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It is All Hallows' Eve, and as is custom here, the last day of that month heralds the month of November, and with it, the commemoration of the dead. In olden times, many Filipinos would keep vigil by the tombs of their faithful departed from sunset of All Saints' Day until first light of All Souls' Day, passing the night in solitude and prayer, with nothing but the faint flicker of candlelight to provide warmth.
November is also the month when my paternal grandmother died, at the age of 81, in 2004. She died from a complication in her thyroid gland in addition to other heart ailments, only discovered after her death. I still can't believe that Saturday, the 19th of November, would already mark the seventh year of her passing. Still, I remember one story told to me by my aunt a few days after my grandmother died. In the Philippines, the mourning of loved ones is still an elaborate affair, with its own protocol, superstitions, and traditions. When a loved one dies, it is customary to offer a pasiyam, or nine days of continuous prayers for the soul of the departed. Generally, the Fortieth Day of the beloved's death also marks another series of intense prayers. It is believed that 40 days represents the soul's wandering in Purgatory, and that it was incumbent upon the deceased's relatives to pray for his release from temporal punishment. I'm told that for us Tagalogs, though, the Thirtieth Day of death is also commemorated, especially for females.
In older times, black, silk bands used to be tied at the arms of males to signify mourning, while females went on an extended period of wearing only sable. Nowadays, however, a simple black plaque pinned to the shirt is sufficient in conveying collective grief.
It happened that my then four year old cousin was sitting on my grandmother's bed, looking at some old photos of her in some photo albums that my grandpa had dug up. Having been married for some fifty six years, it was not easy for him at all to accept her passing so quickly; he sank into depression, and my aunt took it upon herself to let Francis sleep in his bed to take his mind away from her. It was a Sunday afternoon, I remember, and grandpa had fallen asleep, leaving Francis to look at the albums on his own.
My aunt was passing by the room to check on my grandpa, when suddenly she said she heard a voice; it was Francis, speaking with his grandfather about something. She shrugged it off, thinking the boy must have been his usual curious self. Still, grandpa needed his rest-- he had gone a full two days without sleep, and badly needed some shuteye. She opened the door and entered, and found Francis staring out the window.
"Francis, come with me for awhile. Lolo needs to rest, he hasn't slept in two days. Go play with your friends out there."
"But mama, I'm not bothering Lolo! He has been asleep for almost one hour now."
"Don't lie to me! If he has been sleeping all this time, then who were you talking to?"
"I don't know! I think our neighbor? But I never saw her before. She looked very happy and smiled at me a lot! She says I've grown up a lot and that I should be a good boy and do well in my studies. She was very sweet and she was dressed in a very long blue skirt."
"Ahh, that's probably Aling Maria. But isn't she still in Lipa? Did this lady introduce herself to you?"
"No, but she looked a lot like Lola! They were about the same height, too, and the same voice!"
My aunt stood there for awhile, not sure what to think. She hesitated for awhile, before speaking again, after some silence. "Siya, go get your rosary. It's almost dark and we haven't even prayed yet. Leave Lolo alone, then come back later when it's time for dinner."
Francis did as he was told, and left the room, but before that he turned one last time to the window, and waved happily at thin air. "Bye bye! It was really nice talking to you!"
Mother and son left my grandfather to sleep in his room; it was almost dark now, and dinner had yet to be cooked. They exited quietly from the master suite, passing by my grandparents' shared study-- my grandmother's, to one corner, stacked neatly with books and theses and newspaper clippings, while my grandfather's key chain collection caught the last few glints of the fading sun. They walked back into the living room, and passed by the piano, where all the photos of our clan had somehow been miraculously gathered. And she paused for a moment, and there in the back, spied an old photo of my grandmother, dressed in a long, blue skirt.
I have been very busy lately, with work and some other personal matters. My shift starts in the afternoon and ends late in the evening, and I am still trying to adjust my body clock to these new changes in my routine. I would also like to ask for your prayers regarding some things that have been vexing me of late. It is already the start of the long All Souls' Day weekend here in Manila, so hopefully I will have some more time to update. Thanks.
This hymn, also known as Agni Parthene in Greek, was composed by Saint Nectarios of Aegina, and is sometimes sung before Vespers. Fecioara Maica Maria is the Romanian version of the hymn.
There is a peculiar energy to the celebration of the Holy Mass here in the tropics; those who have been to Manila and attended any one of her Catholic churches on a Sunday can attest to the heady mixture of strange noises and even stranger scents: the cacophony of boisterous preaching on the one hand, and the ceaseless honking of horns and vendors hawking their wares on the other, especially in the bigger churches; and who could forget the smell of burnt wax and incense and the tide of bodies sweating in the the naves.
