July 08 她有些愣怔的看着面前正蒸腾出白色雾气的玻璃杯.里面原本干皱的花蕊在温水中缓慢下沉,打着旋的花瓣随波纹渐渐从蕊心向外散开.然后悠悠闲闲的停在了杯底
水气雾了她的眼睛,垂下的睫毛经过沾染也隐隐带上晶莹感觉.微微的翕动.
屏幕上的蓝光隐隐的映着脸，表情有些悲伤。耳蜗里，波浪扑打海滩的声音，沙。沙。。。的传来，一遍一遍地像层层水汽慢慢包裹住她。
她是在下午接到那通电话的。温润如常的声音平静的从线那端传达至她耳中，一刹那，她有些恍神，明明是棉絮一样柔软的语气怎么竟像利器，一下一下戳着她的耳膜。如同指甲在黑板上划过的生涩感觉从指尖沿着身体直达心脏.
等她回过神来，已经坐回电脑桌前，连何时挂掉电话都没印象。甚至有点怀疑自己根本没有接过什么电话，那不过是她的想象。可是邮箱里躺着的这封新邮件，却又再印证了一切。她想，他办事真是牢靠，生怕邮件被她遗漏又打电话一再确认，一副光明正大，傥荡自如的样子反到显得自己有些心虚。这隐忍的感情终究还是像夏天太阳下没人吃的西瓜一样，开始腐烂发臭。表面看起来如完整初，里面却布满了恶疾。好像从前那么多次似有若无的试探和拒绝，都不过是为了将这个仪式一拖再拖。
关掉电脑，她开始收拾行李。毕竟现在他们又回到最初的关系，她只是一个租约到期的房客，既然房主无意续约，只有尽快把房子腾空给下一位客人。
她早该知道，所有的如果都很难兑现，所有的分离都在所难免。阿兰德波顿说：一个过程突然失去目的，人会感到荒谬。荒谬是清醒的人的感觉。这个失去了目的的过程，长久延续下去，人就会疲乏，麻木而荒谬感也就被无聊感取代了，仅在某些清醒的片刻浮现出来。如今他们的关系就是这样吧，只是她永远是最后清醒的那个 。
伸手熄灯。疲惫的跌坐在沙发里，身体陷进去，有些可怜挫败的意味。看着地上的行李箱，她想终于跟来时一样了，忽然目光越过有些凌乱的地面转到茶几右角的马克杯上，眼神有些涣散，想仔细端详却怎么努力都好像无法聚焦，始终有些虚晃。邹着眉头，微眯起双眼，有些吃力的伸手去够那杯子。留下点念想也好，她这样安慰自己。古怪别扭的姿势，身体尽力前倾，手指因用力微微颤抖着。试了几回，不得，只好重又跌坐进沙发里，仿佛耗力过度般整个人都垮了下来。
她有些自嘲的扯了下嘴角，晃了晃头想要避开这周围灰败的空气。房间被罩上一层冷冷的青色，不知不觉已经到了第二日凌晨，普兰色的天空开始慢慢变的澄澈，渐次递减的云层为冷寂的天色增加了些许朝气。她撑着扶手站起身来，做完最后的打扫收尾，把钥匙与马克杯放在了一起。他们的关系从来就如同这停在桌角的杯子，随时随地都能失手打破。
熟悉的铁门在她身后“咔哒”一声重又锁起。她站在走廊上心里突然生出种不知身是客的感慨，看着这空荡兀长的通道，她想起那段台词 ：
No entrances or exits now
No need for obituaries or final judgements
We knew that time would end
After tomorrow at sunrise
We scrubbed the floors
And did the washing up
It would not catch us unawares
June 30 You say to the boy open your eyes
When he opens his eyes and sees the light
You make him cry out. Saying
O Blue come forth
O Blue arise
O Blue ascend
O Blue come in
I am sitting with some friends in this cafe drinking coffee served by young refugees from Bosnia. The war rages across the newspapers and through the ruined streets of Sarajevo.
Tania said 'Your clothes are on back to front and inside out". Since there were only two of us there I took them off and put them right then and there. I am always here before the doors open.
What need of so much news from abroad while all that concerns either life or death is all transacting and at work within me.
I step off the kerb and a cyclist nearly knocks me down. Flying in from the dark he nearly parted my hair.
I step into a blue funk.
The doctor in St. Bartholomew's Hospital thought he could detect lesions in my retina - the pupils dilated with belladonna - the torch shone into them with a terrible blinding light.
