Here is my love letter to Rena. It ends thus;
Enclosed is my story ‘The Birth of Venus’ that I wrote in one day in 1989. I then spliced Enya’s music into it, the next day. Since then I have approached a couple of dancers about making this story come alive on stage. None cared to listen. When I read Kathleen loved Celtic music, I wondered if Enya was her favorite. Of course I wonder about the child we never made. But, she is born in this story. She is reborn with the vision of a sculptor, to dance once more, she a fair maiden, always with a song in her heart.
Play this while lying on the floor with a quilt and a candle – and no interruptions.”
I contacted Rena three years ago. We had not spoken since 1971. I asked her to send me a photograph of her profile. She sent me a long letter, and I replied. We have not seen each other, nor do I know where she lives. We are Heirs to the Benton Artistic and Historic legacy. Christine Rosamond Benton took up art in 1972 after seeing my portrait of Rena, whom she met in 1970.
Here is a warm-up video. Note Steve Bannon lurking in the background.
I just got off the phone with Deputy Sheriff Dan Mayland. I called him to see if a professional arbitrator could contact Rena, so we could resolve the misunderstandings between us. Dan told me this would be third-party contact, and not permitted.
I asked Dan when the charge of Stalking was made against me. He said it was around Jan. 24. I asked Dan if he read Rena’s letter on my blog. He said no, but, he had read a copy of Rena’s letter to me. What?
Dan then told me the strangest thing I ever herd. Rena copied her letter to me, from memory, and, I think he told me she copied my letter to her, because, she tore that up in anger after she showed it to someone who read it, and, concluded I was a very dangerous person. What? This has got to be making literary history! I mean, this is the final contact between the artist and his muse! This has a Japanese feel to it.
The way Dan told it, Rena was not quite sure if she was in grave danger, and thus this un-named person offered their interpretation. Did Rena trudge though five fee of snow to get to the other loner on yonder hill?
Let us assume this person is a woman who has been abused, and, she may be a Christian. It can not be a dude, because he is not interested in the slightest of reading a letter from another dude. This is not guy entertainment. If she is a Christian, this would explain the destruction of my letter, because – it is of Satan? Can you imagine owning a photographic memory that doesn’t forget anything – including your abuse? It is as fresh and freshly fallen snow. Why, let it go?
I told Dan Rena expresses being afraid several times in her letter. The question is, if I wanted to get next to her as a Stalker, why would I say anything alarming? I told Dan Rena was responding to my blog in her letter. I said there were things on my blog that might alarm Rena. Dan said Rena had no problem with my bog. How about the third party who got to read my private correspondence? I am the one whose privacy is being invaded. I am the one who is being harassed and intimidated by – paranoids! Here are exerts from Rena’s letter;
“I enjoy being peaceful instead of afraid. I have felt way too much fear.”
“I actually have a few friends. That is not easy, as I tend to isolate myself.”
“I feel apprehensive about wolves rather than rapists.”
Afraid of wolves? Doesn’t Rena’s husband own a gun?
Children who are severely abused have a problem with fear and trust all their lives. After fearing her normal fear, she goes to her friend to get her opinion on whether she should trust me. This friend reads my letter and makes a mental note of the things I say that might indicate I am not to be trusted – and my intentions are to get next to Rena and hurt her. This friend thinks she is helping Rena, but, they are tweeking on fear. They get spooked and destroy my letter. Then, they reconstruct it, along with Rena’s letter to me, and take it to the sheriff. How many times has Dan dealt with this kind of stuff in Meth Boon State?
How long did it take Rena to rewrite both letters? You’ve seen her precise handwriting. Did they work on it through the night, they desperately trying to recall my every word, and get it right? Do they need this as evidence in order to file a stalking charge? Why not go on the internet and look for evidence there I am the most deceptive and cunning Stalker of Women of all time. Why didn’t this Big Bad Wolf write a simple letter if I wanted to get in the front door and rape and murder? The answer is, if they show Dan my blog, then he’ll say;
“Riddle solved! It’s another crazy-ass blogger! These dudes can’t tear themselves away from their computer long enough to kill the ants in the kitchen.”
