Fezziwig Press & Photography by Stu Jenks

"Hoop Dancing" by Stu Jenks is available for pre-sale!

"Hoop Dancing: More Journeys Through Nocturnal Photography: Book Two" is now in the pre-sale stage. The book has been beautifully printed by Tucson Master Printers Arizona Lithography and is now at the book binders in Phoenix. It will be ready for shipment by December 1st if not earlier.

Simply go to my website at www.stujenks.com, and pre-order the book there. You can use Paypal or if you wish to pay by check, just send me a check to my P.O.Box, listed on my site, and send me an email at stujenks@gmail.com to let me know you have bought a book and I'll reserve a specific numbered copy for you. If you pay through Paypal, I'll get all of your information for shipment through them.

The first 30 numbered edition can be ordered and reserved, by a specific edition number.

I tried to keep the cost as low as possible to y'all, but I am publishing this book through my own house at Fezziwig Press, and beautiful lithography costs money. You truly get what you pay for, when it comes to print quality. The book is not coffee-table size but rather an intimate 6 x 9 inch book, cloth-bonded, and dust-jacketed, with a 4 x 6 inch signed photograph included with each book. All books are numbered, signed and shrink-wrapped.

This is the first in a series of at least five books by me, from Fezziwig Press. Not to beg, but the more I sell, the greater chance of I have of producing the other books. My first book, "Flame Spirals" is no longer available through Lulu.com (The print quality was not up to my standards.) but will hopefully be available as cloth-bond, lithography book, in the Summer of 2010, God willing and the creek don't rise. Master Book Designer Gail Cross has almost finished the book design of "Flame Spirals" and it looks stunning, if you ask me. And she designed "Hoop Dancing" and I've been brought to tears, more than once, from the amazing care and love she has taken with my images and text.

So, just in time for Christmas, you can purchase 'Hoop Dancing". Truly, it would a great gift for anyone on your Christmas list.

And it goes without saying, that I appreciate all of y'all's support: financially, emotionally, and spiritually.

Love and light,

Stu Jenks

p.s. I got Mary some Scotch last night. She had a bad day. She either thought I had died, or suddenly remember that her husband Stuart was dead. We're not sure. But her seeing me did help. And a wee dram of Dewer's really did the trick as well. Two fingers, over ice, with a splash. After taking a long draw on the straw from her bed, Mom opened her mouth, said "Ah..." and then said, as clear as a bell, '...Now that's good!"

"I...Don't...Know...What..."

 

"I...Don't...Know...What..." (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