Look left
Look down
Look up
Look right
Blue flashes in my eyes.
Blue Bottle buzzing
Lazy days
The sky blue butterfly
Sways on the cornflower
Lost in the warmth
Of the blue heat haze
Singing the blues
Quiet and slowly
Blue of my heart
Blue of my dreams
Slow blue love
Of delphinium days
Blue is the universal love in which man bathes - it is the terrestrial paradise.
I'm walking along the beach in a howling gale -
Another year is passing
In the roaring waters
I hear the voices of dead friends
Love is life that lasts forever.
My hearts memory turns to you
David. Howard. Graham. Terry. Paul....
But what if this present
Were the world's last night
In the setting sun your love fades
Dies in the moonlight
Fails to rise
Thrice denied by cock crow
In the dawn's first light
Look left
Look down
Look up
Look right
The camera flash
Atomic bright
Photos
The CMV - a green moon then the world turns magenta
My retina
Is a distant planet
A red Mars
From a Boy's Own comic
With yellow infection
Bubbling at the corner
I said this looks like a planet
The doctor says - "Oh, I think
It looks like a pizza"
The worst of the illness is uncertainty. I've played this scenario back and forth each hour of the day for the last six years.
Blue transcends the solemn geography of human limits.
I am home with the blinds drawn
H.B. is back from Newcastle
But gone out - the washing
Machine is roaring away
And the fridge is defrosting
These are his favourite sounds
I've been given the option of being an in-patient at the hospital or to coming in twice a day to be hooked to a drip. My vision will never come back.
The retina is destroyed, though when the bleeding stops what is left of my sight might improve. I have to come to terms with sightlessness.
If I loose my sight will my vision be halved?
The virus rages fierce. I have no friends now who are not dead or dying. Like a blue frost it caught them. At work, at the cinema, on marches and beaches. In churches on their knees, running, flying, silent or shouting protest.
It started with sweats in the night and swollen glands. Then the black cancer spread across their faces - as they fought for breath TB and pneumonia hammered their lungs, and Toxo at the brain. Reflexes scrambled - sweat poured through hair matter like lianas in the tropical forest. Voices slurred - and then were lost forever. My pen chased this story across the page tossed this way and that in the storm.
The blood of sensibility is blue
I consecrate myself
To find its most perfect expression
My sight failed a little more in the night
H.B. offers me his blood
It will kill everything he says
The drip of DHPG
Trills like a canary
I am accompanied by a shadow into which H.B. appears and disappears. I have lost the sight on the periphery of my right eye.
I hold out my hands before me and slowly part them. At a certain moment they disappear out of the corner of my eyes. This is how I used to see. Now if I repeat the motion this is all I see.
I shall not win the battle against the virus - in spite of the slogans like "Living with AIDS". The virus was appropriated by the well - so we have to live with AIDS while they spread the quilt for the moths of Ithaca across the wine dark sea.
Awareness is heightened by this, but something else is lost. A sense of reality drowned in theatre.
Thinking blind, becoming blind.
In the hospital it is as quiet as a tomb. The nurse fights to find a vein in my right arm. We give up after five attempts. Would you faint if someone stuck a needle into your arm? I've got used to it - but I still shut my eyes.
The Gautama Buddha instructs me to walk away from illness. But he wasn't attached to a drip.
Fate is the strongest
Fate Fated Fatal
I resign myself to Fate
Blind Fate
The drip stings
A lump swells up in my arm
Out comes the drip
An electric shock sparks up my arm
How can I walk away with a drip attached to me?
How am I going to walk away from this?
I fill this room with the echo of many voices
Who passed time here
Voices unlocked from the blue of the long dried paint
The sun comes and floods this empty room
I call it my room
My room has welcomed many summers
Embraced laughter and tears
Can it fill itself with your laughter
Each word a sunbeam
Glancing in the light
This is the song of My Room
Blue stretches, yawns and is awake.
There is a photo in the newspaper this morning of refugees leaving Bosnia. They look out of time. Peasant women with scarves and black dresses stepped from the pages of an older Europe. One of them has lost her three children.
Lightning flickers through the hospital window - at the door an elderly woman stands waiting for the rain to clear. I ask her if I can give her a lift, I've hailed a taxi. "Can you take me to Holborn tube?" On the way she breaks down in tears. She has come from Edinburgh. Her son is in the ward - he has meningitis and has lost the use of his legs - I'm helpless as the tears flow. I can't see her. Just the sound of her sobbing.
