Rock of ages

I just had to post this. There have been so many times I've wanted to stand up in the middle of the Oratory during Latin mass and just shout the first line to everyone there living (if you can call it that) their Stepford lives:

All right, I got something to say: Yeah, it's better to burn out -

THAN FADE AWAY

And yes, I've wanted to rock the damn place down, down to the ground...and occasionally (figuratively) burn it, but only to start again.

Well, the church DOES refer to itself as the Rock of Ages, so it's a perfectly appropriate song to break into in the middle of mass.

What do I want? I want rock 'n' roll.

Yes, I do.

After all, someone has to get into that church and give the Holy Spirit a hand. How? Gonna start a fire...

GAAAAAAAAAAAAH

ARRRRRGH!!!!!!!!!!

I'm watching "Silent Witness", and one of the story lines takes place in a Chasidic community. Overall, it's not too bad - we've seen a reasonable Shabbat dinner, married women wearing sheitels, the problems of not fitting in and the claustrophobia, a proper Siddur, a scene from a shiva.

They don't seem to get that the Chasidim aren't the same as 'black hatters', but fine.

'Noach' and 'Esther' pronounced correctly.

But ARRRRRGGGHHHHHH! When Nikki and Harry, the goyim, pronounce Yitzchak correctly with a 'ch' as in the German 'ach' and the supposed Chasidic parents pronounce Yitzchak with a 'ch' as in 'Charlie', it's NAILS ON A DAMNED CHALKBOARD.

And it's even worse when Ari is pronounced 'Airi' by supposed Chasidim, rather than 'Ari' with an 'A' as in 'are'. GAAAAAAAAH. HATE.

If the actors are really Jewish, unforgivable. If they're not Jewish, understandable, but still unforgivable.

It's your job to get it right.

Sometimes I wish I could cry in public

I can cry in the dark at movies. I can cry in an empty church - the Oxford Oratory's Lady Chapel has seen its fair share of my tears, as has the Oxford night when I've been walking home.

Today, though, I nearly cried in Nando's in the middle of dinner.

My Namibian/Saffa friend and I met up for a proper catchup for the first time in AGES. I met her by our couch when she emerged from my ex-housemate's room after a long weekend. The moment our eyes met, we knew we'd be friends for life. I'm in touch with her far more than I am with him.

We talked about all that had happened since our last meeting - we laughed, gasped in disbelief, vented. We had moved on to the stuff that separates acquaintances from friends when she said something that made me fight for composure:

"You know, Saturday night, [ex-housemate] had left and I was all alone and I couldn't sleep. I was really missing him, feeling completely alone and couldn't stop crying."

"You should have rung me!"

"No, wait. I picked up my phone and looked at it, thinking, 'Who can I call? Who cares about me? Who can I talk to?' Then I suddenly thought, 'I can call Irim.' Yours was the first name that came into my head. And my heart felt so happy knowing I could call you that I didn't have to, and I just went straight to sleep."

I was so completely choked up, trying not to cry in public, I'm not sure I gave a coherent answer. I don't think I told her that I had actually been *awake* at 3am Saturday night, restless and unsettled.

Later in the conversation, she said, very naturally, "You're my sister."

As you are mine, heartsis.

A whispered prayer to All That Is from this panentheist:

Thank you for all my blessings - for those that are obvious and those that seem like obstacles, for love, friendship, and everything that comes my way. For making me incarnate so I can love Your creation through gazing on it, holding it tenderly, listening to it closely, tasting it, inhaling deeply.

But today, thank you for reassuring me that despite my crap mass attendance and poor attention to all things religiously orthodox, I must be living at least a sliver of a life that You would approve of. If just one person feels that they can ring me from a dark place at the dark time of 3am, I must be doing something right.

Not much. But something.

Dante's prayer

I was reading Ari's LJ, where she'd done a meme involving an ipod shuffle, 10 songs and writing a coherent paragraph with one sentence from each of the lyrics in order. I was alternately amused and impressed by her paragraphs, then one song and artist caught my eye.

I have loved Loreena McKennitt for years, and somehow, perhaps because of her song "All Souls' Night", I always think of her as the leaves turn colour, the nights draw in and my spiritual life shifts up a gear or several - though not always in the most orthodox fashion.

The song's title, "Dante's Prayer", arrested my attention - most obviously because of my Catholicism and the fact that I've always wanted to read the Divine Comedy (and need to stop wanting and start DOING). Less obviously, I wondered, "What does she think Dante would pray?"

So I went to look at the lyrics and found that she had somehow captured my life in the last fortnight - the intense melancholy of early October, which lingers; the sense of groundlessness, of a falling into the unknown; of moving into the welcome darkness of a long, moonlit night; the sense of reaching towards a world I know, a place that is home, that is somehow always just out of reach. And, as ever, my yearning for the mountains and the sea - I've often joked that I need to live where I can turn one way to face the mountains and the other to face an endless sea.

And, of course, love. First, last and always, love:

When the dark wood fell before me
And all the paths were overgrown
When the priests of pride say there is no other way
I tilled the sorrows of stone

I did not believe because I could not see
Though you came to me in the night
When the dawn seemed forever lost
You showed me your love in the light of the stars

Chorus:
Cast your eyes on the ocean
Cast your soul to the sea
When the dark night seems endless
Please remember me

Then the mountain rose before me
By the deep well of desire
From the fountain of forgiveness
Beyond the ice and the fire

Chorus

Though we share this humble path, alone
How fragile is the heart:
Oh, give these clay feet wings to fly
To touch the face of the stars

Breathe life into this feeble heart
Lift this mortal veil of fear
Take these crumbled hopes, etched with tears
We'll rise above these earthly cares

Chorus

Please remember me
Please remember me...

And so, as bonfires dot the rolling hillside this season of cocooning, cloaks and cocoa in the lengthening darkness, I wish you much yearning, introspection, mystery and growth. It is truly my favourite time of year. I only wish All Souls' mass wasn't trumped by a Sunday this year; I could do with black vestments, unbleached candles and a requiem mass as ritual.

And as I leave you, I offer you another question via Loreena McKennitt in this time of spiritual darkness and rebirth:

Would you like my mask?
would you like my mirror?
cries the man in the shadowing hood:
You can look at yourself,
you can look at each other,
or you can look at the face, the face of your god.

May you make the choice that brings you love and finally brings you home.

Blessed be, and Amen.

Bone marrow drive in London

I was asked by a fellow blogger, William Wolfrum, whom I also consider a virtual friend, if I would cross-post for him here, since I may be lucky enough to have more UK readers than he does, and so, without further ado:

Like virtually all other nations on the planet, England needs bone marrow donors to come forward and offer the gift of life to the many in need of a bone marrow transplant to survive. Tomorrow in London there’s a registration drive happening. Here’s the vitals:

REGISTRATION DRIVE

Saturday, October 18, 2008
11:00am - 4:30pm
Barclays Bank
126 Station Road HA8 7RY
London, United Kingdom

The event is being held by the African Caribbean Leukemia Trust. From my friend Tamu Townsend:

“It doesn’t take much time to register and requires a teaspoon of blood. That’s it. If you match, you will be guided every step of the way. The ACLT’s current campaign is Heroes Wanted. You don’t have to run into a burning building or have superpowers to be a hero. Just a willingness to help.”

If you’re someone who likes to help people, joining the bone marrow donor registry is one of the easiest ways you can not just help someone, but actually save a life. Finding a bone marrow match is a number’s game. And every registry desperately needs more numbers.

If you’re in the U.S. and want to join the registry, head over to the National Marrow Donor Program at www.marrow.org or send me an e-mail at wkwolfrum(at)gmail(dot)com.

Thanks,

Bill

I really must go and give blood again so I can complete the process, especially as a South Asian with a B+ blood type - both of which are pretty rare on the registry, from what I understand.

Please everyone, wherever you are: Oxford, London, Newcastle, Rome, Paris, New York or Sydney - please join the bone marrow registry.

It costs so little, but the dividends are huge.

And take it from me, even in today's troubled climate, that's a risk worth taking.

