25 July 2017

Ramblin' Boy

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I’ve always had a tendency for rambling, for lone wandering, and this is evident going clear back to some of my very earliest memories. 

Ramblin’ Boy, in the Fields

Big cows along the fence-line. 

I was just a toddler, and it was a summer evening, not yet too dark, after the cows had been milked and after supper.  My Dad was in the pasture down by the creek fixing fence or something.  I could see him and the truck from the barn.  I reckoned that I could get to him by simply following the straight fence-line that separated the pasture from the hayfield.  So I set out along the edge of the pasture toward the creek. 

The cows were grazing everywhere, and I was never really afraid of them.  But now one turned and walked over to me, curious.  I remember looking up at that huge animal lumbering over to me with the enormous snout and those big eyes.  She sniffed me and snorted loud, then took a step closer.  I was between her and the barbed wire fence, looking up at her.  She then put her nose down, nudged me and knocked me over. 

I was starting to get scared, realizing how huge and strong this animal was.  She started rolling me over and over with her nose, until she rolled me under the lower wire of the fence and thus out of the pasture.  I was now safe but disoriented.  By then my Dad arrived to save the day and take me back to the house. 

My big Great Dane babysitter

Later, as I rambled further afield, our big Great Dane, Czarina, was my friend and babysitter around the farm and in the fields.  My Mom always said that if she wanted to find me she would just look for the big dog.  I was so small that I had to carry a stick – a small staff as tall as me – to block Czarina’s tail from hitting me across the eyes as we walked together.  We rambled around the farmland with the big Dane close beside me. 

Czarina kept me from getting too close to the creek.  Walking the 100 yards through the pasture seemed a mile, but we made it to the water.  She blocked me from getting too close, just a few yards from the water, by turning sideways in front of me.  I would try to end run around her head, but she would put her head down and push against my chest, knocking me down.  Same thing if I tried to go around her tail end, when she would turn and nudge me down with her huge snout.  I tried going under her, but she would knock me down and sit facing me between me and the creek.  She never let me get to the water in those days. 

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Ramblin’ Boy, in town

This was a completely unauthorized solo expedition, and I caught hell for it in short order.  But it was one great adventure, etched into my memory. 

It was sometime in the early 1950s, and I was not five years old.  I remember wearing my little cowboy boots and taking off alone on a twilight summer evening to visit my cousins who lived on another street in town.  Playing with my cousins was always such great fun. 

Uncle Rod, Aunt Kate, and my cousins, Danny, Bonnie and Crystal, lived in The Little Red House on Pleasant Street.  I was too young to be able to walk to it straight across two hundred yards of rough field in a beeline, but I did know how to get there by the streets although I’d never actually walked it before. 

It was quite simple:  One could just walk up our street toward town, and take the first street to the left (Curtis Street).  Walk on until taking another left on Pleasant.  The Little Red House was on the left way down near the end of the street.  You couldn’t miss it.  I knew these directions because I had been driven there many times by my parents. 

It was summer twilight, and I was in the front lawn with my Mom and her friend Anita.  We were standing by the white board fence under the big maple, and they were talking about something.  I remember trying to get my Mom to listen to me, and asking her if I could go see Danny, Bonnie and Crystal, but she was busy talking.  I remember how tall these two adult women were, towering above me, and I tugged on the hem of my Mom’s dress and asked her again. But she didn’t look down or seem to be interested in hearing me.  I guess I figured that it wasn’t important enough to her to give any permission, so I permitted myself to go.  Typical. 

I just walked away, crossed the street, and took to the sidewalk.  I took the left at Curtis, and near the junction with Pleasant I met some older kids on bicycles.  Wayne Schoonover stopped, and with apparent concern asked, “Ross, do your parents know where you are?”  I said, “Yes,” thinking that my Mom had certainly heard me.  The walk along Pleasant was long, but before it got too dark I arrived at The Little Red House. 

I knocked on the door (or rang a bell, I can’t remember), and Aunt Kate answered.  The first thing she said was, “Do your parents know where you are?”  (Why is everyone asking this?)  I went up the steep stairs to my cousins’ rooms, and soon we were all laughing and jumping around, having great fun. 

But all too soon, Uncle Rodney’s deep voice called up from the bottom of the stairs, “Ross.  Come down here.”  (Huh?)  Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I knew the fun was over.  There was my Mom, who bent down, grabbed my arm, and gave me a spanking.  I guess I miscalculated about that permission thing.  Aunt Kate had (wisely) called my Mom, who was probably freaking out when she couldn’t find me. 

