For two weeks I have been taking on the housing system and have talked with Eugene City Manager, Jon Reus, about plans for the University of Oregon to tear down houses in a historic neighborhood. I will meet with a agent for a large real estate company about Homeless Vets and a way to get poor folks into homes. This includes Students.
Colleges and Banks work together to Front-run your children’s dreams. They pool young folks together with the promise of a education, a good job, and a nice home. Then the money lender swoop in and put them in debt for life! We have to turn this around. Get our children in their own home – and then they go to college with a reverse loan!
You don’t have to fatten up the bankers to send your kids to college. Just send them to me! I will give them the bottom line on ‘The Dream’ I will lead them like Gandalf against the Orcs. I will be talking with this real estate agent about creating a virtual reality real real estate land, a real Farmville, called ‘Brownsville’ and ‘Fairmount’ founded by George Miller, the brother of Joaquin Miller who read his poems before royaty and was invited to have dinner with the Pre-Raphaelites. I am not just authoring the next Ring Legend, and I living it!
Radical plans to stop rich overseas residents who live outside the EU buying British houses – as well as tight restrictions on them acquiring “newbuild” properties as investments – will be published in a report by a leading rightwing thinktank on Monday.
After finding the neglected tombstone of George Melvin Miller, a story ran on the news about cottages and possible barracks being torn down on Columbia Terrace in Eugene to make way for a large building that will process food for the University of Oregon. I am certain these residences sit upon land that was once owned by George Miller, and his partner, University of Oregon Professor, John Straub. This might constitute the first partnership between the UofO and residential land development which in itself is historic and should be preserved because this relationship has been controversial and needs to be studied. If this study is conducted after the homes are torn down, then there will forever be a gaping wound for the future to see.
George Miller platted Florence, and was the promoter of this fair city by the sea. George was the promoter of the Winnemucca to the Sea highway which is connected to the famous Route 66. But, more stunning than this, there is much evidence George was inspired by his brother who had a home in the Oakland Hills he called ‘The Hights’. Here was an outdoor salon for poets and artists who came from all over the world. Joaquin Miller planted thousands of three in the bare hills from where you could see the city lights of San Francisco. There were cable cars on rails, like the rails you can still see making their way up the hills of Fairmount to Hendrick’s Park and the Rhododendron gardens.
Miller and Joaquin promoted the Rhododendron Festival in Florence. Joaquin co-founded the Bohemian Club that met in the redwood groves near the Russian River. Here famous authors and artist met once a year. Jack London and George Sterling were promoters of the Bohemian Life. They made Carmel by the Sea what it is today. My famous sister, Christine Rosamond, has a gallery here. My late sister married into the historic Benton family who fought to keep the Oregon Territory out of British hands. My grandfathers founded the city of Belmont south of San Francisco.
The Stuttmeisters had an orchard just below the Hights. Joaquin would carry my father in his lap when he went with my grandmother to SF on the trolley. My kindred built forty new homes on new streets they named after trees. Did George meet these developers we see having a picnic in the redwood groves in the Oakland Hills.
When we were young the Presco children would call Juanita Miller on the phone and pretend we had a broken heart. George’s niece was known as the ‘White Witch’ and gave advice to the sick at heart. I lived at the Stoneridge apartment on 19th. and Harris for twelve years. I would take walks in the nearby hills and feel right at home. I now wonder if George borrowed the architecture of Oakland, and transplanted them to Fairmount. If so, then we are looking at a historic link between the Bay Area and Eugene that needs to broadcast rather than diminished.
In Berkeley a developer bull-dozed a whole city block in order to build student housing. He did not consult the city managers who put a stop to it, then held a contest to see what We the People could do to heal this wound. I drew up plans for a school for how to plant urban gardens.
What I see as a solution, is a property trade. I suggest the UofO found and build a Service Industry College and culinary School along the river, near where Agri-Pac used to be. I see students planting garden along the river where a trolley car run bring their parents and citizens to the restaurant son the water’s edge. Here they can enjoy the finest cuisine in the world cooked by UofO students whose dream it is to become world-famous chefs. Seventy percent of Americas are employed in the service industry. Retirement communities are always looking for good cooks. Let this huge cafeteria be an architectural showcase, and not be another ugly monolith fallen to earth from Planet Ugly!
Joaquin Miller had dinner with Dante Gabriella Rossetti and the Pre-Raphaelite Artists and Poets who found Fair Rosamond to be one of the favorite Muses. Rhododendron means ‘Rose Tree’ . I beheld rose trees at the corner of Flora and Fairmount. This is a rosy tale of two cities, and two brothers who shared the same dream. Do not let this dream, die!
