each person has an equal vote in a democracy is like believing that
banks will check each mortgage to make sure it's not a subprime
risk. In fact banksters have been bundling mortgages — tossing subprimes
in with primes and selling them as an aggregate — for long enough
that we had been starting to believe there weren't any subprimes
anymore but merely ascension, something like what Evangelicals call
The Rapture. Well, there's been a lot of downward rapture lately.
My brother is losing his house right now to the repo man, though
he has an email in his inbox from two years ago — from me — telling
him not to buy his crap house in Nashville, that the market would
drop. Now the house will return to its original owners, the raccoons,
who may have mixed feelings about his departure, because Clive,
a gentle soul, had allowed them to remain in the attic and would
play his mandolin for them.
landscape has as many rotten boroughs as the mortgage or "real"
estate one. If your vote is for one of the two approved parties
(sometimes three in non-U.S. parliamentary democracies), it's bundled
and counted, and if not, it's tallied in a cluster of votes which
are given only nominal status. Usually this is performed as some
kind of musical chairs routine, where your vote bundle gets something
called a "seat" if your team has played the game correctly.
If you want to dissent, your vote bundle is not given a seat, but
your group can tell each other with grave faces that you've "done"
something to "change" things. Let's be clear about this.
Most votes for change are bundled and thrown away. From this fact
you might guess that voting is merely useless, but that isn't the
case. Your vote for alternative candidates is useless but not your
vote for the system. Your vote is useless for change but powerful
for stasis — it ratifies the system and sends a strong message that
you think it's okay to have a dynamic where any vote for change
is tossed out. Don't kid yourself. Your deed in the voting booth
isn't merely useless, it's pernicious.
How has voting,
the mechanism for ceding authority to surrogates, come to seem like
the means of actually reclaiming that authority? Voting is highly
esoteric, even if you don't include certain anomalies in Western
parliamentary procedure that stand out for their freak value, like
the American electoral "college." But voting presents
and re-presents itself as simple. Even those who have the most to
lose from impenetrable and arcane electoralist procedural shufflings
will routinely tell you that each person has a vote (I've even heard
17-year-olds tell me this!), though "each" and "person"
and "has" and "vote" are highly contested categories
with a level of complexity that does not lend itself to the glib
integer of the "cast." Everyone used to "know"
that a person was a man and not a woman and not a black man. Now
we "know" that each person gets a vote. In such a system,
could "I" "have" "a" "negative
vote"? If you think the word "a" isn't contested,
you may have forgotten Ohio and Florida. How have we come to this
appalling state, where the vehicle that has made the greatest inroads
on the self living authentically in the world, a vehicle which has
thrust its tendrils into our most private parts, pierced our flesh,
and dragged us off to Washington like so many interchangeable Mr.
Smiths, can continue to appear not only as our savior but as our
very self? Even lovers of big trees clamor to have a part in the
general calamity, to comfort themselves with a color in the electoralist
spectrum that is everywhere stolen from them in nature itself. Here
in Toronto the number of seats the greens (who according to their
signs were "voting for the future") garnered in the recent
election was zero, which is a nice symbol because you can make a
zero with your fingers and use it to view trees, which tend to look
bigger this way. I write here as an environmentalist, by the way.
I mention this because you might not be able to see my tears from
where you're sitting.
dissatisfaction with the self, the urge to enlist it in some tawdry
ventriloquist act, to keep it at a distance, is as old as philosophy,
and could make you want to drink hemlock. As for me, I'm named after
the second king of the Jews, a guy who liked to spy on women while
they were bathing, murder their husbands, kill Palestinians for
sport, and keep a sexy virgin in bed even after he was impotent.
