Audi, vide, tace.

He surprises me, pushing me onto my back, climbing up over me, my lips sliding down his marble shoulder before he pushes me down, following me all the way. He's taking his time, giving me a million chances to step back, to get away, or to return his efforts. The pause extends for so long goosebumps take over my flesh and he traces along my throat with his lips, entranced.

I thread my fingers into his hair, tightening them into a fist as his arms tighten around me, and the reward is a kiss, deployed slowly, softly at first before evolving into a crushing need as he pins me to the night, his weight keeping me right where he wants me. He moves in a crawl, and I keep my arms around his neck, breathing evenly against his chest as kisses hail down against the top of my head. My head is cool again as he moves away, thrusting hard, faster, reaching up to hold the top of the headboard with one hand and I stretch up both hands over my head, where he catches them easily with his other hands, a move that forces his entire weight down onto me, driving deep. My legs anchor against his hips as he tucks his head down against my ear.

Jesus, Neamhchiontach. His hand leaves the headboard to come down and wrap around the side of my head and I feel so tall and powerful suddenly, stretched out full-length underneath the devil. He switches gears suddenly, away completely, up on his knees, pulling my hands back down, threading his fingers through mine, palms together. Eyes meeting in the dark and yet I am still pinned to the eventide, scared I'll be left behind as he makes his way into the dawn. 

I love you, Bridget, and he is back, warmth taking over from sudden thrills, and I squeeze my arms, holding his shoulders as best I can as he picks up speed now, reaching down to pull my hips up against him. I tuck my head down against his chest again, afraid suddenly as his power takes over the sunrise, keeping it from me, forcing me back into the shadows with him between us. 

He bends his head back down, angling his hips and sets the perfect harsh rhythm that will see us through, allow us to catch a glimpse of a heaven we will never be rewarded with, all the while suffering the spoils of a good war nonetheless. He pulls me up against him just as I start to see that sunrise and I bite down against the bone in his shoulder just as he feasts on mine, breath held, limbs locked, euphoria washing over us like new rain and when I open my eyes, the sky is a murky grey light heralding the day but I can still see the stars.

Hiiiiii

Day drunk on a Monday because Mondays have become our Sundays. The tides are big and the moon is full and the wind just won't quit out here and so the only thing to do is drink mulled wine until my eyes turn the color of blood and my heartbeat slows to a shitty trance-tune cadence and then I'm going to attempt to help with dinner. It's Gage's night but he traded off because of a headache and so he is resting and Lochlan and I are stepping in and will whip up a stirfry with rice and peppers and steak. Maybe garlic bread too. We are good like that, we make sure everyone is well fed. It's one of my rules. I've never ever been an eat-a-bowl-of-cereal sort of mom. 

But I'm also not much help here. Being at least two sheets to the wind already, Lochlan won't let me hold a knife, or go near the stove, and so I have set the table, buttered the bread with garlic butter and have put out the good napkins too. I was allowed to measure out rice for the giant rice cooker (it's like space-ship sized, it's kind of hilarious) and now he would like me to 'be company' while he sears slices of steak and bell peppers and mushrooms in the big woks. 

So fun.

Winter night snow jazz.

We went to socially distanced Advent One on the Beach. Sam is so trendy and yet super traditional at the same time. I love him to bits. I didn't listen to a word he said though, zoning out watching his passion as he jammed a candle into the sand, lit it with his vintage zippo in spite of a burgeoning offshore wind and began to shout above the noise, all brimstone and saltwater and love. We held hands. All nine of us who attended from the point. We made a crowd, apart from other small groups of mostly two. We closed our eyes to block out the sun, tried not to shiver in spite of it burning our corneas (it was still hovering around freezing. That's why only nineteen people showed up out of a twenty-person limit*. Three services a Sunday plus the podcast is back. He is used to a few hundred people but this is a necessity.) and were exceedingly grateful that Sam kept it to twenty minutes, give or take. He spoke about this being a changed advent and yet we still wait for Jesus and we must do it with kindness and grace. 

