I must have over three thousand of them now, after years of receiving them. I'm talking about the decorative name-and-address labels, on their folded backing in groups of anywhere from twenty to eighty individual strips, which charities send me because I made the mistake, in my weakness, of sending one or two of them some money. I saw the pictures of the pathetic children, abused dogs and starving kittens and I couldn't resist. I think the money goes to printing these labels rather than helping people or animals. The extent, the interconnectedness, and the outright waste of the charity industry appalls me.

I've written about these things before. They come in clusters around holidays, and I often get multiple editions from a single charity whose label list has been activated more than once by citations from its fellow machines. The graphics of these things are usually ugly, garish, and primitive. There is no way to get off these lists, since they are not "commercial" and thus not subject to any restrictions. I am indifferent to commercial junk mail; it's just another way to try to sell me something and does not play on my emotions. But the charity junk mail makes me angry, because it is so manipulative and insidious. And its frequency makes it more like e-mail spams than postal ads.

It also makes me angry for personal reasons. Every name-tag has on it my mundane name, the name that pays bills and is on the driver's license and social security roster and voting lists. It is not my real name, which is Pyracantha. Every folder full of labels that appears whispers my mundane name, the name that took tests in school and signs checks and reluctantly pays taxes. The mundane name is the weight of the dreary world, repeated to me three thousand times by the exploiters of the wretched plucking at my sleeve.

Someday soon, when I am able to find a proper fireplace, I am going to throw all of these name labels into the fire. I will burn them and keep burning them as I get more. I might keep a few of the better-designed ones for putting on envelopes, but the others will go into the late winter fire, purifying my existence, at least for a while, from the grey leaden weight of the hopeless world.

Posted at 2:45 am | link