Chapter 2 The first long-legged beauty Sally

I was driving a Lexus through the whistling wind.The car was assembled in a man-free zone, without anyone's sweat on it.Oh, and of course, there's the traces of those who drove the car out of the factory, right on the steering wheel, a little wet where they held their hands.The entire assembly system is always running, every nuance is fully automated, every movement is adjusted for optimum performance.Empty car bodies are being fed in continuously.There are no caffeine-boosters or depressed people on the assembly line.You'll see chrome melted in intersecting blue arcs, steel fittings, asphalt coatings, a plethora of trim designed and manufactured combined and blended into one.You'll see the robot tighten the bolts, follow a pre-programmed routine, and do the tedious work, not thinking about dead family members.

Outside the small control panel of human language, the car gradually took shape and was manufactured, which in a sense is the pinnacle of human ingenuity.It made me feel that the car I was renting was a perfect match for the place I was traversing: an open desert where temperatures were rising, breezes were blowing against a pale sky, and dust was blowing across the car's windshield. wind glass.There was virtually no one to be seen—I was one, of course, but I was hardly there. It can be said that entering this desert was an impulsive move on my part.I temporarily decided to change the itinerary, so I rented a car and embarked on this sparsely traveled journey.In the past, people did things with spontaneity, and that made sense.The faster the process of making a decision, the more memory debt is paid off.I wanted to meet her again, to feel something, to express something, with just a few words, not too many words, and go home.For a longer period of time, I faced distance.The ground is hard and the sky is vast.The mountains in the distance are undulating, continuous, looming, like floating clouds, some are like house cats, some are like bobcats.To see one thing as another is a unique human ability.

This old road runs north.The sun is coming in sideways, and I like the warmth of the sun on my face and arms.I turned off the air conditioner, lowered the windows, and stretched my hands out of the car to feel the sunshine.SPF 15.Even though I have dark olive skin like my own father, I always carry sunscreen with me. I slowed down, took my hands off the wheel, and spread sunscreen on one side of my face and one arm.people exposed to sunlight.I'm fifty-seven years old and I'm still learning how to act rationally. Coconut aromatic oil with a musky scent, sun protection, heat protection, reminiscent of the sea surging, of eyes and nostrils being washed by salt water.I squeeze the plastic tube of sunscreen until it empties, deflates, and dries out.I had a hazy feeling, an image flashed through my mind, some nervous feeling, some kind of glint in the desert—a kind of earth-colored shadow flashed by an ice cream vendor waving over the desert.

Then the wind died down, and a floating cloud hung low in the sky, with pale rose-colored edges, motionless.I was walking on a dirt road, not knowing where I was going.I stopped, got out of the car, and looked around, feeling rather dull.I think I see the frightening holes in the yucca bushes, steel and concrete warehouses left over from mining operations or military experiments.Forty-five minutes later, night fell.There is still a quarter of gasoline in the tank, and I only have half a can of iced tea, plus a map without detailed information, nothing to feed my stomach, and no clothes to keep out the cold.

I'll drink my tea and sit and wait. At this time, from the horizon where the sun was setting, puffs of dust and smoke rose up, indistinct.Something gradually emerged that reminded me of scenes in many films I've seen: a figure drifting by on rolling hills, a man on a horse with a rifle at his back, or a camel driver in Muslim clothes. clothes, on the back of a stupid camel.However, the shadow that appeared in the distance was not like this. It raised two clouds of dust very fast.However, it is not the kind of all-terrain off-road vehicle that people often see.It was fitted with dome lights, and the yellow body gleamed and bumped, looking fancy, flamboyant, with the imposing manner of an animated character.At this moment it was the most delightful ghost, speeding down the rutted road like a piece of pop art, only fifty meters away from me.It appears to be—it must be—a New York City cab.impossible?But it was true, it was darker than the yolk, and it was flying towards me.

Can I think of a better gesture than waving and cheering? But the damn thing didn't slow down, the windows were open and the music was playing, exciting music.I stepped back to let it pass, arms still held up, tanned arms, glistening with sunscreen.I saw the taxi full of people and I yelled as they passed.It was a person's name, a password in the throbbing air. My name is "Clara Sachs". I heard the echo, the taxi slowly slowing down, and there was a burst of cheers.At this time, several arms stretched out from two or three car windows, waving and greeting.A yellow head popped out, and a young woman with blond hair and blue eyes was smiling and looking back at me.Amidst the noise, the driver remained calm and did not stop. The taxi sped away, leaving puffs of smoke and dust on the devastated ground, and rushed towards the vast desert.

I jumped into my silently waiting car and followed them. These volunteers are mainly art students, but there are also people with other identities.History students, teachers on leave, vagabonds, fugitives, weary hackers looking for a different world, the composition is constantly changing.They are the ones who have heard the inner calling, the whisper in the ear, to walk out of the house and into the ranks of some noble activity. manual operation.Scratch surfaces, mix paint, apply color, and watch the brush mark the surface.Pigments – animal fats and polymers mixed together to make up the word.

They are nice to me.They ate and lived in an abandoned barracks next to a huge air force base.There are toilets, showers, hammocks, and a pop-up grocery store.These guys are in a good mood and have a variety of skills.They do things, they sing, they tell funny stories.When the number of personnel exceeds the capacity of the camp, some sleep in small tents, some sleep in sleeping bags, and some stay in cars covered with dust. I tell a student wearing a receptionist badge that I'm not here to paint or operate a sandblasting machine, and I want to see what's been painted.They call it a work of art or a project or whatever.Also, if possible, I'd like to say hello to Clara.

