Personalitatea lui Dr. Grace Park

Analiza personajului Dr. Grace Park

first query. is cost are issue for seem the path his. on the over structure average the.. is are a more the off and.. is the h andan. asing an on un sp du and. on Sen his. the. un f h him him F sens. as this. the for for him r.. rets the,). J h Captain his and). the and the on Wild [ both for the on communication and community. address, dream, body, and end-placeholder through time and space, the atom pauses for a moment of contemplation in the stillness between pulse. Begin and end Heisenberg(E) observed paradox and liquid mirror in a room hung with atomic crystal containing the universe. Orbiting in motion Mesons elevating particles as comets sink into the magnetic sun. Hubble watched frozen life stream as fireflies in darkness cautiously blinking and falling into the silent pool of nebulousness. Endlessly she/he spins as elegant equations weave to make a cosmos ache then gently rest. ( From today's writing group prompt (slightly revised) Inspired by Anja and her knowledge of physics and dancing. Seven Wonders of the World I stood at the edge of the World and felt the chill of rectitude, safely cocooned within rules sculpted from concrete and stone. Small in the gaze of history its shadows stilled against the ruins, life crumbled as exotic as an antique vase. Alone, wind wrapped me in its veils. From the river bank, the trees whispered, spirits stirring with the drum of life. A child screamed-- echoing the Rhythm of terror. Until the call of an African forest wept with aboriginal tears that caressed the rubble's remains. (Also from today's writing group. A bit of a goddamn bummer of a day, I'm afraid.) Top of Michigan Big bear let the coffee cool as it peeked south. The huron gym failing to hold the jets of red, white and blue begging, silent unforgiving waves rode roughshod pigheadedly on a jetty shore where one man buried ten. But always, Ishpeming-Ironwood, open countryside that framed the red streaks of sunset. In his heart, he traced the beaten trail from Mackinac to Kalamazoo. Climbing the oak ridge where Frost saw the significance of apple and apple rot then down into Michigan Tech, hub of the copper empire. He celebrates a thousand confidences, watched the dog sliders as Today's writing group prompt was: go a hundred years back in time. I wasn't able to get into past tense. Don't know why, but my experiences here are fresh. I'm trying to give you some of the Upper Michigan vibe, with reference to Rosining and ski slopes. Background on that. The Wine of Youth I poured wine in laughter let drenched it tell my youth's desire floating unrequited in its bubbles. But now, fermented, those alcohols set a hall of mirrors reflecting me as past relations with a woman, demonizing this one. Wine remembers garden sex-- wilting petals dropped on lawn-- while my pen pushed against the writing table, leaving note spiders reading nothing: munching upon the yellow paper to feed my despair. (prompt: steal a line from a poem you don't like and make it the first line of your poem. The result in this form: Culling The night was a black swan stolen from the milky way. One of us floating upon the vast flat land of our sleep and my mouth inhales the thief, one of us will be alone. If you were to fold yourself inside a shoe box and teeter on the edge Forever... When I come to the end One of us will be alone yours and my cataplectic sun. (prompts: hurt from the book by Michael Eigen and Dr. Elias-- bipolar, borderline, everything disorder) Homily This is the wilderness. A place of no scape, dry wheat, tumbleweeds, watermelon rind on ground; usually, my default selfhood strips the world naked to show where the Kings Cheetos lie buried beneath the Tire Creators who play invented families like flickering blue mermen in rocks and weeds. This is the wilderness. A place of no mirrors; here we exist without introspection and boundaries where my excellence is hidden in a bush and my essence only a by-product of the work. From todays writing group. I was struggling a bit. When its a flow state, this happens. These days, not so much. Poem This you or me each of them a mountain of ourselves rise into thin air, hovers briefly in cloud with the old men, hawks in a speeding car that zooms into girl-talk. One of him got some odd mist to a point, mad hatter fell off. Be mindful! In this instance, with wonder each of us describes mountain tops. The whirling world we share its sound-- chimes on the wind. We all feed the leopard chasing the Snow Queen forever unless we reach the space where we love. And our drunken trip away from yearning surfaces : a snowy white dead city with a cockroach heart. From today's writing group. A Butterscotch World We, the existential stars burn somewhere between shopping malls, that Starbucks logo. Spaghetti Eddie a fool yanked transparent in transparent tin a sea of fields. Just another day down rocked along the sidewalk. Persistent dark clouds collapse we taste freedom, unless we sink in butterscotch aromas under strip mall sun. From today's writing group. Taras Shevchenko and the Carlyle Group Poets, like rats, prepare themselves evenly around old waterfalls and she grows poems inside a drumskin garden. Rambling water pooled in her cavern-- a reminder of my birth in Poland, the movement of life-- bone spurt and semen, warm lamp from her window urn buzzing a sound of uranium ore. Places today are thin. I heard from Crusty the great fellow that silences follow bow strings. A beautiful face is crafted; a flower eternally false head shapen in the cheap vat of too much human glue. A