text:
Azazel's With Me
'm third floor up in an Edinburgh tenement. My breath is steaming and it's cold on this doorstep. A bunch of geraniums are wilting on newspaper next to the railings, and a girl's bike is chained up amongst the leaves.
I rap twice with the doorknocker, trying not to trap the ends of my stripy gloves. Thumping base, shrieks of laughter and a hundred voices are crashing on the back of the door. There is no immediate response to my knock. I slip off a glove and scratch just below my right eye. Looking down at my fingertip I find a thin film of crimson. I blot my cheek and absently suck away the salty-tasting smear.
The door bangs open with a jangle of Tibetan bells, juddering five inches into somebody's foot. Coarse, hacking laughter come from within, along with a woman's hand running up and down the door frame, as if attempting to lever aside the gates of hell, though these claws have diamond-pink nail varnish. There are some bodily rearrangements, the clunk of a forehead on hollow planking, and, on the second attempt, with a few more bells, the door lurches wide. I'm looking at Shazme, who's quite pissed by now, leaning on her equally obnoxious friend, Karol, with a capital 'K'.
'Hey,' I say. 'This the party?'
They look at each other, plucked eyebrows raising in unison before Electric-Boutique No 7 eye-shadow squints kind of evil.
In their hands are cans of cheap-bitch larger and cigarettes. Behind them is a crowded hallway, a choppy red light, and dancing gibbons, which are also my classmates, throwing their arms around like sparklers. Shazme has a little bit of white streamer in her hair – the only virginal touch.
As Karol shakes her head at Shazme and looks back to give me a verbal slap, she spots 'the support'. Her eyes widen and her head kinks back to get the full view, and I feel a wave of pure conquest shoot up and down my spine. Conversely, I know a damp electric shock has just gone straight to her crotch, 'cause that's what happened to me the first time I saw him. Unfortunately, I'm playing it cool, so I don't get the full expression, but what I can pick up from under my fringe is an 'o'-shaped mouth, forming an emotion so raw and breathless, it's only just jumped from the tank and is flopping around on the welcome mat.
Karol nudges Shazme. Shazme is staring at the gorgeous hunk of manhood standing behind me. I dare another squint. Both girls have this unfathomable look. I realize they can't understand why this guy is here. Shazme is already twisting a finger in those tight, Sunny-delight curls she made with a Boots voucher. Her tongue and lips have gone as plump, wet and red, as a half-sucked strawberry lolly.
'Can Azazel come in? He's with me', I say, just a little breathlessly. There is a scrape of grit under Azazel's boots, just behind me. I presume he's introduced himself with some sort of laidback nod.
'With you?' says Karol, giving Azazel a measured look up and down that could peel and undress an iron bar.
Azazel, I know, is ignoring her sudden splash of hormones. Azazel is with me; I know this. There is no danger of losing Azazel to this harpy.
I pop off my gloves and shrug out of my red coat with its faux ermine trim. Unfortunately, despite the season, I have neither the legs nor pixy-like good looks to pull off a sexy Santa with this jacket. 'Thanks, then Shaz. I'll just come in then, shall I? Be a doll and hang that up.' I thrust the jacket into her arms and sweep on through the doorway. Grinding industrial two-tone and sweaty red light swallow me up. All credit to Azazel's impossible good looks – Shazme takes the coat, mouth agape. She doesn't move with it though. I don't think her legs work. I wouldn't be surprised if I leave this party in five hours time and find that Karol and Shazme are still there – so shocking is the revelation of my joining the sisterhood.
'He – this – I mean, with you?' says Karol in my wake. A month ago, that 'shit wouldn't stick' tone would've had me running back out the door. In fact, lets be honest, I wouldn't have let myself go up the stairs, to open the door, to do it to myself all over again in the first place; or even left my flat on a Friday night, to make it to the stairs, for that matter. That was, of course, before Azazel.
I glance back. Azazel is bringing up the rear with my poly bag full of mini-Bacardi, Diamond White, and pre-mixed Long-Island Iced Tea. His other hand is still embedded in the face of his crash helmet; despite the fact we didn't ride here.
My bag – the Patch Puppy – comes with me.
Looking for the biggest audience I can find, I head instinctively for the kitchen.
Seeing the dancers bouncing around the walls in here, blocking the way, Azazel politely puts a gloved hand on my shoulder. I feel a small clench in my gut. His fingers, ivory white and bare beyond the cut-off gloves, smooth across the halter of my dress and tweak the looping strap of material. The leather spatula of his palm cups the ball and socket of my arm. I acknowledge the flash of silvery studs hammered into that oily, preserved cow, as much as I acknowledge the enquiring pressure. The dead skin creeps slightly as if alive. I look up at his razor-sharp cheekbones, youthful goatee, and statuesque nose. His eyes are inscrutable behind round, black shades that shimmer like drops of oil. Despite the lack of illumination into his soul, there is a definite note of inquiry. Head slightly tilted, the bug eyes are paused. His sharp fingernails tug at my flesh.
I nod permissively, bunches bobbing.
Of course there is no answering smile, but he steps up in front. A waft of some spicy, Babylonian musk, dancing on spear points, leers on past, just behind him. As Azazel cuts his way through the press of bodies, I follow in his wake, watching as first one 'don't give a shit' dancer and then another pulls a convenient, back-first crash-pogo, and then impacts a muscled brick-wall. One shift in Azazel's blank-faced attention, and they immediately suck themselves in, as if he'd touched the heart of a sea-anemone. Maybe they think Azazel is gate-crashing the party. He certainly looks different from all of us in his elaborately painted, Celtic leathers – as dark and red as polished liver – the A-frame of muscle, and his twin disks of photo-reactive glass. The worst of the worst – the really scary kids from my school – offer muttered apologies, dropping almost instantaneously from stabbing a delirious finger at the Artex ceiling, to a meek, foot-to-foot shuffle. As Azazel belongs to me, I feel quite justified in soaking up this fear-injected respect second-hand. It bubbles in my veins like a strange type of alcohol.
We pass the phone nook. Abigail Watson is hunched inside. Abigail is the take-charge, schoolmarmish one, with absolutely no sense of humour. Bum on radiator, phone to ear, she's giving the receiver the kind of wild-eyed look that sends a jolt into your head: something is wrong. Her eyes glitter with tears.
I creep past, following along in the motorway Azazel is leaving for me. At the kitchen door he steps aside. I hoist up the strap of my 'ultra pink' backless number, and swan on in.
On the underground radio Azazel rates a seventeen out of ten. Somehow, Cherri, Evelyn and Gwynn already know. They are needling each other with elbows, but none of them come up to talk. Words are flashing back and forth, but their eyes are facing forward. Urgency belies the importance of verifying the impossible. There is no subtlety here – they are all looking at me, teeth bared, as gossip dribbles from suddenly stunned mouths. Finally, Evelyn pushes Cherri forward but stays sitting on the window sill. Her shoulders have erased a wrinkly space into the condensation on the glass. Cherri scolds back, but lets herself be pushed.
The strap of my Patch Puppy bag is digging into my shoulder. These days I don't go anywhere without it. The Patch is kind of small, made of cheap, purple, sofa-plastic, edged in white piping, with this patch-eyed puppy on it. It's all kind of Manga pop-art. S'cool. All the kids have 'em. I drop the bag next to my even cooler, pink bumper-pumps. Under the music, it collapses onto the tiles like a bag full of spanners, with an after-note of hacksaw. Unperturbed, I reach down to a knee-high table, scoop up a handful of Twiglets and pop them in my mouth. I realise once again that I still don't like them.
