Subject: Clearwater: Spartan Silence
From: firstname.lastname@example.org (Dustbin Anonymous Remailer) Date: Wed, 12 Mar 1997 04:46:28 -0500
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March 11, 1997
The thing that really freaked them out about me the most is that I absolutely refused to talk to them.
I geared myself into the mindset of a batter at the plate, a man with a purpose to accomplish who tunes out the heckling of the crowd.
Except I didn't tune out their flak.
I was quite interested in everything the Scientologists said to me, and what I remember, you will also get to hear. And I hope you find it interesting as well.
It'll be in the post, "Clearwater: Pushing Buttons".
Aside from what's quoted below, and in the the other posts, I only remember talking to Scientologists a couple of times during the course of the day.
The first time I spoke was when a late-adolescent girl who was trying to block my sign tried so hard that she didn't look where she was going and smacked into a streetlamp pole.
I admit, I flunked.
I stopped dead and grabbed her elbow, steadying her as she staggered back into me.
"Oh, are you all right?" I asked, my voice full of concern.
"I don't think so," she said. She seemed a little dazed.
I was nauseated to hear three or four of her fellow Church members actually laughing out loud at her, ridiculing her for having run into the pole.
"Well, maybe you'd better sit down for a while," I suggested, but then moved on, as I wanted to appear a model
picketer at all times in the eyes of the cops, and about the only thing they seemed really concerned about was that people keep moving at all times.
Later, at the end of the Vigil when we were trying to gather our forces and make sure no one had disappeared, and asked him if we could wait for the others, I heard one cop say, his voice very sympathetic and regretful,
"You can't block the sidewalk."
He did let us stand just to one side of the sidewalk, however, which I think was technically just as questionable legally.
[Note to fanatics: I know virtually nothing about law. You telling me won't help.]
- From that point on, especially when preceded by enthusiastic sign-blocker-wannabes in the underage set, I told them, "Watch where you're going," a couple of times when I thought it might prevent a fall.
At one point, soon after the complete-blockage-on-the-corner incident, the bitch I mentioned before was talking to another Rondroid.
"Why is he here?"
"Why are you here?"
"He doesn't talk."
"Yes he does. I heard him talk to one of those... [fishes for word] ones," she ended lamely.
"I've only heard him say three [sic] words."
The "sic" was confirmed after I yelled my FSTTBFS line, and she said, "Those are the three words."
On one of my first breaks, I was accosted by some Scientologist woman in her 30s somewhere. She started haranguing me about how I didn't know Lisa but she did, and Lisa would hate what we were doing if she were here today and who the hell was I to come onto their property and blah, blah, blah...
After I didn't react at all, but just stood looking straight ahead, she implied I couldn't hear her, so I looked right at her, doing blinkless TR-0.
She blinked a lot, several times in the first minute.
"Do you think you're doing TRs?" she asked at one point of her monologue. I didn't react to this in any way. I think we both knew who was intimidating who here.
"Maybe he's Rogue Agent," she continued at anther point.
"Naw. Rogue Agent is a homeless person. How could a homeless person afford to come down here from Boston?"
I think it was this encounter that led to the assignment of my personal handler. After I had put up with him for about forty minutes, I decided to take another break.
The Australian accompanied me.
I was thirsty enough that I let him see where I was stashing my water bottle. And no, they didn't put poison in it when I wasn't looking, although perhaps it's more that they didn't think of it rather than that they were somehow morally unwilling to do something like that to me.
"Do you smoke, man? Do you smoke?"
I saw him out of the corner of my eye shaking his cigarette pack up and down at me with a cigarette sticking out the top, offering it to me.
I ignored him completely, walked around a small corner to the stairway up to a public building that stands next to the Ft. Harrison Hotel, pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and sat down on the steps with my feet on the ground level.
He had followed me, and now squatted down against the wall, facing me at 90 degrees. I think he might have wanted to sit down next to me on the step, but my Prignillian girth prevented that (IIRC, the width of the stairway, that is).
[Note to the fanatic: I am not advocating other people smoke cigarettes. I am also not advocating that you attempt to force anti-smoking views on me.]
I decided to TR-0 him.
He was much better at it than the girl had been, but after about 3 minutes, he blinked, and I couln't prevent the flicker of a mocking smile from dancing over my lips, silently but loudly communicating to him the message, "Flunk! Start over!"
