Doctor Phil sucks.

You would surmise that, if one had a conscience, it would look exactly like you. Sort of like an identical twin.

I find it the right time to introduce my conscience to you; a thousand pardons for not introducing him earlier, but it is only now that I have found the right time to bring him into the light.

My conscience is nowhere near my appearance. First off, we aren't even the same age. He's always had a fixed one, and that varies with the age I always wished I were already in. He's always either older or younger than I am. Secondly, he's a boy and I'm a girl. But I shall refer to him as "it", because, obviously, my conscience and I don't get along. At all.

It appeared to me in Kindergarten one day. We were playing "Who Gets Dizzy First?" by the playground, a game whose objective was to run around in a circle and see who... well, got dizzy first. Unlike any other game, this had numerous winners, and just one loser. That way the game was more effective : losers were easily identified and shunned to forever be the last person to climb the slide or get into the sandbox; at least, all throughout Kindergarten. The game would end when the someone tripped over the person who…well, got dizzy first. We were cruel, cruel kids. We laughed at the first girl whose eyes rolled to the back of her head, forming a circle around the floundering victim, screaming and jeering and pointing at her for getting dizzy first and finally dispersing when the teacher would tell us to stop or till the girl threw up, whichever came first.

Anyway, while running in the circle I placed my bet that Nina would fall down first. Her tongue was sticking out and her cheeks were flushed crimson, plus she was gripping at the hair on the side of her head as if her chubby fists would keep it from exploding. I had never lost a "Who Gets Dizzy First?" in my whole two months of Kindergarten, and I was confident that I wouldn't lose this one.

The world spun around and around. My arms were outstretched for balance, as always (my secret weapon) and I was on top of the world, on top of the slide, on top of the seesaw. The world, it seemed, was my playground. I would ALWAYS have balance. I would NEVER fall down. I was INVINCIBLE.

And then, my conscience appeared before my eyes.

He was standing there with a box of Camels in his shirt pocket. He didn't look Kindergarten. He didn't even seem interested in the game. He was just standing there, flicking an expensive Zippo lighter on and off, on and off. In mid-turn, my eyes widened.

He waved. "Hi!"

And that's when I fell.

Seeing your conscience makes you feel as if you're in two different bodies at the same time, but not necessarily split in two. It just feels weird, as if you had four eyes and two noses, four arms and four legs, two hearts beating in synchronization. Exhaling and inhaling are immutable; you can't even try to lose the tempo of your breathing to see if the other can keep up, because of course, your conscience would be thinking the same thing and you'd basically be tricking yourself, which defeats the purpose because no one is fooled.

It's very exasperating and aggravating.

My eyes opened weakly. White blurry shapes came into view, then slowly, like an amateur photographer finally understanding what that circle at the base of the camera lens was for, everything turned and focused.

The nurse was standing over me. So was my conscience.

"Are you okay?" said the nurse.

"Waaaaaah," I bawled, and the nurse winced.

"I've called for your parents to take you home," said the nurse. "You have a nasty cut on your forehead. You hit your head on the pavement, young lady. You shouldn't run around like that."

I wondered if I had gotten dizzy first, and if all my friends had laughed at me.

When the nurse was gone, the man flopped onto the dentist's chair and grinned hugely at me.

"'You've got a nasty cut on your forehead,' " he mimicked the nurse. "Oh boy are you in for a major sermon."

"Who are you?" I asked, since it was the only question you can ask at this point, don't you all agree?

The man took obvious relish in answering the question. In a lackadaisical tone he answered, "I have so many names," an answer which, a few years later, I would come to identify as the line he had ripped off from Al Pacino in the movie The Devil's Advocate.

"Can she see you?" I asked, pointing to the nurse, who was adjusting her ridiculous nurse's hat and admiring her reflection on the mirror.

"No, only you can see me," said the man, and strangely, I kind of knew that already.

"Why," I asked with wide eyes, "have you come here?"

This comment seemed to irk the man. He looked petulantly at me, a frown twisting his mouth. "First of all, kid, I'm not an alien. Don't treat me like goddamed E.T. or something. Do I say 'E.T. phone home' like a retard? No, I don't, do I? Does my neck look like uncoiled intestines? No, it doesn't, does it? I'm a person. See?" He beat his fist on his chest to prove his point (reminding me of a monkey). "I'm not even a ghost, not like those characters in The Sixth Sense or what-have-you."

