Tree Debt

Lately I’ve been listening to some talks on climate change, such as this one by Prof. Kevin Anderson, and the news, not surprisingly, keeps getting worse. Anderson discusses many factors that have generally been ignored in official reports that claim to chart a course forward on the climate, including: a) a limit of 2C of warming is no longer really possible based upon the assumptions that they make, b) that 2C was probably the wrong target anyway, c) major reports make very unreasonable assumptions about how quickly emissions can turn around, d) we need to decrease carbon emissions by 70 percent by 2020 to stay below 2C (if we’re serious about that target), and e) 4C is more do-able as a target but also can’t support large-scale agriculture and thus civilization.

Anderson’s and other talks have led me to conclude that:
a) large-scale demand-side changes are really the only option to deal with climate change in the time we have,
b) peak oil will help with that, but the zeal to find new sources of oil/coal/gas will keep peak oil from really being a ‘solution’ to climate change (consider the crazy in-progress moves to drill for oil in the arctic), and
c) the demand-side decrease, however it is implemented, would cause in the near-term (the next decade) a major economic shock.

So my new summary for our predicament is (which hasn’t changed all that much, I suppose), in the vein of the CAP theorem, “Climate or Economy: pick half of one”. That is, if we continue business as usual, and even mine more coal, drill for more oil, etc. we’d be able to keep the economy hobbling along, though peak oil will probably prevent significant economic growth, and we’d fry the climate beyond all repair and that would in the medium and long term cause the economy (and civilization) to collapse. On the other hand, if we downshift demand massively, then the consumer-driven economies of the world will go into a massive (though hopefully temporary) depression, and we’ll still have to deal with warming that’s already in the pipeline. (Not to mention the particulates issue, which is a nasty double-bind in which ending coal use causes warming by removing light-reflecting soot.) Despite these both being bad, the latter still seems like the better one.

I’m in agreement with many prominent thinkers that the right way to approach this problem is to decrease demand by putting a price on carbon. But that’s hoping for a political settlement that may or may not happen in the time we have. As such, I can’t help but feel that we as individuals can and should do more, say in the form of local terraforming that I wrote about previously.

So, in that spirit, I want to answer the following (surely not novel) questions. How many trees would I need to plant to make up for the carbon I directly or indirectly put into the atmosphere? How many trees would we, collectively, as humans on Earth, need to plant to at minimum consume the carbon we put into the atmosphere on an ongoing basis? In other words, what’s my personal, and our collective, tree debt to the planet? (And this is just the Carbon-centric view. Planting trees has so many other benefits: restoring local ecosystems for other plants, and for animals and fungi, holding water in the soil, restoring soil structure, providing food for humans and non-humans, providing shade, regulating local temperatures, restoring natural beauty, etc.)

I’m sure there are good official estimates someplace, but let’s do a simple back of the envelope calculation. Let’s say that a mature tree (say an oak) absorbs about 10 kg of Carbon each year (I’ve seen figures both higher and lower than this, but in this range), and that its lifespan is in the hundreds of years (effectively forever for our current discussion). And for simplicity let’s ignore the sapling phase in which the tree is small and thus isn’t really absorbing as much Carbon annually.

Currently humanity is emitting over 10 billion tonnes (metric) of Carbon each year. That’s 1 trillion trees worth of Carbon absorption. (I’ve looked for estimates of the number of trees on Earth, and haven’t found a good source. I’ve seen huge ranges in estimates, from 1-200 trillion trees on Earth.) Let’s say that each of the 7 billion people on Earth were to plant trees, over the next 10 years. That works out to 14 trees per person, per year for the next 10 years. That’s not bad—about one a month! Of course given that some of us use far more energy than others, we should be planting more trees than that. (Using the 80-20 rule—that is, 80% of the Carbon is caused by 20% of the people and therefore so should the tree planting—it works out to 800 billion trees over 10 years by 1.4 billion people or about 57 trees per person per year.)

Our lived environments have lots of empty, degraded land in need of restoration. On some, or maybe even much of it local terraforming will be required if trees are to live there in the long term without ongoing human effort. (For example, swales might be required in arid and semi-arid areas to ensure sufficient soil moisture.)

In summary: if you use a lot of energy (live a Western lifestyle), plant a tree a week. If you don’t use much, plant a tree a month. This won’t resolve the many other environmental and energy challenges we face, and won’t halt climate change unless everyone does it, but it’s the least we can do to pay back our tree debt.

