Well hello again! Welcome! Salutations! Greetings! Aloha! Mushi mushi! Yo! Hey! Hoka! Hi! Howdy!
Faithful readers (if they exist) will note that I have resurrected this blog after some months. I took it down because (as writers will understand) I felt that all I had written was childish and foolhardy. I have conjured it back up from digital depths because (as writers will understand) I can think of absolutely nothing to write a book about, and in retrospect, there may be some valuable content here yet. Spiritual primitivism has actually gained a foothold in the consciousness of many, if I am reading the weather right (or the graffiti in coffee shop bathrooms, anyhow).
Take note of the new format. The archive of articles is now at the very bottom of the screen.
I have also taken the liberty of adding some spectacular new literature which I found at Countryside Anarchist. You can find it under a new sub-section of the Chapbooks & Lit page entitled “Self-Sufficiency & Sustainability”, along with some choice titles on permaculture. I am indebted to Countryside Anarchist for these new additions, and to John Z. for drawing my attention to this marvelous website (which is marvelous, as far as websites go).
So! Onward! Anon! Away! Ho! Forth! Yaa! Etcetera!
Our schools look like prisons
and our prisons look like malls.
-Thee Silver Mt. Zion Memorial Orchestra & Tra-La-La Band
It’s a bleak landscape, indeed. Like a stone thunderstorm, I think, surveying the damage from my favorite hill.
I sit in the shade of some rocks on top of a nameless mesa in Nevada, a place I share with soaring red tail hawks, a playful murder of crows, and the lazy desert tortoise, watching clouds form on the updrafts of the mountains to the west. Below me, to the east, lies what was once a lush oasis of meadows and springs in the parched Mojave Desert. It was home to friendly bands of Shoshone and Paiute Indians who had relied for at least thirteen millennia on the underground aquifer lying beneath the valley floor to create the meadows which later lead Spanish conquistadors to grace the basin with its current name: Las Vegas. The Meadows. But today there are no meadows here.
We are on a ship of fools, like ghosts already drowned
that wander ’round our sinking hull,
that sulk about the hallways, ready to go down
murmurring and groaning of the coming lull
while rumors of dark water down below
make an echo throughout the cabins,
such reluctant souls all mourning for our stow
as the voice of silent waters calls from distant fathoms.
And yet one is laughing, it echoes through the halls,
for he knows the ship is shored up
and is ready for the fall!