I am freshly showered, scrubbed and scalded, having spent close to an hour under the stinging spray and I climb under the covers to reach the redheaded dreamer, still sleeping into the late morning. Only he isn't sleeping.
Locket.
He gives me a gentle shove. Get the fuck away from me.
I hold fast. No. My voice is pleading.
He reaches out and pulls me tightly against him, putting his hand up to press my head against his heart. He squeezes me so hard, not letting go and I can't breathe but I'm more concerned that my head will burst and that will be the end of me. I endure it even though it hurts worse than anything the dark lords can come up with.
You're killing me, peanut. I can't breathe when you're with him.
I took Ben with me, and you could breathe enough to fall asleep.
I fell asleep at 5:15 this morning, which was right after Ben messaged me to let me know you would be leaving soon. He groans and sits up, pulling me up with him. He lifts my head up and inspects every inch of me that he can see. His eyes look haunted, ruined and relieved.
How did we get so fucked up that this is routine?
I need to do this.
You don't owe him anything.
I owe him everything. It's a warning voice. I wanted everyone here. He made that happen.
Lochlan meets it head-on. We don't need to be here. We can live in the camper. I can get some land. Maybe back in the Maritimes.
We can't afford it.
We could at least try! Jesus. Selling your soul to the monster wasn't an answer to anything. I should have never brought you back. We should have just taken the offer to give up our names and run.
We would have gotten caught.
Yeah, well, I tried to do the right thing and look where it got me.
At least you're here. With me. That's all I want.
No it isn't. Or you wouldn't have gone last night.
Between the verbal circles we run in and the lack of sleep and proper food I feel dizzy and I disentangle myself to lie down again. When my head hits the pillow I smell Irish Spring soap and sunscreen and heat. I close my eyes and it's 1982 again and as long as I can still pull that off then the rest isn't important. His arms close around me and I'm safe at last.
Sunday 3 June 2012
Saturday 2 June 2012
Perfidia
Mike picks me up at my front door and takes me to the harbor. He walks me down the dock to the yacht. The lights are all on, it looks so beautiful at night and the rain has ceased for the moment. It's supposed to be such a beautiful sunrise in the morning. I don't want to stay up too late and then miss it.
Caleb is waiting on deck, staring into a glass of red wine, looking up in a perfectly timed, practiced look of pleasure and surprise. He comes out to meet me at the end of the ramp and then shakes hands with Mike quickly and wishes him a good night. Mike says Same to you, sir, and then nods to me and says Have a lovely night. He calls me Mrs. C____. I frown at the name but remember my manners long enough to smile in return. The very last thing Caleb is going to do is acknowledge my other life when he is alone with me. He'll just conveniently turn back time and forget everything new. The devil can do all sorts of things like that. That's his job.
He can't make me forget. I shouldn't be here at all, except that when the going gets tough, the tough runs screaming to old familiar. Some habits don't seem to break as easily as one hopes they will. Some faces serve to be a comfort even as they cause you pain.
He has gone all out tonight. Or maybe that's all in? Lobster. Steak. Roast potatoes. Oysters on the half shell and caviar with my favorite crackers. He pours me a glass of wine. Bolgheri. Candles are lit on the table while Glenn Miller tunes play softly over the sound system.
He takes my hand and lifts it up over my head. I spin dutifully and he smiles.
You look beautiful.
I dressed deliberately, carefully for him. The highest heels I can manage. The sparest, palest pink slip dress and a few hundred dollars worth of bespoke lingerie he commissioned to be made for me back in the day when I cared about such things more than I do now. No jewelry. He is pleased and that's better than disappointed, I have learned.
The voice changes to Frank Sinatra and I smile and take a sip of my wine. He takes several moments to establish the whereabouts of the entire household. He asks about both children, never just one, and he steadfastly refuses to talk about anything business-related because he's a gentleman. By this time I have answered all questions placed before me in as much detail as possible, he has led me to the table and pulled out my chair. I sit. I am starving, my shaking fingers giving me away as I fumble with the butter knife. He takes the knife from me and butters the whole roll for me, breaking off a piece and holding it up to my lips. I take a small bite. His blue eyes twinkle in the candle flames.
Flames.
I stand up abruptly.
What's the matter?
I should be home.
You're exactly where you should be, Bridget. He leans down and kisses me. Softly at first and then harder as he backs me against the wall. He stops, pressing his forehead against mine, eyes closed, lips slack, hands clenched around my hair. I think we can wait to eat until later. He takes my hand and turns to walk away, pulling me with him. I assume we're going to the master stateroom but he has other plans. We go straight to the bridge.
Are we leaving? I ask. I wasn't under the impression we would be taking the boat out tonight.
He smiles. I'll be back in a moment. He leaves me there and I spend the wait staring out at the lights. He is back soon enough with two glasses and a new bottle of the Bolgheri wine I said I loved so much once. His memory is frightening in the way it manifests itself in his attention to detail. He pours one glass and lifts it to my lips. I move to take it but he holds my hand down while he tips the glass against my mouth.