It seemed to me to be just a misunderstanding.  To my mind, I knew what I was doing and thought I was in total control of the situation.  This little solo adventure probably had my parents thinking about getting a leash for me.  But it shows that my rambling has had a long tradition. 

-Zenwind.
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09 April 2017

I Hated School: a series in six parts

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(Please bear with me a bit.  This is a long series that starts out cynically but becomes more upbeat in the end parts.  Conversations and direct quotes are paraphrases from my aged memory.  The chronology jumps around a bit.)

(I will be posting each of the six parts as soon as I've proofed them.  Eventually I will have them re-posted so that they are then in order from the top down on this blog's page.  And I will eventually provide working links here for each part.  Here are the projected titles of the six parts:  
Part 1:  Compulsory Education: the 12-year Prison Sentence
Part 2:  Slow at Arithmetic = Acalculia?
Part 3:  A Few More School Tortures
Part 4:  Some (Rare) Redeeming Moments in School
Part 5:  Self-Education
Part 6:  Never-Ending Self-Education.)

-Zenwind. 
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21 August 2016

Uncle Rod

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[Written on 26 February 1996, not long after his death. I just found this in an old pocket notebook.]
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I took a walk
in memory of Uncle Rod.
I just wanted to be alone.

It’s a late February thaw;
the snow cover is thin;
the trail muddy.
Brooks everywhere are full,
singing loud, starting out from
the high Pennsylvania hilltops
on their steady journey
down to the sea.

Nietzsche asked:  “What is noble?”
So did Uncle Rod.
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[Written on 28 February 1996.]
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I took a hike
in honor of Uncle Rod.
I just wanted to be alone.

A day and a half
of rain and melt.
The streams are roaring.
A new snowstorm just started,
whitening the world.

I never had a chance to go
with Rod on his famous hikes.
Never had the wind nor the wings,
being a farm boy on the flats.
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-Zenwind.
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09 May 2016

Book Review: Lonesome Squirrel (1991) by Steven Fishman

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Wow!  This is one outrageously hilarious parody of the Church of Scientology.  It is in a class by itself as a completely thorough mockery of L. Ron Hubbard’s “religion.”  Very well done and great fun, but it is definitely not for everyone.  (Among other reasons for this, it is a very long document, and it seems to be only available online.) 

Although the book represents itself on the surface as a true autobiographical narrative, it is actually a work of fiction, while still uncannily reflecting the actual documented culture and policies of Scientology, albeit in a most exaggerated manner.  Yet it is not as far from the truth as one might think -- e.g., the very well-documented (from numerous other sources) culture of vicious infighting within Church ranks, etc.  Steve Fishman was actually never as much of a Scientologist as he claims, but he had studied tons of genuine Church books and history closely enough to gain an impressive expertise of its workings.  But he actually figures into the true history of Scientology by infamously causing some of the cult’s most secretly guarded “scriptures” to be publicly released, e.g., the story of galactic overlord Xenu, etc.  More on this below. 

Caveat:  Again, this is definitely not a book for everyone.  It is grossly blasphemous, vulgar, extremely offensive, misogynous, and way sick – which is part of its warped appeal – but it is funnier than Hell on Fire.  (E.g., as Fishman sings praises of the Church: “Even my bowel movements were clean and crisp, and it was all due to Scientology.”)  There is something in this book to offend almost everyone.  If you don’t have much informational background on Scientology and on its insane culture and criminal history, then you will not understand much of Lonesome Squirrel, but if you have been following the Hubbard cult closely then this book will blow your mind by its spot-on satire. 

Another Caveat:  Steve Fishman is a convicted criminal and a well-documented liar who is now in prison for the second time.  His first conviction (1990) was for mail fraud and obstruction of justice – which according to his fictional account in this book was in the service of the Church of Scientology – and he was sentenced to five years.  After serving some of that time and getting out on probation, Fishman got into another fraud scheme, and this time he is serving a 20-year sentence.  He can be a piece of shit, but he’s got a great sense of humor. 

Briefly, the story of how Steve Fishman publicly released top-secret Scientology scriptures.  On 6 May 1991, TIME magazine published a phenomenal cover story, “Scientology:  The Thriving Cult of Greed and Power”, and the Church of Scientology immediately sued the magazine for libel.  (The magazine won the case, but only after spending over $7,000,000 in the legal fight; this expensive “victory” quelled other journalists’ temptation to anger the Church for years to come.)  Apparently, the magazine’s cover story writer had believed Fishman’s wild account of his fictional career in Scientology and recounted some of Fishman’s most outrageous lies; and these were some of the things the Church held to be libelous. 

