Eighteen Short Journal Entries From 2010

Eighteen Short Journal Entries From 2010

by Dave Woehrle

1.

A hornet walks the hair on my pinkie toe. I watch. I don't flinch. I'm tired of preemptive strikes, that dangerous enemy called Maybe. Accepting a potential sting, I laugh because his six legs tickle me, exploring toe knuckles, those pink hills, then the small yellow valley of toenail. “No fear, no sting”: it could be on a T-shirt.

2.

Where would we be without malice and neglect, our dark secrets playing poker and laughing cigar breath, celebrating our silences? Like a funeral that doesn't feature rain, but warm June shadows and sounds of distant softball games. Where would we be without cliches? Probably even more disturbed.

3.

The September breeze over the prairie wildflowers near the bike path, like a crowd swaying their arms during a hot, slow ballad. When I woke up today, I thought of the child in the coffee shop, years ago, who asked me if ants could jump, and I didn't know. And I still don't know if ants can jump.

4.

“You can't expect your whole life to be caught in a kiss.”

---Man on MegaBus to Wisconsin

5.

Went to the dentist this morning. No cavities. I wonder what dentists think of having to see

so much nostril depth in one day, a tapestry of boogery nose hair, like wheat fields covered with fat yellow birds.

6.

My father, alone in the basement, cleaning his guns, like me on the piano, learning a song, a sweet distraction, chords being cleaned in their own oil. The mind focused on present activity, not the world itself, with its wind-slapped trapdoors the sound of bullets.

7.

An old man is trying to start his gas grill: there's clicking, a button repeatedly pushed, an adjusting of valves and tubes, a few grunts, and finally, “Fuck it. Where the Weber?”

8.

I walked down to the Scarecrow Festival, the highlight being a Noah's Ark display, complete with music and moving animal parts (the giraffe's tongue being the most frightening). Lots of MILFs in sunglasses. Joe was there. He wanted me to buy him a corn dog. I did not. We walked by the petting and Joe said, “Dude, this is organized torture.” Goats, sheep, ducks, pigs, chickens – all of them being groped by fat, frustrated children who handed out “food pellets,” as parents snapped pictures and fussed with strollers. One girl kept lifting up a chicken and tilting it to look between its legs. She did this several times, wearing an odd grin. I realized, as I watched her stare at a chicken twat, that I never had an urge to pick up a chicken in my entire life. They are hideous creatures. I've never seen a chicken and thought, “I just need that in my hands.”

9.

I'm the worst kind of lazy person because I'm clever. I can rationalize gluttony and sloth with winked, existential loopholes, dark jokes and word play. Now, however, no one's laughing, not even myself. My life coach neighbor had me take the Birkman Personality Test. I was Three Blues, which means I'm sensitive, intuitive, and value abstract thought. Also, I'm very unemployed.

10.

“After the horse thing, I went straight to the whale thing.”

-Sky (on girlhood obsessions)

11.

I admire cities that exist in the shadow of a volcano. It's mentally healthy to have uncertainty geographically personified. Life must be more spicy and humbling when lava looms so close to home.

12.

With a grain of salt, take it all that way, even other grains of salt, sodium as a Who Knows proverb. Sometimes I worry that we live in an age where anticipation dies. We can't wait for sunsets or status updates. The death of gradual.

13.

Carl Sandburg's poetry reminds me of Midwest autumn sunsets, the cold kind, and I think cold weather makes us kind. It's October and it's too brisk to smoke cigarettes and watch baseball in the garage. We take to couches, sweatshirts and college football. We drive out west of town on Sundays, gold fields and new wind and diner windows full of old men slowly nodding.

14.

“The success of the Snuggie really proves our deep-seeded subconscious social urge to wear capes.” ---Alfonso

15.

This autumn saw a new large infestation of red and black Boxelder bugs. Thousands upon thousands blossoming on the white aluminum siding of our house, like demonic freckles. The young ones are all red, small, a blood drop with legs, congregating on fence posts and porches, so abundant you can hear them walk in the grass and leaves. Toads and spiders are eating well, I suspect. And the coming cold will take care of the rest. Nature's fecundity sweeps up the surplus.

