This is a letter tomy creativity coach Sara Before our coaching call, I always give her a headsup.
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Dear Sara,
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When I selected our last letter, as the post I wanted to copy, I noticed I d written three posts in my 1995 series, since our last call. Three! That’s almost as many episodes as the entire six months prior or something. And yet the funny thing is: none of them were “the Thing”! All three seem almost irrelevant now, although my last one, which I will refer to as my Fuck All That post, definitely does show I gave it my all, when I decided it was time to man up and start living my life.
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I reread the Fuck All That post for this letter, and it was unbelievable that it was almost like it was coming from a different world… a different me!
It did show I threw my full weight into it, and really was more than fed up having this kind of availability for other people’s bullshit, as well as for my own bullshit.
That I needed balls and a backbone, and that I had lost them under some floral pattern in 1995.
But yep!
There they were!
Because two days after that 1995 Fuck All That diary entry, I got The Thing!
The Mother of All Projects.
And considering this post has become pretty gender specific, The King Of All Projects, would be more accurate.
The 1995 Bon Jovi Concert Series;
Where I revisit concerts 25 years after the date, making one video of every concert on the night the concert actually took place (25 years ago).
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Tonight I already struck gold, finding my first story while watching this Sunday’s Seoul concert.
And I wrote my first complementary blog about how Jon’s 1995 voice was – as I called it – “in mint condition”;
But how a mature Jon Bon Jovi won by putting in his entire heart and soul into it.
Although the post wasn’t called that way, it could have been named “In Praise of Older Jon”.
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And there is more…. And if I tell you this, you will know this Bon Jovi project may become My Biggie. Something that will connect me to what other people want to know too;
I am letting my series end in 1996, with a concert here in The Netherlands that was
A. A concert that blew your socks off,
and B. Given at the most unlikely place, a concert location that technically didn’t even exist, aside from a large field of grass. This one-off rock concert, a musical The Little Rural Area That Could, must have been forged into existence by a group of highly ambitious music lovers, who found themselves in an unlikely place where they could bring the rock gods of the 90s, to one of the most remote areas of the Netherlands, if they all worked together…
And it is that story I will be investigating the upcoming year.
I have already contacted what appeared to be the main man, and he’s willing to share his story. I will blog about these individual interviews in Dutch, creating blog posts about how this legendary concert came into being. Next year is their 25th anniversary, and maybe if we put all the blog posts together, and we have photographers sharing their archives; We could create a book to mark the anniversary of this Bon Jovi concert from 1996.
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And to celebrate the end of my 13 months series, which started last Tuesday and that will go on until June next year, with a five month hiatus after December 6th.
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I will be at the pace of the tour, doing 2-5 videos each week until the end of the year.
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So yeah, I found my balls Sara. And they may be 25 years old, but they sure are in mint condition!.
..
the writer currently residing in 1995 ~Lauren/LS Harteveld
I normally don’t share my real or professional name here, because this is my pen name blog. But after writing this post, I will very gladly make an exception, so you can follow this work if it speaks to you.
1. Reboot – a hero’s journey. Diary 2017-2020 2. I M NOT CHANGING MY FUCKING SHOW 3. Big Mistress – confessions, columns and sex advice from the other woman
4. Blote Kont- (Dutch)
5. ALL THE THINGS – unpublished work 2010 – 2020
The best way to receive updates on when these books are ready is to follow this blog. The subscription button to this blog is on this page, probably on the right. . Nederlands blog: https://zegmaarlauren.com/
It’s probably a good thing, I waited until today to write. Just a few hours ago, I was still convinced I was going through a change of personality. Feeling all feminine and flowery and Laura Ashley-like to a degree that was entirely not me, but that I for some reason suddenly aspired to become. And it wasn’t just because my former long-term lover Bear called me, although that certainly didn’t help. I felt very relaxed talking to him, in my newly found toned- down, softened state. As if I could finally compete with whomever it was I needed to compete with this time. Because I had the feeling his monogamy is coming to an end, or has already been broken.
Technically, I don’t know the details now any more than I have done in the 5 years we were “together”, with the exception of the few odd months when I knew he was seeing someone and suspected he stayed away because he was monogamous. It’s not that I don’t endorse that, it’s just that for me, it’s not very interesting if that’s the reason I’m sidelined. I’d much rather have him not choosing me when he’s single or if there are multiple women involved. Sometimes I surprise myself how competitive I am. Even when technically I obviously already lost because he broke up with me last December.
Aside from the very occasional phone call, or the even more infrequent time we see each other for a cup of coffee, there is barely any contact with me and Mr.Bear. Yet the moment he’s coming from a place of strength, I can feel that old sexual tension flaring up between us. The game of poker, where I – you know, I wanted to say “pretend”? Where I pretend to support him? But that’s not true at all. I actually do support him. It’s just that supporting a monogamous relationship is not very exciting. And I love it when I get the feeling he’s all tangled up in exciting things, because then at least there’s something to fight over.
I remember his periods of monogamy, in however few words they were marked or mentioned, as a time-out. Recovery time. Someone taking himself out of the game. But something about the way he called me last time, convinced me he was back into it. And that the pieces had been moving on the board. My instincts told me he had introduced another piece on it, another woman. Someone who wasn’t me, obviously.
I think I should have been furious, insecure or insulted. Having him break up with me in December, because he was going into a real and serious relationship where he felt a lot of responsibility, leaving me man-less, lover-less, sex-less; Only to then choose someone else to break his monogamy with. Assuming I read between the lines correctly. He didn’t say anything. But regardless of what he had or had not already done on the side, my dominant emotion was: “Damn! You’re back on the board, aren’t you?”
Meaning: A chance to be with man, not without. With lover, not without. With sex. A chance to not “celebrate” my Year Without Sex, in July. Yes…. it was a good day to feel all feminine and soft, when I picked up the phone. That was something he could not prepare for. An energy I don’t usually have. And although I’ve now realized this entire Little Miss Cute charade, needs to go. It was a nice thing to have, for a few days. Because I tracked it this morning. When did it start? Was it when he called? But I discovered it did not start when he called.
A few hours before his call, I had been walking around the flea market, on Queens Day. And I was browsing for movies on VHS. And whether by chance or because I was feeling all Pretty in Pink already, I ended up buying movies particularly aimed at women. I liked adding them to my collection, and yesterday I watched Dirty Dancing – more about that later. But this afternoon, I knew: No. Gotta go.
