“Prophets and poets attempt to address the most elusive human experiences — birth, death, hope, peace, joy and love. To do so both rely on metaphor,” begins Sarai and waits until all eyes are focused in the direction of her rose-pink kaftan. “The most elusive of all human experiences is love. The language of love is bewitching. It may vacillate from the ambiguous to the explicit. This is certainly true of the Song of Songs — which English Bibles name the Song of Solomon. In Hebrew it is Song of Songs or The Song Comprised of Songs. The attribution to Solomon is a normal editorial ploy of the time, not unlike the modern custom of using celebrity sponsors to enhance a product. The appropriateness of choice lies in King Solomon being attracted to many foreign women.”
“Go Solly!” stage-whispers Steve.
“The work may have been written by a member, or members, of Solomon’s court. While some scholars see this as credible authorship, others feel it is more likely to have been written at a later time, when racial purity was a greater issue. Regardless of date this little book is the most surprising of all biblical literature. Throughout the book lovers are rhapsodising the parts of the body explored during intercourse. But to view The Song simply as erotica does it an injustice. Does anyone have any theories as to why this work was included in Holy Writ?”
Philippa raises a confident hand. “It idealises the Hebrew love of God, and from a Christian perspective can be viewed as Christ’s love for his church.”
“Many parsons have advocated this position, presumably without actually reading the work. Not only is there no mention of Yahweh, there is no suggestion of any deities or any forms of religious practice. Less inhibited preachers have concluded The Song to be a celebration of human sexuality. But this narrow position fails to appreciate the social and ideological significance of the work. It is more politically liberating than is readily apparent to modern minds. Again we are encountering protest literature; sophisticated protest literature. Why does it appear in the sacred canon?” Sarai allows her comments partial digesting before playing her trump card.
“The major protagonist in The Song is a woman. A black woman, a Shulammite. Hers is the only unmediated female voice in Scripture. Women such as Ruth and Esther voice thoughts through a narrator but here we have a woman delivering direct personal thoughts through soliloquies and love songs. Nowhere else do we have imaginings and yearnings so vividly presented. As The Song is part of the Canon it contributes to religious insight, and does so by sharing intimate feelings. The text counters some notions on beauty and culture, insisting on the right to choose love regardless of cultural norms.”
Rochelle wriggles in her seat.
“Do you want to comment, Ms Finley?”
“It isn’t only a woman speaking, is it? There are many voices.”
Sarai smiles. “Quite so! The presence of multiple voices gives the poetry increased drama and provides for the introduction of different themes. The poet assumes her audience needs to be persuaded of the suitability of this couple’s love. Beneath the surface a debate is played out. The shift in speakers allows for differing individual perspectives using the device of a chorus. The Daughters of Jerusalem vary between being sceptical to supportive and celebratory. They serve to goad, inquire, and provoke but are secondary to the private dialogue of the woman and her lover. The lovers speak of nature — animals, flowers, and birds. The modern reader is likely to miss some of the analogies. Consider for example, the little foxes that play in the vineyards, chapter two verse 15, and the dance before two armies at the end of chapter six.”
Eyes flick under raised brows and the few students who carry Bibles do hurried checks. “The reference to ‘milk and honey’ under your tongue does not merely mean the exchanged kisses are sweet. Throughout the Hebrew Scriptures milk and honey placed together are euphemisms for the male and female sexual fluids. Yes, even when used in relation to ‘a land flowing with milk and honey’. The writer is conveying that the plenty and joy of such a land will be realised in the full expression of physical love.” Sarai pauses, and reads disbelief on the faces of the pious. “It is a strange thing indeed that traditional religion takes such a repressive attitude to sex when their sacred texts are loaded with sexual overtones. ‘Milk and honey’ literally means ‘goats milk and date juice’, used as euphemisms for intercourse in the same way as feet, place of grounding, is a euphemism for genitals.
