陈升演唱会:可下载但难以承受的网络爱情

　　在两年前，我终于和Amy在哈兹菲尔德-杰克逊机场见面了。我能回想起那时我穿过挂着星云和星系照片的亚特兰大机场的航站楼，只带着一个背包在走廊徘徊的场景。我打电话给我的朋友Devin，气喘吁吁地，感觉就像尼尔·阿姆斯特朗一样，要对他宣告这一时刻的到来。

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 Darin, knew who Italo Calvino was, and posted cute pictures of herself digitally multiplied to play the banjo, guitar, trombone and tambourine at the same time, a full band of Amys. 

　　当时Amy和我已经认识五年了。我们在高中还分别住在东西海岸那会儿就用互联网联系上了，那时我住在俄勒冈州，而她住在乔治亚州。我喜欢上她是因为她喜欢听Bobby Darin的歌曲，知道Italo Calvino是做什么的（译注：前者是美国1950s~60s的偶像歌星，后者是意大利作家），还传给我数字合成的她自己同时演奏班卓琴、吉他、长号和小鼓的图片——简直就是一个由“Amy们”组成的乐队。

I was 15 and had just started dating. My first kiss was at a school dance, regrettably to Usher’s “Burn.” I was terrified to find my date’s tongue in my mouth, not knowing what it was. 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. 

　　那时我15岁，刚刚开始懂得约会。我的初吻是在一次学校的舞会上，很遗憾地被引导员夺走了。我被吓坏了，想找些适合在约会时说的话，但我不知道什么合适。那会儿脸谱网还没对所有人开放，推特网的内容也没现在那么丰富，我们能用的只有冗长的博客，内容通常包括两个方面：每日见闻和青春焦虑。我的博客以后者见长。

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: existentialism, family, religion and the wars. I broadcast everything that scared and exhilarated me. 

　　这种形式的一些优点很吸引我：可以畅所欲言而不必面对听众。我不仅写关于女孩子和对社会担忧的话题，还写我平时很少谈及的话题，比如存在主义、家庭、地域还有战争。我把所有令我高兴或令我害怕的东西都贴到了网上。

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 amber-tinted and pastoral. 

　　如果说我的博客是在自我发现过程中的灰调练习的话，Amy的博客则刚好相反，她的博客充斥着欢乐的故事，比如在麦克唐纳骑自行车、对她的狗唱歌以及和她的朋友们在田地里跳舞。她刊登的照片是泛黄的田园风格。

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. 

　　她是一个乡村歌手，我也会试着唱乡村歌曲，这是我们的共同点。当我们第一次开始交谈时，Amy还不能把她的歌录下来，但随着时代的发展、技术的进步，录制歌曲变得轻而易举，之后她就会用电子邮件传给我她唱的歌了。

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

　　在“聊”了几年后，我听见了她真实的声音：那真是如风一般、美妙的东西，没有被现代污染，好像能带我回到过去的时代一样。那是南方风格的轻快而伤感的调子，都压缩进了一个MP3文件中。

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. 

　　我很奇怪，在那阵子，电话为什么会是社会联系的下一个步骤。不知为何，我觉得它好像是比用日记随笔和照片更严肃、更近人、更危险的东西。

But Amy and I started to call each other. A blizzard had just swept through Portland, so during a bout of cabin fever 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. 

　　但是Amy和我还是通了电话。一场暴风雪刚刚席卷了波特兰，所以在经历了一场幽居病后，我开始为她写歌。在那些歌中，我仿佛能去南方过冬，离开家去获得不一样的感觉。要是我在那儿会怎么样？要是她在这儿会怎么样？我被这些想法搅得心烦意乱。

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. 

　　就在那时候，我们的通话时间变长了。我们开始互诉衷肠。她用变化着的语调诉说着那些只能用声音传达的，无法隐藏在文字之后的美好记忆，然而糟糕的信号有时会使这美妙的声音失真。

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-Fi, her beautiful face often contorted into a mess of pixels. 

　　在那个春天，我们开始用Skype联系。最后是面对面。她坐在她的大学的微机室，和我聊天直到凌晨。我们带来了吉他，对着对方弹唱我们的歌曲。我比之前唱歌时的声音都要大。我时而到达高音极限时而到达低音极限。我想知道她那边实际上听到的是什么样子，到底被我这里微弱的WiFi信号毁掉多少，正如她那美丽的脸庞经常变成一堆像素杂点一样。

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

　　然后轮到她了。不知为何，我能听清每一个单词。有一段歌词特别吸引我注意：

Sparrow, won’t you fly down south by me? 

　　麻雀啊，你愿意随我飞到南方吗？

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

　　麻雀啊，在野兽的腹中安家吧。

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

　　把我放在沙滩上，海边的沙滩上。

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

　　地上有一只恶魔，那只恶魔就在我心里。

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 Simon song, and I just thought it was about me? 

　　当她这么做的时候，我们就这么互相看着对方。我们不需要说任何话。如果我们要聚在一起的话，那会付出许多现实世界的代价。是不是因为她说不出口才会唱给我听呢？还是就像Carly Simon的歌曲一样，只是我擅自认为是有关我的歌呢？

Vain or not, we started planning my escape.

