Fezziwig Press & Photography by Stu Jenks

MP3: "The Ghost of Christmas Present, in Arizona"

MP3: "The Ghost of Christmas Present, in Arizona"

Ghost of Christmas Present,

Happy Winter Solstice everyone!

Attached is a mp3 of me reading my little Holiday story, "The Ghost of Christmas Present, in Arizona." Hope you enjoy it and feel free and pass it around if you wish. Its running time is around 13 and a half minutes.

But I need to address a couple of things that some friends have asked and perhaps misunderstood. And yes, I'm running a terrible risk of explaining something I've written, which usually ends in weakening the piece, but I'll take that risk, so as to quell some confusion.

1) The Woman in the story and her troubles is not modeled after any one in particular, yet her physical traits are similar to a good friend of mine. The Woman's story, however, is not that friend's story. But at the same time, I know that I and many of you have experienced the same pain, hurt and disappointment that The Woman in my story has experienced. I choose a woman because, frankly, I think women get hurt more than men. But that is not to say that Good Men don't have their hearts broken, nor that bad parents have stepped hard on a good boy's soul, or that men don't feel the need to forgive, and open their hearts too. Of course they do. But women, sadly, in this world, have historically taken the brunt of abuse and neglect and violence, and just as sad, only small changes have occurred to help stop this in our Modern World.

2) The Ghost of Christmas Present, crafted by Charles Dickens, only lived for one night, and I made him into an immortal spirit instead. Dickens' work is public domain now, so I've broken no laws by taking one of his characters and expanding him to fit what I wanted to say. I love "A Christmas Carol" more than I can say, and I meant no disrespect by taking one of his greatest characters and placing him in an Arizona canyon.

3) Yes, the Old Man in Texas is modeled after someone I know. And I ain't telling who.

4) Yea, I suppose I am ripping off Tolkien a bit by having Old Mr. Alligator being an old soulful tree-being. But if you had seen those old trees in that canyon in the Sierra Anchas, you would have wondered if they were ents too.

5) And lastly, if I'm in the story as a character, I'm both the Blond Woman and the Ghost. And the forgiveness the Woman gave was from a pain I had, long long ago, in the Early 1990's. And my hope for myself, is that I become more like the Ghost of Christmas Present, in his compassion and free-flowing love and open-hearted-ness. I'm not there yet, but I'm trying.

I really hope you enjoy my little mp3. And by the way, there is an 'audio typo' in it, in which I said "The Ghost of Christmas Past" instead of "Present", but I left it in, since I liked my performance in that section so much, and I didn't think I could recreate it. See it as my Navajo Thread, that shows I'm far for prefect. And feel free and share this mp3, as you wish.

I wish all of you a Happy Solstice, a Merry Christmas, and a very Happy New Year.

Love and light,

Stu

Minor White

"Often while traveling with a camera we arrive just as the sun slips over the horizon of a moment, too late to expose film, only time enough to expose our hearts." - Minor White.

Images by Minor White "Windowsill Daydreaming" 1958, and "Sun Over the Pacific, Devil’s Slide, California" 1947.

"Mary Gazes At Her Hand"

“Mary Gazes At Her Hand” (c) 2009 Stu Jenks 

[Tuesday, November 3rd, 2009]

    It’s after dinner. Mary’s sound asleep. I wake her up. She’s happy to see me. I’ve been told that she has rallied.

    “We think it was the Depakote. She been off it five days now. We have to puree all of her food but she ate three meals today. I have to feed her, though. Then again, she may have had a little stroke...” Sounds like Jessica thinks she's getting better. I pray Mom’s not.

