A Hateful Curse On BP

[Try2B_Comprehensive]

Ah, but so many of the dead critters will be unseen casualties. And keep in mind that this thing is truly only in its beginning stages.

As for the 6 tar balls- they’re 100 miles from the spill, ferchissakes. Again, it has only just begun.

Sorry to lash out at ya, Squink. This thing is turning me into a bad person. Stay tuned for more unholy hate aimed at BP!

[Ogre]

I weep for the Gulf Coast. I really do. What I failed to mention in the thread is that I’m an ecologist and molecular biologist who has dedicated his career to the remarkable ecology of the Southeast US in general, and more particularly, to the ridiculous amount of biodiversity in the state of Alabama. This spill breaks my heart on so many levels.

[Squink]

@Ogre

I weep for the Gulf Coast. I really do.

Judging from the latest satellite photos, currents continue to be the shoreline’s best friend.
Not only is most everything staying offshore, but the much trumpeted gulf loop current has not yet put in an appearance. I only hope things continue to go so well.

[Try2B_Comprehensive]

Well. I sure could use a break. And I know BP loves sleepytime… they were asleep when it came time to prepare for a blowout event, for instance. So how about a bedtime story!

BP would like a new one. How about ‘The Girl Who Trod On The Loaf?’ For your convenience, the relevant quote is included below!

But as she stood with one foot on the loaf and the other lifted up to step forward, the loaf began to sink under her, lower and lower, till she disappeared altogether, and only a few bubbles on the surface of the muddy pool remained to show where she had sunk. And this is the story.

But where did Inge go? She sank into the ground, and went down to the Marsh Woman, who is always brewing there.

The Marsh Woman is related to the elf maidens, who are well-known, for songs are sung and pictures painted about them. But of the Marsh Woman nothing is known, excepting that when a mist arises from the meadows, in summer time, it is because she is brewing beneath them. To the Marsh Woman’s brewery Inge sunk down to a place which no one can endure for long. A heap of mud is a palace compared with the Marsh Woman’s brewery; and as Inge fell she shuddered in every limb, and soon became cold and stiff as marble. Her foot was still fastened to the loaf, which bowed her down as a golden ear of corn bends the stem.

An evil spirit soon took possession of Inge, and carried her to a still worse place, in which she saw crowds of unhappy people, waiting in a state of agony for the gates of mercy to be opened to them, and in every heart was a miserable and eternal feeling of unrest. It would take too much time to describe the various tortures these people suffered, but Inge’s punishment consisted in standing there as a statue, with her foot fastened to the loaf. She could move her eyes about, and see all the misery around her, but she could not turn her head; and when she saw the people looking at her she thought they were admiring her pretty face and fine clothes, for she was still vain and proud. But she had forgotten how soiled her clothes had become while in the Marsh Woman’s brewery, and that they were covered with mud; a snake had also fastened itself in her hair, and hung down her back, while from each fold in her dress a great toad peeped out and croaked like an asthmatic poodle. Worse than all was the terrible hunger that tormented her, and she could not stoop to break off a piece of the loaf on which she stood. No; her back was too stiff, and her whole body like a pillar of stone. And then came creeping over her face and eyes flies without wings; she winked and blinked, but they could not fly away, for their wings had been pulled off; this, added to the hunger she felt, was horrible torture.

“If this lasts much longer,” she said, “I shall not be able to bear it.” But it did last, and she had to bear it, without being able to help herself.

A tear, followed by many scalding tears, fell upon her head, and rolled over her face and neck, down to the loaf on which she stood. Who could be weeping for Inge? She had a mother in the world still, and the tears of sorrow which a mother sheds for her child will always find their way to the child’s heart, but they often increase the torment instead of being a relief. And Inge could hear all that was said about her in the world she had left, and every one seemed cruel to her. The sin she had committed in treading on the loaf was known on earth, for she had been seen by the cowherd from the hill, when she was crossing the marsh and had disappeared.

When her mother wept and exclaimed, “Ah, Inge! what grief thou hast caused thy mother” she would say, “Oh that I had never been born! My mother’s tears are useless now.”

And then the words of the kind people who had adopted her came to her ears, when they said, “Inge was a sinful girl, who did not value the gifts of God, but trampled them under her feet.”

“Ah,” thought Inge, “they should have punished me, and driven all my naughty tempers out of me.”

