A View Into A Vietnamese Apartment
Do journalists journal? Are newspapers just the journals of journalists? Are you unwilling to engage in this thought provoking journey? Fine then, let’s talk about my apartment. The nineteen liter plastic jug of water behind my head is nearly empty. A small woman in pyjamas and plastic sandals will give me a new one tomorrow. Or perhaps she will on Monday. There is fruit tea on top of my bouncing fridge. It is next to the raisins and the nice smelling stuff. My fridge ticks like a clock, or, maybe it chugs like a train. Hard to say.
Three notebooks, a plastic folder holding paper - just holding it, not stuffed with it or full of it - and a red pen sit next to some Buddhist propaganda not far from me. The man at the hotel on the east side of the island gave it to me. He seems to fit in well on the island, eating vegetables and practicing religions that are illegal in mainland China. That said, he has an intense disdain for an afternoon wail on the karaoke machine. He finds that the evening is acceptable. He is from Hanoi and owns the resort. The island is now a city but the man still lives there. Perhaps he is unaware.
The pen, the beats, and the paperclip hide behind this screen. Only the sticky red wire emerges from the left side. If you leave Beats headphones untouched in a desk for 9 months they become very sticky. Forever. The black material covering the foam is disintegrating. A little bit is left in my hair after every lesson. It’s not actually a paper clip, but a clothes pin. Not the type you clipped on your nose when you were a goofy child, but the type your grandma used to keep the mattress together even though she could afford to buy a new one. When he put all of the thumbtacks in the ceiling of his rust brown Cadillac, it too looked like the flowing, undulating top of an uncovered bed. There was no reason for their colors, but they were spaced evenly and in rows. I have no thumb tacks in my apartment.
The towel next to the sink silently matches the fridge. I could continue on like this for some time. Both of us would be bored after a while, let’s face it. Or should I say all of us? I think those at home need something to remind themselves of impending doom, chaos, and social fragility. That will be subconscious justification for the next orgy binge watching. Someone is shouting in the alleyway and it is distracting me. People do not discuss or merely chit-chat in the narrow lanes. Volume must be adjusted to maximum levels in this part of town, even when it is the middle of the night and no animals are being tortured. Worry not, beating and whining shall commence no later than 5:30 AM. The roosters will remind your neighbors. In fact, they’re doing so right now, six hours in advance.
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