My Found Human Being

I just got off the phone with Chris, who deflowered me when I was twenty. She was at an art show with Stefan Eins and blocked Heide Hatry from planting a kiss on her man’s other cheek. She pushed her face away. There was a discussion about ownership that is the theme of this post.

Rena’s twenty-six year old lover brought her to Venice Beach in 1970 where she paraded around in one of the best fitting bikinis I, or anyone had ever seen. She was seventeen. She told me she was eighteen. I found her out four weeks later. I told her I was homeless after she turned down my families offer to send her home to Grand Island. She wanted to go wherever I go, and stay wherever I stay. We ended up staying in a tent in a friends backyard. Passing this store, Rena stopped to look at the cover of LIFE. Her three sisters were models, and one told her she might be on the cover.

To hear another gruesome account of a rich man with power, raping and defiling women who worked for him, is another blow to the Ideals of Success that have been perverted. One of Rena’s sister was Robert Vesco’s mistress. She did not think well of her values, and may have been trying to create her own branch of beauty, when things went terribly wrong. I came to her rescue.

Last night Chris told me she was horrified by the dead things she saw at a gallery. She told me while riding home in a cab, she asked Stefan if she could see his half-shell Heide handed her man. She had already cracked the window, and there it fly, the shell with these words Heidi wrote “Sheep Penis” – out the window, to shatter into bits on Houston Street. I declared Christ an Artist, and began a long poem titled ‘Penis On A Half Shell’. I googled Heidi and discover she helped write ‘Not A Rose’

Anthony Hayden Guest was a witness to another repelling of a Euro-trash trying to plant one on her man. His jaw had dropped. He said no woman has ever been possessive of him. He was envious. Having given Chris a cold shoulder, her now kissed her hand. I said to Chris;

“You have shocked the Grand Shocker and my have revived a dismissed tradition, that has come round again on the merry-go-round, like a enchanted Unicorn.”

Not a Rose,[9] also a collaboration and documented in a book, was introduced by MoMA PS1,[10] Strand Books,[11] Barnes & Noble, McNally Jackson, and others. It addresses the meaning of flowers and animals to human beings. Masked as a traditional coffee table book, it quotes from the genre while turning it inside out, “subtly undermining our notion of the meaning of beauty.”[12] The images it offers are not innocent pretty flowers but elegant, compelling, and yet grotesque sculptures that the artist has created from the offal, sex organs, and other parts of animals, “pushing us into a realm where we question our relationship with beauty, animals, and dinner,”[13] the foundations of aesthetic reception in general and our use and abuse of nature. 100 prominent intellectuals, writers, and artists (such as Jonathan Ames, Stephen T. Asma, Bazon Brock, Karen Duve, Jonathan Safran Foer, Steven Connor, Anthony Haden-Guest, Donna Haraway, Siri Hustvedt, Thyrza Goodeve, Lucy Lippard, Richard Macksey, Kate Millett, Richard Milner, Hannah Monyer, Rick Moody, Avital Ronell, Stanley Rosen, Steven Pinker, Peter Singer, Justin E. H. Smith, Klaus Theweleit, Luisa Valenzuela, and Franz Wright…) address “the question of the flower” from a multiplicity of perspectives, including anthropology, philosophy, psychology, sociology, philology, botany, neuroscience, art history, gender studies, physics, and chemistry.

I just finished watching Victoria’s Secret, and once again I did not FIND the model that could compare to Rena’s beauty. It was – pefect! However, Lily Aldridge came close. They both have this Wholesome Danish Midwest Country Girl look and feel about them. They are thoroughbreds. Behold her extra flat stomach. The last time I saw my Perfect Love she took my hand under her green velvet cape, and placed it on her abdomen.

“Feel! I am getting fat!”

I felt the warm lie she told, and, she did not want me to stop feeling what we felt each night in a tent atop our mount. We drifted asleep like this, my fingers moving oh so gently over her loving, expectation of being a mother someday! She would release them in a shower of stars, her little gifts to the universe! To be the father of them was more than I could fathom. But I tried, in our mutual dream, the following day was born.

She stopping me in my tracks, getting in front of me, or turning me, I am now face to face with the most beautiful woman I have ever seen – and will ever behold!

“What do you mean by that?” she asked in all the seriousness she could muster. She had put my face in the light at the dark end of the Venice Pier, and we are seeing each other clearly for the first time, because I could not bring myself to look at her the second time. I had gasped. Rena took my breath away, and I felt faint. So, I must be hiding something, like all the rest who could not bear to look at what they can not own. But, I found her! This is not a normal ownership. Therefore, she is mine.

