Posts Tagged ‘Franconia Notch’

Where does the moment go (once it has passed)

August 4 2012

There was something there. You know and are certain there was but now, not.
There was something there, or, rather, Then.
There was something and now it’s gone.

Where does the moment go when it is over (once it has passed)?
[[[Let’s ask every single thing and see what happens:]]]


To shelter.

In a twist ending, our relationship with the moment was never healthy. In fact, we were abusers. You can’t live just for the moment– you need boundaries, venn diagrams.


They wake up.

Moments are only moments when sleeping and fleet upon waking. Or, a window even smaller/more arbitrary, the ‘moment’ is only so in the flutter of an eye.

Flutter Eye

All Of Your Dreams = this now

(Moments REM just like us, except for them it’s LGX, because their words are different.
Letters are the same (they stole the alphabet from us, not vice versa), but their palate shapes them real strange.
If we were to transliterate Momentous ‘REM,’ which is ‘LGX,’ into how it would sound in our alphabet it would actually be “BH.”
(The X isn’t quite silent, it’s just ultrasonic).).

and all of your nightmares…

When moments sleep our lives get immeasurably |better|. As you would think, the absolute value signals that not all moments are per se good, and that better here is meant in the sense of ‘richer,’ ful-er of event.

The potential downsides a…side, our government (the White government, not the American government (the secret crew running everything is actually a white powers operation– not the separatist hick kind but substantively not much better) tried to ensure that the Moments never fall asleep– the assumption being that any occurrence that could possibly result in the end of their bigoted reign would be considered a moment by somebody. Their efforts, however, were an unqualified failure (see below).

We’re not yet able to keep human beings awake 24/7, and we know so much less about moments! Racist dummies!

A picture says two words

Moments and the Fall of the White Government
Ultimately, it’s a moot point– I’ve been to the future and know that the fall of our capital-White overlords is, by some margin, the least momentous major event in double secret history (aka herstory).1
It is ‘precipitated’ (to the extent a non-event can be) by everyone just sort of forgetting that they’re supposed to be racist. With the first few non-whites inducted (a Chinese president, a ‘black blood’ country megastar who can superpass) they forgot Asians weren’t white and never thought to blood test respectively. But by the time they noticed, Sun Kai-tan and Jeff Pollard had already received their packets and, well, it was too much of a hassle to have them assassassinated (double-killed – so that their ghost emerges completely hauntless, regret and memory free).
After that, the secret government gets too wrapped-up in the business of running the world– which, with the rise of artificially intelligentish nanomachines2, pan-adaptable omnichromosomic metaclones and superghosts, does not allow time for the dumb rituals and tedious racetheory self-mythologizing that thrived back when controlling humanity consisted only of securing minerals and producing ever-stakesraising distractions.

Stakes Raising Distractions!

Don’t think you’re exempt just because whatever reason things that are art are considered somehow inherently virtuous, Gus!

The whole racist heritage of the former White government (now, just, the government) actually gets wiped in 2036– when, in a mad scramble for low-tech spinning hard drives in which to trap a particularly nasty rampant cybersomething3, the archive including all documentation prior to 1998 is rendered permanently unreadable.
[end section]

What was I talking about?
Oh right, moments.

When Moments sleep they dream our lives more interesting than they otherwise are.

Moments never end, we just begin again outside of them.

Time isn’t the thing, it’s our bodies.
Like a crack-fiending snake with complete but unconscious control over when it sheds its skin,4 our lives keep ending just to start over again at the same point in time and space. When they (our bodies) rebirth they do so with as close to the same memories, thoughts, physical features, clothes, bones, genes, diseases, beliefs, self-defeats, diversions, recursions, sweet nothings, bitter somethings, spicy autonomics and hot thoughts as possible.
They are remarkably good at it but not perfect and that’s where blisters come from– repeated near misses back and forth. And also that’s what is love.

These snake mistakes

Pictured: your first girlfriend

*L*O*V*E*: How Is This That?
Well, you see, each time it doesn’t happen it only happens moreso later.
Note: later may mean never.

