july 21 2020
春天在飛船裡
想和妳搬去臺北
在每一個可以偷偷翻墻潛入的露台種滿花花
走過幾個路口就是熱氣騰騰的師大夜市
此刻我們躺在沒有花花的露台上
看著太陽沒有升起來的白色清晨
我們抽著仙女牌香菸
再狠狠吸一口即將溜走的春天
‘一起離開吧’
妳說
白色清晨變成釣竿
妳把魚鉤塗成粉色
‘再殺一個人 我們就走’
妳說
嗶嗶 嗶 嗶嗶 乘坐失重的嬰兒飛船 嗶嗶 嗶嗶嗶嗶 在銀河的轉身的瞬間 嗶 畫上春天的尾巴
嗶嗶嗶嗶嗶
嗶
---- 寫給心愛的幽幽 以及 死去的我們
april 30 2020
bas jan ader – the spirit who disappears at sea
bas jan ader, i’m too sad to tell you 1970 , gelatin silver print, © 2020 the estate of bas jan ader
1976年4月18日,在距愛爾蘭西南海岸約150海裡的位置,西班牙漁船拖網漁船eduardo pondal的船員發現了一個漂浮在水中的物體。當機組人員接近時,他們看到那是一艘小小的帆船。
小小帆船船垂直漂浮,船首完全淹沒。
該船名為海洋浪(ocean waves),屬於巴斯·揚·阿德(bas jan ader)。
根據附著在船體上的藤壺,龐達爾的船長唐·卡斯蒂尼拉·阿爾費朗(don manual castineira alfeirán)得出結論,海洋浪漂流了大約六個月。
人們推測阿德遭遇不幸,但是阿德的屍體至今沒有找到。
一個小女孩兒告訴我說,
阿德是一隻水母。
海洋是他的眼淚。
眼淚消失在暮光。
也許幾個世紀以後,
你會看到他和他的小小帆船航行在裊裊升起的暮光裡,
從明⽇的美夢
降臨到昨日的仙境。
又或者那將是一個告別炎熱的傍晚,
烏雲翻湧,暴雨將至。
april 22 2020
w r ï t î n g
the desire of writing,
often pumps out from the journey of traveling somewhere, by feet, by train, by air,
it happens at the in-between-moment,
or the moment of not precisely knowing where you are,
in a space dislocated
in a bar with 90s disco music
in the moving light reflecting from a disco ball,
or simply, it comes to her at the moment of a lost stare,
innocent, dislocated, rambles in silence, in a displaced yawn,
with
a blurry image of someone, almost inaudible
the writing has to be addressed to somebody
be it an imaginary friend
or a forgotten lover
or the self, who is confused by the early falling darkness of a winter day in kraków, in a language she does not understand,
then it comes the yarning of writing...
but why?
how so?
and why?
why not?
she wonders while she looks away,
her hands support her chin, she is almost ready to sink deeply into her thoughts,
yet
it is exactly the moment when such desire drifting into the milky way,
her friends call,
‘are you ready to go home?’
her pondering thoughts are suddenly interrupted by the call of reality,
like a jump cut in between the unfeasible abstraction and the material world —
‘yeah’
her voice soft, opaque, as if she just woke up from a long feverish sleep
she stands up, puts on her coat and follows the tails of the boys
they kiss the girl goodbye and leave the bar
vanish in the deep corner of the foggy streets
there is neither trace of writing nor trace of desire
there is only the fog
extensively expanding into the unknown.
11. 11. 2018 kraków
ångel falls in a tunnel
a peculiar boy with medium long hair
blonde
long eyelashes
it was the moment travelling through the tunnel
k was talking on the phone in polish
the rest, silence
the boy stops reading his book
hell of the angels, penguin edition, it was obvious from a glance of its white and orange design
he sits here, waiting, another tunnel, dark,
with slices of orange light cutting through the air
one could see the travelling shadows in stripes oh
how much she enjoys the tunnel,
for not knowing what would come after the unforeseeable darkness,
or,
for knowing exactly what would come after then,
the foggy grim sky of P,
the kind of milky white air, opaque, one cannot see anything through the white background,
the particular whiteness with 0 per-cent transparency,
as if the world becomes a milky white sea, and the sea is blind
they are driving on the highway of P, all of a sudden,
the flight was supposed to arrive at K five hours ago,
but the fog...
yes the fog stopped everything - the fog changed everything — the fog made people angry,
and when people are angry,
one could see various faces,
with human nature almost engraved on those thin skins made of flesh,
therefore
all of a sudden
they are in P,
and all of a sudden they are driving through the tunnel,
which makes her think about the fallen angels,
a double deck carriage filled with strange bodies in silence, seemingly knowing their destination but
what if,
what if they are carried away somewhere,
nowhere
or what if they are glued, fixed, stuck in the never ending moment of to-warding somewhere,
nowhere
she doesnt know, she could never know, the only thing in her mind is the next tunnel, then she would be able to see the profile of that peculiar young boy,
his long eyelashes await,
in such a perfect silhouette.
