drizzle's Xanga

trying to be philosophical in chinese

Fri, 25 May 2007 01:33:43 GMT

纽约的四周有很久潜伏着春的气息。

三月的一天，走在微寒的街上，突然闻到雨的味道，其间夹有淡淡的花粉香气，尽管还未看见新绿的影子。就是这么突然，希望回来了。纽约的冰冷融化了，藏了一秋一冬的石头开始解冻。

春爆发在四月二十七。一夜之间天地绿了，是水灵灵的绿 - 雨滴飘洒于树丛之间，呼吸的空气是清凉的。

二十岁生日那天，有过莫名的慌乱。二零零七曾是遥不可及的一年。我的外公死于一九九八年十二月。我的童年死于同年同月。一夜之间，我失去了家的概念，似乎被连根拔起，抛落于一个陌生的世界之中。九年之间，充溢的是争扎彷惶与寻找。而至今找到的不是家，抑或是童年的零点，而是更多的不可知。

人的情感很奇妙，会有大喜大悲，似乎总是不断循环往复。少年时期，竟已想着要看破红尘，清灯古佛直至终老。如今，七八年前的抱负哲学梦想都记不清楚了。爱上博尔赫斯笔下的猫，永远活在生命中可触的一刻。暮然回首，记忆拼出的道路杂乱无章，儿时坚信的零点已消失不见。

曾想过，也许人的每分每秒都在死去，一生中重生亿万次。这是存在主义的哲学 - 如此，人生岂不有无限可能？但也许我们更像黑格尔哲学中的火凤凰，重生于灰烬之间，然而仍保有我们与生俱来的灵魂精华(essence of the Spirit) - 隐藏在最深处的内心角落中燃烧发亮。我过往二十年生命的逻辑性些许蕴含在时间，性格，和环境的隐秘奇异的环环相扣之间, 被一缕微妙的灵魂精华牵引前行。

但是我不信黑格尔哲学中所谓的 "progress" 和他所崇奉的完美与完整。从生至死，流水落花的薄薄一章而已。如所 Jacques Derrida 说，死亡原本毫无意义，何必牵强附会？人的意识最终会随死亡分散消亡。世界和未来从不属于人类，我们最终只是昙花一现。因此，永恒只能存于一刻之中，却不可能存有永恒的永恒。而正是如此我愈加感恩于我活着，并感恩于人类的渺小与脆弱，因为爱的力量迸发与对失去的恐惧。

在飞絮纷乱如鹅毛大雪的天气中我深呼吸，让春恣意侵袭我的意识，尽管冬的威胁并不遥远。

chinese essay, need ending, better arrangement of stories; writing drives me mad

Sun, 04 Mar 2007 04:06:02 GMT

周伟写过一篇乡村女人的风景；这是一篇
城市女人的风景

莹

忘记莹的具体年龄了。她与我母亲曾是同事，父亲是政府官员，算是高干子女。年轻时很漂亮，在大学里爱上一个同样漂亮的男孩，是同学。他老家在农村，她的父母竭力反对。可她还是嫁了，生了一个漂亮的儿子，直至很久以后才发现他有先天性耳聋。男人移情别恋，儿子跟她，抚养费几乎分文未得。

她再未结婚，改行做中俄边境的生意，衣食不愁，也前前后后交了许多个男友。有一个比她小的男人差一点为她自杀。

那一段时间简直不得了，他差点把我逼疯了。她说。可是我又不能一直养他。

几年后她带着另一个男友看我母亲。男人带着眼镜，文质彬彬穿戴整洁，是个韩国人。她眼中带笑，告诉我们他们要结婚了。

他有洁癖，把皮皮和自己的衣服袜子每一星期就扔到洗衣机里洗一次。其实这样最好了，我就是特别想给皮皮找一个好爸爸。

再听到她的消息时，他们的关系竟已无疾而终了。

去年看见她，在茶馆，她带了一个学电脑工程的硕士生。她胖了，依然忙碌，希望把儿子送到国外去。那里的聋哑教育会比这边的更加合理. 皮皮在现在的学校太不容易了，她说，眼里有掩不住的沧桑。

