'moviegoer' tagbox conversations..

jady: after some relentless refreshing of the page it finally turned out right......
jady: relieve relieve relieve..now going to have lunch..been munching chocolate all day...
zhu: jadyyyyyyyy, tell me how to access this blog, what username n passwd in order to post
zhu: or can i just post msg in the reply box? hope not
jady: hey hey how come you still ard?! i emailed you the username and pswd, didn you get th
jady: i'll send again..of course you shouldn confine yourself to tiny shoutbox spaces..
jady: you are the all-important other half of SlapStick the enterprise!!
jady: :P
slap: carried on another verse with 'a bird', keep loading
slap: hew, made great progress, starving, out to dinner
j: good god it's HUGE progress!!! i am so very happy and energised!! gonna work on it..
slap: stick, help me complete slapstick timeline n moviegoer list
stick: sure sure,working on them now..
stick: updates still refuse to show their faces on main page..frustrating..se-nt another
stick: complaint to blogcn.hopefully the matter will be soon looked into and solved..
stick: the broken english too..shouldn't appear this way at all.gotta wait for their response
stick: and where's the birdie continuation? i can't find it...
slap: it's right after wat u wrote
stick: 555 i think it's lost in the posting process...see4 yrself, it's not there...
stick: try post again..and it will go on and on and on..hohohoho
slap: it's under that same old title 'a bird, a continuation'
slap: i added on another verse n saved it under the old title
stick: strange..when i click on it all that shows is the old one..i'll go control panel n c.
slap: i think this's really
slap: funny,
slap: that we're conversing in howler boxes hahahahhahaha
stick: haha you are not on msn! that's why!
stick: not that i have read it thrice i think it now is a rather self-contained egg...
stick: neatly packaged and finished. start another one maybe..shall we?
slap: great! start on another one, prob the novel too. i can't go on msn, my dad's there,
slap: and it's bloody late, and it's sinful to block one's own parents on msn
stick: :P as you say..i always go invisible on yahoo and they can buzz me if they feel like
stick: go to bed dear slap..it's indeed bloody late..i'll see you soon..
slap: i'm going sleep, why am i not sleeping yet, mad
stick: am going sleep.it's 2am sharp. just posted the movie list.not yet writing on ss days.
stick: blogcn will get a new server next week, or so they say.hope things get better then..
slap: sweet dreams pal! movie list up, keep loading
slap: i'll delete the eng patient quote, repeated
stick: philosophy test tomolo..gonna revise revise revise today..i'll see what i can do toda
slap: mug today, don't do anything else. damn msn
stick: seems the broken word problem is fixed..now only the update display prob..biggest one
stick: great.that bloody piece of blade runner review finally disappears..hope e rest appear
stick: very soon, and neatly formatted too..es complained lengthily abt blogcn the other day
stick: coz o biology...blog isn functioning smoothly either..persuaded to change to blogspot
stick: but i think i'll stick to here for the time being..thoughts?
stick: stick wanna stick here and slap may want to slap stick for that..­
stick: oh b4 i forget--compose in msword or somewhere stable and paste into box to post..
stick: coz it's customary tt blogcn loses stuff in the process..i got tt e very 1st time...
stick: maiden post 'lost in translation'...and wary of bloody blogcn ever since..
slap: stick, you're safe. let's stick to this blog.
stick: last exam gone.wasn as bad as i tot.raging storm outside.working full power!!!!!!!!!
stick: uploaded some munch...but unable to get SHRIEK up there since it's way too big..55555
stick: also uploaded friend's painting tt i promised..take a look in e folder n u'll c ­
stick: xiaocui's bday..ate cake juz now..so poisonously sweet n creamy!!!!!!yum yum...
stick: oops i juz saw tt dog paw quote fr EP is alr there in e original post..did u add tt.?
stick: or was it my glassy eyes tt tricked and fooled me into such blunder as to repeat it.?
slap: i added ur paw quote there afterwards, haha nothin'g wrong w ur eyes
slap: geez i forgot xiaocui's bday, and cakes...555
slap: stick, let's embark on our novel soonish!-after my exam... Dec 20th
slap: saw the 'twilight' pic, gd colour, gd feel
stick: SURE!i'll try work a little sth out today..it's 14:17 n i just got up...:P
stick: HAHAHA juz sent blogcn a 3rd, V ANGRY complaint, and there~blog updates duely appear~
stick: persistance leads to eventual victory wah!!
stick: made some changes to chap1,which hasn shown up.will continue later.it's 8am now and
stick: i'm going w/o sleep for 20 hrs..so, going to bed!!hoho, cya later~
slap: thining hard on the novel...
jady: jude! my blog mania surfaced again!! i just registered a new blog on blogspot....­
jady: what madness. what illness!
jady: i'm gonna repost 2046 when i finish it, and you shall see the tony leung bit then..
jady: thoroughly exhausted again..intense activity alternates w/ indefinite inactivity..
jady: such is life. c'est bizarre!
jude: norwegian forest, beetle song??
j: norweigian WOODS by beAtles..hehe yes
slap: hahahaha lol i hereby claim the typo queen crown
slap: ok from today onwards i'm gonna check n update our jj blog consistently
slap: on dan brown, i dun know him so i can't say much
slap: wait till i come back after dinner n continue with the reply
slap: the lover looks great read! i'm gonna borrow the book
j: haha great u finally drop by!! stick is lonely here..
j: and happy valentine's..which isn't for lovers narrowly defined only i believe..hehe

Donna Donna by Joan Baez

On a wagon bound for market
There's a calf with a mournful eye
High above him there's a swallow
Winging swiftly through the sky
How the winds are laughing
They laugh with all their might
Laugh and laugh the whole day through
And half the summer's night

#Donna, donna, donna, donna
Donna, donna, donna, don
Donna, donna, donna, donna
Donna, donna, donna, don

Stop complaining, said the farmer
Who told you a calf to be?
Why don't you have wings to fly with
Like the swallow so proud and free?
How the winds are laughing
They laugh with all their might
Laugh and laugh the whole day through
And half the summer's night

#

Calves are easily bound and slaughtered
Never knowing the reason why
But whoever treasures freedom
Like the swallow has learned to fly
How the winds are laughing
They laugh with all their might
Laugh and laugh the whole day through
And half the summer's night

#

Ida

Ida was born into a peasant’s family in a tarnished metropolis.

