Welcome to European Tribune. It's gone a bit quiet around here these days, but it's still going.

How You Get Oil

by Crazy Horse Wed Jul 2nd, 2008 at 04:57:09 PM EST

The Crazy Horse was writing a screenplay about the shipyards in San Francisco, so he took a job there.  Among other things, he had to work refitting an oil tanker.  What occurs below the fold comes straight from the unpublished real-time novel on which he was experimenting at the time.  He didn't know what blogs were, though the novel might have made a fine blog of those delirious dot.com days.  At least he knew something about windpower, and this evidence of what windpower was trying to replace.

Here's the part about seeing the reality about oil: beyond intellect, beyond politics, beyond power and insanity.  This is how it gets to your tank.

    Friday night.  A fucking Friday night, a fucking foreboding Friday night.  Foreman says be ready, we're going into some foul shit.  Cover up, this is a real slop tank.  Me already anxious about going into this tank, on a fucking Friday night when everyone in dot.com creation's getting ready to celebrate the next million.
    And me going in a tank even the foreman's got forebodings?
    The staging pile's already on deck, we've been clambering over main deck pipes for hours bringing the staging, and even the open hatch propped by the pile looks ominous.  Me, renewable energy champion for decades, standing on the deck of an oil tanker, surrounded by pipelines like some oil field labyrinth, preparing myself to submerge into some tank eye ain't even seen yet, but i can tell from the look on the foreman's face, we're in for some shit.  The huge, ear-splitting fan's pumping down the next hatch four meters away, humming drummers at the gates of hell.  Somehow eye already know, this is why i'm here.
    But me got five weeks of getting the job done, me ready for anything.
    Check tools hanging off me waist, climb over the hatch lip, swing my legs into the abyss, can't see a damn thing beneath the hatch, just some black singularity from which no light escapes, feel around for the first step, there, solid, second step, grip the hatch edge, duck my hardhat, descend, i'm in.  Nostrils slapped awake by the invasion of crude, first hints of nausea gurgling from somewhere below my suddenly heaving chest.  Few more steps, eyes, such as they are, adjust, another step down, beloved steel-toes, protectors of me feet, me strong but hurting feet, carried me fifty years this far, boots sliding on the steel rung, what the fuck is that shit?  Peer down, ugh, that's fucking sludge on the ladder's rungs, my boots are sliding.  Search for the safety rail, where the fuck's the safety rail, perhaps it was forgotten in the haste to build another oil tanker.  Eyes search deeper into the hold, me trying to get my bearings, looking four stories down, it's all black, the black that sucks up all light, everywhere i look it's black with oil sludge, hard steel angles cushioned by Squish sludge layer of black tar, as far as the eye can see, limited by sharp shafts of blinding light from the few spotlights lighting our way, and bordered by acres of pitch black pitch, hiding who knows what.  jeesus keerist all monopoly, this is a fucking oil tank, this is the crude oil bunker, how could i have not figured this shit out.
    No time to figure nothing, my breathing becomes more labored with every descending step.  Gloved hands sliding along the ladder rails, can't believe my stuck gloves already full of tar, or sludge, or whatever foul shit called from the depths of hell this hold holds.
    Ain't they supposed to clean this shit out before we work?
    Keep descending, finally hit the first level.  Boots sliding on the slick sludge on steel, foul, grab a rung for a handhold and my gloves are black, and sticky, and fetid, eye can't even look at them for that increases the stench.  Peering below to my two partners, of course Tick's the first one down, both on the hold bottom, slipping in the muck.  Chrome Carl falls on his ass, into an inch of sludge, even he's cursing more than i've ever heard in my life.  Me try to find a spot on the landing with firm footing, not a fucking chance, every square inch of surface, even underneath, is mired in half-inch thick sludge, sludge with an evil mind of its own, grabbing you and sucking you down into its filth, every hand hold where you search for purchase just a slick trick delusion of something solid, gloves sliding along the rail, nostrils almost closed to keep out the fetid invasion, me just won't breath while i'm down here.
    Look around, nausea overwhelming the disgust, trying to get my bearings.  Struck hard by the chilling hypocrisy of the safety meeting.  They hand out cute little decals for your hardhat or locker, safety decals, then send you down into the depths of hell for $15 bucks an hour, dosing you with government approved doses of crude oil death.  And there ain't no safety cage, no rail on the ladders.  And there's only one rail about waist high on a steel ledge thirty feet above your death, one thin landing rail, and there's not one inch of stable footing, and everywhere you grab you either stick to or slide off.  Dangling participles of death.
    Takes moments that never end before the crew's ready up top to send down the first piece of staging.  Me in the middle of it's descent, have to guide it, no, lever it past the landing and out into the black hole, guide it down the hold, to the waiting shipwrights below.  First piece comes down, get out of the way Randy, hey slow it down up there, cocksuckers, grab the staging rail, try to lever it over the side rail, one boot slips off the landing, into the deck hole twelve yards below, where the ladder continues its descent, grab for the rail with my stomach, saves my ass, maneuver the fuckin' steel, send it down, first one done, and i'm still alive.  Piece after piece, now even the ropes are fucking sticky with tar, me sweating like pig wrapped in rubber, can't wipe the sweat off my face, can't touch a fucking living part of my being, can't wipe the fog off the safety glasses, AND CAN'T FUCKING BREATHE!
    Just to hug my son once more.
    Tick's yelling from below, but between the roar of the fan and the clanging echoes, i can't make out a fucking sound except i know he's screaming.  What?  Can't hear you.  What?  Me yelling i can't hear you so many times i can't hear myself.
