A Book Review of
Postmodernism: Or, The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism
By Fredric Jameson
To cover Jameson’s entire text, Postmodernism, is to essentially try and explain one’s surroundings and behaviors in Western culture (in particular the United States) since the Industrial Revolution. That is to say, that Fredric Jameson successfully does this; covering chapter by chapter everything from literature to architecture, and the changing attitudes in everything from Utopia to culture and even film and video (television). Jameson opens the text with an introduction, neither disavowing nor promoting the idea of postmodernism. Instead, Jameson addresses areas in which he sees evidence of a break from the Modernist period, or what he calls “high-modernism.” In an attempt to define what postmodernism might be, and to prove to skeptics that it exists, Jameson has focused on the differences between our own period, postmodernism, and the Modernist period that spans approximately from 1880 to the 1930’s (sometimes referred to the one hundred year period since the Industrial Revolution). This book, although primarily consisting of theory, does have tremendous implications on social behavior, in particular the development of culture under global capitalism. This book, having begun with Jameson’s first essay on postmodernism published in 1984, predicts and sets the stage for what is commonly referred to now as Globalization. In this pre-internet text, Jameson refers to this global system in a few ways: Late Capitalism, Third Stage Capitalism, and Multinational Capitalism. In addressing the symptoms of Late Capitalism seen in Western culture, Jameson’s Marxist point of view becomes clear. Much of the text is spent referring back to “commodity fetishism,” “division of labor,” and a bureaucratic concept of time; the text does this in order to explain how Late Capitalism has affected the psychology of subjects in Western culture. This logic of late capitalism is what Jameson identifies as postmodernism. This review of the book will consolidate, and make commentary, on the social implications of these symptoms, and finally relate the concepts directly to our current state, known as Globalization.
In the introduction, Jameson first informs the reader of the problem in historicizing ourselves within our own period. The problem, he says, is not only that we cannot identify a clear and unique characteristic of our own postmodern behavior, but that we are so obsessed with that idea of encapsulating and labeling ourselves that our past becomes disjointed from us, making our relationship to that past irrelevant to us (xxii). He looks at this obsession of quantifying our time as “schizophrenic” in nature (xxii). This problem is addressed later in the chapters on literature and film, in which the narration of our own history gets projected in those mediums, often affecting social outcomes and society’s perception of reality itself. This problem of how postmodern society views time is addressed throughout the book, occasionally referring back to Marx’s idea of commodity, and invoking in the sociologists mind, Weber’s concern with the work clock.
The first chapter of the book, coming from Jameson’s first essay on the topic in 1984, is titled The Culture of Late Capitalism. This original essay focuses on the behaviors of what might be called a postmodern period. Jameson sees the culture responding to an overwhelming feeling that things are coming to an end. This can, and often does, mean that people become preoccupied with the idea of Armageddon, the End Times, and so on, but Jameson is not limiting our culture only to this symptom. Since the 1950’s, the period in which Jameson begins to see postmodernism emerge, people anticipate the end of Communism, the end of definitive social classes (within the constructs of the American Dream), and perhaps the end of ideology itself (1). The end of ideology is expressed in the artist’s cynicism that nothing new may be created, or ‘it has all been done before.’ The focus on art in culture is important because the any period of literature and art (Romanticism, Victorian, Modernist) has largely been defined by the art that period has produced and the social implications of that art. Jameson’s concern is that in postmodern times, less and less emphasis is placed on these types of achievements (artistic) and more emphasis is placed on technological advancements that increase efficiency of production on the macro scale (Industry) and on the micro scale (the family). Another problem is that the art postmodernists tend to develop is either meaningless or simply too abstract to assign any social meaning to it. Many postmodern artists do this on purpose in order to avoid being pigeonholed into a genre or classification. This in and of itself is a symptom of postmodernism, where the attempt to avoid classification becomes its own classification. Other examples of this will be covered later on. Without larger understandings of how this or that particular work of art situates itself into society, and what it says about society, the image (painting) or idea (literature) can only function on a superficial and surface level—lacking entirely social and historic significance.
Jameson views this “break” from Industrial to “postindustrial society,” as being “designated by consumer society, media society, information society, electronic society…and the like” (3). This transition becomes important in explaining the function of cynicism in the older Modernist period because it feeds the cynicism in postmodernism that prevents us from labeling ourselves definitively within our place in time. As the middle class rose in strength here in the United States as well as in Europe in the Industrial Revolution, the people rejected ideas of master narratives, or state issued accounts of our history (i.e. how we are to represent ourselves). This challenge to the state power is seen in the art and literature throughout this period. Jameson reminds the reader of this, to make apparent the origin of our current postmodern cynicism that prevents us from accepting a master narrative, forever limiting our representation of ourselves in that time (which again, defines us as such). The problem, Jameson feels, with rejecting this all-encompassing description or narrative, is that it is only within a consensus or “hegemonic norm that genuine difference could be measured and assessed” (6). How can we separate our own time/period/era from that of the Modernists if there is no consensus on what it is we are doing and why? This is where Marx’s idea of ideology comes in to play. We do not know what it is we are doing that is any different than before, but we need to attempt to understand our subject position to the larger global system in which we operate, if we are ever to understand our role in a historical narrative.
