NOTES from “NOTEBOOK”

By Mario Gregorio Masangkay
Baranggay Kagawad, Sta. Cruz, Ibajay, Aklan

 

A nun of the Order of Discalced Carmelites once told me that if I were to be most successful businessman, I should be selling God. It sounded sacrilegious then; but thinking it over now, and set against the current outbreak of religious groups or fellowships, I believe she made best sense. Anyway, she explained it need not be the real Almighty Creator God; just any off the shelf God will do. I say best sense; because in the sell God business, a) one doesn’t have to have business acumen or education, b) one doesn’t have to have a business license or permit, c) one doesn’t have to have a factory or office, d) one doesn’t have to deliver the commodity in order to receive payment, e) the commodity is inexhaustible and never spoils, f) the commodity can be sold anywhere to anyone at anytime in whatever suitable packaging, g) the commodity and profits are tax-free, and, h) the commodity is very saleable, because it comes with several very enticing extras: eternal life, eternal satiety, eternal happiness, freedom from diseases, eating of the tree of life, drinking the water of life, living in many mansions, in acres upon acres of heaven, entering by the pearly gates, and walking on the streets of pure gold. POINTERS: 1) memorize or at least learn location of about 15 verses in the Bible and spike them liberally with “hallelujahs, praise the lord, aimin”, 2) begin selling to the less educated, gullible, and ailing people in poverty and to the teenagers; tackle the adult, educated, rich people next, 3) have as many LOVE OFFERING bags as you can (this the heart and core of the entire business) in places frequented by charitable people. WARNING: Don’t sell the real God, or he shall truly kill you thoroughly.

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A leaflet distributed by the Landmark Baptists in Ibajay and titled “ Do you have a home in Heaven?” says, “There are two kinds of death, physical and spiritual. We inherited both types of death from Adam.” This bit of Christian genetics seems to make the Apostle Paul a liar; he said or wrote that death is the wages of sin, not an heirloom. The leaflet also says, “1. Realize and acknowledge:”all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God;” Romans 3:23. Yes, you too have fallen short of Heaven because of your sin.” Apostle Paul wrote “short of the glory of God”, and the leaflet twisted it to “short of Heaven”. Tra la la la la aimin?

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One Tuesday morning, market day in Ibajay, a woman shoved a leatherette bag very close to my like-a-clove-of-garlic nose as I was entering the Ibajay Public Market. My eyes crossed when I tried to read the white letters on the bag. It read: OFFERING LOVE I CARE, followed by numbers. I stepped back and regarded the smiling woman. She was primly dressed, unpainted, and didn’t look a whore. She waved the bag again. I saw clearly: “LOVE OFFERING”. I CARE was really “1 COR”, abbreviation for 1 Corinthians. The numbers were not a telephone number, but referred to chapter and verses. My artificial cross-eyes…

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Cross-eyes and whatever, I still have pretty good eyesight. I write the draughts of these NOTES in long hand at night and without wearing glasses.

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Have you ever wondered why the death anniversary of Jesus Christ is always on a Friday, and never on any other day? If you haven’t, you’re a fool. An anniversary falls on the same month and date year by year by year, but never on the same day in five successive years. That the death of Jesus Christ occurred on Nisan (Abib) 14 in the Jewish or Biblical calendar and we have a different calendar cannot be an argument; Nisan 14 is never always on a Friday in the Jewish calendar.

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Someone or a group is selling God for two pesos and fifty centavos (P2.50) per piece through mobile phone. It’s about five cents in U.S. currency or 3 pence in British money, I think. Very cheap, but pity, I forgot the 3-digit phone number like I always do with numbers. The advert said something like no matter how big your mistakes might be… I can’t remember the rest of it, but the seller’s name sounded like HOLDUP.

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My grandmother Josefa Tumbocon Masangcay vowed to haunt me from her grave, because I refused to believe the miracles allegedly done by the image of the Sto. Nino of Ibajay. I remember her very well standing by her window shaking her walking stick at me, and shouting in her husky angry voice “ikaw nga “hereje” ka, muetuhan ta gid kon mamatay ako (you heretic, I will come back to haunt you when I die)”. She died in 1987 at age 94, but she hasn’t come back to haunt me. I guess everyone forgot to put fare money in her coffin when she was buried. She can’t walk the two miles home from the cemetery at her age and at night. Or perhaps the money put in her coffin was no longer enough for the fare; tricycle fares had increased several times since… Oh oh night of haunting the living… There are practically no public transports in Ibajay at nights; maybe that’s why she hasn’t come to haunt me.

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Cross infection seems to be the order of the day. People have died of bird flu, and mad cow diseases are suspected to infect humans. Erysipelas can be contracted by swine from man, and by man from swine. Viruses, which infect animals, could be transmitted to man, and man gives them to computers. My grandaunt Isidra Tumbocon was afflicted by “lobat”; it’s my mobile that suffers the affliction now. What will come next?

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My ex-spiritual mentor/guide once gave me a heaping plateful of vermicelli cooked like “pancit” topped with fiery chili tomato paste (poured straight from the can, I thought). She looked as proud and as pleased as the canary that ate the cat as she handed me her culinary masterpiece. The gourmet treat smelled like the Tabasco sauce I drank when I was in grade 2, and didn’t know what a chili sauce was--- it looked like gin. I thanked her, and as soon as her back was turned I gave the masterpiece to the mangy dog that prowled our neighborhood and chased my cats. The dog sniffed at the masterpiece, sneezed and walked away. It refused the wrinkled, bloody, placenta-like culinary masterpiece, unlike stupid me. Why couldn’t have I been wiser than that dog?

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Some people complain that I always differ with my colleagues at the Sangguniang Barangay. Why, they ask, can’t I agree with them in everything like the others? Why should I, when I’m never like them? I smoke; they don’t. Their mouths and breaths smell like fermenting vinegar; mine smells of smoked hope. I always mistake “Tales from the Vienna Woods” for the “Emperor Waltz”; they all call “Tales” “Tirot, Tirot”. They precede their prayers with an error mark (X); I don’t and never will. They enjoy eating “dinuguan” (sautéed innards with blood for sauce); their delicacy nauseates.

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