blue sock pink sock

i'm sitting in a park.  ten minutes to mid-day.  i'm early for an appointment.  the sun is good.

 

the snow on the bushes is melting, a contrast of white and green. 

 

i squint, in satisfaction, letting the sun wrap me. 

 

the sky is blue and tall, my thoughts afar.

 

the doubt in my heart.  it is melting, too.

 

winter, a sunny winter day, is a good time to sort things straight,

 

to realise how simple things can be.

she lies there, so quiet and so small i almost walked past without noticing her.  but there she is, covered in the blanket that pretty much hides her underneath.  i stopped.  i was attracted by her eyes.

 

in another room, in a city that is very far, i saw a pair of eyes that had the same shine.  i often wonder this shinny black, can they be seen in the deepest of night?  i just teased her by standing near, and looked and smiled to her.  when i moved, her eyes followed.  for such a tiny body, the eyes were too big to ignore.  and as i said, the shine.  it seemed that they contained all the energy and life and hope.  the black marble.  the eyes with so much concentration they followed my moves i found myself unable to disconnect my attention. 

 

i reach out and touch her fingers, like i am carefully playing a piano, one finger after another.  she looks at her fingers.  she looks back at me with surprise and curiosity.  her hands are cold.  my eyes warm up.  i remember the trick my dad did to me when i was a baby.  i lower my face and make the 'woooo' noise and, 'boom', i gently touch the tip of her nose. 

 

standing there awkwardly with my inability to move away, i bore her staring without any defence.  i let her look through my skull and into my heart.  i took her out of that bed that she'd been in for who knew how long.  i held her in my left arm.  she, too, looked surprised.  she looked around to examine if she was dreaming.  i gently rocked her.  she blinked in satisfaction.  she returned her attention back at me, no, my eyes.  she looked happy, but at the same time, sad.  how could such a young life bear such complicated emotions?

 

she smiles.  i touch her nose tip again.  her lips widen more.  after several 'boom's i start to tickle her chubby cheeks.  she giggles.  she giggles! she has lovely voice.  she responses well to my sound.  she closes her eyes when my hand gets closer, she smiles louder when my teasing sound gets closer.  then she opens her eyes.  the flame in the middle of a lake, its dazzling brightness has its charm that hypnotises me, that if it extinguishes, my heart cracks.  i can see myself in her eyes, taking the whole space of her eyes.  one is enough.  one with a hundred percent devotion, concentration and, love.  but i will leave, eventually.  who is to guard the flame? 

 

i held her in my left arm, like i was holding a wondrous treasure.  she was a treasure.  a treasure that the owner decided to desert.  her left hand held my finger.  her hand was so small it could only get hold of a finger.  but how she clenched.  was it wrong to be desperate to be held, to be owned, to be cherished?  she locked her eyes on me, no matter where we moved to.  that was all she had, to chain a bond to a possibility.  did i want to bring her home?

 

now she starts to move her feet, her legs.  she is ovbiously excited.  the flame in her eyes, it spreads energy across the body.  it moves, it warms up.  the heart beats with melody.  she moves her head around to try to find someone to share the joy.  'look what i have!  i have what i should have but thought i would never have again.' 

 

she dances in her babish way, so full of genuine hapiness and hope.  she turns her head.  i have noticed a while ago, the lack of a ear on her right side.  the lack of one, ear, on such beautiful little creature.  a flaw that made her special, but was treated as a fatal mistake, HER mistake that deprived her right to be the one and only.  now she is lying here, so happy with a temporary tease from a stranger woman whom although tears in her eyes, will leave soon.  now she is dancing to celebrate a rare attention, in this cold room, when really, she should be held in a pair of warm wings, next to a soft bosom.  she can hear, as perfectly as any other babies, the best of all music, the sweet humming of her mother.