    Hits me like a staging plank falling from the last vestige of the world out that tiny hatch twenty feet above my head.  Right at this moment, Tha's going on stage for the press preview of her first performance in San Francisco since she's been back.
    Me can't tell the anger rippling through my system from the growing nausea.
    She's on stage, this talented wonder who captured my heart, freely given, who gave me hope that eye was worth something, who excited me in every way a man can be excited, and then topped that (Remember the Paris story?  GVI), who counted on me for strength to support her actress insecurity, she said eye believed in her more than anyone in the world, who i brought to Sundance to introduce to the Indie film world, she's on stage right now, she won't talk to me, but she made sure i knew her schedule, she's walking on stage, and i'm mired in a fucking slop tank where i can't see nothing but crude oil sludge, can't breath nothing but crude oil fumes, can't touch nothing but tar, crude, sucked from the bowels of the earth tar, coating every warm fragile cell in my being, being in hell, oil slick hell, coal tar hell, can i die from this hell, what's he yelling hell.
    More staging descends, more sweat mixes with the carbon diarrhea, now there's even tears fogging my safety glasses, better cut that shit out right now, if i want to see to keep from dying, steel myself, starting to sway from the power of this moment, decades of struggling to get you to embrace the sun, and here i'm locked away from all life, away from everything soft and gentle, here i'm locked in the tank that you sent your kids to the desert to fight for, here i'm locked away somewhere only polite people would call purgatory, this is a fucking crude oil hold on a crude oil tanker bringing fucking crude oil to america to fucking burn as if we had the right to suicide by poison fire.
    Twenty five years of renewable energy activism, of crafting legislation, of starting companies, of doing deals, of getting projects built, of making clean power from the sun and wind, and here i am sucked into the steel belly of the beast, building staging so the pipefitters can come down here in hell to maintain the valves needed to pump your poison fucking carbon blood.
    You sent me here, Reader.
Tha Oner, can't you feel me at all?  Why this, how this, what could possibly be worth putting my fucking lungs on the line, life on the line, to be in black hold tar goo devil's come sludge crude tanker world that i've spent my entire life fighting to end?  Can't bear the remembrances of soft organic oils poured over her rich pulsing breasts, skin sliding with the joy of sliding into each other, slithering loving memories clashing against the foul slippery dank of this tank.  This tank is everything wrong with modern civilization, everything missing from intelligence in the species, everything gone from the heart, everything lost to the ages, everything poison to the soul, everything hurtful to the skin of the planet, hurtful to the air that brings the breath of life, the water that washes us clean, everything hurtful to each new generation, every violence committed to anyone, any power grab to make up for no orgasms, every slimy attempt at asserting the power of the material world over the soft strength of seed, every drop of the fossil history of our earth, burned in a few foul generations so you can continue to hide from your own godhood, sleepwalking, surrounded by your oil burning treasures.
    God Damn It Randy, Get Down Here I Can't Breathe!!
    Tick's cries finally break through the sludge.
    Get your ass up if you can't breathe.
    Come down and take my place, i can't breathe.
    Get your ass up if you can't breathe.
    Get down here, take my place i can't breathe.
    If you can't breathe, get your ass up.  Eye ain't coming down.  Get up here now.
    More pieces of staging, and me feel like hurling them through the hull.  Didn't they show Tick that stupid, life-saving, training video?
    It's really bad, i can't breathe.
    Then get your fucking ass up here, i ain't saying it again, GET YOUR ASS OUT OF THE HOLD NOW.
    What the fuck's going on down there?, chirps the foreman.
    My skull screams death you idiot, but my voice screams Tick can't breathe.
    Here's the last piece, stow it then get up here.
    Deal.  Last piece Tick.
    Clang echoes forever as the last rail hits.
    Get your fucking ass up top now.
    Ohhh, OK.
    Me already trying to breathe too soon, before i've finished climbing, and me flop like whale over the hatch rail, gasping.
    Again, shipyard air never was as fresh.  Gasping.  Shaking.  Soaked.
    Slimy.  Get those gloves off.  Shed the slicker.  Don't touch anything.
    Break time, wander off to the bow staring at Frisco's effervescent city lights.
    For you, motherfuckers, for you.
    Hell ain't fiery, hell's a sludge tank, full of leftover oil for the dinner of your materialism.  Suck my cock, Reader, bound and gagging, you know not what you...
    Catch my breath.  The godhead pours into me.
    The Light illuminates, the tar sludge poison is dead.
    From this moment on, when i speak of the need to move immediately to the soft energy path of the sun, my words will contain the full power of knowing whereof i speak.  I've been there, eye am here, in the fetid hold of your society's fuel, dark and poison, foul, death, and not worth the lives you sacrifice for your fucking SUV's.
    Back to the crew, splayed exhausted amidst the death tanker's Gordian knotted death pipes, we're all getting ready to go to the depths of the slop tank and build staging.  Silent stare into foreman's eyes.
    You know, boss, i don't think i can go down there again.
    In the tank, or home.
    Heart lifting, home.  Sorry, boss, home it is.  Me tell him truth.  Saying, what you guys don't know is i've spent my whole conscious life fighting to bring a renewable energy future into reality, for everybody, and it just don't seem right to go down there.  i know i can't ever work with you guys again, for there's no way i can choose not to share the whole job, can't expect you to cover my ass if i won't cover yours.
    Eye can tell by the foreman's eyes he understands exactly, viscerally, where i come from.  But he says, you're done.
    Me so glad to be done.  My heart, still pounding in my chest, my lungs, still throbbing in my chest, begin to calm, knowing me going home.
    My last look at the guys.
    Me proud, aware that it goeth before a fall, but me so damn proud.

