Stream of Unconsciousness

By Roger Rosenblatt

The question is, who is going to be Al's running mate? And George W.'s? The question is, Who is going to replace Kathie Lee? The question is, Did you see The Perfect Storm? The book was much better, don't you think? I think. I think Roger Clemens did (did not) throw at Mike Piazza's head. I think Richard Williams did (did not) order Serena to lose to Venus. Did not. I think Al will choose Darva Conger and George W. will choose Elian Gonzalez ("He's young, speaks Spanish--I don't see any downside"). Is that your final answer, ha, ha, ha. I used to look forward to summer.

My problem is that Britney Spears is not going to marry that young man from 'N Sync after all. So I have nothing to do but watch the egrets stand guard at the edge of the marshes, and stare dumbly at the strips of current that flow like gun-gray paint from the creek to the bay. Did you ever see such a day? Did you ever taste such tomatoes! Did you ever hear the one about the minister, the priest and the rabbi? (Why is it that ministers, priests and rabbis get together only in jokes?) Did you ever get that chin tuck? Well, did you ever? What a swell party this is. Are we there yet?

A sluggish layer of air loiters over the sound, which has turned to a noncolor of thick, translucent plastic. The tide rummages with the pebbles. Gulls laugh themselves sick. What's so funny, I'd like to know. I'd like to know who is going to be the last Survivor. I'd like to know who is going to remember last week's aids conference in Africa. I'd like to know who is going to remember Africa. You know? I'm losing my memory. I'd like to try that new Alzheimer's vaccine. Do I like tuna tartar? I forget. Do I like you? I forget. Of course I do. Let's go tubing, sailing, parasailing, assailing. Let's play softball, croquet, tackle football. That launch--how much? That egret--how much? I used to look forward to summer.

If I had a place on the water...If I had a new kitchen...If I had a dog, it would be a chocolate Lab or a golden retriever. If I had a car, it would be a Chrysler PT Cruiser or that cool new Volvo. If I had a baby, it would be a boy or a girl. I must remember to stay out of the sun. I must try Gringo Balboa. Supercharges the blood, juices the brain. But some people may experience side effects, such as scurvy, rickets and leprosy. I'll be sure to consult my doctor. He'll recommend a personal trainer and the Zone diet. Are we there yet?

Am I writing a villanelle? What's a villanelle again? Two lines that alternate and repeat, then come together at the end and mean something. A villanelle is supposed to be elegiac. What's elegiac again? Concupiscent ducks fly in a crazy syntax over powerboats throbbing in the canal. A mole slinks back to his underworld kennel. Succinct, admirable outcast. I paddle down the stream of unconsciousness. I used to look forward to summer.

No matter. What matters is that the ridges of sand are lighted by oblique rays of the afternoon sun, and there is that weedy smell of decay. Now there is something for my stream of unconsciousness. One misty morning, at the age of four, in Chatham on Cape Cod, I wandered away down the beach, still in my pajamas. My parents, frantic, called the police. I picked up a dead horseshoe crab black as a banjo scorched in a fire. Taste of salt. Weedy smell of decay. Sound of police-car siren keening at my back. "You must never, ever do that again. Do you understand? Put that down. Let's go home." Are we there yet?

Pizza Hut puts its logo on a Russian spaceship. A spokesperson says the company would have preferred an ad on the moon. Too many black bears in New Jersey and Connecticut. Too few grizzlies in Idaho and Wyoming. The experts are about to appear on TV. Soon we will learn that Al doesn't stand a ghost of a chance against George W., who doesn't have a prayer against Al, and Bill can't help Hill. "I remember what F.D.R. used to say." A shark expert says that when swimming one should not pick a fight with a shark. I used to look forward to summer.

I remember now: it is the things you lost, the things you want back. It is the age you are and the age you're in. It is remembering too little and remembering too much. And Hannibal Lecter's inability to devour the past. And Stephen Hawking on the difference between past and future, illustrated by the teacup that smashes to the floor and then, when the reel runs backward, becomes whole again. Some tools required for reassembly. Are we there yet?

Mothers with tennis racquets strapped to their backs like hunting bows ride bikes home in the red evening. Red right returning. Red sky at night, mothers' delight. "Can Kelly and Kellie come over tonight? Can Tiffany and Kevin have the car?" A Hammacher Schlemmer catalog arrives promoting the only calorie-counting Hula-Hoop. "Won't you try a cosmopolitan?" At dusk I climb a bluff of grassy sand, look down at the anomalous charm of house lights strung out along the shore, then up at the stars strewn like bright pennies. The wind kicks up but is warm. My watch has stopped. Are we there yet? I used to look forward to summer.