La vie est ailleurs

他望著水面上的臉。後來，他在這張臉上，突然看見極大的驚恐。這是他最後看到的東西。《生活在他方﹒La vie est ailleurs》﹒米蘭昆德拉

被人一絲絲地剖開到最後，我自己也照鏡子般看見內心浮現的巨大的驚恐。太恐怖了。太恐怖了。我想繼續閱讀米先生其他的小說。

Spaces in Time

Spaces in Time -Hsinism Portfolio 2009
歡迎各位看官和老闆點擊以上圖片以欣賞我的作品集。

在半年後的part2開學之前務必找份工作practise我的知識，但是我無可藥救地超級無敵懶惰啊。在必須投遞的信前，我被悵然若失的感覺填滿。為甚麼呢？「我好像在等天上跌下什麼到我的頭上哈！」我失去果斷，就像等著某樣不知名的事情發生。

其實你是知道的：你一直在等待著「它」。然而「它」是否還未出現就已消失？不不，你每天在窺視著「它」的可能性。你在試探，你在挑撥，你身陷其中。很久以前，你已經錯失存在在過去的某樣東西，所以你總是籍由想像來抵達「那個地方」。不不，你仍擁有未來。

你一直在等待。

祝我好運。

26.5.09不快活。

在黏稠中醒來，清晨時分，窗外略帶陰暗的天空似陣雨前夕，無風，所以根本沒有一絲涼意，氣壓悶得無法重新入睡。最近天氣異常悶熱，我的心情也悶悶不樂。

「如果你今天漫不經心，可能會錯失機會。」

所以我今天都在認真地做事，但機會呢？

今天心情很糟糕。或者這樣形容更貼切：我覺得很顯啊。

Architectural Design Evolution

三年過去了，這張圖是一個小總結（點圖看大圖），幾乎把每個學期做的projects都塞了進去。大三是我人生中另一個重要的時間點，我會永遠都記得。未來還有更長遠的路（這句很顯的咧），還有更多的夜晚等著讓我熬。我覺得自己好比一個天生的被虐狂：被折磨得半死不活卻仍然咬緊牙根死不放棄，明明已經累得不行拼命叫苦連天對天呻吟，身體卻依然持續工作狀態，驅使你直到完美地完成任務，意志根本使喚不了你停下來。

要就全部，否則就全無！（《生活在他方》）

你必須到來

原本只想把自己心裡某些不得不抒發出來的個人想法擱在這裡就好，不管是否有人問津或回應，就讓它們安靜地背著你跳舞。但是今天早上卻終究按耐不住地申請了一個計算到訪人數的小機器，邊揣想著到底有沒有人會來這部落格逛。我甚至提供了翻譯的小工具，不諳中文的人可以選擇將文章翻譯成英文或法文（當然直譯的句子總免不了出現奇怪的文法和錯誤的詞語。有趣的是我自己會去查看英文譯文！）。如果他仍然迷惑於這裡的文字（比如讀繁體字會開始莫名其妙地心煩），他可以只聽音樂，欣賞圖片（即將陸續上載）……

「詩人用這些詩繪製他的畫像。……

但是為了要將他的畫像穿戴在身上，為了要覆著這個假面走向世界，畫必須要展出，詩必須要出版。……

這種渴望被人崇拜的偏執慾念不只是伴隨抒情詩人的才華而來的一種缺陷（我們也可以如此詮釋數學家或建築師），這種渴望根本就是詩的才華的一種本質，它是辨別抒情詩人的記號，因為詩人就是會把自畫像提供給全天下的那種人，他非常願意讓他的長相被人投射在詩句的布幕上……」

《生活在他方》﹒米蘭昆德拉

我沒有詩人的才華，但我有其伴隨而來的缺陷本質。歡迎大家到來。感謝在本部落格第一位留言的唐老師，我不曾放棄華文！呃，我會留意我的句子是否通順……

Dreaming with a Broken Heart

Listening in the night without you. 23.2.2009
(The 5th song of my mixpod playlist bottom here.)

By John Mayer . Continuum

When you're dreaming with a broken heart
The waking up is the hardest part
You roll outta bed and down on your knees
And for a moment you can hardly breathe
Wondering was she really here?
Is she standing in my room?
No she's not, 'cause she's gone, gone, gone, gone, gone....

When you're dreaming with a broken heart
The giving up is the hardest part
She takes you in with her crying eyes
Then all at once you have to say goodbye
Wondering could you stay my love?
Will you wake up by my side?
No she can't, 'cause she's gone, gone, gone, gone, gone....

Now do i have to fall asleep with roses in my hands
Do i have to fall asleep with roses in my hands?
Do i have to fall asleep with roses in my hands?
Do i have to fall asleep with roses in my , roses in my hands?

Would you get them if i did?
No you won't, 'cause you're gone, gone, gone, gone, gone....