Then he collects my other hand and produces a ribbon from out of nowhere. He ties my hands to the railing on the desk. Oh. Shit.
Caleb-
Don't you worry about a thing. He lifts my head with his hand on my chin and then uses his thumb to smooth along my forehead. Not a thing. Everything is okay, Bridget. He resumes his kisses, all over my face and throat and then he abruptly lifts me up and forces me to the floor. I am on my knees now, arms tied above my head. I can turn but that's it. I can't stand up again on my own, not with these shoes. I'm helpless. And he is thrilled. He smooths my hair back away from my face, off my shoulders. I close my eyes and when I open them I see a second pair of shoes.
He smiles. I'm so glad you both agreed to see me tonight. You really have no idea.
***
When my eyes open early in the morning it takes several moments for me to extricate my limbs and my hair from Ben's hands. He is clutching me in his sleep. I give up and shake his shoulder gently. His eyes open and close again and he turns onto his back, releasing me. His hand trails across my thigh and then falls to the bed.
I bend down and pick up a dress shirt off the floor, shrugging into it, buttoning all the buttons save for the top two. I don't know if it's Ben's or Caleb's shirt. They wear the same size. I swim in it so I roll the cuffs up seven or eight times until I see my hands. It's almost to my knees. Good enough for a short walk to the kitchen to bring back some orange juice and croissants and then get Ben awake and up so we can take our drive of shame, slipping home and upstairs to get ready before we are caught.
When I reach the kitchen Caleb is already there, making coffee. He's in a tight blue t-shirt and jeans. He looks rested and pulled-together even though he's had maybe two hours sleep if any at all.
Morning doll. I'll pour our coffee if you want to go out on deck and see the sun come up.
I nod. Morning is the only time he doesn't have an opinion on my appearance. Morning is the only time I am allowed to appear with the wrong clothes and tangled hair with scratches on my throat and my legs, skin still red from the rough ride of the darkest hours between the devil and the melody. I stumble outside into the bright morning and am greeted with a watercolor representation of my favorite sky against the water. All oranges, pinks and soft blues. Greys mixed with shame mixed with defiance. He had said to come alone and Ben followed in the truck, precisely five minutes behind, since that's precisely how long I was on my knees before Ben walked in and untied my hands, admonishing Caleb for needing to resort to total barbarism when charm would achieve better results. Ben is like a panacea to Caleb, and so instead of being angry, Caleb was pleased to see him and pleased to have unspoken permission to do unspeakable things.
Caleb appears with my coffee and I take it gratefully, burning my tongue as I try and gulp it down to clear my head.
The most beautiful sunrises follow the worst storms, Bridget.
I nod. I know it's a metaphor for my life only this isn't beautiful and the storm hasn't passed yet. It's just starting.
Caleb is waiting on deck, staring into a glass of red wine, looking up in a perfectly timed, practiced look of pleasure and surprise. He comes out to meet me at the end of the ramp and then shakes hands with Mike quickly and wishes him a good night. Mike says Same to you, sir, and then nods to me and says Have a lovely night. He calls me Mrs. C____. I frown at the name but remember my manners long enough to smile in return. The very last thing Caleb is going to do is acknowledge my other life when he is alone with me. He'll just conveniently turn back time and forget everything new. The devil can do all sorts of things like that. That's his job.
He can't make me forget. I shouldn't be here at all, except that when the going gets tough, the tough runs screaming to old familiar. Some habits don't seem to break as easily as one hopes they will. Some faces serve to be a comfort even as they cause you pain.
He has gone all out tonight. Or maybe that's all in? Lobster. Steak. Roast potatoes. Oysters on the half shell and caviar with my favorite crackers. He pours me a glass of wine. Bolgheri. Candles are lit on the table while Glenn Miller tunes play softly over the sound system.
He takes my hand and lifts it up over my head. I spin dutifully and he smiles.
You look beautiful.
I dressed deliberately, carefully for him. The highest heels I can manage. The sparest, palest pink slip dress and a few hundred dollars worth of bespoke lingerie he commissioned to be made for me back in the day when I cared about such things more than I do now. No jewelry. He is pleased and that's better than disappointed, I have learned.
The voice changes to Frank Sinatra and I smile and take a sip of my wine. He takes several moments to establish the whereabouts of the entire household. He asks about both children, never just one, and he steadfastly refuses to talk about anything business-related because he's a gentleman. By this time I have answered all questions placed before me in as much detail as possible, he has led me to the table and pulled out my chair. I sit. I am starving, my shaking fingers giving me away as I fumble with the butter knife. He takes the knife from me and butters the whole roll for me, breaking off a piece and holding it up to my lips. I take a small bite. His blue eyes twinkle in the candle flames.
Flames.
I stand up abruptly.
What's the matter?
I should be home.
