Go Back Where You Came From

Overheard in a dream:
“Ah I heard she is retired.
Now she does the work she always wanted to do.
She volunteers and has many projects.

She lives in the rural mountains in the island where she was born,

Where she has a humble yet comfortable home

Overlooking the mountain and volcano.

She prays the volcano will not erupt during her sleep.

She lives with her maids and a chauffeur.
And a foreigner she calls The Viking.

She owns the coffee house that also serves batchoy, by the highway.

That does not really make a money,

And people just come because they are curious

For they hear that it is owned by an eccentric woman who paints

And draws with fine pens and a magnifying glass

And reads obscure authors like
Faraday, Newton, Aristotle and Galileo for the fun of it
Or books written in languages she cannot understand and

She tries to decipher the root word
And looks at every other word meaning in the translation dictionary.

And she target shoots with a riffle

And slashes bushes with a machete

And chops banana trunks with a sword

And has a Bowie knife slung to her waist

She is friendly even though she keeps mostly to herself,

She smiles a lot

And bows to her elders.
And speaks gently.

But can swear like a sailor.

And she hates abusive and manipulative people.
And macho men.
Her house is a refuge for battered women.

She lectures once a month at the nursing college where she graduated,

And she is a Girl Scout leader

She set up a scholarship at the local high school
I wonder where she gets her money?

She and The Viking live a simple life with few material possessions.

Her clothes! Oh you should see what she wears.

She wears long skirts over boots

And untucked t-shirts

And wears tailored oxfords shirts unbuttoned with collar up

And wears a fedora and she always wears pearls.

Her hair! Her hair is wild and waves away all over the place

Like Medusa's reptilian hairdo!

And she loves to sit under the mangifera tree and play the banjo.
And grow giant grass called bambuseae

I heard she used to work with computers
Now she writes letters with a fountain pen.
Her children and their families are coming to visit.

I wonder what they will do?

They don't have a television set or a computer.”

Man oh man! It took me forever to do this drawing, especially the bamboo! If you click on these images, the enlarged view magnifies the pen strokes! Ack! I was ready to give up!!!

Not Hollow

Out Of The Hollow Branch. Pigment ink on 14"x17" Bristol Board

A meme is a cultural practice or idea, that is transmitted verbally or by repeated action from one mind to another. It originated from the from word Greek mimēma, meaning something imitated, from mimeisthai, to imitate. So it's like a chain reaction. Talking about chain reaction there's one about to happen above. Can see it? Click on the image to enlarge to see what triggered it. This was an illustration I made for the Illustration Friday prompt "Hollow". It isn't so hollow anymore, is it?

I can't help it. What was intended to be simple ended up like this in a matter of 24 hours. Deborah, Midlife Poet tagged me for a meme to share six secrets about myself. She did not start it, she was only tagged. And so she selected me. I must say it's an oxymoron, for how can I share six secrets, they won't be so secret anymore, right? So I'll do my best to enumerate some facts that sound so secret and mysterious when really, they are not, but these are some of the things that punctuate my world:

1. I once assisted a woman in delivering her baby in a hospital elevator full of people. You think the elevator is full and there is no space until someone delivers a baby. It's amazing how ten people could get so cramped in a corner while the woman and I had all the room to deliver her baby! I also helped a woman deliver her baby in the backseat of an SUV.

2. I was seventeen years old when I wrapped the first dead child I had for a patient. He had marasmus kwashiorkor. He was literally skin and bones with an edematous abdomen. Prior to hospitalization he had nothing to eat and apparently was eating dirt as in sand and the ground for two months. That summer, I heard the mothers' wails in the halls whenever a malnourished child died. Everyday there was a child dying. When I close my eyes I still see myself walking the halls and I remember the stench.

