Showing posts with label good friends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label good friends. Show all posts

04 August 2022

A Friend Restored

Anybody who's still alive from the olden days of this blog may remember me referencing Lila, my Neo 2 portable word processor.

Lila died after a brief illness in June 2019 -- the day I met my husband, actually. And while some depressingly poetic souls might try to turn this into a 'death to the old to make way for the new' story, I disagree. Lila was my friend. I couldn't bring Brittney or M back, but maybe, one day, I could bring Lila back.

She languished in my closet for three years as I waited for the day. My brother gave me his own Neo 2 that he wasn't using (a slightly newer model who I affectionately if somewhat awkwardly called 'Lila 2'). Lila 2 suffered an even more brief but similar illness in November 2021 and died on Day 17 of NaNoWriMo. Luckily I was far enough ahead by then to absorb the blow of not writing an extra thousand words during my lunch break, but I did feel the loss deeply.

As the world begins to open up again and I begin to travel more for performance training and opportunities, I miss being able to whip out that little device on the bus or in a guest bedroom between classes or rehearsals.

Months ago, when I was bemoaning the loss of the Lila twins in a Discord group, somebody sent me a link to a tutorial for changing the little button cell battery. Suddenly there was hope. The symptoms they both showed during their illnesses could very easily be explained by a dying backup battery, and both units were old enough to conceivably have this issue. (I had also been hyperfixating on The 8-Bit Guy's restoration videos during most of the pandemic and wanted very much to try doing a simple repair of an electronic device simply because it looked so satisfying.)

There was nothing to lose. Both machines were unusable in their current state anyway. I bought two CR2032 batteries, popped out the AAs and cracked open Lila 2.

The hardest part was getting the old battery out. All the objects with skinny pointy ends in the entire house seemed to be made of metal and the last thing I wanted to do was short out the motherboard for good, as fixing that is definitely beyond my abilities. After trying my fingers, wooden knitting needles, and the hard end of a shoelace, I finally cut a fuzzy end off of a Q-tip and that did it (no, we don't have toothpicks in the house).

The next hardest part was getting twelve very small and fiddly screws back in. I spent six years in construction and screws don't scare me, but one was a particularly stubborn little thing and I had to enlist my husband's help in the end.

I put the AAs back in and tried to power it on. The screen remained blank. My heart dipped a little, but I plugged it into the computer, whereupon the screen lit up and asked if I had changed the internal battery. I pressed Y and it told me to press Enter to restart. I did, and within seconds it appeared to be ready. Of course everything had been wiped, as I had expected. When Lila 2 started showing symptoms of the same illness that had taken her predecessor, I had backed her up immediately (unfortunately I had not been so proactive the first time around, but I have come to terms with the fact that everything on the original Lila is now irretrievable). After a few minutes, I unplugged it from the computer and tried again to power it on.

Nothing.

I began to panic slightly more. The entire point of having a portable word processor is so that I don't have to carry my laptop around. It's no use to me if it only works when connected.

But in the spirit of trying everything, I raided my husband's remote-battery stash for more AAs and tried again to power it on.

It worked.

I almost screamed. I typed a few sentences, turned it off and then on again, typed some more, ran into the room where my husband was live-streaming and danced excitedly by his desk until he looked at Lila 2's screen.

One down... one to go.

Lila the original is in a bit rougher shape. I had a sibling dump a Tim Horton's frozen lemonade into her keyboard many years ago. Her motherboard seemed unaffected, however, quite a few of the keys stuck, especially on cold days. Not only that, the Caps Lock key came off right around the time of her death. I remember saving both the key and the scissor mechanism, but I've moved three times since then and could not begin to tell you where that key and the mechanism are now. Could I still use the button without a proper key? Yes -- the plunger's still there -- but if I'm going to restore her, I would like to restore her to her former glory.

I'm just happy knowing it's possible and that I have one of my buddies back with me for November. I already have a plot that I'm very excited about, and I feel much better knowing I'll be able to write on the go both during the event and in the pseudo-planning time leading up to it.

For once in my life -- a friend died and it wasn't permanent.

30 July 2019

The Birth of the Curse

I'l just get this out of the way: I hate my birthday.

Not because I'm another year older and closer to death. I hate my actual birth date -- 2 August.