You're exactly where you should be, Bridget. He leans down and kisses me. Softly at first and then harder as he backs me against the wall. He stops, pressing his forehead against mine, eyes closed, lips slack, hands clenched around my hair. I think we can wait to eat until later. He takes my hand and turns to walk away, pulling me with him. I assume we're going to the master stateroom but he has other plans. We go straight to the bridge.
Are we leaving? I ask. I wasn't under the impression we would be taking the boat out tonight.
He smiles. I'll be back in a moment. He leaves me there and I spend the wait staring out at the lights. He is back soon enough with two glasses and a new bottle of the Bolgheri wine I said I loved so much once. His memory is frightening in the way it manifests itself in his attention to detail. He pours one glass and lifts it to my lips. I move to take it but he holds my hand down while he tips the glass against my mouth.
Then he collects my other hand and produces a ribbon from out of nowhere. He ties my hands to the railing on the desk. Oh. Shit.
Caleb-
Don't you worry about a thing. He lifts my head with his hand on my chin and then uses his thumb to smooth along my forehead. Not a thing. Everything is okay, Bridget. He resumes his kisses, all over my face and throat and then he abruptly lifts me up and forces me to the floor. I am on my knees now, arms tied above my head. I can turn but that's it. I can't stand up again on my own, not with these shoes. I'm helpless. And he is thrilled. He smooths my hair back away from my face, off my shoulders. I close my eyes and when I open them I see a second pair of shoes.
He smiles. I'm so glad you both agreed to see me tonight. You really have no idea.
***
When my eyes open early in the morning it takes several moments for me to extricate my limbs and my hair from Ben's hands. He is clutching me in his sleep. I give up and shake his shoulder gently. His eyes open and close again and he turns onto his back, releasing me. His hand trails across my thigh and then falls to the bed.
I bend down and pick up a dress shirt off the floor, shrugging into it, buttoning all the buttons save for the top two. I don't know if it's Ben's or Caleb's shirt. They wear the same size. I swim in it so I roll the cuffs up seven or eight times until I see my hands. It's almost to my knees. Good enough for a short walk to the kitchen to bring back some orange juice and croissants and then get Ben awake and up so we can take our drive of shame, slipping home and upstairs to get ready before we are caught.
When I reach the kitchen Caleb is already there, making coffee. He's in a tight blue t-shirt and jeans. He looks rested and pulled-together even though he's had maybe two hours sleep if any at all.
Morning doll. I'll pour our coffee if you want to go out on deck and see the sun come up.
I nod. Morning is the only time he doesn't have an opinion on my appearance. Morning is the only time I am allowed to appear with the wrong clothes and tangled hair with scratches on my throat and my legs, skin still red from the rough ride of the darkest hours between the devil and the melody. I stumble outside into the bright morning and am greeted with a watercolor representation of my favorite sky against the water. All oranges, pinks and soft blues. Greys mixed with shame mixed with defiance. He had said to come alone and Ben followed in the truck, precisely five minutes behind, since that's precisely how long I was on my knees before Ben walked in and untied my hands, admonishing Caleb for needing to resort to total barbarism when charm would achieve better results. Ben is like a panacea to Caleb, and so instead of being angry, Caleb was pleased to see him and pleased to have unspoken permission to do unspeakable things.
Caleb appears with my coffee and I take it gratefully, burning my tongue as I try and gulp it down to clear my head.
The most beautiful sunrises follow the worst storms, Bridget.
I nod. I know it's a metaphor for my life only this isn't beautiful and the storm hasn't passed yet. It's just starting.
Friday 1 June 2012
Ben's home so I'm signing off.
I'm at the point in my overtiredness where I'm not sure if I want to cry, throw up or just put my head down and close my eyes until everything goes away. Music didn't work, a long walk or three didn't work. Cooking dinner for the first round of boys plus children didn't work and still I put some wine in the fridge and expressed my excitement for late-night Horror Movie Friday, which is a tradition we have resurrected that I didn't realize I missed so much until we started it up again and said huh. Cool.
It has rained here for five days straight. Not just rain but torrential, heavy deluges that make the tree limbs and roses bend very far down and the dog grow moldy for he never gets dry in between walks. Being so cooped up makes me crave donairs and my bed and my boys and my words. I'm craving rest. Last weekend was so busy, this weekend has nothing scheduled except family time. Time to discuss things and fix broken things and point out that the honest Mr. Evil is beginning to repeat his own themes and wonder if we can change the path just a little so that we don't have to go in circles all the time.
I'm going to paint my nails with Revlon #430 Whimsical and dream about the fair and try and make some preliminary plans toward Henry's birthday in July and maybe a graduation party for Ruth in June, since she's leaving Elementary school behind. Here, in grade eight, you go straight to high school and I'm still wrapping my tiny brain around that.
