TELOMERES

Shoelace Caps

Life-span determination. 

Would you like to know how long you have to live, barring accidents?  Medic-mad me would be the first to join the very short queue in finding out.   

Given moments to evaluate, 9 out of 10 would back out, leaving the odd crazy enthusiast like me to be first in the queue.   

Why would I want to know?   Curiosity is one component, the other is planning out my now limited life. 

It could be argued - why not plan regardless?   Well, who does?  There's the "bucket list" types that do and see everything on their list before they die.  

I just want to be in the controlling seat of something uncontrollable.  Essentially mad but it captivates my enquiring mind.

Longevity compared to the caps on shoelace?

Hard to fathom but have you heard of TELOMERES?   If not, you should.  Your size of telomeres determine your time left on earth. 

Telomeres have been compared with the plastic tips on shoelaces, because they keep chromosome ends from fraying and sticking to each other, causing damage to genetic information, the caps  shortened as they divide.   

Brave enough?  Telomere diagnostics works by analyzing a drop of blood much like diabetics use to check their blood sugar.  The shorter the caps the less time you have.   

Anti-climactic to preserving the length of Telomeres for people like me is once you know, the act of preserving life becomes the end goal and not living the moment. 

My reminder of the day as I tie the shoelaces of my Trainers, is accepting mortality with grace.  No Telomere measuring ensures anything; to know or not only does one thing, the race to prolong life under your own control.  In itself, that is too much stress.

THE PHENOMENON OF FILTERED SQUARES

Psychological damage on a daily Instagram scroll is quietly visiting us with depression, resentment, low self-esteem and loneliness.  Yet millions use it to project their seemingly successful lives through percolated lens and cropped pictures projecting envy inspiring lives.

What makes us green with envy  through these filtered pictures of a couple toasting champagne on a business class cabin  jetting off on a far-away holiday serves to remind us of the toll and grind of everyday commuting life on a budget.  It should stop you to think the need to display wealth, culture, good taste and a care-free life, when if fact their troubles are hidden behind; you just choose not to see it but to envy.

Another is "food-ism"   Along with eating at Michelin star restaurants, or invited to Ambassadorial dinners, the picture perfect mounds of Beluga Caviar,  elegant Scottish salmon;  or some foreign delicacies,  each showing off our perfect taste and our unlimited pocket.

Yet another is “oh woe is me”  -  those pictures taken from hospital beds, saline drips connected or hospital wrist band  indicating expensive private hospitals.   It says,  please send me well wishes.  A retinue of “speedy recovery” messages inundate the pings that count into the thousands.

One more pet-peeve is the “ultra-sound” polaroid of a baby in the womb.  Anyone who knows me, knows I am not a screwed-up, old fashioned, lack-lustre, bitchy barren woman.  It is indeed a wondrous celebratory occasion best kept to those who really care and not the Instagram world at large to feast upon.

This process of "I want to be rich like him" or "I want to be thin like her"  this mindless showing off through these square filters, are breeding a culture of people fascinated with stalking  and permanently aware of being stalked; of people fascinated by half realities that the real world is just too boring.

Fancy dinners

Business class travel

Michelin Star dessert

I'm guilty of these very sins.  A scroll through my own Instagram you can see all of the above.  Despite shooting myself in the face,  I shall address this with my own vulnerability of how I wish to be perceived.   My filtered square showed an opened Apple Mac to a  saucy chapter of my novel I had just written.... the background displayed a sunny day by a pool at an exclusive club.    

The message?  

1) Apple Mac says it all. 
2) My life in a tropical country,  (not godforsaken Chicago in mid-winter )
3) Boasting my literary skills as a burgeoning author; (education prowess)
4) Writing under the enviable privileged club that many could hope to visit but difficult to belong.  
 
I was recently invited to join in a wedding ceremony and lunch on an exotic beach.  The invite  had an RVSP and  a reminder of how wonderful the day would look on Instagram. 

Everything looked right, the bride & groom, the families, the friends, the wonderful occasion set in one of the most romantic places in the world.  So what was wrong?   The crassness of the Instagram reminder.  

So what should we do to improve the psychological harm this affects people?  Maybe you might think what is so wrong to flaunt your laurels to the world?   None of these people are really your friends, that wish you well.  Some are even strangers wishing to be followed so in turn follow you first - hoping your generosity will adversely add their numbers.  

Not much can change an addictive one billion users with numbers  rising monthly.   Only awareness and self correcting -  could perhaps help ease the depression, low self esteem, resentment and learn to live in the NOW. 

