All is Illusion – But The Truth

Pierrot does not want the truth to arrive. What about Julie Lynch and Showtime? Why is it that the parasite who collect the blood that rolls down the cross are able to make all the money? Is it possible, that the wealhty one percent of Americans who own all the money, are purchasing The Lie so the truth never arrives, so, they do not have to own it?

I have not come to give yout the Truth, but, take away your Lie. The game is over. Checkmate!

We are dead to you. We are alive – to a few!


Rosamond’s Genie and Lamp

When I saw the movie ‘The Phantom of the Opera’ I beheld the true
story of my famous sister and I. We were very close, but never
incestuous. I was her beloved brother and protector. She once gave me
credit for her success and teaching her everything she knew about
art. In a family of Takers, I was the only one who gave her anything.
She was my beloved sister. I can take nothing from Christine for she
lost everyhting when she lost her life. She has everything to gain,
now, for “The truth shall set you free.”

Rosamond’s Lamp

Jon Presco

Copyright 2004

My sister’s new Cadillac left the paved road and began to kick up
gravel as it fought for traction, a cloud of dust now swirling behind
us as we headed to the bluff overlooking the sea. I glanced at the
speedometer, nonchalantly, then studied Christine’s beautiful
profile. She was showing off, her new confidence, her overnight
success, her craziness she learned from her ex-husband who used to
race his Corvette on Muholland drive, he going around hair pin
corners on two wheels, he more determined not to lose, then to win.
Those he raced would tell him he was insane at the finish line.

Larry Sidle somehow won my sister’s heart. This was not the
beginning of the great injustices that befell my sister and our
family as some have claimed. When my brother-in-law crashed his
Corvette, he took his wife’s Mercedes up to Santa Monica mountain
range and rode it into the ground. He destroyed the transmission and
left it in a ditch. It was a grudge match. These matches were a
family theme. Taking what didn’t belong to you was another. Christine
and Larry had one child, my niece, Shannon. Reckless would be her
middle name. As an heir, she would have a fortune taken from her. In
the incredible legacy of family abuse, only she would go to jail.

Getting out of the car we walked through the dry grass to a group of
rocks covered with lichen. A lizard took cover as we sat down. And in
our moment of silence we looked at the Pacific Ocean far below, too
far to hear the crash of the waves, or hear the cry of seagulls
gliding over Malibu beach. It was here, in the Santa Monica
Mountains, that the J. Paul Getty Museum would be built, a modern
fairy tale castle that would give sanctuary to some of the world’s
greatest masterpieces. In another fifteen years, Christine would dine
at the Getty’s table. As their overnight guest she called her mother
to say;

“Mother, I am calling you from the Getty mansion where I am spending
the night. I have it all, a beautiful home in Pismo Beach, a Gallery
in Carmel, and a million dollars in the bank. But, I don’t know who I
am anymore.”

I had not seen Christine in two years, and I studied the cleverness
in her blue eyes, as she began to tell me who she was, then. She was
all of a sudden the world famous artist, Rosamond, whose rendering of
lovely women were known all over America, even in Japan and France,
and were “selling like hot-cakes”.

“Hotcakes” I interrupted with a shudder, my sister studying me
intently as I took all this in, she knowing I was a very serious
artist, my work touring the world in a Red Cross show when I thirteen
and sixteen. I had been living in Boston for two years, and had come
home to see our father, Victor, who my mother, Rosemary, told me on
the telephone was in the hospital, a rare disease about to take his
eyesight. For some reason I thought it important he behold his son,
the artist, before the light went out. You, see, I was also a
spiritual being.

When I learned Vic was not going blind, and had lost sight in one eye
due to a one pound ashtray his third wife DeeDee hurled at his head,
I felt cheated of reality, something my parents were good at, they
both severe alcoholics. Vic would wear a black patch over his eye and
look just like the Pirate on the Oakland Raider emblem, which was
appropriate as he was a Loan Shark, not what he appeared to be, which
proved to be very good for business. Christine and I grew up guessing
at what reality was, and, now we guessed at her success – was it

My sister now told me how it happened, as if it was an accident that
had not meant to happen to her. But it did, and she was in shock. So
was I. I didn’t know it, then, but this accident was going to wipe me
out, take from me everything I held dear and precious, including my
sixteen year old daughter I was yet to conceive. But when I did, I
was not told, and saw her for the first time when she was sixteen.
She had shown up out of the blue to be in Rosamond’s biography. When
telling the tale of a famous artist one has to pay attention to the
many attachments to the artist’s immortality in the post mortem, as
we all want to be immortal, or at get close to this idea.
“France! I always wanted to go to France.” I piped, not knowing what
to do with rising feelings of jealousy, that Christine noted, let me
know she knew, by saying;

“I can teach you my style. It’s easy. You too can be a success!”