09.11.2018
krakow, poland
W
“do you see the little man dancing?”
summer. street corner, one of ‘his spots’ -- a paradise hidden -- for her.
she doesn’t remember the cafe’s name. she has always been bad at names. for her the world exists as a smooth geometric cosmos in lines and shapes, words are supplementary. especially when being with him in his city --‘i can’t gather my thoughts right now cuz the whale is sitting in front of me (with a little heart in the end)’-- one year later she discovered herself in the pieces of writing fragments documenting the time when she’s with him, alone but complete, this is what she found: random shapes, lines, drawings, hearts, blanks, and ‘awwwwwwwwwwww...’ with the uncountable ‘w’s, (the letter ‘w’, as his signature, the beginning of his imaginary existence) -- how she has became one of those little mollusks shining at nights when being with him, he the ‘w’, sweet sweet magic potion, a transformation.
she was simply too happy to write anything down. she thought she could remember. “just to remember everything,” she told herself, “how pale these words are, how meaningless, but the sound, the smell, the heartbeats, the affections.”
so now she closes her eyes. she hears the sea, from far away, but near.
she could smell it. the scent. the smell she’s so familiar with. his smell, intertwined with the gentle breeze blowing from the mediterranean.
so ancient, so secular, even ‘lovely’, they would say.
“how lovely.”
window seat, as always. the sun is dry. hot. infatuating.
she sees little sweat drops land on his neck, still. she wonders whether the whale would purr, then the ocean purrs too.
iced coffee black, as always.
he’s sitting opposite from her.
small rounded table, with arabic geometry patterns in brown and caramel.
his fingers tap on the table, await.
she takes a sip of coffee, then raises her gaze, searching for his delicate attention.
crescent eyes, smiling, tired from the heat and sickness, ready to fall into a winding sleep. he leans to her, points through the window,
“Do you see the little man dancing?”
he asks.
a delayed glance,
“do you see the little man dancing?” she giggles.
“it’s in motion” he says.
she follows his gaze.
she sees the sky and sunlight streaming through the leaves forming into fragmented shadows, as the vastness of an illegible poem unfurls across the dry, hot, sleepy seaside air.
she becomes a long stare; he, the facula inside of her.
末日之夢
長頭髮的男孩子把小pon抱起來 對她說
“don’t be sad.”
they were so closed to each other that they could almost kiss
but they didn't.
長頭髮的男孩子跳舞的時候很好看
他深褐色的頭髮會隨著音樂飄起來 然後停在空氣裡
再落下去。
和長頭髮的男孩子在一起的短頭髮的女孩子有好看的眼睛
短頭髮的女孩子穿了一件小小的夾克 外面是長長的拖地大衣 頭髮被整齊得分在兩側
女孩子常常笑 當男孩子在女孩子耳邊講了些什麼的時候 或是
在注視著小pon的時候
後來長頭髮的男孩子對小pon說,
she fancies you
小pon只是笑。
小pon帶他們去某個party
沿著巷口一直走到深處的某個地方 somewhere out there
和其他的朋友們一起 小pon被他們簇擁著 被挽著左邊的胳膊和右邊的胳膊 她在中間
小pon總是在中間 穿著那件大大的在後面會翹起來的大外套
長頭髮的男孩子和短頭髮的女孩子就走在後面
時不時飄過來女孩子的笑聲
她有點嫉妒。
跳舞的時候小pon不小心親了親女孩子
因為覺得可愛
女孩子一直笑著 不停的笑
男孩子在一旁讓自己的頭髮肆意的飛呀飛
時不時偷偷地看看她們
她不小心遇到他的眼睛
男孩子在想什麼呢?
小pon問自己。
後來他們回家了
“I only have one single bed, can you take her home?"
剩下短頭髮的女孩子在中間
恰好站在那一片沒有被路燈照到的黑暗裡。
"yes. just come with me, ja?" 小pon說
女孩子點點頭
那輛車一路在環路上奔跑像是
要飛起來。
小pon為短頭髮的女孩子準備了睡衣 浴巾和烏龍茶
告訴她要怎麼使用浴室裡的設備
向她說明哪個一瓶是護膚水 哪一瓶是潤膚露
短頭髮的女孩子說 “我對香精過敏”
於是她敲開父親的臥室
“爸爸 可以借用一下您的浴液嘛?”
父親穿著睡衣 手裏拿著一個白色瓶子說
“妳們要不要一起睡大床?”
小pon躺在床上
望著天花板
她坐起來喝了一口烏龍茶 看到手機簡訊
“I'm so glad that I met you."
"See you soon."
