雪化不开

钻进被窝，鼻子这时候更加发酸了，我知道自己不幸又要重感冒。呼，我憎恨这个冬天。心脏乱跳，我几乎都能听见，间隙上来一阵阵呕吐的冲动，我的视线僵直对着窗帘，越发模糊不清却像被钉住了一样移不开。发了狠似的使自己一下又猛地坐起来，使劲拍打自己的脑袋，大口吸凉气，好像刚刚被什么东西附体了，几乎喘不上来气。我该做点什么吧，可我莫名其妙地讨厌QQ，也不爱看电视，字也看不下去一个，我的耳朵也累了。走出这个屋子是寒冷，寒冷。

回家的路上我就感觉到体内的某些暗示和信号，我的嗓门被分裂成两个人的，他们总是异口同声地说话。把自己腌泡进满载乘客的各种车里，我竭力在车窗玻璃的昏暗背景中找到自己的影子。黑色口罩，灰色大衣和及膝的黑色皮靴，我像这夜色里一个捉摸不透的衍生物，随着地铁里发出的光在窗外飞驰，最后消失。

起初我一直在想离开55号楼时的那个跟我打招呼的人是谁，我完全想不起来，而他却像老朋友一样冲着我打招呼。后来我实在累了，觉得脑袋空荡荡，我想到原先我是真的希望能有部分记忆可以丢失掉，所以大概，这种愿望难免会带来些副作用。 转眼我的脑子里又穿插进了各种事件，各种我曾经见到过的美好的事物，像某个笑容，一件漂亮的外套，一处晃眼的景象，一碗冒热气的鸡汤。噢，我想要这个，我想要那个，可是我最后意识到我只是想要点温暖。

夏末海

一个多月前的模样。下周开始终于可以去游泳了，真开心~~

玛瑞安

It must finally become serious.
I've often been alone, but I've never lived alone. When I was with someone, I was often happy. But at the same time, it all seemed a coincidence, it could have been others. Why was this brown-eyed boy my brother not the green-eyed boy on the oppsite platform? The taxi driver's daughter was my friend, but I might as well have put my arm round a horse's neck.

I was with a man in love, and I might as well have left him there and gone off with the stranger I met in the street. ..Look at me or don't. Give me your hand or don't...

No, don't give me the hand, and look away. I think tonight is the new moon. No night more peaceful. No bloodshed in all the city. Yet I've never opened my eyes and thought: Now it's serious. At last it's becoming serious.

So I've grown older. Was I the only one who wasn't serious? Is it our times that are not serious? Neither when I was alone, nor with others. But I would have liked to be alone at last.

Loneliness means I'm finally whole. Now I can say it, as tonight I'm at last alone. I must put an end to coincidence.

...... ......

Last night, I dreamt of a stranger of my man, only with him I could be alone...open up to him, wholly open, open for him, welcome him wholly into me, surround him with the labyrinth of shared happiness. I know... it's you.

柏林苍穹下 Der Himmel über Berlin （1987）

Rem Koolhaas, Delirious New York 选译

库哈斯《迷狂的纽约（癫狂的纽约）》
Rem Koolhaas，Delirious New York: A Retroactive Manifesto for Manhattan
Oxford Uni Press, 1978.

一些创作物给人一种“出路”式的幻觉，库哈斯这本癫狂纽约就是（库哈斯本人的建筑思考因此也相当地振奋人心）。我读得很热血沸腾（delirious），到了几乎要翻译出来与人分享的地步，当然事实上第一我没有时间，第二我虽然能保证自己的理解力但对文字驾驭能力没信心。即便这样，仍然是硬着头皮小翻了几句讲得特别地绚烂华丽得一塌糊涂的，错字烂句容忍啊。

库哈斯认为，曼哈顿的能量在于拥堵，一个随时处于全面堵塞和僵死边缘的世界。勒·柯布西耶为什么没能征服曼哈顿？因为在他的城市形式里移除了拥堵。这种拥堵，在一种与现实脱离的领域里，迫使大都市向上发展为一个高塔林立的、建筑于人类欲望并充斥着人类欲望的世界。
---------------------------------------------------------节选翻译：Cozi/金珍


尤其是1890-1940年间，一种新的文化（机器时代？）选择了曼哈顿作为她的实验场：在这个神话般的岛上，前所未有的大都市生活方式以及随之出现的建筑几乎像集体实验一般被推进，整个城市变成一个全人造体验的工厂，真实和自然在这里不复存在。[p.6]

