克莱因发明了一种方法可以让深蓝色颜料（ultramarine）保持纯净，不仅颜料不会丧失透光性，看起来也有“生命”。而将颜料放在油中后的效果，让他感觉到了“死亡”。他为此申请了专利，成为international klein blue（IKB）。他用这种颜料来做单色画，也把IKB涂在女模特的裸体上，然后将她们的身体印在白纸上。
如贾曼在台词里所说的“你的心底祈祷中影像中释放”，单一的蓝色荧幕是对影像的不信任，并倚重从听觉而来的信息。1980年代晚期约克现代艺术馆展出艾滋人群的照片时，美国激进团体反对这个展览的口号就是：Stop looking at us：start listening to us。《蓝色》也许正以它独特的形式邀请，甚至胁迫观众去聆听灵魂，而不是将患艾滋病的肉体当作怪物来注视、猎奇。
对蓝色情有独钟，也许因为贾曼对文艺复兴的痴迷。17世纪炼金术士，也是玫瑰十字会（Rosicrucianism）成员韩德尔（Max Heindel） 相信蓝色是所有颜色总最高级的，代表着精神从物质中解脱出来。17世纪的时候，蓝色是灵魂的颜色，在19世纪的时候象征着梦。20世纪时在世界大战之间，许多电影海报用蓝色去吸引路人的眼睛，也表示邀请人门去电影的幽暗大厅做梦。贾曼的作品与西方艺术从中世纪晚期开始建立的传统有关，他的蓝色展现了无限、灵魂脱离肉体、灵与物的转换。蓝色，象征在死亡中个体性的消失，灵魂逐渐飞向天空。电影里的几句台词：our name will be forgotten , in time, no one will remember out work...sparks through the stubble来自《圣经》次经《所罗门的智慧》。贾曼的作品不仅是电影艺术的实验，同时也植根于一种传统的离经叛道。
Derek Jarman和我坐在一起，观赏他的最后一部电影《Blue》。看了大概一刻钟吧，Jarman突然问我，语气平缓，你都看到了什么。没什么，只有一片蓝色而已。哦，那么，他轻轻点点头，你跟我看到的差不多，我只是看到一片黑暗而已。n nnJarman说他拍这部片子的时候已经双目失明好几年了，已经无法捕捉HB头发的光泽。我不知道一个纽卡索人的头发应该是什么颜色，金？墨？亚麻？或蓝。我好奇的问起，HB究竟长什么样，有多好看。他微笑着说，很好看，可是我已经几年没有看过了，他就像蓝色，能把人溶解掉。可是我现在浑身通红，HIV剥掉我的皮肤，撕裂我的肌肉，我成为暗红的一团，溶进蓝色里就会变得黑紫，那样HB就不好看了。所以我只在日记里写，只用耳朵倾听，HB照顾我爱护我冲我发脾气陪我睡觉。我已经不知道HB在用哪种洗发水了，可是他头发的气味从来没有变过，那么好闻。nnn我向他说起对医院的厌恶，或者恐惧。“Hell on Earth is a waiting room . Here you know you are not in control of youself , waiting for your name to be called : “ 712213 “ .Here you have no name”我一走进医院就会莫名的紧张，心跳过速，手心出汗。我害怕那些穿着白衣把有病的身体看作桌上的苹果一般的人，所有的针筒在我看来都有大腿一般粗细。而Jarman说他不害怕，不应当害怕。他的视网膜脱落，肌肉脱落护士甚至找不到他的静脉来注射，可是他不愿做作的自己同情自己。他给我讲了这么个故事：“Lightning flickers through the hospital window , at the door an elderly women stands waiting for the rain to clear . I ask her if I can give her a lift . I’ve hailed a taxi . “Can you take me to Holborn Tube ?” On the way she breaks down in tears . She has come from Edinburgh . Her son is in the ward. He has meningitic and has lost the use of his legs. I’m helpless as the tears flow. I can’t see her. Just the sound of her sobbing .” 我静静的听Jarman讲完整个故事，开始羡慕HB，羡慕他有如此深沉的爱人。屏幕上仍旧是一片蓝色，太纯粹了，纯粹的可以令人平静，令人发狂，令人蒙头歌唱，令人呆坐度过一个下午的时光。音乐一直隐隐约约的呢喃着，Jarman说要带我去参观他的花园，他说他身体还好的时候时常布置花园，他在路上边走还边俯身拾起一些形状或颜色漂亮的小石子，说要带回去洒在围墙脚和花丛根部。我说你的花园五颜六色，很你这部电影很不相像。他说颜色对于我就像一种幸福，可是却不断地从我身边消逝，到今天我已经看不到任何颜色，而我给你们看的还有蓝色，即使只有蓝色，可是却纯粹，你们还有幸福，而我即将离去。nnn我说Jarman你的电影就像让我玩了一场痛快淋漓的打地鼠游戏。那些地鼠头上都挂着块牌子，上面分别写着：男主角，女主角，演技，构图，节奏，叙事，场面调度等等，每冒出来一个我就一锤子敲回去，一个都没漏掉。让那些影评人对其他电影任意说三道四，而对《Blue》他们却不能。我面对屏幕，只能让自己尽力去融入那片深沉的颜色当中，而无法抱着欣赏的态度去看待。就像我读托尔斯泰的《战争与和平》，总会觉得自己站在俄法战争的战场上，走在安德烈公爵的庄园里。你是对所有的人怀有最普遍的同情的。对此，Jarman只是默默递给我一本书，《Smile On the Slow Motion》，他的最后一本日记。我有好几为朋友都因为艾滋病已经去世了，他说，“David. Howard. Graham. Terry. Paul”，不久因为我的缘故，HB也将离我而去。我只想在最后的时间里，告诉他们我爱他们，HB，“David. Howard. Graham. Terry. Paul”。我只是在一个多小时的时间里追逐最后平静。n nnJarman在影片结束前离开了，我知道他不会再回来。他留下了一张纸条，而我把所有七十七分钟的蓝色都咀嚼完，才去看那张纸条，上面只有一句话：“To HB and to all the true lovers”
You say to the boy open your eyes When he opens his eyes and sees the light You make him cry out. Saying O Blue come forth O Blue arise O Blue ascend O Blue come in
I am sitting with some friends in this cafe drinking coffee served by young refugees from Bosnia. The war rages across the newspapers and through the ruined streets of Sarajevo.
Tania said 'Your clothes are on back to front and inside out". Since there were only two of us there I took them off and put them right then and there. I am always here before the doors open.
What need of so much news from abroad while all that concerns either life or death is all transacting and at work within me.
I step off the kerb and a cyclist nearly knocks me down. Flying in from the dark he nearly parted my hair.
I step into a blue funk.
The doctor in St. Bartholomew's Hospital thought he could detect lesions in my retina - the pupils dilated with belladonna - the torch shone into them with a terrible blinding light.
Look left Look down Look up Look right
Blue flashes in my eyes.
Blue Bottle buzzing Lazy days The sky blue butterfly Sways on the cornflower Lost in the warmth Of the blue heat haze Singing the blues Quiet and slowly
Blue of my heart Blue of my dreams Slow blue love Of delphinium days
Blue is the universal love in which man bathes - it is the terrestrial paradise.
I'm walking along the beach in a howling gale - Another year is passing In the roaring waters I hear the voices of dead friends Love is life that lasts forever. My hearts memory turns to you David. Howard. Graham. Terry. Paul....
But what if this present Were the world's last night In the setting sun your love fades Dies in the moonlight Fails to rise Thrice denied by cock crow In the dawn's first light
Look left Look down Look up Look right The camera flash Atomic bright Photos The CMV - a green moon then the world turns magenta My retina Is a distant planet A red Mars From a Boy's Own comic With yellow infection Bubbling at the corner I said this looks like a planet The doctor says - "Oh, I think It looks like a pizza"
The worst of the illness is uncertainty. I've played this scenario back and forth each hour of the day for the last six years. Blue transcends the solemn geography of human limits.
I am home with the blinds drawn H.B. is back from Newcastle But gone out - the washing Machine is roaring away And the fridge is defrosting These are his favourite sounds
I've been given the option of being an in-patient at the hospital or to coming in twice a day to be hooked to a drip. My vision will never come back.
The retina is destroyed, though when the bleeding stops what is left of my sight might improve. I have to come to terms with sightlessness.
If I loose my sight will my vision be halved?
The virus rages fierce. I have no friends now who are not dead or dying. Like a blue frost it caught them. At work, at the cinema, on marches and beaches. In churches on their knees, running, flying, silent or shouting protest.
It started with sweats in the night and swollen glands. Then the black cancer spread across their faces - as they fought for breath TB and pneumonia hammered their lungs, and Toxo at the brain. Reflexes scrambled - sweat poured through hair matter like lianas in the tropical forest. Voices slurred - and then were lost forever. My pen chased this story across the page tossed this way and that in the storm.
The blood of sensibility is blue I consecrate myself To find its most perfect expression
My sight failed a little more in the night H.B. offers me his blood It will kill everything he says
The drip of DHPG Trills like a canary
I am accompanied by a shadow into which H.B. appears and disappears. I have lost the sight on the periphery of my right eye.
I hold out my hands before me and slowly part them. At a certain moment they disappear out of the corner of my eyes. This is how I used to see. Now if I repeat the motion this is all I see.
I shall not win the battle against the virus - in spite of the slogans like "Living with AIDS". The virus was appropriated by the well - so we have to live with AIDS while they spread the quilt for the moths of Ithaca across the wine dark sea.
Awareness is heightened by this, but something else is lost. A sense of reality drowned in theatre.
Thinking blind, becoming blind.
In the hospital it is as quiet as a tomb. The nurse fights to find a vein in my right arm. We give up after five attempts. Would you faint if someone stuck a needle into your arm? I've got used to it - but I still shut my eyes.
The Gautama Buddha instructs me to walk away from illness. But he wasn't attached to a drip.