At times, when I was younger, I often found myself paying as much attention to the peripheral noise as I did to the priest's sermon. Here and there, the muffled crying of a baby; perhaps in one corner, an old lady sobbing for her sins; a toddler a few pews ahead is asking his nanny to accompany him to the bathroom. At the entrance of the church, not-very-religious make a quick stop on their knees to pray for luck; someone lights a candle to saint, or to one of the many titles of the Virgin. A bird or two might enter by the window and fly overhead, and on the ground, a cat rests its weary head on a forlorn kneeler.
Herein, perhaps, lies the staying power of religion: we are not so much born into a set of abstract propositions and vague, ivory tower politics as we are into a matrix-- a womb, even-- of sights, smells, and sounds. The religious man is born into a stage, complete with all its actors and props and mise en scene. Miraculously, strangely, luminously, religion somehow brings serenity and order into an otherwise jarring concoction of ill-fitting components. In it is found grace, which meanders from heaven to earth, sacred to profane, and the eternal to the miracle of the present. Only in the Mass, I've found, has the furious screaming of a toddler wanting its Kool Aid taken on a gentleness which could not but speak of God. Faith here is literally at a crossroads, with the church serving as a bridge, straddling the unfathomable chasm between the realm of the invisible and the holy, and the marred and tactile world of the profane. And it is that slow, steady trickling of divine grace from on high that seems to make it so worthwhile.
In the Mass heaven and earth are wed and become one. The screaming baby becomes a mighty, flaming seraph, crying 'Holy, holy, holy!', the worshippers become one with the great cloud of witnesses that sing the glory of God, and the sinner becomes like Dismas, who, in spite of his terrible crimes, was blessed enough to have died at the side of the Lord. What a delightful mystery it is,
In honor of the birthday of the Mother of God, here is a video of one of my favorite pieces of music, Franz Biebl's Ave Maria, as sung by Chanticleer.
Last night, whilst bored out of my wits and my head ringing with an infernal headache, I took to perusing the television, as usual, to catch something--anything-- that would help relieve my boredom. It was ten in the evening, and the storm that lashed over Manila had almost gone, a perfect foil to an otherwise very welcome four day weekend. Spongebob Squarepants was not due for another hour, the History Channel was airing some loony program about ancient aliens, and I had missed the replay of one of my guilty pleasures (don't ask; it's a show on E!).
Perhaps it's simply the monotony of modern life, but I have been feeling very anxious as of late, all the more irritating because I could not exactly pinpoint its root cause-- if there is even one at all. I have not been feeling very religious lately; going to church seems to have taken a rather unpleasant affect for me, and even my prayers seem to have lost their meaning. To top it all off, the last ten days have been excruciatingly bad-- emotionally, spiritually, mentally. It was in such a mood-- festering, as it were, in an unbearable restlessness-- that I plopped myself in front of the TV. And as I've already mentioned, channel after channel was airing the same old tripe, and not exactly the tripe I wanted to see.
I switched to the local channels, mindlessly flipping through them. I was about to switch the television off, when suddenly my ears were pricked by the sounds and words of a familiar song. Familiar, and still so very much out of season. "We Three Kings of Orient are/Bearing gifts we traverse afar/Field and fountain, moor and mountain/Following yonder Star!" Christmas songs in August! What an absurdity. The song was even accompanied by a montage of images whose very purpose were to recall a very White (as in WASP) Christmas: people in sweaters, burning logs, snow glimpsed through windows. I would have laughed if it weren't so strange.
But was it? In my toddler years, the run-up to December was always the most exciting part of the year for me. I was always fanatical about Christmas; I would slash away the dates on my calendar with a red marker and giggle excitedly and proclaim, with a voice sonorous as it was joyful, "Only 77 days to go till Christmas!" In my mind, the roughly one hundred and twenty days from the beginning of September to the end of December were golden, untouchable, and magical, and will always be: they represented the best of what humanity could offer, and hope in its pristine joyfulness. I sat for what seemed like half an hour just listening to the song, so familiar and yet thoroughly new as well, as if I were hearing it for the first time. And suddenly, I felt as if all will be all right. This darkness, too, shall pass-- as it always does, washed away by the warmth and joy of Christmas; by the hope that comes with the newborn babe, lying in the manger; by the cool December air, the taste of oatmeal raisin cookies, and yes, pretending to be WASPs for a day (or two) and dressing up in Ralph Lauren sweaters and putting red dots on our noses. The song finally ended, and all I could think of was how beautiful it was-- and how the days were going to be a little more exciting, now that September has come knocking on threshold.
It is the 31st of August, and yes, Christmas is coming. I feel it in the air, smell it in the kitchen, hear it in the malls, and taste it in my bones. The golden days are coming, and the muck of the past and all its mistakes and sins and secret lusts would be swept away. Tomorrow is the 1st of September; just one more sleep, and it will be Christmas again.
