Industrial-strength lullabies.

This lonely isolation follows me through my dreams
I wander around with doubt
so cold and incomplete
There is nothing here for comfort
No spark of hope I see
I breathe deep and fill my lungs to silently release
This is more than a dream to me
I breathe deep and drown my lungs and release silently
I gasp for breath to only hear what's inside me
An echo
More than a dream to me
An echo of my scream

Metal makes everything strong. Steadfast, more comfortable. Ben is made of metal. I wish he could be home right now.

The blizzard has ended and we didn't even run out of milk. The mercury is free-falling now and instead of perishing in isolation as the city became obscured by drifts, instead we're going to freeze to death.

Cole, why did we move here again? Oh yes. That was in another life, a life that's over now. Lucky you. You can't feel cold.

Jesus, Bridget, what has he done? Jacob's first comment on the weather here as he watched the thermometer surrender the day we hit new cold records.

There is always a mad dash to prove life in spite of the obstacles. Sure, go out and carry on as usual. But first be sure the rope is tied securely around your waist, your will is up to date and you've got at least five layers of thinsulate, wool and gortex on, even though you will still feel every degree of the current conditions.

Thanks for the wild send-off, you stupid godforsaken hell-hole, I am done now.

Last night I thought I would die of fear again. Not sure what it is, save for these moments that feel like shallow panic attacks. I can wade right in, cool off, splash around a bit and then come out eventually. It takes forever to get dry. I should probably just wait on the side. I know it's just the weather and the lack of sleep and this bad cold and the upheaval and it's all in my head. I don't believe my head understands the rules of engagement and so it reacts like a feral child with no access to civilization. I believe I would make a great thesis for somebody. Maybe more than one person, since every armchair therapist who has ever discovered me online has felt the need to weigh in. Screw you, show me your qualifications and your pay scale and then we'll talk. Only then.

At the height of my stupidity I tried to talk August into coming home. He is the most free with engagements at present. I begged and I promised and I charmed and then Satan came out of nowhere and shut me down. I was no longer mindful of the rules. I tried to circumvent the status quo and once again I was held screaming into the flames before being pulled back, strong arms using logic as muscle against a mind that likes to see the suffering.

August was similarly burned. I have apologized to him until I run out of words and he will not accept it, he says it isn't my fault and for some reason that makes more sense today, in the sun, with the blizzard warnings now behind us than it did last night in the dark with the winds howling all around me.

Safety won't be there with him, princess.

I don't care, Caleb. I need people here.

To waste time?

To keep me grounded.

Maybe you need a reminder in why this is best.

What I need is a timeline. Dates. Plans. Throw me a bone here, Jesus. Right now it just seems like endless winter.

What are you learning?

How much I hate you, Caleb.

And?

How hard Ben works. How when he feels pain now he just puts his head down and works harder. How he refuses to dwell on the hard parts because he has to survive.

Admirable. Can you apply that to yourself, perhaps?

No. I'm a masochist. I want to feel it and then I want to flick a switch and make it go away.

All you have to do is say one word, princess.

No. Goodbye, Caleb. And leave the boys alone. They're doing well, they don't need you doing this.

I didn't get where I am by leaving loose ends, Bridget.

Who said anything about loose ends?

That's what August is. Your Jacob-clone. The outsider. The one we all watched in real time as he became helpless against your attentions.

I thought that was Ben's role.

So did I but you are quite the little collector, aren't you?

I haven't collected anyone.

Bridget, your...'army' as you call it is quite strong now. Cole would have been incredibly surprised at this turn of events.

I should have told him.

Told him what?

That he was not the monster.

Oh, really?

You are. It was you. He was a puppet too.

No, Bridget, I loved my brother. But my brother had issues too and he failed to appreciate the life he had.

Not true. You did that to him.

Before you make a mistake and deify any more losers I'm going to suggest tonight be a little less noisy on your end of life. You're being protected, there is nothing that can happen to you so you may as well be content to get to know yourself a little better instead of hiding in the arms of the first man who slows down near you.

Caleb?

Yes, princess?

Fuck you.

I always appreciate it when you end a call with spirit. It's just another little reassurance that you're doing just fine.

