lauren somebody

[laurensomebody]

An Overnight Shift

I get the urge at 10:45pm in mid-August. I grab my laptop and run out, announcing I’ll be at the nearby 24/7 convenience store. I hope the chatty guy is on-duty, the one who always leaves me inching away guiltily from our fun banter or his war stories about the working men who changed forever once they started buying beer in the morning.

Instead, it’s the stoic bearded guy in a turban who rarely speaks and who once took a photo of me to test my phone’s camera. But if I don’t do this tonight, I never will. I ask when he’s off the clock- 6am- and he hoists a black milk crate over the counter halfway through my next question: “Can I stay here with you to find out what it’s like and then write about it online?” He casually points to a spot between the newspapers and ATM as if that’s where the bloggers sit. Then I catch him smirk and side-eye me as I settle in and feel guilty that he’s so obliging. Better late than never, we exchange names. I reassure the man I’ll call Tom that the essay will only get a few readers. He’s up for it in any case, seemingly glad for the company despite there being no other incentive. I spot a scary, official No Loitering sign on the wall and freeze, then realize jail would still be something to write home about.

Tom has been here “about nine months” and is a long-haul truck driver waiting to renew his license before leaving to hit the road again. I’m instantly relieved about the lowered stakes, which I hadn’t even considered due to the refreshingly ungoverned feel of the place. “How come everyone who works here seems so chill, and not scared or like they have to change their personality?” Tom shrugs. “It’s our culture. Hospitality.” I wonder whether he considers faking it to be inhospitable by definition. But I’m afraid to ask too many questions yet. I check the time- almost seven hours to go, the background silence already stretching the minutes. This might be rough, but I’ll look even crazier if I walk out now. Plus Tom has been here since 6pm. I can’t bail when I get to sit down while he’s working.

An older guy walks in, points at me and mumbles something, then tells Tom he’s been coming around “probably before you were born.” Another white man in his 70s walks in for “Pall Mall Oranges and Newport 100s.” The two seem like friends, and I wonder why they entered separately. What the hell are they up to? I check the second guy’s bright red hat to see if it says MAGA. It doesn’t. Disappointed, I slump back down on my crate and ask myself what kind of drama I’m expecting.

On the other hand, anything could happen! I came in recently at 3am to find bananas strewn all over the floor, broken display cases on the counter and cops arriving. I imagine an emergency shotgun stashed out of sight and wonder if that’d make me feel safer. I smile and wave at one of several cameras on the ceiling, happy to have proof in case something outrageous happens. It’s also a habit. I smile sarcastically at the first camera I see while shopping for groceries or clothes, just to let the watchers know I’m not a threat and they’re creepy for spying. Except this time I might actually be a criminal. I regret the gesture right away.

Folks stream in one after another to buy drinks, tobacco and little else. I’m shocked there’s so much foot traffic and predict it’ll die down between 2 and 6am when alcohol sales are banned. Some see me and laugh or look concerned. Others pointedly stare straight ahead and sneak glances. I’m glad to blend in as a fly on the wall, then insulted that no one is asking about my groundbreaking exposè. After awhile, I resent them all for bogarting Tom. Turns out I should’ve considered not giving this man an unsolicited volunteer job while he’s already on the clock. At least he seems unbothered.

I reach into my purse. My phone has been on silent all day. I see several missed calls from Kevin at the apartment, and texts asking why I’m at the store with my laptop. I start to call but look up to see him approaching. He barges in, pauses while I stand to explain- “This is a project!”- then walks over to Tom, who’s mopping in the back corner. I stay put, stunned by the most non-confrontational person I know. I hear Tom say, “Hey, boss...it’s okay, boss...hey, boss” and nothing else. Kevin exits without stopping; this time I follow and yell. “Talk to me, not him! This is so unprofessional!” He turns and speaks with restraint. “Lauren, this is weird.” He walks away with “Enjoy and be safe.”

