Lou Reed wrote these words
in 1968-69, and he was clearly a far more considered man than I am.
For his statement is sometimes true, a thought can sometimes gently
stimulate the synapses for what seems like an age, before impulse
finally makes its way to sensuous, charming mouth or expressive
hands, like the spark expanding along the metal loops of a Tesla
coil before it crackles into reality, a flash of inspiration in a
bar; a bedroom; or even on rainy streets where puddles are
irridescent with oil dropped from ill maintained cars.
The person brings forth
elegance and flourish like a skater posing at the end of a spin. The
effect is deadly.
How wonderful it must be to
be able to allow your brain to effortlessly pick the right thing to
say or do, for it to act with studied contemplation before it lands
the bowler on the hat-stand without even looking.
Me, I operate at the two
other extremes. One is where the lifetime's contemplation becomes
eternal, a never ending lightning streaked fog of indecision and
panicked pondering, agonising over whether something is the right
thing to do. By the time the decision is made, the moment is gone and
the action is trapped within a pile of dust long after you've died.
The other extreme is where
expression is so fast, it actually proceeds thought and almost rips
it' way backwards up your spine to explode a “Oh my god, how could
I have said that?” bomb in your mind. Sometimes its the only way to
try and break the cycle of obsession described above, but the dangers
are countless.
Most of the time you just
end up mentally slapping yourself in the face, or scrubbing your
knees with a brillo pad.
Copyright Bloody Mulberry 04.03.14
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