Touch typing and orgasms

From my morning conversation with my jobshare partner, whose 6 month old cutie I babysat for last night:

9:35am Irim: I presume that is 'Robin is loving the Kaiser Chiefs'?

9:36am Robin: damn touch typing let me down again only works if you have your fingers on the right button - like so much in life :0

9:41am Irim: You know, there's a line about female orgasms in here somewhere...

Surely everyone saw THAT coming, especially my mah boyz? We all know me: get out of the gutter, you're standing on my snorkel.

I promise, no comments about teaching men to type or have their fingers on the right button and pressing appropriately. Or drawing men maps/diagrams.

Honest.

*Sits in chair, jiggling feet, trying to catalogue books on the history of South Africa. Attempts not to burst out and just say it...*

Remind me why I'm a Catholic girl AND a librarian?

Oh right, to make sure sex gets into the conversation whenever possible, like the trickster I am...

This is why...

...you don't consider them a burden. You don't abort them just because of their sex. You don't bury them alive as newborns. You don't treat them as property. You don't kill them because they won't marry who you want. You don't belittle them. You don't prevent them from living their lives, whatever they may be.





This is why you treat them as human beings with agency. This is why those 18,000,000 cracks in the glass ceiling need to become a wide open space for anyone and everyone to go through. This is why I snark, argue, fight, won't put up with any crap from anyone, and vote.

Maybe it's why I force myself into knots in male-dominated institutions, opening my mouth and pushing against the status quo and the women who roll over and support it.

It's CERTAINLY why a number of Christmas presents will be donations to support girls in school, sex education, women in business, female literacy, all of it.

And yeah, that includes the 'only boys can be altar servers/priests/head of any religion and women are only there to clean up after us/be patronised/bear us children' crowd.

Please help change the course of history. Donate here.

It's time to restore the balance. (Video and inspiration to blog this via Shakesville)

Friends?

When I friended family on Facebook, I knew it was just a matter of time before the childhood friends I suffered many a Pakistani party with would make a friend request.

It happened last week. My heart sank.

Now, before anyone recoils in horror, let me explain: for the most part, we really couldn't stand each other. The bitchiness and competitiveness wasn't an undertone, believe you me. There wasn't *ONE* girl I sat with at those parties - with the exception of my cousins, Ambereen and Nageen - that I would have trusted with any snippet of my real life, because it would have been met with nothing but contempt and ridicule. I sat there for hours on end, hating the shallow conversation, the regurgitation of parental mores, the smugness...the unthinking acceptance of everything being shoved down their throats. In many cases, I could stand their parents even less.

But much as my friends today will find it hard to believe, I was a 'good girl', so I said nothing.

It's no wonder I don't - and most likely *won't* - ever have a close South Asian female friend, at least not one who hasn't made some kind of real break from the culture. Yaqoob is currently my only South Asian friend, and he's a Christian male.

So, what did I do when this request came through? I accepted.

Why? In part, because I think I should be over the childhood crap and trust that they've grown up to be thoughtful human beings. In part, because I'm curious. In part, as a way of facing the childhood I'd really rather not admit to having.

The result? Flipping through her pictures, I feel suffocated by her life: the same friends we had growing up, one job lasting 4 yrs, 91 South Asian friends - not a white or black face amongst them, indicative of a narrow circle, a narrow mind and a troubling racism. Every single picture is of a Pakistani party that is a clone for the life-draining ones I grew up with, with the shallow happy-happy comments of 'what a lovely couple!' beneath photos, even when the woman's body language and expression indicates she'd rather be having a root canal than be with the rank, limp Pakistani man by her side, who has the befuddled expression of someone who never expected to have sex, but is actually going to get some because his parents found a girl who'd take him.

And if I see the expression 'mash'allah' beneath another picture, I'm going to hurt someone. Or defriend her.

What do I remember about her life before we lost touch? She couldn't get into medical school here, so her parents sent her to med school in Pakistan, which didn't pan out too well when she got back - aside from my mother's rhapsody on how well she spoke Urdu and how she'd fallen in love with the culture. Then she accepted an arranged marriage, had kids, and had no life of her own, just got absorbed into some replay of her parents' life.

"Independent free thinker"? I think not.

I've said it before and I'll say it again, walking out of my parents' house was the best decision I ever made.

Yes, I know I'm being judgmental and that my reaction is much more about how I feel about my childhood and the restrictions of the culture I grew up in. I feel suffocated by MY childhood and what could have been, not her life.

Instead, I need to be thankful for the authenticity of my life, full of friends from all over the world, and for the love I'm surrounded by, as well as the fact that I have the freedom I've wanted for as long as I can remember. Would I love to be married and have children? Absolutely. But only when people look at a picture of us and don't feel the need to comment, "What a lovely couple," because well, *real* couples - with laughter, passion, closeness - aren't...'lovely' or 'nice'.

But I need to face what this Facebook friend brings, not run away from it. And it's not fair of me to hold her responsible for it, simply because she's the one who decided to re-enter my life.

After all, I chose to let her back in.

Shaken

I was on the phone with a friend last night when she said to me:

"Do you remember the loaded question you asked me?"

I laughed. "I ask a lot of loaded questions, so you'll have to remind me."

"About [name]."

"Ah, yes."

"Well, it turns out I was warned to be careful around him."

"I can't say I'm surprised. I never trusted him, no matter how nice everyone else said he was."

"I know you didn't."

"It wasn't anything I could articulate, I just didn't want him within 4 ft of me. I wondered if it was me, if it had to do with being sexually abused by my uncle."

"Well, that actually gave you an early warning system that most people don't have."

She's partially right there - I would add that having a father who was charming in public and oh-so-much-less-so in private made that radar foolproof.

But it doesn't mean that I'm always certain of my instincts; in fact, when people say, "But he/she/it is so lovely; you're wrong, you're just harsh/cynical/you don't know them," I will almost always find a reason to back off and brush it off as a first impression.

Problem is, that initial instinct is always right: maybe in a softer way than I had put it, or only as part of the whole. But it is right, even as a thread, not a pattern.

That only holds if the sense falls in the middle ground, which, of course, most of the time it does. If my emotion towards someone or sense of interpersonal dynamics is extreme, positive or negative, it is also always right in degree.

After I hung up with her last night, I followed the thread back. I had spoken truly, all I could have told her was that tension in my solar plexus, the sense of a shield about three feet away from me when this man was around. My voice would become more clipped, his eyes unsettled me, possibly because they were the golden green that reminded me of a cat's, a colour I've always found unsettling and unhuman.

Then I knew.

One of the things I've always done is pick up emotional resonances: give me a man who is under tight control and I will sense the anger/sadness/sexuality underneath the sealed lid. Someone who is pretending to be happy, and I will sense the depression. I don't see people with my eyes as much as I see them with my emotional senses, from the definable character lines to the indefinable aura.

What had completely freaked me out about this man was that I could sense *nothing*. He was an emotional vacuum. If you don't know, I can't even tell you how frighteningly creepy that is.

*Shudder* Here's hoping that I never have to run into him again. I have yet to hear what made everyone else cotton on, but from what little I got, I suspect it's more than a bit sinister.

But this does cut two ways: it means that when I *do* trust, that's right, too. I have had male friends who lift me off my feet when they hug me, wrap their arms round my shoulders and pull me close, ruffle my hair and so on - all of which many feminists consider demeaning/physically dominant gestures.

But from these men, all of whom I trust implicitly, I absolutely welcome them - and would miss the gestures if they weren't made.

That trust comes from the same place, so that radar is truly a gift.

But last night's conversation - and others like it - still leave me absolutely shaken, though I couldn't tell you why.

And from the clerical corner...

The cleric in question shall remain nameless...suffice it to say, he's a good friend.

We were discussing the pros and cons of the internet when...

Cleric: I'm sick of getting emails about penis enlargements.
Me: I know. Me too - and you know how sensitive I am about my penis size.
Cleric: (laughs) Things would have been very different if you had had a penis.
Me: Yes. For one, I'd be Pope by now.
Cleric, in a voice combining long-suffering and horror: Oh. my. God. (gesturing towards my cleavage) Well, it's a good thing He gave you those then.

