Suggested Audio Brain Food:
Coldcut Featuring Junior Reed Stop This Crazy Thing
noun: a person who tends to be disorganized and lacking in concentration
The brain is a fascinating piece of equipment and one which we know precious little about. The average human brain continues to develop until our late forties, comprises 60% fat, and shares consistency with Tofu. I kid you not. Every time it archives fresh data it metamorphoses and, whenever it forgets something, it deletes unnecessary information which assists the nervous system in retaining its plasticity. Dieting is likely to coerce your brain into eating itself whereas cocoa consumption increases theta waves, thus triggering a state of relaxation.
Coitus on the other hand causes it to release so much dopamine that a scan could resemble someone on hereon in. The next time you purchase body chocolate from your local sex shop; remember that one. Talk about a double-edged sword. And, as for the left/right divide? Utter codswallop; it’s a total myth. Perhaps the most fascinating fact, however, is that scientists are now suggesting that a zombie apocalypse may well be likely due to the increasing number of fresh parasites being discovered. You see, we thought that George A. Romero was just a legendary film-maker when, in fact, he’s a harbinger of woe. I still love you Georgie.
I have long since been comfortable with the notion that my brain is rather more labyrinthine than many of those around me. That’s not to say it’s superior, it simply works on an entirely different level to the average cerebrum. There have been times when I have believed that I have no claim to this cantankerous cylinder and others whereby I have felt justified in throwing it in the trash and starting again. Thing is, we are dealt our hand, and ultimately it’s how we play said hand that’s all important. Keeper is primed now to go all in at the flop. Is it an elaborate bluff? Best keep my poker face up just in case.
This piece of kit appeared to be serving its purpose somewhat well a year ago. I worked in local government, fashioning opportunities for young people from areas of deprivation and empowering them to make positive life changes for themselves. It all sounds rather chivalrous and my intentions were certainly noble but ultimately it amounted to diddly squat. It took me the best part of a year soul-searching to come to the conclusion that my brain is not designed to be caged in such confines. It prefers instead to scatter.
Now I’m fully aware that the term scatterbrain has already been labeled as meaning disorganized and a bit of a mental clusterfuck. However I am here to inform you of an entirely different meaning, one which has afforded me the opportunity of finally fulfilling my potential as a scribe. Before mastering the scatter technique I operated within certain confines when I wrote. It was clear from the offset that my prose was eloquent, indeed I never doubted such since first picking up the Crimson Quill almost a year ago after a twenty-year lay off. But I followed a template, like any other fledgling writer.
Within no time I began to appreciate the uniqueness of my situation. I could write whatever the bloody hell I desired, nobody would be marking this exercise or telling me it is wasn’t up to snuff. Even if they did, that would just be their opinion and they’re entitled to it. No, this was an exclusive set of circumstances I had here, and years of cherry picking what appeared at the time to be fruitless data, suddenly looked to be worthwhile after all. Around the point of my epiphany I recall slapping my thigh like Dolly Parton and yelling yee-haw before assuming buckaroo position and riding off into the sunset. I did no such thing actually, that’s just a bare-faced lie, but that’s what happens when you’re scatterbrained.
I process information in a different way from most and possess an undeniably over-active imagination. Whilst not obligatory traits, they do mesh well with the concept of scattering, allowing me to sow whichever seeds I wish harvested and never become tied to the same patch. Instead I scatter my grain like a reprobate, far and wide or, at least, as far as my mind can lob them. I’m freed up from the confines of being a scribe and it is these shackles which one must learn to shake off before they can truly flourish as a creative writer.
Now then…about that over-active imagination. Let me clarify this for y’all a little. So I’ve got all this space to maneuver right? Nothing to stop me exercising my free will and speech. Since declaring myself unfit to work I have more time on my hands than a horologist. Just so happens I have a veritable treasure trove of prose locked away in my innermost cranial sanctum and also possess the mind of an infant so all the tools are at my disposal. man-child status was always a mantle I endeavored to avoid but now, finally, I can see exclusive merit. I’m every bit the man-child, access it everyday since realization set in of its prestige.
I am approaching forty years of age, have the mind of a ten-year-old, until recently my shell felt like that of a twenty-five-year-old and right now feels more fifty-five. So you have three threads there (and the memory of a fourth) so why not thread them all together? I access all pools each time I scribe and the art lays in knowing which one to dip into and when. That choice is made for me thankfully, when I get my tip down on parchment, it just gushes without rhyme or reason. Thus, the task is tackled on my behalf.
I scatter. Far and wide I lob my kernels, hollering “fly my pretties” and laughing to myself maniacally. Whatever part of my brain is accessed supplies its data and then I wrangle it into something coherent, give it a name, and raise it as though it were my very own little gibbon-like man-child. I cradle it, let it feed upon my teats and play ball with it in the nearest meadow. Actually, that part tends not to work so well and I have provoked a vitriolic rejoinder for repeatedly bouncing a medicine ball off a tiny glob of brain matter. My point being this: I own that shit.
I think it ultimately all boils down to trust. For such a long period of my life I simply trod water. Working jobs I loathed robbed me of trusting my unnatural ability. Actually, scrap that. It was I who robbed myself but they helped me stuff my pockets with freshly laundered notes so dammit they’re culpable too. Anyhoots, I stopped believing in myself in as much as I had no ultimate goal to strive for. I may not possess the riches now that I had previously but I feel decidedly less nomadic as I sit here tapping away in my fingerless gloves, spluttering like a wine bar saxophonist. I’ve got my goal, have it right here scrunched up in my palm. I’m striving to be myself, truly, myself.
So who is myself? I’ve been a scribe some time now but don’t recall ever having elaborated. There can be but one manner in which I do this. I shall scatter my brain through poetry right now and provide a little rib-tickler to send us on our travels. How does that sound? Remember we’re in real-time right now. I haven’t a singular clue what I shall be crooning about at this juncture and that’s just the way I like it. All seeds thrown, Bonus Brain would you be so kind as to retrieve the crop? Thanks BB.
An Ode To Fonzie
Arthur may I borrow your jacket old bean
I wish to impersonate you
I have some brylcream and I’m raring to go
I shall just wait right here for my cue
If Monday and Tuesday are both happy days
and Wednesday and Thursday are too
then the weekend must be an uproarious affair
and Fonzie we owe that to you
Your skills as a cossack are second to none
your way with the ladies is too
one click of your fingers is all that it takes
for their panties to drop just for you
Joanie loves Chachi or that’s what they say
but the truth is she’s not all that keen
only last night she revealed just to me
she wants Fonzie all up in her spleen
Who can possibly argue with such an enigma
tell Fonz that he can’t make his dreams true
I’m even prepared to forgive the white socks
as your black leather jacket redeems you
You’ve taught me so much in such limited time
I’ve quenched many times from your font
But the one little nugget I hold dear is this
“You’re no one ’til you do what you want!”
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013 (Director’s Cut 2015)