Etymology: Middle English frend, from Old English frEond; akin to Old High German friunt friend, Old English frEon to love, frEo free
1 a : one attached to another by affection or esteem b : Acquaintance
2 a : one that is not hostile b : one that is of the same nation, party, or group
3 : one that favors or promotes something (as a charity)
4 : a favored companion

~ from m-w.com

I’ve been musing on the concept of friends and (of course) friendship lately. I’m not one to have a large circle of people I call friends. I have more now than ever before, but I would still have trouble filling the table with 16 people at my annual Feast – and some of them would be new acquaintances.

What makes a friend? To some degree, it’s a person who I can talk to. Likely, when we’re getting to know each other, we can talk for hours. Whether chatting online or sharing a beverage in person, we talk. Agreement is not necessary (although we can’t disagree about everything, that becomes tedious). Having different backgrounds can be exciting. A different set of experiences is vital (otherwise, it’s not a conversation, just a series of yes statements.)

A friend has something more, something almost intangible. Perhaps it’s the refreshing honesty of knowing that there is a person who will tell you when you are wrong, not being spiteful about it, just matter of fact. Moreover, it’s a person who is willing to go with you to make amends, and help you figure out how to not repeat the mistake. A friend can be the revealing mirror that encourages our betterment. They aren’t like family (with their occasionally overly irritating ability to remember details you hoped were long forgotten), nor are they therapists.

I am watching a close friendship of several years reach its conclusion. The end began somewhere around 18 months ago and I don’t know what or how… the post-mortem has not yet begun. Nevertheless, the patient is on the table and extreme measures are required to resuscitate and revive. My friend has been through extraordinary changes in this time and when I look back, I see that those changes obscured our increasing distance.

What is doing it in, however, is that it turns out that to continue our friendship I have to maintain a close relationship with the spouse. Not necessarily hard to do as we’ve know each other even longer, but she is so angry with me she can not express it, except through my friend. I’m caught in a weird game of telephone where every interaction I have is copied (or repeated) to the other party and one person speaks for both, but the silent partner holds more power than the other two combined.

edit: I realize (after the post and a few hours) that my being ‘public’ with this is an attempt to break the cycle. Its not the best choice (I could always call them and say “now or never, lets talk this through”), but it is what I am doing at this time and in this place. I’ve written, I’ve responded, I’ve stated my willingness to work it out. I’ve even said that I think it CAN be worked out (which is pretty optimistic given how little I actually know about what’s going on).

edit: And, in this very moment I realize: I’m putting this on the line. If my friendship means something to the others involved, its time for them to put out (to be crude). If you have something to say: say it. Otherwise, shut up and go away. Stop playing games and be an adult. Friendship takes more than one person. I am part of the dynamic, and I could have done better, but our distance is not my fault. And every day that you put off talking to me and with me, that distance grows.

I have no desire to ‘get between’ the two of them. I just wish I could have my friend back. Or be given the courtesy of an honest interaction rather than this game.

Last night John and I celebrated his birthday (which was in May) by going to see Nickel Creek at Marymoor Park. He picked me up from work early because we know from past experience that it can take 3 hours to get from Seattle to Redmond (thats not even 20 miles, folks. Traffic is incredibly awful up here). We were just going to grab a burger before the show, but took a chance and stopped into a ‘steak and seafood’ place called Becks in the main part of Redmond.

They were just about to open at 4pm and we were invited to have our choice of seating. Nice comfy booths, wood tables, linens… this was not just a ‘joint,’ this was a good looking place hiding in a strip mall. Limited menu with a couple of fish specials, and a thoughtful wine list. Better and better. We looked at each other and said, what the hey and ordered. Grilled prawn ‘cocktail’ to start. A perfect appetizer, two large prawns for each of us. Perfectly cooked and just the right amount to wake up the tummy. Salads (green for me, caeser for him) with fresh greens and not too much dressing. Also, no onion or tomato (I know, others like them, but I don’t.) Then… the main course. I had a filet, grilled nicely with asparagus and a ‘potato cake’ of shredded potato mixed with asiago cheese and fried. YUM. John’s strip was perfectly done, and his mashed with basil was delightful.

We left room for dessert, believe it or not. Mostly by taking our time over the meal (almost 2 hours). We shared a slice of strawberry cake — yellow cake with white chocolate frosting, raspberry filling and strawberry filling. Incredibly good. JUST like I always imagine a ‘birthday’ cake would be.

Stuffed and happy, we finished the drive to the park and found our seats. Mid row, 7 rows from the front on the right side. I done good, if I do say so myself. John was in 7th Heaven.

Nickel Creek was incredible. I saw their show three years ago and they were good. Last night, they were gold. Of special note was their cover of Britney Spears’ “Toxic” which I was able to find on the Interet and have linked HERE. Play it loud.

One of my deepest joys (and vilest disappointmetns) lies within singing.

When I was in college I had a friend who was a musician and he had the occasion to hear me singing (as part of a crowd attending a play). While walking home he informed me that I really shouldn’t sing, because I am tone deaf. It was an effective as a gag, and far worse: I felt like opening my mouth was the equivalent of having incredibly bad body odor. Offensive.

So a thing I enjoyed, had l;earned to breath correctly to do, had worked on for fun, became a torture. I no longer sang in the shower, or the car, or even while alone. My voice grew rusty, my breath shallow, and… bad.

