Introduction

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Robert “Bobby” Nannariello and a life well lived, but a life that was much too short to complete the works and ideas flowing from his fertile mind.

In the vast scheme of the millenniums
You were hardly the impact of an acorn crashing to the earth
Less than a single flutter of a hummingbird’s wings
Less than the reshaping of a single cloud riding the tall winds
But you are as unique as a single snow flake
You are beyond duplication.

Your story will be told by your deeds and works
And the imprint on the memory
Of those who knew and loved you.
Your journey knew great joy and exhilaration
And challenges testing your faith and steadfastness.
Your path was clear and certain and deliberate.

Like all who search the mysteries
Of the universe and the soul
Your path was sometimes certain
Other times less so
But you did not lose your way
Because you made all the choices.
Your journeys off the safe roads
Were the roads you chose.

You left us in silence
But your words continue the journey
And we shall listen to your thoughts and deeds
Now magnified
As surely and as certain
As the sun magnifies each drop of morning dew.
The fabric of your life was woven during your journey
And your garment marks you as a good and gentle son.

Many thanks to the people who will read this book. You may find unplanned memories, provoking ideas, surprises, smiles or tears, all of which will breathe life into the words you are reading. You need not rush through his writings, just as Bobby did not rush through his life. His words will live as long as one printed page or one computer screen is read.

The only chronology to Bobby’s writings is an attempt to organize similar writing forms together, such as poems, short stories, and plays. The actual chronology of his writing would be revealing, but that is another journey and another road and in most cases he did not leave road marks with dates. His works need not be read front to back or any particular sequence, except for your personal desire and interest of how you want to revisit Bobby’s life and his writings.

In terms of judging what appeals to the reader in reviewing Bobby’s writings, make your own judgments, but mostly enjoy the journey with your own personal collaboration with him on his writing interests and your reading interests. Collections of works for an author are often done after years of editing and publishing and careful selection of the best of one’s work. The attempt for this collection is to bring all of Bobby’s work together. There is much more to be done and there will be a second edition.

Anyone who writes will share the solitary journey of the poet who explodes with enthusiasm at writing one poem that provides satisfaction among many written; the novelist who gloats over a chapter or only a few pages that seems to encompass his or her best efforts; the playwright who completes endless rewrites trying to align the story with the plot; and the examples can go on. All writers could not survive without enjoying the solitude of the writing experience. It would be too much of a burden if they did not.

I believe, but don’t know for certain, that Bobby was a rather solitary writer who probably shared his writings with few people. I had read some of his poetry and was aware that he wrote in other forms, but literally had no idea how prolific and cosmopolitan he was in his writing interests. This is a personal regret and one reason his writings have been collected in this book to be read by others. He should not have lived and gone not read.

Whether future readers are family or friends or unknown, in his writings you will have the opportunity to search for and come to know Bobby. Don’t judge too quickly and be curious and most importantly, enjoy the journey!

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Foreward

The blessing of having a child is a pleasant burden---to nurture and nudge and cultivate their growth and development into a person who leaves the world better than they found it. It is the legacy that goes from parent to child, parent to child, ad infinitum. Bobby left the world a little better than it was delivered to him. It is unimaginable to lose a child, at any age, under any circumstances. We lost our Bobby--son, brother, relative, friend in April 10, 1992. He was only thirty four. In two drawers in a four- drawer file in my den, Bobby’s writings are filed in manila folders in alphabetic order, sometimes by genre of writing and other times by the name he assigned to a play or one of his poems.

Also, a number of small slender books with black covers and red spines lay side by side on a shelf, containing random journals entries of his thoughts and in some cases poems and plays. There are literally hundreds of pages to be read and searched for further insights into what he was thinking and doing. His journals are observations of his life and his interaction with the world; and scattered throughout the journals are poems, pieces of stories, ideas for plays, and whatever came to mind. In his journals he often made sketches of people and places about which he wrote.

The journals are not dated, nor are most of his writings. From the dates on some of the writings and some recollection of where he was when he wrote some of the material, we can make some broad assumptions as to whether his writings were part of his earlier work or later work.

Vincent van Gogh left behind one of the best historical records of the life of a painter in hundred of letters, all of which, except one or two, had no dates. Scholars spent years of research and deduction to assign a chronological sequence. We need not do this with Bobby’s collected works. We are not trying to track his growth as a writer or create “periods” in his life. When observing a beautiful garden, we want to enjoy the breadth of its scope and each individual flower. And so too, we will read Bobby’s works one at a time and take what we may from them.

Also, there are letters he received over the years--- carefully filed. There are some drawings, designs, and photographs. Most of this will not be in the First Edition, but will be in the next. All of these are part of the reservoir of writings and works that Bobby left and were used to create The Collected Works and Life of Robert Nannariello. His interests and observations were truly eclectic and cosmopolitan.

