Jim Trainer


In Uncategorized on February 7, 2019 at 10:28 am

The best running story of all is a war. 
-Stephen Kinser

Hello and goodbye.  I’m pushing past the comfort zone and dropping coping mechanisms that take up too much bandwidth and anyway finding for time better spent building a dream than hiding from the world.  This blog could be the former, or at least considered part of the process. The angst here is the ore and a hatred of their world the furnace. Either way drudging up my own bad feelings or dirty laundry only to slag life is a drag.  And it makes me feel like a hack. Grist is necessary, sure, but, as any practitioner of the black arts knows—you can’t mix up the medicine without spilling some on yourself. Dealing in negatives yields negatives.  The problem with positivity, however, is two-fold—most of what people consider positive is neurotic, and all the positivity in the world won’t cure you of depression.  I’m at a familiar crossroads but I’ve the wisdom from the last time this shook out. The last time I really came to grips with The Problem With Grim Jim I was 15 and played in hardcore bands, sometimes 2 at once, and I lifted weights and journaled. I’m in its plainview again—depression, anger and hatred are coming to rest in me and weighing me down. I can get sunk by what’s wrong with me and anyway stuck or on pause.  This most recent onset started when I hit 40.  I knew I needed to get out into the territory, really rattle my chains and anyway tear myself from the yolk of small minds, psychopathic girlfriends and crippled bosses.  So, I quit drinking alcohol, quit smoking cigarettes, quit having sex and quit the longest job I ever had, and moved the fuck out of that place after 5 dumb years.

It’s been 3 years since and my bad blues has caught up with me.  I guess those first years were fighting and I’m used to that.  When engaged in battle your small shames and giant fears get prioritized and better–sublimated.  The smell of blood is all it takes to kick the sympathetic nervous system of a hunter into fine gear. The endgame trumps all when you’re white-knuckling days and enthralled with the single-pointed focus of getting sober.  What’s more is you really feel alive.  Now that I’m over the hump (4 years Febuary 25) things have sunk to baseline.  I know I’ll make it through the night.  The question isn’t How? so much as Why?  I know I’ll get through the day but why should I?  Know what I mean, Good Reader?  Better, the ways I use to get through now are a whole other set of toxic behaviors, no different from drugs or alcohol and anyway the original and years-old ways of mine to self-destruct and anesthetize.  I began this post with the latest news that even enumerating on my blues and attempting to ratiocinate what’s wrong with me only compounds my depression.  This blog and my attempts at self-therapy have become tiresome.  It feels useless, although I know better, and it feels like writing 600 words every week has become a coping mechanism.

You either hang yourself or you hang it on the wall.  How many times you heard me say that, on here or at The Coarse Grind?  Out there in the world, with Babylon on my neck and surrounded by the Americans, self appointed Kings of the Free World and apprentices to the crass capitalism of the Masters, suffering the blowhards and dingbats of the Media Class and even the outdoor apparel wearing-liberals of Hyde Park, another day here should be a celebration and our lives a marvel considering the teeth of this machine, how many ways they have to kill you and even charge you when you die for laying you low.  It’s on lock, soldier, and so are our days now.  We got 12 summers left before it hits the fan and we’re surrounded by 63 million people who would rather spend 5 billion on a wall than have healthcare.  We know though, ain’t we?  That wall is to keep us in.  If I had one-tenth the political nerve of Noam Chomsky or Hunt—

–whoa.  There it is.  Fly meet ointment.  Caught in a rage and slagging away.  In almost 10 years writing for GFtT I’ve slagged everyone, and avenged any and every slight–felt, perceived or imagined.  I’ve fleeced insincere betties who kept hamming me along and I’ve roasted liars, lovers, bill collectors, temp job bosses, bartending bosses, emotionally-crippled millionaires and cowboy boot-wearing tech bros up in the hills after swilling their hooch and decamping in their linen closet to sober up for the ride home.  I been a venom dealer, spite and bitterness thrown in for free and good measure.  And it was fun.  But now what?  I’m 43.  I deliver corporate lunch.  I live in a garage apartment off the highway with all bills paid and a carport between me and the madding world.  Nights rivaling loneliness can get as quiet as a tomb.   You’d be shocked to realize how little of them and their business you need.  How little any factor or directive other than Prime One really matters.  It’s also insane and unhealthy and I’m caught in the time like amber.  Mid-life is a stasis and I’m frustrated.  I’m ready for the next move.  Bet.  I’m over the circus of depression and seriously outlived any further use of coping.  I’m sick of coping and living half the time and squandering this most precious and only one life.

If you’re looking for closure keep looking.  No bows this week, Good Reader, just blues.

Austin TX


gonna fade cause I’m already dead

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