Midnight Meanderings – a fragment

Leaving the jazz club, I realize there’s something different about tonight. There is a melancholy that cramps my insides. More than your usual, everyday melancholy. So I do exactly what my eighth grade Physical Education teacher would have told me do in the event of a cramp: "Walk it off, Chan, walk it off." (Yes, Ms. Green. Yes, ma’am. By the way, ma’am, are you gay? I’ve always wondered that.) Never mind. I’m gonna go walk it off now.

Rejecting the line of cabs in front of me, I head southwest with the vague idea that home is in that general direction. I may have lived here for four years, but I remain geographically stunted and directionally challenged. I take a left turn and find myself on a completely deserted street. The air is musky with the almost-rotting leaves of autumn and the lamplight casts a sienna filter over everything. Intricate lamps under the eaves and along the walls give just enough light for me to appreciate the details of the building facades and the quaint architecture of Shanghai’s French Concession. I stop to catch a photo of a huge stack of construction bamboo abandoned on the sidewalk across the street, elegant in its own right in the amber light. This city of mine is full of contradictions. For decades, the host of speckled plane trees lining these streets have solemnly witnessed them all.

It is unbelievably quiet. Walking in the thick of this deep silence I am as insignificant as the dead leaf fluttering beside me. Only the trees are aware of my coming and going. My thoughts turn inward and I consider the melancholy that had coaxed me into this adventure to begin with. It’s strange. I love the life I have now. There’s nothing more that I want. Save the relocation of my dear friends around the world to Shanghai, that is. But I’m a reasonable girl. I’m thankful for all that life has given me. So what’s with the melancholy?

I’ve been spending a lot of time alone in jazz clubs. It’s a bit weird, I know. But, first of all, I am weird, and second of all, I’ve fallen in love with this minx and nightly it lures me into its various lairs, taunting me to listen, to learn, to live within the music. I love it for its raw energy, its spirit of change, its intellect. Yet I confess that I often feel like a complete loser as I hang out in the dark, watching, photographing, writing, keeping my ears open, open, open as I take in whatever the minx is offering onstage that night. Listening to music is not the most social event. For one, it kind of requires not talking. It also requires convincing your friends that jazz is awesome. Even if they do agree, no one in their right mind is going to accompany you on your rounds every single week. So more often than not I fly solo. Which is cool for the most part.

Except, I’m a puppy dog. Anyone who knows me, knows that well. Sometimes even a regular bitch. But past the snapping jaws there’s the fundamental need to be liked. Lately, with my frequenting of music venues and shameless self-introductions to musicians, my puppy-dog insecurities have been catching up with me. To me, with their dedication to their art and their love of music, these musicians are kindred spirits of sorts. To them, I’m some random chick who keeps turning up. Not all of them, certainly. There are those who walk past, pretending not to see me, and there are those who seem to sincerely want to be acquainted. Perhaps it’s because I’m new to living in my art, that I think everyone else who’s doing the same is going to want to chase kittens together in the neighbor’s backyard. But I forget that they are all cats themselves. Ah well. This is the life you chose, as my brother-in-law would say.

I pass the stately night guards in front of the Dutch consulate, minding their post with the shared silence of the street, and think of the shared silence of humans in general. Beneath the layers of friends and lovers, spouses and family, every single one of us are alone. As insignificant as the dead leaf fluttering beside me. Doh. I said that already, didn’t I? Now that I am no longer in the corporate world, no longer in a nine-to-five post, I am no longer surrounded by humans by default. I’ve grown accustomed to being in my own head for most of the day, writing, writing, forever writing. Living inside your head is wonderful, but it can also be daunting. Troubling, sometimes, especially when you’re attempting to mine the depths and transform cold, hard ore into gold. Probably why I have such a hankering to get out of the house after office hours.

Another corner later and the city is rustling around me. I’m in a more commercial part of town now. There’s the lady in red, red cartoon-patterned pajamas that is, stopping by the ATM. There’s the crowd around the late-night skewers guy grilling all sorts of yummy goodness atop his mound of glowing coals. There’s the faint sound of someone practicing violin at midnight. There’s a lone window draped in red and lit from within, full of secrets. There’s a barber shop glowing pink, its furtive treasures lounging half-clothed beyond the pane, waiting for the right man to pass. ‘Leg shops,’ as my husband calls them. And where is this husband of yours, you may wonder? On a plane, en route from Beijing, and landing any second now. No matter where he is or where I am, he is always the warm ember presiding in the core of my soul.

There’s a rush of water beneath the manhole to my right and suddenly I hear it. Piano music, floating in the street and buzzing along the telephone lines draped precariously above my head. I look up to find the source. And there, above a dilapidated storefront, I see a small yellow square of light, shrouded by a dingy, makeshift curtain. I cross the street to stand beneath this unlikely font. The music is beautiful. A lilting piano ballad streaming into the night, the perfect score to my dead and fluttering leaf. It touches me that some anonymous soul above is feeling the exact same way that I am feeling in this moment. I walk away reluctantly after a minute or two. I want to make sure that I’m home by the time my husband arrives at the door, exhausted from his trip, worn out from being my constant ember.

