What could be better than laughter of children to fill in this empty street in this fall afternoon?

这个周五上完最后一节课, 从图书馆抱回几本书, 就听到远方传来的阵阵喧哗.

我循着声音走出楼门, 望见平时肃清的街道上排满了人. 路中央的彩车里装载了孩子们饱满的欢笑. 他们吵嚷着向街旁的人们抛去糖果. 头发打着卷的小姑娘和小男孩执着地追着滚到路缘, 掉进雨水篦和树叶下的糖. 我问身边吹黑管的女孩今天的这些是什么. 她告诉我这是一年一度的High School Homecoming. 青春二字如同他们的呐喊声一样映射在我心里.我忽然意识到我很快就要二十岁了. 我忽然发现我就要告别美好的teenage了. 看着他们, 我不知道我在过往的这些年里究竟明白了什么学到了什么做了什么. 我和所有人一样做着和周围人一样的事, 过着一样的生活. 对比五年前, 十年前, 十五年前, 我并没有长进.

生命的书页可以回卷, 但却不可变更, 一旦下笔, 便成为记忆. 你所拥有的, 只是即将到来的空白页码.

随着游行的队伍沿途折返, 听到十字路口右边的一辆上世纪的雪弗莱熄灭了引擎. 那里面坐着一对头发全白的夫妇. 女人和扶着男人的手, 微颤着把档位推到最前方, 车子如同老旧的摆钟荡出最后一条弧线那样, 永久地停驻在令人窒息的阴霾里. 暗淡的光线里, 我看不请驾驶舱里的脸孔, 但是依稀可见的是女人把头慢慢转向男人, 嘴唇开阖: 他们在谈论前方一张张游走的年轻鲜活的脸.

Nobody knows darling. Nobody knows how they are loved.

每每空下来, 我会想念左手边那条街上的镇子. 在那个少无人烟的小镇里, 声音纤细到稀薄而令人窒息. 我总是带着几首歌前往那里, 或者探访病人或者做个采访那样在冷清的小店之间走走. 冷风把那些脆弱的叶子先吹落在地上, 而这条名叫Franklin的街道就显得那么安静而萧索.

我看着眼前的这一切, 我打开记忆的匣子, 我似乎看到了一些似曾相识. 噢, 我想起来了, 我曾经读过秋天里那些树下缠绵的童话, 我曾经希望终于有一天能住在一个陌生的国度, 一个人看着霜打的枫叶在冷瑟的秋天里颤抖. 我曾经想和一个人一起走在秋天的太阳地里: 那个人能有意无意地和我说说我能听懂的话, 而且我还能看看那个人.

气温一天天走低, 秋天来了, 等她再去, 冬天就不远了.

我忽然想起来北京已经好久不下没过脚掌的雪了. 我想起来我曾幻想坐在一个院落里, 看人们把南瓜雕镂成鬼脸; 看小女巫敲开你的门找你要糖吃, 而开门的你是个还没戴好帽子的小男巫. 我曾想看第一场冬雪在一个陌生的城市里降临; 看房上的雪懒散地滑下来, 恰好掉在开门的女孩的头上. 我也回忆到了曾经那张床上的破败的棉絮, 曾经那么容易满足的自己, 曾经那么无知的自己. 我意识到我一直眷顾的世界不过是那间狭窄的房子. 我定义的伟大的确就是那么渺小而令人可笑. 我笃定的最温暖的怀抱也不过是令人耻笑并感到卑贱的不足抵挡任何风雨的庇护. 我所追逐的不过是夜色里阑珊的烛光, 它终究不能点亮一座宫殿.

昏黄却令人温暖的灯, Two Talls

走入陈设很旧的展区就仿佛步入上个世纪一个梅雨的午后, Kirksville Arts Center

转瞬即逝的一段嘈杂, Parade on Franklin St.

在那33/45的转盘上不知道承载了多少记忆, Pioneer Phonographer

一家杂货店外静伫的女神小雕像

When the winter falls around, will the wind take me away?

也许我爱的已不是你,
而是对你付出的热情.
就像一座神庙,
即使荒芜,
仍然是祭坛.
一座雕像,
即使坍塌,
仍然是神.

莱蒙托夫

I once told to myself:

One day, we’ll get our paper and books packed.

One day, we’ll tug away our baggage and be walking on an alien lane.

