Rena had become possessed. She and her twenty-six year old lover had taken LSD and gotten in Satanism. She became better at it than he.
“Why did you become Satanists?”
“There wasn’t anything better to do in Nebraska!”
Going to church would have been out of the question do to the Disease of Lookism. They would have torn her apart. I employed the lessons of Meher Baba to drive out, or calm, the amazing creature that was – inside? She hid this powerful entity that became my dear friend for fifty days. You can say I have been hiding who I am. But, we got caught, and we are up! Reality has caught up with us. We resemble – what was meant to be! We are Archetypes.
John ‘The Prophet’
In 1970, Rena told me about the time the Principle of Grand Island Senior High, brought her into his office and accused her of being too beautiful to be an Islander, and, he would have to expel her if she didn’t do something about that mini-skirt that was driving all her classmates, crazy, especially the girls. No one, but no one wore a mini-skirt like Rena wore a mini-skirt.
“How come she gets to wear her skirt that short, and, we don’t?”
Really! really girls. Was her skirt really that much shorter than yours. There must be another factor at play here.
One afternoon Rena got a note in her last period. The principle wanted to see her in his office. She politely knocked, and was bid to come in. Right away she sensed there was something wrong. The venetian blinds were almost shut. There slivers of sunlight on the walls, and on the principle’s desk where she saw a bunch of photographs spread out.
“Have a seat Miss Christiansen!”
We were sitting around the campfire on our mountain. The sun had set and the stars were coming out.
“Hmmm!” I said while poking the fire sending fire pixies skyward. Pray tell what were in these photos?”
“They were of me, taken from under the bleachers during a football game!”
“Really! And who took these pictures?”
“He did!” Rena spat, she happy she alas had someone to tell this wretched tale to.
When Rena got angry, she became a dragon. Fire shot from her eyes and nostrils as she recalled her complete humiliation coming from her handsome principle with a wonderful and healthy tan.
“Was he married?” I asked, I too now intent on getting more on this voyeur, who raped Rena with a camera lense.
“While we were all watching the game he snuck down below the bleachers with his camera, crept up on me, his target, and took shots of me when I uncrossed, and crossed my legs! I was furious as he showed me his exposures one at a time! Now he is telling me he did this for my own good, and for the good of the whole school. He told me my mini-dress was a great distraction. I told him my dress was no shorter than the other girls. What about the cheers leaders, their high leaps in the air?”
“I poked at a smoking log, pushed it into the center of the hot coals. I let go a nervous cough, that alerted Rena to the truth I had a certain question to ask her. It could be extremely embarrassing, even compromising. I felt Rena’s hot gaze searing into the core of my being.
“Are you about to ask me if I was wearing any panties!” Rena Victoria said, she about the go on the war-path.”
“Heaven’s no. That is none of my business. But, what I want to ask you, has to do with what I heard. You told me you were skipped a grade, and couldn’t wait to get out of there. Rena, how old are you?”
Here she was alone with a twenty-three year old man atop a mountain, camping in a tent. We were in paradise. We took a pledge to be honest with one another. There is something very beautiful about a beautiful woman on the verge of telling the truth, but, Rena was not a woman – in California!
I now pondered why she lied to me when she told me she was eighteen. I looked up to see her golden eyes, grilling me, she looking to see what my verdict was, and, what would I do – after I busted her.
Rena was too beautiful to go to school. I think I recall the principle brought out a ruler and wanted to measure the offensive object. This is when Rena pushed the chair back, rose to her feet, turned her back on this creep, and walked out of the office.
When I saw the movie Basic instinct and the scene where Sharon Stone gets grilled by a gaggle of detectives, I wondered how many times Rena told her story that changed the course of her life.
Not only did she find her female peers terribly immature, she found almost every male she met to be an adolescent.
What people could not stand about Rena, was she was extremely more beautiful they were, and three times as smart! How could anyone take their eyes off her. She was a superior human being in every way. She had no equal. She had great power over men! She did not belong in high school. How many of us really did?
“I was a straight A student. I skipped the 9th. grade.”