"I don't know what the Sixth Sense is," I had to admit, quite painfully because I was a very smart-alecky kind of kid and never wanted to admit to not knowing something.

"Right. I forgot, this is 1985. The year where all the girls have cascading bangs and mismatched socks... believe me, we'll never let your cousin live this age down during Christmas. We'll tag team her with the 80's fashion she's so proud of now. Well, you've got a lot of growing up to do, still. We've got quite a long ways to go, you and me. I mean, you and I. Which is which?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "We haven't started on pronouns yet."

He looked even more irritated. He even said "Tsk" in the same manner my father did whenever I asked him where babies came from. I was beginning to get the impression that my conscience was going to be very acrimonious. "You'll tell me next year then."

"Well," I said as he scratched an itch below his Argyle socks, "you never answered my question. Who are you?"

His eyes lit up. Clearing his throat, he stood on the dentist's chair and switched open the operating light, moving it favourably here and there till he was satisfied that it enhanced his features.

"I," he said in a deep voice, "am your Conscience." He spread his arms expansively for theatrical effect.

"You ARE?!" I gawked, my mouth wide open.

After a pause, he jumped off the dentist's chair and gritted his teeth. "You don't know what conscience means, do you?"

"No," I admitted, feeling less smart-alecky twice in a row.

He sat beside me. My feet were still swinging at the edge of the bed; my feet mostly didn't reach the floor from wherever I sat at this age, still. He gave me a brotherly pat on the shoulder. "Like I said. We've got a lot of growing up to do. You and I, or me." We grew silent, watching the nurse take down the medicines from the medicine cabinet, arrange them according to colour, then put them back again. We watched her for some time. Then I spoke up.

"What's your name?"

This appeared to be a question he hadn't thought of yet. I knew it because he chewed meditatively on his lower lip. He sat thinking for a long time. He thought for such a long time that my interest started to wane and I busied myself looking at the pictures of a colouring book which the nurse had handed to me, but of course she didn't give me any crayolas so I couldn't fill in the lines.

Finally he said, "I haven't really thought about it---"

"Obviously," said I, dryly.

"---and, well, okay. Since I shouldn't be calling all the shots here, what name would you like me to have?"

I paused, then brightened. "What about Bubba?"

He recoiled in disgust. "That's nauseating! Do you think I belong to the circus, for Chrissakes? Didn't I just illustrate that I'm not some kind of alien, or something to be laughed at? I'm a real person! Bubba is the name of a dumb football quarterback! Bubba is the name of a... a... an animal, perhaps. Or a pet, a very not cute pet. Or a fat snake. Do I look like a fat snake to you?"

I started to cry.

"What's happened?" the nurse cried in alarm, abandoning her colour-coded tablets and rushing over to me. "What's wrong?"

I just cried louder.

"Does your head hurt?"

I shook my head, no. I intensified my sobbing.

"Would you like a popsicle? I can fetch you one from the canteen... would you like one?"

"Yes," I said, sniffling, cutting off my wails with careful control. "Please," I added, not forgetting that I was a mild-mannered five-year old.

The nurse, obviously relieved, left to get a popsicle.

Bubba stood up. My suggestion had obviously shook him up; his hands were trembling. He took a cigarette from his box of Camels and lit one, inhaling and exhaling without pausing. When I look back at it now, he must have had quite a struggle dealing with being called Bubba for the rest of his - well, our - lives. I'll admit he can be very open-minded. It was his fault he chose to introduce himself to a five-year old, in the mid-80s nonetheless.

"All right," he hissed in a deadly tone after pacing back and forth. "All right, you win, you little brat. I'll be Bubba. No thanks to you. Shit."

"Yay!" I said, very happily.

"Bubba. Bubba! For fuck's sake." He lit another cigarette and smoked testily.

"My Teacher said," I reminded him, "that only bad people smoke."

