借深心

    韩博的组诗《借深心》是一种奇特的诗题押韵，其中每首的一字之题都是仄声“ì”韵，如《致》、《契》、《避》、《匿》、 《济》……孤字如谶，据我所知，这种仅以一字命名的“险题”，除了《诗经》中有不多几首之外，只有《周易》广泛采用这种命名方式。同一的韵脚是个有力的结 构，将难言的，“仄”起不“平”的隐痛收拢“深心”。这是一组极具汉字性的作品，文约而指博，言微而意深，堪称“字”的魔术，最后一首《替》尤其极端：

飞机生鳞，他生觉悟：无凭甚飞出个有？
飞机生趾，他生酬唱：长夜哪般短按摩？
飞机生角，他生相忘：亡去烦恼归去心？

    寥 寥三行，却综合运用了各种汉字修辞手法：有“悟：无”、“唱：长”、“忘：亡”的谐音修辞；有“忘”析为“亡”、“心”（“‘亡’去烦恼归去‘心’”）的 离合修辞；有“他生”这种歧义修辞（“他生发出”的“他生”，或“他生未卜此生休”的“他生”）。这首诗用了《诗经》当中的《麟之趾》的典故，《麟之趾》 是一首关于某位振奋有为的公子的赞美诗，《替》也是如此。至于《麟之趾》的“麟”为什么变成了《替》中的“鳞”，那是因为在这一偏旁部首的修辞中，隐含着 一出坠江的悲剧。而韩博最深的心意还不止于此。与“他”相连的“生”字竖排下来，恰好叠加成“三生”！ 这绝非过度诠释，这里暗含了另一个对于本诗更加关 键的典故：唐朝高僧圆泽和李源是好友，圆泽投胎转世时，和李源约定十二年后的中秋夜在杭州天竺寺相会。十二年后李源如约前往，见一牧童在牛背上唱歌：“三 生石上旧精魂，赏月吟风不要论。惭愧情人远相访，此生虽异性长存。”这便是“三生有幸”的由来，它关乎一种空灵得风月无边，深厚得穿越生死的中国友情！

今天桂走了

临走时在楼下大厅和良明握了握手

起初是莫名 而再次是寒心

良明 目送了一位又一位身边的战友 而只有这个是以这种方式告别的

育才，在这一刻

——纪念桂俊杰君

 

告   别

        2008年6月12日（星期四）中午，育才，在这一刻，被分成了两半。

        教学区四楼大厅，楼上楼下站满了将近一个年级的同学和部分老师，聆听着学生爱乐乐团的悠扬歌声——这是桂俊杰老师的告别音乐会“天鹅之歌”；

        在同样热闹的另一个地方，大礼堂里全体高三同学和老师、校领导，正举行着庄严而感人的06届高三年级告别典礼。

        也许这是巧合吧，但这两场告别仪式的同时进行，却蕴含着一种从未有过的难以承受之重，让我的胸口感到憋闷，不吐不快！

 

两   半

        这“两半的告别”所带有的强烈讽刺意义让我震惊。       

        教育是为了人的发展，所以教育也就必然要具备和面对两个方面：浪漫和现实，理想和现状。不觉得吗？

        一边，悠扬的歌声，震撼的乐曲；投入的演绎者，专注的聆听者。这是高雅艺术在育才的泉眼在汩汩流动，这是让浮躁的、疲乏的年轻人暂时静下来、停下来学会欣赏的只时片刻。这是人性和教育中不可缺少的理想与浪漫时刻。

        另一边，庄严的仪式，感人的激励，艰苦的奋斗者和辛勤的耕耘者，在奋力拼搏之后的欣慰、感动、释放和对未来的憧憬。这是积极进取的年轻人面对现实，面对生活的永恒主题。昭示了人性和教育必须具备的社会功能。

        两个迥异的场所，两个不同的主题，两批主角。

        然而，共同的是，两边都在沉默中流泪，两面都在体验着惋惜和哀伤——也在同时，两边都激荡着人性和教育的真谛！

        有谁敢说哪一半没有价值？！又有谁能说哪一半必须让位于另一半？！

 

一个人

        在这几年里，几乎是桂俊杰一个人，把育才的乐队和合唱团，教师合唱团带了起来。校内各大型文艺活动有声有色的开展，还有艺术特色学校的获得，桂俊杰也是毋庸置疑的第一功臣。

        他和所有的育才人一样，在育才挥洒汗水，辛勤劳动，关爱学生，甚至付出更多。

        但是今天他仍然是一个人，主持着一台音乐会。似乎在和另外一场盛会同台竞技。

        我不禁要哀叹，一个人怎么能和庞大的学校机器，教育机器相抗衡，又怎么能和通俗的社会教育观念相抗衡。

        不过我们看到了。

        一个倔强的，风趣的，才华横溢的（当然有时有些“放荡不羁”的）；却又是（相对）如此“渺小，无力”的斗士，在用尽全力，向育才祝福，为育才惋惜，对育才惜别。

        一个拼命追求理想的人却被现实压弯了腰。

        大家几乎都见过，指挥时的阿桂激情投入，犹如灵魂附体。桂俊杰，继承世界音乐和育才教育精神的优秀传统，你不是一个人在战斗！你不是一个人!!

