Listen to the cold rain

After Awakening of Insects, spring cold intensifies. The first material is chilly, and then the rainy season begins, sometimes dripping dripping, sometimes patter, the day tide to wet, that is, even in the dream, also seems to have an umbrella. And with an umbrella, escape a drizzly cold rain, but also hide the whole rainy season. Even thoughts are moist. Go home every day, zigzagging through the Golden Gate Street to Xiamen Street maze long lane short lane, rain in the wind, into the fall of Fei is more fantastical. Think of this kind of sad Taipei is completely black and white flavor, think of the whole China the whole history of China is nothing but a black and white film, from the beginning to the end of the film, it has been raining. I wonder if this feeling comes from Antonioni. But that piece of land is long lost, 25 years, a quarter of a century, even if there is rain, also across thousands of mountains, thousands of umbrellas. Fifteen years later, everything broke down. Only the climate, only the weather reports were still involved. The Great cold wave rolled in from that land, and I shared this coolness with the ancient continent. I can't jump into her arms, and being swept by her skirt is a comfort for children.

When I think of it this way, I feel a little warm in the cold. Thinking in this way, he hoped that these narrow alleys would go on forever, and his thinking could also go on, not from Kinmen Street to Xiamen Street, but from Kinmen to Xiamen. He is a Xiamen man, at least in the broad sense. For twenty years, he has not lived in Xiamen, but in Xiamen Street, which is both a mockery and a consolation. But speaking of the broad sense, he is also the broad sense of Jiangnan people, Changzhou people, Nanjing people, Chuanwaer, Wuling youth. Apricot flowers spring rain Jiangnan, that is his boyhood. Qingming Festival will be in half a month. Antonioni's camera pans away, pans back and forth. The remnants of the mountains and rivers are like the earth after the emperor. So the mob moved from the north to the south as if they were in succession. Is that China in there? It's still China, of course. It's always China. But the spring rain of apricot flowers is no longer, the shepherd boy is no longer, the drizzle of sword gate and the light dust of Wei City are no longer. But where is the land he dreams about?

In the headline of the newspaper? Or is it a rumor in Hong Kong? Or Fu Cong's black keys and white keys Ma Encong's jumping bow pluck string? Or Antonioni's mirror of Rema Chau? Or is it in the wall head and glass cabinet of the Palace Museum, and in the gongs and drums of Beijing Opera, Taibai and Dongpo rhyme?

Apricot flowers, spring rain, Jiangnan. Six square words. Maybe the dirt is in there. And no matter whether Chixian county or China or China, as long as the inspiration of Cang Jie is not destroyed and the beautiful Chinese language is not old, the centripetal force like the image and the magnet will certainly grow. Because a square word is a world. In the beginning, there were words, so the memories and hopes of his ancestors in the hearts of the Han people had sustenance. For example, write a word "rain" out of thin air, dribs and drabs, patter of rain, all clouds, like one of them. Can it be satisfied by rain or pluie? Open a "Ci source" or "Ci sea", gold, wood, water, fire, earth, each into the world, and one into the "rain" department, the ancient Chinese Tianyan changes, it is in sight, the beautiful frost and snow clouds, terrible lightning and hail, revealing nothing but God's good temper and bad temper, the weather observatory is not tired of reading a layman puzzled by the encyclopedia.

Listen to that cold rain. Look at that cold rain. Sniff, the cold rain, lick, the cold rain. Rain on his umbrella, raincoat on the sky line of the city's millions of people, rain on Keelung Harbor in the breakwater Strait of the ship, Qingming this monsoon rain. Rain is a woman, should be the most emotional. Rain air empty and psychedelic, sniff, refreshing refreshing, a little mint fragrance, thick, but issued grass and trees after the unique light smell of dirt, perhaps it was the worm of the snail smell, after all is awakening of insects ah.

