Spares

  “Hugh and Emilie were old friends of Pa’s. They lived in Norfolk, and we often went to visit them for a week or two, during school holidays and summers. They had four sons with whom Willy and I were always thrown together, like pups into a bunch of pit bulls.

  We played games. One day Hide and Seek, the next Capture the Flag. But whatever the game it was always an excuse for a massive scrap, and whatever the scrap, there were no winners because there were no rules. Hair-pulling, eye-gouging, arm-twisting, sleeper holds, all was fair in love and war and at Hugh and Emilie’s country house.

  As the youngest and smallest I always took the brunt. But I also did the most escalating, the most asking for it, so I deserved everything I got. Black eye, violet welt, puffed lip, I didn’t mind. On the contrary. Maybe I wanted to look tough. Maybe I just wanted to feel something. Whatever my motivation, my simple philosophy when it came to scrapping was: More, please.

  The six of us cloaked our pretend battles in historic names. Hugh and Emilie’s house would often be converted into Waterloo, the Somme, Rorke’s Drift. I can see us charging each other, screaming : Zulu!

  Battle lines were often blood lines, though not always. It wasn’t always Windsor versus Others. We’d mix and match. Sometimes I was fighting alongside Willy, sometimes against. No matter the alliances, though, it often happened that one or two of Hugh and Emilie’s boys would turn and set upon Willy. I’d hear him crying out for help and down would come the red mist, like a blood vessel bursting behind my eyes. I’d lose all control, all ability to focus on anything but family, country, tribe, and hurl myself at someone, everyone. Kicking, punching, strangling, taking out legs.

  Hugh and Emilie’s boys couldn’t deal with that. There was no dealing with it.

  Get him off, he’s mad!

  I don’t know how effective or skilled a fighter I was. But I always succeeded in providing enough diversion for Willy to get away. He’d check his injuries, wipe his nose, then jump straight back in. When the scrap finally ended for good, when we hobbled away together, I always felt such love for him, and I sensed love in return, but also some embarrassment. I was half Willy’s size, half his weight. I was the younger brother: he was supposed to save me, not the other way around.

  Over time the scraps became more pitched. Small-arms fire was introduced. We’d hurl Roman candles at each other, make rocket launchers from golf-ball tubes, stage night battles with two of us defending a stone pillbox in the middle of an open field. I can still smell the smoke and hear the hiss as a projectile rocketed towards a victim, whose only armor would be a puffer jacket, some wool mittens, maybe some ski goggles, though often not.

  Our arms race accelerated. As they do. We began to use BB guns. At close range. How was no one maimed? How did no one lose an eye?

  One day all six of us were walking in the woods near their house, looking for squirrels and pigeons to cull. There was an old army Land Rover. Willy and the boys smiled.

  Harold, jump in, drive away, and we’ll shoot you.

  With what?

  Shotgun.

  No, thanks.

  We’re loading. Either get in and drive or we shoot you right here.

  I jumped in, drove away.

  Moments later, bang. Buckshot rattling off the back.

  I cackled and hit the accelerator.

  Somewhere on their estate was a construction site. (Hugh and Emilie were building a new house.) This became the setting for possibly our fiercest battle. It was around dusk. One brother was in the shell of the new house, taking heavy fire. When he retreated we bombarded him with rockets.

  And then…he was gone.

  Where’s Nick?

  We shone a torch. No Nick.

  We marched forward, steadily, came upon a giant hole in the ground, almost like a square well, alongside the construction site. We peered over the edge and shone the torch down. Far below, lying on his back, Nick was moaning. Damned lucky to be alive, we all agreed.

  What a great opportunity, we said.

  We lit some firecrackers, big ones, and dropped them down into the pit.

 26.

  When there were no other boys around, no other common enemies, Willy and I would turn on each other.

  It happened most often in the back seat while Pa drove us somewhere. A country house, say. Or a salmon stream. Once, in Scotland, on the way to the River Spey, we started scuffling, and soon were in a full scrap, rolling back and forth, trading blows.

  Pa swerved to the side of the road, shouted at Willy to get out.

  Me? Why me?

  Pa didn’t feel the need to explain. Out.

  Willy turned to me, furious. He felt I got away with everything. He stepped out of the car, stomped to the backup car with all the bodyguards, strapped himself in. (We always wore seatbelts after Mummy’s disappearance.) The convoy resumed.

  Now and then I peered out the back window.

  Behind us, I could just make out the future King of England, plotting his revenge.

 27.

  The first time I killed anything, Tiggy said: Well done, darling!

