Journal of a Sabbatical

May 25, 2001

can't even rant

Today's Reading: Grave Undertakings by Patricia E. Rubertone, Audubon and His Journals by Maria R. Audubon (Volume 1)

Today's Starting Pitcher: Hideo Nomo

It's a little odd that Americans memorialize our war dead by driving hundreds of miles and sitting in 9 mile long traffic jams for hours on end. Same for the founding of our country, and honoring working folk. Even with gasoline prices sky high at the moment, traffic on I-95 north is backed up 9 miles and counting from the Hampton tollbooth.

Discussion of holiday travel leads to discussion of gas prices, which inevitably leads to discussion of oil drilling. At least on WBUR's noontime news show, Here and Now. A panel of New England newspaper editors comments on how ironic it is that George the Father signed the legislation protecting George's Bank from oil drilling and now George Dubya is in a big hurry to start drilling there. What, you hadn't heard that? He sneaked in mention of that then claimed to have misspoken but now it turns out he meant it. A feeling of gloom and doom falls over me as I pull into the parking lot of the Earth Food Store. I feel like leaving my car here and never driving again.

At the cash register I read a sticker about how it won't be until the last river has been poisoned and the last fish caught that we realize we can't eat money. It's got drawings of fishes on it. I point to it and tell the cashier it should also say "we can't eat oil". She looks confused and asks "You can't eat oil?" I point out the sticker again and blurt out "they're talking about oil drilling in George's Bank again". "I'm from Santa Barbara" she replies "we have oil derricks off the coast. They don't look too bad and we've only had one spill." The dark cloud of gloom penetrates deep into my soul and I shuffle out of the store holding back tears. I don't weep for the planet often, and I manage to compose myself before I trudge to Starbucks to eat my healthy vegetarian lunch from the Earth Food Store.

I sit at the counter fuming, ruminating, obsessing. Can't eat money. Can't eat oil. There are already hardly any cod on George's Bank. What will happen if there's an oil spill?

I'm deep into visualizing hurricane force winds breaking apart oil drilling platforms and oil spewing all over the place when George comes in. We chat about how his company finally had a profitable quarter (after two quarters in the red) so they got a free lunch today to celebrate. Hamburgers and hot dogs. As George said " this is America". We chat a bit and I thank him for taking my mind off the prospect of oil drilling in George's Bank. "Where's George's Bank?" he asks. Two baristas chime in "Didn't you see The Perfect Storm?" Hmm, my dark fantasy exactly. Oil rigs in the no-name storm of '91.

When will people make the connection between environmentalism and food? And starvation? When the last fish has been coated with oil and the last farm has blown away in a dust bowl? It's not about beauty. It's not about freedom. It's not about politics. It's about food. Those cars idling for 9 miles south of the Hampton tollbooth aren't just fouling the air, they're edging us closer and closer to global famine.

I can't even rant. I own a car. I drive my car. I can't even rant. Heaven help us all. We can't eat money.

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