So, we’re the ones that go (the fuck) away: summary. The moment stays back in that lost life. The memories tend to remain, and your new body will ‘try’ its anthropomorphic best to pr-o-lo-ng the moment– resulting in a kind of emotional pareidolia– but at best it’s a replica and your bodies eventually catch on and self-immunize. C’est la vie, or, this is where love comes from also.


In a scrapbook.

I’d say in God’s scrapbook but I’m an atheist so I can’t let myself do that even though I know better. That’s just how we atheists are– defiant for defiancesake, claiming always to disbelieve that which we know is true. Anyways, it’s God’s scrapbook.5
God wants moments but doesn’t entirely know why. I can’t go into it much without breaking my (extremely punitive) contract, but suffice it to say there’s a lot of moments in this scrapbook and most of them, to my human eye, don’t seem so remarkable.

Anti-Mail Fraud Hex -- the double secret lost Fall album

But God’s face instead / At work today we received a check that had been delivered in an envelope with “In God We Trust” handwritten on its front and back. I blurt-laughed when I saw it, but then got down to the serious business of deciding whether it was evangelism for the First Church of E Pluribus Unum or some kind of anti-mail-fraud hex.

The scrapbook is large. Vast, actually. I certainly would never be able to open it even in 27 lifetimes of trying– but He had no problem (again– male subjectivity due to patriarchal lineage).
You might think a precious, divine object like The Scrapbook would be hidden away, or be made of some impossible stuff that we could never hope to comprehend with our mortal face– each moment somehow encoded in a divine cryptograph or sacred penmanship or magic God’seye. But, in fact, as our God may or may not be a loving God, He let’s us gaze upon it as often as we do the stars by which I mean it’s the night sky.

OH!/, I can’t believe we were ever that young!

Most moments aren’t even obscured. Or are only hidden by time and space.
Ours are in still in the process of being matted down.
God has a lot of pages to baste so I think we can give God a break.


They are made into momentade.

OH! that bittersweet, sometimes sour, generally not salty, umami is a marginally successful national marketing scheme to try and pry Japan from a decade of stagflation, moment juice! Once rung four-fisted from the moment it is diluted, sweetened and sold back to us in the form of momentade (aka memories).

I’m on to you, Ikeda! And then imagine I’m giving the stinkeye, face. (Intermittent sips of my own dumb life (and the resultant puckers))



Imagine how memorable a road trip roadtripped by only moments would be? It would be like six Sideways (~16.7 Crossroads) stacked on top of each other!

By which I mean if you watched Sideways for 12 hours and 42 minutes, or Crossroads for about 26 hours and 10 minutes, you’d have had the same depth of experience and richness of interaction (bonding) as 36 hours6 spent with and by a carload of moments.

This is officially the most depressing |fact|.

Though I suppose it makes sense, them not being sentient and all– and I bet if they were they’d be like handlebars in a mid-90s video arcade– Super ON.

No, shit, wait, that was Super Hang-On. Still, good effort though– right? slash I must change my life.

On tram rides mostly.

Bussed (well, trammed) from one life to another, moments spend most of their lives in transit.
a) moments have lifetimes just like you or I. They generally last between seventy and six hundred years (there’s great variance per popularity– moments are nourished by |want|– the more sought they are the more robust; the more avoided the same). It’s generally accepted that avoidance is more nourishing than desire, and so the good times need to work twice7 as hard to live just as long.
b) as you may have by now guessed, there are a finite amount of moments and (for a living) they cycle between us.
b1) it’s a straight living– the act directly fuels, and is all that is required for, survival– so it’s more ethical than human work.
b2) we feel each is unique but there are only about 107 moments at any given time.8
b2a) This is because passion is a virus that mixes with our experiences to reshape/redefine each moment.
b2b) Our major experiences are actually exactly the same and we would bond over that fact thus ending all interpersonal conflict if only we could perceive our lives without passion.
b2c) We are one antifungal away from complete and eternal world peace.
b2c1) passion is actually more like spore.
b3) the tram is tube-shaped and made of a material not dissimilar to hard plastic (though it’s really just light). The overall ambience of the tube space would be the milk-green of a passing commuter train at night, or of an early Wong Kar-Wai film, but when the tube is crowded it is impossible to tell. Each seat lights up a different brightness and shade when sat upon.
b3 also) the moments have a particular hue so they know where they’re supposed to sit; whether they chatter, get bored, switch, save seats, take naps, fall in love, prefer to stand, long at and after scenery, or at the lives living in other trams (moments aren’t the only aspect that takes public transportation (aspects do, for one, and the unborn (if the righteous only know what a raucous enorgied partyferry the unborn rode to Term…))) we do not yet know.
c) there are only two trams, out and in, and the object of their preposition is uncertain. one |day| the trams will crash together and then: absolutely, the moment. But until that happens they have to punch every single clock just like the rest of us.


