I quite like Sherlock. Not only is Benedict Cumberbatch a great choice for the role, but the individual cases are usually interesting, if not quite as complicated as I'd like at times. Then again, I've only made it through the first and second seasons, so I may be missing some of the best.

Back on point, the series has a lot of great elements, but one of the ones I've found most attractive is the concept of the Mind Palace. I loved the concept from the show, and after doing some (very superficial) research into the ins and outs of its purpose and the method of using such, I decided I should have one of my own.

I tried, I really did. I went for simple, I went for unstructured, I went so many routes trying to find one that fit me. Nothing, no matter what I tried, seemed to really CLICK, though. Sure, I could get elements of the practice to work here and there, but it was disjointed, and nowhere near as fluid as it's presented in the show, or as others have described their own in the places I've looked online. Over time the form has taken shape, but it's not something as clean and useful as Sherlock's, or even as I would like, though it seems to fit me well.

See, over time the form mine seems to have taken isn't a "palace" in any sense of the word, nor a library or a sitting room or anything of the like, really. Rather, mine has taken on the form of a street.

It's always nighttime in my little boardwalk of the mind, if you wish to call it that. Not just night, but a cloudy night, starless and heavy, the barest hint of the moon illuminating the clouds on occasion from behind their dusky veil. The street is paved in cobbles, brown and grey and black and red, and there are no sidewalks. There's no need, after all, since the street is relatively narrow, designed for foot traffic rather than cars or carts, and has a gentle curve to it at all times. My mind holds few straight lines, and that is shown by the avenue within, snaking its way from one end to the other in gentle undulations both vertical and horizontal.

The buildings lining the street are a hodgepodge of styles and sizes, though most are narrow and crowded together, with wooden porches and walkways around them, some squat things with trees and the woods surrounding everything visible beyond, others two or three stories tall, and all of them weathered and old. The style is a mixture of colonial and french, for the most part, with a strong vibe of the american south hanging over everything in the colors and choices of materials: rich, dark woods, vibrant reds and golds and everything somewhat ramshackle, the wooden shutters on the windows thrown wide so the light from within scatters across the street, warm and golden, but every window protected by netting or screens, as is typical here. Porches have hanging plants on them, mostly ivies or even tomatoes and strawberries, and everywhere there's a gap between a building and the street itself is filled with flowers, bushes, and trees.

The locations up and down the street are many and varied. Toy shops, book stores, restaurants and flea markets and seedy little bars, all of them loud and awake, though the sound from any one location is quickly lost in the hazy, heavy air of the night. Specters walk the place, of people I know or characters I've written or read about, visiting the shops and eateries or even occupying the occasional upper-level apartment, and though one end of the street is lost to darkness, the buildings fading into black at the edges of my conscious mind, the other is occupied by a cul de sac of sorts: a plaza with a great willow growing in the center, surrounded by flowers and gardens, with lots of little benches along the edge of the circular cobble path and a wrought iron fence separating those who relax within from the wild world outside.

Back to the shops, they line the streets and even the few alleys and side avenues of the locale, though those to the north inevitably end at the edge of the great lake that my street seems to parallel. One of the key locations of my mind is the restaurant on the lake: it has no name, but is an open-air affair built upon the dock, with many small, intimate tables and jazzy zydeco music playing softly in the background, never able to quite completely cover the gentle lap of the waves against the supports beneath your feet and always seeming to match in its rhythm the swell of the water beyond. Another is the toy shop, small and largely bare, filled not with the latest and greatest products but hand-made beauties and well cared for mementos instead, from battered but much loved lunch boxes and dolls to stuffed animals, wooden trains, and other novelties, lining the hand-made shelves on every side while the old owner sits behind the counter smiling benevolently. Nobody ever really buys anything from the shop, but the children who roam the street can often be found within, eyeing or even playing with the toys on the well-worn wooden floor under the watchful and happy eyes of the owner.

Always cool but never cold, with the sound of insects and frogs always on the edge of one's hearing, nearer when in the plaza, and with the smell of fall -- that rich, slightly pungent smell of fresh earth, fallen leaves, and the encroaching winter -- always blending with the recognizable combination of wood and tobacco smoke, dirt, and decay that fills all old places to some extent. It is a comfortable place, with someone always laughing somewhere out of sight and a comfortable weight about it all, like everything is perfectly content exactly where and how it has settled and sees no reason to change a good thing now.

It's a place I could call home.

As a mind palace, it is somewhat of a shambles. Getting anywhere to remember something is always a slog, though a pleasant one, full of distractions, and though the buildings never move things are never in the same place in them twice, whether it be a toy tied to a childhood memory or a book representing a story or film. Despite all this, though, I think it works for me, and I'm sure that, much like with any old town or street, as I grow more familiar with it and its inhabitants navigating it will grow easier, though I hope the sense of wonder I feel every time I travel there never fades.

It is a good place, and one I am proud to call my own.

Have you ever tried to create a mind palace? If so, how does yours feel/look/work for you? If not, is it something you've ever considered, or does it just seem silly? I'd love to know.

Melanie E.