When you're dreaming with a broken heart
The waking up is the hardest part

我妒嫉青春

動作停頓，呼吸靜止，傾聽：是細緻的蟬聲從叢林中傳出。一陣陣地。
夏天又快要到了。該如何度過這個炎熱的暑假呢？

看夜間棒球賽？
到海邊嬉水享受陽光？
默默想著內心埋藏的秘密？
第一次喜歡上一個人而心事糾纏？
猶豫著如何向某人告白？
和情人度過一個難忘的夏天？
學業、愛情、朋友與未來……

不。我並沒有穿越時空回到少年時代，那永恆的十七歲。
我聆聽著蟬聲，微風陣陣，看見少女臉上綻放的笑顏，時間彷彿停頓在瞬間，髮稍隨風飛舞的線條牽引一段成長的歲月，但我們永遠都無法回到過去。

岩井俊二說：「我妒嫉青春。」

Always on the side of the egg

（請容許我張貼三個月前的舊聞，因為村上一直是我喜愛的作家。這是他獲得耶路撒冷文學獎感言。）

Always on the Side of the Egg
By Haruki Murakami

I have come to Jerusalem today as a novelist, which is to say as a professional spinner of lies.

Of course, novelists are not the only ones who tell lies. Politicians do it, too, as we all know. Diplomats and military men tell their own kinds of lies on occasion, as do used car salesmen, butchers and builders. The lies of novelists differ from others, however, in that no one criticizes the novelist as immoral for telling them. Indeed, the bigger and better his lies and the more ingeniously he creates them, the more he is likely to be praised by the public and the critics. Why should that be?

My answer would be this: Namely, that by telling skillful lies - which is to say, by making up fictions that appear to be true - the novelist can bring a truth out to a new location and shine a new light on it. In most cases, it is virtually impossible to grasp a truth in its original form and depict it accurately. This is why we try to grab its tail by luring the truth from its hiding place, transferring it to a fictional location, and replacing it with a fictional form. In order to accomplish this, however, we first have to clarify where the truth lies within us. This is an important qualification for making up good lies.

Today, however, I have no intention of lying. I will try to be as honest as I can. There are a few days in the year when I do not engage in telling lies, and today happens to be one of them.

So let me tell you the truth. A fair number of people advised me not to come here to accept the Jerusalem Prize. Some even warned me they would instigate a boycott of my books if I came.

The reason for this, of course, was the fierce battle that was raging in Gaza. The UN reported that more than a thousand people had lost their lives in the blockaded Gaza City, many of them unarmed citizens - children and old people.

Any number of times after receiving notice of the award, I asked myself whether traveling to Israel at a time like this and accepting a literary prize was the proper thing to do, whether this would create the impression that I supported one side in the conflict, that I endorsed the policies of a nation that chose to unleash its overwhelming military power. This is an impression, of course, that I would not wish to give. I do not approve of any war, and I do not support any nation. Neither, of course, do I wish to see my books subjected to a boycott.

Finally, however, after careful consideration, I made up my mind to come here. One reason for my decision was that all too many people advised me not to do it. Perhaps, like many other novelists, I tend to do the exact opposite of what I am told. If people are telling me - and especially if they are warning me - "don't go there," "don't do that," I tend to want to "go there" and "do that." It's in my nature, you might say, as a novelist. Novelists are a special breed. They cannot genuinely trust anything they have not seen with their own eyes or touched with their own hands.

And that is why I am here. I chose to come here rather than stay away. I chose to see for myself rather than not to see. I chose to speak to you rather than to say nothing.

This is not to say that I am here to deliver a political message. To make judgments about right and wrong is one of the novelist's most important duties, of course.

It is left to each writer, however, to decide upon the form in which he or she will convey those judgments to others. I myself prefer to transform them into stories - stories that tend toward the surreal. Which is why I do not intend to stand before you today delivering a direct political message.

Please do, however, allow me to deliver one very personal message. It is something that I always keep in mind while I am writing fiction. I have never gone so far as to write it on a piece of paper and paste it to the wall: Rather, it is carved into the wall of my mind, and it goes something like this:

"Between a high, solid wall and an egg that breaks against it, I will always stand on the side of the egg."

Yes, no matter how right the wall may be and how wrong the egg, I will stand with the egg. Someone else will have to decide what is right and what is wrong; perhaps time or history will decide. If there were a novelist who, for whatever reason, wrote works standing with the wall, of what value would such works be?

What is the meaning of this metaphor? In some cases, it is all too simple and clear. Bombers and tanks and rockets and white phosphorus shells are that high, solid wall. The eggs are the unarmed civilians who are crushed and burned and shot by them. This is one meaning of the metaphor.

This is not all, though. It carries a deeper meaning. Think of it this way. Each of us is, more or less, an egg. Each of us is a unique, irreplaceable soul enclosed in a fragile shell. This is true of me, and it is true of each of you. And each of us, to a greater or lesser degree, is confronting a high, solid wall. The wall has a name: It is The System. The System is supposed to protect us, but sometimes it takes on a life of its own, and then it begins to kill us and cause us to kill others - coldly, efficiently, systematically.

I have only one reason to write novels, and that is to bring the dignity of the individual soul to the surface and shine a light upon it. The purpose of a story is to sound an alarm, to keep a light trained on The System in order to prevent it from tangling our souls in its web and demeaning them. I fully believe it is the novelist's job to keep trying to clarify the uniqueness of each individual soul by writing stories - stories of life and death, stories of love, stories that make people cry and quake with fear and shake with laughter. This is why we go on, day after day, concocting fictions with utter seriousness.