曼哈顿是未发生之灾难的累积（an accumulation of disasters that never happen） [p.20]

......每一个建筑物都成为一个纪念碑。这个类型的纪念碑呈现了对传统象征主义的一种激进式的、道德创伤般的打断（a radical, morally traumatic break）...... 它（建筑物）几乎不是它自己本身。[p.81]

除了将私属价值超高密集度地（a hyperdensity of private meanings）填注进内部空间之外，看不见建筑向外拓张领地的野心，这一点使得这种亚乌托邦式的碎片（sub-utopian fragments）尤为诱人。由于在外部完整地保存了那种人们对传统城市规划的幻想，变革避免了明目张胆，从而保证了自身的被接受程度。[p.87]

一种新的道路，那就是，某种意义来说，一种对危机的记录：对“灵感缺乏”这一概念的体系化；对“无内容”这一主题的多样化，建立在一种工序之上，一种对依赖于疯狂机器化之上的非人类协作的展示，一种令人振奋的个人向自动主义──关于一种人工合成的、四季不歇的春之祭的自动主义──的屈服。[p.184] （解释一下，《春之祭》是斯特拉文斯基的一处芭蕾剧，就是尼金斯基跳的那个，故事里面被选出来做祭品的少女被要求一直跳舞直到跳死。整本书这类典故式和双关式的用词太多太多了，所以读起来很费劲，库哈斯太牛了，据说这是他二十几岁写出来的东西。）

达利“发现”的反现代的曼哈顿，一直以来都只是停留在口头上（has been strictly verbal），他的征服因此是完全的。他没有篡改外形（physique），而将这座大都会重组为一个反功能主义的原始纪念碑聚积体，而这些返祖纪念碑，由一种诗意的持续复制过程完成。[p.224]

这座大都市致力于达到这样一个神话般的极致──一个完全人工创造的世界，在那里，它将能完全符合自身的欲望。 [p.242]

-----------------------------------
以下评论文字转自网络，出处不详...

看过库哈斯著作的人都会觉得他的书像他的作品一样充满了新奇、眩目的味道；而且，不断的充斥着跳跃与不知所云。如何认识库哈斯的理论呢？这里拟从库哈斯的叙述方式与理论根基两方面入手对其进行理解。

《颠狂的纽约》（Delirious New York, 1978年）是库氏在大都会建筑学领域撰写的奇幻"建筑小说",也是了解库哈斯城市理论的最重要的文献。这部集论文、方案、作品于一体而编织的美学文本，对当代大都市密集性文化现实进行超现实主义的批评。所谓超现实，就是脱离了普遍的理论论述结构。一般的理论模式都为：是什么（问题的本体论）----为什么（问题的研究方法论）----怎么办(问题的现实意义及解决方案)。从库哈斯的有关著作来看，她只注重了第一步骤的渲染和铺陈，偶尔涉及到第二点的研究方法论，而绝少提及第三点。这种似乎从记者生涯中养成的恣意文风形成了库哈斯的研究习惯。
在对城市的认识的过程中，库哈斯的思考路径不是顺着建筑学的既定理论框架进行思考。而是从社会学的角度入手，诸如网络对社会形态的影响、新时代生活方式的变革、建筑不得不进行革命的必要性、对城市发展速度的思考、资本财富在城市进程中作用的再认识、建筑师的收入与建筑作品及建设速度之间的关系----包罗万象、不一而足。几乎我们一般接触到的新事物，都库哈斯被纳入了对建筑学的反思之中。这种反思构成了库哈斯理论的基础，所指者何并不唯一，分析视角时常变化，难免有极大的眩目感和跳跃性。
从微观上讲，他要求建筑应对每种社会新问题做出回应，以保持一种先进性。从宏观来讲，他的结论就是建筑学的“末世论”，他在普利茨奖授奖仪式上发表讲话中说道：“我们仍沉浸在沙浆的死海中。如果我们不能将我们自身从“永恒”中解放出来，转而思考更急迫，更当下的新问题，建筑学不会持续到2050年。”这种末世论不是灭亡论，而是指传统建筑学理论的解体与消亡。