There’s No Emergency Room for a Planet

The metaphors in that statement really hit home for me: most of us living in wealthy nations know, somewhere deep-down, that if something bad happens to us that there’ll be something and/or someone to take care of us—not just a long-term safety net, though there’s that to a greater or lesser extent in various nations, but a short-term safety net. An emergency room is the most fundamental of these. (The title is a quote from Rep. Ed Markey, who I’d never heard of before, speaking today about the need for political action on climate change.)

I of course have my preferred policy (the clean energy dividend), but almost any action is good at this point. But what action, and by whom? Large-scale political action is ultimately needed, but there’s a certain paralysis that’s taken over as a result of national and international dysfunction on climate action.

So that brings me back to what I remember reading about as a kid in the 1980s—how someday soon we’d have space expeditions to visit and then to terraform Mars and other planets for human settlement. Not knowing better, I thought it’d happen, but it seems pretty unlikely at this point.

But the thing I’ve never understood is why there hasn’t been a similar sentiment about terraforming Earth. Maybe it’s that it’s literally too grounded and prosaic. It’s not one big dream for humankind. It’s a thousand thousand thousand little dreams for individual humans and the animals and plants and fungi that surround them.

terraform |ˈterəˌfôrm| verb [ trans. ]
(esp. in science fiction) transform (a planet) so as to resemble the earth, esp. so that it can support human life.

Wouldn’t it be strange if now that we live on Eaarth, as Bill McKibben aptly puts it, we need to terraform our new planet so as to resemble Earth?

My dream is for each of us, and our friends and family and local communities, to restore some little patch of Earth that is dear to us, and if not dear to us, then at least near to us. That restoration might look like trying to help return it to the state it was in before it was razed for paving or construction or mining a (few) hundred years ago. But since it’s hard to know what it was like once, and since we have to accept that at this point we’re changing the planet in massive ways, improving the biodiversity and true sustainability of the local ecosystem is more important in my mind than returning it to some past state that can’t ever be recovered.

What such restoration will look like will vary depending on the local climate, the local ecosystem, the local community, and of course the people doing the restoration. I’m not even sure restoration is the right term for it. But what I do know is that not only is it gratifying work, but also that it provides an opportunity to build a connection with the land where one lives.

Recently I’ve been trying to do this in small ways. There’s quite a bit of dead, compact soil filled with construction debris and trash between the sidewalk and the curb next to the apartment where I live. Getting a shovel to go into it more than a centimeter required chiseling at it like it was rock. So my first goal was to restore the soil, and to do that I dug several small holes and planted comfrey (roots) in them a few months ago. Along with the comfrey I scattered local wildflower seeds and clover seeds (to eventually help fix nitrogen). It’s been a bit of a challenge getting the seeds to grow, though they are now, but the comfrey really took to it and has been doing well. The next step, probably in the Spring, will be to plant oak saplings I’m going to be growing over the Winter. And maybe some fruit trees as well, though I’m not sure which yet.

What’s the difference between massive geoengineering efforts, such as the recent effort to seed the ocean in an attempt to trigger a plankton bloom and sequester carbon, and smaller-scale efforts? And what’s the right thing to do when restoring our little patches of Earth? Should only natives be planted? Food-bearing trees? Some mix? Should more diversity of plants be introduced than naturally exist in the region? I’m not sure that there’s a good answer to these questions, but that’s no barrier to doing something anyway.

brief aside on ethics and obligation

As a kind of footnote to the last couple posts on bicycling and moral arguments, I wanted to say a little bit about how I think we should think about individual moral obligations.  So here are a couple small points:

1. It doesn’t follow from an act’s insufficiency (relative to some goal) that there is no reason to do it.  Riding a bicycle will not arrest, much less prevent, global warming.  Neither will cutting back on driving, reducing one’s energy consumption, becoming vegetarian, or voting for a “green” political candidate.  Neither will any of these things be sufficient to mitigate peak oil, prevent ocean death, retain topsoil, or any other such problem—an individual’s contribution is just too small.  (“Vanishingly small,” as one of my colleagues put it.)

But it just doesn’t follow that one has no reason to do any of these.  And it might even be the case that not only does a person have reason to do such things, there is an outright obligation to do so.  (Argument is needed to reach that conclusion, but here I’m concerned only with blocking the inference from the insufficiency of an act to there being no reason to do it.)

For a close-to-home example, check out this recent discussion that Barath pointed me to.  Late in the thread, the OP is basically told that, because data on other permaculturists’ practices isn’t a recipe for success—i.e. isn’t sufficient to get one’s own permaculture up and running—we shouldn’t bother collecting it.  Hard for me to believe that someone who wants to promote permaculture would consider such information nearly worthless, but there you have it.

