Jim Trainer

Posts Tagged ‘Hemmingway’

In Parts

In Uncategorized on August 31, 2013 at 1:04 pm

NOW GODDAMNIT NOW?!
Yes.  This week.

It was the publicist, calling to tell me to run the intro and now.  Her voice is soft and svelte, a birdsong compared to the panicked rasp at the other end of the line.
BUT…WHO WILL JUDGE THE RIGHTEOUS?, I yelled.  FIND YOURSELF HERE!  and, stammering now, AREN’T YOU READY FOR SOME FOOTBALL?!

She’s a good girl.  She’s wont to break it down country simple and gently “talk me down” when I get like this.  I had been on the roof for 7 hours.  I had over 3,500 words written in tribute to guest-blogger Don Bajema but it was not a kind journey.  The kids at the Khabele School across the street were giving me queer looks and I  glared back at them, crunching down on a burning cigarillo with hater blockers on.  I was greasy with Deet and the shit was giving me a chemical high of the worst kind.  I had drunk more coffee than the APD working nightshift on Judge’s Hill.  The bugs and the heat and the caffeine and the smoke were making me jiggy.  Not only that but every time I climbed in through the window to get more coffee I took a piece of hardware with me.  The dead mouse hung by its cord out the window and earbuds were tangled, twisted and burning in the ashtray.   My spare hardrive lay in sorry pieces scattered all over the roof at my feet.

Just send me what you have.  I’ll take a look and we’ll run it tomorrow, mk?
OK?!  Ok.
Just focus on your respect for the man.  Don’t get too bogged down, and, parse it out.

I hung up and stared at the pile of hardwire and the mess of black wire twisting at my feet.  What had happened to my life?  Whatever could it be that has brought me to this loss?  All my efforts to write smoke-free had been usurped, laughed at and thrown down by the bad bitch of a deadline.

Sometimes it comes easily and perfectly; sometimes it’s like drilling rock and then blasting it out with charges.

-Ernest Hemingway

Don’t get me wrong.  It’s a good life.  These days the worst kind of trouble is no trouble at all.
Some folks are better writers simply getting out of bed in the morning than I’ll be all day.  And some writer’s blow their brains out with a shotgun in a remote cabin in Idaho.  We’re all mad here but deadlines, like time, will wait for no man.  Being on deadline is kind of like having a nervous breakdown.
Any seasoned journalist, like me, has many tools (drugs) in his toolbox.  But as the heat index pushes temperatures above 102, and the caffeine wears off and the scales of life teeter dangerously toward the suicide option side, it’s best to call it a day.  Most wise.  Pour yourself a drink and watch the sun set on the Empire, burn down another night and blast that banshee with rock&roll and loud, motherfucker.
Aho.  I’m glad for writers like Bajema.  There is no finer an ally to enjoy sunset in America with.  And I’m just as glad for the gentle and kind folks who tolerate me, who at times offer me guidance&support as I cleave down the savage road I first stepped foot on nearly 27 years ago.
The publicist, the editor, readers like you-you’re all keeping me alive.

The girl was right about parsing it out.  It was Labor Day Weekend.  School was letting out across the street.  My ankles were raw and bloody.  I was covered in sweat.  Another day at the Office.

It is my great pleasure to present to you an intro for guest-blogger Don Bajema.
In parts.

inpieces

fml

STAY TUNED FOR PT I OF:  WHO WILL JUDGE THE RIGHTEOUS?…Guest-Blogger, Beautiful Writer&True Patriot Don Bajema Makin’ em Know on Going For the Throat With the First 3 Chapters of his Latest Work…NEXT WEEK

Contentment is not Enough

In Uncategorized on November 22, 2010 at 6:50 pm

Crackin jokes at the bar.  The Lowest Common Denominator will break down your self-esteem.  These are your friends.  They’re fattening you for the fight.  This verbal sparring they do on the weekends, here on South Congress, drinking on these wooden benches, will toughen your resolve and get you through the week.  Or at least arm you with the knowledge that one of them is gonna laugh at what you had to endure come Friday.  They’ll laugh at the whole thing because-what can you do?  You’re working class.  You can’t do much.  Either go on this way and hate it, or just go on this way just the same.  Maybe if you looked back over your history you might find some examples of change, something happened because our ancestor-brothers of the working class said “No.”

Or, maybe not.  Maybe the man has outsmarted us again.  He learned our rebellion and he’s sold it right back to us.

Then there’s me.  I like these people.  They’re good people.  Funny, smart.  They’re like me.  Although, I don’t think any of them would pull in to a dark field on the East side of town to peek over a wooden fence and stare at everyone dancing and laughing and having fun.  In fact I know they wouldn’t because I was watching them.  I had a thought to hop the fence, fuck the $8 cover, out back a place called Red Hood Bar last night at 1 in the morning.  I got back in my car and I wasn’t sorry.  Even to rebel against it doesn’t seem like fun anymore.

Out on the weekend.  Drunk on the wind.  And Jagermeister and Mexican beer.  Come home to my apartment and sit down at the only piece of furniture I own, The Desk.  Roaches live in there.  They come out early in the morning like this, as I come home and sit down after another:  dumb loaded night in the City, out on the weekend. 

The Movable Feast moves on.  Even an elephant hunter will find the end of his game when it’s just not fun anymore.

Game wins.  But I don’t lose.  I get back in my car.  I drive home, drunk on the wind.  My idea of fun in my autumn age.  Doesn’t mean I ain’t tempted and will do again, like my father has done.  But just like I clocked into that cold building in the barrio every day for 6 months of my life, I will clock in now with the Politic.  Everyday the Politic.  And every day the Voice:  calling out or writing down.  I was right that I was losing.  Then.  But you gotta count the Victories too, man.

You got to count the Victories, too. 

Or maybe you’d rather hop the fence, get into some shit.  Hang out, get drunk, fuck all.  Chase skirt.  Play and get played. 

For some of us even discontentment is not enough.