"Maritime Museum, San Francisco, California" (c) July 4th, 2009 by Cathy Spann
[This images were taken by Photographer Cathy Spann, last night, in San Francisco. Great stuff. As she said, "Very Francis Scott Key." Very much so. Both ancient and modern at the same time. Lovely.]
“Arcosanti Cairn & Ploy Girl" (From the book "Dementia Blues")
Arcosanti, Cordes Junction, Arizona
Spring, 2009
A circus performer takes a drag off the pipe. Smells like Skunk-Weed to me.
“We’re going to drop Acid tonight,” say the videographer, his voice high with enthusiasm. He sounds like a small child.
“I’ll take pictures of your eyeballs,” I say with no affect at all in my voice.
What I’m really thinking is “Great. Just what I don’t need. To be around people doing drugs. This isn’t my party anyways. I’m just here to shoot the troupe’s performances that are part of the celebration of Soleri’s 90th birthday. Now, all I just want to do is just drive home.”
[I’m a recovering drug addict and alcoholic. Lot of years sober, but it doesn’t matter. Old saying: You hang out at a barbershop long enough, you’re eventually going to get a haircut. And it’s a whole lot more about me than it is about them.]
I make a quick exit from the stoners and walk around Arcosanti for a while, getting my bearings. Almost stepped on a rattler, which was actually kind of fun. The snake and I saw each other at about the same time, so no one got hurt. I hiked to the other side of the canyon, finding its rim full of small stone cairns, presumably made by the visitors and residents of Arcosanti.
Arcosanti is visionary architect Paolo Soleri’s urban experiment in the desert. They were going great guns throughout most of the 1970’s, pouring concrete, building foundries, constructing clay ovens, making living spaces, creating Soleri’s dream of a minimalist city, without cars, that would eventually house over 5000 people, when everything came to a screeching halt one summer night in 1978.
Now this is what I heard from a guy who was there. I hear it just a few hours ago, while waiting in line, in the dark, to get a half-cooked shish-ka-bob. Another guy, who I think is still on Arcosanti’s board of directors, came up at some point and listened, and spoke a little, but didn’t contradict the first guy. We all see the world through our own lens, but this guy’s vision seemed clear to me, and I didn’t sense he had an ax to grind.
The residents of Arcosanti were building their little city but they needed to raise more funds. They had a couple of small music festivals the previous two years, but they didn’t make much money. Then this one guy who lived at Arcosanti, and who had been a bit of a music promoter before he arrived, suggested they do a big festival. Todd Rundgren, Jackson Browne and others would play. The guy I talked with, (let’s call him Roy), seemed skeptical of the plan.
“I thought it was a bad idea at the time,” Roy said.
I think it was the second day of the festival, and many more people showed up then they had prepared for. They had already filled a freshly mowed field with cars and they had no place to put the huge line of autos that were impatiently waiting at the edge of the property. Roy suggested that they just park on the dirt road that led from the Interstate to Arcosanti, but others said to just have them park in a lower field. That field hadn’t been mowed and was high with grass. They parked hundreds of cars there. Time passed. The music played. Then multiple hot mufflers caught the field on fire. And most of the cars burned. No explosions like in the movies. Just acrid smoke, tall flames and melted steel.
“All the Arcosanti residents made a big circle around the burning cars, for many visitors wanted to get back to their cars and get their valuables, but it was just too dangerous. I guess close to a 500 cars burnt that day,” said Roy.
“Little less than that,” said the member of the board.
“Yea, probably so. For months we pulled burned wreaks up that hill,” said Roy, pointing to the east.
“It was horrible. But the worst thing is that it cost us a fortune. For we had insurance for the first parking lot, that one we had mowed,” he continued, “but the bottom lot was not covered by insurance. The community had to pay for all those cars. That’s why you haven’t seen many new buildings at all since then. For over thirty years, all the extra money has been going to settle those debts. It was just a couple years ago, when the last payment was made. Isn’t that right?” said Roy.
The Board Member nodded.
“Wow,” I said. I was completely gob smacked. I had no idea.
“Here’s the irony,” Roy said, “We were trying to build a city without cars and it was the cars that brought us down.”
It’s getting late. The party continues at the Big Vault. I took some pictures of Ploy, a techno band from Tucson and their dancers, and I even swayed some to the boom-boom-boom of the electronic beat, but as I thought hours earlier: This isn’t my party. I’m just a hired gun with a camera. And this is a barbershop of sorts.
I’m sleepy. I’m lying on top of my sleeping bag, inside of the Pathfinder. I’m feel pretty good, actually. It’s been a very interesting night. But tomorrow, I’m not going to hang out with the Arco alumni or with the troupe. I think I’ll go to Coalmine Canyon and hike around with Bozo. Coalmine’s only a couple hours north. And maybe I’ll even hit the Grand Canyon on the way back to Arcosanti. I did commit to shooting tomorrow’s performance, but I didn’t commit to hanging out with the tribes. Like they say in the rooms: Sobriety has to be your number one priority. You don’t have to tell me twice. Ok. Maybe twice, but not three times.
