Thursday, June 29, 2023

TOM O'NEILL'S DECEITFUL BOOK CHAOS DEBUNKED BY A PRO

After waiting for decades (he says 20 years okay sure) and harassing and stalking old people, Tom O'Neill's book Chaos came out. And it was just a turbo charged version of Maury Terry's ludicrous book ULTIMATE EVIL. The Col reviewed it and mocked it and, aside from some Q anon people on Instagram think he book went almost no where;Vera Dreiser masturbated with it (Tom himself!) and then nada. Since the book was a nothing burger, no one has done serious research to take his shit down. The UnderGround Bunker, a great site fighting against vile Scientology, used first hand research and more to take this shitty book to task. This is a long work. It destroys a HUGE portion of Tom's fictional book. Take the time to read and digest it all ------------------------------ 

  Jon Atack takes issue with new theory about Charles Manson that ignores Scientology Tony Ortega Undergrund Bunker Charles Manson and his ‘Family’ will always stir up fascination, because of the horrifying brutality of the slayings in Los Angeles in 1969, and the mythology that has been so dexterously spun around them. Manson was the pied piper who brainwashed runaway girls in his orgiastic, drug-crazed sex cult and then loosed them on a rampage of murder in the attempt to begin a race war in the US. A war named for The Beatles’ song Helter-Skelter, which would also be the title of the book that made prosecuting attorney Vincent Bugliosi rich. That narrative took a beating when Tom O’Neill’s book CHAOS: Charles Manson, the CIA, and the Secret History of the Sixties came out in 2019. The prestigious Times Literary Supplement dubbed it a ‘masterpiece’ and the book sold like hot cakes. I eagerly checked the book’s index for ‘Scientology,’ to see what O’Neill had added to the secret internal Scientology files in my collection. I knew Manson had been deeply involved with the famous mind control training. Finding not a single mention of Scientology, I looked then for a reference to Manson’s autobiography, Without Conscience. There were only two paragraphs, and they related to a pair of spectacles left at the Sharon Tate crime scene. O’Neill ignored the autobiography’s numerous references to Scientology. In his 200-page account, Manson himself said that he had been ‘heavily into dianetics and scientology.’ At that point I put O’Neill’s book aside without reading any further. After a recent video chat, YouTuber Eric Hunley, referring to O’Neill’s book, asked if I knew that my late friend Jolly West had programmed the Manson Family. I was aghast. In my experience, Jolly was a friendly, compassionate, and helpful man. Not the sort of person who would systematically create mayhem and murder. When we first met in 1988 Professor Louis Jolyon ‘Jolly’ West, MD, was the head of the department of neuroscience and biobehavior at UCLA Medical School. We were not close, but we met four times over the next few years, and spent hours talking each time. On our second meeting, his assistant told me he kept two books on his desk – the Bible and my Piece of Blue Sky. She said he would read a few paragraphs whenever he took a break. It cheered him to see that the history of this group which had caused him so much trouble had finally been printed.
Jolly had been an out-spoken critic of Scientology for almost forty years by this time. He had fought off several suits filed against him by Scientology. In a speech to the American Psychiatric Association, he once said, ‘I would like to advise my colleagues that I consider Scientology a cult and L. Ron Hubbard a quack and a fake. I wasn’t about to let them intimidate me.’ He threw down the gauntlet. After sixteen unrelenting years of my own harassment by Scientologists, I can assure you that this was a brave stance. Jolly was an important speaker at Cult Awareness Network and American Family Foundation conferences. I have a recording of an excellent history of hypnotism from one CAN conference. Unlike most in his profession, Jolly recognised the value of hypnotism, a practice that has seen a resurgence in the decades since his death in 1999. Jolly determinedly shared sound information about hypnotism and the potential dangers of hypnotic states at a time when academia smirked at the subject (by the 1970s, only six out of ninety US university courses on psychology included any mention of it). By demonstrating hypnotism, he helped many, many people to avoid control through exploitative persuasion or ‘mind control.’ Hardly the psychopath portrayed by O’Neill, because by definition, psychopaths have no desire to help others. Jolly was a polymath and one of the most intelligent and well-informed people I’ve ever met. Our last meeting was in London. He was en route to a celebration of the work of Patrick O’Brian, author of the Master and Commander novels. Jolly was invited to speak about the accuracy of O’Brian’s descriptions of surgery during the Napoleonic Wars. One of many subjects on which he was expert. Jolly’s research into drugs was well known, especially through the death of the elephant Tusko during the crazy period when LSD was used in experiments on both human and animal subjects by hundreds of researchers around the world (I long ago interviewed an English psychiatrist who had given LSD to an eight-year-old child. It was a time of innocence and stupidity, when hallucinogens were handed out like candy). When I was invited to apply for a doctoral degree for A Piece of Blue Sky by Aarhus University, Jolly was quick to write a fulsome letter of support. He not only stood up to Scientology and other authoritarian sects, but was also active with Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. in the civil rights movement. Another potentially dangerous pursuit. I was surprised when Tom O’Neill said a former colleague had labelled Jolly ‘the only benevolent psychopath I ever met.’ Psychopaths are not likely to take up good causes. Jolly had put himself in the firing line with both cults and the at times murderous enemies of civil rights. O’Neill also tells us that for forty years Jolly was ‘vehemently against capital punishment,’ an unlikely position for a true psychopath. In CHAOS, O’Neill argues that for twenty years Jolly West was a principal investigator for the CIA’s deplorable MKULTRA mind control programs. As O’Neill says, there were 149 separate ‘experiments’ carried out under the aegis of MKULTRA during that period. He goes on to say that ‘Surviving records name eighty institutions, including forty-four universities and colleges, and 185 researchers…’ O’Neill cites a 1977 New York Times article, which tells us that MKULTRA was ‘a secret twenty-five year, twenty-five million dollar effort by the CIA to learn how to control the human mind.’ Most accounts agree that the program flopped (Naomi Klein takes an interesting contrary position that is highly relevant; but not to our discussion). In an interview with Eric Hunley, Tom O’Neill says that Jolly West was ‘the MKULTRA psychiatrist who I’ve uncovered documents showing that he was a pivotal part of the MKULTRA program for twenty years, and he practically wrote the blueprint for it with Sydney Gottlieb…’ This is a monumental claim based upon a handful of circumstantial evidence. O’Neill does admit his personal disdain for Jolly during their only conversation, where he says Jolly ‘droned on for so long I cut the interview short.’ I never knew Jolly to ‘drone on.’ He was one of the most fascinating conversationalists I’ve ever met. O’Neill tells us that ‘West became my white whale.’ It’s a telling remark, because this makes O’Neill the fervently obsessed Captain Ahab of Melville’s great novel (‘a grand, ungodly, god-like man’). Ahab goes to his death to destroy the white whale in revenge for it taking his leg off. Of course, in the novel – spoiler alert – Captain Ahab goes down lassoed to the whale. I hope the same will not be true for Tom O’Neill. He has done remarkable research, so a follow-up book on the Scientology connection might well save him. O’Neill’s obsession with Jolly is compounded by several statements, peppered throughout his 400-page book. He wants us to believe that Jolly West programmed Manson, but says, ‘I could never prove that he’d [West] examined Manson himself – or that they’d ever met.’ He makes this overblown statement: ‘As a self-styled brainwashing expert, he’d [West] been present whenever mind control reared its ugly head in American culture. Murders, assassinations, kidnappings, cults, prisoners of war – his fingerprints were on all of them.’ All of them? Thousands of people were subjected to Bluebird, MKULTRA, MKNAOMI. West could not possibly have ‘been present’ in every case, and O’Neill gives us no shred of evidence of involvement in any vicious act on Jolly’s part, let alone ‘murders’ or ‘assassination’. Further, O’Neill tells us, ‘I didn’t have a smoking gun … I worried I never would … I could poke a thousand holes in the story [of the killings], but I couldn’t say what really happened. In fact, the major arms of my research were often in contradiction with one another. … to imagine state, local and federal law enforcement cooperating in perfect harmony, with the courts backing them up – it made no sense. What I’d uncovered was something closer to an improvised, shambolic effort to contain the sequence of events without tripping on something. I was a lousy conspiracy theorist … because I wanted nothing left to the realm of the theoretical.’ In the end, however, almost everything is left in ‘the realm of the theoretical.’ And ‘an improvised, shambolic effort to contain the sequence of events without tripping on something’ comes very close to Manson’s own account. O’Neill continues in the same vein, ‘My theory that Manson and West were linked was tenuous, circumstantial, lying solely in the fact that they’d walked the same corridors of the same clinic. Wouldn’t it be more effective to argue that the entire prosecution of Manson was a sham, with Helter Skelter as a cover-up? … Maybe Jolly West didn’t even belong in the book.’ O’Neill then goes with what he himself calls the ‘most “far out” theory,’ which is ‘that Manson was tied to an MKULTRA effort to create assassins who would kill on command.’ I’m dissatisfied that sufficient evidence is provided to draw this conclusion. Or indeed, any evidence. It doesn’t reach the ‘realm of the theoretical’ because it is actually hypothetical rather than theoretical. It remains an untested, unproven hypothesis, a ‘theory’ requires evidence. O’Neill believes that Jolly had ‘claimed to have achieved the impossible’ that ‘he knew how to replace “true memories” with “false ones” in human beings without their knowledge.’ Yet, bringing people to manufacture false memories is an everyday experience. Most people who have undergone ‘past life regression’ (a favourite technique in Scientology) have readily created memories that they will believe to be real, although they can provide no evidence (such memories would include the language spoken by them at the time. No medieval French has been recovered from supposed reincarnated survivors of Agincourt nor any other instance, despite myriad hours of Scientology ‘processing’). One formerly very high-ranking, long-term Scientologist told me she’d seen about two hundred believers reporting that they had been Jesus. At least 199 were mistaken. UK mentalist Derren Brown has induced false memories (and beliefs) during his TV shows within minutes. Elizabeth Loftus spent a career studying the induction of false memories. It is far from ‘impossible.’ In his 1961 study of returnees from Chinese Thought Reform Camps, Robert Jay Lifton calls the change of memory ‘ideology over experience’ or ‘doctrine over person’ where the individual replaces a memory with the group’s description of events.
O’Neill does show that Jolly West had contact with the head of the dreadful MKULTRA program, Sydney Gottlieb. The two corresponded in the 1950s, but Gottlieb used an assumed name (Sherman Grifford). O’Neill does not prove that West was aware that the correspondent was Gottlieb. As O’Neill says, CHAOS, another CIA program, was so secret that when William Colby was appointed director of the CIA, he wasn’t told of its existence. This secrecy extended to the funding of the 149 projects in MKULTRA. A host of front groups were created through which monies could be channelled. These included ‘Chemrophyl Associates’ – the letterhead for ‘Sherman Grifford’ in his correspondence to Jolly West. It is possible and indeed highly likely that Jolly West did indeed receive funding indirectly from the CIA, however, we need to put the CIA’s research projects into context. The CIA represented the US government. While its activities were deplorable, immoral, and illegal — and its members deserved to be incarcerated in mental asylums or prisons — it nonetheless represented a legitimate government and was considered to be ‘making the world safe for democracy’ until the early 1970s, when Victor Marchetti pierced the veil of silence. In his study, Science of Coercion, Communication Research & Psychological Warfare 1945-1960, Professor Christopher Simpson found that over 90 percent of psychological research in the US in the two decades after the war was sponsored by the military: “Military, intelligence, and propaganda agencies such as the Department of Defense and Central Intelligence Agency helped to bankroll substantially all of the post-World War II generation’s research into techniques of persuasion, opinion measurement, interrogation, political and military mobilization, propagation of ideology, and related questions. The persuasion studies, in particular, provided much of the scientific underpinning for modern advertising and motivational techniques. This government-financed communication research went well beyond what would have been possible with private sector money alone and often exploited military recruits, who comprised a unique pool of test subjects.” Which is not to say that the research was morally proper. The various foundations created as fronts were to prevent researchers from knowing the source of their funds. The only possible connection that O’Neill can make is that Jolly West used a ‘crash pad’ in Haight Ashbury in 1967 to monitor the effects of LSD on hippies who were invited to trip there. Some of those hippies were referred by the Haight Ashbury Free Clinic which Manson attended. End of connection. That’s everything O’Neill has about the relationship between Jolly West and Charles Manson. O’Neill would have us believe that Jolly West manipulated Manson for two years. He cannot show that they communicated in any way. He does not track any coincidence in their movements during that two years either. The methods of manipulation are also given scant attention. O’Neill tells us that ‘Manson … had used LSD to collect and reprogram his followers.’ But he also reports Jolly West’s conclusion that ‘Acid … made people more difficult to hypnotize: it was better to pair hypnosis with long bouts of isolation and sleep deprivation.’ He adds to this Dr Eugene Schofield’s assertion that ‘LSD produced disorganized behavior, not violent behavior.’ This is supported by the literature. LSD would not be useful in creating programmed murderers – Manchurian candidates – because it has unpredictable effects. The CIA’s attempt to program students and soldiers with LSD failed. It disorientated rather than increasing obedience. They could find no effective way to distribute it to enemy soldiers and, after thousands of tests, LSD was abandoned as a chemical weapon. If O’Neill had paid attention to Manson’s Without Conscience, he would have found references to the drug most likely to have caused the psychotic behaviour of the Manson gang. O’Neill makes no mention of that drug. Tex Watson participated in both the Tate and the LaBianca murders. He and Manson both refer to a drug they call ‘talatche tea.’ By strange happenstance, at a meeting between us and Jolly West, my friend and colleague Steven Hassan asked Jolly what drug he thought had influenced the Manson Family. Extremely knowledgeable about drugs, without hesitation, Jolly said, ‘jimson weed.’ In Without Conscience, Manson says one ‘Indian Joe’ brought Family member Brenda ‘belladonna’ plants. The roots were boiled to make ‘talatche tea’ by her. Tex ‘picked up a large root and started scarfing it like he was eating an apple. Before the full effect hit him, Tex caught a ride into town. I wasn’t in the kitchen, nor did I know what was going on … I think it was the last time before the trials I saw Tex in what might be called his right mind.’ Manson says that Tex Watson took both ‘talatche’ and LSD before setting off on the Tate murders. After reviewing O’Neill’s and Manson’s books, I contacted an ethnobotanist, who very kindly explained that Manson and Watson had misspelled toloache, which is indeed jimson weed or datura. Here is his report:
‘Datura is common wild to the southwestern US and the Sonoran desert. It is sometimes called thorn apple, which refers to the thorny seed pods. It is also known as devil’s weed or hell’s bells. Once you know what to look for you can spot them all over. Manson and crew would have had ready access to datura around Spahn Ranch and the Simi Hills. It’s pretty easy to get into mischief with datura. It’s free and broadly distributed and will get you loaded, though at a potentially horrific cost. Datura has alluring trumpet-shaped blossoms. In the US West you will find abundant datura, also known as jimson weed or locoweed. All parts of the plant contain the highly toxic tropane alkaloids atropine, scopolamine, and hyoscyamine. The plant is easily located along roads, and is a source of poisoning for both people and animals. The tropane alkaloids are potent medicines in broad pharmaceutical use today. The effects of toloache’ vary greatly according to how you take it. If you make a tea, then it is a very risky business. ‘A mild datura tea may produce somewhat pleasant and dreamy effects, but a stronger tea will be a whole other bad thing. Visions on datura tend to be dark, crazy, evil, gravely disturbing. Most people become distraught and will not take a strong dose twice. It’s the definition of a bad trip. And if the tea is too strong, then you ride a gurney into that big hotel for dead souls. Thousands have died consuming datura in various forms. The seeds of datura may be ground finely and used as a poison or to intoxicate others such that they become open to suggestion. This is currently a known practice among robbers in Colombia. Finely ground seeds are blown into people’s faces, they inhale the powder, and become malleable and empty their ATM’s to robbers. The powdered seeds are also put into drinks, rendering the unsuspecting incapacitated and easy to rob. The Thuggee cult of India, from which we derive the word thug, used datura preparations regularly to kill and rob. It’s a very powerful poison, fast acting, associated with the goddess Kali.’ Datura belongs in a stronger class of drugs than LSD. It is a ‘deleriant’: due to its primary effect of causing delirium, as opposed to the more lucid and less disturbed states produced by other hallucinogens. Manson said, ‘I still don’t believe any of the violence would have erupted if we had controlled the drugs instead of letting them control us.’ It isn’t possible to control datura. It turns the whole world into a hallucination, a living nightmare. We come – at last – to Manson’s involvement with Scientology. In his interview with Eric Hunley – but nowhere in his book – is O’Neill’s single statement about the influence Scientology might have had on Manson: ‘The official narrative is that he audited or was audited for about a hundred hours and absorbed a lot of the techniques, a lot of the language of this ‘religion’ and then walked away from it, but a lot of it stayed, you know, stuff about ego and … all this word play. The question is, was there more to that? … Scientology had been infiltrated by federal agents too, who were using it to accomplish things. And there’s an interesting character who was the one who taught Manson Scientology, who later represented Squeaky Fromm after the assassination attempt of Gerald Ford … in ’75 … Lanier Ramer … Bruce Davis … was suspected in a couple of other murders, including two Scientology teenagers in LA in November of ’69’. I’d love to see information about this use by federal agents of Scientology. The only time I’ve heard it before was back in 1983 from Hubbard’s ‘Second Deputy Commodore’ Captain Bill Robertson, who assured me that Scientology had been taken over by the FBI as part of the alien invasion of Earth which was already underway with two hundred thousand Marcabians in Switzerland under the cover of Transcendental Meditation and the Freemasons. The occasional infiltrator from the intelligence community perhaps, but agents working to ‘accomplish’ something using Scientology? That’s new to me. While I was working on this piece, Steven Hassan, PhD, wrote a column for Psychology Today about the parole request for Manson Family member Leslie Van Houten. To our surprise, Psychology Today pulled the reference to Manson’s Scientology experience. You can see Steve’s response and my email to the timorous magazine here. The expurgated Psychology Today article is here. Scientology relied on a 1971 Guardian newspaper article where the allegation of Manson’s involvement was withdrawn after litigation. This disingenuous tactic conceals Scientology’s certain knowledge that Manson received about 150 hours of dianetic and scientology ‘processing’ from his cell mate Lanier Ramer over a fourteen-month period at McNeil Island penitentiary beginning in 1962. Files seized by the FBI show that Scientology tried to suppress any mention of this involvement. I brought it up in the original edition of Let’s Sell These People a Piece of Blue Sky back in 1990. Scientology made no attempt to sue me over the claim, despite launching suits against the book in both New York and London. One of the seized internal Scientology Guardian’s Office documents is headed ‘Re: Our disinformation action on the Process re Manson.’ The Process was a Scientology splinter group that caused Scientology a headache when it was alleged that Manson had been involved with it. Deliberate ‘disinformation’ has been a usual tactic for Scientology for decades, to ‘find or manufacture enough threat … to cause them to sue for peace … Don’t ever defend. Always attack,’ in Ron Hubbard’s words. The key word is ‘manufacture.’ In 1979, Mary Sue Hubbard, Hubbard’s wife and Controller of the Guardian’s Office, was sentenced to five years imprisonment for a long list of crimes including kidnapping, false imprisonment, theft, bugging and burglary. She oversaw the Manson cover-up, which was part of ‘Operation Rawhide.’ Manson was apprehended for the Tate-LaBianca killings in October 1969. On 22 June 1970, a full month before his trial began, a ‘compliance report’ concerning Manson and Family member Bruce Davis was sent to Mary Sue Hubbard. It detailed Manson’s ‘approximately 150 hours of auditing’ and his practice of Training Routine 0 (TR-0) with cell mate Lanier Ramer (a drill that is done for ‘some hours’ according to Hubbard’s instructional bulletin). The report adds that ‘for a time,’ Manson would ‘talk about nothing but Scientology to the extent that people avoided his company.’ Later, he was ‘screaming to get away from his auditor.’ (In the opinion of the report’s author, Manson had been run for too long – or ‘over-run’ – on a ‘process’). This report also says that Leslie Van Houten was ‘interested’ in Scientology. Elsewhere, there is mention of Sandra Good, another Family member, also having an interest in Scientology. Four of the key players in the Manson story had an involvement in a sophisticated system of thought reform. As part of Mary Sue Hubbard’s ‘disinformation’ campaign, the Guardian’s Office had Lanier Ramer sign an affidavit to the effect that he was not a Scientology ‘minister,’ saying ‘I have at no time held nor claimed any licensed, certified, official, or employee position within any Church of Scientology.’ He seems to have been a very dedicated Scientologist, however. A Scientology timeline of Ramer says that he ‘supposedly told Riverside PD that he robbed the bank in order to get money for Scn. courses.’ (‘Scn’ here means ‘Scientology.’) There is no secret that Scientology is an indoctrination in control techniques. Hubbard called this ‘infinite control’ or ‘8C’ (Hubbard often used the number 8 in place of the infinity symbol: ∞). There are many Scientology drills and processes that are supposed to lead to ‘8C’ or ‘Tone 40’ control. The manipulation of others’ emotions is part of the basic drilling of all Scientologists. Manson describes his time in the Gibault Catholic Boys Home from the age of twelve, saying ‘being under five feet tall and weighing less than sixty-five pounds … I was easy pickings for the bullies.’ He spent most of the next fifteen years in institutions being picked on by the bullies. Then he was initiated into the control methods of Scientology – including the famous thousand-mile ‘TR-0’ stare that he and other Scientologists are commonly associated with. We do not know the extent to which Scientology training was a part of Manson’s authority over the Family, but it should surely find a place in any analysis of his behaviour. It is likely that he passed on other elements of Scientology belief to his followers – as may the other three Scientologists in the Family. He certainly shared Scientology’s core belief in reincarnation. Perhaps he taught Training Routines to members of the gang too. As these constitute the first step of Scientology indoctrination, it is likely that Bruce Davis, Leslie Van Houten and Sandra Good were already acquainted with what cult expert Steven Hassan has called ‘the most overt use of hypnosis by any cult group.’ Manson himself said that in 1962 in prison, where he had just learned to read: ‘I studied hypnotism and psychiatry. I found whatever books I could find (and understand) that dealt with mind development. A cell partner turned me on to scientology. With him and another guy I got pretty heavily into dianetics and scientology. Through this and my other studies, I came out of my state of depression. I was understanding myself better, had a positive outlook on life, and knew how to direct my energies to each day and each task. I had more confidence in myself and went the way I chose to go, whereas previously, I had always been content to listen and follow.’ If only Scientology hadn’t bolstered Manson’s confidence. Scientology is the most elaborate and perhaps the most successful system of behaviour modification ever devised. Fervent Scientologists have included NASA scientists, theoretical physicists, high-power trial attorneys, politicians, sociologists, medical doctors – even one psychiatrist – and, of course, many famous actors, composers and musicians. Hubbard rarely told the truth, but when he said of Scientology, ‘We have ways of making slaves here’ and ‘We can brainwash faster than the Russians,’ he was offering his honest opinion. If Manson made slaves, if Manson brainwashed his followers, we must look to his time in Scientology and carefully consider its significance. O’Neill spent twenty years researching CHAOS. He added a great deal of information to the record but as he tells us about one potential interview, ‘I was overthinking everything, and then overthinking my overthinking.’ The book is drenched in speculation. While O’Neill does put to rest the corrupt prosecutor Vincent Bugliosi’s myth of ‘Helter Skelter,’ he replaces it with a far more elaborate and fanciful idea: that the Manson gang’s murders were the consequence of ‘programming’ by Jolly West. He tells us nothing about this programming process. I’ve spent a lifetime investigating the methods of brainwashing, mind control, thought reform, coercive control – call it what you will – and it is vital to have details of any such program; the often incremental steps. The frightening documentary Manson: The Lost Tapes was not available to O’Neill. It shows remaining ‘Family’ members only days after Manson’s arrest and the later testimony of the girls then filmed is a keen insight into the madness of the Family. None of them mention Jolly West. Jolly is indeed O’Neill’s white whale. Chaos is not the only place where he heaps blame upon Jolly. In an interview with Eric Hunley, O’Neill says West ‘snapped’ Ruby into insanity in a single session. No corroborating evidence is offered and no explanation of the method used. In an article in The Intercept, O’Neill asserts ‘Louis Jolyon West seems to have used chemicals and hypnosis liberally in his medical practice, possibly leading to the death of a child and the execution of an innocent man.’ If West could do this in 1954 – when these dreadful events took place – the whole MKULTRA program would have been redundant: if O’Neill’s speculation is accepted, a programmed killer had been made and the CIA’s quest was complete. The program continued for another twenty years without, as far as we know, achieving this objective. While I’ve met many people who were exploited into allowing others to interpret their reality, I’ve yet to find any case among the thousands I’ve looked into where anyone was turned into a compliant robot (my own Opening Our Minds explores the many ways in which obedience, groupthink and deliberate thought reform work). Yes, it is possible to make people act against their own best interests and even their own morality, even to sacrifice their lives for the good of a bogus cause, but to maintain murderous conviction requires rather more than a few positive suggestions and a few tabs of LSD. In fact, the first stage of mind control is the creation of feelings of knowing, a spurious ‘certainty.’ This ‘certainty’ is based upon belief rather than evidence. Mind control is undone when the individual discards the feelings of knowing, the sense of certainty, by accepting hard evidence that they are just feelings. O’Neill has successfully convinced many people of his own certainty. As yet, as he admits, he has only circumstantial evidence to support that certainty. It remains an unproven hypothesis; a speculation, worth further investigation, but not yet worth believing. In O’Neill’s account, West has become a magician with supernatural abilities beyond description or explanation. But O’Neill is not Captain Ahab. He worked not for revenge but in the hope of understanding an awful series of events. That is a noble endeavour. He amassed a mountain of research, and his work was meticulous. I do not question his integrity, just his conclusions. — Jon Atack