Home is just a park’s length away now. I cross the large boulevard and my heart lightens as I pass the very serviced apartment that I stayed in four years ago when I was deciding whether or not to move to Shanghai, wondering what this fickle, fabulous city had in store. I had no idea how full and fulfilling my life here would be. Of course I didn’t. My husband, my Duraflame source, was still a couple months away from entering my life then.

My heart quickens as I enter the last dark alley before home, even though rationally I know that there is no random Jack lurking in the shadows ready to jump out and steal my iPhone. It is crazy how safe Shanghai feels. I scratch at the newly formed welts from the opportunistic mosquitoes I’ve met along the way, those last irritating troops perservering until the season's end. My war wounds from tonight’s adventure. Forty-five minutes after leaving the club, the cramp has gone gently into that good night. Ms. Green was right after all. Walk it off, Chan. Walk it off.

Writing and Writhing - a fragment

Writing and writhing. The two aren’t very far from one another when you’re trying to write a novel. You write, you writhe around in self-doubt and confused tenses, then you write some more. Write, writhe, write, writhe. An endless seesaw that is the state of my mind these days.

“Hurrah! Things are making sense, I love my characters, everything is wonderful! I can almost touch the sun...Daddy!!”

“Mayday! Nothing’s right, I want to shoot my characters, everything sucks! I can almost see the color of Todd’s underwear...Mommy!!”

I’ve been writing for four months. Three straight, then a month’s hiatus ( I was travelling, gimme a break!), then another. I’ve set a schedule for myself now, much more disciplined than before, and my days start at 1:00 pm (or 1:30, sometimes 1:45, tough life, isn’t it?), and I write for hours until my eyes are blurry and my brain politely requests a hall pass. On a bad day it’s four, on a good day it’s seven. At the end of most days I sit back and think, darn, that wasn’t too bad, was it? Maybe I am a Writer after all! I relish in the words, the phrases, the lines, the paragraphs I’ve created that day, and all the dots and dashes in between.

But then there are those other days. I push away my laptop after hours of blinking cursors and Doubt creeps in. Ravenous, it wraps its long dark arms around me, sniffs my neck, rakes its bony fingers through my hair, presses the tips of its yellowed fingernails on my face, and asks me in a low but nasally hiss, “Who do you think you are? Do you think you can actually write something worthwhile? Worth reading?” A pause for breath, do these things actually breath?, and then the wraith continues, pressing closer to my face, “What makes you think you are not just another wanna-be, recycling emotions, recycling clichés, recycling garbage into garbage?”

And I am captive, I am hypnotized, I am frozen. My ego the size of a pea. The seesaw clatters to the ground with a thud. My butt hurts. Todd’s nowhere to be found. I am alone in a playground full of shadows.

Then my husband comes home, tired after a long day of work but jubilant all the same, and he looks at me with his kind, kind eyes and says, “So how did it go today?”

I tell him. He smiles and says with all the faith that has abandoned me, “You are a wonderful writer. There’s always tomorrow.”

Ignoring his compliment, I say, “Okay. I’ll work harder. I’ll work harder tomorrow.”

I dig my feet into the dirt and push off. The seesaw gives and I begin to rise again. Into the air, into the clouds. I look down and Todd’s back, grinning up at me from his perch below. Smiling feverishly, I lift my face to the sky. 

Spring - a microstory

(as read at Out Loud! The Shanghai Writers Literary Salon on April 26th, 2009)

I knew this day would come. It was clear from the start, but I disregarded the neon warning signs and charged ahead. Straight into the arms of someone else’s man. Am I a total fool? Perhaps. A self-indulgent masochist? Definitely. Damned to the cheap lace hell of adulterers? I certainly hope so, sir. Pleading guilty to all charges. Ready to go down in a flash of someone else's fireworks.

She will love him, surely. Most likely, she always has. He will play the good husband, married to the perfect lady. A couple inspiring future generations of perfect couples. They will have well-behaved, perfectly-mannered children a la Emily Post. They will attend charity galas in the spring and host fabulous dinner parties in the fall. Their earnest, acne-free children will go to Harvard and Stanford and blossom into bankers and lawyers in the footsteps of their proud, proud parents.

I, however, am single at 41. Not the best odds for chocolate Labradors and white picket fences, returning home to a full house, and retiring early in a four-bedroom Dutch Colonial located in a stellar New York school district. Whoopee. Instead, chocolate martinis and white pleather barstools, turning the lock to a silent home, and retiring early to the latest New York Times bestseller on my bedside table. At least I’ll be well-read in my old age.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. Didn't make a bed, don't have one to sleep in, I get that. Father Merrin will be so pleased come confession after Christmas mass. Time to consider a few charitable donations to even out the scales beforehand. Then again, I’m not sure God is really paying attention.

I never meant to feel anything. Ah, who am I kidding? But, I never meant to fall in love. I'm no Diane Lane or Monica Belluci looking 35 at 45. I'm just me, having an affair with my 34 year old VP. Just about as classy as the 500 dollar Bloomingdales gift certificate my assistant picked up for Mr. and Mrs. Wayne Greer.

They'd planned a spring wedding because Julia wanted tulips and April was the month for tulips. So Wayne and I had given ourselves a deadline. Deadlines for affairs of the company; deadlines for affairs of the heart. It had seemed so efficient then.