I talked to my friend Chris and Marylyn about the charge Rena filed. Both are abused women and were very sad to hear this.
Chris and I wondered why Rena spent hours writing her letter, on Christmas Day. She is not a work reciting poems. Why isn’t she cooking a X-Mas meal for her husband? Does he have friends, if so, why are they not at his friend’s house? How about family? Rena has not family. She says she has a few friends, but, they are with their family. Rena is all alone.
In Rena’s letter she agrees to be my Muse, but, says she can not be my Muse in residence. Here is the first sentence that got the attention of the Dynamic Witch Hunters From Outer space;
“I began a psychic search for you, to feel where you were. What had become of you?”
If you are a Christian the words “psychic search” or of Satan. The Two Tweekers of Fear, recognize who is looking for Rena and employing her old boyfriend. My letter is heading for the flames as these women work up a froth and a sweat.
After it is burned, they realize this was not enough to foil Satan, so, eight hours is burned up recalling Satan’s letter so the sheriff can be summoned, because, Rena does not have a husband! She lives in that trailer by herself. This is why she feels afraid. She says her husband is very ill, but, if it is judged I am safe, Rena might consider living with me, after they bury the piece of fiction they created. My neighbor takes her father’s big shoes with her when she camps by herself and puts them outside her tent.
Dan reassured me Rena has no problem with me writing about her on my blog. Of course, THEY are tracking me, studying my every move, scrutinizing everything I say. Then, out come the kit.
I asked Dan how the weather was, being another Artic Vortex is on the way. He said it is snowing and is about 30 degrees below zero. Yep, it’s going to be a long boring winter, where you only got your fear to keep you company.
I do hope Rena has a computer in her trailer. How about a T.V.? How about as the wind howl outside creating snowdrifts, there is Rena wrapped in blanket, reciting poem No. 12,678 that she had memorized.
“I fear you better afar, than near!”
Yep, I am the winter thriller! And, I am reminded of ‘The House of Flying Daggers’ and the Echo Dance. The actress Ziyi Zhang is the only woman on earth who comes close to Rena’s energy. They are both dancers. I was the happiest man in the world when I was certain I would see Rena dance. When I learned she recites poems while she works, then here is a Haiku Poem for every bean tossed.
Here is the pure beauty of genius, captured, and wasted. Somone had to do it. I may be so unlucky I knew her.
A witch poisoned her mind against me, and against the world. Is that not how the story goes? So, we sit upon out lonely hill, in the snow. We stare into the flame of the candle. And we go, where only a very few have gone, as we feel the utter desolation of our Supreme Loneliness. For we erred so long ago. We were the one, for the other. We understand destiny more than any two souls.
The people are gone. The city is gone. We can feel each other in our Buddhist state. Shall we drop our veils of illusion, upon the summer’s grass, beneath the snow?
I dedicate this song to….The Artic Freeze!
About ten this evening I put on my slippers and went to get my mail. I pulled a bundle out and noticed your letter nestled in a packet. On the walk back to my apartment I took a peek and noticed the beautiful handwriting, and the name “Rosemond”. There was this energy pouring from the envelope and flowing up my arm. When I opened it and saw the name “Bozeman” I began to cry. For several minutes I sobbed, let go tears of great relief as if you were my child who had been kidnapped, or lost, for all these years. And, now…..you are found.
In the history of letter writing, and receiving, I don’t think anyone was ever so moved. Then, I opened the envelope and read; “Here I am”.
If these were the only words this letter contained, then I had way more then enough to read for the rest of my days. My cup runneth over.
Before I discuss the content, I found something when I read your letter the second time. In the white-out on page one there was the faintest speck of green glitter. It sparkled at me like a distant star. It was the essence of you to go with “Here I am!” It went with the date the letter was written – Christmas Eve. I saw the star making its way from your tree, to the snow in your poem, and then to me. It was so full of life. It was the promise of a completely happy life that has eluded you and I since we can remember.
I too was held prisoner. Both my parents were violent and insane alcoholics that played evil games with their four children till the day they day – and after.