3. I will give the shirt off my back, but I hate being taken advantage of and I definitely will not stand for abuse. I have literally stripped my clothes. Once I visited some relatives in the Philippines, one of them liked my shoes. It was my only walking shoes. I gave them to her anyway. She gave me her flip flops. Then another cousin liked my shirt and even though I was already wearing it, she really wanted it so she gave me a clean t-shirt that was an advertisement for an auto parts supply and we swapped shirts. Then a niece liked my blue jeans and I took it off and they gave me a pair of cotton poplin pants. It was checkered and looked like pajamas. They liked everything I had including my lipstick and sunglasses. After the visit, I had no money left and they had to give me ten pesos for the fare because I rode the public transportation which was a jeepney. I looked like a sugarcane field laborer except I was wearing lipstick and had nice hair so people in the jeepney stop or "paradajan" gave me strange looks. I got off the corner from my parents house and walked towards their home. The neighbors recognized me but were puzzled by my outfit. When the maids opened the gate they did not recognize me at first but they knew what happened. My mother was not very pleased with my relatives for stripping me but I told her that I was the one who gave my clothes away. Anyway during that visit, I had a full suitcase of clothes and came back to the US with only a carry on handbag and some presents for the children. My sisters had to give me clothes and shoes so I would look decent for my return flight and also gave me money.

4. I had my internship as a rural health nurse in the mountains when I was nineteen years old. There I met a 34 year old Chinese millionaire who owned everything (gas stations, bus lines, shipping line, grocery stores, auto parts stores, movie theaters, who knows what else). He was a bachelor. He asked me to marry him but I did not love him. It was also during that internship where I met so many poor people, in poverty. I made many home visits and sometimes people's homes would be a one room shack. I was called to see a sick woman. When I got to their house she had hemoptesis and was coughing up bright red blood. She was so skinny, she almost looked like a skeleton. I had her admitted to the provincial hospital's TB pavilion but she died a few weeks later. I was so afraid that the family might blame me for her death!

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5. I had a classmate in high school who was very smart. She was a Math whiz. She and I were very good friends throughout high school. During one of my visits back home my husband and I went to the beach and stopped by a roadside hut selling cool drinks. The woman who tended the store looked very familiar. Her eyes reminded me of my classmate. The woman also kept on staring at me and for a while we just looked at each other. She looked very familiar and my heart was pounding. I did not recognize her because she had no teeth and she looked destitute but I acknowledged her with a nod and a faint smile. She just looked away. Her face haunted me and the following day I talked to my younger sister's classmate who was then the school principal and asked her is she knew the woman. It was my friend. I felt very sad . I think she recognized me but she looked away. I think I wrote about this before.

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6. While assisting a delivery, it took the woman a very long time for the afterbirth to be expelled so I just sat there waiting and holding on to the cord. Then she expelled the placenta right flat on my face when I least expected it! My OB clinical instructor told me it was my baptism by fire! I had to take an emergency shower.

Artist Profile No. 1

Aimee of Artsyville. Pigment ink on 11"x14" Bristol Board.


Hello My Dear Blog Friends And Visitors:

I was very ambitious last week. Too much time being recumbent in the sickbed made my brain go on overdrive. I thought about drawing profiles of my favorite bloggers. Then it dawned of me, there are so many of you. So I said I will pace myself, meaning I will only do five profiles a day, HAHAHAHA! Just kidding. I am not that talented. I got snafued on the second one when I had to draw a girl with big head and small feet. Man that is the most difficult thing I have done. I ended up cheating on that one. So I promise these will be simple and focus on the artist. Here's my first one.

I have always admired this artist. I was sort of intimidated at first because she is so talented and such a brainiac, mental ninja, a lot of brain power with her art! Her creations are fabulous word artistry that capture and captivate your mind. She is ultra-creative and quite prolific. She also has a beautiful photographic eye. She might as well be a photographer too. She is an incredible illustrator, just look for that t-shirt she designed when she was seventeen years old! MAGNIFICENT! She is a wonderful woman, a mother who presides over ARTSYVILLE her artistic domain. She is right when she says "MAKE TIME FOR YOUR ART!". We are the lucky recipients.

This is Aimee of Artsyville. I tried my best to do her justice. Bella Sinclair did it once with adorable and fabulous result but above is my rendition of the great and talented, mental ninja, fabulous artist Aimee! Please visit Aimee and say hello. I promise, you won't be disappointed.

One Moment Please...

Isabella Wellesley is putting on her face, clothes and shoes.

