Stu Jenks' Fezziwig Press

"Rockaway Beach, Circa 2101"

"Rockaway Beach, Circa 2101" (c) 2010 Stu Jenks

"Ewokative"

"Ewokative; Muir Woods National Monument, California" (c) 2010 Stu Jenks

"The Road to Capitol Reef"

"The Road to Capitol Reef, Utah" (c) 2010 Stu Jenks

"Capitol Reef Pictorialist"

"Capitol Reef Pictorialist, Utah" (c) 2010 Stu Jenks

The Beauty Of Pictorialist Photography

"Saguaro near Cathy's Fault, Arizona" (c) 2010 Stu Jenks

[A Neo-Pictorialist photograph, it's a tip-of-my-cap to a photographic genre that's gotten little respect. Google 'Pictorialist Photography" and wonder at the Masters, like Stieglitz, Seeley, Steichen and many others. Much of their later work gets all the attention, but their Pictorialist work amazes. And lucky of me, unlike those Greats, I can shoot in color. Expect some fuzzy photos like this (and some sharp ones too) from my recent trip to Zion NP and Capitol Reef NP.]

"Buck at Great Sand Dunes National Park, Colorado" (c) 2010 Stu Jenks

[Another Neo-Pictorist photo, taken at a wondrous place in a faraway corner of Colorado, last year. And Happy Valentine's Day, y'all.]

"Round Rock, Arizona"

"Round Rock, Arizona" (c) 2010 Stu Jenks (For Annie)

"Santa in San Francisco"

"Santa in San Francisco, The Castro, California" (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

[May all the Joys of Christmas find you on this Christmas Eve Night. Love, Stu]

"Dreaming at Full Dome"

"Dreaming at Full Dome, Yosemite National Park, California" (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

[On Black Friday, I visited the Art Institvte in Chicago. [I was in town seeing a couple of good friends of mine for Thanksgiving.] That morning, I yawned through most of the new Modern Wing, even though I knew enough about Contemporary Art to know it was some of the best in the world. Ok, there were one or two pieces I liked quite a bit, but mostly of it was your usual arrogant-one-joke-I-live-in-New-York-and-look-how-smart-I-am-crap, if you ask me. But then I wander around the museum and saw wonders: The East Indian and Tibetan collections, the miniatures in the basement, the Monet Haystacks, "Nighthawks" by Hopper (I cried when I saw that), "American Gothic" and on and on. I took a break and went shopping on the Magnificent Mile [Bought a nice shirt} and then returned to the Institvte in the afternoon. I felt like I had forgotten something there. Then I saw a catalog in the lobby and beat feet to "Apostles of Beauty: Arts and Crafts from Britain to Chicago" (I had missed it in the morning.) I walked through the exhibition once, twice, three times. I read everything on the wall. I lingered at at least half of the work. I wiped tears of joy from my face, more than once. I was the best exhibition of its type I have ever seen. (I adore the Arts and Crafts movement. I was a ceramics major in college after all. Well, kinda, sorta.) But what cracked my head wide open that afternoon was seeing the Pictoralist Photography of Alfred Steiglitz and Edward Steichen. Too often, the Pictoralists get short shaft from the Art Critics, but I have always loved them. And to see "The Pool" in person was truly magical.

Times passes, and then a lovely accident happened, just the other day. I found a certain button on my CS2, that I didn't know existed. (Actually it's one button and then a whole bunch of other buttons and slides.) Oh, oh. Now I've done it! So be prepared to see more Pictoralist-inspired work from me, like the above "Dreaming at Full Dome", now that I've found this magic button.

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

"The Ghost of Christmas Present, in Arizona"

"The Ghost of Christmas Present, in Arizona" The Sierra Anchas, Arizona (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

    The Ghost of Christmas Present loves this old forest, filled with older spirits than even he, and younger sprouts full of hope and promise. Add to that, a very old friend resides here, and the forest is on the way to Texas. He just visited Phoenix where he cheered up a little boy with leukemia, and he’s now heading toward El Paso to try, once again, to open the heart of a very old man, who hates people, hates life, and hates himself most of all. The Ghost tries every year with this man and fails, but he likes a challenge.
    The trail’s old and well-worn, first travelled by Elves, later by Native People and more recently, by Boy Scouts and backpackers. An icy stream roars off to his left. He breathes in the sweet mossy dampness of the place. The Spirit smiles and loudly exhales.
    “Who would have thought that such wonderful wetness exists so close to the dry desert floor. Just delightful,” he says out loud to himself. The Ghost of Christmas Present tends to talk to himself a lot. He just can’t keep his enthusiasm to himself.
    Higher he climbs, past ancient Alligator Juniper trees, many feet in diameter with needles as sweet as cotton candy. Past Blue Spruce and White Pines, whose boughs are as fragrant as the finest perfume. Past huge green ferns as big as a giant’s hand. Past Mexican Live Oaks that rival in size even the old Junipers.

