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剪灯自话

草字冰,江城人氏,生而质钝,总角尚通文字,然众人莫解,只得剪灯夜述,自说自话
9月25日

我的家医报之旅

上周末,受《家庭医生报》之约,我和医大的几名同事去长春开工作会议,随后到长白山旅游。开会作为公费旅游的体面外衣,也成了一种变相的福利,自然令人向往,我也不能免俗~~~呵呵~~~家医报在北方的发行局面还没打开,所以比较重视哈尔滨的客人,我们受到了不错的礼遇。

     行程安排很紧张,一直在坐车,长白山往返14个小时的车程,再加上哈长来回,一共20多个小时消耗在路上,whatever, life is on the road~~~

     长影世纪城

     长影世纪城门庭冷落,游客很少,远看色彩明艳,恐龙和很多卡通人物姿态逼真,但近走过去做工很粗糙,死板板的杵着,明晃晃的太阳下反倒成了静谧的摆件。我们参观了一圈摆设,选几处鲜艳醒目的东西照相,算是到此一游。略引起兴趣的是电影制作演示,终于看见了活物和一些能与长影搭上边的线索。配音演员演示了电影配音的过程,比如捏方便面口袋可以发出烧柴的劈啪声、脚踩在雪里实际上是捏淀粉袋的效果……还有很多假水果挂在回廊里,新鲜可爱,吸引很多游客伸手,想必导演们在不停喊cut的同时,不必经常cut掉水果。

     其实,长影世纪城只是娱乐的背景,就像电影一样炫丽虚假,也不断提醒观看他们的人不必当真,但仅就消费想象力的场所而言,长影世纪城观光的性价比实在不高。

     伪满皇宫

     简述一下,初进门庭,像小庙一样阴森,充满妖邪之气。但诡谲的堂皇下,还是依稀可见没落皇族被战争、历史裹挟的无奈和压迫。还是喜欢这里,静静坐在庭院中间的杏树下,感觉祖先的悲凉,和在压抑下释放的些许品味与优雅,那是他们身为皇族的唯一标识了。

 

 

 

 

8月7日

to be, or not to be……

    Maybe I made a mistake in this relationship. I've no idea. I used to be a person that always know what i need and what i want. No hesitation, no regret. But whats wrong with me now? i hate the situation out of control. Should we end it? or keep going? but how?
7月31日

院领导的讲话稿

   昨晚和金宝美玉吼到半夜,回家一头栽倒在床上,兴奋过后浑身都酸痛。洗漱完毕,忽然想起下班前领导安排第二天的书记讲话稿,忘脑后了……挣扎着爬起来,对电脑憋了半天,才写出五个字大家下午好。给小高打了半小时电话,舒缓情绪,回想自己对摄影的感觉,稿子竟然半小时内就完成了:
 

两位摄影师、各位爱好摄影的同仁:

   大家下午好!

   我认为摄影是这个世界上最有意思的工作之一,我们选取有意义的事件、美丽的画面、精彩的瞬间,将它们永远定格,这不仅仅是记录、捕捉,或者传达,更是摄影者自身对拍摄对象的理解、沟通和契合。从这个意义上说,摄影作为一门艺术,除了给予我们美感和震撼,更赋予摄影师们独特的人生经验:那一张张富有生命力的照片,其实完全渗透着摄影者本身对世界的情感、审美与理解,所以作为酷爱摄影的一员,我相信我们当中很多人,都有过面对自己作品时的那种喜悦和激动。

   但重大的事件、精彩的一幕往往转瞬即逝,局限于有限的经验、贫乏的技巧,我们常常错过那些精彩的故事。今天,我们请来了哈尔滨日报、哈尔滨电视台的两位专业摄影师,为摄影爱好者讲述他们的经验、分享他们摄影的乐趣、传授必要的摄影技巧,是很引人入胜的学习机会。

   影像资料是当今宣传工作的必备素材。这些年来,我院的宣传工作取得了令人瞩目的成就,每年在《健康之路》、《走进科学》、《新闻联播》等栏目,以及《人民日报》、《光明日报》、人民网、新华网、《健康报》等中央级媒体上,做了大量的医院宣传栏目,走在了黑龙江省卫生事业宣传工作的最前列。这些都与日常素材的积累密不可分。通过这次学习,不仅可以活跃我院的文化氛围,更可以提高各科室积累工作素材的能力,今后,当医院重大事件、精彩的人和事发生时,我们身边随时都会有“发现美的眼睛”。

   最后预祝本次摄影培训圆满成功!

