The Laws of Motion

A Classic Monterey Moment

noreply@blogger.com (Kelley Calvert) — Thu, 29 Nov 2012 16:59:00 +0000

I was walking to work today when I encountered a confused-looking gentleman on the corner of Alvarado and Del Monte.

I must have had the look of someone who knows where she's going.

"Can you tell me where the downtown is?" he asked.

"This is it," I said, the ocean my backdrop.

He looked even more confused as I walked away. I guess what you're looking for is sometimes right in front of you.

Why Vote? (A Philosophical Approach)

noreply@blogger.com (Kelley Calvert) — Wed, 07 Nov 2012 14:49:00 +0000

"Voting is a ceremony. It is an expression of reverence--not for our government or our laws, not for anything man-made, but for the very idea that ordinary people are more important than the juggernauts that seem to rule them. If we do not understand why we should vote in this country, that is because we have fogotten the meaning of ceremony. And the meaning of ceremony is reverence." - Paul Woodruff

Woodruff's statement is one that I would not have understood even a few years ago. Reverence comes with age and understanding. Voting day is a ceremony, and yesterday I found myself wondering why it's not a national holiday. In our busy lives, it's as though we cannot stop and pause, even in making history.

A Bit of Inspiration from Cannery Row

noreply@blogger.com (Kelley Calvert) — Fri, 02 Nov 2012 05:45:00 +0000

I have not written in my blog for over a year. Why should I? What do I have to say?

I've been paralyzed by the idea that I have nothing to say, that my life has changed beyond my capacity for explanation, that there's no point in writing for some unseen audience, the invisible not-knowing, that-which-has-not-may-not-ever-come. I began my self-editing before I ever began. It's easier that way. It gives me an excuse for not writing. I work too much, have too many obligations...

In fact, in myself, I see the flaw that I always caution against: the need for perfection. I'm in the process of writing my great novel. I have some material written. I'm just editing the narrative perspective, narrowing the focus, inventing some never-before-seen genre.

Well, the reality is that I wake up and go to sleep digesting thoughts like anyone else. And, my great American novel might be like most great American novels, a feeling, a glimpse, a hope, never materialized.

And I'm OK with that.

Then today, I had an experience that woke me out of complacency, just a little. I've been teaching an English course at the Monterey Institute focusing on the topic of sustainability. We've read a number of fascinating texts about the environmental crisis that we all know we are in (but manage to ignore on a daily basis). We've visited Stephen Palumbi of the Stanford University Hopkin's Marine Lab and Recology in San Francisco, but today, the experience was somehow different.

We met at Doc Ricketts Lab on Cannery Row in Monterey. Steinbeck made Ricketts famous in his novel Cannery Row, but Ricketts was locally famous in his own right for his contributions to marine biology. I've lived in Monterey for about 10 years, and it is a testament to Ricketts that I heard several tales of his lab before entering. According to legend, I would encounter milk jugs of petrified oceanic specimens and biological oddities upon entering the lab...In reality, I found a cozy living room with a couch you could sink ten feet into and old photos of mafia men and a wholesome good life only the great generation could imagine. In the back room, a piano cozied against a bar in some speak easy dream.

In that living room that belonged to a generation pre-Web, prior to the closing in of a world, a generation, a collective heart and life story, Charles Seaborn spoke to students from China, Japan, Togo, Iraq, and Korea. Frank Wright, who knew Ricketts and experienced Cannery Row at its literary height, told us stories of the bygone days. We could feel the legacy of Steinbeck, Campbell, and Ricketts in our own voices. Our experiences emerged from the electronic ether and became human again...in conversation. And in that moment, I yearned for something concrete, a pile of wood that I chopped, a house that I built, an engine that I made hum. In the modern world, our every working moment glows from a screen, every thought a transaction. I realized what it is to become human and I wanted to do it again and again.

And so...without any excuses...

I am always dissatisfied with the 500 photos I have on my iPhone with no place to go. The story of the last three photos on my iPhone this week, the story of my life:

Here is Charles Seaborn reading from the book Reverence. He points out that Reverence has three components: Awe (like AWESOME!), respect, and shame. What's that you say? Shame doesn't fit here? Well, many of us have experienced the beauty of nature or of love and felt unworthy guilt at our psychological or physical pollution, that plastic bag we grudgingly take, the exhaust we see blossoming from our tailpipe on an autumn morning. And then, we pull ourselves closer to the person we love, the scenery we hold close and say, "Thank you for loving me anyway." It's a beautiful shame to have.

