More doom, less gloom. Witch doctor’s orders.
How serentypical. Circumstance forced us to begin our Hitler’s Birthday Blowout Two-Year Anniversary last week being driven through the dreaded 37 Highway. Dreaded, you say? Surely not. It’s gorgeous, the 37 — a pocket of marsh where the California coast meets the Pacific Ocean. People come from all over the world to see it and hunt and fish in it.
To us, it looks juuuust enough like a hilly version of the bayous and marshes leading to Grand Isle, Louisiana, to make us have — fits. Not panic attacks, because we’re not panicking. The 37 is a teeming and vibrant wetlands, that’s great — we’re just mad that the shores of Grand Isle, when we were forced to leave it, were covered in oil and Corexit.
Then tonight, in between publishing this post finally, we opened up a household under-sink chemical in search of cleaner, and accidentally came nose-to-brain with 2-butoxyethanol, our favorite Corexit super-unhealthy ingredient. We can feel it coursing through the body systems now.
We tried to blow and blow our nose, but it still went thru our eyes, slithering its way along the throat and chest on down to jar the heart’s electrical wires, then on to the stomach, which now sits cramping. We can look forward to some gastrointestinal symphonies later tonight.
Thanks, BP! And Exxon, makers of Corexit! And Carl Casale, Exxon honcho / Monsanto CFO! And all you Goldman Sacks / Racket Feller ratfuckers. May we all live to see the day when the veil is lifted from your eyes and your pus-engorged hearts are struck with lightning and filled with love. Somehow.
We watched as the other marshes’ ecosystems were dealt the death blow. This has proven to be a lot to remember, especially every time we get driven along the 37. We’ve purposefully gone that way North from San Francisco so many times now, we no longer burst into tears or even breathe fast any more.
Ever since the oil companies and the government conspired to eco-slaughter our homeland two years ago, we developed a new hobby: learning a lot ‘bout REAL food, the REAL world (the one not made by humans), and how to tend to one’s own glorious meatsack in preventive ways in order to avoid spending any time at the doctor’s. This is our path away from the Deepwater Oilcano. We’re (finally) successfully re-planted and growing in freak-flag Sonoma County, California, toward the light. We wish everyone in the Gulf could come with us, or be clean and healthy where they still are, eating food out of the water like they always have been.
It’s no big deal, but it turns out the difference between PTSD and a plain memory, they say, is that with PTSD, adrenaline pours out into every cell of your body and turns on your systems full blast. It’s exhausting, punishing, relentless … until you finally hear that “pop” (metaphorically speaking) and surrender. This is your burning hand.
If you want to know what’s going down in the dying Gulf of Mexico — we dun tole ya it was gonna die, and turns out America’s too drugged up and sedated and TV-pnotized to give a f&ck — but if you’re among the paying-attention and curious, then click ’em and weep.
- Yahoo / The sideshow: BP oil spill two-year anniversary marked by somber statistics
- Raw Story: Two years after BP oil spill, disaster is far from over
- Raw Story: BP oil spill an ‘ongoing tragedy’
- The Nation Investigation: Two Years After BP Spill, A Hidden Health Crisis Festers
- The Nation: Help Gulf Residents Reclaim Their Lives
- Many thanks to Florida Oil Spill Law, Registered Nurse Trisha Springstead, and Attorney Stuart Smith for always collecting and distributing news for the people of the Gulf.
On a personal note, the nature of this post is not navel-gazing so much as it is an explanation of why we stopped covering the Gulf Coast sitchyashun and why we’re gunna start writing helpful postings about art, music, nature, and maintaining your glorious meatsack. We quit the Spacebooks, stopped upsetting ourself, and started taking action offline. (Note to nosy Feds: We do not mean anything violent.)
Yes, under this crusty spiked exterior lies a gooey emo kid. Yes, there are other people who have seen worse stuff than hundreds of miles of breeding grounds packed with America’s migrating birds covered in thick crude, or fellow journalists dropping and being hospitalized from Corexit inhalation, or the Cajun way of life being forced to walk the plank. They’re still over there, millions of them. We left. Survivor’s guilt, that’s another thing.
Put aside for a moment the certainty that most coastal Gulf residents are suffering life-threatening health and financial issues because of the willful negligence of our petrol slavemasters. Heck, we’d wager an entire region of America now suffers from TILT and PTSD, after seeing their home beaches of the Gulf Coast transformed into a Homeland Insecurity-style war zone full of oily corporate spies interlaced with chemical-filled planes buzzing while harsh military personalities boss people around.
Numb-faced, shattered-looking Gulf Coast locals threw up their hands in oh-shitness and the rest of America changed the channel and went shopping — ignoring the Halliburton/BP and Blackwater invasion, where once again Louisianans were faced with gubmint contractors and their own military pointing guns at them for daring to try to protect their homeland from those who were murdering it, right there, in front of their faces.
Since then, we can see the nationwide pattern of local police officers receiving training from Federal brownshirts in the art of transforming their precincts from regional leaders/protectors to slavemaster arms of the Homeland hydra. It’s a proven theory these new cops from out of town don’t know you, so they’ll gladly apply a boot to your pregnant stomach or cave your granny’s head in. We are all Rodney King now.
