Jesus Ice Patch.

I may have curled the dog out the patio door, down his little ramp and into the soft grass. I'm not going to score any points on my end and the dog was rightly offended but we lived to tell the tale and he is back inside now, under the big beautifully- and constantly-lit Christmas tree in the great room. He lives for having a tree in the house but he's never mistaken it for one he can use. 

The house is still quiet this morning. Lochlan's working on his guitar lessons (he's playing Fly At Night. He plays, I sing and change all of the lyrics until he laughs. He says I am detrimental. He means to his practice. I think in general.)

I am mainlining the Butterscotch coffee he found for me. I drink it black but I like the smell and the bittersweet aftertaste. 

This song is the radio twin to Fleetwood Mac's Say You Love Me and I might be right as they're only three years apart but both were out and established by the time I moved to Campbell and that's where this all started.

Fleeced.

It snowed this morning. Not enough to leave anything on the pavement but the gardens were covered for a few hours and there's touches of it here and there. 

Wow. And it's only like November. So early this year. 

Lochlan stares at me. It's December fourth. 

No it isn't. But the trees are up. The lights are on, the presents are sent, wrapped and planned otherwise and the turkeys are in the freezers. I've been ready for weeks now. Also these drugs make it so the days run together and I have to concentrate way too hard on the numbers and days of the week specifically and that's WAY too much work so I don't bother. 

Lochlan is wearing his warmest hoodie. It's got soot marks on the cuffs and a little on the hood. That won't come out. He has his hair tied back with one of my velvet elastics. We've made a pact not to cut our hair until 2025. Just for fun. His hair grows lightening-fast. Mine is slow but I currently have the tiniest baby ponytail that ever was and if I move it will probably all fall out. But I also chopped mine last year. He only comes along every five or six years and buzzes his hair short and then just starts all over again. 

I also have one one of his ancient warm hoodies on. That's tradition. Mine doesn't have soot marks but it does have tearing along the seams of the hood and the arms from where he's pulled me in/back/over/around something and tested his faith on fabric instead of anything less tangible.

When you don't speak the language but you nod along and smile.

In endless surprises once again Caleb asked for and was granted permission to take me somewhere as long as he didn't let go of my hand. Fridays are his day that we go down to the beach and after our walk today (in which he did not let go, even as I tried to reach down to collect pretty bubbles of tiny beach glass) he kissed the back of my hand, shot a cuff that didn't exist (long sleeve thermal tees and Patagonia jackets make that move difficult and pointless) and said in ten minutes we will have some visitors. 

My heart turns to ice, thread, staples and all. It's the Russians. Coming back when they realized I wasn't joking when I said not to acknowledge Caleb any further. He thought I was being sweet, in deference to their power but I was being honest. Stop. Go away already.

No, I have a colleague from the old days who retired out here as well and it turns out his daughter and her husband sell crystals and they're going to come by so we can do a little personal shopping. 

Really. How?

They have a well stocked van and they do trade shows and online sales and so they're bringing some things to show you that I thought you might like and if you like them they will sell them on the spot. I get a little discount since I'm a friend of the family but they have some really nice pieces. 

You're looking at my wishlists again, aren't you? 

Perhaps, but I also see some pretty pieces on the windowsills and I know this could be a fun way to add to your collections. 

By the time we left our treasures by the door to be washed, cleaned up and put on masks for our company the van was slowly coming down the driveway. Lochlan came out to see what was up and then went away just as quickly as it wasn't anything as alarming as last week. 

And. OH MY GOD. 

SO MANY PRETTY THINGS. 

I know damn well if I had just asked Caleb if they could leave their whole inventory and just bill him he would have said yes without hesitation, but in the end I tried to have restraint and chose only the pieces that called to me, which were a beautiful tower of angelite, a flourite owl, a yooperlite tiny skull that looks like he's on fire when you shine a black light on him, ocean jasper worry stones (2 different oval-shapes because I couldn't choose), a blue goldstone point and a citrine palm stone which is bigger than my palm but Caleb wouldn't leave it alone so I think I might give it to him. I got a bracelet of gorgeous, glossy, highly-polished flame jasper beads for Lochlan and an opalite rabbit carving too. I think the rabbit and the owl will be for Ruth and Henry and the rest I will keep, as no one else is into crystals in the main house and I like to keep it simple, overall. 