One know the whole world
Without stirring abroad
Without looking out of the window
One can see the way of heaven
The further one goes
The less one knows
In the pandemonium of image
I present you with the universal Blue
Blue an open door to soul
An infinite possibility
Becoming tangible
Here I am again in the waiting room. Hell on Earth is a waiting room. Here you know you are not in control of yourself, waiting for your name to be called: "712213". Here you have no name, confidentiality is nameless. Where is 666? Am I sitting opposite him/her? Maybe 666 is the demented woman switching the channels on the TV.
What do I see
Past the gates of conscience
Activists invading Sunday Mass
In the cathedral
An epic Czar Ivan denouncing the
Patriarch of Moscow
A moon-faced boy who spits and repeatedly
Crosses himself - as he genuflects
Will the pearly gates slam shut in
The faces of the devout
The demented woman is discussing needles - there is always a discussion here. She has a line put into her neck.
How are we perceived, if we are to be perceived at all? For the most part we are invisible.
If the doors of perception were cleansed then everything would be seen as it is.
The dog barks, the caravan passes.
Marco Polo stumbles across the Blue Mountain.
Marco Polo stops and sits on a lapis throne by the River Oxus while he is ministered to by the descendants of Alexander the Great. The caravan approaches, blue canvasses fluttering in the wind. Blue people from over the sea - ultramarine - have come to collect the lapis with its flecks of gold.
The road to the city of Aqua Vitae is protected by a labyrinth built from crystals and mirrors which in the sunlight cause terrible blindness. The mirrors reflect each of your betrayals, magnify them and drive you into madness.
Blue walks into the labyrinth. Absolute silence is demanded to all its visitors, so their presence does not disturb the poets who are directing the excavations. Digging can only proceed on the calmest of days as rain and wind destroy the finds.
The archaeology of sound has only just been perfected and the systematic cataloguing of words has until recently been undertaken in a haphazard way. Blue watched as a word or phrase materialised in scintillating sparks, a poetry of fire which casts everything into darkness with the brightness of its reflections.
As a teenager I used to work for the Royal National Institute for the Blind on their Christmas appeal for radios, with dear miss Punch, seventy years old, who used to arrive each morning on her Harley Davidson.
She kept us on our toes. Her job as a gardener gave her time to spare in January. Miss Punch Leather Woman was the first out dyke I ever met. Closeted and frightened by my sexuality she was my hope. "Climb on, let's go for a ride." She looked like Edith Piaf, a sparrow, and wore a cock-eyed beret at a saucy angle. She bossed all the other old girls who came back year after year for her company.
In the paper today. Three quarters of the AIDS organisations are not providing safer sex information. One district said they had no queers in their community, but you might try district X - they have a theatre.
My sight seems to have closed in. The hospital is even quieter this morning. Hushed. I have a sinking feeling in my stomach. I feel defeated. My mind bright as a button but my body falling apart - a naked light bulb in a dark and ruined room. There is death in the air here but we are not talking about it. But I know the silence might be broken by distraught visitors screaming, "Help, Sister! Help Nurse!" followed by the sound of feet rushing along the corridor. Then silence.
Blue protects white from innocence
Blue drags black with it
Blue is darkness made visible
Blue protects white from innocence
Blue drags black with it
Blue is darkness made visible
Over the mountains is the shrine to Rita, where all at the end of the line call. Rita is the Saint of the Lost Cause. The saint of all who are at their wit's end, who are hedged in and trapped by the facts of the world. These facts, detached from cause, trapped the Blue Eyed Boy in a system of unreality. Would all these blurred facts that deceive dissolve in his last breath? For accustomed to believing in image, an absolute idea of value, his world had forgotten the command of essence: Thou Shall Not Create Unto Thyself Any Graven Image, although you know the task is to fill the empty page. From the bottom of your heart, pray to be released from image.
Time is what keeps the light from reaching us.
The image is a prison of the soul, your heredity, your education, your vices and aspirations, your qualities, your psychological world.
I have walked behind the sky.
For what are you seeking?
The fathomless blue of Bliss.
To be an astronaut of the void, leave the comfortable house that imprisons you with reassurance.
Remember,
To be going and to have are not eternal - fight the fear that engenders the beginning, the middle and the end.
For Blue there are no boundaries or solutions.
How did my friends cross the cobalt river, with what did they pay the ferryman? As they set out for the indigo shore under this jet-black sky - some died on their feet with a backward glance. Did they see Death with the hell hounds pulling a dark chariot, bruised blue-black growing dark in the absence of light, did they hear the blast of trumpets?
