Martin Luther King, Jr. Monument

Today is a holiday in the US. Well, kind of. I mean it’s a holiday that everyone should be observing, but sadly there are many who make it optional.

To me, there is nothing optional about Martin Luther King, Jr.

What could a white woman of decent privilege mean by this? Being both Jewish and gay, I know a little about discrimination, but for me that discrimination generally comes only when I have “outed” myself. Otherwise I walk through the world with pretty easy steps, facing the specter of bigotry only on occasion for the one minority group to which I belong from which I cannot generally hide – that of being a woman. (It will be a great day when we can not only stamp out racial bigotry but also the insidious hatred of misogyny, but that is a post for another day.)

There are those, however, who do not have this luxury. Whether that be the color of their skin, a blatant outward presentation of religious or sexual orientation. Or just being different. There are those whose paths through the world are fraught with challenge and, indeed, depending on where they are, danger. There are those who put their own lives and safety in harm’s way in order to battle bigotry and discrimination. I’ve written here before about my rise to activism in 2008 – a direct result of the passage in California of Proposition 8, which took away my rights as a lesbian to marry, turning me into a second class citizen in my own state.

To be fair, the discrimination I may face on any given day pales in comparison to the stories I have read and heard – some distant history and others related to me by people in my immediate world today – but the root that leads to the behavior resulting in discrimination is the same no matter where you go.

It’s fear.

Fear of change.

Fear that one’s world will be shattered.

Fear of the unknown.

Fear.

This word rings in my ears and heart with a freshness born from my experiences in Peru over the holidays. An array of blog posts about this journey are coming in the next couple of weeks, and it feels fitting, somehow to be teeing them up on a day dedicated to remembering a man whose voice rings clearly through time and whose messages carry as much weight today as ever.

With that, I am compelled to share the full version of Dr. King’s historic “I Have a Dream” speech. There are many myths around this speech, one of which is that it was delivered not from pages on the lectern, but as an impromptu sermon.

Obviously I wasn’t there, but I had the true honor of meeting Clarence Jones last year and talking with him at length about this speech. You see, Clarence Jones worked side-by-side with Dr. King and had a hand in writing many of the speeches we know today. As Mr. Jones explained it, Dr. King began the speech from the prepared text, and a few minutes in, that changed. Legendary gospel singer Mahalia Jackson was sitting just behind and to the side of Dr. King on the dais. She called out, “Tell them about your dream, Martin. Tell them about your dream.”

Dr. King then paused, and turning over the text began to speak. Mr. Jones told me, “No one there knew that they were about to go to church.”

And go they did … as we do now all these years later.

Thank you, Dr. King. For your inspiration and motivation. May we honor your legacy and continue the march.

UPDATE: adding in here another video – that of Dr. King’s very last speech given, I believe, right before (as in night before) his assassination. His language, in hindsight, is eerily precognitive. In a conversation with Clarence Jones (who, btw, is at the Kennedy Center TODAY to be honored by President Obama!), he spoke of Dr. King’s belief that he would be killed. Dr. King apparently lived most all days of his life after becoming a major force in the Civil Rights movement, believing that day may be his last. Mr. Jones explained that this particular speech carried an even heavier weight on that. Dr. King had apparently had some dreams to the effect that his time was nearing an end. If you look at the very end of the video and see the way in which Dr. King collapses into his chair, you can get a sense of the deep channeling of energy that truly ran through him for these last, motivational words.

Disclaimer: This post and all the content on this site are expressly my personal thoughts and opinions. I do not represent any company or organization here, and any organizations or companies with which I may be affiliated are in no way related to this content.

Image from www.angelenergy.org

There are a few writers whose work I adore and whose writing originated in a language other than that which I speak. Paulo Coelho, Isabel Allende, Gabriel Garcia Marquez and, the writer who has moved me most of late, Pablo Neruda.

In all the above cases, their work is available in English (and many other languages) crafted from its original form into equally powerful and moving work. While I speak passable Spanish, attempting to read complex prose in Spanish and still bask in the beauty of the storytelling is an arduous task for me – something I am hoping to work on; and so I have found that diving into the poetry of Pablo Neruda gives me a nice entry point.

As I’ve mentioned, Neruda’s work carries great meaning for me and so this morning I wanted to share one of his poems that seems to resonate today. Whether or not one speaks Spanish, I feel as though the melodic lilt of his words carries the emotion of his work quite beautifully.

Para Que Tu Me Oigas

para que tu me oigas
mis palabras
se adegazan a veces
como las buellas de las gaviotas en last playas.

Collar, cascabel ebrio
para tus manos suaves como las uvas.

Y las miro lejanas mis palabras.
Mas que mias son tuyas.
Van trepando en mi viejo dolor como las yedras.

