Turn left

WHAT an absolute cracker of a "Doctor Who" episode.

When I first heard "Doctor Who" was returning in early 2005, I snorted in derision. Never be as good as the previous series, I said to anyone who would listen. I was wrong. Even then, I didn't learn: I voiced the same doubts when David Tennant was chosen to replace Christopher Eccleston, whose darker, more chaotic depiction of the Doctor had completely won me over.

Wrong again. Tennant is now my favourite Doctor by light-years, an absolutely quintessential mixture of light and dark, zany humour and deathly seriousness, light-hearted laughter and immense power.

But I digress. Back to the cracker of an episode.

It begins with Donna (his current companion) and the Doctor in a far Eastern market. They are separated, then Donna is drawn into a fortune-teller's tent and forced to go back to change the moment that led to her meeting the Doctor - she listens to her mother and turns right instead of left. In that moment, she is swept into an alternate universe.

The Doctor's death and alien-ridden catastrophe that follow her moment of self-doubt (in the original moment, she overrode her mother's mockery of her desire to work somewhere posh by saying, "They haven't met me.") is beyond imagination.

It was a powerful reminder of how our ordinary decisions can have cosmic consequences. We often seem surprised by this, but we shouldn't be. We make thousands of tiny decisions every day: singly and cumulatively, they shape our lives by the paths we choose to walk and the doors we choose to open or close. The ordinary choice that stands out in my mind is the one my cousin made 23 years ago, when she reluctantly agreed to go along and meet this guy her friend had met on the beach and ended up marrying him - 20 years and still counting.

Our lives, loves and stories are made up of the everyday things that we discount so easily. It's so easy to see how the big decisions - degree, career, marriage, having children - change our paths, but we miss the whole pattern; how all the small decisions lead up to the larger ones...the small changes in direction that suddenly mean we're going north instead of east. Funnily enough, only hours before the episode I was doing an exercise from "Steering by Starlight" by Martha Beck which requires you to live your life backwards, going through all the decisions you've made that have brought you those things you hold most dear. I was struck afresh with appreciation and awe of how my life had been shaped through those seemingly innocuous choices.

Innocuous though they may seem, the confluence of those ordinary decisions can make us extraordinarily important. Later in the episode, Rose Tyler (a former companion of the Doctor) tells Donna she is the most important person in creation and that events have been bending around her since she was born, echoing Robert Jordan's idea of ta'veren: "a person around whom the Wheel of Time weaves all surrounding life-threads, perhaps ALL life-threads, to form a Web of Destiny."

Donna scoffs, but any one of us can be the ta'veren in the centre of a web of destiny at any given time. We all live more meaningful lives and have a bigger effect on the Pattern than we can ever know. When we realise that, we understand what Rachel Remen meant when she said we are always on holy ground. Knowing that, it becomes essential that we are true to ourselves and that we live every moment of our lives consciously and with reverence.

How to do this? I think we need to become fully present in each moment: listen deeply, love deeply, dive all the way into our lives rather than skimming the surface, so that we know what's real. Live your life all the way minute by minute, not halfway waiting for something big to come along. By doing that, we connect to the part of ourselves that is more than the sum of our parts. We begin to know those everyday decisions for the pathmakers that they are and allow our deepest self to guide us through intuition. We begin to have soul.

So, when the time comes to make a decision, and you've listened to your soul and know what's true no matter what everyone else is saying, set your face like flint. Don't blink. Don't even blink.

Don't turn your back. Don't look away. AND DON'T BLINK.

Then, take a deep breath...

...and turn left.

Heartless bitch

What writer's block: I can't even get the thank you notes out for my party. (They're coming guys, I swear. Meanwhile, b/c cards and pressies got separated, could people please confirm what they gave me?) I'm struggling through a serious post at the moment, and am struggling against inertia on writing shorter, lighter posts whilst the more serious ones sort themselves out.

I feel like living proof of the first part of Newton's first law of motion: an object at rest shall remain at rest. Boy, do I need an unbalanced force...

...and I got it in the form of an email that I might have missed, if I didn't check my spam email so carefully.

A few weeks ago, just after my real (not official) birthday, I applied to become a member at this site. I honestly didn't think I'd make it, since I had to offer up my blog as well as a short essay as proof of the quality mentioned.

I knew that if I hadn't made it by the next round of site updates, I hadn't made it. So I kept checking.

Tuesday morning, I pumped my fist as I saw an email from the website in my spam box. When I opened it, I proudly read:

* SAVE THIS MESSAGE FOR FUTURE REFERENCE*

Congratulations! You have just become an official member of Heartless Bitches International: The sauciest, ass-kickingest, fiercest Web site this side of the continental divide! We make NO apologies for who we are, and we take NO prisoners.

Some or all of your comments (from your application) have been added to the pages of Real Life Heartless Bitches

Check and see if you were singled out for "Exemplary Heartless Bitchitude"!

YESSSSSSSSSSSSS! If you want to read most of the application, it's here.

Bless one of my friends, when I told her, she said I was anything but a heartless bitch.

If the phrase is used in a particular way, perhaps. I don't take advantage of others; I'm not a prick tease; I don't say things to take pleasure in someone else's pain - people aren't commodities to me. If that had been what the site was about, I wouldn't have touched it with a barge pole.

But if you read some of the member statements, you'll see something else:

"I'm not going to change for anyone but myself. I refuse to live by anyone else's standards but MINE and MINE alone."

"Define yourself. If you let someone else do it for you, imagine your disappointment when you find out they're wrong."

