The two main characters of Mr. Spock and Captain Kirk, as created by Gene Roddenberry for Star Trek, are, in actuality, one composite character. The easy, or common, assumption has been made that they are diametrically opposed to the other. In fact, in reality, they are not.
For too many years, I’ve been called either Spock or Kirk:
Debra the Stoic, especially by medical professionals;
Debra the Passionate, particularly by persons in my creative orbit.
According to people who felt they must typify me, my own internal antagonists have always been Spock vs. Kirk.
The truth is that both breeds inhabit the same person. Roddenberry came up with one fascinating set of characters for his science fiction:
the dispassionate, analytical scientist who, through extraordinarily powerful logic, is capable of enduring physical, and emotional, suffering for a noble purpose; and the impassioned commander who struggles with sensations and feelings that threaten to overrule his reasoning skills and compromise his leadership.
The fundamental reality about the dominant personality who must lead, who must courageously forge ahead for the future of that greater good — that leader, to prove he is heads above the common run, must possess deep and ardent emotions that are used in the service of his rational, bold and decisive thinking, his command decision. An ice-cube top banana is a stupid automaton. As part of viewing current Current Events, I’ve seen one too many of that despicable form of human being, being done in by the inescapable forces of history, and by the inexorable energies of morality.
There are superior powers at work in the real world that the heartless poseurs and the soulless charlatans believe they’ve got a firm handle on. Those powers, so supremely beyond their control, are making mince meat out of the frauds-in-office with their mindless arrogance and their deviant appetites.
Mind vs. body and reason vs. feeling: Yes, they can be pitted against one another, but, the more truthful match-up is not a rivalry, but a synergy; not atonal amorality but rhapsodic harmony. Mind works instinctively within the body; reason is intuitively guided by feeling.
Beyond a certain point of the inherent basic conflict in each of those two character types, Spock and Kirk, they become farcical. Ergo the hilarious satires and genuinely laughable lampooning of Captain Kirk as played by Willam Shatner; and, to a lesser extent, the glacially cold science officer with the pointed ears as portrayed by the late Leonard Nimoy.
It has been intriguing for me to observe the observations of others who have attempted to use either side of my ambivert personality against me. “Stone Cold Debra has no love in her heart” was warned by one parental blood relative to alienate any potential suitor. That cruel deed mercifully winnowed out any boy who wasn’t at least a potential braveheart. Believe me, there were very few white knights of my age group whose memory I had to eliminate from my own wounded braveheart during my youth in the Northeast of the U.S.
During the 1980s, after I’d reversed polarity and moved from the East Coast to the West, or Left Coast, the unflagging but fallacious statement about me was:
“She’s a firebrand.”
That untrue, and unkind, myth about me worked somewhat more to my advantage in my romantic realm. The males who wanted to test just how fiery I was, they usually walked away with singed hair, or worse.
By that time in my young young-woman life, I’d begun to realize certain facts of life:
— The worse you treat a guy, the more he respects you.
— The colder your shoulder to a potential beau, the warmer his entreaty to melt some of that ice.
— A real man always wants to be a hero.
My Dear Husband is very fortunate that I’d already learned those basic lessons in the life of the two sexes at play with one another. He did not have to school me much in the way of how boy meets girl, girl conquers boy, keeps quiet about it, and they live happily ever after. He did have to school me in the many ways in which a Western male outranks the duds of my East-coast past; but, by that point in time, I was already eyeing ideas for my future novels.
The name, Nadine Valeen, got scribbled onto the back cover of my notebook during roll call in one of my first sessions of the class at CSUS called “The Ancient Far East and Egypt”. I later used that name, Nadine, for the villainous female character, the cruelly estranged wife of Guillaume de Vallon.
I also wrote down the name of an ancient Greek tragedian (whose works I’ve yet to read, although I’ve read quite a lot by Sophocles).
And, yes, there was the name of a young man in need of a good shave, seated one row over from me in that requisite class. When the prof called out that name during roll-call, I quickly wrote it down.
I also jotted down, on the opposite side of that back cover of cardboard, a rather intriguing diagram. I do not recall where the x and y axes came from, or who came up with the delightful oppositional relationships among them. (I also do not know if I ever paid a call on whoever Enroth was during those appointed hours of office visits.)
I do know that my mind is always at work on wherever it is that My Muse is taking it. And that I am typically unaware of those creative forces moving me in a direction toward the creation of fiction. I also know that happiness does, for real, exist in that spot marked on the graphed intersection:
The place where Spock and Kirk meet and do not alienate one another.
Perhaps, if the world, out there, were to throttle back and just let the naturalness of nothing occur, humanity would live again with the glorious flow of life as God ordained and graphed and charted and projected with all sorts of levels of confidence.
The ungodly young ghouls and the lewd geriatric screwballs of the One-World-Scheme, all of those fetid, fetish freaks and fascist fools, they are not leaders, and they are not scientists, and they are not doctors. They are not even, in the trust sense of the word, human. They’re soul-less robots whom both Spock and Kirk would despise, on any planet.
I know these things to be fact, not fiction, because my Annabella, from her celestial cachette, fully confirms those sensible suspicions. I believe the spirit of a black cat over the sound-bites of a mortal geek.