Win A Stairway & Save My Soul

OK, my on spec script is percolating in the back of my mind.  The dogs have been taken out and I've decided to forgo house cleaning.  It's time to put together a contest - a sweepstakes open to all souls on this planet.  I will present a prize to the person who thinks of an appropriate name for my blog.  Such name will  replace the title, Suffering Sainthood.

It has been brought to my attention by family and friends that I am not a saint, suffering or otherwise.  Those who care postulate that I am arrogant and putting my immortal soul at risk by deluding myself with such an irrational notion of "sainthood."  Suffering saints are mythical and belong in the realm of Joseph Campbell and the Dali Lama.  I am but a struggling writer and musician.

In my defense, I thought it important at this point in my life to have the support of the Heavens in any fashion to keep myself on the “straight and narrow.”  I reasoned that if people reading my blog and twitter posts thought I was a long suffering saint then those thoughts, as grandiose as they might be, could lift me up in a small way to better expedite the challenges of my daily life.

As it has been noted in copious conversation with friend and foe, I may not make it to the Pearly Gates or points there beyond.  I've decided to present all who read this document a chance to reach for the Hereafter while saving my paltry spiritual “behind.”

Indeed, I am offering a “Stairway to Heaven,” to anyone who thinks of a suitable name to replace Suffering Sainthood, the name of the blog you are now reading.  Just because I'm not getting any closer to Heaven doesn't mean you should suffer such limitations.  A Stairway might give its owner at least the opportunity to feel closer to God, and at the same time rescue me from my own machinations.

To qualify, just email any divinely inspired name that comes to you during prayer or orgasm to H.RupertJonz (@gmail.com), re: “The Stairway Rescue Sweepstakes.”  The name should fit the contents of my blog and accompanying twitter account.  I, that is my wife, will carefully peruse all entries and select the one she thinks best complements this humble blog.

The sweepstakes-holder will receive, a Stairway to Heaven.  Actually, it will be a picture of the stairway, suitable for framing.  The real Stairway will be kept in a secret location, til the point of the winning person's passing.  The Stairway then becomes a vehicle by which the "Renamer" of my blog ascends to their rightful place in the Hereafter.

Take a look at the Stairway.

I will e-mail the picture to the winner.  If the sweepstakes champion trusts me with their snail-mail address, I will be glad to send a framed picture of their Stairway to Heaven. Included in the package will be a letter of authenticity and appreciation signed by my wife.  This will prove to all who gaze on it that “you” were responsible, at least partially, in saving the wretched soul who writes the weekly blog so named Suffering Sainthood.

The deadline to enter this sweepstakes will be July 15, 2011.  In case two or more people offer the winning name, each will receive their own picture of the Stairway to Heaven.  Know that it is a sturdy Stairway and can easily accommodate two or more person's passing.  The winning entry will be chosen on July 30, 2011.

This is the moment of truth for me.  I will find out how many people really read this blog. If I get no entries in this sweepstakes then the Stairway to Heaven and all its renderings will revert to its previous owner's next lifetime.

Remember send your entry to H.RupertJonz (@gmail.com), re: The Stairway Rescue Sweepstakes.   

Good Luck to all!  And thank you. 

Living On The Edge

I grew up on the edge of a noisy and dangerous interstate highway. We lived on a half acre of land next door to my grandparents (mother's mom and dad).  Our address was 9810 N. Shepherd.  It was the northern part of North Shepherd that also doubled as Hwy. 75 on its way to Dallas.  Town was 16 miles south; close enough to get to a large grocery store, but not so close to neighbors that you could hear them fart (as my dad would say).  I could run around shooting my BB gun without endangering anyone.

We lived in a two bedroom wood frame house that my dad built.  It rested on cinder blocks.   Dad would save a little money and build a living room, then a dining room and finally another bedroom.   I used to sit out on the front porch with my dog and gaze at the world driving by.

It was during a long summer that I watched the Texas Highway Department tear up North Shepherd Dr. and replace it with Interstate 45.  There were earth movers, graders and machines to pulverize cement.  The loamy smell of the earth seemed primordial as bulldozers churned up and leveled the way for the road.  Dump trucks thundered by carrying off the debris of the old road system as other dump trunks delivered the cement for the new one.  A concrete road builder mixed water with the aggregate and laid it down to ooze through and over the wooden forms and rebar.  We lost about fifty feet of our front yard to the new construction.  The frontage road and the interstate were ten lanes compared to the four lanes of Shepherd drive.

The Interstate cut like a red-hot iron and cauterized the thoroughfares of our neighborhood, shutting them off.  Streets like Blue Bell and Northville, that crossed Shepherd Dr., did not intersect the freeway.  It was hard to visit Sue Barnett's house or go to Commioto's convenience store.  They were now on the other side of the Interstate as was the horses in the pasture.   I was not allowed to cross all those busy lanes to pet the ponies.  Pitiful whinnies upset me and I would call back to the steeds stranded across the freeway. Carrots and apples were on their minds.