This envisioning, or “cognitive mapping,” is another problem Jameson sees developing in the postmodern mind. Our obsessional division of time coupled with our need to assign definitive images (simulacrum) to periods and cultures has made the mental filing process difficult in a world economic system (5-6). One hundred years ago, the average person would only need to map in their minds a regional area spanning a dozen or so square miles (if that) and a small economic system (local market and so on). Jameson argues that in an expanding multinational economy and with ever expanding military operations around the world, it becomes difficult for the average person to understand their place in this larger system (5). The result is that revolutions become paralyzed, seen as an insignificant mise en scene, in the larger global system (5). Again, the general sentiment is, ‘it’s all been done before,’ and ‘how cute, another uprising.’ In fact, all movements and ideologies in postmodernism immediately get reduced to fad upon being identified in society. This is a direct result of the “schizophrenic” labeling, quantifying, and reification of ideas. This process essentially makes any idea and/or movement a commodity.
Jameson spends some time in chapter 1 describing the differences in artwork coming from both the high-modernist (Industrial) age, and the postmodern (postindustrial) age (8-18). He compares the paintings of van Gogh to Andy Warhol, when looking and portraits of footwear through the last 100 years. The purpose behind this comparison is to once again give example of how postmodern images are without any social commentary lying underneath. Van Gogh’s painting as well as many others from the Modernist (Industrial) age, used representations of torn and tattered work boots to give commentary of a larger social context (conditions of exploited workers). The Andy Warhol painting Diamond Dust Shoes was merely an interesting look at many women’s shoes, perhaps in a shop window (8-18). An argument can be made that because Warhol’s painting looked just like an advertisement, the painting could be understood as a commentary on advertising. The bottom line is that there is no consensus for this assertion and hence the painting gets reduced to ‘just an image,’ or ‘just a commodity,’ hence ‘just a fetish’ [Marx].
The removal of sociological relevance and hermeneutic relation from these images extends well beyond paintings and into virtually everything in postmodernism. Photography is guilty of removing the sociological implications of poverty, squalor, wreckage, destruction, war, etc. (30-34). These images become respected for their artistic merit and the historical and sociological significance is ignored. This attitude toward the image, is according to Jameson, a direct result of the logic of late capitalism, commodifying everything we see instantaneously. This is precisely what Marx meant when he addressed the problem of “commodity fetishism.”
The book continues to explore the concept of image in postmodernism through experimental video in the 1970’s. Edward Rankus, working at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, produced a video entitled AlienNATION, in which seemingly random images are placed in succession of each other, signifying nothing for the viewer (79). This art piece, for Jameson, captures succinctly the postmodern attitudes toward the image. The interesting thing about Jameson’s interpretation of this video, is not that the images cannot mean anything to us, but rather that the images contain so many immediate connections to brand names, jingles, commercials, family memories, and even historical context (social class, racism, gender etc.), that our postmodern minds get lost, so to speak, in the connections we are making so immediately. Jameson, never assumes that our postmodern minds are ‘stupid,’ and perhaps incapable of making deep connections, but on the contrary he is saying that the Modernist deconstruction of meanings within a text are so immediate, that we dismiss many of those previously made connections (social class, racism, gender, etc) and move on to try and further disassociate the image into all of its infinite factions and connections. These are what Jameson refers to as “deeply embedded” simulacrum (85). This is a prime example of how a subject can ‘get lost’ in the postmodern age and exhibit “schizophrenic” attachments to stimuli, inhibiting larger social significance to solidify in the subjects mind.
The problem of orientation in the “world economic system” is expressed through the architecture of the postmodern period as well. Jameson sees Spatial Equivalents in the World System, in chapter 4. The exemplary postmodern building for Jameson is the house of a postmodern architect, Frank Gehry. Gehry’s house is an old 1920’s house with red Spanish tiles on the roof. When the house was purchased in the early 1970’s, Gehry decided to keep a portion of the old house in tact, while demolishing the rest and rebuilding a modern addition. The modern part of the house has a glass cube over the kitchen and sharp protruding corrugated metal and fencing surrounding it. The older part of the house is kept in its original 1920’s style, including the furniture. This monstrosity can be seen from the outside as quite a disorienting mess, but from the inside is seen as innovative and stunningly beautiful (97-129). Jameson articulates this embodiment of the postmodern problem:
“In a more articulated way it confronts us with the paradoxical impossibilities (not least the impossibilities of representation) which are inherent in this latest evolutionary mutation of late capitalism toward “something else” which is no longer family or neighborhood, city or state, nor even nation, but as abstract and nonsituated as the placelessness of a room in an international chain of motels or the anonymous space of airport terminals that all run together in your mind.” (116)
This impossibility, of situating our mind in a transitional period that seems to make no consolation for its incongruity, creates a disjunction and isolation of the subject from the whole of the system. A resulting speculation might be deviation from social norms, but even worse is the total lack of a norm to begin with. These earlier stages of Globalization lack the meta-narrative needed to understand our subject position to the larger system. Each piece (person, building, idea) making up the larger system must be categorized as separate in order to prevent disorientation. This requires assigning quick referents (images) to our understanding of things, abandoning any attempt to make sociological connections as the Modernists did; it would simply be too much for our minds to handle (or so we may think). The cry of the Modernist was to “make it new” [Pound] but because this very attitude is seen as a dead discourse assigned to a dead period containing old texts and dead men, its useful application in today’s society is rendered impotent (121). “The problem is still representation,” Jameson says (127). Just as in Gehry’s house, unable to fluidly connect the dots from the old to the new, we see people’s difficulty in representing through the image, an overwhelming “complex global network” that appears to swallow any attempt to reify it (127). To summarize, Frank Gehry’s house is the closest thing people have to a representation of the dialectical problem of cognitive mapping and historical placement of two period antagonisms (high-modernism and postmodernism).