比如，库哈斯的普通城市（Generic City）的思想。他认为今天城市变化的真正力量在于资本流动，而非职业设计。城市是晚期资本主义文明产生的无尽重复的结构模块，设计只能以此现实为前提思考并成形。在这个意义上， 库哈斯颠覆了传统"场所"的概念。
又如，库哈斯对网络生活的理解：“……在数十年，也许近百年来，我们建筑学遭遇了到了极其强大的竞争……我们在真实世界难以想象的社区正在虚拟空间中蓬勃发展。我们试图在大地上维持的区域和界限正在以无从察觉的方式合并、转型、进入一个更直接、更迷人和更灵活的领域--电子领域。”
从现今的建筑学潮流上看，在建筑界普遍对现代建筑进行了反思，全球的思想界普遍对现代性问题进行了反思以后，渐渐的温和化了。库哈斯是身处在这个潮流之外，他的方法是让现代化更加现代化。面对资本聚集成的摩天楼，文脉是多么的无力；面对新事物的时髦和方便，人性本身也在不断变化。正如高尔基的一句名言：让暴风雨来得更猛烈些吧！库哈斯没有回头寻找古典的寄托，没有从人性中寻找建筑的最终归宿；他义无反顾的投入到对时代前端的筹划之中----至少他是这样认为。他的建筑在形式上依然没有违背现代建筑的造型原则，但在功能上却策划着一场又一场的颠覆----这正是库氏自我对建筑新潮形式的解释。

回家两周

时常有人做事倾向于音容仪态易于被人接受，所以很少有正视自己的机会。比如过年团聚就要做个能被所有亲戚所有人都要欣然接受的主，换在往常那是不可能的。有些人我们必须小心呵护，别人活了大半辈子留下的那点希望不是你想懂，想懂就能懂。不管自己的脸到最后是不是笑僵了，哪怕找个视线盲点把脸快速地揉搓几下也好。一年心态要比一年好，一年比一年要发自内心，因为有些事实的确一年比一年的走得更近，就像玩转身不动的游戏，这回问题已经神不知鬼不觉摆在了跟前，面目过于清楚，让人彻底没了思考能力。

找对象不是挑宠物，如果男人是宠物那该有多好，但是为了找对象才找对象，那我宁愿守着我的宠物。恋爱如果是一门由于寂寞而养成的兴趣那倒也容易，我知道有部分的人一向热忠于恋爱，当他们失去爱人的当时以为自己永失我爱，但这门兴趣总会使他们在恋爱的道路上飞快地得到进展，对象是谁其实真的不是最重要。而我的问题，我想，不是因为我对恋爱没有兴趣，而是我对寂寞的态度，我不完全是一个害怕寂寞的人，或者可以这样说，可能我本身会是个寂寞的人，但是我并不需要恋爱来抵消我的这种状态。说到寂寞不寂寞，这里还有一层致命的关系：本来寂寞不会来烦你，但是恋爱却一定会把寂寞叫来。我这种不是因为恋爱的寂寞究竟是好是坏，全由你们说了算，但是我知道，想做个可爱的人，被大多数人所欣然接受的人并不难，但是做人根本就是另外一回事。

言之有理

「建築を志す人こそ、発想や思想の言語化を大切にしなくてはならない。「はじめに言葉ありき」。言葉にならなくては集団で創作することが非常に困難になる。自己表現の成果が、普遍性、客観性をもつものとはなりにくい。　言葉は底知れぬ力を有している。まあ、「本を読みなさい」ということなのかな？」
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　-－－－－－後藤春彦先生

blah blah

为什么这么激昂了？在牢笼和走出牢笼的两个自己非要互掐脖子吗？一个对另一个说，你只是有比较多的时间罢了，如果我明天就自寻死路，你就能因为正义和博大而取笑我了吗？你这个过河拆桥的伪君子。不停地将我磨损啊，死神！十年后的你又懂什么是美了吗，走到较远的地方也还是不比走得更远看得更清楚，轮廓或者细节，哪个更有趣？你仰望星空的时候一定觉得那就是美吧！老天会怎么想？老天怎么会考虑到你？你这个可怜的小东西。那些衣服都可以捐献给灾区难民了吧？地方都没了。或者挑几件复古的经典样式好出来赶个潮流什么的？钱都到哪里去了？有一种越在乎钱就越要花掉的冲动，因为恨这种太过在乎的感受，消灭这种感受比身无分文来得更重要，又能怎么样，会怎么样呢？你认为自己就是一辆值钱的法拉利吗？我通常不明白汽车的品牌，它们看起来就是用来塞马路的，如果我在中间跑一定会恨到牙痒痒，我还有急事，还有急事啊！！

Which Was the Happiest?

"Such lovely roses!" said the Sunshine. "And each bud will soon burst in bloom and be equally beautiful. These are my children. It is I who have kissed them to life."

