"Well, it's better than the shit we had to eat and drink over there."
There's no hesitation in his voice, no sense that perhaps bringing over there up is misguided at best and downright dangerous at worst. Willard has been there -- such a vague term for somewhere that's so vivid in his mind, such an easy way to gloss over what 'over there' really meant -- and he must know exactly what Ginsberg's talking about. The opportunity to speak with someone who understands it, who gets it, who's seen and done similar things (what things? What have either of them done? Would they admit them to each other, or even to themselves? Perhaps not) is too alluring to pass up. He needs to connect, needs to cling to someone who has more than just empty, meaningless platitudes to offer.
"I mean, I don't know about you, but I'm never drinking Kool-Aid again."
There's humor in his tone, sure, because that's one of those things you have to laugh about (do you? Is there some rule somewhere that says that things that had been downright horrifying at the time now need to be transformed into jokey little comments in order to be palatable enough to say them?) He's always had the sense that if he isn't able to laugh about his experiences, he'll be crushed under the weight of them. The problem, then, has always been that he's never been good at laughing at the horrors of life. He's never been able to look at pain and suffering and harden himself to it to the point that he can find it amusing. He isn't even able to look at photos of the wounded or the dead without feeling a physical sickness, a stabbing, piercing, agonizing despair.
So yes, he can put humor into it, into the simple fact that they'd all had to drink approximately a million gallons of Kool-Aid to make that disgusting water at all tolerable -- and that he'd always been the one nagging people to drink their water, to keep themselves hydrated, to take their damn antimalarial pills, partially because he'd been the medic, but also partially because he'd cared so much about every single person he'd been tasked with looking after.
And it almost goes without saying, doesn't it, that he'd always been the one to give someone some of his own water rations if they'd run out, that he'd always been willing to share what little food he had, because the one thing he could manage to do was take care of people. Sometimes. Not all the time. Sometimes, no matter how much he sacrificed, no matter how much he was willing to give them, there wasn't anything he could do to fix things. There were only temporary patches, no permanent solutions (except death, maybe, but could that qualify as the type of solution he'd ever approve of?)
Why's he still sipping at his coffee, anyway? It's still disgusting. That hasn't changed.
In truth, he knows the answer. It's something to do with his hands, because he needs to keep his hands preoccupied, otherwise he'll start toying with his necklaces again, and it's something to do with his mouth, which he should stop from babbling on; he knows it makes many people uncomfortable when he can't shut up, when he lets his thoughts take over and flow out of his mouth. It's good for work, sometimes, amazing what he can come up with on the fly, but it's no good for situations like this. No good, and yet Willard's still sitting here, isn't he, so maybe all isn't lost.
no subject
There's no hesitation in his voice, no sense that perhaps bringing over there up is misguided at best and downright dangerous at worst. Willard has been there -- such a vague term for somewhere that's so vivid in his mind, such an easy way to gloss over what 'over there' really meant -- and he must know exactly what Ginsberg's talking about. The opportunity to speak with someone who understands it, who gets it, who's seen and done similar things (what things? What have either of them done? Would they admit them to each other, or even to themselves? Perhaps not) is too alluring to pass up. He needs to connect, needs to cling to someone who has more than just empty, meaningless platitudes to offer.
"I mean, I don't know about you, but I'm never drinking Kool-Aid again."
There's humor in his tone, sure, because that's one of those things you have to laugh about (do you? Is there some rule somewhere that says that things that had been downright horrifying at the time now need to be transformed into jokey little comments in order to be palatable enough to say them?) He's always had the sense that if he isn't able to laugh about his experiences, he'll be crushed under the weight of them. The problem, then, has always been that he's never been good at laughing at the horrors of life. He's never been able to look at pain and suffering and harden himself to it to the point that he can find it amusing. He isn't even able to look at photos of the wounded or the dead without feeling a physical sickness, a stabbing, piercing, agonizing despair.
So yes, he can put humor into it, into the simple fact that they'd all had to drink approximately a million gallons of Kool-Aid to make that disgusting water at all tolerable -- and that he'd always been the one nagging people to drink their water, to keep themselves hydrated, to take their damn antimalarial pills, partially because he'd been the medic, but also partially because he'd cared so much about every single person he'd been tasked with looking after.
And it almost goes without saying, doesn't it, that he'd always been the one to give someone some of his own water rations if they'd run out, that he'd always been willing to share what little food he had, because the one thing he could manage to do was take care of people. Sometimes. Not all the time. Sometimes, no matter how much he sacrificed, no matter how much he was willing to give them, there wasn't anything he could do to fix things. There were only temporary patches, no permanent solutions (except death, maybe, but could that qualify as the type of solution he'd ever approve of?)
Why's he still sipping at his coffee, anyway? It's still disgusting. That hasn't changed.
In truth, he knows the answer. It's something to do with his hands, because he needs to keep his hands preoccupied, otherwise he'll start toying with his necklaces again, and it's something to do with his mouth, which he should stop from babbling on; he knows it makes many people uncomfortable when he can't shut up, when he lets his thoughts take over and flow out of his mouth. It's good for work, sometimes, amazing what he can come up with on the fly, but it's no good for situations like this. No good, and yet Willard's still sitting here, isn't he, so maybe all isn't lost.