“This Hebrew scroll is about smitten lovers talking openly of their burning desire for each other. However, their lovemaking is clandestine. The text hints at different ethnic backgrounds involving class and colour, but emphasises that their love is a good and wonderful thing. The Song gives permission to enjoy sex, to delight in sensuality. It is a direct contrast to the sin concept perpetuated in that First Garden. Post Eden punishment has no place here. This garden of delight welcomes joyous sexual fulfilment for its own sake. Procreation doesn’t get a mention.”
From where she sits Kat can see Philippa’s body language screaming outrage. It is all Kat can do not to laugh out loud.
“The Song advocates balance in relationships, urging mutuality between the partners and liberation from stereotypes. It stands in marked contrast to pornographic literature. Pornography promotes sensation without feeling. The Song promotes sensuality experienced with mutual fulfilment. Its enduring message is that a woman in touch with wholesome sensuality is a woman empowered.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
In Sarai’s study the three friends sip tea with an air of conviviality. “You gave us plenty to think about today,” chuckles Jen. “Rochelle looked totally bemused.”
“I’d never heard of The Song,” confesses Kat with no shame. “But I’m looking forward to reading it. Even Steve might feel inclined to try some Bible reading.”
“It’s still a mystery why such a work was included in the Canon,” muses Jen.
Sarai delivers a penetrating look. “Not really, Jen. It is a classic example of the work of the Wisdom Keepers. Wise women have worked their magic throughout history and pre-history, preserving what is important. You may have heard reference to ‘Wisdom Circles’? These were local groups of female thinkers, crones who found ways to keep the Deep Wisdom circulating. Attributing authorship to an important male was a clever strategy.
“Brilliant,” agrees Kat.
“The circle is a universal symbol for unity and wholeness.”
“I thought the circle was a symbol for God, without beginning and without end?” interrupts Jen.
“True, it is used this way, but it has wider application. Regardless of our ethnic background we all have ancestors who sat around a fire together — drumming, singing, playing, dancing, telling stories, praying, grieving together, and solving the problems of everyday life. The memory of this connection to the circle is in our bodies, in our psyches. This memory is not restricted to women. One of Britain’s most enduring stories is the Celtic myth of King Arthur and his Round Table. The knights took an oath to serve not only the other table members, but the kingdom as a whole. Their covenant promised a humane safety net for even the most vulnerable members of society. The United States Constitution was based on the model of the Iroquois Confederacy, a system of separate tribal councils that met as a ‘grand council’ every five years with the responsibility for the welfare of the whole. What most people don’t know is the members of the tribal councils were chosen by the ‘council of matrons’, the oldest women of the tribe, who met in a circle.
“Wisdom Circles still exist, all over the world, as local, Spirit-inspired, spontaneously created projects, dedicated to serving the highest good and expanding consciousness by uplifting the individual through gatherings in a sacred space. But despite projecting unity and wholeness a circle is a limited thing, a discrete object, each belonging to a defined period. Greater than ‘wisdom circles’ is the ‘wisdom spiral’. It is purely female in nature and unites the feminine wisdom of the ages in a continuous line. In present times the line has become very thin … It must not be broken!” Sarai utters this last sentence with such passion both Jen and Kate shudder. The action is involuntary and unnerving. Sarai appears transfixed, absent. As if in another dimension, thinks Jen. Eventually Sarai’s eyes refocus. “Well, my dears, I have much to do.”
Summarily dismissed the two young women find themselves in the lobby and can think of nothing to say to each other.
“See ya,” say Kat.
“Bye,” responds Jen.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Pauline clears her mind of its clutter of thoughts. Her released intellect flies free and focuses on one word: share. As she pours her selected oils she pours her intent, infusing the preparations with her single-word mantra.
