Stu Jenks: Fezziwig Photography, Music, and Writing

"In The Mustang Rain" (c) 2007

"In the Mustang Rain" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks

       [Images: "Spiral in the Mustang Rain", "Agaves in the Mustang Rain"]

       It was a Male Rain at my apartment earlier today: buckets from the sky, bright lightning, flickering power in my apartment, yellow-tan sand and water in the motorways. Here though, it's a Female Rain: gently falling,  my glasses clean and clear under the bill of my Krispy Kreme hat, bare legs barely getting wet from the mist.

       It's late in the afternoon. Been reading the last Harry Potter book. Hard to leave the house because of that, but I have to, for the Mustangs called me. Well, 'Called' is a little overly dramatic. Closer to say, I could see The Biscuit and The Mustangs in my mind's eye and those images wouldn't go away. I know what that means. I won't be happy until I surrender to a trip. So I did and here we are. Plus I really long for a short hike up some stout hills.

       No cattle on the range today. Saw a couple cattlemen though just a few minutes ago, as I turned onto the muddy dirt road that leads into the Mustangs. They were out with a small tractor and a blade, smoothing out one of the tracks that crosses the range. Land isn't theirs. Land isn't mine. Land belong to the State of Arizona. They lease. I come for free. Guessing they don't really need to be out in the rain, with a blade this afternoon. Roads ain't that bad. I bet they just wanted to get out of the house and play in the mud.

       I park sooner that I normally do. The track is very muddy after all. Maybe the cattlemen are doing the Good Lord's work. I park and walk the rest of the way in. Having a 4 x 4  truck doesn't mean I don't get stuck. Just means I can get stuck farther away from things.

       The rain is a delight. It's the monsoon season in Southeastern Arizona, one of the best kept secrets in Tourista-Land. Everyone around the country sees 115 degrees in Phoenix on The Today Show, not knowing that just two to three hours south of The Surface of The Sun, is a region of a lot more rain, a lot less heat, and a lot gentler people. Only tell your best friends now.

 The bushwhack up is easier that I thought. The rain has pushed down the tall grass. The footing is sturdy and true. The drip, drip, drip of the Female Rain doesn't impede me but rather helps pull me up the hill. I stop along the way to shoot a spiral or two in the conglomerate rock. There are a lot of spirals here, made from the merging of different molten rock. They look like fossils but they appears to be quartz mixed with basalt. (Then again, fossils are mineralized organic material, and this land was underwater eons ago. Could be prehistoric snail shells or something like them.)

       I drew a spiral in the mud back behind me, near a corral, a half hour ago. Didn't take its picture. Was more of a prayer, a reminder that the journey always goes on. Never stops. Even in death. The end of my mud-spiral flew out and open toward the North. The rock spiral glistening at my feet does that too, yet better than mine. That's fine. It's not about me, really, my quest for Art and Beauty. It's about something timeless and eternal. I just use the Personal to get to the Universal. And no matter how old or bald or broke or lonely or fat or scared I feel, the path always goes on, with or without me. I just have to walk it as best I can while I'm here, find some friends along the way, use my volition for The Good and The True. Not perfectly mind you, not always with my head held high, but I need to just move the feet, even when I don't feel like it, and again do the best I can. God and I are partners here, with other people too. I ain't a puppet. He/She/It ain't no puppet master. And the other good folk who walk with me, in front, behind and beside me, are all equals too. The illusion is, that it is otherwise, that we are not the same, that we didn't climb out of the same ocean.

