My religious (in)sensibilities developed late. Though I grew up a Lola's Boy, and by extension a Catholic, I find my mother's Lutheran faith more attractive for both selfish and selfless reasons. I loved and hated Sundays when I was very young. That would mean I had to be dragged to the Sunday service that would take a good four hours. Sunday playtimes were short, and humid chapel and boring speakers were the order of the day. But by 11 AM, my mood would automatically shift from gloom to joy. It's Sunday school. Did I love the lessons? Of course not! I would only light up because there I would get to see my crush then, Ms. L, the minister's daughter. Just seeing her would make my day! For that little joy of a child, I became the object of envy among my friends because I found out they had a big crush on her! But they were not Lutherans, fortunately! Bigotry was strong as far as I could recall so they had no way of getting closer to her unless they abandon their grandmother's vow to Rome. What a pity!
Fast forward to few years. Now, for that attraction to sutana. In high school, I had the (mis)fortune of having X-Men as friends, both priests and seminarians, who early on understood the mysteries and miseries of their faith and left the convent in disgust. It is to them that I drew much inspiration (and desperation) from their inspiring and equally despising/despairing stories of their quest for the holy grail, er, the sutana.
The sutana projects power to the one who wears it, regardless whether he is a she deep inside and in disguise. Power is a magnet, especially for those weak creatures who need to mask themselves with the trappings, in this case, of divinely blessed and immaculately white vestments. This concepts I wanted to validate.
Sutanas aside, I could find fulfillment and ecstacy higher in degree than say manu strupatio (your indulgence please) or plain great sex in the stories of struggles that my X-Men friends shared, including those life and death situations they found themselves in during the dark days of Mang Ferdie's kleptocracy which went on for so long due in part to the silence of the apostles of Sin. (I should stop here, now.)
I was amazed, with the feeling very much like that of awe-and-sh0ck effect Dubya had promised the Taliban when he bombed out Afghanistan. Their stories were so engrossing, engaging, inviting, and at times, titillating. Before I realized it, I wanted to be like one of them for the reasons I just stated--the many irresistible -ings.
I knew back then that having a piece of karatula bearing your name and title hanging in front of your house was and is still something, especially in a place bereft of titled men and women, some honorable and some never mind. But I began to suspect that I did not like hanging my name and my title in front of our house. This began my infatuation towards something more profound, something beyond the daily and ordinary course of living, whatever than meant I didn't care before.
Whew! Break muna.
4 comments:
with these stories, kama sutra is a fake and plain kama, no sutra. your recollection of these fond and funny memories tell us of what repression can do to led us to that abyss where redemption is impossible. freud? honestly, he does not understand either, with his insight as plain past or its narrative. go, go, confess, confess some more, you katipunero!
I rest my case my case, amen.
shame on those lapses in my comments. did you see the infinitive: to lead; your recollection needs 'tells' there. from hereon, i rest my case as well. but more of the confessions. the rubbers, my, that is creative! bwahahahahaha! hey, they do not have garbage can in your seminary?
Trapping rubbers between jalousies was a statement of boldness, a clear message saying that 'here in this infirmary exists virility' and that no amount of holy water and rosary can ever wash it off, and wash it down to the valley of purity and chastity.
The semenarians were smart enough to reserve for those who deserve them the garbage cans in The Hills: the stinking frailes.
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