I’m pissed. If I were a surgeon, would he crash the operating room and start cutting? How dare he bother an interview subject? Now Tom stands across from me with an incredulous smile. “He kept saying, ‘That’s my girlfriend and it will never happen. It will never happen.’” I can’t believe my ears and apologize profusely. Tom says he promised he’s a good guy; nothing bad is going on. I keep saying sorry on Kevin’s behalf. Then it hits me. Maybe I should’ve filled him in a little more before rushing out for this harebrained assignment, and I’m a teensy bit responsible. I confess, “Yeah, I’m sorry. I kinda didn’t tell him exactly what I was doing or why.” Tom stares. “...You should have.”

I sit down and lean back as Tom returns to his work. I relish the lack of customers and replay what just happened, angry at myself but also at Kevin for assuming I was ignoring him on purpose and too irrational to speak with onsite. But seeing him charge forward with such steely determination was kinda hot. And I’m relieved Tom didn’t laugh in his face for implying he might attempt a tryst. Wait. Did I subconsciously orchestrate all of this as a sick ploy for attention? Did I secretly need to be chased and claimed in public? Nah. I like to be in full control of my humiliations. Occam’s razor- I’m just selfish and impulsive. I go back to taking notes.

I notice a very large man buy baked Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and am impressed by the healthy choice; I’d never gamble $1.69 to find out they’re not as tasty. One customer asks if they have chocolate-covered strawberries (no), then pays for his ice cream and water with half-card, half-cash. A middle-aged drunk guy runs in after his lady friend and stops to point at me, asking why “this bitch is in the corner.” When he yells at the woman to hurry, a younger guy squares up and mocks him for trying to start a fight in the store. They all leave. I ask Tom if that sort of thing is common. He nods.

Business slows again and we get to talk more, ice fully broken by the tense moments we’ve just survived. Tom works nearly all week and commutes from a suburb 30 miles away. He sleeps, eats, and showers for work while at home, leaving “no time for videogames.” Tom is Sikh and from Punjab, but he’s been here most of his life. He’s saving himself for marriage in India, where his parents live and will one day arrange his match. His wife will have to show that she’s been playing intense sports if she knows her hymen will be missing before the moment of truth on their wedding night. Tom avoids temptation with American girls and constantly imagines what it’ll be like with his very nervous new wife. I tell him it’s good he has reasonable expectations; an awkward start won’t mean they’re not a good fit. I’m still with my first love, so anything’s possible.

Tom asks if my boyfriend keeps me up at night “giving me headaches,” needing “one more glass of water or one more thing to eat.” I laugh and say I like cooking but not late or on-demand. When I reveal I’m 33, Tom asks why we don’t have children. I say I’m still trying to grow up, that I left another job a few months ago, that I can only handle my little dog for now and have been trying to reset in general. He dismisses my excuses and says children are the most important thing, so I should have them right away no matter what. Why wouldn’t I want to “make life happier?” He turns wistful, tugs at the air and asks me to imagine “little babies crying ‘Mommy, Mommy, I’m hungry!!’” He snaps out of it and asks, “Won’t that be great?!” I wonder how such a stressful thought can be his go-to parenting daydream.

In the middle hours, Tom greets soft drink delivery trucks, stocks shelves and plays prayers aloud from his phone. I hold myself in the cold and rock back and forth. I enjoy listening to the chants without talking. Tom listens everyday for hours, probably why he’s so calm. I make a mental note to meditate more as I abandon the notes in front of me about which brand of cigarettes each customer is buying. I can no longer keep track, and nothing matters anymore.

Suddenly, what has felt like infinity becomes the home stretch. It’s 4:30. I’m more tired than I would be at this hour in bed, scrolling, tapping and dreading another day. Tom is visibly more drained as he powers on, handling paperwork, odds and ends. I can’t believe I let him watch me vacation at his labor site in hopes of finding some big scoop when the most dramatic scene was one I regrettably helped bring about.

