The swindle.

I don't have the discipline to breathe the open air
No one has to listen when all they do is stare

People can't be counterfeited. Not like cosmetics and Louis Vuitton handbags and questionable watches. People are real and unique and stamped with invisible serial numbers that lie behind their eyes and in their voices. The patterns of their fingerprints and the beat of their hearts. Their style, whether it be designer or thrift store, conservative or flamboyant. Stereotypical but still unique.

People I know are not fake or shallow or knocked off. People are not manufactured on the sly to be as close as possible to the real thing. They are the real thing from the first moment, without a doubt, without a question, without wondering if the deal will be too good to pass up or better left unsold just in case, obtained from a more reputable source as money well spent without the forced gamble.

At the bottom of the whiskey glass we talked about fake versus genuine. At the bottom of the bottle we talked about promises to always be real. At the bottom of my eyelids I was sure I was real but I haven't checked yet and maybe when I wasn't looking they made a cheap replica somewhere and shoved it out into the limelight when everyone turned their backs and she's not going to last as long as her paint is already scraped off and her voice won't hold and she seems sort of brittle when you pick her up and she can't hold her liquor or her heart at all.

Forty-five degree angels.

It was a small job, finishing a curiously uncapped half wall in the master bathroom but it's done. Ben and a miter box and a sharp new saw and me, passing the pencil to him and holding out nails and finally holding the new crisp white trim in place as he hammered it into place.

He said to move my hand a little and then he said Hold still.

I closed my eyes, feeling the hammer falling millimeters from my fingertips. One wrong move and I would be the one with the broken hand instead of Lochlan, one distraction and my fingers would be smashed by Benjamin, large and strong, wielding steel with determination, with effort.

And I was not afraid.

It was liberating.

This is how most of our conversations go.

If you want to go on an African safari just say the word, princess. You know the world is your oyster, after all.

No, it isn't. In fact, I think it's yours.

Give me your bucket list and I'll see to it that everything is checked off by Saturday.

Fuck off.

This is why you don't get anywhere, princess. You're so combative.

Ha. I thought you liked that.

I am trying to be nice. I'm trying to show you I can do these things.

So can any of the others.

But have they?

I'm not asking them to. I'm not asking you to either.

It's a fucking giraffe and you acted as though someone had given you a hearing transplant.

Okay, that, if you can make it happen, would be lovely.

I can see that you get devices that actually work so you don't get frustrated.

They don't exist.

Sure they do. Good technology costs money.

That why you bought the car?

Partly, yes. I have always loved the design of the 911s though.

My car could still take yours.

Not off the line.

No, overall. That's how you win a race.

By stopping to look at the giraffes and wishing you had the time/money/means to indulge yourself just a little more for once?

Yeah, that's how. And I won. Kiss my dirt.

Fine, Miss Doolittle. See you tomorrow.

Ta-ta, Mister Higgins. Better get a head start in that slow car of yours.

Jesus, Bridget, so nasty today. I hope tomorrow sees you a little more cheerful.

There's an easy way to ensure that, Caleb.

And how is that? Tell me. I'll do anything.

Don't come over.

Nice.

I warned you.

Yes. Yes, you did.

So much better than I expected.

I met a giraffe today.

This is probably not a big deal to those of you who are well-traveled or grew up in major centres with amazing zoos but I figured I would have to venture on an African safari to see a giraffe up close and in person.

I did not. One of the first things I read about Vancouver was that the zoo had a giraffe.

Yes, yes it did. It had a bunch of them, actually.


We just haven't had time to go until now. And I am so happy we went. We saw hippopotami and zebras and rhinoceroses (um, no idea on plural there) and the giraffes who were so lovely and accommodating as I hogged their attention for most of the afternoon.

Maybe your bucket list does not including meeting a giraffe. That makes me sad, and we can't be friends anymore, because mine does. And he was aloof and pompous as shit.

Chasing wonderment.

Going to check off a bucket list item today.

I will return with pictures.

(However, since I'm one of the few people on the planet not claiming to be a pro/am photographer, the pictures will probably be awful. It's okay. This isn't for you, it's for me.)

