Mesa Musings:

My hunch is that it’s a cry for acknowledgment.

Some might dub it a Doug Flutie-like “Hail Mary” for immortality. Others, perhaps, see it as a protest for never having been noticed, or — worse yet — for having been noticed but forgotten.

Or maybe it’s a variation on the Psalmist’s theme: “God, have you abandoned me?”

The aforementioned alternatives I attach to an innocuous piece of graffiti I saw the other day. I must have passed it a hundred times during my early-morning walks without giving it the slightest notice.

If graffiti serves as a crude and distasteful marketing or public relations tool, this one has to rank no higher than a Phillips screwdriver.

Yet, there’s something to it.

It’s not terribly noticeable. To wit: It doesn’t jump up, grab you by the ears and shake your face. Critics might be inclined to label it “graffiti-lite.” It’s not an ugly monstrosity that you see on a freeway buttress. No, the message is delicate, even understated: “M. (last name deleted for purposes of this column) was here.”

Hmm.

Mary, or Michael, or Marlon or maybe Maxine, once long ago — in a wet slab of sidewalk cement next to the Orange County Fairgrounds — exposed his/her soul to the world in the pronouncement. Though not quite an artifact, it must be a dozen years old or older.

I’ve walked across it often while on my 6:30 a.m. constitutional. How, for so long, did I remain oblivious to M’s heart-rending message?

It’s important to note that M’s statement isn’t some half-baked, spur-of-the-moment declaration. He/she had to fumble around in the dirt to find an implement of some sort — a stick, twig or fountain pen — and lean over the wet surface in order to etch his/her decree against indifference. A stealth attack was necessary, as the graffiti was executed almost directly across the street from the Costa Mesa police headquarters. My props to M! The endeavor was conceived with moxie and cunning.

I’m not here to make excuses for M’s antisocial action. I don’t condone the choice to deface public property. But, being human, I feel I can relate to what may have taken place. “We’re here for a brief moment,” M may have postulated, while sauntering along Fair Drive. “Does anyone care? When I’m gone, shall anyone notice?” Encountering the wet cement, mental perspicacity was met by physical opportunity.

If M supposed the sidewalk would provide a means for achieving immortality, he/she would have been sorely dejected by Daniel Webster’s observation: “If we work upon marble it will perish. If we rear temples, they will crumble into dust.”

Bummer.

Graffiti holds no interest for me as a medium. Frankly, I don’t get it. Defacing public property is a misdemeanor, not a means for conducting artistic expression.

I first became aware of graffiti when I visited a Third World capital in 1972. I was appalled. It seemed that every bridge, overpass, under-crossing, building, fence post and street sign was covered in the stuff.

A couple of decades later, I saw it throughout Paris, though it was infinitely more polished than anything I’d observed along the 405 (well, Paris is home to the Louvre!). I’ve also seen evidences of the craft in London, Rome, Zurich and Berlin. Location notwithstanding, I detest the blight.

Sadly, no place remains immune.

“Long Island has been overrun with graffiti,” a frustrated New Yorker recently lamented. “When did we become Queens?”

NIMBY (Not in My Backyard)! That’s our universal cry.

But, back to M and the sidewalk scrawl. What to make of it?

M is not your typical spray-can narcissist. He/she utters a primal scream that we can all relate to: “I’m alive, gosh darn it! Notice me! I count for something.”

That’s not narcissism, and it certainly has nothing to do with some distorted view of marketing or public relations. It’s the human condition.

I hear you, M! I’ll not tread upon your scribble without appreciating the depth of your feelings. I’ll stand by you — literally.

Like M and countless others, I, too, rage against the darkness.

J. Carnett was here!

There. I feel much better.

JIM CARNETT lives in Costa Mesa. His column runs Wednesdays.