Yesterday, Eugene City Manager returned my call. We discussed the idea about having these barrack-cottages house homeless Veterans who want to go to college and own hope, and a dream! Today, Senator John Walsh of Montana will introduce legislation to get Vets who suffer from PTSD much-needed help. The CEO of Starbucks just donated thirty million dollars for this purpose. Starbucks is huge in the service industry. Here is a marriage, a bond, made between those who serve the Citizens of the United States. I believe it is time for the UofO to join forces, because I will make a good case that these barracks should be registered a National Monument because they one housed soldier at Camp White. They were to the Miller Brother’s Dream Town.
Jon Gregory Presco
President: Royal Rosamond Press
We the People are still giving money to our universities via the GI Loan. How much money did a private organization receive since 1945? How much was used to buy public real estate? Who got the equity? Why let the UofO build a giant cafeteria in our city limits which keeps students from going to privately owned resturants? How much is the student saving – and the community losing? I say let the university donate that Columbia land to create GI Student City that will run a row of resturants to sustain itself. Can you spot one living plant or weed in this photo? http://www.benefits.va.gov/gibill/history.asp
Yesterday I asked why they tried to throw Jesus off the cliff when he read a passage from Isaiah. This passage was about freeing folks from their debts and indentured servitude brought on by the incredible cost of the temple sacrifice and pilgrimage.
During the 1960s, members of the hippie counterculture sought a simple life; many were drawn to areas away from large cities and getting back to the land. “Lighthouse Ranch” was an abandoned Coast Guard station, 11 miles south of Eureka, California, situated on the hippie trail that then extended along the west coast of California
by Joaquin Miller
There is no thing that hath not worth;
There is no evil anywhere;
There is no ill on all this earth,
If man seeks not to see it there.
September 28. I cannot forget that dinner with Dante Gabriel Rossetti, just before leaving London, nor can I hope to recall its shining and enduring glory. I am a better, larger man, because of it. And how nearly our feet are set on the same way. It was as if we were all crossing the plains, and I for a day’s journey and a night’s encampment fell in with and conversed with the captains of the march.
But one may not gave names and dates and details over there as here. The home is entirely a castle. The secrets of the board and fireside are sacred. And then these honest toilers and worshippers of the beautiful are shy, so shy and modest. But I like this decent English way of keeping your name down and out of sight till the coffin-lid hides your blushes–so modest these Pre-Raphaelites are that I should be in disgrace forever if I dared set down any living man’s name.
But here are a few of the pearls picked up, as they were tossed about the table at intervals and sandwiched in between tales of love and lighter thoughts and things.
All London, or rather all the brain of London, the literary brain, was there. And the brain of all the world, I think, was in London. These giants of thought, champions of the beautiful earth, passed the secrets of all time and all lands before me like a mighty panorama. All night sol We dined so late that we missed breakfast. If I could remember and write down truly and exactly what these men said, I would have the best and the greatest book that ever was written, I have been trying a week in vain, I have written down and scratched out and revised till I have lost the soul of it, it seems to me; no individuality to it; only like my own stuff. If I only had set their words down on the next day instead of attempting to remember their thoughts! Alas! the sheaves have been tossed and beaten about over sea and land for days and days, till the golden grain is gone, and here is but the straw and chaff.
The master sat silent for the most part; there was a little man away down at the other end, conspicuously modest. There was a cynical fat man, and a lean philanthropist all sorts and sizes, but all lovers of the beautiful of earth. Here is what one, a painter, a ruddy-faced and a rollicking gentleman, remarked merrily to me as he poured out a glass of red wine at the beginning of the dinner:
“When travelling in the mountains of Italy, I observed that the pretty peasant women made the wine by putting grapes m a great tub, and then, getting into this tub, barefooted, on top of the grapes, treading them out with their brown, bare feet. At first I did not like to drink this wine. I did not think it was clean. But I afterward watched these pretty brown women” and here all leaned to listen, at the mention of pretty brown women– I watched these pretty brown women at their work in the primitive winepress, and I noticed that they always washed their feet after they got done treading out the wine.”