We’ve been listening to a lot of doom metal. More doom, less gloom. Witch doctor’s orders. One can be more light and still be very metal. One can open up one’s heart to let the sun shine in and still turn up the speakers and rock one’s own face off every afternoon.
To be “metal,” after all, is to be willing to say, “I’m smart enough to be the darkness, but I have a sense of honor and a rebellious, romantic heart, and so I won’t. I won’t ever BE the darkness, I’ll only mimic aggression in musical form so I can get it out of my system.”
In the world of doom metal, epic battles happen in high fidelity; nobody really gets hurt. There’s no real war, no real torture, no real children starving while the spillionaire wing-nutticans get rich.
In the world of doom metal, the Apocalypse doesn’t have to happen in the punishing Christian way, because it’s already happened, repeatedly, in this song here and that epic there. In the harshly mellow world of doom metal, the listener often comes upon a brutal-Christian-destruction-of-the-Earth scenario, in which the band sonically wanders around picking up pieces of civilization’s detritus in a bleak and windy landscape. And somehow, it’s comforting. Listening to imagined aftermath.
It’s like lullabies. Doom slows the rhythms of your internal systems and takes your head to fantasy land, engulfing you when you’re weary and (don’t tell anyone but) fearful … like the warm and fluffy arms and ample breasts of your favorite mother, aunt, or grandmother. Yin energy lurks in the dark forest, with stormy, heavy sounds of calm. Like it’s sitting on you. Like it may just kill all the stupid, selfish, fearful and greedy people, and then we win.
So yeah, from now on it’s fucking NATURE TIME, sprinkled with arts, culture, and spectacle. We’re baking organic connect-the-dot cupcakes over here. Since the spillionaires tried to kill us all and this writer had to flee across the country to sleep in a barn last winter and tuck-and-roll our way back to upright (thanks, BP!) we have undergone something of a spiritual renaissance, too, accompanied by a persistent Yob soundtrack. We guess this is Metal in a nutshell. Get your ass kicked, get stronger, come out swinging (on monkeybars).
What’s shocking is the continued lack of response from the American public on this and so many other issues, but that’s changing too. Rapidly. Inspiringly. Please watch Josh Tickell’s Fuel — the best “What Now” documentary we’ve ever seen on the oil sitchyaishun — to see how easily and instantly we can put money in the hands of farmers, not spillionaires, by switching all our big systems to biodiesel fuel made out of plants. (Of which industrial hemp is the most efficient one. And hemp is illegal for this very reason, not because it can get you high, because it can’t. That’s another plant. Seriously, an entirely different strain. Pass it on.)
As for Louisiana, we remain a little mystified they still have such an abusive relationship with the oil companies that they don’t see their way out of it. Or they don’t care. Surely they care. But chemical poisoning is pretty immobilizing … and demoralization is thick almost everywhere.
Is it demoralization in their case, or Southern Zen? After all, Eckart Tolle says, “acceptance of the unacceptable is the greatest grace in this world.”
We’ll let that one sink in for a minute. It’s a hard notion for a fighty gal to swallow. We s’pose the balance between surrender and civics is what we’re all after.
One thing’s for certain: Kinetic energy is activist gold, so whatever you wanna do, just put on some Melvins and get up and do it.
We haven’t abandoned the Gulf in our hearts. We never will. Southern born, Southern bred, when we die we’ll be Southern dead. Everybody’s got the messages about how to help the Gulf, should they care to take their civics in that direction.
On the positive tip, we’ll just come right out and say it: Occupy has given us hope where we had none. And we’re sure we’re not alone in that. Bravo, everyone currently engaged in unpaid service to your country, knowing you might be beaten by those you pay tax money to supposedly protect your Constitutional rights.
To the digital stockades with those bring-downs ruining the planet. We can’t f-ing wait.
There’s no way to right the attempted genocide of the Cajuns and Natives and people of the Gulf without replacing our entire slavemaster system with open source government. We think it’s on the way. Mostly, the 28th Amendment for the Separation of Corporation and State is what we’re still into. We can’t build a new house until we knock down the old one.
Now, in the wake of our severe Corexit-chemical poisoning-almost-to-death, we learn how we turn away from the Racket Feller systems of “food” and “medicine” and try to do for ourselves. With the help of our neighbor the Dixiecutioner, we will remember all our grandparents taught us when we tilled and planted their land together and fed chickens.
No more talking about the Deepwater or any other Spillionaires for us. No more obsessing on all the Wag the Dog-style cruel jokes being carried out in the world outside nature. But hey — mass spillionaire jailings and gulags at Guantanamo, finally, would be so metal. There would be a lot of scary yelling, and fearful people lying to themselves and each other … but then up from the deep, the sound of something bigger, Cthulhu-like — impartial justice, truth — would squish the bee-swarm of hate with a fuzzbass church-drum thud.
Doom beats gloom, every time.
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