The Midgard Servant

Thor is The Champion of The Gods, of Earth and of The Human Race.

He is the great fighter who can be brought out when something is really bad. 

 You don't go to Thor for wisdom, you go to Thor because he's going to protect you against the evil monsters. 

Tales of Thor's adventures provided escape from one of the bleakest periods in human history. 

The dark ages of the first millennium A.D. 

It was a time when the Norse world, stretching from the British Isles to the Baltic Sea, was in turmoil. 

The agricultural society, where people were farming and surviving kind of at the very edge of how it was possible to survive, because it was cold, it was the northern part of Europe, it wasn't around the Mediterranean where it was much easier to grow things, and it tended to be, from everything we can tell, quite violent. 

War, famine and death were daily facts of life on the desolate northern fringes of Europe. 

But the myth of Thor brought a sense of order to the chaos. 

“It was a religion of the countryside. Paganism actually is a Latin word that describes that, what the country people believe in, and paganism is not really well organized either. It's not like the Greek Pantheon in the sense that it's very well organized and everybody knows whose responsibilities and who's more important than whom. It's very different. The view of human life in that mythology was a fairly dark and fairly stern one. Human beings didn't look forward to the kind of salvation and heaven at the end of time that's promised in the Christian stories. They had a kind of a darker, a more sorrowful view of life.”

People have to show great courage and hardiness in the face of enormous obstacles. 

For inspiration, the people looked to Thor. 

Thor was the quintessential hero. 

He was strong. 

Unlike some of the other gods he was not deceptive, he was not treacherous, but he was steadfast, and as this hero figure, I think, people could identify with him best. 

In the myth, two of Thor's weapons help him conquer evil forces: A belt that doubles his strength and a hammer that shoots lethal bolts of lightning. 

No matter how far Thor throws his trusty hammer, it will return to him like a boomerang. 

And each time thunder roars, it means Thor's hammer has struck a giant. 

Thor is the master of lightning, and this is not uncommon in other mythologies. 

The obvious parallel here is Zeus in classical mythology, for he is the thunder god. 

The thunder and lightning god is the protector god.

He's the strongest fighter, so he has that capability that Zeus has, the thunderbolt, the hammer for Thor, that can destroy the bad guys”

Eastman :

It's about redirecting.

Morgan Jones :

Evading.

Eastman :

And actually caring about the welfare of your opponent.

Morgan Jones : 

So you have to care about yourself.

Eastman : 

You don't have to believe your life is precious, but that all life is precious.

Morgan Jones : 

You have to redirect those thoughts, the history that tells you otherwise.

Eastman : 

What we've done, we've done.

Morgan Jones : 

We evade it by moving forward with a code to never do it again.

Eastman : 

To make up for it.

Morgan Jones : 

To still accept what we were.

Eastman : 

To accept everyone.

Morgan Jones : 

To protect everyone.

Eastman : 

And in doing that, protect yourself.

Morgan Jones : 

To create peace.

MIRACLE

THE ARCHBISHOP. 

You are not so accustomed to miracles as I am. 

It is part of my profession.

LA TRÉMOUILLE 

[fueled and a little scandalized] 

But that would not be 

a miracle at all.

THE ARCHBISHOP 

[calmly] 

Why not?

LA TRÉMOUILLE. 

Well, come! what is a miracle?

THE ARCHBISHOP. 

A miracle, my friend, 

is an event which creates Faith. 

That is the purpose and nature of miracles. 

They may seem very wonderful to the people who witness them, and very simple to those who perform them, but does not matter: 

if they confirm or create faith 

they are true miracles.

LA TRÉMOUILLE. 

Even when they are frauds, do you mean?

THE ARCHBISHOP. 

Frauds deceive. 

An event which creates faith does not deceive: therefore it is not a fraud, but a miracle.

LA TRÉMOUILLE 

[scratching his neck in his perplexity] 

Well, I suppose as you are an archbishop you must be right. 

It seems a bit fishy to me. 

But I am no churchman, and dont understand these matters.

THE ARCHBISHOP. 

You are not a churchman; but you are a diplomatist and a soldier. 

Could you make our citizens pay war taxes, or our soldiers sacrifice their lives, if they knew what is really happening instead of what seems to them to be happening?

LA TRÉMOUILLE. 

No, by Saint Denis: the fat would be in the fire before sundown.

THE ARCHBISHOP. 

Would it not be quite easy to tell them The Truth?

LA TRÉMOUILLE. 

Man alive, they wouldnt believe it.

THE ARCHBISHOP. 

Just so. 

Well, the Church has to rule men for the good of their souls as you have to rule them for the good of their bodies. 

To do that, the Church must do as you do: 

nourish their faith 

by poetry.

LA TRÉMOUILLE. 

Poetry! I should call it humbug.

THE ARCHBISHOP. 

You would be wrong, my friend. 

Parables are not lies because they describe events that have never happened. 

Miracles are not frauds because they are often --I do not say always-- very simple and innocent contrivances by which the priest fortifies the faith of his flock. 

When this girl picks out The Dauphin among his courtiers, 

it will not be a miracle for me, because 

I shall know how it has been done, 

and my faith will not be increased. 