 

 

november frost jumps, it bites.  it hid in the shade and boom, it surprises, with a vicious smile on the face. 

i used to hate, i used to loathe winter.  but now i'm inclined to a compromise.  it's inevitable.  it's a test.  now, it's more of a routine.  

but in the night, before i dive into the warm bed, my eyes drift to that stone, lying quietly on the side table, perfectly content, lost in one of its memories back in the south, where there were birds, and bamboo forests, and round mountains, and a clear river that sings.  my smooth stone, it closes its eyes in the soft lamp light, glowing with a thin layer of mist that it gained from my touching - i held it in my hands through mountains and clouds.  it nested in my veins it danced with my pulse it bathed in my body temperature.  

my stone's glow grows thicker the lamp light, dimmer.  a humming somewhere.  a raftman is punting ahead.  the sun perches on his muscle lines and rolls down every row he makes.  the raft gently rocks with his rhythm, the white wave sneaking in  the gaps of the bamboo head.  his wife is sitting at the end of the raft, humming mindlessly.  she lets the wind play with her hair and secretly looks at the reflection of her man.  but he looks straight ahead and wouldn't move his head.  

the man points at one mountain by the river and excited tells me the name of it and what it looks like.  he looks back at me with a genuine smile.  i use all my effort but only understand half.  the place i live is too far from his accent.  but i nod.  and i look.  i smile because this is a place where imagination is appreciated.  but the man is already busy finding the next mountain to show.  

mountains after mountains, stories one after another,  my imagination she wakes up, she runs and swings.  i see the past, i involve in the myths, i witness the instant, i admire the eternal.  i talk.  i listen.  i smile.  i wave.  i greet.  i open my mouth close my eyes.  i leave my hand in the water and let it flow.  the water dashes through my arm into my body, washing its colours off, conquering it into transparency.

i open my arms and i evaporate in the heat.  i rise.  i regain my colours and they grow brighter and brighter.   i descend.  i'm in a pair of turquoise shoes with flowers on. i'm on a bicycle. the wind binds my hair and exposes my forehead in the sun. more and more sun gets into my head when it's too much it explodes.  huge energy waves shock my body, giving endless power to my legs, they feel so light to peddle.  i cycle up in the air, cutting open the wind.  i ride faster and faster, into the brightness of infinite. 

 

you rule if you stretch your body.  stretch! 

 

the contradiction is that you can't really free your body like that when you are not sure what to do.

 

so there goes the old chinese saying 'practice makes perfect' (the translation doesn't sound chinese) from that old oil vendor who could pour oil into a bottle through the tiny hole in the middle of a coin. 

 

i practise and practise.

 

i'm not afraid of water, that much.

 

i can swim now.  not a master but without any aid. 

 

i'm fucking chuffed!

 

 

now he starts to cry.  tears, big real tears, run down the cheeks.  he sees me standing beside him.  he throws his arms around my neck and buries his head on my shoulder, crying.  he is two and a half -- he is tired and it's getting late and it should be time for home.  where is mummy?  he does not want that man and that woman whom have been so nice to him for the whole day from the morning.  he does not care there are two big kids there looking at him, worried.  he wants home, he wants mummy.

 

i say to him, 'hush, hush.  look, mom is here; dad is here.  this is your brother and this is your sister.'  he does not listen.  his mom offers her hands, he shuns from them and moves his head to my other shoulder.  dad's offer does not work, either.  he chooses me because i am the only one whom he can understand; the rest, they speak something weird.

 

he had a great day.  he came to a place he'd never been -- really big buildings, very broad roads.  he saw this man and woman, they hugged him and looked really happy to see him.  he hugged them and kissed them on the cheeks, because people always told him he was cute and he liked kissing people on the cheeks.  there were this boy and girl who stood behind the adults and looked at him, too.  later, they started to play with him. 

 

he started to run, so much fun.  he was given a new set of clothes and lots and lots of snacks.  the man and the woman plus that boy and girl are running after him, bringing him what he needed, wanted, felt curious about.  he saw me and he saw J.  he recognised us.  we went to a park so he could run as he liked.  he carried his little bag.  he got in his push chair.  he got out and pushed his push chair.  he ran up the slope he flew down.  he ran up to other children and distributed his food. 

 

he got so happy and excited.  he yelled things, things he had been learning, hearing, speaking; things he had been expressing, requesting,  instructed, consoled.  he has some problem with his lips and chin.  one operation did not do all the work to rehabilitate.  he speaks in a way only his mommy can understand perfectly, mommy who cooks his favourite dishes and who told him stories and read him books and sang him lullabies. 

