midnight sun [] - quoc viet - -@_.com @ 2:41pm
i rush out of the company on my motorbike, screaming metal to pass the time and faces i’ve come to know. going to drink, to forget, to talk about the stupid things i’ve done for the day with one of the few friends i have here. i’ve found suprising comfort in the way i’ve been living for the past few months. no regard for self, i have nothing to my name and when you have nothing life becomes a ferocious rush of experiences. i’ve topped almost everyone in the manner of driving, breaking 60km/hr even on the normal roads now. like someone daring you to do something, you feel like you’ve got to one-up them, beat them at their own game, show that you will not bow down. i live so fast i’m not sure i can keep up with myself anymore.

at the bia hoi, an outside gathering of metal tables and plastic chairs created for the sole purpose of drinking, i sit with three Americans as white as day, among a smattering of Vietnamese people as brown as night. we drop back beers, me occasionally breaking from the conversation to look around at the people i’m so closely connected to, yet so distant from. i was born in the States, had very similiar upbringings to the three Americans sitting around me, yet i feel as if i am an imposter. i should be sitting with the crew of 4 to my right, spending all their salary on beer and cigarettes and the unmentionables.

near us, the silver sounds of a beat-up guitar wafts to my ears and jolts me upright. i look around and see a group of older middle-aged men, a few with guitars. they’ve all got leather skin worn out by the sun, some with scars and minor malformities to accent the rough life they’ve had. the one man that’s singing has a long raspy sweet voice, pushed forward with immense energy by the force of his emotion. he sings a song i know, and my eyes murmur the words along with the lyrics. Trinh Cong Son, a true poet in his time, wrote this song and it haunts me everytime i hear it. the man strums hard and his eyes close, the other men around him sitting and watching, nodding their heads, followers to the great musical icon that is this poor street man. they are all worn down, wearing old clothes and could pass as your average motorbike driver. beer in cheap glass mugs all around, they sit and watch the musical visionary bring his emotions out. there is a sadness in the voice so overwhelming that my heart wells up, my body too limp and too tired anymore to respond. the sadness he sings isn’t just for himself.. it’s for the men surrounding the table, for the people at this small local sidewalk bar, for saigon and the deepness of this country. i want to scream out, shout and sing along, but i cant because i am stuck in my own existence as an outsider pretending to be in the know. i want to take my sadness and release it like this man, let the words and beautiful melody bring it to a place where it is deepened and heightened, become something beautiful, worth something more than just feelings of emptiness. i watch the man’s face, molding into different expressions of pain and loss and love. the bottoms of his eyes are wet and glisten. he is crying.

throughout the night different street denizens approach our table, as they approach all tables, asking us to buy, buy, buy. quick-witted kids with bare feet and unwashed hair hock lottery tickets. one starts hitting my back with a semi-clenched fist, smacking with the noise of a massage. the kids pound peoples backs with a light hammering motion, a quick back massage to get them to buy. they look around, down the street, and in other directions as they ploy their trade. because they’ve seen it all. you’re just another face in a line of faces that will mean nothing to them but a chance at another meal. attractive girls in white and blue outfits come by with a new-brand of cigarettes, trying to sell the promotion that gets you a free lighter if you buy a pack. old women pushing 80 waddle over, dirty walking sticks in hand, with open mouthfuls of black and missing teeth to beg you to buy some lottery tickets.

“please sonny, please buy some for me, i beg of you…” she says in a raspy voice, her eyes yellowed on the sides and beautiful face formed with a thousand wrinkles and a million sorrows. i hand out the money in my pocket, a bit at a time to everyone until everything is gone. i do it in such a way as to make it look like a sale, so the others don’t catch on and rush over. kids with flowers, lottery tickets, men with flashing toys, a man with no feet who drags himself by on a piece of wood.