The city in the sea.

A pause for clarity, since the emails are still rolling in. You people seem to demand literal postings. Every song lyric, person and moment I mention seems to be matched and compared and speculated upon. It's weird. Find a new hobby, please. Thank you.

Caleb Followill is not Caleb. Jesus. Come on. The age difference must be twenty years. (but doesn't he resemble a young David Gilmour? Wow.) I've stopped entertaining the Ben-guesses completely because the point of this journal is BRIDGET, pure and simple (or contaminated and complicated, as expected).

And this post is in direct reference to this non-event. My theory extends to the visitor being a great grandchild to my most beloved of all poets.

See, I read the news.

Every once in a blue moon.

Sunday morning decaf.

Determination comes in tiny-blonde too, you know.

Apologies, to my creation for these wasted days
My transcendence has a bitter face
Dreams are built and spent with might
And I'm sorry cause I never fight

And in the aftermath, dreams just altruistic sayings
My just emotion throws, apart, unique, I didn't even care
So look away your life is past and you let the chances cave
And all our cares of the moment have given us our names

Uneasy peace settles like a pall over the darkened house. I draw my finely-knit wrap around my shoulders a little tighter and take the clip out of my hair so that my neck and shoulders are protected from imaginary chill. I'm looking for things that bring warmth today and finding that everything is temporary and even the incredibly familiar things I love so feel somewhat useless this morning.

There is no church. Sam is still away and I could go and listen for the community service but it isn't the same. I look after the household chores automatically, distractedly. Check the children, spool up the stereo downstairs, because the big black iron grates in every room that deliver the heat also deliver the sound if it's tuned just right. Marc Arcand's voice, my absolute favorite voice in the whole world, living or dead and oh, didn't that annoy Jacob so badly but it became a wasted argument because I would not budge, and we put it under the rug and tripped over the lump it made so very rarely as he learned the songs in spite of his displeasure over being usurped but I like voices and I never want to listen to my own because it surprises me. It always will do that when you can't hear yourself talk. So to hear Marc's voice so crystal clear, breathing included has always been a huge joy for me that perplexes everyone else.

Perfect example here.

Sigh. They are totally fledglingly adorable. Bridget has the sads that they have become a Quiet Band now. Ben has no issues, he knows his voice to me is a warm bath and the cruelest of familiar away-noise all at once. His voice is mine. It is my favorite too but only because I get to hear it relay the most depraved thoughts of me and I love that more than I can tell you right now because my mom (Hi mom) reads and it's Sunday, people.

Our storm seems to be dwindling but we won't know for sure until thirty hours from now. It's going to get cold and windy and then the sun will break through for the rest of the week, leaving the cold to linger because I hoped the unseasonable warm would remain but I never expected it to. Every step closer gets to happy though, right? Ben tells me that every night on the phone and I'm trying to believe in it despite the endless hours I spend alone.

Every step. Fuck this, I'm soon to break into a run. And when I do the chain on my necklace will lift, pulling the heart away from my skin, cooling it in the still night air and my hair will fly out behind me, tangling in knots and separating into waves like the streaks of green versus blue in the ocean at the cottage and the warmth of Ben's eyes will bring me in because I won't stumble until I see him smile and then and only then do I plan to fall apart again.

I have to be tougher than this. I will spend today sitting in the light by the window mending the holes in my armor, stitch by stitch, most likely with the stereo still on. You'll see. I'll sew until I can't feel my fingers anymore. I'll make you proud, baby.

Snowpocalypse.

Because I'm knowing what you're fearing
An unsentimental jury
And for miles I guide you
I watch over everything

Yeah, that kind of princess. The high-maintenance, never-lift-a-finger, lets-someone-else-do-all-the-work kind of girl. But sweet and in a low-cut dress.

That's the kind of princess I'm going to be because otherwise I'm soon going to look like Popeye with giant arms on a skinny little body and that won't do at all.

Seriously, the day has been spent plaster skim-coating walls and shoveling the white concrete that fell from the sky overnight and then the rain and oh my Gods.

It sucks so bad.

