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Foreign Community Center; A Proposal by James Blount

As the foreign national population residing in Chengdu hits ten thousand and continues to rise at an astounding pace, it is with this in mind, and with great concern for future integration, that I propose a “Foreigner Community centre” to service the needs of the foreign community here in the city of Chengdu. Through research and close work with foreign community leaders, from the sectors of education and business, we have noted that the current amount of bars and restaurants are not meeting the needs of our foreign nationals. The proposed centre will be wide-ranging in its appeal and services provided, it would need to reach-out to all types of nationals within Chengdu and provide them with the kinds community services they need the most. Extensive conversation and research have come to the conclusion that any Foreigner community Centre should provide the following things;

1. A bike sales and repair complex; Research shows that the vehicle of choice for foreigners in Chengdu is the humble bike (electric or pedal). Many foreign nationals report that proper service in bike repair is extremely hard to find, without ship-shape bikes foreigners find getting around hard. The centre would include bike repair service men with a grasp of the English language (at the very least a firm hold of Mandarin).

2. A visa application service centre; Close work with community figureheads has bought to light the fact that few, if any, foreigners understand, or even adhere to Visa regulations. A great number of honest foreign nationals complain of shoddy H.R treatment and even allude to forgery of documentation. The centre would provide staff to give clear advice and information on these matters.

3. A Women’s community centre; The number of businessmen coming to Chengdu has exploded in recent years, but the infrastructure has not kept-up with the number of wives, children and family who have come along with them. The centre would include a centre for women, services included would cater for a wide range of women’s issues, health, family and child care.

4. A Full-Time counselor; The foreign community has no official source of mental healthcare, work with the foreign community has indicated a vast number of foreign nationals suffer from psychological and mental problems during their time in China. The causes are complex and different for all, but a major issue is culture shock, particularly during the first two years of re-settlement. Day-to day misunderstanding takes its toll on all, and some have no-where to turn to for advice, help or even anyone to listen to them. The centre would provide a full-time counselor, available upon booking, to provide help under these circumstances.

5. Bar and Club Mega complex; Foreigners like going to bars and clubs, in fact conversation with the nationals themselves points towards and overwhelming need for such a thing. The Bar and Club Mega complex would also have a therapeutic effect of being a place where foreigners with problems, as mentioned above, could forget their problems and pretend they are at home. The enterprise would accept non-foreign nationals on the premises, and profits from the “Laowai Megaclub老外超级酒吧” would be poured back into the running of the centre.

6. Bakery and Butchers; The two could be put together, foreigners crave baked goods and meat, sometimes at the same time. The current crop of bakeries and butchers are not meeting the foreign nationals desires, the “Bakery and Butchers” would not sell sweetened bread, a bugbear of many foreign resident mentioned in our surveys.

7. A Marriage Registry; The foreign community, statistics show, is integrating at a rapid rate with locals, both culturally and matrimonially. The number of foreign nationals marrying local residents is on the rise and shows no sign of stopping. The site for marriage registry, currently near Dongdajie东大街, is understaffed and overworked, the community centre would need to include a site for marriage registry and a family planning clinic. The “Laowai Megaclub’s 老外超级酒吧” presence in Chengdu would surely only add to the number of marriages in the future.

Call for Submissions for the Next Issue of MaLa

We are now accepting submissions for Volume Three of MaLa, which will have the theme “Arrivals and Departures.” The submissions deadline is April 1, 2013 – see the submissions page for full details.

Flesh and Blood by Erin

Florence, 1640

The devil tempts me to eat, but I must resist. For three months I have eaten no meat, and little else but a preparation of herbs each day, and some fruit, and water. This is all I can allow myself to accept into my body, and of course the holy Eucharist, which I receive gladly knowing it is the strength and virtue of Jesus Christ that my body and spirit need as sustenance, much more than bread and meat.

It’s dark now, and the gibbous moon swells in the night sky, bloated, water-logged, a grotesque Venetian mask. Swirling all around it are a vagabond troupe of stars, little Harlequins, Pulcinellas and Columbinas, dancing wildly in mad constellations, taunting, ever more and more complex.

I know I grow weaker each day. Yet I must, I must be strong. Here in the Basilica of Santa Maria Novella is where I saw the vision of St. Catherine of Siena rise above me with a crown of thorns upon her head, her veil as white and clean as lily petals. Here she spoke to me, and told me to defy those who would force me to eat, and who tell me that my actions are misguided, for they do not understand me as she does. Here my mind is rested, and my will strengthened. I pray to God to provide me with the fortitude to continue my fast.

The frescoes are moving now, animated by some power beyond my own feeble comprehension. The commotion of life and death, of anguish and exaltation, crowds gathering to witness tortures and miracles. I can hear them all now, squabbling, whispering. Do they see me kneeling here?

Papa introduced yet another suitor today. From Livorno, the son of a Spanish merchant, wealthy, and dare I say reckoned to be quite handsome. But I refuse! I refuse them all! To think of myself as a merchant’s wife, trapped in some flamboyant home dripping with gilt and flourishes, trussed up in expensive silks and jewels, the thought sickens me. Truly, the whole of my internal viscera revolts to consider such a wretched fate. I swear no man shall possess me, not in this world, from now until I am with Jesus Christ in paradise, no man shall touch me.