Great thing, as a social experiment, to dabble with feeling feminine once in a while. And what a coincidence Bear called; That conversation was definitely won by me. But don’t make a career out of it. Don’t get used to it. Don’t make any plans that involve: “And then there was Lauren, who looked so sweet and kind, and she was such a good friend, loyal employee, warm and loving girlfriend.” Fuck all that.
And I think the reason was, because that movie Dirty Dancing, describes exactly what happens to you, if you are a good girl. One of the earlier scenes shows the girl carrying watermelons into a bar where everybody is dancing the twist, which was considered an erotic form of dancing in the 60s. She’s not supposed to be there, nor to stay there after she’s made her delivery. But she does and when Patrick Swayze asks their mutual friend what “she” is doing here, she defends herself: “I carried watermelons.” That’s my future if I continue playing all innocent and sweet: Feeling out of place in a room full of people having fun. And I’m the one who doesn’t belong there. I don’t care the girl gets the main prize; the man who dances so sexy, and who has a healthy dose of self-esteem, and takes good care of himself and will now take good care of her.
I can do without sex, without Bear, and without any man for the rest of my life, if it involves carrying watermelons, wearing pink, or dirty dancing.
~Lauren An unexamined life is not worth living
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December 2023/ early 2024
This series is currently being updated, and will be published into
A letter from a stranger diary 1994 – 1996 including book 2, Dear Nikki
I know I shouldn’t be writing about my dream. At the publisher’s, it’s one of the first things I have to send back to the author, in the unlikely event one of our novelists gets it into their head to use a dream as a way to tell the story. I will defend myself, saying that it’s not a way to tell the story. This is my actual dream. This is my actual diary. And therefor this is final.
I dreamed I was in a huge building, which was supposed to be buzzing with cultural activities, but now it was closed to the public. I was on their top floor, which had like a triangular shaped roof or contained a lot of geometrical lines. It was like an enormous tent; pitch black on one side, like the roof of a normal music venue, and bright glass on the other, like a museum. But there was no one there, except me and two colleagues. Both guys. I don’t remember the exact dynamic, but we were all in different departments, neither one of us were directly working together. But I forgot what my own profession was, and I also forgot what the profession was of the first guy.
There was a huge statue or object in the middle of the room, and I remember it as an enormous wooden boat; like one carved out of wood by indigenous tribes, but extremely large. I had asked the first guy something, and he walked me in the direction of the statue, and told me the second guy would know. The second guy was a DJ. He had been setting up his tables there, or had been rehearsing or practicing there. It wasn’t for a show. There would not be any shows for an indefinite period of time.
Yet he seemed happy, as if he had been doing something he liked and had achieved some sort of accomplishment. He was rolling up cables. I think neither one of us were there doing our normal work (maybe the DJ was). We all seemed to be trying to find something to do, despite the venue being closed. In the dream I had a short conversation with the DJ, and then I had a final one with the first guy. And then something strange happened.
I knew I was standing too close, and that I wasn’t supposed to. I excused myself and stepped back. He said something like “It doesn’t matter” or something. There had not been any sexual tension between us, it (coming closer) had just happened naturally because of the conversation we were having, or because of the topic. Or because I was illustrating something with my body or so. I wasn’t deliberately coming close for personal reasons. It’s just that I lived in a time when there was a disease and standing close to each other was enough to catch it.
I woke up and stayed in bed longer than usual, thinking about what it meant. I have an aids phobia. Or I used to before I realized it was simply not an option to be safe all the time. You know: Get one boyfriend, both stay monogamous. Especially him staying faithful to me would become a problem, because I would find that too boring. Either way, to be really safe you’d either have to have all sex with protection, including oral; Or alternatively you’d both get tested and you can leave the condoms out. But then you’re stuck with this boring monogamous sex life that is never going to work. I knew I had the choice between getting over my fears, or settling for a love life that I didn’t want. And I don’t do settling. So I got over it.
But when I talk about sex with others, I can still feel so clearly that I think about sex in an entirely different way than they do. And it’s because of this phobia that once tried to force me into a life that wasn’t mine. It’s because of that, and because I conquered it, that I have a – I think you should call it “seriousness” – a certain seriousness and heaviness, that will always be tied to sex. If you have to overcome your fear of death, in order to give a blowjob to your lover, you’re in it for real. You’re not “fooling around” here. You’re making partner choices that revolve around: “Is this person worth taking the (small, calculated) risk of getting hiv, in the case a condom breaks or I give him a blowjob and that’s enough to do the trick?” I never had a guy come in my mouth, but again: It could happen. Even by accident.
Overcoming death does not make your sex life easier, but it does make it more powerful. It provides meaning to something others might claim “just happened”. With me, that is impossible. Realizing sex could get you killed, prevents it from being something you’re going to regret later. Having sex equals “I love you so much, or I want you so much, I’d die for it.”
I think what took me an hour of morning thoughts in bed, is realizing that in the time of the deserted venue and me and my two colleagues trying to have something to do, while not standing too close because of the danger;
I’d live in a time when everybody thought that.
I wouldn’t be the only one, who consciously took the risk of death;
Every man whom I had sex with, would have done the same.
And in its own, no doubt terrible fucked up way, that was an exciting thought.
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~Lauren An unexamined life is not worth living
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December 2023/ January 2024
This series is currently being updated, and will be published into
A letter from a stranger diary 1994 – 1996 including book 2, Dear Nikki
Saturday evening April 25, 2020 9.45 P.M. .
I’ve been here before.
I ve been here before numerous times. The point when I realize staying in 2020 in the midst of this pandemic, is – firstly – not really an option. It s going to drive me mad. But secondly, that it’s also not where I am supposed to be! It is a sign that I need to go all-in on the project I started summer 2019, where I travel back in time to 1994. By now it’s 1995. . I ve had numerous times, and I mean definitely even before the crisis gave me a REALLY good reason, multiple times when I knew: I gotta leave. I need to time travel to 1995 and only “visit” 2020, for example for work, or to post this blog post. But that daily life needs to be designed around me being a 22 year old, working from home, and struggling with yoga, her love life, becoming a writer. A life where I am tempted to start teaching yoga, at a local yoga studio with a super hot yoga teacher who looks like Jon Bon Jovi.
Try saying no to that.
