“Last Letter” by Ted Hughes

What happened that night? Your final night.
Double, treble exposure
Over everything. Late afternoon, Friday,
My last sight of you alive.
Burning your letter to me, in the ashtray,
With that strange smile. Had I bungled your plan?
Had it surprised me sooner than you purposed?
Had I rushed it back to you too promptly?
One hour later—-you would have been gone
Where I could not have traced you.
I would have turned from your locked red door
That nobody would open
Still holding your letter,
A thunderbolt that could not earth itself.
That would have been electric shock treatment
For me.
Repeated over and over, all weekend,
As often as I read it, or thought of it.
That would have remade my brains, and my life.
The treatment that you planned needed some time.
I cannot imagine
How I would have got through that weekend.
I cannot imagine. Had you plotted it all?

Your note reached me too soon—-that same day,
Friday afternoon, posted in the morning.
The prevalent devils expedited it.
That was one more straw of ill-luck
Drawn against you by the Post-Office
And added to your load. I moved fast,
Through the snow-blue, February, London twilight.
Wept with relief when you opened the door.
A huddle of riddles in solution. Precocious tears
That failed to interpret to me, failed to divulge
Their real import. But what did you say
Over the smoking shards of that letter
So carefully annihilated, so calmly,
That let me release you, and leave you
To blow its ashes off your plan—-off the ashtray
Against which you would lean for me to read
The Doctor’s phone-number.
My escape
Had become such a hunted thing
Sleepless, hopeless, all its dreams exhausted,
Only wanting to be recaptured, only
Wanting to drop, out of its vacuum.
Two days of dangling nothing. Two days gratis.
Two days in no calendar, but stolen
From no world,
Beyond actuality, feeling, or name.

My love-life grabbed it. My numbed love-life
With its two mad needles,
Embroidering their rose, piercing and tugging
At their tapestry, their bloody tattoo
Somewhere behind my navel,
Treading that morass of emblazon,
Two mad needles, criss-crossing their stitches,
Selecting among my nerves
For their colours, refashioning me
Inside my own skin, each refashioning the other
With their self-caricatures,

Their obsessed in and out. Two women
Each with her needle.

That night
My dellarobbia Susan. I moved
With the circumspection
Of a flame in a fuse. My whole fury
Was an abandoned effort to blow up
The old globe where shadows bent over
My telltale track of ashes. I raced
From and from, face backwards, a film reversed,
Towards what? We went to Rugby St
Where you and I began.
Why did we go there? Of all places
Why did we go there? Perversity
In the artistry of our fate
Adjusted its refinements for you, for me
And for Susan. Solitaire
Played by the Minotaur of that maze
Even included Helen, in the ground-floor flat.
You had noted her—-a girl for a story.
You never met her. Few ever met her,
Except across the ears and raving mask
Of her Alsatian. You had not even glimpsed her.
You had only recoiled
When her demented animal crashed its weight
Against her door, as we slipped through the hallway;
And heard it choking on infinite German hatred.

That Sunday night she eased her door open
Its few permitted inches.
Susan greeted the black eyes, the unhappy
Overweight, lovely face, that peeped out
Across the little chain. The door closed.
We heard her consoling her jailor
Inside her cell, its kennel, where, days later,
She gassed her ferocious kupo, and herself.

Susan and I spent that night
In our wedding bed. I had not seen it
Since we lay there on our wedding day.
I did not take her back to my own bed.
It had occurred to me, your weekend over,
You might appear—-a surprise visitation.
Did you appear, to tap at my dark window?
So I stayed with Susan, hiding from you,
In our own wedding bed—-the same from which
Within three years she would be taken to die
In that same hospital where, within twelve hours,
I would find you dead.
Monday morning
I drove her to work, in the City,
Then parked my van North of Euston Road
And returned to where my telephone waited.