It’s almost 5am. Tom leans on the counter for a moment of rest and asks me when I plan to leave, then repeats the question when I don’t hear. He says I don’t have to stay until 6. I take the hint and start packing up. He’s been kind and welcoming for longer than I should ever expect but he’s reached his limit. I thank him repeatedly and leave without ceremony. While crossing the street, I fear he was testing me and now he thinks I couldn’t cut it in the final hour.

I get home and walk little Dmitri, send him to bed and crawl into my own. I curse myself to sleep, planning to trash my notes like always, since just sitting there under the fluorescent lights was enough to dull my curiosity into anticlimax. I’m not a reporter. I’m an asshole for not having to go back there tomorrow. I pestered Tom on his own turf for nothing- what a bother and a waste, like everything else in life. Stupid idea; failed mission. Maybe this is the exhaustion talking?

But I feel the same way the next day and for several days, until Kevin goes to get coffee and sees Tom again. He apologizes for how he acted that night, for making rude assumptions. Tom readily forgives, saying he would have done the same thing with such little information. They share a hug at the counter. As Kevin recounts it, I almost cry imagining that hug. Now I can justify every moment leading up to it. Stoic bearded guy is a real person to us both; one less stranger in our ‘hood! Nevermind that the hug wouldn’t have been necessary without my reckless behavior, or that Tom is no more excited to see either of us now than he ever was before, or that things have returned to normal and it might as well have never happened, or that I won’t be invited to Tom’s wedding and we’re not friends, or that I’m not a big people person anyway, or that I could still be in trouble if that whole thing was indeed illegal. It still feels like something new, anyhow.

[lazyyogi]

Since balance is an attribute of fundamental consciousness, it is synonymous with openness and self-contact. The more inward contact we achieve, the more we experience balance, or symmetry, throughout the internal space of our body. This means, for example, that we can experience the internal space of both of our arms at the same time, or the internal space of both of our shoulder or hip sockets at the same time.The more open we become, the more symmetrical our internal experience of ourselves becomes and the more evenly we settle the internal space of our body toward the ground. This is another way of saying that to become open is to let go of our protective grip on ourselves; for example, if we have been constricting our chest against feeling emotional pain, and we let go of this constriction, the internal space of our chest will become more symmetrical and will relax and settle toward the ground in a more even way. As we inhabit our whole body, every part of our body begins to relax and settle toward the ground in this way.

Judith Blackstone, Belonging Here (via lazyyogi)

[laurensomebody]

The Towers

Everyday for weeks, I watch those planes crash into the Twin Towers. Every angle I can find, every Youtube documentary, every newscast. Footage from the street, from hotel guests at their windows, from the NYU student in her dorm who can’t believe those are human bodies and not chairs falling from the top floors. I watch before bed and after waking, replaying clips again and again until they’re real.

The day we learn my mom is going to die, I hang back to sleep in her hospital room. We stay up late. She forbids me from telling her how long she has left, just like she did her doctor. She wants to talk about anything but the cancer. After awhile, I slip up and say something I instantly regret, aiming for the brand of dark humor we’d enjoyed many times before. “The only upside is that now I won’t have to worry about you when I finally commit suicide.” She sighs, “No, don’t do that,” like she remembers the vague threats since my preteen years and has learned not to entertain them. I say sorry but hate myself for making a cruel joke which defeats the purpose of leaving her unaware.

On the first anniversary of her passing, I’m still not ready to open my box of memories from Maryland- her earrings, the funeral programs, her old phone, her journal and devotional book. It stays shut on a shelf while I dip into Facebook to see relatives posting tributes, then click out to avoid the photos. It stays shut while I consider listening to the James Taylor album I played on her last day, her death rattle in the background of her favorite songs. I refuse to play JT again now and maybe ever.