Wednesday, June 28, 2023

House of Manson Movie Review

      House of Manson is one of those films that is unfortunately going to fall into the 'I watched it so you don't have to' category. As usual, I'll take a look at the movie from two angles- how well it works as a movie, and whether or not it gets the facts right. House of Manson misses the mark somewhat in both respects. 

    The 2014 film has mostly unknown actors, and definitely has a low budget feel to it. The film starts out with the raid on the ranch (with a soundtrack that sounds more late 1970s classic rock than late '60s), then goes to Sadie confessing in an interrogation room. From there we go to Manson speaking to an attorney and talking about his past. Cut to 1930-40s West Virginia for a montage of scenes- Charlie witnessing his mom having sex, his problems at school, his first marriage, his first experiences with the justice system. these scenes go by too quickly. I was hoping that we would be given to see a bit more of Manson's past. 

    Next we are carried along as Manson starts to assemble his Family. we see short segments of him meeting Mary Brunner, Squeaky, Katie, Sadie, etc.. typical for a Manson movie, most of the girls are too modern looking, or just don't look right for the part. Mary and Katie look far too attractive compared to their real life counterparts, while Sadie looks too modern (the actress bears a resemblance to Minka Kelley from Friday Night Lights). 

    Scenes of Manson meeting Terry Melcher, cutting a demo for him, life at the ranch, Melcher rejecting Manson, an LSD infused mock crucifixion scene complete with the participants spreading blood on themselves, and talk of Helter Skelter play out rapidly. 

     In one scene, Manson's lawyer is a fit, well groomed, clean cut man that is revealed to be Ronald Hughes for some reason. He demands to know how Manson met Sharon Tate, and in other scenes, he grills Manson as if he were a detective, not Charlie's lawyer. 

    The filmmakers spend a little time on the murder of Gary Hinman, but they manage to get the facts wrong. At one point, Sadie tells, him that her father drank himself to death. It is indicated that Hinman was being beaten and tortured for several days, and only then Charlie shows up, takes a sword off of the wall, and slices Hinman's face. Almost immediately after he is murdered. No sewing up his ear, no prayer beads. 

    The Tate killings follow, and despite the inaccuracies, this scene contains what is likely the only standout scene. The killers meet Steven Parent's car while heading up the driveway, and Tex immediately shoots him dead. We get to see Sadie's encounter with Abigail Folger, and Tex's 'I'm the Devil' line. Some of the major inaccuracies here are the appearance of two guns, one wielded by Sadie, the other by Tex. Frykowski is beaten by Tex on the couch. Abigail is chased down and killed by Katie, with no help from Tex at all. Frykowski is also not shot at all. 

    Abigail Folger's death is the most harrowing and well done scene of the movie. The actress that plays Katie is in an absolute frenzy during this scene, and Abigail's plea to stop because she is already dead is pretty chilling. Kudos to both actresses for this scene. 