And now it was spring. Neither of us said a word, but the snow had receded weeks ago and Manhattan was blooming. Wayne skipped a few meetings to attend fittings. Then another last week for rehearsal. On Monday he applied for vacation. And now, here we are, on the front steps of St. Patrick's Cathedral. He's not even Catholic. Or Irish.

Walking up the steps, I rearrange my expression to one of polite joy that is expected of a boss. Wayne breaks into a smile when he sees me. He gives my arm a meaningful squeeze, except I can't be sure of the meaning. We'd never discussed the end. This could be goodbye, for all I know. I squeeze back.

"Thanks for coming, M," he says, all smiles.

I break eye contact and continue past him to make way for others, heart clenching. I didn't think it would hurt this much. Did he hurt, too? God, I’m pathetic. The lady at the reception table asks for my name.

"Matilda. Matilda Gallagher."

"Gallagher, Gallagher...ah, yes, here you are," she says, crossing my name off a list. “On the groom’s side.” I redden. "Plus one, or?"

Should really be Minus One, given the circumstances. I wonder if she detects the heavy dose of guilt mixed with the heady pulp of a mangled heart.

"Nope. Just me," I respond with a smile. Leaving the spring sunshine behind, I enter the chilly cathedral and pray for grace.

The Voice of Jazz featuring Universal Quartet

JZ More Than Jazz Concert Series: The Voice of Jazz – Universal Quartet

April 12^th, 2009 at the Shanghai Oriental Art Center

Kites are flying above Pudong on an inspirationally sunny Sunday afternoon and I am headed to the Shanghai Oriental Art Center for the JZ More Than Jazz concert series. Today’s show features the mesmerizing chanteuse Jessica Maurer from Paris, whose vibrating tonsils first impressed me at JZ about a month ago. The quartet also includes French saxophonist Quentin Paquignon, Brazilian guitarist and singer Tinho Pereira, and Brazilian percussionist Leonardo Susi.

Our little gang is just in time for the gong at 2:58 pm. The band comes on and promises original tunes for the first set followed by originals and covers in the second. The first song begins and I’m dumbfounded by the poor audio quality at the Center. The singer’s voice, skating easily up and down the soft romantic melody, is horrifically compromised by static. Typical crappy Shanghai audio quality. I might as well be at the Glamour Bar. The djembe is mic'd funny as well, but the percussionist himself captivates me immediately, a mad magician with a toolbox of mysterious music-making contraptions. He keeps a chilled out beat accented by sleigh bells and a metal shaker and his left foot is occupied by ankle bells rather than the usual bass drum pedal.

The next song is ‘Today’, written for the Sichuan earthquake as Jessica explains in her soft accented English. The guitarist strums a hopeful rhythm, while the percussionist’s singing bowl casts a haunting tone. Audio has improved and the singer’s voice soars clean over the song, reminding me of Sade and Si*Se woven together by her own spellbinding power. The light soprano sax solo pulls at your heartstrings, in contrast to the heavy brass of the baritone sax he was mastering in the first song. They move on to ‘Uncivilized’, “a funny one” as the singer calls it. The Mad Magician mans a blue tufted cymbal smacker and I'm wondering where the thick wooden beat is coming, only to realize he's actually playing the box that he's sitting on, mic'd from the back. Form and function, well done! I’m later informed by the percussionist that the “box” is actually the cajón, a Brazilian instrument. Ah right, not just a wooden box then. Doh. I find my right leg has taken on a life of its own and I'm heel-tapping alternating beats with the singer. The band’s own volume control is great and they bring the song to a soft close.

The fourth song starts with the gentle call of the baritone sax, a part originally written for the Chinese erhu. "Don't ever lose your soul, don't give up your innocence, and if you let it go, you'll find peace in yourself…” The perfect cathartic tune for those break-ups of yore. The singer’s voice is acrobatic, bending around notes and tiptoeing along the tightrope of delicate riffs. Again an engaging solo by Mr. Saxophone. Mad Magician’s shaking a hollow wooden cylinder with a wire sticking out of one end and striking a long metal tube that creates an eerie echo. Catchiest tune yet, this one, and a likely hit single candidate. I wonder if these guys are signed?

‘You Set Me Free’ skips to a faster beat and the singer flexes along the melody, as does the sax on its solos, which never get boring. The percussionist is going nuts, drumming on his cajón, before switching back to the soft skin of the djembe. Next up in the playlist is a mix of pop and tango, ‘Nicolas’. The singer tells Nicolas’ story in a fluid voice, blending with the guitarist’s harmony during the chorus. Then the saxophone, oh that sax!, takes us down a dark alley, across an intricate bridge and delivers us back to the voice. His baritone sax sounds like a cello here, coaxing dancers to that first imperceptible step of the tango to the wild flourishes of skirt ruffle on Italian chest hair, and with the end solo, he leads us through the shadowy piazza and disappears around the corner.

After intermission, I creep up to the second row for better acoustics and a closer view of the Magician's ‘mugical’ toys. The singer strums the guitar herself on ‘It's Easy To Hide’, claiming she can't play but she's doing fine so far. This darker tune has a persistent bass-note that's getting me all revved up. The song belongs in a movie scene: wide angle, long dusty highway, black Cadillac, tanned arm dangling a cigarette out the driver’s window, and that lonesome howl of the soprano sax as the camera pans up the arm and focuses on the contemplative eyes of a kick ass Laura Dern. For example.