Two weeks earlier, by a beautiful waterfall, I said this to Rena;
“You are bringing out the worst in me. I give up. I don’t want to seduce you any more. I want to be on your side! I think I understand what you are going through, and it is isolating you.”
And…..me. Till this very day.
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.”
The full title of Vonneguts most famous novel is ‘Slaughterhouse-Five, or The Children’s Crusade: A Duty-Dance with Death’. I then introduce then idea Antonin Artaud would befriend Lucia, take peyote, and do a peyote dance together. Here is the apex of the Cruel and Absurd Theatre.
“In this small book, based on a journey in the mountains of Mexico to an inaccessible tribe who “”live as if they were already dead,”” and through the peyote rite they practiced, Artaud found many of the transcendent concepts he had earlier articulated–the Great Ancient Myths he here relates to Plato, the “”no God”” but Male and Female principles in Nature (which he certainly, castrated man that he was, never found in life), even if later at the end of his peyote transfiguration there will be mention of both the doctrine of Grace and Jesus-Christ-Peyote.”
Rena Easton is Montana Wildhack who lives in Montana. She is also Helen of Troy who is the embodiment of Mnemosyne who lay down with Zeus and begat the Nine Muses. For over ten years I have owned a theory that the Greeks held a poetry contest in Troy. All the great poets, porphets, and sages showed up, including King David who confounded King Saul with a riddle he recited while playing his harp. What was the nature of this riddle? I am almost a master of Robert Grave’s ‘The White Goddess’ that Rena resembles.
That Helena Rena Victoria Wildhack has a million poems stored in her head that she can recite, tells me this ancient poetry contest – is reborn! That she falls in love with Troy the cow-man from Radiant Engineering, is her final avoidance of me, her late consort, Zeus.
Rena sends Radiant Engineering a handwritten thank you, where she says;
“Troy was such a nice guy!”
“I truly appreciate your emergency service.”
On the envelope Rena Montana Mnemosyne sent me she wrote ‘Rosemond’. Was this a letter from Billy Pilgram to his friend, Eliot Rosewater, giving him divine permission to carry on the Children’s Crusade?
I do not need to be with Rena in Montana, because we go each night to our dome on the planet Tralfamadore where we work on saving the universe.
So come all ye brave-hearted warriors who have the guts to write a beautiful woman a poem. Come to Troy where Beautiful Helen is held captive. And in her head all the poems have been taken hostage. And in her womb are the nine muses waiting to be reborn.
Here’s a hint, King David created a amazing animal.
A friend whom Billy meets in the veteran’s hospital and who introduces him to the science fiction novels of Kilgore Trout (see above). Rosewater turns out to be the writer of the only fan letter Trout ever received. Rosewater, like Billy, has experienced a horrifying event in the war. The two feel that the Kilgore Trout novels they read help them to deal with the trauma of World War II. Eliot Rosewater also shows up in other books by Kurt Vonnegut, such as God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater.
In Slaughterhouse-Five, Tralfamadore is the home to beings who exist in all times simultaneously, and are thus privy to knowledge of future events, including the destruction of the universe at the hands of a Tralfamadorian test pilot. They kidnap Billy Pilgrim, the protagonist of the novel, and place him in a zoo on Tralfamadore with Montana Wildhack, a Hollywood starlet.
Zeus is the child of Cronus and Rhea, and the youngest of his siblings. In most traditions he is married to Hera, although, at the oracle of Dodona, his consort is Dione: according to the Iliad, he is the father of Aphrodite by Dione. He is known for his erotic escapades. These resulted in many godly and heroic offspring, including Athena, Apollo and Artemis, Hermes, Persephone (by Demeter), Dionysus, Perseus, Heracles, Helen of Troy, Minos, and the Muses (by Mnemosyne); by Hera, he is usually said to have fathered Ares, Hebe and Hephaestus.
In Hesiod’s Theogony, kings and poets receive their powers of authoritative speech from their possession of Mnemosyne and their special relationship with the Muses.