He temporarily forgot his anger over his newly-christened name and guffawed. "Well, tell your teacher," he said imperiously, " that you're gonna be doing a lot of smoking when you grow up. Whooo-weeeee, a lot, I tell ya!" And he rolled over with laughter at some memory I was yet to call my own.

"Bubba?" I said meekly.

"WHAT?!" he roared irately, fueled once again with animosity at the mention of his new name.

"If I'm the only one who can see you, am I crazy?"

Bubba took another cigarette, but didn’t light it. "No, you're not crazy. You aren't even going to remember me at times, you know? You won't really be seeing me, but you'll be hearing me, whenever you want to. You might even take my advice from time to time. Just FYI, you know."

"But why can I see you now?" I persisted.

"Because I wanted you to see me. Don't worry kid, you'll be seeing me from time to time because you're the imaginative type of kid, god knows what that typecast can turn you into, but mostly, you'll be hearing me. And I won't be talking with words. Just with feelings. I don't want to turn you into a goddamed schizophrenic, for Chrissakes. Is that clear?"

"What's 'schizophrenic'," I wanted to know.

"Just... you'll learn that word in vocabulary class in a few years. Be patient. God. Is that clear? About me not wanting you to turn into a goddamed schizophrenic?"

I didn't understand what he meant but it looked like he wanted me to say 'yes' so I said yes.

Satisfied, he stalked to a corner and smoldered silently.

"Do other kids have Bubbas?" I asked again.

"Everyone who believes he has a 'conscience', has one," he said testily, overlooking my use of "Bubba" in the sentence. "I'm not here to force your goddamed beliefs down your throat: that loopy nun you have for Religion class seems to be handling that department pretty well. But I wanted to get to know you better. Because I like you, and you like to listen to your heart a lot. That's a way cool thing to do, for a kid your age. And you know what you want, and I respect that, so you can always consult me with things you need answers to, all right?"

"Will you give me all the answers?"

"No," he admitted. "You will."

"Then," I said after processing that statement in my head, "you mean you will."

He laughed. He had a nice laugh, and I wished he laughed more. "Smart-ass." Then he winked at me. "Just think of me as a diary. You can tell me stuff, and have debates with me. I love arguments, and you do, too."

"What's 'debates'?" I asked automatically.

"You'll join the club in five years, don't worry about it. You'll even be the president," he said, patting my head just to annoy me, because of course he knew I hated to be patted on the head. "All right. I really gotta go now."

"Why? Where are you going?" I kind of liked talking to Bubba, and was a bit sad to see him leave.

"I've got things to do. Besides, I hate the eighties. If it weren't for Platoon, I'd never have come back. There's the nurse with your popsicle."

And then he was gone, and I was alone again in the school clinic, wondering if I had dreamt of the whole conversation. Actually, to this day, I'm still wondering if my life is a discontinued dream I had never woken up from, and if one day I'd discover this hiatus and find myself still in the clinic, with the nurse still arranging those bottles of medicines.

I'd better ask Bubba about that.

The nurse entered the clinic and handed me a popsicle, and I put it in my mouth. It was cool and it was orange, my favourite flavour, too. She gave me crayolas for the colouring book, and I started to colour a tree blue and hummed a song whose title I'd forgotten.

*This is not where you roar to your feet in thunderous applause. Please reserve that for the end of this heart-breakingly moving piece of literatia

Dragged my body into black clothes, held myself awkwardly. Holding a white rose in my hand. I don't like flowers, although I think they're trop trop trop gorgeous. But I just can't stand the goddamed baby's breath those florists always insist on sticking into the bouquets; without them flower arrangement would be exquisitely splendid. Baby's breath that's what they call em, those white little ... things that remind me so much of awkward skeletal figures. There is horror in flowers.

[insert horrific shiver here]

Got back still quite early, kind of sluggish, the way it is at 8 in the morning when everyone's still yawning and you're already one box ahead of the others in the day's checklist. You know how it is. Sat in bed and smoked for awhile.

And then... Julien appeared before me, sitting on the edge of my bed.

"Hi," he said. "Hi, sunshine!"
I rubbed my eyes.
"I said, hi," Julien repeated. He took my cigarette from my hand and took a puff. He was wearing his checkered shirt and his workman pants, the one with the funny seam across the pant leg.
"hi," I said hesitantly. Then, "What are you doing here?"
He smiled, the smile he uses to push his dimples to its possible deepest
(100% adorable)
"I had a cigarette," he declared, "for breakfast."

