JUST RELAX
"It's funny, 'cause at the rate I'm going, when I'm 30, I'll be the only person in the nursing home flirting, pinching nurse's asses when I'm jacking off with Jergens/And I'm jerking, but this whole bag of Viagra isn't working" - Eminem / The Real Slim Shady
BREATH OF THE PHILIPPINES
Whenever I wake up, definitely for the best, I see a sign with a picture of an ear on it. It reads: HEARING LOOP. It always makes me wonder just when in life hearing becomes more important than sight, not aloud obviously, because this would wake the sleeping passengers of this home. I call them PASSENGERS because I think of life as a journey, but I don't think about sights and sounds as much as others do. In fact, I think about a less appreciated sensory experience: that made possible with clear nasal passages. And those, dear readers, are tantamount to windows into my mind, a perfect opening offered for achievements associated with the appreciation of passages yet to be acknowledged as much as written, the silver platter that's the outline of the cloud nine I feel I inhale regularly in order to be on, purposefully, willingly, and categorically.
The nurse hasn't yet appeared by my side and so I drift back to sleep. That quickly. Why waste waking hours on nothing more than rumination? My eyes move rapidly. I'm out. It's less exciting than life itself. My dreams are a little stale because they're too lucid: I know so well that I'm dreaming that the dreams are polluted with knowledge of their abstract identity. Then I want to move like I'm trapped (just a hand), I want to escape like I'm in prison (just some friction), I want to surface like I'm underwater (finally, to find just a breath of truly stale air, not the imagined and mythical type). But I can't move.
Sleep paralysis doesn't scare me. But I feel as though I have to move my head at the speed of my eyes just to wake up. This can be an issue, given my age of eighty nine. Lashes - figurative or otherwise - are not as full as they once were, fine as they may be. But I still find myself suddenly shaken awake like I'm eighteen. By my own hand. I'm that much of a thinker-writer I'm beside myself.
But despite what you may have heard, and to my point, I dearly love my waking hours. I only dream of waking up. Not the past, not the future, but the here and now. I don't dream of escaping my village, as though I'm Filipino and living in a rural area albeit far from a properly accredited hospital [1]. And so, even though I'm in Australia, I imagine myself in the shoes of such people. Filipinas to be specific and honest. In their shoes I hear approaching now, or nearly: for it's their RELATIVES that they tell me about and I can imagine being, their relations back home, but still the shoes of the close friendly nurses are nearly at my feet so that I can return the favour.
All in all, it already feels like they're close relatives here. They're greater than mere substitute relations, closer to real, helping me into their culture like it's pants when I need a fix of close relations, not just in the vein of blood. It's not that my real relatives are working, like they're German [2], it's that they all passed away long ago. I feel for the nurses, for - although not having passed away - their relatives were last passed by these nurses some time ago, as these nurses commute to work over seas, and stay at work here even longer hours - figuratively - than they did back home.
Anyway, I long for them now, long like it's a long journey back home for them. But I've told you that it's not about sights and sounds for me, it's about so much more than standard sensory experiences. Forget distance. I've forgotten the concept more than ever now, as all the countries appear to be at my fingertips when they touch nurses'. Fingertips, that is. Hands. I should be clear. Or this paragraph, not sentence, would require touching up. This isn't a sentence, dear reader, but what I've been waiting my whole life for.
It's not like you may think, tame by comparison in fact. I just more than appreciate the morning or the meal on the breath of pleasant helpers. They're that close to me, they're that real, that significant: breath the brushstrokes clarifying their work is of art, strengthened in my mind by the intriguing and compelling stories they tell me about their lives, families, and livelihoods, being etched onto my hippocampus like a sign of the times. The quickest trip. You already know about that passage through me.
The Philippines: over seven thousand islands. The people, in general, having a particular sense of purpose in their practice of punctuality: to provide for their families, their families like islands of the Philippines far from Manila, while they're here in Australia, further from Manila, ironically helping those far more fortunate than their loved ones. That's a transference relationship between each nurse and I, and maybe in more ways than one, for I too have feelings for them that mirror feelings I've had for relations in the past, feelings fueled by natural scents and understandings, all this a perfect example of symbiosis. And in this sweet cocoon of a nursing home - yes, dear reader, that's where you find me - butterflies are born from both connections with significant others, but also from novelty and loose change: the significance is certain.
And back to perennial punctuality. We should address this forthwith. Punctuality in this case is productivity and breathlessness. No tangible goods, but something far better. We wait our whole life to retire, but we don't realize that a home that we don't even own can be better than a holiday, that maybe what we're waiting for is company, and that while it may be worth the wait, no one should have to wait for this, not I and not the nurses that wait on me or supper (I always ask them to eat first. Again, this is symbiosis). These nurses shouldn't NEED to be away from their loved ones.
Today I'll be seeing Liwayway. Her name means THE DAWN appropriately, but, given her punctuality, she always comes here first, before the dawn. Today is her birthday, but she is so far from her place of birth in Bicol, in the Philippines. So far from her favorite food: Laing. Taro leaves cooked in coconut milk. Through Uber Eats [3] yesterday I arranged the delivery of this to the home, from El Pinoy Grill [4] in Paddy's Markets in Sydney, along with Lumpiang Sariwa and Pinakbet from Rey's Place [5], apparently the best Filipino restaurant in the area. I'm vegetarian myself, and so I prefer not to purchase meat, but I let the little that's in Laing slide for Liwayway's sake. Once again, symbiosis. The smell is perfect regardless. Furthermore, I'm sure that she could make all this herself, but I'm also sure that she hasn't got the time to. So win win.
The footsteps tell no lies and soon I can see her beaming face. Yes! Her lips just inches away from their form for laughter. That's close. You could say I filled one in correctly, one form for two, just yesterday when I wrote the words to a song of an order to complete the request for the food that's now filling up her stomach. But some form, as beautiful as it may be, is just rudimentary. I wait for her to open her mouth, to speak and be heard, to draw nearer and nearer, and touch me gently, but far more with her words than her soft hands.
'Mark, I should be remembering YOUR birthday,' Liwayway says, smiling. 'You're not supposed to remember mine. But that is so sweet of you.'
'Magandang umaga,' I say. Beautiful morning.
She's flattered and ever beaming.
Now, BESO-BESO is a form of cheek kissing in the Philippines. A right cheek to a right cheek. This is likely the introduction to a world of numerous and excited bacteria leasing space in her soft abode post breakfast. Because she could very well exhale as her cheek nears mine. I'm hoping mine will not turn red, a potential stop sign. I prepare myself to inhale. This is hard because it does not mean taking a deep breath, as is customary when psyching oneself up. It means the opposite: exhaling, but quickly, so that I'm ready to inhale just as Liwayway exhales. Oh my goddess, this is it. I just noticed her tongue touching a tooth: it's acting as a pick. She has just eaten and her teeth have not been brushed, just stroked. Stroked casually. So casually. Casual. This is sublime. Sorry, dear reader, I'm all over the place. You're reading my mind, understand, and right now I'm overexcited, giddy with anticipation, tipsy but on the verge of intoxication. Several paragraphs, mind you, span a single second. And every line of time is much appreciated.
I don't want to move my right cheek to the left, not until the very last moment. I must stay focused, keep my eyes fixed on hers, and try to stop them drowning in fixation on her mouth, lips and tongue, so red and ready to open wide, coconuts aching to