The ping-pong song

It's Jacquetta's fault. She got me addicted.

The 'ping-pong' song is the nickname of a song by Enrique Iglesias - 'Dimelo' (Tell it to me) in Spanish or 'Do you know' in English. It's called that because of the ping pong ball used for percussion. The video is hysterical, a parody of a video director's thinking process, with (bleeped out or not) Enrique saying to his manager, "Ese cabrón está loco" (cabrón technically means 'male goat', but its slang meaning is much more useful/colourful: "f***er" or "a**hole").

It's catchy, it's cheeky, and to quote Jacquetta: get ready to shake that booty... :)

As usual, I preferred the Spanish version. The Spanish chorus goes:

"Dímelo, por que estas fuera de mi
Y al mismo tiempo estas muy dentro
Dimelo, dimelo, dimelo
Dímelo sin hablar y hazme sentir todo
Lo que yo ya siento
Dimelo, dimelo, dimelo"

Rough translation:

Tell me why you're so far outside (distant, if you like) me,
at the same time you're such a part of me (I was NOT going to use 'inside me'. NOT.)
Tell me, tell me, tell me
Tell me without speaking and make me feel everything
that I already feel
Tell me, tell me, tell me.

Now, the English chorus:

"Do you know what it feels like loving someone that’s in a rush to throw you away.
Do you know what it feels like to be the last one to know the lock on the door has changed."

I'm not one for insisting that translations be exactly the same as the original - it's impossible to fit the words to the music. But is it too much to ask that they at least be as interesting?

Ok, yeah, this is a pop song. It is Enrique. 'Interesting' is relative. But honestly, you'd think that songwriters could do a bit better.

Or maybe not.

1 April 2008

Marvelous. Simply marvelous. I loved this so much, I must have been Loki in a previous life.

This morning, I put out an email and facebook status with the same theme: my decision to become a member of a religious order.

Here's the email in full:

Well, it looks like God finally got me.

Last night, after months of thought and prayer, I came to the inescapable conclusion
that the Catholic Church is the One True Church and that maybe I need to bend to
authority a little bit more and just let God do some work.

It's just...TRUE. Maybe it's time I made my life a little easier and went with the flow.

And I've decided that since men seem to be a fruitless area for me - I do seem to pull in
the emotionally unavailable/wounded ones who just won't look at/deal with their own
issues squarely in the face - I'm done. There's just no point in wasting what I have to
offer on men who can't appreciate it, accept it and just love me for who I am - all of it.
You can't have the wonderful bits without the irimtating ones. And I'm so through with
walking on eggshells and the emotional games.

So I'm looking into religious life - why not? It's an easy life - structured, food, shelter,
someone always telling you what to do. I've struggled long enough. Now it's time to
coast.

So it looks like the convent it is. I'll keep you posted.

And if ANY of you believed ANYTHING but "I do seem to pull in ... emotional games"
(minus the "I'm done" - I just love men too dearly to, as Joseph would put it,
"put them down"):

1. Check your calendar and time of day.
2. You haven't seen me in a while or haven't known me
for very long.

To the OPs - hope the chapter is going swimmingly well. VB, welcome home!

Lots of love to all of you on April Fool's Day. Now if you'll excuse me, there's some
iconoclasty for me to be getting on with...

Ixx

Almost immediately, a response from a favourite cleric: "That's very naughty!"

As he IS a religious and I couldn't read tone over email, I responded cautiously, rather than in my usual cheeky tone.

But the response that is probably going to be untoppable comes from V (not the VB mentioned above):

Bitch!

That was the funniest and absolutely scariest April Fools that anyone has
ever played on me.

I was about to get some wild horses and a carriage to come and drag you to your senses.

Woooo...at least the giving up men part was believable.

I need go and change now, as I wet myself near the end of that email!
;)

Luvs,

V

PS. If you ever did decide to become a nun, I'd still love you just as fervently. So :P

Looks like we both need Depends (or Attends, depending on where you are), as I wet
myself at the end of her email.

Just one thing, V - you say I'm a bitch like it's a bad thing...

Sometimes...

Sometimes an image is just too perfect and too me not to share. From one of my favourite websites - with a bullfighting image to soothe any ruffled feathers 'white boy' may have.

Prayer

I know, I know. There are at least TWO blog entries that are weeks behind. One is almost finished, but the more emotional one is still in the middle of the creative process - and processing in a deeper sense. I'll try to get them out this week.

Meanwhile, please read this article by one of my favourite authors, Rachel Remen, and feel free to start a discussion on it here. It's a wonderfully articulate exposition on how she - and I - feel about prayer. It will explain to those of you with whom I've started this discussion, better than I ever could, why I regard petitionary prayer with such distaste.

And it will also explain why I've never believed that the mandate 'pray without ceasing' is the sole province of those who take vows of poverty, chastity and obedience, any more than a holy - and whole(y) - life is.

Questions arising and conversations overheard on Holy Saturday

No question, when my friend Ruth and I get together, we're theologically very naughty. Not only has she been making faces at me from the choir, so that I giggle in inappropriate places (it was her fault during your sermon, Simon, I swear!), but most priests would also have nightmares about answering questions that arise from our conversations.

Por ejemplo: today, we were at Tenebrae, the morning office for the Triduum. One of the responsories was "Lament like a virgin" (that also came up on Radio 3 whilst we were fighting our way out of Sainsbury's). I turned to Ruth and asked:

"Lament like a virgin - what does that mean? Are they lamenting *because* they are virgins?"

"Probably. You know, you could ask one of the good Catholic boys that and then say, 'Can I help you with that?'"

"Great pickup line."

This conversation happened as we were pushing a trolley around Sainsbury's. Later, in the checkout line, the people around us overheard the following:

Me: Who gets Jesus? (she has the qewlest, tackiest Jesus/Mary shopping bag)
Ruth: *I* get Jesus.
Me: But *I* WANT Jesus.
Ruth: Jesus is mine. I get to have Jesus.
Me: Fine. I didn't want him anyway. Jesus can go to hell.
Ruth, not missing a beat: Well, in fact, he did.

A light bulb goes off...

I'm watching that wonderful programme, "CSI" (the original). There's a rodeo story on (I can imagine that 'white boy', who has just discovered the pleasures of CSI, would prefer a bullfight story), and a female bull-owner is discussing the finer points of sperm collection:

"First, you get a teaser - a steer. Bulls go homosexual in captivity."

Suddenly, Oxford and the Catholic priesthood make complete sense.

Don't lie, you know you love it...

Actually

I checked my overly full desk today.

My Bible IS holding up my fondue set...

How NOT to excuse yourself from daily Scripture reading and how religious conservatives admit they're gay...

Phew, the title is almost a blog entry in itself!

I love dinner with Martin. We may warm up slowly, but by the main course, we're giggling away - and when the bill arrives, the tables around us have given up any pretence of ignoring our discussion, so I wickedly save the best or most shocking for when my debit card is in the machine.

First, though, the scripture discussion. Martin and I were discussing my lack of faith rather intently, and he said, "You read scripture daily, right?"

I whistled and looked at the ceiling.

Martin laughed and imitated me, saying, "I LOVE this."

"Well, Martin, you have to understand. I WOULD read Scripture daily, but my Bible is holding up a stack of books, and more importantly, my fondue set."

Martin fell out laughing. "It's holding up the unit, is it?"

"Yeah. AND MY FONDUE SET."

"Look, honey, just give me the measurements, and I'll cut a block of wood that are the exact dimensions of your Bible. Then, without anaesthetic, we'll whip it out (by now, *I'M* helpless with laughter) and we'll stick the wooden one in."

I gave in. We continued our animated dinner conversation, with the table next to us paying more and more attention...then whilst I was paying, I pulled out the doozy.

"Oh my God, Martin, I have to share this conversation with you."

"Go on, then."

"This guy was starting off a conversation with that tired old phrase, 'no one is 100% straight or 100% gay.' We know what that usually means, right?"

