once. what does it matter
when or who, i knew
of love.
i fixed my body
under his and went
to sleep in love
all trace of me
was wiped away

This is an extract from Sonia Sanchez’s Ballad.  It’s been swirling around in my brain for a while.  I think I might be nearing girl time because the last few days, this bit, my favorite part of the entire poem, has also made me feel incredibly…disconnected.

All trace of me was wiped away.

I adore So-San.  No-one can make words massage you the way she can.

All trace of me.  Wiped away.

I do love me a strong cup of existential anguish first thing on a Sunday morning.   It’s how I feel about Shanghai now.  As I get ready for the last of my deserting friends to leave in nine days I feel like I’m having a cloak of reluctant anonymity thrust upon me.  Like I’m entering the world of anti-Cheers. Like there’ll only be people who know Contextual Me left

On the upside, Contextual Me is cool.  Depending on the context in which you know me her.

Work Me: She’s awesome.  She dresses super-businessy these days and gets stuff done.  Hire her.  I’d totally be friends with her.  You know, if I wasn’t already her.
Weekend Me: Her, I could take or leave.  All my stupidest decisions seem to be made on a Friday or Saturday.  And not just during the evenings either.  It seems that judgment lapses are not purely a nighttime thing.
Church Me:  She has not made an appearance all year.  This is bad.   But she will be around a lot during the coming weeks.

All trace of me.  Wiped away.

Gah!  Can you tell my birthday is just round the corner.  Can ya?

My tailor and I have a very odd relationship.  I think she thinks I’m some sort of trainee hooker.  Because every time she makes anything for me, I have to take it back at least three times to get her to make it shorter/tighter.   Not because I am someone who wears excessively tight or short clothes.  But because I refuse to buy into the whole “Oh, you’re fat – so you can’t possibly ever want to look like a woman in the clothes you buy” philosophy which pervades high street fashion.

Each time I ask for a further adjustment she looks at me witheringly in a “Really? You think you can pull that off?” kinda way.  If I’m honest, it unsettles me a little bit.  But, being the contrarian I am, it also strengthens my resolve and I give her my “Really.  And yes: I can totally rock it” eyes. And if she still seems uncertain, I give her another look.  A come-on-woman-these-hips-aren’t-going-flaunt-themselves look. We both have very expressive eyes.

I’ve just been to pick up a dress that we have been eyeballing each other over for several days.  It is now miniscule and a tourniquet wrapped around a wounded soldier’s bleeding jugular wouldn’t be tighter than this is now.

I sense a little bit of passive aggression here.  Which is not to say I’m still not going to totally wear it.  Not in public, mind.  But wear it I will.  Touché, Tailor Woman.  Touché.

Last week I was doing some audio recording for this publishing house’s English books aimed at youngsters between 11 and 15.  It was me and one other guy and it went a little something like this.

Question 11…
Me (“Jane”): That cake looks delicious.  Can I have a slice?
Other guy (“John”): Sure, help yourself.
“Jane”: Question:  What does Jane want?

Question 12…
“Jane”: I haven’t seen Tom today.
“John”: Tom died last night – in his sleep.
“Jane”: Question: Where is Tom?

A little bit jarring, to say the least.  Not sure what the answer is meant to be, either.  Where is Tom?  How very existential it all is.

I’ve been in Shanghai for four years now and, if you are my friend J, that’s how long you have spent listening to me moan about how there is no good live music around these parts.

To be clear, by “live music”, I mean “live music that I like”.   Which, if you’re me, is the only kind of live music that matters.

Over the past six weeks I have been a bit obsessive in my hunt because I really felt like Shanghai had thrown down the gauntlet of “You think this is bad?  Wait till you go to Place X”  There is an abundance of plankton swimming around like big, talentless fish in a small musical pond here.

Now to the stuff I like

1.    House of Blues and Jazz: Straight in at number one.

I don’t know if I’m rating the venue or the band but who doesn’t like to watch boys soulfully strumming their guitars?  And, as ZZ Top so eloquently put it: “Every girl is crazy ’bout a sharp dressed man.” Never mind the  fact that I have a crush on three-quarters of the Mike Null band – the only one I’ve seen play – it’s the feel that they have for the music that is so easy to get on board with.

You go to some clubs and you feel that most of the acts have memorized all the cool riffs and you can almost make out the performers’ lips moving as  the count down the notes till they can bust out their “improvised” solos.  Mike Null and his band play the blues with feel.  Like it’s what they’re about.  It’s a little bit dirty too.  Enough to make you think you probably wouldn’t want to be in the same room as your parents while you watch them play.

What they wear: Suits.  Crisp.  Sometimes shiny.  Always smart.
What they sing: The promo stuff says blues, jazz and funk.   Who am I to argue?
When they play: Tuesday to Sunday (till the end of November)
Thing I like the best: All of it.  They are that good.
Thing I ‘m not such a big fan of: That they’re off soon.