Yesterday was Halloween, and for some reason, this year, I was LOVING Halloween. I woke up excited like a school kid anticipating the big day. Halloween took two tangible forms for me this year. First, I taught a lesson on "13 Trivia Questions on Halloween," and second, I celebrated Halloween with the office at Pacific Metrics (I dressed up as Yogi Bear for a "TV" theme). After the work day was complete, I wondered if any children might be popping by my place for a little trick or treating. I bought chocolates and a glowing jack-o-lantern just in case...but there was a light without a party.

I thought about my own childhood, how we went trick-or-treating in our own neighborhoods...and I felt a little let down. Yeah, times are changing. Folks take their kids to Carmel or PG, wherever the feudal lords sit reigning benevolently over their stocks...and pass out chocolate to the appreciative pagan audience. But of course, that's just my cynicism wishing for the good ol' days...which in my case would be the Reagan 80s which I can't imagine were really all that good. So on to a better photo.

Yeah, that's pretty much the best cat that ever lived. Her name is Pele, and in this photo, she is posing as a bunny for Halloween. Pele lives with my X who is away for a couple weeks, so Pele has come to stay with me and my sweetheart for a limited time only. And wow! I had forgotten the blessing that our furry friends bring. Here is number 1: Be here now. Live life. There's no hurry when you're at the stop light rushing to yoga. Imagine that car in front of you is driven by your grandma (particularly in Monterey)...Yeah. Love everybody unconditionally. Love is good stuff, right?

Ok, now let's play.

EcoMyths and False Salvation #1: Recycling

noreply@blogger.com (Kelley Calvert) — Thu, 04 Aug 2011 14:32:00 +0000

The LitterBug Campaign was successful in enraging a generation of Toys R' Us Kids.

Top Ten EcoMyths Introduction

As a child, my cousins and I were inundated with commercials about litterbugs. We’d see someone toss a cigarette butt out a car window, and that was it. We’d demand our parents chase them down so that we could accuse them of high treason against mother earth with our shrill cries of LITTERBUG!!! Even today when I see someone toss a McDonald’s bag out the car window, I feel a wave of disdain overtake me (Then again, if someone is trashing their own innards with McDonald’s, of course they are more likely to trash the outside world). I don’t chase them down, but I boil inside and wish I were some sort of enviro- caped crusader (or a cop able to write hefty littering tickets. No speeding tickets on my watch. I’d just fine all the LITTERBUGS out of existence!). Of course, there’s nothing to be done, so I take comfort in the fact that I reuse; I recycle. In California, most of my neighbors do as well.

Here’s the problem with recycling. The Story of Stuff: Plastic Bottles (below) explains that most of what we recycle is downcycled, which is to say, our plastic bottles are not made into plastic bottles; they are made into objects of lesser quality and functionality. Worse, our recyclables are usually sent to China or India on barges, a giant carbon footprint for questionable eco-output. What can’t be downcycled just becomes landfill material in another country; out of sight, out of mind.

When I was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Benin, I saw how resourceful people could be if necessity demands it. Every plastic bottle was reused, and most beverages came in glass bottles. After use, these bottles went back to the manufacturer, got sanitized, refilled, and put back into circulation. Such a sane model! The problem is, as we increase scale and consumption, such a model becomes less economical than simply throwing stuff away. Coca-cola makes more money off rampant destructive consumerism than conscious manufacturing practices (hence changing the recipe from “expensive” sugar to GMO corn syrup). No one wants to take responsibility for the Pacific gyre, yet we are all responsible.

I recently came across Brook Jarvis’s article about Chris Jordan, a photographer documenting the effects of plastic on the albatross population. "Bearing Witness: Chris Jordan on Art, Grief, and Transformation” in Yes Magazine documents how these poor creatures on Midway Toll Island in the Pacific actually feed their young plastic until it kills them: “…their parents try to feed them one more piece of plastic, one more cigarette lighter or magic marker, and the baby chokes to death. It's a long process of the babies just kind of flapping around, making an awful gagging sound, and then crashing into the ground and expiring.”

The images from this Pacific Island are enough to wake one out of complacence because they make tangible what is often abstract—the effects of our mass consumerism. And perhaps awareness is the single retribution that recycling offers. While corporations and governments refuse to take responsibility or proactive measures, individuals are choosing to change themselves, to do what they can to curb this monster machine. San Francisco, as always, demonstrates a model for the future with its recology program, dedicated to helping San Francisco reach its goal of zero waste through home collection of compost and recyclables. An artist in residence program allows for the creation of sculptures and found art objects. Another powerful example of making art from waste comes out of Brazil where artist Vik Muniz employed and empowered local “pickers” to create art from the garbage they sorted through tirelessly. The documentary Waste Land is a hopeful portrait of the fact that there need be no waste for objects or for people.