    The LaBiancas the next night is a shorter scene. Charlie exits the house and tells Leslie and Katie to go inside. He and Linda and an actor who is much to old to be Clem then drive off. The murders move rapidly, with Katie again in an absolute frenzy. the scene is so chaotic it is hard to keep up. Eventually Tex hands Leslie what looks like a knife that Rambo would've carried and has her stab Rosemary (it appears that Rosemary is still alive at this point).

  The final big scene is the raid on the ranch, to the strains of Amazing Grace(!). Some of the law enforcement extras here looks really out of place for the time period. Some look like they are from the 21st century, while other look like they would be at home in the Beastie Boys 'Sabotage' video from the eighties, with sunglasses and big bushy mustaches and polyester pants. Afterwards, we get to see Ronald Hughes (court appointed mind you) refuse to represent Manson because Charlie had the murders committed because 'you're not a rock star.' I guess that is a good thing, since he was Leslie's lawyer anyway. 

    Overall, I would say this movie is for anyone that absolutely has to see every available movie about TLB. The inaccuracies will drive some of us nuts. If you can overlook those, the low budget acting might not hold much appeal. Even as far as low budget Manson movies go, this one doesn't stand up to Manson, My Name is Evil or The Last of the Manson Girls. Both of those films had that something extra that is lacking in this film. The actresses that played Katie and Abigail do a great job, but the scenes are relatively short, and unable to rescue the film. Maybeif they would have cleaned up some of the inaccuracies, and possibly delved into Manson's past more, it might have been enough to bring it up a notch or two. I would say this one is for Manson completists only. 

    

  

Wednesday, May 31, 2023

Manson follower Leslie Van Houten should be paroled, California appeals court rules

LOS ANGELES (AP) — A California appeals court said Tuesday that Leslie Van Houten, who participated in two killings at the direction of cult leader Charles Manson in 1969, should be released from prison on parole.

The appellate court's ruling reverses an earlier decision by Gov. Gavin Newsom, who rejected parole for Van Houten in 2020. She has been recommended for parole five times since 2016. All of those recommendations were rejected by either Newsom or former Gov. Jerry Brown.

Newsom could request that California Attorney General Rob Bonta petition the state Supreme Court to stop her release. Bonta's office referred questions to Newsom's office, which didn't respond to queries about possible next steps.

Van Houten, now in her 70s, is serving a life sentence for helping Manson and other followers kill Leno LaBianca, a grocer in Los Angeles, and his wife, Rosemary.

Newsom has said that Van Houten still poses a danger to society. In rejecting her parole, he said she offered an inconsistent and inadequate explanation for her involvement with Manson at the time of the killings.

The Second District Court of Appeal in Los Angeles ruled 2-1 to reverse Newsom's decision, writing there is "no evidence to support the Governor's conclusions" about Van Houten's fitness for parole.

The judges took issue with Newsom's claim that Van Houten did not adequately explain how she fell under Manson's influence. At her parole hearings, she discussed at length how her parents' divorce, her drug and alcohol abuse, and a forced illegal abortion led her down a path that left her vulnerable to him.

They also argued against Newsom's suggestion that her past violent acts were a cause for future concern were she to be released.

"Van Houten has shown extraordinary rehabilitative efforts, insight, remorse, realistic parole plans, support from family and friends, favorable institutional reports, and, at the time of the Governor's decision, had received four successive grants of parole," the judges wrote. "Although the Governor states Van Houten's historical factors ‘remain salient,' he identifies nothing in the record indicating Van Houten has not successfully addressed those factors through many years of therapy, substance abuse programming, and other efforts."


Friday, May 26, 2023

Legendary Stuntman Gary Kent Has Passed Away

 This is an article from October 2022. Thanks Donna!


Legendary stuntman Gary Kent's strange encounter with Charles Manson

Ros Tibbs

Gary Kent is an American actor, director and stunt person who is most known for his work in independent grindhouse films. Having made his movie debut in 1956 in R.G Springsteen’s Battle Flame, a war film about a marine who tries to free his girlfriend from the North Korean army, the actor went on to make other notable appearances in movies such as The Black Klansman, The Savage Seven, and more.

Famously, Kent worked as a double for actor Jack Nicholson in Hell’s Angels on Wheels and Psych-Out, both directed by Richard Rush. Later, in 2009, Kent published a memoir titled Shadows and Light. In the book, he discusses an “outlaw” cinema aimed at breaking film taboos and barriers.

Kent and his experiences as a stuntman served as inspiration for Cliff Booth, the character portrayed by Brad Pitt in Quentin Tarantino’s 2019 alternative historical film Once Upon a Time in Hollywood. As depicted in Tarantino’s movie, Kent crossed paths with the notorious cult leader Charles Manson and some of his deranged followers.

Charles Manson and his cult committed a series of nine murders during the summer of 1969. After being apprehended by the authorities, in 1971, Manson was convicted of first-degree murder and the attempt to murder seven people. Notoriously, one of his victims was the film actress Sharon Tate, who was heavily pregnant at the time. The prosecution concluded that while Manson was not directly responsible for the murders, it was his ideology and leadership that manipulated his cult to commit the crimes.

So how did a meeting between one of America’s top stunt men and one of America’s most dangerous criminals unfold?

Kent details how the incident took place in June 1969, during the shooting of Lash of Lust. The filming took place at The Spahn Ranch, a location that was built from three ranches where filmmakers could shoot Western films due to the lack of any electrical appliances. When they were shooting at the Ranch, Kent noticed there were “a bunch of hippies” who were “staying in these shacks” close by.

“The girls would come down to where we were shooting and beg for our lunches from us,” Kent claims. He also explained how he shrugged the incidents off: “We just thought they were strange little hippies that lived there,” Kent commented.

It was interacting with these very “strange little hippies” that led to Kent meeting Manson.

During shooting, the dune buggy that was used as a camera car suddenly broke down, disrupting the filming process. Kent then went over to the girls and asked: “Do you know of a mechanic around here?”. The girls eagerly replied, “We’ve got a great mechanic right here”. Kent agreed to see him, even though “we didn’t know him from Adam”.

When describing the mechanic who came to help, Kent states he was “this little guy… maybe five four by five” who was “barefoot bare-chested” and was wearing an “old pair of raggedy jeans”. He also remembers how he “had this long scraggly hair and he introduced himself, Charles Manson”. This is the same Charles Manson who would then lead his cult to tragically murder Sharon Tate.

Kent also shared details of how Manson carried himself: “Charles Manson’s handshake felt like a dead trout and he wouldn’t look me in the eye,” he explained, also labelling the hippies as “his creepy-crawlies”. Kent further stated: “To me, Manson was as shifty and full of hot air as a corn-eating cow”.

Once the buggy was fixed, Manson left the location and “next thing we knew, they had arrested this guy called Charles Manson”. Kent immediately thought back to the mechanic incident: “We thought…that was the guy at George’s ranch and that was my big meeting with Charlie”.

Manson would then serve life in California State prison, where he died in November 2017 at the age of 83.



Wednesday, May 24, 2023

Kenneth Anger, Experimental Filmmaker and ‘Hollywood Babylon’ Author, Dies at 96

By Ethan Shanfeld


Experimental filmmaker, artist and author Kenneth Anger has died. He was 96.

His gallery, operated by Monika Sprüth and Philomene Magers, confirmed the news on their website, writing, "Kenneth was a trailblazer. His cinematic genius and influence will live on and continue to transform all those who encounter his films, words and vision."

Born in 1927 in Santa Monica, Calif., Anger produced over 30 short films from 1937 to 2013, having made his first movie at 10 years old. Known as "one of America's first openly gay filmmakers," he gained a reputation for exploring themes of erotica and homosexuality decades before gay sex was legalized in America. Anger received recognition for his homoerotic 1947 film "Fireworks," which landed him in court on obscenity charges. Filmed in his childhood home in Beverly Hills while his parents were away for the weekend, "Fireworks" is known as the first gay narrative film produced in the U.S.

Afterward, Anger moved to France and immersed himself in the avant-garde film scene, which inspired Anger's own works "Eaux d'Artifice" and "Rabbit's Moon." After moving back to the states in 1953, he produced the 38-minute "Inauguration of the Pleasure Dome" and the 29-minute "Scorpio Rising," starring Bruce Byron.

In 1959, Anger published the gossip book "Hollywood Babylon," which detailed alleged scandals of Hollywood stars from Marilyn Monroe to Judy Garland to Charlie Chaplin. The book has been widely discredited and was banned in the U.S. shortly after its publication. He released a sequel to the book in 1984 after announcing his retirement from filmmaking, a result of his inability to produce a sequel to his 1972 film "Lucifer Rising." (He would return to the medium at the turn of the century, directing over a dozen short films from 2000 to 2013.)

Karina Longworth's 2019 season of her "You Must Remember This Podcast" was devoted to examining the stories told in "Hollywood Babylon" and researching other sources to get more accurate accounts.

Anger said in a 2010 interview with The Guardian that he had finished writing a third installment to "Hollywood Babylon," but was holding off on publishing it due to fear of repercussions. "The main reason I didn't bring it out was that I had a whole section on Tom Cruise and the Scientologists," he said. "I'm not a friend of the Scientologists."

An outspoken Satanist, Anger was a controversial figure who became close friends with other countercultural figures at the, including the Rolling Stones' Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, Led Zeppelin's Jimmy Page, and Marianne Faithfull, who starred in "Lucifer Rising."

Anger captured his life's work in a surrealist anthology film titled "Magick Lantern Cycle, which stitches together nine of his short films including "Fireworks" and "Invocation of My Demon Brother."