       I've only gone about halfway up. Going to be dark in a couple hours. Don't want to be hiking out in the dark. Off to the south, across a mile wide valley are some hills of the Southern Mustangs, peaking in and out of the clouds. First they are obscured completed in white, then ten seconds later, a peak shows through; a half minute after that, full details can be seen of the ridge-line; another minute later, back to fully obscured in misty clouds. I sit on a rock, try once or twice to shoot the mountain across the way, and then realize, this is for the Mind's Eye, not the camera's. Photography is a wonderful lie sometimes. It can show the details, the specifics, even sometimes create something that isn't there, but mostly it fibs, giving the strong illusion that what you see is what there is. The slow swirling motion of the mist, the tap tap tap of the rain, the smell of the grasses, the cactus, the ocotillo, and agave, a fragrance that can not be describe well or bottled. The smell of a Barn in Heaven, with angel clouds to boot. Turning these sights, smells, sounds in a three dimensional sphere of existence into a two dimensional photographic window is one tall order. But I try, partly to stir my emotional memory later on, but also, sometimes, to seek the Eternal and share it with others. I try as I can. A Fool's errand that I must do, in order to be happy.

  I get back to the truck with much time to spare. Looks like I have another hour of light. I drink some Coke Zero, and light a Camel. I look in the back seat and see my copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. I grab it, open it to page 424 that I book-marked before I left my apartment and read "Harry fell, panting, onto grass and scrambled up at once..."

"Derby Brats, Copper Queens & Furious Truckstop Waitresses" (c) 2007

"Derby Brats, Copper Queens, and Furious Truckstop Waitresses" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks

       Lavender Pit told me before the bout that I was the only official photographer tonight, that their regular photog wasn't there. (A few weeks ago, when Zoe OK'd me being one of the official photogs of Tucson Roller Derby, I mentioned that I'm more comfortable being the Second Photog, not the Primary, for I do more artistic shots. She was fine with that. I was fine with that. Things change.) Then one of the refs came up to me, while I was sizing up the track from inside the circle of the rink, (a place I have envied to be for years), and said that they had no one to shot the Derby Brats, and would I do that for them.

       "Sure," I said with a smile on my face.

       Inside though, I'm saying to myself, 'Oh, Shit. I don't have the 1000 dollar lens I had last bout, that I borrowed from a friend of a friend. I just have my not-fast-enough lens tonight. I'm really nervous now.'

       I shot both the bout between the Furious Truckstop Waitresses and the Copper Queens, and the Derby Brats exhibition too. My heart rate was higher than any other time I've ever used a camera I think. I had to shot in JPEG instead of RAW, because I just had only so much room on my two photo cards. I think I shot 300-400 images, dumping 100 while I was still inside the rink that night. (That's equivalent of 10 rolls of film thereabouts. Like shooting a wedding, back in the day.)

     As I was shooting, I knew I need a longer lens, a faster lens, but I made do, like I always do, whether I'm using a 50-year-old Rollei or an ancient Brownie. I used an old film technique and pushed the shots, underexposing everything, so as to get a faster available shutter speed. I prayed I could bring them up later, in the Photoshop CS2.

       Good news. I was able to, later, reawaken these images in my computer, after working on them a bit. Not that hard really, just time consuming. Got 30 images I'm happy with, happy enough to send to the powers-that-be at Tucson Roller Derby, for publication on their website. But it was nerve-wracking, and if I decided to shot TRD next year, I will only do it with a much faster lens and four gigs of memory on my cards.

       Bottom line for me though is that I really hope the Brats like their shots. The sweet thing about digital photography and the Web is that as soon as Lavender gets these images, she can send them far and wide, and they will be on the computer and cellphone screens of those kids in nano-seconds. A fragile technology, computers, but it does have many benefits, to 'Build Community' if we choose to do that, rather than simply surfing the Net for Porn, trolling dating sites, or watching Bad TV on Youtube, all of which I have done sometime in the past. Feels good to give a 11-year-old who is excited about Roller Derby (and who is, like myself, reading the last Harry Potter book, as we speak) a nice image that they can see right here, right now, and for years to come, God willing and the creek don't rise. Let's just hope that some nutjob person or government doesn't explore an electromagnetic pulse over Nebraska and wipe out all our integrated circuits.

       Oh, by the way. The Waitresses beat the Queens by a score of 120 to 62.

