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2017-12-25 | Subject | Quivering Moment

That quivering moment is shaky and will be gone soon - not sex, no, but it could be. It could also be 5am on a long road trip as the sun comes up in the northern hemisphere of the planet, listening to industrial music, a rotary saw blade against tin roofing forming the introduction with brass horns that announce the day. On this Christmas day it could be the quivering moment of a brilliant star and a manger with angels above and domesticated animals witnessing the birth of the savior. It might be a memory of your grandparents' manger under the lights of the Christmas tree. We could flip to the land of Tom Waits and diners, and that 5am quivering moment is bacon and eggs and coffee after a long evening of carousing, brief insight of self-loathing enlightenment, diamond bullet appreciation of a waitress's cleavage, or perhaps just the taste of coffee before all desire becomes a desire for sleep and tactics to cushion a hangover. That quivering moment is a mighty grok, gelled seams, threads and memories and a thousand parts and tools arrayed like Peter Aschwanden's diagrams in How to Keep Your Volkswagen Alive: A Manual of Step-by-Step Procedures for the Compleat Idiot. Sitting up in bed with all arrayed and brilliant - understood - is not sustainable. The picture shakes, shimmers, and collapses on itself. The moment is gone, and all that is left is a few Gideons rules tattooed on your body like Memento.

memento