Resources:

Van Jones Ted Talk: The Economic Injustice of Plastic

Waste Land

Yes Magazine (Bearing Witness: Chris Jordan on Art, Grief, and Transformation)

Recology San Francisco

The Story of Stuff: Plastic Bottles

Sacred Cows and Elephants in the Room: EcoMyths and False Salvations

noreply@blogger.com (Kelley Calvert) — Wed, 03 Aug 2011 17:18:00 +0000

The Monterey County Dump where semis full of trash come and go, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

Within the green movement, we all have a sacred cow or two. I’ll get it out of the way and fess up that vegetarianism and biodiesel are mine. I’ll maintain to the day I die that if everyone ate a near-vegetarian diet and drove around on biodiesel, we’d have a much happier planet. After all, I did drive around the country on biodiesel to see if it were possible to make it around the U.S. without fossil fuels. While it was possible, it wasn’t easy—we just don’t have the infrastructure (or political stamina) to make biodiesel “convenient” enough for most Americans. But perhaps that’s the problem itself—we have a constant push and pull between ideals and realities…And too often, we don't dream big enough.

Along with our sacred cows, we all have a million and one salves that we apply to make ourselves feel better about the earth’s seemingly inevitable trajectory toward disaster. We carry our own water bottles and coffee mugs, lugging them around like green talismans to ward off evil eye and climate change. We shop at Whole Foods and buy organic shampoo that flows down self-installed gray water systems to our native plant gardens. We turn up our noses at SUVs and WalMart. We insert signatures in our email asking our colleagues not to print our poorly-drafted words.

Let it be said that deep in my heart, I think these are good things…but also deep in my heart (and deep within the media’s never-ending stream of information), I have been taking note of several EcoMyths and False Salvations that I present here not to stir up the already well-established divisions, but to inspire dialogue, compassionate thought, and transcendence…because where we go once we recognize the precociousness of our most sacred cows will determine everything. In part, I write these anecdotes to consolidate the myriad disparate voices I’ve encountered in recent months, to reconcile contradiction or to find comfort in ambiguity.

Following are my top 10 EcoMyths and False Salvations, as presented by my favorite mottos/slogans/bumper stickers.

1: Reduce-Reuse-Recycle
2: We Serve Only Sustainable Catch Seafood!
3: American Farmers Grew my Fuel

4: Please Consider the Environment Before Printing this Email

5: This Home/Car/Bike Powered by the Sun

6: Leed-Certified Building

7: Save the Earth: Go Vegan

8: Support Global Cooling: Drive a Hybrid

9: Gone with the Wind

10: The Singularity and Beyond

I’ll address these items one by one, blog by blog, incorporating my most recent readings and thoughts. I’ll start with the biggest elephant in the room: Recycling.

Read EcoMyths and Elephants in the Room #1 Recycling

When is it time to let go of an old friend?

noreply@blogger.com (Kelley Calvert) — Mon, 01 Aug 2011 14:11:00 +0000

We spent every waking moment together, shared intimate secrets. She protected me from storms and coyotes. We picked up hitchhikers and old friends. And now, she won’t start for the second time in as many weeks. Maybe it’s her way of rebelling against becoming a commuter car. I understand her frustration. I hate being a commuter. Regardless of Little Red’s rationale, I was beginning to have a conversation with myself: At one point do I say goodbye? When does the car become more trouble than it’s worth? How many parts can you replace before the machine becomes mutant? Is it suffering?

It’s a funny feeling to watch your car be towed away. It suddenly becomes other; it appears as it is, as an object. All sentimentality gets thrown out the window. Or does it? In the past year, I’ve replaced the starter, a strut, the fans, the radiator, and the thermostat. Most recently, I had all the rubber hosing replaced because biodiesel mercilessly had eaten away at the car’s veins. I knew I should have replaced those rubber tubes with synthetic materials like Viton, but sometimes, shoulds don’t become dids.

“No more biodiesel!” my mechanic, Mike, said.

I smiled coyly. I wouldn’t give up biodiesel or my car for the world.

One week later and my car was back at the shop.

“Now, it won’t even turn over. Seems like the alternator,” I said sadly.

