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.