佳

佳，二十八岁，我在学车时认识的，长得柔弱，讲起话来也是细声慢气的。考证时，前面排了许多人，我们就聊起来。她曾是外语学院的学生，第二年恋上她的导师，他追她，之后结婚也就顺理成章。我问她还工作吗。

我在海关做过一段翻译，想一想那时候也挺好的。她说，眼睛望着远处。那时有发展的机会，薪水也不差。现在想回去就难了，外语学院每年毕业的人那么多。

当然我不是后悔。现在有孩子了，一切就不一样了。没当母亲的时候，绝对想不到。

她的手机铃响了，接电话的时候微笑着，眼睛眯起来，不再往远处看了。

过一会儿，她突然说，你还年轻，这样多好啊！你知道吗，女人一过二十五岁，老得可快了。

真的，二十岁那年我就有感觉了。皮肤一下子就松下来了。到现在。。。

她不再说了。

慧

慧，三十四岁，我的一个远房表叔的妻子。初次见她是在一个酒店里，表叔穿得休闲，长得并不出众，我的印象已不深了。慧飘著长发，上了适量的妆，唇上是一抹淡淡的粉红，笑起来有两个深深的酒涡。她不漂亮，但举止谈笑间绝对有动人心弦处。她大表叔四岁，待人处事也明显更加老练。她喝酒喝得干脆，决不矫情。而因为是家庭聚会，她又很把握分寸。

代公司聚会时，那些老总喝得可疯了。她抱怨。有一次喝了半斤，结果回家时一塌糊涂，可狼狈了呢！

表叔则是好脾气地笑。

晚上我和父母亲到他们家里去。两房一厅，装修的简洁干净，是典型的现代风格。衣橱在门口，是打开的。落地镜前排满了高跟鞋。

太乱了，我们两口子也不愿意收拾。两个人都太懒！她笑着说。连饭也是一个星期做不上一次，厨房都废掉了。

后来讲到他们的房子，她感叹。

以前总经理分的房子比这里好的多。可我们就住在他那户楼的对面，而且那里还需要我每个月添一定的补充金。后来还是压力太大了。不过这里也不错。至少清静！偶尔下班回来我们还能下几盘跳棋。

我们喝著她泡的茶，再谈到孩子。

我们前两年也想过，可是那时候我刚当上部门经理，拖来拖去最后也就不考虑了。怕烦，受不了。其实我们两个就是孩子，大孩子。

回家后，我问父亲她怎么会嫁给表叔 - 这样一个能干奇异的女人！父亲说她有历史，一个已婚男人抛下的情人。那时她已二十六七，最后，终于应了表叔的求婚。

鹰和我

鹰，大概要二十二岁了吧。我近二十。在一个不太遥远的夏天我们谈了人生，梦想，兴奋地彻夜未眠。在一个香港办的大学生交流节目上我们相遇，两个星期后又各自天涯海角。生活依旧东流水，在过去，现在，未来间悠悠荡着；在质疑，迷惘，热情间徘徊不定。

no one updates anymore/ to be continued, possibly

Fri, 09 Feb 2007 22:22:53 GMT

The miracle of a blank canvas. I take my imaginary pen, mark my territory with nimble fingers flashing across the keyboard.

I live along the silence of wind howling between two slender Trump buildings, triumphant, handsome phallic symbols that sprout up in Manhattan like bamboo shoots. I am bitter because my room no longer has a view, and I curl up on the windowsill and die slowly, naked and sad, accompanied by a million windows that stare at me with infinitely melancholic eyes.

I will be twenty, and I think of myself as being twenty. I have lived long, 7300 days, and I have accomplished nothing. Other than the fact that I have now gathered the courage to venture into liquor stores, stern, lips pursed, savoring bottles of coffee liquor or clear, Alaskan-glacier-like vodka with my eyes until I hear a distant police car mount its sirens and chase me and my wits back into the wintery streets of drudgery and nothingness.

