Slices of Life, #13

What matters is Thầy Thím’s perseverance against tyranny and misfortune.

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Vung Tau, 10/8/25

Holy Water Puddles — Oct 11, 2025.

I’m typing my first words at 6:03PM. Yesterday, I ate beef wrapped in piper lolot leaves dipped in a fermented fish sauce, mắm nêm, which is very salty. This morning I woke up with a headache it took all day to recover from. My system can no longer forgive even small indiscretions. Today, I ate just spaghetti with olive oil, black pepper and cayenne pepper. At age 19 or so, I read about DuChamp eating just spaghetti with butter near the end of his life, and he wasn’t poor.

I had come to Ông Bầu hoping to run into Như, but she’s not around. This afternoon, I did send her an eBook version of my Postcards from the End of America. I have no hard copies. Since she did study anthropology, my book would be of interest. For more than four years, I took trains and buses all over the United States or, more often, just around the Philly area, to simply look and listen.

Just shut up and nearly everyone will tell you nearly everything.

Of course, they’re not likely to open up about their abject yearnings or weird lusts, though clues may seep out. Jerking and stroking their secrets to the last, the old finally croak, relieved at having never been found out.

Some, though, are exposed. Just look at your Dear Leader, suicidal soybean and corn farmers! As an extra fuck you, he just sent twenty billion of your “In God We Trust” greenbacks to Argentina! Since you laughed off his puckering sickness slobbering over virginal white flesh, you’re complicit in the raping of your own children! Be proud in your red hat. Unlike those coastal elite creeps, you’re the heart and soul of America!

Had I more money, I would have stayed longer in distant cities. I spent just one night in Portland or Cheyenne, none in Youngstown, Salt Lake City or Charleston. Too often I slept on buses and trains. I slept at the bus station in Kansas City, Denver and Pasco. You do what you must with what you have.

In Boston, I met Katie, who tried to avoid sleeping indoors. This was outright dangerous for a young woman. Even in Alaska, she had curled up outside. Katie also walked everywhere, for hundreds of miles, sometimes, over days. Though most people would dismiss her as foolish, if not mad, Katie had to act this way to recover something essential in herself. Last I checked, Katie had become more fixed and cozy.

Since the lesser known is always caricatured, many Westerners believe Orientals are conformists incapable of creativity. Don’t let me dissuade you. To Như, though, I would point out Vietnam has never lacked for individualists or eccentrics.

Just 12 miles from Vung Tau is Long Sơn, the realm of an anti-French fighter turned holyman, Lê Văn Mưu (1855-1935). His followers still adhere to unusual practices, such as being buried within 24 hours in unmarked graves, with no funeral to speak of. They don’t look for auspicious days for weddings. They don’t set up altars to divers gods. Lê Văn Mưu is simply called Ông Trần, or Mister Bare (head and feet). Live most simply was his message.

Sixty miles north is a holy couple, Thầy Thím, or Master and Mistress. Unjustly persecuted by King Gia Long (1762-1820), they had to flee to this remote region. Tigers still abounded. Among their miracles was the appearance overnight of an elaborate village hall. Of course, it’s nonsense. Those villagers, like Borges’ Yahoos, had to have built it themselves. What matters is Thầy Thím’s perseverance against tyranny and misfortune.

Just now, Như showed up, so I ranted on about Ông Trần and Thầy Thím, plus the Coconut Monk of Mỹ Tho. There are so many of these weirdos across Vietnam, throughout history. I also talked about poets Bùi Giáng (1926-1998) and Nguyễn Đức Sơn (1937-2020). Here’s a Sơn poem:

Holy Water Puddle

I will come who knows when
mouth parched nirvana path distant
oh one night bush like a body coiled
you haven’t pissed yet my soul is wet

Educated in the US since grade 9^th, Như never knew about these figures. I cite them to show she’s not alone.

Vung Tau, 10/9/25

Before the Fall of Saigon, Nguyễn Đức Sơn was a teacher. From 1979 until his death, he, his wife and nine children barely survived in remote Lâm Đồng. A third Saigon eccentric poet, Phạm Công Thiện, fared much better. From 1970 to 2011, he lived in Israel, Germany, France and the US. In Toulouse, he taught Western Philosophy. In Los Angeles, he lectured at the College for Buddhist Studies. At age 23, Phạm Công Thiện did have a nervous breakdown. He recovered at Nha Trang’s Hải Đức Pagoda.

