Sudden Intense Privacy.

I can see it if I keep my head held high
Arms open wide
Heart full, clear eyes
All the doubts all the lies are too heavy to hold so why even try?
You don't have to do this all on your own
This fragile life that you hold is too heavy to carry alone so why even try?
All of the doubts
All of the lies
All of the fears
All of the tears that you've cried
Are too heavy to carry alone
So why even try?

On a day that saw the ferries stop coming to Horseshoe Bay, the world suddenly got quiet. I can hear the waves break on the rocks. I can hear my neighbour's giant wind-chimes way up the hill. I can hear the transitions in vocals in the Colony House album I'm listening to (Leave What's Lost Behind) and I can hear Ben's exasperated breathing as he argues quietly into the phone fifteen feet back from shore, content to accompany me but only if he can get his calls done outside and far from the house, where surprisingly the wi-fi is a little better than it is inside.

I wonder when the ferries will come back. I wonder when the Man will stop telling me how many loaves of bread I can buy in one shopping trip. I wonder when gas will go back over a dollar a litre and I wonder if I should put all of my cash in the washing machine in case it's diseased like the outside world. In case you're from away, our Canadian dollar bills are flexible plastic rectangles that smell like maple syrup and are fully washable.

It's worth nothing now. Clean or not. No one will accept it, it's only worth something like sixty-five cents to every American dollar it's matched to and I'm really beginning to hate all of this. 

I still don't fear getting this virus, though my ear is feeling better and my allergies are now moving in to take centre stage. The cherry blossoms in the orchard are blooming and I wait with zero patience for the lilac buds to fill in and open up, filling the whole point with the most beautiful perfume in the world. I wait to sow my vegetable seeds in the garden so I can gather what I need for dinner without two trips down the highway. I wait for life to resume at the pace I complained so bitterly about before. I wait for Ben to finish his endless work and I wish I could help him finish sooner. I wait for Duncan to straighten back up, never expecting that he would have cracked first out of all of us.

I wait for the ghosts to come back but I haven't heard anything for ages.

Complimentary versus complementary.

Lunch is bruised apples with cinnamon-sugar in the cold sunshine and a well-weighted debate between PJ and I about how I feel we should maybe be doing more to support those of us flagging under the weight of endless quarantine, and he feels Duncan and anyone else who chooses now to start a fight should be frozen right out because we're all adults and insulting people is not the best way to go about this at all.

He wins for logic, I win for compassion. At least some things never change.

Someone to watch over (me).

It's weird how in when things are ticking along those of us who are damaged or perpetually wrecked are supported and held up by those who seemingly have their shit together and then when something catastrophic happens those of us who are damaged somehow pull together and make a herculean one-eighty and lift up those who had their shit together, until they suddenly didn't anymore.

Ben is like that.

So is Daniel.

And Batman.

But probably not me, as I am chaotic truthful on a good day, and not too great in a crisis, it turns out.What I am good at though, is sounding alarms when I see a limb flop off the edge of the wagon, it's tip dragging on the ground, be it a finger or toe. The owner of said appendage will assure me it's fine, not a problem, but my brain followed by my mouth will being to shout that there's a problem.

(Wow, that paints a glorious picture of an eight-year-old girl, sticky jam-braids and all, running around the kitchen island and out into the yard, yelling WEEEEE WOOOOO WEEEEE WOOOO like she's an ambulance.)

(And that's exactly what I did.)

Duncan said I was being foolish and alarmist, that he's fine. That everything's fine and he has it under control but that's what they all say just as everything goes to shit. He put his arms around me and gave me his best charming Lizard King smile and I didn't fall for it (WEEEE WOOOO) and he's angry at me for jumping to the inevitable conclusion and it will be followed by remorse and he will seek forgiveness and open back up soon, I hope.

In the meantime, now I'm 'always fucking in the way', 'an endless tease', and 'a spoiled brat'.

