What Lauren Lives

Lauren is still getting used to her world.

Her world is still getting used to Lauren.

She stumbles where she would swoosh, stammers where she would speak, sits slowly, still unsure of how to swing a skirt over even a low bench.

She still sings; music moves her the same, although "man, I feel like a woman" now sends shockwaves, shivers, spineward.

Lauren gets looks. Lauren gets looks of curiosity from children, of love from those who know her, who know where she comes from; Lauren gets looks like Lauren came into the world on the bottom of a boot. A boot that had walked through a hundred miles of shit. Lauren gets looks from herself, posing back at herself, posing as herself, posing. She poses. In front of clothes-shop windows, reflection as feminine as the mannequins without heads who stare with their slender shoulders into the flowing of bodies on the street. Lauren looks at the looks she gets, lucky to get good looks or to feel good-looking and even luckier to not care. Those moments are rare, but they're there. They. They are there.

Lauren looks, and tries not to stare, but she looks good in that dress; yellow goes with her hair. Lauren is foreign to herself, even when she is feeling herself, even when Jon is long-gone and she can breathe for herself, Lauren is still getting used to her world, because it isn't her world.

Lauren gets more than looks; she gets told. People tell Lauren he has great style, she says she, they say nice to meet you Lauren because they hadn't been speaking to Lauren when they'd said he had great style they'd been speaking to someone who looked and acted like him who suddenly surprised them by turning into someone else. Sometimes Lauren loves the look of excitement swirled into acceptance that appears on the faces of friends who know, behind the smoke-and-mirror smile, how much Lauren needs, in these early days of getting used to her world, validation. Some days she wishes they hadn't reacted at all.

Lauren gets more than looks; she gets told. People tell Lauren she's wearing the wrong shoes, even though these are size nine heels she's wearing on her size nine feet, and they fit perfectly comfortably thank you. They inform her that she's wearing the wrong top - sometimes they imply this with sniggers and points at the oh what's the point Lauren doesn't want to be defined by the pointers and the gigglers and the looks like you've worn the wrong shoes today

Lauren gets it. She's confusing. She's fusing, and conning, and amusing to look at to say what the fuck at to ask what is that at. She doesn't know either. 

She emerged, in part, through art: a feminine ginge at the Edinburgh Fringe, dress rehearsal and dress run and running, in a dress. She played Carol. She played guitar. She played with the lines she hadn't learned off by heart. She sang with a woman she'd cast as himself. She sang as a woman and she sang of a woman who wanted a heart, that's what she said, she sang from her heart, of a heart in a bed. She woke up from sleeping, song still playing, still playing, heart still beating, still nothing, drums still beating, still.

Lauren is a performance, an experiment, she can be interpreted, she has critics, she is finished and she needs work. She exists only onstage, and the world is her stage, but the world is not her world. She's at an early stage, a small stage in a dark room with a damned fan blasting white noise. She loves it here. Her friends are here. She hopes to make some fans of her own. They keep you cool when you're too hot. Sometimes she is.

Sometimes, she is.

Lauren is still getting used to her world.

Her world is still getting used to Lauren.