All afternoon she has pondered what mantra to bring to the oil. Various scenarios have played through her mind, some primal, some defensive, some selfish. She is not surprised that the word share has taken line honours in the process. Making out with Fish is delectable. It came as a surprise to realise that for nearly a decade she has only been intimate with women. I’ve always been open to men. She reassures herself by listing male friends — platonic pals, she grins, acknowledging she hasn’t considered anything else. Is it Sarai? The thought comes as an unexpected splash of cold water: she hasn’t been with a man since falling in love with Sarai! How foolish to love Sarai to the exclusion of others. Sarai is more emotionally available than anyone she has ever met … but there is distance. Part of Sarai is unknowable, an unbridgeable gap. Total love is seamless. Pauline realises she isn’t bitter; far from it, she appreciates every experience shared with Sarai. She silently gives thanks for the depth of their relationship and what it has nourished. The best sexual connections of her life have been with Fish.
Taking a basket of candles across the lawn to her folly, Pauline banishes all analysis. She places each token in its appointed place. The seed sharing grows from a word to a concept that fills every grey convolution … share … experience, share … surrender, share … pleasure, share … transformation, share … passion, share … earth and sky, share … flesh and spirit …
Fish arrives 15 minutes late. Pauline tells herself this is not rude, Fish is merely unfettered by mechanical clocks. This for the most part is true. Fish has never worn a watch, can’t stand the damn things, and they don’t like him either, none tried had stayed accurate. His clock is internal and serves him well. Pauline senses a hint of something else, something new in his persona … a note of discomfort — less than a note — an echo from over a hill and down a lane.
Though pleased to be at Pauline’s beautiful old house and in her beautiful old company Fish is wary. Pauline had texted preparing night of passion 2 introduce u 2 my way of sacred sex. The words sacred sex are not new to Fish. He explored Tantra years ago. There aren’t many things Fish hasn’t dabbled in. In his yoga days he harnessed and channelled his kundalini energy as an Indian yogi, without the inconvenience of travelling to India. Fish is a fellow who is up for anything, prepared to enjoy and be enjoyed. The niggle currently sitting as an ache in his right shoulder is control. Fish expects to drive the action, not in a dominant way, unless that is called for — he sees himself as a natural lover. His way is the best way. He takes pride in meeting his partner’s needs. What he doesn’t like is following someone else’s lead — it isn’t comfortable in the shearing shed, the mountain muster, in art class, and certainly not in the bedroom.
Fish shrugged off the meditative, introspective thing a life-time ago, but its foundations remain. He knows his need to be in control is a weakness, even believes he isn’t too old to revisit his position. He could be enthusiastic about the challenge of Pauline’s proposition but for one thing. Bigger than sexual philosophy, more powerful than sexual magic, is a primal fear. Can he sustain an erection if he isn’t calling the shots? Fish is invincible. Age will not weary him, especially at the going down of the sun. He will never need the crutch of Viagra. The only blip in his record was with a woman who had taken the lead. She did it with sexy intention, he knew that and it didn’t help. To be shit honest it has happened twice. Playing someone else’s game leaves Fish flaccid.
Such is his fear Fish considered not coming to Pauline’s tonight, even not seeing her again. Pauline is surprisingly exciting for an old girl, but Fish is not up for sexual embarrassment, he doesn’t need that shit. But there is no denying Pauline is not run-of-the-mill — she is different, good company, intelligent without throwing it around, and not in the least clingy. She doesn’t pretend she is in love. Nothing suggests she needs him. She sure doesn’t need financial support. Good God no. He reckons her house to be the most valuable piece of suburbia he has ever parked his shoes in. In addition to this commendable list there is the magic thing. Pauline is a practising witch, fun in itself but he senses more, something akin to magic in her eyes and words. Her very house embraces him in a metaphysical cradle.
If he is ever going to address this one sexual weakness, Pauline could be the woman to facilitate it. She doesn’t need to know. If it doesn’t work out he will go. What are a few minutes of embarrassment in the chaotic scheme of things? He can leave; leave her, her house, and her city. There is no chance of bumping into Pauline in Lawrence or Franz Joseph. He won’t return to Christchurch for years, maybe never — what does Christchurch have that he can’t get elsewhere? Should he crave city life Nelson is avant-garde these days, attracting US millionaires keen to have a holiday home in a quaint little city by the sea. And thus it is decided, he, Fish, will submit to whatever Pauline has in store and will do his damnedest to enjoy it.
