text:
He Touched Me
(Another episode of the saga. In this one, Robin and Martin are four years older, in their last year at Drumwhinnie)
There was a time when Robin seemed to be unable to do anything right as far as Mr Hill was concerned. He only had to open his mouth at the table for Mr Hill to scowl and say, "All right, Coventry. See me afterwards." Then Robin would say, "Sir! I wasn't doing anything! What did I say?"
"You know perfectly well what you said, Coventry. And that kind of cheek is something I won't tolerate."
"Do you want me to award you a bonus, on top of the six you've just earned?"
"No, sir."
"Then shut up."
"Yes, Sir."
Once it was because Robin had asked Mr Hill if he'd been a swot when he was a boy. Then the time Robin had said under his breath, "Oh, fugg it!", when he got the rugby ball on his thumb and wrenched it. Once he had said something rather witty at Mr Hill's expense. Oh yes, Mr Hill had divided the form up into two teams for a quiz contest in Latin vocabulary, the morons and the cretins, and Robin had asked him, if he could choose, which would Mr Hill rather be, a moron or a cretin?
Something like that.
Anyway, it always seemed to end the same way, with Mr Hill inviting Robin to his study for what he called an Investiture of the Order of the Gym-Shoe. Six whacks, with the first two taking your breath away, making you almost lose your balance as you touched your toes and swayed under the impact, the faded pattern on the carpet going all blurry as you fought back tears. Robin thought it was partly because Mr Hill was still angry about the school photo thing, and partly because Robin used to talk about his big brother, the one who went to Paris to be an artist. According to Robin, Paul said that schools like Drumwhinnie explained the existence of the Labour Party and Communism, and that Team Spirit was a lot of merde.
Mr Hill said Robin should follow the example of someone who'd done a little more with his life than abstain from the twin vices of coherent thought and regular washing. Then, even when Robin shut up about his brother, Mr Hill still went after him.
Maybe it was the last straw when Mrs Harris, the music teacher, got annoyed at Robin because he had cheeked her, when he said how did she expect him to practise when Mr Hill made him waste all his spare time doing punishment runs and extra Latin? Anyway, she said she wouldn't punish him herself, but she asked Mr Hill to, so Robin got another sixer. Then it wasn't any good her saying she was sorry, she didn't really mean for Mr Hill to beat him.
"I hate her too, Martin." Robin said viciously, his eyes still swollen from crying. Martin felt intensely unhappy, and embarrassed. He understood, of course, but if the others caught him crying, they'd be unmerciful, then Robin would get in a rage and fly at some tormentor like Latimer. Mr Hill would hear the din in his study, and then Robin would be in for more trouble.
It was terrible.
After a week during which Robin had had two or three beatings, plus or minus a couple of punishment runs, Robin was irritable. He wasn't sleeping properly. He almost stopped saying anything at all in Latin now, unless Mr Hill asked him directly, then he had to have got it almost perfectly or he'd get some extra Virgil to do. Mr Hill used to say that unfortunately, School Policy didn't allow beating for poor work, even if it was due to pure laziness.
Martin felt, and of course was, powerless. If hating Mr Hill could have done anything for Robin, then Martin's silent prayers would have caused Mr Hill to keel over, clutching his chest, blood spurting from the hole made by the magic bullet in the centre of his forehead.
One day, Robin and Martin were walking up the path towards the pre-fabs, where they had their next period, English with the Beakess. It was just after elevenses, and Martin was trying to be cheerful by saying how the bread had been particularly soft and fresh, the cocoa particularly sweet and delicious. Mr Hill was walking towards them. Martin got a heavy feeling in his chest. Mr Hill was frowning. Just as he passed them on the path, forcing them to jump smartly sideways over a frozen puddle, he said, "Hands out of pockets, you two!"
"Yes, sir." Martin said mechanically.
"Yes, sir. No sir, Three bags full, sir." Robin said cheerfully.
Martin stopped dead.
It was comical. Well, no. Not comical. Awful. Terrifying. Had Robin really said that? To Mr Hill? Martin shook his head. He must have mis-heard. Mr Hill had stopped dead in his tracks too, but Robin was still walking on, as if nothing had happened. Could Robin be unaware of what he had just said?
It was sharp roar, like a terrible animal, thirsty for blood.
"Come here, boy!"
"Sir?" Robin had stopped, turned round with a puzzled look on his face, like he really didn't know what Mr Hill wanted.
"What did you say?"
"Say, sir?"
Mr Hill seemed suddenly doubtful, and Martin realised with a surge of relief that perhaps Mr Hill hadn't really heard what Martin thought he'd heard, clear as anything.
"Yes. Did you say something to me, Coventry?"
"Oh no, sir! I was talking to Musgrave. I was saying about Mother Goose. . ."
Oh, Cripes! Cripescripescripes! Martin breathed. Mr Hill was coming slowly back towards them, his face actually going quite red, then white around the mouth. . . then he said, slowly, "So, Coventry. You think I'm going to lose my temper and hit you, against regs? Or perhaps I'll get you expelled? You'd like that, wouldn't you? The easy way out, like the way your idle, no-good sibling got out of Fettes?"
"Sir! I was only—"
"Coventry. Do you think I'm a complete idiot?"
Robin paused. Then he said, slowly, "No, sir. You are not a complete idiot."
Martin could see that Robin was having trouble looking Mr Hill in the eye. Everyone had that trouble. At twelve years old, it was pretty difficult. Mr Hill breathed heavily. Two deep breaths. It was cold, and Martin shivered, but he was almost giggling because steam was coming out of Mr Hill's nostrils, just like the drawing of the Minotaur in Myths of the Ancients.Then Mr Hill looked at Robin, pointed his finger at him and said evenly, "See me, Coventry, before bedtime, in your pyjamas and dressing-gown."
Robin just shrugged, turned and walked away. Mr Hill looked puzzled. He scratched his head, looked some more at Robin's retreating form, then he shook his head and began to walk away. Martin only felt released from the paralysis which had rooted him to the spot, when Mr Hill stopped looking his way. By now Robin was inside, and Martin had to fly to get to a desk under the boom of Mrs Lawson's unfriendly glare.
All afternoon, Martin was in a rage at Robin: "You fugging ass! What did you do that for?"
Robin just had a secret sort of smile, shook his head, said Martin would understand soon. Anyway, Robin said, Hill was a pervert. Well, Martin said, doubtfully, what was a pervert exactly? Come to think of it, what was a sibling? Robin said a pervert was a dirty swine and a sibling was probably just a word for lout or layabout or something. But anyway, after games, Martin looked up both words in the dictionary and found that sibling was just a fancy word for brother and pervert was something to do with unnatural sex something. It was all extremely puzzling. Robin had probably learned the word pervert from his sibling.
Everything went normally enough until bedtime. Of course, there was no mystery about the timing of Robin's appointment. The beatings you really remembered were the ones you got in your pyjamas. Robin didn't have far to go; Middle Dorm was at the end of a dim corridor and Mr Hill's room was the only other door leading off it. Martin said, "Good luck!" as Robin slipped out. Martin stood at the door of the dorm, surreptitiously watching as Robin knocked. Almost immediately, he heard Mr Hill call out, in his Sergeant-Major voice, "Enter!"
Then the light from the study slashed across the corridor, Robin went in and there was silence for a few seconds. McNeill saw Martin standing there and came over "What's up, Mouse?"
"Covvy's getting another sixer." Martin said.
"Coo! Again? Hasn't he got any marbles? What did he—"
McNeill fell silent as the sound of voices in Mr Hill's study rose. They could hear the powerful voice of Mr Hill, rising in volume, getting angrier. Once or twice, Robin's voice could be heard, saying something short and sharp like no or stop.
Then something amazing happened.
The door flew open, making a bang like gunshot as it slammed against the wall of the corridor, and Robin stumbled out, tripping over his pyjama bottoms as he fell into the corridor. Then he recovered his balance by scrambling on all fours towards them, and he dashed, naked from the waist down, into the dorm. He flew past Martin, shouting, "No! Get away from me, you dirty pervert!"
Omygawd. Oh mygodogodogod.
Mr Hill came flying out of his room, shouting, "Get back in here, you little bastard! I'll teach you— my God, I'll teach you to say no to me!"
"Get away from me! I'll scream! I'll tell Mr Lawson! I'll tell my parents what you did!"
Mr Hill had taken three energetic strides to cover the distance to the dorm, and he stood just by Martin, in the doorway, looking puzzled. "What. The. Hell— are you talking about, Coventry?" Robin was breathing deeply, half crouched, with his back to the far wall, with both hands in front of his crotch. He said very distinctly, quietly enough but awkwardly, as if he was having trouble breathing, "You touched me. You stroked my bum, you fucking pervert! If you come near me, I'll bite your fucking hand off!"
"Are you mad, Coventry?" Mr Hill whispered. Maybe he was starting to look a bit uncertain now. Why?
Martin wondered. Why did Mr Hill seem so—
With a flash of delight, Martin knew then that Mr Hill, for some reason, was not at all sure what to do. He had a sort of crookedness in his grin when he kind of shrugged, opened his hands, as if to say, the boy's mad, of course.
What he actually said was, "Look, the rest of you. It's very important you understand what went on. Nothing went on. Certainly not what Coventry— that disgusting—"
"Liar!" Robin hissed. "Pervert Liar! Bum-toucher!"
Martin could hardly believe it. Mr Hill suddenly looked. . . what? Afraid? He was actually shaking as he left the room. But his voice was firm enough as he said, "We will talk about this in the morning in front of Mr Lawson, Coventry. Then he will no doubt expel you."
The strange thing was, Martin felt that Mr Hill was not really talking to Robin at all, but rather to the rest of them.
"Good!" Robin shouted excitedly. "He can expel me! Then I won't have to have a pervert— beating me every day just so he can stroke my private parts!"
The corridor became dark again as Mr Hill closed the door of his room very quietly. Martin scurried up to the door to retrieve Robin's pyjama trousers, along with the slipper Robin had lost during his exit. As Martin picked them up, Mr Hill opened the door and threw out the dressing-gown and the other slipper. Martin gathered everything up and scampered back to the dorm.
Robin put his pants back on.
Amid stunned silence, Latimer said, "Did he really—?"
"He touched me." Robin said quietly. "He touched me, all right. And he'll be sorry!"
Martin sat down on his bed. His head was spinning.
"Excuse me," Ferguson said plaintively, "Could someone tell me what this is all about? Why would Mr Hill touch Coventry's bum?"
"Yeah! Oh, yeccch!" McNeill said.
"Don't you know anything?" Latimer crowed. "What a wet you are, Fergie! Because he's a pervert, of course. That's what perverts do. They touch people's bums and things— you know, their privates!"