Instead, I watch the towers. In the hour before impact, news anchors marvel at the nice weather, and how it’s almost too quiet this morning. They talk to Babyface about his beard and Ray Romano about his show. Howard Stern recalls almost hooking up with Pam Anderson. Soon, it’s 8:46am, then 9:03, and their ignorance is not an option.

I hear some 9/11 jumpers were blinded by black smoke while searching for a pocket of air and took one last step out of a smashed window. Others felt flames licking their backs and opted to fall, instead. I wonder how the terror of sinking compares to being eaten alive by the fire. I decide I’d rather fly out, too. The jumpers remind me of what David Foster Wallace wrote about suicide- how it’s not so free a choice; it’s like leaping from a burning high-rise when you see no other way out. I watch them to convince myself it’s not time to jump; my building is not actually on fire. I am still on the ground.

One day I’m done. I have to stop watching the towers. Just like that heavy drinking in the weeks after Mom’s death, ended only when I mistake the closet for the bathroom and the hamper for the toilet, then hear my boyfriend arrive from work and enter the bedroom and I casually emerge and hope he won’t notice how wet and smelly our laundry is. Another addiction I must thwart.

On the day I decide I’m done, I walk my dog outside and watch a plane fly low from Burbank airport. I fantasize like I always do, wondering what it would be like if it crashed into our complex. This time I fear it will happen because maybe I’ve been watching all that footage to prepare. My mother’s mother believed she had premonitions and thought they ran in the family. Mom had demon sightings and occult interests before she strengthened her faith and swore off the stuff. I’ve tried to shake intrusive thoughts since childhood but flirt with them for a thrill. I have my fun, decide I’m silly and go back inside.

The night of my decision, I restrain myself from searching for new clips and go to Reddit instead. There’s been a hijacking in Washington State. I’m relieved to learn it’s only one man and no passengers, no buildings, no houses. But he’s dead. Richard Russell left behind audio of his conversation with air traffic control. He’s in a manic state, only now realizing the extent of his struggle, embarrassed to be disappointing the people who care about him. He hopes he hasn’t ruined anyone’s day with his stunt. But he wants a moment of serenity and to see the sights before dying. He’s made his choice; a safe landing means an indefinite stay behind bars. I can hear his resignation. He tells the controllers he wishes they could all just shoot the shit, without this business getting in the way.

I’m broken by his self-awareness and vulnerability in the last moments. They would have saved him if they’d come earlier. But he knew we aren’t supposed to admit some things, like when we’ve pushed people away and don’t know why, when we feel lonely and forgotten, when we just want to talk, when we feel worthless and at a loss. He did it because it was the end. I curse and thank him for his insane, horrifying act, which lets me off the hook. I can never match that epic, symbolic goodbye- that astounding barrel roll- and I will never try. I can fall apart and rebuild before the flames become real; I can hope they never do. I go to bed and pretend something meant for him to help people like me who need the constant reminder.

[laurensomebody]

Visit Original Link

[laurensomebody]

A Forced Engagement

The app shows two riders at a single location being picked up first, and I know I’ll be stuck in the passenger seat, unable to shut my eyes, load a podcast and teleport to my friend’s. I never dare whip out earbuds up front, but now I might have to try.

When I hop in, it’s clear that tuning out would be an especially hostile act. This driver wants to chat, and the couple in the back are viewing a book and whispering in what I don’t recognize as English but can’t lean in close enough to make out. I’m on my own. I settle, make peace with my role, and get two questions: “How’s your weekend?” (“pretty good”) and “How was 2017 for you?”

She looks about 45. Petite, Latinx, full makeup and dark shades. The urgent sincerity in her voice almost makes me say too much- “Horrible. I spent the first half with zero perspective or gratitude, and the second mourning the loss of my hope in this country, my last dregs of innocence and my mother,” instead of “Up and down.”

