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The -Irreparable - First - Betrayal |
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01 July viva la vidaI used to rule the world Seas would rise when I gave the word Now in the morning I sleep alone Sweep the streets I used to own I used to roll the dice Feel the fear in my enemies eyes Listen as the crowd would sing: "Now the old king is dead! Long live the king!" One minute I held the key Next the walls were closed on me And I discovered that my castles stand Upon pillars of salt, and pillars of sand I hear Jerusalem bells are ringing Roman Cavalry choirs are singing Be my mirror my sword and shield My missionaries in a foreign field For some reason I can't explain Once you know there was never, never an honest word That was when I ruled the world (Ohhh) It was the wicked and wild wind Blew down the doors to let me in. Shattered windows and the sound of drums People could not believe what I'd become Revolutionaries Wait For my head on a silver plate Just a puppet on a lonely string Oh who would ever want to be king? I hear Jerusalem bells are ringing Roman Cavalry choirs are singing Be my mirror my sword and shield My missionaries in a foreign field For some reason I can not explain I know Saint Peter won't call my name Never an honest word And that was when I ruled the world (Ohhhhh Ohhh Ohhh) Hear Jerusalem bells are ringings Roman Cavalry choirs are singing Be my mirror my sword and shield My missionaries in a foreign field For some reason I can not explain I know Saint Peter will call my name Never an honest word But that was when I ruled the world Oooooh Oooooh Oooooh 31 March a song echoing in my head..."When you try your best, but you don't succeed When you get what you want but not what you need When you feel so tired but you can't sleep Stuck in reverse? When the tears come streaming down your face When you lose something you can't replace When you love someone but it goes to waste Could it be worse? Lights will guide you home, And ignite your bones, And I will try to fix you, High up above or down below When you're too in love to let it go But if you never try you'll never know Just what you're worth" 27 February Melancholy of a Future SoulMelancholy of a Future Soul “Then he heard the weeping. That was what wakes him: a soft but penetrating weeping that because it was so delicate was able to slip through the mesh of sleep and reach the place where his fear lived.” -- “Pedro Páramo” by Juan Rulfo “I am a mere mortal, a lonesome nonetheless ordinary sod.” I affirmed myself when the cooling breeze sifted through this concrete jungle, brushing against my numb cheek. Still clad in disorientation, I involuntarily recalled this haunting dream, forever recurring, where my spirit departing its flesh flew as of a broken-string kite towards the patchy cerulean sky. Upon arrival of the meshed sunlight, my co-dweller, a little owl, elaborated a faint grumble. “One of those lucky days…” I winked at my little discontent friend, among the possibly handful souls acknowledging my acquired sanity rather instantaneous seclusion else insolence in light of my innate frailty. I ought to leave soon for the appointment with my “client”, rather