Only the strong will survive and the week shall parish.
—Tim Boyd, Former Mayor of Colorado City TX
The only reasonable divinity is chance.
—Albert Camus
49 out of 50 Republican Senators voted nay on the relief bill on Saturday. One Republican Senator didn’t vote at all. 50 out 50 Democratic or Independent Senators voted to pass the bill. Governor Greg Abbott blamed the Biden administration for allowing the release of migrants infected with COVID into the state, as Biden has stopped subjecting them to Trump’s Migrant Protection Protocols and the first MPP arrivals began entering Texas. But yet Abbott’s refused federal help with testing as he’s determined it “strictly a federal responsibility.” This of course is on the heels of his announcement to lift the mask mandate and re-open Texas 100% last Thursday. Despite the unwillingness to help from half of the U.S. Senate, and the monkey shines of a craven dastard of American politics, life is alright. I’m getting by and getting healthy. I haven’t reconciled my deep seated tendency to withdraw from the spectacle and bloody sway of the Final Century with the fact that my silence equals oppression. I can chalk it up to being shut down and shut in with albeit improving health and trying to find work that’s meaningful or at least doesn’t kill me—but that only goes so far ain’t it. Other than bright mornings writing poetry and nights fell the fuck out, the moments don’t pass easy which has a lot to do with why I’m writing you this afternoon. Recounting the nut of the news of Congress, and listing the shameful governance of a horrible man, help me some and you, too—should you find current events a dull blow to the brain like I do. I’ve got a way to go. I announced both a new devotion to Personal Journalism at the Throat last Thursday and a retreat from the culture war at the Grind on Sunday. I know these positions can be reconciled and perhaps my reporting to you this afternoon could be the proof. Pete Hamill and Saint Mike got a jump on me and I’ll never write like these torchbearers. I don’t have the experience for one thing and everything standing in my way of getting it was exactly what I’ve always reported on. Going For The Throat’s beat was the inner life. I’m glad that I could find a way to tell it that was my own. I’m not happy that I’ve only rested on these laurels and I couldn’t get through any other way. I’ve only overcome in writing but now I find for peace and comfort on the 6 days out of the week I’m not posting here, and the 28-30 I’m not writing at Into The Void.
It is what it is. I’m glad to be alive. I found a strange ease I didn’t think I’d ever find. My health forced my hand. The fact that I was only living at meager capacity was a burden but bucking up and making a change weren’t ever what they prescribed. Helpers and the alpha males’ advice only looked good on paper and never worked as a solution. I was sunk with my own blues though to however great effect writing about it. I might’ve used Depression but I wasn’t doing all I can. The half-life of a depressive is a mark of shame which of course only increases the weight of already-struggling days. I gripped it and I doubled down and I missed out. On a lot of blind conformity and paltry hero worship I’m glad to report but hitting 46 on Saturday reminds me this lifetime is winding down. I wouldn’t take back all that’s happened and happened to me but I don’t need to keep making the same mistakes. If you’re wondering what I’m on about or when the fuck this piece will land, I’m with you. I’m writing without anger, live, and I haven’t a clue how. It’s relatively quiet this afternoon. They’re grinding and beeping next door but there’s a high warm wind in the court. March in Austin is the best time to be anywhere and I feel as lucky as I did in March of ’09, unwinding the rig in Tampa, flying out and touching down in Hippie Town. This city’s changed and the country, too, and however horribly I guess it all had to come home to roost. I left Philly and went on tour with 1349 and I never went back. It’s not fair to blame anyone and though some are in no way innocent, I needed to get away from who I thought I was. I couldn’t go on angry and womanizing and soaking the nights in surrender and booze. I left my father’s town but I miss him. I’d never be who I wanted to be if I’d listened to him or the township’s small and tired voices. I am my father, that Trainer blood flows through me and I’m never going to be any way with you but straight. This has been Jim Trainer reporting, on a lack of anything to report, at Going For the Throat.
Going for the Throat 