By the way in real life, I have picked up teaching yoga; but it’s an online friends group. . I received a phone call tonight, someone I didn’t know asking to join. And it was exactly what I needed to firmly decide that I will not return to teaching public classes. I have been toying with the thought of offering my online classes outside of the friends group, because obviously now would be a great time to attract a bigger audience. And theoretically, teaching online “should” allow for a broader range of students, than the former studio clients and friends I was teaching before C. Even though the online classes started out as a substitute for that tiny inner-circle, it seems so very logical to make them more public. Except of course, it’s not.
I was a yoga teacher for over 15 years and there is a reason I quit. . Whether online or in real life: I am not a yoga teacher teaching public classes. I retired from that officially in December, and the call tonight was a slap in the face to wake up from secretly dreaming of taking it bigger. Having someone I didn’t know on the phone looking for a yoga class, caused a panic attack, which could only be soothed by frantically checking all my social media on my phone, when none of them had any notifications. My “stimming” ( I still think panic attacks after social interaction occur because I m autistic) conflicted with my resolution to really finally go all-in on the 1995 project. . There was no reason at all to check my phone or scroll my feeds. No reason, except from getting a panic attack from being called as a normal yoga teacher on a Saturday night and realizing that I do not want to be a professional yoga teacher ever again. That if my small inner-circle groups generate enough money for me to live off, that’s great; But I m not going to make myself available on the market as a yoga teacher. I think it’s an extremely vulnerable, awful profession, for someone with my sensitivities. I have no idea how I lasted 15+ years. . All I know is, if I had a chance to start all over, I would do it differently. For example, if I was magically brought back to 1995, I would not become a yoga teacher. . Tomorrow I will travel to 1995, and tell them the news. And that this time, I’m staying.
1. Reboot – a hero’s journey. Diary 2017-2020 2. I M NOT CHANGING MY FUCKING SHOW 3. Big Mistress – confessions, columns and sex advice from the other woman
4. Blote Kont- (Dutch)
5. ALL THE THINGS – unpublished work 2010 – 2020
The best way to receive updates on when these books are ready is to follow this blog. The subscription button to this blog is on this page, probably on the right. . Nederlands blog: https://zegmaarlauren.com/
Kate McKinnon as Satan in Saturday Night Live. clip at bottom post
This is a letter tomy creativity coach Sara Before our coaching call, I always give her a headsup.
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Dear Sara,
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From the fact that you get this headsup hours before our call, instead of days, you’ve probably already guessed things are not exactly “in full swing” here.
They’re not exactly rocking.
In fact they’re not rocking at all.
And I feel my role in all of this will come out with a bang. It’s closing in.
At least I have some idea of what is coming, I can feel it’s brewing.
To the rest of the world, it will be one of those:
“I had no idea you thought that way!”
“That is horrible!”
“We’re all in this together.”
We’re not in this together, Sara. . There is the privileged and the even more privileged who can afford staying in their houses. And then there are the people with real professions, who “we” are underpaying and letting do the real work while (also) we work in sectors that make more money.
As a result (three times is a strike) we, feel so extremely guilty over having entire armies of underpaid workers doing the things we don’t want to do, such as spending a day with 25 eight year olds screaming their lungs out, or taking care of a ward with six elderly people with dementia,
that our guilt becomes this oppressive mechanism, where we expect EVEN MORE from them.
And to show we mean well we kill our layer of the economy, where we had been doing pretty well, to show them we’re not secretly making money.
We have innocent faces!
“Money? What money? We’re in this together!”
We flush our entire economy down the drain like drug dealers with the police at their doorstep, because we darn well know what we have done could not stand the light of day.
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But no matter how bad things look, drug dealers always manage to recover. And the police always manage to stay underpaid. Not only does evil survive; It thrives.
It’s always the same who manage to turn out richer, and I feel my blood absolutely boiling from this entire “We’re in this together” crap.
And civilians checking in on each other. Is everybody obeying the rules? Is everybody obeying the interpretation of the rules? Is everybody living according to the underlying principles, of the rules?
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You can see the upper class judging anyone going out.
“We’re in this together!”
They shout from behind their fences, where every family member has a room to him or herself.
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And I yell back at them, that No, we’re not In This Together. The ones who have entire houses to themselves, or entire rooms or floors when they’re a family; We are so extremely privileged. For many of us- and boy oh boy can we for a moment start realizing how privileged this is???- for many of us the ONLY concern is the virus itself! In its most toned down, watered down version of: “Can I get it from a shopping cart.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck; HOW PRIVILEGED IS THAT???
A shopping cart?
Someone standing a little too close?
You’re worrying about “catching” something, from your fucking VILLA, and you have the audacity to judge people who do not have all that economic freedom, for being irresponsible?
Boy, oh boy, fast pass to hell if ever there was any, my friend.
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And you can see the essential worker class judging anyone going out, because they’re the ones who are cleaning up after us. They’re the ones taking care of the sick, while being underpaid and underprotected.
They feel it’s a small favor to ask of us, to not take any risk, because they’re holding the line for us.
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When I want to yell at the top of my lungs: “When will you FINALLY stop holding the line? When will you say: “Here’s your elderly and your sick; here are your criminals and here are the children you put onto this earth.
You go take care of them yourself!
I need a fucking vacation!”
You may be going to heaven for being an angel and never letting people die or fall off the wagon, but you’re in living hell, right now.
And nobody gives a damn. Or they give a damn, but to the level of those drug dealers when the police comes in to bust them.
Right now, we feel busted.
But do you really think we’ll change our ways of taking advantage of you?
We won’t. .
I say “we” because I am guilty too. Not of abusing our medical system: I ll die when I die.
I ve always said that, and I ll keep saying it, and from that perspective my hands are relatively clean. And I love vaccines; Give me anything you’ve got.
So with that too, I am not someone who taxes the medical system. Unless I can no longer live independently and need nursing, I ll end up being really cheap.
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But have I done anything to improve the wages or lighten the workload of the essential workers? No. Have I participated in work that was only aimed at making money? Probably, yes. Did I care? Not at all. I ve said: “I don’t care if I have to sell nuclear heads. As long as it’s a fun workplace.” I ve been absolutely ruthless.
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What I would also love to do, is to not work a job at all but instead make art all day. Be creative. But that doesn’t make an income unless I have some kind of automated or full-on sales going on; And I don’t want that hassle. So I ve watched the world, and thought: “Then what are my options?” . And I saw I had two:
. Either do work that requires emotional involvement.