    Shuffle off over the pipes, along the deck, across the gangway i built, lungs heaving, along the east wingwall, staring at the tanker berthed in this steel womb, blankly staring, not fully comprehending what's occurring here, down the drydock stairs, course upon course, jump to the dock, turn and fix my last look at Drydock One, power building inside, the godhead's strong, i'm an arrogant fuck but i'm right, and what's more, i'm going home, no more poison, no more life on the line, no more romantic brushes with death.  Last shuffle along the quay, steel-toes strangely light, heart lifting with every step, me going home.  Last climb up the shipwright stairs.  Won't be making this climb again.  Open the locker, and slowly, slowly, take off my oil-encrusted gear, tar stench and thick slime.  Don't touch anything.
    Me going home. I got the story.  Oil kills, and Eye know why.

Replacing a tip jar, here's a bit of Kerouac on oil, from the opening quotes to the novel.

...that boy will have to learn to flag himself without nobody helping him as many's the time I've seen some of these young goats think they have everything but the plan is late, the word will have to wait, the massive arboreal thief with the crime of the kind, and air and all kinds of ghouls - ZONKed! made tremendous by the flare of the whole prime and encrudulatures of all kinds - San Francisco and shroudband Bay Shores the last and the last furbelow of the eek plot pall prime tit top work oil twicks and wouldn't you?
    Jack Kerouac, October in the Railroad Earth

"Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage." - Anaïs Nin

by Crazy Horse on Wed Jul 2nd, 2008 at 05:12:15 PM EST
Superb text, Crazy Horse!