2.    Carlton J. Smith – Park Hyatt
I’ve just been to see him tonight off a couple of pretty heady recommendations. And they weren’t wrong.  This man can sing. I spent much of the night willing him to do Al Greene’s Let’s Stay Together or Otis Redding’s My Lover’s Prayer.  Two of my favorite male vocals ever.  He’s that good.  And not in the oh-I’ve-been-in-Shanghai-so-long-any-old-guff-blows-my-mind-now way, either.  I mean this dude’s voice is soulful and brash and caressing and smooth in all the right places.  I was really pleased he lived up to the hype because I got there thinking, “There is no way you are going to be as good as I’ve heard”. But he was.  He really was.    There was also a band but I didn’t notice them because Carlton fills up the stage.  He is very, almost alarmingly, high-octane – but it works.

What he wears: Velour.  Black Velour from top to toe.  “Velour” is a word, right?
What he sings: He mixes it up.  Some Marvin Gaye, Beatles, Maroon Five peppered in amongst is own original tunes.
When he plays: Monday to Saturday (till February 2010)
Thing I like the best: Has to be the vocals.  That voice…I think if he sang the instructions to them,  he could get people to do pretty much anything.
Thing I ‘m not such a big fan of: Pudong (ew) and the Park Hyatt (92 floors up and zero view – that doesn’t seem very smart).  And the patrons are beyond posh.  Not so much “get down with the getdowns” as “Another cucumber sandwich, Nigel?”

3.    Cabaret – Gardenia Girl (I just gave her that name)
This one  is a toughie because the first time I went, I loved it.  Apparently the singer that night was just a stand-in.  She was really good.  She had this smoky, achy voice that I really, really dug.  Think Rachel Yamagata (*swoon*
) and you are close to what she sounded like.  She was backed by a band.  J and I went and were so into it we went again two nights later when the regular girl was back.  Back and very underwhelming.  I think that’s all I have to say about that.  So, back to Gardenia Girl…

What she wears: A gardenia in her hair – Billie Holiday style.  How can you not adore that?
What she sings: The usual standards, from “What a Wonderful World” to Alicia Keys’ “Falling”
When she plays: Never, unless the main chick is ill.
Thing I like the best: I had zero expectations from Cabaret.  So everything was a pleasant surprise.   Except the drinks prices.  Those were a nasty surprise.
Thing I ‘m not such a big fan of: The regular girl.  Sorry.

Honorable Mention

Redbeat.  Seedy?  You betcha.  Good anyway?  It used to be.  I used to love me a little bit of RedBeat action on Friday or Saturday nights when I couldn’t be asked to struggle with make up or dress like anything other than a hobo to go out.   The band before – with the three girls up front and the four guys jamming in the back – really worked.  It was fun and although they weren’t as vocally proficient as any of my top three, they made up for it in performance and charisma.  Plus Vincent’s guitar solos for Zombie and Sweet Child of Mine were so cool it was easy to regress to  1992 all over again.  The last two times I went, though,  the band seems to have undergone  a dramatic facelift.  Hello new faces.  Goodbye charisma and sparkle.  Boo.

Farewell good Redbeat band.  I loved you well

What they used to wear: The girls: very little.  The boys: hard to describe.  There seemed to be a lot of dangly strings and interlocking buckles involved.
What they used to sing: 80s and 90s pop and rock.  Oasis, Guns and Roses, Roxette, Tina Turner – a marvelous mish-mash
When they play: Who cares?  It’s not the same anymore.
Thing I liked the best: Cathy.  My favorite of the all-singing, high-kicking trio of girls.  She always gave us a shout-out when we arrived, even if she was mid-song.
Thing I ‘m not such a big fan of: The interlopers new people.

So my blouse was ripped open today. In the mêlée that is getting off the bus in rush hour traffic. Happily, I was wearing my best bra. The pink one. On the down side, that was not the “big reveal” I envisioned when I bought it.

Yeah. In my reverie, it wasn’t Angry Old Chinese Woman that was disrobing me.

I’m off to Hong Kong in a few weeks and have decided to take the train. For a few reasons. One of them is that I’ve never tried it before. One of them is that Shanghai – Beijing – Shanghai by train is one of the easiest trips I have ever taken. No drama, nominal foreplanning required. Just turn up at the station, buy your ticket and snooze your way to the capital. Yay, the train! But the most important factor is that I am a terrible flyer.

Last time, on the flight back from Hong Kong, we had really freaky turbulence that caused one of the hostesses to scream and scurry the length of the aisle to her seat. More than the turbulence itself, the sight of one of the airline staff losing control took my confidence in flying from zero, to negative figures.  High negative figures.

So me and J are going on a bit of an adventure. It looks like we can get the swish deluxe sleepers and still make a pretty good saving over the flight prices. Which I think will translate into being able to stay in a nice hotel.   Yay, nice hotels!

So, what should I know about getting to Hong Kong by train?

Here’s what I would like.  For those expats who send out endless tweets about how they are singlehandedly bridging the gap between China and the West to get over themselves.  Right.  Over.  Their.  Deluded.  Selves.

I don’t think your swilling cocktails for 100RMB a pop at Pretentious Bar X is doing anything to bridge the intercultural divide and the fact that you’ve managed to convince yourself that it does, explains a lot about how people get sucked into joining cults and  jumping off buildings in the belief that the Great Grand Wizard will grow them a pair of wings before they land.