It's time this bitch got some respect...and her own back:


Amen.

Saffadeacon's sermon

I'm not trying to hide who he is, so don't worry about the appellation.

He's a good friend - one who will tell me what's what and has a belief in the goodness of others that makes me both fear for and envy him.

Because of my lack of mass attendance, Saturday was the first time I'd heard him preach. The readings had been tied together by the vineyard motif: Isaiah's poetry described what the Lord had done for His vineyard; the psalm declaimed that the Lord's vineyard was the House of Israel; the Gospel was Jesus' story about the vineyard and the owner.

So the expectation would have been for Br Saffadeacon to hit on sin, sour grapes, the evils in the vineyard. Did he?

He did not.

Instead, he began with the story of a well-known miracle in South Africa and followed the ripples of good that had followed from that. From there, he went further, to remind us that we are God's instruments of love in the world and that there is a hidden (or not so hidden) kernel of good in everyone and every situation, and that we can each make a difference every day by who we choose to be and what we choose to do.

Thus, in one sermon, where he beautifully (and I suspect unknowingly) outlined the Jewish concept of tikkun olam (a Hebrew phrase that means "repairing the world"), he hit upon the true challenge of the Christian faith - or any faith.

It isn't, as most priests bang on about, to eliminate sin - after all, the elimination of sin does not guarantee virtue. Also, sin is born of fear and pain, both of which are eliminated by the love that Saffadeacon exhorted us to live. After all, "perfect love casts out fear". So the elimination of sin is a natural consequence of living a life of love, which also guarantees virtue.

So, learning to live love - day by day, person by person, situation by situation - will repair the world by releasing the sparks of holiness in each situation whilst eliminating sin. Sounds like a win-win to me.

Simple, right? Love is a great thing, we all feel good when we have it/act from it. It should be obvious and clearcut, and with a little training, easy. Very neat indeed.

Hmmmm.

My reading of Paolo Coelho's The Zahir offers me a caveat from one of the main characters, Mikhail:

"All men and all women are connected by an energy which many people call love, but which is, in fact, the raw material from which the universe was built. This energy can't be manipulated, it leads us gently forwards, it contains all we have to learn in this life. If we try to make it go in the direction we want, we end up desperate, frustrated, disillusioned, because that energy is free and wild."

Love isn't tame and it isn't ours to direct. It directs us. It doesn't always appear when you want, how you want, in the person you want, in a neat little package to be put away when you're done.

Maybe not so easy after all. At least not for those of us who like to be in control at least 90% of the time.

Again, from The Zahir:

In hospital, love had spoken to me: 'I am everything and I am nothing. I am the wind, and I cannot enter windows and doors that are shut.'

And I said to love: 'But I am open to you.'

And love said to me, 'The wind is made of air. There is air inside your house, but everything is shut up. The furniture will get covered in dust, the damp will ruin the paintings and stain the walls. You will continue to breathe, you will know a small part of me, but I am not a part, I am Everything, and you will never know that.'

I saw that the furniture was covered in dust, that the paintings were being corroded by damp, and I had no alternative but to open the windows and doors. When I did that, the wind swept everything away. I wanted to cling on to my memories, to protect what I had worked hard to achieve, but everything disappeared and I was as empty as the steppes.

And before the clerics who believe they've given everything up for Christ and read this start to preen: don't. It is amongst you that I have found people with the most furniture and the most airtight houses, most closed against love and God because of the fear, avoidance and clinging that reside in you still.

Emptying that house doesn't always mean what we think it does: someone who lives in the world may well have an emptier house than someone who claims asceticism, if he holds those possessions lightly and the ascetic clings to his choice as a medal of his goodness and mark of how much closer he is to God than those who live in the world.

Never forget: this world is God's. Eschewing it in the way many do is simply a slap in the face to the Creator, a child's temper tantrum because the world wasn't what one wanted it to be. And that anger born of pain leaves no space for love.

The space that allows love to transform us is all in the heart, and love works differently in all our lives. Allow it to form shapes and situations you never expected or dared hope for. Let go of who or what you thought you were meant to be: married by 27, an executive VP by 40, a priest, a surgeon. Open your windows and doors and let love blow freely through your house, trusting, even though it may mean that you know not what is beneath your feet.

Frightening and painful as it may be at times, you will LIVE, and be that instrument that Saffadeacon spoke of. An instrument of change in a shattered world.

It's not just the toughest challenge; it's the only challenge.

No, all that wasn't in the sermon. But I love sermons that challenge me, force me to articulate what I believe and let me take them out of the church box and make all sorts of connections. This was truly one of those...simple, to the point, but with lots of room to play.

Thank you, Saffadeacon, for your superb sermon which threw down the gauntlet. I, for one, accept. And fully expect you to remind me in your no-holds-barred way when I'm refusing it.

And on that note, I raise a glass of South African red to you. I'd say "Well done" in Afrikaans, but I can't find a decent translation ;-). English is a bit boring, so I'll borrow a phrase from my childhood:

Shabash.

You couldn't have done better.

My brother...

It's a rare day that I will admit this, but today, I needed to go home to a man who loves me, who knows how to be there, who could just hold me. I needed to walk in the door and, without a word, walk up to him, close my eyes and put my head against his shoulder, then feel his arms go round me.

Then I needed to cry. (This bit I can do later in my room, since I started at exposition)

I talk about my immediate family so rarely that friends who've known me for years will ask if my parents are dead. Cousins, uncles, aunts, grandparents all figure in my stories. Friends who've known me a decade or more and can reel off the names Rabia, Amna, Nageen and Ambereen will ask if I have any siblings, even whilst I ask about theirs.

So not my favourite topic of discussion then.

Today, my cousin's husband, S, popped up on facebook chat. What with it being a slow day at work and my penchant for having facebook chats up behind other apps, I said 'hi'.
He responded, and we chatted about everything from his long hair to their boys, when he asked how long it had been since they'd seen me.

Last time we saw you was whenever you were here last.

I see your brother more than you!

And your parents!

What a shame.

My brother. I froze. I hadn't been in touch with him because the only way is through my parents, and I haven't spoken to them in four years. Even when I WAS speaking to them, he was 'never there'...and there was never an offer to have him ring back. So I said to S:

God, please tell me he's not still living with my parents
his response: Of course he is.
Me: *Shoots self*

To make a long story short, my father is very controlling: my mother couldn't talk to male colleagues, I couldn't talk to male cousins after the age of about 10 and wasn't allowed to do evening activities at school or really have a circle of friends - Dad's favourite line was "You can't trust anyone but your family." The academic pressure was incredible: my brother was supposed to be able to add columns of 3 digit numbers when he was *5* - my mother set him 10-15 problems a day. I had to teach him because I was 'such a good teacher' - so if he didn't get them right, we both caught it as soon as mum got home. Which made me a...less than patient and kind teacher, I suspect. No, I know.

He was FIVE, for God's sake.

We were 7 years apart, and we could be close or fight like cats and dogs, like all siblings. I was the one who would shout back at my father when it all got too much; he would withdraw and not speak. I don't think my father could cope with that from a male any more than he could cope with the fact that his daughter was perfectly happy to yell back at him or physically enter the fray when he'd go for her hair. That didn't mean that there weren't times I shut up out of fear, but I was the mouthy one.

Nor could my father deal with the fact that his daughter would walk out the door at 21 with only a few bin bags full of clothes. Only a few weeks before, my friend Frances had turned to me and said, "Get out. Get out before they take the life out of you and you can't." The words 'arranged' and 'marriage' made me take her advice.

I should have taken him with me then. He was almost 15, we could have worked something out; he might have grown up able to be himself. But I hoped and prayed that he'd follow my example, that if his big sister could do it, HE could do it. Time and again when he'd ring me, I'd beg him to leave, tell him to come and stay with me till we sorted something, anything. Every time, he said no.

