Dangerous new pasttimes.

While they fight over me, I have a tendency to disappear. In my dreams at night I look for Jacob, and Ben will pull me out of the night and take what he wants from me and then leave me to fall back into the dark where every sign sends me in loops and the map is washed and faded, illegible and the way home is something reserved for after I have found what I need. It will be interesting when they do my autopsy someday. Not only will they find the pieces of my heart strung together on a tangled black cord but they will discover my shrunken pie-chart of a brain, divided by name, given to forgetting what the right hand was doing while the left hand took control.

I think I found him last night. He's been gone again for weeks and I want to yell at everyone that they are awful for living without him. Forgetting him. For pretending that life goes on because it doesn't. I am still waiting for him. When he was here the only one I missed was Cole, namely because whenever I touched Jacob I would think this was just insane, that I was finally able to not be afraid of his jealousy. But I keep waiting for Jacob to talk to me, to try and make everything better. To keep the boys in their corners and to keep me from sabotaging myself every waking moment of the day and sometimes of the night too.

In my dreams I listen to him sing. I watch his eyes as they smile or show concern when the rest of his face is stone, and I watch as they fill up when he is sad and slowly close when he is tired. Never once did I get to watch him fall asleep. He would not sleep unless I did first, and then he would lie at the ready to fight any demons that appeared in the moonlight, whether they be real or a product of my vivid and quite insane imagination.

Ben does not fight demons in the night, he sleeps on through, a novelty still from years of sleeping all day, or worse, not sleeping at all. He loves the routine of being home but he still loves to work too and I have entirely too much time where I feel the familiar sting of forbidden actions and instead I poke around the unused corners of my brain looking for dreams that are left behind.

A moment or period in time perceptible as intermediate between past and future.

I heard Ben's truck because he always beeps three times when he pulls in. Otherwise he has a tendency to sneak up on me and that isn't a good idea. I scream so loudly.

He came through the door somewhat slowly. I made it down the steps and into the front hall in time to see the door open. Ben looked at me and he smiled softly. So softly. Hopefully, almost. He closed the door and turned to face me.

I have a Present for you.

He looked defiant, almost. Cynical. But hopeful was edging those both out in a spectacular finish and when I thought hard about his words, I nodded. He may not have as long a history with me, but he has Now and he'd like to keep it.

I nodded. I ran and threw myself into his arms. I did not let go. I won't let go.

(The present, not the past. You people have no imagination. I give up).

Yeah, wow. All taxes. No time to arrange the words. I'm sorry. Just take it and pretend you never read it. Thanks.

I'm praying for rain
And I'm praying for tidal waves
I wanna see the ground give way.
I wanna watch it all go down.

I have words lodged in my ears this afternoon and rain in my eyes. There is a storm building in my head and my heart has gone on an extended vacation and I am left to marvel at Benjamin's ability to throw himself into project after project, regardless of the consequences or the song and exclaim over Lochlan's actions (always the same since 1979). We are in such a weird place in that I went out of my way to not Do This and Here I Am anyway.

Fuck.

The homesickness arrives with twilight and descends over me as I turn on lamps around the house, closing curtains against the coming night, listening to the quiet hum of the furnace or the fridge if I am close by, closing windows from the evening chill and watching the clock for the inevitable crush of boys looking for dinner, for hugs and for confirmation that I did finish their taxes and yes, everything went smoothly for all because it always does, we see to that. It's too bad no one can see to smoothly on Bridget's behalf but they try and perhaps that's better than nothing at all.

When the sun went down on the show, Lochlan would wrap me into his sweater against his t-shirt and hold me until I fell asleep. If he was performing he would leave his sweater with me and I would wait just out of reach, incentive for him to throw harder and take more risks and then he would shove fistfuls of cash into our pockets and we would spend it and hide it and eat and then he would grow up not to care very much for the man and things like taxes and deductions and retirement savings. He says when he retires from art he'll go back on the road, busking across Europe for food and lodging and go out the way he came in, hungry for life in such different ways than everyone else. I have heard his dreams. They have not changed in thirty years and still I hope he realizes them. Out of all of us he is the least responsible and still the most likely to have everything he ever wanted, for it is so little.

Once the stars came out I could get my bearings again because they follow me. I would lie in the trailer tightly held in Lochlan's arms (and because it got cold at night) and I would stare out the little round window in the door at the sky. I would count the stars inside the window pane. Six. Six was my lucky number, too many for wishes but enough to get a fix on location via echoes and friendly voices. Something, anyway. The noises. Some of the temporary people who worked just one town or sometimes two scared me to pieces and Lochlan would sing me to sleep to block out everything else and I still think to this day I learned to sleep that way and no other way at all and so I wake up every hour all night every night of my life since save for nights when he doesn't leave, when he stays with us and helps to fend off the ghosts and save what's left of my soul in exchange for my savage little bottomless needs.

He does this without complaint, and without effort, as he always has, tucking me under his wing or pushing me out of reach when he suits up in his armor to take out the fastest bikes, the ones I'm not allowed on. Fire on wheels, the ones that function as his words when words don't come and he needs to escape or process how we managed to arrive at this place without benefit of a map or spoken hint of direction from a well-meaning passerby. Things were so amazingly simple then and he took it for granted and decided it might be better to set free what you love.

I came back though, didn't I?

Just not in the manner he was hoping for. Or maybe his carnival sentimentalities will always extend to being able to easily disengage from his heartstrings and step into the flames and I am in denial that he loves me at all. Except that I know it isn't true. He does, he just has spent so long telling himself he doesn't that he's no longer sure if he should believe his heart or his mind.

His mind plays tricks on all of us.

I hope he gets his chance to perform on corners across the world. I hope he lives to see his dreams, namely because that's what he does. He dreams. Sort of like the way I will look up at the stars and plan my future, dismiss my fate and hope for safety in times of great risk simply because that's where my mind wanders, playing along ribbons of melody wrapped in bows from tree to tree, woven through the grass and blackened for standing too close to the fire. Always warned, always unable to hear the words that will keep me safe.

As usual.

Bridget will forever be wiping the soot from her feet and rubbing bits of ash from her forehead after being held by the fire juggler. It's all dreams just like the one in which I find a permanent cure for homesickness and this massively fluctuating heart.

Home, please.

Ooh. New Foo Fighters and Trews CDs releasing on the same day. Lets hope HMV can manage this epicness, not like it matters much, they're closing anyway and I'll have to buy my retro-media (read NOT digital) online at Amazon since there are no record stores left in this country that stock anything other than top 10 popular music and mediocre television DVD boxed sets.

But that's a rant for another day. Back to taxes. I have barricaded myself on the floor of the library with the stereo and a very good pencil sharpener and I am painstakingly working my way through the numbers, because I'm really good at it.

If I can't manage anything else in my life, at least I can manage the finances.

Go, Bridget. Big or home, at least.

You are so lost and the only thing I have ever done is try to help you and I may have gotten carried away and for that I'm sorry.

But not sorry enough to stop.

I have tried.

Real hard, hey, Caleb?

I'm not the only one, Bridget.

He is welcome in my life. There's a difference.

He changed you.

He raised me.

He should have gone to jail.

He isn't the only one.

I would arrange to remove myself from your life again but he would have to go as well, and then there is the matter of Henry. It isn't every day a man discovers he is a father. I want to be a part of things.

His life, not mine.

Both. I have a vested interest now. Maybe some things are meant to be.

And maybe Henry will grow up and learn the truth.

I hope not.

What goes around, Caleb.

Bridget I'm not trying to make your lives miserable but you push me and I have to push back. I'm making it clear that if you continue down this road someone will get hurt and I can assure you it won't be me and I'm not going to allow it to be you. Lochlan is on the hook and the only reason I don't take him down is because you have lost enough. That and recently you have been more open about admitting that you did love my brother, in spite of his issues.

I nod. Hard to believe Lochlan's destiny is on a permanent hiatus due to fate. Due to bad luck and death and angels and defective hearts and tall buildings and the roll of trick genetic dice.

He reached out and smoothed my hair away from my face. I didn't move a muscle, nor did I change my expression.

So if you're not going to move on this why not let it go?

What sort of king surrenders when he's not under siege? Remember that, princess, and don't ever try a stunt like this again.

Forsaken, in shades of red and blonde.

You will have to forgive me if I'm having a hard time keeping track of what I'm comfortable sharing and what I'm not, and if I seem remiss in being able to keep up with my usual entries instead of this journal becoming a mixing-bowl full of odds and ends. Not every week is smooth. Not every breath comes without a catch and I've really been having a hell of a time with my loyalties lately.

There, I said it.

The urge to throw myself in front of the speeding runaway train that is Caleb in order to protect Lochlan is huge. We've reached the usual impasse. A million lifetimes ago, had we had these resources at our disposal, everything would have probably turned out okay. But now there is Henry and there is no Cole and that really makes a mess of things. Throw in Ben, who doesn't want to be patient and generous all the time anymore (though he tries) and everything is heartrendingly awful.

The only thing that would move Caleb at this point would be a sudden shift in his own attitude and a newfound generosity of his own right, neither of which I see approaching any time soon. He has no reason to back down, this is better than nothing at all. Clearly there are no standards among us whatsoever. They keep saying that, as if turning around and walking away from me would be some sort of bad idea. Better than nothing? Bullshit.

