We already live like refugees. It’s not because of the Oilpocalypse — we just can’t afford to turn the power back on, and we kind of don’t care, so we run a cord from the neighbor’s house so we can have air conditioning and one lamp, so nobody including the Donkey gets overheated. I’m used to this way of life because of Cyclecide and just generally roaming around. Everybody else in my neighborhood is used to it because they are from the Land of Hairycanes, in the City that Care Forgot.
This is not martyrdom; this is re-prioritization. If I’m to evacuate soon, then Entergy gets no more of my money (except what I give to my neighbors for the A/C connection). I’ve been spending nights in candlelight, with no refrigerator, eating baby carrots and macadamias, charging my computer on the power strip and sitting, thunderstruck at the words and images before me, crying and calculating and researching and making lists and planning evacuation routes and knowing — KNOWING — as an irritainer, that what you see onstage is a totally different show than what’s going on backstage.
When I wake up in the morning and take off the tinfoil nightcap, I knock back a couple “apocalypse shots”: apple cider vinegar, turmeric, and water; then a little later, greenfood powder and cinnamon in almond milk. Living in the Lower Ninth Ward, far from grocery stores, subsisting mainly on gas-station fried chicken and red beans and rice, a gal’s gotta make that spendy monthly trip to Wholefoods to acquire her health the Jetsons way. Whoa, it tastes like crap. But now with all the benzene coming in, it’s time to make sure to stay re-upped with all the cancer-fighting stuffs a hillbilly urchin can gather to make disgusting shots out of.
All drinking Borax aside, I bought bottled water for the first time today. Like, ever, besides for camping trips. A Mississippi girl refuses to say it’s bad to swim in the Mississippi River (in the shallow non-currenty parts anyway), and she will always go barefoot by the lake even when there’s broken glass. I used to drink tap water always, firmly believing in my superhuman immune system, defiantly in favor of the “a little dirt don’t hurt” credo, and thankful for a chance to build up my superpowers even more. But now there will be so much benzene in the water table, it’s time to switch to water from someplace else. Almost all of the water in America is fluoridated, though, just like toothpaste. Which is why I’ve been flossing, rinsing with hydrogen peroxide, and brushing with Dr. Tichenor’s peppermint mouthwash. And drinking Borax. It de-calcifies the pineal gland, apparently. Where your Spidey senses live. And The Force.
In the Apocalypse, it’s important to be fastidious, no matter what. Routine in time of looming tragedy is a comfort, and I’ve always wanted a clean pineal gland, I guess. If I go down with the ship, I’m going down as perfect as George Clooney’s hair.
Sitting in Waffle House this morning, I almost cried when “Freebird” came on the jukebox. I watched an old African-American man eating at the counter, wearing a utilitarian work shirt and fancy cowboy hat riding high just like my magical Grandaddy wore his. This man had probably started fixing things at 6am, and was going to continue to fix more things until nightfall, and he’d never ever get mad or irritated by anything or anybody, just like my magical Grandaddy … and then “Freebird” came on the jukebox, and my ironic-generation-self unzipped to reveal the gooey peach-colored mess of actual-Skynrd-loving buck-toothed Southern pipsqueak underneath.
Memories of Mississippi, and railroad tracks, and lightning bugs, and fishing with Mamaw, and rock quarry cannonballs, and majestic Aqua-Net flybacks at the Burger Chef, standing at the jukebox playing “Freebird” so my cousin JoAnn’s cool-kid friends would think I was a cool kid … I grew up over there, just like the people around me grew up here, near the Waffle House, in St. Bernard Parish, Louisiana. Unlike me, many of them never left their place of origin, and never cared to, because nature’s bounty supplied everything they needed. Especially the fishermen. Even when everything they owned went underwater in Katrina, and now that they live next door to the Apocalypse itself, they still don’t want to go. They will stay until the end.