Into the sea.


On a killing spree.

Cholesterol and heart plaque has only 36% to do with what a gross piece of shit you are. If, in the wake of the passing moment, you enter its corona cast, a film clings to your heart and arteries. It’s about a small boy trying to fly a kite, but the weather is incorrect for it. Hijinks don’t ensue; the boy’s dad never meets the boy’s future stepmom or step-sister; they step-never step-share their first step-kiss, first step-pet, first-step penetration (a step-finger). For moralls sake, perhaps its best this film is entirely uneventful: an image of a kite rippling angry against the ground, going nowhere. The buttons on her blouse are small and round and meant to fit beneath your fingers and you’ll never forget those sleeves (puff).

Your memory is a line-up you spend forever fingering

If, in the wake of the passing moment, you enter the corona cast– film. All over your heart and arteries. Once enough builds up9 the resin sticks together, slowly forging new syncretic moments of varying coherence.

Moments, particularly th[o/e]se of questionable stability, can’t stand being forced to socialize. When so densely packed they explode your chest in the form of a heart attack.
Though in recovery you forget, when it happens you simultaneously experience dozens to hundreds of moments (and that is what kills you). It is a sin to be everything.


The record (for humans) is 1,241.6 moments, achieved May 6, 1978. The sufferer survived and, unbeknownst, sewed each of her thousand-plus would be assassins into a quilt, where they are now trapped for all eternity, barring explicit exvocation.12

Moment #767 – the toucan escaped face-ridicule by inventing flight; without a shared target to bond them, the lion turned its full focus against the panda and the subsequent shaming annihilated all pandas’ sex drives forever

Her name is Betty Parveneau and she would be 86 today (July 4th, 2012) if she didn’t die of pneumonia back in 1997 due to no one loving her enough to notice.13


On vacation.

Like Go-Go’s on waterskis chastising George W. Bush for being a deadbeat president and saliva-eyebrow-stylist-hirer both, it’s all they ever wanted.

Dear Go-Go’s: Apostrophe– how’s come?

Popular vacation destinations for moments are: New Hampshire’s White Mountains; New Hampshire’s many lovely lakes (Winnipesaukee, Umbagog, Sunapee, Canobie space Park); Historic Manchester (New England, not Olde(e) England); tax-free liquor stores between states with restrictive blue laws, like Massachusetts, and Maine; Rye Beach (in New Hampshire); Clark’s Trading Post; seemingly endless/optically tedious stretches of white birches along route 112; or a house visit with the ghost of Franconia Notch’s famed/late Man In The Mountain.

R.I.P./Semper fi, New Hampshire’s Economy



There are no moments.

Each perceived ‘especially experienced’ patch of time is 100% an invention of your human/dolphin/some spiders’ mind. Narrative is a sickness that quickly spreads to every cell of your body. Once in it reroutes the wiring, misdirects neurons, and something else science-sounding, repurposing the whole mess to track a specific path towards maximizing tragicomic effect. If narrative sickness were a Star Wars character its name would be Max Bathos.14

In practice this means (virus aside, as infection is lifelong insofar as no one wants/tries to cure it) In practice this means that we each ‘define’ (ascribing us agency in this is pretty tenuous– we have some control (more depending on how unshackled we are by shame/self-awareness/societal pressures/human decency, but it generally tops out at 13%– a statistical light shove/strong nudge) In practice this means that we each ‘define’ when a moment is a moment.