'Hey, Stoney,' Cherri hallos in my ear. I twist away to reply in hers. She ducks in obligingly. 'Hey, you', I hallo back with a mouth full of Marmite goo. 'Great party. Crazy'. Cherri greets that with a wrinkled smile. She finds my ear again; her cupped hand tickles my earlobe. 'Evelyn wants to know if that guy you was with in the street, was really with you. We saw you, like, from the taxi.' I look at her with a frown, but don't say anything. She returns to the cupped ear, presuming I haven't heard a word. 'The taxi. We saw you and some –' but she stops. I'm getting used to the female litmus paper in front, when Azazel is behind. Cherri grabs my arm hard, pinching skin. 'That's him,' she hisses, losing some of her voice, as one hand leaves the ear funnel to make it to her mouth. A length of my blond hair gets trapped, so I tug it free.
I turn and drag The Patch out of there.
An hour has passed.
'You seen Cheryl?' says Claire. We've been chatting in the toilet queue, but at the mention of that name I suddenly want to forget my pouched bladder and escape into the crowd.
'Err, no.'
'Haven't you heard?'
'Her mom like phoned a million, million times or something. Cheryl left to come here; didn't turn up.'
I turn The Patch ever so slightly into my thigh.
'Her mom's ringing, like, every half hour. It's really pissing off Abigail; she's the one answering.' Claire rolls her eyes, and pats my arm, 'Like, you know, Abigail aaalways takes charge. It's not even her party. Anyway, she's waiting for all this Bacardi and Dominos from Tim and Gaz and their cutie pal – you know, Michael with the red Honda – they're on a shop run and, like, she keeps thinking they're phoning for help carrying shit, instead, it's, like, Cheryl's mom crying. She wasn't crying the first few times, so Abigail told her to freakin' chill. But now she is.' There's a pause. 'Wasn't Abigail that made her cry, though.'
I'm struck by the way Claire looks like a bug-eyed marsupial as she's telling me all this. 'Um, wasn't Cheryl coming with the rest of the Exclusives?' I suggest.
Claire shakes her head. 'She'll be off with her cardio man or something, or down at that skank's disco, Universal Espionage, or something.'
'Must be it,' I say encouragingly.
Claire frowns and moves out of the way as two guys push their beer glasses between us, following just after with a yaaaa of tongues and open mouths. When they linger, she shoves the closest one violently in the face; 'Piss off!', then continues conspirationally, 'People are, like, coming to these parties in twos and threes now. Kind of scary.'
'Look fogedaboutit. She'll be fine. The girl of gold is always fine. They all are.'
'Right, she nods. Right.'
I point. 'Go get a drink.'
'Eh? Sure. Uh, you still waiting to go pee?'
I've already scooted off.
Later, after Claire is well and truly stuck to the dance floor, I double back to the toilet.
Then I get the nibbles and go hunting buffet.
In the living room, I sidle up to a wallpapering table done out with a white cloth. It features a punch bowl (undoubtedly spiked to the point of being a fire risk) and trays wrapped in foil, full of pizza, pita pockets, pastry parcels and other p-foods. I gather up some liquids and solids.
Cheryl was a goddess. She was all gold and sunshine, and blond hair, and legs from here to there, and skin as smooth as milk and honey, and eyes like… and friends like… I wrinkle up my nose and shake my head. She was like this… popularity black hole, sucking in the other kids.
Where is Azazel? The problem with a long leash is that you can't find the dog when you bloody well want it. He's probably over in some corner somewhere making a sixth-former highly uncomfortable.
I take a bite out of some rubbery quiche and try to carrel a tapeworm of onion that just comes and comes. As I do so, I make eye-contact across the room. There's a small spark and a whiff of brimstone.
Shit! Carmen is on her way over.
I quickly drop the quiche out of my mouth and onto a paper plate, swig down a mouthful of Pepsi, junk the remaining mess amongst a load of open CD cases, and wipe my hands on my dress.
As the drill-sergeant-meets-Judy-Garland stomps to a halt in-front of me, I give her a dazzling smile. Carmen is quite small, so I'm nose to forehead. Her own, perfect, button-nose has been dabbed onto her face amongst the most itty-bitty, freckles you ever did see. Thankfully she doesn't give me any of that 'air kisses' crap. The room is rapidly cooling, but these days, I'm used to that. I hold out my hand graciously, but she doesn't seem to see it.
Carmen looks me up and down – mostly up – face twisted.
Okay, so I may not strictly be invited.
'What the hell are you doing here, Katie?'
What the hell indeed.
I let my arm flop back. I look round, feeling surprisingly calm – jovial, in fact. I shrug. 'Y'now, having fun, hanging out, doing the… party.' I nod at the plate; the party animals; …a lamp stand. There is no reaction. I shrug again, tailing off: 'Y'know, the party…'
She's so connected to the party pulse that (A): she didn't know I'd shlumped my way in here and (B): she has no idea whatsoever about Azazel. I'd know if she had any idea about Azazel, because I'm pretty sure Azazel would have some pretty interesting ideas about her. She's breathing and marginally less frigid than a donut of liquid hydrogen – so fair game really.
Unless she's lost something down my cleavage, which would be hard, something small and shiny has just attracted her attention.
Nope, she's looking at somebody behind me – no swoon reaction, so not Azazel.
'What's that?' booms an unmistakable, fifty-burger-a-day voice.
Oh God, one of Carmen's Munchkin followers has made it across the yellow-brick carpet: oh for the stripy tights, some flying monkeys and the ruby slippers!
'What's what?' I mumble from beneath my fringe. As yet, there is no sight of Samantha 'Samzy' Barron, but her voice is nebulous. That kind of makes her the Wizard of Oz.
I turn to find 'The Samzy' tugging the strap on my dress. Actually no; she's roughly fingering my Electric Voodoo. I think she's just crushed a feather or two.
'Hey, leave it.' I swat her plump hand away. 'I made that.'
Eh, he, he, he, he! I'll get you and your little rat dog, too!
More staring.
Even more st –
'Okay, it's badge.'
Technically, it's an Amuletum.
'Looks kind of creepy.'
Sure thing fatso – no mean feat from pipe-cleaners, feathers, glitter and a couple of bobbly eyes I stole off the teddy I had when I was three. But it does look kind of Lichtenstein-Frankenstein, if I do say so myself – I can watch Art Attack with the best of them. Bit disappointed I couldn't get the double-sided sticky tape, though. Luckily I did find a blackbird's skull.
'Yeah, well,' she drawls, 'I thought your five year old cousin must've made it.'
I didn't want to break his little heart by not wearing it, eh?
'I guess you're into art then,' she adds.
'So, your badge sucks. What you got in that stupid bag?'
'Pardon?' That girl is pointing at the Patch Puppy. I look back quizzically. 'You want to know what's in my bag?'
'Yeah. Sure.' Samzy and Carmen exchange a meaningful glance.
'My bag?'
'Well, yeah. Everybody talks about it at school. It's annoying.'
I can't really believe what I'm hearing. You can't just walk up to someone and ask what's in their bag. I blow out a slow breath and shake my head. 'I don't think so.'
Her inquisitiveness – and the rest of her – ain't getting any smaller, though. She shakes her head. 'You better show us or I'll punch your face in.'
A hooded look passes between her and Carmen – it's definitely a set up; probably a 'bitch dare'.
I consider this. Looking round, there's only folk glutting themselves at the buffet table – all pawing at miscellaneous pastry parcels crafted with Carmen's own lily-white hand.
Fuck it. I unzip the bag. Top of the bag is damage limitation. Bottom of the bag is just raw damage – blades, knives… Okay, top of the bag, not so bad. Bottom of the bag is a bad bottom of the bag. Bad bag.
Top it is.
