Saturday, March 26, 2011


I told one of the biggest crybabies in my clientele to turn off the waterworks yesterday.

I was getting tired of the incessant crying that he often did out of frustration. Sure, I was also especially irritable because I was having a really long day and my co-workers' kids were wrecking havoc everywhere. By everywhere, I mean within three feet of where I was, and no, I did not get the memo about yesterday being "Bring Your Kids To Work Day", because it wasn't.

So I told my client to shut it.

I've never really told anyone to stop crying before. Not even the Devil's spawn living next-door, and the heavens know how badly I want to stuff that little brat's wide-open, evil little mouth with sand. I've actually been doing that in my head for a long time now. If I didn't have my imagination, I would die.

Now, I'm feeling kind of guilty remembering how I told my kid to stop crying. Especially since he actually did stop crying and immediately wiped his eyes and closed his mouth shut in this really pitiful way of his to probably keep the sobs from escaping.

I shouldn't have done that. I shouldn't have told him to stop crying. That was taking away his right to tell everyone that he was upset.

Besides, I reckoned, the world blows.

The least it can do, is give us the license to shed a few tears.

I guess an apology is in order.

Friday, March 25, 2011

he don't need no doctor

I was just bawling over the fact that Casey Abrams had to sing for the judges' save.

What can I say, I love the man.

I admire everything about him. The way he looks like he could be way older than I am, which he isn't. The way that he pwns the melodica and the upright bass. The possibility that he might be very passionate about movies to be working in a film camp. The fact that his parents had him in their 40s. The way that he sings and performs with divinity. The way that he seems to always be getting the need to hang out in a hospital somewhere, and yet never fail to bring it like a pro come showtime. The way he seems to genuinely like and care for his fellow contestants. The way he strikes me as an amazing, awesome person, and I just have to look at my computer screen to get to that conclusion. And the fact that I can actually suffer through American Idol because he's still there.

I love him enough to even try to demean a blogger who didn't seem to like him as much by leaving an unsolicited comment - Meh. We can't all be nice.

I don't believe in luck, but I'm crossing my fingers for Casey anyway.

all in a day's work

It was about five pm and I had just wrapped my last therapy session for the day. I was just packing my things away when I overheard my eight year old client Jack* talking to his mother. By talking, I mean it was the Spanish Inquisition. His mother was grilling him about what we did during the session. The conversation went something like this:

Mom: What did you do with Teacher Ariane?

(Start of Segue)

People call me "Teacher" at work because of some stupid tradition which dictates that if you, god forbid, do a little instructing, you become a "Teacher" by association. I have nothing against teachers, believe it or don't, it's just that I'll never be comfortable with the label the way I am comfortable with "dude" or my own, personal, given name. For example, I have been begging our new receptionist at the clinic, for the last three weeks, to drop the "Maam" (Don't even get me started with that awful, awful title of "refinement", I only call women "Maam" when I'm secretly mocking them in my head.)

I finally had it this afternoon with the receptionist and finally told her, "If you call me Maam again, I will gut you like a fish. Alive."

Hopefully, that sent the message across.

(End of Segue)

Jack: Puzzles.

Mom: You fixed puzzles? Okay. What else did you do?

Jack: Tool shelf.

Mom: You also fixed a tool shelf? Nice. And then what else?

Jack: Draw story book.

Mom: Then you drew a storybook. Is that all you did?

There was a pause. Which was followed by what could have been a sigh. And then, he answered.

Jack: Working. Always working.

And even though I couldn't see the satisfied look on his mother's face, I knew that Jack had finally given her the answer she wanted.

I think I should start working my clients like a nine to five. Only I already am working a nine to five, and oh boy, is it fun.

And if you're Sheldon Cooper, yes, that was sarcasm.

*not his real name

Tuesday, March 22, 2011


I woke up really late yesterday. I had a client at nine, and I came to at around seven-thirty. And because I'm not one of those insanely functional people who are up and running the moment they open their eyes to the morning sunlight and the amazing dust particles that seem to always go with it, I spent thirty minutes debating whether I had enough willpower to reanimate myself and jump off the bed. Well, I eventually acquired the willpower. After thirty minutes.

And because I was especially late, I had to do without my bath. YAY!!


So I've been talking to myself, repeating the same line for approximately twelve times, "Be still, my beating heart." I like when my heart beats extra fast. It's awkward. It's scary. It's exciting. What I don't like, is when fast heart beating moments start to overstay their welcome. That's when they make me begin to think about death. And as much as I love thinking about death, I hate thinking about it accidentally.

I don't know about you, but I'm getting my second bottle of my 1.5 litre Cokes.


I'll be off to Manila in five days. I'm just so excited to see the light rail transit. And my friends. Okay, so maybe not in that order.

I guess it's time to resurrect my Tagalog skills.

