The deep mind underlies the superficial mind. Much as the stones on the bottom of a clear, swiftly flowing stream are blurred by the rushing water above, the deep mind can be detected, but not directly experienced except by tactile sensation. It forms the substrate over which the everyday mind blithely and blindly courses. When the irregularities of younger, less polished rocks–perhaps recently kicked into the stream by a startled deer or careless hiker–produce increased friction with the water, creating a minute disturbance of flow almost too small to detect and perhaps bloodying the plantar surface of your wading feet, you take more notice, but the visual input is no more clear than before. Mind you, the water is extremely clean, but the current obscures detail.
Imagine now that you could halt the downstream flow, just for a second or two. What would you see? That’s the deep mind. You can find it by carefully moderating your relentless speed-surfing of neural circuits. Slow, or even stop the current, and pluck one smooth stone from the bottom.
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Note: None of this applies to Petaluma.
I don’t give a damn about Charlie Sheen. For all I care, he can drop in on Chuck Manson at Corcoran and commiserate about the effects of lost influence—Manson will ratchet his glinting shrike’s eye over Sheen’s adam’s apple and wish for a pair of pinking shears. Charlie Sheen can stare at timorous apprentice chefs through night vision goggles as they prepare organic thimerosal-free potato pancakes for Jenny McCarthy. Jenny ought to be locked up in a deep cover North Korean maggot-gruel joint, not some soft Martha Stewart resort like the one Gibbs calls “Camp Cupcake.” Charlie can paddle a dinghy out past the 200 mile limit and cast his powder keg mindscape along the herring gull’s path and peer intently at the anemic krill below. He can enter a convenience store with a note and leave on a stretcher after an elderly woman decides she’s had enough self-infatuated putty-minded tough-guy-with-the-ladies stupidity for one day. Those purses are loaded with Eisenhower dollars.
Charlie can enhance his home rehab with sandpaper self-abuse, he can form a Dixie Mafia wannabe club with Gibson and Busey, he might kidnap mini schnauzers and lose money on the Cowboys-Vikings game and maybe go up against George Kennedy and stick his head up after getting fooled by a bad turkey imitation. Or he can have Don Meredith smear peanut butter on his license and eat it. I don’t care what the hell he does, as long as I don’t have to see his smarmy ass (or face) on a news update in the middle of a TV show I'm enjoying. Fade away, Charlie. Become as insensate as you are insensitive to the rights of others. Either that, or grow a pair and demonstrate a conscience. Eleven Mary Six, call the station.
© Pseudocognitive
