theater

Marit Peters was bigger than Sara Bareilles

“July has done to me
What winter does to cherry trees
You picked a few
Before they were ready
You could not wait
For the season running its course

And wiping your mouth and
Spitting the pit out,
You say I’ve never been
The one who you fell in love with
Two and one half years ago
Who was I, then?

I’m afraid
Of losing
A life I never had

And I’ve
Lost part of myself…

Wish I could be
Jagged in your apathy
I cannot shut myself in

Fold up, cold girl
Wish I could hang a sign
Says too jaded, do not disturb

But the windows are open
And goddamn this front door
I cannot keep it closed

You could walk right in
And ruin my theater
And walk
right out again…”

— “Theater,” Dead Reckoning, Marit Peters

Marit Peters was first and foremost a modern-day hero to me, behind Bruce Lee and Martin Luther King Jr., long after I thought I no longer had any use for them…the hero I didn’t know I had — until she died and left an under-the-radar legacy of worshipful songs for her late sea-faring father under the banner, Dead Reckoning.

Nothing came of it, other than a smattering of well-attended gigs in Seattle, and the occasional resurgence whenever I needed a reminder that I am not alone on this ship.

This almost-famous, all-genre singer/songwriter gave and gave and gave some more until she had nothing left. I’m sure she’s out at sea with her father now, singing naughty shanties and sipping tea at sunset.

I didn’t know much about her other than what my husband Ed told me. She chose him to play in her band early on. His jazz piano solo still holds volumes in “Watering Eden,” a song about alcoholics hiding behind Pleasantville suburbia.

Peters, a slight, but fetching brunette with mischievous cat eyes, was known for “Mother’s Mantle” and “Noah’s Ark,” a double-edged ode to a father who abandoned his family for the sea-faring life.

But it was “Theater” that gave me life.

“Theater” spoke to me, especially the second half:

I am the girl who tries too hard, who should’ve shut the fuck up a long time ago and walked away, head held high. I am the girl who leaves shit messy, then cleans up the pieces you left as well, in hopes you and you and you will take me back.

I will soon find another distraction, and momentary respite, but I will never get over how easily you slipped the blade in the softest part of my heart, ripping casually into my broken soul, then wiped your hands clean before skipping away, humming and whistling a happy tune.

You, best friend.
You, the man I was going to give up my virginity to.
You, the man who took that virginity on a dime.
You, the man I planned to marry.
You, church of the poisoned mind.
You, my dysfunctional, fucked-up, selfish, Narcissist family.

I will never heal from the pain of knowing you never cared for me. You used me. You pretended, talked a good game, took what you could, then went back to your lovely life.

Every so often, at the oddest times, I think of Marit Peters, the friend I always had, but never appreciated.

She helped us move into our first home in Lynnwood, WA, talked about the weather and the next gig while eating half a pastrami sandwich — a heroic act, I later learned — and gave me pep talks. She let me in when she could’ve easily shut that door, with a crowd of burgeoning adoring fans at her feet, told me I was talented, that I was one of the few people who understood the pain beneath the notes and the words…

“Can’t you see all that I ever wanted
Was someone to stay with me?
But I loved a no-good man like you
What the hell did I expect
From a young fisherman?”

— “Noah’s Ark,” Marit Peters