1 Kind Thing Poetry

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Cut And Run

Chapter 1

3/4/2004

It was the summer of 1969. She was 17 years old. And she had been running away from home since she was two years old. She would cross streets, major boulevards and neighborhoods, looking, for who knows what. What was so wrong, that such a small baby, would walk miles away from home, only to be brought back, time after time, by the cops? She quit running away though, after her Mother had come to pick her up, yet again, and carried her out of the cop shop, holding her by the shoulders and shaking her hard, rattling the teeth in her head, telling her, "You have got to quit getting picked up by the cops!"

There was not much in the way of intervention in those days, and most women accepted their “dues,” for being born female. She didn’t know any better. She was always small and looked younger than she was. She had the face of an angel, until you looked into her almond-shaped blue eyes... There in her eyes, lay hurts, secrets, lies and impossible dreams that made her “different.” She never knew exactly where she was going, until she got where ever she went. She did not smile or laugh much, and she did not think much about any thing. She just did. She just was. She just survived.

It’s wrong when someone kills the person, a child was born to be. It’s beyond wrong. It’s murder. If you kill, it’s murder. And she was, to a certain extent, dead inside. She certinly did not believe this is the life, God had intended her to live. Why then, let her be born at all?

No one had ever taught her about consequences. Maybe that’s why she never thought of them, on her own, in advance. No one had explained self-love to her, so, how could she love anyone else? She was born a sweet new innocent, as all children are. But she quickly became the challenge no one wanted to deal with. Strong will had helped her to survive, but also made her difficult to “deal with.” She was smart. Oh, she was very smart… And no one ever taught her what to do with that either. Now she often says she grew like a weed, with sunshine and water, then nature took over, and she survived.

She hitchhiked a lot back then, and there she was again; on the side of the road, her thumb crooked upward, in the universal sign of the hitch-hiker, sun shinning down on her baby fine blond hair, her brilliant blue eyes taking it all in. The body of a woman; the mind and heart of a wounded, and half dead child. She knew it was supposed to be better than this. She knew. She just did not know how to make it so. Nobody had ever given her the secrets to understanding it all. So she sang softly to her self, just to pacify herself, as she waited for another ride.

Hollywood in the 60’s was something else! It was every child’s dream. Home of "The Wizard of Oz," "The Duke," "The Brown Derby," "The Walk of Stars," the Merry Go Round in Griffith Park, Sunset Boulevard, the hippie communes, the concerts, movie making, magic, and freedom! You could just hang out, and be you, and nobody really bothered you much. Not as much as they did at home.

She was 17, and she did not know much about herself, let alone the world. But if you asked her, she knew it all! Her mother had moved them around so much, and she did not know if she had much family, if any at all. Much later in life, she would be shocked and devastated to find out on how much family she had, and what she had been deprived of. But she didn't really know much, in the summer of 1969. Unless of course, you asked her.

She got to the house on the corner of Franklin and Taft, North Hollywood. There was a poster of Frank Zappa, on the commode, posted on the front door. "Phi Zappa Crappa," now that was funny! She knocked on the door, twirling her blond hair in her fingers. It was a big two-story house, and her eyes took it all in as she waited. Her boyfriend Craig, from summer of '66, the summer of surfing with her buddy Sandie, had found her, and written beautiful letters to her. He lived in a big house with a lot of other people. She had just decided to show up. She cut school and hitchhiked 60 miles south on a school day, just like that. “Hi."

She spent the day in Hollywood, at the house, having fun and dropping "reds." But, when it came time to hitchhike back home, she was way too loaded to hitch home. And she knew if she walked into her home like that, her mother would call the cops or her probation officer and turn her in. And, when she realized she was standing in the way of cars, entering on the on ramp, she stumbled back to his house... praying to make it there before some cop car found her like this...

"I love you too. I’m running away from home again. Can I move in with you?” She did not know what she was really asking him. She did not know she was asking if he would just care for her, stop the pain, feed the hunger, and protect her? She never knew those were the true questions, that actaully remained unasked, for forever.

He was only 19, and wanted to be a drummer, in the summer of love, when anything was possible. He had sandy-blond curly hair; his hard body was tan from so many years of surfing Playa Del Rey. She loved being in his arms; she loved the smell of him. She loved the letters he wrote. She loved the way he made her feel, when they were together. But what she could not do, was, love him. Years later, she would want to apologize for that. But, not then. She did not apologize for much. When things went wrong, she took off. Cut and run.

Continued... Next Chapter

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Copyright (c) 2004 J D COSS . All rights reserved.

"There was a child went forth every day, and the first object he looked upon and recieved with wonder or pity or love or dread, that object he became... And that object became part of him for the day... or for many years or stretching cycles of years." Walt Whitman

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