Matt shouted Amen and Sam grinned and wrapped it up with a reminder that collection has moved online effective last weekend, as he mentioned and all the information is on the church website but if anyone has any problems they can swing by the church and drop off their envelope or he can walk them through transferring by phone.

This has effectively ruined the whole point of going to church for half the boys, pure heathens always up for mischief as detailed here over the years with everything from gravy lakes and tiny paper boats to live baby chicks or Lego in those plates.We are awful and hilarious and Sam's absolute favourites, he only wishes we attended more often because he says the church needs to catch and hold the imaginations of the younger congregations who only show up if they have nothing better to do. 

We did our part. I shrug. The church needs to stop being so imaginary and rigid. Bring it down a notch. Make it magical. Sam does a good job on that part but his is a microchurch in the grand scheme of things. I watch the politics and trends of it. I was a minister's wife and Jacob was on two different bodies that spanned globally trying to find ways to attract a younger audience for their message so I got a steady diet of ideas and experiments. 

(I mean, to be honest right now their best bet is to stock their pulpits with hot younger progressive men. It works like a charm. Sad but true. If you are young and passionate I will hang off your every word. If you are old and boring and just recite doctrine I'm checking out first, thanks. Sam is adorable. We only show up for that reason and I'm fairly certain a lot of the other folks do too. Life is short. Objectify your friends.)

(Oh my God. It's a JOKE.)

We came home and stuffed our faces with waffles, champagne (meeee) and hot coffee until we could feel our toes again, and congratulated Sam on a banger of a morning. Short, sweet and done is our favourite. Just for church, I mean. Not for anything else. 

Snort.

*(The twenty person limit is achievable through an online booking system. Log in, claim your free ticket. He has twenty tickets available for each service and allows for last minute cancellations in order to be as fair as he can be. He has ruled out attending altogether if you are sick or compromised in any way and has done a lot of triage tech support to help people listen along to his podcasts so he's fine. I don't know what other churches are doing, they left Sam swinging in the wind a little so this is what he came up with, apparently there's no blanket plan for the greater organization.)

*(We have decided to go every third Sunday to free up room, which kind of sucks during Advent but Sam said he can do a private service here since there's only twenty of us or so.)

Big plans, cheap planners

It's already a good day. I had a surprise tattoo offer from an artist I like that has an opening this afternoon. We have Chinese food takeout planned for dinner and then we're starting Bly Manor on Netflix. We finished The Haunting of Hill House and it was SO GOOD and now I'm anxious to keep it going. 

Caleb didn't try to keep me when I went to spoon in with him early this morning after a nightmare, handed off door to door to make sure I didn't go anywhere else so everyone's tired now and I wasn't cold in the shower which is nice, because usually I am. I have a new peony 3 in 1 bottle in the shower which is nice as usually I get stuck I'm hot or cold, no in-between lately and I spend more time putting on a sweater or taking it off than doing anything else. 

 Decorations are going up around the houses. Advent begins tomorrow. The presents have been sent out that leave the point and we even managed to snag a few black friday deals, or I did as I contemplated buying a Hobonichi planner with a Midori page a day book for my incoming leather planner combo but in the end I chickened out and bought a Leuchtterm daily planner and matching bullet journal which ended up being free (thanks Indigo!) and I'm satisfied with my choice. If I love it and last the whole year then for 2022 I will spring for the Hobonichi + Midori.

That's the plan, anyway. 

Really excited for my deep fried wontons tonight though. That will get me through the pain of this tattoo, anyway.

They hate it when I watch it. I watch it all the fucking time now. I can recite it word for word, songs too at this point. Someone please take it off Netflix already.

He's got the (whole world in his hands, sing it with me) fire roaring in the fireplace, window open, firescreen in place and a fully charged ipad on the tray across the bed. There's a very large glass of red wine beside it. A hazard, if you ask me. A necessity, if you ask Lochlan. 

I'm going to go get us a plate. You must be starving. 

I didn't eat dinner. I sat at the table though, taking up space. Staring at Ben who still hasn't noticed that I noticed that he's struggling.