This evening I couldn’t eat at all. The table was laid with fish, cheese, bread, grapes and figs, and a magnificent pie that smelled like a thousand different musical notes all combined into one intoxicating olfactory sinfonia. But as I sat down the sight of it suddenly repulsed me, and I could not bring myself to put even a little into my mouth, not one single grape, it repelled me so.

There, my silhouette, caught in the shine of polished metal, curved out of shape. It seems to be not my body but another woman’s, as if it were my double trapped in the reflection, looking out at me. Her plain dress hangs limply over protruding bones, the face gaunt and sickly, the chest that of a young girl’s. Yet looking down at myself I can see my breasts swelling abhorrently, fleshy and voluptuous, repugnant.

I have not bled for three months. And the less I eat, the more my stomach turns on me, inflicting pain with every small morsel swallowed. I can see their dark forms invading me, foreign, harmful, destroying me from the inside. I refuse them all. They shall not take me.

Synaesthesia by John Pickavance

Dear Diary,

Well it’s official. This world and this illness don’t get along.

We used to get along fine before it decided I was ill, before I needed to be explained. It just doesn’t make sense. Brilliance never needed an explanation, not before, not back when I was winning spelling bees and making everyone proud. Brilliance was the explanation, I was the explanation. And then the world gave its diagnosis. Perhaps it’s true, perhaps anyone in my position would have achieved just as much, if not more. Not that it matters. The world feels better about itself now and that’s the most important thing. Right?

So I went to the group I told you about, the one I swore I’d never join. I was desperate not curious. Clinging to the ideas of “similar folk”, of “celebration” and of “open forum format” like I suppose the doctor thought I would. Though I don’t suppose he thought I’d feel worse.

They had a self-appointed leader. Ryan I think his name was, though it could have been Josh. You should have seen the smug little look on his face when he found out I was “another grapheme”. It’s no different from the outside you see, we’re all identified by our affliction; he’s a bilateral sound/colour synth and I’m a grapheme; he’s maestro, master and arbiter of objectivity to the group and I’m supposed to join his band of merry sycophants. We’ll sit around and listen in awe as he vividly espouses the wondrous insights he has gained from his disability before exiting prematurely. In his absence, our inferior minds seek out the Scrabble set and another couple of hours sharing colours of letters with strangers.

The sad thing is I was desperate enough to go along with it all. It wasn’t until we were sat discussing our tiles that I realised how different I was from the other graphemes. All of our colours were at odds. Then, for a moment, there I was with the people I’d been so desperate to meet, that I thought could appreciate me for who I am, that should be sick of performing like freaks in a show, sat around the table discussing letters and colours as if itmade us interesting and worthwhile – the very same people who, not a minute ago, were enthralled byRyan/Josh and his unusual psychosis. That was when I realised they were people of the world like everyone else, that they saw things differently than I do, even letters. And so I left.

Now I’m at my wits end. This illness explains everything and makes the world feel better, butnot me. Even the group feel better. I must’ve been the only one who saw that smug little look on his face. Josh, Ryan, look, weak, liar, associations that exist solely in my mind and on my page. Maybe he is a weak liar. Illnesses are invented all the time to give people strength.

Remember the time when I was sure I wasn’t mad? Well that was before I’d exhausted all attempts at being understood. Now I know if I’m not mad, this illness is certainly driving me there. Maybe it is to blame after all. Either way, it doesn’t matter. You understand.

Hey Kirt by Alex Blood

“Hey Kirt! I was working on that riff you were talking about but man, fuck the Jews.” I still couldn’t believe that Kirt wouldn’t accept my new method of striking when playing my harmonics. I just wanted to impress him. It doesn’t matter if he’s dead, he’s my teacher. That’s all.

“Listen Jessi-“

“It’s Damian man. I told you, I don’t go by Jessie any more. He’s dead. The Catholic Church burned him in a bitter rage. He’s dead and soon you will join him. Anyways, Brittany and I wanted to ask if you’d be our kid’s godfather?” Where the hell did Kirt go man? I wanted to show him that piece I wrote when the neighbors finally turned off the listening device.”

“Ok, Jessie, Brittany is not your girlfriend. You were doing so good man! What happened? I got you that gig with my friend’s band, and now they won’t talk to me, what did you do?”

I don’t get this dude’s problem. Jimmy and Kirt taught me the secrets of the universe. Fuck that band he’s talking about. Their drummer can’t even keep up with my key changes and my natural talent. I will bring the Pope to his knees. “Listen Allan, I just smoked a little dope with those cats and they were all freaked out, so I peaced out, plain and simple”.

“You smoked pot?! You know marijuana exacerbates your problem Jessie! You were doing so good! What about that job at the recording studio? Did you get it?”