I draw out a slim volume. Like my dress it is covered in a totally fake velvety material. If you rub either of them the wrong way, against the flock, you get scuff-slugs.
The Samzy and Carmen are both agog – 'The Patch' is famous. It never leaves my side and nobody, but nobody, knows what's in it. I guess that's why I'm showing off right now: I'm nothing if not unpredictable.
The book is one of those day-glow blue velvet ones you get from the kids section of a New Age store. Carmen draws a wholesome finger along the gold, embossed writing, and mimes the words: 'A Spell a Day'. For good measure, a couple of Valentine's-style devils are embossed next to the title in electric blue foil; totally tongue in cheek.
'Man, what a stupid book!'
I'm slightly affronted. I stroke the cover the other way to get rid of Carmen's impolite fingering, or perhaps to offer reassurance.
Carmen shakes her head. 'Ugh. What a stupid bag. You're such a freak. You're like Sabrina the Teenage Twat, or something.' She stabs a finger at the book. 'I bet you use that to make lesbo love potions.'
Maybe; with a light-up wand with a springy witch and feathers on the end – give me some credit.
A fat finger prods me in the ribs. 'Need a bucket of potion for her,' says Samzy.
Okay, where is Azazel?
Speak of the Devil … Over by the door, I clap eyes on the blondy teeny-pop girl that Azazel was with earlier. Then she was all 'explorational', draped on him like a fresh fall of virginal snow. Now, not quite so wind-blown and interesting, she's looking pale and sniffly. She's got her coat on and she's begging away from three friends who are trying – nay desperately pleading – to get her to stay for more quiche; perhaps a drink with a plastic palm tree in it. She mimes back that she has to go. They mime back: noooo, staaaay. Then she sights beyond them and a look of wretched terror seems to make her implode. She snatches her arm from surprised hands, and makes a sideways dash out of the door trailing hood and jacket. At least one friend stumbles back. The thwack of her trailing draw strings and toggles on the door frame makes half the room look over.
Azazel oozes in, with more teeth on display than a shark. He exudes darkness, and the sexual whip-crack of a horse crop made of g-strings. The music in the room appears to go up a notch, or go down in base, or the room itself has become more cavernous. Has it gotten hotter in here? The room, like every woman in it, can't quite decide how to react. I imagine a needle dragging across a record in a western saloon, although the CD of the Prodigy keeps playing '…you're no good for me, I don't need nobody…' There is a pause, and then conversation sputters back into life again. Azazel still exists in the corner of every female eye, though.
Forget the 'nice guys' shit; the more dangerous the man, the more feminine interest there is. This being the case, Azazel could cause a stampede in a convent, or get more than passing interest from Katey Perry's plaque. The most banal small talk starts as nine tenths of female brain-power cuts over to Azazel's ass in those biker pants. Conversation stumbles. Right now, they're just saying 'ya, ya, ya, ya, yaaaa' to each other.
Handy, though.
Reduced to simple misdirection, I use the ass-moment to stuff the grimoire back into The Patch, and escape Carmen et al in a cloud of ultra pink flock.
Truth is, Azazel is really starting to get under my skin tonight. I've only had him out, what, twice, and already he's starting to piss me off. God, if only my parents could hear me now, or anyone in my class. 'Go out with a nice boy,' they said.
I look over at Azazel plying his trade, schmoozing and buzzing in the ears of those other girls like a suave plague-fly, and I know – like I really know – that he'll be leaving with me tonight.
I help myself to a white plastic cup, fill it with flat cider, and lean against the wall trying to act nonchalant. How long to wait before trailing over to Azazel's side? Not so soon, that they think I can't do without him; not so long that they forget we're together, or think we're fixing to split. To go? To stay? Who knows.
The reason I'm in this situation, is that I never did know what to do. Just goes to show: there's a reason things are the way they are. You can be artificially elevated, luck out, whatever, but you are still you; just as ignorant – which makes me a love monkey with a machinegun.
My hand comes to rest on the Patch Puppy. I finger its piped edges, and only then, only at that moment – watching the party, the music, the people flowing by and the dancing, and the girls gathered round Azazel, as he laughs and jokes behind those little black, welding glasses of his – that I wonder if I'm wrong; that I am wrongness?
I sigh, blowing a heavy breath through my teeth, and bounce my shoulder blades off the woodchip wallpaper. The candles sitting on the mantelpiece are sputtering waxy smoke, and the incense is mixing with the smell of cigarette smoke and hash. My feet are sticking to the carpet tiles, which have absorbed the faint, tacky, sweetness of spilled alcohol. I rock my right foot a little, squitching the moisture.
Azazel is running his hand along the leg of some girl. The hand moves like a puppet's limb – ivory white and just as unfeeling. The light from her cigarette is reflected in his glasses, like little upturned claws of fire. Meanwhile, the glass eyes take in every pair of legs in the room. She throws back her head and laughs.
The Patch weighs heavy on me tonight.
Maybe I should just get shot of the little fucker and toss it. I look over at the window speculatively: it's half open – a Victorian sash window, tall as two of me. A cold breeze is wafting around the lace curtains, stirring the Indian throw on the couch, cooling the dancers.
Two trashy girls are fighting over which CD to play next: some Beastie Boys track rips into Gloria Gaynor, then stops, to groans, to be replaced by 'I will survive', before wrenching into silence. There are mutters and somebody shouts 'Cummon, already!' The Black-eyed Peas start '…wonder if you'll take me home, will you still be in love, baby…', and the feet start stomping too and fro once more.
God forbid anybody'd have to talk to someone else.
Girls in pretty, primary colours tinker-tink around the envelope of glass and elemental fire that is Azazel, fighting to see who can get closest. Silvery laughter is knocked free with each touch to his hot flame; with each word that kindles a little bit of heat or jealousy inside them. I want to look away. It's getting late and I've still got to get Azazel back in his bottle.
Even in this light, there is something… off about him. He has too many teeth. Not the kind of American porcelain-perfect mouth full of teeth, but a big mouth full of big teeth. If you didn't know better, you'd swear they were getting sharper between candle flickers. These teeth sprout from the skull of a carnivore – unfortunately, as without; as very definitely within.
In the time I've been standing here, plastic cup in hand, three women have shot me long, furious looks, as if I'm somehow to blame. It seems as if Azazel can do anything to a woman; make them love him or hate him with equal ease. Sometimes I suspect he starts them in one direction and then flips them around two or three times before the end of the evening – love, hate, love, hate, love, hate – until they fall off the ride.
This cider I'm drinking is making me sick. But I drink it anyway.
I shiver in the breeze. Azazel guffaws. Those women are right: I am to blame. I let Azazel have a long leash, because I don't want him too near me. I don't want him touching me. But I need him. He's the membership badge, the right of passage, the bonafide club membership to the sisterhood, the little piece of paper that says 'sex is being had'.
Jenna Ford sidles up to me. She is small and mousy, and definitely not in the in-crowd. She has a boy's haircut. Hence we hang.
'Hey, Katie'.
She sighs. Her hand is cradled under the bowl and around the stem of a brandy glass, like a 1920's intellectual, but the glass is full of Pepsi, and maybe some alcohol. I guess in the kitchen, cuppage has finally gotten scarce and they're down to using tea pots, washing bowls and plant pots.
'I heard you had a run-in.'
'The stupid dare?'
'They were all witchy about it, high-fiving. Samzy said she'd rather do truth next time.'
'And finally admit to having more dykes than a Dutch tulip field? Don't think so. 'Sides, that ain't witchy, believe me.'
'You hear about Cheryl?' says Jenna.
I cough into my plastic cup, snorting like a small plastic hippo. 'Err, no. Um, what about her?'
'She's missing.'
'Oh, how'd you know?'
