楚注：因其不争而天下莫能与之争

 

I've been blessed to have two long-term relationships in my life (the second of which I am still in).  I found both of these relationships when I had given up and was focused on other things.  My experience is that the best way to find love is to stop looking for it.
　　我很幸运地有过两段长期恋爱关系(第二次目前仍在继续).　我发现这两次都是在我放弃希望，并把注意力放在其它事物上发生的．我的经验是：最好的寻爱方法就是停止寻爱.

Well, that's not a very cheerful message for Valentine's Day, is it?  Actually, it's more hopeful than it sounds because I have never found desperation - be it in love or work - to yield positive results.  On the other hand, surrender has invariably worked for me.  The question is how to reach that state of surrender and how to view it in a positive way.
　　不过,这也许对情人节来说不是什么好消息,是不是呢? 实际上,这比听上去更有希望,因为在想要产生积极结果的时候我从不会绝望--无论是在对爱情,还是工作.另一方面,投降次次都对我有利.问题是如何达到那种投降的状态,如何积极地来看待.

When I say that I surrendered to the fact that I might not find that special someone and stopped looking, it sounds very passive.  But I didn't take to my bed, switch on the soaps, and order in pizza.  Quite the contrary.  Instead, I decided to focus on the activities that were fulfilling to me rather than desperately going on date after date with people I knew in my heart were not right for me.
　　当我说对:  我可能会找不到特别的那位---这样的"事实"投降,于是停止寻找,听上去很被动.但我不会在床上一倒,打开电视看电视剧,　然后点馅饼充饥. 完全相反地,我会决定把时间花在那些给我充实感觉的事情活动上,　不会一次次去和自己内心清楚不适合自己的人去约会.

Surrender is an active state.  When I surrender to not having romance in my life, I open myself up to other kinds of love.  When I was single, for example, I had closer friendships than I do now that so much of my attention is focused on my relationship.  While those friendships were different than romantic love, they were deeply fulfilling all the same.   
　　投降是一种积极的心态.当对自己生命中所追求的浪漫投降,就给了其它方式的爱情张开了臂膀. 在我单身的时候,比方说把, 就有着比现在已不是单身更加密切的友情,因为现在我太多的注意力都集中在我婚姻关系上.这些友情虽和浪漫爱情不同,但同样能带来深切的满足感.

Likewise, I was able to devote more time to helping other people as a single person.  Now that I have both my own family and my in-laws to contend with, life is very full and finding the time necessary to make a difference with volunteer activities is more challenging.   
　　同样,在我单身的时候, 能投入更多的时间来帮助别人. 目前我有了自己家庭和对方家庭要照顾,生活被塞的很满,要找必要时间参加志愿者活动就更加困难.

I had an extremely rich life as a single person.  When I accepted the idea that I might remain single, I was also quite happy.  My days were filled with work, friends, family, exercise, and spiritual activities.  Although I didn't know it at the time, this all probably made me more attractive as a potential mate because I was not operating out of fear; I am simply not at my best walking around thinking, "Oh my God, I'm alone.  I'm getting older.  I have to find someone."
　　在我单身的时候,我日子过的很充裕. 所以当我接受我或许还将单身下去的事实,我同样也很高兴. 我的日子都被工作,朋友,家庭,锻炼身体,以及精神活动所占满. 虽然当时没意识到这点,但由于我的表现不是出于将一直担心单身,所以可能是这一切使我看上去更有魅力,成为一个潜在的求爱对象.其实我只不过是不总走来走去不停的想"哦,老天,我孤苦伶仃,不断变老,得要去找个伴"

Some single folks will probably sneer at this advice.  "Easy for him to say now that he's found love!"  But I can only share what worked for me.  When I relaxed and saw what I already had, it became much easier to find what I wanted.  In fact, I didn't have to find it - it found me.
　　一些单身族们可能会嘲笑这个建议. "他找到了爱情,当然说起来轻巧" 的确,我只能分享对我有了效果的方法. 当我使自己放松,看到已拥有的,在去找我喜爱的,就要容易的多 .实际上,我不需去找爱----爱情自己会找上门来