A deep shuddering breath and an attempt to remind myself that it's not my friend talking, it's his alter-ego, the Drunk Lizard, who is a flaming asshole frankly, but it's difficult because they speak the truth when liquid fire burns away their core values, leaving them craven angry souls looking for temporary comfort in permanent times.

And I hate it. But so does he and so my comfort today is in knowing there is a whole host of sponsors and support here within, and that we're no longer going to worry about the houses keeping separate anymore because we can't afford it. Fools rush in where angels fear to tread, don't they?

Ironic. All this solvency and I can't buy the things I need. 

So much hidden baggage in one post I might need a rolling cart.

A visit from the young Russian doc yesterday evening revealed the cause of my fever to be a simple ear infection and both Caleb and Lochlan practically hit the floor in relief.

I wasn't worried. I'm a goddamned tank. I'll be looking after everyone until the bitter end. It's what I do. I've graduated to delivering hot lunches to everyone's desks each day just after noonish and tea after two. I've taken over several chores and I've done great, ear infection and fever or not.

The doc declined to want to treat this, telling me to take paracetamol and to take it easy. He stares at Caleb the entire time he says this, as if it's Caleb's fault we don't have a team of militarized housekeepers to do things so that I'm not doing them, as I should be treasured.

This is the same man who told me I should invest in a lot of plastic surgery to be perfect and offers it every. single. visit.

God, I hate them all.

Lochlan's done with the doctor and walks out. We can deal with an ear infection. I will slow down. I need to stop mothering perfectly-capable boys and I need to take care of myself a little better.

(Okay a lot but I have a hard time with that.)

I'm glad it's not anything worse. And I know I have to take care now not to get rundown but we're not testing for anything because I'm okay, and because others need it more. And I'm not listening to any of the told-you-sos that asked me to pack up my world and move to Rhode Island, Montauk or Portugal, respectively because well, let's not talk about US healthcare or what I know about Portugese health care but I want to be home and we should be home and so we are home, and home we'll stay.

Besides, Duncan is falling off the wagon and they're not seeing it. And travelling while that's happening sucks worse than anything. I did it with Ben once and it made things ten times worse.

No surrender, no surprise.

Where did you go?
You're still in my mind
Still light of May
Shone from your eyes
Can you see this out?
Can you see this out?

The best thing about Caleb is that in the early hours, and in the mornings, he is a different cut, affectionate and loving, gentle and kind. There's something about the remains of the day poisoning his blood, making him crazy, making him seek out someone to punish, usually himself if you stay out of his way. You, if you get in it. His soul will come pouring out to suffocate you. He is the very definition of tormented.

Or maybe he's just afraid of the dark. I don't dare ask as his arms slide around my back, pulling me in close against him. I feel him exhale against me, clutching me tight, kissing my hair, my face, my neck, forcing my face up so he can kiss underneath my jawline before landing on the prize of my lips.

You're here.

You're awake.

I heard you in the hall.

Good ears, holy.

I can sense you, that's all. 

He smiles against my mouth, here in the predawn, and I close my eyes. It's like being locked in a vise. It's a different kind of affection from the physically strongest person I know.

Stay until morning. Please, Neamhchiontach.

I nod and his arms tighten, rolling me onto my back, my face forced up once again as he kisses down my throat, pulling his arms out to work at taking off my clothes. Once he has enough things off he pulls me back up against him, biting my lower lip gently on his way past, jutting his chin against the top of my head, hurting beautifully.

He does not stop until I shudder against him and then he relaxes just enough, not letting go. I am asleep in seconds, breathing evenly against his shoulder and the last thing I hear is his usual whisper before I go under. Is tú mo ghrá-

Níl, Diabhal.

When I wake up the spell is broken, the bitterness of the new day beginning to seep back in around the edges with the petrichor.  

Go back to your love.  Get out. English, so there's no mistake.

I remember eternity.

Woke up the house this morning playing the piano for I Remember, though I may have been singing just a little (okay it was loud) because if one good thing has come out of this quarantine, it's that Les Friction came out of retirement and I might have screamed out loud when I got the Youtube notification. Four years of absolute silence and I was sure they had ghosted me, but I didn't give up on them, and now here I am back in my Sunday-hole, listening to music that slices my skin open and runs it's icy fingers over my skull so lovingly I would succumb if not for the hope for more of the same.

