“Once Tharaldsen painted a man with massive teeth devouring a burger, which she titled Bottomless, Unfillable Nothingness. Pynchon thought it was him, and hated it. Tharaldsen insists it wasn’t, but their friend Mary Beal isn’t so sure. “I know she regarded him as devouring people. I think in the sense that he—well, I shouldn’t say this, because all writers do it. Writers use people.”

Boris Kacha

The author, Boris Kacha, speaks of the forbidden portrait Mary Ann Tharaldsen did that Thomas Pynchon believed was of him. In my movie about my ex-wife and Tom I will reveal Thomas is behind the giant head known as Zardoz. Perhaps I will take a cue from Woody Allen and over-dub the movie Zardoz to tell the tale of the most mysterious and sexy couple that ever inhabited, or escaped from, a vortex.

Mary Ann reminded me of the actress Charlotte Rampling. Being ten years my senior and believing she had a bigger brain than me, I felt she was looking down her New York Nose and beholding a Hippie Barbarian. From the get she wanted me to take an I.Q. test and join her Mensa Club. If you have a I.Q. over 180 they make a incision between your eyes and drop in a tiny micro-chip.

When my wife met my friend, Keith Purvis, she led him to her infamous portrait that Pynchon hated, and told him;

“This is you!”

She then described my friend as a bottomless pit, a consumer who could not get enough. I had told my bride Keith was a insatiable pot-head. I was not happy she used privileged information. Keith was the insatiable lover of Rosamond, Nancy Hamren, and Barry Zorthian. After this declaration, my old friend was never the same. It was like she put a curse on him. Is it possible she did the same to Pynchon, Mary Ann taking him to the mirror and disappearing the illusion, the lie, that Thomas looks like Sean Connery in his role as the mysterious James Bond? How much hair Thomas has on is chest is not revealed by Ms. Tharaldsen.

This is when Thomas ordered fifty yards of black gunny cloth to throw up on the windows in that hotel room in Mexico, his only true friend in life the Mexican maid who would crack the door open to slip in a plate of food, and take away a bag of garbage. Shades of the Elephant Man.

Hearing something sexy about their relationship, I took my new bride out to the studio I built in an old garage. I had Mary Ann take off all her clothes, a turn-on for me because there was something nasty about being naked in a shack-like garage. I draped a sheet over one shoulder leaving her mound of Venus exposed, and placed a rose in one hand. For doing this, Mary Ann’s teenage son cursed our marriage. He went bezerk after seeing this large nude portrait, and ended our marriage with the help of the ex. I had to go to the hospital. But, let us not got there. We have enough controversial art to deal with as it is.

Mary Ann told me Tom made her stand before a mirror, completely naked, with a rose in her hand. That she tells Boris nothing about their sex-life, is the stupidest Tell-all Tale of all time. When I heard this rosy tale I wondered if the Baiz sisters were filled-in, they longing to hear something about the honeymoon, other than penis size. Did Joan romanticize the dull lovemaking of a egghead when she wrote ‘Love Song to a Stranger’…….a stranger then, and, a stranger, now?

Mary Ann took Paul Drake before her Portrait of Thomas Dorian Gray, whispered in his ear, and into his nostril flew the Fame Bug, he becoming a great movie villain whom I would catch in bed with my live-in lover. Twenty Oakland cops had to separate us. But, let us not go there because we are still wondering why Pynchon keeps talking to a pig. was this a CIA bug, they keen to know how LSD affects our brightest minds?

“We must get Mr. Pynchon, our Pied Piper, to take this whole Bohemian revolution, thing, down a dead end road – and leave it there!”

“Don’t worry, Sir, Operation Porky Pig, is going as planned. His lover thinks this is a device used to help him with his stuttering.”

When I was thirteen ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ was my Bible. Being very good-looking, and an artist, I became aware of the ugliness within. After rending a automatic painting of the death of my childhood friend, the very hour he died, I quit being an artist, and experimented with LSD so I could go further into the Ugliness, and capture……….True Beauty!

