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2001-11-05 / 1:33 p.m. ~Dead Dogs, Grateful Dead, Dead Friendships~ There's a dead dog on the side of the highway today. A black and tan something or other, Rottweiler, or a mix, freshly killed, in the emergency lane, a big dog, in between work and home. I never want to look at things lying on the side of the road, but somehow I always do. It's brief if the item is distinguishable, it's lasting if I can't tell. It's a sigh of relief if it's garbage, it's scrunched up eyes and nose, it's 'tsk'ing, it's "oh no, oh, jesus, oh how awful" if it's an animal. And if it's a pet, a cat, a dog, it's the worst. For so many reasons. Where is the owner? Why wasn't that animal on a leash, in a yard, inside a house, is that animal loved, will that animal be missed, did he/she suffer, was it a quick death, was it awfully painful, how long before Animal Control picks him/her up? In this case, this big dog, all fresh and bloodless, in original form, as far as eyes can tell, quick glances driving by, not yet bloated, this dog should be removed, quickly - I don't know if I can stand to see it again, later, back to work from lunch, again tomorrow morning, looking, but not wanting to look, trying not to look, but eyes making contact, again. Work. Monday. 9:12 a.m. I wasn't online much over the weekend. I reached a point of ultimate saturation and lost interest - didn't want to write in my diary, didn't want to read others, didn't want to sit there, in front of that monitor, for hours, wasting time. It was a nice change. The weather here has been spectacular (don't know what made me think of it, just now), every day perfect, blue skies, lots of sunshine, a bit warm, near 80 some days, but nice, leaves falling, blowing around on the ground, and I watched it from inside, looked out at it, wandered on to the porch, left it open every day, no a/c, no heat, open windows. Our phones are down again. This happens every week, usually on Mondays, often on Tuesdays, sometimes on Wednesdays, and occasionally on Thursdays, quite often on Fridays. I am amazed the big Corporation, the multi-national Corporation, with whom we have a contract, are not aware, and displeased. Horribly displeased. How can they be happy with this??? Do they know? We are their employee service center here, their call center, in this department, and our servers are fucked on a regular basis? When will they let us go�give us severance and let us move on? Shifting gears, a thought here, a thought there. It's heartening, I suppose, to know that Deadheads are alive and well, that the girls still twirl, like Whirling Dervishes, that they still jump up to dance when they hear "Iko, Iko", that we all still clap in rhythm, in unison, to "Not Fade Away". Mickey Hart had given an interview to the local free rag, in which he said they wouldn't be playing Grateful Dead tunes at the Bembe Orisha show, but he lied, and I felt deceived, a bit. Pleasantly deceived. I recognized the drums for "Iko Iko", but I didn't rush to the dance floor. I felt so mellow sitting there listening to the music of the rest of the show. And "Friend of the Devil" was a pleasant surprise, as was "Fire on the Mountain", then "Not Fade Away", and "I Know You Rider" (although Mickey Hart can not sing - sorry, it's true!). Wow. I didn't expect any of that. And the portions with the Persian singer, the lovely one with the long (past her ass) wavy hair, the one with bare feet and the black velvet dress, the one who played the auto harp, those were totally Dead Can Dance-ish, and that bothered me. The Dead Can Dance show I went to was possibly, no, definitely, the best concert I've ever been to. And this was an imitation. Granted, a good imitation, but when you've already seen it, the best it can be, well, I felt a little cheated, or bamboozled. So, that was only a portion of last night's show, a small portion, and the rest, most of it, was really, really good. I love percussion, I love unusual instruments used in creative ways - Hey, I've seen "Stomp", twice. I saw the Dead every time they came to town, all three nights each time. But this, Mickey Hart and Bembe Orisha, when they weren't playing their West African influenced music, when the Cuban woman wasn't singing, when the rhythms didn't lull me into complete meditative comfort, well, it felt like a rip off, an imitation of what's already been. Overall I don't feel ripped off, it was worth the money, I enjoyed it, even if while I drifted in my mind I touched on subjects I didn't want to touch on. It was a great show, really. I'm glad I went. The theatre where it was held is a fantastic venue. I'd been thinking of H. in the shower, while I was getting ready to go last night, and again I had such negative thoughts. She's used me, she's taken again and again, and I relate it to her being an only child, and the fact that she is spoiled, that she has everything she wants, always has been given everything, that she expects it. And her child is an only child. She expects everyone to give to her child, but to not pay too much attention to her because then she becomes jealous, H. does. She is jealous of the child, says no one is interested in her, just the child, then she calls to say what the child is up to, and we should all coo, we should all commend her. And for the big third birthday party I should show up, with gifts, gifts she'll soon give away or sell in a yard sale. What is the point? I can go, sit and feel out of place, see that she has other friends, friends she keeps in touch with, my turn to feel jealous, and I can see my little girl, give her a gift of my choosing, knowing she won't remember, she is going away and she won't remember me at all. There is so much there, including the fact that I wouldn't have been friends with H. and S. the past couple years if Lilly were not in the picture. Yes, she has reason to be jealous. I can't write about it, it's too unpleasant really, all the petty bullshit, the two-faced lies, the viciousness I've seen within H., and this now, knowing that she wouldn't have even told me about the move if I hadn't called and found out, by mistake. Thinking about all of it, in the shower, is tedious enough, trying to write it, explain it all, is worse. Let's let it slide, for now. And let me say what kind of friend I am. I am loyal, intensely loyal, I'm an excellent listener, and I am generous to a fault. But�I hate to be taken advantage of, I need to be appreciated, nothing grand, just an acknowledgement that I have gone out of my way. I need reciprocation, and I'm not keeping score, but I see what gestures are to be seen, see when there is nothing there at all. I need a give and take, I go to your place, you come to mine, you call me, I call you, we take turns, we invite each other to do things, we participate in each other's lives, and if I give to you, you see it, you are thankful, you recognize all I do for you, you don't assume I know. I will give you everything I have to give if you are deemed worthy, but if you come to expect it I am gone. Friendships are complicated, and I am not good in them, perhaps. I do expect to get what I give, I don't just give and give and give only to get nothing in return. And I demand respect. If I am not respected I know it, I feel it, I will turn away and never look back�except some night in the shower, on my way to a show. I'm sure I'll go to Lilly's 3rd Birthday Party this year, because I love her, as if she were my own. And I will give H. a big hug, and I will plan that it will be the last time I see her, them, and maybe S. will fly in from out west (for he is already moved there). I will give Lilly something she'll love, and try not to feel bad knowing she won't have it long, that H. will spring clean and it will disappear. I will be there for the child. The friendship is over. It feels dead, like so many things now. Cost of the War in Iraq
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