2. Making good individual choices does not exhaust one’s individual obligations.  Suppose that I’m obligated to stop driving, eat a local and seasonal vegetarian diet, drastically cut my home use of electricity and gas, and so on; and suppose I actually do these things.  It wouldn’t follow that I’ve thereby washed my hands clean of environmental harms.  For there might be further obligations that I incur by being a member of an affluent industrial society, obligations which arise from problems at the social level but which place a burden on me, the individual.  Exhibit A: citizenship.  As a U.S. citizen, I have some influence on policy via my elected officials, and plausibly I ought to exercise it.  (Of course, I alone have very little influence, but—as per point #1 above—it doesn’t follow that there’s no reason to exercise it.)


None of the above says anything about what obligations we actually have, and I don’t have arguments for such just yet.  But I hope to have shown a couple common thoughts about individual action—I needn’t bother because it’s not effective, and I’ve done my part because I don’t drive, etc.—to be incorrect.

happy cycling

About two years ago I got rid of my car (a gas-hungry ’92 Mazda Navajo) in the hopes of buying a used motorcycle.  I figured that as long as I lived in Southern California, I’d at least sometimes need a motor vehicle, but if I had to own one it might as well be fuel-efficient.  (And it didn’t hurt that motorcycles are fun to drive.)

So I ended up with a ’93 Kawasaki Vulcan 750.  It gets  between 45 and 50 mpg, depending on how I drive it, and it’s powerful enough to feel comfortable on the highway.  50 mpg is pretty good for a car but middling for a motorcycle; it would do better with fuel injection, a 6th gear for highway cruising, and fewer valves per cylinder.  Still, I can’t help but notice that my nearly 20-year old bike gets the advertised highway mpg of a Prius!

I drove the motorcycle a lot in the first year.  But then almost exactly a year after acquiring the bike, I moved to a different part of San Diego, and since then the bicycle has become my transportation of choice.

Riding a bicycle has made a huge difference in my quality of life, in lots of unexpected ways.  It’s fun to ride, of course, as much as it was when I was 10 years old and liked to tool around the neighborhood just for the hell of it.  And it’s wonderful to be outside while getting around San Diego instead of being stuck in a car (a “cage,” as the motorcyclists say).  But I’d never have expected the effect bicycling has on, say, my grocery buying and consumption: since I’m not burning gasoline to travel, I don’t mind making frequent trips to the store to get only a few things.  As a result, I more readily buy perishable fresh foods like bread and produce, since I can just go get them when I need them.  And since I’m not buying a week’s worth of groceries at a time, I’m ending up with less waste.

I recently decided to do a bit of rough calculation to see some of the quantitative benefits of using my bicycle over my motorcycle.  (Very rough, since there are many variables that affect the strenuousness of cycling.)  If we assume, conservatively, that my motorcycle gets 50 mpg, and that between home, coffee shops, cafes, etc I travel about 25 miles in a week, then we get the following results.  Bicycling in my daily life, as opposed to motorcycling:

  • burns 1500 to 1700 Calories per week
  • saves me $2 a week (at current gas prices)
  • avoids releasing 10 lbs of CO2

This is all just a side effect of me going the places I’d be going anyway, and for the most part I don’t get there any slower than I would by motorcycle (in fact, when meeting car-bound friends I often beat them to the destination).  And on top of all this, there are the psychological benefits of chronic exercise, of never being stuck in traffic, and of not having to spend time finding parking.  Bicycling also saves me whatever fraction of cash I’d be spending on motorcycle maintenance and repair.

Bicycling would be just about perfect, in fact, except for the fact that San Diego, like many US cities, is built for the car.  I live in a relatively bike-friendly part of the city, but even so there are very few bike lanes, and just a handful of the dubiously helpful “sharrows.”

And the truth is, though I used to scoff when people asked “But isn’t it dangerous,” I had my first bike accident last week, when riding next to a line of parked cars—a guy opened his door in front of me and I went over my handlebars, over his door, and right into the pavement.  It was a close call, and though I’ll probably be just fine I’m pretty banged up and unable to ride for a while.  So ride safe, kids!

4 arguments for deliberate descent, part 3: moral

This is part 3 in a series of posts on a taxonomy of arguments for deliberate descent.  Parts 1 and 2 are here and here.


Moral arguments. A moral argument for deliberate descent is premised on claims about how we ought to treat each other. Such claims can take many forms, but here I want to focus on two: claims about individual moral obligation, and claims about just societies or states.