‘Letter’ is a soulfully blue tune, and the singer’s voice takes you behind her eyes for a moment and you know you're supposed to be sad about something. The soprano sax picks up where her voice trails off without skipping a beat, and vice versa. "There's a tear in my heart, in my soul, in my mind..." No kidding, woman, stop you're gonna make me cry! Next up is a Brazilian song written by the guitarist. It kicks in with an up-swinging beat, then surprise, surprise the man's got a voice on him, too! Smoked honey leading you to happier times. The tempo gets a solid kick in the pants before rolling back into the verse. "I keep a picture of you hanging on a wall..." He later tells me that this is one of the tracks on his upcoming album, “Handmade”.

The covers begin and I'm a bit sad to be moving away from the originals, but the singer magically cajoles a delicate sweetness out of ‘You Are So Beautiful To Me’, a song I typically find way too saccharine. Seal's ‘Crazy’ is next and it's been years since I've heard this little piece of genius. The band brings a fresh edge to the song and through the covers you sense the singer's range even more than in the originals. There's a dedication to unique representation of something already done that seems to unleash her voice. Mad Magician gets the whole audience clapping to rhythm by the close and it seems like everybody is enjoying the show. Wish we were on the beach or at least outdoors somewhere, a perfect match for this soulful, relaxing music. Where's my Patron Silver and tonic with a twist of lemon? The Oriental Hall has nice acoustics but the ambience is a overly stiff and this lady keeps flashing a bright green neon sign demanding “No Cameras” whenever someone tries to get cheeky. Watching us like a hawk, she is.

Next song is introduced as a rearranged house dance track and I'm all smiles when it begins: "Lady, hear me tonight, 'cause my feeling is just so right when we dance in the moonlight, can't you see you're my daylight..." Singer's got a great voice for this clean bossa nova version, not the fuzzy Bebel Gilberto type, but something just a tad smoother. Then it’s the last song, boo! ‘I Don't Know’ begins with a rolling guitar rhythm that sounds familiar but I can't quite pinpoint. All I know is I'm comfortable and happy and not ready to leave yet. Singer brings in a nice little solo and every note is precise, a precursor to the soprano sax riff that follows. The show comes to a close and it’s been a wonderful afternoon, to say the least. Can’t wait to see these guys again, hopefully in a more relaxed atmosphere next time.

***

Universal Quartet is...

Jessica Maurer can be found regularly at CJW in Xintiandi Mondays and JZ on Wednesdays singing funk, jazz, and soul like a champ.

Quentin Paquignon plays all four kinds of sax and regularly brings out the tenor and alto with his reggae band Lions of Puxi at JZ and Brown Sugar.

Tinho Pereira’s album “Handmade” comes out in a month or so and he regularly plays with the Latin band Shanghai Latin Project, which is also being featured in next month’s JZ More Than Jazz concert series. An all-around guitarist, other than acoustic and electric guitar he also plays electric and baby bass (that’s the thing that looks like an over-sized popsicle stick with strings).

Leonardo Susi is often found breaking it down at JZ. His treasure trove today included the djembe, Brazilian cajón, the repenique, thunder (wire thingamajiggy), a flexitone, a vibratone (metal echo maker), a frogtone, ankle bells, and sleigh bells. Awesome. If not for the sounds, at least for the crazy list of words I’m able to throw in here. 

- Article originally posted on Urbanatomy Shanghai

Shanghai International Literary Festival - Bill Zorzi

William Zorzi, screenwriter for ‘The Wire’

The first thing I am hit by is that the guys on stage look really corporate. Like, really corporate. I might as well be at a banking conference, again. How this feeling happens so often at a literary festival is beyond me, but then again I am new at this. Michelle of M on the Bund is onstage, marking the end of the festival with this very last session. She tells the story of how the festival grew from a handful of paid audience members to the sizable audience that is present today and thanks a bunch of people who made it possible. Then of course, a round of applause for Michelle who has made this event possible.

The range of people here is amazing…people who look like students, people who look like investors, people who look like journalists. I’m not sure who the guy is introducing Bill, but I now realize that the guy who looks like the head of a bank is actually Bill Zorzi. He’s wearing a navy suit, pink button down, and a pink and navy striped tie. He used to work for the Baltimore Sun, along with David Simon, another of the show’s main creators. I wonder morosely if the Sun still exists, given the recent collapse of the U.S. newspaper world. I’m waiting for him to speak, and excited for him to be at once witty and hilarious so that I can forget that he looks like a banker. He does not disappoint, and laughter titters across the audience as he claims he cannot “explain himself” which is what his moderator has asked him to do. The moderator goes through a laundry list of the characters that Zorzi has had a hand in creating, and asks if “The Wire” is a Greek tragedy and Bill and the audience are in an uproar. He laughs that he’s just trying to put food on the table.

