Notes From the Middle Kingdom: In this Our Year of Dog

James Kramer is back in Nottingham’s LeftLion, this time discussing the Chinese Year of the Dog, and slathering underwear with Paprika.

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Notes From The Middle Kingdom: In This, Our Year Of Dog

Notes from the Middle Kingdom, James Kramer in Left Lion


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Our man in Beijing is back in Notts, and he recently spent a week in the LeftLion office…

Notes from the Middle Kingdom returns as James Kramer spends a week writing for Left Lion magazine in Nottingham and turns his eye to the differences in publishing between Beijing and the UK. As ever, please do read, follow and support the good people at Left Lion. Follow the link below for the article.

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A Beijinger in a Lion’s Den



Fireworks in Tianjin

I moved back to England, my wife stayed in Tianjin, China. She wanted to stay with the dog. The dog had been found by a sluice canal behind our home. We had heard it cry and gone looking for it. We took it home, bandaged its leg and gave it food and water. Though it still walked funny we loved it and named it Colin, a reference to a TV show that only one of us understood. Now the dog was in China with my wife who was not speaking to me. I had rented a room that was arguably too small that did not realistically match my age.

After being back for two weeks and not talking to anyone, Beckett came over. I said that he’d missed me and we went and bought goat meat from a Halal butcher in the community market then took it to cook at his place because my room doesn’t have a kitchen and very soon would fill up with smoke. Beckett cooked the goat with cumin seeds and tomato and filled two bowls with instant rice and cooked goat meat.

“I’m having trouble eating things,”

“I wish you’d told me that,” Beckett said, staring at his own bowl of cooked goat.

“It’s just a constant feeling of nauseousness, that seems to be increasing,”

“It doesn’t matter.” Beckett said, and asked why I had called.

I managed to get a job working with children in care. I work from 5 pm till 7 the next morning, then the next day I don’t work at all. Mostly I just have to calm them back to sleep when they wake up screaming. If one of the kids sleeps through three consecutive nights without waking up and screaming, then we give them a sticker of a happy looking elephant. The elephant is wearing denim overalls with suspenders that make him look like Huckleberry Finn. The kids can do whatever they like with the stickers. Some of them chose not to peel them off for days. Most of the stickers end up on the front covers of the ex-library books that we’re donated. Some of the kids put stickers directly onto their clothes and then when the clothes get washed the kids are sad since the stickers are gone. I once tried to fish one of the stickers out of the washing machine but it had already been destroyed. It turned into pulp and fell apart in my hands. I told the kid that I was sorry and he asked if the elephant was dead.

The problem with the video footage that was taken from people’s phones was that it looked like a concert video, a celebrity sighting. I felt distracted by the reflections on the glass too, but maybe that’s just because I wanted to be.

There are currently three kids living in the residency. Their names are Simon, Bethany and Karl. I have secretly named them Grass, Turntable and Tape. I will never tell them these names nor use them in public. I have given them these because those are the things that they remind me of. To explain why would take too long and then afterwards you would not think that I am a good person, which I might not be.

Tape almost received a happy elephant sticker this morning, until Turntable told me that he and Grass had secretly left their beds during the night and eaten the staff’s peanut butter from the fridge and that’s why there were now ants infesting the kitchen. There is, of course, no sticker that we give to children when they get up during the night to steal peanut butter. If a resident breaks the rules we just keep a record in the night journal, indexing it with X. Since I cannot use a red pen anymore I write the word red next to the X. If someone fired me for this, I would thank them for it and feel momentarily free from something terrible.

“You’re going to use me as practice, to work through your own shit, aren’t you?”

Our favourite destination in Tianjin was near to where we lived and was called Italian Town. Italian Town was a block of fake cobbled streets lined with restaurants that served German beer in 1L barrels and shops that sold Chinese looking souvenirs. There was a fountain in the centre of Italian Town and my wife and I took a photograph on her phone. In the photo we’re kissing underneath the falling water. Its cliché but beautiful and was the most important photograph that we ever managed to take. When I look at it now I feel like not speaking to anyone for days.