"Cheap Ore on Turn Three"

"Cheap Ore after the Jam"

"The Waitresses Being Introduced"

"Ruby Hellcat"

"Doe, Blue and Ruby"

"Metal, Eeka and a Ref"

"Doe, Looking Back at the Pack"

"Doe in the Penalty Box"

"Flo, Leading the Jam Again"

"Peaches' Guns"

"Peaches Out of Bounds"

"Four Brats in the Pack"

"Green Scream, Lead Jammer"

"Green Scream, Angel Wings"

"A Tall Green Scream"

"A Jammin' Violent Femme"

"The Brat Pack"

"Eight Legs on the Line"

"A Violent Femme, being Introduced"

"The Clava Trio, Scotland" (c) 2005-2007

"The Clava Cairn Trio, South of Inverness, Scotland" (c) 2005-2007 Stu Jenks

[I printed this image a year ago or so, in the old Toole Shed darkroom. Very thin negative it was. Looked like crap, even after a lot of work. I scanned the 8 x 10 anyway, and then let the photograph fall into a coma in my LaCie hard drive, thinking It was gone for good. Then a friend showed me this Soft Light Layer thing in the CS2 and I was able to awaken this lost photograph, burning in the sky and the ground, deepening the Standing Stone and fluffing the cows a bit, like I couldn't before. The sepia color was inspired by a 100-year-old photograph of my great-grandparents on my mother's side, that hangs in my bedroom. The megalith and cattle were from a pasture, a stone's throw from the Clava Cairns. These two cows and many others were wonderful models, that late afternoon in October. I miss the livestock, the trees, the people, the grass, the wind, the sea spray, the rains, the soft drinks, the biscuits, and the Standing Stones of Scotland. More than I can say.]

"The Color" (c) 2007

“The Color: The Mines of Copper Creek, Pinal County, Arizona” © 2007 Stu Jenks

       The 4 x 4 travel book says some guy named Frank Sibley came here, from Minnesota, around the turn of the century. Started the Copper Creek Mining Company, here in the Galiuro Mountains. Got 50,000 pounds of copper out of the ground, with only 90 men in 1905, they say. Build a mansion, brought in a post office, had a general store. Sibley even carried in a narrow gauge railroad locomotive, on the backs of a mule train. Ran the ore out on some skinny tracks for a while, until the Color got played out in 1915.
       Only ten years of mining did this to these hills. Sweet Jesus Christ. Well, there were some attempts at silver mining in Copper Creek in the 1860’s but the Apache scared off the white folk they say. (Can see it now. Apache men having lunch atop one of these hills. See some Whites on horseback. Pick up their rifles, they shoot at them. White men run away. Apache men go back to eating lunch.) And there was some other prospecting throughout the years but nothing like the years of Sibley.

“The Earth has been hurt,” I say quietly aloud, from atop of what I think is the Bluebird mine (or is it the Old Reliable, or the General Lee or the Glory Hole Mine? The map is a bit vague on these details.) The top of this hill has been taken clear off, leaving the bare bones of the mountain exposed. Bright oranges and reds blaze from the boulders, colors that were never meant to see the light of day. Topsoil’s been gone for a hundred years. Nothing's growing on these empty terraces. Some blue finches play here and there, but their chirps echo unnaturally loud off the rocks.
       I drink some more water, take a few pics and begin to think about heading back down to the creek bed. Wasn’t going to take any shots from up here anyways, for try as I may, I can't find an angle of beauty or even just some interesting composition. Finally, I think 'Fuck it. Just take some shots for the blog, so that others can see the Hurt.'
       Sliding a bit in my Vasque boots as I head down now. Soles are wearing out on these shoes. (I hike a lot.) Need more grip than I have right now. And even though I’m walking on the remains of an old wagon road that took raw ore downhill, it’s still steep and slick and as much talus as dirt. And I'm a bit dehydrated to boot.