"So the other guy agrees. Guy #1 asks, 'Have you ever found yourself having occasional sex with other guys?'

"Guy #2: 'Erm, no. What do you mean by 'occasional'?'
Guy #1: Four times this term."

By now, Martin was practically on the floor, the two guys weren't even pretending conversation, and our Indian waitress was so rapt, she nearly forgot to finish the transaction.

I couldn't resist, so I added some commentary:

"Cleopatra, Queen of Denial, you're GAY. God, only a religious conservative could have gay sex every fortnight and be convinced he's straight."

I may be going to Hell, but I'm going Emirates first class - screw the handbasket.

Earthquake explanations...

It's just so wrong.

I went to bed at 00.30 Wed morning, the earthquake hit at 00.56, and I SLEPT THROUGH IT. I'm absolutely gutted like a fish.

However, my housemate, Clare, woke up during the earthquake. Now, England doesn't get a lot of earthquakes, so when you first wake up and the room is shaking you think: "I must be dreaming." When it keeps shaking and you can hear your bottles of perfume rattling on your dresser, you try to find another explanation. We live near the ring road and on an RAF flight path, so I expect I'd think, "That lorry is taking a long time to go by" or "God, that plane is low."

But when I debriefed Clare last night, she offered one I hadn't thought of yet:

"At first, I thought someone was having violent sex."

I looked at her, but couldn't keep a straight face. "What, you thought A's boyfriend had arrived during the night?"

We both started laughing. "Well, no, I knew no one was *here* (THANKS on behalf of the housies, babe, that makes us feel OH SO DESIRABLE!), so I thought it was next door."

Hmmmm. Definite possibility. I'm sure it was probably the first time our 80 year old next door neighbour pulled out his S&M equipment since his hip op. Or maybe it was his 70-something wife pulling out her new giant Rabbit vibrator. God knows, they're loud enough at the regular size...

Absolutely bloody brilliant.

And you can tell why Clare and I are such good friends. Great minds...

Grim hymns...

It is beyond my comprehension how a country that produced the likes of Thomas Tallis, Charles Wesley and William Chatterton Dix, to name just a few, can allow hymns like this in ANY sort of worship (and off-key, to boot):

All Heaven Declares
The glory of the riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiisen looooooooooooooord [Risen? He's the bread of life, remember? Yeast and see that the Lord is good!]

Who can compare
with the beauty of the lord [Alan Rickman, Colin Firth as Darcy, Nigel Harman, Daniel Craig...]

Forever you will be
the lamb upon the throne [can I have you with Yorkshire pudding and gravy??]

I gladly bow my knee
And Worship You alone! [well, maybe alongside Krishna and Isis...but you're ok with that as long as they're not before you, right?]

I will proclaim
the glory of the riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiisen Loooooooooooooord. [esp if he's challah, my favourite kind! Though I might go with Ruth and ask for a bagel. Onion, please!]

Grim grim grim.

Yeah, yeah, I know. Don't stand under tall trees during a thunderstorm, Irim...

Sorry, Mum, but I'll marry whom I want...

...is the title of a brilliant letter from a Sikh son to his mother, excerpted in today's Times2 from his upcoming book, "If you don't know me by now".

The particulars of our lives are very different, but our emotions, our arguments, are very similar. I could have written so much of that letter:

"Sometimes I think you think that learning is like something you might buy from a shop, like a new washing machine or refrigerator: something that improves your life without changing you. But that's not the way it works. My education has changed me, and just because everyone else does something, it doesn't mean I have to. And just because you believe something, it doesn't mean I have to agree."

" I told myself that I wanted to give you what you wanted, that I could bury my true desires to make you happy. But it slowly became apparent that I could never go through with a marriage in which I didn't love the other person. I want more from my life than that.
And this is the thing: I have had more from life than that. I've loved and been loved back and now I know what it feels like, it's impossible to settle for less."

"And, if anything, if you accept me for who I am, rather than who you want me to be, we could be closer."

The list goes on. It couldn't have been articulated any better.

I let my parents know I wouldn't accept an arranged marriage by moving out in secrecy, taking three bin liners full of clothes and books that I wanted to keep. Sathnam is letting his mother know a different way. But we are united in this.

If only more South Asian girls and boys who feel the same way could find the courage to say the same and follow through. If just one sees today's Times2 or picks up Sathnam's book and finds that courage, it will all have been worth it.

*Grin*

On a much lighter note, a friend's description of me:

"An over-excitable, sex-mad religious eclectic who enjoys pushing the boundaries of others with regard to politics and their concepts of what is acceptable behaviour for a grown woman."

She got it in one. What can I say?

I particularly love the juxtaposition of 'sex-mad' and 'religious'. It's just so me.

It's all a bit gay...

From the BBC website:

"Shlomo Benizri, of the ultra-Orthodox Jewish Shas Party, said the tremors had been caused by lawmaking that gave "legitimacy to sodomy".

Wow. I'm sure the geologists who've been studying shifting plates for 30+ years will take that into account, schmu.., I mean, Shlomo.

Well, add that to the papal statement at Christmas that birth control and gay marriage are threats to world peace, and we know it must be true.

Sounds like they're in bed together.

God, it makes me so angry. Yeah, I know, you too - oh, they slipped that stuff into Leviticus when you weren't looking? Guess the Onion had it right then.

Last week, I watched a programme on adoption. The couple looking to adopt were two men who had met on a photo shoot in LA. After nearly a decade together, I've rarely seen a couple more in love - straight or gay.

They'd always considered children part of the equation. Looking around, they saw the immense need in the community around them, and instead of opting for a mother for one of their children, or a perfect little baby of an affluent Catholic teenage mother, they decided to adopt through fostering.

And which children did these white, gay, affluent men choose?

Black fraternal twins - a girl and a boy - with developmental difficulties, born to a crack addicted mother. You would have wept to see the tenderness and love they gave these little ones as they swaddled them at night far past the age that normal children need to be so tightly wrapped. Or to see them terrified at the prospect of losing them to a member of the mother's family.

Do you think Shlomo, Benedict, the late John Paul or any of the white, clean-cut, affluent, smugly religious couples at my church would make that kind of commitment? Would adopt a child who didn't look like them? One that had developmental difficulties?

You can bet Satan will be hosting the Winter Olympics first.

Thus, the crux of my problem with the outwardly religious: you spout morals. I know bloody few of you who actually live by them. As with everything else, the more you talk or ostentatiously follow the rules, the less you really do - or believe.

Men like Dane Holweger and Israel Segal are vilified by 'priests' in the pulpit for living in sin. And yet, who fed? who gave water? who visited in prison?

Who took care of the little ones?

Not the Catholic Church, was it, Ben? That whole putting children at risk of being sexually molested by moving paedos around for years annihilates your moral authority. Especially since all you do is blame gay men and refuse to take any real action.

No. Those gay men that you vilify have taken care of the little ones - fed them, clothed them, loved them. My love and prayers are with them, Nola and Ziggy - they will raise two very fine children, mark my words.

Why? Because they love without regard to creed, colour or history - which makes them a lot closer to God than the pair of you, who spend your lives telling us you speak for Him. Even if they live in an earthquake zone, Shlomo.

I know it certainly means that Dane and Israel are worlds closer to God than I am. They love, forgive, and open their hearts in ways that I can only imagine. Their ability to walk God's talk puts me to shame.

Mother and father, single parent, two fathers, two mothers - what does it matter? A nuclear family may look perfect on the outside but be hell on the inside. Appearance and outward behaviour, as so many in organised religion need to learn, mean little to nothing.

Take it from God - all you need is love.

I know I've been a bit tough...

on the Catholic Church, but not today. Hurrah for the Calendario Romano 2008, showing off some of the sexiest men in black: don't you just *love* a man in uniform?