“That’s about the only thing we haven’t replaced on this thing,” Mike replied.

I left the shop and went to work, expecting a repair with a big price tag later that day. But an hour later, I got an unexpected call. The alternator was fine…but the wire connecting it to the battery had been chewed through.

“Did you know you have a rat living in your car?” Mike asked.

I thought it had moved out, or if not, that we had at least worked out a friendly don't-ask-don’t-tell policy. But noooo, it had to chew threw my alternator wire. What was next—the brake lines? How was I to maintain my pacifist stance under such duress?

I set out determined to buy mousetraps, but when I got to the big box store containing the traps, I was put off by the sheer number of mouse torture devices. You could catch them with glue traps, snap traps, maze traps, shock traps...it seemed like some Middle Ages Million Ways to Die episode. I carefully read the instructions, looking for the most "humane" method, but at the end of the day, I just couldn't do it. Not only could I not let go of a friend, I also could not rid myself of an enemy.

Little Red Vs Big Mouse Part Two: I Smell a Rat

noreply@blogger.com (Kelley Calvert) — Wed, 27 Jul 2011 17:05:00 +0000

If ever there was a gruesome discovery, it was what I found under my hood that fateful day. My cat’s sudden obsession with my car began to alert me that something was afoot (literally) beneath my radar. Not gifted with supersonic ears sensitive to subterranean animals, I had no idea that I would find a nest under my hood. In my understanding of mice, I had made a few critical errors:

1) Mice live in fields, trees, bushes, and occasionally houses—not cars.
2) Mice are small.
3) Mice are not intelligent.

When I opened my hood, I discovered an intricate nest, crafted of twigs, papers, and the interior engine lining from my car. Most notably, the mouse had chosen to chew up a Charles Bukowski chapbook I had in storage in the shed, Betting on the Muse. “Now the telephone doesn’t ring, the young girls are gone, the party is over,” the shred of paper mourned.

Pele the cat followed me in my investigation, sniffing and then pulling away.

“What cat is afraid of a little mouse?” I teased.

I removed the nest, tossing the work of art into the bushes, hoping the mouse would pack up and move to a more appropriate home. Pele followed, sniffed, and ran into the house.

Next morning, it was still dark when I got in my car to go to work. Everything was quiet. Curiosity guided me to my hood again; this time, I slowly opened it and peeked in.

Prior to that morning, I had never screamed like a girl. It came out of me like a surprised drunken hurl. My hands went to my face and I did the little ballerina dance of a scared child.

This was no ordinary mouse. This was a supersized genetic oddity. A rodent on steroids. A squirrel mouse hybrid. This was the leader of the teenage mutant ninja turtles. Not Turtle Power—Rat Power!

Believing in the radical notion of non-harm, I decided to find a peaceful solution. Little did I know that my rat friend would declare war.

Little Red Vs. Big Mouse Part One: Pele's Message

Little Red Vs Big Mouse Part One: Pele's Message

noreply@blogger.com (Kelley Calvert) — Wed, 01 Jun 2011 15:04:00 +0000

In feline-human communication, there are often misunderstandings. Recently, Pele had begun taking great interest in my car, Little Red. I would look out the window and there she was...sitting on the hood. I'd go outside and she would be sniffing around the tires or trying to get inside.

Of course I'm not one to ascribe conversational characteristics to cats (OK, fine, I am), but it seemed she was trying to tell me something. I went with the obvious:

Me: Pele, you want to go for a ride? You're so cute!
Pele: There's a mouse in your car.
Me: You're so sweet. You want to go on a road trip!

NEXT DAY:

Me: Oh, Pele. You don't want me to leave! Such a sweetheart!
Pele: There's a mouse in your car, you freakin idiot!
Me: Don't worry...I'll be home later.

I didn't question the strange squeak that came from the engine when I started the car. Little Red is an old lady, after all.

"That sound is new," I thought vaguely as I drove away.

Little Red Vs Big Mouse Part Two: I Smell a Rat

A Guide to the Laws of Motion

noreply@blogger.com (Kelley Calvert) — Sun, 09 Jan 2011 14:00:00 +0000

Prior to the book, there was a blog...By way of introduction, let me mention that I recently finished my book about my fossil fuel free adventure around the United States. The Laws of Motion, a memoir travel narrative, takes a classic theme, the American road trip, and transforms it into a modern search for meaning, the vehicle of discovery a 15-year-old biodiesel Jetta with 200,000 miles on it. In the summer of 2009, I left my newly-purchased foreclosure home on the Monterey Peninsula and began a trip that would take me from California to Florida, up the east coast to Maine, and back across the northern Midwest. This blog chronicled my travels as they happened. Below is an interactive Google map featuring videos, photos, and text. Below the map is a table of contents--state by state, entry by entry.

