The Consumer Squeeze

THE New York Times blogs a chart produced by Jared Bernstein, of the Economic Policy Institute, showing that real wages have declined steadily in recent months. Felix Salmon comments:

The chart doesn't mention the main reason for the fall: unusually high inflation. Since inflation is running at a 4% clip right now, you'd need wages to be rising at the same rate in nominal terms just to stay at zero on this chart. If food and energy prices stop rising at some point, real wages will start looking much healthier.

Inflation is normally a phenomenon associated with a booming economy. During such periods, inflation is frequently exacerbated by demands for wage increases, which firms are fairly willing to grant given strong economic conditions.

Now, however, inflation is primarily being driven by increasing raw materials prices, which squeeze corporate margins. That squeeze and a weak economy rule out significant wage increases for most workers. As such, real wages fall with inflation. This forces consumers to reduce their spending, further undermining the economy. The result is substantial pain for most households and a rather large headache for Ben Bernanke. Matthew Yglesias notes:

[W]hat we have is the inflation uptick, and with it falling real wages for everyone who doesn't get at least a 4 percent raise this year, a problem that we hope won't be afflicting the all-important political blogging sector.

Energy and food prices have increased in the District of Columbia, where Mr Yglesias lives and works. As a carless resident of a transit-friendly city, he may be suffering less than others. But it should be pointed out that increases in grain prices have negatively impacted brewers and distillers of alcoholic beverages. Beer being a primary input in the journalist sector, Mr Yglesias should expect expect howls of discontent to soon erupt from his media colleagues.

Visceral Realism

Joaquin Font, El Reposo Mental Health Clinic, Camino Desierto de los Leones, on the outskirts of Mexico City DF, March 1977. Sometimes I think about Laura Damian. Not often. Four or five times a day. Eight or sixteen times if I can't sleep, which makes sense since there's room for a lot of memories in a twenty-four-hour day. But usually I only think of her four or five times, and each memory, each memory capsule, is approximately two minutes long, although I can't say for sure because a little while ago someone stole my watch, and keeping time on one's own is risky.

When I was young I had a friend called Dolores. Dolores Pacheco. She really did know how to keep time. I wanted to go to bed with her. I want you to make me see stars, Dolores, I said to her one day. How long do you think stars last? she said. What do you mean? I asked. How long does one of your orgasms last? she said. Long enough, I said. But how long? I don't know, I said. A long time. You ask funny questions, Dolores. How long is a long time? she persisted. Then I assured her that I had never timed an orgasm, and she said pretend you're having an orgasm now, Quim, close your eyes and imagine that you're coming. With you? I said, seeing my chance. Whoever you want, she said, just imagine it, all right? Let's do it, I said. Fine, she said, when you start, raise your hand. Then I closed my eyes, imagined myself screwing Dolores, and raised my hand. And then I heard her voice saying: one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi, and unable to keep from laughing anymore, I opened my eyes and asked her what she was doing. I'm timing you, she said. Have you come yet? I don't know, I said, it's usually longer. Don't lie to me, Quim, she said, most orgasms are over by four Mississippi. Try again and you'll see. And I closed my eyes and at first I imagined myself screwing Dolores, but then I didn't imagine myself with anyone. Instead, I was in a riverboat, in a white, sterile room very much like the one I'm in now, and from the walls, from a hidden megaphone, Dolores's count came dripping down: one Mississippi, two Mississippi, as if someone were radioing me from shore and I couldn't reply, although deep in my heart all I wanted was to answer, to say: do you read me? I'm fine, I'm alive, I want to come back. And when I opened my eyes Dolores said: that's how you time an orgasm, each Mississippi is a second and no orgasm lasts more than six seconds. We never ended up fucking, Dolores and I, but we were good friends, and when she got married (this was after she graduated) I went to her wedding, and when I congratulated her I said: may your Mississippis be full of joy. The groom, who had been an architecture student like the two of us, but was a year ahead, or had graduated a little while before us, overheard me and thought I was referring to their honeymoon, which of course they were going to spend in the United States. A long time has passed since then. It's been a long time since I thought about Dolores. Dolores taught me to time things.