But as for the others, 

if they feel the thrill of the supernatural, 

and forget their sinful clay 

in a sudden sense 

of The Glory of God,

 it will be a miracle 

and a blessed one. 

And you will find that the girl herself will be more affected than anyone else. 

She will forget how she really picked him out. 

So, perhaps, will you.

LA TRÉMOUILLE. 

Well, I wish I were clever enough to know how much of you is God's archbishop and how much the most artful fox in Touraine. 

Come on, or we shall be late for the fun; 

and I want to see it, 

miracle or no miracle.

THE ARCHBISHOP 

[detaining him a moment] 

Do not think that I am a lover of crooked ways. 

There is a new spirit rising in men: we are at the dawning of a wider epoch. 

If I were a simple monk,

 and had not to rule men, 

I should seek peace for my spirit 

with Aristotle and Pythagoras 

rather than with 

the saints and their miracles.

LA TRÉMOUILLE. 

And who the deuce was Pythagoras?

THE ARCHBISHOP. 

A sage who held that the earth is round, and that it moves round the sun.

LA TRÉMOUILLE. 

What an utter fool! 

Couldnt he use his eyes?

JOAN'S VOICES AND VISIONS

Joan's voices and visions have played many tricks with her reputation. They have been held to prove that she was mad, that she was a liar and impostor, that she was a sorceress (she was burned for this), and finally that she was a saint. They do not prove any of these things; but the variety of the conclusions reached shew how little our matter-of-fact historians know about other people's minds, or even about their own. There are people in the world whose imagination is so vivid that when they have an idea it comes to them as an audible voice, sometimes uttered by a visual figure. Criminal lunatic asylums are occupied largely by murderers who have obeyed voices. Thus a woman may hear voices telling her that she must cut her husband's throat and strangle her child as they lie asleep; and she may feel obliged to do what she is told. By a medico-legal superstition it is held in our courts that criminals whose temptations present themselves under these illusions are not responsible for their actions, and must be treated as insane. But the seers of visions and the hearers of revelations are not always criminals. The inspirations and intuitions and unconsciously reasoned conclusions of genius sometimes assume similar illusions. Socrates, Luther, Swedenborg, Blake saw visions and heard voices just as Saint Francis and Saint Joan did. If Newton's imagination had been of the same vividly dramatic kind he might have seen the ghost of Pythagoras walk into the orchard and explain why the apples were falling. Such an illusion would have invalidated neither the theory of gravitation nor Newton's general sanity. What is more, the visionary method of making the discovery would not be a whit more miraculous than the normal method. The test of sanity is not the normality of the method but the reasonableness of the discovery. If Newton had been informed by Pythagoras that the moon was made of green cheese, then Newton would have been locked up. Gravitation, being a reasoned hypothesis which fitted remarkably well into the Copernican version of the observed physical facts of the universe, established Newton's reputation for extraordinary intelligence, and would have done so no matter how fantastically he had arrived at it. Yet his theory of gravitation is not so impressive a mental feat as his astounding chronology, which establishes him as the king of mental conjurors, but a Bedlamite king whose authority no one now accepts. On the subject of the eleventh horn of the beast seen by the prophet Daniel he was more fantastic than Joan, because his imagination was not dramatic but mathematical and therefore extraordinarily susceptible to numbers: indeed if all his works were lost except his chronology we should say that he was as mad as a hatter. As it is, who dares diagnose Newton as a madman?

In the same way Joan must be judged a sane woman in spite of her voices because they never gave her any advice that might not have come to her from her mother wit exactly as gravitation came to Newton. We can all see now, especially since the late war threw so many of our women into military life, that Joan's campaigning could not have been carried on in petticoats. This was not only because she did a man's work, but because it was morally necessary that sex should be left out of the question as between her and her comrades-in-arms. She gave this reason herself when she was pressed on the subject; and the fact that this entirely reasonable necessity came to her imagination first as an order from God delivered through the mouth of Saint Catherine does not prove that she was mad. The soundness of the order proves that she was unusually sane; but its form proves that her dramatic imagination played tricks with her senses. Her policy was also quite sound: nobody disputes that the relief of Orleans, followed up by the coronation at Rheims of the Dauphin as a counterblow to the suspicions then current of his legitimacy and consequently of his title, were military and political masterstrokes that saved France. They might have been planned by Napoleon or any other illusionproof genius. They came to Joan as an instruction from her Counsel, as she called her visionary saints; but she was none the less an able leader of men for imagining her ideas in this way.

him in silence]. Attention! [He restores the halberd to the man-at-arms]. The Duke of Vendôme presents Joan the Maid to his Majesty.

CHARLES 

[putting his finger on his lip] 

Ssh! 

[He hides behind the nearest courtier, peering out to see what happens].

BLUEBEARD 

[majestically] 

Let her approach the throne.

Joan, dressed as a soldier, with her hair bobbed and hanging thickly round her face, is led in by a bashful and speechless nobleman, from whom she detaches herself to stop and look around eagerly for the Dauphin.

THE DUCHESS 

[to the nearest lady in waiting] 

My dear! Her hair! 

All the ladies explode in uncontrollable laughter.

