Jim Trainer

Archive for 2019|Yearly archive page

Shrieks of Paradise, Correspondence&Rails#32, Dear Thomas Wolfe

In Uncategorized on April 19, 2019 at 9:00 am

March 3, 1971
Woody Creek, CO

Dear Tom…

You worthless scumsucking bastard. I just got your letter of Feb 25 from Le Grande Hotel in Roma, you swine! Here you are running around fucking Italy in that filthy white suit at a thousand bucks a day laying all kinds of stone gibberish & honky bullshit on those poor wops who can’t tell the difference . . . while I’m out here in the middle of these goddamn frozen mountains in a death-battle with the taxman & nursing cheap wine while my dogs go hungry & my cars explode and a legion of nazi layers makes my life a goddamn Wobbly nightmare…

You decadent pig. Where the fuck do you get the nerve to go around telling those wops that I’m crazy? You worthless cocksucker. My Italian tour is already arranged for next spring & I’m going to do the whole goddamn trip wearing a bright red field marshal’s uniform & accompanied by six speed-freak bodyguards bristling with Mace bombs & when I start talking about American writers & the name Tom Wolfe comes up, by god, you’re going to wish you were born a fucking iguana!!

OK for that, you thieving pile of albino warts. You better settle your goddamn affairs because your deal is about to go down. “Unprofessorial,” indeed! You scurvy wop! I’ll have your goddamn femurs ground into bone splinters if you ever mention my name again in connection with that horrible “new journalism” shuck you’re promoting.

Ah, this greed, this malignancy! Where will it end? What filthy weight in your soul has made you sink so low? Doctor Bloor was wright! Hyenas are taking over the world! Oh Jesus!!! What else can I say? Except to warn you, once again, that the hammer of justice looms, and that your filthy white suit will become a flaming shroud!





In Uncategorized on April 18, 2019 at 9:00 am

Buddhism teaches me to stop following every impulse and to learn restraint. Obviously I lost track of what I was taught.
Tiger Woods

At the turn of the century, Philly was vibrating.
Anupa Mistry

Heard the story on the evening news
’bout the Capulets & the Montagues
On a private highway airport bound
the convoy speeds past shanty town
Peter Case

Thirteen years before George W. Bush lied about weapons of mass destruction to justify his invasion and occupation of Iraq, his father made his own set of false claims to justify the aerial bombardment of that same country. The first Gulf War, as an investigation by journalist Joshua Holland concluded, “was sold on a mountain of war propaganda.”
Mehdi Hasan

A big, fat con job.
President Trump

The one thing you did that was great, you didn’t do.
Robert Glasper

for Evan Reibsome

This will be an easy missive.  I’m writing from the hated loveseat.  NPR is blathering about Notre Dame and my coffee’s grown cold.  If I get up to open the door the skies will be grey and full of rain.  The new global climate has made this city tropical.  I should crank off the radio–the French annoy me and Catholics have got a lot of nerve.  I hate NPR but it’s better than any radio anywhere except for maybe KOOP or ‘KDU when the mighty DJ Diane spins.  I’ve very little comfort in these end times.  I can’t shit, I don’t sleep and I wake without a hardon and a headache.  DJ Diane’s voice soothes me, but my comforts are a diminishing return as the global temperature climbs and the world mourns a monument to the biggest pedophile ring in modern history.  Now they’re throwing it down in Britain and I’m glad about it.  I’ll stay tuned, make more coffee, rage and write on.

I lectured at LSUS last Friday and the diversification of my resume is concurrent with my desire to get off the temp circuit and step out from behind the bar.  I think I can do it, Good Reader, and the good news is my Art’s got legs, Hot Damn, and I won’t need the dread of my life being forfeit that’s choked every event and endeavor since I quit working for a quadriplegic millionaire in the Fall of ’17. Little Brother’s moved to town and I’ll be goddamned I might even start playing music full time.  He’s looking for a band and I ain’t saying ‘No’.  I’m happy to be on the road for anything except a 13-hour wedding in the sticks.  Catering off-site has lost it’s charm, if it ever had any.  I’m working for an alright company in town, making almost as much money as I did when I started in the biz 16 years ago, which is gross and bizarre and I’ll take it.  This time last year I was hauling copper for less, and yelling at my friends on the phone, and running out and leaving my typewriter behind when I found out my roommate was into me for almost two grand.  That’s life ain’t it though–reluctantly grinding from catastrophe to stasis and all the while one hospital visit away from total destitution.  Just ask Jussie.
A washed up celeb who lied to cops.
-Kim Fox
I can’t complain.  I live in a country where the internet isn’t controlled by the government and I’ve no felony charges to face.  Besides, I’m always happy to write.  My workshop at LSUS was about the practice.  What I do here is self-publishing and compartmentalization and living room bullfighting.  My biggest problem is running out of coffee and I’ve written myself into the arena ain’t it though you bet motherfucker.  I’m less than thrilled with this life but I can’t go back.  I’m looking forward, truth be told, and whatever slog and grind awaits–bartending the Blanton this weekend or running corporate lunch today, I know there’ll always come a day when I can put my feet up and crank out these words, paint a picture with the oils of rage and somehow come through, diaphanously with love.  600 words is all it takes to rouse the muse and have her sit here with me, on the hated loveseat, and patiently wait to fuck me senseless as soon’s I wrap this missive on the end days of the Final Century for you, Good Reader.