The social implications of this dialectic can also be seen in American’s inability to understand world poverty as it relates to global capitalism. If capitalism works and reasonably sustains families, how can third world poverty conditions exist in capitalist societies, ours included? This idea antagonizes the mind’s eye, where America is situated at the center of technological superiority, abundance and comfort, and yet its system can create such exploitive poverty (128). In order to cope with the problem of orientation in such a complex global system, the postmodern mind can simply ignore social consequence and focus on surface meaning, primarily images. The new concern for spatial and cognitive mapping supersedes phenomenological concerns. Generalities are then made about people in certain cultures, generally reacting certain ways to the market—effects of advertising, fluctuations in economy, popular cultural fads etc. (134-135). This of course is the truth behind demographic research done by large corporations, not the academic concerns of establishing universal truths within cultural studies.
The final and most important social implication of Jameson’s concern with postmodern thought is its connection to Marxist “use-value” (231-235). The central connection between postmodern reification and quantification of periods, images, movements… you name it, removes the social connections and implications of these things on the rest of society, creating a mystery of its “exchange value.” If every idea, image and revolution is seen as remote, isolated and insignificant to the whole system, then “the whole mystery of the form of value lies hidden” (231 [Jameson quoting Marx]). An individual with his/her lifestyle or ideology has no “use-value” but when that individual gains enough members in that revolution or ideology, the movement is quickly assigned a “value or equivalence” (231). In this way, any culture or lifestyle, or social movement, can be assigned to a specific image and sold accordingly, turned into a “commodity fetish.” Examples of this can be seen in every teenager’s choice of social dissidence and rebellion against authority. Any and all forms of rebellion that may have happened organically (punk rock and do-it-yourself culture and the ecological movement known as the Green movement) can be purchased as an image at the local shopping mall in the form of commodities. One only needs to purchase a t-shirt of the Cuban revolutionary Che Gueverra, buy spikes for their clothing or simply a reusable handbag for the grocery store. The only unifying principle behind all of these images (reified principles) becomes global capitalism itself.
When words like “man” or “tree” are used to represent a universal, there is a type of “exchange” (Marxian equivalence) taking place (233). The postmodern mind assigns images and labels for all kinds of people and behaviors but has no universal principle to connect with, other than global capitalism as its underlying system. All of the semi-autonomous ways of thinking (Modernist, postindustrialist, poststructuralist, psychoanalytic, etc) then just become commodities with “exchange values,” within this system (235-240). This is how Jameson makes the connection that global capitalism is indeed a Marxist socialism. No one culture, idea, academic discourse, or politics is revered over another, but only seen as having some “use-value” in the global trading system. “The object thus elected has an impossible role to fulfill because it is both a thing in the world, with a potential value just like all the other things, and something removed from the object world that is called upon, from the outside, to mediate the latter’s new value system” (235). This goes for value systems (morals) held by differing cultures as well. What happens is that a value system in one culture now must be situated with some “exchange value” in relation to the dominant cultural power operating within global capitalism (United States). The values held in the Middle East, in regards to women for instance, are now assigned an ‘exchange value” in regards to our own value system (265). There in lies the problem—equivalence of these reified-simplified representations of these differing cultures is made without regard to their historical and sociological origin.
In our constant dissection of concepts and time into new labels and sub-systems, along with their corresponding-representative images, children get integrated and assimilated into this bureaucratic and “schizophrenic” system, losing all concept of free-play in free-time. Play-dates are arranged and organized down to the minute, from birth to after-school soccer practice. The very idea of freedom and equality can only exist (or be understood) in a system that limits or prohibits it (262-263). The commodifying of time, “time is money,” extends into new territory, where reality itself can be assigned an image and sold. Truth, facts, and information all pulled from “reality” and packaged and sensationalized; brands such as FOX NEWS, CNN, and MSNBC, reify and commodify information to a point that reality itself loses its social impact when delivered through this glossy, postmodern, image-obsessed, commodity obsessed, media format. Films no longer attempt to solidify our social struggles through narrative as the rising middle class once projected themselves into the Victorian novel because the image itself is now king (279-283). Jameson could not have predicted something like the Internet as the solution to this disorientation in the world system, but he speculates throughout the book that technology will in fact make attempts to keep track of all our assigned images. His speculation comes from the use of media (primarily television and film) to assign images for us, to all parts of the world and their corresponding cultures. This, he believes, is perhaps our best attempt at orientation in a postmodern world, however ineffective in its ability to contain all sociological implications. Only in a newly emerging virtual reality, or virtual space (the internet), can the postmodern mind begin to situate itself in this ever increasingly complex world system—facilitated of course through images, on a screen.
Work Cited
Jameson, Fredric. Postmodernism: Or, The Logic of Late Capitalism. Duke University Press. Durham NC, 1991.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Monday, March 8, 2010
God's Subsidies Contract [first draft]
God’s Subsidies Contract
Jesse Bentley woke from an unimaginable nightmare. This had been the third time in one week he had the same dream. God, had been trying to communicate with him for sometime now, but for Jesse, the message seemed bleak and horrifying. In the dream, God sat at a large wooden desk in an expensive man’s suit. Next to God stood Jesse’s grandson, David. Jesse’s perception of the room would deepen and his head would hurt when David and a briefcase became visible. As instructed by God, Jesse moved forward in the empty echoing room toward the one mahogany desk, a leather briefcase held by David, and a long fountain pen sitting in an empty cup. As Jesse approached, stepping ever gently on the loud hardwood floors, God would turn to his side and whisper something inaudible to Jesse’s grandson. In the dream, David was a grown man of twenty, with a square jaw and austere posture, carrying with dignity, a bright red tie. Eventually, Jesse made his way to the edge of the desk and stopped moving, looking only at David and never into the eyes of the Lord.