Saying Yes And Fishing With The Viking

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When you are in love or when you love someone, you tend to say "yes" a lot. In fact I hardly ever say no because saying yes, tends to make me happier. So after I married The Viking and realized he was loved to fish I knew that my vision of weekends where I played the happy hostess or wife satisfactorily having quiet weekends in the lanai reading newspapers or swimming the waters instead of fishing them would be rarer than what I had to do when I agreed to be his fishing partner.
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Big Muskellunge Lake, WI and North Padre Island Coast, TX
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Instead I've learned to wake up at midnight to wade in mucky waters before the crack of dawn, learned to bait live shrimp and fish and leeches, take showers in public places, endured sunburns, thirst and distended bladders, being one of the few women in a fishing ship full of men, puking my guts out in front of people, smelling fishy...then clean and cook the fish! I've had it where the seawater rose and filled my waders and had to be tipped over in the middle of the bay by fishermen so I don't float; I've been stuck in the muck, I've stepped on sea snakes and other creepy crawly objects. I've cast my line and hooked other fishermen instead of the fish. Still I am game and a good sport for I have on a few occasions had to jump the boat and change the chemical composition of the water without demanding that we go back to shore.

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Gulf of Mexico and North Padre Island, TX

Lake June, FL and Flounder from Galveston Bay

Lake Laura and Crystal Lake, WI

Catch from deep-sea fishing at the Gulf of Mexico and below right, Sarasota Bay, FL.

Crystal Lake, WI and Lake Okeechobee, Fl

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I have paid my dues. These days I get my fish by calling my favorite fishing outfit in Alaska. They deliver to my doorstep flash frozen trawl and line caught king salmon and halibut, cleaned, cut and ready to cook.

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But I miss seeing this:

Lake Hartwell, SC

and this:

Fallison Lake, WI

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So this summer vacation I said "Yes" to fishing. Wish me luck, but

I am entitled to change my mind...and I am no longer cleaning the fish!

My Dearest Epsilons,

During the times I was pregnant, I wrote letters to my unborn children. I even gave them names. I remember calling Epsilon I the nickname of Zy, short for Zygote. I wrote letters to him the moment I found out I was pregnant. I continued my letter writing to them through journals that I would create for special reasons, events and travels. This entry was taken from my the journal I wrote when I went home to take care of my Mother.

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Do you know why my husband and I call them Epsilons? In Mathematics, the Greek alphabet "Epsilon" is used to represent "vanishingly small" quantities. The great Mathematics genius Paul Erdos called a child an Epsilon. When my children were young, a very good friend of ours, an electrical engineer and mathematics professor stayed with us in the winter and spring. He was not particularly fond of little children but he adored our precocious little ones. One night he and my husband were discussing mathematics but were distracted by the children playing in the living room. They stopped their discussion and Dave announced, just like Erdos when he saw a child, "Epsilons!" "Epsilon - vanishingly small quantities." The title stuck. My husband and I referred to them as espilons especially when we had to talk about them in front of them, until they realized we were talking about them. Today, they are epsilons, no more.

3:15 PM Eastern, November 1, 2002

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Dearest M and Em,

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I am on board flight 71 en route to Nagoya, Japan. The flight will take 13 hours and 45 minutes. The flight was delayed in taking off for over half hour because the inbound plane was diverted to Anchorage, Alaska due to a medical emergency. We are on board a plane that came from Amsterdam.

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Thank you for taking me to the airport this morning. I know it is an effort to wake up early in the morning; I appreciate you both for being good natured about it. I wish you were able to spend some time with me at the airport, but you wouldn’t have been able to come to the gate. The security was tight and there were airport screeners everywhere. Sometimes I question the logic of their random checks. They screened an elderly gentleman who looked arthritic. They made him take his shoes off. I wasn’t selected. I was prepared for it that’s why I packed my lingerie and undergarments separately in see through plastic bags, in case they made me open my lingerie bag. I do not want anyone touching them.

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On the plane from Houston to Detroit, I met an elderly lady in her seventies. She was carrying a red bag that seemed very heavy and she needed to get it in the overhead bin. I offered to do it for her --- it weighed about 45 pounds!!! She was very pleasant. We chatted for a while. She lives in Sugar Land with her daughter who worked as a nurse at the medical center until last year but I did not know her. The lady, Mrs. Bales asked me for my final destination. I told her I was going to Bacolod to see my mother, your grandmother. Mrs. Bales looked upwards and uttered her thanks to the Lord for having met me. She said she was nervous and it made her comfortable to know we were taking the same trip. She asked me if she could tag along with me.