Since Ông Bầu closed at 9PM, I had to run to Coffee Seven, where I was ecstatically greeted by Nọng and Milk Cow.

“Where were you this morning?” Mrs. Seven asked.

“I woke up with a headache, so couldn’t get here.”

With Mrs. Seven’s bedtime at 10PM, I only managed a couple hundred words before moving on. Now, I’m back at Ông Bầu. Sitting in the dark outside, I can still use its wifi.

That homeless Cambodian guy is going on, “I was too slow to be hired by the fishermen. They wouldn’t let me onto their boats. My brother carried bricks [back in Trà Vinh]. For a hundred bricks, he made 100K ($3.80). I just couldn’t do it. My legs nearly fell off. My father yelled at me and beat me up. I just couldn’t do it.”

With his pillow and a thin blanket, he wanders away. He’s been told to stop sleeping right outside Ông Bầu. He had on a newish navy blue polo shirt, “HAVANA COFFEE.”

These words, then, are what I’ve salvaged from a day I thought wasted. Now, I will head home. Như has fascinating stories I’ve urged her to write down. “Try to be as honest as you can,” I said, but she already knew that. There are so many layers. Don’t just park your fat ass so smugly on the surface.

Image Psychosis Detoxification — Oct 13, 2025.

According to the Harris Poll, 41% of Americans under 44-years-old, or Gen Z/Millennials, would consider hiring witches, astrologers, etc., for major life planning decisions. 63% of Gen Zers and 52% of millennials are also thinking about getting the fuck out. The youngest Americans, then, are the most disenchanted about the American Dream.

If you must stay, it’s past time to research which witch doctors are most reputable in your area. There must be a Djinn Wolf, Rebecca Nurse, Higuayagua Taino, Karen Rose, John Proctor, Martha Carrier or Juliet Diaz within driving distance? Going to the wrong one, just like voting at all, will have you standing on a chair sporting a clumsily knotted noose. Kicking it, the last sound you’ll hear are four or five pennies jangling in your pocket. Since there’s nothing in your small, large or whatever the fuck intestine, nothing will squirt out, so your underwear will be clean, at least.

Wisconsinitos, a white woman in her 40’s, shares, “My husband and I were sitting on the porch this morning, and we were just discussing the culture in the United States, and how there’s always this undercurrent of violence and hostility, and it’s everywhere all the time, and you feel very vulnerable to it.” Is it that bad? You tell me.

Wisconsinitos, “When you go to a movie theater, do you assess who’s in the room, and who might be a threat, and who might be hiding something in their coat, and what you would do if they stood up and started shooting? How are you going to get out of the room?”

I’d say she’s a bit too paranoid, but even without anyone ready to shoot you in seconds, it’s bad enough to feel simmering hostility or insecurity all the time. It’s a natural byproduct of being hyper self-conscious. From infancy, Americans are conditioned to carefully curate their self-image, and to read, immediately, anything that’s off about anyone. Any US eight-year-old can detect, from clear across any room, the wrong dot, stripe, sneakers or haircut. Although its brand has been severely tarnished by Trump, Hegseth, Vance, Biden and Harris, etc., image is still America’s best selling commodity. With even its “rebels” minutely calibrated, it’s the most image psychotic culture ever.

Noticing this yearning to escape among America’s youngest, its future, 30-ish Zach Abroad asks, “Who’s going to be left in the country if all the young people want to go somewhere else?” Trumpers, Bernie Bros, Hillary-bots, AOC freaks, Groypers, Christian nationalists and all the hardcore illegal immigrant criminals ICE cowards are too scared to track down?

They’re a lot harder to gang tackle than septuagenarian grocers or schoolgirls with braces. If you can’t even grab their pussies, Trumpian fashion, what’s the point? Still, with such a promising foundation, why would anyone want to leave?

Zach Abroad, “Where do these people want to go, you might ask? Well, the top five countries that they want to move to are Canada, the UK, Australia, France, and Italy.” I’d say those nations must soon erect barriers for blue passport holders.

