peak-spirit

The salvation of the dark place.

2010-01-09T16:52:00.000-08:00

The new age-ascendance movement has come to liken a souk; a fantastical bazaar that diminishes, effortlessly, into a chiaroscuro of courtyards. Romanesque arches herald uncertain passageway - conduits along which skeins of tantalizing aroma unfurl. All around, the air is a mite overburdened, laden with the fragrance of weltanschauung, the ever-diverting notes of whimsy.

The spiritual lives of many in the west are caught up in the cacophony of this marketplace, this new age capital. We sell, we sample and we haggle. Disparate practices are sold by the measure, alongside ostensibly complimentary unguents. Some claim a panacea status, while others are modestly piecemeal. Channeling, bodywork, astral projection, re-birthing, depth astrology - the octave of choice seems almost endless.

The ascension / 2012 movements are one such spice stall: a panoply of every spiritual hue and philosophical shade imaginable. There are the big hitters who, armed with their Okudagram/ Star Trek influenced websites, promulgate a ream of a priori cosmic certainties; they tantalize us with depictions of our soon-to-be realized Übermenschen status; assuage us with vignettes of our eventual – senatorial - position, alongside our galactic brethren.

Conversely, there is that contingent actively dowsing the planet for an optimum place to bug out. For these individuals, change is definitely coming from without (yet not on a dulcet, edifying super wave, but on a universal-scale Thor’s Hammer.) They are the get out of Dodge lickety-split brigade: the axis –shift, coronal mass ejection sleeve pullers. However, unlike the Peak Oil ‘doomers’ or the hell-in-a-hand basket climate change prognosticators, the light is still extant with these folks; it is just that it is way over yonder, to wit, wherever their cob-construction yurts are wont to break sacred ground. The geographic ‘sweet spot’ chosen by these groups differ - the one delegation may emphasize a liking for a certain aquifer over another - yet they all seem to share a common liking for higher ground (preferably away from the tidal surges they envision pummeling coastal areas.)

On filtering the blogosphere, two things seem certain: unsurprisingly, the new Eden will not be in Burkina Faso. And - regardless of where, exactly, utopia may effloresce - there will, no doubt, be a dearth of plumbers once you get there.

To complicate matters even further, the twenty-twelvesters are now faced with an entirely new set of individual-cum-generational distinctions. Ones that are wont to germinate throughout the (above) ideological spectrum, diversifying the masala mix ever further. In the latter part of the twentieth century, a meme around a group of so-called ‘indigo’ children sidestepped into the cultural fray, the new-age newspeak. These fledgling individuals are ascribed with certain psycho-behavioral traits which are supposed to make them unique – a meta-generational cadre apart from the hollow, overly-ascribed Generation Y moniker.

Everyone likes to feel special, and by extension, it is entirely plausible that a generation of parents, who, after becoming acquainted with the psychic Nancy Ann Tappe’s ruminations on a new evolving spiritual vanguard, decided that, in an act of subjective validation (once-removed), that their little darlings were, indeed, a cut-above the norm. However, now that these individuals have all grown body hair and are bopping to Lady Gaga, yet another clairvoyant critter has emerged: to wit, the crystal child – a classification-cum-salve that some hawkers are using to re-frame the ADHD and autism epidemics of recent years.

What’s more, as we go chuffing down the paradigm line, at each and every station, we are being constantly regaled with spiritual newbies: wave after wave of intuitive empaths, star-seeds and walk-ins (the latter of which, according to the signs, are particularly welcome - especially in your average, suburban hairdressing salon.) Consequently, it would seem that the New Age movement has, like P.T. Barnum, ‘something for everyone’; now that we are all sporting new ‘handles’ and monikers, we are assured that the Forer Effect will leave no spiritual warrior behind. Anyone who is ostensibly ‘fleece-able’ – whether tender lamb or sinewy ram – can now catch forty-winks within its soma-esque embrace.

For many caught in the New Age amber, it would seem as though there is an innate need: to wit, a longing for a diverse, muddling system of psychic taxonomy that would make Carl Linnaeus proud. Moreover, it is an innate tendency that, in my mind, needs to undergo a gentle redress. If we are to spend all our time scrutinizing the quarks and the neutrinos, we surely lose sight of all larger matter; moreover, precisely the matter at hand: that is to say, that we are all one – pink or indigo, plaid or polka-dotted. These sub-groups (such as those mentioned above) are well placed to create psychical dichotomies; in doing so a sizeable proportion of the human spirit would find itself sequestered and placed within the metaphorical iron-lung of ego-identification. It brings to mind the scene from the Monty Python motion picture, The Life of Brian; the one delineating the petty antagonism between The People’s Front of Judea and the Judean People’s Front.