Next he’s asked about the process for creating the characters. It’s interesting to find how many times authors are asked about this. The answer is usually the same, part research and part “just pops up”. Zorzi goes off on a tangent, something about a whispering campaign regarding some guy named O’ Malley and he touches upon “The Wire” as an interesting way to explore racial politics in the U.S. There’s more talk about the characters, and I space out a bit (not the best blogger) but I perk up when Zorzi coins the phrase “Shang-hyenas”. Mr. Moderator asks about sex in the scripts, and whether or not they are required by the producers. Zorzi replies that there isn’t a requirement; sex happens as it’s needed in the story. Zorzi begins talking about the process of how each show is written. Each episode is written by one writer, and then a core group sits down determines if it works with the entire story. Four months before production of the season begins, the core group is locked in a room and the plotline is charted out and the course of the show is decided.

Mr. Moderator asks Zorzi what was it like switching from journalism to writing fiction and screenplays. Bill says that writing fiction is much easier and is surprised when no one boos in the audience. He’s working on a non-fiction book now and confesses that it’s quite tough. He calls himself an “old dog” and the non-fiction a “new trick”, which he is trying to figure out. Mr. Moderator brings up the fact that newspapers are shutting down across the U.S. and asks whether or not this reality will be reflected in the script of “The Wire”, which portrays newsroom scenarios with avid journalists. Discussing the switch to digital and the phasing out of paper materials, Zorzi brings up that he’s not sure if people realize the value of newspapers in their lives. Newspapers eventually will be missed, and digital is not the same. Joe the Blogger is not necessarily going to go fight the good fight and shine the light on the underbelly of society. He cannot imagine the world without the New York Times, but his bigger concern is on the smaller scale, small towns losing their papers, and therefore losing their watchdogs. “Probably becomes like China,” he says, and adds, “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

Mr. Moderator asks next how much is the drug culture a part of the U.S. and whether there’s any hope. Zorzi immediately responds that there is no hope, and he’s the wrong guy to talk to if you are looking for hope. He continues, “This subculture that has a lot of influence in our lives and in the cities and beyond now, nobody wants to think about or talk about or nobody cares about.”   Pretty bleak stuff. Next question asks if the U.S. is in a bit of denial about its corruption problems, as depicted in the show. Zorzi replies, “I don’t know.” Tittering in the audience. “I think police corruption has been around for a long time.” He asks in return, “Do you really think it’s that corrupt? I see more ‘broken’ rather than corrupt?” The audience member is not given a chance to respond and someone else takes the conversation onto an entirely different path, asking what it’s like to work with HBO, which has such consistently good shows. Zorzi explains that David Simon dealt more with HBO than he did, and Simon gave a lot of credit to HBO for giving them creative control and independence.

Another question refers to the very authentic dialogue and script, and asks if a lot of background research is done and whether or not dialect coaches are hired? Zorzi says that dialect coaches are hired for the British/Scottish actors. Otherwise, David Simon covered cops for years at the Baltimore Sun, Ed Burns was a cop for twenty years before becoming a Baltimore city school teacher, so had a good sense of both worlds, and Bill himself covered not only politics but a variety of topics. Bill recounts that he spent a lot of time researching the education system since he spent much of his journalistic life avoiding education as a topic. As he’s responding to another question (which is difficult to hear from the back of the room), he asks if spoilers are okay and the moderator says we’ve all watched the show ten times, and Bill responds, “Oh right, those bootleg copies,” and everyone laughs, while he continues, “taking food OFF of our tables.”

The session ends abruptly as there’s a film showing at 6:30pm and we are herded out of Glamour Bar en masse. Guess that’s it for the festival. Fascinating stuff, but I better run before the waiter scoops me up and out of here.

- Article originally posted on Urbanatomy Shanghai

Shanghai International Literary Festival - Min Jin Lee

Late Bloomer, or Freedom From Failure: Min Jin Lee, author of Free Food For Millionaires

It’s a foggy Sunday afternoon and all I want to do is stay in bed. At the encouragement of my husband, I manage to crawl out of the warm covers, slap myself awake, hobble together an outfit, and speed taxi my way over to the last day of the Shanghai International Literary Festival. Only a few minutes late, I creep into the audience and break out my lap-top. There’s a good energy in the room and the moderator, Andrew Yang, is in the midst of introducing featured author Min Jin Lee. As she takes the mic, I’m struck by how young she looks for one claiming to be a late bloomer. Turns out, Min Jin Lee quit being an attorney when she was around 25 years old and working 300 hours a month. She contracted a major liver illness and decided to become a writer instead of dying as a lawyer. After saving $15,000, she embarked on her new path, thinking that she was going to publish a novel in nine months. As she retells her story, Min Jin Lee interjects with quips and jokes, often laughing at herself. She talks about being rejected by everyone on “really nice paper”. Then she says “ass” in public, and it’s the final nail for me. I like her and I want to be her friend. I’m that fan in the back of the bookstore, biting my fingernails and squinting at my beloved author as she reads aloud on a makeshift stage. Hmm. Right. Anyhow, Min Jin’s story unwound over twelve years of rejection and three unpublished manuscripts before coming out with her current best-seller, Free Food For Millionaires. 

