On March 31, 2014, I wrote this and posted it;
“For two weeks I have been taking on the housing system and have talked with Eugene City Manager, Jon Reus, about plans for the University of Oregon to tear down houses in a historic neighborhood. I will meet with a agent for a large real estate company about Homeless Vets and a way to get poor folks into homes. This includes Students.”
Belle and her gang had to have read this, and the following posts. I am sure they saw me as THEIR competition that had to be destroyed. On April 4, 2014 I went to the First Friday Art Walk in downtown Eugene. Three days before, the Whoville homeless camp was closed. Many ex-residetns had gathered in Kesey Square. They were not interested in Art or Artists. I believe they were hitting citizens up for money. I was approached by Belle Burch as a possible – DONER!
Alley Valkerie on facebook message.
“Please, go ahead and blog my threat.
You have no fucking idea what you’re getting yourself into
You also have no idea how many people are already on to you, and how many people have my back. We also have six other mutual friends who are going to learn about your behavior ASAP
And just so you know as well: if you write anything about me that could be construed as defamatory, you will be hearing from my lawyers ASAP.”
The original item was published from 4/1/2014 7:27:03 PM to 9/4/2020 1:43:06 PM.
Posted on: April 1, 2014
[ARCHIVED] 12 Cited for Criminal Trespass After Refusing to Leave City Manager’s Office After Hours
This afternoon, a group of people staged a sit-in at the City Manager’s Office and refused to leave. At 5 p.m., they were advised the office was closed and they indicated their intention to stay. At 5:45 p.m., the group was informed that they would be subject to Criminal Trespass charges if they didn’t leave. Twelve people were cited in lieu of custody and released.
The group was demanding to meet with the city manager regarding homeless issues recently discussed or ruled on by council, outside a council setting. The city manager’s delegate on this issue, Deputy Chief Joe Zaludek, came to the office to meet with them but they did not accept that offer.
Last week, on March 26, the City of Eugene re-posted notices that property is not open to the public and that the clearing and clean-up of the area would begin after April 1. The City Council has directed that the site be closed no later than April 15.
The City’s goal has been for people to leave the site voluntarily and to get connected with the services they need to find safe and legal shelter. The City is coordinating with a number of local social service agencies to help people transition from the camp.
The City Council and City staff have been working to help develop options. There are now two rest stops open – at Garfield and Roosevelt, and Northwest Expressway and Chambers – that are being managed by Community Supported Shelters. The City is continuing to work with community partners to open a third site and hopes to have a signed agreement with a volunteer site manager in the next few days.
Cited and Released were:
1. Bollman, Aurthur Frank 12/31/63 Eugene Trespass II
2. Burch, Belle Erin 11/21/90 No Address Trespass II
3. Shepard, Helen Marie 07/12/85 Eugene Trespass II
4. Monroe, John Lee 11/06/85 Eugene Trespass II
5. Smith, Charles Anderson 11/08/50 Springfield Trespass II
6. Williams, Terra Renee 02/24/88 Eugene Trespass II
7. Marcroft, Sabra Marie 05/15/66 Eugene Trespass II
8. Stacey, Jean Anderson 08/23/45 No Address Trespass II
9. Valkrie, Alley NMI 12/20/81 Eugene Trespass II
10. Wales, Geran Straford 09/15/90 Eugene Trespass II
11. Holtham-Keathley, Ambrose Stormrider 02/06/92 Eugene Trespass II
12. Grotticelli, Peter David 07/16/88 Eugene Trespass II
When I was a gifted youth
I do not recall if I studied the artist Sandro Botticelli.
When a man
I wrote my version of ‘The Birth of Venus’
and did a painting of my muse
coming out of the sea.
I must have neglected this great Renaissance Artist,
and his beloved Muse – until now!
But, Since I beheld her, my Belle
and compared her to Simonetta Cattaneo de Candia Vespucci,
do I now behold all the clues of the petals
and the thread
that have brought me through the labyrinth of time,
to adore her once again.
And she recognizes me!
Centuries ago I was buried at her feet
in order to continue my long vigilance,
for she was only asleep.
One day she will awaken, and the City of Flowers
will again bask in her unparelled beauty.
Bella! Mon Belle!
Following the Renaissance of the Miller Brothers
to the top of the hill in the lost city of Fairmount,
I came to the crossroads of time.
When I saw the intersection of Flora and Fairmount,
I knew it would be a matter of days
before I was with my Sleeping Belle, once again,
once upon a time
She is the one I came here for.