They threw in a selenite bowl and a carved agate one too and a wonderful selection of smaller tumbled assorted pieces (I see rutilated quartz, picture jasper, chalcedony and a piece of rose quartz that was positively singing) plus two big points of carnelian and a half-dozen obsidian points for near our egress doors. Oh, Schuyler, eat your heart out (don't worry I will give them some too.) and then as a final gift, they gave me a beautiful carved angel wing of labradorite so flashy I don't remember seeing them leave, I couldn't stop looking at it. 

Merry Christmas, Caleb says. He's very proud of himself. The box weighs a hundred pounds. I'm sure if I didn't make him broke before, I have now. 

Okay, well, that was really fun, I admit. Damn.

I surfaced to shove you under.

It's a rowboat through the season, through the living room full of presents and decorations, past the Christmas trees and into the wet leaves and sodden mashed-down grass of the lawn. If you row hard enough you can fly off the cliff, catch some wind on a cloud and land in the higher tide, the softer one, in my opinion. The low tide is full of surprises, sharp rocks and errant logs jamming themselves against the shores, keeping your tiny boat from beaching yes, but also keeping you from venturing back to dry land after your navigation is complete. 

(And that lifejacket isn't going to save you. It hasn't yet and it's not going to. The only reason you can breathe at all is because he has you by the collar and he's keeping you aloft-)

From now on anyone who wants me for anything has to clear it with Lochlan first. Except for Ruth and Henry. Even Ben. That raised some waves, right there, and the storm took forever to clear. That's why I'm posting so late today. 

(Also because he took my Wifi but I can whore for a hotspot better than ANYONE ALIVE.)

I live to enrage you (part II).

When I returned (safely, to everyone's disappointment), Caleb was on the patio steps. He grabs me by the upper arm, steering me inside. I think he's pissed that I was going to Batman's (even if I didn't stay) and instead he says we have a Christmas visitor and I am to play dumb and stay out of reach. It's a hiss and a serious warning and he isn't fucking around and I am steered all the way down the hall through the house to the front hall. 

In the front hall are three men I recognize, going back years and two I don't recognize at all. Bodyguards. I ask them to wait outside. I won't have guns in my home. They head outside, as apparently it is a quick visit just to leave some gifts, as it's been a long year once again and they are always thinking of our/my wellbeing. There are two cases in the front hall and an envelope on top of one. I am instructed to enjoy the gifts with my friends before the old man asks if I need anything. 

Actually I do. Caleb has stopped trying to talk over me finally and watches. He isn't worried but he's plenty worried, and his body language has him standing a quarter-width in front of me, just in case. 

Anything for you. Name it. 

If Caleb calls you, please don't pick up. 

And he laughs, a loud ringing belly laugh and comes forward to kiss both my cheeks. Caleb doesn't even budge and it's a bit of a shuffle. And with that he is waving goodbye over his shoulder, collecting his sons and rendezvousing with his bodyguards who stood on the porch waiting. 

One case is vodka. The other is vintage art tools and new supplies from Saint Petersburg, things I've been coveting for some time but only knew one way to get and I wasn't going to choose that way. Apparently it chose me. I did send them off with a family Christmas card, because we keep a ready stack just in case, as there are always producers or managers swinging by to drop off a gift or a card and we learned quickly.

Send it all back to the Motherland, Lochlan says when he sees the cases. 

If you're smart that's the last thing you want to do, Caleb reminds him. As long as we only see them once a year and they seem content to spoil Bridget, then we can manage. 

Do you even hear yourself? You've made her the focus. When has that EVER served to be a good idea?

Lochlan, take a breath, please. It's over. Everything is fine. 

Maybe for you. I want no part of this. And she won't be at the next meeting. 

There are no more meetings. 

Gift exchanges. WHATEVER, DIABHAL. NO MORE. 

I live to disappoint you (Part I).

Last night was a doozy, holy. 