Work that will haunt you at night, and that will entail impossible choices.
A job that will require a saint, a wise woman, someone who accepts that she’s not perfect;
But that all that matters is that you’re there.
A job that is, in basis, humanitarian. A job you do, despite it being an impossible one. .
Or, my other choice; A job that will make you jump out of bed in the morning, and that will entail exciting challenges.
A job that will require a trickster, a cunning woman, someone who accepts that the world is not perfect;
But that all that matters is that you play your cards right.
A job that is, in basis, entrepreneurial.
A job you do, despite it only being a game to you.
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Years ago, a Dutch left-wing political party leader fired two staff members because they had been having a secret affair for years. I was absolutely appalled.
Not over the affair, but over firing them. I didn’t like the moral do-goodie tone of it, I didn’t like the judgement of it, and I didn’t like that there wasn’t a ce-le-bra-tion, that the party owned two members who could move through the night, like foxes!
Who knew the ways of the world.
Who knew how to bend the rules, and play.
Who knew how to get what they wanted.
I bet they were not even “busted”, right? I bet after years they were just like:
“God, let’s just tell them. This is getting boring.”
I know all about secret affairs, they’re only fun if they tether on the edge of being discovered.
If nobody comes looking, it ultimately gets boring.
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So the party threw their most capable politicians out.
You could have brought peace to the middle east with that kind of secrecy, but No (make face from The Scream from Edvard Munch):
“Transparency!!!” Transparency?! If you would ask me why I hate being good and just, and doing the morally right thing to do, transparency would sum it up pretty nicely. Fuck transparency. It’s horrible, it’s terrible, and it’s no fun at all, trust me.
What is fun however, is hiding in plain sight. But that’s usually not what transparency is supposed to mean.
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So I think the reason I feel more than others that we are NOT in this together, is because I see a choice between going to hell or to heaven.
Even if we are in this together, our ways would part later.
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You can go to heaven by doing the right thing. The REAL right thing. And to do the essential work. Teach. Guard. Heal. Nurture. To take it all upon you, like carrying the cloak of original sin, and do something about it.
Be OF MEANING!
Really do the work of God, and be his angel, and you will feel this as you do this.
You will feel His work flowing through you, and He will give you strength.
I don’t have any doubts about that.
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Or.
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Other choice.
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You click your tongue, wink your eye, wave your finger as if you’ve caught someone stealing from the cookie jar and you say in a husky, terribly sexy voice, and with a big smirk baring your perfectly white fangs: “Not so fast, young man.”
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This game is not over.
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the writer currently residing in 1995* ~Lauren/LS Harteveld
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* the last two weeks have been in 2020, unfortunately. I have no idea how to get back. Or if I want to, if I can also just be evil in 2020.
The fun thing though, about going back to 1995 is that turning your back on this time, is an act of rebellion in itself.
I’ll think about it.
This is a letter tomy creativity coach Sara Before our coaching call, I always give her a headsup.
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Dear Sara,
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To say it is a Go, must be the biggest understatement of our entire 1 year and 8 months together.
Which is probably not saying that much, since understatements have never really been my thing.
But when I say Rock Star Yoga is a Go I mean I ve given myself 48 hours, to clean up my Rock Star Yoga website (remove ads f.e.), create a sales page, get back with my Rock Star Yoga YouTube AND my Rock Star writing – all of which were designed as a Spare Time When I Feel Like It Projects.
Just like all my other work.
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I had spent the past months (and this is the ironic part) dismantling my business (yoga teacher and writer) and curating the fun parts as creative endeavors, only to see the Crisis vaporize the chances of getting a job.
I think I already knew it with our last conversation, but that it was so shocking it took many more days to sink in:
But my best bet for a steady income is no longer on a job, Sara.
It is ON ME.
To stay an entrepreneur.
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As much as I could very well sell my out-of-the-box marketeer skills, to one of those organisations going through such a hard time right now?
After how many conversations?
At what salary?
At what cost?
Even though I am in quarantine and my conversations with others are so limited – I can just FEEL how much I am, for the normal world to cope with!
How different I am!
That my energy is so disruptive to people who are used to doing things a certain way. My best work is going to trigger resistance, simply by the nature of who I am.
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Even if my solutions could save a company, it would mean that they would have to trust me in all my uncontrolled wildness, and I would have to trust them with my true me.
That’s a lot of blind faith for uncertain times.
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Crisis C. put all those plans in the freezer for now, and for many more months to come.
And I don’t count on ever having to get them out and defrost them.
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I ve got BUTTERFLIES from sending an email to a bank inquiring about their business accounts and with which one I would be able to setup a credit card payments!
I m on it!
And I don’t count on my new business, the company I m giving myself 48 hours to set up – to NOT work.
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In a way that is strange, because from all my endeavors Rock Star Yoga has been the one I never monetized. It’s the smallest name with the tiniest of followings that I m choosing-
Yet, maybe it is precisely for that reason, that my belief in Rock Star Yoga is solid.
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I could have chosen LS Harteveld as my main biz: I have 10 books out, and about the same number in manuscripts. I ll get back to that – I have some exciting news!
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I also very well, could have chosen my normal, local work as a yoga teacher, as my main biz.
I officially retired from that last December, but I never stopped teaching friends. And most of all, I spontaneously started an online yoga studio last week!
It’s really low-key, just aimed at friends and people who vibe with me. But this is a good time to be a yoga teacher who is really comfortable in front of the camera. I started making YouTube videos in 2015, I am a veteran. And my yoga classes (live streams) were amazing!
I was like: “How on earth is it possible that I rock live streams like an absolute pro?!”
But it’s because I ve been following Katrina Ruth’s live streams on Facebook, since December 2016.
It a Soaking-It-Up-Like-A-Sponge Training, that has prepared me for this live work, for over three years.
I wouldn’t say I was born ready as an online yoga teacher, but the classes proved I was certainly ready now!
Rebooting my career as a Dutch online yoga teacher, would be the most logical thing to do in the world.
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Yet I didn’t.
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Today I had an unofficial call with my new business mentor, the one I will be working with at the hub I am registering for. It was supposed to be about my contract which I was filling out, but it accidentally turned into our first coaching call, and he was basically forcing me to CHOOSE. And I knew I wanted this…. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I know I will never choose when it comes to choosing for an/ one outlet for my creative work (more exciting news about that later too!!!) but my plan for these C-months is to totally go in on my own business, so that in a couple of months I know if I actually still need a job from a financial perspective.
