with open arms and

Religion is always a strange thing for me to really stop an examine, at any of those points in my life (which tend to be frighteningly frequent) where I feel I need to stop and examine it. My father is one of those people who will talk loudly and to whomever is listening all about his opinion of just about everything on the planet, and one of his favorite things to talk about is how much of a lie things like religions, spirituality and God are. He doesn't broke talk of these things around him without sounding off vehemently in their opposition, and I suppose living for twenty-three years under that kind of anger denial forces one to come to a few inevitable conclusions.

I find it very hard to put my trust in organized religion. Some, less than others, but it remains that there's something inherently creepy to me in the walking in single file, chanting the same empty words in unison, or--my personal favorite--staring at a piece of bread in a gold statue and calling it worship! I don't get the hive mind mentality, but then again maybe I've never really been the kind of person who's good at doing things or thinking things just because other people are doing and thinking them. I am a late bloomer only because it takes me a while to decide whether or not blooming is even a good idea.

Which isn't to say I don't believe in spirituality or sanctity, because even my father's Doubting Thomas-ing couldn't shake that root from my soil. But I've come to decide that your spiritual self, that bit of you which is sacred and holy, isn't supposed to be paraded in front of others or part of a ritual. It's what's unique about you, what's special and timeless, to think you could touch on it just by reciting a few lines somebody who died in 1865 put to a drinking song! No, that's not how it works, not for me. God isn't a man in a starched white robe with a perpetual scowl.

God, for me, is everywhere. In the details of my writing, in my cat when he suns himself, in the bum by the Burger King asking for my change. It's everything, it's the way I carry myself and my awareness of the world around me and the sound of a bike tire on pavement. I have always wanted to be the kind of person who approaches things with innate respect and gentleness, the kind of person who moves mountains one patient pebble at a time. I am hardly in that place--I'm brash and irreverant, quick-tempered and judgemental--but I'm closer now than I have ever been, and I think every step down the path of life brings me closer to the center line I'm trying to walk along. I'm only twenty-four. Maybe I need to be closer to thirty, or forty, before I find the yellow lines. Maybe I will never find them at all.

The point is that I keep looking. On my own, in my private time, and through everyone I meet.

when i was an alien

My local radio station is hosting a contest involving my favorite band. This isn't really news, considering KROQ is a big part of how Incubus got famous. They do concerts and contests involving the boys a lot, especially since Incubus lives in Los Angeles. What's a bit remarkable about this one (other than having Brandon pop on my radio to tell me to 'pack your bag, bitches! Go to KROQ!') is that in addition to the chance of winning Incubus' entire CD catalouge (I own it already, is this a surprise?) is the chance to go to China to see them perform in Beijing.

Well.

Needless to say, I will not be packing my bag to meet you in China, Mr. Boyd, I know you are reading this right now and your hopes are crushed. It got me to thinking, however, after a conversation with my husband (which, much to my amusement, involved me saying that I don't like Incubus enough to go to a communist country, to which he responded in shock, 'China isn't communist.' I patted him on his head) that for much of my vaunted desire and affection towards traveling, I'm a shrinking violet about a lot of things.

I already knew I wasn't much of a risk taker, but this extends a bit beyond that. I love the idea of traveling to other countries, but only if they speak English. I'm afraid this makes me an elitist. Does it make me an elitist? I am far too afraid of seeming like a moron to the people of a country whose language I do not speak, and petrified of finding myself in some Chinese square surrounded by rats and chickens shouting "DONDE ESTA LOS BRANDON BOYD" hoping at least in that case I might get SOMEONE who speaks a language I can understand. Not, mind you, that I speak Spanish.

I suppose the fear of being misunderstood is human. It is in our nature to desire to make a connection with another human being, to impart our wisdom and desire and knowledge to them in the pure, distilled form it resides within our heads in. It is also in our nature to misunderstand, to twist all communications as they come in until it's about us and not them, until it's personal and just a different enough shade of grey from whatever whoever was talking about that it's not the same shade at all.

I have to admire people like Incubus, or any other band. Now, I understand full well that they're surrounded by an entourage at all times and more often than not the only thing that changes is what's outside the window of the bus/van/train/plane, but the sheer idea of going and putting myself in front of all those people who don't even speak my language, and make myself understood...well, it's humbling. Terrifying, even. Communication is hard enough in this one language.

a kiss to send us off

This is a new venue for me. I've gotten far too used to the Livejournal format and its brethren; I'm almost at a loss already because I've found myself without a 'mood' and 'listening to' fields. How will anyone know what I am feeling and what music I am listening to if not for the handy little boxes at the bottom of my blog? Where shall I over-saturate this forum with too many pictures of the illustrious Mr. Boyd and his Incubusical fellows? A conundrum to be sure.

Perhaps this is a new era for my blogging self. A time for me to put aside random complaints about my computer and instead install some sort of educated wisdom on the internet. Which, God knows, is not what the internet is for, but I've never been the best trend-follower. Having said that, I will immediately negate the truthfulness of the statement by following someone else's footsteps for my introductional values.

My name is Lauren. I will turn 24 years old in three days. I am married, and I am a Northern Maryland native who has somehow found herself on the other side of the country living in Los Angeles. I don't especially like red meat in hulking, slab form and I hate pork, but I am far from a vegetarian. I like Dr. Pepper almost as much as I like tea, and both of those things I like a little too much. I live with my husband and an orange tabby who either adores me or hates my guts, depending on some crazy cat cycle I have yet to decipher. I want a dog. I am an audiophile with a broken set of headphones, and I can bike to almost all of the places I care to go. I am a housewife, a writer, and an artist, but not an artiste because that is a bit too stuck up for me. I like Venice Beach and dislike the hooplah of Santa Monica and Malibu. I like burgers, but pretty much only from In'n'Out.

Having babbled all that for no particular reason, I leave you with this, the first part of my so-called Light Grenades Project: Quicksand: Le Grotesque