本帖最后由 ヮ成熟、羙° 于 2014-2-15 17:25 编辑
家的含义
荷叶/译
我最想念的是雨水的香味，割草机的响声还有割下来的草屑散发出的清香。光着脚丫站在野外的感觉。蔚蓝的天空笼罩着一切, 雷声轰鸣，来而复去，热带的日落，傍晚的烧烤，温润的池水，啤酒洒在地上的声音。上床前，身着背心，身上汗津津的，闪着微光，一夜不停地把枕头翻来翻去，一只蚊子在耳边唱歌。你所知道的不眠之夜。然后，有一天，我把这一切抛到了身后，我进了城，加入了面色阴郁，步伐毫无生气的那一群体，我与他们一道像幽灵一样活动在人行道上。低着头，神色暗淡地，小心翼翼地匆匆赶往日常工作场所。
冬天我独自躲在屋里，我的室友，我当时的朋友不分白天黑夜地工作。他们已习惯于将精神生活置诸脑后，钱的需求是第一位的。我的夜晚是在奇怪的房子里度过的，墙上裂缝重重，坐在房东上锁的电话机旁，想起了过去的谈话，妈妈的声音，将要失去联系的密友，我常常写信，信永远也不会寄出，满纸都是只有自己才知道的事实。我常常流泪，泪水浸湿了墨水，情感斑驳。那时，我总被诱惑着无意识地输入，把字句敲入电脑，不明白人生的意义何在，如何才能找到人生的价值。我的室友马克和克雷格总是在午夜前回家。我总会开心地一笑，给他们冲茶，做三明治，和他们坐在一起，过他们的生活，听他们的故事，乐于与他们为伍。我有意避开睡眠，我渴望安慰，渴望同伴来驱散孤独的侵蚀。
我喝很多酒，我有一份工作，要见各种各样的人。我继续漫游在这个不属于我的城市里。周五我的工作场所提供免费的酒水，我就像箭一样冲向酒吧，疯狂地啜饮红酒和啤酒，我喝得酩酊大醉，随后另一个人，不是我，但却是我很渴望成为的一个人就出现了。一个高声大嗓，妩媚动人，口齿清楚的女孩，她会整夜陪陌生人谈话，陪他们大笑，甚至是打情骂俏！我似乎脱离了自己的躯壳，吃惊地看着这一切。喝完后，我会跌跌撞撞地到守护神酒吧,去接马克和克雷格，他俩在那里做招待。我到达时，他们正要结束工作，我们总是坐在酒吧里继续喝，我还会再喝。
一天晚上我们在家里喝醉了。我点燃一支香烟，坐了下来，我的思绪触动了阵阵伤感。我走进浴室，在半疯狂的状态下，我取出刀片，麻木地刺向自己的腕部，泪水顺着脸淌下来，我立刻停了下来，我的目标错了，我只是想引人注意，但如果我不呼救，关注我的只有自己。我悄悄地用卫生纸包扎起来，走进自己的房间，穿上件毛衣以掩盖伤口----我的孩子似的自虐行为。我躺下，迅速地擦了把眼泪，这时我听到了马克和克雷格熟悉的脚步声。他们站在那里说笑，我跟着他们下了楼，听着鲍勃.马利和救赎的歌，我最喜欢的那首“我被卖到商船上……”
因此，我站在从多莉斯山到马里伯恩的地铁上，凝视着手腕上的疤痕。只有我一个人知道的一时糊涂的标记，我有点走神，好像这不是我，从来没有是过我。我随着地铁的节奏而摇晃，这个城市在腐蚀着我，我的灵魂在慢慢地被啃噬，我想大声疾呼，喊出自己的心声，但它却慢慢向内渗透，我对自己的辩解感到厌烦。
这一切有所好转，确实是有所好转，你知道不是真的变好了，而是我融入了城市的生活。慢慢地我开始享受这里的一切，我适应了这里的天气，这里的人。有一天，我走出自己的新公寓，当然不归我所有，是我租来的临时住所，那是个秋日的周六，我出去倒垃圾，穿着睡衣，随着电视和舒适的辉光，我看了一眼灰朦朦的天，我接受了这一切，我很欣赏，它的浪漫情怀，它的阴郁都在吸引着我。最终融入我的个性。我喜欢这一切，我走了进去，有点颤抖，一种令人满意的凉爽，我喜欢寒冷，也喜欢能够得到温暖的感受。我躺在沙发上，脚趾伸进了座垫下面，一种娱乐自己的疯狂举动。这些你慢慢就会习惯的。
最终，我回了家。我用了五个月时间尽享家乡的美景，家乡的气候，以及身边知足的人。我吃着健康的食物，听着已经遗忘的语言，漫游在不属于自己的农场上，去收获葡萄，戴上高高的帽子防晒，终日慨叹着天气的酷热。但此时我已不能纵情欢乐了，因为伦敦这个令我又爱又恨的城市融入了我体内，不管开心与否，我注定要回那里去的。我解释不出为什么，我想不是城市的原因，是我。我需要满足，我离开了，离开了自己如此深爱着的地方，没有顿悟，那时没有。有一天,家的感觉会回到我身上，或许我会回家，我静待那个时刻的到来。
附：原文
Home Truth
It was the smell of rain that I missed the most and the sound of a lawnmower and the waft of cut grass. It was being out in the open and standing bare foot! Blue skies part and parcel of it all; the thunder that would blast over and leave—the coming of a tropical sundown, an evening of barbecues, of warm pools, beer splattering on concrete. The bed awaiting, a vest, a body glistening from perspiration and a sleep of pillows constantly changing sides, a mosquito in the ear. Sleepless nights that were all you knew. And then, one day I left it behind. I moved to a city, to grim faced pallid movements, and there I became with them a ghost on the sidewalks. Dimly, ambling along with my face down, watching my steps and hurrying towards my quotidian activities.
