The Quick Collapse and Other Melodies

There is dread in the air. It has a tangible, almost olfactory quality. Moreover, I am getting keener, more adept at detecting the necrotic notes that are now emanating out from the economy. Of late it seems as there are times when every market murmur contains a sleight-of-hand contrived to mask fiscal reality. The United States’ once formidable manufacturing base has – along with the silent generation who fed smelting furnaces – largely, ‘gone-fishing.’ The common-sensical notion that people actually need to make things has been swapped for a mise en abîme paper chase of dodgy debt repackaging. The telltale rot is everywhere if you care to look. On July 11th, oil futures rose to $147.27 a barrel. A month and a half earlier, the price of rice had doubled over a seven-month period (prompting Sam’s Club and Costco to impose restrictions on bulk sales.) For peakniks, they were halycon days: editorials and op-ed articles that spoke of about peak oil’s ‘new-found credibility ’ were everywhere (proof, surely, that the mallards were lining up, once and for all.)

Yes, the shit was inching towards the fan like a determined brown caterpillar. Watching it, loping along, I caught myself engaging in a mute mantra: “Go on buddy,” I would intone. “Only another few inches to go, you can do it!”

Then, just as it seemed as the entire megalopolis of cards was about to tumble, a great load of nothing came to pass; nothing insofar as some Executive Branch fairy godperson wove his /her magic wand and all normalcy was seemingly ‘restored’. The bear in the market had been tranquilized by a well-aimed dart sticking out of its hairy hock and all clamoring had quietened to a mundane hum (at which point the cud-chewing could return, to wit, the interminable buzzing about the new iphone 3G, the dulcet-toned merits of bamboo flooring and the internecine machinations of Fox’s So You Think You Can Dance…)

The tragic thing though, is that I got left behind in this whole process. Resembling a gnarled, steroidal body-builder, I am left flexing, pumped to high-heaven. With endorphins and adrenaline coursing through my tissues, I feel like King Lear, roaring at the tempestuous cumulonimbi. I holler, “Hold on a mo. What about the collapse of the Western Banking Paradigm? What about the transition to a Korten-esque Earth community, people? What gives?”

To make matters worse, by the end of July, the media did a tail-spin. As the price of light sweet crude contracted, Peak oil luminaries were send back to their respective wildernesses. They were crack-pot Cassandras after all! These happenings only added to my psychic immobility. To make matters worse, the sheeple felt vindicated. Through their latte foam moustaches, the ripostes came thick and fast:

“So, what happened to the $200 a barrel oil then, Nostradamus?”
“See this Venti Moccacino? Paid in Canadian dollars. No Ameros here, padre!”

It took a while, but eventually I, too, began to settle. I now view these times as interolating plateaux marked by subtle deflationary flutterings in my chest; the bodily re-grouping after an expenditure of nervous energy. However, for some less fortunate than I, these cyclical, undulating energies may presage an almost bipolar shift. Collapse watching is an enervating and often exhausting sport, pock-marked by an emotional to-ing and fro-ing at the best of times. To be aware of resource depletion and the unsustainability of the corporatist market model can open a door to an awareness and, simultaneously, a vulnerability that can be extremely hard to bear.

There are those who love me who tell me I should go on a news fast. That too much time spent visiting Life After The Oil Crash will only further addle my brain. Maybe they are onto something, yet I suspect it is only half the story. The truth is, if I am addicted to anything, it is my recreational fantasy that civilization may, suddenly, go to Hades-in-a-handbag. I kid you not: when Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac went under, I actually broke out the popcorn!

Consequently, I am slowly beginning to realize how much emotional capital I have invested in a fast crash scenario. The way I see it, I would much rather eat the quarter-pound turd burger right off the bat. If society is going to haemorrhage, I suspect it may be prudent that we begin bracing for it now - not next year and definitely not in 2012.

As a fast crash aficionado, I end up comforting myself with the fact that most of the peak oil mavens are on the home team, so to speak. There is an assuaging quality to a rapid dismantlement insofar as we would be cast, largely, as bystanders (or rubberneckers.) In this sense, a fast crash may, paradoxically, ask less of us in the very short term. Despite my erstwhile art student longing for a Situationiste spectacle on a continental scale, a fast crash, is still a plausible prognostication. In a global postmodern society businesses are highly networked and, as such, susceptible to viral coding and other chaotic phenomena. I am reminded of the permaculturist and author, Robin Wheeler, who circumscribes the world economy brilliantly as being “[…] a big, tippy bag of wrestling cats [.]”