David ran home panicked on the train from Waterloo, brought back exhausted and unconscious to die that night. Terry who mumbled incoherently into his incontinent tears. Others faded like flowers cut by the scythe of the Blue Bearded Reaper, parched as the waters of life receded. Howard turned slowly to stone, petrified day by day, his mind imprisoned in a concrete fortress until all we could hear were his groans on the telephone circling the globe.
Mad Vincent sits on his yellow chair clasping his knees to his chest - Bananas. The sunflowers wilt in the empty pot, bone dry, skeletal, the black seeds picked into the staring face of a Halloween pumpkin. He is unaware of Blue standing in the corner. Fevered eyes glare at the jaundiced corn, caw of the jet-black crows spiralling in the yellow. The lemon goblin stares from the unwanted canvasses thrown in a corner. Sourpuss suicide screams with evil - clasping cowardly Yellowbelly, slit eyed.
Blue fights diseased Yellowbelly whose fetid breath scorches the trees yellow with ague. Betrayal is the oxygen of his devilry. He'll stab you in the back. Yellowbelly places a jaundiced kiss in the air, the stink of pubs blinds Blue's eyes. Evil swims in the yellow bile. Yellowbelly's snake eyes poison. He crawls over Eve's rotting apple wasp-like. Quick as a flash he stings Blue in the mouth - "AAAUGH!" - his hellish legion buzz and chuckle in the mustard gas. They'll piss all over you. Sharp nicotine-stained fangs bared. Blue transformed into an insectocutor, his Blue aura frying the foes.
We all contemplated suicide
We hoped for euthanasia
We were lulled into believing
Morphine dispelled pain
Rather than making it tangible
Like a mad Disney cartoon
Transforming itself into
Every conceivable nightmare
Karl killed himself - how did he do it? I never asked. It seemed incidental. What did it matter if he swigged prussic acid or shot himself in the eye. Maybe he dived into the streets from high up in the cloud lapped skyscrapers.
The nurse explains the implant. You mix the drugs and drip yourself once a day. The drugs are kept in a small fridge they give you. Can you imagine travelling around with that? The metal implant will set the bomb detector off in airports, and I can just see myself travelling to Berlin with a fridge under my arm.
Impatient youths of the sun
Burning with many colours
Flick combs through hair
In bathroom mirrors
Fucking with fusion and fashion
Dance in the beams of emerald lasers
Mating on suburban duvets
Cum splattered nuclear breeders
What a time that was.
The drip ticks out the seconds, the source of a stream along which the minutes flow, to join the river of hours, the sea of years and the timeless ocean.
The side effects of DHPG, the drug for which I have to come into hospital to be dripped twice a day, are: Low white blood cell count, increased risk of infection, low platelet count which may increase the risk of bleeding, low red blood cell count (anaemia), fever, rush, abnormal liver function, chills, swelling of the body (oedema), infections, malaise, irregular heart beat, high blood pressure (hypertension), low blood pressure (hypotension), abnormal thoughts or dreams, loss of balance (ataxia), come, confusion, dizziness, headache, nervousness, damage to nerves (peristhecia), psychosis, sleepiness (somnolence), shaking, nausea, vomiting, loss of appetite (anorexia), diarrhoea, bleeding from the stomach or intestine (intestinal haemorrhage), abdominal pain, increased number of one type of white blood cell, low blood sugar, shortness of breath, hair loss (alopecia), itching (pruritus), hives, blood in the urine, abnormal kidney functions, increased blood urea, redness (inflammation), pain or irritation (phlebitis).
Retinal detachments have been observed in patients both before and after initiation of therapy. The drug has caused decreased sperm production in animals and may cause infertility in humans, and birth defects in animals. Although there is no information in human studies, it should be considered a potential carcinogen since it causes tumours in animals.
If you are concerned about any of the above side-effects or if you would like any further information, please ask your doctor.
In order to be put on the drug you have to sign a piece of paper stating you understand that all these illnesses are a possibility.
I really can't see what I am to do. I am going to sign it.
The darkness comes in with the tide
The year slips on the calendar
Your kiss flares
A match struck in the night
Flares and dies
My slumber broken
Kiss me again
Kiss me
Kiss me again
And again
Never enough
Greedy lips
Speedwell eyes
Blue skies
A man sits in his wheelchair, his awry, munching through a packet of dry biscuits, slow and deliberate as a praying mantis. He speaks enthusiastically but sometimes incoherently of the hospice. he says, "You can't be too careful who you mix with there, there's no way of telling the visitors, patients or staff apart. The staff have nothing to identify them except they are all in leather. The place is like an S&M club". This hospice has been built by charity, the names of the donors displayed for all to see.
