For the last six years Jan and I have flown to Idaho on December 25 in order to celebrate the holiday with both the San Luis Obispo branch of the family on Christmas Eve and with the Ketchum children and grandchildren on Christmas Day.  This year, back in September, we decided not to make the trip until after the first week in January, to allow ourselves some down-time at home and save money on air fare.  This meant that both of us would be absent when our colleagues were getting back to work.  I had to schedule the first meeting of the Sustainability Faculty Colloquium at Cal Poly the Friday before the first meeting of classes, and Jan has to miss a community workshop on budget priorities”though no City Council meetings.

I felt a duty to use the time as intended–for contact with friends and family”but neglected to plan for that. Nevertheless it so happened. Claire started a full-time job at the beginning of December and I became the primary daycare provider for twenty month old Lucas.

We went on hikes along up Stenner road to gather rocks for the border of a new vegetable bed and pine cones for the fireplace. We went to see the calves at the Dairy and the aqueduct excavations and the sheep at Cheda Ranch. We took a birding expedition with Johanna at Oso Flaco lake.  His long midday naps and the morning hours before his arrival gave me time for work. Even up and around in the house he made few demands.

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When the house of cards started to fall in September, I tripled the size of my vegetable patch and ordered the movie “Wall Street” from Netflix. It had made an impression that stayed in my porous memory since I saw it twenty years ago, and I had a hunch it would shed some light on the present from a long perspective. Netflix said it wasnt available–the first time that’s happened–and I couldnt find it in any local video store. Yesterday morning it finally arrived. Jan said she’d mentioned that to the City Manager at the afternoon holiday party, and he told her he’d also been looking for the film and been puzzled by its unavailability. Another sign of the times.

Rather than write holiday cards as planned, we watched it in bed and drank whiskey. I wasnt disappointed. “Greed is good,” proclaims Gordon Gecko, the ruthless stock trader who gets his comeuppance at the end. That growling grasping creed has epitomized the mainstream values of American culture in the era starting with Reagan’s election in 1980, just after we returned from Canada, and now catastrophically concluding. The film’s economic analysis and social criticism are as simplistic as Naomi Klein’s in The Shock Doctrine, but it nevertheless captures the emotions I feel whenever see the ads for golf resorts and fancy hotels in airline magazines, the New York Times “Styles” section, the pounds of throwaway newsprint on my driveway every morning.

Repeatedly we are told that the crisis around us is caused by depressed demand for stuff, that Christmas has been spoiled by not enough buying, and that public wealth has to be funneled into the economy to promote consumption of junk. I think this idea originates in the Gecko view of the world. The film sets it against the position of Carl Fox, the father of “Bud,” the young protagonist who worships Gecko. A capable machinist and union steward, Carl despises the whole culture of Wall Street finance–the “Rulers of the Universe”–who neither produce nor create but use their talent to parasitise those who generate society’s real wealth. When I heard recently that CitiCorps is putting 55,000 people out of work, I experienced compassion for these  folks–most of them I’m sure no more greedy than average–but I also felt that this downsizing will benefit everyone in the long run.

It was startling to discover at the beginning of the film that it was made by Oliver Stone and even more startling to read the dedication at the end to his father, whom he identified as a stockbroker.  That adds to the richness of the parallel father-son relationships in the film–Bud and Carl, Bud and Gordon–reminding me of Shakespeare’s Prince Hal and his two fathers Henry Bolingbroke and Falstaff.  And it motivates me to see Stone’s latest production, W.

Jan was sworn in, along with her ally John and old Mayor Dave, the first day of December–accompanied by fanfare and applause from her supporters.

I attended with Ian and Lucas.

Their first Council meeting took place the next night, and it erupted into what’s as close as it’s gotten in this town to mayhem at City Hall.

The issue was the construction of a parking lot for the senior center”a pet project of the mayor’s approved by the previous council majority and opposed by an agitated group of residents, mostly those who live nearby, but also others who object out of budgetary and environmental concerns.  Why pave over space that an earlier general plan designated for a community garden, especially since the paving would threaten the life of the largest heritage tree in the city.  Jan had taken a strong position opposed to the lot in her campaign, but it turns out that John supported it.  At the meeting he apparently lost his cool and attacked her.  She responded appropriately

and the newspaper took her side.

The same day in the morning I heard from Walt at the Center for Teaching and Learning that my June proposal for a Sustainability Book Club would be funded and publicized.

