Short. Lived (Hold every memory as you go).

Walked outside and went to go down and turn the telescope back towards the sea where we turned it to look at the birds nest in the tree behind the garage and the space was already occupied. 

He's back. Blue poplin shirttails flapping gently in the wind, hair long and ruffled. I turn to save myself the unbearable pain and his voice in my mind stops me.

Princess. Please.

Aw fuck. I turn back toward the ocean, step forward and drop into the rabbit hole. They just keep popping up everywhere. No sooner can I find a shovel and fill the holes with memories high enough that you walk on them without tripping then the memories get packed down, folded neatly, flattened lower and lower to make room for more and then I'm falling again.

He reaches down and lifts me back out, only we're down beyond the telescope now right by the endless fence. The one I can't see over. The one designed to keep me from following him wherever he goes.

I look up at him and he smiles. My heart cracks and throbs miserably and he frowns suddenly at something behind me. I look back and Lochlan is headed toward me at his usual clickingly rapid gait. 

Peanut. Wait. 

Hmmm?

He reaches me. Tell me something. 

Uh ummmmm did you know that by the age of forty, fifty percent of men have trouble maintaining an erection-

Tell me where he is. 

I turn away toward Jake but he is gone. I turn back. 

Heaven? 

Is he here? Are you following rabbits again?

If I said yes would you be mad? I whisper it to the wind. 

No. I would just be sad. 

Then no. No rabbits. No Jake. I thought he would be here in heaven but I don't see him anywhere. 

6:30am to 8:00pm (barometer but more of a general one).

You made it, Poem. Another winter. 

It was my Golden Jubilee of winters, Poet. 

He bursts out laughing. Was it now? 

Perhaps. I am noncommital. I steal a piece of honeydew from the bowl of fruit he has in one hand. 

Sleep?

No. You? 

Yeah. All the fresh air yesterday. 

We organized the backyard in preparation for a work week this coming weekend, where we can rehang one of the gates, after the concrete is set (thanks again guys for using real concrete), deploy the three cubic yards of soil into the gardens and then the only thing after that is planting/weeding/mowing/watering for the rest of the summer. This is the big job but it's not too hard and then if I help I too, will sleep well, if only for a night or two. Patio cushions are out on the chairs under the glass-topped pergola and my plant pots are beginning to make appearances as I line them up for planting. I have a whole heaping pile of rosemary rooting right now on every window sill in the kitchen and great room and I'm going to make a fence of them along one side of the property. No one believes me but I only need a two or three year commitment to the case and they will be surprised. 

In any case, we've definitely tipped the balance now and it's spring/almost summer. I see the end of the construction-yardwork in sight before something else begins. And over the weekend we got new stools for the island. Plain wood. Simple and sturdy, getting rid of the weird articulating black padded leather scoop seats that hurt unless you sat on them just right and always seemed too low or two high. Besides, two of them were broken anyway. Last week I got new white semi-sheer curtains for the living room and great room and we did away with the heavy cast-iron childproof fireplace screen in the living room and put in an antique decorative enamel one that can be simply folded to the side if we have a fire in there. 

So nice. Small changes, huge effect. And when the pool enclosure is finished we'll truly have the outside in here even though it is not connected to any other buildings. The little pool house where I keep towels and floating things and chemicals is outside of it. The sauna and the outdoor kitchen are now connected though, by a series of interconnected brick paths that tie in with the driveway and ahhhhhhhhhh. It's looking good.

They really are down to just finishing bits and bobs. Trims and cleaning up. I feel hopeful, this morning. 

You look happy, Duncan says suddenly. You're smiling. On a Monday. That's new.

You keep me believing.

Doing White Dress but in a contralto this morning, semi-talking, squealing here and there, working on control. 

As if. 

Ever.

I hit the button on the keurig this morning and walked away. Came back to coffee all over the place because I forgot to put my mug underneath it and had to spend fifteen minutes scrubbing and now I'm sad that my ego rose up a little yesterday and this morning my heart snapped back. Never get too invested in the smallest successes, it said. Remember who you are, it chided, gently. Some days my  heart is my singular refuge. Some days it is enemy number one. 