Conversely, there are those who maintain that societal collapse may not happen quite so soon, that we may be facing a rather more drawn out societal erosion. According to Oregon Arch-Druid and blogger John Michael Greer, we may be a facing societal winding-down, an ultra long prelude to The Long Emergency that may well play out over one or two hundred years. In a nod to David Korten, he calls it the Long Unraveling of the Industrial Age. He adds a quasi-Jungian twist in his insistence that the western psyche has a tendency to project two narratives into the ether, twin mythologies regarding our future destiny: ‘the narrative of the apocalypse’ and the ‘narrative of inevitable progress.’ Both are popular in his estimation as:

“[…] They push the necessity and the costs of change onto somebody else: the “they” who are expected to think of something just in time to keep progress on track, for example, or the supposedly faceless billions who are expected to hurry up and die en masse so that the flag of some future utopia can be pitched atop their graves.”

I find his reasoning lucid and rather unsensationalist - quite the opposite to the average doomer’s “wig out/bug-out” mentality. He offers up an idea as to why some of us may find comfort in a fast crash: namely, the cessation of quotidian clock-watching and card punching. When civilization crashes and all the “others” die-off, it will finally be our time to shine. Make no bones about it, first-order-of-the-day: we will tell the man to fuck off, once-and-for-all. Then we will step up to the plate - like some manner of Victor Mature hero - and make yurts. And squirrel jerky.

Conversely, until this precipitous moment arrives, we can all still take a wii.

In the final analysis, those who are intimately familiar with the labyrinthine complexities of civil and business infrastructure are precisely those voices we should be attending most closely - folks like Matthew Simmons and Michael C. Ruppert, who have transitioned, outwardly, from dealing with the ruling elites or “T.P.T.B.” Also, ‘collapse watchers’ like Dmitry Orlov have a lot to offer insofar as they are able to regale us with primary source testimony and practical insight à propos previous historical incidences of societal failure.

Personally, I am weary of the emotional highs and lows, the whole teetering nature of the zeitgeist. It weighs heavily on my shoulders. I am beleaguered by the oft-encountered, little spoken of ‘peak oil’ yoke (the pressure of which has been known to exacerbate personality disorders, wreck marriages and divide families.) I want the current paradigm to fail because I am hurting so.

One last thing. If by chance you should witness my raging against the aforementioned tempest, stop and listen. You will hear me yelling “enough is enough, already. Collapse, godammit, collapse!” You will see for yourself that I have had more than enough of this chimps tea party that is patriarchal civilization, this cult of thanatos.

I do not want its ‘so-called’ technological progress, its Back-to-School sales, its depleted uranium-tipped ordnance, its fish gene ‘enhanced’ tomatoes, its 700-billion dollar Wall Street bailout. If the price of gasoline, natural gas and distillates are going to go through the roof (as predicted) then a part of me longs for someone to hurry it along and put a firecracker up its ass. Ultimately, I only have one personal meta-narrative, an amalgam of the two that John Michael Greer spoke of above. I court the myth of the ‘progressive apocalypse,’ a much-needed societal rites-of-passage for us all.

Subsidized Rain Barrels in the GVRD

Having grown up in and around Britain’s allotment culture, water butts (rain barrels) were part of my existence right from when I was knee-high to a nematode. Indeed, some of my earliest gardening experiences involved watching the members of this aforementioned phylum wriggle through the algae soup that languished alongside my grandfather’s greenhouse.

Whether you see yourself as the quintessential “doomsteader” or, on the up-side, an Urban Utopian Agronomist, rainwater harvesting has a lot to offer to everyone. Saving rainwater for personal use is the ultimate in practical sustainability.

Primarily, a water barrel will enable you to side-step the usual summer hose-pipe restrictions. What’s more, you will be giving your vegetable garden the bountiful gift of un-chlorinated and oxygen-rich water. I have witnessed the difference rain-water makes first-hand; I guarantee your seedlings will grow with an increased vigour.