Rena was almost six feet tall, and with high sandals with a rope weave, she is looking down on me. She noticed this, reveled in her advantage. I wanted to take a gulp. A very deep sigh, then – runaway! Run away – now! Run fast now, away – run! Run! Run! Run!

She Who is Found, would not let me run. She blocked my way. Her look bore into me, as I went into the core of being, searching for the words. God help me speak – to her! This is it, your one shot to be with un-attainable beauty that you summoned from the sea.

“Don’t be afraid. I am a hopeless romantic. And, I had just broke up with my first flame, my muse. I was looking down at the waves breaking on the sand. I whispered; ‘Where is she, the love of my life. Then, here you come, out a darkened doorway.”


Jon Presco

Copyright 2017

To be continued…….


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The Rose of the World – Is Here!

Two Russian Models are going to run against Putin. There are plots and sub-plots. Beauty is up to bat. Many schemes will fail when the Master Rose Plan is revealed.

Jon Rosamundi

Reality TV Star and Playboy Model’s Campaign for Presidency Serves Putin’s End Game

The atmosphere established by the Rose of the World and its teachings will give rise to conditions necessary for that cultural mythology to be grasped by every mind. Even if only a limited number of minds are able to comprehend it in all its esoteric complexity, the spirit of the worldview, and not its letter, will gradually become accessible to almost everyone.

Often portrayed as the Russian equivalent of Paris Hilton, Ms. Sobchak boasts her extravagant escapades to her 5.2 million followers on Instagram, which include champagne dinners, runway shows, and traveling the globe à la helicopter and private jet. Though she is a fixture of Russia’s entertainment industry, in June 2012 Sobchak’s apartment was raided by the armed police after she supported anti-Putin protests in Moscow on the eve of an opposition rally.

But even with her brief stint in activism, many critics have accused Sobchak of colluding with the Kremlin to secure an election-win for Putin by delegitimizing opposition groups.

Roza Mira of the Arts

There is a new world religion sweeping Russia, the land of the Rus/Ros who were river Mermaids.

Jon Presco

In large part, Roza Mira is a spiritual cosmography, a description of the domains human souls occupy after death or between incarnations—domains resembling, to greater or lesser degrees, the heavens, hells, purgatories, and netherworlds of various religions and mythological systems. As such, it can be compared to works like the Bardo Thodol or Tibetan Book of the Dead, and the Divine Comedy of Dante Alighieri (as well as modern expressions of the same visionary tradition,

Roza Mira (full title in Russian: Роза Мира. Метафилософия истории, literally The Rose of the World. The Metaphilosophy of History) is the title of the main book by Russian mystic Daniil Andreev. It is also the name of the predicted new universal religion, to emerge and unite all people of the world before the advent of the Antichrist, described by Andreev in his book. This new interreligion, as he calls it, should unite the existing religions “like a flower unites its petals”, Andreev wrote. According to Roza Mira, there are no contradictions between different religions, because they tell about different aspects of spiritual reality, or about the same things in different words.

