I was five when I saw my first dead animal on the road–a flat patch of fur on a long, gray plate of highway coming closer so I could make out the brown and black stripes of a tail that waved to every speeding car for help.  I too was defiant of death and screamed at my papa to stop so we could save Rocky Raccoon; but, eventually our car was on top of Rocky, and I had to make a fast wish for his tail to grab on to the belly of our car so we could deliver him safely to a park on the edge of some deep woods where he'd live and play in peace.  When I  looked out the back window though, Rocky Raccoon was still glued to the road, his tail frantically waving at us to come back. 

The promise of a Happy Meal was useless.  I settled myself into a day of tears, and then I was hit with the greatest idea–a bridge for animals to safely cross over roads and highways.  I stopped crying and started explaining, except Papa Ben could not understand so I drew him a carefully-colored picture with smiling cats and dogs, deer and raccoons, even an octopus crossing over a bridge on our street. 

My quixotic vision stayed on the fridge for years slowly covered by bills and scraps of important dates and numbers until it disappeared completely.  Today, I am ecstatic to discover my picture was not lost after all but found its way off the fridge, out the house, and into the hands of a civic engineer with the immense sense and heart of a child.

(Papa is a colloquial term in Missouri for grandfather)

Photo courtesy of unusualplaces.org

It’s been nearly ten years since I first asked Pete to take me to the club with him.  I thought it would be good for our relationship to share a hobby.  We don't have kids and Pete’s allergic to pets.  I wanted to share something with him besides space, you know?  And his meetings really cut into our meals together, but that’s the nature of competition. They say if you want to succeed, you got to sacrifice; but, I hate eating alone and Pete knows that. 

Maybe  I was feeling insecure too; like, what if he met some woman that was really into water-car sports and then presto, I was history.  I should have known better after the first three or ten or… thirty meetings that no such woman exists. But by then, Pete had taken me on board as a full partner into his weird and wet world.  We and us and ours flew off his lips whenever he talked about Flipper–that's what he calls his car. 

We won one race, and Pete kissed me so hard I was shocked; I thought I’d swallowed a mouthful of sea water.   And it’s sweet really ‘cause every other week, Pete rotates the trophy between his nightstand and mine.

I guess I'm like this car… I’ve adapted.  It was my idea to put up the umbrella so I can read my book.

Photo courtesy of IcreativeD

I know you:  refusing to squeeze into labels, avoiding choices that leave your conscience and conscious at civil war.  Your identity cannot be defined by binaries because you run, no, drive freely along life’s spectrum of multiplicity.  “Or” is not in your vocabulary.  You don’t vote Democrat or Republican; you vote.  When asked to specify gender on applications, you always write “other”.   You’re a rebel and a reactionary.  You crave freedom but not total independence (hence, the back seat).

I understand life hasn’t been easy for you.  The kids make you drop them off three blocks from school and the open relationship you have with your partner requires more maintenance than your dream machine, you dedicated your 30’s to construct.  But you’re not sorry; you are everything but sorry.

I see pride in your eyes as the double doors of Wal-mart part before your presence, one hand tipping a bag of Funyuns into your mouth, the other swinging a mesh bag of vegetables and strawberry-flavored milk by your side.  Keys jingle in your pocket as you stride on your way, neither a smile nor a frown close to disturbing the shape of your mouth.

Photo courtesy of http://absolutelymadness.org/

The bathroom may have been one of the least charted frontiers for Bookface, but now Zuckerface wants  more access to our private parts when we are at our most vulnerable–on the toilet or washing ourselves.  Ostensibly, the Bookface Shower Curtain serves to give your shower curtain a virtual social life too.  Sure the product seems innocuous, even, fingers crossed, tongue in cheek, but it begs the questions, ” Does it come with the cute, baby-faced guy” and “Where will it all end?”

In tears, I predict.  We already turn to Bookface to share too many experiences and build friendships that Bookface helpfully counts for us.  It  is with us at the grocery store buying broccoli, when our dog gets his anal glands drained by the vet, when we turn 21 and succeed with all the misery and ugliness of failure to do 21 body shots.  And of course our words aren’t enough, there are pictures too.

Bookface knows what we think about our boss, our best friend, our old PE coach, last night’s hook-up because we have given it unfettered, unfiltered access to our firsts, our routines, our plans, our dreams, our best angle, our bed-head, our most embarrassing moments, our most sacred memories and everything in between called our lives.   And like a dealer, Bookface wants us to do more–be more social, more public, more connected.

With the Bookface Shower Curtain we can at least be thinking “social” when we are washing our genitals or having a bm for the low price of  $19.99.  However, what we end up paying will be something very real and personal when there is little space for the transitory thought that doesn’t need to be posted and when there is no place left for solitude that might reveal some gems of self-reflection.  To quote an Irish friend’s paraphrasing of a Native American adage, “The child who cannot sit alone in its own nappy of  solitude and be as happy as a pig in shit is one fucked-up child.”

And what kind of “social” creatures  are Bookface and other social networks  creating?  Is Bookface making us more patient with each other or better listeners?  Are we able to share freely, deeply, and give generously of our time? Are we more compassionate?  Or are we passive friends that invest as much time to develop friendships as it takes to scroll down through a “friend’s” photos and updates,  and click “Like” before deleting the page?  Are we fast food friends that gorge on virtual intimacy in the form of pokes and status updates which leave us empty and hungry to collect more Likes and friends?

To read more Irish versions of Native American adages and post your own comments, please visit my Bookface page.

Photo courtesy 9GAG

Investigators were quick  to rule BB’s death a suicide.   His girlfriend was pregnant again and his job as Head of Cuddly Toys at the children’s hospital was tenuous since he threw his weight around, took long lunches, and the older he got the less he would sit calmly while kids jumped and climbed on him–coughing noxiously in his face and poking him in the eyes and ears with their sharp knees and elbows.

Sadly, even in death, BB was amusing–tourists thought he was street art and  poised for photos with his corpse.  Of course, family and friends were heartsick and  wrestled with his hidden reasons.  He left no note, no cry for help,  no one ever heard him complain.   He was always smiling, they pleaded.  No one doubted what they saw with their own eyes, not even the coroner who cut the stitches that held the thin line of his mouth in a permanent, black smile.

Art installation and photo ©Florentijn Hofman 2011

Today is not one of those days when I feel useless and dwarfed by an inferiority complex.  I don’t have to be responsible for tidying up your mess or mine. We are messy by nature and nature is messy.  According to Experts, pigs are clean animals, but you would not know it by their stench or the dirt clinging to their wet snouts like sticky, plump fingers.  No, today I will put down my brush. I will walk barefoot through streets collecting fallen leaves for a wall I’ve wanted to decorate since I first thought of it 25 seconds ago. And before today is swept away, I’ll let them fall for a second time from my hand with more gentleness and ease than it took to reach down to save them.

Photo courtesy of Little People Blog – a tiny street art project.