Several days ago, we went to a wine tasting dinner. There, I learned quite a lot about a couple who joined our table as the evening was drawing to a close. Based on what I learned during the waning moments of our enjoyable evening, I pursued my knowledge about the couple we met. What I learned scared me. The fear did not arise from what I learned about the couple, but how quickly and easily I learned so very much about them, based only on a few casual comments during conversation.
Then, today, after I posted some comments, in response to someone I thought exhibited stupidity of a high order, on a national website, it occurred to me that the target of my contempt could easily find more about me. Even though my Facebook profile is sparse to non-friends, my name is there. And, from that, my blog is easily found. As is my address. And my political leanings are open books to anyone caring to search for my political attitudes; they’re all “out there” on social media and like places.
We readily, and without much thought, reveal far too much to far too many people. Without looking back (and only just thinking briefly about what I’ve written), I realize I have revealed so much about myself that I have no hope for ever clutching onto real, comforting privacy. I’ve said too much. I’ve expressed opinions about politics, sex, religion, war, drugs, reading, farming, foods, misery, poetry, writing, deviance, disease, lust, orgasms (I seem to have suggested that more than once), heart disease, racism, poverty, racism, wind power…god, the list is endless. Were I the deviant bastard I think is lurking just beyond the doorway, I could have ammunition for a dozen lifetimes of extortion.
I bet I’m not alone. I’ll bet I know people nearby who would not want me to publish what they think I know about them. And I probably won’t. But I might. I might, especially, if I need funds to finance my relocation to Central America.