街口的傘蓋櫻

街口的傘蓋櫻

每年初春準時綻放

已經有幾十個年頭了吧

這卻只是我第三個年頭從你的菩提下走過

我永遠無法用我虛弱的文字聖讚你

可我又怎麽能不去聖讚你

你的存在

這件簡單的事情

如果不是愛、奇跡、達摩

又是什麽呢？

我並非不愛你層層叠叠如瀑布般傾瀉的枝條

也並非不愛你樹精臉頰般暈染過的粉紅含蓄

更並非不愛你自信有力伸展開的寬大母親傘

在一瞬間

我沐浴在一種被呵護的意識中

但傘蓋櫻

你真正的價值

在於你的周圍那些從未被過分修飾過的灌木、雜草、不知名的野花、

--遠不如你那麽神奇、被造物主隨手抛出的小奇跡們

以及

倚在你堅實的枝幹旁的那棟百年老房子

剝落的磚墻

失修的屋頂

纏滿手臂粗的藤條的荒廢的老井

和那個偶爾在你的樹影下掃地的屋主老頭

傘蓋櫻

它們纔是你的靈魂

所以

我才可以和你説話

A Closure on Trip 2011

關於去年的出行，我一直知道我還有要寫的東西沒有寫完。現在寫文章，早已拾不回小學生時的那種心態：

“我有一個鉛筆盒，盒蓋上有只小熊和小鹿，在快樂地做遊戲。鉛筆盒裏有兩支鉛筆，一塊橡皮，和我喜歡的偶像的貼紙。有了這個鉛筆盒，我就能更好地學習，它是我學習的好幫手。我非常喜歡我的鉛筆盒。”

其實我小學時的作文沒這麽傻B。真正傻B的話我記得當時只寫過一句，大意是：“紅領巾們做完了好事就離開了。雞冠花在雨中開得更加鮮紅。”當時老師還特別挑出這句話在全班表揚了我，我也以竟然想到了這句話而為榮。多年之後的今天，讀到這句話我還是想吐。還好我沒有照著這個勢態發展下去。


或許等到真正很老的一天，我又會開始像小孩子一樣寫文章：慢條斯理，按部就班，什麽也不需要急，什麽也不需要證明。一切能懂的都懂了之後，就又回到什麽都不懂的狀態。


現在這個年齡，寫點東西無比吃力。瞻前顧後，自己給自己綁了無數鎖鏈，不能政治不正確，也不能政治太正確，不能落了俗套，也不能矯情，不能裝學究寫火星文，顧影自憐或自戀更是“必死”金律。每次幾乎不論寫什麽，都能從一聯繋到十、十到百；從雞毛蒜皮的小事扯到人生觀、世界觀、宇宙觀。可能目前我的思維狀態就好比有無數節點的一張大網，牽一髮而動全身。


那就隨著意識走吧。


“視角”這個問題會伴隨我們一生。每個人的客觀條件在一定程度上決定視角。我是黃皮膚黑頭髮，在黃皮膚黑頭髮的國度出生長大，這賦予了我“默認狀態的視角”。可是在逐漸學會想事情的這些年，我一直成長在白皮膚藍眼睛（or 綠、or紫、or whatever）為主的國度。因此，視角衝突就一直是與我個人相關的一個話題，且有愈演愈烈的趨勢。在多重視角下成長其實是好事，有比較、有對比。只要是淺嘗輒止，每種視角都挺可愛，繼續往下挖，每種都挺面目可憎。越是了解，越是覺得面目可憎。但你永遠抛棄不了它們，因爲都是你基因的一部分。


臺灣也好，日本也罷，都歸類於我的默認視角。它們屬於我最熟悉的文化，但不同的是，它們是這種文化所能達到的某種理想狀態。我在這兩個地方都切身體會到了這種理想狀態。大的先不說，最讓我欣喜的一點是，短促的臺北之行，讓我重拾了對中餐的信心。怎麽可能有人不愛吃中餐—全世界最好吃的東西呢？！是，這種感受我100%理解。不過，除了自己家的菜，我真的越來越不愛吃中餐。戒葷以後，更是不願意吃油膩膩的東西。但是在臺北的幾乎每頓餐飲，都是精致、清淡，甚至體貼的，特別是對素食者的理解和尊重，最讓人難忘。


“吃”是具體有形的，好定義的。喜歡臺灣還有很多難定義的方面，比如説，去龍山寺拜觀世音，看到諸多人在認真做佛事，求到覺得很准的簽（而且果然應驗）；去書屋的感受；在居民區的小巷裏買時下的水果；中正紀念堂看插花展；重慶路上隨處都有的糕餅屋；在朱銘美術館一組組煞有介事排練節目的國中生等等。很難解釋到底是什麽感受，套句俗話，有種令人舒服的“氛圍”。