As some of my readers are clerics, I'll spare their celibate sensibilities and keep them in the dark about exactly HOW bad a Catholic girl I'd like to be. But come on, ladies, surely you'd like to get him hot under the collar?

And who said receiving communion can't be sexy?



By God, if any of the (heterosexual - unfortunately, they're mostly [repressed] homosexuals) men who went to my church looked that good and displayed that kind of ease with their bodies/sexuality, I'd be back at Sunday mass in a heartbeat. Hell, I'd go to mass every damn day. I might even consider getting on my knees...

...or making him get on his. To quote U2:

"To touch is to heal,
To hurt is to steal -
If you want to kiss the sky,
Better learn how to kneel.
On your knees, boy"

Amen. Testify, brother.

And I am sooo going to be excommunicated tomorrow...but it will be so worth it.

Dream journal, day 1

Day 1, here goes:

1. This dream was quite long, and seemed to wrap round the others in a way. The space was never defined and kept shifting, but the lighting was a bright, bright natural light. I was going through a fairly normal day, though I sensed it more than saw it. The main part of this dream was auditory: a voice that kept saying, "Remember, Irim, 'shan'" - or a word that sounded like that. In the dream, I knew it meant calm, centered, grounded - the still place in the middle of a violent storm. At the end of the dream, I was holding a little girl on my lap (I knew she was mine, but I don't have children) and was beginning to read to her when the voice came again. I responded, "I don't know if I can."

Response: "Yes, you can, or you wouldn't be asked. You have to."

I hugged the little girl closer and the dream faded.

2. I was in a HUGE building - it wasn't dark, but there weren't any lights on. It was very Middle Eastern/Muslim in architecture - the same kind of arches, airiness, openness. Pink, which wasn't *too* unfortunate, but still... Very, very high ceilings - cathedral high and then some. I knew it was a school of some kind, and I had helped bring back a child who had disappeared. In front of me were two cheques which were rewards for what I'd done and though I felt a bit uncomfortable accepting them, the first one was reasonable. The second one was a large cheque - both in amount and size, and I remember saying, "I can't accept this, it's too much."
I'm not sure who was behind me - there hadn't been anyone initially, but he answered, "It's your due. Please, take it." I went to pick it up as THAT dream faded.

3. I was in a lounge with my brother (7 years younger) - whom I haven't seen or spoken to for about 10 years - looking at a white board in shock and disbelief. The lighting was very bright - a stand up lamp or several behind me. He was sitting on a long yellow sofa. I looked at him and said, "What do they mean when they say you can't read this?"

He said, "Well, I can't. What's the problem?"

"I'm sorry, how old are you now? What grade are you in?"

"I'm 8. I'm in 3rd grade." (He looked much older than that)

"Oh, well that's different then. NO. WAIT A MINUTE. YOU WERE BORN IN 19... - YOU'RE A LOT OLDER THAN THAT."

Fade to black.

4. And the final dream. I was an observer in this one rather than a participant. From behind and above, I was watching a group of law enforcement officials (not just policemen) gathered in what looked to be a briefing room with bright flourescent lights. They were trying to catch a serial killer. (Ok, yes, we know I watch too much CSI, Criminal Minds, etc.). It was clearly an American team, so I asked where I was. I saw a map of the US, with a red dot in the NW. When I looked it up today, it turned out to be Ketchum, Idaho, near the Sun Valley - where Ernest Hemingway committed suicide. Hmm.

One of the policemen was ringing a fellow officer in another part of the state to come and join the manhunt. "Hey, the work will start tomorrow, but tonight we can go out to a bar, have a few drinks, catch up. What do you say?"

I suddenly felt really apprehensive. I wanted to say, "No," but couldn't. Suddenly, my awareness was taken to the other end of the phone call. Even though it should have been daytime, it was very dark. All I could see was the police officer's boots, which were damp and covered with hay. I could hear him say, "Mmmm. Yes, it would be good to see you." I grew more terrified as I saw freshly dug earth and looked down the hill from his car, where I knew there was a body just out of sight. As he got into his car, my awareness was pulled back to the caller, who threw his arms up and said, "He's coming over! We'll have an extra pair of hands, but first, a night of drinking!"

I went to say, "NO! It's HIM. It's one of you!" Then I woke up...

I can see a couple of patterns, but over to you first...

Have fun!

Did you really say that?

No commentary for this - the conversation speaks for itself:

Irim: Kiwi housemate (KH), why is there so much girl-on-girl in porn?
KH: Because guys get jealous if there's another man, so there can't be two men.
Irim: Really? Ok.
Young, squeaky clean housemate (YSCH): EWWWWW. There's girl on girl stuff? Ugh.
KH: There is porn for women out there. You could try that.
YSCH: Yeah, I've heard about that.

Irim moves to walk out of the room.

Then YSCH turns around and says:

Have you ever watched midget porn? It's really funny.

KH and I, used to her as Miss Goody Two shoes, stare at her speechless in shock, and then I started to laugh and couldn't stop...

...stay tuned. From this weekend, I'm starting a dream journal and will be posting some of them here at the blog. I'll probably note patterns and do some interpretation, but help from the blog gallery would be much appreciated.

Over and out - off to read some of John O'Donohue's "Anam cara", which I started last night.

Shabbat shalom! x

Sex and pancakes...

Knew that would get your attention.

Really, this should have been posted 10 days ago - sorry, I've been a bit lazy.

Ten days ago would be Pancake Night, an evening spent with a fellow CSI fan, pancakes, nutella, lemon and sugar and...real Canadian maple syrup. Mmmmm.

I love going round to hers - we talk and laugh about everything from toilet humour to job applications and how we're really feeling about life at the moment.

So it was no surprise when the first thing she said when biting into a pancake smothered with Nutella was "Sex had better be like this."

"Oh, it is," I promised.

After that, we behaved ourselves impeccably. But then she said, "Ooh, this pancake is kind of dark..."

To which I responded, "I want the Paki pancake."

It was truly a global night: we had a Norweigian pancake, a South Indian one, and one from sub-Saharan Africa. And every pancake was liberally massaged with lemon & sugar, Nutella or maple syrup, with no regard for their race, nationality or creed.

A truly equal opportunity pancake night.

Now, if only there had been a couple of gorgeous men who needed rubbing down with Nutella...

Further to the previous post...

An elaboration on my papal manifesto - musical, of course, courtesy of "Criminal Minds" and the performers, Deadman:

Please come close, for I long for you to hear,
Hear the sound that will rid you of your fears.
In a land where no water can be found,
In a place where there is no fertile ground.
Longing for, yearning not to be forgotten;
In an age when the music is forgotten,
In an age when the music is forgotten.

And the truth (and the truth) speaks of great and mighty things,
Teaching us (teaching us) what the peace of Heaven brings;
We must give (we must give), we must give to all the others,
Those in need (those in need) who we fear to call our brothers;
Reaching out (reaching out) so that we are not forgotten,
In a time (in a time) when the music is forgotten,
In a time (in a time) when the music is forgotten.

If we stand on a hill and do not touch,
How can we do good?
If we wash our hands of all our friends,
What change can really come?
If we hide our fears and don't draw near, Have we really lived?
Or are we all just standing here, Hoping there is grace?

In a dream (in a dream) that I had not long ago,
Visions of (visions of) a city made of gold;
And a sound (and a sound) that I'd never heard before,
such a sound (such a sound), saturating to the core;
such a sound(such a sound)! One that cannot be forgotten.
In a time (in a time) when the music's not forgotten,
in a time (in a time) when the music's not forgotten.

Amen. Now that would be a Catholicism I could live with, embrace - and one I'd be proud to lead.

A prophetic picture...