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My thoughts on a job have not changed.
But my need for it has.
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I ve always believed that although I acknowledged that in 2020 I would need the job for an income: That I ultimately never wanted to be dependent on that. In the long run, a job or career, was just because I didn’t want to work from home and never see people.
It was a sensible choice from a social perspective, I craved and craved to have colleagues to interact with. But with context. I certainly didn’t crave, crave hanging out in bars with loud music or going to the movies with friends or something: I was specifically motivated by the social context offered by a job, over the solitude of being a writer/ yoga teacher.
.
But now it is as if the C. crisis, where I am after all not seeing anybody week after week, is training me to be an entrepreneur.
C. is telling me: “You got this!” It is tough right now, but THIS situation (where I can’t even see my friends) is way tougher than a “normal home-entrepreneur situation”, where I would still be seeing my friends. C. is teaching me to cope without seeing anybody, but with the ultimate benefit of me finding out that not having colleagues as an entrepreneur, is totally doable. No biggie.
A job as a good and fun way to make an income, still stands.
But I no longer need it for social reasons.
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And when this business makes the income, I no longer need it at all.
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When I wrote “this business” in the previous sentence, I deliberately did not say “Rock Star Yoga”. Because although I m changing my business name to Rock Star Yoga, although Rock Star Yoga will be for many people the only thing they know me by; I m keeping at the two other activities on, that I both see making money.
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I still want to write and publish as LS Harteveld – both of those two news updates I promised you concern “her”!
And I still want to keep the online yoga studio for friends.
I currently have a Rock Star Yoga class there (English) and perhaps I ll separate that, but maybe not:
It can very well be, that I m sticking to Rock Star Yoga being a (free) YouTube offer, that the low-key online classes I m teaching now will remain the same;
And that the only thing I sell, is Rock Star Yoga online coaching and public appearances.
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Because that’s ultimately where I believe my strength lies:
In speaking up about where to get the real juice, the real energy, and in helping people giving themselves permission (basically) to go for it.
The unfiltered, triggering self, the self that is way too full-on in daily life, is the part people “get” and understand, when it’s taught as Rock Star Yoga.
But mostly the mindset part.
Because as tempting as it is, to “package up” the actual yoga, into a monetizable thing:
Is that really what I want?
And: Have I just asked a rhetorical question?
😉
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So when I said “this business” I meant (yes) my income from Rock Star Yoga coaching, but also online yoga classes for friends, as well as my revenues as LS Harteveld.
As soon as those three together make me a baseline income, the job is off the table.
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And C. basically saved the day, to be honest…
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So the two stories I promised!!!
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Over the past year or so I ve started publishing my material for LS Harteveld, the new books, but every time I got stuck. It’s SO MUCH. I ve cleaned it up, but I m still looking at hundreds and hundreds of blog posts, divided over three websites and two languages. It’s a place to get lost. So what I have decided, is to publish ONE book with all my unpublished Dutch work, called “Blote Kont” (buck naked) the title I had always intended for this book. And to publish ONE giant, US-letter sized book with all my unpublished English work. And I m calling it All The Things.
This book is then at a much later stage to be divided into smaller (dare I say “more readable”?) books, but at least the bulk of it is out there.
At least, somewhere, somehow, I ve already gone through it once.
And then from there I can start making selections of what goes where.
I think it could easily make 8 books, but it’s hard to tell.
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So me basically “hacking” how I can start publishing this unruly pile of manuscripts in the form of hundreds of blogposts, was the first good and exciting news.
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And the other one, was that although I have not written one post from 1995? I know I m going to. It is tempting to just give the whole: “Oh LS Harteveld has left 2020” charade up, and start engaging for example on Twitter or Facebook. But I feel I really NEED to mentally be/ stay in 1995.
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I was right when I said Lauren Harteveld/ LS Harteveld, the most sexual side of me, simply cannot breathe here. That she has no choice but to leave 2020 and save herself.
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But in between everything that wasn’t working here in 2020 ( I still have uncontrollable rants about the disgusting level of civil obedience I see displayed in the Netherlands) (I speculate on this having something to do with why the Germans had no trouble invading the Netherlands) (and maybe I mumble something about backbones and balls being handed in when this crisis started) I could feel that my escape was still in 1995.
And this is how that story goes:
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Lauren has joined a local yoga studio. Lauren has a yoga diploma, because her mother gives training to teachers and she enjoyed being around on those weekend retreats.
However she has never considered actually doing something with it, nor does she particularly enjoy doing her own practice.
But now a new yoga studio has opened up in her town, and she joins, and she finds it is being ran by a super hot man in his 30’s she calls Jon (..)
His wife just had a baby (this is not information Lauren particularly enjoyed hearing, and she hopes she never has to hear the word wife and baby ever again, for it interferes with her hot fantasies) and they can use all the help they can get, starting this new yoga studio.
So Jon asks Lauren to start sub-teaching three night time classes.
Lauren (untrained, overworked, but eager to impress Jon with both her yoga poses and her flawless teaching – neither one of which skills she currently possesses) accepts his offer, and pretty soon gets strangled in all the heavy duty work and wonders when the unadulterated sex bit starts.
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So that is my letter for today! I feel it was extremely extensive, maybe we should rename it All The Things
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These may have been the two most exciting weeks of my life.
.
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the writer currently residing in 1995 ~Lauren/LS Harteveld
Slash 1995, French interview about his band Slash’s Snake Pit
This is a letter tomy creativity coach Sara Before our coaching call, I always give her a headsup.
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Dear Sara,
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My Miami Vice DVD box just arrived.
5 Seasons all neatly packed up into one box, which was by the way far sturdier than the reviews at the site were accusing it to be.
Either the packaging was changed or the people who had bits flying around didn’t understand the mechanism.
Which may be a nice metaphor for me or life itself:
If you have bits flying around, you don’t understand how it works.
But either way I have the entire Miami Vice body of work here at my fingertips, and it will get me through quarantine, just like others get through it with more modern media.
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I got the discs out in one piece but I have plenty of bits flying around in other places.
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And the title got me thinking: Miami Vice The definitive collection.
