Branding Democracy

Is it all as simple as a grab for oil and power? From the top, yes. Creating fear and then stepping in to “protect”? Those are mafia methods: the protection racket.

REPORTER: What does the war in Iraq have to do with 9/11?
BUSH (irritated): Nothing....But the American people should know that I’m doing my job of protecting them.

Deeper than that, the implied lie is that “the war” is a protracted (in fact never-ending) battle of good vs. evil. In order to make sure the people feel “good” (especially about their fearless leaders), the population has to be presented (enter TV, newsfeeds, and embedded reporters) with a generalized enemy to be feared: an “axis of evil.”

An average American responds: “God continue to be with the victims and their families. Be with the soldiers as they continue to defend our way of life. It's regrettable that so many are forgetting the scenes of that day. We are in a struggle for the very lifestyle that so many take for granted.”

At this deeper level of truth and self-deception, goodness equates with the supreme value placed on material prosperity, and the freedom to enjoy it even if at the expense of others. In such a bipolar world, the “haves” are good and the “have-nots” are evil (unless they are content with the plundering of their resources and sanctions on their own freedoms).

So finally we have it. Oil really is blood: the lifeblood of the American way of life. Protecting Americans means protecting the way of life, the lifestyle, the priceless “democratic freedom” to consume at the top of the global food chain, for which any cost in human lives (whether foreign or American) is deemed a necessary blood-sacrifice.

The high priests of American foreign policy (for whom Bush is really just a typecast down-home mouthpiece) are certainly wedded to this imperial philosophy, by their own embedding in and dependence on the corporate hierarchies that rest atop that economic food chain. And the people who follow the resulting war cries, whether conscious or not of their real motives, must be reckoned with.

If it’s a real “us” against “them” today in North American politics, it’s those of us who cannot in conscience support violence to other human beings for the sake of our own prosperity, vying for political influence with those who have no qualms about putting the maintenance of their economic lifestyle above the very lives of others less fortunate.

I could go further to say that the one stance is “good” and the other is “evil,” but my dualistic trap has very different consequences than the current working model. My response to the evil of imperialistic warfare is, the behavior should be condemned and made politically indefensible. The conventional response to the evil of insurgent have-nots is, kill them if they don’t comply.

Which brand of democracy do you buy?

This time I’m on Maui, the pinnacle of close-to-home paradise for North Americans. There are lots of Canadians here especially, along with the usual tribe of Aussies and Kiwis, Brits and Swedes, on and on...

It’s ironic that here in this high-end resort culture, I find myself having deja-vus of Conakry, Guinea, where the post-apocalyptic world has been born and is daily dying in poverty, dust, smoke and overpopulated chaos. Here the fumes are more benign, the cafe scene trending momentarily to the mellow...but moments ago when I was inspired with this surprising juxtaposition, the Australians were loudly cursing from the center table, an oversized truck was belching and screeching outside, the canned music was careening from Bootsie Collins to the Beatles, a mother at the next table was chatting on her cell phone while her small child babbled and tottered around the room, and I had to somehow maintain my bubble of concentration while doing an editing job on my laptop...the job including remarks on the state of world culture wherein rural Mexicans can now use cell phones and Internet even while lacking basic telephone lines.

In a similar vein, last night I confessed to my housemates at the pineapple ranch BnB that I didn’t know how to use a microwave and didn’t have a TV...though I packed a laptop and iPod. $50 a night seems like a good deal, but there is really no privacy there except in the small bedroom - office on the bed - as the housemates scurry around from 6:30 on, and the 4-7 boys of the owners’ family roam the manicured grounds like cruising flies.

...Harsh, I know; and it’s all fine, really. I chose to try to work here rather than at home where I also face the same dilemma: enclosed in my private box of an apartment, or out in the public domain where all manner of talk and distracting noise is ever-apparent. In the hostel there was the hubbub of traffic at all hours in the kitchen and common areas both indoors and out. At dawn on the world’s prettiest beach I was almost alone but not quite; roamers began a regular sea-watch before 6:00. Am I complaining? It seems so. But really, I simply observe, as there is that choice: isolation, in front of TV or computer or book or food inside that lonely box; or life in domesticity, with all of the attendant emotional and interpersonal issues around common space and time, meals and work and leisure and sleep and sex; or out in the social world where there is the property grid to contend with, crisscrossed by traffic, tourists, neighbors and friends and family, and the ever-present if sometimes invisible homeless.