I start to drift off to sleep, listening to the driving techno-beats of Ploy, just over there. Enjoying them from a safe distance. A safe sober distance.
"Mad Dogs and Englishmen on Gettysburg Day"
July, 3rd, 2009
146 years ago today, I died. At least one of my bodies did. [To read the story, go to the Muleskinner story on this blog.] Most Americans celebrate the Fourth of July. I get moody on the Third.
In 1971, I first saw the film 'Mad Dogs and Englishmen' at the old State Theatre in Downtown Raleigh, North Carolina. I was only 17. I was a virgin, in more ways than just sexual. I ain't a virgin anymore.
I just bought a brand new DVD of this great film. Watching it now. It makes me cry. Carl Radle, the bassist, is dead from alcoholism. Jim Gordon, the drummer, went to prison for killing his Mom in 1983 and is still there. Leon Russell hopefully is still out there pounding the keys somewhere. Joe Cocker has survived, and lives on the Mad Dog Ranch in Colorado. And I pray Bobbie Keys is blowing his horn, loud into the wind.
I bought the record when it first came out. I then owned the cassette tape to replace the record. I watch a VCR tape of the film many years ago. And now, on Gettysburg Day, I'm watching a DVD and I'm downloading the album from ITunes, even as I type. It's been years. The music, the film are still wonderful.
But I think I'll only watch another half hour or so, for I want to hike to the top of Pontatoc Ridge, which is just a few miles north of my apartment. Hike to the top and think of my fellow Confederate Dead. And be grateful, that my soul is alive in a body that can take me to the top of a desert ridge, and that can hear and see Mad Dogs and Englishmen play.
"Feeling alright? Not feeling too good myself."
Happy 3rd of July.
From July 18th through July 21st, 2009, I'll be the featured artist at the 10th annual Metanexus Conference at the Mission Palms in Tempe, Arizona. Very happy to be asked. Very happy to bring a little magic to their conference. The link to my page on the conference's website is above.
"The Ghost at Coalmine Canyon, Hopi/Navajo Joint Use Area, Arizona" (c) 2009 Stu Jenks
"Ploy at Arcosanti, Cordes Junction, Arizona" (c) 2009 Stu Jenks
"Flam Chen at Arcosanti, Cordes Junction, Arizona" (c) 2009 Stu Jenks
[Here is a Projekt Records promo. Two of my images have been used in the graphic. Projekt's a fantastic independent record label, run with love and sweat and deep courage, by Sam Rosenthal, one of my favorite people. Check out their website and perhaps you'll enjoy riding the dark wave too.]
"Bozo at Coalmine Canyon, Hopi/Navajo Joint Use Area, Arizona" (c) 2009 Stu Jenks
"Bozo Among The Wildflowers, Coalmine Canyon Mesa, Arizona" (c) 2009 Stu Jenks
[A fellow traveler, Geoffrey Notkin, wrote a very nice piece for the Tucson Citizen's new blog. A little embarrassing at times, such high praise from a colleague, but very satisfying knowing that Geoff gets what I'm trying to do. Thanks, buckaroo. Lastly, the above image is entitled "Cradle Rocks, Dragoon Mountains, Arizona", and is featured in the article, and the weblog entry about me, on Notkin's The Logical Lizard page is called "The Sublime Spirals of Photographer Stu Jenks."]
“Bozo Below I’Itoi’s Cave,
Tohono O’Odham Reservation, Arizona”
“God, give me wings.”
As the word ‘wings’ leaves my mouth, I hear this deep thumping sound above me, like the blades of a tiny helicopter, but with a little reverb added.
Oh, oh. I’m not alone in here.
I’m surrounded by gifts to I’Itoi, brought up the steep trail by the devout. Not just Tohono O’odham Indians, mind you, but other tribes as well. I looked at some of the offerings closely after I entered the cave. I find a place for my gift, a pewter coin with an angel on one face. I know I will tell very few people what I see in here. I obviously will take no photographs. This is one of most sacred places in all of the American Southwest.
[I was praying for wings, for I’m quitting my day job in less than a month, and I’m scared. Resolute about it all, but still quite nervous. I like most spiritual mysteries in my life, but this is a big one. I have some coin saved up, that’ll last me six months or so. And I have some bankable skills, but most importantly, I have this deep gut feeling that it’s the right time to leave. Maybe past time. Hell, in my some of meditations, the voices are saying, “Leave your county job, before it kills your spirit completely.” Yikes.