a bed-laden potential recipient, most probably gazing at the eerily spotless ceiling of an intensive care unit, emanating grief and despair. To them, I am nothing but a beating heart. Those daringly piercing stares scrutinize my physique with meticulousness as of a scalpel dissecting my skin, muscles and bones. Shudder of my reflex shiver, I would put on a brave face, calmly shake hands with the patient, then the relatives, clutching tight the free hand hidden safe in my trouser pocket, hold my stance then politely wait for anyone to ask a question concerning my health and genetics. After a couple of reassuring answers, I would then be led to undergo usual formalities on organ “donation”, except as the class that was “gifted” with a “subsidiary” internal organ before ever burst out one’s first cry when landed on this afresh though hostile land from the womb of one’s birth mother, I would not be entitled to the legal “human” rights as of the superior natural birth class. Throughout years, after the gradual sedimentation of initial deranged response as a young man who by birth had been labelled as a sheer “ingenious” artificial product serving the purpose of preserving lives far outweighing my own, I was left with utter melancholy of my birth intertwined with humiliation from profiting on my much loathed somehow inseparable sparing part as it was only through each successful “donation” procedure that I would be able to sustain a bare living. Of course, during state education (rather I would call it more of a well-meant brainwash), the adversities our scientific creator encountered back in those trial-and-error experimental attempts were much highlighted and we were taught to appreciate the eventual success. Even still, by no means could any of us hold a substantial self-esteem when knowingly bearing someone else’s replacement organ however sublime it may sound on paper, not to mention the legal outcast we faced. I let go of that part of me long time ago, so long that I could barely remember my first drop of tears post-operation. The immense grief and fear of acknowledging the inception of my recurrent suffering and miserable career had then tortured me. Those were the dark days… Who would have foreseen the steady turn of the fortune that followed when soaked in profound torment? Life would always move on when the pain eased, the wounds healed and the scars faded. The inherent reluctance upon departure with a fraction of one's body might evoke entrenched sorrow though with each recall the agony would be sinking deeper as of the diminishing tip of the iceberg while floating towards the deeper ocean. Only when noticing the remorseful delight flinted in the sickened eyes and sensing the tension inflicted by the virtual reality in contrast to their pursuit for the ultimate cure, would one remorse the cruelty as our “redundant” organ being more recognisable than the rest of us. My little studio flat crammed among an ever-growing population due to high demand had for years been my oasis, my hideout from the madding crowd. In an obscure though well-quarantined corner of the city (the prevention from breeding with the “natural” therefore disrupting the Laws of Order), I would return