Andrew Yang switches focus to the book itself. The background is about an Asian-American girl from an immigrant family, whose hard-working parents send her to an Ivy League school. She graduates with a lot of aspirations, some squashed and some accomplished, while a battery of quandaries and anecdotes buffet her along the way. The book is also very much about New York and Wall Street. During her writing process, Min Jin (we’re on a first name basis now) interviewed about 40 people in New York for the book, including many CEO and Wall Street types. As she interviewed more and more individuals for her book, she realized that people have very strong urges to unload, especially with regard to secrets about their sex life. She was very careful about establishing trust with her subjects upfront, and often the interviews became oddly confessional. 

Having heard so many different stories from men and women having extra-marital affairs, Min Jin also says she became increasingly indifferent towards infidelity. There’s a lot more going on between adulterers than sex and lies, and she began to develop a lot of respect for those who actually stay happily married. She tangents into an interesting tirade about the importance of sex between individuals, etc., and a tangible tension coalesces in the audience. Andrew helps break it up by changing the subject, while Min Jin herself diffuses any remaining “weirdness” in the room with a hearty laugh.

Money is a key character in her book and she says that a lot can be revealed in how a person eats, drinks and spends money. Her conclusion after much observation is that overall every person is a millionaire in their own right. There are so many rich people who have no clue as to what would make them happy. She brings up a Swingers reference, which is hilarious because I’m not sure how many people in the audience actually got the Vince Vaughn quote (“You’re so money, you are so money and you don’t even know it.”).

New York City is another character, a city of extremes, she calls it. She’s found Shanghai to be much the same, a place where you can’t say stupid things because you’ll see something immediately that will probably counteract the dumb thing you are saying. Living amongst extremes keeps you honest. Korean-Americanism is yet another character, and she expresses how much she appreciates being part of an immigrant family. She’s from a crazy tribe and she loves it. She explains how all these elements of your background create filters, the filter of being married, the filter of being a woman, etc., which is a just a great metaphor.

It’s Q&A time, and someone in the audience asks what was the critical point that brought her from three failed manuscripts to FFFM. Min Jin tells us how she spent seven years trying to write serious fiction, and a major turning point for her was when her friend told her that her stories were okay but why didn’t they sound like the way she talks? Min Jin was furious at first, but quickly found merit in her friend’s feedback. Taking the advice, she sat down and wrote in first person for the first time, and it was the first story that she actually got published. Seems a lot of firsts happened for her at year seven. Umm…year SEVEN?

Did she ever want to give up? Min Jin responds that she was so discouraged by the many rejection letters that she felt like quitting all the time. She had moments where she was so angry and upset and wondered, ‘Why isn’t this happening for me?’ Her sister wisely suggested that she focus not on the lack of acceptances, but aim to collect 100 rejections instead. That way, you are putting yourself out there and may actually get 10 acceptances amongst all those rejections. Min Jin also asked herself at one point why she wanted her book to be published so badly. Was that the end-all? She realized that writing is just something inside her. Having something published may not be the end goal after all.

The talk is over and I head over to the bar where copies of Min Jin’s book are for sale. I am completely mortified when I see the cover, featuring a side profile of a woman wearing a red fedora. I stand there, blushing as red as the fedora perched on my head at that very moment. Damn, I’m friggin’ dressed like the girl on the cover. Ultimate loser move. As I ask for her autograph, I giggle nervously and tell Min Jin that I had not seen the cover before donning my red hat this afternoon, it was purely coincidental. She looks up at me with a winning smile and says something like, “Hon, I’m glad you wore your red hat because it looks fabulous.” I smile sheepishly and almost trip down the stairs on my way off the stage. Such a nice lady. Leaving in a swoon, I am super-charged with inspiration for my burgeoning life as a writer. What is there to be afraid of when you’re doing what you love most? Bring it on, Failure and Rejection, I’m not afraid of you!

- Article originally posted on Urbanatomy Shanghai

Stravinsky's The Soldier's Tale: A Review

Stravinsky's The Soldier's Tale - performed March 8th, 2009 at the Lyceum Theater in Shanghai

Ever-susceptible to marketing, I was intrigued by a red Devil’s mask when flipping through the latest That's Shanghai magazine last week. The Soldier’s Tale? Never heard of it. Stravinsky? Igor, right? I’m pretty sure my piano teacher mentioned him once or twice. Best do some research on good old Igor. After a few hours online and listening to his Best Of, I’m sold. Stravinsky is known for his departure from the norm, his challenging dissonance, his cockle-warming melodies, and inciting a Parisian riot with the first measures of his controversial Rite of Spring back in 1913. The Soldier’s Tale, first performed in 1918, is a fairly unique combination of narration, mime, ballet, and orchestra. Having failed to recruit any other friends to join me, I head out alone on a crisp Sunday afternoon anticipating a healthy dose of culture at the Lyceum Theater.

The theater itself is reminiscent of an older Shanghai, not large but a generous size for the kind of production that Stravinsky imagined. This piece could have been played in an open field, as symphony liner master Edward Downes mentions in his Guide to Symphonic Music. The nerd/loser that I am, I have actually brought along the tome in case today's liner notes prove unworthy, but in fact they are quite well-written, providing the history of the piece as well as ample information covering Stravinsky, his partner and writer Ramuz, the Lyceum Theater, and the performers.

