Alexander Hamilton and Today's Financial Complexities

Over the past three or four years, we as a people have been debating legislation that challenges the very legal definition of Federalism. Most of these arguments are neither novel, nor new. The system of divided powers that separates a centralized federal government based in Washington, DC, with those granted to each state is the basis by which our Constitution was first debated and proposed. Federalism has long been a roadblock to progress, but it should be said that progress proclaimed is almost always in the eyes of the beholder.   

Here is one example. The legality of the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act now under consideration by the Supreme Court has been strongly opposed by several states. The way the law is written, these reluctant states must pick up the tab for increased Medicaid eligibility, coverage, and funding. The controversial individual mandate portion of the law has been perceived by some as an unfair tax upon the Americans who are financially eligible to pay it. The attitudes of those who disagree have lengthy antecedents stretching back a little more than two centuries. Their protests, offensive as they may be to some, might not be dismissed as simplistically as we would like to think.

Alexander Hamilton is, in large part, responsible for the financial and banking system that governs our economic system. After the American Revolution, the United States was left heavily in debt to foreign creditors. A combination of state and federal borrowing ran to a total of $79 million dollars. This staggering total had been essential to victory, but many Americans entertained an entirely unrealistic belief that taxation of any sort would now no longer be necessary. Taxes were associated in the minds of many with repressive British policies. However, to run a nation without going bankrupt required consistent streams of revenue.

Hamilton’s brilliant plans and strategies in this regard brought the new nation into its own. Over time, the first, and perhaps most brilliant Secretary of the Treasury has been racked over the coals by historians. Many have pronounced him to be an exploitative elitist, favoring the rich at the expense of the poor. His life is much more complicated and shows a portrait of a complex, nuanced man.

Born on the island of Nevis in the Caribbean, Hamilton was the illegitimate son of a ne'er do well. His mother died when Hamilton was still fairly young. A self-made man in all senses, the whole of his early life was full of poverty, drama, and tragedy. Like many people who were raised without money or prestige, he devoted his adult life to creating a comfortable existence for himself. In an era where family allegiance and last name were proof of acceptable social status, Hamilton always felt himself inferior and not good enough to be taken seriously.

His tireless work on behalf of the United States of America shows evidence of this same desire for redemptive success. At the outset, the United States was a large country in area with a predominately agricultural economy. It, like Hamilton, had to prove itself in the court of world opinion. Legitimacy in the eyes of long-established Western European powers often began with solid proof of stable finances. Immediately following the war that established independence from Great Britain, Hamilton had to literally create a plausible financial system from nothing, though he used the British system as a strong model.  

The 2004 biography Alexander Hamilton, written by Ron Chernow, provides context that is rarely introduced alongside anyone’s argument.

How exactly the debt should be funded was to be the most inflammatory political issue. During the Revolution, many affluent citizens had invested in bonds, and many war veterans had been paid with IOU’s that then plummeted in price under the [Articles of] Confederation. In many cases, these upright patriots, either needing cash or convinced they would never be repaid, had sold their securities to speculators for as little as fifteen cents on the dollars.

Americans have had a contentious, distrustful relationship with capitalism, often believing that moneyed interests are unethical and exploitive. Though the analogy in some ways is facile, especially today, one can see evidence of same in this age. The attitudes of Occupy were often predicated upon the same fears and outrage. Where one places trust and faith determines fiduciary opinion. “[Hamilton] was naïve in thinking that the rich would always have a broader sense of public duty and would somehow be devoid of self-interest, instead of being captives to an even larger set of interests.”  

Though his real view was distorted consistently over time, Hamilton never believed that national debt should be perpetual. He thought that debt was not necessarily evil and could even stimulate a nation’s wellbeing. One wonders how he would respond to other significant events in American History. These include the balanced budget fad of the 1990’s, the Economic Stimulus Package likely to become a major campaign issue, and Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s tendency towards fiscal conservatism during the formation of the New Deal.

One wonders whether times truly have changed, whether there was once a time where expanded public debit wasn’t viewed as unhealthy and injurious to the American economy. Some wish to judiciously prune away Medicare and Medicaid spending. States would lower rates of taxation if they could, even though the debt they harbor may be not honestly be a valid bogeyman. Casting aspersions upon Washington, DC, may play well in front of the home crowd, but means little to nothing in reality. Federal or State, our fates are intertwined, like it or not. 