He was clearly afraid of me. His lower lip quivered uncontrollably, slightly but quite evident to me, as we continued our little "training session."
After another couple of minutes, during which he blinked several times, I got tired of it and started looking straight ahead again (parallel to a line drawn through his shoulders), relaxed and enjoyed my cigarette.
It was obvious I was in control of the situation. I had out-TR-0'ed him, and when I was finished with him, I dropped him like an insignificant bit of dried leaf.
But my eyes really stung. I had forgotten how hard blinkless TR0 is.
[BTW, a note for the experience-collectors: Dennis Erlich, says that his daughter had her sense of humor permanently excised due to TR-0. My permanent "damage" from learning to do blinkless TR0 (for 2 hours) is less severe, in fact rather harmless in my estimation, but present nonetheless on what is apparently a rather involuntary level.
I don't blink very much.
In fact, I've had two different dental hygenists tell me that I didn't blink the entire time I was in the chair. Once was for 35 minuutes, and the other time for about 20. I think they're wrong, I think I did blink, but probably not more than 10 or 20 times.]
I had trouble all day long getting sunscreen in my eyes. So they were already irritated to begin with. But they were really watering by the time I finished with my personal handler.
With my expertise at blinkless TR-0 and my ability to easily and consistently withstand any kind of bullbaiting they threw my way, I'm certain they were convinced I'm an ex-member.
[Note to those who don't know: I was never a member of Scientology. I did the Comm Course with a squirrel in 1971.]
One side of my sign, which read, "Stop abusing ex-members" or something to that effect, may have added to this impression in their minds.
(In case you're interested, the other side of my sign, the one I kept constantly facing the street read, "Stop Scientology Human Rights Abuses Now!" Thanks to the unknown [to me] suppressive who printed these out.)
I also spoke twice, not to specific Scientologists, but to the crowd of them. Twice I ran into Xenu. Each time I said quite loudly,
"Hey, Xenu! Did you really implant all those people 76 million years ago?"
The next time I talked to a $cieno was just before we were leaving the picket. Several people had already hung up their signs and were standing around socializing (or comisserating) with each other.
But it wasn't three o'clock yet, and I was going to picket until 3:00.
There was a little weaselly PI who had been hassling us all day.
"Hey, man, they've all left. You're gonna miss your ride. Hang it up, man. You've missed your ride back to the hotel. I'm just trying to do you a favor here."
I could see very clearly that "my friends" had not left. In fact, Mark Dallara was walking right towards me at that very moment. Besides, I had my own car. I *was* my ride back to the hotel.
He began speaking with exaggerated slowness and enunciation. "Your. Friends. Have. All. Left. Do you understand English?"
I looked him right in the eye.
"Yes!" I spat, and he jumped.
I wanted him to be sure and understand that I was not-responding to him by choice, rather than because of any lack of ability.
"Jeez, I'm just trying to do you a favor here. Your friends are leaving. You'll miss your ride to the hotel. Jeez. I'd guess an IQ of about 3."
The dark, oily pettiness and puerility of his harassment reminded me of something out of _Perelandra_ or _That Hideous Strength_.
The final time I spoke to a Scientologist was at the Candlelight Vigil. My personal handler, the DJ, was walking backwards in front of me, streaming his invective, and I saw he was about to trip over a root. I said, "Watch out!" and he glanced quickly over his shoulder and was able to avoid falling flat on his ass.
This was in fact the only time I spoke during the Vigil.
I'm certain that I'm the only picketer who didn't speak to the $cienos. Keith Henson told me he did much damage by talking to them, and I'm willing to accept the statement.
But personally, I couldn't see the point. It seemed to me their sole purpose was to divert me from my purpose, and I wasn't going to allow that to happen. I also didn't think they'd be very open to what I have to say about Scientology.
In addition, the amount of energy they put into handling me, and their utter failure to handle me to any degree whatsoever, I think enturbulated them even more than Xenu.
+ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - + | Prignillius (Sorry, no email addr right now. I'm workin' on it!) |
| Like some festering disease, [the scientology organization] |
| thrives out of sight, hidden until the stench of putrefaction |
| betrays it for the vile infection it really is: when the | | bandages of deception and falsity are removed, it is exposed as | | a parasitic blight that destroys everything it infects, leaving |
| misery, pain, and sometimes even death in its wake. |
| - stevea | + - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - +
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