Fate is the strongest Fate Fated Fatal I resign myself to Fate Blind Fate The drip stings A lump swells up in my arm Out comes the drip An electric shock sparks up my arm
How can I walk away with a drip attached to me? How am I going to walk away from this?
I fill this room with the echo of many voices Who passed time here Voices unlocked from the blue of the long dried paint The sun comes and floods this empty room I call it my room My room has welcomed many summers Embraced laughter and tears Can it fill itself with your laughter Each word a sunbeam Glancing in the light This is the song of My Room Blue stretches, yawns and is awake.
There is a photo in the newspaper this morning of refugees leaving Bosnia. They look out of time. Peasant women with scarves and black dresses stepped from the pages of an older Europe. One of them has lost her three children.
Lightning flickers through the hospital window - at the door an elderly woman stands waiting for the rain to clear. I ask her if I can give her a lift, I've hailed a taxi. "Can you take me to Holborn tube?" On the way she breaks down in tears. She has come from Edinburgh. Her son is in the ward - he has meningitis and has lost the use of his legs - I'm helpless as the tears flow. I can't see her. Just the sound of her sobbing.
One know the whole world Without stirring abroad Without looking out of the window One can see the way of heaven The further one goes The less one knows
In the pandemonium of image I present you with the universal Blue Blue an open door to soul An infinite possibility Becoming tangible
Here I am again in the waiting room. Hell on Earth is a waiting room. Here you know you are not in control of yourself, waiting for your name to be called: "712213". Here you have no name, confidentiality is nameless. Where is 666? Am I sitting opposite him/her? Maybe 666 is the demented woman switching the channels on the TV.
What do I see Past the gates of conscience Activists invading Sunday Mass In the cathedral An epic Czar Ivan denouncing the Patriarch of Moscow A moon-faced boy who spits and repeatedly Crosses himself - as he genuflects Will the pearly gates slam shut in The faces of the devout
The demented woman is discussing needles - there is always a discussion here. She has a line put into her neck. How are we perceived, if we are to be perceived at all? For the most part we are invisible.
If the doors of perception were cleansed then everything would be seen as it is.
The dog barks, the caravan passes. Marco Polo stumbles across the Blue Mountain.
Marco Polo stops and sits on a lapis throne by the River Oxus while he is ministered to by the descendants of Alexander the Great. The caravan approaches, blue canvasses fluttering in the wind. Blue people from over the sea - ultramarine - have come to collect the lapis with its flecks of gold. The road to the city of Aqua Vitae is protected by a labyrinth built from crystals and mirrors which in the sunlight cause terrible blindness. The mirrors reflect each of your betrayals, magnify them and drive you into madness.
Blue walks into the labyrinth. Absolute silence is demanded to all its visitors, so their presence does not disturb the poets who are directing the excavations. Digging can only proceed on the calmest of days as rain and wind destroy the finds.
The archaeology of sound has only just been perfected and the systematic cataloguing of words has until recently been undertaken in a haphazard way. Blue watched as a word or phrase materialised in scintillating sparks, a poetry of fire which casts everything into darkness with the brightness of its reflections.
As a teenager I used to work for the Royal National Institute for the Blind on their Christmas appeal for radios, with dear miss Punch, seventy years old, who used to arrive each morning on her Harley Davidson.
She kept us on our toes. Her job as a gardener gave her time to spare in January. Miss Punch Leather Woman was the first out dyke I ever met. Closeted and frightened by my sexuality she was my hope. "Climb on, let's go for a ride." She looked like Edith Piaf, a sparrow, and wore a cock-eyed beret at a saucy angle. She bossed all the other old girls who came back year after year for her company.
In the paper today. Three quarters of the AIDS organisations are not providing safer sex information. One district said they had no queers in their community, but you might try district X - they have a theatre.
My sight seems to have closed in. The hospital is even quieter this morning. Hushed. I have a sinking feeling in my stomach. I feel defeated. My mind bright as a button but my body falling apart - a naked light bulb in a dark and ruined room. There is death in the air here but we are not talking about it. But I know the silence might be broken by distraught visitors screaming, "Help, Sister! Help Nurse!" followed by the sound of feet rushing along the corridor. Then silence.
Blue protects white from innocence Blue drags black with it Blue is darkness made visible Blue protects white from innocence Blue drags black with it Blue is darkness made visible
Over the mountains is the shrine to Rita, where all at the end of the line call. Rita is the Saint of the Lost Cause. The saint of all who are at their wit's end, who are hedged in and trapped by the facts of the world. These facts, detached from cause, trapped the Blue Eyed Boy in a system of unreality. Would all these blurred facts that deceive dissolve in his last breath? For accustomed to believing in image, an absolute idea of value, his world had forgotten the command of essence: Thou Shall Not Create Unto Thyself Any Graven Image, although you know the task is to fill the empty page. From the bottom of your heart, pray to be released from image.
Time is what keeps the light from reaching us.
The image is a prison of the soul, your heredity, your education, your vices and aspirations, your qualities, your psychological world.
I have walked behind the sky. For what are you seeking? The fathomless blue of Bliss.
To be an astronaut of the void, leave the comfortable house that imprisons you with reassurance. Remember,
To be going and to have are not eternal - fight the fear that engenders the beginning, the middle and the end.
For Blue there are no boundaries or solutions.
How did my friends cross the cobalt river, with what did they pay the ferryman? As they set out for the indigo shore under this jet-black sky - some died on their feet with a backward glance. Did they see Death with the hell hounds pulling a dark chariot, bruised blue-black growing dark in the absence of light, did they hear the blast of trumpets?
David ran home panicked on the train from Waterloo, brought back exhausted and unconscious to die that night. Terry who mumbled incoherently into his incontinent tears. Others faded like flowers cut by the scythe of the Blue Bearded Reaper, parched as the waters of life receded. Howard turned slowly to stone, petrified day by day, his mind imprisoned in a concrete fortress until all we could hear were his groans on the telephone circling the globe.
Mad Vincent sits on his yellow chair clasping his knees to his chest - Bananas. The sunflowers wilt in the empty pot, bone dry, skeletal, the black seeds picked into the staring face of a Halloween pumpkin. He is unaware of Blue standing in the corner. Fevered eyes glare at the jaundiced corn, caw of the jet-black crows spiralling in the yellow. The lemon goblin stares from the unwanted canvasses thrown in a corner. Sourpuss suicide screams with evil - clasping cowardly Yellowbelly, slit eyed.
Blue fights diseased Yellowbelly whose fetid breath scorches the trees yellow with ague. Betrayal is the oxygen of his devilry. He'll stab you in the back. Yellowbelly places a jaundiced kiss in the air, the stink of pubs blinds Blue's eyes. Evil swims in the yellow bile. Yellowbelly's snake eyes poison. He crawls over Eve's rotting apple wasp-like. Quick as a flash he stings Blue in the mouth - "AAAUGH!" - his hellish legion buzz and chuckle in the mustard gas. They'll piss all over you. Sharp nicotine-stained fangs bared. Blue transformed into an insectocutor, his Blue aura frying the foes.
We all contemplated suicide We hoped for euthanasia We were lulled into believing Morphine dispelled pain Rather than making it tangible Like a mad Disney cartoon Transforming itself into Every conceivable nightmare
Karl killed himself - how did he do it? I never asked. It seemed incidental. What did it matter if he swigged prussic acid or shot himself in the eye. Maybe he dived into the streets from high up in the cloud lapped skyscrapers. The nurse explains the implant. You mix the drugs and drip yourself once a day. The drugs are kept in a small fridge they give you. Can you imagine travelling around with that? The metal implant will set the bomb detector off in airports, and I can just see myself travelling to Berlin with a fridge under my arm.
Impatient youths of the sun Burning with many colours Flick combs through hair In bathroom mirrors Fucking with fusion and fashion Dance in the beams of emerald lasers Mating on suburban duvets Cum splattered nuclear breeders What a time that was.
The drip ticks out the seconds, the source of a stream along which the minutes flow, to join the river of hours, the sea of years and the timeless ocean.
The side effects of DHPG, the drug for which I have to come into hospital to be dripped twice a day, are: Low white blood cell count, increased risk of infection, low platelet count which may increase the risk of bleeding, low red blood cell count (anaemia), fever, rush, abnormal liver function, chills, swelling of the body (oedema), infections, malaise, irregular heart beat, high blood pressure (hypertension), low blood pressure (hypotension), abnormal thoughts or dreams, loss of balance (ataxia), come, confusion, dizziness, headache, nervousness, damage to nerves (peristhecia), psychosis, sleepiness (somnolence), shaking, nausea, vomiting, loss of appetite (anorexia), diarrhoea, bleeding from the stomach or intestine (intestinal haemorrhage), abdominal pain, increased number of one type of white blood cell, low blood sugar, shortness of breath, hair loss (alopecia), itching (pruritus), hives, blood in the urine, abnormal kidney functions, increased blood urea, redness (inflammation), pain or irritation (phlebitis).
Retinal detachments have been observed in patients both before and after initiation of therapy. The drug has caused decreased sperm production in animals and may cause infertility in humans, and birth defects in animals. Although there is no information in human studies, it should be considered a potential carcinogen since it causes tumours in animals.
If you are concerned about any of the above side-effects or if you would like any further information, please ask your doctor.
In order to be put on the drug you have to sign a piece of paper stating you understand that all these illnesses are a possibility.
I really can't see what I am to do. I am going to sign it.
The darkness comes in with the tide The year slips on the calendar Your kiss flares A match struck in the night Flares and dies My slumber broken Kiss me again Kiss me Kiss me again And again Never enough Greedy lips Speedwell eyes Blue skies
A man sits in his wheelchair, his awry, munching through a packet of dry biscuits, slow and deliberate as a praying mantis. He speaks enthusiastically but sometimes incoherently of the hospice. he says, "You can't be too careful who you mix with there, there's no way of telling the visitors, patients or staff apart. The staff have nothing to identify them except they are all in leather. The place is like an S&M club". This hospice has been built by charity, the names of the donors displayed for all to see.
