talk to you, he'll just do his own thing and not say all that much and then suddenly he's wired his face with that famous oh-fuck-look-what-I-did-now grin, the fratboy smile that makes you want to tell him off in a thousand distinct languages until you realize you're smiling too, usually around the same time a pat of butter sails past your left ear and hits the wall and laughter breaks out around the table. Or maybe in the midst of a catastrophe you follow the carnage and find him staring out the window and there's more of a storm in his black eyes than there is in the sky outside and he shakes like a leaf but he won't sit down, he doesn't seek comfort, he just stands and stares and shakes and thinks and eventually he'll ask how I am and put his hand out and play with my fingers as he holds my hand and he'll sing to me until he can no longer speak and then he just sinks to the floor and suddenly I find myself holding him up, a feat like nothing else considering how big he is and he'll take comfort in my bony little embrace because he told me that's the only comfort there is now.

He's taken the hard jobs. He's been the bad guy when no one else has wanted to take the fall, he has stepped up with nothing left to lose and thrown the bolt that lets the bottom fall out of my world. Then he's reached down and at the last minute grabbed my hand and pulled me up. Not all the way, just enough so that I can get a better hold, so that I can go back to holding him.

Because Ben doesn't fix things and he never will and there's no mad rush to make things perfect and as we build the character that our lives rest upon he laughs because nothing else could go wrong that hasn't already and we've covered enough ground for seven lifetimes here and we still haven't really figured out who the hell God is and where he stands in our lives because we can't name where we're standing right now let alone define anything else at this point.

He's been the bad guy so many times over and you don't understand the magnitude of that. When everyone else has chickened out or wandered away in their own despair, Ben has wiped his face on his shirt and cleared his throat and tossed his hat into the ring because someone has to.

There's work to be done and we can't stop now. It's just a risk. People take them all the time. You're worth it, Bridget. Keep going, we can do this.

Indeed, Ben. I think we can.

I'm here.

Tenacious B and the house of destiny.

She said I don't know if I've ever been good enough.

Had we had an inspection before buying this house, I think I still would have wanted it. With it's old furnace, old gas water heater, old appliances, leaky windows, crumbling garage, the ominously-bulging pipe in the basement and questionable roof we might have been steered away.

I think the leaded glass windows and expansive oak floors and the sheer quantity of woodwork, unpainted and glorious would have kept me anyway. Having miles of tiny closetless Victorian rooms and dusty corners under weirdly-placed (and sometimes hidden) windows would have kept me. Three-season porches all over the place would have kept me. Skeleton keys keep me. The huge elm trees shading the property keep me. Rooms inside rooms and a master staircase and that ancient clawfoot tub with the now-thin enamel interior and striking black exterior keep me.

The potential keeps me.

Memories keep me.

This was my first house ever. First one. We got to make the decisions and I bit off so much more than I could chew it's been running down the corners of my mouth and pooling in my apron on my lap for years. We got to pick colors and change things and make it ours. Make it mine. I've spent just about every minute of my life in this house for the past three years and I've grown to like it. It's warm. It's beautiful. When we moved here Ruth was six years old. She hardly remembers anything before this house. Henry was four years old and does not recall a thing. This house freed me from the prison of the previous place, and it's been open doors and sunshine and dusty corners and keeping up with cobwebs and paint chips and wayward branches and shovelling snow ever since.

I never thought in a million years that I would be content here, in a place that snows in May, in a place that sees temperatures of -58 Celsius but the schools don't close. In a place where certain people have stared at me for standing out like a sore thumb with my Scandinavian coloring, a place where people are united by the cold and by the need to help each other when the water comes to lick at our heels and Jack Frost takes over for so long I believe everyone who lives here has two moods, grateful when it's warm and dry and resolute when it isn't.

I have spent my life building character, and this experience has only enriched that endeavour. By far I think it forced me to be a grownup when that seventeen-year-old immature teenage girl would much prefer to run to her room and slam the door, turning the music up so loud she drowns out her own ridiculous emo-misery until she chooses to face the world again. Grown-up Bridget doesn't get that choice, she doesn't have that escape anymore.

Thankfully Bridget the grown-up has an open-mind and does pretty well with adventure. She can make something from nothing and keep comfort and routine when the rug gets yanked out from under her feet. Every year the children get a little bit older and things seem to become just a little bit easier. That's a comfort you can't buy with your paper dollars and your marble-cold good sense. Bridget isn't that pulled together, but she'll tie her windblown-blonde back into a ponytail, pack her carpet bag with all her worldly goods, lick her finger and hold it up to see which way the wind is blowing and head due west anyway.

The circus is closing up and heading to warmer climes. Odds are there will not be another full year here for this little clown and her carny friends. I'm turning this snow globe over and over in my hands and I think I'm either going to pack it carefully in a box with newspapers to protect or perhaps I'll just bring it up over my head and smash it on the goddamned floor.

Oh but don't bowl me over
Just wait a minute,
well it kinda fell apart,
things get so crazy.

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.