K. I am noncommittal. Ben has been taken over by Schuyler and Daniel for the evening. I think (I hope, anyway) that he is just tired. Just heavy with the weight of the steps he must take, over and over again. Heavy with his pockets full of coins that all say different, encouraging things and feeling as if he is back at square one again and he worries we will be disappointed in him. At least that's what he told me the last time, jumping off the wagon, back for good. Wrecked in the head, destroyed liver and all. 

I'll take it. I like the broken ones best. Ben and I have a good long history now of being completely exasperated with each other and yet I love him with an intensity that sometimes he wonders (don't they all) if he even deserves. And even when he has given up on himself I don't give up on him and I won't. 

But I won't be satisfied with silence, either. 

When Lochlan's back I am knee-deep in A Star Is Born. I love-hate this movie. Everyone else just hates this movie. If only because the subject matter hits so close it bites at the skin on the backs of our necks and hurts with every single frame because legacy, in that movie, is bigger than fame, bigger than ego and sadly, bigger than love. Loneliness is a curse and a death sentence and Jesus, that poor dog. But I also sing along with the songs, which are incredible and the chemistry in that movie continues to blow my mind. 

And? Let's be honest, as I never am, here. It feels reallllllly fucking good to hurt for someone else for a change. 

Shut that off. Lochlan has that beautiful, angry clip in his voice as he returns with a plate of olives, peppers, tangerine slices and cheese. The minute I leave. Jesus, Bridge. 

But I'm off the deep end-

SHUT IT OFF, he bellows over my attempts to reach the notes. He wins. I switch back to the dashboard, where I am confronted with a plethora of cheesy Christmas movies and....Michael Meyers. 

Hey! Halloween's out! Can we watch it? 

I knew you would want to.

Awesome! 

Anything but a Star is Born. 

We should find the original. Kris Kristofferson drives his car off a cliff. 

Sounds uplifting. 

Pretty sure it's worse than this one.

Somehow I doubt it. 

Lochlan continues to glare at me and the screen interchangeably for the next several hours, not even getting jump-scared, he is so annoyed and he doesn't relax until about eleven, when Ben!! shows up for bed. Ben is full of affection and apologies, but I know it's temporary. Kind of like drugs. You get a few hours of feeling great and then you go back in your hole. It fucking sucks.

Its voice has given way to mine.

For every dream that is left behind me
I take a bow
With every war that will rage inside me
I hear the sound
Of another day in this vanishing life
Returned to dust
And every chance I've pushed away
Into the night

Time won't let go
It's got you in debt now
And it's got me crawling all the way back to the start
I swear that I saw you there
Your hands were reaching out for mine

Milestones this morning as Ben easily navigates the steps to the beach. In the dark, in the rain. Doesn't hesitate for a second, though I was on the outside clutching the rail along with his hand and John was directly in front of us, braced on both rails with both hands because he can reach. My job was to warn him in case Ben tipped forward, so he would have the seconds needed to plant his legs and take Ben's weight, keeping him from breaking his neck falling down the steps. We've put in stop gates on every landing. They are still way too far apart for my comfort.

He was fine. He would have been fine, and so John headed back up once we were at the bottom, giving us a little privacy for our sunrise walk, which consists of me obsessively checking the tide lines for glass and Ben zoning out completely in silence. He's already been to a meeting. I guess he's all talked out.

It's as if he isn't even there and I am alone and for his presence marking a necessary moment in my life he is as much of a ghost as anyone. I give up and put my headphones in. He won't talk, he's fallen back into his previous ways though I had really hoped that the hard knock that grew his brain just enough to snap him out of those ways would be a permanent difference, keeping him close, keeping him here with me, instead of always on a completely different wavelength. And for a while I got my wish, as is the way it always goes. Just enough contentment and blissful euphoria to make me let my guard down before everything goes wrong. That's how it works. That's fate or karma or bad luck or just me. I don't know. 

I turn suddenly, take out the headphones, the soaring chorus of the song still ringing through my skull and I find Ben, kicking driftwood into a pile, deep in thought.