Charity has allowed the uncaring to appear to care and is terrible for those dependent on it. It has become big business as the government shirks its responsibilities in these uncaring times. We go along with this, so the rich and powerful who ****ed us over once **** us over again and get it both ways. We have always been mistreated, so if anyone gives us the slightest sympathy we overreact with our thanks.
I am a mannish Muff diving Size queen With bad attitude An arse licking Psychofag Molesting the flies of privacy Balling lesbian boys A perverted heterodemon Crossing purpose with death
I am a cock sucking Straight acting Lesbian man With ball crushing bad manners Laddish nymphomaniac politics Spunky sexist desires of incestuous inversion and Incorrect terminology I am a Not Gay
H.B. is in the kitchen Greasing his hair He guards the space Against me He calls it his office At nine we leave for the hospital
H.B. comes back from the eye dept Where all my notes are muddled He says It's like Romania in there Two light bulbs Grimly illuminate The flaking walls There is a box of dolls In the corner Indescribably grim The doctor says Well of course The kids don't see them There are no resources To brighten the place up
My eyes sting from the drops The infection has halted The flash leaves Scarlet after image Of the blood vessels in my eye
Teeth chattering February Cold as death Pushes at the bedsheets An aching cold Interminable as marble My mind Frosted with drugs ices up A drift of empty snowflakes Whiting out memory A blinkered twister Circling in spirals Cross-eyed meddlesome consciousness Shall I? Will I? Doodling death watch Mind how you go
Oral DHPG is consumed by the liver, so they have tweaked a molecule to fool the system. What risk is there? If I had to live forty years blind, I might think twice. Treat my illness like the dodgems: music, bright lights, bumps and throw yourself into life again.
The pills are the most difficult, some taste bitter, others are too large. I'm taking about thirty a day, a walking chemical laboratory. I gag on them as I swallow them and they come up half dissolved in the coughing and the spluttering.
My skins sits on me like the shirt of Nessus. My face irritates, as do my back and legs at night. I toss and turn, scratching, unable to sleep. I get up, turn on the light. Stagger to the bathroom. If I become so tired, maybe I'll sleep. Films chase through my mind. Once in a while I dream a dream as magnificent as the Taj Mahal. I cross southern India with a young spirit guide - India the land of my dreaming childhood. The souvenirs in Moslem's peach and grey living room. Granny called Moselle, called 'Girly', called May. An orphan who lost her name, which was Ruben. jade, monkeys, ivory miniatures, mah-jongg. The winds and bamboos of China.
All the old taboos of Blood lines and blood banks Blue blood and bad blood Our blood and your blood I sit here - you sit there
As I slept a jet slammed into a tower block. The jet was almost empty but two hundred people were fried in their sleep. The earth is dying and we do not notice it.
A young man frail as Belsen Walks slowly down the corridor His pale green hospital pyjamas Hanging off him It's very quiet Just the distant coughing My jugs eye blots out the Young man who has just walked past My field of vision This illness knocks you for six Just as you start to forget it A bullet in the back of my head Might be easier You know, you can take longer than The second world war to get to the grave.
Ages and Aeons quit the room Exploding into timelessness No entrances or exits now No need for obituaries or final judgements We knew that time would end After tomorrow at sunrise We scrubbed the floors And did the washing up It would not catch us unawares
The white flashes you are experiencing in your eyes are common when the retina is damaged.
The damaged retina has started to peel away leaving the innumerable black floaters, like a flock of starlings around in the twilight. I am back at St Mary's to have my eyes looked at by the specialist. The place is the same, but there is new staff. How relieved I am not to have the operation this morning to have a tap put into my chest. I must try and cheer up H.B. as he has had a hell of a fortnight. In the waiting room a little grey man over the way is fretting as he has to get to Sussex. He says, "I am going blind, I cannot read any longer".
A little later he picks up a newspaper, struggles with it for a moment and throws it back on the table. My stinging eye-drops have stopped me reading, so I write this in a haze of belladonna. The little grey man's face has fallen into tragedy. He looks like Jean Cocteau without the poet's refined arrogance. The room is full of men and women squinting into the dark in different states of illness. Some barely able to walk, distress and anger on every face and then a terrible resignation.
Jean Cocteau takes off his glasses, he looks about him with an undescribable meanness. He has black slip-on shoes, blue socks, grey trousers, a Fairisle sweater and a herringbone jacket. The posters that plaster the walls above him have endless question marks, HIV/AIDS?, AIDS?, HIV?, ARE YOU INFECTED BY HIV/AIDS?,ARC?, HIV? This is a hard wait. The shattering bright light of the eye specialist's camera leaves that empty sky blue after-image. Did I really see green the first time? The after-image dissolves in a second. As the photographs progress, colours change to pink and the light turns to orange. The process is a torture, but the result, stable eyesight, worth the price and the twelve pills I have to take a day. Sometimes looking at them I fell nauseous and want to skip them. It must be my association with H.B., lover of the computer and king of the keyboard that brought my luck on the computer which chose my name for this drug trial. I nearly forgot as I left St Mary's I smiled at Jean Cocteau. He gave a sweet smile back.
I caught myself looking at shoes in a shop window. I thought of going in and buying a pair, but stopped myself. The shoes I am wearing at the moment should be sufficient to walk me out of life.
Pearl fishers In azure seas Deep waters Washing the isle of the dead In coral harbours Amphora Spill Gold Across the still seabed We lie there Fanned by the billowing Sails of forgotten ships Tossed by the mournful winds Of the deep Lost Boys Sleep forever In a dear embrace Salt lips touching In submarine gardens Cool marble fingers Touch an antique smile Shell sounds Whisper Deep love drifting on the tide forever The smell of him Dead good looking In beauty's summer His blue jeans Around his ankles Bliss in my ghostly eye Kiss me On the lips On the eyes Our name will be forgotten In time No one will remember our work Our life will pass like the traces of a cloud And be scattered like Mist that is chased by the Rays of the sun For our time is the passing of a shadow And our lives will run like Sparks through the stubble.
这部电影被构思了将近20年。1974年3月，泰特美术馆展览了法国先锋艺术家伊夫•克莱因(Yves Klein)的作品。在克莱因短暂34岁生命的最后几年，尝试了一系列作品挑战艺术边界的作品表达内心精神内涵。其中包括一系列单色绘画：红色，紫色，橘色，黄色和——蓝色。对于克莱因来说，线条也许能通往无尽，但色彩就是无穷本身。贾曼在参观展览之后，他的一本笔记本上写下：为伊夫•克莱因做一部蓝色电影。贾曼认为克莱因的先锋艺术和他自己的一样，是对后现代“声音的刺耳”和“影像的嘈杂”的对抗。
克莱因发明了一种方法可以让深蓝色颜料（ultramarine）保持纯净，不仅颜料不会丧失透光性，看起来也有“生命”。而将颜料放在油中后的效果，让他感觉到了“死亡”。他为此申请了专利，成为international klein blue（IKB）。他用这种颜料来做单色画，也把IKB涂在女模特的裸体上，然后将她们的身体印在白纸上。
贾曼在90代时，在圣玛丽医院治疗艾滋病引起的并发症。1991年，他为医院进行了一次筹款演出。在播放他的影片《花园》之前有一个简单的表演，他朗诵诗歌，循环电影放着克莱因的画，同时又小男孩送给观众被涂成蓝色或金色的鹅卵石。
1992年，拿到9万英镑的基金后，他终于完成了电影，先在威尼斯电影节和 biennale电影节放映，然后在爱丁堡电影节获奖，也同时在BBC4频道和广播3台同时播放。而那些没有电视的广播听众，可以申请领取一张蓝色明信片，当他们听广播的时候可以看。不过广大观众对他的新创作有自己的见解，4频道接到252个抱怨电话，有10个人以为电视信号有问题，4个人说要红色不要蓝色。不同的人看这部电影一定会有不同的感受，因为必定有人走神，或者仅听自己愿意听的环节，屏幕半被自己的想象、思想所填满。
如贾曼在台词里所说的“你的心底祈祷中影像中释放”，单一的蓝色荧幕是对影像的不信任，并倚重从听觉而来的信息。1980年代晚期约克现代艺术馆展出艾滋人群的照片时，美国激进团体反对这个展览的口号就是：Stop looking at us：start listening to us。《蓝色》也许正以它独特的形式邀请，甚至胁迫观众去聆听灵魂，而不是将患艾滋病的肉体当作怪物来注视、猎奇。
对蓝色情有独钟，也许因为贾曼对文艺复兴的痴迷。17世纪炼金术士，也是玫瑰十字会（Rosicrucianism）成员韩德尔（Max Heindel） 相信蓝色是所有颜色总最高级的，代表着精神从物质中解脱出来。17世纪的时候，蓝色是灵魂的颜色，在19世纪的时候象征着梦。20世纪时在世界大战之间，许多电影海报用蓝色去吸引路人的眼睛，也表示邀请人门去电影的幽暗大厅做梦。贾曼的作品与西方艺术从中世纪晚期开始建立的传统有关，他的蓝色展现了无限、灵魂脱离肉体、灵与物的转换。蓝色，象征在死亡中个体性的消失，灵魂逐渐飞向天空。电影里的几句台词：our name will be forgotten , in time, no one will remember out work...sparks through the stubble来自《圣经》次经《所罗门的智慧》。贾曼的作品不仅是电影艺术的实验，同时也植根于一种传统的离经叛道。
