You're not seriously going to call me New-Jake, are you?
Yes.
From the big door-table in the kitchen, I can hear Ben's laughter. Or rather, Ben's attempt not to laugh out loud at the obvious awkwardness of the question.
You know other Bens, what do you call them?
Not-my-Ben.
Really.
Yes.
That's fascinating, but I don't want to be New-Jake, I'm forty years old. It feels a little like the first day of school and I've been singled out.
Try and be flattered. It's a very special name.
Aren't they all?
Nope.
I see. Well, maybe in time it will stop and you'll just call me Jake.
(THUD)
Or Jacob, if that's easier for you.
(THUD) (THUD) (Right now, please shut the fuck up.)
What should I call you?
What do you mean, Jake?
Everyone calls you princess. I don't think we're ready for nicknames.
Oh, I don't mind, it's a thing, besides, I think we're ready for nicknames.
Why is that?
I just called you Jake.
I didn't even realize.
Me neither.
That's good then, right?
Yes, it's good...Jake. (trying it on now.) (THUD)
Cool....uh...princess. (he smiles.)
Ben finally rescued us, and clapped a hand on Jake's shoulder.
No worries, Jake, soon you'll understand perfectly why she has the nickname.
Why is that, Benjamin? Do tell. (I flicked soap at him from where I was washing pots.)
You're very high maintenance, Bridge.
Fuck you, rock boy.
And a filthy mouth to boot.
You haven't seen anything yet.
Ooo, I'm scared.
Good. I like fear.
I heard that about you.
What else did you hear?
That you like the bad boys. (He grins and THUD becomes mush.)
Damn, my secret is out.
You're a billboard, princess.
Hey, Bridge!
Yes, PJ? (the volume level in the kitchen only needs a calliope now to complete the cacophony.)
I'm bad. I mean, I can be bad. I was bad once. I...uh...
Be quiet, PJ.
Yes, Ben.
It's nice to have some laughs. We need to laugh more, don't we? Yes, I think so too.
Wednesday, 14 July 2010
The project boy.
I'm severing the heart then I'm leaving your corpse behindI'm walking on the beach this morning with New-Jake, who told me I should call him Jacob and maybe that would help, and since he didn't know any better I nodded like a child and promptly changed my mind.
Not dead but soon to be, though.
I won't be the one who killed you
I'll just leave that up to you
In my head he is New-Jake and I resented the hell out of every inch of him and I couldn't understand why. I resented the half-wave, half-straight hair on his head, the pale caramel that fades into dark golden blonde. I resented his eyes, green like mine. Endless, like Jacob's. I resented the way he'd quietly consider your response before he makes his own.
I had a whole list. I could have gone on for days. The way he holds his phone. The posture. All of it. Don't walk into my life and force me to hear your name over and over again. Don't be a Jake who hates shoes. Don't be a Jake who asks hard questions, the kind I'm still turning over at four in the morning as I stare at the ceiling. Don't be here, okay? Just go away, New-Jake. I don't think I'm going to adapt. I guess now I die.
That's what my Jake always said. Adapt or die, princess. As if it wasn't a choice and I had to actually adapt or something.
Oh, right. I do.
Ben and New-Jake get along like brothers. Keith and Lochlan get along like brothers. Sam still introduces ideas or cautions me to stay on the road and not go off picking flowers up a hill because then I get lost and mixed up and turned around and then we're all late and then Sam retreats back to the background. I haven't heard much from Stephan, I think he'll be continuing on in another week, maybe stopping in different sorts of places to see where he fits. One of the joys of having the boys in my life is that they all know so many people and through them I have met some amazing souls. Stephen is one but he just doesn't belong here. And for the summer I'm happy to host Keith and Jake because they seem to.
Time will tell. If I miss them when they go, then I'll have my answer.
Besides, usually when someone seems to fit it means someone else is leaving and I just don't know yet. More often than not it's Ben or Lochlan so I don't want to know yet.
I won't replace people, if that's what they are doing. If that's what you are thinking. Not fair.
New-Jake insists that he was aware that Sam had a friend he held an incredible loyalty to, and was moving for, but he said he didn't really understand how one person could have that sort of influence until he met me. He said the image of me standing with my back to the house, blonde hair and black ribbons flying out behind me in the wind at the edge of the sea will forever be burned into his mind.
(Oh no, please. Don't be a poet.)
And then he stops and says he didn't mean to objectify me. Which I don't understand at all actually. People are objects, aren't they? They are safe havens and life rafts, sure things and contraband. They are emotional grenades and food for thought and sights for sore eyes. Are those not things?
I wonder what I am, aside from striking image, which I think is what he was going for before he went for something else.