長頭髮的男孩子對她說。
她把手機放在床邊,
閉上眼睛。
她們並排的躺在一起
似乎講了很多話
天氣呀
世界呀
政治呀
還有在遙遠的沙漠裡發生的事情
小pon關上燈
“晚安” “ 晚安”。
之後她的嘴唇變濕了
短頭髮的女孩子有一種特別的味道
沒有添加任何香精和防腐劑
像是剛剛被清洗過的純棉浴巾的味道
乾淨的可以聞到每一根整齊編織的棉線
小pon有點驚訝
對於這突如其來的柔軟與潮濕
像是心臟裡落滿羽毛
被小小的 白色的羽毛填滿了的心臟令她
無法停止。
她們小心翼翼地親吻著彼此的每一寸皮膚
眼睛 鼻子 臉頰 耳朵 嘴唇 脖子 鎖骨 乳頭 小腹 還有小腹連結下體的那兩個凸起的骨頭
之後是陰唇 陰蒂 還有裡面那一片 最柔軟的 與蘆葦和樹影相伴的 潮濕溫潤的沼澤
她在黑暗裡看到短髮女孩潔白的額頭
還有她的眼睛
“嘿 你好嗎”
”嘿 你好嗎。”
她們擁抱著 小pon把自己埋葬在女孩的身體裡
女孩就那樣抱著她
揉亂她得頭髮 親吻她得眼睛 手指輕柔地滑過她的皮膚
那一刻小pon感到女孩變成了自己
而自己變成了那些她喜歡過的小男孩們
她變成了 那些隱藏在身體裡最深處的 男孩子般的慾望
在那一刻。
小pon醒過來的時候發現自己一個人躺在床上
她覺得有點冷 轉過身 蜷縮在被子裡
她睜開眼睛再閉上
想著自己剛剛做過的
那個關於世界毀滅的夢
夢裡她一直在逃亡 口袋裡裝滿了毛線手套和針織帽子
她和母親坐在計程車裡
母親唱著歌
她們一起追逐著末日的恐懼與興奮
她看到島嶼遠處升起一束束粉紅色的霧靄
它們擴散 再凝聚 變成巨大的能量氣團
像煙火一樣綻開再落下
人們變成很小很小的粉塵
她感到她們的計程車也在變小
於是深藍色的世界就這樣被粉色的塵埃渲染成紫紅色
就像是張愛玲在《同學少年都不賤》裡所描寫的那般 被火燒雲填滿的 紫紅色的天空
山巒瓦解
土地崩陷
村落被巨大的火焰所吞噬
紫紅色的 沒有添加香精味道的火焰
只剩下海。
小pon起床
拉開窗簾
發現世界純白一片。
那天她在地鐵裡看到一個美麗的小姑娘
她莫名其妙的跟著那個9歲的小姑娘走出地鐵
然後就在城市裡迷了路
她在尋找巴士車站的時候遇到一個戴眼鏡的侏儒
他們彼此看了一會
直到巴士緩緩駛到她的面前停下來
她走上車 望著他離開
再之後一個巨大的隧道憑空出現在城市中心
她在隧道裡聽見世界的回聲
像是來自遙遠的未來。
小pon透過窗戶 看到隧道外面白色的天空
分不清楚從那上面落下了來的是雪
還是羽毛。
一個難題
也許人類對於善良的定義有很多種
在我看來 善良很大程度上 是
不會因為別人的外表而來judge這一個人的內心、思想,以及他所擁有的 創造出某個世界的能量
這裏的外表包括 面容 聲音 講話方式 做事方式 等等
等等一切我們所表現出的 外化的顯現
善良是尊重和信任
是一種天真 可愛 可遇而不可求的天性
這個不善良國家裡的子民们很容易會根據人们的外在表現而向對方施予某種力量
掌控也好 被掌控也好
似乎都是提前設定好了 人們只需對號入座
那個能量传递變幻的過程自然得可怕
面对好看又强势的人
面对好看又温柔的人
面对不好看但是非常霸道的人
面对不好看又无杀伤力的人
面对,,,
腔调是可以随时变换的 语气和语调也是 还有动作行为 态度 眼神 面色
这个国家里的人类真得是很高端的生物呢
當然要事先说明的是 不善良 并不一定就是坏人了
不善良的人一樣可以是好人 他也許會請你喝酒 也許會彬彬有禮的對你打招呼
但是天性就是天性 與生俱來 不可複製
如果好 但是不善良的人偏偏想要做出善良樣子
其實很快就會露出破綻
就是那種可以隨時變換的東西出賣了他
然後從上到下都會覺得彆扭
做一個不善良的好人 也是一個不錯的選擇
為什麼不呢?
如果是”天性“来的话 那么在这里遇到善良得人还真是難得了
所以 在我面前出現的問題是
如果是這樣的話
該如何不以一种transparant的型態與陌生人相處呢?