You’re welcome motherfucker.

Ab irato,
Austin TX

Shrieks of Paradise, Correspondence&Rails#31, Dear Bukowski

In Uncategorized on April 12, 2019 at 9:00 am


Bartending At The Track PART II

In Uncategorized on April 11, 2019 at 9:00 am

In their eyes, along the neon sky
All speeding past, collide and crashing
I’m in paradise…
Archers of Loaf

Those servers were making less than me.  $15 seems to be the standard but they weren’t getting tips and the Mexicans were paid whatever the company wanted to pay, no recourse or accountability and they were happy to.  Henry drove up with 2 other kids. He’ll drive back down tomorrow, after they break down today and I’ll tell you he had a smile on his face.  He was happy to be there, asking me for my phone number and an autograph.  Which is my point, if there was one other than getting this down, like I do. I can’t complain but I will. It was hard, grueling, disrespectful to the senses and insulting on a base level of dignity and better than almost anywhere else in the world.  My lot in life can be a wretched slog but it’s pretty alright compared to living in a place you’ve got to drive 16 hours to get out of country to work for shit money and turn right back around when the gig’s over. I got it pretty good, as a 44-year old college dropout with no kids or debt and a Japanese car with under 100k miles living in a garage apartment in one of the fastest growing cities in the U.S. for $750 all bills.  The folks we waited on this week, and served drinks to–Bloody Marys and Moscow Mules, Victory Laps and F1’d Ups, light beer after light beer and Tito’s and soda because Grey Goose has gluten, flashing thick metal AmEx cards and tipping $1.34 every round or not at all, some of those people had tabs of over 2 and $300, after spending $200 to be there to begin with and eating fatty, salt-soaked meat under a heat lamp we only threw in the trash as soon as the race was over, will never worry about:  healthcare or racism, the police and the army, addiction, labor, the elements, questions to their dignity, going hungry or being outdoors and any and every peccadillo and pitfall of living poor in the greatest country in the world.

They’ll suffer, we all do, and maybe that’s what the Buddhists have been on about.  You can have it great, you do have it great, so, look around, take stock and recognize– appreciate. You could always have it so much worse and I wonder if that helps them. The soft, pink (and let’s face it, white) rich folks, with their eyes too close together, wispy souls and blithe complaints and bluster–their worries could be taken by the next strong wind and does their God take away their suffering like he said he’d do with ours?  What do they glean from perspective?  Can they gain any appreciation looking down on me and my life as I wait on them hand and foot and meet their every need, and–shouldn’t I? Shouldn’t I be happy to make as much money as I just did, riding a tour bus through Hill Country in the dark with 6 hours of sleep a night, bruised, battered and battle born with folks poorer than me? Shouldn’t I be happy with what I’ve got, a whole lot of nothing  and a slew of oak pollen in my throat?  Shouldn’t I be happy to move through security in the obscene morning and have my bag searched at the end of the gig?  Yes, yes I should, so–am I? I guess.







Shrieks of Paradise, Correspondence&Rails#30, Dear Jim

In Uncategorized on April 5, 2019 at 10:00 am

Hello Jim,

Thank you for your letter.  Things are relatively well in New York.  I have lived here for almost 10 years and I like it, but because New York is an amorphous and ever-evolving/devolving place, my reasons for being here have to be reevaluated every six months or so.

