I ran. Fast. I'm quick for such a little thing.
Lightning flash and she's gone. Out of your sight. It brings up the familiar bile, rising in your throat but you choke it down and take off after her, screaming her name.
He caught up with me halfway across the field and threw his arms out around me and we went down, crashing to the grass, his head smashing into mine and suddenly it was night and the whole meadow was stars and fireflies and then it was day again and I'm sitting up but he won't let go. I start to twist away and he squeezes me. Squeals escape and it hurts and I kick him repeatedly and in a blink I am pinned to the ground, the morning dew soaking into my dress and my hair and I spit curses at him and snarl.
He laughs.
Calm the fuck down, Bridget.
I manage to turn my entire body over but my arms are still facing him. Oh the pain. He turns it up another notch.
Jake! Let go!
Are you going to stop fighting?
No.
He rolls his eyes and puts his head down against my shoulder. Our breaths are hitching, caught. I'm crying and he doesn't care. I keep fighting but he's like stone and after a minute I just give up. I can't get away from him. He won't let me.
My breathing slows. My chest stops thumping like a jackhammer. I'm quiet. He turns me back over but I just stare at the sky, watching the clouds move quickly. My green eyes mix with the reflections and turn gold. Precious resources, the sense I will need most when I can't hear anything anymore.
What will they do, piglet?
Lock me in the library.
Sounds familiar. You pick the locks yet?
Yes. And I think they take their cues from you.
Why would they do that? I'm dead.
No, you're not.
Maybe it's time to let go.
You say that like it's my choice to make.
I shove hard and he backs off. And with that I am up and running again, across the wide open field toward the cliffs, toward the water. Maybe the roar will block out Jacob's bad ideas. That's why I put him down there. So that I couldn't hear him when he tells me what to do. Everyone does enough of that, I don't want to hear it from him too. I don't want to hear them screaming my name. Not anymore. I only listen to Bridget anyway. She knows exactly what she's doing.
Okay, so not exactly. Thankfully if I stand right at the edge, when it's very very windy I can't even hear the voices in my own head.
I'll be spending a lot of time out there. I have an endless supply of bobby pins with which to pick the simple locks on the doors they secure in front of me and I've already figured out how to disable the stupid alarm. I'm not afraid that I am giving away all my secrets by talking about that here, this is as fruitless as their efforts to break the silence, and as useless as my efforts at change.
Tuesday, 22 June 2010
Monday, 21 June 2010
Folding blind.
So nice to see your face againI think it surprised me so badly that the roses bloomed a second time that I figured other miracles were likely and I took off toward the cliffs.
Tell me how long has it been
Since you've been here
(since you've been here)
You look so different than before
But still the person I adore
Frozen with fear
I'm out of love but I'll take it from the past
I'll let out words cause I'm sure It'll never last
And I've been saving
These last words for one last miracle
But now I'm not sure
I can't save you if
You don't let me
You just get me like I never
Been gotten before
Maybe it's the bitter wind
A chill from the Pacific rim
That brought you this way
(that brought you my way)
Do not make me think of him
The way he touch your fragile skin
That hunts me everyday
I'm out of love but I can't forget the past
I'm out of words but I'm sure it'll never last
And I've been saving
These last words for one last miracle
But now I'm not sure
I can't save you if
You don't let me
You just get me like I never
Been gotten before
After all, the only one home watching me was Daniel, and he had been asleep for hours. I ran out of things to do and so I went down to the garden to pull some weeds and on the other side of the fence...all these new roses! Then as I looked more closely I could see the entire wall of bushes was full of new blooms.
Dark ones this time, but maybe I'll be gifted with another single baby-pink flower.
It must have been wonderful to wake up to the perimeter alarm blaring all through the house. Did I tell you they set one up? Yes, precisely for today or whatever day it would be that I would scramble down the path and stop just short of throwing myself into the sea but I sat down this time and hooked my hands over the edge against the wet stone outcropping that may or may not support all of my hundred and four pounds.
