Comfy Shoes
Sanity sure is[0] like a new pair of sneakers, or a well-broken-in pair of boots.
You know, you're walking along, wearing your good old boots. You don't notice the boots, because you don't have to. They work. They're comfortable, for the most part. They certainly aren't rubbing upon the tender little souls [sic] of your feet. You know what I'm talking about. You've broken in leather shoes: dress shoes, boots, something. Surely you've worn something beside sneakers in your life.
You know, you're walking along, thinking with your good old brain. You don't notice your brain, because it works. You look at stuff, you understand it, perhaps not on a deep level, but at least to the point where an intelligent creature like yourself can be satisfied with the shape of your surroundings. Your brain certainly isn't playing tricks on you: two plus two is definitely four, four cars in a row in a dimly lit parking lot will not become three when the street light changes a block down, subtly changing the cast of the sodium light[1] playing over their brightly painted carapaces; those cars, no way those cars are insects, because those cars are cars: They eat people and spit Them out in the right place.
And you don't notice all this. Just like you don't notice your boots until your heel wears a hole in the insole. Then you see the ugly stuffing that your mind, er, shoe, is made of.
But once in a while you do notice. Now, maybe people who've had it good all their lives, and never had to walk miles in broken shoes, don't see these things. But me, I'm walking along, and I'm like, hey, these are good shoes: they work. Because, damn it, these are some good shoes I've been wearing lately.
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[0] I sure have been using that grammatical construct a lot lately. I sure do think I picked it up from Zeus. It sure is funny.
[1] When I look at something lit by sodium light, my brain cannot adjust the salmon tint of the light out of my consciousness. If I ask myself what color something is, I cannot say "oh it's green" because, while that may be the color of something which is green, bathed in the wavelengths sodium emits when electically stimulated, it is also, definitely, slate gray. And while that green car or green sign or green kitten is under that light, it is slate grey. Gray.
You know, you're walking along, wearing your good old boots. You don't notice the boots, because you don't have to. They work. They're comfortable, for the most part. They certainly aren't rubbing upon the tender little souls [sic] of your feet. You know what I'm talking about. You've broken in leather shoes: dress shoes, boots, something. Surely you've worn something beside sneakers in your life.
You know, you're walking along, thinking with your good old brain. You don't notice your brain, because it works. You look at stuff, you understand it, perhaps not on a deep level, but at least to the point where an intelligent creature like yourself can be satisfied with the shape of your surroundings. Your brain certainly isn't playing tricks on you: two plus two is definitely four, four cars in a row in a dimly lit parking lot will not become three when the street light changes a block down, subtly changing the cast of the sodium light[1] playing over their brightly painted carapaces; those cars, no way those cars are insects, because those cars are cars: They eat people and spit Them out in the right place.
And you don't notice all this. Just like you don't notice your boots until your heel wears a hole in the insole. Then you see the ugly stuffing that your mind, er, shoe, is made of.
But once in a while you do notice. Now, maybe people who've had it good all their lives, and never had to walk miles in broken shoes, don't see these things. But me, I'm walking along, and I'm like, hey, these are good shoes: they work. Because, damn it, these are some good shoes I've been wearing lately.
--
[0] I sure have been using that grammatical construct a lot lately. I sure do think I picked it up from Zeus. It sure is funny.
[1] When I look at something lit by sodium light, my brain cannot adjust the salmon tint of the light out of my consciousness. If I ask myself what color something is, I cannot say "oh it's green" because, while that may be the color of something which is green, bathed in the wavelengths sodium emits when electically stimulated, it is also, definitely, slate gray. And while that green car or green sign or green kitten is under that light, it is slate grey. Gray.