           Bottom of the hill now. Tall slope of boulders and other crap pushed or dynamited from above. I see some Copper Oxide rocks to my left, little ones. The turquoise blue color leaps out at me, out of the grayness and death. I walk over and pick up a piece, then another, then a third. Looking at them, I put a few in my Levi's watch pocket. Stow a few more pieces in my camera bag. Make nice gifts I suppose. A bit of beauty out of the death of this place. Part of The Color, the rich ore that comes out of the ground, that brought White Men out here in the first place, to the West, hurting the land as they go, to get something of great value for their hands but not their hearts. Doesn't matter if it’s the Gold of Deadwood, South Dakota, or the Copper of Copper Creek, Arizona. Same, same.

      I take out my D30 and pop an image of The Color in my hand. I sigh. Time to head back to the truck, I suppose. Not to get too Woo Woo, but I haven't felt this kind of Hurt On Land ever in my life. Feels spooky too, like more than men died here.
       Well, got a couple miles to go, to get back to the truck and then 10 miles of teeth-rattling track before I hit pavement again in Mammoth. Best get going for I'm running out of water, too. Must be over 100 if it's a degree.
       I look to the eastern ridge and see the two bright white company trucks I spied earlier. They haven’t moved but I've heard their voices. I noticed some capped and locked core sample pipes as I walked in too. Guess that's what they are. I don't know. Hear Copper prices are up. Bet they are thinking of mining again. Shame. Land's been hurt bad enough.
       Funny. I’ve seen terraced mines before. Never felt this kind of sadness before, looking at the mines, whether it's the slag heeps of Green Valley or the big hole of the Lavender Pit in Bisbee. Then again, I’ve never walked on the dead carcass of the land like I have today, always just seen the Earth’s bones from a distance. Funny how that is. Distance, I mean. From far way, it's just a mine. From close up, it's a hurt friend.
       A little water in the creek but not much. Enough to let cottonwood trees and grass grow and give the cattle something to drink. Not far now to the truck. Just around that bend and up. 
      Suddenly, I hear a forceful sound, like wind being forced out what? A nose? A nose. I turn and see the Brahma bull. He's close but a bunch of creek flotsam separates us.
       "Hey buddy. How are you?" I say as I get my camera out of my bag.
       He moves just a little, shifting on his feet. I pop a half dozen shots. He doesn't know what to think.
       "Thanks, buddy," I say.
       I holster my Canon and walk down the old mine road. I sure could use that bottle of Coke Zero I have in the cooler in the truck. I look back. Brahma still there. I smile.
       I almost can taste the Coke.

Dana Smith & T-Rex Boy (c) 2007

"T-Rex Boy" (c) Dana Smith 2007

"Parasauropolus Girl, Dancing on the K-T Boundary" (c) Dana Smith 2007

"First Holy Family: (Triassic Period)" (c) Dana Smith 2007

"Rage of the Hippo Baby" (c) Dana Smith 2007

"Joey's New Pouch" (c) Dana Smith 2007

    

"For years I have enjoyed intertwining animal figures into human situations, first in my paintings, and later, as I transitioned this theme into my passion for ceramics. Humans are animals that wear clothes and have intricate social relationships. By twisting this concept around, I have placed clothes on animals (both alive and extinct), who are just as unique in their relationships. Notice that the figures with 50's dress are changed into dinosaurs--their culture is just as extinct and will never return.  The Madonna and child of the Triassic hopes to confirm the mother and child relationship that has existed over the eons. Baby hippos are as adorable as human babies. The fabric of life encompasses our human aspects in many ways.  These themes are universal, timeless, and of continuing interest in my work."

     - Dana Smith, 5th 7th Studios, Tucson, Arizona, July 16th, 2007

     [Addendum: Dana has her studio, just across the parking lot for my space. Her black dog, Dogito, lays nearby, as she works. Just the other day, I visited and she was working on a piece that was a lamb with a royal human head. She has a laugh as big as the sky and a good heart as well. Brief aside: When her husband, a famous astrophysicist, came to her studio the other day, and I happened to be there, I behaved like a groupie at a KISS concert. Couldn't help myself. I'm an old Astro-Geek from way back.]

