Arlo ran his mind like a strict place of business. No loitering. No wandering thoughts. Creativity was something you squeezed out like the last inch of toothpaste, or so he thought. Then one Wednesday while sitting at the piano, ready to compose something respectable, his thoughts started behaving like a pack of hyenas. A childhood embarrassment waddled in. A fear of taxes swooped overhead. In the middle there was a giant crow wearing a tuxedo, waving a conductor’s baton. Arlo yelled at his brain. His brain feigned indifference. For a minute he considered calling a doctor for help but noticed he was smiling. The disorder had a rhythm. He started playing instead of resisting. When an intrusive memory barged in, he let it play. When the crow in the tuxedo raised its baton, he followed it. What came out of the piano sounded like a cosmic traffic jam learning to harmonize. It was good. Onstage, Arlo quit pretending he was the supreme commander of his mental army. The more he surrendered, the more powerful the music got. Chaotic, unmistakably alive powerful. Arlo finally understood the big secret: He had never been running the show. The brain was always an improvising band with its own opinions. He just finally stopped arguing with it. And that was the day the music got weird precisely in the right way.