Hello
My, my. Methinks this thread needs to have its bawdy thetans audited.
I’m very glad you have gathered but in point of fact I raised a call to gather a congregation not a CLUSTERF***.
Uncle Sam! My first contact with FCDC was your grandly mustachio’d self in August of 1972 at Bobby Ford’s excellent mission at 8 Essex St off Central Square in Cambridge. You might remember the moment. I ad-libbed a scientologese variation of The Lord’s Prayer and you seemed to get a kick out of it.
I had done the Dianetics course in SF but I had done only three model sessions (one on Elda Brown who is a poster). Then one night a few days later my ace henchman had me over at his buddies house. They were talking in the kitchen and I was in the parlor with his buddie’s old lady. I told her a little about scientology and she listened well. I had just had a pleasant experience when Bobby had run the ‘50’s group process “Infinite Space” so I asked her if she would like to try it. She said yes and I asked to close her eyes and I gave her the seven commands. She opened her eyes, looked at me and said “A few years ago I had electroshock treatment. Every since then my head has felt stuffed up. Now my head doesn’t feel stuffed up.” And that was the day I knew I could use this crap to do something good for someone else.
And.
It would appear that was the moment I qualified for staff at FCDC because just a few lays later I met:
B. Scn. Druid! What the hell happened to “The Ariel”? Your last report said you’d finished the passage called “The King’s Long Journey” but so far as I can google it was never published. Que pas amigo?
So you sucked me up in your slipstream you nefarious soul scratching bodysnatcher and off we went with Bill Hines in his black ‘60 Ford Galaxie which you even let me drive and didn’t even whine when I cranked it up over 80 MPH in the Connecticut night leaving the odius jackanape Chappeaqua missionholder in our dust off to Middletown and you flammazamma’d an electric evening with Mrs. Darius Brubeck taking a five of your own in the absence of The Inevitable Desmond until the next morning we met and apparently beguiled Debbie Matson of the well recalled red hair as she shortly thereafter took up hot pursuit and soon appeared on the deck of our Ship of Fools.
Husker du?
Yeszeno, I swung a bat, however not at your head. Don’t start dangerous rumors. No telling what rotten schemes might start hatching if it was believed I might swing at a head and miss. Nor was I walking through Central Park naked calling for repentance. I was walking through Herald Square naked calling for repentance. Jesus! No one ever pays attention to a word I say. It was late Spring of ‘75 a few weeks after the little noticed and long forgotten Fall of Saigon marked the end of The Vietnam Conflict; one of those occurrences which can make a sensible sort say to himself “Just as soon as this is over by golly I’m going to have me a nervous breakdown yessir, I earned it, I got it coming to me and I shall damn well have it and never mind the flames and Blacktalons of the Seventh and Eighth Rings of The Inferno, this one goes the whole porcine carcass; this jolly slaughter is so peachy keen it’s worth high Treason, by gosh by the je-roshy, stick it to the C.I.C wot? Stuff it all right into the dark frozen ninth ring right on up chummy with His Black Satanic Majesty...” Can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am to you all for keeping a vague eye on things until I made it back. Neither did I appear on any doorsteps back East in the late eighties being then on the Left Coast doing my small bit on completing The Dissolution of The Soviet Union Project to which I had been sporadically contributing some part-time work since 1956. I reappeared back East in the mid nineties when I was so laughably treated by friends and family to a macabre charade as they watched my futile search for my sons knowing my first born to be dead. And, having slithered writhing deep into nightmare on finally being informed of the heinous obscene and romanesque Wrongful Death of the bright brilliant courageous strong Ian Sean I have since been obscure.
TAJ! I remember that session. My TR-4 was per code, “never apologize for mistakes real or imagined.” But... plainly I failed to create the proper PC-Auditor rapport as you mentioned the session in a second post. So much of auditing is the chemistry between PC and Auditor. Many of my PC’s thought well of me and I was often compared to Greg Wilhere. Not that I thought that much of my auditing. I had good TR’s but I never did anything but rote procedure “muzzled style”. So many years to digest and assimilate, oh! So much more of an auditor I could have been! But I just can’t be a whore pimped by tyrants. Wow! I have done some fantastic things with simple 2WC over these many years. Disenturbulate theta. Put in “Itsa-maker” line. “Tell me what happened” indicate BPC. A touch of body comm, hand on a shoulder, the back, solar plexus, crown of the head. Comm cycle, Havingness -- “Here, have an Orangina, have a fig newton, look at this crystal I got, take a copy of the H-A Literary Journal with you.” Simple stuff and they go from caved-in, suicidal, psych case to chipper and randy in fifteen minutes or less.
So yeah...
You’re right TAJ. We had a thing goin’ on then at FCDC and alone despised homeless bereft I keep the same thing goin’ on with similar result. But. No, what it is now isn’t “Standard”. What it is now SUCKS. And I remember the session but I can’t identify you. More of the strange phenomenon you’ve mentioned? Did some mage use you for a coat rack for his cloak of invisibility?
And just by the way, let me apologize to your wife in advance. Yes, I certainly am a base loathsome creature and it is entirely proper you deem me offensive.
Winston Smith! AU H2O! “Extremism in defense of liberty is no vice.” And in yo’ haught bay-beee! You KNOW he’s reet. Read on, there’s a “Semper Fi” to the lad comin’ up directly.
DC Anon! Ya got that? “Extremism in defense of liberty is no vice.”