I have endeavored to provide a glimpse of the Rose of the World’s perspective on the scientific and Scientific modes of inquiry, on individuals’ rights and obligations, on human creativity and labor, and on the two basic types of spiritual paths: the Wide and the Narrow. In order to complete this overview of its perspective on culture, it would be sensible to dwell on the Rose of the World’s views on art, in the broader sense of the word. But that subject is so important and touches on so many different levels, and is so close to my heart personally, that I have decided to devote a series of chapters to it in one of the later parts of the book. Therefore, before moving on to the question of the Rose of the World’s perspective on other religions, I will jot down just a few words about art in the approaching era.
What features might distinguish the art to be created by people who have embraced the spirit of the Rose of the World in the near future, when the sun of the golden age will have only Just begun to illumine the clouds on the horizon?
It would be naive to try to predict or summarize the variety of artistic trends, genres, schools, and styles with which that sphere of culture will scintillate toward the end of this century. But a certain dominant style will, I think, emerge. Of course, it will not exhaust all the different artistic movements (under the conditions of maximum freedom that would be impossible as well as unnecessary for the same reason). This style is destined to become the mainstream in art and literature in the last third of this century. The perception of reality intrinsic to the Rose of the World— transparent perception, which distinguishes variomaterial or spiritual planes through the physical plane—will find expression in that style. Such a perception of reality will be a far cry from a studied optimism that is afraid to shatter its own peace of mind in heeding the dark and tragic sides of existence. Creators of that style will not seek to ignore the distressing and frightening underside of the world. They will consider it cowardly to desire to forget about the bloody path of history; about the reality of the dreadful infraphysical planes of Shadanakar; about their merciless laws, which bind untold hosts of unfortunates in chains of inhuman torments; and about the ghastly fall that is being readied for the human spirit by the forces of the Antigod and that will almost certainly take place when the golden age has run its course. But a higher level of awareness will not tarnish their love for the world, it will not lessen the joy they receive from nature, culture, creative work, public service, love, and friendship. In fact, quite the contrary! Could the awareness of hidden dangers threatening the one you love ever extinguish the flame of that love? There will be wondrous, life-affirming works of unprecedented purity and joyfulness. There will appear in all the artistic genres—both those that already exist and those that will arise later—works that will sparkle like splashes of water on sunlit ponds, works by artists of the future about a love that is much more capacious than ours, works about youth, about the joys of family life and public service, about the broadening of human consciousness and the expansion of the frontiers of our perception, about friendship between people and elementals, about the daily proximity of the friends of our heart who are as yet unseen, as well as much more that will concern the people of those times and that we are incapable of imagining.
It seems to me that such a style—masculine in its fearlessness and feminine in its lovingness, a profound combination of joy and affection for people and the world, yet with a keen awareness of the world’s darker depths—could be called either transparent realism or metarealism. And need I mention that a work of art will not necessarily have to be an example of transparent realism for people who have embraced the Rose of the World’s spirit to be able to enjoy and delight in it? They will delight in everything that has the mark of talent and at least one of the following features: a sense of beauty, broad scope, profundity of thought, sharpness of insight, purity of heart, or a joyful spirit.
There will come a time when the moral and aesthetic level of society, and of artists themselves, will be such that the need for restrictions of any kind will disappear, and freedom of artistic, literary, philosophical, and scientific forms of expression will be absolute. But it will not be until several decades after the Rose of the World has assumed moral supervision over the states that the era of that ideal moral level arrives. It is not through wisdom but youthful naivete that one could arrive at the idea that society has already reached those heights of maturity when absolute freedom will not give rise to critical, irreparable abuses.
At first it will be necessary to assign to local branches of the Global Artistic Council, besides more pleasant duties, that single checkpoint through which an artistic work will have to pass before its public unveiling. That will be, if you will, the censor’s swan song. In the beginning, when national antagonisms and racial-prejudice will have not yet been eliminated, and powerhungry organizations will continue to play on those prejudices, a ban will have to be laid on any form of hate propaganda against any segment of the populace. Censorship will be maintained longer over books and texts that popularize scientific and philosophical ideas that give inadequate, superficial, or distorted treatment to objective facts and thus lead uninformed readers astray. Censorship will persist over works of fiction, requiring from them, it seems to me, a minimum of artistic merit in order to protect the literary market from a flood of tasteless, aesthetically ignorant trash. Finally, an unconditional ban on pornography will likely be in place longest of all. With the removal of each of these restrictions another measure will take its place: the Global Artistic Council or the Global Scientific Council will, after the release of a work of poor quality, print an authoritative review of it. That will suffice.
Clearly, it will not be easy to devise a system to determine who will sit on such councils, a system that will ensure that people with party or conceptual biases, intolerant supporters of particular movements or philosophical schools, or champions of the creative interests of some single group, nation, or generation not interfere in any sphere of culture. I would think, however, that in the psychological atmosphere of the Rose of the World a system like that could be devised.
If, for the moment, we avoid entering into fine distinctions between the concepts of culture and civilization, we may say that culture is nothing other than the sum total of humanity’s creative work. If creative work is the highest, most precious, and sanctified of human gifts, an expression of the human soul’s divine prerogative, then there is not, nor can there be, anything more precious or sanctified than culture. Further, the more spiritual a given cultural level, a given cultural sphere, or a given creative work might be, the more valuable it is as well.
The culture of a united humanity is only now emerging. Until now the only cultures to reach individual maturity have been those of individual suprapeoples, a suprapeople being a group of nations that are bound by a distinct, jointly created culture. But none of these cultures is confined to that aspect that exists and evolves within our three-dimensional space. Those who participated in the building of that culture here continue their creative work in the afterlife as well, though the work is, of course, altered in accordance with the conditions of that world or those worlds through which the soul of the human creator is passing at the time. An awareness is growing of million-strong communities of such souls, of heavenly lands and cities above each of the world’s suprapeoples, and of Arimoya, the emerging heavenly land of the culture of a united humanity. A perspective on culture based on such principles is new and startling. We would be right in even noting that with further crystallization and deepening it will grow to become a vast mythology, if in using the word “myth” we disaccustom ourselves from thinking of something that has no basis in reality. Here we are dealing with just the opposite: a colossal reality that is reflected hazily and superficially, but reflected all the same, in mythology.