Would you want a guy like this? Adam.c, “I move to Sweden I can’t wait I’m disabled and I’m 25 with 4pets and my partner I’m so exited I figured Sweden would b a great fit BC of prices rent and grocies and the country and ppl stick to themswlf witch is what I like [blue heart].” A man so disrespectful of his own language can’t be expected to give a flying fuck about any foreign one, or its culture, so good luck to Sweden, with its affordable “grocies.”

Witches breed witch hunters. With 99.999% of Americans now functionally illiterate, contemporary Cotton Mathers must appear in YouTube videos or TikTok skits. Audio books, too, overtax shriveled heads, and shit like this must be updated, “They which lie, must go to their father, the devil, into everlasting burning […] When they bed and pray in hell fire, God will not forgive them,” and you can’t use words like “impudent,” “scurrilous” or “wicked,” bitch!

Keep it simple. Hairless hoo ha hopheads must have their hoses slowly hacked. Did you know the most popular Netflix movie ever is K-pop Demon Hunters? Yo masters are way ahead.

Who’s the most awesome witch alive? With the answer so obvious, you’ll get no heart shaped or fly imprinted fentanyl cookies! Who’s bewitching millions, if not billions?

Sitting at Ông Bầu, I’ve just been approached by an old head who said he wanted to draw my face. He’s sitting with another trauma survivor who, twenty minutes ago, was strumming on a guitar. To not be rude, I will go talk to them, so will cut this short.

Mrs. Tim’s crab noodle stand this morning

Yesterday, Như let me sniff some leaves that smelled like root beer. Not everything is fake. The Vietnamese name for root beer, xá xị, is exactly what they call the cinnamomum parthenoxylon. Keeping it simple will increase your chance of survival.

Walking to Ông Bầu, I passed Mrs. Tím’s crab noodle soup stand. With a light rain coming down, she had the crudest canopy propped up with three thin branches against the splotchy yellow wall right behind her. White smoke rose from a wooden fire. At home, I still have a small bottle of BeerLao. I should drink it before heading to Kathmandu.

Vung Tau, 10/14/25

Amor Fati or Else! — Oct 14, 2025.

Centuries ago or just yesterday, Mrs. Seven almost went to Japan with her dance troupe. All the girls were warned to not get an abortion in the land of salarymen, too often drunk. Dental care would also be too expensive. With minders always watchful, their chances of getting pregnant with a broken tooth, to boot, was nearly nil. Still, one had to warn these gorgeous and nimble girls on a very rare trip overseas, but it didn’t happen anyway.

Hearing about my trip to Nepal, Mrs. Seven told me this amusing tale. Since men can also get pregnant, as we all know, I should plan for a possible abortion in Kathmandu, though how this can happen without my having sex is a mystery, or conundrum, I’ll address on another day. When is sex not a conundrum, whatever that means?

The exercise music at Morning Star Kindergarten is nearly loud enough to cause brain damage. Stumbling about, trapped toddlers half lift their limbs. Looking lost, they sway. Smiling brightly, their teachers break out moves.

On the way to Coffee Seven, I noticed the homeless Cambodian was still sleeping outside Ông Bầu, his usual spot. His dark feet stuck out, corpse like, from his clean Tweety Bird blanket.

Inside Ông Bầu, there’s a new exhibition of paintings, all terrible. The artist is a man in his 60’s with a pony tail, wire framed glasses and pensive expression. Duly artistic in appearance, he’s devoted his entire life to these pointless canvases. Getting a preview last night, I told Như about Jim Shaw and his thrift store paintings. Those are interesting because they reveal the goofy or even bizarre personalities behind them. The ones at Ông Bầu betray nothing.

Vung Tau, 10/14/25

Not even funny some dog with a flowing scarf on a motorbike or a timid odalisque with hazy Islamic domes in the background.

“These are bad not because of poor technique, but because he sees very poorly. Hands, breasts, water, boat, everything he paints is very poorly observed!”

Ears are rarely painted well, but there are no reasons for breasts to be so ugly! Their shapes aren’t overly complicated. If a man can’t appreciate specific breasts, or their variety, he’s legally blind.

