An Open Letter Re: Skyscaper
An Open Letter (Re: http://sites.google.com/site/skyscaperpermaculture/, bit.ly/Skyscaper, Skyscaper Permaculture, Sky’sCaperPermaCulture, etc.)
I hope you and yours are happy and healthy since our last discussion. I hope this/these year/s ha[ve/s] been productive and, well, profitable (it’s just a word) to you and your business. I change my own rules/of language all the time. I hope you don’t take offense. I highly respect what you do.
That being said, I would love to help you out with (potato) harvest this year. I had a friend offer up his RV to use as an in-field way-station of sorts, if you’re amenable to allowing me and/or other workers to stay there, too (This is for him, too… this is for all landowners, farmers, RV owners, and anybody with money). If not, I guess I’ll put up an ad on craigslist to see if another property owner nearby would be willing to accept RV-parking “rent” in the form of labor or potatoes. Any chance I could get a raise this season? I’ll let you think about that one. A combination of future land use, vegetables, and access to scraps and/or shop space could provide the win-win of my feeble imagination, but if others want to participate, we’ll just wait and see how this all shakes out. You have more to offer me than your cash. We have to factor all of that into this equation/negotiation.
On your middle management: No. He insists on speaking to me on the phone, when I have told him repeatedly that I don’t get enough of a signal to make this feasible. Also, he just annoys me. Like the boss from office space. Yeah. I can’t take it any more. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind hanging out with him in person when others are around, and frankly, I love the guy. I have similar respect for him, his goals, and his friends. I just don’t want to have to go through him to work for you any more. If I’m working for you, I want to be working for you. I can show you how to set up your own cell phone to text work requests to people. I suspect it would work better than calling, and you’d get higher response rates. Whatever. Or, hire me to take care of your labor scheduling. I’ll put it on a database on the internet and you won’t have to think about it any more. I’ve already said I’m in for the harvest. This is just me offering up the most helpful suggestions that come to mind. And, I suspect you desire to speak to me about as much as I desire talking to your “underlings.” Send me texts, or e-mails with specific requests, desires, timing, and expectations.
I see this now as contract negotiations. I have put my wishes into this document, this coop, and this area. If no landowners in the area want to take me up on sharing their land for free, I’ll move back to a big city and work in a coop. By now I suspect there’s an underground bunch of strippers, escorts, and rock stars who would be willing to work with me. I just figured I’d give you the first opportunity. If not, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.
Best way to get in touch with me is via e-mail, instant messenger (if you can type fast, or if you have a dictation service) or in person. Ask me over for dinner, take me out for beers, the environment is irrelevant. I say e-mail works best, because I know you’re “busy.” The first time I communicate with you, I’m gonna introduce so many ideas, and so quickly, I frankly don’t know if you’re able to keep up without massive headaches, excuses to leave and go do something else, excuses why it “can’t” work, or just distractions of life. I know I’m not an easy person to work with, because I push. I take that back. I know you’re capable. I know you’re quick enough, and I’ve worked side-by-side with you, so I know you work. Like a horse. I think you forget that you’re a horse, occasionally, falling into that capitalist delusion that you can somehow sit in climate-controlled comfort and just manage other horses all day. Or, worse, that such a life would be desirable to that of a laborer. For you, or your family. Yeah, all of ‘em. No more hiding from the sun. It will heal all of us.
Yeah, I would love to sit down and talk to your dad/lawyer/wife/accountant about any of this. I don’t care if he gets loud. I can get louder. I don’t care if he’s at an amplified microphone standing at a podium elevated at the front of the room. I can get louder. Violence doesn’t work on me, and that’s what “getting all yelly” is. Verbal violence. You know what I mean. Growing up with one who’s capable makes us capable. Denying that/who-we-are is one of the primary sources of all our pain. Let it out. Let her leave, if that’s what she’s gonna do. Let him try to find someone else who will care as much, work as hard, or create as pleasant of a hard-working environment for the entire crew. I dare you. When you come from love, love is all you can create.
I consider your not speaking to me friend abuse. I know we communicate telepathically, and I will consider you a friend ‘till the end of time, regardless of what I’ve told you, what you’ve surmised, or what you assume. I’m never gonna leave you out in the cold, any of you. I’m also promise to cold-cock you honestly if you do deserve it from now on, though. Yep, I’ll break your fucking jaw. IF you demand it. That’s fine, take some time, read over the contract and let me know. But LET ME KNOW. Tell me I’m a deluded loser. Tell me it’s a no-go pipe dream from hell. Tell me I’m ruining any credibility I had for my “political aspirations.” Just say something.
