An old woman walks past while I am on the balcony of the hotel. It’s impossible to determine her age. I think of Crime and Punishment. The radio sings on about “fire from a hand” which really does very little to make me stop thinking about killing her. She moves very slowly. Each step is slow enough to be premeditated. She just wants to get home. And while each step takes her closer to that goal, she isn’t savoring each step as an individual. As a solid in its own right.
I have found myself doing that a lot recently. Hearing music as I walk, I bounce. I swing my arms. I dance. I enjoy the moment, the momentum of walking. The work of getting yourself there with your own body. Of being. It becomes something larger than simply walking. Than moving. Than exerting. It becomes about the specific time I exist in. To say it’s fun is simplistic. By saying that I’m not giving it its due.
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