” . . . existence seems not to be what it portrays;
sensations relay idiosyncrasies, more and more, day to days,
week to weeks, months to solar cycles . . .
roaming, roving, seeking sources, subjects, sensitive seers
who speak out the living of life
where a world of myriad global discrepancy, dreamlike,
disguises true and real from the species that is
in treaty to an encounter an unmasked reality
of Mother Earth as home in the galaxy,
serial writer, ambrasia kurtz
locates acerbica ”
“Managing Waste Material” – Conversing 7
A year and a half of regular, close, intimate, in depth, collative work cultivates uncanny sensitivity to a profound, communicative telepathy between a scribe and a central source. In a phase where her psyche has willed itself undetected, solitary, in thorough, uninterrupted exploratory, expounding quantum territory wrought, she hasn’t wanted to meet, she hasn’t wanted to engage in talk.
Psyche frequency speak must pre-empt content and thought; she’s been following incremental implementation towards the total intent. It’s almost here. It’s nigh. They really are going to try it and, picking up her wavelengths, feeling the sentiment, detecting sways in mood and temperament, she’s been reverberating at the apocalyptic heaving attempting a devastating detriment:
“Uninformed, sanctimonious citizens agreed, or others just simply abided the prohibition on psychoactive plant cultivation and there were prophetic detractors who were saying, ‘it’s not going to stop there, soon they’ll be after our thyme, sage, rosemary and comfrey’*1 but, no one listened, or they didn’t want to believe it, or it wasn’t really their place to do anything about it, or what was it they could do about it? It’s been coming, people have been warning it’s been coming closer, but how could one possibly credit that they were really going to try and pull it off – hey, I’ve done little else, but try and keep myself abreast, informed, in a hope that my awareness will connect into the growing, collective conscious that works to expose the hidden darknesses where these intrigues are forged. So there’s been this long stasis of eerie foreboding, like the growing of ginger banned in Thailand and then, one innocent day, you’re looking out the window and you’re hearing it, it’s being said:
‘Article 81 in the Iraqi constitution specifically prohibits Iraqi farmers from saving their seeds;…S510 going through the Senate, which will effectively prohibit American citizens from growing and consuming their own food – so the biotech industry can dominate food growth and distribution across the planet.’*2 They really are going ahead. And the multi-national GM obscenity has invested in an infamous, private army security company which has conveniently had a make-over to conceal its identity and impede scrutiny of its activities beneath obscurity. Ages ago they went up heavy and nasty against a lone farmer in Canada who was threatened by thug force into destroying his total grain store because their enterprise had contaminated his fields with their patented seed.
And you’re sitting staring, but you don’t see the trees anymore, or the wind sweeping the leaves, or the sky, because you’re stunned. You’re sitting staring out the window seeing nothing because you’re stunned even more by the whole lot of the populace that doesn’t even know about it, and won’t even care about it, because they were always the sell-outs, or bought-ins, fickle frogs in a getting hotter pot, not susceptible to sensations of intense rage or pain that their brains are being boiled to soggy, mashy pulp…Meantime, from way above the stratosphere, you envisage your nano life on this microcosmic ball in the macrocosmology – and I know why I experience this rock like I do.
Human beings, ending up being factioned against each other, why? Why the disparity of world views and value systems? Who am I working for? That’s a perennial question. Until one fine day some entity of manifestly benevolent, beneficent, intelligent, aesthetic, composed, honest persuasion and presentation manifests to me in specifically identified self and beinghood and conveys, directly, simply, without riddle requiring renewed investigation or imperative to piece together yet another puzzle that prevaricates conclusive solution to the equation, ‘I’m your boss, I’m The One you have been seeing and working for, it’s me you have been wanting to report to…’ – then I’ll know what my own being has been for, what it’s been here to do, to accomplish, who I am.
There’s been a pair of persistent Jehovah’s Witnesses at our door. I commended them for their diligent commitment to their cause, especially since none of the neighbours have ever come knocking, for anything at all. So the third time they came I engaged with these two men, for forty five minutes. I challenged them, to get beyond dogma, get real, get down to human, to why people can’t care anymore, why they are so insular, so rude, so money bent, so selfishly status driven and I got to the injunction that we could agree on, to find a way to enact a caring compulsion. I told them about growing up balking at the prevailing racist attitude and that a giant apartheid pervades here too, just a bit more subtle than blatant skin colour issue.”
