Anatomy of a Rogue Wave

My beloved sister Christine, walked in my footsteps. She saw me make something from nothing – all the time! She saw me make bright gods from the dark scat our parents put in our way. She wanted to be like me! Two ghost writers were hired by Stacey Pierrot TO HIDE THE TRUTH I just told you. On Tuesday I told Shamus Dundon he has been helping Stacey Pierrot hide the truth. Shannon Rosamond wrote me on facebook and said she found evidence Vicki conspired with Pierrot to betray her. She contributed to the lies Tom Snyder told. Did her son help, and thus, there was no need to read ‘When You Close Your Eyes wherein it claims my beloved sister was doing very advanced work – while hiding in a closet – at four years of age!!!!!!!

Above is a Mother’s Day card that Christine’s teacher ha her, and all her students make. This is Kindergarten! Christine would be four. Can you make out – the rose? There is a rose atop Rosemary’s jewelry box. I found my words next to Christine’s card……

“The child plays
the toy boat sails across the pond 
Just now the work is begun
Oh child
Look what you have done.”

John Presco

Copyright 2019

“In Rosemary’s box, I found a piece of paper she saved. She would snatch my writing she found, and hide it away. I can recall writing it. The first part is missing. I speak of a young American pilot strafing a farmer with an ox in his families ancient rice paddy, with a bottle of Coca-Cola between his leg. This act of murder is all in fun, at best, a sport, but, never the preservation of democracy. There is nothing in the Constitution that bids us wipe out people who adobt a different political system then ours – nothing!

“that farmer. Why is it Dad, that you could see only so far into my future (un-readable) you could see no more; and you did send there, though I did not go; forgive (me) that I knew, you were sending me to die, and did not go.

I am sorry I did not become a man; but now only ask – What is a man?

I am sorry I am not dead; but the truth has killed me.

Oh father I have gone to war
And I wish I were home again.”

These words are a glimpse into my death-experience I was not fully aware of. I was there, on a beach in California dying of “guilt that was not mine to own”. I died alongside my peers, my brothers. Can I ever come home, the boy who did not go?

John Presco

The Joan Crawford Hour 2

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‘Anatomy of a Rogue Wave’

Chapter One

In 1948, Suzanne Plachette, the beautiful apprentice to the world famous photographer, Frank Rosefish, lifts the heavy camera of her master, and climbs to the top of the rock. Frank has gotten too old to make this climb. Suzanne understands a gauntlet has been passed. Positioning the legs of the tripod on the jagged rock was no easy task. Her heart racing, she sees her shot. She changes the lens for a close-up and presses the button with her thumb.

“Hurry up!” Frank shouts up to his understudy, he doing his best not to notice the strong wind has blown her skirt up to her thigh. Distracted, and annoyed, the young Parisian climbs down the treacherous rock, carefully. If she stumbles, her chance to be  a famous photographer, would be at and end.

The next day, Suzanne brings the newspaper to her master’s Carmel bungalow. Together they read about the woman who got swept off Rocky Point by a “rouge wave”.

“This doesn’t make any sense!” declares Rosefish. “This is bullshit! Who in their right mind would go tide-pooling here?”

Having photographed every square inch of this coastline, Frank knew this was a very dangerous place. A fisherman was swept off this rock a week prior. There had been an eclipse of the moon. This woman had lived in Carmel most of her life.

“She knew better.” Rosefish uttered slowly as he let out a puff of smoke after taking a long draw from his meerschaum pipe.

Suzanne was distracted, as she took in the handsome man in the Sea Captain’s uniform. He was informing his fans he was sailing back to San Francisco on his famous yacht, the ‘Bohemian Roe’.

“That’s him! That’s the man I took a photograph of. He was standing next to this striking young woman. I got a close up just as you called to me. When I looked up, this woman was gone!

Rosefish took the pipe out of his mouth and lay it down on the oak table. Teacher and student looked at each other for what seemed an eternity. As one they made a beeline for the darkroom to develop what would turn out to be – the shot seen round the world.

Jon Presco

Copyright 2015

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Anatomy of a Rogue Wave

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‘Anatomy of a Rogue Wave’

Chapter Two

Irene Westhaven raised eyebrows when she told her friends at college she was kin to Benjamin Franklin, who had come to Connecticut to put together the First Congress. What she did not dare tell them, was, she was heir to the Dharma-Shave company, and was worth seventeen million dollars. To be this rich, and that beautiful, would render her the campus monster, a hunchback. In order to keep her mouth shut, she began to memorize poems – many poem! If they knew she was the smartest woman to ever attend Radcliffe, they would crucify her!