Good thing I never forgot, "Tangina yan!" It comes very handy when I'm with my college friends. And that's one of the few reasons why I miss them. Okay. One of the many reasons.

Hahaha! (Just had to add it somewhere, in case someone thought I was being serious - about not having many reasons to miss my friends. But, yes. I was serious about the foul language. Always.)

Saturday, March 19, 2011

there's a lack of color here

I admit that I spend way too much time on the internet. A lot of people do, however, that it doesn't make me a poster child for internet addiction.

We all have our reasons for spending hours, days, weeks, and eventually the rest of our lives surfriding the trojan infested waves of the worldwide web. Some people do it to connect with other people, usually in the forms of tacky social networking sites that I often find myself logging in to, or in some cases to participate in multiplayer online role-playing games like the World of Warcraft (a game that my brother passionately swears by along with twelve million others). Some people do it to affirm their existence. Some people do it to share their beautiful talents (which either inspire people, or drive them to depression usually following the realization that they will never be as good). Some people do it because they don't have a life.

I spend way too much time on the internet, because I don't have a life. That much I know.

Because presently, in my physical, actual life, nothing interesting ever comes up. Everything that goes down is almost always something that never, not even in a lifetime will I find relatable. I have been pushed into the midst, not unlike the way the unruly bull has been tamed into accepting his place in the herd. I am in the inside, not just looking out, but wanting, desperately to get there. Sure. I know exactly what I sound like right now: a self-interested, arrogant snob who thinks everyone else is boring. That is probably true. But sometimes it's nice to try something wild and crazy like breaking free from the traditional perspective of passing judgment.

In my perspective, it's like being reacquainted with my old self. It's like looking back at that fourteen year old kid experiencing her first zit outbreak of many, and who felt like drawing the curtains close for that long, long nap that she ardently wished she'd never have to wake up from. Not because of the zit, well, not solely because of the zit, but mostly because the world, at that age, seemed like a big, strange, scary place of Nos and contradictions.

Well, I am twenty-two now. I still like taking naps. The world is still a big, strange, scary
place of Nos and contradictions. And I still find myself wishing I could draw the curtains close on the world every now and then.

It's never because of the reason that I think I am better than all things Earthly. But always because in my many dealings with the world, I have found that it doesn't hold much interest for the likes of me.

The world likes couture; I am black shirt and faded jeans. The world breeds the desire to be famous; I enjoy being in the background. The world adores the mainstream; I breathe independence. The world says Shut Up; I tell stories. The world craves perfection; I color outside the lines. The world supports the belief that one god is better than the other; I aspire to get to know all of them. The world teaches us to think in black and white; I think in bursting colors of irregularity. The world says Make No Mistakes; I am always messing up.

What's amazing about the internet, is that sometimes I get really lucky and chance upon people who make me think that being a tad bit different is something special and that it should make me proud. Just like Dr. Seuss, Johnny Depp or Kermit the Frog.

And like Jean-Jacques Rousseau who inspires me with the thought that, "I may not be better than other people, but at least I'm different."

It can feel really good to know that departing from the crowd, no matter how effectively it can isolate someone from the world, is being appreciated and celebrated. And even if it only seems to exist in the cyberspace and is probably as fictional as Obi-Wan Kenobi, it still brings genuine comfort. It makes one feel like great things can still happen, even if you're that one bruised apple in a basket of beautiful ones. That one apple that nobody ever picks.

In such moments of riding the rolling and thundering waves of the internet, I admonish myself severely for not being in a constant state of vigilance.

If I don't watch it, I might just find myself making the grave mistake of believing the pipe dream of the foolishest of fools - that there might be hope for the fourteen year olds, and the oddballs of the world after all.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

a poem for saturn

If I blew out the candle...
Would I finally bask in sunlight?
Or will I have to keep stabbing my shadows in the dark, dark, night?

If I blew out the candle...
Would there be poetry, singing and dancing?
Or will afternoons pass by with a silence so deafening?

If I blew out the candle...
Would I get to shake your hand?
Or will I lay my eyes on what in Oz they found?

If I blew out the candle...
Would I finally feel better?
Or will I be left wishing that that gust of wind came later?

If I blew out the candle...
Would there be hope for redemption?
Or will salvation elude me forever?

If I blew out the candle...
Would there be answers to my whys?
Or will I need to listen to another fictional tale spawned from even more lies?

If I blew out the candle...
Would the world remember?
Or will I be another box in the attic, filled with letters from a long forgotten lover?

If I blew out the candle...
Would I still get a gin, wine or a beer?
Or will I need to press on sane and sober?

If I blew out the candle...
Would I meet a friend, a companion?
Or will I have to live solo, like another Crusoe?

If I blew out the candle...
Would I still dream?
Or will consciousness lock me away in its realm?

