Dear friends of Culture, of the island,
today at the beach I experimented with footprints, strange ones. It reminded me of those childhood moments when you have to spread your legs wide from step to step to reach Dad's next big footprint. A footprint in which the child's foot loses itself in a similar way to a cat in its big boots.
Although I didn't find a giant's footprint in which I could have lost myself, I had immediately spotted beautiful footprints stretching out clearly along the shore. These should be the ones. Unlike the three-part step, I placed my foot in the preformed depression of my (or my?) predecessor, starting from the heel. Even though this makes the beginning of the foot placement less groping, it intuitively seemed to me to be the best option. Anchoring, then slowly rolling the ball of the foot into the impression, placing the toes. I look at the sand, my toes are shorter, the arch of my foot is different. I feel inside, place the next foot in the impression, which is pleasantly spaced in front of me, shift my weight, deepen the already existing bed.
The initially interesting game starts to become more intimate with the third step and I feel a little like an intruder. What does this imprint say about the person who walked here? What was his or her attitude at that moment?
It seems that I am not treading on neutral ground, and what's more, it is my own invasive footprint that is being imprinted on top of the existing ones, making it my own but not totally. The footprint becomes one that can no longer be assigned to anyone in particular and, as a hybrid being of a footprint in the sand, ceases to be native to a unique foot...
I wake up a little irritated from my thoughts and look up. Am I being watched by the person I am trying to follow here, step by step?
One certainty remains: the waves, playing, have incorporated every footprint that was there, repeatedly creating an unmarked, neutral ground.
Have a good weekend!
Mikaela Nowak
Comments