Winter has set in. Storming, icy nights, powdery, white coverall greeting the riser’s cold eyes in first, flinching moments of rapidly receding daylight. It could be famine cottage reminiscent in a world that hastens to ignore and forget its past and deny and neglect where it never really left the doorstep of its present that begets snide resentment of anything that doesn’t conform to cajole ever mounting material benefit. Insufficient, uncomfortable, cramped, the aluminium dwelling swells with condensation from a hearth in an anomalous instigation of efficiently pumping simultaneous warmth with good eating for the heart. Sawn off soda bottle tops inverted in plastic baking powder tubs house avocado pips shooting roots into tepid water, an avocado tree grows multi-leaved in a glass bottle.
Attire, paperwork, tools, publications, dictionaries, stationery, shoes, bedding, I.T., drying washing, woodwork, cooking paraphernalia, an industrious debris evidences investigative intelligence and infers vigorous, innovative, practical manoeuvres. She’s been paging through ‘An ABC of Cake Decorating’,*3 locating instructions for assembling ‘Petit Fours Glacé’, noting the challenge to prepare the inadequate kitchen space and counter to implement the intricate collation and that they will have to source almonds, but a recipe for the Genoese Cake base is verified and a synch to bake and testing recipes for ‘Petit Fours Sec’ has well been underway. Incongruous to any rigid, frozen mirroring outside, it’s a hive of vibrant, homely, cosseting.
She first heard the term ‘Poverty Conscious’ in 2005 from an esoteric concluding a workshop tour of the area. They were driving 180 kilometres to the nearest airport in her 1980 Merc, and he was projecting his voice to his publishers’ wife on the other end of the cellphone he was holding away from his head at the car window to protect himself from the radiation, while explaining rather loudly why he hadn’t sold many books to the locals. “I didn’t even really get at the time that my brain had taken in the expression and started processing the concept, the connotations of it. It has always bothered me that even amongst seemingly genuine people in spiritual assent there is still hierarchy that attempts to impose classifications based on assumed ‘levels of arrival’. I was living in an area that was beset by a general sensation of gasping due to the prevailing starvation levels at some phases during the winter; some days we got to really low on food. Just how are you supposed to interpret your conceptual and strategic identity if your life journey takes you into experience of this and you’re doing the very best your given circumstances and your ingenuity can? Certainly some ascending beings turn around and say, ‘well, spirit isn’t moving in your life’ and they maintain that your ‘difficulties’ in economic status signal that you haven’t quite reached equitable levels of consciousness and that’s why your purse isn’t thriving.
Zionist and charismatic Christian movements say that kind of stuff, ‘prosperity cults’ some call them, parading Prada preened preachers booming that you’ll be richly rewarded if you live according to ‘God’s’ holy law, that ‘He’ll’ bless you with abundant wealth if you dedicate yourself to ‘His’ service, and I just can’t reconcile all of that with the teachings of their espoused figurehead or with the modest repository that’s always been the only resource for me to weave my tread, except that I either accept that I just incarnated on a lower rung of spiritual evolution, so give up this time round, or I botched my blueprint, so just give up this time round, or I must, now, finally, effectively finish up dealing with all my impurities, imbalances and hurts and get definitive healing at last and for once and for all, get how to raise my vibes and there’ll be magical free flow of capital and I must then ignore the question of what to do with all the other beings suffering because it’s their own Karma and spiritual ineffectiveness or? Or there’s also something else to it. Like perhaps spiritualese is going to get that the term ‘Poverty Conscious’ cannot be applied in balance – and balance is what we’re after right, we can’t apply the term in balance unless we also use the other term that some might not have heard of which, if it is not present, retains us in duality, because one way or another, to be financially ok on this planet at this time, you have to have been situate in some kind of instituting, hereditary, provisional legacy or you had to have had self-serving, clever attitude with money which is surely to be ‘Privilege Conscious’.
There are wonderful esoteric celebs making it out there, living substantial lives, travelling everywhere to the heart’s height, saying all of the most elevated things that bring the authentic seeker delight. Now is that appointment by soul arrangement, or sign of preset enlightenment quotient, like measuring ratios of vibrational arrival on an ascension gauge barometer?
