Linh Dinh

“In the lives of emperors there is a moment which follows pride in the boundless extension of the territories we have conquered, and the melancholy and relief of knowing we shall soon give up any thought of knowing and understanding them.”—Italo Calvino in Invisible Cities

[Noir Coffee in Phnom Penh on 11/25/23]

Melancholy and relief, eh? That burden of always trying to understand not just anything, but everything, is near unbearable. Luckily, most people never feel this pressure. There are societies where intellectuals, professors and pundits are content to regurgitate, constantly, other people’s vomit.

With just over a week left in Cambodia, I’ve decided to stay in Phnom Penh, instead of heading south for a glimpse of Kampot, a city I’ve been told is exceedingly charming. I’m just too tired, man. Plus, it’s hard to extricate myself from all these long, tunnel like alleys and the Central Market’s magnificent dome.

Living in Certaldo two decades ago, I had regular access to Brunelleschi’s dome, Giotto’s tower and Michelangelo’s David, all in nearby Florence. Taking the train in the opposite direction, I could spend a day in the Siena that undoubtedly inspired Calvino’s Invisible Cities. Though I didn’t quite take everything for granted, I must have yawned once or twice right outside the Basilica of Santa Maria Novella. Fleeing the plague, Boccaccio’s bawdy yarn meisters took refuge inside there.

Now, I cherish every stinking alley and squalid eatery because angels dwell everywhere. When not bombed or tortured by Satanists, they can’t help but glow, smile and laugh, but, of course, you need not believe me. With their light extinguished, hell dwellers spread hell.

After I posted a Max Igan video about Jews committing genocide in Gaza, one “kit” responded, “I have to admit, I have a sneaking admiration for the way that the Israelis don’t fuck around,” so butchering helpless civilians is admirable. An “anonymous” added:

Easy to get sucked down this rabbit hole. Are Jews evil? Sure. Are Muslims working for Satan? No doubt. Should any Christian give a hoot about any of it? Not a chance.

Enjoy your Thanksgiving! Say a prayer to Jesus. Pet a stray dog. Buy a beggar a coffee. Pick up your hotel room mess. Leave a nice tip. Don’t spend an ounce of your Jesus Buzz on Team Satan 1 vs Team Satan 2.

Though not giving a hoot, this Christian and millions like him have been bankrolling genocide for decades, all while praying to Jesus. The West seems beyond salvation. Increasingly, the rest of the world realize this. When not admiring massacres, these Christians pet stray dogs and toss change to beggars.

Though America didn’t invent horror or war movies, it perfected them, so generations have been conditioned to enjoy bodies being mutilated and much blood splattered. War, then, is the ultimate entertainment, since each death that isn’t yours means you’ve won!

During this long, steady fall, both truth and beauty have been snuffed out, so even the simplest, most obvious facts are perverted, and only violence, pornography or idiocy can enthrall or amuse. Forget poetry in any field.

There’s a Wallace Stevens poem, “Emperor of Ice Cream.” With its vain wenches and their admiring boys bringing flowers in “last month’s newspapers,” a muscular roller of big cigars and even a corpse with horny feet, it’s almost goofy enough to be mistaken for an Edward Lear joke. There’s, however, this rather cryptic advice, “Let be be finale of seem,” plus this twice stated conclusion, “The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.”

I first read this poem 40 years ago, and even now, I can’t say I comprehend it, but it’s a tease, you see, and a provocation. If even territories can’t be possessed by actual emperors, what chance do we have as mere emperors of ice cream?

Nothing stops us, though, from appreciating ice cream, or anything else, before it or we melt away. Notwithstanding the many traps, psychos, assholes, misfortunes and farcical accidents, there should be much life and love before the finale of seem.

I started this piece in a new cafe, Noir. Though a chain, it’s lovingly decorated, with many nods towards the Cambodian past. CDs are displayed showing singers from half a century ago, including, of course, Sinn Sisamouth and Ros Sereysothea. There’s a large black and white photo of a tiger cub perched on a pedicab. So handsome, two boys run alongside this beast. Not long after this, hell would descend on this small land, but even if it hadn’t, all these souls would likely be dead anyway.

As a foreigner, I can only have the most superficial glimpse into this culture, but I’ve seen more than enough to appreciate its magnificence. Cambodians’ dignity is also admirable. Unlike some people, they don’t howl and shriek in self-pity as they murder in full view. Righteous sadism is disgusting. Never again!

So radical and progressive, the Khmer Rouge attempted the ultimate reset. To have any future, though, you must honor your past, and this entails, above all, an immersion in its distinctive beauty and richness, so do look back or, better yet, walk backward towards eternity. You’ve been misled all along.

Drifting through India, Thailand, Laos and Cambodia this past year, I’ve still managed to have sustained conversations, for each place must be read, and all experiences hashed over. Meaning must be pursued. Those who settle for nonsense are effectively dead.

Source: Postcards from the End. IMG: © Linh Dinh