One day, we’ll keep smiling to our family and in the next moment, vision glistens in tears.

I know your are too strong for your little home to hold you anymore. Your eyes still hope to see more grandeur tagged on the map. You once said you would live a better life, better than any others’. You said you would live, live yourself.

A thunder rain showered over the town when I was trapped on a bus last Saturday afternoon. I shuffled among the radio stations and an exceeding tune immediately caught my ears. It was Boston. I knew I’ve ever met it before, but the voice with chaotic scene performing outside the window just reminded me of one word, future.

She said I think I'll go to Boston...

I think I'll start a new life,

I think I'll start it over, where no one knows my name,

I'll get out of California, I'm tired of the weather,

Accidentally I met you and you caught me. We’ve solved the problems stuck you up, dangled on a bench recalling stories fading away and dabbled in the mysterious future lying ahead.

The next 4 years is just pulling in and spreading herself in front of you, or, both of us. There is just too less chance to mess around yet a lot to be sought, discovered and explored. The irreplaceable 2008 has made you who you are. What you have reached has sent you here, making it ready for what you are aiming at. You will fly across the ocean to Atlanta. You will be missing the old days for some moments. You will start a new life, the kind you’ve ever been dreaming so much.

At the eve, I enclose myself thousands of miles apart from you. I cherish the days and promises we’ve ever kept. Regretfully I can’t send you at the port. Silently, I wish you employ the blossom of your own. Luckily, I can be supporting you, all the time.

Now, I repeat it to me:

It is the day.

So please just fly away.

Love, Yang

当你娴静地漫步在一条恬静的上海小巷时, 你踩踏着稀疏的梧桐树影, 抬起头, 把眼睛转向排列在路两旁的老洋房, 让自己的影子被阳光温情地投射在道路的石面上, 你怎么不会去遐想这条巷里, 这座房中, 这棵树下过往的人, 他们的故事, 和一段段不能被抹去的历史呢? 徘徊在宅内门外, 倚靠着石库门旁, 这是一个可以让人把思绪沉浸在回忆里不可自拔的布景, 这是一个令我无法忘怀的城市.

在和煦的午后跑进书店旁的小门脸买了车票

安静地离开杨柳絮纷飞中的北京

在列车里独自守着时间看着它一点一点流逝

期待着一生里最美的那个清晨和朝阳

火车朦胧驶出黑暗, 我已身在南方

甩开熙攘的人流, 行走在一个陌生却充满期待的城市里, 看着被日光照地斑白通透的街道和外墙, 这种感受究竟是如此精妙. 我循着自己的方向感穿过车站, 走向北广场, 模糊地坐上一辆817, 初来人世般观看周围新鲜的世界. 我被路边的场景吓住: 自行车修理铺旁摊放的混在油渍里的改锥链条, 日光里面对着三向路端坐的商业大厦, 街边的小铺牌坊, 行色匆匆的路人…… 这里的一切似乎都是我儿时曾经看到过的, 甚至梦到过的. 梦里的痕迹没有在北京的一片土地上寻到, 却在这个陌生的城市大肆缴获.

车子路过了那些既定的房子和路口, 我和婴儿一样瞪着眼睛痴痴地看着右手边掠去的景物, 心里却满是感伤. 故意坐过两站, 下车, 问路, 匆匆走进洗手间, 穿过广场, 走在夕阳打理地温馨客人的人行道上, 把期待与幸福满载.

春天里复旦是一枚婉坐宅院里恬静的南方姑娘, 花鸟萦绕四周, 阳光为她染出淡茶色的裙装. 你可以嗅见她淡雅的香味, 一条条幽静的巷子和巷子的深处则是她修长的腰身; 她的端庄是一段段故事潮起潮落后沉淀下来的痕迹. 我睡在国顺路小房的一隅, 看着晚霞把窗外的景色消灭, 心中刀绞一样难过. 直到夜里睡下, 我听到窗外细雨濛濛, 我知道, 我在南方的童话故事里安宁地进入了梦乡.

被你领到鲁迅公园, 看周围高耸入云的杉树, 听你讲你的故事. 那天有点冷, 你穿了件暖白色的风衣, 我们闯进别人的庭院, 你拉着我在静安转过来扭过去买胶带. 下点雨后阴霾里的上海很有她的风范: 披上暗色调的她就是我记忆里曾经的北京, 饱经沧桑. 然而你却是这种黯淡里的亮色, 精灵般带着我在我的时空错乱里闯荡. 呵, 那是多可爱的场景呢.   