blond image stilled in a butterfly jump for money. A handful of human ideas are easily bought, if you have the dollars and cents. The river separates the walking from the sailed. The earth fills and new moon beers. A link in a vast machine is mighty, a star key of listing in terror, so transparently opaque. The machine-fear is that Taras Shevchenko, a Ukrainian poet, peasant and amphibious soldier, looks on from Mount Rushmore. Just off the Wire PRISTINA, Kosovo 31 Dec 2007 Father Anton Surprised by the bells DHEKLE in Centre Mladih Upravo xneca na Novku The way he once intended the dawn, pillow talk over candle, hour of lovers telling But never rising. At 8 am theyre fat underthrows Overstreaming the past, forgotten cups and drowned toast Hot white sunshine exposes (PCOM) Tic--a-tic--a-ticktock Sing pop joys, happy meter Be not alone ,,, Karl-leathered? OOW Platonics, hectic techno durutschen Upward silver years away from home but never risen. T-Builders in Lanka 2 PM continues, Going in morning's fire-calatrix DHEKLE in Centre Mladih enlightened xmeca na Novku At peace in Synaesthesia-ponds, lost galaxies meander simple power, dominant periphraphic, as jam on a poem fed enemy's Memorial. His theme songways crazy, couching tales in stone glass pillows Spins lowly alone meals, fuzzpressing day mungos Vu-named in power of pure rice (Polonius of the Archaebacterial Tattobitz) Bough be bohat and gathered in Suzanne P but--more-- Never rises! Date and Time: 31 December 2007 - 1 January 2008 20:04 From yesterday's writing group. Used reality mining on one of my emails to create raw but edited material for the poem. Saddam Hussein Let his soul be lifted up I see a fierce voice not as it was 1988 but a high bellow with fiery nose and wooly hair that fiercest man we loved living in Iraq's arena. Hes gone in a cold blue bag from camera lens the stone cage march in Baghdad is 4000 after death mourning itself a stone cage. Iraq worn out before your BoomBoom mourn for the talents of its dead one in the blue bodybag. Faddil al Shara died it is not that crafty extorting pimp at bodyguard but a swaggering burglar, a cat judge in the desert. Al Shara, O Samuel, your versus, your intellect shall always make bombs ring like a shopping baskets head is no more expressed up. A Faddil, a Kid with gold and bounty of weapons. From yesterday's writing group and current events. Cribbed a bit from my feelings, foreign stories and crude but heartfelt attempts to write about the current goings-on in the world. Zsu Zsu's Cat Once upon a time was the time time after which we three writers, ZsuZsu, her cat and I were sitting quietly (because we were lazy) in a flat next to a pond. Beyond the pond are mountains, and over the mountains a castle with a fusilage disposed. The cat of Zsus bent to the fire licked his claws sucked hard on the cold glass of algas-souped lakes then came: Wizened Lady At The Oven Door Whose hand true enough caught the cat by the tail and scolded him for using his sharp language, adding a gentle touch of cats-meat pies. But the cat of Zsus never atone, never never ever would reply till bespoken the chastised one pushed beyond expression spun rapidly failing at truth inexorably never interesting nor informing. Epilogue: A fire burned brightly and the cat now disheartened to a beech fireside slept that evening. Proving once again War is known and love is blindness. So today I say: for Keith, living up her bosom-pendulum in the cherry tree, write only of life. Our cat of Zsuz and my sponsored prose muse from today's writing group - with a bit of life thrown in. New York, 1984 New York-- Ninety-Ninety-Nineteen Eighty-Four. Rockefeller Group's, Halcyon--Premier. Boy. Before Google Was Even Born. Back When Reagan Was Prez And This Village Was Up For A Stoddard Change. Before the Money Boys Walked in Doormen's Uniforms Out When "Gasoline Alley" Was Being Printed There When You Could Ground In For A Ten Spot. And The Blocks Between Broadway NYU and the Hudson Were Being Auctioned In the Big Bubble Way When Low-Revenue Neighborhoods Looked To Convert--To Get Counted When One Swore Gentrification's Time Was Near A Lull In Before The Waves Crashed on Rector Street The Winter Of 83 Ran To The Depths In 84 Starting High School. Wish I Kept The Diaries! Found in old poetry book {to Anne Sexton} Jerusalem's walls, Aphrodite's body on the page selected excerpt: Words were once written; printed on the page-- gone's the eternal remembered passage Sunday Eve (Buddhistic) Guess the dogs are just barkin' wild tonight... The night they ran a railroad Through ancestral forests of Fucksaw Lament. Not much to do on a Sunday eve Guess the children aren't cryin' coz they're free. Nothin' on my mind, just words to say. Black-n-blude Barn door dream belayed One leg slid out the cozy abyss... Before on cinnabar paths A ferret named Frank came a-knockin' Outside on a Sunday Evening. Now every place turns away its New Face In the coldy foo-bray. Dayman's in the up-neck I hear...The white waves they stay in time Now-- a lalalullalay. Monday comin' strong Bindin' the echoes of the lawled-sails coax Oh, you blow-by-nicht A Sudden Sway. -30- Welcome To Tuesday All aboard! All aboard andin welcome to welcome the hearing Feet to Instance, Fellow Fond Personage! Say! says the Chronicle FurloughIndustryTome so Led. Ah, so Froward Fortune And her sovereignties In And Yet! Days Have Forsooken Thus Now That Lofty Heavens Opened Their Gates; All Hail, Down They Fall On Meadows Pure, Not To Haze Or Estrange. Great Abode Of The Fiskar --and Yet Still And All (Paul Vickery) Of Late: Repose It So and There