Tag Archives: memories

Memories

Memories: Super Mario Brothers

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Super Mario Brothers ScreenshotMy birthday is on Tuesday, so I’ve decided to take it easy between now and then and just do some easy, rambling posts.  Today’s is about my favorite video game growing up.

I forget what grade I was in at the time, but at some point I ended up getting a Nintendo Entertainment System.  When I got it, they were giving out Super Mario Brothers with each game console.  I fell in love with that game.  I don’t know how many hours I ended up playing it.  I know that both my parents and my sister commented more than once they were often entertained by watching me play it, as we had the Nintendo set up in the living room at the time.

I don’t remember when I finally beat the game by playing through all eight worlds in order.  Prior to doing so, I used the “warp zones” that were hidden behind the end of various underground levels.  After exploring every possible warp zone, I eventually decided to go back and try winning the game by playing straight through with no shortcuts.  (I think I did use one of the tricks to get “infinite lives” by continuously jumping on a koopa troopa on steps, though.)

One of the other things I was completely proud of was the fact that at some point, I figured out the secret to both making sure I landed on the topmost part of the flagpole at the end of non-castle levels, but got the maximum possible fireworks each time as well.  It was a matter of figuring out when to start the running jump from the top of the stairs just in front of the flagpole.

Later, I got into other games, including The Legend of Zelda and the Dragon Warrior series of games.  (I have a thing for role-playing games like that.)  But there will always be something special about running around while eating magic mushrooms and stomping on turtles.

 

Memories

Memories: Taking up the Runes

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A bindrune for good fortune.
A bindrune for good fortune.

Back in 1998, my first boyfriend, Zech, stayed a few days.  We were driving somewhere and I mentioned in passing that I was thinking about learning to read tarot.  “Why don’t you learn runes instead,” he suggested.  “They’re a lot easier.”  As a result, I went to the bookstore and bought a set of runes with a well known but not very good (at least from a more traditional point of view) book.  I read through the book in a day and started doing readings for myself and friends.  I was amazed at how well I took to them.  Little did I know the key role they’d play in the journey I was about to undertake.

A couple months later, Zech and I broke up and I lost at least one friend in the aftermath.  As a result, my life was thrown into a sense of chaos.  Around Halloween, I decided to do a massive rune reading for myself, one that involved twelve runes.   That reading led me to search new spiritual paths, which brought me to the Pagan paths.

A couple years later, I started reading other books on runes, as i was still fascinating by them.  I began to read sources that were more traditional, which was difficult.  In time, I devoured books by Thorsson, Diana Paxson, Nigel Pennick, Freya Aswynn, Jan Fries, and a few other authors whose names escape me.  In fact, it was my love of runes and the lore surrounding them that caused a trusted mentor to suggest that I should look into following the Norse gods.  That’s how I ended up a devotee of Freyja.

I don’t use runes as much is my personal practice these days, though I still have a grand love for them.  Also, it led me to teach a rune class — and developing a follow-up mini-class — on runes for my local Pagan store.  I’ve also since learned tarot which I like as well.  I’m not sure I agree with Zech that runes are actually easier.  But they still have a special place in my heart and I probably have a bit of a preference for them.

Memories

Memories: Camping

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Through much of my childhood, my family would often go camping.  My parents owned a small pop-up camper with plenty of bed space for them, my sister, and I.  We would often take it to the campground that was just a few miles outside of the town we lived in (well, near) for a weekend.  We liked that campground because it was run by the Army Corps of Engineers and unlike the campgrounds in Pennsylvania State Parks, they allowed pets.

A typical morning while camping normally started with me waking up and waiting for it to get light outside.  Then I would crawl out of my sleeping bag, shivering in the cool morning air as I put on some clothes.  I’d then step out into the sunlight and dig my bike out from under the end of the camper where we normally stowed them.  I’d hop on and peddle my way along the various roads throughout the campground and down the sidewalks leading to the beach.  I would to this for a couple of hours before returning to our campsite where Mom and Dad would finally be getting up.  Dad would set up the small two-burner gas-based stove.  I remember having to fill its tank and then pumping it to aerate the fuel before plugging the long pipe into the burner.  I’d often convince Dad to let me use the mechanical striker to ignite the burners, as I was fascinated by the way how it would spark.  Then Dad would get down to making eggs and toast for breakfast.  For some reason, the eggs cooked on that little stove always tasted different and better than the eggs we made at home.

