Baby doll #214 is the shade.

OMG. I may have to take a month off. I got gel nails this afternoon and I am Baby-Yoda levels of helplessness.

I can't type. I dropped Caleb's credit card at the nail salon and had to stand and stare at him until he picked it up so I could pay. I left it on the counter when we came home because I couldn't get it put away properly and I can't stop staring at my hands because they put tiny little gems on my nails and it makes my diamond rings sparkle hugely.

Worth it.

But I can't type. Or do anything for that matter. Kind of fun but also frustrating. The nails are lighter than the acrylic solar bulletproof ones I had before though so maybe I won't be trying to pull them off with pliers and turpentine two days from now.

I also look completely pulled together and that NEVER happens.

Fire, sugar and pavement.

The sun appears to be shortlived, and we are back to the land of heavy petrichor, rippled windowglass and damp dreams, wrung out repeatedly but never enough to dry fully and so they remain smeared and blurry with thick wrinkles that never smooth.

Have you ever seen what happens to cotton candy when it gets wet? That's me, through and through. Sticky, clumped together, dissolving right through your fingers.You have to consume it quickly, as flames does to almost everything it touches, or it goes to waste.

It's still better than snow, still better than forty degrees in the shade sunshine too, truth be told. I have a nice umbrella or six and a plethora of volunteers to hold them, and barring that, a good black raincoat with the sleeves rolled up three times and a plan to sit by the fire all night to warm back up. That's sort of the best deal going. I also have a really great technical running suit that keeps me from getting waterlogged but it's also comfortable, seamless and breathable. Leggings and a long-sleeved top. I feel like a superhero without a cape when I wear it but Lochlan, crushing those dreams with his hands underwater, says I look like a four-year old in too-small pajamas on Christmas morning. He isn't a runner so he does not truly appreciate this set, and it has saved my skin (yes, literally) many times over living here.

We didn't go to church today. Sam did and I was given a long hug and a blessing this morning on his way out. He said the entire congregation is sick and he's down to faith as protection but didn't want to subject the whole house to it as we are struggling with colds anyway. I've been sneezing and huffing to catch my breath while laundering every coat, scarf, hat, sweater, bag and blanket in the house to stay on top of germs. I've been wiping down our shoes and boots on the regular. I've been replacing cups in bathrooms almost hourly but I'm worn out and am now banned from any more of that because it was pointed out we'll either get sick or we won't and since we already mostly are, there's no point left. I have wiped my life down with Clorox wipes to the point where it is bleaching my very bones.

I'm still running though. It's been helping a lot.

Northern Cold.

Sunshine is coming! I saw the yellow dot on the forecast page, the one with the rays. I remember what that shape means. I'm watching the East coast get slammed with snow and storms and I don't wish to be there, this is fine. A little wet, but fine.

Okay, a lot wet and highly depressing. There's more than a couple of the boys who are beginning to struggle just enough that we have tightened up the Collective space and are in each other's faces virtually all the time, it seems and I wouldn't change a thing. I'll go ask someone for help doing the most mundane things and it works. We've made a list of fun stuff to do and we're ticking through it. We're trying new recipes, restaurants and film styles, hence the Taylor Swift documentary the other day. We're trying to wear brighter colors and we're turning on all the lights. We're holding those who need it constantly.

We're trying to get rested but not too much as sleeping all the time is weirdly just as bad as not sleeping at all. I'd love to test that one out personally, but I am not a sleeper.

Oh. Ben's up. Gotta go. Time for my walk on the beach. Bye!

Ignore my technological ineptitudes and I will ignore your judgement and we're even.

I tried to break up with iTunes again, but then I realized I don't actually have any other options and so I came back, we made up at least halfway and it has promised to behave better, at least for a while. There's some fun new bug that means I sync and around...oh, three hours later the songs populate my phone. But they aren't there when I eject it from iTunes. Which meant I was unable to play Woods of Ypres and had to go without and that's not a good scene for me.

I mean, the HORROR.

Right? 

I was very frustrated. I also spent like two hours researching and changing ID tags for my Miss Saigon soundtrack only to find out it did nothing.

I threatened to go back to Blackberry and Lochlan showed me the news that the handsets are going away. I said I should probably buy a few Key Ones or whatever to stock up (I still have my Curve and my Bolds!) and he laughed and said support would also end shortly so no point.

Great. I mean I'm not techy at all but the day I realized I could stuff fifteen thousand songs in my pocket I was pretty happy. Now I'm perpetually frustrated.  Everything just keeps leaping forward and I'm not able to keep up at all. It equals the exact same feeling I had when I was eight and the boys would run ahead, down the path to the ball field and I couldn't go as fast as they could and I got weirdly scared.

