My best friend
Thinkin’ of this squirt today as I wakeup energized by a blue sky and sun. I blasted david bowie records, and danced around my living room.
There has been so much healing in my life recently, and its been really beautiful to remember my girl. Our girl.
I cant ever shape my words to fit the ferocity of her. The enormous buoyant bounce she brought. The love she gave. My love for her, and how startling the love is after you lose someone so close.
This more holy than holy bible of memories that I will always be able to flip through.
She taught me how to talk it out. How to be vulnerable with a friend so they become family. She taught us all so much about ourselves, and the nature of love and friendship, both in her life and in the wake of her death.
I want to share some memories of her.
Some dumb ass teenage stuff that we did that is still the funniest fckin stuff i can think of.
One time Ashlie and I walked around Victoria for hours on mushrooms. We were like 16 and it was 3 am and we went to QV’s to get snacks. She was obsessed with pastries and always hungry no matter the situation.
I think I yelled something random at some girl, something sassy and bitchy. Ash was momentarily pissed because she had an interview at culture craze with that girl. lol. sorry dude. We laughed our asses off and scooted away through china town.
While we walked down Fisgard st. the leaves were blowing and we were all enchanted by everything in the quiet sparkle of china town at 3 am.
Then, out of nowhere, a paper air plane sailed over our heads from one of the apartments above us.
It landed at our feet and she picked it up. It was the lyrics to 99 Red Balloons just typed out in a column. We both were like “WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?” and I’m sure she taped that on her wall or maybe in one of her notebooks, and kept it forever like she did with so many memories.
This was the type of thing that was typical of being with Ash. These weird little moments of whimsical mystery and curious circumstances.
Reflecting now I can see how those moments continue throughout my life, different ones. Ones where I may be alone, or with a close friend. Where things shift and seem synchronized in an unworldly way.
The year after Ashlie died I straight up cried everyday. I smoked a ton of weed, and slept on the hide a bed in my living room because sleeping in the loft in the herald building that she had grandfathered me into reminded me too much of her and I having silly sleepovers where we propped the laptop next our heads and watched dirty dancing to fall asleep.
On her first death anniversary, a few of her closest loved ones and I got together. Kegan, Hannah, Xavier (of course), Kali, Alyssa, and others went to the ocean for her. In November in victoria, the waves are violent and chaotic and crash brutally over craggy rocks and spill onto the road.
As it got darker we went to find somewhere nice for us all to have dinner.
While we were deciding where to go, it began to rain harder than we were dressed for.
We were posted up in front of Ferris’s, hoping to get a table.
When the rain got really bad, Kegan and I ducked into the warm glowy stairwell leading to the upstairs Tapas bar. As we faced one another next to an old pay phone in a warm tiny stairwell, Kegan pointed upward and said “Listen”
I stilled myself and heard the deathcab for cutie song “I will follow you into the dark” playing over our heads.
In the rain and cold we were lead to a warm space where we stood with our still broken but healing hearts, and listened together to the song in it’s entirety while goosebumps ran over our bodies.
If you don’t know — days after Ashlie’s departure from earth, one of her favourite musicians, Amanda Palmer performed a ukulele tribute to Ashlie, and played a beautiful version of “ I will follow you into the dark”
She was in Vancouver during the Occupy rallies that were startling North Americans in Various cities. Ashlie died at Occupy Vancouver. She was pretty much not at all interested in politics, as most of us weren’t at the time, but was also the type of good person who understood why people were angry, and saw inequalities clearly.
Amanda’s husband and collaborator, Neil Gaiman was there, at this evening with Amanda Palmer which had taken place just days after Ashlie’s passing.
He had written one of Ashlies favourite comic book series, Sandman.
Some of you may know, or may not — Ashlie suffered with severe dyslexia, which made it extremely frustrating for her to read and write. She had literally taught herself to read through graphic novels and comic books.
That’s the type of person she was. She saw a problem and worked to solve it. She had confidence in her abilities and while she certainly felt shame and insecurities, they never seemed to stop her from accomplishing fantastic things in her life.
About two weeks after the Amanda Palmer show, I decided to send a facebook note to her.
