Unfinished letter

I dug through the paper mess on my desk and found this—an undated note, scribbled in haste and addressed to you—which must have been early this August, as I was sitting in the plane waiting for the take-off to Singapore. I wonder what I had in mind to say to you and didn't go on to say. In all probability just restlessness.

Dear Jude,

The plane has yet to take off. I suddenly have this strong urge to write to you. A young lad is standing down there from my window, blond hair ruffled, face pink and lovely with the sunlight on it. I wonder what he's doing in here, working as an airport staff, here in Hong Kong, somewhere he doesn't belong. On this bright morning (too bright, and too many leaden clouds in the sky). I am unprepared to be moved by youth--shadowless youth that one can do anything in/with. I take out my crimson pashmina and wind it round my shoulders, feeling ancient and ageless, as if this warm, dark wool piece is the perfect shield to the piercing, luring beam of that pink robustness. Youth, whatever happened to mine? "When was that innocence-lost experience?" M asked, months ago. "I don’t know. Probably the time when the chickens I reared were ruthlessly beheaded to make the New Year feast. I was three or four."

(some spaces later..) 云朵的影子映在山丘上, 似水波般流动. 揉烂的天空棉花, 我正向你飞去..

donuts

nonsensical topic. since you said you were dropping by, i'll offer some donuts - gesture of hospitality.

i haven't been on MSN for some time. no urge to talk, exactly. just want to sort out my own mess. picked up a copy of Virginia Woolf's ' The Waves' yesterday. In fact I haven't read a single novel since summer but yesterday after class, i had this urge to touch them again. The 13th floor dedicated to good old novels isn't very popular for the general sicence orientated readers and when i was there, few people lingered around. It's almost impossible to navigate without the reference code ready at hand but anyway my trip was without purpose. Maybe i just missed the particular stale smell of ancient paper backs. To be embraced in calm serenity once more while outside late autumn rain trickled endlessly. It was soothing.

i bumped into virginia woolf and thought about what you said. There was a huge collection of her diaries. Now i think of it, I have no idea why I didn't borrow them. Maybe there're simply too many to choose from.

quotes of the day, from the introduction to 'the waves', written by Gilian Beer

While she was writing Mrs Dalloway Woolf copied a passage from Book VII of Wordsworth's The Prelude and added a comment:

The matter that detains us now may seem,
To many, neither dignified enough
Nor arduous, yet will not be scorned by them,
Who, looking inward, have observed the ties
That bind the perishable hours of life
Each to the other, & the curious props
By which the world of memory and thought
Exists & is sustained.

Good quotation for one of my books. - Virginia

Not like I understand it. Maybe I will one day.

Dropping by

Blogging industry is at a standstill, my own, I mean. And so is communication. Now and then saw you and a couple other friends online that I talked to often, and never seemed to have that urge to talk out these days. Busy life is so smothering. Clicked around and saw your revamped redro and attic rambles, whoa, loved those; that background picture of redro..and the perfect choices of pictures with words in rambles..beautiful.

Looking at the dates I realized there is almost a full month's lapse between your last entry and today. It's shocking, it's shocking, time zooms by so!!! The shock almost shook my sleepiness away...

