Ethnographia Lacadaisia

I am doing a volunteer stint on a farm with a cross section of youth and elders.

During my somewhat recent study at the university I participated in anthropology classes and studied various ethnographers. I make no claim of validity for the subjective analysis I am about to scribe. No reasonable evaluation of my emotional connections can be inferred by my statements about any of the unknowing participants whom I am sure will never read these words as part of my study of their characteristics informs me.

The property is owned by a gay man in his 80’s. He believes completely in what Nancy Leider of Zetatalk predicts for the world. Every report put out by Zetatalk.com is scrutinized, reposted to his personal list of over 100 recipients, and from what I have witnessed over the last two years is  a prophet’s struggle. Not many want to hear his message or Nancy’s, of gloom and doom of a planet that can flop over on its side and scramble all life.  Truth is planets can and do flip over and shift magnetics around even without a Planet X to cause the fun. You can dig into this yourself by studying the work of Immanuel Velikovski.

There is a room tenant on the top floor who is closest to my age, who is completely enthralled with his own masculinity. He doesn’t believe a word of the Zeta Talk pole shift and Planet X rationale. His spiritual program is proclaimed as Buddhism and he comes from a Russian derived Jewish family. His father was a hard driving man, which for me is refreshing because I thought only people of my father’s religion were “hard driving–” no — not actually, but on a metaphorical level, since we were both raised close to the same age in the same city-state of New York City and its suburbs, we are living proof that people of opposed religions can end up with very similar mindsets and spiritual perspectives. Yesterday we had one of our more productive discussions about dimensions, and if our human relation to the planet and its flora and fauna was a connection of alternative dimension, to which I suggested in the context of one seamless Divinity we certainly are connected in ways we have yet to fully explore. One issue I wish he would consider is his consumption of any available food–GMO or not.

This brings me across the cul de sac of our driveway loop to the structure built as part of an “after time” survival greenhouse and solar heated residence.  In one of the rooms there is a young woman about 27 who “wants” to be a permaculturist. Last night she revealed that she believes the “new” religion will be science connected to spirituality. I thought about how my activist friends and alternative news sources would say she has already been brainwashed to the New World Order’s agenda. I proposed some base ideas one can find in Derrick Jensen‘s “Endgame,” that science is what has reduced our world to a thing, religion has reduced it to a thing to be used, and Christian Fundies seem to have no regard for their land base, believing their children will be able to live on a poisoned planet even if the Rapture doesn’t come, because they believe in Jesus.  I’ve spent 55 years in the study of Jesus and can say with a personal certainty, God might be pissed we destroyed His handy work, his magnificent creatures,  nonetheless, no amount of expressing that the problem of global destruction might be attributable to science worked to defer her attitude that “technology” was going to save the world and make the place safe for “permaculture.” I attempted to point out that the Three Sisters of corn beans and squash were grown in fields next to rivers abundant with fish and to replace that migration of ocean bathed nutrients we had to have a “technology” of bringing seaweed and fish from the ocean back up into the fields, and that was and is a permaculture destroyed by European Industrial Civilization. She didn’t accept it. She is going to be the savior of humanity, I wish her all the luck in the world, I’ll keep pulling Euroweeds away from the Three Sisters. Given that those of my ancestors who grew those plants for their food had a pretty good culture going when Ben Franklin and Thomas Jefferson wanted their Longhouse governmental technology has compkletely escaped the 30 something’s minds.

Next in our group is a new tenant who moved into the “other” room of the greenhouse building. He is not fully known to me yet, and  I have noticed he “practices native American spirituality,” whatever that means. It’s easy to take culture from those who’s culture your ancestors destroyed. I imagine it must be some kind of balm for the collective guilt, in my sorry state of backwoods Metis genetics, I am brought to task by Spirit when I do not act in a genuine way, so I am content to let him figure out what his Spirituality really means and I will be wary enough not to get caught up in chasing after somebody else’s answer for my spiritual fulfillment, choosing instead to stick with — as Johnny Cash sang — my own personal Jesus, and as I am as comfortable with Love as Aphrodite’s Priestess, or Onatah’s gift to me of Her presence in a corn plant 4 feet taller than any other one in my garden space. And she has two ears with golden hair streaming down. My prayer beads are plump succulent corn beads. I am the plants and Earth from which Onatah has risen.

