Donald’s package included his phone number, and the first time I called him, our conversation lasted well over two hours. Of course this was, according to most people’s standards, a strange and somewhat suspicious introduction to avery strange and suspicious man. Donald was eager to talk to me, perhaps a little too eager. I believe that timing is everything, and so he wrote, and I called, and he met me when he had finished writing his memoir without a clue how to publish it.
I found Donald fascinating; he possessed a wealth of information and told the most amazing stories. During one phone conversation, Donald told me his existence was sort of “serendipitous.” He said he had worked his whole life in the service industry and, thus, met many celebrities. Since he was “a world class slut,” he took whatever opportunities he could to meet and mingle with the stars; he was essentially a groupie. Donald relayed his story in a soft-spoken, southern accent. His facts were consistent and extremely specific. I got the impression that he was pretty lonely, which seemed to make sense for a man who had attempted to associate almost exclusively with famous figures, now all either dead or distanced. Donald loved to talk about his adventures and he seemed thankful I was such a receptive, interested audience. He assured me that he knew his story sounded unbelievable and that he had trouble believing it himself.
I then learned that Donald had found a San Francisco publisher interested in releasing his memoir, minus the material surrounding his relationship with Manson. Donald refused to scrap the Manson story because he believed that Manson was one of the most important and influential people he’d ever met. When we began communicating with each other, Donald promised to send a completed manuscript to me in no time at all. He was counting on my opinion. And three weeks after that conversation, I received a package from him in the mail.
I began reading the enclosed manuscript immediately, but Icould get only about four or five pages in. I was stunned to find that the book was composed almost exclusively of some of the most disturbing, poorly written gay porn anyone could possibly imagine. The author’s voice seemed in stark contrast to the personality I had talked to so extensively on the phone. In the letter he sent me, Donald talked about the general nature of his relationships and the impact they’d had on his life. But his book was geared only toward shock value, filled with tasteless, graphic accounts of incest, coprophagia, and rape that functioned to disturb instead of enlighten.
While Donald’s manuscript was a disappointment, his correspondence with Manson was fascinating. Don sent me several letters, postcards, and photos he’d received from his infamous friend. He hoped that, since I worked in psychiatry, I would find them “interesting.” He’d tried in vain to sell the items together on eBay, hoping to acquire “at least” fifty dollars for everything. But eBay pulled the auction before anyone could bid, citing strict guidelines around selling “murderobilia.”
To hold Manson’s writing in my hands, the paper he’d handled and entrusted with his most personal thoughts, was nothing short of amazing. It felt as if the letters had been lifted from another time and place; Manson had written them from his jail cell, a world contained within a world I could hardly imagine. Atop the stack of letters sat a postcard with a picture of a Gambel’s quail on the front. I carefully turned it over and read the first words:
“Always is always, always and that’s forever in ALL WAYS.”
I let the words resonate in my brain. That line had the qualities of a riddle: tempting, taunting. “Always is always,always”: a circular arc of thought, which ran like an idea falling onto itself. The subtle word play intrigued me; it seemed more like wisdom than nonsense. I read on:
“Whenever I think of what you think you are,
I found Donald fascinating; he possessed a wealth of information and told the most amazing stories. During one phone conversation, Donald told me his existence was sort of “serendipitous.” He said he had worked his whole life in the service industry and, thus, met many celebrities. Since he was “a world class slut,” he took whatever opportunities he could to meet and mingle with the stars; he was essentially a groupie. Donald relayed his story in a soft-spoken, southern accent. His facts were consistent and extremely specific. I got the impression that he was pretty lonely, which seemed to make sense for a man who had attempted to associate almost exclusively with famous figures, now all either dead or distanced. Donald loved to talk about his adventures and he seemed thankful I was such a receptive, interested audience. He assured me that he knew his story sounded unbelievable and that he had trouble believing it himself.
I then learned that Donald had found a San Francisco publisher interested in releasing his memoir, minus the material surrounding his relationship with Manson. Donald refused to scrap the Manson story because he believed that Manson was one of the most important and influential people he’d ever met. When we began communicating with each other, Donald promised to send a completed manuscript to me in no time at all. He was counting on my opinion. And three weeks after that conversation, I received a package from him in the mail.
I began reading the enclosed manuscript immediately, but Icould get only about four or five pages in. I was stunned to find that the book was composed almost exclusively of some of the most disturbing, poorly written gay porn anyone could possibly imagine. The author’s voice seemed in stark contrast to the personality I had talked to so extensively on the phone. In the letter he sent me, Donald talked about the general nature of his relationships and the impact they’d had on his life. But his book was geared only toward shock value, filled with tasteless, graphic accounts of incest, coprophagia, and rape that functioned to disturb instead of enlighten.
While Donald’s manuscript was a disappointment, his correspondence with Manson was fascinating. Don sent me several letters, postcards, and photos he’d received from his infamous friend. He hoped that, since I worked in psychiatry, I would find them “interesting.” He’d tried in vain to sell the items together on eBay, hoping to acquire “at least” fifty dollars for everything. But eBay pulled the auction before anyone could bid, citing strict guidelines around selling “murderobilia.”
To hold Manson’s writing in my hands, the paper he’d handled and entrusted with his most personal thoughts, was nothing short of amazing. It felt as if the letters had been lifted from another time and place; Manson had written them from his jail cell, a world contained within a world I could hardly imagine. Atop the stack of letters sat a postcard with a picture of a Gambel’s quail on the front. I carefully turned it over and read the first words:
“Always is always, always and that’s forever in ALL WAYS.”
I let the words resonate in my brain. That line had the qualities of a riddle: tempting, taunting. “Always is always,always”: a circular arc of thought, which ran like an idea falling onto itself. The subtle word play intrigued me; it seemed more like wisdom than nonsense. I read on:
“Whenever I think of what you think you are,
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