 

THE RED DEVINE

Campari

There's something intriguing when someone orders a campari soda.  Immediately my attention focuses on what makes up this particular person.

It is an aperitif drink that does not ensure "x-dollars" with each gulp.  It is a drink that affirms culture and refinement.   Legal drinking age youngsters whose sophistication has yet to blossom would order typically Red Bull & Vodka; with   heady highs in less than a minute.  Campari's bitter taste ensures lingering herbs with medicinal qualities that startles the appetite. 


Finding Campari in different parts of the world depends on the alcohol content.  In the American market, the alcohol content is 24%  48 proof where as the sophisticated hard core European market the alcohol content is 28.5% 58 proof.   No wonder my trip to Milan, sitting quietly by a cafe overlooking The Duomo was extremely heady, with a wide grin of approval from the head waiter who normally sports a curt disdain for unworldly tourists.  

Pedro with my neat Campari

Yes heady, because the waiter delivered the Campari in a sherry schooner filled to the brim - no soda in sight. So I guess, he was judging me and my preference.  I always prefer my drinks neat, my men very alpha-male, my steak pink and my towels fluffy and white.  If those four things are present and perfect - there is nothing more in life - simply put; my needs are met.

PS:  No - I do not work for the company, nor do I work for their advertising/PR campaign -  I'm simply a Campari girl.   Campari lovers, do comment.

AN ODE TO CLAIRE

THE LANE FAMILY CREST

Family.


It can be bitter sweet.

It can be utterly sad.

It can be joyous.

It can be the only thing that matters.

All of these emotions packed neatly stored away in the cerebral cortex  to be retrieved in moments of celebration, renewal of the ties that binds or when death inevitably grapples unexpectedly.

Destination wedding,  death in a foreign land, renewal of familial love, the bitter sweet taste of unspoken feelings, the understanding of emotional barriers,  came to one poignant spot in the faraway land of mosquitoes, durian and Pad Thai. 

If you were to be a fly on the wall or a little less scientific, a spirit, floating around the gathered group, capturing love, nuances of pride, this is a  scene that repeats throughout history.   Yet for  one moment, its uniqueness to the people involved will remain forever in memory.  One group flew in from Koh Samui, the other flew in from London joining forces with  eldest brother, father and nephews and nieces.

Cousins, half-brothers, uncle and aunt all excited to see each other.  The frenzy of hugs, kisses caused a slight commotion within this quiet exclusive club. Objectivity is best when the story is told from an in-law.


When World War II ended many soldiers long for large families and a loving home.  One such man, a soldier from the Regiment of the Royal Engineers called George lost in the debris of peace,  picking up the pieces, found himself in Cheshire,  and met the perfect family that owned a farm.   It didn't take long for romance to blossom with the youngest daughter.   Two sons, and ten years on, the war was of the distant past; the love that not really there, became resentment and things seemingly  have changed.  He grappled with his decisions for another 10 years and made the hard one.  His mid-life madness broke one family only to restart another one. 

Estranged only to be tenuously renewed by an act of curiosity of the two older boys.......the story unfolds when they arrived unannounced to see their father. Instead of what could easily have been an alpha-display of who's the better man, it became an act of love which with one stroke of  gentlemen's understanding stood a test of love that continued until he died.   

So under the bougainvillea,  swimmers splashing the pool, hardened drinkers in the air-bar, lawn bowlers pretending to be olympian winners, the story of this one family, uninteresting to others but to them highly charged with emotions spent the afternoon by the pool and an evening under the stars.  

This was George's seed, his legacy brought about by war, his change of heart and what it did to four grown men.  The hurt, the anger, many times repeated in nightmares for one;  the delusion, the abandonment by death, carries a deep wound with the other; and then only to be found in the love of each other.  

It took maturity, a wedding, a death, for these half siblings to re-unite after a long stretch of time.  It took both of them to be fathers; it took both of them success and it took the younger one to reach out in the most gentlemanly ways.

Only wives can soothe, only wives can take charge when all else breaks down.  Whatever went down that lovely evening, I know the Lane Spirit made sure 8 little Lanes were in unison however far apart in distance, cross-culturally or ageism, the familial responsibilities assures that love carries on.

If only he knew that he left behind, the lesson to these men, the act of being a true gentleman.  That was his legacy.

 

BALLS AND ALL??

Australian Balls; and no,  we are not talking about sports!


I live in a country that presumes itself to be modern, although an arm's length away from the government's desired 4.0 economic model they are striving to achieve.  