Letter to Jude from Jady

Dear Jude,

Addicted to Jewel again, indeed. In little times like this, when doubts about self worth, truth and deception quietly awake and nibble away at the heart, I go to Jewel, Jewel the sensual yet innocent one, wise yet wild, still long before one day turning up posing sluttish on a neon colored album. (No, I still can't quite get over that.) if I sound as if I have been pensive and absorbed in thoughts for days, I wasn't—I had to axe away that pile of work little by little, everyday for a long while now, before it becomes a monster and squashes me. I threw myself out there to be consumed by those notes and texts, with a blank mind, little enthusiasm and a nasty sense of urgency. Not reading the eclectic way any more (just slowly reading a wonderfully written French novel, Bonjour Tristesse by Francoise Sagan..hope you are going on to take francais!) not writing, not meeting up with friends and acquaintances (I missed to meet tree, and feel most regretful…most inexcusable.) shutting myself off but again not so thoroughly—every night when I sign on online my sight would linger over a certain name for a while too long, wishing, not even subconsciously and knowing too well the improbability, that a message would pop up and clarify some things. I didn't know I'd care this much, about tucked-away truths, of a possibly purely impulsive phrase and an ultimately commonplace and trivial incident, and even if the moment has long expired; but then again, I can't say I don't know myself through and through—it was only that certain self-knowledge is harder to confront, so I did know I'd be caring this much. And the boy is blameless, for, what would anyone say or do after all that happened? (There's no need to contradict this because there are still stretches of the story omitted and untold...and probably should remain so.) And I keep my reticence. Long silences suck things far and away, like vacuum, intangible, boundless, and dreadful; that dread is excruciating in just that—for fear of saying the wrong things, one says nothing, and for fear of turning a small disaster into a crisis by trying to mend it, one ties oneself down and does nothing, and let silences fill out the endless stretch of hours; it's more like thin shelled snails than happily feathered and warm blooded chickens; and I don't know what to think about snails. Or about hiding, or being frail and guardless. (now strangely, Esther's face surfaces and sneers that Esther sneer, says, yeah, go wallow in self-pity!) (I say to her, but I don't pity myself, and she scorns in return.) (Bravo Es, hardly anyone I know of could take up that pitiless cynical insolent devil role as you could. So stay in my fantasy a while…) anyway, I was at Luo's place for a while today. What took place in that very room almost three weeks ago seemed at once dreamlike and immediately erase-and-rewindable. I imagined the boy walking into the room any moment, saying a nonchalant hi, and everything would be back on track. But that's too dramatic to be true, of course, and the real me would probably be a real bastard again, picking up my bag and running off in nameless rage and self-inflicted sadness again. And those aren't even important any more—as soon as the rush of emotions was past each would realize that there are too much at stake—independence, freedom, peace of mind, deep secrets, and happiness itself—to exchange for some uncertain, short-lived thing that vaguely resembles love. Was it out of loneliness? Was it out of boredom? And by just how much need I reduce human emotions to categories and abstractions and reason before I could finally deal with them? That question is going to stay with me for a while...I'll rest my fatigued fingers and mind here..and post this on ss, an arbitrary something that might as well be imagined, impersonal, fictional..

Jady.

SMR 3

I darted through the neighbourhood of Moonriver Lane and was greatly relieved when the road sign was far behind me. The mystic aura of the gigantic mansion, however, still lingered on like the endless summer rain. I stopped, composed myself for a second and turned around. Now a silhouette shrouded in a greying mist of dampness, its once looming presence seemed to be overtaken by an unspeakable air of melancholic calmess . Suddenly I heard someone calling out my name. The voice, distant and surreal, unmistakingly whispered a dreamy spell. 'Never answer the devil's call. They eat your heart away.' Grandma's story rushed to my head. As if seized by madness, I frantically pushed down the peddle and never ever looked back.


Chapter 2
The howling wind rudely shook the windows, their serpentine tongues slurping away at man's vulnerability, hissing at every possible hole, or a careless crevice.

'S - I - R - E ...'

The man slotted in the last letter and turned his head towards the sound.

It was just the wind.

He scowled, his stern face now a worrying look of age. He became very sensitive recently. Even the slightest sound, a bird's flapping wings, or a disturbed ripple in the pond, struck his nerves and threatened to echo in the haunted house of dead memories. A sudden chill escaped from the North wall. He tightened his collar and remembered her warm breath around his neck, tickling and damp.

There was no letter for him today.

He glanced at the amber coloured wooden mailbox, the only unnumbered one among a mirage of fanciful collections. He reserved it for himself. The golden warm colour reminded him of certain things, things he once loved. There was the copper-lidded squarish case with Roman number 'VIII' on it, and another funny-shaped box handmade with vine. Who did it belong to? Was it the old man with the trademark slanted mouth? He always had a pipe dangling between his yellowing teeth, which made his face all the more dispicably annoying.

He didn't know their names, just faces he could tag with a number, the mailbox number.

'Bonsoir, Mr. King. How's your day?' No. 17 came last night to retrieve a thick stack of letters which had accumulated for a month and as a result, almost went stale from the damp weather. They greeted politely and exchanged very few words. For them, he was Mr. King, no more a real person than a name spelt out in monotone. K, I, N, G. And them, imaginary numbers with faces he couldn't tell the real from the fake.

He almost forgot when or why he started this strange business. None of them asked and the reason soon hid itself in the coffin, together with other forgotten secrets. With hands stuck in the pocket, he strolled towards the door. The routine mail sorting was over. It was time to leave.

There he hesitated, moved four steps forward, only to retrieve ten steps back which brought him right in front of number 6. It had been months since the owner last cleared out the letters. Mr. King stared at the pile of papers which threatened to burst out of their confinement. Soon he'd have to move it to a bigger mailbox but what was the use? Mr. no. 6 never came. Yet another letter arrived this morning.