白天的时候你抓着我的手玩, 落日时分你就把我放在你家周围. 我坐在复旦文图外的书店窗旁, 从字里行间空闲出来的余光可以看到窗外行走着的人们. 木质的椅子依偎在木桌膝下, 一盏明亮的暖色的灯照亮书台, 摊平几本书, 安静安宁. 这不是我去过的最好的书店, 这不是我坐过的最舒适的木椅, 这也不是我最迷恋的灯光和色调, 但是我对这里恋恋不舍, 因为它粘黏了情感, 温暖和似曾相识.

有人说, “如果你晚上出去走走, 你会发现上海的另一面.” 离开杨浦, 一点一点沿着地图上的枝杈逡巡, 不舍得放过这里的一分一秒, 愿意记录这里的每一幅画面每一帧. 夜里人们从街头散尽, 揭去这个城市的面纱, 绽露在你眼前的就是这个内敛而安静的城市. 透过铁栅栏看进去是那些冷峻的洋房和水渍侵蚀的街道, 横斜的晾衣杆从头顶密织成不透气的网, 花朵随着清风在初春的些许寒凉里微颤. 望着桔黄的灯光和迷茫的夜色, 时间仿佛回卷半个世纪. 我探望到”上海光学仪器厂”那样的字眼, 怀念儿时为数不多的电器上写着”上海”的字样. 就这样我从虹口荡到黄埔, 虔诚地追寻着永远挂在天边的东方明珠, 走上那晚曾在的外滩, 望着水面上些许光亮从船舷映出来, 低下头垂直地看着脚下昏黄的水浪翻滚, 听着船坞低吟, 静默地站在刚才还熙攘不堪流光飞溅的黄浦江旁.

我相信这些夜里这些房里有缱绻不眠的身躯, 有惶恐不安的心灵, 有爬出巢穴惊蛰的虫兽. 从卢湾走进闵行, 夜已经宁静到没有一点声息, 没有一丝一毫. 我看到的每一片建筑, 门房, 街道都是入景的油墨画, 画面澄澈到令人窒息.

我溜在凌晨3点的小巷里, 冷色的小充气钠灯昏沉地睁着迷昧的眼照看着这条小路. 一条老鼠从石头建筑的雨水篦里蹿出, 划过我的脚踝旁, 消失在夜色里. 我感到恐惧和寒凉, 身体瘫软, 对了一下表和闹钟, 我知道我应该走回去了.

漫步在上海的日子里, 可以暂时停住对未来的恐惧, 只顾尽情欢笑. 把脑袋倚在出租车窗上, 任凭流光溢彩和华丽绚烂的外表从眼睛的狭缝里飞掠, 让迷幻的光彩倒映在玻璃上, 也就忘了以后的日子究竟会是什么样. 这是上海么? 在我心里, 这里分明是梦中不断重现加强着的生活.

坐在田子坊, 我享受到了充足饱满的阳光照耀. 那是个晌晴, 时间如同那时的风一样被凝固. 那盆兰花那席座椅那个背影是属于那一刻的电影画面. 甚至是我离开的前一天, 那最后一次绕着复旦和你无目的地乱转, 他们都锁在我的记忆匣子里, 贴着小标, “无与伦比的美丽”.

飞机起飞的那天, 阳光那么明耀, 我从城北坐车到城南, 穿越了上海的一半, 瞪大了眼睛希望再好好地把这里的世界多多装入眼底. 彼时彼刻, 心里满载的竟然并非美好, 而是更多心愿和更加坚定的信条. 因为终究相信, 有一天, 一切都好了.

从第一次牵小女孩的手, 第一次布展, 第一次陪一个人紧张而自然地吃饭, 到第一次在深夜的街道上感到刺骨的寒冷, 第一次在暖黄的车厢里望着外面迷人的夜色哭……

我知道我没有勇气一个人再去上海, 一个人重复同样的路线, 那里押注了太多的关于”美好”的筹码. 那些夜晚那些寒冷那些弄堂那些地道那些花香那些鸟鸣那些建筑那些难以释怀的属于自己的故事…… 甚至仅是记忆的相册我也不敢翻阅, 害怕自己被时光的逝而不复擒住脆弱感情, 一蹶不振, 不见艳阳.