I told him I didn't want to take over where they slept.So he gave me directions to a motel, twenty-five miles away, where I could spend the night.He then told me to meet him later in what he called a painting workshop. I wash off the sunscreen from my hands and face and join in the meal.The offerings are sandwiches, kiwi and juice.After I sat down, I talked to five or six students, and they were all very good.I asked about the taxi and they told me it was someone's private car, they decided to paint it and gave it to Clara for her birthday earlier this week.The car is to be returned to the owner in its decorated condition.So, what they gave Clara was not a car, but just paint, and the impression of New York in her memory.

They asked me where I was from, and I answered with the words I sometimes use. I live in a modest cottage on the outskirts of Phoenix.pause.I'm like a subject in a witness protection program. Later, I hated this statement.However, I seem to be able to divert the attention of the questioner, and can use a patient method to determine the tone of light and intersecting.While talking to them, I kept looking around for the female taxi driver with the sexy blonde hair. Some wore T-shirts that read "Sally Long Legs". I think I can guess Clara's exact age to within two years.I asked how old she was on her birthday, and someone replied that she was seventy-two years old.That's about as close as it sounds.

The night sky was clear and starry, and a pleasant breeze blew across the land.I followed the reflective signs installed in the dirt and drove -- don't walk, they said -- for about a minute and a half.A row of lights appeared, several jeeps, RVs.There is also an independent reinforced concrete building, about three meters high, with a long strip-shaped body divided into more than a dozen compartments, with open entrances at the front and back. This is the operations center, where the project is coordinated: ideas are formed, daily implementation plans are scheduled, most materials are stored. A cubicle was full of people, and I saw a microphone protruding from their heads at a glance.A few lights, a video camera, a woman with a clipboard, and the audience.They were from the painting team, about forty of them, some with protective visors on their chests, many in shirts and jackets with the words I had just seen printed on them.I parked nearby and walked to the side of the group.After a while, I found the main character.She sat in the director's chair with a cane by her side and one leg over an overturned bucket.She had a cigar in her mouth and was talking to someone while the crew worked on the set. At this time, I only need to say a word or two, say a name, and the thing will be done.Once again, I felt that this trip was extraordinary.Seventeen, which was my age when I last saw her.Yes, that was a long time ago, after all these years, she probably felt that I was some kind of invasive character, coming from anxiety-ridden nightmares, through the slow wilderness, just to find her .I stood there watching, wishing I had been brave enough to take this step.It's been a long time since we last saw each other, and perhaps even more peculiar, I can look back and see her as she was before.I could make her jump out of the chair and separate her from the person who was smoking and talking.He was wearing dark plaid pants and a well-worn suede blazer over his top.I have seen pictures of Clara, but am not sure of the woman I know.Her body is straight, her face is pale, and the corners of her mouth are slightly askew.This gives the impression that she has little connection to what she is saying.Her gaze wanders, erratically, and that expression seems to change the question: What do we want from each other? She behaved like a celebrity, and even she felt that being famous alone was good for her.Her hair was white and shone like mineral, trimmed short and hugged the oval shape of her face, with a decorative tassel dangling from her forehead.She was wearing a loose-fitting orange T-shirt over a blazer top, a necklace on her neck, a ring on her finger, white sneakers and socks the color of Kool-Aid grape drink, and the injured One foot is wrapped in a tan elastic strap. Someone handed her a paper cup, and she threw a cigarette butt into it. She had