So the Church also sued Fishman, who represented himself in court.  In his massive personal library of Scientology lore he had somehow acquired authentic copies of the secret upper OT levels.  These “Operating Thetan” levels, OT 1-8, are as high as you can go in the Church, and you must pay hundreds of thousands of dollars before the uppermost secrets are revealed to you.  Fishman entered these OT level secrets as exhibits in open court files, and from there they were posted by others onto the Internet (famously known ever since as the Fishman Affidavit, aka, the Fishman Papers).  The Church then retreated from suing Fishman and tried, unsuccessfully, to stop online dissemination of the OT levels.  The most famous of these levels is OT-3, the “Wall of Fire” level where the story of Xenu was revealed.  (See South Park’s famous parody of Scientology in their episode “Trapped in the Closet”.)  That these Fishman Papers are actually authentic is proved by the fact that the Church tried to shut down Internet dissemination of the OT levels by arguing that their "copyrights" were being violated, thus admitting that these were their actual documents. 

At the very end of Chapter 18 of Lonesome Squirrel, Fishman claims that he personally “introduced Russell Means to the Libertarian Party” in 1984.  This being a Fishman claim, I am skeptical enough to call it total bullshit. 

Only a die-hard Scientology Watcher will appreciate this book and get its in-jokes, so I recommend it only to those twisted few. 

-Zenwind.

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30 April 2016

Goop, R.I.P.


At 20 years of age, Goop, the little cat that spent her first 10 years with me in Pennsylvania, has passed away at my sister’s place there, where she spent her last 10 years.  She was always loved, and she knew it.  A lucky cat who was affectionate and a real clown. 

Twenty years ago, my American wife at that time had found little Goop and another kitten in an animal shelter in a rough area of East Cleveland while she was studying at nearby Case Western Reserve.  My wife called her a “little goofball”, and I evolved the name “Goop” from that.  Since two kittens proved a bit much for her, I took Goop back to Pennsylvania where I was living and teaching. 

As Goop and I drove east back to PA, she stood on my lap while I was driving.  She put her forepaws on the top of the steering wheel and looked out at the road ahead.  I held the wheel at its bottom rim, so it looked like Goop was driving.  As cars passed us on the interstate, I got a lot of double-take looks from the drivers. 

Goop adapted quickly to the mobile home at Wilderness Park and to the other cat I had inherited, “Mr. Cat” (who passed away in early 2000).  Goop would crowd my school paperwork as I had it spread across a big lapboard on my recliner.  She especially loved the big Full-Spectrum light-box that I would park squarely in front of my chair to combat SAD symptoms in the dark evenings and mornings of November and December.  Reading and grading student papers and planning lessons all had to be done by working around the furry Goop-ball that had claimed front and center against my chest. 

Goop and a 24-hour Classical music station out of Buffalo kept me sane in those lonely days. 

After my father’s death I moved to the old stone farmhouse in Sugar Grove for a few years.  At first, it took Goop a while to explore the huge house, but she soon settled in.  She was there to witness my marriage to Tuk on her visit to the States – and the plan was for Tuk to retire from her job in Thailand and return to Sugar Grove. 

At the end of the 2004-2005 school year, I suddenly realized that I couldn’t teach another term.  I was completely exhausted and depleted.  My FMS, plus the increasing bureaucratic burdens put upon teachers, ran me into the ground.  The FMS “brain fog” was the worst part of it, dulling my mental capabilities and radically crippling my effectiveness as a teacher.  Also, Tuk’s early retirement plans had hit snags, so we decided I would move to Thailand to be with her there. 

But what about Goop?  I thought I might have to take her to my sister’s home in upstate New York, where she would be wonderfully cared for but where she would also be traumatized by the radical change of place and people.  I even thought about bringing her to Thailand if possible. 

But Goop really lucked out with the timing when my brother-in-law lost his job in a major (but expected) down-sizing.  They had one option:  moving to the farmhouse in Sugar Grove.  Goop was lucky because, to her, it was her house and they were the new folks.  Her adjustment was minimal as they moved in gradually, and she even got along with their cats.  I could leave Goop with them when I moved to Thailand and know that she would be loved and cared for. 

It worked out very well for her, and she lived a long life. 

Rest in Peace, little Goop. 

-Zenwind.

