【T&S】SPINNER上的三篇专栏（慢慢翻）

第一篇
（原网站配图）
Laugh, Rage, Cry With Tegan Quin
Posted on Nov 5th 2008 12:00PM by Tegan Quin
This Week's Theme: LAUGH
Editor's Note: This column was written prior to the U.S. presidential election.
I've struggled all week with what to write about. This week I'm writing about "Laugh." Or I should say writing on "Laugh." Neither wording makes me feel any clearer on what I should write.
I do a lot of laughing. In fact, a few weeks ago, in the middle of a four-show run in Los Angeles, I apparently woke up laughing. Thankfully someone was there to witness it or I probably would not have remembered in my post-dream state. You know those moments that are so funny but no one is there to witness but you? This is my biggest want in life. To find someone to bare witness to those moments.
This past Sunday morning, after brunch, I sat cross-legged in my aunt and uncle's living room writing funny stories about my childhood. How did the story about Sara and I moving our family van in the K-Mart parking lot at age 6 -- while my mom unknowingly shopped inside -- have anything to do with "Laugh"? I mean, we laugh every time we argue about the plausibility of the story with my mother, but does this really fit into a column? And, if so, how? Also, did I want to try to explain why my mother would have left us in the van at age 6 in the first place? Did it really happen? Too complicated and perhaps not funny enough to get a laugh anyway. And was this what I was writing about? Things that were funny? So people would laugh? Is this how I would pull it together? My column?
I attended a wedding in Atlanta this past weekend. A few times I found myself in heated conversations about the presidential election. A few times I was shushed because talking politics at a wedding is neither appropriate nor respectful. But it's an exciting time we're living in, and even as a Canadian I catch myself talking a lot about how the election might affect me.
Ten years ago, if you had asked me (and many people did) if I would ever live in America, I would have told you absolutely not. Countless times I have enthusiastically listed the attributes of Vancouver and Canada as a whole, and why these things would keep me living comfortably and happily in America's Hat (i.e. Canada). "Never! Not for any reason! Give me a break!" I would laugh off Americans and fellow Canadians when pushed on the topic. But alas, here I am typing to you from a house in Los Angeles, where I am currently living part-time. I'm giggling over these words as it feels like a confession. I'm also laughing because of the silliness that phrases like "never" and "not for any reason" conjure in me now. If I've learned anything in the past 10 years, it's that the second you say you'll never do something, before you know it, you've willingly shopped for a dress and high heels. This makes me laugh. This, of course, has nothing to do with the election, but it does have something to do with the wedding.
On the plane coming back to L.A. from the wedding, I watched Senator Obama giving a speech in Cincinnati. I was in a middle seat even though I had checked in ahead of time online. Apparently, "everyone checks in online now." This according to a Delta employee, who distractedly tagged my bag as I politely (very Canadian) asked if there were any window or aisle seats. "I did check in online," I said, to which she shrugged. I laughed. It made me uncomfortable, as it always does, when people in positions of authority seem complacent or unnecessarily aggressive. I laugh at funerals. I laugh at weddings. I laugh when someone yells at me. And I laugh when someone who used to have the power to look and see if there were any available window/aisle seats, shrugs helplessly at a machine. "Nerves," I tell myself. I laugh because I'm nervous. Or maybe so I don't cry? Or perhaps it's to diffuse the pointless rage I feel when I'm traveling?
Where was I? Oh, yes. In a middle seat somewhere between Atlanta and Los Angeles at 35,000 feet. So, I'm between 2 adults on the flight watching CNN, and more specifically, Barack Obama speaking to an enthusiastic crowd of supporters about how anyone making under $250,000 a year will not see any change to their taxes, and that includes plumbers. And I sort of cracked up. The people I was sitting between both looked at me, then the TV and then they looked away. I'm not sure if they were Democrats, but who knows. Just because they didn't immediately turn their TV's to CNN doesn't mean they were Republicans silently judging me ... but I assumed they were anyway.