"Trust your gut. Know what's important to you and don't let anybody fuck with it. And never, never, never give up your power."

"I guess what really makes me a Heartless Bitch, is my uncompromising feelings towards blind faith (which I guess includes blind patriotism), hatred (especially racism), objectifying men, women, animals; laziness especially when it comes to thinking, and superficiality-(not to be confused with politeness)."

And then there's mine, of course:

"Why be a sun god when you can be Hekate or Isis? Strength, creativity, compassion - join the dark side!"

So why call it "Heartless bitches"? How many times has a woman been called a 'bitch' for speaking her mind? For standing up for what she believes in? Called 'heartless' because she won't give way to someone else's requests or needs? She's seen as not nurturing enough, not caring enough, when all she is doing is drawing boundaries.

Fuck that. To quote Christina Aguilera:

So, what, am I not supposed to have an opinion?
Should I keep quiet just because I'm a woman?
Call me a 'bitch' 'cause I speak what's on my mind
Guess it's easier for you to swallow if I sat and smiled
...
This is for my girls all around the world (Around the world)
Who have come across a man that don't respect your worth
Thinkin' all women should be seen not heard
So what do we do girls? shout louder!
Lettin 'em know we're gonna stand our ground (Stand our ground)

So lift your hands high and wave 'em proud
Take a deep breath and say it loud
Never can, never will
Can't hold us down

So, what, am I not supposed to say what I'm saying -
Are you offended with the message I'm bringin'?
Call me whatever 'cause your words don't mean a thing
Guess you ain't even man enough to handle what I sing

I'm fascinated by how uncomfortable my pleasure in being a member of this group made some of my friends - both male and female. It was almost as if I'd betrayed them by not remaining the warm and fuzzy friend that they know and love.

But I'm not sure they understand that I can *be* that warm, fuzzy and caring friend if and *only* if I'm in touch with my dark side: the side that could put a gun to the temple of a Taliban warrior and pull the trigger without flinching; the side that can tear a strip off someone in anger; the part that wishes natural selection would eliminate various members of the human race; the part fascinated by the darker side of human nature. That dark side of me doesn't negate the light but *completes* it, balances it - gives it depth. Embracing the darkness gives the light texture, endowing it with a far more interesting quality - think of an eclipse.

Not acknowledging all aspects of ourselves means that nothing we do is real. It means that we are forever at the mercy of someone else's rules, someone else's approval and that we are constantly lying about who we are. I'm not saying we need to act on it - remember, most eclipses aren't total -but we need to be conversant with those sides of ourselves; otherwise we never act consciously, and those repressed/ignored sides control us rather than the other way round.

Now, I'm not saying EVERY strong opinion/dislike is indicative of problems with shadow. For example, I'm anti-death penalty for various reasons - but I *can listen to* the arguments FOR the death penalty without feeling threatened or unduly upset. I used to be pro death penalty and have thought about, understand the passion on and am happy to HEAR both sides. Yes, I have a strong opinion, but it's integrated. Ditto my very orthodox Catholic friend, John Ferris (who deserves an entry of his own), who disagrees with me very strongly on many things, but actually *listens* and remains unthreatened by my counterarguments. He has even said he learns a great deal from them. So do I - we have the BEST conversations; ones I think evangelicals would refer to as 'anointed'.

On the other hand, if one looks at those who follow rules most rigidly and are most threatened by challenge, we often find gaping holes in their integrity and an unsettling *amorality*. Taking a look at the Newman Society, they follow liturgical rules to the letter and parrot Catholic teaching on everything endlessly. You don't have to look too closely to see the breathtaking callousness/nastiness with which they treat other people, priests and laity alike, until they need to use them to achieve their own ends. Look at the 'love and light and no darkness'/'we don't believe in status' evangelicals, and you'll find plenty of anger, competitiveness and jockeying for position. Religious people may attack secular society for being selfish, but I've never seen narcissism on this scale outside religion. Denying it and driving it underground takes a natural regard for self, which might otherwise integrate itself into a healthy personality, hardens it, and turns it into narcissism.

Frankly, I'd rather be a heartless bitch. Moral rigidity is never a real position...as noted by others, it is an exoskeleton created to contain internal chaos. But exoskeletons, hard as they seem, are brittle (and crunch nicely underfoot, says the HB in me). They will never have the strength and flexibility of an endoskeleton.

True strength and support always starts from within.

And all that leaves aside the gifts of the dark side: depth, real power, authenticity, soul, a touch of wildness and mystery, the ability to laugh at yourself and stand up for others. We all need to go there and cheer eachother on as we do.

*Grins ruefully at self* This morning, I realised I could have put this all so much more simply: we're like orange juice cartons. The concentrate - with its richness and flavour - is at the bottom...very often, we can be a little thin, without so much flavour, at the top.

To have full richness and flavour all the way through, we need to remember to shake before opening.

Chaperone cat

Absolutely brilliant. I'm still laughing.

As a well-endowed female, I've had my share of men talk to my cleavage rather than my face, and only once have I had the nerve to say, "If you want to know what my bra size is, why don't you look me in the eye and ask me?"

Let me be clear from the start: sexual harrassment and objectification of *either* gender is NOT acceptable. Within that framework, though, I have to admit - and I'll probably get flamed by the sisterhood for this - that I love my cleavage, and a man talking to it merely amuses me. I'm a gleeful exponent of the 'four millisecond' rule: every male, straight or gay, looks at a woman's cleavage for 4 milliseconds before looking up. If a guy breaks the four millisecond rule (i.e., looks for longer), I tend to assume he's straight. Having serious cleavage is great gaydar confirmation.

