The Story of Rosamond
by Jon Presco
Here is some of the history of members of my family that lived in Marin County.
Twice in my life I lived in a tent on Mount Tamalpais with a beautiful woman that was homeless. I was homeless, with them. I brought them there to the sanctuary Bill Arnold and I came to once a year since we were thirteen. We would camp at Laurel Dell for a week. I brought Rena Christiansen-Easton here after rescuing her at the Venice Pier. I had just given up my abode to friends who just had a baby.
Montez means ‘Mountain’. Tamalpais is associated with the Legends of Sleeping Maidens. Grimm named Sleeping Beauty, Rosamond. Yesterday, a group of writers and artists came together in my study and investigation. I do not own a picture of how my sister, Christine Rosamond, died. I know there is life after death, and thus we brought this world famous woman artist to the top of Rose Mountain – in spirit! This is where she longed to be, with the two young men she loved dearly.
Bill and I were famous as two beautiful young artists who were best friends. Christine was my best friend until Bill came along. Bill died on my eighteenth birthday. Christine died on her first sober birthday. Three seers said I died on McClure’s Beach in 1967.
Marine County was my home in so many beautiful ways. When I did my painting of my angel coming out of the sea, I named her Ross Marin, or Rose Marena. There is a Rose Mary in the name Marie Dolores Eliza Rosanna Gilbert.
Christine and Rosemary were very possessive of me. My sister thought she had got her best friend back, until we saw Rena in the light. She took our breath away. Her beauty was astonishing. We studied her. When Rosamond saw the photograph of the large painting I did of Rena atop Sleeping Beauty Mountain, she took up art.
I began to drink heavily when I lived in Boston in 1971. I am with the Rosamond Women: Rosemary, Christine, Vicki, Shannon. Rena lied about her age when she told me she was eighteen. I found myself looking down at a beautiful waterfall with the most beautiful seventeen year old in the world. I was never in more trouble, after she said;
“You’re the first person that ever talked to me.”
“I don’t want you in the water with me.” she ordered, and I got it. I would not be able to keep my hands off her. I so wanted to run my hands down her wet hair and like a blind man feel the incredible shape of her skull. Then, I would caress her tanned bronze shoulder. She was a goddess. She lived with her grandmother who thanked me on the phone for taking care of Rena, who loved Rio Nido Beach.
In 1967 I was making plans to go to India. I had studied their religion paying special attention to how enlightened men dealt with their sexuality. I identified with Siddhartha. Rena and discussed these topics on our mount. She was reading Jane Eyre. She told me how she was ostracized in school. Not only was she the most beautiful, but, she was the smartest. However, she suffered from low-self esteem due to the abuse she suffered from her alcoholic father.
“No one speaks to me!”
Rena is a Janitor who recites the million poems she has committed to memory all thru her shift. She is Beauty in her tower. She is a Great Muse – in many lands! She was my last temptation. We spent fifty days together. We were not human. Elizabeth Rosemond Taylor is kin to Jean-Baptiste de Rosemond. The muses rule this universe.
Rena gave me the image of her when I went to visit her in Nebraska. It was taken by a fellow student, in the woods, and was used for a Oktoberfest even.
Four years ago I began a painting of Rena. She came to haunt me. When I went to the store, she went with. I had a panther beside me. A year later, we found each other. Below is my letter to our muse in response to the one she wrote me on Christmas Day. I believe Rena and I are the embodiment of Lola, and Jean-Baptiste.
“I danced professionally in England.”
Fifteen days after I got Rena’s letter, I am composing a High Noon Cultural Showdown, a shoot-out. I only saw the Lola connection yesterday. Here is the dual so long ago, when I took the love of her life, away. Was I a bad man, then? Am I a bad man, now! I am a lover of Beauty. I even write poems, once in a while. Rena has memorized, many!
How ironic this FIGHT over the Buck Trust that was ear-marked for ‘The Poor’. On our mountain in Marin county, Rena and I lived like paupers – in paradise! We were the New Adam and Eve. When we went to town, when we walked across the Safeway parking lot, we were beautiful gunslingers. She had a John Wayne, gait. I did Gary Cooper. They got out of our way, those candy-colored city clowns with their co-op manners, their precious bowls of pot and their fancy and costly stereos. We did not own a radio. There was nothing to distract us from the beauty we beheld, every minute of the day – for fifty days!
We were covered in the vibration of the hot golden grass being cooled by the breeze of the Milky Way, then fanned by a shooting star that opened our third eye even wider. And we saw things that no woman and man had seen since the dawn of creation. We beheld one another. Our look, was so deep. When we came into Safeway, they turned their heads. No one had the courage to look us in the eye! They had all………..betrayed the cause!
