Older blog entries for sye (starting at number 19)

31 Dec 2018 »
A likely resemblance of kindness - a draft of translation 《可以》

Kindly, staying at an independently run hotspring
a stand-alone place among mountaenous ranges
Trappings of flickering sincerity here and there
in and out of wandering visions.

The winding path of the night, intermittenly mix
of black and white wet patches, unsuspected
slippery fall awaits ocassional traveler

faceless expressions of long black hair
strangled mankind's meekly desire.

It is probable, certainly true.

Drunkards, protected by rails
outpoured his true feelings

Praise-worthy or not, this much I believe
Probability is back in fashion,
manufacturing fables of our beauty Queen
A new semblance taking its root and airy height
Our esteemed old self in new spotlight.

Let us merrily tackle social ill, as We
stand firm in our lether boots for animal rights protection
Imagine an Oxen eating a man to please his master
Is that possible?

Truly, a man can keep his creed
no matter how strange it seems, to others
a UFO from nowhere, let alone
graspable with another's meak mind.

Try, holding up an umbrella
Try, being like a seed of Daffidill
Whenever wind blows, parachutting to a different world.


Have you seen writers frantically running back and forth on their ways?
I always thought they so look like figurines out of wax museums
The way writers dissected our living crime
is the same as we low-balled their points of view.

Double down, a likely resembalance of kindness
we must let blindsighted folks give up their hearings
whoever can't think for themselves must not feel anything
Here comes Japanese Waxwing, on its last true flight,
to this other shore of eternal tranquility.
31 Dec 2018 »
可以

独立于群山围绕的池边
用若有若无的真诚
装饰你我的眼睛

可以象夜里的道路
用黑一块白一块的水渍
陷害夜行的旅人

可以用奇怪的表情
也可以用长长的黑发
缠住男人的爱情

可以
真的可以

醉酒的人,倚着栏杆
呕吐他的真理

不论你是否赞同
我都相信,可以在背后
制造美丽的谣言
这谣言生根,发芽,
长出我们自豪的文明。

可以健谈
可以传着牛皮鞋保护动物
但牛绝对不可以
一边吃人,一边对主人献殷勤

真的,你可以坚守
一个奇怪的信仰
如同一个奇怪的不明飞行物
让你可望不可及

可以打伞
可以象蒲公英一样
风一吹就来到另一个世界

看那个在路上徘徊的文人
怎么看都想刚从艺术馆跑出来的
蜡像
他看你我的表情,正如我们对他的评判

所以,可以
让瞎眼的人也聋掉耳朵
让失去思想的人再一次失去感情
可以用蜡像的表情涂在脸上
让这个世界相信我们永恒的真诚
31 Dec 2018 »
为了逃避

为了逃避思想的痛苦
我不得不
为自己造出一个信仰
如同为了修复心灵的创伤
不得不造出
一个又一个梦

此刻,我洞悉吸毒者的灵魂

我们的祖先一定曾经以毒品为生

与毒品相比
上帝多么虚弱无能

当祖先逃离丛林
逃离鸦片
为了解脱毒瘾
不得不
给性欲镀上一层黄金
我们叫它爱情

真的,爱情不过是
鸦片的替身
不过是
一件披在心灵身上
御寒的外衣
31 Dec 2018 »
叶子


冷的火焰,秋天的平原
父亲的女儿走过山岗


安静的爱情
蛰伏的蜜蜂
忘却生命短暂

叶子,你冷傲的脸
象秋天平原上的霜

缓缓升起了
山之后又一座山
跋涉者再次回头
倦看崎岖来路

而你,叶子
你的爱情纯美如果子
虽然它不是最初的青橄榄

谁暗恋你的青春年华
追踪你月下的影子
谁的脸刹那间老去
白发和眼泪渐露哀伤

在这冷静的夜里,叶子
请注视我白骨流动的磷光

今夜,有些河流泛滥成灾
它们裹着黄沙,与我们一起
掠夺平原

叶子,你听过河边怨妇的呻吟
你看过一双赤脚渐渐没入泥土

而我们的平原,在秋天流动清冷的霜
在早晨,在雾中,孑然一身
如同孤身男子,独对落叶之白杨

你曾与他相对,烛光摇曳
泪光盈盈,无语相视
他是如此细心地聆听你的呼吸
他叫你叶子。

一片落叶,让他无限伤感
31 Dec 2018 »
作者: 茅境 她的法名叫载莲 2008-03-28 02:45:29 [点击:182]
我和载莲站在小桥
她的手指在我手上,柔若花瓣
载莲看着流水对我说:
“坐禅醒了,就来到梦中。”