16.

Dogs and toddlers can teach us a few things: naps and snacks help. So does running around outside, getting mud on your feet, chasing squirrels, and sniffing a few trees.

17.

“My uncle was tricked into eating a monkey.”

“What? Really?”

“Yeah. He was in New Guinea.”

18.

“I mean I want to dedicate my life to those who keep going just to see how it isn't ending.”

---Ralph Angel

Excerpts from the Lion King Video Game Instruction Manual for Sega Genesis (1994)

Excerpts from the Lion King Video Game Instruction Manual for Sega Genesis (1994)

By Dave Woehrle

Pressing down diagonally on the D-Pad while Simba is running causes him to tumble into a ball of extended teeth and claws, damaging some things in his path. Some areas are only accessible when Simba rolls into them.

Some monkeys get confused when Simba roars and may change the direction of their toss.

Stretched elephant hide can really boost your jump, but one too many times can ruin your ride.

The Vultures love to attack you with a swoop, so try to get up high and turn the tables on them.

The gorilla packs a pretty powerful punch! If only there was a way to throw those coconuts back at him! (Here’s a hint: try rolling!)

To increase the Roar Meter, Simba needs to eat Blue Beetles.

If Timon picks up any of the bad bugs, the bonus round will end.

When Simba is riding the ostrich, duck under and jump over the birds nests. Jump off the ostrich’s back during mid-jump to find extra goodies.

Don’t linger too long on some of the crumbly bones or you’ll be in trouble.

Plain Beetle: Restores half of Simba’s health.

Patterned Beetle: Restores all of Simba’s health.

Circle of Life: Allows one more Continue in the game when all Simba Chances have been lost.

Avoid the dripping hot lava. It’s not exactly a beauty bath.

Remember: You can reset the ROAR, JUMP and SLASH buttons on the Options menu.

A Great Poem

Read this. It's perfect.


Tattoo
by Ted Kooser

What once was meant to be a statement -
a dripping dagger held in the fist
of a shuddering heart - is now just a bruise
on a bony old shoulder, the spot
where vanity once punched him hard
and the ache lingered on. He looks like
someone you had to reckon with,
strong as a stallion, fast and ornery,
but on this chilly morning, as he walks
between the tables at a yard sale
with the sleeves of his tight black T-shirt
rolled up to show us who he was,
he is only another old man, picking up
broken tools and putting them back,
his heart gone soft and blue with stories.


(as published in Delights and Shadows, 2004, Copper Canyon Press)

Joy to the World

Joy to the World

by Dave Woehrle

Sometimes pop songs become so ingrained into our collective cultural psyche that we forget that such tunes actually had to be written at some point. In other words, we need to remember that every song, no matter how familiar, didn't exist until it did. Of course, that's a No-Duh comment, but one must step back and think about where certain songs came from.

The oldies radio station staple “Joy to the World” by Three Dog Night is a perfect example. We've all sung along to this hit from 1971. But one has to wonder about the origin of the tune.

I like to imagine such scenarios. What kind of discussion took place for this pop song to occur? Three Dog Night's Hoyt Axton wrote the song. But how did he introduce the song to his band?

I imagine Axton saying, “Hey guys. I wrote this new thing. Let me play it for you. It's good stuff.”

He sings the first verse: “Jeremiah was a bullfrog, was a good friend of mine / Never understood a single word he said, but I helped him drink his wine / And he always had some mighty fine wine.”

The other band members are mystified. Some questions surely arose. The first verse concerns getting intoxicated with an amphibian. I mean, that's certainly a first.

Some questions I imagine being asked at this juncture: how does one befriend a frog? And how does one know the frog's name is Jeremiah? If you can't understand a single word he says, then how did the identification process take place? Are there frogs with better diction that you converse with? And what do you mean by “good friend”? Do you have other, less-loved frog friends? And you drank “his” wine? How does a bullfrog drink wine? And where does he acquire it? How big was the bottle? And when you helped him in consuming the wine, what was the ratio of intake? Was the frog able to safely hop home? And if Jeremiah “always had some mighty fine wine,” then clearly you've gotten drunk with him on several occasions, so what was the fine wine? A nice swampy, pinot noir?

I imagine lots of shaking heads, the drummer saying, “So, Hoyt, man, like you have to stop getting shitcanned at ponds. This is getting weird.”

Then the incongruity of the subsequent chorus adds another dimension of confusion: “Joy to the world / to all the boys and girls / joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea / joy to you and me.”

Questions: Yes, I agree giving joy to the world is good for boys and girls, but are fish really the next in line? Are mammals exempt? And do the fish have to be salt water fish? Are bluegills not worthy of joy? You have this aquatic theme going here, frogs and fish. And when you say “joy to you and me,” are we still referring to Jeremiah, the bullfrog? What kind of joy is being achieved between you two?

The bassist chewed his nails. He asked, “Are you okay, Hoyt? This is getting vaguely Charles Manson-ish. Wine, frogs, worldly proclamations of joy, I mean, I just worry sometimes, man.”

Then Axton sang the second verse: “If I were the king of the world, tell you what I'd do / I'd throw away the cars and the bars and the war / and make sweet love to you.”

Questions: So if you were king of the world, you'd berid us of cars, bars, and wars? Are cars, bars, and wars all equally evil? Was the Korean War as bad as a Buick or a tavern? I mean, did you get a DUI in a war zone or something? And who are you making sweet love to? Jeremiah? Really? Let me get this straight: in order to properly get off while fucking a frog, you need to become king and destroy automobiles, drinking establishments, and martial conflicts?

The lead guitarist said, “We're not doing this song, Hoyt. No goddamn way. This shit is like the ramblings of a horny and disturbed marine biologist pacifist.”

And Axton had yet a third verse, a comparatively more sensible one: “You know I love the ladies, love to have my fun / I'm a high life flyer and a rainbow rider / A straight shootin' son-of-a-gun, I said a straight shootin' son-of-a-gun.”

Questions: Does Jeremiah know about these other ladies? Are these ladies you love aware of your questionable, lily pad humping past? And how can you be both a rainbow rider and a straight-shooting son-of-a-gun? Did you see yourself as John Wayne on acid or something?

The rest of the band was speechless and bewildered at the end of the song. They saw no future in “Joy to the World” other than maybe evidence in a courtroom after Axton finally loses all his marbles.

But Hoyt Axton was a persistent, visionary songwriter. He knew he'd written a gem. He knew what society needed – drunk bullfrogs and joy – even if society didn't know it yet. And he was right. “Joy to the World” was certified gold, selling over a million copies, after two months on the airwaves. Billboard Magazine ranked “Joy to the World” the #1 pop song of 1971. Think about that.

The moral of this story: always bring booze to bodies of water and let the muses take you where they may. And don't let anyone tell you you're crazy. Hell, Lady Gaga may be working on a song about doing blow with squirrels. It'll be called “Going Nutz” (featuring 2 Chainz).

You Stand on Soft Wood Chips: A Swing Set Monologue

You Stand on Soft Wood Chips: A Swing Set Monologue

By Dave Woehrle        

            The bell rings and you run headfirst outside, whooping, yelling, living.

            You look to the swing set – six swings divided, three on each side, no baby swing nonsense – the chains of each swing suspended from a high gray support beam, with six yellow legs extending down for support, and you realize the swing set resembles an ant, and so it’s like you’re swinging from the udders of an ant when you swing, but you won’t tell anyone that because they will put you in counseling.

            But you love swings. Everyone loves swings: those gods of elevation, dashed to at recess, the hot limited commodity of the playground, the space under each swing cleared of woodchips, like worn launch pads. The blue spongy swing seats, like Smurf smiles, under you butt, you reach and pull, your little legs clawing the air, like hungry oars in dense water, higher and higher, and your arms pull, too, and you lean back on the upstroke, legs extended, and at your zenith, you see your shoes silhouetted on the backdrop of blue sky and you feel infinite and hope you don’t puke up your shark and dinosaur fruit snacks.

