Jim Trainer


In Uncategorized on July 2, 2020 at 9:00 am

I’m not quite sure what I just read.
-Renee Phillips

I couldn’t begin to describe the crushing disappointment I’ve walked around with every day of my 45th year, but maybe I won’t have to.  Free fall is never good but when ushered in by a carny plutocrat with a dictator fetish, landing is worse.  I’m not who I was supposed to be but in a strange turn of macabre luck, I won’t have to dwell on it too long.  I need to be here for what’s happening now but I still get stuck in a loop on the socials, yelling at Right Wing Gene, supine in the big chair and passive for hours and yes, even wrapped up in my own blues and disappointment–as selfish and disgusting as that trip is.  However, sometimes, a line or motif or theme will be on the tip of my tongue and I’ll reach for a self-published collection of my own work and turn the pages on the only archive I have (besides this digital trail of over 72k words and a tote in the garage of a green and white house in Delaware).  There comes a pride when reaching out and seizing your own work off the shelf but the truth is these books are the deal I made.  Without self-publishing a collection every year I’d have sunk to even greater swells of disappointment and self-loathing.  My work is the hard proof Good Reader that I am not as threadbare and compliant, that I haven’t sold out all the way, and anyway I’m still kicking some–even if it means doing what I have to for 30 hours a week and writing when I can.

Writing when I can is what Going For The Throat was/is all about.  It was always about writing and the way through and writing as the way through.  Therapy or anyway flesh peddling and egomania.  It resonated with you and that’s a miracle.  It kept the muscle working and procured for me essays in journals and even my own column.  I write about what’s wrong with me and we’re here together and isn’t that nice?  Except that this country has slipped out beneath our feet and at last count 63 million people don’t mind the cashout of our lives, would rather not have healthcare if the Government says they need it, even though they do need it and anyway are victimized by The America, too.  Its schools and violence.  Its brutish and cruel capitalism yielding diminishing returns on your lifetime.  It’s got them so punchdrunk they’ll believe and repeat that the uptick in infection is due to testing.  I get the anger.  But it’s blinded them, and given them a sense of power they haven’t felt before and need so bad.  The fact that a lot of them aren’t intellectually ahead of the curve shouldn’t matter, but it does.  The fact that they need to be told about right or wrong and worship power as the only principle shouldn’t matter, but it does.  Country simple, the only problem with 63 million dumbshits blind with rage is they’re armed.  The only problem with their Paleolithic beliefs delivered by a modern market Jesus is that they’re on the street, without masks and behind the wheel.

Which is all to say I’ve been writing my way through.  Who could blame me, sure, but this blog comes up empty Good Reader, as does my life every week.  I take this complaint to the work and write my way through it and the whole thing starts again.  It’s this grisly perpetual motion machine that’s kept the lights on and the banner flowing, a cycle of misery and release and covering, like a reporter, depression as my beat.  It worked for coming on 10 years now but that was before this age of crumbling and dissolution, before the rains came and when we weren’t drowning in our own blood.


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