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And that it’s so easy to appreciate something once you know the ending. It’s a lot more difficult if you’re working with the indefinite collection. Such as your life.
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Only last Thursday, I cancelled my work, my writing under the name LS Harteveld.
What I basically did was bring her to 1995, where she will pick up diary writing as a 22 year old Lauren.
That is her project.
Like a performance art project.
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I m still not sure if it will be blogged immediately, here at the blog.
Or if it won’t come out until this age of C. is over.
Until it is safe to tell the story of how I spend my days, without people unconsciously checking which part is true, which is fiction, and if I m a responsible citizen.
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I don’t know what the rules are where you live, or how you interpret them, but I understand them here, as not being allowed to touch a man unless I m married to him or live together.
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I just tried to comment on that but when I opened my mouth only snakes, frogs and black tar came out.
That’s how toxic I feel.
How repressed.
How angry.
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So it’s back to cornerstones of society, marriages and “households”. You can have sex if you are a household.
It’s like we’re back in the 50’s Sara.
I heard they brought the term “head of the family” back in America.
My father used to speak of himself that way, in third person. And it was A JOKE!
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And ultimately it’s all for our own good, how patronizing.
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All that freedom we fought for, ever since the 60s.
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All that economic freedom we created, so many entrepreneurs who will be wiped away in one lock down.
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What will unemployment be in 3 months?
50%?
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I m shocked by how easy it is to get your population docile and obedient. And I don’t even think it’s conscious, really. I don’t believe there is some master plan or rising dictator behind all this. I think everybody is so afraid, firstly, of their own death.
But this goes further, it is a two-puncher:
First you are confronted with your own mortality.
And then you’re knocked out by being made responsible for the death of others.
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It would take a professional fighter to counterattack that and to immediately strike back. The only reason we are so obedient is because C. does not have a face. C. is not a foreign dictator. But is there not something inherently wrong with giving up your freedom to begin with? I find the willingness with which we comply, and that absolutely includes my own, absolutely shocking. That no political party in the Netherlands, no political party anywhere, has asked: “Where are our boundaries? When will we stop being so reactive?”
I ve always thought that if a war came, I would be too afraid to join the resistance. So in a way my own docile behavior disgusts me, yet I knew this was me. That I would never stand up for freedom.
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But now we have all these countries, an entire world, who say that we save the world by staying indoors and destroying our economy, demonize human touch.
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Then what world are we saving?
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Why does no one ask, where we are going to stop?
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It scares me.
God damn this entire letter is 100% not what I intended to write. I m sorry. I guess it comes out, the way it comes out. Just like it always has.
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But what I wanted to say is this: Last Thursday I moved to 1995. And I have arrived safely. Today I went back to 2020, to pick up the rest of me. Because as it turns out, there wasn’t any part of me that was willing to stay in a country, a time, ruled by fear. All my creative outlets will be written from 1995, for as long as this goes on.
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Maybe that is my message to the world, maybe that is what I realize true freedom is: People can tell you what to do. They can keep you from speaking your truth as well.
But no one can ever tell you what to think.
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The freedom of thought, of where you give your attention to, and what you are completely going to ignore for example by going to 1995 and leave the empty shell of your quarantined body behind; That freedom is entirely yours.
24 Hours after what I would call “my identity lock down”, where I announced I will no longer be LS Harteveld and why (I wrote 2 blog posts and reposted none of them because it’s just too depressive) it is hard to establish which part of feeling terrible is because of losing her?
And which part is inevitable, because it’s mourning of a lifestyle and a world that is no longer there and where carefree human relationships will not be fully restored until there is a vaccine?
See. Told you there was a reason I didn’t repost those blogs.
No one needs this.
So between the lines you can read that my conclusion is indeed that the reason today was a toughy, and that I had a very unwelcome migraine-to-go with my period that kept me in bed for a few hours – that I wouldn’t have felt better if I had not pulled the plug on being LS Harteveld after 14 years.
In summer 2019 I started a project 1994. And it’s a project that I have always felt deserved more dedication.
That I wasn’t fully IN IT.
The idea of living life as a 22 year old graduate in 1994, was appealing, but real life kept getting in the way.
Current day, kept getting in the way.
With the C. crisis, there has not been a better time to take art or escapism to a whole new level. And with most of us bound to home, also a very convenient one.
You can now create your own mental space, your own bubble.
And especially if you live alone, everything that happens in your life is more predictable than it usually is.
You can filter it out or reframe it, way easier.
So today I had that migraine. It almost felt like a transition, like time-travel. Shedding old skin, and becoming anew.
And in my 1995 I am not just into that year, not just basking in that decade of optimism;
I m mixing it with my favorite decade, the 80s.
With the pinky minty colors of Miami Vice.
I also like the bold, bright pallet of the 80s and the grungy arty New York feel of the 80s;
But those are not what I need right now.
I need flamingos. Diners with Formica chairs, in pastel colors. Don Johnson wearing espadrilles.
And to go to sleep knowing I will wake up in a different time.
Feeling shiny and new.
the writer formerly known as ~Lauren/LS Harteveld
Bring in the Pink Mint Flamingo Miami Vice 80s Retro Mood is one of the earliest chapters of The Covid Diaries
You can follow the (re-)creation of The Covid Diaries [summer 2021] on Facebook
& Twitter: @LSHarteveld
source BuzzFeed, click photo: “This is what the aids crisis looked like in the 80s”
It’s noon on a Thursday, and the past 24 hours I spent how many of them on content I ultimately did not post?
Five hours?
Seven?
My most recent accomplishment is deleting a 20 minute video for a YouTube channel under my real name, after editing it and writing out the description in the box..
The only thing I have been confidently sharing is my Dutch work under my real name. That is either “just” yoga or it is really loving and safe.
No feathers are ruffled.
Which is a very small part of me, the part that actually moves through life offering real yoga or soothing art.
Rock Star Yoga, my English work under my real name, is bigger.
And LS Harteveld?
Ooohh… LS Harteveld is definitely the largest part of me.
The raw message that comes out exactly the way it comes out, and that answers to no one.
That? I have in spades.
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Or had until the Corona crisis.
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Because I really don’t have anything to say, until there is a vaccine and we can talk about sexuality in a normal way. Until that time, LS Harteveld doesn’t have a place in this world. This is not her world.
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LS Harteveld, the pen name I have been using since 2006, came into being the year I became single.