Oh yes. I will be. And then I will take over the world...in a good way, of course...even if it is a cardinal sin for a woman to hope to become one:




moar funny pictures

The first thing to happen will be that all priests undoubtedly guilty of paedophilia will be defrocked and handed to the secular authorities, with no hope of return. Then out with the celibacy and men-only rules. After that, anyone who lacks pastoral ability or displays any sign of serious emotional problems/addictions/personality disorders will be sent to counselling in the first instance, suspended if they make no progress, and there will be rigorous psychological evaluation for entry to a seminary or religious order. If you don't display pastoral gifts, guess what? You're not called.

Next on the agenda - free thinking will be more than welcome - the Church is, after all, only a vehicle to God. If we're all on board this *universal* vehicle, then let's be honest about what we believe, and let's be secure enough to really listen to the people in our carriage. The church would also become truly Catholic - it would reach out to all peoples and all nations - to everyone in need, regardless of race, nationality, religion. No more of this 'take care of our own' mindset. Everyone is our own.

I'd be shipping condoms in bulk to AIDS-ravaged countries...and working with charities from Amnesty International to WaterAid.

Sex and intimacy would be de-stigmatised. There would be a rigorous pre-marriage counselling programme - none of the c**p I've witnessed where a priest doesn't want to do the real thing because, well, 'sex is dirty, and anyway, marriage is really second to my perfect celibate life.' (I'd hand you the bucket, but I'm using it.) Give me a penny for the number of times I've heard, "I give them 5 years, tops," come out of a priest's mouth, and I'd never need to work again. You're supposed to believe it's a SACRAMENT, you lazy smartass. If you did your job properly and cared more about their lives than your office or the money you were getting, they might be in the right place right now: counselling or broken up, rather than all dolled up in your church, a tragedy waiting to happen. Marriage is a sacrament, sex is holy - the church needs to stop claiming that's what it believes and needs to start ACTING like that's what it believes.

Birth control? Yeah, I'd be teaching that. No couple should have to make the choice between having more children than they can love and support and the ultimate physical expression of their love and unity. Premarital sex? Yes, but I'd make sure you learned that you don't have to if you don't want to - come to it in love and whole, don't do it TO BE LOVED and TO BECOME WHOLE.

Above all, we'd be proclaiming love, tolerance, justice and the pursuit of truth from the rooftops. And helping everyone else to scramble on. No us and them. Never again.

We'd be a truly Catholic Church.

After all, there are really only a few basic principles to live by, whatever you believe: Love as much and as hard as you can; be the voice for the voiceless and protect the vulnerable; give generously and without thought of return...

but it really comes down to this: we are all One in God, which makes every ONE of us holy.

It's time we got off our knees and started acting like it.

As pope, my manifesto would be simple (though the above would be a few of many ways to express it):

Let us build a republic of heaven on Earth.

A big thank you...

This wasn't going to be my next post - I'm still working on that and hope to have it finished tomorrow or Sunday. But when I heard this song, I had to put it out there as a tribute to everyone - teachers, friends, people I only knew for a short time that touched me profoundly - who have helped me along the way. The odds were stacked against me being the person I am today, but somehow, I got very lucky and a ton of wonderful people have crossed my path and loved me. Whether you've done it by being an obstacle or by shining your light on my path when I couldn't find mine, thank you. This one's for you.

Why now? Well, because you've all been there just now, whether you realise it or not.

Just like Winston Churchill and many others, the black dog nips at my heels and throws up a lot of old, painful stuff that needs dealing with. I've never done drugs, and my therapy has been my friends and a lot of reading, but what works best is just to sit down and let him put his head on my knee whilst I fondle his ears and talk to him to find out what it is he's trying to tell me. Usually, he's telling me that so much has happened so fast that I need to slow down; too many people have been leaning on me (especially if their issues are very close to mine and I haven't dealt with my emotions); or that there's a painful situation I'm not really facing - I may be analysing it, but I'm not feeling it. So I let go and let it be, do a lot of crying and taking care of myself. I actually believe that depression is the psyche's equivalent of physical pain - it's a way of getting your attention and telling you something is wrong, that you can't live like this anymore - the current situation is no longer sustainable.

In other words, look at what you're too afraid to look at - do you need to leave your job? A relationship? A mindset? The priesthood? Everything you take as a given? Can you not live like this anymore?

Depression is a way of keeping you safe until you're ready to no longer be safe and move on.

So, yes, I've had a touch of it lately. My friends have been there. And so, as Faith Hill sings, "I'm gonna be ok/so let it rain".

And bless every last one of you who's ever been there for being my red umbrella - I love you and don't know what I'd do without you:

Sometimes life can get a little dark
I'm sure I've got bruises on my heart
Here come the black clouds full of pain
Yeah, you can't break away without the chains

Pre Chorus:

Your love is like a red umbrella
Walk the streets like Cinderella
Everyone can see it on my face

Chorus:

(So) let it rain
It's pourin' all around me
Let it fall
(No) it ain't gonna drown me
After all
I'm gonna be okay
(So) let it rain
(Oh, let it rain)
(Let it fall)
(I'm gonna be okay)

(So let it rain)

2nd Verse

You can wear your sorrow like an old raincoat
You can save your tears in a bottle made of gold
But the glitter on the sidewalk always shines
Yeah, even God needs to cry sometimes

Pre Chorus:

Your love is like a red umbrella
Always there to make me better
When my broken dreams
Are fallin' from the sky

(Repeat Chorus)

Bridge

Let it wash my tears away
Tomorrow's another day
Yeah

(Chorus Out)

Wild boys...

I'm writing some very emotional entries at the moment, so I needed something cathartic and less emotional to write about. This post was just going to be about the video and why I love it so much, and ended up being about...men. *Slaps forehead*

Ah, well, the creative muse leads where she will. *Glares ineffectively at said muse*

I've often wondered why I fancy the men that I do. Leaving aside my need to be a 'fixer', hence picking out the most wounded/complicated men imaginable, and my issues with commitment (yes, I admit I have them!), why can't I pick the 'easy' ones?

We all go on about 'nice boys' and 'nice girls' - but the fact that they're *kind* isn't the problem. When I think of a 'nice boy', I think of a man who is trying to please me rather than being himself (not a problem I'd ever have, she says, *whistling*...wouldn't know any drama queens or alcoholic or insecure, needy men...not me...). I think of a man who isn't being *real*, authentic, who isn't fully *human*. In fact, I think of a 'nice boy' as *lying* to me about who he is so he can buy my love.

That's actually not very nice at all.

Having watched a number of shows recently, I've realised that it's men who care, but who can set boundaries, who can say 'you're wrong' or 'get off your ass' that attract me. Why? BECAUSE I CAN COUNT ON THEM. THEY'RE NOT LYING TO ME. I know they're strong enough to be there when the going gets tough - capable of being tender enough to cradle a newborn and strong enough to catch me when I fall.

I want a man with whom I can communicate, and a man with whom I can have a passionate row - followed by an equally passionate makeup session. I need the sensible, the sensitive and the sensuous.

And nice doesn't have the depth of the warmth and caring that comes from someone who really knows and loves themselves (yeah, he should do that too - how else is he going to know what he likes ;-)? ) - someone who has access to all his sides, not just the socially acceptable few.

Honestly? I don't want him tamed by the institution - the Catholic Church, society, power, any of it. I want someone who can walk through all that and hold onto who he is and what the truth is, despite the institutional hard sell. A guy who can wear a suit with a glint in his eye and ask the challenging questions and not take bullshit or an illogical argument for an answer - from an institution or from me.

I want a wild boy.

Not feral, that would be emotionally unavailable - though I find ferals attractive because they have many of the above qualities. He has to be housetrained and eminently touchable because I'm terribly affectionate, but he needs to be able to nip.

And yes, part of that has to do with me - I've spent my life being sensible, sensitive, capable and calm, but I've always been drawn to Goths and those that live on the edge. That abandon, that passion, is very much a part of who I am, but it has been corseted for a very long time.

So, in honour of that, I present you with a song that I played over and over when I first heard it, I had such a visceral, emotional reaction to it. It was my song...