I looked down and to my delight, far below, affixed to the rocks just under the surface I could see them, in between breaking waves. My ghosts looking up at me. Jacob, most likely furious that I would put him somewhere so dumb and Cole probably trying to mentally connect with me to convince me to jump and spread the pain around just a little more, like a bad rash. He would do that.
That was as much of a thought as I could get out before I was grabbed from behind and lifted away from the edge, briefly, delightfully flying out over it, feet swinging in thin air, Daniel's arms locked around me because the one thing he never wants to be responsible for in his whole life will be sleeping while I die.
They've all come home now and have been yelling at me off and on now for over an hour and I'm getting tired. I want to change my clothes and put on something warm and dry. I want to swim out to the rocks and see the boys but I'm such a poor swimmer and PJ was right, this was the worst idea ever and I'm stuck wanting to get to them to the point where I don't think about much else other than the fact that suddenly, just now, I realized that everyone dies before forty and I'm going to be forty on my next birthday which means I'm already older and Jacob is frozen in time at thirty-six but he's supposed to be older than me and smarter than I am and why the hell has he done this and left me here? Why can't he be the one who has a little too much to drink and laugh and sing me a song?
Why is Ben in this place in my heart because I swore never ever and how the hell did I allow Caleb such prolific access into all of our lives in some sort of knee-jerk fashion to undo the years of restraining orders and forbidden contact that left him hating me and torturing me every chance he got and now we've reached some sort of wonderful, actual relationship, which everyone hates but I'm still testing the waters to see if they are warm enough and I'll make up what's left of my own mind, thank you.
No one loves me enough to stay.
They won't listen anyway. Just like they didn't when I pointed out I wasn't going to jump off the cliff and I was with Jake and he wouldn't have let me jump off the cliff anyway because he wouldn't want my light to go out. He always said Don't let your light go out, princess. Don't let the demons win. Don't let your head overtake your plans, pigalet.
I don't have any plans save for wanting to sit there in the rain, surrounded by roses with my Jacob and just listen to him tell me things because I'm happy he came but they wouldn't let me. They never let me do what I want to do. They never listen.
Sunday, 20 June 2010
Portrait (She knew).
You know it's going to be a good day when Caleb walks into the room and instantly remarks on the lack of baubles on his favorite pastime.
Who are you, Howard Hughes?
He just winked and squared himself with his invisible courage for today. It's Father's Day, an awkward, difficult day for us where the boys jockey for position and are equally touched and left ruined by the gestures of the children to honor an entire room full of real and surrogate fathers, each one bringing something incredibly specific and necessary to their lives. Collectively the boys represent separate and equal parts of love and care to the children, and the children themselves have never failed to acknowledge that to the men who love them so much. They are like me in that regard. Instant forgiveness, instant affection.
However.
There are certain levels of affection and attention that the kids bestow on the boys. They have their own hierarchy, and they have their own preferences. PJ, Daniel and Benjamin are instant comfort, always available, patient to a fault, permissive and loving. Lochlan is their ready-steady rock. As long as he is around all is right with the world. He looks out for them in a strange, appreciative way. They understand his logic comes from a slightly different place. Caleb is Daddy Warbucks. As long as they behave properly and display their fine manners and intelligence they have learned they can have the moon from him. They also know that he is quick to anger and unforgiving. Like Cole. They do not ask for things, but they are drawn to that the same way I am.
Maybe because it's as close as we can get. Maybe it's because it's an authority that brings a small measure of comfort in the familiarity. It's what they know when everything isn't water fights and movies and stargazing and making ice cream. They know fathers are not fairy tales that are only fun. They know fathers will enforce the rules and be the final judge and jury. They know fathers will set limits and work to raise them up properly as well as happily.
Caleb arrived this morning, dashing and unhurried in his little silver sportscar and a crisp pair of jeans with a button-down dress shirt, looking like a forties movie star, acting like he had everything in the world, when in fact the only thing he has is now tied up in knots, tangled in the welfare of his brother's widow and her knights, because he decided to take a risk and place it all on black, betting everything he had on the only thing he believes in.