I suspect I'm not bothered because I'm not a beautiful woman (the only way I'll stop traffic is by using the crosswalk light at pedestrian crossings), so I don't get stared at and treated as an object/commodity. I'm pretty enough for all normal purposes, to quote "Our Town", and that's good enough for me. The guys staring at my chest whilst talking to me already know me and are interested in what I'm *saying* whilst admiring my assets, which is a different kettle of fish from the leering stranger with a drink in hand.

For the latter type, chaperone cat with sharp claws would be extremely useful:


I love the wee added comment on icanhascheezburger:

but her eyez r sew purtee.

So, guys, don't forget to look up - you may even find out more than just her bra size.

Thoughts on blogging...

Hey look everyone, it's me! Except I'm not quite so grey (yet), and I think I have a slightly more hourglass (rather than large watermelon) silhouette...


I've put that up in case I - or anyone else (*coughPiusX&theconservativeCatholicmafiacough*) -
take myself and my blog too seriously. I blog because I love to write and it spares my friends the long emails with my thoughts on everything from religion to "Sex and the City" (coming up shortly!).

Come here if you're friend (in person or online) or family and want to catch up. Come here if you're interested in a slice of someone else's life or what someone else may be thinking. Come here for a laugh, or if you like what I have to say or if you want a good debate. Occasionally, go away with a new view of things, whether you change your mind or not.

But don't come here just to lay down your version of the law, beat up on someone else or to assuage your insecurities by spouting the 'truth', claiming I'm leading others astray. If you think that, you seriously overestimate my influence.

Essentially, the bottom line for me is this: writing is one of my passions, and as an early child of the MSWord/WordPerfect age, I'm much better at an electronic journal. My blog is a chance for me to think out loud, to play with words, to share my life with friends and meet new and cool people (e.g., Reiza).

I'd love to have you come and play in my sandbox - but no bullies allowed.

Foot (or hoof?) in mouth disease

As I've mentioned before, having Ruth as a friend helps my natural predilection for hoof-in-mouth disease (mine are cloven, thanks, which makes me kosher), but she isn't the cause.

What you need to know for this is that I need to update my profile - I left the Dominicans last July, since the position was a 2 year contract. I've since started a similar (but permanent) job at an evangelical library (do we sense a theme?).

The evangelicals are lovely and earnest, which plays right into my tendency for dry humour and shock value.

Sometimes, I even shock myself.

As we were standing around at Gosia's & my surprise birthday party last Tuesday, my friend Christine was telling the academic dean & a senior faculty member about friends of hers who wanted to go to Gander (sp?), Australia for their honeymoon. For some reason, they didn't make this clear to the travel agent, and ended up in the other Gander - in the Arctic Circle.

(Wouldn't you check your tickets???)

Anyway, according to Christine, "They were disappointed at first, but it turned out to be even better."

Without thinking, I responded to Christine as if she were alone: "Yes, because the whole point is to keep eachother warm, isn't it?"

Shocked silence before she burst out laughing and I realised WHOM I'd said it in front of. I turned to her, "I said that out loud, didn't I? Oh crap!" Which, of course, made her laugh even harder.

I have to say, I've never seen men over 60 move so fast...

Father's Day?

There are days, then there are DAYS.

Wednesday, 14 May was a DAY.

It started off innocuously enough: sunny, pleasant walk into work, morning coffee. I did sense something percolating beneath my (reasonably) serene surface, so I didn't expect it to be completely calm.

It started with my Facebook status: I had meant to type in something light, but my fingers took on a life of their own and typed in "Irim should smack herself for believing that someone who shares so many characteristics with her father could be redeemable." What was it about? There were two answers to that, and over the course of the day, I gave both.

Most of my friends steered clear. Clare, bless her, jumped right in and asked what was up - whether it was family stuff or something else. She got the answer that was uppermost in my mind: the sudden realisation that a male friend of mine is VERY like my father - very controlled; tends to mask aggression behind teasing/humour; is given to sudden outbursts of anger, but will never admit that he's angry; has a sense of humour, but seems incapable of laughing at himself or admitting his foibles; is alternately emotionally present/emotionally distant.

What makes me really angry is that I've responded the way I did to my father growing up: walking on eggshells, steering conflict away from him (e.g., not telling him, "You idiot, of course s/he had the right to be furious with you; you were totally irresponsible!"), not showing him the consequences of his actions, letting him/his life dominate the conversation, and - the worst of it - checking to make sure everything is ok when he's being distant.

I really thought I'd learned.

From the above description, I'm sure a lot of you are wondering *why* I'm friends with him at all. There's a wonderful side to him as well - funny, protective, thoughtful, and a good, perceptive listener. That's the person I met, became really good friends with and went to when I had family issues. Over the last year or so, he just hasn't been there when the going got tough, and he's more likely to make a snide comment rather than listen.

If it were once, ok. Twice, if it were clear he'd been having a tough time. But this has become a habit, as has his lashing out when he's been drinking (considering it takes alcohol at least 24 hours to clear your system, I'm not sure he's been completely sober in years), and I just can't go there anymore.

I'll do anything to save a friendship, and it takes me a long time to decide I won't take it anymore. This pattern isn't healthy for either of us - and I'll take my full share of responsibility for how it has gone - I should have been true to myself rather than try to keep the peace. After a long exchange with Clare, where she listened and gave lots of support, I decided that I've really had enough. If my friend can find his way to being honest about how he feels and why, I can and will be there. Until then, no. I didn't leave my father's house over a decade ago to replay my relationship with him.

