'Authenticity' has become quite the buzzword and, I think, for good reason. We don't really project our authentic selves via the plate-glass window that is social media (I mean, until you buy curtains, you don't really walk around naked. Well. Most of the time anyway...), and I think we waste away in that virtual world as it bleeds into the actual. I mean, we can try for honesty, transparency, but then we're, what? We're *trying* which seems to shoot authenticity right in the foot. I don't know. It's tricky. I think the path to an authentic, transparent self is paved, not with posts and keystrokes and hashtags, but with old-fashioned legwork, old-fashioned eccentricity. Maybe.
Well, anyway. It's one of the those mornings that I crack open my brain, rummage around, and write down whatever I find there, unplanned and unedited (talk about nakedness and plate-glass windows), and see what happens. I don't know. I guess what I'm saying is that one day I want to be the old woman with the crazy-long hair who is rumored to dance under the full moon, torch in hand, naked or not--she couldn't give a fig.