After finding the lost tombstone of George Melvin Miller,
the founder of Florence,
I began to see the grand design.
When she came across the piazza de Keasy
while the minstrel sang a song by the Grateful Dead
I had my rose at ready.
When I handed it to her
I heard the lovers complain
Where is my Belle Rose!
This is the Renaissance Rose
that my ancestor employed to write his name,
When I told Belle what kind of work I do,
I described my painting of a woman coming out of the sea.
Many have asked me who she is. Now, I can say;
“She is Belle, the most beautiful woman in Florence.”
We will go there, soon,
to behold the sea, a shell, and the foam
at La Giostra
a jousting tournament was held at the Piazza Santa Croce.
The gallant knight, Giuliano
entered the field bearing a banner
on which was a picture of Simonetta as a helmeted Pallas Athene
Her image was painted by Botticelli himself.
Underneath was the French inscription
La Sans Pareille, meaning “The unparalleled one”.
From then on Simonetta became known
as the most beautiful woman in Florence,
the most beautiful woman of the Renaissance.
I salute thee!
On Friday, I found her, at the Art Walk. I was filming a magical singer in Ken Keasy Square when I got a glimpse of her thru my lens. I come in for a close-up, and I gasp! Here she is, my model for Fair Rosamond that I have been searching for ever since I declared I was a Pre-Raphaelite in 1969. As an original hippie, I had always had long hair, but, now I was not holding back. I now carried a palette, my shield, and a brush, like a Knight’s Sword.
My hero, Dante Gabriel Rossetti had his Muse, Siddell, pose for his version of Fair Rosamond, but this image lacks refinement and good breeding. My Rosamond had to have a regal profile, a strong chin, and an angelic mouth. She would be more handson, than pretty. I did not want a poser, but a powerful personality that took risks. She had to be as radical as her paramour, King Henry FitzEmpress, the son of Geoffrey de Anjou. From Henry and Queen Eleanore were born the Plantagenets who would lauch the War of the Roses.
She must have felt my energy directed at her, for even though I used two singers as my human shield, a beautful women can feel the eyes of an admirer. She raises her lovely hand and waves me off. But I persist. And, now she makes her way to me. She has to know what I am up to. I pretend I do not see her coming my way. This is a musical, an ancient dance.
Please view the first two videos. Be patient before you behold her. At the corner of Floral Drive and Fairmount I have an epiphany. I knew I was weeks away from beholding her. She had to appear.
All of a sudden we are exchanging words, names, and ideas. I tell her about the family legend, and our friendship with Joaquin Miller who co-founded the Bohemian Club. She stops my narrative.
“The Bohemian Club? There is a Bohemian Club?”
I am aghast! No man has ever had such great fortune. I was convinced I would die before I met a woman who knew what a Bohemian was. Not only did she know the meaning, she wanted me to take her to this club – NOW!
I told this beautiful young woman Joaquin gathered artists, poets and writers at ‘The Abbey’ a salon in the Oakland Hills he also called the Hights.
“We should found a Bohemian Club here in Eugene!” I suggested and her eyes were twinkling with mischievousness. This is a young woman who loves thinking outside the box. Here is – Belle Companion!
“I am a radical!” She informs me. And I clutch my heart.
“Me too! Has anyone ever painted you? I would like to paint your portrait.”
“Someone did a drawing of me, but, I always wanted my portrait done.”
This conversation occurred after I turned my camera off because I did not want it to come between us. Her reaction to me telling her what my blog is about, is the end of my novel ‘Capturing Beauty’, for she captures me, takes my name and my number.
“We can talk!”
We speak the same timeless language.
I have already done one sketch of her looking down at her cellphone, her beauty fingers taking my name and capturing it. This is Fair Rosamond. At her spinning wheel, making flax threads for her embroidery. Here is the end of the clue of the Rouge Thread. Here is the splicing of the Rosy Quest to the thread that carry on the dream into the future.
My work is done. The Master has found his Apprentice – already doing the good work, and looking for a good and gallant deed to do! She knows who I am. She has been looking for me for a long time.
From Belmont, to Fairmount, my kindred have come to plant the kiss. Belle, my Beautiful Belle, is awake! And my heart, my mind, and my Bohemians Soul… soars! I am in love with my Muse. I always have been.
In the last video she is surrounded by beautiful old crones under the S of the Pepsi sign. How many, I dare not count lest I be whisked away the Land of the Living Grimm’s Fairytales. Then, the crone who has been concealing her, moves aside, and a curtain that has been closed, opens. I am on pins and needles to see her eyes. When I do, the sleeping kingdom is awoken. From a across the courtyard I give her a little kiss.