BLUEBEARD 

[trying not to laugh, and waving his hand in deprecation of their merriment] 

Ssh--ssh! Ladies! Ladies!!

JOAN 

[not at all embarrassed] 

I wear it like this because I am a soldier. Where be Dauphin?

A titter runs through the Court as she walks to the dais.

BLUEBEARD 

[condescendingly] 

You are in the presence 

of The Dauphin.

Joan looks at him sceptically for a moment, scanning him hard up and down to make sure. 

Dead silence, all watching her. 

Fun dawns in her face.

JOAN. 

Coom, Bluebeard! 

Thou canst not fool me. 

Where be Dauphin?

A roar of laughter breaks out as Gilles, with a gesture of surrender, joins in the laugh, and jumps down from the dais beside La Trémouille. Joan, also on the broad grin, turns back, searching along the row of courtiers, and presently makes a dive, and drags out Charles by the arm.

JOAN 

[releasing him and bobbing him a little curtsey] 

Gentle little Dauphin, I am sent to you to drive the English away from Orleans and from France, and to crown you king in the cathedral at Rheims, where all true kings of France are crowned.

CHARLES 

[triumphant, to the Court] 

You see, all of you: she knew the blood royal. Who dare say now that I am not my father's son? 

[To Joan] 

But if you want me to be crowned at Rheims you must talk to the Archbishop, not to me. 

There he is 

[he is standing behind her]!

JOAN 

[turning quickly, overwhelmed with emotion] 

Oh, my lord! 

[She falls on both knees before him, with bowed head, not daring to look up] My lord: I am only a poor country girl; and you are filled with the blessedness and glory of God Himself; but you will touch me with your hands, and give me your blessing, wont you?

BLUEBEARD [whispering to La Trémouille] The old fox blushes.

LA TRÉMOUILLE. Another miracle!

THE ARCHBISHOP [touched, putting his hand on her head] Child: you are in love with religion.

JOAN [startled: looking up at him] Am I? I never thought of that. Is there any harm in it?

THE ARCHBISHOP. There is no harm in it, my child. But there is danger.

JOAN [rising, with a sunflush of reckless happiness irradiating her face] There is always danger, except in heaven. Oh, my lord, you have given me such strength, such courage. It must be a most wonderful thing to be Archbishop.

The Court smiles broadly: even titters a little.

THE ARCHBISHOP [drawing himself up sensitively] Gentlemen: your levity is rebuked by this maid's faith. I am, God help me, all unworthy; but your mirth is a deadly sin.

Their faces fall. Dead silence.

BLUEBEARD. My lord: we were laughing at her, not at you.

THE ARCHBISHOP. What? Not at my unworthiness but at her faith! Gilles de Rais: this maid prophesied that the blasphemer should be drowned in his sin--

JOAN [distressed] No!

THE ARCHBISHOP [silencing her by a gesture] I prophesy now that you will be hanged in yours if you do not learn when to laugh and when to pray.

BLUEBEARD. My lord: I stand rebuked. I am sorry: I can say no more. But if you prophesy that I shall be hanged, I shall never be able to resist temptation, because I shall always be telling myself that I may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.

The courtiers take heart at this. There is more tittering.

JOAN [scandalized] You are an idle fellow, Bluebeard; and you have great impudence to answer the Archbishop.

LA HIRE [with a huge chuckle] Well said, lass! Well said!

JOAN [impatiently to the Archbishop] Oh, my lord, will you send all these silly folks away so that I may speak to the Dauphin alone?

LA HIRE [goodhumoredly] I can take a hint. [He salutes; turns on his heel; and goes out].

THE ARCHBISHOP. Come, gentlemen. The Maid comes with God's blessing, and must be obeyed.

The courtiers withdraw, some through the arch, others at the opposite side. The Archbishop marches across to the door, followed by the Duchess and La Trémouille. As the Archbishop passes Joan, she falls on her knees, and kisses the hem of his robe fervently. He shakes his head in instinctive remonstrance; gathers the robe from her; and goes out. She is left kneeling directly in the Duchess's way.

THE DUCHESS [coldly] Will you allow me to pass, please?

JOAN [hastily rising, and standing back] Beg pardon, maam, I am sure.

The Duchess passes on. Joan stares after her; then whispers to the Dauphin.

JOAN. Be that Queen?

CHARLES. No. She thinks she is.

JOAN [again staring after the Duchess] Oo-oo-ooh! [Her awestruck amazement at the figure cut by the magnificently dressed lady is not wholly complimentary].

LA TRÉMOUILLE [very surly] I'll trouble your Highness not to gibe at my wife. [He goes out. The others have already gone].

JOAN [to the Dauphin] Who be old Gruff-and-Grum?

CHARLES. He is the Duke de la Trémouille.

JOAN. What be his job?

CHARLES. He pretends to command the army. And whenever I find a friend I can care for, he kills him.

JOAN. Why dost let him?

CHARLES [petulantly moving to the throne side of the room to escape from her magnetic field] How can I prevent him? He bullies me. They all bully me.

JOAN. Art afraid?