    Mary’s come back to us a bit. Not all the way from where she was a month ago, but enough that she can speak some. She still gets lost in her words, but on occasion, a fully-formed sentence will appear out of nowhere. It’s shocking and delightful, all at the same time. It happened tonight.
    I show Mom the back of my Canon 5D Mark II.
    “I like this shot,” I say.
    “I don’t,” says Mary.
    “Really? How come?”
    “I look ugly,” she says. I think she looks peaceful, kind, pretty, but I’m not making the artistic decisions tonight.
    “I think you look great, but I won’t use that one. How about this one?”
    It’s a shot of her looking up from her wheelchair at the nice hospice worker this morning. It’s a OK shot. Looks a little out of focus. Not great, but OK, if you ask me.
    “I like that,” she says, with a bit of exuberance to her voice. You may not call it exuberance if you didn’t know Mary Jenks, but a slight rise in his faint voice means she’s  quite excited and thrilled.
    “Really?” I look again at the shot. She does look awfully sweet.
    “OK, Mom. I’ll use that one. By the way, I’ve been writing about you and I, and I’m putting pictures of you and such on my weblog, and I’ve got more hits on my blog, than I ever have before.”
    “Is that right?” she says.
    “Yea. People really care about you, Mom.”
    She has this look I’ve never seen on her face until she got sick, but I’ve seen it a lot in the last couple months. A look of being humbly touched by the love of others. No expectations. No demands. Just touched by the Love.
    “I’m going to write about something you said yesterday, and put it on my blog.”
    “What’s that?” say Mary.
    “Well, yesterday morning as I was getting ready to leave, you said very slowly ‘I don’t know how...” and you had a hard time finishing the sentence. I said, ‘You don’t know how to die?’ You said, ‘No, no, no...’ and started over. You said, ‘I don’t know what...’ and then I knew what you meant. I said, ‘You don’t know what you would do without me?’ And you smiled and said yes.”
    The smile tonight wasn’t as big as the one yesterday, but it was a very lovely smile, nonetheless.
    “And then, later in the day, I called C____ , and while we were talking, I told her the story and, out of the blue, she said, ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you either.’ It made my day, Mom.”
    We’re both smiling now.
    It’s great to have Mary back, even if just for a little while: Able to listen, able to respond, able to talk just a little. More times than not, she can’t get the words out but tonight, she’s doing pretty good.
    We talk about this and that. Some sad stuff, but mostly it’s light and breezy. Then I hear my mother use a word I’ve never heard her say before. In my life.
    “Stu...What...I...want......What...I...want....”
    She gives a heavy sigh. She really wants to get this out.
    “What...I...want....is....is...a highball.”
    “A highball?”
    “Yes.”
    “Like a glass of Scotch?”
    “Yes.” She looks hopeful.
    “Well, I don’t know. I know you’ve had wine in the past here. I don’t know if you can have Scotch, but I’ll ask. Would a glass of wine in a sippy cup do?”
    She rolls her eyes, as if saying ‘If I have to have wine, I’ll drink wine, but what I really want is some Scotch.’
    “Mom, I’ll ask Jessica.” I don’t know if hard liquor is on the OK list, but I sure hope so.
    We talk a little more. Mary’s starting to wear out. It doesn’t take long these days.
    “I’m going to go, Mom. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    Then suddenly, out of her mouth, comes a perfectly formed, perfectly articulated sentence.
    “Stu, do you ever get scared?”
    I pause. I’m taken aback, not by the question, but by how clearly she spoke it.
    “Yea, I get scared,” I say.
    “What do you get scared of?” she asks with perfect diction.
    I think. I know right away.
    “I’m scared of being alone,” I say.
    “Me too.” The light in her eyes says, ‘I’m not alone, thank God.’
    I kiss her goodnight, tell her I love her, and head out to the kitchen to talk with Jessica about the High Ball Request.
    “I’ll give it to her, if you go buy it.”
    “Really? You’d do that?”
    “Sure. It’ll help her sleep.”
    I’m surprised that my eyes mist up so fast, but they do. I’m overtaken by unexpected joy.
    “Thanks, Jessica. I’ll go get her pint of Scotch tomorrow or the next day.”
    As I get in my truck and drive away, the joy doesn’t subside. I call a friend or two or three and tell them about the High Ball Request. One is worried about me buying it. One laughs at the irony. Another is helpful in telling me where the liquor stores are, (For I’m completely out of the loop these days, having not drunk any alcohol in almost 25 years. I was a big Scotch drinker myself, back in the day. Most of us Jenks’ are Scotch drinkers. No bourbon or gin for us. Give us Scotch, single malt, cheap, expensive. We don’t care.)
    I’m home in my apartment. It’s getting late. Tomorrow’s my birthday. A big box with an unopened “Heritage of Scotland” kilt inside sits under my Christmas stick, ready to be opened tomorrow morning. I’m having breakfast with a friend, then helping another friend with a problem in the afternoon. But somewhere, in between all of that, I’m going to a liquor store and buy my mother a fifth of Dewer’s Scotch. I’ll try not to cry at the counter. I know I’ll cry on the drive up to her house.
                            -11:22 p.m., November. 5th, 2009

"Two Sisters & A Daughter"

"Two Sisters & A Daughter" (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

[Top Image: "Pamela, visiting from North Carolina, talks with her mother about who-knows-what; Mary's a little confused."; Bottom Image: "Virginia compares her arm size with her sister Mary's, to see who is the thinnest Belle at the Ball; Virginia's nurse smiles; Pamela comments on the comparison."]

Photog's Note: Being real skinny isn't the best thing when you're in your 80's, but these two sisters have been competing with each other ever since they were teenagers. Mom has always felt like Virginia was the Pretty Sister. Perhaps. But Mary was the one with the rocking figure, back in the day.

"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 Talking With Stu"

"Mary Talking With Stu: October, 2009" (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

[My favorite portrait of my mother, taken one night a month ago, before she peacefully fell asleep. The warm light from her bedside lamp fell so lovely on her face.]

"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.

"Mary Loves Milkshakes"

“Mary Loves Milkshakes” (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

(From a few weeks ago)

    Mary loves milkshakes. Has for years. Today, I brought her a Starbuck’s Vanilla Bean Frappucino. She liked it OK, but I could tell she would have preferred something from McDonald’s. I made a mental note.
    Mary fell out of her wheelchair a few days ago, right onto her head. Poor thing. She sometimes forgets she can’t walk. Jessica, one of her caregivers, felt terrible, for she was just a few feet away and didn’t get there in time to catch Mom. I told her she’s doing her best, to not feel too guilty about it. What I didn’t tell her is I pray daily for Mary fall and break her hip. If she breaks a hip, she’ll die much faster.

"Double Rainbow"

"Double Rainbow at Dragoon Springs, Arizona" (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

[Happy All Souls' Day, and Day of the Dead, y'all. May the ghosts of your ancestors and loved ones find you happy and free, today, tonight and always. My father just whispered a piece of advice in my ear. I'm not going to share it with y'all, but I plan to heed it. ]

"Love, Let Go, Love Some More"

"Love, Let Go, Love Some More; Cathy's Fault, Arizona" (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

"Bozette went shopping..."

