Saturday lament (with bagpipes, if you please, Benjamin).

We watched It Chapter 2 last night and I'd just like to reiterate here that I remain the World's Biggest Stephen King Fan but only as it pertains to his written words and not to the absolutely deplorably bad treatments or adaptations from book to film. I don't even know at this point if I'm being punked or if they deliberately make everything campy and over the top cheeseball. Am I? Please tell me and I'll shut up, but it seems to me they could make a contrasting achingly-bright and incredibly dark film based on his words and have it be the most sinister and beautiful thing ever made but instead it is compelling story-wise but not that great visually and not even remotely scary. The only time I was scared was when I anticipated the part that was in the trailer, when Jessica Chastain's character visits the old lady.

But I knew it was coming and instead of leaving it dark and chilling they turned it into some brightly-lit, fully-visible slendermanesque moment and man, I was bummed.

Make Lisey's Story into a movie. I fucking dare you.

Better yet, make The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon (My all-time favorite King book) into a movie. But make it good or I'll go to my grave disappointed, and that says a lot because I intend to have a viking funeral.

Girls can't be vikings, Lochlan helpfully points out.

Watch me, I tell him, looking straight ahead. If they can make It Chapter 2 and rake in four hundred and seventy-two million dollars worldwide in revenue, then I'm already a fucking viking. Because we're living in a make-believe world here, clearly.

Wolf moon.

Fun! The snow is starting and I've forgotten what it looks like to wake up to a world covered in white. I may as well live on the moon for how insular and isolated the point becomes in winter, or virtually all of the time, as my preference.

Sam and Matt had a whoop and holler as they came into the kitchen, stomping their feet by the back door and telling me that later, we will build a snowman.

Great, now I have the Frozen soundtrack in my head (haven't seen the second one yet, still) and that will flow seamlessly into Miss Saigon and by dinner time I will have plowed through Phantom of the Opera, Hair and Les Miserables, too. All you have to do is sing a note from a single musical (Broadway OR film) and I'll snowplow back into my extensive catalog.

Actually, no, I didn't like Hamilton at all, in case you're about to suggest it. The subject matter held zero interest for me, though the music is high quality, to be certain. Next up? Hedwig and the Angry Inch. I'm told it's a riot and all this time I thought it was the sequel to James and the Giant Peach (which is not a musical but a childrens movie). But my golden rule remains. The music has to stick with me long after the story ends or it doesn't get a second round.

(And the next person who sings Toss a coin to your witcher, oh valley of plenty in this house gets clocked. I freaking loved that part so much.)

Ghost conscience.

Nevermind it, I have my face in a big tumbler of Laphroaig, one ice cube that crackled and then exploded out of the glass, hitting the floor. Never had that happen before. Probably Jake telling me to stop drinking.

Yeah, no, fucker.
 

A provincial girl in a savage world.

I'm struggling with my words again today. It must be this slow alcoholic-chemical-SAD lobotomy thinking it's doing me a favour, shutting me down against my will. I prefer to be top-flight naive, difficult to engage but increasingly bright, shining like a beacon over the dulled lands of my-

(I just sneezed on my laptop. For fucks sakes.)

I wanted a word for the opposite of an anarcho-primitivist. Like I'm not ready to ditch authoritarianism for hunting and gathering per se, I would like to tone it all down just a little though. So in my research the only antonym for primitive that came up was 'chivalry' (no) and then finally 'modern'.

Anarcho-modernist doesn't really have a ring to it, though. Though it does sound like a vocational art style from the late seventies. I mean the 1870s. Boy. I bet they were with it.

(Wow. I just coughed on my monitor and PJ just shot me a look like he's never touching this machine again. It's okay. He has his own. They did say there's a plague in every twenties decade, right? Here we go. I guess I'll be patient zero.)

Then I looked up expat, since I wasn't superclear on that either. It seems to be if you're from away but all it means is 'a person who doesn't live in their country of origin'. I dug further, looking for a word that denotes someone who doesn't live in their province of origin but there was nothing, and then there's the 'snobby' definition of provincial stuck on the end of it so there you go, I'll be the provincial girl.

I'm just curious. It's a hobby. And it's far better to look up random words than to-

Why are you reading Kaczinsky's writings? 

He's fascinating. 

He's certifiable. 

Yes, but very high-functioning certifiable like me and not-

Bridget. 

What? Hey, technology isn't some neutral thing that we use how we see fit-

Oh my God. Stop.

At least he didn't call me Princess.

What kind of day is it, Peanut?

It's the kind of day where you tuck your t-shirt into your underpants before putting on your jeans. 

He laughed so loudly. Not sure if he expected that answer or another, but this is the kind of day it seems to be, after all.

Why did you call me Peanut? 

Sorry, it just came out. I'll stop. 