And I'm getting strange and wonderful beauty advice from Instagram, of all places, daring to try a lipstick suggestion that was the most successful color choice in the history of the known universe (says the girl with nine hundred different colors) and I'm listening to new bands and wondering how out of the loop I really am now as I never seem to have enough time to keep up with everything or even anything. I'm behind in emails, I don't understand Google Plus and I'm still lamenting how the heck I'm supposed to transition to an iphone when I can't get itunes to work the way I want it and I don't have the patience to fix that
And maybe we'll go see Battleship since we still haven't seen it or Snow White because we really want to see it even though we're just killing theater time until Prometheus next week and maybe we'll sleep in a little and shore up our defenses a lot and watch the sea through the rain and dream of warmer days ahead.
Or maybe we'll just sleep.
Yeah. That.
It has rained here for five days straight. Not just rain but torrential, heavy deluges that make the tree limbs and roses bend very far down and the dog grow moldy for he never gets dry in between walks. Being so cooped up makes me crave donairs and my bed and my boys and my words. I'm craving rest. Last weekend was so busy, this weekend has nothing scheduled except family time. Time to discuss things and fix broken things and point out that the honest Mr. Evil is beginning to repeat his own themes and wonder if we can change the path just a little so that we don't have to go in circles all the time.
I'm going to paint my nails with Revlon #430 Whimsical and dream about the fair and try and make some preliminary plans toward Henry's birthday in July and maybe a graduation party for Ruth in June, since she's leaving Elementary school behind. Here, in grade eight, you go straight to high school and I'm still wrapping my tiny brain around that.
And I'm getting strange and wonderful beauty advice from Instagram, of all places, daring to try a lipstick suggestion that was the most successful color choice in the history of the known universe (says the girl with nine hundred different colors) and I'm listening to new bands and wondering how out of the loop I really am now as I never seem to have enough time to keep up with everything or even anything. I'm behind in emails, I don't understand Google Plus and I'm still lamenting how the heck I'm supposed to transition to an iphone when I can't get itunes to work the way I want it and I don't have the patience to fix that
And maybe we'll go see Battleship since we still haven't seen it or Snow White because we really want to see it even though we're just killing theater time until Prometheus next week and maybe we'll sleep in a little and shore up our defenses a lot and watch the sea through the rain and dream of warmer days ahead.
Or maybe we'll just sleep.
Yeah. That.
Thursday 31 May 2012
Still raining.
Screaming our screenplay, off the cuffNeutral territory for lunch. The kitchen island. Peanut butter and banana sandwiches on raisin cheese bread. Hot chocolate. Caleb sits down and frowns at his plate briefly before deciding to make the best of it.
We were both stuck pretending our dreams were enough
I awoke in the morning wanting the day
I thought I could have you,
Miles away from falling in love
To find stalling sweet enough
Please don’t call it love
If he were truly honest, as he says he is now, he would have pointed out his desire for something a little less rustic and note the fact that he probably hasn't had hot chocolate since 1976, but he humors me with my own brand of Spyri-influenced menu choices for a rainforest deluge at the base of a mountain where the waves lick the brae smooth, a treacherous combination for sheep and people alike.
We don't have any sheep. Or any horses either, sadly. I go and visit some new ones in the valley sometimes now, cursing the devil every chance I get.
I do that over a lot of things, but at the same time here we are, having lunch because he asked if we could talk and I pointed out I was hungry so he may as well come and eat something that isn't a fusion of four-star nonsense from one of his ridiculous haunts downtown. He obliged without even asking what was on the menu. I knew I should have made Kraft Dinner just to horrify him as much as humanly possible.
You like making him squirm. I say it in between choking back the thick peanut butter on heavy bread.
My words have nothing to do with him. There are certain truths in life, Bridget. This is just one of them.
'They're going to kill you' is another.
He laughs nervously. I'll probably choke on lunch and then no one will have to worry.
Oh, yay! Burial at sea. I give him my darkest stare. He catches on quickly. We are morbid and black with humor more often than not.
What's with your hair?
I'm annoying Lochlan with it, that's what.
He bursts out laughing. No doubt. You should go to the spa and have a day.
Why in the hell do you all want me to cut my hair? And why the subject change?
You look so sweet when your hair doesn't take over everything with the bad-weather ringlets. And I'm trying to mark my position and move forward from here.
I see.
Should I have not confirmed what you already know? I've had no other lasting relationships. I have my son and I have you. I am focused.
You're obsessive.
It's sweet when it's anyone else but when I make a declaration everyone runs for cover.
Because they aren't evil.
He drinks his hot chocolate. When he puts the mug down he has a pale brown mustache on his upper lip. Neither am I.
Then why are you pushing now? Why don't you just leave well enough alone?
Because I'll be fifty in less than a year and I'm not going to be alone when that happens.
I hear Sophie is free.
Yes, well, good luck to her.
I'm not anyone's bucket list, Caleb.
The hell you aren't.
Can we change the subject?
Of course. What would you like to talk about, Bridget?
Tell me some of your regrets instead.
Oh. Well. I regret the first time we went to Vegas. When you turned eighteen.
The prince of darkness goes for a terrible memory right off the bat. Should I have expected more from him or less?
Why? Should we not have gone?