Claire is holding her new job in telephone sales and we have started to babysit Lucas while she’s at the office full time.  Lucas idolizes his older brother Ian and Ian is loving and patient with him.

I got an Ipod Shuffle for $49 and use it to practice Spanish while cleaning, babysitting and driving.  I’ve had some misgivings about the plan to go Colombia in February, but an email exchange with Jimmy, my high school friend who found me through this blog, inviting me to stay with his family in Bogota has strengthened my resolve to carry through.  Whenever I got away from the tourist areas in the Yucatan while we were there this summer for the wedding of our niece, I was entranced by the language and local people.  And the effort to learn a new language is taking on the challenge of my growing short-term memory deficits.

Wednesday I was on my way to the public library with Lucas, when a mother and three year-old in the garage elevator asked if we were going to Boo-boo Records for the weekly sing along.  I’d never heard of it.  Outside the store one could hear loud childrens’ voices and clapping.  There was hardly room to sit on the floor in the large back room where a woman in funny honkers, bright red lipstick and black shoes and stockings was leading a wild chorus of singing and dancing to Raffi’s “Baby Beluga.” None of the kids were older than three. I cant wait for next Wednesday.

That evening Jan and I attended an event at Steynberg Gallery hosted by our local Sierra Club.  Chad and Nancy, two students active in Focus the Nation,  gave a presentation about state and local government climate initiatives. Our new City Council members John and Jan both were invited to speak, as was one other Council Member. But like the 60 odd activists who also attended, they were there more to listen and to brainstorm about the policy specifics that have been set in motion by AB 32, the epochal legislation signed by the governor two years ago, and about another bill AB 117, which allows communities to buy electricity from anyone who produces the kind of green power that must replace CO2-creating sources instead from PG and E.  These two bills point the way to transformative rather than symbolic action and mere words.  The atmosphere was electric.  Real education taking place, and conducted by the students for professors.

Seven liberal arts faculty colleagues have expressed interest in my Culture of Sustainability panel for February 5. I’ve been doing some research for the overview I hope to present.  I may start with the subtitle from Paul Hawken’s new book, Blessed Unrest: “How the largest movement in the world came into being and no one saw it coming,” and then try to define that movement, trace some of its history back to the sixties, outline prominent strains”in higher education, the arts, film and media, eating, consumption, transportation, and generational identity–and to close with a display of paradigmatic examples: AASHE, Andy Revkin of the NYTimes, David Orr, Orion Magazine, the Santa Lucian, and Buddy Stein’s Hunts Point Express.

Kevin, my long lost former student and friend, checked in by email Thursday announcing that he’s found a tenure track job teaching writing in L.A. He hadn’t stayed in touch for years, he said, because he was waiting for news like this to relate.  We hope to meet later this month for an overnight hike and campout.  I had talked wistfully about him with Joe, his former classmate and fellow performer in our crazy Shakespeare productions, when he came by for the evening two weeks ago on a visit from London, where he works as the librarian in the British National Portrait Gallery.

I’ve been dithering around with holiday cards for weeks”first scouring the web for the best deal on sites allowing you to upload your own photos and order printed cards and then having to send back the product because the color was so poor, then going to kinkos to see if they could come up with a decent print, then buying ink for my printer to try to do this at home and discovering the printer wasn’t working right and finally settling upon Staples, where they did a fine job at an excellent price.  I finished the cutting and pasting and now have 125 cards with two pictures selected from the 2500 I’ve kept during the last year.

They’re ready for Jan to address with the labels she prints, and together we will sit in the evenings and write in them to people we feel close to yet may never see again.  I’ve become addicted to this holiday card ritual as resistance to shopping frenzy and other excesses of the season, as instanced in the letter to the editor I sent yesterday:

Somehow the sight of hundreds of thousands of incandescent bulbs imported from China obscuring the stars and squandering energy fails to kindle the holiday spirit in me.  The day your Sunday edition glorified this spectacle of waste and bad taste brought the news that “Carbon dioxide, methane and nitrous dioxide concentrations reached record levels in the atmosphere in 2007, according to the World Meteorological Organization. CO2 levels now stand at 383.1 parts per million, well past the 350 ppm level scientists believe is the safe upper limit beyond which global warming will destabilize Earth’s delicate climate and lead to rising sea levels, extreme storms, heatwaves and droughts.”

Friday night was the Holiday parade featuring the members of the City Council and their families waving to the crowd from the rear balcony of the ersatz Trolley that takes tourists from the hotel districts to the downtown. Ian brought Talia, his friend from school, to our house for a play date in the afternoon, joining Lucas in the living room. I cooked dinner and lit the Friday night candles, and then we all headed downtown for the festivities.

