A Thought on Thoughts...

I was discussing the nature of a subconscious with cobweb; that is, a storage closet in our brains for thoughts that are not fully formed. He seemed surprised to learn he has rooms in his brain...

Subconscious thoughts, of course, drive many of our unjustified fears and unreasonable reactions. Evaluating the thought brings a certain clarity that gives it a bit more substance, perhaps identifying a purpose, benefit or applicable use; until that's done, the thought is really not much more than a half-baked notion.

Subconsious thoughts reside in a storage room in our brains typically not much bigger that a broom closet. Some well-balanced folks get by with a junk drawer. A few rare individuals live predominantly in a half-baked frame of mind, so their subconscious storeroom becomes overcrowded in time until those illogical thoughts flood the closet and leak out into the hallway, basically ruining the carpets. Folks who allow this to happen generally ignore the issue until their neighbor downstairs files a complaint because their ceiling is damp.

Typically, subconscious storerooms are a bit messy; half, old and inconclusive thoughts are shoved together forming tangled lines like Christmas lights stored after the hols, until needed the following year when an enthusiastic effort is made to untangle the jangled mess. This often results in frustration reaching a peak until the effort is abandoned altogether and a trip made to Fred Meyer's to purchase fourteen new sets at $7.95 each. (Tangled Christmas lights are what keeps Freddy's in bizness, and tangled thoughts keep therapists similarly employed.)

It's not uncommon, then, for the subconscious storage unit to get a bit disorganized, and thoughts therein quite frequently are forgotten. And then one day you don't have multiples of $7.95 and something nudges at your memory and you recall stashing an old string of thoughts in a closet somewhere. So you put on your waders and strap on an LED headlamp, and set out to check your subconscious closet which you can't quite remember the location of.

After a few wrong turns followed by several more and one embarrassing moment when you accidentally walk in on a couple of fantasies you didn't know were living in your brain, you determine you'd much rather clean toilets than look for a storage room you aren't even sure exists.

The effort to find and organize the room is beneficial, however, and well worth it. We actually do need subconscious thoughts. Kept organized, clearly labeled and appropriately identified, these thoughts allow us to respond in certain situations with alacrity. They hone instinct; increase RRT. First, though, we must determine if the thought is of practical use, or if it is better recycled, as thoughts are 100% compostable. Be green, not mean.

It isn't uncommon for subconscious thoughts to span decades and become so forgotten that we don't know why we are afraid of the moon. We've forgotten that first subconscious thought when we were six and a full moon was shining on our sleeping face when the witch tried to gouge out our eyes, that night the magic covers slipped off the bed.

Regular maintenance, on the other hand, leaves us with a tidy subconscious that feeds us healthy thoughts. It's well worth the initial investment of time, then, to wade in with both feet, spend a couple days getting reacquainted with some long-forgotten thoughts, throw some away, think some through, and store a few others for a rainy day when we have finished tidying up the wordroom.

Once the closet is neatly organized, it's easy enough to keep it that way with the help of a p-Touch labeler and some inexpensive guerilla racks. Regular visits are less time-consuming and yield some enlightenment - like learning that the moon is there to light up witchy sillouettes so our Dream Angel can knock them off their broomsticks with a few well-chosen words and some candy kisses. At this point, we become a well-balanced individual with far less fears and much more energy for tracking down those visiting fantasies for a quick...em, well, chat.

Oooh, wait, I just remembered where THAT room is...sorry, gotta go!

I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind that I put down in words...

I don't know why, but every morning I wake up with a different song in my head. They aren't related to whatever dreamwebs are lingering in my fluffy brain, nor are they inspired by any current events. They are just songs. In my head.

Weirder than that, though - I hear music whenever I look at those around me, my family and friends and people I love. It's kind of what I would imagine "aura" to be if I saw auras.

When I walk into the seed and see my friends, I hear music unrelated to whatever selections Brent has paid for, and infinitely more moving. Sometimes the melodies are known, sometimes no one has ever heard them but me nor will they ever. On occasion they are sad, most times they are happy, and sometimes they are rockets to the moon and fast-paced plunges to the earth that pull up at the last second and level out to skim the surface of my heart with a soft and gentle touch.

I hear this when I look at the irish, at Danny and Amy and Diana, when Karen walks up to me in the airport, when someone scores a goal in soccer, when I pick up Jody and when Josh plays with Lucy, when I see Zap sign into IM. I hear one around Linda and one around Gerry and one around Linda and Gerry that is new and SO exciting to hear :)

I have no explanation for it, I have no desire to fully understand it, I am completely content to have this phenomenom in my life. You know why?

Because your song is beautiful. It has rich timbre, perfect pitch. There are trills and tonality and a key signature that is unique to you. It makes my life sweet and fills it with color than can never be measured by a colorimeter.

And sometimes, when you are together, in all or part, the notes blend together and their resonance creates a phantom note that lingers in my mind long after you've gone home or moved away, a perfect note that I wake up to in the morning, and the start of that day's song.