Jim Trainer

NOBODY CALLS

In Uncategorized on May 14, 2020 at 9:00 am

Finished with my woman ‘cause she couldn’t help me with my mind…
Black Sabbath

And lead me through the World of Self…
Warren Zevon

Dead quiet is all I wanted and today Good Reader I got it.  No construction or laborer’s Tejano, no blower, no piss kids in the yard behind me.  I even got the blind to the wide, green window drawn so as not to jinx it and anyway let any energy from out there get in here.  Perfect analogy for how hermetically sealed I’ve lived for what seems like most of my life.  This age anyway, these strange days that I take refuge in small quiet hours somewhere typing on machines insect-thin or heavy and humming like a tank.  By and large these expeditions occur only in the Great Indoors.  I tried coffee shops ain’t I but most of the time it’s some jagoff listening to Maiden or Aphex Twin and anyway who’s personality is on display and distracting me from the work and not because said barista is interesting but precisely because he is not.  Which, I’m sorry, is how I feel about most of them—square and tame and shooting their energy all over me but, don’t get me started.  I’ll only add that they could get away with so much if they just shut the fuck up.  Quiet gets a pass and anyway that’s what started me off here, today, posting that by and large I don’t want to talk or collaborate.  I don’t want to share or do things together.  Certain people I’m connected to, let’s call them blood, it doesn’t matter what we do but most of them bore and irritate and couldn’t interest me less with their opinions and politic, music and reasons to live.  Such it is, I suppose, when you’re asocial and people are often so phony they don’t even know it, especially if they keep you believing which is probably why they exhaust me and I wish they’d shut it and anyway why I’m indoors mostly (besides the obvious) and silence is indisputably the greatest sound I’ve ever heard.

Similarly and along these same lines, the sad part about the end of the world is that in my own orbit it won’t even make a small damn.  The fires will have to come to the door and blood will have to rise up to the window for me to bat an eye on the ruin and dissolution of everything the world holds precious and dear.  Could be depression—it’s bore apathy so deep into me I don’t even know different.  My money’s on the fact that everything’s on lock and anyway rigged.  There’s nowhere to run or hide and being free is impossible as long as someone or something else is there.  Well.  Breaking it down this afternoon ain’t it.  Gone from depression and mental health to straight up misanthropy.  Perhaps I am not not taking shelter because I’m too sensitive and the world runs on sports and parades and war.  Maybe I don’t like anyone because they are anyone.  Like even if it was just me and the Dalai Lama I’d have to peace out early and get back to the big chair, turn on the air and get lost between my apartment walls’ weird wilderness, zone out and get brained and slavish on solo time.  The one saving grace to all this anomie perhaps is that I think I could spend days with her, getting into that white robe and taking all her hair in one hand and her waist in the other.  When I think about the tan on those southern Californian legs I suddenly find maybe I don’t want to be alone or even write at all.  Who can write when there’s a body like that in your bed, purring and warm and who after several orgasms will make you strong, sweet coffee, a leek omelette, juice and toast?  Well.  That’s neither here nor there ain’t it and anyway besides the fact we’re all on quarantine, I’m fat and old and have to run to the john night and day.  I’m hideous, besides being antisocial, and those are my good qualities.

I’m trapped in the past and just like my old man only not as smart.  I’m dumb and damaged on love and I don’t have anything to say or add to the National Conversation.  Lucky for me the conversation’s on conspiracy theories anyway and worse—character-limited outrage.  Point is I’m fucked, Good Reader.  I’m not a good person and I’ve a real dark take on things, bad habits and petty outrages of my own.  It’s grim here, at the writer’s desk, and dim and dismal in my apartment but from what I’ve seen of them and their world it’s better than almost anywhere else.

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BECOME A PATRON AND JOIN JIM TRAINER IN THE STRUGGLE FOR PERSONAL JOURNALISM

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