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a dark shadow follows me
Jun. 2nd, 2010 11:53 amSlowly but surely, the writhing mass of oil creeps to shore, one itty,bitty mile at a time. The slick has been spotted as far west as Terrebone Bay and as far east as Dauphin Island.
But here's what the media is NOT telling you. That slick? It's nothing but a shadow, a smoke and mirrors reality shoveled up by NOAA trajectory charts. The reality is far more frightening. The oil is not lapping gently across the waves. It's seeping from beneath. The previous photo I posted from Cypremort Point underlines a sober point: they can't tell us when the oil will come ashore. None of the forecasts have included Vermillion Bay, yet you can see for yourself that oil is indeed there. Sure, NASA can downlink fabulous spreads of the oily iridescence, what ol' Sol shines upon. With the other Fed charts and predictions, this photo feeds into the placation of our fears. But really? It's bullshit.
I'm in Boston this week, as far removed from the local reports as I can be. The stories, they follow me. Every person, every coworker, every associate, they all ask of home, if I've seen "it", how my part of the world fares. Most of this crew recall my experiences from Katrina, when the only news I could hand out was bad. These folks see this event in my eyes. My face tells a thousand stories of the tragedy, of every oysterman, shrimper and service worker, all of whose lives are quashed by the consequences of aggressive petroleum exploration. I have but one honest answer: my Gulf Coast is gone.
Me? And home right now? My wife, a New Orleanian from a long line of New Orleanians, has remained as faithful and devoted to the Crescent City as anyone I know. During the post-Katrina days, even with the despair and decay surrounding us, she remained resolute in her determination to help rebuild the city. As I bitched and moaned about the state of affairs with our illustrious clown Mayor, the dishonorable C Ray Nagin, allowing his posse to blow through any and every grant they could grab, Mrs Penguin refused to acquiesce. When there was a glimmer of a chance for me to get a job in Boulder, she requested that I wait a year before chasing another city, as she was not going to just up and go. Today, Mrs Penguin looks at the maps, hears the local lament, catches a whiff of the tar in the breeze, and becomes quiet. It's her personal Waterloo. Never has she uttered a single word about leaving New Orleans. She now has a list of places to go. The immovable object has been greased by the unstoppable force.
As has been the mantra of the authoritative![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jblaque through all this, tell everyone you know. Send them links. Disgust them with screencaps of dead pelicans. Amplify the anger. This event merits a response as intense as Pearl Harbor. Don't be fooled by notions of localized effects of the disaster. I promise, you're next.
But here's what the media is NOT telling you. That slick? It's nothing but a shadow, a smoke and mirrors reality shoveled up by NOAA trajectory charts. The reality is far more frightening. The oil is not lapping gently across the waves. It's seeping from beneath. The previous photo I posted from Cypremort Point underlines a sober point: they can't tell us when the oil will come ashore. None of the forecasts have included Vermillion Bay, yet you can see for yourself that oil is indeed there. Sure, NASA can downlink fabulous spreads of the oily iridescence, what ol' Sol shines upon. With the other Fed charts and predictions, this photo feeds into the placation of our fears. But really? It's bullshit.
I'm in Boston this week, as far removed from the local reports as I can be. The stories, they follow me. Every person, every coworker, every associate, they all ask of home, if I've seen "it", how my part of the world fares. Most of this crew recall my experiences from Katrina, when the only news I could hand out was bad. These folks see this event in my eyes. My face tells a thousand stories of the tragedy, of every oysterman, shrimper and service worker, all of whose lives are quashed by the consequences of aggressive petroleum exploration. I have but one honest answer: my Gulf Coast is gone.
Me? And home right now? My wife, a New Orleanian from a long line of New Orleanians, has remained as faithful and devoted to the Crescent City as anyone I know. During the post-Katrina days, even with the despair and decay surrounding us, she remained resolute in her determination to help rebuild the city. As I bitched and moaned about the state of affairs with our illustrious clown Mayor, the dishonorable C Ray Nagin, allowing his posse to blow through any and every grant they could grab, Mrs Penguin refused to acquiesce. When there was a glimmer of a chance for me to get a job in Boulder, she requested that I wait a year before chasing another city, as she was not going to just up and go. Today, Mrs Penguin looks at the maps, hears the local lament, catches a whiff of the tar in the breeze, and becomes quiet. It's her personal Waterloo. Never has she uttered a single word about leaving New Orleans. She now has a list of places to go. The immovable object has been greased by the unstoppable force.
As has been the mantra of the authoritative
jblaque through all this, tell everyone you know. Send them links. Disgust them with screencaps of dead pelicans. Amplify the anger. This event merits a response as intense as Pearl Harbor. Don't be fooled by notions of localized effects of the disaster. I promise, you're next.