With so much light being worked, it seems to me that we are rapidly losing our sense of the innate value of the dark. A flashlight has little luminosity if one so happens to be standing under a noonday sun; by extension, the corona of a given light-source can only be accurately determined by a contrasting lack of light. An overabundance (or misuse) of the wrong light vibration can be fashioned into a mantle that may, in turn, be detrimental to personal and societal growth. Oftentimes, the fallout is a tendency to obviate necessary person introspection and any subsequent acknowledgement/ integration of the shadow archetype.

As we enter the second decade of the twenty-first century, the elephant in the room is rapidly transmogrifying into a hirsute behemoth. Egregious tectonic stresses are, like it or not, tugging our psyches – resource depletion, runaway climate change, overpopulation, water scarcity and food crises, to name but a few. These challenges are all-to-real, concrete phenomena; physical limitations that are not to be diminished by wishful thinking alone - whether by techno triumphalism or mellifluously chanting in a circle. Not to be deterred, however, some New Agers are wont to view environmental Armageddon as illusory, the result of an emergence of collective negativity. Others (like the twenty-twelve, get out of Dodge contingent –above) believe that catastrophe can be avoided by the judicious use of a passport. Lastly, there are those among us who believe that a cosmic, gene-altering super wave is somehow going to enable us to miraculously ascend our species’ collective responsibilities to our planet, our karmic debt to our terrestrial mother.

Now, I do not doubt that over-utility energy technologies may exist and that, as a consequence, the hallowed laws of thermodynamics may be in for a tweaking or five. However, rather pointedly, on the spiritual plane there can be no such free lunch. There never can be as there is little utility in avoiding the consequences of our actions - whether collectively or individually. Like so many maxims, there is an essential, gnomic reality in the phrase you reap what you sow.

It is posited that an overwhelming majority of the world’s mythologies are but off-shoots of a singular stamen, a central story, if you will. The writer Joseph Campbell used term monomyth to circumscribe what also came to be known as The Hero’s Journey. It is a tri-partite quest, delineated by the departure, initiation and return stages, respectively. The titular hero embarks on his adventure by leaving the mundane world behind. A series of edifying initiation challenges lie in wait – the ultimate mastery of which enable him to return, to go back to whence he came.

I posit that, as a species, we are at the threshold of the final stage in the departure phase, entitled “The Belly of the Whale.” It is a juncture that marks a nadir for the hero, who must endure the enveloping, crepuscular shadow of death, of nullity, to be reborn – and thus start his journey proper. The belly of the whale is ‘a sphere of re-birth,’ something that Campbell asserts is a ‘worldwide womb image.’ This is especially meaningful due to its birthing association. It would seem that, to continue on our way, we must acquaint ourselves of the void and utilize the strength that comes from brushing against the tapestry of melancholy. Endure we must what the Spanish mystic, Saint John of the Cross, named the La noche oscura del alma (the long night of the soul.) Astonishingly, this darkness may shortly cease to be merely a spiritual metaphor; indeed, it would seem as though it is about to bleed into the societal and civic realm.

We must steel ourselves. A concrete power down is inching its way towards us whether we like it or not. Already, throughout the western world, city councils are turning off streetlights in order to save a modicum of cash. It is conceivable that, before too long, we may get to gaze on our cityscape skylines and apprehend an altogether different vista - one devoid of usual interpolating signatures of light; one where dark, obsidian structures, evanesce into equally dark skies.

There is a re-ordering that needs to take place before we may transition to the more expansive realm of universal or cosmic consciousness. We need to learn the lessons of the biosphere before we may attune to a galactic super wave. When the salmon runs diminish and become naught but a memory, there is a chance that we may finally emanate a truly planetary harmonic for the first time. The fact that it will be an anthem born of grief will not diminish it one iota. Indeed, it is starting to seem that only by grieving may we finally exceed all previous limitation.

Contrary to the expectations of the many in the New Age movement, what we need is descension. All else is tantamount to spiritual chicanery. Rather, instead of soaring, Icarus-like, to a new tomorrow, we must prepare to sink to the psychical abyssal plain – that unforsaken place, frequented only by the strange and the unfamiliar. Then – and only then, in that density, in that absolute darkness - will our own light-working devices begin to attain some functional value. Like the angler fishes congregating thereabouts, our lights will at last be a thing of intrinsic worth, enabling us to discern the light of another.