What happened that night, inside your hours,
Is as unknown as if it never happened.
What accumulation of your whole life,
Like effort unconscious, like birth
Pushing through the membrane of each slow second
Into the next, happened
Only as if it could not happen,
As if it was not happening. How often
Did the phone ring there in my empty room,
You hearing the ring in your receiver—-
At both ends the fading memory
Of a telephone ringing, in a brain
As if already dead. I count
How often you walked to the phone-booth
At the bottom of St George’s terrace.
You are there whenever I look, just turning
Out of Fitzroy Road, crossing over
Between the heaped up banks of dirty sugar.
In your long black coat,
With your plait coiled up at the back of your hair
You walk unable to move, or wake, and are
Already nobody walking
Walking by the railings under Primrose Hill
Towards the phone booth that can never be reached.
Before midnight. After midnight. Again.
Again. Again. And, near dawn, again.

At what position of the hands on my watch-face
Did your last attempt,
Already deeply past
My being able to hear it, shake the pillow
Of that empty bed? A last time
Lightly touch at my books, and my papers?
By the time I got there my phone was asleep.
The pillow innocent. My room slept,
Already filled with the snowlit morning light.
I lit my fire. I had got out my papers.
And I had started to write when the telephone
Jerked awake, in a jabbering alarm,
Remembering everything. It recovered in my hand.
Then a voice like a selected weapon
Or a measured injection,
Coolly delivered its four words
Deep into my ear: ‘Your wife is dead.’

Last victim of a harsh winter

M started coughing and running nose on Tuesday, March 23rd, just like her sister E. On Friday, 26th, she started having a high fever, around 103.5. It lasted till Monday, 29th when K finally took her to doctor office. She was listless, breathing rapidly. Her doctor suspected pneumonia and admitted her to hospital right away.

March 29th, Monday
Chest X ray indicated no pneumonia. Nose swap came back with RSV (Respiratory Syncytial Virus). Her respiratory rate was so high, above 100 most of the time. They hooked her up with oxygen. I fed her half can of meat and carrot in the evening.

March 30th, Tuesday
Her fever persists, as well as the high respiratory rate. Did a second chest X ray. It still showed no signs of pneumonia. She was getting nose suctions and respiratory treatments every 4 hours. But the respiratory rate was still very high. The attending doctor decided to transfer her to the main campus of the hospital at downtown to be near to NICU.

March 31st, Wednesday
No sign of improvement. She had some pediaSure and was later put on Nasogastric Tube (ng). They did urine and blood culture. Nothing came back abnormal. The attending doctor sought out the opinion of the infectious disease team. They suggested a test for mycoplasma pneumonia. I gave her a sponge bath in the evening, her chubby cheek was no more, just two big eyes left. Not long after the bath, she felt so warm. It turned out her temperature spiked to 104.6.

April 1st, Thursday
No sign of improvement. Doctor was also puzzled by the prolonged fever. Two more tests were done for a different kind of respiratory viral and pertussis whooping cough. They started treat her with antibiotic zithromax.

April 2nd, Friday
At last something happened. Her last fever was 1 am. I started to notice she had more energy and even sat up a little bit. But she was still coughing a lot.

April 3rd, Saturday
No fever for 24 hours! But still coughing. She had the 3rd chest X ray. It came back normal. Other kids came to see her for the first time after we transferred here. I even took 2 hours off to eat dinner with the rest of the gang. Her mycoplasma test came back normal, and WBC was back to normal level. Doctor says if her respiratory rate can keep in 40 to 50, then we might start thinking going home. They took off her IV in the evening.

April 4th, Sunday
Her respiratory rate was at 50-60 level over the night. Spoon fed her some milk in the morning and she was doing well. They took off her monitors probes, ng and oxygen. If nothing goes wrong, we should go home tomorrow. :)

Looking back, the kids have been sick a lot since late November. It was a long and cold winter, we had the most snow I have ever seen since I lived here for 10 years. M was doing pretty well until this time. We didn’t expect her illness became so serious. Wish we could have had more effective home quarantine procedures when the older ones got sick.