Pauline has apprehensions of her own: conscience mostly. Sex shouldn’t be this good without it being love. If she had to find one word to express the Fish experience it would be playful. Fish knows how to play: his child is ever present, with the confidence that only age can render. Pauline has always taken care not to use the word love lightly. They are merely lovers. Fish is experienced in hearts and bodies, handles her like master potter, and she is willing clay. She changes the metaphor to dance — it is ballet, merging to ballroom, climaxing with the frenzy of Brazilian samba. She can let go with Fish — she ceases to be Wiccan, is not witch or priestess, not even Pauline Woods — she is Woman, and he is Man. They play and pleasure with a different energy to previous relationships. This one she wants to indulge further.
Pauline serves her pesto and parmesan oysters with salad. The meal is deliberately light. She leads her lover to the garden — at this time of year! Fish breathes relief as she walks past the ceremonial star. The thought of going down on a cold pentacle is unaccountably disconcerting. Her garden, he notes, is well planned, landscaped to delight, and functional to her needs, with nurture apparent at every pace. The crazy-paving ends at the riverside fence. Please, not the banks of the Avon, he appeals silently to an unnamed god.
He shouldn’t have entertained the thought; Pauline isn’t some crass teenager. She leads him across the lawn. Fish had presumed the hedge beyond the autumn trees marked the edge of her property but now he sees the hedge stops short of the riverside fence. The gap is narrow and yields the unexpected. The yew hedge is not a single hedgerow, it has a twin several metres further on. The two are connected by a distant third hedge, just visible behind a small building. The hedges conceal a strip where plants wander untamed beside a brick path. A secret garden — is there no end to this woman’s surprises? Scents of thyme, jasmine, lavender and rosemary hang in the evening air as the pair follow the yellow bricks to the building. “My folly,” gestures Pauline with pride.
It is, Fish supposes, what the English call a summerhouse, a little round building enclosed in glass. But it isn’t round, he realises, as he steps through French doors set flush along one angle. His eyes flick over the cushioned benches attached to its other four sides and linger on the space between. In the centre of the paved floor are sheepskin rugs topped with a white sheet and two folded hand-towels. The head of the love nest is defined by a glass-topped coffee table. A silver candlestick makes a focal point. He wonders if the pink candle is significant or random in choice. It is flanked by a bottle of wine and two glasses. Pauline motions to sit on a bench. She removes her shoes. Fish follows suit. A finger indicates he should stay seated. She stands, puts a match to the pink candle, and pours the red wine. They drink in silence. No chat, no toast, no comment. Interesting, thinks Fish, savouring the full-bodied after-taste. He allows himself to be intrigued by articles arranged with obvious deliberation. Interesting, he reiterates, and why?
One interesting and why applies to the shelf below the tabletop, where tiny bowls perch in wire stands. Pauline takes their empty glasses to the table and refills them. Before delivering the drinks she lights a stick of incense. If Pauline doesn’t want to speak he can handle that. He dislikes over-talkative women, especially in bed — if they ever get to bed! Pauline returns the empty glasses. This time she procrastinates with a taper. Igniting it from the pink candle she proceeds to fire the tea-lights that encircle the rugs, pausing to place the midget bowls over the first seven flames. Twenty-seven candles, he counts in silent disbelief — protection from the autumn air? When all but seven candles are glowing Pauline extends her hands, inviting Fish into her sanctum with the words, “Come, my lover.” Fish comes with a mustered swagger. Don’t be too cocky, son, he calms himself, be easy, easy does it.
Pauline strives to manage her tone to project care and confidence. It is important that Fish feel safe and comfortable — her responsibility. Fish has natural confidence but anyone can suffer uncertainty entering the unknown. Pauline’s aim is to be the Crone to channel what she knows and embodies. It had sounded good in day-dreamed rehearsals, now she is prey to self-doubt. She will not let it show.