He is coming down. Unraveling slowly, counterclockwise still, the hypnotic vortex of nervous, excessive, giant energy dissolving into a maddening lack of routine. Pointing out I don't need to do laundry or chores or anything. It can wait. It can all wait while Ben pulls me into his arms, against his chest and keeps me there, tucked in amongst need and admiration, flush against satisfaction and comfort, fused to lust and raw desire.

I throw my arms around his neck and leave them there. I'm not budging as day becomes night and the sun dims in favor of stars, too many to count as the breeze ruffles my hair so slightly but fails to keep me awake. My eyelids are so heavy. Cement. My chin drops and I let go of consciousness, not caring as it slides down the cliff into the sea. At the last second Lochlan grabs it and pulls it back to the grass, running his hand across my hair, a familiar touch that rouses me briefly, gently.

I look up and a kiss glances off my forehead. Ben pulls my head back down and holds tighter, just for one breath and then I am released. I stand up and Lochlan takes my hand. It's dim. The outdoor lights are off. I follow him back to the door. Ben is behind me. The house is quiet, asleep. We reach our room and the door is closed, locked behind me. I am trapped within the four walls, within four arms, within two hearts. Or maybe that's five hearts, give or take two ghosts and the Devil too. Tonight there are four arms, tanned and familiar, too hard and too desperate, one historical reach and one future love paradise, a conflict lies within the muscles that keep me glued to that space in between their souls.

Ben's arms come back around me, pulling me down, forcing me out into the night. He is risk, adventure and innocent longing, a very basic want, here and now, no questions, no second-guesses, no hesitation, no regrets. His eyes hold nothing but love and want for me and an acceptance of the way things will be, ways he has engineered in absentia, in absoluteness. I am passed back, against gravity into Lochlan's arms, stability, logic and safety, history, complicated and ruined and nuanced, all regrets on deck, innocence lost, accusations hurled, scarring deep gouges into memories left unprotected to the elements, a regret that burns, manifesting itself in an almost comical inability to step away, so instead we move closer together.

Dawn breaks across the horizon line but I miss it.

Super (Charged)

Yes, I've had a few rides in the new Porsche. It's incredibly delicious. A 911. It sounds just like my car and has elicited a Pavlovian response in that every time he pulls up to the house I go and see who is taking my car, since they sound the same. Hence, he is greeted personally each time, which pleases the Devil to no end, let me tell you. I should be less proprietary over my car, but it isn't ownership, it's curiosity that moves me.

Too bad I can't say that for anyone else.

New car smell.

And baby you hurt oh I know
Things we did they just won't die
But life it goes on
Gotta live
We gotta live with how it feels
Down there inside
The feelings that you fight
The demons that you hide
Know you're not alone in how you feel

I am busy. I'm folding laundry and bouncing back and forth between the piles of clothing (stacked in piles according to wearers) and the kitchen, cleaning up and preparing for the next meal. I run the household much like the army does, if I knew anything about the army at all. I have no time for this and yet he's tearing moments apart looking for space anyway.

The ribbon is black with tiny embroidered daisies. It seemed summery so I tied it around my ponytail in a neat bow. By the end of the day it will be jammed into Ben's back pocket when he finds it unraveled on the patio or in the front hall. By then my ponytail will be low and loose, escaped waves everywhere. Disaster and nothing less than the usual.

The Devil puts his hand out to touch the ribbon but I am already on the other side of the kitchen, drying the big pots and pans to be put away.

Bridget.

Yes?

Nothing. I just wanted to be sure of you.

I stop moving and my blood begins a slow simmer, bubbling up into my veins until everything is covered in a red film.

You don't get to use those.

Use what?

Don't think I don't know those quotes better than you think I do. I only forget new things. Insignificant things like 'pick up milk', or 'show me that song'.

So not a decade of trading Pooh quotes with Preacher?

Never. My limbs have become mired in quicksand. Everything is heavy. I can forget about the weight too but once reminded I can't lift it anymore, let alone carry it through the days and nights, unwelcome.