Not that the family still plows field for a living; there’s none in the tattered city. Ida’s grandfather, a moody carpenter, pushed his way into the city before his first child was born. He was later renowned for chasing after his own children in the streets with an axe, a cleaver, spitting, cursing, threatening death. But the children grew up fine, sturdy without and sentimental within, approaching life with weary practicality. It is the fiery grandfather that didn’t last. He died of uncured tuberculosis in the then poverty and ignorance, coughing bouts of blood in his last days like a phoenix before rebirth, barely fifty, still fiercely handsome, his oldest son a dreamy young man still.

Ida never gets to meet him, all this she knew from fragmentary accounts from the father, the aunt and the uncle, sometimes old neighbours too, and occasional reminiscences of her widowed grandmother, that illiterate, wrapped up woman. Ida wondered how much of her grandfather’s ignitable blood ran in her veins, for she was a grenade of a child, solemn and deathly still for hours when she wants to, and in tantrums kicks trees with a bleeding toe, and bangs her head on iron railings and brick walls. Her forehead now a jagged bony plane, and always a shade of dusty crimson from the red bricks. People say such strange child has demons born into the heart, for how else could there be such utter unspoken and unspeakable rage in such young heart? But Ida didn’t hear any of those. Those days she just attended to the chickens.

Ida’s grandmother raised a dozen chickens on one end of the long, narrow L-shaped balcony. It was the only thing she did and perhaps the only thing she could do. Her sons did the cookings, and her daughters-in-law the housework. Whenever she wanted to give a hand she was politely asked to not tire her old body. Grandmother was respected in the family for her seniority, but other than that Ida knew the adults found grandmother’s alternating illiterate mutterings and heavy silence depressing, a burden, an unsightly phantom existence.

Ida, on the other hand, savored the long chunks of silence, with the grandma, with her chickens, with the oozing well water of July, with caterpillar-infested wild bushes that tickled her shins and kissed green juicy smears on her flighty cotton skirt.

happy...

happy...

to jady,
you know,
maybe u remember today as something special
happy....
a hint

Jady:
special date? 27th february? i can only think of the following: day before my birthday (turning twenty, not happy), birthday of justina (my og mate who commited suicide, not happy), birthday of angela tan our exclassmate (neutral)...

oh my, what is it?

Added (21 Aug 05)
to Jady,
my 27th is your 28th, remember the time lag? So it was ur birthday hahaha.

Deception Point

I squandered a whole night last night reading Dan Brown’s Deception Point, his second novel, also the thickest one among all four. I have about two fifths to go and already feeling distasteful. Probably it’s an unwise thing to do to read a writer’s work in anti-chronological order, especially for someone in the thriller/suspense business. Brown was either being too ambitious here molding science, politics, government conspiracy and murder mystery into a perfect story, or he didn’t yet know how to cut down words. In any case, my main problem with this particular book isn’t the page count or narrative skill; it’s the attitude, call it American pride, arrogance, unilateralism, or downright militarilism and imperialism.

Brown loves stuff that’s largely unknown to the mass—NSA, CERN, Vatican, Priory of Sion, Opus Dei, da Vinci’s manuscripts, cryptography etc, and Deception Point, which is no exception, deals with NASA and dirty politics in and around the White House. Well, very exciting. Having read the other three books I couldn’t help subconsciously expect Brown to be gripping full attention all the time and dripping fascinating knowledge and insights all over the place, and above all, erudite and citizen-of-the-worldish. This last criterion he fails to meet. He writes about Special Cops on presidential order killing civilian scientists, American or foreign; about the supreme importance of American national security and ‘precious American lives’ lost to terrorist bombing, about their competition with the treacherous foes China and Russia, about, gloatingly, the superior weapons the US has developed and kept the world in the dark about, and the prospective privatization of space by various mammoth American corporations etc. Granted, he writes about the aforementioned as part of the narrative and characterization, and yes, those may not represent his personal opinion at all, but I beg to differ. I do think a sharp reader is able to tell the author’s opinions and intentions through the way he writes. Although I hope very much that the remaining 2/5 of the book will convince me otherwise, I feel that in the book Brown brims with a type of American pride that I detest, to put it mildly. To put down horrific ideas without qualifying them in any way whatsoever is in a way endorsing them. He writes about privatization of space as if the whole of the universe belongs to Americans and Americans alone; he writes about American lives lost as if other lives mean dusts at best and evil and threat at worst. And the high-tech killings, he describes it with such vivacity and enthusiasm you’d almost think he savors writing down the morbid experience with great deal of delight. Maybe I am being reactionary, overcritical. I hope I am, but I dislike this novel. decidedly.

Paragraphs from THE LOVER,by MARGUERITE DURAS

The story of my life doesn't exist. Doesn't exist. There's never any centre to it. No path, no line. There are great spaces where you pretend there used to be someone, but it's not true. There was no one.

Before, I spoke of clear periods, those on which the light fell. Now I am talking about the hidden stretches of that same youth, of certain facts, feelings, events that I buried. I started to write in surroundings that drove me to reticence. Writing, for those people, was still something moral. Nowadays it often seems writing is nothing at all. Sometimes I realize that if writing isn't, all things, all contraries confounded, a quest for vanity and void, it's nothing. That if it's not, each time, all things confounded into one through some inexpressible essence, then writing is nothing but advertisement. But usually I have no opinion, I can see that all options are open now, that there seem to be no more barriers, that writing seems at a loss for somewhere to hide, to be written, to be read. That its basic unseemliness is no longer accepted.

I acquired that drinker's face before I drank. Drink only confirmed it. The space for it already existed in me. I knew it the same as other people, but strangely, in advance.

That was how everything started for me—with that flagrant, exhausted face, those rings around the eyes, in advance of time and experience.

She's slim, tall, drawn in Indian ink, an engraving. People stop and look in amazement at the elegance of this foreigner who walks along unseeing. Like a queen. People never knew at first where she's from. And then they think she can only be from somewhere else, from there. Because of this she's beautiful. She's dressed in old European clothes, scraps of brocade, out-of-date old suits, old curtains, old oddments, old models, moth-eaten old fox furs, old otter skins, that's her kind of beauty, tattered, chilly, plaintive and in exile, noting suits her, everything's too big, and yet it looks marvelous. She's made in such a way, face and body, that anything that touches her shares immediately and infallibly in her beauty.

