Sunday Morning
Kasseopeia is listening to: Sunday Morning - Maroon 5
I don't understand why this is so but lately the good ideas to write about come on Sundays. Either I have selective memory (which is highly possible) or my life has become totally boring that the best stuff come only on Sundays. Whatever the case, my brain functions MOST on Sundays... perhaps in preparation for the usual Manic Monday.
Of course, today being Sunday I assumed a responsibility every Catholic has: attend Mass. No matter where in the spectrum of Reluctant Catholicism you fall (on the farther, more reluctant end if you're like moi), you still have to sit through an hour or so of holier-than-thou, self-righteous, preachy-preachy heebee-jeebees just so a temperamental God won't strike you dead with a lightning bolt straight out of the white fluffy clouds up there.
I'm not normally this angsty about church. Today's homily just made me want to scream bloody murder (complete with British accent: bluddy mr-dah, dahling!) and race for the priest's throat with my French-tipped nails. He said that for the day Christianity came to our shores with Magellan in 1521, we must be eternally thankful. For the missionaries who gave us the awareness of God gave us everlasting life, we must show our utmost gratitude.
Eternal f***ing life my stinky Pinoy rear end! Tell that to my contrymen who died defending their territory (and their own god, Bathala) from these stinky marauders who bathed twice a week. Tell that to the millions of indigenous people who are ostracized for continuing to believe in the spirits of trees and the rivers rather than the omniscient, omnipotent God. What difference does it make if they believe in these spirits when these foreigners believe in a spirit (or entity... whatever) that is symbolized by a little boy with ridiculously long lashes, curly brown hair, a nose sharp enough to cut a coconut in half and frilly clothes frou-frou enough to make the most kikay Boho chic curl up and die?!?
Before these Spaniards ever set foot on our islands, we had our own religion. Our own form of the written and spoken word. Our own form of government. Our own beautiful and diverse culture (no colonial mentality yet. *sigh* I mourn for that era) untainted by foreign expectations and ideologies. Then these stinky bastards came and smashed all that to smithereens.
And we're supposed to be thankful?!? Whose idea of a joke is that?
Well, life isn't always peachy but it's not always that rotten either. So let's write something good about Sundays.
Sunday is a peaceful day. No mad rush to work. No pressure to get up early, unless your family happens to like attending the 6am Mass. No traffic to battle with, unless it's Christmas season (which it already is, darn it) or all malls within a fifteen kilometer radius are having a sale.
I also happen to be born on a Sunday. You know how the rhyme goes: The child who is born on Sabbath day; is bonny and wise and good and GAY. So yeah, Sunday is good. When I was a kid, Sunday was the only day of the week my Dad and the rest of the family could spend together. So most of the time, we'd drive to the beach. My dad is single-handedly responsible for my being a beach-bum. And for introducing me to the ultimate drink. He calls it "Sunday Refreshment". I call it "How To Get Drunk In Three Glasses Or Less". His version calls for a jigger of gin, three ice cubes, a jigger of Island Lime (you know, the green stuff) and tonic water. My version calls for two to three shots of vodka (Absolut Vodka works best), a jigger of white rum (optional for people who hate rum with a passion), the juice of one lemon, and Sprite in a tall glass of crushed ice. His version and I got acquainted when I was seven (one sip and I was hooked) and always asked for my own glass since. Little did I know that the drinks he made for me were spiked with... 7-Up. Hah, he shall pay for his deception. Hence, he got acquainted with my Sunday Refreshment when I was thirteen. His was puny compared to mine. Hah!
Fast-forward a decade later, Sunday is also a happy day for me because of three words: unhindered telephone use. Yakkin' our heads off from morning till late afternoon talking about anything and everything in this infinite universe. That is, until she left for a place where using the telephone costs an arm and a leg. Harhar...
Oh well... 3 more Sundays... and we won't need the telephone again!
Of course, not unless she's at work and I'm too antsy to wait for her to come home. Anyway, she doesn't work on Sundays so... Hehe...
-o-o-o-o-o-
"That may be all I need
In darkness she is all I see
Come and rest your bones with me
Driving slow on Sunday morning
And I never want to leave."
