Sunday, March 31, 2013
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Walk While Stepping on the Gauze - Exhibition of Zhang Yanzi"s Chinese Brush Drawings
炎热的夏日躲到美术馆寻找一丝宁静。上海美术馆正展出章燕紫的水墨画，干净灵动的墨，清清淡淡却又不显单调，那一砚的墨在宣纸上蔓延出多少种颜色，虚虚实实却又都不乏饱满。作成已久的画却觉得纸还湿润，觉得墨还在宣纸的纹理中慢慢地浸开。无比喜欢绳上晾衣服的系列，感叹画家画功了得，每一件衣料不管是丝袜还是牛仔裤，还是人字拖，都仿佛能摸出材料来。在诺大的展厅一个人慢慢的贪婪的看，某一霎那甚至热泪盈眶，因为好长时间没自己空出时间来安静的看画展，好长时间处于浮躁迷失的状态，如今重新找回这份难得的惬意，发现是如此的宝贵。
逛完美术馆正好到Barbarossa小坐。坐窗边的角落，要了一杯芒果奶昔慢慢的喝。一个人抽烟喝水读书晒太阳看风景，还有做什么能比这样更舒服的呢？
Thursday, August 19, 2010
trying so hard to breathe
I have so many things to say, sometimes I’m afraid that no one listens, and I’m also afraid that people hear what I say.
天热的上海，休息日，病中，正好安静地坐在客厅沙发敲击键盘。每逢休息日就会有出去参观游览的打算，可最近几回越发的觉得疲惫，总是走走便累了，要寻思着找地铁站坐地铁回来了。如同昨日，一个人去了徐家汇，不巧天主教堂刚关门，于是沿着衡山路一直走，本来是想去宋庆龄故居瞻仰，可是由于时间已晚，估计那边也是关了门。垂头丧气中，又疲惫不堪，原计划要再继续走到安福路，长乐路一带也只有作罢。看到衡山路地铁站是毅然走了进去，打道回府。不过还是发现法租界的林荫路甚是舒服，梧桐枝叶厚厚密密的把烈日遮了个完，怎么说也比别的许多街道少了大楼多了绿色。每次在阳台上抽烟看到满目的楼房我就发愁，恨不得赶快离开这个地方，这些水泥方块以及夹在其间的如蚂蚁一样的人群让我无处逃避，无法呼吸。庆幸的是我住得高，在二十五层的阳台望出去还有一片天。
Nothing makes sense here. Money money, party party, shopping shopping, drinking drinking, 浮躁，嘈杂。
呼吸，呼吸。我怀念湖泊山川，以及柔软的土地。我觉得我是落入了一滩淤泥，不挣扎着活命就会被吞噬。
天热的上海，休息日，病中，正好安静地坐在客厅沙发敲击键盘。每逢休息日就会有出去参观游览的打算，可最近几回越发的觉得疲惫，总是走走便累了，要寻思着找地铁站坐地铁回来了。如同昨日，一个人去了徐家汇，不巧天主教堂刚关门，于是沿着衡山路一直走，本来是想去宋庆龄故居瞻仰，可是由于时间已晚，估计那边也是关了门。垂头丧气中，又疲惫不堪，原计划要再继续走到安福路，长乐路一带也只有作罢。看到衡山路地铁站是毅然走了进去，打道回府。不过还是发现法租界的林荫路甚是舒服，梧桐枝叶厚厚密密的把烈日遮了个完，怎么说也比别的许多街道少了大楼多了绿色。每次在阳台上抽烟看到满目的楼房我就发愁，恨不得赶快离开这个地方，这些水泥方块以及夹在其间的如蚂蚁一样的人群让我无处逃避，无法呼吸。庆幸的是我住得高，在二十五层的阳台望出去还有一片天。
Nothing makes sense here. Money money, party party, shopping shopping, drinking drinking, 浮躁，嘈杂。
呼吸，呼吸。我怀念湖泊山川，以及柔软的土地。我觉得我是落入了一滩淤泥，不挣扎着活命就会被吞噬。
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Remember
Man's dearest possession is life. It is given to him but once, and he must live it so as to feel no torturing regrets for wasted years, never know the burning shame of a mean and petty past; so live that, dying, he might say: all my life, all my strength were given to the finest cause in all the world - the fight for the Liberation of Mankind.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
A trip to Lucern
19h35
She was sitting on a bench which was next to platform 1 and faced all the railway tracks and platforms, and people. There was a concrete block near the bench where she could comfortably rest her left arm on. She continued with her book, the train would arrive in 10 minutes. She could not concentrate. She had her book lying openly on her bended legs. She watched people, passengers or not, rushing their way or not. There's this moment she heard music, some kind of echoing music coming from nowhere. She tried to figure out where the music came from. It's a kind of instrument, penetrating into every air molecule. It sounded like..."station music", she named it, which reminded her of the mini orchestra performance on the TITANIC, when people were panicky. It's a music of come and go, of leaving and falling apart. It's only after about 20 seconds that she suddenly realised it's from the artist who always played in the underpass of the train station, with an instrument and a case of the instrument which was open by his feet with a few coins in it.