All laughed at this, and the red-faced painter was so delighted that he poured out and swallowed another full glass. The master sighed as he sat at the head of the table rolling a bit of bread between thumb and finger, and said, sitting close to me: “I am an Italian who has neven seen Italy. Belle Italia!…”
By and by he quietly said that silence was the noblest attitude in all things; that the greatest poets refused to write, and that all great artists in all lines were above the folly of expression. A voice from far down the table echoed this sentiment by saying:”Heard melodies are sweet; but unheard melodies are sweeter.” “Written poems are delicious; but unwritten poems are divine,” cried the triumphant cynic. “What is poetry?” cries a neighbor. “All true, pure life is poetry,” answers one. “But the inspiration of poetry?” “The art of poetry is in books. The inspiration of poetry in nature.” To this all agreed.
Then the master very quietly spoke: “And yet do not despise the books of man. All religions, said the Chinese philosophers, are good. The only difference is, some religions are better than others, and the apparent merit of each depends largely upon a mans capacity for understanding it. This is true of .poetry. All poetry is good. I never read a poem in my life that did not have some merit, and teach some sweet lesson. The fault in reading the poems of man, as well as reading the poetry of nature, lies largely at the door of the reader. Now, what do you call poetry?” and he turned his great Italian eyes tenderly to where I sat at his side.
To me a poem must be a picture,” I answered.
Proud I was when a great poet then said: “And it must be a picture–if a good poem so simple that you can understand it at a glance, eh? And see it and remember it as you would see and remember a sunset, eh?” “Aye,” answered the master, “I also demand that it shall be lofty in sentiment and sublime in expression. The only rule I have for measuring the merits of a written poem, is by the height of it. Why not be able to measure its altitude as you measure one of your sublime peaks of America?”
He looked at me as he spoke of America, and I was encouraged to answer:”Yes, I do not want to remember the words. But I do want it to remain with me a picture and become a part of my life. Take this one verse from Mr. Longfellow:
“And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.’”
“Good!” cried the fat cynic, who, I am sure, had never heard the couplet before, it was so sweet to him; “Good! There is a picture that will depart from no impressible clay. The silent night, the far sweet melody falling on the weary mind, the tawny picturesque Arabs stealing away m the darkness, the perfect peace, the stillness and the rest. It appeals to all the Ishmaelite in our natures, and all the time we see the tents gathered up and the silent children of the desert gliding away in the gloaming.”
A transplanted American, away down at the other end by a little man among bottles, said: “The poem of Evangeline is a succession of pictures. I never read Evangeline but once.” “It is a waste of time to look twice at a sunset,” said Rossetti, sotto voce, and the end man went on: “But i believe I can see every picture in that poem as distinctly as if I had been the unhappy Arcadian; for here the author has called in ail the elements that go to make up a perfect poem.”
“When the great epic of this new, solid Saxon tongue comes to be written,” said one who sat near and was dear to the master’s heart, “it will embrace all that this embraces: new and unnamed lands; ships on the sea; the still deep waters hidden away in a deep and voiceless continent; the fresh and fragrant wilderness; the curling smoke of the camp-fire; action, movement, journeys; the presence–the inspiring presence of woman; the ennobl- ing sentiment of love, devotion, and devotion to the death; faith, hope and charity,- and all in the open air.”
“Yes,” said the master thoughtfully, ‘no great poem has ever been or ever will be fitted in a parlor, or even fashioned from a city. There is not room for it there.”
“Hear! hear! you might as well try to grow a California pine in the shell of a peanut,” cried I. Some laughed, some applauded, all looked curiously at me. Of course, I did not say it that well, yet I did say it far better, I mean I did not use the words carefully, but I had the advantage of action and sympathy.
Then the master said, after a bit of reflection: “Homer’s Ulysses, out of which have grown books enough to cover the earth, owes its immortality to all this, and its out-door exercise. Yet it is a bloody book a bad book, in many respects–full of revenge, treachery, avarice and wrong. And old Ulysses himself seems to have been the most colossal liar on record. But for all this, the constant change of scene, the moving ships and the roar of waters, the rush of battle and the anger of the gods, the divine valor of the hero, and, above all, and over all, like a broad, white-bosomed moon through the broken clouds, the splendid life of that one woman; the shining faith, the constancy, the truth and purity of Penelope–all these make a series of pictures that pass before us like a panorama, and we will not leave off reading till we have seen them all happy together again, and been assured that the faith and constancy of that woman has had it reward. And we love him, even if he does lie!”
How all at that board leaned and listened. Yet let me again and again humbly confess to you that I do him such injustice to try thus to quote from memory. After a while he said: “Take the picture of the old, blind, slobber-mouthed dog, that has been driven forth by the wooers to die. For twenty years he has not heard the voice of his master. The master now comes, in the guise of a beggar. The dog knows his voice, struggles to rise from the ground, staggers toward him, licks his hand, falls, and dies at his feet.”