Wait, this is not anything like that feeling. Nevermind.
 

Taurus + Pisces.

Kerosene in my hands
You make me mad, on fire again
All the pills that you take
Violet, blue, green, red to keep me at arm's length don't work

There's things I wanna say to you, but I'll just let you live
Like if you hold me without hurting me
You'll be the first who ever did
There's things I wanna talk about, but better not to give
But if you hold me without hurting me
You'll be the first who ever did

He pulled the law of surprise and requested just the evening for a little self-care, a tiny-mini spa night which mostly involves checking my ear-healing progress, drawing a warm bubblebath, drinking a lot of champagne and deep-conditioning my hair. We get through all that, including at least three glasses of champagne each and I climb up into Caleb's lap, using my fingers to trace a Himalayan charcoal mask onto his face, avoiding his eyes and mouth, scraping my skin against his five o-clock shadow.

You leave it on for five minutes and then use a super-hot facecloth to soak it off and wipe it away, okay?

I'll put yours on. Come back here.

I can't do another one this week. My skin is too sensitive. It burns.

If you do it more your skin will get used to it.

I'm sure Caleb is just trying to toughen me up, to help me navigate through life without so many bruises, knocks and a bleeding heart that floods every room it enters. Scar tissue is a great stand-in for fierce confidence, something I can't buy so I'll never possess it. My heart floods blood into my sleeve, dripping down off the edge of my hand. I'll forever be almost, kind-of, not quite all the way there.

Like Pluto.

Hmmm? Caleb is sleepy-relaxed and leans back against his end of the tub.

Pluto's nitrogen lake is not only shaped like a heart, but when it's day there it thaws and wraps the planet in a vapour, and then at night it freezes again and contracts, so it looks like a pulse. It also, I pause for dramatic effect here, is the only planet in our solar system that has an atmosphere that runs in retrograde. The winds flow to the west while the planet turns east.

You run in retrograde.

I told you years ago I was Pluto.

That makes sense. Who am I, Bridge? 

You're....The Narada. 

Narada. The messenger to Vishnu?

No, the Romulan mining ship that comes whipping onto the screen in warp speed with all the pointy bits in Star Trek.

What happens to the ship?

It disappears into a black hole that Spock makes. I think it does, anyway. 

Funny how you know everything about Star Trek but nothing about Star Wars. 

I don't, I just really liked that ship. 

I'll take it personally after all, then.

This post is about Taylor Swift. I'm not sorry.

August and I are simultaneously watching the documentary Miss Americana and texting each other. I was not allowed out (it was too late and too awful outside because RAIN. We've had something like 1478930532 days of it so far this year, and it's getting old again. But it's not snow, so look on the bright side, people. You know, your SAD light.) and he figured that was a sign. It was, most likely.

Oh my goooood what a cute cat. It's one of those grumpy ones, right? A Scottish fold maybe? I don't know

She's got her diary, front and centre. And a kitten. This is some 13 going on 30 shit

Oh yup. 13

Wait. She said ink jet. Not well but jet. And a glass quill? Jesus. Early Cinderella here

Suddenly heartstring-pulling as she seemingly is self-aware and that surprises me. I have this vision of her as a cold-hearted music machine. Granted, I've heard maybe one of her songs. Uh. I don't remember.

August interjects here (and will be purple text)  I knew you were trouble when you walked in

Oh, right.

Cat #2!

"I just need to make a better record". Jesus, woman. Do it for you.

Oh here's mom. Isn't this weird need to please everyone her fault?

I really like the raw songs and not the stylized overproduced stuff. Joel should be ashamed.

It's so lonely at the top. At least mom's there. And Joel. Does Joel have a family?

What airline staff serves the food before takeoff? LOL

Taylor looks surprised at the C-word and then tells us cancer was hard for her. Taylor, she means.  Um..

Omg my dream fridge!

Cat. is. ON. the. table.

What's in that bottle that she's drinking? Wow, she cries alot. Love her.

"We" don't do that anymore. "This" is fine. Odd tenses. I like it.

Oh my fuck. You GO GIRL. STAND UP FOR YOURSELF.

Oh no. Mom, don't be a yes-man. Hug your child. There's dad and Joel. They just stare. For fucks sake

This is called Burnout, Taylor.

Aaaaaaand you fixed it!

Oh, I like that song. Wait, wasn't Jack Antonoff engaged to Lena Dunham?