央视春晚越来越无聊，但无聊的除夕夜还是会呆在家里望着电视。虽然现在电视节目丰富了，各地都有自己的春晚，可是作为全国最高水准代表的央视春晚，还是要关注一下的。

首先要自我检讨，由于现在普遍睡的比较晚，基本每天都要到凌晨，所以没有什么守岁的感觉。不温不火的心情加不温不火的节目，整场春晚下来，发现自己只记得《小城雨巷》里那群姐姐雪白的大腿了。百度一下，发现和我有同感的人还不在少数，而且有好事的人还找到了许多背景资料，以下摘录一段：

舞蹈《小城雨巷》:　 这个舞蹈无疑取材于戴望舒的诗《雨巷》 ：
　　撑着油纸伞，独自彷徨在悠长，悠长又寂寥的雨巷，我希望逢着一个丁香一样地结着愁怨的姑娘。
　　她是有丁香一样的颜色，丁香一样的芬芳，丁香一样的忧愁，在雨中哀怨，哀怨又彷徨；
　　她彷徨在这寂寥的雨巷，撑着油纸伞象我一样，象我一样地默默行着，冷漠、凄清，又惆怅。
　　她静默地走近走近，又投出太息一般的眼光，她飘过象梦一般地，象梦一般地凄婉迷茫。
　　一枝丁香地，我身旁飘过这女郎；她静默地远了，远了，到了颓圮的篱墙，走尽这雨巷。
　　在雨的哀曲里，消了她的颜色，散了她的芬芳，消散了，甚至她的太息般的眼光，丁香般的惆怅。
　　撑着油纸伞，独自彷徨在悠长，悠长又寂寥的雨巷，我希望飘过一个丁香一样地结着愁怨的姑娘。
　　但是，我要说的是但是，这个舞蹈除了姑娘,除了油纸伞, 还有就是露大腿，一开场，舞蹈演员就用她右边开叉的大腿晃来晃来去，整的老子眼花缭乱，整个舞蹈的都没有怎么仔细去观看，就去观察所有女演员的大腿了，没有办法，前几天新闻里老有几个编导跳出来说今年的春晚要有新的舞蹈语言,反正不管新旧的舞蹈语言，我都不懂，就懂大腿，据我观察,她们还是蛮健美的。

看了以上段落，是不是也想回味一下这个节目了，继续百度，不出意料，视频下载的链接也有了：http://www.qx1955.com/stgc/spzl/wd_xcyx.wmv 。这个版本不是央视春晚的，我看下来区别就在于这个早先的版本大腿要露的含蓄很多，或者是央视的舞美灯光太出“色”了，才造成我满眼白华华的一片，就请有兴趣的自己去评判啦。

更有好事者，将看女演员露大腿列为春晚九大看点之一。其实，个人觉得女演员在荧幕上露个大腿本无可厚非。就像男演员会在荧幕上秀肌肉一样，都是吸引观众眼球的一种手段罢了。要是严格说起来，男演员光着膀子大秀胸肌，多少还有露点之嫌呢，只是我们习惯把这种男性的暴露定性为“阳刚”，而女性的展示定义为“不雅”。

再看看时下算是很火的舞林大会，从主持人版到全国版，身着凉快的女性比比皆是。记得有位前辈打趣的说，舞林大会看什么，不就看套着丝袜的大腿嘛。想想也是，本来大家对舞蹈了解也不多，艺人们也不是个个精通舞技，大家不都是图个热闹嘛。你秀秀大腿娱乐大家，大家发发短信捧捧你，一来而去，也算公平交易了。

话题还是回到春晚的大腿秀来。看完春晚，连着三天都在看NBA全明星周末，人家歌舞表演也是女拉拉队员狂秀大腿，只是人家穿的是热裤，尽力表演，你也别奢望多看到些什么。而春晚版的《小城雨巷》中，那些身姿婀娜的姐姐穿着旗袍，右边的高开叉若隐若现，勾起人无限的遐想，或许这就是体现全国最高水准的东方审美的魅力吧。反正我的眼球得到了享受，也就不多少什么了，哈哈。

In Paris they warn you before cutting off the water, but out in Normandy you’re just supposed to know. You’re also supposed to be prepared, and it’s this last part that gets me every time. Still, though, I try to make do. A saucepan of chicken broth will do for shaving, and in a pinch I can always find something to pour into the toilet tank: orange juice, milk, a lesser champagne. If I really got hard up, I suppose I could hike through the woods and bathe in the river, though it’s never quite come to that.