Ellas trepan asi por las parredes bumedas.
Eres tu la culpable de este juego sangriento.
Ellas estan buyendo de mi guarida oscurca.
Todo lo llenas tu, todo lo llenas.

Antes que tu poblaron la soledad que ocupas,
y estan acostumbradas mas que tu a mi tristeza.

Ahora quiero que digan lo que quiero decirte
para que tu me oigas como quiero que me oigas.

So That You Will Hear Me

So that you will hear me
my words
sometimes grow thin
as the tracks of the gulls on the beaches.

Necklace, drunken bell
for your hands smooth as grapes.

And I watch my words from a long way off.
They are more yours than mine.
They climb on my old suffering like ivy.

It climbs the same way on damp walls.
You are to blame for this cruel sport.
They are fleeing from my dark lair.
You fill everything, you fill everything.

Before you they peopled the solitude that you occupy,
and they are more used to my sadness than you are.

Now I want them to say what I want to say to you
to make you hear as I want you to hear me.

I have a few little ditties marinating at the moment – a rant/open letter to the founders of Airbnb in the aftermath of what I saw as a relatively disastrous presentation by Joe Gebbia at FailCon earlier this week; another one about my experience running a 1/2 marathon and another that … well, you’ll see.

In the mean time … poetry.

A couple of weeks ago I had the distinct pleasure of going to hear Mary Oliver. Now if you don’t know who Mary Oliver is, well … for starters you can click on that link I included in this sentence. For those who prefer to read through an entire post before traipsing down the rabbit hole maze of links within blog posts, here’s an overview. Mary Oliver is an American treasure. Full stop. She’s an award-winning poet (Pulitzer and National Book Award). Her poetry leans towards the lyrical, true storytelling through a lens as sharply focused as the eyes of a hawk. She misses nothing and pulls no punches in telling it precisely how she sees it.

After spending about an hour taking us on a journey through a broad selection of her work – including several new pieces that have yet to be published – Ms. Oliver took some questions from the crowd. One young woman stood up and asked for tips that would help a budding young poet get their feet firmly planted on the path towards a literary career. Ms. Oliver paused briefly and began offering a solid laundry list of ideas, one of which stuck in my head. She said to find a poem that truly resonated and read it … every day for 30 days. She said to explore a single work in such depth and breadth would allow the language to gently unfold in your mind.

Immediately I began to think … what poem would I read? From which poet would it be? It seemed obvious that I would pick Mary Oliver as a book of her work always sits next to my bed (in fact that same book travels with me almost everywhere I go). When I got home that night, I realized that tucked alongside the teetering stack of books that inclines Pisa-like on my nightstand, there was a small book – Pablo Neruda’s Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair. I began to page through it remembered immediately why I adore his work.

Whether in Spanish or English (this particular volume has each poem in the original Spanish on one side juxtaposed by the English translation), you cannot help but feel as though you’ve just slipped into a delightfully clear lake on a sharply hot summer day and lay floating on the surface, gently buoyed by crisp coolness below while warmed by the sun from above. I began thinking about some recent experiences, personal lessons learned and new people I’d come to know, and mused that it was within this book that my daily poetry reading would come.

Now the problem was – which to pick.

I’ve not settled on one yet, but this one is a top contender … and so I wanted to share:

“The days aren’t discarded or collected, they are bees
that burned with sweetness or maddened
the sting: the struggle continues,
the journeys go and come between honey and pain.
No, the net of years doesn’t unweave: there is no net.
They don’t fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river.
Sleep doesn’t divide life into halves,
or action, or silence, or honor:
life is like a stone, a single motion,
a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves,
an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metal
that climbs or descends burning in your bones.”

― Pablo Neruda, Still Another Day

I don’t sit still very often.

Granted much of that is business travel and the truth is that when not on the road for work, I’m very much a homebody; but that said, I do have a penchant for being in motion. Most notably, thanks to my friends at RunKeeper, pretty much any time I lace up my running shoes (which is often), the distance, route and time of my activity gets shared across the landscape that is me on-line.

So it was no real surprise to folks when I started talking about running a ½ marathon in October. What most people missed, though, was that in spite of my being a relatively fit individual I was far from someone who was what I would call “training” in any sort of formal way.

That is, until July 12, 2011.

That’s the day I received an email from a friend. She and a pal had signed up to run the first half of the San Francisco marathon on July 31. The pal, however, was now injured and would be unable to run and with just about two weeks before the sold out race had been lamenting the waste of her spot. Having seen my persistent stream of posts about having run 5 miles here or 4 miles there, my friend reached out:

“Hi Cathy, My friend who was going to run the SF first half of the Marathon on July 31st is injured and is not going to be able to run. Are you interested in running it? She is trying to sell her spot even for part of what she paid for it if she can and I could not think of anyone that might want to and then you came to mind…”

Just as one should not dial or text while under the influence, one should avoid responding to emails at late hours when overly tired.