  She dipped her long, slender fingers into the rabbit’s body, under the flap of smashed fur, scooped out a dollop of blood and smeared it tenderly across my forehead, down my cheeks and nose. Now, she said, in her throaty voice, you are blooded.

  Blooding—a tradition from the ages. A show of respect for the slain, an act of communion by the slayer. Also, a way to mark the crossing from boyhood into…not manhood. No, not that. But something close.

  And so, notwithstanding my hairless torso and chirpy voice, I considered myself, post-blooding, to be a full-fledged stalker. But around my fifteenth birthday I was informed that I’d be undertaking the true stalker initiation.

  Red deer.

  It happened at Balmoral. Early morning, fog on the hills, mist in the hollows. My guide, Sandy, was a thousand years old. He looked as if he’d stalked mastodons. Proper old-school, that was how Willy and I described him and other such gents. Sandy talked old-school, smelt old-school, and definitely dressed old-school. Faded camo jacket over ragged green sweaters, Balmoral tweed plus fours, socks covered with burrs, Gore-Tex walking boots. On his head was a classic tweed flat cap, thrice my age, browned by eons of sweat.

  I crept beside him through the heather, through the bog, all morning long. My stag appeared ahead. Inching closer, ever closer, we finally stopped and watched the stag munch some dry grass. Sandy made sure we were still downwind.

  Now he pointed at me, pointed at my rifle. Time.

  He rolled away, giving me space.

  He raised his binoculars. I could hear his rattly breath as I took slow aim, squeezed the trigger. One sharp, thunderous crack. Then, silence.

  We stood, walked forward. When we reached the stag I was relieved. Its eyes were already cloudy. The worry was always that you’d merely cause a flesh wound and send the poor animal dashing into the woods to suffer alone for hours. As its eyes turned more and more opaque, Sandy knelt before it, took out his gleaming knife, bled it from the neck and slit open the belly. He motioned for me to kneel. I knelt.

  I thought we were going to pray.

  Sandy snapped at me: Closer!

  I knelt closer, close enough to smell Sandy’s armpits. He placed a hand gently behind my neck, and now I thought he was going to hug me, congratulate me. Atta boy. Instead he pushed my head inside the carcass.

  I tried to pull away, but Sandy pushed me deeper. I was shocked by his insane strength. And by the infernal smell. My breakfast jumped up from my stomach. Oh please oh please do not let me vomit inside a stag carcass. After a minute I couldn’t smell anything, because I couldn’t breathe. My nose and mouth were full of blood, guts, and a deep, upsetting warmth.

  Well, I thought, so this is death. The ultimate blooding.

  Not what I’d imagined.

  I went limp. Bye, all.

  Sandy pulled me out.

  I filled my lungs with fresh morning air. I started to wipe my face, which was dripping, but Sandy grabbed my hand. Nae, lad, nae.

  What?

  Let it dry, lad! Let it dry!

  We radioed back to the soldiers in the valley. Horses were sent. While waiting, we got down to work, gave the stag a full gralloching, the Old Scottish word for disemboweling. We removed the stomach, scattered the junky bits on the hillside for hawks and buzzards, carved out the liver and heart, snipped the penis, careful not to pop the cord, which would douse you with urine, a stench that ten Highland baths wouldn’t cleanse.

  The horses arrived. We slung our gralloched stag across a white drum stallion, sent it off to the larder, then walked shoulder to shoulder back to the castle.

  As my face dried, as my stomach settled, I felt swelling pride. I’d been good to that stag, as I’d been taught. One shot, clean through the heart. Besides being painless, the instant kill had preserved the meat. Had I merely wounded him, or let him get a glimpse of us, his heart would’ve raced, his blood would’ve filled with adrenaline, his steaks and fillets would’ve been inedible. This blood on my face contained no adrenaline, a credit to my marksmanship.

  I’d also been good to Nature. Managing their numbers meant saving the deer population as a whole, ensuring they’d have enough food for winter.

  Finally, I’d been good to The Community. A big stag in the larder meant plenty of good meat for those living around Balmoral.

  These virtues had been preached to me from an early age, but now I’d lived them, and felt them on my face. I wasn’t religious, but this “blood facial” was, to me, baptismal. Pa was deeply religious, he prayed every night, but now, in this moment, I too felt close to God. If you loved Nature, Pa always said, you had to know when to leave it alone, and when to manage it, and managing meant culling, and culling meant killing. It was all a form of worship.

