Downloadable. Unsustainable, Too. 網(wǎng)戀:有多少愛終成虛幻

我們原本是現(xiàn)實世界中毫無交集的兩條直線，在網(wǎng)上相識、相知，繼而相思、相戀，期待著線與線的交點。終于有一天，兩條直線相交了——不安、期待、幸福，個中的美妙只有親歷才會知道。但我們終究逃不開相交直線的命運：相交只在瞬間，相離卻是必然，兩條直線終會漸行漸遠。我們未能在交點駐留太久，那美麗的瞬間也漸漸終成虛幻。

I#8194;finally met Amy at Hartsfield-Jackson Airport1) a couple of Mays ago. I recall walking through the Atlanta airport’s terminal among pictures of nebulae and galaxies， floating along corridors with only a backpack. I called my friend Devin， hyperventilating2)， feeling downright Neil Armstrong， needing to broadcast this moment to someone.

Amy and I had already known each other for five years by then. We had connected online when we were high school students on opposite coasts; I was in Oregon， and she was in Georgia. I liked her because she listened to Bobby Darin3)， knew who Italo Calvino4) was， and posted cute pictures of herself digitally multiplied to play the banjo， guitar， trombone5) and tambourine6) at the same time， a full band of Amys.

I was 15 and had just started dating. My first kiss was at a school dance， regrettably to Usher7)’s Burn. This was before Facebook had opened its doors to everyone， and before Twitter condensed everything， so all we had were long-winded blogs， which typically fell into two categories: daily observations or teenage angst. Mine was famous for the latter.

Something about the format was enticing: being able to say whatever you wished without ever having to face your audience. Not only did I write about girls and my social anxieties， I wrote on subjects I rarely spoke about: existentialism8)， family， religion and the wars. I broadcast everything that scared and exhilarated me.

If my blog was a miserablist exercise in self-discovery， Amy’s was the opposite， filled with sweet stories of riding her bike in McDonough， Ga.， singing to her dog and dancing in fields with her friends. Her photos were amber9)-tinted10) and pastoral11).

She was a folk singer， and I tried to sing folk songs， so we had that in common. When we first started talking， Amy was unable to record her songs， but as time and technology changed it became easier than ever， until she was able to e-mail me her songs.

After years of “chatting，” I actually heard her voice: a weathered， pretty thing， seemingly encased in a bygone era， unmarred12) by modernity. It was Southern， lilting13)， traumatizing14)， and this was just an MP3.

It’s strange how the phone is the next step in social connection these days， as if that is somehow more serious， more personal， more dangerous than， say， letting someone into your daily thoughts and photos.

But Amy and I started to call each other. A blizzard had just swept through Portland， so during a bout of cabin fever15) I began writing songs for her. In these songs I could travel south for the winter， run away from home and feel something tangible. I distracted myself with these notions of what might be if I were there， or if she were here.

At the same time， our calls grew longer. We started to tell each other secrets. She spoke with inflections that couldn’t hide behind text， sweet memories that translated only by hearing her voice， however distorted and fractured a poor signal might cause it to be.

In the spring we graduated to Skype. Finally， face to face. She would sit in the computer lab at her university and we’d talk into the early morning. We brought guitars and played our songs to each other. I sang louder than I had ever sung. I hit my highs and didn’t crack at the lows. I wonder how much she actually heard and how much was garbled by my weak Wi-Fi16)， her beautiful face often contorted into a mess of pixels17).

Then it was her turn. Somehow， I heard every word. One verse in particular stood out:

Sparrow18)， won’t you fly down south by me?

Sparrow， build your home in the belly of the beast.

Lay me in the sand， in the sand by the sea.

There’s a devil in the land and a devil that’s in me.

When she was done， we just looked at each other. We didn’t have to say anything. If we were to be together， it would be at the expense of many things in our real worlds. Still， was she singing that to me because she couldn’t say it? Or was it like that Carly Simon19) song， and I just thought it was about me?

Vain or not， we started planning my escape.

“What if she’s different in person?” my friend Matt posited one morning over breakfast in the dorms. “What if you don’t like her?” I had already assured him that she wasn’t a 400-pound man who wanted to murder me.

I responded with a laugh， never actually thinking of the risks. I was giving myself a four-day weekend on the other side of the country right before finals. What could go wrong?

All of my friends half-supported and half-laughed at what I was about to do. Jeremy rightfully smiled at my naiuml;veté but gave me his blessing. When I cautiously told Beth， prefacing it with disclaimers， she reassured me: “Hey， that’s the world we live in now: no borders.” Samiat drove me to the airport， and on the way she kept gushing at how “cute” I looked.

I was on air. The mere act of leaving felt almost as good as seeing Amy. This act would be my pièce de résistance20)， the existential proof that love was the answer， the convergence of art， romance and technology that would make everything beautiful.

On the airplane， though， I was really sweaty. Just roasting. My hair was a mess， and I’d forgotten to brush my teeth. I had decided not to shave， thinking Amy might like my “beard.” But feeling my face， I realized it was a terrible idea.

As the plane approached the runway， I pictured myself in a lunar module， anticipating the impact. I was a space kid， always traveling in my imagination， and old habits die hard. I exited the plane and walked down that corridor. I felt weightless; my heart was pounding and some insects entangled with my insides.

Every girl looked like Amy. My heart skipped with every imitation Amy. I walked past the automatic doors. Each of them opened with another possible Amy. I half expected to find one with a trombone， and one with a banjo， like those charming pictures she used to post.

It was a comedy; how many cute girls with asymmetrical21) bangs22) and perfect bone structure could exist in Georgia? I paced back and forth， walking around the baggage claim23)， frantically checking my cellphone.

And then， there she was. Just like that， I could feel her in my arms. This was her body. This was her face. She was here. I was here. I felt enveloped; feeling her close to me was like outer space， with all its questions: Is it infinite or contained? Linear or cyclical?

Now， here is where there are gaps. I know we held hands through Piedmont Park in Atlanta as a busker24) played I’m Waiting for the Man25)， and I know we drove to McDonough and kissed for the first time on the floor of her turquoise26) childhood bedroom， and I know we went to a Wal-Mart and danced for the security cameras， and I know I took a nap in her lap at a cemetery in Macon.

And I know that we decided not to continue our relationship. We both knew we couldn’t move close. But we also knew， after this， that we couldn’t just go back behind our computer screens. All of these things are knowable and definable and yet obscured and opaque27).

The truth is， Amy feels like a ghost in static now. I have kept all the evidence: old e-mails and chats， text messages， her songs. My memory of her feels contained within servers and hard drives， locked away and inaccessible. In my mind’s eye， I keep parsing28) through the same remnants of my time with her， the same jpegs， the same docs， the same pieces to construct a patchwork29) of those four days.

When I went to Georgia， we took photographs with a black-and-white disposable camera， and this is what I can remember: only the threads between these pictures. We thought we were documenting it for posterity， but there they are， haunting me with an exactness that doesn’t even scratch the surface.

Then， sometimes， there will be a moment， like catching a breeze from a window， where a wisp of memory will trigger and flood: the goldenrod color of her blouse， her freckles and cheeks stretching into a smile， her crying face in my hands.

And， of course， Amy’s voice， finally clear and finally close， a song whispered in French， a foreign tongue I never learned.

When we have spoken since our last meeting， Amy has always reached out through the distortion. On one such occasion， when I was feeling quite low， she simply told me that love is a moment in time.

Even in this time—because of this time—our moment was possible. Sometimes， I have to remind myself.

幾年前的5月，我終于在哈茨菲爾德-杰克遜機場見到了艾米。記得我當時從亞特蘭大機場大樓走過，穿行在片片星云和璀璨銀河的畫面中，身上只背著一個背包，腳步有些飄飄然地沿著走廊前行。我給朋友德文打了個電話，深深地吸了口氣，感覺自己十足就像第一個登上月球的尼爾·阿姆斯特朗，需要將這一時刻向世人宣布。

那時，我和艾米已經(jīng)認識了五年。還是中學生時，我們就在網(wǎng)上認識了。我們分住在東西海岸，我在俄勒岡州，她在佐治亞州。我喜歡她，是因為她喜歡聽鮑比·達林的歌；她知道誰是伊塔羅·卡爾維諾；她還在網(wǎng)上貼出了自己的漂亮照片，經(jīng)過數(shù)字處理復制出很多個自己，有彈班卓琴的，有彈吉他的，有吹長號的，有打鈴鼓的，簡直就是一個完整的艾米樂隊。