If there is a point it may be that nothing is exactly as it seems. Do the very rich escape these conundrums by forking out $300 and up for a box in the highrise above the postcard beach where I stroll for free and the native Hawaiians tend the landscape and serve mai-tais for minimum wage? Am I more or less connected to my vanmates on the hostel tours than I would be with my mate or mates on a more privately rented journey across this or another island once or now branded “paradise”? Are those natives who are poor or well-wheeled better off now or under the arrogant kings of their past who ordered them to carry buckets of volcanic soil from one valley to another, or to fight the natives from a neighboring island, or to die from unknowingly transgressing some arcane taboo?

Distinctions are what makes the world go round, but in the end, they are all so problematic. The solution may seem to be, then, to disappear in the mantra of oneness and void...a consolation that philosophy does offer at any moment when needed. Complaint then turns to acceptance, to letting go of any ambition for further distinction in service of ego or illusion.

And is this the only choice, then? - the disintegration of paradise into chaos; or its integration in the moving mosaic of the moment? Yes, and yes, with more than a footnote to beauty...the sudden glory of sunset in clouds, or an inspiring oldie on the airwaves, or a five-minute snorkel at a spontaneous cove in the company of a giant prehistoric turtle...

Life and work and play go on, and the search for the right combination of environmental variables continues. It also changes by the moment...so that now there is only genial conversation and a high-pressure sigh of an espresso machine to accompany the gentle clacking of my keys in the Italian bakery-cafe in Makawao, upcountry Maui, at the end of May, 2006.

I used to do this all the time: blogging before blogging. Now that
there's blogging, I can hardly bring myself to blog anymore. Always
trying to be different, I guess. When alternative becomes mainstream,
what's the alternative?

Of course, it always come down to: just doing it. Being extroverted,
by definition; though I'm not, by nature.

In the end, there is a new beginning. Philosophy ends action; then
action ends philosophy. On and on: yang on yin. Or, action is
philosophy; philosophy is action.

Any words can be defended: terrorism on terrorism, for example. Or,
any are indefensible. My friend got stopped coming off a ferry,
because he "looked suspicious" - swarthy complexion, black beard,
backpack and bulky coat, looking around at things, writing things down:
a grocery list, thoughts about sex.

Many, in other words, forms of subversion, perversion. Depending on
one's point of view. Thus, the necessity, or the impossibility, of
expressing a point of view.

To speak or not to speak...it's not even a question: just a dual
imperative, with either choice as good/bad or appropriate/inappropriate
as the next.

In the meantime, there are cultural observations to be made, true or
not, but apparent in the moment:

Food in the USA is more interesting than in Canada. Americans are more
talkative and outgoing than Canadians.
American politics isn't more evil than Canadian politics, just more
blatant, less wishy-washy.
Or maybe that does make it more evil.

On the subject of politics and philosophy, I like Joanna Macy's take on
it, going back to the Tibetan "Shambhala Prophecy"
(http://www.joannamacy.net/html/great.html) of the 8th century:
combining the two principles of compassion, which fuels action; and
insight, which recognizes that all our thoughts and actions, no matter
how slight, have an impact on the whole web of life.

Halfway along in this five-week stay in Thailand . . . Each day I move slower, sinking deeper into life’s simplicity, the gentle warmth of air and water, and of the people who live here. In this respect there is little difference between the native Thais and the foreigners vacationing here, or those who have adopted it as their home. The pace of life is universally relaxed, at least on the island of Koh Phangan . . . even at the thronging spit of beach known as Haad Rin, home of the world’s biggest full moon party.

This is supposed to be the dry season, but it has rained almost every day, and recently for most of the day and night. The occasional appearances of full sun are reminders of the blasting power of that element, which otherwise is rather subdued, moderated by soft clouds and caressing breezes. At night there is seldom need for more than a sheet, and often just half of that is enough to cover bare skin. In the sun it is impossible to keep clothes dry from sweat, and in the torrential rain likewise impossible to stay dry. But there is no panic of hypothermia or even much of a chill . . . just acceptance of that other universal element, the water which surrounds us.