        这十几名乐队成员，四十几名合唱队员，还有那近300名自愿参加的听众就是最大的支持。还有更多人在默默支持着你。毕业典礼上的鲜花，已经在他们的心中，默默献给了你。

        在这里我深感庆幸，育才是一个有学生的地方，他们能做出最纯真的选择。

        看着育才，这片他辛勤耕耘和奋力拼搏过的热土，听着乐队和合唱团，这是些他手把手带出来的爱徒。从开始走到今天，经历了多少不眠之夜和艰苦排练，（参加过教师合唱团的老师都应该能体会到）。但是今天，为什么他要放弃这里？为什么他舍得放弃他们？

        这个问题，不是桂俊杰一个人的问题。

 

抉  择

        育才，这架庞大的教育战舰，失去一个桂俊杰算什么？区区一个音乐老师（也许可以比作烧锅炉的），就算能弄个乐队合唱队，就算能在市里拿点什么奖，帮助得个什么艺术特色学校，又有多大“作用”？或许失去一个娴熟的高三教师或者理科竞赛指导教师（主炮手），会使她更加心痛。

        更何况在育才来来去去的人看的多了。

        但是，育才，在这么多选择与被选择中，你真的要在理想与现实面前作抉择吗？

        真的要让它们一刀两断吗？

        为什么非要在这两者之间做出抉择！浪漫与现实，理想与现状，精神需求和物质改造难道不是在人性和教育当中同一吗？

        或者你对这两者现在的对立状态还未认清，茫然不觉？

 

        我想，今天的育才也许也面临着同样的艰难和困惑，是追求理想还是面对现实。

        但似乎现实的威逼要比失去理想更令人痛心棘手。于是，育才正在试图作出抉择。

        其实，每一个（有梦的）育才人都希望她，也愿意一起出力帮助她共度难关，重振雄风。但前提是，他们能否在这里找到自己的价值，自己的梦。

        艺 术、哲学、信仰、兴趣爱好等等，虽然没有科学知识在高考中重要，但是它们都和科学一样是有生命的的东西，也是生命渴望的东西。它们对学生的特殊价值，是枯 燥的应试生活所无法给与的。同时，思想、信念、人文关怀也对老师通用，教师也是活生生的人，不是工作的机器。他们需要真正的关心和爱护，需要在这里找到归 属感和认同感。

        育才应该是一块热土，而不应该被机械的灌输和冰冷的工作所淹没。

        我预祝育才将来的成功，但我不希望是一批超级应试机器人带出来的小机器人们的成功。

        如果那样，至多是高考的成功，但却是人性发展和教育的失败。老师和学生都失败，最后社会和国家一定会付出惨重的代价来对此反省！

    

        音乐的特质是稍纵即逝，虽然我们愿意在记忆中永远留住他。但是天籁之声，错过了就没有第二次。衷心希望育才，能用她敏锐的眼光，看透教育和人性的真缔，能用她博大的胸怀，容纳一切人性的美好。

文／李賢文

　　「在這樣好的地方畫畫，真是幸福啊！像我們終日工作，光是看有人這樣作畫也是很愉快的呀！」一位當地老伯在「傘松」看我寫生日本勝景—「天橋立」時，不禁如此地喟歎。

天橋立　李賢文　2008

　　年前在苗栗馬那邦山寫生時，並未注意到有誰走過身邊，或佇足觀賞，當我下山時，有人對我含笑點頭，有些小朋友更直接喊著：「你就是那位山頭的畫家吧！？」並因熱情觀眾的協助，一路搭便車下山。只因寫生，無意間被看到，上山，踽踽獨行；下山，一路微笑。

　　八月十三日清晨盤坐在花蓮六十石山山頭寫生時，因畫幅過長，遂以兩手左右張開檢視之，正想收攏畫卷時，詎料身後傳來一陌生山友的聲音：「可不可以再把畫張開，這個鏡頭真好看，想拍下留念。」

　　是啊，眼前花東縱谷雄壯遼闊，中央山脈連山交枕，風景固然佳好，但如得親見畫者在空白紙上，一一將景色羅列入畫，也是一種喜悅；看見白紙上，一筆一筆的勾勒，突然，一座山出現了，一道谷逼近了，豈不有趣極了！

　　筆筆念念分明的寫生是一種專注力，山友或路人偶見而產生的喜悅，應是感染了創作者全神貫注的心靈狀態。換言之，使人感動的是一種態度，這種認真專注的 態度最美麗。因此不只是寫生者，揮汗耕作的農夫，辦公室內勤奮的勞心者，努力工作的勞動者，只要是任何專注的工作者，其專注的神情與態度都能感動世人。

　　是的，人人都可愉悅他人，只要敬業。所以寫生也可以愉悅他人。

原载雄狮美术部落格

文／李賢文

　　第一次見八大山人的字，即受吸引。觀其字，有自由解放之感，而「自由」與「解放」乃人性中深層的渴望。觀自身，由於生性較拘謹，故格外羨此疏朗格調。 學習八大山人的書風，在筆劃之練習中，無形中解放個人嚴肅之性格。期待在未來，八大的「放」可以內化為個人書寫的「習慣」，當臻此境時，個性或許就由拘謹 變化為自在。寫字因此也可以改造一個人的習性與個性。

　 　再談談日僧良寬。良寬也有類似八大山人的書風，但更具禪味。他的書法，受到日本平安期「女書」風格的影響，其書寫中，除了「減筆」、除了「空闊」與「自 在」之外，他的字因為有著日本平假名特殊字體而發展出獨特纖細風格。結合「纖細線條」與「減筆禪風」使良寬成功地把中國禪風內化於書寫中，而其特殊禪書亦 獨立於日本禪書僧人書道史之上，觀其作品往往刻意「保留」或「製造」很多的「細點」。一般書家如果在作品中用10個點，那麼良寬就用到20個點以上，創造 出許多意想不到的點。纖細的點，不相連貫，散佈於整個書法空間之中，有如秋天黃葉飄颺，萬物凋零之後的本體全然，自性展露，真乃契入禪學中「體露金風」之 諦。

