from @gaiapunk: Today in a effort to add more music to this site I’m writing about my awesome friends Jeff and Camille from good ole’ Olympia, WA (AKA the greatest town EVER) who just made record of the week in Maximum Rock & Roll with their band SHARKPACT! ¬†Both members of the band love gardens, animals, and all sorts of other rad shit ūüôā ¬†Jeff’s sister Mary did the amazing art work which blends imagery of my hometown Livingston MT with my adopted town of Olympia, WA Check it out…

From Maximum rock’n’roll Record of the Week: SHARKPACT Ditches LP

After doing reviewing records for a long time, you start to notice there are very few bands doing something completely original. Or even modestly original. Most bands create music that reflects (at times shamelessly) the music that inspires them. And that’s great, that’s fine. No problem. But every once in a great while you come across a band like SHARKPACT who create music utterly unlike anything you’ve been hearing. And that’s something extraordinary. But this album isn’t just original; it’s also really really fucking good. My attempts to describe the music are going to sound awful, so you’ll have to trust me on this one. The band is just two folks; one on the drums, the other on keyboard, both singing. And what comes out is like a mutant combination of goth and heartfelt pop punk. Wait, wait don’t stop reading, I swear this is awesome! The synthesizer has a late ’80s goth vibe while the drumming has a WARSAW-era JOY DIVISION on meth approach. But then add ONE REASON style vocal harmonies. Heartfelt, urgent, unrelenting. This album is record of the month, for sure. (Rumbletowne Records)

good video but with unfortunately poor sound below (the album sounds amazing):


Radical Community Profile: Free state Swomp (Amsterdam) under threat

recycled materials strawbale house

recycled materials strawbale house

I’m reposting this post because I just learned that they may be facing eviction ūüė¶

There is a genuine non violent revolution going on around the globe.  One that crosses boundaries of race, creed, color, religion and subculture.  A revolution that heals the heart even as it dismantles the heartless systems of oppression.  It is of course the permaculture revolution; a revolution that is interconnected and diverse.

“…the greatest change we need to make is from consumption to
production, even if on a small scale, in our own gardens. If only 10% of
us do this, there is enough for everyone.

Hence the futility of revolutionaries who have no gardens, who depend on
the very system they attack, and who produce words and bullets, not food
and shelter.” – Bill Mollison

I want to take sometime and give you a picture of some of these true revolutionaries….

The Swomp in Amsterdam is a collective squat that is guided by permaculture and its principals. ¬†Besides providing for themselves with their garden production the Swomp does community outreach and education.¬† They are under constant threat of eviction and they may need some media attention soon.¬† Please take the time to read their declaration and the inspiring sustainable ethics by which the community abides. ¬† Here is just a sampling of what they’ve accomplished:

  • successfully¬†squatted a unused urban lot and turned it into a permaculture demonstration site.
  • built a strawbale home from mostly recycle materials
  • organized with numerous other collectives on a wide range of important global issues
  • provided free education to the community
  • demonstrated that one can live in harmony with one’s conscience and with the earth

Please visit their awesome blog and if you are aware of other radical communities in the permaculture vein we would love to feature them here.

p.s. ¬†We are always looking for more contributors so if you would like to write for PRP e-zine please contact thejulianeffect(at)gmail with the subject “gaia punks.”

Heroes List!


Earth Activist profile

Earth Activist profile

Vandana Shiva Is A Eco Warrior Goddess…


Hi folks Gaia Punk here,

While I was having a blast at my¬†Permaculture Design Course in Costa Rica my instructor Scott Pittman of the US Permaculture Institute started a “Heroes” and “Bad Guys” list. ¬† Very high on the “Bad Guys” list of course was Monsanto and very high on the good guys list was the ever lovely¬†Dr. Vandana Shiva.

Shiva participated in the nonviolent Chipko movement during the 1970s when woman actually hugged trees to prevent their felling.  A world warrior in fighting poverty and enviromental destruction with community resiliance and nonviolent action Vandana shiva has garnered countless awards and appreciatioin from numerous organiaztion, instituions, and countrys.  We have much to learn from her kind of militant wisdom!  See her excellent camio in the ONE Water documentary.

