(The upside of Ben moving with a little more practiced carefulness thanks to his TBI is completely unprintable, sorry.)

Last night Caleb asked me over to his wing for horror movies and Mexican food, a true challenge I rarely pass up as Mexican food is loaded with tomatoes and spiciness and I cannot even look at a tomato during a horror movie. Salsa becomes something akin to some sort of immersive 4D experience and I end up losing my appetite. The game is we pick the goriest movie we can find and try and finish dinner before we get too grossed or weirded out to finish. Caleb finds it fun, as he said once 'down to earth'. 

(I have no idea what he meant by that. He is thoroughly charmed by how bougie I am,  I guess?)

But Ben said no, tucking his arm around me, pulling me backwards ever so slowly as he talked to Caleb in the hallway until I was all but tucked in against his shirt, cheek rubbing painfully against the button on his flannel shirt's front pocket and he put his right hand against my ear and I couldn't see Caleb's expression any more, not that I cared, frankly. 

Ben's confidence has returned. His bravado came with it. His ego never came back after that really good stint in rehab, thankfully but he also stood up to Caleb with a fierceness that gave me goosebumps of yesteryear. 

Long story, maybe. It's here somewhere. 

In any case, we didn't come up for air until almost four this afternoon, thank you very much and in my rush past Caleb to the kitchen, as I hadn't eaten, expending way more energy than I had the stores for, I heard him swear under his breath. 

I turned around, forgetting my hunger. What did you say? 

He doesn't deserve you, Neamhchiontach. 

You say that about everyone. I hold his gaze until he looks away first and then I leave him there, in the hall. My point is made. No hill to die on here, he doesn't have an argument to return.

25 years have passed and I never expected to understand this song firsthand.

Until one day the rain fell as thick as black oil
And in her heart she knew something was wrong
She went running through the orchard screaming
"No God, don't take him from me!"
But by the time she got there, she feared he already had gone

She got to where he lay, water-colored roses in his hands for her
She threw them down screaming, "Damn you man, don't leave me
With nothing left behind but these cold paintings, these cold portraits to remind me!"

He said, "Love I only leave a little, try to understand
I put my soul in this life we created with these four hands
Love, I leave, but only a little this world holds me still
My body may die now, but these paintings are real."

 

LIFE SKILLS.

 Not allowed to have an early morning kayak today because even though it's Thursday and it's tradition there have been a family of orcas hanging out in our little bay all week and the boys do not want me out there with them, either because I might disturb them or because in spite of knowledge to the contrary they think I might get eaten, looking like your average teenage seal in a dry suit.

In any event I am attempting to live on the top of the steps so that I can watch them until they leave again but it's far too cold to remain out there forever. I am doing my best though, coming in for hot meals and to see the kids. Warming up and going right back outside. Pawning off all of my chores. Asking the Devil if we can fence in the ocean with a big enough area that I can keep these ones, since I couldn't keep the last set. Asking at least if they can be protected in order to thrive and yet again explaining why I don't want to go anywhere or do anything right now because this is special, dammit, and we're going to see it through until they move on. 

***

Bonus content since everyone's mad I'm not posting more/longer entries right this minute. I'm sorry, I am having a late-winter meltdown and having a really hard time getting my anxiety under control. It's not as pretty as I like to be so I've practically gone underground but here:

Fun fact. I'm learning really slowly that kids these days kind of do know everything and it's all good. I bought a bunch of new kitchen utensils this week. All black silicone everything, including new tongs, as before I had a crunchy mishmash of metal and wood everything and they scratched the pots or were impossible to clean. Got home with my sleek modern haul and couldn't figure out how to unlock said tongs. 

 At all. Like what the fuck? 

Googled it and waded through a bunch of shit before finding the answer. So I figured I should share it with the group as everyone cooks all the time. 

Everyone over 25 couldn't figure it out, including those who worked in professional kitchens over their early years. Everyone under 25 rolled their eyes and showed me without hesitation. There's a little tab on the hinge end. Push it in to lock them, pull it out to unlock.

Henry rolled his eyes. I reminded him sharply I can still do a triple axel AND a flying camel spin on ice AND  I can do a pirouette return to a trapeze sixty feet off the ground so he can shove it. He opted not to roll them again, as last time he shot back whether I could do anything USEFUL and Lochlan took his wi-fi away.

(Which was somewhat hilarious. Lochlan was furious but I made him relent after an hour because Henry is as pragmatic and dry as Lochlan and furthermore he was absolutely right. Lochlan said he was grounded for the 'tone' of his perfect roast, that's all, but they both learned something that day. That Henry is fucking FUNNY and never misses a chance to light up anyone who puts themselves in his sights but also that wow, mom really coddles her youngest child far beyond what is necessary and lets him off the hook for everything. Which he knows, and that's the dangerous part here but he is a good kid. The best, and soon to be twenty years old.)