那時我15歲，剛剛開始約會。在一次學校舉辦的舞會上，在亞瑟小子《燃燒》的音樂聲中，我糊里糊涂地就失去了我的初吻。那時Facebook還沒有向每個人敞開大門，Twitter也還沒有將一切濃縮，所以我們擁有的就只有冗長的博客。那時的博客主要分為兩類：日常感受類和青少年焦慮類。我的博客就以后者而知名。

博客這種形式太有魅力了：你可以暢所欲言而又不必面對聽眾。我的博客不光寫女孩子，寫我的社交焦慮問題，還寫一些我平時很少談到的話題，如存在主義、家庭、宗教以及戰(zhàn)爭。任何讓我恐懼和興奮的東西我都要在博客里“廣播”一下。

如果說我的博客是一個悲慘主義者發(fā)現(xiàn)自我的一種操練，那么艾米的則恰恰相反。她的博客里充滿了甜蜜的故事，如在佐治亞的麥克多諾市騎自行車，給她的小狗兒唱歌，和朋友一起在田野里跳舞等。她的照片都帶著朦朧的琥珀色，充滿田園風味。

她是個民歌手，而我也正學唱民歌，在這一點上，我們興趣相投。我們剛開始網(wǎng)聊的時候，艾米還無法錄制歌曲，但隨著時間的推移和技術的進步，錄制歌曲變得越來越容易，最后她終于可以用電子郵件給我發(fā)送她唱的歌了。

在“聊”了數(shù)年之后，我終于聽到了她的聲音：一種滄桑、美妙的歌聲，似乎被封存在一個遙遠的時代，沒有被現(xiàn)代文明所污染。她的歌聲帶有南方口音，宛轉悠揚，卻又令人感傷，而這還只不過是一首MP3。

不知為什么，在當今的社交生活中，電話交談總是被排到后面，好像打電話比讓別人每天了解你的思想和看到你的照片還要嚴重、還要隱私、還要危險。

但我和艾米終于開始通電話了。一場暴風雪剛剛席卷了波特蘭市，在一陣幽閉情緒的驅動下，我開始為她寫歌。在這些歌曲里，我可以旅行到南方去過冬，可以離家出走，可以感受到一些實實在在有意義的東西。我常常陷入這樣的冥想：如果我在她那里，或者她在我這里，會怎么樣呢？

同時，我們的通話時間越來越長了。我們開始向對方吐露秘密。她說話的語調里隱含著文字無法表達的信息，那種甜蜜的回憶只有親耳聽到她的聲音才變得真實，盡管那個聲音有時會因信號不好而變得扭曲或者斷斷續(xù)續(xù)。

春天到來的時候，我們的聊天方式升級了，用上了Skype。后來，我們終于開始視頻聊天了。她會坐在學校的電腦實驗室里和我聊到天亮。我們帶了吉他，為對方彈奏自己的歌曲。我唱歌的聲音比以前任何時候都大，高音能唱上去，低音也不沙啞。我不知道我的歌她到底聽到了多少，還有多少被我那可憐的Wi-Fi信號給篡改了。她那美麗的面龐常常會扭曲變形，變成一大堆模糊不清的像素。

接著，該她唱了。不知怎的，她唱的每個字我都能聽清。有一首我印象特別深刻：

小麻雀啊，向南飛啊，可愿飛到南方陪伴我？

小麻雀啊，壘個窩啊，壘在野獸的肚子里。

讓我躺在沙灘上，躺在海邊的沙灘上，

有個只魔鬼在地里，還有一個闖到我心里。

她唱完后，我們就那么彼此看著對方。一切話語都是多余的。如果我們想要在一起，就要失去現(xiàn)實世界中的許多東西。還有，她對我唱這首歌是因為她不好意思表白呢，還是這只是一首類似卡莉·西蒙的歌，而我卻以為是唱給我的呢？

不管結果如何，我們已開始策劃見面。

“如果她真人長得不一樣怎么辦？”一天早上，在宿舍里吃早飯時，我的朋友麥特提出了這樣的疑問?！澳阋遣幌矚g她怎么辦？”我先前已經(jīng)向他保證，她肯定不是一個重達四百磅、裝成小姑娘謀殺我的變態(tài)狂。