“hey can you tell your friend his cell phone is hanging out his pocket?” the man without feet says. “if i had wanted to i could have easily taken it. tell him about it, he is a westerner and i cant speak his language, if i point at it he might hit me.” he moves off and i tell my friend. another old woman creeps up to me and begs, please, please buy some lottery tickets for me, in a small and weak voice, so weak that i am lost in it. i tell her i’ll take one ticket and take out 5 times the amount, putting it into her small hands. i tell her to keep it and she smiles, whispering in that soft voice, oh thankyou sonny oh thank you bless you boy, bless you. she pats my shoulders and strokes the back of my head, squeezing my arm hard because now she can eat for tonight. i feel a light sensation on the top of my head, and realize the old woman has kissed me. she shuffles off to another table and i want to break down, scream and flip the table and curse this fucking place and these fucking people and the entire fucking goddamned human race. but all i can do is sit, and incredously tell my friend across the table, “that old woman kissed me.”

a small wiry man sporting a flashy hat, red jacket and matching red pants appears out of nowhere and begins shouting in a wireless microphone. near the curb sits a motorbike with a large and beaten down sound system strapped to the back, seemingly defying all laws of physics. the sound comes out suprisingly strong and resonates with the power of a concert hall.

“hey wasn’t this the same guy that came here last time?” one of the americans asks.

i stare at the small man, who looks like a poor motorbike driver dressed in ridiculous pimp costume, shouting with a musical flair, offering songs and encouraging people to buy the “singer appreciation candy” that is being hocked by a young boy walking around. a man pedaling some goods stops by the curb and watches, as well as the street kids selling their wares. everyone watches this man as he breaks into a folk song, something from the countryside that i rarely ever hear in the city. he sings and his movements seem mimicked from a vietnamese pop video, his hands waving in the air and his brown face expressing the song’s emotions in exaggerated fasion. after a bit they leave on their motorbikes, bringing the ridiculously loud speaker set with them. i wonder where the cops are and how this is possibly legal. the guy pedaling goods by the curb moves off and the street kids get back to pushing their goods.

the night draws near and a small little girl comes up, pout on her street-wise face. she looks to be no more than 5, and upon asking i find out that she’s 8.

“cmon mister, buy these two packs of gum, cmon mister, buy.” she stands and pouts almost angrily, two packs of gum held in her tiny hands.

“it’s 1 oclock in the morning child! why arent you in bed?” i ask her.

eyes down and without looking at me, she replies, “i havent sold all my gum yet.”

the two packs she holds is, in all reality, not the last two packs she has to sell before she can go home. the oldest trick in the book, there are more packs stashed elsehwhere and they only sell two at a time, telling people it’s the last two they’ve got to sell before they can go home for the night. it’s a scam that’s commonly used to bring forth pity and increase the chances of a sale. her mother is most likely sitting somewhere nearby, watching her, ready with a slap if the little girl doesn’t sell the gum. i motion for her to come over and she walks over, still pouting and with eyes pointed down. her face is beautiful, something that would garner cheek pinches and face rubs from adoring adults. like the sun….

“how much for one pack of gum?” i ask her. she mumbles an answer and keeps shaking her head no when i offer 10,000 vnd for both packs, the going rate. i tell her we’ll buy her gum, if she promises to go home and sleep. she nods her head and takes the money, walking off. she’s not going home, and we all know it. i watch her walking off, disappearing among the chatting and drinking vietnamese at low metal tables and red plastic chairs. i try not to think about where the money i just gave the little girl will go. money for her parents, for food? gambling? alcohol and heroin? all possibilities in saigon. the man with the guitar has left, and upon passing notices me watching him. he looks at me and nods, and i nod back. he sits at another table and continues singing, with no exchange of money present. just a song for the night, to share the sadness with all present.

we get up to leave and by now the sidewalk is overflowing with vietnamese people. the local poor, the local rich, gangsters and prostitutes, everyone is out to pass another warm saigon night together, like one large family that knows no limits to its emotions. i want to sing, because i cannot take this sadness, this beautiful horror of a life.

just another song for the night….
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faithless [] - quoc viet - -@_.com @ 6:10pm
i watch my fingers shake while i hold the computer mouse and lift up my hands. they’re shaking, like they’ve been shaking for the past few months. i stare at them as if by focusing all my energy on the vibrations they’d stop. i fear the night, with the quiet solitude of empty space, and shuffling people. i just want to hear a voice, telling me things will be ok…. that there’s a purpose to all of this.

