The theme for MaLa Volume 2 Issue 2 has been decided! The theme for MaLa will be “transplant”.
After much discussion transplant was chosen by the Bookworm Chengdu Writing Group because it has the potential to mean:
medical transplants
plastic surgery
a person who has relocated
related to planting
…
And the list carries on. The number of ideas generated from this one word are too many to list in a short blog post. But, whatever the context it is placed in, the idea of transplanting something indicates a change. Will this change be for better, or for worse? We will have to see what the writers, photographers and artists decide.
Please submit your work from, about, or related to China that fits the theme “transplant”.
Submissions are due by midnight, June 30th, 2011. MaLa Volume 2 Issue 2 will be published in September 2011.
She’s singing with the boys. Buddy Holly Glasses taps a soft beat with his spatulas while pounding a lonely heartbeat on his kick-drum. Soft, soft, tremble on the snare. Baldy has his eyes closed, but he’s looking for something; searching for the next key, waiting for her cue. He keeps a moody melody. Blue Cardigan stands in the corner out of sight licking his lips; running his fingers through the moves, silently practicing the groove. She sits on a stool, with a heel propped on a rung, hunched over like a wilted flower. She’s got a lot to say, but only needs a few words to say it. The drums and keys keep the beat.
When Blue Cardigan is ready he starts low and softly makes his way up. The saxophone does the talking for him, and she feeds off the blue notes. ‘Darlin’ she says, and it’s as if Ella Fitzgerald is standing in the room, but I’m pretty sure I’m looking at a twenty-two-year-old Sichuanese girl. ‘Is she with you now?’ she asks, but seems to know the answer already, with a whisper of hope in her defeated voice. ‘Does she hold you true, like I used to; like you used to,’ she stands up from the stool and saunters over to Yankees Hat, hands resting on his bass, sitting this one out. He receives her grief, but looks indifferent, unable to answer her questions. The others focus on their instruments; fueling her fire; aiding every desire.
‘All the promise gone, traded for lies you see in her eyes!’ she howls. Blue C’s sax and Baldy’s keyboard soar with her voice. Holly’s heart skips a beat and he snatches at his cymbals. A silent pause in the room. All motion waits for her cue.
‘Darlin’ she picks up the tune again and the boys chime in. ‘you’re not my Darlin anymore,’ she finishes and the band leads her home playing the notes of heartbreak and shattered hope. I sit at the edge of the bar with a full beer mug. Entranced by her grief, I couldn’t take one sip. I’ve never pretended to be a jazz man, at most I’m a novice, but tonight I was diggin’ it. I wave at the bar tender, ‘who is she?’ I ask.
‘Mei Mei,’ he says. I sit puzzled.
‘Little sister?’ I say. He nods his head and laughs. ‘She’s got a fantastic voice. What’s her drink?’ The bartender holds up a Tanqueray bottle. ‘I want to buy her an whiskey “Impressed Gin”.’ I say looking over the drink menu.
He gets a glass from under the bar and fills it with ice. ‘Make it a double’ I say. He pours the gin over the ice and breaks open a can of seltzer. A lime wedge is the coup de grace.
‘Fifty kuai,’ he says.
‘Outrageous!’ I say, but I still hand him a green Mao. I grab the drink and turn around to walk it over to Mei Mei. When I spin around she’s right in front of me. I freeze for a second and she looks annoyed that I’m in her way. I hold out the drink. ‘I love your voice,’ I say like a tool. She snatches the drink from my hand.
‘Thanks guy,’ she says and follows the rest of her band up the stairs.
‘That was fifty kuai well spent you jerk,’ I think to myself. I watch as she climbs the stairs then looks back about half way.
‘You coming, or what guy?’ She says with a standard Chinese accent. How she managed to sing like a soulful black beauty is beyond me.
‘Right behind you, sis,’ I say. She shoots me sly grin. I rush over to the stairs and leave my untouched beer behind.
The writing group is starting the year of the rabbit off strong – up in numbers and in energy. And to honor this, we’re tackling a new form in this week’s prompt, the haibun.
For more information on what exactly a haibun is go here.
Jennifer Mills in Beijing
She is the author of the novels Gone (UQP, 2011) and The Diamond Anchor (UQP, 2009) and a chapbook of poems, Treading Earth (Press Press, 2009). She was the winner of the 2008 Marian Eldridge Award for Young Emerging Women Writers, the Pacific Region of the 2008-9 Commonwealth Short Story Competition, and the 2008 Northern Territory Literary Awards: Best Short Story. Her work has appeared in Meanjin, Hecate, Overland, Heat, the Griffith Review, Best Australian Stories, and New Australian Stories, and she is a regular contributor to New Matilda and Overland.
We asked her to share her thoughts on China and writing.
On what brought her to China…
I was writer in residence at the Bookworm in Beijing for two months, with brief visits to Chengdu, Suzhou and Shanghai. My residency was organised through Asialink and funded by the Australia Council for the Arts and the Australia-China Council.
