Arrival, Phnom Penh; sketches
of a sprawling relocation,
and when production needs it most.
what happened to the inspiration?
This guy was a continuation of Max Headroom.
I pinched myself, yep, The Heart of Darkness, the place where people only came to drink.
Yeah, right. It was Hooker Cental and don't let anyone else tell you otherwise, pal.
Images raced across my retina.
The Royal Barge sinking. De Gaulle looking down his nose. Sihanouk, looking up at the towering French statesman, embarrassed.
This was Cambodia, where nothing went right.
The Genocide was a mistake.
No one could remember why it happened.
Paris had been playing mind games.
Pate and French bread, overrated.
It had confused the intellectuals.
Instead of reading more books, they exterminated doctors, chemists, teachers, engineers.
'The Americans are coming, the Americans are coming.'
No one questioned that they weren't coming and the city was evacuated.
Ground Zero.
And the hyenas laughed.
The long night.
Five years later.
Collective amnesia.
Would anyone dare to think after what they had been through?
I think not.