The painting above is titled ‘Lady Lilith’ by Dante Gabriel Rossetti. A Lily, and a Rose.
President: Royal Rosamond Press
Rosemonde Clifford, dite la Belle Rosemonde (en anglais, Rosamund Clifford) (prob. avant 1140 – 1175/1176), fut la maîtresse préférée du roi Henri II d’Angleterre.
Fair Rosamonde: la belle Rosamonde
La belle Rosamonde, fair Rosamonde
Translated from the German by Lucy Crane and done into pictures by Walter Crane. Household Stories: From the Collection of the Brothers Grimm. New York: R. Worthington, 1883.
“At last he came to the tower and opened the door of the little room where Rosamond lay.”
Saint Stephen with a rose
In and out of the garden he goes
Country garland in the wind and the rain (note 1)
Wherever he goes the people all complain
Stephen prosper in his time
Well he may, and he may decline
Did it matter, does it now?
Stephen would answer if he only knew how
Wishing well with a golden bell
Bucket hanging clear to hell
Hell half way twixt now and then
Stephen fill it up and lower down, and lower down again
Lady finger, dipped in moonlight
Writing “What for?” across the morning sky
Sunlight splatters dawn with answers
Darkness shrugs and bids the day goodbye
Speeding arrow, sharp and narrow
What a lot of fleeting matters you have spurned
Several seasons with their treasons
Wrap the babe in scarlet colours, call it your own
Did he doubt or did he try?
Answers a-plenty in the by and by
Talk about your plenty, talk about your ills
One man gathers what another man spills (note 2)
Saint Stephen will remain
All he’s lost he shall regain
Seashore washed by the suds and the foam
Been here so long he’s got to calling it home
Fortune comes a-crawling, Calliope woman
Spinning that curious sense of your own
Can you answer? Yes I can
But what would be the answer to the answer man?
A Little While
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
A little while a little love
The hour yet bears for thee and me
Who have not drawn the veil to see
If still our heaven be lit above.
Thou merely, at the day’s last sigh,
Hast felt thy soul prolong the tone;
And I have heard the night-wind cry
And deemed its speech mine own.
A little while a little love
The scattering autumn hoards for us
Whose bower is not yet ruinous
Nor quite unleaved our songless grove.
Only across the shaken boughs
We hear the flood-tides seek the sea,
And deep in both our hearts they rouse
One wail for thee and me.
A little while a little love
May yet be ours who have not said
The word it makes our eyes afraid
To know that each is thinking of.
Not yet the end: be our lips dumb
In smiles a little season yet:
I’ll tell thee, when the end is come,
How we may best forget.
by my Grandfather
The tide was low today, my love
A cadence of the sea was wrought
In melancholy strain, and low and fraught
With whisperings of your name above
The deep sea song!
A shell that lured along the shore
Whispered; “I love you evermore!”
I wrote your name upon the sands –
Would that I traced with gentle hands –
The minor chords were wont to spell
The tide is high tonight, my dear.
The rock-bound shore loves the wave
But sends it dying to its grave.
The low base notes vie with the fear
The wind send on
The all-encircling gloom
Descended o’er old ocean’s tomb!
Your name is gone tonight, my love:
The angry surge rushed in above.
It cries aloud, with sea gull’s shrill
“I love you still!”
Yesterday I received in the mail a book I ordered on E-Bay. I quickly scanned it to see if their were any illustrations or photographs. Then, I found it, what amounts to my personal Holy Grail. Joaquin Miller dedicated his book of poems ‘Songs of The Sun-Land’ to the Rossetti family that includes Gariel, Michael, and, Christine. Gabriel was a artist and poet, Michael, a publisher, and Christine, a poet.
“TO THE ROSSETTIS”
There is controversy over this dedication. Michael is against it. He is critical of Miller’s poems that takes the reader to the Holy Land. Joaquin is describing a personal relationship with the Savior that reminds me of how Bohemians and Hippies would view Jesus, he a Nature Boy of sorts.
Gabriel, who had Joaquin over to his house for dinner, where he met several members of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood seems to address his brother’s objections in a letter, and gives a tentative go ahead. He talks about Miller sending him a photograph of himself and bids him to say a word or two at the bottom of it, that does not exist. This photo may be the famous one taken by Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, who is better known as Lewis Carrol the author of ‘Alice in Wonderland’. If Joaquin had glued this portrait to a piece of paper, then we might have seen it on the dedication page.