“Why sure, that sounds like great fun,” I replied, hitting send and heading for sleep.

Oh dear.

In the light of the next morning I realized what I had done, and had immediate second thoughts. My friend then emailed and gave me the opportunity to back out. It’s right about this time that my good, old-fashioned, Taurean stubbornness kicked in. I mean, I’d been running regularly – the longest trek was about 7 miles – so that meant a two-week intensive to try and extend my endurance by another 6 miles or so.

So it began. I marked my calendar and began in earnest. I put myself on an aggressive, if not slightly over amplified, training schedule. Regular runs with increasing intervals alternating with strength and endurance training at the gym. About a week into my self-imposed Boot Camp, My friend Briana Stockton, who happens to be a personal trainer and fitness/nutrition advisor, posted something to Facebook. She was offering a friend and family deal for training sessions. Much like my hair trigger response to the ½ marathon invite, I responded immediately.

With my ½ marathon about a week away we didn’t get to start training for that, but she did give me some tips to aid my last minute prep and then we set our schedule to begin as soon as the race was done.

Back to my preparation I went, and as the day grew closer, I found myself a bit worried. What if I couldn’t do it? What if the lack of training resulted in my getting hurt? Putting the fears aside, I plowed forward. Race day arrived and cutting a long story somewhat short here’s the gist.

I did just fine. Cardiovascularly I had no problem whatsoever with the race. At about 8 miles in to the course, however, I hit the first wall. With a deep breath and a little energy goo I managed to get a second wind, but it didn’t last long. At about the 11-mile mark, I hit wall number two. This time the reserve tanks were empty.

There I was, 2.1 miles left, feeling as though I was running barefoot across gravel and bark chips, my major muscle groups began to seize up. Two things kept my feet moving.

First, music. I’d compiled a pretty kick ass playlist for the race that I’d entitled “Worth the Hurt” (the theme for the 2011 San Francisco Marathon). Just about at the time my energy began to flag, a friend’s voice came wafting from my iPod. It was Kate Schutt and her superb rendition of “Glamourous Life”. If you’ve not heard this version of the tune (and you didn’t click the previous link to check it out), I’ll tell you this. It’s impossible to hear Kate’s mellifluous voice sashaying across this tune without getting a little swagger, and swagger I did. Well, it pepped me up a bit. Moments later, Annie Lennox’s powerful voice belted “Walking on Broken Glass”, which just made me laugh as you might guess based on my aforementioned description of how my feet were feeling at this point. From there, my cheering squad of Adele, Ellie Goulding, Big Bad VooDoo Daddy & Blues Traveler carried me forward, each time I began to wane, a new set of rhythms catching my feet and propelling me forward.

Unfortunately I’d not timed the playlist quite right, and it came to an end with about a quarter mile to go. Did I mention that before the home stretch to this finish line the last ¼ mile goes uphill? Yeah. Well, it does.

So with an already played tune failing to motivate me, I found myself looking up that slope (one that’s not altogether steep on any other given viewing I might add), and wondering just how much of a wuss I’d be to peter out at this point and walk. That’s when I saw him. A rather lanky fellow with a shock of dark hair, he was just ahead of me to the left and as I came up behind him I could see that he was starting to slow his gait, almost slowing to a walk. As I trotted by, I turned to him, “Hey … you’re almost there. Don’t give up now! You can do it!”

He whipped his head towards me startled, I think, at the voice coming so close to his shoulder; and then he smiled. Giving me a thumbs-up and flashing a wide grin, he picked up the pace again and we began powering towards the finish. Matched nearly stride for stride, we pushed up the final hill and began our way down the gentle slope towards the finish line.

Long story longer, we finished the race, I met up with my friend and we went for a mammoth breakfast (pretty sure the breakfast burrito I consumed was almost the size of my head). Afterwards I headed home, took a hot shower and promptly passed out on the sofa.

Upon waking, something interesting … I was entirely energized. Yes, I’d had intense exercise. Yes, I’d consumed volumes of food. Yes, I’d crashed hard and slept for two hours. But the type of energy I had came from something much deeper, it came, I think from having pushed through challenge by getting out of my own head.

Or perhaps it was the burrito.

Then, as I sat by my computer scrubbing through email accumulated during my day of travel, I saw the news. Steve Jobs was gone. Now, I never worked with or for him. I can not say that I knew him as folks like Ellen Leanse and Walt Mossberg did. Yet, as so many people have said in the last 48 hours – Steve Jobs left an indelible impact on all of us.

Walking through SOHO last night I came upon this at the Apple Store.