    There is no need to hurry. Christmas Eve and Christmas Day are one of those timeless periods on the planet when an hour can last a day and a day can last a week. Plus the old man in Texas hates seeing him anyway. That grumpy old mortal makes him laugh so.
    The Ghost rounds a corner of the trail when suddenly he sees a campfire near the creek.
    “What is someone doing up here on Christmas Eve? Don’t they have any family to share this bright time of the year?” says the Spirit, “Now, Now. Mustn’t jump to conclusions. I’ll just wander over and see who it is and see what they’re doing.”
    He walks into the woman’s camp. You would think the woman would have been noticed him, given The Ghost being an eight foot tall barefoot man, dressed only in a forest green robe open at the chest, a holly wreath with icicles resting upon his head, and carrying a huge torch that burned bright and strong and smells of incense. But the middle aged woman who sat alone by the  fire didn’t see him, nor hear him talk, nor smell the incense from his torch, for the Ghost was invisible to most, and only occasionally did he make his physical presence known. Most Humans can’t hear or see him, though some sense when he’s around.
    “I don’t want to frighten her. She seems very sad. I wonder what’s the matter?”
    Then the Spirit flicks his nose three times with his right index finger to turn on his ability to hear mortals thoughts. He doesn’t do this often, for the chatter of the city tends to drive him a little crazy, but it is just he, this woman and the Forest Spirits, and the trees tends to have very slow and long thoughts which he frankly enjoys hearing.
    Flick, flick, flick, he taps his nose.
    At first he hears nothing, except for the lovely hum of Ponderosa and Spruces in love. He then places his attention toward the woman. She seems to not be thinking about anything.
    “That’s good. Thinking often doesn’t help anything at all. Now feeling however, well that’s another...,” and he stops himself.
    “Luke,” he says to himself, “Now, don’t go spouting off about The Joys of Living and all of that stuff. It appears this woman needs something or someone. So, focus on her. Listen!”
    He finds a large stone on the other side of the fire, sits on it and gazes at the woman. Blond hair to her shoulders, a beautiful face, a petite and sexy athletic figure. Her hands in her lap, head slightly bowed, bright blue eyes staring at the fire. The Ghost concentrates and then he starts to hear her words.
    “I don’t know. I just don’t know. I just don’t know what to do?” he hears.
    He leans forward to better hear her thoughts, and listens and listens and listens some more. After a few minutes, he wipes a large tear from his cheek with the back of his hand.
    Seems that the woman doesn’t have any family close by, and she has to go back to work at the hardware store on the 26th of December, so flying to see her Dad just didn’t make much sense this year. Plus she’s poor as a church mouse, and doesn’t have a boyfriend or a husband. And she doesn’t have any children either and that’s a hole that lingers long in her heart. But that’s not what’s making The Ghost of Christmas Present cry. It’s that the woman has decided to never love again, to never trust another man with her heart, to just be her own person, and make the best of the rest of her life, alone. The Spirit has heard this lament many times in his travels tonight and on other nights, and he cries more times than not, when he hears it, or sees it acted out. Men, women, children, parents, friends, all resigned, thinking or saying: “That’s it! Never again!" or "It just hurts too much! It’s not worth it!" or "I’m not talking to Mom & Dad anymore." or "I’ll never trust a woman ever again!" or "I’ll never open up to him or anyone like him, for as long as I live!” and on and on and on, in a hundred different languages.
    And he doesn’t cry because of what they have chosen. He completely understands their hurt and pain and suffering. He feels very compassionate toward these Mortals and what they go through, and what they hurtfully do to each other, out of their fears and shortcomings. No, he cries because he know what a great gift that God and The Goddess have given to Humans: The ability to love each other so fully and deeply, through kind words and deep kisses and strong songs and good food and loud laughter and tender caresses and warm hugs and bright eyes and big smiles. Angels talk at coffee about how jealous they are that Humans love with such abandon, when they, themselves, can not. The Spirit of Christmas Present can love as deeply as a human being, but he can only do it for twelve days out of the year. Mortals can love year round, if they choose to. When people decide to stop loving, it doesn’t make the Ghost mad, but he does feels very sad. Awfully sad.