The atmosphere established by the Rose of the World and its teachings will give rise to conditions necessary for that cultural mythology to be grasped by every mind. Even if only a limited number of minds are able to comprehend it in all its esoteric complexity, the spirit of the worldview, and not its letter, will gradually become accessible to almost everyone. And if we contemplate the prospect of instilling that worldview in the general populace, then devising a system of measures to safeguard all spheres of culture from interference by people who have no inner right to manage those spheres will cease to appear a hopeless task.

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The Poem Rena Sent Me

There are very few great love letters exchanged these days. Do I, or, we, blame Twitter, Texting, and Facebook? Rena wrote me a five page letter that contained a poem she wrote, and this one that David Campbell authored. She says she did this all in a afternoon, on Christmas Day. Then she tells me she must wrap presents and prepare dinner. Do you believe a word she has to say? Note her writing style. None of the letters connect. She is like a human typewriter. I wonder.


Windy Gap


David Campbell

Transcribed by Rena Easton on Christmas Day


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Victoria Sharp – Reality TV Star

What is it with Holy Cowboys and pretty teenage girls? Roy Moore says he is conducting a “spiritual battle”. Is he getting ready to go down in a hail of bullets? I saw all this coming in several visions – before my muse Rena Easton sicked Deputy Dan Mayland on me. How old was Pocahontus? Was she an underage Indian Maiden that the President is fixated on? The day Trump puts on a white cowboy hat – head for the End Time Bunkers! Trump may be acting out his earliest Jack-off fantasies, where he is the First White Man with a pocket of Wampum to spend. Teenagers have no money. But, for a few beads, you can get teenage savages to do everything to you. Then, you go to the new church and get forgiven! Wow! What a deal!

Above is Victoria cruising the county roads for Old Men to pick up – and molest – in the name of Jesus! Making America Great Again should be the ambition of all Female Teens.

Pocahontas’ birth year is unknown, but some historians estimate it to have been around 1596.[1] In A True Relation of Virginia (1608), Smith described the Pocahontas he met in the spring of 1608 as being “a child of ten years old”.[7] In a letter written in 1616, he again described her as she was in 1608, but this time as “a child of twelve or thirteen years of age”.[8]

Rosamond Press



“It was beauty who killed the beast!”

What kind of parents would take their children to a Armageddon Seige & Shootout, and bid them to sing to armed and dangerous men, Gospel Music? This would be like the Hurst family going on TV to tell the Symbonese Liberation Army they can keep Patty, and, put her in harms way – if need be!  LaVoy sped away from a police stop, with 18 year old Victoria Sharp in the car. What if he hit a tree – and killed her? I bet you she is – 16.

“Howdy folks! We got some big surprised in store on our show today!”

I see a reality show! I see the Sharp family trying to convert the Kardashions! OMG! What if Victoria had her puppy with her, and……………………….NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Jon Presco

Copyright 2016

The Red Devil’s Daughter!

Victoria Sharp came to the Malheur National Wildlife…

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Crossing The Double Yellow Line

Rosamond Press


Here lies the body of LaVoy Finicum sprawled across the dreaded double yellow line. Millions of Americans understand, to cross these lines, is certain death, so we don’t do it. However, if you belong to a cult, a sect, and entertain visions of Armageddon, then you are bid by your higher power to cross the line, stir up shit, and get the End Time rolling.

When the dust clears, we are going to hear from LaVoy’s family who will say he couldn’t wait any longer. He wanted to see the Lord and the Four Horseman of the Apocalypse before he kicks the bucket like us other old men who have trouble taking a pee due to prostate cancer, or, succumb alas to dreaded agent orange. Remember agent orange?

I see the first yellow line as the mortal coil of our mundane existence. Due to the original sin, nothing is right, everything is broken, or…

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Floyd Finicum – Shot Dead!

Draped Death and Roy Moore. Who is the author of this play?

Rosamond Press


Floyd died with his boots on! Who fired the first shot? I predict Trump will mention Floyd in the next twenty-four hours. There will be a blood flag. The Bundyites got their martyr. There’s going to be another Waco.

Jon Presco

A law enforcement official told CNN that authorities pulled over two vehicles. Everyone obeyed orders to surrender except two people: LaVoy Finicum and Bundy’s brother, Ryan Bundy, the official said.

 Shots were fired, but it’s unclear who fired first, the official said. Ryan Bundy was injured, but Finicum died, the official added.