"Ooo! Pee-ryvateees!!" somebody cackled, hysterically.
Martin shook his head. He really wasn't much further forward than before. Robin looked excited. His face was flushed as he climbed stiffly into bed. He hardly seemed to be listening to the babble going on around him, and just before McNeill switched the light out, he gazed at the ceiling and murmured firmly, as if this was something he had to remember for an exam tomorrow, "He touched me."
In the dark, Robin said it again: "He. Touched. Me."
The words spun around in a reverent silence and then faded. Somebody chuckled unbelievingly. A bedspring creaked. Troubled, Martin tried to sleep, but he couldn't relax until he'd rubbed himself to get stiff. He still couldn't get stuff out, like Robin claimed he had, but he thought he should keep practising. It helped when he thought about getting Angela Pepper to rub him, but even she was unable to conjure forth the 'stuff'. He was determined to look up pervert in some other books, maybe ask— No. Matron wouldn't know. Well, she'd know, but she'd probably tell him it was a dirty word and he shouldn't use it. Pervert. Had quite a nice ring to it. He envied Robin's authoritative command of it, the clipped, dismissive sound of it—
Oh, Cripes! Had Robin really said all that stuff to Mr Hill?
Very early in the morning, long before the seven-fifteen bell, Martin woke; In the gloom he saw Robin getting dressed. The rest were still asleep. There had been, some minutes earlier, the thump of Mr Hill's door in the corridor, so he was up.
Martin whispered, "Watch out! He's awake!" Technically, it was forbidden to get up before the bell, just as it was forbidden to be still abed at seven-twenty, though the former regulation required far less frequent enforcement than the latter.
"So?" Robin shrugged.
Then Martin remembered. A sick feeling came over his stomach as he realised that after last night Robin had more to worry about than Mr Hill bawling him out for getting up at— Cripes, six-thirty! It was just after dawn. And it was cold. The heating didn't come on till seven.
"Where are you going, Rob?" he whispered.
"Out. For a walk. Coming?"
Martin bounded out of bed and was dressed, with his bed made, in under two minutes. Martin hesitated when he heard footsteps coming towards them, but Robin continued on, so he followed. Mr Hill was coming up the stairs from the staff bathroom, in his dressing-gown, with a towel round his neck. Martin was reminded of the sheer power of the man as Mr Hill stopped, his arms bulging in the sleeves of his dressing-gown, and the partly bared muscles of the neck rippling with health and strength. A tiny square of tissue paper right next to the dimple on his chin marked where he had nicked himself shaving. The master happened to be coming upstairs just as they got to the landing, and so he had to stop one step below them, putting his eyes exactly on a level with theirs.
"Good morning." Mr Hill seemed surprised, but polite.
"Morning, sir!" Martin chimed, smiling uncertainly.
"Morning." Robin said coldly.
"Ah— one moment, if you please, Coventry."
Robin arched his brows.
"I'd like to have a word with you— privately."
"No." Robin said, promptly. It sounded prepared.
Mr Hill breathed deeply. He seemed to be having some difficulty with words. "That is— You are— Jesus! "
Then he shrugged: "Very well, Coventry. Fine. Have it your way. No reason why Musgrave shouldn't hear this anyway. I have given some thought, Coventry, to your extraordinary outburst last night. . ."
"So have I." Robin said tightly.
". . .And I have come to the conclusion that you have been under pressure lately. No doubt I should have realised that and not leaned on you so hard— perhaps I was partly to blame for pushing you to breaking. If that is the case, then you have my sincere apology. After all, we try to maintain discipline here for reasons which will probably only be clear to you when you have boys of your own to worry about.
"Anyway, that is by-the-bye. You are obviously emotionally overwrought. I propose to take no further action, on condition that you ask Matron to let you see the doctor today. It's one of his days to be in, fortunately, and no doubt, he will be able to advise us on what the best course will be for you. Perhaps you should even go home for a week or two, to rest. Whatever."
Mr Hill even managed a smile, which looked quite genuine. Martin wondered if he was actually going to reach over and tousle Robin's hair. He felt an enormous surge of relief. It was all over! It was all over, and Robin was not going to be expelled. He flashed a look at Robin, as if to say, 'There, Rob! See! Hill is not such a bad sort, after all!'
But Robin seemed not to have understood the amazing generosity Mr Hill was showing. He was just staring at some point on the wall half way down the staircase.
"Well, Coventry?" Mr Hill said impatiently. "Does that sound fair?"
"Oh, yes, sir, very fair!" Martin blurted eagerly.
"Musgrave! I'm not talking to you." Mr Hill snapped.
"No." Robin said quietly.
Martin could not believe his ears.
Mr Hill's eyes narrowed. "Do I hear you say, 'no', Coventry? Think very carefully. I have been a master here for fourteen years, and Assistant Head for eight of them. My record is absolutely blameless. Do you really think anyone is going to believe the rantings of a hysterical, emotionally fragile youth, against me?"
Robin shrugged. "We'll see, won't we?" he said dully.
Mr Hill sighed, shook his head. Then he shrugged. "Very well, Coventry. We will indeed see. I suggest we meet to discuss this matter with the Headmaster after Assembly."
"Fine." Robin nodded.
"Then you will excuse me." Mr Hill pushed past them, smelling of Imperial Leather soap.
It was just unbelievable that Robin would fail to see the good sense of what Mr Hill had said. After a long silence, during the brief walk before breakfast, Martin said cautiously:
"Rob, maybe you should think about—"
But Robin said, "Not fucking likely. He touched me."
"But he didn't hurt you, Robin! What's a stroke on the bum? You're mad! The Beak will probably beat you and sack you!"
"We'll see." Robin said, mysteriously. "But he certainly can't do both, can he? I mean, if he cans me, then what's to stop me from doing what I want? Wrecking his drawing-room, throwing a chair through the window? Grabbing a poker and going for him with it? I mean, what can he do?"
"But the sack, Robin!"
"We'll see. But I'll tell you something, Mouse. Nobody. Nobody. Ever. Is going to beat me again. I'll kill the first man who tries. Or I'll certainly give him something to think about!"
"Oh, Cripes." Martin moaned. "The Police'll come. You'll end up in jail. This is terrible, Robin. Please! Please, just think about it. Don't decide now. Think about it. You'll see. And if you go to the doc and say you're under a strain, he may send you home for a holiday, you lucky pig! Think about that!"
"I'll think about it." Robin said, as they joined the queue for breakfast. At table 9, Mr Hill did not come to breakfast. This in itself was not unusual, but Mr Lawson wasn't in either, and that was. Mr Lawson used to say that breakfast was his favourite meal, and even used to lecture the staff about the dangers of going to work on a cup of instant coffee, as some of them did, making a first, bleary-eyed appearance, yawning, at morning Assembly.
There was a great deal of interest in the events that had taken place in Middle Dorm. People kept asking Robin what was up, to which Robin just shrugged. Highly dramatic accounts were already in brisk circulation. Apart from a couple of versions which bore some slight resemblance to the truth, there were others: Mr Hill had flashed his cock at them; Robin had flashed his cock at Mr Hill; Matron and Mr Hill had been caught 'doing-it' in the corridor outside the dorm by Robin; Matron and Robin had been caught 'doing-it' by Mr Hill, who was insanely jealous, and so on, ad rather interesting nauseam. A couple of the masters had retired from earshot of the boys and were talking quietly as they leaned against the wall and studiously avoided directly looking towards table 3. Then Matron came over and took Robin aside. She seemed to be asking him some searching questions, unsmilingly, then she beckoned him to follow her. Martin caught up with Robin at Assembly, but refrained from asking him anything.
"She wanted to look at my backside." Robin said, offhandedly. Martin frowned. There were quite a few bruises, he remembered. He said slowly, "And?"
"She said 'tsk, tsk'. . . 'oh, dear!'— stuff like that." Robin winked. They hushed. Mr Lawson, followed closely by Mr Hill, strode in smiling and Miss Fraser bravely struck up the first chords of 'Onward, Christian Soldiers!'
After the hymn, the Lesson nervously read by one of the prefects, then the Lord's Prayer, and Mr Lawson's brief Dedication of the day ahead, he dismissed them, adding, "All members of the Middle Dormitory to my drawing-room now, please."
First, it was just Mr Lawson and Robin.
They were inside for twelve long minutes, with hardly a sound coming out, until just at the end, Robin's voice could be heard saying something in a high voice, something like never, or could it have been pervert? Martin wondered. The four of them who were outside looked at each other and giggled nervously. Then the door opened suddenly and Robin came out, almost pushed by Mr Lawson, who snapped, "Right, Coventry, upstairs! Wait for me outside my office. Musgrave, in here! At the double!"
The door to the drawing room was old and heavy. It shut with a sound of satisfaction and finality. In his four years at Drumwhinnie it was only the third time Martin had been in this room. Two years ago he had had a sixer here, but most of his beatings had been administered in the office upstairs. He gazed with interest at the floral coverings, the photographs of the Lawson children on the grand piano. Outside, through the tall French windows, The light of a sharp winter's day blazed, edging the slender twigs of a chestnut tree like the bony fingers of a witch.
Mr Lawson, standing with one hand on the mantelpiece, was evidently irritated. "Sit down, Musgrave. I'm going to ask you some specific questions, and I hope that I can count on truthful answers."
"Yes, sir."
"I have heard some very disturbing things about certain events of yesterday."
"For instance, that Coventry was extremely rude to Mr Hill, even using certain words that are normally automatic grounds for expulsion. I won't repeat those words, but I think we both know what they were."
Mr Lawson was staring at Martin. "Well?" He snapped.
It was strange, but that was the instant that something changed for Martin. It was all so unfair! Mr Lawson was not even trying to hide the fact that he was on Mr Hill's side.
Martin felt his face flush as he said, "Mr Hill was rude too!"
"Example?" The headmaster snapped.
"He called Robin a— a. . . bastard, Sir."
Lawson's eyes narrowed. "Careful, Musgrave! Think very carefully about what you are saying. Do you expect me to believe that—"
"He did! He called him a bastard!"
The headmaster seemed to shrink a little, looking suddenly tired as he took a seat on the big wing chair by the fireplace, putting him on a level with Martin. His voice seemed dispirited, devoid of the anger that had been there moments before: "Tell me the truth, Musgrave. Did you discuss this with your classmate Coventry at any time, to get your stories— ah, straight?"
"No, Sir!"
Mr Lawson nodded. Then he sighed. "All right, Musgrave. You can go. I'm not finished, and I may have other questions for you later. You will go to whatever you have until I call you, and you will discuss this matter with no one. No one, understood?"
"Yes, sir, No one."