    I thank the caregiver as she leaves Mary and I alone. I close the door to her room. I reread her birthday cards to her. I read them to her first, on Halloween, but she was completely unaware of them, and me, that day. It was just four days ago. She turned 83. Tonight, she knows the names of her friends, at least for a few seconds or so.
    We talk and Mom hears me. Says a few words in response: “O, yes,” and an “O, my,” or two. “You got that right,” was the longest sentence she said all night. She can listen to what I’m saying and occasionally respond, but she can’t complete any of her own sentences. Where before she would get confused by the verb: “What I need to tell you is...” and then get lost, now, she gets lost in the first noun: “I, I, I, want...want...I...I...” and then she stops trying.
    “It’s OK, Mom,” I say, but it’s not. Not for her, who wants to speak to her son. Not for me, who wants to hear what she has to say.
    I finish with the cards. I talk about the new Hoop Dancing book that was printed last week, and she seems excited. I talk about how I thought she was close to death, last week.
    “Me, too.” she says.
    I talk about the girl in California, and how I know now there is no future for us. She seems sad and confused. She liked, when over the past few weeks, my eyes brightened when I spoke about the Woman on the West Coast. Mary’s reading my face now as much as she's hearing my voice. She sees I’m very sad. She’s sad too. And confused about what happened between me and the girl. I don’t go into many details. I’m a bit confused too, about how it all came down.
    I talk about how I don’t think she has a long time to live now.
    “No,” she says, not disagreeing with me.
    “Everything is taken care of. There is plenty of money for everything. Your funeral will be back in Virginia.”
    She smiles at that.
    “I heard you talking with Nannie, over the last few days,” I say.
    “Yes...”
    “Maybe she’ll come over from the other side and help you some,”
    “I hope so,” Mary says.
    I mention that I’m getting a fine wooden casket made for her ashes, like the one we had made for Dad. She nods.
    “I’m sorry this is so hard, Mom.”
    She rolls her eyes, saying nothing.
    I laugh out loud.
    “You think funny,” she says with the first big smile I’ve seen on her mouth in days.
    “Yea,” I say, “I’m laughing because you’re the one who's dying, not me. You have the hard job.” I laugh again.
    She smiles and gives a bit of a shrug.
    “I hope Stuart comes to help you too.”
    She looks away. She misses Dad.
    “I feel his presence sometimes,” I say.
    “Do you?” she asks.
    “Yea, I do. I hope he visits.”
    She just looks at me. With a ton of love in her eyes.
    “I love you, Mom, and I’ll love you after you’re gone.”
    “I’ll....love....” but that’s all she gets out.
    “You’ll love me too, after you’re gone.” I say, completing her thought.
    “Yes...”
    “Well, maybe I’ll feel your presence too, after you’ve died.”
    She seems surprised and slightly delighted by that idea.
    “I love you, Mom.”
    “I love you, too.”
    We talk for a bit more and then I say goodnight. I kiss her forehead, like I’ve done a hundred times before.
    “Give me a kiss,” I say as I put my cheek to her lips.
    She has a tough time tonight, brushing my cheek slightly with her lips. I back away.
    “Not...much...of...,” she quietly says.
    “Not much of a kiss? Well, try again,” placing my cheek again to her mouth. This time she makes firmer contact.
    “There, that was good,” I say. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    She smiles. I turn out her bed-stand lamp and walk to open her bedroom door. She’s a little spooked at first by the complete darkness but is quickly calmed by the ambient light from the hall.
    “It’s OK, Mom,” I say from the doorway.
    “Good night, Mom”
    “Good...,”
    And the rest just fades away.
    
    

"Mary Sees" & "I Want My Momma..."

"Mary Sees" & "I Want My Momma..." (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

    Mary sees things that are not there. Dad. Other men. Her mother. Her grandfather, Daddy Saum.
    Mostly it doesn’t scare her, these visions. Mostly she just looks at them with wonder. Frankly, I don’t know all she sees because I only ask her when I’m there and when I think the time is right to ask. I’m sure she sees a lot more people and things than any of us will ever know.
    Mary’s condition has worsened. For a few days, she had a very hard time eating anything. Now, she can eat a little. For a few days, she slept all the time. Now, she sleeps about 20 hours a day. Just a couple weeks ago, she could follow a conservation, and respond with kindness and attention. Now, at best, she just goes away as I talk, to some place where I can not follow.     This morning was especially sad.
    I walk into her room. Mary’s asleep. Jessica told me earlier, she has eaten some pudding. I said, “Good,” but I didn’t really mean it. (If she completely stops eating, she will be dead within a month.) I grab the old wood chair from the kitchen in Virginia, move the thick blue pad by her bed, that’s there to break her falls if she rolls out, and place the old chair right beside her bed. I raise her bed with the electric controls, so I can talk with her easier. She doesn’t really wake up. Her eyes open, but she doesn’t really see. I say, “Hello, Mom,” but she doesn’t really hear. Then she begins to say one phrase over and over, very softly, in her strong Virginia accent. Most people wouldn’t understand her. I know exactly what she’s saying.
    “I want my Momma. I want my Momma, I want my Momma....”
    I touch her hand. I start to cry. I cry hard. Her bedroom door’s closed to the rest of the house, so I let fly. I cry for her, for me, for everything. Everything. I don’t know where some things end and where others begin anymore. My deep grief at realizing (finally) that I’ll never share a life, a home, a love, with that fine woman in California is all wrapped up in my sadness at watching my mother die, a very slow and scary death. My own fears of being self-employed, spending thousands of dollars on my art and writing careers, with not enough money coming back in right now, to even come close to breaking even, combines with managing Mary’s money and making sure there is plenty there, just in case she lives another couple, three years or more. My own loneliness with having no one to share my bed mixes with my sadness at losing this sweet kind mother I’ve had for the past few months, who I’ve shared so much with, but who is here no more. My anger at the withholding of important truths by other people in other parts of my life joins with my rage at the mystery of ‘Just when will Mom finally die?’ But at the same time as all of this fury of emotions fills me, day in and day out, I feel this incredibly gratitude: that I have money to draw from, for Mom, for me and for some other good folk in my life; that I have real friends that care about me and I for them, and who are really there for me, as I go through all of this; and that I have this strong faith that this will eventually end, be it my Mom’s long suffering or my grief regarding this huge hole in my own broken heart. That even though it’s not OK, not even close to OK, I’ll be OK.
    “...I want my Momma. I want my Momma. I want my Momma....”
    “I want my Momma too,” I say to Mary. I chuckle. That’s not going to happen. I’m Mary’s parent now, not she mine. But maybe, just maybe, her Momma, Nannie, will cross from the other side and lend a hand too.