It's fine. And it is, as Lochlan rolls his affection out like springy pastry, flat and wide to cover a huge area before picking it up and dropping it on top of us. We are four-and-twenty blackbirds in a pie. Lochlan? He's the king.

His queen was beheaded though.

Not before she tucked her undergarments into her drawers, I bet. 

Wait. Undergarments means the same as drawers? 

I don't know, maybe. 

We are lying in bed, watching the rain pour down the windows in sheet after sheets. Those sheets are cold, mine are warm for August is almost as warm as Lochlan these days and he's made a rare shift to come and spend time here in the big house after a specific invitation that involved me crafting an elaborate story about how I am indeed made of sugar and will most definitely melt if I go out in the rain and also not letting go of Lochlan but we would love to see him nonetheless.

There is no method and there are no rules to this part of my life. We don't so much have secret code words as we do cyclical moods. He's free to accept or decline. He's free to leave in the middle of the night or sometime next week.

The only he can't do right now is tell me to get out, or tell me I'm not allowed to tuck my t-shirt into my underpants, because I'm a strong independent woman who needs all of her men, frankly and he had another laugh as he agreed to whatever I want. My little heart doesn't desire much but what it does desire is highly specific. My only regret this morning is that Lochlan left (WORKWORKWORK WTF) before I won our bet handily, in that he figured the minute he left (without his shirt tucked in, I might add, which is fine, you'll just BE COLD LATER), August would follow.

But he didn't.

Hoping he stays until February. At LEAST.

Tiny soaked thoughts, floating in a puddle on the drive.

Heavy downpours, flash floods, snow up on the highway. January in the lower mainland is a wet and messy affair, and I have come to loathe it almost as much as the same period in the prairies when the temperatures dip far below what seems reasonable, and the ice builds to a fever pitch right through until Easter.

This is hard on the mind, I think, though I don't know how exactly. The darker, shorter days aren't that bad, the rain is nice, actually, drumming on the windows to lull me to sleep, leaving all the rules broken so that there are lights on all day long and no one complains or turns them off.

I baked early this morning. Blueberry muffins. Seven pans worth and they were gone by eleven this morning. I forgot to take one when they were cool and so I don't get one, but it's okay.

But this rain. 

It's tough on a good day and almost impossible on a bad.

I need a vacation.

I need groceries.

I think I need a new raincoat.

Extra zinc for turquoise, just for me.

Last night the weather cleared just long enough for us to cook and eat outside, down on the beach over a fire before it was fed enough to roar up into the night, sparks turning to fireworks to the point where I couldn't tell them from the stars. There were six acoustic guitars in attendance wielded by five established bards and one court jester, who continues to learn at a pretty good pace, truth be told. I grew sleepy from the red wine and the roast beef, my belly full of homemade bread, my body warm under a blanket, sitting on one of the driftwood logs we have dragged into a loose circle.

These nights are the ones I love. We've just moved from the woods to the lake, from the ocean to the other ocean, from childhood into adulthood, from ignorance into character, scarred by time. The guitars are better quality and worn. The faces lined, the hair beginning to turn grey for some of us, white for others and not yet for the rest.

Lochlan heralds the end of the evening with a generous sprinkling of cooper sulfate, copper chloride and a polymer that he mixes in small batches to make the flames turn colour. Sort of like Mystical Fire packets but he uses a slightly different blend to garner deeper colours and longer lasting flames. Don't try this at home, he laughs, because in real life the packets you buy at the last-stop stores are engineered to be thrown into a fire without being opened first.

It grows cooler soon enough and the rain threatens a swift return and so by eleven we are all up and inside, with new glasses of wine, beach blankets draped up along the covered railings. Everyone scatters to the far corners of the point and the spell is broken by the fat cold droplets that begin to fall, soaking the darkness, washing away our sins.

Thief of hope.

You've taken all of my roles and redistributed them to the others?

It's not an accusation, just an observation. He's right, though. I have begun to mourn him while he is still alive, the glaring absence of his presence a fresh new pain that I've worked doggedly to bury somewhere in with everything else.

No, I haven't. I don't know what you mean. My voice is fake-bright and brimming with the lies spilling out of my face like a waterfall. (Oh, I know what you mean, Sam.)

Bridget, please. I'm just looking for what you already have. 

It was there all along, Sam. 

Selfishly we'd all like to be number one, though, don't you think? Don't you understand that? Maybe...Duncan or PJ are content to simmer on a backburner but I always needed more than that. Just. like. you. 

The forced focus on the inflection of his words annoys me. You're further diluting it, for. your. information. I match it, just to be a jerk. Just to twist the screws. We're about to embark on the first romantic fight of our relationship, and I intent to win it. If I don't it will kill me and I already died yesterday.

You're jealous.

Of Matt? I laugh. Matt is shallow and temporary. What we have is deeper. It's EVERYTHING.

