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.

A question of faith...

from the Bishop of Oxford's sermon this morning during chapel at work (they're evangelicals, remember?):

"For me, the mark of an authentic faith is that the person isn't about whether they're really religious or not, it's whether or not they are fully alive ."

YES YES YES.

He continues:

"I've known people whose faith has diminished them, made them smaller. It has prevented them from fully engaging in life."

He has articulated one of my most deeply held beliefs. As a Catholic in my church, my faith is measured by whether I receive communion on the tongue or on the hand; whether I go to a mass where the priest's back is to me; how well I can worship at a priest's feet; how precisely I follow the rules.

But looking around me, all I see is death. People dead to the world, to joy, to God.

As per a favourite poet:

"And an old priest said, "Speak to us of Religion."

And he said:

Have I spoken this day of aught else?

Is not religion all deeds and all reflection,

And that which is neither deed nor reflection, but a wonder and a surprise ever springing in the soul, even while the hands hew the stone or tend the loom?

Who can separate his faith from his actions, or his belief from his occupations?

Who can spread his hours before him, saying, "This for God and this for myself; This for my soul, and this other for my body?"

All your hours are wings that beat through space from self to self.

He who wears his morality but as his best garment were better naked.

The wind and the sun will tear no holes in his skin.

And he who defines his conduct by ethics imprisons his song-bird in a cage.

The freest song comes not through bars and wires.

And he to whom worshipping is a window, to open but also to shut, has not yet visited the house of his soul whose windows are from dawn to dawn.

Your daily life is your temple and your religion.

Whenever you enter into it take with you your all.

Take the plough and the forge and the mallet and the lute,

The things you have fashioned in necessity or for delight.

For in reverie you cannot rise above your achievements nor fall lower than your failures.

And take with you all men:

For in adoration you cannot fly higher than their hopes nor humble yourself lower than their despair.

And if you would know God be not therefore a solver of riddles.

Rather look about you and you shall see Him playing with your children.

And look into space; you shall see Him walking in the cloud, outstretching His arms in the lightning and descending in rain.

You shall see Him smiling in flowers, then rising and waving His hands in trees."

--"On religion", The Prophet, Kahlil Gibran

So you'll pardon me if I judge your faith not by your ability to parrot or follow the rules, but by how you live your life: how you treat others; whether you will risk fully engaging in a mortal life that brings love and pain, happiness and sorrow in equal measure; whether you will risk everything for love, mortal or divine; whether your faith opens you up to others or makes you shut them out, creating a world of 'us' and 'them'.

I have seen 'faith' diminish too many people - they have become small-minded, narrow; desperate for the approval of their superiors; joined the 'more perfect' religious life to run away from their issues and to lead an easy (read: avoiding responsibility) life; they amputate parts of their personality until they fit a soulless mould and there's nothing left of the person God created.

Shortly after that, Bishop John made a point that wasn't explicitly related, but I think ties in beautifully to his comments above.

"When I'm afraid, I lock the door. But when I lock myself in, am I locking Christ out?"

That's the real question, isn't it? "Perfect love drives out fear" - and makes you unlock that door - and yourself.

The truth shall set you free.

The head fake

This is the best lecture I've ever had, given by a professor I've never met. Carnegie Mellon University professor, Randy Pausch, is dying of pancreatic cancer at 47. CMU has a tradition called "Last lecture" - every year, a professor gives the lecture they would give if they were dying. This year, they renamed it "Journeys". As Randy said, "Damn, I finally nail the venue and they rename it."

It's 85 minutes long, so be sure to have the time to watch it in a single sitting. I've chosen this version because it has the introduction by his friend, Steve, but the download at Blip seems to have better sound. Your choice.

Trust me, if it were between this and "Spooks", Randy would win, hands down.

Bring them home

Enough is enough. Isn't it time that the Royal Festival of Remembrance became just that - a festival of *remembrance*? Last year, I spoke of how haunted I was by cataloguing books from 1910-1920, and how lads entering university in 1912 or 1913 rightly looking forward to golden years studying and punting found themselves on the muddy fields of Ypres.

In this year's Royal Festival of Remembrance, John Simms read us a letter from Passchendaele written by Jack Mudd to his wife Lizzy and their two little ones, taking us back across the years, reminding us of the true cost of war:

Dear Lizzie, it's nearly six months since I saw you, how I long for you and the children. God bless you all. I love you more than ever. I want nothing more to take you in my arms, what a lot of love we have missed, but please God it will make it all the sweeter when I see you.

...

Please God it won't be long before this war is over, we are pushing old Fritz back, I don't think he will stand the British boys much longer, and then we will try and keep a nice home. I will know the value of that now.

Why can we not know it always? Four days later, Jack was not present at roll call, and his body was never recovered from the knee deep mud and slime at Ypres. Lizzie remarried a friend of his from the same battalion who was badly wounded, but she kept his last letter in remembrance of their happiness. Her daughter donated it to the Imperial War Museum, granting us the privilege of a window onto their love.

No more. No more stories of young men dying on their 24th birthday in Basra's field hospital whilst his twin holds his hand. No more men and women coming home irreparably wounded - physically, spiritually and emotionally. No more young widows and widowers. No more orphans.

No more young men dying for old men's wars.

From Laurence Binyon:

For The Fallen
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.

And finally, please...

God on high
Hear my prayer
In my need
You have always been there.

He is young,
He's afraid -
Let him rest,
Heaven blessed.
Bring him home
Bring him home
Bring him home.

Just bring them home. For always.

My telly shame

I'm sitting on the sofa on a Tuesday night, having just careened through a sublimely tense, gripping episode of "Spooks". Another episode (having to do with nuclear triggers for Iran) is on at 22.30. I'll be watching it.