Went to America for the third time and lived high in the Denver Hills for two years. The west of the United States is mountainous, desert and dry for thousands of miles. The sky is blue as Anglo-Saxon eyes, the ground is red as Indian skin, and the clouds are rare white birds. One is high, the other is dry, the third is above the forest line, the cedar and cypress are stopped, the Chinese poetry of "swinging the chest and giving birth to stratus cloud" or "Shang slightly dusk rain", is a sight hard to see in the Rocky Mountains. Rockies win in rock and snow. Those strange rocks, leaning against each other, build a thrilling sculpture exhibition, for the sun and thousands of miles of wind to see. The snow, white unreal fantasy, cold clear wake up, the snow is not able to do all the momentum, pressure people breathing difficulties, cold eyes acid. But to appreciate the "white clouds look back together, green dew into see no" realm, still have to come to China. Taiwan high humidity, the most cloudy atmosphere of rain blurred mood. Two nights sleep Xitou, the tree fragrance Qin nose, night cold hit elbow, pillow run Bi wet green overlapping mountain shadow and Wan hospital all rest of the lonely, immortal sleep. After a long night of rain in the mountains, I woke up the next morning, in the primitive solitude before sunrise. Against the cold air of the previous night, I penetrated into the secrets of the forest and walked up the mountain winding and winding through the broken branches of the ground and the thin streams of rain still running down. The mountains at the head of the stream are thick with trees and mist, and the dense, dense air rises from the bottom of the valley, thick and thin at times, full of transpiration and disillusion. It is almost impossible to catch a glimpse of the peaks and halves of the valley only from the sky where the mist has broken through the clouds. At least twice up the mountain, can only play hide-and-seek with Xitou peaks in the white. Back in Taipei, when people asked about it, they would smile and pretend to be mysterious, but the actual impression was nothing more than a mountain in the middle of nothing. The Chinese landscape surrounded by clouds and clouds, hidden mountains and rivers, gives people the charm of Song Dynasty painting. That day may be the Zhao family of the world, the landscape is the Mi family landscape. No one can say whether they painted like the Chinese landscape or just like the Song Dynasty.

Rain can not only smell, amiable, but also listen to. Listen to the cold rain. Listen to the rain, as long as it is not a shattering typhoon rainstorm, always a sense of beauty in hearing. Autumn on the mainland, whether it is sparse raindrops on the parasol tree, or heavy rain playing lotus leaves, there is always a little sad, sad, sad, in the island aftertaste today, in the sad, then cage on a layer of sad, Rao you how many heroic chivalrous, afraid also can not afford to repeatedly wind and rain. A dozen teenagers listening to the rain, red candle drowsy. Then play middle-aged listen to the rain, the guest boat in the river wide cloud low. Three dozen white-headed monks listen to the rain under the Lu, this is the pain of the dead Song Dynasty, a sensitive soul's life: upstairs, the river, the temple, with cold rain beads strung. Ten years ago, he lost himself in a heart-breaking rain of ghosts. Rain, it is a drop of wet soul, who is calling out of the window.

The rain beat on the trees and tiles, and the rhythm was clear and audible. Especially clanging on the roof tiles, that ancient music, belongs to China. Wang Yu's Huanggang, broken as rafter of big bamboo for house tiles. It is said that if you live above a bamboo tower, the sound of rain is like a waterfall, and the sound of snow is better than that of broken jade. This is not like living in bamboo and tube inside, any fine crisp sound, fear will be doubled exaggerated, but make ears allergic.

On rainy days, the tiles of the house, floating wet streamer, gray and gentle, facing the light is dim, the backlight is dim, is a deep comfort to the vision. As for the rain knocking on the scale of thousands of pieces of tiles, from far to near, gently heavy gently, with strands of small streams along the tile trough and the eaves glistening cascades, a variety of percussion sound and glissando tightly woven into a net, who is a thousand fingers in the massage ear. "It's raining," came the gentle grey beauty, whose icy hands brushed the black and grey keys on the roof, turning noon into evening.

This was true of thousands of houses on the old continent. More than 20 years ago, when I first came to the island, the Japanese-style tiled houses were like this. First the sky darkened, and the city seemed to be shrouded in a huge piece of ground glass, the shadows lengthening and deepening inside. Then the cool water permeated the space, the wind swirled in every corner and was felt, and the heavy breathing on every roof was covered with a cloud of ash. The rain came, and the lightest percussion beat the city. Far and near the vast rooftops, striking one after another, there was a softness and tenderness in the monotonous, thin rhythm of the ancient harp, drop by drop, imaginary, real, like a familiar nursery rhyme swaying to sleep in the cradle, and the mother intoning the nasal and guttural tones. Or in the south of the Zeguo water village, a large basket of green mulberry leaves are eaten in hundreds of silkworms, fine and trivial, mouthparts and mouthparts chewing. Rain comes, when the rain tile said so, a tile said billions of tiles said, said softly played heavy play, slowly knock bar tart tart ground play, between breaks knock a rainy season, impromptu performance from Awakening of insects to Qingming, in scattered graves coldly played elegy, a tile sung billions of tiles sung.