Afterwards Claire came by for a sleepover with her two boys. 

I’ve taken on a real project: to organize a panel for Focus the Nation II on this topic, getting together some people from the College of Liberal Arts to contribute to the effort that’s moving forward elsewhere in the University.  I’m committed to make my own presentation–a definition of what this grandiose term means, a survey of what the Humanities have to offer.

I’ve started gathering ideas and assembling links from the AASHE website, but I’m having trouble continuing, even though I woke up at 4 AM with the need to get going.  How to stay on track, keep up the momentum, when first the economic crisis, and as of two days ago, the mayhem in India suddenly intrude?  I’d thought the election would get us back on track, but now the right of way seems to have been blown up.

I’ll take a walk in the dark.

Went up Buena Vista and then cut over past the water tank to a game trail on the east end of Poly Mountain. Huffed to the top as as day dawned, less breathless than expected.  Light and vegetation both unexciting. But as I looked for a trail to descend through the two year old burn, I saw movement in the brown grass.  A coyote loping silently on one path, and then another following and then doubling back, accelerating to a soft silent gallop.

Then between them a good sized doe bouncing up from the chapparal to the grassland directly below me.  For a short while I could see all three animals from above: the dance of predation.  Then the second coyote was lost in the oak woodland, and soon after the deer headed off in the same direction and disappeared into chapparal to my left, and the first animal that had come into view took off toward the west.

I took many pictures, but without the telephoto knew that they wouldnt show much. You can see the coyotes only in the larger versions found by clicking on these.

As I came back down the game trail, the clay neither hard dry nor sticky wet, just moist enough to be springy, the sun topped East Cuesta Ridge.

I’m sitting in Reddy (our red Prius, which says “READY” on the control panel before you can start moving) in Steve Caldwell’s driveway, waiting for Ellen to complete the three hour bowel protocol she performs on him three mornings a week.

I’ve just spent two hours in the Starbucks around the corner drinking coffee, using their wireless to read the news, answer email from Nepal, Canada, Lund, San Luis Obispo and L.A., and upload a set of pictures of the hike with Ian’s school I led through the “Grand Canyon of San Luis Creek” just before leaving on this adventure.

My glimpse of him lying on the bed on his side naked below the waist reading a paperback while she carried a basin of foamy liquid with an unmistakeable whiff  toward the bathroom was all it took to make me say, “I’ll wait outside and let you finish your business.”  I don’t mind undressing under a towel at the beach or changing the baby’s diapers, but Steve has repeatedly exposed my true squeamishness.  His written descriptions of the miracle of sex and masturbation he experienced as a quadiplegic in his unpublished books pushed my head aside, and even though we’ve corresponded at length about the books, this is a theme I try to avoid.  He asked me to proofread his forthcoming review of “Private Dicks,” an HBO documentary about men talking about their sexuality.  It’s a terrific piece of writing, but I have trouble uttering its apt title, “Speaking of my Penis.”  This, despite the fact that the topic has been no less primary a concern in my life than in his, or than in the lives of the film’s many subjects.

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Jan & Steven:

Congratulations on helping create an amazing shift in US politics. This may be the most optimistic time since John Kennedy was elected.

The Nepali woman in the picture runs a “tea house” which is a hostel with a primitive restaurent in a very isolated location along the trail to Everest. There is no road or even a village there. Her husband is a sherpa who climbed to the top of Everest a few times.

Notice her button. They had a party when Obama won. …

Peter

This message arrived the day after the election.

Friends,

Each of us has had their own window on the events of the past 24 hours, and their own story to tell. I want to take a moment to share with you what things look like through my window right now.

As the west coast results came rolling in at 10:00 pm last night,Susanna and I were riding with some friends through the geographic center of DC’s African American culture, and the epicenter of the riots that ensued here after Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated in 1968, and the area in which we live. We knew the election had been decided when, as we dismounted our bikes, strangers ran up and hugged us. People poured out onto the streets chanting and singing and crying and dancing. As we approached the street corner, the rhythm found us. The sound of twenty drummers on djembes, bongos, snares, symbols, shakers. The sight of a growing mass of hundreds, then thousands, in a frenzy of hugs, tears, jumping, dancing, and chanting. People hailed the crowd from the tops of lamp poles,  tall trees, bus shelters. We were enveloped in a smiling sea of white, black, brown, red, yellow, young, old. A few elderly black men and women – those who had grown upforbidden to share a water fountain or attend the same school as their white peers – stood on the sidelines, just shaking their heads slowly, repeating the words “I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it.”