Now I time my memories of Laura Damian. Sitting on the floor, I begin: one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi, five Mississippi, six Mississippi, and Laura Damian's face, Laura Damian's long hair, settle in my vacant mind for fifty Mississippis or one hundred and fifty Mississippis, until I can't stand it anymore and I open my mouth and-ahh-let my breath out all at once or I spit on the walls. And I'm alone again, I'm empty. The echo of the word Mississippi bounces around in my cranial vault, the image of Laura's body destroyed by a killer car fading again, Laura's eyes open in the sky of Mexico city, no, in the sky of Colonia Roma, Colonia Hipodromo-La Condesa, Colonia Juarez, Colonia Cuauhtemoc, Laura's eyes illuminating the greens and sepias and all the shades of brick and stone of Coyoacan. And then I stop and take a deep breath or two, as if I'm having an attack, and I whisper go away, Laura Damian. Go away Laura Damian. And then at last her face grows dim and my room isn't Laura Damian's face anymore but a room in a modern asylum, with every modern convenience, and the eyes watching me are the nurses' eyes again and not Laura Damian's (she has eyes in the back of her head!), and if no moonface of a watch glows on my wrist it's not because Laura has taken it, not because Laura has made me swallow it, but because it's been stolen by the lunatics you see running around here, these poor Mexican lunatics of ours, these ignoramuses who strike out or cry but who don't know a thing.

Joy Division - Control

First and foremost, I love this song. Joy Division is one of those bands that always plays to the extremities of emotion. You can’t half-ass a JD song. And if you try, you didn’t get it in the first place. A collusion of events has driven me back to the perceived struggle between destiny and control, and how response mechanisms define worldviews. Really, isn’t every action in real terms a response?

Last night I had a dream that I still lived in, or had moved back to, Niagara Falls. I’m not really sure of the time since there existed characters of both past and present. I can be sure that it wasn’t right now because it was warm in my dream, and I’m 100% sure that place is currently an arctic tundra. Regardless, I was enjoying myself and in the process of starting a train ride north to Toronto.

I love trains; they are comfortable, efficient as hell, and nobody uses them. You always have an entire row to yourself, and can stretch out and enjoy uninhibited views of the countryside. In this dream, I’ve relaxed and prepared myself for a few hours train ride with a good book (Roberto Bolano’s The Savage Detectives) and a good snack (Cheez-Its, hat tip to my brother). As departure is impending, I look out the window and see my school principal in the terminal, presumably waiting for a train of his own. I haven’t seen him for a while because his presence creates a particular level of excitement.

Collecting my belongings, I rush off the train to go say hello. The conductor pulls his whistle to signify the release from the gate. My once leisurely pace has increased in gait, and so do the events around me. A check to my pockets reveals that I’ve misplaced my phone. I rush back on the train, find my misplaced phone, and rush off. The train leaves. Another quick check. My phone is secure; my keys and wallet are not. The rest of the dream centers around an assortment of unsuccessful attempts to reclaim what has been lost.

This artificial anguish, I think, is positioned directly between the real pratfalls I have experienced in the past week. I can’t help but think of the notion of “control.” To what extent do we dictate our surroundings? Certainly one needs to assume a healthy balance of fate and control, but where does that point lie? And how is it found?

One reason I believe I enjoy Latin American literature so much is its passion. Irresistable, untenable passion. The words simultaneously scorch and leap from the page, certain in the belief that what is being said must be heard. How the message is transmitted varies, be it elusive (Borges), wistful (Marquez), fecund (Cortazar), or salacious (Bolano); but all have urgency. Do they lack control?

I would argue no, although this can be a difficult sell. Reading their stories feels as though you are continually pulling a string, and one is unsure of whether they are being led to a conclusion or simply unraveling what has been set in place. And still, both have an end. You judge the worth of the outcome. This loose control, the kind that exists around the whole (as opposed to incrementally) is what I’m trying to attain. It’s not easy, but it’s like a train ride- a journey I don’t mind taking. And more importantly, both get me away from a visit to Niagara.