And I saw it happen. I watched him slip into the business world, get my father's praise, stop laughing, become very conservative. Defend them. When he came here to visit me in 1998, we did almost nothing but row. I felt like he hated me for rebelling; I assumed he'd taken their side and had been truly assimilated. I thought he was happy living in their basement, free rent, free food...I just thought he was being lazy. To my shame, I held him in contempt for it, for not having the guts to struggle, to fight, to do it the hard way.

Let's pick up the conversation where we left off:

S: Don't laugh. N tries to help him, but something's not right with the guy.
Irim: God, getting away from them was the best thing I ever did. Tell me.
S: He seems so nice, gentle, harmless.[Irim thinks: lifeless?]
Irim: but...
S: She looks very, very old- big belly, gray hair. You don't communicate with him?
I: my parents wouldn't let me. [as in, except for their number, I had no contact details for him. And yes, I tried to google him]
S: He, not she! Oops. Fuck your parents.

[And as much as love and appreciation as I have for parents in general, I think that was probably the best advice I've ever been given when it comes to mine.]

...

Irim: is he angry, can you sense that?
S: No, just depressed. Very low key.

*Puts head in hands* Mea maxima culpa. I know my parents so much better than that. I should have known his hands were tied somehow.

I'm so sorry, kiddo. I've been absolutely crap and totally unfair to you, and I really, really should have pushed to talk to you, but I *do* love you. And not with the 'spider love' (credit: Martha Beck) that our parents gave us. I don't give a shit if you want to be a bin man or an investment banker, Democrat or Republican, love a man or a woman. I just want you to be free to be who you are, not the person you feel you have to be to survive. S, N, A - if you can, get him on facebook and NOT tell my parents. Let's see what we can do. I know you've all been trying - maybe another shoulder to the door will open it an inch.

And sometimes, an inch is all it takes.

Irim as lolcat

After last night's post, I couldn't resist. Imagine any member of the Catholic hierarchy as the tabby: Fr Voldy, Cardinal Keeler, etc. In my mind, it's Joseph Ratzinger/Pope Benedict. Now imagine me as the Siamese.

Totally, eh?

For some reason - and I'm sure my psychoanalytically inclined friends will go to town with this (with my blessing) - I can see the tabby as my *mother* (NOT my father, which is interesting).

So: the tabby is either my mother or a member of the male hierarchy of the Catholic Church.

Coincidence?

I think not.

Why mass made me shake with rage

I went to mass today to celebrate the feast of Our Lady of Walsingham - after all, it is in Walsingham that I've felt touched by God in so many ways: from finally completely forgiving my uncle his sexual abuse to those wonderful God-filled conversations with John F. and others. And let me tell you - there's nowhere like the smoking tent out back of the Bull at about 2am for finding God.

I know, I know. I've drifted away from church to create a reasonable balance, so that when I do go, I'm not driven crazy by liturgical Nazis, the mediocre choir, the high proportion of shallow, narcissistic parishioners. But I can't drift forever - I must decide whether to stay or go. From the Oratory. From the Catholic Church. And I can't do that from the position of rebellion and general ill will I've been feeling. So I'm going to try to maintain a balance where I'm more involved, so I can make a decision from the right place. But that's another post.

It started off well. I popped in, said 'Hi' to John W. and went to the novena. I was reasonably cheerful despite the cheesy Marian hymn with which we began mass (note: WHY do all the Marian hymns have inane Victorian words and playground tunes? Is that how little Catholics think of the Mother of God?). There was even an adorable 3-4 month old girl with the most gorgeous smile being good as gold a few rows in front of me. I entered the wanting-to-hold-baby melting phase that I would DIE before admitting to in front of any of my clerical friends. Tough bitch works so much better with men in dog collars.

Mass was in Latin, my preferred language, said by someone who has a semblance of Italian vowels. (Fr...ex-Parish Priest's vowels make me want to climb the damn walls) I prefer Latin not because it's the only liturgically valid language (*hurl*), but because of its sensuality - liquid vowels, soft consonants. Latin is sexy.

It was all fine until the Eucharistic Prayer, when the woman with the baby decided that she needed to kneel and read the translation of a Eucharistic prayer she hears in English every goddamned day. That, of course, meant that there was no room for baby. So what did she do?

She put the baby on the hard wooden floor in the central aisle of the church. Without a seat or even a blanket. Or even her precious coat.

Yes, that's right. The baby was directly on the hard floor of the centre aisle, so that this...no, I won't use the c-word...could kneel, look pious and read a translation she KNOWS. Oh, and she looked over about 3 times in 15 minutes.

I went from mushy to shaking with rage in 2 seconds. You do NOT put a vulnerable person in danger. You do NOT place a child on a cold, hard floor in a heavily travelled aisle in church. Granted, no one should have moved during that time, but you can't be sure. You do not place YOUR 'need' to act pious over a child's safety. A baby's need for love and security trumps EVERYTHING.

I nearly went over and picked her up, but I retained enough sense to know that it would make matters worse. Even so, I wanted to stand up and say to Fr Provost, who was saying mass, "THIS.THIS is what makes me angry. THIS is what I hate about your parishioners - that they place piety over what is really important. That you reward this apparent piety in every form it comes - from the asskissing parishioners to the insufferable altar servers, even when others are placed at risk. THIS is why I walked."

And even after she no longer needed to kneel, she left the baby on the floor until she had to go up for communion...

..which I received in a towering rage. But since I felt my anger at her placing the little one in danger was justified, I haven't a twinge of conscience about it.

Mass ended, I knelt to pray, then turned on my heel and left.

Fortunately, none of the three brethren I would have talked to about this came through just then, because I think I would have cried tears of rage on the shoulder that appeared as I told him what happened. I might well have said, "Remind me. Remind me why I'm here. Why I care. Why I keep trying to make this work. Why I don't just leave."

Even now, I'm not sure I can answer that.

A guilty secret...

...I am utterly mesmerised by watching my male friends light up. And yes, I have to admit, whether I fancy a man or not, I find it incredibly sexy.

Damn. Probably not something I should have let them know.

Before we move on, no, *I* don't smoke. It doesn't appeal to me, except for the idea of being able to gesture and pose with some kind of coolness and authority. Liquorice cigarettes in a holder would work just fine for me. I'm not keen on how my clothes or hair smell after I've been in a roomful of it, and yes, I DO worry about the health implications for my friends who smoke.

End mandatory disclaimer.

What has always really interested me is why it's so hypnotically sexy, and my interest was further piqued by the fact that Ari, who hates smoking like I hate Edward, the Oratory choirmaster, finds it sexy as well - and she can't explain it either, despite being one of the most articulate people I've ever met.

Things that make you go hmmmm.

First, let me narrow the definition of lighting up: cigarette, not pipe. The latter is lovely in its own way, as a calming ritual, and the smell of pipe smoke brings to mind affectionate, avuncular figures who smelled of Imperial leather and sandalwood.

With the definition out of the way, let's look at the obvious reason: there's a whole Humphrey Bogart/classic leading man association - tough, male, capable, smouldering, just plain hot. But that's only the tip of the iceberg.

Going a bit deeper, part of it is that I love watching people's hands. Hands perform so many actions, punctuate our words, mark out our territory, hold someone close, heal through touch. In the darkest night that words won't penetrate, a hand on a shoulder or a hug often can.

Watching a man's hands as he lights up not only allows one the aesthetic pleasure of looking at the shape of his hands, but more importantly, it allows you the pleasure of watching how his hands move when he's not consciously directing them: for example, I have a friend who is so controlled that his speaking gestures are staccato, but when you watch him light up, his hands flow much more, indicating a more sensual, relaxed worldview beneath what he perceives to be the required Catholic uptightness.

And that's really the crux of it all. When a man lights a cigarette, he withdraws from being in relationship with you and moves back into relationship with himself. The mask drops, and suddenly, in the matchlight, you catch a breathtaking glimpse of the beauty of the man behind the defences - the vulnerability, the grief, the gentleness. If you're lucky, the glimpse lasts through the first couple of drags as he slowly refocuses and comes back into relationship with you.