What she found while she was here…
Chengdu impressed me. I was very much looking forward to the food and the pandas, both of which were fabulous, but I was also pleasantly surprised to find an interesting community of writers, thinkers and artists. Chengdu has such a long cultural history, and there are hints of a radicalism and diversity which is missing from mainstream perceptions of China. This seems to be having an effect on the quality of work produced there in English too, if the first issue of ma la is anything to go by. I was also very impressed by the little umbrella clamps on everyone’s bicycles, which I haven’t been able to find anywhere else.
I spent most of my time in Beijing and found the city such an interesting place to be that all I could wish for is to return there. The insane level of development is impressive, the arts are blossoming, there are inspiring points of resistance, but for all its energy the city itself is surprisingly tranquil. I worked on several short stories while I was there and a short collection of poems which I want to make into an online project early next year, when I get the time to sit down and arrange them. The short stories will add to a collection I am planning. Hopefully some of them will also turn up in anthologies here and there over the next twelve months.
The residency was very deeply exploratory for me. Rather than researching anything specific, I was there to learn and found that I spent much of my time simply paying attention: reading, watching, listening, having conversations. Learning a bit of Mandarin. This meant I was able to allow ideas to form quite organically, and I’m really grateful that the residency allowed for such an opening-up. I was quite exhausted after writing my second novel Gone, and needed some time to be stimulated with fresh ideas and experiences. China was perfect. Inspiration is never a problem for me – there are stories everywhere, and I am always travelling too much, so never bored. I wish I had more time at home to do the work.
On her newest book and why it was easy to write a male character…
Part of that exhaustion I mentioned was due to the fact that Gone was a much darker book than my first (I am not at all nervous about its reception; as far as I know I have very few fans to disappoint!). The protagonist of Gone, Frank, is a very deeply messed up character. Writing from the perspective of someone with a “mental illness” – however literary or metaphorical that diagnosis turns out to be – was challenging. We have pretty different ideas about reality, him and me. I had to work hard to figure out how he would see the world and the kind of language I could use to describe it. He spent a lot of time in prison and I was also worried about speaking authoritatively about that experience. Because I have worked closely with ex-prisoners in the past, I am aware of how very different their world is from mine. I was exploring ideas around history, trauma, memory and justice, ideas which have really absorbed me in the last five years living in Alice Springs in Central Australia, where every day you are confronted with the realities of ongoing colonisation. My story was an attempt to look at the faulty approaches we make to acknowledge and understand the past. With all of that in my head, writing from a male perspective hardly crossed my mind.
New ideas for a new year…
The short fiction I have been working on since my visit to China is leaning in a more magical or SF direction, which is something I have always toyed with but am now more conscious of doing. A few years ago in Central America I was told that magical realism isn’t seen as a genre there, but as an accurate representation of everyday life. I think there might be a parallel with China and SF. I can see there are real opportunities to use the medium of fiction to talk about the political situation in an indirect way – so I am very interested to see what the new generation of Chinese writers comes up with.
Three of my China stories – ‘Demolition’ ‘Architecture’ and ‘Aperture’ – are going to be in a collection I hope to release in the next twelve months. And a small collection of poems will be launched online in some form later in the year.
Keep an eye on jenjen.com.au or my twitter feed (@millsjenjen) for updates. Oh, and Gone will be released on 28 February 2011.
The blog was quiet for Christmas and New Year as tech support shipped themselves home in a shiny box for a few weeks. Now that the festivities are finished, just in time for Chinese New Year, we’re back and typing.
The prompt for this week is to write a scene from the perspective of the other sex i.e. if you are female, write from a male point of view and vice versa. There was much enthusiasm around the table for making this a sex scene but I say any scene is okay.
Farewell to the phone numbers between my thighs. To the men who have scarred, bruised, and left their marks with my permission. With my welcoming in those who did not deserve an invite or even a whisper of my availability.
There was Mark. An engineer from Chicago. Yes he lived with his mother at the age of 30. But could I blame him for wanting to care for an ailing parent? Sebastian was too much of a mother lover. He was harmless; wouldn’t even step on the water bug crawling along the kitchen floor. Tony would have squished out its guts with his Timberland hiking boots that he wore year round. Kindrid was Jamaican, the word “mercy” was foreign to his ears. Marcy, he believed in redemption. Too bad a stray bullet to the head cut his life short. Sidicious was a vegan of 15 years, with a penis that easily vouched for it. He never allowed me to love him. Scottie hated that I didn’t love him enough. Nigel called me frugal. Duane believed I was an intelligent shopper, yet an unintelligent human being. Rojas wanted our existence to be unheard of. Now Ely, I could have married. But when one is caught kissing another woman in a nightclub it diminishes all prospects of a future. David couldn’t stay out of the nightclub. Edris couldn’t stay employed. Jeff wanted to play drums all day. Malachi hated the white race. Rob hated the black race, but ironically loved me. Jordan had four daughters. They thought I was too young. Dylan thought I was too old. He was 18. Nathan didn’t believe in condoms. Jay didn’t believe in sex. Nagrom didn’t believe in God.
When someone say’s they are exhausted, doesn’t it mean all the energy needed to continue a behavior is no longer? Doesn’t it mean all prospects to execute a previous action is gone? If so, I am exhausted. I leave the phone numbers to drop to the ground. My shoes, rubbing them into the asphalt. One by one, they peel off my thighs. New thoughts begin to enter my mind, blocking previous memories from any sort of breathing space.