“Yes, my Lord. How can I fulfill my duty as your humble servant?”
God always coughed at this point in the dream. David interpreted each cough like a secret language. David would then turn to his grandfather and deliver God’s instructions.
“The Lord understands that you are having trouble with your farm.”
Jesse would then emphatically shake his head up and down to indicate his agreement, but always averting his eyes. God coughed again.
“The Lord knows that you wish to expand your agribusiness, and the Lord knows how.”
Jesse again shakes uncontrollably, but in this dream, he has no voice, and no ability to speak. It is here, always, that Jesse cries and falls to his knees, clasping his hands together, as he turns to his grandson David and begs for help.
“David, David. Please. Please tell the Lord that I will do anything. The farm must grow. How can I make this land produce an abundance only God can facilitate?”
The final scene—David tells Jesse to give his arm to God. Jesse proudly rolls up his sleeves to reveal the healthy blue veins rushing blood to all the corners of his earthly body. David keeps a stern face as he plunges the fountain pen into Jesse’s arm and extracts the vibrant red into the instrument. Jesse cries with enjoyment. Just before Jesse wakes up and is torn from the cold echoing room with a desk, he hears God speak a deafening and terrifying boom.
“SIGN HERE.”
On this day, March 8, 1929, Jesse Bentley abandoned his bed to splash the dry cracks in his face and stimulate his nerves. He washed and dressed and made his way down to see the blooming buds on his new strawberry crops. The buds had already begun bursting into plump red berries, dripping with dew and glistening with sunlight. Jesse touched the berries with his fingertips as his grandson looked down from the storage barn. David had just finished putting in windows, hoping to turn the attic of the barn into a fully functioning office in time for harvest. When Jesse saw his proud grandson staring down and out of those windows, Jesse felt a surge of gratitude sweep through his body, and he fell to his knees thanking God for all that had been given him. When Jesse wiped the tears from his eyes, he turned to get another look at his proud grandson, but David had turned his back.
The sound of a large truck could be heard coming up the dirt road to the Bentley farm. The truck was carrying a new pesticide that David had suggested they try. Jesse met the man near the new and improved storage barn.
“Sign here,” the man said.
Jesse smiled at the man.
“So, uh, God’s really smilin’ down on us now wouldn’ ya say?”
The man crewed a toothpick and poked at the packing slip with his pen.
“How’d ya figure?”
Jesse breathed the air deep into his lungs and grabbed the pen. He waved the pen about in the air and looked at his strawberries.
“Well, ma crops are bloomin’ early, my grandson’s got some new machines in that are doin’ the work of thirty or so…” Bentley stared at the man a second. “The air’s good an’ crisp. Yes sir, it’s a fine year to be a farmer.”
The man pointed again at the papers.
“Sir, sign please.”
Jesse took the pen and took his time signing the documents with the cursive he had meticulously practiced as a boy. The man stuck the pen behind his ear and closed the gate to his truck.
“You know sir, I’m sure if I can bring up the next shipment unless you start orderin’ a little more o’ this stuff.”
Jesse looked at the man, but couldn’t yet think of the question he wanted to ask.
“Well, it’s just that there’s that big factory farm between here Cleveland, and their orderin’ two and three trucks full of the stuff every week. The guy there tells me their usin’ airplanes to drop the stuff over the crops.”
Jesse looked to the sky for evidence.
“Well, can’t say I believe that. They prob’ly figured out a way to use it as a fertilizer and are stockin’ up so’s no one else can have any,” Jesse said.
The man got into his truck and leaned out of the window with his arm grasping the side of the truck.
“All’s I know sir is, if you aren’t pullin’ at least double what you are now, it ain’t gunna be worth my time to keep comin’ all the way out here just for two stinkin’ barrels.”
Jesse looked back at his strawberries as the truck drove away. They looked smaller. In the last two years, Jesse had prayed to God harder than he ever had before. When he first heard about the farm opening just outside of Cleveland he knew that it was too far away to compete with Bentley farms in Winesburg. The transport would cost too much to make them much profit. His prayer in the mornings grew to three times before lunch when he heard that the farm covered almost three miles of land. Jesse prayed a dozen times before dinner when he heard that larger warehouses made of corrugated metal housed enough food for the state of Ohio to eat for one year. ‘Impossible,’ he thought. “Tell me it isn’t true God.” He said this moving through the house as David brought more and more material through house and plots of land, all headed to the new additions of the old barn. “Tell me it isn’t true God, that you haven’t given the abundance you promised me to an undeserving heathen. Tell me God, does this man, this successful man serve you any better? How many times a day does he pray to you Lord? I will double it, triple it…I will do anything.”
In the coming years the Bentley farm had suffered hard losses—drought, tough competition from the farm up the road, and the worst economic collapse the country has ever seen. But the farm survived. The farm survived because David had planned for the worst. David insulated the barn to protect the harvested fruits and vegetables from bad weather. David had hired desperate men to work for pennies after the crash. David had purchased insurance and received enormous tax breaks because his grandfather had built a church on the farm when he was just a boy. The government helped too. The president of the United States had done a lot to keep the Bentleys and other small farmers from disappearing by providing some government money to get them through the tough times. As David became more and more involved in the operations of the family farm, Jesse grew a little sad at the distance the business had created between him and his grandson. Despite this isolation Jesse felt, he still prayed twenty times a day, thanking God for the abundance he had showered them with. The town had steady work on the farm for anyone struggling to get by, the farm continued growing, and Jesse could see his strawberries stretching into the distance nearly any month of the year.
