I will argue that shapes in our minds are built with words. In my brain there's a shape that looks like "Vestry of Monnow." One of the things about this shape is that while parts of it might exist in the minds of others, nowhere beyond my brain is this shape called anything like "Vestry of Monnow." Easier perhaps to look around for a title that better reflects the word shapes in the minds of others, but that would be the kind of compromise that results in a sort of consumerist popularization that basically takes the adventure out of thinking and replaces it with a pair of worn out socks or a paper handkerchief. And yes, in the interest of full disclosure, I've recently found myself struggling a little with the word Orange, which has long been the name for the warmth in our hero's maternal side. Who knows what's going to happen to the word Hippo, an aspect of our hero's paternal side, now that the cesspool flows so visibly through Lindisfarne.
Safe to say that Vestry is angelic host related and Monnow is the name of an
actual little river that starts as a stream and ends up in a confluence with a
much bigger river in a town called Monmouth. I could call it "Vestry of the
River Monnow." But that in no way reflects the shape in my mind called "Vestry
of Monnow." Not wishing to exaggerate, it would be kind of like dismissing the
Girl Cat as an increasingly stout orange patched mackerel tabby with a funny
tail. True, Girl Cat, might be considered equally dismissive by those for whom
the distinction between boys and girls has aligned the shape boy and the shape
girl in such a way that one is inferior or superior. And here, I'd be the first
to judge dogs as infinitely inferior, so there's no reach for anything like a
committee decision on my part. Indeed, despite the odd peculiar dreams, I am
pretty much wearing a silly hat, throwing out the catalogues and marching when
it comes to the title "Vestry of Monnow." Call me an extremist, if you wish to.