I slip into a bit of "time-tripping," back to my days as a Catholic School Boy. I was just wee lad, don't you know? A time of daily prayer, the pledge of the allegiance, tan shirts and blue ties. Learning how to knot a tie, that was a big accomplishment.
I think back now, those days were all an elaborate theater spectacle. Militant Nuns dressed in severe black, Priests dressed in flowing gowns; golden chalice, incense, standing, sitting and kneeling on cue. There was Confession (yikes!), Communion (yikes!) and once a month Benediction (triple-yikes!)...
I really felt sorry for Jesus. He seemed to be a nice enough Dude, a decent guy who got a raw deal. I did feel sort of guilty about it all, I mean, I was told Jesus died for my sins. Yikes! It didn't make much sense, but I did feel a bit guilty, dirty, & bad.
Getting daubed with ashes, that was a trip. "Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust." It was all sort of creepy, sad and bleak. After school there were little gangs of kids running around the neighborhood with ashes on their foreheads. Some weird cult.
I couldn't wait to get home, rub the ashes off with my thumb, and sit in front of our little black and white TV to watch reruns of the Three Stooges, I Dream of Jeannie and Gilligan's Island. Those shows were pretty weird, silly, and stupid; I kind of reveled in the anarchic stupidity of it all. It was amazing to watch adults acting so silly. It all seemed like a decided alternative.
Life, color, humor, imagination, play, sexy girls in magic bottles, an island paradise, goofy laughs and giggles, nutty, crazy people doing silly things. The ashes seemed like a distant memory by the time my head hit the pillow.