It feels as if the changes occur when one looks the other way:  every couple of months I am riding my bike down a once familiar block and I find that every square foot of it has been replaced with high-rises and fusion restaurants.  I don’t get angry (I am the white gentrifier, I created the path for these changes and I am not proud of that) but it can be very disorienting.  It feels as if I am an actor who blacked out in a scene and once I am reorientated to the ways of my character I find that the set had been switched behind me.

I don’t have much nostalgia for the old New York.  If you live here long enough I think that goes away.  I have been lucky to have met many of the great artists of the old guard such as Henry Grimes, Eileen Myles, Daniel Carter and John Giorno.  I have seen others walking on the street:  Patti Smith, Lou Reed, Pharaoh Sanders, Sam Shepherd.

The good of New York is that it feels like the great equalizer.  You can spot these legends on the street but they are all poorer and less famous than any person that may be deemed a celebrity.  Regardless of what I know of their work they still appear as people trying to uphold their niche hustle who in the meantime are trying not to walk into traffic.  I am not sure if this city has ever truly served these people in the ways that they deserve. I think outsiders created that myth.  It is still feast or famine here.  On any given day someone might write you a check and change your life so the daily gamble is still worth it.  For some artists, that gamble has sustained a lifetime but that doesn’t make the hustle any less real.

I have had an interesting week.  I have spent the winter working as a substitute teacher and I have been surprised to find that I like it quite a bit.  It keeps my schedule flexible and I can always say no to a day of work.  I usually write in the corner while the kids work on whatever they are working on so I am able to be productive while on the clock.

Because of the flexibility of this schedule, I have been happy with the amount of work I have been able to produce this winter.  I am currently mastering  a record that I made with a friend, I have written 2/3rds of a book that I am very excited about and I have a couple of film projects that I am involved with.

This was all disrupted the week before last when a staff member quit the school and I was asked to cover their job until the schools find a replacement.  I accepted because it pays well, I need the money and I have thus far enjoyed working at the school.  I am an administrative assistant aka a secretary.  The agreement is that I am covering the job  while they look for a replacement but I have been encouraged to apply for the job which I am currently working.  This all sounded good to me.

I didn’t go to to college so a well-paid job that doesn’t involve physical labor felt like a godsend but it sucks more than any other sucky job I have ever worked before.  I am making copies and sending emails and scheduling everyone’s meetings and I hate it.  I am taking part in a game I don’t believe in and I miss my projects dearly.  I also miss the kids.  They are cool, doing paperwork for adults is the pits and I can’t stand it.  So, it’s been a lot to feel out and I am pretty exhausted.  At 35, do I take the desk job or do I keep on hustling the art etc.?  The answer is pretty clear.  I have avoided school and offices most of my life, I don’t think you wake up one day and suddenly they seem more appealing just because your hair is grey.  Anyway, I know that you know this struggle well.

I am currently signed up for a residency in Antigua in April.  I thought I was not going to be able to afford to go and would have to cancel but now I am thinking I might work this job through March and then sublet my place and spend the money I made as a secretary finishing my book in Guatemala.  I might even give up my place and set up a series of readings and maybe tour this new album and see what happens.  That all seems like the organic thing to do but money keeps getting in the way.

Someday I hope to pick your brain about these commonalities we share.

Specifically, I’m on the fence about self-publishing and I am wondering if it is worth it to try to get my books published elsewhere.  I like self-publsuihg and I might try to start publishing other people’s work too.

Hit me up if you are ever in the big apple. I am overdue for a trip to Austin.

More soon.  Be well.

Danger Ausche

Bartending At The Track

In Uncategorized on April 4, 2019 at 6:30 am


Frozen out of focus, the Sunday crowd
started dreaming of television turned up too loud
And coded conversation, half baked and tired,
left us sleepy on blacktops burning the motor mile…
Archers of Loaf

They put us on buses.  They don’t tell you that.  There’s no parking at the track so you’ve got to show up a half hour before start time and get to the pickup.  Not that I’m complaining but there’s a gulf of difference between 3:45 and 4:30AM. We show up to the mall and park within the cones and they herd us in.  We wait in the dark for the bus. The bus isn’t bad except it smells of petroleum products–a rank, synthetic citrus smell, hair spray or deodorant on top of soap used to wash away the grease and sweat of bodies pushed to untenable degree.  Some cooks were working 19-hour days out there, from 5AM-10PM and then back in, 2:30AM next day. My point about the busses is that it’s a 1/2 hour to 45 minutes added to your day each way.   A 12-hour day on your feet catering to the public with an hour and half tacked on commuting and trying not to internalize the conversations around you, maybe in one yourself, packed in like hens, trapped and moving through dark walls of rock in the Hill Country and under a mute black sky that tells you nothing, the sleeping world bleating waves of silent pain into your muscles and bones through your eyes and ears and sense of smell–the whole thing can break you and it probably will.  You just want the break to be clean.  