Zeus and Mnemosyne slept together for nine consecutive nights, thus birthing the nine Muses. Mnemosyne also presided over a pool in Hades, counterpart to the river Lethe, according to a series of 4th century BC Greek funerary inscriptions in dactylic hexameter. Dead souls drank from Lethe so they would not remember their past lives when reincarnated. Initiates were encouraged to drink from the river Mnemosyne when they died, instead of Lethe. These inscriptions may have been connected with Orphic poetry (see Zuntz, 1971).
On Christmas Day, my Muse, Rena, wrote me a four page letter that she mailed on January 3rd. I opened this letter on January 9th. and wept tears of joy. I feared she might be dead. Tomorrow, the four page letter I wrote will be opened by the woman who had a profound influence on my life, and the life of my late sister, for after Christine saw a photo of the painting I did of my Muse, she took up art.
Rena studied classical ballet, jazz, modern dance, and tap. She attended the Academy of Washington Ballet, the London School of Contemporary Dance, and studied and apprenticed with Susan Alexander, former principal dancer with the Royal Ballet. If Rena would accept I would like her to be the principal choreographer for ‘Love Dance’
‘Love Dance’ was conceived while I was on the train going south to visit my daughter and grandson. I believe this was 2010. I was playing a cassette tape I had ‘The Best of Love’. All of a sudden I am a young man dancing in this musical with Rena Christensen who I learned five years earlier was a dancer and choreographer. I played this tape several times as I visualized what this tribute to Rock and Dance would look like.
This suggestion got some response that appeared to mock me. One of Charles’ friends suggested this ‘far-out’ idea be kept for the archives. When I told Marilyn about the response, and how I later found out Vonnegut met with the Jefferson Starship in 1971 to discuss incorporating Kurt’s ideas into their music project, she told me that Jeff Pasternak had given her a call, and wanted her advice. Jeff was writing a play, and his female character needed a cathartic experience. Jeff could not come up with anything. neither could Marilyn.
This was January 2. We were at the Granary where I read some of my poems, while Marilyn’s husband’s Jazz band accompanied me. The next day, Rena mailed her letter.
Marilyn’s sister co-authored ‘Fela’ that is now a hit in New York. Bryan’s song was inspired by what I said to him when he asked me for advice about the relationship he was having with Christine who had a relationship with my friend from England that resembles the movie ‘Across the Universe’. The last time I saw Rena was when we went and saw ‘Yellow Submarine’ in Lincoln Nebraska.
It appears that Vonnegut was asked to contribute to ‘Blows Against the Empire’. This Broadway Musical is writing itself. I posted the following on the 28 and 29th.
Greg Presco: Charles, I hope I am not stepping on any toes, here. Were you thinking of authoring Lucia Joyce’s biography. I just googled her and her father and his work. My grandfather, whom I never met, was a poet, and when I began authoring poetry (while in a trance) at twelve, my mother and aunts became alarmed because they were bid to loathe their father. I wrote this poem a year ago to a young woman who worked at Starbucks. I read it with an Irish brogue.
Greg Presco” Charles has lobbed some balls across my plate with his steam motorcycle and Joyce. In my un-finished novel ‘The Gideon Computer’ the last hippie of the future channels a Nazi whose love for wood-burning cars allows him to get near the hard-water German is making, and helps sabotage the plants. These A-bombs would be delivered with V2 rockets. My ex had shown my Pynchon’s books, but, I found them a hard read.
Greg Presco: My other grandmother was a friend of Joaquin Miller and lived up the road from Gertrude Stein. Her best friend was an Isadora Duncan freak. https://rosamondpress.wordpress.com/…/viola-duncan-of…/
Greg Presco: Finding herself stuck between two droll and dusty bookends, two avant guard writers who expect at least one avant absurd poem from her, Lucia finds her breakout moment when she meets Antonin Artaud at the Moulin Rouge. Back at his garret they do mescaline together, in the form of Peyote buds Antonin has brought back from his trip to the States where he witnessed the Ghost Dance. Teaching her some of the moves, Lucia goes into a trance and into the future. In her vision quest she finds herself on the dance floor of the Filmore West gyrating to the Grateful Dead. The first Dead Head is born!
