this is about oil…sort of….

it’s purely by chance that i photographed what i did yesterday.
i was simply connecting dots. i was unaware that it was the first anniversary of the deepwater horizon explosion in the gulf and the catastrophe that played out after it.
i didn’t think i would be writing about this subject until days later.

a previous note, the one entitled, “the house with the engine in it,” had pics of a fairbanks-morse diesel that acted as a power plant.
i intended on documenting more of that stand-alone building to show how the engine is connected to a series of boilers and electrical panels, making a reasonable assumption that energy for this place had an extraordinary back-up system in case a russian submarine attacked new york’s idlewild airport, or something.
these photos are about the cold war. this entire place was about the cold war.

when i was leaving that day, i noticed this fuel-storage tank.
upon returning, i photographed it, saw that there was another one behind it and saw traces of where there may have been two others.
walking further, i found this…..

i connected dots and images from the triumph TR-3 owner’s manual appeared in my mind.
it had an inline engine, a pump and a fuel tank.

it’s all the same, more or less.
but i digress…..

it was never the plan, it just ended up that way.
that’s what the oil company exec said in his quiet moment, the cup of decaf cooling, the music of fear playing in his head,….i imagine their human side, like when they remember that they, too, are graying and creaking and farting and there’s not enough money in the world to keep you from dying. they have the freedom to shudder.
they’re lucky.

they aren’t the ones who find themselves surprised in a boardroom after a sumptuous feast at Chateaubriand in Paris because associates of that lizard guy – who looks like omar sharif and sounds like eduardo ciannelli – appear with blinding speed from behind projection screens in mid-powerpoint presentation, their swift, steel-tipped claws shredding gabardine, silk and cotton layers followed by the popped-melon-sound of skin and hide, spine and bone – all in milli-moments, lizards and lunches, suits stretching awkwardly and comically, horribly squishy sounds like that day when i happened on madoff’s son in the parking lot…i could just imagine….no, no…i don’t want to.
was i trying to talk about oil or something?
this is my condition. “scenarioitis.”

i’ll probably go on and on about this some other time later, but for now, i’ll confine myself to the storage tanks, the pump room (and what’s behind it) and “the house with the engine in it.”
oh, this is what’s in the pump room;

engines have fuel tanks and pumps to feed them. that’s how they work.
i walked around and photographed my surroundings.
i thought about the america that built these things before my birth and while i was breaking my first set of teeth and how technology was on a level road paved with oil and its by-products.
i look at this place and it says, “heyday.”
of course, this is generational hindsight.
i look and know that there was never the question, “what happens when we run out?”
not here. not at this time.

i mixed my time of old engines and history with baby greenery and the promise of spring from this earth. i watched canada geese land on the bay and chat.

i wondered aloud how cocoanuts land here and if i were to take one home and crack it open, would i regret it.

…is it from the bahamas or florida?
cuba or the virgin islands?
this was the conversation i had with maxx.
there was art and brilliance everywhere…..

when i returned home, there was further hubbub about oil and prices and we getting hijacked by the same speculative behavior that let enron do what it did.
and you know how i feel about enron and ken lay.

About stephen trimboli

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