 

he ran and he jumped and played and yelled.  when the sun was ready to set he was ready to go home.  he quietened down, finally.  he walked, holding the woman's hand.  people told him she was his mom.  she has warm and soft hands.  he likes holding them.  he held her hand, walking.  he felt tired he put his thumb in the mouth.  he started to cry.  'i want to go home' he cried, 'i want my mommy.'

 

he would't let go.  i have to hold him, his tiny body in my arms.  i keep telling him 'this is your mom'. it does not seem to work at all.  the dad stokes his head.  he quiets down.  the dad took him from my arms.  he starts to wail.  i know it is time for me to go.

 

 

what does he feel when he knows that this morning is the last time to see his mommy (foster mother), that he is gone for good?  how does the foster mother feel, last time when she mentioned about this day she had tears running down?  what is the motivation for the new parents to have him?  who is there in the new land for him to dive in the arms of?  will he find someone who has simliar looks there?  what about when he gets lonely?  what about when he grows up and comes back and feels like an outsider?  what if he feels like an outsider throughout the new life? 

 

the naughty moaning, the cheeky smile, the little frowning, the eyes, the tears.  i walk under the summer trees, too early to have their leaves fall, all over the ground.  there is thunder roaring somewhere afar.  it's getting late.  i'm heading home.

There once was a hen.  Only days it was after she lost a bit of that fluffiness of a chick, and became slightly slimer.  One day she felt a shiver, and the body started to tremble.  Before she even had the time to think, an egg came out of her.  She turned around, and stepped back.  In a safe distance, she stared at it, completely couldn't believe it was from her body.  But soon after the shock, she realised that she was alone in the woods, with no one around.  Millions of questions came up her mind and flooded her:  should she tell anyone?  Who should she turn to?  What should she do about the egg?  Is it going to be a chicken soon?  How could she explain to others why she had this egg? .... But the question she thought about the most was: why did she have an egg?  She was bewildered by her body - so much unknown.

 

Being extremely busy with the swirling questions, the little hen didn't have any time nor ability to sort out a solution.  But time went by so fast that very soon, she remembered that she should really head back since it was getting late.  Reluctant to abandon the egg, she carefully stuffed it under her belly.  Thank god she had lost some weight recently, due to the quick growth.  Now the stuffed bulk made her look like a fluffy chick again.  But she really had no time to think.

 

upon her arrival to her family, her mom happened to be making her way past her.  'Ah, look, my baby girl has fed herself well -- how chubby!'  She lovingly patted her and gave her a quick peck before she hurried to take care of her 14 newly hatched chicken.  The little hen looked at her mom's back and closed her mouth with questions.

 

(to be continued)  

the street under the dome of the night sky, a pair of white shoes, hitting on the road with a rhythm, slow, steady yet somehow a different beat.  the density of the darkness is meek, pleasantly transparent and light.  

 

the legs, detaching from the two crowds on both sides, a horizontal line of brusie is burning, the scar of silence.  the arrival of the streamline on platform nr.8 still managed to bring a shock.  like a dolphine.  the splash of rain dirt on the beak,  traces of a traveller.

 

the night is a disguise, she makes every city look just like the one you are familiar with.  the dancing neons, the corners of streets, the queitly sliding taxis, the tall shadows of buildings.  the familiarity brings a sense of safty.  strolling.  staring at the passing of your own reflection on the ground.  it goes long and short and long.  it follows the street lamps.

 

the purple skirt under the glowing east entry sign.  how easy is it to be spotted and recognised.   in a constantly dashing around crowd, maybe standing still is the best way.  but the socks choose to move.  you can't see stars here.  afar, a group of overly grown skyscrapers are grouping together to work out a plot.

 

how much distance is it to differentiate intimacy and friendliness.  what should we do to take trust.  how far is it between caring and jealousy.  to what degree should we turn our eyes away.  where shall we stand in.  how deep should we get involved.  where should we just be invisable. 

 

how close is the future.  how far can you go in believing.  how well do you know yourself.  how much are you scared of facing her.  how much do you care.  how much do you tolerate her, spoil her, blind her, instigate her, comfort her, encourage her, warn her, urge her, stop her.  

 

which face do you prepare to meet the past, which to the present.  who doesnt like happy endings yet do humans have a tendency to be appealled to tragedies.   how much are we linked, connected.  how much can we influence other people's lives, people that we've never met.  how much can our lives be affected.  how strong are we and is the stronger the better.