"They are my children," said the Dew. "It is I who have nourished them with my tears."

"I should think I am their mother," the Rose Bush said. "You and Sunshine are only their godmothers, who have made them presents in keeping with your means and your good will."

"My lovely Rose children!" they exclaimed, all three. They wished each flower to have the greatest happiness. But only one could be the happiest, and one must be the least happy. But which of them?

"I'll find out," said the Wind. "I roam far and wide. I find my way into the tiniest crevices. I know everything, inside and out."

Each rose in bloom heard his words, and each growing bud understood them.

Just then a sad devoted mother, in deep mourning, walked through the garden. She picked one of the roses; it was only half-blown but fresh and full. To her it seemed the loveliest of them all, and she took it to her quiet, silent room, where only a few days past her cheerful and lively young daughter had merrily tripped to and fro. Now she lay in the black coffin, as lifeless as a sleeping marble figure. The mother kissed her departed daughter. Then she kissed the half-blown rose, and laid it on the young girl's breast, as if by its freshness, and by the fond kiss of a mother, her beloved child's heart might again begin to beat.

The rose seemed to expand. Every petal trembled with joy. "What a lovely way has been set for me to go," it said. "Like a human child, I am given a mother's kiss and her blessing as I go to the blessed land unknown, dreaming upon the breast of Death's pale angel.

"Surely I am the happiest of all my sisters."

In the garden where the Rose Bush grew, walked an old woman whose business it was to weed the flower beds. She also looked at the beautiful bush, with especial interest in the largest full-blown rose. One more fall of dew, one more warm day, and its petals would shatter. When the old woman saw this she said that the rose had lived long enough for beauty, and that now she intended to put it to practical use. Then she picked it, wrapped it in old newspaper, and took it home, where she put it with other faded roses and those blue boys they call lavender, in a potpouri, embalmed in salt. Mind you, embalmed - an honor granted only to roses and kings.

"I will be the most highly honored," the rose declared, as the old weed puller took her. "I am the happiest one, for I am to be embalmed."

Then two young men came strolling through the garden. One was a painter; the other was a poet. Each plucked a rose most fair to see. The painter put upon canvas a likeness of the rose in bloom, a picture so perfect and so lovely that the rose itself supposed it must be looking into a mirror.

"In this way," said the painter, "it shall live on, for generations upon generations, while countless other roses fade and die."

"Ah!" said the rose, "after all, it is I who have been most highly favored. I had the best luck of all."

But the poet looked at his rose, and wrote a poem about it to express the mystery of love. Yes, his book was a complete picture of love. It was a piece of immortal verse.

"This book has made me immortal," the rose said. "I am the most fortunate one."

In the midst of these splendid roses was one whom the others hid almost completely. By accident, and perhaps by good fortune, it had a slight defect. It sat slightly askew on its stem, and the leaves on one side of it did not match those on the other. Moreover, in the very heart of the flower grew a crippled leaf, small and green.

Such things happen, even to roses.

"Poor child," said the Wind, and kissed its cheek. The rose took this kiss for one of welcome and tribute. It had a feeling that it was made differently from the other roses, and that the green leaf growing in the heart of it was a mark of distinction. A butterfly fluttered down and kissed its petals. It was a suitor, but the rose let him fly away. Then a tremendously big grasshopper came, seated himself on a rose near-by, and rubbed his shins. Strangely enough, among grasshoppers this is a token of affection.

The rose on which he perched did not understand it that way, but the one with the green crippled leaf did, for the big grasshopper looked at her with eyes that clearly meant, "I love you so much I could eat you." Surely this is as far as love can go, when one becomes part of another. But the rose was not taken in, and flatly refused to become one with this jumping fop. Then, in the starlit night a nightingale sang.

"He is singing just for me," said the rose with the blemish, or with the mark of distinction as she considered it. "Why am I so honored, above all my sisters? Why was I given this peculiarity - which makes me the luckiest one?"

Next to appear in the garden were two gentlemen, smoking their cigars. They spoke about roses and about tobacco. Roses, they say, are not supposed to stand tobacco smoke; it fades them and turns them green. This was to be tested, but the gentlemen would not take it upon themselves to try it out on the more perfect roses.

They tried it on the one with the defect.

"Ah ha! a new honor," the rose said. "I am lucky indeed - the luckiest of all." And she turned green with conceit and tobacco smoke.

