"Longtime readers of this blog will remember how, some years ago,
I pointed out in passing that the survival of the internet in the
deindustrial age didn't depend on whether there was some
technically feasible way to run an internet in times of energy and
resource limits, much less on how neat we think the internet is
today. Rather, I suggested, its survival in the future would
depend on whether it could make enough money to cover its
operating and maintenance costs, and on whether it could
successfully keep on outcompeting less complex and expensive ways
of providing the same services to its users. That post got a
flurry of responses from the geekoisie, all of whom wanted to talk
exclusively about whether there was some technically feasible way
to run the internet in a deindustrial world, and oh, yes, how
incredibly neat the internet supposedly is.
What's more, when I pointed out that they weren't discussing the
issues I had raised, they didn't argue with me or try to make an
opposing case. They just kept on talking more and more loudly
about the technical feasibility of various gimmicks for a
de-industrial internet, and by the way, did we mention yet how
unbelievably neat the internet is? It was frankly rather weird,
and I don't mean that in a good way. It felt at times as though
I'd somehow managed to hit the off switch on a dozen or so
intellects, leaving their empty husks to lurch mindlessly through
a series of animatronic talking points with all the persistence
and irrelevance of broken records.
It took a while for me to realize that the people who were engaged
in this bizarre sort of nonresponse understood perfectly well what
I was talking about. They knew at least as well as I did that the
internet is the most gargantuan technostructure in the history of
our species, a vast, sprawling, unimaginably costly, and
hopelessly unsustainable energy- and resource-devouring behemoth
that survives only because a significant fraction of the world's
total economic activity goes directly and indirectly toward its
upkeep. They knew about the slave-worked open pit mines, the vast
grim factories run by sweatshop labor, and the countless belching
smokestacks that feed its ravenous appetite for hardware and
power; they also know about the constellations of data centers
scattered across the world that keep it running, each of which
uses as much energy as a small city, and each of which has to have
one semi-truck after another pull up to the loading dock every
single day to offload pallets of brand new hard drives and other
hardware, in order to replace those that will burn out the next
day.
They knew all this, and they knew, or at least suspected, just how
little of it will be viable in a future of harsh energy and
resource constraints. They simply didn't want to think about that,
much less talk about it, and so they babbled endlessly about other
things in a frantic attempt to drown out a subject they couldn't
bear to hear discussed openly."
The Heresy of Technological Choice
by John Michael Greer
The Archdruid Report (November 18 2015)
Among the interesting benefits of writing a blog like this,
focusing as it does on the end of industrial civilization, are
the opportunities it routinely affords for a glimpse at the
stranger side of the collective thinking of our time. The last
few weeks have been an unusually good source of that experience,
as a result of one detail of the Retrotopia narrative I've been
developing in the posts here.
The detail in question is the system by which residents of my
fictional Lakeland Republic choose how much infrastructure they
want to have and, not incidentally, to pay for via their local
tax revenues. It's done on a county-by-county basis by majority
vote. The more infrastructure you want, the higher your taxes
are; the more infrastructure you can do without, the less of
your income goes to the county to pay for it. There are five
levels, called tiers, and each one has a notional date connected
to it: thus tier five has the notional date of 1950, and
corresponds to the infrastructure you'd expect to find in a
county in the Midwestern states of the US in that year:
countywide electrical, telephone, water, and sewer service;
roads and related infrastructure throughout the county capable
of handling heavy automobile use; and mass transit -
specifically, streetcars - in the towns.
The other tiers have less infrastructure, and correspondingly
lower taxes. Tier four has a notional date of 1920, tier three
of 1890, tier two of 1860, and tier one of 1830. In each case,
the infrastructure you'd find in such a county is roughly what
you'd find in a midwestern American county in that year. With
tier one, your county infrastructure consists of dirt roads and
that's about it. All the other functions of county government
exist in tier one, tier five, and everything in between; there
are courts, police, social welfare provisions for those who are
unable to take care of themselves, and so forth - all the things
you would expect to find in any midwestern county in the US at
any point between 1830 and 1950. That's the tier system: one
small detail of the imaginary future I've been sketching here.
Before we go on, I'd like my readers to stop and notice that the
only things that are subject to the tier system are the elements
of local infrastructure that are paid for by local tax revenues.
If you live in a county that voted to adopt a certain tier
level, that tells you what kind of infrastructure will be funded
by local tax revenues, and therefore what the tax bills are
going to be like. That's all it tells you. In particular, the
tier system doesn't apply to privately owned infrastructure -
for example, railroads in the Lakeland Republic are privately
owned, and so every county, whatever its tier, has train
stations in any town where paying passengers and freight may be
found in sufficient quantity to make it worth a railroad's while
to stop there.
