February 19, 1969



I was caged.

Then, I was driven.

Driven to Cherokee.

A hazy memory of riding caged in the back of a police car.

Two shadows in the front seat, the county sheriff and a female escort.

Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” buzzing from a tinny transistor radio.

Outside, the Iowa landscape bleak.

Cloudy and cold.

Condensation and frost riming the windows.

Piles of dirty snow dotting the countryside.

I, cargo.

Destination: Cherokee’s other place, the outline on the hill.

Shifting, crossing my legs…

Please, can we stop?

Hot and steamy inside.

Shivering, my teeth rattling.

Please…I have to go!

Hear something, George?

Naw, nothin’ important.


Cargo has no voice.

Madness has no voice.

Listen, crazy girl…

Two voices: We have come to take you away, ha, ha…

“I’m crazy, crazy…”

Fragments, crazy-quilt impressions, acid flashbacks…

I, crazy?

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

Chapter 30: There Must be Some Way Outta Here

January 17, 1969

(Sioux City)

There must be some kind of way outta here

said the joker to the thief

There’s too much confusion...

I can’t get no relief
–“All Along the Watchtower,”
Jimi Hendrix and Bob Dylan

What a drag--it’s not only literally cold here, but the icy chill coming from Mo is frightening; I definitely want to blow this joint as soon as possible.

Yesterday, when we stepped off the plane, I thought she was going to hit me. Instead, she said, “You look awful.”

Like she looked so great herself.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” she said.

Dee Dee told her to ice it.

“How could you do this to us?” She burst into tears.

Like I personally set out to hurt her.

Back at the house, I fell into bed and slid into a dream, reliving my birthday party at Rudy’s--once I ditched my relatives.

The night I met Rick, heart breaker and prick.


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