Sunday, April 08, 2007

Holy Week(end)

Maundy Thursday. Went to mass, sat somewhere outside, in the back, near a tree, where red ants crawled onto the fencing, down to the ground, up between my skin and my denims, to … ouch! Fuck!

Good Friday. Lined up behind young balikbayan apos of old neighbors to kiss Jesus’ wounded foot. Veneration of the Cross, I believe they call it. Girl, what are you wearing? You’re not at some Bora bar! I was almost angered – if not slightly turned-on – by the short shorts and the bikini top underneath the plain white tank. But there’s abstinence … and fasting, and all that other stuff we like to believe in. Newspaper says we also shouldn’t play with knives and deadly weapons on Good Friday. So I guess it’s okay during Easter.

Dad chatted with nice-old-lady-neighbor. (Eight years, and her name still eludes me). She still thinks I’m in high school. She still thinks I’m sick. “Six years cancer-free na, po.” She asks if I’m feeling okay, if I needed help with anything. (Let go, lady, let go.)

Seventh Heaven marathon on TV, and it’s been this way every year since we moved back in ’98. Jessica Biel’s no longer on the show, so why watch now? Religious movies at night: Dad watches The Ten Commandments for the nth time, and it’s still dragging to me, though I admit the parting of the Red Sea is still a kick-ass scene, however primitive in special effects. But is there a connection between Moses and the biblical “stuff” we celebrate on Good Friday? Perhaps the maids’ choosing The Passion of the Christ was more fitting … I pondered over this while watching Late Night with Conan O’Brien.

(And you were “thinking” if we had “a fight.” Sometimes it seems like it, doesn’t it? “Wala lang.” For the record: I don’t think so, but often I’m not sure. I miss you – that’s for certain.)

Finished Tiempo’s To Be Free – a pleasant read, typical and maybe even cliché in socially-relevant subject-matter, but engaging are its main characters. Started re-reading Kerouac’s On The Road, finding it very much more interesting this time around, perhaps because of my breathing the “writerly” summer air, and my feeling rather “Beat.” (“It made me think that everything was about to arrive – the moment when you know all and everything is decided forever.”)

I’ve started writing a short story based on a film concept I came up with a couple years back. Apak sa Damo Productions is dead (but shout out to Robles and Japs), and filmmaking has become way too cool for its own good; so I might as well get a Palanca out of the concept – oh wait … I forgot that I’m crap at fiction, and news writing sucked the life out of my writing in general … Fuck!

Before summoning Black Saturday, had one of my anemia attacks, which I tried to alleviate with toasted mamon, Baby Ruths, and burnt nuts (cashews, for the record). Amber bottles were calling my name, but like I said, I was abstaining.

Black Saturday morning. Yankees-Orioles. Giambi left the bases loaded, and so did Matsui. Jeter looks the same, but Posada gained weight. And looks like A-Rod’s trying to win New York fans over with higher socks. (Try something else, asshole!) They lost.

Evening. Call from Glenn Mas: Free Press Awards this Tuesday. “Free booze,” says he. Okay. I need a date. Ms. Martinez? Can’t. (Damn!) Will text Plans B, C, and D tomorrow or something.

Cindy and Echem are complaining of the cold. It’s a chilly spring day where she’s at in the US. He’s stuck in the Philippines during summer. Shit don’t add up.

Easter Sunday. Wake-up time of 6AM because I’m on catering duty – and was basically running the ship solo. Menu: barbecued beef brisket, mango relish, and coleslaw. Food must leave house by 11AM, and I’m working with the constant reminder to not make the beef tough. Mom’s finally home from church at around 10:45AM. She sees the beef, convinced that it’s tough, starts whining like the 50-year-old baby she easily morphs into. I slice the beef, juicy. I take a bite, succulent. I’m good at this, undeniably. (Let’s not forget that I started this catering company, Mom.)

Mass with Dad in the afternoon. Mind was drifting off, though I’m happy that Christ has risen. Kids are invited for our parish’s version of an Easter egg hunt: hidden stickers in the park shaped like eggs were to be retrieved and returned to a concession stand near the church office in exchange for supposed prizes.

Walking home with Dad, and he’s dreading the term papers he still has to grade. At home, he asks one maid to mix him a cup of coffee, then tells another to buy six bottles of Pilsen. “Three for you, Mart, but don’t touch the other three.” I’m looking for an opener.


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