Mercy: Ephemera

My bookcase fell over, so I thought I’d catalog some of the old paperbacks for my Good Reads lists, but found myself far too lazy. I took pictures instead, so I can add the titles at leisure.

Also! If you’re looking at these and wondering why the hell they’re so tattered and worn (and you’re hoping you never lent me a book), don’t worry: I don’t abuse books.  Most of these I’ve had for years or found in a bargain bin at the used book store; I can’t bring myself to toss books in the trash, and I know no one else would take care of them if I just gave them away.  With me, they have a home for life.

(Note to self, that half book is The Machineries of Joy. Find the other damn half.)

Onymity

Even my spell check doesn’t recognize it. Nor onymous, which (no matter how much it brings to mind a baleful Die Fledermaus) is merely the opposite of anonymous.

I’ve slapped my name on everything these past six or seven years.  But the last two, I’ve fallen silent for the most part. I find it daunting, for the first time in a long time, to know that people are reading what I put out there.  That there are friends and family and even acquaintances who run a search on my name. Just because.  I’ve found myself constrained, seeing the number of news readers that check my main blog. I don’t want to speak intimately to so many people anymore.  I don’t want them to know me, or more accurately yet perversely, know what I want to write.  Still, fading away into just another anonymous name brings a sense of loneliness.

I’d rather write here, not because I feel it’s obscure, or that I’m somehow hidden. Because it feels more intimate.  Much like dancing alone through the house, I don’t mind if anyone watches.  If it bores or embarrasses you, ignore what you see.

This is for me.