Occupy Workshops and My Concerns

Before I write another word, I feel like a disclaimer is in order. I knew many Friends who participated in the Occupy movement, back in its heyday. While I came to eventually lose patience with the movement, even to disagree openly with its stated priorities, I still maintain a respect for those who put their full weight behind the cause. I feel that these heavily committed Friends never left Occupy behind, but that extenuating circumstances beyond anyone's control eventually dissolved the larger gathering under the weight of its own self-important rhetoric.

In some ways, by writing today, I feel like I am attempting to document past history, not present reality as it is. To me, for all intents and purposes, Occupy DC ended when the National Park Service prevented on-site camping, months ago. Occupy has tried to survive as a series of open-ended workshop initiatives, some of which are to be held on the grounds of the Monthly Meeting of which I am a member. This raises a few concerns. I am not the only member or regular attender who feels this way. While these activities will not be officially sponsored by Friends Meeting of Washington, they seem to be spearheaded by a long-time member or two.

Most of the protests within the membership of FMW may be motivated by weariness and the fear of potential conflict. Political discourse + Quaker Meeting almost encourages division and stridency, especially here in our Nation’s capital. I can’t think of anything yet formulated by human hands and brains that can create discord and controversy quite that same way. Adding an additional layer of liberal political expression on top of a Meeting already politically top-heavy is bound to raise someone’s hackles. Reactive and counter-productive conversation is usually what occurs as a result.

I for one would rather we schedule something this in-depth that is explicitly religious, because I sometimes think that people with whom I worship have entirely forgotten what religious expression really is. In surveying the proposed workshops, few, if any, make any mention of God or the Holy Spirit. Religion really is nothing to be ashamed about, after all.

I understand the good intentions of those who feel that the remnants of Occupy have something valuable to add. And I also can tolerate that this group will be using our space to conduct its programs and workshops. This sets me apart from the tone of a few very vocal critics. In every argument, some people raise concerns for the right reasons. Some people raise concerns for purely selfish motives. It can be problematic to separate the two out, to know where one begins and the other ends.

Some Friends have raised issues only because they can never be inconvenienced, for any reason, at any time. This is unrealistic, selfish, and even not a bit altruistic. All these statements reveal is an healthy entitlement complex. Many upper NW Washington, DC, residents already possess that quality in distressing proportion. I see ample good intentions, but without the proper perspective, intentions by themselves are worthless. I have seen enough people in this city make decisions based upon emotional overreactions, not sober contemplation of the facts. This unwillingness to let cooler heads prevail is the same reason I lost faith in the Occupy Movement.

Ho-hum

News is pretty slow these days, isn't it?

From the Vaults

I'm on a roll,
I'm on a roll this time
I feel my luck could change

Kill me Sarah,
Kill me again with love,
It's gonna be a glorious day

Pull me out of the aircrash,
Pull me out of the lake,
'Cause I'm your superhero,
We are standing on the edge

The head of state has called for me by name
But I don't have time for him
It's gonna be a glorious day
I feel my luck could change

Pull me out of the aircrash,
Pull me out of the lake,
'Cause I'm your superhero,
We are standing on the edge

We are standing on the edge

Seven Days Before Christmas

Seven days before Christmas.

Children chase each other across an ice rink. I’m new to the parent game, but everyone is glad to show me the ropes. Away from the action is the private drama of a hundred married couples, the million tiny stories that add up. I listen to business deals, mortgage payments, conflicts with teachers, aging parents, and the minutia of white, middle class chatter. The men walk towards food carts, buying hot dogs and soft drinks. The women stay behind, chatting about nothing in particular.    

I have no fondness for ice skating. My memory is of hopelessly swollen ankles that did not recover for nearly a week. I remember immediately soaking them in the hot water of the bathtub after arriving home. Anyone who can manage to stay upright for long periods of time has my sympathy but not my envy. 

The last time I skated, I stood outside the glass. Then, I thrust bad poetry upon the sympathetic, craving a lasting connection with someone else. My writing went with me everywhere in those days. I also think of bad food, usually covered in nacho cheese. The ice rink closed years ago and with it, no doubt, the stories of other like me.  

I’m dating a woman who believes that every event, regardless of context, must be narrated. Consequently, my life feels like listening to an everlasting book on tape. I’m not complaining. If she’s the play-by-play person, I’m there to provide color commentary. In this contest, we’re watching eight young teenagers to make sure they stay in line and don’t get hurt. But beyond the strictly essential aspects, it’s irresistible to watch. Proud parents have much to crow about—to latch onto and brag.

