Guiltlessly missing mass on Maundy Thursday to go see Stephen Malkmus (with the excellent Calexico thrown in for good measure). Getting home and spending an hour in the room set up as the garden of Gethsemane, surprised by a sudden and unfamiliar feeling of prayerfulness.
Spending Good Friday at choir practice, service, and Stations of the Cross, interspersed with periods of genuine study (an equally sudden and unfamiliar phenomenon). Listening choices throughout the day varied from Beethoven’s Ode To Joy to Hefner’s May God Protect Your Home. A song about joy, and a song about a vagina. I suppose a case could be made for connecting the two, but perhaps not in a way that would be quite appropriate for Good Friday.
A feeling of disconnection and malaise on Holy Saturday. I didn’t go for choir practice, or help with preparations for the Easter Vigil. I went down grudgingly for the Vigil and was amazed by two and a half hours in church that flew by, and left me with a strange sense of exuberance and joy which I still can’t really explain. To say it was happiness in celebrating the resurrection of Jesus would be pushing it. I still grope for that sort of faith, for that sort of ability to feel. But something was there, and I hope it comes back some time soon.
Nibbles and wine after the Vigil turned into all-out partying. There was lots of cheesy music. There were lots of us making absolute fools of ourselves. It was all incredibly uncool. It was all incredibly enjoyable.
Mass on Easter Sunday and lunch. Attempts at studying, mostly unsuccessful due to the embarassingly crushing grip of a, er, crush. More cheese and wine at night, Father John outlasting all of us on the dance floor.
Most of Easter Monday taken up by contract law and the Classic FM Hall of Fame countdown. Most of early Tuesday taken up by Coldcut’s Solid Steel on London Live, an Atmos mix set on Radio One, and quality time with my laptop.