A song was made about “The girl who trod on a loaf to keep her shoes from being soiled,” and this song was sung everywhere. The story of her sin was also told to the little children, and they called her “wicked Inge,” and said she was so naughty that she ought to be punished. Inge heard all this, and her heart became hardened and full of bitterness.

But one day, while hunger and grief were gnawing in her hollow frame, she heard a little, innocent child, while listening to the tale of the vain, haughty Inge, burst into tears and exclaim, “But will she never come up again?”

And she heard the reply, “No, she will never come up again.”

“But if she were to say she was sorry, and ask pardon, and promise never to do so again?” asked the little one.

“Yes, then she might come; but she will not beg pardon,” was the answer.

“Oh, I wish she would!” said the child, who was quite unhappy about it. “I should be so glad. I would give up my doll and all my playthings, if she could only come here again. Poor Inge! it is so dreadful for her.”

These pitying words penetrated to Inge’s inmost heart, and seemed to do her good. It was the first time any one had said, “Poor Inge!” without saying something about her faults. A little innocent child was weeping, and praying for mercy for her. It made her feel quite strange, and she would gladly have wept herself, and it added to her torment to find she could not do so. And while she thus suffered in a place where nothing changed, years passed away on earth, and she heard her name less frequently mentioned. But one day a sigh reached her ear, and the words, “Inge! Inge! what a grief thou hast been to me! I said it would be so.” It was the last sigh of her dying mother.

After this, Inge heard her kind mistress say, “Ah, poor Inge! shall I ever see thee again? Perhaps I may, for we know not what may happen in the future.” But Inge knew right well that her mistress would never come to that dreadful place.

Time-passed—a long bitter time

[elelle]

Try2 Be: In my Mother’s Day call to Mom tonight, we talked about the oil spill. She’s worked for NOAA Fisheries for decades, with a stint with the Gulf Coast Division, so knows the territory well as a fisheries biologist. She was greatly saddened, and said it will decimate fisheries for a good long while, and that you really couldn’t clean up the estuary system of the Gulf Coast once contaminated; a totally different situation from the Alaska ecosystem. Sad to hear Mom so sad about what she’s devoted her career to on Mother’s Day.

Here’s NOAA’s website, this page pretty much a blase rundown of what’s going on, but, as I see you devoting a lot of time to this good cause, there will be solid info there, and hope you can consider it part of your repetoire of resources as things develop.

[elelle]

Here’s NOAA’s link to a page that has the current trajectory maps for the spill. Concrete maps can help people better understand the reality of what’s about to happen.

[BrainGlutton]

Greg Palast says BP was really to blame for the Exxon Valdez disaster, and in the same way.

What’s so insane, when I look over that sickening slick moving toward the Delta, is that containing spilled oil is really quite simple and easy. And from my investigation, BP has figured out a very low-cost way to prepare for this task: BP lies. BP prevaricates, BP fabricates and BP obfuscates.

That’s because responding to a spill may be easy and simple, but not at all cheap. And BP is cheap. Deadly cheap.

To contain a spill, the main thing you need is a lot of rubber, long skirts of it called a “boom.” Quickly surround a spill, leak or burst, then pump it out into skimmers, or disperse it, sink it or burn it. Simple.

But there’s one thing about the rubber skirts: you’ve got to have lots of them at the ready, with crews on standby in helicopters and on containment barges ready to roll. They have to be in place round the clock, all the time, just like a fire department, even when all is operating A-O.K. Because rapid response is the key. In Alaska, that was BP’s job, as principal owner of the pipeline consortium Alyeska. It is, as well, BP’s job in the Gulf, as principal lessee of the deepwater oil concession.

Before the Exxon Valdez grounding, BP’s Alyeska group claimed it had these full-time, oil spill response crews. Alyeska had hired Alaskan natives, trained them to drop from helicopters into the freezing water and set booms in case of emergency. Alyeska also certified in writing that a containment barge with equipment was within five hours sailing of any point in the Prince William Sound. Alyeska also told the state and federal government it had plenty of boom and equipment cached on Bligh Island.

But it was all a lie. On that March night in 1989 when the Exxon Valdez hit Bligh Reef in the Prince William Sound, the BP group had, in fact, not a lick of boom there. And Alyeska had fired the natives who had manned the full-time response teams, replacing them with phantom crews, lists of untrained employees with no idea how to control a spill. And that containment barge at the ready was, in fact, laid up in a drydock in Cordova, locked under ice, 12 hours away.