In ‘08 there were Anonymous protests on Beacon St which drew nearly three hundred people. A couple times I pulled my taxi over to speak with them and I was well impressed with their camaraderie. I told them I am an auditor and most fond of The Writings and their respect was immaculate, all the more as I’m chafed by the organization. But here they were cheerful and lively and there on the steps of the org is a sourpuss gook with a videocam. Christ! It’s enough to gag a maggot. Interesting timing as I was then composing my first website “A Christian Writes of Dianetics.” Not only that, I had just unearthed the tale of a young man killed by CoS in Boston thirty years before. There was a deft and sordid coverup, but, sorry CoS, “murder will out”. Even in this superficial age the one on hallowed land who cries “my brother’s blood calls up to me from the ground” will yet appear before the one who has an ear, a pen to scribe in public then. Thus always have free men always done, above the rose beneath The Son.
I’ve spoken here of The Joy of Dianetics and “OT” is also real. I’ve many stories of transcendant reality made manifest, try this nugget: In August of ‘01 at the corner of Page Street and Ashbury on a sunny afternoon I was seared and singed by an ALERT! The color was RED and it was marked “Pro Deo Et Patria” in gothic script. One does take note and continues on. Then a few days later in quixotic fashion an inspiration to correct action was gracefully tendered. I’d been intending to stay in San Francisco into the next year but with diligent sales of the HALJ I financed a bus ticket and handed my Dodge Ram van into the care of a homeless compadre. Returning to the taxi in Boston I discovered why I’d come on 9-11. The perimeter of my sphere reached curbside at Logan Airport but they snuck past in the night on a commuter flight from Portland. Couldn’t stop ’em but I had the bastards birddogged and was in position to chip in soothing the angst of the general populace, raising the esprit with the homedogs and some palaver with the military. A pair of dialogues with a pair of colonels was at the marrow of the moment. In point of fact, the incursion into Iraq was a colonel’s war, not a general’s war. This sort of thing is of the essence. Our opponents raised a cry for Jihad, holy war. Victory can only proceed from spiritual action or, in the woods of The Poet “blue is the color of Christ/the hand held high the omniscient above evil/ I anticipate you o darkness...” from “meditations on the painter Orozco” by Clifford McIntire. So please, DC Anon, understand I am an auditor and I’m just fine with the subject however I cannot endorse an organization which kills a man’s brother then so viciously intimidates him he is found to be terrified of speaking thirty years after the fact.
“Extremism in defense of liberty is no vice”
Capische?
Lynn!!! You and I never got to know each other, I never had you on the cans and as far as I can recall we never spoke a word to one another and yet an image of you is etched inside and framed upon a wall in the labyrinth within where I pause and gaze each time I tread it’s hall.
You had split up with Rick Miller shortly before I arrived and some people referred to you as Lynn Fountain and others were still calling you Lynn Miller. But the point is I often heard your name while posted as Expediter while doing Staff Status I+II. More than anyone else’s name I heard yours. And you then slept second floor front room of 1827. Ron and Mary Sue’s bedroom in The Fifties. And one morning I was off on some errand and I passed your room and the door was open. Apparently you were just rising and the chutzpah of sleeping late also enhanced the quiddity of Lynn. The morning sun was bright through the three windows and the room aglow so that you were not in silhouette but soltly backlit. You were standing not full back but turned perhaps thirty degrees to the right, not quite enough for me to appear in your peripheral vision and wearing a long nightgown. Your stance was straight and firm but your head slightly forward suggested you had not quite shaken off the crust of dreams.
I found the thrall of wonder in the office where Ron had worked and his former home. He wrote “treat every place you live as though you'll live there forever” and I would later have an uncanny moment in 1827 as if his Swing Spirit guided my hand to a very personal and very poignant revelation. But in that moment the sight of you elegantly posed and lighted fused with the sense of a lingering aura...
There is so much to challenge the best wordsmith. The best I can do to explain the meaning this image of you bas to me, perhaps, is recount a bit of humor. There was a fellow who had an NDE of unusual length, heart stopped and flat ECG for a full twenty minutes who was revived and told first the familiar story of floating in the operating room and the appearance of a being of light and a conduit to Paradise but gone longer than most he had reached the very Throne and was sent back by God. His listeners were wide-eyed “You saw God? Please... tell us....” The fellow said “Well, for one thing, She's black”.
So.
Elsewhere you've posted your address and phone number, your place of business in the belly of The Beast. “A city which is built on a hill cannot be hid, neither does a man light a candle and put it under a bushel but places it on a lampstand and it gives light to the whole house”. And you post notice if any nearby slaves are looking for a station on the underground railroad they don't have far to walk. To heck with famous past lives, you're Harriet Tubman in PT!
Happy Black History Month from a Buffalo Soldier of the 10th United States Cavalry! (not posted until April this was written in Feb.)
And I'll bet three of your four grandparents had some Cherokee blood and you know the indigenous ways of this land in every knuckle and sinew. The Grandmother Lodge is essential to the polity of the tribe. It is kind of you to refrain from scolding our brothers who speak of “wilted flowers”. You and the other grand women who listen in silence should enjoy my first website at “cmdrbirdsong.org”. I use a literary device to essay “A Christian Writes of Dianetics” which you should enjoy and all of you should find your own inner life will animate the fictional “Mrs. P.” and will share quiet delight in her vitality and dignity. Place a kettle on to boil and prepare strong tea. Your favorite cup is just fine but bone china is recommended.
And I have just posted my “Church of American Science” website. All you sophisticates can snicker and guffaw at the inane and asinine naiveté of the ideas advanced.
Anyone got a doobie?
Hyde Park is drier than a popcorn fart.
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