Yesterday a photo made it’s way to the top of the pile, and I can’t ignore it, can’t go forward until I address it. In this image is my father, Victor Presco, whom his secretaries titled ‘Vic the Nazi’ because he would put on documentaries about Hitler and the Nazis in his home where these young women worked, and then give them lectures on how Germany could have won the war. Vic was a violent and crazy alcoholic who abused his four children, and raped his granddaughter, Shannon, who is seated on the left. Next to Vic, is Garth Benton, and next to Garth, is my niece, Drew Benton. What I can’t get around is why Christine is honoring this serial abuser, and at the same time blaming me, and her mother, for being her chief abuser. I have been banished from Christine’s life after confronting she and her husband’s abuse of cocaine and alcohol.
I believe I was attending Serenity Lane when this photo was taken. Shannon’s rape is months away. Weeks after it occurred I called Christine and tried to do an intervention. She coldly told me it was none of business. I was shocked to hear this. I said this;
“I beg to differ. Vic is my father – too!”
Where this is going, is, the truth my famous sister transferred my long history of being the Family Artist over to herself, and had worked hard to get her parents to sign off on the New Christine. After Rosemary failed to go along with the fiction writing, because she loved all her children, she was black-balled, and, put in my camp. Vic was telling the women in his family I was not his son, and indeed I was the Dark Menace that made everyone’s life not work for them. Many pedophiles have similar facades, such as Fathers of a church.
If it were not for the Evil Team of Greg and Rosemary, Christine, Vicki, and Shannon would be sane as rain. Vic was an expert Con Artist. He made a living as a Loan Shark. He worked out of his home that I titled ‘The Ponderosa’ Just before Vic died in 1994, he was convicted of taking an old woman’s home. Vic Presco was a scoundrel!
Above is a photo of me showing the pics of the painting I did of Rena Christensen in 1971. She had sent me a small photo of her in profile. Can you read the look on Christine’s face?
Christine is not an artist, nor was she ever a serious artist. This is all going to change because Dundon brothers are accusing me of messing up my sister’s mind. Jim Dundon is married to my younger sister, Vicki, and Michael is on love with Christine, who was raped and filmed downstairs from Rose Dundon’s house in Rhode Island – after Michael got rid of me. Christine is on welfare after being violently raped by her boss. Somehow, this is all my fault. Why? Because somehow my life turned out great. For some reason nothing ever happened to me. Not only am I very gifted, I am very good-looking.
I have what Christine wants.
Note the beer bottles in front of me. Yesterday I tried to attribute my drinking to the attempt the Mafia made on my life in Boston, and other acts of violence I was in the middle of. But, the truth is I found a great pick-up bar down the street from where I lived on Beacon Hill, and I had become a womanizer. I had women up the ying-yang. One day, all three of my girlfriends met in a bar, and compared notes – while I dance with a stranger! I was not happy, because none of these young women were Rena. I was insane with grief at losing her. When I left the motel room I was staying in when I went to visit Rena in Lincoln, I made the bed – with me in it! I was too heartbroken to go on.
When I boarded the train for Rhode Island, I did not own a soul. I spent a lot of time out of my body. I began to consume alcohol to fill in the empty space. When I did the painting of my Muse, I was trying to come to terms with the truth I needed a soul, and I needed to get sober and – a life! I also needed to get Rena back, and I reasoned if I became a famous artist, she would have me back in her life and heart.
Today, I believe I am back in Rena’s life and heart. But, there are terms. I can not make her feel afraid. Alas, Christine and my Muse, verbalizing it.
“I enjoy feeling peaceful instead of afraid. I have felt way too much fear.”
In the letter I sent to Rena January 10th. I tell her we are Adult Children of Alcoholics, and we are like siblings. Though it appears I want us to be much more that this, if we can just be this, than we are on our way to owning a truly peaceful life.
What is so ironic, that in the pic of my fam, there is a image of Rena right in the middle of four very abused women. If Rena had come to LA to become a star, she came to the right people! Rena is a famous Muse.
I understand why Rena wrote me on Christmas Day. I may be the only one in the world that can match pictures with her. I believe all her family is gone. There are old boyfriends, but, they have their own life. I own images of Rena that will never fade away. Rena is the Muse of Abuse. She was almost an orphan in the world. She sent to live with her grandmother so she would no longer be a victim of violence.
Vicki told me Christine wanted to see me against after she started attending alcoholic Anonymous. Her brother and sisters in AA, along with her sponsor, had not problem telling this world-famous artist she was dead wrong about her drunken father being a nice lovable guy, while I her brother in AA was a dark brutal villain out to destroy everyone’s life.