It was suggested to me that I get a new dog, since I had been here a year and have not really made any significant connections. I visited a breeder, who gave me green tea and told me to come and meet the dogs. All of the dogs were corgis, so I asked if the breeder if she only bred corgis and she said that she didn’t understand why I’d asked the question. I bent down next to one of the dogs to introduce myself and it looked back at me, emitting a very clear message.

“You’re going to use me as practice, to work through your own shit, aren’t you?” The dog said.

“No. Probably.”

“Do’t use me for practice please,” The dog said and so I left it and told the breeder that the tea had made me feel nauseous, which was technically true.

The closed circuit security camera footage of the guard being blown away the glass doors is too brief to be properly understood. It lasts only four seconds long and so makes people think of animated stickers or gifs and so appears as something to be played on an endless loop until the movement behind what it is that you’re watching becomes distanced and abstracted so far out of context that it is then a singularly involved thing. It says nothing about the man whose death the camera recorded, or anything about what it felt like to be close at that point. It says nothing about the heat, the rising fire.

I tell her on the last day we spend together is the same thing I tell everyone who askes. I say that my wife and I crawled down the stairwell on our chests, after the blast. That there was smoke like earth that was burying us.

I go shopping for the week and instead of buying the chicken that I had promised my therapist I would buy I went to a specialist butcher and asked if they killed birds on site. When he told me that they did it nearby I asked if I could watch it happen. The man behind the counter said that no I couldn’t be there, but promised me that the creature died humanely and with only a little pain and I told him that I didn’t care. I left without buying anything to eat and when the following day my therapist asked if I had bought and eaten the chicken I lied and said that I had forgot. I said that if she asked me to do anything like that again I would stop coming and all but disappear. She agreed that she wouldn’t. Then I stop going anyway.

What I tell her on the last day we spend together is the same thing I tell everyone who askes. I say that my wife and I crawled down the stairwell on our chests, after the blast. That there was smoke like earth that was burying us. It made sure that we couldn’t stand. Many other people died in our building say, which is probably true, but at the time I didn’t care. I didn’t want my wife to die, so we crawled on our chests until we got outside, then we lay in the bushes and both of us cried. The floor outside was sprinkled with glass, as an army of alarms signalled to one another. The whole city sounded like a giant, screaming child. I don’t tell her that the dog managed to escape and that we don’t know how, because if I tell her this, she will fixate on this detail as somehow miraculous and try to ignore hundreds of people who died around us. If I mention the dog, people look for a way out of the story, so I don’t anymore.

When people reply by saying that you could see the explosion from space, I ask them who cares. That an astronaut could have looked down and seen what was happening to us, doesn’t matter to me at all. I tell them that all the astronauts in the world can go fuck themselves and then I usually leave the conversation and don’t come back.

I have become remarkable purely because of the fact that I am not dead, when most people believe that I should be.

My wife now agrees to Skype with me once a week. I don’t tell her that she is remarkable because I want her life to be defined by better things. She tells me that she has renamed the dog and given it a Chinese name that I cannot pronounce. I ask what it is, and this is only the second most pointless question that I have heard in the last two days. She tells me the dogs new name and I say that I like it, then we end the conversation by waving and saying goodnight.


Featured artist: Yuri Andries

Jobless in Nottingham, James Kramer in Left Lion

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James Kramer rants from the gutter towards the stars in the latest instalment of “Notes From the Middle Kingdom” in Nottingham’s Left Lion.

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James Kramer seeks work in Nottingham’s Left Lion

James Kramer in Left Lion

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James Kramer returns to Nottingham’s Left Lion in Notes from the Middle Kingdom. This issue, James offers some advice on how to keep warm via some ancient (and modern) Chinese techniques.