Me.
Baudelaire would call him out for this one.
I broke his brother's heart so badly he died and for that I was given everything, including the gift I could not return, the confirmation that Satan owns my youngest child. I was forced to replace my memories of Cole with Caleb's face. And I have. I've been good. I have listened, like a child, as the rules were spoken to me slowly and repeated until there was no ambiguity left. I am now the most vulnerable, requiring the most direction, supervision and care. The children grow and mature and Bridget never changes.
It isn't a turret that the knights guard anymore, it's the nursery and so the jostling for position remains. The need for approval rusts into the metal on their armor and coats their shields in desperation.
An equal fool, I extended the lunch invitation because I always choked back this overwhelming, oxygen-sucking need to please Cole so that he wouldn't become angry. And then like a princess, I cast my coldest look around the room, reproach on ice, a challenge to question my final rule on behalf of my children. He stays. No fists.
Lady of the flies, the immature leader who fuels her needs with her wants and couldn't raise a glass half the time, let alone these two beautiful creatures born of rage and fear and then molded into something wonderful. That is thanks to the boys.
And that's just a sliver of today. A small taste, a single drop of the blood I spill to quench his thirst for more of me because I don't know what to do with these feelings and so I pretend. I pretend I'm alright and the kids are alright and everyone gets along and we give cards and drawings and I pretend, like everybody else, not to see how he stares at me across the table as he exclaims over the menu the children chose for lunch, so at ease with them with so much tension beneath the surface it hums a steady drone in my head, between my ears that I'm forced to excuse myself and leave the room, fearing my brain might start to leak out from my ears and my heart might follow that lead. I'll pay for this later. Ben will look for my hierarchy. Everything costs me something and I am emotionally unemployed.
It hurts. I don't know why. Some days are hard. The kids are doing a fine job though. They always do when they have everyone's attention. Just like their mother. And they know that in a short while he will drive away from the house in his silver sports car and we can go back to breathing full breaths and not watching what we say around him, just in case it is the wrong thing.
On the way out he cups my face and smiles ruefully, reading my unfocused eyes.
Considering Baudelaire?
Yes.
'I can barely conceive of a type of beauty in which there is no melancholy. '
'I have cultivated my hysteria with pleasure and terror.'
Very good one, Bridget. See you on Tuesday for a drive and some lunch?
No, I have nothing to wear.
Perfect. Just wear the bracelet I gave you. That's all you need.
I frowned as he kissed my cheek and walked out the door. I threw that bracelet into the ocean the day he gave it to me. And I hate the fact that he is Henry's father. I pay the price for their hierarchy. I pay dearly. As I look around the room and feel the eyes on me, I see that we all do.
It makes me sad.
Who are you, Howard Hughes?
He just winked and squared himself with his invisible courage for today. It's Father's Day, an awkward, difficult day for us where the boys jockey for position and are equally touched and left ruined by the gestures of the children to honor an entire room full of real and surrogate fathers, each one bringing something incredibly specific and necessary to their lives. Collectively the boys represent separate and equal parts of love and care to the children, and the children themselves have never failed to acknowledge that to the men who love them so much. They are like me in that regard. Instant forgiveness, instant affection.
However.
There are certain levels of affection and attention that the kids bestow on the boys. They have their own hierarchy, and they have their own preferences. PJ, Daniel and Benjamin are instant comfort, always available, patient to a fault, permissive and loving. Lochlan is their ready-steady rock. As long as he is around all is right with the world. He looks out for them in a strange, appreciative way. They understand his logic comes from a slightly different place. Caleb is Daddy Warbucks. As long as they behave properly and display their fine manners and intelligence they have learned they can have the moon from him. They also know that he is quick to anger and unforgiving. Like Cole. They do not ask for things, but they are drawn to that the same way I am.
