OMG, He looks so HOOOOT!
我发现他的笑容有一种DEVILISH CHARM。
[此贴子已经被作者于2006-1-21 12:38:58编辑过]
OMG, He looks so HOOOOT!
我发现他的笑容有一种DEVILISH CHARM。
[此贴子已经被作者于2006-1-21 12:38:58编辑过]
赫赫,反复欣赏啊
[此贴子已经被作者于2006-1-22 23:35:26编辑过]
[此贴子已经被作者于2006-1-22 23:43:46编辑过]
[此贴子已经被作者于2006-1-22 23:47:52编辑过]
[此贴子已经被作者于2006-1-22 23:53:41编辑过]
我很fan这个银啊!
我很fan这个银啊!
哈哈,同FAN 同FAN。。。
哈哈,同FAN 同FAN。。。
我喜欢你的头像
我喜欢你的头像
哈哈,握手握手,和你一样在同一个地方找到的!
最新情报!!!
Today
WNBC Jan 31 07:00am
Series/Talk, 180 Mins.
The cast of ``Brokeback Mountain''; the Iron Chef Masaharu Morimoto; Lose 20 With Al.
Original Airdate: January 31, 2006.
大家不要错过!!!
不知道TODAY SHOW是不是当天TAPE的?
[此贴子已经被作者于2006-1-24 13:56:14编辑过]
BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN原著小说
by Annie Proulx
Ennis Del Mar wakes before five, wind rocking the trailer, hissing in around
the aluminum door and window frames. The shirts hanging on a nail shudder
slightly in the draft. He gets up, scratching the grey wedge of belly and
pubic hair, shuffles to the gas burner, pours leftover coffee in a chipped
enamel pan; the flame swathes it in blue. He turns on the tap and urinates
in the sink, pulls on his shirt and jeans, his worn boots, stamping the
heels against the floor to get them full on. The wind booms down the curved
length of the trailer and under its roaring passage he can hear the scratching
of fine gravel and sand. It could be bad on the highway with the horse trailer.
He has to be packed and away from the place that morning. Again the ranch
is on the market and they've shipped out the last of the horses, paid everybody
off the day before, the owner saying, "Give em to the real estate shark,
I'm out a here," dropping the keys in Ennis's hand. He might have to stay
with his married daughter until he picks up another job, yet he is suffused
with a sense of pleasure because Jack Twist was in his dream.
The stale coffee is boiling up but he catches it before it goes over the
side, pours it into a stained cup and blows on the black liquid, lets a
panel of the dream slide forward. If he does not force his attention on
it, it might stoke the day, rewarm that old, cold time on the mountain when
they owned the world and nothing seemed wrong. The wind strikes the trailer
like a load of dirt coming off a dump truck, eases, dies, leaves a temporary
silence.
They were raised on small, poor ranches in opposite corners of the state,
Jack Twist in Lightning Flat up on the Montana border, Ennis del Mar from
around Sage, near the Utah line, both high school dropout country boys with
no prospects, brought up to hard work and privation, both rough-mannered,
rough-spoken, inured to the stoic life. Ennis, reared by his older brother
and sister after their parents drove off the only curve on Dead Horse Road
leaving them twenty-four dollars in cash and a two-mortgage ranch, applied
at age fourteen for a hardship license that let him make the hour-long trip
from the ranch to the high school. The pickup was old, no heater, one windshield
wiper and bad tires; when the transmission went there was no money to fix
it. He had wanted to be a sophomore, felt the word carried a kind of distinction,
but the truck broke down short of it, pitching him directly into ranch
work.
In 1963 when he met Jack Twist, Ennis was engaged to Alma Beers. Both Jack
and Ennis claimed to be saving money for a small spread; in Ennis's case
that meant a tobacco can with two five-dollar bills inside. That spring,
hungry for any job, each had signed up with Farm and Ranch Employment --
they came together on paper as herder and camp tender for the same sheep
operation north of Signal. The summer range lay above the tree line on Forest
Service land on Brokeback Mountain. It would be Jack Twist's second summer
on the mountain, Ennis's first. Neither of them was twenty.
