Stu Jenks' Fezziwig Press

My current art, book, and music resume...

Stu Jenks
Born: Richmond, Virginia, USA, 1954

Education:

1997, Photography Studies, Pima Community College, Tucson, Arizona.
1979, Bachelor of Fine Arts, Studio Art: Sculpture, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.

Selected Solo Exhibitions:

2016, “20 Years: 1996-2016,” Wee Gallery, Tucson, Arizona.
2015, “The Little Ones,” Wee Gallery, Tucson, Arizona.
2014, “The Ancients,” Wee Gallery, Tucson, Arizona.
2009, "At-One-With," Jewish Community Center, Tucson, Arizona.
2008, "Nine Prayers," Hotel Congress, Tucson, Arizona.
2007, "A Very Large God," Unity of Tucson, Tucson, Arizona.
2005, "If There's a Heaven...," Endicott West Art Foundation, Tucson, Arizona.
2004, "Mystery And Magic,” Metroform Limited Gallery, Tucson, Arizona.
2002, "Circles and Spirals," Tohono Chul Park, Tucson, Arizona.
2001, "Analog and Digital," Safehouse, Tucson, Arizona.
2001, "Circles and Spirals," The Image Gallery, The Screening Room, Tucson, Arizona.
1998, "Sacred Spaces," Hercules Florence Gallery, Pima Community College, Tucson, Arizona.

Books:

2016, Victor Mothershead: U.S. Secret Service by Stu Jenks, Fezziwig Press
2015, Step Zero (The Special Edition) by Stu Jenks, Fezziwig Press.
2014, Balthazar and Zeeba: A Christmas Novella by Stu Jenks, Fezziwig Press.
2014, A Rolodex Of Haikus by Tunafish Smith (Edited by Stu Jenks), Fezziwig Press.
2014, Air & Gravity by Stu Jenks, Fezziwig Press.
2013, Pamela’s Baby Rocking Chair by Stu Jenks, Fezziwig Press.
2012, Step Zero by Stu Jenks, Fezziwig Press.
2012, The Fatal Figures (Or How I Got In Trouble With The Law In Art School),
by Stu Jenks, Fezziwig Press.
2011, The Transpersonal Papers: 1861-2010 by Stu Jenks, Fezziwig Press.
2011, Bozo In Love by Stu Jenks, Fezziwig Press.
2011, Dementia Blues by Stu Jenks, Fezziwig Press.
2009, Hoop Dancing: More Journeys Through Nocturnal Photography,
by Stu Jenks, Fezziwig Press.
2008, Flames Spirals: Journeys Through Nocturnal Photography by Stu Jenks, Fezziwig Press.

Music And Audiobooks:

2003: The Three Surrenders: Soundtracks for Photographs, Vol. One, Fezziwig Press.
2005: West Of The Fires: Soundtracks for Photographs, Vol. Two, Fezziwig Press.
2008: Gladstone Mothershead: Soundtracks for Photographs, Vol. Three, Fezziwig Press.
2010: Hoop Dancing (The Audiobook), Fezziwig Press.
2011: Deaths & Injuries, Fezziwig Press.
2013: Pamela’s Baby Rocking Chair (The Audiobook), Fezziwig Press.
2014: Balthazar & Zebba: A Christmas Novella (The Audiobook), Fezziwig Press.
2015: Angel Ghosts, Fezziwig Press.

Selected Group Exhibitions:

2016, “Into the Night: Contemporary Art and the Nocturne Tradition,” Tucson Museum Of Art.
2016, “In Full Bloom,” Tohono Chul Park, Arizona.
2015, “Small Works,” Tohono Chul Park, Arizona.
2015, “Dia de los Muertos,” Tohono Chul Park, Arizona.
2015, “The Photographers,” Contreras Gallery, Tucson, Arizona.
2015, “The Sky Above,” Tohono Chul Park, Arizona.
2014, “The Trees: Myth, Symbol and Metaphor,” Tohono Chul Park, Tucson, Arizona.
2012, "Vicios y Virtudes" (Vices & Virtues), Raices Taller 222 Gallery, Tucson, Arizona.
2010, "Night Moves: After-Dark Images," Tohono Chul Park, Tucson, Arizona.
2009, "Print Pop," Lulubell Toy Bodega, Tucson, Arizona.
2009, "Curious Camera," ArtsEye/Photographic Works, Honorable Mention, Tucson, Arizona.
2008, "La Celebración y el Sufrimiento," Union Gallery, University of Arizona, Tucson, Arizona.
2008, "The September Show," Point Of View Gallery, Raleigh, North Carolina.
2008, "Big Ideas, Small Frames," Dinnerware Artspace, Tucson, Arizona.
2008, "Darkness, Darkness," Three Columns Gallery, Harvard University,
Cambridge, Massachusetts.
2007, "Salon Des Refuses," Dinnerware Contemporary Arts, Tucson, Arizona.
2006, "Big Deal 13," SOMarts Gallery, San Francisco, California.
2006, "Transcending Boundaries," Point Of View Gallery, Raleigh, North Carolina.
2006, "Tough Lovelies: Agaves and Yuccas in Art," Tohono Chul Park, Tucson, Arizona.
2006, "The Art Of Photography,” Lyceum Theatre, San Diego, California.
2005, "Día de los Muertos: Contemporary Expressions," Tohono Chul Park, Tucson, Arizona.
2004, "Hotshoe Salon" Studio 455, Tucson, Arizona.
2004, "Wildfire!", Tohono Chul Park, Tucson, Arizona.
2003, "First Annual Winter Group Exhibition," Metroform Limited Gallery, Tucson, Arizona.
2003, "Small Works Invitational," Metroform Limited Gallery, Tucson, Arizona.
2003, "46th Annual International Awarded Exhibition," San Diego Art Institute, San Diego,
California.
2002, "Rocky Mountain Biennial," Museum of Contemporary Art, Fort Collins, Colorado.
2002, "Spite: Ten Years of The Toole Shed," Museum of Contemporary Art/Hazmat Gallery,
Tucson, Arizona.
2002-2004, "Saguaro: Popular Image and Cultural Icon," Arizona Commission of the Arts
Touring Exhibition (with Tohono Chul Park), Arizona.
2001, "Response," Tucson/Pima Arts Council, Tucson, Arizona.
2001, "In God We Trust," Zahorec Hughes Gallery, Cincinnati, Ohio.
2001, "Michael Cajero, Stu Jenks, and Rudolph Nadler," Jewish Community Center's Fine Art
Gallery, Tucson, Arizona.
2000, "La Petite VIII," Alder Gallery, Coburg, Oregon.
2000, "44th Annual International Awarded Exhibition," San Diego Art Institute, California.
2000, "Visions VI," Cathedral Basilica of the Assumption, Covington, Kentucky.
2000, "Nocturnes 2000," Pacific Media Arts, San Francisco, California,
Curator's Choice Award.
2000, "Tucson/Pima Arts Council Fellowship Exhibit," Tucson/Pima Arts Council, Tucson,
Arizona.
1999, "43rd Annual International Awarded Exhibition," San Diego Art Institute, San Diego,
California.
1999, "La Petite VII", Alder Gallery, Coburg, Oregon.
1999, "Visions V", Cathedral Basilica of the Assumption, Covington, Kentucky; Jury's Award.
1999, "Arizona Biennial '99," Tucson Museum of Art, Tucson, Arizona.
1999, "Photowork '99," Barrett Art Center, Poughkeepsie, New York.
1999, "Miniatures," The Galleria, Bisbee, Arizona.
1979, “Bachelor of Fine Arts Show”, Ackland Museum, Chapel Hill, North Carolina.

Installations:

2012, “Open Circle for Pamela,” Glow Festival of Lights, Oracle, Arizona.
2009, "Open Circle Plus Seven," Metanexus Conference, Tempe, Arizona.
2004, "Ancient Spirit, Modern Voice: The Mythic Journeys Art Exhibition," The Defoor Centre
Gallery, Atlanta, Georgia.
2002, "The Open Circle Cairn Project," Museum of Contemporary Art, Tucson, Arizona.

Grants & Fellowships:

2000, Tucson/Pima Arts Council, Visual Arts I Fellowship Awards (Honorable Mention).

Selected Lectures, Juries & Workshops:

2011, Juror, Third Annual Curious Camera Competition, ArtsEye, Tucson, Arizona.
2010, Co-Executive Director, "All Souls' Procession 4th Annual Photography Exhibition
Competition," All Souls' Procession, Tucson, Arizona.
2009, Juror, "Blue Nocturne," The Nocturnes, San Francisco, California.
2006, Presenter, "The Rhythm of Mythic Journeys '06," Mythic Imagination Institute, Atlanta,
Georgia.
2001, Juror, "A Little Night Music," TheNocturnes.com, Pacific Media Arts, San Francisco,
California.
1998, Guest Lecturer on Sepia and Selenium Toning, Photography Program, University of
Arizona, Tucson, Arizona.

Representatives:

Baker + Hesseldenz, Tucson, Arizona.
Fezziwig Press, Tucson, Arizona.

 

Image: "Callanish With A Plastic Brownie 127 Camera, Isles of Lewis and Harris, Scotland" (c) 2016 Stu Jenks.

All 8 1/2" x 11" A/P archival pigment prints by Stu Jenks for $25, shipping, handling and taxes included...

Image: "Queen Esther Baptist Church, Lancaster, Virginia" (c) 2011 Stu Jenks (Just down River Road from Victoria's house. Love that luscious red carpet. And for you nocturnals out there, it was handheld. Rare for me.)

In this time of making photos on iPhones and Macbook Pros and only looking on screens, I forget I'm a old-school guy. I make a 8 1/2 x 11 work print on archival paper of EVERY image I make. EVERY one. It's the only way, for me, to accurately check for color shift, density, composition, etc. I really like my iPad screen but it's no way to make a good print.

And I have hundreds, if not thousands, of work prints artist proofs at my studio.

If you see an image of mine on The StuBlog or on my old website or on the Fezziwig Press Store or in any of my books, there's a beautiful small print in a box somewhere, perhaps with your name on it. And since I'm organized, I can find it.

Many of you can't afford my larger prints. I understand. I don't have an extra 50 or 100 lying around either. But I do have an extra $20 for stuff I really like.