In the statement announcing his death, Sprüth and Magers wrote, "Anger considered cinematographic projection a psychosocial ritual capable of unleashing physical and emotional energies. The artist saw film as nothing less than a spiritual medium, a conveyer of spectacular alchemy that transforms the viewer."




Saturday, May 20, 2023

Remembering Linda Kasabian

Linda Kasabian was born June 21, 1949 and passed away on January 21, 2023. Although she only spent approximately a month with the Manson Family in the summer of '69, she would become an extremely important witness for the prosecution to convict several members of the Family of murder. She will forever be remembered for her 18 days of testimony on the stand that helped write the fascinating story of the Tate-La Bianca murders.

Please click on the video below to remember Linda through photos. 

Music: "Arizona," by Mark Lindsay, Columbia Records, 1969.

 

Friday, May 12, 2023

William Marshall

 Hi Everyone,


Longtime reader & contributor William Marshall (ajerseydevil) is in the final stages of cancer. For anyone that would like to reach out to him, his IG is:

https://www.instagram.com/williammarshall6848jerzzyboss/




Tuesday, May 2, 2023

Roman Polanski, 1977 rape victim Samantha Geimer smile for social media snap

 'Chinatown' director Roman Polanski pleaded guilty to rape for unlawful sex with a minor, but fled the US for France and has remained a fugitive

By Tracy Wright | Fox News


Controversial director Roman Polanski reunited with Samantha Geimer, the woman he pled guilty to having unlawful sexual intercourse with a minor more than 40 years ago.

Geimer was 13 years old at the time Polanski – who was in his 40s – was arrested and charged with rape by use of drugs, perversion, sodomy, providing controlled substances to a minor, and lewd and lascivious acts upon a child under 14. 

Following his guilty plea in 1977, Polanski fled the country and became a fugitive, first finding refuge in London and then settling in France.

While Polanski has never stepped foot on U.S. soil or any country that would extradite him to the United States, he has still created films and won the Academy Award for best director in 2002 for "The Pianist."

In the Instagram photo shared from Geimer's private account to Polanski's wife Emmanuelle Seigner's profile, both Roman and Samantha smiled for the camera.

"Thank you Samantha," Emmanuelle captioned the shot with a few heart emojis. 

She added David Geimer for the photo credit and tagged the magazine that published a recent chat between Geimer and Seigner.

"Let me be very clear: what happened with Polanski was never a big problem for me," Geimer told Seigner in the French publication per IndieWire. "I didn’t even know it was illegal, that someone could be arrested for it. I was fine, I’m still fine."

She added, "The fact that we’ve made this [a big deal] weighs on me terribly. To have to constantly repeat that it wasn’t a big deal, it’s a terrible burden."

"Everyone should know by now that Roman has served his sentence. From my side, nobody wanted him to go to jail, but he did and it was enough. He paid his debt to society. There, end of story."

"Anyone who thinks that he deserves to be in prison is wrong. It isn’t the case today, and it wasn’t the case yesterday."

In August 1977, Polanski pleaded guilty to one count of unlawful sexual intercourse with a minor as part of a plea bargain dismissing five other charges. Geimer had testified that Polanski gave her champagne and a sedative during a photoshoot and proceeded to have sex with her despite her objections. 

The sexual assault happened at Jack Nicholson's mansion. He was not home when the encounter occurred. 

Forty years later, Geimer appeared in a Los Angeles courtroom pleading for a judge to officially dismiss the case so that her family could move on. The judge denied the request months later.

A California appeals court in July ordered the unsealing of a conditional deposition transcript from former prosecutor Roger Gunson to be opened in the criminal case against director Polanski. Gunson retired in 2002.

"This case has been described by the courts as ‘one of the longest-running sagas in California criminal justice history,’" Los Angeles District Attorney George Gascón said in a press release. "For years, this office has fought the release of information that the victim and public have a right to know."

In 2018, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences voted to kick Polanski out and subsequently defended its decision by saying he was given a fair opportunity to challenge the Academy's ruling.

Polanski sued the Academy the following year on the grounds that the group had failed to follow its own procedures when it voted to kick him out. He was expelled alongside Bill Cosby for violating the organization’s standards of conduct.

In its response, the Academy said the board considered voluminous materials submitted by Polanski on appeal, including more than 400 pages of exhibits and a detailed memo from his attorney. Polanski also recorded a videotaped statement directly addressing the board of governors.

Monday, April 24, 2023

Why does Mrs. Seymour Kott have her own Wikipedia page?

 

Mrs. Seymour Kott was an earwitness, her sole contribution being that she heard shots after midnight:
 
Helter Skelter. page 24:
At 10070 Cielo, Mr. and Mrs. Seymour Kott had already gone to bed, their dinner guests having left about midnight, when Mrs. Kott heard, in close sequence, what sounded like three or four gunshots. They seemed to have come from the direction of the gate of 10050. She did not check the time but later guessed it to be between 12:30 and 1 a.m. Hearing nothing further, Mrs. Kott went to sleep.
 
No where is Mrs. Seymour Kott identified as other than "Mrs. Seymour Kott" or simply "Mrs. Kott." It is surprising, then, that Mrs. Seymour Kott--professionally known as Ethel Fisher-- has her own Wikipedia page:
 
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ethel_Fisher
In 1961, Ethel Fisher left Miami and her family to concentrate on her painting. After traveling in Europe for a year, she resettled in Manhattan with her second husband, art historian Seymour Kott....
At the end of the decade, Fisher and Kott left New York and rented a property in the Hollywood Hills next door to the home of Sharon Tate and Roman Polanski just weeks before the Manson murders took place. Their account of that night was published in several books about the murders. In 1971, they bought a 1926, multi-level Spanish Colonial home on a slope above the Pacific Ocean in Pacific Palisades...
 
She was a painter of some renown, at least in the art world. Her works have been exhibited at, among others:
 
Los Angeles County Museum of Art, Los Angeles, CA

Special Collections, University of California, Los Angeles, CA

The Morgan Library and Museum, New York, NY

The Museum of the City of New York, NY

The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, NY

The Norton Gallery, West Palm Beach, FL

The Security Pacific Bank Collection (now Bank of America), CA
 
---------------
 
So here's the question: Was her name deliberately obscured to protect her professional reputation? It's a small thing, but it seems just another case of how the big names were being protected from any association with the Manson infamy.
 
Mrs. Seymour Kott (1923–2017)

 

 
Another unresolved question I have is who were the guests at the Kott house that night--the ones who left "about midnight," according to Bugs' book? You'd think the investigators would have wanted to contact them, to see if they saw anything on their drive away from the house, as the killers allegedly would have arrived on scene just minutes later. Maybe they were 'prominent' in some way too, and pressure was applied to leave their names out of it.
 
 
Tom O'Neill disclosed that an anonymous blogger-"Enty"-claimed that the actor Dean Stockwell had some kind of encounter with Tex Watson at the top of Cielo Drive the night of the murders:
 
Blind Item #9 - Reader Blind
This recently deceased Academy award nominated movie and TV actor had success early in his career and a second wind later in his career. In between, he was part of a wild generation and during that time became friends with an infamous figure who had his own family. The night of a famous crime, he was present having driven himself there but did not go inside the house of the actress. One of the perpetrators of this crime gave hours of recorded testimony to his attorney and mentioned this but no one believed him.
(referring to Stockwell, Manson, and Tex Watson, obviously)
 


 
 
Stockwell, of course, is best known as an actor, but he also took himself seriously as an artist:
 
Pacific Standard Time, Los Angeles Art 1945-1980, by Rebecca Peabody, pg78
For many, sharing works of art was a private, intimate act, and a great number of art works made by this circle of artists were never exhibited publicly. This was the case with many of the works made by Stockwell, a former Hollywood child star, who began creating intricate collages of found pictures that mingled historical and contemporary imagery and sources.
 
Stockwell, known professionally as R. D. Stockwell in the art world, was doing collages in this period on a professional level (he designed one of Neil Young's album covers, for example). As was Mrs. Seymour Kott, Given this commonality, is it possible Stockwell was a guest at the Kott residence that night, and ran across Tex at the top of Cielo as Stockwell left the house at about midnight?  The timeline fits, certainly.

Thursday, April 20, 2023

CHARLES MANSON’S BODY, OR, HOW I ENDED UP PAYING FOR THE NOTORIOUS CULT LEADER'S FUNERAL


"Did a man like this deserve a funeral?"

APRIL 20, 2023 BY MAGGIE MILSTEIN

There's something mean about cremation, to make a body completely useless. "Ashes to ashes" is just a metaphor for the quantum universe, not a recipe. We aren't really made of stardust. Manson once said, "Sanity is a small box; insanity is everything." Maybe funneling his ashes into a little carton would somehow restore sanity to the world.

*He died in November, the month of gratitude.

In 2017, Charles Milles Manson, or "Charlie," expired in Bakersfield's Mercy Hospital after eighty-three years on Earth. He had been transferred there from the California state prison in Corcoran, where he had been incarcerated since 1989. There are conflicting accounts of what exactly killed him, but it's fair to say that an octogenarian Charles Manson was about as healthy as one might imagine. His death certificate names acute cardiac arrest, respiratory failure, and metastatic colon cancer as his pale horses, but he had lived with a litany of afflictions since he first shuffled into Corcoran. He lived in the Protective Housing Unit, or P.H.U., a ward for prisoners who, because of their colorful histories, couldn't survive in the general prison population.

I spent the greater part of my twenties interviewing prisoners in an old visitation room outside the P.H.U. I started the project in graduate school. I wanted to explore the emotional lives of elderly prisoners, an overlooked demographic in the carceral system. A criminal is sentenced to life in prison—then what? What does it mean to grow old behind bars, and what keeps the soul alive? Some prisoners were easy to talk to. Charlie, who famously loved to mess with interviewers, was best understood through observation and anecdotes.