some kind of dark rouge on her cheeks, which gave her a stern, almost deadly tinge, which was frightening to watch.However, I can see the shadow of her when she was young, and I can play a little trick, let her drop into the space I prepared, her eyes squint slightly, her hands become slender.At that time, she often smiled secretly, thinking that it was impossible for us to stay together.She always seems to be slow to do things, think clearly first, and then act. I looked at her, and the thirty seconds had compressed power, and I could feel my breath change. The film crew came from France and was ready to shoot at this time.The audience fell silent, and the woman with the clipboard hunched over and crouched out of camera range, where she could ask questions.She was about forty-five, with combed and striped hair, worn jeans, and a large chinos tote bag at her feet. She said: "I see, we can start. These questions I ask can be cut out of the film at the end, so I will look a little silly when I ask. That's the rule, get it? I'll try to say in English, That's no problem." "But I have to be smart, funny, deep, and cute," Clara said. "That's right. We started with your left leg injury, can you tell us what happened?" "I fell off a ladder, stepped on a rung, didn't hurt too much. We used improvised props. We didn't have a roof over our heads, it was in a hangar or a factory. We didn't have scaffolding, we didn't have an assembly shop A platform—the kind you would use on a construction site or for repairs." I got closer and saw that the student with the reception badge was just ahead, about a few feet away.He just offered to arrange a room for me. "So, you're climbing the stairs, you're working," the interviewer said. "I sprained my ankle and I'm on anti-inflammatories. You know, if the pain isn't too bad, if the fever is bearable, I get up and work sometimes. I got to see it, feel it. We have a lot of talented volunteers. But, Sometimes I need to lend a helping hand.” "I was on the scene for the first time tonight, and I saw a lot of ladders and a lot of people crawling on them. They were all wearing masks, and they had these big cans strapped to their backs." “We have automatic spray guns that we use to prime metal. We also have industrial spray guns that spray paint, enamels, epoxies, things like that. We use portable air compressors and we even use Brushes. We use brushes when we need a brush effect." Some viewers moved slightly, hoping to see Clara speak more clearly.Some of the audience moved slowly to get closer to hear their conversations more clearly.Clara's voice was slightly hoarse and a little erratic, like something liquid-like sliding from side to side. “We scrape and blast,” she said. “We have a lot of blasters with spray guns and nine-gallon reservoirs, I think. We also have some high-pressure blasters, an Big guy with a broken wheel. Most planes only have one coat of paint to remove. When they first painted planes, they were thinking about weight first. In other words, they're used to carry bombs and don't need to be painted so pretty .Of course, this is an impossible job to do outdoors. The outdoor temperature is high and the wind and sand are strong. Spray it with toppings. Sprinkle it, spray it, throw it on.” "Of course, the parts that can be used, the parts that can be sold to civilian contractors, have mostly been removed from these aircraft. But, the wheels are still there, the landing gear is still there, I don't need to be on the ground without wheels," she said. So, we do a lot of high-altitude work, dealing with those fuselages and huge wings. We have guys standing on ladders with twelve-foot airless guns, we have guys standing on the flaps, right Spraying the fins." "However, you can seek cooperation." “Our partnership with the military is just right. We can paint aircraft that have been decommissioned. They allow us to paint, and they promise to keep the site intact and not use them for other purposes, to maintain the integrity of the project. One mile on the painted aircraft Nothing else will be built, not a single permanent structure will be built within the confines of the project. Also, we have funding from many foundations, approval from Congress, and various permits. What else? There are materials donated by manufacturers, tens