Understand that racial divides have remained strongly palpable here even in the absence of overt violence. This city is a prime example, and while there are many important exceptions, my experience here has been largely one of segregation – geographically, economically, culturally and socially. This majority African American city, for example, has one of the most abysmal education systems in the country and an HIV infection rate that is 10 times the national average and largely concentrated in the black community – a fact attributable in various ways to socio-economic conditions. This country has simply not dealt with its racial wounds, yet seems somehow shocked when then bleed and get infected. Here the relationships between blacks, whites and latinos is not a mosaic, not a melting pot, but mostly a guarded tolerance that is heavy on the streets. Lets just say that bear-hugs from random six-foot-six black men aren’t something I have come to expect. (more…)

Jan was on the ballot with Obama.

At her Election Night Party at Linnea’s we alternated watching the local with the national returns.  News of her conclusive victory followed the President-Elect’s acceptance speech.

More pics of the party here

Andrew, our local Sierra Club Chapter director, sent out an email several days ago headed “All Hands on Deck,” urging members to attend the County Board of Supervisors meeting scheduled for Election Day.

It was considering a proposal for a vast and ill-planned subdivision on the Santa Margarita Ranch, the last intact old Spanish Rancho in California, a splendid tract of land just a few miles out of town.  The proposal, which required a 1200 page Environmental Impact Report including the revelation of 10 class one unmitigable negative impacts, had been presented before the Planning Commission a month ago, drawing spirited opposition from neighbors and environmentalists among others.

The Chair of the Commission had pulled a procedural ploy to force a vote after only a couple of hours of hearing, requiring the rest of the Commissioners to either approve or reject the application before considering the Environmental Impact Report in detail.  The majority rejected the plan, but either way, the developer won, since the project could immediately be appealed to the Supervisors.

The current Board majority was recently voted out of office because of their outrageous bias in favor of developers, but still could approve this project in the month before their terms ended and the new, more environmentally friendly board was seated.

The item was placed at the end of the agenda, close to the time that the Board would have to adjourn to allow for the ballots to be counted in the County Building.  Jan dropped me off there around 3:00, on the way to setting up her Election Night party at Linnea’s. I sat in the Chambers and wrote down what I wanted to say.  It turned out that the County Staff’s rebuttal of the Developer’s appeal was so lengthy that the meeting was adjourned before public comment even started, and the hearing was continued until November 18.  But at that point my remarks will have lost their timeliness, so I’m recording them here:

It’s an ironic coincidence that the Board of Supervisors is considering this proposal after many years of controversy on a day that marks the end of an era in our country.

It’s an era that’s been repudiated by most candidates for public office up for election, including both candidates for President.

The era that’s ending is one of private gain over public interest, an era of mortgaging the future assets of our children and grandchildren for the present benefit of the wealthy and well-connected few.

It’s an era of ignoring the consequences of untrammeled economic growth for our immediate environment and our global climate system.

Thankfully that era is coming to conclusion.

The strategy of the appeal in front of you is to get the present Board to act today to overrule the determinations of its own Planning Commission and staff in favor of land developers before the newly elected Board is seated in two months.

This strategy is a desperate effort to avoid the kind of change that the nation, the state and the county are now eager for. This strategy is an effort to allow the loosening hand of the past to retighten its grip on the future.

I ask the Board to reject this backward-looking appeal.  Doing so will allow time for the developers to create a new proposal that will not create ten class-one negative environmental impacts nor require an appeal of staff and Planning Commission findings.

A time of waiting.

The email Jan sent this morning to all the people who aided in her campaign:

Thank you for all your hard work on my campaign.  All precincts have been walked, all signs posted, all letters to the editor published, all events beautifully hosted and productive, and all campaign materials distributed. We have all done our level best, and win or lose, deserve to take a bow. See you tonight at Linnea’s 8-11!

Gratefully yours,

Jan

Sunday morning I got a call from Megan, one of the students I’ve worked with on Focus the Nation at Cal Poly for the past year.  She was in Las Vegas walking precincts to get out the vote for Obama but wanted to let me know that she’d found a couple more volunteers to talk to residents and distribute flyers in student residences for Jan.  Cassidy biked over on Sunday and took a couple of hundred and spent three and a half hours canvassing Sunday night, and Tyler biked over yesterday and took 150 to pass out in Mustang Village before his 2pm class. (more…)