“Stand with me, lover-boy.” Light talk to lighten the moment. “Come into my came.” Fish controls his irreverent lips to the merest twitch as she explains, with more haste than intended, came is an old Celtic mechanism. “The candles surround us creating a circle of safety.” She lights the remaining candles. The task frees her eyes from his.
When their eyes meet again both sets are composed. “I have blessed this came, it is full of sharing intention, I have evoked the gods to watch over us and protect us.” Pauline hopes she is conveying power and softness.
Fish endeavours to tune into the tone of her voice and finds it more potent than the words. She takes his hands, holding them in hers. “This came is our altar, our bed, and our protection.” She senses reluctance. “We have no need for defence.”
Fish is at a loss as to where this is leading but for the moment is willing to follow. “There is nothing human or otherwise that can touch us here.” The woman has set the rules, he will play her game. If her rituals must be entered before she is entered he will embrace her rituals. Her witch-hazel eyes glow with concentration. “Breathe deeply. Be at ease Fish.” He is. “Shed all thoughts and pre-conceived ideas. Exhale them as liberating dandelion seeds.” He catches the image and recalls childhood fantasy-time puffed from white dandelion clocks. “I have prepared this for us.” She feels his attention. She has prepared this for us, his mind echoes. She cares about us. His eyes circle the room absorbing the effort that has been taken, taken for him. Beyond the glass walls trees and shrubs drip shadows so inviting, he has a fleeting urge to capture them on canvas. But if anything is being captured it is himself, held immobile by the power of sights, smells, and textures. The sheepskin caress on his bare feet is pregnant with promise.
Suddenly there is tension in his cheeks, a smile … a carefree smile. What a treasure this woman is! He willingly submits to her undressing him. He is a strong, firm man, let her enjoy garment peeling. He is proud of the flesh beneath. For a moment his thoughts snap back to his fear. This is being driven by Pauline, she is the driver and conductor … and it feels … His groin convinces with a gentle flinch, that old familiar feeling: of course it is fine. Get a hold of yourself, old boy, he self-mocks. No no, he grins internally, let her get the hold. Pauline removes each garment with due attention to buttons, buckles and folding. Enjoy what the gods have brought you, you deserve it all. But, reminds faint but persistent Insecurity, you can’t sustain an erection without you pleasuring the woman. The problem had never presented with such clarity. His penis takes a dive. You don’t deserve affection. You, miserable soul that you are, are not worthy of unconditional love. Damn these feelings! He is a generous lover. You take what you want. The whole twisted game is about him proving and reproving his worth. Sex his defence, for 35 years! He is a contradiction, unexplainable to anyone. The thoughts rush in, in an unsettling instant. Pauline is talking, focus.
“I am not going to lead this, Fish.” What is she saying? “It’s not a waltz.” Why is she talking about who is leading? Can she read thoughts? She is a witch! “Look into my eyes, Fish. Do you trust me?”
He drags his eyes to hers. Give it that one chance you promised yourself.
The pause is too long. Pauline quakes inwardly but holds a steady gaze. His yes is barely audible but the following words have a ring of conviction. “I trust you, Pauline.” She steps out of her single garment and pulls him to a kneeling position. Their knees touch, warm on the wool-softened sheet. “We will share a special connection tonight — surrender yourself to the moment and magic will fill this came.” Fish blinks his acquiescence. “The gods will embrace us. I will help channel their blessing.” They are the last words uttered for over an hour.
The first candle-warmed oil drops soft into witching hands. Pauline sweeps the warmth from left palm to right fingers and caresses the man’s head. Concentric circles ripple from the first touch to lap in waves through his hair and lick the tops of his ears. He feels a pressure at the top of his head. She feels it too and believes an unseen beam of light is uniting their seventh chakras. She visualises the wheeling purple and hopes he feels the spiritual connection that is calming her.