The other resident on the top floor of the main house is a 30 something man who firmly believes in industrial process. His garden space is only about 1/3rd used because he insisted the way to make a great garden was to dig down three feet, sift all the gravel and humus producing detritus out of the soil, make paths of the gravel two feet deep, and top it off with high priced bat guano. So far the potatoes brought in disease that eventually moved over to mine, his beans were planted within 6″ of his potatoes, meaning they too got the brown leaf wilt and all had to be dug to salvage small to tiny potatoes. Many of mine made it to soft ball size, so even with the slightly early wilting off I’ve got a good crop and all I did was scratch a hill, plant my sets, and fertilize with ocean fish, seaweed, and horse manure. I call him the “strip miner.” His tomatoes are planted within six inches of each other and he has a bed about 30 inches by ten feet of those closely packed plants–beginning to yellow from the wilt. I’m having problems with one variety of tomato I think is because I planted them within two feet of each other and they needed more room, but right now, I have so many tomatoes in my small cabin, the pounds needing to be picked shine from many feet away. The attitude of the miner was “I’ll show you all how to do this.” I’m glad he did, as my way works and his is anemic. Excessive work doesn’t always bring success, tell that to Tar Sands people.

Two young people as a couple inhabit a room set that I once lived in years ago. Their lives are about the most scrambled of all, struggling with the economy, with purpose and identity, seeking pleasure in music concerts, or glory of the old Grateful Dead religion. She is an artist trained and with a Bachelor degree. He comes from a working family, I believe his father is in construction so I feel all will eventually smooth out for them and things will be fine as far as it goes on a dying planet. It’s fun to watch her do her hula hoops, something I was never very good at.

Then there is the resident of the hill. A young man about 27 seeks to complete his tent city home on the hilltop behind the house. He wants to get back in touch with his “native American” spirituality. He likes to give commands, and backs out with rationalizations of meant and not meant so I assume his version of PTSD, rampant with all in attendance, rests in previous abusive relationships and power over is expressed in his commandments of what other people should and shouldn’t do, or how people should and shouldn’t act toward each other, except for His observations, which of course, are incontrovertible.

Sometimes I wonder how I manage to stay on. My persistence has two faces. One is the “security” function the owner feels because of my presence between him and the “30 somethings (his term),” and the other is the share cropper relationship. I am also associated with the neighbor across the street in his farming efforts and his tenancy of shared fields with me. My struggles with the old worn out New England soil have yield a whopping $1gross green bean income– I figure the “security function” is what rents my converted chicken coop where I sometimes sleep and keep my basic tool kit. It certainly isn’t in the cash flow of produce, but then, I do consume my share, so a food suppliment program has value I recognize and am grateful for, because I know just about every ingredient I’ve put in the soil, notwithstanding the contents of the horse poop. They are rich people’s horses so it’s anyone’s guess. Maybe because they come from enlightened university towns, they know about “organic” and GMO — but maybe not!

Here I am, seeking my New World Order where I get back to work, only this time, actually making housing and agronomist decisions based on what’s good for the land in the long run; content that there is a permaculture hint in our past that might get us through the future without ten calories of oil for each calorie of food. For me sustainable is a ruse, we need repairative culture. Nothing is permanent. Our topsoil is fading away, we need to build more topsoil; healthy natural based topsoil with all the microflora and microfauna of antiquity which made the Three Sisters so popular the world now consumes the theft by European Culture of that American Indian Patented genetics. Certainly, if I mail my words to myself and that becomes a copy right, then growing the Three Sisters until they are a religion and a culture is proof of Trade Mark and Patent. But then, American Indian versions of permaculture are not like the comfortabkle white ones from Austria and Australia. My comment last night to my permaculturist associate about the capital investment needed for a man’s Austrian property was substantial. She informed me, “He got a grant and started with that. You can get a grant here, too. That’s how my teacher in Colorado did it.”

What words could I use to explain that during the great business climate of 2003-2006 in California remodeling, I never once considered taking money for a house because “property always goes up,” and grant givers don’t interfere. How could I explain to this 27 year old young woman who led a very comfortable life considering the “wrongs” to be righted simply by making a land plot into everything from wilderness to a flower garden, that maybe the way to the better future was not to be “making land” do anything other than what was right in front of us, which meant the Euroweeds had to go so the Native Corn, Beans, and Squash, could give themselves to our needs? We must give back.

The cityscape must stop consuming without return. Purified waste streams need to feed the land, people are big rodents, consuming all they come across. There’s not “too many” of us, we can feed, clothe, and clean ourselves and our world and make a good economic living at it. Money is soil, money is the paper that tells of an exchange rate, so much calories of substance in one note equal to oil at, or corn at, or beans at, your metabolic labor at; right now below parity so everyone except the money changers gets thinner. How can I tell these 30 somethings and 80 somethings that fashionable obsessions will not bring the solutions to our Easter Island rush to planetary death?

The dirt on my feet and hands are where my sense becomes entwined in the dimension of flora and fauna consciousness. The Brother-Sister Mayans have said that Hunab Ku speaks from the center of the universe through the Sun. And yesterday I read an article about a new solar particle that is changing the dating by Carbon 14 means.

Hey, Hunab Ku, I’m listening, how do I share your message? What’s that? It’s the Sun? I get it. I don’t have to do anything, you got it under control …

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This entry was posted in 2012, agriculture, alternative energy, anthropology, food prices, permaculture, Planet X. Bookmark the permalink.

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