Derek Jarman和我坐在一起，观赏他的最后一部电影《Blue》。看了大概一刻钟吧，Jarman突然问我，语气平缓，你都看到了什么。没什么，只有一片蓝色而已。哦，那么，他轻轻点点头，你跟我看到的差不多，我只是看到一片黑暗而已。n nnJarman说他拍这部片子的时候已经双目失明好几年了，已经无法捕捉HB头发的光泽。我不知道一个纽卡索人的头发应该是什么颜色，金？墨？亚麻？或蓝。我好奇的问起，HB究竟长什么样，有多好看。他微笑着说，很好看，可是我已经几年没有看过了，他就像蓝色，能把人溶解掉。可是我现在浑身通红，HIV剥掉我的皮肤，撕裂我的肌肉，我成为暗红的一团，溶进蓝色里就会变得黑紫，那样HB就不好看了。所以我只在日记里写，只用耳朵倾听，HB照顾我爱护我冲我发脾气陪我睡觉。我已经不知道HB在用哪种洗发水了，可是他头发的气味从来没有变过，那么好闻。nnn我向他说起对医院的厌恶，或者恐惧。“Hell on Earth is a waiting room . Here you know you are not in control of youself , waiting for your name to be called : “ 712213 “ .Here you have no name”我一走进医院就会莫名的紧张，心跳过速，手心出汗。我害怕那些穿着白衣把有病的身体看作桌上的苹果一般的人，所有的针筒在我看来都有大腿一般粗细。而Jarman说他不害怕，不应当害怕。他的视网膜脱落，肌肉脱落护士甚至找不到他的静脉来注射，可是他不愿做作的自己同情自己。他给我讲了这么个故事：“Lightning flickers through the hospital window , at the door an elderly women stands waiting for the rain to clear . I ask her if I can give her a lift . I’ve hailed a taxi . “Can you take me to Holborn Tube ?” On the way she breaks down in tears . She has come from Edinburgh . Her son is in the ward. He has meningitic and has lost the use of his legs. I’m helpless as the tears flow. I can’t see her. Just the sound of her sobbing .” 我静静的听Jarman讲完整个故事，开始羡慕HB，羡慕他有如此深沉的爱人。屏幕上仍旧是一片蓝色，太纯粹了，纯粹的可以令人平静，令人发狂，令人蒙头歌唱，令人呆坐度过一个下午的时光。音乐一直隐隐约约的呢喃着，Jarman说要带我去参观他的花园，他说他身体还好的时候时常布置花园，他在路上边走还边俯身拾起一些形状或颜色漂亮的小石子，说要带回去洒在围墙脚和花丛根部。我说你的花园五颜六色，很你这部电影很不相像。他说颜色对于我就像一种幸福，可是却不断地从我身边消逝，到今天我已经看不到任何颜色，而我给你们看的还有蓝色，即使只有蓝色，可是却纯粹，你们还有幸福，而我即将离去。nnn我说Jarman你的电影就像让我玩了一场痛快淋漓的打地鼠游戏。那些地鼠头上都挂着块牌子，上面分别写着：男主角，女主角，演技，构图，节奏，叙事，场面调度等等，每冒出来一个我就一锤子敲回去，一个都没漏掉。让那些影评人对其他电影任意说三道四，而对《Blue》他们却不能。我面对屏幕，只能让自己尽力去融入那片深沉的颜色当中，而无法抱着欣赏的态度去看待。就像我读托尔斯泰的《战争与和平》，总会觉得自己站在俄法战争的战场上，走在安德烈公爵的庄园里。你是对所有的人怀有最普遍的同情的。对此，Jarman只是默默递给我一本书，《Smile On the Slow Motion》，他的最后一本日记。我有好几为朋友都因为艾滋病已经去世了，他说，“David. Howard. Graham. Terry. Paul”，不久因为我的缘故，HB也将离我而去。我只想在最后的时间里，告诉他们我爱他们，HB，“David. Howard. Graham. Terry. Paul”。我只是在一个多小时的时间里追逐最后平静。n nnJarman在影片结束前离开了，我知道他不会再回来。他留下了一张纸条，而我把所有七十七分钟的蓝色都咀嚼完，才去看那张纸条，上面只有一句话：“To HB and to all the true lovers”
When he opens his eyes and sees the light
You make him cry out. Saying
O Blue come forth
O Blue arise
O Blue ascend
O Blue come in
I am sitting with some friends in this cafe drinking coffee served by young refugees from Bosnia. The war rages across the newspapers and through the ruined streets of Sarajevo.
Tania said 'Your clothes are on back to front and inside out". Since there were only two of us there I took them off and put them right then and there. I am always here before the doors open.
What need of so much news from abroad while all that concerns either life or death is all transacting and at work within me.
I step off the kerb and a cyclist nearly knocks me down. Flying in from the dark he nearly parted my hair.
I step into a blue funk.
The doctor in St. Bartholomew's Hospital thought he could detect lesions in my retina - the pupils dilated with belladonna - the torch shone into them with a terrible blinding light.
Look left
Look down
Look up
Look right
Blue flashes in my eyes.
Blue Bottle buzzing
Lazy days
The sky blue butterfly
Sways on the cornflower
Lost in the warmth
Of the blue heat haze
Singing the blues
Quiet and slowly
Blue of my heart
Blue of my dreams
Slow blue love
Of delphinium days
Blue is the universal love in which man bathes - it is the terrestrial paradise.
I'm walking along the beach in a howling gale -
Another year is passing
In the roaring waters
I hear the voices of dead friends
Love is life that lasts forever.
My hearts memory turns to you
David. Howard. Graham. Terry. Paul....
But what if this present
Were the world's last night
In the setting sun your love fades
Dies in the moonlight
Fails to rise
Thrice denied by cock crow
In the dawn's first light
Look left
Look down
Look up
Look right
The camera flash
Atomic bright
Photos
The CMV - a green moon then the world turns magenta
My retina
Is a distant planet
A red Mars
From a Boy's Own comic
With yellow infection
Bubbling at the corner
I said this looks like a planet
The doctor says - "Oh, I think
It looks like a pizza"
The worst of the illness is uncertainty. I've played this scenario back and forth each hour of the day for the last six years.
Blue transcends the solemn geography of human limits.
I am home with the blinds drawn
H.B. is back from Newcastle
But gone out - the washing
Machine is roaring away
And the fridge is defrosting
These are his favourite sounds
I've been given the option of being an in-patient at the hospital or to coming in twice a day to be hooked to a drip. My vision will never come back.
The retina is destroyed, though when the bleeding stops what is left of my sight might improve. I have to come to terms with sightlessness.
If I loose my sight will my vision be halved?
The virus rages fierce. I have no friends now who are not dead or dying. Like a blue frost it caught them. At work, at the cinema, on marches and beaches. In churches on their knees, running, flying, silent or shouting protest.
It started with sweats in the night and swollen glands. Then the black cancer spread across their faces - as they fought for breath TB and pneumonia hammered their lungs, and Toxo at the brain. Reflexes scrambled - sweat poured through hair matter like lianas in the tropical forest. Voices slurred - and then were lost forever. My pen chased this story across the page tossed this way and that in the storm.
The blood of sensibility is blue
I consecrate myself
To find its most perfect expression
My sight failed a little more in the night
H.B. offers me his blood
It will kill everything he says
The drip of DHPG
Trills like a canary
I am accompanied by a shadow into which H.B. appears and disappears. I have lost the sight on the periphery of my right eye.
I hold out my hands before me and slowly part them. At a certain moment they disappear out of the corner of my eyes. This is how I used to see. Now if I repeat the motion this is all I see.
I shall not win the battle against the virus - in spite of the slogans like "Living with AIDS". The virus was appropriated by the well - so we have to live with AIDS while they spread the quilt for the moths of Ithaca across the wine dark sea.
Awareness is heightened by this, but something else is lost. A sense of reality drowned in theatre.
Thinking blind, becoming blind.
In the hospital it is as quiet as a tomb. The nurse fights to find a vein in my right arm. We give up after five attempts. Would you faint if someone stuck a needle into your arm? I've got used to it - but I still shut my eyes.
The Gautama Buddha instructs me to walk away from illness. But he wasn't attached to a drip.
Fate is the strongest
Fate Fated Fatal
I resign myself to Fate
Blind Fate
The drip stings
A lump swells up in my arm
Out comes the drip
An electric shock sparks up my arm
How can I walk away with a drip attached to me?
How am I going to walk away from this?
I fill this room with the echo of many voices
Who passed time here
Voices unlocked from the blue of the long dried paint
The sun comes and floods this empty room
I call it my room
My room has welcomed many summers
Embraced laughter and tears
Can it fill itself with your laughter
Each word a sunbeam
Glancing in the light
This is the song of My Room
Blue stretches, yawns and is awake.
There is a photo in the newspaper this morning of refugees leaving Bosnia. They look out of time. Peasant women with scarves and black dresses stepped from the pages of an older Europe. One of them has lost her three children.
Lightning flickers through the hospital window - at the door an elderly woman stands waiting for the rain to clear. I ask her if I can give her a lift, I've hailed a taxi. "Can you take me to Holborn tube?" On the way she breaks down in tears. She has come from Edinburgh. Her son is in the ward - he has meningitis and has lost the use of his legs - I'm helpless as the tears flow. I can't see her. Just the sound of her sobbing.
One know the whole world
Without stirring abroad
Without looking out of the window
One can see the way of heaven
The further one goes
The less one knows
In the pandemonium of image
I present you with the universal Blue
Blue an open door to soul
An infinite possibility
Becoming tangible
Here I am again in the waiting room. Hell on Earth is a waiting room. Here you know you are not in control of yourself, waiting for your name to be called: "712213". Here you have no name, confidentiality is nameless. Where is 666? Am I sitting opposite him/her? Maybe 666 is the demented woman switching the channels on the TV.
What do I see
Past the gates of conscience
Activists invading Sunday Mass
In the cathedral
An epic Czar Ivan denouncing the
Patriarch of Moscow
A moon-faced boy who spits and repeatedly
Crosses himself - as he genuflects
Will the pearly gates slam shut in
The faces of the devout
The demented woman is discussing needles - there is always a discussion here. She has a line put into her neck.
How are we perceived, if we are to be perceived at all? For the most part we are invisible.
If the doors of perception were cleansed then everything would be seen as it is.
The dog barks, the caravan passes.
Marco Polo stumbles across the Blue Mountain.
Marco Polo stops and sits on a lapis throne by the River Oxus while he is ministered to by the descendants of Alexander the Great. The caravan approaches, blue canvasses fluttering in the wind. Blue people from over the sea - ultramarine - have come to collect the lapis with its flecks of gold.