“Messianic madman, founder of the Theater of Cruelty (a limiting misnomer), Antonin Artaud’s most immediate impact was on Genet, Brecht, Beckett, etc. But he continually searched for a suprareality far older and larger than the state of “”conscious chaos”” and triviality he saw in modern times. In this small book, based on a journey in the mountains of Mexico to an inaccessible tribe who “”live as if they were already dead,”” and through the peyote rite they practiced, Artaud found many of the transcendent concepts he had earlier articulated–the Great Ancient Myths he here relates to Plato, the “”no God”” but Male and Female principles in Nature (which he certainly, castrated man that he was, never found in life), even if later at the end of his peyote transfiguration there will be mention of both the doctrine of Grace and Jesus-Christ-Peyote. Artaud wrote much of this, with additional later comments, in the various Maisons de Sante where he spent his last years. He had always been deranged, and prefiguring Laing, he commented earlier in The Theater and Its Double, “”everything that disturbs the mind without causing it to lose its equilibrium is a moving means of expressing the innate pulsations of life.”” And those innate pulsations–expressed, for example, through motion and sound, by “”act and perpetual emanation””–were his essential contribution. Here on the via dolorosa, further heightened by peyote, there were also the emblems (“”trefoils, spears, crosses””) of the penitential ritual and symbolism so much a part of this demon-ridden, metaphysical genius “”guided by the Invisible”” toward an early death. A small but significant addition to the canon and the claque.”
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!
In a letter dated 1933, Artaud claimed that “for once what I want to do [in the theater of cruelty] is easier to do than to say.” But he was wrong: it proved very difficult, virtually impossible, for even Artaud himself to produce “cruel” plays. There were always artistic, personal, financial and logistical problems to be overcome. In the end, The Alfred Jarry Theater, a commercial enterprise, lasted only two years. No properly “cruel” play that was performed by Artaud survives. As a result, we have a theory of theatrical cruelty, but no established body of practice, or, rather, only pieces of a haphazard practice. In a play such as Breath, Samuel Beckett (a kind of anti-Artaudian playwright) took a single idea from Artaud’s writings — the idea that non-verbal techniques such as lighting and breathing should be foregrounded and closely combined — and made an entire (albeit a very, very short) play out of it. But the larger context and motivations for the use of such techniques is missing; as a result, there is no cruelty, no fear, no humor, just a spectacular and ultimately boring display of virtuosity.
Both cruelty and humor are involved in the process of adapting pre-existing plays, novels or poems to be performed by the SCP, especially if these works were originally strong on spoken dialogue and weak on spectacle. Some works — such as Jarry’s Ubu Roi, in which the use of placards and other printed boards are already part of the script — lend themselves easily to “the silent treatment,” to being rendered into a series of large printed boards that combine written words and images. Other works — such as Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot and Poe’s “The Raven” — must be attacked if they are to be performed by the SCP, who must mercilessly “cut” scenes, acts, characters, and turns in the plot, so that the finished product can be performed in under 10 minutes. A few works — such as Ken Kesey’s One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest — won’t just bleed, they will die if they are adapted, and so they haven’t been, even if they would make great SCP productions (think of Chief Broom’s remark in Cuckoo’s Nest that the violence he sees is like something in a comic strip and would be funny if he didn’t know it to be real!).
The name Eliot is a baby boy name.
Rate this name:
Max 5 stars
This name has 0 vote.
The name Eliot is a Hebrew baby name. In Hebrew the meaning of the name Eliot is: Jehovah is God.
The name Eliot is a Greek baby name. In Greek the meaning of the name Eliot is: The Greek form of the Hebrew Elijah, meaning Jehovah is God.
The name Eliot is an English baby name. In English the meaning of the name Eliot is: God on high; my God is Jehovah. From a surname derived from a medieval abbreviation of the Greek Elias.
The name Eliot is a French baby name. In French the meaning of the name Eliot is: Believes in God.
