Gravity is overrated.

I think it was Gore Vidal who said "It's not enough for me to win, you have to lose.

That's just stellar, isn't it? I would laugh but it's just so mean. Twenty bucks says Caleb has it engraved into his bathroom mirror, repeating it every day while he shaves. It wouldn't surprise me one bit.

He offered me the moon and I have forwarded it along for counter-offers. The moon is not something I would want, I'm much more partial to Pluto anyway. Highest bidder wins and I will strap on a big tank of oxygen, pull a mask down over my nose and mouth and breath in earth-air in my new outer space home. Someone will have to come and build me a closet for my dresses and put in a plug somewhere for my curling iron so I will be astro-cute and then from there I'll detonate this planet remotely and blow you all to kingdom come.

But aha! Please. I already took a bunch of the cutest earthlings, specifically the ones with beards and flannel shirts and carpentry skills and musician hands and I stuffed them into the backs of the rockets so they could tag along.

Because I don't want to ever be lonely.

A lie come true.

Fine, everything is just fine. Seriously. He'll be okay. Apparently people who know a lot more than I do are working behind the scenes and everything is perfectly normal and this is to be expected.

Well, thank you for clearing that up, once again.

Look. I'm not good at this. Hell, I'm not good at the whole 'wife' thing anyway. My track record is that by being a wife I managed to kill two other men, and now I seem to be hellbent on going for a hat trick. Apparently I kill via stress. Because like Lochlan always tells me, I'm impossible.

They just keep trying anyway. Most people would run screaming the other way. Ben will hold me out to the wolves with one hand and the other hand is wrapped around the neck of a bottle and every now and then he laughs and takes a long drink and staggers where he stands and then he drops the bottle to the ground and it smashes and he rakes his hand through his dark hair in frustration and shakes me, feet off the ground.

Why do you do this to me?

I close my eyes. If I go somewhere else, maybe to the roses with Jake, maybe to the empty tunnel to wait for Cole, I'll disappear and Ben won't see me. But then he won't see me, you see? And there is that small matter of the promise I made once upon a late winter night on a farm far removed from civilization in that place where the land is flat but the sky is forever. The promise was that even when he couldn't control things he ought to be able to, even when everything is broken and we can't get anything to go back or stay together that we would. Stay together.

No matter what.

I'll take my place in front of him while he rages. Fay Wray protection King Kong from those who want to parade him around for show, to live off his talents and his marketability and I'll keep them back as long as I can, and somewhere in the darkness of his mind he understands that I am on his side and maybe that's what the promise meant to him.

Only he wasn't supposed to just give up like this again. That's the part I don't really understand and so I'm just going to hold onto my promise while I hold onto him, and maybe it will be enough. I'll wrap my arms around his neck and press myself into his flannel shirt and hold on as tight as I can, standing in a pool of broken glass.

I'm not going to be the poster child for people who are married to people in recovery. I don't know a damned thing about it. I just give you the words I have in my heart and hope you don't misunderstand them too badly.

No filler.

It's a beautiful day, actually. A nice light breeze, sunshine, clear and seventeen, which is my favorite weather-you can wear a sweater or not, pinned around your shoulders and otherwise it's good for strappy blue-green embroidered dresses and pretty sage green ballet flats. They talked about thunderstorms earlier but you'll never get the kind you see in the prairies so I'm not concerned yet. I've been to the bank to change addresses and collect some spending cash and to the farmer's market for fresh fruit and some more tomatoes. I went for coffee with Duncan, Daniel and Joel and I've come home now to fold the mountain of laundry that's waiting for me and do a few things around the house before I run up the hill to get the children for the afternoon. They'll be pleased, I also picked up cheese and strawberries. They love those for afternoon snacks.

Ben is home, headphones on, writing, madly. He kind of looks like me when I am very wobbly in a different way and he kind of looks like he always has, save for the glass beside him, that isn't orange juice lately but whiskey and water because he wants to burn, because he wants to float and be creative and forget and just be without that weight that never truly lifts. This is the magic hour when he is quiet. God help the first one of you who breaks that today.

I might join him if I had that sort of personality that allows for letting go but I do not, I have to be forced, and lately there has been enough of that.

Going to go sit outside in the sun, as soon as my chores are finished.

I don't want your concern.

Dreams in color.

Talking to herself
there's no one else who needs to know
She tells herself
Memories back when she was bold and strong
And waiting for the world to come along
Swears she knew it, now she swears he's gone

She lies and says she's in love with him, can't find a better man
She dreams in color, she dreams in red, can't find a better man

I heard the lyrics to that song today. Actually heard-heard them since the stereo was loud enough and all of the windows on the main level were closed against the ceaseless rain.