And no, it's not my brain talking.You only wish you could hear what's going on in there. It's a whole separate monologue that never shuts off but some times I can tune it right out. Sometimes the volume knob gets bumped and it just turns into a feedback whine. Sometimes it's pink noise. 

And sometimes I chuck it all out and replace it with a piano or headphones and someone else's words. 

I was so proud. I cleaned and refilled and rehung all of the bird feeders. We only put them out in daylight, here. The first hummingbird of our season came by yesterday to say hi but his feed was stale and so he didn't stay, even as I promised to fix it. We had the work-guys come on a rare Saturday to do some things we wanted done and Ransom wouldn't let us touch. We lifted Henry's spirits and played with the dog a lot. 

It was sunny. 

After dinner I cut down my paintbrushes and sanded them round again. I don't have any use for brushes that are two feet long. I bump into them as I paint. I knock them over. It's not as if they are balanced or I need the length to reach or I like long graceful instruments. I just want things that fit me. So I was feeling pretty proud when Lochlan came out to the studio. I've been saying I was going to do it for years and years. So many stabby bruises. So many knocked-into palettes and spilled cups of brushes. Fuck it. I'm fixing all the things before the second act. It's going to be great. 

***

Sam says I should be singing Tulsa Jesus Freak today. All my sensitive boys love Lana and have actually been listening, while I get distracted and then just end up defaulting to Tool or Demon Hunter half the time anyway. 

I let him preach directly to me this morning over my second, successful coffee this time. He loves the audience I give him. If it's engaging I am rapt. If it's not I am absent. Then he'll tweak his words for effect from the feedback. I point out an audience of one with a specific fetish for bottomless emotion could possibly be the worst audience and instead he should be kissing the hand that feeds him. He just stared at me in his patient, peaceful way and said he planned to live an authentic life and he's not looking back. 

What an inspiration.

One more week, Geoff Crayon.

True to form the pool enclosure isn't finished and needs until next Saturday afternoon. Concrete is fun. Concrete is life. The glass is lovely though. The vision comes together and Ransom told me at least it's cold as hell right now so it's not like I'm losing a week of pool use or anything. He has no use for my first world problems. If I need to swim I can go to Batman's. If I need to swim in a big space I can buy a resort in Mexico. 

Firstly, I remind you I was poor once. So poor I skipped meals and watched my children eat theirs so this is fairly recent, truth be told. Also Batman will just stare so that's not an option. Thirdly I don't do Mexico. Maybe the Maldives. Maybe the Canaries or Fiji but never Mexico. 

Fourthly, hell isn't cold. That's a myth. 

***

Now off to try to enjoy the weekend. I'd like to watch a horror movie and eat some cake.See if any of that happens. We don't have cake and I don't feel like baking. I feel like playing Rip Van Winkle. Or Ezra. Or Oisin. Or something where the protagonist (clearly me. The plot has changed! I was once the heroine!) wakes up from a long gap in history and everything is different and they continue on. I always thought it was a Roald Dahl story (off by two hundred years!) and am always surprised when reminded it is by Irving, the same man who wrote my beloved The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

I'll pour one out later for the Duke.

I am not getting out of bed. Prince Philip died. The Queen is a widow now too. And Ransom has precisely twelve hours left to finish the work with his team. Not sure if he's going to do it. He and I had a lovely professional exchange by text last night. He is assured that there are no problems. I over-anticipate and fret every last possibility. It's my specialty.

BEST NEWS EVER.

 I know Canada is a laughing stock with our inability to vaccinate, the whole seventh-wave fun of living in BC or whatever the hell it is that we're doing here but I'll have you know Ticketmaster just sent me the rescheduled dates for the Roger Waters concert that was supposed to take place last fall and I am SO EXCITED. It's eighteen months away but WHO CARES? We have plans!!!!! Also that means pub dinner because we always grab food on the way to a show. It's tradition. It's been a long fucking pandemic. I am THRILLED TO SEE THIS. I GET TO DRESS UP AND GO OUT. 

