Chapter 4 listen to the cold rain

After the Awakening of Insects, the spring cold intensified.First it was steep, and then the rainy season began, sometimes dripping dripping, sometimes pattering, the sky is damp and the ground is wet, even in a dream, it seems to be holding an umbrella.And just relying on an umbrella to avoid a burst of cold rain, can't escape the entire rainy season.Even thoughts are moist.Going home every day, zigzag through the labyrinthine alleys from Jinmen Street to Xiamen Street. In the rain and wind, walking into Beagle makes you even more dreamy.Thinking about Taipei like this is completely like a black-and-white film, thinking about the whole of China and the entire history of China is nothing more than a black-and-white film, from the beginning to the end of the film, it has been raining like this.I don't know if this feeling came from Antonioni.However, that piece of land has not been seen for a long time. Twenty-five years, a quarter of a century, even if there is rain, it is separated by thousands of mountains and thousands of umbrellas.Twenty-five years later, everything is broken, only the climate, only the weather report is still involved.A great cold current swept across the sky from that piece of land, and I share this coldness with the ancient continent.If you can't throw yourself into her arms, being swept away by her skirt can be considered comforting and admiring.

When I think about it this way, I feel a little warm in the severe cold.When he thinks this way, he hopes that these narrow alleys will continue forever, and his thinking can also extend, not from Jinmen Street to Xiamen Street, but from Jinmen to Xiamen.He is from Xiamen, at least in a broad sense. For twenty years, he has not lived in Xiamen, but lived in Xiamen Street.But when it comes to the broad sense, he is also from Jiangnan, Changzhou, Nanjing, Chuanwaer, and Wuling boy in the broad sense.Xinghua Chunyu Jiangnan, that was his boyhood.In half a month it will be Qingming.Antonioni's camera pans and pans and pans again.Remnants of mountains and rivers seem to be.It's like the queen of heaven and earth.There are many people in the head of Guizhou from north to south.Is there China in there?Of course, China will always be China.It's just that the spring rain of apricot blossoms is gone, the shepherd boy Yaozhi is gone, and the drizzle at Jianmen and the light dust in Weicheng are gone.But where is the land that he dreams about day and night?

In the newspaper headlines?Or is it rumors from Hong Kong?Or Fu Cong's black key and white key Ma Sicong's jumping bow and plucked strings?Or is Antonioni's mirror-bottom Le Mazhou's favorite?Or, on the wall and in the glass cabinet of the Palace Museum, in the rhyme of Taibai and Dongpo in the sound of gongs and drums of Peking Opera? almond blossom.spring rain.Jiangnan.Six square characters, maybe that piece of soil is in there.Regardless of Chixuan, Shenzhou, or China, as long as Cangjie's inspiration is not extinguished and the beautiful Chinese is not old, the image and the centripetal force like a magnet will surely remain.Because a square character is a world.There were characters in the beginning, so the memories and hopes of the Han people's souls and ancestors had sustenance.It's like writing the word "rain" out of thin air, bit by bit, torrential, drizzling, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, and the meaning of rain is just like it.How can any rain or pluie be able to satisfy this visual beauty?Open a copy of "Ci Yuan" or "Ci Hai", gold, wood, water, fire, and earth each form a world, and once you enter the "Rain" part, you can see the ever-changing sky of ancient China, and you can see the beautiful frost, snow and clouds, the terrifying Thunder, lightning and hailstorms reveal God's good temper and bad temper. The Meteorological Observatory is an encyclopedia that laymen never get tired of reading.

Listen, that cold rain.Look, that cold rain.Sniff sniff sniff, that cold rain.Lick it, that cold rain.The rain is on his umbrella, the umbrellas of the millions of people in this city are on the raincoats, the roofs are on the antennas, the rain is falling on Keelung Harbor, the breakwaters, and the boats in the strait, Qingming is the rainy season.Rain is a woman and should be the most emotional.The rain is empty and psychedelic, sniffing carefully, it is refreshing and refreshing, with a little mint fragrance. When it is thick, it emits a faint earthy smell that is unique to grass and trees after being bathed in hair. Maybe it is actually earthworms and The fishy smell of the snail, after all, is the waking of stings.Maybe the life on the ground and underground, maybe the layers of memories of ancient China are all stupid and wriggling, maybe it's the subconsciousness and dreams of plants, that fishy smell.

