|
by Paul Spencer Sochaczewski © 2003
I turned down a knighthood today. It was a tough decision - I liked the sound of "Sir Paul." I had replied to a notice in a newspaper that offered "an economically available, State Sanctioned Hereditary Knighthood." Turns out that a group of visionaries has resurrected the Knights Templar, a prominent clan up of medieval Christian noblemen who protected pilgrims on the route to Jerusalem and whose legendary power encompassed political as well as metaphysical prowess. The Order was wiped out, for all practical purposes, in 1312 by Pope Clement V, in spite of their having been vigorously championed by celebrities such as Dante Alighieri. But several years ago several mostly-British business executives registered, in Israel, a new, non-religious version of the Ancient and Noble Order of Knights Templar. For just a single US$5,000 fee, and dues of $500 year (less than my golf club fees), I could become investitured in a ceremony involving apanages and escutcheons. I'd get to wear a special ring and have use of two castles and the opportunity to buy privately-bottled Knights Templar Bordeaux. And even better, the title comes with citizenship of a new country they're creating, code-named Savantis. The Knights Templar certainly have a history of geographical expansion. The medieval group had a fleet larger than that of most countries - Columbus flew the Templar's red cross on his sails. William Mann, author of The Labyrinth of the Grail, claims that the Knights Templar "possessed the 'secret' of being able to fix longitudinal positions long before it became common practice," and that this "sacred geometry", allowed Neolithic to Roman era "societies who were in on the secret" to circumnavigate the world and settle corners of the world that are far removed from Europe. "Only five people know where Savantis is," Sir G, a senior official in the Knights Templar explained. But from reading between the lines I figure they're buying an island in the Caribbean. According to Sir G., the thousand or so locals are enthusiastic about becoming Savantists and living under five dukes who will control the country. The nation would become a haven for hearty, capitalistic free spirits, with economic benefits accruing from planned casinos, resorts, golf courses, offshore banking businesses and flags of convenience shipping lines. I asked my friend Dan about whether he too wanted to sign up - I figured we could get a two-for-one deal, maybe even a free toaster. "Those guys don't need they're own country," he said. "They're already on their own planet." But still... I love the idea of starting your own country. In fact I propose something similar in my novel Earthlove, in which a nature conservation organization thinks about buying a tropical archipelago and establishing a Republic of Rich Misunderstood Heads of State to provide secure luxury housing for deposed dictators. Sir G assured me that Savantis is "just an inch away from receiving United Nations recognition." I could see myself as social director at the Savantis Golf Club, perhaps, or professor of creative writing at Savantis University. One thing is sure though, and that is there will never be a Gay Pride Day in Savantis. The Knights Templar constitution has strict ideas about what constitutes acceptable sexual behavior. It's their right, of course, to decide who can become a Savantis citizen, but while I'm happily heterosexual I don't much like the idea of Savantis telling people how to run their lives. When I questioned the civil liberty issue Sir G. argued: "Your golf club wouldn't allow me to play in just a bathing suit. They're allowed to set their own standards of behavior. So are we." What would be next? I didn't like the possibility that these guys, and they're all guys since women can't hold Savantis office, could conceivably change the constitution in a few years and tell me, say, that bald guys are verboten. It's nothing new, of course, to sell citizenship in Brigadoon-like countries. In one instance, in November 1998, Philippine police raided a hotel in Olongapo, near Subic Bay and arrested a Briton, an Australian and a Malaysian. They had been running an internet scam that offered passports to a fictitious nation called the Dominion of Melchizedek, named after a high priest to whom Abraham gave a tenth of his fortune in celebration of rescuing Lot and his family from Sodom. In Asia, Melchizedek first came to the attention of law enforcement officials when a man who identified himself as "His Serene Highness Gerald-Dennis Sayn-Wittgenstein-Hohenstein" tried to open bank accounts in Hong Kong with checks issued by phony Melchizedek banks. The 22 year-old unemployed Austrian was a baker, not a prince, and had been living in the passenger terminal at Kai Tak airport in Hong Kong. During his trial (he was convicted for bank fraud and jailed for six months), it was learned that he visited a number of Asian countries with his official-looking Melchizedek "diplomatic passport." People believe what they want to believe. But the truth is, I sure was tempted. I left myself a phone message ("Sir Paul, this is Steven Spielberg calling") to see how it sounded. It sounded just fine. I'm rather used to honorifics, actually. My mom called me Angel. A few girlfriends have called me Hunk. Other acquaintances have called me more colorful titles. But the bottom line is that I've always rejected formal honors. I refused to join the high school honor society. I refused to join a fraternity. And, golf club aside, I'm sympathetic to Groucho Marx's dictum "I wouldn't belong to any club that would have me as a member." But still, "Sir Paul" has a certain ring. Maybe I was too hasty. Maybe I could work my way up the totem pole to a higher royal status. Since I'm a writer, I could eventually be known as "The Prince Formerly Known as Artist."
|