So if you see an image of mine on any of my sites or in any of my books and you want it, it's yours for $25, shipping, handling and tax included. (I believe in paying taxes, sales and otherwise.)

Just email me at my facebook page or through the StuBlog or at [email protected], and tell me what print you would like or just pull the jpeg and send that to me.

I was just watching the Tarhells lose today in basketball, working on images at my computer when I thought, 'I bet people don't realize I have boxes of work prints here.'

You all do now.

Love and light,

Stu

p.s. Ignore the catagories belows. The computer went wacky. Another reason why I prefer a print in the hand as opposed to an image in The Cloud.

Now available, on the Apple IPad: The Transpersonal Papers (1861-2010) and Bozo In Love

Been a long time coming for The Transpersonal Papers (1861-2010).

Three editors, two proofreaders, two designers, four printers, and hours, days, weeks, months, years, lifetimes, (I know I'm overstating), of writing, traveling, shooting, editing, remembering, hiking, and more writing, shooting, and editing, but I'm not complaining. No, no, no.

And apologies for not having the dough right now, to print The Transpersonal Papers as a coffee-table book as I had originally planned. ($10,000, it would have cost. Maybe someday.) But you now can buy it, for $14.95, as an Ebook on the Apple IPad, and I expect it to be available within a couple days on the Nook and the Kindle as well.

I just looked at it on my new IPad. The photos, text and design look grand.

And as an extra surprise, Bozo In Love is now up on IBooks too, ($9.95), as well as the rest of my catalog: Flame Spirals, Hoop Dancing, and Dementia Blues, on IBooks, Nook and Kindle.

Just in time for Christmas.

And don't worry. All but The Transpersonal Papers can still be bought as a book book through Fezziwig Press. I have plenty. Just go to www.fezziwigpressonline.com, for the hardbounds and paperbacks, but go to ITunes, today, (and Kindle and Nook, soon) for the ebooks.

Heavy sigh from my third story apartment balcony. I look out onto the Tucson city lights in the valley below. Cold, dry air embraces me. I inhale deeply. Exhale.

A very good night in the desert.

Think I'll make a cup of coffee with egg nog and play some Angry Birds on my new IPad.

Time to celebrate.

 

"191 Peachtree"

    "Picketing at 191 Peachtree, Atlanta, Georgia" (c) 2006, 2008 Stu Jenks

    [It was a glorious morning in Atlanta in the Spring of 2006. I was taking a break from the Mythic Journeys Conference, strollin' easy down Peachtree, with a cup of hot coffee in one hand and a camera in the other. Shot these union picketers in front of this skyscraper with my 50-year-old Kodak Brownie. The image sat in my to-do file for years. Now, with Obama just days away from accepting his party's nomination, it seems appropriate to complete it and load it on my blog.
    My father once said that if management is doing its job, unions are not necessary. His son says management rarely thinks of the worker these days, and unions are more needed than ever.
    Pretty picture, though, no matter what your politics.]

"Ebenezer Baptist Church, Atlanta, Georgia" (c) 2007

"Ebenezer Baptist Church, Atlanta, Georgia" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks

    "...Well, I don't know what will happen now. We've got some difficult days ahead. But it doesn't matter with me now. Because I've been to the mountaintop. And I don't mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land. And I'm happy, tonight. I'm not worried about anything. I'm not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord." - Martin Luther King Jr., in Memphis, Tennessee, April 3rd, 1968

    [Rev. King's last words, to the musician Ben Branch on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel, Memphis, April 4th, 1968:  "Ben, Make sure you play 'Take My Hand, Precious Lord' in the meeting tonight. Play it real pretty."]

"Angela at Night" (c) 2006, 2007

(In honor of that week in Georgia, a year ago...a Story of Desire & Donuts)

“Angela at Night”

© 2006, 2007 Stu Jenks
[Image: "Angela at Night"]