The homeless Cambodian needs his spot outside Ông Bầu to feel anchored. Just now, I checked with satisfaction the score between my Mariners and the damned Blue Jays. That I should care at all is entirely irrational. When the homeplate umpire cheated Logan Gilbert on two clear strikes, as graphed on my screen, I was outraged. Arriving in Kennewick, WA years ago, I was cheered and calmed by the Seahawks pennants on the walls of the first bar I entered. I had recovered a portion of my childhood. For over a century in the USA, team loyalty has mostly replaced a genuine sense of community. It also patches over divisions within each.

Toronto’s defeat of the New York Yankees in this year’s playoffs must have deeply satisfied all Canadians. They’re sick of the endless insults from Trump. The Blue Jays do have a Canadian star, Vladimir Guerrero Jr.. Of Dominican ancestry, he’s born in Montreal.

In Kennewick, I found out about Thai farm laborers imported into the US, for they were even cheaper than Mexicans, and also easier to abuse. MAGA farmers didn’t vote for Trump because they wanted to replace dirt cheap illegal immigrants with Americans. Wake up, man! Even American employers don’t want American workers.

MAGA farmers believed Trump would bring them virtual slaves, in the form of legal immigrants, through the little scrutinized H-2A visas. If mistreated, illegals can just walk away. Legal ones are trapped on farms, to be underpaid, overworked and abused, even sexually. Your Heartland farmers aren’t these Norman Rockwell sweeties, but slave drivers. Promising them slaves, Trump delivers bankruptcies and suicides, so he does have a sense of humor after all.

In Cairo and West Jerusalem, Trump just delivered two rambling, self-centered speeches. The second is wrily described by Al Jazeera as “stream-of-consciousness,” with the diapered fool having the “the time of his life,” since he was showered “with applause, laughs and too many standing ovations to count” from Knesset members. Jews consider genocides orgasmic celebrations.

As for the fake ceasefire that, to my surprise, even Kevin Barrett terms a “crushing victory for the Resistance,” Jews are just taking a much needed breather before resuming their assaults on Palestinians, Lebanese and Iranians. The ethnic cleansing of Gaza will continue. Sending at least 200 American soldiers to Israel, Trump still envisions Trump towers, plus a giant golden statue of himself, in Palestinian-free Gaza. Lounging by a pool next to another aging blob, Trump will sip some mocktail not quite blood red.

☝️[ “… Initially, President Lyndon B. Johnson sent about 33,000 American military personnel to Vietnam, primarily as non-combat advisors to assist the South Vietnamese Army…”]

During five years in power, Trump has waged wars against Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria, Somalia, Yemen, Iran and Venezuela. Plus, he’s threatened Canada, Mexico, Panama and Greenland. Still, Trump expected a Nobel peace prize! Most pathetically, nearly half of Americans shared his delusion. When Trump confused Albania with Armenia, or said Iran borders Qatar, most Americans didn’t flinch either. It is an insular society mired in self-infatuation.

Today, I cleared out my fridge. For breakfast, I ate a tomato, onion, cucumber and egg salad. I finally drank that small BeerLao. Even though too many BeerLaos in Pakse edged me closer to the precipice, I remember with fondness my several months there. The café across my Pakse hotel was called Amor Fati, or Love Your Fate.

Before Laos became a fabled drug destination, it was Nepal. Within walking distance of Hotel Pristine, where I’ll be staying, is Freak Street. Two of my closest high school friends, Phil Brenner and Brian Robertson, were freaks. Brian, though, became a hardcore Republican, and even served under Trump.

Married to an anti LGBTQ crusader, MAGA Mike Johnson has just been exposed as a Tinder cruiser who loves to be butt plugged! Almost nothing is as it seems.

With still hours left before I must board that van for Saigon’s airport, I might just go for another BeerLao. The Mariners up 2 games to 0 will be my excuse. Another reason is the demise of Sammy Davis Clemens. That outstanding author didn’t even last two weeks! Canceling me again, gazillionaire Jeff Bezos also stiffed me of 50 measly bucks. Making no rules, we can only watch, so watch it well, you hear?

Kathmandu, 10/15/25

Back Home in Kathmandu — Oct 16, 2025.