Everyone had to be up anyway. Lochlan wants to play Alyx (I played it last night with the Oculus and WOOOOOOW, I landed on my face trying to get an upclose view of the bug under glass and then took off running around the city like a maniac), Ruth had an online rollerskating sale to peruse and Henry has to work.

(Boy that sucks, let me tell you and I'd rather he didn't go but he also is okay with it and likes the dangerous work pay add-on he gets so eh. I can't be a helicopter mom here. Not right now anyway.)

I've already Facetimed with Sam and Matt and am jealous of their flannel-covered early morning, hair tousled, beards coming in hot, gorgeous bookends with no middle. Their story is their own but we're all figuring if they can remain hunkered in a small cottage (okay, it's not small, exactly) together for weeks then we're good. They're good. Everything will be okay.

Sam said he absolutely hates not being able to touch me (I don't think he meant in that way) and Matt smiled at him, nodding. Not sure but I think that may have been an early Easter miracle anyway as Matt used to look off into the distance and fight to keep his expression neutral.

Sam says God will protect us, and my fever is only 102. Hallelujah.

Maybe to make sure you were okay.

Floodlight dreams go drifting past
All the lines we could've had
Distant loves floating above
Close these eyes, they've seen enough

Caught the butterfly, broke its wings then put it on display
Stripped of all its beauty once it could not fly high away
Oh, still alive like a passerby overdosed on gamma rays
Another god's creation destined to be thrown away

Oomph, I think Gigaton is winning the race for my heart, a full twenty-percent block I set aside for weekly new music or books or art or anything that just barges in through all the scar tissue and starts plucking at the strings holding everything together, threatening to tear it all apart with beauty.

Seven O'Clock, in particular. This is a song like Black. This song doesn't let up, though it's a slow starter. Retrograde is another. I am so content with this album that seems to bridge the gap between his solo efforts, like the soundtrack for Into The Wild, and Pearl Jam classic frenetic and angry works. Eddie Vedder should voice audiobooks, though if he isn't singing I daresay I don't want to hear it. But I can hear, with Ben's headphones, the true sound of his age now. All men's voices deepen and slow down at this age. It's actually a wonderful thing, all unpredictable sparks now tempered with experience. This is a perfect Lochlan-album. He will love it.

He is sleeping though. Begging me off with a mumbled comment, something about noon. I got up, let the dog out, put the laundry in, made coffee, got a long sleepy hug from the Devil, who isn't up either but managed to find words to ask me to stay (I didn't but he was asleep again in seconds) and am plotting a nice long day of painting and listening to this album while the rain pours outside. Though I will probably temper this with Moving Walls, Matthew Good's latest, though it's a tougher listen because instead of plucking strings it just stabs, relentlessly.

(Oh my God The Heights. It hurts so good.)

***

I watch them at dinner, and after. We grabbed a trayful of junkfood last night, intending to get Birds of Prey and enjoy a fun movie night but instead we slogged through 3/4 of Chernobyl, an event that took place easily yesterday. It's not a feel-good project, that's for sure. Caleb was twenty-four when it happened. Lochlan twenty. I was newly fifteen years old and headed like a freight train for Cole, not looking at the news, just bitter and broken-hearted over losing Lochlan still and determined to stick it to him so good he'd regret it for the rest of his life.

I did. I regretted it too though and so did absolutely everyone but in the end the events of that entire year and beyond became the history-glue that made this Collective what it is today.

Whatever that is. A bunch of sleepy boys not interested in engaging a rainy Pacific Saturday and a girl with a bottomless cup of coffee and broken ears to match her heart.

Colossal but with tiny arms.

Both albums that came out today, In This Moment's Mother and Pearl Jam's Gigaton (I called it Gigatron all last week in error whoops) are masterpieces.