對他的問題，我回之一笑。事實上我從未想過這樣的風險。在期末考試前，我給自己放了四天假，要去遙遠的南方過周末。這會有什么不妥呢？

對于這一舉動，我所有的朋友都半是支持、半是嘲笑。杰里米理所當然地笑我太幼稚，但還是給了我祝福。我把這一切告訴貝絲時，事先謹慎地聲明自己并不抱多大希望，但她還是鼓勵我說：“哎呀，現(xiàn)在的世界就是這樣的啊，凡事不必為自己設限。”薩米婭特開車送我去機場，一路上她不停地夸獎我看起來真“帥”。

我飄飄然了。剛一出發(fā)，感覺就像已經(jīng)見到了艾米似的，心里那個美啊。這次遠行將成為我人生的盛宴，是對“愛情即一切”的存在主義的證明，是藝術、浪漫和科技的結合，這種結合將使一切變得美好。

可是，在飛機上，我卻出了一身臭汗，簡直像是在烤箱里。我的頭發(fā)亂糟糟的，牙也忘了刷。我之前特意沒有刮臉，覺得艾米有可能會喜歡我的“胡子”?？纱藭r摸著自己的臉，我意識到這實在是個錯誤的決定。

飛機接近跑道時，我想象自己是在一個登月艙里，等待著著陸的沖擊。我是太空小子，經(jīng)常在想象中遨游太空，此刻竟也積習難改。我下了飛機，走在走廊上，感到有點失重。我的心怦怦直跳，身體里好像有許多蟲子爬來爬去。

每個女孩看起來都像是艾米。每看到一個像艾米的女孩，我的心就會狂跳一下。我走過自動門。每扇門打開都可能進來一個艾米。我甚至還有點希望能看到一個艾米拿著長號，另一個艾米拿著班卓琴，就像她以前貼出的那些迷人的照片一樣。

這確實有點搞笑：佐治亞要有多少個漂亮女孩留著偏分的劉海、有著勻稱的身材啊？我在行李提取處左右徘徊，走來走去，發(fā)神經(jīng)似的不停查看自己的手機。

就在這時，她來了。自然而然地，我的懷抱實實在在地感受到了她的存在。這是她的身體。這是她的面龐。她就在我面前。我就在她面前。我有一種被包圍的感覺；和她如此親密接觸，那感覺就像是在外太空，腦子里想的是如下問題：這是永恒的還是有限的？是線性的還是循環(huán)的？

喏，這就是隔閡所在。我沒有忘記我們曾在街頭藝人演奏的《我在等待那個人》的音樂聲中手牽手走過亞特蘭大皮德蒙特公園；沒有忘記我們驅車前往麥克多諾市，在她那間綠松石色的童年臥室的地板上第一次親吻；沒有忘記我們一起去沃爾瑪超市，在監(jiān)控攝像機下共舞；也沒有忘記在梅肯市的一座陵園里，我曾枕著她的腿小憩。

我更沒有忘記我們都決定不再繼續(xù)這種關系。我們都知道我們不可能再更親密一步。但在這之后我們也都知道，我們都不可能再回到電腦屏幕前了。這一切，說起來清清楚楚、明明白白，想起來卻又模模糊糊，說不清、道不明。

問題是，現(xiàn)在在我的心里，艾米就像是一個靜止的幻影。我保留著她存在的所有證據(jù)：曾經(jīng)的電子郵件、聊天記錄、手機短信，還有她唱的歌。我對她的記憶存在于網(wǎng)絡服務器里，存在于電腦硬盤中，鎖在網(wǎng)絡空間的深處，無法觸及。在我腦海中，我不停地解析著和她相處的記憶殘片，同樣的圖片，同樣的文檔，同樣的片段，拼湊出關于那四天的回憶。

在佐治亞的時候，我們用一次性黑白相機拍攝了許多照片，而我所能記住的，就只有這些照片留下的痕跡。我們原打算將這些照片保存起來，留給子孫，可現(xiàn)在，它們縈繞在我腦海中，看似真切，卻又連表面都未曾觸及。