Rosamond’s disappeared autobiography begins;

“Everyone thought my brother was going to be a famous artist one day, but, it was not meant to be.”

The powers that be made my sister’s un-finished novel, invisible. The first fake biographer wrote;

“The few words that exist, are the ideations of a woman who was not well when she wrote them.”

I believe it was 1966 that Keith and I talked and danced with Mimi Farina at a be-in in Monterey. It was he first public appearance since Richard was killed. She was not happy. We tried to cheer her up. I fell in love with her and was happy to see my wife’s life-size portrait of her friend wherein she was eternally happy.

I might redo that painting of Bill getting killed by a train, film it for prosperity, because I wondered if I had conjured up Bill’s death. Would I conjure up my death if I go there again? How many Youtube hits would I get for my live Death by Art Scene? Does Pynchon entertain such thoughts about Richard?

Oscar Wilde was the Ring Master of literary circles. But, lo and behold, here come Haley’s Comet – and Mark Twain!

Above is the image of Mary Ann releasing the End Time from her Pandora’s box, she in hysterics that she gets the last laugh. Does she really say; “We almost killed each other?” Hmmmm!

Well, not quite. I will be the singing Fat Lady! I will immortalize Thomas and Mary Ann – on the silver screen! For I am the Un-famous, the recluse of recluses, the Un-famous Phantom of the Vortex who never became famous, so, I don’t have to run and hide like Thomas, because, I am hiding in plain sight! Everyone know what Death is supposed to do – with that rose!

Sex sells! Consider the story of ‘Beauty and the Beast’.

When I saw Rampling’s lay-out in Playboy, I beheld the vision I lay on Rena when I visited her in Nebraska. I wanted to move into an old barn near her campus where we would live as Artist and Muse. I would behold her rising and shining, she sitting naked at the old farmer’s table having a cup of Java, before she sat for me. Then, it was off to her classes at the University of Nebraska.

I had the guts to verbalize this most brilliant ambition. I dare any man to find a hole in it. Pynchon had a beautiful woman all to himself down in hot-ass Mexico. What happened? Hollywood would have picked up this steamy tale, but there is no girly action.

Below is a photo of me showing my portrait of Rena to Christine. You can just make-out the Fame Bug as it flew up her nose. It got my attention. There are two movie scripts out about Rosamond, one written by our kindred, Carrie Fisher who survived the terrible fame of Elizabeth Rosemond Taylor who Andy Warhol worshipped, because he knew what was good for him.

Rena forsake her chance to become the greatest model of all time, and became a very reclusive janitor who recites poetry while she works the midnight shift. She told me she has memorized a million poems and uses these literary masterpieces to judge her sense of well-being. If she muffs a line, then she is having a bad evening.

What need of human beings to bounce your being off? Who is worthy enough to be the Perfect Mirror for the Perfect Person? This tells me Rena has the highest I.Q. “of them all” She married a very intelligent Commander who flew fighters in WW2, and no doubt knew many folks in the CIA. He was young for his age. Ean Easton is Pynchon material. He was the real James Bond.

In a letter Rena sent me out of the blue, she says I would be proud of her because, alas, she has a few friends. Here it is, that precious blue ball of utter inner success that some Americans are bid to carry, because we won something, even before we went over there, twice!

We met when she was seventeen. After graduating from High School a year earlier than her peers she had no contact with for twelve years, she went on a road trip with her strange boyfriend, a grown man of twenty five. No one has ever told Rena what to do or controlled her in any way.

She said I was the first person that ever talked to her. This tells me I ended up with the Beautiful Egghead Mr. Pynchon, the Ugliest Egghead on Earth, was destined to be with – forever!

When my reply to Rena’s letter, was too intimate, I got a call from the sheriff in the small town Rena lived in. He told me my old flame had filed stalking charges against me. Why didn’t Pynchon do the same?