CHARLES. Yes: I am afraid. It's no use preaching to me about it. It's all very well for these big men with their armor that is too heavy for me, and their swords that I can hardly lift, and their muscle and their shouting and their bad tempers. They like fighting: most of them are making fools of themselves all the time they are not fighting; but I am quiet and sensible; and I dont want to kill people: I only want to be left alone to enjoy myself in my own way. I never asked to be a king: it was pushed on me. So if you are going to say 'Son of St Louis: gird on the sword of your ancestors, and lead us to victory' you may spare your breath to cool your porridge; for I cannot do it. I am not built that way; and there is an end of it.

JOAN [trenchant and masterful] Blethers! We are all like that to begin with. I shall put courage into thee.

CHARLES. But I dont want to have courage put into me. I want to sleep in a comfortable bed, and not live in continual terror of being killed or wounded. Put courage into the others, and let them have their bellyful of fighting; but let me alone.

JOAN. It's no use, Charlie: thou must face what God puts on thee. If thou fail to make thyself king, thoult be a beggar: what else art fit for? Come! Let me see thee sitting on the throne. I have looked forward to that.

CHARLES. What is the good of sitting on the throne when the other fellows give all the orders? However! [he sits enthroned, a piteous figure] here is the king for you! Look your fill at the poor devil.

JOAN. Thourt not king yet, lad: thourt but Dauphin. Be not led away by them around thee. Dressing up dont fill empty noddle. I know the people: the real people that make thy bread for thee; and I tell thee they count no man king of France until the holy oil has been poured on his hair, and himself consecrated and crowned in Rheims Cathedral. And thou needs new clothes, Charlie. Why does not Queen look after thee properly?

CHARLES. We're too poor. She wants all the money we can spare to put on her own back. Besides, I like to see her beautifully dressed; and I dont care what I wear myself: I should look ugly anyhow.

JOAN. There is some good in thee, Charlie; but it is not yet a king's good.

CHARLES. We shall see. I am not such a fool as I look. I have my eyes open; and I can tell you that one good treaty is worth ten good fights. These fighting fellows lose all on the treaties that they gain on the fights. If we can only have a treaty, the English are sure to have the worst of it, because they are better at fighting than at thinking.

JOAN. If the English win, it is they that will make the treaty: and then God help poor France! Thou must fight, Charlie, whether thou will or no. I will go first to hearten thee. We must take our courage in both hands: aye, and pray for it with both hands too.

CHARLES [descending from his throne and again crossing the room to escape from her dominating urgency] Oh do stop talking about God and praying. I cant bear people who are always praying. Isnt it bad enough to have to do it at the proper times?

JOAN [pitying him] Thou poor child, thou hast never prayed in thy life. I must teach thee from the beginning.

CHARLES. I am not a child: I am a grown man and a father; and I will not be taught any more.

JOAN. Aye, you have a little son. He that will be Louis the Eleventh when you die. Would you not fight for him?

CHARLES. No: a horrid boy. He hates me. He hates everybody, selfish little beast! I dont want to be bothered with children. I dont want to be a father; and I dont want to be a son: especially a son of St Louis. I dont want to be any of these fine things you all have your heads full of: I want to be just what I am. Why cant you mind your own business, and let me mind mine?

JOAN [again contemptuous] Minding your own business is like minding your own body: it's the shortest way to make yourself sick. What is my business? Helping mother at home. What is thine? Petting lapdogs and sucking sugar-sticks. I call that muck. I tell thee it is God's business we are here to do: not our own. I have a message to thee from God; and thou must listen to it, though thy heart break with the terror of it.

CHARLES. I dont want a message; but can you tell me any secrets? Can you do any cures? Can you turn lead into gold, or anything of that sort?

JOAN. I can turn thee into a king, in Rheims Cathedral; and that is a miracle that will take some doing, it seems.

CHARLES. If we go to Rheims, and have a coronation, Anne will want new dresses. We cant afford them. I am all right as I am.

JOAN. As you are! And what is that? Less than my father's poorest shepherd. Thourt not lawful owner of thy own land of France till thou be consecrated.

CHARLES. But I shall not be lawful owner of my own land anyhow. Will the consecration pay off my mortgages? I have pledged my last acre to the Archbishop and that fat bully. I owe money even to Bluebeard.

JOAN [earnestly] Charlie: I come from the land, and have gotten my strength working on the land; and I tell thee that the land is thine to rule righteously and keep God's peace in, and not to pledge at the pawnshop as a drunken woman pledges her children's clothes. And I come from God to tell thee to kneel in the cathedral and solemnly give thy kingdom to Him for ever and ever, and become the greatest king in the world as His steward and His bailiff, His soldier and His servant. The very clay of France will become holy: her soldiers will be the soldiers of God: the rebel dukes will be rebels against God: the English will fall on their knees and beg thee let them return to their lawful homes in peace. Wilt be a poor little Judas, and betray me and Him that sent me?

CHARLES [tempted at last] Oh, if I only dare!

JOAN. I shall dare, dare, and dare again, in God's name! Art for or against me?

CHARLES [excited] 

I'll risk it, I warn you I shant be able to keep it up; but I'll risk it. You shall see. 

[Running to the main door and shouting] 

Hallo! Come back, everybody. [To Joan, as he runs back to the arch opposite] 

Mind you stand by and dont let me be bullied. 