But yikes or no yikes, I’ll need to make some real money sooner rather than later. I can run substance abuse therapy groups again, and I probably will, but I have other things to do. Big things. Big Art things. Big family things. Just plain big things. And I need to do them soon, and I need to fly as I doing them. Hence the prayer, ‘God, give me wings.’]
“Who are you?” I whisper to the sound in the cave. I hear it flutter loudly again. I begin to creep back toward the mouth of the cave. It’s either a bird or a bat. Probably a Mexican Bat. The bat won’t hurt me but it sure is scary to hear that thuck-thuck-thuck sound above my head.
“God give me wings,” I repeat.
Wings. Batwings. I smile. I’ll take batwings. I did make a name for myself, after all, doing nocturnal photography.
All’s quiet again in the cave. I raise a hand above my head.
“Take care, little fella,” I say to the bat I can’t see, up there somewhere.
I then turn, thank I’Itoi, and crawl out of his cave.
"Black and White Bozo"
North Swan Road, Tucson, Arizona
When I was four years old, I had a big Bozo punching bag. I loved to hit him. He bounced right back. I loved Bozo. Then one day, Bozo died, mysteriously deflated beyond repair. I missed Bozo so.
Years later, I found out that my older sister, Pamela, popped Bozo on purpose. She killed the clown. It figures.
Then a few years back, I got a brand-new big Bozo punching bag for Christmas. He was fun, a little healing to my inner child perhaps. But I lost interest in New Bozo after a while. New Bozo just wasn’t as nice as Old Bozo.
Then just last Christmas, I received another Bozo, this one, a mini-Bozo punching bag. He has sat on my living room floor, undisturbed, since December.
Then a few weeks ago, I notice Little Bozo over there, by a bookcase, and wondered if he would like to go out into the World. I played with Little Bozo again, punched him. He bounced right back. I love Little Bozo. I asked if he would like to go outside. He said yes. So outside we have gone.
[Photograph by Pete Conrad, of Alan Bean, from Apollo 12; and Painting by Alan Bean entitled "Is Anyone Out There?". Check out Alan's great paintings on his website.]
[My Dad wasn't quite as crude as Walt, but close. Walt is a good man. So was my Dad. and I like to think that Stuart Sr., would have done what Walt did. This great movie makes me miss my father. I give this new Clint Eastwood film very high praise. Rent it, and perhaps you'll like it as much as I do. Love you Dad. Love you too Walt.]
The Bozos:
"Mini-Bozo-Punching-Bag, East of Sierra Tucson, Arizona"
(c) 2009 Stu Jenks
The Bozos:
"Mini-Bozo-Punching-Bag On My Back Porch, Tucson, Arizona"
(c) 2009 Stu Jenks
"Mary Talking With Victoria, Crossroads Adult Care Home, Tucson, Arizona" (c) 2009 Stu Jenks
It's getting harder and harder to take a photograph of my mother Mary, that shows any nobility without revealing her rapid decline. This is one of the few moments in the past few weeks when she was truly happy. Well, that's not entirely true. She's always happy to see Annie, Marlee, me. But besides that, joy is rare for her. It's a horrible thing, dementia. "I'm losing my mind and I've always prided myself on my mind,' she said last week. "Yea, I know, Mom," I replied. Last week, at the hospital, the neurologist said her brain's shrinking more and more, both inside and out. Yesterday, I happened to be there at lunch time, so I fed her, instead of having the nurse do it. She has difficulty spearing food with a fork. Never fed my Mom before. It was lovely and awful, all at the same time. "Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything," said Shakespeare. She still has taste. She lives for vanilla milkshakes.
We are disconnecting her phone next week. She'll be able to talk on the house phone (520-293-1222), for the nurses answer that. She can no longer figure out how to answers her own phone, much less dial out. If you know Mary, this is truly tragic. Dad and I used to make jokes about how Mary was always on the phone. Now, she's either sleeping, or staring blankly at the TV from the sofa at Crossroads. Pray she is taken soon. If you are her friend, call her now, while you have the time. If you have something you really need to say to her, do it now. Do not hesitate.
"Coral Bean Flower, Cradle Rocks, Dragoon Mountains, Arizona" (c) 2009 Stu Jenks
I have strong masculine and feminine sides in me. I'm competitive to a fault when arguing about politics and I tend to clothesline, when I get beat on defense, on the basketball court, but I also often cry during episodes of "The West Wing" and I weep with joy, everytime, at the end of "Wall:E". I cherish that soft spot on the side of a woman's neck, but I also dig the sandpaper roughness of the boulders at Cradle Rock, in the Dragoon Mountains.
I've always been this way. I like the balance that seems to come from acknowledging this internal push-and-pull. I like it. I like me. I like her. (Loving is easy. Liking is hard.)
This flower is a very masculine/feminine flower, don't you think?
And so is she.
"Desert Tortoise at Silverbell Mine, Arizona" (c) 2009 Stu Jenks