The third time I went to the United States, and I lived in the high mountains of Denver for two years.In the western part of the United States, there are many mountains and deserts, thousands of miles of drought, the sky is blue like the eyes of Anglo-Saxons, the ground is red like the skin of Indians, and the clouds are rare white birds.There are few clouds and fog on the dazzling snow peaks of the Rocky Mountains.First, it is high, second, it is dry, and third, it is above the forest line, and the cedars and cypresses also stop. In Chinese poetry, the meaning of "stratus clouds rising from the chest" or "shanglue evening rain" is a rare scene in the Rocky Mountains.The victory of the Rocky Mountains lies in stone and snow.Those strange rocks and rocks, leaning on each other, build a thrilling sculpture exhibition for the sun and the wind of thousands of miles to see.The snow was so white that it was unreal, and so cold that it was clear and awake. The overwhelming momentum of the whiteness made it difficult for people to breathe, and their hearts were cold and their eyes were sore.However, if you want to appreciate the realm of "white clouds looking back and converging, green mist entering and seeing nothing", you still have to come back to China.The humidity in Taiwan is very high, and the atmosphere is the most cloudy and rainy.I spent two nights at the head of the stream, smelling the fragrance of the trees, and the night cold hit my elbows. I fell asleep like a fairy with my pillow on the moist green and green mountain shadows and the calm silence of all sounds.It rained all night in the mountains, and woke up the next morning. In the primitive silence before the sun rose, facing the cold air of the previous night, stepping on the broken branches all over the ground and the thin strands of rain still pouring down, explore the secrets of the forest all the way. Winding and winding, step up the mountain.The mountain at the head of the stream is thick with dense trees and thick fog, and the dense water vapor rises slowly from the bottom of the valley. It is almost impossible to have a panoramic view of a peak and a half valley.I have entered the mountain at least twice, and I can only play hide-and-seek with the peaks of Xitou in the vast expanse of whiteness.Back in Taipei, when asked by the world, apart from laughing and not answering, and pretending to be mysterious, the actual impression is nothing more than a mountain in the middle of nothingness.Surrounded by clouds and smoke, the Chinese landscape with hidden mountains and waters has given people the charm of Song Dynasty paintings.That world may belong to the Zhao family, but the mountains and rivers belong to the Mi family.In the end, no one can tell whether it is the Mi and his son's pen that resembles Chinese landscapes, or the Chinese landscapes on paper that resemble Song paintings?

Rain is not only smellable, but also audible.Listen to that cold rain.Listening to the rain, as long as it is not an earth-shattering typhoon, is always a kind of beauty in the sense of hearing.Autumn on the mainland, whether it’s drooping sycamore trees or raindrops beating lotus leaves, always sounds a little desolate, desolate, and desolate, but when I recall it on the island today, it is more desolate than desolate, and even more desolate. .Forgive how much heroism and chivalry you have, I'm afraid you won't be able to withstand repeated wind and rain.A dozen teenagers listened to the rain, and the red candle was drowsy.Two dozen middle-aged people listen to the rain, in the passenger boat, Jiang Kuoyun is low.Three dozen white heads listening to the rain under the monk's hut, this is the pain of the Song Dynasty, the life of a sensitive heart: upstairs, on the river, in the temple, strung together with cold raindrops.Ten years ago, he lost himself in a heartbreaking ghost rain.Rain, it should be a drop of wet soul, who is calling outside the window.

The rain hits the trees and tiles, and the rhythm is crisp and audible.Especially the knocking on the roof tiles, that ancient music belongs to China.Wang Yucheng was in Huanggang, and the big bamboos that were broken like rafters were used as roof tiles.It is said that living on the top of the bamboo building, the sound of torrential rain is like a waterfall, and the sound of dense snow is like broken jade, and the resonance effect is particularly good no matter whether it is drumming, chanting poems, playing chess, or throwing pots.Isn't it like living in a bamboo tube, any small and crisp sound will be exaggerated, and it will make your ears allergic.

Roof tiles on rainy days, floating wet streamer, gray and gentle, shimmering when facing the light, and dark when backlighting, it is a kind of low comfort to the vision.As for the rain knocking on the scaled tiles with thousands of petals, from far to near, lightly and heavyly, there are trickles of streams flowing down the tile grooves and eaves, and various percussion sounds and glide sounds are densely woven into one. Wang, whose thousands of fingers are massaging the helix. "It's raining." The gentle Cinderella came, and her icy slender hands flicked countless black keys and gray keys on the roof, playing the noon into dusk.

In the ancient continent, thousands of houses are like this.When I first came to this island more than 20 years ago, the Japanese-style tile houses are also like this.First, the sky darkened, and the city seemed to be covered in a huge piece of frosted glass, and the shadows extended and deepened indoors.Then the cool water filled the space, the wind swirled from every corner, and I could feel that every roof was breathing heavily covered with gray clouds.The rain is coming, the lightest percussion music beats the city, the vast roof, far and near, one by one, the ancient piano, the fine and dense rhythm, there is a kind of softness and kindness in the monotony, every drop Little by little, it seems unreal and real, if a child was in the cradle, a familiar nursery rhyme swayed to sleep, and the mother sang nasal and guttural sounds.Or in the water town of Zeguo in the south of the Yangtze River, a large basket of green mulberry leaves is bitten by thousands of silkworms, chewing and chewing on tiny and trivial crumbs.The rain is coming, when the rain comes, the tiles say this, one tile says a hundred billion tiles, say, play lightly, play heavily, tap slowly, tap and tap, tap intermittently for a rainy season, impromptu from From Awakening to Qingming, coldly playing dirges on scattered graves, one tile sings hundreds of billions of tiles.