My father appreciated what he could. I always seemed to make him proud for the very things I found the least compelling and interesting. While on the football field, he beamed with pride while still refusing to puff his chest out. When I learned the guitar, he only wanted to hear Johnny Cash. If I tried to play something else, his eyes drifted elsewhere, as if waiting only for the end. When it comes my turn, how will I respond?

I return to the action already taking place. They're really still children, even though sometimes it seems otherwise. Their behavior is often transparent to adult eyes, as are the beginnings of their new selves. It makes it easier for parents that way, at least for a while longer. Their heads seem misshapen, growing at a rate of speed not at the same proportion as other parts of their bodies. They call it the awkward age for a reason, though these kids seem close enough friends that insecurity momentarily lets go, delayed until their skates and selves leave the ice. I imagine it must be quite a relief.

But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.  

The blonde haired girl chases my new stepson around and around the rink. All the mothers remark how he’ll break all the girls’ hearts someday, with his good looks and long eyelashes. Based on what I see, he’s still entirely oblivious to female attention, a curious state which won’t last long and will never descend ever again. In one of life’s great ironies, at this brief juncture, the girls have a corner on attraction and energy. I wonder to myself what will happen when the roles are reversed, a year or two from now.

His mother and I very nearly didn’t let him attend tonight. He’s an underachiever with his schoolwork. More than capable enough to get all A’s if he applied himself, he rushes through assignments, unwilling to devote the time. And yet, he is such an obvious leader, even now, with all the required poise and presence. My girlfriend suggests he is still mad at her for the divorce. It’s highly likely. Here lies an avenue where I feel powerless to intercede and would not do so if I could.

I’m new to raising children and even less confident because they’re not mine. It’s true that they like me, which was the litmus test employed by their mother immediately after our first date. I want you to meet my kids. Never was a more terrifying phrase employed. After introductions, they were put to bed. You pass the test, she said.

In the meantime, sharing space with two kids can be nerve-wracking, but it’s easier than living with bratty roommates. I had far more problems when living in a college dorm. I never had nightmare experiences in that regard, but more than a few awkward encounters. A roommate returning from classes once discovered me in a rather compromising state. Socks on the doors can be fine, but only for those who understand what they represent. It is that very basic fear that remains in my mind when kids have been tucked in and it is time for us. Doors can be locked, but I keep an ear out for a late night knock or two.

This will take some adjusting to, but you’d be surprised how easy it goes if you stop trying to control every aspect. As animals, we were designed to care for the young. The thought that never leaves my head is the realization that everything I do or say is fodder for impressionable eyes and ears. I never was terribly profane. Their mother, however, lets fly with a stream of curses both great and small. I try to undo, in my own small way, her anger and frustration. The kids aren’t the only ones upset from the divorce.     

Improvement

I'm feeling better, finally. The long process is over. A night after having almost no sleep at all, I feel finally rested. Treating a chronic illness is a matter of incremental changes. Now to return to the writing world with a clear enough head to string together sentences, while building a persuasive argument.

Lest There Be Confusion

Click to embiggen

Quote of the Week

"Analogies prove nothing, that is quite true, but they can make one feel more at home.-" Sigmund Freud

Saturday Video

Overhead the albatross
Hangs motionless upon the air
And deep beneath the rolling waves
In labyrinths of coral caves
An echo of a distant time
Comes willowing across the sand
And everything is green and submarine.

And no one called us to the land
And no one knows the where's or why's.
Something stirs and something tries
Starts to climb toward the light.

Strangers passing in the street
By chance two separate glances meet
And I am you and what I see is me.
And do I take you by the hand
And lead you through the land
And help me understand
The best I can.

And no one called us to the land
And no one crosses there alive.
No one speaks and no one tries
No one flies around the sun

Almost everyday you fall
Upon my waking eyes,
Inviting and inciting me
To rise.
And through the window in the wall
Come streaming in on sunlight wings
A million bright ambassadors of morning.

And no one sings me lullabys
And no one makes me close my eyes
So I throw the windows wide
And call to you across the sky

Cymbaline

The path you tread is narrow
And the drop is sheer and very high
The ravens all are watching
From a vantage point nearby
Apprehension creeping
Like a tube-train up your spine
Will the tightrope reach the end?
Will the final couplet rhyme?