"April 18th, 1954" (c) 1954, 2007 Stu Jenks Sr. & Jr.

"April 18th, 1954 (Edgar's Red Tie)" (c) 1954, 2007 Stu Jenks Sr. & Jr.

[From left to right: Pamela Jenks, Papa Edgar Jenks, Mama Lillie Jenks, & Mary Jenks. I'm in utero, to be born in November. Dad took the picture on Easter Morning, a traditional he performed on that day and for many years to come.]

"Dancing in Mammoth, Arizona" (c) 2007

[Images: "Virga on Bluebird Lane" & "Dancing in Mammoth, Arizona" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks]

"On The Mindless Menace of Violence" by Bobby Kennedy (c) 1968

On The Mindless Menace of Violence by Bobby Kennedy, City Club of Cleveland, Cleveland, Ohio
April 5, 1968; [On the day after Dr. King's death] 

This is a time of shame and sorrow. It is not a day for politics. I have saved this one opportunity, my only event of today, to speak briefly to you about the mindless menace of violence in America which again stains our land and every one of our lives.

It is not the concern of any one race. The victims of the violence are black and white, rich and poor, young and old, famous and unknown. They are, most important of all, human beings whom other human beings loved and needed. No one - no matter where he lives or what he does - can be certain who will suffer from some senseless act of bloodshed. And yet it goes on and on and on in this country of ours.  

Why? What has violence ever accomplished? What has it ever created? No martyr's cause has ever been stilled by an assassin's bullet.                      

No wrongs have ever been righted by riots and civil disorders. A sniper is only a coward, not a hero; and an uncontrolled, uncontrollable mob is only the voice of madness, not the voice of reason.                      

Whenever any American's life is taken by another American unnecessarily - whether it is done in the name of the law or in the defiance of the law, by one man or a gang, in cold blood or in passion, in an attack of violence or in response to violence - whenever we tear at the fabric of the life which another man has painfully and clumsily woven for himself and his children, the whole nation is degraded.  

 "Among free men," said Abraham Lincoln, "there can be no successful appeal from the ballot to the bullet; and those who take such appeal are sure to lost their cause and pay the costs."  

Yet we seemingly tolerate a rising level of violence that ignores our common humanity and our claims to civilization alike. We calmly accept newspaper reports of civilian slaughter in far-off lands. We glorify killing on movie and television screens and call it entertainment. We make it easy for men of all shades of sanity to acquire whatever weapons and ammunition they desire.  

Too often we honor swagger and bluster and wielders of force; too often we excuse those who are willing to build their own lives on the shattered dreams of others. Some Americans who preach non-violence abroad fail to practice it here at home. Some who accuse others of inciting riots have by their own conduct invited them.  

Some look for scapegoats, others look for conspiracies, but this much  is clear: violence breeds violence, repression brings retaliation, and only a cleansing of our whole society can remove this sickness from our soul.  

For there is another kind of violence, slower but just as deadly destructive as the shot or the bomb in the night. This is the violence of institutions; indifference and inaction and slow decay. This is the violence that afflicts the poor, that poisons relations between men because their skin has different colors. This is the slow destruction of a child by hunger, and schools without books and homes without heat in the winter.  

This is the breaking of a man's spirit by denying him the chance to stand as a father and as a man among other men. And this too afflicts us all.  

I have not come here to propose a set of specific remedies nor is there a single set. For a broad and adequate outline we know what must be done. When you teach a man to hate and fear his brother, when you teach that he is a lesser man because of his color or his beliefs or the policies he pursues, when you teach that those who differ from you threaten your freedom or your job or your family, then you also learn to confront others not as fellow citizens but as enemies, to be met not with cooperation but with conquest; to be subjugated and mastered.                      

