Basically a capsule post-WWII economic history from his POV. Technocratic, almost Hegelian (in the sense ideas determine reality, never the other way round) until the end (when Minsky comes on), but interesting. Michael
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What bothers me about Krugman and DeLong for that matter is that for all their study and theory, they can not shake loose their core ideology that has just shown itself to be demonstrably false---in fact toxic to any form of economic health.
So at last, I finally got around to actually reading Capital. What struck me after the first theoretical chapters was its compelling sense of realism, what really goes on, on the shop floor.
The economic reality of the grand enlightenment project to transform societies into utopian like national states was nothing like the child's fairy tale of the baker, the farmer, the blacksmith, and the dry goods owner working together to bring about an economic good.
I would never have understood Marx to the degree I think I do, if I had never worked as a mechanic in a series of small shops. Contrary to the small business myth, it is precisely within these narrow confines that you can see the logic of Capital at work as a set of skewed and un-natural social relations. When the small shop owner pays for my labor, he immediately assumes he owns me, personally, not just within the confines of my hours in shop, but far beyond, deep into my family and relationship with my child, my (ex)wife, my past and my future. He absolutely does not see our relationship as a fair bargin and free exchange, but as his living right to extract from me all that he might demand and might dream of demanding. He brokers no resistance, even that of normal politeness or human concern. Any interest beyond his demand for surplus value is completely not tolerated.
For example, my first week working for the grand Senior of wheelchairs in Berkeley, my aging stepmother died in Oregon. I asked for a two day and a half leave, starting on a Thrusday at noon when I could pack and get ready for a twelve hour drive up to a small town outside of Salem, attend the funeral on Saturday, have a memorial dinner, and then drive back to Berkeley on Sunday. Technically it was a day and a half, but I wanted an extra day Monday, to get back to work. This request was granted, but it became evident that those two and a half days were a serious mark against me. I had incurred a debt. It was never referred to, but none the less it existed, between us. In effect, the capitalist gave me the right to grieve the death of my second mother. And, it was worse two years before when she had the audacity to have a stroke during the Christmas break, when the shop I worked for was in the middle of year end inventory, a time were no one was allowed to take off, unless they dropped unconscieous on the floor.
Think on that to realize the profound arrogance. It isn't just about the overwhelming greed, but also the beneficience of granting normal human rights, even to a small suffering of loss. We don't pay for crying time, Chuckie. We don't pay for sick mothers, or children, or wives or anybody.
Then on the flip side, last Tuesday, a sales woman who was also a therapist and generally great person to work with---even if we had our spats---died a hard but brief death. There was a memorial service and dinner for her. Her name was Elizabeth Rafter. I had worked with and against her since 1988. More than twenty years. I came to like her. She won me over because we shared a sense of respect over delivering actual human services.
Well, whatever. Senior Capital exploited her social relations with the human infrasructure of the SF area institutions that serve the mostly poor disabled children and adults. He had perfected this art to a high point of philosophy and ideology. Only problem was that nobody liked him. In fact he was uniformly hated.
So here was our former boss at a memorial service for a popular co-worker. I was one of two workers in the entire church of about a hundred who greeted him well, shook his hand and asked about his life in Oregon where he moved. After all those years as a capitalist boss, he was back to the exploited worker. Best to let him know, I enjoyed it---up front and personal, just as he treated me.
When it dawned on him, he retreated and moved on to other social contacts, which amounted to manufacturer sales representatives he had struggled with... That is to say a completely artificial social relation that had no human content.
This man had spun off dozens of workers like toilet paper on a roll, yet he had the arrogance to assume his leaving was noteworthy of a memorial party---an event that never happened. Why? Because the very woman we were there to celebrate and who always threw goodwill leaving parties, completely failed to create one for him. He was shocked to discover all those petty cruelties to squeeze an extra surplus out of us all, resulted in an anathma toward him personally.
Consider this man actually murdered a friend of mine. That is to say he had his supervisior send a shop buddy of mine on a seven hour delivery route knowing, if he cared to reflect, the man had pneumonia on a cold, dreary wet January day. My friend came home that night and struggled with Kaiser over hospital admissions until he was near coma, where he went to the ICU and stayed for six months and came out as a brain damaged vegetable.
If I advocated some good man step up and put a big ugly .45cal slug through the brains of this capitalist, people would be outraged at the suggestion. Where was their outrage when I stared into my friend's eyes and knew, he didn't know who I was---a working friend for nearly forty years. Where was their outrage when I was forced to deny service to a black fifteen year old kid with CP, because his MediCal would not pay for his worn tires---tires worn down because of his near to homeless state living with his drug and alcohol depreciated mother in total poverty. Instead of the long BART ride, he preferred more often a late night crash with friends and relatives in Berkeley. He had slept in his chair or on a floor next to it. And the miracle was, he was getting through BHS with good grades.
A lot has been written about the non-existant Left. My theory is the Left is actually much larger than believed. The problem is that the vast majority of the Left have not reached the point in their consciousness of understanding the role of violence in struggle.
I don't know where to go with these thoughts. I know a violent reaction is precisely what the establishment is prepared for, since their entire mantra is the logic of escalating violence to the point of a planet wide nuclear waste land.
You would think, our death would be free and you would be wrong. Our death is one of the most treasured products of all capitalist time. It is very, very expensive to die. Just ask anyone who had to pay for the death of their cherished or bitten parents or children or loved ones. It costs good money to collect the dead, even in the street. There are reports to pay for. When the police are making those calls for next of kin, they are looking for the next to bill for services rendered.
I got a terrible call. It was Sergent O'Malley from Santa Cruz. He had traced me from a rental agreement I had signed to help a woman friend move into a trailor park. She died of diabetes. It was a few weeks before the sheriff discovered her rot, called in by a neighbor. Yes I knew her next of kin, her son's name was D. I gave him the number. The very next minute after a stiff drink of gin, was to call D and warn him. Dee, your mother died, but I must tell you to watch out for the cops. They are looking for fees and a bunch of rip offs over your mother's body. You have to prepare yourself for this. Jesus, Dee, I hate telling you this. Later he called me back, about as drunk as me, and we had a good Irish wake, god the bastards never let go. No they don't you big Irish dummie. Fuck you, you English faggot. We had a great time in the great tradition. Stugging each other in the chest, and weeping in our mugs.
CG