You don’t want to be “cancer” on site, at the job, and you sure as shit don’t want to take it home.  Taking it home is the last thing I’d ever want to do with 60 hours over 5 days bartending at the track, outdoors in a tent in sometimes 40 degree weather and doing $4k in sales and breaking when you can, on your own or partnered up, hopefully with someone even slightly empathetic although even a great partner will drive you up the fucking wall.  I don’t want to address mine, except to say she was great, I don’t know what I would’ve done without her, except maybe take charge of the thing myself but anyway I stepped aside and let her do it, let her try and speak Spanish to the barbacks, in long and longer conversations I was on the outside of and eventually she’d be finishing my sentences, interrupting me as I was talking to customers and reprimanding me as they walked away.

On our last day I gave Henry all my cash.  It wasn’t the right thing to do, maybe it was, but I did it because fuck this country, fuck Trump and the miserable bartender I overheard telling a customer how “They all come up from San Diego…” and, mostly because it was only $22.  My partner was a controlling wench and better than most of the people I could’ve been partnered up with.  But even the best possible scenario can become tenuous behind the bar, working over 60 hours in 5 days serving hundreds of people beer and liquor while they watch a man drive a fast car in a circle and make millions for it.  By the way, I caught the race on the screen behind me and I had to look twice–he’s balding now the racetrack star. And he doesn’t look good. He had this experimental spine-fusion and now he’s back out on the tar but heavy lies the crown. He was better off fucking everything that moved in the sanguine early days of the New Century but who wasn’t?  I can only imagine what I’d look like to my younger self and I feel it–every second of every minute of every day passing. I feel it on my pinky-toe, bloody and nail less, and my right thumb–burned into a blood blister from a scalding hot pan the kid handing it to me didn’t warn me about. Charley horses up my calf but hopefully gone with a couple more hot salt-baths.  A tightness, clamping down the bridge of my nose and a jacked up back I could potentially throw out but live this life a few times over and never be able to afford the surgery a European race car driver can. Not that I’m complaining.











Shrieks of Paradise, Correspondence&Rails#29, Rejection Is The Finest Form of Flattery

In Uncategorized on March 29, 2019 at 9:00 am


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In Uncategorized on March 28, 2019 at 9:00 am

I got in my car and called Butch as I was leaving work.
“Yo man. What are you doing.”
“Putting Arthur to bed.  He’s got diarrhea.”
His son.  And spitting image of Butch.  Same dark Italian features, same handsome face.  The same quick wit flinting in fiery-brown eyes.
“What’s up.”
“Yo man I just did this party in the Hill Country and the people were the worst.”
“What happened?”

“First of all, this one guy, he starts out the night asking ‘What kind of bartender are you?’  Like that, because I didn’t know the Seresin was a Sauvignon Blanc and the only red we had that wasn’t Pinot Noir was a Cab blend.  ‘No need to be rude’ I said to him. And he goes, ‘Yeah you’re right I’m a horrible person’ then he leans in puts his hand on my shoulder and goes ‘By the way your fly’s down.’  And it was. And I appreciated it but it was a point for him. Cocksucker. Later, he’s giving me looks, like, We cool?  Gives me a thumbs up and a mock-smile. He gets nothing.  Now he’s barking orders at me, over his shoulder, I pour ‘em, he gets up.  He comes over. Pulls out his wallet. ‘I’m giving you, look, I’m giving you all the money–it ain’t much, but I’m giving you all the money in my wallet.’  Looks like $28. I take it. ‘We cool?’ He asks. I look down at the wad and go like ‘$28…?’ and his wife comes up and tells him to sit down and he goes ‘I’m not in control of my life’ and I go ‘ Yeah’ and he thanks me and I feel like it’s handled I mean, out of all these horrible, rich Christian cowboys and styrofoam wives I feel the most sympatico with him, the cocksucker, I point at him, I You The Man ‘im, pointing both fingers at him with my own mock-smile.  He goes back to his seat. I put the money in my pocket. A little later, I’m talking to Paul, the server, over my shoulder, I’m bitching at him about these people and telling him how the other bartender Dan, told me the ice tub I tried to hand him was too much.  It was too heavy for him, anyway, ‘Garbage people’, I tell Paul, ‘the only thing worse than wealthy people are wealthy Christians.’ That’s when Paul sees my man’s wallet on the floor behind his chair. Paul gives it to him and the guy gives him shit for it in his joking-cocksucker way.  Anyway later on he’s back at my bar with some horrible fucking Trumper beside him and he’s telling him, about me, ‘This guy knows all about me and he hates me, all about me and he hates me, right?’  and I go ‘Well, I don’t really know you.’ And it’s just like, acrimonious.  Dude doesn’t get the joke, of fucking course he doesn’t and him and his buddy mutter and stand at my bar and his friend goes ‘He’s going to murder you’ and he goes ‘I’m gonna murder him’ and he looks at me and I go ‘But I’ve got your driver’s license.’ He looks at me and it’s not funny anymore. ‘Did you check?’  Give him the mock-smile again. I go ‘I took it from your wallet, chimcharee. Let’s play.’ ‘I like you, I like this guy,’ he goes, to his friend, ‘I like how he operates…’
So, they auction their bullshit, whoop it up in their money church and get wine drunk and it’s getting close to quitting time. The boss, the guy who hired us for the night, grew up with my boss and he’s fucking weird and wealthy and fucking weird and he doesn’t know how to talk to anybody who’s had to work for a fucking living and he goes  ‘You wanna stay? You wanna go ‘cause I don’t need all of you’ and me and Paul and Dan are standing there and I go ‘I’ll go.’ and the dude gets even weirder now because it’s time to pay us and he doesn’t know how to handle it anyway I turn to Dan the other bartender and say ‘You gonna stay?’  But what I mean is ‘You are going to stay.’ and he goes ‘Yeah’ so I go ‘Have a good night!’ Mock-smile and pat him on the arm.
So we’re standing back in a dark hallway, waiting, me and Paul. Some big lady appears on the other side of a glass door and hands the guy 2 envelopes. He gives ‘em to us says it’s been an honor asks Who’s pen? it was a nice pen so I say ‘I’ll take it’ and I put it in my pocket and we leave.”

“What’d you make?”
“Counting the cocksucker’s $28 and a $10 from the event planner’s jerkoff husband I made $158 for 4 hours…”
“He was paying you for being a bad person, Jim.  I would kill for the kind of night you had…call me when you’re in, I’ve gotta put him down…”

Butch’s Father broke his arm when he was a kid.  He had to get to the ER somehow and somehow he did.  The last time Butch saw his dad was on Father’s Day and he choked him where he stood, on his porch.  Then Butch got on his bike, a Honda, and rode to the GM’s of this restaurant we worked at, bartending at the time, and choked him too.  That place burned to the ground last Spring. Back in Philly. Butch is inexhaustible with his son. Infinite patience. He works graveyard at a plastics molding foundry and before he goes in he puts his kid to bed.  Talking to him, calm and steady, putting him to bed and being, against all odds and every impulse and hereditary factor he is somehow gentle with him.  Where he learned how to be gentle growing up where we did I’ve no idea or maybe he’s learning now I hear him, talking being gentle now, over the phone and I hear his son answer half-asleep, just total innocence and love, like only a child should and anyway at ease and comforted and safe and with love and wonder and impossibly gentle. That’s where Butch gets it from.  He’s learning how to be gentle from his son.

“Alright man, let me put him down.  You are out of your mind.”
“Alright man, I am out of my mind.”

And I end the call and make it home and pull into the drive.  I throw a steak on and put this Paul Simon song on, “Duncan”.  The house is empty, the housemates gone, moved out this morning.  I put this Paul Simon song on and dance like a lunatic on the part with the Irish pan-flute or whatever it is.  I dance like a madman–wild, embarrassingly flailing should anybody see me, and look through the window under the full moon out there–at a stag poet dancing in his serving whites, wine key and ones everywhere. Unhinged and free and lonely as a loon.

Shrieks of Paradise, Correspondence&Rails#2: On Being Right

In Uncategorized on March 22, 2019 at 6:17 am

From a #LetterDay in 2012. #goingforthepost, send me your address and I’ll write you a letter.

Going for the Throat

The Office of Jim Trainer
Fox Den
Hippie Town, USA

G. Razas
Whip In
1950 S I H 35
Austin, TX



There may be no finer line between heaven&hell than the cursed, silken trail of cocaine addiction. Many have gone before. None have made it back. We’re left with their stories, their songs, or some gay tapestry they hang behind yr bar at the Whip In.