    He flicks his nose again, three times and he can no longer hear her thoughts.
    He sits for a long time with the Blond Woman, staring at her and simply loving her from across the fire. Once she looks up from the fire, a bit spooked and looks over her shoulder.
    “You feel my eyes on you,” he says, “It’s OK. I mean you no harm at all, lovely lady, beautiful woman, very good soul. And I understand your resistance to love again. I’m just loving you now while I’m here. Because I like to. Because it feels good to me, to love you.”
    She doesn’t hear him speak but The Spirit sees her shoulders relax. The woman gives a heavy sigh and smiles just a little. A little grin at the edge of her mouth. The Ghost smiles too. The woman stands up, bends over and pulls a blue enamel coffee pot from out of the fire. She pours herself a cup. After placing the pot back in the fire, she sits and sips the hot coffee. Then to the Ghost’s surprise, the woman seemingly stares right at him, and says,
    “Would you like a cup?”
    He’s a bit startled now, but answers, “I would love one.”
    But she doesn’t see him, doesn’t hear him, doesn’t feel him. She’s not talking to him at all. Her gaze travels just over his right shoulder. But she continues talking, not to him but to a memory of some kind. The Ghost listens very closely. Yes. She talking to the man who left her.
    “I’m sorry.” she say, “It was as much about me as about you. I didn’t love you enough either. I held back too. And I forgive you for what you did. I don’t want you back, mind you, but I will try, yes I will try, to let that another man into my heart. I release you, Paul. I release the hurt. I let go you go. I let it all go!”
    The woman raises her arms above her head, throws her head back, and exhales a large deep breath. She breathes in deeply the cold moist forest air and then exhales again. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Then a big smile breaks across her face and the Ghost sees two little fires begin to burn in her eyes. Pink fires. Pink lights. She has decided to love again!
    “Maybe with that man in Show Low,” she says to the air, and then she let loose a loud laugh that echos off the canyon walls.
    The Ghost sits on the other side of the fire, blubbering away. He blows his nose into his green sleeve, once, twice, three times. He composes himself, and looks again at the woman.
    “Thank you, sweetie,” he says, “I’m used to being the Big Giver this time of year, but you have given me the gift tonight. You have given me a human vision of Forgiveness and of New Hope and of an Opening Heart. You have given me, this old wandering ghost, the gift of Love. And all I did was sit across from you and listen and feel and witness the whole thing!”
    And then he laughed so loud it made the ground shake. The woman didn’t hear his laugh but she did put her hand to the ground and had a puzzled look on her face, as she felt the slight tremor.
    “Oops. Sorry, my dear. My beautiful dear. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
    He then stands up, brushes off his robe and slowly walks behind the Woman. Reaching up to the wreath upon his head, he pulls out three small green holly leaves. Leaning over her, he weaves the holly into her hair just above her right ear.
    “One for you, one for him, and one for the one yet to come,” he whispers into her ear.
    “And thank you for the Christmas gift that you gave to me tonight,” he softly says.
    He kisses the woman on the top of her head, turns and walks toward the trail.
    “Now, it’s time to go visit that grumpy old man,” he says to himself, “But first, I want to say hello to an old friend of mine, who I haven't seen in ages. Old Mr. Alligator lives right over there,” he says, pointing to the top of a high ridge line. “Won’t he be surprise to see me! Hoo, Hoo! Won't he be! Here I come, Mr. Alligator! Here I come!”
    And off he bounds up the steep forest trail.

    A half hour later, while the woman readys her tent for the night, she thinks she sees a bright pink light glowing from a high ridge line to the east.
    “Well, would you look at that. Holy Mother of God,” she says, without fear.
    She stares at it, watching the light change from pink to red to purple to red and back to pink again. She watches it repeat the cycle three times.
    And then, the light fades and is gone.