Scope/micro.

(Motherfucking cakes on the motherfucking train. And obviously 'batman' means [redacted].)

This morning I am at breakfast with Satan. I should have checked the forecast, clearly it was only hovering around the third degree this morning.

Flowers?

Big lilies, Gerberas in four colors, roses in three colors, huge ones, carnations and snowballs.

Presents?

Yes. Of course. I detailed my beautiful presents for him.

Very lovely. Yes, I do like that, actually. He did well. Dinner?

Deferred until he has a day off. I don't enjoy walking into a restaurant at eight o'clock on a weeknight. You know that.

So did he cook?

Yes. We both did.

Cake?

Chocolate mousse and brownie cake. There's some left, if you can believe it. (How Ben got that cake back to the house from downtown along with everything else is a marvel, to be sure.)

Did he put candles on it?

There was flame. Are you finished with this line of questioning? Does he pass? Are you the birthday police now?

I just want to be assured that Ben is looking after you in the manner that you deserve.

Unlike you, you mean?

Pardon?

Nothing. The server picked that second to refill our coffees and I stared at Caleb smugly.

Ben was the one with the butler, remember? He knows what he's doing.

Batman had staff before Ben was even a shadow across your face. Ben had a DO NOT DISTURB sign welded to his hotel room door handle for eight years running. He wouldn't know the finer things in life the way some of us do.

Batman had an assistant who was afraid of everything. I would hardly call that staff. Dude wasn't fetching his fucking tea or wiping his ass unless he was on set. Leave Ben alone.

Bridget, there is no need to be crass. I'm just trying to be sure that you had a good birthday because if not I would arrange for a small event. Obviously you had a good time.

The best. Especially the parts I didn't tell you about. Just...wow.

I am brave this morning. Coffee beans and lack of sleep or food bring about a recklessness I have no business trying on.

He frowned into his coffee cup and looked out the window. And then he looked back. He's staring and not talking and after several minutes of tension-filled silence I am uncomfortable and working hard not to squirm.

I just can't believe it, princess.

What?

You. You're all grown up.

That's something you are supposed to say when someone turns twenty-one, not forty.

I'm sure I said it when you turned twenty-one.

Yes. Right after your brother sold me to you for the weekend.

He smiled. That was a fun weekend.

How in the hell do you remember them, specifically?

You were there. I only forget the ones I spend alone.

That sounds terrible.

It is. I want to change it. I hear the hint of his accent. Not often I can catch it, it's mostly disappeared over the past fifteen years. Just like those weekends.

I need to go home. I have painting to finish.

I will see your progress tomorrow, I suppose.

Sure.

I'll take you home then.

I follow him outside and then he lets me through the door and I look up at the mountains, feeling his eyes on me.

It's astounding.

What?

How far we've come.

It's a deplorable lack of progress, is what it is. And you have all lost your minds. I have a birthday every year and suddenly it's being made such a big deal of. I'm uncomfortable with this.

Forty is a milestone, princess. And you've granted me civility. Thank you.

It's easier to pretend we get along. And I heard all of this yesterday, almost word for word, from Lochlan. Who does it better than you because he doesn't turn around and try to ruin my life with his next breath. That's why you're alone, Cale.

His eyes go from pleased to ashamed. It's like a switch and I throw it violently and with such joy. Precisely the same way he approaches me in the dark and during those times when I didn't want to be with him. The formative years. The ones that scar shape you for life.

Prime numbers.

This morning Ben pulled me out of my unintelligible dreams into his arms, holding me tightly. He sang Happy Birthday to me, kissed me and then pushed me out of bed into the dark early day.

I did not expect to still have freckles on my fortieth birthday.

I did not expect to still prefer Hello Kitty over Louis Vuitton or still be so bad at painting rooms and making myself high, like I did this morning, shut into the guest bathroom off the back entry hall, cursing out the right angles and rising on the fumes until I stumbled out, finished coat number one and wondering why there were so many freaking unicorns grazing in the back yard since it's raining.

The boys welcomed me to their exclusive club this morning. Where no one gives a fuck anymore and we have money and smarts from living that I would call character on any given day but today is different and so it's smarts today, and nothing else that might seem negative.

Lochlan looked at my face and told me I have not changed a bit from when he used to count my freckles and tell me when I was long grown up I would look exactly the same. I am still waiting to grow into my nose and for my hair to pick a color already and stick with it. He smiled and said it was part of me and not to worry about things so much like I do when I look into the brightly lit mirrors and see my soul running down into deep lines around my eyes, and diluted green irises from using up my lifetime quota of tears. I could look better but instead I think I look like I'm supposed to.

It's too late now anyway.