Maybe because it's as close as we can get. Maybe it's because it's an authority that brings a small measure of comfort in the familiarity. It's what they know when everything isn't water fights and movies and stargazing and making ice cream. They know fathers are not fairy tales that are only fun. They know fathers will enforce the rules and be the final judge and jury. They know fathers will set limits and work to raise them up properly as well as happily.
Caleb arrived this morning, dashing and unhurried in his little silver sportscar and a crisp pair of jeans with a button-down dress shirt, looking like a forties movie star, acting like he had everything in the world, when in fact the only thing he has is now tied up in knots, tangled in the welfare of his brother's widow and her knights, because he decided to take a risk and place it all on black, betting everything he had on the only thing he believes in.
Me.
Baudelaire would call him out for this one.
Even in the centuries which appear to us to be the most monstrous and foolish, the immortal appetite for beauty has always found satisfaction.I am supposed to be making an effort to ensure that he is properly recognized as the living blood of my children, but all I can do is stand in the shadow by the window and watch with morbid curiosity to see how they react to him. A relief follows, and it's as if Cole had never left them, they simply replaced their memories with that of the uncle who managed to miss the first six years of their lives mostly and now suddenly we can't seem to take a deep breath without him making a note of it and rotating the world accordingly in case we miss something.
I broke his brother's heart so badly he died and for that I was given everything, including the gift I could not return, the confirmation that Satan owns my youngest child. I was forced to replace my memories of Cole with Caleb's face. And I have. I've been good. I have listened, like a child, as the rules were spoken to me slowly and repeated until there was no ambiguity left. I am now the most vulnerable, requiring the most direction, supervision and care. The children grow and mature and Bridget never changes.
It isn't a turret that the knights guard anymore, it's the nursery and so the jostling for position remains. The need for approval rusts into the metal on their armor and coats their shields in desperation.
An equal fool, I extended the lunch invitation because I always choked back this overwhelming, oxygen-sucking need to please Cole so that he wouldn't become angry. And then like a princess, I cast my coldest look around the room, reproach on ice, a challenge to question my final rule on behalf of my children. He stays. No fists.
Lady of the flies, the immature leader who fuels her needs with her wants and couldn't raise a glass half the time, let alone these two beautiful creatures born of rage and fear and then molded into something wonderful. That is thanks to the boys.
And that's just a sliver of today. A small taste, a single drop of the blood I spill to quench his thirst for more of me because I don't know what to do with these feelings and so I pretend. I pretend I'm alright and the kids are alright and everyone gets along and we give cards and drawings and I pretend, like everybody else, not to see how he stares at me across the table as he exclaims over the menu the children chose for lunch, so at ease with them with so much tension beneath the surface it hums a steady drone in my head, between my ears that I'm forced to excuse myself and leave the room, fearing my brain might start to leak out from my ears and my heart might follow that lead. I'll pay for this later. Ben will look for my hierarchy. Everything costs me something and I am emotionally unemployed.
It hurts. I don't know why. Some days are hard. The kids are doing a fine job though. They always do when they have everyone's attention. Just like their mother. And they know that in a short while he will drive away from the house in his silver sports car and we can go back to breathing full breaths and not watching what we say around him, just in case it is the wrong thing.
On the way out he cups my face and smiles ruefully, reading my unfocused eyes.
Considering Baudelaire?
Yes.
'I can barely conceive of a type of beauty in which there is no melancholy. '
'I have cultivated my hysteria with pleasure and terror.'
Very good one, Bridget. See you on Tuesday for a drive and some lunch?
No, I have nothing to wear.
Perfect. Just wear the bracelet I gave you. That's all you need.
I frowned as he kissed my cheek and walked out the door. I threw that bracelet into the ocean the day he gave it to me. And I hate the fact that he is Henry's father. I pay the price for their hierarchy. I pay dearly. As I look around the room and feel the eyes on me, I see that we all do.
It makes me sad.