Moviegoer

I finally got to borrow this book titled THE MOVIEGOER by WALKER PERCY (I always thought it's the other way round until just now. What kind of first name is WALKER?) from the library. It's a book that was long ago recommended to me in yahoo literature chatroom by some kind, well-read buddy, and was since taken note of and searched for in everywhere there was a library of sorts, and not found. What kind of fascinating book is this that got me so obsessed? I don't know, really. I knew nothing about the plot, the era it was written in and about, the genre or whatsoever. The only thing I recall is that it was mentioned and endorsed along with a string of other household names like Guy Maupassant and Kurt Vonnegut (which wasn't household name to me then but soon to become the biggest favorite, an addictive inspiration of sorts. Jude knows this only too well…) Anyway, the fact that the book had been so hard to find was probably a major drive force that propelled me along in the search. The name of this site, incidentally, was a directly plagiarized thing from the title of the book. (So is Slapstick from Vonnegut's novel…which reminds me of Woolf's words, that we are (at her time) at the fag-ends (i.e. cigarette butts) of civilization, that all that could be said are said already, and there're no more ambitious things to accomplish. She's right in a way isn't she. Or that's just a legitimate excuse to practise plagiarism.. Now that I have borrowed and read 1/8 into it, I still can't say what kind of book this is except that it strongly reminds me of Sartre's Nausea, probably influenced by it (since THE MOVIEGOER was written in 1963, 25 years after Nausea.), and the opening words sorta confirms my impression—'…the specific character of despair is precisely this: it is unaware of being despair. –Soren Kierkegaard, THE SICKNESS ONTO DEATH'. Kierkegaard, of course, is one of the founding fathers of existentialism, earlier than Sartre and Camus, a Danish philosopher and theist whose work wasn't much recognized until after his death. How strange it is to be confronted by existentialism in a book that had attracted and totally eluded me years before I even knew such philosophy! I hope I could write a review on it someday…

隨錄現代詩一首----我曾經擁有一個女孩

十六歲
或者該說
從未單獨旅行
她曾經擁有我
胸罩仍然由媽媽購買
她讓我看她的房間
第一封情書還沒有出現
不是很好嗎？
每年持續長高一點五公分
挪威木
輕微口吃
當我醒來的時候
對世界的看法絕對純粹
我獨自一人
彷彿切開手指就可以把空氣切開
這隻鳥兒已經飛走了
１９７８年夏天
所以我生起火來
鳳凰樹咳血似的開花
不是很好嗎？
十六歲的我與十三歲的歌
挪威木

je m'appelle helene

Helene Rolles
-------------------------
{Refrain:}
Hélène, je m'appelle Hélène
je suis une fille
comme les autres

Hélène
j'ai mes joies, mes peines
elles font ma vie
comme la votre
je voudrais trouver l'amour
simplement trouver l'amour

{au Refrain}

Hélène
si mes nuits sont pleines
de reves de poemes
je n'ai rien d'autres

je voudrais trouver l'amour
simplement trouver l'amour
et meme
si on m'voit
dans tous les journaux
chaque semaine

personne ne m'attend le soir
quand je rentre tard
personne ne fait battre mon coeur
lorsque s'éteignent les projecteurs

{au Refrain}

je voudrais trouver l'amour
simplement trouver l'amour

et meme
quand a la télé
vous me regardez
sourire et chanter

personne ne m'attends le soir
quand je rentre tard
personne ne fait battre mon coeur
lorsque s'éteignent les projecteurs

{au Refrain}

Hélène
et toutes mes peines
trouverons l'oubli
un jour ou l'autre
quand je trouverais l'amour
quand je trouverais l'amour

"等咱有了钱" [转]

some highly irreverant stuff that managed to make me choke on laughters a dozen times...

虽然工作是枯燥的，赚钱是辛苦的，但理想却是远大的。

等咱有了钱，喝豆浆吃油条，妈的想蘸白糖蘸白糖，想蘸红糖蘸红糖。豆浆买两碗，喝一碗，倒一碗！
等咱有了钱，吃包子和白粥，妈的想蘸醋就蘸醋，想蘸酱油蘸酱油，包子买俩儿， 吃一个，扔一个！
等咱有了钱'先买内裤和袜子'想买白的买白的'想买黑的买黑的'袜子我一次买两双，穿一双垫一双.
等咱有了钱'先养两孩子'想生男的的生男的'想生女的生女的'男孩子我一次生两个，抱一个牵一个.
等咱有了钱，先买一电脑，想装XP装XP，想装NT装NT，XP一次装两个版本，用一个留一个

虽然工作是枯燥的，赚钱是辛苦的，但理想却是远大的。
等咱有了钱，上酒店去叫鸡，妈的想要本地鸡叫本地鸡，想要外国鸡叫外国鸡，嫖一个，退一个！
等咱有了钱，喝老酒抽香烟，妈的想喝红酒喝红酒，想喝白酒喝白酒。香烟点两根，抽一根，烧一根。！

