A Paucity of Faces

burned-in-time-series-1-1532138-1920x1280I am blonde.  As blonde as the day is long and the river is wide.  I saw my aunt and we ate chili and talked about her trip to the U.K. and I absorbed some of her magical presence.  Or as much as you can in a few hugs and an hour.  I feel like I tried to pay attention, to absorb her face.  She’s half of The Faithful Light, anyway.  You can’t fear anything around her.  You can’t worry.  You sit up straight and tall and try and tell her the best parts of yourself and are utterly secure in the fact that she sees the rest of it and loves it.  People try and do that for one another, but usually, you have to dance around the judgment.  Part of her magic is that the judgment still happens, only the judgment is that you remain worthy of her love.   It was too fast, really.  I think of her missing you and oh, that can make me want to cry faster than anything.

I am not currently drinking soda.  Or pop.  This is day three.  This is intentional, however, this is not necessarily how life is going to go forever.  Just for now.  Just because it is probably a bad idea to drink diet soda when you’re feeling overcaffeinated even when you’re sitting still and yawning.  It’s probably a bad idea in general.  I am doing that, at least.

Nicknames is what’s on the docket:

I used to get beauty pageant applications as a girl, but they weren’t addressed to me.  They were addressed to Drista.  A typo somewhere that we giggled and laughed about because how silly and odd and out there and weird would it be for anyone to look at me and think of beauty pageants and it became something of a nickname, along with Krista-pista…sensible with my near-legendary levels of moodiness.

I remember on an old blog which must still exist, but I haven’t seen in about a hundred years, I did a post called Hilarious Huckapoo, which was a play on the typo that some teacher made in some old school writing project where we had to give her a handwritten copy of a story and she typed it into a book.  I wrote about our landlord’s cockatoo, possibly named Athena, though I think actually that was the landlord’s wife…at any rate, when the book came back, the word was cockapoo.  This was, especially to a first grader, hilarious.  I don’t know why I was thinking of it the day I made the blog post, I mean if you asked me for a reason for half of the 2100+ titles in this blog, I couldn’t give you a thrilling backstory for each of them.  I just called it that.  So imagine my surprise – confusion/paranoia – when I started getting mail addressed to Hilarious Huckapoo.   It stopped after a while, but it was a very strange circumstance to be so weirdly harvested and nobody looks twice.

To me, it does sort of add up with this notion that people don’t know who the fuck I am, or care, and that I can just be a typo to them, just a listing in a database that can corrupt and corrode and it means as nothing to those in charge.  Which is bullshit, but has prevailed for quite a long time as a theme in my personal mythos.

Have to think differently now.

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