Reading In Bed Emily Haines Chords

fox cult of Mithras

was years ago. It was in the sacristy, to begin the solemn celebration of the feast of the patron. The altar boy looked compassionately to the bishop and the spontaneity that characterizes cheeky boys of our time he snapped: "No et sortir amb això fa vergonya the cap?" (Are not you ashamed of wearing it out in your head?). I remembered the phrase the last 25 as the crowd of prelates climbed the steps of the presbytery of Santa Maria del Mar in the beatification of Father Tous. Not far from me Mossèn Ll., Nearer ninety than eighty, grumbled because they had not booked site up, he had been parish priest here and there, closer in spirit to the Father Tous that some of the priests who occupied a seat next to his eminence and excellence (what was in the entourage inside the former secretary Archbishop unable to display other merit than mediocrity?). Pictured

head dozing under the miter angle is Cañizares. The whole environment was to raise that point of rest: the seat cushion, spring weather, the early start, the strain of not having an active role but enough presence, the cooing of the choir singing ... That moment was not so silent fan the brain, to contemplate how he spends his life and death comes, but to rest in the green pastures of a successful liturgy which passed with normal characteristic of what has been counted, measured, weighed. Others were on occasion to those who belonged to stay awake and vigilant. As Secretary of State President, to smile, to be aware of everything. As the ordinary, first from the right, with the watchful eye of Father of the Bride, a bit tense, happy fluently. As the arrogant master of ceremonies in his youth has not yet grasped that theirs is a profession like that of the servile historian in the seventeenth century, a métier et Mechanique replace Bercé a happy expression (something like that, unfortunately, many journalists today.) As the President Montilla, looking very interesting for the cameras, as if he cared fuck beatification (the camera does matter, flash, flash). But as the opponent, once again going ahead and losing, he would realize at the end of the ceremony that it is better to be in the third bank in the side hallway greeted by his eminent (as it was Duran i Lleida) in that forgotten No Man's Land Mid-second. As the Superior General of the pastors would be reviewing whether, in the end thanks to forget someone (no, Mother, no, not the last gargoyle of the basilica, thank you for ending a bloody time) . As the Capuchin confratelli Blessed in his humility, his venerable beard, making a counterweight to such pomp, as many purple robes, a turban so much. The miter angle was the most majestic, the highest no doubt, I suppose that somehow you have to offset the difference in physical entity, especially when you're next to a pivot like Don Carlos, whom the weight of years not bend or shrink.

Anyway, who has not ever slept in church cast the first stone. Or maybe not, maybe I'm wrong and it appears that Bishop was dozing but not pondered deeply, stopping lie in the fate of Toussaint would be the fate of everyone and especially those with diamond ring and a hat bearing the ultimate responsibility , charging that it is, to teach, to sanctify, to decide. Or perhaps it would be that of: "I sleep, but my heart is awake."

(In the end, I went to congratulate Brother Valenti, a historian nothing servile, there is more wisdom in his venerable beard hair Capuchin to be ever in the whole head that master of ceremonies, ugh, it is known that sometimes happens with blogs as shotguns, which loads the devil, dish, pum, pum, sorry).