Hey.

His eyebrows go up but he doesn't stop or look at me.

HEY FUCKER.

Now he stops. God, we have a strange relationship.

Can we do something?

Anything you want. Of course. Give her the fucking moon. Never consider it might not be yours to give. Or that it might not be enough. She'd rather have your soul, kept in a tiny box in her hands just for her and she'll never let it go because she's afraid to be without you.

Can we..go back to bed? Sleep for a couple more hours?

Sure, but you don't sleep in daylight.

I could try.

He stares at me curiously. I'm being a ghost again.

Yeah. 

I'm sorry, Bridge. I'm working hard at just being normal here.

I know what he means and it isn't what I would mean. 

Can I help?

You do, you just don't seem to realize how much. 

It's not often he admits anything like this and I'm in tears.

Ah Jesus, don't cry. 

This is rough. 

Yeah. But we'll be okay. He hands me his chip and we head for the steps. 1 month recovery, it says. To thine own self be true.

Last resort.

What did he put in your account?

Caleb is fighting his expression in the firelight. Struggling for chaotic neutral, as it were. His eyes glitter with glee and bitterness and possibly a smattering of victory and I want to walk out the door but instead I tell him, as instructed, exactly how much money Batman put in my account. This isn't a big secret. Batman is the original John Gage, offering Cole whatever he wanted in exchange for me and Cole didn't give a shit. Take her if you want her, I'm busy. So Batman paid Cole for the paintings he wanted and then gave me the money he thought was reasonable for me. 

But I was never his. 

And we've run through a few decades now living life and he never fails, a few times a year, to put a deposit in my account that makes my eyes water, whether I let him touch me or not. He was always the invisible saviour, my way out if things with Cole (or with Cole and Caleb) got to be too much and I had to run. When the kids came along the deposits grew. Now the kids are grown and the deposits haven't changed and I've still never spent a dime. I like knowing it's there. I plan to give it all back. There is no way to repay this man for the peace of mind he generously extended to me but I can try. I just couldn't give him what he wanted in life and dammit if he didn't even miss a step over it. 

At least outwardly.

If only any single other man on the point had that sort of strength of character we wouldn't be like this now. 

Is that fair? I don't know. Does it even matter? They all have their strengths. And their weaknesses. I am the only weakness Batman has. At least that I know of. He's still a stranger after all this time.

He's trying to buy back your affections. 

He's just assuring me the only way he can that in spite of my decisions he is still here for me if I need him.

You won't need hi-

Diabhal, stop. This isn't up for debate. Batman doesn't get to be judged by Caleb. Batman is the only true adversary Caleb's ever had. Lochlan is a lover, not a fighter.

(Besides Jake but Jake isn't here anymore. A sharp sudden pain rips through my chest and is gone as soon as I feel it.)

Fine. What would you like for Christmas? Because if you don't give me a list I'm just going to drop into Tiffany and-

A hot chocolate and movie night. Ending with a walk on the beach in the snow and a brandy.

We can do that every damn night all winter if you want. 

There's no snow. 

I'll get you snow.

The scars don't write a song for me at all.

 This is beautiful.

Demon Hunter, in suits, no less, doing a reimagined I am a Stone.

Adagio, on the run.

These fragile bodies of touch and taste
This vibrant skin, this hair like lace
Spirits open to the thrust of grace
Never a breath you can afford to waste

 

My heart beats so fast, skipping, stumbling, running so far ahead my breath is harsh, panting to catch up. My eyes are wide, frozen in the bright lights from below. I'm blind. It's a white floor. 

Don't look down. 

I didn't, I just know it's there. 

It's the sky and you're a bird, he thinks, and I hear him plain as day over the roar of the crowd.

I'm a chicken. So you're right, I think and he laughs inside his head. 