It brought me back in those years when, as a mechanical fitter, I was working in the oil/chemical plants maintenance... And, thanks to your writing, I remembered very vividly that time when I had to go down in a pit full of calcium carbide (for acetylene production) and where I felt I was going to die suffocating... A few weeks later, a friend of mine was severely burnt because working in a tank, he had told his foreman he was suffocating and the idiot/criminal had sent him an oxygen hose...  

"Dieu se rit des hommes qui se plaignent des conséquences alors qu'ils en chérissent les causes" Jacques-Bénigne Bossuet

by Melanchthon on Wed Jul 2nd, 2008 at 06:42:08 PM EST
Thanks!  I'm sorry to bring back those memories, but those memories are what gives us the power to fight for what's right in this world, as you do.  Just once i'd like to punch one of those bosses who just don't get what many people have to do to keep this society humming.

and for the first comment to my first naked exposure here, double thanks.

"Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage." - Anaïs Nin

by Crazy Horse on Wed Jul 2nd, 2008 at 07:10:35 PM EST
[ Parent ]
Tomorrow, I'll buy a bottle of Caol Ila to celebrate your diary...

"Dieu se rit des hommes qui se plaignent des conséquences alors qu'ils en chérissent les causes" Jacques-Bénigne Bossuet
by Melanchthon on Wed Jul 2nd, 2008 at 07:28:23 PM EST
[ Parent ]
Now that's the spirit.  Think i'll haul out one meself, cuz it wasn't easy putting that glimpse onto the net.

"Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage." - Anaïs Nin
by Crazy Horse on Wed Jul 2nd, 2008 at 07:36:03 PM EST
[ Parent ]
I grew up in the oil patch.  Whizbang, Oklahoma, on top of the North Burbank oil field. My father was an oil field mechanic or roustabout.  He and a crew of three other men were responsible for fixing anything that broke.  There were about five or six such crews.  That work was hard.  He would come home covered with crude.  

He had built a wash house about 25' from the house and it contained the washing machine.  My mother had to soak his clothes in kerosene to have any chance of getting them clean.  One day something happened and the wash house caught fire. I was only about 7 at the time so I am not sure what happened, I may have been at school.

A Phillips water truck was dispatched and put out the fire.  The heat melted the asphalt shingles on the side of our house facing where the shed had been. We were lucky.  My mother was caring for her mother who was an invalid and bed-bound.  A few years later, in the face of still greater tragedy, she was having trouble coping and asked our family doctor if perhaps she was having a nervous breakdown.  He let out a great laugh and said:

"Margaret, if you were going to have a breakdown you would have had it a long time ago."

My father got unpaid time off from Phillips when a drilling crew was working in the vicinity of our house.  He worked as part of the drill crew.  Handling strings of 4" drill pipe that went down 5,000' was dangerous work.  Not many of the roustabouts wanted the work even though it paid considerably more.  He had been an athelete when younger and had a combination of size, strenght, agility and alertness that made it possible for him to do that work and live to tell about it.  And that was all done in the open air. It is good to know where you come from.

It is appalling that you were sent into a crude oil hold without a safety line and a rescue breather.  But it has only been since about the '80s that OSHA has required even the most rudimentary safety gear.

"It is not necessary to have hope in order to persevere."

by ARGeezer (ARGeezer a in a circle eurotrib daught com) on Wed Jul 2nd, 2008 at 09:48:02 PM EST
... had been a roughneck in West Texas. He went to college after he lost part of his foot, and then decided he wanted to become an economist.

Like most of the students who had lived a bit of life between high school and grad school, rather than going straight through, he was there for the non-mainstream economics ... in his case, to study under the Post Keynesian Paul Davidson.

I've been accused of being a Marxist, yet while Harpo's my favourite, it's Groucho I'm always quoting. Odd, that.

by BruceMcF (agila61 at netscape dot net) on Thu Jul 3rd, 2008 at 01:07:31 AM EST
[ Parent ]

He went to college after he lost part of his foot, and then decided he wanted to become an economist.