hanoi in a week, america in two. any roots i had when i left for VN have withered all away and more than the emptiness i fear the discovery that all places hold the same thing: nothing, like the washed away imprints of a storm, a song sung but forgotten. a week has ended and the songs have played themselves through. i wish i can forget…..
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thought steep [] - quoc viet - -@_.com @ 1:35am
i sit in my chair and fight sleep. 2 hours of sleep, some strange conversations, deja vu, and then shaking hands and meeting with people. where am i? i sit in my chair and fight sleep, filing through email after email. someone knocks lightly on the door of the office and walks in. the other people sitting at desks surrounding me don’t notice much. it’s common, people coming in and giving paperwork or asking about something. the voices come different with each person, different issues, different implications in the business. and then an angry email from management. just like so many other things in the world, people get offended because the truth is told. no one wants to hear the truth. it’s like a cold icicle that slides down the back of your shirt, when all you want is the closing warmth of disillusion.

i beg for the work day to end, because i can’t stand the jabbering that goes on behind and around me. people laugh, joke, flirt, release words that don’t mean anything and ultimately just lead back to themselves. one of the sales guys is hitting on the sales girl, making semi-baby voices and asking why she doesn’t talk to him, how come she talks to the technician instead of him. a secretary wearing an ao dai walks in and sits down, staring at the wall, and then leaves. i look out my window and see a tan wall concrete wall with a small opening carved square out of it. it looks like a painting, this one part of the wall.

the 5pm i beg for finally arrives and everything falls to the wayside. people trickle home. yet the emails keep coming, the people still seek my inexperienced opinions, and i am still at work. it never ends, the things you have to do..

me and short-stout had a falling out. to put it simply he said some shady things about to me to a girl, just to increase his chances of bagging her. totally unexpected, i am left reeling and wondering who the hell i can trust anymore in this world. everyone’s out for themselves.

i sit in the corner and my head begins to feel heavy. my eyes shut off and i pass out in a deep slumber. i wake up 2 hours later, my head on the desk. one of the cousins is chatting on yahoo, random banter to random people. i get up and walk out to a black saigon night and hail a cab, crawling into the backseat while telling the guy the address. got to do some errands. the cab’s a bit rundown, devoid of any light and giving off an earthy impression. with the soft insides of this moving cave, we rumble through the streets among a continual crowd of human beings on motorbikes. the taxi driver reaches down to somewhere near the radio and starts pressing some button. right away i pull myself to the middle of the seat and watch him carefully. in a country where you make your living by skimming off the top and taking where the takin’s good, taxi drivers are notorious for rigging their meters with special “jump starters”. clever setups allow the driver to increase the rate at which the meter runs, or even straight out add money to the fare.

“what are you pressing down there?” i ask him. he throws his head back for a moment before looking ahead.

“oh, that’s just the window control.. see.”

he proceeds to press the button and the windows go down. i’m not all that convinced and watch the meter like a mother watching a sick baby. no more than a minute into the ride the fare starts jumping. it’s rigged.

“hey.. what’s up with the meter,” i ask, “why’s it jumping like that?”

the man is quiet for a few seconds before replying, “it’s 7000 vnd per kilometer. that’s standard everywhere.”

i wait it out and within a minute the fare jumps up again. the taxi turns right, which i know is the wrong direction. the fare is now getting to be ridiculous for a 3 minute ride and i have to stop it, before we end up on the other side of town and the fare’s ridiculously out of control.

“alright, stop here.” i tell him. the guy pulls over.

“it’s 7000 vnd per kilometer.. it goes up like that.”

i don’t respond and reach into my pocket. while the car is stalled the guy presses the secret button and the fare magically jumps a few thousand dong. incredible. i pay him and tell him to give me back exact change. most people who just come to vietnam completely lose their cool when they find out they’ve been ripped off. i’ve pretty much gotten to understand why people do it, and consider it a game. if you don’t know how to play, you’re going to lose some money. it’s the law of equilibrium; you’ve got the money and they don’t. i pull on the door hand, the metal piece nearly falling off in its plastic base, and jump onto the sidewalk. a few motorbike drivers sit on their livelihoods on the corner amidst brown darkness, chatting next to a stand selling food. the stand is a small square of cheap tin metal, glass, and florescent lightbulb. a speck of struggle, diluted with the normalcy of the daily, and displayed for all to see. i see a Vina taxi, one of the two cab companies that doesn’t cheat you. the other is MaiLinh. it’s in decent shape and shiny. i hail it.