I've been moved to tears by that moment: the sudden relaxation of a face perpetually tense; the glimpse of a grief that won't be verbalised; the sight of the young boy he once was; the wound that won't heal. I've been hard put not to somehow acknowledge what I've seen, but it would feel intrusive to do so, as they're not revealing it to me, they're simply allowing themselves to be.

It's sexy because it momentarily opens the curtain on the window to their soul.

So, boys, don't mind me.

Keep lighting up.

I wish...

a. I could do qewl things like this.
b. I could look this good in a picture whilst needing my own postcode. I'm dreading the pics from Anna's party being posted on Facebook!

Could someone tell me...

...what on earth an inexperienced, celibate "ewwwww sex/relationships" perpetual Peter Pan of a priest is going to do NOW? Especially after he couldn't be bothered to get their pre-nuptial counselling right?

Of course, it could also be my parents. And yes, I'd probably be right in assuming that they only had sex twice, seven years apart. Trust me on that.

Looks like a catastrophe to me...

How I pray...

For various reasons - from Alphaville's "Forever Young" in an advert to Ruth playing A-ha whilst I was at hers - I've been hunting down the music of my youth. Music from the 80s makes me laugh, cry, dance like a maniac.

It's also the way I pray.





"Kyrie eleison", meaning "Lord, have mercy", has been part of my everyday vocabulary since I became Catholic. I use it in prayer, as an interjection, for any reason going. E.g., "Kyrie eleison, will NO ONE do us all a favour and push Edward out of the choir loft??!" My usage of it is probably (and I'm happy for my Saffa friends to correct me on this) similar to the Afrikaans "Jislaaik" or "Agh".

But this song came out long before my Catholic days, and I used it as a prayer from the moment I was mesmerised by the opening verse:

Kyrie eleison
Kyrie eleison
Kyrie...

The wind blows hard against this mountainside,
across the sea into my soul -
it reaches into where I cannot hide,
setting my feet upon the road...
My heart is old, it holds my memories,
my body burns a gem-like flame:
somewhere between the soul and soft machine
is where I find myself again...

I'd never heard a song like it before, but it resonated in a way that the young Irim couldn't articulate. All my life, I had felt like my feet had been set on a road, that I couldn't hide, that someone was always beside me, that God was closer to me than my own skin - I never needed to have faith in God; I knew God existed, just like I knew our house did. Just like I knew that there was somewhere, somewhen I was meant to be.

I was always trying to find a way to get closer to God: I wanted to pray with my mother, my cousins in Pakistan, but I always found talking to God in my own words the easiest. You know, words such as, "Lord, I know you're trying to teach me patience, but NOW is NOT the time." It shouldn't surprise me to find myself currently drifting away from mass, only to find myself in an empty church lighting a candle. I don't do God group talk very well. I can talk to God by looking up, by being with those I love, maybe most often in those I find most difficult. (Not that I handle THAT well.) But telling me how to relate to God and what God wants me to do is very likely to get you an impolite gesture - figuratively, of course.

But that rebellion against being told what to say and how to say it doesn't stop me from borrowing someone else's words when they're absolutely perfect for my conversation with God.

I used the chorus of this song as a prayer for years - I still do when the song comes to mind. But my prayers have always been a personal variation on it- Mr Mister just put it more succinctly:

Kyrie eleison, down the road that I must travel,
Kyrie eleison, through the darkness of the night,
Kyrie eleison, where I'm going, will you follow?
Kyrie eleison, on a highway in the light.

And my favourite bit? When, during the choruses at the end, one of the singers comes out with a heartfelt, "Will you follow?" Because that's what I always ask when I start something new: "God, do you have my back on this one?"

Because I know I have yet to reach that somewhere or somewhen that I've sensed since I could toddle. And you know, God, sometimes the going has gotten really tough, and I have had to sit down, wanted to turn back, just quit altogether or take an easier road. But every time I've asked, you've promised that you have my back, that you will follow. That no matter who else has left, you won't.

And if you will follow, I will keep my feet upon the road. Then all that is left for me to ask is:

Kyrie eleison, on a highway in the light.

In laughter we trust...

I know I said I'd post thoughts on the US presidential race here, but I've spent a lot of my political energy and creativity commenting at the wonderful Shakesville site. I will get round to it before election day, I promise.

And now for something completely different...

Last Thursday, I went out with a good friend of mine and was aghast to discover he had been just like some of the Oxford pole-up-your-backside males (the Catholic version attends the Oratory; the Anglican version attends Pusey House) - striped jacket, straw boater and all.

To top it all off, he's the oldest child and was a school prefect. You can picture it, can't you?

He's so relaxed and wickedly funny now, it's hard to believe. When he told me, my jaw hit the pub table, nearly landing in my sausages and mash.

"NO. YOU. ARE. JOKING."

He laughed at my reaction. "No, the hat, the jacket and everything. God."

"OH. MY. GOD. YOU. WERE. SUCH. A. PRICK," I said.

Now his shoulders were shaking with laughter. "Ja," he replied. "Ja, I really was."

This led to a conversation that made me pause, tilt my head, and ask a tough question - the answer to which was risky, because it could have meant censure.

A question which a number of other friends would have fudged, pled the Fifth, or maybe even lied. I can't tell you how I would have answered it.

He told me the truth.

There are moments when I sit back and am just amazed at how wonderful my friends are and how blessed I am to have them - e.g., Ruth's warmth, openness and huge personality last night (but that's another blog post) - and Thursday night was one of those. I was moved by his integrity, ability to laugh at himself and his care for others.

Pat yourself on the back, doll - you're no longer that straw boater, pinstripe wearing twit of a teenager - you've grown into a man your parents should be proud of.

Like every last one of my friends, you absolutely rock.

Breaking news from Heaven...

Jesus' statement on reading the 2008 Republican platform.

Word, Lord.

I'll be commenting on the speech soon...

but for now, check this out.

I had a dream...

Last night, I had a dream about Barack Obama.

I dreamt he was walking across a podium to shake hands with Gordon Brown and dream me thought - ah, he's president. That shifted to meeting him at a bookstore, where I picked up something on John McCain (a diary? papers?), hugging it to my chest, and he looked over at me, because I'd made it clear that I was supporting him. I looked back at Obama and said, "You know what they say - hold your friends close, hold your enemies closer. Don't forget that." We had a laugh over that, and he went to leave.

"Mr Obama," I said, as he headed for the door (it looked like Borders in Oxford).

He turned round, slightly impatient, wanting to leave.

"Remember that," I continued. "and also remember - 'Be wise as a serpent...'"

He replied, somewhat impatiently, "I know, I know..."

I *think* he was going to continue, but then I woke up. (possibly with 'harmless as a dove'?)

From the surreal to the real, here is Obama's acceptance speech from the Democratic National Convention. No, he didn't go as far as I would have liked him to on some issues, but I understand why. Let's get him in the White House first. His understanding of the balance between individual and mutual responsibility is a breath of fresh air, as is his refusal to mudsling at McCain. He can leave that to me.

You can take the girl out of America...

but you can't take America out of the girl. Certainly not a Washington suburbs girl who cut her teeth on political discussion via the McLaughlin Group and Agronsky and Co. I used to stay awake on those sticky Washington August nights every four years, watching the National Conventions, caught up in the excitement of the upcoming election. There was nothing like it.

It should come as no surprise that I was born in an election year. One that should have been won by a Democrat, one that would have been won by a Democrat, had he not been assassinated after making a post-California primary victory speech.

I felt utterly betrayed when Al Gore was robbed of the presidency in 2000, even more so when GW Bush was re-elected. I feel so battered by the Bush administration, even across an ocean, that I wasn't going to vote this year, for the first time since I was 18. I thought it didn't make a difference.

But the man I voted for in 2000 convinced me otherwise:

...

Eight years ago, some said there was not much difference between the nominees of the two major parties and it didn’t really matter who became president. Our nation was enjoying peace and prosperity. Some assumed we would continue both, no matter the outcome. But here we all are in 2008, and I doubt anyone would argue now that election didn’t matter.