Charity has allowed the uncaring to appear to care and is terrible for those dependent on it. It has become big business as the government shirks its responsibilities in these uncaring times. We go along with this, so the rich and powerful who fucked us over once fuck us over again and get it both ways. We have always been mistreated, so if anyone gives us the slightest sympathy we overreact with our thanks.
I am a mannish
Muff diving
Size queen
With bad attitude
An arse licking
Psychofag
Molesting the flies of privacy
Balling lesbian boys
A perverted heterodemon
Crossing purpose with death
I am a cock sucking
Straight acting
Lesbian man
With ball crushing bad manners
Laddish nymphomaniac politics
Spunky sexist desires
of incestuous inversion and
Incorrect terminology
I am a Not Gay
H.B. is in the kitchen
Greasing his hair
He guards the space
Against me
He calls it his office
At nine we leave for the hospital
H.B. comes back from the eye dept
Where all my notes are muddled
He says
It's like Romania in there
Two light bulbs
Grimly illuminate
The flaking walls
There is a box of dolls
In the corner
Indescribably grim
The doctor says
Well of course
The kids don't see them
There are no resources
To brighten the place up
My eyes sting from the drops
The infection has halted
The flash leaves
Scarlet after image
Of the blood vessels in my eye
Teeth chattering February
Cold as death
Pushes at the bedsheets
An aching cold
Interminable as marble
My mind
Frosted with drugs ices up
A drift of empty snowflakes
Whiting out memory
A blinkered twister
Circling in spirals
Cross-eyed meddlesome consciousness
Shall I? Will I?
Doodling death watch
Mind how you go
Oral DHPG is consumed by the liver, so they have tweaked a molecule to fool the system. What risk is there? If I had to live forty years blind, I might think twice. Treat my illness like the dodgems: music, bright lights, bumps and throw yourself into life again.
The pills are the most difficult, some taste bitter, others are too large. I'm taking about thirty a day, a walking chemical laboratory. I gag on them as I swallow them and they come up half dissolved in the coughing and the spluttering.
My skins sits on me like the shirt of Nessus. My face irritates, as do my back and legs at night. I toss and turn, scratching, unable to sleep. I get up, turn on the light. Stagger to the bathroom. If I become so tired, maybe I'll sleep. Films chase through my mind. Once in a while I dream a dream as magnificent as the Taj Mahal. I cross southern India with a young spirit guide - India the land of my dreaming childhood. The souvenirs in Moslem's peach and grey living room. Granny called Moselle, called 'Girly', called May. An orphan who lost her name, which was Ruben. jade, monkeys, ivory miniatures, mah-jongg. The winds and bamboos of China.
All the old taboos of
Blood lines and blood banks
Blue blood and bad blood
Our blood and your blood
I sit here - you sit there
As I slept a jet slammed into a tower block. The jet was almost empty but two hundred people were fried in their sleep.
The earth is dying and we do not notice it.
A young man frail as Belsen
Walks slowly down the corridor
His pale green hospital pyjamas
Hanging off him
It's very quiet
Just the distant coughing
My jugs eye blots out the
Young man who has just walked past
My field of vision
This illness knocks you for six
Just as you start to forget it
A bullet in the back of my head
Might be easier
You know, you can take longer than
The second world war to get to the grave.
Ages and Aeons quit the room
Exploding into timelessness
No entrances or exits now
No need for obituaries or final judgements
We knew that time would end
After tomorrow at sunrise
We scrubbed the floors
And did the washing up
It would not catch us unawares
The white flashes you are experiencing in your eyes are common when the retina is damaged.
The damaged retina has started to peel away leaving the innumerable black floaters, like a flock of starlings around in the twilight.
I am back at St Mary's to have my eyes looked at by the specialist. The place is the same, but there is new staff. How relieved I am not to have the operation this morning to have a tap put into my chest. I must try and cheer up H.B. as he has had a hell of a fortnight. In the waiting room a little grey man over the way is fretting as he has to get to Sussex. He says, "I am going blind, I cannot read any longer".