Most often, our water is shut off because of some reconstruction project, either in our village or in the next one over. A hole is dug, a pipe is replaced, and within a few hours things are back to normal. The mystery is that it’s so perfectly timed to my schedule. This is to say that the tap dries up at the exact moment I roll out of bed, which is usually between ten and ten-thirty. For me this is early, but for Hugh and most of our neighbors it’s something closer to midday. What they do at 6 A.M. is anyone’s guess. I only know that they’re incredibly self-righteous about it, and talk about the dawn as if it’s a personal reward, bestowed on account of their great virtue.

The last time our water went off, it was early summer. I got up at my regular hour, and saw that Hugh was off somewhere, doing whatever it is he does. This left me alone to solve the coffee problem—a sort of Catch-22, as in order to think straight I needed caffeine, and in order to make that happen I needed to think straight. Once, in a half-sleep, I made it with Perrier, which sounds plausible but really isn’t. On another occasion, I heated up some leftover tea and poured that over the grounds. Had the tea been black rather than green, the coffee might have worked out, but, as it was, the result was vile. It wasn’t the sort of thing you’d try more than once, so this time I skipped the teapot and headed straight for a vase of wildflowers sitting by the phone on one of the living-room tables.

Hugh had picked them the previous day, and it broke my heart to think of him marching across a muddy field with a bouquet in his hand. He does these things that are somehow beyond faggy and seem better suited to some hardscrabble pioneer wife: making jam, say, or sewing bedroom curtains out of burlap. Once, I caught him down on the riverbank, beating our dirty clothes against a rock. This was before we got a washing machine, but, still, he could have laundered things in the tub. “Who are you?” I’d said, and, as he turned, I half-expected to see a baby at his breast, not nestled in one of those comfortable supports but hanging, red-faced, by its gums.

When Hugh beats underpants against river rocks or decides that it might be fun to grind his own flour, I think of a couple I once met. This was years ago, in the early nineties. I was living in New York, and had returned to North Carolina for Christmas, my first priority being to get high and stay that way. My brother Paul knew of a guy who possibly had some pot to sell, so a phone call was made, and, in the way that these things happen, we found ourselves in a trailer twenty-odd miles outside of Raleigh.

The dealer was named Little Mike, and he addressed Paul as “Bromine.” He looked like a high-school student, or, closer still, one of those kids who dropped out and then spent all day hanging around the parking lot: tracksuit, rattail, a wisp of thread looped through his freshly pierced ear. After a few words regarding my brother’s car, Little Mike ushered us inside and introduced us to his wife, who was sitting on the sofa watching a Christmas special. The girl’s stockinged feet were resting on the coffee table, and settled between her legs, just south of her lap, sat a flat-faced Persian. Both she and the cat had wide-set eyes, and ginger-colored hair, though hers was partially hidden beneath a woollen cap. The wife remained seated as my brother and I entered the room. I guess you couldn’t blame her for being inhospitable. Here you are, trying to watch a little TV with your cat, and these two guys show up—people you don’t even know.

“Don’t mind Beth,” Little Mike said, and he smacked the underside of the girl’s foot.

“Owww, asshole.”

He advanced upon the other foot, and I pretended to admire the Christmas tree, which was miniature and artificial, and stood on a barstool beside the front door. “This is nice,” I announced, and Beth shot me a withering look. Liar, it said. You’re just saying that because my stupid husband sells reefer.

She really wanted us out of there, but Little Mike seemed to welcome our company. “Sit down,” he told me. “Have a libation.” He and Paul went to the refrigerator to get us some beers, and the girl called after them to bring her a rum-and-Coke. Then she turned back to the TV and glared at the screen, saying, “This show’s boring. Hand me the nigger.”