　　吾人身心因工作、家庭、經濟、景氣之種種壓力影響，易拘謹壓抑，此時，多尋找點穴師或指壓師使身體放鬆，而此種放鬆，往往是暫時性的，鬆開後又緊繃，緊繃後盼再鬆開，故需時時調理。

　　同樣地，我們的內心也會繃緊，如何去釋放，寫字即為其一。如多多臨寫八大山人那種「舒朗」的字，或良寬那種「豁達」的字，透過這種過程的潛移默化，就 是一個「內心的指壓」，透過不斷的解開、解放，天天寫，天天學，多臨寫舒朗開展的字，少接近緊塞險仄的字，久而久之，自然愈放愈開，所以說，書法是心的一 種治療，也是一劑良帖。每個人應都可以找到對治自我內在的那帖良藥與書帖。

八大山人作品 「月明鳥鵲台」

良寬作品 「芳草萋萋綠連天」

Does Matt Bellamy have a girlfriend?

    Yes, Gaia Polloni. From Cosmo Magazine：

Her name's Gaia Polloni, the girl from Como that owns Matthew Bellamy's heart. And she reveals to Cosmo all her private details of her life with a rockstar. That cooks pasta at home...

Have you ever dreamt of living a passionate love story with a rockstar and having fun at gigs, flying on Concorde planes and exclusive parties with Justin Timberlake and Eminem sitting at your table? In case your answer is positive, don't feel down by reading the following interview, one of us has finally made it to make her dream come true! But if it can make things easier, rest assured that the lucky girl that met with Cosmo to confess how to become (and more important stay) the queen of hearts of a rockstar is Italian.

Gaia Polloni, 26, from Como, is who loves and is loved back by Matthew Bellamy, frontman of Muse and has decided to "come out" just with us. "Usually he who speaks is Matthew" says Gaia "but he's not jealous. He just wished me good luck and said not to complain if your bum ends up on a magazine".

TWO QUIET TYPES

-You go out with one of the most famous rockstars in the world. Your life must be great.

I wouldn't say so. I wake up at 6am every day, I spend an hour stuck in the traffic to go to work to Milan and when I finish I spend another hour on my way back. I'm getting a degree in clinical Psychology and I'm doing internship at San Raffaele Hospital with psychotic patients.

-How did your love start? Various legends are going around about how you met

It's Matt's fault, he always makes up a different version. The truth is that I was in a club in Milan with a friend. When he walked in our eyes met and like in a film, this moment lasted like for eternity. We started talking, or something, since I couldn't really speak English. After a couple of months I left everything behind and moved to London. It'll be six years in April that we're together and a couple of months ago we got engaged.

-After some years, similar story, but this time he left everything behind for you. Is that true?

I've decided to go back to Italy to finish my studies and he surprisingly came with me. Matt is the kind of guy that leaves you lots of freedom and I've never thought he would have followed me. Now we live by lake Como but don't ask where, our privacy is sacred.

How do you spend your free time? From one party to another, I imagine.

Actually we're homey types always stuck to Sky tv. Sci-fi films for him and love stories for me. And then "Lost". Matt is addicted to it. When we get off the couch we like walking in the mountains or go on a boat. He's very sporty and now I love going on the bicycle and fishing like him.

Really, no social life?

Sometimes we go to the Japanese restaurant when Matt comes home, since he's always back and forth from London to Lake Como. When he's around, I don't get to cook. He's amazing at cooking fish, roasted chicken and fresh pasta. But we haven't always had a domestic life. When we were in London, we used to hang around lots with his colleagues or other bands. Jessica, Dom's girlfriend, is my best friend.

ITALIAN WEDDING?

-Matthew sounds perfect. Flaws?

HE's really touchy. He often writes and composes at night and in the morning when I wake up he asks me for an opinion but beware of telling him that something is wrong. We argue nearly every day about silly things.

-Like?

He leaves his socks everywhere and when he drinks milk he always leaves it out of the fridge. and I wish he would learn more Italian. He doesn't speak much at all.

-Getting married any time soon?

I dream of a wedding in a church with a big white dress, a Cadillac, with lots of cans attached to it. And I'd love to have kids, lots. Let's say three.

-Is it more difficult to grab a rockstar or spend 6 years with one?-

You have to come to terms with facts like popularity, crazy fans, the distance. The first times I thought I couldn't handle it and I had so much jealousy and arguments. One day I have even packed my bags. Now I'm more relaxed, I have learnt to trust him. Our house is covered with pictures of the two of us.

-Well, at least you don't get to queue at gigs and you get in for free.

I follow him quite often as his personal stylist, last time to Japan. And if I don't go he always takes home a present. The last one is a doll with its teeth lightning up when it smiles: it's the "Stregatto" (I havent got a clue what it translates to in English) the cat in Alice the wonderland, my favourite story. He bought himself a robot that walks around the house.