I had been in the market for a good rain barrel for some months; I made several reconnaissance trips to the Home De[s]pot ilk of store and, to be frank, I was most disappointed with what I encountered thereabouts. Aesthetic choice was rather limited. Yes, there are those drab round barrels; for as little as $40.00* + taxes you may procure a container whose form I have, unfortunately, come to associate with toxic-waste containment. However, on the other end of the price-spectrum, there are those units that come replete with wooden casings and heavy-duty brass faucets. So, if you want a barrel that would not look out of place in the PNE showhome, you can expect to shell out a tidy sum – ordinarily, upwards of $180.00 (+ taxes.)

By far the best option is the Flexahopper barrel (see above image) offered up by Burnaby City Council. It holds 345 litres of rainwater and is made of industrial strength plastic. The good news is that Burnaby residents may buy this as a subsidized item for a very competitive $70.00 (+ taxes.) What’s more, an extra five bucks is all it takes to make one magically materialize outside your residence. They may be obtained from the City’s Yard Waste Depot located at 4800 Still Creek Avenue (west of Douglas Road). Call 604.294.7460 for more details.

Other pilot schemes that offer the Flexahopper are in place across the GVRD. Vancouver residents may pick up one for $75.00 (+ taxes) at the Vancouver South Transfer Station, located at 377 West North Kent Avenue. For those in Coquitlam, call 604-927-3500.

*A subsidized ‘radioactive-plasma container’ is available for West Van residents at the aforementioned price. Call 604 925-7101. The same deal for Port Moody residents: call 604-469-4572.

Finally, my barrel-of-choice is also sold at source by Flexahopper Plastics, 604-946-8783 – located at #12 - 7151 Honeyman in Delta (for a pricier $170.00.)

Knowing your landbase ensures your best ability to survive.

The first organizer of the Vancouver Peak Oil Citizens Group, Max - a highly like-able young permaculturist and eco-activist - renounced the post allegedly, because he foresaw our powering-down and transitional efforts going to s***. I remember hearing this information from my predecessor, Steve. I was told that he was off, ‘walking the land,’ trying to find out ‘where it is at.’ As I began to Contemplate Max’s life-path, I also began to question more of my own plans for the future. Put it this way, if I am to use the folks at LATOC as a yardstick, I am woefully unprepared, ripe for the die-off. A secure home with crate-loads of ammo is the de rigeur minimum - or so the message boards would have us believe.


I have about a month’s worth of food and some basic emergency supplies. The usual suspects: the fresh, bottled water, the excess propane, the Katadyn water filters and purification tablets. Oh, and next years’ seeds are in cold storage.

And when I plan it comes down to this: I plan to plant more beans next year. I will double the potato plot to make room for some early and mid-season varieties. Other than that I plan to to take a last trip to the Old Country - preferably before my Grandmother dies and before the civilian air-fleet is permanently grounded.

I find it so hard to make contingency plans for my existence when I am so bloody caught up in living that self-same existence. And, despite being the son of a farmer, I am also a former quasi-urbane metro-sexual. I am the product of the eighties and the British Education combined - probably not what you would call true survivor material. To this end, I hope it is not all Mad Max hair-do’s and pointy sticks anytime too soon!

Ultimately, wheresoever I am now, is exactly where I am connecting with my landbase. Presently that is Burnaby. Often I project into ‘A Long Emergency’ scenario. Often, during walking meditation along the perimeter of my immediate landbase, a voice will percolate upwardly through my being:

“The H.Y. Louie Distribution Warehouse is the best place for food reconnaissance raids (as it is hidden.) The war zone will be on the other side of Lougheed, about the Costco loading bay. Yes, that is where the gun-fire will be…”

Knowing your immediate landbase ensures your best ability to survive.

While a significant number of my fellow activists are eye-balling Nelson as a agrarian utopia, I pose the question: Can the Kootenay landbase accommodate a post-postmodern diaspora of this kind? I fear it may not be able. Moreover, how will the indigenous population feel about any prospective exodus?

If it all goes to hell-in-a handbasket, I will evanesce into the woods like the best of you. Until that time I am going to more intimately connect with my locale. I am going to find the mythical spot where the best blackberries grow on the borders of Lake City; where the most reliable natural water-source is in late August.

I will prove to you that chantrelles grow here. Once I find them.

Beware the "Resource Transitionists"

I was reading an article about, guess what, peak oil, and I read the following paragraph:

"The current [energy] debate represents a significant twist on an older, often-derided notion known as the peak-oil theory. Traditional peak-oil theorists, many of whom are industry outsiders or retired geologists, have argued that global oil production will soon peak and enter an irreversible decline because nearly half the available oil in the world has been pumped. They've been proved wrong so often that their theory has become debased."