Hey, I’m always ready and willing to take a biff on the nasal appendage if it will assist me in locating where I stubbornly harbour errors of being that prevent me from gleaning ultimate insight, but strangely, or perhaps not so strangely, I have not located anyone agreeable to answering my questions about how to make money a less disagreeable, less painful obstacle in proximity to the process where I tell my life’s oracle. It’s a sore point to discuss money, it’s taboo to do so, it’s the biggest castigating, dividing issue, the subject itself has gotten the reek of, ‘Enhoardement unconsciousness’. I mean, I just want the basics, step by step, points I can incrementally implement to reverse what I am doing wrong, given that nothing in my childhood gave me any pointers to the fact that money came from somewhere and that the extent to which it came determined the extent to which one could move through the world; given that early, sustained brainwashing turned me into a wife with a dependency mentality and I only managed to claw my way out of that one in a catalysing call of loosely perceived, escalating hardship in my early thirties, when it was too late for me to build up retrospectively a consistent, cohesive, career CV that would promote me to job eligibility; given that I had always been a freelance creative based on the indifferent qualifications that an extended, privileged education affords in the employment market; given that my birthright wasn’t really endowed with grand, full flight; given that I’m betrothed to instance of outright relative robbery of automatic, hereditary position and legacy; given that when it came to fair share of circumstance, relations were simply just much more blessed with instinct for financial amassment and generally just more generously graced with gratuitous greed complement; given that my work ethic is obsessive to the point of self – tyranny, that I try to gain cleverness and shrewd business mind-set methodology and that it is a long-haul for a self-sufficient artist to master manipulation of intermediaries in the mire of marketing and funding in a sector where the segment is so blighted and bloated with wannabe impertinence and inverted scarcity insurgents administering scarcity in superfluity, so, given all that, where is the book that will tell me how to correct my economic inepticies?
One night I was visiting a meticulously astute man who’d revealed how he had come to the moment in his life when he was suddenly, immediately, enlightened and that everything after that just neatly panned out, so, I asked him about this aspect of life that befuddles my path on my way to instantaneously being in a state of unfettered seeing and being and, standing at the head of his table hearing my humble request for elucidation, he got red in the face, started jerking backwards and forwards, gesticulating his waving hands in the air and with eyes that looked like vehement glare, he began yelling. Granted, he wasn’t, necessarily, yelling directly AT me, but I’m prone to being too sensitive in the face of such unpredictable, strong behaviour, so I had to plaster a smile on my face and bite down my tears till I got to the car, then I sobbed all the way home. It didn’t bother him, because, when you’re enlightened, if other people have got a problem with you or the way you conduct yourself, it is them that have a problem and they must deal with their own problem by themselves.
From what I’ve seen, single people, people who don’t have children, often gay people, are usually better sussed financially, they’ve got more time to think, strategise better, they care for fewer, share less. And then there’s this website*4 that gives realistic view of actual poverty, privilege ratios on the global statistic. It’s a sobering visit to get where you sit on that graph.”
They’re construing an outdoor activity to do duel with the encroaching, asphyxiating cold, so there’s routine wood chopping everyday to fire dish washing water. The axe head inscription reads ‘W Germany’, indicating that the inherited, moulded chunk of metal is old, by now a precious artefact, carried all the way to and across the southern, sub-continent of Africa and back to Europe where it was originally crafted. She’s mentioned a reference by the Denzel character in a recent film, to a post-apocalyptic value system that would kill for the items that society now, easily discards. Discard, junk, garbage, trash, refuse, litter, rubbish, left-overs, throw-aways, cast-offs, scrap, wreckage, remains, fragments, rubble, flotsam and jetsam, jumble, surplus, residue, brúscar, waste, her voice thought would perhaps proceed, “waste is waste and it’s excess. There should be no waste. There’s only waste where there’s excess. It’s got to do with that Privilege, Poverty Consciousness balance. What is waste and what isn’t, it’s so subjective and there are so many prejudices that get learned, get built in. When you come across the lilting, lucid voice of Ruth Stout*5 you undo rigid discard definitions – what is coffee, a drink, what are coffee grinds, they’re dirt, what is soil, it’s dirt, where does our food and drink come from, from dirt, so what do you do with coffee grinds, you don’t throw them in the trash, you store them in your bio bin to deposit them into the compost heap to turn back into valuable, viable dirt that feeds your food so you can eat.”
