Bob Shaw, Santa Fe, NM

i just found out a friend died. two and one half years ago. no one called me. i hadn’t talked to him in ages, obviously. and he died. and my life went on without him. without knowing.

i found out when i was doing one of my infrequent middle of the night reaching out to see who i haven’t contacted in a while and i wonder if they are on facebook odysseys. i emailed bob and got a mailer daemon back. the next day i called and got a disconnected message. i googled him and found an obituary.

he was very talented in so many ways — as a writer, a playwright, an actor. he had this slow way of talking, an oklahoma drawl, a way of drawing out his words that reflected his thoughtfulness but also his childhood. there was alcohol in the family and he was a seeker — and he invited me into his circle. it was one of those times and one of those places where that invitation, that appreciation was of enormous value. i did not know i was a writer. but i had left my life in the fast lane of new york ad agencies (not in the creative department) and moved to santa fe. to quit everything i knew to open myself to something more creative. bob welcomed me.

the santa fe writers group. i have not found its primal equivalence since. of the 6-10 writers, 3 that i know of are dead. and i am so grateful to them, to all of them, and especially to bob, for letting me be part of the group and encouraging me to write.

he was funny and serious and his writing was always compelling. he was a thoughtful commenter and supporter of others’ work. he was a friend. a person i valued highly in the warp and weft of my life. i know i know i didn’t call him often enough. i have a lot of friends like that. i can’t handle too many on a daily basis.

he took photographs of me. he made me feel welcome and valued in my first writers group in santa fe.

bobshaw was the one who kept me informed when Kat was dying. another fabulous writer. she had MS. her husband left her, he couldn’t handle it. she had had electroshock treatments when she was young in an attempt by her family to dissuade her from living in a commune and exploring the ways many did in the 60s. we always wondered whether that contributed to her later getting MS. she wrote a column for the local newspaper right up til the end. bob gave me her email address so kat and i could be connected directly, even after i had moved to san francisco. we read each others’ work as long as we could. i knew she was writing with a blow tube. and that connection went deep.

no one did this for me and bobshaw.

i let it go. i let him go. i moved on. i don’t know if i’m in a better place. oh, i’m better and i’m in a better place because of bob and the group, but i don’t know if i’m better off because i moved on.

the last time we talked he seemed depressed. he wasn’t writing. he was thinking about moving to albuquerque from santa fe. to the area near the university, downtown. he was living in his sister’s condo. he wasn’t working much, there wasn’t much work for him — as a professional photographer in santa fe. everyone began taking their own pictures. he hadn’t made the transition to digital. it was eight months before he died.

i didn’t call him back. i suppose i hoped he would call me if he wanted or needed me to listen, to hear him. and now he’s gone. and i’m finally in tears.

I hear his flat drawl. I see the words he has written to me. i see him looking with amusement into my camera lens.

Bob Shaw

i dug around and found that i had talked with him in april. that we exchanged a few emails. this is how it is with some. i remember my high school friend randy. we’d both gone east to college. he ended up in calgary. i went to banff one summer and we drove through the northern rockies in his vw van listening to pharaoh sanders. we would call once a year. and one year he didn’t call. eventually i called and he was gone. died while cross country skiing with his family.

i know bob was not young. i know that i’m of an age when this will happen more and more and is in the natural course of things. i know he didn’t call me either. that at the end i wasn’t high on his list. but i still feel guilty. i still feel i could have somehow done something. something more.

i’m letting go of family things. i’m feeling overwhelmed by stuff i don’t use and can’t imagine wanting to use anytime soon. i have scoffed at my friend karen, who lives without many things — almost an ascetic existence. and have never imagined i could do the same. but i look around and want more air, more breathable space.

there are things i can let go of easily and things i cannot. i can let go of clothes i don’t wear, things i thought once i wanted but have not really used. i’m even thinking of letting go of art supplies i thought i would use and still want to use but am not using. i want more room for people. and more time. why am i equating space with time?

other things in my life are falling apart, too. things i can’t seem to write about yet. so i’m grieving for more than bobshaw. i’m looking at things i don’t want to give up. things i have loved, and still love. i want more than just memories.

i woke in the middle of the night, two nights running. i don’t want to move. i am exhausted. my throat is tight. my eyes feel too big for their sockets. i somehow know i will be all right, but right now i’m thinking about the deaths of things. my deep connections to things dead or dying. the grieving and the gratitude are all mixed together. i wouldn’t change a thing of what i had, especially with bobshaw.