And it's high time
Cymbaline
It's high time
Cymbaline
Please wake me

A butterfly with broken wings
Is falling by your side
The ravens all are closing in
And there's nowhere you can hide
Your manager and agent
Are both busy on the phone
Selling coloured photographs
To magazines back home

And it's high time
Cymbaline
It's high time
Cymbaline
Please wake me

The lines converging where you stand
They must have moved the picture plane
The leaves are heavy around your feet
You hear the thunder of the train
And suddenly it strikes you
That they're moving into range
Doctor Strange is always changing size

And it's high time
Cymbaline
It's high time
Cymbaline
Please wake me

And it's high time
Cymbaline
It's high time
Cymbaline
Please wake me

Movie review: Darling

Darling bridges the gap between the Angry Young Man cinema of the early Sixties and the playful charm of the second half of the decade. It was one of the first British New Wave films to move beyond the antics of frustrated, rat-in-a-cage working class toilers of the north of Britain. Instead, this 1965 film focuses squarely on the amateur theatrics of the idle rich. Its subject may have been a return to old ways, but the approach could not be more different.

The following year, Italian director Michelangelo Antonioni mined similar territory with Blow-up, his first and only British film. A deliberately meandering portrayal of a burned out photographer desperate to solve a crime, its protagonist was played capably by British actor David Hemmings.

In this film, fellow Briton Julie Christie rightfully won an Oscar for Best Actress in a motion pictures that is often too clever by half. For all of its inventiveness, director John Schlesinger’s occasionally brilliant cinematography comes off at times like parlor tricks. If Darling could overcome a script that renders each character more or less one-dimensional, it might have appeared robust and substantial. Instead, it plays like broad melodrama, a device that casts aside realism in a time period where authenticity was sacrosanct.

Scandalous at the time of release, the film includes frank depictions of abortion, homosexuality, and sexual promiscuity. However, it also resorts one of the oldest film tropes in existence, that of the amoral, sexually dangerous temptress. There is plenty of blame to go around, certainly, but most of it belongs to her. Diana Scott's (Julie Christie) mendacity serves as the central focus of the picture, itself an effective depiction of the colossal boredom and ennui of a blonde, beautiful fashion model.

The Diana Scott character lacks sufficient depth, coming across instead as a deceptive, selfish, fickle social climber. Unafraid to use her looks to get her way, she is a home wrecker with a particular skill for duplicitous behavior. It is a testament to Christie’s talents as an actress that she makes a combination of often overblown witty repartee and histrionics seem actually plausible. Though ably graced by an talented supporting cast, a lesser actress could not have carried the picture by herself, as Julie Christie does here.

A few scattered moments are visually stunning or creative. A cinematic sequence of photographer and model mimics exactly the look and energy of a photo shoot. While sunbathing in Italy, Diana is surrounded on both sides by fit young men. When a specially set egg timer goes off, each of the men flip over on their stomachs, intent on tanning themselves evenly as possible. This leaves Scott alone on her back, by her self. The symbolism in this sequence works on multiple levels. Schlesinger clearly spent much time painstakingly preparing each of these creative setups; one wishes he’d have devoted the same care to the rest of the film.

A satire meant to take aim at prominent movers and shakers in the entertainment industry, Darling shows the growth and prominence of permissive societal attitudes, which continued to build over the next several years. Diana is invited without her knowledge to a bizarre orgy while on a trip to Paris. At first, she is uncomfortable with her surroundings, but eventually she takes a fancy to the eccentric setting.

This chameleon-like attitude will serve her well in the future. Intent on sleeping her way to the top, she manages to fake charm and kindness. This front obscures her coldly calculating ability to stray from one partner to the other without reservations, provided she has something to gain from it.

Though it shares a kind of jaundiced cynicism with its kitchen sink predecessors, Darling holds few sympathies for its privileged characters, instead showing their lives as unstable and vacuous. Earlier films had some regard for the working class rebels they showcased, believing the behavior to be a sort of noble means of sticking it to the man. Here, only one character has a moral core, that of television news reporter Robert Gold (Dirk Bogarde).

And even he engages in an affair with Diana, early in the picture, leaving behind a wife and two children in the process. Feeling vindictive, by the end of the movie Gold tricks Diana into one final sexual encounter, intending it as a form of vindictiveness to even the score.

