Bonds With Angels Again

Christine 1976 Reading


jonp0001I am guilty of dancing around the core issue that devastated the lives of the three beautiful human beings pictured above. Take away the art, the poetry, the Bohemianism, and the biographies, and what you have is a horror story of extreme violence and abuse. Add to this the struggle with the disease of alcoholism and mental illness, then one has to wonder how these three people came to be associated with extreme beauty. After divulging the insane violence and alcoholism in her family – that disappeared her brother – Rena says;

“There. Done. Let’s move on to the fun stuff!”

I do not have a phone number for Rena, but, she has my number. I have been cautious about revealing the abuse Rena suffered in this blog. She has not called me and asked me to not to reveal more.

Two years ago, my daughter, her aunt, and her new boyfriend, launched an attack against the Family Sobriety and Miracle – utterly destroying the happy ending of my biography. My six-year-old grandson was ruthlessly employed in this attack. I found myself in a nightmarish tug-of-war with two people I never met, who took pride in what great drinkers they are. Consuming alcohol, and using it as a means to socialize and bond with others – especially family members – was the primary ambition of Bill Cornwell, and Linda Comstock. Indeed, as my family headed to Bullhead City for a family reunion, Bill, Linda, Flip, and Heather, had made plans to invest in a family run bar and grill.

I was not informed of this. If I was told, I would have dropped Bill and Linda from my itinerary, which was to establish family unity so we could bring closure to the tragedy of losing Christine, and save our Creative Family Legacy for the sake of my nieces, the two Heirs. Both Drew and Shannon were suffering from disabling mental illness. Shannon will never have a child, and the it looks like Drew won’t either. Heather bonded with a drunk and white powder abuser who was not their when my grandson was born, and never married my daughter. Seeking a man to help support her, and her son who was a handful, was critical. Along come Bill who could not father a child. Linda chose to marry an old millionaire, who could not sire a child, and, now she wants my grandson to fill in her empty space. Heather has an uncle who is a social recluse due to his alcoholism. My child has been thrust in the role of getting Craig’s social and family needs met.

Children are not supposed to fulfil the needs of adults. When children are thrust in the role of Family Savior, they are being abused! Heather was assigned the role of Family Angel – before she was born. Her mother puts her in the arms of her husband who she told me could not sire a child. I got Patrice Hanson pregnant in my home after she asked me to help her two young sons who were being physically and mentally tortured by her crazy husband who twice was convicted of impersonating Bob Weir of the Grateful Dead – and sent to San Quintin. I gave Heather’s brothers sanctuary. I was their guardian angle until their mother expressed a desire to go back home because she was still in love with her husband, the VIOLENT ABUSER who had stood in front of my abode with a baseball bat threatening to kill me! I had to stop my bad-ass friends from putting him in the hospital. Heather bonded witth this lunatic. She loved him and called him “Daddy”. I was not told I had sired a child. My daughter never formed a natural bond with me. I study those daughters who go visit their father’s in prison, and with tears swear their father is not a serial killer.

“He’s innocent! He would never do such a thing.”

In Heather’s eyes, I am guilty of everything and am the chief family abuser. And, I don’t want anyone to have any fun!

Heather knew I would not approve of her bonding with two professional alcoholics. Linda was a live-in cocktail hostess to her rich husband. Bill pretends he is a Nascar Bubba Big Drinker Man who employed my daughter to find financial backers for his race car. This search began in my daughter’s family. Heather gave this man she only knew a month a financial report. Many members of my family had come into money from a Trust left by my uncle Vinnie who was my patron as a teenager, he getting me commissions from his friends.

Bill wanted to get his hands on some of that money, and get some of the money Linda inherited from her sugar daddy. Linda knew how to work the deal, so she gets all the power. She put a carrot on the stick so as the get Heather and Bill’s full attention. Enter the Family Bar & Grill Scam!

A week before the reunion, Heather says this to me on the phone;

“I’ve lowered my expectations, Dad. I no long want to be a famous singer. I just want to sing at small clubs for a living.”

Driving home from the family reunion, Heather says this;

“Linda was real pleased with Tyler, and asks that we bring her a niece the next time we come!”

Why does this drunk deserve my daughter and grandson – and my granddaughter? This is a cunning piece of shit who will do anything in order to have another drink – but the right thing! Her lover who was going to be the cook in her Bar & Grill, died of acute alcoholism. That is Flip toasting my grandson on a bar. Why would I want my grandchildren around any of the Bar Flies Linda adopts?

