HE

As you came in, you clenched your trepidation fiercely and slowly ducked behind the distance you'd just created. You walked in and I said "hi" sheepishly because I feared what you were about to do. And, then you said it...but it wasn't really you. It was the veiled version of you. And, I couldn't see you but knew you were there. So I listened carefully but I couldn't look at you because I didn't want to look at the "other you". So, I listened. Quietly. I said that I didn't know how to love you in any other way and asked you if you were sure I was what you wanted and when you said yes, I finally heard you...but you were sad and desperate and I knew that I didn't want to be away from you. I told you if that if you wanted me to speak of you differently, I could try, if you didn't want to hear how much or why I love you I could try to be "more thoughtful in my manner of speaking" but that I couldn't love you in a lesser way. And, in that moment I became angry because I wanted to love you freely and that wasn't what you wanted. It wasn't fair that I couldn't love you in the way you deserve. And then that bridge, built of those words and the fear lingering on the tips of your tongue after every word you said, buttressed itself from that tender part you were hiding to my softness, wanting so badly to love you, and we met there...both afraid of all of the feeling and of being open and raw and of all the honesty but knowing what came next. And, my god, you were gorgeous. You were everything and anything all at once. You took that armament off and ceremoniously laid it down, acknowledging its service to you and how it protected you but noticing that you didn't need it. Because, I was me and you were you and we love each other in the way we both want to be loved and despite the fear, the real was better than walking around with that grey, thick film over our eyes. And you breathed and surrendered and I did too. And now we have the rest of it, life and time and spaciousness, to learn together and be with eachother and play music and walk hand in hand. And, now I lean into you and you to me.

Peter

I'll write more about this later but what I'm referring to as, "The Peter Situation", deserves a preliminary word or two: basically, I've managed to fall for someone I hardly know  in, like, 3 weeks. Like, the whole wanting-to-stay-up-all-night-and-stare-into-his-eyes thing is happening. The Peter Situation took me completely by surprise. He's fucking beautiful in the soft-hearted, gentle, affectionate, authentically himself kind of way. And, he's fucking beautiful in the tall, green eyes, soft lips, strong hands kind of way. And, he's fucking beautiful in the amazingly talented musican kind of way, which, let's face it, is the best way to be fucking beautiful. Oh, and he seems to dig me which FREAKS me out. Me? Seriously? Everything's happening so fast. I'm in big trouble.

The Adventures of SeeCaptain and Ms. Waterfield: Chapter 1

This upcoming Monday brings the collision of two soft-hearted, bright-eyed, music-loving, expressive ingenues, with the performing art otherwise known as CHOIR. Now, it has been a long time since SeeCaptain and Ms. Waterfield have relished in the delicious, all-encompassing mirth of singing with like-hearted folks who long for musical community.

As always, SeeCaptain, 1/2 of this dynamic duo, would like to thank her musical hero, the Goddess-like, effervescent front woman of Blvd Park, the lovely...the one, the only, Ms. Waterfield, for her encouragement, open heart and general kick-assery, and, lastly, for agreeing to do this with her.

Also, SeeCaptain is grateful to Ms. Waterfield for encouraging her to blog. It has proven to be a fun, interesting and dynamic expressive exercise...one she never thought she was apt to do.

More to come...

Should I tell her this isn't a 'thing'?

My co-worker (whom we'll call "Jane Doe" for the purposes of this blog posting) recently changed her email signature from:

Jane Doe                                                                    Jane Doe, BA                      
Program Manager                                    TO --->          Program Manager        Seattle-based Non-profit                                           Seattle based Non-profit

Isn't this sad? Should I tell her that it's not all that special for people to have BAs (well,  at least in places like Seattle where most of the population is highly educated it isn't) and that is why people don't usually insert them into their email signature? I feel like someone should tell her that it's not *actually* a status symbol. Furthermore, just the fact that you got a BA pretty much determines that your future place of employment will be a shitty non-profit. So, she should just assume that the rest of us made the same poor academic/career choices that led her here and that she is, as it turns out, not at all special. Sorry, Jane Doe, BA.

Sream of consciousness can suck it.

Can we all get on-board that stream of consciousness writing sucks to do and sucks to read? Honestly, what is the point? Why does rambling for a finite and often predetermined amount of time  reveal my unconscious desires? Seriously, incoherent pen marks, an achy hand and the slowest passing of 20 minutes EVER is going to reveal to me what my life's meaningful contribution will be, or what dark murkiness is keeping the 'universe' from revealing the love of my life to me? All I want to do is releave the burning tension in my arm, borne of holding the pen too firmly. I want to judge myself for misspelling the word 'relieve' or whatever. Maybe if I take on this little writing exercise while sitting in a dark Capitol Hill cafe while indie/jazz/electronica/bluegrass fusion plays in the background, I'll be able to dip deeper into the hidden realms of my intellect and rational mind so that I might finally prove to myself that I am actually smart and could do something traditionally prestigious like go to medical school, instead of being $30,000 in debt to become...wait for it...an office manager for a fledgling non-profit. 

Maybe the value of stream of consciousness writing lies in the fact that it is so fucking boring that you end up having to really dig deep into your creative faculties in order to find a way to make the process even the slightest bit more bearable. "Oh God, okay, what can I think about...ooh, Jake Gyllenhaall, unicorns, Jake Gyllenhaal riding a unicorn? Ooh, and he's shirtless. And, has a beard. Oh, he baked me cookies." Seriously. "See, this isn't so bad. Isn't this interesting?" NO. It just fucking ISN'T! Oh and the therapists/life coaches/spiritual guides love to shove it down your throat:

 Therapist: 
"Now, what I'd like you to do is to wake up each morning, and before you do anything else, grab a notebook, or journal or pad of paper, anything will do, and write whatever comes to mind. This exercise is called 'Morning Pages'. It's an intentional way of starting one's day."

SEE Captain: 
"Seriously? No, but really? That's what you've got for me, huh? Did you learn that at Harvard Med? You're what...$200,00 in debt and that's the advice you have for me? Well, let me give you a bit of advice: Stop it. Just fucking stop it. You've officially blown any credibility you had because, guess what? 'Morning Pages' or whatever stupid term you're trying to coin (by the way, are you comfortable with the fact that that's the legacy you're leaving to the world of Psychology?) is some bullshit. That shit is boring. There you go, BAM! $30,000. Western Washington University. Now go fuck yourself. I'm out."

ARGH.