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Notes from the Middle Kingdom, Keeping Warm China Style

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a misplaced article: Mid-Autumn

As previous entries show, I have been writing for Left Lion for a while now. However, a recent article, due to no ones fault in particular, wasn’t able to make it onto the website. So, I’ll stick it up here as an aside.

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Notes from the Middle Kingdom: Mid-Autumn Mooncakes


This year’s Chinese Mid-Autumn festival falls impertinently on October 4th, thereby awkwardly muscling in on the ‘National Holiday’ week of China. The National Week was explicitly constructed to persuade people to go out and spend some of those hard-earned red 100 RMBs (China’s currency) on such communal activities as climbing the Great Wall in the midst of a gargantuan queue moving at a pace that latter-career Bando would consider insufferably slow, or head into the capital to check out the Forbidden City and generally experiencing what it would be like if personal space was a liberty that you joyously relinquished.

The Mid-Autumn festival is the second largest celebration after the Chinese New Year and one that is celebrated with the giving of obscenely rich cakes and, well, that’s pretty much it. The holiday, like all holidays in China, my wife is quick to remind me, is also associated with family reunions. But at this she rolls her eyes when joining me in trying to track down the actual origin myth behind this holiday in order to explain to you good people here.

upon buying a children’s book of traditional Chinese myths and legends that I brandished it in the street, bearded and crazed, shouting “I’ve found the answers!”

So why is the story so damn difficult to pin down? The legend behind the Mid-Autumn festival is not the only ancient Chinese myth that I’ve struggled to ever receive a clear explanation for. I spent months asking various people why Houyi (a mythical Chinese archer) shot down those pesky other 9 suns that the earth used to have (Dagobah ain’t got shit on us) or why calling someone the number 250 means that they’re dumb. When I finally did get an answer to these fundamentally childish questions my sense of achievement, very much like one of those goddamn suns, would be immediately punctured when the next person I joyfully explained the answer to would tell me that no that’s not it ,but it’s hard to explain… I swear that in the end I could hear my victory deflating like a balloon fart in the wind, and I’m sure that the wind whispered Laowai (foreigner) you will never understand.

This became so ridiculous that I recall upon buying a children’s book of traditional Chinese myths and legends that I brandished it in the street, bearded and crazed, shouting “I’ve found the answers!” So anyway, here goes. The story behind the Mid-Autumn festival is centred around Chang’e, a goddess who lives in the palace on the moon. What Chang’e is doing up there is unclear. In some versions of the story, Chang’e’s husband was unfaithful, so she fled to the moon (sensible enough). In others he’s a power hungry warlord with dynastic ambition. Occasionally she steals magical Chinese medicine (or “magic drug pills”, as my wife refers to them, remember that for later). Occasionally, the husband doesn’t play much of a part, instead Chang’e is driven by her own desires for immortality. Within Taoism, one can ascend to God-like status with enough determination and true grit.

Chang’e is always accompanied by a rabbit, for in China if you look at the moon just right, you can see a bunnyish outline, though the identity of the rabbit changes (we’ll get to that in a minute). Also in some versions they are joined by a fellow called Wu Gang who is forever attempting to chop down a tree. Now, the white rabbit (Jade is white here, not green, stay with me) is in some versions is just Chang’e pet bunny, because you know, bunnies are awesome. Then in other versions he’s possibly for the pot at some point and in others he’s her husband. In a few retellings that I found he’s actually Chang’e, which really throws the whole traditional ‘hero and adorable sidekick’ trope out of the window. What is less unclear is that the rabbit is up there to not only for keep her company but also to make magical Chinese medicine, which he mixes with a mortar and pestle for some reason and not his adorable thumper-like legs. At some times, the bunny also side-lines into Wu Gang’s tree-chopping narrative where Flopsy is sent by Wu Gang’s wife to help him and gets busy stripping the tree of its leaves, which I can only imagine irritates poor old Wu. But this seems more like an unsuccessful spin-off. The rabbit also at times has been known to head down to earth to heal the plague ridden with his magic potion, changing his appearance for each house, hopping (ha!) between that of a young girl, a man and then a woman, because no body’s going to ascribe this little Hazel narrowly-defined gender roles.

