Click here to watch the video and follow along with the myth text below…
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“But this is the end
This is the end of the innocence
O’ beautiful, for spacious skies
But now those skies are threatening
They’re beating plowshares into swords
For this tired old man that we elected king
Armchair warriors often fail
And we’ve been poisoned by these fairy tales
The lawyers clean up all details
Since daddy had to lie
Offer up your best defense
But this is the end
This is the end of the innocence”
The End of the Innocence by Don Henley
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I don’t know what alchemy to expect from this Tribe. The invitation reached me via horseback express and took 27 days to reach me in Southern Oregon where my last training ended. My name is Buck Randi Robertson. In their favor, the St. Francis Wood Tribe in what was considered a rich, quiet, monoculture San Francisco neighborhood up until the Global Crash of 2017. Now the rich are no longer rich as the dollar is gone as is most of the oil-based economy. How to describe this mash-up of gardens where pavement once steamed after the rain? Perhaps one un-top-down, un-intentional but good intentioned retro-technology community of former bankers, BMW drivers and green tea parties? This papered left-over from a long-dead Tribe refrigerator:
“Long one of San Francisco’s most affluent neighborhoods, the charming enclave of St. Francis Wood still benefits from the efforts of the city planners, architects and landscapers who set out to create one of the country’s first true residential parks back in 1912. Inspired by the ideals of the City Beautiful movement, spearheaded by famed architect Daniel Burnham, homes in St. Francis Wood are still coveted for their views, harmony with the surrounding environment and classical designs. When it comes to pride of ownership, St. Francis Wood dwellers are in a class by themselves. Community standards set over a century ago dictated not only such quality of life issues as where one could park a horse, but also established a ban on businesses that continues today.”
A refugee camp? A landing pad? A new zoo & sustainability reserve! Or a surround fence compound filled with anti-astronauts. Let’s just go with “permaculture tribe.” Why call it a tribe? Because they’re a new family now, paying homage to both real and filmic ancestors, and amends to Nature and the GreenTech weave.
But no Chief Officer.
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The old neighborhood association and library branch were never the same after the 13.7 earthquake, aftershocks and Bay Area fire back in 2015. The global currency bomb in 2017 – when the US dollar was ousted as the international standard currency prior to the quakes, was a near fatal stab that caused a run on the banks and a level of panic unforeseen on the planet. The populous was then divided as follows: dead and missing, the high way 101 marchers to coastal Mexico and Central America, and the folks who elected to stay and create a sustainable future; the new criminals, homeless and the insane.
Permaculture and a barter system are transmuting the old St. Francis Boulevard round-a-bout social in ways never imagined, a community alchemy galore even as the re-purposed historic fountain sits dry at the San Anselmo Avenue edge. A fountain for flowing people.
As a certified permaculture instructor, my vision and skills are prized in this new epoch on Earth. I am part Goddess and part soil tech; sustainability ghost and Jesus eraser.
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Saturday morning, partly cloudy. Dumpy blue milk crates are semi-circled at the fountain with what is left of the St. Francis Wood Homeowners Association. An odd school of shaman-seekers who are finally looking at their land as a spirit and savior – not a BMW sales lot. Sweat is the new fuel.
“Henry?” I call to a guy that is constantly walking the new fenced-in Tribe perimeter in a trance.
“Yo man,” he sputters. He is obviously missing a gadget or two.
“Can you please write down the brainstorm on this piece of plywood?”
So the Tribe called out their visions for a green future and intentional community on a planet permanently on tilt; a trickle of solar power and a ton of pavement. Population control is an instant reality as everything medical is strained to the limit. The average age of the tribe members is 54 years.
“Who has an idea for us?”
”Collective gardens, + passive solar power.”
”Rip up the streets and plant gardens!”
”Consolidate households into collaboratives.”
”Tear-down older homes for lumber – greenhouses, fire wood.”
”Build wind mills.”
”Make a school.”
“No pesticides, no Monsanto. Local seeds for local needs!”
”Dig up old oil storage tanks and make bioreactors.”
”Use cars parts for green tech parts + compost bins.”
”Barter for goats from Marin Tribe 2.”
”Barter for bees and honey from Napa Tribe 33.”
”Working with nature!”
”What are our common needs & interests?”
”We need grey water systems.”
”Rain water catchment.”
”Swimming pools are algae + fish farms + manure for soil.”
”Chickens are cool in my back yard.”
“Start a Seed Lending Library!”
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The meeting ended with a sense of focus and a myriad of next tasks. Here governance is participatory not top-down and behind a balance sheet. The crashes and quakes mean no more nations, states or taxes. No buses and no police. The new tribes recall the colonies of the early American days: Tribe (former neighborhood), Regional Council – (former City).
Buck walked past the Fredrickson’s mansion on his way to his guest tent: “How much land is needed to feed each Tribe? How to create a new global barter system?”
What are they gonna barter with the other Tribes as the “new green economy” roars into a world of dead head lights, horse whips and an acute fear of starvation?
Can the Tribe create a new sacred relationship on their crumpled land and relationships?
“Does the post-crash mean more time for creative pursuits? A Peace?” he laments.
Did a resident spray this on their house:
“Can the evil of self-absorbed luxury evolve into a community sacredness?”
“Where’s the toilet paper!?”
Find out who tagged that house at openmythsource – reservoir
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