who jo? no, no. I never even knew what a crow looked like, dig? but
buzzards, ask me about those bastards and the strange terrain of my
flesh.

i am sick of writing like i'm supposed to. i spent all day perfecting
this week's column and have other shit to do so i'm just going to send
it off.

did i tell you i got a brandy-new personal organzier? It's metal,
aluminum, real high-tech but cheap lookin' it's an organizer and a
weapon.(but only in my head, it wasn't marketed that way)  ten bucks.
and a pen pulls out of the spine. and now i'm ultra-orgazined and
perfected (as much as i can take) my column because there's this huge
writing conference this week-end and a writing teacher at cmu wrote the
cover story that i had to proofread which was wild, anyway, so my
professors are mentioned and you know, they really kinda wigged me out.
one in particular, and it wasn't jim daniels or jerry costanzo 'cause
they were both really really cool and continue to be, anyway, this one
teacher made me feel like such a loser, like the only reasons the
students liked me was for my stories, that the only value in my writing
was it's shock value, like i write about heart wrenching shit for no
reason than to show off. whatever. but

newsflash jo: bob vagner's roommate just called me and asked me if i
wanted to go to the decade or if i was going to up at 3 a.m. lordy mama
and kathy jo what do you know? my life is so funny.

anyway, teachers treated me like a circus act. i know some of you wreath
with satisfaction reading that. well poopedy-poop on you and your shiny
new boots. i am not. just because my writing is emotive doesn't mean
that it is void of reason. the two are treated as mutually exclusive
when it is clear to me that they are inseeprable in the decision making
process.

oh man, i've been writing op-ed peices, too. i can rip them off bam bam
bam. i did three this week-end (that need little tune-ups). but you know
i love doing this kind of writing most and can't do it. i'm so tired.
and i was starvin' marvin' all day. well i was cooking a turkey breast
and it reaked for hours and i ate some olives. i love olives. i always
felt like olive oil. 

i am olive oil after being marooned with a little debbie and hostess truck.

i love adam i love adam i love adam i love adam

Oh! i mean i'm alice the goon. kathy the jo. oh i'm too silly. i *love*
being silly. it reminds me of being so happy, just like this one old
moody blues song called 'watching and waiting' for a friend to play
with. why have i been alone. so long? soon you will see me. for i'll be
all around you. but where i come from, i can't say. 

but here, there's lots of room for doing the things you've always been
denied. so look, and gather all you want to, there's no one here to stop
you from trying. 

well that is like my wish for the world. but misery doubts my sincerity.
but they can't take it away from me. 

oh here's my column again, re-done. if you hate me, please go now. it
took hours to make these little changes. cr-azy.

oh well, i was reading my old journals. man. i can't believe the things
i come up with. and can't believe i kinda forget them.