我知道出行会成为记忆里忘却不了的画片. 我愿意记录每一个脚印, 每一次辗转. 在外的日子没有一刻是流水帐, 这些行走着的每一分每一秒都扣人心弦, 因为它们是真实的, 它们是属于我的, 它们在我的回忆里唯一存在而不可改签.

如你所述, 这是无与伦比的美丽.

It has been a trip, a detour, a passage of memory about faith and setbacks, about tears and happiness.

I meet and I leave.

It is a routine, that we will take as it is, always.

当我被同学归档进”怪癖”那栏时, 我就臆想是否能在未来的某天遇到一个和自己一样”怪癖”的同类. 那个同类可以是男可以是女, 可以坐在加州庭院里沐浴阳光, 也可以在颓垣陋室中蜗居过活. 我不在乎那究竟是谁, 但会很感动地发现我们竟然有那么多相似的行径, 我们能够被不同人用同样的形容词冠以同样的评价. 我们会在倾听对方介绍自己的时候心中暗喜, “天, 世界上还有和我一样的人!” 这样的同类超越朋友的友情, 飘忽不定的爱情, 甚至堪比亲情.

可是我未曾预料”同类”来的这样早, 这样快. 我一直以为只有我一个人会不顾忌后果地馈赠给别人帮助, 会记得朋友们在几年前讲过的话, 会完好地存下收到的每一枚信封和信. 我甚至怀疑世界上这样的人存在的可能性. 然而现在, 我想我有理由证明自己的误断了. 她住在上海, 只身一人奔忙在留学大潮中. 她缺失傲人的标准化, 也没有阔绰的豪宅名车. 但是我却找到了难寻的善良, 敏感和聪慧. 无论外界是否更青睐金钱, 迷恋分数, 她永远不会淡出我的视线. 这些品质永远不会让”优秀”淹没在人海之中, 因为这不是分数能够量化的, 更不配用金钱去衡量. 我很难想象我能在不远的一个城市里发现这样的同类, 而且我忽然发现这并不是”偶然寻到童年记忆里的玩具火车”; 因为除去惊喜, 我更深刻地认为这是上天赐予的福祉, 是值得毕生珍藏和记忆的礼物.

可以未曾谋面, 甚至可以永不看到对方的面孔, 但是这也正是我以前幻想的那个”同类”. “那个人”会和我一样, 在忙碌的生活里修剪黏贴主题图片, 快乐地给别人剪电影放音乐, 用自己的眼睛对准陌生人的眼睛, 希冀从那里看到他们的内心世界…... 多可爱, 多神奇. 当我认识到这些, 我会笑, 并且这样就够了. 这些不会是感情的依靠, 也不是消灭孤单的良方. 但这会让我强烈的感觉到, 生活是美好的, 萧索中也藏着希望. 我不必苦心寻找游伴同行, 相反, 我知道会有一个和自己一样的人同样在追逐梦想, 只不过我们走在不同的岔路上而已.

除了我的”同类”这份弥足珍贵的礼物, 我也很感动地收到了我的第一份礼物. 尽管从来没有指望身边的同学送来什么惊喜, 可是我一直保持守望. 尽管并不在乎缺失, 不在乎”得不到”什么, 但是我却异常在乎额外: 收到额外的, 本可以不出现在我视野里的祝福.

没错, 精致, 美好, 这应该是我见过的最好的礼物. 它们已经超越图画和音乐本身的意义, 因为这些分明是恶狠狠的鼓舞和祝福. 我想我应该会好好珍惜, 不会忘记.

不很喜欢孙燕姿, 但是这首歌确实从一开始听Stefanie就被深深吸引了. 我爱这首歌, 爱凄婉的配乐, 诉说心声的填词和动情的演唱. 甚至前天还在凌晨3点不停回放. 歌曲讲的虽然是孤独, 离别, 但是就像她说的, “你会知道这一路上有那么多同类和你一起走过”, 我可以放肆地难过或者悲伤, 但是当一切过去了之后, 我永远要记得convince them, “I am well, and even better.” 好吧, 我终于承认这是我第一次被他人鼓励的辞藻劝服, 打动并且接受服从.我发现这也许就是那个神奇的other part of me的力量.