After breakfast, I might go back to riding my bike.  Other times, Mom and Dad would be ready to take the canoe (when my sister and I got old enough that the four of us couldn’t share the same canoe, we’d borrow my uncle’s canoe as well) out and paddle it around the lake.  We’d paddle from one end to other and often swing by the nesting site the Corps set up, looking to see if we could spot any eagles or osprey.

Alternatively, we might hike one of the trails (though my favorite hiking experiences actually involve hinking the Falls Trail at Ricketts Glen State Park) surrounding the campground.  We would often walk into the tent-camping only trail that is only accessible on foot or via boat.  That particular walk usually took us an hour or so, if memory serves.

Of course, at some point during the day, my father would go fishing, often joined by the rest of us.  To be honest, I never really cared for fishing.  I was way too active of a youngster to appreciate an activity that mostly required me to sit their quietly and monitor a fishing pole (or the bobber, if one was attached to the line).

No day camping would be complete without swimming, so the whole family would don our swimsuits and head to the beach at some point.  At Ives run, the beach is mostly grass, though there are a couple sections that have been bounded by cement and filled with sand for those who are inclined to build castles and/or moats.  Also, the floor of the swimming area is cement.  Of course, that made for a few scraped knees in my youth.

Another fun thing about Ives run is that while they have a designated swimming area, you’re actually allowed to swim anywhere in the lake you choose.  You just have to remember that in other areas, you might have to be aware of boats and jet-skis.  (Fortunately, most boaters are pretty considerate and aware of their surroundings as well.)

At night, we always built a camp fire for roasting hot dogs and marshmallows.  When we were lucky, Mom made sure the camping budget allowed for graham crackers and chocolate bars for s’mores as well.  We’d much on our goodies and sit around the campfire until Mom and Dad sent my sister and I off to bed (or we went off to bed on our own when we were older).

Sometime in my early or mid teens, we quit going camping.  At first, we just started going less frequently.  Partly, it was because my sister joined a baton troop and had parades to attend most weekends.  This made it difficult to go camping those weekends.  Then the other problem was that because we were camping at campgrounds, the prices for sites increased.  This made it harder to justify going as the cost of going kept going up.

Every now and then, I think about camping again.  I miss the fires, the early mornings, the hiking, and all the other activities.  But then, I also miss what a key bit of family time those camping trips were.  Right now, if I were to go camping, I’d end up going by myself.  That just doesn’t feel right to me.

 

Memories

Memories: Being a ham

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Today’s going to be just another light glimpse into my past.  I hope you enjoy the lightness of it all, dear readers.

Growing up, I enjoyed acting.  I was in just about every production my Sunday school or church production did, mostly Easter and Christmas pageants.  When  I made it to high school, I was excited to join drama club.

I wouldn’t say that I was ever Hollywood material.  Certainly not Broadway material.  However, I felt I did well enough, especially for my little corner of rural Pennsylvania.  I remember when i was in eighth or ninth grade and the drama club was planning on doing a fun little play called “Agatha Christie Made Me Do It.”  (See synopsis here.)  We were sitting through try-outs and the role of Waldo the butler was still up for grabs.  One of the upperclassmen suggested that maybe I should try out for the part.  The club adviser — who also acted as the director — said she just couldn’t see me in the part and couldn’t imagine me doing it.

As I’ve mentioned before, I love a good challenge.  So I snatched a copy of the script, found a scene in which Waldo played a prominent part, strolled onto the stage, and gave my audition.  I got the part instantly.  In fact, by the second week of rehearsals, our adviser had taken back her original assessment, but admitted that I played the part so convincingly that she half expected a British accent to start rolling off my tongue every time I took the stage.  (Alas, I wasn’t that good of an actor.)

We never made it to show-time, unfortunately.  Due to various issues, the production got canceled.  It’s a shame too, as I think that was my best role ever.  Though I did go on to take a speaking part in a musical a couple years later, which gave myself and all my classmates the chance to discover that I do an amazingly good imitation of Fred Rogers.  (“You know what?  You’re a wonderful person.  There’s no one else in this whole world just like you.  You’re special.  Very, very special.”)  Then where was the year that our new drama advisor proved how quickly I could pick up a part when she approached me a week before showtime because one of her actors had become ill and there was no understudy.  (The original actor recovered in time to play the role.)