In Canada, the first Monday is August is a statutory holiday. I don't know why they felt this was necessary -- the month of August literally is holiday unless you're one of the lucky few who have actually managed to land any kind of full-time job in this economy. Yours truly was literally born on that God-forsaken Monday. To be born on a holiday Monday -- especially in the summer, and especially the last one of the summer -- is a curse straight from the lips of Satan himself.

Do you have ANY idea how hard it is to plan any kind of birthday party when literally everyone goes camping in the mountains or goes to the lake on that weekend? There are 51 other weekends every year, but all the vacations magically converge on THAT weekend -- the weekend of my birthday.

These circumstances literally incited my lifelong battle with depression. My own birthday doomed me. I was sunk from my first breath.

I was nine, going on ten. My birthday was coming up and I had carefully made up invitations and sent them out WAY in advance -- having learned in the previous three or four years that people apparently make plans for my birthday weekend in April sometime. But it was now late July and the RSVP calls were rolling in -- 'Sorry, Lindsay can't make it, we're going to the lake that weekend,' 'Sorry, Katie's camping with her dad that weekend,' 'Sorry, Brittany can't come -- we're all going to Disneyland that weekend...'

I was with my dad in his workshop when my mother came out and relayed yet another message like this -- my best friend couldn't come. And it was kind of the last straw. I had invited probably about a dozen people, and now probably about ten of them had already backed out. I had long been reduced to inviting even my much-younger and significantly more annoying cousins just so I would be with someone on my birthday.

I excused myself and headed back to the house to process. How could my best friend be busy? She knew my birthday. It happened every year on the same day. How do you not start to remember 'oh yeah, my best friend's birthday is that day, don't book anything'? This was my best friend. I had never missed her birthday party. Why then did she and her family seem to think it was okay to miss mine?

I was walking up the steps to the back door of our house when a solution presented itself to my nine-year-old brain: nobody likes you. Nobody wants you around. And that's why they're making all these excuses. They didn't forget -- they just don't want to come.

And suddenly everything made sense.

The problem was not the date, the problem was me. I was annoying and stupid and nobody liked me.

The knowledge was enlightening. Suddenly my entire life made sense -- my mother's seemingly unprovoked rages at me, my dance teacher's constant needling comments at me about how I wasn't good enough, the fact that every social gathering I ever tried to plan flopped spectacularly, the fact that literally nobody ever talked to me unless forced to.

It was because nobody liked me. It was because there was something wrong with me.

That thought opened up a whole new world of explanation -- a Pandora's box that not only could I not shut, I didn't want to because I would rather know that I was worthless than live under a delusion. I would rather have known the truth -- the truth that nobody wanted me around and would do whatever it took to avoid me. That thought still pervades literally everything I do and everything I think. I know nothing else.

I still had one faint hope -- that when I was an adult and my friends were all more in control of their work schedules, they would know to keep that day (or at least that weekend) free. They would remember that that was my birthday and maybe my adult friends would somehow be able to love me enough to not want to back out of whatever I might plan.

But now I am an adult. I'm alone in a city with very few (and somewhat tenuous) connections. I can't go visit my family because I work two days in a row and can't make the trip. My best friend is on vacation -- her family plans the same stupid trip to the mountains ON MY BIRTHDAY every single stupid year, despite knowing that that's my birthday. I had made plans with another friend to spend the day together on my birthday -- nothing fancy, just literally being in each other's presence -- and that friend just found out today that there's a family event that he can't back out of... on that day.

My one birthday wish -- to spend my birthday with people who care about me. It's not about the event. It's not about the gifts. It's not about the party or the food or the beverages. It's about being with people I love. That's all I want. It's so simple, but it's the one thing I can apparently never have.

Nobody should have to be alone on their birthday. And yet that's my constant reality.

01 October 2018

I Know The Drill

Do you know what I hate?

I hate being in my mid-twenties and getting a text saying that a dear friend of mine has died and knowing exactly how the next few weeks will look for me because I've done this all before. I hate that I know exactly which music to listen to and what to avoid. I hate that I know how long it'll take for the news to hit home. I hate that I'm planning a roadtrip for a funeral on Thanksgiving weekend. I hate that I'm so matter-of-fact about this because I know the drill -- I hate that I know the drill.