What is going on here is extremely profound. Miller has exported his vision and lifestyle to the England, where he wrote Song of the Sierras, and now he is importing to America a cultural brand that contains Grail and Arthurian subject matter that was at the epicenter of the work of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood.
The Rossettis may not have been too happy with Miller attaching himself to their star because the British are very protective of their culture. I wish I could say the same thing about the University of Oregon that is about to tear down homes that were once in the city limits of Fairmount, the city founded by Joaquin’s brother, George Miller.
The homes the Miller brothers lived in are registered and protected as Monuments. There is a Joaquin Miller State Park near Florence that was founded by George who also promoted the Winnemucca to the Sea Highway. There needs to be a Monument for George. I suggest the homes on Columbia Terrace be spared, and this city block declared a National Monument. I have suggested these homes be used to house homeless Vets going to college, but now I see a Free College on this site due to the student loan crisis.
This college will teach alternatives to prospective students of the UofO, such as having parents of students purchase a home in Eugene. In many cases a mortgage is cheaper than rent. Teaching your children how to get a job rather then attend college, will produce more home ownership that the UofO who promises jobs – that don’t exist!
The Miller Brothers were born on a farm near Coburg. They went into the world and achieved much. They are a cultural icon too Oregon and California. On page ten of the prelude, we read;
“By unnamed rivers of the Oregon north’
That roll dark-heaved into turbulent hills,
I have made my home….The Wild heart thrills
With memories fierce, and world storms forth.”
I once read that many college students didn’t know there was a Oregon, and if they did, they didn’t know where it is. The Rossettis more than likely read these words. Did they go to a globe to see where Joaquin and George live?
How many students at the UofO know who the Miller brothers were, and the Brotherhood.
“When Joaquin Miller left DC, most sources agree that he gave his cabin to a friend, who in turn gave it to the Sierra Club. Then in 1913 the cabin was carefully disassembled at the urging of the California State Association and moved to its current location in Rock Creek Park, near the intersection of Beach Drive and Military Road, where it is now the property of the National Park Service. By and by, another Miller found inspiration in the cabin. From 1931 through the 1950’s, Pherne Miller, Joaquin’s niece, leased the cabin from the Parks Department, and there she gave art classes and sold soft drinks and candy.”
For two weeks I have been taking on the housing system and have talked with Eugene City Manager, Jon Reus, about plans for the University of Oregon to tear down houses in a historic neighborhood. I will meet with a agent for a large real estate company about Homeless Vets and a way to get poor folks into homes. This includes Students.
Colleges and Banks work together to Front-run your children’s dreams. They pool young folks together with the promise of a education, a good job, and a nice home. Then the money lender swoop in and put them in debt for life! We have to turn this around. Get our children in their own home – and then they go to college with a reverse loan!
You don’t have to fatten up the bankers to send your kids to college. Just send them to me! I will give them the bottom line on ‘The Dream’ I will lead them like Gandalf against the Orcs. I will be talking with this real estate agent about creating a virtual reality real real estate land, a real Farmville, called ‘Brownsville’ and ‘Fairmount’ founded by George Miller, the brother of Joaquin Miller who read his poems before royaty and was invited to have dinner with the Pre-Raphaelites. I am not just authoring the next Ring Legend, and I living it!
Radical plans to stop rich overseas residents who live outside the EU buying British houses – as well as tight restrictions on them acquiring “newbuild” properties as investments – will be published in a report by a leading rightwing thinktank on Monday.
After finding the neglected tombstone of George Melvin Miller, a story ran on the news about cottages and possible barracks being torn down on Columbia Terrace in Eugene to make way for a large building that will process food for the University of Oregon. I am certain these residences sit upon land that was once owned by George Miller, and his partner, University of Oregon Professor, John Straub. This might constitute the first partnership between the UofO and residential land development which in itself is historic and should be preserved because this relationship has been controversial and needs to be studied. If this study is conducted after the homes are torn down, then there will forever be a gaping wound for the future to see.
George Miller platted Florence, and was the promoter of this fair city by the sea. George was the promoter of the Winnemucca to the Sea highway which is connected to the famous Route 66. But, more stunning than this, there is much evidence George was inspired by his brother who had a home in the Oakland Hills he called ‘The Hights’. Here was an outdoor salon for poets and artists who came from all over the world. Joaquin Miller planted thousands of three in the bare hills from where you could see the city lights of San Francisco. There were cable cars on rails, like the rails you can still see making their way up the hills of Fairmount to Hendrick’s Park and the Rhododendron gardens.