60年代的摇滚

晚上当地的公共电视台在集资，放的是爱德-沙利文秀里的摇滚乐队演出。 黑白的画面，衣着正统而拘谨的英国乐队，古怪的发型和奇怪的表情，还有那些熟悉的旋律。

Talking about British Invasion... 这首“朝阳屋”虽是Animals唱红的，Bob Dylan和Nina Simone也都有自己的版本。

House Of The Rising Sun
There is a house in New Orleans
They call the Rising Sun
And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy
And God I know I'm one

My mother was a tailor
She sewed my new bluejeans
My father was a gamblin' man
Down in New Orleans

Now the only thing a gambler needs
Is a suitcase and trunk
And the only time he's satisfied
Is when he's on a drunk

------ organ solo ------

Oh mother tell your children
Not to do what I have done
Spend your lives in sin and misery
In the House of the Rising Sun

Well, I got one foot on the platform
The other foot on the train
I'm goin' back to New Orleans
To wear that ball and chain

Well, there is a house in New Orleans
They call the Rising Sun
And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy
And God I know I'm one


听到Happy Together时， 我儿子和女儿都跟着摇摆起来。

100 Greatest Rock 'n‘ Roll Songs in 60s
http://digitaldreamdoor.nutsie.com/pages/best_songs60s.html

日出之前 日落之前

第一次看林科雷特的“日出之前”时，竟然勾起了久违的甜蜜感伤心情，两个青涩男女，在维也纳的黄昏与夜幕中漫游漫谈，从陌生到相知，相爱，最后在日出之前告别，令人不禁想起在大学校园中情愫初开时，自己也曾经这样漫游与漫谈过，相知与相爱过。揣测，暗示，调侃，告白，从来没有一部电影把恋爱过程中语言的功用表现得如此淋漓尽致，男女之间的渴望可以如此在各种话题中肆意沉浮。

8年之后，这两个不再青涩的男女在巴黎重逢，在午后的巴黎再次漫游漫谈。8年前的邂逅虽然只是一次偶然，可是他们的人生确实为彼此改变了。 掩饰，追悔，遗憾，希望，也许原来那次邂逅也可能有不同的结局，在日落之前。

有的电影值得反复回味，林科雷特的这两部电影就是。

丹布朗 -- 失去的符号

周末不眠不休，把丹布朗的“失去的符号” 看完了。

读后感 --
电影化的叙事 -- 叙事结构完全是按电影的场景转接来的，一个章回一个场景，从A跳到B, 再到C, 再回到A. 难怪全书有133章。 将来改编成电影的时候省事了，删掉n个章回就行了。

一个坏人一台戏 -- 孤独的刺青人，是达芬奇密码里白化人的升级版。 看到三分之一时我就猜出这人的身份了，布朗还要撑到最后才抖包袱，低估读者的智力。 最有趣的是刺青人灵魂出壳后的意识描写。 有一个片断让我想起牛氓对蒙泰理利的最后告白，不过布朗的功力实在太差，白白浪费了这样的闪光时刻。

符号学, 神学，思维科学一锅煮 -- 从古埃及，希腊，罗马到新大陆； 从培根，牛顿，到华盛顿； 从玛雅历法，到摩西五经，新约， 可兰经，佛经，摩门经； 布朗罗列了好多有趣的传说，史籍。 外行看热闹， 无从分清正伪。 这锅汤的主要原料是共济会，基督教和华盛顿特区。

