My heart was glass, you dropped it/Zero Jesus.

The sun won't come up. We needed lights (headlamps, actually. You need both hands on the still-exceedingly-icy stairs in spite of all the money we threw at them) to navigate the trip to the beach well after seven this morning. I guess the days will get shorter and shorter for another week still and it sucks, for I have resorted to lifting up my skirts and running flat out after the sun, which hasn't shown itself through the rain. I will chase it, hair flying, desperate tears leaking from my lashes, and fail to succeed, being pulled back, swallowed up in the cool embrace of the long darkness. 

Once on the beach I turn off my lamp, pulling it from my head, threading it up over my elbow so it stays safe for the trip home. Lochlan turns his off but shoves it up on top of his head. It can hold his hair back while he helps me search for treasures in the rain. 

He has a backpack with him. In it is a blanket, a thermos of hot coffee, an empty paper bag for the glass and shells we find,  and a flask of irish cream to add a little sweetness and a little evil to the coffee (everything tastes better outside) Also, he says he has breakfast in there but I don't know what it is.

 We wave enthusiastically at a couple of kayakers from down the village way, who paddle close to shore because in this weather I'd hate to see them very far offshore, frankly. You get to know the colors of the boats after a while and then see them on top of people's cars or racked up on fences and behind garages and boat houses as you take your own kayak trip along the waterside. 

Lochlan spreads the blanket on the log furthest from the encroaching tide. He pours two cups of steaming black coffee, lacing each one with a strong pour of the liqueur and handing mine to me, handle towards me. I take it and take a sip. He's right. It's better. I settle back against his shoulder and watch the waves. The sea is calm this morning. The rain makes lazy dots on the roiling surface and he says ten minutes. That's so I don't squander my chance to actually drink my coffee, usually daydreaming to the point where I must pour it out, wasting it all. I notice he has set up his lamp, hanging it from a branch stuck in the rocks, making a sort of lantern, adding an exceedingly touching, cozy atmosphere to our breakfast picnic. He pulls out a container of orange slices and one of hot cross buns, already split and buttered. 

He laughs. Do your remember this? 

He forgets I brought it up when I saw the bag of buns drop into one of our grocery carts last week. Of course I remember. 

Second or third summer we went out, it was a different route and there were hardly any shops around, the sites were so far out of the towns we had a hard time keeping fed. You can't exist on candy apples. We tried.

Lochlan walked all the way into one town and back in the sun early one morning, having had enough, returning only to have his efforts feed us for almost a week straight. A bag of hot cross buns and a bag of oranges. You would think we would never eat those things again, let alone seek them out to have together but simpler times and deja views are always welcome in our world, a world lit by a stormy sea and a gently swinging lamp, a day forsaken even by the sun.

If this is the long haul, how did we get here so soon?

I didn't find a raincoat. Surprise. I looked online briefly but I'd like to touch it first. I have issues with scratchy things, hence my love of flannel, velvet and sherpa. It has to feel soft to the touch and soft against my skin with no scratchy finishing on the inside (hence the fully reversible one I had before-all seams were covered) and needs that cute pointy hood and I'm actually thinking something in a color might be nice instead of black. Black is hard to see in the dark and when is it not dark and raining in Vancouver?

The good thing is Caleb didn't push too hard, simply asking the sales people in each shop if they had something like that but they of course did not because I always want the unicorn and they'll always show me the llama with a horn hat. 

And then this morning I broke a mirror. 

The last time I did that so many bad things happened it was seven lifetimes worth of the wrong kind of luck and I am not anxious to repeat it. And I should have known. It was a cheap mirror with a flimsy handle and it broke off the handle and smashed to the ground. I threw salt over my shoulder, crawled under the dining room table and out the other side and spun around three times counter-clockwise. I'm going to blacken the shards later and bury them in the yard at twilight. 

I already dug out my rabbits foot and I never stopped carrying my St. Patrick coin. 

I'm the most superstitious person you will ever meet and the very last thing I need right now is seven years of bad luck. I was even patting myself on the back for driving into town alone last night in the rain to pick up our Friday night take out (Canadian Chinese SO GOOD) but no one could go and then I couldn't find parking and ended up four blocks away (in the dark, whole strip closed JEEZ) and then had to wait half an hour past my pick up time in the shop itself while two men almost came to blows over masks and I moved to stand right beside the door with very wide eyes and they finally cooled it, one leaving to wait outside and I wonder now if I've been exposed because the restaurant is tiny and I was in there so long but I got home safely and everyone was mad that I didn't take someone and I simply pointed out that I'm a big girl. 

Sigh.

Oh and I bought Taylor Swift's new album, Evermore, since it's a companion to Folklore and now PJ says I have to definitely give up my metal cred, that I don't fit the mold anymore. 