He found Robin leaning against the wall by the Beak's office. From inside came the clatter of Miss Bryce's typing. The corridor was deserted.
"Well?" Martin hissed.
Robin shrugged. "Just what I thought. The Beak's ganging up with the Pervert. What'd you think would happen?"
Martin felt as if his breakfast, small as it had been, was in rapid retreat from his stomach. He mumbled, unhappily, "So. . . you'll maybe get sacked?"
Robin's eyes flashed briefly. "I can take that."
Martin felt as if he had been stabbed. His vision blurred. "But, Rob, I can't! Don't you see? I can't!"
"We'll see." Robin said. His hand reached over to touch Martin briefly on the shoulder, and when Martin's eyes met his, they found an expression that was at once defiant, and choked with pity. "Go on, Mouse." He said gently. "Don't get caught here. O.K.?"
Robin was at elevenses, but looked grim and distant.The Beak had just said he'd decide Robin's fate later, then the two masters had gone into the drawing room together. That morning, irrelevantly consecrated to the liturgies of Mathematics, French, and Latin, went by somehow. Mrs Lawson took them for Latin instead of Mr Hill, and she was particularly contemptuous. If anyone had prepared the appropriate passage of The Aeneid, then the excitement of the Pervert Affair had as if wiped their minds clean of all contamination with Virgil's allegedly lustrous verses.
"Um—" Martin stumbled hopefully: "er. . .reginam er. . . queen?"
"Not 'um' or 'er' anything, Musgrave. After a mere three years of Latin, I suppose we ought to congratulate you for knowing the meaning of' regina. But then, most Post-Office clerks have that much knowledge and since it is not my mission in life to train postal clerks, you may sit down, and we'll see if somebody else has loftier ambitions."
Somehow, they got through her indignant corrections of their imaginative free translations slash parodies of Virgil. As she gathered up her books she said, "Well, thank you, gentlemen, for a really new experience. I hadn't realised it was possible to do so much damage to the cause of Latin Scholarship in so short a time. It has been a most instructive morning for me. In more ways than one," she added ambiguously, as she swept out of the room.
After lunch, Mr Lawson, as if by chance, caught up with them as they were leaving the dining-room: "Ah! Coventry. . . and Musgrave. I'm glad I've caught up with you both. I'd be grateful for a few moments of your time, if you don't mind?"
"Yes Sir!" Martin said, suddenly invaded by an almost visceral happiness. He stared at Mr Lawson, smiling and avuncular. This was not the angry and dismissive Mr Lawson of a scant four hours previously. Something had happened, and whatever it was, there was no doubt it was good news for Robin. Martin felt almost loving towards the Beak, who had always been, in his experience, firm but fair.
Martin could never get over Mr Lawson's laboured efforts at courtesy, which he maintained in all but the most strained of circumstances. For example, when they were imitating him beating a boy, the script usually went something like: "And now, Carter, if you would be so good as to touch your toes? I do hope you have no prior engagement? Are you quite comfortable, Carter? Perhaps you would like a magazine to read, while I beat the shit out of you?"
Martin wondered what it meant that Mr Lawson had recovered his celebrated urbanity, and exchanged a significant glance with Robin as they followed the Headmaster into the drawing-room. As the door thudded to, the Beak said, "Now, Coventry, this largely concerns you, but I have asked Musgrave to be present because I know he's your friend, and you might like to have the opportunity to talk things over with him afterwards, while you think over your response. Is that all right? Of course, if you prefer—"
"That's all right, Sir. I'm fine with him here."
Mr Lawson waved them hospitably to the sofa.
The boys sat down, and Mr Lawson took the big wing armchair by the fire, stirring absently at peevishly smoking logs with the poker as he did so. He gazed at them thoughtfully. "Good. Now. After exhaustively investigating this matter, and questioning all the principals, including yourself and Mr Hill, and having had some information from Matron, I think I can say that I have a better idea what happened here."
"Sir?" Robin said, blankly.
"It would appear that there has been a regrettable personal animosity between you and Mr Hill, for which Mr Hill has to accept major responsibility, as the adult, and the master. There may have been much insolence from you aimed at Mr Hill, and in the other direction, some possibly heavy-handed discipline. Mr Hill was quite shocked to hear from Matron that you had sustained bruising from the er— ah—"
"Beatings." Robin supplied helpfully.
"Beatings. Yes. However—" Mr Lawson paused for effect. "One thing of which I am absolutely certain is that whatever else happened, and many things did happen, Mr Hill did not—"
"He touched me." Robin said mechanically.
"Please let me finish, Coventry. Mr Hill has been a master and Deputy Headmaster here for may years. Do you honestly think that if Mr Hill were a fondler of adolescent boys, he'd have lasted that long without some sort of previous incident?"
"Sir." Robin said in that tone of voice they all used when speaking to authority, deliberately wooden and colourless.
So. Martin noted for future reference that his sketchy understanding of the word pervert was filling in rapidly. So that's what it was: Fondling.
"How does that sound to you? A man like that fondles a thirteen year old boy? One for whom he had a certain rather well advertised antipathy? A regrettable antipathy, I grant, but—"
"I don't care. I hate Mr Hill and he hates me. He has never given me a moment's peace all term. I've been so busy doing punny runs and extra Latin, as well as all the beatings, that I couldn't even practise my piano. Even when I had the time, I could hardly sit down."
"That is a shame." Mr Lawson said gravely. "A real shame. I know how much your music means to you."
"So." Robin said truculently. "He touched me. You can sack him. Or sack me. I'm sick of this place, anyway."
"Robin. . ." Mr Lawson said urgently.
Martin noted with fascination the use of the Christian name. He had never heard Mr Lawson do that before.
"Robin, listen to me. I know that there have been faults on both sides. You have already been punished more than enough. I have a proposal which I think will satisfy you. It will also avoid the catastrophe which awaits both you and Mr Hill if you continue to make your allegations."
Robin's eyes widened, in rather impolite skepticism. "I'm listening."
"First, let me outline for you what will happen if you continue to allege that Mr Hill touched you. First, I will immediately ask your parents to withdraw you from Drumwhinnie, not as a punishment, but simply because I cannot, and will not dismiss a master of Mr Hill's standing on unsupported allegations such as the ones you are advancing. Your parents, if they are good, supportive parents, will insist on bringing charges against Mr Hill and a suit for damages against the school. The press will no doubt make everybody's life miserable and you will be The Boy Who Was Fondled by Derek Hill for the next ten years or so, until the matter comes to Court. At that point, if your solicitors have not already recommended you drop the suit when they see the strength of Mr Hill's defence, you, by then at University or beyond, will lose your suit and the inevitable countersuit, ruining your parents, in all likelihood.
"But perhaps your parents will just let the matter drop, in the interests of your own reputation and sanity and their finances, in which case, you will effectively have been expelled from Drumwhinnie—"
"And Mr Hill?" Robin said, unbelievingly.
"Mr Hill will continue to teach here until he resigns, or until something convinces me he has lost the right to be a master at Drumwhinnie. Derek Hill one, Robin Coventry nil."
"Well, that's what I expected." Robin said dully.
"But it doesn't have to be that way." Mr Lawson said urgently. "It doesn't, Robin. Let me tell you what I propose, to clear up this mess. First, I do not wish to get into the matter of whether Mr Hill did in fact touch you. I don't know. My guess, for what it's worth, is that in the highly charged emotions of the event, you misjudged what happened. You misinterpreted. That is not a crime. No-one will punish you for making an honest mistake. So let's say for the sake of argument that this is what happened. The resultant drama should then alert me to the fact that you have been quite egregiously over-punished by Mr Hill, who should have known better. I will reprimand Mr Hill. Mr Hill will henceforth have to clear all punishments meted out to you with me—"
"No." Robin said, in a clipped tone. "He's not going to beat me again. Nobody is. I mean it."
"I said all punishments."
"Yes?" Derisively.
"Careful, Robin." Mr Lawson said, but mildly enough. "As for beatings, I am instructing Mr Hill in particular, and the staff in general, that you,Robin, are to be dealt with by me, personally, in the case of all infractions of discipline. And I assure you, I won't be beating you. Nor do I expect to have to, or that you will require any kind of punishment. I think I detect a certain, ah, maturity in your outlook. An appreciation of um, worldly matters which is quite surprising, ah, in one your age."
Mr Lawson smiled thinly. "In addition to that, you will be moved, along with Martin here, into my wife's Tutorial form. We had planned on you both going there next term anyway. So Mr Hill will no longer be taking you for anything."
"Except 'rugger'." Robin said, with insulting emphasis on the word.
"Ah, yes." Mr Lawson looked as if he was either restraining himself from exploding with anger, or perhaps just stifling laughter. "What shall we do about rugby? I gather that neither you nor Martin is in serious danger of being chosen for the First Fifteen. Perhaps you would both be better employed getting healthy exercise, say, bird-watching, or collecting botany specimens and the like?"
There was a pause.
"Cricket too?" Robin said, warily.
"And cricket." Mr Lawson conceded gravely.
Another silence. Robin seemed to be thinking hard. Then he said, slowly, "Maybe I did sort of misunderstand. Him touching me. It could have been what you said, sir. I'd hate— I mean, I'd hate to accuse somebody without being absolutely positive—"
"I am so glad to hear that, Robin." Mr Lawson said, his shoulders visibly untensing. Martin thought irrelevantly, how like a skull Mr Lawson's face was, like the skull on the Jolly Roger, with tiny beads of sweat on the tall, shiny forehead.
"And of course," Mr Lawson said, breezily, "as a gentleman of the Tutorial, with all the implied responsibilities and privileges, you will want to make an apology to Mr Hill, in the presence of all the other members of your dormitory, for the bad language, just as Mr Hill has suggested to me that he would like to apologise to you for any intemperate speech on his part."
Robin looked suddenly as if he would choke. Then he muttered, "I'm not making a— a public confession at Assembly. Anything like that."
"Confession?" Mr Lawson looked blank. "What would you have to confess? Oh, no. I would just ask you in all fairness to do what you can to undo some of the damage. Perhaps let it drop here and there, that you might have been mistaken— at any rate, you will cease to accuse Mr Hill. The matter will, as things do in the fullness of time, fade. The boys will have other, more interesting things to gossip about. When parents write to me for clarification, I will tell them substantially what we have discussed. It was a mistake. A boy got overworked, and overwrought. Things were said— etcetera."
"Etcetera." Robin still seemed deep in thought.
"Even then, I grant you, we may have some unpleasantness. A couple of boys may be withdrawn. We can weather it. And believe me, Robin, one way or the other, we will weather it. With or without your help."
Martin felt a kind of admiration for Mr Lawson.