Listen to the rain in the old ancient house, listen to April, drizzling Huangmei rain, day and night, ten-month stretch, wet sticky moss from the stone steps has been invaded to the bottom of the tongue, the bottom of my heart. In July, I heard a typhoon playing on the roof of the old house for a night, and the heat of the thousand-layer sea was boiling under the wind, and the whole Pacific was overturned only to press down on his low eaves, and the whole sea poured down on his scorpion shell. Otherwise, it is a thunderstorm night, white smoke in the gauze tent to listen to the drum after another, towering rain pounded, strong electric ladders happy happy happy uneasy, elastic house tiles of fright and desire to set off. Otherwise, the slanting northwest rain brushes slanting against the window panes and whips against the broad banana leaves on the walls. A cold wave passes over and the old courtyard is wet with autumn.

In the old ancient house to listen to the rain, the spring rain to hear the autumn rain, from the youth to hear the middle age, listen to the cold rain. Rain is a kind of monotonous and listening music is chamber music is outdoor music, indoor listen to outdoor listen, cold, the music. Rain is a kind of music of memories, listen to the cold rain, memories of the rain in Jiangnan is all over the ground under the bridge and the ship, also under the Sichuan in the rice fields and frog pond, - under the fat Jialing River under the wet grain cooing sound, rain is the tide moist music on the lips of desire, licking the cold rain.

Because rain is the most primitive percussion music from the other end of the memory. Tile is the lowest musical instrument grey and gentle covering the listener, tile is the umbrella of music held up. But soon the era of apartment, Taipei how you suddenly grow tall, tile music has become extinct. Thousands of pieces of tile fluttering, beautiful gray butterflies fly away, into the memory of history. Now the rain is falling on the concrete roofs and walls, the rainy season without rhyme. The trees had been cut down, and the laurel, the maple, the willow, and the giant coconut above the sky were no longer met by a wet green glow when the rain came. The chirps of birds are reduced, the clucks of frogs are reduced, and the chirps of insects in autumn are reduced. Taipei didn't need that in the '70s, and one band after another died out. The only way to hear a cock crow is to go to the rhyme of the Book of Songs. All that's left is a black and white film, black and white silent film.

Just as the age of the carriage is gone, so is the age of the rickshaw man. Once, on rainy nights, when the oilcloth awning of the tricycle had been hung to take her home, the world in the awning was so small and lovely, and hidden outside the police's jurisdiction, the bigger the raincoat pocket the better, so that one of his hands could hold a slender hand. The rainy season in Taiwan is so long that someone should invent a wide double raincoat so that each person wears one sleeve without having to split the rest too much. And no matter how advanced the industry, it seems that umbrellas will not be discarded for a while. As long as the rain does not pour, the wind does not blow, an umbrella in the rain still do not lose the classical charm. Any rain on the black cloth umbrella or transparent plastic umbrella, the bone handle spin, the rain spray to the four sides, the edge of the umbrella will spin into a circle of cornices. Sharing an umbrella with your girlfriend is a beautiful collaboration. The best is the first love, a little excited, more a little embarrassed, between aloof, the rain may wish to fall a little. True first love, I'm afraid, is so excited that he doesn't need an umbrella, running hand in hand in the rain, handing over the young hair of the skin to the sky dripping dripping, and then tasting the cool sweet rain on each other's lips and cheeks. But it has to be very young and passionate, and at the same time, it can only happen in French trendy films.

Most umbrellas don't open for appointments. Work and work, school and school, the way back and forth to the vegetable market. The umbrella of reality, gray Wednesday. Holding the umbrella. He listened to the cold rain beating on his umbrella. If only it were colder, he thought. It simply freezes the wet gray rain into dry white rain, and hexagonal crystals swirl down in the windless air. When his beard and shoulders were white, he reached out his hand and brushed them off. Twenty-five years, not by the blessing of the hometown white rain, perhaps a little white frost is a disguised self compensation. How many rainy seasons can a hero withstand? Is his forehead cut from igneous rock or from igneous rock? How thick was the moss in his heart? After twenty years of walking down the lane in the rain in Amoy Street, a tile-less apartment was waiting for him at the bottom of the lane, and a lamp was in the rain window upstairs, waiting for him to go back and sort out his mossy memories for post-dinner meditation.

Past dust across the sea. The old house is no more. Listen to the cold rain.