Has he ever written a song for you?-
He never told me but there are songs that I feel belong to us, like Starlight (during the gig in Milan he dedicated it to her--ed). Many songs, I see them from the beginning. While he rehearses he asks me to play bass for him, I am trying to get him to listen to Italian artists that I like. We were there too to see Ligabue at Campovolo or Vinicio Capossela that he found amazing.

they are now engaged

        You say to the boy open your eyes
　　　　 When he opens his eyes and sees the light
　　　　 You make him cry out. Saying
　　　　 O Blue come forth
　　　　 O Blue arise
　　　　 O Blue ascend
　　　　 O Blue come in
　　　　
　　　　I am sitting with some friends in this cafe drinking coffee served by young refugees from Bosnia. The war rages across the newspapers and through the ruined streets of Sarajevo.
　　　　
　　　　Tania said 'Your clothes are on back to front and inside out". Since there were only two of us there I took them off and put them right then and there. I am always here before the doors open.
　　　　
　　　　What need of so much news from abroad while all that concerns either life or death is all transacting and at work within me.
　　　　
　　　　I step off the kerb and a cyclist nearly knocks me down. Flying in from the dark he nearly parted my hair.
　　　　
　　　　I step into a blue funk.
　　　　
　　　　The doctor in St. Bartholomew's Hospital thought he could detect lesions in my retina - the pupils dilated with belladonna - the torch shone into them with a terrible blinding light.
　　　　
　　　　 Look left
　　　　 Look down
　　　　 Look up
　　　　 Look right
　　　　
　　　　 Blue flashes in my eyes.
　　　　
　　　　 Blue Bottle buzzing
　　　　 Lazy days
　　　　 The sky blue butterfly
　　　　 Sways on the cornflower
　　　　 Lost in the warmth
　　　　 Of the blue heat haze
　　　　 Singing the blues
　　　　 Quiet and slowly
　　　　
　　　　 Blue of my heart
　　　　 Blue of my dreams
　　　　 Slow blue love
　　　　 Of delphinium days
　　　　
　　　　Blue is the universal love in which man bathes - it is the terrestrial paradise.
　　　　
　　　　 I'm walking along the beach in a howling gale -
　　　　 Another year is passing
　　　　 In the roaring waters
　　　　 I hear the voices of dead friends
　　　　 Love is life that lasts forever.
　　　　 My hearts memory turns to you
　　　　 David. Howard. Graham. Terry. Paul....
　　　　
　　　　 But what if this present
　　　　 Were the world's last night
　　　　 In the setting sun your love fades
　　　　 Dies in the moonlight
　　　　 Fails to rise
　　　　 Thrice denied by cock crow
　　　　 In the dawn's first light
　　　　
　　　　 Look left
　　　　 Look down
　　　　 Look up
　　　　 Look right
　　　　 The camera flash
　　　　 Atomic bright
　　　　 Photos
　　　　 The CMV - a green moon then the world turns magenta
　　　　 My retina
　　　　 Is a distant planet
　　　　 A red Mars
　　　　 From a Boy's Own comic
　　　　 With yellow infection
　　　　 Bubbling at the corner
　　　　 I said this looks like a planet
　　　　 The doctor says - "Oh, I think
　　　　 It looks like a pizza"
　　　　
　　　　The worst of the illness is uncertainty. I've played this scenario back and forth each hour of the day for the last six years.
　　　　Blue transcends the solemn geography of human limits.
　　　　
　　　　 I am home with the blinds drawn
　　　　 H.B. is back from Newcastle
　　　　 But gone out - the washing
　　　　 Machine is roaring away
　　　　 And the fridge is defrosting
　　　　 These are his favourite sounds
　　　　
　　　　I've been given the option of being an in-patient at the hospital or to coming in twice a day to be hooked to a drip. My vision will never come back.
　　　　
　　　　The retina is destroyed, though when the bleeding stops what is left of my sight might improve. I have to come to terms with sightlessness.
　　　　
　　　　If I loose my sight will my vision be halved?
　　　　
　　　　The virus rages fierce. I have no friends now who are not dead or dying. Like a blue frost it caught them. At work, at the cinema, on marches and beaches. In churches on their knees, running, flying, silent or shouting protest.
　　　　
　　　　It started with sweats in the night and swollen glands. Then the black cancer spread across their faces - as they fought for breath TB and pneumonia hammered their lungs, and Toxo at the brain. Reflexes scrambled - sweat poured through hair matter like lianas in the tropical forest. Voices slurred - and then were lost forever. My pen chased this story across the page tossed this way and that in the storm.
　　　　
　　　　 The blood of sensibility is blue
　　　　 I consecrate myself
　　　　 To find its most perfect expression
　　　　
　　　　 My sight failed a little more in the night
　　　　 H.B. offers me his blood
　　　　 It will kill everything he says
　　　　
　　　　 The drip of DHPG
　　　　 Trills like a canary
　　　　
　　　　I am accompanied by a shadow into which H.B. appears and disappears. I have lost the sight on the periphery of my right eye.
　　　　
　　　　I hold out my hands before me and slowly part them. At a certain moment they disappear out of the corner of my eyes. This is how I used to see. Now if I repeat the motion this is all I see.
　　　　
　　　　I shall not win the battle against the virus - in spite of the slogans like "Living with AIDS". The virus was appropriated by the well - so we have to live with AIDS while they spread the quilt for the moths of Ithaca across the wine dark sea.
　　　　
　　　　Awareness is heightened by this, but something else is lost. A sense of reality drowned in theatre.
　　　　
　　　　Thinking blind, becoming blind.
