Neighborhood Resilience
Four streams from the Terrarium: rituals you can run on your street this week, field guides to the twelve capabilities a household holds, field notes from the future — clearly-labeled fiction about where all of this is pointed — and the honest engine, plain-language looks at how the numbers are really computed. No fear-mongering. Gardens, not bunkers. The civic handshake is the street's door to official systems.
Clearly-labeled fiction about where all of this is pointed.
Fiction, clearly labeled. The Sunday the county emergency manager sat down at Kestrel Court’s table, ate, and left with a list that was already in the right language.
Read more →Fiction, for now. A dispatch from a cul-de-sac twenty years out — the year nobody noticed the grid go down, and what the long table on Kestrel Court can teach a street that hasn't met yet.
Read more →Fiction, clearly labeled. Twenty years of one street's Sundays, told through the table itself — oak from a storm-fallen tree, scarred by two decades of pots and elbows. The storms are footnotes. The Sundays are the story.
Read more →Fiction, clearly labeled. A visitor's dispatch from the first settlement designed street-first — shade sails, cisterns, a commissary — and what it humbly borrowed from ordinary cul-de-sacs. A redundancy layer that feels like a neighborhood.
Read more →Fiction, clearly labeled. A near-future dispatch from a street that turns itself off one week a year, on purpose. Year one was chaos. Year three is a holiday the kids count down to. Half festival, half fire drill, all neighbors.
Read more →Everything on this site grows from one question: which three neighbors could you call at 2am? Name them, and your street starts to exist.