They shook hands in the choky little trailer office in front of a table
littered with scribbled papers, a Bakelite ashtray brimming with stubs.
The venetian blinds hung askew and admitted a triangle of white light, the
shadow of the foreman's hand moving into it. Joe Aguirre, wavy hair the color
of cigarette ash and parted down the middle, gave them his point of view.
"Forest Service got designated campsites on the allotments. Them camps can
be a couple a miles from where we pasture the sheep. Bad predator loss,
nobody near lookin after em at night. What I want, camp tender in the main
camp where the Forest Service says, but the HERDER" -- pointing at Jack with
a chop of his hand -- "pitch a pup tent on the q.t. with the sheep, out a
sight, and he's goin a SLEEP there. Eat supper, breakfast in camp, but SLEEP
WITH THE SHEEP, hunderd percent, NO FIRE, don't leave NO SIGN. Roll up that
tent every mornin case Forest Service snoops around. Got the dogs, your
.30-.30, sleep there. Last summer had goddamn near twenty-five percent loss.
I don't want that again. YOU," he said to Ennis, taking in the ragged hair,
the big nicked hands, the jeans torn, button-gaping shirt, "Fridays twelve
noon be down at the bridge with your next week list and mules. Somebody
with supplies'll be there in a pickup." He didn't ask if Ennis had a watch
but took a cheap round ticker on a braided cord from a box on a high shelf,
wound and set it, tossed it to him as if he weren't worth the reach. "TOMORROW
MORNIN we'll truck you up the jump-off." Pair of deuces going nowhere.
They found a bar and drank beer through the afternoon, Jack telling Ennis
about a lightning storm on the mountain the year before that killed forty-two
sheep, the peculiar stink of them and the way they bloated, the need for
plenty of whiskey up there. He had shot an eagle, he said, turned his head
to show the tail feather in his hatband. At first glance Jack seemed fair
enough with his curly hair and quick laugh, but for a small man he carried
some weight in the haunch and his smile disclosed buckteeth, not pronounced
enough to let him eat popcorn out of the neck of a jug, but noticeable. He
was infatuated with the rodeo life and fastened his belt with a minor bull-riding
buckle, but his boots were worn to the quick, holed beyond repair and he
was crazy to be somewhere, anywhere else than Lightning Flat.
Ennis, high-arched nose and narrow face, was scruffy and a little cave-chested,
balanced a small torso on long, caliper legs, possessed a muscular and
supple body made for the horse and for fighting. His reflexes were uncommonly
quick and he was farsighted enough to dislike reading anything except Hamley'
s saddle catalog.
[此贴子已经被作者于2006-1-24 14:02:38编辑过]
The sheep trucks and horse trailers unloaded at the trailhead and a bandy-legged
Basque showed Ennis how to pack the mules, two packs and a riding load on
each animal ring-lashed with double diamonds and secured with half hitches,
telling him, "Don't never order soup. Them boxes a soup are real bad to
pack." Three puppies belonging to one of the blue heelers went in a pack
basket, the runt inside Jack's coat, for he loved a little dog. Ennis picked
out a big chestnut called Cigar Butt to ride, Jack a bay mare who turned
out to have a low startle point. The string of spare horses included a mouse-
colored grullo whose looks Ennis liked. Ennis and Jack, the dogs, horses
and mules, a thousand ewes and their lambs flowed up the trail like dirty
water through the timber and out above the tree line into the great flowery
Meadows and the coursing, endless wind.
They got the big tent up on the Forest Service's platform, the kitchen and
grub boxes secured. Both slept in camp that first night, Jack already bitching
about Joe Aguirre's sleep-with-the-sheep-and-no-fire order, though he saddled
the bay mare in the dark morning without saying much. Dawn came glassy orange,
stained from below by a gelatinous band of pale green. The sooty bulk of
the mountain paled slowly until it was the same color as the smoke from Ennis'
s breakfast fire. The cold air sweetened, banded pebbles and crumbs of soil
cast sudden pencil-long shadows and the rearing lodgepole pines below them
massed in slabs of somber malachite.
During the day Ennis looked across a great gulf and sometimes saw Jack,
a small dot moving across a high meadow as an insect moves across a tablecloth;
Jack, in his dark camp, saw Ennis as night fire, a red spark on the huge
black mass of mountain.