WHAT THE FUCK. 

*cries*

Had you in my coat pocket.

 Sippin' on straight chlorine, let the vibe slide over me

This beat is a chemical, beat is a chemical
When I leave don't save my seat, I'll be back when it's all complete
The moment is medical, moment is medical
Sippin' on straight chlorine

 

The best part of singing this with the piano is that Lochlan will burst in and do a wonderful theatrical first bridge for me, and then supply the harmony on the final verse. It's just magical. There's an acoustic version you can hit up to get the idea here, though the original is orchard-danceable in a way I didn't notice until today.

(Everyone likes the music I bring so I share the links when I remember to. The soundtrack for the movie of my life now stands at fourteen thousand hours or something. Anyway Twenty One pilots dropped a new single yesterday and the new album comes in May. Ruthie is losing it. She's seen them twice and can't get enough and sent me an ALL CAPS message yesterday from work after the band's email went out. I could hear the squeals from here.)

Lochlan is trying to distract me from now camping the pool build from the side window of our room. I can hardly see a thing from there except for the one corner but it was enough until I got caught. 

Want to go for a walk?

Sure I tell him. I leave the keys and grab my airpods (BEST. INVENTION. EVER) and the song barely misses a beat.

I will be free.

 Prisoned am I to this shell of the dust

It speaks of only fiction that I could never trust
Captured alive in this sinful estate
Vexed am I to see I do the things that I hate
Rip out the framework leave no stone unturned
Until my heart forgets all that my flesh ever learned
Tear down the structure till nothing is left
God deliver me from this body of death

I can play most instruments enough to be passable. Except guitar, honestly. That one is tough. Bass is more my thing. I can drum but if I think about it too much I lose my rhythm. French horn, trumpet, saxophone? Check. Bagpipes? Yes. Accordion? Easy. Uilleann pipes, of course. Violin, Piano, very well thank you. 

And yet all I want to do is sing. 

This morning I took the good monitors out into the rain and the cliff so I could belt it out over the sea. Lowly is this morning's efforts. Wolves at the Gate. We're coming back around here. First is the main vocal track and then I layer in minor harmony. Three of those in different keys and then the background screaming harmony. 

Well, I can't do it in the house. The studio is ninety-eight percent soundproof but if I'm going to practice my growls I can't have an audience and half the time I zone out on the guitar scale and forget I am supposed to be providing the words. Besides, Ben woke up with another headache and so I'm not going to bother him. Instead he is sleeping late to try and shake the pain this morning while I wear mine as a badge of foolishness and bravery in the face of nothing more than my own tiny shadow.

Oh Blessed man that I am Lowly man who can save such a wretch that I am?

I feel like it all just makes it rain harder. 

Love it.

I can't tell you about the ghosts if I don't write about them.

I am not in charge of the pool project any longer and Caleb uncharacteristically told me to watch myself which was interesting but later I found out that he wants me to keep the upper hand and be professional. I'm not worried. The work has to be inspected to pass usage and Ransom will be well-paid so why wouldn't he do the best job he can? This will be an absolute showpiece for his portfolio. Again. Like the last few projects he did for us. 

(I remain fully unapologetic about the punch though.)

In better news, the entire point (Batman's house included because our motto is Leave no one behind or something like that) is registered to be vaccinated. Those of us who are young enough to not have had any shots yet, I mean. 

I feel excited, finally. This is just registration. We'll get emails when they are ready for our age groups to make appointments to get the actual needle but this feels like progress to me and even though I bought completely unnecessary toilet paper today expecting a more stringent health order, I feel like the end is in sight at last. 

Played the spoons to Civilian after dinner. Sang harmony. Sewed a pair of shorts and half a dozen new masks. Helped Ruth with a project and kept her company while she ran errands. Sat outside on the swing and listened to French radio. Made dinner. Watched a Youtube video with PJ in which someone broke their windshield with a loud subwoofer. Did the laundry. Walked the dog. Threw a punch. 

The usual. 

It's going to be a long week.