7月22日

《鼬鼠时光》Skunk hour翻译(录旧作)

   

   昨天读黄灿然的文章,评论袁可嘉翻译的洛厄尔诗歌《臭鼬时光》,这首诗是洛厄尔诗风的典型代表,完美的历史形式表述现代的生活,传统诗歌坚实的功力和现代生活的焦虑结合得极为自然,可读性很强,语感、节奏、意向、震撼都让人着迷,是私人化了的艾略特。

   很巧合,我和黄灿然都喜欢翻译诗歌,特别是洛厄尔,也都喜欢卡尔维诺(黄是卡文集的中文译者,我的硕士论文做的也是卡),也同样是西文出身,又从事新闻工作。当然关键的不同是全不在一个级别,但也不妨碍我拿他做比~~~呵呵

   两年前我也翻译过洛厄尔,也发表过一些译作,但这首一直没拿出去,原因就是与大师袁可嘉的翻译有很多差异,初出茅庐自是不敢以下犯上,收稿的编辑也如此建议。昨晚看到黄灿然的评论,多少壮胆把这篇旧作拿出来晒一晒:

                                                                                     Skunk hour

                                                                                 [FOR ELIZABETH BISHOP]

                                                                                 Nautilus Islands hermit

                                                                                 heiress still lives through winter in her Spartan cottage;

                                                                                 her sheep still gaze above the sea.

                                                                                 Her sons a bishop. Her farmer

                                                                                 is first selectman in our village;

                                                                                 shes in her dotage.

 

                                                                                 Thirsting for

                                                                                 the hierarchic privacy

                                                                                 of Queen Victorias century,

                                                                                 she buys up all

                                                                                 the eyesores facing her shore,

                                                                                 and lets them fall.

 

                                                                                 The seasons ill---

                                                                                 Weve lost our summer millionaire,

                                                                                 who seemed to the leap from an L.L. Bean

                                                                                 catalogue. His nine-knot yawl

                                                                                 was auctioned off to lobstermen.

                                                                                 A red fox stain covers Blue Hill.

 

                                                                                 And now our fairy

                                                                                 decorator brightens his shop for fall;

                                                                                 his fishnets filled with orange cork,

                                                                                 orange, his cobblers bench and awl;

                                                                                 there is no money in his work,

                                                                                 hed rather marry.

 

                                                                                 One dark night,

                                                                                 my Tudor Ford climbed the hills skull;

                                                                                 I watched for love-cars. Lights turned down,

                                                                                 they lay together, hull to hull,

                                                                                 where the graveyard shelves on the town

                                                                                 My minds not right.

 

                                                                                 A car radio bleats,

                                              “Love, O careless love…” I hear

                                                                                 my ill-spirit sob in each blood cell,

                                                                                 as if my hand were at its throat

                                                                                 I myself am hell;

                                                                                 nobodys here---

 

                                                                                 only skunks, that search

                                                                                 in the moonlight for a bite to eat.

                                                                                 They march on their soles up Main Street:

                                                                                 White stripes, moonstruck eyes red fire

                                                                                 under the chalk-dry and spar spire

                                                                                 of the Trinitarian Church.

 

                                                                                 I stand on top

                                                                                 of our back steps and breathe the rich air---

                                                                                 a mother skunk with her column of kittens swills the garbage pail.