Suppose you think that nobody ought to take more than their fair share of resources. That’s a claim about the moral obligations of individuals, and it’s what I think is implicit behind the common recitation of the fact that the United States as a whole uses 20% of the world’s energy but has only 5% of the world’s population. Writers who bring this to our attention aren’t simply pointing out an idle fact, like “Sure is hot today.” The fact is relevant to the moral evaluation of Americans’ behavior, and it’s broached in order to implicate that Americans are morally remiss for their extravagant energy use.

Or suppose you think that people ought to act so as to minimize the harms that result from their actions. That’s another moral claim, and it plausibly entails that everyone ought to minimize their contribution to global warming, and thus their consumption of fossil fuel energy. Or perhaps it entails that everyone ought to get to work on alternative energy technology, or creating better energy policy, or better city plans, or sustainable agriculture, or, well, any number of things.

This is one problem with arguments that appeal to individual moral obligations: it’s often unclear exactly what follows from any given moral claim. Claims like “don’t use more than your share of resources” or “act so as to cause minimal harm” are quite abstract, and in order to yield any useful prescriptions for action, they need a bunch of auxiliary premises concerning, for example, what constitutes a fair share, which harms are worse than others, whether economic support for a harmful institution is itself a kind of harm, which harmful actions are nonetheless necessary for other reasons, and on and on. It’s easy to get bogged down in reasoning through these things, and the dependence on such auxiliary premises means that any given moral claim can be recruited to very different conclusions.

For example, take again the claim that nobody ought to use more than their fair share of resources. And suppose that I’m Al Gore, with all the connections and support that attend a former senator and vice-president. Given that support, I have the opportunity to fly around the globe giving talks and meeting with policymakers, using up copious energy in the process. What does the moral claim about resource use tell me to do? Everything seems to depend on what we take a fair share to be, and this notion is itself normative, and far from clear. Does a fair share take into account, for example, the uses to which I’m putting the resources? Is it a fair share of what can right now be extracted and exploited, or is it a share of the planet’s carrying capacity? Does it account for future generations, or just present people?

Getting clear on the implications of any given moral claim will require sorting such things out, and though I don’t think that should keep us from trying our best when we think about what to do, it does make moral arguments brittle tools for persuading an audience. Of course, the initial moral claims themselves are often highly contested, and that’s a similar weakness, rhetorically speaking. But I’ll return to that in a moment, since it’s shared with the other kind of argument I want to cover.

That other kind of moral argument is kind premised on claims about what a just society or state looks like. Such claims aren’t about what you or I ought to be doing, at least not directly. Instead, they’re about the right way to organize the various goods, opportunities, and costs that a group of people share.

For example, many people are egalitarians of some kind, and think that people’s outcomes or qualities of life ought to be pretty much the same. According to that idea, industrial capitalism, which tends to foster inequality of wealth and opportunity, is an unjust social order. But unjust arrangements can obtain both synchronically and diachronically, and industrial society’s massive drawdown of planetary resources—not just fossil fuels, but such fundamental resources as fertile soil and unpolluted freshwater—also constitutes a massive inequality across generations. We citizens of industrial nations are reaping a benefit at the expense of future humans, a social arrangement that, to an egalitarian, is diachronically unjust.

Of course many people aren’t egalitarians (especially perhaps in the U.S.). But if you are an egalitarian, then deliberate descent might look attractive insofar as it would yield a more just state of affairs. And in fact this is an argument that shows up in many places; for example it’s cited on the Transition website as reason #2 why people are drawn to the movement.

Moral arguments for deliberate descent are more likely to be based on claims about just societies than on claims about individual obligations, because deliberate descent is itself an idea about how to organize a society. Claims about individual obligations might underlie arguments for consuming less, or traveling by bicycle rather than car, or avoiding certain products, but these are just changes to individuals’ lifestyles, and they don’t add up to a social program of deliberate descent. On the other hand, arguments from claims about individual moral obligation can lead to conclusions that are easier to act on; making changes in one’s purchasing or transportation habits is not always simple, but it’s easier to do such things than it is to act on the prescription “Initiate deliberate descent.”