古老的秘密是 -- 全书抓人眼球的就是这“古老的秘密”，最后揭秘的原来是众所周知的事实。

看完书，发现布朗原来是自然神论者，D.C的旅游业将迈上新台阶。

旧书市

社区的图书馆每年要举行两次旧书市，把一些旧书拿出来作价处理，精装1块，平装5毛。今年的书市是在一个购物中心，中午没吃午饭就赶过去，往日萧条的购物中心前已停满了车。购物中心的井字走廊里弥漫着好闻的旧书气味，中间排满了长条桌，上面五颜六色的书码得整整齐齐的，人们挎着购物袋，拖着小推车，婴儿车，甚至行李箱顺着长桌缓缓地移动着，一脸专著满足。书市上的书很多都还崭新，一不小心，自己的纸盒子就快满了。只好一再提醒自己未来是数码书的时代，家里也没有地方放这么多的书。转眼就1点多了，才逛了一半，只好忍痛回去上班。

我去过的第一个书市也是文革后KM的第一个书市，那天早上一手攥着所有的零花钱，早早来到了翠湖展览馆，一看门外面已经聚集了几百号人。 门一开，人们就冲锋一样，我们这样的小孩子在人群中被挤得东倒西歪，跌跌撞撞进到大厅，看到各个展台上码放整齐的新书，散发着油墨纸张的香气，不由得瞳孔放大，心跳加速。说是买书，其实是抢书，我抢到了“简爱”，“呼啸山庄”，“红与黑”，“战争与和平”。那是我攒书的开始。此后每个月父母给的零花钱都贡献给了书店， 到中学毕业到外省读书时，我已攒了300多本中外名著。书市后来去了无数个，每次都恨钱不够花，不过再没有第一次那种腾云驾雾的感觉。

人生的决定性时刻

做回自己的搬运工
-----------------------------------

每个时代是否有自己的决定性时刻（defining moment) ?

Malcom Gladwell 在“Outliers" 里面梳理了一下19世纪的工业巨子和20世纪的电脑巨子的生日，列出了一些有趣的统计：
John D. Rockefeller, 1839
Andrew Carnegie, 1835
Frederick Weyerhaeuser, 1834
Jay Gould. 1834
Marshall Field, 1834
George F. Baker, 1840
Hetty Green, 1834
James G. Fair, 1831
Henry H. Rogers, 1840
J. P. Morgan, 1837
Oliver H. Payne, 1839
George Pullman, 1831
Peter Arrell Brown Widener, 1834
Philip Danforth Armour, 1832
这些人在他们20岁，30岁的时候，美国内战结束，经济开始脱胎换骨的转变，太平洋铁路修建，华尔街开张，工业革命炙热。

转眼到上世纪中，
Bill Gates, October 28, 1955
Paul Allen, January 21, 1953
Steve Ballmer, March 24, 1956
Steve Jobs, February 24, 1955
Eric Schmidt, April 27, 1955
Bill Joy, November 8, 1954
。。。。
越战结束，个人电脑时代来临。其余的故事大家都知道。

记得以前闲地有盖茨的同龄人比较自己和盖茨的生活轨迹，中学生盖茨在华大机房写软件时，这位正在停课闹革命。家姐也与盖茨同时代，如果问什么是她们人生的决定性时刻，她们都会说是77年恢复高考，让她们能先后从工厂进入大学校园。

什么是我们这些60后，70初的决定性时刻？我们10多岁的时候，中国结束了文革，开始了改革开放；20多岁刚上大学就碰上学潮，还有后来的清污，反自由化；64改变了我们很多人的人生轨迹，一时间头10年改革开放的人文气氛几乎一扫而光；有胆量，有关系，有资源的人开始往商海里跳；不想下海的就给出国潮卷走。现在回头一看，64还真成了我们这代人的决定性时刻。