                                                                                 She jabs her wedge-head in a cup

                                                                                 of sour cream, drops her ostrich tail,

                                                                                 and will not scare.

 

                                       鼬鼠时光

                                       (致伊丽莎白·毕晓普)

                                              鹦鹉岛上隐居的

                                             继承人还是在她的斯巴达小屋里过冬;

                                             她的羊群仍在海上方放牧。

                                             儿子是个主教。她的包租农

                                             是我们村里第一位行政官;

                                             她已经上了年纪。

 

                                             沉迷

                                             维多利亚时代的

                                             等级的自由空间,

                                             她收购了所有

                                             对着海滨的碍眼的玩意

                                             任由它们坍塌。

 

                                             季节犯病——

                                             我们失去了夏季的百万富翁,

                                             他好像刚从宾恩店里

                                             冲出来。他的九海里帆船

                                             拍卖给了捕虾的渔夫。

                                             红狐狸蚀斑覆盖整个蓝山。

 

                                             现在,我们灵巧的装修工

                                             为迎秋季,正装点着他的店铺;

                                             他的渔网装满了桔木塞、

                                             橘子、他的修鞋凳和锥子;

                                             他的工作不赚钱,

                                             宁愿结婚。

 

                                             一个漆黑的夜晚,

                                             我的古董福特爬上山顶的头颅;

                                             我等待着情人车。灯光渐熄,

                                             它们躺在一起,壳挨着壳,

                                             墓地像架子一样摞在镇子里

                                             我的思路不对劲。

 

                                             车上广播低语,

                                             “爱情,噢,盲目的爱情……”我听见

                                             每个血细胞里,我病重的灵魂在抽噎,

                                             好像我的手扼住它的咽喉……

                                             我自己就是地狱;

                                             没有人在这儿——

 

                                             只剩下鼬鼠,为一口饭食

                                             在月光下搜寻。

                                             它们的脚掌行进在主干道上:

                                             白色的条纹、迷糊糊的眼睛

                                             闪着红色的火焰,窜到三一教堂

                                             干白粉的螺旋柱下。

 

                                             我站在后面的

                                             楼梯顶,呼吸着富饶的气息——

                                             一只母鼬带着她一群小崽儿在车库水桶里畅饮。

                                             她楔型的脑袋

                                             扎进酸奶杯里,露出鸵鸟的尾巴,

                                             不再恐惧。

 

7月6日

Goodness is timeless

   老王去世整整50天了,我浑浑噩噩醒着梦游了50天。50天后我重新捧起一本书,登上TLS,想起老王去世前一天莫名赞我“你真的很有学问……”,忽然像一记棒喝,敲醒魂归他处的脑袋:原来50天前的我,是这种活法。
   50天前,老王还活生生的,白净、利落,走路慢慢悠悠的晃悠,温柔的笑。像是早预料到自己人生短暂,拼命的把时间掰开,如愿成为人民网最年轻的频道总编,如果人生再走一次,他还是会这么拼吧,敬畏命运却又不服命运的战士。他走过数不清的城市和国家、认识形形色色的人、经历过苦难和荣耀、做过很多善事,匆匆忙忙的体验了绝大多数人一生都未曾体验的经历。
   我读过许多明理、通慧、指点人生的圣贤书,但真正把这些信念变成现实的力量赋予我的,却是老王。翻看一页页文章,读到他会感兴趣的题目,才猛然察觉,那个让我迷恋的家伙,竟然真的走了。渐渐想起50天前的事,那种撕心裂肺的痛苦堵在胸口,像被绝望紧紧包围的泥潭,越陷越深,接下来的日子……不记得了,恍惚看了很多爱情片,灵魂活在别人的爱情里,多美好……我不愿意还魂,它太羸弱。
   照他的个性,应该在上面举杯推盏邀屈子吧,人间的爱怨情仇再与他无关。
   最近常想起奥登最后一句诗:goodness is timeless……老王一生都是一场善良,利利索索的潇洒为人,怎会有终呢?
  
   
 

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