  At the larder Sandy and I took off our clothes and checked each other for ticks. Red deer in those woods were rife and once a tick got onto your leg it would burrow deep under the skin, often crawl up into your balls. One poor gamekeeper had recently been felled by Lyme disease.

  I panicked. Every freckle looked like doom. Is that a tick? Is that?

  Nae, lad, nae!

  I got dressed.

  Turning to Sandy to say goodbye, I thanked him for the experience. I wanted to shake his hand, give him a hug. But a small, still voice inside me said:

  Nae, lad. Nae.

 

Sodomites

“Why can’t it just be about Flowers…?”

— Charlie Kaufman,

Adaptation 

Because Successful Flowers 

go to Seed.

“For Oscar Wilde —

Posing as a Sodomite”

Queensberry’s handwriting was almost indecipherable [That’ll be the cerebral Syphilis, then.] : The hall porter initially read “ponce and sodomite”, but Queensberry himself claimed that he’d written “posing ‘as’ a sodomite”, an easier accusation to defend in court. Merlin Holland concludes that “what Queensberry almost certainly wrote was “posing somdomite [sic]”.

“Consider for example the history of what was once “The” Great Sin against Nature. The extreme discretion of the texts dealing with Sodomy – that utterly confused category – and the nearly universal reticence in talking about it made possible a twofold operation.”

Okay. Here’s Foucault saying that this is a category. The Homosexual Identity, as understood in terms of Sodomy, is a category. 

He’s going to go on to say that it’s punishable in the extreme by Law, but in the meantime he’s saying there’s no discourse. There’s a kind of almost universal silence on the subject. You don’t get silence in Dante, as I’m sure you know, but in most cases in this period nobody talks about it. 

It’s punishable, severely punishable by Law, and yet nobody talks about it. 

This would seem to violate Foucault’s own premise that Discourse constitutes Identity but also plainly does contradict Butler’s claim that Foucault supposes that Discourse always constitutes Identity.

Let’s continue :

… [T]he nearly universal reticence in talking about it made possible a twofold operation : on the one hand, there was an extreme severity (punishment by Fire was meted out well into the eighteenth century, without there being any substantial protest expressed before the middle of the century)

[Discourse is here failing also in that it’s not constituting a site of resistance, and nobody’s complaining about these severe punishments just as on the other hand nobody’s talking very much about them [“The Sodomites”]  : 

There is, in other words, an Erasure of Discourse], and [he continues] on the other hand, a tolerance that must have been widespread (which one can deduce indirectly from the infrequency of judicial sentences, and which one glimpses more directly through certain statements concerning societies of men that were thought to exist in the army or in the courts) –

In other words, he’s saying there was An Identity [“Sodomite” or “Sodomist”] and that identity was not – at least not very much – constituted by discourse. As you read down the column, he’s going to go on to say that in a way, the plight of the homosexual got worse when it started being talked about. Yes, penalties for being homosexual were less severe, but the surveillance of Homosexuality – the way in which it could be sort of dictated to by Therapy and by The Clergy and by everyone else who might have something to say about it – became far more pervasive and determinate than it was when there was no discourse about it. 

In a certain way, Foucault is going so far as to say silence was, while perilous to the few, a GOOD Thing for the many; whereas discourse which perhaps relieves the few of extreme fear nevertheless sort of imposes a kind of hegemonic authority on all that remain and constitutes them as something that Power-Knowledge believes them to be, rather than something that in any sense according to their sexuality they spontaneously are. 

It seems to me that this pointed disagreement with Foucault, raised by Butler, is answered in advance by Foucault and that even there, when you think about it, they’re really in agreement with each other. Foucault’s position is more flexible than she takes it to be, but that just means that it’s similar to her own and, as I say, that fact together with the broad shared political agenda that they have seems to me to suggest that they’re writing very much in concert and in keeping with each other’s views.

 

Did General Charles Gordon Have Aspergers Syndrome?

Paul Mersh, 11 Gravesend Road, Strood, Rochester, Kent ME2 3PH [paulmersh@btinternet.com]

[Victorian Web Home —> Victorian Political History —> Victorian Social History —> The British Empire]

Introduction

This essay has been written in order to stimulate discussion about what has been described as General Charles Gordon's homosexual traits. The discussion begins by outlining the evidence often cited as proof that Gordon was a latent homosexual, then examines John Pollock's refutation of these allegations, and finally offers an alternative explanation for Gordon's behaviour.

