Deepwater Horizon

Dear Mike,
I am writing in hopes that this letter will reach you in time.  I hope it's not too late and my warning will spare your life, as well as the life of your friends and family.  If it hasn't reached you yet, it's coming.  The ooey-gooey black slime my brothers and sisters accidentally spilled in the water.  Fly hard, fly fast and fly far.  When your wings tire and you think you cannot fly any farther, fly some more.  When the air becomes almost as hot as hell itself, take a sharp left and land on one of the dotty patches of land that we call the Carribean.  I'll meet you in Barbados, with a big bag of Doritos and some of those oyster crackers you so much enjoyed.

I'm sorry my people have done this.  They didn't mean to.  Really, they didn't.  It was an accident causing human fatalities and the loss of millions and millions of dollars in equipment, contracts and product.  It's a sad day.  It's just that we have created all these things that we think we need.  Things to make our life more comfortable.  I am just as guilty as all the rest, wanting all these comforts.  The only part that makes me feel terribly guilty is that all this that we do, affects you.  I would like to say that we should stop all of this illusive urgency to have more, be more, make more, eat more, see more, get more.  In the end, I can't say that I'm any better than the next person.  I'm sorry, Mike.  I want more.

I spent five days with Mike last summer. He was different and distant from his friends, appearing to be the outcast.  He didn't run or fly with the group, instead holding his place on the beach all day long.  His feathers were a bit rumpled and he looked sort of dissheveled.  No matter what time of day it was, Mike was on his spot on the beach.  While I had my morning coffee on the deck, Mike was there.  In the afternoon, while I sprawled in the sand in a tequila-induced slumber.  In the rain, in the wind Mike was there.  I even spotted him one night after dark, still in the same spot.  Looking back at the pictures from that trip, I laugh as I see almost half of them are of Mike.  I hope he has some sort of bird-radar that will tell him it's time to move on.

I'll miss going to that beach this year.  I'll miss Mike. I'll miss Gulf Shrimp and Gulf Oysters.  God, will I ever miss the oysters.  I'll be cussing when the price goes up at the pump.  I wish I was one of those die-hard environmentalists that could get really pissed off at Transocean and BP, point my finger in their direction and rant and raise hell.  I wish I could paint a sign on a piece of cardboard and protest my little heart out, feeling like I was taking a stand.  I wish I had a giant straw that I could have lent to President Obama so he could have quickly and personally sucked up the oil himself, avoiding blame for his lack of an immediate solution.  I wish I could be happy and fulfilled living in a yurt, sans electricity and plumbing.  I wish I got as much joy as riding my bike as I do driving my car.  I wish I believed that those eco-friendly cleaners work as well as their chemical-laden courterparts.  I wish I could do without anything plastic.  Think about that last one.  Plastic. Glancing around the area immediately surrounding me this very minute, I would be seriously lacking if it weren't for plastic.  I wouldn't be typing this blog, as a matter of fact.  I wouldn't have a phone, a calculator, a pen, the fancy-dancy plastic filing cabinet.  Looks like I'd have a wood desk, some books, paper, pencils, paperclips and staples with no stapler.  That's a lot of petroleum.

I'm sorry Mike.  I want more.

melodia