Plague is actually an odd but rather fitting segue into the major event of the Mid-Autumn festival, and that is the giving and eating of mooncakes. Mooncakes are the traditional gift for the festival and though they come with different exciting fillings, exterior wise they are all usually round, hockey puck looking things about four inches in diameter and two inches thick. A sweet pasty crust is filled with anything from the chestnut-fed pork of Yunnan, to the diabetic-inducing sweetness of a Suzhou mooncake. Cantonese mooncakes are traditionally the sweeter ones, often including lotus seeds, peanut oil and golden syrup to form the gummy, sugary filling. Oh, and there’s usually a preserved, salted duck yolk in the middle, the yellowish orb of course representing the moon. Now on average your 7cm mooncake carries with it a good 1000 calories, about roughly the same as 3 McChicken sandwiches. Though if this isn’t appealing enough, modern global commerce has the answer, what with Haagen-Dazs, Dairy Queen and Starbucks all producing their own ice-cream filled mooncakes with such enticing flavours as Columbia coffee blueberry macadamia (yes that’s one flavour,) and banana hazelnut chocolate crunch, which read like a 6 year old got left just to screw with the breakfast leftovers.

one that simply read “Be responsible” I wish that all of my confectionary pleasures gave such sage advice. When has Greggs and Confucianism ever come so close to sharing common ground?

Be careful when selecting your mooncake though. In 2014 gutter oil was found to having been used in the production of mooncakes (gutter oil is a fairly common practice in which unscrupulous vendors open up the sewers nearby busy restaurants and scoop up the sludge from underneath and then sift through it and redistill the oil, selling it on at a fraction of the price). Every few years a story breaks about the re-packaging and selling of expired, recycled cakes. That said, even if your mooncake is top notch, you might still come a cropper, for moon cakes are not allowed to pass through many international borders, the UK included, due to the risk of avian ‘flu given that tasty little preserved, but never officially ‘cooked’, duck egg.

Even domestically, mooncakes can be troublesome. Since president Xi Jingping began his widely publicized anti-corruption crackdown, the purchase of mooncakes (via public funds) as gift giving between public officials has been banned. The cost of the packaging of a designer mooncake can often be 50% more than the cost of the cake itself and when you consider that these little snacks can come adorned with abalone, truffles and solid gold reaching prices of up to 42,900 RMB (approximately £4,089) not including an additional pretty little bow of a Rolex watch, their use as instruments of bribery becomes a little clearer. What your budding bureaucrat does is accept the delicious delicacy and then return it a week later, taking in the receipt for cash. Tasty.

Some mooncakes, however, are more patriotic. Alongside the more modern pastry designs of Internet memes (we found a sad frog mooncake and wept with joy) you can also buy mooncakes where the message in short crust pastry reads, “Listen to the Party” or “Be Loyal to the Party.” My own personal favourite, just because of its conciseness, was one that simply read “Be responsible” I wish that all of my confectionary pleasures gave such sage advice. When has Greggs and Confucianism ever come so close to sharing common ground?

So what the hell were you talking about, jumping from plagues to pastries? Well, when defeating the invading Mongol horde of the Yuan, General Chu Yuan Chang managed to recapture an essential town by entering in disguise and handing out mooncakes to the masses. He then spread a rumour that plague had entered the city and the only cure was to eat the sugary treats, kind of like saying a share-sized pack of Krispy Kreme’s is the only sure-fire prescription for your arthritis. But the populace believed him and in slicing open their cakes they found hidden inside instructions on how to let the Ming army into the city to defeat the invaders, heralding the beginning of the rule of Ming, or as I now think of it, the diabetic dynasty

If bricks of calorific terror aren’t your thing, then you can also offer Chang’e gifts of beauty lotions or bath salts. Many head down to the banks of the Qiantang river in Zhejiang province to marvel at the epic tidal surges brought on by the moon. Given that it routinely injures some twenty people each year, this is some real dedication to wave-watching. Though traditionally revellers light lanterns by the river, recently in Hong Kong people have turned to the more eco-friendly option of glow sticks, one source citing that a good 40K were cast into the rivers last year during a celebration titled Fly me to the moon, which adds an element of Sinatra kitsch to the whole escapade.