Here's a video (in Portuguese) on one of Brazil's most popular religious festivals, the Cirio de Nazare. It is held annually on the second Sunday of October in the city of Belem, in the state of Para; it is a procession in honor of Our Lady, with close to two million participants. The story goes that, some three hundred years ago, a woodsman named Placido Jose de Souza found a small image of the Blessed Virgin floating in the Murucutu creek. Being a good Catholic, he fishes it out of the water and makes an altar for it in his humble home. But every night, as he went to sleep, the statue would disappear from his home and mysteriously reappear on the site where it was found. He interpreted this as a sign that the Virgin wanted a church built in her honor, and thus de Souza began construction on a small chapel.
Over the years, countless miracles have been attributed to the Virgin of Nazareth. In gratitude to her intercession, the people of Belem honor her with a great feast and procession, lasting several hours usually. The image of the Virgin is housed in a gilded carriage, attached to which are two immense lengths of rope (the cirio), which men compete to have the honor of pulling. They go barefoot as a sign of humility. Wikipedia has a full description of the ceremonies attached to the feast.
Yes, I know the title is a really bad pun.
The talk of the town in Manila is, without doubt, the controversial 'Poleteismo' exhibit at the Cultural Center of the Philippines-- an exhibit that has gained particular notoriety, for its sacrilegious depictions of Our Lord. The artist responsible for the exhibit, one Mideo Cruz, has received no small amount of death threats and even a summons to a Senate inquiry; and just two weeks ago, some Catholics marched to the CCP and pulled down some of the more offensive pieces of 'art' and set them on fire. As I've said, the exhibit was considered extremely blasphemous: among some of the pieces are a crucifix with a giant, erect, wooden penis; an image of Our Lord with another wooden penis glued to its forehead; a statue of Christ the King with Mickey Mouse ears and cherry red lips; a crucifix draped with a used condom; and others too numerous to mention. The exhibit was closed on August 9th, but not without controversy, as many in the art community of Manila would like it restored, for the sake of "freedom of expression."
As much as I'd like to be fair and gave Mideo Cruz even a semblance of a benefit of the doubt, I really cannot. For what it's worth, the exhibit is profoundly mediocre (Mideo[cre], as his critics would say)-- Cruz says he wants to dissect religion and its gradual degradation in the context of a neoliberal economy, but fails considerably. What he gives the viewer, on the other hand, is nothing more than another tired attempt at being "shocking" and "edgy"; there is no substance in his art, in short, save for a poor attempt at finding an excuse for pissing off the Church. I have long concluded that much of modern art has really nothing to do with making something beautiful, but is really more concerned with creating a potential market for buyers. Art is now done for the sake of the artists-- the establishment of a cult personality, the perpetuation of his name, etc. These artists see themselves as twenty first century jesters-- fools who speak the truth-- but have neither the wit nor subtlety needed to do the job. If I am sounding a bit reactionary at this point, it is because this incident demonstrates the deep-rooted elitism inherent in the Philippine art scene. Cruz is not just poking mischief at the symbols of the Catholic religion, he is also ridiculing the many thousands of tortured souls who find strength, hope, and salvation in these symbols. The image of the Crucified is also the image, the archetype even, of the ordinary Filipino, languishing as he is in the muck of inexorable poverty. It is not just a matter of sacrilege, but can also be read as an attack on the very humanity of these people, who have entrusted everything to God.
At present it seems that Cruz and his followers are at the receiving end of a very strong backlash by militarized Catholics. But why should anyone be surprised? Too many artists today think that art consists in being crudely provocative, but run for cover at the first signs of criticism--or worse, public outrage. But hey, you reap what you sow. Perhaps it's a telling sign that they should focus more on creating art rather than persist in the delusion that they are modern day messiahs.
Black Light Dinner Party "Older Together" from dreambear on Vimeo.
... Well, probably more uninspired, down in the dumps, and pessimistic than "busy". I also have a lot of books to read/finish reading, which are more immensely stirring than the internet, or so I'd like to believe. I am just so confused about a lot of things. Here is a nice little song to start the week with, though.
We owe a lot of the movements of the Catholic Counter Reformation to the Jesuits, who seized the challenge of winning back Protestant heretics to God with much fervor and unmatched zeal. They harnessed the power of the emotions, playing up Baroque theatricality to overwhelm the senses, in an effort to convey, if only an impression, of the stupefying grandeur of God and of His Church. In a sense, the Jesuits, it seems, were the first modern order in the Catholic Church, in that it was they who almost single-handedly changed the way religion was done (a matter which, I think, rightfully deserves a post of its own-- but sometime in the future).
Today being the Feast of Saint Ignatius of Loyola, I thought I would feature Andrea Pozzo's magnificent Apotheosis of Saint Ignatius, a fresco of gigantic proportions which dominates the nave ceiling of the Chiesa San Ignazio in Roma. Pozzo, an Italian Jesuit brother, had a prodigious talent for harnessing the sheer, unmatched power of emotion, which he employs to a tremendous decree in this fresco. Throughout his life, Pozzo would decorate many churches built by the Jesuits, including Il Gesu, the 'Mother Church' of the Society, in addition to others in Austria, as well as painting the portrait of Cosimo de Medici.