She shrugs. 'Poliss at her house, apparently. That's what Suzzana said.'
'Suzzana the 'Rut'?'
She rolls her eyes. 'Rutledge got it from Abigail.'
God; I'm trying to keep any kind of brittle look out of my eyes. I'm looking around for Azazel. 'Um, I'm sure she'll turn up.' I put the cup down, noting the shiver in the bubbles.
'Maybe in some alley,' she speculates.
Not sure if she means that hopefully, or regretfully.
'Like they're still looking, since three weeks ago, since y'know, Gavin's bash.'
I look at her sharply. 'Yeah, like… look I gotta go and see what Azazel is up to.'
'Oh, sure. Azazel? That guy you brought to Gavins? He's really stuck it in to the whole 'us and them' thing, y'know…'
'Sure, see ya.'
'Yeah, you too sweetie.'
I didn't have the heart to tell her that every time Azazel is around, somebody else from the in-crowd isn't.
By midnight, it's time to go do the pumpkin thing. The party is just hotting up, but I've lost my taste for it. To go; to stay; to be seen. Well, done that, been there, seen it all. Enough sleaze. Enough complaints. Time to go, Booboo.
I squeak over to Azazel. He's chatting to some babe in a white dress, who's sprawled on the sofa with her bare feet in his lap. A pair of stiletto boots is standing proud on the floorboards with heels like chopsticks. The material of her dress shows off all her curves and some of her outstanding qualities, while a scoop neckline cuts out an incredibly impressive cleavage. Ultraviolet light is revealing a tribal-tattoo pattern of luminescence on the otherwise white flesh, and hints at a designer bank balance. Her long blond hair, thin black lashes and black hair band all seem… perfect, somehow. She's much more attractive than me, with a sweeping jaw-line and high cheekbones; like one of the mutants from Glamour or Cosmo. She matches Azazel perfectly. Compared to her, I feel like a piece of trash.
Azazel is stroking her tanned leg, brushing her with his fingertips. Her eyes are glued to his; heads are close. I cough. Azazel doesn't budge, and the girl shoots me a stare, calculates a total non-risk, and kind of half shrugs in my direction. I'm instantly – or perhaps pointedly – forgotten. She laughs and tosses her hair at some intimate whisper from Azazel, then dips her head as his finger smoothes her bottom lip. Cute.
I guess this is where I say 'time to go home son.' Old before my time; I'm a parent with an errant monster child. Believe me baby, he's a complete bastard. And he's all mine.
I put my hand on Azazel's shoulder and he stiffens. I stoop to whisper in his ear, and my hair falls like a curtain. I pull aside the fringe, looking straight back at her as I talk. I'm right here, I shout with my eyeballs: right frigging here! When I stand back, her attention flicks to Azazel: she scowls and cajoles, pleads maybe. But Azazel is already standing, robotically, to leave.
'…should meet some time,' I hear in her wheedling tone. Both her hands fall from Azazel's finger tips. That's the kind of appreciation I get – I'm three feet away and she's trying to pick him up. To be fair, I guess it's easy to confuse his slutty attitude with a lack of respect for his owner. Tough.
She'll be next.
Out at last. My pumps squitch, squitch down the cold, hard steps. The white fluff on the cuffs and collar of my jacket wanders about in the draft as we drill down the landings. The skin on my face is tight in the cold. At my shoulder, Azazel click-clacks on those hard-soled boots of his – a dark unfeeling shadow. His glassy eyes are, as ever, black and reflective. I can feel pressure building in my chest. When I think about what I did to get him here and this, this, is what the piece of shit does to thank me.
Thank me? Or not thank me? What am I saying? That attributes caring and feeling to the back-side of a clock; an opinion from a cam-shaft; love from a gear wheel. I blow pointedly through the gap in my front teeth. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised.
Fucking deals.
I stop on the first floor landing. Azazel stops too.
I reach a hand to The Patch, and catch Azazel's head tilting inquisitively in my direction: there is a searing blade of attention there – as if I'm tugging on a string connected directly to a valve in his heart – and a mocking smile. His cigarette dances around on the tips of his fingers, and then multiplies in his shades as he takes a draw. He inhales deeply. I hear the paper and shreds of leaf rustle in a tiny, rushing inferno and then he blows the smoke into darkness. It's almost a sigh.
'Azazel, come here,' I order.
He does so, obediently.
I drop this evening's fetish – a pair of Prada uber-fem shades – on the ground, and grind them under heel. The earlier mischief pops out like a light bulb.
So does the jinx.
A wide grin shoots across Azazel's face.
'Back in the bag, you asshole!'
A wave of heat and the scream of motorcycle tyres, mixed with billowing howls of god-knows-what, blasts up in a wave of vertigo, and my nostrils are filled with the smell of burning flesh and petrol. Azazel's Cheshire Cat grin – boiled down to the bone – blinks out, thrashing and snapping at the air like a cat chasing flies.
In an instant, there is only tenement stair.
I flick some white ash from my shoulder, straighten my dress, and press down the last few steps and out to the street. It's freezing out; a night that reduces every movement to harsh lines.
It's cold as hell.
November 15, 2010 2 Comments
Bambayag Day
oming back from Sainsburys, Mrs Bambayag met The Single Mother on the tenement stair.
The Single Mother – Eileen – had two squalling children with her. The child in her arms was determined to pull up her t-shirt and expose her bra to the neighbourhood, and the other was being bounced around in a pushchair. The children, pushchair and three bags of shopping were being dragged upwards, step by step, with bumps and screams all round.
Mrs Bambayag calmly observed the operation from a lower landing until she could get safely past. Her own purchase, a tissue-wrapped bottle, was tucked like a hen's egg in her stern, little handbag. Mrs Bambayag hoisted her bosom.
"Happy Birthday, miss McIntyre,†she said. "Doing anything special to mark the day?â€
"Oh – ah, no Mrs Bambayag,†Eileen sighed, "not after… last year. And you, I mean…†She pointed at the twist of black crepe. "A celebration?â€
"Oh, you know… an anniversary. An old lady still has her days, my dear; she still has her particular days.†And with that, she slipped past, pointedly ignoring the small voice that shouted furiously: "Why does that woman have a moustache?â€
"Reggie!†squawked Eileen.
Mrs Bambayag was humming a little military march as she entered her charming residence, fluttering a doily or two as she passed. Her hat and coat were stowed and straightened on the neat little hooks in the hall.
The handbag, she took through into the lounge, where she fetched the fine crystal decanter from the mantle. A little silver funnel came next and Mrs Bambayag carefully unwrapped the bottle, uncorked it with a delicate 'phung!', and poured out its contents with a steady hand and gimlet eye. Watching the rich, plummy, liquid splash into the funnel, she gave a little shiver of excitement, as if it were triumph, rather than fine brandy, that was rising up in the sparkling crystal.
Exactly one year ago today, Mrs Bambayag had murdered Eileen McIntyre's thirtieth birthday party. In fact it had been quite ironic seeing her on the stairs. The murder weapon had been a single call to the local constabulary on a black, Bakelite phone. The police had not wanted to intervene – Eileen's mother had come over especially from Adelaide, her brother had come from the Kassala in the Sudan, and one of their off-duty colleagues was enjoying the Peach Champagne Punch – but a complaint was a complaint. An obscure fire Regulatory Reform (Fire Safety) Order from 1805 had been quoted down to the numbered sub-sub-section and had to be upheld. Of course it had – Mrs Bambayag had once been a lawyer. Haemorrhaging guests, the party had managed to drag itself to a local pub, where, by all accounts, a substandard time was had by all, before the celebration had finally expired.