Gotham Grieves - Apple Store in SOHO, NY

I had been hearing about makeshift memorials popping up at Apple Stores all around the country, but as with things of this nature, seeing it was different. The normally bustling New York street seemed to slow just a touch. People stopped, looking at the notes and flowers. Sometimes they left a thought of their own. Many just paused, bowing their heads. A few even walked away with tears in their eyes.

Walking off to my next destination I thought about what I’d just seen and began to think about how truly powerful this moment is. I mean, think about it. What other company do you know where the death of the CEO would give rise to an immediate and global mourning? What other corporate titan would garner makeshift memorials, in front of their place(s) of business? What business tycoon’s impact would lead people to organize a worldwide remembrance day?

You can’t think of one because there isn’t one.

Why not?

Why shouldn’t tech execs and indeed people from all industries strive to have an impact that goes well beyond whatever product or service they deliver? Why shouldn’t these people whose businesses and products saturate our lives strive to be … better? Why shouldn’t we all?

Steve Jobs’ own words have infused the Internet for the last couple of days, but this is the quote I see most often:

“Here’s to the crazy ones, the misfits, the rebels, the troublemakers, the round pegs in the square holes… the ones who see things differently — they’re not fond of rules… You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them, but the only thing you can’t do is ignore them because they change things… they push the human race forward, and while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius, because the ones who are crazy enough to think that they can change the world, are the ones who do.”

It is with this mindset that I head into my day moderating a series of conversations for Straight Talk. This edition of the conference is set to focus on three themes – Exposure, Resilience and Meaning. The idea is to talk with these industry leaders about their respective work/business and focus on what drives them, how they power through adversity and looking forward how they feel their work and their efforts can, may and will impact the world at large.

While I didn’t know the man, I feel thankful for the inspiration that Steve Jobs brought to the world. Until this week, frankly, I liked my Apple products and was grateful that he and the amazing team at Apple had brought them into the world, but didn’t really think about him much beyond that.

Today, I think different.

“Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma – which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of other’s opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.” – Steve Jobs’ Stanford Commencement Address

Twin Towers, Circa 1999 - Courtesy of @JoanBrady

I did not intend to write this post today. In fact I didn’t intend to speak of what happened ten years ago. My plan was merely to include those whose lives were shattered and who lost their loved ones in my morning meditation and then go about my day.

And that’s how my day began.

Lighting a candle I said a prayer that those whose lives were shredded apart are finding peace. I said a prayer that maybe, just maybe, this anniversary can serve to remind us of the brief moment of goodwill that flashed across this country and around the globe in the attack’s aftermath. I said a prayer that I be able to remember to be careful in being proud of my country and my heritage that I open my heart and mind in compassion to all people.

Then my morning shifted.

I stepped outside to get the morning papers and encountered an almost eerily thick feeling in the air. Still. Heavy. Noting the oddity I opened the two papers leaving them unfolded on the table, did a quick check of some text messages, put down the phone and went to pour my coffee.

When I returned tom the table, I saw this…

I felt my blood chill, but before I sank into tears I hopped onto Facebook, hoping for some levity, some bad jokes or, at the very least, some LOLcats. No such luck.

The status updates already had began … “Ten years ago I was…”

I tried to write a quick thought that gave my location and activity at that moment – and then it all came back.

The rage. The anger. The desire to find those who had perpetrated such an act, and physically pull them apart. The rage that I know now after some time not only processing this event itself but also my own emotional intelligence and experience isn’t actually anger, but fear. More on that later.

It was directly to anger I went on that clear morning in September 2001. I didn’t think about peace. I didn’t think about understanding. I wanted to find the people who had shattered my way of life and kill them.

I was sitting by myself in a hotel room in Washington, DC, (Georgetown, actually). I was there on business for TechTV (we were to hold an event there that evening and then head to New York the next morning for another event). Opting to sleep in, I had skipped the run that would have taken me around the Pentagon that morning. Instead, I was sitting on the end of my bed in my hotel room eating breakfast and watching this exact moment of Matt Lauer on the Today Show.

From the moment NBC switched to their rooftop camera and showed the North Tower burning, my gut told me something was terribly wrong. They were saying it was a commuter plane, but as the wind shifted and the curtain of smoke cleared briefly, the gaping hole ripped across almost the entire side of the building spoke to a far larger aircraft.

Then things got worse. In the lower corner of the TV screen, another plane. This couldn’t be happening. It was impossible to fathom. Yet, there it was, a huge commercial airliner and then a ball of fire as it slammed into the South Tower.

I immediately picked up the phone and began calling my friends and family. While I was pretty sure that my hotel wasn’t a likely target of an attack, being walking distance from the White House and every other major building that houses the government of this country, I was pretty sure that danger was at least nearby.