 

questions.  the arrows turn their back.  it is, surprisingly enough, not that bad to be asked questions.  passive as it is, it takes more effort than i imagined.  is hiding conscious or habitual.  does communication make better understanding.   opening up does make a better change.  for now.  that's all i know.  that's probably all i need to know.

 

daylight is dazzling through the fingers.  black suits the occasion.  words sink down with the tea leaves.  the smoke softens the hard light.  a breakfast on the go. 

 

white butterflies dominate the countryside.  it is the end of the coleflower episode, they are bound in bundles, lying there like aged women, retrospecting their bright yellow youth.  peasants are already busy with the next planting.  each in the middle of too large a field, remote from each other. 

 

i walk in the sun, through the crowd, in the rain, under the moonlight.  the music is on.  black box recorder causes physical pain from the loneliness of england.  time is long gone yet the feeling is haunting.  how short and long is a life.  i'm walking, among my companions, across the city, above the roof, past the memory, beyond the horizon.

 

into my dream.

 

good night.

music

 

music

 

music i need.

 

please, friends, provide me some good music, recommendations, web sites, links, anything.  the sound of office surrounding is just horrifying.

 

help!

*transport

Ferry was free from amoy to Gulang Yu.  you only need to pay 8 kuai to come back.  the first day we paid 15 kuai going there (because we were not creative enough to imagin free ferry rides, damn!) .  being the stupid tourists, of course you are seated on a tacky flashy boat with well-built shipmen in uniforms (wow) renting telescopes to 10-year-olds, so that they can see part of Tiaw an.  why do they need to see ta iwan?  the loudspeaker told us about the surroundings, with quite intersting English translation, which was 90% fast-forwarded, just when you start to get into it.

 

ah, mixed feeling towards buses!

 

after several attempts of making full use of the city's public transport system, with fair success, we decided to risk a long ride.  the limited choice led us to be patiently waiting for Bus 503.  oh good old 503, reminds me of my university life back in Beijing.  the shabby little bus stopping very so often in front of the university gate, shouting for customers for a 1-kuai ride to the underground.  anyway, this 503 would take us all the way from the southeast point of the city to Marco Polo Plaza in the west (of course that has to be the 'west'), after only, 14 stops.

 

taking all the time and effort we spent on this 503 bus and then walking in the winter chill for a while, it was not a great surprise that we enjoyed our very late afternoon lunch (nothing before that).  thanks to our good education in manners, we did not eat the posters on the wall with pasta and bread.  but after a nice tea and post-lunch chat, we rejoiced with new gained energy, and faith in buses, again. 

 

i studied the route in the bus stop.  then decided to go to the opposite bus stop across the road.  then decided to go across the road.  then

back to this side of the road.  after THREE times of crossing the lovely broad road, we hopped on a nice bus 76.  not many people on it at all, we even got seats to enjoy the night view at ease.  it was indeed a pleasant journey, until when the sweet lady in the loudspeaker said 'next stop, the terminal', and it was a name that was not the Ferry we were going, well, we thought we were going.  we sat on the right bus but the OPPOSITE direction!!  i couldn't bring myself to tell Mr T what happened.  my knees were softened by laughter. after getting off the bus i could barely stand staight, wiping tears from laughing.  with all the effort and caution!!  now we are in the middle of NOWHERE!

 

on the final day we were still brave enough (stubborn more appropriately) to take Bus 27 to the airport.  early it was for us to get up and got to the Ferry two hours and 20 minutes before the flight.  long it was to wait for the bus which BEFORE that day was ALWAYS on the show.  it took its sweet time going to every possible cornor of the city and then parked a mile away from the airport, after passing by it.  we were not late, given the fact that the lady at the 'fast pass' let us go.  she came all the way to the boarding gate when our flight starts to board, telling us they needed to open the luggage because 'there are some bottles of liquid in', which apparently enough (to me) were shampoo and showering gel.  we were the last to board.  but it's ok, we were on row 7.  

alright, 'amore' is too strong for amoy.  amoy is the peace in mind.  it represents a life with strolling amongst the silent old buildings, writing in the sand anything coming up to your mind, drinking from a fresh coconut, eating seafood on the beach, lying on the grass in the park, staring at your reflection in the lake, making a wish in front of the buddha... ah, and getting up very late.