            And you look to friends swinging around you, each dreaming and sweating and wishing there was more than fifteen minutes to do this, and someone gets in the same swing rhythm as you, and you yell, “We’re married!” and then you sing songs from Aladdin and dare each other to keep eye contact as you swing, and it’s so CRAZY DUDE and your equilibrium gets squishy and if you fall, someone will take your swing and that sucks but that’s the recess code.

            But you don’t fall. Not today.

            You swing as hard as you can and your body is its own ride. And at your highest point on the backside of your arc, you’re level with the top support beam, so high the chain goes suddenly slack and suddenly back with a THUNK like a bass drum kick to the body and you know you’ve reached your peak and there’s nothing more to prove, so it’s time to jump.

            Jumping off a swing is its own art, its own philosophy. If you jump too early on your upswing, you launch, line-drive style, over the safe bed of wood chips, and onto the unforgiving blacktop, knees and palms scraped up, and others will laugh. You release too high, you stall, you panic, you flap your arms, and you drop like a rock. You get no distance. You get bruises.

            You must time your leap to create a slow, parabolic glide to the Earth, like a last second three-pointer, a trajectory beyond physics, more of a mindset, an angle only swing set practiced children know.

            Everyone’s watching you just as you’ve been watching those jump off around you, judging, nodding, taking stock of it all, recalibrating popularity ranking of playground dominance. Jamey can’t jump worth crap. I won’t sit next to her during story time. Besides, she farts.

            So this is important, this leap, this letting go, hands unclenching the chains, butt off the seat and in the air, giving your body to gravity and luck. You’re scared and excited, the same emotion regardless of what adults tell you, but you must jump. So you swallow a hard ball of nervousness, take a breath, and you’ll go on your next upswing.

            Yeah. The next upswing. Okay. Not that upswing, it felt off. The next new upswing. No no. One more. Make sure the right people are looking and remember to jump to mid-upswing, and okay be ready. This is it. This upswing now. Go go go go go go.

            Oh yeah oh yeah this is great momentum and here it is and here it goes and……………………………………………………………………….......................................

            Time stops. You’re flying. Or the closest you’ll get to it. You’re t-shirt billows, your arms raise, you’re like seaweed moving in water, suspended, eyes popping, mouth open, not surprised by the falling sensation, just in love with it.

            And in that jump, you’re a legend, a superhero, looking over the school’s roof, to houses and fields and worlds, and you know you have a test about the Louisiana Purchase you didn’t study for when you go back in after recess, but right then, in the air, in the air of this strange day as they all are, you’ve conquered the art of the swing set, the swing leap, the landing, and you stand on soft wood chips, proud and sweaty, a god of the suburban playground.

            And the bell rings again.

            And it’s over.

February Journal Entry

February Journal Entry

By Dave Woehrle

It’s easy not to drink when you’re hung over. It’s the day after the hangover when the urge bites the brain again. But instead I read and wait in bed, praying without saying I am. I overate today after a substantial dinner. No one wants to be logy and lonely but tonight I am both. The bitter arrival of your blue self, the painting that dissolves like cold rain on February grass. We live in an odd world. News is entertainment and vice versa. Jeremy Lin stats and Rick Santorum hates condoms and Bill Maher smirks and we can’t have four more years of failure and there was a Koran burning on a U.S. military base, and a man in Georgia went on a killing spree because Dan Brown’s Angels and Demons told him to, so HLN has experts to discuss Bipolar I and Bipolar II disorder. Which chemical or social institution is to blame? I know nothing but suspect happiness doesn’t roar like a river. It trickles like a stream. You have to be quiet to hear it.

Karen

Karen

By Dave Woehrle        

She's fifty-seven. Her father is dying. She loves him but hates him for dying and for taking up so much time to do it.

            At her deli job, she packs her pockets with bits of baked chicken breasts. She pinches off little white chunks throughout the day and tries to hide her nibbling.

            She sneaks pulls of Peach Schnapps in the bathroom, returning red-faced and talkative about the weather and how the new coleslaw recipe isn’t as good.

            One night at closing, she cried while saran-wrapping a side of ham. I asked her if she was okay. She turned to me, her glasses thick and fogged, and said, “Stop saying that. I just need to finish this.”