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The flight to Detroit was uneventful. I drank a cup of water and a cup of tomato juice on board. The flight attendants offered everyone on the flight two nut bars. It had two grams of fat and I only ate half of one. We deplaned in Detroit through Gate A3. It was at the end of the terminal. I looked for my continuing flight and I saw that it was departing from Gate A38. Mrs. Bales was tagging along with me carrying her heavy red bag. I noticed she did not walk well.

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A38 was a long way from A3. I asked Mrs. Bales if she needed assistance or a ride in one of those airport carts – the same one we took in Atlanta when our gate was changed. That was the same time M got separated from us --- do you remember that incident? You were both very brave. Your Daddy and I were so proud of both of you. M, you kept your presence of mind and did not panic. Your Dad and I and Em tried to catch up with the train by running. Em ran so fast, we knew she was tired but all she said was “I hope Brother is alright.” And you were! We finally found you waiting for us at the gate where we told you to wait. There were a group of people waiting with you --- we did not know they knew you were separated and they kept you company and made you feel safe. Had we known we could have thanked them. Your brother’s guardian angel sent them!

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About Mrs. Bales, I offered to carry her bag. She declined at first but I told her she can hold on to the handle while she rested the bag on my wheeled carry on luggage. I told her I will walk very slowly with her. She was still holding her travel documents and I told her I will wait until she puts them away safely. Then we walked to Gate A38. Detroit Metro has changed since I last stopped over on my way from Japan en route to Houston. That was last year when I went home to the Philippines for my father’s - your Lolo’s funeral. I am on my way to the Philippines again, this time Lola is sick. My brothers and sisters are all going home. Auntie Fre went home a week ago. I will be gone for two weeks...

It's All Relative

One day while waiting for a connecting flight at Narita Airport in Tokyo, an overhead announcement was made that the gate for my departing flight to Manila was changed. Not only was it a different gate, it was a different terminal. I was traveling alone and as I listened to the announcement, I noticed a nervous young woman pacing. She caught my glance and locked her gaze at me at which point I bowed my head and smiled faintly in polite acknowledgement. I looked away but soon she was standing beside me and asked if she and I were taking the same flight. I said yes and she let out a huge sigh. She explained that she was traveling alone for the first time and she just came from Dubai and if she can tag along with me to find the gate. Okay. We walked to the terminal. I was quiet with my head and heart heavy with the thought of my Father. I was going home to attend his funeral.

While en route to the terminal, the young woman who looked like a teenager was actually 36 years old and worked as a domestic helper in Dubai for two years. By the time we got to the terminal, I knew her life story, the names of her children, her husband’s name and what he did, where they lived, where she went to school, what her employer did in Dubai, how much she earned and how much money she carried. She could have been lying to make me trust her and pour my heart out to her and likewise tell my life story but I was almost mute and just kept saying “yes, really, is that right, wow, I can imagine, I can’t imagine, oh my goodness…etc.etc.” You get the point. Some people just love to tell their life story to strangers.

Sometimes I look at myself in the mirror and see if there is a sign that reads “Talk to me”. There is none. I once considered myself a bad listener for being impatient. I also do not suffer fools gladly but maybe I am a good listener because throughout my nursing career, I have people tell me more than their complaints, their signs and symptoms. In fact I had patients return to the hospital just to say hello and tell me about how they are doing or introduce their children and grandchildren they told me about during their hospitalization. Once, while on another international flight, I found myself surrounded by traveling merchant mariners at Nagoya. They excitedly told me about themselves and their families and their work. I just listen and smile to occupy myself during the long wait.

So back to the woman who tagged with me. She was starting to feel relaxed which was good for her. I wished she would be quiet so I can write on my journal but she showed me some of the things in her carry-on luggage that she planned on giving to her children. I smiled and told her she’ll make a lot of people happy when she gets home. At that time she still did not know my name because she was content on calling me “Inday” which means sister. I was satified being Inday throughout the conversation.

I think she finally realized that I have been quiet all along and so she started asking me questions like, my occupation, where I lived, if my husband is American – meaning is he white, if he is rich. Some cultures have a different idea of what is considered private information. I have learned how to deflect these questions without seeming antisocial, after all, I sat there listening to her. So at this point it is good to take a walk to the gift shop or buy a drink or even get ready to board.