Did I ever? Too tired now to care. Just going to listen to what I feel like listening to and Jesus Christ, Padraig, I have a hundred gigs of eighties love songs on my phone, did I ever hold any cred with you for real?

Sorry, Bridge. I was only teasing. He looks crushed but I can't deal with that right now. The album has a song on it called Coney Island and I wasn't about to pass it up. But really every song is good and I support good music. PJ should know that.

Rain

Stop tell me where you going

Maybe the one you love isn't there
You're going under
But you're over it all so you don't care about all that I had to see
Watch you wait until you come around

 

 Ay, fuuuuck. This song slid right into Les Friction's String Theory and I was singing along quite pathetically anyway and now it's a mess (I'm a mess, I mean) and I had to stop halfway through a WORD because I could no longer breathe. Lochlan says I have a way of singing some of the sadder songs that would make a man's heart break from eight hundred miles away and I think he's full of shit but then again, I can't hear myself sing without the monitors in my ears so I have to take his word even though I don't want it. 

 

I'm at work this morning. Opening Christmas cards to the Devil as he left quite a stack of mail for me to deal with and I'll be earning my dollars today which is good because I have Christmas bills to pay and I also took three of my rings in to the jeweller this week to have them resized and repaired from where they squish out of shape when Caleb squeezes my hand way too hard and that isn't free (the repair or the squeezes). I'm heading out to pick them up today when I run Caleb's errands so it all works and I can do it on the boss's dime.

 

Jesus, Bridge. 

What?

 

Nothing. Please stop singing. I love to hear you but not like this. Caleb gestures to the stereo. I guess Lochlan was right. Good. It's better to have the upper hand when it comes to being this close to the Devil anyway, a man who puts on one drop of his favourite aftershave and I'm a puddle on the floor. 

 

I mean I was a puddle but anyway, now I'm back to business. I finished paying the bills for him for this week, including the one for the snowglobe and I am more than a little surprised that it cost as much as it did, but also not at all surprised. He needs me to pick up a leather flight bag he had repaired (thankfully on same block as my goldsmith) and a book he wants to read, as well as pick up some specialty grocery items that aren't available in any of our usual haunts because he loves his Christmas traditions as much as anyone else.

I go to put on my raincoat only to realize it is wet on the inside too. Did it finally wear right through? I've been wearing the same long black reversible raincoat since I started university. It always looks good and has huge pockets and a pixie hood and wow, suddenly it's dead and I guess that's it since it takes forever for me to buy clothes because I hate shopping for clothing and it has to have every feature I want or forget it. I am awful with buying clothes. Jesus, just give me something to wear, I am the least picky person you will ever meet.

I'll have a shop send some over for you to try on? Or we can go and fetch one today. 

I have a lot to do, I'm not coming back and going out again.

I'll come with you then and we'll just stop in somewhere along the way.

 

I'm still getting paid, right? Even if you're running your own errands? 

 

Maybe. We'll see. 

 I feel like things took an abrupt shift as of late and we have changed. We haven't given up, per se, but maybe we shoulder a heavy acceptance of life now that we previously fought so hard against. An acceptance that weighs less with affection, music, distraction, a deep breath. A fresh hot cup of coffee. A well-built fire or a light snowfall. 

It's as if silence has replaced the noise and you look around wondering what happened, or maybe what stopped and then you realize it's fine. It's better. It's over now.

Leaving the house (noise) now requires masks and lineups and instruction barked unsurely but we're all patient and dutiful. We wish each other well and safe, even strangers. Staying home (the silence) brings a wonder and then a familiarity for the scars we bring now, part of our outward appearances, part of our lives. Those deep breaths only seem to come with effort, patience and reminders. The snow doesn't come at all and the dark pushes in around us like hungry wolves, cloying for a nip, a scrap, anything they can get. 

If you blink too slowly suddenly you have grown old, suddenly the fight isn't as important as getting everyone out alive, suddenly that breath is everything you ever needed and you feel stupid for having wasted so much time to take it.

Everything looks different. Especially the stars.

I could post about Ben wanting to spend some time in the studio today, first time in four months save for a twenty minute tuning and fuck around session or I could post about the absolutely crazy amount of rain we're having or I could just show you my beach haul. Usually it's tiny bits of glass, garbage and empty crab shells, so this is something.

Rafter.

(You all like my food logistics posts. We have tried to sanction off meals and just cook for ourselves but it never lasts because a table with less than twelve people at any given meal just feels too empty and everyone wants to be together.)