She doesn’t pry. “2017 is over! Can you believe it? This was the year of Right Now. Whatever you need to do, do it now. There is no tomorrow, no next week.” Good God, lady. This is the exact kind of reality check I wanted to avoid today. Is this Candid Camera? That show’s not on anymore. I miss it. Ha, I love the one where snacks are banned from the auditorium, so all those theater-goers are outraged and speed-eating popcorn in the lobby before their movie-

But she won’t even let me daydream. She keeps saying terribly, horribly true things, so that if I don’t agree, I’m caught slipping. She heard somewhere how important it is to list your annual goals, tackle the small ones first, then the big, and review your progress at year’s end. I say, “Yep! And for the big ones, you break them into small steps,” as if I’ve ever done such a thing. She nods, “That’s true.” I peek at the GPS on her phone. At least 20 minutes left on this ride, and now I not only have to pay attention, but also maintain my cover as an expert in executive functioning.

But then with grace, she admits she’s only followed through with that list thing once or twice. I don’t confess she has me beat.

She’s from South LA near the home of Meghan Markle. She praises her intelligence and humanitarianism. She feels Meghan is at least a kindred spirit of Princess Diana and at most a reincarnation, a major reason Harry fell in love right away on their blind date. Nature took its course. Harry himself designed the ring and included diamonds from his mom’s jewelry. She learned all this from their first TV interview as a pair, which she insists I watch asap.

I tell her I’ve never considered the lives of royalty before watching Netflix’s The Crown, and how I’m amazed by people pushed into those positions who manage to keep level heads, live decent lives and work for progress, and how cool it is that even an old tradition like theirs can’t resist change over time. Then I remember the sweet guy from Adaptation who was obsessed with fish, then orchids, then Meryl Streep. Maybe this woman is just like him and goes through periods of intense focus on one subject at a time, and this is monarchy month. Nah, she’s probably just more up on pop culture than I am. I wonder if she watches Teen Mom or The Real Housewives of Atlanta. I don’t ask.

We pass an All-You-Can-Eat Korean restaurant on Western, and I point. “That place is so good.” Everyone on the car looks over. Then I look again and realize I’ve never actually been there and mistook it for a different place a couple blocks away. I desperately hope the one I pointed to is just as good, because now the driver is repeatedly promising me that she’s going to bring her whole family there to try it if it’s really that good. “It’s great,” I say.

I look at the time again and am sorry we don’t have much longer together, to keep enjoying our talk, and to let me karmically cancel out the lie.

I consider the odds of ever being in this car again and decide on zero. Not possible, not even in the same world where a prince found his other half and never looked back and will now watch her carry his mom’s torch into the future. They have nothing to do with me. Meghan’s from around here, but she is stunning and poised and built her own life.

Either way, this ride will be our last. We steel ourselves with a few minutes to spare, switching to small talk about buildings in the neighborhood being torn down and what’s being put on their lots. When we stop, I climb out to enter the party, relieved that its end time is only a light suggestion.

[laurensomebody]

Heaven

When I was a child, I daydreamed myself to sleep, mostly about heaven and eternity and how long it would feel. I’d think into the furthest distance I could fathom. If time can go forever, it’s like a million football fields. I’d squeeze my eyelids shut until I reached a limit, where time stopped. Then my eyes would spring open in shock- “that’s not the end; there’s more!”

I couldn’t imagine infinity, but I knew I’d experience it when I died. How would I get through it? I was angry at God. I didn’t believe I wouldn’t get bored up there. We were supposed to kneel at his throne, worshipping joyfully for most of each day.

I always loved food, so my dad promised me there’d be a huge buffet at the center of heaven, where I could eat to my heart’s content and not get full or sick, or gain weight. For now, he said, I’d have to “eat to live and not live to eat.” But up there, all bets were off.

Then I read a famous pastor’s book about his visit to heaven. Jesse Duplantis’ testimony was a lot like others given by the evangelists my family followed on TV and on pulpit tours across the South and Midwest. In his book, he’d gone to heaven for 7 or so Earth minutes with a known angel as his guide. He exclusively revealed that in heaven, while for most there was no need to eat for survival, there was a tree where the weak of spirit had to gather. These were the ones who were only reluctantly allowed through the gates and had to sustain their faith. They needed the fruit of that tree to stay awake. They looked paler and more slight than the others.