The wild boys are calling on their way back from the fire
In august moons surrender to a dust cloud on the rise
Wild boys fallen far from glory, reckless and so hungered
On the razors edge you trail because theres murder (murder)
By the roadside in a sore afraid new world

They tried to break us, looks like they'll try again

(chorus)
Wild boys.. never lose it
Wild boys.. never chose this way
Wild boys.. never close your eyes
Wild boys.. always shine

You got sirens for a welcome, there's bloodstain for your pain
And your telephone been ringing while you're dancing in the rain
Wild boys wonder where is glory where is all you angels
Now the figureheads have fell?
And lovers war with arrows over secrets they could tell

They tried to tame you, looks like they'll try again

(chorus)

They never managed to tame me - now I need to find my wild boy equal, wherever he may be.

Oh, and of course, to all you fellow 80s girls, this video reopens the debate:

Simon le Bon or Nick Rhodes?

Answers on a postcard.

About dinner Friday night and why I no longer feel Catholic...

Friday evening, I went to dinner at Suave, Manically Amusing Boy's (SMAB from now on) college. He met me on my way in, we had a glass of juice in the common room, then went on to dinner, which was lovely and included most of a bottle of wine. After that, we went back to the common room and started chatting away. Members of the college drifted through on their way to a party or on their way back from the gym, and it was all very pleasant.

He's my only South Asian male friend, so once he brought down some port and we really started to relax (he's only a recent addition to my friend circle), we started discussing our feelings around our Pakistani heritage/identities and our families.

The evening was going swimmingly till his phone rang and his face fell. "What's wrong, SMAB?" I asked.

"It's Religious Stalker Boy," he said. "He wants to come over with the rest of the Catholic Fanatic Society. I'm not going to answer it."

The phone rang again, and SMAB still didn't answer. "If it rings again," I said, "Let me answer it." He grinned.

As is often the way with these things, the phone was silent, except for a phone call from a friend whom he invited over.

The three of us were laughing away when up popped a number he didn't know. "I think this is for you," he said, handing me the phone. I put on my best girly, breathy voice and answered the phone...

"Hello?"

"SMAB?"

"Erm, I'm afraid he's really busy at the moment. Can I take a message?" (Cue SMAB and friend burying their faces into pillows laughing their heads off.)

"Irim? Is this Irim?"

"Erm, yes..."

[Not an exact transcript, but pretty close]

I handed the phone back, and suggested that SMAB ring him back to find out who it was. He waited a while before he did, at which point, he discovered the caller was from the Catholic Fanatic Society. He told them he was 'in someone's room' and was going elsewhere shortly.

Not five minutes later, three members of Catholic Fanatic Society walked into the common room and sat down. Without asking, Gauche Boy put his feet up and picked up the second half of SMAB's KitKat.

What part of "I don't want you here tonight" did they not get? If I rang someone twice and they didn't answer, I'd LEAVE it, unless we were meeting up. If a male friend's phone was answered by a woman, I'd stammer and GET THE HELL OFF. Hell, if a woman answered MY BOYFRIEND'S PHONE, I'D STAMMER AND GET THE HELL OFF (after asking who she was). If someone told me they were going somewhere, I'd say, "OK, hope to catch you next week."

I WOULD MOST CERTAINLY NOT BE WANDERING AROUND THEIR COLLEGE HEADED TO THEIR COMMON ROOM. The violation of personal space and lack of respect for SMAB beggared belief. Yet they couldn't see that they had done anything wrong.

So when Gauche Boy accused me of "creating scandal" when I rightly suggested that a heterosexual entering the London Oratory would bring the whole institution down, I nearly whipped around and said, "It's nothing compared to the scandal of your lack of respect and charity for SMAB by sitting here eating SMAB's chocolate when you were clearly told your presence wasn't convenient."

But I kept my mouth shut, because it wouldn't have made a difference. They believe their preference for high liturgy and lace is what makes them truly Catholic. How they treat others doesn't matter.

And that's exactly the issue I have with most of the people who go to my church and some of the clerics I know.

At that moment, I realised I had the key to why I no longer feel Catholic.

Australian monkeys...

I can say this as a 'person of darker skin' - this racism thing is getting out of hand.

Last week, Harbhajan Singh, an Indian bowler, called Andrew Symonds a monkey: a 'bandhar', if you want the Urdu/Hindi/Punjabi. Ricky Ponting immediately reported the alleged offence, claiming it was 'racist', to the umpire, earning Bhajji a three game suspension.

Later, Ricky called it 'a little thing' - then why the f*** report it, dear? Australia complaining about another team's sledging is a bit like a politician complaining about someone else avoiding responsibility.

Tim de Lisle's article on cricinfo was brilliant, and I'll be quoting from it quite a bit:

...something about the Harbhajan Singh affair doesn't feel right.

In fact, three things don't. First, it takes two to tangle. Andrew Symonds is a well-known sledger, as is Harbhajan. Mike Procter is asking us to believe that one party was severely at fault while the other was not at fault at all, and that doesn't ring true.

The second problem is that Procter listened to eight hours of evidence and then swallowed Ricky Ponting's view of things whole. Ponting is a sledger too, and he and Harbhajan have been needling each other on and off for nearly seven years. Ponting has often got out cheaply to Harbhajan: if anyone were to call him Bhajji's bunny, it would be harsh, and cheap, but fair.

Hmmm. Anybody smell something rotten in Sydney...perhaps the fact that Ricky wanted Bhajji out of the way?

The accusation? Racism. Ok, in Western countries, calling someone a monkey (outside of a child climbing like one or prefacing it with 'cheeky') is a bit dodgy. But on the subcontinent, 'bandhar' gets thrown around all the time - monkeys are seen as intelligent, lively, sly, clever, scheming. It's a step down from the other names you could call someone and often has an affectionate tone to it, though I doubt that was the case here - if it was actually said. To quote Mr de Lisle again:

His job as a match referee requires him to decide whether Harbhajan called Symonds a monkey, and if so, what he meant by it.Procter had to look at the remark through the lens of racism, but he might equally well have peered through the lens of speciesism. Bringing monkeys into a sportsmen's spat is demeaning to monkeys.

Amen to that. What really makes one feel like you've stepped into a Salvador Dali painting here is the fact that if Harbhajan had called Symonds a c**t, nobody would have batted an eyelid. In addition to that, this incident is being looked at through a Western lens - someone needed to consider the cultural context in which the word 'monkey' was said.

And yes, you read that right: it isn't even clear that Harbhajan SAID anything. It wasn't picked up on video or by the stump mikes - the latter being a bit odd, considering he was in his crease. The fact that Procter had to listen to EIGHT HOURS of evidence is indicative that there was serious doubt in the matter. Sachin Tendulkar, known as one of the gentlemen of the game, vouched for Harbhajan. This is a man who would walk from the crease if he were on 99 and knew he'd edged it, before the umpire raised his finger. I have no doubt that if he felt that Bhajji had been wrong, he'd have stepped up and said so.

Now, India's not completely in the right here - God knows the subcontinental teams appeal excessively, are overly dramatic, and are so manipulative they put a chiropractor to shame. That means they have very little goodwill on tap when things go wrong. They need to learn to shut up and play the game.

But I'm still disturbed by this part of the report:

Procter handed out a three-match ban to Harbhajan Singh, saying he was sure "beyond reasonable doubt" that a racist taunt had been directed at Andrew Symonds, but the Indians have claimed the document was extremely flimsy. The bit that has especially offended them is a line in the document which says, "I believe that one group was telling the truth". The players felt Procter had alleged they were lying and they didn't think there was any fairness to the verdict.