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26 October 2015

Excelsior! by H. W. Longfellow

The shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village passed
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device,
"Excelsior!"

His brow was sad; his eye beneath,
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,
And like a silver clarion rung
The accents of that unknown tongue,
"Excelsior!"

In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright;
Above, the spectral glaciers shone,
And from his lips escaped a groan,
"Excelsior!"

"Try not the Pass!" the old man said:
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead,
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!"
And loud that clarion voice replied,
"Excelsior!"

"Oh stay," the maiden said, "and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast!"
A tear stood in his bright blue eye,
But still he answered, with a sigh,
"Excelsior!"

"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch!
Beware the awful avalanche!"
This was the peasant's last Good-night,
A voice replied, far up the height,
"Excelsior!"

At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint Bernard
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startled air,
"Excelsior!"

A traveller, by the faithful hound,
Half-buried in the snow was found,
Still grasping in his hand of ice
That banner with the strange device,
"Excelsior!"

There in the twilight cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star,
"Excelsior!"

(-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)
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21 June 2015

Vesta when First Seeing the Ocean

It was 1991, and I will never, ever, forget the look on the face of my little niece Vesta at the very instant when she first saw the big vast Atlantic Ocean. It was a look of absolute wonder. She was almost three years old, and we were starting our return trip from Maine from the wedding of my father to my wonderful new stepmother, Alice. On this return voyage in my sister Carol’s van there were Carol, her daughters Mara (13 years old) and Vesta, and me. We took the scenic route home, starting with the nearby coast of Maine.

Vesta was at that time what some may call a “strong-willed” child. (A cynical person might instead say, a “brat,” but that would be unacceptably cynical.) I remember that morning just before we set out on our voyage home. It took Carol and Mara teaming together to wrestle down the rebellious, ferociously fighting little Vesta just to comb her hair. She was feisty little thing! Mara was the oldest sibling and was always a terrific second mother to her siblings: to Justin, two years younger (and not with us on this trip), and to Vesta, ten years younger. Mara contributed immeasurably to their nurturing and development.

Vesta’s first ocean sighting was at the Pemaquid Point lighthouse in coastal Maine. This was off the main highways, but I recommended we go there because of my memories of this area over 20 years earlier on my inaugural hitchhiking trip into New England immediately after high school in June 1968. I had good memories of the little nearby fishing village of New Harbor, Maine, so I wanted to share the views with them.

Pemaquid Point has a little museum and beach as well as the lighthouse out on the point. The grand open ocean view was off the point immediately beyond the lighthouse.

I was carrying little Vesta against my chest, and she was looking back over my left shoulder at the way we had just come, not seeing the ocean ahead. Perhaps she was bored; I don’t know. We walked toward the point. The big rocks down to the side of and just below the lighthouse were wet from waves, but I had good footwear and good footing (i.e., good balance and adhesion) as I walked down along the rocks to the water’s edge. (Carol may have been a bit nervous as I carried her youngest over these rocks, but she never mentioned it.)

The two of us were down to where the waves were hitting my feet, almost in front of and under the lighthouse, yet Vesta had still not turned to see the ocean. It was a view that took my own breath away, as it had been a long time since I’d seen it. The majestic ocean.

Then a big wave crashed at my feet and made enough noise that it couldn’t be ignored, and at that moment Vesta turned her head to look for the first time at that vast expanse of water. What was unforgettable was how perfectly she was taken by surprise.

I was watching her closely as she turned her head, her face just inches from mine, and I saw the exact instant when she registered (the equivalent perception, but not in words) that this was an extraordinarily new and startlingly different experience of aspects of reality. Her eyes were extremely wide, but not in fear. It was more like the immediate switching on of total focus and rapt attention outward toward the external world, and it seemed to me that her eyes showed that huge and sudden expansion of consciousness we all require when processing such marvelously new unknown immensities of experience.

She saw the huge ocean ahead, quickly glanced just a bit to the left and quickly just a bit to the right and then straight on out to that incredible horizon without limit. I was struck by her very serious look of complete wonderment and fearless awe. Waves crashed, seagulls circled, breezes shifted. It was a priceless moment.

I’ve studied a bit of psychology through the years, especially child psych, and this was a moment I’ll never forget. It also resonates with many of my other subjects of study, most especially philosophy and epistemology. I cannot assume that Vesta even remembers this episode in her adult memory, but I can speculate that it was nevertheless an important early milestone in her developing epistemological “vision”, i.e., her experience of “seeing,” of integrating, and of knowing that the world is much more extraordinarily complex and wonderful than ever previously imagined. Just as in scientific discovery, the young individual mind discovers New Worlds every day.