The tier system also, and crucially, doesn't determine what kind
of technology the residents can use. If you live in a tier one
county, you can use all the electrical appliances you can afford
to buy, as long as you generate the electricity yourself. Some
technologies that are completely dependent on public
infrastructure aren't going to work in a low tier county - for
example, without paved roads, gas stations, huge government
subsidies for petroleum production, military bases all over the
Middle East, and a great deal more, cars aren't much more than
oversized paperweights - but that's built into the technology in
question, not any fault of the tier system. Furthermore, the
tier system doesn't determine social customs and mores. If you
live in a tier four county, for example, no law requires you to
dress in a zoot suit or a flapper dress, drink bootleg liquor,
and say things like "Hubba hubba" and "Twenty-three skidoo!"
This may seem obvious, but trust me, it's apparently far from
obvious to a certain portion of my readers.
I can say this because, ever since the tier system first got
mentioned in the narrative, I've fielded a steady stream of
comments from people who wanted to object to the tier system
because it forcibly deprives people of access to technology. I
had one reader insist that the tier system would keep farmers in
tier one counties from using plastic sheeting for hoop houses,
for example, and another who compared the system to the
arrangements in former Eastern Bloc nations, where the Communist
Party imposed rigid restrictions on what technologies people
could have. The mere facts that plastic sheeting for hoop houses
isn't infrastructure paid for by tax revenues, and that the tier
system doesn't impose rigid restrictions on anybody - on the
contrary, it allows the voters in each county to choose for
themselves how much infrastructure they're going to pay for -
somehow never found their way into the resulting diatribes.
What made all this even more fascinating to me is that no matter
how often I addressed the points in question, and pointed out
that the tier system just allows local voters to choose what
infrastructure gets paid for their by tax money, a certain
fraction of readers just kept rabbiting on endlessly along the
same lines. It wasn't that they were disagreeing with what I was
saying. It's that they were acting as though I had never said
anything to address the subject at all, even when I addressed it
to their faces, and nothing I or anyone else could say was able
to break through their conviction that in imagining the tier
system, I must be talking about some way to deprive people of
technology by main force.
It was after the third or fourth round of comments along these
lines, I think it was, that a sudden sense of deja vu reminded
me that I'd seen this same sort of curiously detached paralogic
before.
Longtime readers of this blog will remember how, some years ago,
I pointed out in passing that the survival of the internet in
the deindustrial age didn't depend on whether there was some
technically feasible way to run an internet in times of energy
and resource limits, much less on how neat we think the internet
is today. Rather, I suggested, its survival in the future would
depend on whether it could make enough money to cover its
operating and maintenance costs, and on whether it could
successfully keep on outcompeting less complex and expensive
ways of providing the same services to its users. That post got
a flurry of responses from the geekoisie, all of whom wanted to
talk exclusively about whether there was some technically
feasible way to run the internet in a deindustrial world, and
oh, yes, how incredibly neat the internet supposedly is.
What's more, when I pointed out that they weren't discussing the
issues I had raised, they didn't argue with me or try to make an
opposing case. They just kept on talking more and more loudly
about the technical feasibility of various gimmicks for a
deindustrial internet, and by the way, did we mention yet how
unbelievably neat the internet is? It was frankly rather weird,
and I don't mean that in a good way. It felt at times as though
I'd somehow managed to hit the off switch on a dozen or so
intellects, leaving their empty husks to lurch mindlessly
through a series of animatronic talking points with all the
persistence and irrelevance of broken records.
It took a while for me to realize that the people who were
engaged in this bizarre sort of nonresponse understood perfectly
well what I was talking about. They knew at least as well as I
did that the internet is the most gargantuan technostructure in
the history of our species, a vast, sprawling, unimaginably
costly, and hopelessly unsustainable energy- and
resource-devouring behemoth that survives only because a
significant fraction of the world's total economic activity goes
directly and indirectly toward its upkeep. They knew about the
slave-worked open pit mines, the vast grim factories run by
sweatshop labor, and the countless belching smokestacks that
feed its ravenous appetite for hardware and power; they also
know about the constellations of data centers scattered across
the world that keep it running, each of which uses as much
energy as a small city, and each of which has to have one
semi-truck after another pull up to the loading dock every
single day to offload pallets of brand new hard drives and other
hardware, in order to replace those that will burn out the next
day.