We learn, at the last, to look at our brothers as aliens, men with whom we share a city, but not a community; men bound to us in common dwelling, but not in common effort. We learn to share only a common fear, only a common desire to retreat from each other, only a common impulse to meet disagreement with force. For all this, there are no final answers.  

Yet we know what we must do. It is to achieve true justice among our fellow citizens. The question is not what programs we should seek to enact. The question is whether we can find in our own midst and in our own hearts that leadership of humane purpose that will recognize the terrible truths of our existence.  

We must admit the vanity of our false distinctions among men and learn to find our own advancement in the search for the advancement of others. We must admit in ourselves that our own children's future cannot be built on the misfortunes of others. We must recognize that this short life can neither be ennobled or enriched by hatred or revenge.  

Our lives on this planet are too short and the work to be done too great to let this spirit flourish any longer in our land. Of course we cannot vanquish it with a program, nor with a resolution.                      

But we can perhaps remember, if only for a time, that those who live with us are our brothers, that they share with us the same short moment of life; that they seek, as do we, nothing but the chance to live out their lives in purpose and in happiness, winning what satisfaction and fulfillment they can. 

Surely, this bond of common faith, this bond of common goal, can begin to teach us something. Surely, we can learn, at least, to look at those around us as fellow men, and surely we can begin to work a little harder to bind up the wounds among us and to become in our own hearts brothers and countrymen once again. 

From Juanita Sims of Hermosillo, Sonora, Mexico and of Tucson, Arizona, USA.

 

"Desperate for a Change: Views of an Immigrant" (c) 2007
By Juanita Sims of Hermosillo, Sonora, Mexico and of Tucson, Arizona, USA.

 

       As we enter the second half of 2007, the Immigration Reform Bill that has been brewing in the past few weeks by Congress is history – once again. Frankly, I’m glad. I opposed it, but surely not for the same reasons that many people did. I am now a legal permanent resident of the U.S. – still a Mexican citizen, though, and still in the process of finalizing the last details of my pending case with INS, now known as BCIS. So, in reality, I’m not all that "permanent" yet, which prompts me to use an alias that will allow me to express myself more freely.

       I came to this country almost a decade ago, legally I might add, and for reasons no different than of those who jump the fence or cross the river every day. I wanted to educate myself, improve my quality of life, and contribute in bettering the society that I would live in. I knew that I was entering a world of opportunity, which is found in very small doses in my country of origin. However, even though I did everything "by the book", it feels like I barely made it. I struggled financially and constantly dealt with the uncertainly of what would happen when my visa expired. I was by myself, away from my family and everything I knew, but persisted nonetheless. I guess you can say it’s the same old story that we always hear about bright-eyed immigrants. So why do so many people insist on calling them "illegals"?

       As I have observed, the words people use to talk about this topic immediately reflect how they feel about it and towards the newcomers. Let me get this straight, nobody is illegal; their actions may be so, but people never are, and to refer to them as such is derogatory. Sure, it may be easier to pronounce the word "illegals"; I know I have used the word for ease of speech. The problem lies when we call them that with venomous intentions and a hateful heart. And even if they broke the law, we must decide what is more important: to punish someone who committed a crime that is statutory in nature, or to look at the big picture, and focus on the human side of this tragic exodus. As a tax-payer, law-abiding individual, of course it’s very disturbing for me to know that so many foreign people are coming to live and work in the U.S., potentially having a questionable impact on my new homeland. But ultimately I am and will always be an immigrant, and can’t help but be significantly biased on this issue, so I choose to look at this from an immigrant’s perspective. I am very lucky because I speak English and my physical appearance allows me to blend in very well. I truly sympathize with what these immigrants go through, and yet, I can’t imagine what it’s like to live in the shadows, knowing that you’re not welcome and are regarded as a second-class person.

