Jim Trainer

Introspection Blues

In Being An Artist, getting sober, mental health, mid life, middle age, music performance, recovery, singer songwriter, singer-songwriter on March 23, 2017 at 8:06 am

The book deal was a losing proposition. If I told all I’d be fired before it hit the stands. I had to keep it all in until I was ready to go. I needed to get a grip and pull it together. Find a quiet place to write it all down and eviscerate the lot of ‘em.
When The House Burned Down

Where’s the nitty-gritty Jim Trainer?
-A dissatisfied fan, complaining about the whiny nature of these three posts.

Last week Austin was the center of the rock&roll universe. Everyone in town pleading, “Don’t move here!”, but not me. After 2 SXs in a row I came down and now I’m here-typing on a MacBook Pro with the AC on, in a dead confederate palace on a quiet Monday night in Hippie Town.  My problems are few.  My problem is singular in fact, and ironic considering the opening of this post.  It’s a surplus of dissatisfaction but a scarcity of get-me-the fuck-outta-here.  Know what I mean, Brothers&Sisters?  It’s been a long time that I should be far from here.  I ain’t into complaining, it tends to yield the kind of posts she hates.  But I’m still stuck here, with my entitled candyass blues, and I need a way out and the only way is this-one word at a time.

A couple years ago I nearly had a panic attack while feeding my boss. I was 40 and I knew I had blew it. I haven’t shook that feeling, good Reader, and that could be the Wisdom. Whether the right time was 8 years ago, when I blew into town in a Hyundai 4-door with 2 guitars and a laptop, or 22 years ago, when I boarded the R3 back to the suburbs after being granted a reaudition to the University of the Arts-is irrelevant. Like the Buddhists say, the next best time is right now. That feeling has got me shook. I’m paralyzed. This post may be right up there with the ones that she hates, but, we’re here for the Wisdom. Right Brother? Sister? We check in with the venom and out with the Wisdom. We’re emotional alchemists and it’s our ire that takes us higher. The Wisdom is I’m scared to live my dreams.

I knew it when I saw Bonnie Whitmore on stage last week and I feel it every time I see Cory Branan. I’ve been holding out and holding back, doing like they do, taking what they’re giving cause I’m working for a living. I don’t think it will ever be enough. I’m going to have to wake up, though-when every impulse bids me to shut down. From the parroted news squawking at me from social media, to the zombie hoards out there on the street. It’s a phony world. It’s twice removed. I burn through it like hot iron in a sea of plastic. I climb the fire escape. Back to my room. That’s when my damage starts. Too much anger sitting here. Writing this.

Too much anger and pain and resentment and all the rest, without a drink to forget about it over, without a cigarette, my constant and burning repose for over twenty-seven years. It’s been a long time that I should be far from here. See you on the east side Motherfucker.

“We are not the dreamers of dreams. We are the word become manifest.”

In alcoholism, Austin, Being A Poet, Being A Writer, Being An Artist, Charles Bukowski, depression, getting sober, going for the throat, hometown, mental health, mid life, middle age, new journalism, Performance, Philadelphia, poem, Poetry, poetry reading, poetry submission, Portland, published poet, publishing, publishing poetry, punk rock, recovery, self-publishing, sober, sobriety, solitude, Spoken Word, straight edge, submitting poetry, working class, Writing, writing about writing on March 16, 2017 at 2:25 pm

 

In Nine Hundred and Three Words

In anxiety, Being A Poet, Being A Writer, blogging, depression, getting sober, hometown, Jim Trainer, mental health, mid life, middle age, new journalism, Performance, Philadelphia, Poetry, poetry reading, published poet, publishing, publishing poetry, punk rock, RADIO, recovery, self-publishing, sober, sobriety, solitude, Spoken Word, straight edge, therapy, Writing, writing about writing, WRITING PROCESS on March 9, 2017 at 12:07 pm

…it is in the shelter of each other that the people live…
Pádraig Ó Tuama

Let’s keep hustlin’.
Brian Grosz

…without you my address would be the wind…
-from All in the wind

…you’re going to have to accept that a lesbian chainsaw dominatrix or two might be involved.
broliloquy