As Jesse got older he spent less and less time near the new barn and more time in his humble little church at the edge of his property. There, Jesse grew a small garden of lettuce and tomatoes, basil and mint, corn and squash—just enough for a thanksgiving dinner. Now and again Jesse heard the trucks drive up the new paved road, each time the engines got louder and trucks got bigger. David stopped greeting the men at the trucks, but instead sent a young man to sign the packing slips. One day, the young man that signed the papers came to speak with Jesse.
“Sir, excuse me sir.”
Jesse looked up at the young man form his garden. He had been pulling off the leaves the bugs had been eating. He played with a ladybug that had crawled onto his gardening gloves.
“Well look at that,” Jesse said. “She’s crawling all the way up my arm. Can you believe that?”
Jesse smiled as the ladybug made her way up and down the old cracked farmer’s skin.
“Sir, I need to talk with you about this set-up you got goin’ here.”
Jesse looked up but the sun hit his eyes. He looked away and at the church.
“What do you need son? David’s the one you need to be talkin’ to, not me.”
The young man pointed to a blinding white piece of paper reflecting the sun’s rays. Jesse moved his eyes back around and saw a pen in the young man’s hand.
“What’d ya need son? My grandson’s the one that ___”
The young man handed Jesse Bentley a firm clipboard with a letter attached to it, embossed with a gold-leaf letterhead reading, Bentley’s Old Time Farms.
“The boss needs this plot sir. We’re expanding the treatment plant and the new drainage pipe needs to go through this plot to get to the river.”
Jesse looked at the young man and stood up. He had little breath in him, but he managed to get out one word, “David?”
The young man pointed once again at the golden letterhead with Jesse’s name on it.
“You can always move the garden and rebuild the church sir. Sign here.”
Jesse Bentley woke from an unimaginable nightmare. This had been the third time in one week he had the same dream. God, had been trying to communicate with him for sometime now, but for Jesse, the message seemed bleak and horrifying. In the dream, God sat at a large wooden desk in an expensive man’s suit. Next to God stood Jesse’s grandson, David. Jesse’s perception of the room would deepen and his head would hurt when David and a briefcase became visible. As instructed by God, Jesse moved forward in the empty echoing room toward the one mahogany desk, a leather briefcase held by David, and a long fountain pen sitting in an empty cup. As Jesse approached, stepping ever gently on the loud hardwood floors, God would turn to his side and whisper something inaudible to Jesse’s grandson. In the dream, David was a grown man of twenty, with a square jaw and austere posture, carrying with dignity, a bright red tie. Eventually, Jesse made his way to the edge of the desk and stopped moving, looking only at David and never into the eyes of the Lord.
“Yes, my Lord. How can I fulfill my duty as your humble servant?”
God always coughed at this point in the dream. David interpreted each cough like a secret language. David would then turn to his grandfather and deliver God’s instructions.
“The Lord understands that you are having trouble with your farm.”
Jesse would then emphatically shake his head up and down to indicate his agreement, but always averting his eyes. God coughed again.
“The Lord knows that you wish to expand your agribusiness, and the Lord knows how.”
Jesse again shakes uncontrollably, but in this dream, he has no voice, and no ability to speak. It is here, always, that Jesse cries and falls to his knees, clasping his hands together, as he turns to his grandson David and begs for help.
“David, David. Please. Please tell the Lord that I will do anything. The farm must grow. How can I make this land produce an abundance only God can facilitate?”
The final scene—David tells Jesse to give his arm to God. Jesse proudly rolls up his sleeves to reveal the healthy blue veins rushing blood to all the corners of his earthly body. David keeps a stern face as he plunges the fountain pen into Jesse’s arm and extracts the vibrant red into the instrument. Jesse cries with enjoyment. Just before Jesse wakes up and is torn from the cold echoing room with a desk, he hears God speak a deafening and terrifying boom.
“SIGN HERE.”
On this day, March 8, 1929, Jesse Bentley abandoned his bed to splash the dry cracks in his face and stimulate his nerves. He washed and dressed and made his way down to see the blooming buds on his new strawberry crops. The buds had already begun bursting into plump red berries, dripping with dew and glistening with sunlight. Jesse touched the berries with his fingertips as his grandson looked down from the storage barn. David had just finished putting in windows, hoping to turn the attic of the barn into a fully functioning office in time for harvest. When Jesse saw his proud grandson staring down and out of those windows, Jesse felt a surge of gratitude sweep through his body, and he fell to his knees thanking God for all that had been given him. When Jesse wiped the tears from his eyes, he turned to get another look at his proud grandson, but David had turned his back.
The sound of a large truck could be heard coming up the dirt road to the Bentley farm. The truck was carrying a new pesticide that David had suggested they try. Jesse met the man near the new and improved storage barn.
“Sign here,” the man said.
Jesse smiled at the man.
“So, uh, God’s really smilin’ down on us now wouldn’ ya say?”
The man crewed a toothpick and poked at the packing slip with his pen.
“How’d ya figure?”
Jesse breathed the air deep into his lungs and grabbed the pen. He waved the pen about in the air and looked at his strawberries.
“Well, ma crops are bloomin’ early, my grandson’s got some new machines in that are doin’ the work of thirty or so…” Bentley stared at the man a second. “The air’s good an’ crisp. Yes sir, it’s a fine year to be a farmer.”