She’s a domestic rubbish aficionado, expert and artist, her neatly accrued collection of recycled plastics, papers, cards, metals and dried organic matter all having been catalogued, compressed and packed diligently with the rest of her shipment, her artist’s palette a litany of litter sailing across the seas…She might have to agree that perhaps, in this sense, she’s ‘Privilege Conscious’, having fared the great divide between the upwardly mobile, human face, aspiring to see itself in aggrandized grace and the complacently docile, insentient race, conspiring to ignore that it strews litter all over the place.
“I grew up remotely disposing of my dirt and residue aiming my unconscious hand in a toss at bins, pushing silver levers, pulling plugs. There was no notion in me beyond those vanishing holes that took away my refuse.”
But then they all had servants – “yeh, that’s what they used to call them, ‘servants’, ‘girls’ and ‘boys’, doing our dirty work. If you don’t confront your dirty work and look at how you make dirt and rubbish it will always be the dirty work you don’t want to face and don’t want to do and so then it will always remain the dirty trash and it can never be refined, elevated, into something honourable, noble, worthy of attention, care and ownership.”
Where she was a child, dustbins were waist height, round, metal, numbered, heavy, aesthetic as artefacts, with clanging, flying saucer-ish, removable lids and it was not required that they were wheeled to the street for garbage collection. She wrote, Friday, 22 August 2008 12:49:28 – 8 Edznab*6:
“I was connected to the…‘dustbin ‘boys’’…their regular arrival announced by a drone of first gear engine and a churn of the slicing, claw machine in the truck doing the routes of transporting middle class waste to its undisclosed destination, a boisterous, rolling, carnival constancy of energetic men whooping and shouting along my street. I can categorically state that I didn’t ever consider where the result of my consumption was heading. I was consumed with the lives of…‘the dustbin ‘boys’’…the feisty antics of these robust men would mesmerise my attention. Deep down a vanishing hole of my own I transported a heavy intention for their triumph through the gauntlet of all our yards with biting dogs and fanged, suburban people, in a sprinting bid to keep up with a driver indifferent to their escape from lethal blades churning their relentless, repeated tipping of what we threw away. I recall my wont to extend enough attempt to express my cheering from the sidelines. In the flurry of their pass by, up and down my driveway to the metal bin in the back yard, to grab my bag of garbage and sling it over their shoulder, there would have been fleeting smiles and words exchanged; I saw their faces, I felt they saw mine too. These ‘boys’ were real men to me. I don’t know if anyone else could ‘see’ them. I tried to imagine the lives to where they would return beyond the confines of my street. Some were savaged by dogs and some did lose their hands to those rubbish threshing machines.
I still wrap up broken glass very, very well before depositing it into a bin, a hangover act of compassion strangely, by directive from my mother who made me aware that it wouldn’t do for a dustbin ‘boy’ to sling our bag of rubbish over his shoulder to rush to the truck and have his back sliced open by a jagged edge protruding through the plastic. I took on the image. The thought of it cut me up.
The ‘Christmas Box’ scenario at the front door upset me every year, when the men would arrive to ask for the hope of an annual bonus, a tip, a gratuity, a ‘bonsela’ that would acknowledge their weekly presence in our lives, to do the dirty work. I would hide with shame at the way my people would behave on these people, the rudeness, the gracelessness, the butt end experience that it must have been for those men. But, of the rubbish itself, I don’t think my mind ever skipped a single beat. It was only when I tried to start growing plants that I began to develop awareness of garbage.”