If I blew out the candle...
Would there be laughter?
Or will tears keep the streets flooded like rains do in December?

If I blew out the candle...
Would I know of love and compassion?
Or will they take to the skies and defy capture?

If I blew out the candle...
If I did so in defeat and surrender
If I shook my head and said, "I cannot go on any longer ,"
Would you pick me up, and carry me on your back like a toddler?

If I blew out the candle...
If I made you cry, broke you down, and wore you out..
Would you still ruffle my hair, like a father might?

Would you still stand by my side?
Would you still want to hold my hand?
Would you still look at me like I have made you proud?

If I blew out the candle...
If once, twice, and a hundred times I went under...
Would you smile at me and promise it will soon be over?

If I blew out the candle...
Would you bring me to life? Would you yell out a battle cry and fight?

If I blew out the candle...
Would you ignite the fire in my heart?

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

stones fly

This time, Cat Stevens stayed up with me for Refrigerator Art Night Two. And, watercolor hates me.

Orange on Orange

The Brother Who Never Shudders


Emily: I May Be Odd, But I Always Get Even.

Monday, March 14, 2011

to mock the infant faith

Tonight was a rather slow night at Psychoville, so to spice things up a bit, I made myself two cups of coffee, put on some Augustana, rolled my sleeves up, and got down and dirty to work on what I call "refrigerator art".

Refrigerator Art 1

Refrigerator Art 2

Refrigerator Art 3

Refrigerator Art 4

My four year old heart is beaming with pride. I deserve a lolly.

Sunday, March 13, 2011

my neighbors' kids should be on the omen series

Watching Welcome (by director Philippe Lioret) I was amazed at how normal it was for a next-door neighbor to call out the other for making a riot. Since Day 1 of moving into my apartment, which was a year ago, I discovered with reasonable distress that both my next-door neighbors house the spawn of Beelzebub. I swear not a day will pass without either of the two brats disturbing the peace with their bratty screaming and their loud, spoiled demands. There are of course very special days when they decide on a duet. I have yet to decide whether they're teaming up to bring the whole building down, or if they're locked in a strong, close competition and are trying to out-scream each other.

I watched in awe and fascination (which of course mean the same thing) how in the movie, being confrontational about the noise a neighbor was making was a convention. It made me wish, for the thirty-eight time in my life, that I was living in France.

There are some things that I don't agree with about the Filipino culture and silently suffering tops the list. We hate being confrontational. We hate calling people out when they're being an ass. We would rather gossip about it and flourish in the thought that we are not alone in our hatred of something or someone. Heck, we would rather blog about it.

Not that I've never thought of going up to my neighbors', banging loudly on their doors until my knuckles bleed and yelling to their faces that if they can't rein in their little monsters, I would be happy to.

I've never done that though. I have suffered silently. Maybe because I am a Filipino, but largely because I'm not gutsy that way. My bravery is limited to clicking the "proceed anyway" button after a "Malware has been detected" sign pops up during my frequent trysts with the internet.

I've been practicing on my recorder for as long and as loud as I can be though, in hopes of perpetrating vengeance, but it's just too amateur a method to compete with the wails of the Devil's spawn.

Presently, I've been on the lookout for the biggest earpieces that the little money that I have can buy. Also, I'm working on number 25 of my "Destruction of the Brats: Methods of Torture" list and enjoying every minute of it.

Here's to all the silent sufferers out there! I am with you in praying for relief.

coo koo

I like babies. When I say I like them, I mean I can stand them. I mean I can be in the same room with them.

Sure they do nothing but sleep and feed on their mother's breasts and when they smell, they smell really bad. But they can be fun.

Like when they eat their toes. Or when they smoke cigarettes. Or when they make those fencing poses in their sleep.

But when they start doing something like this, I freak out.

Sure I can balance them in both arms for thirty seconds or maybe even bounce them around with my knees like a soccer ball (I know squat about soccer), but what if they want to be held for longer than that?

Commitment. Nothing could be scarier.


A friend asked me what I was gonna do today after she told me that she was going on a shopping spree since it was a Sunday. I thought to myself, "How do you top something like that?" I was just planning on sleeping in since I personally believe that Sundays should be spent on resting because the next day would pretty much suck the life out of you. But my friend was going shopping and sleeping in pales in comparison.

So I told her I would probably spend the day working on my artistic pursuits. I do not have artistic pursuits. But she doesn't need to know about that.

So I slept in. But when I woke up, I felt a little guilty about lying so I decided to do something artistic. I worked on my blog.

Stop sneering, I can do it on my own.

Thursday, March 10, 2011


Sometimes I keep myself awake until the wee hours of the morning by replaying this thought in my head, "If I slept now, along with the rest of the world, I'd never have a jump start on my plans of world domination."

Only lately, it hasn't been working as well as it did before.