19h50
She's on train now, sitting facing the direction opposite to that of the train, comme d'habitude, so that she could have a better view of the lake, and France. The sunshine came from west sky was too bright that she had to close her eyes. When she opened her eyes again she saw the lake, and France, clean and clear, and warm. At that particular moment it seemed like there must be some kind of specially emotion rising up from the dazzling lake surface, she tried to find the right feeling, but a wor jumped into mind: life ----sounded so empty but felt so full.
The next day 15h30
She was sitting there somewhere by the lake of Lucern, reading her book. She put her feet in the water which was a bit too cold at the beginning but soon got better because her feet hot used to it. There came some American girls talking with a really SO American accent, they were discussing something they saw in the lake with "maybe", "maybe" but not "perhaps", which reminded her of a British man she met once in the train from Beijing to Chengdu who strongly suggested her talk with "perhaps", "probably" instead of "maybe", but she didn't make it, the change, she was just not used to say "perhaps", MAYBE because "maybe" was easier to say than "perhaps". "maybe" has only "may" and "be", while "perhaps" has "per", "ha" and "p" and "s", while, "probably" was apparently more tricky and tongue -twisting.
She was sitting on a bench which was next to platform 1 and faced all the railway tracks and platforms, and people. There was a concrete block near the bench where she could comfortably rest her left arm on. She continued with her book, the train would arrive in 10 minutes. She could not concentrate. She had her book lying openly on her bended legs. She watched people, passengers or not, rushing their way or not. There's this moment she heard music, some kind of echoing music coming from nowhere. She tried to figure out where the music came from. It's a kind of instrument, penetrating into every air molecule. It sounded like..."station music", she named it, which reminded her of the mini orchestra performance on the TITANIC, when people were panicky. It's a music of come and go, of leaving and falling apart. It's only after about 20 seconds that she suddenly realised it's from the artist who always played in the underpass of the train station, with an instrument and a case of the instrument which was open by his feet with a few coins in it.
19h50
She's on train now, sitting facing the direction opposite to that of the train, comme d'habitude, so that she could have a better view of the lake, and France. The sunshine came from west sky was too bright that she had to close her eyes. When she opened her eyes again she saw the lake, and France, clean and clear, and warm. At that particular moment it seemed like there must be some kind of specially emotion rising up from the dazzling lake surface, she tried to find the right feeling, but a wor jumped into mind: life ----sounded so empty but felt so full.
The next day 15h30
She was sitting there somewhere by the lake of Lucern, reading her book. She put her feet in the water which was a bit too cold at the beginning but soon got better because her feet hot used to it. There came some American girls talking with a really SO American accent, they were discussing something they saw in the lake with "maybe", "maybe" but not "perhaps", which reminded her of a British man she met once in the train from Beijing to Chengdu who strongly suggested her talk with "perhaps", "probably" instead of "maybe", but she didn't make it, the change, she was just not used to say "perhaps", MAYBE because "maybe" was easier to say than "perhaps". "maybe" has only "may" and "be", while "perhaps" has "per", "ha" and "p" and "s", while, "probably" was apparently more tricky and tongue -twisting.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Framboise
I'm wondering today who was the guy who translated the french word "framboise"(raspberry) to "覆盆子" in Chinese.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Paris
On marche, on mange, on couche ensemble. Mais je suis toujours solitaire.
A Paris, je marchais, mangais, couchais, seule. Mais je n'étais jamais solitaire.
C'est pourquoi je l'aimais, et toujours l'aime beaucoup, Paris.
A Paris, je marchais, mangais, couchais, seule. Mais je n'étais jamais solitaire.
C'est pourquoi je l'aimais, et toujours l'aime beaucoup, Paris.
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