Not for the first time, it occurred to him that things were definitely stacked in favour of the adults in this world. Then he made a little personal vow, that when he had all the cards, he would never use them against the young. It was hard to see himself married—
God! Perhaps even to the cool and superior Miss Angela Pepper, age fifteen, who had played so many fine supporting roles in the torrid films he himself had written and directed, like Night of the Swimming Pool, Summer Days in The Secret Garden, and his favourite, Marooned in the South Pacific.
Yes. Well, to someone like Angela, surely. His children, and Angela's children would never have to yearn for adulthood as he and Robin had. Promise.
"Well, Robin? Do we have an agreement?"
"I suppose so, sir."
Funny. Robin sounded almost relieved, then he said, abruptly, "I want to go home."
"Home?" Mr Lawson was smiling, but edgily.
"For the weekend. Martin too, if he wants to come. I want to catch up on my piano. Then I'll come back."
Mr Lawson smiled. Suddenly, he looked relaxed. Then he sort of chuckled and shrugged his shoulders.
Later, as Robin and Martin strolled up the side of the burn, throwing stones through the thin ice of its surface, they totted up their winnings. Their shouts, cheers and laughter echoed against the dilapidated walls of the abandoned stables. Martin screamed, "Goodbye, gym-shoe!"
Robin howled, "Goodbye, good-old-ruggah!"
"Goodbye, crickey-wickey!"
"Goodbye, team three cheers! Goodbye for he's a jolly good fellow!"
"Mr Hill— fixed!" Martin heaved a half-brick through the ice, making a dull, satisfying splash.
Robin took a smaller stone and hurled it through one of the much broken windows of the Old Stables. "Perv Hill— fixed like. . . like a randy cat!" he crowed, adding, "Goodbye, randy! Hello, so-oo-opranooooo!!"
"What do you mean, 'soo-oopranooo'?" Martin asked.
"Paul says, one way you can tell when a man has had his balls cut off is when he sings so-oo-pran-ooo." Robin's voice rose several octaves.
"Oh. . . What's randy, anyway?" Martin said, frowning. "Oh, Cripes! Hello, free weekend! Dispassionate leave!"
Robin threw his arms wide, embracing the fine universe. "Hello, gone-fishing!"
"Hello, gone-for-a-walk!"
"Hello— Oh, hello. . . the rest of my life!" Robin yelled.
"Hello. . . um, Angela Pepper." Martin said, looking quickly at Robin to see his reaction.
"Who's Angela Pepper?" Robin asked, interested.
"I um. . . well, someone I'm planning on fondling." Martin said, reddening. Then they looked at each other and burst out laughing again.
For years afterwards, Martin had a vivid image of Mr Hill's bright red face, muscles working as he said through clenched teeth, "Naturally, Coventry, if I used any. . . intemperate. . . language. . . I freely and sincerely apologise."
Strange, Robin's own apology had almost sounded like a claim of total victory, which it probably was: "I said some things to Mr Hill. I believe that maybe. . . in the heat of the moment, I may have been, er probably, I was mistaken. I also used language which— um, words I should not have used. . . I apologise for that to Mr Hill and to the whole dorm."
Robin's voice had been clear and rather defiant as he stood there in the Beak's drawing-room, facing his adversary across the length of a faded, antique hearth rug, which Mrs Lawson never tired of telling them, the Lawsons had bought for a song in a bazaar in Bokhara, wherever that was.


text:
Death by Revelation-Chapter 20
Chapter 20: Mark Jones, April 11th and 12th, Year 1
There are times when I hate being right. I expected the FLDS to act up and I knew that Hiram would lead from the front. Hearing that he and half his men had been captured didn't surprise me. The news of what had happened to the Southern Expedition spread like wildfire through the Fortress. The Salt Lake Troopers were popular. Many of our citizens had been rescued by the SaLTs.
Hiram Rockwell was a Mormon Sir Galahad. He tried to hide it by putting up a tough front and cursing a lot, but the man was a saint (pun intended). His defining trait and the source of his strength was that he was an amazingly simple man. He was only able to believe in one thing at a time and he never had doubts. He believed in his God, and the absolute necessity of doing the right thing regardless of the consequences. For a guy who was really good at violence, he gave off an unusual sense of inner peace. He knew who he was and was ok with it.
To tell the truth, Hiram was a little scary. You did not want to be someone he thought was evil, but we live in scary times. Whether you believed in the presence of true evil or not, it was comforting to know that Hiram was at your back standing between you and the forces of darkness.
When our citizens heard that he and his men had been trapped by the FLDS, they got pissed. Our entire community was united; our people wanted our men back and the FLDS punished.
I knew that there was no way that we could rebuild the US if we allowed pockets of wacko cults and dictatorships to exist. For all the reasons that I had discussed with Hiram, Art, and Jim, we needed to let the FLDS take the first shot against us. Logic convinced me that I was doing the right thing. I got everything I wanted and I felt like shit.
As soon as I got word of what had happened in La Verkin, I called an emergency council meeting. There weren't any dissenting votes. We were now officially at war with the FLDS. The only way out of war was if our men were released unharmed. I had approval to go down south with all the active duty SaLTs.
Our homeland defense force was made up of the Valkyries and the Reserves. The Valkyries are an all women defence force of about 2000 women led by Helen Hansen and Emma Dietrich. They weren't SaLTs but they all knew how to shoot. All of them had been toughened by their experiences over the last year. Many of them had watched helplessly as vampires and zombies fed on their loved ones. They were women defending their families and their homes. I wouldn't have wanted to attack them. Art Bingham and the rest of the council were in charge of the reserves made up of around 1000 older men and teenage boys. I was confident that the Fortress would be safe in our absence.
The SaLTs couldn't leave until Beiger Industries finished modifying our Mark II Armored Personnel Carriers. Before the Outbreak, Sara Beiger had been a moderately successful sculptor. Lisa was her manager and life partner. They had gotten married in Canada. They now owned Beiger Industries, one of the largest and most successful start-ups post-Outbreak. Their focus was on metal fabrication and their primary customer was the 'government'. Life is full of irony. Before the Outbreak Sara and Lisa were peaceniks and had demonstrated against the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. They were now the largest military suppliers in Utah which likely meant the entire world. The Beigers didn't have a problem killing vampires and zombies but the thought of helping the SaLTs fight and even kill other people was tearing them up from the inside. They hid it well. The Beiger's knew all the captured SaLTs personally. They wanted them back safe as much as anyone else.
The National Guard Armory at Camp Williams was a crucial supply source for us. The Beigers were scrambling to fit interchangeable mounts for the M2 .50 Caliber Heavy Machine Gun (HMG) and M252 81 mm Mortars on top of our APCs. In War World I and II, 50 Caliber Heavy Machine Gun rounds were used to take out tanks. The M252 Mortar was accurate up to 3.5 miles and could fire fifteen 81 mm rounds a minute. There wasn't a wall or fortification in Utah that couldn't be taken down by 81 mm rounds.
In politics, perceptions matter. I decided months ago that our greatest threat wouldn't be from zombies or vampires but other humans. Fifty caliber machine guns and mortar rounds were overkill or useless against monsters. It would have been more efficient to have these mounts made when the APCs were first built. I could not risk looking like I was preparing to take down other American citizens until it was absolutely clear to even the most diehard peace activist in Fortress Salt Lake that we had been attacked first.
There were five hundred survivors from Cedar City that needed transport back to Salt Lake City. The plan was to bring ten lightly armored metro buses and all four of the APCs we had left. The buses were ok for daytime travel but were death traps at night. A vampire could claw through one in seconds.
By late evening, the mounts were ready. All the APCs had two interchangeable weapon mounts installed on the rooftop observation decks. The M2 HMGs were placed on the mounts in front of the APC and the M252 Mortars on the ones in the back. We brought extra weapons for the APC in Cedar City.
At first light we left the Fortress. It took eight-and-a-half hours to get to Cedar City. Hiram and his men had done a good job clearing I-15. The entire highway was clear and we only came across a few zombies.
After Hiram and the others were captured, Corporal Jackson decided that the East Center Street Ward was no longer secure. He moved all the civilians to the Cedar Ridge Golf Course Clubhouse. He figured that even though the building had not been fortified, the civilians would be safer there overnight.
When we arrived, it was a mad house. The events of the past 24 hours had left the civilians on the edge of hysteria. No one had gotten any sleep. Luckily they had not been attacked in the night. Most of the zombies in Cedar City had been destroyed and the Southern Expedition had killed a vampire in Cedar City two nights ago. Vampires are territorial. The odds were good that we would not get another in the area for at least a week.
It was too late in the day to send the civilians back to Salt Lake. I took some time to help calm down the civilians and answer questions. We fortified the area as best we could while sentries with dogs scouted stood guard. At nightfall, we packed as many of the women and children into the APCs as we could and the rest of us slept in the clubhouse and the metro buses. With twenty sentries and the dogs, there was little chance of us being surprised during the night. We had brought steel panels to armor the clubhouse from vampires but it would take days to install them. The situation was suboptimal. Still we were reasonably secure.
I am a light sleeper. Snoring drives me crazy. Get a few guys in one room overnight and I will guarantee that at least one will snore. Rank has its privileges and I got a room to myself. I made sure that a .44 magnum revolver and my sword were close at hand.
My revolver was a tool. I love my sword. It's the only irreplaceable thing I own. Its previous owner had paid over a hundred thousand dollars for it. There are probably only a couple hundred swords of equal quality and almost all of those were in Japan.
I had finally fallen asleep when I felt a tap on my forehead. Like I said I'm a light sleeper. The slightest noise usually wakes me up. My men would have knocked before entering my room. As I opened my eyes, I used one motion to draw my katana and strike at a dark figure standing over me. My sword clanged as it hit something metallic. My blade was almost twisted from my grasp.
I thrust myself up out of bed into the figure. As I struggled to free my weapon, I kicked at the intruder's knee. I was surprised when I didn't make contact. My balance was thrown off. Something hard hit me just behind the corner of my right jaw. The world exploded with pain. For a split second, I blacked out.
I heard a chuckle, "That's a nerve cluster. A poke there is usually quite painful. It's a good place to strike if you want to get someone's attention without causing any real harm.
Look, I know this looks bad–me being in your room uninvited but I don't want to hurt you. I just want to have a conversation."
My troops were well trained. We had sentries out. Whoever this was, he could not have gotten into my room without disabling my men. No one hurts one of mine and gets away with it. I lunged. I had one goal. I was going to bury my sword into this asshole. When I felt my blade hit metal, I pulled, shifted directions and lunged again. Each time I thrust, my blade was caught.