The man pointed again at the papers.
“Sir, sign please.”
Jesse took the pen and took his time signing the documents with the cursive he had meticulously practiced as a boy. The man stuck the pen behind his ear and closed the gate to his truck.
“You know sir, I’m sure if I can bring up the next shipment unless you start orderin’ a little more o’ this stuff.”
Jesse looked at the man, but couldn’t yet think of the question he wanted to ask.
“Well, it’s just that there’s that big factory farm between here Cleveland, and their orderin’ two and three trucks full of the stuff every week. The guy there tells me their usin’ airplanes to drop the stuff over the crops.”
Jesse looked to the sky for evidence.
“Well, can’t say I believe that. They prob’ly figured out a way to use it as a fertilizer and are stockin’ up so’s no one else can have any,” Jesse said.
The man got into his truck and leaned out of the window with his arm grasping the side of the truck.
“All’s I know sir is, if you aren’t pullin’ at least double what you are now, it ain’t gunna be worth my time to keep comin’ all the way out here just for two stinkin’ barrels.”
Jesse looked back at his strawberries as the truck drove away. They looked smaller. In the last two years, Jesse had prayed to God harder than he ever had before. When he first heard about the farm opening just outside of Cleveland he knew that it was too far away to compete with Bentley farms in Winesburg. The transport would cost too much to make them much profit. His prayer in the mornings grew to three times before lunch when he heard that the farm covered almost three miles of land. Jesse prayed a dozen times before dinner when he heard that larger warehouses made of corrugated metal housed enough food for the state of Ohio to eat for one year. ‘Impossible,’ he thought. “Tell me it isn’t true God.” He said this moving through the house as David brought more and more material through house and plots of land, all headed to the new additions of the old barn. “Tell me it isn’t true God, that you haven’t given the abundance you promised me to an undeserving heathen. Tell me God, does this man, this successful man serve you any better? How many times a day does he pray to you Lord? I will double it, triple it…I will do anything.”
In the coming years the Bentley farm had suffered hard losses—drought, tough competition from the farm up the road, and the worst economic collapse the country has ever seen. But the farm survived. The farm survived because David had planned for the worst. David insulated the barn to protect the harvested fruits and vegetables from bad weather. David had hired desperate men to work for pennies after the crash. David had purchased insurance and received enormous tax breaks because his grandfather had built a church on the farm when he was just a boy. The government helped too. The president of the United States had done a lot to keep the Bentleys and other small farmers from disappearing by providing some government money to get them through the tough times. As David became more and more involved in the operations of the family farm, Jesse grew a little sad at the distance the business had created between him and his grandson. Despite this isolation Jesse felt, he still prayed twenty times a day, thanking God for the abundance he had showered them with. The town had steady work on the farm for anyone struggling to get by, the farm continued growing, and Jesse could see his strawberries stretching into the distance nearly any month of the year.
As Jesse got older he spent less and less time near the new barn and more time in his humble little church at the edge of his property. There, Jesse grew a small garden of lettuce and tomatoes, basil and mint, corn and squash—just enough for a thanksgiving dinner. Now and again Jesse heard the trucks drive up the new paved road, each time the engines got louder and trucks got bigger. David stopped greeting the men at the trucks, but instead sent a young man to sign the packing slips. One day, the young man that signed the papers came to speak with Jesse.
“Sir, excuse me sir.”
Jesse looked up at the young man form his garden. He had been pulling off the leaves the bugs had been eating. He played with a ladybug that had crawled onto his gardening gloves.
“Well look at that,” Jesse said. “She’s crawling all the way up my arm. Can you believe that?”
Jesse smiled as the ladybug made her way up and down the old cracked farmer’s skin.
“Sir, I need to talk with you about this set-up you got goin’ here.”
Jesse looked up but the sun hit his eyes. He looked away and at the church.
“What do you need son? David’s the one you need to be talkin’ to, not me.”
The young man pointed to a blinding white piece of paper reflecting the sun’s rays. Jesse moved his eyes back around and saw a pen in the young man’s hand.
“What’d ya need son? My grandson’s the one that ___”
The young man handed Jesse Bentley a firm clipboard with a letter attached to it, embossed with a gold-leaf letterhead reading, Bentley’s Old Time Farms.
“The boss needs this plot sir. We’re expanding the treatment plant and the new drainage pipe needs to go through this plot to get to the river.”
Jesse looked at the young man and stood up. He had little breath in him, but he managed to get out one word, “David?”
The young man pointed once again at the golden letterhead with Jesse’s name on it.
“You can always move the garden and rebuild the church sir. Sign here.”
Friday, March 5, 2010
The Norden-Cambria Conflict
The Norden-Cambria Conflict
I’m here in the center of total chaos. Norden’s economy has collapsed and the people are out of control. I spoke to a college student here in Norden, who discussed with our crew, her family’s struggles over the last few years.
Student: My father owned a bank that has been in the family since his grandfather settled in Norden. My great-grandfather started the first local branch in Larsberg with money the family made from farming when the town was developing its first paved road.
Journalist: And what happened? You said he used to have the bank, so…what hap__
Student: We ended up selling it, and luckily, we have enough money to hopefully keep us safe until things settle down here. What’s interesting is how we ended up with that money—how we ended up getting more than we expected.
Journalist: So how did you manage to sell it when even the major banks couldn’t pay their loans? I can’t imagine how a small, or sorry, modest bank could sur__
Student: Sure, sure. That’s what we were thinking. The loans that were crippling the bigger banks are precisely why we got out of it all ok.