Debased. Mmm.

This irked me a little. OK, a lot. That was until I remembered Derrick Jensen's words about most writers being propagandists (myself included.)
In its defence, the entire P.O. "notion" was based on the correct assumption of M. King Hubbert - namely that the U.S. would peak its production about 1970. (His later predictions about the timing of the world Peak were, indeed, more premature than Ken Deffeyes' - but unlike the latter, it did not embrace the OPEC oil shocks of the '70's.)

Still, it is important that we stand by what we believe and always have believed. Peak light sweet crude has happened. Oil is now nudging $100 a barrel. (Just a few months ago, I remember doom-saying that this would be a reality by Christmas-time and people just gave me blank stares!)

In the final analysis, Peak Oil is beset by the pitfalls and the mists, of futurism. Our track record, however is largely impressive. Recent energy reports bear witness to this - yea, even the aforementioned article.

Indeed, the paradoxical affirmation/denial of the aforementioned article may presage an entirely new phenomenon.

I am being led to believe that, in the next few years, we are going to be nudged aside by an opportune bunch of technocrati who will call themselves "resource transitionalists" (or something similar). They will say that "they always had the view that oil was a non-renewable resource and that they had always been planning for crunch scenarios, etc."

Bull.

We must not let them steal our thunder. NOT ONE IOTA! I say this as they are doubtless going to be part of that hydra-headed beast that will seek only to further degrade our land-base. We, as Peak Oil activists, are more than Cassandras. Much more. We stand for environmental integrity and re localization efforts. We stand against the needless violence and exploitation of the planet, the poor and the non-civilized. We are the sane in an insane world.

Watch: the "resource transitionalists" will use our research, quote our luminaries and deride us at the same time. They will use us as a bulwark by which they will spring onto the world's stage. Doubtless, among their ranks you will find former A-list actors turned politicos, spineless, Smirnoff-soaked (then to be) ex-premiers....

Indeed, if you see any of these creatures, feel free to "out" them here.

Tomatoes as a metaphor.

As a kid, I hated tomatoes. It was a dislike compounded by the fact that the tomato, in its ketchup-guise, seemed overly blood-like (and that the English would apply the unctuous condiment, gorily, to their food at every opportunity.) Often it would take a day and a half of Heimlich-style coaxing to get it out of the bottle; and when you did, it would invariably squirt sideways out of your 'chip butty'* and come to land on your prized new jeans. Too much work by half.

But still, like them or loathe them, tomatoes were red. You Know, red: a good British colour, like the Routemaster bus or the Giles Gilbert telephone box. Yes, a dependable colour: it was an unspoken credo: a tomato should be ripe, ruddy and round.

I am almost ashamed to say that two years ago I knew next to nothing of heirloom tomatoes (let alone the term seed-saving or the name of Vandana Shive.) Sure, a friend of mine was locking horns with Monsanto over in London and I would occasionally festoon our telephone conversations with the odd 'good for you, mate!', but I did not fully comprehend the absolute horror of terminator seed technology.

Boy, have I have come a long way in a short space of time. I still am rather astonished á propos my former denial/ignorance. Indeed, I now wonder if tomatoes are really a metaphor for us as a people. Maybe secretly, those among us who think that tomatoes should be only one hue also secretly feel the same about politics, party allegiances, even people's skin colour.

Heirloom tomatoes speak openly of the diversity of culture, of the panoply of race. Like people, heirloom tomatoes have oral histories linking them to their ancestry. For example, the intense, sweet purple-green flesh of the Black Krims were brought to us from the "Island of Krim" in the Ukraine; in that self-same flesh is contained the hardship of the pioneer life and the many inclement prairie winters they faced.

Likewise, the Blaby Special cultivar comes to us, like a fresh-faced GI Bride, from Shoult's Tomato Farm in Leicestershire England.

Many colours. Many stories. It is, truly, a seed diaspora - redolent of the folk who, over time, nurtured and cultivated them.

And big Agriculture wants to silence those voices. It wants to expunge them and wipe them out forever. To them, tomatoes are hybrid and red: oftentimes, tasteless, ruddy and round. We must not let them obliterate this genetic diversity. To do so would be, literally, a crime against nature.