My dear, My darling

Hearing that your dog has died two weeks ago, is like being told your son has been killed in drunk car accident when you didnt even know he was at a party.
I feel a bit betrayed. I know I'm being irrational because as my dad said it's not something you tell over the phone, it has to be in person. And he waited to do that for me.
But all I can feel is guilt. That I wasn't there for him when he took his last breath. For not being at his ceremony, but most of all for not being around more often.
Me and my baby where both sort of orphans when we were introduced to each other. I had come from a recently broke up family and was with an emotionally shutdown father. Darby was a shipped puppy who was rejected and sent back by the ass of a purchaser I will never know. All he knew for his first months of his life this was darkness, rejection, and isolation. Funny. Kind of like me...

Anyways we were both awkward beginner bonders. Trying to figure out where we both fit into each other lives and when we needed affection most. In my depression though I feel he pulled me out. Just by being him. A soul that was so pure, he would never hurt even if he was attacked. Who openly loved, and snuggled, and waggled his ass over to anyone worth willing a smile or second of attention.

He would proudly and fearlessly would run to other dogs, and I mean huge dobermans who would give him a look like "Are you fucking kidding? I could give you a stare that would kill you" and yet his playful butt waggle and perky ears would melt them all into docile lambs that pranced together. He had this fat little loaf body and teeny legs that are character of Cairn terriers. But that never stopped him from sneaky sweeps of toys under other dogs noses or snarky yaps at the dogs who were outrunning him when I would throw a toy, basically saying, "it's mine bitch!" and the other dog would instantly back away. Even my dad's dog Indra backed off. And just for reference Indra is literally 100 pounds, has the head the size of a soccer ball, and is tall enough to literally walk right over darby without so much as his dinkle slapping his face.

I love the way he would chase the cascading tide on the sand, like is was a running rabbit and he would try and snatch it even as the last lap hit the side.
I love that he could go up to ANYONE, and because he knew he was that cute, he'd roll on his belly instantly, with no fear, and more importantly with the certainty of getting his expectations met.
I love that he ate an entire apple. Like a human. As a I rotated it for him to eat.
I love that for some reason dog treats came second to cheese for him.
I love his scratchy rasta hair which gladly wore and refused to sit still for brushes.
I love how scared, and innocent, and just so dependant he'd look with those big worried eyes when I'd have to put him in the bath, and he'd scramble on his nails to get out but the porcelain wouldn't give him the grounding he wanted. Those moments his big black button eyes were like huge moons on his now skinny rat frame without all his hair to make him chubby.

 I think I loved that the most, the first bath. Becuase he made himself vulnerable to me, and I felt deeply responsible and not only priveleged to reassure him, to coo and gently soap him down as he held my gaze the entire time, latching his eye into me like a lifeline hooks in a storm, terrified if he looked away he'd by lost.

I love that he wasn't smart about somethings. and too smart for others. He would actually look at my hand before performing a trick. If there was something (treat obvs) he would huff then dutifully perform. If nothing, he'd  take one look at the empty hand, at me, and then turn and run in the other direction. Yes this was my dog.

I love that in the center of my depression era as a weird and confused teenager, he became my pal, my baby, my soother, and my comfort blanket. He could make me laugh by being himself, or just by doing something obviously silly when he'd notice I was down.

In alot of ways he was like me, small, compact, but fiesty and full of zest for life, and sometimes too trusting and too sensitive, getting him into a few bad situations. Mostly I love how goddamn happy he was with who he was. He didn't give a damn about his size, or his limitations, or his shitty upbringing. He would always be counted on to want to run with the other dogs even if it meant he'd be hacking and falling over from exertion at the end. To introduce himself to another dog and walkers a field away. Get to the ball first in a game, and to always come running with his ears perked and his pink palm frond long tongue sticking out, ready and awake for the next thing; with just the call of his name. He had joi de vivre. Positive outlook. A open and fearless heart.

And I love you my dear baby for loving me as best you could like I hopefully did for you. And I'm sorry for all the times I hid the ball so I wouldn't have to continue playing catch, or when I wouldn't let you snuggle with me after you dreads were particularly smelly. Or when I didn't visit as often as I should have when I moved to the city for school. Or because I didn't ever really give you a birthday present because we didn't even know when it was. Or because I couldn't have been the one to coo and talk you down as my beautiful stepmom did for you I hear, as you heaved from too much action, and into your death.

I'm so sorry. And I'll always love you my little bubba. I hope your next life is smooth sailing my dear, my darling, my good natured friend.

Chillax

Going Going. Always running. Always rushed. Always in a hurry. To finish a task. To get out of work as early as I can. To finish a school project. To meet someone and still have time to get ready for school.

I got so stuck, get so stuck, in the rushing, the run to the finish line, that I missed the entire route. I forget the point, I miss out on the details, I blank out on any of the joy. Please stop tina. It''s not good for you. Being busy does not equal being productive, nor does it mean it will make you happy.

I just ended a photography course, a fun and playful colour print course. But being so beginner in a class full of advanced students, I felt and pushed myself to be my normal perfectionist. No border was ever good enough, no contrast was punchy enough. Prints that should have taken me 2 hours took 2 days.

