Jim Trainer

Shrieks from Paradise

In Being A Writer, Being An Artist, BIRDS, blogging, getting sober, going for the throat, mental health, recovery, sober, sobriety, Writing on August 11, 2015 at 10:42 am

Under conditons of peace the warlike man attacks himself.

Oh boy. Quoting Nietzsche now. Smoking cigarettes and drinking black coffee too. This is getting old. I came off the road fresh and ready. I was pounding it to the boards and doing work. But now the grind has caught up with me. My rediscovered superpower, anger, has run its course and I’m spent like a shell casing. Sitting on the roof. Watching the birds. I tried feeding the fuckers but war broke out. The fucking grackle. At first I was amused. He strode up as if he was in tophat and tails saying “I say good sir I do believe.” But then the others flew in and, get this, they station themselves around the booty, stand there and yell out to the others “This is mine. Fuck off.” It got nasty out there and I’ve come to think that survival is war. There is no free lunch at least while others are around and no private joy can last. To further illustrate this point, the crews are up the street, pounding and drilling, erecting towers of greed into the hot sky. Ah, there it is, thee hated drill. You know how many times I’ve been woken up by the sound of drilling rock? Put it to you this way, I’ve been working this gig for over 3 years. Barring my first four months here there has been construction of some kind every fucking day. First it was the turnaround at the corner of 8th&Rio Grande. Then it was the condo, 7, they’re calling it. Then a repave of the turnaround. And now another condo at Nueces. I sometimes think I had more peace living at Oak Run and working as a bartender at the Whip. It was quiet at least and a man could do some reflecting. My life was allot simpler then but maybe I was dying. I’m certainly dying now and the windfall of working in a mansion downtown has become a cold hard reality. Yep. It’s a grind.

I could’ve done allot better with my time, my life and my everything. But I’m only human. And I’ve got a chip on my shoulder the size of Texas. And I can’t take my rest.  I’m bleeding my time for dollars&cents, I work around the clock and my time off is filled with the nerve scraping sound of rock being drilled and backhoes being backed up and the yelled Spanish of the laborers wafting up into the heat and smoke.

I sometimes think I’m ungrateful. That I just need something to complain about. Some thrust, the high drama. But at the end of the day I know this is a grind, like any other, with its trials and bullshit and pitfalls to health and sanity. You know, work. And humans…humans are like jewels. I’m lucky to have you. The others-dumb as rocks. I guess this post is a retort to the last time we spoke. Anger leaves you hungover, too. Sobriety is one answer, and a great one, but there is no cure for life. No remedy. You can be alone in a crowded room, but that’s not always a good thing. It’s not like you can get some work done. Not while folksingers are asking you where they can find a cheeseplate and dudes are swingin they dicks around. Here’s the biggest problem with others-they leave you alone just enough to be in need, but never far enough for you to practice and earn true solitude. True solitude. The chalice. Heh. Now I sound like a Nietzsche quoting misanthrope, which of course I am. Viva la hatred. Got to wrap it, some shit’s going down with the grackle. Look like everybody tryna get a piece of bread.

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