[Through the arch] 

Come along, will you: the whole Court. [He sits down in the royal chair as they all hurry in to their former places, chattering and wondering]. Now I'm in for it; but no matter: here goes! [To the page] Call for silence, you little beast, will you?

THE PAGE [snatching a halberd as before and thumping with it repeatedly] Silence for His Majesty the King. The King speaks. [Peremptorily] Will you be silent there? [Silence].

CHARLES [rising] I have given the command of the army to The Maid. The Maid is to do as she likes with it. [He descends from the dais].

General amazement. La Hire, delighted, slaps his steel thigh-piece with his gauntlet.

LA TRÉMOUILLE [turning threateningly towards Charles] What is this? I command the army.

Joan quickly puts her hand on Charles's shoulder as he instinctively recoils. Charles, with a grotesque effort culminating in an extravagant gesture, snaps his fingers in the Chamberlain's face.

JOAN. Thourt answered, old Gruff-and-Grum. [Suddenly flashing out her sword as she divines that her moment has come] Who is for God and His Maid? Who is for Orleans with me?

LA HIRE [carried away, drawing also] For God and His Maid! To Orleans!

ALL THE KNIGHTS [following his lead with enthusiasm] To Orleans!

Joan, radiant, falls on her knees in thanksgiving to God. They all kneel, except the Archbishop, who gives his benediction with a sigh, and La Trémouille, who collapses, cursing.

The World's Not Going to Just Save Itself, Dear.

Odin has many names. 

He is The All-Father, The Lord of The Slain, The Gallows God. 

He is The God of Cargoes and of Prisoners. 

He is called Grimnir and Third. 

He has different names in every country (for he is worshipped in different forms and in many tongues, but it is always Odin they worship).

He travels from place to place in disguise, to see The World as people see it. 

When he walks among us, he does so as a tall man, wearing a cloak and hat.

Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust,

Either pull the damned thing out again to use properly this time,

Or else, it may as well just  rust.

 Which it already is - started to, at least. And it will.

With exponential rapidity of pace, left to itself, 

 If left unclaimed and untended. 

 Because Rust Never Sleeps. 

Our Fathers Do. Infants Do. 

You and I Do. Titans Sleep. 

The Elder Gods of World's Before This One Sleep. 

Mytho-Historic Hunter-Warrior Heroes needed to Even The King needs his sleep. 

 Rust NEVER Sleeps

NOT JUST

 

That's The Difference Between Boys and Girls –

and it Becomes 

The Difference Between Men and Women, 

really....

Because, a Man will, like,

Steal Your Car

or

Burn Your House Down

or

Beat The Shit Outta Ya –

But a Woman will Ruin Your Fucking Life...

JUST

 

Dangerously Close to God

“One reason we hesitate to carry our own gold is that it is dangerously close to God. Our gold has Godlike characteristics, and it is difficult to bear the weight of it.

In Indian culture, there’s a time-honored custom that you have the right to go to another person—a man, a woman, a stranger and ask him or her to be the incarnation of God for you. 

There are strict laws governing this. 

If the person agrees to be the incarnation of God for you, you must never pester him. 

You must never put a heavy weight on him —it's weighty enough as it is. 

And you must not engage in any other kind of relationship with that person — 

You don’t become friends, 

and you don’t marry him. 

The person becomes a kind of Patron Saint for you.

J. Krishnamurti was a wonderful man. 

Lots of people put gold on him. One afternoon, he and I went for a walk in Ojai, California, and a little old lady was kneeling alongside the path. We just walked by. 

Later he told me, 

“She has put the image of God on me. 

She knows what she’s doing. 

She never talks or asks anything of me. 

But when I go for a walk, she somehow knows where I’m going to be, and she’s always there.” 

What was most touching was his attitude.

 If she needed this, 

he would do it.

This is the original meaning of the terms godfather and godmother.

That person is the carrier of Godlike qualities for you. 

Nowadays we think of a godparent as the one who will take care of us materially in case our parents are not able to see it through. 

But the original meaning was of someone who carries 

The Subtle Part of Your Life — 

a Parent in an interior, Godlike way. 

It’s a wonderful custom. 

Most parents are worn out just seeing their child through to physical maturity. 

We need someone else who isn’t bothered with authority issues, like “How much is my allowance this week?” Being a godparent was originally a quiet arrangement for holding a child’s gold.

When I was sixteen, two years after meeting Thor, I desperately needed someone like that. So I appointed a godmother and godfather, and those two people saved my life. They knew instinctively the duties of this need, and they fulfilled them. My godmother died when I was twenty-two, and I wasn’t ready to give her up. It was the most difficult loss of my life. I was forced to take my gold back before I was ready. My godfather lived until I was in my fifties, and by then I was ready to let him go.

I love the idea of godparents. Sometimes young people come circling around me, and I bring up this language. “Do you want a godfather?” If it fits, we work out the necessary rules. “You may have this out of me, and you must not ask that.” These are the old godparent laws. It’s a version of the incarnation of God in Indian custom.”

 

Excerpt from: "Inner Gold: Understanding Psychological Projection" by Arnie Kotler. Scribd.

This material may be protected by copyright.