Wait, let me rephrase that, if you are ten years old or under it's the Best Thing Ever. If you're over thirty and you drive a sportscar it is fresh white tears on the face of your driveway, who is all emo and impassable.

On the upside, the shoveling is done for the moment, cross your fingers for the rain and warm temperatures to continue and maybe it can eat away at some of the snow before the next round of climatic stupidity tomorrow.

The prairies and I are gearing up to make sure we won't miss each other, that's for sure. Not for even one single teeny tiny moment. It's now a war.

Lunatic city.

Bridget was never a Prairie girl to begin with.

I'm listening to Mudvayne and Domenica today. It's an odd kind of day like that.

The best news is despite feeling all kinds of miserable this morning when I woke up, a hot bath and some Advil took the bite out of the cold I am fighting. I had a fever but right now it's the high point of the day and I feel almost human. I did manage to clean the floors and catch up on the laundry and I even sanded a little bit and removed the ancient door jam (which was a mess) from my bedroom door. It was once an exterior door, since my room is part of the addition that was put on in the thirties/forties.

Great fun, that. Not sure how much lead paint I need to inhale in my lifetime but I've probably had enough.

I sat in the car again while it warmed up. I didn't need to go out but I have this weird thing about making sure it starts which is all me and not the car. I have issues. Seriously.

I spoke to the boys, who are running around in the sunshine in Vancouver without jackets on (ARGHHHH) and I cried at all of them. I used blubbery words like scared and Colorado low and blizzard and power outages and they all have assured me that we'll be fine. So to further the 'fine' I walked to the store and got some treats for the kids and for Bridget because I am still slightly bent that there was no cake at the bakery and so fuck you cake, it's salsa and chips this weekend.

We'll watch movies and hang out in our pajamas. We'll eat and sleep and get better. We'll get through this blizzard just like Ma Ingalls and the girls did that time that Pa went hunting and the blizzard came up and they didn't see him for over a week and almost starved to death, except we'll do it hopefully with more snack food and the internet.

We don't have a choice so what the hell.

If it gets bad though, you'll find us at the Fairmont. I'm not stupid. I put my Mastercard by the door. Because that's what true princesses do in an emergency and someday I plan to be one.

(A true princess, not an emergency. Haven't you noticed? I'm already an emergency.)

Needless to say, my arch-nemesis, The Weather Network, is calling for some ridiculous amount of snow and wind, complete with red warnings and dire predictions. True to form, Environment Canada is all wtf, weather network, fear-mongering much?

I'm splitting the difference. Nachos it is.

The Tell-Tale Heart.

Sometimes talented men die young, whether it be because they've expended too much energy in kind or because there is only so much room for the brightest stars to shine all at once and when your time is up, it's simply up.

She didn't plan on notoriety. It was one of the few wrinkles in her memories, the fact that in recent years it grew more and more difficult to slip in and out undetected. Unsteadily so, as she would drink half the bottle before she even put on her coat, lamenting the loss of a life so incredibly wicked and writ. Then she would choose his roses from the vase on the table and tuck the bottle, now tightly capped, under her coat and head off to remember. In the dark, like he must be now.

Upon arrival she waited behind the wall, listening. Hearing nothing she walked forward. Tiptoes. Minimizing her clicking heels, the sound overtaken by her thumping heart. She knelt down and placed the roses at the base of the memorial and then gently balanced the bourbon beside the flowers. She touched her fingers to her lips and then to the cold stone and she smiled, warm with a tinge of bitterness because he has been gone now for such a long time. She has not known him in her own lifetime. She wished she did.

She stood, taking one more swift glance around the courtyard and broke into a run, leaving her treasures behind with her heart, her blood entombed under this massive stone reliquary.

Happy birthday. Someday we'll be together again.

She died this year. At home, alone in her bed, and this year will be the first year that they will be together, and he can meet his flesh and blood.

There is no mystery here, only resonance.

Princess courageous and the mittens of doom.

Ben sent me this to watch since I couldn't stay awake to see it last night.

Nom nom. Awesome. They should be back in Canada by now. True North, strong and free, baby.

