One name: Kunstler.
This was the author who ushered me into the dialogue of Peak Oil in the first place - first glimpsed in "The End of Suburbia" back in early May of 2005.
I immediately read The Geography of Nowhere, then Home from Nowhere, and about six months after that, the Long Emergency.
(that was just the bare beginning - many books read since - I work in Canada's largest library.)
Quite frankly, there was something about his caustic humor, style and whit that appealed to me - and especially concerning the issues of which he speaks.
This is my first posted new topic on this site. It could be my last.
The reason for bothering at all - is that it fascinates me no little bit, the amount of debating that goes on over his views. I suppose Kunstler is one of the "dark angels" of Peak Oil dogma, rhetoric, frenzy, panic, and all the various steps of coming to terms with the thing.
The reason I chose the Psychology forum in particular to post this - is that to me it is an appropriate place to discuss the profundities of psychological response to the topic of Peak Oil and all its attendant by-products.
I have wandered through many threads over the past year and a half - full of numbers, plots, scenarios, wishful retributions, nit-picking the tiniest details, and no end of any amount of academically polished and precise points of view - mathematical, scientific and otherwise...
-but what really fascinates me is the psychological and especially the esthetic. (which is where Kunstler's appeal comes from in the first place.)
One by-product of my personal "cat out of the bag" relief to expound upon the subject - is the great release of finally admitting suburbia-hatred. (in spite of the fact that this is where approximately somewhere over half of all North Americans live.)
Perhaps this is somewhat of a scapegoating exercise - but I hasten to add that I don't hate the people who live there (many friends and family are suburbanites.)
When I first stumbled onto the topic - I quickly realized that I'd hated suburbia all my life, having never actually lived in any true suburban setting - but more importantly - for all the reasons stated by Kunstler and other authors.
I knew I hated suburbia with a passion - but I didn't really know why.
Until recently - I'd never been able to afford a car. Thus my experience of suburbia was always as a pedestrian. You can imagine - this did nothing to improve my estimation or esteem of any environment designed specifically for vehicles.
It is my personal bias to enjoy small-town Main streets, old red brick and brownstone, 19th and early 20th century design, large trees and realisically walkable and accessable public domains.
Incidentally, I've recently discovered the historic truth about Luddites. They did, in fact, smash machinery and attack new manufacturing infrastructure - for the simple reason that much of it either put them out of work, or seriously under-employed them, or reduced their working lives to wage slavery. Rather rings a bell, doesn't it?
Our oil-glut energy wastefulness has hastened our ability to create an ugly world. You may think that life looks rosy from behind a jet-fighter styled cockpit/dashboard, gazing beyond the tinted-glass windshield. I rather think of it like being strapped to a life-support machine. A ton or two of glass, plastic and steel is quite a ball and chain to haul around.
If the esthetics of travel have ceased to include such simple things as the sound of wind in the trees, back alley echoed dog barks, footsteps on pavement, and the time it takes to compile the endless detail of surroundings...then what true sense of the worth of any of these things remains? What was once a daily experience, and a fundamental part of life, becomes reduced to an annual vacation-packaged theme-parked excursion (if we're lucky.)
What does it take for people to notice what they've lost?
I save my best for last (and few other than Kunstler and a handful of other authors seem even willing to bother to address the subject.) When I first read it, I stood and applauded. Really.
For much of my peak oil "career" - I've belabored a particular aspect of the disease, and with great gusto!
You see - I like kids. I really do. I write for them. I enjoy their energy, their vitality, their frankness, their humor, and their astounding ability to give an old fart like me such remarkable hope for the future.
From the age of two until sixteen - I lived in two places. One was a small town, and the other was a small city. In all those years, I was chauffeured somewhere in my father's car exactly once.
Every single thing I did in that town and in that city, otherwise, was accomplished by using my own independent mobility.
I am absolutely astounded, and often outraged - by the inability of so many people to consider that this might actually be important.
I know their reality. Run off their feet constanly, in a never-ending cycle of vehicular expeditions to dispose of kids into an endless array of drop-offs and subsequent pickups - school, practice, rehearsal, sports , parties, shopping, errands of endless description and design.
I'll say it: I spent my childhood composed of endless days peeling off the onion layers one at a time - learning how to navigate and negotiate my way through the public domain. Of mischief there was no small bit. It was all grist for the mill, and a learning curve, don't you know. I was not unusual. Every kid did this.
I was not composed or disposed in a private bedroom, accessing the world through the internet. I was out there in the real thing. And either alone, on my own, or with my peers. No meddling adults around (although they were never really that far away - unless we disappeared into the surrounding countryside, or wilderness - something that increased exponentially as we all got older.)
One of my favorite quotes (I admit I can't remember exactly where I read this) - "kids now view their world like visiting foreign dignitaries, taking in their "public" domain through tinted glass. One almost expects them to wave a tiny white-gloved hand."
But - who would they wave to, and why?
I believe we have lost our grip. That we are not outraged on their behalf. Run off our feet to taxi them around and keep them safe - while moving through the world we've created for them. With all its attendent horrors and dangers. They are all too real - of course. Who will take responsibility for that? A societal shrug is all they get.
My inner city neighborhood is actually a community. Kids move around it and through it like they always have. It makes me smile, to see them. It makes me smile to hear the sound of them from the schoolyard a block away. It always has amazed me - how much that sound reminds me of running water, as in a brook. It is a natural sound, as natural as birdsong or thunder. It is one of the most beautiful passages in the soundtrack of life. I would much rather hear it - then the sound of a "free" way.
When Peak Oil first attacked my sensibility - I was torn two ways. The first, and most obvious - was high anxiety for the future. The possibility of great change and upheaval loomed large. Visions of anarchy, recession, depression, stock market crashes and societal melt-down, an end of "progress" (as we know it.)
The other side?.........perhaps a great sobering and shuddering swoon, after which we are forced to come to our senses. Perhaps then we will discover some of what we have lost, that it would be a good thing to have back again.
While writers write, and readers read - our little planet swings along as always, and we discover our great big wide world is only really a little planet after all. Gene Roddenberry dreamed otherwise, but it is really the only home we've got. We're not rich enough to afford a vacation home elsewhere. Let us therefor be houseproud, and attend to our resources wisely.
Amen.