I made my way over to Batman's. August's eyes boring a hole in my back as I went. He offered. I'm sure Batman could see right through me to watch this too, as it was the walk of bears and pre-shame, or so they thought, but I refused to have company on the walk as I was busy gathering courage as I went, like fallen leaves. In reality I regretted this decision from the very first step as the path was exceedingly slippery but I wasn't going to give August nor Batman the amusing schadenfreude of seeing me slip because that's going to be metaphorical only today, thank you very much. 

Only none of them know it and that's the part that I'm irritated about. Like, pay attention here. This isn't hard and while I'm sober I'll shine bright enough to scare off the bears and the wolves alike. 

Bridget, Batman says when I arrive, an affectionate kiss ready to plant against my temple (I wrote temper there first. Lord. The MOOD.) I wasn't sure you'd come. 

Here, I resist my sophomoric urge to laugh. (Because I'm never sure. It's likely but you just never know.) He takes the gifts from me. There is wine with a big bow and fresh flowers. He loves flowers. 

I'm not staying. I'm sorry. I don't think it's a good idea. 

With that my phone goes off. I look at it. It's Caleb. I need you for one quick moment.

JUST A MINUTE. I reply, smashing buttons. Shouldn't have looked it. But if I don't, it's either Ruth with a question or someone will keep texting til I reply. No one has chill. We are feverish instead. 

I see you've received a better offer. 

No. I brought you a nice wine to drink and some pretty flowers for your table and we both know that right now is not a good time and so we're adults and we're reasonably intelligent and so we can be mature about this. 

If I were the one bringing you flowers when you hoped for more?

I would have more respect for you. Not less. I say it quietly and he softens, relaxing his whole body, slumping against the doorframe. 

Well, there's something that can keep me warm, he says. He sticks his face in the flowers and takes a deep breath. Go find your Devil, Bridget. I'll watch from here. 

I hurry away before he says anything else. Down the treacherous path, into the trees. Home.

OMG this fucking RAIN.

Before the storm.

 Up early again. I like to have a couple of hours to just move slowly and have coffee and toast and frozen summer grapes today for my fruit, and read or watch something or write or draw. My ipad is charging. All of my supplies are out in the stables studio. I'm seriously considering turning the whole thing into a potting shed but it's a huge output and I am not as ambitious as I would like to be, perhaps. I'm going to make some mugs and see if I like where it goes and then decide. Or maybe I won't. I don't know. 

I just know unless I am heavily drugged I don't sleep anymore. At all. I hate it. I went to sleep at eleven thirty after Lochlan yelling at me to put my book down (I have a tiny clip-on book light. He hates it. Not much has changed in forty years. I would sleep with the lights on if I could. I would probably just read all night, if I could. To wait out the night.

At two-thirty I got up to pee. That's normal. 

At five I got up to take aspirins, pee again and take off my earrings. 

At seven I gave up, showered, dressed and came downstairs to make coffee. Ben is deeply asleep and doesn't stir. Lochlan is comatose, helpless and exhausted and mutters something about not going outside. 

PJ lurks the halls. Pretty sure Loch texted him in a haze of sleep and effort. I'm not going outside. It's raining again.

Yay but also booo but also yay.

Every final weekend of November starts the same way now. I defied Black Friday (online and in person, mostly) and went to mail the packages heading East and South, and overseas. I like to go before the packages hit the mailstream from people shopping online. My stuff always arrives in lots of time for Christmas this way. 

I was the first in line at the post office (which is at the back of the drugstore) and on the way out I picked up snacks for the upcoming rainy weekend. We gassed up the Jeep (well, thirty litres since we're rationing gas here due to the floods) and that got me a little less than half a tank which is pretty nice. I feel rich.

Home again, listening to music (random Youtube) and drinking hot chocolate so heavily spiked it's almost illegal and I'm singing at the top of my lungs and chugging along in my Christmas machine like a little maniac. I have all of Ruth's gifts wrapped and ready for her home. Everything else (at least forty percent of the wrapping is done) stays here on the point. I have to pull out the ornaments next as we do our trees and figure out which ones belong to her. It's pretty easy-we (...I?) gave the children matching ornaments every year for a long time so if there's two of something, one goes to her. 

It was weird trying to address cards and gift tags and not putting her name as I sign things from the family, proper. Nuclear. Immediate. I don't even know so I didn't. I signed it all from Us. With a heart. Just Us. Everyone knows who is who and who buys the gifts and who wraps them and who makes things and who does the extra touches. 

