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Neverland迎着太阳 眯眼看灰蒙蒙的城市掉眼泪 又将离开我的故乡 August 24 phantom painThe only part I feel grateful about surgery is the sedation part where sensation is lost, memory evaporated and pain disappeared.
Time seems to soar by quickly like a gust of wind.
All I can remember is the melody of The Beatles swirling in the operating room.
It is the morning of a surgery day. Everything runs normal for everybody.
The clock in this nuclear medicine room never astray from 2, as if time has never been correct except for 2am and 2pm.
Doctor walks in, first to apologize for the pain I have to endure in the next 3 seconds as if I am a victim already.
Doctors are like story tellers, sometimes vivid, sometimes plain. But I never heard them telling the same story about pain.
His assistant opens up a heavy metal box within which sit two syringes. Each contains certain amount of radioactive medicine.
After a quick peek, I surrender myself to this man in a knowledgable white robe with an ignorant hope that his story about pain is just fiction.
I know my eyes must look down, muscles firm up and teeth clenched to accommodate this.
First there is a sharp sting, then there is a hell. It feels like all the cells in my thumb are stabbing themselves with a knife.
Soon, as is promised, I see a beautiful drop of blood coming underneath my nailbed.
The clock on the wall still points at 2 as if nothing happened, a crime erased from the register book.
Yesterday I was thinking about our dream club in college. I never had a chance to be in part of the show other than directing it.
Here I am in the States playing around the idea of establishing a theater club of my own.
When the culture is meager and rough I miss how we used to scream, to howl and to fly.
Really, that is all I can recall about this surgery - The Beatles. Everyone is trying to take it light. The pain of flesh is nothing.
I remember the long needle piercing through my skin next to neck.
I remember the doctor ask his residents to push the syringe.
I don't remember if I felt the pain.
My neurons are under rest, my sensations are under rest.
The next thing I can remember is people talking to me.
And all the sudden, I burst into tears, fluids of unconcious sadness pushing out of the body.
Nurse tells me this is side effect of the anethesia. And I believe her. I am feeling sleepy, it might be the morphine and pain killer. Everyone who survive from cancer is a hero.
Everyone who die from cancer is also a hero.
Imagine there is no illness.
What a bliss it would be.
June 14 无题自从被诊断得了MELANOMA之后 脑袋好像自行有了新的使命 自觉地有重心地和坏细胞奋斗起来
我可控制利用的部分不多 食色性也 若需要抢占多一点点空间来做别的也是不行的 因为那部分羁绊着你 让你不能瞻前却要顾后
另外长时间地被迫使用左手也似乎让思维方式潜移默化地变动起来 可是又变不出去原来那个脑袋 只能兜个圈再回来
还是厌世出世 还是多愁善感 还是冷眼旁观 还是天马行空 就像被关在牢房常年不见天日的囚犯 忘记何年何月何人被囚 出来时刮个脸照照镜子 还是认得出自己
也许多了几条皱纹 几道疤痕 却宠辱不惊 气定神闲
做人和治国的气度应该是一样的
杭州是小姐似的越来越漂亮了 湖上烟波 夜色靡靡 南宋没几年的皇城根儿脚下歌舞升平 瓦舍酒肆的盛况延续至今
从小和朋友戏耍成长 并未觉自成一格 一离开了杭州 那柔软婉约的江南气就一股一股地流出来了
哪儿生 哪儿长 根就在哪儿 成的林也就在哪儿 你乘云乘雾地走了 林子还在
再回来时 也是像王安忆长恨歌里的小船一橹一橹划进水乡的样子 一股子熟悉的润泽
看什么都是新鲜的 连父亲母亲的脸也是新鲜的 小时候想着长大了要怎样面对他们 才发现那些计略都没用 因为当你长大了 他们已不再是他们了
记得靠在车厢床上看火车爬雪山 看它穿梭在山谷的冻土上 雪花里
那是在傍晚的寂静里 是那种灰蓝色的苍寂
我在寂静里听见时间的巨大鸿蒙 铺天盖地地把感官冷冻起来 你就觉得无比安全 似乎仅仅存于着世上这一点就是安全的
在玛吉阿米看十九世纪一个英国作家写他初次来西藏的札记 听起来像个十足的十九世纪中美国西进运动者 字里行间充满了探险特有的搜刮地理人文味道
日后也该写长文来记载吐蕃国之行
叹新上STAR TREK的特技做地不错 可是没了Gene Roddenberry操刀写故事 就又淹没在一堆好莱坞片子里
October 08 I smell like dust有时候 我想 我是不是骨子里就拒绝社会化 在犹他的这些日子里 我抑或睡在白桦林里看满天亮得晃眼的月亮和银河 觉得心里那样充实
有时候白天走十几英里的路去看史前的板块变迁 呼吸上古的风
像鹿一样优雅地走在山谷里 听野兔在山岩上蹦跃 蜥蜴穿行在灌木和巨石中 风有时候呼啸地像遥远的山洪
心愈接近城市 人就愈觉得孤单 好像一下子又封闭了自己而隔绝
几千年前的冰河纪 印第安人从中亚经白令海峡远迁到北美盐湖城一带
飞机就降落在那里 这是一片冰山 草甸 沼泽 湖泊会聚的色彩斑斓的湿地 如同一块巨大的调色板
油彩散漫地铺在大地上 一定是一旁坐了一位头发蓬乱的画家
89ALT 是一条美丽的公路 把ARIZONA平原的风光尽收眼底 车开到九十英里一小时 远处的山脉却依旧静止 这是一片这样广阔的土地 以至于你可以独自拥有天空和群星 夜晚是凛冽的冷 白日是灼肤的炎
我想他们生活在这样恶劣的环境中 却得到了最淳朴的自然的熏陶
印第安文化里石头蕴含着治愈的功能 有些形状代表着孤寂 自然 力量 精神 诸如此类 Tuba City的Trading Post已经有两百多年的历史 当地的印第安人依旧疯狂的为绿松石着迷
粗大肥硕的手镯摆在橱柜里受当地女孩的仰慕
十九世纪中 美军南征墨西哥 印第安人同时被双方攻击 被散播文明的西进征服者送去波士顿的接受“文明”的那群印第安孩子 回来的仅有一人
偶尔停驻的杂货店还能看到年老一些的印第安人 他们的孩子出去求学 和两百年前不同的是 孩子积极主动探索美洲大陆的另一种文明 相同的是之后很少再有人回来
我的步履那么孤单地响在炽热的沙漠上 我的孤单来自排斥社会的认同感 而这尘土里那么多的灵魂的孤单却来自寻找社会的认同感
别问我为什么我的眼神那么沉郁遥远 因为我的心穿越了宽阔的平原 奔腾的科罗拉多河
穿越了庞大的峡谷的风 穿越了被冲洗得圆滑而饱满的石块 寂静的河床
然后留在了那正午炙热的沙漠里 窗口挂着捕梦网 在黎明第一缕光线射向它时 夜晚的梦魇都会随之烟消云散
I LOVE IT.
I SMELL LIKE DUST.
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