Moral arguments, like aesthetic arguments, are based on normative claims, and as such have distinctive strengths and weaknesses. Moral claims are contested, and—if the students I’ve taught in intro ethics classes are any indication—many people have a knee-jerk skepticism about morality in general. Even among audiences who aren’t moral skeptics, it can be very difficult to secure agreement on moral claims. And even where there *is* agreement about moral claims, a small set of plausible such claims can lead to difficulty, even contradiction. Take for example these four:

1. Western economies need economic stimulus, not austerity measures
2. Growth is unsustainable
3. Growth is morally urgent in many parts of the world
4. Alleviating poverty in wealthy nations is morally urgent

… which I’ve abbreviated from Chris Bertram’s discussion here. There is no obvious way to reconcile competing moral claims, and this can make argument on their basis a difficult matter.

On the other hand, because they are normative, moral claims have a force independent of any prudential reasoning. I can’t quote escapefromwisconsin enough:

We do not need peak oil to promote local economies, walkable communities, civic engagement, cooperative businesses, low-carbon energy, regenerative agriculture, or composting. These ideas are valid for their own sake.

If there’s moral reason to promote the kind of society we’d have post-descent—if we ought to do so for moral reasons—then it doesn’t matter how serious the threats of peak oil or global warming are, or even whether they’re threats at all. We ought to initiate deliberate descent anyway, for moral reasons.  And this, I think, is the best thing about moral arguments.

A Singul(arity) Track Mind

I like reading things that I think I’ll disagree with. I just borrowed one such book from the library—Peter Diamandis’s Abundance. His book has gotten a fair bit of traction in the mainstream and technology press, and more than that Diamandis seemed to be one of the few techno-centric authors willing to at least attempt making a holistic case for his views. And so like Kevin Kelly’s book What Technology Wants that I discussed a few months back, Abundance seemed worth a look.

One thing I noticed right off the bat was the book relies upon two forms of argument:

1. Good news is being ignored, its impact is right around the corner, and here are some random examples. The idea is that the reason we don’t recognize that there are good things going on is that the news is focused on bad things, and that the human mind is trained to focus on those bad things. I’m reminded of something wise Bruce Schneier has written many times:

I tell people that if it’s in the news, don’t worry about it. The very definition of “news” is “something that hardly ever happens.” It’s when something isn’t in the news, when it’s so common that it’s no longer news — car crashes, domestic violence — that you should start worrying.

I’ll be examining Schneier’s latest book in an upcoming post. In any case, Diamandis makes this case again and again to defend the notion that good news is being lost in the noise, and floods the reader with random anecdotes without connecting the dots. Sure, I’ll agree that some good news isn’t widely acknowledged. Nevertheless, we can’t forget Schneier’s observation, which is that there are plenty of bad things that the news is ignoring as well. (Consider that there’s no opposite to Wired or Discover or Popular Mechanics—a magazine that focuses on the non-sensational, dire things that are being discovered every day. This is the closest to such a magazine in the blog world.) Anyway, I’ll come back to this again later.

2. Ruthless extrapolation. Tom Murphy wrote about this recently—the tendency of engineers and scientists to use past data to extrapolate into the future, which works most of the time except at turning points, when it fails spectacularly. In particular, Diamandis conveniently ignores trend changes when they don’t fit the argument being made. (Consider his claim that “quality of life has improved more in the past century than ever before” and that this indicates that more good things are on the way. He ignores that since the early 1970s median household real income, energy per capita, employment among youth, among other things, has been declining.) In this, he’s very much of the Kurzweil school of thought.

These are the main two tricks in his bag. But let’s get down to it, starting with the book’s treatment, very early on, of The Limits to Growth.

The Limits to Growth. To be fair, Diamandis does a slightly better job than most cornucopian authors at describing LTG at first. He does slip a bit, say by claiming “while many of their more dire predictions have failed to materialize…”—probably to Dennis Meadows’s chagrin, as Meadows has repeatedly pointed out that the book did not make predictions. But to my surprise, he doesn’t even attempt to take LTG head on, and instead drifts off into a discussion of irrelevant topics such as how population control is a bad idea, how people solve things that were thought to be unsolvable, etc. Diamandis claims that there are three driving forces that will lead to an “age of abundance”: a) “exponentially growing technologies”, b) money being spent by “technophilanthropists”, and c) the “combination of the Internet, microfinance, and wireless communication”, and that’s going to “[transform] the poorest of the poor into an emerging market force.” (This let them eat smartphones notion is one I see around a lot, as I wrote a few months back.) Fundamentally, though, the Limits to Growth was an examination of unchecked exponential functions of a different sort, a sort Diamandis carefully avoids.

