where the writers are
The Dish
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Walked up to the Dish this afternoon:  sunny, bright, cold, the joggers out, the families, the joggers-with-strollers. An hour and a half door-to-door, walking, that is.  When we reached the Dish, we leaned against the fence and caught our breath and looked at the 360 degree view:  San Francisco down the bay to the airport and south, back up the coastal hills to Stanford.  The campus herd of cattle was browsing around the small Dish.  As we stood there looking, a man came up, maybe a student, holding a small silver camera.  Hello, he said, we thought to us--but then it turned out he was making a film of the surroundings and describing it all in great detail into the change-purse-sized camera, especially the Dish.  It occurred to me he was speaking to a team in Space, aliens perhaps; now this sounds silly, but for a few minutes it was silly-real.  Walked back down.  A huge, jiggly mimosa by the exit gate, almost in bloom. It reminds me of something--something Proustian, another place and time--Marseille perhaps?