"Bozette went shopping..., El Centro, California" (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

    After she and Bozo broke up, Bozette went shopping to ease her pain, only to find that the Mervyn’s Department Store had closed down. She stared at the boarded-up storefront and wondered, ‘What do I do now? Not about the shopping, but about Bozo and I. What do WE do now?’
    The hot desert wind picked up, blowing her red hair into her face. She listened hard to the wind but it gave her no answers. She bowed her head and cried.

[From the upcoming book, "Bozos In Love"]

   

"Beaufort, South Carolina" by Robert Frank

"Beaufort, South Carolina, 1955" (detail) by Robert Frank

[Taken by me at the MOCA in Downtown Los Angeles in September. I had permission. Sadly, the images from "The Americans" series were very poorly lit, not like the same images I saw in August, at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. There, they were exquisitely lit. This, and others in the series are perfect photographs: The woman's radiant face, the sun behind her, the light pole that echos the Cross. Perfect. Other memories from MOCA: LA that day, were a class of tweens taking a tour of the museum and having their teacher or a docent tell them that the poorly-crafted, arrogant, nightmares-on-a-wall they were seeing, were actually good paintings. The look on the kids' faces was priceless. Remember, it was a child who told the townspeople that the Emperor had no clothes on. Sadly, the schoolkids weren't in the room with "The Americans." I bet they would have looks of awe on their faces, not wrinkled-up noses. Hopefully they got to see them before they left.]

"When people look at my pictures I want them to feel the way they do when they want to read a line of a poem twice." - Robert Frank.

"Infrared Bozo at 'I Love Teryyake & Sushi' "

 

"Infrared Bozo at 'I Love Teryyaki & Sushi', San Francisco, California" (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

"Bozette's Bluff"

"Bozette's Bluff, South of Cathy's Fault, Arizona" (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

[Bozette, herself, is visible in this photograph. She is in color. The mountains and cactus are obviously, in black and white.]

"Bozo at Matador State Beach"

"Bozo at Matador State Beach, California" (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

"Bozo at Giant Forest, Sequoia National Park"

"Bozo at Giant Forest, Sequoia National Park, California" (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

"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.]

"Bozette at the Bisbee 1000 Great Stair Climb"

"Bozette at the Bisbee 1000 Great Stair Climb" (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

[The first two images were taken by me. The bottom image of Bozette and I, participating in the Ice Man Competition was taken by Cathy Spann.]

"Bozo at Disney Hall"

"Bozo at Walt Disney Concert Hall, Los Angeles, California" (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

[The little string piece is called "Third Birth Matrix." It's by me with much help from my computer. It'll be on "Soundtracks for Photographs, Vol. 3", whenever I get the jack to put it out. Hope you enjoy it, and the photo of Bozo outside of the Concert Hall.]

Download Third Birth Matrix '09

"Bozo Visits His Father's Grave"

"Bozo Visits His Father's Grave, Mount Sanai Memorial Park, Los Angeles, California" (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

"Our Lady of the Rosary: For my mother Mary"

 "Our Lady of the Rosary Church, Little Italy, San Diego, California" (For my mother Mary) (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

[Chapter who-knows-what from the book "Dementia Blues]

    Jessica, the nurse, changes Mom’s diaper as I watch. Mary almost fell out of bed, just minutes before my visit.
    “Oh, Stu. I don’t know what is going on!”
    “I know, Mom. You almost fell out of bed.”
    “No, I didn’t!”
    “Yes, you did, Mary,” Jessica says, gently.
    “Yes. You did, Mom. But it’s OK that you don’t remember,” I say.
    Mary is suffering. Every old ache and pain is brand new, no matter that most are decades old. Her bedroom is forever unfamiliar, in spite of the old prints and needlepoints on the wall that she has owned for years. She often thinks she needs to do something, but she doesn’t know what that something is. I tell her often that this is where she has lived for almost a year. She is surprised every time.
    Later, I just talk about my day; her, laying in her hosital bed, me, sitting on a ancient wooden chair we brought from Virginia. Many days, my chatting about my life is plenty for her. She loves to hear me talk about this and that. She often responds with an “Oh, that’s good.” or “I know you miss your friend so” or  “You know I love you.” Today was “You look so beautiful to me.” But that didn’t last. The light in her eye changes, replaced with the haunted stare of suffering, confusion, and fear of being in a world, a house, a room, a bed, that is perpetually strange to you. The only joy today is that she know me, knows her son loves her, knows that he is here with her, right here, right now.
    I unhinge the gate and walk to my car: thinking, that if Mary lives more than six months to a year, I’m going to be pretty pissed off at God. I know the dementia isn’t God’s fault. That God doesn’t let suffering end, or let Mom die, just because I want it to be so. But God? Christ! Throw the old lady a bone!  And guide me daily in what I need to do and not do with my mother. And if you can, take her. Please take her. In her sleep would be nice, but I don’t care how anymore. Just take her. Soon. Please.