On January 3, 2014, Rena Victorian Easton, sent me a four page letter and several poems, from Bozeman Montana. I may have received this letter on 6th. but did not remove it from my mailbox till the 9th. In 1971 I began a large painting of Rena, and called her grandmother in Grand Island to get a phone number for Rena so I could ask her for a photo of her profile. Rena happened to be home from college, and we spoke. I received a photo Rena took about a week later.
When I showed a photo of the finished portrait to my late sister, Christine Rosamond Benton, she was inspired to take up art. Overnight she was world-famous. She offered to teach me her style that was developed by Ira Cohen who owned Ira Roberts Gallery in LA. Not wanting to be seen as a commercial artist, I turned my sister’s generous offer down.
A year later Red Baron Publishing was formed in order to compete with the artist who signed her work ‘Rosamond’. They hired an Iranian artist, Bijan Djamalzadeh, to imitate Christine’s work, and Bijan’s art appeared on the market disguised as the work of a woman named Sara Moon. It took researchers many years to find out that Sara Moon was a man.
Today there have been two terrible biographies written about Rosamond, and two screenplays. Rosamond’s legacy has been mishandled by outsiders blessed by my two un-creative siblings. Bijan is still seeking a legitimacy that imitators rarely receive. Because I am the progenitor of the work of these artists, who did two paintings of a beautiful young woman who I had a deep and meaningful relationship with, then I hereby recognize the work of Bejan as being a valid contributor to an amazing story that I am authoring title ‘Capturing Beauty’. I am going to contact Bijan and get his input. My grasp of art history will establish an Artistic Legacy that will last – forever!
When Christine Rosamond’s beautiful women began to show up all over the world, many people wondered if she was a man, because it was traditional for male artists to render works of art of their love object, their Muse. Amazingly, Bijan was not able to claim this traditional role between male artist and his muse, because he disguised himself as a woman. For this reason, my relationship with my Muse, Rena Easton, is the Genesis of an artistic style that has had a great effect upon the way we see women, and how women are betrayed on the fashion industry, and on the internet.
Whereas Rosamond and Bejan were able to render beautiful women for mainly monetary reasons, while safely behind their masks and facades, I was up at the front line, having complex relations with beautiful women who were my kindred, my lovers, and my wife. For the most part these lovely women suffered from mental illness, as I do this day. While Rosamond and Bijan are up in their high towers spending their cool million, I am down on the Field of Beautiful Dreams – Gone Awry, locked in a Drama not seen since Dionysus and the Maenads. I have not realized a dime for my efforts!
On January I got a call from the sheriff of the county Rena lives in. He told me Rena had filed a charge of stalking her after she read the letter I sent a response to the letter below that she sent me. Rena bid me to write her back. She tells me she wants to be included in my ‘Muse Hall of Fame’.
Why Rena did not call me, makes me wonder. I am sure if we had a telephone conversation, then my muse would have been able to respond directly to anything that might have alarmed her. She could have asked me there and then if I intended to do her harm.
I have been working on my autobiography for several years. In all such endeavors the author is recalling his life experiences. If Rena had found my book in a book store, and read it, she would have read about my feelings for her, and perhaps my undying romantic expectations. If she had called up the sheriff and said she was being stalked by me because of things she read in my book, he would have dismissed Ms. Easton – as some kind of nut!
Now, if the eighteen year old Rena had walked into the sheriff’s office and make a stalking complaint, he would have hit the little button under the desk that told the officers in the back room there was a real looker at the front desk.
In her letter Rena touches upon intimate topics, affairs of the heart, not living together, being my muse forever, her husband getting angry. When she think I am being too intimate, its off to see the sheriff, the wonderful sheriff of Oz. By the way, I associate Dorothy with Rena on our road trip.
But, what’s truly confounding, Rena sends me three poems, one which she has written. Sharing poems with someone has always been seen as an act of intimacy. Poets and their Muses have for thousands of years been respected by the great minds of any age, as being one of the most revered intimate relationships – of all time! Muses are INSPIRING! Mohamed Ali had a Muse!
Rena has long inspired me! Rena is the only Muse in history that claims this is a crime! I would like to see our case go all the way to the Supreme Court, and there be some kind of Miracle on 24th. Street, where I, a Chris Kringle look-a-like, am saved, when bag after bag full of poems are hauled into court, and within these bags, are poems written to my Muse – by total strangers!
“Long live poetry!”
The real tragedy here, is, I thought I had a real ally to help me fight off my brother’s evil and dark hold he had/has over my sisters and the Creative Rosamond Legacy. Here is Mark Prescos Misogynist Manifesto that he sent me, and bid me include as much of it as I could in my autobiography. If I did what the alleged sane people wanted me to do, then Mark’s words would be alongside my beautiful words about my Muse, Rena Victoria Easton.
What I am saying is, that Rena Easton is on the verge of being Mark Presco’s beloved Muse, his proof he is spot-on, and thus, she has inspired Mark to write even more degrading things about Women, to go with Rena’s written attempt to destroy the Family Artist and Poet – that she filed with the Sheriff. That report might outlive everything written in this blog.
Just to be sure everyone is on the same page, here is a CNN interview with Dita Von Teese who has the beguiling look Rena has in the photo of her. If their was a beguiling contest, who would you pick?
As for the Christmas card that came with Rena’s letter, I wonder if it was the source of alarm. A tiny piece of glitter had come off of it, and found its way to page one. For me, this speck became a star, that we could follow like Hanzel and Gretal, it taking us out of the darkness children of alcoholics find themselves in. Did Rena believe I was suggesting we live happily ever after together, and thus feel stalked? What I was suggesting was bringing our stories together so that we can be a shining star of hope to others. This was how I saw my autobiography ending.
Before you read what’s coming next, there is an account of me having a conversation with Jesus. My major copyright is a special one that protects all the writing of ministers. I am the head of my Nazarite Church. Let us not go bothering the sheriff with any more – alleged fear!
In 1989, I read the Bible for the first time. At 4:00 in the morning, I put Jesus to the test. I was not a believer. I closed my eyes and asked him to come into the darkness of family incest, and help us. And, there he was, radiating slivers of gold light. He said this to me;
“Be not afraid. I and my father in heaven are already working with these matters. Spiritual Courage, will be met with Spiritual Courage.”
“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.”
In her letter, Rena told me she deals with fear almost every hour of the day. That tiny little speck of glitter, was the fulfillment of a promise.
Jon Gregory Presco
President: Royal Rosamond Press
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.
Reblogged this on rosamondpress and commented:
A crime against Art, that I am not doing paintings from her old photos and writing poetry to her.