"Mom, I saw U2"

"Mom, I saw U2 with Cathy the other night in Phoenix. We had a wonderful time."

"I'm so glad," she says. It's after dinner. Mary's in bed. She's in good spirits in spite of the scary-waking-visions she's having these days. Today is a day when the dementia makes her feel special rather than cursed. She mentioned to me earlier to make sure I go downstairs and get the $50 in an envelope that is on a chair. There is no downstairs, no $50, no chair. I told her I would get the envelope on my way out tonight.

"They sang this song called 'Walk On.'"

"I know that song," she says. She begins to sing a song. I think it's a Roger Miller song. After a bit, I stop her, to finish my story.

"It's a different 'Walk On," I say, regretting immediately that I had cut her off.

"Oh," she says, but looks at me intently without any shame. Just with love and great interest.

"It's a wonderful song," I say, "About those who have died and have gone before us to the Other Side. I thought about Dad and how I miss him, and I thought about you and how I'm going to miss you when you die."

"I hope so," she says.

I don't tell her that I cried though most of the song, not because I feel any shame about that. I just don't want to break down in front of her, right now.

"I'll miss you a lot, Mom."

She then gets this faraway look in her eye. I know the look. She's getting ready to say sometime very loving, very sweet. If she can get it out.

"I know ...it's selfish of me,... but I told someone today,... that I don't know... what I would do... without Stu."

"You don't need to do anything, Mom. I'll be here for you. Always."

"Thank you, Stu."

I let the Love hang in the air. I don't speak. I don't mess it up. I just let the Circle of Love spin between us. Through us. Through all of us.

"...You're packing a suitcase for a place none of us has been

A place that has to be believed to be seen

You could have flown away
A singing bird in an open cage
Who will only fly, only fly for freedom

Walk on, walk on
What you've got they can't deny it
Can't sell it, can't buy it
Walk on, walk on
Stay safe tonight

And I know it aches
And your heart it breaks
And you can only take so much

Walk on, walk on" - U2

[Photos of U2 were taken from their website.]

"Bozo Praying at San Xavier"

"Bozo Praying at San Xavier, Tucson, Arizona" (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

Artist's Talk for "@1w/"

[Photograph of yours truly, taken by Annie Gordon, at the Artist's Talk for my show "@1w/". This show runs for another week at the Tucson Jewish Community Center. Thanks to all who came to the opening, to all who came to see it at other times, and to all of y'all, for your help along the way.]

"At One With" [@1w/]: Opening this Thursday at TJCC

"@1w/" [At One With]: Opening this Thurday at TJCC

This Thursday, October 1st, from 6:30 pm to 8:30 pm at the Tucson Jewish Community Center at River and Dodge, I'll be having a little art party; an opening, a gathering of good folk, with sweets and all, to celebrate my new show "@1w/: At One With". I would love to see you there. A little art talk will be happening around 7. Below is the Artist Statement from the show. Come if you can. I'll have a big hug waiting for you (and some rugalah too.) See you soon.

Love, light, and luck,

Stu

“@1w/”
[At One With]
by Stu Jenks,
High Holy Days, 2009.


    With the High Holy Days and the Day of Atonement upon us, I thought about what the word “Atonement’ meant to me. To make amends with G-D. [Maybe.] To make right and correct the harms I’ve done to the people in my life. [Absolutely.] To forgive others. [Yes.] To forgive myself. [Harder to do.]
    The original Middle English words, for Yom Kipper were ‘At Onement”, meaning to be in harmony with G-D and his community. I thought about my own work, and saw, that on one level, that is just what I’m trying to do. I go to these places: the mountains, the deserts, the sea. I bring along Zippo lighters, Hula Hoops with Christmas lights, and small inflatable Bozos, to create a bit of magic, mystery and humor in these landscapes. But I always try to be ‘At-One-With” these places, to not impose myself so greatly as to harm or mock the land, to come with some reverence, even when I’m throwing a miniature Bozo punching bag in the air near some ancient petroglyphs.
    And then, like the mystic who travels deep into the forest to find a vision, not for himself primarily but for his people, I bring the images of the Hoop Dances, the Flames Spirals, the Bozos back to town, and display them for the community, showing the people the wonders I’ve found.
    And perhaps, by going on these lone spiritual sojourns into the wild, I am a better man: A man who will continue to make amends for his wrongs, and maybe, just maybe, becomes a less harmful, more loving and kinder human being.
   

"Spiral in the Ironwood Forest"

"Spiral in the Ironwood Forest, Arizona" (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

The Global Spiral

The Global Spiral: a publication of the Metanexus Institute

[Their annual conference is next week in Tempe, Arizona, and I'm their featured artist. Go to the below link to read a Hoop Dancing story, and see more about the conference, and many thanks to Erica, for asking me to participate.]