If you want to continue them I'm game. He looks uncomfortable, as if he is deigning to stoop to some level he doesn't want to be on but finds himself on anyway in an effort to jockey for Alpha designation.

I'd rather die than give you any of the honor and familiarity of Jacob's love for me.

I don't need it, princess. I have my own memories with you. I was simply offering an outlet.

Yeah, you're good at that, aren't you?

I just want you to be happy. That's all any of us want, Bridget. We want to be the one to make you happy.

Then stop making me miserable!

Achievement unlocked. Hot tears have spilled over. My nose stings, my skin turns pink, my eyes turn turquoise-blue. He is fascinated, pulling me in against his chest, his fingers locked around my arms, lifting me up to my toes, staring down into my eyes with a wonder that never changes even though he has borne witness to this strange phenomenon for most of my life. I have tried to change how it happens but I guess I should give up after all these years. It's just the way I cry.

It's the last thing I want.

Could have fooled me.

Look, I understand the disappointment. I've been there. You have to remember this way you can continue to honor Cole's memory and Ruth does not have to switch allegiance which would be difficult at her age and unfair after all this time. She took Cole's death particularly hard, you know.

You're really going to be all self-righteous about this, aren't you?

No. Look, I feel for the guy. I know he was hoping for a positive outcome.

He would have made a good father.

He does make a good father, Bridget. We all do our part. This way he doesn't get to claim ownership and then drop it later when it suits him.

Just leave.

Like he did with you.

Just GO. Please. Get out. I don't need this.

You should come with me. I'm consistent. I haven't changed, I've never made you second-guess me. I've never changed my mind. I've never denied you anything, princess.

He wouldn't do that with Ruth.

No one thought he would do that with you, Bridget.

He made a mistake. He came back.

And look what it did to you. I wouldn't give my allegiance to someone who hurt me like that. How do you trust someone who does that? How do you continue to throw yourself at them only to be continually pushed back down? What in the hell does he have that the rest of us don't, Bridget? Why can't you just let him go? Everyone blames me for brainwashing you and it wasn't me. It was never me. I tried to save you from him.

His eyes are red now. I am dumbstruck by how vulnerable he looks and now I understand. Wide open, unchecked, miserable and desperate. Naked. It is a gift to be permitted to see someone this exposed. We all wear so many layers to protect from prying eyes. Little Bridget will forever be twelve years old and completely defenseless in the eyes of the Devil.

She doesn't need to be saved from me.

Lochlan is in the doorway and Caleb lets go of my arms gently, releasing me back to the floor, resuming control of his expression, this one weary hatred tempered with a superiority that masks the relief. The smug decorum, the shot-cuffs, pressed-collar, time-is-money glance at his watch.

And with that he is off, striding out the door, stopping on the verandah to say goodbye to the children, collecting the long hugs they give him with assurances of return in a days' time, crossing the driveway to duck into his new black Porsche, roaring out onto the street, away-away. Fly away home.

What was that all about? What did he say to you?

I turned back to face Lochlan, my bloodshot eyes and overwhelmed mind refusing to censor anything. Fuck it.

He says you make a good father to Ruth, even without the paperwork to prove it.

That means he's up to new tricks.

Maybe he just envies you. Did you ever consider that?

No, he sees me as the only obstacle standing in his way.

I think he's given up.

God, that dreamworld you live in, peanut? It's positively epic. I get why you sleep at night, you fill your own head with lies.

It's better than the alternative.

What alternative?

Remembering the truth.

Super. Ficial.

(Some nights there is no heavy talk at all.)

It was sort of a spur of the moment challenge tossed across a dinner table stacked tall with Chinese takeout, spare chopsticks and puddles of soy sauce, glassware and assorted cookies still wrapped, their fortunes kept secret in sealed packages.

Hey, Benny, if you grow a set of mutton chops between now and Christmas I'll let my bangs grow out.

I wanted to eat the dare as soon as it came out of my mouth. Not only does Ben look lupine and positively wild with facial hair of any kind, but I never liked my face without the long wispy bangs in my eyes, in my mouth, wherever they end up. I never keep them trimmed (or brushed) but I never actually let them grow out either.