My favorite: A prisoner walked into the communal bathroom and found the elderly murderer perched on the commode, sucking on a pitiful joint that, in the delicate lifecycle of prison contraband, had slipped into the unit via officer or orifice. Asses to ashes, butts to butts. To the intruder, Charlie may have looked more like a 1950s housewife puffing on a filtered Viceroy than America's most dangerous man sucking down a crotch roach. To Charlie, it was surely a moment of profound reflection.

I imagined him roosting, eyes closed, smoking his boot-scrape ganga while pretending to be surrounded by braless, smiling women with long, dirty hair. Maybe he was reliving one famous, perfect scene:

His girls waist-deep in a dumpster, their skin and hair shimmering, joyfully pulling out garlands of limp vegetables as if it were a victory garden.

In that moment he was young, even though his body was so stiff with arthritis that, instead of a king on his throne, he would have looked more like the Tin Man splayed on an oilcan, heartless. By some accounts, the little man was standing on the toilet rim. Regardless, he was in his element. He didn't need to stunt, to act the fool. No throwing food, no yelling, no bitches of varying ilk. He could cogitate. Maybe, in the winter of his life, Charles Manson had turned to introspection and asked himself,

"Who in the world am I?"

"Get the fuck off the shitter, Charlie!" yelled the intruding prisoner, pointing to an air vent that was blowing skunk smoke out the bathroom window towards the yard where two notorious snitches happened to be chilling.

"You get the fuck out!" squawked Charlie, as he returned to the world.

It was incidents like these that made almost everyone in the P.H.U. hate Charlie. It wasn't because he was Charles Manson. It was because he burned popcorn in the communal microwave and made everything smell like shit. He always nabbed the last avocado from the visitation snack cart and left piles of candy wrappers on the table.

He was inconsiderate.

He was a "tool."

Now the tool was just a thing, a whatchamacallit. A dead body. Someone else's problem. But whose?

When Charlie's condition began to deteriorate, both the prison and the hospital tried to keep the situation confidential, but when he was transferred from the prison infirmary in Corcoran to the general hospital in Bakersfield people began to talk. As international news outlets broke the story, the world waited to see if Charles Manson could really die. He seemed more spectral than mortal, and although I never bought into any supernatural concept of "evil" it was clear that Charlie had a superhuman and deeply serendipitous tendency to escape death. A horrific childhood in violent boys' homes. An adolescence in and out of prison. A reign of terror and a death sentence that was later commuted to life-in-prison by Furman v. Georgia, a Supreme Court case that, in 1972, temporarily ended capital punishment in the United States and retroactively saved the lives of death row inmates. He spent his middle age and golden years in some of California's toughest prisons, and although he spent the last stretch of his sentence in protective housing, Charlie was still beating the odds at every darkened corner. At the time of his death, he surpassed the average American man's life expectancy by nearly five years.

One might assume that Charlie's life choices weren't conducive to creating real, lasting connections, and that finding someone reliable to claim his body would be his final inconvenience. His last smoking microwave. He had very few living relatives and even fewer who were willing to talk to him. He had people who called him a friend. They wrote to him and, sometimes, Charlie wrote back. If they were lucky, the friend would receive a trinket made from his body hair. I assumed that the state would cremate Charlie's body or bury it quietly and departmentally in a pauper's grave in Bakersfield, one without a view of the orchards or the mountains.

I imagined his ashes being flushed down a government toilet like a belly-up goldfish. It seemed like a befitting send-off until I realized that, if ghosts existed, Charles Manson would haunt those pipes forever. When it comes to the afterlife, most modern people are more willing to chance their souls than their plumbing.

I think that Charlie, like many of us, stayed alive out of pure spite. I think that Charlie, like many of us, stayed alive out of pure spite. His last day, November 19, 2017, became the first stop of a long, absurd journey to the great beyond. On that day the proverbial worms burst through the woodwork. Self-identified "friends" of the deceased believed that they were the true keepers of Charlie's corpse, and some even claimed that they were his blood kin. His biological grandson, a young family man from Florida named Jason, fought them in court for nearly four months to gain custodianship of his grandfather's remains, hoping to dispose of Charlie quietly and respectfully.

Jason won his case, but during four long months of court deliberations, the corpse developed frostbite. Parts of it began to crack and stew. For whatever reason, be it freezer burns or the eager anticipation of a verdict, the thing was transferred to a refrigerator, which soon proved to be too warm. The body began to soften and putrefy. The coroner's office put it back in the freezer, which, they hoped, would slow the death down. My mother, a Jewish convert from an old Southern Baptist family in Alabama, had always warned me about re-freezing something that's already been warmed over. It was like leaving in the skeleton of a roasted chicken for more than a day ("You gotta take it out and pop the wishbone"). It was like trying to take back a piece of gossip.

By the day of the funeral, Charlie's corpse was a soft cheese. Les Peters, the director of the Porterville Funeral and Cremation Center, would go on to say,

"I was anticipating that the remains would be in the freezer. That was not the case. The largest problem I had was that, just as if you were in a bathtub for an extended period of time and your fingers start to wrinkle up from the water. There were some fluids in the bottom of the bag that he was in, even though they had an absorbent cloth. That, for many months. That's just what I was dealing with, to the point where it was just beyond repair."

*

It was 2020, nearly three years since Charlie's death. Thanksgiving was coming. I was working as a bookseller for an independent book and gift store that had survived the Spanish Flu, the Great Depression, WWI, and WWII. In the 1940's, booksellers from the store smuggled reading materials to interned Japanese Americans and were shot at by tower guards. Sometimes that anecdote was the only thing keeping me at work, and I reminded myself of it whenever I wanted to walk away on my coffee break and never return to the long lines, slipping masks, and the ever-present film of sweat and sanitizers.

I'd look at an ornery customer, smiling with my eyes, and try to explain the disruption of the supply chain.

"The book you're looking for isn't available because books need paper. And ink. And glue, I guess. Can I help you find something else?"

I winced while fumigating a pile of James Patterson books that had been sighed-on. I walked up to strangers and asked them to pull their masks up over their nose, and some moved closer to me, growling with their eyes, as if to say, "I'm in a fancy L.A. bookstore. Don't look at me as if I just crawled out of a storm drain in Bakersfield."

I knew it was time to leave when the Halloween tchotchkes went on sale. Sugar skulls on deep discount. Bestsellers about serial killers were replaced with cookbooks about crockpots and warm tummies. Being surrounded by death felt a lot safer than seeing each room in the store swathed in the warm colors of late fall. Some patrons spoke freely about their upcoming Thanksgiving gatherings. About traveling. Hugging their loved ones. And they would do it all again for Christmas.

The virus would just have to wait.

I left my job before the first egg was deviled.

As winter came, I performed my civic duty by lying naked in my king size bed for days at a time, eying the day's headlines between flitty little naps. The novelty of the "novel" coronavirus had worn-off. The fear had changed. No one was singing from their balconies anymore.

My family and I were healthy. It was as though someone had smeared our doors with lamb's blood. Once a week I'd get in my car and drive around Burbank, the San Fernando Valley, the greater Los Angeles metro area—anywhere I desired, with the understanding that I couldn't stop and get out anywhere. I'd sit in my parked car, listening to the now-late John Prine, crunching on waffle fries, and staring at the birds in the tall palm trees. Sometimes one of L.A.'s rogue parrots would come along and cock its head, and I began to believe that even the crows were concerned about me. Where was my flock, my murder? I had to remind myself in my solitude that none of this was about me. None of it was personal. That was the good thing, I guessed, about viruses: they simply didn't care. They wouldn't look you in the eye when they did it. They weren't witchy that way.

The makeshift morgues began to ooze and stink.

I thought of Charlie Manson's body rotting in the fridge.

Had I done the right thing by giving him a funeral? I had only interacted with him a few times during my prison research. Sometimes I just observed him out of the corner of my eye as I spoke to another inmate, and nearly every time I saw the same thing: an old man staring off into an invisible sunset. Old Charlie had become an unlikely countercultural icon. I understood the complexity of the case: the mania of the girls, the brain-sucking drugs, his dubious legal representation, and, of course, his horrific upbringing, but all those roads ended in a pregnant woman being stabbed sixteen times while her child suffocated inside of her. I knew that he had never really cared about anyone but himself. I knew that, even if he hadn't participated in the murders, he fed off them like a cannibal.

Did a man like this deserve a funeral? Had I done the right thing?

I thought of the COVID-19 victims who'd never get one. Mortuaries were turning families away. Flesh sweetened under tarp. Some people swore they could see a dark atmospheric haze encircling the city from the crematoria burning all night long.

I had given Charlie one thing he'd probably never showed another person: dignity. When his body was released to Jason, it was immediately clear that pulling off a secret funeral for Charlie was going to be an expensive feat. Jason, a kindly Christian man with a large family to take care of, took on the burden alone. I offered my help, and he accepted it graciously. I wouldn't understand the significance of my action until Lockdown, when I'd lay naked in bed, watching millions of people face death alone.

My late bubbe, a Holocaust survivor, had left me a little bit of money. She earned it from her job as a checkout lady at a Brooklyn dime store. I used some of it to pay for Charlie's cremation, about $500, as well as some food and flowers. I didn't know if she would have been proud or mortified. Was this the delicious irony of a man with a swastika in the middle of his forehead burning up in a crematory at the hands of a Jew? Or was it her only granddaughter spending her inheritance on some sick paskudnyak?

What did the Evil Eye see?