Whatever road you travel, may it take you where you are meant to be.

View Hope Walks into a Bar Looking for Change in a larger map

Transmissions from the Golden State:

Notes on Driving from Monterey to Los Angeles

Finding Something Real in the Land of Illusion

Emissions from the Grand Canyon State:

Update at 835 Miles

On and Off the Grid

The Grand Canyon is Truly...Grand

The Sedona Experiment

Firsts in Sedona

Humanitarian Crisis in Arizona

Border Conflict Intensifies in Arizona

Communiques from Zion National Park, Utah:

Inspiration in Zion: Explorations in Utah

Kolob Canyon: A Walk to the Very Beginning of Time

Reflections from the Land of Enchantment, New Mexico:

Impressions Galluping By

Navajo Dancing

My Next Gig as a Carney

Human Smallness and a Petrified Forest

Gila Cliff Dwellings

Gila Hot Springs

Mogollon Petroglyphs

Lonely on Planet Earth

Pipeline from Texas:

Texas, Baby

Lifelines from the Louisiana Bayous:

Louisiana Sunrise

Life Amongst the Dead

Life in the Big Bathtub

The City that Care Forgot: Lower Ninth Ward

Keeping Georgia on my Mind (for a sec):

View from the Cockpit Window

Savannah Enchantment

Les Chausseures Volontaires de Saint Dominigue

A Soundbyte from the Sunshine State

Orlando's City Art Factor y

Les Chausseures Volontaires de Saint Dominigue

Another Big Ol' Lie from South Carolina

The Tackiest Town in the United States

Missives from the Nation's Capitol

Fourth of July

DC, Obama, and Me

Throwin' Out Some Love to "Balmore, Hon"

Pressing Strings in Baltimore

Fell's Point Star Spangled Banner Comes in on a Horse with a Raven

Contradictions and Massachusetts Communications:

Crossing Breakwater

We Came, We Saw, We Concord

Gathering Storm Clouds and Thinking Caps from Maine

Maine...

I Love You

Hands to Work, Hearts to God

Wind Power Turbines Towering Maine Mountainsides

Off the Grid and on the Road in New England:

Ah...This is the Ecolife

Resisiting the Supremacy of Money

UnDoing the Industrial Revolution in Detroit:

Art and Exodus

Industrial City and Slump City

Breaking my own Heart in the Heartland:

Home is Where the Heart (and Bad Poetry) Lives

Accidental Storm Chasing

Going Global before Going Local in Minnesota:

Meaning and Madness at the Mall of America

The Local Gospel

A Little Rough around the Edges but not so Bad South Dakota:

The World's Only Corn Palace

The Eighty Foot Dinosaur of Wall

Show Me the Bad in Badlands

If only Everywhere was Montana

The Top Five Things I Love about Montana

See:

SKIDAWAY ISLAND HALLUCINATION

DETROIT, CITY OF HOLES, CITY OF HOPE

NAVAJO HOOP DANCE

MILKING THE PIGS

Small Worlds Get Smaller

noreply@blogger.com (Kelley Calvert) — Fri, 17 Sep 2010 20:32:00 +0000

I just found out that my friend the famously infamous MC Weekly writer Stuart Thornton was working on a story about the Louisiana Bucket Brigade just as I was in the Gulf talking with the organization's founding director Anne Rolfes.

Stuart's National Geographic Mapping Up the Spill Story

Real World Geography Story

Stuart's National Geographic stories detail the oil spill crisis map and how folks can help. As Rolfes told Thornton: "It's always good for the communities to know they have supporters far away."

Interestingly enough, it seems that as the world gets smaller, there is no "far away" and of course, the Gulf has allies the world over.

How Nigeria's Oil Tragedy Dwarfs Ours...and No One Seems to Notice

noreply@blogger.com (Kelley Calvert) — Tue, 14 Sep 2010 15:32:00 +0000

It's amazing how long it can take to put the pieces together.

Upon arriving in Benin in 2003, I remember seeing glass jugs full of apple cider. Later, of course, I learned that these big glass jugs were full of gasoline, the only sources of fuel in the nation. No gas stations for the third world, just roadside jugs of petrol. I never thought much about where this fuel came from, assuming that it was somehow imported through "normal" channels.

