I asked Henry to come with me and Sophie to the beach for an hour or two around 4:30 this afternoon. O,K., I begged Henry to come with me and Sophie to the beach for an hour or two around 4:30 this afternoon. I was desperate to actually go in and under the water, have been feeling this deep craving to do so for weeks.
Even though he had no interest in going in himself, he obliged me and brought his lacrosse stick to practice what they call cradling.
It was a scorcher elsewhere in Los Angeles today -- in fact, I went into the deep dark valley earlier in the afternoon to pick up Sophie's cannabis oil, and my car thermometer read 105 degrees. The temperature at the beach in the late afternoon was about 80, though, and the water as warm as it gets here which is still refreshingly cold. I took Sophie for a walk along the edge of the water and then in to about our knees before bringing her back up to her stroller and Henry. Then I walked down past the lovers and the mothers and the children and one small man in a bicycle helmet and what can only be called a private-parts or -- let's be blunt -- penis holder whose fabric was the American flag. I surmised porn star, such was the area and -- uh, length -- of the flag (honestly, Henry and I could not get over it), and when he turned away, it was difficult not to notice the line of stars, perhaps twelve out of the glorious fifty, disappearing into his ass.
Anyhoo.
The surf was pretty high, but the water was clear and blue and I felt immediately refreshed and replenished. Thank you, southern California. Thank you, Ocean Park. Thank you, Pacific Ocean. Thank you, Henry.
Given that it's nearly 11:00 Pacific Time, and most of you are already in bed and might be reading this tomorrow morning, let's just surf around tonight.
First of all, did you know that the FDA recently approved the use of Oxycontin for patients aged 11 to 16? Unless you've been living under a rock, and that's perfectly acceptable given what's going on in this crazy old world, oxycontin is a long-release painkiller that acts upon the brain like heroin. Here's the statement, reported by NBC news:
Dr. Sharon Hertz, director of new anesthesia, analgesia and addiction products for the FDA, said studies by Purdue Pharma of Stamford, Connecticut, which manufactures the drug, "supported a new pediatric indication for OxyContin in patients 11 to 16 years old and provided prescribers with helpful information about the use of OxyContin in pediatric patients.
Well, you know where this is going, right? I'm not going to put down anyone who wants to alleviate the suffering of a child in pain, but reeeeeeeeely? Raaaaaaaaaaahly?
As you know, my tiny little mother mind™ has been working overtime with countless other minds, far greater than my own, trying to lobby and persuade The Powers That Be that the efficacy of Charlotte's Web, of cannabis, of medical marijuana, etc. is far stronger than anecdote and certainly not attributable to the placebo effect, that it's a plant that's been used for thousands of years, that there are studies -- oh you know what I'm saying. But hey, what do we know? What do they know?
Yesterday, I visited a prominent orthopedist in Beverly Hills, a young and handsome doctor who probably replaces the knees, shoulders and various body parts of a plethora of celebrities given the location of his office. Last week I developed a bum knee overnight, was driven, quite literally, nearly to my knees one afternoon with a stabbing, horrific pain, a sort of grim reminder that yes, Elizabeth, you are turning 52 years old on August 27th and have taken for granted your solid southern Italian peasant ancestry and were over-confident that these strong genes were somehow going to protect you from the vagaries of age. To make a long story short, my right knee has a touch of The Arthritis, but not enough to warrant any sort of treatment, which given that it'd be one of those gigantic steroid shots that I understand work but that actually spark up the primitive part of my brain that recalls injecting high dosage ones into my daughter's baby legs two decades ago -- I declined. I did ask the good doctor, though, about cannabis and its anti-inflammatory effects and if he'd heard about any of that. He gave a short, impatient laugh, waxed on a bit about how the claims that it cures everything! couldn't be taken seriously and that there wasn't any research, yadda, yadda, yadda.
OK.
The weird thing is that this headline:
FDA Approves OxyContin for Children as Young as 11
(read the whole article here) just doesn't surprise many of us and turns our already cynical and tiny little mother minds™ into tiny, little obdurate bricks. Show me the studies -- double-blind, placebo controlled, long-term studies of children.