Evidence for Gordon's alleged homosexuality

It has to be stated at the outset that there are no confessions written by supposed lovers. There was no court trial, as in Oscar Wilde's case, or army record of him having been cashiered for what was then, a serious offence. Writers who have maintained that Gordon was a closet homosexual, such as Richardson, largely rely on his behavioural traits to provide their evidence.

What is this evidence? Firstly he began his days by having a cold bath (a fact cited by many authors including Pollock). This is often explained as being necessary to "cool his passions." Secondly, there is his liking for small children, in particular boys. There is no doubt that Gordon enjoyed the company of young boys. From all accounts he seemed to have sought them out, spent time with them in his home and nursed them when they were sick. It has to be said that this suggests not only latent homosexuality but latent paedophillia. Thirdly, there is Gordon's aversion to women: he is on record as having refused invitations from women if he felt that he was being lined up to marry a young woman. Gordon remained a bachelor all of his life.

On their own, none of these facts provide conclusive proof of homosexuality, but taken as a whole, to the modern mind, it would seem to be fairly conclusive proof that Gordon was, as Pollock puts it, "sexually orientated towards men."

Pollock's refutation 

Pollock, who does not set out to refute the evidence point by point, starts by admitting that Gordon felt "ill at ease with women," and he then asserts that "many clues suggest a man of normal male instincts who was determined to stay celibate." He then quotes from a number of sources to show that Gordon approved of marriage but felt that he had never met a woman who would put up with his way of life. Pollock quotes at length from Gordon, that he needs a woman who would be "prepared to sacrifice the comforts of home, and the sweet society of loved one and accompany me whithersoever the demand of duty might lead. . . .Such a woman I have not met, and such a one alone could be my wife!"

Pollock's two points seem to conflict, for it could be argued that by saying he had never met a woman suited to be his wife, Gordon was avoiding making a socially unacceptable statement, that is, "I am not interested in women." Pollock did not effectively refute the allegation that Gordon was homosexual.

An alternative explanation for Gordon's behaviour.

Gordon presents as an enigma to historians, who usually aknowledge the following about Gordon:

1. He found normal social interaction difficult. He did not relate well to his peer group; fellow officers found him difficult, and he could often be tactless. 

2. He found it hard to relate to adults, but related well to children.

3. He was meticulous and thorough in all he did, whether it was map making, being a governor-general, a social worker or teacher

4. He was obsessed with routines. Gordon would not start work until 8, even when he knew that important matters needed his attention. He had a cold bath every morning. This routine probably began during his school days; it was quite normal for public school boys to have a cold bath every day.

I would like to suggest that these are all traits of a condition called Aspergers syndrome, which the National Autistic societydescribes in the following way: "Aspergers syndrome is a form of autism, a disability that affects the way a person communicates and relates to others. A number of the traits of autism are common to Aspergers syndrome including:

• Difficulty in communicating
• Difficulty in social relationships
• Lack of imagination"

However, people with Aspergers syndrome usually have fewer problems with language than those with autism, often speaking fluently, though their words can sometimes sound formal or stilted.They also do not have the accompanying learning disabilites often associated with autism, in fact, they are often of average or above average intelligence.'

They are also prone to depression in later life owing to their desire to have normal social contact, which they are unable to maintain. Gordon is known to have suffered from bouts of depression.

Lack of facial expression is another trait of Aspergers syndrome, pictures of Gordon usually show him with a straight face. It is thought that Aspergers syndrome is an inherited condition, Pollock describes Gordon's paternal ancestors as "the solemn Gordons," this would seem to indicate that Gordon's father possibly shared his condition.

Conclusions

Today Aspergers syndrome is usually diagnosed in childhood by a consultant psychologist. It is not possible to have Gordon diagnosed. From the available evidence it is possible to deduce that Gordon had this condition. Why go to all of this trouble? Gordon would have found it highly offensive to be described as homosexual. He was a deeply religious man, and being a homosexual would be regarded as a sin in the circles he moved in, as would any unatural attraction to children. 

References

Pollock, John. Gordon, the Man behind the Legend. Oxford: Lion, 1993.

Richardson Mars without Venus

If you wish to comments about this essay please e-mail me on pemersh@tagteacher.net.

The Unquiet Dead

"I was sacked -- because 

I was Sackable."

"Someone told me, 

The REASON 

for My Sacking;

in fact, I wrote it down.

This was given to me by a Policewoman in Bangkok --

(It's a very long story) :

"I was sacked, because 

I'm a “bully” ; because,

I'm a "prima-donna"; because

I'm "Delusional";

I "make people go through Hell";

I'm "a fly in the ointment";

It APPEARS 

I was sacked because

I'm a "Difficult Asset."