對人際關係不敏感也好
糟糕的男人和糟糕的女人也好
就算是读了佛洛伊德和拉康也完全无济于事
在这里我真得應該好好學習一下才是呢
不過還好
幸好
馬上就要離開这座討厭的城市了
那麼就暫時放下好了
讓我帶著透明的自己飛回那個愛我的地方
和天真的靈魂們一起 再飛一會兒 跳一會兒
來一點M 再一點K
管他明天太陽是否仍舊照常升起
所以这个问题就等到必須要回來必须要面對的時候再說吧
2015.03.22
J
失意的人I
回到B城就好像與全世界隔絕了一樣
永遠爬不到頂的樓梯 望不到盡頭
天朝聖國的悲與喜
他是多麼希望自己真的可以生活在天朝聖國裏
由很多個夢境蔓延而生的時代
個人之夢
而後個人之夢交錯編織成大國之夢
歌舞昇平 其樂融融
置身其中而感到麻痺
像是打了嗎啡
如果是這樣也好
只是對於失意的人來講 這有點而難
難得讓他覺得痛 痛得空蕩蕩的 這比痛徹心扉更讓他覺得恐懼
因為看到了所謂「天朝」之外的世界
而此「天朝」亦非彼「天朝」
文化的虛無就像這北方蒼茫的冬天 乾枯的白楊樹暗黑的枝椏向上伸展到天際
如果真得能夠觸碰到天際多好
但生長被界定了尺度
這一排排白楊樹像是被刻意修剪過 在同一高度 齊刷刷孤零零稀稀落落的橫鋪在寬闊得令人瑟瑟發抖的馬路上
而樹幹上憂愁的眼睛恰恰被失意的人暼到
他分明感到樹木們向上生長的慾望被硬生生的掐斷
他想到在慕尼黑看到的那些參天的杉樹們
這白楊若是看到了 會羨慕吧
失意的人想 如果自己是這樹木中的其中一棵也好 丟掉自己向上生長的慾望尚且得以生存 而他偏偏看到了這城市之外的那些樹木們
像是海洋般的綠色 就是枯萎了 亦是霸道又倔強的
所以他不曉得是否應感到惋惜
他不是樹
他無法代替它們進行思考與傷感
只是這樣的沈默與荒蕪令他透不過氣來 他想到黑賽筆下的那隻被夾在過去時代與未來時代中間的那匹狼
倘若真得有荒原能夠讓它馳騁的話 也並非不是件好的事情
而
荒原在哪裡呢
?
去Tate參加學術討論會議 20131022
面前是一座煙灰色建築物
在煙灰色的雲朵裡
煙灰色的煙囪 煙灰色的橋段和雨水
一個花白胡子的男人在橋下拉著手風琴
建築物裡有茶和咖啡
棕色糖塊伴隨白色牛奶
牛奶 M-I-L-K Milk.
Milky way.
Milky way裡有一個被猩紅色Fabric充滿的房間
還有在這一片猩紅色裡面 正在進行著的獨白以及 也許並不成功的對話
聲音 語言 和大屏幕上的圖像 都變成符號和條形碼
在有著相似形狀的 不同顏色的腦袋裡面橫衝直撞
有些被輸入神經末端的細胞森林
有些伴隨茶和咖啡沁入血管 再排泄出去
還有一些進入某個姑娘過度活躍的子宮
條形碼們被編織成一張大網 把姑娘嬌小滑潤的下體包裹起來
於是她便懷孕了
她那麼年輕
父親說這煙灰色的建築在雨水和薄霧裡無仿佛坐落於雲間
那時我坐在橋下潮溼的石頭凳子上
看見一只大鳥飛過煙灰色煙囪的頂端飛進霧靄
和一個挺著大肚子的年輕姑娘
她穿了一件猩紅色的毛衣
“Can I have a cup of Tea with milk and one brown sugar please".
"Not Coffee this time?"
"Nahhhh. It's not good for the baby."
"Thank you."
她說
花白胡子的男人望著她
唱了首歌。
Murakami Ryu
咖哩總是覺得村上龍在寫自己。
就像之前在閱讀村上其他作品的时候一样。咖哩在那些鏡頭式的濃墨重彩的文字裡面清晰的看到自己。生動的,流淌著冰冷的血液。于是她確信自己与作者之間存在著某種聯繫。這聯繫不可以用語言描述。也無法依靠圖像證明。反正,就是一種,宇宙間的,奇妙的聯繫。如果硬要用具体的语言文字进行描述的話,應該是被充滿愛欲的原子聯繫著,她想。
被充滿愛欲的原子聯繫著,盡管無法做進一層的修飾,但卻是可以從文字裡面找到證據。
比如《寄物匱嬰兒》的開場白:“女人手按在嬰兒的腹部,將下面的生殖器含在嘴里,感覺比平時的美國薄荷煙要細小,而且有一股魚腥味。她想看一下孩子會不會哭出聲來,但嬰兒毫無知覺,於是揭下貼在嬰兒臉上的塑料薄膜。她在紙箱底鋪上雙層毛巾,放入嬰兒,纏上膠紙帶,再用繩子紮緊,用粗筆在正面和側面寫上假的地址和姓名。她畫完妝,穿上圓點花紋的連衣裙,右手撫摸著脹痛的乳房,並不在意滴在地毯上的乳汁,穿上拖鞋抱起嬰兒的紙箱走出房門。坐上出租車時,女人想起快要編織完的台布,心想織好後要把天竺葵的花盆放在上面。此時正值酷暑,站在陽光下會感到頭暈。出租車的收音機說在這百年未遇的酷暑中已有六個老人和病人死亡。到達車站後,女人將紙箱塞入最裡面的寄物匱,將鑰匙裹在衛生巾里,丟進廁所的馬桶。她走出充斥著暑熱和塵埃的車站,步入商場,坐在休息處吸著香煙,等到身上的汗水干透,買了連褲襪、漂白粉和指甲油。她感到異常口渴,便喝了橙汁,在洗手間用剛剛買來的指甲油仔細的修飾起指甲來。” 這是咖哩最喜歡的一段。閱讀的時候她思索著也許可以把這個故事修改成電影劇本。她想像著女人的樣子。應該是美麗的消瘦蒼白的女人。單眼皮和綠色墨鏡。女人穿了紅色的雪紡連衣裙。腫脹的乳房在V字衣領後面若隱若現。女人睡眼惺忪的站在日光之下,懷抱著嬰兒的箱子出現在咖哩的視覺空間里。她甚至可以看到垂掛在女人脖頸細小的汗珠。以一種誘人的姿態排列著。隨著女人的呼吸起伏顫動。於是咖哩似乎可以理解女人的所為。天氣太熱了。不是麼。
比如阿莲莫莲为她的宠物鳄鱼所建的城堡叫做“冥王星” 。“鳄鱼”与“冥王星”对咖哩的刺激是直接的。而后在读Hobbes的Leviathan的时候她便总会想到住在“冥王星”里的,那只阿莲莫莲的鳄鱼。咖哩想如果自己也可以有一只鳄鱼宠物的话,她一定為给他取名叫做利維坦。