Likely his college ecucation was paid with compensation of one sort or another for his injury.  A terrible way to earn a "scholorship."  I do not know what would have been available to my father in case of serious injury. That was the 1950s.  My guess is "NOT MUCH."  All a lot of them got was a tale of woe to tell.  Humor often got them through.

One story I recall:

An ole' boy in Texas was working as a roughneck on an oil rig when an accident occured.  One finger was mashed and another was totally lost.  He was taken to the hospital and after the ER had finished and the opiates had taken hold he called his wife.

Roughneck: "Honey, I have bad news.  I lost a finger."

Wife: "The whole finger?!"

Roughneck: "Naw, the one next to it."

"It is not necessary to have hope in order to persevere."

by ARGeezer (ARGeezer a in a circle eurotrib daught com) on Thu Jul 3rd, 2008 at 01:01:44 PM EST
[ Parent ]
Only skimmed your diary last night, but now read it 'properly' with my coffee.

Thanks you, crazy horse, for an excursion into a for me totally foreign world. Gives another reason to fight for clean energy.

Does the 'unpublished real-time novel' have more chapters? <hint, hint> :-)

by Fran on Thu Jul 3rd, 2008 at 01:46:29 AM EST
Dear Fran, i've given a fair amount of thought to whether there's more in the novel which might fit the the general milleu here.  I can't tell.  Some is way too personal, way too childishly literary, or way too drunken to be shared at this time.  Some parts i'm very proud of, at least thinking some fine writing is there.  It's a chronicle of the writer, calling himself the Global Village Idiot, pulling out of a very dark time, with a brand new reaffirmation of life.

There may well be some segments that fit here, so i'll give a look and see what i come up with, if anything.

Here's something i was thinking about when i began the experiement:

    Side by side with the human race there runs another race of beings, the inhuman ones, the race of artists who, goaded by unknown impulses, take the lifeless mass of humanity and by the fever and ferment with which they imbue it turn this soggy dough into bread and the bread into wine and the wine into song... I see this other race of individuals ransacking the universe, turning everything upside down... A man who belongs to this race must stand up on the high place with gibberish in his mouth and rip out his entrails.
    Henry Miller, the Air-Conditioned Nightmare

"Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage." - Anaïs Nin

by Crazy Horse on Mon Jul 7th, 2008 at 08:02:40 AM EST
[ Parent ]
Oil-mighty powerful stuff, CH.
by afew (afew(a in a circle)eurotrib_dot_com) on Thu Jul 3rd, 2008 at 03:29:36 AM EST
Ya haram!  Has nobody there ever flippin' heard of OSHA?  <expletives deleted>
by the stormy present (stormypresent aaaaaaat gmail etc) on Thu Jul 3rd, 2008 at 05:58:59 AM EST
OSHA was created in 1970, under the Nixon Administration, but rules and regulations had to be developed and enforcement means had to be negotiated with industry. A lot of the really effective standards only came to be generally accepted at the demand of liability insurance companies. It is still far from perfect.

"It is not necessary to have hope in order to persevere."
by ARGeezer (ARGeezer a in a circle eurotrib daught com) on Thu Jul 3rd, 2008 at 01:08:15 PM EST
[ Parent ]
Cut more taxes, and there always be people for this work. Or this.
by das monde on Fri Jul 4th, 2008 at 01:18:28 AM EST
[ Parent ]
there is awfully little to say to a diary.

Overwhelming, stupendous diary, CH. I read it breathlessly yesterday evening, and have again now.

It tickled a memory too, albeit not as gruelling as yours. It took some searching to realise it was the feeling of being 1600 meters underground, boots in 20 cm of water, trying to measure the orientation of a fault in darkness except for the light on my helmet, perspiration dripping down my face and the sound of drills blasting through my earplugs... Mining easily ranks up as the second circle of hell, if you'd ask me. Receiving that first breath of fresh air when racing up the mine shaft was a godsend.

by Nomad (Bjinse) on Thu Jul 3rd, 2008 at 04:09:36 PM EST
A heartfelt thanks to all who appreciated my adventure, and my attempt to write it.  And thanks for sharing the mining, roughneck and oil field stories.  Thanks also to stormy present, who reminded me that the damn task was illegal according to OSHA standards.  I couldn't believe that this crew of hard-assed bikers (like Chrome Carl) were teary-eyed beaten coming out of that hold.