"Noelle Gordon is a 

Difficult Asset."

THOMAS THE TANK ENGINE & FRIENDS - The Narration of SIR RINGO STARR

Spaghettification

The colossal cone-shaped jet housings on Red Dwarfs underbelly screamed and  whined in their losing battle against the irresistible drag of the Black Hole's gravitational pull. Suddenly, as one, they ceased their pointless protestations and puttered into silence.

All resistance gone, the massive mining vessel catapulted into the blackness towards the event horizon. Lazily, the jet housings started to rotate - 45 degrees. 90  degrees, 120 degrees, until finally they had described a full half-circle. The rotation motors wound down, and the stabilizing bolts cracked loudly into place. All the while, the ship howled faster, ever faster towards the lightless unknown.

The jets fired up again. Thousands of hydrogen explosions harnessed the raw energy of the universe and thrust the ship forward, to the brink of demi-lightspeed, and  beyond.

'Event horizon : two minutes and closing.' Kryten pulled the safety webbing over his shoulders and inflated his crash suit.

'Did I tell you about spaghettification?' said The Toaster

The Cat lurched upright from the couch bolted to the corner of the anti-grav chamber. 'What's spaghettification?' 

'I didn't mention it, then?' 'One minute fifty.' 

'No you didn't. What is it?' said Rimmer. 

'Well,' said the Toaster, 'when you enter a Black Hole, an effect takes place, called "spaghettification”. I thought I'd mentioned it, but obviously I didn't. Anyway, just so you know, it'll happen fairly shortly.' 

'One minute forty.' 

The Cat lay back on the couch and stared up at the ceiling. 'So what the hell is it?' 

'Spaghettification. Let me guess,' said Rimmer. 'I can see only two options : 

one - due to the bizarre effects of the intense gravitational pull, and because we're entering a region of time and space where the laws of physics no longer apply, we all of us inexplicably develop an irresistible urge to consume vast amounts of a certain wheat-based Italian noodle conventionally served with Parmesan cheese; or two - 

We, the crew, get turned into spaghetti. 

I have a feeling we can eliminate option one.' 

'You're absolutely correct,' said the Toaster. 'You all become sort of spaghettified.' 

'Forty seconds,' counted Kryten. 'Then what happens?' 'Well, then you become de-spaghettified,' said the Toaster, and added: 'hopefully. Holly was a bit vague about that part. Still, he didn't seem to think it was terribly important.' 'I get turned into spaghetti,' the Cat's eyebrows leapt to the top of his forehead, 'and that's not important?' Thirty seconds.' The Cat tried vainly to lift his head from the cranium support - he had a major collection of dirty looks he wanted to sling at the Toaster - but G-force pinned him, immobile, to the couch, so he slung them at the ceiling instead. 'Is it too late to change this plan? I have no idea what well-dressed spaghetti is wearing this year.' 

'Ten seconds.' 'Ten seconds?' Rimmer was equally immobile. 'What happened to twenty seconds?' 

'I forgot to say twenty seconds,' Kryten apologised. 'I was listening to the Cat.' His eyes flitted to the scanner scope again. 

'Oh, sorry - apologizing for not saying "twenty seconds” has now made me miss saying "five seconds”.' 

'So how long now?' yelled Rimmer. 

'Err ... no seconds,' said Kryten. And he was right. 

*** 

The combination of jet thrust and gravitational pull forced Red Dwarf through the lightspeed barrier the moment it hit the event horizon. 

To all intents and purposes, the ship no longer existed in the universe of its origin. It shrugged off Newton, Einstein, Oppenheimer and Chien Lau, and subscribed to a completely new set of physical laws. 

They were in the Black Hole, heading for its centre. Heading for the ring of light that swirled suicidally around the spinning singularity - the core of the dead star where all the matter sucked in by the Black Hole was compressed to infinity. 

And they were heading there at such a speed, they were overtaking light.

The Cat's body started to spill off the couch in every direction. Long, thin strands of what had formerly been him slithered across the floor and intertwined with the strands that had been Kryten and Rimmer and the Toaster. 

The anti-grav chamber became a sea of heaving, screaming, living linguini. Everyone became part of everyone else. They threaded together and formed a new whole. They weren't four, they were one. 

The particles that had once formed Rimmer's intelligence, in a blinding flash of empathetic insight, suddenly became aware of the desperate, monumental importance of toast. 

Instantaneously, the strands that had been the Toaster were conscious of the overriding necessity for dressing well and having a really terrific haircut. 