Mike, let's have a chat. No video, no stump mike, no tape that is incontrovertible proof - you're not sure of anything, mate. And for you to state "I believe that one group was telling the truth" is tactless at best and deliberately inflammatory at worst. But there's one more thing you need to consider (with deepest apologies to my Saffa mates - do comment, please):

You're a 61 year old white, South African male, who grew up invested in apartheid. Of the mostly white Australian team, known to be extremely provocative sledgers, you said, "I believe [they were] telling the truth," essentially accusing the non-white team of lying. As far as we know, you have no external evidence (which should have made this a 20 minute job), you showed no awareness (nor willingness to become aware) of cultural context, and you didn't even consider that both teams might have gotten it a bit wrong.

Where do you think the next charges of racism are going to be levelled? I know it crossed *my* mind.

But enough is enough. Let's put an end to this - let's bring back the behaviour for which the phrase 'that's not cricket' means something: fielders admitting they didn't take a clean catch, batsmen walking when they know they're out and silence on the field. Let their playing do the talking. Over to Mr de Lisle one last time:

Sledging has been rife for years, and it stinks. It's a sad, feeble way to try and take a wicket. Bowlers should use the ball, and their talent: that's what they're for. Batsmen who answer in kind, like Kevin Pietersen, who allegedly yelled "Fetch it!" at Symonds last year to give the impression that he was a specialist fielder, are little better.

It's sometimes said that fans wouldn't enjoy watching a game conducted largely in silence. But the outpouring of emotion on all sides this week - including an impressive number of two-eyed Australia fans - shows that the cricket-loving public are deeply disgruntled as it is. And silence is no problem at all. Curtly Ambrose didn't sledge, and people loved watching him.

Talking is the commentators' job. And the fans'. And the captains' - as long as they are addressing their own side, or the umpires, or the media, and not saying anything as crass as Ponting's claim that this row was "one little incident". If it was so little, why did he report it to the umpires, and set the ball rolling towards turning the incident into a diplomatic one?

Twelve years ago, a great Australian cricketer was asked for his views on sledging. "If a fellow attempted it under me," the old fellow replied, "I would have given him one warning and, if he repeated it, I would have made sure he was not selected again." That was Sir Don Bradman, speaking at the age of 87. Bradman wasn't always right, but he certainly was on that occasion. Sledging demeans everyone who practises it. It sours the game.

He's right. You don't look like professional sportsmen fighting a hard game, you look like insecure boys on the playground. Sledging made the accomplishments of Shane Warne, one of the greatest bowlers the game had ever seen, less than they were. One will always wonder if he could have done as well with his mouth shut, just showing us what he was capable of.

Hang your heads in shame, Australia - you've brought dishonour on your uniforms, your flag and your fans. You're renowned for fighting hard, but fair, and winning through your grit and ability.

I'll end this with words repeated on my blog over and over again: actions, not words, matter. Show us the poetry of the game - we don't want to hear it.

Now *that* would be cricket.

And dead sexy, to boot.

A blonde American stereotype...

This is what going out with an emotionally unavailable man feels like...

Emotionally unavailable men: we've all been there. If you're going out with one - to quote NML from Baggage Reclaim - it's 'game over, no credits'. That's because it's all about him - his need for validation, approval, building his self-esteem through your inability to leave him no matter how badly he treats you...which says something about *your* self-esteem and your lack of emotional availability. And yes, in my case, it was the classic "I'm replaying my relationship with my father." They were emotionally unavailable, cold, critical, controlling, mocking, in a great deal of pain. They and my father would either have hated eachother or gotten on like a house on fire.

I'm done here.

But this entry isn't an attempt at analysis, since NML does a far better job than I ever could. This is because I've found the perfect expression of what going out with an emotionally unavailable man is like:




If you have to laugh or cry, it's always better to laugh...

New Year's wishes

Last night, I texted all my friends with:

"Happy New Year! Be happy, be loved and may all your dreams come true in 2008. Ixx"

Through the night and this morning, I've gotten texts back from many of my friends. My favourite, so far, is from cheeky male friend:

"U 2, babe, may the devil bestow u with naughty goodness all the new yr! J x"

I am so there. Thanks, gorgeous.

Running a very close second is the one from OTT, delightfully mad friend:

"Hi Irim, now I know for sure you are God's most beautiful angel - your words to me are heavenly. May the Lord bless you and his face shine upon you. All my love, M xxx"

Well, between the devil and the Lord giving me their attention, I should have one hell of a new year.

Guess I'm just going to have to be a very naughty angel indeed...

New Year's resolution

Well, it's that time of year again - we're going down the waterfall of 2007 into 2008. Whilst watching the "House" marathon on Hallmark this weekend (what better way to end the year than watching Hugh Laurie, sex god?), I was stopped in my tracks by this Marc Cohn song:



How many roads you’ve traveled
How many dreams you’ve chased
Across sand and sky and gravel
Looking for one safe place

Will you make a smoother landing
When you break your fall from grace
Into the arms of understanding
Looking for one safe place

Oh, life is trial by fire
And love’s the sweetest taste
And I pray it lifts us higher
To one safe place

How many roads we’ve traveled
How many dreams we’ve chased
Across sand and sky and gravel
Looking for one safe place

I've spent my life journeying, looking for or trying to be that one safe place - from trying to take up as little emotional space as possible, searching for the closeness and trust I never had with family, to trying to be a shelter for others. Sometimes I've done well, sometimes not - my story is a very human one.

Listening to this song yesterday, these lines hit me the hardest:

Oh, life is trial by fire
And love’s the sweetest taste
And I pray it lifts us higher
To one safe place

In one of life's sweetest paradoxes, to find the love that brings safety, your journey can't be one of looking for a safe place - love can only find you when you're willing to take a risk and fully engage in life.

Suddenly, I realised that my journey needed to be about living my life to the full - stretching, taking risks, loving, being willing to fall from grace.

My New Year's resolution? No more searching - falling or flying, the love I find on the journey will bring me to that one safe place.

Roll on, 2008.

Benazir Bhutto

Years from now, when asked where I was when Benazir Bhutto was assassinated, I will respond, "I was at lunch with a Pakistani friend who was flying out to Pakistan that evening. If the question is where was I when I heard, I was at home, it was 16.20, and I went to the BBC website ON A WHIM. There it was."

I remember the execution of her father, Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, just months before we were due to visit Pakistan for the summer. I wasn't really affected - my parents weren't Bhutto supporters, and my father read news of Bhutto's death with grim satisfaction. I didn't really understand what was going on: as long as my relatives were ok, I was fine.

My late teens and twenties were a time of separating from my Pakistani identity. Even so, I cheered Benazir Bhutto as a western-educated woman who wanted to rule in an Islamic country. No matter how much my father cut her down, I always secretly hoped she'd get into power - a western-educated woman as Pakistani Prime Minister! HA! Take that you pompous, Muslim, South Asian male jerks!

Then she went for an arranged marriage. I, and many other girls of Pakistani heritage trying to straddle East and West, felt betrayed. So I didn't pay much attention when she was elected Prime Minister. I carried on my merry way, turning my back on my Pakistani identity.

Let's be clear here: Benazir Bhutto was no saint. She promised advances for women during her tenure as Prime Minister and didn't deliver. She saw the Taliban as a 'stabilising force'. She might have been guilty of corruption. Hero worship has no place here.

She was as complex as the country from which she came - an extremely privileged woman who spoke out for the poor (though actions are harder to find); a proponent of democracy who ran her government and party like a dictator. Full of contradictions, ever tough - but those were necessary qualities in an area with the worst gender rights record and the most corrupt political system in the world.

Whether one supported her wholeheartedly, felt that she betrayed her education in Western democracy, or felt she found it impossible to resist becoming part of a corrupt system, one cannot deny that she loved her country and gave her life for it. Her fate and that of Pakistan's were inextricably entwined; she lived and breathed Pakistan, even when she was thousands of miles away.

That sense makes the news of her assassination even more frightening.

I didn't expect to be hit by it the way I was; when I saw it on the BBC website banner, I just stared, unable to absorb it. Benazir Bhutto. Assassinated. I immediately turned on BBC News 24 and stared at it for 2.5 hours before I realised we weren't actually going to hear Pervez Musharraf's speech in full, nor was there going to be anything new for a while.

