Series:
Essay #4:
Synopsis:
Self
Monkey
The self is always switched on, mind is moving; and in people, it moves in circles within the internal monologue
Aquinas was right: life is movement. All living beings are alive and Sauron’s Eye never stops looking. When the mind isn’t absorbed in something, it doesn’t switch off, no, the mind keeps moving and finding new things to pay attention to. If I’m reading something good, my mind is all-in. If I’m reading something boring, my mind goes elsewhere. The mind is movement and it must move, and when given nowhere good to go, the mind runs down the old, familiar pathways within the internal monologue.
I believe the self is always switched on in a living being, with awake being one mode and sleep the other. When my dogs are awake, I can see it in their eyes, then they get bored and go to sleep. When bored, we people don’t sleep; we talk to ourselves. We people have imagination (lots of it) so when there’s nothing to do, our minds wander over diverse lands. And because we have language (lots of it), we have the internal monologue, which always seems so engrossing to the person inside the monologue but tiresome to others when voiced aloud.
I talk to myself when washing the dishes. If I’m having angry loops, menial labor is a curse. My mind goes round and round and the monkey runs free. A bad internal monologue is a monkey. Everybody’s got something to hide except for me and my monkey (Beatles White Album).
In conversation (especially about politics), monkey makes regular appearances. I can see monkey in the faces of my friends and loved ones, and I know they see monkey in my face. Most of the time, monkey is an angry monkey. I want to limit monkey’s contributions to the show, but monkey doesn’t like being controlled. When I pray, monkey cuts the prayer off right in the middle because he’s bored. I’ve met meditators who seem at war with their internal monologue. It’s a battle to the death: they meditate hours each day trying to silence the monkey and monkey keeps talking.
After decades of observing monkey, I believe he’s an autonomous personality with his own will. I recall the movie, Return of the Pink Panther, when Inspector Clouseau comes upon a blind street musician with an accordion and a little performing monkey. The Inspector demands to see the musician’s “license that permits the playing of a musical instrument in a public place for the purpose of commercial enterprise.”
Musician: Commercial enterprise?
Clouseau: Yes, you play that thing and people give you the money.
Musician: People give the monkey the money.
Clouseau: It is the same.
Musician: Oh, not at all, monsieur. I am a musician and the monkey is a businessman. He doesn’t tell me what to play, and I don’t tell him what to do with his money.
Clouseau: Monsieur, don’t try to be funny with me. It’s your monkey therefore it’s your money.
Musician: He lives with me but he is not my monkey. One day I came home and found him sitting in the living room. I let him stay but he pays for his own room and board.
I can’t beat monkey. I must focus inward to beat him, and that makes monkey stronger. Looking inward to cure the monkey is like curing a patient through copious blood-letting. No, monkey only quiets down when I focus outward. When I’m in a great conversation, I put my heart into my people and there’s no monkey anymore. I’m a bad conversationalist when I focus on me. When I’m coaching martial arts or football, there’s no monkey because all of me is in the athletes and their development. When I’m sparring, there’s no monkey because monkey can’t talk when he’s getting punched in the face; sparring requires focus on the opponent. Monkey shuts up when I’m sprinting because sprinting requires absolute focus (for the length of the sprint). But when I’m recovering and walking back to the start line, the voice returns, and I let it run to see what it’s got for me. Surprise! some of my best thinking comes in-between sprints.
The internal monologue is a part of human consciousness and it can’t be cured. But I can guide it because my self is bigger than my monkey. If monkey is mad, I can laugh and say, “there you go again, Mr. Monkey.” If my internal monologue goes down a delightful and funny path, I can let it run as long as it’s still fun. Too many times my wife has caught me in the kitchen talking to myself, giggling, and doing a little dance that, from an outside perspective, is probably embarrassing. Sometimes my internal monologue works out a new idea that’s just bubbling up into my top-level consciousness, and in that case, I stop everything and pray that the monologue will keep running until I’ve figured out the idea. Sometimes my internal monologue rehashes an old idea that I’ve hashed out before, and in that case, I let it run if it’s expressing the idea better than before (which is rare); but once I start repeating the same old arguments (which is frequent), I try to move on.
Monkey is a blessing. Life is movement, and the internal monologue is the life-breath moving in people (we whose nature it is to talk). I’m glad monkey won’t shut-up because if he ever did, I’d be dead or lobotomized. I wonder what it’s like to be a living being who doesn’t talk, like a dog or Mr. Amoeba: what does his life-breath feel like? I wish I could be a bird flying and feel that.
Essays in this Series, Self: