Jim Trainer


The Trouble With Jimbo

In Uncategorized on March 13, 2014 at 7:42 pm

The following post was originally intended to be published on my Birthday last week. I was hungover that day though, and wasn’t feeling it; so I wrote something else instead. I copped out on the real real. Took a dip into fantasy land. Poesy, as Papa would call it. Refuge, as it has become for me. My writing has become a pill I can swallow with cold mint mate in the once ever-crowned hateful afternoon. I can tie my pain to anchors and set sail. Aho I have rivalled the blues and outlived the old myth. Oh I’ll just let the 38 year-old me tell you all about it.

The Trouble With Jimbo
March 5, 2014, 6:42 PM

well I hope you don’t see me
in my ragged company
well you know I could never be alone

-Keith Richards

The truth about Jimbo is that I could never relax. Tonight’s a good example. It’s windy and warm. “Tits weather”, as my Yellow Lark would say. But she’s not here now. It’s just me and these fucking swarms of grackle, crowning the dusk and yelling at the sky. I’m drinking a Michelada cuz I’m bored and I’m bored cuz I can’t relax. It’s got me quoting the Rolling Stones for cry eye!
I mean, seriously? On the roof of the Last Confederate Governor of the U.S.’ old place, in the Live Music Captial of the World, heading out on the road in late Spring, one book in the can and another on the way-but crunching down ruefully on another triple 5 cuz I can’t relax?
I’ve known the blues, Brothers&Sisters. And I’ve known trouble. Believe me. But blues and trouble would be a fucking carnival compared to this ease and this comfort, this feeling my power fully and resting in it, my Truth.

The final and lasting danger is this contentment.

What kind of life have I lived if, even after all my dreams have come true, I rue the small moments and hate the “area of pause” and and basically not enjoy this exquisite boredom that would have been celebrated all those lean and gnarly, starving years before?

No solution, no problem.
-Melvis Lara

It ain’t easy takin’ it easy. Especially when I consider the scope of this vision and the weight of this dream I’m dreaming now. Welly well well. What do we have here but a rare and reflective moment of honesty from the writer?

Indeed as I buckle under this boredom and life has suddenly become too good for me it is this vulnerability, now revealed, that has made me feel brave enough to share this truth with you:

All those years, when you saw me sidelining it with a smoke and hater blockers on, when I was looking so cool and young and angry, way out on the far reaches of the roiling crowd? When I couldn’t tolerate phoniness and I thought it my foolish duty to shut it down always and in all ways? I was just coping, Brothers&Sisters. Walking sideways and seeking refuge from the fucking barrage of sights and sounds and yes, it was mostly pain. I couldn’t bare to see you suffer Brother. So I looked away. I tell you true in this rare moment of honesty-I am sorry. So sorry. Sorry I had to turn away from your pain and for foolishly thinking that it was any different from my own. Life was what I missed when I turned away, adolescently, in the hateful dusk, streaked in sweat and lust. And in the painful mornings, when I mistakingly confused life with a sentence and-while I’m being honest-death could not come fast enough.

What a fool I have been. So selfish and misguided and young. So unnecessarily sensitive. Even as I sit here this evening, with the blue dusk all around and the grackle suddenly silent, I know. I know what I’ve been sent here for. And it is at once so supremely selfish but not selfish at all. I’m here to celebrate and I mean that in the most authentic and all-encompassing way. I am here to celebrate your hunger and your pain. Your triumph and your victory. Your mourning-yes, we know this. I have sat in vigil but forgot who lit the candle. I want to remember and I want to remember that it was you. Yes you. As much as you’ve read I’ve rued you. Hated you. Felt held but never coveted by you. And as much as I’ve suffered hearing how intense I am, how I’m so deeply emotional (as if that could ever be anything to be ashamed of). I’m here to tell you that I could never handle my own intensity. But all that’s about to change. I’ve spent decades putting out fires foolishly thinking that the flame would ever go out. And foraging and ferreting my light as if I could ever run out of fuel.

The truth about Jimbo is I’ve been trying to change for awhile now and perhaps it high time to give a little credit where credit is due, do like the Yogis do, and start where I am, but also-walk through the fucking door.

