Cold Water from a Hot Tap

One of the water heaters stopped functioning. The other one. Karl and I replaced the first of these some time ago; they were contemporaries and we knew this one would need replacing too. We asked it to wait until October. It did. We asked it to wait a little longer; it did. Finally a couple weeks ago it gently stopped.

If we actually get to short sell the house we are considering replacing it. If the house goes all the way to foreclosure then the bank can deal with it.

The impact of being down a water heater is we are boiling water in the kitchen to wash dishes. It's a bit like camping. Xena said, "After a few days, camping in your own kitchen isn't so much fun." Betsy and Jori are bathing over at the common house. Our bathroom still has plenty of hot water, thankfully. But neither kitchen does.

Hot tap water is such a given for people in developed countries. We've "solved" that hygiene issue so we can now focus on Pink's performance at the Grammy's. Or we can debate whether FoxNews is fair or balanced.

I'm sort of wondering what a "live simply" week would look like. Could I inspire people to live without electricity, heat, and potable water for a week? Or perhaps to live without relying on the infrastructure for a week?

Frontlines of Permaculture

This is not the frontline I want to be on.

I do not want to live where gunmen kill, and fleeing authorities, slam through busy intersections killing more people.

I do not want to hear sirens passing, heralding another violent tragedy.

I do not want a helicopter bristling machine guns circling a point just a few blocks from my home, pounding away the peace of twilight with its thwop-thwop-thwop and pushing back the night with its searchlight.

I want to live at the frontline of unmaking the system that has institutionalized classism, ableism, sexism, globalism, and whatever "ism" stands in the way of people treating each other humanely. I want to live at the frontline of spreading seeds of future greatness, of future opportunity, of future abundance. I do not want to live at the frontline of this urban violence.

And yet, I do live here.

People are dying by violence in Pakistan, in Gaza, in Darfur, in Sri Lanka... and in Berkeley and Oakland. Caitlan notes the irony of requiring an illiterate parolee to fill out and mail a postcard to the parole officer who tracks addresses; Betsy notes the lack of choices available to low-wage earning parents with children enrolled in public schools that are failing under the "No Child Left Behind" program; my black neighbor struggles to distance himself from the black thug that sometimes roams our street, to create for himself a future where "black" does not equal "criminal."

In permaculture, there is no away. You cannot throw trash away, because the whole world is your backyard. I submit that in urban permaculture, we are all on the frontline. There is no place you can "escape" to, because the problems are all around us. The problems belong to all of us.

We've made our street safer, through diligence and connecting with neighbors who value working together, through parties and food and sitting in each other's yards. Prejudice is not vanquished, but there is grace and tolerance here. We have yet to take on a larger task, such as ensuring children in the area get access to fresh produce, or that parents in the area have energy left to attend parent's night at school after an emotionally wearying workday. Were I to live in a place removed from violence, would I be safer? Or simply less at risk? What use is my mortal life if I've forsaken the task and destiny of my immortal soul? Am I allowed to risk my children? What choice does a parent in a refugee camp have? What choice do I have? What is my choice?

I'll choose to see that I am at the frontline. Of Oakland violence. Of Sri Lankan violence. There is no away. There is no shirking from choosing to help. This permaculture, intentional community, food justice and opportunity for all demonstration project that I am part of, is what I am doing and will continue to do. It's small. It's slow. But it is change.

Small. Slow.

Change.

The White Pigeon

In a flock of pigeons, is the white bird amongst all the others serving its species by attracting the attention of the predator? Does its mutation help all the other birds escape?

As we move into a post-carbon, post-affluenza world, who among us is willing to step forward and be the white pigeon? Not so much to be prey, but to help forge policies for grey water permitting, to be examples of non-violence, to show how to support ourselves while also supporting our neighbors and leaving a resource abundance for our children's children?

In Which I Find Another Project and an Answer, too.

We were hanging out in Karl and Nini's kitchen. I excused myself to use the restroom. This is the water closet that I did all that extensive work to run a 4" waste line that didn't go up and through the footing like the one that came with the house, and I love how great the new plumbing and fixture works.

My eyes wandered about the little room, and I noticed the ceiling in the back looked sort of water damaged. "Hmmm," went the little curious part of my brain. I picked a likely looking spot and poked the ceiling. My finger pierced it easily and water ran out. Now the rest of my brain had something to do, so the curious part took a break.

Karl poked his head in. "Whatcha doin'?"

"Making a problem."

"Oh, Bob. What did you do?"

"I found a leak." Karl started to laugh. "It's not funny, except in the most tragic way. Do you realize this means I'm yet another project behind?"

"Or," he says, "maybe you've caught it in time and it's still a small project."

Yeah, that's likely. I went upstairs and pulled the toilet up. A little sleuthing, and here's what I found:


The previous owner installed the retention ring without actually attaching to the drain. In fact, there is a 1" gap and here you can see a bit of downstairs through the gap. It had been filled with material from several wax toilet seals, but this eventually failed. In order to attach the ring in this manner, they had to take the mounting adapter off the ring and drill through the tile in 6 places with a masonry bit to attach it to the floor (when it should attach to the pipe).

Of course, the floor is rotting. Water does that to wood. I should probably mention the squirrel nest I found between the joists, too.

On the plus side, I caught this before anyone doing their business fell through the floor onto someone else doing their business below. While that would be a funny story, the liability just makes my flesh crawl.

On the other plus side, finding a problem like this in the first couple of months of living here would have been very demoralizing. Now, two years after replacing nearly every door, fixing plumbing left and right, laying carpet, finding compatible housemates and all the other challenges, a job of tearing up the floor and subfloor, replacing the rotted wood, plumbing in the correct kind of fitting, and installing some sort of pleasant marmoluem floor and finally putting the toilet back seems like a task I can get done in a day.

Being supremely unwrecked, I went to work today and had a great day.

The previous owner stopped over next door for a visit. We chatted about the election's big winner. No, not Obama, but all the rest of us who don't sit on a board of directors or happen to be CEOs of a large money-lending institution.

"Say, Hussein, tell me about the downstairs toilet."

He said, "Are you ready to sell the house back to me?"

"No, of course not. We're having too much fun. But I am curious why you ran the waste line up and through the foundation."

"Oh, I did that for earthquakes. You won't have any trouble with that toilet."

"Except that it didn't flush. The water just swirled around and slowly drained down, never actually flushing."

"Y'know," he non-sequitered, "I didn't put up an Obama sign in my yard. I didn't want to provoke the neighbors."

Typical. Other People's Good Deeds Boost My Mood

Karl, Nini, Liz, Betsy, Jori, Crafty Girl, Puppy Girl, Aaron and Jess are packed and off to Yosemite for a quick visit. Xena, Nick and I could have gone, too... except Xena left me here while she goes up to Seattle on a work trip and Nick is feeling not-so-well in his throat and chest, and the upstairs toilet is starting to leak through the ceiling of the downstairs when it gets flushed, and I wanted someone to go with to see my friend Lisa dance tonight, so I sat down to write a poor-lonely-me post--

But instead, in my email, is a message from Village Harvest! Next weekend, the 15th, they'll be harvesting fruit from homeowners' over-burdened trees in the Palo Alto area. Volunteers get first dibs, and the rest of the fresh fruit feeds the hungry. NBC Nightly News will be filming them that day, too! More info is at Village Harvest. Or call (888) FRUIT-411 to join in.

Someday, after I've fixed the drain and toilets and doors and walls and floors and relationships I will have the energy to spearhead fruit harvests in my area. Until then, I can get vicarious joy from this truly sustainable practice that brings community, local food and social justice together.