No, we should have kept going. I should have never brought you back home.
Kidnapping?
Rescue.
Wednesday 30 May 2012
The burning of a heavy heart surrenders like a dream.
I was let out, I can't walk awayWell, now that the thrill of Sunday night is ebbing slightly I suppose I need to pick up where I left off, only I'm not sure where that is, exactly. Perched on the edge of the wall in the wind, staring out to sea, where you can always find me when I'm thinking, earphones jammed tightly into my head to block out everything but the view.
There were eyes all over me
I stopped breathing only just half way
There were eyes all over me
I chose to ignore the words, the letter and everything since. Ben asked me if he should just make it easy for me and ban me from going near the devil. Then he wondered if he should just do it in spite of my answer because that's what he wants to do. Lochlan got all bothered and hot and threatened a bunch of things I won't even repeat, and Andrew wanted to know if this changed anything.
No, I told him. This is not new information, if you think about it.
But still he looked sad when he left and I don't think I like the new honesty-at-any-price version of Caleb that I'm seeing now. He's just too hard to predict and too hard to resist when he's telling me his deepest darkest secrets. He's vulnerable and open and transparent and far too much like Cole when he does that and I can't process that at all. My brain just shuts down and says, Oh, pretty wave every time I take a running start at attempting to sort out what he's doing now while I continue to stare at the blue-green whitecaps on the windy pacific. I'd rather focus on the sea but all the loose ends and tight confines need to be fixed. I need to deal with this. I don't think things can go on the way they are and I don't know how we all managed to make it to this point in the first place.
Oh right, I do. Ben refused to pin me down the way Jacob had and I took my unexpected freedom and ran with it. I made a mess. I made mistakes and now I need help fixing things and now help is nowhere to be found. I know what will fix this, I just can't seem to do it. I know what will end this, but I don't have the guts to put it into play anymore. I'm paralyzed and I'm angry at myself and he's taking advantage of my position to drive home his own agenda, this means to an end. Break her down and in the end she'll be unable to resist you. Destroy her and she'll give in.
Who would want that?
Don't answer, okay? I already know their names and I know their faces like I know the sea. Sometimes through and through and sometimes not even remotely well enough to recognize familiar features.
Tuesday 29 May 2012
We are behind the tent in the wind. The canvas ripples and flaps violently and the sun has taken on a quiet pink glow. It's twilight. The time of day that finds homesickness rising up like a tide inside my throat until it drowns the memories of the day into blackness.
Lochlan takes my left hand tightly in his right hand. His hands are so warm the rest of my skin feels cool now by comparison. Maria takes my right hand gently but firmly. She looks after the animals and is the carnival grandmother to most of us. Lochlan squeezes my hand and I squeeze both of my hands in response. We are standing in a circle with fourteen others.
Gregory begins the evening prayer, though it's not really a prayer, since by nature circus people are somewhat secular. It's a bonding ritual that is part pep-talk, part prayer, and part planning session. There's a little of everything. Some reminders, a little discipline, some reassurance and all of our hopes and dreams too. Surprisingly by the end of each run we usually have it down to seven, eight minutes tops. I remain silent, or my hopes and dreams would take years to list and dissect.
The prayers almost always begin with asking for strength for Lochlan and end with asking for safety for me, because they all know I am young and escaping reality and trying to live on love and they're scared to death on my behalf and his too but in that relentless wind and staggeringly beautiful sunset I am daydreaming still, my mind at the beach, jarred back ever so briefly when someone says my name, continuing to squeeze both hands as tightly as I can, waiting for the predictable part of the night to be over so that the fun can begin.
Lochlan takes my left hand tightly in his right hand. His hands are so warm the rest of my skin feels cool now by comparison. Maria takes my right hand gently but firmly. She looks after the animals and is the carnival grandmother to most of us. Lochlan squeezes my hand and I squeeze both of my hands in response. We are standing in a circle with fourteen others.
Gregory begins the evening prayer, though it's not really a prayer, since by nature circus people are somewhat secular. It's a bonding ritual that is part pep-talk, part prayer, and part planning session. There's a little of everything. Some reminders, a little discipline, some reassurance and all of our hopes and dreams too. Surprisingly by the end of each run we usually have it down to seven, eight minutes tops. I remain silent, or my hopes and dreams would take years to list and dissect.
The prayers almost always begin with asking for strength for Lochlan and end with asking for safety for me, because they all know I am young and escaping reality and trying to live on love and they're scared to death on my behalf and his too but in that relentless wind and staggeringly beautiful sunset I am daydreaming still, my mind at the beach, jarred back ever so briefly when someone says my name, continuing to squeeze both hands as tightly as I can, waiting for the predictable part of the night to be over so that the fun can begin.
Monday 28 May 2012
Dreaming out (sigh).
Oh hi. I'm so NOT awake.