She got up and gathered her things. I smiled at her and she looked at me, told me I was very nice for talking to her (was I?) even if she was "just a maid". Oh no! This is my clue to chime in. I told her, she was not just a maid, that she was a hardworking woman who sacrificed two years without seeing her children and husband so she can earn money for her family. She should be proud of that. She has sacrificed too much to feel inferior to anyone. I grabbed her by her arm and she was surprised, I whispered to her, “Do not tell anyone how much money you make or have. It may be how much you will lose to a swindler!” She was shocked. Two years working abroad has not made her worldly wise, she was still provincial. I wished her luck as she boarded before me. Two years, I calculated, she earned $181.25 a month after taxes. I thought how long will four thousand one three hundred fifty dollars last in Samar when all of her relatives come to welcome her. But that was a lot of money, more than some people will earn in their lifetime.

It's Quiet Here...

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Undoing A Bad Dream And Thought

The mind is a very funny thing. It conjures visions and ideas that we try to comprehend and interpret according to our experiences. I am not well. I am in bed recovering from a very bad respiratory infection. I have been to the doctor and the prognosis is very good. But a dream and a comment from two very spiritual people made them stop and listen and tell me, sent me into a state of subdued hysterics (is there such a thing?), ah yes, I call it worry. I ended up with a breathing treatment to alleviate my shortness of breath as I was not getting oxygen from severe congestion. I was worried to go someplace I did not want to go.

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Undoing A Bad Dream and Thought

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I am in bed with not much to do

But cough like a dog

and wheeze like a didgeridoo

So I start to draw but I start to sneeze

And I don't want to ruin my tree masterpiece.

So I lay down and close my eyes

And pretty soon my mind ventures

Into dreamland

Except they are not my dreams

They are dreams and thoughts I am trying to undo,

of drowning and dying.

With logic and reasoning and critical thinking.

Which none exists in a state of dream.

So it is with relief that I see myself in a bus

with strangers en route to a certain destination they are sure of

But I am not.

I am in the front seat

Right after the disabled section rows

wearing a dark blue suit and Italian loafers.

Damn! I look good and with just the right make-up and lipstick.

And it's a good hair day.

The conductor is a fat jovial fellow.

He is the only one who understands me but he does not say anything,

he just smiles.

The driver never speaks at all.

He just looks at the road ahead. I don't even see his face but it is dark.

And I can't see his eyes because it is covered by a visor.

The passengers are all talking to one another

and they look like foreigners but they understand one another,

but I cannot hear them well. Their voices are muffled.

And when I speak to them they ignore me, they just look at me

As if I was speaking English to Mexicans who don't speak English.

I did not belong in that bus

so I ring the Stop button

And everyone looks at me with annoyance because I disrupted their journey.

And it stops to let me off.

I gather my things and disembark

Only to find I brought along a canary yellow sweatshirt that does not match

my dark blue navy suit.

Clearly I brought a lot of things with me.

I even have a bulky down comforter

which was not needed in that destination or along the route.

I gather the sweatshirt and comforter.

The driver lets me off a quiet road with overgrown grass

that obliterates the sidewalk

I look around and realize that it is a path seldom traversed on foot

And I am the only one in the road.

It's a flat land with nothing on the horizon but barren land with grass up to my knees.

The road is not paved and the light is subdued.

I see the bus go until it is just a little dot in the distance and soon it is gone.

And I feel my leg pants brush against the grass

But it is wool gabardine and I easily shake off the grass pollens

that clung to the fabric.

I take a side street and it is paved.

I am in a certain section of a city

that leads to an overpass that I climb

The weather is cool and breezy

And so I don my canary yellow sweat shirt

that makes me look so bright

I don't know what happened to my comforter.

It was dark blue and now it is cream colored

Ah yes, I removed the comforter cover because it needs to be washed

and the down comforter needs to be dry-cleaned

and I put it on the ledge of the overpass.

And then I meet some people

who speak English

I ask one of them why the street is called the Lincoln Parkway

Because it juts into the entry of the Lincoln Tunnel

But it was a conversation, not a question, like I am talking to a fellow analyst

who analyzes everything and questions the logic of a building

right next to the freeway.

We smile and agree that there are so many stupid things around us.

And we cross the bridge, It is a very pleasant day

Soon I see my sister

And everything is fine

Because she knows her way around and

She scolds me for taking the bus and going off for no reason

Then I wake up

And I have slept long enough.

And I hear Daisy whine.