Today's destination is Melbourne.  

My perception of Australia has always been from a standpoint of vast uninhabitable land, cities scattered along the coast, easy going people, nothing eventful happening, with a 'no worries' attitude.

Two things astonished me:

Everything in that country worked, whether it was public transport, tourist bureau. trams,  taxis, local markets, coffee-shops, connecting domestic planes with ease, and the strait-forward Aussie welcoming attitude. The spirit of the people, the expanse of the international mix making Melbourne, Sydney, Perth or even Brisbane not the end of the earth as Columbus might have imagined.

The other was:

The Aussie twang.  It is something I have got to get used to.  As much as it grates the ear, their fun and down home humour balances out the irritating drawl.

So fancying something very macho, "when in Rome...." I decided its now or never.  My choice for the night was the very tempting luscious tasting Australian Balls.  Well they are certainly a country that don't mince words.   Balls tonight, Balls it will be.

White ones, Brown ones and even Black ones.   In life, one must try them all to find out what one likes.  Somehow our choices, cultures, and taste does not stretch that far and we pick the easiest less problematic choice.  The Balls should be  soft and yielding, they are tasty, some are presented with fuzz.   Australian ones are particularly scrumptious and in Melbourne, Flanders Street is where you can satisfy your desire.    Naturally they come in large and medium.   Small are for "pansy's" Australian slang  translated  "a wuss" or  a "wimp"    So Medium Brown Balls is my wish for the night.

The MeatBall and Winebar is what I am talking about in case your mind went wild.  The menu just says BALLS & ALL - they have  Meatballs, Pork balls, Fish balls.  Too much choice.  But I wanted meatballs.

The suggestion was what should my BALLS sit on?  A pile of beans, polenta, creamy mash or spaghetti?  My BALLS were going to perch lightly on Spaghetti.       

As I transported myself to oblivion taking my first bite of Australian balls, I looked up at the busy wine bar discovering the clientele had real macho men of different sizes, tall, trained muscles, groomed beards, loud deep voices with confident strides.  Unfortunately none of these attributes my country produces; I guess effeminate Asian males probably don't eat Balls.   

Tonight as I contemplate my country's far reach plan of the 4.0 economic model, its budget spending on submarines (we have no known enemies in the vast ocean) and return of promised democratic election.  Maybe the world laughs at Australia's  5 Prime Ministers in 5 years.  But I for one, a deep sigh, have no choice but to tolerate what we did not elect.

Balls to that.

BALI - HI

                                             PARADISE

Healing at NOKU

In my profession I heal people.   With learned skills, clinical practice, words, soft understanding, and guidance - it encouraged me to continually help those in need more and more.  Naturally accumulative problems takes my energy levels down, sometimes unknowingly low.  And until I came to Noku Beach Resort in Bali for a beach holiday, and tried Reiki and Sound healing I soon realized my shortcomings.  

Modern Science vs  Ancient beliefs; well, it was time I opened my eyes and accept what science sometimes looks at disdainfully.  My skepticism with a hint of sarcasm and quiet tone of derisory contempt attitude was not only rude but inexcusable.

I had no idea what to expect.  The two and a half hours had such a profound effect on me that my skepticism and sarcastic attitude showed up my ignorance and stupidity which brought me down to humility.   The shallow me began to understand how vibrations and energy can begin to heal many diseases.

If you have not heard of it, Reiki is a Japanese technique for stress reduction and relaxation that also promotes healing. It is administered by "laying on hands" and is based on the idea that an unseen "life force energy" flows through us and is what causes us to be alive. If one's "life force energy" is low, then we are more likely to get sick or feel stress, and if it is high, we are more capable of being happy and healthy.

The session of two an half hours of oil massage unlike any other massage I am used to;  Stefany's healing hands directed at the spinal chord, where nerve tissues are formed.   From the base of the neck to the coccyx, Stefany enabled the nerve fibres that coil up to stretch out.  Modern living, fast-paced technology of one-button pushing results, expanding all possibilities to its limits;  culminated in my unbalanced Chakras.  Stefany managed to lay bare the nerve fibres and connect them through vibrations.