I went to Switchfoot last night at the Commodore and just wow. It was bonkers. Thanks to the prodding just to run, Bridget once we made it through the door, we made it to the front row again because I'm such a huge, huge fan but short so I need to be way down front and we proceeded to jump up and down and sway and sing with the band until close to eleven. There is no squinting at a tiny stage far off in the distance when you go to a Switchfoot show, let me tell you. You're right in the middle of everything. You get it all. This was the tour highlighting Vice Verses, so it was extra-awesome because VV is their heaviest album yet and I like where they're going with this, frankly.
I'd put up a setlist but I'm still coming down off a high here and I have no idea. I know they played The War Inside and Dare you to Move and Where I Belong and those are my three favorites so everything else just became an added bonus, okay? (Also I took so many pictures I broke my phone, but again, that's neither here nor there.) The opener was The Rocket Summer, and they were tight, like a younger Our Lady Peace. I was impressed. Better live than what I could find online to preview beforehand.
After the show ended we waited behind the venue, watching the load-out and eventually Jon came out and did a little aftershow with his acoustic guitar. It was beautiful and a big treat for me because the other shows we've been to saw us bring the children and kids don't want to wait in back alleys three hours past their bedtimes for anything so we would always come home when the concert proper was over. But not last night.
The aftershow featured:
- Wouldn't it be Nice (Beach boys cover)
- Thrive
- Vice Verses
- Learning How to Die (from Jon's Spring EP)
- Your Love is Strong (from his Winter EP)
(Previous Switchfoot show reviews here, here, and argh, the other one was from 2007 and those archives are offline, my apologies but it was the first show for me so it was extra-amazing.)
I'll resume with regular programming tomorrow. :)
Sunday 27 May 2012
Lost in translation.
The dinner party was an easy cleanup thanks to the barbecue and everyone eating everything. No leftovers save for a tiny bit of cake and every wine bottle in the house emptied and rinsed and packed into a box by Dalton, who is good at those things. When they were all outside on the porch I wiped down the counters and tables and then I went upstairs to sit in the walk-in closet and I opened my envelope from Caleb.
Three words on the page in his handwriting. Those very predictable three little words you think of when someone says think of three words.
Not I am fine.
Or How are you?
Or even Just a minute.
Or help me please.
It said I love you.
I just don't understand what he means.
Three words on the page in his handwriting. Those very predictable three little words you think of when someone says think of three words.
Not I am fine.
Or How are you?
Or even Just a minute.
Or help me please.
It said I love you.
I just don't understand what he means.
Saturday 26 May 2012
Oh there it is. Plain as day. The catch.
Revealed during lunch, just as my plate is placed in front of me and I contemplate asking the server how I'm supposed to eat what I thought was going to be a Reuben sandwich and some fries and instead is some sort of deconstructed essence of bread possibly with a drizzle of something precious and a curlicue piece of carrot on top. The fries are organized vertically, in a glass. There are eight of them.
This is not food, this is sculpture and I don't know why in the hell Caleb can't just take me to A&W like all the others and then I can horrify him with how positively fast I can pound back a bag full of giant salted onion rings and still walk out of the restaurant under my own power.
I pull out a french fry and bite into it suspiciously and he starts to talk, only I missed the beginning of his thoughts because with great dismay I realize the fries are parsnips because the menu was in a different language so I merely pointed at the list provided and hoped instead of asking because when I ask it's almost as if I am giving the staff license to spout contempt. And I wasn't about to let him order or he would be all champagne and caviar on me and I can't eat those things for lunch anymore. Too rich. Too much.
Sort of like Caleb.
But parsnips are the unholiest of vegetables, in my big list of what vegetables are good and what ones should just be ignored, avoided or outrun entirely.
Suddenly I catch him saying ....and what has he done for you recently except cause more strife?
Oh...WHAT? You want to know what he's done for me.
If he isn't good for you or to you, then what is the point exactly?
This is not your business.
Sure it is. You're the mother of my-
Leave Henry out of this.
He looks down at his napkin. He has finished his carrot curl and whatever abomination of a vegetable he was given. I apologize. I want to know that you are being looked after and that you are happy. Aside from the boys coming to the new house, and it being almost summer, I mean. If Lochlan can't find his common ground with Ben anymore than that puts an extraordinary amount of stress on you. If he can't make an effort-
He's fine. I lie.
How fine?
Fine.
I see. Smile and nod, right, Bridget?
I smile at him. God, I'm such a brat. The server comes back and I tell her to take my plate. She frowns and I ignore her. Caleb makes a note of my one parsnip bite of lunch and frowns too. Great. Frowny faces all around. Parsnips bring everybody down.
I see how you place all blame squarely on one and not the other.
Ben is justified in-
What? This was Ben's idea! Ben's bright ideas rise and set with the fucking sun, don't they? As long as he's shining everything's a go, one too many bad days and everything is off. We can't live like that. I had to make a stand.
You could make a bigger stand, Bridget. You could end their contest. You could have the happiness you deserve. He reaches out and touches my face. You could show a little gratitude for the life you have been given.
