What's The End Of Thinking?

Last night I commented over at Sandra's place, regarding Truth Versus Thinking

Oh Sandra, thank you! 

Sandra: U.G Krishnamurti, one of my favourite people, who I call 'grumpy Krishnamurti'  as opposed to the 'other' Jiddu Krishnamurti above ( was it me? Or did someone else call him grumpy first?)
I know I used it but I suspect someone else beat us to it!
has this to say about thinking:
"Thought is in its birth, in its origin, in its expression and in its actions ... ...  controls and shapes our thinking and our actions."

So good to look over at the site about him and be reminded of deeper expression of deeper seeing.  That the mind itself does things like think and organizes it into logic and stuff, and while refining a well-logic-ed mind, moves on to being able to use intuition to access it.  You and I can feel immediately what the mind can spend hours and much writing working on.  Intution seems to be to be able to reach in for the bottom line results without having to thinkabout it all over again.   Even pattern recognition happens before we even know it, and by then, logic (grade school) is jumping in and then phooey off to more levels, memory,  categories et al.  Yikes! 

So let us enjoy life as it is, have enough of the "us" we might share while we're at it, why not, and then go waffle around with the urchins.  Lately I fit right in at a down-and-out neighborhood, the black gang-bangers leave me some room to walk through, only the brain-dead ones notice me anymore as being an old white guy.  I'm disappearing. 

I've quietly moved away and friends no longer call. In a way it's lovely quiet And delightful to be empty and undistrubed AND I do miss my friends and companionship when, stretching out inside my skull I tap into the sensory network and identify with the whole body and then its' connection with an evnironment out there.  I have trouble planning for it, the environment, because I'm never sure that it's ever the same or even ever exists.  I only get the info when I turn on my ears and listen to the inputs, open my eyes and process the zingings into a picture - and I suspect it could just as easiy be that I also turn on a memory thingie which generates a new set of memories, perhaps new each time, I could never know because I no longer have the belief that I hold these memories in my little-football shaped body inside this skull.  The memories may be entirely new filling the space that is merely labeled This Is The Way It Is when in fact that data could be refilled  differently everytime I wake up.  I suspect it changes less the more time when spend thinking and the harder we do that thinking.  Memories get left behind for the next reboot.  

I'm disappearing, And resisting disappearing.  I'd like to disappear where some nice people could speak with me sometimes, and get some gentle love for the soul while I'm there.  I would prefer not be treated roughly at a homeless shelter, yet there might be my freedom, really.  I'm just holding on to comfort and having understanding loving friends.  Perhaps if I let go of the "understanding" part I could move on and not feel anxious and stuck and then I could relax and have no attention on where the body was taken..  I haven't reached that point, though, and still take control and try to guide the body to a desired outcome.  But it's sort of like driving a submarine once you lose the belief you are that exterior surface of the vessel. 

I know none of this life thing matters, when I got out jail once, after six months, I thought I was black.  White people looked so strange.  And they didn't have any asses!  The jail I was in was mostly filling the jailer's pockets by using young black men, so that's who I lived with for six months.  They're the favorite resources these days  to process into paychecks - judge to prosecutor to cop on the beat.  Blackmailing the public for money to save them from imagined threats manifested in their jails.  If it was a good system, they could take turns playing the role in the jail, but it's not a good system, so they go like 18th century press gangs and round up young me to serve some time in the ships-of-jail.  In the old days, it was us Irish, so it was somewhatfitting to be where my ancestors participated in the game.  I remember thinking "maybe an uncle went through this cell!"