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
Posted in 人物, 日本語, 记录 on by
「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
-－－－－－後藤春彦先生
blah blah
Posted in jast saying on by
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?
Posted in 人物, 记录 on by
"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
"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
Posted in 食物, 记录 on by
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
Posted in 光影, 耳朵, 日本語 on by
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。
今敏的世界
Posted in 光影, 人物 on by
今敏上个月去世，他所有的动画片我都看了过去。这位大师也是YY的高手，以致很多人回想到后来诸多精神分裂和关于梦解析的电影都离不开这位领军人物的点拨，不过这点上大可不必纠结。今敏的作品不像宫崎骏之类以孩童为视角展现出一个梦的世界，相反我觉得他的动画都非常成人化（阴暗成分，性暗示），而核心展现出的仍旧是孩童般不加限制的想象力，对精神解析的功力使其在立意上也要深刻细腻得多。另外今敏绝对是女人至上主义的，他所有的作品几乎都会由一个女神般的人物来充当主角。
按照我看片的次序，看到《未麻的部屋》的时候的确认为有大卫林奇的范儿。一个导演不一定要出片量多，但势必有强烈的个人风格可循。最为我钦佩的要属今敏的《红辣椒》，在制作上我认为是一部集他大成的作品，是最能代表今敏的作品，这个故事源于作家筒井康隆的一本书，筒井很想把这个故事拍成真人电影却苦于资金力量的欠缺，于是找到了今敏（其实如果这些动画能拍成真人的话也将是件非常了不起的事）。而要说最喜欢今敏的哪部作品则很难选择了。《东京教父》是我认为的最亲切温馨的一部，特别记得那个红色魔鬼与蓝色魔鬼的故事，还有那句“能够自由表达...是爱的源泉”。
to remember this
Posted in 记录 on by
Thomas Jefferson: “ How much pain has been caused by evils which have never happened! I expect the best, not the worst. I steer my ship with hope, leaving fear behind.”
感时泪溅花
Posted in 日本語, 记录 on by
「花火」－－－汪峰
这是一场没有结局的表演 ただ一部エンドレスのない演出だ。
包含所有荒谬和疯狂 荒唐無稽（こうとうむけ）で、狂気（きょうき）なものだ。
像个孩子一样满怀悲伤 まるで子供のように悲しいっぱい。
静悄悄地熟睡在大地上 ひっそりと静かで大地に寝ていった。
现在我有些倦了 もうちょっと疲れたなぁ。
倦得像一朵被风折断的野花 風で折っちゃった野花見たいので、
所以我开始变了 変わって
变得像一团滚动炽热的花 灼熱（しゃくれつ）のような花火になった。
看着眼前欢笑骄傲的人群 目の前に笑っている驕りの人間を見たと
心中泛起汹涌的浪花 心の中に波が沸き起こった。
跳着放荡的舞蹈穿行在旷野 放縦（ほうしょう）で踊りを踊って、広野をとおりぬけて、
感到狂野而破碎的辉煌 支離滅裂（しりめつれつ）な輝きになることを感じられた
现在我有些醉了 もうちょっと酔っ払ったなぁ
醉得像一只找不到方向的野鸽 迷っているハトのように
所以我开始变了 変わって
变得像一团暴烈炽热的花火 焼け付くような花火になった。
蓝色的梦睡在静静驶过的小车里 青色の夢が静かで通ってる車両の中に寝ていて、
漂亮的孩子迷失在小路上 きれいな子供が道に迷って
这是一个永恒美丽的生活 これは美しい永遠な生活の話であって、
没有眼泪没有哀伤 涙もなし、哀愁もなし。
------------------------------------
令人感动的歌词，试着用浅显的词汇来翻译。
这是一场没有结局的表演 ただ一部エンドレスのない演出だ。
包含所有荒谬和疯狂 荒唐無稽（こうとうむけ）で、狂気（きょうき）なものだ。
像个孩子一样满怀悲伤 まるで子供のように悲しいっぱい。
静悄悄地熟睡在大地上 ひっそりと静かで大地に寝ていった。
现在我有些倦了 もうちょっと疲れたなぁ。
倦得像一朵被风折断的野花 風で折っちゃった野花見たいので、
所以我开始变了 変わって
变得像一团滚动炽热的花 灼熱（しゃくれつ）のような花火になった。
看着眼前欢笑骄傲的人群 目の前に笑っている驕りの人間を見たと
心中泛起汹涌的浪花 心の中に波が沸き起こった。
跳着放荡的舞蹈穿行在旷野 放縦（ほうしょう）で踊りを踊って、広野をとおりぬけて、
感到狂野而破碎的辉煌 支離滅裂（しりめつれつ）な輝きになることを感じられた
现在我有些醉了 もうちょっと酔っ払ったなぁ
醉得像一只找不到方向的野鸽 迷っているハトのように
所以我开始变了 変わって
变得像一团暴烈炽热的花火 焼け付くような花火になった。
蓝色的梦睡在静静驶过的小车里 青色の夢が静かで通ってる車両の中に寝ていて、
漂亮的孩子迷失在小路上 きれいな子供が道に迷って
这是一个永恒美丽的生活 これは美しい永遠な生活の話であって、
没有眼泪没有哀伤 涙もなし、哀愁もなし。
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令人感动的歌词，试着用浅显的词汇来翻译。
it's puzzled me
Posted in 玩意 on by
1 x 8 + 1= 9
12 x 8 + 2= 98
123 x 8 + 3= 987
1234 x 8 + 4= 9876
12345 x 8 + 5= 98765
123456 x 8 + 6= 987654
1234567 x 8 + 7= 9876543
12345678 x 8 + 8= 98765432
123456789 x 8 + 9= 987654321
这是怎么回事？
12 x 8 + 2= 98
123 x 8 + 3= 987
1234 x 8 + 4= 9876
12345 x 8 + 5= 98765
123456 x 8 + 6= 987654
1234567 x 8 + 7= 9876543
12345678 x 8 + 8= 98765432
123456789 x 8 + 9= 987654321
这是怎么回事？
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