　　　　
　　　　In the hospital it is as quiet as a tomb. The nurse fights to find a vein in my right arm. We give up after five attempts. Would you faint if someone stuck a needle into your arm? I've got used to it - but I still shut my eyes.
　　　　
　　　　The Gautama Buddha instructs me to walk away from illness. But he wasn't attached to a drip.
　　　　
　　　　 Fate is the strongest
　　　　 Fate Fated Fatal
　　　　 I resign myself to Fate
　　　　 Blind Fate
　　　　 The drip stings
　　　　 A lump swells up in my arm
　　　　 Out comes the drip
　　　　 An electric shock sparks up my arm
　　　　
　　　　 How can I walk away with a drip attached to me?
　　　　 How am I going to walk away from this?
　　　　
　　　　 I fill this room with the echo of many voices
　　　　 Who passed time here
　　　　 Voices unlocked from the blue of the long dried paint
　　　　 The sun comes and floods this empty room
　　　　 I call it my room
　　　　 My room has welcomed many summers
　　　　 Embraced laughter and tears
　　　　 Can it fill itself with your laughter
　　　　 Each word a sunbeam
　　　　 Glancing in the light
　　　　 This is the song of My Room
　　　　Blue stretches, yawns and is awake.
　　　　
　　　　There is a photo in the newspaper this morning of refugees leaving Bosnia. They look out of time. Peasant women with scarves and black dresses stepped from the pages of an older Europe. One of them has lost her three children.
　　　　
　　　　Lightning flickers through the hospital window - at the door an elderly woman stands waiting for the rain to clear. I ask her if I can give her a lift, I've hailed a taxi. "Can you take me to Holborn tube?" On the way she breaks down in tears. She has come from Edinburgh. Her son is in the ward - he has meningitis and has lost the use of his legs - I'm helpless as the tears flow. I can't see her. Just the sound of her sobbing.
　　　　
　　　　 One know the whole world
　　　　 Without stirring abroad
　　　　 Without looking out of the window
　　　　 One can see the way of heaven
　　　　 The further one goes
　　　　 The less one knows
　　　　
　　　　 In the pandemonium of image
　　　　 I present you with the universal Blue
　　　　 Blue an open door to soul
　　　　 An infinite possibility
　　　　 Becoming tangible
　　　　
　　　　Here I am again in the waiting room. Hell on Earth is a waiting room. Here you know you are not in control of yourself, waiting for your name to be called: "712213". Here you have no name, confidentiality is nameless. Where is 666? Am I sitting opposite him/her? Maybe 666 is the demented woman switching the channels on the TV.
　　　　
　　　　 What do I see
　　　　 Past the gates of conscience
　　　　 Activists invading Sunday Mass
　　　　 In the cathedral
　　　　 An epic Czar Ivan denouncing the
　　　　 Patriarch of Moscow
　　　　 A moon-faced boy who spits and repeatedly
　　　　 Crosses himself - as he genuflects
　　　　 Will the pearly gates slam shut in
　　　　 The faces of the devout
　　　　
　　　　The demented woman is discussing needles - there is always a discussion here. She has a line put into her neck.
　　　　How are we perceived, if we are to be perceived at all? For the most part we are invisible.
　　　　
　　　　If the doors of perception were cleansed then everything would be seen as it is.
　　　　
　　　　The dog barks, the caravan passes.
　　　　Marco Polo stumbles across the Blue Mountain.
　　　　
　　　　Marco Polo stops and sits on a lapis throne by the River Oxus while he is ministered to by the descendants of Alexander the Great. The caravan approaches, blue canvasses fluttering in the wind. Blue people from over the sea - ultramarine - have come to collect the lapis with its flecks of gold.
　　　　The road to the city of Aqua Vitae is protected by a labyrinth built from crystals and mirrors which in the sunlight cause terrible blindness. The mirrors reflect each of your betrayals, magnify them and drive you into madness.
　　　　
　　　　Blue walks into the labyrinth. Absolute silence is demanded to all its visitors, so their presence does not disturb the poets who are directing the excavations. Digging can only proceed on the calmest of days as rain and wind destroy the finds.
　　　　
　　　　The archaeology of sound has only just been perfected and the systematic cataloguing of words has until recently been undertaken in a haphazard way. Blue watched as a word or phrase materialised in scintillating sparks, a poetry of fire which casts everything into darkness with the brightness of its reflections.
　　　　 As a teenager I used to work for the Royal National Institute for the Blind on their Christmas appeal for radios, with dear miss Punch, seventy years old, who used to arrive each morning on her Harley Davidson.
　　　　
　　　　She kept us on our toes. Her job as a gardener gave her time to spare in January. Miss Punch Leather Woman was the first out dyke I ever met. Closeted and frightened by my sexuality she was my hope. "Climb on, let's go for a ride." She looked like Edith Piaf, a sparrow, and wore a cock-eyed beret at a saucy angle. She bossed all the other old girls who came back year after year for her company.
　　　　
　　　　In the paper today. Three quarters of the AIDS organisations are not providing safer sex information. One district said they had no queers in their community, but you might try district X - they have a theatre.
　　　　