The road to the city of Aqua Vitae is protected by a labyrinth built from crystals and mirrors which in the sunlight cause terrible blindness. The mirrors reflect each of your betrayals, magnify them and drive you into madness.
Blue walks into the labyrinth. Absolute silence is demanded to all its visitors, so their presence does not disturb the poets who are directing the excavations. Digging can only proceed on the calmest of days as rain and wind destroy the finds.
The archaeology of sound has only just been perfected and the systematic cataloguing of words has until recently been undertaken in a haphazard way. Blue watched as a word or phrase materialised in scintillating sparks, a poetry of fire which casts everything into darkness with the brightness of its reflections.
As a teenager I used to work for the Royal National Institute for the Blind on their Christmas appeal for radios, with dear miss Punch, seventy years old, who used to arrive each morning on her Harley Davidson.
She kept us on our toes. Her job as a gardener gave her time to spare in January. Miss Punch Leather Woman was the first out dyke I ever met. Closeted and frightened by my sexuality she was my hope. "Climb on, let's go for a ride." She looked like Edith Piaf, a sparrow, and wore a cock-eyed beret at a saucy angle. She bossed all the other old girls who came back year after year for her company.
In the paper today. Three quarters of the AIDS organisations are not providing safer sex information. One district said they had no queers in their community, but you might try district X - they have a theatre.
My sight seems to have closed in. The hospital is even quieter this morning. Hushed. I have a sinking feeling in my stomach. I feel defeated. My mind bright as a button but my body falling apart - a naked light bulb in a dark and ruined room. There is death in the air here but we are not talking about it. But I know the silence might be broken by distraught visitors screaming, "Help, Sister! Help Nurse!" followed by the sound of feet rushing along the corridor. Then silence.
Blue protects white from innocence
Blue drags black with it
Blue is darkness made visible
Blue protects white from innocence
Blue drags black with it
Blue is darkness made visible
Over the mountains is the shrine to Rita, where all at the end of the line call. Rita is the Saint of the Lost Cause. The saint of all who are at their wit's end, who are hedged in and trapped by the facts of the world. These facts, detached from cause, trapped the Blue Eyed Boy in a system of unreality. Would all these blurred facts that deceive dissolve in his last breath? For accustomed to believing in image, an absolute idea of value, his world had forgotten the command of essence: Thou Shall Not Create Unto Thyself Any Graven Image, although you know the task is to fill the empty page. From the bottom of your heart, pray to be released from image.
Time is what keeps the light from reaching us.
The image is a prison of the soul, your heredity, your education, your vices and aspirations, your qualities, your psychological world.
I have walked behind the sky.
For what are you seeking?
The fathomless blue of Bliss.
To be an astronaut of the void, leave the comfortable house that imprisons you with reassurance.
Remember,
To be going and to have are not eternal - fight the fear that engenders the beginning, the middle and the end.
For Blue there are no boundaries or solutions.
How did my friends cross the cobalt river, with what did they pay the ferryman? As they set out for the indigo shore under this jet-black sky - some died on their feet with a backward glance. Did they see Death with the hell hounds pulling a dark chariot, bruised blue-black growing dark in the absence of light, did they hear the blast of trumpets?
David ran home panicked on the train from Waterloo, brought back exhausted and unconscious to die that night. Terry who mumbled incoherently into his incontinent tears. Others faded like flowers cut by the scythe of the Blue Bearded Reaper, parched as the waters of life receded. Howard turned slowly to stone, petrified day by day, his mind imprisoned in a concrete fortress until all we could hear were his groans on the telephone circling the globe.
Mad Vincent sits on his yellow chair clasping his knees to his chest - Bananas. The sunflowers wilt in the empty pot, bone dry, skeletal, the black seeds picked into the staring face of a Halloween pumpkin. He is unaware of Blue standing in the corner. Fevered eyes glare at the jaundiced corn, caw of the jet-black crows spiralling in the yellow. The lemon goblin stares from the unwanted canvasses thrown in a corner. Sourpuss suicide screams with evil - clasping cowardly Yellowbelly, slit eyed.
Blue fights diseased Yellowbelly whose fetid breath scorches the trees yellow with ague. Betrayal is the oxygen of his devilry. He'll stab you in the back. Yellowbelly places a jaundiced kiss in the air, the stink of pubs blinds Blue's eyes. Evil swims in the yellow bile. Yellowbelly's snake eyes poison. He crawls over Eve's rotting apple wasp-like. Quick as a flash he stings Blue in the mouth - "AAAUGH!" - his hellish legion buzz and chuckle in the mustard gas. They'll piss all over you. Sharp nicotine-stained fangs bared. Blue transformed into an insectocutor, his Blue aura frying the foes.
We all contemplated suicide
We hoped for euthanasia
We were lulled into believing
Morphine dispelled pain
Rather than making it tangible
Like a mad Disney cartoon
Transforming itself into
Every conceivable nightmare
Karl killed himself - how did he do it? I never asked. It seemed incidental. What did it matter if he swigged prussic acid or shot himself in the eye. Maybe he dived into the streets from high up in the cloud lapped skyscrapers.
The nurse explains the implant. You mix the drugs and drip yourself once a day. The drugs are kept in a small fridge they give you. Can you imagine travelling around with that? The metal implant will set the bomb detector off in airports, and I can just see myself travelling to Berlin with a fridge under my arm.
Impatient youths of the sun
Burning with many colours
Flick combs through hair
In bathroom mirrors
Fucking with fusion and fashion
Dance in the beams of emerald lasers
Mating on suburban duvets
Cum splattered nuclear breeders
What a time that was.
The drip ticks out the seconds, the source of a stream along which the minutes flow, to join the river of hours, the sea of years and the timeless ocean.
The side effects of DHPG, the drug for which I have to come into hospital to be dripped twice a day, are: Low white blood cell count, increased risk of infection, low platelet count which may increase the risk of bleeding, low red blood cell count (anaemia), fever, rush, abnormal liver function, chills, swelling of the body (oedema), infections, malaise, irregular heart beat, high blood pressure (hypertension), low blood pressure (hypotension), abnormal thoughts or dreams, loss of balance (ataxia), come, confusion, dizziness, headache, nervousness, damage to nerves (peristhecia), psychosis, sleepiness (somnolence), shaking, nausea, vomiting, loss of appetite (anorexia), diarrhoea, bleeding from the stomach or intestine (intestinal haemorrhage), abdominal pain, increased number of one type of white blood cell, low blood sugar, shortness of breath, hair loss (alopecia), itching (pruritus), hives, blood in the urine, abnormal kidney functions, increased blood urea, redness (inflammation), pain or irritation (phlebitis).
Retinal detachments have been observed in patients both before and after initiation of therapy. The drug has caused decreased sperm production in animals and may cause infertility in humans, and birth defects in animals. Although there is no information in human studies, it should be considered a potential carcinogen since it causes tumours in animals.
If you are concerned about any of the above side-effects or if you would like any further information, please ask your doctor.
In order to be put on the drug you have to sign a piece of paper stating you understand that all these illnesses are a possibility.
I really can't see what I am to do. I am going to sign it.
The darkness comes in with the tide
The year slips on the calendar
Your kiss flares
A match struck in the night
Flares and dies
My slumber broken
Kiss me again
Kiss me
Kiss me again
And again
Never enough
Greedy lips
Speedwell eyes
Blue skies
A man sits in his wheelchair, his awry, munching through a packet of dry biscuits, slow and deliberate as a praying mantis. He speaks enthusiastically but sometimes incoherently of the hospice. he says, "You can't be too careful who you mix with there, there's no way of telling the visitors, patients or staff apart. The staff have nothing to identify them except they are all in leather. The place is like an S&M club". This hospice has been built by charity, the names of the donors displayed for all to see.
Charity has allowed the uncaring to appear to care and is terrible for those dependent on it. It has become big business as the government shirks its responsibilities in these uncaring times. We go along with this, so the rich and powerful who ****ed us over once **** us over again and get it both ways. We have always been mistreated, so if anyone gives us the slightest sympathy we overreact with our thanks.
I am a mannish
Muff diving
Size queen
With bad attitude
An arse licking
Psychofag
Molesting the flies of privacy
Balling lesbian boys
A perverted heterodemon
Crossing purpose with death
I am a cock sucking
Straight acting
Lesbian man
With ball crushing bad manners
Laddish nymphomaniac politics
Spunky sexist desires
of incestuous inversion and
Incorrect terminology
I am a Not Gay
H.B. is in the kitchen
Greasing his hair
He guards the space
Against me
He calls it his office
At nine we leave for the hospital
H.B. comes back from the eye dept
Where all my notes are muddled
He says
It's like Romania in there
Two light bulbs
Grimly illuminate
The flaking walls
There is a box of dolls
In the corner
Indescribably grim
The doctor says
Well of course
The kids don't see them
There are no resources
To brighten the place up
My eyes sting from the drops
The infection has halted
The flash leaves
Scarlet after image
Of the blood vessels in my eye
Teeth chattering February
Cold as death
Pushes at the bedsheets
An aching cold
Interminable as marble
My mind
Frosted with drugs ices up
A drift of empty snowflakes
Whiting out memory
A blinkered twister
Circling in spirals
Cross-eyed meddlesome consciousness
Shall I? Will I?
Doodling death watch
Mind how you go
Oral DHPG is consumed by the liver, so they have tweaked a molecule to fool the system. What risk is there? If I had to live forty years blind, I might think twice. Treat my illness like the dodgems: music, bright lights, bumps and throw yourself into life again.
The pills are the most difficult, some taste bitter, others are too large. I'm taking about thirty a day, a walking chemical laboratory. I gag on them as I swallow them and they come up half dissolved in the coughing and the spluttering.
