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The thing I miss the most about three day weekends is hearing about the oil spill on NPR every morning. Each day I leave the house, slip through the thin morning light, slide into my car and flip on the radio. I don't care anymore what the weather man tells me. I'll be damned if I'm wearing anything but a t-shirt and jeans. I'll be damned if I ever have to wear anything else. Some people just weren't made for looking nice. Besides, how am I supposed to impress my lady when I dress up if I'm dressed up every day?

And every morning, as if I'm trapped in that movie "Groundhog Day," I turn on NPR (mainly because I'm a typical east coast, big city liberal who enjoys socialism, vegetarianism and the eastern monastic tradition) and listen to somebody talk about a hole that we've made in the center of the ocean. I mean, scientifically speaking, (one of my favorite ways to speak) won't the whole eventually get emptied of oil, and then the water will backfill the whole, creating some sort of drain effect in the ocean that will leave it entirely devoid of water? I mean, that's science right?

These mornings, which turn out to be every morning, are the longest. The sun is barely making an impression on the day but already the grey streets are lined with trash and choked with cars. People mill about at the bus stop on the corner, a mother walks briskly with her cute child. And I drive in a car and listen to someone on NPR tell me that we cannot stop the flow of oil into the ocean. "The ocean is large," I say, to no one in particular. "There are always more fish in the sea." I say these sorts of things to remind myself that I too am driving in a car on this morning that is this morning and every morning.

"Plug that damn hole already!" I yell at the radio, picturing sea lions, (though I don't think they've washed up yet) yelping on the shore, their soft brown eyes filled with black film. Someone in the left land is driving slowly, and I step on the gas to get past them. "Speed up, you jerk!" I yell.

"I don't understand why they can't fix this thing?" I say, and everyone nods in approval. "Why is the government so impotent?"

In the summer the price of gasoline in the city approaches four dollars. At the pump I cringe at the needless expense and think back fondly on the days when it was only 1.50.

We agree on two things this summer that the price of gas is too high and that the hole in the ocean needs to be plugged. We don't understand why these things can't change.

In fourth grade we learned about the water cycle. Our teachers told us that the soap suds that we washed down our city drains went straight into Big Chico Creek. Everything is connected, they told us, and we believed them, waiting patiently for our grades. By summer we've forgotten everything except the code to Contra up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, b, a, b, a start.

We saw this dude last night at A Prairie Home Companion covering this song.

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Who took that picture of you? She asks angrily on the phone.

I took it myself, I answer.

Oh, she says. The lighting wasn't very good. We can fix that.

In the evenings I usually dream of lands undiscovered. The other night I woke from a dream of children. In the dream, a small boy, blue eyes, soft brown hair, is crying in the arms of an aunt. She hands him to me, and I struggle to keep his head upright. For some reason, I am not wearing a shirt, and I am conscious of the warmth of his small skull against my chest. I take him from the kitchen, cradling him in my arms. I walk around the hallway, past rectangular shapes of light, that are reminiscent of the hallway and skylight of my childhood. And I am cooing to the child and running my hands across the smooth face and the blue veins of my son. And after a while, I forget that I am holding him and he forgets to cry. And I continue to walk in circles as his large brown eyes close and he drifts into sleep. And I walk him back into the kitchen and pass him off, relaxed, into the arms of another aunt, whom I recognize. We both smile.