When I sat down hours earlier upon boarding, the women next to me witnessed me trying to turn on my overhead reading light. When I finally figured out that the controls for the light were in the menu on the TV, I turned to the women and burst out laughing. "That took all my brain power. I've exhausted all my genius. I may as well turn the light off as my brain is too tired to read now." One of the women sort of laughed and then apologetically explained the TV's to me as if I had never used one. It was horrifyingly funny. But only for me.
This opened up the floor for conversation. After touching on where we live, why we live there and what we do, I caught a glimpse of Obama on CNN and asked her if she was excited for the election. I should not have asked this question because it is impolite to talk politics with strangers, and it's also stupid to ask someone at the start of a five-hour flight what they think about an election. Mention it in conversation as you disembark the plane, if you do it at all, but not at the start.
She remarked that she was, in fact, "excited for it to be over with." Which is fair. "So am I," I said. At that point it would have been totally reasonable for me to pick up my book or plug in my headphones. But I didn't. Because there is something explicitly wrong with me and I have no manners. I'll spare you the details of the next 20 minutes. To sum it up, I basically ranted about the war (yep), taxes, health care and abortion. Then I cheerily and awkwardly turned back to my book after basically demanding that she go to sleep. Fun! I'm laughing at this now, but I wasn't then.
The family behind us had two kids under 5. During the flight, the older of the two pushed the younger one off him and they subsequently got into an argument. The parents, as well as most of us around them, laughed when the youngest declared the older "insensitive." For no reason, I then tapped the woman I had assaulted earlier and said, "My sister and I are 28, and still fight like that." Although I know she was attempting to smile, it appeared to me to be a grimace.
Upon landing, the second the seat belt sign was no longer illuminated I sprinted to the bathroom and avoided any awkward goodbyes with my middle seat section. The first toilet was stuffed full of recycling and garbage. The second bathroom gave way to a toilet out of water and full to the brim with s---. I laughed so hard I'm sure people waiting in the aisle, who didn't already think I was insane, now did.
To tie this all together, let me say this: When Sarah Palin laughs, it feels condescending and patronizing. It ignites deep-seeded irritation and anger inside me. When John McCain laughed through parts of his "town hall" rally on Sunday, I felt sorry for him. The laughter seemed mean-spirited at times, and often too scripted. But when Senator Obama laughed about how even plumbers wouldn't see their taxes raised, or quipped that John McCain spent most of his time talking about Obama, rather than what exactly he was going to do to help the country through the economic crisis, I felt like Obama's laughter was similar to mine in that moment in the bathroom -- looking down at a toilet that had run out of water, full of s---. It was funny. A real kind of funny, though. Not awkward funny or patronizing funny or mean-spirited funny. It was just kind of funny. And so I laughed.
And though no one was there to bare witness to my laugh, it was enough for me to know someone would have to come clean up the mess. I quietly hoped that they would find it even just a little bit funny, as I had. And I also hoped they didn't end up needing a plumber.
好了自己看吧

看楼主的帖子耗尽了我的脑力啦，看文献我都没这么认真，一句一句的分析tegan的意思。
偶然间发现了tegan这个活宝，偶然间发现了大家，感觉世界都开阔了，现在颇多感触啊，真的很感谢你们带给我的感动，不过我怎么总觉得这里我年纪最大呢，有种与时代脱节的感觉

这是第二篇，sara写的关键词是CRY的散文，文章开头漏了一段编辑注解大意是：这周的主题比较特殊是关于tegan和sara对于加利福利亚州第八号提案的看法，对同性婚姻的看法。
明天翻最后一篇是tegan写的对8号提案和同性婚姻的看法。关键词是rage愤怒。