Rubbish as a real concept began through the birth of a giant pansy, many lives later, in a far distant, suburban, development style complex, “when I had a child of my own, when I was trying to make a garden and held seeds in my hands for the first time. I was a thirty five year old.” There are the once luscious grounds of the large, scrap metal merchant down the road, creaking and seeping with a call for a tidying, organising clean-up, wreckages in the greasy rubble concealing perfectly reusable vehicle parts, functioning car sound systems, bicycles that could be fastidiously rebuilt, all destined to just get crushed and carted off. There’s a glut of fresh fish trying to do the rounds, being offered by one person to the next, eventually landing in a receiving larder that has to regretfully accept that it’s finally gone off, got to be given to the ground, to the birds, or back to the sea, at least other fish can eat, while people starve. Big, huge, undeniable, unending heaps hidden all over the globe, litter all mixed up, untended, unsorted, rotting and sogged, defying efficient incineration, relying on recalcitrant land fills, smothered, but just waiting to spew up again. 135 to 155°W, 35 to 45°N,*7 a current peculiarity inadvertently amasses neglected fragments, remains, cast-offs, surplus, the forage thwarting flotsam and jetsam of The Pacific Rubbish Dump which mocks adventurous intention across the immensity of a once pristine, wide blue of Ocean.*8 Saturday, 23 May 2009 – 9 Eb*6:
“From what I’ve seen since the two and a half years I’ve been in this part of Europe, the litter situation hurts to the core, streets, towns, villages, cities, parking lots, world heritage scenic spots, alley ways, fields, hillsides,*9 roadsides – it’s almost comical, like a Beckett novel, but it aches that a fridge, a washing machine lie in a squelchy ditch next to a beautiful bay; while we’re driving along, it’s shocking, prams, kettles, suitcases deposited on the verge, just left there. When we were enjoying strolling on a famous beach we heard that people just drive their cars off into the sea to dispose of them. During my childhood there were large, council dustbins in public places everywhere – granted, it was a viable system because there was exploitation of a cheap, large labour force, but there were also widely promoted anti-littering campaigns all through my schooling. This is a first world country, I’d like to know how come the domestic rubbish awareness and knowhow is so lacking here.
I was sitting in the car in a parking lot one day looking at an adjacent, beautiful garden bed and there were some people at a black, four wheel drive next to me, a woman putting a baby in the car chair, an old man who looked like the grandfather, he was eating and then he walked deliberately to the rose bush and neatly tucked into its branches, his emptied strawberry and lime flavour, maxi-twist yoghurt cup. I know the exact details because after they pulled away, I had to get out the car to go and retrieve it because I couldn’t carry on looking at it. I was aghast, speechless, to quell my impending desire to yell, ‘who the…what the…excuse me, sorry old man, you look like a very nice, upstanding old man but who the hell do you think is going to come here and clean up after you?’ I mean, how did he conceive that the rose bush should be his litter bin?
Obviously the public still needs to be made aware of the fact that their rubbish is theirs, but who is going to assist them to learn to be with it, see what it is, learn a respect and fondness for rubbish that will induce them to learn what to do with it? Rather than an unconscious, errant hand, how will they learn to study it, see how it comes about, from where, separate it and practise how to reduce it? The authorities are busy with their own status, with their own Privilege Consciousness. They don’t care and won’t care to invest in litter awareness and education programmes and clean-up operations. Waste and ingestion are part of the same cycle, eat, throw out, eat, throw out. In agrarian, rural lifestyle epochs this would have been basic, simple, an organic cycle. In the technological, manufacturing age it becomes more complicated – we can’t eat the plastic milk bottle (well, in fact, we are ingesting xeno-oestrogen aspects of the compound, whether we like it or not) but, we’re not going to chop it up and chew it. The plastic is part of our ingesting process though, so what do we do with it? If I am going to eat potatoes and expel the bodily waste of that nutritional activity for example, then I must deal with the bag that the potatoes came in.
Behaviour, systems, how we get and produce things to throw away, what we throw away, how we throw away, where we throw away; how to re-use rubbish for managing waste material in the home. ‘Learning to live a lifestyle of sustained, refined, effective solution to rubbish making, assessing the generation of it, analysing the unconscious habits of tossing it, defining the categories, devising sorting, creating a system of visually appealing, compact collection containers, test using the system, revising it, practising it, maintaining it, fine tuning it to be adaptable to every local exigency.’*10
It goes to how one lives, making preserves, meads and vinegars suggests reusing bottles. Seeing to rubbish changes the way one lives and in changing that, rubbish output changes. One learns to see things differently, a potato bag, for example, transforms into a beautiful big bow, the string is strong for stitching.