I smiled at the cat, as if this would somehow fix things, and when Beth pointed to the far end of the coffee table I saw that she was referring to the remote control. Under different circumstances, I might have listed the various differences between black people, who had been forced to work for no money, and black, battery-operated channel changers, which had neither thoughts nor feelings and didn’t mind doing stuff for free. But the deal hadn’t started yet, and, more than anything, I wanted my drugs. Thus the remote was handed over, and I watched as the pot dealer’s wife flicked from one station to the next, looking for something that might satisfy her.

She had just settled upon a situation comedy when Paul and Little Mike returned with the drinks. Beth was unsatisfied with her ice-cube count, and, after suggesting that she could just go fuck herself, our host reached into the waistband of his track pants and pulled out a bag of marijuana. It was the size of a small cushion, eight ounces at least, and as I feasted my eyes upon it Little Mike pushed his wife’s feet off the coffee table, saying, “Bitch, go get me my scales.”

“I’m watching TV—get it your own self.”

“Whore,” he said.

“Asshole.”

“See the kind of shit I have to live with?” Little Mike sighed and retreated to the rear of the trailer—the bedroom, I guessed—returning a minute later with a scale and some rolling papers. The pot was sticky with lots of buds, and its smell reminded me of a Christmas tree, though not the one perched atop the barstool. After weighing my ounce and counting out my money, Little Mike rolled a joint, which he lit, drew upon, and handed to my brother. It then went to me, and, just as I was passing it back to our host, his wife piped up, saying, “Hey, don’t I count?”

“Now look who wants to play,” her husband said. “Women. They’ll suck the fucking paper off a joint, but when old Papa Bear needs a little b.j. action they’ve always got a sore throat.”

Beth tried to speak and hold in the smoke at the same time: “Hut hup, hasshole.”

“Either of you guys married?” Little Mike asked, and Paul shook his head no. “I got preëngaged one time, but David here hasn’t never come close, his being a faggot and all.”

Little Mike laughed, and then he looked at me. “For real?” he said. “Is Bromine telling me the truth?”

“Oh, he’s all up inside that shit,” Paul said. “Has hisself a cocksucker—I mean a boyfriend—and everything.”

I could have done my own talking, but it was sort of nice listening to my brother, who sounded almost boastful, as if I were a pet that had learned to do math.

“Well, what do you know,” Little Mike said.

His wife stirred to action then, and became almost sociable. “So this boyfriend,” she said. “Let me ask, which one of you is the woman?”

“Well, neither of us,” I told her. “That’s what makes us a homosexual couple. We’re both guys.”

“But no,” she said. “I mean, like, in prison or whatnot. One of you has to be in for murder and the other for child molesting or something like that, right? I mean, one is more like a normal man.”

I wanted to ask if that would be the murderer or the child molester, but instead I just accepted the joint, saying, “Oh, we live in New York,” as if that answered the question.

We stayed in the trailer for another half hour, and during the ride back to Raleigh I thought of what the drug dealer’s wife had said. Her examples were a little skewed, but I knew what she was getting at. People I know, people who live in houses and don’t call their remote control “the nigger,” have often asked the same question, though usually in regard to lesbians, who are always either absent or safely out of earshot. “Which one’s the man?”

It’s astonishing the amount of time that certain straight people devote to gay sex—trying to determine what goes where, and how often. They can’t imagine any system outside their own, and seem obsessed with the idea of roles, both in bed and out of it. Who calls whom a bitch? Who cries harder when the cat dies? Which one spends the most time in the bathroom? I guess they think that it’s that cut and dried, though of course it’s not. Hugh might do the cooking, and actually wear an apron while he’s at it, but he also chops the firewood, repairs the hot-water heater, and could tear off my arm with no more effort than it takes to uproot a dandelion. Does that make him the murderer, or do the homemade curtains reduce him to the level of the child molester?

I considered these things as I looked at the wildflowers he’d collected the day before the water went out. Some were the color I associate with yield signs, and others a sort of muted lavender, their stems as thin as wire. I pictured Hugh stooping, or maybe even kneeling, as he went about picking them, and then I grabbed the entire bunch and tossed it out the window. That done, I carried the vase into the kitchen, and emptied the yellow water into a pan, which I then boiled and used to make coffee. There’d be hell to pay when my man got home, but at least by then I would be awake and able to argue, perhaps convincingly, that I am all the beauty he will ever need.