As a result, the oil from the Exxon Valdez, which could have and should have been contained around the ship, spread out in a sludge tide that wrecked 1,200 miles of shoreline.

And here we go again. Valdez goes Cajun.

[Try2B_Comprehensive]

@elelle

Here’s NOAA’s website, this page pretty much a blase rundown of what’s going on, but, as I see you devoting a lot of time to this good cause, there will be solid info there, and hope you can consider it part of your repetoire of resources as things develop.

Thanks NOAA, and God bless.

[elelle]

My Lil Sis in New Orleans says they can smell the oil stink in the air now. Cripes.

[ivan_astikov]

If this doesn’t check our appetite for exploiting the planet, I’m not going to try and imagine what will.

[Try2B_Comprehensive]

Hey BP!

I cruised the museum at lunch and saw this awesome painting!

[Squink]

Here ya go TTBC:

[gonzomax]

You are lucky you aren’t watching the oil spill hearings. It is maddening. Nobody did anything wrong and they have been fair and diligent throughout.
BP has sent people to coerce the residents into signing paper work that will stop them from suing ,for up to 5000 dollars. They guaranteed they would hire locals to help cleanup because the spill killed their jobs. When it was pointed out that they have not done that ,but brought workers in to do the job. They said “we will look int it”. Like they don’t know what they are doing.
Haliburton moved company headquarters to Dubai. They are allowed to dump company paperwork every year. They don’t have to pay American taxes. Transocean is based in the Caymans. BP is British. The oil is located in the Gulf of Mexico. Note ,no Mexican or Americans involved.
Does anybody believe BP intends to pay all the claims?

[Try2B_Comprehensive]

@Squink

Here ya go TTBC:
http://tinypic.com/view.php?pic=sqgr9l&s=5

That’s pretty mean, Squink. Good job

Now that I’ve sicced the patron saint of England on BP, there is really no point in pulling punches. I posted an abridged version of The Girl Who Trod On The Loaf above, to spare the kiddies. But hell, the only thing spared in this disaster is BP’s expenses. So, sorry to post sort of the same story twice, but then again I’m not trying very hard to be nice about this:

But just as she placed one foot on the bread and lifted the other up, the loaf sank in deeper and deeper, carrying her down until she disappeared entirely, and nothing could be seen but a black, bubbling pool! That’s the story.

But what became of her? She went down to the Marsh Woman, who brews down there. The Marsh Woman is an aunt of the elf maidens, who are very well known. There have been poems written about them and pictures painted of them, but nobody knows much about the Marsh Woman, except that when the meadows begin to reek in the summer the old woman is at her brewing down below. Little Inger sank into this brewery, and no one could stand it very long there. A cesspool is a wonderful palace compared with the Marsh Woman’s brewery. Every vessel is reeking with horrible smells that would turn a human being faint, and they are packed closely together; but even if there were enough space between them to creep through, it would be impossible because of the slimy toads and the fat snakes that are creeping and slithering along. Into this place little Inger sank, and all the horrible, creeping mess was so icy cold that she shivered in every limb. She became more and more stiff, and the bread stuck fast to her, drawing her as an amber bead draws a slender thread.

The Marsh Woman was at home, for the brewery was being visited that day by the devil and his great-grandmother, the latter a very poisonous old creature who was never idle. She never goes out without taking some needlework with her, and she had brought some this time. She was sewing bits of leather to put in people’s shoes, so that they should have no rest. She embroidered lies, and worked up into mischief and slander thoughtless words that would otherwise have fallen harmlessly to the ground. Yes, she could sew, embroider, and weave, that old great-grandmother!

She saw Inger, then put on her spectacles and looked again at her. “That girl has talent,” she said. “Let me have her as a souvenir of my visit here; she will make a suitable statue in my great-grandchildren’s antechamber.” And she was given to her!

Thus little Inger went to hell! People don’t always go directly down there; they can go by a roundabout way, when they have the necessary talent.

It was an endless antechamber. It made one dizzy to look forward and dizzy to look backward, and there was a crowd of anxious, exhausted people waiting for the gates of mercy to be opened for them. They would have long to wait. Huge, hideous, fat spiders spun cobwebs, of thousands of years’ lasting, over their feet, webs like foot screws or manacles, which held them like copper chains; besides this, every soul was filled with everlasting unrest, an unrest of torment and pain. The miser stood there, lamenting that he had forgotten the key to his money box. Yes, it would take too long to repeat all the tortures and troubles of that place.