From then on, I was even more nervous than before. I had to avoid that fate. I wanted that recreational buffet! But it wasn’t allowed unless I coasted into heaven on good standing.

So nightly, before I could sleep, I pictured forever. I didn’t want to go anymore. “Do I have to? How long- one football field times a million, times a billion, times forever?!” I hoped at least to eat the feast and not the fruit.

[laurensomebody]

Before Inauguration

Everything tells me there’s an answer and a way to find it. If there’s a single one on top of all the others, maybe it’s that nothing matters. As a kid, nothing was serious, but everything mattered very much. Now it’s the opposite.

Back then I didn’t know the rules, how you were supposed to act. I’d interrupt dinner guests and stand up at the table, shouting for something to be passed. I’d hide something in my clothes while shopping with my mom and take it home with me. She’d have to walk me back to return it.

In this calm before the storm, I’m terrified. Heading toward the possible end of everything I know, pending chaos. What a wonderful time to reset, a good excuse to laugh and remember that none of it matters in the end. But it all is very real.

I can’t imagine how it’ll all be okay, how I and the people I love, the people I know, will keep going, wanting to be better and do better. I think too globally because my personal fears are unbearable.

I love these times reminding me that everything can change at any moment, that I only love to seek when I know the answers will not stop me. This time is schizophrenic, surreal and throwing me off. But off is where I want to be, because everything else was a delusion.

What I hate in the status quo, in the demagogues who threaten us and lie in wait, is what I hate in me- the stopping, the satisfaction and the end of the search.

[laurensomebody]

Rapture

I know there’s something imaginary about my existence, and that only my consciousness can be said to exist for certain. But I’m growing to accept my apparent body more these days; it’s always reminded me of death. It’s what had to be discarded like a used tissue when I was done. Now I just hope my awareness will go with it.

Something feels taboo about investing in my body now, but it’s a final frontier which I must confront. Exercising a bit every week, getting enough sleep, being careful with adult substances, cooking for and feeding myself. It all seems like too much investment in something I’ll get rid of soon.

I heard old clips from the Heaven’s Gate cult members talking before their suicides. Their leader had compared our bodies to cars. You never drive and drive your car into the ground until it suddenly stops in the middle of a highway. You don’t let it peter out. Instead you drive it until it’s not useful anymore, then you trade it in. It might have chugged along awhile longer, but why wait until the bitter end? Get something better, nicer. A new you, on a new plane of reality. One acolyte was overjoyed in his confessional. “This is the greatest day of my life!” You could hear him smiling. He was thoroughly convinced by the car metaphor that he was doing the right thing.

I thought I’d leave my own body in a flash one day, in the twinkling of an eye, like the scripture says. I had to be ready at any moment to ascend. I’d look back and see my clothes in a pile on the floor. Maybe I’d take a second to kiss my ass goodbye as it melted away and I morphed into a new spirit flesh. What would it look like?

So to keep this one for awhile- regular tuneups and responsible maintenance, clening, waxing, patchups and love...it seems like a lot.

[laurensomebody]

Tongues

On Sunday nights the crowd is louder, the music is fun and we get guest preachers. Some come from their TV shows to use our church’s microphone and water. They’re so close to God that He put them on TV to be pastors to our pastor. You can’t get higher than that unless you’re the Pope, but he's not a real Christian. One time a preacher from TV stood up front and raised his arm up, and then started walking through the aisles. I saw people shaking and praising next to him, and the Spirit came over my section when he passed. It felt like a big warm chill, then wanting to fall over. But I kept standing so I wouldn’t lose it. I let it come back in waves, feeling the man walk by, and it stopped when he moved on. That was how strong the Spirit was in him; he had so much overflowing for all of us.