虽然工作是枯燥的，赚钱是辛苦的，但理想却是远大的。
等咱有了权，当主席当书记，想收台湾收台湾，想打日本打日本。政党建九个，用一个，供八个！
等咱有了钱，喝矿泉水吃臭豆腐，妈的想放麻酱放麻酱，想吃香油放香油。矿泉水买两瓶，喝一瓶，洗手一瓶！
等咱有了钱，喝啤酒吃烧烤，妈的想烤荤的就烤荤的，想喝贵的就喝贵的。啤酒买两瓶，喝一瓶，再喝一瓶！
等咱有了老婆，想打就打，想骂就骂，包二奶就找2个，放家里一个，放单位一个。
等咱有了小车，想违章就违章，想轧警察就轧警察，冲灯就冲两次，红的冲一次，绿的冲一次！
等咱有了钱。想上欧洲就上欧洲，想去美洲久去美洲，一次包两架飞机，一架座机，一架护航。
等咱有了钱，吃冰棍儿啃冰胡儿， 想吃红果儿吃红果儿，想吃奶油吃奶油。冰棍儿一次买俩根，吃一根，唆一根。
等咱有了钱，去中关村买光盘，妈的想买正版买正版，想买盗版买盗版，每样儿买两张， “快进”看一张，“快退”看一张！
虽然工作是枯燥的，赚钱是辛苦的，但理想却是远大的。
等咱有了钱，去燕莎买丝巾，妈的想买红的买红的，想买绿的买绿的，一次买两条，脖上系一条，腰上系一条！
等咱有了钱，去照艺术照，妈的想照成人样照成人样，想照成鬼样照成鬼样，一次照两套，穿衣服一套，不穿衣服一套。
等咱有了钱，买高档汽车，妈的想买奔驰买奔驰，想买宝马买宝马，一次买两辆，前面开一辆，后面拖一辆！
等咱有了钱，买高级别墅，妈的想买城里买城里，想买郊区买郊区，一次买两栋，我住一栋，养猪一栋！
等咱有了钱，天天去按摩，妈的想按腿按腿，想按腰按腰，一次雇俩按摩师，一个按摩，一个旁观！
等咱有了钱，就不怕得病，妈的想得爱滋得爱滋，想得非典得非典，传经理一个，传版主一个！
等咱有了钱，坐驴车都坐头等舱，妈的想坐驴头坐驴头，想坐驴屁股就坐驴屁股。车票买两张。去一张，回来一张

等咱有了钱，猛锻炼身体，妈的想跑步就跑步，想练肌肉就练肌肉。肌肉长两块。吸引女生一块，扔给母狗一块。

等咱有了钱，每季都去香港逛街，妈的想买Kenneth Cole就买Kenneth Cole，想买victoria secret就买victoria secret。内裤买两条，下边穿一条，头上套一条。

等咱有了钱，没事就出去赶集。妈的想去欧洲去欧洲，想去马尔代夫去马尔代夫。一个地方住两天。享受taxi的皮座一天，见识酒店的被子一天。

等咱有了钱，使劲装修俺的公馆。妈的想装投影仪装投影仪，想装冷气装冷气。电影一看看两个，英国话一部，放狗屁一部。

等咱有了钱，家里不用墙纸用墙布。妈的想贴墙上贴墙上，想糊马桶糊马桶。墙布买两吨。铺房子一吨，擦屁股一吨。

啥叫生活？一句话，赚钱，旅游，购物，健身，享受。生命要质量高。否则白过。
咱这高品位生活水准，羡慕死你们！哈哈！

Lyrics of song from Le Papillon

i love this song so...stole it from you and for whole afternoons and nights it had been the only song on my playlist. such lovely voices! such charm!



--------------------------------
Pourquoi les poules pondent des oeufs?
Pour que les oeufs fassent des poules.
Pourquoi les amoureux s'embrassent?
C'est pour que les pigeons roucoulent.
Pourquoi les jolies fleurs se fanent?
Parce que ça fait partie du charme.
Pourquoi le diable et le bon Dieu?
C'est pour faire parler les curieux.

Pourquoi le feu brûle le bois?
C'est pour bien réchauffer nos coeurs.
Pourquoi la mer se retire?
C'est pour qu'on lui dise "Encore."
Pourquoi le soleil disparaît?
Pour l'autre partie du décor.
Pourquoi le diable et le bon Dieu?
C'est pour faire parler les curieux.

Pourquoi le loup mange l'agneau?
Parce qu'il faut bien se nourrir.
Pourquoi le lièvre et la tortue?
Parce que rien ne sert de courir.
Pourquoi les anges ont-ils des ailes?
Pour nous faire croire au Père Noël.
Pourquoi le diable et le bon Dieu?
C'est pour faire parler les curieux.

Ca t'a plu, le petit voyage?
Ah oui beaucoup!
Vous avez vu des belles choses?
J'aurais bien voulu voir des sauterelles
Des sauterelles ? Pourquoi des sauterelles ?
Et des libellules aussi,
A la prochaine fois, d'accord.
D'accord.

Je peux te demander quelque chose?
Quoi encore?
On continue mais cette fois-ci c'est toi qui chantes.
Pas question.
S'il te plait.
Non, mais non.
Allez, c'est le dernier couplet.
Tu ne crois pas que tu pousses un peu le bouchon?
Pourquoi notre coeur fait tic-tac?
Parce que la pluie fait flic flac.
Pourquoi le temps passe si vite?
Parce que le vent lui rend visite.
Pourquoi tu me prends par la main?
Parce qu'avec toi je suis bien.
Pourquoi le diable et le bon Dieu?
C'est pour faire parler les curieux.

为什么鸡会下蛋？
因为蛋都变成小鸡
为什么情侣要亲吻？
因为鸽子们咕咕叫
为什么漂亮的花会凋谢？
因为那是游戏的一部分
为什么会有魔鬼又会有上帝？
是为了让好奇的人有话可说

为什么木头会在火里燃烧？
是为了我们像毛毯一样的暖
为什么大海会有低潮？
是为了让人们说：再来点
为什么太阳会消失？
为了地球另一边的装饰
为什么会有魔鬼又会有上帝？
是为了让好奇的人有话可说

为什么狼要吃小羊？
因为他们也要吃东西
为什么是乌龟和兔子跑？
因为光跑没什么用
为什么天使会有翅膀？
为了让我们相信有圣诞老人
为什么会有魔鬼又会有上帝?
是为了让好奇的人有话可说

你喜欢我们的旅行吗？
非常喜欢
我们看到了很多漂亮的东西，不是吗？
可惜我没能看到蟋蟀
为什么是蟋蟀？
还有蜻蜓

也许下一次吧
我能问你点事情吗？
又有什么事？
我们继续，不过由你来唱？
绝对不可以
来吧
不不不
这是最后一段了
你是不是有点得寸进尺了呢？
嗯呵~~

为什么我们的心会滴答？
因为雨会发出淅沥声
为什么时间会跑得这么快？
是风把它都吹跑了
为什么你要我握着你的手？
因为和你在一起，我感觉很温暖
为什么会有魔鬼又会有上帝？
是为了让好奇的人有话可说


评论/留言

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作者：Slappujudu　　时间：2005-1-15 4:36:11

hey the lyrics r so warm n cute!!!
i didn''t realize tt before.

my fav verse
为什么我们的心会滴答？
因为雨会发出淅沥声
为什么时间会跑得这么快？
是风把它都吹跑了
为什么你要我握着你的手？
因为和你在一起，我感觉很温暖
为什么会有魔鬼又会有上帝？
是为了让好奇的人有话可说

ok i swear i''ll learn to sing it by the end of summer[after i dutifully finish my french lessons]!!

