A Vietnamese writer. I retell Vietnamese Mythology for the global audience, or at least I am trying to. I also write down random thoughts I manage to catch during a run. I am a postmodernist, and my favourite author is Neil Gaiman.
**The following flashfiction was originally posted on my Substack. Consider giving me a subscribe if you enjoy it. Stop squealing you fucking pig! - I shouted out of habit, too late to realize the sound was from an actual pig rather than… Wait, where am I? Who am I? Why am I blind folded?
Jean Baudrillard and wars that did not take place.
In light of recent events (namely the invasion of Ukraine by Russia and the Hamas-Israel conflict), the title demands a preface. In no way, shape, or form that Jean Baudrillard (and myself) is assuming that lives were not lost during the war, or that the war did not happen. Rather, consider this a thought experiment posed by Baudrillard that I am taking you, the readers, on. The philosopher’s idea revolves around the fact that the Gulf War has more of a presence in media than in “real life.” I, on the other hand, will merely point out the similarities between Hamas-Israel conflict, and the Gulf War. I am not an expert on Baudrillard or the dynamics of Middle Eastern countries, but I do like to think and apply/introduce Baudrillard’s ideas whenever possible.
Turns out, I have a lot in common with Frederich Nietzsche
The title is quite misleading: the “things in common” I have with German philosopher Frederich Nietzsche is hardly because I am familiar with him or his views. My knowledge of Nietzsche was limited to his majestic moustache that appeared on most textbooks. The proper title should be “Turns out, I have a lot in common with Irvin D. Yalom’s view of Frederich Nietzsche,” but that wouldn’t catch anyone’s attention.
The road behind me fell away, as the old taxi coughed and wheezed on its journey back to my palace. The wheels crashed against the asphalt; every sporadic jump mimicked my heartbeat. It stopped at the junction. My driver, a burly man with a thick northern Vietnamese accent, lit a cigarette, took a puff, then snuffed it out, taking care not to let any smoke inside. It was very considerate of him, and I was glad. My motion sickness is bad as it is without the smell of tobacco. But as the light turned green and we were moving again, my stomach could no longer withstand its suffering, and I started expunging my breakfast into a bag. The smell of half-digested eggs stung my nostril, threatening another bout of bowel clearance, and I cursed whoever invented cars. I could feel my temples throbbing, and for a moment, I channeled my inner Hamlet and pondered whether it was worth it to continue. Yet, if Odysseus could brave through countless dangers in his 10-year journey back home, I too shall endure this plight.