Along highway 46 from Paso Robles, California towards Bakersfield/Fresno, there is a large oil field. Hundreds of giant rusty hammers pump the ground, gears and contraptions rotating 24 hours a day. Nearby, a chimney-like construction burns like a candle, also 24 hours a day.

It wasn't until the director of Louisiana Bucket Brigade mentioned a 50-year flare in Nigeria that I made the connection: Deposits of oil and natural gas go hand in hand. In extracting oil, companies have to do something with the natural gas. By far the cheapest (and most damaging) way of dealing with natural gas deposits is to burn it, hence the burning flare near Paso Robles. Gas flares emit 400 million tons of CO2 into the atmosphere and waste 5.5% ($40 billion) of natural gas resources each year, according to the website Just Means.

The modest flare in Central California, however, is nothing compared to the giant flares throughout Nigeria. Nigeria is the sixth-largest oil producer in the world; the Niger Delta has 606 oilfields that supply 40% of US oil imports, according to The Guardian. Nigeria should be a wealthy nation, but the people of Nigeria have not benefited from their oil wealth. Instead, they've been subjected to the impacts without compensation. In Akaraolu, a 200-foot column has spewed fire and natural gas fumes into the air since 1972. The fine particulate matter released by gas flares cause a range of respiratory problems and the benzene released is known to cause leukemia and cancer. Lacking even basic services, villagers watch as oil companies harvest billions from their land. This photo essay by Chris Hondros captures the human tragedy of the village.

While we contemplate the devastation to the Gulf of Mexico, it is important to remember that more oil is spilled through damaged pipelines and infrastructure in Nigeria each year than what was spilled in our waters. Shell claims that 98% of spills in Nigeria are caused by vandalism and theft.

Here is where the pieces come together for me: This "vandalism" provided the only gas available in Benin. Just as BP has tried to displace blame onto subcontractors, Shell places the blame on the people of Nigeria. Why is it that such an oil-rich nation doesn't even have gas stations? Why do so many villages lack even basic necessities like clean drinking water? Couldn't these conditions be the driving factors to the "theft"?

Reporting Oil: Pride, Spin, and a Little Prejudice

noreply@blogger.com (Kelley Calvert) — Tue, 07 Sep 2010 00:10:00 +0000

Riedel/AP

In early June, oil began washing ashore along the Louisiana coast, and photographers got the shot they were looking for: the oiled bird. I would never belittle the tragedy of the thousands of birds devastated by the oil, nor would I demean the value of such images for raising awareness.

What I do take issue with is the fact that this is THE image, THE pelican that my mind will forever associate with this tragedy. I have found myself wondering why this image (aside from the obvious) stuck with me. Then I realized the obvious: I remember this image because it was the only one I ever saw.

I wasn't there that day, so I can only speculate as to the reasons for this singular depiction of oiled wildlife. Nonetheless, I imagine that on June 3rd or 4th, BP realized that it would have to give some semblance of access to the media. Having secured the areas nearest the Deepwater Horizon disaster, the company hired private contractors to guard the most devastated areas, to keep the press out. But, the story was too big to fully contain. A press conference was called, the beach opened for an hour, and all major news outlets got the images they needed for the evening news.

This press conference accomplished two things: it made a single pelican famous, and it contained the story; it made the press manageable and compliant. Like embedded reporters in Iraq, journalists in the Gulf must become complicit to "get" the story.

BP has made every effort to control this story. Early on, the company came under fire for blocking access to beaches, digitally altering photographs to make clean up efforts appear more vigorous, and creating an unofficial no-fly zone over oiled areas. In this video, a local reporter is denied access to Grand Isle:

There is no great secret here. From the beginning, this story has been one of spin. BP tripled its advertising budget to $100 million following the spill. Meanwhile, the company moved sluggishly to pay claims to unemployed fisherman throughout the Gulf. But, be not confused, BP will "make things right." The new ad campaign is entitled Making It Right and features Louisiana natives promising fellow citizens that they will be there "until the job is done."

The Wildlife: Making Things Right video features images of birds and turtles being cleaned, set to soothing spa music. The real scene at Hammond Oiled Wildlife Center in Louisiana featured amazingly dedicated workers who genuinely cared for the animals being treated, but no relaxing music. Industrial-sized fans blew hot humid air around while journalists were herded from room to room, scene to scene.

