The wind is blowing in the hibiscus water, and the rain is invading the wall of Xue Li.
Ridge trees cover thousands of miles of eyes, and the river flows like nine intestines.
***They are still in the land of the Hundred Years of Vietnam, but they are still in the land of the Book of Songs and the Book of Songs.
--Han Yu, "Ascending to Liuzhou City Hall and Sending Zhangting Fenglian Four States"
The good rain knows the time of the year, when the spring is happening. The winds are silent as the night goes on. The path is dark with clouds, but the riverboat is bright with fire. When you look at the red wet place, the flowers are heavy Jin Guan Cheng. The four hundred and eighty temples in the south, how many buildings in the smoky rain.
The rain falls one after another during the Qingming Festival, and the pedestrians on the road want to break their souls. Where are the taverns? The shepherd boy is pointing to the apricot blossom village. The noisy and the tangled strings are like whispers, and the small strings are like whispers. --Tang Bai Juyi, "Pipa Xing and its Preface"
A little while later, thick raindrops fell, making the glass windows snap. The rain got heavier and heavier. Outside the window, it was a misty, hazy scene, as if an immensely wide pearl curtain had been hung between heaven and earth. The rain fell on the roof tiles, splashing like a thin layer of smoke, shrouding the roof on the opposite side. The rain flowed down the eaves of the house, at first like broken beads, and gradually joined into a line. The water on the ground grew and merged into a stream.
--"Rain"
Listen to the Cold Rain
Author: Yu Guangzhong
After the hibernation, the spring cold intensified. First, it was the craggy weather, and then the rainy season began, sometimes drenching, sometimes pattering, and the sky was damp and the ground was wet, so even in my dreams, I seemed to have an umbrella to hold on to. Even in my dreams, I seem to have an umbrella to hold on to. And with an umbrella, I can't hide from the cold rain, but I can't hide from the whole rainy season. Even my thoughts are moist. Every day home, zigzagging through the maze of long alleys and short lanes from Kinmen Street to Xiamen Street, in the rain and wind, walking into the fading makes you more tempted. I want to think of this kind of Taipei bleak and sincere completely black and white film flavor, think of the whole of China's entire Chinese history is nothing more than a black and white film, the beginning of the film to the end of the film, has always been such a rain. This feeling, I do not know if it is from Antonioni there. But that - land was a long time coming, twenty-five years, a quarter of a century, and even when there was rain, it was separated by a thousand mountains and a thousand umbrellas. Fifteen years, and everything was broken, only the climate, only the weather reports still held together, the great cold streams that rolled in pervasively from that land, a coolness I shared with the ancient continent. Not being able to jump into her arms, being swept by her skirts is a comforting childlike feeling.
When he thought of this, there was a little warmth in the cold. He is a Xiamenite, or at least a Xiamenite in the broader sense of the word. For twenty years, he has not lived in Xiamen, he has lived on Xiamen Street, which is sort of a mockery, but also a comfort. But speaking of broadly speaking, he is likewise a Jiangnan man in the broad sense of the word, a Changzhou man, a Nanjing man, a Chuan Waer, a Wuling boy. Apricot blossom spring rain Jiangnan, that is his teenage years. In half a month is Qingming. Antonioni s camera swings past, swings past and swings over. The remaining mountains and waters are just like this, and the Emperor's heaven and earth are just like this. The people are all over the country, from the north to the south. Is that China in there? Of course it is still China and will always be China. Only the apricot blossom spring rain is no longer, the shepherd boy remote finger is no longer, Jianmen fine rain Weicheng light dust is also no longer. But the land that he dreamed of day and night, where exactly is it?
In the newspaper headlines? Or in the rumors of Hong Kong? Or in Fu Cong's black keys, white keys, Ma Enchong's jumping bow and plucking strings? Or is it in Antonioni's Mirror Bottom Lemazhou's Lookout? Or is it in the rhymes of Taibai and Dongpo in the gongs and drums of Peking Opera in the wall heads and glass cabinets of the Palace Museum?