抄襲一點歌詞..伸展一下筋骨..：D

我时常悲伤地去做一件快乐的事
走在秋天的沙滩上
收集夏天留下来的空贝壳
喝着刚买的英国茶
看着讲述故事的每个电影

日记很久没写了
因为心情还未决定是什么颜色
一切都是那么未知
那么的难以处置

不到风的怀抱
云怎么知道会怎么飘
会怎么变成雨
落在我的额头 我的眼里
被你误以为是我的泪

我时常快乐地去想一件悲伤的事
收集枯黄的青叶
决定失眠而煮了一夜咖啡
寄出不留地址的信
打永远是你关机的手机
一切都是那么出其不意
爱情也许就美在这儿
事与愿违......

2046

哪一天去看的2046？已经不记得了。

记得的只有疲软，失望，和之后去酒吧喝酒未遂的无趣。爆米花，邻座苍蝇般的嗡嗡，门口检票人的无聊。

居然,2046没有把这些淹没。

记得在《哲学与电影》课上教授打趣说，我们大概都觉得THE MATRIX跟后面的两部绑在一块不咋地，但还是拼命努力去理解它们，因为我们太想让自己喜欢整个三部曲了。所以我大概是太想让自己喜欢2046了，毕竟是第一部在影院里看的王家卫，毕竟他拍了四年，毕竟是阿飞正传和花样年华的延续，毕竟还是杜可风和张叔平，毕竟有梁朝伟和王菲和张曼玉和刘嘉玲（幛子疑可以去死了，不客气地说），连黎耀辉都还在，只是不知何宝荣去哪里了。

只是所有这些，都没能掩饰电影自身某种从内到外的疲乏无力，仿佛是江郎才尽（虽然很忌讳这么说，但这是第一感觉），我更愿意相信只是因为他累了，中年危机来临，或是哥哥的死对他心境的冲击，或是所有微妙的大小因素叠加在一起。只要不是结束。

梁朝伟

王菲
王菲算是整个电影的亮点，演出可圈可点，很王家卫，也很王菲。赞。

章子仪
作为第一女主角不得不提一下这个一身北方气息的女子。且不论怎么（负面地）定义北方气息，是种土气，霸气，硬气，还是其他，她就是与应该叫做王家卫电影的电影格格不入。一口脆生生的北方普通话，无需她的戾气或任何其他东西火上浇油，就已足够打破王家卫经营多年的那种（在其他电影里）无处无在的招牌王家卫情绪，那些靡靡，温软，暧昧，小资，忧郁，宿命，痴迷----章子仪象个总结性的反义词，轻轻巧巧就踩碎了一切。

刘嘉玲
阿飞正传里的璐璐回来了。但我满为这个角色不平的，觉得完全被利用了，用作了穿起三部戏的一根线，而角色本身的特质没有体现出来。当然这本来就是王家卫塑造的角色，应该没利用不利用之说，但这不等于剧本可以写到这样过分的天马行空。人说现代悲剧没一部像俄狄浦斯王那样的古典悲剧能打动人的，大概因为不是任何编出来的命运都是能引起共鸣的。阿飞被子弹击中突然死亡的那一刻是深刻触人的，而璐璐染满鲜血的床单则不是。

木村拓哉
这个最让人困惑----王家卫为什么一定要用木村？王家卫为什么一定要用木村？！！！我们从电影院出来，说到木村时，面面相觑良久，除了“开拓日本市场”，想不出别的理由。并非偶anti 木村；论长相他还过得去，论演技也是有的 （But too contrived in 2046. makes you feel he just tried too hard.）只是剧情根本就不必这么编，根本不必有个日本人在里面，左右不是人地不知所云。小资的王家卫电影从不带什么政治色彩，就像早期的周星驰电影纯粹的无厘头一样。只是周星星成功一跃，一大话西游似无厘头又不似全然无厘头，到了收放自如的境界；而王家卫这次的编剧在我看来是够失败的。日本从来就是敏感话题，也从来没给人什么灰色区域让人游移回旋的，而王家卫呢，让作家梁朝伟半自传半科幻地写了个2046，男主角是日本人，女主角是机器人，而每每你以为他要表达点什么了的时候，他又缩回去了。真正是又鸡肋又鱼骨。闷气。

巩俐
起初听说巩俐扮演的是苏丽珍，非常反感。花样年华里张曼玉的种种，岂是她一辈子可望其项背的；大牌如她，做人也还需有自知之明吧。电影里她是第一个出场的女人，一个只穿黑色砍去了左手的职业赌徒，同样如张曼玉般高高挽起的发髻，却只衬出她脸庞的苍白浮肿。混乱了一会才弄明白，此苏丽珍非彼苏丽珍，大松了口气。这个本来很有看头的故事，却只最多是2046众多杂乱线条中无足挂齿的引线，而这个应该从“金边”来的角色，讲的却是一口山东普通话。浪费资源。

张震
一直非常喜欢张震，这个大男孩/男人混合物，那般野性的俊美的脸和舒服的声音，那么好的演技，也幸运地受到了他应得的重视。
但不是在2046里。在2046里我甚至都没看见张震出场的镜头，尽管我全程瞪大了眼找他。后来到处问，人说，有的有的，在银幕的一角晃了一晃，就没有了。后来我把电影下载下来了，再看时，眼睛都快掉出来了才瞅见他，果真是晃晃就没。王家卫搞什么啊？！！


评论/留言

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作者：Slappujudu　　时间：2005-1-13 13:54:35