I don't understand why this is so but lately the good ideas to write about come on Sundays. Either I have selective memory (which is highly possible) or my life has become totally boring that the best stuff come only on Sundays. Whatever the case, my brain functions MOST on Sundays... perhaps in preparation for the usual Manic Monday.
Of course, today being Sunday I assumed a responsibility every Catholic has: attend Mass. No matter where in the spectrum of Reluctant Catholicism you fall (on the farther, more reluctant end if you're like moi), you still have to sit through an hour or so of holier-than-thou, self-righteous, preachy-preachy heebee-jeebees just so a temperamental God won't strike you dead with a lightning bolt straight out of the white fluffy clouds up there.
I'm not normally this angsty about church. Today's homily just made me want to scream bloody murder (complete with British accent: bluddy mr-dah, dahling!) and race for the priest's throat with my French-tipped nails. He said that for the day Christianity came to our shores with Magellan in 1521, we must be eternally thankful. For the missionaries who gave us the awareness of God gave us everlasting life, we must show our utmost gratitude.
Eternal f***ing life my stinky Pinoy rear end! Tell that to my contrymen who died defending their territory (and their own god, Bathala) from these stinky marauders who bathed twice a week. Tell that to the millions of indigenous people who are ostracized for continuing to believe in the spirits of trees and the rivers rather than the omniscient, omnipotent God. What difference does it make if they believe in these spirits when these foreigners believe in a spirit (or entity... whatever) that is symbolized by a little boy with ridiculously long lashes, curly brown hair, a nose sharp enough to cut a coconut in half and frilly clothes frou-frou enough to make the most kikay Boho chic curl up and die?!?
Before these Spaniards ever set foot on our islands, we had our own religion. Our own form of the written and spoken word. Our own form of government. Our own beautiful and diverse culture (no colonial mentality yet. *sigh* I mourn for that era) untainted by foreign expectations and ideologies. Then these stinky bastards came and smashed all that to smithereens.
And we're supposed to be thankful?!? Whose idea of a joke is that?
Well, life isn't always peachy but it's not always that rotten either. So let's write something good about Sundays.
Sunday is a peaceful day. No mad rush to work. No pressure to get up early, unless your family happens to like attending the 6am Mass. No traffic to battle with, unless it's Christmas season (which it already is, darn it) or all malls within a fifteen kilometer radius are having a sale.
I also happen to be born on a Sunday. You know how the rhyme goes: The child who is born on Sabbath day; is bonny and wise and good and GAY. So yeah, Sunday is good. When I was a kid, Sunday was the only day of the week my Dad and the rest of the family could spend together. So most of the time, we'd drive to the beach. My dad is single-handedly responsible for my being a beach-bum. And for introducing me to the ultimate drink. He calls it "Sunday Refreshment". I call it "How To Get Drunk In Three Glasses Or Less". His version calls for a jigger of gin, three ice cubes, a jigger of Island Lime (you know, the green stuff) and tonic water. My version calls for two to three shots of vodka (Absolut Vodka works best), a jigger of white rum (optional for people who hate rum with a passion), the juice of one lemon, and Sprite in a tall glass of crushed ice. His version and I got acquainted when I was seven (one sip and I was hooked) and always asked for my own glass since. Little did I know that the drinks he made for me were spiked with... 7-Up. Hah, he shall pay for his deception. Hence, he got acquainted with my Sunday Refreshment when I was thirteen. His was puny compared to mine. Hah!
Fast-forward a decade later, Sunday is also a happy day for me because of three words: unhindered telephone use. Yakkin' our heads off from morning till late afternoon talking about anything and everything in this infinite universe. That is, until she left for a place where using the telephone costs an arm and a leg. Harhar...
Oh well... 3 more Sundays... and we won't need the telephone again!
Of course, not unless she's at work and I'm too antsy to wait for her to come home. Anyway, she doesn't work on Sundays so... Hehe...
-o-o-o-o-o-
"That may be all I need
In darkness she is all I see
Come and rest your bones with me
Driving slow on Sunday morning
And I never want to leave."
stargazer caught shooting stars at 8:19:00 PM
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