home, regaining my sanity when absorbed in my secretive collection of dusty and dog-eared paperbacks such as my all time favourite “Pedro Páramo”, which was treasure-hunted among piles of waste when undertook a cleaning job (another limited means for income for our class) at the reminiscent of an old city library. The damp mouldy pages riffled whenever I turned over one of its countable pages. I knew each word, line, paragraph by heart, with ease I could recite them with eyes shut. Affected by the portrait of unfathomable emotions emanated by a human being once lived, I would feel, at least for a split second that we share the equal sensuality towards passion and fear that I, as a creature, need not humble in front of another creature simply due to a pre-determined heavy-burden before birth. I
really ought to leave now, to Hospital X; else I would be late for my
appointment. I put on my only suit, well-pressed the night before. “It is all
about first impression.” I reassured myself, and then stride outside the door,
“Showtime!” 29 December ... always easier to pretend being an expert while not... it takes a life time for consolidation the knowledge base... will i ever be able to achieve that? with self-doubt i know not. why were we given birth? a random event occurring every now and then among a population in a macroscopic scale, a causal outcome from a long chain in a microscopic scale... thus how much perturbation could the diminishment of an individual exert on the chaotic but globally (Liapunov)stable (?) system? could it ever tip the entire equilibrium/system to explosion in terms of non-linear dynamics? or does it simply steer its neighbouring temporal else phasic system flow to the local fixed point or limit cycle or strange attractor? or even the little variation bears no remark on the system at all? at childhood, all kids love to grow up becoming superheroes, however evil antagonists also dwell in every single themed films.rather than believing the world would turn catastrophic if only there weren't the saviour , i'd much rather think them both thrive on the same realization of their capability in steering system variation ...nothing but an individual's vanity and self-proof. fear for irrevocable insignificance proliferate like a malignant tumour... meticulous surgical removal of pathological tissue would still allow some refuge and expect the next outbreak... it's sunny today...but cold as usually....am sealing my fear in my Pandora's box... and hope it would never be re-sealed.. 06 October new term...Term is about to start!!!! Complete hectic Monday and Friday lectures... and a bloody demanding final year project.... what a year! Nevertheless, am blessed with my boundary-less curiosities on almost everything (exclude sports) :P.... Rock and Shostakovich is a cure for all... u'd know what i mean if u "waste" that much of your life, esp. in summer, stimulating Cadence... Will I ever get out.... very dim...lol 18 September 午夜的忧伤听了x japan的歌反而睡不着了…… 很久没有怎么听rock…… 忽然觉得自己挺可笑的——偶然的懈逅及其后的销声匿迹，浮云一般，波澜无惊，却已于不经意中潜移默化了我的口味。电影也好、音乐也好，都隐约旁人的影子。自寻的寂寞、轻松的伤感……一如rock中喧嚣的忧伤。 明明清楚无非是暂时的徘徊，依旧无法自已。 想起了"Nana"的OST中那首“Endless Story”,徘徊的旋律。肤浅的深刻。 15 October 序曲 · Prologue角落里的留声机隐约飘来贝德贝克二七年灌录的《薄雾中》。 只是再熙攘的音乐也冲淡不了两人间的隔阂——那顿时涌起的拘束、尴尬、猜疑与不安。 一个人再成熟老练，遇生人时，怀揣着担心，多少有些不安，期望对方采取比自己更主动的态度。 我走神地盯着手中泛着泡沫的香槟，冰冷的液体使高脚杯蒙上薄薄的水气。 火苗闪了一下。她吸了口递过烟来。洁白的烟嘴已沾上道玫瑰色泽的饱满的弧线。 她静静地斜靠在我身边，氤氲中，脸色潮红，表情却含糊而疏远、琢磨不透。 温暖的空气益发催化着酒精作用下的晕眩与亢奋。 我的视线不觉顺着她涂着蔻丹的白皙的手指，抚及裸露匀称的臂膀，停留在她微启的朱唇上。在胸口袭来一波不可名状的混合的感觉时，我不禁朝她伏过身，她的嘴即刻封了上来，涌入一口温暖的香槟……
