There is a drop
in the beat
with the rhythm
Some say math
is a language
this must be
How it is spoken
I don’t speak
my body knows this
Patterns and habits
And it is like
I am not here
Yet, I am more
The Motor City:
What does it mean to move? To move a body through space at a pace? In a place?
What does it mean to move? To move a thought through and watch it grow? Become a new thing?
Can movement of bodies and movements of thoughts be related?
Once upon a time there was a man who was good at solving complicated problems. One day he came around and made a new town. (Nevermind that there already was one)
What does it mean to move? To move from one standing, status, condition to another?
What does it mean to move on?
What does it mean to move back again?
The story goes that she never learned how to drive as that was not something that women were supposed to do. The story goes that he hid her shoes as leaving the house was something to eschew.
A recent recurring theme is how. These lovely little theories come along tickling the backs of my synapses and yet something seems off and not quite right. So I pause and think, question, deduce, analyze and turn it over again and do the same on the other side. And time and time again it comes down to how. Tricky tricky how, throwing everything off. Now Sherri asks me how I make meaning out of movement as a metaphor. I suppose this memoir is a reflection. I do it through poetry. I do it through questioning. I do it through remembering. I do it through looking at myself and trying to be better next time.