Life is a construction, as are our personalities (I am an INTJ on the Meyers-Briggs test, "The Scientist," if you can believe the results), but we must show our hands when those constructions come to obscure the tiny vibrating strand of truth that is authenticity.
I haven't posted, reader, in two weeks.
It is another semester and the prison guard needs my steady paw. My scrutiny. She needs any help I will give her, honestly, because at the moment it seems as though she could build a house of these papers-to-be-graded and move into it.
What was it we were discussing?
Ah yes, authenticity. These photographs seem to me to move too far from the real-Luco. The actual-me. They cross some unclear boundary and become something-altogether-else.
Perhaps I myself become Hipster-Luco.
Gangnam Style while maintaining my composure, but still making insightful, witty remarks.
And this picture? I know how the prison guard defaced me. It was MS Paint.
My blood is a wave flooding the shore.
Do not be confused, reader. I apologize for my lapse.
Do not fear, I am your Luco, only. Although I understand in a thunderous way the appeal of rockabilly, flannel shirts, wide-framed glasses, and tights.
We are changed each time we interact. We change each time we move toward or away. Each time we reach or do not reach.
And this day too we have the ability to become someone new. Even if we are reborn to merely grapple again with our own pathos. Bathos? There is something encouraging in this, although it also seems strange to me, and frightening. We should take more care with all we do.
Before we die and there is no more chance for change.