Saturday, 19 June 2010
I'm fixing a hole where the rain gets in
And stops my mind from wandering
Where it will go
I'm filling the cracks that ran through the door
And kept my mind from wandering
Where it will go
And it really doesn't matter if I'm wrong
I'm right
Where I belong I'm right
Where I belong.
See the people standing there who disagree and never win
And wonder why they don't get in my door.
I'm painting the room in a colorful way
And when my mind is wandering
There I will go.
And it really doesn't matter if
I'm wrong I'm right
Where I belong I'm right
Where I belong.
Silly people run around they worry me
And never ask me why they don't get past my door.
I'm taking the time for a number of things
That weren't important yesterday
And I still go.
A new lip gloss collection for Ben to plunder.
I never did make it to very late last night. I believe I crashed about five minutes after I posted and was asleep in five seconds, another headache threatening to undermine the night. Another inability to sleep for any length of time save for a few precious hours in Ben's arms.
Today was a fast day that became slow. The kids and I looked after house things and gardening this morning, then made some lunch and declared it to be kid-time. We went to a new coffee shop and treated overselves to chocolate biscotti (the kids) and iced coffee (Bridget) and then went back and loaded up on popsicles to go. When we arrived back home, Ruth gave me a makeover. I'm still sporting the white lipstick, green and blue eyeshadow, copious cheek glitter and headband she chose for me, plus the tiny fabric butterflies she clipped all through my hair.
After my big makeover, we went back outside and drew hearts and flowers and music notes all over the front walkway with Henry who freaked if we walked on any of the lines and then he decided it was too hot to be outside anymore and Ruth took her drawings to the shade of the veranda, and I still have an inch of my coffee left and my brain is finally at cruising altitude for the day. I haven't heard from Ben for over an hour so I'm hoping against hope that that means he's on the way home and we might be able to have a dinner that starts before eight at night or more than ten minutes to talk about the day.
I hope Ben is on the way. He really needs to see this eyeshadow. And the butterflies. I have a feeling I'll be picking them out of my hair for the rest of the summer. And twenty bucks says he'll happily be Ruth's next customer. He looks awfully cute with butterflies too.
Today was a fast day that became slow. The kids and I looked after house things and gardening this morning, then made some lunch and declared it to be kid-time. We went to a new coffee shop and treated overselves to chocolate biscotti (the kids) and iced coffee (Bridget) and then went back and loaded up on popsicles to go. When we arrived back home, Ruth gave me a makeover. I'm still sporting the white lipstick, green and blue eyeshadow, copious cheek glitter and headband she chose for me, plus the tiny fabric butterflies she clipped all through my hair.
After my big makeover, we went back outside and drew hearts and flowers and music notes all over the front walkway with Henry who freaked if we walked on any of the lines and then he decided it was too hot to be outside anymore and Ruth took her drawings to the shade of the veranda, and I still have an inch of my coffee left and my brain is finally at cruising altitude for the day. I haven't heard from Ben for over an hour so I'm hoping against hope that that means he's on the way home and we might be able to have a dinner that starts before eight at night or more than ten minutes to talk about the day.
I hope Ben is on the way. He really needs to see this eyeshadow. And the butterflies. I have a feeling I'll be picking them out of my hair for the rest of the summer. And twenty bucks says he'll happily be Ruth's next customer. He looks awfully cute with butterflies too.
Friday, 18 June 2010
Day Tripper (and God bless Peter).
Please excuse the mess. Just pointing out I'm not touching the absinthe. No way in hell, no. Also, someone managed to dig out all the mashups (covers? homages?) of the Beatles, Cheap Trick and Type-O Neg.
It's going to be a long, loud and awesome night.
It's going to be a long, loud and awesome night.
Man in a box.