This wasn't working. I jumped back and reached down toward my revolver. 'Shit!' It wasn't there. Just as I realized this, I my right hand went numb and I dropped my sword.
"Director Jones, I just hit your ulnar nerve. That's why you dropped the katana. I also took the liberty of removing your revolver before I woke you.
It's been fun sparring with you but that's not why I'm here. I know you have no reason to believe me but I assure you that I haven't harmed your men and I have no desire to hurt you."
"You call beating the shit out of me sparring?"
"I apologize for waking you up without notice, but really, all I've been doing, since I woke you, is defending myself."
"Who the hell are you? Why are you in my room?"
My opponent lit a candle and set it on a table. He was about my height, maybe a tad shorter. He was in his late 20's, early 30's. He had a runner's build. He was a lot stronger than he looked. He was the first person I've met who made me feel slow. I looked at his weapons.
"What the hell! Are those hand rakes?"
He grinned and then twirled two 6-inch long three pronged garden tools around his hands and wrists like he was in a low budget martial arts movie. He even made a "waah" sound. He would have been funnier if he had been mocking someone else but he was still funny. Even though he made me feel like a bumbling idiot, I had to chuckle.
He said, "Actually the proper name for these tools is hand cultivators, four dollars and ninety-nine cents retail from the Sears catalog.
I'm sorry about the nicks my cultivators made on your sword. I'm sure that the damage will buff out."
I started laughing. My sword had been designed to cut through armor. I knew it hadn't been permanently damaged. He was skilled enough to be telling the truth. I believed him when he said that he hadn't hurt my men. I liked to think I was a badass. I had a museum quality hundred thousand dollar samurai sword, and had just gotten my ass handed to me by a guy holding ten dollars worth of gardening tools. I leaned up against the wall.
"Tell me what you want. I guess you've earned a conversation with me."
"Allow me introduce myself. I'm the FLDS Prophet, Ari Levin."
I reached for my sword.
"Hold on. Hold on. Please do NOT make me use my garden tools. Please, hear what I have to say."
I stopped. He was right. Garden tools or not, I was outclassed. If he wanted to kill me, I'd be dead.
"Ok, have your say."
Levin told an interesting story. He became the FLDS prophet shortly after the zombie outbreak. Since then the FLDS had split into two factions. One led by him, the other by one of his wives who happened to be a psychotic sadist. The factions had been on the verge of civil war when his psychotic wife captured Hiram and his men.
Levin swore that he didn't have the political pull to save my men. He predicted that his wife would kill them one by one over the next few weeks. He said that he would be happy if I wiped out the FLDS in Hildale and Colorado City. He asked that I leave his people alone. He said that they were located 16 miles east of Colorado City. After he said his piece, he shook my hand and calmly walked out of my room closing the door behind him.
I followed him. He wasn't in the hall. I called out for my men. We got the dogs and searched the whole clubhouse. We couldn't find him. None of my men were injured. In fact I was the only one that had even seen him. I was tempted to start yelling but I controlled myself. Levin was skilled enough to make me look incompetent. It wasn't my men's fault.
After we went through the clubhouse three times without finding any sign of Levin, I called off the search. I didn't buy the idea that the FLDS prophet had supernatural powers but the guy was good. I couldn't figure out how he had disappeared. I decided that I believed his story. He could have easily killed me while I was asleep. He didn't. There was no reason for him to lie.

subset: commoncrawl


text:
Residents of Illinois who served in the military are often eligible for both federal and state benefits. Unfortunately, understanding eligibility and filing requirements can be difficult.
If you or a loved one served in the military and were not dishonorably discharged, please contact an experienced Illinois VA benefits attorney for advice on filing your own claim for benefits.
The federal government offers disability benefits to veterans who suffer from disabilities that were the result of or were worsened by illnesses or injuries that occurred while:
Those who qualify for these benefits can begin receiving payments to cover medical treatment, as well as rehabilitation costs, and household expenses. Disability pensions, which act as income supplements are also available to veterans who:
In addition to these requirements, the applicant must also be either permanently and totally disabled or be over the age of 65 years old. Veterans who are so severely disabled that they require regular aid from another person could qualify for the Aid and Attendance benefit, which is paid in addition to a monthly pension. These benefits are only granted when a veteran requires the aid of another person to perform personal functions, such as dressing, bathing, and feeding him or herself, or when a veteran is:
In a nursing home because he or she is mentally or physically incapacitated; or
Housebound benefits are similar to Aid and Attendance benefits in that they allow veterans to receive payments in addition to a pension, but only if they:
Unfortunately, veterans cannot receive both Aid and Attendance benefits and Housebound benefits at the same time.
Illinois residents who also served in the military can collect additional benefits only offered by the state. For instance, Illinois sponsors the Veterans Care program, which provides healthcare coverage to uninsured veterans. These policies cover doctor's appointments, both inpatient and outpatient hospital care, lab tests, prescription drugs, vision care, mental health and substance abuse services, emergency medical transportation, and occupational therapy.
Illinois also provides eligible veterans with access to veterans' homes, which provide a broad range of services and facilities, including skilled nursing
However, only certain veterans are eligible to reside in these homes, including those who:
Many of the state's homes provide services specifically to veterans suffering from certain kinds of injuries or illnesses, including Alzheimer's disease and dementia.
If you are a veteran, you may be entitled to benefits from the VA. Please call us at The Comerford Law Office, LLC at 312-863-8572 to learn more from an experienced veterans benefits lawyer.
I contacted Jim after my first denial for SS Disability. He was referred to me by a good friend who had retained him for her Disability odyssey as well. My Disability case was somewhat difficult because I didn't have a nice, large cache of medical documentation to back up my claim. Despite this and other complications Jim helped me get through my hearing and I received a fully favorable decision from the Judge and now I am just waiting to start receiving my benefits,
James is an absolutely great lawyer. He fully understands his area of expertise, he's quick to answer any questions with clear, concise directions on how to proceed. His insight into understanding how to navigate with many case laws and government agencies helped me as his client better understand the case law and it's ways. James is quick to answer emails and phone calls, and made me feel very comfortable. I highly, highly recommended James for his case law specialties. A professional and true gentleman, even when I would ramble on with worry, James was very understanding and able to put my concerns at ease.
Jim is absolutely one of the nicest, most compassionate, and intelligent lawyers out there. He is fast to answer any question with clear, concise direction. His insight into understanding how to navigate with many government agencies helps his clients in many ways. Jim is quick to answer emails and calls, and makes his clients feel very comfortable. Highly, highlyrecommended.
Jim is a good lawyer that helped us through a difficult purchase of our home(he also was the lawyer for the sale of our previous home).
We had quite a few issues with the details of the purchase with both the bank and the seller that James made sure were resolved as quickly as possible. When the selling lawyer would not respond to phone calls/emails Jim physically went to the lawyer's office and made sure that the final details were pushed through.
I would recommend Jim as an attorney as he is very knowledgeable and thorough on the work that he does.
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text:
Scrabble & Words with Friends Word Unscrambler
Definition of Jigajog
0 Definition of Jigajog
The definition of jigajog, the meaning of word Jigajog
Is jigajog a scrabble word? Yes!
0 Synonym of Jigajog
Jigajog is worth 23 points in Words with Friends
There are 7 letters in jigajog: A G G I J J O


text:
WASHINGTON, September 3, 2013 — On Sunday, the New York City's mayor's office announced that a music festival which was scheduled to start its third and final day was cancelled. According to the press release it was called off after two attendees died and four more were rushed to the hospital after using the drug MDMA also known as "Molly".
Discussion about "molly," short for molecule, seems to be everywhere these days, educating those not in the drug or club scene about the new drug around town, but the reality is, molly is not that new. WashingtonD.C. has been a major hub for the sale of molly for over a year now.
Molly is touted as a pure form of the drug ecstasy, which causes many of the users to believe that it is a safer drug without other added chemicals. But when asked, most users do not know what chemicals make up the drugs they are taking. Recently SyracuseUniversity published a study in New York revealing that "20% of the participants responded that they had tried Molly. One third of those students also stated that they did not know the ingredients of the drug they had ingested."
EcstasyData, an independent pill testing program whose mission is to collect, manage, review and ultimately make their findings public for the safety of others, collected and tested molly tablets from Washington D.C. in 2012. Some of the tablets contained nothing more than caffeine while others contained methylone, a substance found in "bath salts." Bath salts created a media frenzy when a man in Florida who was high on bath salts at the time started to cannibalize a living, homeless man.
MDMA, or molly, has taken its ride to popularity through hip hop music. Kanye West sings a song "Mercy" which says "Something about Mary, she's gone off that Molly." Other hip hop and rap groups such as T.I., Lil Wayne, and Eminem, have publically bragged about using MDMA. 2 Chains sing "Got your girl on Molly and we smokin' loud and drinkin'".
While everyone spent the days after the VMA's talking about the inappropriate dance moves made by Mylie Cyrus, the lyrics to her song were virtually ignored. "We Can't Stop" contains the line "we like to party, dancing with Molly." Her producer said that the lyric was actually "dancing with Mylie" but Cyrus admitted to The Daily Mail that the line is a reference to ecstasy ad that the producer had lied.
The references in popular music to this drug are too numerous to mention. Nicki Manaj has one and just this past week, Rick Ross released a shockingly disturbing song about drugging a woman's drink with "a molly" and then raping her while she is drugged.
MDMA has always been associated with music. Its prominence first came about in the 1990s at rave parties where the main activities were to listen to music and use ecstasy. Then sometime in the past decade a powder form emerged in night clubs under the new female name. Now with sales pitch of a pure and natural produce, Molly has found a new following that have never been to a rave and are not followers of hip hop music. The new generation of MDMA users is often professionals who are consciences over what food and drinks they put in their bodies.
Police say there are no rules to govern the process in which molly made, meaning it could be made in someone's basement, a car or even a storage locker. There is also no way of knowing what you are actually ingesting unless you have your own laboratory.
Molly costs$20 to $50 per dose. "Molly is the big thing right now" said a young professional who did not want their name used. "It's not addictive and it's pure, you know?" People pack the powder into empty capsules that can be purchased from any local health food store.
Molly has remained primarily a suburban neighborhood drug. The police have not seen it take hold in the inner cities yet. The people you are using this drug, are not the strung out druggies but often middle class young people going to a music festival.
The CDC has reported that the number of Molly overdoses local hospitals are seeing is constantly on the rise. If someone has taken the drug and develops the shakes, high blood pressure, a rapid heart rate or fever, they should seek medical attention immediately.


text:
JustWatch, a search engine for TV shows and movies available through online streaming, recently launched in South Africa.
The service contains the catalogues of Netflix, ShowMax, iTunes, Google Play, DStv BoxOffice, and Mubi.