Over a year ago I began a painting of you. One night after I lie down to go to sleep, you lie down next to me. You were seventeen again. I jumped out of bed. For a month you appear by my side as I walked. When I went to a movie, I was not quite alone. I told my friends I have a very friendly – and beautiful ghost.
“Do you think she is dead?” a friend dare ask.
I began a psychic search for you, to feel where you were. What had become of you? I wondered if you were held a prisoner of a abusive and crazy man who had to have you all to himself. I saw that you were in a very dark dungeon. I wanted to free you. I was heart broken when I could not. I have never known such emotions. I don’t know if anyone ever has. I had to stop working on your portrait.
I told my childhood sweetheart about your visits. We concluded you had a very abusive childhood, and were a prisoner of that abuse. Marilyn was abused by her father and we have helped each other break the bars to our cells.
To read that you were abused and scarred for life is a hand and a voice that comes across the chasm, and I embrace these dark truths with all my heart and soul. For, it is said we recognize each other from across the room. And this is how we met! When you saw me walking on the pier you sent out that angel abused children own, to test the waters, to see if I was the one you could trust – when you really need someone to trust. Our damaged trust is like the tiny speck of green, so full of hope that is not diminished, but only in retreat. You were so brave to ask your question; “Can I walk with you?”
“I was expecting you!” I answered.
“What do you mean?
I walked with you tonight, my dear Rena, in the field of your forever fears, you fearing the wolves rather then the rapists. Is this you preparing me for the truth you are not that stunning beautiful for of perfection, anymore, and just a redneck meal on the way t the outhouse?
I heard you debate for the last six months, you wondering whether I would judge you because the man you love is a cowboy, and you his cowgirl. I heard you arguments, and you read mine? Have you been peeking at my Rosemond blog. Do you recall my plan to move to Lincoln and rent an old barn that would be my studio. I mean, I was willing to come on over, and buy me a chicken or two?
“You won’t like it here.” You said. “There’s nothing here!”
“You’re here!” Was my reply. And you could hear the sound of the tumbling tumble weeds way off in the distance.
“Here I am!” You could not have began you letter a better way. I guess you changed your mind? LOL!
I come from real Redneck stock, and of late I have admitted I always wanted to be a cowboy. And you were my land-loven archetype who feared the sea. That you lived on the Isle of Wight with a Sailor man – blows my mind. Did Ian get you in his boat – and out to sea!
For you, my dear, I will kiss the first redneck I see. For you, I will overcome my fear of them. If he don’t break my neck, I’ll let you know how it go.
However, folks in Springfield (Springtucky) think I’m a lovable Redneck because I drive ‘The Truck’ a 1972 Ford four wheel drive with a great shell folks try to buy from me. It’s Oregon law that some guy with Grey hair has to drive ‘The Truck’. that I named ‘Big Blue’. In the bed I got a antique gas can, ice chest, a water cooler, and a real hemp rope. My grandfather, who I never met, was raised in Montana. He was a real cowboy.
I am so glad you love to work, and you are a janitor. I was afraid you had fallen in with the Lords and Ladies of the European Jet set. You must write about that crowd some time, and tell me about your life with Ian. I love this man because he loved you and you born his children. I was so concerned you would grow old, childless. Did Ian buy you a fine evening dress?
Sometimes when I got ‘Big Blue’ out on the highway I make a left turn in my mind, and come to Nebraska to get you. And then we head to Alaska where we build our cabin. Have you ever wanted to build a house from scratch? Do you wear blue overalls?
Since your visitations ended, I began to design a house for you to dwell in. It’s a hobby of mine to turn on the T.V. And work on floor plans. You have been placed in a home with only 670 square feet, to a castle with 6,000. When I learned you married a Commander, I built stone estates with seven gables around you, so you would always have a place to dwell in this cruel word. I did consider a trailer. I did! Yes, Rena wants to live here, I said; And alas you said…………
“Here I am!”