I am interested in all kinds of green jobs — from sustainability officer to truck driver to scientist to green job counseling. For now, I’m interested in new jobs — those who are now in a green job and maybe weren’t before.

Thanks.

One of the things I do is volunteer with the Job Forum here in San Francisco and many of our participants want to know about green jobs and the state of green business here in the Bay Area. On February 2nd greenbiz.com and others are putting on the 2009 State of Green Business Forum here in San Francisco. 

Deets:

• February 2, 2009
• 9:30 – 3:30
• PG&E Auditorium
• 245 Market St.
• San Francisco, California

Attendees will participate in sessions on:

• The State of Green Business, 2009 — A presentation by GreenBiz.com Executive Editor Joel Makower of the trends and metrics on the greening of Corporate America.
• Innovation as a Green Strategy — How companies are harnessing environmental thinking to create new products, services, and sources of business value.
• Energy Efficiency Rises Again — The resurgence of interest in efficiency, especially among manufacturers and commercial building owners.
• Is Water the New Carbon? — How companies are preparing for anticipated disruptions in access to water around the world.
• The Green Jobs Opportunity — The role of companies and local governments in promoting economic and workforce development.

In another post, I’ll outline the speakers — which look like an interesting cross section from big businesses like IBM and small businesses and Institutes.

I’m going to get rid of things that “I might need someday”. These things I’ve kept for a rainy day have rarely been used. The adhesive on the bandages is probably dry. The expiration dates have long passed. The batteries are probably drained. I may regret this. But again I might not.

My father was a tinkerer. He’d fix things up. He’d figure out how to make something work better. And his workshop was a wonder. I loved his workbench in the garage, with that anvil looking thing that held things in place. By turning this little handle the jaws of this device would squeeze together and hold what you were fixing steady. And on the walls hammers and screwdrivers and paintbrushes, crescent wrenches and needle nose pliers and metal files. I loved the needle nose pliers the best.

At one time he owned a hardware store and I know why. He loved all that stuff – the washers and nails and screws and the different kinds of wire, the string, the colorful caps used to stop the electric current. He had remnants of sheet metal and aluminum, old shingles, and coils of tubing. He had jars of bolts and screw-in cup holders.

This part of my inheritance – the metaphorical and the physical – was accepted with delight and gave me a sense of comfort and security. With the stuff in the jars and these great tools, I’m prepared. Without thought, I, too, have become a pack rat. Bits of string, corroded paper clips, 6 staple removers, and little plastic feet for long forgotten electronics. Things I might need some day.

red+white string

He seemed to always find a use for that cheap, awful red and white string. He seemed to need that one odd bolt in the round pimento jar – perfect for fixing something that broke.

fix the damper

The problem is, I am not a tinkerer. I don’t know how to fix things. And basically, I don’t want to know. Oh, I’m good enough to change a light bulb and I can handle paper jams in copying machines. But I’m not mechanical. I learned early on to let someone else check the oil in my car. And yet, one of my greatest collections has always been my tools and my jars of screws, nails, hasps, wire, and string. I have had these collections ever since I left home and had no access to my father’s collections. As a matter of fact, he started my collections – the one in my car in the canvas holdall he made and the one in my first apartment in New York. I thought these were great gifts.

When he died, we all wanted his tools. We wanted his Taster’s Choice jars of metal washers. We were more careful divvying up his screwdrivers and his handmade knives than we were about my mothers china. No one seemed to care about the glassware and the dining room furniture. When he gave his wheely cart to our cousin, Tim himself called me and told me – we were all aghast – and Tim knew we would be. I took the 50 gallon steel drums Dad had painted pale orange and yellow for patio tables. They sat on my porch in New Mexico and when I moved into an apartment in San Francisco, I gave them to Tim.