Goals. I was surprised to find that Abundance took a fairly reasonable tack when discussing goals: what is this abundance he’s seeking (and claims is forthcoming), anyway? In his initial formulation, it’s that he wants to meet the lower levels of Maslow’s hierarchy for everyone on the planet: access to food, some energy to prepare food, lighting, sanitation, basic education, public health, etc. He also wants communication and information freedom for everyone on the planet, and I can’t disagree with that goal. This sounds good to me. His claim, however, is that this abundance “should be achievable within twenty-five years, with noticeable change possible within the next decade.” Much of the rest of the book is about making the case that this is possible.

The possibility of abundance. Diamandis feels that our cognitive biases are what are holding us back—that abundance is right around around the corner if we could just allow ourselves to believe in it. Through a flurry of pop-psychology, one of his primary claims is that because of cognitive biases, and that humans didn’t evolve to understand “exponential technologies”, we misunderstand new technologies and are disappointed, all while those same technologies revolutionize the world. However, one could draw a very different set of inferences from a discussion of such cognitive biases—at the end of my discussion of climate change vs. peak oil, I discussed Dan Miller’s application of these same cognitive biases to why we don’t as a society respond to the dire consequences of unchecked climate change.

“The singularity is nearer”. Now we can shift gears into Diamandis’s flood of anecdotes. He’s trying to paint a picture, and I suppose it could be convincing to a certain type of reader; it’s equal measure “random thing X is better than it once was, so abundance is around the corner” and “somebody was wrong about something once, so any predictions I don’t like will also be wrong”. He considers, among other things:

  • How an acid rain catastrophe never happened despite what he claims were widespread fears among scientists. (The evidence he presents that this was a widely-held view is pretty thin.)
  • How lightbulbs are better today than in the 14th century, and will continue improving. (Sure, though the room for improvement is limited.)
  • Lifespans have continually increased. (Except when the trend turns around, as it has started to.)
  • Cell phones have spread through Africa. (Okay.)
  • Venter beat the Human Genome Project, so his genetically engineered algae that produces biofuel will save us. (Hmm…maybe it will help, but there are many issues. And for what it’s worth Venter is skeptical too.)
  • IPv6 will enable our toasters to be on the Internet, and this is a great thing. (I’m not clear on how this solves any fundamental problems.)
  • AI, and robots, and 3D printing, and nanotechnology will bring us into the sci-fi future we expected but never got. (Setting aside the issue of whether this will happen, once again I’m not clear on how this helps address any of the fundamental issues faced by global society.)

The list goes on, painting a portrait of technology that has been and will continue to be the driver for unchecked human advancement.

Food. The Abundance argument completely runs off the rails when it comes to food production. After going through a litany of warnings from scientists about future challenges in food production (only to dismiss these warnings as being ill-founded), Diamandis goes on to claim, first of all, that we’ve actually continued to produce plenty of food thanks to the wonders of genetically-engineered crops despite dire forecasts from the usual chorus of naysayers. (Never mind that per capita agricultural production has flatlined since the 1980s and is likely to decrease by most studies as a result of ecological mismanagement, and GE crops often don’t produce any benefits in terms of yields.) But the solution, he says, is vertical farming and “cultured” meat. I can’t do better than this dissection of such specious claims.

DIY and hagiography. There’s a whole middle section of the book that is a bit embarrassing: page after page extolling the virtues of everything from the Maker movement to the Whole Earth Catalog, but more importantly the men (and it’s all men from what I can tell) behind them. I don’t deny that each has its virtues, but how they lead to some sort of revolution in our culture and an age of abundance is left as an exercise for the reader. Well that’s not quite true: Diamandis tells us that we’ll get a leg up from “technophilanthropists” like Bill Gates and Mark Zuckerberg (!).

Energy. It’s hard to know where to start with Diamandis’s claims about energy. On one hand PVs are going to be super cheap, he claims, because of exponential trends—I don’t doubt that solar cells will become very cheap in time, but infrastructure and installation costs seem like they won’t change much and will dominate. On the other hand he claims our oil woes will be no more because of synthetic biology. Throw in a smart grid, some new nuclear reactor designs (never confronting some of the real issues, of course) and some batteries, and apparently not only are our energy woes a thing of the past, but we will have a “squanderable abundance of energy” that will enable us to halt climate change in its tracks. If I’ve adopted a mocking tone at this point, it’s because the argument has gotten even more flimsy than before: despite discussing a topic like energy that is amenable to doing the math ala Tom Murphy, Diamandis reverts to a combination of hand waving and vignettes of inventors while ignoring basic issues like the energy trap or a whole host of other practical scaling challenges Murphy discusses.