This book is the story of a life, ended too quickly. I once considered naming Bobby’s book “An Unfinished Life,” and that was the working title for a number of months. It was well intended, and alluded to the writing he would have completed and the living he would have done, had he enjoyed a fair share of years. But his life was not unfinished, but was fully and completely lived for unfortunately too limited a time. The reality of its finality is difficult to accept, but it is an unfortunately the reality. He did as much as he could with the time give him. It was a journey half traveled and incomplete.

The original intention was for the book to contain all of his work, and through his work the reader would discover something about the writer. Neil Simon, the ubiquitous playwright, is a very autobiographical writer of extremely popular plays, who constantly reveals himself through his plays. Bobby on occasion has written stories that parallel events and people in his life, but more often he has selected topics that reveal his view of the world, his humor, and sometimes a dark side.

He wrote short stories, children stories, poems, plays and poetry. Also, he was interested in photography and design. I assumed the burden of being his editor, I have asked myself how can I edit what he wrote without his approval? He has had no opportunity to offer his comments, and the fundamental right and need of the writer to return to the writing table with a sharpened mind and a sharpened pencil to change what he deems needs changing, and to add what he deems was left out.

So I have not done any editing of what he actually wrote except for liberties necessary to organize or occasional provide names to unnamed poems. I have made one suggestion to change one line of a poem, which will be explained later. I have added biographical information and personal insights that reveal who Bobby was, knowing the challenge and frailty of the effort.

We can only judge his work by what he left us, and can only speculate what remains unwritten and the endless rewrites that he may have considered. It has been said, with profound truth, there is no such thing as great writing--- only great rewriting. Anyone who has ever written understands the challenge of getting through a poem or a play or a short story in order to “find out what it is all about,” and then trudging through endless rewrites. One can imagine that given the opportunity, Bobby would have leveraged his own growth and new understanding of humanity, and the inevitable changes in his view of the world and new observations of the world with the writer’s ultimate tool of rewriting.

Being his self appointed editor has its burdens and its quiet joys, and in quiet moments I can fantasize about the missed collaboration we could have had, if he were here as his writings were compiled and edited. That is a wish that any father can not deny to himself. I have continued learning and getting insights into my son; and sometimes confirmation of what I knew; and often new revelations about his views of life, humanity, the world, and himself.

Whatever your exposure to Bobby’s life, I hope after reading his book, you will know him better.

During my visits to San Francisco I came to meet several of Bobby’s friends. Many of these trips were related to his illness and small and large medical disasters that he confronted as he was dealing with the treadmill of AIDS afflictions and challenges. Victor Davis was generous with his friendship with Bobby; and he was kind and thoughtful in a letter he sent. Victor wrote and translated from French “Son ame est une etaile” or “His soul is a star.” It is a quiet and serene thought of Bobby illuminating the night as he often appears in my thoughts. The thought is poetic, it is visually beautiful and it is heartfelt.

All of us are entitled to reasonable regrets without being obsessive or self destructive. Regrets can be lost opportunities or fantasized memories. Life sometimes passes so quickly, that it is only in retrospection that the regrets surface. We must swallow some of these regrets with a bitter aftertaste of the missed opportunities and move on. Bobby and I had exchanged some poems and some complimentary critiques of each others work, but for inexcusable reasons on my part, we never shared enough of each others work. Time and distance and some shared reticence prevented us from discussing and critiquing our poems and writings in depth. I wish we had. I wish I had.

I once saw an interview of a famous author, successful in his writing and very articulate in his observations of his life. He nervously responded to questions about his alienation from his family. When asked about it, he simply said “We just didn’t talk about it.” And now he sits before millions of people and reveals the most intimate interventions of his family personal life and an explanation of the autobiographical nature of some of his writing. I wonder if he has regrets. And now, what he did not speak of with his family, fills his work with strong autobiographical themes, for everyone to explore.

It would have been wonderful to have been the editor of Bobby’s writings. I can only imagine Bobby calling me during his years in Munich and his years in San Francisco and sharing concerns about a stage play script; concerns of the believability of a character; or whether a conflict was compelling; concerns as to whether there was a proper flow and balance between the beginning, middle and end of a scene; or for that matter then entire play. The imagination wanders and one can imagines a dialogue of his calling me after he received and reviewed something I had written, and my listening with interest to his critique.

There is the challenge in this book to provide an opportunity to all the readers to understand who Bobby was through his work and observations that provide biographical information about his journey through life. It was a summer day at the New Jersey shore. Bobby was on my mind as he is at unplanned moments, but most often when my life and a particular day are going well. Those are the times he comes to mind, and I wish he were here and I could share with him heaping servings of these good times. In traveling in the summer, I carry a folder with some of his writings and a few photographs. It was that day I decided to compile The Collected Works and Life of Robert Nannariello.