 

yes, amoy is a place to relax. 

 

*food

of course food was one of the strongest motivations for going to amoy.  i was born in an inland city so i never had too many chances to taste sea food.  Newcastle is quite close to the sea (well the whole britain is an island isn't is), but surprisingly enough it has a sea food market that is so tiny it looks almost pathetic.  amoy is the first place for me to have unlimited access to loads of real sea food.  you can always see countless red buckets with all kinds of live creatures from the surrounding sea: big crabs with orange dots, big and fat pink shrimps (which we were told was called 'squilla' 虾蛄), scallops, clams, mussels, cockles, beautiful red trumpet shells, eels and various fish, the majority was very challenging to give names.  for the first time of my life i learnt that there are great differences between big and small oysters and that they could be so cheap!  we drowned ourselves in the overwhelming joy of sea food feasts, tasty tasty tasty, until...

erk, i feel sick talking about sea food.  i simply had too much!

 

but the italian restaurant we went to on the cafe street near Marco Polo Plaza was 'molto buono', very good, indeed!  'GEO GEO' was the name, with nice round green sheds over the windows and pretty garden with pink flowers, and a balcony looking over the sea, which was only too chilly to sit on in winter.  they put three big posters on the wall, with all possible kinds of spaghetti , pasta and bread.  truely amazing that the italians have such imagination and creativity.  last month i was making a cliche joke about marco polo 'stealing' noodles and chinese bread, brought them back to italy and made spaghetti and pizza.  Franz said, again, who knows if it was marco polo who BROUGHT spaghetti and pizza to china and then chinese people changed them to noddles and bread!  fair point!

 

 

  

i live down south of the city, in a development zone.  i have to say i am quite pleased with the environment and surroundings and all, the only thing is that it is pretty far away from the city centre.  granted that i'm not a big fan of the city centre (at all), most of my friends are there, hence the social events there.  it takes time and money and courage to go that far, especially in a winter night, when it is b*tt-freezing.  sometimes i just chicken out the last minute - it's much easier to just sit at home and be cozy.

 

i live in a city where it is quite close to some major cities.  it has long distance buses and trains and flights to connect to pretty much anywhere.  but the extra effort of having to commute to one place before waiting for and taking another vehicle to go to the place i want to go to just makes it a touch less desirable.  'come to tian jin,' she says, 'vivian is on her way.' yes, vivian is going from beijing.  she can just go to the railway station and catch whichever train and within an hour she is there. 

 

i live in a country where i can go to all places, only with great difficulty, in applying for a visa (i don't want to elaborate on how much of a useless passport i have), booking a return flight, entering and leaving a foreign country (interrogation and all that welcoming atmosphere).  i was asked, in a rather looking down attitude, what my name was, by a snobbish french airport staff in Charles de Gaulle, him holding my humble passport like a  piece of sh*t.  by bringing my enquiries about the procedure of how to go to Mexico in shanghai consulate, because it is impossible to get it either from the almighty internet or by calling all available consulates, i provoked such high suspicion that Mr consul himself asked to talk to me, face to face.  'what's the reason for you to go to Mexico?' he asked. i told him about in-depth travelling.  he nodded like i was an apprentice con woman bumping into a master.  'yes, that's very good. but, what's the REAL reason to go to Mexico?' -- like an experienced hunter waiting behind the trap for the ignorant young prey to dive into it.  how many people in the world want so hard to illegally migrate to Mexico? 'a lot of people want to go to Mexico, a lot!' hot on the migration list! he even suspected my accent 'where did you learn such good english?' trust me, it was not a compliment. to him, it could very possibly be a tool for my con art.  i told him i just came back from britain as a master student and if i would like to migrate, at least that could be an easier shot.  then he softened his voice.  after all the 30 minutes interrogation, he was using his charm to apologize for the inefficiency of his staff in answering normal telephone enquiries, which costs a bomb for the dialer.  now i was a lady, i was a tourist, a person with dignity.

