Fan Jinghua: Window Politics

　　Window Politics
No one will see. The words from those at windows are ink-stains
Dissolving into the night.
They stand to hold themselves, to fly with the wings of hope and pains.
By the cliff of the night, they look down, up or away into the distance,
Or merely at the windowsill, and a firmness takes root in them.
This triggers my mind.

When standing still, it is a painting;
When in motion, it is a tableau.
Reveries, meditations, fantasies, nostalgia, visions, illusions…
Every word can turn on my heart.

There is too much noisy brightness in this world, and even in the wintertime
It is a rare chance to see a star-studded sky.
The blinking warm lights have long been grafted onto human bodies
So as to ogle in the artificial darkness,
Or maybe they are wrapped in black velvet, encased,
Like eyes that are shielded with reflective film, eyes of freshly dead fish.

The moon is still, full of white and water,
And loaded with the poverty of half the world.
Its roundedness is a medium, a well
That ferments the most beautiful pretense:
Tonight, it is cold, so you have to love me,
And keep my company but keep an arm’s distance.
I cannot stand a human hug.

If it is dark and moonless and windy outside your window, then pull close
All the curtains and roll over on the bed;
Something has to be sealed to be fermented, like the moods sutured in a body.

I have been with you when you are so curled up, heavy with yourself,
But my hands cannot scoop away your loneliness.
When you wake up, you may search for words between the lines,
Feeling the laconic warmth of my melancholy that is meant
To deliver you from the pre-dawn desolation to the mid-morning sunlight.

Only children still love to press faces against the windowpane, looking at
Winds waving silently on the treetops that canopy the yard wall,
And every dog marks its territory with pisses over there.
Children blow breaths on the glass, and look at the outside through the blurring,
And then their fingers coo and coo like pigeons,
When a line sketch of a smiling face makes the flat world
Rise and fall as a country landscape.
So they keep on breathing to the face until it is blurred again,
And then they track the lines once more to keep the laugh.
They breathe and track, over and over, until they grow tired of their fiddle,
And as everything becomes so transiently unreal,
They cut out a paper face, glue it against the glass.
Unflattened as it is, the wax-paper face keeps faithful watch over their sleep and dreams,
Even keep wake for the empty room,
Till it is aged and faded by the sunlight,
Till they forget that they cut it because they wanted to keep their own breath.

People can only stand for a while,
Going away is pre-destined.
There is no lack of sound to easily carry away even the most determined one,
Or, soundless sleep may prevail, not by its inner power but by borrowed power
Of weariness that rises from the dull wall-base and cold feet.

Insidiousness is an injection of anesthetic, and once done, the life is left
Alone, like the leaves of a window hinged to the frame
Whose agitated thrashing only solidifies their unbreakable relation.
The hinge grips their strength, sucks their life, and they may
Do sit-ups or push-ups, but could never take a free walk.

Where there is a wall, there is at least a window.
A window is a transcendental existence, inherent to a wall,
Even prior to the door.
A window is God’s last remedy for a dead exit,
For the last jump of life.

One may debar the cries outside the door but can never play deaf
To the call that seeps in through the window.
A fleeting shadow across there will snatch the soul
From the spread-eagle body of the once vertical one by window.
Black cats squad on the windowsill,
Half-closed eyes shiny like stars, and reveal
There are incarcerated spirits behind the holes on the wall.

Through the lens of scientific instruments, their body heat
Always lingers there, taking the form of human bodies,
Never dissolved. It is a thermo thing,
Which I have never figured out.
Only danger-inducing possibility incites mortal interest.

(A secluded little woman wrote from her garden—
You think my gait ‘spasmodic’ -- I’m in danger, sir—
She said she was a load gun, but I know
No one had really put his finger at the trigger, or the gun
Did not have a trigger at all.)

They are encased in glass and concrete, so
I have been circling around like a phantom outside night after night,
And not a hair is impaired or grayed.
How safe I am!
I have never planned or been hired to kill them.
Bullets, arrows, staggers or matches can touch them
For only once, and it can never last longer than a breath.

In my imaginary gaze, I can see their hands holding their upper-arms
For warmth, and I see myself as a tiny snake
On a laurel branch, wriggling like fear,
For a never fulfilled rape.

I try to persuade myself that even voyeurism is not a sin
Or shame. Any individual who is intent on an act
Exhibits to a world of unconsciousness
And performs for the world in dark.
To be a hidden audience, to commune with the incidental performer
In a way unregistered in the world of physics;
This is a supreme art, like the mind-mind exchange between the blind.

(The performaniacs don’t stand by window;
They see even in rainy days stars peeping and their mouths watering,
So they turn their daily routine into stripteases.
They pull open and close windows, roll up and let loose curtains,
And flick on and off the switch. In the end,
They will scatter confetti on their naked bodies.
—Oh, these lines should be deleted.)