Perfidy and infidelity is the common denominator inherent with every major character. Ethics and loyalty are nowhere to be found. It is this point that the filmmaker hopes that we will retain after the curtain rises and the lights come on again. In fairness, it would be difficult to miss this rather blatant intended lesson, unless one was utterly oblivious. Darling is an uneven work, a surprise popular success that was mostly intended to be a cheap little art film.

Had the movie tanked, Julie Christie would have been forgiven for choosing the part. This was director Schlesinger’s third film, made at a time when he was still largely an unknown quantity. He would eventually produce the critical and commercial successes of Midnight Cowboy and Sunday Bloody Sunday. With its flaws, Darling still entertains, even as it occasionally underperforms.

True Love Ways

While I have the energy, I might as well accomplish what I can.

Just you know why
Why you and I
Will by and by
Know true love ways.

Sometimes we'll sigh
Sometimes we'll cry
And we'll know why
Just you and I
Know true love ways.

Throughout the days
Our true love ways
Will bring us joy to share
With those who really care.

Sometimes we'll sigh
Sometimes we'll cry
And we'll know why
Just you and I
Know true love ways.

Throughout the days
Our true love ways
Will bring us joy to share
With those who really care.

Sometimes we'll sigh
Sometimes we'll cry
And we'll know why
Just you and I
Know true love ways.

Health Update

Living with multiple chronic illnesses promises that there will be regular problems. I've been tapering down slowly off of an antidepressant for the past two months. Without it in my system, depression has built and built. I woke up two hours later than normal this morning, cognizant for the first time that a serious problem is growing. There is nothing exact about psychiatric illness or its treatment.

This won't last very long. I'll start a new medication on Friday. I just have to make it until then. Motivation is usually the first thing to go.

Quote of the Week

"She isn't my wife, really. We just have some kids. No, no kids, not even kids. Sometimes, though, it feels as if we had kids. She isn't beautiful, she's...easy to live with. No, she isn't. That's why I don't live with her."- Blow-up, 1966

Saturday Video

Grandma's hands
Clapped in church on Sunday morning
Grandma's hands
Played a tambourine so well
Grandma's hands

Used to issue out a warning
She'd say, "Billy don't you run so fast
Might fall on a piece of glass
"Might be snakes there in that grass"
Grandma's hands
Grandma's hands
Soothed a local unwed mother
Grandma's hands
Used to ache sometimes and swell
Grandma's hands

Used to lift her face and tell her,
"Baby, Grandma understands
That you really love that man
Put yourself in Jesus' hands"
Grandma's hands

Grandma's hands
Used to hand me piece of candy
Grandma's hands
Picked me up each time I fell

Grandma's hands
Boy, they really came in handy
She'd say, "Matty don' you whip that boy
What you want to spank him for?
He didn' drop no apple core"

But I don't have Grandma anymore
If I get to Heaven I'll look for
Grandma's hands

Bouncy, Part Two

Once, I spent half the night coaxing and convincing a man older than myself. One could observe the conflict within him just by observing his face.

The story was a familiar one.

“I have two kids and an ex-wife. But I don’t regret either of them. I try to be a good father to them. It's just that...”

His voice trailed away to complete silence. He seemed exceedingly tired and uncertain of himself.

“What is really eating away at you?” I said. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

He avoided the question, but notably did not decline the sensation of my legs rubbing against his. After a while, he left the table where we had both been sitting. He intended to leave and go elsewhere with a friend of his, one more or less his own age. I gathered the age difference had been disquieting somehow, or that perhaps he wasn’t ready for much more than that. It happens.

Two weeks later I saw him again, dancing with a determined look in his eyes. He was in the middle of a large group of men. When I looked over, he ignored me completely. Some people work on their problems, and some go to clubs to forget.

In any case, an old friend happened to be there as well. All was not lost. She enjoyed the voyeuristic aspects of the spectacle, never having much intent to engage in anything. At times we would even dance together. Neither of us was particularly gifted in that area, but with many other people around us on the dance floor, we knew that few were actually paying attention to us. She was the only person who could convince me to push past one of my largest insecurities.

Though it had begun with some promise, I knew that nights like this did not usually end up well. Sarah, as always, had roamed the perimeter of the club with her typical panache. I always used to tell her that she should have been a politician, because she was skilled in knowing how to work a room. Her persistence was legendary as was her knack for sniffing out dealers.