I cannot help but think here of the classic opening words of Aristotle’s Metaphysics:

“All men [aka, all human beings] by nature desire to know. As an indication of this, consider the delight we take in our senses, especially the sense of sight.” (Aristotle, The Metaphysics)

(And so it goes, in Aristotle’s historical-developmental model of epistemology, on up from simple perceiving to logically identifying to inductively integrating all of this info into infinitely higher permutations of human Reason and its astonishing knowing potential.)

Vesta saw the ocean, dramatically, for the first time. What a wonderful milestone on the way to the discovery of the world! As for myself, as a witness to this episode of basic individual discovery, I will never forget it.

-Zenwind.

21 May 2015

Book Review: Going Clear: Scientology, Hollywood, and the Prison of Belief (2013) by Lawrence Wright

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For the Church of Scientology, the shit has hit the fan. If you can only read one book about L. Ron Hubbard and Scientology, this is the one. I have had a perverse hobby of researching this cult for many years, and I’ve read most of the important exposes of the cult. They are all informative and most often riveting, but this book is the gem of Scientology critiques because of its journalistic rigor and completeness. It is very well written.

(There has been a recent HBO documentary, Going Clear: Scientology and the Prison of Belief (2015), directed by Oscar-winning documentary maker, Alex Gibney, which is based on Wright’s book and which includes interviews with Wright. I saw the documentary, and I love it.)

Although I have read many books about Lafayette Ronald Hubbard (L. Ron Hubbard, or “LRH,” 1911-1986), this book by Lawrence Wright provided a lot of additional information about him and his religion. Wright dug deep and interviewed many “apostates” who left Scientology but who were witnesses during its important years, and he mastered the vast literature of the multitude of ex-Scientologists.

He also acknowledged some of the reasons that make Scientologists so loyal to their group. He sees LRH as not only a liar and a fraud but as a charismatic fabulist that fascinated many people and made them believe him on faith. He notes that LRH, while still successful at grabbing money for power, spent much of his time alone with his E-meter developing his “spiritual technology.” LRH worked obsessively on working out a route to higher levels in his church doctrine. Wright asks: “If it was all a con, why would he bother?” He apparently believed his own bullshit. LRH was astoundingly complex, and Wright appreciates this while not sparing him radical criticism.

Lawrence Wright is an eminent American journalist on the staff of The New Yorker, and he won a Pulitzer Prize for his 2006 book, The Looming Tower: Al-Qaeda and the Road to 9/11, in which he accurately nailed the relevant terrorist ideology, origins, and activities.

He wrote this book on Scientology in a measured style, honest and reality-oriented – brutally honest – yet also showing sincere compassion for true believers who were positively affected by Scientology. E.g., Scientology has netted some celebrities as high-profile icons/recruiters; and actress Ann Archer (Patriot Games, Fatal Attraction) and her husband agreed to be interviewed by Wright – and I really respect them for such openness and forthrightness – and Wright is respectful of their deep devotion to Scientology.

Scientology is very much a Hollywood style religion of the late 20th century, but it has its perverse dark sides and the well-documented extreme horror stories of totalistic confinement, mind control, families ripped apart through forced “disconnection,” and ruthless revenge against anyone who is considered to be a critical “enemy” of the church. The Hollywood celebrities are shielded from such controversies.

Academy Award winner Hollywood screenwriter and director Paul Haggis is a big part of this story because Wright wrote a long 2011 article on Haggis’s journey in and out of Scientology in The New Yorker called “The Apostate: Paul Haggis vs. the Church of Scientology.” Chapter 1 of Going Clear is “The Convert,” an account of Haggis as a young man pursuing the allure of Scientology in the early 1970s. The book will tell, near its end, of Haggis investigating and re-thinking Scientology after 35 years in it, and Haggis is very honest and courageous in his criticisms.

Chapter 2, “The Source,” focuses on LRH (Hubbard), the “source” of all cult doctrine. He was such a bullshitter! His lies about his wartime service and intellectual accomplishments are covered in other of my posts here in the Post Index Category, "Scientology".