My name is Jim Trainer and I wish I was somebody else. I mean, there’s something in the way. I mean, I took the last 2 days off work, for my birthday and to “get some stuff done” and the result was only epic laziness. Lunch and gift swapping with a friend. Driving into dusk to see musicians perform in plays. Eating water ice and falling in love with Austin again. Before I chalk up the last 2 days to “not living my dreams” or being lazy, allow me to invoke the wisdom and language of psychotherapy, and ask-what am I getting out of it? The answer is dumb-I had a peaceful couple days with no torture, no monkey, no blues. Basically I was hiding. This doesn’t bode well. Psychologically speaking, I’ve set it up so I will have to live my dreams. Using the alchemy of inner dialogue I told my Self, “If you live your dreams I won’t come down on you for being a piece of shit.” There are so many ways to deconstruct this deal I have with my Self, and none of them are good! Ah, but don’t too wise, for writing is my rabbit in a hat, and this blog my weapon of choice-and this is how. By the end of this graph I have had some insight, a revelation that there within the dialogue with my Self is the kernel of it-the micro and the blueprint. My life has been always being 2 steps ahead of the whip.  What a fucked up way to live, let alone think and react.  Out of fear, like a slave or Catholic.  For shame.

Not to mention I feel great.  I mean, today I woke up at 7:45AM, like always, but I went back to bed after I put the coffee on.  I dreamt that my boss had wiped his hands on my tux shirt and when I went to confront him about it, his door was closed and his room was dark with a note on the door (and it was my Mother’s bedroom door wtf).  Tangential but relevant.  It’s a circus in my mind.  Fear is the carnival barker and the crowd has lined the tent 2 times round, clutching their dirty children and tickets in hand.  I’m sitting here typing this in the bright light of day with my Hugh Hefner robe over the clothes I wore to bed last night.  I feel rested, which is necessary.  Hell I even refused sex a couple weeks ago because the call came in after I was already in PJs.  Do you have any idea how baffling it is for the male mind to refuse sex?  It can short out the man-wires.  I woke up the next day confused and ashamed, like I had done something wrong-but I was so rested I forgot about it and got on with the day.  My point is I feel rested today, after 2 days of  hiding from the whip, instead of hustling 2 steps ahead of it, and somehow not being a “piece of shit”, according to myself anyway, the Mind.  In body I couldn’t feel better.  I just wish I was somebody else and here’s why.

It’s been a long time that I should be far from here. I know that my desire for the artist’s life is how I got this far. It’s not what I thought it would be and I know I could do so much more. Knowing you could be more is strange. Well, not strange-it’s evolution, it’s growth. It’s savage, amoral and bloody. Birth comes from death. Knowing you could do more is heaps more manageable, if slippery. I can’t say I’m not accountable to myself. I can’t say that there isn’t a chasm between who I am and what I’m doing and who I think I am and what I’m doing. It’s all so very twisted and fucked and I can’t see the bottom. All I can do is live my best today, try harder this time.  (Do you know how exhausting that is?).     It’s just so fucked because I know I’ll find myself here again. Dissatisfied. I need a life coach who’ll tell me that everything’s gonna be ok before she fucks my brains out and kicks my ass out the door.  Sorry.  If I’ve lost you it’s because I lost myself.

What I am trying to describe here is what has gotten me this far.  Dissatisfaction is why I dropped out of college, left the hometown, found work as a DJ, singer songwriter, orator and spoken word poet.  Dissatisfaction is why I spent weeks on the road, sleeping and driving for as many as 7 weeks a stretch, across Canada and the midwest, along the Gulf and up the West and East coast.  Dissatisfaction is why I’ve had 3 books of poetry published in the last 5 years and dissatisfaction is the sole reason that 2 of them were published by my own press.  Dissatisfaction is why I left Philly, and tried my hand hawking wares and doing everything from handing out lunchmeat to donating plasma to walking around campus dressed like a Hershey Kiss.  I’ve lost you.  I’ve lost me.  Is seeking and forging the life I want born of dissatisfaction?  Or is it something else?  Is knowing I could do and be more the same as hating myself?  That’s certainly how it feels.  And as far as how it feels, this, we know, is my remedy.  These 903 words.  This post.  This time at the knives, hacking and working it out.  We do it ’cause we have to.  As far as pace and productivity, goals and the ability to relax and unkink without fear that the whip will come down but yet still pushing on?  You know if I had the answer, good reader, I would give it to you.  Right before I fly out the door and hit the streets after the heart of this dream.  A lonely hunter indeed.

It goes on.