Jim Trainer

Posts Tagged ‘karma’

Another Day in the Life of a Writer

In Uncategorized on August 12, 2013 at 12:10 pm

 Posts?  We got ’em.  Out the yin-yang.  I’ve got a post written in thanks to the folks who made it out to the book release last December.  I’ve got one written in thanks to the folks who made it out in June.  I’ve got links, photos, letters and a hulking, 22, 000 word document called “Spungen”-chock full of newsworthy quotes and incredible things I felt I had to document.
The wasted summer shimmers on and I’m still out on the roof, jettisoning any and all progress me and the life coach have made toward writing smoke-free.

Tuesday I was like some rockabilly bowling ball, knocking down strikes of Lonestar beer with Wing, up on the roofdeck at Rattle Inn and listening to Robert Appel kill it.  Life is good but it’s not my own yet.  As much as I swore I’d never be like my old man, and as far down this artists road as I’ve gone, I still can’t shake the karma of his generation.  I go to the office.  I drink coffee and smoke.  I do work.  Then I blow it out drinking beer and shooting my mouth off with a good friend.
Ain’t living long like this.
-Waylon Jennings
Aho I have heard the call.  There’s nothing left for me to do but answer, head back down and live in wisdom for a while before I start up the next peak.  No one told Siddhartha to turn around.  They wouldn’t if they could; or, rather, he would only answer that presence is the continual turning within, that the path winds many ways and for the candle flickers, the flame is never gone.
I have sworn off the oft-penned self-help blog, thank Christ, so there’s nothing really to write or talk about.  There is only the next step.  I’ve already started this journey.  I’ve been called to higher and I’ll never live it down.  The price I pay for my coping mechanisms is too great. This much madness is too much sorrow and my days left here only become less, if not richer and harder to kill.
Throughout my drinking career I’ve tried to forget or somehow not see.  It didn’t work.  I saw everything.  I remember it all too well, and on soaked nights laying in bed it’s like a circus of catastrophe and a Calliope of things I’ve done wrong.  It’s a cheap fix that’s only afforded me temporary blindness to your pain, foolishly thinking I could fortify myself behind a wall of dread&apathy.  I don’t blame myself for wanting to turn it off ( or down ) every day of my adult life.  There’s a lot of pain in the world and there’s a lot of boredom that comes from watching you go through your shit and never get anywhere.
What has changed?  Nothing has changed.  This used to be bad news.  Not anymore.  If nothing has changed then I’ve still got a chance to make things right.  I’ve still got some fight left in me, even if it’s buried under the tar from a pack a day habit and usurped on silly teenage nights in bars with friends.  I’m not admonishing.  I’m not apologizing.  This isn’t a self-help blog, nor is it an apology, thank Christ.  Whether or not I need to be forgiven is a tall order and infinitely more or less difficult than something as stupid as quitting smoking.
Nothing has changed.  I have heard the call.  I’m answering it.  I’m also out here on the roof writing this, smoking and drinking coffee.  Just another day at the office.

All the colors lie
and I’m an only man
the lies hurt my mind so I think you understand,
color driven madness was all I used to see.
Living in the black and white
breathing in the black and white
being what there is to be.
-Henry Rollins, Black&White

"Up on the rooftop, they won't know if you jumped or you fell off!"-9353

“Up on the rooftop,
they won’t know if you jumped or you fell off!”
-9353

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Mountain High, A Writer At Large

In Uncategorized on July 28, 2013 at 5:18 pm

And I will pray for her
I will call her name out loud
I would bleed for her
If I could only see her now

The landline on Lily Bay is in a dank garage, at a small desk by a grimy window. As I turn on the dim lamp in the corner I can suddenly see that I am the only source of light this high for miles. The rain comes down in an insistent sheet. Other than that it is dead quiet on the hill. Nothing in the woods that wasn’t huddled in some dry corner, like I was waiting for the phone to ring, the beer to run out or the rain to stop.
The first time I called someone picked up and said
Herro? in a mock-racist Asian accent. Eventually they hung up. After a few more tries I turned off the lamp and sat drinking in the dark with the rain pouring down. That was last night.

I was up by 5:30 this morning and I had 1,200 words down by 10:50. Now I write this post.  There’s nothing doing in town except of the Monster Truck/Kid Rock variety. There’s no television, no internet and only bad poetry to keep me inspired up here.
Most nights I read or get drunk…I found a copy of Raymond Chandler’s Poodle Springs and had a good night boozing with the old boy. He is absolutely one of America’s greatest writers; an outsider of the literary coterie but a giant as far as I’m concerned, and an inspiration for generations of Western Men like Charles Bukowski and me. Yeah, me.