Though narrative does most of the work for us, as in all things, we seamlessly believe the will is our own. And if it’s equally applicable– if everything we say or do is framed by/perceived through/shaped by/slash slashed with our storytelling symbiote– then it sort of already is what we actually are.


There are no moments. When we think we’re in one we’re not. Narrative has just dictated god I’m even boring myself– it’s nice out! Go enjoy your life! And then Big Narrative delivers a truck full of money to me in dollar sign bags.

But money instead of trash


Goes and keeps going.

In a line, or a wave. Travels through you and through anybody previously or subsequently in its path. You don’t notice that it happens as often as it does because there are some required ingredients for it to catalyze a True Moment.15

The Moment passes through you and delivers its patented blend of Eliadean ‘Sacred’ and basic profane profundity and moves on towards no end in particular.16


to Stud.

The once-over moment impregnates the time around it with possibility.17

Possibility is the key ingredient in a moment– well one of. When possibility meets and penetrates-or-receives actuality, a moment is born. (Strange cycle).

Six years later, this is your wedding day/first haircut/deathbed/bris


A museum.

In the museum you can view the greatest moments of all times. The musuem is in a galaxy 2,000,000,000 light years away and ‘viewing’ the moments requires seven senses we haven’t developed yet and two we never will. So, buttons.

If only I could get the senses

The whole collection (99.5% of all moments) is available with purchase of an archives pass, but –again, buttons– the archives are kept at -1,000 degrees Earth centigrade. Sad. / It also has LOVELY robotanical gardens.

(Robo in this language means something we won’t understand until ten seconds before the annihilation of our species).


The rest of the syllables, however, mean exactly the same as we’d Earth expect.


We’re still in it.

Still in all of them.
Dragging them behind us like a kid in a thicket of burrs with a velcro cape.
Weighing on us emotionally and curtailing our ability to perceive those oncoming, anything outside of them.
Our brain (for the almost part) is descended from those who developed a limit/kill switch/filter, so we don’t always notice them. In dreams they peek out.
In toxicated or compromised-by-stress situations, they can fugue.
And don’t forget the mentally ill and elderly!


DID YOU KNOW: being old is a form of mental illness? It’s called eldelism and it catches all of us eventually. Well, all of us except me, I desperately jest.


It goes straight to your thighs.

Your thighs in particular. Can you blame it?
Slash oh no wait– that’s where a kiss goes once it’s left your lips
(Can you though?)

I miss you


The moment passes and… comes back again? Cycles like a comet but with an irregular period (that sentence can’t not mean that).

It cycles like a comet.
It may take 76 years but you’ll see/feel/be in it again.
A different cast of characters or occasionally the same.

We pass each other on the street and, then, throughout town seven times.
Let’s run into each other over and over and never say anything.

How our stares, looks progress:
at one point charm
at one point forced/failed charm
at one point sheepish unease
at one point genuine terror
at one point a chuckle
at one point a shrug
at one point no notice or acknowledgment and we go our separate ways forever.

The moment passes like a stone– fast, steady and in a pond.20

Every passed moment is at the bottom of a pond somewhere– Chapman Pond, specifically– and they collect there to no specific consequence.

Why doesn’t it overflow/brim with experience? Well, in the flood of 2010 it did. It’s just that, inert, the passed moment may as well be the stone it sinks like– which, to the lay observer, it is.
But this simple stone used to be when your parents met. Or when your parents died. Or when your parents first tried out how they’d some day make you. Except you can’t get someone pregnant there… what are you doing, mom v. dad? That’ll never work out! Nothing good will come of it, only remorse, hatred, scandal, and possible faecel impaction!
And then you wake up in the bleak winter morning of your 21st butt birthday (twist ending: in dreams begin butt-babies).21

If you hold them (the stones) they’ll just feel smooth and wetcold; if you skip them they’ll just skip or not skip, depending on whether you are worth a damn at stoneskipping.
If you eat them you will be better able to digest your food, but this is only applicable if you are also a bird. Or a Triceratops.

Dino… droppings? Droppings?