June 10th, 2006

    My heart is racing. I’m feeling a little out of my body and a little too deep inside of it, all at the same time. A good feeling but perhaps dangerous, for I can barely see the Interstate through the high levels of testosterone and adrenaline rushing through my veins.
    The rental compact KIA is humming along at 80 miles an hour. Everyone is driving 80 miles an hour on I-75, southeast of Atlanta. Been like this for the last two hours. I thought we drove fast in the desert. Not like here.
    I think back to yesterday at the Mythic Journeys 2006 conference. Great but not so great. Actually pretty fucking shitty at times, yet wonderfully balanced, at others, by the exceptional food, the good drink and the wonderful company in the evening. But yesterday afternoon was a mind fuck.
    The panel I was on entitled “What the Soul looks like” started out good enough. Brief intros by each of the panelists. Each from a very different discipline. An older man who runs a spiritual retreat in North Carolina; a middle aged woman who is a Jungian psychiatrist; the other featured visual artist at Mythic Journeys 2006 who studied with a Sufi master, and me, Art boy from Tucson, Arizona. The moderator was a very nice guy from the Joseph Campbell Institute. Liked him then, liked him later. I can’t say the same for the other three folk.
    The discussion began with talks on soul and spirit. I was next to the moderator so I started first and we worked our way down the line. I talked about what I saw as the differences between Soul and Spirit. The Soul is eternal, interconnected with all souls, indestructible. When I die my Soul goes back to be with all the other Souls, but my Spirit? That’s another thing. It isn’t eternal. My Spirit dies when my body dies, my Spirit can be hurt, diminished, destroyed, by myself or by others. But my Spirit can grow and blossom and be of great use to others and myself while I’m alive. That was part of my pitch. Later on I referred to Peter Gabriel, to Addictions a bit, a little about Intuition and Desire. I didn’t say fuck once. Two ‘craps’ and one ‘prick’ is all. Thought I was doing ok.
    One problem.
    The three people to my right hated me. Iced me out of the conversation around the 15-minute mark. Don’t have a clue why. Basically they just talked among themselves and won’t acknowledge me. After about an hour, I politely confronted one of their ideas, in an attempt to be brought back into the circle of conversation. The Jungian woman talked about having The Surrender, which I said I didn’t understand for I see surrendering as a life long process, done quite often. They looked at me like I was an idiot, and even arrogantly chuckled in my direction. Granted, some of my emotional baggage from childhood is about being ignored by loved ones who wouldn’t talk to me, and I’m sure that fueled some of my anger, but being so rude as to usher me out of the discussion? Well...that just pissed me off. I wanted to take off their heads, especially the arrogant asshole from North Carolina that spoke in cryptic messages. At one point, he answered a question with some poetic mumbo jumbo and the Jungian woman to his right was so in awe that she said ‘Did you just make that up? That was amazing.’ I kept my tongue but I felt like saying “You know, I went to college and I’m pretty smart but that didn’t make one bit of sense to me. I think you’re just trying to appear like you’re a great spiritual man when in actuality you’re just an egomaniacal prick.”
    I was good. I didn’t say that.
    Later on though, at the bar, I ran into a number of the people who were not on the panel but who were in the audience, and I did let fly then.
    I said to them, (two women, one man, all attractive), that there were two reasons I didn’t take off that asshole head and shit down his neck.
    One, it would make me look bad, and two, it would have diluted the entire message of Surrender, and Spirit and Balance I was trying to get across.
    Still royally pissed me off though.
    The two women and the one guy at the bar did mention that they could tell I was angry but that they were impressed how I handled myself. The guy said you were the only one who was Real and not trying to impress us, and one of the women said that it was wonderful to watch you model behavior that she would like to do someday.
    I smiled and laughed with them. They had booze, I had a Diet Coke. We had a great time that night.
    But it’s still fucking with my head, this Saturday afternoon, and I have to admit, that I’m not real hip on hanging out with folk like that today.
    I think I need to go to Savannah and see if I can’t get laid. It's been a long time. Angela said to come on down.
    But I got a feeling about something, and I need to check it out.
    I see an exit up ahead. The land here is flat farmland. Beautiful with rows of pines around the edges of the large fields. I see a gas station. I stop and get some fuel, and then park off to the side and make a call on my cell phone.
    “Hello,” she says.
    “Hey, Angela, it’s me,” I say.
    “Hey, where are you?”
    “Just past Dublin,” I say.
    “You’re about a hour away,” she says.
    “That’s what I figure,” I say.
    “Let me give you directions to where I can meet you. My dad suggests that we met near the airport.”
    “Before you do that, Angela, I got to be honest about something.”
    “What’s that?”
    “That what I would really like to do when I get there is find a hotel and put you in it,” I say.
    Dead air on the phone.
    “Well, let’s just take it slow and play it by ear,” she says.
    “That’s fine. I just wanted to be upfront about my intentions,” I say.
    “OK,” she says, “Here’s where I think we should met.”
    She gives me directions to a Wal-Mart outside of Pooler, Georgia. I write the directions down. Tell her I’ll call her when I get off the Interstate. She say bye. I say bye. I get back on I-16, a little crestfallen.
    I’m not going to have hot sex tonight. Then again, I could make that same statement every night for the last year, and be accurate.

    But Angela is quite a passionate person, a woman who on the phone just a couple weeks ago said, that from what she can tell by my pictures on the web, from the sound of my voice, and from our long art-filled deep conversations on the phone…well, that she’d love to fuck my brains out, if she had the chance. Almost a direct quote.
    But Momma didn’t raise no fool. Actually Momma did raise me to be naïve and foolish, but after years of active drug addiction and a few years of recovery, I know a few things now.
    And I know “Let’s go slow” means “Not tonight.”
    Shit.
    Nothing I can do about it. Just accept that that’s the way it is.
    Let’s just try and have a good time. It’s not that often that I get to have dinner with a vibrant sexy smart blond that thinks I'm attractive.
    Oh, Oh, I think.
    She might not find me fetching after all. All she’s seen are JPEGs of me and as I told her, I look better in photos than I do in real life. I remember she asked why is that. I laughed and said ‘Some of my friends are photographers and they know how to make me look good.’
    God help me, if she thinks I’m just an old wrinkly Art-Boy.
    Sweet Jesus, God help me.