Growing up on a farm in Watsonville, ‘The Artichoke Capital of the World’ she was rendered an orphan when a dust-cropping plane came hurtling out of the sky like a giant comet, and slammed into the Westhaven home. Irene was away visiting her grandmother in Carmel.

Dorothy Witherspoon was an old Beat Poet who talked George Sterling out of committing suicide on several occasions. Alas, she gave up. For decades she endured the title fellow writers lay on her….’Black Widow’. Even though she was a lesbian, the rumors she broke George’s heart, would not desist. How a lesbian could be a grandmother, was the town puzzle. The ancient authors who wrote books on Communism and Socialism, who clung to life in their quaint little writer’s bungalows, felt vindicated. They now spread a rumor Dorothy was a witch who caused that bi-plane to catch fire.

“She was driven by a well-deserved loneliness. She put a hex on that pilot.”

Benjamin went to Harvard. Like his father before him Ben’s father was a cooper. They made the best oak barrels on the East Coast. They had one rival, the California Barrel Company in San Francisco. It was expected of Ben to go to college and come up with a better barrel – and destroy the family rival. He didn’t want to argue with his ancestors, because after three hundred years there wasn’t much room for improvement.

Ben began to feel like a unnecessary appendage, a gimpy arm that would soon wither and fall off. The Westhavens began to consider him a parasite going along for a free ride – that they enjoyed for generations. Not one of the established Westhavens had improved the family product. How what Westhavens are chosen to receive family money, remains one of the world’s foremost secrets.

“I wish I knew!” Ben told his levitating lover whose family owned Lima Bean fields in Oxnard. “I would can it and sell it!”

Ben dropped out in his second year and announced he was going to spend the family grubstake on a trip to Tibet. He had met a girl from California that had become a Buddhist. She claimed she had learned her outstanding love-making techniques from a Englishman in Nepal who got her hooked, then un-hooked, from Opium. She claimed they levitated when they expericenced a mutual orgasm.

The first thing Ben saw when he entered the monestary, was ten boys getting their head shaved. He was transfixed. The monks did not use a lathering brush, or amy lubricant, yet the hair came off like fresh fallen show. Pretending to go through an initiation, Ben alas asked the question he longed to ask;

“Who makes your razors?”

Ben was taken to the head monk who took him deep into the mountain where a forge was glowing red like the eyes of a dragon. Here he was shown the prototype, an ancient razor with an ivory handle whereon was carved a dragon.

“This razor once belonged to ancient Scythian traders who brought it out of India. We were shown how to forge the metal, but, the trick is in how to sharpen it. Ben was taken to a whetstone that never stopped turning. Monks with one large arm cranked the stone as they chanted. When the razor was judged sharp enough, it was taken to a murky pool where swam blind Coy fish. The master monk ran the edge through the heart of a dead hog, then dipped the razor in the water. Ben let out a strange sound as he saw the fish sucking on the blade.

“They have very tiny teeth that puts on the final edge.”

Ben’s mind reeled. He was in that certain light. He heard deep chanting.

The first thought was, how much do these fish cost, and could he get them to the States on board the ocean liner. He then set up his camera, and took photographs.

“I want to make these razors in America. Do I own your permission?”

“Of course, it is the Buddhist way to be generous. But, your will need a ancient whetstone and master turners. If they turn to fast, or turn too slow, you will cut into the scalp of the initiate. If sharpened correctly, one need never sharpen them again. For this reason, they will cost you a pretty penny. Is that how you say it?’

Ben rubbed his chin.

“I’ll just take some of the fish! You can keep your Turners.”

On the voyage home Ben worked on his master plan. He was proud of himself to realize in an instant that if he replicated the Tibetan Dragon Razors, and sold them, then he would be out of business. He wanted to make a killing, which meant the average male would buy ten inferior Dragon razors in his lifetime. Then, out of the blue, popped this idea; one would mail their dull razors to THE DHARMA-RAZOR COMPANY where it will be specially re-sharpened by Master Turners form Tibet, and the sacred blind Coy fish.  There will be pictures of these monks on the box.  Most American men had become seriously attached to their Dragon blades, even considered them members of the family. This annual re-honing of the sacred blade costs a little less than buying a new razor, which is what they will get back in the mail, because – this is cost-affective.

“As good as new!”