不知多久，我嗅着房间中残余的荷尔蒙和烟味，醒了过来。 窗外依旧是黑夜。望着枕边婴孩般沉睡着的女人，一地不属于自己的衣物和乳白色烟灰缸中熄灭的烟蒂，我仍有些不太自在。 我是个敏感的自闭者；我惟恐自由空间以任何形式地被占用或侵犯；我逃避我的社会责任；我不愿伤害与被伤害、痛苦与被痛苦。 于是，我只玩一种游戏：某处的邂逅，一夜的缠绵，醒来后没有感情羁绊，也不必谎言背叛，道别后依旧陌路，寻找下一个驿站。 可是脱离爱情的性如同花架上折枝的玫瑰，新鲜妖艳，却远不如花圃中的长久。对于美丽的伤逝无时不刻阴霾着我的快感。 此外，我同样背负着沉重的精神枷锁：我惟恐在人群中同自己的过去照面；我害怕自己的作风遭旁人指点；我生怕自己被扭曲误解…… 或许，在某个类似的朝霞升起之时，我已重获新生。多年以来，我对此深信不疑。 然而，浸沐无数日出之后的我依旧孓然一生，依旧忧郁和彷徨。我不禁怀疑自己是否仅仅一厢情愿地坚守一个被遗忘的都市童话，那个主人公“从此过上幸福的生活”的结局。 倘若我的“另一半”并不存在呢？我是否注定会失落一辈子？会无止境地寻找迷失的自我直至生命的终结？我，这个不完整的个体，存在的意义又何在？仅仅作为一个带着悲剧色彩的徘徊者？…… 长长地冲了个淋浴，湿漉着头发，裹着浴袍，我睡意惺忪地为自己调了杯杜松子酒掺奎宁水，夹了片柠檬，坐到凉爽的阳台上看晨曦。已是凌晨。
昨晚独身去“龙尼·司各特”，伦敦最老牌的爵士夜总会。 听爵士乐是对逝去青春的缅怀，一如时隔境迁后的旧梦重温。 沉粹下的虚幻和唯美，辅以子夜的蓝调布鲁斯，使空气里弥漫着淡淡的忧伤，怀旧的心充溢着不能承受之轻与重。 换场间隙，狭隘昏暗的地下室酒吧里，她，细致的头颈，高耸的发髻，轻晃透明的马蒂尼，坐在吧台一隅抽大卫杜夫的淡口香烟。 我在吧台这边要了双份威士忌外加一瓶佩莱矿泉水。 忽的，耳畔飘来个沙哑而性感的嗓音，“等人吗？”她嫣然咫尺之隔。 共享了一支烟，闲谈了几句之后，下半场演出的铃声响起。 台上七旬老人沧桑低沉的声线，小圆桌上刚好挤下一排的鸡尾酒杯，周遭猩红色台灯散发出的昏暗光晕，墙壁上挤满的演奏家们黑白签名照…… 一切仿佛融化在那些随性的音符中。 半夜换了班演出人马。一个怀旧的四人组合。听了会儿，同她在衣帽间取了外套，出来了。 叫了辆黑色出租车。 她点了根烟，安静地发短信。 我木然望着窗外飞驰而过的寂静的街道。 车掠过骑士桥，白天的车水马龙了无痕迹，不禁回味起方才乐队演奏的《比切特之蓝调》。清幽的钢琴，激越的小号，忽而轻快，时而舒缓，松松弛弛，娴熟的技巧颇有悉尼·比切特之遗风。可惜独缺当年高音萨克斯管背后隐藏着的深深落寞。比切特出生贫寒，一朝成名，却英年早逝。悲剧般的命运酷似同时代的小说家费茨杰拉德：热闹终究是别人的；宴席终究是要散的；逃避孤独的盖茨比们的结局也是相似的。 车停在我公寓外的路灯下，到了……
室内双人床上模糊的胴体苗条而白皙。她不过二十出头，浓重的中产阶级口音，Calvin Klein的内衣，Dune 的细高根，Burberry的手袋，甜郁的Coco Mademoiselle，细致而收敛，一个摩登的帝梵尼女孩。 我伤感地审度着自己的影子：对经典的迷恋缘于对现世的不满。 早期的理想主义遭遇现实后的挫折动摇了我们的信念。对过去的质疑与颠覆使我们迷茫而彷徨。在等待下一个信仰树立的漫长的过渡期中，我们局促而不安：一个无序的世界里，醉生梦死的快感及其后更持久的空虚令人不知所措。 我们意识到了世俗的羁绊却无力摆脱；我们的肉体虚荣且贪乐，薄弱的意志招架不住浮华的召唤与物质的引诱；我们如同《巴黎最后的探戈》中的让娜，旺盛的好奇心，招牌般喜新厌旧，入世的天真，出世的冷酷…… 然而人世的沉浮中，多数人的棱角逐渐被磨平，不是畏于众口铄金，便是妥协于“平淡是真”，终究为俗流湮没。 对于一个社会而言，个人乃至一个群体的存在是何等的微不足道，何等的沧海一粟。历史备了装置，布了道景，确定了传奇出现的必然性。唱哪出戏，捧红哪个角儿，纯属偶然。日子一久，新戏取代旧戏，新人替换旧角，前一出戏就被遗忘在了故纸堆中。
我回屋，泡了杯咖啡，将指针搁上唱片。留声机缓缓转动，飘出了《四月巴黎》的旋律。 沐浴着晨光，伴着萨拉·冯恩的颤音，她伸了个懒腰。 程式化的冲凉、着衣、早餐和道别之后，我目送她的背影，却怎么也想不起她的名字了。一个腿长臀窄、在我生命中一晃而过的女人的代号，无论是叫波伏瓦还是伍尔芙是没有区别的。 今天是周六。锁好门，看着第七季的《欲望都市》，我重又坠入了梦乡……
...很久不用中文写东西了。 字斟句酌地挣扎着，却每每归入俗流。 尝试着在两种文化中寻找平衡点，却只是徒劳...
04 July "Eleven Minutes" by Paulo CoelhoOnce upon a time, there was a bird. He was adorned with two perfect wings and with glossy, colourful, marvellous feathers. In short, he was a creature made to fly about freely in the sky, bringing joy to everyone who saw him.
One day, a woman saw the bird and fell in love with him. She watched his flight, her mouth wide in amazement, her heart pounding, her eye shining with excitement. She invited th bird to fly with her, and the two travelled across the sky in perfect harmony. She admired and venerated and celebrated that bird.
But then she thought: He might want to visit faroff mountains! And she was afraid, afraid that she would never feel the same way about any other bird. And she feel envy, envy for the bird's ability to fly.
And she felt alone.
And she thought: " I'm going to set a trap. The next time the bird appears, he will never leave again."
THe bird, who was also in love, returned the following day, fell into the trap and was put in a cage.