 It was even weirder slowly stopping to watch the Ghost video from Justin Beiber. I know why they didn't let me see it but well done (even though it's pop superlight and it reminded me of the Charlie Puth song See You Again, oh, wait it's Wiz Khalifa, a LOT), save for the easy-pop top on the urn at the beach. They weld those things shut so you can't just WHOOPS open it up, sprinkle a little beautifully, Diane-Keaton style and then close it up and come home. 

Ask me how I know this. 

Maybe don't. *covers eyes*

Maybe it's different in America. But he's Canadian. I don't even know anymore, but Happy Thanksgiving. My work here is done.

Vampires and empires.

What if God's not real
And everything we are
Is just a moment here
Where we're only growing older
What if God is real
And everything I've done
Pushed me down this path
And it's only growing colder?

Batman is standing in the back hall when I come down this morning. A hulking shadow, an unfamiliar sillhouette in the early morning darkness, an uninvited guest with an open-door invitation clasped in hand, written in my own blood by my own design. 

I've heard enough over the past few days that I thought it was time I paid you a visit. As you haven't been to see me. I thought I would see you after Asher left. And with that his reluctant, almost sour wave of loneliness washes over me and I turn away to go make coffee, throwing an offer of a cup over my shoulder, not watching to see his response and so having no idea if he's going to follow me or not. 

He does follow, so I pull a second mug from the cupboard. He sits at the island, eyes boring holes through my head, like I need more. The opal marbles I collected and stuffed inside spill out, bouncing all over the floor as I turn to chose flavours among the drawer of k-cups, grateful for the mindless domestic distractions, aware that I am now flushed of face and trembling just a little bit as I fit a cup into the holder and pull the handle down. 

He's amused. He's not blind to match my deafness. He's actually hyper aware of my moods and well-versed in my endless, obvious efforts to appear cool even as I lose my shit. 

Bridget, you need to come see me and check in. Or did someone else get my dance card? 

I see not only Lochlan was pissed at the full weekend I spent with Caleb for no reason other than I wanted a yes-man for two fucking days, just for a break from the constant weight to do better, be better, be more, fix everything and somehow hold up the fucking sun and the moon at the same time. 

I was busy. I shrug and hold a mug out to him. Starbies Jesus blend. Perfect for his casual sanctimony, timely in that no one's tried this flavour yet. We stocked up on holiday coffee since it seems to keep us going and so we just bought whatever and it turns out the maple/herbal whateverness is pretty good, though it's not really helping me find the holy spirit of Christmas. And neither is this man. 

Maybe we can watch a Christmas movie together. 

Maybe, I remain doubtful, pressed against the dishwasher, I guess Frigidaire has my back this morning, since none of my army is anywhere to be found. Don't think they don't get bonuses in their accounts to to throw a race or even just steer off to the side for a few minutes, giving him a chance to overtake the leader and try to win. 

He's never won and he's kept my respect all these years with a decided lack of pressure and desperation and so I think when he's ready to go I will turn and add some whiskey to my coffee otherwise I might walk around for the rest of the day with my eyebrows on the roof, getting washed down in this unending deluge of destructive mountain rain and the surprise of these raw emotions. Batman's a washout, he's a natural disaster this morning holding a cup of grocery-store coffee and all of his hopes in the same hand. 

How about Sunday? I say abruptly as he returns the cup to me. He's not a sipper (or a slurper, like me), he drinks coffee like a construction worker with only a two-minute breather and freezing cold hands. 

This Sunday? Are you free? We can do a Hallmark dice roll and make some pizza. 

Yeah. That would be good. Did you decorate?

I had the house decorated, yes. 

Of course. Good. That will help with the spirit. 

Anything else I can do in advance? 

I shake my head, slurping my coffee. Prepare to wage war with my army, the one getting tired of my efforts to destroy myself by become stretched so thin I break and then the veil will be gone and the ghosts of Christmas past will crowd in even closer?

It's not going to happen. Just make sure you're home by midnight, Lochlan thinks inside my head. I turn but he's not there. Maybe it is the self-regulating. Maybe it's wishful-thinking. Maybe it's a hard rule that I'm faster than. We shall see.