He's got his household trash down to eight pounds.

A year.

And despite the fact that for two decades he has run what is surely the region's most quixotic and varied recycling enterprise, here's a little secret about the master recycler: He doesn't think it should be happening.

"The lesson isn't to recycle more," he says amid his hivelike realm, a two-acre property strewn with the detritus of a consumptive culture. "The lesson is how to generate less."

Yet in the world according to Crater - inventor, prankster and dreamer - recycling still has to happen, because of society's willful blindness. And it happens big-time here just south of Pottstown.

He finds destinies for 1,000 to 1,500 tons of materials a year, truckload after truckload of stuff no one else will touch.

He makes biodiesel from leftover cooking oil.

Polystyrene (crinkly cookie trays) becomes flower pots.

He looks locally, and factors in sustainability. His farthest market, he says, is North Carolina, where he sends No. 5 plastic (mostly, yogurt tops) to be made into auto parts.

About a decade ago, the expansion of curbside recycling put a dent in his business, but revenue has nevertheless increased - from $130,000 in 1997 to $184,000 in 2006, according to his nonprofit tax filings.

Most of the income is from an $8 gate fee he charges those dropping off recyclables, from memberships, and from selling items collected. However, Crater says a lot of items cost more to handle than he can sell them for. (Polystyrene, for instance, costs $1,000 a ton to handle and sells for $100 a ton). Some things, like tires, he has to pay to get rid of. He also gives things away to relief efforts and such.

He has 13 part-time workers. His salary is now up to $52,000.

He amazes Montgomery County recycling coordinator Art Feltes because he comes up with so many creative uses for stuff.

Still, some objects resist even him, so he's used a lot of them to build a 10-foot-high dragon at the facility. He named it Merlin.

Not long ago, he lost his buyer for plastic foam. The company got "fussy," demanding something that was all but impossible: testing each piece for fire retardants.

Crater wound up with 150 bales of the foam before he finally found a company in Downingtown that is using it for archery backstops.

Good news, right? But it also presents another contradiction. "There's an image of our times," Crater says, almost bitterly. "We can't deal with something that saves energy. But we sell it as something that people shoot at."

And that gets to the core of this whimsical maverick, given to cosmic pronouncements such as: "Technology moves ahead because it has no conscience."

A compact man with a long ponytail - often wearing charms representing his "spirit guides," the eagle and turtle - Crater joined his high school ecology club in 1972 and never looked back.