Let's catch another wave, shall we?
Back on the ranch -- the marijuana ranch, that is -- I got into a little sparring with the self-described admins of a group on Facebook called Pediatric Cannabis Therapy. These admins (and really, why do we have to shorten the word adminstrators to admins?) decided that discussions about Charlotte's Web Hemp Oil (CWHO) and the Realm of Caring (ROC) are no longer allowed. I wish I could quote the rest of the message that they posted, but that wouldn't be ethical for a closed Facebook group. Suffice it to say that it was riddled with not just grammatical errors (which, admittedly, drive this tiny, little mother mind™ batty) but vindictive statements and lies pitting advocates of CBD legislation against those who hope for whole plant legislation. First of all, these two groups need not be mutually exclusive, but according to Pediatric Cannabis Therapy's new rules, they are. The amount of work that Paige Figi, the Stanley Brothers, Heather Barnes Jackson and a virtual army of volunteers in nearly every single state in this country has done in a a very short amount of time -- to help sick children get access to medicine -- is nothing short of astounding and admirable. CBD-only laws are not perfect ones, and most of us believe that they are but tiny steps toward a larger awareness of this plant's many benefits. It's been more than 80 years since marijuana was basically forced underground for political and economic reasons, and during the last sixteen months, enormous progress has been made by pretty desperate women and men whose children's lives are at stake.That being said, members of the Pediatric Cannabis Therapy group were warned not to discuss Charlotte's Web by name or they'd be asked to leave the group. Insults flew for a bit and while I dropped in here and there (you know, surfing the waves, trying to stay cool, look cool), I finally unjoined the group. The crazy talk has happened before, and I just can't be bothered with it anymore. While perhaps boring to those of you who have no interest in The Marijuana Wars, today I wanted to suggest that those of you who do have an interest should probably avoid the Pediatric Cannabis Therapy Group for anything but the lowest form of entertainment -- a sort of Monty Pythonesque Office of Arguments:
I will say that many hundreds of decent people exchange valuable information there in spite of those pesky admins destroying the synergy (another ridiculous 21st century word that they didn't use but that bugs me so much I thought I'd throw it in there with the dirty bathwater), so if you decide to stay in the group or choose to join the group, I advise you to steer clear of The Admin Who Is Not a Beach Boy or certainly don't talk directly about The Product That Cannot Be Named.
Every day I get multiple emails from various publicists offering me books to review and talk about here on the old a moon, worn as if it had been a shell or even reality shows that I might be interested in sharing with my readers. The books can be about everything from baby pacifiers to parenting techniques, and my favorite pitched reality show was for a couple having sexual problems. You might wonder how and why these publicists get my name, and I just have no idea other than that they're using some kind of search engine that pulls up my name and affiliation with perverse activities because -- you know -- I'm all about that.
A few months ago, I was asked by some publicist to get a free copy and review a book by former drug czar and family values man/blowhard Bill Bennett. The name of the book, which is now published, is Going to Pot:Why the Rush to Legalize Marijuana is Harming America. That I happen to have met and actually argued with the man himself because of his personal affiliation with someone I know quite intimately (but not perversely), and not only found him as insufferable in real life as he is on television, made the pitch all the more ironic. Dear Suzie, I replied, Clearly, you've been reading my blog and know that this is a perfect match for me and will truly appeal to my readers. Please send me the free copy of the book, and I'll take a look and let you know what I think. The book came a few days later, and it took me all of twenty minutes to skim through the chapters, lingering over the brief few lines about dubious medical claims and then to toss it in the trash. Just the other day, while winnowing through my hundreds of books, I came upon a signed copy of one of his American hero books, and I threw that one, too, into the box headed for the library. May some wealthy white woman doing volunteer work at the library stumble upon it and bring it home to her privileged children smoking pot in their bedrooms and be edified. What I should have done is what a friend suggested: shred em, roll em and smoke em.
Anyhoo.
