Essential Anonymity

The face you see in your mirror is another miracle. It is a reflection of a reflection — of your life and times and the place you live, and wherever else you roam. It is a reflection of what you think, of what you believe about yourself and about others, and of what it means to you to be alive.

A face is a story, told without words. It is a history that continues to unfold.

Mirrors; reflections; Faces. If I remember correctly, I saw the “unknown poet” at the intersection of Trade Street and High Street, while on an errand I had to run; it was a warm afternoon — too warm, really, for the heavy old sport coat he had on. I haven’t seen him since, but I’ve thought of him many times, and wondered if he’s still living. And isn’t it interesting, how any of us can be observed, written about, and read about, without ever knowing, and with no real threat to our essential anonymity? As with the man in the wool cap, it might almost be seen as a violation of privacy, if privacy truly exists.

I will note here that my novel, A Listening Thing, is full of such violations, in the name of social commentary, and of the narrator’s self-examination and humor. In the process, he violates his own anonymity, which is only right and fair.

We are all, to some degree, anonymous performers. Living so close together makes us so. A hike through the wilderness temporarily removes that pseudo-requirement. In the wilderness, we are everything. In the city, we are more inclined to think we are merely our individual selves, though we are just as much everything and everyone there, if not more so.

[ 1979 ]