Finicum was one of the most outspoken occupiers who took over the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge near Burns on January 2 to protest federal land policies.

Earlier this month, he said he’d rather be killed than arrested.

“Absolutely … I have no intention of spending any of my days in a concrete box,” he told NBC News

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Synchronistic Poems of The Triple Muse – With Mole!

After I fell in love with Belle Burch in Ken Kesey Square on April 4, 2014, I hurried home to view the video I took of her. I gasped when I saw the mole on her neck – that is screaming for my attention!

“Look at this! Look at me! See me!”

I called Marilyn and asked what side of her neck her mole was on.

“What side to your recall?”

“The right side.”


“Is it still there?”

“No. I had it removed.”

“I met you today, a younger version of you. She could pass as your daughter.”

Belle was three years of age when I beheld Amily in a coffee house on 13th. She was friends with Barnett and all the Punk-Rock Street Urchins. Kevin and Serna were close to her. She had me feel the bullet in her leg. She was born in a castle in France. Her father was a drug dealer. She spoke perfect French, like Belle. Amily and Belle could pass for sisters. Nancy Hamren followed our Romance, knowing well my infatuations with my Muses – who INSPIRED me! We began a pome together. I describe this effort as a walk along a eternal fence with knotholes, from where we get a glimpse of another parallel reality. Belle’s poem picks up twenty-seven year narrative. This is remarkable! This resembles the poems written for Belle’s mother play. Catherine Van Der Turin was a Libra.

Nancy and I lived in a commune in San Francsico with the Zorthian Sister. Their creative father was titled ‘The Last Bohemian’. Jarly put on a happening based on Botticelli’s ‘Primerva’.  I want to say I forgive Belle, but, more thant that, I recognize Belle as a poet, and a creator. This is a collective piece of great import. The Triple Muse appears on a destructive battlefield where everything is ruined. This is a Greek Tragedy.

With the discovery I made three days ago about the mission Salvador Dali, and a Mystery Woman – all are elevated! Trust me, we are amongst The Immortals.

Jon Presco

Copyright 2017

On Saturday, April 19, 2014 9:34 PM, Belle Burch wrote:
Hey Jon,
It’s Belle. Still wondering if you’re real. Thank you again for the bike. Let’s set up a time for me to do some modeling. Thurs and Fri are possibilities for me.
By the way, Why “John Ambrose”? Is that your middle name? Nom de plume? Highly synchronistic, as my current partner’s legal first name is Ambrose. I’m very curious about this.
Also, I thought you preferred to spell your name without the “h”?
Here’s the poem I said I’d send you.
Haven’t read any of your emails yet, will get to that soon.

Last night I fell
asleep in a tent on the concrete
in front of city hall
to the sounds of a quiet radio-
some show about the Bermuda Triangle.
How things, people
disappear there.
Whether or not it exists.
Interviews with people
who believed in it,
interviews with people
who didn’t. Its history.
Amelia Earhart. (Airheart?)
It seemed to go on
for centuries.
There are people out there
who don’t have state IDs, passports,
birth certificates,
social security numbers,
who technically
don’t exist.
The faeries who put people
to sleep for 100 years must live there
in that West Atlantic Vortex.
I got lost in it,
like Rip Van Winkle*,
and woke
to a changed world.
I texted a lover in New Orleans,
‘I’m stuffing almonds into a banana,
around my neck is a red bandana
and I love you.’ It was all true.
I walked through what is known
in Eugene as the Barmuda Triangle,
the magical trine of Luckey’s,
Horsehead and Jameson’s downtown.
If you order food at Jameson’s,
it gets run across the street
from Horsehead.
Luckey’s has the best pool tables,
and a fantastic little Mexican foodcart lovechild
that only accepts cash.
At the Horsehead,
there is a touch screen machine
where you get to choose
what music is being played.
You pay money for this privilege.
If you pay more money,
your songs get played
This is a triangle
you can only get lost in
if you’re a real person.
* bandana around my eyes to keep the
blazing orange streetlights out

Copyright 2014

Gambit (1987)


Jon Presco and his Muse, Amily


Remember when it was her turn
to be brave
How she reveled in her chance
to play
in the dance of the sunsets

How wild her eyes
in this juggling act
Full of sea-set waves
of her hand
that withdrew every dove
from your reluctant heart

What she did with your promises
stacking the old moments on edge
Daring you now
to recognize your life without her
Becoming afraid of her.