I learned that abused children leave their body so they are not there when they are being violated. Some children never come back into their body. When Christine is looking at my painting, she is having trouble being in her body. She is looking for a new identity. The head of Serenity Lane, Hillary Larson, said this;
“How convenient. You sister blames you for her mental illness while she rips off you art.”
On the third day of knowing Rena, we drove to the top of Mount Tamalpias. She was not very talkative. But, now she wanted something.
“I want to go swimming. Is there a place to swim. I took this beautiful woman down a trail to a beautiful pool of water and the bottom of a waterfall. Rena had nothing to say. It was like being in Eden with Eve. I have never seen a photo of a woman who looked nearly as beautiful. She did not look happy, or sad.
“Rena. I can’t do this anymore. Who are you? What’s going on behind that beautiful façade?”
I watched her, wince, struggle to regain that incredibly powerful composure, that mask of utter beauty, that had taken her this far, and no further. I literally saw another person hiding inside, emerge. I understood, very few people get to see this – in the history of mankind! The person behind the mask was even more beautiful. Now I was in trouble, for I was utterly in love, in love with this incredible transformation, this high drama, this play of the ancient gods.
Until I opened and read Rena’s letter on the 9th. She did not give me a clue she was violently abused. But, I had broken the ice, made headway. It’s time to remove Christine’s Rosamond Mask, that others around her have enjoyed – long after she is dead!
There has been way too much violence in America, much of perpetrated against women. I struggle not to be ‘The Family Scapegoat’ and go to my cross. There are so many things and people that have been unfair. Being a Victim is such a burden – and a real tragedy! My Muse gives me hope of a good life, where; “All’s well, that ends well!”
Here is a gun and knife fight between the Benton Brothers and Andrew Jackson before he became President. Look how much Garth looks like his kindred, Senator Thomas Hart Benton, who put a bullet in Jackson.
Jon Presco
Copyright 2014
On the morning of September 4, 1813, the Benton brothers arrived in Nashville and took their saddle-bags to the City Hotel, to avoid, Colonel Benton said, a possibility of unpleasantness, as Jackson and his friends were accustomed to make their headquarters at the Nashville Inn, diagonally across the Court-House Square. Each of the Bentons wore two pistols. At about the same time Jackson, Coffee, and Stockley Hays arrived at the Inn, all armed and Jackson carrying a riding whip. The news was over town in a moment. Jackson and Coffee went to the post-office, a few doors beyond the City Hotel. They went the short way, crossing the Square and passing some distance in front of the other tavern where the Bentons were standing on the walk.
Returning, Jackson and Coffee followed the walk. As they reached the hotel Jesse Benton stepped into the barroom. Thomas Benton was standing in the doorway of the hall that led to the rear porch overlooking the river. Jackson started toward him brandishing his whip. “Now, defend yourself you damned rascal!” Benton reached for a pistol but before he could draw Jackson’s gun was at his breast. He backed slowly through the corridor, Jackson following, step for step. They had reached the porch, when, glancing beyond the muzzle of Jackson’s pistol, Benton saw his brother slip through a doorway behind Jackson, raise his pistol and shoot. Jackson pitched forward, firing. His powder burned a sleeve of Tom Benton’s coat. Thomas Benton fired twice at the falling form of Jackson and Jesse lunged forward to shoot again, but James Sitler, a bystander, shielded the prostrate man whose left side was gushing blood.
The gigantic form of John Coffee strode through the smoke, firing over the heads of Sitler and Jackson at Thomas Benton. He missed but came on with clubbed pistol. Benton’s guns were empty. He fell backward down a flight of stairs. Young Stockley Hays, of Burr expedition memory, sprang at Jesse Benton with a sword cane and would have run him through had the blade not broken on a button. Jesse had a loaded pistol left. As Hays closed in with a dirk knife, Benton thrust the muzzle against his body, but the charge failed to explode.
General Jackson’s wounds soaked two mattresses with blood at the Nashville Inn. He was nearly dead – his left shoulder shattered by a slug, and a ball embedded against the upper bone of that arm, both from Jesse Benton’s pistol. While every physician in Nashville tried to stanch the flow of blood, Colonel Benton and his partizans gathered before the Inn shouting defiance. Benton broke a small-sword of Jackson’s that he had found at the scene of conflict. All the doctors save one declared for the amputation of the arm. Jackson barely understood. “I’ll keep my arm,” he said.
Rosamond Press 
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