Take it from me, if it had ended differently, we would not be bogged down in Iraq, we would have pursued bin Laden until we captured him. We would not be facing a self-inflicted economic crisis; we would be fighting for middle-income families. We would not be showing contempt for the Constitution; we’d be protecting the rights of every American regardless of race, religion, disability, gender or sexual orientation. And we would not be denying the climate crisis; we’d be solving it.

...

Today, we face essentially the same choice we faced in 2000, though it may be even more obvious now, because John McCain, a man who has earned our respect on many levels, is now openly endorsing the policies of the Bush-Cheney White House and promising to actually continue them. The same policies? Those policies, all over again? Hey, I believe in recycling, but that’s ridiculous.

Amen. Now if someone would only let me fall asleep in this reality only to wake in an alternate 2000, where my feet fly down the steps to turn on teletext and I whoop for joy, rather than sit down in shock. A reality where I get to relive the last eight years, savouring the phrase "President Gore", where GW Bush fades from memory as one of the many who lost the election.

For those of you who want to hear it in full, here it is. I'll be posting Michelle Obama's speech, and Barack Obama's too - what amazing speakers they both are. We could have a black president of the United States of America. Someone who, as Al Gore said, "His life experience embodies the essence of our motto – e pluribus unum – out of many, one. That is the linking identity at the other end of all the hyphens that pervade our modern political culture."

Yes, I live in hope. So sue me.

It's time for a change - for a broader-minded, more equal, more compassionate world. A world that knows that it is steward of the planet, not unbridled consumer.The next election, where it all begins, is yours, America.

Make it so.

My personal DNA

Benevolent Inventor

This is my type, apparently. Comments welcome.

Just because...

...the pope wouldn't want me to, I'm posting this picture of a sculpture in Museion, a museum in Bolzano, Italy. Bravo to them for standing up to maintain freedom of art.

Poor guy, he'll never be able to drink the rest of that beer...

And as for the Vatican, I'm just trying to rib it.

For God's sake, pt. 2

*Snort*

Why is it Catholic priests feel the need to put their feet in their mouths on a regular basis? Fr Rungi, founder of the 'nun beauty contest', had proposed putting pictures of nuns with 'profiles' on his blog and letting his readers decide the winner. Hair up or down, wimple or no, preferably naked...oh, sorry, no, he didn't say that.

I had to sit back, outraged yet amused, as I read his comments on 'inner beauty' with Sophia Loren as his prime example. Then, like Fr Voldemort halfway through a sermon, he torches his point by forgetting to place filter between brain and mouth and speaking the truth, rather than continuing to build up his false logic:

“Do you really think nuns are all wizened, funereal old ladies? Today it’s not like that any more, thanks to an injection of youth and vitality brought to our country by foreign girls.” He said there were nuns from Africa and Latin America who were “really very, very pretty. The Brazilian girls above all.”

Inner beauty, indeed, Father. You keep lying to yourself and everyone else, like so many of your colleagues.We all know what you're doing in the privacy of your bedroom when you think about those 'Brazilian girls' - or was that girls with Brazilians?

Mind you, a commenter at the Times made a very fair point:

"Makes a pleasant change to have a priest interested in the beauty of young women."
--Iain Rae, Tunbridge Wells

And despite the sexist pig nature of Rungi's idea, I have to agree. A Catholic priest interested in women who have attained the age of majority makes a refreshing change indeed.

For God's sake...

will someone PLEASE LET CATHOLIC PRIESTS HAVE SEX? We all know they're doing it on the sly anyway, but the secrecy/repression is leading to all sorts of weirdness. Let's just bring it all into the open and let them be completely themselves.

This is so wrong on so many levels, I don't even know where to start. So I won't, except to say it raises 'sexist pig' to an entirely new level. Suggested by the nuns themselves, my ass.

Kate, would love your thoughts on this.

Conflict

I had an interesting discussion about conflict with a friend on Thursday.

In discussing the particular situation that had given rise to the conversation, I stated that I felt conflict was needed to push institutions out of the status quo. I'm sure you're all gonna have a heart attack and die from that surprise.

It was good to be talking about the issue at hand, but I steeled myself for the inevitable "I don't think conflict is the way to go; instead, I think gently pointing the way/listening/trying to placate works much better," that everyone from Catholic priests to shopkeepers trot out. Right on cue, there it was.

Fair point of view, but it's almost like someone is saying, "Isn't using conflict a bit primitive, dear? I know you haven't caught up yet, but there are better ways." I tend to become furious out of all proportion to that underlying assumption, since every last one of them has seen me use many other ways of dealing with a situation. They mean well, but it comes across as patronising. It prevents us from defining conflict and talking about WHY it can be very useful.

Defining conflict is never an easy thing, and unfortunately, when the word comes up, most people tend to think explosions, war, blowouts that mean the end of a friendship/relationship. It's no wonder, considering the Latin root is as follows: L conflīctus a striking together, equiv. to conflīg(ere) to strike together, contend (con- + flīgere to strike. We all know what happens when you strike two pieces of flint together, or when metal drags on tarmac: sparks, often leading to fire. We forget that fire is our friend as often, if not more so, than it is our enemy. We think conflict and we picture the wildfires that kill and destroy, the ones we can never put out until it's far too late. We forget about the times that fire warms, cleanses and tempers.

We also forget that when we strike things together, we shape them: it was a primitive way of making jewelry or tools; in modern times, think of the sculptor's chisel or diamonds grinding against eachother whilst spinning in opposite directions to shape eachother. Think about the phrase 'knocking the corners off (of someone)', meaning to shape the personality, to bring it to maturity - the image of 'striking together' is evident.

We do conflict a disservice when we think of it only at its extreme. Conflict, at its most basic, is simply, "I disagree. We aren't on the same page." There are many forms of conflict, from sitting down and discussing issues calmly and openly to full-fledged war - and yes, there are cases where the latter can be justified, none of them occurring as we speak.

Conflict is as certain as moonrise and the tides. We are different people with different experiences and beliefs, at some point we ARE going to disagree with or want something different than someone close to us. Pretending you don't is a lie - to yourself and to them, and it undermines the integrity of the relationship. If you carry on pretending, eventually you will lose the very relationship you are trying to save.

Why? Because at its heart, conflict is about engagement. If you refuse to come into conflict with someone, you are refusing to fully engage with them. You are only ever offering a part of yourself. And that's never good enough - for a relationship to be real, you need to be fully yourself with the other person: light, dark, and everything in between.

Now, I'm NOT saying, "Say whatever you want when you want," which is what a lot of people think conflict means. THAT is just naked aggression, or hostility veiled as 'telling the truth'. Conflict is about admitting differences and speaking your point of view, listening to the other person's, and finding a way forward together. It's not about bullying, domination, fighting for the sake of it. Conflict needs resolution, and in that resolution, you may find yourselves closer than before.

Paradoxical? No. Conflict is honest in a way that placating and pointing ways forward are not - it allows the other person to speak their mind and allows BOTH of you to decide the way forward. Unilaterally making a choice for someone else by avoiding conflict becomes manipulative: parental, passive-aggressive, or simply pushy.

Of course, just like anything else, conflict can be badly done - you can say things you don't mean to say; lose control and yell; have a full-fledged war when what you really need is negotiation. It may be that you've buried the conflict for so long that when you face it, it's like a dam bursting and you can't control it. It may be that you're facing someone who can't cope with disagreement and is playing dirty.

As in all things, practice moves us towards perfect. I've recently discovered a great way to enter conflict, thanks to Martha Beck:

"I'm feeling X (feeling) because of Y (evidence). Tell me where I'm wrong." Beautiful. It states your feelings, but admits that you may be misinterpreting. It also lets the other person know they're going to be listened to, and that you're invested in communication, not proving that you're right.

Conflict done right, round 1.

