For the reason Congressman Frank H. Buck may have unethically made millions employing his status as a elected official, as a newspaperman, I am not obligated to honor the copyright of the evil book ‘When You Close Your Eyes’ by Tom Snyder, in the search for the facts, and the truth. This book belongs to the law firm of Heisinger, Morris & Buck who gave their strange legal permission for its existence – in order to give new life to interest in Rosamond’s work. Sales were waning!
If the normal rules on how any why books are written, was applied, then, the conscience of the author would have practiced restraint and common self-editing. There are things you just do not do. This hired outsider owned a special legal status that needs to be filed in a Superior Court, and studied for hundreds of years – as a profound case of Judicial Misconduct!
I have read much history about art, and artists, but, I have never read anything that approaches the vileness that Snyder employs in his assassination of my creative character, and code of artistic ethics. Tom Snyder, toys the words of the artist, Garth Benton, and has me betraying by childhood friend, my famous sister, the world of art, and my own artistic values, because of the contrived childhood rivalry Christine and I did not have, because Christine took up art at twenty-four.
There will be much discussion of these slanderous and diabolical words, that could be full of hidden meanings. There are four artists involved in this defamation of character. Rosamond’s fans just want to her wonderful tales about loving artists. These may not be Garth’s words. The use of the word “Anyway” is telling. Here are reasons for Rosamond to kill herself – after she is already dead!
In Mr. Sydney Morris’s Report of the Administration he says on page 4 line 10;
“Petitioner hired Stacey Pierrot, who had been assistant manager of the gallery during Decedent’s lifetime, to run the gallery and prepare and execute a marketing plan. The gallery was run by the estate until March 1996 when the gallery was sold to Ms. Pierrot through a contract approved by this Court. During the time that the estate operated the gallery, aggressive marketing efforts were made in an attempt to stir interest in Decedent’s work and increase the potential market for her work. In spite of these efforts, interest in Decedent’s work continued to wane.”
On page six, Mr. Morris explains why there was a delay in the closing of the estate;
“By September 2000, however, plans were underway for a biography of Decedent, which Petitioner hoped might create interest in her work. The book was published in 2002. Although the book did not spur the hoped-for interest in Decedent’s life and work, efforts continued to market the concept of a screenplay based upon Decedent’s life. Petitioner hoping that this might be brought to fruition, elected to keep the estate open. However, it is the Petitioner’s belief the likelihood of an increased interest in Decedents work is negligible, and the time has come to close the estate.”
THE LIE
“It’s even more obvious in her work ‘The Crossing’. She was very depressed, dealing with her unresolved feelings of losing her childhood sweetheart, Bill.”
(Bill and Christine were never sweethearts. Why is Christine laying this on her husband, who might get jealous?)
“He died before she could work it through with, or about him, and she resented Greg because she said he didn’t deliver on his promise to tell Bill how she felt.”
(Garth would conclude there was no relationship, or bond. He and Snyder should chalk this up to Christine going after someone, a male, as usual. But no! They are going for my jugular. I never met these snipes!)
“She really loved him and maybe Greg saw that as an intrusion. Anyway, Christine told me that he never delivered that message. Later, Bill pulled his car onto the tracks and died under the wheels of a train – a suicide according to Christine – and she never got over her failure to tell Bill her feelings for him. She felt very strongly that she could have saved him somehow, if he’d only known.”
(What this evil says, is, because I failed to tell my best friends about my sister’s feelings, Bill did not receive the loving message that would have kept him from taking his life. She never got over my failure, my betrayal of Bill, and her. She would never forgive me. I killed Bill. I went back on my word. I betrayed my artistic values. I made death happen. In my book, Garth is a suspect in the possible murder of his ex-wife, who my mother said, killed herself. The law firm owned by Robert Brevoort Buck, allowed this little prick to play god with my family – and the dead!
Both Garth and Tom would benefit from me hating my sister after I read this legal-like book. I would quit my real book that Mark did not contribute to, because, he told me he could not think of anything nice to say about our sister. Mark got to proofread this court-ordered document. Did he have any concern I might take my life? Does Mark have anything nice to say about David Duke?)
THE TRUTH
Bill Arnold was my childhood friend. We were famous best friends. We met when we were twelve in Mr. Kouches art class at McKenzie Junior High. I was working on a watercolor that would be chosen to tour the world in a Red Cross Art Show, I one of a hundred students chosen from across this nation.
“That’s a very fine work of art!” I heard Bill say as he stood behind me. When I turned to see who was giving me a compliment I was gazing into the eyes of a very tall blue-eyed, bond haired Nordic boy. I knew right away this was the new boy my friends had recently told me about, who played on the field with his shirt off exposing large welts on his back. When our peers asked him how he got these wounds, he told them from his father.
Bill’s father had a been a career officer in the Army who was trying to break his rebellious sons will so he would be just like him. He would wake his son at six in the morning and make him lie in a ice cold bath with the window wide open, before he went to school.
In 1986 Bill’s sister told me her father would beat her brother most every day, while she lie trembling under the covers. Vicky told me she slept with her deceased father revolver under her pillow because she suffered from PTSD, and, she needed to know she could end it in an instance if it became unbearable. This was her sleep aid. Victoria make six figures as a dog therapist to the stars.
After we concluded Bill had committed suicide twenty minutes past my eighteenth birthday, Vicky begged me to get sober and stop killing myself with alcohol so she would not be all alone with the things we now knew to be the truth. I got sober in 1987. My daughter believes I got sober so I could look down my nose at people who socially drink so I can feel important. Heather bonds with people who love to drink.
“The child plays. The toy boat sails across the pond. The work is just begun. Oh child, look what you have done!”
