When the earthquake happened in Haiti it was easy to feel altruistic. With the miracle of cell phones, we were able to send money almost instantly via text message. We felt good. We felt like we did something. We gave ourselves a pat on the back and ‘yeled’ our status all across facebook. But this oil spill is another thing indeed. Dis some bad juju hea. Money can’t save us. Neither can science, apparently. Have they ever?
I am like a child scared of the dark. I am peeking out from under the covers. I am afraid to look. I push it aside like an unpaid bill. I hope it will just go away. 45 days. I feel sick. I can’t look I can’t look I can’t look. The earth is bleeding and I can’t look. And the news! The news, god help us, has a funny way of making everything appear not-so-terrible in the morning. Everyone is so well dressed. Groomed. Effortless. Commercial. I don’t know which is worse: the spill or the media’s spill makeover? The spill. Definitely the spill. Talk of ‘diamond-tipped saws’ and ‘attempts to cap the gushing crude’ sandwiched between the weather. I call it murder. Pass the munchos.
It’s my fault. It’s everyone’s fault. It’s their fault. It’s the media. The President. Evil industry. Greed. Drill baby drill. It’s the earth. It’s God. It’s Africa. It’s the Palestinians. Oh, no, no, no. It’s the Jews. Definitely the Jews. It’s the blacks, the gays, the homophobes, the tyranny of beauty, plastic surgery, the silenced women. It’s Arizona. It’s Louisiana. It’s Mexico. Immigrants. Vagrants. It’s the Chinese man picking through the garbage for recyclables in an affluent neighborhood. It’s video games. It’s technology. It’s obesity. It’s standardized testing. It’s affirmative action. It’s…it’s…it’s…bulimia. It’s drug addiction. Crack and crystal meth. It’s AIDS. It’s gangs, rap-music, conceptual art. It’s terrorism. Colonialism. The dream of dominion. It’s the Romans. It’s history. We are history’s whores. Jesus’ sores. It’s diamond tipped saws. It’s the fault line flaws. It’s Darwin. It’s evolution. It’s the aliens. It’s reality tv ADD. It’s mad-cow disease. Do I look fat in these jeans?
Maybe there’s hope. I got an email from a woman who ‘speaks’ to the crystals and she said, about the oil-spill–
“Here we go with the hocus pocus,” says Mr. O.
“Where’d you come from? I haven’t seen you in a few weeks,” I respond, surprised.
“Oh you know, an octopus does have so many socks to wash.”
“Don’t make fun of my crystal thing.”
“Oh, I know. You think that just because you have a relationship with something that it’s real. Even if you can’t perceive it with the five senses.”
“Well, Mr. Octopus. Since you’re such an expert, being imaginary and all, what is reality?”
“What do you propose about the oil spill, seeing how it will adversely affect your brethren?”
“I suggest we pray.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in that sort of thing.”
“But you do.”