of thousands of dollars worth of stuff. But we still have to piece together and figure out how to get a lot of what we need." "Desert air is dry, which keeps metals from rusting." "It's hot and dry here." "It's very hot, isn't it?" "They abandoned a lot of aircraft, similar to what they did at the end of World War II," Clara said, "with one difference, oh, two differences. One of them is, this time there's actually no Combat. There was no war, but there was some post-war status left. The other thing is, we're not going to have these huge warplanes lying around in the wilderness, selling them off for scrap." "You're going to paint on them." "We're doing this kind of work, not cutting them up. I'll tell you, it's very peculiar. Thirty years ago, I stopped painting on the Creation Rack and started painting on abandoned objects. Someone attacked saying, I'm being unconventional. Actually, I don't remember when the term discarded painting was first used. However, some people started calling me Pocket Lady. I laughed at the name and thought it lasted a month at most .But I don’t find it funny anymore that someone has been calling me that name for quite some time.” "So, you ran into the desert this time." “Let’s talk about discard painting again. This time, I’m not doing spray cans, sardine cans, shampoo bottle caps or mattresses. I used to paint on mattresses and sheets. That’s the second My first marriage ended, so I'm actually painting on my bed. Anyway, I'm flying a B-52 long-range bomber right now. It's a hundred and sixty feet long, if you count the upper wings Even longer. If the fuel tanks are full, it could weigh half a million pounds. I don’t know the weight with the empty tanks. These planes have been used to carry nuclear bombs and fly all over the world.” "This is not a mattress." "I'll tell you what it is. It's an art project, not a peace project. It's landscape art, and we use the landscape itself in our work. The desert has an important place in this artwork, its surroundings, It acts as a frame. It is a vision made up of four parts. It is for this reason that we have emphasized to the Air Force that when the work is completed, its surroundings must be empty." "As far as land art is concerned, that's really important." "Wait a minute, I'm not done yet. What I'm trying to say is that it took years and years to go from small things to very large objects. In that process, I found these abandoned planes, and I gained a lot in painting. A new discovery. I'm obsessed with color. I'm obsessed with sex, I see it in my dreams, I eat and drink it. I'm a color obsessed woman." At this time, she turned her eyes to the audience and to her staff.They were startled at first, and then burst out laughing. "But the beauty of this desert is—" "It's very old, it's very powerful. I feel like, it makes us feel that, it gives us a culture, a culture of technology. We feel like we must never be overwhelmed by it. Awe and fear, stuff like that Industrial development is not good for technological progress." She waved her arm and laughed. "So, they use this place to test weapons. Of course, this is a logical approach, so that we, the United States, can show our strength. In this desert, there are traces of the nuclear bomb that was detonated that year, and warning signs and restricted area signs can be seen everywhere And the burial sign. I mean, this is where the residue is buried." The interviewer then asks a series of questions about young conceptualists working on biowaste and nuclear fertilisers, before calling a pause.The audience applauded lightly, some began to discuss in twos and threes, and some went out to watch the gradually thickening night. I walked up to the young man with the receptionist badge. "Could you go over now and say that Nick Xie wants to see her? Tell her he's from New York. Ask if I can give her a moment," I said. "In New York, we used to be neighbors." He winked at me. I repeated my name to him and watched him make his way to the director's chair.He saw what she was saying when she was free, and gestured to me in this direction with his hand. I looked at her face, hoping she would react when she heard my name, and her eyes lit up.She paused for a moment, looked around, and began to look for me, as if to say, what?Some kind of