Beauty Had Sherriff Warn Me Off

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On January 27, 2014 I got a call from Deputy Sheriff, Dan Mayland, that my Muse, and old girlfriend, Rena Easton – who I had not seen since 1970 – had filed charges in Galliten County Montana – saying I was Stalking her. Rena had written me a four page letter on Christmas Day. She made references to this blog. I do not know how she got my address. I did not know whether she was dead or alive.

After receiving my letter I mailed on January 10th. Rena became alarmed at all or some of the content, and showed it to a un-named person. This person confirmed Rena’s paranoia was spot-on, and she angrily destroyed my letter. In order to own proof I was Stalking her, Rena wrote a copy of my letter, and a copy of the letter she wrote me, and showed it to Dan Mayland. Dan assured me that both letters were written by Rena, and were summoned up by an amazing photographic memory that Ms. Easton owns.

In 1971 I did a large portrait of Rena, and after showing photos of this painting to my later sister, she took of up art, and in months became the world famous artist, Christine Rosamond. These three videos are a documentary of the incredible battle I have had to save the creative legacy my family has owned for several generations, that includes the famous Benton Artists. Never in the history of Art, or in the relationship between Artist and Muse, has there ever been an attempt of a Muse to devastate an artist and a family legacy. I suspect the evil evangelical neo-Confederate Cult played a hand.

Belle asks about being homeless. Rena and I were homeless for fifty-five days. We lived in a tent in Paradise. Every evening she would emerge from our tent wrapped in a towel, walk to the little lake, drop the towel, and dive in. We were like Adam and Eve. Every two days we would drive to our beach above Jenner in my old Dodge. I would have her pause in the yellow flowers so I could capture this amazing image of her – in my mind! I did not own a camera. I have done seascapes in a day. Her beauty was over the top. Sometimes I would see her as Jesus, or, the daughter of Jesus. I awoke each morning to Sleeping Beauty.

Sleep we sleep
For we may dream
While we may
Dream we dream
For we may wake
One more day

https://rosamondpress.com/2016/09/20/imortalizing-belle-burch/

Belle inquires about my penname, Ambrose, which I googled after she said her lover was named Ambrose. I discovered she has been arrested. There is a photo of her hands upon which someone has written a message, like a SPELL. On Sunday, April 20, 2014 11:51 AM, Belle Burch wrote:

Yes, those are my hands in the RG. That was the first time I had ever appeared in the news as an activist.

Yes, I got a misdemeanor along with 11 other people for trying to talk to a silent and (cowardly) hiding John RUIZ.

I LOVE Crouching Tiger. It’s one of my favorites. The scene where the two young warrior lovers are in the bath together in the desert is my favorite part I think.

Is Bohemian a language as well as a place? Or are you referring to Romani? Was Romani the language that was spoken in Bohemia?

I’d like to hear more of your personal life story. “When I got sober”, “When I was homeless”, “When I was fighting cancer”……. these are words you drop and then let flit by without much detail or explanation or storytelling. I want those details and stories. Please.

Tell me what you thought of my poem. Did it make you feel anything? Did it make you think? If so, what?”

https://rosamondpress.com/2016/02/16/sleeping-belle-2/

On Sunday, April 20, 2014 11:51 AM, Belle Burch wrote:

Yes, those are my hands in the RG. That was the first time I had ever appeared in the news as an activist.

Yes, I got a misdemeanor along with 11 other people for trying to talk to a silent and (cowardly) hiding John RUIZ.

I LOVE Crouching Tiger. It’s one of my favorites. The scene where the two young warrior lovers are in the bath together in the desert is my favorite part I think.

Is Bohemian a language as well as a place? Or are you referring to Romani? Was Romani the language that was spoken in Bohemia?

I’d like to hear more of your personal life story. “When I got sober”, “When I was homeless”, “When I was fighting cancer”……. these are words you drop and then let flit by without much detail or explanation or storytelling. I want those details and stories. Please.

Tell me what you thought of my poem. Did it make you feel anything? Did it make you think? If so, what?”

https://rosamondpress.com/2015/09/15/i-infiltrated-sleeps/

Rena Easton’s Christmas Letter

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Two years ago before I recieved a letter from Rena, I learned she was a widow living on the Isle of Wight. I called to her in a blog, with this song.

Rena begins her letter, thus;

“Here I am!”

She is responding to another post. She had not read this one posted on July 26 2012

https://rosamondpress.com/2012/07/26/jesus-and-orpheus-in-hades/

I thought she was dead. I grieved. Her ghost came to console me, be by my side. As fate would have it Rena’s daughter died in a car accident when she was twenty..

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

https://rosamondpress.com/2015/11/20/sarah-crucified-on-mount-tam/

I had compared our relationship to Orpheus and Eurydice. This time, I rise from Hades to be with my beautiful and beloved muse once again. I called to her, while looking down at the waves. She emerged from a darkened door in te dead of night, and asked;

“Can I walk with you?”

“A year ago the spirit of Rena Christiansen came to live with me. She is still here. She married a Commodore and lived on the Isle of Weight. Her husband died, leaving her with two children. Her grief at being left behind was overwhelming. She had no ties with her natal family, and may not have been accepted by her husband’s family. I believe Rena died in an automobile accident in a foreign land, and her husband’s upper class family took her children into their closed circle. When I began my portrait of Rena – she winged home. She is my Eurydice. She is Andromeda I was her Hero who rescued her by the sea. I took her to the mountain of the ‘Sleeping Maiden’ and showed her heaven, we above the blanket of fog that came in my the sea.”

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

Copyright 2014

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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…..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.

Love

Jon Gregory

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.

https://rosamondpress.com/2013/07/27/the-birth-of-venus-5/

https://rosamondpress.com/2014/01/21/22450/

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About Royal Rosamond Press

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