载莲的肉体在我身躯下
那就是莲花曾经在风中的颤抖
“我们在双修吗?”她这样问
我用嘴唇封住她的嘴唇

那个小小的房间,是载莲和我幽会的地方
她念一句阿弥陀佛,脸上便多一层红晕

载莲说她死后要堕入地域
我说她入地狱我就做地藏王菩萨,只愿阎罗不要做我的情敌

“载莲你就是观世音菩萨,载莲你知道观世音菩萨也会做爱吗?”

“她做爱,然后变成骷髅。”

载莲说她是个魔女,我就是西藏最早的那只猴子。
我们的子孙就是就是活佛,就是班禅达赖

我愿意缠绕载莲的手指,缠绕载莲的手臂,缠绕载莲的大腿,缠绕载莲的腰
她全身被佛法洗涤而一尘不染。

载莲用菩提子念珠套在我的手腕,我拨一个菩提子就念一声载莲我爱你,这样我死去就来到载莲的极乐世界。

载莲对我的依恋,如同春天的水变成夏天的云,到秋天又落到我的怀里。
你的眼叫秋水,你的嘴叫春水
我饮你的春水,我饮你的秋水
我醉你的春水,我醉你的秋水

载莲泪汪汪的,伏在我的肩头抽泣
说她在念佛的时候,也是一不小心就叫出我的名字
30 Dec 2018 »
REQUIEM FOR A FRIEND

by Rainer Maria von Rilke

I have my dead and I have let them go

and been surprised, to see them so consoled,

so soon at home in death, just right this way,

so unlike what we hear. Only you, you come

back; you brush against me, you move about, you want

to knock into things, to make them sound of you,

telling me you’re here. Oh don’t take away what

I’m slowly learning. For I’m right; you’re mistaken

if, touched, you feel homesickness

for any thing. We transform it;

it isn’t here, we mirror it into us,

out of existence, the moment we can see it.

I thought you’d be furthur along. It bewilders me

that you of all people come back here now, you,

who did more transforming than any other woman.

That your death frightened us, or, no, that

your hard death darkly broke in upon us

and tore what went before from what came after:

this is our concern; sorting it out

will be our task in everything we do now.

But that you were frightened yourself and even now

feel terror, where terror has no meaning;

that you could give up a portion of your

eternity, and enter here, dear friend, here,

where everything not yet is; that you, distracted in endless space,

for the first time, distracted and incomplete,

couldn’t grasp the dawning of eternal natures

the way, here, you grasped each smallest thing;

and that, from the circulation that has already received you,

the mute gravity of some disquiet

drags you back into counted time–

all this often wakes me at night like a thief breaking in.

If only I could say: that you deign,

deign to come back out of magnanimity and overabundance,

so secure in yourself, so self-contained

that you can wander freely, like a child, unafraid

of the places where someone could harm you–

but no: you’re pleading. This cuts

to the bone and rips me like a saw.

Whatever rebuke that you, as ghost, could

bear against me in the night, when I pull back

into my lungs, into my guts,

into the last, poorest chamber of my heart–

could never be so gruesome

as this pleading. What are you pleading for?

Tell me, do you want me to travel? Did you

leave some thing behind somewhere, a thing now in torment,

that wants to follow you? Should I look in a country

you never saw, though it was a kindred

to you as the other half of your senses?

I’ll take a passage up its rivers,

go ashore and inquire about its old customs,

speak with the women in their doorways

and look on as they call to their children.

I’ll watch how they wrap themselves in the land

while at their ancient labor

in the meadows and fields; I’ll request

to be brought before the king,

and slip money to the priests to take me

and lay me down before their most powerful idol

and leave, closing the temple gates.

Then, when I’ve learned enough, I’ll

go and watch the animals, letting something

in how they move glide over into my

joints; and I’ll have a brief existence

in their eyes, which hold me

and then let me go, slowly, peacefully, without judging.

I’ll ask the gardeners to name for me

many flowers, so that in the shards

of their lovely proper names I can bring you back

traces of the hundred fragrances.

And fruit, yes, I’ll buy fruit, fruit in which

the country exists once again, right up to its sky.

For these are things you understand: full fruit.

You set them out in bowls with your colors.

In the same way as you saw fruit, you saw women,

and children, too, driven from within

into the forms of their existence.