After high school, I quit acting.  When I went to college, things changed.  We had a drama department, and most of the drama majors fought over the parts — and were incredible actors by virtue of the fact that they were actually going to school for it.  I figured that a simple computer science major who just used to do high school and church stuff was no match in that competition.  Some part of me wishes I had tried just once though, just to see what would’ve happened.

Animals

Missing my Precious

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Precious gazing up at daddy lovingly.
“I love my daddy!”

[Content Note:  Brief mentions of depression.]

In a few hours, I’ll be heading down to my parents’ house to spend the night and collect my little darling, Precious.  I sent her to stay with her grandparents almost two weeks ago while I was traveling to Canada.  I’ll be happy to bring her back home with me, as my place seems too quiet without her.  I’ve already started mistaking a lump of wadded up sheets for her laying next to me or thinking I heard her meowing at different intervals.

I think that having her around also tends to make me feel better about myself and not fall into depression so easily.  I remember the first time I moved out of my parents’ home — in the late 1990’s.  At that time, I had my cat, Strype.  However, I left him at my parents’ house as the apartment I moved into did not allow for pets.  Also, Strype was such an old cat, I wasn’t sure I wanted to make him leave my parents home or his litter-mate, who had been a part of his whole life.  As a result, that apartment was dull and quiet and left me feeling quite lonely.  (Granted the massive things I was dealing with at that point in my life didn’t help, either.)

When I moved to Rochester, though, I knew I needed to bring Precious with me.  Part of that was due to the fact that although I’ve always had a good relationship with my other cats, Precious and I seem to share a sort of bond I’ve never experienced before.  I’ve never had a cat before that is as clingy as she can be.  (She’ll spend the next few days giving me the stink-eye every time I head for the door, as if to say, “You already disappeared for several days, Bub!  Where do you think you’re going now???”)  So when I moved up here, I made a point of making sure I found a place where I could have a cat.  That and having washer and drier hookups were my two major non-negotiable items.

Geeky, Memories

On Challenges and Geekery

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As I’m getting ready to head to Canada, I thought I’d take a step back and just offer a bit of insight into another area of my life and psyche.

I learned to program in machine code when I was in junior high school.  Some of my readers are probably somewhat impressed. A couple of them might be saying, “me too!”  I suppose some might have even learned at a younger age than I did.  The rest of my readers are going, “What the heck is machine code?”  For this group, let me give a quick explanation.  (Those who already know this or can’t handle so much geekery are welcome to skip over the next few paragraphs.  I’ll throw up a flag letting you know where you can rejoin me post-geekgasm.)

Machine code is the only programming language that the microprocessor that makes your computer work actually understands.  While most programs you use are written in C, Perl, Javascript, Java, Python, C#, or one of dozens of language, another program which is already in machine code either took the program written in that other language and converted it over to machine code or read the program in the other language and told the microprocessor what to do.

It’s much easier to write a program in C, C#, Pearl, Javascript, Java, or Python than it is to write one in machine code.  Machine code consists of very simple instructions, like:

  • Add the number stored here to the number stored there and store the result over there.
  • Check the number stored here and if it’s greater than the number that’s stored there, set this flag over here.
  • If that flag over there is set, jump back twenty instructions in this program and start running from that point.

Even the simplest of tasks can take dozens of instructions in machine code to complete.  Doing everything a word processor does would require hundreds of thousands of machine code instructions.  Maybe millions.  Only people who write device drivers and extreme masochists (and believe me, there’s a lot of overlap between those two groups) write in machine code.  Even then, they tend to write in assembly, which uses keywords to represent instructions.  So for example, if I was writing in assembly language, I might write:
ADD AX, BX  (Meaning:  Add the value in AX to the value in BX and store the result back in AX)

In machine code, that would just be a bunch of numbers:
102, 01, 208

The microprocessor would read in those three numbers and know that it was supposed to add the value it had in AX to the value it had in BX and store the result back in AX.  There are programs (conveniently called assemblers) that read programs written in assembly and translate them to machine code for you.

