Jeffrey P. STONEking
Mr. STONEking remembers it all for you on the ride called Life. Join him through spiritual and physical transformations, where childhood wishes are fulfilled, and the challenge of over-coming obstacles is rapidly increased due to the act of forgiveness.
After being raised amidst abusive classmates and Mormon church members, Mr. STONEking discovers an existence filled with ancestral revelations and unexplained paranormal activities, with Rock ‘n Roll creating unique, influential soundtracks to a life few dare to undertake -- or survive!
Dreams do come true, and Mr. STONEking lives to tell them in his autobiography, Reality Therapy: The Influence of Rollercoasters, Religion, and Rock ‘n Roll.
Mr. STONEking attributes his writing skills to years of professional letter writing, combined with news reports and newspaper articles. In 2005, two professors at Antioch University in Yellow Springs, Ohio, where he attends, encouraged Mr. STONEking to pursue his goal of being an author. It was their constructive criticism which started the project whose outline was originally created in 1992.
The material’s initial eight chapters sat dormant until three significant events occurred in 2006 sparking a first for Mr. STONEking: writing in the here-and-now. Eleven chapters remained at a stand-still until a role model, business executive came to town with his extreme dedication to obligations and self, igniting Mr. STONEking into a relentless, passionate undertaking of writing a chapter per day, the remaining forty-four, from June 7th, 2007 through July 30th, 2007.
At times, Mr. STONEking had to force himself to eat and take some time off, though the material kept coming, along with inexplicable circumstances involving chapter-related matters transpiring in the present tense each time one was completed. The end result is a pure, unconditional labor of love.
Visit Mr. STONEking's website:
www.stonekingsisland.com
“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 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.