I still liked to sing, though. I couldn’t stop forever. I just got used to a scratchy voice, gave up on high notes, and sang just every once in a while (usually along with very loud music so that I really wasn’t heard by anyone). And eventually, I got caught.

By my boyfriend (although he wasn’t more than a friend back then). A former musician with perfect pitch, no less. He stopped by to see if I wanted to go to a movie, he just didn’t call first like he usually does. I was playing my music loud, and didn’t hear the door, so he just came on in. And there I was, singing my heart out to Sinead O’Connor’s “Troy.” (If you don’t know it, find it and listen to it, and the irony of this story will go to new heights for you.)

I almost threw up, the blood rushed to my face so fast. I was mortified and I ran out of that room as fast as I could. I kept waiting for his laughter, or even the sound of him leaving, but… I didn’t hear that. I crept out. He was just sitting in the living room, reading, and when I came in he simply asked if I was alright. I stammered something taht was ehading towards being an apology when he interrupted me. “I’m sorry if I embarrased you singing, but I wanted to hear you better.”

What? You wanted to hear me better?

“You sing great. Not polished, and you could use some exercises, but you have a nice voice. Why, don’t you think so?”

No. (And I told him I was tone deaf, and why.)

“You’re not tone deaf. You can hear the difference between notes just fine. You don’t always match them, but…” (I almost fled the room again, it felt like i was being set up for a joke or something). “Stop, I’m sorry. Look — you sound fine. No you’re not a professional, but you’re not tone deaf. After all the bible said make a joyful noise, not a beautiful one, didn’t it?”

A few days ago a student shared this (and gave his permission to repost here):

Yes, yes, you are right, I suppose, yet I find it a sad thing, a 
 very sad thing indeed to see crows–innocent birds that were content 
 with their all too brief lives a moment before–flying from the 
 trees upon hearing me sing, “The Sound of Music” only to become so 
 nauseous that they cannot fly, and then to see them puking en masse 
 on the ground like a thousand ships loaded to the brims with drunk 
 sailors and sea-sick passengers. Then to see hysterical 
 cows–creatures that would be crows if only they had been born with 
 an “r” in their names–desperately trying to climb those same trees 
 that the crows so recently abandoned…But more than the pity I 
 feel, it’s the laugher that emanates from deep within me when I am 
 trying to sing during the midst of such a scene, that makes it hard 
 to go on. Yet, I must, simply must go on, because the spectacle and 
 the sense of power I feel, just knowing that I caused it all to 
 happen tickles me so that I would not trade a voice such as mine for 
 the sweetest notes the angels ever heard.

Don’t worry, dear Lady. I do sing. I sing all the time, but 
 especially when I’ve had too much coffee. A friend taught me to sing 
 years ago, so I now sing at all times and in all places. The older I 
 get, the less I care about the crows and the cows. They can buy 
 earplugs for all I care, impudent, intolerant creatures that they are.

He captured, eloquently, amusingly, and joyfully why some of us sing.

Over the years I’ve grown more confident in my voice. Oh, I’m not headed for StarSearch or American Idol. I don’t want to do karoke or anything like that. But “Walking in Memphis” sounds sweet in my voice, and although I don’t wail during “Troy” I can do all the rest.

It may not be beautiful, but it is joyful.

Friedman is one of the few authors I will buy the moment i see the new offering, beginning with her first novel, In Conquest Born in 1986 (gods, that makes me feel old). Her characters are exquisitely drawn, her worlds rich, and her story-telling skills superb. More importantly, she’s an author who fulfills the promise to take me somewhere new.

This Alien Shore opens with a young girl’s frantic escape from the Habitat orbiting Earth that has been her home, just before it is blown up in a a corporate raid. A last message from her mentor raises more questions than it answers. She learns that she’s been part of a highly secret, highly illegal experiment that “modded” the communication and data storage systems in her head. And someone is willing to kill her to keep others from getting access to it

Throughout the novel are questions of humanity via the central premise of its universe: what is human? Is it a matter of how it looks or follows social norms? Is it only confirmed at the genetic level — in which case what is the ‘baseline’ for measurement? Is it human to control sanity via chemicals (drugs or ‘natural’)? To alter the brain for maximum creativity? How can two cultures — both ‘human’ interact when their frames of reference are wildly incompatible, if not mutually exclusive.

The Guerans were especially fascinating: a world where insanity (as we would define it) is understood and appreciated while being cultivated and controlled — by the individual, not the state — as pathways for specific genuis. (It was interesting to try to figure out what disorders these people had. I recognized people with autism, Tourette’s, obsessive/compulsive disorder, and paranoid schizophrenia.) This is a society based on polite formulas to mitigate the clash between ‘clans’ as represented by various animals — lion, spider, snake, otter, etc.

These ‘power animals’ if you will, further the mythic quality Friedman tends to weave into her novels. The anniq — the naturally occurring rifts in space-time– is described like the icy waters of the Arctic, and dragons (sana) lurk within, waiting to eat the souls of unwary travelers.

As well, we are encouraged to think about the these of ‘define human’ by the universality of ‘net access. Today’s internet has become universal — literally. Where is the line between natural and unnatural when babies have implants so they are never denied their ‘right; to net access? For me, this writing takes Gibson’s best, and makes it readable. (I love his ideas, I hate how he expresses them.) In my opinion, the way she’s thought through how a computer virus would look and act in eight centuries is phenomenal.