Like I said, in junior high school, I learned (taught myself, actually) to program in machine code.  Technically, I learned to program in assembly too.  But I had to learn to translate my assembly programs into machine code myself (this is called hand-assembling, by way) because I didn’t have an assembler.  You see, I was working on a VIC-20 (the predecessor to the Commodore 64, for those who remember them, and those who don’t, well, just assume we’re talking some really old computers that probably aren’t as powerful as the graphing calculator you used in your algebra class) that my father had gotten me at a garage sale.  I had the computer, the power supply, the old tape drive that you could use to save your programs to cassette tapes.  It was an ancient computer when I got it, so there was no way I was going to find an assembler for it.

Okay, the geek-talk is more or less over.  Welcome back to those who chose to skip it.  So, why on earth did I decide to teach myself programming in machine code when I was so young?  Well, because I was bored.  As I said, I was playing around with a computer that I had nothing for, a computer that let you type in programs written in BASIC (an old programming language hardly anyone ever uses before — and no, VisuaBasic is not (quite) the same) and run them.  I had written all the programs in BASIC I could think of and I was bored with it.  I needed something new to do.  Something challenging.  Then I noticed that one of the manuals I got with the computer included a section on assembly code and listed all the machine code instructions that the microprocessor in the computer knew.  So my next challenging adventure presented itself.

My point in all of this isn’t to show off my geek cred or brag about what a smart (and possibly insufferably smart) kid I was.  It’s that I’ve always loved a challenge.  When I get bored, I want something to do.  I want something to tinker with.  I want a problem to solve.  I especially love those challenges where people tell me I can’t do something, especially when it comes to computers.  (I had college professor use that fact to trick me into taking on a project for him, actually.)  Learning to program in machine code on that old computer meant doing something that wasn’t easy.  (It also gave me the ability to do something with that computer that an uncle said I couldn’t possibly do.  Like I said, I especially love challenges where people tell me I can’t do something.)  It’s a trait that’s marked most of my life.

Granted, the downside is that it also means that I’m more interested in the challenge than the result at times.  There’s been a few times where once I’ve conquered the challenge, I’ve lost interest in the work that was actually related to the challenge.  “Why should I finish the program?  I figured out how to do the hard part.  The rest of it is easy tedious, and uninteresting.”  Needless to say, that’s an attitude the college professors found irritating.  Fortunately, I learned to suppress it on the job.  But I’ve also learned to let my boss know when I need another challenge.  Because I live for them.  And I falter without them.

Books, Gender and Sexuality, Religion

Musings on Torn. A Kindred Spirit.

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As I mentioned in yesterday’s post, I’ve been reading Justin Lee’s book, “Torn:  Rescuing the Gospel From the Gays vs. Christians Debate.”  I have a little less than 100 pages (out of the total 259 pages) to read.  While there are some things in Justin’s book that I take issue with — such as his tendency to fall into the trap of focusing on showings how Christianity stands out from all other religions — there is much in the book that I like.

In truth, there’s much in the book that I can identify with.  I can relate to the whole concept of being “God Boy” (though no one called me that and I don’t think I was quite as outspoken as he was) and “having a secret” while growing up.  I resonated greatly when he started talking about his initial reactions when he first started discovering his feelings for other boys.  Justin puts it thus:

At first I had ignored the feelings.  Puberty is a confusing time, after all, so I assumed these attractions to guys were just some sort of weird phase I had to pass through as I matured.  I’d heard Christian authorities such as radio host Dr. James Dobson say that young teenagers sometimes went through a period of sexual confusion, and this seemed to be the proof.

I too remember telling myself that I was just going through a phase when my sexual feelings for other boys first started surfacing.  And yes, I seem to recall various religious experts — most likely including James Dobson — saying things to encourage that kind of thinking.

In some ways, I can also related to his awakening to the realization that he had no sexual interest in girls as a teenager.  Justin writes:

As teenagers, my guy friends had become interested in girls in a different way, and they talked eagerly about their eyes and lips and breasts and legs.  I avoided these conversations, telling myself that the reason I didn’t lust after women was that I was a good Christian boy.  Lust was a sin, so I convinced myself I just didn’t objectify women the way some of my friends did.  That wouldn’t have been Christlike, after all.

I remember a couple of boys in my class that began talking about girls’ anatomy and “humping” them (I’m sure that latter part was all talk) as early as the fourth grade.  And at the time I took my failure to have any interest in such things — like Justin — as simply a matter that “good Christian boys” didn’t think about such things.  (In some ways, I still feel that was true, given just how young we were at that time.)