Issues preventing solution have to be isolated, like time, no one has got time, or ‘don’t want to’, ‘not motivated’, what to do with the bling ethos, ‘must be shiny, new plastic on the Christmas tree’? Reading Richard Girling*11 helps to imbue awareness of a disgustingness going on around all the time and it can spur the imperative to do something, to start somewhere.
The home can be set up to cope and facilitate. People hire or buy big dustbins because they are issued or because that is what’s for sale. That’s the mistake. Big dustbins are outmoded. They hinder a solution scenario because they encourage unconscious, unsorted, plentiful toss-all. An awareness has to be honed to observe and ask a question every time the hand twitches to dispose of something, ‘now where should this item go?’. Where there’s sufficient, diligent practice, the system*12 smoothes into streamlined, second nature.” Friday, 26 October 2007 – 6 Caban*6
“There’s sore need of solution to garbage here. People are negligent and there are teeth out about refuse disposal which is fiercely guarded, expensive and profitable. Some businesses keep their bins in locked grates on the streets. We also see the wheelie bins, and what a load is produced by each household that pays for this commercial trash service. In sheer garbage we take away, only, about 4 bread bags a week.
I value immensely, our investment in training ourselves into a routine of respecting our rubbish output, (and it IS OURS – we take it on, we make it, it is as much a part of ourselves as our voices – each time there’s reckless discard of rubbish, there’s reckless disregard of self). The answer to an interesting question becomes very revealing, ‘what could an intelligence agent or private detective learn about me from my trash?’.”
In Africa, she says, there’s no room for preciousness or prissiness, unless of course life is lived in the spaces and places of illusion that are Colonia. She comments that education makes a phenomena of rubbish, that that is what it makes. “If education was reusing rubbish, then it would be making something more than rubbish. In Africa, real Africa, a cereal box with all its compressed tree, layout skill, intelligence quota and coloured ink could be a vast resource of learning for primary children. Children are far more drawn to colourful packaging than to a text book anyway. Rather than edu consuming vast resource to make rubbish, what rounds rubbish could do to serve children’s learning, to serve the process of balancing Poverty and Privilege Consciousness and to serve a growing art of managing waste material.”
Astrophysicists are watching large flares emitting from the centre of the galaxy.*13 There are some who portend that this impends increased energy for sensitivity to consciousness on planet Earth.
“Reasonable Rational Good
The money’s in the kitchen drawer
The dogs are in the yard
Consider my position
Striving gets real hard
Don’t understand it, I never could
How truth twisted, lied and frayed gleams so good
Don’t understand it, I never could
Now how to continue in reasonable, rational good
Aid is flying in in hollow bellies
Empty tummies ain’t got no room for food
Consider my possessions
Take another fly and duck interlude
Don’t understand it, I never could
While all the other groovers were out making Hay
I stood alone to twirl the coloured ribbons of May
Don’t understand it, I never could
Jesters cresting waves while I’m a boundless lake of clay
Don’t understand it, I never could
How truth twisted, lied and frayed gleams so good
Don’t understand it, I never could
Now how to continue in reasonable, rational good ” *14
conversings in acerbica – a satyrical citing from the site where sighted artistes see from
*1 see John Lash, http://www.redicecreations.com
*2 see The Deepwater Horizon Rig Explosion & The BP Oil Spill – Ian Crane
http://www.redicecreations.com free .mp3 download
*3 An ABC of Cake Decorating, Gladiola Botha, author published, Hillbrow, 1981
*5 How to have Green Fingers without Breaking Your Back, Ruth Stout
*6 The Mayan Calendar and the Transformation of Consciousness, Carl Johan Calleman, Ph.D
Bear & Company, Vermont, 2004 http://www.calleman.com – calendar calculator
*8 The Kon-tiki Expedition: By Raft Across the South Seas, Thor Heyerdahl
Life of Pi, Yann Martel, Canongate Books Ltd, Edinburgh, 2003
*9 see 10th last paragraph, Sending Fief(5b) “too hot to handle”
*10 the mutation, November 2010, ‘Conversings in Acerbica 6′, “Managing Material”
*11 Rubbish!, Richard Girling, Eden Project Books, Transworld Publishers, London, 2005
*12 Managing Waste Material – Précis of a System for a d.o. (a domestic organisation)
The home can be set up to cope and facilitate. People hire or go and buy big dustbins because they are issued or because that is what’s for sale. That’s the mistake. Big dustbins are outmoded. They hinder a solution scenario because they encourage unconscious, unsorted, plentiful toss-all. An awareness has to be honed to observe and ask a question every time the hand just wants to dispose of something, ‘now where should this item go?’. Where there’s sufficient, diligent practice, the system smoothes into streamlined second nature. Bathroom: two bins, for paper and for garbage; Kitchen or Scullery: two potato bags, one garbage bin, one bio bin. Bins of 5 – 7 litre capacity, not larger.