I remembered the day I met Charlie in 2014. I had expected to see a biblically old man, a grizzled sinner languishing outside the gates of Old Jerusalem, a castaway—but found a guy more Midwestern than Levantine, whose nose had naturally widened over the years, slimming and softening his eyes by comparison. He looked almost honest. When referring to Charles Manson in the prime of his life, some people described him as Christ-like in appearance: shaggy, big-eyed, and rawboned, there is a cheap irony in his past resemblance to the Son of God, one that he probably cultivated to add legitimacy to his claims of mystical power. But as he grew older, his petite frame, which had once contrasted screamingly with his megalomania, had become stocky and slow-footed, his head a weighty bust meant less for the tabloids and more for the greased lane of a bowling alley. He had a beard, now gray and relatively kempt, and though his skin was doughy and shadow-less his eyes were as soft and expressive as a pig's. As he sat at a visitation table in clean blue chambray, he looked less like America's most dangerous criminal and more like the Maytag Man, waiting fist-to-cheek.

He was soberly deliberating between a Snickers and an Almond Joy, pointing to them without touching their wrappers like a scholar reading Torah. He hobbled over and gave me a moony smile.

"Ah, Maggie! Did you have a good trip?" He held out his little, chalky hand. I shook it, expecting it to be cold and moist, but found it soft and stuffed, a few degrees warmer than my own.

His young girlfriend, Star, sat next to him. They didn't touch. Loved ones were allowed nothing more than a brief kiss and hug at the beginning and end of their visits. Hand holding was tolerated in moderation.

She was twenty-five, like me. Her hair fell to her shoulders in a deep, middle part. She'd grown it past her breasts, then shaved it off for Charlie. She'd allegedly cut an "X" in her forehead, then healed for Charlie. Her hair was back, for now, and her pupils bubbled up like tar.

It seemed as if the weight of her little body kept the heavy, government-issue chair from flying around the room in the fingers of a poltergeist. She looked like Charlie's other girls, but to be fair, so did I: dark hair, baby face, yearbook grin. I resembled Leslie Van Houten, the psychopathic prom queen, while Star favored Susan Atkins, Charlie's lead girl who wrote "PIG" in blood. I didn't cultivate the look. Star told a reporter from Rolling Stone that Charlie was going to marry her and denied any connection to Atkins, saying,

"That bitch was fucking crazy. She was a crazy fucking whore."

I returned to my seat and gazed at Star, wondering what it means to be twenty-five. Maybe it's the age when a girl realizes that her existence is finite and begins to imagine "another life," a space filled with her happy, unreasonable dreams; in another life, I will become something more. Her fantasy is a prison she can neither enter nor escape.

A photograph of Eva Braun was taken a few months after her twenty-fifth birthday. She sits on a plank in the middle of a rowboat, her eyes smiling at the camera, her long, tapered fingers wrapped around the handles of the oars. It's clear that her swimsuit was truly white, though the lake appears the color of the moon. Hitler would later give Eva a color camera under the agreement that she, and only she, could take candid shots of Der Fuhrer (he called her his chaparral, a German word meaning "a nice little girl of no importance"). By the time this photo developed, Eva had tried to kill herself. Twice. Once when she was twenty and aimed her father's pistol at her heart (she pulled the trigger and the gun jerked, unloading into the muscle of her neck), and again when she overdosed on sleeping pills the spring of her twenty-third year. Historians claim that Eva made the attempts to "get Hitler's attention." In this photograph she is twenty-five, a woman kept, rowing the River Styx. She isn't allowed in boardrooms. She can't sleep in his bed. She isn't an official member of the Nazi Party, though she lives in its headquarters for the rest of her life in a place nicknamed "The Grand Hotel." Hitler believes that, to capture the heart of a nation, he should appear sexually available, so Eva pretends to be his secretary. But he will bring her banned makeup and clothes and keep his pillow promise, marrying her the morning of their suicide. She doesn't see a politician in him, or Der Fuhrer, or the man who murdered my family. She sees the promise she made him: "From our first meeting I swore to follow you anywhere even unto death. I live only for your love."

Star told Rolling Stone, "People can think I'm crazy. But they don't know. This is what's right for me. This is what I was born for."

*

A question plagues Philosophy 101:

Would you kill baby Hitler?

This question exists purely—and conveniently—in the hypothetical. To me, a more practical test of empathy is: How would you dispose of Hitler's dead body?

Should every member of society, regardless of their actions, get a funeral?

Should every member of society, regardless of their actions, get a funeral? Was it wrong for American armed forces to give Osama bin Laden's body a proper Muslim burial at sea? Did Pol Pot's wife have the right to lay her husband on the funeral pyre that she had built with her own hands?

Imagine you're an American GI in 1945 whose division has just raided der Führerbunker. You discover Adolph Hitler's body on a couch next to Eva Braun's (let's, of course, pretend that their bodies weren't dragged outside and burned in the garden by the S.S. per Hitler's wishes). You're a war hero and have been given the privilege of deciding what to do with the corpses. Would you separate the couple, or keep them together? Maybe you would have Eva embalmed and shipped back to her family because, after all, she was just a nice little girl of no importance. Or maybe, depending on your view of the afterlife, you would bury her next to Hitler.

What preparations would you make for the newlyweds?

Maybe you've spent the last few years crouching in a dark forest watching the ice pick off the noses and toes of your soldiers. Maybe you were kept warm only by the fantasy of infanticide, of smothering baby Adolph in his warm Bavarian bassinet.

Now you're looking at his dead body toppled over on a couch. It's angled away from the body of the young woman who loved him, their bottoms touching while their sides and heads lie against the damask cushions, as if they had been separated by a burst of intractable laughter. A soft book that has fallen open to its middle. You allow your men to prop up the bodies on the couch and take a few pictures to send home. But there's only so much viscera even a soldier can take. They all want the two gone now. You stare until you are asked for orders.

Is it true that a society can be judged on how it treats its most vulnerable members?

What's more vulnerable than the corpse of a generation's most hated man?

*

It was March 2018, four months after Charlie's death. Jason and I divvied up our funereal responsibilities. I would pay for the cremation and some flowers and refreshments and Jason would get the rest. He found a church and crematory in a small town about forty minutes straight to the east of Corcoran. The pastor was willing to perform the service in total secrecy. If word got out that Charles Manson's funeral was happening only a few hours from L.A., it would be like wildflower season. As if Charlie's rotting body were rolling fields of unpickable orange poppies, or maple leaves alchemizing in fall. The peepers––journalists, history buffs, tweeters, festival goers, biker gangs, young millennials, old deadheads, professors, grifters, hot girls, ne'er-do-wells, nightcrawlers, church groups, nice folks, normal folks, and oh why nots––would have descended on the San Joaquin Valley, winding through the grapevine past the runaway truck ramps and broken down vans, through the gate city of Bakersfield and the promise of clean toilets and ten page menus, past the cold rivers of catfish, up to the roadside fruit stands and back again, shucks and pits bouncing off the pavement like hail. Jason and I feared another Woodstock. The few people on the guest list were sworn to secrecy; the only person I told was the man who would soon be my husband. Pulling off the event quietly would be a difficult feat in the age of social media, but not an impossible one.

I remembered the prison microwave. The burning buttered popcorn. Charlie had a way of leaving a stink long after he'd exited a room. He was ruthlessly petty. I remembered the time that he wasn't allowed in the visitation room because he had refused his routine geriatric vaccines. The prison considered him a "biohazard," a fact which secretly delighted me. The visitation room still had a few stations with glass barriers and phones, and I remembered coming to interview a prisoner and seeing old Charlie with his face and hands pressed up against the glass in puerile angst. Star sat on the other side and scratched the glass with her fingernail.

I knew that Charlie's personal sphere of influence was no longer planet Earth. He still had followers, but he wasn't pulling any strings beyond the grave. His corpse was no longer the corpus. But his legend had compounded and grown into a body bigger than Charles Manson could ever be, with an orbit that outpulled the magnetism of a single man. And although I couldn't see it, I could feel it tug at the scruff of my neck as I pulled into the damp, empty parking lot of the Porterville Funeral and Cremation Center.*

I stood outside the parlor, waiting for the doors to open. Jason had planned the funeral, a decidedly Christian one, and I wasn't completely sure what to expect. I was surprised, however, that there were no uninvited guests.

Jason's wife walked up to me and whispered, "He looks good." Who? I wondered. Who were we looking at? I assumed that she was referring to Jason, a man who surely faced a day of many reckonings.

The door opened, and a few guests and I slowly entered the parlor. I carried some refreshments and a little box of yellow flowers.

The casket was out.

The casket was open.

Audrey was referring to Charlie. I never entertained the idea—or the possibilit­y–of a viewing.

I crept up to the casket, which was festooned with a hill of yellow flowers.

He had the same slab of skull but with a face stretched thinly over it like vellum. His hands were sheathed in clean white gloves, fingers interlaced over his belly. The mortician had received a Charlie-shaped cesspool and had to make it show-worthy. By the time he made it to the casket, Charlie didn't look like he had been dead for half a year. By some miracle of pancake makeup and epoxy, there were thin, placid lips. A nose with a ridge. Eyes sunken but serene. Cheeks stretched so tightly that they actually took a few years off him. His eyebrows had lost their wooliness but had been drawn thickly in, their bows curving a little too far downward in the style of the great Golden Age actresses. Think Hedy Lamarr, maybe even Vivian Leigh in A Streetcar Named Desire. His long beard had survived. His swastika was fine, too.

The mortician was a true artist, but like all artists, they had their limitations: Charlie's hands just couldn't be saved. So, they did the next best thing and hid them completely under clean, white gloves.