New-Jake changes the subject, I'm thinking to take the weird feelings away and instead his history explodes in the sand at my feet and then the tide comes in and washes it away and for some reason I know he is home. Here, with me. A fresh start. A better life for someone else who has felt things people shouldn't have to feel. He is worthy. It's as if word has finally reached the cosmos, Bridget's magnet is emotional in nature. Overwhelmed? Find her and everything will be better or at least you will have Schadenfreude you can swallow with milk. I wonder if I should have invitations engraved? I wonder how this happens?
I'm going to take today to finish thinking about things he said. I'm going to take today to reflect on the amazingly fun visit I just had with my folks, for the first time feeling like a true equal rather than an honorary one, and I'm going to finish up my chores, because it's almost lunch time and I've already dawdled enough today. I need a little extra time to cook, I only have two hands. Thank heavens they seem to be able to hold a lot.
Monday, 12 July 2010
Full. Not full. Fall.
This mourning is cold. Windy. The air feels so heavy, the rain must be close. I untangle my arms and my hair from Ben's uneasy sleep and slip away, crossing silently to the door on the other side of the room. I dress in the dark, fastening buttons by memory. Fourteen. Then eight. Then two. I slip into my boots and cross the room once again. I am followed this time by a little white friend who is happy to be the focus of my time for the next little while and thrilled that the heat wave is finished.
He recognizes me in black. As do they all. It's a customary sight, a cold kind of comfort to see sometimes. A warmth that you wouldn't expect from Miss Spindley-Bones with the soft scowl. I am elated to see familiar weather in a place that still reeks of mystery and newness. I reach back for my hooded sweater. Pale blue elicits a further frown but I wear it anyway since everything goes with black, except for pale orange. Never wear that, for some reason it's awful. Now we are warm and we take off at a clickety-clip down the concrete.
We pause mid-step, in the air, to listen to the windchimes. Oh! So beautiful!
My stomach is empty and I still am waking up with headaches from Friday night's excitement. I need toast and aspirin and coffee too and maybe a little more sleep would be nice. My guests have two more days to spend with us but it won't be at the break-neck pace we set over the weekend as we tried to impart such magnificent beauty on such a brief period. The effect is delightful, I believe we were successful.
Now we are at the top of a hill and I have let off the gas to coast, considering the brakes but only for a moment, there is lots of room at the bottom and we will slow so gradually. I am working hard to keep the transitions smooth and painless, though I like the pain so very much indeed.
What's amazing to me right now is when I am hungry you can hear it and even feel it and when the boys are hungry you can see it in their eyes.
Patience, please. Patience.
He recognizes me in black. As do they all. It's a customary sight, a cold kind of comfort to see sometimes. A warmth that you wouldn't expect from Miss Spindley-Bones with the soft scowl. I am elated to see familiar weather in a place that still reeks of mystery and newness. I reach back for my hooded sweater. Pale blue elicits a further frown but I wear it anyway since everything goes with black, except for pale orange. Never wear that, for some reason it's awful. Now we are warm and we take off at a clickety-clip down the concrete.
We pause mid-step, in the air, to listen to the windchimes. Oh! So beautiful!
My stomach is empty and I still am waking up with headaches from Friday night's excitement. I need toast and aspirin and coffee too and maybe a little more sleep would be nice. My guests have two more days to spend with us but it won't be at the break-neck pace we set over the weekend as we tried to impart such magnificent beauty on such a brief period. The effect is delightful, I believe we were successful.
Now we are at the top of a hill and I have let off the gas to coast, considering the brakes but only for a moment, there is lots of room at the bottom and we will slow so gradually. I am working hard to keep the transitions smooth and painless, though I like the pain so very much indeed.
What's amazing to me right now is when I am hungry you can hear it and even feel it and when the boys are hungry you can see it in their eyes.
Patience, please. Patience.
Saturday, 10 July 2010
Otherwise I can't go on.
Well, now.
I finally got to see Tool!
Toooooool.
Remember, this is my bucket list. I won't be able to hear forever.
It was the perfect show. Tickets were cheap, the parking was easy, the crowd and venue were super-sketch and we didn't have to sit through an unknown opener because of the line-ups just to get in (which! I don't advocate. I've fallen in love with all kinds of opening acts, please support them, they work so hard.) We walked in, got comfortable and the lights went out and they came on. Perfect timing.