Mrs Bambayag liked to celebrate these sorts of victories as if they were great battles that could be pointed out on a map and marked with little, crossed swords: 'No quarter taken, July 22nd, Battle of Bargaining Down The Fish Shop on a Quarter Of Cod', or 'Victory in Shortcuts Salon, January 15th, Battle of the Pink Rinse Voucher Being Out of Date, But by God it Was Redeemed,' and other such dates. But today – the first anniversary of her Waterloo, you might say; the death of Eileen's soirée – was a day yet to be named and awarded its colours.
On her wall was a spacious wall plan – a calendar – of birthdays, and on the drawing table, was her little black book, with its list of the other tenants in her block and the names of their landlords or landladies, and the phone numbers of those respective persons, ready for complaints, of course. And the tenants and their birthdays were all neatly indexed.
It could immediately be seen that all the birthdays had been crossed out with a careful stroke of red ink, and Eileen's was double scored as the very last, with 'Buy Brandy!' written next to it.
Even Eileen's children had been 'nibbed in the bud,' as it were. In fact, Mrs Bambayag had ruthlessly polished off every party, knobbled every 'knees up', and eviscerated every entertainment in the tenement for the last twenty years. She'd done it anonymously, of course, by phone, with some querulous complaints, a pitiful cough, and a few crocodile tears that clearly demonstrated she'd been driven to distraction – "Oh deary me, officers, I really didn't want to complain, but what with the terrible noise and my having such a dickey heart and all….†The complaints were backed up with a raft of old and quite legitimate legal loopholes, the likes of which even the inquisitional lawyers of the Spanish in 1478 would've considered far too grotesque and underhand to use (though despite this attributed weakness, she was still a fan of Tomás de Torquemada).
"Peace and quiet Mrs Bambayag,†she said to herself, "peace and quiet. I never did hold with all that faffing and gadding about and pointless celebration.†A prunes a prune's a cabbage, she liked to say, and by that she meant she was too old, or too content, to change.
While the birthday of everyone else in the tenement was so marked, Mrs Bambayag's birthday was not amongst their number; nor had it ever been on any calendar. Her very own mother hadn't remembered the exact day her daughter had been born – a sad thing, but true – and her daughter hadn't had any presents until she was seven.  Mrs Bambayag could only approximate her 'many happy returns' to a Tuesday or a Wednesday, in June or February, but possibly to a Friday in September.
When the last drop of brandy was a smear on the glass, the funnel was gently tapped twice and kept for the kitchen, and she placed the stopper back in the decanter and placed the decanter back on the mantle. Her attention wandered to the wall plan once more and she picked up her sharp, nib pen.
It was a seminal day on Mrs Bambayag's calendar. What was she going to call it? She thought for a moment, her tongue twisting around. Then, glorious inspiration struck. She couldn't… could she? Surely –
"Ohhhh, Mrs Bambayag, you old devil,†she chuckled.
She scratched two words across Eileen's defeated little space: BAMBAYAG DAY. Perfect. She didn't have a day for herself, so why not take somebody else's?
Time to put up the decorations! "Make it a public holiday,†she trilled. A red telegram day from the Queen: Bambayag Day!
Mrs Bambayag rummaged around in her hall closet and removed an old fashioned hat box from beneath the bundle of ribbon-tied documents she kept there, and some interesting National Geographics she'd put aside. The box smelled of old age, moth-balls and rubber bands.
Back in the lounge, she opened the box and took out a rubbery, half perished balloon. The balloon had Happy Birthday Eileen written on it. It was fragile, but precious. There were a few streamers still attached and she put those round the mirror. The balloon itself, was pinned, pride of place, next to her collection of Dutch porcelain schoolboys. A small card was next, pushed between the mirror glass and the frame. It had been hand-drawn by a child, and featured a smiling cat with blue crayon whiskers and two tails. Hapie Birtda, Mumi, it said. Reggie. Xxxxxxxxxx xxx x.
With pride, Mrs Bambayag adjusted and tweaked these oddments: the remains of that last, pitiful celebration, disinterred from the refuse bins at the back of the tenement.
Then she made luncheon. On Bambayag Day, she decided, it was now tradition-nouveau to eat with the silver cutlery, usually reserved for funerals, and the Willow-Pattern plates that hung in the hall for when the Queen should call. And, as an afterthought, she climbed up into the small space above her airing cupboard and dug out a dusty, old Christmas cracker for the side of her tray. One and Ha'penny, the box of crackers said, from the Co-op. Oh she was in a daring mood today!
Sitting primly by the fire, bean-bag tray neatly installed upon her lap, she had a lovely forcemeat roll, three golden potatoes, and some toasted parsnips for one. Then she popped open her blackened metal tin – the one with the Pears Soap label of Britannia, resplendent-regina – and had a few malted crackers.
Dabbing at her lips with a starched cotton serviette, she placed her knife and fork quite parallel on the face of her plate. Two-fisted, she pulled the cracker with gusto. It didn't go 'snap!' but it did at least frizzle with the smell of gunpowder when it tore in two, though she lost the little tin toy under the couch. She pulled out the hat, and folded it carefully, putting it between one of the Geographics for safekeeping.
Mrs Bambayag was not one for the common joke, but she was keen on the fortune slips you got in the more 'exclusive' crackers. Beware of Big Surprises, the little slip of paper said. Mrs Bambayag – who immediately took stock of her fate – got up to wash the Willow-Pattern plates, just in case. You never could tell when Her Majesty might call.
Once the dishes were washed, wiped and stored, she watched Prisoner Cellblock H in black-and-white, and a documentary that featured more than one incidence of mating baboons.
Mrs Bambayag yawned. It was time, she decided, for a nightcap and then bed.
She went to the mantle and took down the decanter she'd prepared earlier. It was full of her very favourite brandy – Dyuc de Frombergaine – an old vintage Armagnac aged in casks of Monlezun oak; it was the kind of brandy that Napoleon drank. She took out the thinnest of crystal glasses – that rang to a fingernail – and filled it. "Death to revelry,†she pronounced, and toasted the demise of her adversary. There were other days, but none had the same, satisfying note of conquest as Bambayag Day. She took a sip – the succulence of apple, cloves, fresh-baked bread, and a hint of marzipan, filled her mouth. There might even be a hint of persimmon in there too.
When she turned in at 10:30, it was to unadulterated silence. Listening to the clock tick was part of the celebration; watching the dust motes sparkle in the moonlight and hearing the old tick, tick, tick, was all a part of Bambayag Day. What a wonderful day it is, she thought, and drifted off to sleep.
In the living room, it was very, very quiet; a crypt-like silence hung over everything. Then, at midnight, it began to get cold. A light dusting of glitter and a few plastic stars rimed the sofa like frost. In the display cabinet, Eileen's balloon kicked once; the movement slid a Dutch porcelain figurine a fraction of an inch, with a slight squeak of glass. Some streamers slipped a little lower on the mirror, like a noose playing out quietly through strong hands. Reggie's card fluttered to the floor, whirling over and over like a sharpened blade of paper. An aura of exuberance and drunken debauchery began to build – whatever remained of good cheer had risen from the after-party and had come back for revenge…
At 3:00am, loud music woke Eileen McIntyre from a restless sleep. Her momentary reaction was to think she was dreaming, because nobody had parties in this block anymore. But her floor was vibrating, and a foil twist of aspirins on the bedside cabinet was buzzing and ruzzing as it crept towards the edge of the table top. A shelf of books had already collapsed, catapulting her stuffy cow, Gerry, into her knickers drawer. Birthday cards were tumbled everywhere. Somebody, somewhere, was playing one of her favourite songs – Annie Lennox's Diva – far, far too loud.