I wasn't used to open-casket funerals. I wasn't really used to cremations, either. Jews bury our dead as soon as possible with the casket closed. We give a person back to the teeming, hungry earth. A dead body should be fresh and whole. To us, the 20th century only underscored the indignities of the charnel house. If you really want to blot someone out, burn them into a powder and sweep them away.

I stared into Charlie's white gloves, trying to make out the shape of a fingerbone. I knew that I had no right to judge the burial practices of another. We could have built a pyre for him and set it out on Lake Tahoe. We could have given him a sky burial on Mount Whitney and let California condors nip his bones clean. We could have buried him then dug him up every year and included him in the Freeman family's celebrations ("Please pass Grandpa Charlie a piece of devil's food cake"). These were all real practices from people around the world, one just as legitimate as another. Today we would put Charlie's body on display then burn it in the crematory. This was an honored and normalized ritual, but it felt a little grotesque, a little mean.

I drew my eyes back up to Charlie's head. I noticed how absurdly large his nostrils were, as if he were one of Roald Dahl's witches, and the canals of his ears looked as if someone had shoved their thumbs in the holes and spread them apart, forcing a smile.

I stepped back and gazed at the casket.

Yes: Nestled in a puff of crème satin was Charles Manson's body. He had been dressed in a cotton t-shirt the color of burnt caramel under a long-sleeved gray button up. The casket had been closed, charitably, below his hips. A red bandanna had been tied around his neck and knotted to the side. He was dressed like a good guy, more likely to hike the Appalachians than tramp around the Hollywood Hills. More cowboy than outlaw. Maybe these clothes meant something. Maybe this was a "look." I don't know if this was the outfit that Charlie himself would have wanted to wear to his own viewing, and maybe it was just whatever the mortuary had on-hand, but I think that the curatorial force behind these choices was trying, somehow, to redeem him. As if to say: This is who Charlie always was and always would be: a naturalist, a creative, a humanitarian, and just a laid-back kind of guy. A Jim Henson type––but not a master of puppets. If someone who knew nothing about Charlie walked into the room that day and saw him lying in that plush rental casket, they might assume that he was just a good-ole-boy (apart, of course, from the swastika). As the great designer Alexander McQueen said, "Fashion should be a form of escapism, and not a form of imprisonment." Maybe this outfit was Charlie's aesthetic prison break, his last great escape.

The body had experienced an almost necromantic transformation, rising from its own waters like the Birth of Venus.

I reached out and poked him deep in the swastika, his forehead soft like nougat.

*

When it was time to close the casket, a few men removed the flowers and spread an American flag on top of it, then a Confederate flag on top of that, to honor Charlie's "rebel spirit." My small box of yellow flowers sat next to the casket, their little faces watching the pastor, who began.

"When Manson was born, he was imprinted with an image of God. It has been destroyed, in a sense, by his actions. But it's still there. Because of that, yeah, I'll step up before people to do a service, even for a mass murderer like Charlie."

All he could do was read off the biographical details of Charlie's life. His birth in Ohio on November 12, 1934. How his mother traded him for a pitcher of beer. How he spent most of his life in the system. The pastor had to be mindful of both the victims and the funeral guests and not make any unwanted assertions. What resulted was a lecture that, when paired with the falling March rain, lulled us away from the image the pastor was trying so desperately to sketch. The room had the energy of an inclement weather day in an elementary school, the kind of day I often prayed for as child, when contact sports and food fights were shelved for board games and careful sips from thermoses of hot soup. As if it were time to pop a movie into a VCR and just write the day off. As if the spackled cadaver of America's Most Dangerous Man weren't rotting just a few feet from me and I weren't in a small room in the middle of nowhere, defenseless, with Charles Manson's most ardent supporters.

As the pastor pushed through his eulogy, the enormous biker sitting next to me began to snore. His snores grew louder and louder, until they reached a crescendo so tremendous that I had to shove him in the side. He woke up, smacked his lips, then fell back asleep.

*

We all adjourned to the crematory room. Charlie's body was transferred to a simple wooden box and put on a conveyer belt to an incinerator. The pastor asked if we wanted to help push Charlie into the great beyond, or if we wanted to watch behind glass. I walked into the crematory room and put my hand on the box closest to the mouth of the oven. Others joined behind me. A tall white man with long, shoe polish black hair wailed a nonspecific indigenous chant and beat a drum. The others wailed with him as we all pushed Charlie into the fire. He felt like nothing, as if we were little occultic girls at a sleepover, levitating a body with just the tips of our fingers.

The cremation would take a little while, about three hours. I was invited to the scattering, which would take place that evening at a stream deep in the Sequoias, in a place that could never be found. I politely declined, for reasons obvious.

As I pulled out of the driveway, I watched brown smoke billow and twist from the crematory chimney, sublimating Charlie into the mist.

*

At the scattering, Jason turned around from a prayer and found the guests scrubbing their faces with ashes.

*

My own bed, Christmas 2020. The air conditioner in my apartment is running all day and night. I love the feeling of a frigid room, of crisp sheets skimming my body. There's no plague miasma, no place for anything to breed. All clean. I haven't worn street clothes in weeks. I haven't smoked weed since March. I spend a lot of my time in bed naked, reading the news. Once or twice a week I allow myself an outing. I drive around and look for parrots in the palms.

This isn't what "terror" is supposed to look like, I think. It's supposed to look like the Invasion of Poland, like death squads and screaming infants. I've lived a privileged life in the United States, but I've seen terror on the screen: a man diving headfirst from the North Tower, a surge of salt water into the Ninth Ward, endless streams of children running out of their schools with their hands on their heads.

Terror is supposed to be dark and kinetic, I think. It isn't a midday nap in a cool, sunny room.

I play music while I steam in the shower. Sometimes Lead Belly comes on, and if my husband is close enough to hear it, he moves away. He likes the songs but is terrified of their recordings, how they crack and skip between the warbles. To him, it sounds like a ghost waltz.

He has nightmares about a ghost wife. I have nightmares about the ocean.

The pandemic truly began when we stopped being able to care for the corpses, I've had them for years, and it used to be the same scenario every time: the tide recedes, unbroken shells everywhere, and only I know that a tidal wave is coming. No one believes me except my family. We find the tallest building and run up the stairs, then watch from the roof as the wave takes out everything around us. The nightmare has changed since the pandemic began. Now, everyone knows that the wave is coming. No one is out collecting scallops and sand dollars. Everyone is running for tall buildings. The mountain overlooks are teeming, their brims brimming, and there will never be enough room for everyone. I read that these nightmares signify that the sleeper is overwhelmed. I usually dismiss dreams as byproducts of a rapidly cooling mind, but I seem to run from the wave nearly every night.

We're being stalked. Our apartment is bright and cool and soft, almost palliative, but we know that at any time an invisible young woman with a deep middle part and a buck knife could straddle our chests and end our lives.

A few years from now, after the vaccine, my friends and I will gather again at Musso and Frank's over chilled martinis and Pickford Pasta. We'll giggle and howl as if we're holding handing, spinning, our heads thrown back by centrifugal force. Waiters in red tuxedo jackets and black satin bowties will dip in to refill our carafes against the chinois walls that still have Charlie Chaplin's cigar smoke clinging to them. The specter of wallpaper yellowed by the long dead will only make us feel that much more alive as we ask for more cognac in our Sazeracs. My friend's eyes will wander in opposite directions like a hunchback's in a belfry as he tries to look me straight in the face, slapping the table and screaming:

"You killed Charles Manson!"

"He was already dead!" I'll scream back.

"Well, then you killed him again! Pushed him right into the fire! FOOMP!"

Now, in my bed in late 2020, I cross my wrists above my head and stretch my body hard into a question mark. I had begun my research in the Protective Housing Unit at Corcoran with academic intent, to interview and observe elderly prisoners so I could understand their emotional worlds. By the time Charlie died, I acted out of my own emotions. I used a Holocaust survivor's hard-earned pittance to try and give an infamous antisemite a dignified end. The Nazis hadn't given my bubbe's two sisters and mother the same consideration. It's unclear if they were shot dead in their home or if they were led out to a deep pit and ordered to undress. Eighty years after the Shoah, a Google Image search of "naked Jewish women" won't immediately show erotica or pornography like it will for every other ethnic fetish; instead, up will come old photos of fleshy, dark-haired women, some holding their babies, pressed up against each other in line, awaiting their execution.

And Bathsheba, bathing on the roof.

I imagine myself back in der Führerbunker, Adolf and Eva growing tight as bratwurst, my men looking to me for answers, and I know that whatever I would do for the couple, I would have to do for Charlie.

I think of the first weeks of this pandemic, the virus tracker ticking up with new death in Los Angeles, each one a novelty. Although the situation was frightening, it didn't truly become terrifying until the number of bodies exceeded our ability to dispose of them, when the smells began to waft from refrigerated trucks on the roadside. Hospital breakrooms are packed with fleets of bedside teleprompters, ready to go, the last communication between the living and the dying, and these devices have become far more terrifying than the dead bodies themselves, just as a pile of corpses will never be as terrifying as a pile of soft little shoes. I am terrified in a cool, sunny room, wondering where my own body could go.

Let Mrs. Pot get dirt under her manicure and pat together her husband's pyre. Let Bin Laden slip quietly into the wine-dark sea. Let Adolf and Eva burn up in their garden and let Charlie's ashes drift away deep into the Sequoias. Let a body be incinerated, entombed, pecked, or exhumed. A rotting Manson on display is better than one that has disappeared.

Otherwise, there's no release, only the unmitigated terror of imagination. Grief becomes superhuman. The pandemic truly began when we stopped being able to care for the corpses, just as tsunamis begin months after the wave hits, when cab drivers pick up ghosts wandering aimlessly by the sea.