My skins sits on me like the shirt of Nessus. My face irritates, as do my back and legs at night. I toss and turn, scratching, unable to sleep. I get up, turn on the light. Stagger to the bathroom. If I become so tired, maybe I'll sleep. Films chase through my mind. Once in a while I dream a dream as magnificent as the Taj Mahal. I cross southern India with a young spirit guide - India the land of my dreaming childhood. The souvenirs in Moslem's peach and grey living room. Granny called Moselle, called 'Girly', called May. An orphan who lost her name, which was Ruben. jade, monkeys, ivory miniatures, mah-jongg. The winds and bamboos of China.
All the old taboos of
Blood lines and blood banks
Blue blood and bad blood
Our blood and your blood
I sit here - you sit there
As I slept a jet slammed into a tower block. The jet was almost empty but two hundred people were fried in their sleep.
The earth is dying and we do not notice it.
A young man frail as Belsen
Walks slowly down the corridor
His pale green hospital pyjamas
Hanging off him
It's very quiet
Just the distant coughing
My jugs eye blots out the
Young man who has just walked past
My field of vision
This illness knocks you for six
Just as you start to forget it
A bullet in the back of my head
Might be easier
You know, you can take longer than
The second world war to get to the grave.
Ages and Aeons quit the room
Exploding into timelessness
No entrances or exits now
No need for obituaries or final judgements
We knew that time would end
After tomorrow at sunrise
We scrubbed the floors
And did the washing up
It would not catch us unawares
The white flashes you are experiencing in your eyes are common when the retina is damaged.
The damaged retina has started to peel away leaving the innumerable black floaters, like a flock of starlings around in the twilight.
I am back at St Mary's to have my eyes looked at by the specialist. The place is the same, but there is new staff. How relieved I am not to have the operation this morning to have a tap put into my chest. I must try and cheer up H.B. as he has had a hell of a fortnight. In the waiting room a little grey man over the way is fretting as he has to get to Sussex. He says, "I am going blind, I cannot read any longer".
A little later he picks up a newspaper, struggles with it for a moment and throws it back on the table. My stinging eye-drops have stopped me reading, so I write this in a haze of belladonna. The little grey man's face has fallen into tragedy. He looks like Jean Cocteau without the poet's refined arrogance. The room is full of men and women squinting into the dark in different states of illness. Some barely able to walk, distress and anger on every face and then a terrible resignation.
Jean Cocteau takes off his glasses, he looks about him with an undescribable meanness. He has black slip-on shoes, blue socks, grey trousers, a Fairisle sweater and a herringbone jacket. The posters that plaster the walls above him have endless question marks, HIV/AIDS?, AIDS?, HIV?, ARE YOU INFECTED BY HIV/AIDS?,ARC?, HIV? This is a hard wait. The shattering bright light of the eye specialist's camera leaves that empty sky blue after-image. Did I really see green the first time? The after-image dissolves in a second. As the photographs progress, colours change to pink and the light turns to orange. The process is a torture, but the result, stable eyesight, worth the price and the twelve pills I have to take a day. Sometimes looking at them I fell nauseous and want to skip them. It must be my association with H.B., lover of the computer and king of the keyboard that brought my luck on the computer which chose my name for this drug trial. I nearly forgot as I left St Mary's I smiled at Jean Cocteau. He gave a sweet smile back.
I caught myself looking at shoes in a shop window. I thought of going in and buying a pair, but stopped myself. The shoes I am wearing at the moment should be sufficient to walk me out of life.
Pearl fishers
In azure seas
Deep waters
Washing the isle of the dead
In coral harbours
Amphora
Spill
Gold
Across the still seabed
We lie there
Fanned by the billowing
Sails of forgotten ships
Tossed by the mournful winds
Of the deep
Lost Boys
Sleep forever
In a dear embrace
Salt lips touching
In submarine gardens
Cool marble fingers
Touch an antique smile
Shell sounds
Whisper
Deep love drifting on the tide forever
The smell of him
Dead good looking
In beauty's summer
His blue jeans