This morning, I got another appeal from a publicist asking me to review a book called Marijuana Debunked, that purportedly uses scientific research to argue a case against the legalization of marijuana. To be fair, the gist of the book appears to be that use of marijuana in the teenage years is detrimental to brain development, and we do know this to be so, but the author apparently projects the dire consequences of marijuana use into adulthood and how it takes a toll on people's relationships, finances, careers and personal lives. There's also a section about the deception of medical marijuana laws and how they encourage teenage use. I had read enough when I saw the tired gateway drug bullshit. The name of this book is Marijuana Debunked, and the email enlarges the title and makes the word Marijuanalarge and green for emphasis. As my friend said, with whom I shared this ridiculous email, What a crock of shit book. You could use that as a review.
I know that I'm a tad biased, but if you're a publicist and reading this blog post (and I seriously doubt you've ever read any of my blog), you need to do your research because I'm not your gal. My daughter's brain and life were ruined by seizures and legal pharmaceutical drugs, yet saved by medical marijuana. I'm perfectly aware that my sons' brains are at the peak of their development, that they should not interfere with that development by smoking marijuana, just as they shouldn't smoke cigarettes, drink beer, have unprotected sex or drag race on Ventura Boulevard. You also need to tell your writers that they should do some research as well. Take a look at the article in a recent New Yorker about the tunnels built from Mexico to the United States, used until quite recently as marijuana laws have eased (and thus removed the profit), to smuggle gargantuan amounts of marijuana into this country (now it's cocaine) to feed the insatiable desire of Americans. Read about what is, essentially, conscripted or even slave labor to build these tunnels and how workers are duped into the work and then killed when it's done. That article is not only well-written but edifying in a way that underscores just how absurd the continued drug war, particularly against marijuana, really is.
You're wasting your money on me, frankly, and filling my inbox up with garbage.
There's an informative pdf file, published by The International Center for Science in Drug Policy, called Using Evidence to Talk about Cannabis that everyone should read and use when people put up these specious arguments. The link to the PDF (that I can't figure how to load) is also in a recent Huffington Post article here..
I took Sophie along with Oliver to Sherman Oaks this morning, making a stop at a vintage toy shop that I'd read about earlier before dropping Oliver off for his saxaphone lesson. Or should I say dragged Sophie along to the appointment? I'm struggling to describe how it feels to occupy Sophie's time when it's not straightforward caregiving. The caregiving includes feeding, dressing, diaper changing, bathing, assistance with walking and -- well -- everything to keep her alive and well cared for. Sophie gets pretty agitated when we're out in stores. She's not comfortable standing in one position or she just can't stand in one position. After a bit of walking around she'll start humming and want to sit down on the floor which means I have to stand next to her and prevent her from banging her head on anything around. If she's in her wheelchair, unless it's literally outside, she gets agitated as well, slumping down, humming, straining at the straps. The vintage toy store had a plastic-covered couch with a vintage television playing reruns of Dennis the Menace and Elvis Presley in front of it, so we sat there for a few minutes while Oliver wandered the aisles. Sophie doesn't like television, so after let's say three minutes, she flung her legs out (they were cross-legged on the couch), kicking me in the process and knocking the Fisher-Price toys off the coffee table in front. We stood up, and I called to Oliver to make up his mind so that I could take her outside and back to the car.
This is all exhausting on a level that isn't even physical. When I start feeling inadequate and guilty over it, I remember the more than twenty years of it. I think of the drugs she's on and the withdrawal effects of weaning her from these drugs. I wonder if she should be encouraged to go out and about, despite her obvious discomfort, or if I should just let her be in her room where she seems content mouthing toys and walking around like an artifically subdued lion. The thing is that when she's in her room, I'll walk to her door to check on her, call her name, and she'll look my way, and I don't know if I'm just projecting my own anguish on to her or her eyes are imploring me to do something about the whole situation. It's a whole lot of mental chatter that makes a monkey mind look anesthetized, to tell you the truth, and I haven't learned how to still it in any other way than to know that it will pass.
When we got back to the house, I fed her lunch and led her back to her room. She sat on her bed, pulled her legs up into a cross-legged position, and I walked out with tears pricking my eyes. I don't feel desolate all the time, so I told myself that Sophie -- who surely must feel shitty a lot of the time -- doesn't either.
