(no subject)
Jane Austen often pointed out the differences between refined ladies and wild girls, both in temperment and breeding with their choices of exercise and hobbies. Ursula Leguin talked of habits and rituals of people in far off worlds both similar and different to this one and Grigg was groing slightly disappointed that he hadn't met anyone from any of those places. At least not yet.
As boy Grigg had been prone to reading over running, which wasn't saying that he did not run (he did, just often with an occassional wheeze that he grew out of) just that he would read if given the choice. He knew sports scores and how to calculate averages, but very good at playing anything. Except jacks. He was a master of jacks and jumping rope and hanging upside down from the monkey bars until his face turned red.
Here on this strange, but strangely wonderful island Grigg had come to quick and possibly premature conclusion that it was the best of both his adult and childhood worlds. Sure he could not email or call his sisters if he had a problem or question, but he could tinker and read and listen to the theme from Star Wars as much as he wanted.
Sitting on the swing, he had made a pile of about six or seven books around his feet and while none of them followed much of a pattern and all of them broke the cardinal rule of taking books outside, he realised that he was roughly thirty and not-thirteen and being yelled at by a librarian was not nearly as terrifying. Removal of his hand by a lightsaber or giant robot still was, but a librarian was less likely to make him cry.
Turning the page of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintence, he frowned and kicked up a bit of dirt. "An Indian circa 1945. Just like in The Great Escape. That would be zen if on boar grease."
[open to any&all. a little bit of ST here & there while I write papers, but Grigg is very friendly]
As boy Grigg had been prone to reading over running, which wasn't saying that he did not run (he did, just often with an occassional wheeze that he grew out of) just that he would read if given the choice. He knew sports scores and how to calculate averages, but very good at playing anything. Except jacks. He was a master of jacks and jumping rope and hanging upside down from the monkey bars until his face turned red.
Here on this strange, but strangely wonderful island Grigg had come to quick and possibly premature conclusion that it was the best of both his adult and childhood worlds. Sure he could not email or call his sisters if he had a problem or question, but he could tinker and read and listen to the theme from Star Wars as much as he wanted.
Sitting on the swing, he had made a pile of about six or seven books around his feet and while none of them followed much of a pattern and all of them broke the cardinal rule of taking books outside, he realised that he was roughly thirty and not-thirteen and being yelled at by a librarian was not nearly as terrifying. Removal of his hand by a lightsaber or giant robot still was, but a librarian was less likely to make him cry.
Turning the page of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintence, he frowned and kicked up a bit of dirt. "An Indian circa 1945. Just like in The Great Escape. That would be zen if on boar grease."
[open to any&all. a little bit of ST here & there while I write papers, but Grigg is very friendly]