After twenty minutes, unable to ignore the fact that it sounded like Annie was in the same bed, singing in her ear with a loud hailer, Eileen decided that she was going to have to be the one to deal with things, as usual.
"Nobody murders Annie with that much treble,†she muttered, levering herself up. She dragged up her dressing-gown from a pile of clothes by the bed, and swept a handful of hair from her face. The dressing-gown came like syrupy bread, sticky-side-down, but she bolted it on with a loopy twist of the furry tie. In the hall, she skiff-skiffed to the phone in her monster-feet slippers, only stopping to say: "Reggie! Bed! Now!†and "Yes, of course I can hear the music…†and "No, you can't have any crisps! Go on… No, I'm just going to make a phone call! Now, bed!â€
In response, small, sticky-sounding feet padded back to their room on varnished wood, somewhat miffed, it seemed.
Eileen picked up the phone, flicked the same number three times and waited.
"Thank God. Police? There's somebody playing loud music in my block. It's ridiculous…†and she held the handset towards the thumping ceiling. A shrill old woman could be heard singing along to Legend in my Living Room and having a rare old time. The singing was completely out of tune.
At 3:45, the police buzzed up to Eileen's flat. She let them in; just as the music went eerily and utterly quiet.
In the first glimmer of dawn, a cat disturbed some sparkly trash by the tenement bins and the wind blew some rainbow confetti around an empty brandy bottle. A small balloon, half deflated, bounced once or twice on its string of streamers and slowly shrank to the size of a peanut. On the gaily coloured rubber, Eileen's name became newsprint and then nothing. A little worse for wear, last year's party had finally staggered back to its final resting place. Of Mrs Bambayag, on her wonderful day, it left not a trace.
November 2, 2010 9 Comments


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You know the pickup truck commercials, the ones that air during football games. A gravel-voiced actor boasts of the truck's unbelievable toughness and capability, while the video shows images of said truck being jettisoned from the space shuttle, withstanding fiery reentry and enduring an impact leaving a crater the size of the Dallas Cowboys' new stadium.
As the dust and smoke settle, a construction worker, or maybe a cowboy or firefighter (only occupations on the kindergarten "I want to be when I grow up" list need apply), hitches the truck to Mt. Rushmore and drags the mountain to the coast for the soft-living citified folks in those parts to admire.
There's no doubting it — trucks are marketed to the working man, but there's trouble brewing in Washington, D.C. Politicians look set to outlaw the V8 engines that are a mainstay for pickups (well, maybe not immediately, and not specifically, but increasingly stringent fuel-economy standards demand efficiency levels that will have that effect).
So Ford's announcement that it would introduce a pair of small V6 engines in the new F-150 seems likely to surrender the truck's status as the best-selling pickup for 33 years in a row. It sounds like a barkeep responding to a roughneck's order for a "shot o' rotgut" with a prissy pastel-colored umbrella drink.
Guys, you'll be happy to learn that's not necessarily the case.
Ford has equipped its 2011 F-150 with EcoBoost — the automaker's trade name for its emerging line of turbocharged, direct-fuel-injected engines that are designed to provide the power of a large engine with the fuel consumption of a smaller one.
And the good news is these new engines are fantastic. The F-150 gets four new engines for 2011 — two new V8s, a base V6 and the Ecoboost, which is a turbo V6. The V8s are truckified versions of the hot-rod 5.0-liter V8 that debuted in the Mustang and the hell-strong 6.2-liter V8 seen previously in the even more monstrous F-Super Duty pickups last year.
That the V8s are good is no surprise. Ford's powertrain engineers have been on a roll of late, but a V6 in a truck? To win over the average truck buyer, these engines are going to have to not just exceed expectations but demolish them entirely to find acceptance among conservative truck buyers, and these engines accomplish that convincingly.
The base 3.7-liter V6 engine is rated at 302 hp and 278 lb.-ft. and it moves the F-150 with sufficient urgency and grace, while competitive V6 engines and some V8s wheeze and strain and still fall short. The F-150's 3.7 V6 not only spanks the V6 engines found in smaller Ram, Chevrolet, GMC and Toyota pickups, it also tops GM's 4.8-liter V8 powerplant and falls just shy of the Ram and Toyota entry-level V8s. With 107 more ponies than GM's V6, look for Chevrolet and GMC trucks to get an upgraded six-cylinder post-haste.
Truck conversion for the engine includes hardware like a forged steel crankshaft, oil squirters to spray the underside of the pistons and a cast aluminum oil pan that helps reinforce the engine block rather than the usual stamped steel or plastic pan. This is an engine that makes no apologies for either power or toughness and which should deliver more palatable real-world fuel economy than the engines we're accustomed to. Unfortunately, the EPA hasn't released fuel economy numbers yet for the F-150, though Ford is predicting a stunning 23 mpg highway, which is 3 mpg better than any competitor's six-cylinder truck.
But the EcoBoost is where the real interest lies. The company is positioning this as a premium engine and will charge $750 more for it than for the 5.0-liter V8, which it thoroughly out-muscles. This ought to be the first clue that this is not the smoking, cast-iron straight-six lump that some us of may recall from pickups of the past.
Indeed, the EcoBoost bears more resemblance to Ford's PowerStroke V8 diesel truck engines than to its gasoline engine families, with parts like heavy-duty polymer-coated bearings.
And it will take whatever loads drivers can heap on it, with 365 hp, 420 lb.-ft torque, and 11,300 lbs. towing capacity. For comparison, that's more torque and towing capacity than is available from any engine in any competitor's truck. Ram drivers with a manly Hemi under the hood may snicker at the F-150's "EcoBoost" badge, but the EcoBoost will thumb its nose at the Hemi as it powers away with more torque that is delivered at lower revs.
Unfortunately it is still too early to quantify the EcoBoost's efficiency because the EPA hasn't tested it yet. In testing by journalists employing their best "hypermiling" techniques the F-150 returned as high as 32 mpg. In more realistic driving on highways that included some construction delays we saw 20 mpg.
Outside the engine bay the F-150 remains the titanic hauling machine it was when this new edition debuted for 2010, with a stronger frame and more lavish cabin than any of its competitors.
When that truck arrived a year ago, still saddled by its old-tech powertrain options, many reviewers picked it as the top pickup, while others made equally strong cases for Chevy and Ram with their muscular engines. This new engine lineup puts Ford ahead of its competitors and the EcoBoost in particular puts the F-150 over the top because it doesn't ask drivers to choose between power and efficiency. Giving them both should be enough to discourage shoppers from counting how many cylinders it uses to do the job.
The new F-150 has strong green credentials too. Even die-hard fans don't like the truck's lousy mileage. In surveys they have consistently identified poor fuel economy as their number one point of dissatisfaction, Ford reports.
Now if they would just change the engine's name to TurboMax, the F-150 EcoBoost would be ready for its new TV commercial. Cue the astronauts, cowboys, construction workers and firefighters.

subset: commoncrawl


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With increasing frequency over the last few years, studies have shown that Neanderthals weren't so different from us after all. Experts now think the stocky hunters crafted complex tools, buried their dead, spoke a language and expressed themselves artistically. In 2010, scientists reported that Neanderthal gene fragments make up 1 to 4 percent of the DNA in people outside Africa, meaning that most individuals alive today are part Neanderthal. And just today, researchers announced that Neanderthals ate healthy plants for their nutritional and medicinal benefits.
Far from the archetypal cavemen, then, our evolutionary cousins are shaping up to appear much more—for lack of a better word—human. Still, they possessed a handful of unique physical traits that might make a time-traveling Neanderthal stand out in a lineup. Case in point? Their disproportionately bulky right arms. For us Homo sapiens, our dominant side—the right for most people—tends to be 5 to 14 percent bigger than the other side, said archaeologist Colin Shaw of the University of Cambridge. In Neanderthals, meanwhile, the right humerus, or upper arm bone, is 50 percent larger than the left one. That degree of asymmetry is only observed in modern humans among tennis and cricket players, who spend enormous amounts of time swinging rackets or throwing balls.