    I’m standing outside my rental car, in the late afternoon sun, smoking a cigarette, in a Wal-Mart parking lot in Pooler, Georgia. Not exactly Faulkner, but not that far from it either. Waiting to see Angela for the first time.
    I see a beat up old Cadillac cutting across the parking lot with a blond behind the wheel. The blond is smiling. I bet that’s her. She sees me and drive toward me, parking the Caddy next to my KIA. With a big smile on her face, out steps a beautiful blond woman. 5’8” at least, in tan short shorts and a tight spaghetti strap top. Her breasts are obviously real by the slight bounce they have as she walks and they are being presented to me as if they are food on a serving tray. She was right. She does look better than her photographs.
    We hug. She gives me a little pat on the back as we hug. I hate that, but I’ll let it go. We break the hug and we stand almost nose to nose with each other.
    “Hey Angela, I’m Stu,” I say laughing.
    “Hi, Stu. Good to meet you.”
    As I drive us away from the Wal-Mart, I can sense her eyes on me. I turn and look toward her, look into her eyes. She is not unhappy with my appearance so far as I can tell. I may be a fool but the vibe does seem to suggest that she wants to have hard passionate sex with me too. Maybe not right now, but someday. I feel my dick get semi-hard.
    We get back on the Interstate and head toward Downtown Savannah.

    Dinner at the tourist trap along the harbor was nothing special. Loud drunks behind us. Angela and I talked about this and that. She talked a lot about her recent trip to Ireland, me, about the Mythic Journeys conference up the road. After dinner, she showed me around her hometown. Spanish moss in all the trees, orange Sun going down. We left downtown and walked deep into an Old Victorian neighborhood just to the South. Angela is talking a mile a minute, about her ex-boyfriend, about ghosts, about the Irish, about her ex again. Seems like she isn’t as over him as she thinks she is. Kind of breaks my heart. I've fallen a little for this woman and sure, I don’t think it’s going to go anywhere, not beyond a brief sexual fling, nor anything long term. Still, it makes me kind of sad. My heart has opened to her whether I like it or not.
    It’s around 8 and I just want to drive back to Atlanta, but she wants to show me this old house and that dark park and that special place. I oblige.
    We stop after a bit for ice cream on our way back to the car. We make more small talk. I still have a semi hard in my pants. Can’t help it. While she talks about something at the ice cream parlor, I barely listen. I'm think about my trip back up the road. It’s four hours back to Atlanta. Going to miss the Saturday night jam session with Charles and Mary Ann. Fuck. The price of love I suppose. The price of the hope of a horizontal mumbo, more like it. But I had to know. I had to see Angela in the three dimensions.
    Back at my rental now, in the small parking lot right on the harbor. A Coast Guard cutter has come in since I parked here hours ago. Angela’s talking about the yachting business now, all the money to be made. Bit boring to me. I say nothing. Just nod. Been nodding a lot the past 3 hours. You think I talk a lot. You should meet Angela.
    We climb into my KIA. Tourists walks on the sidewalk in front of us. Angela’s talking about something, and then she stops. I put the key in the ignition and I don’t turn it. I look over to her. She looks at me. I lean over and place one hand on her cheek as I gently kiss her on the mouth. Just a short kiss. I then lean back in my seat and fix to turn the ignition when Angela says…
    “That was short,” a slight annoyance in her voice.
     I take my hand off the car keys. I take off my glasses, throw them on the dashboard with a bit of flair, mind you, and dive right in. Both hands on her face, our tongues now involved. My right hand runs through the hair on the back of her head, and then I gently tug it. He moans. She then grabs me a bit, pulling me tight into her kissing, into her breasts. I grab a bigger handful of hair. We get into a rhythm now. And then, after an unknown while, the rhythm slows and our kiss ends. I gently let go of her hair. I slowly back away and settle back into my driver’s seat. I stare straight ahead, saying nothing. I glance over at Angela. She’s doing the same thing. Straight ahead, fifty yard stare.
    “Wow,” I say softly.
    “Yea…Wow, “ she says, still looking out of the windshield.
    I start the car and back out of the parking place. We don’t talk for at least a minute. Then, I talk now, about God-knows-what. She laughs. I laugh. We’re laughing a lot now. Soon we’re back on the Interstate, heading back to Pooler and her car. Just talking about this and that but there is a slight lilt to our voices now. Hap, hap, happy.
    We skirt the edge of the airport. A Red Roof Inn sign peaks above the pines. Angela is talking again about Ireland. I look at the Red Roof sign and feel sad. Won’t be going there tonight. Pity.
    Soon we’re back at the Wal-Mart, the KIA idling next to her Caddy.
    “Well, It was great to finally meeting you, Angela,” I say.
    “Thanks for driving down, Stu. And buying dinner. We’ll talk soon,” she says.
    “Angela,” I say, “Come here.”
    Another handful of hair. Our kissing a little deeper, more comfortable. Our second kiss. Her body moans and begins to sway. She giggles into my mouth. Our rhythm increases. My other hand squeezes her waist. I moan now.
    Then she slows and stops and breaks the kiss.
    “I gotta stop,” she say, breathlessly, “If I don’t stop now, this will go where I don’t want it to go tonight.”
    “Don’t worry, “ I say, “ I won’t let you.”
    “Yea, right.”
    “No, really. You stated earlier that you didn’t want to have sex tonight, and even though I really want to, I won’t let us.”
    Angela looks at me with the look of ‘What kind of fool do you think I am?’
    I stare right back at her with my look of ‘No. Really. I ain’t going to fuck you tonight.”
    She doesn’t believe me. But it’s true. I won’t fuck her now. I know this place. She isn’t teasing me. She just doesn’t want to turn this into ‘Just a Fuck’. She actually likes me and wonders if there might be more than just a vacation fuck here. And I know if she fucks me now, after making that decision hours ago not to fuck me, that in the morning she will hate herself and hate me a little too. Been there. Done that. Don’t want to do it again.
    “Take care, honey. Drive home safely,” I say to her.
    “You too. Be safe. I’ll talk with you soon,” she says.
    She gets out of the car quickly. She really doesn’t trust herself, I can tell. I smile. Nice knowing that I can still drive a woman a bit crazy with my kissing. I’ll take that.
    I grin and wave as she gets in her car. She starts up the Cadillac, and away she goes. One little glance from her is all. Then she’s gone.
    Minutes later, I’m on the Interstate, heading back to Atlanta.