SoulUrge Number: 2
People with this name have a deep inner desire for love and companionship, and want to work with others to achieve peace and harmony.
Expression Number: 7
People with this name are excellent at analyzing, understanding, and learning. They tend to be mystics, philosophers, scholars, and teachers. Because they live so much in the mind, they tend to be quiet and introspective, and are usually introverts. When presented with issues, they will see the larger picture. Their solitary thoughtfulness and analysis of people and world events may make them seem aloof, and sometimes even melancholy.
Rose water was first produced by Muslim chemists in the medieval Islamic world through the distillation of roses, for use in the drinking and perfumery industries.
Since ancient times, roses have been used medicinally, nutritionally, and as a source of perfume. The ancient Greeks, Romans and Phoenecians considered large public rose gardens to be as important as croplands such as orchards and wheat fields.
Rose perfumes are made from rose oil, also called attar of roses, which is a mixture of volatile essential oils obtained by steam-distilling the crushed petals of roses, a process first developed in Iran (Persia). Rose water is a by-product of this process. It has been suggested that the Persian polymath Avicenna discovered how to make rose water in the tenth century.
My movie about me and my famous sister, Rosamond, will begin with a shot of Rena and I in my pearl 1950 Dodge Coronet making it’s steady way up Mount Tamalpais so I can show Rena Victoria the ocean from way up there, and, pitch our tent. This was going to be our new home.
Many car commercials are filmed on this road on Tamalpais where Bill and I used to camp for a week during summer vacation since we were thirteen. I know every inch of this famous road, the most viewed road in the world. Bill and used to lie in the middle of it after we watched the sunset. It was one of the risks that Bill took, a challenge he made me take. Bill was older than I, and considered himself my father. If a car came flying over the crest of the hill, it would be too late for us to get out of the way. But cars rarely traveled this road, and this is why car companies film commercials here.
As we stood in the long summer grass looking down on Stinson Beach, I couldn’t help but send a meaggage to Bill who died on my eighteenth birthday.
“Look at me now Bill. Isn’t she The Death! She’s mine!”
Rena told me she was not very good looking when she was a teenager. She had long skinny legs. She told me no one noticed her, gave her a good long look. I don’t buy it, because she still believed this to be the case. Somehow, Rena was not pretty enough in her own mind. I believe this is because she was raised by her grandmother, and not with her three older sisters who were top fashion models. I assume they were raised by their natal parents, and least one. I could not get Rena to talk about her mother and father. They had to be beautiful people. She presented her self as an orphan, a Foundling, whom I found lost and forsaken in Los Angeles at 3:00 A.M. in the morning.
“She’s mine. I found her!”
In a new KIA commercial outsteps this young beauty who is ‘The Death’. she is dressed in black, and driving a black Cadillac. She is presented as the girl next door, who was an ugly duckling! But, take a look at her now! She is life after death. This is a resurrection!
This stunning beauty is the actress Teresa Moore. She is an entry in my contest, but, she falls short. For one thing, she has a flat elongated ass. Rena had a high pouting dariere. What Teresa is saying, is;
“Sorry you did not end up with that knock-kneed girl next door with the braces that grew up to be the Fox of Foxes. However, you can own a KIA, a second rate car that is better than all the rest because she sat her perfect ass in it – the Female Messiah!”
Car ownership may be America’s No.1 religion. For most, owning a woman is a sticky issue. How to own Rena – is a Greek Tragedy. If Rena had told me she aspired to be a Dancer, I would have taken her dancing in San Francisco, but she did not want to go there, see this city by the bay that I showed her from the top of mount. She wanted to be with me, run with me, go wherever I go, for the time being. She felt like a queen in my Dodge, my ancient chariot with the Aries Ram on the hood. We were living the California Dream – the real thing! There was nothing plastic about us.
All this time, we have been dancing the dance called ‘Capturing Beauty’. It’s the oldest dance in human history.
Below is a chapter from ‘Capturing Beauty’ that I posted on Christine Rosamond’s yahoogroup, six years ago.