比如《69》裡面寫到的爵士歌手以及生活与戰爭的論斷。村上在後記里這樣寫著:“不快樂的生活是腫罪孽。有權力的人是很強勢的,只是拳打腳踢一場,最後吃虧的還是我們。 唯一的報復手段,就是活得比他們快樂。快樂需要能量。那就是鬥爭。那場讓所有無聊的傢伙都能聽到我的笑聲的鬥爭,我想大概會堅持到我生命的終止。” 咖哩記得讀完《69》的時候自己正坐在公車上。她把大段大段的文字連同讀後感輸入手機然後作為短信發送。在她以人類的型態短暫出現的時間裡。她不記得自己發給誰了。但那一刻激動得顫抖起來的心情是記得的。那是冬天的下午。陽光乾燥溫暖。她聽著街邊紅薯小販的叫賣聲,流了三滴眼淚,眼前的世界發白得失真。
比如村上對於雙魚座的偏愛又比如村上所有作品裡面出現濄得,美麗純真的女人。咖哩覺得這是必要的。女人應該是美麗的,純真的。這個世界需要美麗純真的女人。咖哩愛美麗純真的女人。她曉得村上也一定是如此。
咖哩在google里搜索过村上龍的照片。是年輕時長頭髮的模樣。表情嚴肅,眉眼冷峻。咖哩想他應該是個認真冷漠的男人。看到後面村上中年的樣子,那不變的頑固冷漠的表情依舊令她心馳神往。冷漠的男人對咖哩而言,總是被某種高傲的神秘感所縈繞。像貓一樣。而後神秘感便會變成好奇心。好奇心是促使咖哩對某個男人產生興趣的唯一driving force。咖哩喜歡貓。很大程度上是因為她喜歡她自己。所以她也喜歡像貓一樣的男人比如村上龍(也許偶爾與鳥或是鯨魚談談戀愛也不錯)。咖哩想像村上擁有的幸福家庭。但是他有了小孩以後就不會再和妻做愛了。咖哩認定村上擁有無數情人。她們應該都是美麗的,盡管美麗的方式各相徑庭。偶爾在失意醉酒的時候也會和腹部擁有贅肉,濃妝艷抹,腋下散發著體臭的中年婦女口交。女人一邊幫他口交一邊哭。女人說自己的男人在外邊有了情人。是一個18歲的便利店員。她一邊哭一邊咒罵著。女人說你們男人都是廢物,都是狗。是閒垃圾的狗。那是令村上厭惡至極的女人的類型。完事以後他應該就抱著馬桶吐了。而女人的卑賤並不是來源于她的蒼老,臃腫,贅肉,腋臭,以及臉上為了遮蓋皺紋所塗抹的一層又一層的廉價粉底。女人的卑賤來源于她對於男人的,無法逃脫的依賴和妥協。她厭惡他們,卻又無法令自己獨立于他們而存在。就如同女人此刻所作的事情。村上认为(至少咖哩想象中的村上这样认为),高贵的女人是不会为自己不爱的男人口交的。哦,這一切簡直是惡夢。因此這样的噩梦只會發生在偶爾,失意,和醉酒的時刻。僅僅是一次而已。寫作需要,泄恨,神智不清,毒品,或是其他的什麼原因。是的,她全部曉得,她了解極了。她想,倘若自己是男人的話。
所以她覺得網球公子簡直就是自己。他對於愛是貪婪的。他無法理解情人離去的苦衷。他的成功与失敗全部來源于女人。但這同時令咖哩厭惡極了。男人不應該是這樣的。男人不應該為女人哭泣与妥協。男人不應該在電話亭前因為冗長的盲音而黯自神傷。咖哩討厭網球公子的膽小,討厭他“害怕射精” 因為“射精後自己會悲傷到怎樣的程度呢?” ,討厭他認為自己愛著愛子同時又無法放棄妻兒,討厭他用溫柔感人的論斷”強迫“自己“想要共度一生”的可柰子墮胎並在手術之前假惺惺的對她說“我愛你”...還討厭他依靠女人來證明自己的masculinity。但這不是最重要的。最重要的是他對於愛的貪婪令美麗純真的女人們傷心極了。怎麼能讓美麗純真的女人們傷心呢?男人是不應該讓女人傷心的。特別是美麗的純真的女人。這麼說來網球公子真是個令人討厭的傢伙。可是咖哩卻覺得這個娘炮機車的網球公子像極了自己。他的貪婪他的敏感他的優柔寡斷他對於美麗之物的迷戀還有他的 “刷牙去,見到誰都不打招呼。” 所以咖哩在心裡黯自慶幸著。
“如果真的變成男人的話,一定會很失敗。”
她對自己說。
這時候門鈴響了。
“喵~” 咖喱從書櫃上跳下來,搖搖擺擺的走向那扇半開著的門。女孩走進來,咖喱抬頭看了看牆上的時鐘,晚餐時間到了。
Hot Dream
there must be something wrong with the phrase "hit on"
she decides to stop the conversation between them.
there is a particular sensitivity towards language in her body that stops her from doing things. Just, Stop.
S.T.O.P.
then everything becomes silent.
Dead silence.
She disappears, dives under the surface of water, breathing in and out bubbles.
The lightness of "hit-on" seems to be out of tune. Then it leads the entire melody stuck in the needle of the record player.
such minor mistake is something that makes her uncomfortable.
She doesn't like being uncomfortable.
What does "hit on" mean? She asks herself. and what does "hit on me completely" mean?
"Completely".
