The Dictatorship of an Acrobatic Mind

A FEW months ago one laboring under the bane of deliberation queried ; —

“Is it worse to be thought-less or thought-tied ?”

It is neither the one nor the other. Both are merely bad.

Worse than either is the misfortune of possessing mental faculties so constructed that with the slightest pull of the intellectual string the whole equipment springs into instantaneous motion after the manner of an acrobatic jumping-jack.

This condition is the bête noire of my existence. The severest cudgelings have failed to keep my insubordinate thoughts under control. They have bullied and oppressed me until I feel myself the abject prey of every chance comer. The weakest gosling of an idea is as potent against me as the cannonade of an encyclopædia.

I listen to a lecture or a sermon. The orator begins to roll a ponderous period up a difficult hill. Snap! I have caught the impulse of a word or two, and off I go in leaps and bounds, hither and thither, but ever on until I arrive at the top, and find I have gathered in my jiggling flight so motley a crew of ideas they surely must begin with time and finish in eternity — yet still they continue to arrive. I am contemplating them in dismay when the conscious movement of a neighbor attracts me. A new hat! In one instant I have inspected every hat and coiffure in my vicinity, planned my next season’s suit, and determined the rearrangement of my back hair. Another jump, and I am back with the speaker; he is but halfway up. By a strenuous effort of will I accompany him to the top, that I may be present when he arrives at one of the foregone conclusions I have already arrayed there. If by mischance he does not reach the end expected, impelled by the stimulus of a new view-point away I fly, and thus miss the opening of the next sentence. It is not a fair start, but no matter, the process is the same. One leap, and I have returned; another, advanced, arrived, double, turn and twist, back and forth, up and down, in and out, and alas, too frequently never touching bottom. It is arduous.

What is being thought-tied compared to this ? A bann of repose, and irresponsible thoughtlessness ? — an unattainable joy to a mind whose only respite is an abeyance, a waiting for a fresh pull of the string. Nor is mine that happy-go-lucky species of mind which jumps at conclusions. I jump to conclusions indeed, but it is a series of jumps, a succession of leaps from one peak to another, until arriving at the summit, afar off it may be from the one intended, but guarded by a bulwark of opinions, here I stop, breathless.

As a consequent of having stated these facts, a confession is now forced upon me: this high vaulting from one thought to another, this springboard association of ideas, has created within me a memory of which I stand in deadly awe.

It is unnecessary to recall to me the fact that psychologists consider memory of a very low order of intellect. I can substantiate the statement.

But I protest that when I was young I had no memory, that this thing has grown apace with my years, the malevolent product of my mental gymnastics, until now, full grown, the amount of material it can furnish for the hashing of thoughts is something appalling.

Overworked, my will has been dethroned and my judgment debased. But whatever the inner misery caused by these conditions, the unseemly outward manifestation is causing even my friends to regard me askance. There was a time when to me, also, the supplying of dates was something uncanny, the recalling of long buried facts positively gruesome, and the quick application of quotations a decided bore. The finding of a word for which a friend appears to be searching — if by ill-luck it happens to be of a slightly different meaning and thus throws him off the track from what he was intending to say—is not often considered a friendly act. To see too quickly the point of a story and then forget to laugh at the proper time, or to insert a missing detail and with it a chance insinuation that you have heard the story before, does not enhance one’s popularity. Undertake the telling for one’s self and quickly one’s auditors are swamped in a sea of suggested ideas, and the climax is presented to submerged ears. Then in desperation one tries another tactic, one or two bold strokes, and the point appears so quickly that it passes for a mere detail. You are sure to be left speechless, with your audience politely waiting for the dénouement.

Poets pray for man the gift of a strong athletic brain, most especially the unhappy possessor of the acrobatic mind. Such a one, guided by the uncertain conduct of a mind which moves in spasmodic leaps and jumps, stimulated by any chance word or expression, can never travel up the road of Parnassus in the good fellowship of comrades. He can never scale the heights in the company of the elect.