Caleb called me and wished me a Happy Birthday, softly, with encouragement and a deep reverence for the person I have become. Wishing for a different parallel universe in which he would have been able to do the same for Cole while I still marvel at how amazing Jacob would have been at this age and how amazing Ben became when he turned forty and Lochlan too a few years ago now, it is almost like arriving. I kind of like that I still have all these freckles and even the lines around my eyes which in all honesty have been there forever, and I like that I'm part of the club now instead of the little tiny girl always lagging behind picking flowers while the big older boys walked on ahead, yelling at me to hurry up already, Fidget, we're going to be late.

I really never cared if we were late in the first place. They didn't either but what was astounding was how they didn't care that an eight-year-old girl imprinted on the lot of them and that she is still following them around thirty-two years later, lagging behind, being goofy and difficult but so sweet and soft that the rest is canceled out. In fact, they welcome me, just as they welcome bearing witness to all the changes I have seen in myself since I was too young to count high enough to know the number of freckles I own.

Never in a million freckles did I ever think I'd see this year but now that I've seen it, now that I'm wearing it, it doesn't seem all that frightening any more.

So, so you think you can tell heaven from hell,
blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?
And did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange a walk on part in the war
for a lead role in a cage?

There's something buried in the words.

Today I went and bought paint. Today marks one year in this house, and the final day of my thirties besides.

Jesus fucking Christ. I didn't really want to go there, but here I am.

Suddenly.

Surprisingly.

Total. Uncharted. Territory.

Anyway, it is finally time to paint the house. I bought a pale slate blue color called Stillness. I am starting small. Bathrooms, entryways. Trim. The lady at the paint store helped me figure out finishes for the walls (eggshell versus satin? What? The old house held the finish of 'must cover century-old cracks' and had to be the consistency of Elmer's Glue) but I think I came out okay.

After that I went to the nursery and bought some more Snow in Summer (last years disappeared), carnations, a Japanese Azalea and a dappled willow. A huge bag of dirt, too (Cole would say, It's called 'earth', baby doll). I dug up the ivy and moved it and discovered it's actually growing. More is coming up between the cracks in the front walkway. I brought some inside to root. I planted everything in the front gardens and it looks damned good.

I spread grass seed and moved half the shrubs in the backyard from under the grapevines (what was I thinking?) to the sunny edge of the yard. Under the watchful eyes of the boys who are home I replanted everything and reseeded the newly blank places and then I discovered the buds on the grapevines, already! I have net bags waiting. This year the birds won't get all the grapes. Oh no sir, not this year.

And tomorrow I'm going to be forty.

Pardon me while I explode.

If wishes were words (out of time).

Little variations on my page
Little doors open on my cage
Little time has come and gone so far
Little by little who you are

I can see the patterns on your face
I can see the miracles I trace
Symmetry in shadows I can't hide
I just want to be right by your side

(For those who want to split hairs, I did NOT leave a word out of the title quote borrowed yesterday. The original Barrie book did not feature the word star. It was added in the movie much much later.)

I have Canadian political election, hockey and boy-drama fatigue today, so pardon me if I am cranky.

And this is the second time in my sketchy memory that something I wrote here actually made a difference. This is not where I plead my case, this is simply where I sort out the leftovers in my brain. So sometimes it's weird or painful or really freaking hard to read. Sometimes it's not safe for work. Sometimes it's just dumb. Whatever is in my head is dumped out on the floor and rearranged into something palatable, and you can just leave the gristle on the side of your plate, alright?

The first time it made a difference was when the full force of Cole's death hit me. I know the week I spent locked in his study after we came home from the hospital seemed...healthy? but that wasn't really it and several months afterword I fell apart on the inside without giving much of an outside warning at all and Jacob read my words and became incredibly concerned, to put it mildly. Everything blew up at once and I don't think he would have been able to act so quickly had I not begun to write very oddly. The medication wasn't right and I was being poisoned. Luckily it was fixed and after that things were better so I'm grateful sometimes for this strange little place.

The second time it mattered was last night, when PJ read what I wrote about how he fights and he came to see me. I have since edited yesterday's post slightly, and PJ has promised to work on his discussion skills. I am to work on thickening my skin. We both plan to work on boundaries.

Today Corey picked me up on his vintage motorcycle and took me out for a quick lunch. So quick that I blinked and we were finished. Corey never says much, he just steps in and takes someone out for a meal or a walk and then he disappears again. I don't need to write about him all that much, most of the time I forget what he looks like (though that could be the significant image changes over the past eight years.)

Oh gee, I hope he reads this and sticks around for a bit, talks more, and maybe keeps the new facial hair. He didn't have any for a long time and now it just won't go away.