EXT. AIRPORT - NIGHT DISSOLVE TO: 118.

The entire airport is surrounded by a heavy fog. The outline of the transport plane is barely visible. CUT TO: INT./EXT. AIRPORT HANGAR - NIGHT A uniformed ORDERLY uses a telephone near the hangar door. On the airfield a transport plane is being readied. ORDERLY Hello. Hello, radio tower? Lisbon plane taking off in ten minutes. East runway. Visibility: one and one half miles. Light ground fog. Depth of fog: approximately 500. Ceiling: unlimited. Thank you. He hangs up and moves to a car that has just pulled up outside the hangar. Renault gets out while the orderly stands at attention. He's closely followed by Rick, right hand in the pocket of his trench coat, covering Renault with a gun. Laszlo and Ilsa emerge from the rear of the car. RICK (indicating the orderly) Louis, have your man go with Mr. Laszlo and take care of his luggage. RENAULT (bowing ironically) Certainly Rick, anything you say. (to orderly) Find Mr. Laszlo's luggage and put it it on the plane. ORDERLY Yes, sir. This way please. The orderly escorts Laszlo off in the direction of the plane. Rick takes the letters of transit out of his pocket and hands them to Renault, who turns and walks toward the hangar. RICK If you don't mind, you fill in the names. That will make it even more official. RENAULT You think of everything, don't you? 119.

 RICK (quietly) And the names are Mr. and Mrs. Victor Laszlo. Renault stops dead in his tracks, and turns around. Both Ilsa and Renault look at Rick with ILSA But why my name, Richard? RICK Because you're getting on ILSA (confused) I don't understand. What astonishment. that plane. about you? RICK I'm staying here with him 'til the plane gets safely away. Rick's intention suddenly dawns on Ilsa. Renault 

ILSA 

No, Richard, no. 

What has happened to you?

 Last night we said -- 

RICK 

-- Last night we said a great many things. 

You said I was to do the thinking for both of us. 

Well, I've done a lot of it since then and it all adds up to one thing. 

You're getting on that plane with Victor where you belong. 

ILSA (protesting)

 But Richard, no, I, I -- 

RICK 

-- You've got to listen to me. 

Do you have any idea what you'd have to look forward to if you stayed here? 

Nine chances out of ten we'd both wind up in a concentration camp. 

Isn't that true, Louis? countersigns the papers. 

RENAULT 

I'm afraid Major Strasser would insist. 

ILSA 

You're saying this only to make me go. RICK I'm saying it because it's true. Inside of us we both know you belong with Victor. You're part of his work, the thing that keeps him going. If that plane leaves the ground and you're not with him, you'll regret it. No. ILSA RICK Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of your life. ILSA But what about us? RICK We'll always have Paris. We didn't have, we'd lost it, until you came to Casablanca. We got it back last night. 

ILSA 

And I said I would never leave you. 

RICK 

And you never will. 

But I've got a job to do, too. 

Where I'm going you can't follow. 

What I've got to do you can't be any part of. 

Ilsa, I'm no good at being noble, but it doesn't take much to see that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. 

Someday you'll understand that. Now, now... 

Ilsa's eyes well up with tears. 

Rick puts his hand to her chin and raises her face to meet his own. 

RICK 

Here's looking at you, kid. 

mCUT TO:

EXT. ROAD - NIGHT 

Major Strasser drives at break-neck speed towards the airport. 

He HONKS his horn furiously. 

INT./EXT. AIRPORT HANGAR - NIGHT 

Laszlo returns. Rick walks into hands him the letters. He walks 

LASZLO 

Everything in order? 

CUT TO: 

the hangar and Renault back out to Laszlo. 

RICK 

All except one thing. 

There's something you should know before you leave. 

LASZLO 

(sensing what is coming) 

Monsieur Blaine, I don't ask you to explain anything. 

RICK 

I'm going to anyway, 

because it may make a difference to you later on. You said you knew about Ilsa and me. 

LASZLO

Yes. 

RICK 

But you didn't know she was at my place last night when you were. 

She came there for the letters of transit. Isn't that true, Ilsa? 

ILSA 

(facing Laszlo) 

Yes. 

RICK (forcefully)

She tried everything to get them, and nothing worked. 

She did her best to convince me that she was still in love with me, but that was all over long ago. 

For your sake, she pretended it wasn't, 

and I let her pretend. 

LASZLO 

I understand. 

RICK 

Here it is. 

Rick hands the letters to Laszlo. 

LASZLO 

Thanks. I appreciate it. Laszlo extends his hand to Rick, who grasps it firmly. 

LASZLO 

And welcome back to The Fight. 

This time I know our side will win. 

On the airfield the airplane engine TURNS OVER and the propellers start turning. They all turn to see the plane readying for take-off. Ilsa looks at Rick and he returns her stare with a blank expression. He then glances at Laszlo, as does Ilsa. Then Laszlo breaks the silence. LASZLO Are you ready Ilsa? ILSA Yes, I'm ready. (to Rick) Goodbye, Rick. God bless you. RICK You better hurry, or you'll miss that plane. Rick watches as Ilsa and Laszlo walk very deliberately towards the plane. 

RENAULT 

Well I was right. You are a sentimentalist. 