Thanks for reading,
p.s. just sent a direct message to @DisInfo on Tweeter: ♪Love you DisInfo♫oh yes I do♪I just love everyone♫as much as you-ooh♪when I’m not tweeting you♫I’m blue♪Dis-I’in’phow♫eeyyee LUUVV YOOOOOO! Dude/they/it followed me! I’m pumped.
p.p.s. ♪♫ A milli. WHOOOO! Free Lil’ Wayne! Free Lil’ Wayne! Free Lil’ Wayne! Free Lil’ Wayne! Free Lil’ Wayne! Free Lil’ Wayne! Free Lil’ Wayne! Free Lil’ Wayne! Free Lil’ Wayne! Free Lil’ Wayne! Free Lil’ Wayne! Free Lil’ Wayne! Free Lil’ Wayne! Free Lil’ Wayne! Free Lil’ Wayne! Free Lil’ Wayne! Free Lil’ Wayne! Free Lil’ Wayne! etc, ’till the cows come home, etc.
p.p.p.s I like Sundays. I work at the Truck Stop on Sundays. They ain’t got no Tilted Kilt or Hooters in this town, so the closest I get is my Truck Stop buddies. Of course they keep me at arm’s length, too. My own mother keeps me at arm’s length. I feel like the rest of the world can just sense that. When mom finally approves, it’ll all fall into place. Dad? He’s fine. He does exactly what I say when he can stand to hear it. I can’t quite tell if he’s a submissive or a bottom. No offense, dad. I love you. If you ever need a wing man, director, producer, or a swift kick in the pants, let me know. The way you extend conversations past when I ask you to stop is unacceptable. You condescend to me and my friends, and I don’t like that. So, I refuse to speak to you when you do so. I think that’s reasonable. I still love you. I believe you’re on the cusp of discovering your true calling. Best of luck whatever that may be.
p.p.p.s. I lost my bike computer a few days ago. It hopped off my handlebars for the second time, and I missed it this time. My ride immediately got more comfortable, and I completely appreciate(d) the gesture (it was a gift), and the data. Don’t get me another one, though. I’m sure they have an app for that, and I plan to have that capability right quick.
p.p.p.p.s. in case you’re confused, I’m a homeless farmhand, wannabe-coop-organizer guy. Well, “guy” in the sense that I’m biologically “male,” though I reject any implied responsibility in “being a man.” No. Others started calling it “her.” It doesn’t mind. It shares more in common with “her” than it does with “him” anyway. Fashion whore!
p.p.p.p.p.s. hi, famous/rich people. If I’ve associated myself with you, I probably like your work, or some aspect of it. I have no cash, and this is a major impediment to any sort of credibility with the people around me. They don’t think I have anything of worth here, with this idea, because I haven’t earned any cash, and I’m in debt up to my eyeballs for the privilege of living on this planet, learning, and being honest. Anyway, I am open to project ideas. Books, music, video, name it. Turn a camera on me and watch out. As far as contracts, I get a guaranteed $10/hr, including transportation time, food, expenses, and a “relative entertainment stipend” when applicable/active on the project, plus (and, probably most importantly) a near-industry-going-rate bonus system (at modest popularity) that’s a pre-agreed percentage of the project’s generated income. That, the percentage, will go to my coop, LazyAssWasteoid Industrees, In’co-op’ter’rated. If you get rich, we get rich, too. Plus, you gotta share your girls. Just the introduction. After the first kiss, it’s fine. Up to that point, we seem to be incapable, for some reason. Still workin’ on that.
p.p.p.p.p.p.s. I just mistook “hand bone” for “HamBone” in MIA’s new song, “the message.” That’s one of my (now) favorite old nicknames. Hi, Mel! I miss you!
Lyrics to MIA’s “the message,” first track on /\/\ /\ Y /\ (MAYA – 2010):
connected to the Google,
connected to the government
head bone connects to the neck bone
neck bone connects to the arm bone
arm bone connects to the hand bone
hand bone connects to the internet
connected to the Google,
connected to the government
head bone connects to the headphones
headphones connect to the iPhone
iPhone connected to the internet
connected to the Google
connected to the government
I’m all up in Google. I talk some shit, but they know everything anyway. It’s like thinking you’re doing something “private” on the local level, and thinking that somehow the corporations that “own” the wires your shit is flying across (the backbones) can’t control it, use it, monitor it, and that they don’t have reason to do so. Grow up. You are more than what-the-machine-tells-you-you-are. You are more than what-the-machine-thinks-it-can-get-you-to-do. You are all-powerful. YOU ARE GOD. Deal.
p.p.p.p.p.p.p.s. MySpace, you music player is a piece of shit! Your code is shittier than Google Sites!!!! That, my friends, is saying something.
p.p.p.p.p.p.p.p.s. oh yeah, my friend roxy McAwesome went 7 years. Now he has the coolest wife and kids I’ve ever met. I’m not impatient, I’m just trying to get your attention. It’s fine if you want me to go back out into the world for a few more years until I “make some of my own money.” Then, you’ll get to see for real how a dictator acts. Whatever, you get to see now. Whatever you prefer is fine with me, really.
p.p.p.p.p.p.p.p.s. this is sky.
she is/has been a better friend to me than you can imagine, what with your imaginator being broke ‘n’all. If you honestly believe I would ever do anything to hurt her or any of my other friends, you really don’t know me very well, listen to anything i say, or care about any of us. You are all the reason for my existence, you fucking assholes.