Pozzo's Apotheosis draws much of its splendor in creating the illusion of the church's ceiling 'receding' into infinity, at the center of which is Christ Himself, shown greeting Saint Ignatius.
My apologies to those who still follow this blog for the paucity of updates these past few days; I have been quite occupied with a lot of things, some more so than others. Chief amongst these concerns is my ongoing job hunt, which has taken on a snail's pace lately. I assure you that this is not chiefly my fault, as, for some unfortunate circumstance, the HR departments of the various firms to which I've applied have also exacerbated the process. Second, I am dealing with some personal issues-- nothing too serious, to be sure, mostly dealing with (it seems to me) a long delayed burnout with religious matters. Perhaps I've rebelled too late, as I've always done in the past; but I just can't focus on these things as much as before. Oh, and I am just really, really pissed off at too many things for my own good. The weather has been pretty drab in these parts ever since June came in, which might have something to do with it; but mostly, I find that I am angry at the overbearing monotony of this long wait, and the restlessness it has caused me. But as I've said-- these are not really matters to whine about.
On a totally unrelated note, here is a photo of the Holy Trinity as Three Persons depicted side by side; of obviously Latin American provenance, although this form of depicting the Godhead is not, was not, limited to that continent. It is the work of the Peruvian painter Gaspar Miguel de Berrio.
I am not moved, my God, to love You
by the heaven that You have promised me
and I am not moved either by hell so feared
as the reason to stop offending You.
You move me, my Lord, it moves me to see You
nailed to a cross and your flesh destroyed,
what moves me is to see your body so injured,
what moves me is your suffering and your death.
What moves me, finally, is your love, and in such way,
that even if there was no heaven, I would love You,
and even if there was no hell, I would fear You.
You don't have to give me for me to love You,
so even if what I hope for I did not hope,
the same that I love You, I would love You.
Found this on Tumblr earlier today. From the Nag Hammadi Library, and translated by George W. McRae. A buit long, but beautiful. It goes without saying that I don't view this as canon, nor do I hold to Gnostic beliefs; but in case such is needed, there you have it!
I was sent forth from the power,
- and I have come to those who reflect upon me,
- and I have been found among those who seek after me.
- Look upon me, you who reflect upon me,
- and you hearers, hear me.
- You who are waiting for me, take me to yourselves.
- And do not banish me from your sight.
- And do not make your voice hate me, nor your hearing.
- Do not be ignorant of me anywhere or any time. Be on your guard!
- Do not be ignorant of me.
- For I am the first and the last.
- I am the honored one and the scorned one.
- I am the whore and the holy one.
- I am the wife and the virgin.
- I am
and the daughter. - I am the members of my mother.
- I am the barren one
- and many are her sons.
- I am she whose wedding is great,
- and I have not taken a husband.
- I am the midwife and she who does not bear.
- I am the solace of my labor pains.
- I am the bride and the bridegroom,
- and it is my husband who begot me.
- I am the mother of my father
- and the sister of my husband
- and he is my offspring.
- I am the slave of him who prepared me.
- I am the ruler of my offspring.
- But he is the one who begot me before the time on a birthday.
- And he is my offspring in (due) time,
- and my power is from him.
- I am the staff of his power in his youth,
- and he is the rod of my old age.
- And whatever he wills happens to me.
- I am the silence that is incomprehensible
- and the idea whose remembrance is frequent.
- I am the voice whose sound is manifold
- and the word whose appearance is multiple.
- I am the utterance of my name.
- Why, you who hate me, do you love me,
- and hate those who love me?
- You who deny me, confess me,
- and you who confess me, deny me.
- You who tell the truth about me, lie about me,
- and you who have lied about me, tell the truth about me.
- You who know me, be ignorant of me,
- and those who have not known me, let them know me.
- For I am knowledge and ignorance.
- I am shame and boldness.
- I am shameless; I am ashamed.
- I am strength and I am fear.
- I am war and peace.
- Give heed to me.
- I am the one who is disgraced and the great one.
- Give heed to my poverty and my wealth.
- Do not be arrogant to me when I am cast out upon the earth,
- and you will find me in those that are to come.
- And do not look upon me on the dung-heap
- nor go and leave me cast out,
- and you will find me in the kingdoms.
- And do not look upon me when I am cast out among those who
- are disgraced and in the least places,
- nor laugh at me.
- And do not cast me out among those who are slain in violence.
- But I, I am compassionate and I am cruel.
- Be on your guard!
- Do not hate my obedience
- and do not love my self-control.
- In my weakness, do not forsake me,
- and do not be afraid of my power.