　　　　My sight seems to have closed in. The hospital is even quieter this morning. Hushed. I have a sinking feeling in my stomach. I feel defeated. My mind bright as a button but my body falling apart - a naked light bulb in a dark and ruined room. There is death in the air here but we are not talking about it. But I know the silence might be broken by distraught visitors screaming, "Help, Sister! Help Nurse!" followed by the sound of feet rushing along the corridor. Then silence.
　　　　
　　　　 Blue protects white from innocence
　　　　 Blue drags black with it
　　　　 Blue is darkness made visible
　　　　 Blue protects white from innocence
　　　　 Blue drags black with it
　　　　 Blue is darkness made visible
　　　　
　　　　Over the mountains is the shrine to Rita, where all at the end of the line call. Rita is the Saint of the Lost Cause. The saint of all who are at their wit's end, who are hedged in and trapped by the facts of the world. These facts, detached from cause, trapped the Blue Eyed Boy in a system of unreality. Would all these blurred facts that deceive dissolve in his last breath? For accustomed to believing in image, an absolute idea of value, his world had forgotten the command of essence: Thou Shall Not Create Unto Thyself Any Graven Image, although you know the task is to fill the empty page. From the bottom of your heart, pray to be released from image.
　　　　
　　　　Time is what keeps the light from reaching us.
　　　　
　　　　The image is a prison of the soul, your heredity, your education, your vices and aspirations, your qualities, your psychological world.
　　　　
　　　　 I have walked behind the sky.
　　　　 For what are you seeking?
　　　　 The fathomless blue of Bliss.
　　　　
　　　　To be an astronaut of the void, leave the comfortable house that imprisons you with reassurance.
　　　　Remember,
　　　　
　　　　To be going and to have are not eternal - fight the fear that engenders the beginning, the middle and the end.
　　　　
　　　　For Blue there are no boundaries or solutions.
　　　　
　　　　How did my friends cross the cobalt river, with what did they pay the ferryman? As they set out for the indigo shore under this jet-black sky - some died on their feet with a backward glance. Did they see Death with the hell hounds pulling a dark chariot, bruised blue-black growing dark in the absence of light, did they hear the blast of trumpets?
　　　　
　　　　David ran home panicked on the train from Waterloo, brought back exhausted and unconscious to die that night. Terry who mumbled incoherently into his incontinent tears. Others faded like flowers cut by the scythe of the Blue Bearded Reaper, parched as the waters of life receded. Howard turned slowly to stone, petrified day by day, his mind imprisoned in a concrete fortress until all we could hear were his groans on the telephone circling the globe.
　　　　
　　　　Mad Vincent sits on his yellow chair clasping his knees to his chest - Bananas. The sunflowers wilt in the empty pot, bone dry, skeletal, the black seeds picked into the staring face of a Halloween pumpkin. He is unaware of Blue standing in the corner. Fevered eyes glare at the jaundiced corn, caw of the jet-black crows spiralling in the yellow. The lemon goblin stares from the unwanted canvasses thrown in a corner. Sourpuss suicide screams with evil - clasping cowardly Yellowbelly, slit eyed.
　　　　
　　　　Blue fights diseased Yellowbelly whose fetid breath scorches the trees yellow with ague. Betrayal is the oxygen of his devilry. He'll stab you in the back. Yellowbelly places a jaundiced kiss in the air, the stink of pubs blinds Blue's eyes. Evil swims in the yellow bile. Yellowbelly's snake eyes poison. He crawls over Eve's rotting apple wasp-like. Quick as a flash he stings Blue in the mouth - "AAAUGH!" - his hellish legion buzz and chuckle in the mustard gas. They'll piss all over you. Sharp nicotine-stained fangs bared. Blue transformed into an insectocutor, his Blue aura frying the foes.
　　　　
　　　　 We all contemplated suicide
　　　　 We hoped for euthanasia
　　　　 We were lulled into believing
　　　　 Morphine dispelled pain
　　　　 Rather than making it tangible
　　　　 Like a mad Disney cartoon
　　　　 Transforming itself into
　　　　 Every conceivable nightmare
　　　　
　　　　Karl killed himself - how did he do it? I never asked. It seemed incidental. What did it matter if he swigged prussic acid or shot himself in the eye. Maybe he dived into the streets from high up in the cloud lapped skyscrapers.
　　　　The nurse explains the implant. You mix the drugs and drip yourself once a day. The drugs are kept in a small fridge they give you. Can you imagine travelling around with that? The metal implant will set the bomb detector off in airports, and I can just see myself travelling to Berlin with a fridge under my arm.
　　　　
　　　　 Impatient youths of the sun
　　　　 Burning with many colours
　　　　 Flick combs through hair
　　　　 In bathroom mirrors
　　　　 Fucking with fusion and fashion
　　　　 Dance in the beams of emerald lasers
　　　　 Mating on suburban duvets
　　　　 Cum splattered nuclear breeders
　　　　 What a time that was.
　　　　
　　　　The drip ticks out the seconds, the source of a stream along which the minutes flow, to join the river of hours, the sea of years and the timeless ocean.
　　　　
