And hey, this holiday season, how bout NOT showing your love with petroleum-based items shoddily manufactured in faraway countries. Choosy credit-union bankers buy local and give someone sight for their holiday gifts, so they can get back to life.
What an excitingly strange era we live in, suddenly. As a former arts journalist, it hurts us to watch the whoopee cushion known as the “American media” totally squeeze out noxious hot air and fart all over itself.
But we’ve hopped on the Facebook train … and for people who live in the woods with no TV (ever), nothing beats having a constant mix-tape news feed of the entire contents of human knowledge at everyone’s fingertips. It’s a learning phase for all of us. Our brains hurt. It’s nice.
We are thankful for finally having fir$t/la$t/depo$it, a solid roof over our heads, and an Apocalypse-worthy stash of food. Thankful we exited that year-long evacuation tuck-and-roll Corexit-poisoning episode with a big “TA-DAAAA” and a wider understanding of preventative natural medicine (and how it saved our ass).
Thankful also to live in a real house, not on someone’s couch finally, or in that cold, cold barn in Northern California … thankful for the fireplace in the new bedroom of our cabin (!!!) and redwood monster-trees engulfing the landscape, and all kinds of natural-world senseis hanging around here, from whom to learn obscure and intimidating things about da Urf and nay-chah.
We do know what it means to miss New Orleans, but if we can’t be there due to the hydrocarbon cloud, it’s pretty awesome to rest our heads on the suede shag rug on the floor in front of the fire at night, far away from Concrete World ™, listening to the winter rain on the roof and peeking out from under the dragon’s wing as the world takes flight.
The wildlife in the Gulf is largely dead or poisoned, the now-eyeless shrimp are literally nowhere to be found, and fresh oil is still rolling in, maybe because the seabed is permanently cracked and spilling hydrocarbons. They won’t admit it, but they’re definitely there trying to fix it.
Meanwhile, the Coast Guard gives itself and BP a staggeringly fake all-clear, and children in Southern Louisiana live with nebulizers and open sores as their daily reality. Our governmental agencies continue to provide a Witness Protection Program for BP and Halliburton, and indeed gave the go-ahead for BP to drill in the Gulf again now.
Research Hitler’s concept of The Big Lie. The wolves swarming the throne room aren’t even pretending not to be bad guys anymore. But we all drive cars and use electricity. The Gulf Coast is all our responsibility. We’re addicts, and the Oily Corexity Coast is where we get our shit (besides wartime confiscation for fascist gain in poorer countries farther away).
So many people along the Gulf Coast are sick, and the illusion continues of no money to help anyone but Spillionaires, who will ALWAYS help themselves until we stop them and realize we don’t need them — or we won’t, soon.
Industrial hemp is the one and only triage element needed to fix the beleaguered South specifically and planet Earth in general. And until reason prevails in the national avenues of what should be mainstream information (not disinformation) … we gots to figure out what our grandparents knew about the natural world, so that when everything implodes, we can help ourselves and each other.
As we Occupy and bring this new Earth about, please don’t let’s forget about the Gulf. We won’t, ever, but in these pages, we’ll be turning toward the future. Since the old blood-brain barrier got blown apart in the “Gulf War II: Corexit Boogaloo,” tear gas and pepper spray don’t sound quite as sweet to this head as Occupying Nature.
Ladies, the Apocalypse is here. Let’s make it classy.
“America! Land of the free — free to the power of the people in uniform” –T.S.O.L.
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