Miller and Joaquin promoted the Rhododendron Festival in Florence. Joaquin co-founded the Bohemian Club that met in the redwood groves near the Russian River. Here famous authors and artist met once a year. Jack London and George Sterling were promoters of the Bohemian Life. They made Carmel by the Sea what it is today. My famous sister, Christine Rosamond, has a gallery here. My late sister married into the historic Benton family who fought to keep the Oregon Territory out of British hands. My grandfathers founded the city of Belmont south of San Francisco.
The Stuttmeisters had an orchard just below the Hights. Joaquin would carry my father in his lap when he went with my grandmother to SF on the trolley. My kindred built forty new homes on new streets they named after trees. Did George meet these developers we see having a picnic in the redwood groves in the Oakland Hills.
When we were young the Presco children would call Juanita Miller on the phone and pretend we had a broken heart. George’s niece was known as the ‘White Witch’ and gave advice to the sick at heart. I lived at the Stoneridge apartment on 19th. and Harris for twelve years. I would take walks in the nearby hills and feel right at home. I now wonder if George borrowed the architecture of Oakland, and transplanted them to Fairmount. If so, then we are looking at a historic link between the Bay Area and Eugene that needs to broadcast rather than diminished.
In Berkeley a developer bull-dozed a whole city block in order to build student housing. He did not consult the city managers who put a stop to it, then held a contest to see what We the People could do to heal this wound. I drew up plans for a school for how to plant urban gardens.
What I see as a solution, is a property trade. I suggest the UofO found and build a Service Industry College and culinary School along the river, near where Agri-Pac used to be. I see students planting garden along the river where a trolley car run bring their parents and citizens to the restaurant son the water’s edge. Here they can enjoy the finest cuisine in the world cooked by UofO students whose dream it is to become world-famous chefs. Seventy percent of Americas are employed in the service industry. Retirement communities are always looking for good cooks. Let this huge cafeteria be an architectural showcase, and not be another ugly monolith fallen to earth from Planet Ugly!
Joaquin Miller had dinner with Dante Gabriella Rossetti and the Pre-Raphaelite Artists and Poets who found Fair Rosamond to be one of the favorite Muses. Rhododendron means ‘Rose Tree’ . I beheld rose trees at the corner of Flora and Fairmount. This is a rosy tale of two cities, and two brothers who shared the same dream. Do not let this dream, die!
Yesterday, Eugene City Manager returned my call. We discussed the idea about having these barrack-cottages house homeless Veterans who want to go to college and own hope, and a dream! Today, Senator John Walsh of Montana will introduce legislation to get Vets who suffer from PTSD much-needed help. The CEO of Starbucks just donated thirty million dollars for this purpose. Starbucks is huge in the service industry. Here is a marriage, a bond, made between those who serve the Citizens of the United States. I believe it is time for the UofO to join forces, because I will make a good case that these barracks should be registered a National Monument because they one housed soldier at Camp White. They were to the Miller Brother’s Dream Town.
Jon Gregory Presco
President: Royal Rosamond Press
We the People are still giving money to our universities via the GI Loan. How much money did a private organization receive since 1945? How much was used to buy public real estate? Who got the equity? Why let the UofO build a giant cafeteria in our city limits which keeps students from going to privately owned resturants? How much is the student saving – and the community losing? I say let the university donate that Columbia land to create GI Student City that will run a row of resturants to sustain itself. Can you spot one living plant or weed in this photo? http://www.benefits.va.gov/gibill/history.asp
Yesterday I asked why they tried to throw Jesus off the cliff when he read a passage from Isaiah. This passage was about freeing folks from their debts and indentured servitude brought on by the incredible cost of the temple sacrifice and pilgrimage.
During the 1960s, members of the hippie counterculture sought a simple life; many were drawn to areas away from large cities and getting back to the land. “Lighthouse Ranch” was an abandoned Coast Guard station, 11 miles south of Eureka, California, situated on the hippie trail that then extended along the west coast of California
by Joaquin Miller
There is no thing that hath not worth;
There is no evil anywhere;
There is no ill on all this earth,
If man seeks not to see it there.
September 28. I cannot forget that dinner with Dante Gabriel Rossetti, just before leaving London, nor can I hope to recall its shining and enduring glory. I am a better, larger man, because of it. And how nearly our feet are set on the same way. It was as if we were all crossing the plains, and I for a day’s journey and a night’s encampment fell in with and conversed with the captains of the march.