And finally you saw even yourself as a fruit,

and took yourself out of your clothes and carried

yourself before the mirror and let yourself go in,

and didn’t say: “That’s me;” but : “This is.”

And at last your looking was so incurious,

so free of possessing, and of such true poverty

that it no longer desired even you yourself: holy.

This is how I would keep you, seeing you placing

yourself before the mirror, deep inside it

far from everything. Why come back this way?

Why change things now? Would you talk me into

believing that in those amber beads

at your neck was something even heavier

than the heaviness that is never in the heaven

of peaceful pictures; why must you let me see

the ill omen in how you hold yourself;

and what could lead you to read your body’s

contours like lines in the palm of a hand,

so that now I can’t see them apart from fate?

Come here into the candlelight. I’m not afraid to

look at the dead. For when the dead come

they have as much right to sojourn

in our gaze as any other thing.

Come here; let’s be quiet for a bit.

Look at the rose on my desk;

isn’t the light around it as hesitating

as the light shining above you: it shouldn’t be here either.

Out in the garden, uninvolved with me,

it should have kept living or passed on–

now it’s just lasting it out: what’s my consciousness to it, anyway?

Don’t be afraid if I grasp it now, ah,

now it rises in me: I can’t help myself,

I must grasp it, even if I die of it.

Grasp that you’re here. And I do grasp it

as a blind person grasps some nearby thing,

I feel your lot yet can’t name it.

Let’s lament together that someone

could take you out of your mirror. Can you still cry?

You can’t. You transformed the force and urgency

of your tear into your mature gaze

and were just on the point of turning all your

body’s juices into a powerful existence,

which would rise and circle, trustingly, in equilibrium.

Then chance, your last encounter with chance,

tore you back from your furthest progress,

back into a world where juices have their will.

Not all at once; tore just a shred at first,

but when, around this shred, day by day,

reality swelled, became heavy,

then you needed all of yourself: then you went

and broke yourself, in fragments, laboriouly freeing

yourself from the law, because you needed yourself. Then

you cleared the debris and dug from your heart’s

night-warm soil the still-green seeds

from which your death was to germinate: your own death,

the death that was yours during your own life.

And ate them, ate these kernels of your death,

as you had all the others, ate the kernels

that left in you an aftertaste of sweetness

you hadn’t expected, and gave you sweet lips,

you: who within your senses were already sweet.

Yes, let’s lament. Do you know how haltingly,

how begrudgingly, your blood turned back,

when you summoned it from its incomparable circling?

And how bewildered it was to take up again

the body’s trivial circulations; and with what mistrust

and stonishment it entered the placenta,

and then suddenly it was itred from the long journey back.

And you drove it, you shoved it forward,

you dragged it to the site of fire, as

one flails a group of animals to the sacrifice;

and you even wanted it to be happy there.

And at last you compelled it: and it was happy,

and it ran to you and surrendered itself up. You thought,

because you were used to another scale,

that it would take but a little while, but

now you were in time, and time is long.

And time passes, and time increases, and time

is like a relapse into an endless illness.

How short your life turned out to be, measured

against those hours when you sat silently

bending the many energies of your multifarious

future back down into this new child-sprout,

which once again was fate. O painful labor.

O labor beyond all strength. Day after day

you did it, dragged yourself to it,

extracted the lovely weft from the loom

and used all your threads in another way.

And in the end you even had the spirit to celebrate.

Once it was done, you wanted your reward,

as children do when they’ve drunk down

the bittersweet infusion that might make them well.

Here’s how you rewarded yourself: for even then you were

too fat ahead of all the others; nobody

could have thought up a reward that would have pleased you.

But you knew. You sat up in the birthing-bed,

and before you stood a mirror that gave you back

yourself whole. Now all that was you,

all the in front; and inside was only deception

the lovely deception of every woman who likes

to spread out her jewelry, who combs her hair and changes.

And so you died, the way women used to die

died in that warm house the old-fashioned

death of women in childbirth, who wanted to close

themselves again, and no longer could,

because the darkness they’d also given birth to

comes back again and insists and enters.

Perhaps, after all, we should have rounded up

some wailing women? Women who weep

out loud for money, whom one can pay

to bawl all the way through the quiet hours of the night.

Oh, how we need customs. Oh, how we suffer from the lack

of customs. They pass, we talk them out of existence.

And this is why you had to come back, yourself, dead, and help

here with me catch up on all the lamenting. Can you hear

me wail?