The vermicelli that was now the Cat tasted the feeling of being mechanical, and knew with unshakeable certainty that Silicon Heaven existed, and the best way to get there was through diligent hoovering. 

Simultaneously, the macaroni that was Kryten knew what it was like to be Rimmer. He understood what it was like to have had those parents, that childhood, that career, that life. It was impossible to scream, but that's what Kryten was trying to do. 

The ship was no longer a ship, it was a huge tachyon, a superlight particle, howling through a universe outside our own. It was a pool, then a wave, then a ball, then a dot, then it had no shape - it just was. 

The huge mound of spaghetti slithered across space/time and peered into the face of the spinning white disc. 

'Look,' said a part of the spaghetti that was mostly Rimmer. In the centre of the spinning light were six interlocking coils, like fibre optics, but of a size beyond size. The immense hollow cables twisted and undulated like the snakes on the Gorgons' heads. The tubes were of colours that had no meaning to the human eye. They spun and swirled in a timeless dance of beauty. 

Not for the first time, Rimmer cursed himself for not bringing his camcorder. 

'What is it?' he said, but before anyone could answer the ball of speed the ship had itself become slung around the singularity. It bounced off the sudden cushion of anti-gravity it met there, then, like a swimmer who has dived too deep, lunged desperately for the surface, for the event horizon, for the known universe. It struck upwards, fighting off the gravity that tried to suck it back to its core at the speed of light. 

Then the lightspeed drag of gravity cancelled out the light-speed momentum of the ship, and Red Dwarf regained its physical form. Suddenly it was travelling at a relative speed of less than two hundred thousand miles an hour towards the event horizon. The metal of the bulkheads buckled and groaned. Leering cracks ripped through the metalwork and zigzagged insanely down the port side. 

The ship started to slow. 

Plasti-domes splintered and shattered. Steel mining rigs were wrenched protesting from the ship's back and swirled helplessly down into the singularity to be crushed into infinity. Still the ship slowed. The jet housings started to creak, and then, all over the vessel's belly, one by one, pinion rods snarled and snapped, and the housings came away and tumbled into the infinite abyss. Still the ship slowed. Half the propulsion jets were lost. Hydrogen fuel pumped from the jet carcasses and flooded into the relentless void. 

Like a harpooned whale, the wounded craft pitched wildly for the surface, for light, for life.

Slower still. Another crop of housings moaned and warped and fell away. Still slower. And slower. And slo-o-o-o-o-o-ower. Relatively, the ship was moving at barely fifty miles an hour. Then thirty. Twenty. Ten. The Black Hole had just to claim one more jet housing to tip the balance, to drag the ship below lightspeed and trap it forever in its bleak embrace. It didn't. 

With the suddenness of an infant's birth scream, Red Dwarf exploded through the event horizon and into the known universe. Free of the worst of the cloying quicksand grip of the dead star's interior, the limping vessel peaked back up to lightspeed for an instant of an instant before the final remnants of gravitational drag slewed it to a halt on the very periphery of the Black Hole's influence. 

*** 

The de-spaghettified Cat looked down his body and checked it was all there. It seemed to be. He unbuckled himself from the couch and stood on uneasy legs. 

'Everyone OK?' Kryten nodded, still too nauseous to speak. 

'What was that?' said Rimmer. 

'In the middle of the spinning light. Those tubes.' 

'The Omni-zone,' said the Toaster. 'Holly predicted we'd find that. It confirms his theory.' 'What theory?'

'The theory that there are six other universes, and all their gateways converge at the centre of a singularity.' 

'There are six other universes?' said Rimmer. 

'So Holly reckoned,' said the Toaster. 'He also believed that our universe is the bad apple. It's the cock-up universe. Something went wrong with our Big Bang and made Time move in the wrong direction, that's why nothing makes sense.' 

'I'll tell you something that does make sense,' The Cat staggered over to the Toaster. 

'You made me eat seventy-three rounds of buttered toast. Check that: seven, three,' he slapped his rump. 'I feel like I'm carrying around a third buttock in my pants. And I just want you to know this - I want you to live with this for the rest of your life - you,' he jabbed the Toaster with his long-nailed forefinger, 'you make real lousy toast. It's cold, it's burnt, and it's soggy.' 

The Toaster twirled his browning knob defiantly. 'Hey -what d'you expect for $ £19.99 plus tax? Conversation, quantum theory and good toast?' 