I need a farm, gosh, my talents are wasted here. I grew up feeding cows, goats and rabbits, leading the cows to the milking machines and sometimes unknowingly to slaughter, being too small (and too traumatized) to hoist the chickens off the ground to hang them up, scraping bees off honeycomb, counting queens and then being sent to the river (full of leeches) or to the sea (full of monsters) to cleanup from being sweaty and covered with pollen and honey and milk. The irony is that I grew up lactose-intolerant. The agony is that I don't let that stop me. 

We went and did the big Christmas shop today. Because chocolate and cheese keep, the turkeys will remain frozen and because Bridget needed her brie and eggnog. We got some light fruitcake and shortbread cookies. We got extra veggies that can be frozen up until Christmas week too. I found halloumi (!!!) in the deli and we got enough stuff to do our faux 'pub-crawl' (house to house, with a course at each kitchen) appetizer night on Christmas eve. There is too much food on the point now and I don't have to grocery shop until after Christmas now. 

Perfect. 

I called the market back and asked them the size of the young farm turkeys they had and the biggest was twelve pounds and I didn't want to dicker around with trying to roast eight or nine turkeys that were lean or free-range or grass-fed, read to every night by the light of a full moon. I want Butterball stuffing-stuffed turkeys that are all jacked up and FAT and we found a fresh cache of them at the decadent grocery store way down on the other side of Caulfield and that's fine. It's a special event, a mega-righteous holiday and who doesn't need to buy one hundred pounds of turkey for Christmas? 

I took three boys with me. We got five twenty-pound turkeys after asking if it was okay to take that many without calling ahead (narrator: It was). These boys will lick the bones clean and be looking for more within hours. There are sixteen to twenty people so that's enough for two full meals, I reckon and I already checked my privilege on the way home, thank you, if you are about to ask. I tied it to the back of the truck so it bumps and smashes along behind us, making one hell of a racket just so I don't forget. 

We are blessed. And maybe it seems like I complain about the sheer mountain of effort required to feed and care for a commune of this size but I don't think I really do. I wouldn't change it, anyway and if it means only a few of us leave the point for provisions at any one time to protect the rest, then I will do it without complaint forever.

Schrodinger's monster (if you don't look behind you to see how close it is, is it even there?)

Come
I'll show every ghost in me
Take my pain into you

Not this Friday. Not next Friday but the Friday after that. That's all the time you have left because Santa is coming on that Friday whether we are ready or not. 

Someone replenished my liquor cabinet. It's now a cabinet plus a small corner of the counter itself and I don't know if I'm really happy, suspicious or disappointed. Jesus. I'll be a pickled princess by New Years and maybe it is for the best. It's easier to control and procure than the horse tranquilizers they usually find for me, and everyone knows the weight limits and upper maximums and in the event that I change my mind it's never too late to hand it off or pour it out. 

There's a brandy and two whiskeys, two vodkas, three rums, a tiny kahlua for Christmas-day coffee, or maybe Christmas eve and boxing day too, five bottles of mead and two red wines. 

And a twelve-pack of hard lemonade already in the fridge because I'm not the only drinker, of course. 

There are two gifts left to leave the house. Ruth's boyfriend's present and then a gift that must be mailed express to California for one of Henry's dearest friends and he always waits until the last minute and so he is chipping away at making a thing and hopefully it will be ready by Friday and I will pay thirty bucks so his recipient can open it on Christmas and hopefully not after. 

I don't have the turkeys (the market ALREADY CALLED US. WOW. SUCH SERVICE. MANY APPRECIATE but I don't know how many pounds of turkey I want. Yet. Soon. Today or tomorrow we will do the math. PJ does it, I check it.) or the dessert (who needs dessert? These guys. That's who. I'll pour another glass of wine, they will put back seven pounds of stuffing and four pounds of turkey (each) and then want something sweet to finish it off. 

Sometimes that's me. 

Ha. 

God. Starset's Everglow is playing and it's a weak song for the first three minutes and ten seconds and then it becomes something absolutely incredible and I've had it on repeat in my head all day now so far. Hope it stays. I wish I could play a soft melody on the piano followed by twenty-seconds of dirty-vocal screaming because I doubt there is anything better out there musically than this, right now. 

I am feeling better, thank you. Thank you to new and old readers alike who reach out to say hello whether I can respond or not. Sometimes I don't respond to every message (too many, too hard) but I see every word, eventually and I saw them last evening and I really appreciate it. I can be so deliriously envious of your ability to be pulled together and I can try to do the same and that's all I can promise. Holidays, logistics and overreaching schedules are easy for me, not so easy is keeping my emotions in check, getting any sleep at all and watching out for the holes that swallow me up so easily because I run without looking. Always have, probably always will. 

Much to their dismay.

Having a thing for tragic endings (he runs, wishing he could fly).