I’ve been somewhat guiltily managing to carry on my editing business here, averaging a couple hours a day of work on the laptop. Internet connection businesses are everywhere, so it was a simple matter to find one with a fast connection and ethernet cable to hook into my laptop for transferring edited files. The guilt part has something to do with working at all here, when the experience of paradise is so rich and full in itself; a feeling that I should be immersed as fully as possible in it while it lasts. The other part of the guilt has to do with enjoying the best of both worlds . . . that’s it’s somehow unfair or undeserved to be able to make one’s living in so relaxed and effortless a way as this. In fact the combination is doing what I anticipated it might: convincing me that living and working here at least six months of the year is eminently sensible.

The other part of my working life is also coming together as well as I could have imagined, with a full dozen of the yoga students deciding to attend drum classes once or twice a week while I’m here. The main obstacle of having enough drums was passed last week when I accompanied half a dozen of the students into the nearest town (Thong Sala), to buy passable djembes for under $40 each.

The beach itself is perfect for swimming, with a broad crescent of white soft sand, shallow clear pale green water, and minimal wave action here on the mainland side of the island. A recent visit to the seaward side gave some challenging variety in the form of big breaking waves, but a tropical storm whipped them too high even to travel out by boat, so we had to hike back to our starting point, two hours over a steep rough trail. Amazingly, no complaints from 9-year-old Cleo on the grueling trek.

Other roads and trails nearby have taken us by foot to neighboring beaches, giving us relatively local access to groceries as well as, again, more variety of experience here – much more immediate than traveling by taxi or motorbike.

With the beaches lined by bungalows and restaurants, there is no shortage of variety in eating out . . . though the menus differ very little from place to place. There is only a subtle difference between the universally offered green, red, or coconut curries, but it’s hard to tire of these, when the result is almost always excellent, and at times absolutely transcendent. (The homemade coconut or chocolate ice cream doesn’t hurt either, or the discovery here and there of a real cappuccino). The biggest challenge on the food front is appeasing (or not) the endless restaurant obsessions of Cleo.

Yes, this is yuppie heaven all right, but heaven by any name is hardly to be argued with. If I have found the formula and means to live out my ideal 8-hour day here – 2 hours each of work, music, swimming and walking – there is no cause to complain. And that’s just the quantitative analysis of how time can be spent . . . when the true experience is timeless, and of a mysterious yet unmistakable quality, impossible to convey and equally impossible to resist.

So that's the way it works, eh? Canadian politics symbolizes it, with
a new minority Conservative government. Most of the voters prefer the
more liberal-leaning Liberals or NDP, but the government goes to the
control of the conservatives.

It's like this: it's easier to stand pat, to stay stuck, than to figure
out where else to go.

I must admit, I didn't even get involved in the issues in this Canadian
federal election enough to know any specifics. And I didn't vote. I
lost interest in Canadian politics after the Quebec separatist movement
died down. But it's interesting enough to note how this election
points to an ongoing syndrome of political life.

Those who want change inevitably end up being split over how to do it,
where to go. The liberal or progressive agenda is split into a rainbow
of sub-issues, of constituencies, of ethnic and ideological diversity.
Whereas the staid middle-class, largely white and conservative values
are more simplistic, more generic, more homogenous. Thus they have an
advantage in holding a solid block of votes for a single party or
ideology...or negative ideology, if you will.

The result is inertia, the inertia not of movement but the easier
choice, of stasis, status quo. Here we go, again; here we stay.
Business as usual.

Otherwise, what? Who can agree?

All right, here's a stab, at 2 a.m., at the newest twist in Web
publishing: blogging by email. It should come in handy when I'm in
Thailand, two weeks from today. Meanwhile, I'm all webbed out...you
would think...after a marathon of upgrading this site
(alternativeculture.com), creating a couple of new sites
(DjembeRhythms.com and masalaband.com) and finally, redoing the
over-javaed home page for HyperLife.net.

Next? Oh, there's always a next. Though in Web-land, a real human can
sometimes disappear for months on end. What was the quote I heard
today? "It was, like, real, like something you'd see on TV."

Hmm. In the meantime...

There's always a meantime, isn't it? That is, if you believe in time.
As in, time is money, time's a-wasting, etc. But then, the sages all
tell us that time is an illusion; words have no real meaning; desire is
doomed; and so on. What are we to believe?

Me, it depends on my mood. At 2:11 a.m. (present time) I'll call it
Websday and now, call it a day. "See you" again "soon."

In the meantime...