But one may not gave names and dates and details over there as here. The home is entirely a castle. The secrets of the board and fireside are sacred. And then these honest toilers and worshippers of the beautiful are shy, so shy and modest. But I like this decent English way of keeping your name down and out of sight till the coffin-lid hides your blushes–so modest these Pre-Raphaelites are that I should be in disgrace forever if I dared set down any living man’s name.
But here are a few of the pearls picked up, as they were tossed about the table at intervals and sandwiched in between tales of love and lighter thoughts and things.
All London, or rather all the brain of London, the literary brain, was there. And the brain of all the world, I think, was in London. These giants of thought, champions of the beautiful earth, passed the secrets of all time and all lands before me like a mighty panorama. All night sol We dined so late that we missed breakfast. If I could remember and write down truly and exactly what these men said, I would have the best and the greatest book that ever was written, I have been trying a week in vain, I have written down and scratched out and revised till I have lost the soul of it, it seems to me; no individuality to it; only like my own stuff. If I only had set their words down on the next day instead of attempting to remember their thoughts! Alas! the sheaves have been tossed and beaten about over sea and land for days and days, till the golden grain is gone, and here is but the straw and chaff.
The master sat silent for the most part; there was a little man away down at the other end, conspicuously modest. There was a cynical fat man, and a lean philanthropist all sorts and sizes, but all lovers of the beautiful of earth. Here is what one, a painter, a ruddy-faced and a rollicking gentleman, remarked merrily to me as he poured out a glass of red wine at the beginning of the dinner:
“When travelling in the mountains of Italy, I observed that the pretty peasant women made the wine by putting grapes m a great tub, and then, getting into this tub, barefooted, on top of the grapes, treading them out with their brown, bare feet. At first I did not like to drink this wine. I did not think it was clean. But I afterward watched these pretty brown women” and here all leaned to listen, at the mention of pretty brown women– I watched these pretty brown women at their work in the primitive winepress, and I noticed that they always washed their feet after they got done treading out the wine.”
All laughed at this, and the red-faced painter was so delighted that he poured out and swallowed another full glass. The master sighed as he sat at the head of the table rolling a bit of bread between thumb and finger, and said, sitting close to me: “I am an Italian who has neven seen Italy. Belle Italia!…”
By and by he quietly said that silence was the noblest attitude in all things; that the greatest poets refused to write, and that all great artists in all lines were above the folly of expression. A voice from far down the table echoed this sentiment by saying:”Heard melodies are sweet; but unheard melodies are sweeter.” “Written poems are delicious; but unwritten poems are divine,” cried the triumphant cynic. “What is poetry?” cries a neighbor. “All true, pure life is poetry,” answers one. “But the inspiration of poetry?” “The art of poetry is in books. The inspiration of poetry in nature.” To this all agreed.
Then the master very quietly spoke: “And yet do not despise the books of man. All religions, said the Chinese philosophers, are good. The only difference is, some religions are better than others, and the apparent merit of each depends largely upon a mans capacity for understanding it. This is true of .poetry. All poetry is good. I never read a poem in my life that did not have some merit, and teach some sweet lesson. The fault in reading the poems of man, as well as reading the poetry of nature, lies largely at the door of the reader. Now, what do you call poetry?” and he turned his great Italian eyes tenderly to where I sat at his side.
To me a poem must be a picture,” I answered.
Proud I was when a great poet then said: “And it must be a picture–if a good poem so simple that you can understand it at a glance, eh? And see it and remember it as you would see and remember a sunset, eh?” “Aye,” answered the master, “I also demand that it shall be lofty in sentiment and sublime in expression. The only rule I have for measuring the merits of a written poem, is by the height of it. Why not be able to measure its altitude as you measure one of your sublime peaks of America?”
He looked at me as he spoke of America, and I was encouraged to answer:”Yes, I do not want to remember the words. But I do want it to remain with me a picture and become a part of my life. Take this one verse from Mr. Longfellow:
“And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.’”
“Good!” cried the fat cynic, who, I am sure, had never heard the couplet before, it was so sweet to him; “Good! There is a picture that will depart from no impressible clay. The silent night, the far sweet melody falling on the weary mind, the tawny picturesque Arabs stealing away m the darkness, the perfect peace, the stillness and the rest. It appeals to all the Ishmaelite in our natures, and all the time we see the tents gathered up and the silent children of the desert gliding away in the gloaming.”
