CNN and the 60s

I watched CNN last night. It brought back so many bad memories. The account of the fall of the Hippie movement was accurate. I saw a couple of faces that belonged to the Super Acid Freak who took over, and invited 200,000 wanna-be hippies to come to the Height. What a disastrous idea. This is the last thing the Originals wanted. This was a power-trip concocted by acid and mephedrone. When members of the Brotherhood of Eternal Love came to see me, I said I was going to take LSD from them and dilute it in the sea.

I was left with all the hard work. I begun to repair the damage.

John

THE SIXTIES series finale: Sex, Drugs, and Rock n’ Roll airs tonight at 9pm Eastern

After I my fall and death on McClure’s beach, I spent two days in a
room without food or water. No one dare enter. On the eve of the
second day the apartment filled with people. I sensed they were
talking about me.

There was a gentle knock on the door, and Keith opened it and asked
if he could come in. I gave him permission. He pulled up a chair,
asked me how I felt. He let out little laugh when I did, a laugh
that said;

“How would you feel after swallowing the Earth?”

He then held out his hand, and in it was a tab of LSD. I let out a
great sigh.

“You have to take it, or you won’t be able to return.”

I took the acid knowing this was the case, for two days I was stuck
in another dimension, hovering in a place between life and death. I
was a very powerful person.

An hour later I emerged. In the living room were about twelve
people, nine I did not know. There was an empty chair, a ornate
Victorian chair with a high back. Everyone in the room wanted me to
sit there. When I did, suddenly I was wearing the robes of a king,
and, there was a crown upon my head. I had seen this crown
surrounding me in the sand, the sand taking the form of Flor de
leves, and were like a ring of spears protecting me as I sat cross-
legged in a bell jar of protective energy. I had no respect for
kings, then, and wondered why I was one.

A young woman approached, and knelt before me. She took my hand and
asked me what I wanted.

“I’m thirsty. I would like a drink of water, please.”

After she left for the kitchen, a man on my left was forcing three
pennies into my wounded hand, he unaware he was causing me pain. He
was speaking to me, and was upsetting me. I turned to him and with
consternation, and asked;

“What is it you want from me?”

“I want you to throw these pennies on the floor six times so I can
read you, see your immediate future.”

I did not want to handle this money, but did as he asked, and now
this gentleman was reading from a book `The Book of Changes’ the `I
Ching’. I had thrown `The Army’.

Above is a photo of THE PATH I took long ago after dropping a hefty dose of LSD with two friends. Twenty years later I go for a reading at the Berkley Psychic Institute at the insistence of my first lover, Marilyn Reed. Sitting before are two young Seers, a woman about twenty-two says this;

You own your own creation. You died!”

Since 1987 I have been searching for the proof of this. Since Memorial Day, I found it in the article about Brett Weston, Carol Williams, and the executor of my sister’s creative legacy, Sydney Morris. Then, I found Charles King and his mountain – that in theory I stand upon, all alone, because this mountain was made for me to climb. You see, I figured out what Jesus wrote in the sand, and why they cast lots for his valuable robe. Rena says she has been a janitor and a recluse. Under her humble bed down in the boiler room, is a sword named.

EXCALIBUR

Then, there is the Holy Grail I found in my friend Virginia’s genealogy. When my sixteen year old daughter came into my life for the first time, I made the mistake of telling her and her mother what the Seer said, because they used this to make me out to be insane and take all they could from me.

Below are photographs of my boat I owned in 1968. I lived aboard this vessel I neglected to name in a harbor on the Oakland estuary about a quarter of a mile from Jack London Square, and where Jack docked his boat. There is a drawing pad on my bed where I did drawings of Atlantis that my future wife raved about. Having no television, I got out art books from the Oakland Library. One of these books was on the Pre-Raphaelites.

Two days after my fall on the dramatic and beautiful rocks at McLure’s Beach, around eight members of the Brotherhood of Eternal Love came to see me. They wanted me to take LSD with them, which I did. The next day one member came back to ask me;

What do you want?”

I want to paint again. I was an artist.”

Robert took me to see his friend at the Berkeley Art Supplies store, and told Tim Scully to supply me with all that I need. Tim’s sister had gotten down on one knee and asked;

What do you want?”

I’m thirsty. I would like a glass of water, please!”

Nicky Scully went into the kitchen and returned with crystal goblets on a silver tray.

Peter Shapiro called me two weeks ago, and we talked about our friends dying. His sister Mary died four days later, and, his dog, Dogananda. We had talked about the first Dogananda that belonged to Chris Wandel. We came to own her son, Humphry Dogart. Peter and I lived in a house in Oakland where I did my infamous painting of Rena – that launched a thousand Rosamond prints.

I became s New Pre-Raphaelite because I was in search of a Spiritual Path that incorporated Art. I became a follower of Meher Baba after I moved in with ‘The Loading Zone’ and saw a photo of him on the wall.   The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood reborn religious messages in art. They were inspired by the Nazarene Artists of Germany who let their hair grow long after the Nazarites. Though I had long hair, I let it grown even longer.

My daughter and her lover called me a “parasite” on society three years ago, and took my grandson out of my life. Heather told me I was insane. Yesterday I found the magazine ‘The New Path’ written by members of the American Pre-Raphaelites. Their counterparts in England published ‘The Germ’. This blog is an aspect of my newspaper, Royal Rosamond Press, named after my grandfather who published his own magazine ‘Bright Stories’. I am on SSI, I live on $700 hundred dollars a month. I am giving my stories and novels away, showing them to the world, for free. I have not made a dime. I get no funding like others do. I am not a parasite. I am ‘A Giver’. I give back to the world what God gave to me.

After the young Seer told me I had died, there was a long silence in the room. A guide in the back of the room recording my reading, said this;

Are we in heaven? Is this proof there is a heaven?”

It was a two hour reading. When I left, I was given a cassette tape. When I played it, there was nothing but static. I wondered if the Seers had done this. Or, the entity they spoke of. UFO stories go like this.

In my portrait you see slivers of electrical energy all around me. My sister wanted to do her first male portrait and asked if she could take photos of me in her studio. My friend, Brian Purvis was there with his camera and he snapped off a roll, too. When Christine got both rolls developed, she freaked. She did not do a painting of me. Consider Rena’s incredible beauty. She hid her incredible memory, her beautiful mind, from me – and the world – because, it is overwhelming! Today, we have few friends. In her letter Rena says;

You will be proud of me. Alas I have a couple of friends.”

She only now has friends, because she got old. Her beauty intimidated the hell out of me. I am sure no women could stand to be in her presence.

When I got Rena’s letter last year, that she wrote on Christmas Day, I sobbed. Because she lied to me. She told me she was still married and was going to make her husband Christmas dinner. She spent all day composing that letter wherein every letter stands perfectly alone, not one attached to another. But what truly overcame me were the three words she began her Christmas letter with;

Here I am.”

The title of my theological book on the Nazarites is ‘Where art thou?” These three words are the first God speaks to Adam and Eve. Rena was responding to a blog on my grandfather’s story he wrote about Montana, where Rena lives. Ten years ago I learned Rena had married a British Admiral and was living on the Isle of Wright. I would go there, in my daydreams upon learning she was a widow. I would play Enya’s song ‘If I Could Be Where You Are’ as I envisioned our wedding day at the Cathedral of the Souls. I ask the question. She answers. I turn, I hold out my hand. Here come the bride.

Here I am.”

Rena! Come stand with me……………on Lonely Mountain!

Jon Presco

About Royal Rosamond Press

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