Each day coming out of Sonoma onto the Marin peninsula. South to the bridge, racing along the high-occupancy lane alone, across and into San Francisco. I recognize no particular love for animals there. What, I wonder, is the story of the city that bears the namesake. Too busy to look it up, not Catholic enough to care.
Each day as I approach the bridge, towards the southern end of the peninsula there is a long, steep incline. The road leading over a minor mountain. The bay on one side, the advancing and receding waves of the unseen Pacific on the other. The car struggles and slows. The weight of it becoming apparent, slanted and leaden upwards. The earth pulls me backwards. The road just skirts a preliminary peak upwards. The chariot of Sisyphus. Then, down the other side the stomach moves. The music starts anew.
Each day and ever back again. My foot forcing rock, the clock keeps ticking. And then I, gently riding the brakes.
.