 

my friends, when you ask me out for a downtown craziness, when you ask me to go to your city for a short break, when you seduce me with a nice exotic destination for a foreign land adventure, please spare a thought of how much i am torn between the desire to go and the location of the piece of land underneath my feet, in the middle of nowhere.

 

2:34, on a sunday afternoon. 

 

the room falls back to silence. i sit by the table, letting time lead my blood, pounding my eardrum.  then when my blood quiets down, i hear the simple repeating coming from upstaris:

 

'ready?'

 

'no!'

 

'ready?'

 

'no!'

 

i try to tell from the faint noise.  children. playing hide and seek.  how can you hide well if you constanatly talk to 'the cat'?  i find myself shaking head.

 

after ten times 'ready no', finally i heard a small sound going 'yes!'  then the sound of moving chairs and footsteps.  seek.  hide!

 

my afternoon drifts like the lazy water in the lake in beihai park.  my university sunday, a lazy and chilled out afternoon with banny in beihai.  casual chat on the bench by the river.  absolutely no topic whatsoever.  we looked in the shimmery light on the water surface, so drowsy. so we moved our eyes to the white bell tower opposite us, in a distance, standing upside down on top of the hill, for years and years.

 

people ask how are you.  'how are you?' people say, without expecting too much to follow.  just an excuse to talk, an ice-breaker, a hello, or a nosy signal?  i normally say everything is fine and i apologize for having nothing more to offer.  people seem to settle down and become comfortable.  no spice to stir gossip.  does good life really contain no stories?  or it is just the reluctance to try?  or simple laziness?

 

he mentions about time.  i reply with distance.  two frienimies; sometimes holding hands, sometimes standing against each other.  the first and last years of our twenties.  what do we do? have we put any fight in it?  similar conversations, too similar.  the past mirrors an inauspicious possiblity.  the existance of presence.  the reminder of existance. i ponder the necessity.  i ponder the pondering of necessity.

 

this christmas, episodes playing and new.  we eat and we sing. we panic and we save. we stay, we explain. we company. we bear pain and we get tired. we collapse and we sleep, sleep.  sleep helps.  we fall ill and we let go voice. voice is part of appearance, isn't it? we wine and dine. we drink. we see the past we forget. we hug and we laugh. what does it mean? we flirt and we conquer. what does it mean? we go home we sleep. again.

 

how much is real and come directly from the bottom of heart? how much is contemperary, manipulating, soothing, coping and misleading? how much is social, friendly, suvival, protective, peace-seeking, covering and concealing?  and how much, indeed, is direct, precise, explosive, oppsed, not caring consequences and influence, bold, bloody conflict between fist and bones?

 

he asked how i concentrate on him.  i didnt reply. the answer may be impossible to give; it may be obvious. how do people live. how do people continue. how do we make mistakes. how do we express. how to make up. how to conquer. how to surrender, to control. to give up. to get tired. to face. to shun. to learn, to realise, to forgive, to forget, to smile.

 

how do we get on to live?

 

the night goes deep.  i find myself surprised to hear the screaming excitement from above.  when was the last time i had fun for a whole afternoon without being interrupted?  where did my childhood end?  where is our youth going?

with no attempt to attack the idea of wearing a suit to work i'm just thinking.  can't be bothered to start the lecture of how much of a leisure city hefei is and you can pretty much wear anything to work, oh well, as far as you cover your body with conservative style and materials.  maybe i have the wrong concept/education of suits but i do have this feeling of distance from suited bodies.  formatily, i guess, it represents.  i always like an old and soft overcoat, the calmness and maturity it carries, as well as the ease to approach.

 

 

 

我终于受够了黑色，受够了OL装逼。it's just not me! 所以我买了pink,我买了blue——哈，又回到了这个页面的名字上来。天气好的让人觉得拘谨，觉得不安，觉得得到了太多不该得到的，开始谈忐忑起来，忸怩起来，哈哈，我喜欢！

 

太阳能烧了好多热水，每天晚上都能安心的慢慢的洗很舒服的澡。冬天也开始变得有一点点慈眉善目了，不得了。

 

加上一段八月的日记吧，关于向黑色屈服。说明了改变的绝对性和决定的暂时性。

 

8月13号

 

对他说我想我想他。他说他知道他想我。

 

又怎么样呢。我的解释是我还有要自己走过的时间。我需要勇敢和漠然。这可以准确的描述我的理由吗？

 

