Hoarders of Impressions
[Vung Tau, 8/10/24]
You must have returned often to this droll yet tragic passage in Brothers Karamazov, “There is a remarkable picture called ‘Contemplation.’ It shows a forest in winter and on a roadway through the forest, in absolute solitude, stands a peasant in a torn kaftan and bark shoes. he stands, as it were, lost in thought. Yet he is not thinking: he is ‘contemplating.’ If anyone touched him he would start and look bewildered. It’s true he would come to himself immediately; but if he were asked what he had been thinking about, he would remember nothing. Yet probably he has hidden within himself, the impression which dominated him during that period of contemplation. Those impressions are dear to him and he probably hoards them imperceptibly, and even unconsciously. How and why, of course, he does not know. He may suddenly, after hoarding impressions for many years, abandon everything and go off to Jerusalem on a pilgrimage. Or he may suddenly set fire to his native village. Or he may do both.”
That’s you, and me, too, of course. Those who don’t read or think aren’t that contemplating peasant, standing in the cold barely wrapped up. They’re watching American swimmers bitching about Chinese winners. Some sink into solitary games.
Kramskoy’s 1876 painting is most remarkable for triggering Dostoievsky’s fancy. The artist must have cracked up to read, in The Russian Messenger, about this hoarding of impressions, going to Jerusalem and burning down one’s native village.
Since you can’t think without observing, all thinkers are hoarders of impressions. Some paint or write novels. Going to Jerusalem is that yearning to be nearer the sacred, transcendent or merely sane. Burning down all you’ve known isn’t just war or murder, but a divorce or moving away. Not even that far, really. Just a few streets is sufficient.
We’re increasingly adept at canceling everything. Since memories and emotions barely register, we don’t need to forget even.
You can’t gather impressions if there’s no place to gather. Tom Herzog, “Last night I drank a cockroach swimming around in my vodka and grape juice cocktail. It’s hard to see them swimming around in the glass when one is sitting in a darkened room drinking a dark drink on a dark night, with only the light of the laptop computer screen staring one in one’s hate distorted countenance.”
Since cockroaches always scurry at the sight of humans, I seriously doubt an alcoholic one shared Tom’s drink, but the image is effective, memorable and symbolic enough of American loneliness. How many sit in the dark, boozing alone, until they fall asleep? I know of a Viet immigrant in St Louis who’d think nothing of waking up with his pants wet at the kitchen table. A few cans of Buds have fallen to the never mopped floor. It’s almost time to get dressed for another day at the ghetto nail salon. Maybe he’ll be put out of his misery today? Goodbye, Mekong Delta! They must also have rice noodles with snakehead fish in hell? At least he’s learnt the name, weight, height and uniform number of every Cardinal, going back to 1917. Current team even has a guy who’s a quarter Vietnamese.
Stop bitching, Tom, you’re getting your protein, cereal, fruit and porn without effort. Uncle Sam always takes care of his children. When they’re flown home as hash with half a boot from Eye Rack and such, they can count on their Commander in Chief to salute their passing tin box while lamenting the abolition of Epstein Island, but it’s not all lost. They have similar shindigs on the mainland. Aging poles must be rejuvenated. Having a Jew crawling under your desk is just minor action. Bill was a regrettable goofball. Hillary will climb on a roof to shoot at Kamala. Rage steadies her aim. Them teeth will fly half a mile. As blubbery Secret Service Amazons fumble with their holsters, Hillary will blast them too. Not sure if it’s morning or night, Joe checks his watch.