Mr. King kept it his golden rule never to invade his customers' privacy. It was clearly stated in the agreement never to open others' letters unless granted with special permission.

Still, this letter intrigued him.

Through the palm-sized translucent envelop, it didn't take too much effort to make out a tiny strip of paper. So it wasn't a written letter but a strip of paper? Probably a telegram or pure mischief. Or what could it be?


ps. I was depending on you for the title. You sure you want 'strange mail room'? It sounds funny to me though.

pps. Just now I went back to your continuation and checked again if the flow was natural, and there was paragraph two! Wasn't there this morning when I looked. Good one though. the postoffice boy of course played an important role. Now I think about it, just scrap that first paragraph I wrote since it clashed. Hope the parallel happenings at King's side wasn't too abrupt. I didn't bring out the dark nature in him though coz I'm not sure how to. There was a bit of shading on his past about a woman. I'll leave it to you to decide her possible role. Add in something if you will, coz the sudden lightening of tone sort of went a bit offtrack with the foreshadowing about his mysterious look and dark clothing.

not to be removed

no no no nothing, NOTHING, is ever gonna be removed, hear me? lol this isn't a published book, not even one to be published. this is a log that faithfully holds every little bits of conversations, however inconsequential they might seem..i'm now trying, again, to record thoughts, as many and frequently as possible, in the spirit of that Woolfian axiom--'nothing happened until you write it down.' oh yes. incidentally i'm reading Woolf now, not one of her fiction works--a volume of collected essays instead, and now i start to understand why she was upheld as a great great (possibly the greatest ever..this is by me though :P) literary critic by some of her brilliant contemporary men of letters, even greater than herself as a writer. (can't recall who and who said it, but they were big names..) read 'The Common Reader' I and II if you will..pure brilliance.

intermission I

morning rambling

wow it turned into a suspense!
It's surprising unexpected. prob coz of the tail i left 'how could there be 67 kings...'
doesn't it sound like a setting where a gigantic dark castle-styled mansion filled with 70 something inhabitants, each with their own secrets to tell.
i'll carry on with the story althou i suck at suspense.
-----------

after lunch thoughts

lol. I didn't mean to remove it though. I should probably type 'to be improved'. YES nothing's to be removed. Shamey shamey I didn't finish any of Woolf's great works, not even a single novel.

There I digressed. Intermission I. Want I.

After lunch I continued on the cliffhanger you left me, and in courteous return, didn't quite forget to leave you another hanger to tackle with. So I hope you enjoy it!

The merits of a marathon style blog novel is becoming clear. Unexpected plot developments could be v mind broadening. What I had in mind initially was a weird story in modern setting, where the mysterious man who owned 77 mail boxes (or 78 if including his own) was waiting to forget, or to remember. Whatever reason it is. A cold-hearted city story even.

But now it seems more interesting stuff is coming up. I'm all eager to know what's in store. Don't press yourself to write. Move your fingers and type only when thoughts come to you. I'm v v free at the moment and after the nap, I woke up with a few immature ideas which I thought would maybe tail nicely to your last entry. But sometimes I plainly didn't know what more to write.

So like said, no discussion. Just have fun!

ps. i take back my last sentence.
Let's discuss while we have fun!

This's going suspense, not some free verse. Have to discuss or else the characters will be split beyond recognition

the strange mail room, continuée par Jady

Amazing. And why does it sound like it's gonna be a half thriller half fantasy flick again? LoL. Ok, no discussion, I'll just continue.

So I was there in the grey, troubled downpour, fingering the stack and unsure what to do next when a deep voice suddenly boomed in my ear, 'boy, I believe those are for me, thank you very much.' I jumped and almost dropped the loosened bundle, and turned, shamefaced, only to be confronted by a stern, expressionless face. It was humid, warm day, and the moment I saw him I couldn't help cold goose bumps bobbing on my back—the man was well-built, and well-dressed in a black three-piece suit, which struck me as too thick for the weather and too formal anyway, his face, even and handsome, didn't betray the smallest hint at his age, but what made my nerves frantic with discomfort, was something I couldn't quite name. It was perhaps all the small yet very noticeable oddities about the man. His unblemished skin, for one, was pale and translucent like milky glass veined with faint lilac lines; his seagreen feline eyes, streaked with dark golden rays, held me steadfast and gave me an uncanny feeling that he could read my mind and was reading it there and then; but his gloved hands, though quick and polite when he reached over for the letters, were somewhat neurotically shaky. I held his gaze for only that couple of seconds, and he withdrew into himself like the setting sun calling back all the rays, suddenly inaccessibly distant, and quicky disappeared beyond the heavy oak doors of the old mansion. I don't know for how long I stood there, staring fixed at the crimson, immaculately maintained mansion, until one moment I suddenly shook awake, as if just escaped a nightmare, and rode my bike away as fast as my leaden limbs could manage.

