Peanut Buttering

I live for the Moment

When I'm watching a movie, or playing a video game, or attending a play, the majority of the experience is humdrum. It's entertaining, yes; I may even be amused, or intrigued. But it doesn't feel fundamentally from my life until then. It's a continuation of same system of logic and realm of possibility that I have built and crystallized over the decades of my life. My expectations are not subverted, my heartbeat is not quickened, my pupils remain undilated. The experience is good -- but only that.

Then, if I'm lucky, comes the Moment.

Suddenly I am not the same as I was an instant before. I am shown something new.

The game let me, or made me, do something I never imagined it would. The play launched an idea into the room so novel and compelling that my psychological defenses had no time to block its path to my heart. The film painted a canvas so visually vivid, a soundscape so rich, that I am touched to my core.

The moment is often accompanied by a slow, creeping smile, an abrupt intake of breath, a welling tear, or a sudden awareness of the edge of the seat.

My moment may not be the same as yours. Or everyone in the room may feel it -- some moments are heaven-touched.

In any work, I am waiting for the moment. If there is just one moment in the entire work, the entire time is worth it. I will carry the moment with me for the rest of my life, along with a craving (usually left unsatisfied) to feel it again like the first time.

And it is the great works that manage to manifest not one, but multiple moments. The weight of these in memory gives the experience an immense emotional gravity, as a new forever tenant in the lofts of the mind.

I am always, always living for the moment.