The love for my childhood friend, Bill Arnold, is the most profound love of my life, for two very young artists, found each, after coming to believe no one on earth would ever own a clue who we were. It was an instant recognition, a love at first sight. Bill was thirteen, and I was twelve. Bill was killed by a train at a crossing twenty minutes past my eighteenth birthday.
Before there was a war in Vietnam, there was the famous war Bill waged with his father, retired Lt. Colonel Bryan C. Arnold. Bill’s protestations should be studied, so America can alas own a clue on how to topple Military dictatorships all over the world, such as the succesful toppling of Ghadafi in Libya.
Here are sketches of Bill that I retrieved from the internet. They are the crux of my novel ‘Artist’. I found the words at the top in my mother’s treasure box, along with these, written when I was in my twentues. Its time to bring the war in Vietnam to a close. We American men are no longer needed to gift Liberty to others, for a boy has shown us how.
“I am sorry I did not become a man,
but only ask “What is a man?”
I’m sorry I am not dead, but,
the truth has killed me.
Oh father I have gone to war!
And I wish I was home again!”
Jon Presco
Copyright 2011
When I met my best friend, Bill Arnold, we became fast friends, for
he too was an Artist, Poet, and Playwrite. William Arnold emulated
Jack London and the Beat Poets. At thirteen Bill and I founded a
Bohemian Club amongst our friends, and after school we used to visit
a house where Beat Artists lived. Lawrence Ferlinhetti discribed
Sterling as a “leashed Swinebrune”. Swinburne wrote a play and a
poem about Fair Rosamond, and Rosamund ‘Queen of Lombards’.
Sterling was a suicide, as was London according to some accounts. It
is suspected my dear friend Bill also was a suicide, he being hit by
a train as his car sat on a railroad crossing in Utah, it coming to
a stop there twenty minutes past my eigteenth birthday. Rosamond did
a painting of tradgedy titled ‘The Crossing’.
George Sterling is a founder of the Bohemian Scene of Carmel where
Rosamond established her Art Gallery. As to the whereabouts of the
photo of our Bohemians in the Redwood Grove, the executor of
Rosamond’s artistic legacy sold the gallery and aspects of our
family history to the current owner of the gallery, ignoring my
claim to this history that is destined for the Oakland Museum – at
least – with all the parisites un-attached.
In the un-authorized biography that the owner of Rosamond gallery
commisioned a Ghost Writer to write, Stacy Pierrot dare alow the
suggestion to be written that I could have saved my best friend’s
life if I had passed to him a message from Christine. The truth will
break your heart. Here is what Jack had to say, he in poor health;
“I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent
glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet. The proper function of man
is to live, not to exist. I shall not waste may days in trying to
prolong them. I shall use my time.”
The California Writers Club has recently planted another grove of
redwoods in the Oakland Hills. The ‘Writer’s Memorial Grove’ is
forever honoring Joaquin Miller, London, Sterling, and Dashiel
Hammet, who used to sail out to the Anacapa Islands with my
grandfather, Royal Rosamond, the author of five novels, and many
short stories that appeared in several California magazines, ‘Out
West’ and ‘Love Story’. Royal taught Earl Stanely Gardner the
rudiments of writing. He and Dashiel were members of the literary
guild the ‘Black Mask’.
Royal’s two beautiful daughters, Lillian and Rosemary were good
friends of the actor Errol Flyn, and spent time with him and his
friends, playing tennis, swimming, and doing all those other golden
things Californians are known for. When Flynn and his good friend
tried to sneak in Lillian’s window earlu one morn, my grandmother
Mary chased him away with a broom, she in her long white flannel
nightgown, her long hair trailing after her in the moonlight as she
raised her broom to strike the infamous Swashbuckler.
We Presco children would call up Joaquin’s daughter on the phone and
get advice, she known as ‘The White Witch’ of Oakland. Our home was
filled with children, many of them staying the night, or living with
us outright. We were a commune full of bright creative beings that
had a divine love and respect for each other without equal.
It is a shame that there are pretenders in the world. Those Bohunks
in the redwood grove, were the real thing. I am a Son of the
Bohemian Brotherhood, and an authority on ‘The Grove’ that was found
outside the Temple in Jerusalem, and know the Tree Alphabet of the
Druids and Celts. You can say I wear the Antlars of the White Stag,
and am a ‘Bard of the Bohemians of Oakland’.
I Flew Over Billie’s House Yesterday
Yesterday I looked at my childhood friend Bill’s house with the satellite map. I
saw his house and the addition in the back where Bill’s bedroom was. Using my
cursor, I comforted my friend. I protected him once again as he slept. I saw
myself asleep in that room in another military issue bed. We were twelve years
old. In 1986, Bill’s sister, Vicky, told me Bill’s father beat her brother
almost every night in order to break his will. When I spent the night, these
beatings did not happen. I was Bill’s innocent protector. Bill was six foot
three inches tall, a blonde with Norwegian roots. Bill was my beautiful friend
who I loved dearly.
Retired Lieutenant-Colonel Brian C. Arnold was insane. He had no life after he
left the Army, and thus he never left the Army even though he was a civilian. He
had one person under his command, his beautiful blue eyed son. He would wake
Bill at six in the morning splashing water in his face with a toothbrush. If
Bill did not get up fast enough, he would drag him out of bed and throw him in
the ice cold bath that awaited for him where he was forced to sit for an hour
with the window wide open.
As I see it, this boy is behind the Peace Demonstration against the War in
Vietnam. He smoked pot, once, before he drove his car onto a railroad track and
killed himself on my eighteenth birthday. When I saw the hard evidence Bill was
beat up, I asked him why he did not fight back. Bill said; “I love my father,
and, this is not your concern.”
Rosamond Press 
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