Laugh, Rage, Cry With Tegan Quin
Posted on Nov 10th 2008 2:00PM by Tegan Quin

This Week's Theme: RAGE
Editor's Note: This week's edition of Laugh, Rage, Cry will be a special one, featuring two individual columns by both Tegan and Sara, who chose to respond to the passing of California's Proposition 8, which rescinds the right for homosexuals to marry.
This past week has been full of ups and downs for me. I'm sad I left "Rage" for this essay, mainly because I think what we really need right now is to embody the courage, calm and focus that Barack Obama used in becoming President Elect. He endured ridiculous circumstances and ignorance with dignity. He never complained. He never cried. He never seemed angry enough to smack John McCain in their debates. I would have. I could never be president. I would definitely let my rage spill out. I did. Every time I heard "my friends," I would swear and sweat and seethe. But Obama didn't do that. He just smiled and looked into our eyes all across America and beyond, assuring us he would, he could. And he did.
If this essay were about crying I would write about how sorry I am for all the same sex couples (numbering nearly 20,000) who got married in California this past summer, and whose relationships now hang in the balance, waiting to find out if their nuptials are null and void.
I would tell you how sorry I am for those who got engaged in hopes that they would be able to get married but now cannot.
I would write about how my eyes welled up and the tears spilled out of me on election night, when the Proposition 8 "Yes" votes outnumbered the "No" votes in California.
I would write about how angry and frustrated I felt, standing outside the gates protecting the Mormon Church on Sunset Blvd, wondering who and what could protect our rights.
I don't want to write about rage, but I have certainly felt it this past week. I felt it most when the girl I am dating -- who has never dated a girl before -- collapsed in her car and cried after the Prop 8 rally. She wondered aloud if we wouldn't make more progress by just crying rather than yelling and being angry. I've wondered this a lot myself. Is it in part our anger and our frustration that adds to their anger and judgment?
I've felt personal rage because I've worked so hard to win over this girl, and now in the wake of a new relationship, I'm spending most of my time focusing on and reflecting the hatred and judgment some people feel for those of us who are in same-sex relationships and marriages. It's like telling someone your house is totally worth buying, but the only issue is that everyone on the block hates your house because it's the only one on the block with a single-car garage instead of a double. Ignoring the fact that, regardless of how it looks from the outside, yours is filled with the same love, compassion, and values.
I feel rage when I imagine the Prop Yes people celebrating, thinking they've won something, when, in fact, they've just stolen something.
I feel rage when I pour over the parallels between this civil rights movement and the ones of our past.
I feel rage when I read the statistics on who voted Yes. You'd think minorities and Mormons would specifically understand the burn of judgment, ignorance and prejudice.
But my rage is slowly transforming. It started as a rock in my stomach. Then a fire in my heart. Yesterday it was a fog in my mind. As the days have passed, I'm becoming focused and I am starting to feel brave again. I want to rally and march and be proud. This morning I felt triumphant. 67% of people who voted No on Prop 8 were under 30! Change is coming! AsMelissa Etheridge wrote in a recent article, "Gay people are born everyday. You'll never legislate that away."
As I type, I feel hopeful. Look how far we have come! As an example, below are some quotes from Paul Martin, the former Prime Minister of Canada, who, three years ago, stood before Parliament and defended the rights of gay people. I hope they give you the antidote you might need to turn back the effects of the rage you might be feeling in the wake of the Prop 8 debacle. Let it instead inspire you the way it did me. Let it promote movement and organization on your part to continue the fight for civil rights for all people. Let it remove the stain of this Proposition and instead give way to change.
"The rights of Canadians who belong to a minority group must always be protected by virtue of their status as citizens, regardless of their numbers. These rights must never be left vulnerable to the impulses of the majority."
"We must always remember that 'separate but equal' is not equal."
"We all are lessened when any one of us is denied a fundamental right."
"Our rights must be eternal, not subject to political whim."
"Over time, perspectives changed. We evolved, we grew, and our laws evolved and grew with us. That is as it should be. Our laws must reflect equality not as we understood it a century or even a decade ago, but as we understand it today."
–Paul Martin, former Prime Minister of Canada