soon i’m at a towering 20-something story commercial center, a ritzy upperclass sidewalk cafe spilling foreigners, rich vietnamese, and prostitutes dressed to kill over the sidewalk under the massive square marble pillars. saigon is a cruel mistress because it understands the plurality of existence. haves and have nots, rich and poor, the beautiful and the ugly, they mix in this potent city teeming with the potential like air mixes with air. business, it’s going, money it’s coming, work it’s here to be taken, people, oh the sadness of reality. i can see the motorbike drivers slumped in their dustry jackets on the corners, watching the colorfully dressed elite dine in the warm muggy saigon air, being served by other people. the waitresses bustle from table to table, yes sir, yes mam, anything you want. this is where i must go sometimes for business, and tonight is no exception.

i walk into the bar near where i came to do business, considering a sterile dinner. a quick expensive dinner, because i need something quick and safe to fill up my stomach for tonight. i shuffle in and sneak a seat by the round bar, a few plain girls filling orders for fruit shakes and drinks and all sorts of odd foods for the picky diner moving around. the place is brightly lit, almost like a family restaurant. across from me i see two asian foreigners, throwing back some beers, and to the right an old back-country type American, cap pulled tight over his grey hair. i ask for the menu and order some forgettable dish. just something to get rid of the hunger, and i’ll be on my way thanks. i watch the girl behind the alcohol bar in the corner, laughing and throwing english phrases at people passing by. i stare at the American, because he’s staring at his drink. his hat covers his eyes and for some reason i think it’s a veteran. for awhile i sneak glances at him, watching him nurse his drink and look around as if he’s as lost as i am. in moments i catch him scowling at his drink, a fated and once-murderous silent cry at the brutality of the past, or perhaps the hopelessness of the present. the lips pull back to reveal old teeth and i can feel the hate and pain from here, the furor held back with something profoundly strong. the girl behind the bar says something in vietnamese, smiling mischievously, and the guy turns around and smiles. he’s old, with the wrinkles forming all around his mouth and eyes, but he’s still fit enough to kick my ass. he returns to staring at his drink, his apparent enemy, and resumes the existence of a ghost. this place is full of ghosts.

a jovial waiter breaks my train of thought with his laughter, pouring different mixtures of fruits into spotless glasses for customers somewhere off in the cafe-restaurant. the girls behind the counter laugh with him, playfully offering jokes and him responding just as playful, back and forth like cubs roughhousing with each other. even though they’re years older than me, i find it cute and can’t help but smile. the waiter’s accent is distinctly central, bringing stereotypes of abject poverty and indescribable hardship. what if the tourists and passerby travelers truly saw this country as its inhabitants saw it? would they still comfortably pass through with cliched compliments stuck to their lips? i can hear the smile in the man’s words and am grateful, that i can get something as subtly pure as this in such a sterile and lifeless place. but always, there is the truth of poverty, temporarily drowned out with these bright lights and pristine settings. this is death for me, this utter and confused version of comfort, and somehow, it is where most vietnamese want to end up.

i pay and leave, finish my business, and am back in a cab. quietly we move through crowds of people on motorbikes, children standing and sitting and holding on, wrinkled feet pumping rickshaw pedals, and modern-cut fashion for those that can afford it. we pass the Ben Thanh center, where advtertisements glare from billboards and building roofs. a large video screen running advertisements sits above it all, showcasing to everyone with eyes that vietnam is on its way to modernity, to prosperity and a good life for all. we move past the center and the people continue pouring about me, all the same because they speak the same language and think the same things. but what bothers me most is that they are not all the same. they can’t be, even though they all want to leave this country when i am the only fool thinking i can stay. they say people come to saigon for the work opportunities, and some get swept away in the seedy underlyings of the place. they are pulled into the dreams of the rich west, and suffer for their foolishness with the horrors of society. we pass one of the largest parks in saigon, where i’ve been told by the locals that the area is notorious for junkies and prostitutes. if you’ve got a stolen motorbike then this is the place to get it off your hands. you simply drive up and wait, and someone will come out and offer to take if off your hands for a low price. i’ve been told the couples, who are now lining next to each other on motorbikes, like fish in sardines no more than 2 feet apart from each other, are not completely couples. some of them are pimp and prostitute pairs, seeking their next John. i am told so many things that my head spins with the sadness sometimes, and it’s all so much worse because i’ve seen so many of it with my own eyes. poverty is a poem, and then you face it and live with it, and then it becomes horror.

i don’t have to ask myself whether i’m American or Vietnamese. the discourse comes naturally because i find myself switching between the two languages, a farce in both worlds. i understand enough to enter their world, but not enough to get out.