In the apocalypse the young will prevail. Good for them.

 I always think I'm in control, that I wield the power over this point, that the sun rises and sets by my command and that it's a well-run ship and I am Captain Bridget and this is my crew of tattooed pirates and we've set sail for bluer waters and smoother seas.

And then I snap out of my unintentional, pipe-dream-of-a-daydream, brutally reminded that I am a feral carnival child and that not only do I not make the rules, I can barely follow them, if at all and that if I dared to assume anyone was captaining this ship toward the horizon of my own life it certainly isn't me. 

The seas? Perpetually stormy. The girl? Drowning, as always.

Duncan just suggested I give up my handbag.*

I am busy making a million thousand hundred dozen pancakes because it's Shrove Tuesday. I still haven't decided what I'm giving up for Lent but I'm working hard on that, rest assured. I have some seriously nuclear cramps and my hair is a disaster and all I want to do is watch a scary movie and go to bed. Did that last night though and no sleep was had between a restless old dog, a blind old cat wandering the halls meowing loudly to herself and the rain that never seems to stop anymore. I guess it's February. I guess it's perpetually dinner time. I guess Easter is coming and we all have to suffer and tomorrow I'll get the cross made in ashes on my forehead because it's a stunning outward and rare display of religion so I love it and in the meantime help me figure out what I should go without. 

Don't say music, coffee or boys. Those ones aren't negotiable. I can do alcohol, internet or Netflix or even chocolate. Candy. Meat. Online shopping. Ha. I don't know. Help. I have twelve hours left to put in my decision. 

*(Edit: Not sure on the handbag. It's a crutch. Like a drug. I'm leaning toward a service decision instead. Post Tutorials or how-tos. Volunteer. Help people. Kindness acts. Donating one item a day for 40 days. Good deeds and pure-heartedness instead of my exhausting doomsday anxious cynicism. Think I might have my answer.)

Mondays are for the boys.

Schuyler's here with Daniel this morning, making brunch to make up for keeping us the full fifteen hours or so when it was supposed to be around three. They are cutting potatoes to fry, keeping an easy banter with Duncan and PJ while I stare. Schuyler's got an incredibly outward, easy handsome. Everyone on the point has a crush on him and it's hard to balance that against his alpha personality because if you stare too long he's the kind to ask you why you're staring and how you feel about it. If you stare too long at Daniel though, he's going to ask you if you have a problem. It's a delicious, thrilling danger that is much like a wager on whether or not you're going to burn yourself depending on how close you are to the fire. You know the risks. You also know the rewards. 

Sam and Matt have chosen to spend Family Day (a holiday here) sleeping in, or I think my head would explode. I've been sitting in the crook of Lochlan's arm while we surf exceedingly expensive foyer designs as we are preparing to change up the front hall. It needs the rustic modern charm of the Tahoe house but in a more practical format. And we need more places to sit to put on shoes or rest your things when you're going out or coming home. Right now it's a double front door with windows on either side and in the doors and then you walk in to a square room with two closets (one on each side and a huge round table in the centre. A small bench ahead of each closet helps but I'm envisioning more wrap around benches with storage in them and maybe a rectangle table, also with storage. And a skylight. And make the closets a lot larger, with glass french doors to close keeping the rest of the house private if there is someone in the front hall. 

I have drawings. Everything will be white, except for the door trims (inside the room) will be pale turquoise. And the cushions on the benches a darker teal and my favourite seaside art prints on each side above the benches and the wreath on the front door is seagrass and glass floats. 

(Sounds fragile but it actually keeps them from slamming the doors in anger. They know how much I love my floats.)

Maybe a living plant on the table instead of the endless flowers that don't match. I'll see if I can get one of those seventy-thousand dollar bonsai trees that are eight feet tall. Dark and sage green cushions and whitewashed hardwood floors can round it out. 

Maybe I'll post before and after pics. Maybe pigs will fly. I'm not good with clutter and that room is a virtual whirlwind all the damn time save for the fact that I insist you put your coat on a hanger, put your boots on a boot tray in the closet and take your personal things with you, hanging your vehicle keys in the key cupboard (in case we need to move a truck) and god help you if you don't. 

It's the biggest first world problem in the world, that room but also there's no handy manual for living in a modern-day commune. 

Perhaps I'll write one. I'll call it Schuyler's Here and No One Cares About The Front Hall Anyway.

Come on be a man about it (look up Hannah Boulton's Anastacia cover for I'm Outta Love. SO GOOD.)