我恐惧去想他。因为我恐惧去想他时候的超然和离间。我恐惧去想这种超然和离间产生的原因：是我自我保护的工具，还是深层体会的落实。

 

我们的冷漠。我们的习以为常。我们的视而不见。我们的漫不经心。有刺痛的感觉在心上，只是有时。在深深的夜，黑暗的光亮之中。在背和背之间加宽的距离中。什么时候，火会暗，会灭？

 

想到未来，和计划，和面对的雄心，和内心的却步。犹豫、自问、考虑。什么是未来－－逐渐临近的当下。生活，日子一天天过，一天天重复。重复、不同、重复不同、重复。我在变大，变松，被地心吸引。

 

盛夏开放，在无限伸展的夜里，在独自行走的路上，在摆动的动机可以的影子尖上，目光失焦了。

 

既然抓不到什么，又何苦伸手。空手、伸手；知道空，还是伸。

 

记得以前形容说话象水中的鱼：吐出泡泡，声音模糊隔阂，泡泡炸开，瞬间全无。我口若悬河，我句句珠玑，我妙语连篇。我其实在浪费时间。

 

我拒绝了我推崇的随性。我拒绝了黑夜的私密的展示。我在关灯的瞬间闭上眼睛。我在开放的决定之前选择了后退，选择了关合，选择了避世，选择了保守，选择了懦弱。

 

我觉得我在改变。

 

我觉得我又回到了从前。

 

我还是讨厌黑色。

 

我买了好多黑色的衣服。

 

11月5号，天气居然热。中午的时候迫于太阳过度的热情，我只好把我的毛衣外套脱下只剩件薄薄的T恤。天很蓝。

 

我骑着我的粉红色小电在无一人的路上开，面前是一片绿色的诱人草地。想到了在草地上坐，想到了出去走走，散游，闲逛。最后还是没停。没有合适的人相伴同行，好天气又如何呢。

 

是在出租车上听到的几乎是现场的报道。司机尤其把广播开得大。全球华语广播网。我出了会神在想应该怎么翻译，net还是web？在听他们说对华关系，没什么感觉；伊拉克撤、对拉美，听见委内瑞拉的名字，听见全世界，听见和平，听见期待。听见希望。听见了自己加重的呼吸声。居然激动。

 

想到读政治的时候对自己说真正的政治让人认识到大家都是相关联的；政治涉及到生活的所有－－只要在社会生活中。与其逃避，不如参与。于是不以自己的激动为耻。觉得是在经历一个历史时刻了。

 

下午休闲，在整理我的信箱。说整理不过是浏览，删删重复保存的文件罢了。看到2005年圣诞后关于政治观点的给柏的信。回味到了一个关心世界、联系人类的自己的激情和青春。可笑是有点可笑，但天真得可爱。有梦想有抱负，自己以前也很是自豪过的。几天前柏前去第一线支持大选的豪言壮语的临行誓言，我的嘲笑。我们相距甚远了。吗？

 

我发了短信给他。庆祝。我说我在出租上，但是司机开广播很大。整个世界屏住呼吸。现在人们至少有了机会去希望。他说他在俄亥俄，所以最先知道。他说我爱你。哪儿跟哪儿呀！即时短信，我还是觉出了相近。世界是个村庄－－德国人说的。

 

 