The orchestra begins and I'm surprised that the lights are still up as the Narrator starts her tale, sight unseen. Then I notice that she's actually walking down the left aisle and ascending the stairs to her spot slightly upstage of the apron. She is outfitted with a plush velvet armchair and ottoman, complete with wine glass and carafe as imagined by Stravinsky and Ramuz. Only, today's production has chosen red wine versus the original white. Turns out that the Narrator is the lady I saw earlier sitting alone in the back row. She'd reminded me of the lady in Edward Hopper's New York Movie, equal parts beautiful and forlorn.

The lights dim and a few stragglers crouch into their seats in my row, third from the stage. Next thing I know some guy is flashing a light in my face and riffling through a book, not only late but quite in your face as well, I'm thinking. Then I realize he's way too dramatic to be an actual person and my timing is fortunate as he is now extending a hand for mine. Holy bejeezus, I've just been chosen by the Devil for audience participation! I take the Devil's hand and rise from my seat, then pull back, thinking I may be in deeper than I thought, but the Devil is a wiley old fellow and he draws me towards him as chuckles ripple through the audience. He leads me to the front row and sits me down in an empty seat. Score! Definitely like where he's going with this. He gives me one last unctuous smile and hops over to harass other audience members.

The story is about a Soldier who gets tricked by the Devil to swap his fiddle (aka his soul) for a magic book (aka material wealth). Stravinsky chose to represent the Soldier's soul with the violin, and the effect is poignant. Writing this on a scant budget during WWI, Stravinsky lined up only seven members of the orchestra, compared to the forty plus members in his prior success, The Firebird. Influenced by the birth of jazz, he chose to represent the high and low of each section: violin and upright bass, trumpet and trombone, clarinet and bassoon, and one mad percussionist with a timpani and a sandbox full of tinkering toys. The bassoon is one of my favorite orchestral instruments and throughout The Soldier's Tale it provides a steady moral center around which the Soldier's violin and the Devil's percussion duel it out.

Times of distress and hardship bring out the most interesting of innovations, and The Soldier's Tale is a clear representation of this. The Narrator is a critical player and provides the only voice we hear, while three actor/ballet performers mime and dance their way through the story. The Narrator in this case was fantastic, drawing us in with her various voices and animated performance. For some reason the liner notes credit a Stephen Fung as the English Narrator, but she was no Stephen. I wonder who she is, and am grateful to have had the chance to experience her version of the Narrator. The Soldier is played by Tian Duo Duo, an invigorating young actor with energy and expression to spare. Angelina Lim plays a graceful yet stalwart Princess, managing to be coy and extremely likable at the same time. Surely both are young artists to watch. The Devil in his many disguises is humorously depicted by Tang Huang, whose comedic timing is on the mark. All in, I thought the performers were excellent, and have the director, Alison M. Friedman, to thank for that. However, I was not blown away by the orchestra, the Xinya Kongqi Chamber Orchestra hailing from Beijing. Although the music was great, they lacked the same enthusiasm that the performers so whole-heartedly portrayed. In fact, at times they seemed a bit bored.

Lights go up an hour later and I leave the theater encouraged by the talent I've seen and what it represents for Shanghai's cultural scene. Even though The Soldier's Tale is a story about a man eventually claimed by the Devil, the premise of the work itself speaks of creativity adapting to tough times, a lesson that seems appropriate as we flounder through today's global recession. Here's to finding a way on tightening budgets and dreaming up out-of-the-box projects to be enjoyed by current and future generations! 

Shanghai International Literary Festival - Laura Pugno

Session with Laura Pugno - 6:00pm, Friday March 6

Having quit the corporate world last autumn to become a full-time writer, I have been very much looking forward to the 2009 Shanghai International Literary Festival. What better way to get my feet wet in Shanghai’s literary world? On the first day of SILF, I head to Glamour Bar to see Italian poetess Laura Pugno. I park myself in full view of the stage and am thankful for the glass of red in my hand. Surrounded by a fairly well-dressed lot engaged in a whirlwind of chatting and catching up, I feel quite sheepish in my hole-riddled jeans. Definitely out of place in a lounge full of what must be Shanghai’s literary elite.

A petite brunette with a kind face, Laura Pugno takes the stage and there are blind stone eyes projected behind her. The program coordinators were savvy about providing the audience with a small booklet of Pugno's work in English translations. M on the Bund’s owner, Michelle Garnaut, kicks off the session, along with Paolo Sabbatini, who in a lovely Italian accent provides a much needed introduction to a poetess and novelist who has somehow eluded Google.

Laura begins with thank you's all around and is fabulously adorable as she notes that this her first time in “Chee-na”. She begins to read her poetry in English and a series of photos by Elio Mazzacane scroll behind her. There's something alluring about an accented voice reciting gently; she could be reading her grocery list and I would still be mesmerized. A section of the photos are dedicated to the color gold, juxtaposing her collection Il Colore Oro, but as my mind wanders I can’t help but notice that it’s really more of a mustard. Il Colore Mostarda.

After her reading, she answers questions from the audience. One stands out in particular: whether or not much is lost in translation. She responds thoughtfully that something is lost and also gained in translation. It forces you to make choices since the language may not fit perfectly, and sometimes you have to give your work a different twist.