@蓄长头发马尾
我发现真的是一人三篇的，
想问下有没有人要看，超过三个人我就继续慢慢翻吧

Laugh, Rage, Cry With Tegan Quin
Posted on Oct 22nd 2008 12:00PM by Tegan Quin

This Week's Theme: CRY
I wrote our last record about crying. I've spent nearly a year answering questions about what I was crying about, and I've rarely had a believable response. No one understands why someone like me would enjoy being upset.
I remember when I was six- or seven-years-old, my grandparents' friend Claudette told me that crying was good for you. "It cleans out your eyes!" she shouted at me. She had a very loud voice, and I was intensely nervous and shy around loud voices -- ironic considering how loudly I speak. I remember the carpet and wallpaper in my Grandma's kitchen as if it were yesterday, and Claudette picking me up, putting me in her lap and telling me why crying was healthy.
Trembling in her arms, I shouted frantically but silently to my mother. "Help me," I screamed inside my head. "I'm upset. Why are you letting this stranger console me? Pick me up! Shuttle me away to a back room to sob in your arms." When I feel that way now, I often find myself remembering this childhood moment instantly. Sometimes it successfully distracts me from what I feel bad about; other times it ensures a good cry is on the way.
I wrote nearly every song for 'The Con' in the storage room of my old five-bedroom house. The carpet was new but cheap, so it was flat, hard and coarse. It was also white. Who puts white carpet in anymore? I was able to get a $250 subsidy from the company that I own with my sister to help pay the rent. And in exchange, I stored everything our band owned in that one room. I lived in that cavernous house for just under a year. I stayed to spite my newly ruined five-year relationship, and myself. I wanted to prove to myself and everyone else that I was OK, and that a hundred-year-old house in the worst part of town wasn't even remotely scary for me to navigate alone.
I challenged myself to stay, and stay I did.
I rarely ventured downstairs, and when I did it was only to shower, use the washroom or cook. From time to time, I would eat my dinner on my red leather couch (luckily still mine, even after the divorce) and watch 'Dog the Bounty Hunter.' But typically after 20 minutes, my mind would wander and back upstairs I would settle again.
My office felt like an attic. The roof was the opposite of vaulted. What's that called again? It had dark hardwood floors, and the sun rose in one window and set in another. I would lay on the floor in the afternoon in such a way that I could only see the sky and the treetops outside the window. I would imagine I was on the roof, or on a beach, or in a park. I would belt Bruce Springsteen and inevitably I would fall into tears. In the evenings, I would talk for hours on the phone with one friend or another. My mom and sister would check in with me around this time of day, too. I would squeeze myself between the boxes holding our band's history, and wedge my feet against the road cases we had painstakingly squished up the stairs.
And I would cry.
Almost every time I would think about Claudette. I would remember my twin sister and I both having the same inability to say "sorry" as young children. We would sob, choosing to be locked away in our bedrooms rather than apologize. We didn't understand why -- if something was not purposely hurtful -- it still demanded an apology. So as I laid in my storage room, dreaming up songs for what would soon be called 'The Con,' I imagined a lot of apologies for my behavior. I was newly single and so I indulged a very selfish and needy side of myself. I was demanding and lonely, while being aloof and flirty at the same time. I was rarely available to those that needed me if I didn't need them. And I knew it. I imagined ways to get attention. How would I continue? Where would my support come from now, I wondered?
After months of hibernating in my storage closet, summer finally came. As I put the finishing touches on the last song I would write for 'The Con' ('Hop a Plane'), I eventually packed up my cavernous five-bedroom house and put my remaining belongings into storage. I moved East to work with my sister, and I did considerably less crying there.
When Claudette passed away from Lou Gehrig's disease later that summer, I didn't shed a tear. When I cry, I actually feel very much in control of my emotions. But Claudette's death was one thing that I knew was very much out of my control. Just like when she would pick my small body up at Grandma's house, away from my Mother's arms, to tell me that crying was good for me.

