Jim Trainer


In Uncategorized on October 22, 2020 at 5:07 pm
Father Philip

for Lorraine

We know why, right? How come I’ve come here and got it down? I wrote my way through. If you could’ve saw my knuckles typing they’d be white. I’ve been at this desk for over a year now, well–at this location anyway. 13 months I been at the wide, green window, usually in the morn but lately at night–confessing, venting, vexing, dressing up and getting down the annals of a major depressive disorder. 13 months here and 6 months in Crestwood, 6 months in Hyde Park and 5 years at the broad, oaken table working as a live-in caregiver and at the cushest gig I ever had. 10 years in total. Try and fuck with that.

This column was my counselor and my talisman. You joined me in the bright morning or by lamplight and bared witness as I festooned 600 words like a harpoon and from the deep blue-black hit at the leviathan or anyway got swallowed and wrote from the belly of a whale. What can I say, Good Reader? We won. Persistence is key. That and using your weaknesses. Guess that would make them strengths ain’t it and so we did some gris-gris beautification here, we turned it out and hung it on the wall.

I always wanted to be a writer but could never leave the daygig for too long. I had some good stretches, living with Laura on Rockwell Road in Abington PA and a couple months Spring before last in Mid City and Varzulitsa, Holland and Berlin. The most formative probably in Oak Run at Bat Manor, sending letters out and drinking at the Whip In bar, bringing up the sun with a raven-hair in a dirty pool and shucking jives dressed like a Hershey’s Kiss on campus. Those days were my best if not without fear. It may be a particular and distinctive joy that writers get when they discover they are one. A writer. It invokes a destiny, makes pitfalls comic or at least the endeavors something to endure. It drove the characters to collide and storytellers are dealing in the basic units of human consciousness. Best of all writing makes you the hero try and fuck with that.

It seems I’m shook by the same old fears. Good Reader. These fears haven’t been good to me. This rigged game running for the money and the flesh has been harder on me maybe than it should’ve been, but I took it on because, well–I don’t know why. I just know I’ve been terrified and never lived down, freezing on the streets just outside my hometown. I probably could’ve chose wiser then. Stayed in Community College and lived with my Mom instead of sleeping in the park. It always had to be the hardway though I don’t know if that will ever change. I do know that I made it through, another 7 on a stitch, and 5 on clock and under. We both know making a living is neither and the hard truths don’t give any quarter as we grow older. The last decade’s unwinding and The America’s rolling over. It’s sure been nice though, being with you, every week through these final years. Checking in over the callous and shameful turns we made it through, week after week and were together, here, for the last 10 years and isn’t that nice?

10 Years At Going For The Throat


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: