Jim Trainer

Posts Tagged ‘Catholic’

In Nine Hundred and Three Words

In anxiety, Being A Poet, Being A Writer, blogging, depression, getting sober, hometown, Jim Trainer, mental health, mid life, middle age, new journalism, Performance, Philadelphia, Poetry, poetry reading, published poet, publishing, publishing poetry, punk rock, RADIO, recovery, self-publishing, sober, sobriety, solitude, Spoken Word, straight edge, therapy, Writing, writing about writing, WRITING PROCESS on March 9, 2017 at 12:07 pm

…it is in the shelter of each other that the people live…
Pádraig Ó Tuama

Let’s keep hustlin’.
Brian Grosz

…without you my address would be the wind…
-from All in the wind

…you’re going to have to accept that a lesbian chainsaw dominatrix or two might be involved.

My name is Jim Trainer and I wish I was somebody else. I mean, there’s something in the way. I mean, I took the last 2 days off work, for my birthday and to “get some stuff done” and the result was only epic laziness. Lunch and gift swapping with a friend. Driving into dusk to see musicians perform in plays. Eating water ice and falling in love with Austin again. Before I chalk up the last 2 days to “not living my dreams” or being lazy, allow me to invoke the wisdom and language of psychotherapy, and ask-what am I getting out of it? The answer is dumb-I had a peaceful couple days with no torture, no monkey, no blues. Basically I was hiding. This doesn’t bode well. Psychologically speaking, I’ve set it up so I will have to live my dreams. Using the alchemy of inner dialogue I told my Self, “If you live your dreams I won’t come down on you for being a piece of shit.” There are so many ways to deconstruct this deal I have with my Self, and none of them are good! Ah, but don’t too wise, for writing is my rabbit in a hat, and this blog my weapon of choice-and this is how. By the end of this graph I have had some insight, a revelation that there within the dialogue with my Self is the kernel of it-the micro and the blueprint. My life has been always being 2 steps ahead of the whip.  What a fucked up way to live, let alone think and react.  Out of fear, like a slave or Catholic.  For shame.

Not to mention I feel great.  I mean, today I woke up at 7:45AM, like always, but I went back to bed after I put the coffee on.  I dreamt that my boss had wiped his hands on my tux shirt and when I went to confront him about it, his door was closed and his room was dark with a note on the door (and it was my Mother’s bedroom door wtf).  Tangential but relevant.  It’s a circus in my mind.  Fear is the carnival barker and the crowd has lined the tent 2 times round, clutching their dirty children and tickets in hand.  I’m sitting here typing this in the bright light of day with my Hugh Hefner robe over the clothes I wore to bed last night.  I feel rested, which is necessary.  Hell I even refused sex a couple weeks ago because the call came in after I was already in PJs.  Do you have any idea how baffling it is for the male mind to refuse sex?  It can short out the man-wires.  I woke up the next day confused and ashamed, like I had done something wrong-but I was so rested I forgot about it and got on with the day.  My point is I feel rested today, after 2 days of  hiding from the whip, instead of hustling 2 steps ahead of it, and somehow not being a “piece of shit”, according to myself anyway, the Mind.  In body I couldn’t feel better.  I just wish I was somebody else and here’s why.

It’s been a long time that I should be far from here. I know that my desire for the artist’s life is how I got this far. It’s not what I thought it would be and I know I could do so much more. Knowing you could be more is strange. Well, not strange-it’s evolution, it’s growth. It’s savage, amoral and bloody. Birth comes from death. Knowing you could do more is heaps more manageable, if slippery. I can’t say I’m not accountable to myself. I can’t say that there isn’t a chasm between who I am and what I’m doing and who I think I am and what I’m doing. It’s all so very twisted and fucked and I can’t see the bottom. All I can do is live my best today, try harder this time.  (Do you know how exhausting that is?).     It’s just so fucked because I know I’ll find myself here again. Dissatisfied. I need a life coach who’ll tell me that everything’s gonna be ok before she fucks my brains out and kicks my ass out the door.  Sorry.  If I’ve lost you it’s because I lost myself.

What I am trying to describe here is what has gotten me this far.  Dissatisfaction is why I dropped out of college, left the hometown, found work as a DJ, singer songwriter, orator and spoken word poet.  Dissatisfaction is why I spent weeks on the road, sleeping and driving for as many as 7 weeks a stretch, across Canada and the midwest, along the Gulf and up the West and East coast.  Dissatisfaction is why I’ve had 3 books of poetry published in the last 5 years and dissatisfaction is the sole reason that 2 of them were published by my own press.  Dissatisfaction is why I left Philly, and tried my hand hawking wares and doing everything from handing out lunchmeat to donating plasma to walking around campus dressed like a Hershey Kiss.  I’ve lost you.  I’ve lost me.  Is seeking and forging the life I want born of dissatisfaction?  Or is it something else?  Is knowing I could do and be more the same as hating myself?  That’s certainly how it feels.  And as far as how it feels, this, we know, is my remedy.  These 903 words.  This post.  This time at the knives, hacking and working it out.  We do it ’cause we have to.  As far as pace and productivity, goals and the ability to relax and unkink without fear that the whip will come down but yet still pushing on?  You know if I had the answer, good reader, I would give it to you.  Right before I fly out the door and hit the streets after the heart of this dream.  A lonely hunter indeed.

It goes on.


The Other Kind

In Uncategorized on February 20, 2013 at 1:13 pm

There are two kinds of blogs that I will always dread&abhor.  One of them is thee hated self-promotional blog.
-from Going For The Throat on Friday

The other kind is what Ms. Hipstercrite has coined a selfie.  A completely self-referential blog utterly mired in ego, embarrassingly candid and terribly assuming.  The truth about the Global Village is that we must insinuate ourselves and hip the world to our own tastes&political views and individuality and whatever-the-fuck.  I’m guilty. I admit it.  And worse.  I’m trying to parlay it into a career.

In the meantime the morning comes early for a live-in caregiver.  Shower day.  I had the old man shit, showered and shaved before 9am.  And now the golden hours, the 150 minutes or so when I can tap the black tar, screw it on and get it off.
I ran out of material on Friday.  I guess these things happen when your mission is to publish 800 words every day.  The well will run dry.  In attempting to avoid shameless self-promotional blogs I can get into some real heart-on-sleeve horseshit.  Bloviating personal history or the oft-repeated trope of a waterhead writer.  Aho.

Friday’s blog was a real doozy.  This highwire act I do on here everyday can either be the best game in town or something to tip the scales over to the suicide-option side.
That’s why I’m redacting it.  Fuck it.  I shudder when I give out my business card knowing that the home page on this blog is like the armoir in my grandmother’s bedroom growing up.  She had wigs in there.  And lingerie.  And big fat Mom-Mom bras.  And playboy magazines and cartons of camel straights and little bottles of liquor&hair grease for Pop-Pop.  Right beneath the portrait of Jesus flying along beside the truck driver, protecting him.  I found a lot of interesting (scarring) things in there and I will never be the same.  I’ve seen things from in there while hiding as a pudgy Italian kid that could turn your hair white or make you pray to your Jesus to please, please make me clean again.

My point is, while the anti-hero of this blog might be me (or an idealized and vengeful version of me), he ain’t exactly who I want to be.  But by some strange twist of fate I have found an inexhaustible source of material and it’s writing about writing.  Blogging about blogging.  The inspiration is the writer’s search for inspiration.  Perfect.  But it ain’t easy.  It’s like burning the heart for fuel or tightrope walkin in two ton shoes.

The stockings&heels and perfumes and wads of 20s in my Mom-Mom’s armoir were real.  What my sisters&I weathered in that house growing up was real even if it’s all over now.  While I may always hate writing blogs of a purely self-promotional nature, I will always hate blogs that reveal too much even more.  And on dry, sexless days when the world’s stupidity is greater than gravity and another deadline slowly grinds the enamel down, I will abstain from drawing on the enormous storehouse of my personal history.  Try to steer clear of Planet Jim until I get my mojo back and we can just let the music play.

Will I be able to report the cold hards to you on the daily?
Can I give you 800 words every day, neat&fine, without meandering down memory lane and sharing stories about the whiskey&sex and Jesus I found in an old armoir in my Mom-Mom’s bedroom growing up Catholic in Upper Darby?

I’ll try.

You know, I tried, I tried to keep it short
I know, it took too fucking long.
-Minor Threat, Think Again