Night forty.

Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the spaces between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.
~ Maya Angelou

The Good Sport.

I am:

• exhausted.
• covered with paint.
• aching and in pain.
• missing Ben so badly I burst into tears every ten minutes.
• sick of planning life around dog walks.
• starting to clean rooms, windows and light fixtures.
• jealous that other people aren't going through this.
  
• worried about how long it will take the house to sell.
• frustrated with phone calls that I don't have time to answer.
• forgetful as always.
• afraid of the dark.
  
• unshowered today, and I don't know how that happened.

I won't:

• give up.
• stop moving.
• pretend everything is okay when it isn't.
• stop worrying until it's over.
• be okay.
• quit.
• stay up all night, just very very late until it's safe to go to sleep.
• let tomorrow go by without getting that shower.
  
• let everybody down.

That last one, that seems to be key. I don't know if I'm succeeding or not but I'm still trying. I'm just really sore, incredibly discouraged, and completely overwhelmed. So if you want to put aside your derision and just have a little ounce of understanding, I am going to put my head down for just a little while and cry.

Sweethearts.

Look what just came! I have the most amazing husband in the whole wide world.

He is in Vancouver right now, and I am not. Gorgeous flowers make it a little easier. So does chocolate. Like the pink sparkly rockstar heart? I sure do.

Thank you, baby. I love you.

Where's Bridget?

I'm in this video. Have fun looking, it's like Where's Waldo? but with Bridget.

Painting is going swimmingly (sarcasm abounds). I can't feel my arms anymore. Blissful numb, I call it. I hope it goes away soon.

Back to work. More when I have time. Currently I am fresh out.

Paint the seconds.

We stopped time
To chase these truths

Tell it to move
Feel like climbing the walls
Useless messengers haste
Rushing to arrive

Balanced at the very top of a rickety wooden ladder she paints, holding the can in one hand (half-full, so heavy) and the old tired brush in the other. It's precarious, you see and she yells along with Chevelle on the stereo while she contemplates quitting altogether, or maybe doing it all after dark so she will at least have the gleeful ambiance of night to keep her company.

Whoops, a significant wobble and her eyes get wide for a split-second. She braces bruised knees covered in black tights against the wall, sensible black shoes for horizontal travel strapped tightly to her feet. Plaster dust on her plain black dress and a black tie in her hair to keep it off her neck while she works.

See these streams of color
They threatened it's too magical
That you still need to grow

The sooner we enter
The sooner we'll blend
Ease into another endless abyss

Every second she worked. I quit I quit I quit I quit. But she never slowed down, never stopped, never managed to put down the brush until the work was actually done and then she climbed slowly down the ladder again, the splinter from the day before cutting further under her skin, her knuckles white against the Pollack-splatters of previously chosen colors and she cursed the air until she was returned safely to the ground.

Her shoulders and knees ache and she is tired now. But it's finished and that's all she wanted for today.

Break a finger on the upper hand.

Today was spent chipping away at the list and now the perseverance is wearing thin and the list grows long like the light left in today, so I'm going to quit while I'm ahead and have a cup of coffee now and breathe for a few minutes before I dive into the dinner/dogwalk/kid-bath minirush of early evening. Four to about eight is a whirlwind in which the minutes tick by at a dizzying pace. I can't keep up, hell, I can't even keep track and suddenly the house is plunged into dark and quiet again and I am alone with my thoughts once more. That should not be allowed to happen, because my thoughts are like a bad date, they barge right in and then I can't get them to leave and I feel threatened and helpless. It's better just to keep moving and then drop. Get up and do it all over again.

Dear radio, please stop playing New Fang. I'm pleading on aching knees here. Please, vultures, release a new single.

I am sticking to this list because if I stray from it everything becomes so overwhelming I start to sink into the ground when I walk, stiletto heels first, though these days I live in my old pink camouflage converse all-stars. High tops, yes. A ridiculous small size of course because I have little feet. A wonderful feature when you have to tip-toe over five-hour-old varathane on a ninety-seven year old floor because you left a bunch of things in your bedroom, which is on the other side of that freshly-painted floor. Sigh.

So far so good. I am running a list for Ben too, because in nine days he is home again. The big white bird will spit him back into my arms for more time and it's already sorely needed but I'm beginning to have some hope that I am not stuck here forever. Sometimes it seems like it, especially when it's dark and cold.

On that note, we're up to three minutes, twenty-five seconds of extra daylight each day. It's now light out from about seven-thirty to well after six each night which is an absolute godsend of a different sort. I'm not unaware of the five weeks remaining in the winter but five weeks isn't insurmountable now, is it?

Depends on who you ask.

Speaking of others, Ben is doing well. I like it that he tells me of the harder parts and what he does to counteract them. Then I can try the same tricks and fail but at least I come away with knowing what makes him tick a little better. You would think after this long that I would know everything but I don't. Do we ever? Does he know everything about how I am? Well, of course he does. Sigh.

