Getting by

One of my Father's sayings was "getting by is not enough." I heard it first in the late thirties, at a time when we were on the edge of the Second World War. We were still in the depression, of course, although his skill and business as an automotive mechanic was doing fairly well. But what he saw was people just trying to get by, and he equated that with some kind of laziness, as I recall, sometimes called "bad habits." As a person who was used to 12 to 18 hr. work days, he looked around and saw neighbors, customers and friends who were indeed lucky to get by ... and he was not always understanding about that.

Norman was a tough teacher, a man who was blunt about quality control. If you didn't learn to complete tasks, to be demanding of yourself, then you would be playing into the traps of trying to "get by" with less effort and intelligence. I can well remember a few times when I tried to move along before that was practical. No, no, forget it. & now I have not only those old lessons riding with me, but I am still tempted to share them with others.

The saying has stayed with me, obviously; and I am, in a sense stuck with it. It comes up when I see people who seem perfectly OK with just "getting by," and it seems that there will be more and more of them as things get tougher, worse. "The Long Emergency" will be with us a long, long time, and with it will come a continued sense of helplessness which in turn will produce a sense of rationalizations which may bring with them a kind of shrug and turn. Norman's character was formed by lessons which came from an earlier century, and mine is as well.

Happiness

Awhile back I ran into this definition of happiness: "Infantile optimism." Having studied Tibetan Buddhism off and on for a decade or so, I've seen hundreds of referrals to the word in the teachings, and so I asked a Tibetan Lama for a translation of the root word in Tibetan ... the closest definition of the word he could give me was "gratitude," if I understood him properly. My own reaction to the over use of the word is primarily negative, turning away from what I imagine to be version of a Disneyland of the mind, and endless desires for media driven comfort, self indulgence and forgetfulness, and the like, including possessions. Imagine brimming over with "infantile optimism" while BP oil flows in the gulf as the hurricane season approaches, the Massey Energy mine yet to be examined, Haiti & New Orleans awaiting reconstruction, the latest deaths being reported from Afganistan and other wars & "disturbances."

No argument with being grateful for what you have, for the blessings of well being, but in my play book those feelings are a long way off from the business as usual trappings of h a p p i n e s s . As we reevaluate the nuts and bolts of life in this troubled century we may find ourselves more content with far less, and find it much to our liking. &, it would seem, we may have little to say about it.

"L.A. Confidential"

Author James Ellroy was born in L.A. the year I graduated from high school there. Published in 1990, it takes place in the early 50s, a time when I was visiting home off of ships; the Korea War was in progress and I was a part of it. What brought me to the book was a portrait of Ellroy in "Rolling Stone," and thus the book served as not only as in introduction to his writing, but a review of what might be called in those days "my stomping grounds." In fact, the Silverlake neighborhood is mentioned more than a few times; our across the street neighbor, Mrs. Ball (a policewoman who undoubtedly knew many of the police and criminals portrayed in the book) took me to a couple of DAP (Deputy Auxiliary Police) meetings

I can see how people could become quite addicted to this kind of writing. Not only is it excellent in quality, but goes into a seamy part of life that seems to be so attractive to so many people ... eg. teenagers and people who are drawn to criminal activity via videos and computer games, not to mention all the "cop shows" & the like. What it brought back for me was a neighborhood (unmentioned in the book) close to Silverlake, Echo Park ,,, where my grandparents Roberts lived, and where there was a park which was the rival of our own neighborhood park. Echo Park was partially a Chicano area, and the team we played was dominated by tough street gang type people (called Pachucos in those days).

The game was rough. even though it was "touch football." and one of our players got his faced pushed into a drinking fountain at half time; & thus did not finish the game. We tied the game at 12 all in the last few minutes, and felt an ominous feeling as we left the playground, to walk to Sunset Blvd. to catch the streetcar. Along the lake we were suddenly surrounded by neighborhood teenagers, and if we had not outnumbered them we may have ended up in the lake, or worse. My prejudices for several years were toward Spanish speaking young people, and it was only after I served with some of them in the military that I was able to turn this around.

It was fascinating to visit Los Angeles again, via the l950s, and I look forward to the film version of the novel via video. It will be instructive to see how the neighborhoods are portrayed, the cars, costumes, speech and mannerisms. Ellroy"s major novels are set in Los Angeles, and he has been for many years recognized as a major American novelist. I may indulge again one of these days.

Limitations

Often people describe themselves by their limitations, as if to give their identity understandable perameters: steelworker, GWF, housekeeper, cook, etc. (even though these descriptions might be dangerous for growth?). Life can be very circumspect, and I wonder if we will see a growth or dimutation in these self profiles. At a time when we are encouraged to be multifaceted it would seem to be imperative that our resumes go in multiple directions, less of "this is what I will and will not do." We are going to have to learn how to better duck, weave and dive, & be as flexible in our martial arts as possible (Aikido) ... A danger would be to be identity less, a pandora's box, a cameleon.

Mythologies of convenience

Many of them, "Too BIG to fail" comes to mind right now (BP, Massey Energy, Goldman Sachs, etc.), the big boys pushing their weight around, daring the little ones to shut them down, refuse to pledge allegiance. When we were first going through our man overboard drills at sea we were reminded that it would take about 11 miles (as I recall) to come about, return to the place where the man "hit the drink." Luckily we never had to pick someone who went over, especially if it had been in a storm.

I came periously close to going overboard one night when we were lashing the lifeboats down in a real "blow." A tall, very thin shipmate from Oregon, Johnny, grabbed me as I slipped toward the edge, no lifeline on. And after we came in and went to the galley to warm up I thought of that 11 mile radius. & now I think of the eleven men lost on that massive BP oil rig in the gulf, and wonder if overboard drills are held on these mammoth contraptions. Fire, fire at sea, always a terrifying possibility, I've been through it once. Aye. "Fire in the hold, below number 2 hatch." & fires in mines too... men's business, who could imagine women showing up to testify in congress about mines and oil rigs? Too big to fail.

The Ball is in your court

A statement made often by my Father, a better than average tennis player, and left handed. He was a man who deeply distrusted those who didn't respond to obligations, and to give and take expectations. The saying seems so old fashioned now-a-days, as does obligation. And this absence throws me off, because I am "my Father's Son in this regard. Very often when I ask someone about something that I've said (or I've heard them hear from someone else) there is simply no response.

I can imagine, almost feel, my Father grabbing my ear, saying "the ball is in your court," and/or giving me the dutch rub. Where are you? Have you forgotten the human duty to respond to conversation, to a request for information? S i l e n c e, I don't think so. Dialog? What is that? With a wicked topspin my Father could sometimes get a tennis ball to hop over your waiting racket, & sometimes it went clear over the fence. He could "lob you to death," too, if he had to.

BLOG

Not sure about this, perhaps blogs are already obsolete, passe (?). But yet it seems to make sense, perhaps. Writings which go back for years may find themselves here, shared thoughts which would otherwise go into oblivion, notebooks and journals gone to a landfill or (better) recycling bin. I'm not giving this enough time, and I'm not sure I will. It does take time to write, and I have a new appreciation for those who knowingly put themselves on the line for readers. I was a librarian for years, and bookseller, and I do think this sense of appreciation has not truly been there earlier.