Ordinarily, it's a hum-drum view. Not much breaks up the monotony of shingled rooftops in this not-so-new development of north London, Ontario. So when my neighbour popped up against darkening skies, I was marginally curious. More so, because I'd never seen him before. All of a sudden, there he was, balanced on the rung of an aluminum ladder. He had propped it up against his garden shed, next to the wooden fence between us. With his forearm resting on a checkered cloth on old shingles, he jiggled the antenna of his satellite dish. Not without some help from an unseen family member, below. In a guttural Arabic, the men communicated while my neighbour kept fiddling with his Digiwave. I didn't need a translation. For my neighbour had morphed into Sisyphus. Or so it seemed to me.
I dashed for my camera. Long lens — check — before I hurried back to capture the moment. I quietly pressed the shutter. Gotcha.
Only the image resembles the myth. For there is no connection between the condemnation of the ancient king of Corinth by the gods of the Underworld, and a man who tries to gain better reception from his satellite dish. Unless you add the condemnation from the king's neighbor, the peasant with a camera, whose view has been damned by a god-awful contraption.
The shadows protect the identity of the subject. They also reflect my dark sentiments on the dish. At least, for another five years. By then, the pyramidal cedars I planted last fall will start blocking Sisyphus' satellite from my view. And when those cedars have reached their maximum 17-foot height, by Zeus, the gods will smile. For their victim will be forced to climb Mount Olympus, or the garden shed, to move that boulder. Again and again. In the eternal pursuit of a microwave.
Mythological justice served.
