Back to the Programme, or otherwise known as III.

A packed bus. Our first bus upon arriving at the city. We grabbed some seats and began our near 40-minute journey to Peckham. The heaving bus swayed under the weight. People were uncomfortable at the shrinking size of their private space while trying to appear gracious. I began to feel a little nauseous and light headed and was nodding off quite unceremoniously.

But before I could fall into any sleep, a big burly man came up to our seat, offering a tract that had a cross and the name 'Jesus' on it. I vaguely remember my friend reading out the contents randomly. Hell. Heaven. Truth. Be saved. Not necessarily in that order.

The burly-tract-man then began preaching in the middle of the bus.

Some people were getting uncomfortable. Many just ignored him. My travel companions and I shared bewildered looks (we had just got off a train and a few days of camping in the woods) Suddenly a passenger at the back began to raise his voice. He did not like what burly-tract-man was doing, and that he should stop. He was clearly offended and what was supposed to be a sermon became a heated argument between two faiths that were too closely linked for comfort.

The bus settled back to its heaving, quiet sways when one of them disembarked a few stops later. We turned to each other. And from that silence we began a conversation on faith. A Muslim, a Catholic, a Jew and a Protestant. It felt strange, yet no one felt the need to be overbearingly careful about what was being said, just in case it became a cause for another heated argument on the bus. Questions were being asked. When it was my turn to reply, I found myself groping for an answer, leaving behind a trail of hastily pieced up sentences. I blame exhaustion but I think I know better.

We ended the conversation with a tentatively planned trip to a morning mass at St. Paul's.

Commercial Break

The Happy Unicorn Collective will be performing at Readings this Saturday afternoon. 

 

II.

York Minster, UK.

I.

It is not even the middle of November and I am already beginning to recoup the year in patches, whenever I am alone with my thoughts and especially when it rains.

November coincides with the monsoon season.

Over yoghurt cups and stacks of bread at the mini mart today I looked at expiry dates, which were mostly in December and it felt like a long way to go (added value purchase!) but after flipping through my mental calendar, a quick panic attack gripped me when I realised it wasn't 'a long way to go'. The end of the year was closing in, and with background music from a B-grade horror movie.

This year began with a knowledge that there will be change. I don't remember how I arrived at that conclusion. So a few months into the year change came, like a loaded, tumbling washing machine.

Looking at myself now, I see I have changed. I have been made to see myself at my ugliest. All the things I thought true of myself were proven wrong. Instead of the certainty that you get with age, I got wobbliness. And the foundations that I have built this life on were mostly rot.

I began to grow severely unhappy with my studies. My brother fell ill with cancer. I saw new things and went to places I didn't belong. God was left somewhere in the middle of everything. Being away broke me, and the things I saw and the people I met overwhelmed my idea of self and of the things that I attach myself to back home. And there was nowhere safe that I could go.

A few seconds ago, while trying to piece a sentence, I thought of my brother. He is now in remission, clear of cancer, and back home. Only he knows what he had to go through in the hospital and the suffering was his and God's to bear. But despite all that, he is now a happier and cheerier kid who loves even more now to indulge in sing-a-longs. He uses words more. He is not like his old self. Suffering has changed him - to live life more, and not remain in brokenness or defeat. I will never fully know or understand, but his innocence perhaps, made it easier to be trusting again.

What an awesome way to move on.

And today I hear it clearly. So no, maybe I am not changed yet. No, not yet. Changing, maybe.

Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us.

Wordy Pictorial

From here.

Flip flip

The very beginnings of my reading habit proper probably began with a box of books that an aunt brought back as souvenirs from her holiday in England. She could have bought us fridge magnets or toy bears dressed as palace guards, but she got us books. I was the happiest kid in the whole entire universe.

I don't have most of these books anymore (!!! argh) and I don't remember exactly what was in that box, but I do remember these:


I thought that this was the bestest book ever. I still do. Paper punchers have never been so cool. Apparently former president George W. Bush called this his favourite book too, although it first came out when he was 23 (hey, look, similarities!) No one can be too old to love a hungry caterpillar and a book full of punched out pages.


This is one of my most favourite scenes from the Potter series. There is something about the way the corners of his blue coat flops up and the pre-mischief glaze in his eyes. I would so love to squish-squeeze Peter with all my might because he's much too adorable, but that might be a little too violent.


I never did remember the title of this story, but the drawings stuck with me for life. I tried Googling and prodding about, and finally found it! It's called A Million Cats by Wanda Gag, and it follows the tale of an elderly man who finds pretty cats on his way home, could not resist bringing them back, and went on a cat-picking spree until he ends up with more cats than he could possibly imagine. Finally he and his missus decided that one was all they could keep. It was difficult, all of them were pretty cats - but in the end they spotted one small one, curled at the corner, unnoticed. She was starved, fragile and not very pretty. But they chose to keep her, and she became a very happy cat.

There was something very absorbing about the cats in multitudes, and the ending gave an awkward child like me hope.

There's another story, but it apparently is so elusive even Amazon does not have an image of the cover. It's about a bear called Albert who goes on a trip to Scotland and encounters haggis. From then onwards I've always had a curious craving for haggis (which I had while in England, Scottish, no less).

That was one good box of books.

Lesson Time!

A lesson brought to you by Flight of the Conchords and Albie the (Racist) Dragon. Have fun!

And if you don't know who they are, click here for an easy tutorial to complete education-time for today.

Almost Election Junkie

I confess. I logged on and stuck to CNN.com this morning with a mug of coffee in hand and watched the numbers on the electronic scoreboard rise. And the results, as you all would know by now, was beyond merely pleasing. It made me jump inside when the website refreshed to show the breaking news that he had already passed the 270 mark.

Epic win.

I cannot say I totally understand politics and this is an election that isn't even my own. But change, hope and the question of going beyond race, religion and colour are things close to heart and bone.

This election-themed illustration by Patrick Moberg made my day. And this quote on Elliot Smith's music too: "(It is) what indie boys cry into their cornflakes to". Ace.

On the same bright and chirpy note, the Happy Unicorns might get to do a gig end of this month, and the prospect of it happening is already making my mountain of a paper feeling less, mountainous. Oh the joy. We could write new songs. We could discover other objects to make music with. We could sing about seagulls, beer and airports. And maybe even Obama. We could go absolutely insane. Yes!! Yess!!!

First day of the papers lands tomorrow afternoon. Quickly come, quickly go now.

Rent

This is an old picture of my other brother, doing a jump in an empty basement. It was just the thing to do after unloading the shopping into the car.

So we decided to make ice-cream with the kids today. Not with any fancy machinery, but with ziplock bags and more bags of ice. And lots of frenzied arm movements.

Am banging away on the keys of a friend's laptop. Thank you friend. This (hopefully brief) loan will help me weather this writing storm for the next few days or so. Upon logging in, I clicked around, like one would ease oneself into a new house, and took liberties to make myself at home by changing the desktop background. I chose the lamp picture from a few posts ago. He said I could do almost anything I want, save for making any changes that would involve pink and flowers.

And upon slightly closer inspection I found a folder sitting on the uppermost left corner, labelled:

'TOP SECRET'

Hmm.