My pastor and dad said you’re not saved until you can speak in tongues, since it’s the real sign you have the Spirit. The part of God He left on Earth is inside us and it can talk to the Father in His own private language. You don’t know what you’re saying, but He does. And the world might laugh at how it sounds, but what the world hates is usually good, anyway.

So tonight at my church we have another guest preacher, but I don’t know if he’s from TV. He says to speak in tongues at the end. Our regular church pastors are at the front, telling us to raise our hands and pray. I can’t do it yet. I can’t figure out how they’re making the noises and let the words just gush out. Bashugana, osh amana, ola gaga. I hear the others loud around me- real languages that God knows, because they’re getting the warm chill that goes past your heart, into your stomach, down to your feet and turns your legs to jelly. I can’t feel it.

Then the pastors invite people who haven’t gotten tongues yet into the back stage area. We can line up and have hands laid on us to make sure it works before we leave. The pastors always say to answer the burning in your chest, stand up and go up if you’re called. I can’t stay still and I don’t want to. I walk to the little room and beside all the other slow learners. We’re quiet, then the visitor pastor moves down the line to touch each person and make sure we’re getting the Spirit. He knows God can understand our prayers in English, but so can everyone else. If I don’t speak in the Spirit, God will tune me out, or let the Devil answer.

I feel the pastor getting closer, and I’m scared he’ll touch me and it won’t happen- I won’t let the words out, or God won’t give them to me. I peek to see how much time before he gets in front of me. Say something. Open up before he touches you and nothing happens. I should feel the warm chill already.

I hear the ones before me keep praying out loud with their hands raised to God, who can listen now without eavesdroppers. The pastor puts his hand on my forehead. I try to start the Spirit with a good try of my own- bashugana, osh amana, ola gaga... I say it from the throat, too soft. The pastor pushes my head back more, and I think it will start the real thing. When I stop talking, he lets go. “Yes” ... “She’s got it,” he says. He moves on. But I still don’t have it.

I leave the room, and the sanctuary, and the church without the warm chill. I still don’t have it now! I want the pastor to come back and tell me he knows. He was in a hurry to get to the rest. And he didn’t want to embarrass me in front of everyone else, but I will get it next time. Or does he think I really have it?

[laurensomebody]

Love Poem

his love reminds me gently that i will die alone and doesn’t tide me over when i exhaust my own it sits and waits and takes a breath steady as a rock inviting me before my death to replenish my stock

[lazyyogi]

You have projected onto yourself a world of your own imagination, based on memories, on desires and fears, and you have imprisoned yourself in it. Break the spell and be free.

Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj (via lazyyogi)

[laurensomebody]

business email glossary

thanks in advance: get this done by the time i press "send"

thanks for your interest: why'd you have to bring this up

would you be so kind: fucking do it

best: i have never physically met you

all best: this conversation is over

all my best: i wish you would die

happy to help: this is the easiest thing in my inbox

i hope this helps: i've done all i'm willing to do

i did a bit of research: i googled it, because you're too lazy to

sorry to chase: answer my email

so sorry to chase: answer my FUCKING email

i am really sorry for being a pest but: i am LIVID that you are ignoring me

please contact my colleague: this isn't my problem

i'm copying in my colleague: this isn't my problem and i am thrilled about it

i'll check and get back to you: i might forget to

i'll let you know when i hear anything: i will forget to

can you check back with me in a week?: i'm hoping you will forget to

per our earlier conversation: i just yelled at you on the phone

great to chat just now: you just yelled at me on the phone

thanks!: i'm not mad at you

thanks!!: please don't be mad at me

thanks!!!: i'm crying at my desk

please advise: this might be your fault

kindly advise: this is entirely your fault

mind if i swing by?: i'm already in the elevator

can you confirm for me: you told me before and i deleted the email

sorry if that was unclear: i think you're an idiot

let me know if you need anything else: please never contact me again

[charlyne-bandit-yi-deactivated2]