I am an optimist, a pessimist. The pessimist takes reins now, and he has beautiful white teeth, and a love of sex. The pessimist sits in the Hungarian pastry shop and stirs the remarkable fragrance of peppermint tea until he dissolves with the silver spoon into the solemn shape of the St. John’s cathedral, where he, younger, equally hopeless, had always wandered under the gaze of God at lunchtime, during which he had no friends.

the state of my mind

Thu, 09 Nov 2006 23:27:55 GMT

The biggest difference is the transparency of blue skies against the metallic enclosure of train material, and the contrast drowns me within the soft rhythm of the jerking of the train. But I see poetry here; in the fluidity of space and scenery I sit still as the world passes me by, and I move involuntarily towards an invisible point that promises to prove ultimate progress while uneasiness slowly sinks in echoing its turn-of-the-twentieth-century counterparts. Through the obscure tunnels that pierce the underground of the bustling streets of New York City, mysterious familiarity lurks, reminiscent of childhood pastimes of H.G. Wells readings. Yet there is another world that penetrates equally deeply along the winding walls in which sparks explode, lit by the oxygen of surrounding darkness [I will write until I find the pages swollen with non-substantial material that reflects the voluminous emptiness within consisting of a million dragonflies of illusions lighting up the barren landscape of an ever-approaching winter. This is not optimism]. But it is not optimism.

Democrats Has the House!

Tue, 07 Nov 2006 23:59:34 GMT

Now is it too much to ask for the Senate too?

rain brewed

Sat, 07 Oct 2006 00:01:11 GMT

the night drips a myriad

of slender lights

crescent moons over a wet landscape

over which rain travels and rests over the shoulder of the

one that stops and examines the skies with curious eyes and

sliding down to form puddles that reflect iris-stained streets she

splashes and stains boots and

clings to ubiquitous opaque windows of immobile curtains

of darkened outlines breathing

the very material of lovers’sighs

alone in the apple, 3

Tue, 22 Aug 2006 02:56:06 GMT

living alone is messy business.

i've accumulated three garbage bags of trash, half a sink load of unwashed dishes, two weeks worth of laundry to be done, and small pink flies breeding in god-knows-where.

today is a day barely lived. other than the fact that i earned the promise of a $140 paycheck in my mailbox with 4 hours of work and 10 of work-induced procrastination. my food intake nears zero, i have not breathed fresh (ha, fresh) manhattan air for 24 hours, and my metabolism does not exceed walking back and forth within the same 10 feet radius.

two hours later, i dump my trash, get locked out of my apartment. i pick up keys from the front desk, talk to the doorman and receptionist, all three of us strangely awake at 2AM, desiring human company. my bare feet touch the smoothness of the lobby marble floor and feel incredibly sexy. i wish my goodnights, take the elevator to the eighth floor, change my mind and proceed to the sky lounge. the room is dark, hudson river is lit across by a million lights from new jersey, sweet scent of perfume fills the air, the carpet carries a warm softness that breathes like a lullaby. i turn on a small side table lamp, color and the rest of the world cascade quietly around my feet. i am 17 floors above ground, i am in a city where half the people are asleep, i am alone and safe in my solitude, i am far, far away from the plights of a universe that i now fear facing. i rest myself in the leather sofa and chase shadows across the wall, listening carefully to the deafening sound of silence. i open the lounge doors and embrace the manhattan night air, breathing in slowly, letting the wind loosen strands of my hair as i lean against the railing and witness the miracle of distance that new york city usually so severely lacks. the hudson river turns the world upside down in its dark resemblance of the sky, stars burst in its waves; the sky, in turn, emanates a sense of fluidity that whirls in smooth delirious confusion. i imagine the soft contours of a man's face, voices and thoughts traveling the seconds of a clock's hand without hurry and time melting into a century of nothingness. i can touch my romanticism, idealism - the timid organisms that enshroud me in a timeless, spaceless misty air that can only exist in the moment. i am the cat that rests on your windowsill, the gust of wind that parts your curtains, the drop of rain that tickles your fancy. i live for nights like these; i forget that i close the lights of the side table lamp, take the elevator back down to the eighth floor, enter my warm and stuffy apartment and record everything on a ridiculous form of internet publication called xanga.