She looked at the bird evey day. There he was, the object of her passion, and she showed him to he friends, who said: 'Now you have everything you can possibly want.' However, a strange transformation began to take place: now that she had the bird and no longer needed to woo him, she began to lose interest. The bird, unable to fly and express the true meaning of his life, began to waste away and his feathers to lose their gloss; he grew ugly; and then woman no longer paid him any attention, except by feeding him and cleaning out his cage.
One day, the bird died. The woman felt terribly sad and spent all her time thinking about him. But she did not remember the cage, she thought only of the day when she had seen him for the first time, flying contentedly amongst the clouds.
If she had looked more deeply into herself, she would have realised that what had thrilled her about the bird was his freedom, the energy of his wings in motion, not his physical body.
Without the bird, her life too lost all meaning, and Death came knocking at her door. 'Why have you come?' she asked Death. 'So you can fly once more with him across the sky.' Death replied. 'If you had allowed him to come and go, you would have loved and admired him even more; alas, you now need me in order to find him again.'
02 June WAR : sigh from an insignificant individualWatched quite a few classic war films recently. The meticulous exposure of the conflict between humanity and barbarity left me in sullenness for some time. "LAWRENCE: I killed two people ... There was something about it I didn't like. ... I enjoyed it." (from "Lawrence of Arabia") "WILLARD (v.o.): It was the way we had over here of living with ourselves. We'd cut them in half with a machine gun and give them a Band-Aid. It was a lie, and the more I saw of them, the more I hated lies." "KURTZ: You have to have men who are moral ... and at the same time who are able to utilize their primordial instincts to kill without feeling ... without passion ... without judgement ... Because it's judgement that defeats us." ( from "Apocalypse now Redux") Those films are virtually the intellectual approaches to the meaning of war - the main characters constant in agony for the compromise between morality and duty. When at the front, fighting for some vague beliefs, or to be more exact, the political propaganda, is just not convincing enough, having witnessed so many deaths, allies or enemies, while the fate of their own remains murky. One cannot help but wonder: Is war just some pokers played by politicians, only with hundreds of thousands of lives at stake? As a matter of fact, we all ask for it, out of greediness and possessiveness in human nature. Since its cruelty only strikes on a small proportion of the population, the majority, intact, gloat over others' misfortune when browsing through news headlines. Varying numbers of the dead and the wounded, white-hot boundary and religious disputes spice up our still and boring life. Then came the Iraqi war, the closest confrontation for our generation. The thought of liberating other souls set our hearts afire, until the harsh reality crumbled the illusion. One morning, at a bus stop in Croydon, a penniless soldier begged me to pay for his bus fare, claiming himself a deserter from the Iraqi front. The man was in his twenties, shaggy, heavily-tattooed and drunk, kept mumbling about his family back in Kent. What made him run away? The crush of morality? The insanity of war? The fright of death? The longing for home? Whether it was a decision pondered over or seized with an impulse, whatever reason behind, he deserved my respect for simply being to hell and back. How would those veterans ever blend in with the crowd again? "You never walk into the same river twice." All but them have changed. On the other hand, it is only them that have changed. History repeats itself over and over again. Alternating war and peace reforms our ideology, though having little impact on preventing the war itself. "How many times must a man look up Before he can see the sky? Yes, 'n' how many ears must one man have Before he can hear people cry? Yes, 'n' how many deaths will it take till he knows That too many people have died? The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind, The answer is blowin' in the wind."