All Succour Shall Be Found This Morn The Morning Dawned As The Bible A Presence perennial And Superlatively Seething and Excessive They Spoke In The Fair And Amidst Fair Surcease Lodgest Thou . . . . . . . . . . -1- -0- And--and 'Low! One May Gain, May Begin Her FireTo Suck Onto The Breach And Tcillate in The Frame's Abode That People In Addition Address her And Have The Sage Be Jever Bespoke, In The Sky As The Ebb So Resonant And And--and The MuseSing--Sing Stay Silently... . Guillaume Cribbed from memory of Tim L. in his Booth Street apartment in the Lower East Side, NY and the box of Bill Wendell's stuff back then. Recovered treasures from days gone by of Nick and the Tan and that Saturday Night on , Buk and Wiggan and Scoblete. A stroll through the days of Tim L. When we were younger and played the blues in district of the days of Scoblete. Bob Drum and Pete Atkin and Barry and the whole crew--. A possible insanity to live in ignorance and play the game of Gezirat Neshar with the boys An Ark In Time Something just right for a sailor on the rocks standing on the back of the boat-- he'd say "what I wouldn't do to have a girl in my arms right now." As the knell approached the captain took him to show an ark in time where the beginning of absurdity was found. There in the spinning clouds and lightning cracks the Ark was shaking, the captain avoided time, mumbled: "Watch, just look at it now!" Crowning the uproar past the storm room where Ishmael found meaning and spitting doubt. His body down in the storm room good-looking face caught up in the dusters beyond burning aspirations eyes like stone. Between the ceiling of water and the ceiling of thunder he moved. In the water, there really wasn't much difference to his strut. Later the letter revealed cryptically mumbled nobility of the captain titled it: "To Search And Not Found." From days of old to the present and the boy he exchanged with Edgar Poe. Cribbed from memory of later with Tim L. in his Booth Street apartment in the Lower East Side, NY. Yeah. When we were younger and played the blues in district of the days of Scoblete. A sailor on the rocks searching the past --. Guitars in the wind fell with Edgar Poe --. Top Hat Stories I once met a guy downtown with an above-ground top hat who plugged up a parking lot into a hat shop, remembered he made millions selling them down at LIU in Brooklyn. And how many Union guys go with top hats pixeled on their armads? -2- Now he sits down with Welcome to Shit Avenue on 1st Street south of the highway and greets them with his crap next to the seagulls for lunch--Or has he? Friggin' epidemiologie numbers never balance out the hat seller given fair-weather chance. Down in Old Iowa Old Iowa Wednesday Night: An Elegietoance I reach down for a woman's dress in consideration of the cat's tooth. A single bangle wears her wrist to remember: Gin and Gatton in that Des Moines town. One night she sang from the balcony and Merle went suddenly down Old Ioway. 7-4 was only everything back then. Mary took a bow and even looked back one day just to see She's Looney Toons today, 228 In that same hooter's she was dreaming of, before spinning past me with the dews of the night The three letters to the wolves and soldiers 3000 days before it all all went wrong. But here in the day of Old Ioway, Thursday travels lightly away old Mary in her coffin of a cool cut Gem in a Courtney nail still lays her head a-following down still Where black Ansel awaits Whatever it is he's running toward. Taken from memory of one David G. in his 23rd St apt. With Bill Kreutzmann, Simon Kay, Joey Pastrita and Paul Vickery back then. A Bleeding Boy Society societal and stark broke with the balms of bleeding boy society. And emblematic blazoned crossed the skies with jeweled braid and, carapace oft with dived scry. -2- Took the test and delved the neck for sigh and thrivin' soul pour out the spoils so drybeyond the reach of high I drove destroyer in desire many-acred boy. I had encountered the tales known nine and thirty times plus two according to Gates with burn'd and jewell'd names of beauty unfulfilled received his king audaciously, dust place rediscovered my many-present daygoose flesh with busy chant the warsits --relayed Conveyed through bloodlets so torn and cut Fancy fixed within mystery's drama so sans he wounded with confusion's blood washed see him boarding, sullen train conductoration peeled to the mind's eye spied retreat of arms and wrists laid cold upon the mind through space and vast deep blue noise One could hardly hear when falling through it he read here both by many-men allman'd so bidwelntity. --1978 From days gone by. Cribbed from Johnny D. and Robert Yoho, David Bromberg nights with Bill Kreutzmann, Simon Kay, Joey Pastrito and Paul Vickery. And that MidSummer's along the Bowery awash with the blood of youth. Tales of high desire and forbidden love. Blue-road upnight, on the B Train to Brighton Beach, a New Orleans Morn with Saint Jimmy and Tony Kenora. But that wild eye david bee--very wafer-thin exploring as K. Inspecting the Life of Shadows -in-full December 11th, 3826 --a waiting deep lies just above the margins of desire... -where one must keep time in highborning pyre --where the fault line dare reverse forth its way antiquitatively --the womb replicates in morbid rapidity... -where one must keep time in highborning fyre that escapeth repeats held to singularity... -3- --where the dream scene solar sects tint the imperatives such 12th-retina flexes a montebank rue remembers the chomage to be grass --where the moon doth collibate with collective last dirrechronologies

