Last night was my first ride down Dolores. Dolores is hills and not very many lights, and on the other side of the wide, dark street, bicyclists, kids, let go, flew low.
Long, low hills. It reminded me of riding the yellow plastic slides at state farms, the ones where you stood at the top in line, and were told to go by an adolescent fair worker who had some sort of sadomasochist agenda, and you rode down on your stomach on a scratchy burlap sac. The plastic of the slide gathered heat all day, and reflected the sun back in your face.
Sun. Buses. Light.
Today begins my second full week in San Francisco. That’s end of the time I’ve given myself to get adjusted, to get over it, to get on with the work already. Now I start revising the novel again. Now I haul out the old poems. I'll lay them on the floor. I'll go back to that world. I’ll ride the train to Berkeley.
It was a ride, Dolores Street.
We flew.
