Footprints...

Intentional or not, we all make a statement to the world about who we are. Our footprints on this planet may be similar, but each one is unique.

Certainly we learn a bit about a person by the car they drive. Is it a mom & pop mobile, indistinguishable from many others in the maddening crowd? Does it blend in, like the drivers themselves? Maybe it’s a truck with huge muddy tires, rims that come to the roof-line of everything else on the road? What about a convertible sports car, or a Hybrid? And who drives that Junker? Do they not have any money, or is it that they just don't give a shit about cars, happy with something cheap that gets them from here to there? Of course if a car has bumper-stickers, the guesswork gets pretty easy. Political stickers fade on rear bumpers, long after candidates have lost or won elections. Passions expressed with decals that support or condemn a myriad of causes, an unruly mob, disjointed. Profiles of a six-point buck flanked by hunting rifles. The traditional image of an Aryan Jesus, beatific with his upward stare and open palms, crowded to one side by the bright red decals of multiple Redskins helmets. Rebel flags and peace signs catch different rides. “My kid is an honor student at Knox Landing Middle School”. There is no shortage of “In Memorial” tributes to a loved one, peeling memories baked by the sun, seen in reverse by the driver looking in their rear view mirror. Will that be my legacy?

The same questions and judgments apply to us as individuals walking through this world. Is the guy in a badly rumpled suit wearing the uniform of an equally depressing job? Does the lady in massive, tight jeans, her fleshy muffin, super-sized with too many McMeals, stretch-marked and gravity drunk, hanging over her belt...does she see herself differently than we do? The big guy swaggering in his T-shirt with the arms cut off, ragged...does he mistake brawn for power? The older lady in heels so high they could double as the business end of ice axes, the kid with his patterned boxers tied off at the base by jeans so baggy they look like he's about to enter a sack race at Camp Waywayonda. What about the couple that just passed by, very tastefully dressed, not too showy, not too dull...just right, well, just right for them at least? They pose together in the lobby mirror before venturing out to their audience. Why do we feel such a strong need to be...seen? Can you judge a book by its cover after all? Are the packaging and the package indistinguishable from one another?

These days, aside from our dress and personal appearance, many people wear living bumper stickers as well. Older veterans sport dark blue amoeba like shapes on hairy forearms, unidentifiable wading pools mark hanging skin. A massive shoulder, covered in jet black spears, a tribal statement of social edginess that has become a mainstream mockery of itself, struts by in the crowd. Please God, no more dream-catchers hanging on heavy white thighs... In the check-out line, among the living dead of Walmart, a little old lady, late 70's early 80's stooped over, her housedress as faded and worn as she is herself. Someone's sweet Grandma. On the back of her neck a circle of freshly inked snakes, angrily entwined, fangs exposed, threatening. True artistic talent to restroom scrawls and prison tats, we want to make a statement about ourselves. Indelible ink screams out from an epidermis canvas.

Our nests themselves speak volumes, happy to gossip and dish. They rarely keep secrets. From the books on the shelf or the magazines thrown, half open, onto the coffee table or the steamer trunk that acts as one, to the food in the fridge. An unwrapped piece of petrified Cheddar, teeth-marks on one side, a puzzle piece. Is the bathroom tub clean, the shower curtain torn, do the stained outlines of sandpaper feet in the tub prevent a fall? How long have those sheets been crumpled into a ball on the naked mattress?

Even more telling is the path we choose to take while navigating in traffic on the electronic highway. We drop crumbs along the way, marking our path. What's in our “favorites” folder on the laptop or iPad? Would Aunt Bee be shocked or just shake her head in amusement? What about her own files? Does she have kinks under her plump roundness? The music on our iPhone, our call records, the TV we watch, the electronic signature of our credit card and buying habits, all documented, footprints.

Everywhere we go, we leave our scat, just like everyone else, but still one of a kind. Any dog with a proper sniffer would know.

We wrap ourselves in comforters of our own making to insulate us from the rest of the world and show the face we paint for public consideration. From Owl butterflies with their huge eye spots that stare menacingly from outstretched wings, to stick insects, indistinguishable from any of the twigs they hang with, we pose, hide, posture and rage, celebratory in our unique aura. With every breath we take in this millisecond of life we're given, we leave footprints in the sand that can only be ours, unique to us only.

And then, when the inevitable tides of time wash our footprints away, we, and all of our decorated guises, manifestations of our desperate attempts to strut our uniqueness on stage, are gone forever, as if we had never existed. 

At that moment, and for all of eternity, we are everyman.

hmh