alone in the apple, 2

Sun, 20 Aug 2006 11:12:47 GMT

i am walking down 72nd street on the west side of manhattan, noting with surprise and nostalgia how many shops and restaurants have changed hands when it strikes me that the neighborhood is starting to look all too familiar.

by now, i have not moved for six and a half years. hudson sunsets inspire my poetry and i used to fall asleep to the soft roar of west side highway. starless skies and stone lions perched atop brownstone apartments tiptoe their way into the deep labyrinths of my dreams. i know intimately the contours of riverside park's capricious curves. i kiss daily the hollow of the filthy, bustling 1,2,3 station. i trace my fingers down the smooth spine of upper west side streets (lit by dancing sunsets and made lively by a never-ceasing north wind). and slowly but surely i've begun to probe the delicious inner depths of local restaurants that lure me with their ever-oh-so-good ethnic foods. force of habit has spun me into a love without passion, coyly leading a slow, seductive waltz that succeeds in getting the uninterested partner to bed in the end.

new york city is not my ideal dove's nest. i cannot walk around barefoot here, i can't see too far down the horizon. california's all that i've dreamed of, california's where i almost ended up, but didn't. california is the place that i think of when planes fly by overhead, and i stop in my ancient ritual to watch until they melt into the sunny distance.

with all irony, i am here. four years in the lower east side, six on the upper west. this city (or at least this neighborhood) is taking on the strange and exotic shape of home, which is a foreign concept that at first sight smashes my brain to ineffable jumbles with the force of a baseball bat.

new york is not by choice, the furthest from free will that i can get. new york is a chance encounter. yet, chance encounters bring unexpected things. i am perhaps soft-hearted, weak-willed. these past years entangle me in a mess of attachment - which scares me. and i still don't want to settle down. a part of me still lives in the frantic restlessness of:

Electricity flowing through my fingers tingles of excitement even as exhausted the beauty of words of this world wanting to live so desperately to escape this skin and take on another one and be the wild little person that I am that doesn’t want to be here that cannot stand being trapped this is not what I want not here not this California the beauty the strawberry fields the grass the air that carries the scent of heaven that always flies thousands of miles into my dreams and surrounds me like a magical shield that protects me from going insane or precisely what lures me toward insanity not bearing the thought the knowledge of freedom being only a step away from where you are not between what you want and what you don’t between freedom and responsibility choice cuts breaking into pieces into dreams...

my bifurcation begins here, between settling down and flying away. but nonetheless, i've achieved a moment of zen. no longer bitter, content to explore, understand and (maybe) love this place as one of the gifts fortune granted. this is not the Now i wanted, but it's the Now that i have now. so might as well heed the advice of existentialists for once. dejame vivir.

alone in the apple, 1

Wed, 09 Aug 2006 22:38:11 GMT

having bigger breasts can be useful when you are trying to fasten a towel around your naked body.

of course, this is not all i have to say after returning to the apple. but, we'll wait a bit longer and see.

i never had intimate friends, and the few who came close are in new york. by which i mean they are dead, because that's where i suppose condemned souls go in order not to endure the truth of their past lives.

- Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Memories of my Melancholy Whores

for lovers of the succinct:

Wed, 26 Jul 2006 02:40:56 GMT

Sharp pain of loss eventually eases, giving way to nostalgia. The hours pass slowly then – a cup of tea cools along the smoky wisps of time, draining away all senses of reality. Nostalgia lasts the longest – years, decades, perhaps a hundred years of solitude, if we live so long. Nostalgia mists our hair, paints wrinkles in the corners of our eyes. But nostalgia also leaves rather unexpectedly. All of a sudden we’ll wake to find that the past no longer strikes with the same heartbreaking intensity – the turning point at which we begin to abandon, memories recede into the black-and-white, the picture frame starts to collect dust and the stain of tears once made evaporates into opalescent air. Then, as the smell of neglect and death imperceptibly creeps up the hidden corners of our existence, without a struggle, we shrug our shoulders and forget.