I want my country back

When words fail me I turn to art or, many times, the words of others. In attempting to express my profound sadness and anger about the pathetic state of our nation and our disastrously immoral role on the global stage, I pieced together the following visual images that inspire me to keep on keepin' on. I traveled through a wide range of songs trying to find just the right sentiment for this montage. Scanning through my iTunes I ranged from blistering indictments by Ani DiFranco to Pete Seeger wondering where the flowers have gone. I settled on this Alice Peacock song because it is, in the end, hopeful.

Acknowledging all that is wrong with our political state of affairs, Alice still chooses the conviction: "I'll start with me." I respect that. It's the attitude I strive to maintain. Everyone spews the tired excuse that they are only one person and they'll never make a significant impact. Often times it seems progressive community activists are attempting to steer the Titanic, I know I can feel that way, but if every person who said "I'm just one person..." would do
something, we could turn this around. I want my country back because so much is being done in my name, your name, our name, that is beyond ethical comprehension. We are capable of so much good and we are capable of so much more than this.


The song is "I'll Start With Me" by Alice Peacock. Some photos are from the Syracuse Cultural Workers (incredibly inspirational change-the-world resources) and some photos are from Raphaella Vaisseau (one of my favorite Bay Area artists).

In my mind I'm goin' to...

My trip to The NC (more commonly known as North Carolina) was just prior to this blogging experiment; however, it was a great trip and deserves a blogging shout out. My friend moved to Durham a couple years ago to work at Duke. I finally paid her a long-overdue visit and we hit all the highlights. To the surprise of none that know her, she is the perfect tour guide.



We spent some time on the gorgeous Duke campus and it's everything a well-moneyed brick and ivy should be. If you're ever in the neighborhood, do not to miss the Sara P. Duke Gardens, Nasher Museum of Art (aka The Nasher), and Duke Chapel. We took a day trip on the Pottery Highway*, played Kokology at the beach as we watched the sun *not* set into the ocean, learned the very significant (if not moral) difference between tomato- and vinegar- based bbq, attended a live music performance in the picturesque tobacco district, and shopped in Historic Wilmington (a charming cobblestone town where when a double-scoop ice cream cone is requested, they'll present to you two massively independent waffle cones. You've been warned).

* The Pottery Highway. An entire highway (although not so much a highway as a sometimes-paved two-lane country road) full of nothing but pottery. I like to think of it as Pottery Heaven. Go, go, go to Seagrove, North Carolina. Established in the 1700s, potters have been drawn to central NC for its rich, unique clay ever since.

The Ten-Step Idiot's Guide to the Highway of Pottery.
  1. Orienting: Visit the handful of pottery stores in Seagrove, where many (but not nearly all) potters display their work.
  2. Orienting, part duex: Make note of the potters you particularly enjoy. This will be on the test.
  3. Preparing: Pick up a road map, and a complimentary refrigerator magnet, from the nice old woman in the Visitor's Center.
  4. Sign the Guest Book in the Visitor's Center. Watch the joy on the face of the nice old woman.
  5. Planning: Recall the potters whom you particularly enjoyed while in the handful of pottery stores in Seagrove. Locate them on the map. By "locate them" I mean to say find their home address on the map provided by the nice lady at the Visitor's Center, where you got your refrigerator magnet.
  6. Executing: Roll down the windows, crank up Sweet Baby James Taylor, and meander this way and that along Highway 705. When you come to a home you marked on your map (see: Planning), stop, peruse, purchase, repeat. Many potters accept VISA. Repeat.
  7. Executing, continued: Throw out the map. Stop at random homes and take pleasure in unexpected surprises.
  8. Celebrating: Jugtown Cafe, an absolute must. Two words. Onion. Rings.
  9. Damage Control: Purchase at least one extra carry-on bag, if not an extra suitcase altogether. There's no possible way to fit your precious treasures safely into the luggage you brought with you pre-pottery highway.
  10. Damage Control, final warning: Stash an extra $25 in your pocket. You'll need it for the overweight bag fee at the airport.

PBS will save the world

...or at least continue to rock mine.

Noteworthy sound bites from my Friday night PBS line up. That's right. I said "Friday night PBS line up." I'm that sexy.