　　不知是否是因为空虚，我们开始计划我们的会面。

“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. 

　　“如果她是一个与你想象的不同的人怎么办？”我的朋友Matt在一次宿舍里的早餐时问道，“如果到那时你不喜欢她了呢？”那时我已经向他肯定，她不是一个400磅重的想谋杀我的男人。

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? 

　　我用笑声回应了朋友的疑问，而从没切实考虑过这个风险。我在期末考试前给了自己四天的周末假期要在这个国家的另一边度过。会出什么差错吗？

All of my friends half-supported and half-laughed at what I was about to do. Jeremy rightfully smiled at my naïveté 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. 

　　对于我要做的事，我的朋友中有一半支持，一半讥讽。Jeremy对我的天真一笑了之，但还是送给了我他的祝福。当我小心地，以悲观的开头告知Beth时，她打消了我的疑虑：“嘿，这就是我们现在生活的世界：无界。”Samiat开车送我到了机场，一路上她一直在说我看起来有多“可爱”。

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

　　我乘上飞机了。仅仅是启程就让我的感觉好得跟见到了Amy一样。这个行动是我对现实的抵抗，是爱情力量的现实证据，是艺术的集中体现，浪漫和科技可以让所有事情变得美妙。

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. 

　　虽然我还在坐飞机，但我真的觉得很开心。只是有点儿开心过头了。我的头发一团糟，也忘记了刷牙。我曾经决定不去刮脸，心想说不定Amy喜欢我的“胡须”。但是当我摸到自己的脸时，我发现这真是个差劲的主意。

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. 

　　当飞机着陆时，我把自己想象成了在登月舱里，接受着预料到的冲击。我是一个太空男孩，经常在自己的想象中遨游，而旧的习惯总是难以改掉。我走下飞机，穿过走廊。我觉得仿佛失重了一样。我的心跳声很重，感觉就像有一堆虫子在我体内乱爬。

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. 

　　所有的女孩看起来都像是Amy。我的心为每一位“Amy”而颤动。我通过了那些自动门。每一扇门都仿佛是为另一个可能Amy打开。我不切实际地期望能找到一个拿着长号的Amy、再找到一个拿着班卓琴的Amy，就像她曾经传给我的那张有趣的图片一样。

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

　　这是一个喜剧般的情景。在乔治亚州有多少梳着不对称发型且身材完美的人？我来回踱步，绕着行李认领处散步，疯狂地不断检查我的移动电话。

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? 

　　随后，她出现了。就像字面意思那样，我能够感觉到她在我的怀抱中。这就是她的身体。这就是她的脸庞。她就在这里。我也在这里。我感觉仿佛要窒息了。感受着她的靠近就像到了外太空一样伴随着这样的疑问：它是无限的还是有限的？线性的还是循环的？

Now, here is where there are gaps. I know we held hands through Piedmont Park in Atlanta as a busker played “I’m Waiting for the Man,” and I know we drove to McDonough and kissed for the first time on the floor of her turquoise 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. 

　　而现在，隔阂出现了。我记得我们曾经在皮德蒙特公园作为卖艺人携手演唱《我正在等待那个男人》（I’m Waiting for the Man），我也记得我们开车去了麦克唐纳，还在她青绿色的儿童卧房的地板上第一次接吻，我也还记得我们一起去了沃尔玛，对着监控摄像头跳舞，我还记得在梅肯的一座公墓中枕着她的大腿小睡。

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 opaque. 

　　我也还记得，我们那时决定不再继续我们的关系。我们都清楚无法为了靠近彼此而搬家。但是我们也知道，在这之后，我们也无法回到电脑屏幕前了。所有这些事情都是可知的、确定的，但又是模糊而朦胧的。

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 parsing through the same remnants of my time with her, the same jpegs, the same docs, the same pieces to construct a patchwork past of those four days. 

　　事实是，Amy现在就像一只不动的幽灵一样。我保存着所有痕迹：旧的电子邮件和聊天记录，文字信息还有她唱的歌。我对她的记忆仿佛保存在服务器和硬盘中，被好好地上锁而难以接近。在我的心中，我一直在分解和她度过的那些残留的记忆，相同的JPEG文件、相同的DOC文件、相同的记忆拼凑成的那过去的四天。

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. 

　　当我到达乔治亚州时，我们用一架黑白即时显影相机合影，我还记得照片间的那些细线。我们以为自己是在为子孙保存纪录，但它们只是忠实地记录了我没刮胡子的样子。

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, holding her crying face. 

　　之后，偶尔地，就像从窗口吹进了一股微风一样，这些过去的记忆会被触发甚至泛滥成灾：她那菊黄色的上衣、她脸上的雀斑，还有忍住哭泣，勉强微笑着的嘴唇。

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

　　当然，还有Amy的声音，依旧清晰但终于不再了的，那首用我从没学过的法语低声唱着的歌曲。

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. 

　　在我们最后一次碰面后的聊天时，Amy的声音依旧失真。有一次，我觉得十分低落的时候，她只是简短地对我说，在一生中，爱情只是一瞬间的感觉。

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

　　但是就在我这样的一生中，这一个瞬间发生了——有时我不得不这样提醒自己。