A little later he picks up a newspaper, struggles with it for a moment and throws it back on the table. My stinging eye-drops have stopped me reading, so I write this in a haze of belladonna. The little grey man's face has fallen into tragedy. He looks like Jean Cocteau without the poet's refined arrogance. The room is full of men and women squinting into the dark in different states of illness. Some barely able to walk, distress and anger on every face and then a terrible resignation.
Jean Cocteau takes off his glasses, he looks about him with an undescribable meanness. He has black slip-on shoes, blue socks, grey trousers, a Fairisle sweater and a herringbone jacket. The posters that plaster the walls above him have endless question marks, HIV/AIDS?, AIDS?, HIV?, ARE YOU INFECTED BY HIV/AIDS?,ARC?, HIV? This is a hard wait. The shattering bright light of the eye specialist's camera leaves that empty sky blue after-image. Did I really see green the first time? The after-image dissolves in a second. As the photographs progress, colours change to pink and the light turns to orange. The process is a torture, but the result, stable eyesight, worth the price and the twelve pills I have to take a day. Sometimes looking at them I fell nauseous and want to skip them. It must be my association with H.B., lover of the computer and king of the keyboard that brought my luck on the computer which chose my name for this drug trial. I nearly forgot as I left St Mary's I smiled at Jean Cocteau. He gave a sweet smile back.
I caught myself looking at shoes in a shop window. I thought of going in and buying a pair, but stopped myself. The shoes I am wearing at the moment should be sufficient to walk me out of life.
Pearl fishers
In azure seas
Deep waters
Washing the isle of the dead
In coral harbours
Amphora
Spill
Gold
Across the still seabed
We lie there
Fanned by the billowing
Sails of forgotten ships
Tossed by the mournful winds
Of the deep
Lost Boys
Sleep forever
In a dear embrace
Salt lips touching
In submarine gardens
Cool marble fingers
Touch an antique smile
Shell sounds
Whisper
Deep love drifting on the tide forever
The smell of him
Dead good looking
In beauty's summer
His blue jeans
Around his ankles
Bliss in my ghostly eye
Kiss me
On the lips
On the eyes
Our name will be forgotten
In time
No one will remember our work
Our life will pass like the traces of a cloud
And be scattered like
Mist that is chased by the
Rays of the sun
For our time is the passing of a shadow
And our lives will run like
Sparks through the stubble.
I place a delphinium, Blue, upon your grave
June 24 半夏----辛，温，有毒。 主治降逆止呕，消痞散结
每当她回望少年时的自己,看着当时无助,惊恐,冷漠的过去.多想穿过这中间漫长的艰难岁月,握她的手给予她力量,对她说:"不要害怕,你要慢慢学会自己走过去.也许将来你还会置身比现在更危险更可怕的境地,身边的人会一夜之间都变得陌生而不可靠.那个时候,想想现在所表现出来的勇气 .不要自残。不要逃避。勇敢面对.激烈的反抗伤害过一次，不要再次受到伤害。无论何时，都要懂得保护自己。
可惜,就像被罩在玻璃容器中.胸口发闷.无论怎样努力都发不出声音,尽力伸手也还是路途遥远.仿佛看着那少年像被溺在温水里的青蛙一样,连挣扎的动作都做不出.身形漂浮,无力的直到变成一盘佳肴.
她愤愤不平地握紧双手,又再颓然的松开.这是一个痛苦的过程:各种冲突,怀疑,嘲笑,恐惧,充斥着生活随空气弥漫.像一双双的手密密杂杂的缠绕过来,扼住咽喉,带着绞杀意味的用力把她往温水中浸压下去.
也许是出于心理的自我保护意识,大脑似乎自动回避了大部分高中以前的记忆,不是不愿意想只是想不起来,就那么凭空缺了一块.这就像一条蜿蜒的曲线,在某个点忽然断裂,越过中间大段的空白后继续向前延伸.那消失的一段似乎并没有人在意.因此她并不是喜欢回忆的人,并且也潜移默化了她的行为.比如走路从不回头看,告别不喜欢反复.但是若干年后的现在,她回头看所有的一切终于了解了原因,即便记忆还是有残缺,仍然无法叙述出完整的故事.
"那些怪念头是不应该说出来的".那些在他人看来疯狂的念头是危险的,需要小心的隐藏.可是那些怪想法像柔软而又坚韧的水草一样,纠缠着她.在脑中缠绕, 扭曲,几乎打结.她需要一个出口,牵出乱麻似的藤蔓,一层层地拨开,然后找到中间滢滢带着温润之气,躲闪着的答案.才能安下心来.