Heart-Smart

     I find it incredibly strange that people who dream big are often put down and called irrational and unrealistic. That’s like telling someone to stop having romance for their life, their self-worth, and the pursuit of growing. As if reality is set in stone, and huge revolutions could never unfold, even a self-revolution of no longer seeking self-destruction.High School and College were both busts. I quit college after 2 quarters. We didn’t learn from a teacher, the very human being that stood before us told us to look to an outdated History book.  From this poor excuse of an education we were expected to learn from the past and how to prosper. We were expected to be well-rounded human beings when we weren’t even taught a single truth about what happened to the Native Americans. If they had taught an honest history, maybe we could say that we won something from the war - We could say we won a life-time of understanding of empathy and compassion to never repeat that sort of injustice and grief to others. 

We would learn “Do to others as you would have them do to you.“

      Our schools judge kids based on "grades” instead of taking closer looks into the children’s lives… Some of us came from abusive families, incredibly poor neighborhoods, drug-addict parents… How can you judge a kid and tell them they aren’t smart, or they’re not going to succeed based on a test?  What kind of special test is this? To deny a kid self-worth is a horrible thing.  I don’t think school should be teaching children that only kids with good grades will succeed. I don’t think book smart means heart-smart or street-smart, or any kind of smart - especially when the books are outdated. And I don’t think it’s fair that my school harvested so many children to feel heart-broken about their futures before they even begun. A school should not have the power to destroy a child’s hope, it should not teach hopelessness.

   I think schools should consider where the children have been, where their families are, and what kind of involvement they have in their lives. They should teach self-worth and for god’s sake update their History books. Because we shouldn’t repeat the idea of telling the poor and uneducated that they can’t dream big. Because dreaming is hope, and that’s the thing that’s going to save that kid’s life. That’s the drive that’s going to keep them striving for a better day.

   Right after high school I remember a painful conversation with one of my best friends at the time who told me I was being irrational because I had found my passion at the time: performing comedy (for free). I remember she laughed at me and looked down on me because I wasn’t even getting paid to do comedy. People would shake their heads and ask me what my backup plan was, and I said “painting, but that’s more of a hobby.” And they would scoff and say “You don’t have a back up plan??” 

     I think it’s strange to sum up someone’s life as: What do you want to be when you grow up?  Opposed to “what would you like to achieve throughout your life-time?”  Or “What would you like to do with this chapter, and how bout the next?”  I don’t think we are defined by an occupation, but by our hearts and interactions with the Earth, and the people in our life. It’s the seeds we plant as we exist that defines us. Our memories.  No one told me this when I was young, but I say if there is anyone who has doubt about the amount of good they can succeed to, you should know:  "You can do anything. You just gotta dream.“

[adteachings-deactivated20220125]

[laurensomebody]

I have been in recovery from Christianity for a few years now also and I am very grateful for your articulate and thoughtful post. I'm slowly learning how to live life outside of religion, but my relationship with my family has changed quite a bit. They, along with "God" and "the church" were my everything for almost 30 years. How is your relationship with your family since you've distanced yourself from your faith?

Firstly, congratulations and I hope your recovery is going well! I didn't think mine would be a years-long process, but I'm still reeling half a decade later. My family seems to have accepted my apostasy as a part of who I am now, but I'm guessing their faith makes them hope / believe I'll see the light one day. There's no one who I can't speak openly with, but we're on fundamentally different pages, down to the nature of reality, so there's always that unspoken divide. I love when the topic gets brought up, which is rare, and we can have small, friendly debates. Things have cooled in that arena since I passed through my anger stage of grief, and I selfishly really enjoy debating without that horrible cognitive dissonance and doubt I felt as an evangelical. Thank you for reading!

[laurensomebody]

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My Ode to Divorce by Regina Spektor

[laurensomebody]

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Here’s me covering my favorite shower song of all time.