    Midnight, West of Dudley, Georgia.

    Need to get some coffee. Still a couple hours plus from Atlanta. Probably get back after two a.m. Shoot. Would have loved to have jammed with Charles tonight, but I pretty much knew that wasn't going to happen. I had to see her. I had to know.
    The KIA hums along at 75 mph. I see a sign advertising Shell Oil a mile ahead. I rub my testicles through my pants. Seems I got a little case of blue balls tonight. Didn’t even know I was walking around with that much of a woody tonight. Well, yea, I did. I just tried to ignore it. I sigh, then give a half grin. That’s all I can muster right now.
    I exit the Interstate and get on a two lane country road. Nothing on it but a Shell station on the other side of the bridge. I cross the bridge and pull into the gas station, then pull up to the pumps. I turn off the engine and then I notice something wondrous through the plate glass windows of the station.
    Something that will make my blue balls feel just a bit better.
    Something that will take a bit of the sting off not having sex with Angela tonight.
    There, inside a large brightly lit white plastic cupboard are dozens and dozens of Krispy Kreme Donuts.
    Two Chocolate Crème filled and two Original Glazed, please.
    Here I come.

 

"Ebenezer Baptist Church, Atlanta, GA" (c) 2007

[Ebenezer Baptist Church, Atlanta, Georgia: The home parish of Martin Luther King Sr. and Jr.]

"Dr. King's Grave, Ebenezer Baptist Church, and Auburn Avenue, Atlanta, Georgia" (c) 2006

“Dr. King’s Grave, Ebenezer Baptist Church, & Auburn Avenue, Atlanta, Georgia” © 2006, 2007 Stu Jenks

[Image: "Dr. King's Grave, Atlanta, Georgia"]

           My E-MU synthesizer and my Johnson mandolin sleep in the their hard cases along the wall. The door to my mini-balcony on the 22nd floor is open, letting in the warm breezes of an early summer Atlanta morning. The soft distant sounds of honking car horns echoes up from the street below. A cup of expensive but good coffee is in my hand. I step out onto the balcony and light a Camel.
           Yesterday was weird. Got on a plane out of Tucson at 6 a.m. Landed in Atlanta at Noon. A massage therapist associated with the conference picked me up and got me to the Hyatt at around 2 p.m. Brief sound check at 4. Ate some snacks at 6. And then there I was, a bit after eight, playing my spiritual soundtracks on my E-MU for the meet and greet after the opening ceremony of The Mythic Journeys Conference 2006.
           Ari reported later at the bar, that when Carolyn saw me playing the keyboard she said, “Is there anything that Stu doesn’t do?”
           Sweet of her to say but the gig sucked. I had no monitor so I couldn’t hear myself and I couldn’t turn up my headphones for they were in series with the master output of the XK-6 (And what I do is lay down ambient background music, loud enough to set the mood for the event, whatever that might be, but not play so loud as to draw attention away from the conversations of others. A New Age lounge performer if you will.) I’ve done this kind of gig before, playing for art openings and parties back home, but this was different. Way different.
           First, I didn’t have my own P.A. Was using Mythic Journeys’. Couldn’t hear shit. Playing just from muscle memory, praying it sounded OK, out there on the floor.
           Second, there were a shit load of people in the room and they were louder and more rambunctious than I’m use to playing to. At one point, someone almost put a cocktail glass on my keyboard until I gave her a dirty look with a phony smile attached to it and she backed away.
           And third, I was dead tired and really hungry and I could smell the strong scent of the pricey buffet table, just twenty feet to my left. But I was working, doing my gig, filling the space with clouds. I couldn’t take a break for chicken wings.
           After 45 minutes of playing blind and knowing if I didn’t get a Diet Coke soon I would just scream, I stopped and went to the open bar and got a soda. Standing there, I smiled, thinking about my conversation with Charles a couple hours prior. I had mentioned to him that I was incredibly tired and if I fell asleep playing my music (which I have done at home while recording a couple of times), that I needed someone to come over to me and yell “Shift!” so I’d get off the A Minor 7th I’m stuck on.
    Bless his heart, ten minutes ago, he came by and did just that.
           “Shift!” Charles yelled, with a big grin on his face.
           I laughed as I went to play a big C chord.
           There were some good moments though. I did play well (I think), and my atmos did give the room a nice feel, but all and all, it was one weird fucking gig.
           After the meet and greet, I caught up with some friends at the bar that I hadn’t seen since the last Mythic Journeys Conference two years ago. Caught a few songs of Michaela’s gig in a back room of the Business Center, but I was too wired and tired to sit still for long. Back to the bar I went, for a few more rabid stories and a few more flirtations with that pretty girl from California and then I was done for the night.
           Didn’t sleep well, but that’s fine. I don’t sleep well at home either. Getting old I guess or maybe I just haven’t tasted the soft skin of a red headed woman for a while, and that's affected my sleep. I wish.
           I take a big draw off my large coffee. Take another drag off the Camel, and lean over the concrete railing and take in the view from 22 stories up. This is a sweet room. Too bad I don’t have someone to share it with. But who knows. This is a convention. What happens in Atlanta stays in Atlanta.
           Another sip of coffee. I look down. A drunk hits up a tourist for change. I check the clock near the king sized bed. Around 9:30. My panel on “What the Soul looks like” isn’t until tomorrow so today I’m pretty free. I checked the list of other panels this morning and there is nothing there I can’t live without.
           This morning is when I should shoot. Light blue sky. Few clouds. This’ll do just fine.
           I promised Judith I would shoot Ebenezer Baptist Church while I was here, and judging from my MARTA map, a subway station is just one block south of here and then it’s a quick skip and a jump to a train stop near Dr. King’s grave. I smile. I get to take the subway here in Atlanta. The only subway in The South I bet.
           I go to my bags and get out my Brownie. I check the front pouch of the camera case. Plenty of film. I leave the Rollei, and the Pentax. Going for the Artsy Fartsy shot today.
           I take another drag off my Camel and drop it in my makeshift ashtray on the balcony, a Diet Coke can with some water in it. I drain my coffee and check my pocket for smokes. Enough. Check to see if my room key is with me. Tucked away in my wallet. Spectacles, testicles. I’m good to go.
           My room door slams loudly behind me as I head for the elevator. Sorry, neighbors.