She ended this declaration with her infamous cynical laugh and cackle
that I wondered at it. Why was I being made this offer?

“It may not last, thus you have to hurry and make up your mind!” she
added with aplomb. And now I knew I was in trouble, because on one in
our family ever gave anyone anything without a thousand strings

“Christine.” I interrupted. “You don’t need my approval to be a
famous artist. I am happy for your success that validates my own
art, as I have been told art was a waste of time. You have proven it
was not. You have a success no one in the family has ever owned. This
is great,”

Arriving back at Christine’s home in Woodland Hills, I asked to use
the bathroom. Christine pointed to a hallway.

“It’s the third door on the left.” She said, looking unsettled from
our conversation. Was she concerned that she had usurped me, taken my
role in the family?

Opening the second door on the left, I found myself peering into a
small closet, and the object that would come to destroy me and my
family, including my beloved sister. On the floor was a large light
projector the kind that artists use to transpose images on to
canvases by the use of mirrors, a magnifying lens, and a bright light
bulb. One could put a photo or image from a magazine in the
projector, and then trace the image on a canvas or wall, if you were
doing a mural. This is Rosamond’s lamp, one of them. The original
lamp was owned by Rosamond the Earth Goddess Folk Mother who ruled
the Frisians in 1663 B.C. whom I have traced our ancestry to in my
quest to know who I and my creative sister, are, were, and will
always be. For knowing who we are, the two artists in the family, was
not, and is not an easy task as there were villains along the way who
came and claimed pieces of our soul. And they owned projectors of
their own these beings of a lesser light, because they were not born
with the Gift Christine and I were born with, and thus the
transferences began from this day forth, it easy for them to take
from my sister all she was worth, for she felt like a fraud – even
before she pick up a brush for the first time which she did when she
twenty four. Why she felt this way, is the crux of this story.

When I closed the closet door I exposed my sister standing at the end
of the dark hall, she looking very guilty, or ashamed. She said
nothing and walked away.

Taking a seat on the living room sofa I began to piece together
Christine’s enigma, and now understood her offer, her invitation to
share in her success. Somehow, if I was dualistic in it, it would
take on a validity it did not own?

Our family had suffered real poverty growing up, we often going to
school hungry, there not enough milk for our cereal, so said
Christine in the autobiography she began, that in chapter one
villianized me. Christine was going to tell the art world of my
brutality in the fight we had, because she drank the last of the
milk. I was twelve and she was eleven. And now she was Bob Dylan’s
neighbor, they taking turns babysitting their children. Christine now
had something to lose. She had fame. What did I have in

When Christine walked into the living room she was wearing her famous
look of utter worry, she all but wringing her hands in anticipation
of the grave matter that was upon her, upon us, she not yet
understanding what I came to understand in Recovery, that we were the
Parents in our family and had been since we were quite young.

At twenty four and twenty five my younger sister and I were very
striking, very good looking, and our relationship was a beautiful
one, it described as thus by our friends. This beauty we shared made
our parents jealous, which was not hard to do as Vic and Rosemary
loathed each other till they day they died. The claims they made that
Rosamond got her creativity from them – are outrageous! The violence
our parents shared with their children would leave a great impression
on us. My older brother Mark, and my younger sister Vicki, handled
this abuse in a different way, and would end up with Rosamond’s
artistic legacy by default, at least. They have no gift or talent,
and thus that made them appear more sane in the ensuing chaos they
and outsiders created the day after Christine drowned, in the sea,
near Carmel where her gallery was located. How she ended up in the
thing she feared the most, is a mystery to me. Rosamond had
nightmares about being swept away by a giant wave. In a newspaper
account, Vicki says she was helping Christine overcome her fear of
the ocean. We don’t get the complete and honest account of how she
did that.

