How Not To Live

Yesterday, I got my visa for Cambodia, so will leave in days. I need to see what’s happening over there. In July, I predicted Chinese troops would move in after Cambodia got slapped around by Thailand. Though they haven’t, the new prime minister of Thailand, Anutin Charnvirakul, is an ethnic Chinese, and he’s acting without any check from parliament, which he dissolved. There’s much more to be said about this, but I’ll wait until I get to Phnom Penh. Despite the grim situation, it’d be soothing, even joyful, to walk around its Central Market, and into all those alleys I love so much. They’ll recognize me. I’ll talk to some people, but only in Vietnamese or English, unfortunately. I’m also thinking about heading west to Battambang.

Yesterday, I babbled about the sad, exhausted state of American painting. Today, I noticed several student landscapes at Ông Bầu, my morning café. Two teen girls are being taught by Mr. Minh. With his pony tail and guitar playing, he’s artistic in appearance. I’ve stopped trying to talk to him about Vietnamese painters and writers. By teaching these girls to draw and mix colors, he’s providing a profound service. Every neighborhood could use a Mr. Minh. Instead of having them evoke rural scenes they have rarely witnessed, if ever, he should have them depict their congested, urban landscapes. Look, children, look! Kids worldwide are going blind staring at tiny screens.