In other news, we're supposed to have a whole lovely bunch of wind and freezing ice pellets and snow for the next four days and so I went and filled my car up to the brim with gas and did not find winter washer fluid anywhere but I have regular so better than nothing and I bought groceries which oddly while I was shopping seemed to consist of mostly vitamin water and frozen burritos but by the time I got home all of the usual suspects were stacked in the pantry. It's very difficult to shop for three people, I believe at this point we have enough food to last until summer.

I could spend the day sitting on the pantry floor hoping nothing goes wrong, missing Ben and being awful and unmanageable. I'd LIKE to do that, God knows, everyone keeps minimizing this as if my reactionary life is completely unreasonable. Well, it isn't and I'm not, but I have things about me that don't lend well to stupid concepts like 'independence' and 'strength'. So there. Sue me. I don't do alone well. I hardly manage it at all, frankly and damned if I'm not amazingly proud of myself for going out today. Small steps.

Every last one with a tiny squeak of pain because Ben isn't within reach.

Also, I'm convinced life will be easier when it isn't mostly conducted in ice at ridiculous temperatures below zero. I plan to buy a red umbrella to stand out and maybe some cute red rain boots.

Look, distractions, princess. See them? They're right there.

I plan all kinds of things for when I get out of here, when I get to be with Ben. When things settle and we survive this most recent round of obstacles. Henry seems to be on the mend at last. Ruth has a lesser version of his cold. I have a terribly sore throat and swollen glands, hence the vitamin water. I don't drink enough unless there is coffee left. Coincidentally since I still seem to make coffee for six people every morning, there is always some left.

And I'm not going to talk about yesterday. I was cheeky and I got my hand slapped as a result. Caleb politely asked me to remove my post so I did because I don't bite the hand that feeds me. It bites me. Sometimes it hurts and so for now I'm just going to let that go for a little bit and maybe he will slither back into the shadows, under a rock somewhere like a good little snake and I can continue my walk through the shade in the forest hoping that I come across the clearing soon.

(Where the sun shines and the flowers bloom toward the sky. Where snakes wither helplessly and then they die.)

Whoops. That was out loud again, wasn't it?

I'm going to go make lunch for the children. They should be home from school any moment now.

Putting the 'Mental' in fundamental.

Why does time move so incredibly SLOW while Ben is away? Can someone tell me? I'd love the answer to that one. And really, if you're prone to being able to proficiently answer philoso-psychological questions like that, you might want to stick around because I have more.

I'm sure I'll get a phone call from Sam when he sees that.

Extra-beautiful, the bitter/sweet edition.

Maybe redemption has stories to tell
Maybe forgiveness is right where you fell
Where can you run to escape from yourself?
Where you gonna go?
Where you gonna go?
Salvation is here.

You would think with all the boys I know, famous and infamous, I would have done a little better yesterday.

Chris and I were in our usual spot, outside the venue two hours before the show when the photographer (Andy, who RULES ALL) came out and invited us to come in and watch Switchfoot do their soundcheck. Ben would have loved this but alas, Chris takes us to the Switchfoot shows because ironically my husband is usually away playing death metal when they roll into town.

We sat on the floor while they played Dirty Second Hands, and then they came down and met us, chatting for a few minutes.

And I'm an idiot, because I'm standing there holding the hand of the guy who wrote the words on my ankle and I didn't show him my Nothing in the world could fail me now tattoo.

Argh!

(Jon, I'm so sorry. I wanted to show you. My brain wiped itself clean somewhere in between walking down to the stage and when you smiled at me.)

I managed to talk to him a little though. I had a great talk with Chad, and Drew and Tim. Jerome remembered the children from three years ago when we last met up at the same place.

When they were finished we were sent back outside, no longer cold, VIP wristbands displayed proudly because I'm the biggest Switchfoot fan that ever lived and seriously, after coming away from the last show with set lists and guitar picks and a front-row view I figured that was the amazing show and hopefully this one would be cool too but at no point did I expect to meet the band. I've known some other bands. Mostly big scary gruff guys with almost as many tattoos as I have. Not down to earth, friendly and engaging bands that I can sing every word of every song with.