One rose, little more than a bud but perhaps the loveliest one on the bush, was chosen by the gardener for the place of honor in an artistically tied bouquet. It was taken to the proud young heir of the household, and rode beside him in his coach. Among other fragrant flowers and beautiful green leaves it sat in all its glory, sharing in the splendor of the festivities. Gentlemen and ladies, superbly dressed, sat there in the light of a thousand lamps as the music played. The theater was so brilliantly illuminated that it seemed a sea of light. Through it swept a storm of applause as a young dancer came upon the stage. One bouquet after another showered down, in a rain of flowers at her feet.

There fell the bouquet in which the lovely rose was set like a precious stone. The happiness it felt was complete, beyond any description. It felt all the honor and splendor around it, and as it touched the floor it fell to dancing too. The rose jumped for joy. It bounded across the stage at such a rate that it broke from its stem. The flower never came into the hands of the dancer. It rolled rapidly into the wings, where a stage hand picked it up. He saw how lovely and fragrant the rose was, but it had no stem. He pocketed it, and when he got home he put it in a wine glass filled with water. There the flower lay throughout the night, and early next morning it was placed beside his grandmother. Feeble and old, she sat in her easy chair and gazed at the lovely stemless rose that delighted her with its fragrance.

"You did not come to the fine table of a lady of fashion," she said.

"You came to a poor old woman. But to me you are like a whole rosebush. How lovely you are." Happy as a child, she gazed at the flower, and perhaps recalled the days of her own blooming youth that now had faded away.

"The window pane was cracked," said the Wind. "I got in without any trouble. I saw the old woman's eyes as bright as youth itself, and I saw the stemless but beautiful rose in the wine glass. Oh, it was the happiest of them all! I knew it! I could tell!"

Every rose on that bush in the garden had its own story. Each rose was convinced that it was the happiest one, and it is faith that makes us happy. But the last rose knew indeed that it was the happiest.

"I have outlasted them all," it said. "I am the last rose, the only one left, my mother's most cherished child!"

"And I am the mother of them all," the Rose Bush said.

"No, I am," said the Sunshine.

"And I," said the Dew.

"Each had a share in it," the Wind at last decided, "and each shall have a part of it." And then the Wind swept its leaves out over the hedge where the dew had fallen, and where the sun was shining.

"I have my share too," said the Wind. "I have the story of all the roses, and I shall spread it throughout the wide world. Tell me then, which was the happiest of them all? Yes, that you must tell, for I have said enough."

by Hans Christian Andersen 1868

breakfast and dinner

今天的早餐和晚餐，蛋炒饭和意面。经过反省，我决定简化自己的备餐时间，以免给人很闲的假象。人多拥挤的地方，什么美食什么文学畅想都是天边的浮云，实际是我还在算计着下次交房租是什么时候。早餐只花了几分钟，晚上一回来开火把面煮上再说。

Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence

David Bowie步履矫健，稳住暴戾的坂本龙一，上去就是两个简短有力且意味深长的吻，即压倒众生，特此留念（鲍叔啊你能不能不要这么帅，好几段看得我想哭又想笑）。大岛渚之残酷美学，荡漾于两个自恋且英俊的男角暧昧不清的关系间，留下了战场上的销魂几瞥。情感乃人类之死穴——“我的爱穿着一身被禁锢的色彩”，坂本龙一的原声做得动人唯美，像当初我看《末代皇帝》的时候那段跑出去喊Armo的悲怆场景，背景乐一上来就触动我的泪腺。北野武在青葱岁月的彼时尚且可爱，一开始对他有点误解，没想最后其实是这样一个温馨的角色，变态的温馨。

David Bowieは迅速な歩で前に出って、横暴（おうぼう）している坂本に何も言わずに肩にかためて抱きついて、意味深長けれども、強くてシンプルな二つキースを顔の両側にした。我らはこういうシーンを見たら、本当に平気では入られなかったと思うよね。><（Bowie in some episodes was made me both laughing and wepting...）そして、ぬぼれている二人の曖昧な関係の間に大島渚の残酷美学をうこだますっていった。ただ、魂を奪われるぐらいシーンが戦場で余ってちゃった。情感と言うことは、本当に人間の弱点だと思う。「禁じられた色彩」の編曲が美しくて、当時「ラストエンペラー」の中にあって「走りながら叫んでいる悲しみ痛む」の一つepisodeを思い出しだ。このepisodeの背景樂を出てくれたと簡単に私の涙腺が緩ませたね。
若い頃の北野武がまた可愛いし、映画の初頭を見るとき彼に少しい誤解した、最終になると意外に性格がこんなに温かな人物だった。変態な優しいと思う。