The News Hour with Jim Lehrer:
Judy Woodruff interviewed Tom Matzzie, MoveOn.org Washington Director, and countered him with a conservative think tank personality whose name I don't remember. The topic was a series of ads running in swing states about, of course, the war in Iraq. Mr. Conservative Think Tank slammed an ad co-funded by MoveOn. He was outright cruel and even attacked Matzzie personally. Then Tom Matzzie spoke. He watched a commercial funded by conservative organizations and he did not attack anyone and was far from cruel. In fact, he first stated that he respected the opinion the narrator presented in the ad and validated this woman's pain about loosing her son. Then Matzzie stated his own opinion and that of MoveOn and left it at that. In a political climate that is in desperate need of civil debate, you have to respect that. To be fair, perhaps Mr. Conservative Think Tank was confused and forgot he was on PBS and not The O'Reilly Factor.

Foreign Exchange with Fareed Zakaria:
Robert T. Watson, World Bank spokesperson on global warming, made a sad but well-phrased point. Global warming, and global climate change in general, is caused primarily by the world's rich countries and is suffered by primarily the world's poor countries. It makes sense, but is one more reason in the litany of reasons to be angry about our unequal, unjustified, and unethical distribution of wealth.

Bill Moyers Journal:
Brice Phillips runs KQRZ-LP radio in Hancock County, Mississippi. Hancock County was ground zero for Hurricane Katrina, where the storm's eye made landfall. KQRZ is a low-power FM community station that was the only station to stay on the air 24/7 during storm and afterward. The Journal told this man's story as a way to discuss media regulations, monopolies, and why local public radio is necessary for the health of our communities. Before the show launched into the politics, Brice Phillips made this beautiful statement: "When you have nothing left and you're at your last resource, that's when you share." The interviewer said, "What makes you want to share when you have nothing?" Bill looks confused, "Share it with each other. It's what you do."

An interesting tid bit I learned from Michael Copps, FCC Commissioner: In the 1934 bill that established the Federal Communications Commission, it says 112 times that all media is a "public trust." I admit to entering this interview with a huge bias. I saw an old wealthy white male heading the FCC and was prepared to roll my eyes for the next 32 minutes. Then Mr. Copps busts this out, and immediately endears himself to me, "We need to stop thinking stockholder, stockholder, stockholder and start thinking stakeholder, stakeholder, stakeholder!"

(Audio: John Stewart at his hysterical (and explicit) best reading from "America: the book.")

I stopped watching commercial television and listening to commercial radio six years ago. I've not once missed either. It's not just that radio and t.v. bore me, though they do; it's not just that I'm busy and don't have much time for radio and t.v., though that is also true; rather, it's an intentional boycott based on political, moral, ethical, and economic reasons. You would never hear these sound bites on commercial television and without them, I fear we will continue to ignore everything but our next pleasure fix.

ISBN ### Wage Peace

ISBN 0-15-603156-6 &
ISBN 978-0-14-303825-2


This post is a double feature. I've just finished two incredible books and I couldn't help but compare them to each other. I've discovered lately an endless fascination with the Middle East, its people, cultures and customs, and complex religions and politics. I'm intentionally seeking an alternative viewpoint to the stories we're being told. I wish every book group in every living room in America would read these books in tandem.

My recent reads are "The Places in Between" by Rory Stewart and "Three Cups of Tea" by Greg Mortenson & David Oliver Relin. Both are non-fiction and both take place in the Middle East. Stewart's in Afghanistan and Mortenson's primarily in Pakistan, but a bit in Afghanistan as well.

Rory Stewart is a Scottish writer/journalist who walked across central Afghanistan, from Herat to Kabul, in early 2002. His walk began in January 2002 just after the fall of the Taliban. "The Places in Between" chronicles Rory's journey like a travel diary and along the way shows both a beautiful, intimate face of Islam and Afghan people who will never make our sensation-addicted news.

Greg Mortenson was a mountain climber making impressive progress up the slope of K2 when he was forced to stop his climb (long story) and make is way back to civilization. In a profound metaphor that is traced throughout the book, Greg wandered off the intended path without realizing it. He eventually ended up in the village of Korphe in the Braldu Valley of the Karakoram mountain range. "Three Cups of Tea" tells the story of one school house being built in Korphe, 55+ subsequent schools being built throughout the remote villages of northeastern Pakistan, and all the adventures in between.

A superficial reading of the two texts could make the distinction that while "The Places in Between" is educational and an interesting travelogue, "Three Cups of Tea" will change the world as we know it. Admittedly, I felt that way about half way through "Three Cups of Tea," which I read after "The Places in Between."