Night flows into rooms without anyone’s notice,
Seeping into those standing at window, and through their words
I am saturated with night and made flesh.
Their breathing tickles my nerves, and my body is taken by spasms;
To read them, I have to hide behind curtains
From the blaze of the sun.
Like a garden eel into liquid and sand,
The rear half sucked by sand, the upper half dangling in the undercurrent.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Jan. 21-30, 2009


　　　窗户政治

没人看到，凭窗人的字
是融进夜色的墨滴
他们以伫立凝聚自我，以希望和苦难作为翅膀
悬在夜的边缘，俯瞰、仰望或远眺
或者哪怕仅仅是看着窗框，一股坚定
就已令我神往

静，如一幅油画
动，则是一幅戏剧场景
浮想、冥想、狂想、怀想、期想、非分之想……
每个词都能令我兴奋地心不在焉

这世界已闪亮得足够喧闹，甚至在冬季
人也很少能看到星斗满天
那殷殷的光，被焊接到人的身体上
用来在人为幽暗的地方勾引目光
或者有更为精致的黑丝绒将它们藏匿起来
正如眼睛，都覆盖着一层反光的膜
失水之鱼的眼

惟有月亮依旧静如止水，满载的白
倒映着半个世界的贫乏
它的圆满，是一眼触媒，一口井
发酵出最美的温软——
今夜，你要爱我，在寒意中陪我，但保持一臂距离
我，经不住人的拥抱

如果你的窗前月黑风高，那么
拉上帘子，蜷曲在床上
有些东西需要密封才能充分发酵
犹如心情需要缝合在身体中

在你只与自己抱成一团的时候，我就在你身侧
但我的双手无法掬走你沉重的孤独
你醒来，掰开我的诗行，我的忧郁
将以你似曾相识的字眼散发简洁的热度，超度你晨起时的落寞
送你进入晌午的阳光

白日，孩子会将脸贴在玻璃上，看风
无言地摇曳在遮挡围墙的树梢上
每条狗都在那儿标注自己的领地
孩子们哈气，透过一小片模糊望着外面
然后手指在玻璃上发出咕咕的鸽音
于是一张粗线条、最简单的脸
令平薄的世界像乡村风景一样起伏
他们一再哈气维持着那张脸、那张脸后的风景
直到它们再次模糊，他们再次描出原来的痕迹，恢复着笑脸
直到他们腻味了，于是那一切都变得虚假
他们剪蜡纸，粘贴在玻璃上
蜡纸脸并不伏贴，却忠诚地守着他们的熟睡与梦呓，甚至
面对空屋
直到阳光令它苍老退色
直到他们也忘记了当初是为了保持他们自己的气息才剪出了那张笑脸

人，都只能站一会儿
离开早已注定
有很多声音能很轻易地将最会伫立的人带走
或者，无声的睡眠最终得胜，不是靠其本身的内力，而是巧借
因无趣而从墙基和脚底升起的疲倦

阴，无需着力，只是注入一针麻醉剂，然后若无其事
似乎窗扇被赋予了自由，而它们所有的蹦腾
只是证明铰链紧固，挟持它们的精力，吸留它们的生命
而它们围着它仰卧起坐或者俯卧撑，可是不得随意散步

有墙，必有窗
它是一个先验的存在，内置于墙
甚至先于门。上帝私留着它
为了弥补对凡人关闭的大门
为了让生命最后跳跃一次

人，或许会躲避门外的呼喊，却不能装聋作哑
抵制渗进窗缝的呼唤
一丝动静就会将凭窗者的魂魄从横陈的肉身中唤走
如一只只黑猫蹲在窗台上
只要睁眼，就会发光
向墙外的人显示闪烁的被禁闭的灵

在科学仪器的监视下，他们的体热
滞留不散，在那儿聚集着人的形状
那似乎叫热敏感应，可具体叫什么
术语，我从不记得——
没有危险，便难以激发致命的兴趣

（一个隐于人世的小女人在花园中写道——
“你认为我的步态‘有如痉挛’—我居于危险啊，大先生”
她说她是一只装了火药的枪——只是
从没有人扣动她的扳机，或许从未安装）

他们被玻璃与混凝土封罩着，所以我
时常在窗外的半空中盘旋，像幻影一样
我多么安全啊，毫发无损
甚至没有为他们愁出白头
没有人雇用我刺杀他们，我也从未有此意图
子弹、箭矢、匕首、火柴
都只能与他们接触一次，绝不会比一口气更长

而在我想象的凝注中，他们双手抱紧双臂
取暖，而我自己像一条小蛇
在桂树枝上，扭动着一种恐惧
一次永远没能满足的强暴

我一直试图说服自己，即便偷窥也不必感到羞耻
和疚愧。任何人一旦专注于一个动作
就暴露给了无意识的世界，为黑暗裹挟着的整个世界
表演。能够做
一个隐匿的观众，以非物理学的联系
与那无意的表演者互动而独立，这是至高的技艺
犹如盲者间的心传

（表演症患从不看窗外，他们在阴雨天
也能看见星星正目不转睛地垂涎三尺
所以一直忙于将日常俗务做成一场场脱衣舞
时而推拉窗牖、时而将帷幕帘帐撩起、放下
开关开开关关。最后，他们赤裸了
他们就会朝身上洒节庆的彩纸屑
——哦，我应该删除这一节）

夜，没人知道地涌进室内，流经凭窗者，再流经我
我的神经因他们的气息而敏感，肉身不时被痉挛攥紧
这令我在阳光普照时也必须隐匿在窗帘后
犹如浸泡于一种液体
夜，在我白昼的台灯下沉积，我如一条园鳗
下半截让沙土吮吸、裹束，上半身悬荡于涌动的暗流
　　　　　　　　2009年1月21-31日

按：“你认为我的步态是‘痉挛式的’—我居于危险，先生” (You think my gait ‘spasmodic’ -- I’m in danger, sir) 摘自艾米莉·狄金森给希金森的信。“装了火药的枪”出自狄金森的一首诗：My Life had stood—a loaded gun--/ In Corners—till a Day/ The Owner passed—identified—/ And carried Me away—// (我的人生伫立--装了火药的枪--/ 在墙角--直到一天/ 主人路过--认出来--/ 将我带走)