"Joe Thetan, Scientology Student," alias Five Brooks, musician, visited me at the ballet rehearsal studios. He wanted to help me resolve my problems; since he hadn't heard from me in months, he'd deduced that I was on the outs with Scientology. I was extremely nervous in the presence of this blend of good will and TRs, especially since a draft of this book was next to me on the piano bench, covered only by a thin glass ashtray. I had no trouble diverting Joe Thetan's gaze from the bench, however; he kept his eyes fastened on mine like meathooks on a haunch of beef.
"I guess you'd rather not tell me what Level you're on or what happened to you," he said, "but did anyone try to monkey around with you before you went to England?"
"What do you mean, `monkey around'?"
"You know: invalidate you, minimize your gains."
"Why, no."
"Well, I just wanted to let you know, there's a lot happening, man. Ron's come out with something. They're doing Dianetics different now. It's like it originally was in 1950. Now-you-can-go-up-the-Grades-as-a-thetan-from-the-very-beginning."
In other words, "Scientology" was "Dianetics" once again! I had seen posters of the familiar multi-colored volcano on billboards in subway stations, and had wondered why "Dianetics," not "Scientology," was being advertized. Perhaps the government was looking into Scientology, and Hubbard, wishing to avoid trouble, had changed the name back again, just as he had changed a healing business into a "religion." In any event, Ron had found another cure-all for mankind's ills.
I didn't disclose these thoughts to Joe Thetan. He was earnestly trying to help, and for a moment I reexperienced the fear of hurting someone by "invalidation." We talked until the rehearsal started. During that interval I saw the uncertainty on his face. A long-lost voice from his past, when he was a human being, was whispering to him that I was sad, in mourning for the old Five Brooks. He never quite heard the voice. Our meeting ended on that strange, incomplete communication.
"Have you heard," asked Dag Lildberg, "about the Scientologists picketing a psychiatrists' convention in Miami? In fairness to the shrinks, we ought to picket their headquarters."
"The org?"
"Sure. Get a lush and hand him a bullhorn and a couple of bucks to stand outside the place and shout `Ron Hubbrd ish a boddy thetn!'" said Dag, slipping into "valence."
"You're right! I can just see it: The Commander rushes out onto the street yelling `What was that you said?'
"`I shed, Ron Hubbrd ish a boddy thetn. Gimme a quarter.'"