You're on, little bee.

He has wanted me to grow them out forever. And me, well, I kind of like the seventies look on men. Aviators, bell-bottom jeans, plaid shirts and long hair with As Much Facial Hair As Possible and I'm gold. Ben does not subscribe fully to that look and that's okay too. I never asked him to change. He still asks me to grow my bangs out. We're just impossibly surfacey and shallow like that, what can I say? How dare feelings or promises get in the way?

I know. Ridiculous.

But between the new gold pirate tooth (Ben had to have a crown and they planned to make the cap white and I was all OMG pirate life for me when they mentioned gold and what do you know? He went gold) and the baseball hat that mashed his hair down all long and flat and made him look well, wow, now all of the sudden we're having a turtle race that will take months and be fun and someone is going to win eventually even though I will probably forget about it unless they remove every last pair of scissors from the house.

It's been done before.

I ate two entire plates full of Chinese food and PJ kept my glass refilled with vodka and something something strawberry and really at this point I would have pointed out I could grow back my fairy wings and pointy ears if only they would just stay still for a little while and everything would have been okay.

Instead I sat at the empty table after dinner with the takeout shrapnel strewn everywhere and I drew until I could move again.

I have everything figured out. No worries.

Bring on the Lizard King.

Staying out late (aka Moving Pictures).

(I'm going to start filing these posts under a FANGIRL or WACKY ESOTERIC CONCERT REVIEWS THAT AREN'T tag or something.)

Riding through the range of light to the wounded city
Filling my spirit with the wildest wish to fly
Taking the high road to the wounded city
Memory strumming at the heart of a moving picture

All this time I've been workin' them angels overtime
Riding and diving and flying
Just over the edge
Workin' them angels overtime

It's Canada Day, possibly the first one we've all been off for and can celebrate fully in the past decade. Every community across the country throws a party and we celebrate being uniquely different, a complete smorgasbord, undefinable as Canadians except in knowing that everyone loves us because we are helpful, fun and unfailingly polite. We're loyal. We talk funny, maple syrup is a food group, our rock music is incredibly distinctive and our country is so large some of us have missed whole provinces and territories and road trips take weeks instead of hours because each major center is isolated hours away from the next. Currently I live 6000 kilometers from where I was born and I feel right at home because I am still home.

We began our celebrations last night with a trip into town to see these guys. Everyone knows Rush is a Canadian band. Everyone.


They're our Pink Floyd, pretty much. Lochlan bought Moving Pictures with some of his money from working overtime, and I was not permitted to touch the vinyl record because my hands were always sticky from cotton candy. Or I was dirty. Or really pick something and he would turn it into a reason.

(For the record, I am still not allowed to touch the vinyl. Because I still have sticky, dirty fingers and am still a child in his eyes, but whatever. Someone hands me a record now and my mouth opens in a little awe-filled oo-sound, because they are still so forbidden to me.)

I saw Rush for the first time three years ago in Winnipeg, of all places (they have only played Halifax twice after all and both times I was too young to go) and was blown away. Blown away. So when they spooled up the Moving Pictures tour it was without question, we would be going.


(Obligatory awful concert snap. Loooooook! It's Aaaaaaaaaalex!)

And we did, last night in Vancouver and it was absolutely mind-numbingly awesome, again. Something like fourteen thousand people air-drumming in unison. Losing our shit to the opening strains of Tom Sawyer, the inevitable tears from me when Faithless was played, because that is my all-time favorite Rush song, and the ever-recognizable YYZ which we might know every single note to by heart, thanks to history, Canadian content laws for radio and television, good taste and Rock Band on the Xbox.

Three hours of music. Ben caught ONE missed note. One. We were exhausted, the band was not. Huh.

It was the perfect kick-off to Canada Day, I believe. I am sated until Clockwork Angels is released. When that happens I'm going to get a copy on vinyl just so I can smooth my fingers along the grooves, feeling the melodies underneath my skin and Lochlan won't be able to tell me I can't.