“God blessed them; and God said to them, “Be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth, and subdue it; and rule over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the sky and over every living thing that moves on the earth.”
We came to own it all, the young man and woman – who had nothing, but the promise, and the Deed. Our tan bodies were covered with a fine sheen of sparkling star-dust that had been caught up in our gravity. We are captured (in creative theory) in the photograph above, that even speaks of what we heard. We owned the sound of silence. We were not afraid to be quiet – for days! My soul is forever attuned to this solitude, with her. She is the radio of my soul.
She is my muse who came to California in 1970, and got separated. Two days later and 2:30 A.M. she comes at me from where she hid in a darkened door, and asks;
“Can I walk with you?”
I asked her why she came to the Golden State.
“Do want to model become a star in Hollywood?”
Lola came West and lived near Sacramento. I believe as the embodiment of Lola, Rena came to find me, my walk-on after I died. Jeane-Baptiste Rosemond de Beauvallon, had destroyed Lola’s career. She never dreamed she would become the Muse of Christine Rosamond Presco-Benton and finder herself in the middle of a literary battle.
The Press is under attack by the President of the United States and his goons. Threats are being made on the lives of reporters – and their families!
“The quarrel, however, was really one between two rival papers, La Presse and Le Globe, which had long been at daggers drawn. Granier de Cassagnac, the editor of Le Globe, was the brother-in-law of de Beauvallon, and Emile de Girardin, the proprietor of La Presse, had systematically held him up to ridicule in his columns. Hence, when the news of the restaurant fracas leaked out among the café gossipers, the result was that everybody said: “il n’y eut qu’une voix pour dire ‘c’est le Globe qui veut se battre avec la Presse.'”
I sent letters to Judge Silver and Special Executor, Sydney Morris, who sat in the same office with, Robert Brevoort Buck, that was located two blocks from the Rosamond Gallery on Delores! I begged them not to sell our Program of Recovery to outsiders that do not suffer from the disease of alcoholism, nor share the abuse we suffered. Stacey Pierrot hired three ghost writers, and destroyed my family legacy. Julie Lynch was hired to author a movie script, and claims HBO may produce her load of clap-trap that will depict my late sister as a crazy drunken artist, based upon a previous work.
EDITOR’S NOTE: Keep in mind there exist a 276 page autobiography that Christine Rosamond wrote, that has been closeted – disappeared. Any movie based upon Christine’s words would belong to my two nieces, and the outsiders would not get any money. Outsiders did not want my nieces, or myself, to author a biography for the same reason. They were not in Christine’s Will. Consider what Walter Keane did to Margaret Keane in the movie ‘Big Eyes’. This is IDENTITY THEFT!
The Transmutation of my Muse, Rena Victoria Easton, began with an idea that I ran past Charles J. Shields about I possibly authoring the story of Lucia Joyce, the muse of her father, James Joyce, and lover of Samuel Becket who was inspired by Antonin Artaud.
“On December 29, 2013, I posted this on the Facebook of Charles J. Shield who wrote ‘And so it goes’ the biography of Kurk Vonnegut, my idol…..
“If Lucia had her way, she would go with a Dance Drama, a tale of how a classic Anglo-Saxon novel is assimilated into the Hippie Dance Music Culture. The Grateful Dead will do Finnagan’s Wake, and, here come the Lucettes! Turn down volume on India dance and leave Love song.”
Jean-Baptiste de Rosemond
President” Royal Rosamond Press
The name Tamalpais was first recorded in 1845. It comes from the Coast Miwok name for this mountain, támal pájiṣ, literally “west hill”. Various different folk etymologies also exist, but they are unsubstantiated. One holds that it comes from the Spanish Tamal país, meaning “Tamal country,” Tamal being the name that the Spanish missionaries gave to the Coast Miwok people. Another holds that the name is the Coast Miwok word for “sleeping maiden” and is taken from a “Legend of the Sleeping Maiden.” However, this legend actually has no basis in Coast Miwok myth and is instead a piece of Victorian-era apocrypha. Another suggests a tie to the Asian origins of the Miwoks, where “pais” means place and “tamal” is a tribe in Siberia.
The Coast Miwok are said to have believed that an evil witch dwelled at the top of Mount Tamalpais and therefore never set foot on the peak. However, it has been said the Miwoks only said this in order to keep settlers off the sacred mountain.