It will matter little whether we are crystal child or indigo, intuitive empath or walk-in: when we see that pin-prick of luminescence coming towards us - that faint light, of another spirit, in the darkest of all possible darks – only then will we realize that we are one.

Love and Doom

2009-12-14T00:16:00.001-08:00

I have been oscillating, spiritually, since I became Peak Oil aware. Before this tumult, I concentrated, wholeheartedly, on trying to spread a message of love and compassion. On being a good person. My spiritual questing was informed largely by Quakerism and Buddhism - paths that advocate kindness, pacifism and even-temperedness. Despite a being deeply flawed individual, I would meditate on directing ‘metta’ - loving kindness - to all sentient beings as far as I was able.

In 2005, I was hit by a steam-train of awareness that my heart could not assuage. Simultaneously, I felt rage swell in my core as I beheld the realpoliltik - the malfeasance and insanity of the globalist agenda. The evil promulgated by the lies and prevarications of the corporatists ever permeated my being. As I bore witness to the modus operandi of our fear-based death culture, it felt like a tapeworm was inching its way through my soul.

I left the Society of Friends’ (Quaker) Sunday meditations as I felt increasingly unable to subscribe to their pacifist ideal. I read Derrick Jensen and Ward Churchill and tasted a metallic truth therein. Lady anarchy was a way forward of sorts, yet there was little spiritual consolation to be had within her dictates as somewhere, deep down, my heart had been utterly broken. Literally smashed into smithereens by the sheer insidiousness of the Bilderberger Group, PNAC, the Trilateral Commission and the many other power-wielding cabals, big and small, that value power over virtue, death over life.

This is not the world I want. I cannot help but mourn this every single day. Every time I catch an ugly sound bite from the mouth of a far-right (so-called) ‘Christian’ regarding the poor, the illegal immigrant or the homosexual, I spiritually fragment a little more. Simultaneously, the thing that I am becoming, the individual stocking up on 00 buckshot, ossifies and hardens.

I was reminded of this disconnect from my former incense-burning self, trenchantly, just last week. My son brought home the words to the song that he is to sing on Wednesday as part of his kindergarten’s Christmas concert. When I heard him sing, I felt the pull of that entire world-view that had been evanescing, leeching from my soul. It goes:

“It’s about peace. It is about joy.

It’s about every girl and boy.

It’s about family. It’s about caring.

It’s about people giving and sharing.

It’s about peace, it’s about joy.

It’s about love.”

Surely this is what Christmas should be about, not about the dopamine hit from the purchase of useless gewgaws. Moreover, I wish I could better temper my fatalism with the sentiment in the above song. Surely, as Buddha maintained, there must be a middle way. While I do not wish to collapse into mawkish sentimentality, there has to be more to life than merely steeling oneself to deal with marauding MZB’s.

I am a doomer, yet, it seems, I also have this big human heart. Furthermore, in the final analysis, it seems as though it will not completely go away.

Hopes for Economic Recovery?

2009-03-18T09:11:00.000-07:00

To all those who are affirming their collective asses off; to all those of you who are preparing for the inevitable upswing, I have to ask:

Is 'business as usual' really the best fucking scenario you can up with?

Every time I am in earshot of: "Things 'are not so bad', or "It's a great time to buy as the market is bottoming,"I want to projectile vomit.

What you are saying is:

"Who knows, if we are lucky we can continue to rape and degrade the biosphere. Maybe we can up the extinction rate to 300 species a day? Yea! While we are at it, let's find more kids to frog-march into the Bangladeshi sweatshops! In addition, we can all ingest evermore cancer-causing chemicals; we can turn a blind eye while our children's brains continue to be beleaguered with the burdens of ADHD and autism.

"Let's continue to fight our usual wars and ignore the everyday collateral damage - the inconvenient and utterly innocent corpses of women and children.

"If we cross our fingers and wish upon a far away sun, we may get all our usual anodyne messages from the TV (and all our favorite reality shows.)

"Yes, it's going to be great: we will all continue buying compact flourescent lightbulbs, and smelling our 'greener by the day' farts."

I am unequivocal. Damn your despicable recovery hopes (and the insane and addicted civilization that promulgates them.)

I want no part of it. I am a doomer not just because of an absence of hope. It is far more proactive than that. Doom is the only rationality I have. It tells me that this 5000 year old death-urge must cease or somehow be irreversibly stalled - even if it leads to our complete annihilation.

