Jim Trainer

Posts Tagged ‘Neil Young’

MOVE

In Activism, activism, alcoholism, anger, ANTI-WAR, anxiety, Being A Poet, Being A Writer, Being An Artist, blogging, blues, depression, mental health, mid life, middle age, new journalism, PACIFIST, PACISFISM, politics, PROTEST, punk rock, recovery, revolution, sober, sobriety, War, working class, Writing, writing about writing on January 19, 2017 at 3:01 pm

There’s colors on the street
red, white and blue
-Neil Young

…I have no worries.
-The Dalai Lama

Time is runnin’ out I’m comin’ right down to the wire
gotta go do something to get myself higher
-The Velvet Underground

I’m sitting on a backlog of posts that chronicle my road to recovery from my homeless hometown beginnings to my modern day battles with depression in Paradise. These posts offer a more definitive and specific timeline than my unusually hyperbolic tellings of devastation, sexual conquest and ego mania.  They’re a good answer to questions like “Did that really happen?”.  I’m at the end of my rope here but not for creative reasons.  The blog is cutting too close to the bone.  I’m sober now, and there’s a whole world of drama and conquest I’ve sworn off.  I’m reduced to surgery on myself, without anesthesia, and live on the world wide web.  There was no better grist for the wheel than my decades long fall through the Night Kitchen.  Boredom could be a root cause of alcoholism, which is to say, existential dread.  Down here at the Office we got nothing but, good Reader-malaise and anger, agitation and the rest.  These are the colors of my palette and of course the canvas is you.

Those posts and essays were drafted for what I thought would be my weekly column.  My work was refused though, and I never tried that again.  I figured I had you and we had this blog and I’ve always done better aloof, on my own and conquering my own world.  The truth is I’ve only drifted further and further out-dangerously into my own orbit.  I suffer 100% less of their bullshit, but the full 100% of my own.  I’m depressed.  The beast in me is winning the round.  Stories on the radio have profound psychic effect.  I’m paralyzed in the prime of my life with almost any option I choose open to me.  Weeks gone by, Thursdays, 3 and 4 day weekends sleeping late and staying in.  I’ve held to my obligations, I work, but I haven’t been writing, and this blog’s been the only thing that’s kept me in line.  It’s not as bad as it used to be and to the depressed mind this is somehow supposed to be good.

There are certainly more important matters on the dais.  Tomorrow this country could roll back to the 20th Century, we could find ourselves working around the clock to pay exorbitant medical bills or just fuck off and die.  People are enraged and roiling and the New Dumb would rather wage war than show compassion for their fellow human beings.  I’ve never been here before, where the storm within is only matched by the storm without.  I feel fucked and the world is getting there.  It’s not news to me, or you or anyone that somewhere someone is always getting fucked and it’s usually by this country.  It’s gone unchecked for too long, our selfishness and exceptionalism have gone too far.   The beast is eating itself.  Then again, if you ask the poor, the black, the disenfranchised, it’s been going on from the beginning.  I have no solace for you, good reader, let alone a point of light for us to focus on.  All I know is, I’m getting depressed again, I can’t stay here and the New Century is about to take a dark turn.  I’m hoping my backlog of posts written at the request of Brother Bean and Raw Paw Magazine will get us through.  The shit is here, it’s landed and I’ve got to move or I’ll be crushed.

Hope to see you on the streets motherfucker.

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Shrieks from Paradise#13a: Dear Wiggs

In Correspondence, Letter Writing, recovery, sober, sobriety, Writing on February 5, 2016 at 9:41 pm

The Office of Jim Trainer
Between Trouble&the Blues
Lucky Town, USA

Wiggs Daniels
c/o Hope By the Sea
27432 Calle Arroyo
San Juan Capistrano, CA

7/1/11

Yo-

Well, we made it through.  We were kings those late nights and the pale light of day cut us down the middle but we made it.  I don’t like looking back and I can’t see ahead.  Hope you’re enjoying the tranquility&peril of a sober mind.  Sobriety always worked for me.  It’s enlightening to learn that the Beast within dwarfs any&all drama they may visit upon us.  It’s like being on fire and walking through a paper wall.  That easy.  Your own trouble, aho, now there’s the Problem.  But I can handle my trouble brother, can you?

Maybe it’s my upbringing, or lack thereof, but I liked being a jackoff.  Can you think of a better way to spend 20 years than burning down the streets of your hometown in a Japanese 4-door with a bottle of Ephedrine and whiskey in the jar?  Maybe not but it got old quick.  Buggerall so did the body.   In a perfect world I’d still be drinking corn liquor and stowed away with Katy D. on Hazel Street.   Thank the gods that we weren’t 25 forever.

Or curse them when all you’ve got at the end of the day is sweet memory, loaded and stinging.  Back in Double Aught&Buck there were plenty of women and madness was fun.  The chamber’s clicked three times since then.  The die’s been cast.  Welcome to the New Century.  Count your blessings, be thankful for things like shoes and kiss your middle class goodbye.  It could be worse, we could live in Bahrain.

It’s getting hard and harder to make it, Wiggs.  We’re clocked in allot longer than we’re clocked out.  The shit has started rolling and for those of us who live downhill even wisdom won’t help.  We both know that the dumb only get dumber.  They get violent too but I’m in a bad mood so I embrace it and take to the streets.

This much madness is too much sorrow.

your Friend,
jimtrainer.net

How To Survive As A Moody Journalist

In Uncategorized on March 30, 2013 at 6:47 pm

A complete news cycle consists of the media reporting on some event, followed by the media reporting on public and other reactions to the earlier reports. The advent of 24-hour cable and satellite television news channels and, in more recent times, of news sources on the World Wide Web (including blogs), considerably shortened this process.