天啊！！！ what happened to 张震？？！ 我对他印象也很好的说！ 虽然还没看2046，但有一点很肯定了，错误利用资源/不会利用。木村完全是市场考虑[说到这儿，让我差句嘴，Howl''s moving castle''也是为了市场考虑让木村来配音，以往声优全是精挑细选的尖子，木村。。。听听他独唱lion heart，如果有的话，谁会看上他呢。。。] 不过一个导演的一起一落也相当正常，就好像画家短时间没了灵感一样。还是继续支持你的王家卫吧！只是希望他不要再用獐子一了，哎，她怎么就红了。。。
？？梁朝伟咋没有评注哩？！

great jady!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! check it out!

haha i really laughed my ass off, that short scribble you wrote on Mr. P Pervert that is. Yao huihui read it too and we recalled a great deal abt Pervis, but eventually came to the conclusion that those Londoners all look alike and we can't recall who's the one who loves the word 'rubbish' so much, with a spicy accent.

back to our original plan. free verse by which i mean, anything there exists in your imagination, poetry, broken sentences, ones you put down in a word document and found them all underlined in red, but all of these can't be more welcome in this slapstick free verse project.

i wrote a short paragraph some time ago and left it hanging, whether you wanna continue painting that imaginary character, delete, add, insert, whatever or start anew. at least let's get it moving.


A big yawn, seems to suck in all the air there is in this room, which becomes a vacuum as a result. Who knows the temperature of a thing called vacuum? Or have you ever heard of weather forecast on vacuum? The vacuum is snowing, raining, temperature drops to sub zero? Laugh away my friend.
But it’s freezing.
For my heart sits in its half cold labyrinth, deadly composed, listening to mutters. Then a strike of laughters that for once seem to break the crystal of thoughts, but no, they only shake the vacuum. Left, right, up, down. Riding the spasm which stops in no time.
You can sense shadows crowding, dark patches that flicker against the curtain painted golden by the lamp light. I don’t have to look to see. Doesn’t take much for a blind man to be wise. Whispers that are only a step away from excited gasps, mouths nipping on ears that are dangerously close, nervous glances exchanged that fail to hold a heart’s thousand secrets.
I’m the one looking on, a dangerous cat prowling with sensual strides, eyeing its prey from afar, ready to attack at any time. But the cat is not hungry. Kills for pride, kills for sinister discontentment. Kills to break the vacuum.
‘Hey, stoned again? Wanna play poker? We need one more to fill in.’
Prey is speaking. Low life. How pathetic and insignificant like a dust to be brushed off.
‘Why not. I’m bored’
Half lie, half truth.

indeed what happened

dear stick,
indeed what happened to our original plan. I wouldn't call it cowardly that I decide to quit the monumental project titled novel X right now. Partly due to the fact that I can't devote my time to extensive brainstorming and writing with absolute logic with few loopholes that are required of a successful detective novel. and It's neither wise to start out so big at first try. My suggestion is reserve the tarot muder and novel exchange as two separate projects for further development and meanwhile let's do some free verses as what originally planned. what do u think? I'm asking the same question here. I feel it's getting too big to be mangaged. Think smaller and have a realistic start seems to be more practical, at least for me coz I know i can keep it up and not dropping it any time I feel demoralized or brain blocked. waiting for your verdict and we'll see which path we choose. when we feel it's time to stop the free verse correspondence we'll be good enough n prepared to take on the two projects. let's title the free verse project slapstick for now and write whatever we want. alrite, less said and just vote.
we may even drop pieces of our thoughts into the free verse just to prepare for the 2 projects and see how it goes since there's no consequence attached.

Stick's vote

Of course I'd vote for that. That's what I (and you) wanted to do all along! Motion passed!



Haha, so now we do free verse. By ‘free verse' do you mean only poems like ‘A bird'? Or just any form like short stories? In any language? (We only know two anyway…plus what little French and Greek and Latin we could scramble together between us…hahaha) I am on for absolutely anything, anyway.



I am flipping through my old scrapbook, looking for tidbits of inspiration for a short story or something…and it strikes me how long since I last actually held a pen and wrote an entry. I am tempted to make just one, though probably inevitably silly, New Year's Resolution—keep a diary like VW did, who left 26 big volumes of diary after her, which she wrote with in mind the future pleasure of a 50 year-old VW slowly burning them in a fireplace, which she eventually didn't, and 50 a threshold she never lived to cross. WHY are we so obsessed with VW?! She's great, a true artist no doubt; still the obsession could be something worthy of several long notes of explanation from ourselves.



Ah, now I come across a hastily scribbled paragraph, standing all by itself. Ha! See if it's continuable!



Mr. P slowly articulated his arguments from between his teeth and his glassy blue eyes gazed down at me with a look of triumph. I was not sure I knew what was behind that look—“rebut me?' or “dare you to?” or “now nod and say yes”. Would have blurted out something were I in another place, but I was in Singapore, the Embarrassing Island, which possessed all the embarrassments of a former colony. Not wholly British; not Chinese, or Malay or Indian in that case; it's caught in the middle and can't make up its mind which way to go, therefore a ‘culture meltpot'. Meltpot my ass. I pulled myself back from raging thoughts and said, “Yes sir, I get your point.”



Hoho I guess that was written after some particularly frustrating conversation with Mr Purvis the Pervert, still remember him? Never mind what the argument was about, I don't remember it anyway. If you think it's possible to go on, go on anyway you like. First person or third, new characters, out of Singapore and into space, time travel, whatever. We are in a blindly-write-and-exchange game! And I think it best to first draw material from familiar experience for starting writers, and life in Singapore definitely falls in that range, ain't it? And if you think it's best to leave the rather 没头没尾的 paragraph alone, throw something else over!



And now I've come to the end of my grey scrapbook that lasted me from July 2002 to November 2003, and reread my own novel project that aborted after some dense three pages. Maybe I SHALL pick it up and bring it out of oblivion! My New Year's Resolution number 2!! With any luck, you'll get to read it ten years later.

I wandered lonley as a cloud - William Woodsworth

I wondered lonely as a cloud-William Woodsworth

probably the most well-known poem, compelled to post it up though. maybe just because it's such a bright n happy poem. n happy poems are rare.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud


1I wandered lonely as a cloud
2That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
3When all at once I saw a crowd,
4A host, of golden daffodils;
5Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
6Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.


