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Did not go to the party because I am still sad. And dowdy. And lazy. *sigh*
Think I will go shopping tomorrow to improve my frame of mind. Yes.
Still need a drink. I am really in the mood for a stiff bloody mary and some Sarah Vaughn/Etta James/Ella Fitzgerald tunes.
First of all, let me say that this is not a rant against religion, Jesus, or the Catholic church. But so help me, if one more person tries to force me to go see 'The Passion of the Christ,' eyeballs will be poked and eardrums broken with my screams.
Just recently, an employee kept asking me why I didn't want to go see it. And I explained that from what I understood, it's a painful, bloody gore-fest about the final hours of Jesus and that's something I just didn't want to see. She then explained that I needed to see it to truly understand what he went through for us. To which I merely smiled and said, "I have a lively imagination. I can picture it on my own."
The truth is one of the earliest memories from my childhood overseas was watching people re-enact the Passion during Easter. People who performed self-flagellation, whipping and flaying skin from their backs to atone for their sins. Sorry souls trudging from town to town carrying large wooden crosses and wearing thorny crowns. Others crucified (usually with heavy rope) in front of a reverent crowd. Seeing this made a deep impression on me. My parents didn't hide it from us, but they couldn't explain it either. Years later and I still don't understand. Something about devotion that deep and strong and fanatical is horrific and oddly touching.
So, in truth, I really don't need to imagine anything. It's all in the back of my head, playing in an endless loop for me to call up anytime I need it. But somehow I feel like I can't explain that to her.
Think I will go shopping tomorrow to improve my frame of mind. Yes.
Still need a drink. I am really in the mood for a stiff bloody mary and some Sarah Vaughn/Etta James/Ella Fitzgerald tunes.
First of all, let me say that this is not a rant against religion, Jesus, or the Catholic church. But so help me, if one more person tries to force me to go see 'The Passion of the Christ,' eyeballs will be poked and eardrums broken with my screams.
Just recently, an employee kept asking me why I didn't want to go see it. And I explained that from what I understood, it's a painful, bloody gore-fest about the final hours of Jesus and that's something I just didn't want to see. She then explained that I needed to see it to truly understand what he went through for us. To which I merely smiled and said, "I have a lively imagination. I can picture it on my own."
The truth is one of the earliest memories from my childhood overseas was watching people re-enact the Passion during Easter. People who performed self-flagellation, whipping and flaying skin from their backs to atone for their sins. Sorry souls trudging from town to town carrying large wooden crosses and wearing thorny crowns. Others crucified (usually with heavy rope) in front of a reverent crowd. Seeing this made a deep impression on me. My parents didn't hide it from us, but they couldn't explain it either. Years later and I still don't understand. Something about devotion that deep and strong and fanatical is horrific and oddly touching.
So, in truth, I really don't need to imagine anything. It's all in the back of my head, playing in an endless loop for me to call up anytime I need it. But somehow I feel like I can't explain that to her.