Won't you come and save me.I wish tonight for a white linen-covered table overlooking the water, a damned good bottle of wine and even better coffee, and a meal of pasta with greens and exotic cheese, and a basket of very freshly baked bread. I'll let the server place the napkin on my lap for me and I'll sit and contemplate the waves and the breeze while I savor every delicious bite. Then a long walk to look at boats and then I'd like to watch a movie that makes me laugh and be glad I saw it.
Reality (which I have come to resent) dictates that instead I'll cook a quick dinner for the children and then a second dinner for Benjamin when he comes home and then in the blink of an eye we'll eat and go to bed and be asleep before the sun goes down.
I. hate. this. schedule. It's been three days (a lie. It's been six months.).
Hate is too mild of a word but I know. I understand the point of the work and the way it flows and I am so incredibly grateful that he is appreciated, in demand and still loves it but after the way this year started I just have this overwhelming urge to grab him by the front of his shirt and push, pull and stuff him into a box and wrap the box in chains and padlock it shut and maybe learn a little bit of welding too, and then I would hold it carefully behind my back in both hands and shake my head innocently, ignorantly while people walked all around me wondering where he could be.
Yes, that's what I would like to do.
And in a perfect world, I would.
Thankfully nothing is perfect. Ben wouldn't like it. He needs to be tinkering if he is awake, there is simply no other way. He likes to be busy, he likes to just put his head down and ride out the difficult parts and he likes to focus on the present.
He likes burgers and fries and napkins with well-known brands printed on them. Quick and easy. He doesn't drink wine. He doesn't know what the hell to do with the side of me that hates reality except to say that it doesn't matter if I don't like it, I'm stuck with it.
Begrudged acceptance isn't quite what I had in mind this evening. The move is finished, we're just about through the last of the paperwork concerning address changes and becoming full-fledged west-coasters, we have new furniture and everything is put away and hung up and cleaned six times over and I have sought out every last amenity we need, where the best place is to buy guitar strings and lactose-free milk and good bread and the skincare I like to use. I have found neat places to take the children and we've explored the woods and the creeks and the rivers and the pacific and the road and the parks.
What I need, badly, is a vacation.
But I don't want to see my suitcase ever again and I'm still weirdly thrilled that I can leave my hairbrush, my perfume, seventeen lip glosses and my jar of cocoa butter just sitting out all over the place across the giant counter in the bathroom and all of it is still there next time I walk into the bathroom. I still haven't decided if I want the window in the walk-in closet to have the blinds open or closed. Am I going to flip the light on and walk in naked and someone outside might see? And really, who is going to be right outside my window at that hour? (Shhh, we know that answer haha).
So I need a home-cation or a stay-cation or whatever the hell it's called when you just take time off and have fun instead of just working your way through list after list and hoping to nurture and fulfill everyone while scrubbing toilets, shopping and cooking and maybe spending three minutes a day writing a journal entry or downloading a new theme for the ever humming BlackBerry.
I need a fucking white-linen table and a good dinner. Really that's it. Not the moon tonight, not a flight overseas or thousands of dollars worth of luxuries, just some pasta and wine.
And Ben in my hands, chained inside a box. Just so I could enjoy him for once instead of continuing to say goodbye all the time.
Thursday, 17 June 2010
Small world.
The rain has closed off the world to me today. I haven't seen the water or the mountains yet. It sort of feels as if this is an island and I am alone forever and no one will ever know who I am. The fog brought with it a steady downpour and fresh air that I have opened every window wide to collect inside and get rid of the stale overnight warmth.
I have rainboots now. They are black (of course) with pastel polkadots and they look cute with my long black coat and my Edward Gorey umbrella, or so I call it. It's very tall with a spiral handle and it opens in a bell-shape with a little lace fringe and it looks as if it belongs to one of Gorey's Tinies.
Oh, wait. It does.
I have rainboots now. They are black (of course) with pastel polkadots and they look cute with my long black coat and my Edward Gorey umbrella, or so I call it. It's very tall with a spiral handle and it opens in a bell-shape with a little lace fringe and it looks as if it belongs to one of Gorey's Tinies.
Oh, wait. It does.
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