Don’t put them in your fishtank or else your fish will figure out time and become immediately shocked into immobility by the knowledge of their unavoidable demise. Poor time-wise red tetras– first an all-flakes diet (against your preferred larvae-base menu) and now you know just how futile each one of your (two) instincts actually is.

Helas, pour poi(ssons)!


It transfers to the next person you touch– true fact!

If something bad happens to you don’t touch anyone else ever (until you find someone you can really despic).
If something good happens, tell your biggest crush then kiss them flat on the mouth. Or, if you’re incapable of feeling good things, just keep touching yourself and HOPE.


If you get too into it with lips you may trap them (your lips) in that moment forever– which, no matter how good the moment is– is a nightmare scenario not to be willed upon anyone.

(Basically you’re in a living coma– a pleasure coma, but inside it’s like a well-meaning Groundhog’s Day, over which the enrapt has NO CONTROL, no ability to alter, shift, or change).

ALSO A PROBLEM: if you slip sick tongue you will steal all their dreams.
>>>watch out<<< this is how most spies work SLASH literal dreams, not figurative– a .csv file containing raw, unfriendly-formatted data of each sleep they’ve ever slept and, bonus, now they can never dream again unless you kiss it all back in (after a bad moment).

The idempotent moment

And now I love You.


1. they hid their past in that term so no would ever accidentally find it and take it seriously– too ‘feminist’ for misogynists, too condescending/pathetic for feminists

2. “… just smart enough to cause trouble” – an unhelpful tech officer explaining the situation to a superior while playing to an adbreak that doesn’t exist

3. I’m boring even myself at this point

4. Nailed it. Slash in this scenario being addicted to drugs means you have an increased desire to get real nude.

5. Don’t worry, though! You can all keep praying and fasting and cutting off fuckparts– I am not allowed to reveal which God it is and am only using the capitalized, singular/corporeal in keeping with my impudently rejected Christian heritage (which, of course, I know to be true (but deride anyways (atheist))).

6. 3 days is the legal minimum duration for a trip to be considered a Road Trip (and not just a weekend getaway).

7. actually, 1.631 times as hard

8. range: 104-112

9. moderate exercise and eating a diet high in celery should slow the growth some(therefore the 36%) but nothing can stop it except avoiding everything-and-one. Celery: flavorless, calorie-free, unpleasantly textured– it had to be there for a reason10

10. Celery: flavorless, calorie-free, unpleasantly textured– it had to be there for a raisin and then a picture of ants on a log and then the ants on a log jingle [it’s like “Beef”– the industry realizes that backlash diabetes is totally not eating their lunch]11

11. a) in this scenario you want your lunch to be eaten gross winky face yeah you do; b) backlash diabetes is the anti-Michelle version of Birthing. If you can’t forego or gut the Affordable Care Act, you can always purposely get diabetes to show you’re not a fagit [sic]

12. spoiler alert: no one ever exvocates the moments; no one even tries

13. Widow + Somewhat crummy children – $ to spare = Low quality nursing home

14. note: no matter how many times I look it up, or use it overconfidently, I still don’t (and likely never will) understand what bathos is SLASH

15. just language– veracity has nothing to do with it

16. at least none as far as we can tell. Imaginary Scientists are split as to whether it’s an additional force or some kind of Cosmic Intelligence/Thin Divinity [i.e. not God, but a god or space-spirit equivalent]– a creature. Either way, anyone who studies it is eventually driven mad after falling prey to the temptation to exploit its ability to control and re-create The Moment. They see the transcendence in everything and can’t stop weeping

17. Moments exist in time not space. No mass but plenty of duration. There are various classes of moment as determined by their duration, their disbursement, their displacement, their frequency, and their intensity.18

18. It was previously thought that intensity was ‘twice-counting,’ as it was calculated as disbursement over duration. But it has since been discovered that deepfeltednesss fluctuates even when you control for D&D. It is as yet undetermined to what extent intensity is a property inherent in the Moment, or a symptom of the situation/user, but recent studies lean towards the former.19


20. don’t be gross…

21. …because I will out-gross you, EASY