14 May His & Her Monologue“Have you ever seen ‘The Last Tango in Paris’?” She murmured. “Yes.” Though it was quite a while ago. The storyline had somehow faded away, so did all the other great films I watched. How ironic that over the time only ambiguous details seemed to etch on my mind, outshining the rest: The tongue-twisting, American-accented “Minnesota Fats” called out by Paul Newman in “The Hustler”; the gruff outburst of laughter in “Rashômon” by Toshirô Mifune; the interpretation of “Like a Virgin” elaborated by Quentine Taratino himself at the beginning of “Reservoir Dogs” … “About the ending.” She paused. “Jeanne took Paul’s life in a single shot, the revolver left by her father. An old-fashioned young girl she was, so ingenuous but capricious. The craving for a new toy goes hand-in-hand with the abandonment of the old ones. ”She smiled wryly,“I do resemble her in that aspect.” “No one was born that faithless you know. I was a girl of eighteen, peered into the adult world via rosy lenses, fantasizing about true love, Prince Charming, the happy-ever-after fairytale ending." "Looking back, it was not that tragic as it seemed then, though enough to shatter an exquisite dream, leaving a wound behind, which did take some time to heal." "Or is it my problem after all? My perfectionism could very well be the culprit of the whole incident. In that case, the abortive first affair, triggering my rebirth afterwards, is only an excuse for my aftermath-vengeance upon the rest of the world of not offering me an ‘immaculate’ virgin relationship to start with.” Her lukewarm tone of speech did not give away a slightest touch of sentiment. Somehow I reckon the girl inside be shedding tears when memories were stirred up. The antique gramophone happened to be singing a sad old song from “Casablanca”: "You must remember this A kiss is just a kiss; a sigh is still a sigh. The fundamental things apply as time goes by..."
Next to the curtained French windows, the torchère shed a coat of beige shade over her delicate skin, smooth and ivory. For a flash, I could visualise Bogart, with a trademark cigarette dangling from his lips, broad wrinkles etching on his forehead, throwing murky, inattentive looks at me... Somewhere in the room, the grandfather clock just stroke four times. “The dawn is coming.” “Very soon.”
12 May Have you yet seen "Edward Scissorhands"?.... OLD KIM : She never saw him again. Not after that night. GRANDDAUGHTER: How do you know? OLD KIM: Because I was there. GRANDDAUGHTER: You could have gone up there. You still could go. OLD KIM: No, sweetheart. I'm an old woman now. I would rather want him remember me the way as I was. GRANDDAUGHTER: How do you know he's still alive. OLD KIM: I don't know. Not for sure. But I believe he is. You see, before he came down here, it never snowed. And afterwards it did. If he weren't up there now, I don't think it would be snowing. Sometimes you can still catch me dancing in it.
03 May dandelion of nostalgiaHow weird that I drowned myself in Belle & Sebastian for the past 24 hours. All the memories about that long afternoon haunt me regardless of my reluctance. ...."The time was passed so pleasantly " .... Having moved on in worlds of our own after the doomed encounter, the gloomy flash of merriment, time slips away swiftly. Certain things are meant to fade away, however, memorable due to its 'beauty by mistake'. "Summer in winter/Winter is springtime/You heard the bird say/Everything will be fine." Will we still recognize each other one day we hurry by? I wonder .... A Summer Wasting by Belle & SebastianSummer in winter Ease Your Feet in The Sea by Belle & SebastianEase you're feet off in the sea Is It Wicked Not to Care by Belle & SebastianIs it wicked not to care when they say that you're mistaken Even though you feel like crying Would you love me like an equal? Chickfactor by Belle & SebastianWhat was it I saw in New York? 27 April what is loveOne day when you wake up in the morning, you might all of a sudden wonder: What is To share a refreshing morning watching sunrise? a warm afternoon drinking coffee? a cozy night watching classics? a lovely Saturday at Tate Modern? a splendid night at Soho? ... But what happens during the exact moment when love is born? How can one tell that the very person is the one for himself ? To put it nicely, the woman simply cannot resist the voice calling forth her terrified soul at the very moment while the man cannot resist the woman whose soul thus responds to his voice. Love is the longing for the half of ourselves we have lost. Therefore, it does not make itself felt in the desire for copulation (a desire that extends to an infinite number of men/women) but in the desire for shared sleep (a desire limited to one man/woman). As it is only in sleep one is off guard, releasing his inner-self, sharing it entirely with the rest of the world, or in this case his better-half... name of my spaceThe first betrayal is irreparable. It calls forth a chain reaction of further betrayals, each of which takes us farther and farther away from the point of our original betrayal. Betrayals open up new paths to new adventures of betrayal. But what if the paths came to an end? One can betray one's parents, husband, country, love, but when parents, husband, country, love are gone — what is left to betray? What if emptiness is the goal of all betrayals? |
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