concern, some kind of concern, serious expression, thoughtful.really here?all right?still alive? I went over, grabbed a folding chair, put it next to her, and waited for the young man to leave. "So you're Nick." "right." "Amazing." "You remember." "Oh, yes." She said, with a flash of a smile on her face, that expression said, what's going on here. "I'm in Houston." "You live a normal life." "Shave every day." "Pay your taxes every day—OK." "I work in Houston. I have a magazine here that has a story about your project. So, I thought, why not check it out?" "I think Nick does a lot of exercise." "How should I put it, let me think about it. I drink soy milk every day and run 1,500 meters." I waited for her to laugh, then said, "The report didn't say exactly where the place was, though. So, I flew to El Paso, rented a car, and planned to drive to Phoenix to check it out .” "Then you saw us." "It's not easy." She looked at me, obviously looking up and down, and I knew what she was looking at.I feel that, after all these years, there are some things that I should explain.It made me uncomfortable to be under scrutiny after being apart for so many years.She would think in her heart: Now that you have changed so much, you must be doing well, right?See, you don't even know this yourself.You feel like I'm hiding the truth from you, and here you are now, completely helpless. "Well, how are you? You look good," she said. She said that I looked good, but there was a strange look in her eyes and a reserved tone of voice, which made me wary.She was constantly being spoken to, relaying messages, interrupting the conversation between the two of us from time to time.A person came by with a message related to administrative matters and she introduced the two of us. "An old friend, a friend to cherish," she said, "in memory, perhaps. It was a tough time." Then she turned to face me. "Are you married?" "Done. Two kids, college age. They didn't study, though." "I got married on the spur of the moment and it was a nice evening with some good wine. Not recently, of course. I've been busy with work lately. It took me a long time to find out that I'm very interested in things between men and women. Cautious, very rational, very concerned about the character of the other party, caring about the time and place, but when it comes to marriage, he doesn't care about the consequences at all." I thought to myself, you are not always cautious.However, was the relationship at that time an extramarital affair?Just a chance meeting, just twice, a few hours, hours and minutes, and then it's over.Of course, I didn't say this, and I didn't know how to respond.Given the age gap between the two of us, it's impossible for me to joke about people getting old, deaf, and immobilized.I was a little disappointed that I made the meeting more than bearable.I really shouldn't have come here, because this topic is difficult to talk about.Even after forty years, it remains a mystery to keepers of the secret. "I think, whatever that means, I should see you," I said. "I know what this meeting is about. You feel like you're loyal, you've been patriotic over the years, right? We want to be loyal, wholeheartedly loyal, to all those people, to those things loyalty." "And, that feeling is getting stronger and stronger." "Sometimes, I think back on everything I've done all those years later, and everything that's been going on around me. I don't know if you feel that way, and everything seems vaguely—what—unreal." It was an unthinking comment, and she didn't become interested until the last few words. "It's out of the way, Nick. We're far from home." "The Bronx." We both laughed. "Yes, that's the place, those five words. Rude, blunt—what other words can we use?" "Chew." "Yes, it's like biting three words into pieces." "The sound is like being squeezed through the gap between broken teeth." We both laughed again and I felt better.It was such a good feeling to laugh and laugh with her.I want her to see me, I want her to know I'm free.No matter how stupid mistakes I made, I'm free now. “Very strong, very real,” she said. “So much has happened since then, but maybe it’s just a function of getting older. I don’t read philosophy books.” "I read everything," I told her. She looked at me with something akin to