10 days is a fucking lifetime in journalistic terms.  Then again, with the amount of information coming downwire to the office every  hour, maybe Sgt. Steve is right.  The news is only entertainment.  I’m glad to hear you using your voice and putting it out there on Facebook and etc. but, at times, I find myself mired in apathy.  Sometimes it’s the bad blues that keeps me from posting on here, mostly it’s from a relentless performing&publicity schedule, but the result is the same.  I must isolate myself from the world and live on Feline Time for a while.

SAME SEX MARRIAGE…GUN CONTROL…NORTH KOREA TARGETS AUSTIN, TX…SINGER-SONGWRITER JIM TRAINER RELEASES HIS DEBUT FULL-LENGTH COLLECTION OF POETRY

I get it.  These are the times we are living in.  But the punditry and the memes, the patronizing commentary and the chatter on liberal radio-it all amounts to a Great Noise that I must seek refuge from.  Perhaps some momentary respite from it all in thinking that I’m just a rock&roller, after all.  A court-jesting troubadour that plays three gigs a week during his off-time as a published poet and live-in Caregiver.
Perhaps my abstinence from reacting or getting involved in the back-and-forth of the zeitgeist helps me sift through it all and sink into the heart of wisdom.  Then again, maybe not.

For whatever its worth, I’ll always be aloof, a loner and a hermit.  Like The Business, I’ll always be on the wrong side of whatever side there is.  I’m not belittling your cause.  I’m glad you’ve found your voice.  I’m glad that you’re using it.  I will, however, abstain from chiming in on the Great Voice.  I will go out of orbit and lay in bed for a day and a half (or 10) without a peep.  This much madness is too much sorrow.  I’ve shouted up the mountain too long.  I don’t see any progress and I don’t believe in ideas and suddenly I have awakened in Paradise.  All of my dreams have come true and these days the worst kind of trouble is no trouble at all.
What it cuts down to, Brother, is this:  I think your proselytizing and Facebooking and picketing and sloganeering is fucking selfish (and seemingly by rote, as I look down row upon row and page upon page of photos and updates).  I guess the alternative is worse.  Everybody could be silent.  But, would that be so bad?  Must we always react to the buzz and trends that media is constantly conjuring and throwing at us?  Won’t some real-deal Bodhisattva rise and transcend the desire to be a free&loud American, march up the steps on the Hill and make some real change that could alleviate nay stop another’s suffering somewhere in the world?

What do I know? 
-Brother Dave Grohl

Anyway, I’m back from the dead.  Viva la whatever.
Brother James

…if I come into a room out of the sharp misty light
and hear them talking a dead language
if they ask me my identity
what can I say but
I am the androgyne
I am the living mind you fail to describe
in your dead language…
-from 
The Stranger by Adrienne Rich

tarot-hermit

Taking The Weekend Off

In Uncategorized on March 3, 2013 at 5:33 pm

The wire was dead down here at the office on Friday.  This much madness was too much sorrow. I broke code and dodged deadline. Silence isn’t a good trait in a self-proclaimed iconoclast writer. My silence was the result of a tie between my shock and utter apathy about current events. It’s a great big dirty world. The news was bad. I was sitting at the writing desk among the empties. When I attempted to reflect on current events a dumb boredom clamped down on me like a migraine. The upside down American flag in the back room rustled lazily but told me nothing. Me&Steve Earle were yelling back at the bastard grackle and I was bored. The grackle yelled and me&Steve Earle hollered back. Then the phone rang.
It was American Book Award winning poet and friend, Lamont Steptoe. Said he was just checking in. He told me I should send off a poem to the 17th annual Poetry Ink Anthology coming out in April. Deadline is next Friday. He asked me about what was going on in my life while offering me the wisdom of Etheridge Knight and Sam Allen and hipping me to the 7 universal roles of a poet. He said something to the effect of do your work for three decades or so, and things will start to happen. What a godsend that man is. A cherished friend and something to look up to. His call was a much-needed shot in the arm. After hanging up with Lamont I felt redoubled, at ease. I knew I could rest in my work, wherever I am in the world and whatever I am doing.  A poet.
Then the editor came by and we went out to the big poetry show. Bedpost Confessions‘ Poetry Show was a high night of art and hilarity. These ladies know how to throw an intimate and inclusive event that never compromises the art of performance. I mean, how many times have you gone to a slam, a spoken wordoff or whatever-the-fuck, and ended up feeling so alone&isolated that you began to wonder if Plato was right? Sweet, sexy, revealing, as dark as you want and fucking hilarious. Well done, ladies. Well done.
I was particularly impressed with the poetry of Ms. Jenna Martin Opperman and of course I was reminded of how so very special poet Lacey Roop is. It’s not often that a poet can simply make me happy. Fill me with joy. What a blessing she is. Look out for these performers and this series. They are up to something good. For true.

Saturday the Editor&me went to a songwriters circle at the Saxon. We dug on tunes from the mighty Jay Sims&friends over Lonestar big boys.

Now the weekend’s over. And I’m back at the desk. There’s still plenty to be outraged about. By dodging deadline Friday I managed to avoid having to touch on the crime of the century or the brownshirt humor of pop culture and the voices of those railing against it.  The world kept turning and grinding out the days of our grisly plight but I had to recharge and redouble. Had to bask in the love for my people before I felt ready to get back in the game.

I’m ready now. Christ.
Vox populi vox dei.

going for the throat image

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.