Chapter 3, “Going Overboard,” covers LRH’s exile when running from governments in the 1960s and 70s. One very interesting item is about when he wrote the “theological” level Operating Thetan Three (OT-III), the secret knowledge of Galactic overlord Xenu 75 million years ago and how Xenu caused the mindfuck that continues on planet Teegeeack (aka, Earth). In the late 60s LRH was in Tangiers “researching” OT-III, the “Wall of Fire” level, and he wrote to his wife in England that he was “drinking lots of rum” and downing drugs, “pinks and grays,” while researching. He sounds inspired. The reaction of Paul Haggis when he finally earned the right to read this secret story about Xenu – which is now all over the internet – is one of my favorite parts of the book.

Hubbard moves his base of operations to Clearwater, Florida in the early 1970s, while personally hiding out elsewhere. This is the time of his aggressive campaign to “destroy” Paulette Cooper, a journalist who wrote The Scandal of Scientology (1971), and he almost did destroy her. (Her story is the subject of another great recent book by Tony Ortega, The Unbreakable Miss Lovely, which I hope to review here someday.) The Church of Scientology is infamous for its litigious practices, suing opponents into the ground. Hubbard’s doctrine was to viciously attack and to completely destroy perceived enemies. The church’s dirty tricks were often criminal.

At this time Hubbard also declared war on the US government, and other world governments, in his “Snow White Program,” which I have described before. It is called the biggest domestic infiltration of the US government in history. The FBI raided the church in 1977, and 11 high-level church officials, including Hubbard’s wife, ended up going to prison.

Chapter 4 is “The Faith Factory.” Borrowing from Jon Atack’s research, Wright applies the work of Robert Jay Lifton on “ideological totalism.” Lifton studied Maoist “thought reform” (which the CIA called “brainwashing”), especially the techniques of public confession and then re-education. Numerous Scientology defectors describe these exact techniques as a principal tool of control in the Sea Org (SO), the core “clergy” unit of the church. The horror stories are consistent from many different informants.

Meanwhile, the cult cultivates celebrities, especially Hollywood ones. John Travolta was one of the first big names. Tom Cruise is now the biggest name. LRH always emphasized going after famous people as icons and recruiters, and Hollywood was his main target. Celebrities are insulated from the harsh realities of rank and file church members.

LRH died in 1986 – or rather his mythology says that he “dropped his meat body” in order to do research amongst the galaxies and he will reincarnate someday here on Earth. He had still been an exile living in secret locations, hiding from his enemies.

New to me were some of the further historical details about Scientology’s present supreme leader, David Miscavige (DM). DM took over the church after the death of LRH, and he continues the ruthless policies of the Founder. With a vengeance.

DM micromanages every detail of the church’s activities, including the extremely cruel traditional LRH revenge and dirty tricks actions. Miscavige’s violent physical and mental assaults on his staff are very well documented elsewhere, but Wright’s documentation of DM’s history of violence shows us that he was abnormally violent while a young teenager. I can only conclude that Miscavige is a psychopath, by most accounts a dangerously angry bully who delights in crushing anyone he dislikes. And he has over a billion dollars in a slush fund which he uses to litigate or hire private detectives to harass his enemies.

Most of the recent Scientologists who have “blown,” i.e., who have managed to escape this religion that ruthlessly tracks you down and harasses and intimidates you to stay within the cult, have already told their stories elsewhere and the stories are very, very consistent.

Most of Hubbard’s own children have blown. Quentin Hubbard, LRH’s heir apparent, blew in 1976. Quentin was gay in a religion that considered this extremely perverse. He was found in Las Vegas, comatose in a car with the engine running and a hose from the exhaust to the window, and he died later. When Hubbard got the note about Quentin’s suicide, his reaction was: “That little shit has done it to me again!” (!!!)

Hubbard’s daughter Suzette blew in 1988. As did his youngest son Arthur that same year. The only remaining child of his third marriage, Diana, lives as a recluse on the California desert base.

In 1993 the Church of Scientology won a long-fought victory against the IRS, gaining tax-exemptions as a recognized religion. They won by wearing the IRS down through over 2,000 lawsuits against its district offices and individual employees. The IRS lawyers were completely overwhelmed, and the director made it all go away by simply surrendering to the cult’s demands. Now Miscavige has accumulated billions in cash and real estate.

“Google: ‘Lisa McPherson’.” In 1995 Lisa was given the church recognition of having achieved the state of “Clear,” meaning being perfectly healthy and on her way to higher Scientology levels. Yet she was psychotic. Who was the church auditing case supervisor who declared her to be “Clear”? It was David Miscavige. DM himself (although the church now denies it). When Lisa was soon hospitalized in a psych ward for running naked in the streets, the church moved her to their own hotel and “treated” her with LRH’s wacky theories. In 17 days she was dead. Miscavige micro-managed her entire treatment. The church only resolved the embarrassing situation in their favor after declaring a long war on the medical examiner and forcing her to reverse her judgment and retire in shattered health. Bastards.