           Forty minutes later, I’m getting off the MARTA at the King Memorial Rail Station. I could have walked just as quickly from my hotel downtown as taken the train. Perhaps I’ll walk back.
           I follow the signs with Dr. King’s likeness on them and in a couple of blocks I’m there. Been here before, two years ago, twice. First when I was setting up the Open Cairn Installation for Mythic Journeys 2004, a second time with my mother when the conference was in full swing. The first was the most powerful. Ain’t that always the way it is.
           These few blocks of Auburn Avenue are now a national historic site, fully equipped with park rangers in dark green polyester uniforms and Smokey the Bear hats. Not a good part of town but not a bad part of town either. And back in the days of segregation, Auburn Avenue was uptown for black folk, coined “Sweet Auburn: The richest Negro street in the world”. Standing at the corner of Auburn and Jackson, I can still see hints of its past grandeur. To the east, up a little hill are the restored homes of Martin Luther King Junior and Senior. Just across the street to the north is the new Ebenezer Baptist Church, a red brick palace of faith rising high to the skies. Next to it, is the expansive Visitors Center, with its many exhibits of the history of segregation and the fight to freedom. To the west on the other side of I-75, the skyscrapers of Downtown Atlanta grow out of the high hill ground. A little off to my left is the elevated tomb of Dr. King, resting in the center of a calm reflection pool. (I can’t see his grave but I know it’s there.) And directly behind me and above me is the humble old Ebenezer Baptist Church, looking the same as it did back in the 1960’s, still displaying the neon-signed cross at its threshold.
           I walk in. I know the way. Two black women in green uniforms say hello. I say hey back. Up a quick flight of stairs and I’m in the sanctuary.
           A small church really. Modest balcony. A good number of pews. A pulpit for preaching. An altar for prayer. A half dozen narrow stained-glass windows grace the east and west wall. I take out the Brownie and take a few shots. So little light but I’ll try. I pop the shots and then find a place in a pew.
           It’s around ten on a weekday when school is out. I’m the only person there. From small white speakers on either side of the altar come the words of Dr. King, his recorded voice loud and strong and digitally cleaned. I remember before, two years ago, listening to the ‘I Had A Dream’ speech. Today, it’s the Memphis Sanitation Workers’ Speech, my very favorite one, the last speech he gave the night before he was shot. I sit and listen and after a while, I begin to cry. I know this speech. Have it on tape somewhere at home. I listened as Dr. King talks about almost being killed while at a book signing in New York City in the late 1950’s and that if he had sneezed he would have died, and that he was grateful that he didn’t sneeze. And then he said,
    “And then I got to Memphis,” and on the tape, you can hear someone in the audience laughing, as if to say, ‘yea brother, you got to Memphis and things are even worse here than in Atlanta.’
           And then the last part of this speech begins and all I do is cry.

           “Well, I don’t know what will happen now. We’ve got some difficult days ahead. But it doesn’t matter with me now. Because I’ve been to the mountaintop. And I don’t mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I’m not concerned about that now. I just want to do God’s Will. And He’s allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I’ve looked over. And I’ve seen The Promised Land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to The Promised Land. And I’m happy tonight. I’m not worried about anything. I’m not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.”