       Do immigrants commit violent crime? Sure. The criminal element is present in every human group, but it’s pointless to establish any kind of connection between their violent actions and their legal status. If an undocumented man gets a DUI, we should frown on his irresponsible behavior of endangering the lives of innocents, regardless of whether the drunk driver is in this country legally. A DUI is a DUI, assault is assault, robbery is robbery, whether it was committed by direct descendants of the Mayflower or by Juanito Perez of Michoacan. A violent crime or any kind of infraction should not be mitigated or aggravated because of someone’s legal status. We also need to be aware that it’s the inherent poverty, not the immigrants’ legal status that is correlated with the high crime rates in these populations.

       I would like to add that most people who come to work in the U.S. are highly motivated and contribute hundreds of thousands of dollars, if not more, to our economy and social welfare system, contrary to popular beliefs. Since so many of them live "in the shadows", it’s unlikely they will ever get back what they put into taxes, Medicare and Social Security deductions.

       This situation is shameful, and even I recognize it to be major problem. But let’s do ourselves a favor and stop misplacing the blame, because that will only extend the problem. These immigrants are doing what they feel they have to do – period. It is what any of us would do if we faced similar circumstances. So, it we truly care about finding a solution to this problem, let’s blame – I mean – hold someone else accountable. The American Government is somewhat responsible for part of the immigration crisis, but not enough to be blamed for it. The true guilty party in this sorry state of affairs is the Mexican Government, and anyone knowing a little bit about the history and economic policies in Mexico as well as the current turmoil of the Drug Cartel wars, will agree with me. I lived in Mexico for 20 years, enough said. To imply that there’s corruption and an absent legal system is quite an understatement. And I don’t mean to be negative, but the sad reality is that being successful or simply having a moderately decent lifestyle in Mexico does not rely so much on a person’s drive and work ethic, but on factors that are beyond most people’s control. However, some people refuse to give up hope and go where there’s true potential for success, happiness, and a brighter future for their children.

       We need to attack this unfortunate situation at its root. Mexico has to be part of the solution because its government is seemingly the root of the problem. It would be great for the Mexican government to cooperate with the U.S. in an effort to not crush those who want to immigrate by keeping them on one side of the fence by force, but to create a sustainable workforce in their home country. I know it sounds very Utopian, it most likely is, so I guess Plan B could include economic sanctions to Mexico if its government fails to pull its weight on this issue. It’s just a suggestion. Economic sanctions may not work for North Korea or Iran, but trust me, they would produce quick results with Mexico.

       Finally, for those who say that those "illegals" should go to the back of the line and immigrate legally, let’s just say it’s not quite so simple. As far as I know, someone can’t go by himself to the authorities and simply say, "I want to immigrate", fill out a few forms and like magic, get his residency. There has to be a petitioner, i.e. a sponsor, whether it’s a first degree relative, spouse, or employer, who requests the legalization of a person. The process varies in length and cost, but as an example, it may take up to five years currently for someone to become a legal resident. As for cost, well you can spend as little as $1000 without a lawyer, or as much as you are willing to pay if you get an attorney (and chances are you will need one). It’s not cheap, and of course what you get out of it is worth every penny, if you have the money. Too bad so many immigrants can’t come up with the cash. The proposed Immigration Bill was not at all amnesty. It would have allowed people to immigrate without a petitioner if they were here before a specific date, but to paraphrase Senator McCain, it would take someone about 13 years to gain legal residency – not citizenship. That’s after they paid $5000+ in fines and other side costs. This is why I was glad that the Bill did not pass. It would have been a waste of my tax dollars to try to implement a bureaucratic process that is more impractical and redundant than what was already in place.

 

 

       Sincerely,

              Juanita Sims

                     July 4th, 2007

 

 

       [Image: "The Fourth at Studio BR-549, Tucson, Arizona" by Stu Jenks (c) 2007; By the way, Juanita's a friend of mine. She's as pretty as a picture, a picture which you'll not see on this blog.]

"See God, Kai" (c) 2007

"See God, Kai" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks

       John from Cincinnati tells Kai to see God. She falls back on her mattress and has a number of visions. Her many body piercings heat up. After Kai comes to, she asked John never to do that again. "See God, Kai," John says again. "If that's what it's like, I don't want to," says Kai. "That's what it's like," say John from Cincinnati.

