Runnin’ on Empty April

Runnin’ on Empty

Conversations with Caren Black on the View from Oil’s Peak

April

A Personal Letter to My New Home…

Got a minute for a "cup of tea"? I know you're busy, but this is important to me. Though I’m a newcomer, perhaps my personal story can help us both. I hope so.

Friday was a difficult day for me. I signed and faxed back papers for the sale of my California home. The finality of it struck me hard. I love that little town! For the entire 17 years I lived there, I often found myself catching my breath and staring around at the ocean, the beach, the forest, the little village and thinking in amazed gratitude, "I live here!!" I’m sure you can relate. It’s beautiful here, as well!

When I moved here, I rented my California house, providing income, a way to go back if I ever wanted to, and a “business excuse” to go visit my friends. What made me decide to sell?

Over the years, I’ve learned that the adage my parents taught me, about “keeping one’s nose to the grindstone,” may no longer yield the desired results, just a very stubby nose. I've still done it anyway, having to start over many times and sometimes coming up empty-handed. Each time, I'd dug myself out, I worked harder than ever piecing together a new life. It often felt like the powers-that-be were saying to me, "Your work is contributing, important, making a positive difference! Unfortunately, we just can't pay you for it." I spent years carving out a comfortable niche. Friday it seemed I might be throwing it all away.

On Saturday morning the light bulb came back on: It's going away of its own accord. The party's over. It's the lark, not the nightingale, we hear, and things will soon change drastically. I knew that when I came here; I just didn’t realize how quickly things would move. A little Saturday research set me straight.

Friday’s feelings were not about my personal picture, but the entire frame. The economy is going to collapse. There’s no question of “if”, just “how soon?” The loss I felt was really for a way of life that we people were too foolish, too preoccupied to sensibly modify while we still had the time. I've left the big, beautiful ocean liner and climbed into a lifeboat. Friday I cut the rope, that's all.

Friday was lonely. Ever since I was a child, I’ve had a hard time with stories – even comedies like I Love Lucy – where people act through misunderstanding or refuse to think, stories where the reader can see what the characters cannot. From my little lifeboat Friday, I saw most other passengers are still aboard, living it up in the ballroom, the dining room, and the lounges. They are obvious to the situation, or refusing to take a serious look at what’s happening, waiting for “them” to come up with a solution, or striding around the deck wearing a sandwich board and preaching that their god's wrath has begun and everyone else but them is going to die.

Granted, it’s horrific to really stop, focus and look at the facts. But, it will be far worse to live through the consequences of apathy. And so unnecessary. Building a lifeboat means starting over again, but it's the positive choice, the one with a future, the one that allows some control.

A friend from California emailed today about the issue on which she’s focused. Her city is determined to build an enormous waterfront structure, despite people’s protests. My friend knows about peak oil, the economy, the saber rattling of the new nation-blocs, the malignancy of the global corporatocracy, the timeline. But, right now, she’s focused on “The Nightmare Inn,” as they’re calling it, and she’s engaged in a major community political battle. The Nightmare Inn will most likely never be built, regardless of what happens politically. Oh, it will probably be started, but construction costs will simply become too high, and tourists too few, as the price of oil goes up 50% - 60% in the next two years.

All my friend’s concerted efforts, the divisions and bad feelings being generated in a community that should know better, seem like the rearranging of deck chairs on the Titanic. An intelligent, aware community like that – which should be working at top speed right now to become a self-sufficient island -- is becoming a divided camp instead. And, when the inevitable comes -- whether suddenly or gradually -- people will be more likely to blame each other rather than to work together as they scramble to stay alive.

Could a little of that be happening here, too?

Will we be able to grow sufficient food for our needs? Can we house, clothe and shoe ourselves without any assistance from the outside world – no trucks, no tankers? Can we replace the livelihood of the 50+ downtown merchants plus restaurant, B&B, hotel and motel proprietors whose income will be directly cut over the next five years by the LNG plant and the dearth of transportation (which are symbiotic)?

Andrew McNamara, member of Australia’s Parliament, spoke to that body March 9^th:

“The challenges we face after peak oil will require localized food production and industry in a way not seen for 100 years. Local rail lines and fishing fleets will be vital to regional communities. Self-contained communities living close to work, farms, services and schools will not be merely desirable; they will be essential.”

If we could put aside our differences, join hands, and face the facts – however horrific – together, proactively, could we create a sustainable future for ourselves and our children while there's still time?