When I hear the drumbeat I count them, one two three and you would have thought I would have left the platform but we are performers and suspense is part of the game. Four five SIX and I'm away, soaring through the darkness toward Lochlan on the opposite quarterpole. The chaulk grinds into my palms, the trapeze is cool and familiar. The moment I am airborne I leave the fear back on the platform. The roar surges like a wave, crashing over my head, forcing my ears into a brown-noise silence as I focus in on Lochlan. Back away from him now I swing my whole body up so my knees loop up around the bar. I let go and the noise grows more intense, like a sudden forest springing up around me and I am cutting through the notes of its leaves in the sky. Away again and then he is off. I watch him, head up, torso curled in a J, waiting for the perfect sync. On the third meet up he smiles and holds his hands out from halfway and I grab them and let go of the trapeze, letting my body swing free. The only thing between me and the ground now is the bubble of adrenaline and his hands, now in a powdery death grip. 

He asks if I am okay to go and we launch into our dramatic rendition of two aerialists when everything has gone wrong. It was called Lovers in a Dangerous Time*, like the song (I didn't like that song, if you're wondering. I have now heard it at least four hundred thousand times.) and the entire act was disguised as a regular acrobatic routine right up until it isn't, and there is a fun moment when he lets go of my right hand and I begin to flail. The crowd noise is unbelievable now, holding me up, threatening to burst the seams of the big top and he fights for me. He reaches down and pulls me in with his elbows, putting his free hand on my face. A kiss and the subsequent deafening roar makes us laugh. 

I love you, he says but I can't hear him before I drop back precariously. Then he fights again and I take his lead and crawl right up his body, over his back and sit on the swing. The crowd cheers and I drop back again to the screams below. This time I drop upside down, however, and he pulls me back up until we are both on the trapeze again, knees firmly hooked, but facing each other, locked in a long embrace. Just as the lights dim we kiss and let go, falling together and I'm one hundred percent sure anyone who ever saw that act was scarred for life. We disentangle and he shoves me away in the final fifteen feet and we land in the net (you can't land together, you might get hurt) and he bounces out easily before I crawl off the net into his arms at the edge. 

It was fun. It was beautiful. We played it to a packed house every night once a night five days a week only because it is tiring and then we bailed the minute more money came along, an offer from a competing show. A global one, and one with so much liability insurance they wouldn't allow for creative control on the part of the artist and falling deliberately into the net was grounds for dismissal so we were forced to come up with something new. We did, lasting less than three weeks performing, doing a midnight run with our withheld money and as much of their gear as we could carry, and Lochlan's newest plan was that we would mount our own show. Maybe our own tour. 

Just as soon as we could find a tent to borrow, rent. Or steal.

It didn't happen. We went on the sideshow instead. I wasn't sorry. The whole thing took place on a stage. Relief was soon replaced by a dread of a different kind but I was just so happy to be in such a weird place in a weird (and dangerous) time that I hardly took a moment to acknowledge it then the way I do now. The strength we built up over that summer to do that routine was more than physical and apparently it was time-limited.

Bawk bawk, Lochlan whispers in his sleep and I burst into giggles involuntarily. 

*(Someone ALREADY emailed to tell me that song came out in 2001 so what's up, as I already had two children by then and clearly wasn't in the circus anymore. That's a cover by Barenaked Ladies. The original, the gloriously haunting OG version by Bruce Cockburn came out when I was thirteen years old. Listen to that one at least, if you want to hear the song. And if you want to hear a song that's less serious by him, listen to Wondering Where The Lions Are, which Lochlan sings with a hilarious exaggerated enthusiasm that has never failed to cheer me up. We never did find out where the lions were, and it's been...ahem...forty years.)

Tricknology (actually these are reallllly awesome. Go get some.)

 I ask Lochlan to pass me one of the light bulbs. He hands me one and I ask him if he thinks I'm bright. 

Yeah, sure. Of course, he says, looking at me curiously.

What if I was brighter? I ask him and wrap my hand around the base of the bulb. The bulb lights up, along with his whole face. 

The fuck, Peanut! How!

Magic! I tell him.

I told you we got battery back-up lightbulbs at the hardware store but you weren't paying attention, Doofus. PJ claps the back of Lochlan's head as he walks past, ruining my act completely.