It’s hard to give this stuff up. “You may need this someday.” After an earthquake they might indeed be very handy. But here’s the thing. I don’t even know what I have. When the earthquake comes I wouldn’t know what to do with them anyway. I carry snowshoes he made in the trunk of my car. I haven’t been in the snow in more than 10 years.

I’m looking at my inheritances – the furniture I have that I don’t use because it isn’t comfortable. The glasses I don’t use because they are too valuable or too fragile. The bracelet I don’t wear because I’m afraid it will slip off my wrist. And I wonder what would happen if I just let this all go.

What if I surrounded myself with things important only to me? If I made room for things that will feed me in ways I don’t even know yet? If I simply made room for… something else?

What I realize is these things were important to someone else, not me. What I want is my father, not his bits of string. What I want is someone who likes to fix things while I watch. Maybe it’s time to make room for… someone else as well.

photo by ph

tires and power lines at yuba farms.

I’ve seen Milk. Twice. The first time was opening day, Wednesday before Thanksgiving and it was raining. I went to the Castro Theater by myself.

I sat in this old movie palace in a crowd of men and women, gay and straight, old and young. Quiet. Waiting. I loved this movie, Both times. The first time, it was more about the story. I didn’t know much about Milk – oh, I knew he was one of the first openly gay men elected to public office and that he had a big big smile and that he and Mayor Moscone were murdered in City Hall and that Diane Feinstein was then President of the Board of Supervisors. I knew there were marches and still are. I think I knew there was a book about him. I knew there was a restaurant on Castro Street called Harvey’s.

I saw the movie twice because there were pieces I didn’t get the first time. There were side stories and complexities that I only caught glimpses of the first time. Why did I like it both times?

The top layer story is interesting and it’s about where I live and the people who have shaped this city. The next layer is about courage. Personal courage – to be who you are, say what you think, take a stand. The next layer was about how you get stuff done in life – how messy the process is; how long it can take; how important a single voice can be.

I came out of the theater wanting to know those people – Cleve Jones and Anne Kronenberg. I wanted to know more – about how they got involved and why. Maybe I’d find out why I seem to be so slow on the political side of things and so far ahead on technology. I have avoided politics almost all my life – my mother was a political junkie and until this year, I certainly was not.

What I saw in Milk was how important politics is. How important the whole process, and it is a process, is. One of the phrases that stands out for me is “It’s not about winning.” It’s not about winning. It’s about standing up. It’s about speaking out. It’s about taking a stand and having conversations. It’s about messy relationships – personal and political and economic.

Now I know for sure I want to add my voice to the discussion – about sustainability, and the multiple bottom line – profit, people, planet. And I see now that I must get more involved… in politics. I must be willing to live a far messier life than I have so far. I must be more vulnerable and more courageous and not worry about winning. Just being in the conversation is critical.

Harvey ran several races before he won. He developed alliances with labor unions and beer distributors. He figured out a way to connect to those not like him. He kept speaking and reaching out and running even as he recognized he might be stopped, killed, for doing so.

I don’t face those kinds of threats. I don’t want to run for office. I’m not good at the small talk and glad-handing. But there are places I want to go and things I need to say, and I have my own fears. Of looking foolish, shooting for the stars and falling far short, of going after something many think is too high, too big, too far away.

So, not only was I looking at the movie itself, but I was thinking about those he touched, those he got involved, those who carried on and who still carry on. And how important, how powerful, how utterly human this all is.

After the movie, I walked in the rain, went to the grocery store and the Castro Cheesery to pick up coffee and then to Orphan Andy’s for comfort food. I took the old trolley down Market, back to Powell Street, and home.

It was an early Thanksgiving gift to myself. I remember thinking when I was looking at the movie listings – I didn’t care about it being opening day, but I realized I did want to go see it at the Castro Theater. Because it was raining, I wasn’t sure I even wanted to go out, but I did – I said, I want to see this movie, I want to see it at the Castro, it’s starting in half an hour and I can get there, it’s 12:30 so there may not be crowds…. just do it. And I did.

The second time I went with a group my friend KZ put together. 7 of us. 4 gay men and 3 women. Met them at the Kabuki. And afterward we sat and talked… some about the movie. And some about whatever.