Her specific goal was to conquer her fears of STD’s/ STI’s/aids, and go beyond to find out what her true sexuality was. Who was hiding under all that fear?
Not fear of death, but of being banished from society for being sexual.
It is only until recently that I realized that I had been suffering from a social phobia, and had been the victim of mental abuse, similar to pregnancy being the stick to beat Christian girls with.
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Just like it is a thin line between “Don’t get pregnant.” and “Don’t have sex at all.”, it was a thin line between “Have safe sex.” and “Don’t have sex at all.”.
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And the irony is: I had hacked this.
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I came to understand what ambient abuse is, what taking your own responsibility is. And I became a master at tackling every conversation that contained unspecified expectations, and ruthlessly forced the sender of such things to specify EXACTLY what they were suggesting would happen if I did not behave according to their standards. Or even what their standards were. I no longer accepted any responsibility for other people projecting their fears of being socially judged, onto me. That is, until Corona.
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Because as trained as I am to confront people who pretend to be on the look out for my safety, when it’s their ego I m supposed to protect;
I have no answer to anything, if you threaten me with being responsible for the death of the elderly and the sick.
If me leaving the house equals sick people dying, I don’t just not want to leave the house;
I don’t want to live.
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My entire life (as LS Harteveld) is based on freedom, and in creating the space to live free.
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I remember when I was still deep into my phobia, and the few friends I had confided in didn’t understand why me and my boyfriend didn’t just get tested so the fear would be over. Because the fear would not be over. I would have created a situation where I would no longer have to deal with the fear, because I had created a contained environment. I wanted more.
And one night, when I was in my late twenties, I suffered from an extremely violent panic attack, fueled by an infection of a tooth. And it was in that moment, trembling and suffering from diarrhea, seated on the toilet, that I decided: “No more. Give me your best shot, and show me everything you’ve got while you can, Fear, because I don’t know where you thought this was going but I am Not.Backing.Down.”
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It was in that night that the real me was born. The one who would never bow to fear ever again. Who would look everything right in the eye. Death. Judgement. Social exclusion. Sorry, not sorry, but No! None of those things will ever be a good enough reason to dance to the beat of what society wants me to do.
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And I began to understand that the sex education based on “Do it safe” had missed a very important aspect: Risk assessment.
That it’s not about “staying safe”;
It’s about understanding what you are risking (pregnancy, death, stigma, social exclusion) as a result of any encounter you have.
The revenues have to outweigh the risks.
It’s not rocket science, it’s not difficult, anyone can do the math and establish for themselves what their risk assessment is.
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But Corona brought something into the equation that makes this different: The lives of others.
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Doing your own risk versus benefit assessment for Corona is relatively easy. Even if you do it to flatten the curve, you have some sense of what you are willing to risk.
But making an assessment on whether you are willing to infect others, that is impossible and unbearable.
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To me “Stay safe”, the Corona mantra, doesn’t imply a concern for my well-being; It triggers the mental abuse of the eighties and I feel the pressure of having to behave in a way that doesn’t confront you with whatever it is you are not willing to face.
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At the very minimum “Stay safe” means: “Please behave in a way that my loved ones and people with poor health are safe.”.
Already something VASTLY different from what you are saying, but okay. I ll keep them safe by living like a hermit and being called out on any social interaction I have.
But that doesn’t mean that I don’t feel we are not addressing the real underlying topic at hand.
Just like in the fifties and the eighties, the threat of social exclusion was not based on a risk assessment with pregnancy or aids being the cons, but on “underbelly emotions” of being punished for having sex;
“Stay safe” doesn’t have anything to do with my well-being;
and very little with the well-being of other people either.
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I would be very surprised if “Stay safe” would not be code for everything we have not come to terms with..
If it wasn’t an expression of a process of risk assessment that was halted in its steps.
And that couldn’t be finished because the thoughts of loved ones dying or of our own mortality – stepped in and took over.
And maybe “Stay safe” also doesn’t need to be improved.
The thought process doesn’t need to be completed.
As long as the majority of people is okay with it, why bother digging deeper into your fears?
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But to me “Stay safe”, and all the uncomfortable unfinished thoughts that surround it, all the choices that we’re not making, all the things we’re not saying and the responsibility for banning human touch and interaction that nobody seems to process as to how this affects our humanity; That is what “Stay safe” means to me.
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“Stay safe” means
“Mommy is busy and doesn’t want to be bothered with your difficult questions.”
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It means, do as you’re told, stay indoor, don’t fuck, don’t kiss, don’t hug, don’t hold somebody’s hand on their fucking death bed or you are responsible for the death of others.
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LS Harteveld means:
I don’t want to live in that world.
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Maybe others can live, because I stay indoors for days on end. And because my purpose is apparently to be a good citizen, protect, serve and become a human shield for the innocent. And until my redemption, my body and my touch have become weapons of mass destruction.
If we are sinners for having a body than Corona is the 2020 version of the original sin.
I feel the only way out is to destroy the part of myself that is physical, sexual and free.
The part that is LS Harteveld
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The LS Harteveld that was born in 2006, does not want to live in this world. Doesn’t want the 2020 version of “Why don’t you just both get tested and get it over with.”
She wants to look fear in the eye, yell at it that it better give me its best shot now that it still can because starting tomorrow we take matters into our own hands and Not.Back.Down.
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And that is what makes me a mass murderer.
It is exactly the kind of mentality that we don’t need.
Mommy really, REALLY, cannot be bothered with people asking difficult questions, which is why I have decided my time has come.
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And yes, maybe LS Harteveld will be reborn after a vaccine for Corona has been found.
And then you could say that me pulling her out of all this is my way of keeping her alive.
Of keeping her safe.
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She’s been through enough in the eighties, and she’s not going through it again.
Because that’s the biggest lesson for me, in the eighties.
It all starts with being present.
People can’t abuse you, nor project their fears onto you, if you are not there.
The first choice, in any relationship, is whether you show up.
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By cancelling my alias, the truest part of who I am, leaving an empty, dutiful shell that will become a successful model citizen, where no one will die because I wasn’t careful enough, I have done everything within my power to save a world I do not want to live in.
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the writer formerly known as ~Lauren/LS Harteveld
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New Post Added:
This post received an unofficial part 2, shortly after it was posted.
It was written on Facebook, but now that I am collecting all posts for The Covid Diaries, I ve decided to include it here.