Winters I spent indoor in solace. My flat mates—the friends I had—worked day and night. They were accustomed to leaving the soul behind, the need for money was so official. I would spend nights in the strange house, with creaks of a wall I did not know, and sit by the phone that our landlord had locked, and think of conversations of the past, of my mother's voice ringing, of my best friend whom I would lose contact with, and I would write letters, letters I would never send, letters that clutched the truth—that only I knew. I would cry, tears staining the ink, a smudged idea of love. I was temping then, doing mindless data entry, tapping words into a computer, and moving on wondering what worth there was, and how to find it. My flat mates would come home just before midnight—Mark and Craig, my two best friends. I would smile inwardly and outwardly and make them tea, a sandwich, sit with them and live their lives, hear their stories, flourish in company. Sleep would be eschewed, I yearned for comfort, and company eased the etching of loneliness.
I drank a lot, I had a job and I met people, and I continued my ambling in a city that was not mine. Every Friday my work offered free drinks and I catapulted towards the bar, I sipped ferociously at the wine, the beer, I got horrifically drunk and so the person that I was not, but so yearned to be would come out. She, loud, vivacious, articulate would spend the evening conversing with strangers, laughing and sometimes, flirting! I seemed to step out of myself and watch in amazement. After drinks, I would stumble to the Palladium to meet Mark and Craig—they both worked there as ushers. I would arrive as they were finishing work and we would sit in the bar and I would continue, I would drink.
One night we fell drunk into the house. I lit a cigarette; I sat down and my mind triggered off dull thuds of depression. I went to the bathroom and in a mode of translucent mania I took out a razor blade and in numb motions slowly cut at my wrist, tears streaming down my face, I stopped as soon as I started, my aim was wrong-it was in the name of attention, except I would tell nobody, the attention was all to myself. Quietly, I wrapped my stinging arm with toilet paper, walked to my room and put on a jersey so as to cover the threat, the childish self abuse.
I lay and quickly wiped my tears as I heard the friendly footsteps of Mark and Craig. They stood and bantered and eventually I followed them downstairs, and listened to Bob Marley, and Redemption song, my favorite song—"Sold I to the merchant ships…"
And so, I stood on the tube, Dollis Hill to Marylebone and I stared at the scars on my wrist. The scars of stupidity that only I knew of, I was entranced, as though it were not me—it's never me. I swayed to the motion of the train, the city was corrupting me, my soul was slowly bitten, I wanted to yell out my mind, but it all seeped inwards, I was boring myself with my own pleas.
It got better, as it does get better, as you know no better and I sunk into my life, I slowly enjoyed its offerings, I adjusted to the climate, to the people and one day as I walked outside my new flat—not mine of course, but my temporary abode that I rented, as I took out the garbage on a autumn Saturday—in my pyjamas, with the TV and the glow of comfort, I looked at the grey, I sucked it in and I quite enjoyed it—it's romantic quality, it's gloom appealed to me, as it would eventually with my nature. I liked it. I went inside, and shivered—a content chill, I enjoyed the cold and the idea of being able to get warm and I lay on the couch with my toes under a cushion, an inane program keeping me entertained. It all grows on you.I went home, eventually.
I spent five months appreciating the beauty, the climate, the content natures surrounding me. I ate healthy food, I listened to a language I had forgotten about, I roamed on farms that were not mine, went to wine harvests, put on high factors to shield out the sun, spend days lamenting the heat. But, it was not time, I was unable to indulge as the city, London, was still with me, my love and loathing relationship was still continuing, I was still meant to be there, whether unhappy or not. I could not explain it, it's not the city I suppose, it's me-I need to be content. I left, I left what I love so much, no great epiphany, just not at that moment. One day home will come to me, or I will go to home and I await the knowledge in peace. |
发表于 2014-2-15 17:17:59
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