The Nexus of Weirdness

That's the phrase we used. In 2000 we roadtripped back to New Mexico and went up one of our old dirt roads in a near-new Isuzu, rather than a beat-to-shit '70s Chevy. The radio, rather than blasting Z-rock, was playing Future Sound of London. In New Mexico. We got to the top and ran into the younger brothers of girls we had failed to date in high school. One of the girls had moved to Denver to join the ever-present of neonazis up there. The other had gotten knocked up and now worked for the state. They caught us up; half the people we asked about were in prison or dead. That's when I found out my ex-girlfriend Amanda had overdosed on heroin a month previously, just shy of Thanksgiving. Her younger brother reciprocated by blowing his head off with a shotgun just shy of Christmas. It was December 28.

We had touched the nexus of weirdness and had been drawn into its Schwartzchild radius. The world existed outside of us. We could see it, we could interact with it, but it was happening at a different rate. And it took forever to break away.

Time dilated at that point and didn't spring back to normal for several years. The past was the distant past, the future was the distant future and the present was about 30 seconds on either side. It was purely perceptual; it was a thing of alienation and only alienation but it was noteworthy how permanent the effects were. I've noticed since that I get there easily when stressed and have a really hard time coming back. Occupationally I'm in a bad place because every summer weekends cease to exist while every spring winter and fall weekends are just those days when we don't have daycare. With school? Maaan. I can barely keep track of meals.

Write it down, fellow time traveller. Learn your calendar. Abide by your appointment book. For you are unhinged in time and it will be only gradually that you rejoin the slipstream.