Back to the post office. I put down the empty canvas bag and collapsed at one corner of the mail sorting room, drenched and still breathless from the strange encounter. Fortunately it was quite deserted in the late afternoon, I heard the postmaster answering a phone call in the next room, and no one else was around to witness my pale-faced aftershock. But I wasn't someone that scares easy and shrinks away in defeat from a mystery. My old man believed all along that I'd become a scientist or something, because I have an unusually strong, innate inquisitiveness in me that never let anything pass by unanswered or unexplained for, that I easily stood out from the simple, unquestioning townsfolk. And there I was on the cobblestone floor, calming down and devising plans to revisit the place and find out more, when a familiar voice halted my thoughts—'how ye doing my boy, you don't look too well. Must be the storm? Helluva heavy one eh, haven't had one like this in years..' 'yeah indeed. I think I'd better take off early and change into some dry clothes, sir, before I catch a cold or something.' I hurriedly cut the old postmaster short, before he lapsed into long reminiscence again. The old man worked here since as far as I could trace my memories back, and probably could be traced to years before I was even born. He's like the grandpa for every kid in town, a wise old man with a memory like an elephant's; almost a walking depository of the whole town's stories. He beamed at me and nodded permission. As I passed him, his wrinkles seemed a bit more gathered than his usual, relaxed self, and I wondered what could possibly be on his mind, troubling him. 'Take good care, son!' his last kind words reverberated in the dense downpour, almost like an admonishment; I waved him goodbye and broke into the pummeling rain.

the strange mail room

A tentative start after 'the bird'. I forgot which object/event made me jump at the idea. Oh yeah, well, anyway. It's about my forever changing address. My winter/fall academic report was mailed back home. I was kinda pissed for a while. I thought they'd mail it to my summer residence but instead they used my home address and as a result, my parents were the first to look at it. Whatever happens to my privacy!!! Then I thought there's so much inconvenience and 'sorrow' for someone forever on the move. It would be nice to have a safe address where you can always go back to retrieve your mails, no worries about the safety or its permanence.

The skeleton
There was a mysterious person who went with the name 'Raymond King' (change the name if you want, I suck at naming). Age? Not sure. Nobody knows. He looked like in his late 20s or early 30s. He lived in a big mansion in which there was the strange mail room. There were 77 pigeon holes each clearly numbered. The incoming letters were all addressed to him, with the same address '1 moonriver lane, queen's circle'. Each morning, Mr. Raymond King would rountinely go to the mailroom, spent a couple of minutes there making sure the letters were correctly sorted out to their right pigeon hole. And every morning he would sit there on the wooden stage, lost in thought, as if waiting for someone. He thinks he's the dream keeper, guarding the mails as if they're tender dreams that would one day escape.

And some day, not sure when because you never know when, some strangers would come and open the pigeon hole with their key, retrieve their mails and go away. Most would smile and say 'hi' if they bump into Mr. King. They exchange v few words.

It was a small business. People who for various reasons were in need of a permanent and secretive mailing address, could request a mailbox through Mr. King. The key was mailed to them so they could come and check their mails anytime they want.

That's the main storyline which doesn't even sound like a story for now. I'm sure you can do sth about it hahaha!


Here're figments of ideas. Let's flesh out the story. Hmm, is first person narration alrite? If not, change it anyway you want.



The Strange Mail Room (title pending...)

It was a rainy Saturday morning.

I quickly brushed off the raindrops on my watch and stared hard. It was too dark. I leaned a bit forward to retrieve some natural light, only to discover half my body was now out of the shed and the raging rain threatened to throw me off my bike.

The watch was fogging up from inside, making the rhythmic movement of the second hand a blurry ghost on patrol. The clockwork would soon rust. I stroked hard at the glass panel, cursing bitterly under my breath why my only luck ran out on the first day of this new job.

'Get the mails and finish the delivery by noon.' The officer said and there I went off in a flash of second, my heart welling up with the excitement of a nine year old boy embarking on his first adventure. Well, there I lied. I would soon be twenty by summer's end. But I was excited nonetheless, until someone poured two buckets of ink into the sky and the storm ensued. It must have been five buckets of ink, or his rage. The rain drops felt hot on the cheek. Maybe it was summer?