Pity those who have never stood inside Siena or Lucca’s piazza. Venice’s San Marco is too grand. Gathering places shouldn’t intimidate or even awe. Jane Jacobs just nodded. In Vietnam, Vinh as a staging point for the Ho Chi Minh trail was flattened by American bombs, so now has the nation’s largest square, with the tallest Ho Chi Minh statue. It’s terrible for gazing or daydreaming. More humane is, say, Norwich Market. Square enough, it’s lorded over by an 11th century Norman castle and kissed by the 15th century Guildhall. Reflecting the time, its stalls are mostly manned by immigrants, so we have Falafel and Friends, Churros for the People, A Taste of Punjab, Taste of Shanghai and the Chilean Cocina Mia, etc. The legendary Mushy Pea Stall is kaputt, so no more steak and Guinness, Norfolk pasty, bacon roll or, for next to nothing, just a bowl of mushy peas. Queers weren’t the only ones to squirt mint or lemon into their green mush.
Here in Vung Tau, I often go to Triangle Park to be among old men playing elephant chess, women dancing to lousy, cheerful music, people swatting badminton rackets and kids being angelic. Of course, too many folks just sit alone to stare at cellphones. The sanest scenes are of parents with their laughing and shrieking children. Held by his mom, a baby just a few months old strain to rock a crude, cartoony horse. Across the street, an old man pisses against a Colonial wall. Just be glad it’s not a drone or missile strike ruining your idyl. Communists tore down many gorgeous French villas, plus the historical post office, one of the grandest buildings in town. You can’t be progressive without destroying. In adjacent Bà Rịa, a 130-year-old Catholic church has just been demolished. Priest, you sinned!
Writing this at Cóc Cóc near 10PM, I’m surrounded by six young men, all playing video games. This madness can’t continue.
This street, Ba Cu, has many pretentious stores with English names, Amazing, Ân Baby, Blue Exchange, Jellycat, People of Now, King Hotel and Davi Bakery, etc. I prefer a clothing shop comically called Lọ Lem, meaning Sooty. The fancy ones used to have on sale signs in English, but lately, Vietnamese has crept back in. They’re begging peasants formerly shunned to buy their overpriced stuff. It’s too late for that.
Before your native land is scorched and razed, there’s still time to hoard impressions, so go loiter somewhere. Pity those who have nothing but shopping malls, strip malls and convenience store parking lots. You’ve been robbed of life.
[Vung Tau, 8/10/24]
[Vung Tau, 8/9/24]
[Vung Tau, 8/10/24]
[Vung Tau, 8/11/24]
"Since cockroaches always scurry at the sight of humans, I seriously doubt an alcoholic one shared Tom’s drink". Not all of them scurry off - sometimes they scurry towards...
My first job was in a small office just behind a fast food restaurant. 'Pigeon roaches', as we knew them, lived in great numbers in the crevices. They were light grey and bigger than the standard dark brown with gold trim-coloured cockroach found in the tropics. Those themselves are three times the size of the small roaches I've seen in temperate climate in the northern hemisphere which might've taken a swim in Tom's drink.
Once, when my employer slammed a high level window closed, several of those pigeon roaches were dislodged from their perch and fell onto him, scuttling into his safari suit. I've never seen a man strip to his underwear so quickly whilst emitting shrill shrieks. One of my favourite memories.
Another was from ten years earlier when I had a friend who was partial to condensed milk. He'd open a tin and drink from it then put it in his bedroom cupboard for finishing off later. He once left it a few days and, when taking his first swig of the remainder, he felt sugary lumps where the condensed milk had congealed. He bit into the third lump to savour it and found it was the condensed milk-marinated body of a large cockroach that had gone for a midnight swim with its brothers (the earlier lumps).
Pete sold the remainder of the tin to his younger brother.
"Pity those who have nothing but shopping malls, strip malls and convenience store parking lots. You’ve been robbed of life."
True. They are soulless but, sad to say, an improvement over people staring non stop at their cell phones and never being in the moment and never noticing anything around them.
Recently I noticed, speaking of noticing, an old art deco looking door jam. Depressing to think about how at one time people valued aesthetics and took pride in the little details in addition to the grand designs.
Now architecture and design are purely functional. The outside of most buildings could be designed by a 6 year old. At least the 6 year old would add some fun colors and maybe a horse.