Inside the box, is a tiny scroll bound by a red silk ribbon. Ben’s silent Tibetan partner spent most of his day authoring wise sayings which a machine stamped out. Customers loved this ‘Touch of the Orient’ and were on their phones exchanging wise sayings. Then, one day, a farmer without a phone, rendered his pearl of wisdom on five signs, then, stuck them in the ground next to the highway that ran past his farm.

The rest is history. A steady stream of yellow school buses drive up to the Dharma-Shave plant every day, and out pour the latest brood of suckers, they squealing with delight to see the blind sucking Coy fish put on the final edge of the razors that are dunked over an over again – just for show!  Then, here come Buddhist Turner monks dressed in orange robes, to hand the children a sucker. The sleeve on their developed arm is pinned up, and the kids take turns feeling their muscles. Then, in awe, they touch the dragon tattoo.

All the Sacred Turners are secretly bussed in from New York’s Chinatown, and given a fifty pound dumbbell.

Not one male, or female, who got a sucker, ever bought any razor that did not have the plastic dragon handle. Ben, had reinvented the barrel. For stepping out of line, all the Westhavens disowned him but his brother, Charlie, the father of Irene Westhaven, who some say was the most beautiful woman in the world. But, now she is dead, killed by a rogue wave.






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Dharma is a word without direct translation, but implies ‘religion,’ ‘duty,’ and ‘righteousness.’ It derives from a Sanskrit root word meaning to uphold or sustain. The concept behind Dharma is anything that upholds or sustains a positive order. For example, an individual, a family, a community, a nation, and the universe all help uphold order.

A-Dharma is the opposite of dharma; it is the failure of the individuals in the system to maintain the system. The children do not grow up, the police do not protect, the educators do not teach. If there is too much a-dharma then the entire system breaks down, and families, communities, nations, even societies break down.

I have been wanting to start this thread for a while. Although I am primarily interested in seeing what some of our other members know about this topic, some of you may find this information interesting. I’m a scholar of Buddhist history and I thought I would share a little information on Buddhist head shaving for those who are interested. As with most things related to Buddhism, the following statements apply to MOST ordained Buddhists, but not all of them.

Do monastics have to shave their heads? According to the traditional Buddhist Vinaya (the written rules of conduct said to date to the time of the Buddha to which Buddhist monks and nuns are expected to adhere), monastics are supposed to shave their heads either once every two months, or whenever their hair gets to be longer than two fingers’ length. In practice, Buddhist monastics in most countries shave more often.

What do they use? Again, the Vinaya stipulates the eight possessions that monastics are allowed to own. In East Asia, this rule was rarely adhered to literally, but in South and Southeast Asia they still take this rule very seriously. These eight items are: one each of three types of robes, a waistband, an alms bowl, a sewing needle and thread, a water filter, and a razor. Modern commentaries say this last item allows monks to use safety razors, or to keep the necessary items related to keeping a straight razor, meaning a whetstone, razor case, and a strop). For example, see: Buddhist Monastic Code II: Chapter 1

From what I’ve seen, it looks like a lot of monastics today shave with DE or other disposable razors. I recall seeing some really cool old Buddhist razors at the main museum in Bangkok that where similar in many ways to the straights we use now. Many Thai monks today use DE razors. Here’s an example:Hair-Shaving Ceremony – Thailand Life

Of the monks I knew in Korea, most used Mach 3 or other multi-blade razors. This of course doesn’t mean that others still don’t use some serious blades. Check out these pictures of a traditional-style Korean ordination, in which the woman’s hair is shaved with a blade the size of a meat cleaver. Granted, these pictures were from a movie, but I don’t doubt that some hardcore monks and nuns still shave with this kind of implement.
Aje Aje Bara Aje

I’ve seen a few examples of monks and nuns who shave their heads with straight razors. Does anyone have any experiences seeing or learning about the ways that Buddhist monks and nuns shave today? I know there are members here from all over the world and I am really curious to read about what you have heard and seen.

About Royal Rosamond Press

I am an artist, a writer, and a theologian.
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1 Response to Anatomy of a Rogue Wave

  1. Reblogged this on Rosamond Press and commented:

    In 2015 I began ‘Anatomy of a Rogue Wave’ that became a real-life adventure when I leant Christine’s biography to me neighbor who shared it with several people after I told her not to. I wanted her to go over the accounts of the “rogue wave” that allegedly “killed” my famous sister. This demented woman employed my old enemies and ugly neighbors to harass me while I worked getting my newspaper-blog out. Wave became ‘The Royal Janitor’ after I proved Elizabeth Rosemond Taylor is my cousin. Through her I am kin to Ian Fleming.

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