How did Neanderthals wind up with the lopsided upper body of a professional athlete? "It's thought there was some sort of behavior they were doing that was really intense or really repetitive," Shaw explained. The predominant theory is that Neanderthals, who hunted large game such as mammoths and wooly rhinos, bulked up their arm muscles and bones through years of thrusting spears at prey. In Shaw's view, however, the traditional explanation always seemed a bit farfetched. "In order for that to be the case, you'd have to spear-thrust a lot," he said.
To test the spear hypothesis, Shaw devised an experiment along with researchers from Cambridge, Pennsylvania State University and the University of Oxford. The team recruited a group of athletes and instructed them to thrust a wooden dowel as electrodes measured their muscle activity. Contrary to what experts had suggested, the dominant arm—positioned at the back of the spear—expended less energy than the front arm when the subjects simulated an attack. "Muscles in the left arm are more active than in the right," Shaw said. "Spearing isn't the explanation."
So if hunting with spears didn't inflate Neanderthals' right sides, what did? The researchers also considered another activity thought to have consumed ice ages of Neanderthal-hours: scraping. In order to survive the climes of Europe and the Near East tens of thousands of years ago, Neanderthals probably kept warm by wrapping themselves in clothing and blankets made of animal hides, Shaw said. We know from Inuit and other groups that processing hides is a time- and labor-intensive activity, especially during the scraping phase, which removes flesh and fat from the skin.
"Ethnographic research shows that each person needs a new suit each year made out of skins," Shaw said. "You need between four and six skins of large deer hide to make one suit. Each skin takes about eight hours to scrape." In other words, a single set of clothes requires a whole lot of scraping.
As part of their experiment, Shaw and his colleagues asked their human subjects to vigorously "scrape" a chisel against a piece of carpet, once again wearing electrodes. This time, muscle activity was significantly higher on the right side, suggesting that scraping could explain Neanderthals' unique arm structure. "When you put the electrodes on people and have them scrape, the muscle activity fits much better with what you see in Neanderthal humeri," Shaw said.
Shaw noted that, in the Inuit culture, it is traditionally women who undertake the arduous task of preparing hides for themselves and their families. But interestingly, the humerus asymmetry has largely been observed in Neanderthal males. Since only one female Neanderthal skeleton with both arms has been unearthed so far, it's impossible to tell if making clothes and blankets was men's work or shared equally by both sexes, Shaw said.
Whether or not males shouldered the brunt of scraping responsibilities, the humerus study changes our understanding of the extinct hominins' daily lives, Shaw said. "It gets us away from the idea that they were spear thrusting as much," he said. "They didn't have to hunt to survive that often, but they were doing some long-term planning for when it became colder by scraping hides." Along with other recent revelations about Neanderthals' intellectual capacities, their apparent concern for their winter wardrobes could help dispel "the idea that they were brutish and nasty," he added.
Shaw and his team published their results today in the latest issue of the journal Public Library of Science.


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Fight thousands of players in the battle for resources and increase your influence on world politics by proclaiming alliances and declarations of war.
In Empire Universe, players become the ruler of many planets. They go into the infinite vastness of the universe and lead their race to power. All possibilities are open to the player!
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The First World War scorches the earth and you have been provided with your own command to turn the tide of war. Dominate the conflict and stand up against thousands of players.


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Skip to comments.ELCA pastor drives 'God talk' initiative
Posted on 08/17/2010 2:00:48 PM PDT by lightman
ELCA pastor drives God talk initiative
By Susan Hogan* A UMNS Report
CHICAGO Can Christians discuss the language of faith without it becoming a battle over political correctness or theological orthodoxy?
The National Council of Churches hopes so.
To begin the conversation, its Justice for Women Working Group brought 28 people to Chicago in August for a three-day symposium, Language Matters.
S. Kim Coffing, the lone United Methodist participant, did not know what to expect.
The issue of how we talk about God and faith stirs up pain for many people, said Coffing, an executive with the denominations Commission on the Status and Role of Women.
From the minute I walked in, it was obvious what they wanted was to listen to us, she said. This was not about prescribing language or setting policies. They wanted to hear our stories. They wanted to know how the words used to talk about faith and God impacted us.
The Rev. Ann Tiemeyer, NCC program director for womens ministries, said the diverse gathering helped provide a direction for the councils effort.
This was the beginning of a process a time for listening and conversation, Tiemeyer said. We do not want to pit people against one another.
Stories of God
The first task assigned Coffing at the symposium: Describe a time when language restricted her understanding of God. She had three minutes to tell her story.
Drawing on a childhood memory, she described a question she posed after her mother bathed her.
As she was rubbing me dry, I asked, Mom, does God turn his back or close his eyes when Im naked?
Up to that point in her life, Coffing had only heard God spoken of as male. She wanted to make sure he was a gentleman.
As she listened to others, Coffing heard people not of one mind on the issues. Yet, their personal stories drew her in.
I saw how hungry people are to have meaningful conversations that are descriptive of their faith, she said. They want to connect with other people around these issues. If there was a common theme, it was our need to listen.
God talk
America is more diverse than ever before, Coffing said. The church draws people from a wide spectrum of races, ethnicities, cultures and customs.
How does a mother explain the blond-haired, blue-eyed Jesus at church to her dark-skinned child? she said. Faith language can alienate some people, while rendering others invisible.
As a United Methodist pastor in Duluth, Minn., in the 1990s, the Rev. David Wheeler routinely alternated imagery for God. Later, while serving as a pastor at a Minneapolis church, he encountered language obstacles starting a contemporary worship service.
We had to rewrite the words to be inclusive since much of the praise music out there was sexist, said Wheeler, who now works with a nonprofit agency assisting people with disabilities.
I dont want to de-sex God, he said. But for some people, male imagery and patriarchy gives them a sense of power and tradition. We need to be sensitive about using language that is inviting to people across cultures and faith traditions.
The NCC also says the issues are bigger than gender. It talks about using expansive language rather than merely gender-inclusive language.
Changing times
Talking about the words of faith isnt new to United Methodists. It happens in Sunday school classes, Bible studies and other settings.
Weve had an active history in addressing inclusive language, Coffing said. Its not necessarily a history of agreeing on the issues. But there has been legislation to affirm language diversity and educational materials historically provided.
Efforts to raise sensitivity to language emerged on a large scale among mainline Protestants in the 1970s with the influx of female students and faculty and the development of feminist theologies.
Inclusive language lectionaries and Bibles emerged. Theologians produced a range of books on the issues.
Still, Inclusive language never really took root in the mainstream, said M. Garlinda Burton, top executive of the Commission on the Status and Role of Women.
Challenging traditional language for God was viewed by some as an attack on their faith.
Its a volatile issue, Burton said. Some in the church underestimated the value of having conversations with one another rather than having a policy dictated.
Starting the conversation
For many years afterward, the public conversations seemed to stop.
Part of the impetus to have a meeting on language is the impression of some observers that the use of gender-inclusive language throughout our NCC member communions has declined, the council said.
News of the gathering excited Heather Morgan Dethloff, though she wasnt invited to attend.
Dethloff, 30, a Lutheran doctoral candidate at Garrett-Evangelical Theological Seminary in Evanston, Ill., requires that students use inclusive language in the classes she teaches. At the same time, in the doctoral dissertation shes writing on the Trinity, she prefers to talk of God as Father, Son and Holy Spirit.