Around midnight, I woke up knowing I was in Kathmandu. Still, it was surprising to open my eyes to see a completely strange room, and it was cold, too. I hadn’t had to use my blanket in a long time. Going back to sleep, I woke up around 3AM, my usual time, so was out on the street shortly after. Of course, I had no map and no phone, but if you keep walking in circles, you’ll end up inside your childhood home in no time. With the earth so small and your life so short, it’s impossible to get lost.

Coming from the airport yesterday, I had two phrases, “Chhetrpati Chowk” and “Hotel Pristine.” I hadn’t even learnt downtown Kathmandu is called Hamel. Though my taxi driver spoke minimal English, he got me where I needed. With clipped sentences, we still had a meaningful conversation.

“How long have you been driving, taxi?”

“Twenty-eight years.”

“Do you live inside city?”

“Yes.”

“Where is your village?”

“Three hours.”

“Three hours away! Very far!”

Twice a year during festivals, he goes home to see his parents. His wife and kids are here. He won’t celebrate the next festival, however, because a relative died less than a year ago. A Hindu, he must mourn for a year, he said.

Of course, he assumed I was Chinese. There are many here. “Vietnam,” I told him. Then, “Have you been outside?”

“No, I am poor man.”

“Not even to India,” so close.

“Only border, not inside,” so technically, he’s been outside.

Though his brother runs organized tours, he, too, is poor. Everyone and his grandma run trekking tours here.

My room is on the 5^th floor, so trekking up and down several times a day is equivalent to climbing Mount Everest, I’m sure. Let’s not overdramatize every little gesture, OK? Sherpa guides my ass. I must contact the Guinness Book of World Records to tell those losers about my superhuman feat.

Getting out of the taxi, I was exhausted, but also exhilarated. Despite all the burger or fried chicken joints I had seen on the ride, plus English language schools, I was in a new universe. Before this, I had spent just a month in South Asia, in Bengaluru and Chennai. Nepalese, though, are more varied in appearances than southern Indians. There are folks who look almost like me.

Without wandering cows to piss and shit all over, Nepal is certainly cleaner than its southern neighbor, and much less congested, too. Sadly, perhaps, pot is now legal only one day a year. Though I myself have never inhaled, snorted or dropped anything too unusual, people should be free to unwind with natural enough assistance.

Failing to find an atmospheric café to get my bearings, I settled for GHR Pizzeria and Coffee House. Despite its indifferent name and sterile appearance, it introduced me to an excellent ruby lager, Gorkha, and a fantastic plate of buffalo meat momos. My grand prize, though, was the presence of a radiant waitress whose constant smiles made me so happy, I couldn’t help but tell her, though this made this angel so self conscious, she stopped smiling so much. Worse, she retreated to the next room for a while.

Guangzhou, 10/15/25

On the layover in Guangzhou, there was a psycho security lady who barked one word commands to all passengers. Her English was so bad, it wouldn’t have helped much had she spoken more slowly and calmly. There was no reason for her not to smile, though. “Very strange, that lady,” I said to a South Asian man. “Mentally ill!”

Since he only smiled back, he may not have understood. He may have been Nepalese. Already, I can tell English is not as widespread here as in India, but this country was never colonized by the Brits.

So in the dark this morning, I wandered into the unknown, past small temples, wooden balconies, ancient wells and even graves. Pedaled by a skeletal man in the dark, a bicycle rickshaw rolled past. Another, just as bony, used a broom with too short a handle to sweep the street. Having done this for decades, he’s folded nearly in half, so that must be his preferred posture. Since this was still Asia, I had no fear of being mugged. Seeing a small group huddled at a tiny store, I headed over to ask for chai.

“Cha?” the old lady answered. In her sari, she was sitting with folded legs behind a portable gas stove, on which rested an aluminum pot and a huge tin kettle, with its spout like an elephant trunk, so charming. There were only three other customers. With my hot glass, I was at home. Soon, a Korean looking man showed up, but he was no tourist. Speaking fluently to the lady, he settled snugly into his usual spot.