      今天非常的不想出门，结果自然是窝在了家里。无聊时在网上闲着，看到了这样一篇文章，在此转载，并非是觉得写的如何之好，只是感到自己看了还是有些共鸣，那时的我很小，岁月却那么美好……

 

 

东方网2月7日消息：一个只有36万人的小城市，每到周末的主场就会4万人挤爆延边足球队的主场，买不到球票的球迷爬到体育场边上的树上隔空相望，但是挂满树梢的球迷依然无法表述1997年延边足球的盛况，因为如果你在比赛进行时离开延吉体育场，在万人空巷的街道你才可以真正领略什么那个纯真的足球年代。

　　1997年的延边足球是辉煌的，而这段辉煌的缔造者就是有延边足球教父之称的崔殷泽，那一年，在这位汉阳大学的足球教授统帅下延边足球在中国足坛掀起了一股旋风。虽然在前三轮比赛中延边队遭遇三连败，但是延边队在崔殷泽的带领下、在延边男女老幼的支持下，这支平民球队随后打出了一个九轮不败的高潮。

　　作为巨人杀手，延边队在主场击败了上海申花、一度在主场两球领先47轮不败的大连万达；作为平民球队，延边队主客场两胜用人民币堆起来的前卫寰岛队；作为延边足球的代言人，高仲勋在

那一年里重现光辉。联赛结束时，延边队仅落后于大连万达、上海申花、北京国安三支豪门，力压前卫寰岛队获得联赛的第四名。

      韩国主帅带队、历史最佳成绩、万人空巷的主场和独树一帜的打法，一场场令人难忘的比赛、一个个让人记忆犹新的片段，1997年中国东北的那个边陲小城朴素的记录着那个属于足球的年代。不过，虽然那时的延边足球辉煌，但是他们却只是甲A的一股势力，因为在那个盛况空前的年代，几乎每一支甲A球队都有自己的辉煌。

　　那时的大连万达是真正的王者，他们直到赛季的最后一轮才在提前夺冠的情况下将55场不败的纪录画上了句号；那时的广州足球已经开始衰落，但是彭氏兄弟仍然可以让球队保持着南派足球的风骨；那时的四川足球正经历辉煌，马麦罗千里走单骑挑落申花场景依然历历在目；那时的北京国安也没有丧失传统，三个火枪手联手9-1狂屠申花的进球纪录至今无人能够打破；那时的重庆足球欣欣向荣，姜峰、高峰等一干国脚的加盟让人真切的体验到了职业化无人能挡的冲击力。

　　1997年的中国足球，人们可以专程到金州为十强赛上惨败的中国队痛哭、人们也可以夜宿成都街头苦求一张甲A门票，那时的人们像朝圣一样涌进甲A赛场。那时的甲A是中国足球的纯真年代，与东北边城遥遥相望的是火爆的成都，一票难求的盛景几乎在每一个周末都会在成体上演；国安9-1大胜申花的看台“牛B”声不断，那时我们知道了杀伤力一点也不比“京骂”差的“京威”；即使盛夏广州的夜晚里，广州球迷不满主队的集体倒戈也让很多中国球迷第一次知道主场球迷还可以这样表达。

　　那是中国足球第一代偶像升腾的年代，转会大连万达三轮后才体测过关的郝海东在随后的19轮比赛中打进14球，拿到了自己的一个联赛金靴；中国足球的第一个偶像派球员李明当时还是一个毛头小伙。那时的中国足坛虽然是大连足球独霸天下，但是前卫有高峰、申花有范志毅、天津有于根伟、全兴有“兵马组合”、山东有宿茂臻、延边有高仲勋，几乎每一支球队都有自己的球星领军，而这些人在自己的主场个个都一呼百应。

　　那时的中国足球绝不为钱担心，联赛总冠名的费用打着滚的上涨、各队为了争夺国脚纷纷许以房子票子，甚至原来炒火车票的黄牛党在转行球票后也提前进入小康社会，据说当年在成都卖球票的绝不比现在倒春运火车票的来钱慢，甚至胆子大的个别人早就享受过就像中了五百万一样的喜悦。

