Jim Trainer


In Uncategorized on August 30, 2018 at 10:01 am

To a mind that is still, the whole universe surrenders.
—Lao Tzu

We realized this was all lies.
Jiri Pehe

Lest you doubted it, this is grotesque.
Village Voice

I had a dream that I died twice yesterday
and I woke up still not dead again today…
Willie Nelson

Where is Bobi Wine?
Andrew Tabz 

None have clean hands. 
Charles Garraway

Your blog is a beacon.
Danielle Cole

I’m posted up in one more strange nowhere, next to an empty lot where Mama sits. She offers me Cokes in front of her burned down house as I head out to Walmart for a hotspot. John McCain was an unctious hawk kept alive by publicly funded healthcare he voted against for his entire career.  The 2 gunned down in Jacksonville were only a blip and a byline in a grisly newscycle this week, as we continue to be inured with random murder in the America. Bobi Wine was granted bail, after being held on the grounds of treason and likely tortured and brutalized, and unable to stand out front of a Uganda courthouse. What a wonderful world.

That graph is the sum total of formal writing I was able came up with this week, if you don’t count letters or poetry, which you probably shouldn’t. I’ve a stack of white business-sized in the outpile, 2 new poems and 5 or so more I’m tinkering with, but you’re here for the hard stuff and I’m afraid I’ve let you down. There was no shortage of news, and life in the New Century continues to be compelling if not fascinating, worthy of pause as the Buddhists say and worth writing about in any event. You either hang yourself or you hang it on the wall. Writing is my way of keeping the world off my neck and getting my arms around the swirling chaos of a life fantastic and cruel. I’ve no excuse, except to say that mornings I fired on all four but evenings found me falling out with what felt like soft cotton between the ears. It’s a dullness and boredom I’ll regret someday when I’m older and in fact already do and that’s because the world is wide and if I’m diligent and quick, I should be able to punch my ticket to anywhere as long’s I’m toting an iPad and a mirrorless with editors on the wire.

I suppose I’ll get a column out of why I didn’t write which is common if not perverse. My “neighbor” sits in front of her burned down house all day, except there’s no burned down house there—just piles of Coke cans, a dead Lincoln and Sentra, and some folding chairs in the shade with a cooler full of iced water and soda. I can hear her talking out my window constantly so I put the AC on fan and the radio on NPR until I’ve had enough. Those radiocasters talking in a creampuff tone remind me of square teachers you knew you could get over on in middle and high school. I feel bad for those teachers sitting here writing this but someday I hope to have those newscasters’ jobs. Begs the question ain’t it though—who the fuck am I kidding, if all I can come up with in 7 days is a 5-lede graph, a few poems and a stack of not-at-all-sane correspondence? I guess you could say I failed, well, I’m saying it anyway. I failed. My life is forfeit.  LIFE OVER, GO HOME, TRY AGAIN TOMORROW.

I go home on Saturday—can you fucking believe it? Besides a tote full of handwritten journals and a shoebox full of radio shows on cassette, all my belongings fit into a 5×10 storage unit. I got a Japanese car with less than 60k miles and a webstore full of 4 titles and a 5-song EP. It’s amazing the power of clarity that can come when you just put your cards on the table. I wrote I’m a failure above and as soon’s I gave it up the blessings came, that is—once I got being a failure out of the way, I was able to enumerate on what does work, what is working and all that I truly am looking forward to. I had a gentle moment eating an ice cream sandwich and reading David Sedaris to my lady friend last night. The world needs more gentleness and I know this even if I’m terrified of getting soft and it’s a fear I try and assuage by being way too hard on myself. You can’t wear army fatigues every day ain’t it though. Some nights you’ve got to wear terry cloth, and some weeks you’ve got to putz and fuck around and let the world go to soft focus while you circle your prey. I ruminated this week and I let it all hang out. I slept you bet and I dreamed. There were at least 4 compelling stories the world piqued me with. I know I’ve got to map this season out and get back to grant writing. I’m moving luggage next week which should be as fun as it sounds, but—at least I was able to come up with this column. It’s got to count for something, right? I admitted I failed but found I am still sitting here, sipping cold french press in my robe with the AC fan on full blast and the whole wide world waiting. Dorothy Parker was right.

See you in Wilshire Wood, motherfucker.

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