It took me two days up here to lose the nightmares and I might not clear off the shakes for two more caffeine-riddled afternoons on the screenporch writing, white-knuckling it and hacking it out.
The evil in our hearts lurks waiting for the chance to spring upon us, when we are most vulnerable and w/o our usual devices of distraction. No cell phones or internet, no television and no women. Perhaps there is a poet somewhere loudly declaring that true love will never die. But not this one. Evil will live in our hearts forever. It is this dark mass that comes upon us in torrents while solitary and alone on top of a mountain, in a dark garage that smells of motor oil and compost. Somewhere too in our hearts is love, it’s true, but it is shrouded in the dark wings of love lost. This is Karma. All that we have done and had done to us is still with us. We can kill off that part of ourselves, join the walking wounded and march on like so many brave ones do. Or we can hang on to our pain, keep it alive and let it unfurl around us like smoke and bad prayers rising from the mountains of our isolation.

Bucolic grey clouds are moving in over Lily Bay, as persistent as iron, as I write this. The rains will bring with them the breeze. A glorious breeze that will bend the ginkgoes and rage through the screenporch. The thunderheads will take over the mountain and the lake will get flat as glass.  I’ll wait out the rains and ride out my blues.  It’s certainly better than spending a soaked night in a dark garage on top of a deserted mountain, waiting for the phone to ring.

The evil that men do lives on and on.
-Iron Maiden
hewitt

The Worst Kind Of Trouble Is No Trouble At All

In Uncategorized on February 15, 2013 at 4:30 pm

Trainer’s fine baritone, compelling songwriting, and unrelenting rhythm drive this tune that could have been unearthed on some Lomax recording just as easily as written last week: it’s timeless.
Michael Batchelor, Curator of On The Hill

There are two kinds of blogs that I will always dread&abhor.  One of them is thee hated self-promotional blog.  Seems like, at this stage of the game, I should have a girl doing this for me.  She should dress business-formal, just this side of sexy, and pay visit to the office.  A hot girl Friday in glasses and heels.  She could get this stuff off to you and I could watch, drink and systematically bend, break or obliterate any mores or rules of conduct and sexual harassment.  But, I digress..
I have lots to share, good&cherished reader.  The Pope has stepped down and a Nazi hasn’t quit that much ass since Hitler resigned from the Third Reich with a bullet to the head.  The Grammys happened this week and despite its asslicking bloviation of un-threatening and irrelevant culture, rock&roll will never die.  President Obama delivered his State of the Union on Tuesday, revealing the profound and ever-deepening extent of my utter apathy about politics.  I’m just giving you the hard stuff, Brother.  No chaser.  Drink it down.

My trouble these days is no trouble at all and it seems that the only lasting and final danger is this contentment.  Also, I’ve developed some nasty habits to get me through.  It’s all gravy up on this vista and slowly killing myself with cigarettes&alcohol doesn’t seem like a good idea anymore.  Perhaps this is my Karma.
I come from a long line of alcoholics.  The Irish side of me drank to get through the Twentieth Century and the Italian side did worse.  Don’t get me wrong, that I’ve survived at all and am here today is testament to my ancestors.  They did what they had to do to close out the bloody age of Pisces.  They fought, fucked and killed but mostly they just smoked&drank.  Like any good American would, new to the country on the streets of Southwest Philly and involved in utterly dysfunctional marriages and brutal dayjobs as laborers and masons.I am no different.  The bottom is always the bottom and the sky is always risin’.  I didn’t get this far without an Irish-Italian American’s spit&spite-the ire of the Irish or the redhot passion of a dago’s fire.

But now I look in.  The battlefield’s been leveled.  There’s nothing but old soldiers and champions up on this plateau and there’s no room for losers.  I smoke fat black Maduros in the sun.  Drink my coffee and my beer at cafe tables but still peel a few dollars off my wad for gnarly landlocked sailors, drunk with madness-the insane and the homeless.  The homeless are the only folks in the world you’ll ever hear me saying God Bless You to.  It’s because it’s the only possible way I could sincerely mean it and, truly, I hope that if there is a God he will bless them.  Then…I’m off.  I fly the cafe(s) and  make my way back to the mansion.  I climb the fire escape and slide down, nice&sleazy, into the good life.
Not a fucking thing wrong in my life right now, Brother.  But I’ve got some dirty habits I need to break.  It’s killing me but worse-it’s weak.  Also, it’s nothing special.  Like any smoker, I suffer from the dissociative schism of doing something that pleases me profoundly but is also fucking killing me.There’s a lot in store for us all during this most auspicious year of the Water Snake.  As I told you before, I am going up on the mountain.  It’s time to set the record straight.  I’ve been interviewed for Mike Batchelor’s On the Hill Series and it should be up on the site next couple days or so.  I landed a gig reviewing music which should be a good ride until the publisher finds out that we’re all mad here and she should have known better than to give the job to a perverted poet with an anger problem.  Aho.

Now if you’ll excuse me, my beautiful Editor is on her way over to the office, hopefully dressed business formal and just this side of sexy.  She’s a bright flower and she’ll be in charge of all such self-promotional blogs as this from here on out.

What a drag it is getting old, eh Brother?  See you up on the mountain motherfuckers.

Maduro