"Now this is a man after my own heart," said the Semitic
storm god who installed him, and I have to say I've always liked
David, because he was a big man who could weep, repent, and also
write excellent prose. Of course, he wasn't as big as the first
king, who'd been installed on the basis of his height and movie-star
good looks, despite major provisos and warnings in triplicate from
the storm god that this whole idea of a leadership structure wasn't
going to do anyone any good. Well, it all came to a bad end, of
Why are we
so sure we need leaders at all? Much of what passes for an answer
to this is a highly complex set of insecurities but which appears
to be as simple as citing pavlovian cue words and phrases like "Hitler"
or "intruder in wife's bedroom." Here is our condition,
then, to mistake the complex for the simple and the simple for the
complex. The pre-utopian condition comes "after" modernism
and post-modernism with their pretensions of naming our historical
moment, but pre-utopia only appears to be something separate from
our heart, here, now. It is the utopian condition with a cloud.
I speak here as a five-year street person who knows a thing or two
about intruders. Still I say, even when I am in the street: here.
Not there. On the street, I learned to wake in strange places. The
point is less about where you wake up, than that you do.
that in the system of elsewhere, of capital and statist abstractions,
utopia is spoken of as distant in space and time. But really it
is no where, in the same way that one's heart is not a where,
unless it is everywhere. Eat, drink, sleep, be here now.
ask me what I have against democracy, I assume they mean other
than its long history of bloody foreign adventures or other than
the fact that its best forms are always complicit with totalitarian
regimes, or other than the fact that it arises in slave states like
18th-century America or ancient Greece, or other than
that it pretends to authenticate the self by sending it as a degraded
proxy elsewhere to cede authority to people who are usually dumber
than oneself and always less scrupulous, or that its rituals of
affirmation and allegiance are too embarrassing to watch on TV even
with the sound turned off, or that it's too embarrassing to contemplate
the image of one's otherwise intelligent friends watching things
called "debates" as if their irony somehow buffers them
from the idiocy. So maybe they mean, other than the obvious. Do
the Made in China stickers all over their apartments count as something
other than the obvious? Do we need Hannah Arendt to tell us that
democracy is merely a stage on the way to totalitarianism? Here's
what you get in a democracy: until December 31st of this
year, the label "Made in Canada" can legally be affixed
to apple juice grown in China by Chinese people using Chinese apples
and reduced to concentrate in China, on the basis of its having
water and a container added to it at the Canadian end [Clark Hoskin,
Edible Toronto, Fall, 2008]. You can learn everything you
need to know about democracy's self-deceptions from that word "Made."
Statist self-deception is constitutive, not incidental.
and dimed in this way, lied to and cheated upon in fractions too
numerous to tabulate, and it is no consolation that we in turn murder
in decimal bits, suck Iraqi baby blood in subtle calculations reckoned
to the right of the decimal point when we fill up our automobiles,
and then slap ourselves on the back and tell ourselves that at least
we're not like people with "regimes."
From the midst
of this welter of micro-deceptions, the state exacts your tribute
as a gesture of excess, and your submission comes not as a response
to a request for the small change of your self, not merely for bits
of you as the micro-fractured political subject you feel yourself
to be. Rather the state wants all of you, and calls you to duty
beneath the shining upright of the integer, the neat compression
of the self into a single upright one (1), yourself squished sideways
into the vertical submission of supportive citizen, like a soldier
at attention, a sideways and non-committal smile, a single digit
indistinguishable from the next, and your superiors can then mobilize
you — now as an it — at will.
A sign on my
neighbor's lawn urges us to vote, to "Stand Up For Canada."
The sign keeps tipping over. Someone writes to tell me that the
way to fix democracy is a new invention, The Fourth Party. As if
the name doesn't hint at its likelihood of success. Voting for something
called The Fourth Party is like hoping for a long line at the bank.
Don't get me started.
I haven't had
the heart to call Clive. In my mind's eye, he's sitting in the empty
house, playing one last round for the animals. Then he gathers himself
to leave. If I squint, I might see what comes next.
Grove watershed, Toronto
Ker Thomson's [send him
mail] is named after King David, an early experiment in the
usefulness of leadership. His last article at LewRockwell.com was