Jim Trainer


In Uncategorized on August 23, 2018 at 1:33 pm

Do not interfere with an army that is returning home.
Sun Tzu

We’re seeing, in real time, what the GOP is really made of.
Paul Krugman

The fall of any empire, even empires of the soul, is the beginning of a Renaissance…
Moriah Marston

Just a friendly reminder that you’re fucked.
—responding to @realDonaldTrump

Punk rock isn’t a genre.

Greetings from Bro Country.  I didn’t think I’d be so ecstactic to be back and yet so bludgeoned by the heat.  There was no one was on the street when I pulled in to East Austin Tuesday night.  Why would there be?  The heat and humidity made it hard to move and drove a breathless pressure through the top of my skull.  Everything in me screamed to get behind closed doors but I needed pizza and baby wipes so I did my business and suffered in silence.  I ate 2 pepperoni slices in the stifling dusk and when I saw they’d closed down the super CVS off 35, I called it and made my way back to my AirB where I cranked it to High Cool and stripped down.  What a long, strange trip it’s been.  It’s hard to look at the country the same and it’s hard to look at Austin in any way but fondly.  Hostile City did me in, the way it does, and I couldn’t find a damn thing to do in Delaware, but the truth is, I was too exhausted to even try.  I shudder estimating how into the City of Philadelphia I am for parking there for 8 days straight, and I regret not being more proactive with my family or even swimming more.  I’m an Indoorsman, though, an Interiorist and a recovering depressive.  Take this morning, for example.  As good as it feels to be back I’ve been in here all morning drinking instant coffee, hot and black with white sugar, and gleefully reading the news without saying a word to anyone.

What great news it was, too, coming out of Washington Monday, though it still feels queasy to me.  My limited political scope only affords me the knowledge of how little my stakes are in this Democracy, and my dysfunctional upbringing and Irish dispostion have me hemming the endless bottom.  Country simple—it’ll get worse, like it always does, and I’ll bow out, like I always do.  Vigilance is in the fighting, though.  I’ve heard it said and better.  Showing up to the polls is its own reward though I tire of the newscycle and loathe being pandered to.  Truth is, my fatigue with the game is neck and neck with feeling powerless. I don’t spring out of bed in the morning but I don’t pass out exhausted at night either.  I know I’m not doing enough, and I know desperately what I want.  It’s hard watching life as we know it get eclipsed, even though it won’t matter what happens on the Hill.  States will catch fire, islands will fall in the sea and creatives and sideliners like me will have to find other enclaves beside Wishire Wood and West Philadelphia to live in and create.  The Dems could take over and usher in a whole other bag of business that has nothing to do with you and me and the working poor.  The die is cast and it’s all fucked (Sorry Will) but at the same time, I feel like it’s now or never.  Strange, this age, my 40s.  Death has never been so close but yet I have never felt more inspired or able.


If all this is confusing good Reader, don’t despair.  I write this column to wrap a bad blues and find meaning in the final days of the human race.  It often resembles therapy here and I know many of you apprecaite that, as I do you.  I start these blogs woeing but end up on a good note.  I think I’ve reached critical mass working for the man.  I really want to push my work further and get more involved but I don’t know how this is any different than when I quit my job of 5 years last October, and went into almost $8,000 of credit card debt trying to live my dreams.  I know I’ve got some books out, and that Take To The Territory isn’t even 3-months old.  I know I can’t do the same grind I did all those years getting by.  It’s brutal and hopeless and the world is full of folks who can’t do it either but have to.  I don’t have to.  If I don’t get busy living, depression could win the round and I’ll find myself coping like a controlled denizen—which will never do.  Henry Rollins was right.  It is punk rock time and down here at the Office of Jim Trainer we won’t get fooled again.  I can’t go back to that life and my days in Philly are over.  Same with driving a truck to write poetry and get drunk on the weekends.  Everything is different now but I am the same.  I’m still in love, still seeking refuge, still finding for a way to steep myself in the magic of idea and get lost in the wild music of my heart.  I’m still your Writer, too—at large or in the homeland and you can bet I’ll see you on the streets motherfucker.


Austin, TX


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