anyway, i gotta go get on line and read my alt.fan.dirty-whores  group. okay

later


on a roll with kathy jo


	All right boys and girls, Sister Merry Jo is spent. We're going to have
to go back in our lessons and review the chapter on me before I can
continue discussing the arrest of my eleven year-old son. Which I've
postponed indefinitely. And I don't want to hear your whining. You have
no one to blame but yourselves. Maybe this time you'll pay attention
instead of focusing on a few "choice" details that validate your
pre-determined, simple-minded interpretations of who you think I am. 
	And if you're good, there'll be broken cookies and Lemon Blend for
everyone. And you're gonna like it, see?  So shall we open our minds to
the page where I'm accused of blaming people for problems that no longer
impede me? I have no need for excuses or forgiveness. But please
understand that I am trying to explain the complicated process of
personal empowerment, of closing the gap between chance and choice. I
know what enabled my success and it wasn't DISCIPLINE. It was, well,
love. And here I am, an ex-welfare mother who graduated from Carnegie
Mellon with honors, with their highest awards for my poetry while
raising a hyperactive child by myself. Yes, the fact that my son was
arrested is reasonable grounds to think I failed as a mother, but
everything I did accomplish began with my love for him. 
	Now he has his father. How can anyone deny that a little boy needs a
dad? I couldn't and it enraged and drained me. You only get one chance
to decide who that will be. Talk about one choice deciding your destiny?
A "choice" I didn't know I was making. I had been using birth control.
Kinda. And men disappear when you stop giving them sex. Or when they
find it somewhere else. However, I am grateful that Leo's dad finally
came through. But, man. The current trend of vicious irresponsibility
toward women and children enabled him to believe that hating me
justified abandoning his son. All I could do was watch. 
	Am I whining? I'm far too pissed for that now, Bucko! *Agh,* an
exclamation point! I'm outta control! I better grow up and forget that
the same things effect millions of women and children who can't defend
themselves. But I know they don't have to live that way. Am I really
expected to shut up, I mean give up, I mean grow up? *Never!* So get off
my head, you tough-love nightmares. 
	12 years ago, people would've told me to grow up for dreaming as high
as I finally went. And for good reason. I found out I was pregnant in a
drug rehab. I had already quit high school, spent 6 months in jail for
writing prescriptions (once a writer always a writer), pleaded guilty to
a felony, hung out with bikers who brutalized me, mud wrestled (all
esteem building activities), was hugely tattooed and hitchhiked all over
the country immediately after getting out of the hospital for an abscess
I got while shooting dope. 
	And I can still feel that part of me out there, still see her long
eyes, the defeated demeanor of other welfare moms at the bank picking up
their checks, chins buried in their chests, afraid to lift their heads
and look at the tellers who announce recipients to the bank with proud
abhorrence by ripping rubber bands off stacks of food stamps in a
flourish, as if they're untying a red ribbon on a great big gift. A gift
welfare mothers don't deserve. When Leo was little and I'd have to take
him, he was supposed to assume the same shame and stand perfectly still.
If he just touched the velvet ropes, people glared, holy with hate.
Those other moms never get out from under the weight of that disgrace.
Either do their kids. Because they think they deserve it. 
	People who live in blame don't change because their locus of control is
outside of themselves. Think about that ~ it's the very definition of
powerlessness. The "choices" they make destroy them, so, well, they're a
victim of something, okay? They are beat, spent, whacked,
don't-give-a-fuck, *okay?* So they don't even try. People think there's
some advantage in this because then you're "off the hook," not
responsible for anything you do because you have excuses, some sob
story. But these cognitions are absolutely real however invisible they
are to the uninflicted who think self-destruction looks like great fun
and sure, you never have to grow up and get a job or some shit, but
you're crippled by an arthritic obsession for some *thing* you never
had, some *thing* you could never find no matter where you looked. Some
*thing* seemingly given to everyone but you. 
	Holy mournful wailing and gnashing of teeth ~ I know how difficult
people can be when they're embittered. When you offer ideas to help them
change, they scream reasons for not acting on them. If you suggest they
go back to school, they expect you to complete their financial aid
forms, drive them there and do their homework. And man, they are loaded
with enervating excuses and schemes. I lived like that. It seems so
deliberate we say stupid shit like, "well, they don't want to change."
But everyone wants to change, to be a better something, but not everyone
feels like they stand a chance. Not everyone gets sustained help. 
	You can't infer motivation from behavior. So often they feel trapped
which makes them, um, angry. Even when they try to rise above, the same
problems ~ lack of skills, past criminal record or the psychological and
even physical effects of poverty, push them back down. When you've been
knocked to the ground all your life, it only takes a minor setback to
re-affirm that there is no escaping what and where you are 'cause who
you are ain't worth shit. Many never take action so they can protect
their dreams. To try means almost certain defeat. Each time, the dream's
dulled until it disappears. Until they have nothing to lose. Until
they're low-down and dangerous. Until we help. 
	Then there are those who are able to change their destructive behaviors
due to tremendous acts of repression they mistake for discipline. But
they hate people who are still effected by the same factors ~ people who
are WEAK. Self-control is central in their lives. Sufferin' succotash,
Cecil! It's the opposite of life, a system of illusions founded on fear
and pain instead of faith and joy. Yes, disaster is inevitable but so is
laughter. Misery is optional.
	Healthy people die everyday, and yet others waste their lives trying to
live longer thinking fun is the opposite of discipline when it's all a
question of balance. I've learned that self-control is the ability to
change what you want, not just what you do. And having fun (being an
asshole) makes you feel good which gives you energy. Gradually, glad
grace replaces any need for discipline. Sure, it's a bumpy road but it's
not a dead-end street. 
	What I did in college required so much discipline, it was work to
relax. But I was as strong as the self-value and inspiration I gathered
from those who loved me. Now I look around and can't believe how brutal
this world has become. There's a widening gyre, but not between man and
God, it's betwixt each of us. Which is the same thing, really. 
	My life is proof that people can change but not by themselves. Those
who have been saved had angels show the way whether they admit it or
not. One of my favorite lines is sung by Ricki Lee Jones ~ *the only
angels who see us are watchin' us through each other's eyesO . . .  I
want to be an angel. 
	So fucking kill me. 










copyright 1995 kathy jo kramer