interstitial moments

Those moments between, none of which are noticeable, that make up the whole. The thing that fits between the other things.

In a community - the rhythm of the day, the habits of the neighbors, the bus schedule, the street traffic. What makes it different from other places.

In a relationship - the moments that pass, small, and many. Quiet or routine. The pattern of them IS the thing.

Things you can't invent or intend. Experiences or history that one would never know if one hadn't put in the time and been there in the slack times as well as the pivotal "ich bin ein Berliner" moments.

A carpet as metaphor... for some, the carpet of existence is low-pile indoor-outdoor utility grade, where a pebble cannot intrude because it bounces off. There, the grit is meaninful and prominent because it's the only thing in between. In the deep pile shag existence of the murky messy wild, the cat hair mixes with the peanut shells, the spilled wine, and the spontaneous frenzied fuck-sweat, forming a soft rich patina over each day, and if there's a little grit, no one notices other than the spoiled little princess sleeping on the pea.