Stupidly what drove me out of euphoria there between Daniel and Schuyler was when a certain song came on their stereo. I was too touched out, too tired, too fragile at that point to get through it. We always make jokes about how long a human being can withstand torture. Tickling is long. Spoon percussion about ten minutes. Waterboarding at least a few minutes, but that song is almost two and a half minutes long and I can't do it most of the time, although a few times I made it but it's not consistent.

The one form of torture I can't manage is heartbreak, after all. That's why I'm with them here in the first place. 

Time for me to turn back into a little bird and fly away, Sky. 

Stay for the week.

Ruth has finals and I have to start wrapping presents. 

Okay, finish out the weekend th-

I gotta go. 

Ah FUCK. Schuyler smashes the button on the stereo and the swells of heartbreak are replaced by a crushing, claustrophobic silence and I can't move suddenly. 

Call Ben for me. 

Bridge, I-

PLEASE. I can't breathe. 

Daniel jumps up and wraps me in his arms, holding me hard. Daniel is the king of kangaroo care and I close my eyes. FUCK. FUCK. FUUUUUUUUCK. Not the way I want to end such a lovely mini vacation but it's like sometimes the wine wears off and the pleasure ebbs and the lights go up and you realize you weren't in a fairy tale after all. Just a nightmare.

Shhhhhh. His breath is against the top of my head as he sways gently, somewhere between a baby-rock and a slow-dance. 

Schuy joins Daniel, wrapping his hands around my head. Out through your nose, Peanut. He whispers it and I follow his instructions, trying to get my breathing back under control from the gulping, panicked breaths that take over before the sobs begin. Jacob is tearing through my mind in the dark, looking for me, tearing doors off their hinges, turning over furniture, leaving the carnage of our love everywhere for someone else to clean up, and it's taking years. It isn't fair. 

***

Back to reality, back to my glitter star tree-topper and the ornaments that I love like glass donuts and cotton-cotton candy and tiny big tops made of wood and paper, so fragile they join my heart in being unable to withstand surprise, momentary torture. Lochlan gives me the once-over and apologizes again for not joining us. He chose sleep, he chose to honour his schedule as Ben's watcher for the day and they napped on and off all day which he said was sorely needed. 

I don't sleep in the day and so I was absolved anyway. 

My hands still shake when I stop doing anything, a dead giveaway and Lochlan finally stops asking me if I'm actually fine and calls Schuyler. He just says Yeah and then listens for a long time, alternating between glaring at me and staring out the window. He looks so tired. His hair is tied back in a loose braid and his shirt and pants are rumpled. He sleeps fully clothed in triage-mode, whether it's me or Ben, and always will, I think. 

He ends the call, looks at his phone for a minute (old habits die hard, just like old friends. Or maybe that's enemies. Look at the mess you made, Jake.) and then nods. He stares at me for so long that I get uncomfortable, his face expressionless, focused. He's waiting for something and I don't fucking know what it is so after an eternity I narrow my eyes in outright annoyance, staring back and he abruptly laughs. 

You're okay?

Define 'okay'.

Better than ten years ago?

Yup. 

Better than ten minutes ago?

Yes, Locket.

Okay then. Off we go. 

 I would post but I can't post from my phone and Schuyler won't let me out of bed ahaahahahahahah happy Saturday.

SAMCAM.

 Oh GREAT. Sam got his hand slapped by...Big Church and has to go to Zoom Advent now, and for the rest of the year. They don't want him to get a fine, even though instructions were clear and exceedingly cautious and ten feet between twenty people OUTDOORS doesn't exactly meet the criteria of a 'religious service', it's more like weaponized hippiedom with a sprinkling of Jesus thrown in.

He's playing Freddie Mercury's In My Defence at top volume to protest. In between complaints about how he had it right. 

(I'm just a singer in a soooooong How can I try to right the wroooooong)

Matt says he's forever famous now on the small screen, and that it will be amazing. He can do greenscreen backgrounds and we can have communion in SPACE or still on the beach or even on the beach IN space but Sam says no one wants to tune in and watch him light virtual candles and it doesn't have the same effect. 

Right. 

Not sure he has looked in the mirror. He's freaking handsome. I told him it can be his OnlyFans account and he can have a button to click to make it rain. 

PERFECT. 

He still does not like this. Freddie swells, high emotion right through my kitchen. Lord. Sam's pulling a me. 

We're going to put it on in the theatre, I assure him. You'll be taller than ever.

Matt winks at me and pulls Sam in close. It's not forever, Babe. 

Excuse. 

me. 

what

BABE? 

I would write more but I just died of adorableness. I'm almost glad we figured out how to keep our hands off each other so I can admire all of this from afar.

(Spoiler alert: We actually didn't/don't/can't.)