A transplanted American, away down at the other end by a little man among bottles, said: “The poem of Evangeline is a succession of pictures. I never read Evangeline but once.” “It is a waste of time to look twice at a sunset,” said Rossetti, sotto voce, and the end man went on: “But i believe I can see every picture in that poem as distinctly as if I had been the unhappy Arcadian; for here the author has called in ail the elements that go to make up a perfect poem.”
“When the great epic of this new, solid Saxon tongue comes to be written,” said one who sat near and was dear to the master’s heart, “it will embrace all that this embraces: new and unnamed lands; ships on the sea; the still deep waters hidden away in a deep and voiceless continent; the fresh and fragrant wilderness; the curling smoke of the camp-fire; action, movement, journeys; the presence–the inspiring presence of woman; the ennobl- ing sentiment of love, devotion, and devotion to the death; faith, hope and charity,- and all in the open air.”
“Yes,” said the master thoughtfully, ‘no great poem has ever been or ever will be fitted in a parlor, or even fashioned from a city. There is not room for it there.”
“Hear! hear! you might as well try to grow a California pine in the shell of a peanut,” cried I. Some laughed, some applauded, all looked curiously at me. Of course, I did not say it that well, yet I did say it far better, I mean I did not use the words carefully, but I had the advantage of action and sympathy.
Then the master said, after a bit of reflection: “Homer’s Ulysses, out of which have grown books enough to cover the earth, owes its immortality to all this, and its out-door exercise. Yet it is a bloody book a bad book, in many respects–full of revenge, treachery, avarice and wrong. And old Ulysses himself seems to have been the most colossal liar on record. But for all this, the constant change of scene, the moving ships and the roar of waters, the rush of battle and the anger of the gods, the divine valor of the hero, and, above all, and over all, like a broad, white-bosomed moon through the broken clouds, the splendid life of that one woman; the shining faith, the constancy, the truth and purity of Penelope–all these make a series of pictures that pass before us like a panorama, and we will not leave off reading till we have seen them all happy together again, and been assured that the faith and constancy of that woman has had it reward. And we love him, even if he does lie!”
How all at that board leaned and listened. Yet let me again and again humbly confess to you that I do him such injustice to try thus to quote from memory. After a while he said: “Take the picture of the old, blind, slobber-mouthed dog, that has been driven forth by the wooers to die. For twenty years he has not heard the voice of his master. The master now comes, in the guise of a beggar. The dog knows his voice, struggles to rise from the ground, staggers toward him, licks his hand, falls, and dies at his feet.”
I met Belle Burch on the First Friday Art Walk April 4, 2014. Belle approached me when she saw I was filming her. I told her she looked like Botticelli’s Venus on a Half-shell. She felt flattered and blushed. I have compared the relationship of Botticelli and Simonetta Vespuccito, that of Sleeping Beauty. At the end of my video I tell Belle my blog has the legend of Sleeping Beauty at its core, and the family name, Rosamond, is key because that is the name Grimm gave the sleeping princess.
On this day, I declare Belle Burch, and SLEEPS, my living work of art. Because the transient homeless competes with the Bohemian Arts Scene in the downtown of many America cities, I decided to make these transients, their tents, their cause, a Work of Art. They are a living Mobile.
If Belle had accepted my proposal of marriage, then her surname would be ROSAMOND. This name can be adopted by a man who marries a woman name ROSE. Victor William Presco married Rosemary Rosamond. There is a ROSE in Presco and AMBROSE. Belle Rosamonde is the French name for Fair Rosamond, whom Belle will be my model for. She was put in a Labyrinth. Belles father operated a Labyrinth Walk.
Belle Burch and her lover, Ambrose Holtham-Keathly have been arrested while fighting for the RIGHT TO SLEEP. This is the Sleeping Kingdom of Rosamond that fell asleep when Rosamond’s finger was pricked by a piece of flax. My Rosamond kindred descend from a long line of weavers. Weavers have led many revolts in history that led to the formation of this Democracy.
My right to create any work of art, is protected by the United States Constitution. I have always seen Belle as a living work of art, and my muse, a role she did not object to. Only when I saw she was connected with SLEEPS, did she withdraw, and, bid Alley Valkyrie to attack me, these Sleeping Women claiming I was stalking them.
I have compared myself to the Knight who hacks his way thru the thorns and roses to get to Sleeping Beauty so I can awaken her with a kiss. At the Wandering Goat, I reached across the table, took Belle’s hand, and kissed it. This was the hand that imitated the painting by Waterhouse. Hence, Belle has never been more awake. She fights me because she is going to get everything she ever DREAMED of, because we have reached the point of no return, the masterpiece of the Artist and Muse is unfolding like a blooming rose.
