Here’s a brain fart. Here’s a neutral blog post. Here’s a commercial for a little slice of what we are protecting, every time we put aside our hair scraps and pantyhose, write our congresspeople and BP, badger our Spacebook friends to do the same, and vote with our voices and money. (Pointe-Aux-Chenes, LA. It’s pronounced “pwana-shen,” basically.)
Here’s a beautifully spooky drainage canal somewhere near Bourg, LA. (One Californian thought they were raw sewage canals?!? Accidental Southern-stereotype prejudice rears its ugly head…) We were waiting on the road for someone to finish chainsawing a tree that had fallen. Down here, Nature lives right in your front yard, so it’s good to be prepared, with chainsaws and HAIR BOOMS and whatnot, when the oil comes a’creepin’ with the hairycanes.
We went to the marina again, where these houses relax for 9 months out of the year and then get all nervous for hairycane season. You should hear what they’re saying now. These houses are FREAKED OUT.
Our fearless and handsome captains, Dan and Eli, can fix most things and care a lot about the planet and the marsh.
What’s that up ahead? Are those houses floating? Are they on tiny islands?
They’re fish camps! And they’re on less and less land, and more and more water, every year. Course, re-formed barrier islands and a careful plan of dredging and backfilling could change all that for the better. And keep some of the oil out.
This is where we’d rather live: Mad Max Waterworld. Louisiana is a friend to oil … or rather, they thought they were friends with big oil, but it turns out their friends don’t keep promises, put them in harm’s way, lie to their faces, and eventually beat them to death whilst high on drugs.
… and then there’s nothing but sky and water, and more “land” in the distance. The Gulf is still a ways away. This is where all your delicious shrimps, crabs, oysters, and fish used to grow up.
Here’s the marsh grass where we first saw the oil. … Pause. For. Retching. And. Crying.
Every day in Louisiana, when the sun is going down, God assembles the clouds for a cloud symphony.
The wild horses of Point-Aux-Chenes were left behind when some rancher peaced out a long time ago. They eat marsh grass. Marsh grass is becoming slowly covered in BP’s profit-loss. Horsies will die in the salted, former oak forest where the brackish and then the black just kept comin’.
At day’s end, back on land, we wait out the coming storm in Miss PJ’s bar — situated, like everything else down here, on a canal. Water, water everywhere … and not a boom in sight
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