I'm outta love
Set me free
And let me out this misery
Just show me the way to get my life again
Cause you can't handle me

Haha. Just got home. Ruth has gone to try and get snowed in at her boyfriend's family's home (invited for dinner) and Henry's on Dischord setting up a night of online gaming with his friends. Ben is still ensconced in his studio doing something for Corey (two days and counting) and Schuyler decided to muscle in on Caleb's dirty Saturday night habit, stealing Lochlan and I for the evening and before I knew it I was safely installed in the centre of a sleepover, glass of wine in hand, bowl of corn chips in Daniel's hand, naked reality tv show watching underway with long drawn out distractions, furtive naps and exhaustive laughter. 

Sometime around four this morning we ran out of chips and wine and tv too and Schuyler made a big group text and said that Bridget was tied up and wouldn't be attending church today. Then he threw my phone into the chair on the other side of the room and had a gentle laugh against my ear before seeing us through to the sunrise, no Jesus to be found. 

Holy Christ. 

Fair enough. He laughs again.

I need to go home. I need a hot shower. Maybe an exorcism. 

It's a long weekend. 

Yes, it definitely is. I snort-laugh and Lochlan (way past drunk, almost headed toward silly, warm nostalgic Magic-Loch of the nineties here and this is why I stayed so long, because I don't want that to end) suggests we sleep a bit and then have brunch later. 

We missed brunch, I guess, sleeping in a pile until past two this afternoon and when we came back to the main house through the snow, Caleb was watching us from the upper back stairwell window. Lochlan pulled me in to his face by the neck, kissing me so hard I would have fallen but he was holding me up. 

That was fun. 

Schuyler's a charmer. 

He is, Peanut.

In a dangerous way.

Maybe, yup. 

No, I'm serious-

You're just tired. 

I stare at him and leave it on the hill. I want to walk away alive and I'm not going to pick a fight. He never comes next door with me. Last night he didn't even hesitate. Maybe his eyebrows went up more than once or twice but he let go a bit and it's been ages. He hasn't really gotten to experience Schuyler On Perpetual Vacation but frankly everyone should. I can always see why Ben and Schuyler got along so well. They both have a gift for making the most of the moment, for suspending worry, fear, trepidation or negative energy and making things fun and you leave them feeling as if you're different somehow. 

This gives me incredible peace of mind for Daniel. And for everyone here. Schuyler and Lochlan are unofficial equals and also way too much alike for my own liking but dammit if I didn't actually need to break the cycle Caleb had strongarmed me into always saving Saturdays for him and then ending up missing church because he wouldn't let go or wasn't ready to give me up quite yet. 

What's the difference? He asks on the stairs as I head up for that shower while Lochlan goes to make some afternoon coffee to bring upstairs. 

What do you mean?

You missed church again anyway. Why is it a bad thing if you're with me but perfectly fine with Schuyler?

Lochlan was there.

End of conversation. Caleb isn't going to invite Lochlan along. Ever. I could probably push it but then it's just intense and frightening and an endless power struggle in the dark. No one's reading wine bottles backwards or invoking breathless tickle fights in those nights. 

(The power of) Christ (compels you). Caleb says it under his breath. Just the one word, but I'll fill in the others and the demons will clear out and I can get my head on straight again. Sure my knees are on backwards too at this point but I'll have to deal with those later. Then I'll have to work on getting the stupid happy grin off my face long enough to get roasted at dinner. It's one walk of shame I'll happily strut through. Because I had fun and I'm sick of apologizing for it. Not like anyone else is.

Snow day.

Last night I got in bed late, as I stayed downstairs to watch the end of a show with August, and after he went home I locked up, did a circuit to check that everything was closed up and locked down, set the alarm, checked the cameras and then came upstairs, climbing up the middle of the bed after brushing my teeth and leaving a pile of clothes on the chair in the bathroom. I slipped down under the quilts and turned away from Lochlan, sliding backwards until I had my back against his chest and his arms went around me in his almost-asleep state, a kiss absently landing on top of my head. He hates it when I breathe directly in his face, hence me always sleeping face toward the headboard. 

Ben loves it. He said it makes him feel less alone and also alive and so he moves in closer, arms around both of us and I become sleep-meat. A Bridget sandwich between Ben's bread (soft and pale, God I miss that bread from home, there was a brand called literally Ben's Bread.) and Lochlan-bread, which I imagine to be a dark rye full of seeds and nuts, rustic and full of air bubbles but also dense and woodsy. 

I laugh out loud when I pull my green blanket in around me as they tend to make the covers lift up a lot and the cold air rushes in from the top. 

What's so funny, Bumblebee? Ben mumbles from my hair. 

We're a sandwich and my green blanket is the lettuce, I explain but he has fallen off the edge of sleep again. He's not on alert. Laughter is an audible cue to relax their guard.