My friends are celebrating weddings and birthdays and anniversaries. They're going on dates and having children and going on vacation.
And I just keep attending a steady stream of funerals.

I came across a picture the other day featuring myself, my sister, Brittney, and one of my dance friends.
It's a candid shot (though Brittney had seen the camera and was posing), taken by my sister at my birthday party in 2012. And I looked at this picture and realised that two of the four people in that photo are dead, a mere six years later. Brittney, at twenty, was the oldest person in that photo. None of us should be dead, not yet. We're all too young, and yet we're dropping like flies. I've almost come to expect that everyone I've ever loved in going to die young and I'm going to outlive them all, lonely and angry.

When one of my good friends attempted suicide last year, I distinctly remember writing in my journal, 'next death, I die too. I'm not taking this anymore.'

That next death happened this past Thursday.

Yesterday morning one of my very good friends asked me how I was doing. I told her I wasn't doing great and she gave me a hug and there was this strange moment in my head -- both this friend and I have survived suicide attempts and here she is, comforting me in the wake of another friend's suicide. Why did the two of us live? Yet... how strangely beautiful that we did, and now we have each other. We have both been through Hell and back.

The moment reminded me of the old Burlap To Cashmere song...
You have one wing and I have another
Seeking shelter like sister and brother...
Hold my hand and we'll make it all right
From this hell that we live in...
It's a long and lonesome ride
When your friends have all gone home...
(Eileen's Song, Burlap To Cashmere, 1998)

09 July 2015

Music Day - Magnificent

Yes, Music Day comes early this week.

Today would have been my dear friend's twenty-third birthday. Alas, she took her first step beyond the stars on the first of February.

She taught me tactfulness, the joy of being thankful for little things, grace, and patience... so much patience. She was the kind of person who would take pictures of the way the Christmas tree lights were reflecting on her guitar strings, the type of person who would fangirl over Arthur Conan Doyle (before BBC's Sherlock), the type of person who would create a graph explaining why the Canadian holiday calendar is better than the American one based entirely on turkey consumption.

She hated winter. It seems somehow cruel that her last glimpse of this world was in the dead of it. She was relentlessly encouraging and always ready to pray for me, even though usually I was just freaking out over nothing.

She told me once that U2 was one of her favourite bands. I'd heard of them, but never actually heard any of their music until after the last time I saw her alive. I didn't hear this particular song until not long after she died.

Title: Magnificent
Artist: U2
Album: No Line On The Horizon
Year: 2009
iTunes here; YouTube here.

At the time she told me U2 was her favourite band, I was on my CCM-only kick and I was horrified that she would listen to something like U2 -- they weren't CCM-approved (obviously, this was before my DA days). We actually had quite a falling out over it and I don't know if the rift ever really healed completely -- although we did try to carry on. To some degree we did. Although the last time we really spoke to each other face-to-face, just before we parted, she apologised again for everything. At the time I was taken aback. I had long since forgiven and forgotten, and it actually took me a minute to figure out what she was talking about. I sort of dashed off an apology of my own, and she left.

I wish I had taken time to formulate my words more lovingly that day. Not that they weren't loving, but I was distracted and delivered them flippantly. I wish I had tuned everything else out, looked her right in the eye, and told her, 'I've already forgiven you. Quit carrying this burden.'

But I didn't know... no-one ever knows.

At the time she had less than two years left.

I miss her so much my heart literally, physically hurts. I can't count the amount of times I've thought, Hey, I should tell Brittney about this, or I should ask Brittney for her advice -- she'd understand. My comfort is that she is with the Magnificent; the one who had provided her with her love for the literary, her lovely singing voice, her phenomenal photography instinct, her level-headedness and her kindness.

Only love
Only love can leave such a mark
But only love
Only love can heal such a scar...

Justified till we die
You and I will magnify
The Magnificent
Magnificent...



Brittney's blog.

01 May 2015

Music Day - One More Time

Three deaths in three months. I don't even know what to think anymore.

Title: One More Time
Artist: Terry Scott Taylor
Album: Knowledge & Innocence
Year: 1986
iTunes here; YouTube here.
(Typical iTunes: the song is mislabeled. The song labeled A Briefing For An Ascent is actually this one. The song labeled One More Time is actually A Briefing... Both are good though.)

