Manson Lecture 15: TREASURE HUNT! (February 8th, 1998)

MP3: https://dfgtc.org/mp3/20210427_Manson_Lectures_0015_Treasure_Hunt.mp3

Wealth …

Our nightmares split. Made of lead and glass and steel, made of old broken pianos and rotten meat – you can’t focus on the lines, because it’s all blurry. Your mom looked at you, when you were born, and she said: “YOU ARE MY LIGHT! YOU ARE MY STAR FLOWER!”, but then she went back to hook’ing and using and shooting heroin up through her snatch …

Your MOM … YOUR TRUE ONE … she left you, in the cold, not knowing or caring. She chose the horse … the dragon … the powder over your sweet head. She’d turn you out to make money, and then hand those wages to her dealer … MARTY.

Marty sold her everything … Marty hit her with a pillow case filled with hotel size hand soap. Marty screamed … Marty disappeared in 1943 …

After all this? – you think … “MAN …how do I become RICH?”

HOW DO I ESCAPE THE SWEATY TRAP OF EVIL JUNGLE LIFE?

How?

… you are a man …

YOU HAVE THE GOLDEN HALO FLOATING OVER YOU …

It’s wonder, and magic and a sprinkling of old stories involving dukes and ladies and knights and swords and death. After every late night of drinking, you could pass out … listening to ELVIS and thinking about OLD STORIES and OLD WHORES … BUT YOU HAVE A GOLDEN HALO … you have the light.

A careful examination of the universal construct reveals the following: that we are all trapped in smog and bogus drug delusion and the problematic instruction of a teacher? A mentor? A holy man that grabbed you by the hair and dragged your ass behind the sacristy, for a little one-on-one GOD instruction … but that old priest was too drunk, and went too far, and it was time to take a rock and open up his mind.

Treasure map …

In 1966, I found a treasure map.

On the map were symbols and sketches and notes written in Latin …

The map described islands and rivers. It showed a way to the Lands of T’blos, where goose masters controlled all the eggs, and the lost children of SLOG stared in wonderment at that ghastly bullshit …

The map was a way to the other world. The world of power and control. The world of women and money and fast cars and good drugs …

But the map was also a warning: this map showed the way of obsessions … obsessions built on compulsions … compulsions made of anger and barbed wire and that switchblade you buried behind the school after you shiv’d that cop. The map was caution and knowledge, the map was there to block you from your DEVIL-GAME.

The map is the key to the lock which opens the door and that leads to a room with 5 tunnels intersecting … and there’s old black rabbit there named Kevin … and he stares at you with fire and destruction. Your heart begins to melt, your eyes turn bloodshot, your mind starts to float towards HEAVEN.

Old guards and Harlot-Maidens …

POLYGON POLLIWOGS, framed in mist, staring deeply into the brown muck. My compass pointed north and your own scent filled the winds. I cared not for frozen TV dinner snacks, because my girl Shelia had left me with two bucks and three teeth knocked out. Sheila took my needles, my kit, my spikes and auburn gloves … I could have dumped her in the river, but instead I gave her twenty bucks, and she gave me crabs …

“CORDIZ WOOD!” screamed Blind Freddy. We were 8 days from Bronxton, and our Jeep had broken down, and we didn’t have no water or no weed. Our air conditioning was broke too, and Terry? – he ate the chihuahua and then barfed up his own lungs. This was traveling for gold, for real. I could have seen the glory of too much grimbic-44, but my canister was empty and my head was melting. Our driver was Ned from Phoenix, and his hands shook all the time. If he didn’t get his fix of cocaine? – he would swerve off the road, and we would never get to Fox River Road.

The last of those wolves were chasing us. The ones you think you leave behind, in the cauldron of hopeful fancy and too little book learning. The pills, the powder, the LSD – it all made the map more real. THE MAP WAS ALL, and I was traveling the lube realm and covered in grease. “Give me that thing …”, Ned grabbed the map and ripped off the corner … THE CORNER POINTING TO FOX RIVER ROAD … that SOB made a cigarette and dipped that mother in liquid PCP. I was beside myself. “Damn you NED …”, he swerved, almost hitting a raccoon by the wayside.

We needed help …

We stopped in Cooper City and picked up Barb …

Barb was a hooker and a cooker and a real nice gal. She’d been all around the mountains, and she’d seen the Lost Lakes and even been to Fox River. Her face grimaced when we asked about it … though.

“You don’t want to go there friend …”

“Why?”

“Nothing lives there … they tested bombs there … back in the 50’s.”

“Bombs?”

“Nukes … they tried to crack open a fissure of natural gas using a 10 kiloton device … SOB spews radiation everywhere … fuck …”

Barb shook her head, and said “No” … she wasn’t going to take us to the Fox River.

North of Blimpton …

Ned and I were all that was left. All of our fellow travelers, treasure hunters, map maidens, witches of darkness, fled. They gave up for whiskey and music and fun, but Ned and I needed the GOLD … the power. We set out for Blimpton … some old wino told us that Fox River was “north of Blimpton” … so that’s where we went.

We filled up the car with gas, and Ned smoked another PCP cigarette. Ned was getting edgy, his eyes darted about. We got into the car, and made our way …

We’d been on the road for 5 hours, and I’d seen the sign for Blimpton 45 minutes earlier … but I didn’t want to bother Ned … he looked weird.

“You ever see that … that sky demon?”

“What Ned?”

“That demon that follows you, traces you …”

“Traces you?”

“It marks you … it limits you … it’s the sky-hawk, and it describes your path … but it also RAPES YOUR FUTURE … YOUR FUTURE …”

Ned let go of the wheel of the car.

The car tumbled into a valley, a valley created by the Fox River.

The car came to a stop near an old injun burial ground. The Coop-Stack Nation had ruled this valley, since the First Peoples wandered across that fucking land bridge 40,000 years ago. They had weird rituals, and habits, but they LOVED GOLD.

Buried with each chieftain was 20 pounds of gold …

But I’d never get any of it.

Ned was almost dead, his back broken … he asked me to bash his brains out, so I did.

I passed out and was found by an old chief named Walking Log. He took me to his cabin, he tended my wounds and gave me some kind of fucking injun tea …

I woke up in a diner, south of Derby, a few days later …

I never found any treasure.

I just found the endless void, and crabs.

The shaman keep the void clean. This place we live in? For a minute? We spit and poop and fuck and leave our oils everywhere? The shaman keep it clean …

And the shaman cleaned me up, made me well …

Injun shaman: the existential janitors.