But at door time we filed in and wound up in the front row again! This time firmly rooted between where Tim and Jon stand onstage. Only Jon never stands still. He grabbed hands, he jumped into the audience right next to me, to the positively screams of delight from my kids and the glowstick-teens next to us. He sang to Ruth. He sang to me. Tim checked Henry to make sure he seemed to be having fun. (For the record, Henry bailed at ten songs in, bless his heart. Christian took him to a cooler vantage point from which to enjoy the rest of the show). We sang and swayed and rocked out and took video (PS My blackberry takes amazing video, sound is distorted but I might try a Youtube upload later today) and waved goodbye when they were finished, wrapping up with Dare you to Move after twenty other songs, including playing the new Hello Hurricane album start to finish. Start to finish, I said. Oh my God, the songs.

It was beyond ridiculously good. I didn't want to cut off my access bracelet when we got home. I didn't want to go to sleep.

Four hours later we were up again and on our way to the airport, this time for duty instead of celebration. I had to drop Ben off for his flight and we were almost late because we could not let go of each other and didn't want to face this morning but knew we don't really have much of a choice. Onward and upward big B and little b. Face your fears. Face the day. Dare you to move, stupids.

After a night like that, it seems like anything and everything is possible. Strangers are friends. Fear is adventure in disguise. Time is relative. Wounds heal.

And live music is worth living for, a gift like nothing else to me.

Thank you, boys.

Recycling, the hard way.

Let go for just a moment, Princess.

I think somehow I felt like Ben leaving his favorite guitar here at home was collateral so that he would have to come back. I spent a lot of his time away wondering if I would see him again, feeling like I had been left behind and generally just wholly unprepared for how rocked I would be in his absence.

He has gone away before. Dozens of times over the years. In previous lives we would pick a fight, he would go on tour and I would point out repeatedly in messages and calls that I hardly noticed he wasn't present and I would see him when I saw him. In turn he would point out how peaceful and fun the chaos, noise and misery of the road was compared to my house. We both knew better, it was just fun to throw barbs and pretend they didn't hit their targets.

Of course, now everything is at stake and trips have taken on an albatross-shaped shadow that sometimes blocks the sun and sometimes it just forces shade. I can still see, but it's softened light and it isn't quite right.

The guitar goes back with him early this week and we have no return date this time, both points that leave me completely cold and freaked out and wanting to do the velcro-monkey all over Ben. I want him to brush his hand down my hair and hold my head against his chest so I can quiet to his heartbeat. So I can feel safe. Once he leaves that goes out the window like a mended bird, never to be seen again.

I want to be a raving lunatic. I've shed enough tears in the past two weeks to commission the building of an ark. I've pointed out a hundred times that this is too hard and I can't do it and I've talked and breathed my way out of five good panic attacks because that was the only choice I had. Sink or swim. Get a grip or slide right off the edge. Buck up and deal with it or risk the permanent label of catastrophizing everything, every time. Never getting better. Backsliding over what will be small potatoes someday.

Yeah, well, sometimes those small potatoes aren't so small. They block the view. They block progress.

So for one solid minute, this afternoon in the midst of the final major renovation project in the house I took my lunatic moment. I lost my mind. I stomped and screamed and yelled and took all my frustrations out on a cardboard box in the basement. I tore it to pieces and kicked it and freaked the fuck out.

Completely. You would have been surprised. I'm a quiet worrier, I cry, I get frustrated. I become silent. Paralyzed. I very rarely explode and when I do I might yell for a minute or talk back. I'm buttoned-up.

Ben just stood there. I don't think he knew what to do. He didn't know what to say so he just turned around and went back upstairs to keep working while I finished tearing up the box three floors below. Then I came upstairs, passed him the tools he needed and we carried along as before.

Later tonight after dinner, Ben said he thought I really needed that and he was glad for it. I'm still humiliated and embarrassed that I flipped like that but he assures me I've been bottling things up and should yell more and cry less, that it would be easier for everyone. Healthier too.

Maybe he was just relieved I didn't go after the guitar.

(For the record, I would never destroy his belongings. I wasn't mad at Ben. I was mad at the circumstances, and they're not his fault.)

Not sure what I'm going to do for my next trick. It will probably involve more quiet plastering though. That seems to be January's theme, and how I've kept all this rampant frustration in check for so long thus far.