I stop arguing and nod. I get it now. We're not going to mince words forever. Some of them must be swallowed whole. The house he bought is going to cost me dearly.
Caleb reaches into his breast pocket and removes a small deep-grey envelope. He places it in front of me. There is a small letter b engraved on the front. Great. He special-orders his stationery now.
I pick it up and tuck it into my handbag. He stands. I know. You have to go. Read this one after your dinner party. Please. You know where I'll be.
Revealed during lunch, just as my plate is placed in front of me and I contemplate asking the server how I'm supposed to eat what I thought was going to be a Reuben sandwich and some fries and instead is some sort of deconstructed essence of bread possibly with a drizzle of something precious and a curlicue piece of carrot on top. The fries are organized vertically, in a glass. There are eight of them.
This is not food, this is sculpture and I don't know why in the hell Caleb can't just take me to A&W like all the others and then I can horrify him with how positively fast I can pound back a bag full of giant salted onion rings and still walk out of the restaurant under my own power.
I pull out a french fry and bite into it suspiciously and he starts to talk, only I missed the beginning of his thoughts because with great dismay I realize the fries are parsnips because the menu was in a different language so I merely pointed at the list provided and hoped instead of asking because when I ask it's almost as if I am giving the staff license to spout contempt. And I wasn't about to let him order or he would be all champagne and caviar on me and I can't eat those things for lunch anymore. Too rich. Too much.
Sort of like Caleb.
But parsnips are the unholiest of vegetables, in my big list of what vegetables are good and what ones should just be ignored, avoided or outrun entirely.
Suddenly I catch him saying ....and what has he done for you recently except cause more strife?
Oh...WHAT? You want to know what he's done for me.
If he isn't good for you or to you, then what is the point exactly?
This is not your business.
Sure it is. You're the mother of my-
Leave Henry out of this.
He looks down at his napkin. He has finished his carrot curl and whatever abomination of a vegetable he was given. I apologize. I want to know that you are being looked after and that you are happy. Aside from the boys coming to the new house, and it being almost summer, I mean. If Lochlan can't find his common ground with Ben anymore than that puts an extraordinary amount of stress on you. If he can't make an effort-
He's fine. I lie.
How fine?
Fine.
I see. Smile and nod, right, Bridget?
I smile at him. God, I'm such a brat. The server comes back and I tell her to take my plate. She frowns and I ignore her. Caleb makes a note of my one parsnip bite of lunch and frowns too. Great. Frowny faces all around. Parsnips bring everybody down.
I see how you place all blame squarely on one and not the other.
Ben is justified in-
What? This was Ben's idea! Ben's bright ideas rise and set with the fucking sun, don't they? As long as he's shining everything's a go, one too many bad days and everything is off. We can't live like that. I had to make a stand.
You could make a bigger stand, Bridget. You could end their contest. You could have the happiness you deserve. He reaches out and touches my face. You could show a little gratitude for the life you have been given.
I stop arguing and nod. I get it now. We're not going to mince words forever. Some of them must be swallowed whole. The house he bought is going to cost me dearly.
Caleb reaches into his breast pocket and removes a small deep-grey envelope. He places it in front of me. There is a small letter b engraved on the front. Great. He special-orders his stationery now.
I pick it up and tuck it into my handbag. He stands. I know. You have to go. Read this one after your dinner party. Please. You know where I'll be.
Friday 25 May 2012
Vanishing points.
So the plan as it stands now is to move the big electric gate from the end of the driveway to the top of the road proper. Possibly even rerouting the driveway so that it isn't so close to the highway. Right now it's almost beside the actual road, as in when you turn off the highway to drive down my street, my driveway is right there. It's almost it's own road. I'm not sure if the city will allow that due to municipal work and such but Caleb assures me money can buy anything.
When he says that I always point out his marital status. He will retort that it's just a matter of time and we drop the whole thing and pick up the features of the new house instead. Like how come our porches and patios are all wood-trimmed and next door is all glass panels and who the hell picked that color for the kitchen floor tiles, they must be a genius and taking turns looking up the rangehood over the island cooktop or touching the natural stone feature walls throughout.
The plan is for Schuyler and Danny to sell their beautiful little house upneighborhood for what they paid for it, to get out from underneath their crushing mistake of a mortgage, and Christian (!) and Andrew (!!) will sell their places to move into the new house. Corey (!!!) is going to sublet his condo and give it a trial run. Sam (!!!!) is considering swapping his parish digs for a housing allowance and is waiting for approval for that before he can even consider living here.
I have been walking around smiling for days due to these wonderful turns of events.
Batman did a little financial postmortem on Caleb's wheelings and dealings and said Caleb has a knack for coming out ahead no matter what. Caleb has paid Batman in full plus interest for his uh..mafia bailout and has liquidated so much besides that he's now sitting flush on a pile of Robert Bordens taller than the pine trees out front and then some. He still has a lot invested in Ben. He still has the remains of the umbrella company (which is technically mine now I suppose) and his profits from his newer forays into venture capitalism. He plays the stock market. He does consulting. He works pretty much twenty-four hours a day and he's very very good at what he does so it was less of a surprise than you might have expected.
