[still from Công Tử Bạc Liêu (Bạc Liêu Playboy), a just released film]

This morning, the dogs didn’t bark at me. Before the adoption of the Occidental clock, Vietnamese divided the night into five canhs. There’s this lovely passage from Nguyễn Du (1766-1820):

Khi tỉnh rượu lúc tàn canh
Giật mình mình lại thương mình xót xa
Khi sao phong gấm rủ là
Giờ sao tan tác như hoa giữa đường?

Sobering as the last canh’s extinguished,
Self shaken self again lapses into self-pity.
Why once so richly draped with brocade?
Why now tossed like a flower in the road?

That self tossed onto asphalt is an unhappy prostitute. Of course, there was no asphalt in 1812 Vietnam, but it’s constantly on my mind, man. Having tramped over it nonstop for a week, my brain has assumed the hardness and consistency of asphalt. I now know how varied that bituminous bitch is. There are stretches so rugged, even jagged, I must seek relief on the sidewalk. Worst, though, is when I must put on my pussy soft sandals. With eyes downcast, I take mincy, queer steps through this laughing universe.

5:06AM and I’m already at my second café. This one blessedly has no music, only birds chirping in joy or panic in two cages above my head. This street is named after Nguyễn Kim (1468-1545). Half a mile away is Triệu Việt Vương (524-571). I only cite these to show that just about every nation but one has a very long memory. Even with such a short past, that aberration still can’t recall anything but its last phony election.