Here’s the punch line. In Boris’ hunt for Pynchon, with the help of fellow “trackers” verses “stalkers” my ex-wife gives a critique of the folks that will soon appear on the silver screen in October, when Pynchon’s ‘Inherent Vice’ is released.

“Tharaldsen hated L.A., and decided to go back to school in Berkeley. “I thought they were unserious sort of beach people—lazy bums! But Tom didn’t care because he was inside all day and writing all night.”

Forever the Egghead, Mary Ann goes back to college to boost her brain up a notch, leaving Thomas frying on the hot sand in a drug-haze, he trying to fit in with surfers, and long legged volleyball players.

As it turns out, the three of us are kin to Reese Witherspoon, and thus the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge. As I type, Reese is in some dark editing room trying to save Tom’s movie. Is she reading this blog?

“What the fuck? There’s no ending to this movie. How the fuck did this happen?”

P.S. There would always be morning sex, before it got too hot in Nebraska. Dripping paint and sex-sweat, playing the Naked Cowboy Adam and Eve with our precious bodily fluids, we never getting enough, there ten empty canvases in waiting, our Honeymoon lasting forever.

P.S.S. Pynchon should author twelve porn novels to be published after his death under the name Gilgore Trout.

Jon Presco

Copyright 2014

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Shetzline

https://rosamondpress.com/2013/07/20/witherspoon-peerage/

https://rosamondpress.com/2013/07/22/the-rose-preston-stewart-line/

On the Thomas Pynchon Trail: From the Long Island of His Boyhood to the ‘Yupper West Side’ of His New Novel

http://www.vulture.com/2013/08/thomas-pynchon-bleeding-edge.html

By Boris Kachka

“After Fariña’s wedding, Pynchon went up to Berkeley, where he met up with Tharaldsen and Seidler. For years, Pynchon trackers have wondered about Tharaldsen, listed as married to Pynchon in a 1966–67 alumni directory. The real story is not of a secret marriage but a distressing divorce—hers from Seidler. Pynchon and Tharaldsen quickly fell in love, and when Pynchon went back to Mexico City shortly after John F. Kennedy was assassinated, Tharaldsen soon followed.

In Mexico, Tharaldsen says, Pynchon wrote all night, slept all day, and kept mostly to himself. When he didn’t write, he read—mainly Latin American writers like Jorge Luis Borges, a big influence on his second novel, The Crying of Lot 49

Tharaldsen grew bored of the routine. Soon they moved to Houston, then to Manhattan Beach. Tharaldsen, a painter, did a portrait of Pynchon with a pig on his shoulder, referencing a pig figurine he’d always carry in his pocket, talking to it on the street or at the movies. (He still identified closely with the animals, collecting swine paraphernalia and even signing a note to friends with a drawing of a pig.) Once Tharaldsen painted a man with massive teeth devouring a burger, which she titled Bottomless, Unfillable Nothingness. Pynchon thought it was him, and hated it. Tharaldsen insists it wasn’t, but their friend Mary Beal isn’t so sure. “I know she regarded him as devouring people. I think in the sense that he—well, I shouldn’t say this, because all writers do it. Writers use people.”

Tharaldsen hated L.A., and decided to go back to school in Berkeley. “I thought they were unserious sort of beach people—lazy bums! But Tom didn’t care because he was inside all day and writing all night.”

Jules Siegel entertains a theory about “The urge to confess” which is the core of my unfinished novel ‘The Gideon Computer’. He suggests Timothy Leary might have been CIA.

https://rosamondpress.com/2013/07/21/irene-rena-victoria-easton/

What’s Up, Tiger Lily? is a 1966 comedy film directed by Woody Allen in his feature-length directorial debut.

Allen took a Japanese spy film, International Secret Police: Key of Keys,[2] and overdubbed it with completely original dialogue that had nothing to do with the plot of the original film.[3] By putting in new scenes and rearranging the order of existing scenes, he completely changed the tone of the film from a James Bond clone into a comedy about the search for the world’s best egg salad recipe.[4]