06 June 2013

A Farther Edge...

I've been putting off writing this. There's a part of me that's excited, but right now the bigger part of me is the part that wants to pretend time doesn't move.

I'll try to condense the story a little... otherwise, you'll be here reading forever.

In February, I found out Briercrest college in Saskatchewan has a dance team. Several years ago I had considered going to Briercrest, but didn't really pursue it. After all, what was the point of blowing four of the best years of my life in some classroom just for some dumb piece of paper that doesn't even guarantee you a job unless it says 'M.D.' on it?

But when I found out they have a dance team... I don't exactly know what happened. It was like an explosion over my life. It was like God was poking me, telling me to go to Briercrest. At first I was willing enough... probably because I didn't think it was ever going to actually happen. I sent the application, and asked God that if He didn't want me there that the application wouldn't even be accepted in the first place. At this point, I didn't care if I was accepted or not.

Then the email came. I had been accepted.

And reality set in.

Did I seriously just apply to blow two years of my life at college because of a dance team? And a hip hop team to boot? Aside from modern/contemporary, that's the one dance discipline I don't do. Plus there's this little matter of my, um... varied (yeah, let's say that) sleep schedule. I'm actually going to have to carve out time to fix myself more substantial food than nachos and salsa (I can cook more complex stuff than that, I just hate all the time wasted on preparing it). And my family -- I wouldn't see them for months at a time...

And then the gut punch. Ballet class.

A hip hop dance team suddenly becomes little comfort when you realise you may never wear your pointe shoes again. I'm a rare bird who actually enjoys dancing on pointe, and it's not something I want to let slide after so many years of working toward it. It doesn't take long for muscle strength to fade, and if I go without for two years, I'll likely have to start from the bottom up again.

As I write this, it's very early in the morning (very early) on Sunday, the second of June. Later today is what I now know is very likely my final stage performance with my ballet school. My sister is also in it -- last Tuesday was possibly the last time we drove together to the dance school for our classes, one right after the other. My mother will have to take her next year. I don't want to leave this. I thought God had called me to dance -- right?

But then, God also allowed me to be accepted to Briercrest. And He ordained that I get a high enough SAT score to confirm my acceptance to the college. Everything is coming together so quickly, almost too quickly... there's so much evidence that God wants me there, for whatever reason. All that's missing is the money, but if God wants me there so much, apparently it's on its way.

I feel like Jamie -- the slippers or the Bible? Is clinging to dance going to be worth sacrificing whatever God has out in the unknown for me? Whatever He has must be good, because He is good. I just can't see it right now. So do I trust Him enough to actually go see? It must be something better than ballet, because God is good. Maybe not more enjoyable right now, but better in the long run...

I keep coming back to the words PFR wrote in the liner notes to their farewell album, The Late Great PFR, in 1997: "God was good when He called us to the road. God was good when He called us home."

It's still the edge of the dream... the plan God laid out for me. It's with different people, in a different place, in a different style of dance than I expected, but it's still His plan. However, at the moment all I can see are the faces of my dear friends who I may not ever dance with again, at least not on this earth.

But if Christ, and following where He leads, is the treasure in the field... how can I not go and 'sell everything,' even dance, for the greatest treasure? (For those who are puzzled by this: it's the concept laid out in Matthew 13:44 in the Bible -- '...the kingdom of heaven is like a treasure hidden in a field, which a man found and hid; and for joy over it he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field.')

As I type this, I can barely see the screen due to brokenhearted sobbing. Ballet, and the people it connected me to, were such a huge, huge part of my life. How can giving this up possibly bring me anything better? I don't know, but whether I like it or not, I have to say God is good. His plan must therefore be good.


Changeless breaks the tide to shore
Changeless are the times and seasons
You are the same forevermore
I will keep these changeless reasons...
No shadow of turning falls
No promise is broken
No, nothing can turn my heart
From the words You have spoken
Changeless Your love
Deep as an ocean
-- Terry Scott Taylor, 1987

And should you come into the promised land
Remember
Remember
From where you came
And if your greatest fears are realised
Remember
Remember
Your sanctuary
-- Daniel Amos, 1984

10 May 2012

National Choreography Month - Day 10

So after blasting through King Of Kings in less than 72 hours, I have now pretty much stalled out on Apathy Alert.