Floating Islands in the Pacific Gyre

Floating Islands?



Is it possible to create floating islands that are biologically diverse in the worlds largest dump the North Pacific Gyre?

For those of you who may not know the North Pacific Gyre is area in the Pacific Ocean (twice the size of Texas) that collects lots and lots of plastic junk from ocean currents all over the world.

the lungs of the earth

the lungs of the earth

This massive flotilla of plastic junk just swirls there and is overtime broken down by sunlight and the motion of the waves.   This is extremely troubling not just because it is an eyesore, but because it threatens wildlife, and even phytoplankten the very lungs of our earth.  For a long while now I had intended to prepare some sketches for an article about the idea of using floating islandsРa permaculture technique that involves building islands out of debris and then planting beneficial plants that provide micro habitats and clean the water- as method to transform the Pacific Gyre.

floating island image from rhizome collective

Floating island image from the Rhizome Collective

It seems a visionary canadian architect named Michale Barton already has! ¬†Well,¬† he at least made some nice pictures anyway, it’s a start.

images from Canadian Architech

Images from Canadian Architect

Plastic paradise?

Plastic paradise?

Although difficult the idea is not at all impossible…

From tree hugger:

floating island house?

floating island house?

“We couldn’t make this stuff up: this man, Reishee Sowa of Puerto Aventuras, Mexico, apparently grew tired of trying to live self-sufficiently on dry land, and did what any of us would have done. He built his own island out of used pop bottles. 250,000 of them, plus some construction leftovers and bags of leaves, make up “his island,” though he’s quick to point out that it’s technically not an island by traditional standards. “You see not even the president is allowed his own island in Mexico,” he says, “but technically I don‚Äôt have an island, I have an eco space-creating ship.”

your own private island (recycled island)

your own private island (recycled island)

Short story


So here is the intro of a poetic short story I’m writing that will incorporate little snippets of both both punk and permie culture.¬† I hope you enjoy it.¬† I’ve been listening to a lot of Gogol bordello and will be going to see them in SEA this monday, extra exciting.¬† Also doing more street art which¬†I love.

stay stout!

From Sunder to Solder

Cold, metallic, morning (absent of sunflowers).

En-route to Seattle, I-5, 10:00am.

One hundred and eight cars are spinning

like high velocity marbles

                    indifferent to the turning leaves.

A young woman sits with a soft,

but puzzled,


resting her chin on her palm.

Twenty two years old,

a life unscathed but much suffering. 

She’s on her way to meet her brother she rarely sees,

hopeful he’s in a good mood.

Sesame stares out of the car window intently. 

Her eyes, which are big and brown, swallow up entire landscapes without difficulty:



a small farm with it old barn beaten

                                            and out of breath,


 the complex mass of a  radio tower 

                                   looking noisy in its silence,

        a gluttonous shopping center surrounded by pariahs of parked cars


        a barren field over which a hawk serenely scouts.

Disparate realities pass along with the seconds pulled effortlessly to the points of her pupils.

Sesame enjoys looking out windows. 

She pretends that she can see things that other people can not see,

blinds spots of beauty,

though truly to her¬†it’s nothing special.

¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬† Today she saw leaves….


Cold, metallic, morning.

Cars are spinning like high velocity.

Crowds come and go without direction.

Well groomed men, women, and children

(some with faces as blank as spoons or spatulas)

pass by with their respective shopping bags near Pike’s Place.

In the chilly air the occasional cry of a seagull

and the steady beat of a bucket drum float about,


On the streets sky blue puddles fill to the brim with clouds.

Marcus leans on a frigid granite bank

smoking a rolled cigarette,

his shoes are worn and patched with bits of duct tape,

his eyes are narrowed in scrutiny,

beneath his black hooded sweetshirt marked by little decorative patches

all on can see

was a small,



Marcus is angry,

Marcus is hungry,

Marcus is broke, and angry, and hungry again….

and this made him even angrier.