Shelf space and recycled containers for storing recycled materials.
- plastic tubs, glass bottles for washing and storing to be used as containers, canisters or for bottling and preserving.
- Manila and coloured paper bags and handles, plastic vegetable bags, boxes, packaging, used envelopes, elastic bands, cellophane bags, foils, fabrics, yarn, twine, string, dried garden cuttings for Art and Craft Materials- gift-wrap, seasonal decorations, greetings cards; for education- teaching aids, projects; for stationery
- administration and systems bookkeeping.
- Coffee bags, tubs and bottle tops, cans for gardening, seedling germination.
- Plastic bags, for disposable bin insert bags, as wrappers.
- Cardboard box sets stacked as drawers and filing trays.
- Old clothes, for cleaning rags, darning and patch mending.
- Butter wrappers, for greasing tins before baking.
- Organic residue, generally from the kitchen, egg shells, vegetable and fruit cuttings and husks, tea bags, coffee grinds, stored in the bio bin and emptied into a compost site along with other garden debris. (no bread, milk, meat, nor cooked food – those go to Robin or feral cats)
- Seeds and shooting bulbs, saved, dried and stored for planting, or planted directly, eg melon, squash, date, citrus, apple, pomegranate, avocado, garlic . . .
2. disposable garbage
- firebomb: burnables, non-toxic fibres, papers, cardboard etc, stored till compact in a potato bag for kindling, if fireplaces are being used anyway. (We have to figure out ways to reduce the negative effects of burning; we’ve seen someone tossing disposable nappies into a fire place and that’s not ok!!!!!)
- cans and glass: compacted, stored in a potato bag, then to public recycle centres.
- plastic bottles: compressed, stored in a potato bag, then to public recycle centres.
- arbitrary refuse: plastic and foil wrappers, lugs and packaging, floor sweepings, broken or spent plastic items, eg pens, small toys, in the plastic liner in the garbage bin.
From essays of an eco post-feminist : in Steps To The Beach an exploratory treatise, The CláinWellian
DIRT & AESTHETICS, DOMESTIC & ENVIRONMENTAL ECONOMY professionally speaking, from an up to the elbows, applied study, an academic analysis of details in the daily routine of the domestic unit, in contrast to the neglect of obviation, refute and denial routes
WOoden family publishing, 2010, all rights reserved
*14 ’Reasonable Rational Good’, a noelle song, guitar numin, 1999
from the album ‘drive by’s’, an ‘o’riginal compilation out of extraordinary times
excerpt from ‘composition chronos’, drive by’s jacket, noelle n numin:
“The money’s in the kitchen drawer…”? There was no kitchen. 1999 living was in Bertha, a six ton truck, on a 31 hectare ‘yard’ of remote, rural, isolated African wilderness, the cultural, educational, environmental, bio-diverse eco exercise that was ‘The Mulísa Project’. (The belovéd Airedale Terrier had long been in her gate-side grave.) Strong debate raged over whether or not g m foods would be flown in to fuel empty bellies in adjacent territories, whilst hot pursuit of reasonable, rational good persisted.’
eco music factory, 2010, all rights reserved. free .mp3 download :
*15 ’art by angela’, exhibit : ‘Saved from the Fire’, series i-xiv :
Series iv: dénouement in 12, Anatomy of a Gestation (early 1990’s through 1994, Johannesburg, ‘Gauteng’; including the ebullient emergence inspired by theatre set design studies) featured December :iv11 Urth is her name & she is much loved by me [ink on paper, 29X42]
Series pic: iv10 Tintagel from Silbury [ink, pencil, pencil crayon, water colour, pastel, on paper, lighting gel, papier mâché, building insulation sheets, 29X21]
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