And then I cried because I always assumed the song was one lauding the hero of her heart, not lamenting the lack of courage to leave someone. How horrible. I cried not because it's a sad subject but because I can no longer enjoy the song. What's the point? It's sad. I don't like sad things. Like myself.

Ben fell off the wagon and he fell hard and I'm not good at this and nothing works and it just breaks when I touch it. It breaks. Into a million little pieces and I can never find them all so the light shines through the holes, blinding everyone. That's sort of where we are now. Standing around in the aftermath with one hand raised to shield our eyes so we can see where we're going.

Except for Ben, Ben is sitting on the floor and I can't get him to move at all. Not even to play a song.

Oddly appreciative.

Today was punctuated by the early morning slug army and the discovery of the grove, spiced with wasps and bookended with a new-sticky-summer-tires drive up the mountain to a lake fed by a glacier and none of it was salted but it was bigger than Bridget's heart and so I could appreciate it and otherwise between the cardboard and the branches and the sand my hands are very sore tonight and I still can't manage a full deep breath which is cutting into my quality of life at this point and I realized how incredibly capable we are in spite of the fact that we never feel like we know what we're doing.

So there you go.

Goodnight. Hurts to type. Or maybe I just don't feel like reporting to the vultures sometimes. I like it here though. Even the scary remote parts and the expensive parts are adventure and learning what's essential versus blind foolishness and I like that I can pull over on the side of the road and for a five dollar bill and a smile come away with a jar of honey, a flat of strawberries and three pounds of green beans to snap, already salted by the ocean air.

That's strangely comforting.

The wire walker and the twenty-four-hour man.

The circus is in full swing again and we haven't had time to even restock the concessions or sweep out the smaller tents. One elephant is loose and Bridget's braids unraveled the better part of four hours ago. There's a tear in her costume and a smudge of dirt on her forehead but pay her no mind, she's just but one part of the big show and there is so much here to see tonight.

My tightrope is woven with disquietude now, my balancing pole cast in fear. This part of the act seems blindly simple and yet it's the hardest part of all. You don't know until you're up here. You don't know so don't presume, just hold your breath and try not to audibly gasp when I wobble. If enough of you make the same sound it might carry to my ears and then I'll become distracted and make a mistake and then it will be the biggest Tragedy On Earth. Ringling Brothers. Death becomes Us. The Circus of Ghosts and Best Laid Plans. Don't miss it. You'll be sorry if you did.

I used to get a lump in my throat when I saw the tents going up. I would scratch out the lines in the dust from the games we were playing and I would grab my stickers and my candy and walk right up to the tent and duck underneath before they had time to secure the pegs. Sticker on my leg, cotton candy on my breath, I would watch with admiration as Lochlan worked to fulfill his duties. Usually by the time the tent went up he was packing up the leftover signs to head off early to the next town to post the next round of roadside arrows and gritty signs pointing the way. He used to say it was no life. He would shake his head at me as I drew lines in the dirt and balanced all the way down, arms out gracefully, hair still stuck in my mouth if it wasn't stuck in my ponytail. Smiling professionally, because I would become the youngest, prettiest Jill ever to charm the farmers and the townspeople too.

Oh, just you wait, Lochie.

Bridge, this is no life for you.

There's more love under this tent than in the ten thousand homes in this town.

Says you. These people are rough. You're too young to run with this crowd.

You're here.

I'm only on for five towns, remember?

We could go from coast to coast, think about how much fun it would be!

Go home, Bridgie. Go play with your Barbies.

I'll show you.

Have Barbie Circus even. You could do that.

Cole would take me.

Cole doesn't work here.

He would if I asked.

Don't you dare, Bridget.

What do you care?

Cole can't bring you into this.

Then what's your worry?

That Caleb would instead.

Caleb? Why would he care?

He would do anything you asked.

He's twenty-one, he's much too old for the circus.

It's not the circus that would keep his interest, bee.

Gross. I'm thirteen.

It's true, though.

That's creepy.

Bridget, don't kid yourself.

Can we talk about something else then?

Sure, what?

What costume I'm going to wear when I walk the high wire.

No. Because you're going to go home now.

I'm never going to marry you, you know that?

Oh, and why not?

You're not fun. There's no dreaming with you. Only logic. You're boring.

I could be worse.

How?

I could be impossible, like you.

Yeah well, at least I know that when I grow up I'm going to live an exciting life. What are you going to do?

I don't know yet, but I hope it doesn't involve scraping you off the floor of the big top.

But would you if it did?

Of course I would. I love you, Bridgie, and I'll take the bag of your blood and guts and hair home to your mother and tell her you were very brave.

Good. Because someone will have to.

Yeah, somehow I don't see Cole sticking around for that part.

What about Caleb?

He would probably engineer your death just for the publicity.