Father is a relational title, she said. God is only known as father in relation to Jesus, his son. For me, using inclusive language is not about abandoning all masculine language.
Burton concurs.
There are people like my mom, who doesnt want the words to hymns changed, she said. But shes also learning new hymns that dont use father language. You can use old and new.
The councils working group says the language used to talk about faith is a justice issue a view Burton shares.
Like any other Christian social justice issue, you continue to look at the Holy Spirit for transformation, she said.
The Rev. Ann Tiemeyer, an ELCA pastor, is helping to spearhead an inclusive language initiative by the National Council of Churches. She's the NCC's program director for women's ministry. (Courtesy photo)
* as of August 19, AD 2009, a liberal protestant SECT, not part of the holy, catholic and apostolic CHURCH.
Be rooted in Christ!
Indeed, our local Antiochian congregation finds most of its new members coming from Lutheranism. For that reason:
Orthodox Ping!
This is a cartload of horse manure. Social justice is a code word for socialism and wealth redistribution. G_D the Father is not a phrase to be toyed with.
There have been a couple of "inclusive language" bibles published (TNIV, NRSV) and they have been disasters. Luckily, they can't give them away - the market is miniscule.
Are Protestant denominations backsliding when it comes to using inclusive language? Some members of the National Council of Churches think so. Read on.Just don't call this nonsense "politically correct".
Regarding the painting prophets and saints in the colors of culture and race: This is neither recent, nor is it exclusive to Christendom. I have seen depictions of Buddah in statuary from Afghanistan and the Middle East in which the statues look like those modeled of classical antiquity and far different from statuary I have seen in China and Japan. Diverse examples in Christianity not only include the works Michaelangelo but also include the portfolios of Albrecht Duerer and Fra Angelico.
Can anyone tell me, do all branches of Methodism affirm women in the priesthood?
That's all I've got. When I see these "wimmen" in Western clerical collars...it's such a ridiculous parody...
Lord, have mercy.
I read the material there, then a number of the comments (I couldn't manage force myself to wade through them all).
It saddened me to read about what some people spend their time, and apparently much of their lives, arguing about, as they try to reform God, Jesus, and the Holy Ghost into something that they "can be comfortable with".
I pray that they will open their hearts to the light of Jesus, and let him lead them out of the darkness they now reside within, where they endlessly argue about (and against) the only one who can provide their salvation.
Sponsored by the National Council of Churches. 'nuff said.
I highly recommend a smallish book, "The Seduction of Extremes," by Peter Kurowski, a pastor in the LCMS, published by Torelion Productions LLC, 10005 Keith Inct. Ct., St. Louis MO 63114. See also www.lawgospel.com.
Rev. Kurowski's chapter on female ordination is the best argument against it that I've ever seen, covering both scriptural and worldly/practical aspects.
One of my favorite Christmas songs from recent decades:
Some children see Him lily white,
The Baby Jesus born this night,
Some children see Him lily white,
With tresses soft and fair.
Some children see Him bronzed and brown,
The Lord of heavn' to earth come down;
Some children see Him bronzed and brown,
With dark and heavy hair.
Some children see Him almond eyed
This Savior whom we kneel beside.
Some children see Him almond-eyed,
With skin of yellow hue.
Some children see Him dark as they
Sweet Mary's Son to whom we pray;
Some children see Him dark as they,
And ah! They love Him too!
The children in each diff'rent place
Will see the Baby Jesus' face
Like their, but bright with heavn'ly grace,
And filled with holy light.
O lay aside each earthly thing,
And with thy heart as offering,
Come worship now the Infant King,
'Tis love that's born tonight.
This conference is so 70's. As a seminary educated woman, I would much rather see women clergy spending their discussions and time on learning how to revitalize churches that are struggling and need solid leaders to help turn them around.
Indeed, another reminder as to why I left the Lutheran Church to embrace and be embraced by Orthodoxy.
You're right — it's not "politically correct", it is "brainless idiots who have nothing better to do and don't even know how to pray", or "idiots" for short :)
nice, where is it from? I've not heard it before
welcome home..
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text:
| 5.6°C Belfast
A father today said the Government's welfare to work scheme was to blame for leaving his daughter fighting for life in hospital.
The Minister for Disabled People Mike Penning has issued an "unreserved apology" to the family of Sheila Holt, who was invited to "intensive job-focused activity" despite having been in a coma for the past two months.
Today her father, Ken Holt, said the stress of the threat of having her benefits stopped has left his daughter clinging to life after she was hospitalised.
Mr Holt, 74, a retired labourer from Rochdale, Lancs, said: "If they had left her alone she would not be in this condition. They were threatening her with cuts and she needs the benefits.
"I just believe it's all wrong, you should be chasing the people who are fit, get them to work, not them that are not fit.
"It's outrageous."
Mr Holt, a widower and father of three, said his daughter, now aged 47, has been bi-polar all her life and had attempted suicide three times.
Her last job was 27 years ago but he claims Seetec, a contractor carrying out work capability assessments for the Department for Work and Pensions, wrote to her and she was forced to go on a job-seeking course for eight days.
After each day she became more and more agitated until she "cracked" her father said, and was hospitalised following a "manic episode".
But while in hospital she suffered a heart attack on December 17 and is still in a coma after suffering brain damage.
Letters to her from Seetec however continued.
Sheila Holt's case was highlighted in Parliament by Simon Danczuk, the Labour MP for Rochdale, during a debate on the effects of welfare reform on the sick and disabled.
Mr Danczuk read out a letter in the Commons to his constituent: "It said, 'Dear Ms Holt, you are now approaching the end of the first stage of your intensive job focused activity. We hope that all the activity or training intervention completed so far has not only supported you to achieve your aspirations but has moved you closer to the job market.
"'You will shortly enter the second stage of your intensive job-focused activity. Sessions and workshops may vary depending on the centre you attend'.
"This letter was sent to my constituent Sheila Holt on January 30," Mr Danczuk said.
"I'm sad to inform the House that Sheila will not be attending the second stage of her intensive job-focused activity because she has been in a coma since December.
"I should inform the House that members of Sheila's family repeatedly informed the DWP and Seetec about this fact that she wasn't well but they continued to get harassed by those organisations.
"Just to recap briefly, Sheila has suffered from severe bi-polar since childhood and regularly has traumatic experiences. She has not been in employment since she was 16 years old. However she was pushed into the Work Programme before Christmas and she was finding it extremely difficult.
"She was also concerned about the fact around the increases in the council tax benefit that she had to pay.
"On December 17 she was sectioned under the Mental Health Act because she was struggling to cope.
"Whilst in hospital she had a heart attack and that's caused her to be in a coma since then.
"We are now at the end of February. I can report to the House that Sheila is stable, she is still in the coma."
He added: "Let's make this important point - before the election when the Prime Minister toured the TV studios he often talked about broken Britain. Well I have to say that if this is the Prime Minister's idea of fixing broken Britain, hounding disabled people who suffer from mental breakdowns, harassing their distressed relatives, then I prefer the broken Britain that existed before."
Meanwhile Mr Holt visits his daughter in hospital daily and says she has suffered "very, very serious brain damage" following the heart attack.
"It's a matter of life and death," he said. "She may not survive, that's how bad it is.
"All she can do is open her eyes and she shows she's in a lot of pain."
Speaking during the backbench debate in the Commons, government minister Mr Penning said things had clearly "gone wrong" in the case of Sheila Holt.
"I apologise, unreservedly, to the family as the minister responsible," he said.
"It's about time politicians did stand up and apologise when things went wrong. It clearly has gone wrong and the family have every right to be aggrieved and I hope she makes a full recovery, as much as she can."