It's not even a lack of inspiration -- I have plenty of ideas. But my brain has been spinning for the past few days. Part of it might be backlash from choreographing nearly two minutes' worth for eight dancers in three days, but most of it is me trying to adjust to my dad being home all day every day (he accidentally amputated a couple of fingers and is now off work for two weeks) and my sheer excitement over both John Schlitt and Lecrae dropping projects within two days of each other.

Hopefully yesterday will put me on track though.

I don't remember if I mentioned this (and if I did, it might have been in a post that never ended up getting published), but NaChoreoMo is actually a joint venture -- it was invented by my dance friend and I (after discovering on 26 January that January has already been declared National Choreography Month. We weren't about to wait that long for it to come round again so we made our own).

I hadn't seen her in nearly a year. However, long story short she was at my ballet class yesterday to touch up on her technique due to an upcoming audition. I had an extra hour after class and she arranged to stay the extra hour with me, specifically so we could compare choreography notes.

First of all, she's a total overachiever. She showed me a list of songs she intends to choreograph to this month. It was somewhere around six when she first pulled it out. By the time she put the notebook away it had gone up to about nine. Sure, they're all solos and duets, but still... it makes my list of three look positively apathetic.

Second, she's so passionate about the craft that it wears off on me even through the epitome of soulless communication (Facebook). To see her in person again and talk choreography is like a shot of espresso to the creative (and happy) mind.

Third, as of yesterday she's now choreographing a Highland dance solo and a contemporary solo for me. (The contemporary one should be interesting. I've been training in classical ballet since I was six years old.) If that isn't inspirational, I don't know what is. Perhaps it means more to me because I seemed completely 'off' in class yesterday and totally not worthy of one solo, let alone two. It seems to have given me a bit of a kick in the backside.

I haven't added to my workload (because with my brain in this frazzled state it would be insanity to attempt to force anything more out of it), but if I finish Apathy Alert and my third planned song in a timely fashion, I've long had a song in mind that would make a good solo for her. If I have time once these two are done, I might try to throw that together too.


P.S. -- No word on a White Heart reunion yet.

07 October 2011

Music Day

Since Canadian Thanksgiving is on Monday (usually I don't make such a big deal out of Thanksgiving, but this past year has changed my perspective a lot), I decided to feature a thankful-type song.
Naturally the first one in my head was a Petra song (look at the Music Day tab just under this blog's heading and you'll see what I mean), but there's also a very nice Silverwind song of gratitude as well... actually, two, now that I think about it. (There's more, but I struggle with indecisiveness enough without consciously looking for things to be indecisive about.)
(Now that I look for one of the two songs on YouTube I find more good thankful Silverwind songs...)
(And a Petra song. I CAN'T GET AWAY FROM THEM!)
(Yes. It's late. I get a little daft when it's late.)
(This is why I do most of my writing at night... then I'm too hyper to notice (or care) if it sucks.)
(Neither of the Silverwind songs I thought of are on YouTube. I should just put them on myself.)
(...If I wasn't so lazy... er, that is, if I didn't already have a thousand things to do. Like go to sleep and do this in the morning.)
(Well, later in the morning.)
(You know what I mean.)

Anyway, the song's on iTunes and that's the main thing. Now that they've switched to a minute and a half long preview, that gives you a pretty good idea of whether you'd like the song anyway (even if it takes entirely too long to preview albums now).

Title: Thank You Lord
Artist: Silverwind
Album: By His Spirit
Year: 1985
Label: Sparrow Records
iTunes here.

I have always loved Betsy's voice and in fact, it was thanks primarily to Betsy Hernandez (of Silverwind) and Agnetha Fåltskög of ABBA (similar sound, completely different outlook), that I taught myself to sing. My dear childhood friend could tell you stories... many were the times when she'd grab me by the shoulders and say 'Will you STOP TALKING about MUSIC?!?'

Obviously I didn't -- I just redirected it.

