When your kids are playing with their stuffed animals at the couch and one falls off, and your seven-year-old daughter laughs, “He jumped off the cliff and killed himself,” and then she and your four-year-old tell your Echo speaker to make a song out of the phrase so that “He jumped off the cliff and killed himself” plays in an endless loop to the tune of the “Hallelujah” chorus from Handel’s Messiah. You think about your friend who jumped off a cliff and killed himself last year and want to tell them to stop it, just stop it as they send one particular stuffed animal on a series of headers from the couch to the floor, then smile at the deathlessness of this sequence—the fall and rise, fall and rise of Waddle-Waddle the Penguin as a synthetic voice approximates a chorus—and you marvel at the innocence and ignorance with which they have, for these moments, achieved the artist’s greatest aspiration: to stop time, to stand at the edge of the precipice and laugh.

What are the Sneaky Feels?


AuthorJohn Proctor