From one moment to the next, I’m hurled from absolute joy to abject poverty mind. It happens so quickly that I consider buying myself a helmet. The sky is limitless, yet in my constricted monkey mind, all I can see is an inch ahead of me. An inkling of knowledge. A smidgeon of faith. Still, I keep moving forward, with the hope of wisdom on my side and I open my arms to forthrightness and I throw myself toward truth and I wait, with a certain excited anticipation, for the moment when I might see the whole thing dripping in truth.
Yours In Constant Attempting,
Sally So What
Sometimes on Saturday, after a solid one hour session of Chase-Chase-Chase-Wrestle-Bite-Bark-Chase, we like to teach our little brother how to sink into deep sleep—so deep that when our mother walks into the room, she wonders if we are still alive.
Yours In Zombie Slumber,
Dan the Drooler
After years of compiling and researching and untangling and figuring out which Pringles taste the best, my team of scientists and I have finally come up with the profile of people who say, “Is it hot enough for ya?”
Primary personality traits/characteristics:
1. Wears tube socks with flip flops
2. Fan of Wheel of Fortune
3. American cheese Fondue lover
4. Thinks Climate Change is a liberal hoax
5. Toupee wearer
There’s something about telling my own narrative that feels so comforting. The way I stammer and wander, trying to find my way toward goodness. The way I fear for anything bad happening to the ones I love the most. How I would tell my mother I loved her to the moon and back. My struggle with anxiety and how that somehow makes me more tolerant of others. That time I threw my body across my dying father. What a struggle it is to get through the day, sometimes. The sweet, unbridled joy I feel when I settle in to the moment I’m experiencing. How hard it is for me to let go. How easy it is for me to keep a secret tally. All of this. All of this and so much more. There’s the wishing and the hoping and the dreading and the fearing—all part of my kaleidoscope narrative. All part of the details of the journey of my life. All part of the swift movement of who I feel I’m meant to be—who I feel I’m meant to document in the open space that I call you.
Yours In Endless Introspection,
Sally So On and So Forth
Sometimes on Saturday, after our little brother breaks protocol and lunges at a passing jogger on our morning walk, we feel the need to counsel him on universal good dog rules such as no peeing on anything or anyone that moves, no barking our fool head off when we see the standard poodles that we hate, no intrusive sniffing of stranger’s crotches (this humiliates our mother beyond our comprehension), no pulling on the leash until we gag ourselves, no pooping on the sidewalk, no terrorization of innocent cats minding their own business, no eating anything!—not flowers, not bird poop, not other dog’s fossilized poop, not cat poop, not twigs, not plastic bags, not old french fries that someone dumped on the sidewalk, not anything. And when we’re done with our sermon and we’re sure he has listened to us carefully we like to reward the two of us with a rousing game of Don’t Let the Other One Jump On the Bed.
A Good Dog Is a Wise Dog,
Pastor Nice Manners