我其實很能理解初次到臺灣的内地遊客的反應：“沒什麽嘛，還沒我們縣城漂亮。這故宮比紫禁城可小多了。菜太淡了！”諸如此類。一個階段的人說一個階段的話。就好比魚永遠無法讓牛明白在海洋裏呼吸到底是什麽感受。Plato對於Agrigentum這個城市的人曾經說過一句話，幾乎100%適用於當下内地的心態：“these people build as if they were immortal and eat as if they were to die instantly.”  多麽貼切的話啊，沒有比它說得再好的了。翻譯成中文就是“醉生夢死”。


不消說，相較於日本，我對於臺灣有種自然的親近感。這當然也是因爲語言相通這類原因，不過我倒覺得核心因素是因爲華夏文化有種令人舒服的“柔軟中庸的感覺”。如果華夏文化這片土地，有一天能夠剔除掉數千年來冥頑不化的糜爛部分，而保留住這種柔軟和中庸哲學，那就是我心目中的理想狀態了。這也是我喜歡臺灣的最根本的原因。


接下來說說日本。


我自己都感到詫異，回來這麽久，我竟然沒有寫任何關於日本的出行感想。坦白說，我一直覺得寫不出來。這當然不是日本的問題，而完全是我自身的内心狀態的問題。由於一些原因，這幾年是我自省的最爲活躍的一段時間。也因爲這樣，許多事物的意義對我開始產生變化。我到現在仍然認爲，日本在某種意義上，站在亞洲（或者說黃皮膚族裔）的終點綫上；但不同的是，亞洲已經不再站在我的終點綫上，這是我前不久才意識到的。我的“主視角”和“客視角”在發生根本性質的對調。我的視角變了。何時會再變回來，能不能再變回來，我不知道。簡而言之一句話，“I am outgrowing Japan.” 這裡面當然不無傷感（容我矯情一下）。但如果不是這樣，我沒法真正去理解另外的視角。


我就是在這種混沌的内心狀態下初次遊歷了関西。但是不要誤解，我對日本的喜愛難以盡述。我所指的outgrowing跟日常俗世的生活基本無關。飲食、禮節、清潔程度、流行文化、高新科技、精致、認真、以及與生俱來的對於自然、美、哀、以及死亡的領會能力，無論是什麽時候，我都無比欣賞和喜愛，也一定會繼續欣賞和喜愛，並且會因爲它們一次次地返回日本。


可我總是有種“這些還不夠，還缺少一些很關鍵的東西” 的感覺。我的腦子裏殘留著一些讓我思考的剪影，這些剪影和那些佔據了絕大部分的、給我帶來愉悅的印象和畫面相比，當然很少，但因爲我記住了它們，所以我想它們對我一定有某種深層的意義：


我記得一個剛在Brooks Brothers買完衣服的男士，氣宇軒昂地往外走，後面跟出一個店員，像在祭拜自家祖先一樣給這位男士鞠躬道謝；


我記得參觀了一個只展覽骨灰盒的小型展覽；(yes, I went in unknowingly!)


我記得那一個個把地上的lichen和moss都梳理的像寵物的毛髮一般的寺廟林苑；


我記得金閣寺那個氣味異常濃重的洗手間；(I guess they just gave up)


我記得和大阪的一個出租車司機聊天，他説道大阪很不景氣的話題；並且用特別禮貌的語氣跟我說，“你們的行李可真多啊”；我也趕緊點頭哈腰地說，“真不好意思啊”，但還是讓司機大叔幫我把行李扛出了車；


我記得旅館的前臺不允許我在大阪的朋友到我的房間作客；


也記得這位朋友說，工作之後，每年的連休假最長只能休息3天；


或許我在尋找一個“契合的靈魂”（I’m not even sure what that means），誰說文化作爲一個整體不能是靈魂的象徵呢。而談及靈魂，就不得不涉及宗教、mortality、罪、救贖這些讓人不耐煩的、想翻白眼的話題。我在此並不想談及這些繁冗的東西。只是，作爲一個還算熟悉華夏文化的人，我目前的感受是，這片土壤並不適合談論宗教、或許也不太適合談論後面那幾個沉重的課題。而日本呢，其實也並不和宗教話題契合，而且消極和宿命論的成分過重，不太對胃口。我更喜歡奔放大器一些的靈魂。所以，為了尋找答案，或者說尋找讓自己能夠在某種程度上解脫的説法，我主動選擇將主客視角對調了。


Gosh, I am insufferable. But like I said, this is for me, a sort of closure. Let me end this piece of horrific writing with a line that has all but become cliché: “What am I talking about when I talk about traveling?” I am of course, not talking about traveling at all.