已经保号了。

但有可疑短信就当是笑话，不要认真。

另外，如果你方便，留个你最新的号码。

巴别塔之犬 / The Dogs of Babel

[美]卡罗琳.帕克丝特  何致和译  南海出版公司 2007年 海口

P44

     不知怎的,我们的话题落到了梦境上。露西告诉我，她从小就在床边准备一本梦的笔记，每次一醒来，就会把做过的梦写在笔记本上。她说，她有时不免这么想，只要看了这本笔记的人就会明了她的一切，知道她所惧怕的事和古怪的幻想，以及所有她醒来时去不了的地方。她告诉我，在她才只有四、五岁大的某个夜里，她遇到一味国王，因为她躲在他的宝座底下而对她大声喊叫。另有一个晚上，那是她十二岁的时候，她发现自己全身赤裸出现在母亲招待客人的晚宴上。她还告诉我几个最鲜明的梦，这些梦都偶尔会再度出现，而且每次都一样令她惊心动魄。她像开清单似的列举出她的梦，提供零碎的片段让我拼凑出她的一生。她四肢并用爬过一间广阔的地下室。她看见一匹马被不断切割，直到成为一堆血肉的组合，但这匹马仍活着，还会呼吸，而且睁着大大的眼睛看着她。她生了孩子，但孩子没了父亲。她从很高的地方坠下。她的名字每天都会发生改变。她在床上开垦了一个花园，醒来时发现自己的身体已被繁茂的玫瑰、雏菊和常青藤紧紧包裹缠绕。她在一栋大房子里漫游，但嘴中充满了碎玻璃。她在水底下游泳，一路游到英国，一次也不需要浮上来换气。她的手臂变长，而双腿莫名其妙变短。她走进冰淇淋店，点了一种名叫“暴怒”的口味。这种冰淇淋的颜色红中带绿，冰凉、扎实又丰富。即使到现在她都还记得那杯冰淇淋的味道。她还告诉我，有一次她梦见自己的牙齿一颗接一颗掉下来；还有一次，梦见自己忽然有了神力，可以把一个大男人高举过头。她在一座大教堂结婚，但还没见到新郎，教堂的墙壁就纷纷倾圯倒塌了。她梦到过在田野上被恶狗狂追，梦到过一种可怕的疹子突然从头到脚长满身体。她赤脚走过街道，面前出现长长的草丛。她被人追逐，却无从动弹。在梦中，她也曾见过一群蝴蝶飞来停满全身的景象......

     那天相当温暖，我们把车窗降下来开着车，让熏风轻拂我握着方向盘的双手。现在，我回味那一天，回味那阵清风。让当时的记忆奔流于你的唇舌吧。大声说出来吧，没有人会聆听的。说出“太阳”、“酷热”和“日子”。闭上你的眼睛。回忆那个时刻，那温暖的粉红色日子，露西就在我座位旁边，车里充满了她的声音。好好回忆吧，这一切很快就过去了。

 

p46 我曾听说，有人在动过器官移植手术、接受了别人的心脏、肝脏或肾脏后，对食物或色彩的喜好会突然发生转变，仿佛这个移植近来的器官带来了前主人的记忆而来，仿佛存留了太多过去而必须在新主人身上找到一个位置。我正是用这个方式把露西深植心中。从她在我体内占有一席之地的那一刻起，她便用她的色彩改变我看、我听和我品位的方式，因此现在我反能勉强辨识这个世界过去和现在的差别。我说不出认识她之前的空气的味道，当我走在夜晚的街道时，也说不出这城市的气味。我只有一根舌头和一双眼睛，而且已经很久没再信任过它们了。我没办法说出任何关于迪斯尼乐园的新鲜事，没什么事是你不曾听说或亲眼见过的。我只能说，那个地方是我和露西一起去的。

 

 

     给他打电话，只是想向自己证明一下，他还是那个没事的时候可以不用找理由聊一通的好朋友。

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

it's on 10, then very quickly on 15, 20, then before i realize it, it's going 30.  my hair is dragged by the wind.  my hands are holding tighter.  my eyes keep alert; they look forward, sideways and into the rear mirror from time to time.

 

but my body, my legs my thighs my stomach my face, my body feels good.  such speed.  dangerous but oh such comfort.  the sweetness of passing other riders, of swirling amongst other crazy monsters, of going forward, forward, turning, forward. 

 

it's even better in the night, when there's very few people and very dim light.  the reflections try to seduce me distract me.  the summer night breeze, no, it becomes strong wind in such a speed, it chages to a tyrant, slapping my bare face, scratching my naked arms and legs, pressing on my neck and chest, tearing my collar my skirt.  what a struggle, what a fight!

 

when i have to stop, i hesitate, i ponder.  is walking suitable for me, or is it riding, the perfect speed for my desire?

no longer that available.  this time, it is for real. 

do you feel a thing?

what can a little new life do to you? a champagne was open.

celebration, joy oh!

but then you realize

the real existance of her.

the power of this tiny little thing

can reach out thousands of miles away,

still strong enough to remind you to re-examine yourself,

to feel the weight of responsibility,

to ponder.