Getting to the other end of the neighborhood meant driving a mile down the feeder (or frontage) to the overpass at West Rd.   A left turn under the overpass and then another left turn would put us on the other side of the Interstate.  That was how we got to the displaced part of the neighborhood.  It was a sad discovery that neighbors were now distant acquaintances separated by a bustling expressway.  All of us drifted apart.

The worst thing about the busy interstate was the terrible accidents. A head-on collision was spectacular, loud and happened in front of our house.  On his way home, a longshoreman was speeding on the frontage road and did not see the elderly man in a car driving the wrong way and coming toward him.   They slammed into each other. It was a grinding clattering explosive catastrophe which resulted in the old man's death.  The aftermath was like a circus, with voyeurs, emergency crews and wreckers.  One of the vehicles was in such bad shape that two tow trucks had to lift the ends of the car and take it away.  It was like a macabre Dr. Doolittle tale with a mechanical Push Me Pull You made of two wreckers and a destroyed Ford Fairlane.

The worst accident happened late one evening.  Someone had broken down on I-45 and called for a tow.  The tow truck operator was careless and stepped into oncoming traffic.  It was an unspeakable scene.  Multiple cars struck him. Police diverted traffic off the freeway so that they could pick up all the pieces of this man. His wife heard about what happened and rushed to the scene.  She was out of her mind with grief.  Police had to handcuff her to a squad car to keep her away from the grizzly “pick-up” operation on the road.

Despite the possibility of horrible accidents it was irresistible not to wander onto the interstate.  I would sneak out and ride my bicycle along the side of the feeder.  I would ride a few blocks to a friend's house.  Inevitably his mother would call my mother.  I would lose biking privilege for a while.  My sister got impatient with me one day and told me to go play in the freeway.  I got up and ran across lanes of traffic to oblige her.  This was stupid behavior that only a twelve year old would consider.

Tractor trailers, RV's, moving vans, hot rods and pickup trucks form an endless procession to the city.  The interstate highway is a continuum of transportation.  The years after the construction of I-45 and other interstates that crisscross the metropolis, some 1100 people a week were moving in. The town went from boom to bust to boom again.

When I was eighteen we moved from the edge of the interstate to a quiet neighborhood with a cul-de-sac.  A businessman established a luxury boat sales lot on the spot where we lived.  They moved our wood frame house to a new family and location, but kept the garage my dad built.  Years later the boat business relocated.   The building is now empty.  When driving by I sometimes wonder what’s in my dad’s garage.  One day I’ll have to look.

The Pilgrim Trail

My name is Michel Luc de Payens.  I am French by birth, Christian by calling and a knightly prince by profession.  Along with others I was conscripted by my Pope in the spring of 1095 to defend the Byzantine Emperor Alexius Comnenus.  His empire was attacked by Seljuk Turks (Islamic).  Our efforts there helped repel the Turks.  In reprisal the Muslims banned Christian visitations to the Holy Land. So began the First Crusade to take back the Home of Our Savior.

Protecting pilgrims and soldiers on their trek to Jerusalem was charged to the most fervent soldiers of Christ.  I was one of them.  It was our life for many years to range in Syria between Antioch and Damascus.  We patrolled and protected Christians from bandits and Muslims.  We fought to keep the Lord God in our hearts and in our daily actions.

It was an arduous ride along semiarid terrain.  The helmet was often hot, the air dry.  Horses were slow to respond, slow in movement. They knew better than their human masters that this was no time to sally into the unknown. But what could be done?  There were pilgrims in the balance.  If we did nothing to protect them then more than lives would be forsaken.  Our charge and our calling would be thwarted – our souls damned.  So we rode into an alien land with a prayer and hope that we would always be in time to pluck Pilgrims from disaster.  Hazards were always present on the rode to Jerusalem.

Great throngs had traversed the Pilgrim Trail to the Holy Land.  We had protected many of them.  But we were tired, in need of some kind of succor.  Our world revolved around the largess of the pilgrims.  We gave them protection and they gave us support in food and clothing and good spirits.  In a way we were more dependent upon them than they upon us.  Nine years in the service of our Lord had been rewarding but fraught with peril.  Many of us had succumbed to the violence of the pilgrimage or to sensual pleasures.  Leaving the trail for the ease of less demanding commands back home in France was alluring.  I too had thought of going home and enlisting my services to king and country.  But, the Lord had charged me with this work and I dared not inhibit the expedition of His Holy Sojourn.

Muslims call us “the infidel.”  They say we know nothing of God, nothing of how to live a righteous life.  This may be true.  We soldiers of the Lord have not been without sin.  We have killed in the name of God, in the name of Jesus.  How does any man know if he is indeed the enlightened one or the blasphemer?  For sure the Muslims we have encountered are much more refined than most kings in our homeland.  Does that make them more righteous?  Does that make me less hungry for the Promised Land?

