rebeccmeister (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rebeccmeister) wrote2007-12-03 07:59 am
rebeccmeister) wrote2007-12-03 07:59 am
Entry tags:
Restlessness, Consumption, Culture
I am sure I am far from alone in spending time considering how I am connected with those around me, especially as I continue to think about how blogging and inter"networking" tools and other efforts fit in to the picture (Do I call? Do I write?). The most recent XKCD is appropriate for considering this subject:
A brief passage from The Gift of Good Land has also been floating around in my mind. I'll put it here, with halfhearted apologies to those who might have preferred to encounter it on their own (though I find it equally interesting that I cannot read this book without feeling compelled to talk about it straightaway--I'm reminded of Breaking the Spell).
The second chapter is begun with a visit to Gary Nabhan in the Southwest, where Berry attends a Hunger Conference (o his commentary on academics hits a sensitive mark) and learns about the agricultural methods of the Papago Indians:
Like other traditional regional cultures, wherever they have come into confrontation with industrial economies, the ancient culture of the Papago is on the wane. It has been on the wane through most of this century. Whatever one may think of the opinion of the expert at the Hunger Conference, there is a conflict between the operations of a cash economy and traditional, local systems of agriculture. It is easier to buy your food than to grow it. It is hard to persuade a community to grow its own food once it has become available for purchase--provided that money is somehow available. It is easier to drink soft drinks and throw the containers out the window than to practice the difficult disciplines of health and frugality.*
And so the society of abundance becomes dependent on a society of scarcity, consuming exhaustible resources as rapidly as possible in the conventional American Way, and leaning on the fragile props of inflated cash and government programs. And so the intricate, delicate culture so responsive to the needs of desert life is gradually replaced in the mind by modern restlessness and the desire to shop. And so the body loses its resilience and strength as its purchased diet is converted to fat.
* In a healthy culture, of course, personal health and frugality would not be difficult--they would not be perceived as "disciplines." They become difficult when disease and waste become normal.
-
Yesterday was an exercise in place and community: I rode my bicycle to the croissant shop with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
faisdodo and trywhy (it has existed for 22 years!), and then ventured onward to South Mountain to meet up with R and J and company--newish biking friends. We luncheoned on bread and wine and cheese at Dobbins Point, which overlooks Phoenix and the surrounding areas. Even after Friday and Saturday's rains, a low brown cloud lingered over the vast spread of suburb. I couldn't help but think of how much this place is awash in sprawled loneliness. Then we whooshed down the mountain and homeward.
In the afternoon, I visited the Tempe Festival of the Arts. So did a lot of other people who might have attended on Friday or Saturday instead if it weren't for the rain. I saw several rowing (/biking) friends who I do not ordinarily encounter, which was good in small ways. The "art" ranged from good to bad to hideously tacky, yet it was generally good to see people who have poured their livelihoods into such things, be it metalworking or finding water-polished glass or painstakingly painting in every detail on coins (so silly). There is an earnestness to such endeavors, even if we're left wondering to what end.
In the evening, I attended a neighborhood association meeting to discuss traffic calming plans for my neighborhood. I was easily the youngest person in a room full of my grey-haired neighbors. I'm tempted to always project my sense of impermanence about living in this place, but my actions belie this sensation, especially as I learn more about this place and remember to be grateful for things like the ability to ride my bicycle and row the entire year-round. (I am drawn northward--am I drawn northward?)
Then I dined with school friends and felt the familiar awkwardness of socializing without saying anything meaningful. At last, I slept.
A brief passage from The Gift of Good Land has also been floating around in my mind. I'll put it here, with halfhearted apologies to those who might have preferred to encounter it on their own (though I find it equally interesting that I cannot read this book without feeling compelled to talk about it straightaway--I'm reminded of Breaking the Spell).
The second chapter is begun with a visit to Gary Nabhan in the Southwest, where Berry attends a Hunger Conference (o his commentary on academics hits a sensitive mark) and learns about the agricultural methods of the Papago Indians:
Like other traditional regional cultures, wherever they have come into confrontation with industrial economies, the ancient culture of the Papago is on the wane. It has been on the wane through most of this century. Whatever one may think of the opinion of the expert at the Hunger Conference, there is a conflict between the operations of a cash economy and traditional, local systems of agriculture. It is easier to buy your food than to grow it. It is hard to persuade a community to grow its own food once it has become available for purchase--provided that money is somehow available. It is easier to drink soft drinks and throw the containers out the window than to practice the difficult disciplines of health and frugality.*
And so the society of abundance becomes dependent on a society of scarcity, consuming exhaustible resources as rapidly as possible in the conventional American Way, and leaning on the fragile props of inflated cash and government programs. And so the intricate, delicate culture so responsive to the needs of desert life is gradually replaced in the mind by modern restlessness and the desire to shop. And so the body loses its resilience and strength as its purchased diet is converted to fat.
* In a healthy culture, of course, personal health and frugality would not be difficult--they would not be perceived as "disciplines." They become difficult when disease and waste become normal.
-
Yesterday was an exercise in place and community: I rode my bicycle to the croissant shop with
faisdodo and trywhy (it has existed for 22 years!), and then ventured onward to South Mountain to meet up with R and J and company--newish biking friends. We luncheoned on bread and wine and cheese at Dobbins Point, which overlooks Phoenix and the surrounding areas. Even after Friday and Saturday's rains, a low brown cloud lingered over the vast spread of suburb. I couldn't help but think of how much this place is awash in sprawled loneliness. Then we whooshed down the mountain and homeward.In the afternoon, I visited the Tempe Festival of the Arts. So did a lot of other people who might have attended on Friday or Saturday instead if it weren't for the rain. I saw several rowing (/biking) friends who I do not ordinarily encounter, which was good in small ways. The "art" ranged from good to bad to hideously tacky, yet it was generally good to see people who have poured their livelihoods into such things, be it metalworking or finding water-polished glass or painstakingly painting in every detail on coins (so silly). There is an earnestness to such endeavors, even if we're left wondering to what end.
In the evening, I attended a neighborhood association meeting to discuss traffic calming plans for my neighborhood. I was easily the youngest person in a room full of my grey-haired neighbors. I'm tempted to always project my sense of impermanence about living in this place, but my actions belie this sensation, especially as I learn more about this place and remember to be grateful for things like the ability to ride my bicycle and row the entire year-round. (I am drawn northward--am I drawn northward?)
Then I dined with school friends and felt the familiar awkwardness of socializing without saying anything meaningful. At last, I slept.