She’s requested to read in Italian and we’re in for a treat. There's always a love affair between a poet and her words, and this passion is obvious when Pugno presents her own Italian words. The rhythm is so different, it cannot be compared to the English. I may not gather the meaning, but I certainly sense the beauty as her lips wrap around the beloved words that have been carefully selected, nurtured and coddled. The spirit of each syllable infuses her poems as she recites.

After the session is over, I finally locate Laura by the DJ booth and am hovering shamelessly for her attention. Looking around the room, I wonder who all these people are in their polished suits. I feel like I’m at an investment banking conference, except there are way too many smiles going around. Kudos to the lady in front of me who’s actually trying to read a book in this dim light. Starting to feel like a stalker after about five minutes, I decide that I better make my move.

More than twenty minutes later, I am all puffed up with the sense of achievement, having successfully pinned down the poor poetess for a heart-to-heart. Over a glass of red she told me everything related to Laura Pugno. Okay, not really, but it was inspiring anyway. A warm and passionate lady, she entertained my questions with the enthusiasm of someone not yet tarnished by too many interviews.

The Interview (note: Laura’s answers are paraphrased and should be read with her endearing Italian accent in mind):

Q1: Have you been in China long for this trip? What fascinates you the most about Shanghai?

A1: I’ve been in Shanghai for a week, and this is my first time in Asia. I’m fascinated by the contrast between the super urban and modern and the older parts of the city. As soon as I got off the plane, I was also struck by the intense language barrier. It really becomes an exercise in trust, getting in a taxi cab and showing the driver a piece of paper, and hoping he will get you to the right place. The city feels very safe, which is quite amazing for such a big city.

So far, Laura has visited various must-sees like the Jade Buddha Temple and Yu Gardens, as well as hipper parts of town like Tai Kang Lu. The life of a Shanghai expat reminds her of her own experiences as a foreign student in London. She surmised that expats here must have a hard time crossing into local society, as the expat scene itself is so developed.

Q2: How would you describe your poetry: melancholy, joyous, philosophical?

A2: I would describe it as coming close to something that you cannot easily reach, like a quest.

Q3: Did you always know that writing was your calling? Is there anything that you dislike about the profession?

A3: I have been writing poetry since I was seven, so I guess I have always known! The thing I dislike the most about writing is the editing process. You’ve written the first draft of the novel, and now you have to go through the tedious step by step process of cleaning it up.

Q4: Any advice for a wanna-be novelist?

A4: Endurance. That’s the toughest thing about writing a novel. Poems are easier in that way. Perhaps when I am an old woman I may stick to poems!

Laura’s got a ways to go before she can be considered an old woman. Her third novel (We Are All Made of Glue) is on the way and hopefully more of her work will be translated into English soon.

 

Waiting for Tripe and Balls - a fragment

It’s a Friday night over here and we are anxious for the doorbell to ring, announcing the arrival of tonight’s delight – Vietnamese  pho with “rare, flank, brisket, balls, tendon, tripe”. Nothing like an assortment of cow parts to get the evening going. Things couldn’t be better around the Lyman parts. Buddy Josh is hanging out with the Internet. Husband’s at his DJ booth, head-bopping to new and old records. “Just a little lovin’, early in the morning, just a little lovin’, early in the day…” reminds me of January 2006 when I was first introduced to his monkey mixing at a dark club. It has almost been three years to the day we married. Then again, I pretty much felt like we were married the day we met.

But enough cheese factor. The end of last year and start of this year are waiting to be summed up. We were chock-full of resolutions at the end of 2008. On the very last day of the year, we hiked to a little bay on the coast of Kona famous for sun-bathing tortoises, heading for a particularly inspiring tree we like to call the Planning Tree. Under its winding branches, we revisited the ups and downs, high-fives and do-overs of 2008 and got excited about the year to come. 2009 will be all about writing, writing, and writing. Getting healthier. Being stoked about each moment of every day. Taking it easy on the things that don’t matter and really going for the things that do. For the first time I feel like my life is my own. No one looking over my shoulder or demanding my attention. No more pushing myself down a track that I’ve been following since I was five. 

Ah, five. What a magical year. My birthday present was piano lessons with an amazing teacher who not only saved me from the embarrassment of being Jan Chan, but also taught me how to spell. Newly arrived in a foreign country and thousands of miles away from relatives, my brother and I were blessed to have found much more than a piano teacher. Ms. Davison was more like a stern yet gentle grandmother. As it often goes in a family of hard-working immigrants, by five I was already fully apprised of the expectations to come. A’s were a given; A+’s were better. College of course, but not just any college. The very university that Ms. Davison herself attended circa 1933 was my final destination. 

And there I went, circa 1995 after twelve years of mad studies. Then four years of not-so-mad studies; it was college after all. Then slaved and worked, worked and slaved in a soul-sucking, spine-buckling field for what seemed like forever. Then last September, I finally got around to quitting my job. It only took a few months for my shoulders to lose the up-around-the-ears look that I've had for as long as I can remember. I wake up every morning thankful for everything and stoked about the day. I practice unclenching my fists and find it easier and easier to let it all go.

So here’s to a brand new 2009: a year of Barack, letting go, and living the dream for the unforeseeable future. And here's to foot-stomping happy times in the days and months to come for every one of you out there. Except for you evil bastards - no foot-stomping times for you.