While Diamandis drags the reader through a litany of anecdotes about education (OLPC anyone?) and health care, his approach remains the same for the rest of the book, and doesn’t grapple with the hard challenges that he ought to. In the end, I credit Kevin Kelly for having spent considerable time discussing technology’s limits in his book while trying to make a case that it does still provide some upside. The little Diamandis does to this end—in an appendix—is to make the case that nanobots and cybercrime won’t be our undoing. In any case, maybe Diamandis is onto something: nuanced arguments don’t make for bestsellers, and with numerous high-profile interviews and talks in the last year, he’s on a roll.

4 arguments for deliberate descent, part 2: aesthetic

This is part 2 in a series of posts on a taxonomy of arguments for deliberate descent.  Part 1 is here.


Aesthetic arguments.  An aesthetic argument concludes that we ought to initiate deliberate descent from the premise that doing so will yield a more beautiful world or way of life.1  Few if any writers make purely aesthetic arguments, but aesthetic concerns show up in all sorts of places to buttress other sorts of reason.  Kunstler’s criticisms of suburbia certainly have a prominent aesthetic component, but it’s not hard to find offhand mention, in the middle of almost anyone’s piece about any of industrial society’s environmental harms, of just how ugly the damn thing is.  Coal-dust haze, lagoons of pig shit, sprawling cloverleaf highway exchanges, smog layered over a city, erstwhile mountains scraped flat by strip mining, rank eutrophied “dead zones”—images of such things arouse the reader’s aesthetic sense in addition to the harms they communicate.  (The food movement has, because of its subject-matter, been able to take particular advantage of aesthetic imagery; witness ‘Frankenfoods’, ‘pink slime’, ‘factory farm’.)

Manhattan, 1973

Manhattan smog, 1973

Aesthetic arguments, for all their ubiquity, aren’t exactly respectable these days.  Anyone who argued for deliberate descent simply because it would yield a more beautiful world would be called “deeply unserious;” in the main it’s economic issues that so-called serious people care about, and sometimes moral issues, too (usually where the moral and economic spheres overlap, e.g. in concern for standard of living in developing economies).  Nonetheless, to the right kind of audience an aesthetic argument can resonate, and I suspect that’s why aesthetic concerns show up so often, although never to carry the full weight of an argument.

Aesthetic claims are evaluative, or—to use the philosophers’ term of art—normative.  ‘Beautiful’, ‘composed’, ‘elegant’, ‘inviting’, ‘garish’, ‘hackneyed’, ‘unbalanced’ and the like are used to evaluate a thing relative to some norm, and this normative dimension of aesthetic claims lends both strengths and weaknesses to arguments made on their basis.

The chief weakness, which can be crippling in the wrong contexts, is that contemporary audiences are on the whole skeptical about aesthetic norms.  Of course the idea that there’s no accounting for taste has a long pedigree, and art criticism continues to be practiced in a handful of tenacious publications, but I’d guess that today’s typical response to the claim that something is aesthetically good is: “according to whom?”  The idea that aesthetic norms could be objective, that a person could be wrong when they enjoy or fail to enjoy an artwork, sounds quaint and snobbish.  So if an argument for descent is backed by aesthetic claims, it risks being charged with snobbery, classism, and the putting down of others’ equally valid aesthetic judgments.  And indeed, this is just the kind of rejoinder that shows up, notably in response to the food movement. Caitlin Flanagan provides a snarkily excellent example:

Waters … is, of course, the founder of Chez Panisse, in Berkeley, an eatery where the right-on, “yes we can,” ACORN-loving, public-option-supporting man or woman of the people can tuck into a nice table d’hôte menu of scallops, guinea hen, and tarte tatin for a modest 95 clams—wine, tax, and oppressively sanctimonious and relentlessly conversation-busting service not included.

(Not that I think Flanagan’s arguments against school gardens are any good; she’s just very good at peppering her essay with ad hominem gestures at the sort of snobbery people love to hate.)

Rigler school garden

Rigler school garden

The chief strength of aesthetic arguments’ normative dimension is that normative claims have a peculiar independence from certain empirical facts.  If something is beautiful, harmonious, or what have you, that’s a reason to admire or produce it even if it’s rare, costly, or unpopular.  (Not necessarily conclusive reason, but reason nonetheless.)  So aesthetic arguments for descent are unaffected by pointing out that e.g. suburban sprawl is ubiquitous, or that millions of Americans buy (and thereby endorse) factory-farmed meat.  And neither are they affected—this seems crucial to me—by quibbling over empirical details of the sort that matter for prudential arguments.  As escapefromwisconsin put it well in an excellent and vital essay:

What “reversalist” authors like Kunstler and Greer and others represent is a long-standing criticism of industrial culture as progress at all. These authors believe that the way things were done in the past, before the widespread use of fossil fuels were more humane, rewarding, and appropriately scaled to fundamental human needs for community, trust, and sociability. They see the vast complexity, fragility, and alienation produced by technology as a step backward, not forward. … But here’s the thing: their criticisms would be just as valid even if the most optimistic fantasies of the cornucopians were correct.