这周的主题是：哭泣
我们的上一张唱片是关于哭泣的，我花了大概一年时间回答关于我为什么哭泣的问题，但我很难得到一个可信的回答。没人会理解为什么想我这样的一个人会喜欢沉浸在沮丧里。
我记得当我6岁或7岁时，我的外祖父母的朋友克劳德特告诉我哭泣对你有好处，“泪水可以清洁你的眼睛！”她大声地对我说。她是个大嗓门，而我在吵闹的环境里极度的紧张和害羞，非常讽刺地我说话也很大声。我记得我外婆的厨房里的地毯和墙纸，就像那发生在昨天一样。克劳德特抱起我，把我放在她的大腿上，告诉我为什么哭泣有益健康。
在她的臂弯里发抖着，我在我的脑袋里对我妈妈疯狂的大喊“救我”但表面却是安静的，“我很沮丧，为什么你让这个陌生人来安慰我，让我穿梭到房间里在你的怀抱里哭泣。”当我现在有这样的感觉时，我常常发现自己会立即回想起童年的那个瞬间。有时那样的回忆让我从我出于的坏心情中转移出来，有时那样的回忆会带来泪水。
《the con》里的我写的几乎每首歌都是在我的那座有着5个卧室的旧房子的储藏室里写的。那条新毯子是白色的，很便宜，所以它扁平、硬而粗糙。现在还有谁会在储藏室里放一条白色地毯呢？我可以从我和我妹妹共同拥有的公司得到250美元补贴支付租金。作为交换，我把我们乐队的所以东西储藏在那一个房间。我在那个洞穴一样的房子里生活了不到一年。我呆在那怨恨我最近毁掉的一段长达5年的关系，和怨恨我自己。我想要向自己和别人证明我我很好，并且独自生活在一座位于城镇上糟地段的有着一百多岁的老房子根本一点都不可怕。
我向自己挑战在那住下来，然后我留下来了。
我很少冒险住在楼下，只有当我淋浴、上厕所和做饭时才下楼。有时，我会在我的红色皮革沙发（很幸运它还是我的，甚至是在离婚后）上吃饭和看Dog The Bounty Hunter，但是通常20分钟之后，我的思绪就会游荡到其它地方，回到楼上后又会重新安定下来。
我的工作室像是一个阁楼。屋顶是拱形的，那叫什么来着？黑色的硬木地板，太阳从一个窗户升起从另一个窗户落下。在下午我会以这样的一种方式躺在地板上：我只能看见窗外的天空和树梢。我会想象我是在屋顶上，或是在沙滩上，或是在公园里。我会听着Bruce Springsteen （男歌手）的歌然后不可避免的流下眼泪。到了晚上，我会给这个或那个朋友打电话聊天。大约在每天这个时间我妈妈和妹妹也会打电话来检查我。我会挤进装有我们乐队的历史的盒子之间，把脚塞进面对着公路的角落，那个角落我们费力地挤着才能上楼。
然后我会哭泣。
几乎每一次我都会想起克劳德特。我会想起我和我的双胞胎妹妹都会有像其他小孩一样的问题，无法说出“对不起”。我们会宁愿啜泣着，把自己锁在自己的卧室里也不会道歉。我们不知道为什么，即使不是蓄意的伤害也仍然需要道歉。所以当我躺在我的储藏室里，构思那些很快会被命名为“the con”的歌曲时，我对我的举止构想出很多的对不起。我刚刚单身，所以我放任自己自私和贫穷的一面。同时避世和放任使我感到很孤单很吃力。如果我不需要他们他们也极可能不再需要我，我知道这一点。我设想得到注意的方法。我该怎样继续下去？我想知道现在我的支持从哪里来？
在蛰伏在我的储藏柜子里几个月后，夏天终于到来了。当我完成“the con”里最后一首歌（hop a plane）的收尾工作，我终于整理好我的有着5个卧室的洞穴般的房子，把剩下的东西放到储藏室里。搬到东海岸和我妹妹一起工作，在那我确实很少哭了。
当克劳德特在那个夏天之后的一段日子里患上葛雷克氏症时，我没有流泪。当我哭泣时，我也确实感到自己非常能够控制自己的情绪。但是知道克劳德特的死这件事使我不能控制自己的情绪，就像她在外婆的房子里抱起我的小身体，远离我妈妈的怀抱，告诉我哭泣对我有益。