Oh, sweety. You were not cruel and mean yo me. I guess you read in my blog where I made you so. I did this because I got no reply after I found you. I was having trouble with my sexual identity. When we met. Both my parent were sexually abusive to their children. Abused children have intimacy problems and are very inventive, even magical in their attempt to over come them. This was us – is us! I don’t think we knew how beautiful we were, together, in our bravest attempt to own what others have, so easily. Our little fist-fight on the Dodge were blows aimed at our true betrayers who still create great distances between the one we love, the one we deserve. If we can be that to one another, then, we can love anyone, let each other go, let the darkness go, to be loved in all the majesty. We’ve paid our dues! We are home free! Dont you know I embraced the darkness in you? Don’t you know I was in love – with even your shadow?
Here I am, Rena. Your dear brilliant friend who alas knows he met and fell in love with a brilliant woman. You are a Poet. How wonderful. We can meet here, in our poetry. There is such a refinement in you. Where did it come from? I know you wonder about it – every day!
In our meeting again, we can do anything. We can be perfect. We can own that idea of perfection that has eluded us for most of our life. We will forever be Adult-Children of Alcoholics, but, this time we get to choose our play-mates -without fear. We get to be happy – forever. We are special siblings. We will never be rejected again. We get to behold that tiny green star at the end of our lives and know;
“Alls well, that end well!”
It has been such an honor to know you.
P.S. Rena, I thought I spent Christmas alone. My family let their abusive back ground take them to the dark side. My sixteen year old daughter came into my life in 2000. She bonded with a abusive drinker, and he wants my seven year old grandson to only bond with him. I was in such grief over this as I made my way to the mailbox. I did not get one Christmas card this year. Never was I ore convinced there was nothing in the mailbox for me.
Then I beheld the date on the letter. Your words came to me in my loneliest night from faraway as you wrote them. This is beyond romantic! There is justice in the world, There is love in the world. I will never be that alone again. You brought me a glimmer of great hope. You freed me of something that I can not describe. What a gift you have always been, and, a inspiration. My family took everything from me, but, they didn’t get you! They didn’t get you!
You found me again, in my greatest need to be found. And you free me from my dark dungeon.
I have no Muse Hall of Fame. I do have a dear friend in the world. Sing Hallelujah!
P.S.S. Rena, I can’t sleep. I am so excited! We were in our tent and I was telling you I was a great dancer when I was when I was 13 to seventeen years old. I used to dance in front of a big mirror a half hour before I went to school, and a half hour when I came home. I choreographed my own moves. I invented dancing without a partner at Oakland High School in 1962, when I was sixteen. Fifty of my schoolmates would surround me and my partner as I did a solo ten feet away from her. I would go into a trance. When Marilyn turned sixteen, I danced the Bolero for her with my shirt off. Lucky girl!
When I heard you had become a dancer, I was thrilled out of my whits because, this proves you were ‘The One’. You see, I have been jealous of the world since I met you. – before I met you, I was utterly jealous that we never got to dance together, that the world got to see you dance – on your beautiful stage. When did you get into dancing, and why?
When I was young, and before we met, I had a dream about you almost every day. You were my invisible dance partner. Was that our destiny that we missed? Was that the big chance of our lifetime? What a dance team we would have made. They would know us at the ‘The Kiss of Eternal Fire’, or ‘The Fiery Kiss of Eternity’
“They loved each other better afar, than near. And when they came together, they did the Fandango!”
We are playing with fire, Aries woman. Playing with fire! Right here – and so very far away!
I mean, my God, I read about your hip replacement, and we are in a movie, based upon a book, that I am writing, and……are we really going to spend the last days of our life together wondering how many eggs the chickens laid today!
I will take care of you when the needs arises.
And as for our dance – may I take your hand and lead you to the floor?
Enclosed is my story ‘The Birth of Venus’ that I wrote in one day in 1989. I then spliced Eny’s music into it, the next day. Since then I have approached a couple of dancers about making this story come alive on stage. None cared to listen. When I read Kathleen loved Celtic music, I wondered if Enya was her favorite. Of course I wonder about the child we never made. But, she is born in this story. She is reborn with the vision of a sculptor, to dance once more, she a fair maiden, always with a song in her heart.
Play this while lying on the floor with a quilt and a candle – and no interruptions.