Belle’s mother, Catherine Vanderturin, was involved in making masks for theatre. I am the Phantom of the Opera. I am the author of this play, this drama, this living work of art.
When I read my poem about Belle at the Wandering Goat, she leaned forward, closed her eyes, and smiled. Was Belle dreaming of her prince, that is yet to come and awaken her? How about Floris Van Rosemondt? Belle and her mother look like Rutger Hauer. Belle has his eyes. Gottstalk Rosemondt, was my illustrious ancestor, a member of the Swan Brethren, and the Falcon Art College in Holland.
Capturing Beauty will now be a serial published in my newspaper, Rosamond Press Co.
Knight Floris van Roozemond (spelling varies with o/oo, s/z and d/dt), accompanied by the Indian Sindala (Bergman), returns home from a trip around the world only to find his castle occupied by Maarten van Rossum, the commander in chief of Charles, Duke of Guelders. Charles, who controls Guelders, is involved in a power struggle against Philip the Handsome who rules the Burgundian Netherlands, the rest of the Low Countries. Floris had so far been neutral due to his absence, but after he finds his castle stolen, he sides with Wolter van Oldesteijn, who is allied with Burgundy against Charles, Duke of Guelders. Charles and Maarten van Rossum are aided by the Frisian pirate Greate Pier partly as an ally, and partly to do the dirty work.
Yesterday I went with my friend Hollis to the Stand Dwom for homeless Veterans held at the Armory i Springfield. No sooner did we park Big Blue, then here come the Mayor of Eugene walking by herself. Hollis said hello, and I discussed my idea about the Vote & Post Offices where voters can go year round to exercise their right to vote and discuss issues with other voters. I said we Oregonians have set a precedent by voting by mail, but we miss gathering with neighbors to vote in person. I spoke of an old pot belly stove in Post Offices across the land, with opinionated folks gathered around, and Kitty smiled. We need to send a clear message to all politicians, that we own the Right to Vote in a uniform manner. We do not need long lines that exhaust our Seniors and the disabled. Many Veterans are disabled.
On Sundays, the grounds of the Post Office could be Trading Posts for all the homeless, and on Veterans Day they could be open for Veterans who want to meet and help other Veterans. There was a lot of information handed out at the Stand Down. Due to hurricane Sandy, a shipment of free sleeping bags did not arrive on time, and will be handed out next weekend. Homeless Vets should get free shipping and mailing on Veterans Day. There could be a work bulletin board.
We the People, and homeless Vets, want to see an end to the war on big government, the fake war on ‘The Takers’. Veterans do not need to be labeled members of Romney’s 47% percent. I saw a hero wearing a flight jacket with emblems and badges all over it. There was the image of the F-106, and a bombed bridge I assume in Hanoi. For politicians say the U.S. Government is the enemy of the people, is anti-American, and sends a wrong message to our enemies. It is anti-Veteran.
The Constitution says we should build post offices, and roads to the post offices. Surely our founding Fathers expected to receive mail from those who fought in the War of Independence. How many letters were sent to Patriots who fought for our Freedom, for our personal and collective voice? Our two cent stamps kept the Post Office solvent until Republican privateers made new laws that put it in debt. We own eternal gratitude to all Veterans, who should be able to point to every Post Office as belonging to them, and not some invisible and inaccessible billionaire who covertly backs one party over another simply because he or she does not want to pay their fair share of the taxes. Will the rich be wanting special postal rates, a stamp made just for them?
Once again, I will be Hollis’s guest at a local restaurant that gifts Veterans with a free dinner. On Tuesday I will talk to my manager about Hollis getting an apartment in our complex. On Wednesday, I will take him to a medical examination so he can receive SSI. The last time Hollis had a place to call home was 2006. Hollis released from the Army in 1976.
One of the biggest objectives of the annual Stand Down is to reach veterans who do not know that they are eligible for VA programs, and could very easily claim these benefits.
Stand Down services are sometimes referred to as “Veterans helping Veterans” and “Giving a hand up, not a hand out.”
We are proud of our Vets, proud of their sacrifice, dedication and service. Stand Down is just one small way we can recognize our debt to our heroes.
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General: Stand Down 2012
Posted by toney on 2012-09-19 10:29:29 PDT
Saturday, November 10th, 2012 from 8:00 AM to 4:00 PM
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