Reality Therapy: The Influence of Rollercoasters, Religion, and Rock 'n Roll
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BEFORE |
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An effortless weight loss of 95 lbs. in a seven month period transpired prior to writing Reality Therapy... How did it occur? The answer lies within.
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"ELVIS AARON PRESLEY” Temple work in the Mormon religion is sacred and undisclosed. Youth, as early as twelve, are permitted to do baptisms for the dead. The belief is that the spirits who have gone on before us did not have a chance in this mortal existence to accept the gospel of Jesus Christ. By standing in for them in the baptismal font, a huge tub supported by twelve life-sized, oxen statues, the living are dunked for each and every name on the roster for the day. Our district temple was Washington, D.C. whose noticeably-stark white marble structure stands beside a bustling freeway system, leaping out when motorists rapidly round the bend. Everyone going to the temple must sit before their presiding bishop and be interviewed to discover their being “worthy” and “pure”. Questions range from psychological to sexual in nature, often being asked several times, “Are you touching yourself inappropriately?” I never thought it was inappropriate to touch oneself given the length of the arms, so naturally I said, “No.” The chartered bus ride to D.C. included the urban punks, all making sphincters of themselves with their inability to communicate with a limited vocabulary and their usual hate-filled remarks, shocking me further to note that the conduct they consistently exhibit was acceptable for a laminated Temple Recommend card. Their volume also kept anyone from sleeping, creating a draining, exhausting itinerary. Once inside the temple’s hushed, dimly-lit corridors, the boys are separated from the girls, adults included, and ushered into the locker rooms adjacent to the font itself. A glass partition viewing area peers down onto the font allowing spectators the opportunity to witness the sacred ritual. Each individual receives approximately 30 names to be baptized for. The information appearing on a monitor includes that person’s birth and death dates, along with their parents and county registry. While waiting for my group to be called, I joined a number of people sitting in the viewing area anticipating the much-revered doing. A moth was flying about the heads of one of the girls who swatted at it, knocking it dead to the ground. Mortified, she shrieked in a hushed manner, “I just killed a temple bug!” More and more people were getting baptized as the hours dragged on. Departing the font, saturated from being fully submerged, they’d exit the area into their prospective gender’s locker room facility, sending another one out, keeping the process moving like clockwork. A confused participant came back into the font area after showering, drying his hair with his towel, wearing nothing else. His manhood was dangling and swaying for all spectators behind the glass to take in a full, unrestricted view until he realized where he was. Without making a scene, or covering up, he did an about face, parading back into the locker room undraped, allowing everyone a complete package observance. Some girls covered their eyes, as some shrieked, calling his name. The guys all laughed. Others silently salivated. At long last, my time was announced. After pulling on the thick, white, cotton clothing, I entered the bathwater-warm temperature of the baptismal font. Striding in the chest-high water towards the one baptizing me, I held my nose, closed my eyes, and waited for the lowering beneath the surface hoping that nothing, including a strand of hair, would rise above the splashing apertures, resulting in a re-take. The words were quick, but clear, mimicking John The Baptist’s when he baptized Christ, Himself. Then I heard the name of the first person I was standing in place of: “Elvis Aaron Presley”. Under the water I went.
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Mr. STONEking, himself, states: I am a Native American, blended in a Vanilla Hebrew-linked Shell, with some Chocolate in the mix, raised Mormon, and a Blood Brother to Uncle Ted Nugent. Nearly three decades ago The Walt Disney Company gave me a microphone along with a gun.* That probably would not be a good idea these days. It is more Amazing to witness the results of the pen. Transcending. Especially to Those In The Know.
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