Needless to say the final project I finished THE last class, when it was due. The only one in the darkroom hearing the others laugh and converse and look at each others work, I felt my heart sink yet again. I am so caught up in being as good, if not BETTER than others, judging myself against them that  forget to even please myself. I could have been okay with being slower and less knowledgeable about the subject. Being forgiving of shots that were perfectly fine to most, but not to my ruthless unmerciful inner critic. I had missed the fun of the course, the room for experimenting, exchanging it for exactness. I missed the whole course or soaking in learning, because I was so nervous and anxious about just finishing the final project. And now its over. Done. And here I am still. Crying from another opportunity I should have enjoyed for once.

Lesson: Slow down. Make a meal and do nothing but savour it. Make time for friends. Put aside responsibilities if you are making them everything. Find balance. Find play. Enjoy THE PROCESS. Stop worrying about the end result. And if you are learning, be forgiving of yourself. I mean come on, even Beethoven had to practice to get good. And last, CHILLLLLAX once and awhile. Its cheaper than therapy.

As in

Its funny how the smallest things can keep you alive.
A swim in the pool after the sun has set and no one is around.
An old movie clip of a family celebration
An email from a your kin
A funny text from an old love
An accomplishment for another of which you are proud of and not jealous (which is an accomplishment for yourself)
I need to be more okay and more thankful for the beautiful small things.
If I consistently look at life as to do lists or bad wake ups, then I will never be happy.

I read a mantra someone posted online the other day
it says:

I choose to happy
within myself
exactly as my life is today

I thought that was pretty powerful. I mean so simple. But the actual meaning, and the emphasis on believing what you are saying, when you say that mantra, is probably going to be the most difficult challenge of my life. But if I want to live, and I want to live long enough to enjoy it, I should choose to be happy. As in I have a choice. As in I can have that attitude. As in its possible. As is today, right now, I am choosing. To be happy.

Sometimes I have a hard time deciphering when I'm being kind, and when I'm breaking my back.
My sister is my heart. I love her and care for her deeply.
At the same time she can be one of the most airhead, flippity, unreliable people on the planet to me. Just to get this one acupuncture session arranged for her, a ride for her, and an appropriate time took an entire day of calling a friend back and forth for a ride, calling the doc to reschedule, and calling her to figure out when she could go.
Not to mention I just spent an entire pay check to get her the session. I love her but the heaviness of giving away a weeks worth of pay kills me a little. Does giving mean always sacrificing? Because lately that is how it has felt to me. Is it my shitty attitude that wreaks the giving? Or is it the fact that the giving has gone too far?
Who knows. I'm trying really hard to be okay with relearning a lot about myself. Particularly my intuition, my boundaries, and what I want and need from relationships, or more specifically friends.
All's I figured out in that department is that I want considerate, honest, unselfish, and playful people in my life. So far I haven't really met any, hence the drawing of my social circle is more like in the beginning dot of ink to paper phase. Not really there. But ready. Full of potential.
Don't lose heart I keep telling myself. God will attract the right people to me when I'm ready, and if not, again just take that time to focus on myself. What better excuse to be self caring, then having no one but yourself to care for. Just wish certain days I didn't feel so lonely..or pathetic…or lost. Dunno. Dunno. Just keep swimming at Dori would say.
Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming…..

This Truth

I was a dj.
I made music so thick it was like cream.
I made music that people made babies to.
That men fell in love
That women stopped worrying.

I was a dancer
with a kick so high
I folded my body in half
with rhythm so ingrained in my sinew
it was impossible not move
not to be noticed
not to be spellbound

I was an artist
who painted vivid dreams
so as all the dreamers could smile
so that i mimed life
and yet made it more beautiful at the same time
I could paint hope, and fear, and absolute wrath
and it was all
it was all fucking beautiful.

I was a writer
I wrote stories that were so extraordinary
they became ordinary
they were perfect reminders
of feelings understood
that they wept at ever having forgot
but they loved the pain
oh the exquisite pain
of my magic in bringing it back to them

I was a lover
of man
of animal
of plant
of space
I was open heart
bleeding connection
and gratitude
and joy
endless joy.
I was so big
I could not be contained
nor did I have to
because all was contained
in me

I was this. I was that. I was all of these things
and yet I never was any of it.
Because they were tricks of mind
dreams of imagination
in which i lived
and was so thoroughly
soaked
in satisfaction
of which I have none
And with this knowledge
this truth
I die
for never having lived
any of it
at all.

For in this truth of fantasy, I find my glory. I find my beauty.
But in that knowledge,
in that knowing,
of finding beauty only in fantasy-
that's my tragedy.

In and Of

The world becomes bearable with friends. It becomes playful again. It becomes fresh. And yet familiar. Safe. Okay to screw up. Well, as long as you know you fall back on them.

This last year has been the most difficult in my life. Health issues so horrible I could not get out of bed. Mentally and physically I've been sick, and sick of myself.

