Jim Trainer

THE MIDDLE GROUND

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.

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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.

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  1. I’m here to talk or listen or just check in with any time. You are not alone on this sinking ship, Brother. Not at all. Small consolation when it feels lonelier than ever these days, believe me I feel that these days indeed. Drowning. Not sure why bother save to live for those sweet sweet moments when my head is above water and I catch sight of that stellar fucking view.
    I love you. I’ll make a swim for shore if you will.

  2. Interesting that I was just having a similar conversation today at lunch with a friend. The fact that you can share these feelings openly is the main difference between you and many other people. Despite the sad tone of your post, I come to read because every word you write is another moment your are fighting to get better. That gives me hope for you.

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