In the contemporary world, the process may easily begin with the social network. Yes, starting from Face-book. You add somebody on facebook. You stalk them, picture, age, horoscope. You see the "punctums",
or not.
"Punctums" are crucial, a magic word of Barthes, because this is the way how you build up the connection. And the connection, certainly is subjective, as if Barthes looking at his mother's picture in the winter garden, which leads to the following fantasy of love. Then the entire human being is reduced into a couple of images, and a couple of lines that label them into some sort of category. Then there is this web of sophisticated formulas in your brain starting the most complicated calculation ------- Do you like the person you are looking at?
or not.
Then you start chatting, dancing with each other's minds. Thank the technology, you are able to see whether the person has received your message. If it shows "seen", but no reply, then you start wondering, why? You want attention, of course. Then the game begins, deriving from hospitality, chasing and hunting. Then you make a date. You meet. You walk together on the streets. You may go to the theatre or cinema. You may have ice-cream. During such process, there might be romance.
or not.
Then maybe you kiss after several dates or just kiss when you feel like it. Then you have sex. Then you start thinking about the relationship between you two. Then
Then what?
How pathetic.
So what is she looking for?
Everything she has done seems to be as superficial as above.
Indeed. She is superficial.
She is stupid, almost in a sarcastic way.
But why?
Why do people choose to ignore the content and just to believe the form
or they think it is not as important as her intention, her final goal, her attempt
is
"hitting on me completely"
which is already abruptly decided by certain minds from the very beginning.
Then everything they've discussed together just seems to be lighter than the feathers.
But what is she looking for?
What exactly has she been looking for?
Everyone is different
yet no one can be like him
with such gestures when talking about Benjamin
His elegant dancing hands.
She wants to find
She wants to find
She wants to find
another daydream
another nightmare.
Or perhaps
She's just in love with herself.
無聲
[现在正在下雨
啪啦啦,啪啦啦
闭上眼,妳能看到什么?
雨水打湿了我
头发,嘴和脖子
衣服也都浸透了
但是我不管
土壤的味道很香
我好像穿过了一片草坪
鞋子发出叽嘎叽嘎的声音
但是我不停下
我就一直跑啊跑
朝着妳跑
踩着小摊贩的叫骂
踩着商店里的摇滚乐
踩着碎花瓣儿
踩着小水塘
还有小水塘里一闪而过的我
妳看见了么?]