lz昨晚看完的时候还没事，今天慢慢的敲成中文，配上Keaton Henson的音乐就不行了

Laugh, Rage, Cry With Sara Quin
Posted on Oct 29th 2008 12:00PM by Sara Quin

This Week's Theme: RAGE
This summer I was sitting in Parc Lafontaine in Montreal, reading a book. I was trying to ignore my grass allergy when my attention was drawn to a man wearing a tight white "running outfit." I'm not sure what one actually calls this sort of outfit, but it involved the type of spandex shorts I've only ever seen on triathletes at the Beijing Olympics, or adorning my preteen body in 1992. Of course my "running shorts" used to be fluorescent, whereas Olympians seem to favor colors that absorb the embarrassing pee puddles that accumulate when running, swimming and biking for hours, all while ingesting liters of electrolytes.
Anyway, this man was wearing his white exercise clothes while walking three miniature dogs. He paused at a pond's edge, taking great care in bathing all three of the dogs in the still water (water that no doubt was filled with urine!). It made for a strangely touching and bizarre vignette. Losing track of Mr. White Bike Shorts and his pocket dogs, I then witnessed a quaint 1950s-esque family enjoying a picnic, and delighted in my feeling of bewilderment at their old-fashioned clothes and obvious gender roles. The dad with pocket protector and masculine protective gaze, lording over the simpler plump wife with polka dot dress. Their boy and girl plucking flowers and grass, while nibbling on prepared food from a basket. For real.
So, fast-forward. The next scene was difficult to translate with my piddly French skills. However, it went something like this:
Pug dog lurches towards the daughter of the Fifties father, attempting to eat out of the palm of the naive child. Father lunges at the pug and throws his body over his daughter as if she has just been attacked by a wolf. The owner of the pug (in white spandex) gracefully scoops the dog into his bulging muscles and the pug disappears into his owner's chiseled armpit, while the other two miniature dogs stare with boredom at the picnic scene. The Fifties father proceeds torip the dog owner a new a--hole, pointing furiously back and forth between the culprit and his family. Building up steam, he becomes so animated and aggressive that the dog owner becomes less apologetic, and begins to throw back heated words of his own. Eventually the police are called, and walking off with an Olympian stride, the dog owner disappears into the park, leaving the dad in a suspended state of rage.
I could see that his wife's attempt at consoling his rage -- while his children pretended to still be having carefree picnic fun -- was met with a stubborn refusal to cool down. I became increasingly uncomfortable as his blanket and family seemingly became a magnet for unleashed animals. Jerking with terror every time a curious dog would bounce by his established territory, the father seemed unable to let it go. Eventually they packed up their picnic and skulked off in fear. I was shocked at his uncontrolled rage and hostility towards the miniature dogs and the spandex-clad owner. Clearly this man had something ugly bubbling underneath his surface.
I am reminded of this man often, mainly when I am traveling in airports. I witness the worst of people spiral out in verbal outbursts, and the physical abuse of children in long lines at fast food chains. Airport security turns even the most well-natured, look-on-the-bright-side type of folk into sarcastic and sneering s---heads (myself included). I'm shocked at how angry and argumentative I become with authority figures that have the power to ban me from flying for life! Wielding unchecked power and the frustration that comes from being abused daily while earning a minimum and unlivable wage, some of these people seem to take sadistic enjoyment out of driving all of us crazy. Nothing feels worse than yelling at a person in uniform while standing in stocking feet, holding your pants up and trying to manage your belt back through the loops, while your computer and other tangled belongings are swabbed for bomb residue.
Sitting here in my apartment, I realize I would claim to feel rage almost daily. It is important to acknowledge that I face an unprecedented number of irritants, both human and environmental, because of the radical amount of travelling necessary in my line of work. I suppose it only matters how I've learned to channel that feeling, and not get carried away trying to avoid the blood boiling circumstances frequently experienced when I am "on the road." I generally turn into a rambling motor mouth of backhanded anecdotes when I feel provoked and full of anger at an airport. Nothing gets a bigger laugh than dismantling meaningless security measures over triple shots of espresso in an airport at 7am when surrounded by other irritable travelers.
The only time I've been reduced to violence in a rage-filled moment was 5 years ago on my 23rd birthday. I was being taken for dinner at a vegetarian restaurant by a dear friend -- my girlfriend at the time. We all wore birthday hats, and I was doing my best to hide the nagging depression I always feel when people are forced to lavish me with special attention. As we bounded down the street, a few drunken boys started to harass us. We ignored them and eventually they resorted to name calling, running up ahead and then cornering us outside of the restaurant. We riffed back and forth, and suddenly one of the guys ripped the birthday hat off of my girlfriend's head, the elastic band snapping at the force of his sudden movement.
I felt rage.
Before I could stop myself, I kicked with all my force, the toe of my shoe ripping into the shin of the birthday-hat-ripping a--hole's left leg. He was shocked. I was terrified. We quickly rushed into the restaurant and once the scare of it passed, we spent much of the night recounting the kick and the pride we felt in standing up for ourselves. Maybe the only difference between me and the Fifties dad with the pocket protector is that I haven't pre-emptively sharpened the toe of my shoe, always expecting the worst and preparing for imagined dangers, such as miniature dogs or birthday party spoilers lurking around every corner.

本着“粉屋及乌”的原则，我就无聊的搜了下sara说的Parc Lafontaine 公园（蒙特利尔市内第三大的公园）
风景还是不错的，这就是她说的全是尿尿的池塘？