有時，就像從窗口不經(jīng)意吹進的一陣微風，記憶的閘門會突然打開，往事噴涌而出：她那金黃色的上衣，她臉上的雀斑，她舒展成微笑的臉頰，她那捧在我手里的哭泣的臉。

當然，還有艾米的聲音，終于變得清晰，終于如此接近，用法語低聲吟唱著一首歌，那是我從未學過的一門外語。

那次見面以后，我們再次聊天時，艾米總是從模糊的聲音和圖像中出現(xiàn)在我面前。有一次，我情緒特別低落的時候，她淡淡地告訴我，愛情只是漫漫時光中的一瞬。

即使時光漫漫——或者說正是在這漫漫時光中——我們愛的一瞬才成為可能。有時候，我不得不這樣提醒自己。

1.Hartsfield-Jackson Airport：哈茨菲爾德-杰克遜機場，全稱為哈茨菲爾德-杰克遜亞特蘭大國際機場(Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport)，也稱作亞特蘭大機場或杰克遜機場，位于美國佐治亞州亞特蘭大市，是全世界旅客轉乘量最大、最繁忙的機場之一。

2.hyperventilate [#716;ha#618;p#601;(r)#712;vent#618;#716;le#618;t] vi. 不正常地快呼吸或深呼吸

3.Bobby Darin：鮑比·達林(1937～1973)，美國20世紀五六十年代的偶像歌手、演員、音樂家

4.Italo Calvino：伊塔羅·卡爾維諾(1923～1985)，意大利作家。他那奇特和充滿想象的寓言作品使他成為20世紀最重要的意大利小說家之一。

5.trombone [tr#594;m#712;b#601;#650;n] n. 長號

6.tambourine [#716;taelig;mb#601;#712;ri#720;n] n. 鈴鼓，小手鼓

7.Usher：亞瑟小子，美國RB流行歌手和演員，他的專輯曾獲過五項格萊美(Grammy)大獎。他擁有自己的唱片公司——US唱片公司。

8.existentialism [#716;eɡz#618;#712;sten#643;(#601;)l#618;z#601;m] n. 存在主義

9.amber [#712;aelig;mb#601;(r)] n. 琥珀色

10.tinted [#712;t#618;nt#618;d] adj. 帶色彩的

11.pastoral [#712;pɑ#720;st(#601;)r#601;l] adj. 田園生活的

12.unmarred [#652;n#712;mɑ#720;(r)d] adj. 未損壞的，未損傷的

13.lilt [l#618;lt] vi. 唱輕快的調子

14.traumatize [#712;tr#596;#720;m#601;ta#618;z] vt. 使受心理創(chuàng)傷，使受精神創(chuàng)傷

15.cabin fever：幽閉病(因長期離群索居而引起的憂慮、煩躁等情緒，在冬季尤甚)

16.Wi-Fi：俗稱無線寬帶，一種短程無線傳輸技術，能夠在數(shù)百英尺范圍內支持互聯(lián)網(wǎng)接入的無線電信號。

17.pixel [#712;p#618;ks(#601;)l] n. 像素(電視圖像成像的最小單位)

18.sparrow [#712;spaelig;r#601;#650;] n. [鳥]麻雀

19.Carly Simon：卡莉·西蒙(1945～)，20世紀70年代最為著名的歌手及作曲家之一

20.pièce de résistance：〈法〉指某一事物中最為突出、顯著和精彩的部分。

21.asymmetrical [#716;e#618;s#618;#712;metr#618;k(#601;)l] adj. 不對稱的，不勻稱的

22.bang [baelig;#331;] n. (常用復數(shù))劉海

23.baggage claim：行李提取處

24.busker [#712;b#652;sk#601;(r)] n. 街頭藝人

25.I’m Waiting for the Man：《我在等待那個人》，美國地下絲絨搖滾樂隊(the Velvet Underground)于1967年發(fā)布的一首歌曲

26.turquoise [#712;t#604;#720;(r)kw#596;#618;z] adj. 綠松石色的，青綠色的

27.opaque [#601;#650;#712;pe#618;k] adj. 不透明的

28.parse [pɑ#720;(r)z] vi. 解析，細致分析

29.patchwork [#712;paelig;t#643;#716;w#604;#720;(r)k] n. 拼湊物