I would swirl out my voice like a wide cloth

to cover the shards of your death

and then read it until it was torn to shreds,

and everything I’d say from then on would

wear, shivering, the tatters of this voice;

if lament were enough. But now also I indict:

not him who wrenched you back out of yourself,

(I can’t find him, he’s like all the others)

but, in him, I accuse them all: all men.

If somewhere deep within me arises osme essence

of having been a child, one I never experienced,

perhaps the purest childness of my childhood,

I don’t want to know it. Without even looking,

I want to form an angel out of it

and hurl him into the foremmost rank

of screaming angels, to remind God.

For this suffering has gone on too long,

none of us can bear it; it’s too heavy.

This tangled suffering caused by false love, which

relying on antiquated convention, as well as habit,

claims the right to extort riches from a wrong.

What man has the right to own?

Or ot possess what can’t grasp itself,

but every so often blissfully catches itself

and tosses itself out again, as a child with a ball.

As little can the captain possess

a Nike at the bowsprit of his hip

when the secret lightness of her godhead

suddenly lifts her high into the bright sea wind:

so little can any man call back

the woman who no longer sees us, and who,

along a narrow isthmus of existence,

miraculously walks off unharmed,

unless his profession and pleasure be guilt.

For this is guilt, if it is anything:

to fail to increase the freedom of a love

by all thee freedom we can raise within ourselves.

When we love, we have, at most, this:

to let each other go; for holding on

comes easily, we don’t have to learn it.

Are you still here? In which corner are you?-

You knew so much about all these things,

and were so able, as you proceeded through life,

open to everything, like a dawning day.

Women suffer: to love means being alone,

and artists sometimes intuit in their work

that when they love, they must transform.

You began both tasks; we see it in all that

which fmae now distorts and takes from you.

Ah, you were far beyond any fame. You were

inconspicuous, and quietly gathered

your beauty into yourself, as one takes in

a flag on a gray workday morning,

and wanted nothing but a long-term work–

which remains undone: ever undone.

If you’re still nearby, if somewhere in this darkness

there’s a place where your spirit

resonates with the shallow sound-waves

a solitary voice can stir alone at night

in the currents of a high-ceilinged room:

Then hear me: Help me. You see, we slip back,

without knowing it, from our advance,

into something we didn’t intend: where

we can become caught up, as in a dream,

and where we could die without waking.

No one went further. It can happen to any of us

who raise our blood to an extended work,

that we can’t hold it at that level,

and it falls of is own weight, worthless.

For somewhere an old enmity exists

between our life and the great works we do.

So that I may have insight into it and say it: help me.

Don’t come back. If you can bear it, stay

dead among the dead. The dead have their tasks.

Then help me in some way that won’t distract you,

as what is farthest sometimes helps me: within me.

23 Nov 2018 »
艺评家Anna TSAI 蔡姈燕
22 Nov 2018 »
"作为全军的总医院,301医院计算机室有着不俗的历史与实力。早在1978年,医院即成立了计算机应用研究小组,在简陋的条件下开始探索计算机及其应用技术,人员从3人开始逐步发展壮大。1986年3月,医院正式成立计算机室,编制15名专业技术人员。同年,医院引进了一台HP3000小型机,开始成规模和成系统地开展医院信息系统研发与应用工作。当时那代系统从功能上包括了病案首页、医务统计、药品管理、收费账务、人事管理等内容,是在早期与中国人民大学合作研发的基础上,经后期独立重构完善研发完成的,这套系统曾经获得军队科技进步一等奖. 1990年后,在第一代系统的能力已经饱和的情况下,301医院计算机室又用了三年时间,基于大型关系数据库和分布式处理技术,研发了第二代信息系统并实现了老系统的迁移。经过多年持续的研发,不仅当时301医院的信息系统应用走在了国内前列,更重要的是锻炼造就了一支信息专业技术队伍。至1994年,这支队伍已汇集了一批毕业于清华大学、国防科技大学等著名高校的研究生、本科生骨干,他们不仅精通技术,而且熟悉医院业务,在当时可谓“兵强马壮”,令业内很多医院羡慕。" - from 薛万国:“军字一号”工程历史回顾【酝酿篇】 Thanksgiving to 薛万国 for writing this memoir . I remember the place well! "时任301医院计算机室主任的任连仲之所以要组织这次沙龙并邀请傅征局长参加,是因为他已了解到傅征正在酝酿网络版医院信息系统的研发,正在物色研发队伍。任连仲认为这个机会对301这支队伍太重要了,他要向傅征展示这支队伍的实力和期待。"
26 Sep 2018 »
On 9/25/2018 4:13 PM, S Ye wrote:

hi there, so in math jargon, what's the significant difference to call something a conjecture and another hypothesis?