It was not so much the experience of being broke and hungry

that made him so upset,

but a hidden shame of being broke and hungry that roiled his blood,

and which he hid inside himself

like a disease.

A part of himself knew that there was no reason to be ashamed.

“So what if I’m broke and hungry, I have a job now don’t I, isn’t that enough?” he consoled himself

“This city was made more for tourist than for residents, it’s disgusting!¬† What do I have to prove to it.”

“What’s so terribly wrong with a broke and hungry man?”

Even so, his frown

                       became smaller,    

                                          and tighter,

                                                       and angrier,

¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬† like a child’s fist.

Cold, metallic, morning.

The crowds came and went without direction

indifferent to the turning leaves,

and on the street sky blue puddles fill to the brim with clouds.


Springtime robins burst

through shafts of light seemingly solid

under a sky as open and infinite as the

pure mind.

Laughter tickles on the tongue and

dribbles effortless through eyes.

The day was ripe and juicy as a pear

and smelled of sweet work.

The wind is playing with the leaves gently like they are her children.

A man leans on hoe surveying his garden handy-work.

His hands are blistered,

and his red face,

but his mouth holds a hearty smile.

He seems quintessentially happy.

The plot was small, 

the cynical would say pitiful,

 Levi thought it beautiful,

 and had neatly sewn his heart into this space and the stability of the work. 

There was just enough sunlight,

                just enough shade,

                            just enough rain,

                                      and just enough room,

¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬† ¬†but¬†“just enough”¬†is the make up of miracles.¬†

Squeezed unmercifully between two callous buildings,

(concerned only with their commerce)

¬†which had long ago abandoned them; in all its history this little patch of¬†dirt had never know a love like his.¬† This¬†ground he had touched gently like the way one holds someone’s¬†baby.

He had carefully massaged all the construction ruble from its bounds.

Painstakingly, he had combed out the glass shards and rock with surgical assurance.

Delicately he picked up needles,

                                                    dog shit,    

                                                               and nails,

plucked up rusted metal,

                            plastic bags,


                                              aluminum cans,

coaxed out oil spills,


                             cinder blocks.

Next, Levi carried sheets of rich loamy soil and blankets of moist mulch. 

Plastic barrels and tires held planted potatoes and turnips.

Salvaged decorative gates kept out unwanted animals.

From a toilet overflowed a fern,

from a sink sprang strawberries.

Old Pop bottles became converted bird feeders complete with humming birds darting to and fro in complex territorial warfare.  With bits of brick ruble Levi had formed meandering paths,  each one spiraling around the natural contours of the grounds so that in the areas that naturally formed puddles there were small, intricate, reflecting pools.  PVC piping stood upright filled with soil and cut with little openings made small havens for a variety of herbs such as rosemary, chives, and calendula.  Verdant baskets filled with tubers and bulbs hung from the bottoms of fire escapes and drainpipes and flowering vines crept up old electrical wiring.  From a city whose most common scent is car exhaust here wafted the sweet exotic smell of jasmine.  In this miniature paradise made of the cast off and neglected

nothing was forgotten,

nothing worthless.

Levi ran a dirty hand through his dirty blond hair and took a minute to breath and check his watch.  Sweat peaked in droplets on the edges of his high cheekbones.

2 pm

Time to cry.

He  got down on his knees and hugged his stomach.

“I don’t have to do this, it’s not helping anything or anyone, someday soon I’ll stop for good”.

¬†“Oh heart! How can I make you healthy again, don’t you see the sun shining, can’t you hear the robins, the universe is whispering your name, the light from supernovas past leaps across unthinkable space to kiss you brow, but here you are too busy with your sorrows to notice.”¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†

Every Wednesday for thirty three consecutive Wednesdays at around 2pm Levi would cry,

not a howling or wailing cry,

 but a cry born out of lonesomeness. 

¬†Levi’s Lonesomeness was as complex and rich as the loam he was building in the garden.¬†

 A lonesomeness that was fermented and rank with desperate odors.

