Jim Trainer

Got the time?

In alcoholism, anger, Being A Poet, Being A Writer, Being An Artist, Poetry, publishing, self-publishing, sober, sobriety, Writing on September 15, 2015 at 5:24 pm

Writing about writing can cast me as acrobat, deadbeat romantic, matador, hack journalist, and dayworker. And if you follow, writing about writing is like holding a mirror up to a mirror. There are infinite mes spreading out into the horizon, with just as many typewriters and mugs of steaming black espresso.

I told someone I don’t know to go fuck himself on Facebook last week.  And I was accused of watching too much mainstream news.  Commentary is the new activism. Shit’s wonky everywhere and I volley between torrential fury, moderate agitation and the near catatonia of an emotional hangover. None of this is useful when the clock is ticking and somehow I have confused accomplishing what I set out to with the validation of my entire existence. It might sound ridiculous, it certainly feels that way, but forty years hang in the balance and the days hemorrhage past while I’m fucking away what scant time I have in worry and utter disgust at the world.
I just cannot deal, People. And I just cannot deal with people. There is too much to do, time is punching me in the balls. What the fuck was I thinking? Facebook?! The kicker is that I’m by myself most of the time. All alone on social media. How much longer can I devote myself to Art while deflecting the inane distraction and outright pathological detraction of simple minds?

I need to get a grip. I’m called to pray in the only way I know, with Yoga and meditation. Hatred won’t keep me safe. Nothing will. Sometimes I can carry the world, slice through like a Samurai. But these windows are pitifully small. And let’s face it, most of the time I’m mired in personal struggle. I against I. As wont to get in a fight on Facebook as I am to work out an outline with the printer, get 2 letters off every Friday and figure out the basics of InDesign.

The first thing I do when I’ve been shaken from my tree is harbor resentment, cover myself in a quilt of disappointment, grovel over the fact that there’s no net, never was and I’m on my own. Coupled with the fact that I often confuse not being an Artist with the grim assumption that I have failed at life, I missed my chance and I should’ve never left my hometown.

Now that I wrote it out I can see how ridiculous it all sounds. Not to put a silver lining on a pile of shit but my Art still talks to me. Poetry is still telling me things. And this season, without a girl Friday to edit and drink and get lost and end up in bed with, I confront my inner critic. That motherfucker. Laden with Karma and speaking a twisted language of doubt and fear. I’m close to not having a crutch at all, which is all I ever wanted-to get up and face me and really take a swing. And without-booze and sex and hate and anger, I’ve only got me. It’s daunting, but no more than it ever was, and real. That ought to put some voltage into the mess of my mind, shake up my bad bag of disappointment and help me pick up this sad stack of bones, make my way through the junkyard and never look back.

See you on the other side motherfucker.

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