We do not need peak oil to promote local economies, walkable communities, civic engagement, cooperative businesses, low-carbon energy, regenerative agriculture, or composting. These ideas are valid for their own sake. Just because I question whether Peak Oil will naturally force us to adopt such concepts does not mean I don’t think they are a good idea. I emphatically do, and I would actively promote them as the best way forward even if we had a thousand years of oil left in the ground ….

Because they rely on normative claims, aesthetic arguments provide reasons for descent that are independent of the facts about the threat of peak oil, climate change, or any other threat.  But as the sentences just quoted illustrate, aesthetic concerns are just one species of the normative.  In part 3 of this series, I’ll take up another species: moral arguments.


1 I’m using ‘beautiful’ here as the most general term of aesthetic approval, although my sense is that other, “thicker,” aesthetic terms like ‘elegant’, ‘obscene’, ‘fluid’, etc, are more common.  An appeal to any positive aesthetic claim will count for my purposes as an aesthetic argument.

Mushrooms

For the past six months or so I’ve been learning how to grow Oyster mushrooms, mostly by trial and error, and I feel like I’ve finally gotten the hang of it. In this post I’m going to cover a bit of what I’ve found.

First, there are three things you need to start:

  1. Some mushroom mycelia of the variety you want to grow.
  2. A medium you want to grow on (e.g., coffee grounds, old wood, etc.).
  3. A container to grow in.

You won’t need a container to grow in if you’re growing on logs, but since I’m using coffee grounds I got a few 5-gallon buckets. Right now I’m growing Grey Dove Oysters. There are vendors out there that sell sawdust spawn or grain spawn—mycelia grown on sawdust or grain—and I’ve found that grain spawn is easier to work with because it propagates better to the medium. You can also try to start your own spawn from mushrooms or previous mycleial growth.

To get started, I cleaned the buckets out with hot (near boiling) water, then partially dried them. To the bottom I added a small amount of grain spawn—enough to get maybe 25% coverage—and then mixed in some initial coffee grounds. The coffee grounds should be added soon after the coffee was made, when the grounds are still steaming a little, because that ensures that mold and other things don’t start growing on it. After adding the initial coffee grounds, I added another small amount of grain spawn. I left the bucket in the shade but in the kitchen (where there’s a fair bit of airflow) for a few days for the initial mycelial growth to take hold. (I leave the bucket’s lid ajar a few inches.) After waiting a few days, I started on my daily schedule adding coffee grounds to the bucket.


Keeping the mycelia clean and at the right level of moisture is surprisingly difficult, but I’ve found that when in doubt, aim for more cleanliness and less moisture. The reason is simple: mold. The environment that the mycelia like to grow in is also one that mold likes to grow in, but mycelia can withstand drier conditions and application of hydrogen peroxide.

Another thing I’ve realized is that one’s nose is the best guide. If the mushroom culture smells good (sometimes like mushrooms, though usually just a faint sweet smell), then it’s doing okay. If it smells bad in any way—and it’ll cause a natural reflex when it’s bad, so you don’t have to overthink it—that’s a sign mold is starting to take over. If that happens, give the culture a lot more air, and (optionally) spray it down with some hydrogen peroxide. You can even set it out in direct sun for a few hours.

I also tried growing a bit of mycelia from scratch on some cardboard. I stirred the cardboard in boiling water for about 20 minutes to kill any mold and to break down the structure a bit. I then took some mycelia I already had and placed bits of it between the (now broken-down) layers of cardboard, and sandwiched them together. I placed the cardboard layers in a small trash can and covered it with a book, with minimal air gap. Since the cardboard had little that mold was interested in, it didn’t get moldy like coffee grounds tended to in a similar low-airflow environment. Mycelial growth was slow: I checked on it every few days and found that it took about a month before the white spiderweb-like mycelia was visible between all the layers. I ended up not using this cardboard for further growing, but it was fun to try out.

I’m hoping to try out growing on old logs in the near future. As for the sustainability of coffee…well I’ll have to write about my nascent attempt at growing coffee another time.