My father died last year at the age of 90. He was a retired teacher and a part-time Buddhist priest. When he was in graduate school, he was drafted into the army and sent to fight in China. As a child born after the war, I used to see him every morning before breakfast offering up long, deeply-felt prayers at the Buddhist altar in our house. One time I asked him why he did this, and he told me he was praying for the people who had died in the war.

He was praying for all the people who died, he said, both ally and enemy alike. Staring at his back as he knelt at the altar, I seemed to feel the shadow of death hovering around him.

My father died, and with him he took his memories, memories that I can never know. But the presence of death that lurked about him remains in my own memory. It is one of the few things I carry on from him, and one of the most important.

I have only one thing I hope to convey to you today. We are all human beings, individuals transcending nationality and race and religion, fragile eggs faced with a solid wall called The System. To all appearances, we have no hope of winning. The wall is too high, too strong - and too cold. If we have any hope of victory at all, it will have to come from our believing in the utter uniqueness and irreplaceability of our own and others' souls and from the warmth we gain by joining souls together.

Take a moment to think about this. Each of us possesses a tangible, living soul. The System has no such thing. We must not allow The System to exploit us. We must not allow The System to take on a life of its own. The System did not make us: We made The System.

That is all I have to say to you.

I am grateful to have been awarded the Jerusalem Prize. I am grateful that my books are being read by people in many parts of the world. And I am glad to have had the opportunity to speak to you here today.

看見看不見的城市

「隨著歲月流逝，角色也不再和以前完全一樣；當然，他們依照密謀而行，或是出期不一的行動，都會導向某種結局，即使情節愈益繁複，而且阻礙增加，還是繼續朝這個結局接近。如果你持續觀察這個廣場，你可以聽到對話如何從這一幕轉變到另一幕，可是美拉尼亞的居民壽命太短，無法理解這些轉變。」

《看不見的城市》﹒卡爾維諾

這是其中一本我非常喜歡的書，裡面描述了每一座充滿寓意的城市，不管是城市與記憶、慾望、符號或死亡，連綿的城市串成的連綿的故事，似真似幻。我對它們愛不釋手，所以著迷似的一再重看這本書。我並不需要從頭開始閱讀，只要隨意翻閱任何一面，馬可波羅將馬上開始敘述一段關於城市的魔幻故事。
如果你還未看這本書，不管現實中的你是否和建築有關係（這根本不是重點），我首先向你推薦偉大的作者：卡爾維諾先生，而你會被那些看不見的華麗城市所吸引，因為它們的命運與你相關。

時日如流

「剛到胡志明市就遇上及時雨。淋了一身濕後，又再冒著烈日在這只有黑與白的城市遊逛。時間是停滯而不流動的。人潮與單車都極多。時日如流。我們下個月又能見面了。」

SY . 2009.5.8 . 胡志明市

你穿越我的夢

你進入我的夢，以絕對之姿越過形狀模糊的界線，如引領著我觸摸一個抽象空間。
我開始想像、墜落，並目睹事物之間不確定的距離，然而在冰冷的氣壓中我聞不到任何熟悉的氣味比如你。但是我可以感覺到某處：你正在穿越我的夢，因為你正穿越我的心臟。
（你會靠近我，說了一句隨即被寒冷凝結的話語，然後消失到另外一個夢境。）
我也在第二個夢裡醒來。

你睡著，然後又在另一個夢裡重生。
你存在在夢裡。

而我醒過來，發現夢沿沾滿露珠。

原點

從哪裡結束，就從哪裡開始。

pchome新聞台是我第一個擺放文章的網絡空間。時間是2003年－我開始書寫的時間點。若時序繼續倒流，我曾經擁有個人網站、曾經幫某人架設並打理網站。當時我熱衷於圖像設計但對將來缺乏概念。後來blog當道，我的第一個blog空間是blogroodo，沿用了一年半後我搬家到wordpress。blogspot一直是我的檔案備份空間，當我無法進入wordpress家門口時。當我開始厭倦於在網上書寫文字時，因為關於一些紛擾和困惑，我利用功課忙碌的理由來拒絕更新文章，縱使這些不過是敘述生活瑣事的日誌式文章。因此大一之後我的blog漸漸變成廢區。

從此詩人已死。也許詩人不曾存在。

目前我的建築系第一階段已經告一段落。在第二階段未開始之前，我靜下來的心回歸到文字和影像帶給我最原始的意義。文字讓我和世界溝通，不管是通過閱讀或書寫。
三年前我寫下最後一首詩，三年後我早已無法仿效聶魯達以20歲之齡寫下《二十首情詩和一首絕望的歌》，我甚至不確定自己是否仍然擁有寫作的能力。能力是會喪失的。
不管未來如何，我確定文字和圖像一直是我表達自己的工具。

只是，我一直尋找關於建築和文學、哲學、電影或音樂之間的關係，它們該有密切的關聯；誰可以給我說說這課題呢？