Many say Jerusalem is the only redemption for a soldier of the Lord. We live out a cruel existence on the trail to the Sacred City, a place none of us have ever seen.  We ride the most perilous parts of the road in protection of those who believe enough to risk all to find the City of David.  If life is a test then we have had our catechism again and again.

Today goat herders have reported bandits along the pilgrim trail.  On horse along the road we move to thwart any ulterior action.  We have learned to balance our passion to protect pilgrims with the reality of keeping ourselves ready for what the day may present.  We have few resources and care for horses that must rest periodically as do soldiers.  Food and water require an artful effort to keep clean and potable.  With care, along the trail we find  pilgrims under attack from Muslim warriors.  It would have been better to find bandits.  Bandits negotiate ransoms for pilgrim lives. Muslims kill Christians; there is no haggling for human life if it is Christian.  They take the women and murder the rest.  Their behavior is worse than the bandits. Godless, yet we are the infidel.

Twenty-five knights patrol this part of the rode to Jerusalem.  We charge the small band of Muslim warriors.  They try to flee with two women from the Christian pilgrimage, but drop the hostages and run for their lives.  The conflict is short and the result is positive.  The women are returned to their families and the celebration begins.  Pilgrims are elated.  Knights are validated by their valor and the grateful Christians.  We are invited to celebrate their good fortune.  We eat goat and drink wine.  It is a feast but, there is a problem.

The Muslim warriors escaped.  Undoubtedly they are part of a larger contingent not far away, probably from Damascus.  They never travel in such small groups.  This was probably a patrol party or they were making a reconnaissance; there were only five of them.  It is a bad situation.  We do not let on to the terrible danger these pilgrims are still in.  We coax them to travel quickly to the safety in the citadel of  Acre along the coast.  There is a Christian stronghold there.  We can rest in the shade of palm trees and pray in the church.  Alas, we are still a day’s journey to Acre.  We knights escort the pilgrims, gently prodding but growing more desperate to reach Acre.

Finally we stand upon the dunes overlooking the sea and the sparkling city.  At last we can let our guard down and join the fellow Christians below us.  But there is no rest yet.  The Muslim war party has caught up with us and they begin their attack.  These are angry men, thwarted by God and circumstance.  They want the livestock, the gold and the women.  Their intent is to kill us all to get it.  We are but five hundred meters from the walls of Acre.  There is no gentle prodding now.  We shout and push and we are all running for our lives to the walls of Acre.  The great miracle is that Knights of King Baldwin have witnessed our plight from their post on the ramparts.  They race to our aid.  Great joy!  The day is won, we are safe.  We live to fight again for the Lord God.

To Blog or To Nap

I don’t know if I want to write and post this week?  If no one noticed and no one cared that nothing was posted today in this blog would it really matter?  I am so busy writing scripts that this little project could fall into oblivion?  Of course, my posting efforts here have been largely oblivious to most humans.   It seems to me that one has to have arrived at some noticeable point before there is a possibility of falling into oblivion.  I may have not yet reached that precipice.  However, obscurity could be a possibility.

Hmm.  I could stop right now in the middle of this sentence and not even a ripple would occur in the fabric of human consciousness.  Even I would probably be unaware of the sudden halt and the finality of such an abrupt caesura. Thoughts and words seem to leak out of my head with alarming ease.  The ideas in this blog could roll out of my left ear without a whimper.  Maybe everyone ambling the internet has similar limitations.  Things have always rattled around my head like dice bouncing against the walls of a crap table.  They roll into a shadowy recess in my skull to hide from my memory.  Too, I’m a product of an abundance of air signs in my natal chart.  This means I can have a daily routine that is months or years old and suddenly I can barely remember what it is; as if I had just arrived on the planet.

Is this blog so meaningless, even to me?  Maybe I would be relieved at not having to put together cohesive words on a weekly basis.  An appropriate question might be, have I ever had a cohesive thought to put into cohesive words? Could this be the onset of dementia?  Should I be worried, sad or am I witnessing the natural progression of a word stream on the pages of a blog?

I might have to take a chance and at least pretend to believe that there is one human in over 6 billion on the planet that might read what I write every week.  I do try to be entertaining or at least not to abuse anyone.  I have taken a blogger’s Hippocratic Oath of sorts;

       “above all do no blogging

        if the content feels 

        like a mental flogging.”

That means I try not to bore anybody into anxious torpor and I keep scurrilous thoughts to myself.

Well, since I have put all of this down on a page, it looks like I might have just enough to produce another posting.  I’ll keep working on it.  If I manage not to wander into uncharted emotions and I don’t get distracted by the clattering in the back of my mind, I might succeed.