David and I will co-present a workshop at the beginning of the first Permaculture Voices conference, to be held in Temecula, CA. He’s the Meaningful Makeover content guy; we’re both pedagogues, and I fancy myself the interpreter.

In our hour-long workshop, participants will be guided through a set of considerations for charting their course through the offerings of this incredible collection of luminaries full of unapologetic hope.  The considerations blend learning theory and permaculture principles. We’re designing the workshop to have immediate application for participants in the here and now of the conference in order to root a scaffold for self-directed, lifelong learning that can be taken home for daily use and applied to any experience, anywhere.

“We can’t go it alone for very long” (Weisman, p. 269)

spiderweb_applied ecologicsFacing “the Three Scary Numbers” of global warming isn’t easy. If you take in the ramifications of that terrifying math seriously (and don’t choose denial as a coping mechanism), you’re likely to wind up in the camp of Guy McPherson and the Doomers. Guy is the most vocal advocate of it being too late to do anything meaningful to salvage life on earth due to the amount of self-reinforcing feedback loops already in motion. If you do take the scary numbers seriously (as Guy, Bill McKibben, and many others have and do), you’re almost guaranteed to experience emotional shock or even trauma. For me, the fog from that “poison” of realization (as it was metaphorically described by a friend) lasted fifteen months; it’s only in retrospect that I can perceive how wounded I was by recognizing near term human extinction. Coming out of the fog meant, for me, gaining clarity on my values and my skills.

Permanent Culture = Permaculture

odometerI recently snapped this photo of my 1993 Volvo’s odometer to share with the mechanic I bought it from last year. Paul told me the record for a Volvo from his shop was 509,000 miles, and he had heard of a guy who supposedly drove his for over three million miles!  Personally I wouldn’t want to spend that many hours in the seat of a car! But this got me thinking about durability and resilience supported by maintenance: a web of social and physical factors interwoven with environmental conditions. Permanent implies fixed, unchanging, absolute—but culture is adaptive, adaptable, evolutionary. Putting them together is not exclusively about food, central as food is to survival. This is why I’m thrilled to be working with David on the necessary care of people ethical dimension of generating (and re-generating) collectively-oriented communities for planetary maintenance and survival.
Follow #permavoices on Twitter and contribute to the Permaculture Voices conference dialogue.

“It is over.”

With this epigraph, Charles Genoud begins his book on the non-sense of time. Near the end of Gesture of Awareness (pp. 164-166), Genoud writes:

I hold on to the notion
of a subject.

On the impersonal world of experiences,
with a single letter, I
I trace a person,

as if creating
a blower of the wind,
a rainer of the rain.

A single letter
sets two worlds apart:

the world of object
and the world of subject,
and thus comes exile.

We are all storytellers.
We spin the fiction of our lives,
the fiction that we are.

I may move
my hand in a way that one
could call circular—

but there is no circle.
Can my hand be
at more than one place at a time?

If so,
where is the circle?

One is holding only traces, memories:
it is through such traces that one speaks
of movement, and of a circle.

The fiction that I am
is created in a similar way.

Holding to traces of past moments,
holding to imagined future moments,
I draw an enduring character, I.

But just as with the circle
seen in the movement of a hand,
I am no where to be found.

Once I’ve created the main character, I
once I’ve put distance between
myself and experience—

my story can’t be but a story of exile,
of a hopeless wandering.

Exile can end only with end
of the split between
object and subject;

exile can end only if the fictitious nature
of object and subject
is seen through.

As the main character
is also the storyteller,
he resists his own ending.

The world of traces, of fiction,
isn’t another world

as there is no real world
with respect to which it could be
other.

The memory of the circle
drawn by my hand is only
the trace of a trace,

the trace of something that
never was.

I’m also looking forward to seeing a ragged assortment of Monks and Nuns when the Human Sushi Platter will be guest of honor at an event hosted by Hot Mama.

I’m trying to track my social interaction in real time, using screenshots and text messages, mostly.

The more I go ahead

Source unattributed for lack of consent.

Source unattributed for lack of consent.

I started by sending a text message to both sides of my family. The same message but separately to my mother’s side first and then to my father’s side. Uncle Dick just replied. (5:25 pm, East Coast USA. If I was supercool, I’d publish the longitude and latitude, but that would require learning how to do it.) He’s actually fourth… c o u n t i n g …fifth.  The order I saw them in (from memory): Ed, Jane, Raedyn, Dick, u h oh. That’s only four.  We’ll have to inspect the record to determine the assigned timestamps and see who I’ve forgotten. If anyone. Because in the meantime I was also emailing some friends, and intermittently playing with The Katz. (Implication: more people appeared in my consciousness than there is a record for via screenshots on the iPhone4.0, yes, shame, a previous model.)

 

The more I see back

What seems more urgent is negotiating consent with my relatives: may I use the screenshots I’ve been taking of our communication? Like, actually publish them here?

I think I’ve asked them in the past. Way way back. Dim memory or wishful thinking, I’m not sure.  Will they forgive me for mentioning them here? What about the evidence in {the photo I just deleted}. At the same time, I’m playing #KRKTR in my heartmind/actions. Which some of you may have heard me talk about in some vague way that didn’t make sense. Or not.

Going to a potluck, hoping to get an assent from a cousin before  leaving so I can publish this with some evidence. Just texted fyi I’ll be late.

Been working this prolly about an hour.

. . .

Tacking

Am told I can arrive whenever. Good. Will leave soon, unless the wind changes again. No further reply from cousin. Yet.

 

_____

Amherst, MA
Postface:
(…it felt funny when I thought it.) ~ pasted in at 17:19 by the M’cAir’s clock. That was approximately when I resumed writing this blogentry after the title and first sentence. It is a quote from whatever I was working on (i.e., had interjected itself into my stream-of-consciousness) some time (minutes? seconds) after I had been diverted from this blogentry by a thought/memory/impulse to send email correspondence [to an unspecified set]. 
Chose to leave it {the quote: “it felt funny when I thought it”) to appear here at the bottom of the entry.  17:20 (copy-pasted in; edited at 18:21 before publishing) 

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