I do not subscribe to the scintillating 'new car smell' version of the future.

The Quick Collapse and Other Melodies

2008-09-24T15:36:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-10T09:24:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-01-12T23:57:00.000-08:00

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"

2008-01-08T09:54:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-01-08T09:53:00.001-08:00

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.

An Open Letter to Councillor Peter Ladner

2007-05-09T01:33:00.000-07:00

Dear Mr. Ladner,

I have been asked by several of my associates in the fledgling Vancouver Peak Oil Group to contact you regarding the implementation of a peak oil resolution in Vancouver. It has been brought to my attention that you have - allegedly - sought to maintain an attitude of indifference towards an issue that may well be (in the short-term) be more egregious to the citizenry of the GVRD than climate change. Furthermore, to aid this missive, I will assume that this posture towards energy depletion is, indeed, your de facto stance. To this end, I look forward to being corrected; to being told that I am wrong; that the elephant in the room is under intense scrutiny so to speak.

Vancouver is striving to become a world class city. Politics notwithstanding, it is to play host to the Winter Olympic games in 2012. Yet, to occupy this echelon fully, it has to develop a top-notch strategy of concern towards epoch-defining issues such as peak oil (and the depletion of other energy sources such as natural gas.) Sadly, this is not happening. As such, Vancouver is truly being left behind; that is to say, as far as the metaphorical sprint is concerned, it risks being viewed as a "Cascadian Tortoise," outrun by the sprightly hares that are Portland and San Francisco - each of which have a working resolution already in place. Furthermore, Seattle is in the process of consolidating a proposal, as are Ashland, Oregon and Oakland, California. Even Burnaby, ordinarily in Vancouver's shadow, has nosed ahead.

A former Vancouver city councillor, Gordon Price ( now Director of the City Program for Simon Fraser University) writes succinctly in a blog entry of Burnaby's preeminence:

"In my 15 years on City Council in Vancouver, I read a lot of reports. Ninety percent of them were not exactly stimulating: lane pavings, grant approvals, appointment of the external auditor … all the things that keep a city going. Occasionally, a report would appear that grabbed your attention – and on a very rare occasion, would actually change your understanding of the world, or at least your city. I’d like to say that such a report recently appeared on the agenda of the City of Vancouver. But it didn’t. It appeared in Burnaby – the municipality just to the east."

On January 16th 2006 Burnaby released a council report on peak oil entitled "Global Peak in Oil Production: A Municipal Context." While the paper kowtowed to an overly optimistic timeline on peak oil production and sidelined itself with agencies such as the United States Geological Survey, it's writers did take a bold step forward. As Gordon Price so succinctly puts, it: "[...] the mere fact that a government body is opening the door to a subject that most leaders would prefer remain firmly shut off is a tangible action all on its own."

I do not write this in order to convince you of the validity of peak oil. We are not running out of oil any time soon. But we are bottoming out on the light, sweet crude, the most easily available oil. And here is where the black cloud begins to brew: all forms of energy are subject to the EROI equation (energy returned on investment.) When the easily obtained oil diminishes, we are left with the gloopy hard to get stuff. Stuff that has to be cooked, pressure washed, or brought up from the ocean depths. In a nutshell, EROI intensive. It therefore follows that transportation costs are going to rise to match energy expenditure - alongside petroleum-based fertilizers and pesticides ( a dual upsurge which has potentially devastating effects on agriculture and food security.) Finally, anything made from long chain hydrocarbon polymers (plastic) will become more expensive to produce.

I really do not want to get into the usual interminable debates of the hydrogen economy's being "an energy carrier and not a fuel source," or the EROI issues surrounding bio-fuels. If you wish to crunch through this material, I suggest you visit Matt Savinar's excellent - yet slightly alarming - website at: www.lifeaftertheoilcrash.net/

Any date or year that may be offered as being the zenith point of oil production will be, at best, hypothetical; to wit, the late Dr. M. King Hubbert's theory cannot be exact as all reserve data for the main OPEC countries are falsified (and some would say, wildly exaggerated.) One thing is for sure: oil is not a renewable resource. No amount of rhetorical spin can change that. IT IS FACT: elementary science. Whether (as the American Society of Peak Oil - ASPO - maintain) we are at peak, or we are on a post peak plateau, about to slip down an "Olduvai slope," we need to make preparations individually and collectively. Even if we have 20 years of carefree motoring left, we still have to plan ahead. (Incidentally, many experts maintain that two decades of proactive mitigation and preparation constitute the bare minimum of what is needed to adequately prepare for such a paradigm change.)