It's nothing, Bridget. There's no promise, no commitment, no giving of oneself to it whole. No bringing it before God-

Oh Sam. Why do you get so hung up on marriage? You've done it twice. You know the saying fool me twice-

Third time's the charm?

What?

It's the saying, Bridge.

You think marrying Matt again will work?

I can marry him or I can marry you but I didn't get this far in life not to be happy.

You can't marry me, I'm already- And then I realize he got me. He's right. Oh fuck.

Right.

When?

Easter, maybe. Someone told us we shouldn't rush so we're listening to her.

She's a puppet though.

Oh, I know.

Would you have, though? Where were you when Jake flew?

I was still married, Bridget, or I would have offered.

Sometimes I wish you had.

It would never have worked but it would have been fun.

Don't say things like that.

Don't go around missing me when I'm right here. If you need me just come find me. I'll never abandon you.

Thank you, Sam.

For what?

For saying that. I know you mean it.

He nods. So can I be the thief again?

No, sorry. I need to do this. If the same things aren't working then they need to be different.

Couldn't have said it better myself.

Let's welcome a new memory thief in 2020.

When I die there won't be any show. No one will remember the girl with all the gifts, save for the ones I gave them to. There won't be any lights, no sandwich boards with my talents written on them in cheap acrylic paint, no drama, no wailing, no flinging of oneself into the sea or sky, no open sobbing, no wringing of tissues in dry hands. There will be some punched walls maybe, a few quiet sulks as they figure out how to go it alone with a missing presence but otherwise I expect things to remain quiet.

Until they cut me open, to find out exactly why I died.

There will be the horror, the tenderness, the unprofessional exclamation and surprise. Yes, they will confirm, she did indeed die of a broken heart, but look at it! What an absolute masterpiece! And they will heft it aloft into the light to see the heavy black parts, to see my neat, even stitches interspersed with Ben's hasty duct taping and Lochlan's cauterized seams, to see the parts so light they are almost clear-pink like candy, and to reflect on the fact that life does find a way, because shoots and stems are bursting from it, leaves curled up almost (but not quite) ready to open, flower buds tight and delicate, ready to bloom, ready to start over, ready for something, up for anything.

And what feeds those is this black underneath, they theorise. I wonder what's it's made of. It's not rot, exactly, but it's not alive either. 

It's her memories, Lochlan says from the corner. They weigh more than the rest so they've settled to the bottom.

Those are in her mind, the examiner says to him, almost dismissively.

Look for them, then, Lochlan challenges. You don't gatekeep Lochlan, there isn't a thing he doesn't already know except how get through this part.

Well, of course, it's right here, don't be ridicul- And he stops because again, there is that unexpected surprise. She doesn't have a brain.

Oh, she does. But her heart ate it, along with everything else. 

That isn't possi-

You tell me what you see, then, and I'll tell you what I know. And Lochlan settles in, getting comfortable. This is a new-old role for him, and he plays it better than anything else he's ever done.

Ruled by oak moons and Neptune.

Wake up, Princess.

I swim out of the depths of my dreams, toward the bright lights at the top, lungs bursting for air. I gasp when I break the surface, filling my lungs, feeling Lochlan's arm tighten around my ribs from where he has pulled me close. It's okay, everything is okay.

Jacob is kneeling beside the bed, one hand out, smoothing my hair back from my forehead with his thumb, a gesture so missed, so familiar that I want to cry.

It was just a bad dream. 

I know. I'm suddenly inconsolable, cranky. I smack his hand away and turn away from him, back towards safety as Cole snickers in the blackness behind Jake.

Lochlan wakes up when I move too much, programmed by years and years of being both a parent and a lover.

Okay?

I nod against his chin and he mumbles fuck off ghosts and holds me so tightly it's hard to breathe.  Close your eyes, he orders and I listen. Sleep, he barks and I try but fail. I wait until his breath evens out and I slip out from his now slack-grip and dress in the dark, watching through the holes in my sweater as I slide it over my hair in case the ghosts have snuck back in. Ben never came to bed. I'm pretty sure Ben came home in the middle of his meetings and now has to figure everything out from here so he's downstairs working.

I toss a coin inside my mind and promptly lose it as it lands on an edge, rolling away into a dark corner where the cobwebs are too thick to venture and the shadows too long to risk. Then I remember Matt lives here now and I make a left down the hall, knocking on the door softly before letting myself in. I climb in under the covers and a gentle startle wakes the Devil, who lets his surprise shine as he makes room for me, tucking his arm around my ribs, chin on top of my head.

Now I can sleep, he says.

Me too, I assure him, since the ghosts won't come anywhere near someone this frightening.

Me or you? Caleb asks, holding me harder, but I am already too far gone to answer, fast on my way back to my dreams.