A little while later, another friend asked about my status.

She got the parental answer - that my uncle wouldn't listen to anything I had to say and was pushing too hard towards a reconciliation with my parents.

She asked a lot of thoughtful questions - we talked about my father, then she asked the showstopper - what about my mother?

The mother another friend assumed was dead because I never spoke of her.

My father may be manipulative, but he's overt. My mother invites confidences and betrays them, pulls the helpless tear shower on friends and relatives, who then tell me how much pain she's in - and once I'm within reach, she'll hand me over to my father and join in the nastiness.

I know she's cried to my uncle and aunt and told them how desperate she is to be in touch. Hard as this is to say, because of our history, I remain unmoved.

So her more subtle, covert betrayal has made reconciliation with her more difficult. In a weird way, my father has more integrity; he just is what he is. She is what makes her life easier at the time, and you never know where she really stands.

And yeah, I'm very aware that's what I was turning into with above-mentioned friend. *Shudder*

To top it all off, that evening, an older male friend had a real go via email over something I thought we'd sorted a month or so ago. And he managed to sound...you guessed it...just like my father.

A trinity of happenings with my father as the central theme - the universe's way of telling me to wake up and pay attention.

Yes, Wednesday, 14 May was an emotionally exhausting day. But it reminded me of how loved and blessed I am by my friends, how strong I am, and that things are moving forward.

Deo gratias.

Now it's time to roll up my sleeves and get to work.

Reason #862...

...not to allow Ruth and me to sit together during mass.

Ok, maybe 863 and 864 as well.

I only went to mass last night because I had to read, which went smoothly enough until I discovered the 4 page sequence in small print after the second reading. I looked over at Fr Richard Nixon (not his real name, just the ex-president's doppleganger) like 'you're joking, right?' and he mouthed over, 'Just the Alleluia', which I found (after flipping another damn page) and read.

Ruth was laughing like a drain when I came down and, accurately imitating my expression as Fr Nixon began the gospel reading, said, "I saw you say 'what the fuck'."

As he reached, "The Gospel according to...", I said, "Oh my god, did you hear me over the mike or did you lipread me (Ruth is a disability librarian)?"

She laughed even harder. "I lipread you."

Then, of course, there was the general naughtiness during the homily.

Finally, (and this was what I was thinking of as reason #862) there was the deacon's incredibly assured and graceful genuflection before the tabernacle whilst carrying the cruets in one hand and something else in the other. Yes, every deacon/priest genuflects when they do that, but he didn't even stop moving. As Ruth said, "THAT was really, really good. That is NOT easy."

I replied, still kneeling post-communion: "He is, isn't he? By the way, you ought to see him in trousers. He's got a really great a..."

Ruth, kneeling and hands folded: "Oh yeah, I can tell."

Ready or not, Hell, here we come...

Theological truth

In the beginning, the light and the dark were one, God and Satan were a team, and there was a wholeness in creation that was deeper and stronger than perfection could ever be. Man's unwillingness to live with such natural paradox and tensions rent creation in twain, leaving in him a void, a drive to take sides and dismiss the wholeness inherent in the paradox and setting him on a quest for perfection which would never fulfil him.

But nature would continue to remind him of the wholeness in Her in the smallest, qutest and most amusing of ways:



But it was not yet time for man to remember, and this age would pass and come again before another beginning was to come. As has been said:

"The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose.... The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of time. But it was a beginning." (Robert Jordan)

And in this Third Age, may the beginning come to fruition; the planting come to harvest; and may creation, which has been rent asunder for time beyond remembering, re-weave itself into the wholeness that is the nature granted it by the Creator, blessed be the Name.

Tag, I'm it

I have finally arrived in the blogosphere - I've been tagged for a meme by Reiza. Hurrah!

Here are the rules:

a. Link to the person who tagged you.
b. Post the rules on your blog.
c. Write six random things about yourself.
d. Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.
e. Let each person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment at their blog.
f. Let your tagger know when your entry is up.

Check a and b, now let's move on to c.

1. I can ballroom dance. Just for fun, mind you, and not wonderfully well, but I love it. In the early 90s, a set of friendly acquaintances had a ballroom added onto their house instead of a garage, and they had an openhouse ballroom dance session on Sunday evenings. It was great fun, and I learned that there's nothing like the feeling of waltzing with a 6'3" man who really knows his stuff. It's like flying. Oh, and by the way, the box step is crap. Learn to Viennese - it's the only way forward.

2. I wonder if I could run an Abrahamic religion peace conference: I was born and raised a Muslim, converted to Catholicism, and spent four years teaching at a Modern Orthodox Jewish School in the States (and loved every minute of it). I find that my multiple viewpoints add a lot of depth to my spirituality, but make me feel like a real outsider in any one of the religions. Oddly enough, out of the three, my spirituality is probably most Jewish in nature.

3. I'm a Jungian girl. I love archetypes and use them shamelessly. Some of my favourite books are by Jungian psychologists: "Gods in Everyman" and "Goddesses in Everywoman" by Jean Shinoda Bolen and "Women who run with the wolves" by Clarissa Pinkola-Estes. I'm mostly Demeter with some mature Persephone, as well as some Artemis, I suspect.

4. I HATE 'The people you may know' feature on facebook. If someone isn't my friend on facebook, I don't WANT them as a friend. If I don't know a friend is around, we'll find each other eventually. I am SICK of seeing pictures of random strangers on my newsfeed page b/c some f***wit at facebook thought if you had one or three mutual friends, you should know about eachother.