           Applause explodes out of the speakers in front of me. Still just me in the church. I take off my rose colored sunglasses and for the fifth time in fifteen minutes, I wipe my eyes. I rise from my pew and say an impromptu prayer, quietly but aloud.
           “God protect all of those I know and all I don’t know at Mythic Journeys these next few days and most of all, just help me to do God’s Will, OK? Thanks.”
           I cross myself, turn and head for the stairs that lead out.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

    “Hey,” I hear a voice yell from across Auburn Avenue.
    A black man waves at me and begins crossing the street. Not badly dressed but he appears homeless. Not a bad vibe coming from him, though. I stop and wait for him to get to my side of the street.
    “Excuse me, but could I bum a smoke?” he asks.
    “Sure,” I say, pulling out my pack of Camel Filters from my front pant’s pocket. I have a smoke lit in my right hand. I put the butt in my mouth as I fish out the cigarettes.
    “Take one for latter,” I say, as I pull out two butts from my pack.
    “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
    I now notice that he has a pack of cheap cookies in his hand. You know, those imitation Oreos with the cheap vanilla cookie on one side and the bland chocolate cookie on the other and the creamy filling in the middle that tastes a bit like Tin. Looks to be a small package of ten, with a couple already eaten.
    “Need a light?” I ask.
    “Yea, that’d be great,” he says. He puts one smoke behind his ear and then cups his right hand around the cigarette in his mouth as I light it with my BIC, all the while holding the cookies in his left hand. He exhales a big cloud of smoke.
    “Thanks, man.”
    “You bet.”
    “Hey,” he says, “Would you like one?” holding up the clear plastic tray of cookies.
    “No thanks. I’m good but thanks.”
    “OK, well, take it easy Bro.”
    “You too.”
    The man walks down Auburn toward Downtown. I’m heading that way too. His stride is longer than mine so he’s quickly out in front. I continue walking, sending a little love his way. Can’t hurt. After about a minute, he stops about 100 feet in front of me and turns, and with a smile on his face, says in a loud voice…
    “You know, these cookies are sure making me thirsty!”
    I laugh. I reach around and pull out my wallet. I’m pretty sure I got some small bills. I silently pray that I don’t accidentally pull out the couple of fifties I have and show them to the whole street. Doesn’t have a damn thing to do with this being on Auburn Avenue. I don’t like to pull out my wallet at all on any street, even in Downtown Tucson where I’m from.
    I find a couple of Ones. I walk up to the guy and give him the cash. Before he can thank me, I say,
    “Now, get yourself off the street. Find yourself a good woman, like I did a few years ago” I say.
    I wince. Haven’t a clue where that woman line came from. Sure I found women to enable my bullshit years ago but is that really a good piece of advice? Shit, that’s the last thing I would wish on a good woman, is to be the codependent to this guy. He’s a nice guy but still. He’s a homeless addict.
    “I’m trying to get off the street,” he said with his head slightly bowed.
    Damn it, now I’ve shamed this guy.
    “Well, just take care of yourself, now” I say, with gentle compassion in my voice or at least I hope it sounds that way. No condescension or pity please. Pity sucks. I kind of like this guy and I really hope the best for him. I really do.
    “You too,” he says, raising his head.
    I smile and then he smiles too. I then turn and continue walking toward Downtown Atlanta. He stays a bit longer behind me, looking at the cash I gave him.
    I normally don’t give paper to homeless folk, but today seems different. Maybe it was seeing Dr. King’s grave again. Maybe it was just I liked this guy. Maybe it was Grace. I really don’t know. I’m not really this nice a guy.
    I finish my cigarette and look toward the skyscrapers a couple of miles away.
    Time to get back to Mythic Journeys.
    Hmm. I have to be on a panel tomorrow that asks the question: ‘What does the Soul’s look like.’ Well it looks like me, it looks like that homeless man, it looks like all of us, I think.
Sounds a bit glib. Have to work on that a bit.

    A block later, I hear a sound. Just a staccato ‘Hey’, in front of me and to my right. Not loud but it gets my attention. I look toward the sound and see a nicely dressed man, in a FUBU jacket. He is making eye contact with me and then he shows me his left hand. In his palm, is a two-inch stack of bills, with a twenty on top. I look at the money. I look at him. He looks at me. I look away. I keep walking.
    Twenty some years ago, I would have stopped and gotten a little something for the evening. Not today. Not anymore.
    A half a block later, a big grin breaks on my face and I quietly chuckle to myself.
    That guy’s got great style, though. My kind of drug dealer.

    [Addendum: At the panel on “What does the Soul look like?” I talked about these two men and I on Auburn Avenue the day before. About how my job on Earth is to have my Spirit grow and not to have it be diminished by myself or others, and that also part of my service to Mankind is to, when I can, help other people’s Spirits grow as well, whether it’s through my art work, or loving people when I don’t feel like loving them or gently touching the arm of a friend or just sharing a kind moment and a couple of bucks with a homeless man on Auburn Avenue.
    And by not buying any Crack Cocaine for myself for later.]

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