Why am I so invested in conflict as a way of engagement and communication? I grew up in a house where reasonable discussion wasn't much of an option: my father is a control freak extraordinaire, my mother adapted to living with it, and I was seen as an extension of them. Anything that demonstrated my individuality was stomped on as quickly as it appeared: wanting to be a surgeon (my father said, "To be a surgeon, you need to have good hands. Your gross co-ordination is fine, but you don't really have any fine co-ordination" - I was about 5); disagreeing with my father ("You've been brainwashed by your friends; you can't think for yourself."); being emotionally invested in my friendships ("They don't mean anything; you can only trust your family." NOT.). There are times when 'gently pointing the way' or reasonable chat is not an option. Your father kicking you or your mother pulling your hair happen to be two of them.

With a background like that, it's no wonder that conflict is one of the first things I try to generate in a relationship. If we can argue safely; if we can say, "I disagree" safely; if I can trust you to still be there when you don't like how I act or what I believe, I know I can trust you 100%. Whether it's Dom saying, "I think you're wrong"; Greg giving me what I call the "Facebook klaap"; Nick saying, "Bitch" or John saying, "Some of your views horrify me," I know that every last one of them will catch me when I fall. Because we can argue and still love, I know I'm safe.

Yes, conflict can keep you safe - you may think conflict can kill; but lack of conflict is just as much of a murder weapon. A young alcoholic died because the people who could have forced him into rehab (under obedience) didn't. Obviously there were dozens of other people who could have done the same, from family to friends, but no one wanted to engage in the necessary conflict.

So, it seems that conflict can be good for your health - get engaged.

MMR - a paediatrician's daughter rants

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA. *MAJOR headdesk* God, if I could consign Andrew Wakefield to the 8th circle of hell, I would do it in less time than that which separated Phelps and Cavic in the 100m butterfly. For God's sake, people, the study 'linking MMR to autism' was done on TWELVE, read that, TWELVE, children. Autism would show up around the time of the MMR vaccine because *that's when it becomes evident ANYWAY* - the study needed to look back at the child's history to see if there had been slight developmental differences that would have indicated the presence of autism. Later studies have found that to be the case. For those of you about to argue 'rapidly rising rates of autism', you need to think about how diagnostic techniques have been improved and how the autistic spectrum has been expanded to include syndromes like Aspergers.

For those of you worried about Wakefield's repuation, don't:

Nine months before Andrew Wakefield and London's Royal Free hospital medical school unleashed a global scare over the safety of the measles, mumps and rubella vaccine, they filed, on June 5 1997, the first of a string of patent applications for theoretically vastly profitable products which could only succeed if MMR's reputation was damaged. These included a purported safer measles vaccine - a potential competitor to MMR - and treatments for bowel disease and autism. All were based on claims that measles virus in MMR was at fault.

I'm not an expert in these things, but I'm thinking that might tank his study. Shame on Lancet for poor peer review - 12 is not a number you use to start a general panic, and it was down to them to determine if Wakefield had competing interests. Someone should have been asking some questions. The press is also to blame here: the investigative reporting should have been done in 1998, not 2004.

But in the end, it's down to us to ask questions about what affects our lives. I really wish the general public would learn to question numbers and applications of the scientific method more often - you can't make decisions about the issues that have an impact on your life without knowing how to read surveys, percentages and so on. Michael Blastland's summer school is a great place to start.

Statistics are like bikinis. What they reveal is suggestive, but what they conceal is vital. ~Aaron Levenstein

So get savvy and get asking.

I'm not sure why Americans, in particular, don't stop and think, "Wait, I got MMR - it has been licensed since 1963. Suddenly, in 1998, it's linked to autism? Absolute pants. Had there been a real link, it would have been noticed far sooner than 3.5 decades later." It's time we stopped unconditionally believing what we're handed by the media and started digging, asking questions about agendas or following our noses when things seem fishy. With the internet, research is as easy as it has ever been. DO IT.

You'll find that Edward Jenner invented the first vaccine by inoculating his children against smallpox (now eradicated, thanks to...vaccination) with cowpox. Those of you opting out on religious, philosophical and 'every other kid is vaccinated' grounds will discover the precious importance of 'herd immunity' - which means that at least 85% (and in the case of some diseases, over 90%) of the children (herd) need to be vaccinated for those diseases to be held at bay. In the States, the percentage of fully immunised children is 77%. Hmmm. It would appear that banking on herd immunity is a bit like playing Russian roulette with 4 bullets chambered.

When the means is readily available, it's NOT someone else's responsibility to make sure your child doesn't suffer a devastating childhood disease - it's YOURS. And not just for the sake of your child, but for the sake of those in your midst who are immuno-compromised: the elderly, the very young, the transplant patient, the cancer patient.

Vaccines are safe and getting safer - they're safer today than when we had them. They'll be safer tomorrow. God knows, they've always been safer than chancing a dance with a disease like rubella or diphtheria. Don't believe me? Look at the developing world.

Ironically, it's the efficacy of MMR and other vaccines that has allowed parents to think "my kids don't need it", because they have absolutely NO memory of just how devastating a disease measles can be. Worried about a non-existent risk of autism? Watching your child suffering with encephalitis after catching the measles or unable to move after catching poliomyelitis because you didn't get them vaccinated will cure you of that.

Permanently.

Is that a risk you're willing to take?

Mekheye...

...look it up. I would like to tip my hat to the four wonderful years I spent teaching at a Modern Orthodox Jewish school by passing on this little Yiddish lesson - this book has just shot up to the top of my Amazon wishlist:





Here's a crib sheet if you need one. Now go and learn, farshtaist? There'll be a quiz later.

Ten things I learned on a grown up slumber party

1. If I get home and change into pyjamas straightaway, the world will not end. In fact, it feels wonderfully decadent.
2. If I get up on a Saturday morning and don't shower and change OUT of my pyjamas straightaway, the world will STILL not end. It still feels delightfully decadent.
3. I can live for a day very easily without knowing what people need from me.
4. Ciaran Hinds is hot, hot, hot, and the best version of 'Persuasion' was filmed the same year as the best version of 'Pride and Prejudice' - 1995.
5. You cannot compare the size of your cleavages by weighing your boobs on a kitchen scale. (No, we hadn't been drinking. Much. I only had a bit of Malibu in my Pepsi.)
6. Some of my friends cook one hell of an English breakfast.
7. I should laugh till I cry at least once a week.
8. It's ok to say, "I'd like some crisps, please," and not feel like you're putting your hostess out.
9. Half-fat sour cream and chive dip SUCKS ROCKS, even if it's from Waitrose. Eat full fat dip; drink semi-skimmed milk.
10.You may only be 8 miles from home, but a slumber party still feels like a holiday - at any age! (Even if you can only stay awake till 1am...)

Phelps v Cavic

"Seeing is believing"...

or "Things aren't always what they appear"?

In the case of Michael Phelps (a fellow Marylander), it looks like the latter. I saw the finish of his 100m butterfly from above over and over again, convinced that Cavic had really won, but wondering how the timers could have been so off. I also knew what I really wanted were the pics from the underwater camera to see if Phelps had really earned his 7th gold of the Games, equalling Mark Spitz's record.

So when I got home from Ruth's, I googled Phelps Cavic, and came up with definitive proof that the gold medal was really Michael Phelps' and not Milorad Cavic's. If you look carefully, you'll see that even Phelps' body is slightly ahead of Cavic.

And if you're still not quite sure, look here and here to see that Cavic's hands are really inches from the wall.

Absolutely amazing, considering that Michael took an extra half stroke awfully close to the finish. It was a crucial last second decision and was completely counterintuitive; it would SEEM to make more sense to glide long with a dolphin kick, as you're more aerodynamic. Taking a half stroke means interrupted rhythm, extra resistance, a bent arm...is it worth the extra propulsion?

In Michael Phelps' case, the answer is a resounding 'Yes'. But even HE thought it had cost him the race before he looked up at the scoreboard. From USA Today:

As they approached the finish, Cavic still was slightly ahead. Cavic began his glide into the wall, arms out straight underwater, and Phelps made a split-second decision to take a fast half-stroke, although a glide is usually the more effective finish.