Almond blossoms, spring rain, Jiangnan. Six square characters, perhaps that piece of soil is in there. And no matter whether Chixian or Shenzhou or China, change to change, as long as the inspiration of Cangjie is not extinguished, the beautiful Chinese is not old, the image of that magnet-like centripetal force when the inevitable long in. Because a square character is a heaven and earth. In the beginning, there were words, so the Han people's hearts and minds of his ancestors' memories and hopes will have a support. For example, write a "rain" character out of thin air, dripping, pouring, pattering, all the clouds and rain, just like it. This visual sense of beauty, is not what rain or pluie or can meet? Turn over a "Dictionary" or "Dictionary", gold, wood, water, fire and earth, each into the world, and one into the "rain" department, the ancient God's face of the sky, will be noted in the hope of the beautiful frost, snow and clouds, horrifying thunder and lightning thunderstorms, showing nothing more than the God's good temperament and bad temperament, the meteorological station is tired of reading the encyclopedia of laymen who can not understand the hundred thoughts.
Listen to that cold rain. Look, that cold rain. Smell it, that cold rain. Lick it, that cold rain. Rain on his umbrella on the umbrella of millions of people in this city on the raincoat on the house on the antenna, rain on the boat in Keelung Harbor on the breakwater strait, clearing this season of rain. Rain is female and should be the most sensual. Rain gas empty and psychedelic, sniffing, fresh and new, a little mint flavor, thick time, even issued after the grass and woods peculiar to the faint earthy, perhaps that is even earthworms snail fishy, after all, is the hibernation ah. Perhaps the ground of the underground life of ancient China's layers and layers of memories are stupid and wriggling, perhaps the plant's subconscious and dream tight, that fishy gas.
The third time I went to the United States, I lived two years in the high mountains of Denver. The west of the United States, mountainous and desert, thousands of miles of drought, the sky, blue as the eyes of the Anglo-Saxons, the ground, red as the Indian skin, clouds, but a rare white bird, Rocky Mountain clusters of dazzling snowy peaks, seldom drifting clouds and fog. One to high, two to dry, three to the forest line above, cedar also stop, Chinese poetry, "swinging chest layer of clouds" or "Shangliu dusk rain" interest, is difficult to see the scene on the Rocky Mountains. The victory of the Rocky Mountains, in the stone, in the snow. Those strange rocks, stacked on top of each other, build a thrilling sculpture exhibition, to the sun and thousands of miles of wind to see. That snow, white illusory, cold sober wake up, that cusp of an unceasingly difficult to exhaust the momentum, press people breathing difficult, cold heart eyes acid. However, to appreciate the "white clouds back to look together, green dew into see no" realm, still have to come to China. Taiwan's high humidity makes the atmosphere of clouds and rain the most fascinating. Twice at night at the head of the stream, the tree fragrance refreshing nose, night cold attack elbow, pillow Run Bicui wet green pale overlapping mountain shadow and all embellishments are resting on the silence, like a fairy to sleep. Mountain overnight rain, the next morning, wake up in the morning, the rising sun has not risen in the primitive quiet, rushing overnight cold, stepping on the ground broken Ko broken branches and still in the diarrhea of the thin strands of rain, a path into the forest of secrets, curved, step on the mountain. Xitou's mountain, dense trees and fog, luxuriant water rising from the bottom of the valley, sometimes thick and sometimes sparse, steam and colorful, illusion of uncertainty, only from the fog breaks the clouds open the air, peeping at the peak of the first half of the rift valley that is hidden, in order to take a panoramic view of the whole picture, is almost impossible. At least two times on the mountain, can only play hide-and-seek with the Xitou peaks in the white haze. Back in Taipei, the world asked about, in addition to smiling and not answering the heart of the question, pretending to be mysterious, the actual impression, but also nothing more than the mountain in the nothingness between just. Cloud tapestry smoke, mountain hidden water long Chinese landscape, from the Song Dynasty to give people the flavor of painting. The world may be the world of the Zhao family, but the landscape is the landscape of the Mi family. And in the end, is the Mi family father and son pen like Chinese landscape, or Chinese landscape only like Song painting, I'm afraid that no one can tell, right?