They knew all this, and they knew, or at least suspected, just
how little of it will be viable in a future of harsh energy and
resource constraints. They simply didn't want to think about
that, much less talk about it, and so they babbled endlessly
about other things in a frantic attempt to drown out a subject
they couldn't bear to hear discussed openly.
I'm pretty sure that this is what's going on in the present
case, too, and an interesting set of news stories from earlier
this year points up the unspoken logic behind it.
Port Townsend is a pleasant little town in Washington State,
perched on a bluff above the western shores of Puget Sound. Due
to the vagaries of the regional economy, it basically got
bypassed by the twentieth century, and much of the housing stock
dates from the Victorian era. It so happens that one couple who
live there find Victorian technology, clothing, and personal
habits more to their taste than the current fashions in these
things, and they live, as thoroughly as they can, a Victorian
lifestyle. The wife of the couple, Sarah Chrisman, recently
wrote a book about her experiences, and got her canonical
fifteen minutes of fame on the internet and the media as a
result.
You might think, dear reader, that the people of Port Townsend
would treat this as merely a harmless eccentricity, or even find
it pleasantly amusing to have a couple in Victorian cycling
clothes riding their penny-farthing bicycles on the city
streets. To some extent, you'd be right, but it's the exceptions
that I want to discuss here. Ever since they adopted their
Victorian lifestyle, the Chrismans have been on the receiving
end of constant harassment by people who find their presence in
the community intolerable. The shouted insults, the in-your-face
confrontations, the death threats - they've seen it all. What's
more, the appearance of Sarah Chrisman's book and various online
articles related to it fielded, in response, an impressive
flurry of spluttering online denunciations, which insisted among
other things that the fact that she prefers to wear long skirts
and corsets somehow makes her personally responsible for all the
sins that have ever been imputed to the Victorian era.
Why? Why the fury, the brutality, and the frankly irrational
denunciations directed at a couple whose lifestyle choices have
got to count well up there among the world's most harmless
hobbies?
The reason's actually very simple. Sarah Chrisman and her
husband have transgressed one of the modern world's most rigidly
enforced taboos. They've shown in the most irrefutable way, by
personal example, that the technologies each of us use in our
own lives are a matter of individual choice.
You're not supposed to say that in today's world. You're not
even supposed to think it. You're allowed, at most, to talk
nostalgically about how much more pleasant it must have been not
to be constantly harassed and annoyed by the current round of
officially prescribed technologies, and squashed into the
Procrustean bed of the narrow range of acceptable lifestyles
that go with them. Even that's risky in many circles these days,
and risks fielding a diatribe from somebody who just has to tell
you, at great length and with obvious irritation, all about the
horrible things you'd supposedly suffer if you didn't have the
current round of officially prescribed technologies constantly
harassing and annoying you.
The nostalgia in question doesn't have to be oriented toward the
past. I long ago lost track of the number of people I've heard
talk nostalgically about what I tend to call the Ecotopian
future, the default vision of a green tomorrow that infests most
minds on the leftward end of things. Unless you've been hiding
under a rock for the last forty years, you already know every
detail of the Ecotopian future. It's the place where wind
turbines and solar panels power everything, everyone commutes by
bicycle from their earth-sheltered suburban homes to their
LEED-certified urban workplaces, everything is recycled, and
social problems have all been solved because everybody, without
exception, has come to embrace the ideas and attitudes currently
found among upper-middle-class San Francisco liberals.
It's far from rare, at sustainability-oriented events, to hear
well-to-do attendees waxing rhapsodically about how great life
will be when the Ecotopian future arrives. If you encounter
someone engaging in that sort of nostalgic exercise, and are
minded to be cruel, ask the person who's doing it whether he
(it's usually a man) bicycles to work, and if not, why not. Odds
are you'll get to hear any number of frantic excuses to explain
why the lifestyle that everyone's going to love in the Ecotopian
future is one that he can't possibly embrace today. If you want
a look behind the excuses and evasions, ask him how he got to
the sustainability-oriented event you're attending. Odds are
that he drove his SUV, in which there were no other passengers,
and if you press him about that you can expect to see the dark
heart of privilege and rage that underlies his enthusiastic
praise of an imaginary lifestyle that he would never, not even
for a moment, dream of adopting himself.
I wish I were joking about the rage. It so happens that I don't
have a car, a television, or a cell phone, and I have zero
interest in ever having any of these things. My defection from
the officially prescribed technologies and the lifestyles that
go with them isn't as immediately obvious as Sarah Chrisman's,
so I don't take as much day to day harassment as she does.