The dark side of his humor and observations of life remain to be scrutinized and considered. I always think of Bobby with his quick and large toothy and slightly shy smile. He smiled well with his eyes and tilted his head back slightly when he laughed heartily. Bobby’s laughter was quick and decisive, as was his anger. His anger was usually short lived and after he had reconsidered his actions and words, more often he would replace it with a quiet expression of regret and reconciliation that was too tantalizing to ignore or reject. He was quick to regret his anger. I found a post card among those he sent me in which he said “We often hurt the ones we love most”, and neither offered or needed to explain the apology for whatever comment he made, that would require his sending the post card. I can not remember the circumstance, but relish his thoughtfulness and the affirmation of his character, and that post card is a lasting imprint on my memory of him.

Munich is a large city with wonderful parks, and few traces of the World War II are visible, except for a park that Bobby brought me to. My recollection is that it was a hill built with some of the rubble from the war and landscaped as a memorial. After many years having passed since World War II, there were large mature trees and the bombed rubble was paved with green grass and flowers. Too many years have passed to recall the name of the park, but the recollection of that day and that park brings me back to Munich. I had been in London on business, and flew to Munich to spend a few days with Bobby and Wolf Kern, who he lived with. We sat in a tree shaded beer gardens and drank large foamed glasses of beer, and visited museums and castles.

Bobby lived in Munich for about five years, and during that time he did much of his formative writing. He was diligent about learning German and attended school for a number of years and mastered the language. I recall another meeting we had in Germany a year or so after our meeting in Munich. He met me in Stuttgart when I was there on business. We were invited, along with other colleagues, to the home of a business friend. It was a backyard barbecue with various pungent bratwursts, white asparagus, and foamy glasses of beer. Bobby spent much of the time conversing in German with my German business colleagues. Later my friends were complimentary about his fluency and commented on his soft and finely honed German accent. They said he did not speak German like an American. Years later Bobby worked in the San Francisco tourist center and his special assignment was to accommodate the many German tourists who trudge across the United States to find that most beautiful of American cities.

Bobby lived in Munich on a street called Schillingstrasse in a second floor apartment with a rear view over a court. He lived with Wolf Kern, his friend and companion for all of those years in Munich. When Bobby was sick in San Francisco years later, Wolf made the trek several times from Munich, bringing solace and comfort. I have found among Bobby’s photographs, numerous pictures of he and Wolf trekking all over Europe and the Middle East. Around 1985, they visited me in Hong Kong, when I was assigned there for a year or so. The city was hot and humid and we ate wonderful Cantonese food and they were happy to be there and I enjoyed their visit. Bobby and Wolf made a trip to China which then was the rural rustic and latent China that existed before the political and economic opening that proceeded late 1980’s and 1990’s.

We lost Bobby on April 10, 1992. It was a warm spring day in San Francisco. It was about 3 o’clock in the afternoon that Bobby was being turned to the other side of his bed to keep him comfortable. It was at that moment that he took his last breath. He had been sedated and unresponsive for the three days that I sat by his beside, except for one brief moment of apparent alertness the day before. For that brief few minutes, his eyes opened and he looked at me apparently alert but not able to speak. I talked to him for about ten minutes in a stream of consciousness about his life and his family and his friends. I want to believe that he heard and understood me until he put his head back and closed his eyes. The thought that he understood continues to be enticing.

The day after we lost him, Saturday, was a mindless and numbing day of accepting that he was gone and needing to review his personal things. I found his writings scattered in book cases and drawers in his comfortable apartment on Clipper Street in San Francisco. I organized his writings and personal things into piles for later shipping. Jack Walder was a dear friend of Bobby’s and had remained in the hospital, along with several other friends, for the past several days. Jack came to the apartment on that day and relieved me of the burden of working out the details of getting Bobby’s things shipped back to New York several weeks later. Jack was often there when Bobby was in need, and he was there again on this most difficult day.

Again, enjoy your journey into Bobby’s writings. Read them all or read selected pieces as you meander through the book. I am certain you will know him better after your readings.

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Photographs

Return to San Francisco after a visit to New York Stuttgart Railroad Station in 1980’s Working at New York University between living in Munich and moving to San Francisco High School Graduation San Francisco Lightbox Youtube by VisualLightBox.com v4.8

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Curriculum Vitae

Bobby maintained his resume or Curriculum Vitae over the years. It provides some insights into where he was and what he was doing. We know of his four years in college, which he completed in 1979; his five years in Munich; and his return to the United States in 1986. When he returned home to New York, he had a restless energy and I recall from his conversations he was searching for something. He was very pleased when he decided in 1987 to move to San Francisco. He grew to love the city, though I know there were times that he was lonely there, and may have considered leaving.

We can read Bobby’s Curriculum Vitae to track his life, but we need to read his writings and journals to track his dreams and joys and disappointments; and his observations of the world that went spinning by him all too quickly. He took a position at the San Francisco Convention and Visitor Bureau and stayed there until he could not work any longer sometime in 1991. The last time he updated his Curriculum Vitae was when he was living in the first of the four apartments he lived in San Francisco. Following is his typed version of his Curriculum Vitae.

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