Jim Trainer

Shrieks of Paradise, Correspondence&Rails#53: Dear B.K.

In Uncategorized on February 8, 2020 at 1:24 pm

The Offices of Jim Trainer
Fox Den
Hippie Town, USA

The Township
Drexel Hill PA



Glad to hear everything went ok and that you will soon be back in the fight.  A great warrior and friend of mine beat cancer recently and great and grave travails such as these may give us perspective.  Yea–all the petty snares and cheap dealings may be par for the course but ultimately they mean nothing in the grand and majestic arena of life.  I ruefully reflect on all the bullshit that just falls out of their mouths and the murdering of all our years playing this rigged game but then I look out my window and there he is, the grackle bird.

The grackle is loud and angry.  He has a bent look in his eye and is the only bird that yells instead of sings.  He made it.  By some miracle of spit and dirt and blood and evolution he sits on the bough, yelling into the morning, embarrassing all the other pretty, get-along, singsong birds.  This morning he is winning in this small way and that is good enough for me.

We just pulled off a 21-day rig across the U.S. and spent 10 days up on a mountain in Minerva NY.  It took me 6 days of heavy drinking etc. to get used to the fact that there was no phone, no internet and no women within 30 miles of the cabin.  But by day 7 I was up at 6 and cranking it out in fine gear.  CD reviews and diatribes til 10.  Letters AND fiction til 12.  Then the lake.  Ah, the lake.  I’d nap HARD between 2&3:30 and get up for cocktails and poetry on the sun porch, typing on an old Olympia I picked up in St.Louis.  Without distraction, and in a beautiful setting replete with the necessary swimming accoutrements, a man get some work done.

So, I got new orders now.  I should like to get some land and continue the work of the sit-down matador.  We must wrest our demons, Blackbird.  There are no better devils than the ones beneath our feet.

I still don’t get out enough but thankfully Hostile City has sent another of its bitter transplants my way.  Mr. Justin Southern is a fine partner and a perfect wingman for me and all my hapless and desperate pursuits.  We went to the Driskill to catch Brennen Leigh last week.  While we were sitting there listening, this thick broad in high heels made her way to the grand piano and sat down.  I saw great temples crumble when she sat.  I saw many great men fall.  And I was hard.  When she blew me off with a wave I set my sights on this ghastly Cougar at the bar.  She was dumb as dogshit though, and when I realized I would be more pleased to slap her than stick it in her, I knew it was time to go.

I fumbled around in my room later that night, trying to cover my windows with a sheet so I could jerkoff and go to bed.  I knocked down and chipped the corner off the statue of prosperity I bought outside the Mayan Ruins in June on Yoga retreat.  I am what you call a fucking idiot at times like these, when I drunkenly stumble through the cold midnight in the ruined rooms of the high life.

It’s no mistake either.  I’ve kicked, screamed, raged and fucked my way to the top of this vista, Sister.  Now I’m a tired old soldier, looking for home and a quiet place to work. Weekends in her birdcage in Houston don’t interest me any more.  24 more years and 800 words by 10AM.  What else?  Victory is survival.

Glad yr ok.

En la Victoria.
Jim Trainer

grackle jpeg


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