Wednesday, February 02, 2011

from the Timbalier Islands

This flask held inky black, inorganic ooze, and was marked with a number and the emblem of an oil well. Maybe a sample bottled for testing and lost to the depths?

There is still oil everywhere down here, and it's very much in flux, not just the remnants of a finite amount that arrived and has been sitting since a certain day. Storms churn up more, the stronger wave action of rough winds brings up larger bricks; on Timbalier Island, above the high rack line, there are mats the size of garbage can tops. The consistency varies as well, from hard stratified nuggets to creamy molasses cookies that goop onto your boots.

This I am unsure what to make of. If something is non-explosive, why label it? The entire produce section of the grocery store would have to be helpfully labeled "Non-Explosive". Unless, of course, it is a cunning national defense program aimed at evermore intelligent dolphins who still trust signs.
If you have ever been to Seattle, you have probably seen the sidewalk dance instructions with little dancing brass footsteps on Capitol Hill's Broadway: the cha-cha, the samba, the foxtrot. This is a old local favorite, the french raccoon schottische.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Much of the produce section of the grocery store results in explosive diarrhea. -- Bernard