It's important that we see the process cleaning wildlife. It's also important that BP convey to the press that it's living up to its obligations. To many questions, one of the guides on the tour gave canned responses--exact quotes that I'd previously heard on commercials: "BP has made a commitment to be here until the job is done." I don't blame her; that's part of her job. But, if we cannot hear the full story, the real tragedies...how can we know the whole story?

Without getting too philosophical here, I would venture to say that there is no such thing as absolute truth...especially in our modern context. However, is it too much to ask that the press be something more than a false limb to the PR machinery of multi-national corporations?

Hammond Oiled Wildlife Center Videos

noreply@blogger.com (Kelley Calvert) — Tue, 07 Sep 2010 00:07:00 +0000

These are a couple more videos shot at the Hammond Wildlife Center. Here, Jay Holcomb describes the delicate point in the pelican life cycle that many new arrivals occupy:

Here, Holcomb describes the arrival procedures for new pelicans:

This video shows a pelican being scrubbed, including the very uncomfortable-looking process of cleaning out the bird's beak:

The Baytown Blues: Where Oil and Nature Intersect

noreply@blogger.com (Kelley Calvert) — Mon, 06 Sep 2010 23:30:00 +0000

Bayous and Refineries Visually Interweave:

First Impressions in Baytown:

Pipelines and Heron:

Perceptions Versus Reality:

Fragile Ecosystems and Corporate Sponsors:

Pelican Wash at Hammond Wildlife Rehabilitation Center

noreply@blogger.com (Kelley Calvert) — Fri, 20 Aug 2010 03:58:00 +0000

Facility Manager Jay Holcomb of IBRRC (International Bird Rescue Research Center) describes the process of cleaning oiled birds.

Fledgling pelican being cleaned. Dawn is the soap of choice to remove oil. Most pelicans arriving at the center now are juvenile pelicans, very vulnerable as they've been oiled for weeks. At the beginning of the spill, healthy adults arrived in larger numbers, but now younger birds make up the majority of arrivals. 2-3 months ago, 40-60 birds arrived per day. Today, 6-10 are coming in.

While the clean up crew may appear to be rough with the pelican, they are in actuality being firm and gentle while trying to keep it under control. As Jay Holcomb pointed out, it is of utmost importance that the animals stay wild: "We don't want them to get habituated to people."

And, a little video with Gulf images and video set to Faded Paper Figures:

From Oiled Pelicans to Monster Hoopties

noreply@blogger.com (Kelley Calvert) — Mon, 16 Aug 2010 19:44:00 +0000

All in 30 minutes of one another in Hammond, Louisiana.

Pictures from Grand Isle

noreply@blogger.com (Kelley Calvert) — Sat, 14 Aug 2010 21:38:00 +0000

Pictures Worth a Thousand Words: Roadside Protest Signs in Grand Isle

noreply@blogger.com (Kelley Calvert) — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 03:08:00 +0000

Pictures worth a thousand words:

Welcome to Grand Oil

noreply@blogger.com (Kelley Calvert) — Thu, 12 Aug 2010 21:24:00 +0000

Out of Sight...Out of Mind in the Gulf?

noreply@blogger.com (Kelley Calvert) — Thu, 12 Aug 2010 14:41:00 +0000

Driving east through Texas, I noticed that my first glance of the Gulf of Mexico would occur in a little town called Baytown, Texas. We pulled off the interstate and followed GPS to the water. Accustomed to California's open beaches, crashing waves, and temperate weather, I wasn't expecting the palpable heat and humidity, the stirring insects, the lush greenery strangling out ocean views. Where the bay was accessible, chain-linked fencing and barbed wire made it inaccessible while signs warned:

In Baytown, the oil companies' ubiquitous presence soon became apparent. In the distance, refineries loomed on the horizon. Exxon Corporate Headquarters and numerous chemical companies called the town home. The only accessible beach was at Baytown Nature Center, a small park made possible through Exxon and Lyondell Chemical donations.

Upon entry, we asked the ranger if the area had been affected by the oil spill. An older gentleman with partial paralysis and a limp, he responded, "No, thank goodness. If the oil ever came this far, we'd be in big trouble."

We reached the water, and it didn't take long to find evidence to the contrary. Along the marshes heron, searched for fish just feet away from oil sludge washed up on rocks:

The nature center becomes paradox embodied. On one hand, a fragile ecosystem bustles with life. In the background, symbols of mass industrialism remind one of the costs of our modern comforts. Signs throughout the marshlands warn of petroleum pipelines below.