So much for that argument. In any case, absences do get easier and time heals all whatever. I'm numb, more likely. Numb and better within that numb to the point where the keening panic became a wooden ambivalence that leaves splinters behind when you try to run your hand across it. Self-preservation is an amazing mechanism and I am lucky to have it an any form at this point. A gift horse with a rather large and endless mouth, but I'm not looking into it, I just take what I am given and say thank you.

I read a quote yesterday about the school of hard knocks and I can't remember what it was. It might have been on Travis Barker's twitter. No, shoot. It was on someone's twitter. Twitter moves fast but it's like company you don't have to sit up straight for. I will keep looking for it, it was a great quote and I laughed and then I agreed with it. Twitter is always open on a tab now. The entertainment value is limitless.

And my mom made cookies and sent them to us, which just about sent Henry into spasms, he loves his Nana's chocolate-chip cookies and I always like the letters and stories and pictures she puts into them. Those boxes are my mom's version of Twitter, I think. Pretty cool. Thank you, mom.

I must go. I need match a paint color before I lose the light. Tomorrow's Thursday and there will be eight sleeps left and Vampire girl can sleep again, for a short while.

Vampire boy will be here keeping watch, and that is what I'm living for these days.

10 minutes to spare.

I have nothing for you except for sixty-odd messy sneezes and a very sore shoulder.

But the last floor is finished. Okay, not finished but good enough, which is the new motto around here lately.

Hideously tired and uninspired. Come back tomorrow, okay?

Homing angel.

This is the part where Ben gets eaten by the big white bird again.

He's gone already. The plane has taken off and with any luck his guitar and assorted musical amplifications will meet him at the baggage claim upon landing. If not he will use the insurance cash to buy something louder. He is not concerned in the least and only had the coffee-soaked blip of nerves this morning once settled in at the gate for the endless wait to board.

It was an amazing weekend. We did no work. Well, we did some, but mostly we organized the next visit, which is only eleven sleeps from now, because this weekend that just passed was the most exciting surprise, the best one, I think, and I am so happy he was here. We mostly spent the weekend in each others arms, staying up late, cuddling, snuggling, having family time and generally since it was not the first time he's come back, somehow it was easier to handle overall, though I still have moments this morning where it feels like the end of the world. We watched It Might Get Loud, which easily slid into my top ten movies of all time. Easily.

Over the course of Ben's next trip home the house officially hits the market and I'm now going to organize getting everything ready, cleaning, packing some of the valuables and things people don't need to be distracted by and I have to slap a coat of paint in the back porch and finish one floor upstairs. I'm not doing anything else. I will be content to let the rest go.

Upon first inspection the realtor told me flowers and a tablecloth would be nice, and wash windows and light fixtures too.

That's it?

That's it, she said.

Gosh, aside from the daunting task of washing the windows I hope someone buys it. I'm tempted to bury St. Joseph out there in the snow to help things along. I may not be catholic but I love relics and this house is a big one. Cross your fingers for me, I could use some luck for a change.

Ben is still in the air, his St. Christopher medal anchored around his neck for a safe flight, his hands full with the memories of holding us to keep him comforted for this next round of days apart, soon to be spilled onto the strings of his favorite strat, turning tactile memory into musical notes, turning pain into something good.

Say anything.

Late last night after a fruitless evening of trying to contact him, I finally got a message from Ben on my phone.

I got a picture for you, just a sec.

I waited. Waited and waited and waited a little more.

Finally a picture came through.

Of the back door.

I bet that was a funny sight, for him to watch as the lights progressed through the house, flip flip flip through two doors flip flip flip down the steps flip flip flip flip flip through three doors and then a cursory glance through the window because I wasn't sure if maybe he had someone else take a picture for a bad joke and there he was, larger than life, standing on the other side of the door.

I almost took a steel door off the hinges to get to him.

And now he is home. But only until Monday. Shhh. We won't think about bad things. Just for now.

Pitch-dark and dead quiet (teach me how to do this).

Once again the week is over, children and pets are tucked in safely and the lights burn low downstairs. I still have to make one more trip down there in an hour or two to let Bonham out for his final tour of the yard. Hopefully I will stay up late enough to take him out so that he might let me sleep in a little bit tomorrow. Cross your fingers.

I have been remiss lately in writing. It's been difficult to find time in which my brain isn't fused in panic and my heart doesn't thud with the long slow beat of homesickness and quiet. It's also incredibly painful right now. That Nexcare skin crack liquid I picked up never had a chance. When I'm not scrubbing plaster dust off my hands, I'm scrubbing paint or varathane off them. I also managed to tear them up quite nicely with sandpaper too, so perhaps I'll just use it to maintain the current state of affairs and not hope for miracle cures until the minor constructions are complete. I can't wait to live in a place where this doesn't happen anymore. It hurts. A lot. And that's saying something, coming from the girl with the pain threshold so high you can't even see it while standing on your tiptoes.