Sitting down next to me on the sofa, Christine spoke the words that
would come to haunt me hence, for not only do they hold the message
of my demise, but the salvation of two siblings that were born in a
world of trouble. This is the story of their mutual struggle to get
out that trouble. I had not yet reclaimed my first name, Jon.

“Greg. I have it all, fame, money, a beautiful house, and I owe it
all to you. When I was young you let me look over your shoulder while
you painted. You would come from the library and show me in art books
what you thought was good and bad art. I owe everything to you. But,
I don’t feel like and artist. Can you help me?”

I have replayed these words often, and came to understand why they
were so threatening, why they were so important, even filled with
portence; for my childhood friend Bill was there, his memory, he
killed on the crossing of a railroad track twenty minutes after my
eighteenth birthday. Bill was an artist. He was also the love of
Christine’s life though they had never kissed. My sister fell in love
with Bill the very day I brought him to the Presco house, he but
thirteen. Bill and I were famous for our love of art, truth, and
integrity, and Christine knew that, was addressing that, and I was
threatened. What would Bill have deduced, if he were alive?

“I can’t give you that. You have to achieve that on your own.” I told
my poor sister as gently as I could. And she got up and pretended to
find something to do in another part of the house.

My visit was over and in the morning I drove back to Oakland
California where I was born, and where we Presco children spent the
happiest time of our life. For a little while we owned love and
unity. Then we had to move. Our mother Rosemary had been arrested.
There was an article in the Oakland Tribune and talk about us being
taken from our mother and put in a orphanage. Rosemary had been
making pornographic movies for the Mob in Emeryville, for that nice
Italian couple we met, who could have passed for our grandparents,
their hair as white as snow.
Rosemary gathered her three oldest children together, and gravely
told us the truth, that she was also a high priced call girl in order
to pay the rent and feed us. She asked us to be extra good unless the
cops and authorities take us from her. She told Mark and I she was
deathly afraid we would get our hands on one of her porno films, and
behold our mother doing what she did to born us.

Rosemary was a porno star. Born Rosemary Rosamond in Ventura
California, the daughter of Royal Rosamond and Mary Magdalene
Wieneke, our brilliant mother was broadcast on the lesser silver
screen, by a bright light, a lamp in a box, a veritable Pandora’s Box.

The Custodian

“After 16 years, the Rosamond Gallery in Carmel, California is
closing. It is very hard to say goodbye, but happier things are
happening for Stacey Pierrot, the custodian of Rosamond’s artistic
legacy for the last 11 years….I am getting married and will soon
leave Carmel to start a family.”

Thus spoke Stacey Pierrot who was awarded my family’s artistic legacy
by Sydney Morris an attorney who was made Special Executor by
Superior Court Judge Richard Silver after my sister Vicki, and Stacey
and Christine’s best friend, Jacci Belford refused to serve, and in
writing nominated Garth Benton, Christine’s ex-husband as executor.
My ex-brother-in-law never served because in his bid to be the
custodian he did deceitful things in court to make sure Shannon, the
adult heir, was not made Custodian of her own legacy, as in the words
of Lawrence Chazen’s attorney, Robin Beare, Vicki Presco, and Jacci
Belford, “Shannon will destroy the estate.”

Shannon’s lawyer said he never saw such fraud in regards to the
Probate. What on earth is going on here? Perhaps we can begin to get
some clarity by looking at the meaning of the word “custodian” which
Pierrot uses as a title.

“Custodian; One who has custody, as of a public building.”

I don’t think Rosamond’s gallery qualifies as a public building, so,
let us look at the word, custody.

“Custody; 1. A keeping, or guarding; care, charge, as, he has
custody of the records. 2 Imprisonment; as in custody.”