Dipping into the second bowl Pauline spirals perfumed silk into the space between the man’s eyebrows. Their third eyes lock. Sixth chakra energy rises through Pauline’s fingertips and pulls with mystic magnetism. She is shocked by its force — it is all she can do to not crash her head into his. The beam curves from purple to indigo to a white spiral of all colours binding their embrace, head to head, brow to brow, chakra to chakra. Time stops as energy spins from heads to spines to limbs. When the spell ebbs she is reluctant to move but knows there is more, much more.
The third oil is for the neck and fifth chakra. She starts at his prominent Adam’s apple and wonders, Did knowledge lodge forever undigested in man’s throat? Thought is censored by Priority and Magic doesn’t miss a stroke. Invisible blue light relaxes his throat and shoulders. Her fingers circle upwards, spiralling from his cheeks to caress his lips. He closes his eyes and feels her fingers change partners.
It is a kiss of tender power, a kiss of knowing and sharing, a kiss of connection. The white light uniting their beings separates, whirling blue through mouths and throats, emerging from heads as unseen haloes.
Oil from the fourth bowl trickles from eager palms to muscled chest and energises the fourth chakra. The pull rises from beating hearts. It is not so much drawing together as expanding into each other, a pushing outward — souls transcending confines of bodies. Two hearts beat to a single rhythm, power flows from them to the green garden and the city, pink with love.
As the energy ebbs Pauline scoops from the fifth bowl and directs attention to the solar plexus and third chakra. Now supremely confident in her abilities she perceives the yellow wheeling light. She anoints his second chakra just below the bellybutton. Both are engulfed by an almost unbearable surge of orange passion. The man groans. The woman glides to the coiled serpent of the base chakra. Red is its colour, red for danger, red for blood, red for life. In the traditional Vedic view of chakra meridians sexual energy is accessed through the second chakra but as Pauline’s hands bring oil to his groin sex is all there is. The raw call of bodies ready beyond ready cannot be halted. Soft hands slide oil over the taut skin of his sex. Her own oils surpass candle heat. Sweat pours and secretions flow generated from inner fire. She claws through the coarse hair to his ramrod penis. The man and the woman clamp in the final chakra connection.
The candle light blurs to a solid gold circle. Beyond the gold circle and glass pentagon the spirits of the trees unite a symphony. Through closed eyes Pauline sees a halo blessing trees whose limbs reach to embrace them.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Wilkin comes from shower to bed. Jen presents the smile that she has been mentally preparing since he entered the bathroom. Refusing to name the discomfort she feels does not dispel the unease. It has become a chore. It is day five of their six days of sex. And that is all she is getting. Their love life has become pregnancy-centred. For optimum possibility of pregnancy they need to do it every night for six nights. At other times he isn’t interested at all. It is an impossible situation. It must be difficult for him too, maybe more difficult than she has allowed for. She has decided to make an effort.
He pauses. She can’t read his expression but stays with her plan, lowering the duvet sufficient for him to glimpse red satin. She slowly reveals an elegant leg. The new nightie is short, very short. The leg is topped with a ruffled garter. His eyes show something she prays isn’t disgust. His actions follow the pattern of recent weeks.
She takes him in her mouth and begins the ritual. In this new ghastly context the oral performance has become a preferred task. It is an uncomplicated way of getting him hard enough to do the job. These days Jen keeps him in her mouth as long as possible, wanting him on the edge of ejaculation. What she dreads most is looking into his eyes. When he mounts for the act their hips are perfectly aligned and so are their faces. Now she can’t look him in the eye during love-making and hates him for it. She hates herself more. It is terrible to fear the eyes of your beloved.
Tonight he is not letting her have her way. He pulls from her mouth and pauses. What next? With one hand on her shoulder he motions for her to move. She understands the subtle direction and turns, kneeling face down, butt up. It is, she recognises, a small mercy — they will not be face to face. Does he feel it too? Is he ashamed to look her in the eye? Is he ashamed of what they have become?
“I love you.” The words squeeze between clenched teeth.
“I love you too,” she replies.
