Beckettian

I began to become aware of my city as a young adolescent in Tempe roaming the streets on my bicycle or running with my dog or friends. In motion I felt that no one could endure more than I. By being in constant motion I thought I might escape the existential condition of humans: patiently waiting to die. 

I started noticing Her sometime in high school. I saw Her daily during college and even afterwards, after I'd left Tempe but would return for visits. She was also ambulatory. Hunchbacked over a turquoise Roadmaster bicycle she pushed forward with her skinny thighs on the pedals, even though pedals are for pushing down upon rather than forward with. She rode the bike like an anorexic pigeon cooing forward. Slowly. Her skin was a tanned hide ready for making boots with. Her hair was a mousy brown, bleached by the sun. She wore cheap sunglasses. She was omnipresent on the streets of Tempe. Everyone knew her description. 

Passing by her on my own bike gave me a feeling of uncomfortable deference. Her refusal to lay down, her decision to be constantly in motion highlighted the futility of pro-meaning motion. Life is anti-meaning. It made me real uncomfortable. 

I stopped seeing her for a while. I assumed she'd died of anorexia or a melanoma. 

I saw her yesterday in South Tempe, practically in Chandler. She was walking on the main street, limping badly, pulling one leg from behind her as she took another step forward. She must have had a stroke. There she was, going on. Still.