“do you want to stop here or do you want me to cross the street?” the drivers asks.

“can you cross the street and park to the side?” i reply in vietnamese. i say it like i belong to this place, but the tiredness of my voice betrays the fact that i am not, and never will be.
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people within people, the true face [] - quoc viet - -@_.com @ 6:20pm
when it struck me
that i’ve been waiting since birth
to find a love that would look and sound
like a movie
[…]
i want so badly to believe
that there is truth
that love is real
and i want life in every word
to the extent
that it’s absurd

a trendy indie-pop song, from a band my sister listens to. you want to express yourself but you can’t, so you look to chewed up lyrics. tired, so tired of everything.

but a smile’s worth a billion suns. give me more, says i, give me more.
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the quickest moments are in the wait [] - quoc viet - -@_.com @ 7:23pm
trying to find normalcy in the normal is so hard, given that normal can be some crazy shit.
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onemoreone [] - quoc viet - -@_.com @ 1:35am
can’t put it into words anymore. i need to find an answer and this place is not holding it for me. why can’t i ever find peace? why am i such a fuckup?

all i ever wanted was to be happy.

guitar riff - self repose uncountable [] - quoc viet - -@_.com @ 1:26am
i didn’t go to work for a month
i didn’t leave my bed for eight days straight
i haven’t hung out with anyone
and if i did, i’d have nothing to say
i didn’t feel angry or depressed
i didn’t feel anything at all
i didn’t want to go to bed
and i didn’t want to stay awake

from the start of this blog it was always about Vietnam, but then again, was it really? change the country, help the people, change the world, feel beauty inside the innards of my bones, learn about my roots, and all that bullshit. but i was just running, from everyone and everything. mostly myself. people don’t like to face their demons… so in college i used to sit and watch everyone around me, finger pick their fuckedupness and be smug in the fact that it wasn’t me.

i see the world in caricatures and now my own is catching up to me. escape in the moment is one of the most exhilirating things ever. grabbing a handful of clothes and boarding a plane, zipping from country to the next - it’s fucking nuts. but when the dust settles and you’re sitting in a quiet room, wondering what it is that you’re doing, you realize you were just running from yourself. i can’t even go back now.. everything seems so superficial, so banal. how do you face 9-to-5 and McDonalds when you see Vietnam under the skin? i can’t even face myself anymore.

on the road my motorbike screams murder, murder, murder and i push it with all i’ve got left in me. the needle shakes violently close to 80km/hr, the engine shakes violently, my whole fucking being is shaking violently because that’s the only way i can get my thoughts into alignment. i pass men of all shapes and sizes with attractive young women sitting on the back, prostitutes in dresses and revealing clothing and christ, they all look so normal. there are the dirt peddlers, brown dusty jackets flapping lightly with their dusty caps and commodities strapped to the back. i know all of you.

i go by the old aqueduct, where i used to sit and watch bits of trees and trash troll by. memory, how thick you are and what a noise you make when you return. i pull onto the sidewalk running the length of this pseudo river and prop up my motorbike. down to my right is a couple hidden beneath a tree, to my left an arching bridge to connect the two banks. i sit on my motorbike and stare at the black sludge. the smell of raw sewage. two dank rats appear from under a block of packing foam, the kind used to hold a stereo within a cardboard box. they rummage around the trash along the sloping banks, and then disappear. a ways out in front of me there are some squatter shacks. half of the shacks rest on part of the bank and upon other houses, the other half hanging over water and held in place with long wooden poles. the poles disappear into the water yet seemingly connect back in the reflection. different shades of brown and grey, sheets of metal in various stages of rust, overlap each other on the sides of these shacks. they are the walls in themselves, discarded metal that wouldn’t even be considered usable scrap in the US. the pale street lights fade at this part, where the shacks begin along a smaller connecting waterway. the makeshift homes are abodes to squatters and the absolute lower class. it looks like a dirty floating island.