I typed it earnestly hoping she’d see it and it would let her know that Ashlie was a huge fan, and that her closest friends found moments of calm and peace in knowing our friend had been honored by her heroes.
Not a week later I had a message in my inbox from Neil Gaiman. My heart jumped in my chest and my face tingled while I tried to reason to myself that it was probably a catfish.
But it wasn’t. It was Neil the Man himself Gaiman, writing to me to let me know that he and Amanda had recieved my message, and were grateful to know that during a tragic time in our lives and community, they offered a bit of light.
I was in a state of shock. Neil Gaiman whose books lived on our shelves. Amanda Palmer whose work as part of the Dresden Dolls echoed through our spaces.
They had heard of our friend, whose passing felt like the world stopping, whose face was on newspapers and in news footage where they painted her as “a junkie” while our hearts broke over and over again having to face the reality of losing one of the best of us.
The enormity of Ashlie’s impact on our world was for a few moments, acknowledged, honored, and respected.
It is moments of magic like this that give me an inalienable sense that Ashlie was, and always will be, close behind me, looking out, sifting stardust through the murkiest cloudy skies, when I need it most.
She is a legend, and I am glad to know her, and continue knowing her through memory.
She is survived by her Mother, Darlene, her Father, Tom, Step Mother, Glenda, Sister, Tiffany & her daughters. She is survived by her road dog, Xavier, Her partner at the time of her death, Kegan. She is survived by all of her friends, she is survived by me, by Hannah, by Zeff and all the beloved people in her life, who are too many to name.
My best friend died of an overdose at an Occupy rally nine years ago today. My best friend died of an overdose. My best friend died. My best friend.
My heart is no longer so heavy that it hurts with it’s weight. It took 9 years to get here.
The realization I had a couple months ago, as I rode home in a car of new friends from a land defenders work camp, was that the frontline is dangerous.
I tried to express this to an eager young friend of mine who worried me, too eager to fight on the frontline, too eager to access the inherent danger of the work. I was too emotional then to see what I see now.
My best friend died on the frontline. On the frontline where she went to see friends and party. Where she died in a tent in front of the Vancouver art gallery. Where I have subsequently stood alongside fellow activists to raise voices against police violence that lead to the death of George Floyd in 2019. Which lead the the earthquake of revolutionary action to put an end to violence against Black people. I have stood inside the gallery while looking upon Jean Michael Basquiet pieces, Keith Herring, and Monet. I have watched skateboarding boys work tirelessly on tricks on the stairs of the gallery. I used to hold my breath when I had to walk by the gallery. Tried to shield myself from the memory of who had died there. I don’t feel that way anymore. It’s been reclaimed in my body, as another place of resistance. A place to visit historical works of art that make my heart skip several beats. To experience immersive installations and critique the pieces I find boring or corny. I have too closely at the paint strokes once made by Claude Monet, somehow preserved in it’s integrity and form. I have been annoyed with friends who decided to drink during a visit, who distracted me and stressed me out while I tried to enjoy the art. I have shouted loudly and socially distanced, with the majority of protesters wearing face masks in the midst of Pandemic. I have reshaped and cherished this place that once made my heart race with fear and grief.
I have made work of living on the frontline, in the streets of Vancouver, or in the safety of my home where acts of resistance are sometimes just being there. I have made work of standing in my truth alongside many brave and fierce people who either choose to be on the frontline in solidarity or are there because they have to be. Because when your life depends on resistance of the state and it’s violence, there is no escaping it. The frontline is everywhere, especially for Black people, Indigenous people, People of Colour, Queer people, Disabled people, Trans people, people who are at risk of violence simply by existing.
All the work I have done and do now is rooted in activism and the liberation of people who colonialism has harmed. All of the work I would and will subsequently do, started at the frontline. Where my best friend died.
Ha’waa for reading this.
I want to assert that I no longer languish in the idea of death, but have grown up and out from experiencing this trauma at such a young age. I wouldn’t be who I am now without Ashlie, and I wouldn’t know who I would be without her death waking me up from the complacency I had been living in.
I’m sending all of you love.
Ashlie is with us always, don’t forget it.