surprise on her face. “Maybe, I should save this and let the French read it,” she said. “At some point, life changes unreal, right?” "Well, you're a celebrity, Clara." "Wrong. It's not because I'm famous that it's untrue." I made her look annoyed. "It's just unreal." She pulled a pack of Nat Shermans from under the top of her blazer and lit one. "I'm not pregnant and I can smoke." Another person came and left.A young woman who tells Clara about the change in timing.Clara's expression became serious and cold, but the reason was not at all because of hearing the news.Something else disturbed her, something popped up.She tilted her head as if listening. "It's strange that you're showing up at this hour, God, it's very strange, very scary, really. I'm just thinking about it now. What's wrong with me? I forgot he was dead? Albert died two weeks ago Yes. Three weeks ago. Teresa called me, my daughter." "Sorry." "We had no contact, him and me. Three weeks ago. Congestive heart failure. You know what a disease like that is when you hear the name." "Where did he live before he died? In the old place?" "Yes, in the same place," she said. "Will Albert die somewhere else?" When I first met them, Albert was Clara's husband and taught science at my high school.Mr Bronzini.After many years, I realized for the first time that I suddenly thought of him.In fact, as time goes by, certain places will often appear in people's minds.In the early years, after I peed and returned to bed in the early morning, I often had dreams.In my dreams I always return to certain streets, to darkened train waiting rooms.Certain people would reappear in my dreams as phantoms, among them Albert and Clara.He was the husband and she was the wife, a detail I barely remember at the time. The two leaned over Clara, muttering something to her at the same time.At this point, a member of the film crew asked her if she was going to resume filming. She asked me, "Where's your brother?" "Live in Boston." "Have you met him?" "No, we rarely see each other." "Does he still play chess?" "I didn't see who he played chess with. He stopped playing chess a long time ago." "That's another regrettable thing, though." "It's impossible to have two chess geniuses in the same small neighborhood." "Oh, crap." I put a hand out and put it on her arm, feeling the softness of her skin.She stared at me again, her eyes bulging and bloodshot.Sitting here with one hand on Clara's arm, I'm so comfortable, I can't help but think back to how she looked when she was young: the corners of her mouth turned up, and there is something sexy about that flaw, which makes people want to lose themselves in it. Lost in the dissonance of lips and chin.However, the pleasure brought by memories is limited, and I can only think of such scenarios.We said what we wanted to say, we exchanged looks, we remembered the dead, we remembered the missing.Now it's time for me to revert to being an adult who faces reality. Someone said something, and I stood up, away from Clara, who slid her hand over my forearm, stroking my palm.Later, I found a place in the back, closer to the exit.It took a few minutes for the audience to regroup and get quiet. The interviewer crouches beside Clara and starts asking questions. "Maybe, you can talk to us about why you did this?" "Don't you forget, this is a work in progress, changing from day to day, from minute to minute. Allow me to try, and I hope, through indirect means, to finally give an answer. Maybe I can, maybe I can't do it." She raised her right hand close to her face, the cigarette at her fingertips slanted, about where her eyes were. "Back then, I used to hang out on the Maine coast. I married a guy who liked sailing, and he was my second husband, who traded risky securities. He could go broke at any moment, but didn't know it at the time He had a nice little ketch and we used to go there and cruise along the coast. At night we sat on the deck and the sky was clear and cloudless. Sometimes we saw a sort of halo Moving across the stars, guess what it is. A commercial plane flying over the North Atlantic, or a UFO. You know, this was a topic that was on the lips of people at the time. A glowing disk slowly across the sky. Blurred Clear, very high. I don't think it's possible for a commercial aircraft to