This is what it said:
“BY CANCELLING MY ALIAS, THE TRUEST PART OF WHO I AM” March 19, 2020 written on Facebook
“By cancelling my alias, the truest part of who I am, leaving an empty, dutiful shell that will become a successful model citizen, where no one will die because I wasn’t careful enough, I have done everything within my power to save a world I do not want to live in.”
from The Last Letter of LS Harteveld
I think I will write more about LS Harteveld, how she came to life 2006, the excitement of my first website (since 2010!), and everything that happened, but not today. For now I feel so incredibly tired, as if I have completed something big. And I have.
But also: The real work is just beginning. So many things to review, and books to print. Writing everything, channeling LS Harteveld, was only the beginning. And after death comes life.
I believe it is time for me/Lauren, to dive head first into my performance project 1994. Or March 1995 as it is already. And I can’t do that living in 2020 at the same time.
Although Project 1994 has started summer 2019, the Corona crisis has finally given me a reason to mentally leave 2020, and bury myself in 1995. You can read more about Project 1994 HERE
So we will meet again. Either you’ll see me as curator and moderator, and publisher of LS Harteveld books. Or you’ll one day see me publish Lauren’s secret 1995 diary, and know it started today. Maybe after the Corona crisis Lauren will come back to whatever year it is then. Maybe she’ll stay in the 90s and keep communicating with us through books, published never as blogposts. But as complete diaries, books that transcend us to a different time.
For now I like to think she is a 22 year old graduate, trying to figure out life. Because that is exactly how I feel.
the writer formerly known as ~Lauren/LS Harteveld
The Last Letter of LS Harteveld is one of the earliest chapters of The Covid Diaries
Does it require an explanation why I didn’t write, for two months? Especially since my last entry early January ended with the militant: “But I will put one foot in front of another, and become a writer. Alone if I have to. ” It hardly seems on point that I have not written anything since. Well, yes and no. I didn’t give up on the idea of becoming a writer but it turned out, no writing is required. Or even desired. Because I went through my old manuscripts and diaries and it’s all there. An entire body of work, as if it dropped right out of the sky. I honestly had no idea I had written that much. So I don’t need to write, in order to become a published writer. I need to organize, curate, filter, edit, embellish, smooth out.
The finite conclusion really is, and I wish it wasn’t, that in order to become a writer I need to be doing the exact same work I (still) do to make a living. The same work I hate so much. Eight months since graduation, the loneliness is daunting and my ass feels like it will fall off one day. But I guess that is a shitty reason not to work on publishing my own books right? Whether you’re sitting down every night to write new work, or to edit your existing work, doesn’t really make a difference for the sagginess of your ass. But it felt different though. And the idea that my road to becoming a published author, included expanding my ass-sitting hours from 8 to 10, doing the same boring work I’m already way overdue with and sick of, was not appealing.
So although I was thrilled to find I was basically already done writing, the conclusion I had maxed out on my solitary desk-sitting-hours, and that something needed to change to avoid “death by copy editing”, was something I needed to come to terms with.
This weekend I will start looking for a new job. Something where I have to leave home for, see people, have a laugh or two. But God, eight months in, and I have to start all over again. So depressing. In combination with my love life which has absolutely bottomed out since January, I really had little to be excited about. Both the Slash painter and Bear are up till their necks into their responsibilities towards their families. With Slash I kind of knew that of course, but nevertheless it still hurt. And with Bear too, I just want to shake him up. But I don’t know if I want to do that because I want to yell: “Pick me! Pick me!” or “Run while you can!”. Or if it really is none of my fucking business how he chooses to live his life, and which responsibilities he accepts. His purpose, what he has to do in this life; It really is none of my business. I know that, I do. But sometimes I think I spent the last two months keeping myself from contacting him, and trying to get through to him. Through to them.
It cost a lot of energy and I’m still not “done” or at peace about Bear or Slash. I find the whole situation extremely unsettling. But two months is enough, and I am no longer going to wait for them to change their minds. I need to get on with my life. Especially after news came about Slash.
It is tempting to go into detail as to how I found out about either one of them. What was going on with Slash, what with Bear. Who told me what, what I heard from others, and what I picked up intuitively or even paranormally. But it doesn’t really matter. The stories are similar. Both could have chosen for me, and both didn’t. And I didn’t do anything to change their minds.
Technically Slash doesn’t even know how I feel. I never said anything. I can still see his jacket covering my coats at December 31st when he came in to eat oliebollen but I never said it. I still only think about Bear when I think of sex, but I never told him. And besides, wouldn’t that be a reason for him not to see me? That I’m all about sex, and that it’s superficial and that he now wants a real woman with whom he can have a future together?
I think the difference between me and the men I’m in love with, is that to me a man I have sex with, or want to have sex with, is automatically extremely meaningful to me. But they are different, they have broader tastes. Slash dated many women before he was married for sure, and maybe even now. He could be having an affair with the bar lady from Warhol. It certainly seemed that way.
And Bear has always had other lovers throughout the five years we were seeing each other. He seemed to have received a calling to settle down and get serious, but I don’t understand it because it’s so not him. Or is it just so not me? Am I projecting how special these men are to me, and my conscious choice for a tailor-made, unconventional sex life, instead of working within the boundaries of what it is society wants from us? Is this all me?
After two months I’ve decided I’m done caring. I’m done thinking about it, done worrying about it and if they would actually need saving, I’m the last person who should be doing that. Because it would screw up what we have. It’s an entirely backwards power dynamic if I start interfering, claiming I know things better. I always had faith in Bear making his own decisions. Always. There is no exception that says: “Except when you don’t choose me.”
It is so simple that I can’t believe I actually spent two months wondering if I had to offer or say something. Or if they were going to turn around. It’s so disgusting. Almost as disgusting as getting a saggy ass, not publishing my own books and having to write basically the exact same diary entry twice, two months after you already knew what you had to do.
Let’s get to work.
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~Lauren An unexamined life is not worth living
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December 2023/ January 2024
This series is currently being updated, and will be published into
A letter from a stranger diary 1994 – 1996 including book 2, Dear Nikki
Saturday evening April 25, 2020
This is a letter to
24 Hours after what I would call “my identity lock down”, where I announced I will no longer be LS Harteveld and why (I wrote 2 blog posts and reposted none of them because it’s just too depressive) it is hard to establish which part of feeling terrible is because of losing her?
LS Harteveld 