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[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.] The Manson Family Sings the Songs of Charles Manson - 04 - No Wrong
From a really, really old blog. This was originally published in March of 2000. Not a brilliant piece of writing by any stretch of the imagination, but nonetheless, I don’t want to forget it. Days whirl past like a blur. Days and days: alone. Time. Sunset shrouds the Earth with a lost memory. Old images spin beneath my dreams. A place I dwell, haunted. Reaching as far back as time will allow. The bed flies in circles around my room. My best friend is imagination. It is impossible to separate the real and the unreal. The faces in the wood paneling issue a warning against carelessness and hesitation. More a fear than a guide; I listen apprehensive, and the words fade in as murmured whispers. We arrived in Ovid, Colorado too long ago for me to recall a date. Evening laughed its darkness over the large mysterious house. Reunited for the first time in years, everyone was smiling and rejoicing—everyone but me. Youth summons the Sandman early, at least according to the aged rules. I was alone in a new bed with the lights in the room still on by my demand. Eyes realized the hole into the attic—a speckle painted rectangle of drywall, white. The sound of the rocking began. An old, old woman who watched the world through memories as her body slowly rotted. Each push to maneuver the chairs monotonous melody crumbled a little more skin from her decaying flesh. Was I afraid, or did I know her all too well? Perhaps I gave her back her youth, or maybe she took mine away? I have no answers. All I know, or ever knew, was that her name was Abigail. As years past her haunted rocking grew quiet. Dreams opened new gateways and life built more walls—puss dripping, fleshy, life-devouring walls of self-defeating rage and silence. The awkward words burning behind my eyes desperate to form sentences that I could never speak…saved only by my best friend, imagination. Free of boundaries, extending beyond the limits of life with a voice, a reassuring, calm voice repeating in my head: tomorrow—a word that now fills me with vomit. Vomit on a brush that paints now—now, a morbid idea that taunts me with foolish fantasy—a vision that oozes blood in my dreams. A vision that chokes my heart and lacerates my soul. Time travels with a quickness I cannot compete with. Left somewhere in the past I revel in what could have become and what I could have had. Humanity feeds me sickness and disgust. They present their lost souls to my eyes and flaunt their success with dissatisfaction. Their sorrows hollow and wicked. Ugly, clotted, loveless and cruel. The heart of humanity is flawed and disfigured. My heart is flawed and disfigured—small, black, and covered in goo. Still rocking and rotting it just won’t die. The human disease seems to captivate the entire face of the Earth. Not a single rock lies unowned—a small piece of sickness—searching for purpose in prosperity. As if the meaning life has anything to do with a dollar. I wish I had a dollar, I could feel on top of the world. And here I am at the top of the world and the only place to go now is down.
 
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