Three self-identified loners, an actor, an architect, a writer, a picture editor, a couple of marketing pros. At twilight. And I sank into the comfort of hearing real stories about the man we had just seen. About times long ago and still current. About carrying whistles to call for help and now gay marriage is legal in some places and being challenged in others. And how it’s about all of us. I remember my mother saying when JFK was running that she was afraid the Pope would run the US. I was thinking how lucky I am to live in a place where outsiders are welcome.

No one who meets me for the first time would think I’m an outsider – but that’s how I feel, often. So, a story like Milk’s, about otherness, and desire, and authenticity, and messiness, and courage appeals to me. I want more stories like this one. I want to be part of stories like this one.

It matters to those of us in the book world that people read, or don’t read, books. We have all read the sad statistics* about books and reading, such as:

• 58% of US adult population never reads another book after high school
• 80% of US families did not buy or read a book last year
• 42% of college graduates never read another book
• 33$ of high school graduates never read another book
• 57% of new books are not read to completion

And yet… our president-elect, Barack Obama, reads books. And there is a great picture of him (http://papercuts.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/05/21/what-obama-is-reading/) at the airport in Bozeman Montana – he has his finger in a book to mark his place. What a great image!

Why does this matter to us?

Books are important. Books are about ideas and about communicating ideas. Some have called Obama brilliant, curious, and prepared. I believe books are part of who he is and who he has become. Reading is a critical act and helps train our brains to be critical as well. Words allow our minds to imagine things as we read, where pictures and TV and videos can often limit this activity.

It matters because the president leads us by example. Others will copy him. More people will read books because he does. The fact that he reads books and talks about what he reads and his staff talks about what he reads makes me believe that the statistics about reading books may well rise over the next few years. They may even rise in our poorer communities. He even admits he reads books more than once. This has to be good for everyone in the book world.

There also seems to be a book bubble right now. I see books by the left and the right and everything in between – by reporters and professors and intellectuals.

It’s good to know many are reading books and that books seem to be in the news more now. But, in some ways this doesn’t really affect us. We still need to go through the steps of publishing – making sure our books are written, edited, designed, and produced professionally. And to succeed, we need to market our books and our authors well.

But what it does do that helps us is perhaps give us confidence that we are moving into a time when books matter, when ideas matter, when thoughtful consideration of issues matters. This is true no matter your point of view. And this is true for fiction as well as non-fiction. I find myself interested in what progressives and economists and conservatives have to say. I find my brain lighting up with all these points of view and this sense, this deep sense, that all these words printed on pages matter and I am at a feast.

What a great time to be in the book business!

* Sources for statistics about books, the book industry and reading:

http://www.parapublishing.com/sites/para/resources/statistics.cfm

http://www.bookpublishing.com

I look at all these economic experts and I don’t see anyone who represents me. Where is labor represented? Where are the unions? Where are the folks who can help the underemployed, the self-employed, and the ones who will not get any unemployment benefits? Where are the folks who can advocate for green solutions? Where is the oversight?

I look at this line of smart people and realize the man who said women might naturally have trouble with numbers may be our new Treasury Secretary. And others have backgrounds in Goldman Sachs. Where are the small business leaders? 

Why can’t we attach more strings? Why are the banks not lending? Why are they being allowed to issue dividends and pay executives more and not lend? Why?

The bailouts and rescue plans may be necessary but let’s connect them to where we want to go — connect green to autos — replace management. I read somewhere that Steve Jobs could take over GM and create the iCar. We can’t just keep giving money away to those who obviously don’t know how to use it.

It reminds me of the scorpion and the frog story — the scorpion wants to get across the river but can’t on its own. The frog doesn’t want to carry it across because it’s afraid the scorpion will kill him. The scorpion says that won’t happen because it’s not in his self-interest – if he did sting the frog, the scorpion would die too. So along they go and in the middle of the river, the scorpion stings the frog and the frog asks why. And the scorpion says it’s in his nature — that’s what scorpions do. Why does this remind me of Wall Street right now?

I didn’t buy a house in the last few years because I knew I couldn’t afford it. Now, I’m paying along with everyone else, anyway. I don’t know who’s looking out for me. Where are my advocates?