(I swear if I see that sentence pattern one more time!!)

最近

I managed to muddle through the first two parts of the Western Canon (Harold Bloom) before finally deciding to throw in the towel, for the moment. Clearly, I’m not ready for this tome, which is not to say I didn’t take anything away from it. At least I can now manage to pull off a decent literary-name-dropping. =.=

Anyhow, I’m going to go on a paperback reading spree to unwind my head a bit, focusing on the thriller/suspense genre--my all time favorite. Let it be a lesson to never pick a random paperback from library shelves without first reading some reviews on the author (but in my case, the reviews I would later read are just as misleading). The random paperback I happened to choose is Urge to Kill (John Lutz). I'm not familiar with this author at all, but the cover looked promising. Boy, was I wrong. What a royal waste of three half-days. So I'm going to lash out a bit to make myself feel better.

                                      ★ 1/5

This is by far THE worst thriller/suspense paperback I’ve read. After finishing the book, I was rendered speechless by all the disappointments I felt toward this book, I had to go on Amazon to see what other readers felt about it. To my utter surprise, Urge received an average 4-star from about 30 readers. 30 is not many, I know, but still, what have you people been reading to give this book a 4 star?! Some headings from their comments include “Lutz always rocks”, “keep you on the edge of your seat”, “urge to read all Lutz books”. Well, if this kind of writing is supposed to keep me on the edge of my seat, the fact that I'm a loyal fan of Preston and Child would have made me leaping out my second-floor window half a dozen times already, out of genuine terror. Honestly, a few of their books DID keep me on the edge of my seat, and made me stare, wide-eyed, underneath my sheets after turning off the light (I often read them right before hitting the sack).


Urge falls flat on almost every front it's kind of unbelievable this book was actually published in this state. Maybe when rookies become veterans, readers (the ones who decided to stay around) become more forgiving and don’t really care anymore, acting out of simple habit to keep on reading their favorite authors? I suppose I can relate to that, since I have read every single Pendergast episode by P and C, even though a few of them clearly pale in comparison to the Relic, the Cabinet of Curiosities, and A Still Life of Crows. But over the years, I have built a certain level of confidence with regard to their writing and storytelling skills that even though sometimes they fail to pull out all stops, every P and C book still manages to land safely without crashing. But the case with Urge was quite different. NOTHING about this book impressed me. The writing is forgettable to say the best, redundant, all-over-the-place, and slightly affected. The smart-ass remarks did not impress in the beginning and got on my nerves as the so called “story” unfolds.


My greatest problem with the Urge is the story itself and how it is told. The idea that wealthy men who excel at safari-hunting and can’t hold back their overflowing male pride involve themselves in some kind of modern-day dueling contest in NYC is actually something very workable. But Urge manages to cast a dull and boring light over everything. And NYC's "Best", the team of exceptional and seasoned detectives (Frank Quinn-the protagonist, Pearl, and Fedderman) that gets recruited whenever high-profile cases occur, is the team of most inept detectives I’ve ever read. What exactly does this team contribute to solving the gruesome murders (the 25-caliber-dueling murders and the Slicer murders)? NEXT TO ZILCH. That’s right, the murders basically unfold as God sees fit and eventually get solved themselves. The detectives are too busy worrying about their smart-ass remarks, love affairs, and whether or not a mole on the nape could lead to malicious cancer (I’m not kidding).


The Lavern Neeson sub-story is another reason the Urge fails as a whole. Lavern Neeson almost becomes one of Slicer's prey if it weren't for the fact that she is a long time victim of domestic abuse. The Slicer, likely being a perfectionist, only chooses "prime meat", so he lets Lavern go without harming her. One brief chapter is more than enough to recount and wrap up Lavern's major lucky break. But the author, defying explanation, goes on and on about Lavern’s struggle against male abuse and her eventual triumph over self-degradation.


These random offshoots contribute nothing to advancing the case and just kind of trail off, leaving behind an awkward mess. It is not that thrillers can’t raise issues of social concern, it’s that these social concerns are MISSING THE POINT of the story, and making the storytelling incredible loose and all-over-the-place.


I also found it a bit far-fetched that the entire NYPD finds it acceptable to let Quinn and the murderer engage themselves in a final showdown of dueling, claiming it to be the ONLY way to solve the case. OH, and did I mention the NYPD decides not to back Quinn up in any way, and basically just sits back to enjoy a wild-wild-west show?


“Urge to read all Lutz books”? No, thank you. Next time, I will try my luck with a Connelly or a Baldacci.