5. I suffered toilet trauma as a child. When I was about 3, I was watching television with my parents in the master bedroom. I needed to use the loo, so I went into the master bedroom bathroom, as you do. My mother told to me to leave the door open. Good thing, too - just like a man, my father left the toilet seat up, so when I went to sit down, to my complete shock, I fell in - and stayed there, afraid I'd done something terribly wrong. It took over 3 minutes for someone to come and pull me out: my mother was collapsed on the bed in hysterics; my father was trying to be angry, but couldn't help laughing. I was not impressed.

6. I'm a closet sensualist. My clothes are sensible, my oldest jumper (sweater) is 20 years old. The clothes I *want* are very different, though - I'd love to own satin, cashmere, Lauren Bacallesque seriously sexy clothes, but I can never find a reason to buy them - the part of me that says 'clothes are just functional' always wins. These are my dream boots.

I'm tagging:

Midnight Sidhe (I'm not tagging her blog to respect her privacy)

Javasaurus

Sensuous Wife

Blue Eowyn

Da Cute Turtle

Xpioti

Ok, off to let Reiza know I'm done! Hope you enjoyed those random tidbits.

PC vs Mac

I was surfing the web one morning this week before work. Then I found and had to borrow the following quote for my Facebook status:

Irim : The character of the Mac guy is smug. He is condescending. He's that uber-hipster you love to hate. If you own a Mac, you might want to slap yourself.

This prompted Greg to ask me if the characters in the infamous advert were Mitchell and Webb from the Peep Show.

I was pretty certain they were, and in googling to find my answer, I found an article that expresses my feelings on the subject of Macs.

He is so right about Mac users - any of my friends who have converted to Macdom have just become that little bit more insufferable - defending Macs without giving real reasons, with the exception of Rachel, who is still a bit OTT about her Mac love.

Fair enough, I cut my teeth on PCs and so, they were always going to be the favourite. But their slightly rumpled, thrown together look with their wonderfully reliable workhorse personality continues to endear them to me two decades on. I know I can trust them.

Macintoshes look fabulous, true. They have an easy operating system - and I will agree that the Mac O/S is far better than Bill Gates' Windows - but I find that pretty as they are, I feel restricted by Macs. They don't run the same range of software, they freeze up far more often, and if you were to ask them to run huge, long processes, they'd get up off their irritatingly plastic asses and run screaming. Style, not a whole lot of substance.

I like my computers the way I like my men - substance over style. Every time.

Deeply ashamed...

Last week, the pope said the words Americans have been waiting to hear for over half a decade. From the Guardian:

Pope Benedict XVI today said he was "deeply ashamed" of the child sex abuse scandal that rocked the US Catholic church, just hours before he was to arrive on his first journey to the US as pontiff.

"It is a great suffering for the church in the United States and for the Church in general and for me personally that this could happen," Benedict said aboard a special Alitalia airliner, nicknamed Shepherd 1. "It is difficult for me to understand how it was possible that priests betray in this way their mission … to these children.

"I am deeply ashamed and we will do what is possible so this cannot happen again in the future," the 81-year-old pope said, pledging to keep paedophiles out of the priesthood.

FINALLY. And he used the right phrase: "keep *paedophiles* out of the priesthood". Not "keep *gays* out of the priesthood." They are NOT related - most paedos are married, heterosexual men. So why are most victims of Catholic priests boys? In part, opportunity - altar servers tend to be boys, especially in more conservative/orthodox parishes. Also, as both conservatives and liberals will agree, over half of all Catholic priests are gay: therefore, statistically, it's far more likely that a paedophile priest will be gay. It's just down to the composition of the pool.

So we have a promising beginning. But words are only that - a beginning. What actions will follow? Will those who covered up get punished, or will they just get moved to the Vatican like Bernard Law of Boston:

"Law was not only aware of egregious sexual misconduct among his subordinates but was apparently engaged in elaborate efforts to cover up incident after incident of child rape." To be specific, the cardinal admitted in a deposition that he knew that the Rev. John Geoghan had raped at least seven boys in 1984 before he approved Geoghan's transfer to another parish where other boys were at risk. Further disclosures revealed that the Rev. Paul Shanley, who at one point was facing trial for 10 counts of child rape and six counts of indecent assault and battery, had been moved from ministry to ministry in what amounted to an attempt to protect him. Law himself lied to a West Coast bishop about Shanley's history and certified in writing that another rapist priest, the Rev. Redmond Raux, had "nothing in his background" to make him "unsuitable to work with children." (Slate)

Again, conservative or liberal, Law's actions were beyond immoral, they were heinous. He violated the most fundamental premise of the priesthood: to protect the flock. That should have seen him - and those like him - defrocked immediately. Preferably publicly excommunicated. Instead, he's living in comfort in the Vatican, the heart of the Church.

You've taken responsibility, Your Holiness. Thank you. But what next? If you're not quite sure, allow me to offer a line from Jesus himself:

It were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and he cast into the sea, than that he should cause one of these little ones to stumble. —Luke 17:2

In which case, you'd best start finding more than a few millstones...

If you move...

Somehow, this seems deeply appropriate for the Indian subcontinent right now. I picked it up from Reiza, whose blog I was catching up with today.

Pakistan is falling apart and breaking the hearts of everyone who loves her. Sixty years on, it's time to admit that ripping apart the subcontinent, tearing people from their mixed neighbourhoods and the deaths of millions - in the name of religion - have all been in vain.

