Fog-sharpening.

Hey
How long

I woke up this morning to Lochlan gasping for air, fighting for breath because I had my arms wrapped tight around his neck, holding on to him for dear life trying to get away from a nightmare I have constantly but it played out longer this time. Hours. Days. Weeks. Years.

Which means they're giving me Ambien again. Nothing fuels a nightmare like that garbage. Instead of bringing me back around it only serves to paralyze me, helpless and uncaring while my brain tears me apart without interruption. Outwardly I look like I'm having a great sleep most of the time. This time I managed to fight it so hard I almost strangled him in the process.

A momentary shout of surprise, a gentle but firm effort to quell my panic and we got all the way through an icy cold breakfast out in the gazebo (twelve degrees and he refused to turn on the heat. There will be no elaborate comforts for you today, freak, I'm sure was his reasoning.)before he asked for an explanation.

Sleep paralysis, I lie. Fuck you, then, if you're going to take it personally. I'm trying to save our lives here.

What's the dream about?

Jacob comes back.

How?

He wasn't dead. He went to a monastery.

Sounds like a film.

Yup.

And?

He wants absolution, wants to pick up where we left off.

Isn't this your most fervent hope?

I smile tightly. God, you can be such an asshole. I woke up with my arms around you because I wanted to be with you and he was trying to pull me away.

That's not going to happen in a million years. You're seeing him everywhere. You conjure him in the clouds, in the water, in your dreams.

I'm afraid he's going to show up and ruin what we just got back.

Wow. And for the second time in less than a week I've driven a grown man to tears. Usually they're immune to my words, my thoughts. But I've got everything freshly sharpened for fall at last and it's cutting deeper than expected.

I'll never forget that you just said that. If nothing else, I know now that none of this was in vain.

Who said it was?

Caleb, among others.

Well, they're wrong. As much as I wish for Jacob to come back, it's so he can pay for what he did like a man instead of a coward, living in the fringes of my peripheral vision and my dreams.

User 34739, your battery is low.

We won't just fall away
We weren't just born to fade
Our stories are past the horizon
We're chasing the sun till we find them

I watch him sleep. God, he's trying so hard right now. I should be grateful. I should be thrilled. I should be less suspicious. The extreme stress of coming home, suddenly wondering if maybe it truly was a terrible idea to have Sam and Caleb living in the same house led to a mess yesterday and the only way out of it was the cold shock of the sea. I was perfectly safe. Caleb's a great swimmer. They can see it coming a mile away and I never throw myself in unless under heavy supervision. It's enough to reset my brain, or set it back, as it did yesterday, failing to do it's job, floating my ghosts to the surface, looming those monsters in closer than ever, thanks and I was relieved to be out.

They've been fine. If anything they are giving each other healthy space but also notes of curiosity float between them as they are the final relationship within the Collective to form,  Sam uninterested in forging a friendship with someone who flies in the face of his deep faith, Caleb loathe to extend the barest of acknowledgement to someone he considers a credible threat.

But yet here we are. They cooked dinner together last night, the electric snap of interest between them palpable and elastic. I didn't expect that. I mean, maybe it was a show but Sam rarely engages in effort for effort's sake and needs meaningful reasons for anything. Caleb is surprised to discover Sam is engaging, warm and concerned without being overbearing or intrusive. Sam is enigmatic and fascinating. He's a little like Lochlan save for the energetic intensity and quiet confidence. He's more than a little cute. And they can fall in love over the coming Autumn while I fall apart, I guess, and it will be fun to watch.

But he turned his attention back to me after dark, when Sam and the others drifted to their corners, new and familiar. He took my hands in his, kissed my palms and then held to his face so I would pay attention.

I meant what I said. 

I nod.

Will you help me fix this. I started it and I'm holding myself accountable. Will you help me to help you? 

I nod again. I'm trying not to cry. If I say a single word it's going to happen. He is already.

No more jumping in the sea?

I can't promise-

You have to, Bridget. No more of that. No more waiting until it's so bad you don't have a choice. I want you to come to me before it gets to that point. Do you understand?

I don't always have a warning, Cale-

Jesus Christ. 

But I still felt small.

(Hi, you can skip today. It's not for you.)

Now I wait
This metamorphosis
All that is left is the change
Selfish fate
I think you made me this
Under the water I wait

I pushed up toward the light, away from the blackness, the unknown beneath me. Fighting panic, fighting to breathe I shot to the surface, a reverse asteroid hellbent on remaining on earth, even as I was meant to descend from the stars.

Neamh-

No. I push him away. This isn't what I want. This isn't how I pictured it all. I dip back under briefly and in the blackness I see Jacob, who takes me around the waist to propel me back to them. His hair flows around his face, his beard floats and his eyes are still so kind, even now when filled with concern.