A post-carbon world will be one of diminishing energy returns, of powering down and making do with less. Granted, it is not something a politician can easily contemplate as, ordinarily, anything that runs counter to economic growth is anathema. Not exactly a vote-winner. Nevertheless, I write this as a concerned activist and father, and I implore you: please do not to push aside energy depletion so lightly. It is very much something to be concerned about. As a father yourself, I urge you to look at that aforementioned pachyderm, right in the eye. Do it for your children. For their future security. I leave the rest up to your conscience.

However, let me make one thing clear: I intend this as an open letter. It will be recorded, historically as a primary source. So, consider this: how would you like to be remembered? As an individual who looked the other way, or as the stalwart luminary who helped the City of Vancouver pass a peak oil resolution?

I do so hope it will be the latter.

Yours sincerely,

Neil Westlake

Satori: The Kick In The Eye

2007-03-11T12:19:00.000-07:00

There comes a point when the fear gets so intense that, if you are lucky, you can enter the eye of the hurricane - so to speak. I was at a friend's house last week and he was going on about the prospective millitary campaign against Iran. We are both Father's and he posed this question AT me: "If the US bomb Iran, it is gonna be nukes, dude. What kind of future is that gonna present for us, for our kids? What do you think?

Suddenly the fear was on me. I had smoked a couple of puffs on a doob which made it a lot worse (I am Englishman and do not have the Canadian constitution for weed.) My heart was pounding: I got a vision of a world spinning off kilter towards a huge chain of mushroom clouds. I thought about my two boys. Radiation. Sickness. Violence. Darkness. Chaos. Then, in the core of my being, a very soft voice said: Breathe. Make yourself the beacon of love you want to see in the world. Right now. This second. There is no future. None to speak of. Just love, now. Yes, you are afraid right now. Love yourself enough to not want to feel this afraid. Give yourself a break. Love your friend enough to want to put your hand on his shoulder. Look into his eyes. Smile.

I gave a truthful answer to his question. I said, quietly: "Probably for the first time in my life, I really do not know what to think. I just have to feel love. I don't know what is going to happen with the world. We may all die horribly. I really, really hope not. Still, the thought of that scenario is too burdensome for me right now." Suddenly, I was in a place of perfect peace, where nothing bad could reach me. A buffer zone wrapped itself around me against ideologies, ideologues and other universal forms.

My guess it is what enlightenment is like. Actually, I know that is exactly what it is like. It is satori - the "kick in the eye" that the Zen masters speak of.

Incidentally, the feeling lasted most of the day. It outlasted the THC. Nevertheless, slowly, the old egoic voices returned. As I write, the fear is right here on my shoulder. Back on its perch. And with it comes the doubt. All the bad stuff. But take heart, all is not lost: I now have an inner conviction that I want to do something about my egoic and pain-body negativity. To keep working on it. To strive for that "buffer zone" of prescence.

Right now.

A Question of Priorities

2007-02-03T00:10:00.000-08:00

Lordy! Another day, another 'cause du jour.' First it was: "We need to save our park and the poor trees therein." Now it is: "We need to set up a fireworks fund; we cannot seem to find a corporation generous enough to fund our roman candle habit!" What's next? "The Bard on the Beach wants to restore a few long lost rhyming couplets. Please give generously!?"

I cannot help but feel all this is a case of "fiddling while Vancouver is burning..." In the Downtown Eastside there are vulnerable, dually diagnosed people sleeping beside dumpsters in the freezing cold. Yes, the selfsame neighbourhood that is also recognized as Canada's poorest. A neighbourhood that sports some of the highest HIV infection rates in North America.

Let that often psychopathological entity - the corporation - pick up the tab for the godforsaken gunpowder. If they cannot shell out for a few Catherine Wheels then maybe the fireworks are not meant to be. Sure, don't get me wrong, the seasonal son et lumière in the sky over English Bay is a beautiful thing, but we live in a world where a child dies every 5 seconds of hunger. The U.S. is contemplating using nuclear weapons for the first time since 1945. The biosphere is getting hotter every day and the doomsday clock is at 11.55pm. More than ever, we need to stop fixing and fiddling with mere "things." Human hearts need mending.

I am sorry to seem didactic, but I cannot help following my heart; cannot help feeling that there are better ways to spend our hard earned money.

A Christianist is not a Christian!