   

I never recalled the name of the most consistent source of them all. There was no reason to be on a first-name basis with him. He kept what he had in a small metal box with a latch, a bit like a miniature lunchbox. The only reason I even knew that much is because I always had to keep a close eye on Sarah. She was, after all, my only ride home. Cab fare was expensive. I didn’t really trust most of the clubbers to be responsible and reliable, should I need transportation.

I pulled her together once more somewhere around four in the morning. The drag show had concluded by then leaving a large void behind in its absence. The dance floor was once again turned over to those who had the energy to keep at it. Now seated in the car, I was deliberately situated in shotgun, just as I was supposed to be. Being her right-hand man had its perks and its occasionally tiring rituals. This was one of the latter.

“Ah! I ate a bean!”

Even when expressing surprise or enthusiasm, her voice always sounded the same. It took everyone by surprise at first. Certain people have a melodious quality to their speaking voice. For them, the pitch and inflection of their speech changes regularly, depending on the topic and emphasis. She wasn't one of them.

What she meant is by “bean” that she’d taken a tab of Ecstasy. This was typical of her, to take a drug and then express grave reservations later when it reached a peak. Within that statement was also an implied request, though sometimes it came out a little like a command. I was now supposed to rub her head. If her hair was not deliberately spiked and cut short, this would have been more difficult. I always felt a little as though I was petting an animal, but pushed the thought to the back of my mind. Sarah was never demanding, but was particularly insistent on this one point.

My regular place early on Saturday morning was on the couch in the hall. Her grandfather also lived there part of the time. As I was told, he owned the house in which she lived. It wasn't a bad arrangement, since she had a large space to herself, one with multiple rooms and an outside portico. She could always entertain lots of company at once because of these unusually fortuitous circumstances. I came to believe that her perpetual need for companionship was really a fear of being abandoned or of feeling unwanted. These were problems she never really confronted, much like the clubgoers with whom she rubbed shoulders night after night.

Returning to the grandfather, his schedule was irregular and I never knew at any moment whether he was physically present or not.  Sarah was strongly cautioned to never have boys sleep over for any reason. I’m not sure the grandfather ever really understood the whole homosexual aspect, either for her or for me. It was inconceivable to him that she’d be completely and entirely uninterested in men. Life is always full of ironies.

If I’d been more effeminate, I likely could have made a stronger case for myself. Unfortunately, I easily passed for straight, making me instantly suspect in his eyes. His first impressions of anyone were the basis for how he felt about them for eternity. But for tonight, at least, he was nowhere to be found. That was a relief.

My own parents had abruptly stopped asking questions when I came out to them, almost a year prior. They’d demanded three months forced separation, this after dismissing me with several hurtful comments. One whole summer is how long it took them to come to terms with it. After that, they’d accepted my standard Friday and Saturday night alibi that I was always over at a friend’s house. Maybe they felt like everything I did from that point onward was part of some larger gayness they did not wish to contemplate any further.

When I woke up, Sarah was dressed in her work uniform of black, clean, spotless apron and blue jeans. She was a short-order cook at the diner down the parkway. Sometimes she’d cook dinner for us an hour or two before we departed. In any case, this was my sign to prepare myself to vacate the premises. She’d drop me back off at my house before work. Neither of us talked or made eye contact during the whole of the ten minute journey. It was nothing personal.

I was usually too hungover to make conversation. She was likely still coming down. During the drive, I realized how saturated my clothes were with the smell of cigarette smoke. And it wasn’t just my clothing, either. The smell clung to my hair and my skin. No one would have stood for a smoke-free establishment. I didn’t realize how many of us smoked until my first visit.

At these times, I wondered why I kept going out, over and over again. Why was I Sancho Panza to a person whose basic nature was good, but who was always in danger of pushing the envelope a little too much? She idolized the drag queens, particularly one who was famous for being bitingly sarcastic and sometimes vicious in her commentary. Sarah, I think, wanted that for herself. She wanted the spotlight turned on her and wanted to speak her true thoughts without restraint or filter.

In time, her ambitiousness would be rewarded.

Bouncy, Part One

This is something I've been working on today. I didn't intend for it to be multi-part, but I apparently have more to say here than one post will allow.
 ________________

She peered into the bathroom mirror, scowling and scrutinizing. Unhappy with the image that reflected back, she placed her palms face down onto the fake marble countertop, the weight of her body propped up by two thin arms.