夜行神龙
Nov 10 2005, 12:10 AM
Jack came lagging in late one afternoon, drank his two bottles of beer cooled
in a wet sack on the shady side of the tent, ate two bowls of stew, four
of Ennis's stone biscuits, a can of peaches, rolled a smoke, watched the
sun drop.
"I'm commutin four hours a day," he said morosely. "Come in for breakfast,
go back to the sheep, evenin get em bedded down, come in for supper, go
back to the sheep, spend half the night jumpin up and checkin for coyotes.
By rights I should be spendin the night here. Aguirre got no right a make
me do this."
"You want a switch?" said Ennis. "I wouldn't mind herdin. I wouldn't mind
sleepin out there."
"That ain't the point. Point is, we both should be in this camp. And that
goddamn pup tent smells like cat piss or worse."
"Wouldn't mind bein out there."
"Tell you what, you got a get up a dozen times in the night out there over
them coyotes. Happy to switch but give you warnin I can't cook worth a sh*t.
Pretty good with a can opener."
"Can't be no worse than me, then. Sure, I wouldn't mind a do it."
They fended off the night for an hour with the yellow kerosene lamp and
around ten Ennis rode Cigar Butt, a good night horse, through the glimmering
frost back to the sheep, carrying leftover biscuits, a jar of jam and a
jar of coffee with him for the next day saying he'd save a trip, stay out
until supper.
"Shot a coyote just first light," he told Jack the next evening, sloshing
his face with hot water, lathering up soap and hoping his razor had some
cut left in it, while Jack peeled potatoes. "Big son of a bitch. Balls on
him size a apples. I bet he'd took a few lambs. Looked like he could a eat
a camel. You want some a this hot water? There's plenty."
"It's all yours."
"Well, I'm goin a warsh everthing I can reach," he said, pulling off his
boots and jeans (no drawers, no socks, Jack noticed), slopping the green
washcloth around until the fire spat.
They had a high-time supper by the fire, a can of beans each, fried potatoes
and a quart of whiskey on shares, sat with their backs against a log, boot
soles and copper jeans rivets hot, swapping the bottle while the lavender
sky emptied of color and the chill air drained down, drinking, smoking cigarettes,
getting up every now and then to piss, firelight throwing a sparkle in
the arched stream, tossing sticks on the fire to keep the talk going, talking
horses and rodeo, roughstock events, wrecks and injuries sustained, the
submarine Thresher lost two months earlier with all hands and how it must
have been in the last doomed minutes, dogs each had owned and known, the
draft, Jack's home ranch where his father and mother held on, Ennis's family
place folded years ago after his folks died, the older brother in Signal
and a married sister in Casper. Jack said his father had been a pretty well
known bullrider years back but kept his secrets to himself, never gave Jack
a word of advice, never came once to see Jack ride, though he had put him
on the woolies when he was a little kid. Ennis said the kind of riding that
interested him lasted longer than eight seconds and had some point to it.
Money's a good point, said Jack, and Ennis had to agree. They were respectful
of each other's opinions, each glad to have a companion where none had been
expected. Ennis, riding against the wind back to the sheep in the treacherous,
drunken light, thought he'd never had such a good time, felt he could paw
the white out of the moon.
The summer went on and they moved the herd to new pasture, shifted the camp;
the distance between the sheep and the new camp was greater and the night
ride longer. Ennis rode easy, sleeping with his eyes open, but the hours
he was away from the sheep stretched out and out. Jack pulled a squalling
burr out of the harmonica, flattened a little from a fall off the skittish
bay mare, and Ennis had a good raspy voice; a few nights they mangled their
way through some songs. Ennis knew the salty words to "Strawberry Roan."
Jack tried a Carl Perkins song, bawling "what I say-ay-ay," but he favored
a sad hymn, "Water-Walking Jesus," learned from his mother who believed
in the Pentecost, that he sang at dirge slowness, setting off distant coyote
yips.
[此贴子已经被作者于2006-1-24 14:04:16编辑过]
[此贴子已经被作者于2006-1-24 14:11:15编辑过]
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