Go round.

your love is a symphony
all around me
running through me
your love is a melody
underneath me
running to me
your love is a song

the dawn is fire bright
against the city lights
the clouds are glowing now
the moon is blacking out

I've been keeping my mind wide open

I've had numerous requests for a picture of the gate and of the rosebush. Not sure if you're going to examine the photos for the spectre of the preacher man or if you simply want a better idea of exactly where we bought.

I may concede on the rosebush later this week but not the gate, for the gate is an incredibly distinctive piece of architecture visible from the road (the roses are not, mercifully) and if you think I'm going to turn this journal into a map of the stars, I will marinate gleefully in your disappointment for the remainder of this day.

This time, things will be different.

I don't know, actually. I still get huge gaping pangs of fear and moments of extreme loneliness and it's been a week in the house. I still have moments of wow-I-could-walk-right-into-this-train-and-poof but it's tempered by hope and quieted by surprise.

Maybe it's so astounding that we're not forced to live at such a visceral level against the elements. Maybe that is the secret. (Oh joy. I can't wait until we get the three months of straight black clouds and constant rain that people talk about.) I'm obviously a fair-weather nightmare, in spite of my attempts to always pin that label to Lochlan's flannel shirt.

It is pretty here, and yes, the mountains are beautiful.

I hope they never erupt.

I hope I never see a bear in my front yard either.

I'm almost done with the boxes, and I've even summoned the moving company back to pick up the four-foot-wide stack of empty, flattened ones, and I'm thrilled to bits at the fact that we're chipping away at this quite nicely and finding a little room for things after all. It's becoming our house. Lochlan has his space, Daniel and Schuyler have a whole floor to themselves and are obviously honeymooning since we haven't seen them much at all, and Ben and I have our own entire wing with windows and space fitting for the giant rockstar that he is. Space for guests as well. It's really nice. It's very new and modern and the culture shock of that alone keeps me in permanent wonder.

I hope that never gets old, that feeling right there.

And the children are thriving, a mere three days into their new school. And aside from the neverending stream of jokes about Stepford and Children of the Corn (because damn. The parts here that aren't rugged forsaken coastline are pure country) they have made dozens of new friends, Ruth is teaching her friends to draw and Henry is being taught soccer by his friends. The teachers hand out fresh fruit for rewards in class and they have movie days outside and gym outside and free time outside and they're both so pink and healthy looking I have added sunscreen to our morning routine. Appetites. Good sleeps. Infinite smiles.

They have a good long walk to get there and home and I refuse to let the boys ferry them back and forth. They have lunch at school. The school has spirit and active parents and a principal who does band-aid duty and a lot of Bridget-handholding already as we learned the ropes in a school with a budget that allows for wonderful things and fulfilled, well-rounded children.

That's why we're here, after all. It wasn't a fresh start just for me. It was a risky grab for a rusted brass ring, the only one I saw out of the corner of my eye and when I turned my head I lost sight of it. I jumped anyway and I felt myself falling and then suddenly I had it and I closed both tiny dirty fists around it and I'll never let go.

Ever.

To the sea.

When I first saw you
I was deep in clean blue water
The sun was shining
Calling me to come and see you
I touched your soft skin
And you jumped in
With your eyes closed
And a smile upon your face

No one told me Jack Johnson grew a beard. Maybe save for Switchfoot, I've spent a lot of time away from quiet music recently because I didn't deserve quiet music and instead I immersed myself in screaming anger and incessant power.

I have forgotten where I'm going with this. I'm distracted tonight. My hands hurt from the dish soap. It's so harsh and I still found myself hurriedly scrubbing the few things that don't fit in the time machine, the rush to return to the comfort of the living room causing me to forget to put on gloves. Then suddenly it's eight and there are lunches to make and showers to supervise and dogs to walk and the evening disappears in a flurry of sundaes promised but never fetched and now the thought is in my head of a peanut-sprinkled hot fudge vanilla ice cream bowl and I can't remove it so instead I spent a few minutes on the top floor, all to myself, admiring the wall to wall white carpets and the walk-in closets because I'm used to hardwood, no storage, if you please and so I hung my new dresses with room to spare and then I came out and turned off the light and closed the door.

The closet has a window, you know, that's how big it is.

Oh and the anger is in my head. Unquiet as always. Quiet on the outside, mayhem on the in.

Do I deserve some quiet or should I go force more angry music into my head? Is it time to enjoy things or am I too busy holding on to fear and remembering to be grateful so that I don't become complacent. I never want to appear to take anything for granted ever, to the point that I would hang a sign around my neck just in case there was even an inkling that someone might think otherwise.

When I let my guard down, things go wrong and I'll be strung up high until the moment comes when everything goes black in a single blink without enough time to feel regret.