It lets you search for specific titles, and then lists each of the services that has the movie or show you're looking for – along with the associated cost.
An example is shown in the screenshot below.
While JustWatch does not offer a side-by-side comparison, it does provide a count of the number of titles available on each service:
- Netflix ZA: 672 titles
- ShowMax: 668 titles
- iTunes ZA: 3,447 titles
- Google Play ZA: 1,565 titles
- DStv BoxOffice: 173 titles
- Mubi: 34 titles
JustWatch said its title counts may differ from those of other search engines because its internal matching algorithm is very strict, so as to not show false positives.
It also said that although it doesn't provide a side-by-side comparison of services, it does have an internal tool that shows the overlap of the catalogues of different subscription services in a country.
Due to its strict matching algorithm, JustWatch said the 44 movie overlap shown below isn't 100% accurate – but it does show that the overlap between ShowMax and Netflix is minimal.
In addition to JustWatch, a few other sites have done comparisons on the Netflix catalogues in South Africa and the US.
South African developer Matt Cavanagh compared Netflix's US and South African catalogues to ShowMax when the streaming service launched locally.
While the local Netflix and ShowMax catalogues are dwarfed by the US Netflix service, there are a handful of movies and shows available in South Africa that you can't get in the US.
Both Netflix and ShowMax are growing their video libraries in South Africa a few titles at a time every month, and Netflix has said it hopes to eliminate the issue of regional licensing in time.
"We have a ways to go before we can offer people the same films and TV series everywhere," said Netflix.
"In the meantime, we will continue to respect and enforce content licensing by geographic location."
More on Netflix in South Africa
This is why Netflix launched in South Africa
Netflix South Africa has more stuff to watch – here's the full catalogue
Think Netflix will kill DStv? Think again
Netflix War draws first blood: Vidi is dead


text:
After two long days of travel, Luca finally reaches the remote, untamed forests of northern Sim Nation. As per Esme's instructions, he follows an abandoned railroad track through the thick, overgrown wilderness, only stopping once every hour or so to catch his breath and drink some water. The towering old trees seem to dwarf him as he hikes the rugged, desolate trail, and the dense forest growth feels stifling and claustrophobic. Within a few hours, Luca reaches the end of the tracks, but he hikes on, until at long last he finds the frog pond that Esme spoke of.
Three stones into the water, she had told him. Three stones are all it will take to summon the mage.
"Now tell me, child, did you travel all this way just to skip rocks on my pond?"
Luca jumps back, startled by the man's sudden appearance.
"My name is Luca McKinley," he announces, sounding much braver than he feels, "and I have come to speak with Atticus Thorel. I was told that he lives around these parts."
The man crosses his arms across his chest and glares at Luca. "You were told wrong," he replies gruffly. "Now leave, or else the bears might eat you for supper."
"Are you not Atticus?" Luca demands. "The guardian of eternal life?"
Atticus growls, a low and threatening sound that sends chills down Luca's spine. "You have come to steal my seeds!" he spits, his face reddening with rage.
"No, no!" Luca shakes his head vehemently. "I want nothing of your seeds, Mr. Thorel! I am here on behalf of your daughter, Maeve Saville."
"Saville?" Atticus furrows his brow in thought. "As in Esme Saville? But- She said-"
Luca frowns. "Esme never told you about Maeve?" he asks.
Atticus turns a deeper shade of red. "I knew about the pregnancy of course," he mumbles. "But a daughter? No, I had no idea…"
Luca awkwardly shifts his weight back and forth, feeling uncomfortable. "I realize this must be a shock for you," he says at last, "but Maeve is sick, sir. Horribly sick I'm afraid. Esme thinks that there is magic at work, a curse as she puts it, but she doesn't know much more than that. She sent me here in the hopes that you might be able to help us."
"Esme sent a human? To speak with me?" Atticus looks him up and down. "She really must be desperate."
"We are," Luca replies, ignoring his disapproving stare. "I am a doctor in Jericho, the head of the hospital's research department, and we are completely stumped by this disease. It is like nothing we've ever seen before. The White Fever, as it is commonly known, has already killed over three dozen Sims in our area alone. We need to cure this illness, and we need to cure it fast."
"What do you want me to do about it, boy?" Atticus snaps. "Esme knows very well that I am bound to this forest by the very magic I protect."
"The virus appears to bear some resemblance to the Great Plague. We were hoping that you might be able to provide some useful insight."
Atticus sighs and rubs his head. "I remember very little about that period of time. The Dark Days, as they are known, were very dark days indeed. I might, however, have some information about it in my library."
"Well? What are we waiting for?"
"I do not allow humans on my property," he sneers.
"But you need me!" Luca insists. "I have studied the fever for months now, and I know everything that science can teach us about it. And besides," he adds with a small grin, "Esme baked you her famous angel food cake. If I have to hike all the way back to the trail today, then I guess I will just have to eat the whole thing myself…"
Atticus scowls at him moodily. "Fine," he relents. "But don't touch anything and don't go near the garden."
Then, with a flick of his hand, the surrounding trees suddenly fade away, and a large cottage appears in their place.
"Now how about a bite of that cake before we get started?" the old mage suggests.
Once they're safely inside the house, Atticus begins to let his guard down a little.
"So you said you're a doctor?" he asks between large mouthfuls of cake.
"Yes sir," Luca nods.
"You must be quite devoted to your practice to travel all the way here from Jericho," Atticus smirks.
Luca feels his cheeks grow warm. "Well, it's a very serious problem," he explains. "There is a lot of pressure on the medical community to figure out what's going on, and as the lead researcher I do feel a certain obligation to cure this disease. No one wants a repeat of the plague."
"And how long have you been in love with my daughter, Dr. McKinley?"
Luca stutters and chokes. "I- I-"
"I thought as much," he frowns. "I am sure you are aware that the council does not allow magic and humans to mix," Atticus tells him sternly. "I will have to insist that once we cure Maeve, you distance yourself from my daughter."
Luca hangs his head. "Esme said the same," he admits dejectedly. "I just want her to live, Mr. Thorel. She means everything to me."
The old man's eyes flash with something like understanding, but the emotion is quickly replaced by their characteristic disdain. "Well then, what are we waiting for?" he barks. "Let's get started already."
Silently, Luca follows Atticus down a winding staircase and through a narrow hallway, eventually stopping before a large wooden door. The room they enter is pitch black, but with a snap of his fingers dozens of candles flicker on, revealing a large library lined with dusty old bookcases.
"Look at this place," Luca gasps. "It's so… antiquated!"
Atticus glances around the room and shrugs. "I suppose it could do with an update," he concedes. "It has been a few hundred years since I last touched it."
Luca shakes his head in disbelief, wondering how hundreds of years could seem so trivial to anyone.
The two men spend the entire afternoon down in the dank, musty room. While Atticus busies himself poring over an ancient spell book, Luca searches through volumes and volumes of old documents and battered texts, but even after hours of reading they are still no closer to finding a solution.
Luca does, however, stumble across one book that proves to be of great interest to him. Buried in the pages of a yellowing old manuscript, he discovers a fascinating excerpt about the duties of the "Guardian". While the book fails to go into much detail, it briefly mentions a beautiful flower that can "charm even the most cold-hearted of souls."
"So lovely are these blooms," the passage reads, "that not even the harbinger of death can resist their allure. One blossom is all it would take to distract the reaper from his mission and upset the precarious balance of life. But a flower for a soul is a dangerous bargain to make, and so the Council established a guardianship to care for and protect these precious plants. Only he is allowed access to the gift of immortality, and only then under the watchful eyes of the Council."
A flower? Luca muses. I wonder if those are the seeds that Atticus mentioned…
Luc quickly snaps the book closed and turns to face the mage. "Yes, Mr. Thorel?" he asks. "Did you find something?"
"I believe I may have. You said it's called the White Fever? How did it get such a name?"
Luca frowns. "Each victim turns deathly white before they succumb to the disease. It's a colloquial term, but it suits the illness well. The virus targets the body's white blood cells, essentially destroying the Sim's immune system, and-"
"White, you say?" Atticus taps the book impatiently. "White as snow?"
"I've never seen snow before, sir, but I can only imagine-"
Atticus cuts him off. "It doesn't matter," he says dismissively. "Luca, I believe that this fever does not merely resemble the Great Plague. I believe that it is the Great Plague."
"But, sir, the plague was eradicated centuries ago!"
"Or so you've been told," Atticus retorts. "According to popular belief, the virus ran its course and never resurfaced again. Most Sims, most humans, believe this theory. It's comforting to them, see? But at the time, people attributed the plague to magic, and as is the case with most urban legends there is a shred of truth behind this story. The disease itself was most definitely a medical condition, a virus as you modern practitioners call it, but it originated from something much more arcane. Something…" he pauses, waving his hands for emphasis. "Something magical. The council was never able to establish what, or who, started the Great Plague, but through the determination and perseverance of the entire community we managed to discover a remedy for the disease. It did not cure those Sims who had already fallen ill, but it prevented the rest of the population from contracting the virus."
"Like a vaccination?" Luca asks.
Atticus nods. "Yes, but on a much greater scale. We slipped the antidote into the rain and let it soak into the earth and wash into the rivers. For three days and three nights, it rained, and by the next full moon the plague was gone."
"But how does this help us? We can't possibly-"
"I can recreate the elixir," Atticus tells him, "but I will need the assistance of a weather mage to manipulate the skies."
"The virus is not widely spread yet," Luca interjects. "Surely it wouldn't be such a large task to make it rain over Jericho."
"Perhaps not," he muses. "And I think I know just the woman who could help us too. Which brings me to our next problem- Luca, the potion requires an active sample of the virus. Will it be possible to obtain one?"
Luc chews his thumb anxiously. "There are blood samples at the lab, but it might be tricky to sneak them out without anyone knowing. I can head back to Jericho tomorrow though to see what I can do."
"But Maeve is ill, right? Can't she-"
"If they teach you one thing in medical school, Mr. Thorel, it's that you need to cover your bases. One sample is just not enough."
Atticus nods. "Fine, then you can leave first thing in the morning."
Later that night as Luca mulls over their earlier conversation, a realization strikes him.
"What about Maeve?" he asks suddenly.
"What about her?" Atticus demands.
"You said the elixir doesn't cure Sims who are already sick. How are we going to save Maeve?"
Atticus doesn't even glance up from his book. "We aren't," he answers simply.
Luca feels like the wind has been knocked out of him. "But- But she's pregnant!" he blurts out.
Slowly, Atticus closes his book and turns to face Luc. "I'm sorry, but there's nothing we can do for her," he tell him quietly. "The solution we found prevents the virus from spreading, but it won't do anything for Maeve."
