Maritime language.

Who am I kidding? I tell the girl who lives in the sea.I'm not fierce. I'm not wild. I'm not capable or independent or ready for this year. I keep telling myself I'm going to bite 2020 off in chunks, swallowing them whole instead of vice-versa, but the girl in the sea just mouths my own words back to me silently. She's like a frothy, choppy little mirror, and I don't like the fact that she looks so much like me anyway.

Maybe she has her shit together and can stand in (or stand up) for me. Maybe she can haul herself up on the rocks and up the stairs and drip in through the patio doors, seaweed in her hair, barnacles fixed to her flesh, green eyes diluted a dark teal and they'll never know the difference. Maybe she can fool them all.

But if she's fierce, if she's capable, using the moon to pull her sea in and out at will, they'll know. They'll know it isn't truly me, they'll know she's an imposter, they'll be disappointed, first in me, and then in themselves as they wonder where they went wrong.

This is what happens when you protect your young instead of teaching them how to fight. It's a mistake I won't be making with my own.

***

I need a list because Sam asked for a barometer and then promptly stole the parmesan cheese from my fridge, taking it back across the driveway, promising to replace it the whole way out the side door even as I told him not to worry, I have a new one in there somewhere.

I figured a list of good things was a good plan. 

This week the weather has been awful enough to slow things down a little, or maybe a lot though it's been stressful getting around the highways, which are always closed because people think they can defy physics or something. So I learned to casually use my 4WD on the fly, alone or with others and I feel so proud. It's always been one of those mysteries (like why we can no longer buy the squeeze cheese with the disc cap, the Kraft Squeeze-A-Snak stuff, WHERE DID IT GO?) that I wanted to conquer.

Nothing can't wait, as PJ says. Ah. A double negative. I love it. He is right.

We have cake. And new tattoos. And peaty-delicious-smokey whiskey. Tons of groceries, lots of wood, all the chargers are charged, vehicles are gassed up. We are warm. We are loved. We are together.

We have Sam for a little God, Ben for a little rock and roll, Duncan for his coolier than thou attitude, and Lochlan for his all-round entertainer status and his internal, eternal fire. Caleb for his ice, for his vast knowledge of everything and his unwavering capability in any situation.

We have slept. We have laughed and we hold each other damn-near constantly. We are exactly two weeks into this new year and we haven't kept a whole lot of this viking/wolf energy we said we would bring to it but we have a lot of time left, too.

I point that out, tilted forward, hands on my knees, talking to the girl in the sea but I don't even think she hears me, she's too busy talking right back.

Meghan can be my new best friend. She understands my life.

I'm patiently awaiting the announcement from the Queen as I learn that Harry and Meghan have shipped their dogs to British Columbia. You don't bring your dog until you're good to go so this is fascinating news. I'm also patiently awaiting all of the people with all-season tires who always proclaim the roads to be 'fine' to be at work or wherever and out of my way for safety reasons.

Last night I was given a solid course in using four-wheel-drive on my Jeep as I had to venture out in a snowstorm to pick up Henry after work at like ten. I usually pawn it off on the boys if the roads look bad but I looked out, saw the howling, raging blizzard, plummeting temps and rapidly-accumulating snow and thought, yes, perfect. Now is a good time to do this. 

I did fine. We lived. No problems at all.

It gave me confidence.

This is our annual two weeks worth of West Coast Winter and I'll still be glad when it's over, though Lochlan has been ridiculously patient with my fears, cabin fever and claustrophobia. But at least it's light out later, right?

(You would never know that I am Maritime-born and raised. Jesus Christ. Actually you would, wouldn't you?)

In other news, the laundry is almost finished and I'm about to go out and help shovel. Not your usual Monday but actually it's absolutely a typical Monday, truth be told.

Fucking snow. LOL

The Sun was in my eyes (part one and part doom)

In church this morning and Mr. Sapphire Cufflinks (you know who I mean!) brings me coffee, which is nice because it's cold and I'll be able to miss at least five minutes of the service, as I'll have to pee and need to pick a good time to excuse myself, walk down the aisle, into the vestibule and then down the public hall toward the meeting rooms. There are two bathrooms just to the right when you start down the hall.

I put in my airpods and listen to a song by Woods Of Ypes (okay, two) while sitting on the counter, because the hymn Sam chose for this snowy cold Sunday was an unbearable Christian lament and the coffee turned out to be a great excuse because I'm really picky about what goes in my ears. Any music is better than no music, I always say, but also Driver picks the music. This is my life, I'll be in charge of the soundtrack, church or not.

When I come out, Sam is standing in the hall.

Are you sick?

No? I had an extra coffee so I didn't think I could wait until we get home to pee. 

I was starting to worry. 

I was only gone five minutes. Who's doing the sermon? 

George. He's ready. And you were gone for over fifteen minutes. 

Sorry. In a dreamworld today I guess. 

Let's return? He holds out his elbow. I take it.

Okay. And I want to ask him something but I don't. I don't want to wreck anything or start anything. I feel like he's brand new again and I need him in my life.

I don't have to ask because he answers me anyway. I miss you, Bridge. I miss our late-evening philosophical chats. 

Don't you have them with Matt?

Of course, but he has such a different world view. It's harder and more pragmatic. Yours is kinder, more imaginative. 

That's how I describe Lochlan and I. That's funny. 

Do you think Matt will be my Lochlan?

I think he already is. We walk back into the sanctuary to see Lochlan coming down the aisle. He waited twenty minutes because he knows some of these songs are even longer than others. He smiles when he sees me and I tell Sam at least I hope Matt is a Lochlan for you because it's wonderful.

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.