The tiny store had instant noodles, eggs, candies, cookies, salt, MSG and Lay’s potato chips, so rush here when the bombs go off before everything runs out. You can never have too much of Smoky Popping Candies or Monaco Biscuits, especially in pizza flavor. Suddenly, there was a tallish Oriental who called to two dogs in the middle of the street. Surprisingly, they came. After petting them, I headed to our, notice how naturally I say that, neighborhood café to sit right next to me. Together, we represented Chinese imperialists, perhaps, ready to overwhelm Nepal. Though its Maoist government has just been deposed, we, notice how naturally I say that, have backup plans.

Paying 60 rupees or 43 cents for my two glasses, I headed off again, so am now sitting at KTM Burgers, with my fourth cup of cappuccino. On the way, I passed all these Chinese restaurants and hotels catered to Chinese. I also noticed a Japanese restaurant and a South Korean flag outside a nightclub. With so many Oriental men here, there must be prostitutes, of course. I spotted a thick thighed one in a skirt not quite mini.

Entering KTM, I saw an old black dog lying near an uneaten momo, so he’s not starving. At a nearby table, a young man listened to rap. Typing this, I was interrupted by a beggar who squatted at my feet. In exchange for a photo, I gave him 70 rupees or 50 cents, which made him very happy. Smiling, nearly laughing, he waved those bills at the waiters as he walked out. Had I given him too much, it would have pissed off the waiters, for they must work hard for their daily momos and kati rolls. Although he had a scab on his grimy knee, the beggar’s teeth were better than mine ever were.

Kathmandu (L): 10/15/25 ; (R): 10/16/25

Wanting nothing, the half dead dog approached to see how I was doing. His phlemy eyes clearly said, “I’ve seen it all, too, motherfucker.”

A white bearded man with weary eyes and an earring stirred his coffee with a hand too soft to have ever been familiar with a hammer, screwdriver or rifle. He would head home to write more poems no one will ever read, I’m sure. Just burn those batches, bitch. Don’t even try to publish them on Amazon or Kobo.

I finish this at The Nook. Walking between cafés allowed thoughts to surface. Yesterday’s Gorkha was so good, I actually thought, too many BeerLaos nearly killed me in Pakse, so maybe I’ll die in Kathmandu, more than happy, clutching a bottle of Gorkha.

All the recent unrest in South and Southeast Asia made me think Uncle Sam must be up to his tricks again. This isn’t to downplay local dissatisfactions or outrages. “All political parties here are bad,” someone has already told me.

At 7:38AM, I will wrap this up. Though paying just $9.40 a night, I get free breakfast, so will head back to Hotel Pristine, if I can find it before the Second Coming. My Rapture Sit Rep has also been rejected by Kobo, by the way, so my disappearance continues. Chattering in the background, the waiters and baristas sound cheerful, but laughter is actually much more common outside the angry USA, believe it or not. They’re chuckling now.

Smiling, I will reenter a familiar enough street whose name I don’t even know.

About Linh Dinh (@linhdinh):

‘Before being canceled, I was an anthologized poet and fairly prolific author, with my last book Postcards from the End of America. Now, I write about our increasingly sick world for a tiny audience on SubStack. Drifting overly much, I’m in Cambodia.

Born in Saigon, Vietnam in 1963, I lived mostly in the US from 1975 until 2018, but have returned to Vietnam. I’ve also lived in Italy, England and Germany. I’m the author of a non-fiction book, Postcards from the End of America (2017), a novel, Love Like Hate (2010), two books of stories, Fake House (2000) and Blood and Soap (2004), and six collections of poems, with a Collected Poems cancelled by Chax Press from external pressure. I’ve been anthologized in Best American Poetry 2000, 2004, 2007, Great American Prose Poems from Poe to the Present, Postmodern American Poetry: a Norton Anthology (vol. 2) and Flash Fiction International: Very Short Stories From Around the World, etc. I’m also editor of Night, Again: Contemporary Fiction from Vietnam (1996) and The Deluge: New Vietnamese Poetry (2013). My writing has been translated into Japanese, Italian, Spanish, French, Dutch, German, Portuguese, Korean, Arabic, Icelandic, Serbian and Finnish, and I’ve been invited to read in Tokyo, London, Cambridge, Brighton, Paris, Berlin, Leipzig, Halle, Reykjavik, Toronto, Singapore and all over the US. I’ve also published widely in Vietnamese.’

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