Jim Trainer

Contentment is not Enough

In Uncategorized on November 22, 2010 at 6:50 pm

Crackin jokes at the bar.  The Lowest Common Denominator will break down your self-esteem.  These are your friends.  They’re fattening you for the fight.  This verbal sparring they do on the weekends, here on South Congress, drinking on these wooden benches, will toughen your resolve and get you through the week.  Or at least arm you with the knowledge that one of them is gonna laugh at what you had to endure come Friday.  They’ll laugh at the whole thing because-what can you do?  You’re working class.  You can’t do much.  Either go on this way and hate it, or just go on this way just the same.  Maybe if you looked back over your history you might find some examples of change, something happened because our ancestor-brothers of the working class said “No.”

Or, maybe not.  Maybe the man has outsmarted us again.  He learned our rebellion and he’s sold it right back to us.

Then there’s me.  I like these people.  They’re good people.  Funny, smart.  They’re like me.  Although, I don’t think any of them would pull in to a dark field on the East side of town to peek over a wooden fence and stare at everyone dancing and laughing and having fun.  In fact I know they wouldn’t because I was watching them.  I had a thought to hop the fence, fuck the $8 cover, out back a place called Red Hood Bar last night at 1 in the morning.  I got back in my car and I wasn’t sorry.  Even to rebel against it doesn’t seem like fun anymore.

Out on the weekend.  Drunk on the wind.  And Jagermeister and Mexican beer.  Come home to my apartment and sit down at the only piece of furniture I own, The Desk.  Roaches live in there.  They come out early in the morning like this, as I come home and sit down after another:  dumb loaded night in the City, out on the weekend. 

The Movable Feast moves on.  Even an elephant hunter will find the end of his game when it’s just not fun anymore.

Game wins.  But I don’t lose.  I get back in my car.  I drive home, drunk on the wind.  My idea of fun in my autumn age.  Doesn’t mean I ain’t tempted and will do again, like my father has done.  But just like I clocked into that cold building in the barrio every day for 6 months of my life, I will clock in now with the Politic.  Everyday the Politic.  And every day the Voice:  calling out or writing down.  I was right that I was losing.  Then.  But you gotta count the Victories too, man.

You got to count the Victories, too. 

Or maybe you’d rather hop the fence, get into some shit.  Hang out, get drunk, fuck all.  Chase skirt.  Play and get played. 

For some of us even discontentment is not enough.

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