It began with the taste of his own lack of companionship, a taste haunted with bitter histories of break-ups, walk-outs, give-ins, and not too long ago a death.  Next, it moved into his throat and pulled at his breath like a gasp.  Here the flavors held the residue off all those sentences we keep sealed up; messages in bottles destined not to ever reach any shore.

Each message was distinct:


 for the old woman on the bus alone,

a smile

for the child that only wants us to know it’s there,

an ear

for  the old man to pour his wisdom on,

a hug

 for all that feel unacceptable,

a kiss

 for all those who feel unlovable,

pain never expressed,

forgiveness that never came.

These messages or there absence created a vacuum and this vacuum ended in his stomach

In his stomach it stayed solid as a rock. 

This rock was painfully graphed onto his skeleton and he could feel it below his sternum.

It was from this place that he cried.

And when it was done, it was done, and a small smile of relief would cautiously emerge on his face.

Levi picks up his shovel.

He resumes working.

The wind plays with the leaves,


like they are her children.

But, inside the rock stayed.


The bar room where Jasmine had worked for three years was a single neon sign, 

glowing inside your gut, 

(abscent of sunflowers)

shining some gaudy florescent pink or orange

on all those unsightly things you never wanted to know about yourself.

And the patrons all came like moths from the darkness

with cigarettes in their mouths,    

                           and round poignant bits of

                                                   loneliness for eyes.

Some were friends,

some were strangers,

some were strangers taken as friends,

and some were friends taken for strangers.

All were lost or losing.

Three years is a long time to live in a city that feeds fanatically on greed.

Now, was Jasmine’s chance to run away from this million megawatt monster.

Las Vegas gleefully murdered

the word


then gilded it in gold,

and hung on the mantel.

It had never learned the word innocence and love was a four letter world only heretically spoken.

It cut the sin out of sincerity

and later charged you extra for it.

Neon nightmares crash through fixed pupils

(scenes that could move one to tears

if only there was enough room left in your eyes to cry).

The circus master doesn’t tame the lions here anymore

he just lets them run lose.

Jasmine observed the restless hoards saunter up and down the strip.

Their tired joints obligingly helped them scamper across the pavement

 in order to feed on some carnal desire

or the 12.95$ prime rib buffet.

Open all night every night,

never any need to turn out the lights.

If no one here could save themselves from mindless self indulgence

you can’t expect anyone to bother¬†to save electricity.

Look out for the glitz!

Watch out for the blitz!

If it knocks you down and out you’ll see stars (but don’t worry their not real).

Men grinning like wild stray dogs.

Women wearing layer upon layer of macabre make up,

-plastic faces in the night-

giving them the most chic expression of indifference money could buy.

“What are they hiding underneath such ghostly masks?” Jasmine asked,¬†

“I guess they must think it’s not sexy”.

Ahead parents lead their young children through a gauntlet of hustlers

flipping pornographic cards at passer-bys for erotic escorts and dancers.  

The cards litter the streets so that even the cement is trying to sell something to you.

All evening long 

workers from the Casinos will be sweeping up these very same cards,


in a bizarre and wasteful parasitic relationship.

A few¬†homeless folk¬†are out spangin’ the streets,

                     their quiet eyes are full 

with¬†wino witchcraft,¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬† (yearning for change that can’t be found in pockets)

the pit boss kicks out a noisey drunk,

                     his jowels quiver

                    and his teeth

grit angry indignation.


The new dancer spreads her limbs,

                     her suductive movements 

                     beckon of

false allure,                            (never does she look up when grabbing a bill)

the tourists pick over cheap trinkets

                     the lines on their face 

                     marked blandly with

neutral indifference,

the confident gambler quickly shuffles her chips

                her slender digits are

flirting nervoulsly,                (disaster is more than just a bad hand)

the cabbie picks up some loud party goers,

                      his laughter is seemingly all

in good humor.


Who are the actors if everyone is acting?

Is it theater if everyone is trapped by their own theatrics?


The restless throngs sauntered up and down the strip. 

Tired limbs obligingly help them scamper across the cement.

All are lost or losing.


Jasmine’s bus pulled away bound for¬†Portland¬†with a meloncoly schreech of relief.

It was the first night she had seen the stars in months.