About five more minutes to Moonriver Lane, my next destination. I did a head calculation and tapped my foot impatiently at the pavement. Snatching up a handful of letters, I studied the address as I prayed for the rain to cease. It bothered me. Honestly speaking the minute I retrieved those letters from the big deposit box, I had an eccentric feeling hanging at the back of my mind.

To Mr. Raymond King
1 Moonriver Lane
Queen's Circle
154266

Mesmerizd, I flipped to another letter below. It had already been sorted out. I did a quick count with my fingers and there lay 10 letters, with exactly the same address. Wait! I was almost fooled! There below 'King' was carefully subscripted a numerical, almost too small to be discerned. Something screamed at me 'this's no simple case'! I could hardly control my boiling excitement at the new discovery that my hands shook a little. Three letters subscripted '9', and the rest with different numericals ranging from 3 to 67. It couldn't be there were 67 Raymond Kings!

TO BE C'TD (BY JADY)
off judy went...

this pill, this melodrama

an ambiguous title which in simple terms, yells 'love psychedelico', YEAH!!

How funny. I can't see the blog but luckily I can still post. Ah, you know Gang got addicted to love psychedelico coz of 'standing bird'! One day she came to my room and asked whether I had any nice song to recommend. Then I randomly picked one and there it was 'standing bird'. Only a few words make sense to me but most often even those familiar sounds escape me. 'Ai ja sobani nai somewhat of a 'ride & role'. ' - This's the only complete line I know. If anyone would to ask 'what is love psychedelico'? It would be a headache question to answer. A blend of rock and metal which exude a laid-back attitude, almost a faded rhythm that reminds me vaguely of the 60s. Mixture of Japanese & English aside, Kumi's voice is just right for the flavour! I used to complain about Naoki's instrumental arrangement.(that guitarist, bass, keyboard and what not. so let's simply say he's the vocaless part) Lots of raging beats that lack sophistication and technique. But graudually even those became part of love psychedelico's essense. The first song that got me empty my wallet for the 1st LP album was 'everybody needs someone'. The effect of enclosed sound from the headphone prob enhanced the rhythmic shock. Kumi's voice is clean, not too sharp, not too mellow. And the detachment in the rage, I'm really glad I get to know them. Oh, 'standing bird' is prob the most representative song of LS.

Bonus: i love all their album/single cover designs.

LP Official Website

Profile [from the official web]



Formed in 1997 when they met in the college music club so called “circle” at Aoyama Gakuin University. Made their debut with “Lady Madonna / Yuutsu Naru Spider” on April 21st 2000. In the meantime, they created the original sound world, bringing a great fusion of 60’s/ 70’s rock taste and modern digital sound.With unforgettable guitar riff, their characteristic Japanese-English naturally blended lyrics and Kumi’s unconventional vocal style, they gave Japanese music scene a tremendous impact every time they brought their new works.The first album “THE GREATEST HITS”, second album “LOVE PSYCHEDELIC ORCHESTRA” and third album “LOVE PSYCHEDELICO III” have still been making a remarkable record as a long term hit seller.In November 2004, they went on their first time Asian solo tour.

KUMI【Vocal & Guitars】
Date of Birth＞1976.4.11　　　　　 Blood Type＞O
Born at＞Tokyo-prefecture　　　　Hobby＞Trip

NAOKI【Guitars, Bass Guitars & Keyboards】
Date of Birth＞1973.7.21　　　　　 Blood Type＞O
Born at＞Shizuoka-prefecture　　Hobby＞Painting

Single Covers





Album Covers










My fav LP song is 'days of days over you' ^^

Standing Bird

Jude, arhhhh, I'm inexplicably addicted to Love Psychedelico, or to be precise, to Standing Bird, the very first song you played to me! Now I get up in the morning and put it on repeat mode and let the rhythm and her defiant voice roll on, though I hardly understand half of the lyrics! Is it the existential angst (lol. This is a disease, my disease) in there that appeals to me? Some kind of cold rage..against something unnamable? Sighs, this is gonna be the Standing Bird Week for me…

