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I've been on this computer for three hours, but there's no limit and I have a 10-pound note to pay with, at a pound an hour. So I'll type up my only writing composition I think is worth typing. So here: it's an assignment of describing myself as related to my evolution, not only personally but historically, and how I think some of my qualities may have come about. I kind of like it.
The overriding impression I tend to give, when I observe myself, is one of solidity. I have a solid thatch of ordinary brown hair, a solid plebian frame, solidly packed with the layer of distributed bulk that a well-living mesomorph acquires, and a solid, steady gaze that reflects the firmness of the convictions I hold. However, I often marvel at the very fragility and luck of my life; if just one of my vast array of ancestors had been devoured by a rampaging dragon at the wrong time of life, I would be either someone else entirely, or I would not exist at all.
But my progenitors all escaped their dragons, at least before reproducing. They were undoubtedly solid, too; both sides sturdy peasants, both immigrating from sturdy Western Europe. I think, perhaps, that the strength of the few convictions I have, and the openmindedness I try to entertain about the rest of things, could come from both lines. The fierce independence and territorial instinct of the highland Reynolds ancestors, though tempered by a time of peaceful farming in fertile plans after the trip across the pond a few centuries ago, has revealed itself again in the last generation of civilly disobedient libertarians, who (though quietly) wrought changes in the authority held over them. These independent throwbacks may also have overruled the stifling braainwash of religious training that came before them, saving me from a life of firm belief in the immorality of dancing, cards, and music (for, I know, if I had believed that, I would have believed it solidly).
And then from the other side of my mother's line comes a solid work ethic and sense of efficiency, the Tancry immigrants' decision to work, escape the war, and do something useful. From them, I am a third-generation American, though the germanic and slavic propensity for dumpiness and hypothyroidism is all they seem to have left me of their heritage. The language interest is there, too, though perhaps it's reinforced from the other side.
The Stickneys were the only mitigation of the rustic blood I inherited; John de Stickny, lord of the Stickney manor in Lincolnshire, was not a real bigshot but nevertheless apparently accomplished enough to be granted a minor title. The he, or his descendant William, forfeited it by moving to Maine and Stickney Hill, but perhaps the generations of put-upon New Englanders managed to suppress the latent lazinessI seem to have inherited from the only aristocracy in my background, fortified by a comfortably middle-class upbringing. From the very beginning, I suppose one could argue, my puny simian ancestors had to rely on something other than brute strength to get by in the world, so they developed a wrinkly cerebrum. Though I've regained a little animalian strength, and don't hesitate in feminine privilege to use it to carry pallets oof bricks out of the van, I've also tried to take advantage of my potential to reason over instinct, when instinct is not a helpful facet of psychology. I find myself making leaps and forming habits that are only common sense to me, while some see them as meaningful exercises of intelligence. And then, there are the therianthropic deviances.
Nowhere in my geneaology can I find evidence of a familial predisposition to be born and animal in a human body, with the use of human facilities of logic, reason, and easy social interaction ( well, easy is a relative term, but I am facultatively social). Here is where the enjoyment of instinct can be experienced, while not overriding reason; nocturnal contemplation, wide territorial wanderings, a tropical climatic preference, an alarmingly steady gaze all give a erflectino of my feline mores. At the same time, there's no uncontrolled outlash at perceived cometitors, or unthinking destruction by accidental strength, as my flexible primate-filtered brain has given me useful solid inhibitions. Time was, even primates didn't have them.
Solid is as solid does, but I am solidly myself. My me is truly mine, as I've said in other words.
Ha, I typed that in 15 minutes. Go me. Hard keyboard, too.
The overriding impression I tend to give, when I observe myself, is one of solidity. I have a solid thatch of ordinary brown hair, a solid plebian frame, solidly packed with the layer of distributed bulk that a well-living mesomorph acquires, and a solid, steady gaze that reflects the firmness of the convictions I hold. However, I often marvel at the very fragility and luck of my life; if just one of my vast array of ancestors had been devoured by a rampaging dragon at the wrong time of life, I would be either someone else entirely, or I would not exist at all.
But my progenitors all escaped their dragons, at least before reproducing. They were undoubtedly solid, too; both sides sturdy peasants, both immigrating from sturdy Western Europe. I think, perhaps, that the strength of the few convictions I have, and the openmindedness I try to entertain about the rest of things, could come from both lines. The fierce independence and territorial instinct of the highland Reynolds ancestors, though tempered by a time of peaceful farming in fertile plans after the trip across the pond a few centuries ago, has revealed itself again in the last generation of civilly disobedient libertarians, who (though quietly) wrought changes in the authority held over them. These independent throwbacks may also have overruled the stifling braainwash of religious training that came before them, saving me from a life of firm belief in the immorality of dancing, cards, and music (for, I know, if I had believed that, I would have believed it solidly).
And then from the other side of my mother's line comes a solid work ethic and sense of efficiency, the Tancry immigrants' decision to work, escape the war, and do something useful. From them, I am a third-generation American, though the germanic and slavic propensity for dumpiness and hypothyroidism is all they seem to have left me of their heritage. The language interest is there, too, though perhaps it's reinforced from the other side.
The Stickneys were the only mitigation of the rustic blood I inherited; John de Stickny, lord of the Stickney manor in Lincolnshire, was not a real bigshot but nevertheless apparently accomplished enough to be granted a minor title. The he, or his descendant William, forfeited it by moving to Maine and Stickney Hill, but perhaps the generations of put-upon New Englanders managed to suppress the latent lazinessI seem to have inherited from the only aristocracy in my background, fortified by a comfortably middle-class upbringing. From the very beginning, I suppose one could argue, my puny simian ancestors had to rely on something other than brute strength to get by in the world, so they developed a wrinkly cerebrum. Though I've regained a little animalian strength, and don't hesitate in feminine privilege to use it to carry pallets oof bricks out of the van, I've also tried to take advantage of my potential to reason over instinct, when instinct is not a helpful facet of psychology. I find myself making leaps and forming habits that are only common sense to me, while some see them as meaningful exercises of intelligence. And then, there are the therianthropic deviances.
Nowhere in my geneaology can I find evidence of a familial predisposition to be born and animal in a human body, with the use of human facilities of logic, reason, and easy social interaction ( well, easy is a relative term, but I am facultatively social). Here is where the enjoyment of instinct can be experienced, while not overriding reason; nocturnal contemplation, wide territorial wanderings, a tropical climatic preference, an alarmingly steady gaze all give a erflectino of my feline mores. At the same time, there's no uncontrolled outlash at perceived cometitors, or unthinking destruction by accidental strength, as my flexible primate-filtered brain has given me useful solid inhibitions. Time was, even primates didn't have them.
Solid is as solid does, but I am solidly myself. My me is truly mine, as I've said in other words.
Ha, I typed that in 15 minutes. Go me. Hard keyboard, too.