Rena Victoria’s return in a more fleshy form (ink and paper) is equivalent to Eve returning to Adam in Paradise. A New Genesis is under way, as I own four pages of divine suggestions worthy of the Sistine chapel, such as this one;
“I see you are quite left-leaning. Please do not, in your urban world, be too hard on cattle producers and red-neck women. We are human too!”
Perhaps this is not a commandment from the omnipotent pedagogy, but, it is a wished for course correction that points the prow of my ship towards a more feminine, thus peaceful star. If I don’t want the source of my inspiration flow, to be cut-off, I will do my best to write the most profound apology in the history of the English language. James Joyce, move over.
For a warm up I am going to author a short story about two French lunatics who escape from the booby hatch and hop a steamer to America in 1872. Going West, they buy a cattle ranch in Montana, and are pleased that they fit right in. Here, scary psychotic folks carrying a big gun are held in high esteem. In no time Vince and Art have acquired a reputation.
“Don’t get in these guys way, because they are bad-ass hombres – even though they’re from France.”
Just put a cowboy hat on Gough and Artaud, and we got one hell of a psychological western thriller that tells the world Artists and Mad Men – are human beings too!
Do you think there is a Cultural Shootout coming, between me and my Muse, at the ‘I’m O.K. You’re O.K. Coral’? I think this is exciting as all hell!
We also camped at Bullfrog Pond campground for a couple of weeks.
CHARITABLE PURPOSES ONLY
Thomas Peters, the president and chief executive officer of the Marin Community Foundation, said the Buck will stated only that the money be used for “charitable, religious or educational purposes in providing care for the needy in Marin County.”
The word “poor” is never used, and the court order later interpreted the word “needy” to mean all people in need, not just the indigent, according to Peters.
“The so-called allegation is so patently false and so easily refuted by the facts that one questions the true motivation of this criticism,” he said. “Easily 75 percent of the money we granted over the past year could be classified as pointed toward individuals and families where economic, social and linguistic needs are paramount.”
ESTATE VALUE MUSHROOMED
It is the Marin-only provision in the Buck will that is at the root of the trouble. That restriction was fine when the estate was less than $10 million, as it was in 1975. But the estate multiplied in value when the family’s oil company was merged into Texaco in 1979, and by the mid-1980s it was worth close to $400 million.
In 1984, the San Francisco Foundation, which at that time controlled the money, sued to break the limiting clause. Joined by Gnaizda and other advocates, it argued that Beryl Buck, a nurse, would have wanted to spread the wealth if she had known how large her bequest would become.
The suit infuriated residents of Marin, prompting Giacomini to dub the litigants “grave-robbing bastards.”
The pithy insult stuck, and — after 93 days and $10.2 million in legal fees — the suit was eventually settled in Marin’s favor.
San Francisco Supervisor Gerardo Sandoval says it is irresponsible to hoard the Leonard and Beryl H. Buck Trust’s huge sums of money when the whole Bay Area is suffering, and money for charity is so scarce.
“I see it as Marin County, as usual, not taking up its share of the burden, ” said Sandoval, who sponsored the resolution demanding regional distribution.
More exciting than the sight
Of my dapple mare
in the spring grassy rain
near the crags of Londonderry
was the sight of my Laura
looking sideways at me
Like the warmth rising
from within my woolen coat
soaked through in a sudden
are my feelings rising
for this Irish Lass
Who through the veil
of other lifetimes
ignored the patient attention
of her handsome suitors
Lining up to behold her
they showed me their profiles
sensing someone outside
had caught her fancy
Their young lust made more noble
In the presence of her perfection
had cast a spell over our town
This shiny bright being
conducted this most ancient play
with eyes that danced and sparkled
Like beams of light
caught on a breaking wave
Or gems captured
in a brook that trickle
out of a dark shaded wood
There was a silver sheen
under her wide-set eyes
Her long lashes
were like banners
Sending errant knights
on foreign crusades
For there could only be
one champion of her heart
Sensing my eyes
were upon her,
More then weighing her beauty
but her young womanly soul
She bid her long tapered arms
As playful as swans
who mate for life
She teased us all
with her promise
that one day
one of us would have her
But until that vow
little girls admired
the fine curls in her
dark brown hair
her joyful smile
that flirted with everything
that beat blood through
an Irish heart.
She was our drummer
and the setting sun that
Chose to break thru
The heavy ceiling
of our darkest clouds
no gray pall
ever cast a shadow
on our Laura
Some claim she
gave them a wondrous wink
But when she
turned that day
to look fully at me
There was no smile on her lips
no movement of her arms
that had fallen to her side
to allow me to see
I was the one
And never again would
my Lovely Laura
look sideways at me
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.