And who is really going to care, because the Apocalypse is where it is, and not in Manhattan? Who’s going to care now, I mean, before it spreads to them? Care enough to do something radical, to individually work on putting back all the energy from the oil they took from the Great Mother somehow, karmically or otherwise? Can we love our cars like I love mine, knowing that this is going on? Can we love our freedom to travel and sit in air conditioning, and still find a way to make our relationship with the world better than even-steven? Can a crazy swamp turd made of llama fur and old pantyhose be a good band-aid as well as a peace offering?
And now a way of life is dying, and nobody seems to be able to do anything about it. The fishermen’s hands are tied by the Devil who steamrolled them, and they’ve got to get money somehow, even if it is from the Devil, because they’re not going to get any more after this, ever. Just like with the Exxon Valdez, but worse. Just like the Katrina aftermath, but due to waaaaay more catastrophic and far-reaching human negligence. The feeling of everything-loss, though it’s not fully here yet, is cementing like drilling mud. My Spidey senses tell me we all could be evacuated and never get to come back, or we should be evacuated for a while, or even if we could come back, most of us wouldn’t want to, because we don’t want cancer.
And even if everything turns out fairly well and we all hold hands and raise up the ghost of Nikola Tesla and ask him how to get enough power for everybody all over the world without making another dent in the environment … BP may still be after us. Both BP and the Bush administration, after all, were/are run by the same tribe. They play SUCH dirty pool.
I hope this following paragraph is a tinfoil-hat fantasy of mine, but I don’t think it is: Halliburton (Dick Cheney’s people) bankrolled the Iraqi and Afghani wars, and continue to profit off of the blood of innocents and brave American soldiers to this day. Halliburton manufactured and installed the Deepwater Horizon casing that blew when they didn’t check to see if there was natural gas invading the supposedly-airtight drilling mud beneath it. Halliburton and BP no doubt have a hand in Nalco’s books, and Nalco makes Corexit, the “Dispersant” from Hell. If the marshes are all dead, and water covers everything, and a good chunk of Louisiana is wiped out, then that means the border for drilling could be moved closer to shore, after a fight that the Little People lose. And you can strike it rich in the marsh under these fishermens’ boats and shrimps and oysters and bait and pelicans and porpoises and culture and everything, if all the obstacles are gone.
Levee deterioration, leading to post-Katrina calamity, followed by egregious neglect in the areas of both people and environment of Southern Louisiana … hmm. I’m not the only one who’s beginning to smell a long-term negligence plan which would allow for America to secure another vein to put the needle in. They can only do this if nobody’s around. They can also come in, evacuate us all, take weapons at gunpoint just like after Katrina, and muscle everyone out so no pesky reporters or citizens can photograph them burying dead seagulls behind the grass on the beach (yes, that happened). Who buys the tents, mess kitchens, uniforms, weapons, vehicles, hazmat materials, and so on for the disaster capitalism workers to use once they get here? Halliburton. Who sells this stuff to Halliburton? … I’m guessing Halliburton.
Since the Spidey senses are talking, l’ll also reveal a magically obvious prediction: If a hurricane blows my house apart a few months after BP’s oil killed the marsh, or next year or the next, when the Gulf is a vast anoxic wasteland where only thieves and starving die-hards remain … then it’s not BP’s fault I lost my castle, my once and future home, my retirement plan. It was just a particularly powerful hurricane that somehow encountered no grass-and-tree resistance on its long heavy slide into home, so BP is not liable. Right? Just a guess.
I mean, the fellows in charge of the mess are throwing all the best math and machines at it in an effort to stop the flow — rather, ideally, to divert the flow into a container to go make money off refining it. Bless them; bless the scientists, engineers, welders, cleanup crew, universities, boat captains, pilots, preachers, advocates for alternative solutions, BP employees sticking with their jobs in crisis and doing their level best, and Corexit-covered fishermen with no fish. Please protect them from harm; please let Corexit be banned for real, and let those responsible for deploying it be held financially accountable for mass poisoning of a fragile and delicate ecosystem. For a long, long time.