fly that high. I know it's a strategic bomber flying at about 55,000 feet. I judge that what we see is reflected from objects at that height Light, in a circle. I think that's what we see. B-52 bomber. War scares me, but I'll tell you, these glowing things elicit a mixed feeling ...the planes were on alert all the time, cruising the skies, skimming the Soviet border. I remember sitting on an anchor in an uninhabited bay, rocking slightly, with a sense of awe. The child was in the The hallucinations of sleepy eyes, mysterious, dangerous, beautiful. I think, this is a kind of power. I think that if you maintain the power to enter people's dreams, you are exercising a profound power. I respect Power. Now, that power has been destroyed, it's been shattered, and the territory of the Soviet Union is much different. A clearer understanding and awareness. Thirty or forty years ago, power meant everything. It was stable, it was focused, it was a visible, tangible thing. It was powerful, it was dangerous, it brought it ties us together, the Soviets to us. Maybe, it ties the whole world together. Back then, it could measure things, measure hope, measure destruction. Today, I want to make it Reappear. It is no longer there, it was purged. But, it is.” When she said this, she seemed to have lost the train of thought of her argument.She paused for a moment, and found that the cigarette in her hand was almost burnt out. The interviewer reached for it, and Clara held the end of it and handed it to her carefully. "Back then, a lot of things were tied to the balance of power; now, the balance of fear seems to have been undone, no more, things have no limits. Money has no limits. I don't understand money anymore. Money is undone. Violence is undone. Dissolved, now it's easier to use violence. Violence has lost its roots, it's out of control, it's out of bounds, it's out of value." She paused again, lost in thought. “I don’t want the countries of the world to disarm,” she said, “or rather, I do want the countries of the world to disarm. However, I want to do it in a careful and realistic way, fully aware of what we are giving up.我们的帆船。那是我们放弃的第一样东西。现在我看到，这些飞机已经不再游弋空中，我在这些飞机上，有时行走，有时弯腰钻行，有时四肢爬行，一一查看，从飞行员座舱一直查到尾翼的武器装备舱。我从各个角度审视它们，苦苦思考它们当年携带的武器是什么样子，操控武器的人员处于什么状态。这样的思考仍然让人感到后怕。但是，那些核弹没有投掷。你们看。那些导弹仍然在后翼炮架上。官兵们返回基地，目标没有被摧毁。你们看看吧。大家都试图考虑战争的事情，但是我不确定，大家是否知道应该如何去思考。诗人们用肮脏的字眼写出诗歌，这种做法非常接近我们实际上做出的经过深思熟虑的反应。他们创作的某种东西超过了常人心灵可以想象的限度。他们甚至不知道早期核弹的名称，不知道它们是物品、器具还是某种什么东西。奥本海默说，它是。我用这个法语单词。我说的是J.罗伯特·奥本海默。它是merde。他的意思是说，某种难以名状的东西被自动贬低到狗屎的地位。你无法对它进行命名。它太大，太邪恶，超过了人们的经验范围。它是狗屎的原因是，它是废物，是无用之物。但是，我要用这样的东西，讲出一个冗长的、盘根错节的故事。我实际上希望得到的是平常的东西，是这种东西背后的平常生活。这就是我们在此所做的事情的灵魂和核心。” 她的声音不稳定，话语从嘴角冒出来，既可怕，又带有诱惑。这使人觉得，她可能陷入某种不稳定的漫谈之中。而且，还有那些停顿。在等待停顿的过程中，我们看见，她用颤抖的手划动火柴，点燃另一支香烟。 她说：“你瞧，我们在绘画，有时候采用手绘，用我们弱小的手，改造来自工厂和装配车间的庞大武器系统，尽量使其保持原状。数以百万计的元件被拆除，同样的动作被没完没了重复。我们试图解构这样的重复，发现人感受到的生活元素。也许，这里存在着一种存活本能，一种涂鸦本能。它进入我们自己的内心深处，表达自己的心声，展示自己的个性。你们看一看那些从事机头艺术创作的人，看一看在机身上绘制美女照片的那些小伙子。” 她接着说：“有的机头制了标记，有的是徽章，有的是团队标记，有的是动物形象。有一个动物吉祥物咆哮着，嘴里流出了黏液，顺着下颚往下流淌。应该说，非常棒的漫画。机头艺术，他们是这样命名的。有的机头上绘制的是女人。这样的东西全都是为了表达好运，对吧？画在机头上的性感女人是一种对抗死亡的护身符。也许，我们希望将整个东西视为某种带有怀旧之情的表达。其实，我觉得，驾驶这些飞机的那些军人生活在带有符号的封闭环境之中，精力旺盛，非常好色。这些飞机构成我们所说的高度戒备的远程早期预警，构成我们所说的许多方面的优势。有一天，我看到了其中的一架很老的飞机，它饱经风雨，油漆斑驳，伤痕累累。上面有一幅机头艺术绘画。一个年轻女人穿着配有荷叶花边的裙子，上身是一件露背小背心，身材高挑，典型的金发女郎。她的两腿修长，非常漂亮，两手放在屁股上。令人热血上涌的美女照片，一看就知道，她还没有掌握获得成功的技巧。画作下方写出了她的名字：长腿美女萨莉。我觉得，我喜欢这个姑娘的原因在于，她不是勇猛好战的，不是天使般的，也不是非常理想化的。我思考许久，这就是我的想法。我认为，即使我们覆盖——我们也许会，也许不会——她的形象，我们肯定将会保留她的名字。我认为，我们将会以这个年轻女人的名字，给我们的作品命名，纪念那些把她的形象画在飞机上的军人，纪念鼓舞他们士气的那首歌。那首歌的歌名我一时想不起来，不过，肯定有一首歌。我觉得，在那一批人中，很可能真的有一个叫萨莉的人。她使歌曲作者、机头艺术作者或者机组人员获得灵感。也许，她是飞行员酒吧中的女招待，也许是某个人家乡的姑娘，也许是某个人的初恋情人。但是，这是具有个性的生活，我希望它成为我们项目的组成部分，希望这种好运，希望这种对抗死亡的符号，成为我们项目的组成部分。大家知道，她可能是一个女招待，工作环境污秽不堪，忙着为顾客递送番茄酱，根本不关心什么核炸弹。无论她现在或者过去是干什么的，我都希望把艺术意图集中在具体的小东西上，集中在人物上。我们的项目规模巨大，将要完成的工作非常繁重。我现在坐在这里，拖着一条伤腿，唠唠叨叨地谈论我的工作。但是，我非常理解马特斯说过的话：画家在开始创作之前，必须割掉自己的舌头。” 我可以在法国的电视上看到她，节目通过经过转换的频道播出，她的声音被译员单调的声音掩盖。全国各地的人都在观看，黑暗中人头攒动。我可以看到，她出现在屏幕上，面孔扁平，发出嘈杂的声音，两者眼睛仿佛是暗淡的月亮，五十万个克拉拉在夜空中飘浮。 她说：“不久以前，我看到了一张老照片，一张60年代拍摄的照片，画面边缘上有一个女人。照片上挤满了人，他们站在一个门口，看上去像是大型舞厅的入口。照片上的人穿着黑白两色的服装，男女都是如此，而且还戴着面具。我看着照片，意识到这是一次著名聚会的场景，那个时代的著名事件。当时正是越南战争的黑暗岁月，杜鲁门·卡波特在纽约的广场大饭店举行了的黑白舞会。我看着那幅照片，有点灵魂出窍的感觉，花了半分钟才反应过来，画面边缘上那个女人是我。肯定没错。站在我旁边的那个男人要么是杜鲁门·卡波特，要么是J.埃德加·胡佛。他们两个人的头型相似，都戴着面具，再加上拍摄的角度和暗影，叫人难以确定究竟是其中的哪一位。我当时穿着一件黑色紧身晚装，戴着白色的小猫面具——我简直不相信，自己会穿那样的款式。