Years ago, I had an editor who impressed on me the correct order of a sentence when attributing a quote. Jesus died, said David Squires, meaning to impress that David Squires said it.
Even now when I write and find myself with one of those "nobody talks that way" attributions, David's voice rings in my head. Jesus DIED. He said. Not said Jesus or said David.
Kind of a fitting grammar lesson for Good Friday, only because it is too busy a day here to summarize in any orderly fashion, or at least about to become so.
So far, I have bought fish and chicken and marinated some things and cooked beets. It is gray and windy, thank you Jesus, so I will not clean the pool and will cook instead. I have a friend coming for dinner tomorrow night.
Carmen and I already laid our plans for today. We are both cooking our separate ways and going to the reading of the Gospel tonight via taxis, avoiding the drunks in the streets now and the Passion Processions, including the ones in town that invariably offer up one soul or another who thinks it's nifty go get nailed to a cross. No really, in Cancun, there are always several such martyrs. Here maybe one or so who get tied up. The real fake Jesus hauls his heavy cross around in the parades.
Neighbors have set out planned little altars to be Stations of the Cross for the faithful to pray on the way to the Church of the Virgin of Guadalupe, where the faithful show up to hear that Jesus really had died, and to make it more vivid, there are a lot of Romans lurking in red loin cloths.
I think I will let something marinate a bit more while I nap. I recall the reading of the Gospel to be a long process, Jesus died.