A strange end-note.  When i went back to pick up my last check, they asked why i hadn't been back at work.  I told them i thought "go home" meant being fired.  They said no, it just meant i was finished for that night, but that my work was good and i could keep working for them.  After that experience, i declined.

btw, i went out for drinks with some of the crew at a seedy waterfront biker bar later.  i expected they would be laughing at me for being a xxxxx (wimp).  Instead i had won respect, for they said, it was a bad tank, and we shouldn't have been in there.  wow.

5 weeks, every day (i missed 1 and a half days), amongst the hardest in my life.

"Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage." - Anaïs Nin

by Crazy Horse on Thu Jul 3rd, 2008 at 05:04:43 PM EST
[ Parent ]
that served Bethlehem Steel in Lackawanna, NY in 1966. I lived about 16 miles to the east and, of course, worked night shift. I could see the lighted sky above the plant about 12 miles away, begin to smell the metallic oxide smell at about 9 miles, and I could hear a low roar at about 6 miles. Walking through the main gate was very much like entering the Gates of Hell.

As other comments have noted, no OSHA, no EPA, no safety glasses, no steel-toed shoes, no ear plugs, no respirators. No smiles on the guys going inside, either - a few on the guys leaving.

In 1976 I was the second-shift union steward in a steel foundry. They had a paper mask pinned on the wall in the "Human Resources" room. I asked them if that was for lung protection. Answer was a smirking "yes"; Could I have one? "Yes". How much? "Free". How often could I get one? "One per day". By the time I left that plant in late 1977, about half of my shift was wearing them, and we could get two per day (change out after lunch). The one comment from all of the users - "hey, when I spit, it's not all black."

This foundry was the oldest operating steel foundry in the country at the time. The sign-up list from 1865 was also hanging on the HR office wall. Of course, it had been upgraded many times, but the actual labor practices were essentially unchanged. "Riddle, ram, and run." One night the main dust collection system for the shakeout stopped running. The foreman wanted me to keep the guys working, but I led them outside instead. He relented, but I still got a meeting at HR the next day, plus the day-shift steward told me that I really shouldn't stop work, unless the foreman concurred. I told them that I would most certainly stop work for all such situations. Even guys on day-shift came up to me and thanked me for the action. Good times!

As you say, it certainly makes one understand which side we're on - and why.

paul spencer

by paul spencer (paulgspencer@gmail.com) on Thu Jul 3rd, 2008 at 06:36:34 PM EST
[ Parent ]
    The entire yard's called together for a safety meeting, "sponsored" by the engineering management of the company operating the tanker berthed this morning.  Forty or sixty men, and one writer, circle the white hat chiefs, the tanker's huge stern looming over the drydock.  The white hats stress the importance of safety procedures, paying attention, keeping alert, noticing possible dangers or unsafe conditions, and reporting them to your supervisors whenever discovered, like we'd snitch on our brothers.  There's not one word you could disagree with, and it all seems so conscious.  They care about our welfare, and they want this docking to be productive and safe.  To prove to us their deep desires, we're given commemorative safety decals to stick like medals to our hardhats, i guess so we can tell our grandchildren we were there when the SS (name of Texas city, of course, it's a fucking oil tanker. Editor.  Fuck off Ed, bring on the lawsuits, the shit tanker is the Galveston, Writer.) got refitted in drydock, safely, if we're still able to have genetically whole children after working here.  Why they didn't hand us each fifty bucks if they wanted to emphasize safety is beyond my laborer's laborious comprehension.
    But at least i've got a decal on my hardhat.

"Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage." - Anaïs Nin
by Crazy Horse on Fri Jul 4th, 2008 at 02:30:04 AM EST
[ Parent ]
You are, dear man!  I have no words for such ´unpeak´ moments in life and there is no paper to hold those words.  I had to visit twice, before I was able to read through the middle because there is so much more than you say in the lines, that I shivered.