I listened to them both a few times over with Ben's headphones while he worked and I drew in a chair beside him. That's what I do now. I draw or watch Netflix. I'm about to pick up the knitting I all but abandoned in 2017 and have hardly touched since and not once but twice I put on the inflatable T-Rex suit and went out for a run from the patio to the pool and back, much to the delight of everyone who was surprised by it.

Why not?

I got permission to loop around the neighbourhood but that thing is honestly super-hot and heavy and I'm not sure how far I would make it, but it's a sure-fire way to crawl out of a burgeoning panic attack and so that's what I did.

Sam was very proud of my ingenuity (via facetime. I hate facetime now.) and said I have a gift for entertaining people.

I was like DUDE. I'M A CIRCUS PERFORMER. That's who we are.

But honestly throwing on a costume is hardly entertainment. If Lochlan would hurry up and put up the lines and if it stops raining then I'll be a dinosaur-funambulist but until either of those things happen I'm just a bored T-Rex going for a run.

I wonder if I still fit in the box.

If there's ever an emergency, he said, holding my face in his hands, something he only ever did when it was very important for me to pay close attention and Listen Hard, I want you to meet me at the wheel. If I'm not there yet I will be as soon I can but you need to stay there and wait for me, okay?

I nod. I don't know what an emergency is, here in amusements. Is that like when I need to pee in the middle of the night and so we have to get dressed and he must walk me to the washroom facilities? He never complained about that, not even once.

Do you understand? 

What's an emergency here? 

What are emergencies at home? 

House fires. Blizzards. Maybe tornadoes. 

Right. Or civil unrest. 

Chesterfields?

No, civil means people and unrest means riots. 

People-riots. 

Right, people-riots. If that happens and you see people hurting each other, crawl under the gear box at the wheel and hide. 

But how will you know I'm there if there's a chesterfield going on?

Civil unrest, and I will look in the box. 

Okay. 

Okay. I burst into tears.

Don't be scared, Bridget. We'll be fine. 

How? 

We can steal what we need and as long as we're together everything is okay.

***

Where'd you go just now? Lochlan is staring at me from his spot across from me in the big chairs by the window. I check my expression, gone slack from a daydream.

The wheel. 

Which one, Peanut? 

The first one. It's in my head. 

Did you go for safety? He asks quietly. He knows me so well. Crazy and all.

Yes.

Theatreacle (sic): Acting sweet to get what you want.

I painted my nails green, put in all of my diamond earrings and then pulled on my technical gear to go for a run with Ben, grabbing my favourite running shoes (my old green Sauconys from like 2008 shhhhhh I love them, they're WRECKED) and then promptly got turned back around by Lochlan, who told me my nails were nice but I should probably change, because I wouldn't be leaving the grounds for a run anytime soon.

This is what a third class relic must feel like, I told him as he turned me around, steering me toward the stairs. Touching greatness, touching freedom and veneration only to be stamped with a hindering label preventing it from ever BEING greatne-

Bridget, stop. You can be as dramatic as you like, you're not going out into the neighbourhood. Neither is Benjamin.

We wouldn't go near anyone. 

I'd really rather you stay around the house. He bends down and gives me a tender, patient and understanding kiss. Sigh.

Under resin, attached to a Happy Catholic bookmark from a rack behind the door of that chintzy lace shop in the French Quarter or something-

Oh my God. You should have been an actress. 

Well, it helped once upon a time, didn't it. 

It did. It really did, he conceded. What about if we set up a slackline out back?

Fixed. And shoulder-height. Not this three-feet-off-the-ground shit. 

That's not for you. It's for them. 

Right. Okay, two then. One bounce, one fixed. 

Done. After my call. 

When is that?

Noon. And I can't believe you remember that shop. 

I still can't believe they put the saints behind the door! 

The croissants were good from the next place over though. 

I still have dreams about those. 

Maybe we can make some. 

We never do. 

But we can, and that's the best part. 

I know. I have gratitude. But I have wanderlust too and there's room for both in my heart today. 

I love you so much. 

I hope so, Locket, or all of these dramatics are positively wasted on you.