我们躺在床上
床单很白
我望着天花板上的裂缝
梅雨季节的时候就会有雨水渗透进来
妳会把蓝色的花盆摆在裂缝垂直九十度的地板上
从清晨到下午
蓝色花盆就会盛满夏天的雨水和气味
之后妳把雨水收集到一个个小小的透明玻璃瓶里
标记好时间和年份 整齐的摆放进那个老旧的木头柜子里
妳说这是妳我之间所拥有过的
光。
距离。
时间。
与编织。
就在这一个个瓶子 和收藏秘密的木头柜子里面
我们躺在床上
床单很白
妳望着泛黄而潮湿的天花板
在听着雨水滴落进蓝色花盆的那个 潮汐涌动的 漫长的下午
有一只乌鸦在窗口停驻了四十五秒
云朵从白色变成粉红色
在那个下午
我们的心都湿透了
妳闭上眼睛再睁开
“hey”
“嗯?”
“妳能看见吗?“
“嗯?”
“看见了吗?”
“嗯?”
“大海。”
之后是一段说长不长 说短不短的沉默
呼吸的声音
尘埃漂浮的声音
水蒸气在眼睑短暂停留的声音
乌鸦张开翅膀飞走的声音
雨水敲打在窗棱上的声音
雨水渗透进天花板然后滴落进蓝色花盆的声音
“嗯。”
岁月在这儿 温凉如丝 却也能灼身
青春是远方 流动的河
你要如何原谅时光遗失的过程
要如何才能容忍它发生
要如何才能想而不问
她唱着
歌唱着
凝视着如海洋般的黑暗
要如何
才能停止想念
一场从未发生过的爱情
和那个从未存在过的爱人呢
而并不是每时的想念
都要变成声音与符号
生命是何其怅然失所着蔓延生长的过程
-----2012年的尾巴 紐約
Sentimental Killer
"Hey do you wanna make love?"
She stops the old lady in the middle of the street and asks.
The old lady is scared, obviously. Not only because of the presence of this stunningly beautiful teenage girl, but more importantly, the words that jump out of her lips, the juicy red lips.
"Do - You- Wanna- Make- Love- To - ME?"
The old lady just went to a grocery store at the corner of the street. She was thinking to make some squash soup for today's dinner. She loves the grocery store at the corner of the street though she can never really remember its name. She also got a little bag of cherry tomatoes. It was on sale. "Today's special! Juicy Cherry tomatoes! Half price!"-- A big plastic sign was put on the wooden basket where the tomatoes were placed.
"Excuse me--???"
The old lady asks, entirely baffled. She was just thinking about her cherry tomatoes.
"DO - YOU- WANNA- MAKE- LOVE- TO - ME?"
Teenage girl repeats, slowly, clearly, word by word. She stares at the old lady who seems to be shocked as if the words are bullets. Yes. For the old lady, they are, and these bullets make her dizzy.
"Oh my... Are you alright?"
The old lady believes that this teenage girl is totally insane, and her abrupt presence absurdly disrupts the old lady’s fulfilment from her grocery shopping. Oh she could be such a lovely granddaughter. But what the hell she's talking about? She thought to herself. Is this some sort of joke? Does she need money or something? IS she…too? or...Jesus...how can she tell… Oh and look at her eyes... She looks at the girl into the eyes and discovers that there is no sigh of aliveness. The eyes are too beautiful to be real as human eyes but ornaments.
"You think I'm mad? Don't you?"
She speaks, calmly.
"You are just like one of the human beings. Withering, and afraid of embracing the unexpected because you think that it is abnormal that a teenage girl stopping an old lady and asking her if she wants to have sex with her. Right?"
The old lady remains silent and has no clue how to react. This is odd, indeed, for her, especially as a being a private school teacher for 40 years before her retirement, and as a widow who is, frankly speaking, very lonely after her partner past away 11 years ago. However, she is used to the sadness. She wasn’t even happy when her violent alcoholic partner was alive. She always dreams of killing her then committing suicide herself after they have sex. Even though she knew that they love each other, dearly. However the retrospect of her violent relationship was fairly well compensated by the half-priced cherry tomatoes and the appetite for a bowl of aromatic squash soup.
Therefore, at that particular moment, she wants to leave. She doesn’t want to deal with this unspeakable strangeness and distraction that is almost brutal for her, on her way home thinking of her tomatoes and squash soup in such a lovely Saturday afternoon. “The modern kids are insane.” she thinks.
"I’m sorry kid, I don’t know what you are talking…ab…”
The old lady falls down while the plastic bags hit on the ground. The narrow alley way then is soon full of rolling juicy cherry tomatoes, and of course their splashed corpses.
Red.
Little juicy red drops in the thin air and vapours under the sunlight. The fishy smell of a stream of ageing redness makes me feel sick. I want to run away, but I could not resist placing myself into this bloody red picture. As if the entire world is filtered through a thick red lens. The red vision makes me stoned, unable to move, and suddenly it reminds me of how Plato’s Socrates describes reason may be overwhelmed by an unworthy desire, which drives the self to become angry with a part of its nature. The fact that Plato tries to illustrate how one may yield, even if reluctantly, to repulsive attraction, and this repulsive attraction now transforms into an appetite for sights of degradation and pain and mutilation. I don’t know if I yield or desire such vision, but at this moment, I hear a lullaby in my head. I never knew that this melody could become overwhelmingly beautiful, so beautiful that it makes me cry.