Rain can not only smell, can be close, more can listen. Listen to the cold rain. Listen to the rain, as long as it is not a stone-cold typhoon storm, in the auditory always a beauty. Mainland in the fall, whether it is sparse rain drops sycamore, or sudden rain hit the lotus leaves, listen to there is always a little bit of bleak, bleak, bleak, now on the island to recall, it is in the bleak outside, and then caged on a layer of bleak, spare you how much chivalry, I'm afraid that can not withstand the wind and rain three or five times. A dozen young people listening to the rain, red candle sinking. And then hit the middle-aged listening to the rain, the guest boat in the river broad clouds low. Three dozen white head listening to the rain under the Monk's Lodge, which is more of the pain of the death of Song, a sensitive mind of a lifetime: upstairs, on the river, in the temple, with cold rain beads strung together. Ten years ago, he had lost himself in a heart-breaking ghost rain. Rain, should be a drop of wet soul, who is shouting outside the window.
Rain hitting the trees and tiles, the rhyme are crisp and audible. Especially clanging on the roof tiles, that ancient music, belonging to China. Wang Yu's Huanggang, broken as rafters of large bamboo for roof tiles. It is said that when one lives above a bamboo building, the sound of rapid rain is like a waterfall, and the sound of dense snow is better than that of broken jade, while the effects of both drumming, chanting, playing chess, throwing pots, and ****ing are especially good. This is not like living in the bamboo and tube inside, any delicate sound, I am afraid that will be doubly exaggerated, but instead of people's ears allergic to it.
Rainy day roof tiles, floating wet streams of light, gray and gentle, meet the light is slightly bright, backlighting is dark, for the visual, is a low comfort. As for the rain knocking on the scales of a thousand petals on the tile, from far and near, gently heavy gently, sandwiched between a strand of fine streams along the tile grooves and eaves gurgling down, a variety of percussive sounds and sliding sounds densely woven into a network, who's thousands of fingers in the massage of the earwheel. "It's raining," came the gentle gray beauty, her icy slender hands whisking countless black keys ah gray keys on the roof, playing noon into dusk all at once.
On the old continent, a thousand houses are so. More than twenty years ago, when I first came to this island, the Japanese-style tiled houses were the same. First, the sky darkened, and the city looked like it was covered in a giant sheet of glass, the shadows lengthening and deepening inside the homes. Then the coolness of water filled the space, the wind swirled from every corner, and I could feel the gray clouds breathing heavily on every roof. The rain comes, the lightest percussive music hitting the city. Pale roofs, near and far, a sheet knocked over, the old piano, the rhythm of the fine and dense, monotonous in its own kind of soft and intimate, drip drip drip drip, seemingly illusory, like real, if the child in the cradle, a song of familiar nursery rhymes shaking sleep, the mother chanting oh nose and throat sound. Or in Jiangnan's water country, a large basket of green mulberry leaves were engaged in a thousand silkworms, fine and trivial, mouthpiece and mouthpiece chewing and chewing. The rain came, the rain came when tile this said, a tile said hundreds of millions of tiles said, said gently play bar sinking play, slowly knocking bar tart tart hit, intermittent knocking a rainy season, improvisation from the hibernation to the Qingming, in the scattered graves on the cold play elegy, a tile Yin hundreds of millions of pieces of tile Yin.
Listen to the rain in the old-fashioned ancient house, listen to April, faying incessant yellow plum rain, night and day, ten months stretched, wet sticky moss from the stone steps under the invasion to the bottom of the tongue, the bottom of the heart. To July, listening to typhoons and rain on the ancient roof of the night blind play, a thousand layers of the seabed of the heat wave boiling by the gusts of the hostage, overturning the entire Pacific Ocean only to his short roof pressed down, the whole sea in his scorpion shells clattered through. Otherwise, it is the oblique northwest rain oblique brush on the windowpane, whip on the wall hit in the broad banana leaves, a cold wave of diarrhea, the autumn will be wet old-style courtyard.