I'm so excited to announce that I'll be contributing monthly to the wonderful organization and website, Gratefulness.org,and my first post is up live today. If you don't know this website, I hope you'll visit, look around and support them. Here's what they're all about:
Welcome to an online sanctuary where you can experience and share the transformative power of gratitude. Join a growing global community of people committed to making a difference with the gifts and opportunities of life. Open to the “great fullness” and potential of this moment – allow grateful living to bring gratitude to life…
I have been a subscriber to their Word of the Day and monthly newsletter for many years, never expecting that I might one day have the opportunity to give back in gratitude. The story of how I got involved with the organization is the subject of my first post, so click here to read it. That's the main link and gives you an idea of what they do. If you scroll down, you'll see yours truly and my first post.
How often does an opportunity to give back happen when you've needed yet also received so much? Thank you, Michael B. and Karen and Kristi and all the beautiful folks at Gratitude.org for giving me such a chance.
I first read Lawrence Ferlinghetti's poetry in college, after I went to hear him read it in an auditorium somewhere on the Chapel Hill campus, his own alma mater. I have also made several pilgramages to his City Lights bookstore in San Francisco, sat upstairs in the poetry room and run my hand over the many books of poets that were published there. I had forgotten about Ferlinghetti's service in World War II, though, and thought it a worthy thing to post his own thoughts as we all reflect on the great destruction wreaked by our country seventy years ago.
No matter what you think dropping atomic bombs on the Japanese civilian population did or didn't do for mankind, the lives lost and what was ushered in are worthy of reflection.
Here's one of his poems that I always loved from his collection A Coney Island of the Mind.
I flipped through my emails early this morning, the ritual of deletion and clicks. I read a horrifying beginning of an article about Tinder in this month's Vanity Fair -- was relieved when I couldn't go further as a non-subscriber. I scrolled through a few tweets about last night's Republican "debate" and resolved, again, to not pay attention to anything having to do with those men and women -- did you hear me say ANYTHING? -- until September of 2016. I read somewhere that this is how they do it in France, so barring any demands to re-read Proust, I'm French for a year. Little threads of despair, hovering. My knee hurts, and I bet it's osteoarthritis, and I bet it's because I haven't exercised enough -- well, let's be honest -- my entire life. There's also the age factor and the curious, horrible way things happen when you get older -- not gradually, but all of a sudden. Hairs sprouting from chins, a big toe that crackles, jowls and a front tooth that appears to be hearkening back to pre-orthodontia buck tooth days. Then I saw that photo, and tears streamed down my face (there's no original way to write that) because, really, we're all just hanging out here for a short time and the universe is vast and unknowable. As my compatriot Blaise Pascal said in the 17th century (remember I'm French for a year), vous admirez toujours ce que vous ne comprenez vraiment pas.* *You always admire what you really don't understand.
I took Oliver and Sophie to the beach in the late afternoon yesterday so that we could walk for a bit, eat dinner at our favorite beachside cafe and then watch the sunset.
The sky turned pinker and pinker as we left, but since I was driving I couldn't get a good shot. Here's one I took at a stoplight before Oliver screamed at me to not text and drive. Even though I wasn't texting and driving, he was right that I shouldn't have been so distracted.
A girl I went to high school with in Atlanta had a thick brown braid, about two inches across, that she wore down her back. I always wanted a braid like it and have the thick hair but could never get it to grow that long. Or maybe it's that as it grows longer and longer, it feels like more of an encumbrance than a crown of glory. I cut my hair today from quite a bit past my shoulders to just above. It was the longest I'd let my hair grow since the last millenium when married to my college sweetheart and living in Nashville, Tennessee after which (both the marriage and the city) I wore it the shortest I'd ever dared and moved to New York City. While I enjoyed the don't give a flying foo-foo about how I look mentality it took in this millenium to let it get as long as it did until this morning, I felt increasingly -- let's say -- haggard. How much can I possibly write about my hair without resorting to tired cliches about age and sexuality and what the hell has happened to me and where are you tonight, sweet Marie? The tiny, wonderful hairdresser used a flat iron and a blowdryer on it, so I look a tad Barbra Streisandish (and not in a good way), but overall, it feels good. I think when I let it dry naturally (as I don't own a flat iron or blowdryer and plan on never doing so), I might hitch a ride in a convertible Mercedes like the one the girl with the brown braid drove in Atlanta and take off for my next destination.