Blood erupts like a roaring volcano.
Everything turns into a slow-motion of bright scarlet.
The old lady didn’t feel a thing while the young teenage girl stabbed the knife into her throat. She was fast enough, and it was such a sophisticated, sharp knife.
It wasn’t the first time for her to do such thing. At that moment there was no sympathy. She has no sympathy to the human beings she kills. Killing is better than hurting, she believes, and death is not the final destination. She wonders whether she’s from Mercury, the messenger who helps people travel from one side of the world to its double. Death is the entrance to the parallel space far away from the living one.
What is the point? What is the point of living in the same world for such a long time with endless tristesse? And why killing somebody is considered as outrageously immoral anyway if their lives are more miserable than death itself?
Is death miserable?
She doesn’t know.
But when she kills, she hears music; and whenever she hears this melody, she has to kill.
For the beauty of it
driving by both of her desire and despair.
The Last Scene
Dream machin'
As if we never really knew each other.
When I rushed into the glass phantom it was raining. I pushed the door open and it automatically closed behind me. I took a postcard with a black bird in the centre. The color black concentrated in the middle of the circle presented in the shape of a bird as if looking through a focused stereoscope.
I wasn't realized that it was you when I looked for tables to sit. Thinking of you more than once is forbidden in rainy days. I had already thought about you on the bus when I saw the reflection of my fingers tapping on the window where the images slowly dissolved into the melting raindrops. The world appeared to me as a drifting mosaic space full of rains and breathing figures. You are one of the figures when I'm not thinking of you, a breathing figure hidden inside of a human shell.
The second you came to me I was scared.
When abstraction was suddenly delineated into something pictorial and specific, so specific that every detail of your face, your gesture, and the way how you pronounce each word counts. It recalled the moments that had already transformed into decorations of the architecture constructed within the memories called "history". Then such unexpected encounter became something magically violent and undefinable.
You smiled, and said, "Hi."
As if it was the first time.
"Oh Hey."
I smiled, replied.
Then it was silence. The music was too loud that my brain twisted into a small black ball. The nerves that were responsible for the operation of language stopped functioning, and I shrank into a tacit paper doll.
"Do you wanna a cigarette?"
...
...
...
...
Cigarette and the cool air woke me up while we were standing in the rain. I became half deaf as our conversation went along, and I could hear nothing but the raindrops. The only way to communicate was to read your lips. The lips that always talk about fairy tales and strange philosophies. I remembered how genteelly imaginary they were.
Oh It rained so much that I couldn't help sinking.
You kissed me on the cheek in the rain before you said, "Ciao."
"Ciao"
the loneliest,
followed by a full stop.
As if it was the first time,
we never really knew each other.
You softly walk away from me.
India Song in Arabian Night
Cheré Franziska,
It comes the monsoon season in Bengal. Rain showers. No wind. A particular smell disturbs me. I have been awake for two days. After the dance.
He left. I made him leave. I forced him to leave. I cannot bear the way he looks at me. His love burns me. I could feel it. I could feel it when we dance. I could feel it when he whispers at my ear, singing the little childhood melody. I could feel it when he puts his fingers through my hair, the texture of his skin makes me cry. I felt it when he looked at me.
I cannot be free from love.
We are the same, he and I.
He will destroy me.
At the moment they shut the gate, I saw the beggar woman in the bush. We looked at each other. Pause.Then she started to sing, the song from Savannakhet. Strangely I saw myself in her. I did not know if I should smile.
Plants in the garden. They are my friends. I talk to them when I feel lonely, and they murmur back. I talk to them everyday telling them about the poems I have read and the people I saw on the streets. They remind me of him. The plants remind me of his smell. The smell that disturbs me.
Most of the time I try to forget. Everything. I want myself to forget. How much I wish that I were you, Franziska. Fall into sleep after sunset then dream, and dream and dream and dream, forgetting about everything, living in the dream within the dream, and it is your reality. I wonder where I am in my dream after my memories gone. Paris? Peking? or somewhere I have never been. Will I even be able to recognise that place? A place does not exist on the map. I wonder if there is monsoon season as well. Would it rain? I enjoy listening to the sound of rain, and observing the raindrop dripping from the roofing edge. I like the puddle it forms.The reflection of the raindrop in the puddle conjures melody. Yes. I can hear music from my childhood. It will not stop until my finger stirs the images. Then everything will disappear, and then reform again.
I decided to leave this place. Maybe Tomorrow. Maybe Now, after I finish writing this letter to you, Franziska, and then dive into the dream state of yours. Maybe I will kiss you on the lips while you are sleeping. Would the magic happen again like you did to the other men? Would you send me to Istanbul? or to the deep south.
Life is invented. Life is perceived. But I am not able to...
It will soon be daylight. Pale daylight.
Are you awake?
Cordialement à vous,
Anne-Marie,
June.13th, 1947