RICK Stay where you are. what you're talking Rick puts a cigarette in his RENAULT 

I don't know about. mouth. 

What you just did for Laszlo, and that fairy tale that you invented to send Ilsa away with him. 

I know a little about women, my friend. She went, but she knew you were lying. 

RICK 

Anyway, thanks for helping me out. 

RENAULT I suppose you know this isn't going to be pleasant for either of us, especially for you. I'll have to arrest you of course. RICK As soon as the plane goes, Louis. The door to the plane is closed by an attendant and it slowly taxies down the field. a speeding car comes to a stop outside the hangar. alights from the car and runs toward Renault. STRASSER What is the meaning of that phone call? RENAULT Victor Laszlo is on that plane. Suddenly Strasser Renault nods toward the field. Strasser turns to see the plane taxiing towards the runway. STRASSER Why do you stand here? Why don't you stop him? RENAULT Ask Monsieur Rick. Strasser looks briefly at Rick, then makes a step towards the telephone just inside the hangar door. RICK Get away from that phone. Strasser stops in his tracks, looks at Rick, and sees that he is armed. STRASSER (steely) I would advise you not to interfere. RICK I was willing to shoot Captain Renault, and I'm willing to shoot 124.

you. Strasser watches the plane in agony. His eyes dart towards the telephone. He runs toward it and desperately grabs the receiver. Hello? STRASSER RICK Put that phone down! STRASSER Get me the Radio Tower! RICK Put it down! Strasser, one hand holding the receiver, pulls out a pistol with the other hand, and SHOOTS quickly at Rick. The bullet misses its mark. Rick now SHOOTS at Strasser, who crumples to the ground. At the sound of an approaching car both men turn. A police car SPEEDS in and comes to a stop near Renault. Four gendarmes hurriedly jump out. In the distance the plane turns onto the runway. The gendarmes run to Renault. The first one hurriedly salutes him. GENDARME Mon Capitaine! RENAULT Major Strasser's been shot. Renault pauses and looks at Rick. Rick returns Renault's gaze with expressionless eyes. RENAULT Round up the usual suspects. GENDARME Oui, mon Capitaine. The gendarmes take Strasser's body away and then drive off. Renault walks inside the hangar, picks up a bottle of Vichy water, and opens it. RENAULT 125.

Well, Rick, you're not only a sentimentalist, but you've become a patriot. RICK Maybe, but it seemed like a good time to start. RENAULT I think perhaps you're right. As he pours the water into a glass, Renault sees the Vichy label and quickly DROPS the bottle into a trash basket which he then KICKS over. He walks over and stands beside Rick. They both watch the plane take off, maintaining their gaze until it disappears into the clouds. Rick and Louis slowly walk away from the hangar toward the runway. 

RENAULT It might be a good idea for you to disappear from Casablanca for a while. There's a Free French garrison over at Brazzaville. I could be induced to arrange a passage. 

RICK My letter of transit? I could use a trip. But it doesn't make any difference about our bet. You still owe me ten thousand francs. mRENAULT And that ten thousand francs should pay our expenses. RICK Our expenses? Uh huh. RENAULT 

RICK Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. The two walk off together into the night. THE END FADE OUT

DIAMOND

For River Tam, mostly jewel tones were used to set her costumes apart from the rest of the Serenity crew. 

River had boots to contrast with the soft fabrics of her clothes, "because 
That's Who She Is—

She's this soft, beautiful, sensitive girl, 
but with this hardcore inner character."

“In The West, Gold is The Symbol of The Self, 
while in The East, 
The Symbol of our Inner Divinity is The Diamond. 

In their interior meanings, they are The Same, but the images are different. 

Diamonds are The Hardest Matter on Earth — Unearthly, Celestial, and Impersonal. 

Gold is much softer, a Matter of Relationship, 
The Self as Related. 

I think we’re lucky to have Gold to cope with.”

 Gunnery Sergeant Hartman, USMC : 

I am Gunnery Sergeant Hartman, your senior drill instructor. 

From now on you will speak only when spoken to, and the first and last words out of your filthy sewers will be "Sir". 
Do you maggots understand that?

Recruits : 

[In unison in a normal speaking tone]  

Sir, yes Sir.

 Gunnery Sergeant Hartman, USMC :

Bullshit, I can't hear you. Sound off like you got a pair!

Recruits : 
[In unison, much louder]  

SIR, YES SIR!

 Gunnery Sergeant Hartman, USMC :

If you ladies leave my island, 
if you survive recruit training, you will be a weapon. 

You will be a minister of death, praying for war. 

But until that day, you are pukes. 

You are the lowest form of life on Earth. 

You are not even human fucking beings. 

You are nothing but unorganized grab-asstic pieces of amphibian shit! 

Because I am hard, you will not like me. 
But the more you hate me, the more you will learn. 

I am hard but I am fair. There is no racial bigotry here. 
I do not look down on niggers, kikes, wops or greasers. 
Here, you are all equally worthless. 

And my orders are to weed out all non-hackers who do not pack the gear to serve in my beloved Corps. 

Do you maggots understand that?

The Deadliest Weapon in The World 
is a Marine and His Rifle. 
It is your Killer Instinct which must be harnessed if you expect to survive in combat. 