Mind-numbing, someone called it. Yes. But so much more. Shock, grief, horror, anger. Fear. And a sense of something being ripped away. An awareness that whether this was a master stroke designed to destabilise Pakistan and drop it into the hands of Taliban clones or whether this was a horrible miscalculation by one of her opponents, possibly even Musharraf- today, evil won a battle in the long war. And I'm feeling so much more I can't even begin to verbalise now.

But what I can verbalise is this: I don't want to read any more crap like the stuff on the BBC "Have your say", where the most recommended comment is the offensive "That's the way politics works with The Religion of Peace," and another is "Pakistan - what a wonderful place it must be." HOW DARE YOU. YOU KNOW NOTHING ABOUT THE PEOPLE AND THE COUNTRY, YOU XENOPHOBIC JERK. SHOW SOME RESPECT. The people I want nearest me, the people I want to talk to about what I'm thinking and feeling are the ones who know Pakistan and love it, who can understand what I can say, but more importantly, what I can't. That's one friend flying to Lahore as I type, and another who had the nerve to tell me I was more Pakistani than I wanted to admit to.

Oh God. This can't be true.

We all thought she was indestructible, that she'd always be there. Her narrow escape in October, when 140 of her supporters were killed and 400 wounded, reinforced that belief. We couldn't imagine Pakistan without her.

Now, we have to.

Rest in peace, Baji.

Mona Lisa Smile

I'm a sucker for life-affirming, cheesy drama. Add a feminist twist to it, and it's irresistible - so when Mona Lisa Smile showed up on Channel 5, it became must-see pre-Xmas fare.

And in its last lines came a sentiment that resonated deep within:

"Not all who wander are aimless. Especially not those who seek truth beyond tradition, beyond definition, beyond the image."

If your *real* concern is for truth, you cannot limit yourself to a particular tradition, definition or image...and you will never find the whole truth within an institution.

Because the truth, which sets us free, cannot be owned by any one person or institution. Anyone who tells you they have "the truth" is lying. The truth cannot be contained.

That truth which sets us free breaks down those walls, turns our lives upside down, shatters our definitions and images and leads us into places we've never imagined - and to the place we spend our whole life searching for:

Home.

Even if it isn't what you expected it to be.

O Holy Night

Criminal minds...

is one of my new favourite television shows, not least for the erudite quotes at the beginning and end. Tonight's juxtaposition of quotes at the end - apparently contradictory, said by the same person - was one of the best yet:

"It is better to do violence, if there is violence in our hearts, than to put on the cloak of nonviolence to cover impotence."

Still not sure who it is? This quote should help:

"I object to violence because when it appears to do good, the good is only temporary. The evil it does is permanent."

That sounds more like the version of him that we revere...the man is Mohandas Gandhi. What does that first quote really mean? He's saying that it is better to be violent, if that is your truth, than to claim a position of nonviolence as a lie because you are incapable of doing something about a situation.

True nonviolence is not a position of weakness: it is the position of ultimate strength. It is only when you are deeply rooted and secure in who you are that you can even contemplate true nonviolence as a position - and I'm not talking about just guns or knives. I mean the violence we do to eachother on a daily basis: judging eachother; the subtle bullying, trying to pressure others to 'fall into line' with the rest of the group for their own good; the parent who criticises and controls endlessly because 'praise would make you lazy, and criticism will make you work harder'. On a show I was watching, I heard a woman claim "I'd call myself aggressive. I'm strong." Aggression isn't about strength; it's about fear. It is the ultimate in weakness- it's proactive violence - getting in there before someone else does.

Being in control is not always strength. And to quote a favourite book, "That which yields is not always weak."

But what about violence 'in the name of good'? The snipers and police officers who kill hostage takers, terrorists, people who place our lives at risk? Responding with force to an invasion? The death penalty for those who commit heinous crimes?

I'm not saying nonviolence is easy, especially in a world that communicates through violence so often. There are times when a show of strength is needed, no question. But responding with more force than is needed crosses the line into violence. And you can't help but wonder what happens to the hearts of those snipers and executioners over time. Like faith, like following your principles and being true to yourself, it's a choice you make over and over, every single day.

The evil violence does is permanent. Just ask those one or two generations down from an alcoholic or the survivors of a violent event beyond our imagining.

Yes, but what about revenge? What about when someone hurts you or someone you love, and all you want is justice? All you want is for them to feel in pain the way you feel in pain? All you want is fairness?

"Before you embark upon a journey of revenge, dig two graves." --Confucius.

"Yes," you may say, "but it would mean the world to me. Then I'd be fine. It would be over, and life would be fair."

To which I would respond with a final quote - taken out of context, true - but it shows the true price of violence, even that done for the best of reasons:

"For what shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul?"

Big bird...

Tonight, I read at mass (God, I *adore* Isaiah) and at the Advent Carol Service at Church.

Smooth as silk.

But I haven't been to Benediction in years. So when Joseph read the Divine Praise:

"Blessed be the Holy Spirit, the Paraclete"

out of my mouth comes:

"Blessed be the Holy Spirit, the ParaKEET."

Hopeless. I started giggling, picturing the Holy Spirit as a giant, brightly coloured bird. No dignity. Mind you, I suppose the liturgical colour for Pentecost is red. On the other hand, green and yellow might clash with the tabernacle veil. Best to stay with a neutral white dove, I think.

I told Ruth on MSN, just now, and her response has set me off again:

Irim says:
I read at the Oratory Advent Carol service
ruth says:
how did it feel?
Irim says:
I haven't done the divine praises for a long time
Irim says:
Instead of saying the Holy Spirit, the Paraclete
Irim says:
I said, "The Holy Spirit, the...
Irim says:
PARAKEET"
ruth says:
HAHAHAHAHAHAAH!
ruth says:
God, the Macaw!

Can't you just hear the conversation:

Jesus: Father, you can't do that. You need a neutral.
Father: I quite like bright colours. And the Holy Spirit is supposed to be creative and inspirational. What's wrong with a macaw?
Jesus: Ok. Let me hold Him up to a Pentecostal tabernacle veil.
Father: The red looks fine.
Jesus (raising an eyebrow): AND THE BLUEY PURPLE?
Father: Ah. Indeed.
Jesus: Look, Dad, you know I love you. But there are going to be liturgical colours from deep to reddish purple, green, gold, white, red... you need to go neutral. We're talking grey, brown, black...that sort of thing.
Father: So: pigeon, sparrow, crow. Mmmm. Lots of choice. And the crow's voice - oi, you trying to kill me here?
Jesus: Don't be a Jewish mother; it doesn't suit you.
Father: You backtalking me? I'm putting you in the world, I can take you out. Your mother doesn't have to say "yes", you know.
Jesus (*thinks*): Ooh, let me see: born in a manger, laughed at, spat on, nails driven through my hands and crucified. Oh no, Daddy, I don't want to miss THAT!
Father (managing a straight face): I've got an idea...
Jesus: I'm all ears.
Father: White is the new black.
Jesus: Eh?
Father: A dove. He'll go with everything, lovely voice, not too flashy, not too dull. Pure looking.
Jesus: *Snorts* But you just LOOK at white and it gets dirty. Hard to keep it immaculate.
Father: Son, that's your job.
Jesus: Oh. (looks crestfallen) You didn't mean that about Mum saying 'no', did you?
Father: See you at Christmas, Son. I've got a present for you.

She has floppy ears...

is one of the most amusing 'mis-hearings' of the lyrics that back up Peter Gabriel in one of his most surreal and fabulous songs, "Games without frontiers".

I was hypnotised by that song when I first heard it a quarter of a century ago, and it's still an all-time favourite. It's a testament to the fact that enduring popular music isn't the anodyne, ungrammatical, uninteresting, talent-show cr*p that's coming out now - I've been curious about Peter Gabriel's references for *25* years. That's not going to happen with Girls Aloud or Westlife now, is it?

