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WonderTo remember the passion,courage,constancy we have and stick to them forever |
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感谢访问！
Tyler Laniganwrote:
I love you forever.
Sept. 10
三狗 商wrote:
就像我考试的时候,画着画着,突然想起她来.然后继续画画.可是心里那一刻觉得酸苦.
你呢,要开心一点.
要开心一点.
Mar. 15
三狗 商wrote:
我在等你说些有关痛痒的话。其实你在我身边，我觉得自己就很受安慰了。不需要说那么多。
Mar. 9
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February 17 The Reader.朗读者．
庄严肃穆，声音高吭．像是生命．
前几天刚看过Kate Winslet的Revolutionary Road.很棒的电影，探讨生命和思想的革命，转变需要勇气，因而革命不管怎样都是伟大的，因为很少有人有如此勇气．
配乐很棒，简单的音符不断重复，压着你，像悲伤的河流．她最后的自杀是一种执拗和义无返顾．
这部电影如此打动我，配乐起了很大一部分的作用．它适时响起，忽尔起伏，忽尔淹没在沉默之中．它唤醒你，让你成为林中受惊的鸟，虽然它是如此缓慢而沉重．
看＜朗读者＞的时候不断发现主人公与我们的相似之处．你说的对，这是一部好电影．青涩的少年，他永远是个孩子，白皙，明了，透彻．她一直叫他kid,从她第一次在大雨滂沱的街上遇到瘦弱颤巍巍的他，直到几十年后他去监狱里探望她责问她敬畏她爱她．她一直叫他孩子．
她把手伸出去，他却把自己的手缩了回来．孩子的本能．
可是几十年前，他鼓足勇气吻住站在他面前的赤裸的她．
他为她写诗．她在教堂里哭泣，在郊外的河里游泳嬉戏．
他们面面相觑，眼睛里盈满泪水，幸福却在心里悄无声息的开着花．
他重又开始读书给她，一本一本的录下来，二十年的监禁，他的声音陪伴着她．
他不知该对她说些什么，言语已经承受不了感情的重量．于是他念别人的话，里面却全是她，是他，是他们．
似又回到初相识时她住的小屋，他每天读书给她听．现在他也读给她．他们的心回到了最初的地方．
最让人动容的是那一段．她刚被判处终身监禁，她要去探望她．在高高围墙外面的时候，命运停下了他的脚步．那个时候她在里面等待着他．刚开始的时候不知道，但是当他在外面驻足的时候她知道了．好象她听到他的灵魂．他最终转身离开．但是他们的灵魂相见了，带着他少年时对她所有的爱恋还有她已失声的心．
她因为羞耻心而被监禁一生，她承认一切，没有挣扎，没有抗拒．最后她有因为羞耻心而自缢，她不愿接受他的怜悯，她不愿意她在他心里无足轻重．
他后来遇到的其他所有女人都是她的影子．她不在，所有女人都是她．
她是他第一个，唯一的女人．
他的一生只为这一件事，与她相遇，爱她，用其余的时间怀念她．
朗读者，永远不会停息的声音，永远不会停息的爱和生命．
February 14 三个月后近三个月没写日志了．
从你来之前的一个月开始，到你离开一个月后的现在．
今天是情人节，情人节快乐．
都不记得自己有没有期待过．
我在地球的这一边，你在地球的另一边．各自生活，又用爱牵着．
在有你的梦中醒来，酸奶，网络，早餐，洗澡．
一个人在屋子里呆了一整天．ＸＸＸＸＸＸ．也不想出去．窗帘遮着北京没有生气的阳光．
前两天来的时候北京下雨．一百多天没下雨的北京下雨了．站在黑暗的楼道里，没有觉得害怕，悲伤淹没．
中午的时候做蛋炒饭．从网上查到做法，先做什么后做什么，需要哪些调味品，一一记在纸上．就这样还是有些手忙脚乱的．
围着围裙打鸡蛋的时候就感觉自己自己好象已为人妻．这样的感觉，如果很多年后的某一刻真的成为现实，再想起今天的这一刻，仿佛过去现在和未来已经重叠在一起，同时发生，在平行的空间里．
大部分的时间都在网络上浪费掉了，和别人交谈，看电影，发呆，写字，好象一直都没有思考．却想，就这样浪费掉吧，不想做别的事情．
最终还是出去逛了逛，在脑海里记着各种标识．安静的．
去超市里过，最后只买了杨桃．然后出来买苹果和甜橙．想要的不是巧克力和糖，而是水果和酸奶．
很想你．很想你很想你．
November 18 苍穹下这事必须慎重考虑
虽说我常孤单寂寞 但我从未独自生活 过去我与人相处，总是开心快乐 可与我相处之人，却纯属上天安排 这些人是我的双亲 也可能是其他人 为什么我有个棕眼睛的弟弟 而不是对面那个绿眼睛男孩？ 我可能找个出租车司机的女儿作朋友 也可能选择双手抱紧马脖子 可能会与一个男人 相恋 然后某日离他而去 和街上邂逅的陌生人一起私奔 你可以选择是否双目相投 你可以选择是否双手相握 不 握着我的手，别看着我 今晚新月初上 这样的夜晚宁静平和 城市里没有流血杀戮 我从来没有认真考虑过谁 我也从没有睁大双眼，想着： 这次是认真的了 认真的时刻终于到来 我已经成熟了 我是否唯一不曾认真之人？ 此时此刻是否真的要认真对待？ 我从未感觉寂寞 无论是独处还是有伴 可以前我还是选择了独处 孤单意味着我拥有完全的自我 此刻我要说 今晚，我不再孤单 我不再听任上天摆布 新月之夜，我要我主我心 我不知道是否有冥冥天意 可是我心由我主宰 我决定了 我们是主宰 不仅是整个城市 整个世界都在参与我们的抉择 我们不仅仅代表我们两人 我们是我主我心的体现 我们代表着这里以至天下做着同样美梦的人们 我们是众人的榜样 我准备好了 现在 轮到你了 命运之匙现在握于你手 行 还是不行 你需要我 你会需要我的 没有比我们更浪漫的爱情故事 这将是一段伟大的故事 无声无息 悄悄进行 成为开创历史的故事 看着我 看着我的眼睛 盛满了对未来的希望 昨晚 我梦见了一位陌生人 我的良人 我的心怀只能为他而敞开 完全彻底地为他开放 欢迎他完全进入我的人生 我要用幸福快乐编织成迷宫缠绕着他 我知道 那个“他”就是你
I have to think over this I might make friends with driver's daughter you can choose to look into my eyes or not No blood in the city I never felt lonely At this moment ,I want to say I'm ready You need me Silently Last night I dreamed about a stranger November 15 The Love Song of J. Alfred PrufrockThe Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero, Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo. Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question ... Oh, do not ask, “What is it?“ Let us go and make our visit. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes, Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. And indeed there will be time To wonder, “Do I dare?“ and, “Do I dare?“ Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair-- (They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!“) My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin-- (They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!“) Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. For I have known them all already, known them all: Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume? And I have known the eyes already, known them all-- The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? And how should I presume? And I have known the arms already, known them all-- Arms that are braceleted and white and bare (But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!) Is it perfume from a dress That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. And should I then presume? And how should I begin? Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ... I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet--and here抯 no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid. And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while, To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it toward some overwhelming question, To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all“-- If one, settling a pillow by her head,** Should say: “That is not what I meant at all; That is not it, at all.“ And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while, After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor-- And this, and so much more?-- It is impossible to say just what I mean I But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say: “That is not it at all, That is not what I meant, at all.“ No I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous-- Almost, at times, the Fool. I grow old ... I grow old ... I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me. I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
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