20 April 2011

Historical Accuracy Fail

I quite like Facebook's idea of displaying photo albums you've been tagged in from months or even years ago. So often we forget the good times and dwell only on our current depressing situation. Going back to a friend's photo album from nearly a year ago and remembering all the fun you had at a particular event really brightens one's day.
This is what Facebook recommended for me today:

Photo by Kate.
This was taken at West Edmonton Mall and I believe it's meant to be a replica of one of Columbus' ships. My friend and I were there with her youth group and we both spotted this at the same time. (Then, of course, we both had to take pictures.)
It pretty much made my night. You'd think the people in charge of a historical display would know better than to put a plastic IKEA-style trash can on a seventeenth-century ship.

17 February 2011

Childhood Memory -- Sonic the Hedgehog

My first real exposure to video games was at my friend's house. I was about seven at the time, she was a year older. Some way or another she had gotten her hands on a 1992 Sega Genesis. It was missing a controller and she had only one game cartridge for it -- Sonic the Hedgehog 2.
Since there was only one controller, we would take turns -- one would play until they lost, then the other would play until they lost. It probably seemed unfair to both our parents since she owned the game and I did not, but the truth is we were fairly evenly matched, at least for the first few weeks.
In fact, I distinctly remember one time, not long after she'd acquired the system, when we decided to do a contest -- we would each play until we lost, as usual, but whoever scored the most points would be the 'winner.'
I wrote myself off almost right away. I could scarcely handle the controller, much less anticipate coming grenades and spikes. Still, I accepted the challenge, and we agreed that she would go first.
She played through both zones of the first level, Emerald Hill, and had conjured up a score of approximately eight thousand (I don't recall exactly). She lost early on in the first zone of Chemical Plant.
Then it was my turn.
She was very gracious, telling me when to watch out for robots and cliffs ahead. For the most part I managed to heed her advice, although my unfamiliarity with the controller got me into several scrapes, which, when you're seven years old, frustrate the heck out of you.
Still, I finished out both zones of the level, defeating the Boss with her help. I freed the little critters and the final score was tallied... and I came out with over ten thousand points. It wasn't all that much more than she had, but to our seven and eight-year old minds, it was quite an impressive score (I, for one, was just impressed that I had actually finished the level).
After a few weeks though, her skill began to surpass mine. Luckily for her I was content to watch her play for the most part, without feeling shunned so long as she didn't completely stop talking to me.
One day while I was watching her play, several weeks later, she had scraped together eighteen lives and was doing rather well.
Until she reached the pillars.
Even now on my iPod touch, I have yet to make it past the second zone of Chemical Plant so I have no idea which level she was on -- seven or eight I imagine. Early in this level there were some pillars that would go up and then come crashing down, stomping like the feet of some metallic Bigfoot. There were, if memory serves, about four in a row and it was very much a matter of timing to get past them.
She mistimed her leap under the first one and Sonic was crushed. No matter -- she still had seventeen lives. She was returned to the beginning of the level and soon had made her way back to the pillars.
Another attempt -- and again poor Sonic was crushed.
Back to the start of the level. Get to the pillars. Wait... psych up... deep breaths... fingers poised on the buttons... and press.
Sonic was crushed again. Now my friend had fifteen chances remaining.
Her fourth attempt failed, as did the fifth and sixth and seventh and eighth.
She had gotten past this level before and so was getting increasingly frustrated. I was frustrated too, for her sake, but was careful not to belittle her. It was obviously very difficult and I didn't want to ruin her concentration.
However, no matter when she made her leap, the pillar always came down and crushed the ever-resilient Sonic.
By the time she had whittled the number of lives remaining down to seven or so, it suddenly began to strike us as funny. We began to smile and even to snicker. By the time she had gotten down to five lives remaining, we were starting to laugh.
Four lives remaining... three... and we began to laugh harder every time Sonic was crushed by the pillar. Insensitive perhaps, but by the time we reached the second-last life, she was laughing too hard to try to time the leap properly and Sonic was crushed yet again. Of course this made it even funnier.
Poor Sonic didn't stand a chance on his last life; my friend and I were nearly paralysed with laughter by that point. He was crushed for the final time and the game was over.
I remember the two of us bragging to her mother several minutes later about how she'd just lost eighteen lives in the exact same place on the same level. I wonder if she thought we were sadists or something for laughing so hard at that.
One thing's for sure... I've never before or since had such a good time losing a video game.