Ok, time for my confession: I heard those lyrics as "She's so popular." Actually, they're "Jeux sans frontieres" - French for "Games without frontiers".

Directly from songfacts:

"Kate Bush sang backup - that's her singing "'Jeux Sans Frontieres'." (I thought it was Peter Gabriel doing falsetto)

"Gabriel got the idea for the title from a 1970s European game show of the same name where contestants dressed up in strange costumes to compete for prizes. A version of the show came out in England called "It's a knockout," giving him that lyric."

The 2nd verse of the song begins:
"Andre has a red flag/ Chiang Ching's is blue/They all have hills to fly them on, except for Lin Tai Yu.

"Andre could refer to Andre Malraux (1901-1976) the French statesman and author of the book Man's Fate, about the 1920s communist regime in Shanghai. Red flag may refer to Malraux's leftist politics. Chiang Ching could refer to Chiang Kai-shek (1887-1975) Chinese leader of the Kuomintang who opposed the Communists - hence, the rightwing Blue Flag. Chiang's forces lost the civil war in 1949 and fled to Taiwan, where they set up a government in exile.

"Lin Tai Yu may be Nguyen Thieu (1923-2001), South Vietnamese president during the height of the Vietnam war. After the Communist victory of 1975, Thieu fled to Taiwan, England, and later to the United States where he died in exile.

"The lyric could refer to the fact that while leftist politicians like Andre Malraux had a secure position in France, and rightist leaders like Chiang Kai Shek had a secure country in Taiwan, those caught in the middle like Nguyen Thieu were pawns in the Cold war and had no secure country. This could also be a reproach to either Thieu or his United States backers, saying that he was now a nobody."

Marvellous. How many songs have THAT much learning packed into 4 minutes? How many songs haunt you for a quarter century? And even if the above surmise is incorrect, how much do you learn from researching and debating what it means?

All in the guise of a catchy tune.

The song does something else that all good pop songs should: it taps into deeply held emotions. When I first heard it, it helped me articulate my feelings that adults were playing silly games with other people's lives, so they could fly their flags from as many hills as possible. The chorus - "If looks could kill, they probably will/in games without frontiers/war without tears" also tapped into that fear of those of us growing up during the Cold War in the Reagan era - the fear of imminent nuclear war, vividly brought to life in movies such as "The Day After" and "Threads". Little did we know how soon it would lift, and that the end of the decade would see the demise of the Berlin Wall.

Since that time, pop doesn't hold the same appeal - I can't think of a single song that has the impact of Paul Hardcastle's "19" or Peter Gabriel's "Games without frontiers". There's no attempt at intelligent writing or tapping into real emotions, no Dylanesque social commentary, no interest in the world at large, just a self-absorbed obsession with looks and puppy love. I'm a bit worried that this generation will be ruling the world in a couple of decades, and they don't seem to care enough to write songs about it or debate what's happening in it. The time to start is now.

Mind you, no one will ever be able to surpass "Games without frontiers":

It's a knockout.

Golden compass

Before I start, let me say that I far prefer the original title Northern Lights, and don't approve of the dumbing down of the title for Americans. They need to learn.

But this isn't about Philip Pullman's marvelous trilogy, Dark Materials.

It's about the people in your life who are golden compasses.

I've thought about this on and off for a long time, but last Saturday's ordination put me in a reflective mood, and I finally pulled it all together.

Saturday's ordinand to the diaconate is someone who has been a member of the community in my church since October 2003. I'd seen him around for about 18 months before that. I found him unsettling - in part because of his build and his economical movement, which reminded me of a fighter, but mostly because he 'felt' like a coiled spring - everything from voice to movement was measured, controlled, but it felt like a hurricane was being held in; there was an incredible tension, a dissonance between inner and outer that made me wary and uncomfortable.

His rigidity and marriage to rules - Jesu pie, there were days that I wanted to shake him and remind him that flexible trees are the ones that survive strong winds and come upright again. I began to think of him as Br Rule-Keeper. Let's just say that the mental intonation was not complimentary.

But discomfort makes me very watchful - and the more I watched, the more wariness turned to (grudging, at first, I'll freely admit) respect and affection. He was gentle with children, and unlike others I have known, had a healthy adult-child relationship with them: he wasn't trying to be one of them, he was the adult and they were the child, and the kids loved him for it - no chaotic, hyper childishness that's fun for a while, but not something you can lean against or trust. Just quiet solidity and the occasional teasing. His actions matched his words...I didn't like him, but when he promised me he would do something, it was done. No drama, no whingeing, no lies...just action.

In my world, that's worth a hell of a lot.

Oh, we still spar and roll our eyes at eachother. We'll never agree about the Catholic Church, rules, orthodoxy, any of it. I still want to shake the pedant (sorry, m'dear, but you can be) out of him and get him to loosen up a bit and put some emotion into it, especially when catechising the masses. But I'd bet you my last tuppence we agree on the *principles*, even if our expressions of those principles are 180 degrees apart.

But his stability, his demand for things to be thought out, makes him something more precious than that friend who always agrees with you: it makes him a compass. But what does that mean?

I was reading one of Rachel Naomi Remen's stories of a young man who came to counselling after his father died - he was an artist; his father was an insurance agent, accountant or something along those lines. He spoke of their fights, how he struggled against the direction that he felt his father wanted him to take, the security his father insisted he have.

Then he won an exhibit. Afterwards, one of the judges came up to him and said, "How could we not give it to you? Your presentation answered every single one of our objections. Clearly, you had thought everything through."

And the son got it.

His father was a compass. The son didn't have to take his father's direction, but because his father always pointed north, the son could mark his chosen direction from his father. And his father had forced him to be able to defend the direction he chose to take, to ground his dreams in reality.

So it is with Br Rule-keeper. I'm sure, since he sees Catholicism as the One Truth, he would prefer that I keep to a direction far closer to his. But he always points north, so whatever direction I choose to take, if I mark it from him, I will always travel true.

And I've finally realised that, as an iconoclast, I don't really want the whole system to come down at once - I want it to *change*. The edifice may have to be taken down and rebuilt, but it must happen systematically, and not in the form of a collapse. That needs rule-keepers.

He's not alone in my life: I'm blessed with friends who are compasses of all shapes and sizes. From my ex-supervisor-the-kindred-spirit to cynical Rachel to midnight sidhe and Moses, from the somewhat-distractable-but-intuitive-friend to the "How long have you had a thing for unavailable men?" mate and the "And he missed out on getting his boner seen to by u! what a step in the wrong direction! :)" cheekily affectionate male friend, none of them are what you expect a compass to look like.

But they always point true North - and allow me to mark my heart's direction.

Thank you. I love you all more than you will ever know.

Beware of those that look like compasses. My father looked and sounded like a compass, like the paragon of stability, but he was one of the most controlling, emotionally unavailable men I have ever met. A current male friend's bearing and orthodox pronouncements give him the appearance of authority and compasshood, but scratch the surface and you find someone whose emotional unavailability and need for control rivals my father's, except it is more like being in the middle of a tornado than a Siberian winter, not least because he drowns it in alcohol.

Trust me: don't go there. Taking your direction from someone who is running from their own pain, from themselves, will only ensure that two people are lost, not one.

Don't forget to try to be a compass to others - always point true to your heart's direction, to what you really believe, and you will be someone else's true North.

I said I wasn't talking about Philip Pullman. I lied.

After all, what is Pullman's golden compass? An alethiometer, derived from the Greek meaning "truth measuring instrument". Ask the golden compass a question and it will give you a true answer - but you have to be able to interpret the symbols to know what that answer is. It won't always be what you want to hear. But it will always be what you need to hear, and you can mark your direction by it.

So pay attention to your compass, and treasure it. S/he is, after all, one of life's most precious gifts.