However, having finished both books and allowed them to simmer a bit, I now realize that Stewart's book is deceptively simple and in fact, deeply profound. He does not write didactically and therein lies the subtlety. For example, he shares his experience of being sheltered in each successive village as he also shares the custom of Islam that requires the faithful to offer shelter to any and all travelers. He says no more and lets you think what you will about that fact. This purely journalistic style threads throughout the book, allowing the power of its lessons to remain between the lines, to remain there for you to discover on your own.

One of the gems of this book is that Stewart tells his story in an evenly measured tone and pace, much as his walking is evenly measured and paced. The tone of the book is the tone of a long walk personified and while purely prose, it becomes very fluid and poetic. The plot gracefully moves along as his feet move along through the desert, mountains, and villages of remote central Afghanistan. My reading took on the feeling of meditative walking, I was lulled into the story, and finished the book within just a few days.

Stewart's book also gave me what I was seeking in terms of cultural literacy. I realized at the time I was reading "The Places in Between" how much I was learning, but not until I read "Three Cups of Tea" and realized I could slide through Arabic words, remarks on village culture, and basic tenets of the various sects of Islam did I realize just. how. much. I had learned. Stewart's book is a quiet teacher.

Don't misunderstand, however, and assume that I'm creating a monolith of village culture, or the basic tenets and sects of Islam, or claiming that after these two texts I'm some kind of expert. It is true, however, that after reading these books I'm not only able to acknowledge that vast intricacies exist in the Middle East, but my knowledge of the history, impact, and function of those vast intricacies has increased ten fold. I could not have chosen a more perfect pair of books.

I mentioned that "Three Cups of Tea" leaves you with the overwhelming sense that this book could change the world. I honestly believe that if people would read it (and similar texts) and take to heart its message, we would have a far more peaceful existence on this fragile planet. It's a story of unnerving power and the potential that a single person has to make a huge impact. One brick at a time, one conversation and negotiation at a time, one village at at time, Mortenson has built schools to educate Pakistan's children and counter the rise of militant madrassas. With the endorsement of village mullahs and elders, the schools openly welcome and encourage girls to receive the same education as their male counterparts.

He makes a brilliant point and one understood by many community organizers and activists: "Once you educate the boys, they tend to leave the villages and search for work in the cities. But the girls stay home, become leaders in the community, and pass on what they've learned. If you really want to change a culture, to empower women, improve basic hygiene and health care, and fight high rates of infant mortality, the answer is to educate girls."

There are many profound moments in this book, but I'll share one of my absolute favorites. Mortenson was on one of his many trips to Korphe and in an official meeting of the village elders when a teenage girl named Jahan walked boldly into the room, into the cirle of 30+ men, and sat directly in front of Greg Mortenson. She spoke in Balti and told Mortenson that when he instructed all the school children, years ago, to plan for a bright future and live their dreams, that she had done just that. She said, "I'm ready to begin my medical training and I need twenty thousand rupees." She handed him a petition, written in English, outlining her course schedule, the books and supplies she would need to buy, and where she would live in while attending university in Skardu. Jahan was a graduate of Korphe school's first class and she had clearly learned her greatest lesson.

Kevin Fedarko, a journalist traveling with Mortenson at the time, said, "It was one of the most incredible things I've ever seen in my life. Here comes this teenage girl, in the center of a conservative Islamic village, waltzing into a circle of men, breaking through about sixteen layers of traditions at once: She had graduated from school and was the first educated woman in the valley of three thousand people. She didn't defer to anyone, sat right down in front of Greg, and handed him the product of the revolutionary skills she's acquired."

Rather than fighting wars, Mortenson advocates for a relatively simple systemic change that holds the power to eliminate many of the contributing factors of war. He advocates for education. Can you imagine if our billion+ dollar military budget was invested in our public schools and in public schools around the world?! Mortenson urges, "If we try to resolve terrorism with military might and nothing else, then we will be no safer then we were before 9/11. If we truly want a legacy of peace for our children, we need to understand that this is a war that will ultimately be won with books, not with bombs.

Assalaam Alaikum (Peace be with you).

The fine print: The photos in this post come from threecupsoftea.com and rorystewartbooks.com.

I wanted to experience death

It's a selfish reason to volunteer, but I did have a litany of other motivations.