2007-01-25T00:24:00.000-08:00

An acquaintance recently posited the notion that extremism resides within the church in North America. To this end, I believe we need to realign our semantic relationship as regards some of these aforementioned church-goers. Yes, we often hear about the christian right in the U.S. - especially the ones in the midwestern states. To wit, the intelligent design espousing, homosexual harrasing crowd; those sure-as-hellfire denizens of the homeland who need the added "security"; the oft-flaky demographic that even Cheney - allegedly - calls " the crazies."

Yes, you know them, you have seen them. The ones with the shiny eyes: the very ones who believe they have "dominion over [all] the fish in the sea and over [all] the fowl of the air" (and are therefore going to shoot every thing in sight.) The milieu who think that the world is only several thousand years old, and that dinosaurs and mastadons are a satanic conspiracy?

Yes, you say. The christians.

Wrong. Not christians at all. The fact that they give themselves this moniker is of no concern to me. As far as I am concerned, they are about as far from being like Jesus Christ, spiritually, as Rhode Island is from being near Alpha Centuri, geographically.

These people are CHRISTIANISTS. I am not sure who first coined the term (I did see it used in "Savage Love," though, so that's good enough a pedigree for me!!)

In the spirit of Voltaire, I believe pretty much everything is okay as far as free speech goes. I just do not like unhelpful descriptors. As jars of peanut butter and jam have content descriptions and nutritional information, so should religion or ideology.

A true Christian is someone who seeks to emulate Jesus the Christ by spreading love and tolerance about the hearts of human beings. A Christian seeks to use her art as a warrior of peace to assail the realpolitik and the heal the biosphere...

A Christian organization is not, therefore, one that will condone bigotry, pedagogy, misogyny, plunder or the absolute and unalterable obscenity of war.

At this juncture I must point out, I have been lucky insofar as I have been able to visit many powerfully peaceful Christian churches and Quaker meeting houses in my time on this planet.

Essentially Mahondas "Mahatma" Gandi said it the most succinctly when he proclaimed, quote, "I like your Christ, I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ."

If only he had the word christianist at his disposal! Sisters and brothers, we now have a new neologism at hand. I believe it needs to be used. Yet may it be used wisely.

Tipping Point

2007-01-17T21:08:00.000-08:00

I believe a tipping point is a credible phenomenon. Indeed, there are things we may do to aid the process, that is to say, become a "tipper".
1. Refrain from despair - even though we are about to nudge against extinction. Do whatever you need to do - cry, pray, take SSRI's, whatever, but get well enough to be a "tipper".
2. Become an activist and dispell self-defeating behaviours. This involves great change. But take it from me, change can happen. Four years ago I was a chain-smoking, cynical, binge drinking, nihilist. Today, I am a reverential, kind, non-smoking, environmentally conscious man on a quasi-spiritual path. I still like the odd glass of cabernet now and again, and, to this end, I admit it: I am very, very human. Still, I am now heading in an okay-ish direction.
3. Al Gore is right in one sense.* Climate change is a moral issue. Do not let anyone say "Global warming is just a cyclical phenomenon, and therefore normal." In fact, what they are saying is analogous to: "I think it is okay to rape and brutalize women - it's dotted throughout our history, right?" Wrong. Gaia is my terrestial mother, and, as a beautiful and nurturing parent, she deserves a modicum of respect. It is a little late, but I will no longer let any common-garden ignoramus propose that we cast our gaze aside while she is being violated. If we are going to destroy this planet, we must at least acknowlege what we do. Look her in the eye, so to speak.
4. The next time some dubious ass uses the word 'sustainable' to describe their specific brand of snake oil, pull them up on it. Inquire, politely, "what do you mean by sustainability?" See if they know what they are talking about. It is in danger of becoming a buzzword. And, once something becomes a buzzword, I believe it it loses 60 percent of its power.
The answer is clear. The zeroes can suceed where the sixties didn't!
Anyone want do a bit of tipping?

* He is still a tool of empire nevertheless....

Inspiration for Change

2007-01-16T15:17:00.001-08:00

A Fellow blogger has pointed out that trying to coerce people into becoming eco-conscious does not necessarily work. What, then, would work in the old inspiration department?

I surmise that when all of the Fraser Valley's turnips are rotting under 5 feet of water and the corner store is all out of Haagen Dazs and Benson and Hedges 100's - people may be then - and only then - "inspired" to change. But "change" and "regress to atavistic anger" may well be used interchangeably. (How are nicotine addicts going to react to disrupted supplies of their beloved drug I wonder?)

