CANABIS THAT CURES

Listening to John Lennon's "Imagine" in my locked bedroom suite, the smoke filled room distinctly smelling of sweet cloying odour of MaryJane.   

A flower power 70's chic with long, waist-length hair stopping  just six inches above the hem of  a miniskirt lost in a world of  envied calm, cool  inner peace.  With all the wisdom a 16 year old can possess, I learnt to disregard parental control; dismiss scolding older siblings; minimise familial duties and enjoyed the world of dopamine enticed by marijuana to the sounds of Lennon's "Oh my Love" and Three Dog Night's "One is the loneliest Number".

How epically heaven that year became.   I seemed to have sailed through high school with Grade A in everything but the ridiculousness  of Algebra.  Hot on the agenda were boys, boys and boys; induced by weeded home-made brownies and the natural sensuality I seemed to possess in large quantities.  My poor mama, she must have gone mental with worry.

Decades later, taken on motherhood, came with worries over crack, cocaine, and crystal meth circulating my teenage son's lives; subsequently I became the authoritarian disciplinarian controlling adult I had so despised as a child. Unwittingly happy hour for me was a double-scotch on the rocks; several doubles later, the hypocrisy was embarrassingly ridiculous.

Somewhere between yoga, palates and quinoa avocado salad lifestyle, the sun-downer double-scotch on the rocks tradition faded; to be paired with freshly squeezed pomegranate juice and a drop of CBD oil to calm all aches and pains.

Legalising medical marijuana is now a subject of much debate.   Far ahead of the times, along California's Venice beach, medical marijuana shops are wedged between surf board equipment rentals, and hamburger joints.  Although lagging behind; Thailand's forward thinkers are pushing giant pharmaceutical companies to the side with forceful medical results in easing cancer pain, MS conditions and multitude of ailments enough that the Government is loosening its tight grip

A son of a dear departed friend, whose unfortunate luck was struck with multiple sclerosis in the prime of his years.  He did everything possible to alleviate the pain; expensive medicines, medical trials, that proved ineffective.  He took copious amounts of alcohol to one extreme and then came  the devastation of heroin.  A man of broken dreams, a broken body, subjected to vast pharmaceutical concoction of chemicals, that weighed down his grandmother's small fortune.  Some kind soul introduced CBD oil  and the dramatic change, viewed from sceptics was astonishing.  Born handsome, the disease took its toll and the stooped body, lagging leg, frustrating anguish would bury any positivity.

Off all medications, today, his 4 daily doses of CBD has renewed his spirit.  He resumed his position in the work place; the body strong, positive mental attitude, back straight, head up, his stride and passion in life was determined.   A new man.   And all because of nature's plant deemed an illegal substance.
 
Decades later, my music tastes have matured, Debussy, Vivaldi, interwoven with Adele and Maroon 5.  No more cloying smoke wafting my condo for I have moved from damaging my lungs, to CBD oil under my tongue.   The stress of city living, the stress from psychotherapy, the aches and pains from chronic disease, disappear replacing a much calmer Ruby Tuesday with a smile.

Lesson learned :  take everything in moderation.





 

FREEDOM - IS IT A MYTH?

https://rubisred.blogspot.com/2019/01/freedom-is-it-myth.html

RAHAF MOHAMMED

FREEDOM
 
Heavy subject.  We cry for freedom, we demand freedom, we move continents for freedom.  But do we really  have it?

Governed by our customs, traditions, morality and religious faiths, freedom  is  a myth.

Guidelines are controlled by constitutions, law,  religious sects,  parental supervision,  and morality.  Among a long list, I'll touch on a few;  female equality,   LGBT,  criticism of  leaders and royalty. 

From a child, being the youngest of five, the rules I had to abide by were suffocating.   Growing older, female equality was just a reach too far.  As a heterosexual  living happily along conventional rules, I feel for those that yearn  and yet are denied  happiness to legalize same sex marriage.  In certain countries, criticism of ruling governments or royalty seeks punishment of jail time taking away the freedom of speech to be controlled in a confined space for decades.

The life choices I made, stems from touching on the first controlling factor in life; religion.   Growing up in a strict Theravada Buddhist household; no matter where we lived, the family altar with many significant Buddha images, grandparents bones, relics and the joss sticks lit  three times a day were indications that only faith would bring good karma.

Imagine that small altar room in Kensington in such contrast with London's swinging sixties.  The inconsistency  for a young girl to sing hymns at the local school and attend a Protestant Church of England to come back every afternoon to the Buddha room wafting of incense smoke.    

Six years into daily swapping C of E and Buddhism, it was time for my parents  to move  the family Buddha altar to an Islamic country.  

I was enrolled into a Pakistan strict private Catholic school, and learnt to dip my fingers into holy water and make the sign of a cross, and absorb Catechism  taught by Pakistani nuns.   Not long into the Virgin Mary, and Jesus's disciples; in their effort to broaden my horizons, I was sent to the sister Muslim school and forced fed  Allahu Akbar five times a day; dabbling in Shia and Sunni and enlightened with Parsi worshipping fire.

All of that pressure served me well for I am now an atheist.

I married outside my tribe and besides love, the doors of freedom  allowed me to have a voice, choice, and finally, solid in my views, an adult with a real core self belief.  

So why do I say Freedom is a myth?

To really be free, is to live without social, traditional customs.   But we humans tend to over step the rules if allowed that freedom. 


Rahaf Mohammed رهف محمد‏ @rahaf84427714 20h20 hours ago

Don’t let anyone break your wings, you’re free. fight and get your RIGHTS!

1,026 replies 2,316 retweets 7,691 likes

From a less brave girl to an even braver girl Rahaf Mohammed al-Qunun,  I wish you constraints of another kind in the western world, dominated by rules and regulations; yet it would allow you to try lesbianism, eat bacon, ride the waves of Bondi beach in a bikini and pursue your dreams in the wildest way possible. 

May this be the best decision you ever made.

 

NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTION - PAST & PRESENT

As I pimp myself to celebrate  bringing in the New Year, a time for reflection is needed.

Of all the countless past New Year's eve on this planet, some resolutions have stayed; unfortunately most went out the window at the first light of new year's day.   The resolutions that have admirably stayed have got me to where I am today.  Only five to show, the rest was pie in the sky on a drunken night. 

On the eve of 1973:   I vowed to take "freedom" within boundaries and never cower to power.

On the eve of 1981 :  I vowed to be an exemplary mother.   My kids should have the last say on this matter. 

On the eve of 1997:   I vowed never to cry over spilt milk.  No regrets whatsoever.

On the eve of 2000:   I vowed to have discipline.

On the eve of 2011:   I vowed to unearth some skills locked inside and allow them to flower.

On the eve of 2019:   I vow never to doubt myself.   Others will be the judge.


Happy New Year to you all.  

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.