Inger was tortured by standing like a statue; it was as if she were fastened to the ground by the loaf of bread.

“This is what comes of trying to have clean feet,” she said to herself. “Look at them stare at me!”

Yes, they all stared at her, with evil passions glaring from their eyes, and spoke without a sound coming from their mouths. They were frightful to look at!

“It must be a pleasure to look at me,” thought little Inger. “I have a pretty face and nice clothes.” And then she turned her eyes; her neck was too stiff to move. My, how soiled she had become in the Marsh Woman’s brewery! Her dress was covered with clots of nasty slime; a snake had wound itself in her hair and dangled over her neck; and from every fold of her dress an ugly toad peeped out, barking like an asthmatic lap dog. It was most disagreeable. “But all the others down here look horrible, too,” was the only way she could console herself.

Worst of all was the dreadful hunger she felt. Could she stoop down and break off a bit of the bread on which she was standing? No, her back had stiffened, her arms and hands had stiffened, her whole body was like a statue of stone. She could only roll her eyes, but these she could turn entirely around, so she could see behind her, and that was a horrid sight. Then the flies came and crept to and fro across her eyeballs. She blinked her eyes, but the flies did not fly away, for they could not; their wings had been pulled off, and they had become creeping insects. That was another torment added to the hunger, and at last it seemed to her as if part of her insides were eating itself up; she was so empty, so terribly empty.

“If this keeps up much longer, I won’t be able to stand it!” she said.

But she had to stand it; her sufferings only increased.

Then a hot tear fell upon her forehead. It trickled over her face and neck, down to the bread at her feet. Then another tear fell, and many more followed. Who could be weeping for little Inger? Had she not a mother up there on earth? A mother’s tears of grief for her erring child always reach it, but they do not redeem; they only burn, and they make the pain greater. And this terrible hunger, and being unable to snatch a mouthful of the bread she trod underfoot! She finally had a feeling that everything inside her must have eaten itself up. She became like a thin, hollow reed, taking in every sound.

She could hear distinctly everything that was said about her on the earth above, and what she heard was harsh and evil. Though her mother wept sorrowfully, she still said, “Pride goes before a fall. It was your own ruin, Inger. How you have grieved your mother!” Her mother and everyone else up there knew about her sin, that she had trod upon the bread and had sunk and stayed down; the cowherd who had seen it all from the brow of the hill told them.

“How you have grieved your mother, Inger!” said the mother. “Yes, I expected this!”

“I wish I had never been born!” thought Inger. “I would have been much better off. My mother’s tears cannot help me now.”

She heard how her employers, the good people who had been like parents to her, spoke. “She was a sinful child,” they said. “She did not value the gifts of our Lord, but trampled them underfoot. It will be hard for her to have the gates of mercy opened to let her in.”

“They ought to have brought me up better,” Inger thought. “They should have beaten the nonsense out of me, if I had any.”

She heard that a song had been written about her, “the haughty girl who stepped on a loaf to keep her shoes clean,” and was being sung from one end of the country to the other.

“Why should I have to suffer and be punished so severely for such a little thing?” she thought. “The others certainly should be punished for their sins, too! But then, of course, there would be many to punish. Oh, how I am suffering!”

Then her mind became even harder than her shell-like form.

“No one can ever improve in this company! And I don’t want to be any better. Look at them glare at me!”

Her heart became harder, and full of hatred for all mankind.

“Now they have something to talk about up there. Oh, how I am suffering!”

When she listened she could hear them telling her story to children as a warning, and the little ones called her “the wicked Inger.” “She was so very nasty,” they said, “so nasty that she deserved to be punished.” The children had nothing but harsh words to speak of her.

But one day, when hunger and misery were gnawing at her hollow body, she heard her name mentioned and her story told to an innocent little girl, who burst into tears of pity for the haughty, clothes-loving Inger.

“But won’t she ever come up again?” the child asked.

"She will never come up again, " they answered her.

“But if she would ask forgiveness and promise never to be bad again?”

“But she will not ask forgiveness,” they said.