Oh, wind spirit!  Those moments when your whole body contracted to its minimum and Eye-Life expanded beyond the body of that tanker....  Man! I´m so glad you saw it and so glad you walked from such deep contact with living hell!  

You don´t need no more flinging titles beyond your name.  Your life is your title! and your son has-got-to-hear-it at some point for his own personal growth, hopefully, when he is ready to listen.  Maybe he already has?

So powerful, it electrifies.  Scratching the belly of death from the inside!  No words, dear man...

Our knowledge has surpassed our wisdom. -Charu Saxena.

by metavision on Tue Jul 8th, 2008 at 01:42:59 PM EST
That you can see and share exactly as i tried...

Thanks deeply, metavision.

"Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage." - Anaïs Nin

by Crazy Horse on Tue Jul 8th, 2008 at 02:08:44 PM EST
[ Parent ]
As i'm thinking about other parts of the real-time (pre-blog) novel experiment which might be appropriate here, i think i need to know more about whether there is a space on ET for more "literary" diaries (for lack of a better word)?

Most of the posting here is decidedly political, economic and relating to events and trends in daily reality.  Poemless, as one example, brings a very literary style to her view of Russia, and its hot leaders.  She's not alone, but it's relatively rare here.

So, do we want weirder stuff here?  Since i'm the one asking, do we want what i consider literary experiment (and others would consider drunken madness) to interfere with the cogent discussion that is the hallmark of ET?

I think positively about the breadth of readership here, but i would not want to undercut ET's attempt at being taken seriously, which is so damned important to me as well.  Obviously i came here first because of windpower/energy issues, but as i've slowly come to get a feel for what's here, i'd like to push the borders.  But if that's a cost for ET, then no way.

"Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage." - Anaïs Nin

by Crazy Horse on Thu Jul 10th, 2008 at 06:53:00 AM EST
Consider http://www.eurotrib.com/user/Crazy%20Horse/diary your personal blog... That's the way Scoop was designed originally.

IMHO unfortunately, the flavour of Scoop that ET runs on does not allow regular users to post in other "sections" than "Diary".

When the capital development of a country becomes a by-product of the activities of a casino, the job is likely to be ill-done. — John M. Keynes

by Carrie (migeru at eurotrib dot com) on Thu Jul 10th, 2008 at 06:58:00 AM EST
[ Parent ]
CH, you shameless hussy.  You wait 'til interest dies out on your "literary" diary, then you ask a question of the readership, hoping to stimulate the damn thing again.  Why don't you use a fuckin poll like the rest of us.  We all know already that when you discuss kWhs and capacity factors, you had climbed down in an illegal oil bunker slop tank for a few poison hours.  big frickin deal, get over it.

No vimeo, no hotlinks, shite, not even any graphs.  Go layup some poisonous carbon fiber composite glass epoxy rotor blades, and stop bothering us with your whoring.  Writing at the margins, my ass.

(yeah, i'm CH's editor, named ED.  Hacked his account so we could have a fair and balanced view of his so-called real-time reality thing, frickin idiot.  Though we took him on in hopes we might get something out of him, it appears hopeless now.  Ed.)

"Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage." - Anaïs Nin

by Crazy Horse on Thu Jul 10th, 2008 at 07:08:16 AM EST
[ Parent ]
oh, and tell ED to take a long walk off a short pier, or go back to saturn!

'The history of public debt is full of irony. It rarely follows our ideas of order and justice.' Thomas Piketty
by melo (melometa4(at)gmail.com) on Thu Jul 10th, 2008 at 07:41:04 AM EST
[ Parent ]
put 'em up, CH, they'll rise and fall on their merits, and the perceptual readiness of us wallies on the other end.

if polite silence is all you get, then you'll have your answer!

artists, so coy sometimes...

redundant question anyway, look how many dug your dip into another reality.

aolus forbid this site was all wonk!

'The history of public debt is full of irony. It rarely follows our ideas of order and justice.' Thomas Piketty

by melo (melometa4(at)gmail.com) on Thu Jul 10th, 2008 at 07:39:17 AM EST
[ Parent ]
Bring it on.
by Colman (colman at eurotrib.com) on Thu Jul 10th, 2008 at 07:43:02 AM EST
[ Parent ]

Go to: [ European Tribune Homepage : Top of page : Top of comments ]