Our beliefs are just our thoughts repeated over and over.
-Angie Knight
I remember there were a lot of words in the air at the time, rhetoric zinging back and forth on how to fight, resist, right and wrong ways to be, etc.—and maybe in response a part of me was craving a quieter version of myself, to be a conduit and hold channels open without falling prey to (or simply reflecting back) the anxieties around me/us.
-Dao Strom
The very best ones are sent from heaven by Buddy Holly. The rest take the better part of an afternoon to rip off.
–Roky Erikson
The word melancholia is still used in psychiatry (it is identified as a ‘subtype’ of clinical depression in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) and as a general term for despondency.
–Merriam-Webster
Warmest Greetings from the War Room. I’m getting down to it, cup 4 of the dark stuff, chased with water and taking me to the heights (depths) of Personal Journalism. We dive down deep here, ain’t it though, mining for the Wisdom maybe even a little glory–why not? Shouldn’t we have something to show for twenty hours in 2 days humping chafers and slinging Moscow Mules other than a grand bi-weekly and leftover brisket and bread? The best thing about working in the “Hospitality” business is you never have to take it home. The last thing on my mind is work as I’m sleeping late or soaking in a hot salt bath and anyway recovering physically from the Pirate life and thee glaring reason I keep creating Art and find for more and further ways to do it for the rest of my life. Point is these walls, and this door to be specific, are what I work for. As mentioned, I write with said door open but I’ve got my own corner of the universe here, in Crack Alley where the transients roll through with the dim and obtuse hours but never think twice about fucking with a crazy Cracker from the East Coast in bright-orange silverfish boxers and brandishing a mic stand. I popped out with it just a couple days ago but all it was was a possum trying to get a taste from the recycling bin. My recycling bin is a cart “mistakingly” absconded from a grocery store in town that sells you bags, and the mic stand’s been with me for some years now, going back to a 3-hour casual I did for shit pay and shit people. The possum just trying to get by in these end days of the Final Century. Aren’t we all and ain’t it though.
Yay, life is good for this Writer and you won’t catch me without giving thanks and thanking these Gods who gave me…well, everything. They gave me the muse and a voice, and the body and mind to use it. They gave me this one Life and I am trying to be here for you. Good Reader. Yay, we laid the good Doctor low last night and it was an alcoholic sendoff that would’ve touched the man, yay even made him proud. I told a story about the Petulant Generation and actively reminded myself to be present, for my people, in their thrall and in they’re arms. Bet. Now I’m sitting here drinking reheated-with-honey with the door open and it’s quiet as a tomb. No one on the phone and trouble and bad drama at bay. One could argue that this is where the trouble starts–when everything is ok and after all these years surviving my own blues I tend to agree. I’ve got work in my hands though and that’s what’s different now. Were it not for a Gemini witch I might not be living this way, as the Artist I always wanted to be; and were it not for another Gemini woman I might not be here at all. June is probably my second favorite time of year, the air is charged with Mercury and the heat and dog days ain’t set in, sticking you to your shorts and belting you with the heat until you’re nothing but an ascetic and devotee of Barton Springs. I hope to get out to the healing waters more than ever this summer. And I’d like to hereby declare that my mission is to book at least 1 gig every weekend between now and January 1. It’s a heady goal and I’m bound to fail but if you don’t shoot for the stars how will you ever get your feet off the ground?
The worst trouble used to be no trouble at all. Now I’ma just bask in it. The inner life is a refuge and a garden. The grounds of my psyche are acres now. We’ve got this time together, you and I, and–isn’t that nice? See you at the Springs motherfucker and up and under the hot lights. If winning was everything we would’ve said quit a long time ago. Love ya, Doc.
Love y’all.
TRAINER
Austin TX
I am thrilled to announce that Yellow Lark Press will be releasing No Comebacks this year. Over forty poetic meditations on the champions of American boxing—working class fighters, dancers and jabbers, griots, gamblers and grifters and warriors all. A wonderful collection from the brilliant poet Will Stenberg, No Comebacks is a human tapestry embroidered in blood and stitched with sweat. Step into the ring with No Comebacks this year, through Yellow Lark Press.
JIM TRAINER LIVE IN THE WRITER’S ROOM ATX
JIM TRAINER WRITING THE COARSE GRIND FOR INTO THE VOID MAGAZINE
Going for the Throat 
Well, friend, let us know where you’ll be and I’ll be there when I can. And don’t forget we need to check out the venues up here.
Let’s do that soon, Friend! Thank you for reading!
[…] worst trouble is no trouble at all. The only lasting and final danger is this contentment. I fought long and hard to be in the mess I’m in. It’s quiet here. For once the […]