In between, I'm catching up with one of my favourite (hence the shame) trashy telly programmes: BRIIIIIIDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDEZIIIIIIIIILLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAS!

Yup, I confess, I watch Bridezillas - it's one of the more amusing pieces of social commentary around. It has given us some of the best television 'slag offs' ("Good for you. Grow a dick," is one I like so much, I've adopted it) around. And it makes me grateful to be single.

(ARGH. A groom just said, "I don't want to deny you anything in life." WHERE'S THE PUKE SMILEY WHEN I NEED IT?? "It's 20x more than anything I've written a cheque for. We could have bought a house with this," he continues. ARE THERE ANY MEN LEFT IN THE WORLD? REAL MEN WITH BALLS? Buy the damn house. Pie Jesu.)

"It's a good way to spend my parents' money." *Snort* We went through women's lib for this? Come on, Manhattan brides, pay up! Buy your own jewelry, your own wedding dress, your own party. These boots are made for walking, remember? Just make sure they're on your credit card.

Here's a hint, boys - this Bridezilla? She's the real woman you're marrying. If she's like this planning a party, what's going to happen when a real crisis arises? If you want to see what a person is really like, watch how they treat the people who serve them and how they react to a crisis. You've got the opportunity to observe and then get the hell out of there.

And girls, a reminder - a wedding is for a day; a marriage and good friends for a lifetime.

"Something's bothering me about this dress. I'm not sure what it is."

You look like Little Bo Peep, sweetie, that's what's bothering you. Cf. Andie McDowell in Four Weddings. May I offer you a shepherd's crook and a lamb to go with that? Only £5000.

Hmmm...maybe we need a "Bridezillas: five years on" series...I could see it going down well...

Ooh, the first strains of next week's "Spooks". Sorry, gotta go. Mwah, dahlings.

Right after I buy that matched diamond necklace and earring set...

State of emergency

At midnight on Sunday, 4 November (Pakistan time, so GMT +5), Pervez Musharraf declared a state of emergency in Pakistan. Opposition politicians, including cricketer Imran Khan, were placed under arrest, as were many other Pakistani citizens. The Supreme Court was disbanded just days before they were to rule on the legality of Musharraf's election.

Predictably, the UK and US howled in outrage. Condoleeza Rice, a woman who betrayed her gender and race by becoming part of an administration that hates both, has done what a true Republican does - threatened to pull Pakistan's aid package.

Hmmm. Let's see what happened in the weeks preceding the state of emergency, shall we? Islamic fundamentalists taking hostages in the Laal Masjid; 130 people killed in a single suicide bombing; more people killed as various outbursts of violence occur. We all know Al-Qaeda wants to isolate Pakistan from the West and turn it into a draconian Islamic state. They're punishing Pakistan for being close enough to the West to receive American aid.

And so, when Pervez Musharraf reacts the only way a Pakistani president knows how to react when the country is falling apart, Ms Rice, who doesn't know a damn thing about the culture or history of the place - and doesn't have the sense to ask anyone who does - threatens to isolate the country even further, destabilising it and driving it right into Osama's hands.

Not too surprising, since she actually believes that George W. Bush sees non-whites as equals.

Do I agree with what President Musharraf has done? Absolutely NOT. Do I understand in light of the culture and the way Pakistan works? YES. And the way to get Pakistan out from under this is NOT to push Musharraf further into the corner he's already in, but to talk to him and help him find a way out.

And let's be honest. Does either the US or the UK have a leg to stand on? The US instituted the Patriot Act; tortured prisoners in Abu Ghraib; locks people in Guantanamo Bay indefinitely. When I went back for a wedding four years ago, despite the fact I carried a US passport and had a US accent, I was asked rather aggressively, "Why are you here?"

I very nearly responded, "I was born and raised here, and carry an American passport, you c**t. Tell me, what are *you* doing here?"

I thought better of it and said I was going to a wedding, but I filed it away. Along with every time I got patted down by a man on my way to the plane, not because of the way I acted, but because of how I looked.

The UK doesn't fare much better - no pics of them abusing prisoners of war, but their Prevention of Terrorism 2005 Act, allowing the imposition of 'control orders' on those suspected of terrorism, doesn't give them the moral high ground. You know you're in trouble when one of your own judges calls your law 'an affront to justice' because it violates the European code of human rights.

To quote a favourite youtube video (see below):

"I AM afraid of the dark. I'm afraid of other things, too. I'm afraid that Western government is using terrorism as a Trojan horse to limit civil liberties..."

That is exactly what Western government is doing - it is using the fear generated by terrorism to exert greater control over a people who trust it less and less.

So if I were you, Condoleeza and Jacqui, I'd keep my mouth shut about human rights. You don't want to be looked at too closely - with centuries of constitutional liberties behind you and peaceful lands, you don't have the excuses that Musharraf does.

Amnesty International is watching you.

If you'd had any sense, you'd have brought the children of immigrants, like myself, on board. No one can hate Muslim extremists more than those who have grown up fighting the repression of Islamic culture so they can be free to be themselves - especially the women.

In my darkest revenge fantasies, I'm standing on a football pitch surrounded by pyres, on which burn the bodies of every single Taliban and Al-Qaeda member, along with every male of his line - each one shot, execution style, by a Muslim woman he abused.

No one can hate them more deeply than we can. No one wants to see them ripped out, root and branch, more than we do.

If you'd done your homework, you'd have known that. Instead, you assumed a Muslim monolith. You've paid for it in time, resources and goodwill lost.

Why are you here, indeed.

Sorry, Condo, you were saying, about Pervez Musharraf and the state of emergency...

no? What's the matter, cat got your tongue?

Or did you think you might want to take the plank out of your own eye before you remove the splinter from his?