Pakistan is a failed state. Bangladesh, despite having some of the most fertile land in the world, is one of the most poverty-stricken countries.

We forgot the most basic principle: divided we fall, united we stand.

Drop the borders and come home. It won't be easy, but we will be one people, one land again.

And then, as the song goes, when you move - when WE move - as one, the country will move.



Cheesy video? Absolutely. (Over to Yaq for the full translation, since his will be more poetic than mine.) But it's such a beautiful demonstration of how we react to obstacles: we whinge, we turn around and go the other way, we whinge some more and refuse to push through.

But if ONE person faces the obstacle head on and decides to start pushing their way through it, others join in, and what had seemed impossible becomes certain. It show how collective responsibility - and triumph - begins with individual responsibility.

The subcontinent is just a starting point. When we ALL drop our borders and move as one, there's no telling what we can do when the spirit of Ganesh moves through us to remove obstacles.

Heaven on earth sounds like a good start.

So, chalo.

Teh best Baibl tranzlashun evur...Srsly.

I have gone through many versions of holy books and God in my search for the Truth...Trinity, Flying Spaghetti Monster, Baldur...

I've finally discovered the truth - God as Ceiling Cat. It's just so...right.

I tried God as Father and Trinity. Honest, I did. But there were huge gaps right from the creation story. Compare the Judaeo-Christian story with Ceiling Cat's:

Boreded Ceiling Cat makinkgz Urf n stuffs

1 Oh hai. In teh beginnin Ceiling Cat maded teh skiez An da Urfs, but he did not eated dem.

2 Da Urfs no had shapez An haded dark face, An Ceiling Cat rode invisible bike over teh waterz.

3 At start, no has lyte. An Ceiling Cat sayz, i can haz lite? An lite wuz.4 An Ceiling Cat sawed teh lite, to seez stuffs, An splitted teh lite from dark but taht wuz ok cuz kittehs can see in teh dark An not tripz over nethin.

I'm greeted at the beginning: "Oh hai". Wouldn't you say that to one of your followers? "Oh hai, glad u wantz to findz out how u wuz made." Of course you would. Even though they were reading, it would be like talking to them. That's a God thing.

Ceiling Cat was boreded. That answers the eternal question, "WHY make heaven and urf?" Why not? Especially if there's nuffin else to do.

"He did not eated them." I always wondered that. God must have been hungry - creation was a lot of work. Why hadn't God eated his creation? Now I know it was a struggle, and he didn't, it makes me love Ceiling Cat so much more. He hadn't eated us because he so loved us, he sent us his only son, Jeebus.

"Invisible bike": far more sensible than breathing on the waters. I mean, how far can a breath travel? Bike, as long as he wasn't riding it on the pavement (which he wasn't, b/c it wasn't created yet) - fabulous, green solution.

And separating light and dark - no problem for kittehs, which was a huge relief for me.

Enough of Genesis. Another section of the Old Testament I had problems with was poor translations of the 23rd psalm - 'drooping spirit' indeed. Compare that with this:

1 Ceiling Cat iz mai sheprd (which is funni if u knowz teh joek about herdin catz LOL.)
He givz me evrithin I need.
2 He letz me sleeps in teh sunni spot
an haz liek nice waterz r ovar thar.
3 He makez mai soul happi an maeks sure I go teh riet wai for him. Liek thru teh cat flap insted of out teh opin windo LOL.
4 I iz in teh valli of dogz, fearin no pooch,
bcz Ceiling Cat iz besied me rubbin' mah ears, an it maek me so kumfy.

"Letz me sleep in the sunni spot", "Makez mai soul happi", "maek me so kumfy" - isn't that what a parent would do for his child? How much more then would our Ceiling Cat father in heaven do for us??

One section I've always struggled to understand is the whole thing about the robber and sheepfold and gates. Confuzed. But Ceiling Cat's son, Jeebus/Jesus makes it all clear:

1 Jesus say "k gais i is for srs, if ur in shepfold and u no goes thru dor, u is r0bbr.
2 but if u can goez in thru shepfold door, is ur shepfold.
3 cuz that means shepfold dorman see u and all ur sheepz hearz u. cuz u give shepz names and takez them from shepfold
4 and so the shepz hearz name and folowz cuz is shepfold gai an hear liek teh shepfold gai.
5 but if iz no shepfold gai, sheepz no folow cos is no shepfold gai and no sowndz like shepfold guy so shepz are like: run awai! is no shepfold gai!"

It's so simple now - if you don't enter through the door, you are a thief and the sheep won't follow anyone who is not the shepfold gai. And this is so clearly the informal way that Jesus would address his friends: "K gais, I is for srs," letting them know they needed to take notes.
And their reaction is so predictable, it's refreshing to have it uncensored:

6 Teh gaiz wer liek "wtf u talkin bout sheepz 4? i has no klu wat u meanz."

Can't you just hear Peter's whiny little voice? Rock, my a**. Mud, more like.

And Jesus' willingness to reiterate and reassure:

7 Jesus sez agn "k, lsn srsly gais, i iz shep door.
8 Erleer peepz was r0bberz, n sheepz was like: i no lisn 2 u.
9 I iz door. (I iz opn door, so u no need 2 compln, k?) U goes thru me, u iz ok, n u go in n u com out n u getz nice gras n stuf.
10 R0bberz d00dz steelz ur stuff n kilz u. I iz here so u can has lots of lif.

"I iz opn door, so u no need 2 compln, k?" - a neon sign with clear instructions.