刚开始的时候是有些错愕的,她不知道为什么会迎来那样的眼神.她开始在夜里不断地做梦,蓝衣服,红围墙.自己变成小小的一个点,困在迷宫里.但是并不感到恐惧,仿佛她原本就住在这其中.接下来她就发现在旁人的眼中她由原本安静,乖巧的好学生变成了古怪,偏执的叛逆女.事情却并没有就此打住,情况越来越坏. 她不知道怎么解释那些想法,更加不理解为何原本温和的师长同学都变成现在这付狰狞的样子.没有人要相信她.不对,其实他们连听都不想听.总是在她开口说出第一个字的时候就露出或不耐或怜悯的表情.她终于放弃了.周围的空气像被抽干一样,失去了媒介,阻断了交流.却又沉沉地压在胸口,郁结成一个瘤.
然后,就是漫长的自我厌弃与对峙的过程.情绪以周期性的方式循环着,总有一段时间会十分的厌恶着自己,连看到镜子都像难以忍受一般,有毁灭的冲动.反反复复.好的时候,她会想到梅雨时的房间.天气总是乌沉沉地,像天空被打了把伞一样.水气散不出去,于是都密密的向屋子里挤,墙上,镜子上都雾雾地蒙着一层, 擦也擦不干净.那时候她的房间里还贴着好看的壁纸,淡淡地颜色,却有深刻地纹路.手指延花纹划过,像发着光似的水迹在亚光的墙上格外明显.空气里都是潮湿的味道,家里的柜子通通敞开着.她坐在书桌上,晃着腿,扭头看着窗外开始渐渐变密的水滴.一滴,两滴...忽然速度变快,仿佛来不及一般拥挤着向下落去. 天下的像要掉下来一样,有些飘进了窗子里,落在桌上,变成一个个圆圆的斑点.她用手指画一条线把他们连在一起.她是明白的,知道自己的情绪出了问题. 但是她想不如就这样下去把,也许这才是最好的结果.
直到某一天,站在通向家门的楼梯上,她轻轻的叹了口气,看着脚下的台阶对妈妈说:"我很累."声音轻飘飘的, 浮在空气里慢慢落在地上.那天晚上,眼睛睁了一夜.一动不动地看着书桌上月光班驳的投影.失眠的时候,时间长的可怕,每一分钟都像过不完似的.心里变得很空.她开始往回慢慢地想,这是种有些煎熬的感觉,好像嘴唇上干裂的一个伤口,用牙齿轻咬了一下又疼又痒然后欲罢不能的感觉.她从混混暗暗的思绪中仔细地翻找到了一条线,稍一用力它就轻轻地弹跳了出来.微微散发着绿色的光,她把它缠在手指上绕了几圈打了个花扣,静静看着它在黑暗中颤动的舞蹈.看着墙纸上跳动的光影,她忽然记起来,这壁纸是她和爸爸妈妈一起去挑的,选的筋疲力尽眼花缭乱时却一眼认出了它,她们就想两块磁铁自动地互相靠近.她开始意识到这沉默少语表情漠然的模样确实是她在记恨,她埋怨着最亲近的人.不讨厌同学甚至忘记老师的羞辱,却不肯放过自己的父母.
时间是公平的每个人都要长大变老.坏小孩也要成长.在高中的最后一年里,一件件灾难以另人错愕的的方式一个个的呈现.父母先后入院手术,她却平静的出奇, 仍然不解释,只是尽量维持生活的正常.安慰其他家人.最后让她史料未及的高考分数,也只用了一周就接受了.成了别人嘴里眼里最冷面冷心的人.
她不再是当年胆怯少言的小女孩,只能用嘴角抿出倔强的线条.已经可以对这些免疫,独自面对外界的压力并且保有自己的内心不被打扰.
一个人离开了家去新的学校报道.第一晚因为忙着办理各种手续竟然睡的特别好.由于多少带着点不甘心,后来的几天,也并没像别人那样兴味昂然的四处参观.总是懒懒地趴在阳台的栏杆上,看一群群的新鲜人吵吵闹闹的走过觉得无聊而又轻松.离开了家,跟父母的关系却越发的好了.在经历了那么多事之后,这段不长不远的距离让她重新审视了自己.不是不愧疚的.她也知道惶惶挣扎其中的时候,他们也同她一样在受着煎熬.只是,多年的沉默以及三人之间的疏离与对峙,让她很难自如的表达感情.对于过去的事.似乎从来都没聊到过.他们不说她也不问.
