The universe has a rhythm! Y'gotta plug in,
baby!
The universe has a rhythm and it
is fast/slow/fast or slow/fast/slow and those who operate
in any other way appear jarring like Scarlett Johannson’s singing
career.
Yes, the alternation between slow and
fast, fast and slow, in methodical, purposeful, directed ways makes
for magic. Let us look, for instance, at the music of Led Zeppelin.
Let us look at Stairway to Heaven.
There is a lady who knows all that
glitters is gold and she’s bu-u-uying a stairway to
heaven.
The masterpiece starts slow, a lullaby
for the awakened, but somewhere in the middle of its seven plus
minute running time it spikes. Furious strumming of double-necked
electric guitars. The pounding of booze-soaked drum heads. Your
head is humming and it won’t go, in case you don’t know. The slow
comforts us, the furious excites us and when the song ends slow
(And she’s bu-u-uying a stairway to hea-e-ven) we have
reached auditory orgasm. Stairway to Heaven mirrors the
rhythm of the universe.
Let us look at sex. The man who enters
and pounds at a punk rock pace until he has finished is the most
worthless sort of lover. Sometimes, yes, a woman wants to be
manhandled, she wants to be abused, but the man is only abusing
himself if he refuses for one instance to change pace. He must let
himself breathe. He must feel the enjoyment building. The best
lover starts slow, builds to a wild hair-pulling pace, and then,
without awkward hiccup, returns to slow. Or he starts recklessly
and then slows like he is swaying in a rowboat on a tranquil lake,
so peaceful, before returning to his icky thump. She will moan with
the truest of pleasures and he will too.
Let us look at film. Al Scarface Pacino
does not enter the first frame lighting up the silver screen with
bullet and cocaine. No. He enters as a poor Cuban criminal. He
enters slow and of humble origin though arrogant. And later he
falls in love and later still he lights up the silver screen with
swears and angry red eyes. And then he is shot in the back. Slow to
rapid fire to dead (slow).
Let us look at marathoners. The gun
cracks and they are off! They run quickly to best position
themselves and then they slow. They pace themselves properly for
the long haul. They move methodically as if in a trance. And then
the end is in sight and they move like wobbly lightening in order
to finish strong.
And, finally, let us look at surfing.
Some ill-breds who are out of touch with nature itself paddle into
waves and they peer down the line and they think, “speed!” And so
they pump their legs like pistons and they beat the wave. They
change neither pace nor direction for theirs is only a straight
line of fast and it is painful to witness. Others, usually on
longer, thicker boards, set their course and don’t move a muscle.
Slow. Only slow. And their stiffness is hardly witness-able.
But the true surfer, the one in touch
with God, drops in and does a luscious bottom turn and then creeps
back up toward the lip. She then shimmies fast and hits the lip.
Pow! And another slow arcing cutback to slow himself and a fresh
burst to finish with an air reverse. Or she bends his knees and
maxes out the throttle on his first move and wham! into the sky
before slamming the breaks in the form of a slidey tail something
before picking it up once more with a burst of turbo before
stopping entirely with a frontside 360 foam climb.
The best music, sex, film, long distance
running and surfing all follow the formula of fast/slow/fast or
slow/fast/slow and if the reader is still unclear let him watch
softcore porn on late night HBO.
He will understand the essence of life
and his surfing will greatly improve.