One festival activity that I must admit I indulge in, is the southern tradition of wearing a pomelo (think giant grapefruit) rind on your head like a gnome’s cap so that Chang’e can spot you from the moon and bless your family (pomelo in Chinese is 柚子 youzi, which sounds similar to ‘have a son’). I also like to put the pomelo hats on my dog and goad my wife into taking pictures of her (the pup). I’m not ashamed of what I do.

with pride

So why is this festival right for the revellers of Nottingham, especially now in the middle of this brutal autumn? Well, let’s do a little detective work and collect some of the facts scattered amongst what I’ve said. There is a white rabbit (You can go with Carroll here or Jefferson Airplane, they both lead down the same hole, just don’t mention the goddamn Matrix), who mixes up “magic drug pills” (I quote my wife) and then dresses in a manor of expressive clothing and heads down to the earth to cure us of our suffering. People collect bath salts and throw glow sticks into the air while exchanging gifts that are not allowed to pass through international borders. Can you see where I’m going with all of this?

Happy Mid-Autumn Festival Nottingham! Have a mooncake on me won’t you?


goddesses child

shucked corn
dries out by the cages

to the dogs who will only
back away from my father’s

the buckled red gate
a five pointed star
bowed to the ground

inside nothing
but dead peach trees,
a barn, a howling mouth

from the north side
of the mountain
my mother guides my hand

this is what we
used to own
she says, before
we leave
to sweep out
the temple floor




Never stood in gardens
nor walked stone bridges,

we rode the subway
but always apart.

a decorated apartment,
kept animals we
didn’t want.

ate separate at
the same table
when we fought.

Back of a taxi
on route to a hospital
Thought that you
were dying

I believe now you knew
who was already gone




I have been a stranger
to this place for so long
each grain, seems lonesome.

thought that men
through traveling grew,
living abroad I shrank.
tore great sections
of myself away.

walking once more
along the beach, as I
can breathe again.

I’ve laid roots
in another time zone,
a continent alien
to my own.

a home
in a land that’s poison.
when will it demand across the ocean,
I must return again




outdoors before
it’s seven in Melbourne.
I am masked
like a trooper, spray paint
scent in the air.

dazzle rain of
multifarious hues
across an easterly wall.
a community swimming pool.

I paint as children
walk on, held by
their mothers
eyes caught
copperheads curl under
kookaburra wings.

I remove
reveal a crystalline sky
turn solid mass
to firmament.

it is not I,
have never been,
nor would know
where to find
community pool.

I have only seen
a photograph, that a
third party mailed me.

you are not in it,
I know the artist to be you.
you are my brother,
my younger soul.

it has been
so long since
we’ve been together.

I wonder how it is
apart we’ve grown so old.




on a Hong Kong
island, I met
Jackie Chan
he insisted that
I call him Sing Long.

I found him hiding
in amongst a clump
of mangrove trees

he looked afraid,
asked I tell no one
he was there.

his son had been
arrested because
of drugs. he was waiting for all
the protests to
blow over,

I promised I would keep
his secret.
instead of posting
on social media
I had found Jackie Chan
in amongst the mangroves.

I bought a fifth
of Indian whisky
and drank with
Sing Long.

until Jackie got
too drunk,
and broke my arm.


buys birds
the street
sold in wooden cages.

my father does,
every time he’s away.

birds are born sickly
my mother tells him.

he buys them
all the same.

Use those little
wooden cages
to store pencils
once the birds have died.

I wish
my father would stop buying them.
burying them makes me sad.

but at least the sound
of birdsong tells me,
that he’s home.



Featured artist: Richelly Olivira