Day In The Life

 

First we all produced our own CD, using a digital garage band to pretend we had a group. Then we self-published our own bestseller, imitating someone else's imitation of someone else's fake versions of Rumi and Hafez. Now we've reached the final stage: we're all self-appointed spiritual teachers.

This body is a hot mess on the kitchen floor, fingernails engraving hieroglyphs of grief in the linoleum. But almost instantly we can prop our higher chakras in front of the computer to give a guided zoom meditation, our lower ones garbed in the same pajama bottoms we've been wearing all week.

Hypnotized into what they think is "meditation" by our carefully cultivated life-coach voice, everyone feels great. For about 20 minutes. Then we shut down our PC and descend into the garage to scream at the teen-aged daughter, still asleep in her car. Obviously she wasn't social distancing last night. Reminder to self: at the next boomer-zoom, talk about "trauma." People love it. The new "holier than thou" is "more traumatized than thou."

It's four o'clock. Time to do a bottle of Cabernet. Just another day in the life of a new age spiritual teacher, whose avatar, the version everyone knows on line, is a disembodied stream of electrons in an underground fiber optic cable, a slick emoji with a digital smile, and digital tears. I'll take your workshop if you take mine. 😂