　　　　The side effects of DHPG, the drug for which I have to come into hospital to be dripped twice a day, are: Low white blood cell count, increased risk of infection, low platelet count which may increase the risk of bleeding, low red blood cell count (anaemia), fever, rush, abnormal liver function, chills, swelling of the body (oedema), infections, malaise, irregular heart beat, high blood pressure (hypertension), low blood pressure (hypotension), abnormal thoughts or dreams, loss of balance (ataxia), come, confusion, dizziness, headache, nervousness, damage to nerves (peristhecia), psychosis, sleepiness (somnolence), shaking, nausea, vomiting, loss of appetite (anorexia), diarrhoea, bleeding from the stomach or intestine (intestinal haemorrhage), abdominal pain, increased number of one type of white blood cell, low blood sugar, shortness of breath, hair loss (alopecia), itching (pruritus), hives, blood in the urine, abnormal kidney functions, increased blood urea, redness (inflammation), pain or irritation (phlebitis).
　　　　
　　　　Retinal detachments have been observed in patients both before and after initiation of therapy. The drug has caused decreased sperm production in animals and may cause infertility in humans, and birth defects in animals. Although there is no information in human studies, it should be considered a potential carcinogen since it causes tumours in animals.
　　　　
　　　　If you are concerned about any of the above side-effects or if you would like any further information, please ask your doctor.
　　　　
　　　　In order to be put on the drug you have to sign a piece of paper stating you understand that all these illnesses are a possibility.
　　　　
　　　　I really can't see what I am to do. I am going to sign it.
　　　　
　　　　 The darkness comes in with the tide
　　　　 The year slips on the calendar
　　　　 Your kiss flares
　　　　 A match struck in the night
　　　　 Flares and dies
　　　　 My slumber broken
　　　　 Kiss me again
　　　　 Kiss me
　　　　 Kiss me again
　　　　 And again
　　　　 Never enough
　　　　 Greedy lips
　　　　 Speedwell eyes
　　　　 Blue skies
　　　　
　　　　A man sits in his wheelchair, his awry, munching through a packet of dry biscuits, slow and deliberate as a praying mantis. He speaks enthusiastically but sometimes incoherently of the hospice. he says, "You can't be too careful who you mix with there, there's no way of telling the visitors, patients or staff apart. The staff have nothing to identify them except they are all in leather. The place is like an S&M club". This hospice has been built by charity, the names of the donors displayed for all to see.
　　　　
　　　　Charity has allowed the uncaring to appear to care and is terrible for those dependent on it. It has become big business as the government shirks its responsibilities in these uncaring times. We go along with this, so the rich and powerful who ****ed us over once **** us over again and get it both ways. We have always been mistreated, so if anyone gives us the slightest sympathy we overreact with our thanks.
　　　　
　　　　 I am a mannish
　　　　 Muff diving
　　　　 Size queen
　　　　 With bad attitude
　　　　 An arse licking
　　　　 Psychofag
　　　　 Molesting the flies of privacy
　　　　 Balling lesbian boys
　　　　 A perverted heterodemon
　　　　 Crossing purpose with death
　　　　
　　　　 I am a cock sucking
　　　　 Straight acting
　　　　 Lesbian man
　　　　 With ball crushing bad manners
　　　　 Laddish nymphomaniac politics
　　　　 Spunky sexist desires
　　　　 of incestuous inversion and
　　　　 Incorrect terminology
　　　　 I am a Not Gay
　　　　
　　　　 H.B. is in the kitchen
　　　　 Greasing his hair
　　　　 He guards the space
　　　　 Against me
　　　　 He calls it his office
　　　　 At nine we leave for the hospital
　　　　
　　　　 H.B. comes back from the eye dept
　　　　 Where all my notes are muddled
　　　　 He says
　　　　 It's like Romania in there
　　　　 Two light bulbs
　　　　 Grimly illuminate
　　　　 The flaking walls
　　　　 There is a box of dolls
　　　　 In the corner
　　　　 Indescribably grim
　　　　 The doctor says
　　　　 Well of course
　　　　 The kids don't see them
　　　　 There are no resources
　　　　 To brighten the place up
　　　　
　　　　 My eyes sting from the drops
　　　　 The infection has halted
　　　　 The flash leaves
　　　　 Scarlet after image
　　　　 Of the blood vessels in my eye
　　　　
　　　　 Teeth chattering February
　　　　 Cold as death
　　　　 Pushes at the bedsheets
　　　　 An aching cold
　　　　 Interminable as marble
　　　　 My mind
　　　　 Frosted with drugs ices up
　　　　 A drift of empty snowflakes
　　　　 Whiting out memory
　　　　 A blinkered twister
　　　　 Circling in spirals
　　　　 Cross-eyed meddlesome consciousness
　　　　 Shall I? Will I?
　　　　 Doodling death watch
　　　　 Mind how you go
　　　　
　　　　Oral DHPG is consumed by the liver, so they have tweaked a molecule to fool the system. What risk is there? If I had to live forty years blind, I might think twice. Treat my illness like the dodgems: music, bright lights, bumps and throw yourself into life again.
　　　　
　　　　The pills are the most difficult, some taste bitter, others are too large. I'm taking about thirty a day, a walking chemical laboratory. I gag on them as I swallow them and they come up half dissolved in the coughing and the spluttering.
　　　　
　　　　My skins sits on me like the shirt of Nessus. My face irritates, as do my back and legs at night. I toss and turn, scratching, unable to sleep. I get up, turn on the light. Stagger to the bathroom. If I become so tired, maybe I'll sleep. Films chase through my mind. Once in a while I dream a dream as magnificent as the Taj Mahal. I cross southern India with a young spirit guide - India the land of my dreaming childhood. The souvenirs in Moslem's peach and grey living room. Granny called Moselle, called 'Girly', called May. An orphan who lost her name, which was Ruben. jade, monkeys, ivory miniatures, mah-jongg. The winds and bamboos of China.