The new promises made
met with a hush
in the coming night
in the failing light
she came for her victory kiss
No more conjuring ways
all the doves
were asleep in her arms

From the land
a warm breeze
wrapped her long hair
around your embrace
while the new rumor
and web play
refrains of whispering strings
touching the back of your neck
Now afraid for her.

For we have all lost
the best things owned
The longest memories are made
in the dance of the broken sunsets
And perhaps brave?
Who alone would know
Being afraid
with her

La Belle Rose


La Belle Rose


Jon Gregory Presco

Dedicated to my Muse, Belle Burch

Poetry is the Truth

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
‘Saint Stephen’
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

In 1475
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,
and later
the most beautiful woman of the Renaissance.

Simonetta Vespucci
I salute thee!

bot3 bot4 bot5 bot7 bottibot2

Belle, I am confused. You took my number when we met after I told you I am an author out to preserve the Beat-Bohemian-Hippie culture. You said you were a radical, and I assumed you were an advocate for the homeless. Why then have you not talked about your radical homeless work with me when I shared at length my work with the homeless here in Springfield? From whom did you get an interest in Bohemians? Who is your boyfriend? Is he a radical advocate for the homeless? Has he been involved with OCCUPY?
I am trying to give YOU something very important. I know a information game when I see one. Dan Brown and his wife used to lurk on the yahoo.groups I belonged to that discussed the Templars, the Holy Grail, and the Masons. I have argued with members of the Sinclair family. The Davinci Code was a rip-off of OUR studies. Why are you examining me? Has it occurred to you that I am a Bohemian worth saving?
I married a very radical woman who was married to Thomas Pynchon. My best friend was good friends with Michael McClure and Jim Morrison. I was close with members of the Brotherhood of Eternal Love.
I asked you to help me get this information in a format that can be published, so that I can own credibility to put forth my knowledge. Once I am published, I wont’ be examined by people who have a selfish interest, and thus their finding are negative. I want your positive input and help. How many questions has your boyfriend put to you about me? If he wants to know anything about me, he can give me a call!  If you don’t understand why I am trying to give you something, ask and thou shall receive. I will tell you the truth – if I feel you are on my side!
The truth is, I did not like your poem, because I hate conspiracy radio. I want to do my own radio show called the Authentic Human Being Show. I did not like your poem because it says very little about YOU and your advocacy for the homeless. OCCUPY has a core group of people who want to remain anonymous. In my book they do not get to use the homeless as their human shield so they can own a cloak of invisibility in order to secretly push their ideaology. I can, and will expose that! Like the Pied Piper I will, put forth a better idea!
An article on the Beats says there is no direct connection between the  Pynchon and the Beat writers. I am that connection!
I want some feedback on our movie. I want you to sign a non-disclosure contract. You may not used any information I have shared with you without my permission and for any reason I deem injurious to my preservation and cause as agreed to at our first meeting.
Jon Presco

The Birth of Venus

Jon Presco
Copyright 1988

In the time before the coming of Man, before he learned to count the stars in the Heaven, and name the Seas that surrounded him, there was a morning star that danced in the deep blue sky at dawn’s first light. This was the time when wisdom and thoughts were not in man for he was not created yet. But there was whisperings in the inky night, and hushed tales reaching earth from distant stars, and in great tales yet to be stored in the hold of the moon, whose round sails traversed the sky, its sails adjusted and trimmed to the moods of the months and seasons, but not to the moods man, for even the gods did not have their whims as yet.

Then there was talking amongst the great rocks that buttressed into the sea, so deep and ancient the voices that only the seagulls could hear them and amass took flight over the horizon. There were rumors in the pounding waves as they marched to the shore that eternity was coming to dwell on Earth, and until then, only the breaking waves could count it. And they consulted the prophets in the rocks who had no form, who let the great waves take them bit by bit and turn them into sand till they fell like colossus back into the sea. But they were not vanquished for they dwelt in the spirit of all the land and had the wisdom to know they were not immortal, that their demise would take almost forever. But by then they would be wise, almost as wise as the gods, and by then, they would go wherever the gods would lead them, like dust captured in the tails of comets, they will follow.

But this rumor would not abate, for they did not understand the nature of it, from where it came, or where it would wend. Even the fish in the sea became agitated, and the shellfish wiggled deeper into the sand as if a great storm was brewing.

“Ahh!” the wisdom in the sea and rocks sighed with relief. “It is a great storm the god have in store for us. So, this is the nature of the rumor. But, we have withstood the greatest forces the gods have hurled at us. We can survive any tempest. Let it come and do its worst.

