The phone rang about 9:30 the other night, and I was happy to see Sadie's number come up. I thought momentarily of a time not too far in the past when just the sight of her phone number filled me with deep dread.

Our friendship has always been dicey, owing to a number of factors, including her status as the Keelhauler's previous girlfriend (and her belief that said status accorded her his continued service as on-call handyman and emotional counselor), the Keelhauler's apparent agreement with her belief, my total inability to stand up for myself, and my curious inability to reconcile the idea that despite the fact that she scares the hell out of me, I admire her on a number of levels.

Sadie was calling to tell me that the candles I'd made, which feature our friend Carolyn as, variously, the archangel Michael, Saint George, and Saint Margaret, were a big hit at her birthday party. (I'd superimposed Carolyn's face on some religious paintings I found, and Sadie affixed the images to candles, resulting in a sort of Carolyn shrine.) She told me that other people had requested my number, so I could make candles for them as well, and I agreed to do it.

One thing I admire about Sadie is her willingness to hand out credit and praise. In this case, I was the recipient, so of course it pleased me, but in general she's generous in that regard. I admire that quality because I find it distressingly easy to withhold praise, especially of someone I'm jealous of, a nasty habit I'm trying hard to eliminate.

At the same time I admire her inclusiveness and generosity of spirit, I'm thoroughly intimidated by Sadie's fierce ability to attack when she perceives an error. I'm not so cowed that I bend over backwards to keep her happy, although some people certainly do, but I'm acutely aware of the difference between getting her approval versus her disapproval. She is the only person I know who's told me personally, in a moment of rage, that I have my head "up my ass." (Whether I do or not isn't really the point: it's more that normally, people don't specifically tell me that, nor follow the assessment with the repeated opinion that I am "unprofessional" and a "bitch" convinced that the world centers around me.) (I prefer to tell people that in my OWN words.)

So, since the aforementioned unpleasantness some years have gone by, during which she called to apologize, and on my last trip to Tucson I spent a good amount of time with her. She made sure people knew I was in town, saw that I was invited to parties, and accompanied me to clubs. I like her, and I admire that she stands up for what she believes in (The Revolution), and works to get people elected, to register voters, to put important measures on the ballot. She has a caring nature that is often obscured by bluster, but which comes through nonetheless in unexpected ways, and whatever she might be, she is totally herself.

She describes herself as "passionate," which I guess is accurate. When I told her that she was the only woman I know whom I've ever been afraid might punch me, she laughed and said passionately, I guess, "No way, Violet! I'm the only woman you know who'd punch someone out FOR you!" In truth, I suspect, both things are true, but it's good to have her on my team. She was deeply disappointed that she had left before I was nearly abducted at The Congress. "I can't believe I missed it!" she stated, "I woulda taken that guy out!" and I know she meant it.

I like her sense of social justice, but she makes me nervous through her habit of stating things in a way that suggests that the listener has already disagreed with her. Example: we were at dinner, and there was a plate of food left unfinished. The waitress asked if we'd like a box to take the leftovers home. I was a visitor in town, without a refrigerator, which I mentioned as I offered the plate to Sadie and our other friend, who himself turned it down. "Well, I just think somebody should take it home," she said, putting her chin out, "Food like that shouldn't be wasted, when people are starving." Not wasting food is, of course, the reason I'd suggested that she take it home in the first place, but for some reason, she missed that and perceived my refusal as a suggestion that we toss the food out. Before she started in on the "starving children" angle, I told her again that she should take it, oddly feeling like I'd just had my morals challenged and come up lacking.

Anyway, she is what she is, and whenever she fights with someone, or yells at someone, as she frequently does (and then regrets), people say, shrugging their shoulders, "That's just Sadie," and the next night they're all together drinking beer on the front porch. You take the good with the bad, and somewhere, it evens out.

I've long resented the Keelhauler's tolerance for her in contrast with his minutely detailed criticisms of me--if I so much as gesture while telling a story in a restaurant, he looks mortified and tells me to calm down, whereas I've seen him actively egg her on in a bar as she instigated a full-on shouting match with someone holding differing political views. His disapproval makes me feel gauche and terminally incorrect, which is quite a feat for someone wearing pants he cut off below the knee with a knife. I think that his feelings about her stem from the clarity of hindsight, and the distance of not being involved romantically. He understands her faults, he just doesn't consider them a reflection on himself.

For a long time, I fumed about the way she got away with behavior I wouldn't dream of, the way people forgave her, shrugged and said, "That's just Sadie!" and wondered why I wasn't afforded the same latitude. "Why do I have to be perfect?" I thought, and resented it, and her, and conveniently, everyone else. I wondered why I had to answer for everything, why I had to act correctly, and mostly, I wondered when my friends would come to shrug with casual acceptance, saying, "That's just Violet!" Naturally, this feeling didn't start when I met her--I've always felt that way, but her extravagance brought my own self-restriction into clear and maddening focus.

It is a neat fantasy to hang onto: that I am struggling at all times and fooling everyone with my facade of perfection, that no one sees how confused I am, and how flawed. In thinking about it, I realized that for my perception to be true, everyone I know would have to have somehow missed the fact that I'm imperfect, seeing only the front I put on, and accepting that as the totality of my personality. In short, they'd have to like me only because they are shallow enough to fall for the facade I put up. It's almost funny, actually, that I'd give myself credit for being capable of that kind of will power, or that I would think that friendship was based on my ability to control others' perceptions. Like Sadie, or like most people, really, I just am what I am, and when I get my head out of my ass long enough, it's clear that everyone around me already understands that.

When do they start saying, "That's just Violet"? It occurs to me that they probably already do.

Star of the day. . .Jim Carroll