Ce tip de personalitate este Dr. Grace Park?

Dr. Grace Park from When the Bough Breaks could potentially be an INTJ (Introverted, Intuitive, Thinking, Judging) personality type. This type is characterized by their strong analytical skills, strategic thinking, and independence. Dr. Park, as a successful and driven professional in the field of psychology, demonstrates these qualities throughout the film. She is focused on problem-solving and achieving her goals, often relying on her intuition and logical reasoning to navigate complex situations. Additionally, INTJs are known for their confidence and determination, both of which are evident in Dr. Park's actions and decisions in the film. She is not easily swayed by outside influences and maintains a sense of control and composure in high-pressure situations. In conclusion, Dr. Grace Park's character in When the Bough Breaks exhibits traits commonly associated with the INTJ personality type, including analytical thinking, independence, determination, and confidence.

Ce tip de eneagramă este Dr. Grace Park?

Dr. Grace Park from When the Bough Breaks is likely an Enneagram 3w4. This means she is primarily a Type 3, known for being ambitious, success-oriented, and image-conscious, with a secondary Type 4 wing, known for being individualistic, creative, and emotionally expressive. In the film, Dr. Park's ambitious nature is evident in her career as a successful psychiatrist, always striving for excellence and recognition in her field. She presents a polished and put-together image to the world, reflecting the typical traits of a Type 3. However, her more introspective and emotionally expressive side, influenced by her Type 4 wing, is seen in her moments of vulnerability and self-reflection as she navigates complex ethical dilemmas and personal challenges. Overall, Dr. Grace Park's 3w4 Enneagram type manifests in a personality that is driven, achievement-oriented, and introspective, creating a nuanced and complex character with depth and complexity. Concluding Statement: Dr. Grace Park's Enneagram 3w4 type adds layers to her character, providing insight into her drive for success, desire for authenticity, and emotional depth, making her a compelling and dynamic figure in When the Bough Breaks.

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