I hoped for Sober. I hoped so hard but it didn't happen. I heard Forty-six and 2 live, Jake. I closed my eyes and felt the music. I had the biggest contact high of my life. Dear God, the drugs at that show. These kids are all about endurance and I was fucking toast halfway in. So high. Looked at Twitter this morning and laughed. Going to burn the shoes I wore last night. Might burn the skirt as well and definitely the shirt. I might even cut my hair, that's how incredibly filthy we were by the time it was done, soaked to the bone with sweat, bathed in smoke and happy we finally snagged a show by a band we have listened to forever, it seems.
Am I getting too old for this? (Yes, Bridget, you are but it probably won't stop you.)
I hope not. The sound last night was perfect. Perfect. I could manage all of it and missed nothing.
Next up. Deftones. Mastodon. Alice.
Squee!
I finally got to see Tool!
Toooooool.
Remember, this is my bucket list. I won't be able to hear forever.
It was the perfect show. Tickets were cheap, the parking was easy, the crowd and venue were super-sketch and we didn't have to sit through an unknown opener because of the line-ups just to get in (which! I don't advocate. I've fallen in love with all kinds of opening acts, please support them, they work so hard.) We walked in, got comfortable and the lights went out and they came on. Perfect timing.
I hoped for Sober. I hoped so hard but it didn't happen. I heard Forty-six and 2 live, Jake. I closed my eyes and felt the music. I had the biggest contact high of my life. Dear God, the drugs at that show. These kids are all about endurance and I was fucking toast halfway in. So high. Looked at Twitter this morning and laughed. Going to burn the shoes I wore last night. Might burn the skirt as well and definitely the shirt. I might even cut my hair, that's how incredibly filthy we were by the time it was done, soaked to the bone with sweat, bathed in smoke and happy we finally snagged a show by a band we have listened to forever, it seems.
Am I getting too old for this? (Yes, Bridget, you are but it probably won't stop you.)
I hope not. The sound last night was perfect. Perfect. I could manage all of it and missed nothing.
Next up. Deftones. Mastodon. Alice.
Squee!
Wednesday, 7 July 2010
Youngest child syndrome.
We've designated this week Parent Week at Camp Bridget. My parents are flying into the city this afternoon. My mom has never seen the Pacific. I don't think she has, anyway. She's been to Spain and Morocco and a lot of the Caribbean and Paris too but the Pacific Northwest? This will be new, and terrific for her to see.
My father has been here on business before but not for a long time. They have a long day traveling across the country, I don't envy that. It will take an awful lot to get me back to Nova Scotia when the time comes. Much as I love my seabound coast I actually despise flying. Maybe we'll drive. Lots of time to plan anyway.
The rules for the boys are pretty simple for the week. No one is allowed to do a shot, throw a punch or cut the head off a goat.
What? I thought they would be easy rules to follow, except that the boys are impulsive and eventually they'll break one or all three.
Since I already get up before five every morning and my folks will be running a four-hour time deficit I can imagine I will be able to post all week but on the off chance I am sporadic with it, this is why.
My father has been here on business before but not for a long time. They have a long day traveling across the country, I don't envy that. It will take an awful lot to get me back to Nova Scotia when the time comes. Much as I love my seabound coast I actually despise flying. Maybe we'll drive. Lots of time to plan anyway.
The rules for the boys are pretty simple for the week. No one is allowed to do a shot, throw a punch or cut the head off a goat.
What? I thought they would be easy rules to follow, except that the boys are impulsive and eventually they'll break one or all three.
Since I already get up before five every morning and my folks will be running a four-hour time deficit I can imagine I will be able to post all week but on the off chance I am sporadic with it, this is why.
Tuesday, 6 July 2010
So excited I could burst.
Go here.
Listen.
Now watch as I die happy.
PS. We go see Tool this weekend!! If you see us, come say hello. As I always say, Bridget doesn't bite but Ben might. How will you know it's us? I never worry about that part. Ever.
Listen.
Now watch as I die happy.
PS. We go see Tool this weekend!! If you see us, come say hello. As I always say, Bridget doesn't bite but Ben might. How will you know it's us? I never worry about that part. Ever.
Killing two thirds with one throne.
Keith is here for breakfast, along with um...let's see now. Stephen. Maybe it's Steven. Sam is back. Dylan. Andrew. Daniel, Schuyler, Ben. Lochlan. Also, quiet man in the back. The one who hasn't really said a word yet. His name is Jake and I'm sure that the way I visibly paled when I was introduced made him want to run for the hills.
Keith and Jake are longtime friends of Sam from school. They brought Stev/phen. They want all the dirt on how Sam and I know each other too so, hey, here's some bacon. Everyone likes bacon. Have some. No, have more. No one goes away hungry in Bridget's house.
They are curious about how this works. Who does what? What about the money? How are chores divided? Do we share the trucks? Exactly what's the deal with Lochlan again? He seems like the odd man out. What do the kids think of having all of their hunkles within reach all the time?