"That's not good enough!" Luca cries.
"It's unfortunate, yes, but death is a part of life I'm afraid."
"How would you know anything about death?!" he exclaims angrily. "You've lived for centuries without ever having to face your own mortality!"
"I know nothing of death?" Atticus laughs, but the sound feels cold and empty. "I have lived a dozen lifetimes, boy, and in that time I've seen more death than you can ever imagine. My family, my friends, my lovers, everyone I've ever known grows old and dies, and yet I must live on without them. Grieving their loss only makes things harder."
"But can't you do something to help her?! Surely as the guardian of eternal life, you could-"
Atticus holds up a hand to silence him. "That is not an option, Luca," he replies before turning back to his book.
Luca folds his arms across his chest and sits back, glaring at the mage.
Not an option, he seethes silently. Well, we'll just see about that.
The rest of the evening proceeds in relative calm. Atticus questions Luca about the current state of affairs in Sim Nation, and they discuss everything from politics to sports. After a while, Luca casually offers to prepare dinner for them both, and the mage eagerly agrees. Cooking is not one of his favorite chores.
Halfway through dessert, however, Atticus begins to feel… funny.
"Right on time," Luca smirks, watching as he collapses onto the table. "I may not be magic, but we humans have a few tricks up our sleeves too. Crushed sedatives. Works like a charm."
After checking his pulse, Luca drags Atticus to the couch in the living room and hurriedly gathers his belongings.
He then heads outside to the garden, and after a few minutes of searching Luca finds it. Defiantly, he cuts a single flower from the tangled, thorny bush.
"Beautiful, huh?" he mutters, gazing at the black and red blossom in the palm of his hand. It looks cold, lifeless, and haunting, like a dying tree in the middle of winter, and he shudders as its icy petals brush against the tips of his fingers.
Luca carefully tucks the bloom into his backpack and quickly rushes off. He has a long hike back to the trail, and he wants to get as far away from this forest as he possibly can before Atticus wakes up.
Challenge Notes:
This plot is taking FOREVER! Dear lord, I didn't expect it to get so complicated! Lol. I know that I keep saying I will move on soon, but there's at least one, maybe two, more chapters before we'll meet the first kiddo. S/he hasn't actually even been born yet, as I don't like to play too far ahead. Ugh...
Also, I know I'm not supposed to do this, but to avoid any confusion I just want to clarify that Atticus' source of eternal life is, in my mind at least, a combination of the death flower and the ambrosia dish. In my world, that's the only (known) way to reliably achieve immortality. I realize that there are probably a dozen other ways to get the same effect in game, but they feel way too simple to me and so I've banned them. In my opinion, something as powerful as everlasting life and eternal youth should be a challenge to obtain, and the Lifetime Rewards just ruin it for me.


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Knitting & Crochet
December 17, 2019
Do you crochet, knit, or have other yarn skills? Would you like to learn? This is the place; all ages are welcome. Every Tuesday at 4 pm.
We offer activities for children, teens, and adults, including a book discussion group. Check our program calendar or call the library at 845-338-2092


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How to Lift Railroad Ties
Railroad ties are frequently used in landscaping gardens or as retaining walls. As the wood rots or becomes worm-eaten over time, the ties can become entrenched in the earth and are no longer possible to move using manpower. Proper tools are then necessary to break the tie free so that you can lift, move, dispose of, or sell it. Although lifting the tie is easiest and safest when two people work together, one person can accomplish it alone.
Dig a trench around all sides of the railroad tie. Remove the dirt until the tie's bottom edges are visible.
Wedge the flat end of the crowbar under a section near one end of the tie. Press on the crowbar until the tie feels slightly loose in the ground. Move to the opposite end of the tie. Wedge the flat end of the crowbar under the tie there and loosen that side likewise. Wedge the flat end of the crowbar under the middle of the tie, and do the same loosening process there. Repeat until the tie is loosened from the ground, and only lying loose in the trench.
Knot one of the ropes around the railroad tie---near one end of the tie---using a lark's head knot. Loop the rope so the ends are in one hand and the bend at the mid-point is in the other. Slide the bend under the tie. Slip the ends through the loop at the midpoint.
Drag the ends to the truck and knot them, using a slip knot. Create a large loop with your rope. Bend back the bottom of the loop so you have two smaller loops. Slip either the left loop through the right or vice versa, depending on which way you want the knot to go. Slip the knot over the hitch or tie the knot around the bumper. Repeat the process for the second rope, so that both ropes are securely connected to the hitch and the railroad tie.
Drive your truck or car, dragging the railroad tie behind you, out of the trench. Untie the rope from the tie once you've moved the tie as far as you'd like.
Wedge a hand-truck's front lip under it and tilt the hand-truck so the tie slides securely onto its lip and off the ground.
Things You Will Need
- Crowbar
- 2 lengths nylon rope, each at least 20 feet long
- Ball hitch or bumper, on a truck or car
- Hand-truck
- It's illegal to tow using chains. They have no give and can't be as securely knotted, so they're more likely to come lose grip and whip around wildly, becoming a safety hazard.


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You can watch some highlights of today's carol service here..
Month: December 2018
Christmas Raffle Winners
Congratulations to the following lucky pupils who were winners in today's Christmas Raffle: Junior Infants: Daniel B, Tom K, Darragh Q, Ethan C Senior Infants (Ms. Moffatt): Ava and Ailbhe Senior Infants (Ms. O'Hara): Daniel D, Laura K First class: Read More …
Happy Christmas From Junior Infants
Christmas Card Competition
Well done to all the pupils in 3rd class who took part in the recent Christmas card competition. The panel of 5th class judges selected the following winners: Girls: Lauren and Maya Boys: Tommy and Jamie
Merry Christmas Everyone
Click on the message title to see a Christmas treat for you from 3rd class…..
A Christmas Carol
Christmas Maths Puzzle
Congratulation to the following pupils who were winners in the '12 Days of Christmas' Maths challenge and each received a selection box. The correct answer was – 364 3rd class: Paddy and Claire 4th class: Marcus and AJ 5th class: Read More …
Active School Art Competition
Congratulations to the pupils below, who were winners in the recent Art Competition organised by our Active School Committee. Junior Infants : Holly Senior Infants (Ms.O'Hara): Sarah Senior Infants(Ms.Moffat): Clodagh 1st class: Charlie 2nd Class: Lauren O 3rd Class: Lauren Read More …
Christmas Maths Problem
To get us into the festive spirit, we are giving away selection boxes (one in each class from 3rd to 6th), to pupils who can solve the problem of how many gifts in total were given to the lady in Read More …
December Newsletter
Our December newsletter will be sent home today and is available to download from the 'Information for Parents' tab above.


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As a blogger, you've probably encountered a wide variety of new terms since the launch of your business. One of them may be VPS. As…Read More
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Any good headline should spark curiosity and get the reader to click on a link, but the problem starts when people go out of their…Read More
It doesn't really matter how good your content may be, if it doesn't reach the right people at the right time – it's basically worthless.…Read More
Not so long ago, I was having major troubles coming up with ideas on what to write about on my blog. No matter how hard…Read More


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Fitbit's shares have received a significant bounce following the announcement of an alliance with Google.
This collaboration is yet another example of the FAANGS' greater involvement in providing technological healthcare solutions (following on from the partnership between Amazon, Berkshire Hathaway and JPMorgan Chase & Co announced earlier this year).
Of particular note here is that Fitbit hopes to take advantage of Google's artificial intelligence capabilities. As an avid Fitbit user, I'll be intrigued to see how AI will add to its UX - maybe more regular reminders that I've not met my 10,000 steps for the day?
Where it gets really interesting is that Google and Fitbit will be collaborating on electronic medical records - clearly there are data protection/GDPR concerns here, but if we can get beyond these, then perhaps many people would be happier paying reduced healthcare premiums if they could demonstrate, through wearing a Fitbit, that they did their daily exercises...
Fitbit's shares jumped 8 per cent in early trading on Monday after it revealed a wide-ranging alliance with Google


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By Adam Zwig, PhD
Jeremy's Silent Fight *
Jeremy was a twenty-year-old man who came to my practice in Zurich at the insistence of his parents and doctors. He had stopped speaking, wouldn't go to his university classes, and had withdrawn into his apartment. When his parents visited him he sat completely still in the corner, wouldn't talk to them, and didn't even make eye contact. They forced him to see a psychiatrist who diagnosed him with Selective Mutism Disorder which is a type of social anxiety that makes one clam up in certain situations. The diagnosis didn't make any sense to his parents since Jeremy had always been outgoing, so they sent him to another shrink.
The second doctor told them that Selective Mutism usually starts in childhood so it was unlikely it was the correct diagnosis. He diagnosed Jeremy with PTSD and sought to elicit a description of a traumatic event from him. Only problem was that Jeremy wouldn't answer when the doctor asked him questions. At their wits end, his parents sent him to one more professional—a highly respected psychotherapist in downtown Zurich. She diagnosed him with Catatonia. She said Jeremy exhibited three important identifying symptoms that led her to the diagnosis: He gave no verbal responses to her questions or instructions; he physically resisted her when she tried to reposition his body; and he mimicked her movements. She sent him to her colleague—a psychiatrist at the University Hospital of Zurich—who prescribed him Ativan (a tranquilizer) and Resperidone (an antipsychotic).
Jeremy refused to stay in the hospital, but his parents visited him at his apartment every day to monitor his situation. One day about a week later, they noticed the bottles of medication he'd been given hadn't even been opened. They pleaded with him to take the meds but he just sat there staring out the window. They decided they had to try something else and asked for a referral to someone with a different approach. Enter Moi.
They tricked Jeremy into seeing me by not telling him where they were going, and as soon as they arrived and saw the sign on my door—Adam Zwig, PhD—he shook his head violently and ran down the stairs. But for some reason when he got to the bottom he turned around and came back up.
The three of them entered my office and I did something weird: Riffing on what they had told me about Jeremy, I didn't talk. I just smiled, shook their hands, gestured for them to sit down, and took my chair. The parents were a bit taken aback but seemed to sense what I was doing. They said they'd go for a walk so Jeremy could talk to me...which of course he didn't do.
I didn't say a word to him for the entire hour nor look at him more than a few times. At the end of the hour I calmly stood up, smiled, and let him out. During that week his mother called me several times extremely worried that his withdrawn behavior hadn't changed. I called her back and told her it will take some time. The following week he returned on his own; this at least gave his parents hope that something good might come out of his work with me.