2008恍然一瞬走到了他的终结, 无论这一年我收获了什么, 身边的朋友收获了什么, 我们都应该好好回眸, 之后放眼未来.

P.S: 作为陌生的同类, 我诚挚地祝福40在新年里收到理想的offer, 在梦想之路上走得漂亮, 走得成功.

I appreciate that we have ever met before.

I'd ask for the sun to never rise
If God lent his voice to me to speak
 
I'd say: "Go to bed, World!"
 
I've always been too lame
To see what's before me
And I know nothing sweeter than
Champagne from last new year's
Sweet music in my ears
And a night full of no fear

 Teens employ messy life, resembling the twines of the entangled knitting wool, to weave their wonderful world and mine hasn’t estranged from this little rule. I suffer from an obstacle of expressing, neither can I stutter like my previous speaking habit nor write like a flowing stream. “Under the weather” or “not of the mode” deliberately noted by teens categorizes my symptom as a rehearsal of High School Drama in which I have troubled relationship with my latest girlfriend or I could not balance my ambiguous future plan.

However doctors prescribe for me, I believe problems never elucidate themselves till you are involved to settle and solve.

Sometimes you stuck up in a day or a few being taciturn long and, subsequently, neither can you finish your essays required by your teacher nor can you meet the deadlines by gratifying your feed-back requirements. Nearly a week has passed through as the bird of passage flitted by across the skyline, which, for me, was, obviously, too long to endure, even longer than those who wait.

Story came palely with nothing to fuss around: according to “My Test” checklist, I finished two sets of tests: one with scores rounding to zero and clearly another which I had just been through. Timetable told me that I should be on my clanging travel from faraway southern city charging to my cold hometown and surely I was by then. Getting tired of those suitcase-stuffing Guide books, I turned my eyes to the receding outside view with the music plugged in my ears still on:

I'm tugging at my hair

I'm pulling at my clothes

I'm trying to keep my cool

I know it shows

I'm staring at my feet

My cheeks are turning red

And I’m searching for the words inside my head

……

Love could be sweet you licked which reflected on your childhood memory. Love, meaning enthusiasm here, might be about a yearning for treasured dream coming true or a refusal to anything you toss away but your most-touching film in the blue moon. Before you narrow down sketch of the four-lettered word to the dreary associations with your beloved boy or girl, I have discerned warmth in case boredom dehydrated my minds to a mosque. A new born was in the same coach where I sheltered for a brighter view than in my designated seat and there I encountered the new born that obviously showed tranquility and an intuition of a sage from the Mass. So I impended on asking the sage’s goddess, recklessly letting out “how old is he?” Though I was still regretting about my imprudence, the deity replied, “Did you mean ‘her’? Oh, she is only ten months’ old.” That moment I saw true calmness on a baby’s face and that was more pleasant than you watch a P.S I Love You or Titanic underneath Avril’s voice.

More issues were spread out between our cursive conversations. I acquired that they were on a trip to Beijing and wished to re-visit this alienated city though they have been there a few years ago, thanks to the rapid development. I was, at the first time, touched by the unvoiced pact they had signed on their best days, considering the unvoiced passing on the tissue from the young American to the Asian mother a pulse of warmth meandering to through every eye-witness. My loathing on babbling babies and international marriage were, by standing at the window pane, shuttered and fragments dispersed.

Avril kept rolling her tongue intact since I selected “repeat” in the setting bubbling icons. What she articulated in her songs faded out yet she left me only a milieu for thinking trenchantly. I drew illustration of days with my beloved literature, music and films however lazybones overweighed, stifling me in the phantom----I had already submarined in a world elegant wealth of knowledge. Facts proved it wrong, by responding to my drowsily lazy days. I should have picked up playing a piece of musical instrument, say piano or two however I didn’t; I could have finished tagging and interpreting novels or ransacking New Yorker from homepage back again to homepage however I didn’t; I might have released more journals, conceiving myself as though I were a real writer dedicating to literature however I didn’t.

I always delineate a wise man someone who gains more with less, a ready man reasons with ease, a full man does everything peers can. I am, on the acute contrary, a dull man who lacks singing competence, writing tricks or even living methods.

Now I understand what has been caught up there these days and that is things that I have never said.