God's down at the Safeway and she said I was fine.

I'm cooking corn, cod and potatoes for dinner. Hot comfort food if there ever was any. I'm dying to go to the Raincity Grill in Vancouver. I'm picking places out for Ben and I to try out once we're there. If you have any suggestions, let me know, I love to eat.

Yesterday again they had no cake when I went for groceries. I braved the icy roads, bought the requisite vegetables, fruits, fibers, legumes and school snacks and then I went to see if they had any chocolate cake for Bridget because even though Bridget prefers the very fancy cakes one can find at Salty's or Dio, the cakes from Safeway are perfectly wonderful in their own right. And only $12. For a WHOLE one!

No cake. None. Zip. Wait, some strange German chocolate affair that always looks so unappetizing so I opted to just buy extra pears to snack on and as I'm coming up the bakery aisle an elderly lady asked me if I could reach the cherries for her. I found that funny, she was maybe two inches shorter than me. I gave them to her and she remarked that they didn't seem to have any graham crackers, whole ones, not the crumbs. She needed the wafers.

They're in the cookie aisle, I said. At the bottom.

Thank you, she said. You're a good person. You'll do fine.

Late last night it hit me. She was God. I asked for something, anything and I got it in the form of a little old lady at the grocery store.

Interesting. I'm not sure I'm up for scavenger hunts though, I would much prefer it if God would just email me so we could have a conversation I could go back over later, if need be.

After shopping I still had some time left before the kids would be home for lunch so I drove to the shopping center and bought a lottery ticket and went to the big drugstore to see if there was anything new in the first-aid aisle. My fingertips cracked earlier this week and it's been especially painful since I'm always up to my elbows in (very drying) plaster and paint. I was in luck.

This stuff.

So far so good, though it's been barely a day. I'll keep you posted. Maybe I can just glue all of the broken parts of Bridget on and survive the rest of the winter intact. Place your wagers now, as bidding soon will close.

Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.

~J. D. Salinger (1919-2010)

Hypoxia

Good morning
Don't cop out
You crawled from the cancer to land on your feet
Are you crazy to want this
Even for a while?

Yes, I know it's midnight. Sometimes life works out just like this.

Satan breezed in mid-morning, just as I was sitting in the garage in the car listening to Matthew Good and feeling as if there could be no more of a desolate and lonely moment in my life than this one right now.

He wanted to drop all of the paperwork in my lap, which were essentially his relocation allowances for the boys and for me, spelled out in dollars and sense, contracts with words like 'arbitration' and 'moral property'.

Fine, just leave it on the kitchen table. I returned to my incredible sadness. I don't know what is is, just this deep unrelenting ache that, when addressed, blooms into breathtaking panic, and when ignored, retreats to the background, multitasking along with me, hurting enough to make its presence known and make it hard to breathe but still allowing me to do what needs to be done.

Had Caleb arrived in flames I probably wouldn't have noticed. I feel like finally the details are slipping away and the nitty-gritty things I always try to nail down don't even matter anymore. What matters is Ben, eight days already tacked on to the first absence, bringing the total to twenty but Bridget isn't counting because Bridget always focuses on the wrong things.

There is no allowance for my drama and things are very difficult at best.

Sure, I continue to chip away at the house. Some touch up paint here, a plant there, a picture moved, decluttering. Plasterwork and sanding and big ticket painting too but still I cough and cough and my eyes water (half cold virus, half drama) and I have the winter blues and cabin fever and fear of everything and the I-miss-Bens. I feel like the house will never be good enough because it's a hundred years old and there's not enough time or energy to make it perfect and really I don't think I want it perfect because it looks so lovely and I won't get to have this ever again and before I turn this into another ode to the castle of my dreams, I'll remind myself right here that the castle sits in a kingdom that is entombed in ice.

Oh, quite literal, I am. No drama there. It is so cold I can't trust Henry not to dawdle on the way home and far too icy on the roads to run the snow-rally car so I walk with them, four times a day. I swear to God winters here are an endless ballet of boots on, coat on. Boots off, coat off.

And so Caleb frowns.

What's wrong, Bridget.

What's right, Cale?

Stop being dramatic.

Yeah. Fine.

He frowns deeper. He looks very scary when he does that but I'm not sure I can find the generosity to reassure him. I am far too busy feeling sorry for myself. Endless winter, horror-Prairie, what in the fuck am I doing here, we shouldn't be here.

I scare myself with the voices. On days like this one I was really beginning to believe everything everyone says. Not about how incredibly beautiful I am (ha), but about my issues and whether or not I can manage them appropriately anymore, under these circumstances.

My doubts have begun.

Caleb is too busy adjusting bottom lines and coordinating people from all four corners of the globe and he doesn't have time to assuage petty concerns, worries I have invented and then magnified so that they are big green hairy monsters that chase me, screaming, down the hall. Worry is a nightmare hole I fell into and can't fall out of and I've pulled Matthew Good over the hole to obscure me and maybe the fear won't find me again but the apathy can stay because it's less agonizing.

Caleb remained at the house just long enough to make sure I had everything I needed to distribute to the boys and to spend a few moments with the children, who are also minding the cold and the isolation now but are elastic enough to find distractions without effort (hereafter to be referred to as DWE because I'm sure it will be a recurring theme) and were happy to see him and then as I walked him to the door, I guess my newfound detachment struck a chord, or perhaps a nerve, because he reached down and held the back of my head as if he was going to embrace me and instead his unshaven jaw razed a burn down my cheek and his lips were so warm, just under my temple that I flinched but was held fast in his arms.

You're doing just fine, princess. You're capable. Everything is going to be better.

I couldn't even tell him where to put his reassurance. Ben is gone. Doesn't anyone get that? Ben is my air and he isn't here and I'm lightheaded and soon I'll be dead from the lack of oxygen.

He kissed me hard and then he was gone. My pupils constricted and Strange Days came flooding back into my brain.

Bridget's bonspiel.

This morning was a carnival ride of a different kind. Wheeeeeeeeee as I turned my little car into a curling stone, giving it a twist and watching it curve around the neighborhood slower than death, coming around to rest precisely where I shot for, at the away end. The garage again.

In other words, I made it around the block and then I was smart and packed it in. I am not going on a cake run until the city cleans up Mother Nature's mess. They have promised that overnight tonight and tomorrow we should see improvements so I will test things again on Thursday, I think.

Besides, my car has a good three inches of clearance which makes it the PERFECT vehicle for snow navigation. I bought it for an ice rally I plan to enter someday. Why are you laughing? Stop laughing. It has snow tires. You could tell by the way it was glued to the garage floor when I went to pull it out. Eek.

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.