jumpingfish

There’s a place on the south side of the lake where the water sits after a rain. Up on the hill, the rains run off the fields and pool around the trunks of the trees and cover the broken branches fallen from above.

Most of the time the place is dry. (It sure has been for the past several years.) But we had good rain this spring, and more than an inch fell this morning, so that place is full of water today.

From the trail that runs beside that place, I saw the muddy water. And I heard the trickle of the sometime stream that runs under the dike and down to the lake on the other side. And it made me think of a time long ago during what must have been another rainy year when I ran past that very spot and looked down on that very place and heard that very stream and saw a turtle in the water.

I’ve wondered about that turtle thru the years — how it fares when the rains don’t come, how it must climb up the embankment and cross the trail to make for the lake. I’ve wondered about that turtle.

And so as I walked past that place today, I peered thru the trees and underbrush down to where the water was and searched for the turtle.

Of course I didn’t see it.  I didn’t see it, but I know it was there.

He’s back from college and hasn’t driven a car in a long time—certainly not a standard.  So a little practice was in order.  Driving here, driving there.  Going to get something to eat, going to the hardware store.

So we’re in the car, and he’s at the wheel.  And it’s a new car.  (Yes, I got a new car, but that’s a separate story.)  He’s changing lanes, checking the mirrors, speeding up, slowing down, upshifting, downshifting.

“Man dad,” he says.  “This car is so quiet.  It runs so smoothly.  I can barely hear the engine!”

He changes gears and looks down at the tachometer.

“Wow!  Look at the RPMs.  Below 2000!”

He shifts again and repeats his exclamation.

“Wow!”

Now, Ben knows that I don’t fall in love with my cars.  A typical car of mine will get—what—20 washings in its entire lifetime, fewer vacuumings. I don’t grow attached to them, and he knows it.  So these exclamations can’t be indirect compliments aimed at me; they must be authentic amaze. I smile as he talks about the RPMs and about how other cars run higher and louder and don’t have a sixth gear. (Yes, it’s a six-speed.)

Then it strikes him.

“Oh dad,” he says.  “We’re having a typical father/son talk.  We’re talking about RPMs and gear shifting and how the engine’s running just like fathers and sons should.”

Kind of scary, that.

They’re finally showing the oil gushing forth live. Seems that more’s coming out than what they’ve been saying.

CBS tried to get a look at oil coming ashore in Louisiana a couple days ago. They have video of a boatload of BP contractors turning them back.  The boat evidently included a couple Coast Guard officers.  It was “BP rules” the Coast Guard officers said, as they told the journalists to turn back under threat of arrest.

BP rules.  Coast Guard officers. Threat of arrest.

After reporting from the scene, Kelly Cobiella turned it back over to anchor, Katie Couric.  Katie’s cutting-edge follow-up journalism?  To ask, with empathic concern in her eyes, And Kelly, what is the impact on wildlife so far?

As if to say, Well that’s interesting.  Now let’s talk about something else.

No need to dig into the collusion of government officials with BP to prevent the media from seeing firsthand the results of the oil spewing up from the bottom of the Gulf.  No need to draw attention to that.  No.  What we need to talk about now is the wildlife. Something to pull the heart strings and distract our audience from this colossal disaster.

During the Cold War, we in the West were taught that the Great Satan was an all-powerful government — down that path lay tyranny.  Those in the Eastern Bloc were taught that the Great Satan was an all-powerful capitalist oligarchy — the dreaded bourgeoisie. These were our closely guarded mythologies.

But there is a different way to look at things. A way to see beyond the myths. A way to perceive something that threatens to engulf us as the 21st century dawns and doesn’t fall into those convenient late 20th century templates.  A centaur, a minotaur, a harpy, a hybrid of the tyrannical government and the exploitive capitalism drawn from darkest night thoughts of the West and East: government and capitalism working hand-in-hand not for the betterment of the people, but to keep them from knowing, to keep them blissful in their ignorance, to protect the flow of profits, to maintain control. (Britt/Pattern #9, Mills/Corporate State)

There’s no call to show the public those videos of the oil spewing forth.  And for that matter, there’s no call to let uppity scientists with federal research grants talk about their own estimates of how much oil is gushing out of BP’s black hole. (Notice how they’ve clammed up since they first contradicted the gospel of BP?)

No.  No need to dig any deeper, Katie. Best to move on. Because, you know, we need to talk about turtles.  Because in the long run, it’s turtles all the way down.