A visible oil sheen washes ashore. Fishing lures abound on the pier, evidence that people, like heron, continue to feed from these waters.

We were not the first to note the still lingering effects of the oil spill--despite federal assurances that 75% of the oil is cleaned up, reports continue to come in on the LA Bucket Brigade's oil spill map.

Near Baytown, people have reported damage to turtle nesting grounds, visible oil tar, and oil washing ashore. The map shows damages to the coast all the way to the Mexican border, and it surely extends even farther.

Driving away, we were amazed to see swimmers at a nearby beach. At Dauphine Island, Alabama, swimmers reported encountering oil as thick as peanut butter. John Gray reported, "You couldn't see it on the surface at all, but once we got in the water about waist deep, we started getting it on our knees and all over us." (AS REPORTED BY CARY CHOW FOX NEWS HERE)

As public assurances continue and visible damage dissipates, will business simply return to usual in the Gulf? Out of sight, out of mind?

God Bless Texas

noreply@blogger.com (Kelley Calvert) — Wed, 11 Aug 2010 13:30:00 +0000

Lost on the Continental Divide

noreply@blogger.com (Kelley Calvert) — Tue, 10 Aug 2010 18:46:00 +0000

Though this picture was taken in New Mexico, I feel like this guy looks after driving five hours... in Texas. Fourteen hours of driving highway 10 tomorrow straight to the French Quarter.

Entering the Land of Enchantment

noreply@blogger.com (Kelley Calvert) — Tue, 10 Aug 2010 18:16:00 +0000

Only 1300 miles to go...

Gulf Spill Spin and the Weather Channel Live from Tucson

noreply@blogger.com (Kelley Calvert) — Tue, 10 Aug 2010 15:06:00 +0000

At a roadside hotel in Tucson, air conditioners send heat signature hums into the atmosphere. A room key card with a pizza joint’s phone number opens a door into white-walled highway anonymity. A suitcase soon explodes on the room, toothpaste, dirty clothes, a notebook, a Nalgene, and a dozen scattered nothings make it my own.
A parking ticket glares at me from the nightstand, LA’s farewell gift.

I’m on my way to the Gulf to write about the oil spill situation, but right now, after 12 hours of driving, what I need is sleep.

The remote control doesn’t work. Let me restate, the channel changing buttons don’t work. Mute and Power do their jobs with strange efficiency. Even the whole change-the-batteries-around/jiggle remote trick doesn’t work, bringing the Weather Channel and its commentary endlessly into the room.

Obama visited the Gulf Region today, alerting the public that many beaches are untouched. Martha’s Vineyard was the first family’s original vacation destination, but advisors urged him to walk the walk and visit the beaches that Americans are being urged to frequent. He and Michelle dined on Gulf shrimp, affirming the happy ending for which we’ve all been waiting.

Last week, the president applauded a breakthrough on the Gulf Spill.

Google those words: Obama applauds breakthrough on gulf spill.

Dozens of headlines across the country echo the same press release. A BP think-tank conjures up today’s buzz word spin. The press twitters it out into the universe. Our president attends a prep rally in the Gulf.

We are told that three quarters of the oil, 152 million gallons, now has been collected from the Gulf. It was captured, burned, and chemically dispersed. Nature also helped out--bacteria consumed the oil. The rest simply evaporated or dissolved.

Everyone wants a happy ending; perhaps Hollywood and American story-telling has socially engineered us to expect it. The media images of an oil-rich cloud, dark and ominous, has been replaced by assurances that everything is OK. Trouble is, it’s hard to know what to believe when the news has been so funneled since the crisis began. BP has restricted access to oiled beaches, destroyed evidence, created an “unofficial” no-fly zone over affected areas, and doctored photos of clean-up efforts. If anything was learned from the Exxon Valdez Spill, it was how to manipulate media, not clean up oil.

Meanwhile, buried in the middle of the AP article applauding breakthrough, scientists warn that there is still oil in the water column, and the remaining 53 million gallons of oil is still five times the size of the 11 million-gallon Exxon Valdez spill.

In the war for control of the story, BP seems to be winning. In two days, after 1400 more miles of driving, I will see the spill and its effects firsthand, no spin but my own.

Windmills en route to Tucson

noreply@blogger.com (Kelley Calvert) — Tue, 10 Aug 2010 01:20:00 +0000

Mega-monster monoliths highway horizons! 4000 separate windmills in a
70-square mile area. Powers all of Palm Springs and the entire
Coachella Valley. Also causes countless rubber-necking gobstopper
accidents each year.