“Man those guys were tools, sent by the government. They couldn’t even see beyond their training to hear the rhythm I set down! I can’t work there! That place is crap. And besides, I’d lose my SSI! I don’t want to work man, I just want to play. The antichrist will come, he hast to. Fuck Jesus. He doesn’t know a damn thing. I am God.”

“Jessie, I spent ten minutes on the phone with that guy! All you had to do was sweep the place and clean the bathrooms! I keep giving you an in and you keep fucking it up man! You said you wanted a manager!”

“Man I can play like the wind blows. It don’t matter at all if these losers know what I got. My band will be the future. And Brittany and I will live happily ever after. You know that man!”

“Jessie! Brittany Spears is not your girlfriend. You have got to get your shit together! You spent a month in isolation because you thought the girl at Starbucks was a spy! And now you’re on Haldol and smoking weed again. You’re band is going nowhere, and quick.”

I wish I’d never tried acid before. I hate this guy, he always reminds me of the world I’m not a part of any more. What does he want from me? The future is hell. I just love my guitar and everything else is dead. Metal is life man. Kirt, show this guy the door.

Mental Health by Lucy McCormick

London, 2012

Choice headlines from the day’s papers reliably inform me that a group called the Cure Issues Trust are campaigning to advertise ‘anti-gay therapy’ on the buses, that this is either ironic, prescient or macabre given that today is the 60^th anniversary of the death of Alan Turing, and that Anders Breivik is, is almost definitely, or is definitely not schizophrenic (Caffè Nero supplies copies of the Sun, Mail and Guardian).

I sit, sipping my overpriced tea on the faceless catwalk that is Lordship Lane, and stare into the wide, Aryan eyes of the Norwegian killer. They stare back, pixelated, from the page. The scene at News International must have been unreal. Months of sod all news, then not only do they get landed with a psycho killer, he’s also a white supremacist. A potential SCHIZO NAZI, as the red-top on the table has it. Journalistic manna.

Out of habit, I calculate the date. 19 + 7 years, 1 month, a week and three days. Of all the ideas my brain has produced, the assumption of death aged 19 has – unsurprisingly I suppose – stuck with me the longest. A seemingly arbitrary figure (I’ve never worked out why my brain landed on it anyway, although theories abound) towards which I careered with nihilistic gusto, the tick of the time-bomb labelled 19 was the rhythm to which I lived my life. Since not dying – in spite of my best efforts – at the prescribed age, I have found that it has become my temporal line in the sand: my very own Anno Domini.

The letters pages reveal that a surprising number of people still confuse schizophrenia with multiple-personality disorder, or simply think of it as bad, scary and definitely Proper Mental (which makes it a handy term to chuck about if you want to make someone sound bad, scary and Proper Mental). You wouldn’t think it were necessary to embellish the badness or scariness of a man who has just coolly shot dead a bunch of innocent teenagers in the name of the master race, but it’s surprising how terrified people are of humanity. Inconceivable that he should be sane – take that thought to its logical conclusion and pretty soon you’re suggesting that anyone, any one of us, possesses the same dormant capability. Irrelevant the name given to his presumed disorder, or the fact that in this case it is woefully misinformed: what people need is comfort, the sort of comfort you get from a good old-fashioned purge.

A name was given to me today, one which instantly situated me deep in the territory of Proper Mental and from which my younger self would have turned and fled. When I asked J what I could do to purge myself, he smiled his lopsided smile and told me: ‘This isn’t something we cure. It’s a part of you.’ This I had not expected. ‘Can you cure your hair colour?’ he asked, ‘your sexuality?’

Bookworm Literary Festival, Writing Group and More…

On March 24th Bill Dodson wrapped up the annual Bookworm Literary Festival here in Chengdu with his talk on doing business in China and his book China Inside Out. You can read his blog This is China! here.

After spending 3 weeks with 12 different authors Chengdu is going to feel a bit quiet, so if you’re feeling inspired to write after listening to all of these authors we recommend stopping in at the Bookworm on Wednesdays to give it a go.

The next meeting of the Bookworm Chengdu writing group is Wednesday, March 30th at 19:30. Our prompt from the week is: write a story in pictograms (Chinese doesn’t count), or about pictograms.

If you plan to join us your prompt should be submitted to bookwormwritinggroup@gmail.com by the morning of Monday, March 28th for critique on Wednesday night.

See you on Wednesday!

MaLa Volume 2 Issue 1 Release Party Tonight!

Tonight is the official release party for MaLa – The Chengdu Bookworm Literary Journal Volume 2 Issue 1. If you happen to be in Chengdu or passing nearby, please stop in at the Bookworm and say hello. We’ll be starting the release party from 21:00. If you can make it earlier come by at 19:30 and listen to Brian Castro and Kate Jennings discuss – Money or the Muse.

To find out where the Bookworm Chengdu is located visit www.chengdubookworm.com. For information on the annual Literary Festival please visit http://bookwormfestival.com.

And of course don’t forget that on Saturday, March 12th MaLa and HALiterature will duke it out in a slam poetry competition.

See you at the Bookworm!

Chengdu Jazz – Zachary Baker

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.

Prompt for Feb 23rd

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.

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