And finally, the reason for all people to come to Ceiling Cat and Jeebus:

25 We were n00bs, but Jeebus takes teh n00b awai.

Absolutely. As long as that isn't a mistranslation that is meant to read "Jeebus takes the b00b away", all is well - because no one is taking my b00bs, not even Ceiling Cat. They rock.

But as for n00bness, well, we can all afford to lose that. Rock on, Jeebus and Ceiling Cat.

Amen.

The rewards of cataloguing

One of the big ones is being on the cataloguer's mailing list for emails like these:

Dear colleague,


On lcn 10109488 (The Complete tales of Henry James), which is a
twelve-volume work, you have a piece linked to a part record for a v.13:

XXX Main Libr 813.46 13 v.13 Available

Please could you check your copy and amend the holding? Thanks.

Best wishes,

S.

********************************************************

Cataloguing god of one of the foremost university libraries in the world.
Get it? Good. Now FIX it!

*******************************************************

I couldn't stop laughing, and as S. is a friend, I emailed him back with:

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Maybe it's the very rare v. 13 out of 12 that very few people know about... a ghostly one...

Ixx

(Think "Turn of the Screw")

His response?

Now now. We mustn't mock those poor people who never learnt to count beyond the number of their digits.
************************************************************
I'm sure that's in the 11th commandment somewhere ("Mockest not those who should be lost to natural selection"), but as I'm already coveting Ruth's pencil skirt, I might as well keep heading down that slippery slope...

Desi dinner

On Thursday night, 13 March, my friend Yaqoob invited me to dinner. As it was the first time I was actually going to witness a South Asian male cooking, the only option was acceptance.

He said that a couple of his neighbours would probably be joining us. I wasn't really thrilled with the idea of a couple of flighty college students intruding on the evening, but the draw of Yaq standing in front of a stove was too strong to resist.

I arrived slightly early for 'Pakistani time' - about 15 minutes after our agreed time of 8pm (no excuse, I'd gotten caught up doing some quick work for the priory). When we got to Yaq's room, there were two other young South Asian men there: Rahul, a fellow Washingtonian of Sindhi descent studying immunology; and Anirudh, a Delhi lad studying law. Rahul, true to his American origin, was extroverted, enthusiastic and sweet. Anirudh was quieter and far drier, with a sharp eye and an equally sharp wit.

Hmmm. *Three* South Asian men, where I'd only expected one. I'm not great with subcontinental men at the best of times. It didn't look good.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

The conversation sparkled: mixed Urdu & English, South Asian gestures and references flowed effortlessly. There was amicable competition among regions - as the lone Punjaban, I got to slag off Urdu, which was being vaunted as 'such a beautiful language' - one I consider style and no substance. Punjabi, on the other hand, has grit. It's a cheeky member of the Indo-European family, daring to be tonal and earthy. The sound of Punjabi is unmistakable: as a Punjaban, anytime I hear it, my head swivels so fast I nearly give myself whiplash, and despite being American born, I'm at home.

As a Lahore born NWFPer, Yaq supported me on this one, talking about his Lahori Urdu and how he wanted to speak Punjabi, whilst the other two clucked their tongues and shook their heads knowingly.

Then Rahul made a fatal error. He said, "You know, I really love bhangra music."

"Really?" I replied, attempting to look harmless. "Bhangra music is fantastic, innit - and it's PUNJABI."

Silence. Game, set, match - Irim and the Punjab.

The next topic of conversation, of course, had to be our host and his new girlfriend. As the president of the (uber-Catholic, conservative gay men in denial) Newman Society, Yaq had adopted a certain way of being, and I was a bit worried that she was a beard. That fear was allayed when Rahul and Anirudh gleefully recounted the story of walking into Yaq's unlocked flat, knowing she was there - and Yaq rushing to the door, his jumper somewhat, erm, disarranged (helpfully pointed out by Ani: "It looks like you have put your jumper on in a hurry").

Since I can't keep my mouth shut, time for me to chime in. Yaq kept trying to reach his girlfriend. First her flat, then her mobile, then her friend's flat. I suggested he was being a typically controlling South Asian male and that he should stop. As his searching became more frantic, I jokingly floated the idea that perhaps she wasn't at her friend's at all, but was actually seeing someone else.

Even as he laughed and denied it, you could see Yaq's tension skyrocket and his attempts to reach F become more determined.

Ani looked at me with a mixture of awe and fear. "I think you've pushed him over the edge. That's just the primal fear for South Asian men, isn't it?" (Men everywhere, of course, but South Asian men are in another league when it comes to obsessing about it.)

Sweetheart, I cut my teeth on the South Asian male psyche. Driving them round the bend is like taking candy from a baby.

It turned out F was at her friend's watching "The West Wing". Yaq mentioned to her that I had said he should leave her be and give her some space, to which she responded (so I could hear), "EXACTLY!"

After that, the only thing left to bait Yaqoob with was religion. I suggested that I might become polytheistic because the world looked like it had been designed by committee and because most monotheistic religions ignored a darker side of God, represented by the likes of Kali. This elicited a "Polytheism is cool, man," from Ani. Yaq started singing the Credo, which made me even more shameless - when he sang 'unum Deum', I said, "But I'm not sure..."

But it wasn't the sparkling conversation or Yaqoob baiting that won the evening. That came much earlier, when dinner was served.

As mentioned earlier, Anirudh is a Tamil Brahmin, eliciting images of vegetarianism, cow worship and meditation. Knowing Yaqoob had made a meat dish, I asked Ani if he'd have enough to eat. He said he wasn't a vegetarian; that Hinduism had no rule that you should be. He said that it was the English who had created this image of the 'Hindoo'. That led to a fascinating conversation, and food was temporarily forgotten.

