I’m ashamed to admit my guilty pleasure. Over the last five months, I’ve cultivated this vice, and like clockwork, about once a month, I fall right back into its grip. It always starts innocently enough, like a naïve fish going for bait. I know the energy surrounding it is low; it’s built on hatred, ego, and even violence. Yet, here I am, still suffering from a three-hour session yesterday.
Not even Japan, halfway across the world from where it all began, can protect me from its pull. I can only imagine what it must be like for those poor souls in the U.S., trapped in this storm with no escape. It’s like a weed with rhizome roots, no matter how many times you pull it out, it pops up again. Or like a tick that buries itself in your skin and refuses to let go. Even after I think I’ve shaken it, it clings to my mind, refusing to leave.
Enough said. You’ve probably guessed by now. My guilty pleasure is listening to “Not Like Us” by Kendrick Lamar, a Drake diss track. It’s pure hate, with Kendrick calling Drake a pedophile through clever wordplay. But worst of all… it’s an absolute bop. Every month, I find myself craving it, and once I listen, I can’t stop. I’ll watch the music video, a random streamer reacting to the music video, compilations of streamers reacting, and then, if that’s not enough, a YouTuber reacting to a streamer reacting to the video.
I’ve recently started using my phone only twice a week (it’s still on for alarms and texting my boss about work), and it’s been going well. Without my phone constantly competing for my attention, I spend my downtime meditating, doing yoga, reading, and writing. Then, I let my YouTube-obsessed self have its fun twice a week. Yesterday was one of those days. And there I was, bopping my head to the song, wanting to crip-walk down the streets of Compton.
But today’s a new day. I woke up ready to return to my peaceful, meditative life. I was back at work, weighing and bagging clementines with an elderly woman whose husband owns the farm. We made small talk, about clementines, the weather, the usual. But the whole time, in the back of my mind, or really, center stage in my mind, played, “tryna strike a chord and it’s probably A-Minorrrrrrrrrrr.”
I’ve been here before. Two years ago, during a ten-day silent meditation retreat, Lil Dicky’s “Freaky Friday” played on repeat in my head. If that wasn’t bad enough, the inner mind DJ got stuck on one specific line: “I’m Kendall Jenner, I have a vagina.” There I was, deep in meditation, bombarded by Kendall Jenner’s anatomy. I swore I’d never listen to a song with low-vibration lyrics again.
But oh boy, someone didn’t learn his lesson.
That was two years ago, though. I’ve since logged countless hours of meditation. I’ve sat with every emotion imaginable. I’ve endured knee pain, back pain, you name it. I’m ready now. The time has come to take a stand.
I sat down on my mat, legs crossed, eyes softly open with a gentle gaze. I elongated my spine, imagining a string pulling me up from the top of my head. My focus was intense but gentle, zeroed in on my breath. After about ten or twenty minutes, I felt euphoric sensations flow with each inhale and exhale. The stage was set. I told myself, “I will not let Kendrick rap about Drake’s pedophilia in my head.”
Of course, telling your mind not to play a song is like telling someone not to think of a white elephant. You just thought of a white elephant, didn’t you? And now, if you didn’t before, I’m sure you just did. But I was determined. I was going to stay with my breath, no matter what.
In and out.
In and out.
I was determined to dwell in a universe where only the breath existed.
In and out.
In and out.
And then, suddenly, there was Kendrick, whispering ever so slightly,
“Tryna strike a chord…”
But I knew this wasn’t gonna be easy. Back to the breath.
In and out.
In and out.
I stayed grounded, like a tall tree in a storm, my branches shaking but my roots firmly planted in the earth. Then, a little louder this time,
“Tryna strike a code…”
I couldn’t lose this battle. I went right back to my breath. Just as I thought I’d made it back safely to the refuge of mindfulness…
“…it’s probably A-…”
At the last second, I yanked my attention back to my out-breath. I managed to cut the sentence off, but to my dismay, the final out-breath came out in perfect harmony, as an A-minor chord.