Our second session was exactly the same as the first one; I meditated while he sat there staring at the wall. Same with our third session. And the fourth, fifth, and sixth sessions, as well. Not a word was spoken between us. We didn't even exchange non-verbal forms of communication. We just sat together in the same room.
By the seventh session I was getting bored and decided that next time I'd bring my guitar, which I did. About half way through our eighth meeting, I felt I needed to do something besides just sit there, so I picked up my guitar and started noodling around. After a few minutes, Jeremy spoke: "Das ist cool." I nodded and kept playing. I didn't want to engage him verbally and take away any of his sense of control over the process of verbal communication. I didn't yet know why he wasn't talking but I knew it was a relationship process he had to lead. That's all he said that day.
In session number nine, I once again played my guitar, and he commented, "Ich mag es" ("I like that").
"Danke," I replied.
Nothing else got said but he spent the whole session engaged, watching me play. Same thing happened during the next few meetings. He'd say one or two brief things each session and that was all.
Two months later, on his sixteenth session, we had a breakthrough. I was playing something on the guitar and he said, "Das ist Scheisse" ("That's shit"). I burst out laughing and so did he.
"Sorry, man. You want to play?" I said, in Swiss German while trying to give him the guitar.
He shook his head and smiled.
"It's okay, Jeremy."
He nodded.
"It's totally okay."
More nodding.
Here's the translation from German to English of what ensued.
"You know, back in 1973 there was this awesome dude," I began. "He stopped talking on his twenty-seventh birthday because he found himself arguing with people all the time. He didn't talk again for seventeen years..."
Jeremy's eyes widened.
"He also gave up driving in cars or riding busses because he'd seen an oil spill on the San Fransisco Bay and wanted to make a statement about the environment. People thought he was nuts. His girlfriend and parents thought he'd been taken over by a California cult. Eventually, his girlfriend came around to understanding what he was doing, but when he said he wanted to walk from California to Oregon to explore the wilderness she broke up with him.
"During this time, he got a bachelor's, master's, and PhD in environmental studies. He learned some sign language to help him communicate, and he walked across the United States playing his banjo. He became known as Planetwalker.
"After 17 years of not speaking, he finally felt he had something to say. People came to hear him talk about the environment in a hotel in Washington DC. His first words were, 'Thank you for being here,' but he didn't recognize his own voice and started laughing. His dad was in the audience and thought his son must be crazy. But he wasn't. From studying and listening to thousands of people talk about the environment, he had realized what a narrow understanding we have. He explained how it's about far more than saving trees; it's about how we treat each other, which includes gender and economic equality, and civil rights.
"He met his wife just after he started speaking again and, because his PhD had focused on oil spills, the US Coastguard hired him after the Exxon Valdez disaster. Now he teaches in schools and gives talks around the world. He started using vehicles again in 1995, after twenty-two years, when, while walking through Venezuela to Brazil, he realized that walking had become a prison for him. He still practices being silent every morning, and sometimes doesn't speak for several days at a time. It reminds him to listen to people properly instead of judging what he thinks he's hearing. In interviews he says he loved not speaking because it gave him great inner peace. His name is Dr. John Francis. You can read about him."
Jeremy had a tear in his eye but I still didn't want to engage him directly, so I continued.
"A while back when I was writing and recording fifty songs I didn't talk for a year. I had to do this to protect my vocal chords. For some singers it's not a problem but if I sing every day, all day, I can't also talk. Some people thought I was deaf and mute. Others thought I was a nutter or something. I used simple sign language and was cool with it. In fact, it taught me some incredible things. I learned how people relate to each other in incredibly unconscious ways by adapting to so many social rules, and this causes them to lose contact with their true selves. I gained an awesome independence from the world, a sort of self-contained spiritual sense of myself that stayed with me after I started talking again."
Suddenly, Jeremy stood up and walked toward me. It was a shocking moment. Up until then, he had always walked super slowly into my office, sat in the chair without moving for the whole hour, then left my office in the same lethargic way. This time he bolted up, strode over to me, and gave me a hug. Then he went back to his chair and sat down.
"Thank you...but I have nothing to say," he said.
"You're welcome. You don't have to say anything."
In the next session everything changed. When he arrived he greeted me with a hug, and before I'd even closed my office door he started talking.
"Everyone's full of shit. Everybody's a phony. It's all a game they're playing. I don't want it. I don't want to join. I don't want to talk to anyone."
"You don't have to," I replied.
"But everyone thinks I'm crazy."
"True, but who cares."
He burst out laughing.
"I don't give a crap what people think of me," I said. "You say everyone's phony; I think everyone's dreaming—each person in his own dreamworld projecting his psychology onto everyone else. Who cares. I don't waste my energy on that. I just do me."
"But what if they say you're wrong or crazy or bad?"
"I am wrong and crazy and bad, and I like it!" I joked.
Jeremy leapt out of his chair, scaring the crap out of me. "This is awesome! Who the hell cares! I'm going to tell it all!"
"Tell it, tell it!" I said, not knowing what he was talking about.
"Nature sees us. Nature feels hurt. Nature is mad. She has feelings and she's watching us!"
I was dumbfounded. My story about John Francis had been intended to show Jeremy someone else's process of going mute; the part about the environment was incidental. So, when he started talking about the environment I could hardly believe it. It reminds me of Greta Thunberg, the sixteen-year-old world renowned climate activist who told reporters that she had been diagnosed with Asperger's syndrome, ADHD, selective mutism, and obsessive-compulsive disorder. Aside from all these made-up diagnostic labels, it's fascinating to hear several peoples' stories in which they had extreme reactions to humanity's lack of concern for the Earth.
"I totally agree," I said. "This is what the Native Americans and indigenous people from around the world have always said: The Earth is alive."
"It's alive!" Jeremy shouted.
"Yeah, but in order for science to develop people needed to get rid of that idea, I guess."
"Why can't we have science and know that she feels things too?"
"Right. But you're way ahead of the curve. Tell it. Tell the world."
"What's your major in school?"
"Screw that. Change it to environmental studies... like John Francis did."
"But no one's going to ever listen to me. He waited seventeen years..."
"Why won't people listen to you?"
"I'm too young."
"True, you need to get more educated. But you can do it, and you don't have to wait seventeen years. You can get a degree in environmental studies in two years and become a teacher, writer, lecturer...whatever you want!"
We spent the rest of the session having an animated and productive talk about his future. He changed his major to environmental studies, and combined it with his own study of philosophy and indigenous religion—fertile grounds for amplifying his perception that nature isn't only a biological phenomenon but a spiritual one, as well.
A few weeks after this session he started speaking again, but he didn't return to who he'd been prior to going mute; he began living his life in a very purposeful way, focusing on his goal of making a difference in the world by educating people about the environment. Socially, he began spending time only with friends who shared his interests and passions. He was on a new path and was excited about life.
Is Being Weird Abnormal?
Jeremy's behavior was obviously extreme and weird. When people act in a way not in line with the cultural agreements of their society—in this case, not speaking—the immediate reaction is that they must be "sick" in some way. In my next Blog Post, I'll discuss Jeremy's process and how it reflects important changes psychology needs to make—changes that will prevent practitioners from getting mired in bogus objectivity. If you want to know more about how to cure psychology's faux objectivity read my previous Blog Post.
*Client names have been changed.
Dr. Adam Zwig—psychologist-musician, educator, and author holds a PhD in clinical psychology, is an internationally renowned workshop leader and lecturer, and has had 9 Top Ten hit singles on the U.S Adult Contemporary charts. He has been featured in Billboard, Huffington Post, CNBC, MSNBC, ABC, CBS, Forbes, Gibson, and many other publications, and has over 75 million views on YouTube. Dr Zwig has released 7 albums and his songs can regularly be heard on NBC, Fox, and Fuel TV. His forthcoming book, Music in the Mayhem: Tales of Total Transformation from a Rock n Roll Psychotherapist, arrives soon.
DISCLAIMER: The content contained herein is for inspirational, educational, and entertainment purposes only. Nowhere in this Blog does Dr. Zwig diagnose or treat a viewer with any kind of psychological, mental, emotional or physical disorder as might be diagnosed and treated by a personal psychologist or other professional advisor. The content is not intended to be a substitute for working with a therapist but is for the purpose of educating the viewer about new approaches to working on personal problems. Viewers should use this Blog at their own risk, with the understanding that Dr. Zwig is not liable for its impact or effect on its users. Viewing this Blog does not form a practitioner/client relationship between the viewer and Dr. Zwig. Dr. Zwig is not responsible for any action taken by a viewer based upon any information in this Blog. Never disregard professional medical advice or stop taking psychiatric medication based on something you have read on this Blog without a doctor's supervision and ongoing therapeutic support. Dr. Zwig is an educator, author, and life coach in the U.S., and a psychotherapist in Switzerland. He holds a PhD in clinical psychology. He is also a rock n roll musician.


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Museum of Modern Art presents Artist's Choice. Trisha Donnelly
Museum of Modern Art presents Artist's Choice. Trisha Donnelly, on view from November 2, 2012 through April 8, 2013.
Odilon Redon, French, 1840–1916. Rocks on the Beach. c. 1883. Oil on paper mounted on canvas. 10 1/4 x 14 1/4″ (26 x 36.2 cm). Gift of The Ian Woodner Family Collection.
Trisha Donnelly (American, b. 1974) is the tenth artist to participate in the Artist's Choice series, for which contemporary artists are invited to organize an exhibition drawn entirely from MoMA's collection. Donnelly is an artist whose oeuvre takes on many different forms, and she intentionally complicates the way we typically apprehend and classify a work of art, not to confuse, but to change and fundamentally enhance the ways in which we experience it. For this exhibition, on view in three of The Alfred H. Barr Painting and Sculpture Galleries on the fourth and fifth floors, she has selected rarely seen 20th-century photographs, films, design items, architectural renderings, prints, drawings, paintings, and sculptures, organizing them into three discrete presentations that together create fresh portals through which to discover MoMA's collection. Artist's Choice is organized by Trisha Donnelly with Laura Hoptman, Curator, and Cara Manes, Collection Specialist, Department of Painting and Sculpture.
Major support for the exhibition is provided by MoMA's Wallis Annenberg Fund for Innovation in Contemporary Art through the Annenberg Foundation.
The Artist's Choice exhibition series is made possible through The Agnes Gund Artist's Choice Fund endowed by Iara Lee and George Gund III, Lulie and Gordon Gund, Ann and Graham Gund, and Sarah and Geoffrey Gund. – www.moma.org


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Be confident in the Lord
"I remain confident of this: I will see the goodness of the LORD in the land of the living. Wait for the LORD; be strong and take heart and wait for the LORD." Psalm 27:13-14 NIV "That is why I am suffering as I am. Yet this is no causeContinue reading