As activists, our momentum and loving-kindness may, hopefully, precipitate a tipping-point. But for the moment, the guys in the Hummers are off the radar for me. I pray they may take inspiration from my brothers and sisters who seek to protect our home and our sacred mother, Gaia. But don't hold your breath. I work in the film industry and I constantly witness the most profligate side of human nature.

Change will happen from without. It will likely be deadly (see turnip scenario, above.) Then, and only then, may Bubba get the message and seek to save Bubba Mama and Bubba Junior. But do not be surprised if he just decides to go it alone with a stock-pile of smokes and a trusty Glock 22c pistol.

But what else can we do?

Don't hate the Hummer Man. Compassion is the key. I really do not want what he has. I certainly DO want his grandchildren and mine to play, in tandem, on an un-poisoned planet. Eating un-poisoned food.

The Buddhist Metta meditation cycle may be helpful here. We must first give loving-kindness to ourselves; then we let it radiate outwardly, through friends and family. Eventually we get to other sentient beings and extra-terrestrials, Hummer Men, etc.

And, on the odd occasion, I have been known to get on my knees and pray.

"God," I say, "Please let your light shine into the hearts of ALL men and women and children. Please FILL their souls with your love. May they feel tenderness and respect towards themselves, their terrestial mother and ALL fellow beings (regardless of the species...)"

Why not try a similar entreaty to the universe tonight? It works best in the bath, with a bit of quiet and a scented candle.
I mean, if enough people prayed at the same time, who knows what would happen?

World Peace?

Evolutionary shift?

Peak Oil - The Spiritual Dimension

2007-01-08T15:12:00.000-08:00

BEFORE
There will come a time. Trust me, it will happen. Eventually, you are going to venture out of your fear. And when you do, you know what? You are going to look our human predicament straight in the eye. Suddenly see. Understand.
The universe will nudge you, you can count on that.
As the pink contact lenses fall, you will see that the collapse of our civilisation is imminent. That Hubbert's theory of peak oil is not one that suits the conspiracy moniker. You marvel at the incandescent rainbow arching across the housing bubble - filmy and taught. You cannot help but gasp: "What if, the price on my house drops by 50 percent - like they say it' s going to? Why, in just two years, I could be broke! And then what am I going to do? Especially when the US dollar becomes worthless and no one has real jobs anymore?"
But it probably wont happen like that .
Hopefully, you may get your karmic "kick in the eye" (as the zen masters put it) tomorrow or the next day - or, indeed , the day after that. Next month and you are still probably good; the skytrains (Vancouver speak for subways) will still be running, and you'll be able to get your bar of Lindt chocolate from the corner store. But take my advice: don't take too long to get with the program. After peak we are going to need you. My survival (and that of my loved ones) may depend on us forging alliances and sharing food.
AFTER
So, anyway, congratulations - or is it comiserations - are now in order. You are now fully awake. You've done the research and faced up to the facts. You concur that things are about to get really "interesting." But, then you ask yourself, "What know? Suddenly I feel like crap. Like, really, mucho crapola..."
A year ago, when I woke up to the "perfect economic storm" that lay ahead, I felt that I had been smacked right in the old breadbasket. Winded. I had no idea any of this Peak Oil stuff was going on. Man-oh-man was I the proverbial mushroom, or what? Fed on sh** and kept in the dark. Yes, me! Me, of all people - the cynical art school drop out, with his mind full of Camus and Hermann Hesse!
Up to that point I thought I knew everything. Kinda, cocky in that English working class way. A lukewarm intellectual... Turns out I knew rather little. Or put it this way, my having a vague grasp on phenomenology or Derrida suddenly did not seem very useful. Not very practical. Consequently, my moods and blood pressure went up and down for a why as I strove to adjust to a new, emerging consciousness.
I have evened out over time.
I am glad to report that one can remain sane and live under that damoclean blade. But it is tough: every now and then you have to protect yourself. On the odd occasion, I figure I am going to have to go on "news fasts" as Dr. Andrew Weil calls them. When I am extra vulnerable, I may need to protect my soul from what is going on in Sadr City, Samarra, wherever....
In the last month I have started to feel my consciousness expand. I feel as though I am beginning to digest profound truths on a soul level. Things like: The best way to be anti-war is to be pro-peace. And, ultimately, I have come to realise this: when I go into reveries about how the Bush Administration and FEMA are going to be herding debtors into work camps, I will need to stop the projector. When I start hyperventillating over imagined sortie-raids over Tehran, I will need to place my hands together and feel the life-force in my palms. I will need to bring my consciousness back to the now, to my pre-peak oil existence. As I feel the cat nuzzling my ankle, I will concentrate. I will let in all the love I feel for my family - my wife and my sons, my deceased daughter. Then, hopefully, I will feel the love pulsing through the universe.
Sometimes I feel at peace. But, unfortunately, it still somehow feels a little too transient. The monkey mind is churning and I am learning how to turn down the volume. But I am learning. A little at a time. Learning and making postive steps.
And so will you.
And just in case if you need extra sanity when adjusting to a post peak oil consciousness, go to:

peakoilblues.com

(essentially, a therapist's take on the emotional reactions to peak oil.) A handy resource - and one that I wish I had in my early "Omigod!" moments.

Let's get this love thing shaking! Time really is running out.

Neil

Buy the Bags!

2007-01-08T15:10:00.000-08:00

I was in the Brentwood Save On Foods today. At the checkout I asked the clerk how many people use their amazing quality (yet inexpensive and sturdy) recycleable shopping bags. "Actually, not many people use them," was the reply. I was shocked. Truly. "Once in a while I see people with them," she continued, rather too matter-of-factly. So I decided to wait around a while. Indeed, I watched streams of people loading provisions into plastic. And not one of the bright green bio-degradable bags were to be seen. Okay, here comes the lecture: Wake up folks! The bags are only about $1.49 and they will last you for years. Sure, they do not say "Prada" along the side, but so what? Next time you are in Save On Foods buy a few and keep them in the back of the car. Be in a state of environmental readiness. Buy some and give them away, to your friends, just for the heck of it. Look at it this way: the "Vancouver Sun" has now dropped the 'allleged' when speaking of global warming; and if CanWest Global is waking up to reality, then we really are in deep do-do. So, I reiterate - buy the bags already! What's more, get Eckhart Tolle's new book. Realize: we do not need more "stuff." The Wii's, HDTV's, iPod's - whatever. Drop the bling and the inferiority complexes. We are in serious crisis.Think of the children. Think of your son. Your daughter. Your granddaughter. Your favourite nephew, even. The small ones you love so dearly. Now imagine them forty years from now, dying slowly of hunger, or of thirst, or murdered, even, at the hands of bellicose migrants fleeing the rising waters. Now imagine: YOU may be able to alter the course of their future. And yes, a buck and a half is all it costs.

A Good Read

2007-01-08T14:19:00.000-08:00

This evening, I came across an excellent essay online (which, thankfully, assuaged a little of the existential terror I have been feeling of late.) When faced with the prospect of peak oil and the inevitable economic collapse, the mantra "Omigod, omigod, what am I going to do?" eddies, electrically, around my brain. This article by Dmitry Orlov, holds aloft the demise of the Soviet communist system as a comparison model for the upcoming US/global depression. Through his experience and insight, we get a sense of what the barrenness will look like, actually feel like : the dispossessed - loitering, like crows; the babushkas selling moonshine; yes, even the alpha-types who, as if from nowhere, form private security companies, foisting barely-negotiable "protection...."

Anyway, check it out if you can.

Dmitry Orlov's Essay

A time I wanted to give up!

2007-01-08T13:50:00.001-08:00

I am under no illusion as to what we are up against as a species. A couple of weeks ago, the American Natural Gas company, Kinder Morgan, decided to obliterate the wildlife trail opposite my house. They sent an e-mail to the the Maintenance Committee of our Co-op. Get this - "vegetation maintenance" they called it. A brief, innocuous missive that made it sound like they were merely lopping the heads off of the dandelions!
It was double-speak for we are gonna clear-cut the fuck out of your neighbourhood.
To ramp up the pace of this prose, a protest group was duly formed, to stall the chopping and grinding. Et voilà, so our hillside is silent for now. The heavy equipment has disappeared. But then so has the majority of the cottonwood and the maple trees...
Last week I was talking to a neighbour. He claps me on the shoulder and says, "It is good what they have done the other side of the road, isn't it?"
"Eh?" I am dumbfounded.
"That they have chopped the trees down. Got rid of the forest. My teenage daughter likes it. She says she feels safer when she is standing at the bus stop. Not so shadowy. Like, there are no bushes that people can hide in. You know, like rapists, weirdoes...."
Make no mistake. This is what we are up against. We decimate a forest so we can expel the phantasmagoric images misplaced in a youngsters' mind. All the local fauna is shell-shocked - the squirrels, raccoons, and owls - but it is okay because a 15 year old feels safer (in a overly benign neighbourhood.)