Listening to the rain in the old Japanese-style house, listening to April, the endless yellow plum rain, day and night, ten months and months, the wet and sticky moss invaded from the bottom of the stone steps to the bottom of his tongue and heart.In July, listening to the typhoon and typhoon playing blindly on the ancient roof all night, the heat wave at the bottom of Qianxun was brought by the strong wind, and the entire Pacific Ocean was overturned, only to press heavily on his low eaves, and the entire sea was in his volute It went up and down.Otherwise, it will be a thunderstorm night, in the white smoke-like gauze tent, listening to the sound of the drum, the torrential rain, the powerful electric pipa, and the palpitations of the roof tiles.Otherwise, the slanting northwest rain slanted, brushing on the windowpanes, whipping the wall, and hitting the broad banana leaves. After a burst of cold springs, the autumn atmosphere permeated the Japanese-style garden.

Listening to the rain in the old Japanese-style house, the continuous spring rain, the sizzling autumn rain, the middle-aged from the young, and the cold rain.Rain is a kind of monotonous and durable music. Music is indoor music or outdoor music. Listen indoors, listen outdoors, cold, that music.Rain is a kind of music of memories, listen to the cold rain, remember the rain in the south of the Yangtze River, the rain falls all over the rivers and lakes, on the bridges and boats, and also in Sichuan, under the rice paddies and frog ponds, fattening the Jialing River, under the wet cuckoo cry.The rain is the cold rain licking on the longing lips under the moist music. Because rain is the most original percussion music knocked from the other end of memory.Tile is the deepest musical instrument. The gray gentleness covers the people who listen to the rain. Tile is the music that is held up by the umbrella.But soon the era of apartments came, why did you grow taller all of a sudden in Taipei, and Wa's music became an absolute hit.Thousands of tiles flutter, and beautiful gray butterflies fly away one after another, flying into the memory of history.Now it rains down on the concrete roofs and walls, rainy season without rhyme.The trees have also been cut down, the laurel, the maple, the willow and the giant coconut tree, when the rain comes, there will no longer be bushes noisy and eager, and the wet green light will greet you.The chirping of birds has decreased, the clucking of frogs has decreased, and the chirping of insects in autumn has also decreased.Taipei in the 1970s didn't need these, and band after band disbanded.To hear the rooster crow, you have to look for it in the rhyme.Now there is only one black and white film left, a black and white silent film. Just as the era of the horse-drawn carriage has passed, so has the era of the tricycle.Once on a rainy night, when the tarpaulin awning of the tricycle was hung up to take her home, the world inside the awning was much smaller and cute, and it was hidden outside the jurisdiction of the police.The bigger the pocket of the raincoat, the better, it can hold his slender hand in one of his hands.The rainy season in Taiwan is so long, someone should invent a wide raincoat for two people, and each person wears one sleeve, so that the other parts do not need to be divided too harshly.And no matter how developed the industry is, it seems that umbrellas cannot be discarded for a while.As long as the rain is not pouring and the wind is not blowing sideways, you can still hold an umbrella in the rain without losing the classic charm.Let the raindrops hit the black cloth umbrella or transparent plastic umbrella, turn the bone handle, and the raindrops will splash in all directions, and the edge of the umbrella will be turned into a circle of cornices.It should be a beautiful cooperation to share an umbrella with your girlfriend.It’s best to be your first love, a little bit excited, and even a little bit embarrassed. If you’re close at hand, the rain might as well be heavier.The real first love is probably so excited that you don’t need an umbrella, and run away in the rain holding hands, leaving your young long hair and skin to the dripping sky, and then taste the cool and sweet rain on the other’s lips and cheeks .But it needs to be very young and passionate, and at the same time, it can only happen in French trendy films. Most umbrellas don't presumably open for a date.On the way to and from get off work, to and from school, on the way to and from the vegetable market, the umbrella of reality, gray Wednesday.Holding the umbrella, he listened to the cold rain hitting the umbrella.It might as well be colder, he thought.Simply freeze the wet gray rain into dry and refreshing white rain, and the hexagonal crystals swirled down in the windless air, and when the eyebrows and shoulders of the man were completely white, they fell with a flick of the hand.For twenty-five years, I have not been blessed by the white rain in my hometown. Maybe sending out a little white frost is a kind of self-compensation in disguise.How many rainy seasons can a hero withstand?Is his forehead chiseled from sedimentary rock or igneous rock?How thick is the moss in his heart?The rainy alley on Xiamen Street has been walking for twenty years and is as long as memory. A tileless apartment is waiting for him at the bottom of the alley, and a lamp is waiting for him in the rainy window upstairs, waiting for him to go back, to meditate after dinner to tidy up the moss Deep memory.The past is separated by the sea.The old house is no more.Listen to that cold rain.