At his time, an enormous bomb had gone off, no more than two or three kilometers from us. That is what the pop was on the audio that you heard. Let us now return to the student’s story, central to understanding the collapse of the Norden economy, and the beginning of the Norden-Cambria conflict.
Journalist: Did your father not have these crippling loans?
Student: Exactly, exactly. My dad needed to sell the bank in the first place because he just couldn’t compete with the major banks, and all that money they were making selling these giant loans to other banks. The majors felt like they could keep buying as long as the loan market kept expanding the way it was. None of them ever thought it would end, or if it did they never wanted to consider when and where it would end. Guys were making millions every week selling these gigantic, unimaginable loans in every sector you can imagine. My dad was too scared to get involved in the buy-up because he couldn’t back it up with the few assets his bank had. He would never be able to repay a 4 billion dollar loan to weapons manufacturers if he had to first get the money from a larger bank. The larger bank would come knocking and our family business would be over, so we struggled. Our bank was doing all right, but it wasn’t worth that much.
Journalist: So, how did you make any money then when you sold it?
Student: The majors were all in the hole millions of dollars. My dad’s little bank was one of the few that had no debts and a handful of assets. Once he put it up for sale, the majors were practically stepping over each other to buy us out. They needed the assets I guess.
This is where my brief interview with the girl ended. Just beyond the Larsberg district, there was gunfire and shouting. The young girl asked me to keep her anonymous because of her father’s wealth. She explained to me that the rioters and looters would kidnap, rape, and ransom her in an instant if she exposed her name to any radio network.
Larsberg, only a few years ago, was considered one of the prime real-estate areas in all of Norden. At one time, her neighborhood had a modest population of only one thousand people, give or take a dozen, but contained 70% of the nation’s total capital. After the invasion of the Cambrian militia, the neighbors were very quickly wiped out, either financially or existentially. Those that were wise enough to anticipate the fall of the Norden economy left early, and moved their wealth to more tropical countries halfway across the globe.
Our crew caught up with the former Norden Director of Warfare in Buenos Aires, two weeks into the Cambrian invasion of Norden. The former director had been staying in a hotel downtown, and agreed to meet us in the lobby over lunch.
Journalist: Director Thordendal- excuse me- former Director, you were recently interviewed by Cambrian journalists in an investigation concerning whether or not you had prior knowledge of the attack. Would you care to elaborate on this issue?
DirectorT: Nothing new. This is nothing new. Every country throughout history immediately looks to the commanders of war as suspects in a coup.
Journalist: So, what do you say to those who point to documents suggesting Cambrian military sent memos to your staff containing coordinates that correspond to the first breaches of the Norden border in the first hours of the conflict?
DirectorT: I will tell you the same thing I told the others. These were coordinates that spies leaked to us in order to put in place the necessary forces.
In between sips of a Corona cervesa, Director Thordendal assured me that his young successor, Director Havenstrom, was more than capable of handling the Cambrian Militia. I asked him about the reasons being discussed, in the opening weeks, for the invasion of the Cambrian militia immediately following the financial collapse of the Norden economy.
Journalist: Mr. Thordendal, many people have questioned the reasoning behind the Cambrian attack following the economic crash in Norden. Can you help our listeners to understand why this happened, and why now?
The whirring sound you hear in the background is a combination of the wind hitting the former Director’s beer bottle and some intermittent whispering between Mr. Thordendal and two men that had brought him his lunch along with a credit card and a few pieces of paper. There appeared to be a short squabble over the bill before the former director reluctantly gave a signature to the waiter while a man in an expensive looking suit waited patiently a few feet away. The former director sat back down and grabbed at his new icy beverage containing two colorful toothpicks and one glass straw.
DirectorT: Look, I don’t have all the answers. That’s what the new guy is supposed to figure out. Now if you please, I have to get back to my lunch.
With only a few days left before our story was to be finished, our crew returned to Norden for some answers from the new Director of Warfare, Tomas Havenstrom.
Journalist: Director Havenstrom, can you tell us what you have discovered about this conflict since you took over Director Thordendal’s position?
Director: Lady, I don’t have time. You know how sometimes a boxing match in Vegas can be rigged so that the guys in the front row can make a killing—and their blonde wives are getting spit and blood sprayed onto their faces—meanwhile their both smiling at each other, gettin’ turned on with all that money, anger, and blood floatin’ around?
Journalist: Are you saying that__
Director: I’m not finished. Well, you know how the suits are sittin’ there lickin’ their lips while the tired black guys are beatin’ the hell out of each other—the same guys that would be rotating their tires, stealing their car stereos, selling them cocaine, or …
Journalist: So, if I can just guess here what you are trying to__
Director: If I can just finish my thought—Look, the boxers know. These half retarded laborers-turned-boxers know. Both of them know. They still gotta fight lady. They still gotta fight. So place your bet, and get the f__k out of my way. Now if you’ll excuse me.
The profanity that was bleeped out at the end was not essential to the story. However, if the listeners are interested in a full transcript of each of these interviews, please log onto our website where you can purchase the full story (credit cards only). This program is made possible by Liberty Mutual and The South American Primary Bank.
I’m here in the center of total chaos. Norden’s economy has collapsed and the people are out of control. I spoke to a college student here in Norden, who discussed with our crew, her family’s struggles over the last few years.
Student: My father owned a bank that has been in the family since his grandfather settled in Norden. My great-grandfather started the first local branch in Larsberg with money the family made from farming when the town was developing its first paved road.