Go, Bridge. You don't belong here.

I know. It's the Atlantic, not the Pacific, that I'll die in. That's why they keep me here. Can't self-fulfill a self-fulfilling prophecy when they won't let me out of their sight.

You're not going to die until you're a very old apple doll. I laugh in his face as he says it and he frowns as I fight his efforts to push me to the air.

It'd be easier to stay with you. 

Not for them and he's done talking. He gives a final thrust of his arms and I am catapulted into the sky, gasping for air as Caleb's hands reach down and pull me from Jacob's arms.

STOP IT. He's screaming and I don't know it until the water drains from my ears. His voice is strange, strangled and strained. I don't remember him ever sounding like that before. Instead of holding me away from him he pulls me in tight, stroking my face. He's not down there, Bridget.

Maybe you should tell him that. 

He looks at the sky. I don't even know what to do with you at this point. Tell me how to help. Tell me how to prevent this. THIS is what's killing all of us, Bridge. Please. Let me help you. Don't let all of this go to waste. Jesus CHRIST. I did this all for you. At least let me use it to fix this. 

You can't fix this. 

Let me try. Oh, Jesus, please let me try. He breaks and I get to see it happen.

I think that's what might work. If they all drop the facades and let me get through this then maybe I can actually get through it instead of dying every time I try. A force of one tiny bird against a gale force wind, an army of weather I can't rise above so I keep trying to sneak underneath.

Jacob shakes his head. Ever cautious and doubtful. Ever dead.

You don't get a say! I yell at the water and Caleb just continues to sob.

Here.

(We're home from New York. I'm so tired. This will be short and I'm going to bed before supper.)

 Sometimes I think I'll die of curiosity waiting for the denouement of my own life, and yet when faced with a fortune teller and an open schedule I can't set one foot in front of the other, too superstitious, too doubtful to follow through. The last one who spoke to me was so right and so eerily prophetic I can't even imagine what would happen this time and yet I want to know so badly it hurts.

While we were away Sam and Gage shifted homes, only instead of Gage moving to the boathouse, Andrew and Christian are taking it, and Gage will move in with his brother and Daniel instead. Which works far better and never even crossed my mind, honestly. I'm excited to see it all works out but for now I am busy worrying that having Sam and Caleb living on the same floor might be a difficult thing. Sam is hesitant but also buoyed with the omnipresent faith of his that it's all going to work out. His own denouement, as it were.

If it really doesn't work Sam will move next door also and live with Schuyler, Dan and Gage. It's a big house and there he will have company but also privacy which is the best of both worlds.

Silver-lined.

You know what I secretly love about Caleb? He can be ridiculously, childishly impulsive. Like me. And I never see it coming. So he waited for Lochlan too and we went off for brunch. Only we were late and so brunch became midnight dinner.

In Montauk.

A place I have come to find sacred, safe and calming. Which is crazy because it's right next to a city that runs at a pace that leaves me breathless and then you drive for a few hours and boom. Silence. Surf. Sand.

And they were nice to each other. I started to get nervous and tired and kind of lost my shit at the end of what turned out to be a long day. I am famous for travelling much like a four-year-old in that I need breaks and distractions and I get overwhelmed and worn out so fast my composure dissolves just as I'm told to put on nice clothes because we're headed somewhere exclusive and difficult to get into.

And they stopped on a dime and turned and Caleb arranged take-out instead and we ate on the beach just down below the place he rented, which isn't all that far from the place Lochlan and I stay when we come here alone.

After dinner I put my head against Lochlan's shoulder and I was out like a light and I woke up this morning and it wasn't actually a dream. Especially since I woke up alone. I smell burnt toast and hear the low laughter and head downstairs in yesterday's dress and they're making breakfast, faces clearly disappointed as they were going to bring it upstairs for me but I beat them to the punch by showing up before it was ready.

Fucking 1979 is playing on the stereo and becomes the song of the summer, just like that. Only it's still The Contortionist's version, thank heavens.

There are bags on the table. Clothes. Caleb kisses my forehead as I peek inside but then breakfast is ready so I resolve to eat quickly and get ready so I can have as much beach as possible before we have to go. He and Lochlan are already ready, dressed almost alike in black t-shirts and black shorts. Damn. I'm so lucky.

Why here? I asked last night over candlelit sand, my voice slowed by the heavy red wine. Lochlan had excused himself for a moment and we were alone.

Because you needed an adventure and I didn't think another shot at Nevada was a good plan. 

New York is so far though. Could have gone to Oregon.

He shrugged. And we could have gone to Bali. Pick a beach anywhere in the world. It's not the same. Besides, we can go to the fair today.

Why did you bring Lochlan? 

He's your comfort object. Imagine the meltdown if I hadn't. 