“Oh, how I wish she would!” the little girl said in great distress. “I’d give my doll’s house if she could come up! It’s so dreadful for poor Inger!”

These words reached right down to Inger’s heart and seemed almost to make her good. For this was the first time anyone had said, “Poor Inger,” and not added anything about her faults. An innocent little child had wept and prayed for her, and she was so touched by it that she wanted to weep herself, but the tears would not come, and that was also a torture.

The years passed up there, but down below there was no change. Inger heard fewer words from above; there was less talk about her. At last one day she heard a deep sigh, and the cry, “Inger, Inger, how miserable you have made me! I knew that you would!” Those were the dying words of her mother.

She heard her name mentioned now and then by her former mistress, and it was in the mildest way that she spoke: “I wonder if I will ever see you again, Inger! One never knows where one is to go!” But Inger knew that her kindly mistress would never descend to the place where she was.

Again a long time passed, slowly and bitterly.

[elucidator]

I expect you have only inconvenienced the hamsters. But be warned, they have their ways…wheels within wheels. So to speak.

[elelle]

Well, on more concrete terms, Try2B, Monday’s NPR edition of The Story had a great piece with Alaska fisherman RJ Kopchak, telling his experience with the Alaska Exxon spill. Listen to it; he was real, no nonsense in detailing what happened there. He was a herring fisherman, and that industry is totally gone due to that spill.

When asked what he should say to the Gulf Coast fishermen, in light of his experience, he said, knowing it would be deleted, “They’re fucked…” Coming from someone who dealt with years of trying to clean up the spill in Alaska.

The interview really is worth listening to; heartbreaking, but full of what it took to even try to attempt a big oil spill clean up effort.

[Try2B_Comprehensive]

@elucidator

I expect you have only inconvenienced the hamsters. But be warned, they have their ways…wheels within wheels. So to speak.

Ah, but this is but a lent voice, adding only articulation to the unprecedented scream that is about to issue from the Gulf. By no means am I its agent.

[elucidator]

I know that one, that’s “Stay Away from the Brown Acid”.

[Try2B_Comprehensive]

I see.

I am convinced that the the theme in Hellhound on my Trail is yet another version of the Wild Hunt mythology:

The Wild Hunt is an ancient folk myth prevalent across Northern, Western and Central Europe.[1] The fundamental premise in all instances is the same: a phantasmal group of huntsmen with the accoutrements of hunting, horses, hounds, etc., in mad pursuit across the skies or along the ground, or just above it.[2]

The hunters may be the dead or the fairies (often in folklore connected with the dead).[3] The hunter may be an unidentified lost soul, a deity or spirit of either gender, or may be a historical or legendary figure like Dietrich of Berne, the Danish king Valdemar Atterdag, Woden[1] (or other reflexes of the same god, such as Alemannic Wuodan in Wuotis Heer (“Wuodan’s Host”) of Central Switzerland, Swabia etc.), or Arawn.

It has been variously referred to as Wilde Jagd (German: “wild chase”) or Wildes Heer (German: “wild host”), Herlaþing (Old English: “Herla’s assembly”), Woden’s Hunt, Herod’s Hunt, Cain’s Hunt,[4] the Devil’s Dandy Dogs (in Cornwall),[5] Gabriel’s Hounds (in northern England),[6] Ghost Riders (in North America),[7] Mesnée d’Hellequin (Old North French: “household of Hellequin”), Cŵn Annwn (Welsh: “hounds of Annwn”), divoká honba or štvaní (Czech: “wild hunt”, “baiting”) and Oskoreia or Åsgårdsreia (Norwegian: “ride of Asgard”).

Whew! Well, I believe the hellhound is meant to literally be one of the hounds ‘in mad pursuit’, a la the English version. And (not surprisingly considering the geography) I believe Robert Johnson was adapting the French take on the hunter’s intent:

One of the origins postulated for the modern Harlequin is Hellequin, a stock character in French passion plays. Hellequin, a black-faced emissary of the devil, is said to have roamed the countryside with a group of demons chasing the damned souls of evil people to Hell.

For fun, let’s include a mid 19th-century take on the myth, Franz Liszt’s 8th Transcendental Etude, Wilde Jagd.

[gonzomax]

http://www.bigeye.com/exxon.htm BP/Exxon was deliberately cutting safety to save money. They did not just cut for money, but broke the regulations after promising to provide it. They lied .