Trust me, I've proven it over and over. I won't tempt fate ever again. I love Ben and he's here and we're together and I'm not going to risk his love on trying to fulfill your ridiculous perception of what optimism means so just, please, let it go. I know life. I've lived life. While you were in your bubble, mine had already smashed upon the rocks and I've been loose for years, wandering alone. Sometimes alone. Sometimes now I have company in my alone and that's him.

When I saw Ben this afternoon I noticed the lurch is still there. The one where my heart snaps gently against my ribcage from the inside and almost knocks me over. Plaid. Flannel. Beard. Smile. Love. All the wonderful things I missed all day and then I am rewarded with my kiss for being good and still being present and productive and then we come home and family time settles in and there's a new routine forming. We lost the bath one, we lost some of the late night talks because we've shifted so that we're up with the sun and asleep with the sun which is healthier anyway. Routines will be molded and fine-tuned as we go.

Maybe some quiet music in my head to sleep by. I will do my best.

Gothic rose windows.

That's what they fight most over now, the fact that my happy place or the place that I go to when I need emergency mental escape is not merely the pantry but instead it's a memory that I keep that they were never present for. That's the argument now. And none of this is to be confused with the concrete room underground where I keep my ghosts in captivity. That's the very sad place. Are we straight now? Good.

Also never mind the wine. Things happen. I took the numb because the angry, bitter and terrified is exhausting. You would do the same. I had Ben's blessing to have a drink and then three, four and five more because terrified Bridget is just completely unreasonable and numb Bridget is just unsteady and pretty damned quiet. She wants whispered reassurance and a chest on which to rest her head. No more than that is ever required from Miss Numb. The only fallout is it could be days before I regain my full expanded vocabulary and my mental reflexes. It will also be days before I permit myself to do it again, lest anyone assume I am headed down Ben's road to find him and maybe pull him off the wagon or something.

The happy place is Jacob's beach house.

Maybe you knew that or remembered it from early posts. Maybe I just haven't talked about it for a while. It was a place I would go when I wanted to catch a break, unwind, or just hang out with Jake. I never seemed out of place there, there was always a spot in the driveway for my car, something good to eat or Jacob would be just magically preparing to cook as I arrived, there was always a quiet airy chair in front of the big windows that overlooked the Atlantic and wine in the fridge so I could be micro-numb, or marginally numb or whatever Jacob would permit without saying a damned thing. I never seemed to interrupt him when I would show up at all hours of the day or night. Weekdays, weekends, holidays and even twice in a day sometimes, he was always glad to see me and would drop everything to spend time talking with me or not talking and just being with me.

I would drive up, and grab my bag out of the passenger seat and run up the stairs and across the porch and the door would be open but I would knock as I came in and he would put down whatever he was doing and come and greet me, always in his casual uniform of a pale blue dress shirt, frayed slim jeans, bare feet and his University ring. I would get a hug (since it's sort of a mandatory Bridget-greeting and has been for my friends for thirty years at least because emotionally I am still eight years old, sometimes seventeen if it's a very good day.) He would check me over without acknowledging that he was doing so and then we would pour wine and talk. Sometimes he would fire up some water for pasta and I would make a salad for two, sometimes we'd just take the wine and sit in front of the window and pick each other's brains.

We only walked the beach when the wind was very low because if it was up I couldn't hear him well enough and he didn't find that fair to me.

Sometimes if I didn't feel like talking I would go for a swim, and he would meet me at the door with a towel afterward and then I would borrow one of his shirts and hang out in a wet bikini for the remainder of the day in his living room which wasn't a living room at all but a white painted floor, white beadboard walls, and two chairs. Nothing else. One chair rocked, one did not.

Jacob always blushed when he would hand me the towel and sometimes he would ask if I was cold, but then he would frown because he was afraid I might check myself and agree and cover myself up and I know he wanted to see me. I know he wanted to touch me but we hardly ever touched save for the welcoming hugs. I always felt that if I touched him I would snap, crackle and explode somehow and it might be painful and he might vanish.

Mostly though I talked and he listened and sometimes when I wouldn't talk he would tell me stories from his travels and they were always somehow appropriate for what ever was going on at the moment. I could take something away from the conversation or find another angle from which to view a situation. He was good at listening and counseling too and he still shows up when I need him. He is the happy place, and finally I've managed to get him back into the sunlight so that the reflection on his beautiful hair blinds even those who can't see him and I've bought a place that's not all that different from the place he used to have except that instead of a lawn made of sand I have actual grass and a medieval wooden gate and a rosebush that's losing petals in the most glorious way, into the wind, coated with salt and sun. I'm so happy he's here now and I don't have to run down the concrete tunnels anymore. Those weren't Jake. The room wasn't Jake, it was cold and frightening and there was hardly any sun save for what Jacob could make in wishes.

Cole is still there, as far as I know. Almost went to see him last night. Glad I didn't or I never would have known that Jake was waiting for me by the gate.