There isn’t much time to be bored, tell you the truth. The world needs saving now and in this regard, my Irish/Italian-American Karma is about as useful as a pack a day habit. It really is that simple, People. I’m tired of living a lie but also I know what is true.
Beat down, fucked and fucking and any and all alcoholic writers whose life&work I will always cherish, all that ain’t me. I’m basically speaking through you (thanks) and trying to convince myself, in writing first (where else?), that what’s ahead could never be any worse than what I have already endured. Twenty years on the outside is long enough. I want you to have my heart. I know it’s in here somewhere. Enough the demolition and enough the clearing out. Enough the War Time. This has been Grim Jim’s Last Ride.
There is a great and grave suffering in the world. But all is as it should be. And can we avoid catastrophe? Can we stop hoarding all our love, and step out bravely from in between the memory of pain and pleasure and truly reveal our heart to the world? I don’t know. But here’s to trying and another 40 years.

You have my heart. Don’t waste it. Don’t be like Jimbo. Go forth. Love each other. Don’t be bored. Read my blog.

Nights now fallen. I’ve voiced my regrets. And that’s all I can do. I’ll make my ablutions and lay down to sleep. And I will rise into that Great Eastern Sun with this vow redbouled. I will give my heart to you.

Long Cold Winter

In Uncategorized on February 16, 2014 at 12:28 pm

-for Maureen

For decades you paraded as a crazy bitch
wretchedness your lucky charm
hung on a bracelet
displayed on your arm.

Greetings. Trainer here. Taking yet another stab at pure writing and hoping it could be of some use to you, good&cherished Reader. Also, I’d like to welcome some new folks into the ranks, as my readership and likes on Facebook have more than doubled in the last week.
What can I say? It’s been a long cold winter, eh Brother? And Shit is Grim. Some of you have endured enough tragedy to last a lifetime this winter; while others (like me) have had it no easier, our bad blues wrenching the sotted nights and giving no quarter but making even the sunlight brutish and mean.

I’m beginning to see the light.

-The Velvet Underground

Hold on my people. We may have buckled under it and had to surrender to altars of ruin, but a great strength was uncovered in these grim times and a vulnerability, too. It may be high time for us to forgive-another, ourselves, our parents-whatever. And forgiveness may just be the opening we’re looking for.
Not only is hell real but hell is a place!
-The Field Recordings of Alan Lomax, Land Where the Blues Began

Indeed we’re called to praise feeling the hammer of the daisies beat up through the hard dead ground. Called to praise as the yellow lark quietly lights down and sits with us as if to laugh at our foolish loss in only the most honest and cruel way. Whatever it was or is that had us stanchioned up on the high, frozen wires of isolation has ultimately only made our love strong. Shit’s Been Hard. For real. But it’s only made me love you more and miss you even more than words could tell and has me looking forward to when we’ll meet again, so desperately, someday.
Indeed my pain has tossed out the alabaster rooms and our hateful dawns apart have razed the horizon impossibly bare. Fact is I got beat down with it, pretty bad and I ran the full gamut of my defenses. I pulled out all the stops and it wasn’t until I truly surrendered that I could finally molt myself out of this bitter, old skin.

The irony’s not lost on me that it’s ol Grim Jim bringing you some good news for a change. There was a time when I would have told you that life is a continual loss, a continual moving away from what we love and only towards death-the only and great absolute, death-that terrible godhead of the stalwart truth in an inauthentic world gone mad.

Well I guess I am still telling you that but also, reveal yourself.
Didn’t we deserve a look at you the way you really are?
That’s right. Ol Grim Jim’s back from the dead to tell you to open yourself up to it, Brother. Feel it all. Let it wash over you and pull you from your mula dara back to black, take it all in and never lose sight of that dark nest behind you. But also-turn now away from the West, and face forever now the Dawn of the Great Eastern Sun.
It is from within the terrible claw of loss that my heart now beams through. And it is to this wisdom that I am now endeared,

there is no love to be attained
this humble house has many rooms
to feel pain but never be pain
has taught me how to welcome you.