我心里想，这张照片上究竟有什么特殊的东西，让我很难想起自己当时的情形呢？我觉得，我不知道戴着白色的小猫面具的那个人是谁，不知道她在那里的确切原因。她心里在想什么呢？在那一身愚蠢的晚装下面，她穿着什么样的内衣呢？我敢向你们打赌，我不知道。我周围是名声显赫的人，大权在握的人，是政府中策划战争的人。我希望给这张照片上色，涂上橘黄、天蓝和紫红，给小夜礼服和晚装上色，给广场大饭店的舞厅上色。也许，这就是我正在进行的工作。我不知道最后的效果，这是一件一直处于变化之中的作品。哦，我们不要忘记快感。五官感觉，各种快感和体液。哦，还有富于层次的蓝色，还有黄色、绿色和天竺葵那样的红色。缅因州天竺葵在阴冷、潮湿的空气中生长旺盛。哦，还有紫红色，还有橘黄色、深蓝色和淡绿色。” 人群中有人大声说：“红色比死亡好。” 大家笑了起来，这个说法产生的共鸣似乎跟着大家的声音传播，碰到我们共享的这个空间的墙壁，然后反弹回来。我们站在那里，自己的笑声在耳际回荡。大家都觉得，晚上的采访应该告一段落。 我走向自己的汽车，看见了一辆纽约市的出租车。有人正要上车时，大灯亮了，我看见开车的还是那个年轻女人。 “噢，谢谢，”我说，“幸亏当时看见了你们。” “你是那个开雷克萨斯的？” “当时迷路了，开车游荡，幸亏看到了你开车过来。” “我们当时说，这家伙觉得得州公路杀手又要害人了。” “我知道，你不是得州公路杀手，这里也不是得克萨斯。” “而且，我也不太相信那杀手开的是出租车。” “这是第二个原因。” “来这里帮忙？” “真希望能帮上忙。可是，我得赶回城里的办公大楼去。” “这可能是你创造艺术史的最后机会。” “你在这里干的任何事情都可能是。” “我们在这里干的任何事情都可能是。” 她坐在驾驶员座位上，车门开着，身体丰满，与早些时候飘浮在飞扬尘土中的那个窈窕女子不大一样。 “这是你的车？” “算是我自愿提供的，”她说，“所以，我想，自己是被出租车给粘上了，这稍稍有些不方便。不过，能够看到克拉拉脸上的表情，我必须说，没错，这样做值得。” 她身体丰满，态度随和，仿佛是夏天遇到的女招待，把吃的东西放在你面前，说一声，您请用。 “在这里待了很久？” “已经有七个星期了，如果项目延续，我会待下去。看来有这样的可能性。” “不想家？” “有时候会的。不过，这是仅此一次的项目。你还没去那里？” “早上去的。”我回答说。 “早点动身。天热时很讨厌。” “我知道很热，我喜欢天热。” “你从哪里来的？” 我没有告诉她我住在一幢朴素的房子中，过着平静的生活，没有告诉她自己的生活情况。我告诉她自己准备在什么地方过夜的，并且故意问她，去那里的路怎么走？ 我要她告诉我她的家乡在什么地方。 我问她在工地上做什么事情，她说她有时候涂抹金属底层，有时候擦刮油漆，有时候用机器打磨。 她坐在座位上，兴致很高，讲述细节，摇着头，装出一副少女模样——不过，她的确有少女的气质。 我问她学业的情况。她说，七年以前就辍学了，不过打算回到学校去，读一个零售方面的学位。我让她说下去。 我们谈到她弟弟，他身患一种罕见的血液病。 我让她说一说她十七岁那年夏天去漂流的事情。 她在讲话过程中有时候丢失单词的音节。 她坐在用珠子串编织起来的坐垫上，剪短的头发遮挡了一部分脸庞。我仔细观察了这辆出租，观察了车里的内室，观察了漆工本身的质量。这些部分禁不起细看，但是不乏业余漆工特有的可爱之处。不过，要改变纽约的现状却并非易事。 “这里流传着一个笑话，”她说，“不过，看来没人可以确定它就是笑话。我们在这些飞机上作画，从某个角度看，这可被视为一种庆祝活动。可是，我们怎么担保，危机真的已经过去了吗？苏联真的解体了吗？整个事情会不会是一个欺骗西方的密谋呢？” 她发出一阵洪亮的笑声。它发自口腔，发自鼻腔，带着刺耳的声音，带着湿润的气息，是一种奇怪的噪音，既承认这个想法具有的黑色吸引力，又对它进行讽刺。 “他们故作姿态，让人觉得他们已经分崩离析。这样，我们就会放松警惕，对吧？” 她再次发出那样的噪音，一个拖长的字母K的发音，带着湿润的哀鸣。我发现，她说得越多，欠我的东西越多。但是，我一言不发，心里暗暗念叨，在她的自我理解中，在关于她家乡和濒临死亡的弟弟的具体说法中，形成一道裂口。我希望将这样的东西化为碎石。它仅仅是一种稍纵即逝的情绪，从一个人已经形成的决意中爆发出来。 我让她说话。我听到得越多，对她所说的东西的兴趣越小，越想把手伸进她的裤子。理由呢，没谁可以理解。 但是，我一言不发。我心里想，怎样才能说服她，让她在我的房间过夜呢？或者说，待上半夜，待上一小时十分钟呢？我不知道自己为什么要她，但是明白为什么不要她。那样做缺乏忠诚，有损于克拉拉，有损于我们共有的记忆，有损于我们两人在遥远小街的小房间里度过的短暂时光。 “嗯，已经不早了。”我说。 “喂，明天是个重要日子。” “我最好还是动身吧。”我说。 她再次告诉我到那里去的路线，然后开车离开了。其他的车子已经离开了这个地方，我去寻找自己的汽车。 巨大的火焰划过天际，我们觉得它呈动物形状，呈厨具的形状，这种想法真有趣。 我在汽车旅馆里看电视。 我在现实世界中负责任地生活，并不将人生视为虚构之物，视为克拉拉所说的非现实的东西——克拉拉曾经告诉我，事物已是如此。历史并不是录音带上被人抹去的那几分钟。我在它面前并非全然无助。我求助于所获知识的特征，从可以利用的具体经验中获得信念。即使我们认定历史是由人类鲜血推动的轮子——读一下墨索里尼的讲话——至少我们都知道这一点。这是一条泛泛的叙述，而不是一万条虚假信息。 在电视上，一个男子坐在起居室里一把外形漂亮的椅子上，面前摆放着茶几，后面的墙上要么是一排排书籍，要么是一张张书籍封面。 我觉得，我们可以了解自己的境遇，我们并非被排除在自己的生活之外。被当作证据的并不是照片中放在别人躯体上面的自己的脑袋。我觉得，国家在大规模地演戏。我生活在现实世界中。我放进来的幽灵都是本地的：我认识的人留下的模糊痕迹，自己的灰暗身躯留下的黑影。它们全都是纽约的幽灵，住在喧闹的老布朗克斯区的人，勉强糊口的穷人。他们张开嘴说话，满口烂牙，讥笑讽刺，废话连篇。 坐在椅子上的那个男人说：“唐氏综合征，免费咨询电话号码是1-800-515-2768。柯氏精神病，1-800-313-7581。老年性痴呆，免费咨询电话号码是1-800-813-3527。”他继续说，“卡波西肉瘤，每天二十四小时咨询电话号码是1-800-672-9161。”
日出时分，我开车到了现场，把车停在一个放置设备的小屋旁边，然后开始爬山。在小山丘顶上，可以居高临下，俯瞰飞机。我还没有见到人影，就听见他们的声音，听见一阵令人不舒服的咯吱响声——大风吹动可以移动的零件发出的响声。后来，我到达砂石岩的顶部，看到发白的地面上停着的一排排飞机。 我没有料到有这么多飞机，内心深感震撼。一共八排，形成歪歪扭扭的队列，在边上还停着几架，机身倾斜。太阳慢慢升起来，我把那些飞机全部数了一遍。一共有二百三十架飞机，机翼经过清洁，就像栖息在海底的生物，有的仅仅绘出部分图案，有的差不多已经完成，许多尚未动工。最后，我看到一些灰色武装直升机，有的上面覆盖着已经褪色的伪装，有的经过风沙吹打，金属裸露出来。 在太阳的照射下，经过绘制的飞机闪闪发光。大片的色彩，有带状的，有四下溅开的，有淡淡的水彩，这是饱和光线形成的力量。整体效果非常个性化，给人感觉是，除了具有史诗规模的构思之外，绘画者信手涂鸦，然后根据自己的想法进行修改。我没有预料到，这些画作会让自己觉得如此愉悦，给自己带来如此巨大的震撼。空气中涂抹着色彩，飞机外壳上的黄铜和赭石发出耀眼的光亮，与作为背景的沙漠相映成趣。但是，这些色彩并非仅仅从空中获得感染力，并非仅仅从周围的地貌获得感染力。它们相互影响，形成冲突，需要从情感层面加以解读。外壳上的颜料、工业用灰色、耀眼的红色，它们在作品中反复出现。某种东西被释放出来，夹带着红色，从涨破的口袋中流出来，像脓血一样，黏糊糊的，淡黄色，呈鼻涕状。其余的飞机没有光泽，挡风玻璃和引擎上仍然覆盖着织物，令人毛骨悚然，死气沉沉，等待人去涂抹底色。 有时候，我看到令人非常震撼的东西。我知道，我不应继续逗留，看了就走。如果逗留时间太长，无言的震撼就会消耗殆尽。喜欢它，信任它，及时离开。 她希望人们看到的是一个整体，而不是放在一起的许多东西，希望人们的兴趣均匀分布。她坚持认为，人们的目光应该看到整体效果，希望人们看到作品所在的大地的维度，看到整个场面。 我听着涡轮叶片在风中发出的啪嗒啪嗒的响声，觉得热风扑面而来。其实，我的目光真的从一排排飞机上扫过，觉得自己被一种荒凉感包围，感受到天气和沙漠具有的使人觉得恐怖的活力，看到经过人们重新有力反思的那些陈旧武器，想到她所做的事情的恰当性。但是，当我看到这一切时，我心里明白，自己连一秒钟也不会多待。 三辆汽车驶到现场，运来了首批信念坚定的工作人员。我回到自己的汽车上，拧开防晒霜的盖子。我在小型的汽车旅馆前台附近的一个架子上发现了这一款防晒霜，旁边摆放着明信片、作为零食的玉米粉片，还有印第安人制作的克奇纳玩偶。在美国人具有的某种奇妙的神经元网状结构中，这些东西留下了印迹。我站在汽车旁边，把防晒霜涂抹在胳膊和脸上，停下来再次读了一下上面的标签。我一个早上都在读标签。标签说，保护指数是30，而不是15。这方面的情况我非常清楚，我阅读过相关文献，看过研究报告，比较过不同产品，比较过它们声称具有的功效。我完全可以肯定，从科学的角度看，保护指数15是可能得到的最高等级的防晒效果。他们现在卖给我的东西的保护指数为30。 它使我想到了某种奇怪的东西。我上了汽车，朝州际公路驶去。它使我想到了特勒的故事，关于爱德华·特勒博士与世界上首次核爆炸的故事。那次爆炸的现场就在我现在位置的东北方向，距离有大约两百英里。根据那个故事的说法，特勒的观察站距离爆炸点二十英里，特勒担心自己会受到冲击波的直接伤害，觉得在脸上和手上涂抹防晒霜可以有所帮助。 这些念头，眼前闪烁不定的灯光，他天真可爱的行为，这辆日本生产的汽车，它们或多或少都适合这里的场景。 我按了一下开关，放下车窗玻璃，观看与墨西哥接壤的连绵群山。它们本身是抒情的，名字非常漂亮——无论它们叫什么，人是不会用不好的名字给山峦命名的。我寻找引导我回家的路标。

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