But in the Night they became aware it was longer, and the rumor would not desist. Now the birds on the land, and the song in the tree began to understand, and the great fatherly Night was awoken. Stroking his jet black beard, where gather a thousand stars, his deep piercing blue eyes searched for the offender, the rebels, so he might blot them out then file their existance atop the mountain tops pressed in stone. So many great bragarts had come and gone.

“What is it that awakens all that should be asleep, what nocturnal song is this that steals the Earth’s deep slumber, that wakes me falsely before it is time? Best not let the rising sun catch you at such play; for he is jealous of what you do when he is away. I his grandfather am too old for this ruckus, and I am left in charge of you like a nurse maid. Now return to your sleep, and be patient.” he ordered.

There was grumbling in the sea and rocks who were insulted by the Night. For their wisdom was treated like the buzzing of insects, and collectively they protested.
“Perhaps it is better for you to retire old man, and take your insults with you. For you are never here to see who you are really talking to. You are blind to how beautiful the world really is, and how great is our drama that unfolds at the signal of dawn’s rainbow, the ribbons of celebration that herald the arrival of your golden grandson. Oh how festive we can be, how young and eternal as we rejoice, as the color of the world returns – and the turquoise sea crashes like symbols upon the majesty of the cliffs!”

And now the animals joined in this rebellion and the Night gave out a great “Hush!
Quiet you fools. I have seen your antics. I have seen them reflected in the moon that appears in the day. It is my mirror I hold, for as you know I am full of curiosity. I might be senile and forgetful, but not as forgetful as you. The language of my time appears distorted, but not as distorted and forgetful as your dreams. Now to sleep with your arrogance, for you know I forget nothing. In your sleep I am your master, and it all comes back to haunt you. The ghost of your days are false, as is the false dawn.

Now for those whom sleep can not return to, I will have my daughter sing you a lullaby of the morning. For she is like a mother who has risen early to do her chores. She lights the little candle in the sky and her brightness clears the sleep from all who behold her. She is like my dear daughter. Who speaks ill of her? I will not ever give her away. She is too precious to me. To pure and shy. What goes on in the day is none of my business, or hers. It is full of arrogance, just as the Sun is. And even from him she shys away.

So come my daughter, and sing a quiet refrain. You are dutiful and prompt. You are patient and kind. Come, and sing a song about humility.”

But as the great Night turned to retire, his daughter did not sing. And this filled the Night with dread. Had she rebelled against him too? He was afraid to look fearing the mockery of the earth, for her creatures were now in frenzy of whispering that gave the Night a chill on his back.

“Look oh fatherly Night. Your daughter is gone. She is not there”

All beheld this were sad and alarmed, for they knew the Night had spoken wisely. Was this the rumor they had heard that was now a Nightmare; for all who beheld her were calmed by her beauty and her fresh young steadiness, and above all, her loyalty. Her song and her voice were liken to the Angels – who visit the earth.

Now the stars waning in the sky twinkled with confusion, and they beheld from their perch a great black cloud rising from the middle of the sea. And suddenly the sea was tossed into a tempest, and even it was afraid, and the sea is never afraid. And it embraced the wise souls within the rocks who hugged the rocks like a frightened child, but could not hold on, and slid back into the churning froth.

The trees on the edge of the land were trying to flee from the cloud, shuddering in fear. Their roots held for a little while, and then they were felled. The creatures on the land ran for cover, but the shrieks of the storm that ran faster they, and were in their dens before them, filling them with dread. The birds on the cliffs, and the rocks could cling on, and like leaves from a great oak they were plucked and carried in a great vortex around the black beating wings of the cloud that made the sea go where it did not want to go. Even the great fish in the sea were turned round and round. All but the clam was not safe.

Then there came from the menacing cloud and a bolt of lightening that turned the night into day. The Night cried out; “I am blind!” And the sea let go a terrible moan as a bolt of lightening pierced its depth, its ever present darkness, and not even the clam was spared as it tried to burl deeper into the sand, and was struck one mighty – but gentle blow.

The storm now went upon the land and raised havoc with those things who had never seen such fury. It struck angrily at the ground, and from it rose angry men, the first men. And they saw the tempest they were born into and the devastation around them. And the wisdom that had dwelt in the great rocks, flew from their crying mouths, saying; “This is a cruel land!” And they took felled trees to the sea and made rafts of them, then sailed away.

At first light, all was still and quiet. The sea had lost much of its voice that now filled the mouths of the captains of the ships, they using the wisdom that now found a home in them, commanding as the sea had done the new living things to make their crafts sturdier and defy the sea itself.

