language.
Park
Post
ECT
Passage.
When the power surged through Park, his whole body shook, the rubber retainer dropped from his mouth, and as the power automatically shut off, he slipped to the floor, convulsing slightly. A few more shudders, then he was still, drool leaking from his mouth.
His mind …
Careering down a completely blank space, a wind howling in his ears, then a pause as roads of utter whiteness began to form. Cascades of letters began to rain down and he opened his mouth as if he could swallow them. The scene metamorphosed to a wood, his father, and a group of men with shotguns and rifles, repeatedly firing and bringing down pheasant, more than they could ever use. A taste of cordite in his mouth, then his father attempting to force the gun into his small hands, shouting at him, “Be a man, kill them.”
No need for Psychology 1 to figure the impact that would have on a sensitive boy. More shooting, carnage, and a mound of brightly torn bodies as the pheasant were piled up. The boy hugging himself, incanting
His mother, in the distance, always distant and whispering gently,
… Park, darling, never forget the beauty of language, and his father at the long dinner table, pieces of bird hanging from his mouth, shouting,
… If you can’t speak properly, you should lie with the carcasses. Then flash-forward to Kosovo; a nominal mission with the UN; and moving down a street, snipers taking off the stragglers, fear in his mouth, and the medic saying,
… We need morphine.
On a small table near his DIY kit, a bottle of gin (Beefeater), a bucket (silver) of ice, and a neatly thin-sliced lemon stood in readiness. A large hand-painted sign warned,
… Do not drink.
Park poured a large Galway crystal tumbler of gin with ice and lemon, drank slowly but with deep appreciation. His mouth was so dry from the procedure.
Whoa …
… He’s drinking? Did the sign not say …?
Of course he drank, he’s bat-shit crazy.
“Dogs are very wise. When they are hurt, they slink off to a hiding place and wait until they are recovered before returning.”
(Agatha Christie)
Park felt the gin course through his system like wildfire and this set off in his head the epic sea battle in
Game of Thrones
, where wildfire is used to destroy the attacking fleet. He bit down, could feel the flames, then physically shook himself as he tried to rearrange what personality remained after the voltage.
He had but a very vague idea of who he was or even where he was. But this was part of the rush, the whole
Stranger in a Strange Land
gig. He had showered, clothed, and generally readied himself before he shocked the shit out of his head.
Now he stood before a full-length mirror and marveled at the nigh-on total stranger who peered back. He said,
“Pleased to meet you, hope you guessed my name.”
A wave of dizziness washed over him and he tottered to a chair, thinking,
“Whoosh, this is a blast, whatever the fuck it is.”
Interestingly, he cursed only when his mind was at half-mast.
“A question in the form of a statement, known as an embedded question, doesn’t require a question mark. The question whether children learn enough grammar remains to be answered.”
Park dressed in the Anglo fashion, as if clothes were an afterthought and really should be left to servants. He wore a pair of heavy tan cords, a shirt actually made in Jermyn Street, brogues made in Milan, and a heavy waistcoat made on the Aran Islands. He was about to reach for his wax coat when
… the doorbell rang.
“A storm sometimes washes everything clean but mainly just disguises the damage already done.” (Emily/Emerald)
I opened the door to a wild welcome from the pup; he did that singsong howl, his whole body straight and his head back. It signaled total happiness. A concept almost totally alien to me though I was around long enough to recognize it. I fixed him his dinner and he fixed his gaze on me,
Park
Post
ECT
Passage.
When the power surged through Park, his whole body shook, the rubber retainer dropped from his mouth, and as the power automatically shut off, he slipped to the floor, convulsing slightly. A few more shudders, then he was still, drool leaking from his mouth.
His mind …
Careering down a completely blank space, a wind howling in his ears, then a pause as roads of utter whiteness began to form. Cascades of letters began to rain down and he opened his mouth as if he could swallow them. The scene metamorphosed to a wood, his father, and a group of men with shotguns and rifles, repeatedly firing and bringing down pheasant, more than they could ever use. A taste of cordite in his mouth, then his father attempting to force the gun into his small hands, shouting at him, “Be a man, kill them.”
No need for Psychology 1 to figure the impact that would have on a sensitive boy. More shooting, carnage, and a mound of brightly torn bodies as the pheasant were piled up. The boy hugging himself, incanting
His mother, in the distance, always distant and whispering gently,
… Park, darling, never forget the beauty of language, and his father at the long dinner table, pieces of bird hanging from his mouth, shouting,
… If you can’t speak properly, you should lie with the carcasses. Then flash-forward to Kosovo; a nominal mission with the UN; and moving down a street, snipers taking off the stragglers, fear in his mouth, and the medic saying,
… We need morphine.
On a small table near his DIY kit, a bottle of gin (Beefeater), a bucket (silver) of ice, and a neatly thin-sliced lemon stood in readiness. A large hand-painted sign warned,
… Do not drink.
Park poured a large Galway crystal tumbler of gin with ice and lemon, drank slowly but with deep appreciation. His mouth was so dry from the procedure.
Whoa …
… He’s drinking? Did the sign not say …?
Of course he drank, he’s bat-shit crazy.
“Dogs are very wise. When they are hurt, they slink off to a hiding place and wait until they are recovered before returning.”
(Agatha Christie)
Park felt the gin course through his system like wildfire and this set off in his head the epic sea battle in
Game of Thrones
, where wildfire is used to destroy the attacking fleet. He bit down, could feel the flames, then physically shook himself as he tried to rearrange what personality remained after the voltage.
He had but a very vague idea of who he was or even where he was. But this was part of the rush, the whole
Stranger in a Strange Land
gig. He had showered, clothed, and generally readied himself before he shocked the shit out of his head.
Now he stood before a full-length mirror and marveled at the nigh-on total stranger who peered back. He said,
“Pleased to meet you, hope you guessed my name.”
A wave of dizziness washed over him and he tottered to a chair, thinking,
“Whoosh, this is a blast, whatever the fuck it is.”
Interestingly, he cursed only when his mind was at half-mast.
“A question in the form of a statement, known as an embedded question, doesn’t require a question mark. The question whether children learn enough grammar remains to be answered.”
Park dressed in the Anglo fashion, as if clothes were an afterthought and really should be left to servants. He wore a pair of heavy tan cords, a shirt actually made in Jermyn Street, brogues made in Milan, and a heavy waistcoat made on the Aran Islands. He was about to reach for his wax coat when
… the doorbell rang.
“A storm sometimes washes everything clean but mainly just disguises the damage already done.” (Emily/Emerald)
I opened the door to a wild welcome from the pup; he did that singsong howl, his whole body straight and his head back. It signaled total happiness. A concept almost totally alien to me though I was around long enough to recognize it. I fixed him his dinner and he fixed his gaze on me,
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