And so in this house if you are afraid you get a good stiff drink and an ear to bend and then at least you aren't alone, and you have some bottled courage which at least will keep you warm for a time. That was how I knew that Lochlan had crossed the line from his weirdly uptight, logical gypsy carny mentalities to grown man afraid that everything he loves about life would disappear in short order. And while I'm at least 90% sure that wouldn't happen, I have been caught off guard by life before and barely survived. I found Lochlan sometime on Thursday afternoon with a bottle of brandy between his feet on the floor in the hallway between his bedroom and his office and now the brandy is gone but the courage stayed behind. For now.

Caleb has the nerve to stand there with his head held high. He may have become the devil but he was never the bad guy. Do you know that? Of course you don't. Lochlan has sustained this burden for his entire adult life and it's my fault but he doesn't blame me, it's not as if I could help it. I can't control anyone or how they feel. If I could things would be so vastly different but I won't say how, everyone is hurting enough. But in the beginning their roles were reversed and if that doesn't help you to understand why this is all so hard then I don't know what will.

In speaking with Batman this evening it seems as if we may not win this war after all. We can push but when push comes to shove there are risks we simply won't take and roads that we won't travel that will grow over, obscured by trees and brush so thick daylight is no longer distinguishable from night.

Night has become endless.

Special.

Lights go out and I can't be saved
Tides that I tried to swim against
You've put me down upon my knees
Oh I beg, I beg and plead

Tax forms have arrived at your local post office, for those of you Canadians like me who get the wrong personalized form sent, for over twenty years running now. You'd think they would catch on.

RevCan's Telefile is open beginning on Valentine's Day. I don't know if I can phone it in this year with moving expenses. I hope so. I have plans for my refund that involve airplanes and expensive French dresses. Reality has plans for my refund that involve dentistry and RRSPs.

Ah, such is life when it's normal.

Except that I have Clocks stuck in my head today, and Lochlan is finally sober.

More later. The dinner hour is upon us.

Loch Pilgrim versus the world.

You know what's really awful?

No one gives Lochlan any credit at all. They should. He is underrated. Even Ben will tell you this, on a good day. Sadly this is not one of those days and so Ben has to trust me on that.

It's not an easy sell, Lochlan is three sheets to the fucking wind and belligerent as hell and I will need a lot of help to get him safely into his room because he isn't going quietly and he must, the children are already sleeping upstairs. I don't need this. Then I'm going to remove his glasses, throw a cup of cold water in his face, turn the light out and walk away.

Tomorrow I will wake him up with Ruthie's clarinet. I don't play. Maybe by then he'll have stopped rambling incoherently about having to defeat all of Bridget's evil husbands. That isn't nice and I think I have run out of patience for one evening.

He is driftwood in the water out past where you can touch bottom.

He lets me float out away from him and pulls me back gently by the hair. I am staring up at the stars, aware of the vacuum of silence brought by the saltwater in my ears. The ocean is my very own sensory deprivation tank and he is my life preserver. I close my eyes and find the dark. Triggered at will, the kind darkness, not the fearful one. The pressure in my head disappears, the pain in my lungs sets itself free and I am sleeping against the current, blinking softly in red and green. There is nothing here. Nothing at all and it is exactly what I expected to find.

His touch jolts me back into myself. The tension crawls up my skin like nerve endings on fire, bleeding me dry, weighing me down, wearing me out. I want to stay in the water until my hair breaks away and my skin slides easily off my bones, leaving a bleached white representation of what I once was, flesh, blood and heart. Nothing more, nothing less. Memories drawn in the sand to be erased by first reach of a new tide.

The night will hide my secrets and the sea will swallow them whole.

Shhhh.

To speak of morals in art is to speak of legislature in sex. Art is the sex of the imagination.
~George Jean Nathan

I think maybe Caleb did have something to do with New-Jake and Keith taking their leave just now. Just around the same time that Ben decides he has had enough of Caleb altogether and when someone threatens Caleb's interpretation of the status quo he feels is fair he tends to bite back and so while I don't have a lot of faith in lawyers and orders and plans and supervision and promises and oaths and the devil on earth I do have a lot of faith in someone who knows what I am thinking and is standing on the front porch at the exact right moment that came in the form of a warning, coming back from taking Henry and Ruth to school together (UNITED FRONT DAMMIT), and I was slow to answer a question because I didn't hear Caleb and for that my arm was twisted up behind my shoulders until I was lifted almost off my feet (because it's the arm that no longer bends properly at all). There's no way in hell Lochlan could have seen that happen but he felt it and he made it to the front steps of the verandah before Caleb could force me up them and suddenly Caleb let go, deciding to head back, busy day, lots to do, thinking he can get away with things because I don't tell them.

Except for when I do.