However, as time went by, I became more keenly aware of just how uninterested I was in girls and just how bizarre this really was.  I remember one night when I was in high school, I lay in my bed and actually tried imagining kissing the female classmate that I was allegedly interested in (in fairness, I did think she was a great person and would have loved to spend more time with her as a friend).  Not only could I not imagine doing so, the thought left me feeling cold and a little bit disturbed.  And that realization left me feeling even more disturbed.
I think that was one of the first times when I really began to wonder what was “wrong” with me.

So in many ways, while there are some things that I don’t agree with Justin on — and there are one or two things I’m still waiting to see how they play out in the rest of the book before I express concerns — there are many ways in which I find myself nodding along as he recounts his experiences.

In many ways, I think that’s a good thing.  One of the central themes of his story seems to be that no one was there who understood, and that’s a theme I can relate to.  I think that’s a theme that many LGBT people — and especially those who grew up within evangelical Christianity — can relate to.  In many ways, Justin’s book is a way of letting those who may now be going through those experiences know that they are not the first and there are those who can relate and understand.

I’m not sure whether Justin’s goal of rescuing the gospel from the “gays vs. Christians” debate will be met, but that sense of offering understanding and camaraderie to those who came after both of us strikes me as something that makes his book priceless.

Books, Memories, Meta-Blogging, Religion

Considering Peretti books for analysis

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After some thought, I’ve decided that I’m going to do a deconstruction — if you can still call it a deconstruction if you find more about the book that you like than you dislike — of another book by Frank Peretti.

I’ve read a total of five Peretti books.  Each one of them is slightly different in some way.  This Present Darkness is about the war between angels and demons as it plays out in a small town.  Piercing the Darkness, its sequel, is also about angels battling demons, but this time the main focus is the battle over a particular soul (though it did have a swipe at the public education system, which was a popular topic at the time I was reading it due tot he emergence of outcomes based education).

The third book that I read was Prophet, which was not about angels and demons but about a journalist who found himself living a “prophetic” (in the terms of warning others of the consequences of their misdeeds) vocation.  The book mostly focused on the evils of the (liberal, of course) media and abortion.

The fourth book that I read was The Oath.  It was a strange book in that it was far more a Horror book than the others.  While it got preachy about the nature of sin, there was also no clear connections to actual spiritual movements (at least not that I’m aware of) like the first three were.  I often joked that The Oath seemed more like Peretti contracted Stephen King to write a book for him in comparison to the others I had read.

I should note that I read these four books when I was in high school, when I still considered myself a fundamentalist Christian.  As such, I read them as a member of Peretti’s target audience.

I didn’t read my fifth book, The Visitation until I was in my late twenties or early thirties, long after I became a witch and devotee of Freyja.  In many ways, I suppose that’s why i liked the book.  In this book, Peretti turned his critical eye away from “outsiders” and turned it upon his own religious subculture.  As a former member of that same subculture, I appreciated his look.

I’ve decided that I want to do an in-depth analysis of The Visitation.  As I said, I’m not sure I can call it a deconstruction, as many of the parts that I will be exploring are places where I actually identify and agree with Peretti’s thoughts.  However, given the nature of the main plot, which I wasn’t as impressed with, I don’t expect my comments to be entirely glowing, either.

I’m also hoping that it might be interesting to compare this book with This Present Darkness.  Who knows, maybe it’ll even spark up some sort of discussion between Yamikuronue and myself as we compare our experiences of our respective Peretti books.

Family, Memories

Remembrance

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Given that this is the season to honor and remember loved ones who have passed from this world, I thought I would make today’s blog post a more personal one and talk about a beloved relative, my paternal grandmother.

I forget my exact age, by Grandma Harris passed away when I was very young, before I began school, if memory serves.  The past several years of her life, she battled cancer.  I vaguely remember many nights where my sister and I would sit in the hospital waiting room with one of my parents while the other one would go upstairs to visit Grandma during her latest hospitalization.  I cannot think of Grandma without thinking of memories of her failing health because I never knew her before her battle began.

I am told that Grandma was a caring and strong woman all of her life.  I’m inclined to believe that because of the strength, grace, and dignity with which she faced her fading health in her final years.  Anyone can be strong and loving in the best of times.  However, it takes a special person — like Grandma Harris — to be strong in sir darkest hours.