Jon Presco


Dear Rena

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… 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.

Children Exposed to Violence. Edited by Margaret Feerick & Gerald Silverman, $35.95

In the past decade, children’s exposure to violence has attracted more public interest and media attention than ever before. Addressing this problem requires a comprehensive, focused research agenda. This timely, practical resource brings current research together, identifies gaps in our understanding of the effects of exposure to violence on children, and sets a direction for future research to support interventions and violence prevention. Focusing on three major types of violence — war and terrorism, domestic violence and community violence — two dozen foremost authorities discuss and assess up-to-date statistics and research on the prevalence of each type of violence in the lives of children from birth to age 17.


‘Bonds with Angels’ Message List
Reply Message #120 of 7395


‘Bonds with Angels’ is the story of two creative siblings and their
quest for a spiritual and creative Sanctuary. Published in
installments under the banner of, Royal Rosamond Press, named in
honor of the author and poet, Royal Rosamond.

This biography of Christine Rosamond, and, John Presco, was began in
1989 when I had two years of Recovery in AA, CODA, and Adult Children
of Alcoholics. It was to be the biography of all four Presco
Children, it my hope we would all get into a Program, as all six
members of my family suffered from the disease of alcoholism, and all
the abuses that are associated with this life-threatening tragedy.

On the morning of March 26, 1994, my beloved sister, Christine, known
around the world as the artist, Rosamond, was swept off treacherous
rocks near Carmel by the Sea, and drowned. This day was her first
Sober Birthday in Alcoholics Anonymous, she due to recieve her One
Year Coin that had this message upon it; “Unto thy own self be true.”

This story is on the verge of not being told as it should be. It is a
tale of Insanity, Magic, and Wonder, almost beyond belief!

Two weeks ago an attempt was made to get me to sign a paper giving
exclusive rights to a writer hired by Stacey Pierrot the owner
of ‘Rosamond Publishing’ preventing me from telling the truth about
my late sister. There are members of my family, and others, who would
use my sister’s fame for only making a profit, and for hiding the
terrible wounds an incestuous family system does make, behind all
those Masks, the angelic faces of those beautiful ‘Rosamond Women’.
It is time to unmask this secret wounding of children so the true
story of the ‘Rose of the World’ can emerge.

Our bonds with angels began early one Saturday morning when Christine
and my younger sister, Vicki, came rushing into the Boys Room at the
first sign I was awake. I was ten years old at the time, Christine
nine, and Vicki, five. Getting them to calm down, their faces lit-up
with excitement, they told me one of the strangest things I have ever
heard in my life. They told me in the middle of the night they had
woken to behold a powerful blue light filling their room, and in the
middle of the light, was a beautiful woman standing at the foot of
Christine’s bed looking down on her. She was in a long flowing gown,
and if she had wings, my sisters did not say; but they reasured me,
begged me to believe; “She was an Angel!”

Some of us are never called upon to believe in anything so
extraordinary, and as the morning progressed I had trouble with, her,
I not being a witness – and if I had been? In studying my sisters, I
saw they did not quite know where to put it, her, and I felt sorry
for them.

I then got a call from Kay Coakly who lived just up the street, and
who had befriended all the Presco children. She was stricken with
Parkinson’s disease when she was young, brought on by a car accident
at her coming-out party, she the daughter of a famous Judge in
Oakland Claifornia. The Coakley family owned large tracks of property
down by Lake Merrit where Jack London used to sail. Kay was a real
life Crone, and she wanted me to come fix her radio, the atenae that
she attached to her bedsprings prone to come loose. After seeing it
was still attached, I saw her looking tentively out the window. I
asked her what was wrong. She told me she was awoken in the middle of
the night by a powerful blue light – so powerful it burned holes in
her lace curtain; “Come take a look. I think it was those bad-boys
across the canyon shining a spotlight in my window.”

With the hair on the back of my neck, up and alert, I went over to
the window and beheld a ring of tiny burn holes about the size of
one’s head, and no bigger then the tip of your baby-finger. I looked
out the window, stood on my tip-toes, and told Kay; “You can’t even
see the canyon from this window. It couldn’t have been the boys.”

Kay did not say anything, repute my innocent deduction, she already
figuring this out, and, somethings in life do not have an
explination, and defy all attempts to clarify and classify the truly
extraordinary. Such is the nature of this story, and my Family, no
one quite able to believe. But, they did, and they still do. This
story is for them.

Jon Presco
President: Royal Rosamond Press
Copyright 2001

About Royal Rosamond Press

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