"I really thought that cost me the race, but it happened to be the direct opposite," Phelps said.

So even the man himself hadn't been sure it was the right decision. He just did it.

He went against all the conventional, documented swimming wisdom and won.

There are any number of lessons to take away from this race: never give up, never let up, be gracious in victory and defeat and so on.

But the one *I'm* going to take away is this: when you're doing what you're meant to be doing, what Martha Beck calls 'following your North Star', your intuition locks in and everything falls into place. It doesn't become easy - it wasn't for Michael Phelps in this race - but somehow, it just works in the most jaw-dropping, deus ex machina ways. And it doesn't have to be a struggle.

No need to go west - follow your star and head north instead.

Who's really emasculating men here?

I was reading an excellent blog post on the compensation for rape victims being cut if they had consumed any alcohol. I'm not going to redo Melissa McEwan's superb work here.

I read Michael White's piece at the Guraniad and Roger Graef's rant at the Daily Mail. Having reached the target heart rate for my age, I wondered if I needed to exercise today.

Now, I'm HUGE on personal responsibility, ask any of my friends - it's one of my bugbears. So, yes, you need to do as much as possible to keep yourself safe.

BUT IF SOMEONE ELSE *CHOOSES* - yes, *CHOOSES* - TO INJURE, KILL, RAPE OR IN ANY WAY, SHAPE OR FORM, VIOLATE SOMEONE ELSE, THE ONUS OF RESPONSIBILITY IS ON THEM, NO MATTER WHAT THE STATE OF THE VICTIM. IT'S AS SIMPLE AS THAT.

Being drunk may make you a more inviting target. But it doesn't make you RESPONSIBLE. If you fall over and bang your head on a lamp post when you're pissed, your responsibility. If someone picks you up and throws the inebriated you into said lamp post, THEIR responsibility.

I was chewing over the arguments of Michael White, Roger Graef, et. al., and came up with the following objections:

1. They seem to think that rape is about sex. Sex is the FORM it takes, but rape is really about violence and power. Whether it's date rape or stranger rape, you're overriding someone else's free will. That's about getting off on overpowering someone, NOT on having sex.

2. If a criminal is drunk at the time of his crime, he can plead *diminished responsibility*. Yet if a rape victim has been drinking, she is seen to have *increased responsibility* for what happened to her. You can't have it both ways. If someone has been drinking heavily, they are non compos mentis, and *therefore CANNOT GIVE LEGAL CONSENT*. So if she's drunk, the answer is already a 'no'.

3. The cut in compensation can come with the consumption of ANY amount of alcohol - one glass of wine, which leaves even a lightweight drinker like me stone cold sober, could case CICA to cut the compensation by a third.

4. Women should dress so that men aren't provoked into rape. Women should always be stone cold sober so men aren't provoked into rape. Women should walk in a way so that men aren't provoked into rape. Does someone see a pattern here? What's the underlying assumption?

The underlying assumption in all these arguments is that women are responsible adults who can control how men behave by what they do. Men, on the other hand, are creatures who have no control over their actions/passions and need to be controlled/manipulated by the behaviour of others.

Whoa. When I worked that through, my head snapped back hard enough to give me whiplash.

Always, always, men like Roger Graef and Michael White, religious fundamentalists, anti-feminists and the women who support them, have pointed the finger at feminists for making men feel insecure, for treating them like children or objects, for 'stealing from them' and not allowing them to be men.

I almost believed it. But I always thought that if that was the case, the men in question needed to take responsibility and say what they felt, rather than just 'letting women run all over them', or whatever the stock phrase is.

But the underlying feminist assumption is that men and women are *equals*: women should take responsibility for their own lives and the choices they make. So should men. Which means...feminists assume men are capable of taking responsibility for themselves, so if women are drunk, feminists assume that men will choose to either protect them or leave them alone.

Hmmm. Doesn't sound like emasculation to me. Sounds like empowerment.

Maybe it's time to treat all this the way one treats a magic trick: look at the hand they're trying to distract you from. So, what does the patriarchy really expect/believe.

1. Patriarchal societies expect women to act in ways that make them take responsibiity for men - whether it's playing games when dating so he feels 'in control'; bearing the brunt of the modesty injunction of most religions (I once had a rabbi tell me that men and women had to sit apart because "Men can't control themselves."); or pretending to be less smart/earn less so as not to damage his 'poor fwail ego, awww.'

2. Meanwhile, tell men that they're threatened on all sides by people not their own race, religion or gender and that they must defend their territory, especially against those evil temptresses - I mean, after all, look at Eve, right? It's all HER fault we're here. Remind them that they need to be told what to do, how to think (down to what they're allowed to find attractive) and protected from temptation, since they're inherently full of passions they can't control without help from the...patriarchy, also made up of men who can't... yeah, you see what I mean.

3. Tell women that despite the fact they're powerful enough to be responsible for every evil a man commits, they're NOT capable of working, voting, having the rights they give to men - you know, those same men who have to be told what to do/believe/be. Remind them that they are evil and responsible for the fall of the entire human race and need to be contained for their own good.

4. Create such an atmosphere of fear and suspicion that men and women rarely talk and are always at odds.

5. Having created such an atmosphere, slip on velvet slippers, sit back in front of the fire and remain in firm control. Rinse and repeat with other races, religions, political systems, etc.

Is it just me, or does the patriarchy have the lowest opinion of men possible? To quote an exchange between Nick and myself from the Shakesville discussion:

Finally, as a woman, I'm just sick and tired of taking responsibility for men's behaviour by how I dress, walk, glance, whatever.

And as a man, I'm insulted by the idea that I need women to "correctly" dress/walk/glance in order to manage my behaviour and urges. Not raping is easy; it's not a struggle, it's not a dilemma, and I don't need any female help to get it right. I just need a conscience, and it's interesting how it's never the feminists saying I don't have one.

THANK YOU. You know, I've always felt like the finger pointing at women - from Eve to feminists - is a distraction. Maybe it's time we treating it like a magic trick: look at the hand the patriarchy doesn't want us to see. I have a theory we might find that it's the patriarchy, not feminism, that's emasculating men by infantilizing them.

The demand that women should be responsible for the way men behave is insulting* to men - at least to me - as you put so well in the paragraph starting "THANK YOU." (and thankyou for what you said, personally and generally).
* Not that I'm going to dispute that it's an insult which pales beside the unconscionable burden it puts onto women.
But yes, it's never the feminists that paint me as an irretrievably innate sexual predator who needs female help to conquer my evil drives. Feminism puts far more faith in my, and any man's, conscience than the patriarchy does. Which is rather humbling in the light of how many women here have good reason not to.

Boys and girls, I think we've been had. From anachronistic rape laws to forcing women to cover themselves from head to toe to enforced celibacy, it has never been about anyone's good. It has been about making it easier to control someone through fear (think of the erosion of civil liberties post 9/11) or isolation (by keeping people at loggerheads), which makes people unsettled and more likely to look to external authority for rules that give them a sense of security.

That's what cults and abusers do. Women and minorities aren't the only ones getting screwed over here - men are just as wounded, if less visibly. Every time we refuse to allow someone to take responsibility for their actions - white or black, male or female - EVERYONE suffers.

We need to start asking questions, looking at the underlying assumptions, and remember that when someone is generating fear, they most likely want control.

No, it's not that simple. No, it's not a perfect or complete analysis - I've only started thinking it through, and it's only one factor of many, I suspect. Yes, it's more complicated than what I've just written. Yes, there are members of the female gender and minorities who take advantage and play the victim, just as there are members of the male gender and majorities who take advantage. But that doesn't make it ok to live our lives by a system who maintains its raison d'etre by pitting us against one another. We have to start change somewhere.

To quote Twisted Sister and so many others through history:

We're right/yeah
we're free/yeah
we'll fight/yeah
you'll see/yeah

oh we're not gonna take it
no, we ain't gonna take it
oh we're not gonna take it anymore.

So come on, lads, put your hands in ours and let's start walking towards a brave new world.

And should you feel your balls being lopped off, look to those who won't let you grow up.