You won’t believe some of the nutty accounts in Chapter 8, about David Miscavige in the Church headquarters out in the California desert near Hemet. But the witnesses are too many and too consistent. Give a madman like him money and unlimited power, and the incredible cruelty follows when no one will speak up at the time. Meanwhile TC (Tom Cruise) and DM are best buddies, and the abuses just cruise over Tom’s head.

The Sea Org (SO) members work endlessly for measly pay and are “thought reformed” into submission. All their (rare) phone calls are monitored, their mail opened, their bank records watched – like under the Stasi. Meanwhile, DM lives a lavish lifestyle with the best of everything.

Defections from the cult are multiplying, and they include high officials. Mark “Marty” Rathbun was second only to DM in the cult, as the Inspector General. With decades in the church, Marty was trusted to “audit” (i.e., counsel, mentor) Tom Cruise on the E-meter when Tom returned to an active role in the church. Rathbun blew in 2004, stayed silent for five years and then started a blog critical of DM’s dictatorship. He has been harassed unmercifully under DM’s micro-managed revenge machine. His inside knowledge of the church is priceless.

Marc Headley blew in 2005, and this also reflected badly on Tom Cruise. When Tom was in earlier church training he had to in turn audit someone else. Marc Headley was a SO employee who never had time to do his own advancement in Scientology levels, so DM had Tom audit Marc. The point is that if Marc blew, his auditor (Tom) is supposed to share a lot of the blame. Not that it will happen. Marc’s wife, Claire Headley, blew after Marc did, and she was the overall case supervisor of Tom Cruise’s auditing process. Embarrassing, no? Marc’s fine book, Blown for Good was reviewed earlier here.

In 2010 John Brousseau blew, and this shook things up because he had intimate knowledge of DM’s behavior and of the work SO laborers did for Tom Cruise for slave wages.

In 2007 Mike Rinder blew. Mike was a top official, the church’s spokesman for many years and executive director of the Office of Special Affairs (OSA), the cult’s spy org that replaced the old Guardians Office. With uncommon inside knowledge of the cult, he knows “where the bodies are stashed.”

As far as Hollywood celebrities blowing, Jason Beghe, an actor who takes no BS from nobody, left the cult loudly and unafraid. Paul Haggis was concerned about the hypocrisy he saw in church leadership, and he did (forbidden) research on the internet to have his eyes opened to church abuses. Haggis wrote a long detailed letter of resignation from the Church of Scientology and he shared it with a few people. The letter found its way to Marty Rathbun, who asked Haggis for permission to reprint it on his blog. Haggis said sure. What surprised Haggis was that Rathbun’s blog post with his letter had 55,000 hits that very afternoon! Scientology is being watched by multitudes of folk who don’t like what they see.

There is much, much more interesting material in this masterful work. Lawrence Wright had a legion of fact-checkers and an army of lawyers doing their homework before publication, because the cult is notorious at suing critics into the ground. Their work was so well done that the cult can only squawk.

In his Epilogue, Wright puts the Church of Scientology into historical perspective. He compares them with the early Mormons. Joseph Smith was a pathological liar, a habitual fraud and con man, and a sexual exploiter, but he was charismatic enough to have a following of thousands in his short life, and today the Mormons are a flourishing almost-mainstream sect. They even had a Mormon run for president. (Although Mitt said his favorite novel was Battlefield Earth by L. Ron Hubbard! Give me a break!) Wright points out that the Christian Scientists oppose mainstream medicine even more than Scientologists, yet they have been accepted in American life for the most part (even though they are diminishing in numbers these days). And as far as Scientology’s policy of “disconnection”, the Amish do the same thing, calling it “shunning,” and the Amish have settled into their niche as an accepted, marginal, sect. Scientology won’t die soon, despite the shit hitting the big fan right now. What will it evolve into?

Wright is harsh when he has to be and compassionate when that is called for. But he is adamant that the Church of Scientology has to be confronted for its egregious abuses. He calls on the celebrity members, naming Tom Cruise and John Travolta, he maintains that they cannot be blind to these abuses, and he challenges them to take responsibility and renounce or try to change the cult’s present practices under David Miscavige.