Journalist: And what happened? You said he used to have the bank, so…what hap__
Student: We ended up selling it, and luckily, we have enough money to hopefully keep us safe until things settle down here. What’s interesting is how we ended up with that money—how we ended up getting more than we expected.
Journalist: So how did you manage to sell it when even the major banks couldn’t pay their loans? I can’t imagine how a small, or sorry, modest bank could sur__
Student: Sure, sure. That’s what we were thinking. The loans that were crippling the bigger banks are precisely why we got out of it all ok.
At his time, an enormous bomb had gone off, no more than two or three kilometers from us. That is what the pop was on the audio that you heard. Let us now return to the student’s story, central to understanding the collapse of the Norden economy, and the beginning of the Norden-Cambria conflict.
Journalist: Did your father not have these crippling loans?
Student: Exactly, exactly. My dad needed to sell the bank in the first place because he just couldn’t compete with the major banks, and all that money they were making selling these giant loans to other banks. The majors felt like they could keep buying as long as the loan market kept expanding the way it was. None of them ever thought it would end, or if it did they never wanted to consider when and where it would end. Guys were making millions every week selling these gigantic, unimaginable loans in every sector you can imagine. My dad was too scared to get involved in the buy-up because he couldn’t back it up with the few assets his bank had. He would never be able to repay a 4 billion dollar loan to weapons manufacturers if he had to first get the money from a larger bank. The larger bank would come knocking and our family business would be over, so we struggled. Our bank was doing all right, but it wasn’t worth that much.
Journalist: So, how did you make any money then when you sold it?
Student: The majors were all in the hole millions of dollars. My dad’s little bank was one of the few that had no debts and a handful of assets. Once he put it up for sale, the majors were practically stepping over each other to buy us out. They needed the assets I guess.
This is where my brief interview with the girl ended. Just beyond the Larsberg district, there was gunfire and shouting. The young girl asked me to keep her anonymous because of her father’s wealth. She explained to me that the rioters and looters would kidnap, rape, and ransom her in an instant if she exposed her name to any radio network.
Larsberg, only a few years ago, was considered one of the prime real-estate areas in all of Norden. At one time, her neighborhood had a modest population of only one thousand people, give or take a dozen, but contained 70% of the nation’s total capital. After the invasion of the Cambrian militia, the neighbors were very quickly wiped out, either financially or existentially. Those that were wise enough to anticipate the fall of the Norden economy left early, and moved their wealth to more tropical countries halfway across the globe.
Our crew caught up with the former Norden Director of Warfare in Buenos Aires, two weeks into the Cambrian invasion of Norden. The former director had been staying in a hotel downtown, and agreed to meet us in the lobby over lunch.
Journalist: Director Thordendal- excuse me- former Director, you were recently interviewed by Cambrian journalists in an investigation concerning whether or not you had prior knowledge of the attack. Would you care to elaborate on this issue?
DirectorT: Nothing new. This is nothing new. Every country throughout history immediately looks to the commanders of war as suspects in a coup.
Journalist: So, what do you say to those who point to documents suggesting Cambrian military sent memos to your staff containing coordinates that correspond to the first breaches of the Norden border in the first hours of the conflict?
DirectorT: I will tell you the same thing I told the others. These were coordinates that spies leaked to us in order to put in place the necessary forces.
In between sips of a Corona cervesa, Director Thordendal assured me that his young successor, Director Havenstrom, was more than capable of handling the Cambrian Militia. I asked him about the reasons being discussed, in the opening weeks, for the invasion of the Cambrian militia immediately following the financial collapse of the Norden economy.
Journalist: Mr. Thordendal, many people have questioned the reasoning behind the Cambrian attack following the economic crash in Norden. Can you help our listeners to understand why this happened, and why now?
The whirring sound you hear in the background is a combination of the wind hitting the former Director’s beer bottle and some intermittent whispering between Mr. Thordendal and two men that had brought him his lunch along with a credit card and a few pieces of paper. There appeared to be a short squabble over the bill before the former director reluctantly gave a signature to the waiter while a man in an expensive looking suit waited patiently a few feet away. The former director sat back down and grabbed at his new icy beverage containing two colorful toothpicks and one glass straw.
DirectorT: Look, I don’t have all the answers. That’s what the new guy is supposed to figure out. Now if you please, I have to get back to my lunch.
With only a few days left before our story was to be finished, our crew returned to Norden for some answers from the new Director of Warfare, Tomas Havenstrom.
Journalist: Director Havenstrom, can you tell us what you have discovered about this conflict since you took over Director Thordendal’s position?
Director: Lady, I don’t have time. You know how sometimes a boxing match in Vegas can be rigged so that the guys in the front row can make a killing—and their blonde wives are getting spit and blood sprayed onto their faces—meanwhile their both smiling at each other, gettin’ turned on with all that money, anger, and blood floatin’ around?
Journalist: Are you saying that__
Director: I’m not finished. Well, you know how the suits are sittin’ there lickin’ their lips while the tired black guys are beatin’ the hell out of each other—the same guys that would be rotating their tires, stealing their car stereos, selling them cocaine, or …
Journalist: So, if I can just guess here what you are trying to__
Director: If I can just finish my thought—Look, the boxers know. These half retarded laborers-turned-boxers know. Both of them know. They still gotta fight lady. They still gotta fight. So place your bet, and get the f__k out of my way. Now if you’ll excuse me.
The profanity that was bleeped out at the end was not essential to the story. However, if the listeners are interested in a full transcript of each of these interviews, please log onto our website where you can purchase the full story (credit cards only). This program is made possible by Liberty Mutual and The South American Primary Bank.
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