从昆明到拉萨 （六）

河水淹没的路面虽然只有十多米长，但不知道那路面给浸泡了多久。我们的司机跳下车来，跑到前面去，帮着前面的车子的驾驶员研究地势，他们比划了半天，前面的车开始启动，小心翼翼地贴着山脊往前开，左边的轮子大半个都在水里。最后倾斜着，竟然也慢慢地开过去了。我们司机脸上焦虑的表情放松了，他跑回来让我们都下车。然后自己钻进驾驶室。我们摒住呼吸，看着大货车缓缓地启动，一点一点往前挪，车顶的铁栏杆擦着山脊，碎石淅淅沥沥往下掉，河水冲刷着路基，眼看半个车轮都没在水里了，大家的心提到了嗓子眼，生怕这泡软的路基承受不了这一车水泥的重量，车子只要再往右倾斜一点，必翻无疑，这时才想起来，自己的行李还留在车上呢！正想着，我们的货车已然摇摇晃晃地爬上了路，司机打开车门，朝我们得意地挥手。我们一下子欢呼雀跃起来，奔过来恨不能给我们的英雄司机一个熊抱。难怪人们说在西藏开过车的司机，可以在世界上任何地方开车。



脱离了险境，我们的车越开越快，很快就到了左贡，司机为了赶先前耽误的时间，决定不在县城停留吃午饭。路上的车越来越少，只剩下我们一辆车在奔驰，随着海拔的不断升高，蓝天变得越来越纯净和悠远，周围的山野呈现出奇幻的形状和光影，有时让人觉得狰狞恐怖，有时让人惊叹不已，真是眼目的盛宴。终于车子开出了山谷，一大片草甸呈现在眼前。司机决定在这里打尖休息。停下车来，我们争先爬下车后箱来，舒展一下筋骨。康巴兄弟俩大概憋坏了，下了车就在草甸上一阵狂跑乱叫，我们也受了感染，跟着跑起来。兄弟俩索性跟我们追逐起来，直到大家摔倒在草地上，开始大喘气。那几个年纪大的藏人在我们年轻人玩闹的时候已经找来了柴火和干牛粪，支搭起了火堆，又从车里拿出锅子和水壶，从草甸的小溪取来水，开始烧水做酥油茶。康巴兄弟一会儿就跟我们混熟了，虽然语言不通，比划之间，弟弟腰上挂的刀已经到了大川的手上。大家凑上来仔细端详那一尺来长的藏刀，银色的手柄上刻着花纹，刀刃颜色有点发暗但仍然锋利，康巴人果真是骁悍的。

虽然路上我们都吃过我带的压缩干粮，奇怪的是过了一个多钟头就肚子饿了。我们的司机说，”在这高原上只有酥油茶和糌粑才顶事。”一会儿工夫，水开了，酥油茶也好了，他们碗里倒上炒熟的青稞面，倒上酥油茶就开始捏糌粑。右手的三个指头捏把捏把，不一会青稞面就团成了一团。看我们好奇的眼神，高大黝黑的藏人捏了一块糌粑，要给我们吃。我们赶紧摇头，谢谢他的好意。问他们讨了些热水，我们六个人找了一个小坡坐下，拿出饭盒来，倒上罗锦辉送的青稞面和在德钦买的奶粉，倒上热水，也像藏人那样做起糌粑来，开始了我们自己草地上的午餐。虽然没有酥油茶，加了奶粉的糌粑一样香甜好吃。吃饱糌粑，看到远处有两顶黑色的帐篷，我和茜决定去看看。还没到近前，一只藏犬就冲出来，朝着我们狂叫。一个孩子和一个女人跟着从帐篷里走出来，女人很年轻，长辫玄衣，胸前挂了一串美丽硕大的绿松石。她向我们微笑，自然安闲的样子，仿佛这整个山野不过是她家的院子，让我心生一丝误入的歉意。