I sat up in bed and there was no Julien, there was no cigarette. My reactions were:
1. "It was a dream, haha"
2. "hey... what time is it?"

And then... Julien appeared again.
"I had a cigarette," he repeated, "for breakfast."

I thought I had already woke up?

"Hi," he said. "Hey, Kala." He poked me. "Hi."
"Hi." I squinted. "Errr."
He started to converse jovially in French.
"Wait," I interrupted him. "Talk slowly, you're too fast."
"Blah blah blah..." he said slowly, in French. "..blah... blah blah blahhhh.. blah blaaaaaaaaaah..."

ouhla I'm hallucinating I need help they were right I need to talk to someone with a degree in psychology where am i

"Jul... what time is it?"
He answered gallantly, still in French.
"Wake up."
"Wake up."

And my phone rang, and I sat up in bed, and I looked at the message and it said WAKE UP the way I had set it, you know, the one you use to set reminders to yourself.

Now in the Land of Awake. It's quite a realistic place to visit, you know.

"My eyes," he said, "aren't facing the right holes."

Quite descriptive. I give him A+ for that. He should channel all his energy in writing numerous metaphors and similies, and we could make a book, you know: Similes and Metaphors for all Ocassions, by Julien, copyright 2002.

"okay," I said after I bothered him for a few minutes and made sure I'd disrupted his peaceful sleep. "I just wanted to wake you up. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Kala...yaaaaawnnn"

Do you think he'll dream of me speaking in Filipino?

"Blah blah blah," I'd say in his dream, "blah blaaaaaaaaaah..."
"Kala," he would say, "Talk slowly, I can't und---"
"BLAH!!!" I'd interrupt him, but slowly. "BLAH BLAH BLAAAAAAH" in Filipino. Then I'd laugh, and he'd bang on the door to the Land of Awake, wishing the dream would end, thinking "isn't it time for me to go to work? Get me out of here!"

Hi Jul...I miss you much too much.

Dragged my body into black clothes, held myself awkwardly. Holding a white rose in my hand. I knew the purpose of why I had to wake up early. Three years ago on Valentines Day, we were at the annual Valentine's Day concert held at UP Fine Arts, sitting on the concrete that starry night, surrounded by damning claustrophobic red-and-white cutout hearts and all the couples who had suddenly turned up the Corny-Lovin'-O-Meter to its fullest. And a bunch of boys started to pass out flowers, single red roses, for each of us girls they knew, and although they could be absolute jerks at times we said "Aaaaaaawwww how sweeeeet" (numerous aaaa's and eeeee's are needed to show how cornily we pronounced that sentence) and gave them a kiss, because it was a really sweet gesture (plus points because they didn't have baby's breath)

Today one of those boys who gave us flowers has left, and now I'm the one holding a flower for him, although I wish that he were still alive to touch it.

What can I say, but Damn You. Damn you, damn you. It could have been different, you know.

An email from my sister:
Dear Kala
Although I try to read and enjoy your accounts as much as I can (I'm Pedia this week, see you at Robinson's on Friday?), can't you write something personal, like tell me where you've been that day and what you've been doing and how the dog is or what you ate, because sometimes it's full of poetry poetry and surreal poetry and I just want to think of normal things after a day of seeing enlarged livers and burst appendixes. You know? See you Friday, don't be late. I know you, yes I do.
luv,
nise

I don't know how I, Mademoiselle Kala, of all people, happen to have a sister who punctuates sentences with numerous smiley icons and signs her mails with "luv". Good god in heaven above.

Reply
Dear Denise,
Doctor doom of the familia, today I offer you this severe psychological drama on human fragility and frailty, in honour of our sisterhood as we are bound by geneology.
Kala

Do you want me to write about how my day has been? the places I've seen, the things I've done? I'd rather give you a severe psychological drama. Actually there's a part 2. Please, no hate mails. Only praise will be accepted in my mailbox, because I'm very praiseworthy and deluded. Everything I touch turns into metal, and when I touch metal they turn into flowers.