Around his ankles
Bliss in my ghostly eye
Kiss me
On the lips
On the eyes
Our name will be forgotten
In time
No one will remember our work
Our life will pass like the traces of a cloud
And be scattered like
Mist that is chased by the
Rays of the sun
For our time is the passing of a shadow
And our lives will run like
Sparks through the stubble.
I place a delphinium, Blue, upon your grave
你对男孩说，睁开你的眼睛
他睁开眼睛，看到了亮光
你让他喊出声来
说：噢，蓝色出现了
噢，蓝色起来了
噢，蓝色上升了
噢，蓝色进来了
我和几个朋友在这家咖啡馆里，一起坐着喝咖啡。侍者是来自波斯尼亚的年轻难民。战争的风暴吹遍了报纸，席卷着萨拉热窝残破的街道。
塔尼亚说：“你的衣服全都穿反了。”因为这儿只有我们俩，当时我就脱下来重新把它穿好，开门之前我总是守候在这里。多么需要纷至沓来的海外新闻，当所有涉及生命和死亡的东西，都在进行斡旋时，我的心被搅动着。
我从台阶上走下来，一个骑车的人差点把我撞倒。在一片漆黑中他从天而降，几乎要把我的头发扯断，我踏进一片蓝色的恐惧中。
圣巴塞洛缪的医院的大夫认为，他可以查出我视网膜上的损伤，用颠茄制剂将瞳孔放大。手电筒可怕而刺眼的光射进去。
“向左看，向下看，向上看，向右看”蓝色闪现在我的眼中。
蓝蝇嗡嗡叫着。懒散的日子，蓝色的蝴蝶在矢车菊上翩翩起舞，消失在蓝色热气的温暖中。静下心来，慢慢地，哼唱着蓝调歌曲。我心中的蓝色，我梦中的蓝色，迟缓的。飞燕草日子的蓝色之爱。
蓝色是宇宙的爱，人类沐浴其中，它是人间的天堂。
在呼啸的狂风中，我沿着海滩漫步。又一年过去了，在喧腾的潮水中，我听到亡友的声音。"爱是恒久不息的生命。"我心中的记忆转向你们：“大卫、霍华德、格雷厄姆、特瑞、保尔……大卫、霍华德、格雷厄姆、特瑞、保尔……大卫、霍华德、格雷厄姆、特瑞、保尔……”
假如这是世界的最后一夜，你们的爱，在落日余晖中凋谢；在月光中死去，没能再活过来；在黎明的第一缕曙光中，三次被公鸡的报晓拒之门外。
“向下看，向左看，向上看，向右看”照相机闪烁出原子的亮光，拍摄着巨细胞病毒，一个绿色的月亮，世界随即变成了红紫色。我的视网膜是一颗遥远的行星，一颗来自少年历险漫画中的红火星，它的角落感染了黄色的气泡。“我觉得看上去像一颗行星”医生说。“噢，我觉得看上去像一块比萨饼。”
最糟糕的疾病是无法确定的。六年来我反复上演着这出戏。
蓝色超出了人类界定的严肃的地理学。
我呆在家里，关着百叶窗。H.B从纽斯卡索尔回来了，但没在家。洗衣机轰鸣着转完了，电冰箱在化冻。这是他特别喜欢的声音。我获得了住院治疗的选择权，要么一天去打两次点滴。我的视觉永远无法恢复，视网膜被破坏了。尽管当流血停止时，我的残余视力可能会有所改善。我不得不向失明作出妥协。如果我失掉一半视力，视野也会减半么？病毒的肆虐来势凶猛，我已经没有朋友了，他们不是死去，就是奄奄一息。
它像一片蓝色的冰霜，俘获了他们，在工作中，在电影院里，在行驶中和靠岸时，在教堂里跪祷时，奔跑时，飞行中，沉默或大声抗议时。夜里它开始让人出汗，并令腺体肿胀，然后黑色素瘤遍布于他们脸上，当他们为呼吸挣扎时，结核和肺炎锤打在肺叶上，还有大脑里的弓引虫来回地爬着，汗水从头发中冒出来，像热带丛林里的藤蔓一样纠缠着，声音含混不清，然后永远沉缅于其中。我的笔穿越书本，追寻着这种经历，在暴风雨中犹豫不决地摇动着。
感性的血液是蓝色的，为寻求它最完美的表达，我献出自己。
夜晚我的视力更令人失望，H.B.为我献了血，他说，这可以杀死任何病毒，DHPG滴落的声音像一只金丝雀。我被一个影子陪伴着，H.B.在里面时隐时现，我已经看不到右眼周围的东西，我把双手伸到面前，然后慢慢地分开，顷刻间，它们便会消失在我的眼角中，这是我以前经常看到的。如果我现在重复这一动作，这便是我所见到的一切。尽管有“与艾滋病共存”的口号，我终将不会赢得与病毒的斗争，病毒被健康的人利用着，而我们只能与艾滋病一起生活，当他们伸开被子的时候，萨隆卡岛的蛀虫越过“酒暗海”，对病毒的认识提高了，但别的东西却已失去。一种现实的感觉淹没在剧院里。想到失明时，眼睛就瞎了。
医院里安静得像坟墓一样，护士竭力地从我右臂上找一根血管，在尝试了五次之后，我们最终放弃。如果有人往你胳膊上扎针，你会晕倒么？我已经习惯了，但我仍然会闭上眼睛。佛祖释迦牟尼教导我要轻松地战胜疾病，可是他并不喜欢打点滴。
命运是不可战胜的，命中，注定，不幸。
我听天由命，看不见的命。点滴刺痛着，在我的胳膊上肿起一个包，水滴溢出来，一丝电火花从胳膊上迸发。怎么能身上插着针管溜走呢？我如何能从这种状态下逃脱？
我在这间屋里，盛满了许多人的回音，他们曾在这儿消磨时光。声音从干缩的蓝色油画颜料中释放。阳光照进来，淹没了这间空屋子，我称它为我的房间。我的房间。我的房间迎来过许多个夏天，其中包含了笑声和泪水。它会用你的笑声，快乐的人的每一句话，阳光下的一瞥来填充自己么。这是我的房间之歌。“霍华德、格雷厄姆、大卫、保尔、特瑞、格雷厄姆、霍华德、大卫……”
蓝色伸着懒腰，打着呵欠，醒了。蓝色。蓝色。蓝色伸着懒腰，打着呵欠，醒了。
“保尔、霍华德、保尔……”
今晨报上有一张难民逃离波斯尼亚的照片，他们看上去有些不合时宜。戴着头巾身穿黑衣服的乡村妇女仿佛从一个古老的欧洲书本中走来，其中一位失去了她的三个孩子。
闪电穿透了医院的窗户，一位老妇人站在门外,等待着雨水的冲洗。我问她是否可以送她一程。我叫了一辆出租车。“你能把我送到霍尔本地铁站么？”半路上她流着眼泪哭诉起来。她是从爱丁堡来的。她的儿子正在医院里，他得了脑膜炎，腿已经丧失功能。她哭泣时我感到软弱无力，我无法看见她，只听到她哭泣的声音。
任何人都了解整个世界，外面没什么激动人心的消息，无须注视着窗外，人能够看见天堂之路。走得越远，知道得越少。
在影像的喧嚣中我将宇宙的蓝色呈献给你们。蓝色是通往灵魂的一扇门，一种无限的可能。正在变为现实。
此刻我又一次呆在候诊室里，人间的地狱便是一间候诊室，你知道在这里你无法支配自己，等候着你的名字被人召唤：“712213号。”在这里你没有名字，秘密是不可言说的。666号在哪儿？我是否就坐在他/她的对面？666号也许是个发疯的女人，正在转换着电视的频道。越过良知的大门，我看见了什么？激进分子袭击了主日弥撒。在教堂里，一位显赫的沙皇伊凡，公开谴责莫斯科的总主教。一个圆脸的男孩在行屈膝礼时，吐着口水，并且不停地划着十字。在那些虔诚的面孔上，天国之门会突然关闭么？
疯狂的女人在谈论着注射针头，这里总会有关于针头的议论。她的脖子被套上了一根绳索。
我们理解了多少，是不是我们根本没有觉察到，多数情况下我们是看不见的。
如果理解之门被擦得一尘不染，那么一切看起来都跟原来一样。
大篷车商队经过，犬吠声不绝于耳，马可波罗偶然发现了蓝色的山脉。马可波罗停下来，坐在奥克萨斯河畔的天青河宝座上。当时他受到显赫的亚历山大大帝子孙的帮助。大篷车队临近了，蓝色的帆布在风中飘扬。蓝色的民族来自海外，海的那一边，前来收集带金色斑纹的天青石。
通往圣水之城的道路被一座迷宫保护着，是由日光下的水晶和镜子筑成的，它们导致了可怕的愚昧，镜子反射出你的每一次背叛，将其放大，并且让你变得疯狂起来。蓝色走进这座迷宫。绝对的沉默是对所有造访者的要求，这样他们的出现不会打扰正在指挥发掘工作的诗人。挖掘只能在白天最安静的时候进行。当风雨破坏了发现时，声音的考古学刚好臻于完美，而且这种文字系统的编目，直到最近才在偶然之间被接受。当一个词或句子在闪耀的火花中，突然发现时，蓝色注视着这一切。一首火焰之诗，用它自身反射的光芒，将所有事物投入到黑暗中。
作为一个十几岁的少年，我曾为全英皇家盲人协会在电台上发出圣诞节呼吁。同行的潘琦小姐，年纪七十来岁，每天早晨总是骑着哈维戴维森摩托过来，她让我们充满活力。她的职业是园丁，这令她一月份有空闲的时间。潘琦小姐是女同性恋，是我遇到的第一个“公开的”女同志。私下里她对我的性趣味感到惊讶。她是我的希望。“上来吧，我们骑车去兜一圈儿。”她长得象埃迪特*皮亚芙，跟麻雀似的，歪戴着一顶贝雷帽，角度斜得很漂亮。她领导者其他所有的老太太。她们每年都会回来帮助她。
今天的报纸上报道，四分之三的艾滋病组织没有提供安全性行为的资料。某地方宣称该地区没有同性恋者，但是你可以到某地区体验一下，他们有一家剧院。
“生存还是毁灭？这是一个难题。”
我的视野似乎已经被封闭，今天早晨医院甚至成了消音器，一片寂静。我的胃部有一种下坠感，我觉得被摧毁了。我的心智光彩照人，但是我的身体崩溃了。漆黑的废弃屋子里的一只光秃的灯泡。这里空气中有死亡的气息，而我们却讳莫如深。但我知道疯狂来访者的尖叫声也许会打破寂静：“护士，帮帮我！护士，帮帮我！”接着是走廊上急促的脚步声，然后是沉静。
（歌声）蓝色保护着白色，使之免于天真。蓝色拖曳着黑色，与之为伴。蓝色是看得见的黑暗。蓝色保护着白色，使之免于天真。蓝色拖曳着黑色，与之为伴。蓝色是看得见的黑暗。
高山之上是朝拜圣女丽塔的胜地。索道的尽头，所有的人都在呼唤。丽塔是注定要失败的圣徒。所有智穷力竭的圣人，被围困着，被世界的真相所构陷，这些现实拆散了理想，诱骗了一个虚幻体制中的蓝眼少年。所有这些被涂污的行为，会让他在弥留之际感到不安么？因为习惯于相信影像，一种绝对的价值观，他的世界忽视了根本的控制：虽然你知道任务是将空白页填满，你不会为自己制造出任何偶像。从你的内心深处，祈求从影像中得到解放。
影像是一座灵魂的监狱，是你的继承，你的教育，你的恶习与渴望；是你的本质，你的心理世界。
我已经走到天空的背面。
你在寻找什么？
深不可测的天堂之蓝。
成为一名空间的宇航员，离开用安慰囚禁着你的舒适的房子，记住，将要去做和已经完成的皆非永恒。与恐惧的搏斗生成了开始，中间，和结束。对于蓝色，没有边界或解答。时间阻止光明抵达我们。
我的朋友怎样涉过钴蓝的河水，拿什么去支付摆渡者？当他们在这片漆黑的天空下，出发驶向靛蓝色的海岸时，一些人站着死去。他们向后瞥了一眼，他们看见死神架着地狱猎犬拉着一辆黑色战车么，撞得浑身青紫。在没有光的地方逐渐变成黑色。他们听见一阵号角声么？
