Another in the ongoing series of essays from Terra Cognita
Scientology’s Answer to Perfect Recall: The File Clerk
Is it just mine or is your file clerk on sabbatical, too? Apparently, my guy’s been on vacation from just after I first walked through the front doors of that mission years ago.
The file clerk I’m talking about is the one LRH described in DMSMH, who’s able to go back and grab any of the trillions of incidents on one’s time track—the consecutive record of mental image pictures, from “when it all began” to present time. All that’s necessary is to “direct” this little guy to an incident, and presto, he’s grabbed it and dragged it up to present time. All you have to do is lean back with your bowl of popcorn and watch the show. At least, that’s the theory.
LRH said, “The file clerk is the bank monitor. ‘He’ monitors for both the reactive engram bank and the standard banks. When he is asked for a datum by the auditor or ‘I,’ he will hand out a datum to the auditor via ‘I.’ The file clerk, if the auditor asks the preclear for the last time he saw a movie, will hand out the movie, the date it was seen, the age and physical being of the person, all perceptics, the plot of the movie, the weather—in short, he hands out everything that was present and connected with the movie.” (Except the popcorn.)
Short of events that happened within the last few decades, my file clerk was only able to retrieve fuzzy, imaginary-looking incidents—as if he was lying on a beach in Cancun and had left the job to his dim-witted cousin, Morris. As for the fifty-eight perceptics LRH said we all possessed, I was lucky to get six.
Metamorphosis—Like it or Not
Luckily, Morris translated everything into English and transformed the dramatis personae, the complete cast, into human beings. I was able to understand everybody and wasn’t grossed-out by any scaly-assed aliens. One considerate file clerk, right?
The bad news is, I wasn’t able to access any of these foreign languages in which I’d been so fluent. Had I lived the last ten lifetimes in Beijing, I still wasn’t able to read, understand, or speak a lick of Mandarin or Cantonese. Not even a single phrase. Nary a solitary word. I felt ripped off!
I found it odd that everybody appeared human in all my incidents. Not once did I occupy an avian body or experience an incident in which I sported claws or gills, was covered in slime, or supported three sets of reproductive organs. Or looked like the creature in Alien.
Either I was imagining everything or Mr. Morris had automatically transformed all the characters on my time track into human beings. (Or I just had shitty recall.)
Not only had Morris translated and transformed all of my incidents—all trillions and trillions of them—he’d deleted all the best and greatest past-track technology. WTF! Had the little guy thought I wasn’t responsible enough? Or that I would have been overwhelmed? Higher mathematics was too complicated for my simple mind? Advanced physics would have made my head explode? Couldn’t he at least have thrown me a little something? Something small? Like a personal force field. Or an invisibility cloak.
Our time tracks must be strewn with fantastic technology: anti-gravity machines; faster-than-light propulsion systems; perpetual motion machines; disease-eliminating nanites; drought-tolerant, fast-growing, protein-rich grains; and androids that cleaned our homes and tucked us in at night. Something to lower the damn temperature of the planet would’ve been helpful!
I’d have thought Morris would have allowed something to slip by. One little invention to help save the world! Something that would turn smog to oxygen. Ensure fair elections. But no! Nada! Come on, dude, one little crumb, please.
The United Federation of File Clerks
About three and half million years ago, the UFFC (u-fucked) decreed that all members—of which, Morris is an affiliate—were prohibited from retrieving anything deemed dangerous to Homo sapiens. Which unfortunately, included just about all advanced machinery beyond the technical level of penicillin and the internal combustion engine.
I know that all file clerks belong to this union because in the entire history of this planet, not one human being has ever been privy to any of this advanced, past-track technology. My city is still beset by its same old problems despite the handful of OT’s walking its streets. Wouldn’t you think that some enterprising OT 8, with perfect recall, would have pulled something from their track to help clean up the homeless problem? Increase gas mileage? Save mankind?
Oh wait, LRH already did that.
Perfect Recall…Sometimes…Every Once in While…That One Time Five Years Ago
LRH believed he’d lived for quadrillions of years. He also believed that with a little auditing he could remember, not just what happened on Alderon Six, two and half billion years ago, but could recall where he’d hidden treasure on the shores of the Mediterranean on planet Earth. Read all about this journey in his book, Mission Into Time. Needless to say, he found no riches. To my knowledge, nor has anyone else.
You’d think that all OT’s would have the ability to remember everything about their last life—like the one right before this one. Nothing should be simpler, right? We’re not talking million or billions of years, here. We’re talking thirty, forty, fifty max.
Recalling a life that ended only twenty-five years ago should be child’s play for an OT. He should know the exact address of where he lived; the names of his three kids: Tom, Bernadette, and Sandy Lee; where he went to school; the time he kissed Betty Logsdon under the bleachers junior year; his old boss, Bernie. He should be able to go back to his old town and recognize everything. And speak Mandarin!
Of course there are “technical” reasons this can’t be achieved. When LRH wrote Dianetics he hadn’t invented Scientology and the theory of past lives. “New OT 7 is really Old OT 8.” Or the other way around. Somebody “screwed with the Grade Chart.” The reactive mind is this. The reactive mind is that. The file clerk only “cooperates with the auditor.” In the olden days… Wait a minute. Hold on. I call foul.
Let’s be honest. LRH said we had the ability to recall every last particle on our time tracks. Every last, nano-particle of MEST. Every last wave length, idea, facsimile, and speck of theta. The whole kit and caboodle. Over quadrillions and quadrillions of years. All the way back to that “first cause.” Really?
I can’t find my damn keys!
Still not Declared,