Did I mention the real estate agent is coming this weekend? Ergo, finish the house and finish it fast, Bridget.

She's going to cringe anyway. And I'm not satisfied though with a cursory look-through it will be wonderful. Nit-pickers need to go seek new construction, for you won't find perfection in a house built in 1914. No sir.

But I am running out of energy, time, money and heart. I loved this house but it's no longer mine. I called it Winter House, for a time and that was quickly discarded because every mention of winter was followed by my sweetest habit ever, cursing hard and long like a sailor on a yearlong cruise.

Never said I was a lady, now, did I?

The past few nights have seen the return of a very old habit I haven't indulged in since I was eighteen years old. Music to fall asleep by. By the time I was twelve I would go to sleep wit headphones on every single night. It was relaxing. It put me out. I went through thousands of dollars worth of batteries and headphones each year, since I would wake up in the morning with said headphones crushed underneath my shoulders and the player still on, but dead. My parents indulged me, it was maybe one of the very few ways I ever relax, music is.

(I'm not a self-soother. Don't know if you noticed.)

Once I moved in with Cole, the music stopped somewhat, because tuning him out was rude, and we were indulging in our favorite pastime most nights anyhow (shhhhhhhhhhh) and also because we could barely afford to eat, let alone buy batteries for Bridget's walkman.

And you know what? He bought them anyway because did you know? She's not a self-soother. There were always enough double-As when I went to replenish my ears (Oh yes, I'm one of those terrible tuned-out people, don't you know it). I never did go back to putting on music while I fell asleep. Never had to. I could just curl up in his arms, or someone else's and be out like a light.

Once the children were born I learned to sleep with one eye and both defective ears open, listening for cries or needs in the night, ready to jump out of bed and slay imaginary monsters or fetch tissues, inhalers, extra blankets, cats, dropped stuffed bunnies and random assorted socks (which magically fall off Ruth's feet at night and must be excavated from her bed in the morning. Every morning).

So bye-bye forever, night music.

And then two nights ago I hammered the sleep button on the radio, ostensibly to get the weather report for the next day, because the cold is up and down and another stupid snowstorm is coming our way (Fucking prairie. I've had it with you. So long. I won't miss you.) and after the report Snuff came on (love that song) so I left it on to listen for a minute. A minute because twelve minutes and I could feel the homesick/ache-pain of Ben's absence ebbing just a little tiny bit in favor of letting the music wash over me in a way that I always have and most people don't.

(WAIT A SECOND. SOOTHING.)

I don't remember ever turning off the radio that night, I just remember waking up knowing that I didn't spend four hours tossing and turning like I usually do, getting up a million times to see why the security lights have come on in the backyard (owls) and to check the children because my bedroom is a little bit removed from their rooms and I can't hear them anyway so I peek in a lot.

Fluke?

Last night I hit the button again, and the very last things I recall thinking before falling asleep were Oh, good, at least they're not playing Green Day and Josh Homme's voice really does nothing for me.

It's positively magical again to drift off to some metal-light, since I have to acquiesce and listen to bands and songs that aren't really up my alley, although the more I think about it, the more I see the alley of my future revealing some sort of CD-playing clock radio instead of this hilarious twenty-year parade of substandard Sony Dream Cubes. Imagine picking my own music to drift off to, much like the rest of the planet has probably done for at least the past decade or more. I wouldn't know. Unless Research in Motion puts it out I try not to pay attention.

I could fall asleep listening to music on my BlackBerry but killing bluetooth headphones is expensive, the phone would have to be in close proximity to tiny white dog who would love to eat it and also it would have to be charging and in case you snoozed through the first half of my post, my house was built in 1914. I don't believe the one plug and questionable power circuitry (or whatever the hell that flicky-switch in the basement that's always turning off is called) can handle the power.

Who am I kidding? It definitely can't.

Some moments I am stunned and surprised that the house was retrofitted with a toilet. Though at other times, what with the extensive woodwork and stained glass gracing the halls and various rooms, I can't ever understand why there aren't two toilets, or even three. Let's just be decadent all the way around, shall we? (Go big or go homing angel, as August likes to tell me)

In any case, I don't get to pick my music while I sleep so God help the first programmer who plays 21 Guns while I'm trying to fall asleep and tomorrow hopefully my bloody fingertips and aching soul will be up for another day of sanding/scrubbing/painting/cleaning.

Don't feel sorry for me though. Jesus, please. All of this work and effort and endurance and fortitude and lessons in self-soothing bring me one step closer to not needing music to help me fall asleep.

It brings me that much closer to Ben.

Goodnight. My fingers hurt now.