UK English definitions are best for this. Conjecture is a guess without proof; hypothesis is a conjecture based on known facts by as yet not proved or disproved.

I use hypothesis to be a subset of conjecture which is linguistically correct I believe.

It pisses people off for me to refer in quantum theory (QT) to Bell's inequality (Bell-CHSH) as a conjecture (instead of a theorem, already proved), because I refute it.


https://www.ias.edu/ideas/2014/voevodsky-origins

I am shocked that he died last year?! at the age of 51? ...
Voevodsky's system is based on ZFC set theory (which I refute, except for the Axiom of Specification). He goes on to apply Grothendieck (so "brilliant" he committed suicide by not eating) the founder of categories in number theory to the C complex plane (imaginary numbers i=(-1)^0.5) as a topology. This lead to sheaves, cohomology theory, and etale theory. See:

www.jmilne.org/math/CourseNotes/LEC.pdf

The problem is assuming ZFC is tautologous with it's nine or ten axioms, which it is not. Naturally, any derivations therefrom are similarly flawed (as was Groethendieck).

Voevodsky's system is a vector space, hence probabilistic, and which can never reduce to a bivalent state of exactly binary zero or one.

For example in an Abelian category (page 50), a short exact sequence is 0 implies A implies B implies C implies 0 which engenders a long exact sequence. However, 0->A->B->C->0 always results in a contradiction [((p@p)>((p>q)>r))>(p@p) ; FFFF FFFF FFFF FFFF]). In other words, what Voevodsky proves are trivial equations such as contradictions.

For another example (from ias.edu/ideas/2013/awodey-coquand-univalent-foundations), the
Univalence Axiom: (A = B) ≃ (A ≃ B).

In other words, identity is equivalent to equivalence. In particular, one may say that “equivalent types are identical.”

My remark: This reduces to (A=B)>(A>B) as (p=q)>(p>q) ; TTTT TTTT TTTT TTTT, which is a theorem.

In other words in classical logic, "If A is equivalent to B, then A implies B" is a trivial theorem.

This means again that the systems of Voevodsky et al prove trivial equations.

The practical idea was a geometry and topology for "univalent" validation and verification of computer programs which was never realized to my knowledge, because its origin was the obviously defective ZFC.

Former editor on Translation: S. Ye
胜过星吧客 - 不寻常的诗界
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12 Oct 2017 »



1) C'est l'an 1971
Ma Tante Aymée me met au bain
Elle aide Maman, submergée,
Epuisée et débordée,
Entre mes soeurs et mes frères,
Ses courtes visites à mon père
Croupissant en Yougoslavie
Captif d'un goulag décrépit

2) Flash back en l'an 41
Quand Tante Aymée, notre Ange-Gardien,
S'occupe de sa nièce: Maman,
Souffrant du strict rationnement,
Imposé par les Allemands,
Elle aide Mamie, submergée,
Epuisée et débordée,
Papi, soldat, combat, absent

3) Encore avant: 1909
On annonce à ma Tante Aymée
Que désormais en soeur ainée
Elle ne peut compter se marier
Et ses doux rêves de prétendants
De maternité et d'enfants
Elle devra raccrocher
Pour de ses cadets s'occuper

4) Retour en l'année 2016
Mon père parti douloureusement,
C'est moi qui accompagne Maman
En cette Toussaint voir nos aïeux
Nous défrichons alors leurs tombes
Et enfin les refleurissons
C'est une première fois pour moi
J'apprécie ce moment de paix

5) Soudain, alors que je creuse la terre
Pour y transplanter une fleur
Ma pelle heurte un objet spécial
Une plaquette de métal
Celle-ci porte les mots suivant:
"Paule Richard, 13 ans
25 juillet 1909" :
Elle fut l'ainée de Tante Aymée

6) Etait-ce une coincidence ?
Cela n'aurait vraiment pas de sens
Qu'à ma première visite ici
Vers moi de la terre jaillisse
Ce message de l'au delà
Emis il y a 107 ans
Il élucide pourquoi pour Tante Aymée
Moi, le dernier-né, je fus toujours le "Bébé"

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