Room 666

As published at SubStack, 10/22/23:

[Kracheh, Cambodia on 10/22/23]

Tired of Heng Heng’s erratic wifi, I’ve moved to Heang Kanha. For $12.50 a night, I get a room with AC but no TV, which I never watch anyway. I’m also a block away from the Mekong, so no predawn exercise while staring at that liquid dragon as it, too, steels itself for another day. Our world is ending.

With an unlocked door on the ground floor, I can get out even when it’s still dark, however. Booked into room 666, I’m much worse than any vampire or hater of all sensate beings. I’m the devil!

Come into my room, lock that door behind you and make yourself perfectly comfortable. Of course, you can sit on my bed!

For a while, I’ve been meaning to talk about interior spaces, so I’ll just do it. There’s no time to wait for the perfect moment, to do anything.

In a debased culture, art is ignored, so serious painting, sculpture, poetry, fiction, dramas and films are effectively dead in the USA, with their few persevering practitioners buried deep underground, while on the surface, Bernie Sanders interviews Cardi B.

In the US, there are almost no worthwhile contemporary paintings displayed outside a square mile of Lower Manhattan. America’s most enduring canvas, however, might just be something produced 81 years ago! I’m talking about Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks, of course. He painted that when America was at war, but that’s pretty much her default condition. Feisty bitch just loves to fight! Win or lose, war profiteers must suckle her dry.

Four people are shown inside a diner. Though a man and woman are together, everyone appears isolated, with the streets outside empty. The loneliest is the viewer, for he’s seeing this at a distance, likely across the street. A frigid and self-pitying voyeur, he wishes to be merely as lonely as those inside.

A store in the background has no sign and displays nothing. Like you, it has been abandoned. Inside dark windows, there may be sleepers or corpses, not that it matters much. Neighbors have their own loneliness to nurse.

Having won WWII, America entered its golden age, we’re told, so consider Hitchcock’s Rear Window of 1954. Since Hollywood can sweeten or sex up even murder or war, the voyeurism in this flick’s opening scene is tantalizingly delicious. Immediately, we’re treated to three sexy babes, with two sunbathing naked on a roof. Buttering a toast, opening a fridge or pouring coffee, one buxom blonde cavorts erotically. Even in a go-go bar, you’ll be hard pressed to find such masterful bending over. From John Michael Hayes’ screenplay:

Just inside the windowsill, a small fan is oscillating. The fan sits on the right side of the table, and to the left of it is an automatic toaster. Behind the toaster stands a full-bodied young woman, apparently wearing only a pair of black panties. Her stomach, navel, and the lower part of her chest are naked. Just below her breasts, the curtain, partly drawn, has thrown a deep shadow which extends upward, hiding her breasts, shoulders and head. Two pieces of toast pop up in the toaster […] The fan moves back and forth as she pours coffee, far enough to reveal that she wears no bra, but not far enough to fulfill the exciting promise of her lack of clothes.

With such exciting promises, toasts aren’t all that pop up. Hinting at this, Hitchcock has his protagonist, Jeff, stick a Chinese back scratcher into his pants and down his leg cast. Up and down, Jeff jerks.

As with Nighthawks, life in Rear Window is what’s surreptitiously glimpsed from afar, niggardly apportioned. Only with the best luck will you get the full picture. In reality, what you’ll see, most often, is the last thing you want. In Philly, all I saw out my window was some half-naked freak pretending to be Tarzan. Looking up at darkened windows, he feared and begged to be seen. Excitement over, he went home and jerked, I’m sure.

As first victims, Americans have taught the world to search for life through fake windows. Why live when you can watch TV? Eschewing everything tactile and fragrant, billions dwell inside Microsoft Windows.

When the internet was still young, Jennifer Ringley half sated this widespread hunger by never switching off her video camera. Night and day, lonely souls worldwide could stare into her room, even when it was empty. Most often, they saw her performing the most banal tasks, or just looking bored. The sight of her sleeping warmed their hearts. An extremely rare highlight that’s still talked about was of her masturbating while reading a book. Seen by millions, she held up a handscrawled note, “I FEEL SO LONELY.”

In Mike Judge’s Idiocracy, there’s Frito Pendejo, “an average citizen of the future United States.” Pendejo means “stupid,” of course. In his most memorable scene, Frito sits in the dark to watch The Masturbation Network. With authority, a deep voice announces, “Keeping America batin’ for 300 years!” That’s the entire span of this self-absorbed nation. At the sight of female feet cutting a steak with fork and knife, Frito utters without emotion, “Oh yeah, give me some. Cut me a piece.”

Numb idiocy is not the only result of deep alienation, however. There’s also unchecked rage lapsing, often, into Satanic sadism, individually and collectively. Already, we’re seeing it manifest. Since that appears to be America’s destiny, Idiocracy is actually a hopeful film!

Two orange robed monks have just entered Phum Cafe. Though they’re not supposed to eat after noon, iced coffee or green tea latte is allowed, I now learn. Carrying their drinks, they happily exit. Done, I’ll do the same.

I won’t rush back to room 666, but wander across Kracheh, for much of life in the tropics happens in public, especially among people not entirely transfixed by screens. Here, they can still bask in each other’s face. No one has to sit in the dark alone.

If feeling extravagant, I can stroll to Jasmine Boat. Facing the Mekong, I can watch lonely sampans slowly cross it. Like fish scales, the river will shimmer in the setting sun. Without diverting sounds, sadness can well up, but so will a degree of peace. That’s enough.

On this increasingly lonely planet, there are still oases of raw, unmediated vitality. We must hope it will spread.

[Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks, 1942]

[opening scene of Alfred Hitchcock’s Rear Window, 1954]

[seen from my Philadelphia window, 6/4/13]

[from Jennifer Ringley’s Jennicam, 1997]

[from Mike Judge’s Idiocracy, 2006]