I was right.

Not long after I began my phone calls, there came this report from NBC’s Jim Miklaszewski. It didn’t occur to me until a bit later that day, that had I actually gone for my run that morning I could very well have been nearby when that third plane hit.

The rest of the day and the events of the week are jumbled in my mind.

I remember wandering through the lobby of the hotel around 10:30am. They had opened the bar and people were drinking – a lot.

I remember walking outside to get some air and realizing how silent the city was. The streets were desolate save for the National Guards on every other corner standing by their humvees with guns drawn and the occasional screaming sirens and whooshing tires of motorcades taking one dignitary or another from place to place.

What I remember most was the silence from above. I hadn’t realized just how much air traffic generally flies over a major US city … until there was none.

Wandering along the Potomac a few hours later I reached Memorial Bridge and stared across the river to where wisps of smoke still rose from the Pentagon. Standing just behind the Lincoln Memorial the thudding rotors of a helicopter seemed to appear from nowhere and two Blackhawks careened around the edges of the Memorial and rose into the sky. Behind them the familiar sight of Marine one carving a turn over the river and then angling back towards the White House.

I remember being furious that President Bush was only now returning to DC.

For the next three days I spent most of my time trying to get home. In between calls to airlines, car rental agencies and Amtrak I wandered with my TechTV colleagues, clustering in bars and restaurants with strangers, and watching the news where those images of the towers played over … and over … and over. We would order extra meals as we left restaurants, taking them to go and delivering them to the military personnel standing watch outside our hotel. We would try to distract each other with stories about our lives, but the conversation always came back to the horror at hand.

Finally, late on Thursday night, success! I was able to get on a USAir flight out of Baltimore, changing planes in Charlotte, NC and then heading to San Francisco. The first flight was a short one, and probably the most quiet flight on which I’ve ever flown. No one spoke a word. The second flight was a bit more stressful. A group of young men were standing together in the boarding area. They were dark skinned. A few of them had beards and they spoke in a language that I didn’t recognize (I came to learn over the years through making a point of learning more about the variegated cultures of the Arab world that they were speaking Farsi). They all wore Western clothing, and had I seen them even just a week before I’d not have given them a second glance. On this day, however, I didn’t just glance. I felt myself staring, and I felt fear – and then anger. They were chatting easily, even laughing a bit. I watched as the other passengers all began to stare, and then watched as the fury I could feel from my own eyes radiated from others’.

Upon boarding, the men split apart and sat in different areas of the plane. From there, my memory is oddly numb. I wish I could remember the flight. I wish I could say that I broke through this fear, making eye contact with even one of these men and smiling. All I remember is sitting frozen in my seat, praying that I would get home safely and staring at the small American flag that I had bought in the airport and that I clutched in my hand.

I wish I could turn the clock back to that flight. I wish the person who I am today had been there in that waiting area to approach those men and introduce herself. I wish that instead of glaring with hatred and anger at a group of people who probably felt awkward and frightened themselves, that I had been able to rise above and offer a smile.

The person who I am today knows that the anger and fury has nothing to do with wanting to retaliate. It has everything to do with fear. Yes, that group of terrorists who orchestrated the 9/11 attacks showed no mercy. Yes, there are others in the world who follow their same beliefs and given the opportunity would do the same thing. But in allowing the anger to rise, in allowing their hatred and anger to engender the same response in me, they win.

Over the last 10 years I’ve spent a lot of time with what I like to call emotional and spiritual excavation – digging through the layers of life and experience to, well, try and be a better person. During this time, I’ve been back and forth to New York many times, but it was not until this past April that I ventured anywhere near Ground Zero. Each visit to Gotham drew my eyes to the sky and each time it felt as though the sky where the towers once stood remained a jagged hole that would never fill.

On my April trip I headed for a meeting with a long-time friend, Ellen McGirt. Her office sits directly adjacent to the former site of the twin towers. As the taxi made its way south and we got closer and closer to our destination, I felt my heart begin to pound. Walking with my colleague to grab a coffee before our meeting, it felt surreal. People were walking around as though nothing had happened, because to them life had moved on. I, however, had stepped into a time machine. We went up to the office for the meeting, and Ellen took us into a conference room to see the view.

Ground Zero from Offices of Fast Company Magazine

Something happened when I looked down. It was as though the excavation of my own spirit had a chance to calibrate with the progress from the site below. While the memory was still clear, progress had been made, things had evolved, people were moving on.

The personal growth I mentioned earlier has been a particularly focused endeavor in this last year, due in large part to the work that I’ve been doing with others around personal storytelling. When that fury arose in me this morning something interesting rose at the same time. This morning I finally allowed myself to mourn for all that was lost on September 11, 2001.

