Dear Big Kahuna,
Listen I know you’re busier than Beyonce’s costume changer but if you could pencil me onto your calendar for a little Divine High Five in acknowledgement of the fact that I’ve — maybe 12 times out of 89 trillion — been able to see my way clear through the murky thoughts that make a worrisome stew out of my brain I’d greatly appreciate it.
It’s not that I need you to tell me that I have improved vision because, for the most part I’m all good on that front, but I would like to speak for all of humanity and say it’d be grand to get some encouragement from the heavens when we are able to find our way through the blurry nervousness that comes along with being alive and make our way out into the open onto the landscape of some gorgeous and life-affirming destination and say, confidently to ourselves, “Yep I think I got this. I’ll figure the rest of the journey from here.” And, at least for the moment, we get the firework feeling of being able to stand, happy, on our own two feet.
If It Isn’t Worth Searching For It Isn’t Worth Finding,
Sometimes on Saturday, after a relatively melancholy week, we like to whisper our fears and secrets into Sharkey’s ear, knowing that between him and our mother there will be some happiness concoction that will be created to wash all our troubles away.
Sky’s Still Blue and That Can’t Be Bad,
Orenthal the Optimistic Overthinker
“Do not fart on set, you will a good man be,” the wise co-star says, eyeing a guilty looking Harrison Ford.
When death comes it surprises and shocks, even if it is expected. When it bursts open wide like a firework, unexpected, that’s the thing that leaves you reeling even more. You might think that terms like “cycle of life” swirl about in your brain but they don’t. You only wonder words like “why” and “how” and “no” and you grab the invisible blanket next to you and you wrap it around you and you picture your own life like a tunnel where there reside a million wishes for none of any of this to ever happen.
Grab Hold, It Gets Choppy,
Sabrina of the Slightly Grim
Sometimes on Saturday, after a juggernaut trot across a black topped parking lot that leaves our feet feeling as if we’d roasted them on the barbecue, we like to take the rest of the afternoon off and air out our little tootsies, hoping to god that our mother will resist our stubborn insistence to walk across the equivalent of burning coals in the future.
I Know Not What I Do,
Hal the Hot Tamale