It is a ritual. It is ironic. It is hideously painful, and it is true. The torment of the last six months has not killed the love, just the life that lives in the love. As he comes they both know it isn’t an explosion of life erupting between them. The action has the intensity of stepping on an idle hose and seeing a remnant seep from its depths. There is no thought of him paying attention to her body. She hasn’t climaxed in months. He has given up trying and she is only thankful the task is over. For a moment she wants to say something comforting. She forms some words and is about to speak. He beats her to it. “I made a mistake at work … last week, an error, a dumb, stupid mistake.”
Jen turns on her back, pulls the towel-covered pillow from beneath her bum, and flattens her knees. Five seconds after making love he is talking work! “The mistake is going to cost us a contract; ultimately it will cost jobs. I haven’t made a mistake like this … well, ever. I’m losing it, Jen.” She doesn’t care, can’t care. She makes an effort and gathers a phrase. The words of comfort pause mid-throat and vanish.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
In the summerhouse the man and the woman are a smouldering autumn fire. Their embers glow red hot, molten bodies melted into one. Time passes unmeasured. When Fish glances at the candles some have expired. He must bring his lover into the house before the night turns cold. Every part of him wants to keep her warm — warm, safe, and close. It is perfection beyond imagining. How could he at his age be experiencing something so profoundly exciting? They extinguish the remaining flames, bundle their clothes and themselves into the sheet, and giggle their way to the house. To the right of the French doors is a concealed gap: through the hedge they are but steps away from a secluded small deck and ranch-slider entrance to Pauline’s study. They sleep a solid eight hours in Pauline’s bed.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Sarai looks at her watch then at her class. “I see we have a few minutes to spare. I have heard rumours that some of you consider my teaching methods old-fashioned.” Her eyes twinkle and she looks perfectly relaxed. “I happily admit I am not bound by fashion and am by nature a tactile person. Technical wizardry seldom excites me. I hold to the educational theory that the strongest learning impacts come through physical and emotional involvement. Real objects are the best way of presenting object lessons.” She smiles self-indulgently at her little pun. “Personally, I do not favour the slick mindlessness of PowerPoint presentations. Pre-packaged fare tends to be lightweight. That does not mean I have no knowledge of computer-driven technology.”
Her eyes glide easily over the students. How can she possibly know, thinks Philippa, does she have spies everywhere?
“Women and men have been controlled and oppressed throughout millennia by a perception that the Bible says. And the notion that to challenge The Holy Bible is sinful. People who make such claims tend to be selective about what they read in the Bible. They delight in exercising the power of judgement that they see as their God-given right. Nowhere has this been more apparent than in matters of sex. Men have been taught to look upon their semen as sacred and women have been forced to have infants they did not want or could not cope with. There is nothing sacred about sperm or egg unless those who would fuse them have a mutual desire to create a child to be loved and cherished.
The ancient theology that saw male fluid as sacred was based on ignorance of the role of the female egg. This …” she says, reaching into her bag and drawing out a small snap-lock plastic bag. Everyone cranes to see what she extracts. Most pull back in disgust. Steve quietly verbalises what everyone is thinking: “Where did she get that?”
What Sarai dangles between finger and thumb is a used condom. “This is human waste.” Sarai lowers the object between the sealable jaws of the plastic bag and drops it into her bag. “In the film The Meaning of Life,
which opened in North America in 1983, Monty Python made an entertaining plea to the Christian public to see blind attitudes for what they are. Should you feel concern for the children used to present the message, I understand they thoroughly enjoyed themselves and thought they were singing about children being precious.” She activates a laptop and on-screen appears an impoverished Irish-Catholic da telling his enormous family that every Catholic child is valued. After a serene child solo, further youngsters erupt from furnishings, burst from cupboards and pour into the cobbled street. The screen rocks with angelic urchins augmented by very Catholic adults, singing and dancing their way through a toe-tapping tune of 11 verses supporting the premise that every sperm is sacred, every sperm is great, if a sperm is wasted, God gets quite irate.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~