For one, I hold firmly to my ethic of caring for and about those less fortunate, the sick, the marginalized; but my end goal is social justice and leveling our society to an equal playing field. Another motivation was to introduce myself to a world that I had not yet experienced. Until I pulled my car up to John's house (by request, not his real name) and introduced myself, I'd never personally known someone living with HIV.

I also wanted to take a stand and actively do my small part to protest the influence my church had in passing Amendment 3, making both same-sex marriage and civil unions unconstitutional in the state of Utah. The face of HIV/AIDS on a global scale is incredibly diverse, but in Salt Lake City the community tends to be gay males. The remedy to my church's disappointing and hurtful policies regarding homosexuality is not quite delivering hot meals to home-bound end-stage HIV patients living in Salt Lake; but it was something constructive, something positive, something compassionate that I could do for a community that is wrongly marginalized (even feared) by many members of my faith.

And yes, I also wanted to experience death. It sounds disrespectful, but it's quite the opposite. It was a spiritual and a reverent experience for me. I've only experienced one death in my family, my dad's father. My great-grandmother died when I was too young to process the event and so Otto is the first death to significantly impact me. As is standard operating procedure when emotions are encountered, my family never discussed it. It was abrupt and it was a wholly unsatisfying way to close my relationship with him. I couldn't remedy that specifically but I could face death in general.

Every other Tuesday for nearly three years, as I visited the homes of my friends about to leave this world, I did just that.

Choose the Left. The New CTR.

Members of the LDS faith, and/or those versed in Mormon culture, easily recognize the CTR insignia. Emblazoned on rings, scripture totes, key chains, bumper stickers, and lovingly cross stitched onto throw pillows and wall hangings, it serves as a reminder to "Choose The Right." The Mormon CTR acronym pre-dates the more commonly known Evangelical mantra WWJD or "What Would Jesus Do?" but they are similar in purpose.

The grassroots organization MESJ: Mormons for Equality & Social Justice, established 2002 in Salt Lake City, cheekily tweaks this icon. CTL, or "Choose the Left," refers to the progressively liberal political left that MESJ supports.

I serve as the Archivist/Librarian for the national MESJ organization, and as a member of the Salt Lake City chapter, I curate the Films With a Message series. The official archive is kept on the MESJ website, but I'll use this blog as a place to reflect and comment on the information I'm researching, gathering, and posting to that archive. Similar to the First Friday Films and ISBN ### series, the CTL graphic will indicate such a post.

My High School had a Fashion Team

Misery loves company so indulge me a moment. Think back to your own high school days and imagine a typical pep rally.

Once you have the cliques gerrymandered into their proper pecking order and can hear yourself think over the numbing caucophony of inane flirtations, you see cheerleaders spring onto the floor. Leaping around they flail their arms and shout the alphabet at you. Maybe if you just gave them a "B" they would go away? This hyperactive pace is fairly standard throughout the event and you know how it goes. Join me now, at my alma mater.

The cheerleaders bounce and flip their way off the floor as the lights dim. A white hot spot light illuminates a red carpet waiting anxiously center stage. [Insert ghastly pop song hit of the week]. A que of stick insects disguised as your classmates in Marc Jacobs files down the carpet. [Sashay swish swish go the hip bones]. Thinking this is some sort of SNL-style skit, you award their straight faces with hysterically loud laughter. It's a difficult gig, sketch comedy, throw them a bone. As you're elbowed in the rib by Annoyed Boyfriend of Stick Insect #4 you realize this is totally. for. real.

So real, in fact, that the Fashion Team enrolled in "Honors" marketing classes to learn how to...well, I don't really know what they learned. I do know that they took a full two week field trip each spring to New York's fashion week. Oh how lonely the halls were without their click clacking stiletto boots and bubble gum popping.

It's been nearly a decade since I delivered my Valedictorian speech at commencement, rudely forgetting to thank the Fashion Team for their worthy contributions to the institution, and yet this image is seared into my brain. Sort of like a cattle branding prod shoved up my nose, actually.

A blog? What was I thinking?

Four days ago I was blissfully ignorant about the world of blogs. I suppose it's telling that my first post was a pseudo apologetic and "Unnecessary Justification" of my presence on the world wide web. My intention in creating "my madeleines" was quite simply to experiment with a new creative medium. I wrote that this blog would be "a series of essays, poems, creative spasms, sound bites, quotations, ramblings, and whatnots that each trigger *something* inside me." Furthermore, I declared, "I write for myself."