大卫乘坐从滑铁卢开来的列车惊慌失措地往家赶，带回来的是精疲力尽和不省人事，当天晚上就死掉了。特瑞语无伦次地哼哼着，眼泪抑制不住流下来。其他人像花一样凋谢了，被蓝胡子的收割者用镰刀割下，当生命的潮水退却时被烘烤着。霍华德慢慢变成了石头，一天天僵硬起来。他的心被囚禁在一个混凝土的堡垒里，直到我们所能听到的一切，全是他电话里的呻吟声，回荡在人世间。
疯狂的文森特坐在他的黄椅子上，双手抱着膝盖紧贴在胸前，精神崩溃了。向日葵枯萎在空罐子里，身体枯干，瘦骨嶙峋，黑色的种子被摘下，变成一副万圣节南瓜刺眼的面孔。他没有注意到蓝色竖立在角落里。激动的眼神注视着黄疸的玉米，乌鸦的叫声在黄色中盘旋。柠檬色的妖怪在墙角废弃的画布上注视着，忧郁的自杀者发出不祥的尖叫声，牢牢地抓住胆怯的懦夫，死不瞑目。蓝色抵抗着患病的胆小鬼，恶臭的气味用寒颤把树木烤得焦黄，背叛是他邪恶的氧气，他将从背后向你捅刀子。懦夫在空气中放置一个黄疸的吻，脓液的恶臭弄瞎了蓝色的眼睛，罪恶在黄色的胆汁里泅泳，懦夫的蛇眼之毒，他像黄蜂似的，在夏娃腐烂的苹果上爬行着，敏捷得犹如一道闪电，他叮住了蓝色的嘴，啊！他地狱般的大军在芥子气中嗡嗡叫着，咯咯地笑着，他们会撒得你全身是尿，露出被尼古丁熏过的锋利尖牙。蓝色变成了一只蛰人的昆虫，他的蓝色气味灼伤了敌人。
我们全都准备自杀，我们期待着安乐死，我们被哄骗着相信，用吗啡驱走痛苦，比病情好转更加实际，像一部疯狂的迪斯尼动画片，将自己变成任何一种能想象到的妖怪。
卡尔自杀了。他究竟是怎么死的？我从来没问过。这似乎是个偶发事件。即便他喝下氢氰酸，又能怎样呢？要不就是对着自己的眼睛开枪。也许从高耸入云的摩天大楼上纵身跳到大街上。
护士在讲解如何输液。你把药混合在一起，每天自己打一次点滴，药物存放在他们给你的小冰箱里。你能想象带着它到处旅行么？金属注射器会使机场炸弹探测器发出警报。我发现自己手里拎着冰箱去柏林旅行。
狂躁不安的太阳的青春期，为五颜六色的事物所煎熬，在浴室镜子里窥见内衣中的毛发。
让融合与时尚见鬼去吧。在翠绿的激光光束中跳舞。
在郊外的床榻上交欢，加上四处飞溅的核反应堆。
那是一个怎样的时代啊。
输液的滴答声显示着每一秒，一条小溪的源头，顺着分钟的涓涓细流，汇成小时的江河，年月的大海，和奔流不息的汪洋。
我必须每天去医院注射两次DHPG。这种药物的副作用为：白血球数量降低，增加了感染的危险；低血小板指数会增加出血的危险；红血球数目低（贫血）；发热、亢奋、肝功能失常；寒颤、身体肿胀（水肿）、感染；焦虑不安，心跳不规则；血压偏高（高血压）；血压偏低（低血压）；反常的思维和梦；失去平衡（共济失调）；昏迷、混淆、眩晕、头痛；神经质、引起神经受损（感觉异常）、精神病；想睡觉（嗜睡）、颤抖、恶心、呕吐；丧失食欲（厌食症）；腹泻、胃肠出血（肠出血）；腹部疼痛；某种类型的白血球数量增加；低血糖、呼吸短促、头发脱落（脱发）；身体发扬（瘙痒）、麻疹、尿血；肾功能失常；血尿素增高；红肿（炎症）、疼痛或发炎（静脉炎）；无论是治疗开始之前还是之后，病人的视网膜都会出现脱落。这种药物会导致动物的精子数量减少并可能会引起人类不育，及造成动物出生缺陷。虽然在人类研究中没有报告，但还是被视为一种潜在的致癌物，因为它会引发动物身上的肿瘤。如果你关注上述任何一种副作用，或者想索取任何补充材料，请向你的医生咨询。
为了能依靠药物维持生命，你必须签署一份书面声明：你明白所有这些疾病都可能发生。
我真的不知道该如何应付。我准备去签了它。
黑暗伴随着潮水涌进来，年份滑落在日历上，你的吻濯濯生辉，一根火柴穿透了黑夜，燃烧着而后逝去。
我的睡眠中断了。再吻我一次。吻我。反复地亲吻我。再吻我一次。吻我。反复地亲吻我。
永不满足。
贪婪的嘴唇。
蓝色花簇的眼睛，蓝色的天空。
一个男人坐在轮椅里，头发扭曲着，大声嚼着压缩饼干，迟缓而谨慎得犹如一只螳螂，他热情地讲述着。有时候医院乱糟糟的。他说，在那里你不能太介意跟谁混在一起。我的意思是，无法辨认出哪些是探视者，哪些是病人或医护人员。没有什么能证明医护人员的身份，不过他们都对性变态感兴趣。这个地方像是一个性虐待狂俱乐部。这个医院是由慈善机构建造的，捐赠人的名字向所有的人公开展示出来。慈善团体让不予理睬的行为看上去似乎很关切的样子，对那些依赖它的人来说是很可怕的。慈善机构的大交易。我们附和它，于是有钱有权的人不断地利用我们，一再地欺骗我们，并且善于左右逢源。我们总是受到虐待，假如任何人给我们一点同情心，我们会表示万分的感激。
“我是个有男人味的，舔女人私处的……”（歌声）“喜欢大鸡巴的人，心理不健康，爱舔屁眼儿的男同性恋，搔弄男人的裤裆，玩弄同性恋男孩。一个变态的异性恋的魔鬼，带着赴死的念头，滥交着。”
（歌声）“我是一个吮吸鸡巴的装扮成异性恋的男同性恋。”他是一个吮吸鸡巴的装扮成异性恋的男同性恋。“有挤压睾丸的坏习惯。男孩的慕男狂的政治立场。”男孩的慕男狂的政治立场。“劲头十足的男性至上主义者。对乱伦、性倒错、和不恰当术语的渴望。”“我是一个非同性恋者。”他是一个非同性恋者。“我是一个非同性恋者。”他是一个非同性恋者。“我是一个非同性恋者。”他是一个非同性恋者。“我是一个非同性恋者。”他是一个非同性恋者。“我是一个非同性恋者。”他是一个非同性恋者。“我是一个非同性恋者。”他是一个非同性恋者。“我是一个非同性恋者。”他是一个非同性恋者。（我是）他是一个非同性恋者。（该死的）他是一个非同性恋者。
H.B.在厨房里往头发上涂油，他堤防着我，不让我进去，他说这是他的办公室。九点钟我们出发去医院。H.B.从眼科回来，在那里我的所有记录一团糟，他说，那儿就像在罗马尼亚一样，两只电灯炮冷酷地照亮刨木片墙。难以形容的阴暗角落中有一箱洋娃娃。医生说：“孩子们当然不会看这些。”“没法让这地方变得轻松起来。”
我的眼睛被滴入的药水刺激着，感染被遏止了。闪亮的花瓣，我眼中血管的鲜红的残留影像。
“蓝色。”
牙齿咯咯作响的二月，寒冷如同死亡一样向床单逼近。一种疼痛的寒冷，象大理石花纹一样冗长。我的心被药物结成的冰覆盖了。空洞的雪花的飘动，使记忆变成空白。喝醉了的惹是生非的意识，犹如一股明灭不定的龙卷风，环绕着盘旋上升。我会么？我愿意么？闲逛的死囚看守者，留心你怎么离去。
口服的DHPG被肝脏吞噬了，它们拧了一下，跟身体开个玩笑。这会有什么危险么？如果我不得不瞎着眼活四十年，我会重新考虑一下。治疗我的病就像玩碰碰车：音乐、耀眼的闪光、碰撞声。再一次将自己投入到生活中。
那些药丸是最难以忍受的。有些味道苦涩，有些形状过大。我一天大概要吃下三十粒。一个能行走的化学实验室。我把它们塞进嘴里，接着吞下去。然后在咳呛声中，其中一半已经融化。
对我来说，我的皮肤就像内萨斯的毒衬衣，我的脸被针刺着，夜晚疼痛蔓延到我的背和腿上，我辗转反侧，使劲抓挠，无法入睡。我从床上爬起来，把灯打开，步履蹒跚地走进浴室。如果我变得很疲惫，也许就会睡着。
电影始终追随着我的心，我偶尔会作一个象泰姬陵般华丽的梦，在一个年轻幽灵的引导下我穿越印度南部。印度，我童年时代向往的地方。摩泽尔桃子里的纪念品以及灰色的客厅。奶奶念叨着摩泽尔，说“它像少女似的”，将它唤作梅。一个孤儿丢失了她的名字，鲁本。翡翠的猴子，微型的象牙麻将牌，中国的管乐器和竹子。
所有古老的禁忌涉及到血统和血库，贵族的血统和卑贱的血统，我们的血和你们的血，我坐在这儿，你坐在那儿。当我睡觉时，一架喷气式飞机撞到一座塔楼上。这架飞机上几乎是空的，但是两百个人却在睡梦中被炸死。
地球行将灭亡，而我们却没有发现。
一个青年虚弱得像在贝尔森集中营似的，腿色的医院绿睡衣紧绷在身上，缓缓地在走廊上散步。今天早上安静极了，只有远处传来的咳嗽声。我的瞎眼遮蔽了这个青年。他步行越过了我的视野。这种病每次都会击垮你，当你开始忘记它时，子弹却从背后射进脑袋。也许更容易。知道么，你要用比二战还要漫长的时间，才能最终走进坟墓。
衰老与永生离开了房间，顷刻间化作永恒，现在没有入口和出口，不需要讣告或最终判决，我们知道明天日出之后，时间将会终结。我们擦地板，清洗餐具。它不会冷不防地抓住我们。
当视网膜被破坏时，你眼睛体验到的白色闪光是常有的。被损坏的视网膜开始脱落，丢下数不清的黑色悬浮物，象一群黑色的琼鸟在黎明中盘旋。我回到圣玛丽医院请专家给我检查一下眼睛。还是相同的地方，却已物是人非。多么令人安慰啊，今天早上我没有动手术，也没有从我的胸腔里抽液。我必须尽可能让H.B.高兴起来，他已经经受了两个星期的折磨。候诊室里坐在对面的小老头正在苦恼，因为他不得不到苏塞克斯去。他说，“我眼睛瞎了，再也不能阅读了”。过了一会儿，他抄起一份报纸，狠狠地撕扯了一下。然后扔回到桌上。刺眼的药水迫使我停止阅读，于是我在颠茄制剂的阴霾中写道：小老头的表情陷入了悲剧中。他长得酷似让*科克托，却没有诗人优雅的傲慢。屋子里挤满了男人和女人，斜眼瞥着阴暗的地方，他们的病情各不相同，有些几乎不能走路。每张脸上都有忧伤或愤怒。然后是一种可怕的放弃。让*科克托摘下了他的眼镜，用一种难以形容的猥琐四处张望着，他穿着一双黑色轻便鞋、蓝色短裤、灰色长裤，一件干净的运动衫和一件人字尼的夹克。他头顶的墙上贴着海报。上面有无数个问号：HIV感染者/艾滋病患者？艾滋病人？病毒感染者？你正受到HIV/艾滋病的侵袭么？艾滋病？综合症？HIV感染？这是一种艰难的等待。眼科专家相机里扩散出来的亮光留下空洞的蔚蓝色的残留影像。起初我真的看见绿色么？残留影像立刻消失了，在拍摄过程中，颜色变成粉红的，然后灯光变成了桔红色。过程是一种折磨，但是结果呢。稳定的视力所付出的代价，我必须每天吃下十二粒药丸。有时我一看到它们就感到恶心，并且想赶快逃避。这可能使我联想到H.B.，电脑的情人和键盘的国王，他从电脑上给我带来好运，为这次药物试验选择了我的名字。
当我离开圣玛丽医院时，差点忘了向让*科克多致意。他还给我一个甜蜜的微笑。
我在一家商店橱窗前驻足，想进去买一双鞋，但却打消了这个念头，我现在穿着的这双鞋，足以让我走完生命之路。
蓝色大海里的珍珠采集者，珊瑚礁的港湾中，深水冲刷着死亡的岛屿。寂静的海底，双耳罐散落出金币。我们躺在那里，翻腾的巨浪拍打在身上。被遗忘船只的帆，在深渊里哀怨的风中摇荡着。失落的男孩，永远沉睡。在深情的拥抱中咸咸的嘴唇相吻。在海底花园里，冰凉的大理石手指触摸到一个古老的微笑，贝壳发出飒飒的声音。深沉的爱永远伴随着潮汐漂流。他的味道美极了。在美丽的夏天。他的蓝色牛仔裤围绕在脚踝上。幸福在我幽灵般的眼中，吻在我的唇上，眼睛上。我们的名字随时会被遗忘。没有人会记得我们的工作。我们的生命将会逝去，宛如一似浮云，又如被驱散的薄雾，被阳光追逐。我们的时间如迅速消逝的阴影，我们的生命将飞驰而去，犹如穿梭于麦秸之间的火花。
在你的坟墓上，我放上一株飞燕草，一片蓝色。
——献给H.B.和所有真心的爱人