One of my most cherished memories is of a day I spent alone with my grandparents.  Grandma Harris gave me a peanut butter cookie1 and I laid on one of the couches in my grandparents’ single-wide trailer munching on it.  Now, like any preschooler, I was a messy eater.  And peanut butter cookies are prone to leaving lots of crumbs.  By the time I was done, both I and the couch were covered in crumbs.  My grandparents saw it.

Grandpa Harris — who had a much harder edge than his wife — started to get upset and critical.  But Grandma Harris calmed him and told him that these things happens.  Besides, Grandma Harris had a solution.  She told Grandpa to go get the old vacuum cleaner.  He did and Grandmother began to vacuum up all the crumbs, both those on the couch and those on me.  Grandma Harris was a rather practical woman.2

When I think about the kind of person I want to be, I often think of Grandma Harris.  If I manage to embody half the love, strength, and no-nonsense approach to living that she did, I think I’ll have done a great job.  And I’d like to think she’d be pleased with the man that little boy grew up to be.

[1] Grandma Harris loved making peanut butter cookies, and they are forever intwined with memories of her in my mind.  If you asked me for an honest evaluation of which cookies I thought tasted the best, I would likely say chocolate chip cookies.  But if you ask me what my favorite cookie is, I will still tell you “peanut butter” cookies more than three decades later.  It’s not about how they taste, it’s about the fact that they are the cookies Grandma Harris used to make.

[2]  Plus it gave me countless opportunities to watch people’s reactions whenever I mention in passing that I got hovered by my own grandmother.

Dating, Emotions, Love, Memories, Music

Music, Memories, and Emotions

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The other day, I was listening to the radio while driving, and “Don’t Want to Miss a Thing” by Aerosmith came on.  I absolutely love that song and want to include it here.  So thanks to YouTube, enjoy a nice rendition with lyrics, no less:

I actually have an emotional history associated with this song.  The song was quite popular on the radio back in 1998, thanks to Armageddon.  At the time, I was also involved with a young man name Zech.  It was actually my first relationship, providing you don’t count the friend I experimented with in high school.  The song meant a lot to me back then.  Every time I heard it, I thought of Zech.

The other day when I heard the same song, it made me think of another guy.  I’ll call this guy D (until he tells me he’s ready for me to talk about him by name.  D and I have been talking, hanging out, and otherwise enjoying each other’s company.  We’re not actually dating, though I hope that changes some day in the not-too-distant future.

What I find interesting is that while similar, the reaction the song evokes in me regarding D now and the reaction I had back when I was involved with Zech.  In both cases, the theme of the song — the desire to be with that special someone as much as possible — resonated deeply with me.  However, the emotional undercurrents are worlds apart.

As I mentioned, Zech was my first boyfriend (though come to think of it, we never officially dated).  We were both young and immature, and I was only recently out (I had only finally accepted my sexuality two years earlier).  This meant that I was going through a lot of emotional turmoil, and tended to cling to Zech in a sense of desperation.  And that desperation came through back then as I’d listen to the song.  I didn’t want to miss a thing, because I was terrified that things would end.  Part of me wanted to squeeze as much out of the relationship before the horrible ending came, and part of me foolishly believed that simply by being ever-present, ever-vigilant, and ever-suffocating, I could actually prevent the horrible ending from coming.

I’ve grown up a great deal in the intervening twelve years, and I now listen to that song again with a new guy in mind.  And once again, I find myself nodding along with the song.  But rather than a nagging sense of desperation, my heart is filled with a sense of peace and contentment.

The funny thing is, there area  few parallels.  There’s no guarantee that things will work out between D and I.  (Is there ever really any such guarantee?)  I don’t know how long I have with him or even if we’ll ever become a couple like I’m hoping for.  I think it’s likely though.

But in the end, it doesn’t matter.  I have this time now, and I want to make the most of it.  Not out of fear or desperation, but out of hope and joy.

People often talk about how music can evoke powerful emotions and we can associate specific memories and feelings with a song.  However, I sometimes think that people forget that new connections and associations can be made with old songs that replace or overpower the old ones.  I know from personal experience that this is true, because I enjoy “Don’t Want to Miss a Thing” far more today than I did back in 1998.

In fact, I think I’m going to go listen to it again.