7Continuous as the stars that shine
8And twinkle on the milky way,
9They stretched in never-ending line
10Along the margin of a bay:
11Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
12Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.


13The waves beside them danced; but they
14Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
15A poet could not but be gay,
16In such a jocund company:
17I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
18What wealth the show to me had brought:


19For oft, when on my couch I lie
20In vacant or in pensive mood,
21They flash upon that inward eye
22Which is the bliss of solitude;
23And then my heart with pleasure fills,
24And dances with the daffodils.
Notes

1] Wordsworth made use of the description in his sister's diary, as well as of his memory of the daffodils in Gowbarrow Park, by Ullswater. Cf. Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, April 15, 1802: "I never saw daffodils so beautiful. They grew among the mossy stones . . .; some rested their heads upon these stones, as on a pillow for weariness; and the rest tossed and reeled and danced, and seemed as if they verily laughed with the wind, that blew upon them over the lake; they looked so gay, ever glancing, ever changing."


21-22] Wordsworth said that these were the two best lines in the poem and that they were composed by his wife.

and about the line numbers, that how univeristy of toronto categorizes the poems. and i'm too lazy to do any editing.

Krall song of the moment--|Stop this World|

Stop this world, let me off

There's just too many pigs

in the same trough

There's too many buzzards

sitting on the fence

Stop this world

it's not making sense


Stop this show, hold the phone

Better days this girl has known

Better days so long ago

Hold the phone

won't you stop the show


Well,

it seems my little playhouse

has fallen down

I think my little ship has run aground

I feel like I'm in the wrong place

My state of mind is a disgrace


Won't you stop this game

deal me out

I know too well what it's all about

I know too well that it had to be

Stop this game well it's ruining me


Well I got too smart for my own good

I just don't do the things I know I should

There's bound to be some better way

I just got one thing more to say


And that is

Stop this game,

deal me out

I know too well what it's all about

I know too well that it had to be

Stop this game well it's wrecking me

Disillusioning comes slow and painful; in spite of the slowness, and because of the pain, it is irreversible. It's yet to be termed “disillusionment”, for it's yet to complete, the heart yet to release its clamping, compulsive-obsessive clasp on hopes, true or false alike. It's yet to rid itself of attachment and anticipation, yet to live true to a Buddhist lifestyle of having magnanimous love towards the world at large, and without attachment. The other day I came across this passage on friend's blog—

笑容立定可取，快乐下落不明

跟一个朋友一起去吃饭， 两个话痨凑在一起，一边吃一边说自然觉得很开心。
但是后来，他突然说，虽然此刻在笑，其实已经很久很久，没有感觉过那种发自内心的开心。他说着这些的时候，表情依然很淡然， 像在说着一件与己无关的事。

我们看欢乐总动员， 看八卦新闻，看六人行，看一切网上广泛流传的，脍炙人口的经典段子。我们那么乐观，随时随地，很容易就可以笑出声音。可是，当他问我最近有没有发自内心的开心过时，我笑着笑着停了下来，这问题太简单，但我却无法开口说出那答案。

我知道他说的那种发自内心的开心，那是一种从里到外的，无法言喻的欢喜，觉得诸事皆顺，万物皆顺眼，满心有无数的快乐要与人分享。那种感觉，曾经有过，至今依然记得。只是已经很久很久，没有体会过。

也许只有当一样你向往了很久很久的东西，终于被握在手中的时候，才会有那样深的幸福感。但是现在的我们，不再有耐心和勇气去等待和追求任何一样东西， 我们更喜欢那些垂手可得的快乐，虽然浅薄，然而立杆见影，是以也稍纵即逝。

过生日的时候许愿，闭上眼的瞬间，竟有一丝的慌乱，突然发现不知道自己要什么。只好马马虎虎的祈祷岁月静好，现世安稳罢了。一个连愿望都无法清晰的说出的人，又怎么会有愿望实现的时候那深切的欢喜？

与此相对的，是哭也变得比以前容易，甚至一句台词一段旋律都可以骗取我们的感伤和眼泪， 但是事后，也并没有多深切的悲伤。如果一样东西其实并未深入内心，不过是在脑海一闪而过，此间的得失，自然不会造成多么彻骨的痛苦。

我就这样变成了一个无所谓的人，同时丢失了那些鲜明的欢喜和哀伤。立等可取的眼泪和笑容更多的时候不过是一种发泄的途径，已经和我们秘而不宣的内心无关。

在轻浅的悲喜背后，是对生活淡淡的失望。
那些真正经历着快乐或悲伤的人，都是幸运的.

My first reaction was, How right this is. One moment later I felt confused, for when I thought about it I no longer was so sure that I'd agree, and didn't know how to categorize myself either—I live, or have been trying to live, a detached life, yet I constantly got myself into violent attacks of emotions, not infrequently invited them to me. Rapid switching back and forth between a peaceful/free of want state and an agitated, sensitive state helps only to push the schizophrenic tendency further, and hardly anything else. My tranquil self despises my actively seeking and feeling self for its attachment with the world, and the latter despises the former for its cowardice and escapism. In all good conscience I could just stick to one and be at peace with the universe and myself, but why oh why am I still not even remotely doing that?!

Jude, what do you think?!



评论/留言
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作者：Slappujudu　　时间：2004-12-4 6:14:30