She's starting to look like she's checked out live.

Brandon Urie?

Oh fixing the wooden expression on stage. Gotcha...

 And here's where I admit I got one hundred percent sucked in and failed to find anything wrong with the rest of it and am a huge fan now! Though I still don't know any of the songs, she seems like she is stuck at whatever age she was when she became famous and with a few quirks she seems like she knows and has learned and is game to admit she's still learning. I wanted it to go on for hours but it stopped way too soon and I realized I stopped texting completely.

I guess that's the story so far.

Aug

Augieeeeeeeeee

You awake?

Sweet dreams

Heavy with limited visibility (like my heart).

Okay! It's started snowing like mad here and I've already organized the Boy Squad (a term they hate) into finishing the laundry, running the dishwasher, getting a huge load of groceries, gassing up the vehicles, putting down de-icer on the driveway, hill and walkways, plus the steps to the beach, and now they're all milling around close by because I'm baking chocolate-chip cookies.

Bring on the snow. I'm ready.

(I'm also feeling a lot better. That helps.)

Hive mind.

It stuns me that I used to get tattooed and then go out and get shitfaced, dance all night, fuck someone and then wake up and do it all again the next night. Nowadays I hobble around the kitchen with my hands out to ward people off, yelling DON'T TOUCH ME HOLY FUCK I'LL KILL YOU if they even attempt to enter the room, forget all about being actually touched. Between my ear and the most recent spate of work I am candy-glass, shattering if you look at me.

I sleep fitfully, on the outside of Ben all through the end of last week, away from any involuntarily thrash or affection from Lochlan in his dreams. He already grabbed me once and felt so bad I grabbed him back in dismay, knowing he also hurts, just somehow not as much because he had less work done again. Dammit.

Mark just laughs as he watches me through the decades as I shrink into a violet when I used to be a mighty tree. It's okay though, I think I've reached the end of my tattoo time and then I want a little more, and then I'm sure and then I change my mind again. My theory is that you only get one form, may as well make it as pretty and unique as possible and thanks to Mark, I think I've done that.

Though, if I may, an entire swarm of fucking bees is a pretty awesome addition to a suit with very little gaps remaining. When in doubt, fill 'em up with bees, I always say.

Or at least that's what I say now. 

Caleb said I look dangerous when I showed him and then I screamed at him in surprise when he went to hug me on my way out.

Give me a few days to unclench my teeth and fists and by then the swelling should be down and I'll be back to normal.

(HA. Who's normal?)

If it glitters it's probably trash.

My soul wanders in a small loop, looking for a permanent home or purpose even, searching for meaning in the endless chaos of my life. It's sure but unsure, convicted but easily swayed, distracted but focused. I'm a magpie, an enigma, a storm on a beautiful day. Just like outside this morning where the sun beamed onto the clouds heavy with rain as they pushed in against the blue, turning everything grey and dim, muting what was supposed to be a day devoid of obligation or purpose.

At least for me.

But I can't embrace it. I can't work with it. I can't relax ever. I don't know why. Sam and Caleb separately gave me the same answer and it surprised me, in that my soul is still looking. I don't give Caleb any credit as when he takes it he locks it in a small box and it remains with him. I do give Sam credit as he has a direct line and can get answers as I need them, though I may not necessarily like them.

It's okay, he tells me. You don't have to like them. Or accept them. They're there regardless. 

Schrodinger's Jesus? 

In a way, yes, Sam laughs.

All-business Saturdays.

Sorry, I checked out of today. I spent four hours flat on my back while Mark attacked the gaps in my suit with tattoos of various things found in nature, mostly bees, taking it until I cried Uncle because no amount of Bactine or zoning was going to get me any further. Then he wrapped all of my new tattoos and Lochlan took me out for a chicken sandwich, which was so good. I had a huge glass of lemonade and then ordered myself a piece of chocolate cake too. He watched me eat, asked if I was good and then we came home to rest.

Mark is tattooing Ben and Loch tomorrow. It's kind of fun, like a mini-vacation save for the fact that I have to hold my wrists at an unnatural angle tonight and I also can't slide my legs up onto the chair across from me underneath the big desk because I don't want to scrape them.

I love my tattoos. I went through a long period of hating all of them but with some reworks and some new direction the love is back with a vengeance.

It feels great. Tomorrow I'll be wrecked but right now this is wonderful. I had no phone, no book, no television, no boys, just a random spotify playlist that Mark has cobbled together and the odd bit of conversation but not much because he likes to concentrate while he works and I like to lie there and guess the artists of the songs he plays.