Standing Bird
Romaji by: cori

Kaze no keeper mune ni yadoru light
Kienai sa  asu e tada take a run
Kanaderu rage oto mo nashi ni fade
Akumei de ii sa  you go along

stone in silence  kanashimi o terase

Yamanu flavor wa meguru fate
you lean on, you go on
oh, nothing's done
Mou tada yureru sora to downcast sight
as ever, stand hard, shed the lights

stone in silence karenu me o sarase
stand forever  itami aru moto e

Kimi wa ima tada omoi shiru Standing Bird

* wake up your sorrow, from the "deep narrow"
oh, sainamu wa pleasure kiri no mukou Eden
Ai.ja soba ni inai somewhat of "ride and roll"

Owaranai sa reach another star
green light, untied, high tide, breaking the wind
Owaranai keep believing star
stand hard, shed the lights, hang by, a way behind

stand forever hikari aru moto e

refrain-ing voices are  touhou mo naku killing the time

Toki wa ima tada omoishiru Standing Bird

* repeat

** wake up your sorrow, from the "deep narrow"
oh, saihate no heart zensen no ue no "ride and roll"
Ai.ja soba ni inai somewhat of "ride and roll"

Cheers!

21 Aug 05
Jade & me finished house-moving. Wanted to celebrate with champaign & pizza. But sorry I had long beans cooked with green pepper, and a cup of plain water to wash away the greasy feel in my mouth. And Jade headed for her money grossing business (aka private tuition).

The furniture was so dusty we couldn't even remember its owner. Jade looked at the photo in which a black chimp died mysteriously. Alongside its bloody corpse lay three arrows. The hints missed her and Jade looked again, baffled. Oh I took the photo last year. Isn't it classic?

'Write something if you're in the mood.'

So here I am giving the brush a deliberate stroke. Whether in or out of the mood, there it was, a new trail of paint on the wall. I would be glad to mark the first stroke which I know, would soon be lost in a sea of coloured graffiti. Or at least I hope.

Here comes Cigarettes & Chocolate Milk...
- These're just a couple of my cravings

Cigarettes and chocolate milk
These are just a couple of my cravings
Everything it seems I like's a little bit stronger
A little bit thicker, a little bit harmful for me

If I should buy jellybeans
Have to eat them all in just one sitting
Everything it seems I like's a little bit sweeter
A little bit fatter, a little bit harmful for me

And then there's those other things
Which for several reasons we won't mention
Everything about 'em is a little bit stranger, a little bit harder
A little bit deadly

It's not very smart
Tends to make one part
So brokenhearted

Sitting here remembering me
Always been a shoe made for the city
Go ahead accuse me of just singing about places
With scrappy boys faces have general run of the town

Playing with prodigal sons
Take a lot of sentimental valiums
Can't expect the world to be your raggedy andy
While running on empty you little old doll with a frown

You got to keep in the game
Retaining mystique while facing forward
I suggest a reading of lesson in tightropes
Or surfing your high hopes or adios kansas

It’s not very smart
Tends to make one part
So brokenhearted

Still there’s not a show on my back
Holes or a friendly intervention
I’m just a little bit heiress, a little bit irish
A little bit tower of pisa
Whenever I see ya
So please be kind if I’m a mess

Cigarettes and chocolate milk
Cigarettes and chocolate milk

Progress report

Okay, after so long, finally set to work on this little corner of ours and fixed the few problems. The comment function beats me though----can't figure out how to create a comments page, even after pouring over all the html codes I altered before. Anyway, guess we should be more anxious about writing more than editing the template, else we can work together in a web-design company by the time we graduate. Which ain't too bad, hohoho. Now, feedback, s'il te plait! Guess we'll have to make do with the tagboard first..or a new post!

tentative skin

ripped this skin off www.blogskin.com didn't realize it's not ad-free. I have no idea how to remove/restore the blogger search bar. It looks weird. Changed all the designs of course just to go slapstick. Hope it's not too nitty gritty girlie. Since you like gree, i added green chili. and since i like red, i did a mirror image. soo haha, my job's done. I'll leave the thousands links for you to sort out... Dun call me cruel, baby. I'll be happy to move everything else from moviegoer.

sooo I decide you're the better one at html, if you could remove/restore the blogger bar that'll be perfect. and the line {blogauthor}slapsticked at blah blah, if you could change it into another colour so as to be distinct from blog entry title that'll be great. And also there's no comment bar. I haven't added the codes yet...

ok just make any changes to ur liking. I shall take a break ^^

great great

ah good..i put up the 9stories template for the time being, but i'll be searching for nice sets of wallpapers and picture that should please both of us for substituion. and the sidebar..well, we'll sort them out..bravo, go on working now! and all the best for your tests!!

testing

site under construction..

'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？！