“I look like a kid,” she said with a heavy sigh.

Sarah could make insecurity look somehow confident. Regardless of the words spoken, nothing about her tone of voice sounded defeated or depressed. Utterly fearless in life, even body image couldn’t dampen her spirits. She was the leader of a passel of fellow lesbians, with a few gay men like me thrown in for good measure. With time, I had become her closest confidante.

Even with my deference to her talents, I never saw Sarah for anything other than exactly what she was. The other girls were too intimidated to be impartial, too much in awe. Half of them were in love with her. All of them were in lust.

She had a mythical reputation among the out girls in the city.

“You know Sarah?”

I’d indicate by a shake of the head that yes, in fact, I did.

“Really? I’m jealous.”

Then they’d ask me questions about her. Some of them I answered. Some of them I did not. The discourse always felt like I was responding to the rabid fans of a sports team I didn’t follow and never much cared about one way or the other. At best, I was an impartial observer. Long ago, I decided to take Sarah with a grain of salt. You’d be foolish not to do the same.

Her admirers would have really been jealous if they knew the number of times I’d seen her naked. I was ambivalent to female nudity, but had to concede that her body was attractive. Based on what I had observed firsthand many times before, even men attracted to breasts had seen hers. She was a bit of an exhibitionist and not a bit self-conscious. That same confidence extended in every conceivable direction, though I saw her frequently obsess and fret about what to wear to a night out to the club. At times, I made suggestions, and she often agreed with me.

Her car was about as subtle upon arrival as she was. Around nine in the evening we’d all pile into a two door sports car with a manual transmission and a huge hole in the muffler. She refused to have it properly fixed. Some nights we went to the gay bar. We also went on rescue missions. This was a euphemism for retrieving members of the group who intended to sneak out of their parents’ house late at night. These were also girls that Sarah intended to take to bed.

She had her detractors as well.

“Oh, you know she’s bouncy.”

They’d say this derisively, dismissing her as promiscuous, unwilling to form a real relationship with anyone. A certain amount of sour grapes was present in that statement. Who knows how many women had thrown themselves at her over the course of several years? She never bragged about anything, but then again, you don't have to brag if you're good at what you do.

Concerning Sarah’s past history, I knew better. Shortly after I was made an official part of the gang, Sarah  fought a protracted and frankly quite pointless war with a recently departed ex-girlfriend. The insults began over the phone and then carried over onto endless, hour long internet chat sessions. For whatever the reason, the two of them were too attracted to each other to cease contact altogether, but far too bitter to even begin to establish anything like a healthy dialogue.

I asked her once why she went to the clubs so often.

“I feel better being around other gay people, even if they’re lame.”

It was good to be among those who understood me, I will concede you that much. But I could find emotional instability in anyone, gay, straight, or somewhere in between. Before the night was up, I'd end up being propositioned once again by the club’s unofficial drug dealer. He didn’t really want me, of course, he just intended to sweet talk and to flatter. Anything to make a sale. Sarah could always be counted on to be a good and reliable customer, but I’d had bad experiences with club drugs and was now much too careful.

The gay bars were never especially interesting to me after a time. The same people turned out, or maybe the same typecasting showed up from weekend to weekend. On multiple occasions, completely out of boredom, I’d decide I’d see if I could seduce someone. It was my own passive-aggressive protest. My efforts were effective from time to time, but you’d be surprised how many men I found who resisted. I tried every trick I could think of to drag them home with me, but they’d beg off after a time, claiming they had to meet up with other friends.

A Few Pertinent Images

The Early Kurt Vonnegut: An Excerpt

For the past month, I've been putting together a much lengthier work on the early life of Kurt Vonnegut. Specifically, I've addressed the famed writer's first written works, which are usually overlooked. Vonnegut's development and maturity as a published author is rarely observed, since most readers usually start with Slaughterhouse-Five and work their way forwards. I've enclosed a segment here to showcase the eventual finished product.

Iconoclast writer Kurt Vonnegut is well known for a series of popular books and short stories. His darkly satirical, idiosyncratic style incorporated elements of fantasy and science fiction. What is rarely mentioned is that the author achieved widespread fame quite late in life. Before the publication of the classic, semi-autobiographical Slaughterhouse-Five in 1969, Vonnegut was a respected writer, but relatively unknown to the general public. The seminal work made him a household name at the age of 47.