- For why do you despise my fear
- and curse my pride?
- But I am she who exists in all fears
- and strength in trembling.
- I am she who is weak,
- and I am well in a pleasant place.
- I am senseless and I am wise.
- Why have you hated me in your counsels?
- For I shall be silent among those who are silent,
- and I shall appear and speak,
- Why then have you hated me, you Greeks?
- Because I am a barbarian among the barbarians?
- For I am the wisdom of the Greeks
- and the knowledge of the barbarians.
- I am the judgement of the Greeks and of the barbarians.
- I am the one whose image is great in Egypt
- and the one who has no image among the barbarians.
- I am the one who has been hated everywhere
- and who has been loved everywhere.
- I am the one whom they call Life,
- and you have called Death.
- I am the one whom they call Law,
- and you have called Lawlessness.
- I am the one whom you have pursued,
- and I am the one whom you have seized.
- I am the one whom you have scattered,
- and you have gathered me together.
- I am the one before whom you have been ashamed,
- and you have been shameless to me.
- I am she who does not keep festival,
- and I am she whose festivals are many.
- I, I am godless,
- and I am the one whose God is great.
- I am the one whom you have reflected upon,
- and you have scorned me.
- I am unlearned,
- and they learn from me.
- I am the one that you have despised,
- and you reflect upon me.
- I am the one whom you have hidden from,
- and you appear to me.
- But whenever you hide yourselves,
- I myself will appear.
- For whenever you appear,
- I myself will hide from you.
- Those who have [...] to it [...] senselessly [...].
- Take me [... understanding] from grief.
- and take me to yourselves from understanding and grief.
- And take me to yourselves from places that are ugly and in ruin,
- and rob from those which are good even though in ugliness.
- Out of shame, take me to yourselves shamelessly;
- and out of shamelessness and shame,
- upbraid my members in yourselves.
- And come forward to me, you who know me
- and you who know my members,
- and establish the great ones among the small first creatures.
- Come forward to childhood,
- and do not despise it because it is small and it is little.
- And do not turn away greatnesses in some parts from the smallnesses,
- for the smallnesses are known from the greatnesses.
- Why do you curse me and honor me?
- You have wounded and you have had mercy.
- Do not separate me from the first ones whom you have known.
- And do not cast anyone out nor turn anyone away
- [...] turn you away and [... know] him not.
- [...].
- What is mine [...].
- I know the first ones and those after them know me.
- But I am the mind of [...] and the rest of [...].
- I am the knowledge of my inquiry,
- and the finding of those who seek after me,
- and the command of those who ask of me,
- and the power of the powers in my knowledge
- of the angels, who have been sent at my word,
- and of gods in their seasons by my counsel,
- and of spirits of every man who exists with me,
- and of women who dwell within me.
- I am the one who is honored, and who is praised,
- and who is despised scornfully.
- I am peace,
- and war has come because of me.
- And I am an alien and a citizen.
- I am the substance and the one who has no substance.
- Those who are without association with me are ignorant of me,
- and those who are in my substance are the ones who know me.
- Those who are close to me have been ignorant of me,
- and those who are far away from me are the ones who have known me.
- On the day when I am close to you, you are far away from me,
- and on the day when I am far away from you, I am close to you.
- [I am ...] within.
- [I am ...] of the natures.
- I am [...] of the creation of the spirits.
- [...] request of the souls.
- I am control and the uncontrollable.
- I am the union and the dissolution.
- I am the abiding and I am the dissolution.
- I am the one below,
- and they come up to me.
- I am the judgment and the acquittal.
- I, I am sinless,
- and the root of sin derives from me.
- I am lust in (outward) appearance,
- and interior self-control exists within me.
- I am the hearing which is attainable to everyone
- and the speech which cannot be grasped.
- I am a mute who does not speak,
- and great is my multitude of words.
- Hear me in gentleness, and learn of me in roughness.
- I am she who cries out,
- and I am cast forth upon the face of the earth.
- I prepare the bread and my mind within.
- I am the knowledge of my name.
- I am the one who cries out,
- and I listen.
- I appear and [...] walk in [...] seal of my [...].
- I am [...] the defense [...].
- I am the one who is called Truth
- and iniquity [...].
- You honor me [...] and you whisper against me.
- You who are vanquished, judge them (who vanquish you)
- before they give judgment against you,
- because the judge and partiality exist in you.
- If you are condemned by this one, who will acquit you?
- Or, if you are acquitted by him, who will be able to detain you?
- For what is inside of you is what is outside of you,
- and the one who fashions you on the outside
- is the one who shaped the inside of you.
- And what you see outside of you, you see inside of you;
- it is visible and it is your garment.
- Hear me, you hearers
- and learn of my words, you who know me.
- I am the hearing that is attainable to everything;
- I am the speech that cannot be grasped.