I don't care, I was busy trying to ascertain how the clear glass washbasins in the master ensuite are sealed. Because I will be forever curious and eager to learn about all things construction thanks to my hundred-year-old castle in the grass back home (Huh. I wrote home. It wasn't home but I will leave it in.)
Caleb walked around behind me with his shirtsleeves rolled up, hands in his pockets and a genuinely pleased look on his face.
Does this make it better? He asked at one point.
What, exactly?
You'll have everyone here.
You did this just for me?
No, I did it for the land. For the dollar figure. As a side benefit, I get to see you happier than you've been in weeks. Can you fault me for that?
No. I admit it and then there is the sound of a doorbell and he smiles and turns away, heading to the front to see who it is. Probably Sam, he was going to come on his lunch hour and see what everything looks like.
As he walks away down the hall Caleb calls back to me, Now you've truly got yourself a commune, Princess and I frown at myself in the wall-to-wall bathroom mirror. This is not the commune I imagined. That one had chickens running loose and I would ride around the yard naked on a motorcycle while the boys fixed their cars and chased ten toddlers around. We would grow our own vegetables and be off the grid completely.
This is some sort of completely different commune with expensive marble floors, Macbook Pros, guitar sponsorship, two very refined children and a bunch of fortysomething hipsters with portfolios and nice boots and new trucks instead. The obligations to and reliance on the outside world staggers me. It's unwelcome. I thought there would be more camper-vans and cookouts involved. More stars. More iced tea. More time to spend together instead of time spent apart.
I guess sometimes when wishes come true it's not always in the form you pictured. Sometimes it's something else altogether. But it's still very very very good because I like it when we're all here. All home.
All in, as Lochlan said the other day. Yes, all in.
When he says that I always point out his marital status. He will retort that it's just a matter of time and we drop the whole thing and pick up the features of the new house instead. Like how come our porches and patios are all wood-trimmed and next door is all glass panels and who the hell picked that color for the kitchen floor tiles, they must be a genius and taking turns looking up the rangehood over the island cooktop or touching the natural stone feature walls throughout.
The plan is for Schuyler and Danny to sell their beautiful little house upneighborhood for what they paid for it, to get out from underneath their crushing mistake of a mortgage, and Christian (!) and Andrew (!!) will sell their places to move into the new house. Corey (!!!) is going to sublet his condo and give it a trial run. Sam (!!!!) is considering swapping his parish digs for a housing allowance and is waiting for approval for that before he can even consider living here.
I have been walking around smiling for days due to these wonderful turns of events.
Batman did a little financial postmortem on Caleb's wheelings and dealings and said Caleb has a knack for coming out ahead no matter what. Caleb has paid Batman in full plus interest for his uh..mafia bailout and has liquidated so much besides that he's now sitting flush on a pile of Robert Bordens taller than the pine trees out front and then some. He still has a lot invested in Ben. He still has the remains of the umbrella company (which is technically mine now I suppose) and his profits from his newer forays into venture capitalism. He plays the stock market. He does consulting. He works pretty much twenty-four hours a day and he's very very good at what he does so it was less of a surprise than you might have expected.
I don't care, I was busy trying to ascertain how the clear glass washbasins in the master ensuite are sealed. Because I will be forever curious and eager to learn about all things construction thanks to my hundred-year-old castle in the grass back home (Huh. I wrote home. It wasn't home but I will leave it in.)
Caleb walked around behind me with his shirtsleeves rolled up, hands in his pockets and a genuinely pleased look on his face.
Does this make it better? He asked at one point.
What, exactly?
You'll have everyone here.
You did this just for me?
No, I did it for the land. For the dollar figure. As a side benefit, I get to see you happier than you've been in weeks. Can you fault me for that?
No. I admit it and then there is the sound of a doorbell and he smiles and turns away, heading to the front to see who it is. Probably Sam, he was going to come on his lunch hour and see what everything looks like.
As he walks away down the hall Caleb calls back to me, Now you've truly got yourself a commune, Princess and I frown at myself in the wall-to-wall bathroom mirror. This is not the commune I imagined. That one had chickens running loose and I would ride around the yard naked on a motorcycle while the boys fixed their cars and chased ten toddlers around. We would grow our own vegetables and be off the grid completely.
This is some sort of completely different commune with expensive marble floors, Macbook Pros, guitar sponsorship, two very refined children and a bunch of fortysomething hipsters with portfolios and nice boots and new trucks instead. The obligations to and reliance on the outside world staggers me. It's unwelcome. I thought there would be more camper-vans and cookouts involved. More stars. More iced tea. More time to spend together instead of time spent apart.
I guess sometimes when wishes come true it's not always in the form you pictured. Sometimes it's something else altogether. But it's still very very very good because I like it when we're all here. All home.
All in, as Lochlan said the other day. Yes, all in.
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