依然看不见整个过程的全貌,可是那又怎么样.不记得了就算了,她不是依靠过去的回忆在生活的人.那些空白都不重要了.他们开始认真的听她说话,她也早收起了从前疏离,桀傲的讨厌模样.依然有别人所谓的怪想法,但是现在懂得怎样找一套理论,让别人觉得那些怪念头应该是可能并且好玩的事.旁人感兴趣,她当然更乐于分享.
直到此时.她才算真正与从前那个表面安静内心乖张的少年自己做了完美的交接.虽然在转变的初期她几乎认为那是一段羞耻的记忆.但在坦然接受之后,有些心疼那些总是把自己放在众人另一边的少年时光.再艰难也还是这样变成大人了.那个任性,古怪,固执的少年连同被她遗忘的记忆一起存到了心底.
透过那些漫漫的水草,她忽然回过头带着笑有些促狭地眨了下眼,复又掉转离开.留下隐隐波动的空气若有似无的撩动着水草,闲散地伸展开来.
April 26 四月的末尾
春光最后的留恋 仿佛是他也感觉时日不久
极尽的妖娆
黄耀明
一个远远近近 映照着我最晦暗日子的名字
不管是达明一派时期 还是单飞之后 甚至后来的人山人海
快乐的不快乐的 都埋在那些华丽的音乐中
我听达明的时候 已经过了他们最好的时候
1987--1992 因为他们 成了我最向往的年代
看着他们当时的演出 忽然生出一种风华绝代的感慨
当黄耀明拖着颓废高扬的音调反复"一生不过一声"的时候
刘以达的琴声更让人迷乱伤感
然而歌者坚定地唱完 没有余音 一切被认为已经结束
那些纷乱的流言 暧昧的词曲都随着时间的流逝
淡出了视线
像何秀萍18岁写的《风流总被雨打风吹去》:
来日也许重逢,谁又会跟着谁?可永远相聚,明白良辰美景,原是似烟像云,终散去.霓虹渐亮,全没理想;浮华世态,惶惶是我心.
经过方才体味到粤语的奢华浮艳
灯光 暴走在他填满脂粉的脸上
他仰着头 闭着眼 极度享受的摇摆着身体
玫瑰红的恐龙装 雪白灯泡小王子 性感大只佬
明哥玩得有多尽？
他的舞步总是让人好笑 但那就是明哥 妄顾他人目光 他自有他美丽
结果那几乎老土的舞步 成了让人疯狂尖叫的另类
这是明哥的天堂 这是明哥的时代
在明哥的庇佑下 我们能尽力嬉戏
他突然张开眼睛 伸出手指
半跳着步伐环指台下疯狂的全场：给我多点爱。我要爱啊。你有无爱啊？
灯光里飞驰 失意的孩子
请看一眼这个光辉都市
再奔驰 心里猜疑 恐怕这个璀璨都市 光辉到此
极尽奢侈的华丽 倾倒众生
手里有个残章 却一直写不下去
总是开了个头 就千丝万绪无从下笔了
一时之间 竟只觉得词穷
只想跟着他的音乐闭目摇摆
把自己交给这虚空的节拍 一下一下直至疲乏 耗尽气力 February 18 细小的雨珠舔着脸颊 顺着发稍滴在眉眼间
手里 是没撑开的伞
白色衬衣湿漉漉的贴在胸前
被压抑的快感 油然而生
一个月不抽烟是什么感觉?
来 我告诉你
没感觉
我是这样凉薄的人 对什么都上不了瘾
这样 你了解了吗
临近假期的结尾
开始更加放肆的玩乐
只是 这样的快乐似乎有种末日的味道
快要抓不住了 哪怕多享受一刻也好
昨天做了好多梦
醒来之后 还有点不知今夕是何夕的感觉
梦到了青石板尽头的老房子
弥漫着潮湿的空气 长着青苔的墙壁
曾经属于我的秋千
我好似踩在云端一样 每一步都像要飘起来
踟躇的 期待的 不安的
被笼罩在这种 欲说还休的氛围中
睁开眼 愣了好久
拿出外婆留下的 百雀灵细细的嗅着
曾经跑过很多超市
只为买到那种宝蓝色 铁盒的百雀灵
可是 不对 味道不对
跟自己发脾气 扔掉又拣回
我知道
世上没有圆满 这回事
但是
尘埃落定 这样的结果 接受也是需要时间的
就这样吧
我需要时间
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