Well, anybody can be just like me, obviously But then, now again, not too many can be like you, fortunately.
I'm plagued by the feeling that it's never enough -- what I do with Sophie. I'm talking about stimulation and recreational activities. In the absence of Communicamp or anything affordable near us, in these last weeks before school begins again, I am reminded of how pressing the need for young adults to be integrated into the community. I don't have any answers, and when I try to take action, I feel as if I'm in tar, my feet heavy. I do a disservice every single day to this beautiful young woman, and I can only acknowledge that, not judge myself too harshly and hope that I'll feel a bit more energy tomorrow.
A Tiny Clue
You could spend your entire life
eavesdropping on the mermaid
before you'd pick up the tiniest little clue
about where she was really from. One autumn day
I happened upon
her and her child
while she was comforting it under her shawl.
'You are not the blue-green pup of the seal.
You are not the grey chick of the greater black-backed gull.
You are not the kit of the otter. Nor are you
the calf of the slender hornless cow.'
This was the lullaby she was singing
but she stopped short
immediately she realized
someone else was in the neighborhood.
I had the distinct sense she was embarrassed
I'd overheard her in the first place.
I also came away with the impression
the lullaby was, to put it mildly, redolent of the sea.
Nuala Ni Dhomhnaill
translated from Irish by Paul Muldoon The Fifty Minute Mermaid
Those are three of my friends without whom I don't know what I'd do in this life. That's putting it mildly.
Things are -- shall we say -- confusing. I am preoccupied. I don't have much to share and hate to be obtuse.
How about a clever, Kay Ryan poem or two?
Say Uncle
Every day
you say, Just one more try.
Then another
irrecoverable
day slips by.
You will
say ankle,
you will
say knuckle;
why won't
you why
won't you
say uncle?
Say It Straight I have a mania for straight writing -- however circuitous I may be in what I myself say. -- Marianne Moore
What we could
and what we can say
stray as in a dream;
a certain mad rectitude
creeps in, by which
something simple as an apple
can never be determined
wholly edible.
The crisp act is deferred,
the object blurred by scruples.
The more we cherish clarity
in principle, the more it is
impossible. Will enamel
ever strike the fruit?
Will Eve grow wild and forgivable?
For it's unlovable
to talk too long with snakes,
whose reasons fork
the more the more
she hesitates.
I had a thought that there should be a special Tweet area for caregivers to give voice to all the things that they wish they could say to someone but can't or observations about -- well -- everything.
All of the following have the right amount of letters for tweeting but will not be tweeted.
1.
My WheelchairCam was on continuously this afternoon at LACMA, recording stares. #dontstarepaparazzi
2.
Witnessing a hundred thousand seizures is not what breaks you. It's a faulty diaper and a pool of urine on the bedroom rug.
3.
The new CVS pharmacist asked me if I needed a consultation on the proper use of benzodiazepines.
4.
"We value you as a customer and are here to make sure you get the most value for your plan," says the letter from Assurant Insurance Company. #ismellbullshit
Caregivers, please feel free to reply with your own tweets in the comment section.
If you have your health, you have everything is something that's said to cheer you up when you come home early and find your lover arched over a stranger in a scarlet thong.
Or it could be you lose your job at Happy Nails because you can't stop smudging the stars on those ten teeny American flags.
I don't begrudge you your extravagant vitality. May it blossom like a cherry tree. May the petals of your cardiovascular excellence and the accordion polka of your lungs sweeten the mornings of your loneliness.
But for the ill, for you with nerves that fire like a rusted-out burner on an old barbecue, with bones brittle as spun sugar, with a migraine hammering like a blacksmith
in the flaming forge of your skull, may you be spared from friends who say, God doesn't give you more than you can handle and ask what gifts being sick has brought you.
May they just keep their mouths shut and give you French chocolates and daffodils and maybe a small, original Matisse, say, Open Window, Collioure, so you can look out at the boats floating on the dappled pink water. Ellen Bass