Your Rifle is only a tool. 
It is The Hard Heart that kills. 

If your Killer Instincts are not clean and strong,  
you will hesitate at The Moment of Truth - You will not kill.

You will become Dead Marines 
And then you will be in a World of Shit 
Because Marines are not allowed to die without permission. 

Do you maggots understand?


Are you quitting on me? Well, are you? 
Then quit, you slimy fucking walrus-looking piece of shit. 

Get the fuck off of My Obstacle. 
Get the fuck down off of my obstacle. Now. Move it. 

I'm going to rip your balls off, so you cannot contaminate the rest of The World. 

I Will motivate you, Private Pyle, if it short-dicks every cannibal in The Congo.

You Have to Be Very Careful What You SAY....

"I would say really, Two Things --

The First is, 

Be Careful About What You've Said, and 

What You've Said in The Past, and 

Maybe it's a bit too late for that --

The Second Thing is,

If You Haven't Done Anything Wrong, Don't Apologise.

Peterson Family Update - February 2020

Jordan Update February 2020

'Hi everyone, it’s been months since we’ve given an update on Jordan and my family’s health and it’s time for one so here goes.

The last year has been extremely difficult for our family. Dad was put on a low dose of a benzodiazepine a few years ago for anxiety following an extremely severe autoimmune reaction to food. He took the medication as prescribed.

Last April when my mom was diagnosed with terminal cancer, the dose of the medication was increased. It became apparent that he was suffering from both a physical dependency and a paradoxical reaction to the medication. A paradoxical reaction means the drugs do the opposite of what they’re supposed to. These reactions are rare but are not unheard of.

For the last 8 months he’s been in unbearable discomfort from this drug, made worse when trying to remove it, because of the addition of withdrawal symptoms, stemming from physical dependence. He experienced terrible akathisia, which is a condition where the person feels an incredible, endless, irresistible restlessness, bordering on panic, and an inability to sit still. The reaction made him suicidal. 

After several failed treatment attempts in North American hospitals, including attempts at tapering and micro-tapering, we had to seek an emergency medical benzodiazepine detox, which we were only able to find in Russia. It was incredibly gruelling, and was further complicated by severe pneumonia which we’ve been told he developed in one of the previous hospitals. He’s had to spend 4 weeks in the ICU in terrible shape, but, with the help of some extremely competent and courageous doctors, he survived. The decision to bring him to Russia was made in extreme desperation, when we couldn’t find any better option. The uncertainty around his recovery has been one of the most difficult and scary experiences we’ve ever had.

So: Finally Dad is on the mend, even though there’s a lot of physiological damage that he needs to recover from. He’s improving, and is off the horrible medication. His sense of humour is back. He’s smiling again for the first time in months, but he still has a long way to go to recover fully. It appears that we are going to get through this by the skin of our teeth.

So let me make a couple of things clear :

1. Neither our family nor the doctors here believe that this is a case of psychological addiction. 

2. Benzodiazepine physical dependence due to brain changes can occur in a matter of weeks. It can be made even worse by paradoxical reactions that are difficult to diagnose, and can be extremely dangerous. 

3. We’ve been told and hope that Dad will recover fully but it will take time and he still has a ways to go. 

4. We are extremely lucky and grateful that he’s alive.

The next update will come from him directly. 

Thanks again for all the support.

Previous update:

Garland Greene is Hannibal in Bloom

“ I regard the two major male archetypes in 20th Century literature as Leopold Bloom and Hannibal Lecter. M.D. Bloom, the perpetual victim, the kind and gentle fellow who finishes last, represented an astonishing breakthrough to new levels of realism in the novel, and also symbolized the view of humanity that hardly anybody could deny c. 1900-1950. 

History, sociology, economics, psychology et al. confirmed Joyce’s view of Everyman as victim. Bloom, exploited and downtrodden by the Brits for being Irish and rejected by many of the Irish for being Jewish, does indeed epiphanize humanity in the first half of the 20th Century. And he remains a nice guy despite everything that happens... 

Dr Lecter, my candidate for the male archetype of 1951-2000, will never win any Nice Guy awards, I fear, but he symbolizes our age as totally as Bloom symbolized his. Hannibal's wit, erudition, insight into others, artistic sensitivity, scientific knowledge etc. make him almost a walking one man encyclopedia of Western civilization. As for his "hobbies" as he calls them — well, according to the World Game Institute, since the end of World War II, in which 60,000,000 human beings were murdered by other human beings, 193, 000,000 more humans have been murdered by other humans in brush wars, revolutions, insurrections etc. What better symbol of our age than a serial killer? Hell, can you think of any recent U.S. President who doesn't belong in the Serial Killer Hall of Fame? And their motives make no more sense, and no less sense, than Dr Lecter's Darwinian one-man effort to rid the planet of those he finds outstandingly loutish and uncouth. “

"Previous Thoughts" at rawilson.com

ADMINISTER

“Beyond a certain point, The Whole Universe becomes a continuous process of Initiation.”

- Robert Anton Wilson

SWORN

“Beyond a certain point, The Whole Universe becomes a continuous process of Initiation.”

- Robert Anton Wilson