True. I stick my face in the glass and hope to drown. Who wants to imagine that?

Sleeping holes.

And I know it feels like you’re drowning these days
And I know you question if it’s too late
And my only hope is that you choose to stay

Don’t be too proud to say
That you are alone, lost and afraid
Think about your pride
Just know your doubt’s misplaced

I know it feels like you’re drowning these days
I know you feel like you can’t be saved
And my only hope is that you choose to stay

Church this morning was coffee and ballpoint pen-stained fingers clutching my own and a whispered, quickened prayer against my forehead before a crush of a hug and a send-off into my day so fast I blinked and I was alone.

Sam came to us last night, late. He has a hard time shifting routines and an even tougher time living alone. As much as it has helped us to have Caleb close enough now to touch at any moment, it's been more difficult to have Sam so far away and so I might, as things shift, suggest that Gage take the boathouse, as Gage is the most private and independent one of all, and then Sam can resume life in the main house, surrounded by people and not feeling like an outsider. Plus both Gage and August are good friends, night owls and outliers, and so giving them closer proximity to each other might foster a closer relationship and that's never a bad thing. The Collective is always shifting and adjusting our dynamics based on need and so this wouldn't even be strange. I have already suggested it to several and they are positive about it so perhaps this week will involve a shuffle and Sam will return to the fold.

He seems buoyed by the thought, at least, sleeping easily when we did sleep. I had nightmares and was so cold. He and Lochlan had all the covers and I froze, pressing myself against Lochlan, hoping for a full-body snuggle but he was hot and too tired to be interested and so turned away. I didn't have the heart to wake Sam for more and so I tried and failed to will myself to sleep.

I won't make that mistake again.

The warmest bed on the point is Duncan's. Duncan has what has to be a four-hundred pound feather duvet that is so thick his bed seems up to my waist if I stand beside it and once you're in you feel like there's a heavy dense cloud wrapped around you. It's glorious. He adds flannel sheets in the winter and I couldn't ask for more. I tried to replicate that upstairs but we almost fainted from the heat. I think I just need to shift gears, maybe put the duvet back on the bed and close the windows at night but it's also supposed to swing back to forty degrees in the shade this week so maybe not quite yet. I'll make sure I have an extra blanket close, though. Just in case.

Sam's warm fingers around my hand are replaced with Caleb's. Equally warm but larger and more well-manicured. My mind is a quick read for this man this morning.

You wouldn't have been cold with me either, he frowns.

That I know. The fires of hell burn bright. I smile at him. It's fine. It was just cold last night and I didn't close enough windows. 

I would have fixed that for you. 

It's fine. I repeat and he changes the subject. Church?

Next week we're back to routine. Today's the last day. 

Ah right. Brunch then? 

God. He knows the way to my heart is a path lined with bacon and eggs. It's slippery but it's stick-straight and too amazing to ever deviate from, I swear.

My only hope is that you choose to stay.

(Should have listened to the cover of 1979, which is far better than the original but that year was a different sort of minefield. It would be the final year of Just Bridget before she met the boys and everything changed.)

The leaves are starting to fall, suddenly it's cool and dark early in the evening, and everything everywhere touts 'Back to School'. The pumpkins in the garden are so large I'm soon to need help to lift them when they need to be moved. Currently they are hanging, wrapped in cheesecloth hammocks tied to the iron fence along the eastern edge of the vegetable patch but soon we'll have to take them down.

The carrots and beans and peas are finished. The oregano remains a living buzzing organism of honeybees and the tomatoes press forward with a determination I've never seen from them before this year.

Our cucumbers were poison. Bitter and terrible from the cold nights. At least only three of them grew.

I am amused by the garden this year, not at all invested in achieving anything other than happiness from it and I think that's the best way to go.

I dug myself a massive dark hole this morning, listening to Early Grave, the best song on the new Contortionist EP. I could have driven my jeep and the porsche into that hole and probably a few of the trucks too. I could have thrown in three houses and the stable too and still you wouldn't have been able to see the bottom. Lochlan took one look over the edge and called Sam, who came and filled it all in while Lochlan held me far back from it, showing me pumpkins and coffee and notes on his guitar from when he tried to learn it and realized I was listening to the words and put the instrument down on the couch and went into emergency mode before I even realized I was digging that fucking hole because here we go into a steep slide straight to Halloween.

Life is a minefield and every second step I land directly on an IED. Life is a day as a sheet of paper with precious instructions, floating in the wind and it's raining so you must fly between the drops. Life is harder than I imagined.

Hey, check out your sunflowers. They actually grew! 

They're so late. They should have been open weeks ago but here they are, only as tall as me and tangled up in the grapevines so perfectly I didn't even know they were there.

I choke back a sob and will my eyes to stop flooding over. Be right there, I say in a strangled voice and I take a deep breath and head to where Lochlan waits for me.