In sum, this is a great book. I enjoyed reading it, even though many (not all) of the facts were already known to me – mainly through reading the daily blogs on Scientology by the indefatigable journalist Tony Ortega for many years now; Ortega has been covering Scientology for 20 years and is a clearing house of info, and he is also interviewed in Gibney's documentary Going Clear.

Wright is able to combine impeccable documentation with wonderful storytelling. This is a book I will be reading again someday, as a timeless account of the cult.

-Zenwind.

19 May 2015

An Allegheny Mountain Poem

“Hot summer afternoon has transformed into

Early twilight coolness and stillness. Listen …

The Hermit Thrush!”

(-Ross Barlow. From decades ago)

-Zenwind.

18 April 2015

Movie Review: Child 44 (2015)

Banned in Russia!

For history-lovers and libertarians I highly recommend the movie thriller Child 44 which opened worldwide this week. [Update: Apparently in the USA it is only in “limited” showing but hopefully will appear more widely later.] Putin banned it in Russia (and I wonder why!). It portrays the stark brutality and paranoia of the Soviet Union in the Stalin years without compromise.

I saw it only on a hunch that it might be good, because it was the cast that first caught my notice: Tom Hardy, Noomi Rapace, and Gary Oldman. I was surprised and impressed with the film. The writing was very well done and showed the horror hell-house that was the USSR in 1953.

It is over two hours long, and it is an adaptation of a novel of that name by Tom Rob Smith, the first of his trilogy involving his fictional character, Leo Demidov, a former MGB agent and his wife, Raisa. The story is loosely based on the case of an actual Russian serial killer – in the “socialist paradise” where the very existence of crimes such as murder was declared to be “impossible” by state doctrine, and anyone suggesting otherwise could be committing a serious thought crime.

It is grisly, as was its era. Not a date flick.

-Zenwind.

05 February 2015

Book Review: This Perfect Day (1970) by Ira Levin

This excellent novel is one of the few by Ira Levin that was never made into a movie. (Not quite anyway; see below.) It was called to my attention from one of my favorite sources of book recommendations: the Libertarian Futurist Society, which gave This Perfect Day a Prometheus Hall of Fame Award. By the time I finished reading it, I found that there are some very interesting libertarian connections with artistic influences and intellectual debts.

The world of this novel is a future Earth dystopia of conformity and perfect equality which is run by a master computer called “Uni” (short for “Uni-Comp”), and everyone is strictly required to take a monthly dose of “treatment” (meds) to deaden their desires and individuality. Thus medicated, people dread being “different”, a sense of that being sin. The idea of “choosing” seems odd and heretical to them. The very idea of choosing a job instead of Uni assigning it to you, of “deciding” and “picking” anything – these are all “manifestations of selfishness” and are outlawed in this future world. The only historical knowledge people have is vaguely that of the “pre-Uni chaos”, and they never really study it.

Part Two is “Coming Alive.” Our protagonist falls in with some non-conformists, proto-individualists who are able to reduce their treatment dosages without getting caught, and they tell him about what these new experiences are like. They introduce him to new concepts, such as “consent”, which they explain means “your body is yours, not Uni’s”, and he doesn’t have to take the treatments.

The reduced treatments wake him up for the first time in his life. He and his new friends start furtively going through old pre-Uni books in museums and find that these ancients indeed had some bad experiences but also happy ones: e.g., going wherever they chose, “earning” things, “owning” things, and always choosing; the ancients were more alive.

By reading to this point in my review, you might see a parallel between this 1970 novel and a certain 2002 movie. The Introduction to my Kindle edition of This Perfect Day is by Jonathan Trigell, and he mentions the close similarity between this novel and Kurt Wimmer’s film, Equilibrium (2002), one of my favorite movies which I had earlier reviewed here. This film had originally been recommended to me on a neo-Objectivist-libertarian e-list over ten years ago.

This novel also reminds one of Ayn Rand’s 1938 novella, Anthem, e.g., a person cannot choose his or her profession but is rather assigned it. And there is an even more interesting Rand connection.

Jeff Riggenbach writes (in Mises Daily, 3 December 2010) that Levin had read Rand’s The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged, and that he studied a bit at Objectivism’s original educational enterprise, the Nathaniel Branden Institute, in the late 50s and early 60s, and – quoting Barbara Branden (1986) – Levin “began to enter the circle of Ayn’s friends.” Riggenbach’s review of the novel is very good (but he does give away a few spoilers), and he points out that the book’s primary weakness is in economics. Still, he calls This Perfect Day “one of the top half-dozen libertarian novels ever published in our language.” Coming from Jeff, that is high praise.

-Zenwind.

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