从昆明到拉萨 （五）

站在芒康小镇的十字路口，心里有些失望，进藏第一天就碰到这样的现实，跟自己的浪漫想象相去甚远，也许这才是背包旅行的意义。我们决定随遇而安，找旅店住下，再去找车。旅店离大路不远，二层的土木楼，后院是草甸，栅栏上拴着些骡马。一群带红领巾的七，八岁孩子在疯跑。放下行李，鲲和大川就去找车了，我和茜来到后院的水龙头处洗尘。虽然是7月底，水管里流出来的水还是刺骨地冰凉。我们只好打消了洗头的念头，只用湿毛巾把头发擦了一遍又一遍。那群孩子跑过来围住我们，“你好！你好！”，他们用汉语七嘴八舌地跟我们打招呼。脸蛋上的高原红衬着黑亮的眼睛，格外可爱。“这帮孩子原来是去昌都地区参加民族班考试的，考取的就可以去昌都上学了。路过他们的房间，看见里面还有女孩子拿着课本咿咿呀呀背诵的。看来考民族班对这些孩子来说是件大事。吃晚饭的时候，鲲和大川回来了，他们找到了一辆去邦达机场送水泥的货车，这辆车送完水泥还要拉香烟去那曲，司机愿意带上我们，每人收300块钱。
在西藏的第一夜，觉得天黑得很早，漫天的星斗离人很近，远处的村庄只有一星半点的灯火，狗吠之声不绝于耳。想着明天的行程，竟然兴奋得不能入睡。

第二天一大早来到小镇的十字路口，一辆装得满满，盖着篷布的东风大货车停在路边，旁边站着几个藏人。司机从驾驶室跳出来，是个40多岁的壮实汉子，胡子拉碴的，讲一口流利的汉话。他指指车顶，让我们爬上去。鲲蹭蹭两下就爬上去了，我抬头看看堆得小山一样高的车，心里发愁怎们上去。 大川从后面托住我，脚踩着前轮胎，扒着车厢边缘，我开始往上爬，鲲中途拉住我，借这力我才爬上车顶。在驾驶室和半人高的水泥包之间有块空间，坐下来腿可以放直。这时昨天碰到的那两个昆明伙子劲和亚鹏来了，他们身后还跟了一男一女两个日本人，原来他们找到的也是这辆车。大家爬上来坐好，等着司机开车，不想又爬上来两个年轻的康巴汉子，一个高大黝黑的藏人和一个孩子，还有两个中年藏人，变魔术一样，这小小的空间一下子塞满了14个人和行李。我们三个女生挨着，面向车头，坐在中间，藏人坐我们对面，我边上是那个藏族孩子，鲲和劲坐在最外面。大家紧紧地挤在一起，腿碰腿，脚踢脚。肩挨肩，不亲热也不行。

大家坐定了，车子开动起来， 我们也聊起来。劲是昆明一家兵工厂的工人，请了病假和休学在家的亚鹏来西藏玩。两个人比我们更没谱，随身的行李就是一个小包，按劲的说法，“甩着手就来了。”两个日本人在南京大学上暑期中文班，中文说不好，英文也讲不出，只好拿出本子写写画画与我们交流。六个藏人里面，只有一个穿中山装，跑小生意的会一点汉话；另一个穿藏装的中年人是裁缝；康巴汉子是兄弟俩，去昌都；高大黝黑的藏人送他做尼姑的女儿去寺院。我还以为剪短发的是个男孩子，原来是个女孩！

因为南线断了，车都转到北线，一出芒康，我们的货车很快就加入了长长的车队，沿着盘山公路缓缓爬行。所谓的公路实际上就是车轱辘碾出来的石头路，左边是悬崖，悬崖下面是金沙江，右面是破碎的山体，我们的大货车轮子几乎开到路的边缘，有时候路上的石头给轮子压得往下塌陷，路边的山体不时有碎石滚落下来，可谓上有落石，下有塌方。鲲和劲坐在最外面，转弯的时候他们半个人几乎悬在了空中。前面的车一旦有故障，整个车队就停滞不前了。路上军队的绿色运输车一辆接一辆，看来西藏的给养多是由军队来承担的。坐在硬邦邦的水泥包上，一路颠簸，不到一个钟头，就屁股生疼。但前面的路途实在险峻，我们眼睛都不敢往别处看，生怕一不留神车就掉下悬崖，更顾不上想别的了。就这样走了二个多钟头，我们的车停住了，站起来一看，山间的河涨水，把路淹断了。