someone is sweeping the front of their store, behind me. swish swish goes feathery soft like my imagined past. there is a strange smell to this place. at this point i fear almost nothing, not even death.
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. [] - quoc viet - -@_.com @ 10:06pm
how did it get to this point?
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pearl casualties [] - quoc viet - -@_.com @ 10:11pm
i am close to hugging the dirt streaked yellow wall along the side of this wet road, cold concrete below me in patterns of redundant wavy lines and dark grey grooves. rain has washed the dirt off the sidewalks and onto the streets, bringing the grime from one place to another. my vision is almost taken away by the alternating bright spots of florescent lit stores stands and the sucking blackness. a girl pushing another girl in a wheelchair creeps up to the metal table in front of me. the tables are so low and the stools so small that my knees stick up awkwardly, getting in the way of my long arms and making it hard for me to eat the Banh Cuon. a shadow runs across me, over my face and down my body to the ground, the old couple in front of me blocking part of the floresecent light coming from the stand. the stand is just two women with a small glass display, food stacked in big containers and pastel colored vietnamese words painted on the glass. the girl in the wheelchair is a beautiful girl of no more than ten. her skinny arms hold the tickets and her head holds a round hat. they push past and the girl stares at me for a moment, finding something odd about my face, and like that they’re gone. wheels creak silent.

the couple in front of me is a man and a woman. they crouch, ready scowls beneath their plain faces, hair mildly wild and free flowingly uncouth. off to the side sits a small skinny old man wrapped in a light windbreaker, cap pulled tight to the front. he is sitting calmly upon his motorbike seat and watching the people cast shadows off of themselves, the road, and everything else the florescence deems necessary to grace with its touch. i don’t know what i’m doing here, but neither did i know what i was doing back in America. just one place to the next, people passing by like my own life before my eyes in the darkest moments. dark, but never without the sub-bright glare from the stands and stores and occasional shopping complexes, reminding you that the human race will live beyond you in all its ugly self-preserving glory.

i am sick and desperately want to get better.
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[] - quoc viet - -@_.com @ 4:13am
how deep can you go before the world lets go?
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exit terms [] - quoc viet - -@_.com @ 12:12am
i pull open the drawer and pluck out the headset resting on some plastic bags. to the laptop i lumber, and into the small machine i plug this headset. the connector slides in smooth and firm with a click to show that it’s in. technology, how precise and right you are.

i use an internet telephony program to call home. i would like to talk to my parents, who i haven’t had direct communication with for the past few months. fuck, i haven’t spoken or written a word to them. something makes me want to hear a familiar voice. i would like to speak with my mom or dad.

no one picks up, and i call my sister. no answer. she must be in college. i wonder what she’s studying, what project she’s working on. it must be so fresh, being in a classroom doing things you feel are right, creating and moving with the guidance of older people who claim they know better. she goes to school in New York City, a place near my home. it doesn’t feel like home from here, and i doubt it’ll feel like home when i’m back in a few weeks to visit everyone.

i miss Phan Thiet and my students. i think a part of that is missing the past, because those kids have changed and so have i. i miss my friends in college, who seem to have drifted away to a point where i can’t reach them. i can’t seem to reach anyone these days, but i guess it’s because i moved away from it all. i doubt things would have been the same if i had stayed. everyone moves apart… onto other things, bigger things, other people.

i miss my students and now i realize i miss the experiences of creating, seeing and hearing. when you’re in one place for too long you begin to stagnate to the rythm of the place. some places move fast, some places move slow. this place, this dank fragrant up down city of Saigon that I am in, it moves deep. i never had a home… i’ve changed so much from day to day, month to month, year to year, that what was left of me that called home ‘home’ has gone. home is like happiness, and happiness is like language. fleeting, formless, fatally indefinite. home lays in memories that aren’t quite clear anymore, in historical feelings implanted in electrical signals that get brought up so many times they’re worn out to inaccuracy.

i’m going to Hanoi in a few weeks. to visit some friends, meet with some people, see a relative. then i will be back in America, to look over my life in the past year as if i’m looking at a newspaper clipping. and before i have a chance to understand, i will be back in Vietnam. a circle within a circle within a circle……….. how do you explain this?

i can’t.
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open entry [] - quoc viet - -@_.com @ 6:36pm
must…bite…down…tongue……

….must….remain…civil………
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