- I am the name of the sound
- and the sound of the name.
- I am the sign of the letter
- and the designation of the division.
- And I [...].
- (3 lines missing)
- [...] light [...].
- [...] hearers [...] to you
- [...] the great power.
- And [...] will not move the name.
- [...] to the one who created me.
- And I will speak his name.
- Look then at his words
- and all the writings which have been completed.
- Give heed then, you hearers
- and you also, the angels and those who have been sent,
- and you spirits who have arisen from the dead.
- For I am the one who alone exists,
- and I have no one who will judge me.
- For many are the pleasant forms which exist in numerous sins,
- and incontinencies,
- and disgraceful passions,
- and fleeting pleasures,
- which (men) embrace until they become sober
- and go up to their resting place.
- And they will find me there,
- and they will live,
- and they will not die again.
(...but with emphasis on the "something like it" part)
A few weeks ago I found myself at Mass in a church I'd never been to. Well, not exactly--more like a church I had not been to in years, more than a decade in fact. Before the Mass started I noticed the choir was practicing some songs, mostly schmaltzy, poppish, sentimental tunes all too common in Catholic liturgies today. And lo, what should I hear, but that perennial favorite in Manila churches during the 1990s-- Don Moen's Give Thanks! I have to confess, most of the churches I attended in my childhood had (to be blunt) crappy liturgies-- girls dressed in green sacks with yellow tambourines dancing in the altar, homilies about "the bad old days", basically the works. But the Don Moen song was almost always sung in all of the churches we attended. So it was with a mixture of nostalgia, and a little indigestion, that I listened to it being sung in a Catholic church once more.
Off hand, though, I must say: doesn't it sound suspiciously like this song from the Pet Shop Boys?
Brussels, I was told, was a city one either loved or hated; the room for compromise was small, if not non-existent, and since there was nothing to see in there anyway (unlike Liege, Louvain, or Brugge), it was not really worth seeing. Still, I found the place charming, mixing the most splendid urban decrepitude with some of the most gorgeous architecture I've seen yet (I am quite partial to the Brabantine Gothic). When, on the second day of our brief stay in Brussels, it was clear that the rest of the family were more keen on sleeping and eating, I decided to tour the city-- or at least a section of it-- on foot. It should be easy; my hotel was right across the Bruxelles-Midi station anyway, but I didn't want to waste my money, so I took the more romantic option.
It was an aimless forty five minutes of walking that followed next; I passed through some predominantly Turkish neighborhoods, where hundreds of Muslim men congregated outside sidewalk cafes. There were very little women, I noticed, and they were all staring at me-- I was the only non-Turk walking the streets then, which must have struck them as odd. It wasn't long before the towering, magnificent spire of the Brussels Town Hall reared itself to my right-- a glimmering spike of pearl and silver it looked to me, crowned by a golden statue of St. Michael trampling the Devil underneath. Finally, I found myself in the middle of Brussels' spectacular Grand Place. When I got there, a function was about to begin at the Town Hall, evidenced by a large number of men and women dressed to the nines waiting outside the premises. The cops were also there to secure the place, as were the last wave of tourists for the day, taking photo after photo of every architectural detail imaginable.
Soon I found myself on the main road again. This time, a different landmark caught my eye-- it was the Rainbow Flag that now asserted itself, and I realized that I was in the middle (or perhaps the threshold?) of Brussels' gay district. Curiously, I spied a Catholic Church just ahead of me; and more curious, it stood within walking distance of a gay bar. I tried to enter the church, but it was almost half past nine by the time I got there, so it was already locked. Ah well, I thought. Then a priest of the Armenian Church passed by, accompanied by a family of four; or rather, he accompanied the family of four on the way to their nameless destination. They noticed me holding my camera, and the priest smiled at me-- which I naturally intuited as him saying "Yes, young man, I do not mind having my picture taken by a curious tourist such as yourself."
I felt a tap on my shoulder, and when I looked around, I saw a huge man, probably 6'2 or 6'3 and 250lbs, shod in the tightest of shirts I'd ever seen. Are you a photographer? he said. His voice was deep and gravelly and had a musical quality to it; like a pirate's, who sang opera in the shower. Yes, well not really, I like to take pictures, but I'm not a photographer. Oh? he said. Do you not have a license? I don't, I said, it's more of a hobby than anything. He gave me a grin, as if to say that he understood what I meant. But you are a Catholic? I mean, why are you taking photos of the church? Yes, I answered, I'm a Catholic, and I was just at the Cathedral earlier, I loved it, it was gorgeous, I took so many photos. Then the man's face twisted into an inscrutable smile. I'm a Catholic too he said. Well, I was, but I gave up that shit a long time ago. He stressed the word shit as if it were the key to understanding the universe, as if in it were sublimized all the wisdom, folly, and cosmic mystery of all the ages that have been and were yet to be. Come with me, you look tired! he said. Being the adventurous sort, and being in an especially adventurous mood that night, I acquiesced, and followed the rotund gentleman.