Perhaps now, the healing can truly begin.

Soon after, he committed suicide.

I do not know how. Nor is that really the point. What compelled me to write this is the grim reminder that the disease of depression is a cruel beast. It does not discriminate. It takes no prisoners.

Expressions of grief and shock cascaded across the Internet on blog posts on Twitter or, most hauntingly, on the wall of Trey’s Facebook profile. Many people had no idea that Trey suffered from any sort of mental anguish or perhaps diagnosed condition that would lead to such a tragedy. Sadly that’s how depression works. It is insidious in its approach and vicious in its impact.

Part of the issue I believe is that people toss around the statement that they are “depressed” when what they really mean is that they are temporarily down in the dumps about a situation or experience. This differs greatly from someone who genuinely suffers from the clinically diagnosable condition of depression. Those who do usually are masters of disguise, maintaining a perfect facade to those around them … and sadly a part of the condition is that one feels as though they have no one who cares.

Depression can be detected, diagnosed and, more importantly, it can be treated. There are myriad studies and research groups exploring this disease as well, seeking even more knowledge to expand the options for those who suffer.

If there is one good thing that can come from Trey’s death perhaps it is that someone out there who currently suffers can get help they need. If you have someone in your life who you think may be in trouble, don’t wait until it’s too late.

To those of you who knew Trey, my deepest condolences and prayers that you get through this difficult time.

Image Scraped Lovingly From the Blog of CC Chapman

What? What’s that you say? It’s only August 2011, so what on earth am I doing talking about an event that doesn’t take place until March of 2012?

Simple. It’s SXSW – the annual rodeo of all things digital, social, film and music. It feels a bit like Christmas in that every year the maelstrom starts up just … a bit … earlier … and this year was no exception. It was May when I started hearing early rumblings and by June the word that content submissions were DUE by July 15 began to circulate. Yes, by July 2011 you had to submit your proposed session content for an event that would take place nearly a full year later. Forget about being newsy – think evergreen, think big picture and most of all, be creative.

As someone who’s attended SXSW for quite a few years (pretty sure that I qualify as an “old timer”), I have watched in equal parts delight and frustration as this geek gathering exploded in size, lurching perilously in recent years towards jump the shark status. A major marker of this has come right around this time of year with an almost nauseating display of “me-me-me” attitudes as people pimp, preen and otherwise excessively promote their sessions. It was a necessary evil, of course, since a large part of the decision process around what sessions are chosen for SXSW are done through the crowdsourced experience of the SXSW PanelPicker; and when you have several thousand sessions sitting in that panel picker, it takes a pretty big bullhorn to ensure you get the votes for your session to rise to the top.

Or does it?

I’ve been pleased this year to see, or rather to not see, such excessive crowing across social media. Oh sure, I’ve seen plenty of folks promote their sessions, but the tenor this year seems to be almost, dare I say, mature. Perhaps it’s because SXSW is growing up. Perhaps it’s because those who attend & participate are. More likely I think it’s due to thoughtful voices, like that of CC Chapman, who have made a point to educate and inform people about the best practices for SXSW and help guide neophytes towards behavior that ultimately serves the overall SXSW community far better.

And that’s what this whole thing is about. Community. Hugh Forrest and his amazing team at SXSW spend considerable time towards creating this event and ensuring that what comes to pass when tens of thousands of us descend on Austin for barbecue, cowboy boots and to immerse in all things creative, feels like the biggest block party comprised of all the folks you like.

With all that … and considering that I did get a few requests from folks to tweet about their sessions, I’ve opted to collect some sessions that definitely snared a thumbs up in my book. If you haven’t voted already, get on over there and vote for ‘em too.

Oh, and an important thing to remember … sessions aren’t judged solely by the number of votes they get, it’s also about the conversation and commentary that is posted with the session. So don’t just toss the thumbs up, take a moment and offer your thoughts on why that session would be a great addition to the SXSW roster!

Happy voting, and see y’all in Austin!