This overwhelming success almost didn’t happen. In the beginning, writing was not Vonnegut’s dream, nor was it his ambition. Instead, it was a way to continue, if not better his mother’s legacy. Edith Lieber Vonnegut had several pieces published during her son’s younger years. Each was modest in scope, and submitted to small publications. His mother’s suicide, which occurred when her son was overseas serving in World War II, made a strong impression, motivating the young Vonnegut to embrace his fate and eventual good fortune.

Accordingly, Kurt Vonnegut’s first efforts were sent to women’s publications, and, as appropriate, to science fiction periodicals. During his first ten years as a published writer, the eventual blockbuster author racked up small successes here and there, but remained an unknown. By the late 1950’s, Vonnegut was feeling thoroughly burned out and disenchanted with writing. He’d tried working as a columnist and a newspaper reporter and found both to be underwhelming. Vonnegut had pursued his own writing part-time at first, while working as a technical writer for General Electric. The day job was partially a result of feeling pressured to support an increasingly large family.

He’d had three biological children with first wife and childhood sweetheart Jane Cox. Following a horrendously swift course of events, Vonnegut agreed to support and raise his sister’s three children as his own. In a terrible tragedy, the children lost both their mother and father within days. Alice Vonnegut Adams lost a battle with cancer in September 1958. Two days prior, her husband died in the Newark Bay rail accident. A commuter rail train which he was riding to work for the morning commute derailed and plunged into Newark Bay, New Jersey. 48 people died, including Vonnegut’s brother–in-law, James Carmalt Adams.

The author’s publication successes and setbacks are in evidence by examining personal papers. While many items once belonging to Vonnegut exist and are on display, a January 2000 fire at his residence destroyed many private papers. Fortunately, not all of them were lost. It is possible to glean much from his failures in addition to his successes. Rejection letters from various publications show a writer with much to learn, but one also learning how to best adapt his style to an audience.

These letters, meticulously typed and to the point, date back to the late 1940’s and continue into the mid-1950’s. Most pre-date the publication of Vonnegut’s first novel, Player Piano, in 1952. During that time, Vonnegut was a respected, but still struggling author. Following a stint in Chicago for grad school, he moved to Schenectady, New York. Most of his works in this period show a strong indebtedness to science fiction, a conceit he never fully abandoned. The playfulness often present in his works of fiction shines through.

Much later in life, and in typically wry fashion, Vonnegut later wrote about the craft of writing.

“Here is a lesson in creative writing. First rule: Do not use semicolons. They are transvestite hermaphrodites representing absolutely nothing. All they do is show you've been to college.”

-A Man without a Country

Vonnegut experienced the same daily frustrations as beset many writers, especially today. Years from major success, he pitched a series of written pieces to various publications. Most of these responses are deferential, some are warm and affectionate, and others cut right to the quick. A long-established NYC literary agency, one still in business today, informs Vonnegut he’ll have to pay a reading fee for his submissions to even be considered. It seems that he’s not enough of a name yet for McIntosh & Otis, Inc. to take a chance otherwise.

Though also a playwright, Vonnegut wrote relatively few plays in the course of his career. During this phase of his artistic development, writing for the stage was a strong priority. A proposed play, Penelope, was heavily criticized by an editor of Collier’s as a “one joke” work. A short story, “Robot Cop”, is dismissed as not very deep or especially comprehensible. “…I think readers would come away wondering what it was you are trying to prove,” the letter concludes. “Eden by the River”, though appreciated by its reviewer, is said to be too cerebral for the average reader.

By the 1960’s, Kurt Vonnegut would shift sharply away from short stories, as the public’s taste for them had receded. Instead, he wrote novels exclusively. Vonnegut’s early successes were with college students. Prior to the massive success of Slaughterhouse-Five, he was a cult author, beloved by a solid core of readers.

In this embryonic stage, one can observe a talented writer in the active process of trying to find his voice. Even before honing his craft at the University of Iowa’s Writing Workshop, the young Vonnegut had the basics down. As he built confidence and augmented science fiction with other narrative techniques, he developed an original voice that won him millions of readers. Yet, it is still fascinating to see the potential in Vonnegut's first attempts. His persistence is as admirable as his finished product.

Quote of the Week

“You can remember the second and the third and the fourth time, but there's no time like the first. It's always there.”-  Shelagh Delaney