It didn't take long, since as I soon found out, he was seated at the gay bar near the church. Sensing my apprehension, he said, Don't worry, I'm not going to do anything. It's just food. We got to his table, where a bottle of red wine was waiting, a glass for himself, and some napkins neatly piled to one side. So, he said. Then a pause. Yes? So I'm trying to understand, what is a young man like you doing with the Church? I smiled sheepishly and fumbled for a semblance of an answer. Well you see... It's like this... And then... The overarching theme of my rambling answer was that: a) I am a product of history, and that history, as it stands, was largely shaped by the Church; b) I owe a lot of my education to the Church; c) the Church has always made sense to me (a crappy answer); and d) that, no matter how I tried, I can't escape the Church. The man licked his lips for a moment, trying to find an answer. Finally, he spoke: I was born in the southern Netherlands, he said, and in university I was part of the Student Catholic Action. I discerned a vocation to the priesthood and lasted two years in the seminary. Then, as if he realized it wasn't in chronological order, he added: When I was younger, my family would always visit the Black Christ of Maastricht in the summer. We also prayed the rosary every night as a family. My uncle was a priest, he said. You are a Pee-noy, right?
I replied: in our family, there are only a handful of priests, and they're all second or more distant cousins of our branch of the family. Yes, I am from the Philippines. From the glorious and dirty city of Manila. There is a Black Christ in the Netherlands too? In Manila, we have an image of Christ called the Black Nazarene. Every year, the procession attracts millions of the damned and the desperate. A nanosecond of a lull followed; then I asked him, what made you leave the Church? He heaved a huge sigh, and said, Why, the fact that I'm gay of course! He said it matter-of-factly and followed it with a huge, booming laugh. A pirate's laugh, who probably had a taste for Jacques Brel. I'm waiting for my boyfriend, he said. How old are you? I'm twenty two, I answered. You are? But my dear boy, you look like you just crawled out (he emphasized this) of your nineteenth year! Well thanks, I said. My boyfriend is nineteen! But he's taller than you! Then as if the cosmos conspired to prove to me that this gentleman did indeed have a boyfriend, his phone rang as he was saying all this. His ringtone was a Kylie Minogue song.
He's coming in a bit. Am I keeping you? You should meet him, just shake his hand, he's a Catholic too, an altar boy. Intriguing, I said, and no, you're not keeping me. I'm just enjoying the city by myself. Then I asked him: an altar boy? Really? Deep down, though, I really wanted to ask what he was doing with a barely legal piece of jailbait. The gentleman answered: indeed he is. He's Italian you see, French Italian to be precise. And where is he coming from? From Benediction, at another church, with his grandmother. A lull, then he asked me: What are you doing in Brussels, anyway? I answered that I was on a family vacation, but that they decided to stay in the hotel because they were too tired. I rarely travel with family, he said, because they never want to go to the places I want. They can be quite burdensome! he said with a chuckle. Like the Church? I said. A deep laugh, a slap on the table; Exactly like the Church! I said: "In the past we had the Church, which meant, we had each other." Oh? And where is that from? Is that the new SCA slogan? I answered that it was from a Martin Scorcese movie, The Departed. Scorcese is that bastard who never won an Oscar, right? That's right, but he finally won for that movie. Ah, that's good. They keep screwing with that guy. He's a lapsed Catholic too, I said, but he followed by saying that he was not so much as lapsed as "willfully removed." Puzzled, I asked him if he was an excommunicate; he said, Relax, no queen in a fancy dress can make me leave the Church if he wanted. I left on my own accord.
He drank some of the wine, offered some more to me (to which I declined), and then proceeded with his story. The Black Christ of Maastricht, he said, was from Palestine; a nobleman who had fought in the Crusades, realizing he had not brought a gift for his youngest daughter, gave her a nut that had fallen among his belongings in the Holy Land. The grateful daughter planted it in the ground, and it eventually blossomed into a strong, sturdy tree. Then one night, a storm came; a bolt of lightning flashed down from Heaven and struck the tree, much to her sadness. But when the dust had settled, the daughter revealed that she had seen, in the middle of the tree, an image of the Crucified Lord. That was how the devotion started, he said; my family had been devotees for three generations before me, he said. For seven hundred years, that image of Christ has been revered, he said. I sat there listening to him recount, like a wide eyed child, this fascinating story. Then his eyes shifted, and he exclaimed aloud. The boyfriend had arrived.
