Jonathan Glen Wood

who stole my golden arm?

My grandparents had a record.  I remember the cover was purple and it may have had a poorly drawn moon or rabid bats fluttering about it.  I wish it were more menacing, but it wasn’t.  I can still remember the voice that spoke once the record turned.  It was nothing like Vincent Price.  There were no sound effects or music, only words.  Maybe that’s why to this day, it still haunts me.

The premise was simple.  A man marries for wealth.  In this specific case, the wealth came in the form of a prosthetic arm crafted of gold, which resided upon the maiden he said “I do” to.  His plan was anything but modest.  The guy just waited.  If my memory serves me right, she wasn’t even sick when they wed.  Which meant this guy didn’t even know when she’d kick the bucket.  Eventually she passes on, too the gentleman’s secret glee.

After a small, pretend pity party, the real work begins.  The ground was still fresh, he got a shovel and dug.  Dug until he hit the coffin.  Opened the coffin and removed the golden arm from her fresh corpse.  I remember being absolutely terrified by this man’s mind.  Physically digging up a loved one wasn’t something my young mind could comprehend…..even for golden arms.  But even more than the love, the pure thought this man put into this malicious action.  Sitting, waiting, wondering.

To the man’s defense, he did feel a little bad when he got home.  So bad that he thought he heard his deceased lover’s voice on the wind.  He brushes it off, thinking it’s an owl or the wind.  The voice grows louder though, driving the man to certain insanity.  After no longer being able to lie in bed, he wonders about his house, looking and praying he can find something to validate the noise that sounds like her voice.

Eventually, he looks out his screen door.  This is the part that nearly caused my skin to remove itself from my body.  Here’s how I rationalized this particular scene.  I HAD A SCREEN DOOR.  That certainly meant she was hunting me down, right?  Well, my young mind placed her rotting body directly outside my screen door, every night.

The story ended in a superbly clever way.  After the moans of “WHO STOLE MY GOLDEN ARM” get louder and louder, you grab the person who’s listening and shout “YOU DID.”  I usually never made it this far though.  I think I even tried to scratch the record at one point.  But like the undead, it kept coming back…

Hunting....for something to say.

It’s getting closer. That dreaded time of year that drives my co-workers into a frenzy. Deer hunting season. Conversations melt into tree stands, salt licks, motion sensored cameras and broadheads. This isn’t just something they’re interested in. This is their life. One co-worker rarely goes on vacation with his wife, saving all his vacation time for “bow season.” This is something I’ve never understood or been interested in. I’ve been hunting one time in my life and the only thing I did was sleep leaning up against a tree. I awoke with a deer family within fifteen feet of me. I just watched them. Why would I want to shoot them? Not only would I have tons of anxiety about it, but then there’s the clean up afterwards. For what? I don’t want antlers on my wall. I don’t want the meat in my stomach. So, while they have discussion after discussion about the best route, place, way, gun, arrow, bullet, stand, lick, camo, boots or sights. I sit, not knowing what to say or do. In some odd way, I feel like if I act too uninterested, I’ll be ridiculed. I mean, they all know I never hunt. But it still feels weird to be the only person against it.

Just give up already.

For one of the first times in my life, I’m stumped. I don’t know what to write. I feel like I don’t know how to write. I’ve been majorly slacking in the blog department. I decided I was going to force myself to write, but it feels just that….forced. I haven’t had many genious ideas or any exciting news to share. Life’s really just been a steady wave of mediocre. Sometimes it feels like these are the worst sections. The ones that aren’t bad or good. The ones where you feel settled or up against the wall. Those feel the worst for me, at least.

two plays.

even with a little promotion, I still can’t get anyone to listen to me?  hopefully they’ll come to the art show though.

Friday, September 5th

This Friday, September 5th, there’s gonna be a closing reception at Good News Mountaineer Garage for Jonathan Matthews art show “Mistakes.”  It’s also a sort of going away thing for him, as it’s his last weekend as Charlestonians.  The receptions starts around 6 PM and goes to around 9 PM, at which time I’m going to play a small music set.  Come out and buy a painting, bid Jon and Anna farewell and listen to me sing some songs.

inspiration

feels gone.  waiting and waiting for a solid return to blogging creativity.  on the flipside, my song writing has increased.  i’ll have to see what I can do about posting songs on this thing.

oil fountains.

I’ve got a record at work for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t know what it is, but everything here is against me in one way or another. We were putting oil back into an engine today that’d been down for maintenence. low and behold, the plug we were using to bleed the air out of the oil cooler shot out. guess who was directly beside it? guess how the engine oil we use tastes……you probably guessed….not good. hair, face, shirt overalls. the only part that the direct stream of oil missed was around my shins and feet, but it ran down to those places after I struggled getting the plug back into it’s place. there’s a shower here at work, but the only thing that it did was smear the oil into all the places it previously wasn’t. i feel like a greased pig. this is just one of the many examples of how my job hates me on a daily basis.