I've also is a way moulted. In the sense that I've shed a lot of past sadnesses and past relationships. Friends have flaked out like old scales, and boys have trespassed in and then ran out.

I'm not complaining anymore though. That's it. I'm just learning to know that it is not all me. If my health is bad, then I have to look for the root. If friends are too self involved and too uncaring to care about who I am, then I don't or shouldn't even care.  If the boys are still boys, then I have to be okay knowing that one day I'll find a man.

Today I had my first training session at work. With 7 other newbies ranging from 16- 50 it was an awkward group. No one was really talking or making conversation in between the quiet moment. SO of course I compensated. I made a general goof of myself. Made lots jokes, and lots of questions. Several crass ones actually. And it worked like it used to.
I made them laugh, and I could sense my craziness broke down the barriers, and they relaxed into getting to know each other. Maybe even to allow them to tease each other now, like playful otters as we each stood up to the plate for our training.

Afterwards one of the girls and I stayed back in the lounge and bought a few snacks to eat. Conversation flowed easy. This girl basically told me her whole life story, and I listened. In less than an hour I felt already proud of her, and also protective. Let's just say she had a hard life, and seeing that kindred fire in her to want a better life, had me hooked as a friend from the get go.

We ended up walking down to the marina and the sky was just turing pink and orange. The world became beautiful again. I just enjoyed being a observer again. We sat down and to our right was a bubbly group of salsa dancers practicing moves along with their cute spanish songs. An older chinese guy dancing with a young student with glasses, a dark haired woman being led by a tall curvy blond , a 6 foot guy in sandals and socks spinning a petite little puerto rican girl. They were all so different yet their laughter and energy was the same. And damn they were good!

To my left was a small group of college kids lying back on each other on the bench, and even right on the dockside. They were all fancy dressed, and with black cap and tassel on it was obvious they were recent graduates. And judging by fat cigars in their mouths, they were happy graduates.
The happy bliss of breathing out, and being free, was emanating from them. It was like I was feeling giddy. Like I could relive that experience of being young and carefree again just from being around them. And there is something just so awesome and funny when girls are doing such, well…"unlady like" things. Like when a chick can throw back a whole whiskey with out so much as making a face. Or when that delicate framed girl knocks a home run ball with such incredible and yet unexpected force. Or when like now, when this pretty brunette, with perfect straightened hair, and in her unwrinkled fancy dress, hold a sausage wide cigar in her mouth and puff so smoothly she was like the next damn Godfather.

That's why there is a difference of being "in" the world and "of" the world. And you need both to truly experience happiness. And having that new friend there with me, as we watched the sun go behind the light up city, and listening to romantic spanish music, and hearing hearing the giggles of the graduates, I felt like I was both in and of it all.

Lesson of the day: enjoy life. Don't rush. And lastly good friends are needed. And if they aren't good, keep looking. And if they are, cherish them.

Loving Self Discipline

What do I like? What makes me happy still?
Those questions have come up a lot lately. Mostly because I think part of piecing yourself back together, or scrapping together parts of your self esteem, you have to start doing what you love again, doing what makes you feel competent and creative and collaborative. Like you want to plan and are excited even, just to organize or plan an idea.

I think music, (well sometimes) is good. It's challenging as fuck and takes so much discipline, which I have to admit is both the hook and the turnoff for me. I want to be Hendrix every time I pick up the guitar and when I'm still struggling on "Hot Cross Buns" I'm like fuck this shit, but then I remind myself, when I'm finally playing Zeppelin, or Beatles, or Marley, I'll be that much more satisfied knowing how hard I worked to get there.

Photography definitely. But the raw stuff. Not the high techie gizmos and lens, or the fancy photoshop tricks, but the idea and real life design of a creative theatrical shoot and using my old beat up 55mml manual camera to shoot it. Yes manual I said. Like with actual film. And actually having to wait a few days for the pictures to develop. I know scary to remember right?
Wrong.
I love the grain of my pictures. The fact it takes such precise dedication and eye to create an image that you know is 100% designed, shot, developed, and crafted from your own expertise. No special gizmos. No fancy photoshop. No masking thing in. It's all real.
I think thats why I like it so much. Its a tangible recreation of your mind, and you have the satisfaction of building from the bones up. Kind of like a baby. A "creative baby" if you will.

And writing. Even though often it hurts to write (for many reasons) whether it be the difficulty creatively, or the rawness of an experience is too painful to out down, or the fact that like any art there is a struggle to feel good about what you are doing (the inner bitch board I call it) which basically tells you are shit even before you've gotten going.

And dancing. God dancing. Any kind. Freestyle, hip hop. flamenco, salsa, ballet, contemporary, living room kitchen thrashing sesh, every kind has a special place in my heart for their uniqueness and also for their connections, like a mother who adores her brood of children differently and all a whole. I would love to choreograph just one dance. Just one Tina. You can do it.

Just takes again that old thing called discipline. HEY that might be the link between all my loves. But LOVING SELF DISCIPLINE! Remember. You are not born knowledgeable and infinitely talented. You learn it.

Goal for the week. Loving self discipline in my creative outlets. And maybe just in general.