　　　　
　　　　 All the old taboos of
　　　　 Blood lines and blood banks
　　　　 Blue blood and bad blood
　　　　 Our blood and your blood
　　　　 I sit here - you sit there
　　　　
　　　　As I slept a jet slammed into a tower block. The jet was almost empty but two hundred people were fried in their sleep.
　　　　The earth is dying and we do not notice it.
　　　　
　　　　 A young man frail as Belsen
　　　　 Walks slowly down the corridor
　　　　 His pale green hospital pyjamas
　　　　 Hanging off him
　　　　 It's very quiet
　　　　 Just the distant coughing
　　　　 My jugs eye blots out the
　　　　 Young man who has just walked past
　　　　 My field of vision
　　　　 This illness knocks you for six
　　　　 Just as you start to forget it
　　　　 A bullet in the back of my head
　　　　 Might be easier
　　　　 You know, you can take longer than
　　　　 The second world war to get to the grave.
　　　　
　　　　 Ages and Aeons quit the room
　　　　 Exploding into timelessness
　　　　 No entrances or exits now
　　　　 No need for obituaries or final judgements
　　　　 We knew that time would end
　　　　 After tomorrow at sunrise
　　　　 We scrubbed the floors
　　　　 And did the washing up
　　　　 It would not catch us unawares
　　　　
　　　　The white flashes you are experiencing in your eyes are common when the retina is damaged.
　　　　
　　　　The damaged retina has started to peel away leaving the innumerable black floaters, like a flock of starlings around in the twilight.
　　　　I am back at St Mary's to have my eyes looked at by the specialist. The place is the same, but there is new staff. How relieved I am not to have the operation this morning to have a tap put into my chest. I must try and cheer up H.B. as he has had a hell of a fortnight. In the waiting room a little grey man over the way is fretting as he has to get to Sussex. He says, "I am going blind, I cannot read any longer".
　　　　
　　　　A little later he picks up a newspaper, struggles with it for a moment and throws it back on the table. My stinging eye-drops have stopped me reading, so I write this in a haze of belladonna. The little grey man's face has fallen into tragedy. He looks like Jean Cocteau without the poet's refined arrogance. The room is full of men and women squinting into the dark in different states of illness. Some barely able to walk, distress and anger on every face and then a terrible resignation.
　　　　
　　　　Jean Cocteau takes off his glasses, he looks about him with an undescribable meanness. He has black slip-on shoes, blue socks, grey trousers, a Fairisle sweater and a herringbone jacket. The posters that plaster the walls above him have endless question marks, HIV/AIDS?, AIDS?, HIV?, ARE YOU INFECTED BY HIV/AIDS?,ARC?, HIV? This is a hard wait. The shattering bright light of the eye specialist's camera leaves that empty sky blue after-image. Did I really see green the first time? The after-image dissolves in a second. As the photographs progress, colours change to pink and the light turns to orange. The process is a torture, but the result, stable eyesight, worth the price and the twelve pills I have to take a day. Sometimes looking at them I fell nauseous and want to skip them. It must be my association with H.B., lover of the computer and king of the keyboard that brought my luck on the computer which chose my name for this drug trial. I nearly forgot as I left St Mary's I smiled at Jean Cocteau. He gave a sweet smile back.
　　　　
　　　　I caught myself looking at shoes in a shop window. I thought of going in and buying a pair, but stopped myself. The shoes I am wearing at the moment should be sufficient to walk me out of life.
　　　　
　　　　 Pearl fishers
　　　　 In azure seas
　　　　 Deep waters
　　　　 Washing the isle of the dead
　　　　 In coral harbours
　　　　 Amphora
　　　　 Spill
　　　　 Gold
　　　　 Across the still seabed
　　　　 We lie there
　　　　 Fanned by the billowing
　　　　 Sails of forgotten ships
　　　　 Tossed by the mournful winds
　　　　 Of the deep
　　　　 Lost Boys
　　　　 Sleep forever
　　　　 In a dear embrace
　　　　 Salt lips touching
　　　　 In submarine gardens
　　　　 Cool marble fingers
　　　　 Touch an antique smile
　　　　 Shell sounds
　　　　 Whisper
　　　　 Deep love drifting on the tide forever
　　　　 The smell of him
　　　　 Dead good looking
　　　　 In beauty's summer
　　　　 His blue jeans
　　　　 Around his ankles
　　　　 Bliss in my ghostly eye
　　　　 Kiss me
　　　　 On the lips
　　　　 On the eyes
　　　　 Our name will be forgotten
　　　　 In time
　　　　 No one will remember our work
　　　　 Our life will pass like the traces of a cloud
　　　　 And be scattered like
　　　　 Mist that is chased by the
　　　　 Rays of the sun
　　　　 For our time is the passing of a shadow
　　　　 And our lives will run like
　　　　 Sparks through the stubble.
　　　　
　　　　 I place a delphinium, Blue, upon your grave

• 歌本纸张。那个两碟装的Sci-Fiction Lullaby因为要装下27首歌的歌词，因此变得非常厚，合起来的时候有明显的内钉痕迹，无法完全合拢；而同样双碟的sleep with ghost用的是薄得多的纸张，可以很轻松就嵌进塑料盒里，好像印大部头书的时候人们会用极薄的印度纸。每张CD用何种纸张的重要性跟封面的设计是同等重要的，因为它们传递了制作者试图通过这张CD传达的统一理念，我刚才自己研究了一下发现几乎每张碟用纸都有不同。而高仿显然用的都是同一种厚实的铜版纸。
• 碟的截面。网上一位哥们说盗版商可以用和正版一模一样的碟，但因为无法拿到印刷模板，只能把原版扫描后印刷。但是据我买的这两张高仿来看，即便是碟区别也是蛮大的。正版碟的截面切割平滑圆润，而高仿可以看出波浪形的切割纹路，光这点就足够说明问题了。
• 还有条形码的问题。我早些年买的很多原盘内圈都是没有条形码的，但是会有银色的一圈。所以并不是没有条形码的就是假碟。反倒是那些明明版本很老偏要把内圈刻得花里胡哨的盘很值得怀疑。