Still, it happens from time to time that somebody wants to know
if I've seen this or that television program, and in the
conversations that unfold from such questions it sometimes comes
out that I don't have a television at all.
Where I now live, in an old red brick mill town in the north
central Appalachians, that revelation rarely gets a hostile
response, and it's fairly common for someone else to say, "Good
for you", or something like that. A lot of people here are very
poor, and thus have a certain detachment from technologies and
lifestyles they know perfectly well they will never be able to
afford. Back when I lived in prosperous Left Coast towns, on the
other hand, mentioning that I didn't own a television routinely
meant that I'd get to hear a long and patronizing disquisition
about how I really ought to run out and buy a TV so I could
watch this or that or the other really really wonderful program,
in the absence of which my life must be intolerably barren and
incomplete.
Any lack of enthusiasm for that sort of disquisition very
reliably brought out a variety of furiously angry responses that
had precisely nothing to do with the issue at hand, which is
that I simply don't enjoy the activity of watching television.
Oh, and it's not the programming I find unenjoyable - it's the
technology itself; I get bored very quickly with the process of
watching little colored images jerking about on a glass screen,
no matter what the images happen to be. That's another taboo, by
the way. It's acceptable in today's America to grumble about
what's on television, but the technology itself is sacrosanct;
you're not allowed to criticize it, much less to talk about the
biases, agendas, and simple annoyances hardwired into television
as a technological system. If you try to bring any of that up,
people will insist that you're criticizing the programming; if
you correct them, they'll ignore the correction and keep on
talking as though the programs on TV are the only thing under
discussion.
A similar issue drives the bizarre paralogic surrounding the
nonresponses to the tier system discussed above. The core
premises behind the tier system in my narrative are, first, that
people can choose the technological infrastructure they have,
and have to pay for - and second, that some of them, when they
consider the costs and benefits involved, might reasonably
decide that an infrastructure of dirt roads and a landscape of
self-sufficient farms and small towns is the best option. To a
great many people today, that's heresy of the most unthinkable
sort. The easiest way to deal with the heresy in question, for
those who aren't interested in thinking about it, is to pretend
that nothing so shocking has been suggested at all, and force
the discussion into some less threatening form as quickly as
possible. Redefining it in ways that erase the unbearable idea
that technologies can be chosen freely, and just as freely
rejected, is quite probably the easiest way to do that.
I'd encourage those of my readers who aren't blinded by the
terror of intellectual heresy to think, and think hard, about
the taboo against technological choice - the insistence that you
cannot, may not, and must not make your own choices when it
comes to whatever the latest technological fad happens to be,
but must do as you're told and accept whatever technology the
consumer society hands you, no matter how dysfunctional,
harmful, or boring it turns out to be. That taboo is very deeply
ingrained, far more potent than the handful of relatively weak
taboos our society still applies to such things as sexuality,
and most of the people you know obey it so unthinkingly that
they never even notice how it shapes their behavior. You may not
notice how it shapes your behavior, for that matter; the best
way to find out is to pick a technology that annoys, harms, or
bores you, but that you use anyway, and get rid of it.
Those who take that unthinkable step, and embrace the heresy of
technological choice, are part of the wave of the future. In a
world of declining resource availability, unraveling economic
systems, and destabilizing environments, Sarah Chrisman and the
many other people who make similar choices - there are quite a
few of them these days, and more of them with each year that
passes - are making a wise choice. By taking up technologies and
lifeways from less extravagant eras, they're decreasing their
environmental footprints and their vulnerability to faltering
global technostructures, and they're also contributing to one of
the crucial tasks of our age: the rediscovery of ways of being
human that don't depend on hopelessly unsustainable levels of
resource and energy consumption.
The heresy of technological choice is a door. Beyond it lies an
unexplored landscape of possibilities for the future -
possibilities that very few people have even begun to imagine
yet. My Retrotopia narrative is meant to glance over a very
small part of that landscape. If some of the terrain it's
examined so far has been threatening enough to send some of its
readers fleeing into a familiar sort of paralogic, then I'm
confident that it's doing the job I hoped it would do.
_____
John Michael Greer is the Grand Archdruid of the Ancient Order
of Druids in America and the author of more than thirty books on
a wide range of subjects, including peak oil and the future of
industrial society. He lives in Cumberland, Maryland, an old red
brick mill town in the north central Appalachians, with his wife
Sara.
http://thearchdruidreport.blogspot.com/2015/11/the-heresy-of-technological-choice.html