it''s hard to say...
what''s the last time you felt so very happy?
unhappiness and discontentent are twins, at least for me. I always thought more things we know, more things we try to figure out on our own, the greater the discontentment that follows for not being able to truly understand material things, emotional status, and finally ourselves, whether we''re happy, whether what we''re doing is meaningful or whether the tea leaves are going to settle down at the bottom of the teacup at all. becoming detached and unfocused, small things easily fix my mind.it''s sometimes not even a matter of whether i choose to be one state or another, i let go of my feelings so easily that I don''t even bother to consciously pull myself out of it. and all of these for me, i know it''s the discontentment that comes with age. the feeling of not being in control puts me in hyper tension and to conquer my own discontentment i lose sight of happiness. but guess it depends on the simplicity of one''s mind and what it is he seeks in life. my grandma leads a simple life, haha gimme a break, i guess most grandmas do. if i ever see some granny one minute beseiged by the complexity of a philosophical problem n sinks into deep self inspection and the other minute all smiles n steady coz her secret wish come true i''d rather not be borne knowing this constant struggle of mind and mood swings are continueing into one''s late years. maybe i''m exaggerating and i bet there''re still some old grumpy souls out there. but the truth is, or i think it is, that all these frustrating split personalities are going to fade when i learn to let go, and that won''t happen any soon until i''m old n wrinkled as my grandma, and that''s an inevitable fact that''s programmed into my life. sometimes i think my definitions for my state of well-being is horribly strict. grandma smiles when we crowd around her, hugging n pinching her stomach. i laugh when told a joke, or when a friend''s words warms my heart. which one do u call happy? and who has the right to define transient happiness for everyone n why the need to cruelly separate them and draw boundaries, saying the cat with spots is not a true cat. I might have denied my own laughters but again, that''s probably coz i''m so discontented I start to doubt every existing particle, picking trivial wrongs out of ordinary happiness. but i am happy, even interspersed with fits of violence in life, coz they''re inevitable.
and don''t dispise your violent self coz that part of you is not wrong. neither be stringent with your tranquil self coz you are entitled to what''s rightfully yours. all i can say is, live easier and don''t escape. and maybe when you''re at the bottom of your own cage, will it comfort you that someone is thinking of you, hoping you well. it might sound cliche but why won''t that be happiness. r we not too strict on something as innocent as happiness. won''t it be overly painful to doubt every single line you heard or suspect nothing is what it seems. i''ll tell u a joke just to make you laugh and don''t roll it three times in your brain whether you laugh coz u r happy. you''re happy coz i wish you r happy, that''s why i''m telling the joke. simple.

有人用箭射大猩猩，一射，大猩猩用左手接住了， 二射，右手接住。 三射， 大猩猩用嘴接住了。三箭射完了，坏人已经没有箭了。可是最后，大猩猩还是死了， WHY WHY WHY

Depression, Jazz, Blues, and loving Diana Krall

The first time I heard Diana, I said to myself, this is how I've always wished my singing voice to be, low, throaty, has a warm, grainy texture to it, like those old pinewood floorboards in old-fashioned houses, brown with time, comfortably dry yet moist with fermented sentiments, faintly fragrant.

Now in another violent bout of depression I sit in my unlit room in the failing afternoon light, salty liquid half dried on cheeks, listening to Diana once more. That worn out heart trying to take those melancholic doses of warmth in, like how I would clasp my stone cold hands round a glass of steamy water in winter times, then slowly sip, drink, and feel the heat tickle every cell awake as it passes. The Heart is Lonely Hunter, by McCullers. I suddenly think of the novel I have yet to read. Only read another book by the same author long time ago, The Ballad of the Sad Cafe, from which I copied the following quote—

"Often the beloved is only a stimulus for all the stored-up love which had lain quiet within the lover for a long time hitherto. And somehow every lover knows this. He feels in his soul that his love is a solitary thing. He comes to know a new, strange loneliness and it is the knowledge which makes him suffer. So there's only one thing for the lover to do. He must house his love within himself as best as he can; he must create for himself a whole new inward world—a world intense and strange, complete in himself…the value and quality of any love is determined solely by the lover himself.

It is for this reason that most of us would rather love than be loved. Almost everyone wants to be the lover. And the curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being beloved is intolerable to many. The beloved fears and hates the lover, and with the best of reasons."

That's right. Go check out McCullers sometime. She wrote with a reticence and taciturnity that's most uncommon in writers.

And back to Krall. In her latest album she wrote six of the twelve songs, most of which are introspective, personal, and most intimate. And my personal favorite—

The Girl in the Other Room.

The girl in the other room
She knows by now
There's something in all of her fears
Now she wears it threadbare
She sits on the floor
The glass pressed tight to the wall
She hears murmurs low
The paper is peeling
Her eyes staring straight
at the ceiling

Maybe they're there
Maybe it's nothing at all
As she draws lipstick smears
on the wall

The girl in the other room
She powders her face
And stares hard
Into her reflection

The girl in the other room
She stifles a yawn
Adjusting the strap of her gown
She tosses her tresses
Her lover undresses
Turning the last lamp light down
What's that voice we're hearing?
We should be sleeping
Could that be someone who's weeping?

Maybe she's there
Maybe there's nothing to see
It's just a trace of what used to be

The girl in the other room
She darkens her lash
And blushes
She seems to look familiar

It is almost poetry. Or shall we say, it IS poetry, of its own kind, lyrical and wonderful, almost a film sequence, fragmentary frames, an oil painting, an afternoon reverie. A dimpling sea of mercury that mirrors an image of a ghostly self in me, immaterial, shivering with the joy of existence, and also angst of having in possession pining youth that's both a blessing and a curse. Am I the Girl in the Other Room? Or am I the one thinking about the Girl in the Other Room? Or both? Or neither? Only time knows. Which, again, is an illusion.


评论/留言
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作者：Slappujudu　　时间：2004-12-4 5:27:33
dear stick, your thoughts almost remind of of esther sama, but then probably no. her constant ''angst'' doesn''t contain melancholy. i actually listened to diana krall''s new album and was playing ''stop this world'' on repeat mode some period months back. and yes her voice is surely sensual and throaty. what i understand about beloved or the to love which paired together will be perfect but taken to be unidirectionally domineering, seems like a a selfish emotional outlet of what i''d say is excessive love that is eager to spread over and devour that ''house'' which quietly and patiently holds those tingling nerves until the emotional tides swell up from inside and eager to conquer another territory-the beloved. mind of a new lover that starts to live in your heart house and unaware it''s changing u in little aspects that amount to a new being recoganizable no longer. and you stare into the mirror grimacing and screaming at the new art work sculpted by a foreigner who comes from his own lonely planet n makes yours his home. dunno what i''m talking about. just suddenly feel that love is selfish. and lovers probably the sweetest enemies.

12月3日 占卜

十字法 问：情

1. 塔 U
2. 皇后 R
3. 魔术师 R
4. 死神 R
5. 星星 R
6. 正义 U
7. 皇帝 R
8. 祭司 R
9. 恋人 U
10. 倒吊男 U

理智，情感，谶。他人，自己。该相信谁。可以相信谁。