And they were wise enough to flea from the reach of the rocks that tried to pull them back and embrace them, jealous now that they were wise enough to avoid them. And they pointed to the stars who were startled, but pleased, as the wisdom from the captains declared them their only friends. But the stars were in morning and in unison asked the Night; “Where pray-tell is our sister? Why do you not let her come out and play with us?

Then came a warm wind from over horizon. It was the last sigh of the Night, and from it flew a Kite and it spoke of this rumor that had stirred the whole world; “Love is coming.”

“Love! What is Love?” And the world turned to the Night as he wearily receded over the land.
“I don’t know. Don’t ask me.” But from then on humanity would ask this question of the Night, in the night, and in a hushed embrace find the answer.

Even the captains at sea suddenly found themselves asking “What is Love?” and sat on the prow of their ships looking at the first light of dawn, then up into the heavens where once rose a beautiful star who the Night named Venus, whose lovely calm song and beautiful dance was yet to be beheld by men. If they had heard and seen her then they would know the moment they lay eyes on her, before the sea, the great rocks, the birds, the fish in the sea even suspected there was such a thing, that she was Love. Deep down in the core of all things they knew they were humbled; for with the coming of Love was a better and more endearing idea of what Eternity is. Only the Night knew this was the Truth. For only eternity could take a beautiful star out of the heavens, and as he sadly turned and beheld the pink ribbons in the sky that pulled from over the sea the great star that was the Sun, he whispered. “And only Eternity can put a star in the heavens.” But where oh where was his granddaughter?

There was a hush upon the land, but for the birds who rose early to tune the harps in their song. The wings of the great storm were now billowy giants in the sky, its mountainous peaks lit in the purest white, the finest gold, and decorated with the most heartwarming pinks and violets. This was the throne room of Zeus, the new god born to rule over men and their chaos. But, he was nowhere to be seen. No one dare ask after his fury for answers to the questions that haunted them. Perhaps the youth, the Sun know. In his delight, and in his daylight would come an answer. For something else had come to dwell on Earth….The Unknown.

“What will become of us? What is our Fate?”

Lying in a tide pool was a scallop shell it too exhausted by the storm. But suddenly the two halves opened up to expose the deepest and blackest pearl, and all gasped. For it was blacker and deeper then the blackest night. Then it began to turn a deep blue, deeper then any blue in the depths of the sea, or in the last light of the day. Then came a song so frail and faint all things hushed but the birds in flight. Only their flapping wings could be heard, but they now went into a glide circling to hear the song like an angels. And this song put a spark in the black marble of their eyes, and it shown like a star as they now beheld one resting in the shell.
Venus my daughter, rise!” Spoke a voice from deep the cloud. And it spoke as all the drops of rain, now as one. And the earth filled with the musical quality of the rain, and the sky cleared. It was the song of all questions yet to be asked “Do you love me?”, now joined as one in the answer, as they answered the song of Venus as she grew and rose from the shell, a dutiful maiden, always with a song in her heart.

She was beautiful, in a form not unlike that of men. But hers did not boast, defy, command, but had received the best qualities that wisdom deigned to create. Her form was as reasuring and comforting to the life around her as she was when she was a star in the sky. All that beheld her beauty was well pleased, for she was as perfect a compliment one could pay to life’s majestic design.

Then Venus began to dance. She saw all things as a mirror to reflect the beauty she felt, and she reflected it back. In the motion of her form her hands imitated the waves. Leaping, she mimicked the plumes of the waves that were thrown high into the air by the rocks. Her hair was like the wings of an albatross in graceful slow-motion flight as she pranced like a horse into the water, then arching her back, she dove into its depths. Her strong tapered legs like mating porpoises raised her to the surface. Then, standing in the pristine sea she wiggled her toes like fish playing with other fish, all the time not letting go of the two halves of the shellfish that born her.

Suddenly she heard a quiet voice inside her, and looked brightly about to see what other wonders were before her.
“Oh, Daughter Star. Tell me why you hold those shells so tight, and never let them go?”

Venus looked up and beheld a sliver of moon peeking at her in the sky, and asked;

“Is it you who spoke to me and gave me a name?”

“Yes Venus I did. We are dear friends. I have cradled you since the dawn of time.”

Venus smiled at ther lofty faraway friend, and then dearly at her shells.

“I carry these shells for they are my mother and father and I care about them so very much.”

Venus closed her eye as the world sighed at her innocence. She now knew who she was talking to. It was the Dream in the Night, the dream of long ago that took her places she could not go, but somehow, she knew those places well. For the day-moon was whispering all its secrets to her, reassuring her, that life would always be a wonderful mystery.


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