Shut Up and Breathe: A Disconnection Love Story - Self serving? Maybe, but would be remiss if I didn’t include my own session here.
The End of Business as Usual – It wouldn’t be SXSW without some thoughtful insights from Brian Solis. This year, though, very exciting because the topic will be his new book!
How to Get Consumers Addicted to Your Content – While on the topic of addiction, here’s a great session by Tara-Nicholle Nelson of Sutherland Gold (generally I eschew promoting sessions by PR people, but I get a feeling this one will be good).
The Power of Visual Storytelling - I’m a sucker for storytelling and have only good things to say about CC Chapman … so…
Power to the People: Rebuilding the Mobile Web - Ami Ben David, Co-Founder of DoAT intends to tackle a pretty hefty topic and will be joined by Tim Draper of Draper Fisher Jurvetson. If you’ve never heard Tim speak … it’s worth it.*
Start-up Genomics: Maximize Success and Avoid Death - I don’t like panels, but when one is proposed that has both Shervin Pishevar AND Jacob Mullins, I’m hard pressed to say no. Moderator Ashley Brown is pretty badass too.
QR Codes and NFC: When Digital and Physical Collide – Again, not a panel fan but Antony Macgregor Day is about as sassy and charming as they come and I have no doubt he’ll keep this lively.
Adding Value as a Non-Technical, Non-Talent, Ass Clown – now I’m not sure what exactly an ass clown is, and am pretty sure that Matt Van Horn is not one … well, he’s a clown but definitely not an ass. If there’s anyone who knows biz dev & relationships it’s this guy.
Social Commerce, Not Taking off Like Farmville - Again, a panel … I know. I really don’t like them, but this topic is hot and the panelists are amazing, including the fabulous Tara Hunt!
Tech Superwomen – Mentors and Mentees FTW - Okay so I should qualify my panel comment – if the panel is uniquely orchestrated (lots of diversity, many women etc…) AND the participants rock AND the topic is amazing … well then it’s okay … kind of like THIS session. Though I have to admit I would prefer not seeing women specific sessions**, in the case of mentorship I think some focus is worthwhile. Oh and Ekaterina Walter is on it, and she rocks.
How to Find and Keep the Average Mom for Your Site - I admit it. I don’t like mommy oriented sessions, as a rule. However, Lucretia Pruitt is a smart, sassy badass … perhaps she can change my mind.
Social Implications of Big Data - So I met Silona Bonewald at SXSW several years ago and was duly impressed with her smarts. Considering the importance of data and information as our world gets increasingly digitized, this has to be a good one.
Women Founding Tech Start-ups: How to Succeed - Okay, so here’s another “woman” panel, but this is a very practical topic in which some truly insightful women will be engaged … so for women attending SXSW who may want to start a business, this could be solid content. And I just love Shaherose Charania of Women 2.0 and Maya Bisineer!
Is Your Business Ready for the Online Video Revolution - What do you get when you put together Jim Long of NBC News, Patrick Starzan of Funny or Die a few other folks and get it all moderated by Melissa Pierce? Feisty fireworks, me thinks.
Disruptive Tech – When It Builds Strong Business – I think the title pretty much says it all, and it’s a dual conversation NOT a panel!
Branded Content: We’re All Publishers Now - A panel on a very important topic that I hope will be addressed seriously and considering who’s on board, including the fabulous Amy Vernon, I’m sure it will be!
How to Lose Co-Founders and Alienate Start-ups - Nice play on the “making friends and influencing people” statement. One of my favorite rabblerousers, Rachel Sklar is listed and Seth Blank is no slouch either
Drunks in Public: Going Sober Online & Off - though I personally have a rather strong disagreement about the premise of this session, part of me thinks that with Jolie O’Dell and Paul Carr there will be at the very least great entertainment value from the discussion and perhaps at least one person may come to an important realization as they listen in.
Developer Relations for Dummies - This is about as perfect a type of discussion for SXSW as I can imagine. The “old” SXSW that is. The one that focused on the folks who really built stuff.
Like This: Secrets of the Top Branded Fan Pages – So if you build it, they don’t necessarily come; and even if they do come, they don’t necessarily stay. So how to raise your brand above the noise? Sounds like this session might help with that.
#BlameDrewsCancer – Still Blaming Two Years Later - as if this session needs any explanation for why it should be chosen!

*Disclosure – I work with DoAT as an Evangelist and driving Strategic Relationships for the company.

**It’s worth noting that of all the geek gatherings – Blogworld Expo, Digital Hollywood, any of the 140 Conferences etc… – SXSW has made some truly remarkable strides in changing the ratio on the gender front.

So here’s the story …

A few months ago I heard about a start-up focused event happening in SF in the Fall. I’d not heard of it before and in reading through the details it intrigued me. I RSVPd to attend, and then noticed there was a way to approach the organizer to potentially participate. I reached out to the organizer, and got no reply. I tried messaging again after a couple of weeks … nothing.

Finally, after ignoring my multiple messages, I receive a note from the event organizer that is clearly a blind outreach – sent to the main information email of the company – offering an opportunity to participate. I found that a bit odd, but I’ve produced my fair share of events and know how crazy things can be, so I emailed a reply asking for a quick phone call to answer some questions.

I get an email in reply saying “My time is tight these days, but I could talk for a few minutes if your free now.” Putting aside my distaste at the grammatical error in that sentence, I called and got voice mail. I left a detailed message with my questions (things like: how many people attend, who typically attends, what comes with sponsorship with regards to visibility, demo area… etc…) and, acknowledging how crazy things are before an event, offer that if it’s easier for him to reply to my questions by email no worries.