Regressive tendencies.

Sigh.

A whole post about owls and woods and metal and you're all..."a single nother peep"???!?

Bridget, I thought you were a published author. It's 'another single peep'.

God. I could feel the condescension all but dripping off the emails but I had a laugh, wrung myself out, by now floating up to my ears in it, and pulled the plug on the room, washing it all down the drain. I rarely check my emails these days but I was waiting for something and so I read them, against my own best judgment, as I get tired of being told I'm a whore, that I'm going to hell, that I'm greedy and using people and dumb and soon to get 'what's coming to me', etc. etc.

Then the grammar police showed up. Thank heavens, because the others cut so deep but I tend to stay out of reach as it is. And my assistant blocks the worst and reports the very worst to the internet police or whomever needs to know. The Russians? Whatever.

(My assistant is Daniel.)

But yeah. It's a single nother peep. Because for me that's how it's ordered in my brain and I don't care if it's awkward, it's the way my mind does it and going back to edit my words later is sometimes something I can't get to. Sometimes it doesn't get fixed at all and I should try harder but sometimes...

Sometimes I just have to spill the words on the page and leave them there to pile up underneath the dead leaves and the moss and the pumpkin spice lattes and whatever's coming next. I've decided it's going to be good because I need it to be, regression and all.

She's a space cadet. Leave it. Important missions and all that. Lochlan isn't being unkind. In fact, he's the kindest of all, absolving me of my grammar tics and strangeness in one massive sweep. He is forgiving and gracious about it. He called me a space cadet once when I had my thoughts in the sky instead of in the present as required and instead of bursting into tears like he feared I would, instantly wishing he could take back the words he put down in anger, I took it as the single highest compliment he had ever given me. It's better than sweet, heavier than pretty, and more phenomenal than perfect to me.

What? He says, shocked. It's a name called. It's an insult, Bridgie. 

No, it's a goal, Locket. If I start out as a cadet, eventually I'll be the Space General! And then everyone will HAVE to listen to me.

Owls + new Starset.

Gravity
I pull on you
Close enough to rendezvous
You come to me and then you slip right through
I'm in the solitude
Why's it always touch and go?
Now we'll never even know what it's like
Left me in the afterglow
'Til I'm falling through space and time

Okay well, yeah. Toss the rest of the week off with one solid kick and haul in a new day. The owls sung me to sleep last night and when Lochlan came up I was all SHHHHHHHHHH CAN YOU HEAR THEM? And they didn't make a single nother peep for the rest of the night. Maybe that means I've manifested them only for myself, as Ben pointed out this morning. As if I could do that. Like, what?

Speaking of Manifest.

Jesus CHRIST.

I was scared Starset wouldn't sound like themselves. I didn't like MNQN, truth be told. I was really annoyed that there was another project taking up the time that should be used to push out the third Starset album and now that it's almost here I'm thrilled. I listened to Manifest about a thousand times this morning. It has all the elements that stroke my brain just perfectly. Heaviness, melodic emotion, and outer space.

Probably owls too, because owls are cool. 

When I say this afterthought Lochlan's coffee all but spits out in a huge spontaneous laugh.

God this song is SO GOOD.

Eagles, bats, IKEA pour-overs.

Drinking coffee in the gazebo, listening to The Contortionist's new EP Our Bones, reading my own words as I do a little subcontracted fiction writing for a guy who sometimes needs my touch but you'll never hear him thank me out loud. Sometimes gigs are crushing but still lucrative and I never had a soul to sell for so long it seemed easy to give away chunks of the carnival in my mind for a song or a fat cheque or a pat on the head, doesn't matter which.

I am usually the most impressed with the things I come up with anyway, overall.

Lochlan watches me from the patio steps, right by the door in the shade. My very own carnival in human form.  I take another dutiful bite of the apple-jelly toast he brought out for me, washing it down with a gulp of ice-cold gritty coffee from a cup I've been keeping close for several hours now. It's absolutely terrible and yet I'm proving a point. He doesn't need to hover.

I write a few more paragraphs and now I'm faking drinking coffee as it's empty, grinds travelling up the inside of the cup like a waterfall of dirt that eventually dried up in the sun. No one is going to hike back to see this marvel of nature, that's for sure. No one's going to invest kilometres of energy to stand in awe of the raw power of grinds sweeping over a ceramic vessel with a perfect blue-red lipstick print at the top. It's not Instagrammable. It's not wondrous. It's as pedestrian as one can get and you'll never see it but it still exists and that's somehow the important part today.

It's quiet and easy and not beautiful. The opposite of everything we reach for, everything we want, as always.

Oh, here he comes. Old eagle-eyes (blind as a bat these days) knows I'm faking and so I suppose my time here is up.