That steely conviction was unwavering...until I stumbled onto problogger.net and the "18 Lessons I've Learnt about Blogging" article.

Those who know me will not be surprised that within 72 hours I've managed to turn a purely artistic exercise into an academic study of blogging culture, theory, and best practices. To say that I'm over thinking myself into a corner is an understatement. The problogger.net article, although geared toward business-minded blogs trying to generate revenue, did teach me a few things about "my madeleines" and helped focus my energy.

After reflecting on this article, among others, I still plan to post my "creative spasms." However, I also plan to consistently post the following:

First Friday Films
I'm passionate about the art of film making and if you bounce back here on the first Friday of each month you'll see what's caught my attention and why.


ISBN ###
My voracious reading habit provides the inspiration for this series. I will ramble, reflect, and ruminate as often as I'm moved to do so by whatever I'm reading at the time.

There are endless hobbies, travels, and events of interest that I could blog about, but this is a good start. We'll see where it takes me.

My Love Affair with Sugarhouse


Our quirky coffee house is complete with an on-your-honor communal library stuffed with astrological texts, Marxist tomes, poetry anthologies, and the independent weekly rag, local artists' paintings are displayed on dynamically colored walls, and shade-grown organic blends are sold alongside locally-made vegan burritos. It boasts communal rent and space with our independent music store, obscure vinyl guaranteed, and everyone's favorite boutique of sex accoutrement.

Bikes, eclectic pedestrians, Vespas, and jogging strollers litter the streets on their way to the Friday farmer's market, pausing to say hello to an old friend and linger in sidewalk cafes on warm summer nights.

Our public library is a century-old gothic mansion overrun with ancient oaks and ivy vines. It rests across the street from our locally-owned italian ice cafe, mango and passion fruit come highly recommended, and is within walking distance of a non-profit retail establishment selling fairly-traded handmade goods crafted by artisans in developing countries.

And yet I should have seen this coming. I was an idealistic undergrad at the small, private liberal arts college that anchors the community when the OldNavyBedBathandBeyondBarnesandNobleAnnTaylorPetCo eyesore was constructed. This behemoth looms ominously across the street from the vibrant scene described above. I'm upset, but I'm not surprised. God bless America. I should have assumed it was only a matter of time before every last drop of culture was gone.

As I wax nostalgic and savor the taste of Sugarhouse, my favorite madeleine, I'm sitting at a Local First community meeting discussing the forthcoming big-box development. There's nothing more to be done at this point. The development is set to completely overhaul our gem of a "character district" neighborhood beginning this fall.

I've made my home here for eight years now and will profoundly miss our unique space and energy. However, I feel this is an appropriate wake: the opportunity to cherish the space of this auditorium - a space where concerned citizens chose to invest in the democratic process and united under a common cause. Futile or not, I'm grateful for this journey.

My love affair with Sugarhouse

At a Loss

Today was not a day for writing. There are days when I'm moved to frantically scratch and scribble every thought that flits behind my eyes. There are also days when the only engagement I want with words is to endlessly tweak their color, typeface, and other such minutia. I suppose today was one of those days; a day I felt expression through color and an Elina Brotherus photgraph.

Cross with the Locals

Years ago on my first trip to Europe I spent a significant amount of time in England. I traveled all over the countryside as well as spent time in London. Each location had its own distinct personality, vibe, flavors, culture, traffic laws…

My girlfriends and I were nearly mowed down in London (although nothing approaching the pedestrian bowling competitions that are the Roman motorways) while the drivers in the Cottswalds seemed pro-actively pleased to stop for any given length of time as we wound our way through their winding, cobblestone streets. I surmise they are so accustomed to yielding for massive sheep herds on their cobblestones that the institutional concept of time is vastly different from the bustle of London.

I soon realized that we weren’t staying long enough in each location to learn the particular transportation culture of the town. I began chiming “Cross with the locals” each time we came to an intersection. The phrase eventually took on a life of it’s own and began to expand to a far larger philosophy of travel similar to “Don’t be the Ugly American.”

I think an essential element of worthwhile travel is staying local. IE: if there is a B&B and a Hilton, always ignore the Hilton. If there is a familiar restaurant, even a familiar style of food, pass it by. Find the hole in the wall and eat with the locals. You can take a cab from point A to point B and be very efficient with your time, but what’s the point? Buses, subways, walking the side streets, and “crossing with locals” is my overarching travel philosophy.