What a vision, he whispered to me. The young eromenos was the type of boy every gay in my school went gaga over; tall (but not as tall as the Dutch man, who would be of average height in the Netherlands), sturdily built, but not overly muscular, lithe, nimble, with a square jaw, a dark tan, a swimmer's ass and legs. Notice the package? He said, with a wink. I tried not to get too embarrassed by his comments. He stood up and greeted the boy with a peck on the cheek, and introduced me to him. He's a fucking crazy Catholic too! he said, and the boy smiled at me, and asked if I had been to the Vatican. I answered that it was not in our itinerary this time, but maybe next year we might visit. I've been to Mass at St. Peter's countless times. The Holy Father is such an inspiring figure! His accent, I noticed, had a slight, almost imperceptible Midwest twang to it. We talked for one more hour, before I realized it was getting late, and that I had to go somewhere with the family in the morning. We said our goodbyes, and the boyfriend took a picture of us. Goodbye, they said, it was nice meeting you. I bade them goodbye and turned around, but not before seeing the older gentleman stroke the younger one's chin before biting it.
By the time I got back to Bruxelles Midi it was already dark. A Ukranian man offered to cross the street with me. We crossed the street together, and parted at the other end. I came back to Park Inn, exhausted, gratified, and a little puzzled; I drank a beer-- the only time I drank alcohol in my entire stay in Europe, believe it or not, and fell asleep.
I was three years old in 1992, when my parents took me to the theme park for the first time. As a child, I remember being absolutely scared of loud noises and clowns and mascots, and so to assuage my fears, my mother would buy me either toys or candy. That night, I saw a Batman action figure being sold in one of the flea markets in the complex; it was one of those cheap, China-made knock offs, made of poorly cut PVC and with a bad paint job. It even came with a cape, albeit one that was poorly stitched. I looked longingly at the toy, but I realized I had no money; so I waited for the shopkeeper to turn around, before grabbing it and running towards my mom. "Mommy, Mommy, I want this!" I screamed loudly and ran as fast as I could; but when I reached her, she gave me such a slap on the cheeks. "Idiot! Do you want to be thought of as a thief? Go back there and return that thing now!" I did as I was told, but she still ended up buying it for me. Batman lasted a few nights before his legs snapped off and his neck bent permanently to one side, his cape torn off by too much play.
Around a year later, I was at the grocery with the family. Boy that I was, I was a natural nuisance to everyone, and as a result, received a rather severe scolding from my dad that day. No candies for you, he said, no trip to the toy store or visits to your cousin or bedtime stories with your aunt. You've been a bad boy and need to be punished. He said this just as I found a tube of Spearmint Mentos, and as I was about to put it in the shopping cart. In the early nineties, paying for one's groceries, especially in Manila, seemed to take forever; and for what seemed like an hour, we waited in line. And what should appear next to me but a whole shelf of Spearmint Mentos-- tubes and tubes of them? Again, I waited for their eyes to linger elsewhere; and at the age of four, I stole something for the first time. That was a Sunday night, and on Monday morning my parents would hie off to work, which meant I could eat my candies guilt, and punishment, free. Just after lunch, I asked our Yaya to fetch my jeans from yesterday; there was something I had to see, I said. When she returned, she was followed my by grandmother and at least two aunts. Why do you have candy in your pocket? I don't know! Maybe it fell? No one believed me, of course, thankfully. I was duly and dutifully hit with a wooden spatula.
It used to be the custom in our family for us children to take off our parents' shoes after returning home from work. My father had grown up with it, and being a stickler for tradition, decided to pass on the tradition to us. City life, however, had no room for such archaic manners. One time, instead of doing as I was told, I instead shouted at my dad to take off his own shoes. He did, but for some reason, I had the sudden urge to piss, and I ended up pissing in his shoes. As if that weren't enough, though, I ended up... hitting the soup on the table. Because of that, I ended up spending the night locked outside the house. It still puzzles me why I did that. Thankfully a drunk uncle had come home in the nick of time (i.e., half past twelve; we were living in a family compound then) and allowed me to sleep in his room.
In 1996, I was the most popular boy in my school. I skipped classes and was always at the playground, but still ended up getting good grades, much to the consternation of my teachers. One day I was with Joseph, Jordan, and Joven in the playground, and we were throwing sticks at each other. I think we were trying to see which of us was the strongest, which of us could throw it farthest; and so, we made a bet, whoever can throw the most number of sticks over the wall would win a prize. We did just that; and when it was my turn, I summoned all the power in my biceps and threw the damn stick well across the wall; there was a splash, a noise like falling kitchenware, and a shout. I was doing my victory dance when all of a sudden, a booming voice thundered overhead, launching into a stream of curses and expletives far too complex for me feeble seven year old mind to comprehend. "P----- I-- mong h-------k kang bata ka! Tinamaan mo anak ko sa mata, p-----a!" (More or less: "You m----rf-----g s--t of a child! You hit my child in the eye, you j--k off!") I ran off to my teacher and cried for the rest of the day.
Sometimes I wonder why these are the sins I remember the most. I still don't know why, but they just won't let me go.
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