Inevitable curiosities when we open ourselves to discussions about the commune (only we don't call it that). Too many questions and I've managed to leave that to the boys to explain while I hide in the kitchen, looking up recipes for something baked for lunch. Like a pie with crow. Maybe some humble-dish. Maybe some pride, too, just for flavor. I feel all over the place.
I am listening to the descriptions and explanations and it sounds perfect.
But in a perfect world the boys would never argue, no one would ever have to leave the property to work, and we would have a huge garden too. Also since it's my fantasy we would have all of Coney Island on site. Amusement is a necessity, vegetables are a luxury, Lochlan always says.
And cake would fall from the sky like rain but only when Bridget is hungry.
Speaking of hungry, I'm wondering if I have room for three more boys around my table on a regular basis. Add in the missing ones and the house will burst, testosterone raining down on us like confetti. I'm also wondering if I can really give this poor guy a chance at friendship, when the biggest strike against him lies in a choice made by his parents who named him. People I don't even know. I'm sure I can, save for the fact that anytime someone addresses him, everyone gives me the side-eye, and I'm convinced they can see my battered heart lurch around in my chest. It hits a little too close to home and I'm surprised by how unfair I feel towards him. He's adorable. For a mute.
Ah, I have found what to make for lunch. Blackbird pie. See, the princess can do this one of two ways. I can draw him in or I can shove him away. Since it's Tuesday and Tuesdays are hardly ever bad days, I may possibly do both. Just to see if he is worthy of his name.
Keith and Jake are longtime friends of Sam from school. They brought Stev/phen. They want all the dirt on how Sam and I know each other too so, hey, here's some bacon. Everyone likes bacon. Have some. No, have more. No one goes away hungry in Bridget's house.
They are curious about how this works. Who does what? What about the money? How are chores divided? Do we share the trucks? Exactly what's the deal with Lochlan again? He seems like the odd man out. What do the kids think of having all of their hunkles within reach all the time?
Inevitable curiosities when we open ourselves to discussions about the commune (only we don't call it that). Too many questions and I've managed to leave that to the boys to explain while I hide in the kitchen, looking up recipes for something baked for lunch. Like a pie with crow. Maybe some humble-dish. Maybe some pride, too, just for flavor. I feel all over the place.
I am listening to the descriptions and explanations and it sounds perfect.
But in a perfect world the boys would never argue, no one would ever have to leave the property to work, and we would have a huge garden too. Also since it's my fantasy we would have all of Coney Island on site. Amusement is a necessity, vegetables are a luxury, Lochlan always says.
And cake would fall from the sky like rain but only when Bridget is hungry.
Speaking of hungry, I'm wondering if I have room for three more boys around my table on a regular basis. Add in the missing ones and the house will burst, testosterone raining down on us like confetti. I'm also wondering if I can really give this poor guy a chance at friendship, when the biggest strike against him lies in a choice made by his parents who named him. People I don't even know. I'm sure I can, save for the fact that anytime someone addresses him, everyone gives me the side-eye, and I'm convinced they can see my battered heart lurch around in my chest. It hits a little too close to home and I'm surprised by how unfair I feel towards him. He's adorable. For a mute.
Ah, I have found what to make for lunch. Blackbird pie. See, the princess can do this one of two ways. I can draw him in or I can shove him away. Since it's Tuesday and Tuesdays are hardly ever bad days, I may possibly do both. Just to see if he is worthy of his name.
Monday, 5 July 2010
Sunday, 4 July 2010
Sunday review.
Ben pointed out this morning that the only competition he considers real is the ghost in the copper box.
And then he laughed in Lochlan's face.
He tells me I will give up secrets when I'm good and ready and not because the boys demand to know. He tells me everything is okay and if the rest of them don't understand how my head works than it is their problem and nothing more. He tells me I should just delete the emails that scold me and that I don't actually have to answer to anyone other than the girl in the mirror.
As usual, I'm not sharing anything with her. She looks like she carries her own burden. Besides, she's never even told me her name.
Ben puts out his arms and pulls me in close to his heart, squeezing me against his shirt. Kissing the top of my head. My ear. He'll drop one hand down to my face and he'll pull my chin up until it's resting on his chest and I'm staring up at him while he stares down. He smiles at me. Only at me. Then he bends down, gives me a kiss and he's gone again, off to the studio to work his fingers to the bone. I cry out in protest and he tells me not to worry about a thing. Soon. Soon he'll have more time off and we can catch a little bit of a break and spend some more time together.