Then Yaqoob served up, and I asked, "What kind of meat is that?"

"Beef," he responded, as he ladled a portion onto Ani's plate.

Rahul and I gasped involuntarily: despite Ani's comment, this was a step too far. Pictures of Ani ending up as a dung fly in the next life despite his Brahmin caste danced in my head. He couldn't possibly eat a sacred cow.

"Ani!" I exclaimed. "You can't eat that!"

Nonchalantly scooping up chawal and curry with his fingers, the Delhi denizen drily declared:

"It's not an Indian cow."

Snow

I love snow. Living in England, I *miss* snow. Those of my readers who have lived through Minnesota winters or have lived in Canada will probably be putting their heads in their hands right now - sorry, guys.

Why? Not just for the lost school days, both as student and teacher. Nor is it for the sheer beauty of a pristine, blanketed world and the flakes floating down through the sky. In part, it's for the enforced hiatus: as a natural introvert with a strong sense of duty towards others, I love the excuse for solitude under a duvet, with a mug of hot chocolate and a good book (which may stay unread on my lap as I watch the snow fall and just daydream).

Most of all, it's for the silence - by my reckoning, the world is far too restless with too much surface chatter and noise. Snow muffles sound, both physically and by forcing people to stay home. In that stillness, you can hear what's beneath the surface and catch the fleeting sound of creation's heartbeat.

When I lived in Maryland, in the Washington suburbs, we'd almost always be along the snow/rain line, which often meant ice, slush or rain. But some winters we'd hit the jackpot and we'd measure snowfall in feet, with white flakes drifting out of the sky for days, blanketing the world and bringing a preternatural hush to one of the world's busiest cities.

I've not seen snow like that for a dozen years. Yes, we've had the occasional drifting of flakes, maybe even for a few hours, but no real accumulation in this part of the country. This morning...

...this morning was different. My eyes opened in that greyness between darkness and dawn. When I couldn't get back to sleep in 10 minutes, I looked at the clock.

6 am.

I groaned. "IT'S SUNDAY," I thought. "GO BACK TO SLEEP, PLEASE." No dice.

"Maybe you need to go to the loo," an inner voice whispered.

"I've been potty-trained since wide ties were originally in fashion. I think I'd know," grumpy me replied.

"Just GO," came the reply.

This conversation went on for another 5 minutes before I decided to stop wasting time and just go.

I scuttled down the hallway to the loo. As I snapped on the light and blinked sleepily, I idly looked out the frosted glass window into the garden.

White.

"NO," I thought, as it had been sunny and well above freezing the day before. "It's not possible."

Then my no-longer-sleepy eyes flicked upward to the sky - the pinky-grey sky that only ever means one thing. And it ain't rain.

After a loo break that broke the world record for women (I was probably almost as quick as a man!), I tore back down the hall to look through the window in my room.

And there it was - a silent world covered in snow, with flakes drifting down out of the sky at blizzard speed. I watched in wondering silence for a while, then grabbed my phone and took a picture. Then watched some more. Finally, I snuggled under my duvet and closed my eyes with a smile and a prayer of thanks for the beauty, a wish finally granted, for that moment of stillness and connection to creation - which I would have missed without the nudge to nip to the loo, so thanks for that as well.

As I drifted into the twilight world between waking and sleep, I realised what I loved the most about these six-sided ice crystals.

Snow is a prayer.

The ping-pong song

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

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

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

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

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

Rough translation:

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

Now, the English chorus:

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

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

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

Or maybe not.

1 April 2008

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

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

Here's the email in full:

Well, it looks like God finally got me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ixx

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

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

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

Bitch!

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

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

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

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

Luvs,

V

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

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

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

Sometimes...

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

Prayer

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

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

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

Questions arising and conversations overheard on Holy Saturday

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

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

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

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

"Great pickup line."

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

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

A light bulb goes off...

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

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

Suddenly, Oxford and the Catholic priesthood make complete sense.

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

Actually

I checked my overly full desk today.

My Bible IS holding up my fondue set...

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

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

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

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

I whistled and looked at the ceiling.

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

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

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

"Yeah. AND MY FONDUE SET."

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

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

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

"Go on, then."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Earthquake explanations...

It's just so wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Absolutely bloody brilliant.

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

Grim hymns...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grim grim grim.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*Grin*

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

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

She got it in one. What can I say?

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

It's all a bit gay...

From the BBC website:

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

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

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

Sounds like they're in bed together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who took care of the little ones?

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

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

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

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

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

Take it from God - all you need is love.

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

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




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

And who said receiving communion can't be sexy?



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

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

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

Amen. Testify, brother.

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

Dream journal, day 1

Day 1, here goes:

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

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

I hugged the little girl closer and the dream faded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fade to black.

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

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

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

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

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

Have fun!

Did you really say that?

No commentary for this - the conversation speaks for itself:

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

Irim moves to walk out of the room.

Then YSCH turns around and says:

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

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

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

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

Shabbat shalom! x

Sex and pancakes...

Knew that would get your attention.

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

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

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

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

"Oh, it is," I promised.

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

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

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

A truly equal opportunity pancake night.

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

Further to the previous post...

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

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

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

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

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

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

A prophetic picture...

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




moar funny pictures

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

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

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

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

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

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

We'd be a truly Catholic Church.

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

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

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

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

Let us build a republic of heaven on Earth.