I've developed this thought further on each subsequent trip abroad. I would love to write either:
  1. A non-fiction travel guide to the world’s coolest places (whatever those may be, according to me); or
  2. A creative non-fiction, essay-style travel memoir.
Regardless of which piece I pursue, if either, it will be titled “Cross with the Locals.”

P.S. When I shudder to see "Cross with the Locals" on the annoying shelf at Barnes and Noble next year, myself not noted as the author and/or editor, I do plan to reference the date/time stamp of this blog in my intellectual property law suit (once I learn exactly what an intellectual property law suit actually entails).

"Get Your Grandfather"

“They’re coming for us. They have blue eyes.” She carefully noted that I had hazel green eyes and only then ceased to regard me with vile suspicion. “They want to take over,” she confided, lowering her voice and glancing behind her. “They’ll start on the west coast. Hollywood. Then they’ll come for us.” That, I was categorically informed, would be the demise of our great nation.

She was a kind woman, smelling faintly of dried urine and roses. I wasn’t trying to ignore her, but I also wasn’t trying to engage her. Squished together on a single seat in a crowded train, privacy was scarce. Space doesn’t matter, though. If the conspiracy theorist decides it is your turn to hear their foreboding message, it’s simply your turn.

I gazed over her shoulder at factories swooshing by outside the widow, the occasional mural painted on an otherwise derelict warehouse. “Do you have any friends who speak French? Yes? Then you need to be careful,” she warned as we slowed to approach the next station. I met her stare and smiled politely as I collected my packages. It was only then that I noticed the shoebox she cradled gently in her lap.

My feet wouldn’t move. I slowly lowered my packages back to the ground. I tried to take my eyes off the box, but my gaze was transfixed on the yellow cardboard. She rambled on about the special tools these blue-eyed people would use to get into the Whitehouse through the sewer pipes. I missed my stop. Though I sat next to her, I felt miles away. I stared at the box she was holding, struggling to understand why it was familiar to me. Suddenly my mind was in my grandmother’s guest bedroom in sleepy Cedar Falls, Iowa, staring in disbelief into a tiny coat closet.



Our Jessen family farm in Iowa

“Get your grandfather. It’s time to go.” It was a somewhat disconcerting command. Seeing as how I was in town for my grandfather’s funeral, I wasn’t quite sure how to carry out her directive. My grandmother is a small woman and stronger than an ox. Within my brief pause she had marched into the bedroom and thrown open the closet door. Thinking she’d barely brushed its handle, the door crashing against the wall surprised her. She jumped only slightly before pointing sternly to a shelf, glancing quickly at me to make sure I was paying adequate attention. 

The particular shelf she wanted to show me was perched high above the bar supporting a mothball collection masquerading as winter coats. It was clearly a shelf she could not reach on her own. I nodded my head more out of confusion than recognition and she marched out of the room. I allowed myself to pause a moment longer before inching slowly toward the closet, peering inside. Get your grandfather?

I saw teetering stacks of extra pillows, individually preserved in sticky plastic cases per midwestern policy. I saw piles of quilts. I saw an unassuming yellow shoe box tucked aimlessly on the third shelf. I now assumed that when she instructed me to get my grandfather, she could only have referred to this box.

This is my first memory of death. No, that’s not true. This is my first memory of death in my family. I strained on my tip toes to reach the yellow box on the third shelf. Seven classmates committed suicide my Junior year in high school. They were smart over-achievers like me. No one saw it coming. The weight of the small shoe box surprised me. A teacher I revered as a mentor was killed in a car accident within a few months of the suicides. She was the first dead body I'd ever seen. It looked nothing like her. I couldn’t bring myself to open the yellow shoe box. I reported dutifully to the living room, having completed my task. Family was bustling and rapidly assembling a complex arrangement of carpools. My uncle rushed me out the front door with grandpa Otto in hand. I had no time to collect my thoughts.

Grandpa sat quietly on my lap all the way to the cemetery. Iowa is corn, long roads, and not much else. The roads that day seemed more endless than I’d remembered.

As I remember it.

I don’t remember crying. I do remember my dad crying. The moment we arrived home it was time to eat. Not a polite meal with silverware and a table, but rather the slow graze of HyVee appetizers and random finger foods. Such is Iowa. The house became a parade of family members rambling into the kitchen every few minutes to collect their next assortment of snacks. He wasn’t eating. He sat by himself pretending to watch television. He sat in Otto’s chair. That’s what shook me. I had long since understood my parents as human beings. I had not yet understood their mortality. Sitting in his father’s chair, slumped and exhausted, I realized he looked just like his dad. I tried to shake the thought as I returned to the kitchen for more cheese squares and an oatmeal cookie. It was the first time I had ever seen my father as old.