Musgrave

JOHN MUSGRAVE : MARINES 

Let's just say that being a Marine combat veteran on a college campus in 1969 and 1970 -- it wasn't a real good thing to be if you wanted 

to get dates and be popular.

When I came Home, it seemed like

I didn't have anything to 

Give to anybody else.

NARRATOR : 

Marine Corporal John Musgrave 

had very nearly died in combat 

below the DMZ in 

the autumn of 1967. 

Wounded in the jaw and shoulder, 

his ribs shattered, 

lung pierced, nerves cut,

he had spent 17 months 

in Navy hospitals.

He was now studying at 

Baker University in 

Baldwin City, Kansas.

But wherever he went, 

The War was never far away.

MUSGRAVE : 

And the peace movement, 

for a while, got REAL nasty, 

calling veterans baby killers.

It did MORE than piss us off.

It broke Our Hearts.

What were they 

THINKING?

You Don't Turn Your Backs 

on Your Warriors.

I didn't Trust anybody 

anymore. Just My Family.

NARRATOR: 

Musgrave was so hurt by the way 

some people treated him that 

he volunteered to return to Vietnam.

Because of his injuries, The Marines turned him down, and asked him 

to help recruit men instead.

He did for a time, but 

when students asked him 

Questions about The War 

he couldn't answer,

he also began to read 

about How and Why 

it was being fought.

MUSGRAVE: 

I had friends in-country on a second tour, and, you know, I, I was still... 

considered myself a Marine and...

 and the more I read, the less 

I found to be able to defend 

our presence there.

So then, I, I just stopped 

talking to everybody.

(dog barking)

NARRATOR: 

Musgrave gradually felt as if he were being torn in two.

And he was still haunted by the memory of those Marines who had died while he had lived.

MUSGRAVE : 

I was dating my .45 

in those years, you know.

Coming home at night after drinking, 

and pressing it up against my temple, 

or putting it under my chin, 

wondering if this was gonna 

be the night I was gonna 

have the guts to do it. 

I'd had a round chambered, 

and I'd taken the safety off.

Same kind of pistol 

I carried in Vietnam.

And I thought, "I'm really 

gonna do it tonight."

You know, like, "Whew, I'm really 

gonna do it," you know.

And my dogs... I'd let 

my dogs out. I had two dogs.

And they jumped on the front door

and scratched on the front door.

They wanted in.

And I put the safety back on the pistol and set it down and went and let 'em in.

And they were so open in their love for me that I literally said out loud,

"Whoa, if I really want to do this, I can do this tomorrow."

And I went back in the room,

and I put the pistol in the drawer, and...and I... I think 

that was the closest I came.

I think maybe I would have killed...

k-k-killed myself that night.

But something as simple as my dogs wanting back in... stopped that thought, you know.

I'm really glad that 

it didn't happen.

But at the time, 

it just made so much sense.

MUSGRAVE: 

As I was walking towards it from 

the reflecting pool, there were 

so many names on those walls.

And all of a sudden, My Throat 

swole up, and I thought, 

"I can't do this. I can't 

do this right now."

And I collapsed.

And all the tears I'd 

been holding back...

I didn't cry, I sobbed.

I was on my knees, sobbing.

I couldn't stop, I couldn't 

get my breath.

And I was so grateful to God 

that it was there.

I thought,

"This is going to Save Lives.

This is going to Save Lives."

Loyalty (v.)

A lot of people are curious 

about your resignation;

You had a brilliant career, an impeccable record —

They want to know why you suddenly  left. 

Personally, I believe you, that 

it was a matter of principle. 

But what I think 

doesn't really count, does it? 

One has to be sure 

about these things. 

I have to check Your Motive. 

I've been checked! 

Of course  — but when a man 

knows as much as you do,

a double-check does 

no harm, does it?

Sit Down.

[INTERCOM BEEPS]

LA FORGE Jr. :

Admiral Picard, Captain Riker, 

please report to observation. 

SEVEN :

Good evening, sirs.

I apologise for interrupting your sleep. 

PICARD :

What is it? 

SEVEN :

Permission to Speak Freely, sir? 

RIKER : 

Go ahead. 

SEVEN :

You're gonna tell me what the hell

you two are really doing here, 

or I'm about to throw both of you

out an airlock and never look back. 

RIKER : 

Watch it, Commander. Is that

How You Speak to An Admiral? 

SEVEN :

It's How I Speak to A Friend. 

PICARD : 

All right. 

I received a coded distress call 

from Beverly Crusher, former

Doctor on The Enterprise. 

SEVEN :

I know Who She is.

RIKER : 

She's wounded. 

