Letters Journal

I sit at work watching the oil spill.  I direct unused computers at work to the oil spill live feed webpage.  I talk to my coworkers about the oil spill and about watching the live feed.  My manager cannot watch it.  She worries about the pelicans.  The guy who is quitting laughs about the end of the world.

I watch the robot shoot toxic dispersant chemicals into the plumes of oil.  I talk about the toxic dispersal chemicals with my coworkers, and we agree that the horror of it won’t be known for years.

The oil spill live feed is the greatest documentary ever made.

We deserve it, and we do not deserve it.  How could there not be an oil spill?

New Orleans will drown in a burning hurricane.

Florida will drown in a burning hurricane.

Mexico will drown in a burning hurricane.

Visually, the oil spill live feed disturbs me less than Adrien Brody having sex with a mutant in Splice. Visually, the oil and the chemical dispersant are stunning together. I want to hear what the spill sounds like.

The oil spill will never end. The ocean is dead until Odysseus returns and becomes the fish. Another and another and another and another. The oil spill is Cassandra, but today she is believed by all. Everyone believes Cassandra but does nothing.

No, everyone does not do nothing.

The only way to save the ocean is to drown the world in a sea of diabetic fat.