As I settled into bed that night I noticed the closet door hadn't been shut. Feeling unsettled and hoping to leave behind the emotions of the day, I stood to close it. I paused in the dark. Looking down I saw the yellow shoe box, now empty, resting calmly on the floor of the closet. I smiled quietly to myself. I knew my grandmother couldn't reach the shelves and she would never throw away a perfectly useful box. There it would stay.


_________________________________________________________________________________

A version of this essay was first published in sine cera.
Jessen, G. (2006). Get Your Grandfather. sine cera: 95 pennies and a nickel, 4(2), 24-26.

Pink Roses

A dozen long-stemmed pink roses. It wasn’t his first mistake, but it did mark the beginning of the end.

The nail in his coffin was not the roses specifically, but rather that the roses betrayed how little he knew me. Had he brought the less cliche and less environmentally disastrous daisy he might have fooled me for a bit longer; however, I had to wonder what the man I'd been dating for a year was thinking when on the day we honor Saint Valentine he brought to me FRIENDS Season 8, price tag included, and flowers that actively repel my romantic emotions.

Wonder I did. I wonder what he's up to these days and to whom he's directing his cliches.

Why Madeleines?

Marcel Proust is the inspiration for the title of this blog, the express purpose of three of my journals, and at fault for an endless number of stalled poems. He paints the image of a madeleine with these words: “Short, plump little cakes called ‘petites madeleines’ which look as though they had been moulded in the fluted scallop of a pilgrim’s shell.” No, this blog is not one of a chef needing to vent about petite pastries, but rather a collection of memory triggers and the memories themselves.

To explain: It is an understatement to state that Proust was insane. Nonetheless, the man is a writer of profoundly beautiful proportions. He dedicated his entire adult life to “A la recherché du temps perdu” or, in translation, “In Remembrance of Things Past.” For over a decade he locked himself in a cork-lined room in his Paris apartment and labored over his seven-volume magnum opus. Most undergrads read at least “Swann’s Way” which is volume one of seven. In “Swann’s Way” Proust, as only Proust can, delicately and ferociously describes the process of memory. He describes specifically the movement of memory being catalyzed by external forces.

In his words: “…the smell and taste of things remain poised a long time, like souls, ready to remind us, waiting and hoping for their moment, amid the ruins of all the rest; and bear unfaltering, in the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of recollection.”

He visits a friend’s home and is served a madeleine with tea. He writes: “And suddenly the memory returns. The taste was that of the little crumb of Madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray, when I went to say good day to her in her bedroom, my aunt Leonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of real or of lime-flower tea.” In other words less poetic, you smell a certain perfume and suddenly, you’re back in a tender moment from a past relationship, or you hear a song and experience a physical reaction because your memory is so lucid. Proust again: “The whole of Combray and of its surroundings, taking their proper shapes and growing solid, sprang into being, town and gardens alike, from my cup of tea.” Gorgeous. Painfully gorgeous.

“my madeleines” is a series of essays, poems, creative spasms, sound bites, quotations, ramblings, and whatnots that each trigger *something* inside me. I write for myself. I write to clear my head so that I may fill it up again with a beautiful mess.

Unnecessary Justification

Those who know me well knew this day, while surprising, was inevitable - or - Why I finally surrendered to the blogosphere.
  • I do not claim to be "an artist" (whatever that means) in the same way that I do not claim to be "a writer" (ibid parenthetical), but I am highly creative and I am one who writes.
  • I'm absolutely fascinated by the impact blogs are having on grammar, privacy, linguistics, punctuation, social mores, vocabulary, on and on. While it's counter-intuitive to me to present to a public sphere writing that is intentionally rough, I'm intrigued by the idea.
  • In honor of my colleague Clint, with whom, among others, I've discussed the embarrassing vanity of blogs, I hereby launch a campaign to have "braggadocio" welcomed into our everyday speech.
  • I have stacks upon piles of journals, notebooks, scraps of paper, coasters and napkins, all with thoughts, ideas, dreams, plans, rants and raves scribbled and scratched. This blog seems a convenient space to catalogue my ramblings.
  • Everyone else is doing it.