Last week, I thought about joining a volunteer organization. Truth be told, volunteering is not something that comes naturally to me.  Usually, I kinda have to know you before I am inclined to help you.

But I need to store up some major credit with God right now.  I need him to do me a huuuuuge solid and I figure that if I start volunteering, and giving back a little bit, he’ll be more predisposed to helping me out.  Yes, of course that’s how it works.

The logistics are still a nightmare and it may or may not be something I end up doing – we’ll have to see.  But it did make me think.

In the very unlikely event that I am ever asked to write a book on how to bridge the  Sino-Western Gap, you can expect just two, pithy chapters.

Step 1.    Stop fricking talking about it all the time.  It is tedious.

Step 2.    It’s not “helping” if you’re the only one who’s benefiting

On that note, here are some organizations in this smoggy, we’ll-catch-up-with-the-West-in-no-time-even-if-it-kills-you-us city that could probably do with a little help:

• BEAN Shanghai
• Project Hope
• Shanghai Red Cross
• Hands on Shanghai
• Shanghai Disabled People’s Federation
• Lifeline Shanghai

Hi Blogitita,

It really has been too long.

What is on my mind today?

Too much. A lot of it family-related stuff, and therefore not really for here and now. But I was thinking about pedantry a little bit yesterday.

We were in Chinese class and the teacher, who, for the record, I adore, said:

我忙的时侯不胖。

Translation: When I am busy, I am not fat.

So I asked her, what does that mean? She looked me straight in the eye and simply repeated the sentence in English. Except she articulated it like it was two sentences this time.

When I am busy. *exaggerated pause* I am not fat.

Oh, ok. Much clearer.

Now I like my pedagogy…pedagogical. I really think clarity and rules and linear thinking are the best ways of learning language. This is not everyone’s way of thinking, I’m sure, but it’s my way so let’s call it “The Right Way”, just for fun.

You can’t say, “When I am busy, I am not fat.” As a fatty I feel obliged to point out that being fat is something you first become and then be. You’re not fat today, skinny tomorrow. Even if you were busy for a crunching 3-week spell, you’d have to have been pretty porky before to get fat in that space of time. Or if you were thin before, you’re not suddenly fat now. You make the transition from skinny to slim. But you’re still not fat. You’re busy. And gorging yourself on Quality Street chocolates and coke (o’cola, not o’caine) because you need the sugar rush, the caffeine high, the focus to keep going through an incredibly stressful time. But you can’t just “be” fat. It’s not like getting struck by lightning. It doesn’t come from nowhere. Laoshi, I reject this sentence. So, did you in fact mean:

When I am busy, I don’t put on weight.

Or

When I am busy, I lose weight.

Because your offering – When I’m busy I’m not fat – that don’t mean diddly. It’s just a garbled mélange of nonsense words. Much like this blog. “Garbled mélange” is fun to say, tho, isn’t it? I will see if there are more opportunities to use it more today. But it’s bugging me. You can tell because after the two weeks that I have had, the fact that this is the thing that is dancing on my brain says something about how I have letting go issues.

I’d like to blog about something more substantial (as huge as the fat-busy thing is) except I haven’t read a newspaper or talked to my family or rang any of my friends or watched a TV show in about 10 days.

Is that swine flu thing still about?

I’m going to a barbecue today. It is sooooooooo far away. About 45 minutes in a taxi. 45 minutes or a kerjillion dollars, depending on how tight your budget is and how you measure taxi rides. But I do dig the chick who is hosting it – she’s a grown up. Lord knows those can be hard to find in Shanghai. And I’m 30, you know.

“A **** company in **** district of ****, is looking for native English copywrites to write copy for *****”

That sounds so like me!

“…The candidate should come from England, the USA, New Zealand, Canada, or Australia.”

Ah, not so much, then. It’s the last sentence that really makes my heart sing. Because they’re saying No darkies, basically. Which is fine by me, China. Honestly. Despite the fact that I am blogging about it. Doesn’t mean that I have a problem with your blatant discrimination or the fact that you assume someone with a light skin or a certain color passport is automatically more competent or superior. I mean, have you seen my people on the dance floor? Or do you just watch us swim?

I wonder what’d happen if only a bunch a bunch of Maoris, Aborigines, Native Americans, Black Brits and Black Americans applied. But China, join us in the 21st century some time. The water’s mighty fine. Wait, what century is this? It is the 21st one, right? Or is it the 22nd? Certainly not still the 20th – feels like that one’s been going on forever!

Ties in nicely with what my sister was saying about education in the West. I remember learning how to give speeches, spell words like rhododendron, miscellany and diarrhoea as well as how and when to use a semi-colon*** by the time I was 11 years old. And that was considered normal in deep dark Africa where dangly-breasted women shun bras and apparently eat their own children.

Now you see kids (and grown ups) in certain countries using words like “carn’t” and “lyk” without even a smidgen of irony. But these are the people that make the “Preferential Candidate” list because their passports are pretty.

Though, to be fair: my passport is pretty minging. Bottle green, Zimbabwe. What were you thinking?

***The best way to use a semicolon is…sparingly.