Lochlan's arms tighten around me and I start my routine of trying to unfocus my mind, beginning with running up my body from my toes to the top of my head, a visual exercise, shutting off switches as I go, leaving each part in the dark in turn, signalling rest. Of course when I get to my brain the switch is broken and I flip it up and down, frustrated. I invoke my backup plan which is to run through a mental picture of all the places I love most, from the teepee on the brook back in the woods to the Big Ex grounds to the Forks market to Hither Hills to Miss Molpy's basement to the Louvre to Zanoagei Gorges to the Barkley Sound. I usually only make it to the Forks before I am out cold but last night I paddled silently through the predawn mist, looking for new and wonderful birds around the Deer Group islands and then I drifted away on the tides before waking up at five sharp. 

That marks a scant three hours of sleep and I am disappointed but exceedingly alert today. Lochlan is not alert. In the least. Ben is almost comatose in his slumber, since shifted onto his back, arm still snaked underneath our necks all the way across and curled around Lochlan's head. 

Stay. Lochlan barely finishes the word. He can't stay awake. 

It's snowing! I'm going kayaking. 

No you're not and if you leave this house you'll be in so much trouble.

Fine. I'll wait until you're up. 

I go downstairs but no one is up yet so I read for awhile, then rearrange my cartful on the stationery website that I still haven't ordered from.  Then I go down the hall to check in on PJ but he is just a lump of quilts in a dark room so I go back toward the library where I guess I'll watch the snow and read until I hear the sounds of the house coming to life. 

When I walk into the library there is a small grey coyote sitting just on the other side of the floor to ceiling window that presses into the woods in front of the house. He is not startled but he looks at me curiously. I stay in place, leaving the lights off. This is a gift, though it's usually a bear or a deer and so I am curious enough to move closer. That's a mistake. The coyote turns and disappears into the trees, leaving the snow falling gently.

I look for prints and take a photo of them through the glass before they vanish too. This part of the yard is inaccessible from the other and is not curtailed by the fence and so it's a regular occurrence to have company outside the windows. 

I can't focus to read and so I watch and wait.

Sigh. Not a public platform, no duty to do anything here but write letters into the wind, folks.

(I didn't come here to write about this. I had something I wanted to put down but I made the mistake of logging in email first and saw all of them and well, here we are. No post for you today, I guess, and definitely no post for me.)

Here goes (I'll say it once): 

Whenever a public figure/musician/person is 'metoo'd' people ask me if I'm ever going to 'talk about it'. 

Talk about what? 

I'm kidding. Yes, I know a lot of musicians and even some who have been cancelled. Personally. As such, since I saw the paper last night I am aware that Matthew Good is being cancelled as we speak. And I swear if I open my mouth about it, well, you'll never hear the end of it so I'm not going to talk about it. I will most likely continue to fight Lochlan to listen to an MG song the whole way through even though they murder me fully, and Lochlan will continue to try to skip the track to save my dear ruined mind. 

Yes, that's what I'm going to do. 

If I address these kinds of subjects, I can only speak to my own experiences and those I know directly. I may have met Matthew Good once or twice and if anything he seemed introverted, shy and awkward but also bitter and detached but that doesn't mean I have anything to say about this, because I wasn't physically there and opinions are always best left to those with actual insight. 

Anything else is ignorance, arrogance and assumption.

Stuck inside our own machine.

Six in the morning and Lochlan is very quietly covering Nelly Furtado's Try on his acoustic guitar by the woodstove, feet up, coffee within reach, his light falsetto making short work of the bridge. The lights are all on and the wind is positively howling outside. We're still facing down a week or so of minor snow but any snow is-

Oh, my. He has moved on to Neil Finn's Song of the Lonely Mountain. He's going through what I call my Quiet playlist, learning the songs as they are inoffensive and beautiful and heartbreaking each and I couldn't cull this down if I tried so he's got his work cut out for him for the next fifty years or so. 

This is so nice. Ben and Caleb are at their favourite points on the big couch, on their phones. Caleb picking stocks, most likely, and Ben fretting for the state of some of his friends who failed to diversify which works when there is a functioning music industry but not when there isn't and so if I could I would take Caleb's resources and pour them into Ben's friends to keep everyone afloat until this ends. 

Lochlan presses skip on the next song. Apparitions. He can sing it but you can watch me dissolve in realtime as I listen. Matthew Good is my spirit animal, my kryptonite and my certain destruction, I make no airs about that. 

All your faults in meeeee-

Bridge-

Loch doesn't want a vocal accompaniment, I guess. But now it's in my head. Ha. I can't outrun this. My psyche plucks out my hippocampus and my heart (thrown overhand, no less) in it's arms and comes running after me, flat out. 

But for now, I am faster still.