I could wonder if this were some sort of wishing blog, and everything I write might come true. Maybe tomorrow I will win the lottery, and maybe on Sunday I can sleep until noon. Maybe the front garden will magically begin to grow something other than moss and maybe the boys can coexist peacefully, like they were prior to PJ deciding that Ben had crossed a line, prior to Lochlan deciding he didn't a big enough percentage of me, prior to Caleb calling and extending his flaming, deadly olive branch because my absence in his life has settled in around him like a cold chill he cannot shake and he does not like how that feels.

Speaking of feelings, I do need to address some things about Caleb and what happened in Newfoundland, but not right now. Tomorrow. Right now I have lunches to pack and homework to check and dinner to start. The light is getting thin and the boys will be home soon.

Second to the right, and straight on till morning.

Did I disappoint you
Or leave a bad taste in your mouth
You act like you never had love
And you want me to go without

(Sometimes living for adventure can be tough. Sometimes I'm not even the one with the drama and I become a sticking-plaster to the boys, the ferociously affectionate soft spot where they land. The comfort-girl who will soothe their cares away. They are the lost boys, and I am their Wendy.)

Sam is going down Jacob's road of currently feeling quite out of love with his church. Railing against the hierarchy for putting administration before one's ability to be efficient in the role of a minister when one has personal needs. And yet I can see both sides here. Sam is new to this church, having been a part of it for a single year. Others can manage their midlife or existential crises without needing time off, they simply implode in and around their scheduled tasks. The church does not allow for personal reflection unless it is work-related, and what most people never fully realize is that ministers are often given a plate so full that they simply collapse under the weight and learn to operate at sixty percent of themselves and sometimes they simply walk away.

You know, like Jacob did.

Sam was gifted with a wedding invitation this week. We all were. We don't burn too many bridges. Most of the people I despise I greet quite professionally (Satan, Sophie, etc. etc.) and the boys are even better at it. But this wedding invitation came from Sam's wife. Elisabeth. Since he steadfastly refuses to call her his 'ex'. Hope springs eternal, but when their divorce went through after magnificent efforts to try and salvage their relationship, she promptly became engaged to someone else.

Sam has not reacted well. He's crushed but realistic. He's called in sick and shown up drunk and done everything people do when confronted with the concept of moving on. I hope he weathers it better this week than he did last week. He is still waiting to see if he can have a little vacation time, now that he has a year in. The problem is, he probably will not get it. And the drunk part sort of surprised me because Sam has the better part of a decade of wonderful recovery that he always managed well and spoke candidly about, besides. He was a good role model for Benjamin, and the surprise and disappointment rings loudly through my house right now.

*****

PJ has had a crisis as well this week, only his snuck up on us slowly over the weekend to the point where last time I saw him, Lochlan had him in a headlock and was forcing him to promise to go home and NOT SAY ANOTHER WORD until he was out of my hearing range. Which I suspect is around four feet, but only if you are facing me.

Because when PJ runs out of patience, I am always his target. I have been positively crushed under the weight of his feelings, bottled up and poured out quietly, after the kids are asleep or at the very least out of earshot. Even though when we moved here I specifically made him take the boathouse so that he could have his own separate life, privacy, whatever he needed. Sometimes (as I point out quite regularly), it isn't enough.

But no worries. We have a major argument roughly every twelve to fourteen months and then we settle back into step together and this particular one seems to be waning so call it a Monday and let's get on with it.

Picking up Hemingway.

There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.
~Ernest Hemingway.

Last night, Ben again went for the big coat, but I was ready for him this time, dressed differently, prepared to plead for warmth in leaving everything on this time, dreading the cold but certainly not the thrill.

Only once again, he chose surprise.

When we got down to the beach Ben encouraged me to sit against the logs and then he walked to the water's edge, turning to face me, his back to the sea. He pulled out a book and began to read from it, watching me somewhat nervously. I knew the style before I knew the name of the book.

Hemingway.

To Have and Have Not.

Across the River and into the Trees and The Snows of Kilimanjaro were the two other tattered, dog-eared books found among Jacob's belongings in the hotel room that were returned to me in a Fedex global shipping box. The remainder of our Hemingway collection is on the bookshelf in my bedroom. It's been a really long time since I looked at any of it. Years, which in Ben-terms is a very long time indeed.

I suppose there are people who have never seen the archives here. I took them away. Jacob used to read to me. Out loud, every night on the porch after the children were asleep. I loved it so, and now Ben is doing it.

Ben.