I thought I would start receiving my mail there and do it like Dr.Thompson, but after Labor Day Weekend I’m wont to just show up and play, and then go home. Who would’ve thought two plain-clothes cops could be so wild&free? Barley wine’s a motherfucker but don’t they have rape training&all that shit in the academy? Oh well, it would’ve been tits to have their traffic clearance last weekend but I can’t complain. I burned down 290 with 7 balls of…

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In Uncategorized on March 21, 2019 at 9:26 am

Don’t let that fear of dying affect the way you live. You take that fear and you use it as a driving force to keep moving forward, no matter how much pain you have. That’s how I do what I do on stage.
-Dick Dale

By that point, it seems more sensible to just go on. So you do, on across the mountains that turn into row after row of mountains, through strands of timber and barren gullies, until finally you come to the ocean. You walk down to the edge, roll up your pant legs and let the icy water drag your feet down into the sand. Then you scramble back up the bluff and lie down beside each other. You fall asleep watching the water disappear over the other side of the world, and when you wake up maybe the other way back’s gone. Maybe the trail back down the hill isn’t available anymore.
The Middle Ground

So it’s reached full alarm.  I had a window of good feeling but now I’m sunk again.  I feel like I’m sinking through my own life.  I take a small comfort knowing my Art’s not affected, not really, although–it could be so much better and I could be so much further along.  It’s been 10 years since I left the hometown and I’ve changed some–ok, I’ve changed a lot fucking more than some, but now I’m getting down to the nut of it.  I’ve stripped away every distraction and the only thing left is the trappings of my own mind.  The Depression has got me man and it has got me good.  I’m eating though.  Not self-harming.  I go to work but not enough to stop blowing through savings while I’m hiding from the world which of course makes me feel even worse.  It’s got me sunk but I’m glad I got this blog and glad I got you.  I don’t know what happens next.  Appointments probably.  A routine and a regimen and a therapist who cares.  This phoning it in and living like an invalid has got to fucking stop.  I’ve lived blind like this for too long as opportunity only blew by.  I’ve become my old man and I understand it now, Dad.  This Black Irish curse.


A different perspective could be I’ve rivaled myself.  I set goals and I achieved them and now I’m only restless.  Being left to my own devices is never great for me.  Problem is being among them ain’t roses either.  They exhaust me but most things do.  I feel misunderstood a lot of the time.  I’d rather be unseen than humored and I don’t go out unless I have to.  I support my friends because they support me and to put it like that is horrible but it gets me out of the house.  Otherwise I don’t have the stamina to fight this depression and I’m not sure I ever did.  I just…smoked and drank.  Put myself through the wringer for lusty, wretched Queens and wenches.  I don’t blame them for their, or my own, version of dysfunctional love.  I’m the one to blame for what’s lost.  I lost more to my anger than any of them anyway and I still do, you bet, every day.  It’s got to be this disease that makes everything so incredibly tedious and aimed at catastrophe.  It makes all the maintenance and chore of life barbed and tortuous so I put them all off until I’m lying in a pile of mistakes and neglect.  My faculties as a writer still work, apparently and thank the Gods.  It takes me a paragraph or so to get warmed up but when I do the juices begin to flow and a moment takes shape from out of the senseless sucking void of time.  A column of words is birthed from the abyss and when I look back at paragraphs 1&2 I’ve wedged the tiniest space between me and this disease that all the time wants to destroy me.

And that, as they say, is that.  You either hang yourself or you hang it on the wall.  Far be it from me to be crying wolf on here or the least bit melodramatic.  Truth is these 545 words have backed the knives out the brain, and given me room to breathe on a heretofore suffocatingly late afternoon on this day of Saint Padraig.  I’m wearing my wounds Good Reader and letting loose the snakes of my own malaise.  I’ve got the door open now and cold air fills the office as ribbons of cerise are peeled from the slate-grey sky and get blown and gone.  I’m free for a moment, here, by the miracle of a magick they can’t ever fully take from us.  Brother Damien Echols held on to his for 18 years on death row and came out telling us how to live.  I know I will heal and that once I do, the Artist’s life I have been dreaming of will come true and come to bear.  This is a most-bitter flowering, bulbs punching through walls of frost and tearing through the loamy hard ground until they themselves are gone and all that’s left is green and shooting up to reach for the god of a burning Sun.