Before I continue, a disclaimer:

I have produced and helped produce more than my fair share of industry events in my time. Ranging from some of the largest and most well-known conferences to smaller, up-and-comer gatherings. The stress of putting together an event – of any size – is considerable. The laundry list of “must do” activities – again regardless of size – always feels (and sometimes is) overwhelming. In fact, the smaller events can be even more stressful because they don’t have large infrastructures of staff upon whom to lean for getting things done.

I also know from my own experience that when you’re producing an event, and someone comes to you asking questions that are already outlined somewhere on your web site that there is a sense of frustration. On more than one occasion I’ve received an email or call that engenders

I get the following response from him:

“I received your voicemail. I want to answer as many and all questions as I can, but I’ve been incredibly busy with this event. All of your questions are answered on the site. It seems you need a call for assurance, but I just don’t have a lot of free time these days, so perhaps we can catch your company at next years event, and I will certainly have more time to catch up with you and answer your questions.

Best of luck and I hope to see you at next years event.”

Now at this point you’re possibly saying, “Um, Cathy … what’s the big deal?”

Here’s the thing … as my father often told me, when you are moving around in life (especially in business) you should respect other people, always be nice and remember that you should be careful as you climb the ladder, because the fingers you step on as you clamber up will be attached to the person whose ass you have to kiss on the way down.”

I did a little digging and found out that this particular individual’s behavior has ranged from rude and entitled to downright arrogant and snotty.

When I first started penning this post I was pissed (and apologies for the excessive alliteration there) and since that time my “hey kids get off my lawn” anger has muted … I will, however, be interested to see if this event is the abject failure and goat rodeo I’m pretty sure it will be.

I’ll report back.

The July 4th holiday is upon us and as has been the case for several years now, I’m heading to Sonoma, CA for some much needed R&R. As in the past, I am leaving all technology at home.

Yes, you read that correctly. All technology stays at home.

Okay, so I will have my “bat phone” with me, which is the phone for which only about a dozen folks have the number and I will use that occasionally to connect with the people with whom I’ll be spending various moments in time throughout the week; but by and large I’ll be going analog. Several books, a fresh journal and a stack of magazines (as well as my trusted travel Scrabble) stuff the bag usually relegated to hefting around at least one computer, all kinds of cables and recording devices.

This year’s journey, however, it’s a bit different because rather than just three or four days, I’ll be pulling my plug from the Matrix for a full week. Eight bliss-filled days of …

Oh shit, what will I do? How will I breathe? How will I know what’s happening everywhere, every second?

Hopefully you could hear the tongue welded firmly in cheek with that. I mean, come on. Has the FOMO factor (that’s Fear Of Missing Out in case you didn’t know) become so ridiculous that one cannot take a break for a week? Have we all become so utterly convinced of our personal indispensability that the very idea of not checking in for 8 days strikes fear in one’s heart?

I can’t lie to you. I wonder if I can make it the full week. I already know that the first 24 hours or so will be odd, because I’ve done this before – though like I said, just never quite this long. For the last several years I’ve used my trip to Sonoma as the chance to fully unplug from the grid. Last year I even wrote about it for dot429. This year, though, a full week. In fact, while I’ll be in Sonoma from July 1 to July 8, I don’t intend to really get back online until July 9-10 – at which point my main focus will be digging through what will no doubt be a rather hefty digital snowdrift of data.

A full week. Okay, so I know from previous experience that during those first 24 hours I’ll have the occasional phantom buzz in my pocket or purse. I’ll think that I’m hearing a text message go off or an alert from Facebook or Twitter. Kind of like the phantom pain an amputee experiences after having lost a limb, so too will I be reaching to scratch the digital itch.

I also know that after about 36 hours, I’ll be just fine. I’ll be better than fine, in fact. I’ll begin to breathe at a normal rate. My system will slow down a tick and I’ll begin to notice more things around me. I’ll pause in conversation, not because I have to check a message but because I’m musing on what someone just said and taking a moment to formulate a response. As I noted in my talk at the recent 140 Conference, this idea that we cannot step away from the stream for even a minute has grown to ludicrous proportions and is, in fact, not serving us well. You may think you know more. You may think you’re more connected. Are you really? Look around any cafe or room at any event. How many people’s eyes are cast downward at some screen or another? Too many. We MUST disconnect, if we are to make sure that all this connectivity has any long term value.

Throughout the week I will be chronicling my experience – in a journal, with a pen, by hand – and upon return will be sharing my daily experience of disconnecting and recalibration.

But for now … I gently tug the umbilical cord and head for the warm north … and adventures at a truly real time speed.