"Midnight Cold Pierces the Heart"

[Vung Tau, 10/22/24]

There are people so insane and imbalanced, their day begins at midnight! If something happens at, say, 12:01AM, it’s already the next day! Their new year also doesn’t start in the spring, like everybody else, but the middle of winter, not even two weeks after the darkest day of the year!

7:09AM and I already had three or four heart attacks plus a stroke. There’s no way I’m going to make it to 7:10AM, but I just did, so there’s a merciful God! Hallelujah! Like you, I have no idea what it means. It’s a white people thang! They do all kinds of weird shit.

This article’s title is from a 1961 song by Trúc Phương. Though nowhere as good a poet as Phạm Duy, Trịnh Công Sơn or even Ngô Thụy Miên, he’s immortal enough, meaning he’ll last until 12:01AM or so, when we’re not even fossils but dust.

This song I heard at the café on General Uprising just after 4AM. I translate most literally its first line, “Sadness into soul nameless.” Buồn vào hồn không tên. What he means is a nameless sadness has entered his soul. Even in Vietnamese, this immortal line is clunky.

A romantic, Trúc Phương’s favorite words are night, evening, sadness and love. In 1976, he tried to escape Vietnam by boat, like so many others. Caught, Trúc Phương didn’t just lose lots of money, but his Saigon house. Besides the gold paid to boat owners, boat people also carried gold, which made them natural targets for Thai pirates. Lunging into the unknown, what choice did they have? Robbed, many were also murdered at sea. After two more failed escapes, Trúc Phương was jailed, so lost his wife and children. After drifting through the provinces, he landed a job in Saigon, so wasn’t so desperate during his last decade. Six months before death, Trúc Phương composed his last song, “Thank you, life.” Xin cám ơn đời.

Having heard “Midnight on the Street” so many times, a regular shouted, “How come they don’t compose new songs overseas?”

With “Yellow Music” criminalized until the mid 90’s, love ballads could only be recorded in California, mostly. A few songs are still banned. This outlawing of sentimental ballads started in Mao’s China. Straitjacketing of the arts is a progressive tradition. In California, they’ve been singing about pre-1975 Saigon and the Mekong Delta. The homesick ARVN soldier is often mentioned. Those with fond memories of that era are mostly dead.

Looking up I saw, again, that seller of lottery tickets in her Chinese outfit. She smiles rarely and never laughs. After making just 12 cents, she rode into the dark.

There’s a new couple. Sitting next to Tank Top’s son, the man grabbed the boy’s tablet to show him how to play. Everyone thought this was hilarious. To much laughter, somebody shouted, “That’s your guru, kid!”

The café owner chuckled, “Ask for his address so you can come by his house to learn some more!”

The boy would have rather just played, obviously. Finally, the man returned his tablet, “I took three lives just now! Can you kill three?”

By 5:30AM, schoolkids could be seen up and down General Uprising, having breakfast. A dubious hot dog or puny savory pastry cost just 26 cents. Some kids pigged out on hefty bowls of beef noodles. Each cost $1.18. A plate of bánh cuốn was a buck. Shunning Viet dishes, many chose “Italian noodles,” goofy sushi or a sad hamburger. It’s festive outside every Vietnamese school each dawn.

I’ve mentioned a thin and dark seller of lottery tickets who smokes beautifully and laughs often. When she remarked on a song today, a regular sneered, “You as a Cambodian also know how to listen to music?!”

Wearing an expensive watch and gold chain, he’s a fat man with a loud voice who enjoys, more than anybody, his own witless wit.

Since a hard rain lasting an hour drown out Tank Top, I’ll quote him from a few days ago, “Fuck her mother, even if you have a wife, you can’t always get her to squeeze your prick! On the street, it wouldn’t even cost five bucks, but if you ask your wife, ‘Squeeze my prick,’ she might snap, “Stop bugging me! Leave me alone!’” Even when it costs somebody nothing, love or just pity is withheld.

It’s always something. An object that means everything to you is suddenly gone. Listening to songs lands you in prison. In front of everybody you’re suddenly insulted, but without recourse, you must laugh it off. Overnight, your hometown has a new name, makeup and rules. Suddenly homeless, you drift into the unknown to endure the unspeakable no one wants to hear about anyway.

Can you hold this for just a few seconds? Thank you, life! A midnight cold pierces the heart.

[Vung Tau, 10/21/24]

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