I had a weird dream.
My pastor, the rest of the LitCom and I were experiencing a major fracas over the Proulx Community Mass.
I'm not sure why - by which I mean I'm neither sure why we were fighting in the dream, no sure why such a dream intruded on my otherwise lovely REM sleep.
The Community Mass is not one I have ever done in this parish, other than once at the request of a bride, when it was, to be sure, smacked down.
And Father has not been obstructionist about my introduction of new ordinaries, (as long as they weren't in Latin :-P)
And although I was considering slowly insinuating the Mass into the parish repertoire (since the new translation seem to be receding into the horizon rather than coming closer.... Cdl pell may be kin to the good people of Doolin. The day that Himself and I walked to the Cliffs of Moher, no matter how long, no matter how far we walked, everyone we encountered assured us, "Ah, it's just another mile an' a half down the road!" The translation is always 18 months down the rad..... ButIDigress) as I said before i was so rudely interrupted by my train of thought.... my mind stand in as dire need of overpasses as the Calumet Crescent, commerce is always being interrupted by long, slow, and sometimes stopped trains,) as I was saying, although I was giving some slight consideration to introducing the mass, it is not, to paraphrase every Catholic musicians favorite whipping boy, Bishop Trautman, the "liturgical ditch in which i choose to die."
Sometimes a dream is just a dream....
(I also dreamt I had shingles again.)