One is also awarded custody of a child in divorce. At the time of her
death Rosamond and Garth were having a custody battle over my niece,
Drew, who was nine years old, and was with her mother when a “rogue
wave” swept Christine out to sea. Vicki claims she just managed to
grab Drew and save her from the same fate. When I began to question
Vicki’s account of the tragedy, I was put further outside the circle
of Custodians then I already was. I can not begin to tell you the
loathing I own for Ms. Pierrot who makes herself out to be the
sacrificing Mother Goose of my families artistic legacy, and of the
two heirs, who received nothing from the estate their mother left
them, and only them, in spite of this claim that appeared on Stacy’s
“All proceeds from the gallery will go to the two heirs, Shannon and

She also gives the impression there were no other Custodians around,
in contention for Savior of this legacy, including her best friend,
Jacci, who offered to purchase the entire estate and pay off the
creditors. Jacci was the business manager of the legacy that was in
Bankruptcy, Christine filing after the divorce got underway, and
after Lawrence Chazen hauled away some of my sister’s fine furniture.
There was also a lien by the Internal Revenue Service for non-payment
of Income Tax. But, as far as I know neither Ms.Belford nor Stacey
(who worked as a secretary in the gallery) were under investigation,
or facing imprisonment. I am sure there was some fear they would be
put in custody. I am sure this was a consideration for Christine and
Garth. If both parents went to jail, who would get custody of Drew?
Garth has three daughters from a previous marriage that he had
custody of, as he his ex-wife was a flaming comet hurtling to earth
and her destruction, too.

So, who is Larry Chazen, the Custodian Extraordinaire? Well,
according the Andrew Cuomo of HUD in a article in the San Francisco
Examiner, Chazen was a Loan Shark who was engaged in the worst
example of predatory loan practices Cuomo ever saw in regards to
Chazen taking away the home of a elderly grandmother in Oakland. Mark
and I went to High Schools with there grandchildren. According to my
father, Chazen was the Getty families right-hand man. He was also
Vic’s private lender, they working Defaults together, which Chazen
also bought at auction. Chazen was a good friend of Garth, and became
a partner in the first Rosamond gallery in Carmel. This partnership
was formed a month after the one formed by my two sisters and our
father from the legacy left to Vic by his mother, our grandmother.
This family partnership involved the promotion and sale of four
painting Christine had done expressly for the profit of her sister
and father, and of course, herself.

Chazen is currently a partner in a Carmel restaurant with San
Francisco Mayor, Gavin Newsom, who was stopped from validating same
sex marriages which involves the legal ramifications of a gay
partner getting custody of his, or her lovers estate, and even
children. Chazen is also involved in the federal investigation of a
huge Ponzy scheme where he claims he is one of the victims, he conned
out of a $400,000 dollar investment. I think he is another fox in the
hen house.

I wonder at Pierrot’s use of the word “happier”. Was it a unhappy
dream come true for her to be handed a world renowned artistic
legacy, and a whole families history to do what she will with it?
Poor thing. And now she is off down the Yellow Brick road to start
her own family, after leaving my family how she found it, in utter
ruin and chaos. She didn’t consider promoting Rosamond’s talented
daughters, who are very artistic. It was all Stacey could do to
promote Rosamond, who was dead, but surely very appreciative from
beyond the grave for this big favor.

Christine drowned on her first sober birthday in Alcoholics
Anonymous. The day of her funeral I approached Shannon in her late
mother’s kitchen and showed her my sobriety coin given to those in
recovery on their birthday. Shannon had a history of drug and alcohol
abuse. This is a inherent disease.

“Shannon, you have been left many wonderful things, but none is more
important then the legacy of Recovery. This is the coin we receive on
our sober birthdays. Right now, this is the only thing you need in
order to have it all.”

All six members of my natal family suffered from the disease of
alcoholism. Christine and I were the only ones to practice a Twelve
Step program. This was the inherent disease that we got from BOTH our
parents, though they were loathe to admit it, they claiming we got it
from the other Custodian. Then Vicki spoke up;

“I would like that coin. I have seven years of sobriety, ever since
you took me to that AA meeting.”

This was the only meeting Vicki ever went to, and I gave her my
coin. And what did I get in exchange. Vicki, nor Mark, told me my
father was dead, and my mother was in the hospital, dying. When I
found out Vic was dead from a cousin I never knew and had met on the
internet, we both researching the Presco genealogy, I called Rosemary
to verify if this was true. Her husband Robby was very glad to hear
from me, and with much urgency in his voice he said;

“Gregory. Call you mother. She’s in the Naval hospital in San
Francisco. She’s dying, she give a week to live.”

Robby told me it was too late to call that night, and in the morning
I placed a call. There was a long silence from the nurse that
answered after I asked to speak to my mother. She put someone else on
the line, a utter stranger, who informed me.

“Your mother is dead.”

About Royal Rosamond Press

I am an artist, a writer, and a theologian.
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