Then, please Lord and Freya, Buddha Jesus Mohammed Kali Hubbard Mother Ocean Father Sky and the Flying Spaghetti Monster, please let us start to clean up this mess for real, even as the black blood still streams out from the deep, out into the watery circulatory systems of the Earth. Please protect the animules and fishies, tell the birds to fly the other way, whisper to the plankton not to eat the brown acid, and command the Kraken to awaken and swallow up the Reptilian bad guys in charge. On video.
Nobody at the Waffle House was talking about the oil gusher which originates 120 miles away from us, flooshing out into the dark waters 2.5 miles below the ocean’s surface. The oil-cano is being immediately injected with Corexit to hide BP’s problems, and now the existence of the oil is being denied. The EPA commanded BP to stop using Corexit, and BP basically gave them the middle finger, and for some reason they are getting away with it, even though this is supposed to be America, where the people tell the companies what to do, and not the other way around. And this Corexit thing is going to be to the detriment of Louisiana, the Gulf Coast, and the whole planet. Instead, they should be sprinkling Toxy Trap and other bio-remediation miracle-dusts in those planes — not only would fishermen NOT keep getting sent to the hospital from inhaling the cancerous fumes … the oil they’re breathing in would actually be transformed and absorbed into their bodies as nourishment. The Toxy Trap, if the reports are real, would sit on the surface of the oil, which should be floating to the top in giant blobs, were it not for the Dispersant (which coagulates) of Death. Toxy Trap, made of spores that settled inside dead diatoms in an ancient freshwater lakebed covered in volcanic ash, EATS HYDROCARBONS and turns them into fatty acids.
That is to say, Toxy Trap turns crude oil into fish food.
Yep. They had been in negotiations with BP, but the government dragged its feet, and now they’re out of the BP cleanup picture. Not sure why. Oil-eating, fish-food-making microbes vs. coagulating “dispersants” composed of petroleum products and cancer … are we seeing a David-and-Goliath pattern emerging here? Or Neo and the Red Pill Takers vs. the Machines? … And now the US Coast Guard is participating in the same sham-tastic theater the BP goons have been. I have a report straight from the horse’s mouth that National Guard who have been mobilized to “help” in this disaster have mainly just been sitting around base, bored off their asses. NOT DOING SHIT. The words “total sham” were used. By the National Guardsman in question. How could the world’s potentially biggest catastrophe contain SO MUCH EXTRA FAIL? Unless they’re letting everything get more messed up on purpose? Do the math, yall, please, before it’s too late.
I don’t hear much about the oil spill much at all. Not when I’m out and about in New Orleans. It’s like a constant funeral afterparty where nobody wants to be the first one to mention the person who died. Everyone is so broken from Katrina already that they just don’t want to think about it. I mean, the second time you get raped, you just lay there, right? I’ve got to respect that, and keep my mouth shut, to protect everyone’s nerves from fraying worse. But it’s hard, when it’s about time for angry mobs with torches to start gathering in the streets and lighting hair and pantyhose on fire.
We can protect the marshes, still, if we’re vigilant. Well, we can protect some of them, not all of them, and we’d all have to act fast to save them. Getting oil out of the marsh vs. off the beach is like extracting gum from your hair instead of your skin. THERE IS NO GETTING OIL OUT OF THE MARSH ONCE IT’S IN THERE. But first, this being America, you’ve got to flex your constitutional rights to free speech, peaceable assembly, and sprinkling magic Cajun Pixie Dust on oily pelicans so they can eat off the fatty acids and clean their own innards that way and eat themselves back to health.
I, for one, want to live in this miracle world. Pardon me for repeating myself, but it bears repeating: Let’s all write to the people in charge and say what our miracle world will be like. People keep asking me what they can do to help from afar, and that is it. Envision your miracle world, put it into words in an email, and send it to the people who need to hear about it. Keep in mind our founding fathers and mothers will be spinning in their graves if we roll over and play dead about this. Keep in mind your magical grandaddy, who fought in a war and never complained about it, and make him proud you actually stood up and fought for the world you want to live in. Just like he did.
And then please blow up the Death Star so we can roll up our sleeves, put some oil karma in the bank, and get back to life, only better.