She said, "Trust no one,

including Starfleet". 

We didn't want you 

to become complicit,

jeopardize your career. 

SEVEN :

My career….

When I was a Ranger, 

things were much... simpler. 

Trust My Instincts, 

Bring Justice to 

an unjust universe. 

[SPEAKS SHAKILY] But then you... 

You and Janeway convinced me

to join Starfleet... 

[SCOFFS] I thought this could be

the right path for me, I thought... 

I thought I could one day

inspire people to follow me, 

even if it's dangerous. 

The way that you do. 

PICARD :

I can see that you're struggling —

But I still think that

you're in the right place. 

SEVEN :  [SCOFFS] 

How can I inspire when all I do is

take shit from someone like Shaw? 

How am I supposed to 

just ignore my gut, 

ignore my instincts, 

just to follow orders? 

PICARD :

If you find that answer,

will you let me know? 

Because I never did. 

RIKER :

I like that Seven.

Laura’s in The Ground, Agent Cooper — That’s The ONLY Thing I’m Sure of.

INT. GREAT NORTHERN BAR – NIGHT

A short time later. A sad song plays on a jukebox. Couples gather on the small dance floor, a few GUESTS mingle at the bar. Cooper and Hawk sit at small table near the fireplace. Their mood is quiet, contemplative. It’s been a long day.

COOPER

(after a beat) Did You Know Her, Hawk?

HAWK

Laura? Caught her speeding a couple times 

and let her talk me out of the ticket. 

That wasn’t hard.

COOPER

Laura Palmer didn’t 

have to Die. It’s Wrong. 

It makes me mad.

HAWK

Everything Dies.

A beat. Cooper takes a pull from a longneck beer. 

He quietly wonders :

COOPER

Do You believe in The Soul?

The Question takes Hawk by surprise. 

He takes a closer look at Cooper.

HAWK

Several.

COOPER

(curious) More than one?

HAWK

Blackfeet legend. 

Waking Souls that give Life 

to The Mind and Body. 

A Dream Soul that wanders.

COOPER

Dream Souls. 

Where Do They Wander?

HAWK

Faraway places. 

Anywhere U.S.A. 

The Land of the Dead.

COOPER

Is that where Laura is?

HAWK

Laura’s in The Ground, Agent Cooper — 

That’s The Only Thing I’m Sure of.

Cooper reacts, takes a closer look. Tommy ‘The Hawk’ Hill, agnostic Blackfoot. There’s more to him than meets the eye. A beat. Cooper lifts his glass into the air, proposes a toast:

COOPER

To Laura. Godspeed.

They touch glasses, toast. That’s when Cooper sees Leland Palmer stepping between tables to the dance floor.

The Chase

Don't let the devil know anything ~ Alan Watts ~ Warning: This might sha...

Roadblocks

Thwarted

LUCIFER!, 

Son of De Mournin' --

I'm Gonna CHASE 

You outta Eart' --

I'm gonna put-on a Iron Shirt, and 

Chase Satan outta Eart';

I'm gonna put-on a Iron Shirt, and 

Chase The Devil outta Eart';

I'm gonna send Him to Outer Space, 

to fiiiiind another race

I'm gonna send Him to Outer Space, 

to fiiiiind another race

Satan is The Evilest Man;

But Him can't choke sit on A Man

So when I check Him, My Life's in Hand

And if Him flip, I gone with Him-Hand

I'm gonna put on a iron shirt, and chase satan out of earth

I'm gonna put on a iron shirt, and chase the devil out of earth

I'm gonna send him to outer space, to find another race

I'm gonna send him to outer space, to find another race

Him haffi drop him fork and run

Him can't stand up to Jah Jah's son

Him haffi left here with him gun

Dig off with him bomb

I'm gonna put on a iron shirt, and chase satan out of earth

I'm gonna put on a iron shirt, and chase the devil out of earth

I'm gonna send him to outer space, to find another race

I'm gonna send him to outer space, to find another race

Satan is an evilest man

But him can't choke sit on a man

So when I check him my life's in hand

And if him flip I gone with him hand

I'm gonna put on a iron shirt, and chase satan out of earth

I'm gonna put on a iron shirt, and chase the devil out of earth

I'm gonna send him to outer space, to find another race

I'm gonna send him to outer space, to find another race

Move ya with your gun

Mi sey fe lef' ya with your bomb

Move ya with your bomb

Mi sey fe lef' ya with your gun

How Autism and Intelligence Connect

Jordan Peterson : How Autism 

and Intelligence Connect