Towards the end of  the hour long oil massage, Stefany produced the Spa’s  small hand-hammered copper bowl with a mallet used for Chakra balancing, sound therapy and meditation.  Lying on my tummy, head down, eyes closed, unaware of my surroundings; all seemed to be in tune with the world, as I sank into a meditative state.  Until Stefany used the mallet to gently hit the side of the bowl producing a sound that made me jump as if I had an electric shock.   Trembling from the  top of my brain to the very tips of my toes, my whole body shook.  Goose bumps appeared leaving me electrified by my own un-synched unbalanced chakras.   As quick as it jolted me, I was  suddenly  in unison with the vibrations.  I was following the sound as she moved the mallet to the edge of the bowl, the vibrations went deeper  to a depth of  an audible vortex, sending me into a parallel state of consciousness.  I  became part of that vibration seemingly entering an abyss of time, space, or perhaps the universe.  Hard to grasp let alone voice out.

Healing finished, I walked out of the spa winding my way through the house;  gliding into the sunset, the sea breeze engulfing my lungs,  the harmony I felt with the universe was magnified.  Could I, a writer, with the sway of words find enough phraseology to influence the non-believer?  

The mystical energy of Noku Beach House, the constant sound of waves breaking on the shore; peace found where meditation didn't quite.



I was shown a space, perhaps fleetingly, where I can be in tune with the vibrations that heal.
 

There lies the mystique of Noku Beach House

BEHIND THE BACK - DOOR

I always like to know the back-door of every opening, entrance or establishment. I possess not a salacious mind but always an inquisitive one.  Before I continue, try to keep a clean mind as you scroll through my thoughts but judge me not.

My magic carpet ride ranges from a Cessna to a Concorde, an Airbus to the triple 777.  It has always baffled me the smooth operation of each flight  besides the pilot’s skill, the cabin crew denotes the tone of atmosphere.  

The immaculate well groomed purser of  “as smooth as silk” over two days gave a wedge of light in what goes on behind the crisp uniform and the infamous smile.

The service industry 30.000 ft up  perhaps plays an important role than those on firm land.  Why?  The accentuation of events played up there can go wrong  demonstrating why Pursers contribute the calm, despite a calamity happening a few rows behind. They are a different breed from the norm.

Cruising speed heading west, food served, lights dimmed, everyone settled into their movie of choice, the rhythmic engine humming, beckoning sleep, a commotion develops at the back of the plane.   A woman, bleeding profusely from her legs high  above Uzbekistan rings for help.   Trained for this emergency,  does not necessary mean sharp instant reaction.   There is normally lack of oxygen for purposes of flying at high altitude; the reactionary time slows down and cabin crew look to the Purser who ranks above them.  Only one bag of saline solution in the First Aid kit, he instructs cabin crew to administer, calls if there is a medical doctor on board.  Lying on a prepared plastic sheet, it is required to shout out and repeat every medication used intravenously for purposes of insurance; while he informs the pilot of the dire situation with the need to land at the nearest airport.  The pregnant passenger is in and out of consciousness.  An airport found, she was medi-vac  to the nearest hospital and the journey continues minus two passengers.   Drinks trolley commences, situation at even level.

The other one is life or eros, which is related with sex, procreation, love, pleasure, survival etc.  So catching a passenger hell bent to be a mile high club member, going at it in full view of other passengers, or a raucous rhythmic banging emanating from the toilet door, my purser of “life solution guru” goes about it ever so gently; ever so understanding but also proof of his ethics, he handles it well.   The wet towel distributed before lights-on time, conveniently affected two purposes: humiliation and embarrassment with something to wipe off that shameful indignity.   

Throughout his 25 years service, the turbulence, electrical storm, engines failing, the  face of death  staring at him, often for an hour until the plane lands. To foster one of the two great principles that rule the human's psyche: death or thanatos (according to Freud's theories). What goes through his mind?

All the wrongs; asking forgiveness; praying; and acceptance evade the mind, engine noise straining against the wind, swaying, dropping altitude, making you wish it would stop or descend immediately. It seems his time had come. But the almighty said it was not so. Each bumpy ride exceeds others, becomes the norm, shrugs his shoulders and continues to perform the task of calmness and reassurance.  You think it's easy?   It takes every gut, every sinew in your body, every resistance to perfect that “being in control” at all times.   He has perfected the cool poker face expression and we, the passengers, feel better.

Today, retirement takes him into training the new generation of cabin crew.  Underneath the facial lines, when he cracks a smile, that calm exterior belies the effects of near misses; jet lag; constantly upright, solving complaints; wrong eating times; colleague politics; company politics; general wear and tear;  with the unspoken passenger death on flights.  All these show in moments of solitude. 

With every future take-off, the roar of the engine, the max speed needed for lift-off, the climb noise everyone is accustomed will leave me in awe of those that make this job a coveted employment.

The back-door of all things does have its charm, if you only let yourself be open to learn.