The Steady Drip, Drip, Drip

I'm becoming more analytical about my own thoughts. The interior castle, steps to the tower or locked in the dungeon.

Take any castle from the movies. Get rid of the bad guys, crocodiles, vampires, and that's what I'm talking about. I don't want my interior regions populated with bad guys who might be lurking around the next corner.

Just give me the castle, please. I can creep around it. And I would definitely creep. Meaning in slow, calculating, appraising, reflective motion. Around each stone, examining the cracks and foundations.

If I'm walking around -- just me and no one else, like in one of Bob Dylan's dreams -- I can be down where the sump pumps are. That far away trickling, echoed drips I like. The interior drip, drip, drip of thought is an appealing thing, especially if you had all the time in the world. We do, right? Because you can be alone and focused on it even in a crowded hall. I haven't figured out how yet but I believe it's true.

Now, let's say the interior is like a castle. And there I am, analyzing the cracks, the heavy stones, the flaming wall things, the table room, the walk in fireplace, the secret doors, the library, the ceilings as high as the sky. What do I need? A map? No, I have all the time in the world. But mentally isn't a map necessary? Well, how am I recognizing and processing without a mental map drawn somewhere and sometime? Could it all be instinct? Not very well if I'm using language. This must be the room of mirrors. This isn't complete perplexity, because language knots aren't indestructible; something preceded language.

(And even if I don't need a map, at various points I'll be making a map.)

OK, the castle thing isn't persistently satisfactory. It's still an image. But everything that has words associated with it is going to be an image. A stream. A journey. They're still simply understandable in everyday terms.

So what are we left with? There's some progress. Finally you just have to quit talking about it. But we haven't reached that yet.

[Now closing the big red book with expensive pages.]