       It's really late. Stu had a small pot of coffee earlier tonight, to get him here. The Full Moon has been waning now for a couple of days, so it's rising later and later in the evening now. It's been up a couple, three hours I reckon. Stu's using a small MagLite to navigate the trail. He's about a mile in. Seems to be going toward the second arroyo. Nope. He's turned off the trail before that. He starts walking North toward Finger Rock. He climbs over some small rocks, weaves his way through the brush. Over a few more rocks, around a few more cactus. After about ten minutes, Stu stops. He's looking around. He's now surrounded by Cholla, Granite, Saguaros, and Creosote, in a little natural bowl of Plant and Earth, with a dome of Sky overhead. He turns off his flashlight. He's just standing there. Then I see him smile.

       My eyes quickly adjust to the Full Moonlight, after I turned off the flashlight. I hold my tripod in my hand. My camera bag's heavy on my shoulder. Then I hears something. Loud and clear. More inside than out, but a little bit of both.
       "Welcome to Paradise," says a still quiet voice.
       I smile, find a piece of ground without Cactus, gently put down my camera bag and get to work.

'Loving-Kindness' from Pema Chodron

"...but loving-kindness-maitri-toward ourselves doesn't mean getting rid of anything. Maitri means that we can still be crazy, we can still be angry. We can still be timid or jealous or full of feelings of unworthiness. Mediation practice isn't about trying to throw ourselves away or become something better. It's about befriending who we are already..." - Pema Chodron "Comfortable with Uncertainty"

"The Road to Mt. Hopkins, Arizona" (c) 2007

"The Road to Mt. Hopkins, Arizona" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks

     [Good News, bad news: Good News? The drive up Mt. Hopkins was glorious, the finest dirt road I have ever driven on, and I have traveled on many an unpaved road. Why is this road so wonderfully maintained? Because there are telescopes at the top. Big powerful ones, multi-lenses ones, U.S. Government ones. Also, the road isn't beaten down that bad, not like, say, Middlemarch Pass Road out of Tombstone that winds through the Dragoons Mountains, that's used by many locals and tourists alike, and is all tore to shit. No, the Mt. Hopkins road is only used by the astronomers who take her to the top, and by the occasional cool weather camper who pitched a tent on its higher ridges. Saturday, it was 105 degrees in the Santa Cruz River Valley below, 107 in Tucson, but not up on the high Southern slopes of the Santa Rita Mountains. I'm guessing in mid 80S.

     Bad News? My nighttime Lasso shots ended up being very 'noisy' and quite frankly, unacceptable for print and sale. I was despondent for much of Sunday, not knowing why they sucked so bad, but I figured it out, after looking at the JPEGS. Very underexposed JPEGS they were, and when I opened the same images as RAW digital negative files, they automatically compensated for the gross underexposure, but not without a heavy price to the quality fo the image. Hence all the f-ing noise.

     Maybe some late moon shooting tonight, but I don't think I'll be driving a hour and a half south this evening to reshoot halfway up Mt. Hopkins. The Moon wont' be up until after 11 p.m. or so, and I do have a dayjob and responsibilities at work. Damn it all. But who knows. Perhaps I'll just drive five minutes north of my apartment, to the Finger Rock Trailhead and do some Light Lassos in the wash up there. I'll see how I feel after dinner. Hope I don't eat too many sugar cookies and pass out on the futon like last night. Well, I am grateful though, that I figured out the 'noise' problem, and thanks to a couple of photog friends that validated what I was thinking was right.

     Least I got a nice shot of the Santa Cruz valley on Sunday, even if the Lassos pretty much sucked. Live and learn. And one out of two ain't bad. I'll just keep tell myself that until I get a Lasso I like.]

(Images: "The Road up Mt. Hopkins, Arizona" and "The Lights of Mt. Hopkins, Arizona" (c) Stu Jenks 2007)