Listening to the rain in the old-fashioned house, the spring rain to hear the autumn rain, from the teenager to hear the middle-aged, listen to the cold rain. Rain is a monotonous and durable music is indoor music is outdoor music, indoor listen, outdoor listen, cold, that music. Rain is a kind of memory music, listen to that cold rain, memories of the rain in Jiangnan is full of rivers and lakes under the bridge and the boat, but also under the Sichuan in the rice paddies and frog ponds, - under the fertilization of the Jialing River under the wet Bugu cooing cries, the rain is the tide of music under the longing for the lips, lick that cold rain.
Because the rain is the most primitive percussive music knocking from the other side of the memory. Tile is the most lowly instrumental gray and gentle covering the people who listen to the rain, tile is the music of the umbrella held up. But soon the era of apartments came, Taipei how you grow taller all of a sudden, the music of the tile has become extinct. Thousands of pieces of tile fluttering, beautiful gray butterflies have flown away, flying into the memory of history. Now it rains down on the concrete roofs and walls, a rainy season without sound. The trees have been cut down, the laurels, the maples, the willows and the giant coconuts in the sky, and when the rain comes, there is no longer a cacophony of leaves, flickering with wet green light to greet it. The birds have lost their chirps, the frogs have sunk to a cackle, and the autumn insects have lost their chirps. Taipei in the seventies didn't need all this, and band after band was dispersed. The only way to hear a rooster crow is to find it in the rhymes of the Book of Psalms. Now all that's left is a black-and-white movie, a black-and-white silent movie.
Just as the days of the horse-drawn carriage went, so did the pedicab driver. Once on a rainy night, the tarpaulin canopy of the tricycle hung up to take her on her way home, the world inside the canopy so much smaller and lovelier, and hiding outside the police precincts, the pockets of the raincoat the bigger the better, holding one of his hands in a slender one. Taiwan's rainy season is so long, someone should invent a wide double raincoat, one person to share a sleeve in addition to the part will not have to share too harsh. And no matter how developed industry is, it seems that the umbrella can not be abolished for a while. As long as the rain does not pour, the wind does not blow horizontally, hold an umbrella in the rain still does not lose the classical flavor. Let the raindrops knocked on the black cloth umbrella or transparent plastic umbrella, the bone handle a spin, rain drops to the four sides of the splash, the umbrella edge will be rotated into a circle of flying eaves. With his girlfriend **** an umbrella, it is a beautiful cooperation. The best is the first love, a little excited, more a little embarrassed, if that is the case between, the rain may wish to rain a little bigger. The real first love, I'm afraid it is so excited that you do not need an umbrella, hand in hand in the rain wildly run away, the young long-haired skin to the sky of the drenching, and then to each other's lips on the cheek to taste the cool sweet rain. But that would have to be very young and passionate, and at the same time, it could only happen in a French new wave movie, right?
Most umbrellas don't open for dates. On the way to and from work, school, the food market. Realistic umbrellas, gray Wednesdays. Holding the umbrella. He listened to the cold rain hitting the umbrella. So much for being colder, he thought. So much for freezing the wet gray rain into dry, crisp white rain, hexagonal crystals descending back and forth through the windless air. When the whiskers and shoulders ran out of white, he reached out and brushed them off. Twenty-five years, not blessed by the white rain of his hometown, perhaps hair on the next bit of white frost is a disguised self-compensation. How many rainy seasons can a hero withstand? Is his forehead made of water-formed rock or igneous rock? How thick is the moss at the bottom of his heart? Xiamen Street's rainy alleys have gone twenty years and memories of equal length, - a tile-less apartment waiting for him at the bottom of the alley, a lamp in the rainy window upstairs, waiting for him to go back, to the contemplative meditation after dinner to sort out the mossy deep memories.
The former dust is across the sea. The ancient house is no more. Listen to the cold rain.