Ben who has positively zero desire to walk in anyone else's footsteps because he is busy walking through broken glass and lightning strikes for fun. Ben does not require conventionalities, he defies logic. He throws up his middle fingers and flips off rationality and he rips the head off predictable romance and flushes it. He'll do things his way, he tells me and I believe him. He's weird and wonderful like that.

He's going to take up this torch because he knows I won't scream in agony, twisting out of his arms when the words sink in but the voice is different. He knows I will sit and strain to hear over the roar of the midnight surf while the wind follows the labyrinth of ruin into my ears until it can cool my brain into a satisfied stasis, until I have absorbed enough of the story for one night, told in such a way that eclipses a night spent rocking on a porch swing with a hot of cup of tea listening to the crickets in the tall Prairie grass in spades. Ben lives viscerally and everything will be loud and dark and violent and felt until you just can't feel it anymore and then, and only then are you living, thank you very fucking much.

Only Ben could make a Hemingway novel into a full-on metal experience, with the waves crashing and the moon blazing on through the night. Only Ben would dare to bring this particular pastime back to life. Had anyone else done it I would still be screaming. Instead I feel like I have a little more of myself back.

Jacob can listen in, probably reciting the passages word for word. Probably impressed with the delivery and maybe even our progress too.

Yeah, that guy. (Hi Mom, you can skip today.)

Last evening after the hockey game ended Ben shrugged into his big coat, the winter one that kept him warm in the Prairies. The children were long asleep, the boys drifting off to their favorite corners of the house to listen to music or watch movies or work late into the night. Ben and I don't often get time alone, it is a gift that we look for and take with gratitude.

He took my hand in his and led me outside, across the yard and down the treacherous cliff path in the dark. It's borderline dangerous but at least the skies were clear enough to have the moon and a few stars to provide some ambient light, and the rocks were dry. Once safely on the beach we walked until we reached the bigger rocks at the end of the property line. The boys have laid out huge logs facing the beach and it's become a good place to sit and draw or just to watch the waves, on finer days.

He took off the coat and sat down on the sand, leaning back against the waterlogged wood. I was about to protest when he pulled me down onto his lap, wrapping the coat around me, hitching up my dress up, pulling my tights down. Fighting everything I had on until the only thing left was his coat pulled tight around my shoulders and held against my knees by his arms. He pulled himself free and bit into my lip as he grasped my hips and guided himself in. I didn't know it was possible to be so cold and so warm at the same time. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and held on as he rocked against me violently, unending. Numb took me over and I put my head down against his ear, begging him not to stop. I cried out when he did and he brought his hand up to press my head against his shoulder and pulled me hard against his flesh with his other arm wrapped around my hips.

We remained like that until the blood in our veins took on a fresh painful chill, and he managed to pull the coat away long enough to slip me back into my dress, stuffing my tights into one of his coat pockets, rescuing my boots from high tide. He took my hand once again, kissing it firmly, pulling me back up the path and into the house where we let the heat wash over us like waves, sending our nerves endings screaming with effort.

He smiled at me but he never ever said a single word.

This made my day.

Actual post to follow whenever my brain decides to join me. It's still off watching the sunrise, I believe. Or the aftermath of the Royal wedding.

Ben is working late tonight and so I am hanging out in the overly-bright kitchen waiting for him (who keeps leaving all the damn lights on anyway?) with Lochlan and Dalton. Lochlan has been showing me how to use his new tablet. It's an Asus e-slate or something. A whole bunch of the boys got them but so far I haven't had a lot of chance to play on them so tonight was my chance. The topic was suggested by you-know-who. 1984. So I drew 1984. When I was thirteen* and Loch was just about twenty.
He is mad because I didn't draw us happy. I'm not sure why he's taking cartoons literally, you'll have to ask him yourself.

Tomorrow maybe I'll draw Ben.

Oh lord. Hahaha.

*(Note: Clearly I am standing on a box in the picture. The top of my head falls just under Lochlan's chin, and for some reason I always draw myself tall. Wishful thinking.)

What are you doing, princess?

Holding my own. Just don't judge me.

I'm not judging, I am asking questions.

Evaluating your own reactions, Jake.

Maybe. To be honest, this surprises me.

Like those ex -cons. 'They do what they know', you said.

You are so far from what I meant.

I'm doing what I know.

You are playing with fire and you're going to get burned again. He doesn't love you. He wants to win.

Oh but that's where you're wrong. No one keeps a game going this long if they don't really want the prize.

It becomes something else after a while. It has taken on a life of its own and you're not being careful.

He won't hurt me.

But he does. They all do in their own ways.

I didn't come here to talk about this.

What did you come for then, princess?

It's Easter. It's spring.

And?

I just needed to see you. It's been a while.