Until that happens the inappropriate protocol is to molest Daniel beyond belief, to the point where I piss off Schuyler for my impositions, cry when no one is looking because I miss Ben so much and to yell at the girl in the mirror to grow the fuck up because she has it good. I can play with the little bird on the copper box and consider opening the lid with a screwdriver or a blowtorch or something but I don't because Sam had it welded shut and I don't mess with Sam's temper or Sam's rules.
I miss Sam. He's away on some sort of men's retreat for the weekend with his new church group. He figured it was safe to go, figured I was telling the truth when I lied and promised him I wouldn't go to Satan for anything, figured it was a good break from the endless questions I always pose to him. The heartbreaking, unanswerable ones I throw out like birdseed at a public park. Catch, Sam. Tell me why. Tell me how this happens. Tell me God's address so I can go give him a piece of my mind. Tell me what Jake was thinking when he set me up for this fall. Tell me that Ben will live forever so I never have to add to this pain.
Tell me why I'm still here when I begged to leave them behind and go in their places. Tell me what's so special about me.
Sam looks a little bit like that girl in the mirror. A little like Ben. A little like Lochlan. Tired. Haunted. Worn through to the point where the light shines through the cracks now and just about blinds you, as if you were driving into the sun. You can still put your hand up to shield your eyes but soon even that isn't going to work.
August patiently follows me around listening to me ramble when Ben is busy. Holding out his arms and trying to minimize his accent so it hurts less when I ask to be held and not so quietly diagnosing me repeatedly against my will. I defer. I protest. I rail at him to cull up the boys and make a row and I will duck behind it, the ribbons on my dress trailing out behind me as I run. I will duck down behind Ben's back and slip out the other end of the row and head straight for the mirror. One foot over the edge and then the other and for a split-second I will balance on the lip before jumping down into the reflection.
Oh, that's who you are. You're me.
Jesus Christ. You look awful, Bridget.
And then he laughed in Lochlan's face.
He tells me I will give up secrets when I'm good and ready and not because the boys demand to know. He tells me everything is okay and if the rest of them don't understand how my head works than it is their problem and nothing more. He tells me I should just delete the emails that scold me and that I don't actually have to answer to anyone other than the girl in the mirror.
As usual, I'm not sharing anything with her. She looks like she carries her own burden. Besides, she's never even told me her name.
Ben puts out his arms and pulls me in close to his heart, squeezing me against his shirt. Kissing the top of my head. My ear. He'll drop one hand down to my face and he'll pull my chin up until it's resting on his chest and I'm staring up at him while he stares down. He smiles at me. Only at me. Then he bends down, gives me a kiss and he's gone again, off to the studio to work his fingers to the bone. I cry out in protest and he tells me not to worry about a thing. Soon. Soon he'll have more time off and we can catch a little bit of a break and spend some more time together.
Until that happens the inappropriate protocol is to molest Daniel beyond belief, to the point where I piss off Schuyler for my impositions, cry when no one is looking because I miss Ben so much and to yell at the girl in the mirror to grow the fuck up because she has it good. I can play with the little bird on the copper box and consider opening the lid with a screwdriver or a blowtorch or something but I don't because Sam had it welded shut and I don't mess with Sam's temper or Sam's rules.
I miss Sam. He's away on some sort of men's retreat for the weekend with his new church group. He figured it was safe to go, figured I was telling the truth when I lied and promised him I wouldn't go to Satan for anything, figured it was a good break from the endless questions I always pose to him. The heartbreaking, unanswerable ones I throw out like birdseed at a public park. Catch, Sam. Tell me why. Tell me how this happens. Tell me God's address so I can go give him a piece of my mind. Tell me what Jake was thinking when he set me up for this fall. Tell me that Ben will live forever so I never have to add to this pain.
Tell me why I'm still here when I begged to leave them behind and go in their places. Tell me what's so special about me.
Sam looks a little bit like that girl in the mirror. A little like Ben. A little like Lochlan. Tired. Haunted. Worn through to the point where the light shines through the cracks now and just about blinds you, as if you were driving into the sun. You can still put your hand up to shield your eyes but soon even that isn't going to work.
August patiently follows me around listening to me ramble when Ben is busy. Holding out his arms and trying to minimize his accent so it hurts less when I ask to be held and not so quietly diagnosing me repeatedly against my will. I defer. I protest. I rail at him to cull up the boys and make a row and I will duck behind it, the ribbons on my dress trailing out behind me as I run. I will duck down behind Ben's back and slip out the other end of the row and head straight for the mirror. One foot over the edge and then the other and for a split-second I will balance on the lip before jumping down into the reflection.
Oh, that's who you are. You're me.
Jesus Christ. You look awful, Bridget.
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