　　十年后，曾经统领延边足球横行甲A的崔殷泽悄悄的告别了黑白相间的足球，而没有球迷支撑的中国足球则早已远离盛世，告别盛世的中国足球一片萧条，球迷远离球场、一些有球踢的球员过着农民工一样的生活，另一些没球踢的球员则像下岗工人一样为生存发愁，那些曾经为中国足球一掷千金的赞助商什么也纷纷远去，在即将开始的中超联赛甚至有继续裸奔的危险。即使当年在崔殷泽手下走红的射手黄东春(1997年打进9球，与高峰并列射手第四位)曾是多支甲A球人争购的对象，但如今只能在杭州靠一间烤肉馆维持生计，现在的延边足球也只能在卖掉当家球星后勉强在中甲联赛中支撑。

如果爱你只有这一次

我会用每一个夜晚来记得你

如果失望只有这一次

我会用无数个希望继续等待

——阿桑 《如果爱你只有一次》

真的不想在这个时候来写这么一篇东西。像我这样的单身人群，每到类似的日子，总会感慨良多，反映到文字上，不是矫揉造作，就是愤世嫉俗。但是有些事，一旦过了期，回头再去看，就觉得索然无味。所以还是要在第一时间记录下心情，留下成长的足迹。

今天是上博春节活动的倒数第二场，在这一系列活动中，我可谓备受打击。在经历了最初两场被人叫做叔叔后，今天竟然被两个华师大二附中的志愿者当成是学生家长。哎，就算自己心态多年轻，岁月还是无情的滑过我的脸庞，老了！不过，在这项活动中，我还是有所收获的，那就是我终于上报纸了，还是一份著名的报纸——《新民晚报》，虽然只是一个侧面，呵呵。

明天就是西方的情人节，这个日子本来对我而言并没有什么意义，只是一个普通的工作日而已。可是，晚饭后来自WX的短信却触到了我一直小心翼翼的在避免让自己想起的事情。总爱多想的我往往会把这样的巧合认为是一种逃不开的宿命，只是此刻，留给自己的只有漫天的酸楚。脑海中的画面定格在了去年的2·14，似乎很多事都是在那天后开始了微妙的变化，然后的岁月可能是需要一生去忘记的。明天，无论小慢加班到什么时候，一定会有人等着她；明天无论我要开会到几点，都会一个人默默的想念。

当一扇门对你合上，总会有另一扇门为你敞开，只是你太专注于那扇合上的门，才会对为你敞开的门视而不见。

在毫无征兆的情况下，我的手机突然罢工了。快1年了，除了换电池，我没让他休息过一分钟，是该罢工了。

送修后，维修人员说要格式化机器，然后再重装软件，但因为无法开机备份资料，手机里所有的资料将全部丢失。这意味着我的通讯录、小慢和牛牛的照片还有久久不愿删去的那些耐人寻味的短信……

一切就这么猛然间从我的生活中抽离了，拿着空空的手机，感到被格式化的不止是他，还有我的生活。在岁末之际，这样的事件似乎可以被赋予更多的寓意，一方面，我要努力寻回过去通讯录中的联系方式；另一方面，也是督促我要试图用新的号码渐渐填满通讯录，新的生活就这么被逼着不得不开始了。

话题还是要回到手机罢工的原因，我不是什么大人物，也没有很多事情要忙，可还是习惯于24小时开着手机。这个习惯缘自和小慢共事期间，那时我总让小慢晚上要关机，不然辐射对身体不好。后来发生的一些事，让我好几次也像小慢那样抱着手机就睡着了，因为我不确定小慢会不会在深夜发来回复。再后来发生的一些事，让这种等待的结果变的越来越没有可能。只是谁想到，最后自己反而把这种习惯变成了一种坚持，不断告诉自己“要是小慢有事找不到我怎么办”，虽然早已没有了希望。直到今天早上，我的手机罢工了，当坐在维修部的大厅等待格式化升级的时候，头脑里不停的放映着零零碎碎的片断，心中不免惆怅，就好像他们也将随着手机的资料一起被格式化似的。

之后的整个下午，卸下了负担，却陷进了回忆。

今晚，我决定写完这篇日志就关机睡觉，明天或许还会24小时开机，只是不知道等候的是谁的消息……