JessicaRulestheUniverse.com

Painting: “Red on Maroon” by Mark Rothko (from www.artchive.com)

I saw a dead body by the sidewalk. I was in a cab on the corner of Ayala and Makati Avenues, waiting for the light to change. The cabbie was listening to the radio broadcast of the Senate hearing on the euro-happy police visiting Russia. Suddenly a reporter interrupted the broadcast to say that a woman had jumped from the 15th floor of the PLDT Building and landed on the driveway.

The light turned green and the cab crossed Ayala, only to be caught in a jam. As the cab crawled along Makati Avenue I saw her. She was lying face-down on the concrete, surrounded by police and gawkers. I got to thinking, Did she fall or was she pushed? Why’d she do it? If a mass of about 60 kg falls from a height of about 40 m at 9.8 m/s/s, what is the impact? What is the splatter pattern? Did she mean to do at lunchtime when everyone would see? Given the temperature and humidity, how long before. . .Was this truly her choice? Did her life pass before her eyes? How many lives in how many parallel universes will be altered because of this one death?

When I left the area three hours later the crowd was still there, so presumably the body had not been taken away. I hope someone put a blanket over her.

Sign on the side of a plumber’s van: “Flowjob Inc.” Clever, catchy, accurate, I’d hire them.

Marquee of a former movie theatre now used by Christian community: “What we do in life echoes in eternity.” Wait a minute, is that from the Bible, or from Gladiator? The Book of Maximus?

A Fil-American friend in the US had a problem with his credit card so he called their helpline. He got their call center in the Philippines. He knew the call center was in the Philippines because although the phone was answered by an agent affecting an American accent, he could hear the people around the agent talking loudly in Tagalog. It was like listening in on your neighborhood sari-sari store. “Kumusta kayo diyan?” my friend asked.

The call center agent replied, “I’m sorry sir, we’re not allowed to speak in Tagalog.” 

P.S. from Din: There’s an auto detailing shop in our neighborhood where cars are polished with genuine carnauba wax, meticulously and painstakingly by hand. I can’t for the life of me remember the name of the shop, but I’ll never forget their slogan: “Best hand job in town.”

Have you seen those tarpaulins attached to the pillars under the MRT? The ones with the portrait of MMDA Chair Bayani Fernando looking sternly at the motorists? Is this supposed to be a deterrent to traffic violations? Will Manila’s drivers observe traffic rules and regulations because an authority figure/bureaucrat/father substitute is standing there in a barong tagalog glowering at them? Is this anywhere as effective as, say, knowing that if you break the rules you will certainly get caught and penalized, and that if you get pulled over it’s for a real, actual violation?

Note the words printed at the bottom of the tarp: “Mere possession of this sign is punishable by law”. Meaning the MMDA is aware that these reminders for motorists will likely be stolen. So maybe there should be a second tarp of Mr Fernando glaring at the culprits who intend to steal these signs. These tarps are government property. They belong to the people. Stealing is wrong. But then you’d have to put signs everywhere to remind thieves that what they’re doing is bad, and then. . .

Meanwhile, there are bumper stickers saying Erap 2010. Oy, the theory of eternal recurrence. We can’t even say “Now I’ve heard everything”, because we already said it years ago.

If you take Daang Hari going south towards Cavite, past the subdivisions called Versailles and Portofino (Are we in Europe yet?), you will notice to your left a structure that resembles a Victorian glass chapel. It’s sort of like Kew Gardens, and sort of like Oscar’s obsession in Oscar and Lucinda? Have you seen that? Is it someone’s house? A conservatory? Anyone know what it is?

Spotted on the side of a van:

“____massage.ph
Calming the whole nation!
Strictly massage only!
God can see you!”

My friend Zed is sitting in a van crawling through traffic. It’s two in the afternoon of a hot day so naturally the airconditioner conks out, and after 10 minutes of breathing the same air, she opens the window. Along comes a little sampaguita vendor, a girl who looks about 12 (though she’s probably older). She waves the sampaguita garlands at the window and says, “Lady, buy sampaguita, very cheap.”

“No thanks,” Zed says. “Please, lady, I really need the money,” the kid says in a monotone. Zed shakes her head. “Just one, so I can have something to eat,” the kid goes on. Zed shakes her head. “Come on, can’t you buy just one?” the kid repeats in her unchanging monotone. “No,” Zed says.

Then the kid takes one garland and throws it into the open window, where it lands on Zed’s lap. “There,” the kid says, “That’s my gift to you.”

Zed tosses the garland back out the window and the kid catches it. (Maybe I shouldn’t have done that, Zed says, but it was instinct.) “No, thank you,” Zed says. The kid tosses it back at her. “Take it, it’s a gift.” Zed tosses it back, the kid tosses it in, Zed tosses it back, it’s becoming absurd. Finally Zed takes out her wallet. “Let me pay for that one,” she says. She hands the kid a ten-peso coin. The kid throws it back into the van. “You can keep it,” the kid says. They resume playing catch with the sampaguita.

Finally the sampaguita vendor moves away from the van and goes over to the sidewalk. She takes her garlands of sampaguita and starts whipping them against a concrete wall.