没有地

从宁波站出来,说是有一部车直接到二姨妈的新家门口。这辆长途奔袭的公交车因为沿途开发出了很多新小区而不断停车,把我弄睡。二姨妈跟大家说我们坐到“模枝菜场”,其实站名叫“东钱湖菜场”。这个错位就为之后埋下伏笔。而我们下车后,绕着巨大的小区走了一大圈,才回到那幢的确就在车站边的楼。

当天傍晚我们满心欢喜地叫她带我们去东钱湖。她一直说自己就住在东钱湖边上。但这一路就走了一个多小时。实际的心理感觉像是半天,因为我们不断被告知应该很快就到了。她带着我们走在这些新开的路上,经过一个又一个住宅区和新开的楼盘或在建的工地或待建的荒地,绕了一个很大的、她也从没绕过的圈子。等我们走到的时候,天色已经黑到连水都看不出了。背着婴儿走了这么一路,看到一辆出租车我就赶紧招呼大家上去,竟然五分钟就回到家了。

我把这事儿跟我表姐说,她也笑死了,说二姨妈在上海住了六年,宁波的家都不认识了。其实这些年里她也是经常回宁波的,但在沧海桑田面前,她脑子里的地名也好,路名也罢,都不够用,名称对不上真实的地景。只有人高马大的二姨父,在宁波的时间长一些,一边目睹着沧海桑田,一边骑着自行车不断地穿梭在这变迁的地景中,故而还保持了对本地的认知。

第二天二姨妈就让他带着我去找个地方洗头。二姨妈自己也跟着一块,走到了以前是二姨父弟弟开的厂,后来土地被征用做商品房的那片地方,边上的一家理发店。她不断地说,我也不认得了,只有那个学校是认识的。就像她前一天晚上走到东钱湖边了才认得这个湖了。她对自己突然变得不认路感到震惊,只能反复说“我不认得了”。而这个湖伴随了她将近四十年,过去的十几年,她曾差不多每天都从莫枝镇走到湖边散步。现在湖边围起来,在修地铁。所有能作为标记的建筑物都没了。

“这片地在造房子之前荒了很长很长的时间”,她指着现在动迁安置房小区边的一条河的对岸说。对岸现在是一个叫“公望钱湖”的在建商品房小区,不知道黄公望跟东钱湖有什么关系,但这个小区肯定是望不见东钱湖的。二姨妈自从1978年从插队的江西被外公外婆安排嫁到老家鄞县的农村后,就一直在农村生活。她说荒地很“惨辜”,白白地不建造房子也不能再种粮食。而对于周遭绵延的近十年出现的动迁安置房和商品房,她是觉得很好,但突然又有点生气地 说,那没有地,吃什么呢。

拜访钱老

昌平的钱老师比几年前思路更敏捷,长相更如漫画般可爱亲切,而崔大夫也更美了。老,也是老一点,但能量却在加速转化而非消散,他们是我这次北京戛然而止的访问最大的鼓舞。贵州安顺的友人,原来是和他已经有四五十年交情的同道,始终在那个地方工作着,现在他又将继续在那里工作,那是他一生最珍贵的思想基地。他们带来的本地天然种植的樱桃,是吃过的最最鲜嫩甜美的,难以忘怀。

碑林

雾霾中西安这次所见最美是碑林。碑林不是我想象的那样庞大。汉代以来的纪念碑和墓志铭被集中地收集和整理,毗邻着站在一起,实很拥挤。穿梭在碑林中间,它们又像幕帷,令陪伴的人若隐若现。因是石块,在冬日更加清冷,令话音清冷,心绪清冷。我们说,天下之大却容不下这些石碑与造像,更何况山河破碎。它们被集中地瞻仰,作为书法、史料、雕塑而被珍爱。这“林立之所”恰是它们不得其所的结果。哪怕生动如虎豹、犀牛,毕竟没有能奔跑的那种生命,暴露在地上的不能选择一直站立在一处;深埋地下者也不想竟见到天日——在这个暂时的结局里也没有天日,只有灯光的供养。我们之间的遭遇是我们的造化,又是它们的什么。

最喜那记述宫女生平的小楷,我何时会再看到她呢。还有王炜最爱的那悉达多神情的释迦牟尼像,他的微笑自信而天真,他的身型完美无瑕,永恒的少年的肉身。碑林是这样一个地方,流离失所的美侥幸相遇,在不知今夕何夕中或会相爱。这许是不真实的一种。

又想明信片

以前,在DC的一家地下室二手老旧寄过的明信片小店里我可以站立很久,比在图书馆有耐心。

今天为给老吴设计展览请柬,要一张老明信片的样子。我又想起那好几个从Safeway出来的周末夏日午后。看不真切、知道又不知道他们写了什么的背面。飞舞的背面。黑白的、或走色的正面。从美国的这里飞到那里的。基本不飞出美国的明信片们。在好像很短历史的国家里,丈量厚度。明信片让古老的国家年轻,让年轻的国家显老。都是因为个人投来掷去间的那一点趣味和挂念。说起来很小,但看起来却意味深长。

Ash-Wednesday

 by T S Eliot

Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man’s gift and that man’s scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the aged eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?

Because I do not hope to know again
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is nothing again

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessed face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice

And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still.

Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.

 

II

Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree
In the cool of the day, having fed to satiety
On my legs my heart my liver and that which had been contained
In the hollow round of my skull. And God said
Shall these bones live? shall these
Bones live? And that which had been contained
In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping:
Because of the goodness of this Lady
And because of her loveliness, and because
She honours the Virgin in meditation,
We shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled
Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love
To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.
It is this which recovers
My guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions
Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn
In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown.
Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness.
There is no life in them. As I am forgotten
And would be forgotten, so I would forget
Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said
Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only
The wind will listen. And the bones sang chirping
With the burden of the grasshopper, saying

Lady of silences
Calm and distressed
Torn and most whole
Rose of memory
Rose of forgetfulness
Exhausted and life-giving
Worried reposeful
The single Rose
Is now the Garden
Where all loves end
Terminate torment
Of love unsatisfied
The greater torment
Of love satisfied
End of the endless
Journey to no end
Conclusion of all that
Is inconclusible
Speech without word and
Word of no speech
Grace to the Mother
For the Garden
Where all love ends.

Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining
We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each other,
Under a tree in the cool of the day, with the blessing of sand,
Forgetting themselves and each other, united
In the quiet of the desert. This is the land which ye
Shall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity
Matters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.

 

III

At the first turning of the second stair
I turned and saw below
The same shape twisted on the banister
Under the vapour in the fetid air
Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears
The deceitul face of hope and of despair.

At the second turning of the second stair
I left them twisting, turning below;
There were no more faces and the stair was dark,
Damp, jagged, like an old man’s mouth drivelling, beyond repair,
Or the toothed gullet of an aged shark.

At the first turning of the third stair
Was a slotted window bellied like the figs’s fruit
And beyond the hawthorn blossom and a pasture scene
The broadbacked figure drest in blue and green
Enchanted the maytime with an antique flute.
Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown,
Lilac and brown hair;
Distraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind over the third stair,
Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair
Climbing the third stair.

Lord, I am not worthy
Lord, I am not worthy
but speak the word only.

IV

Who walked between the violet and the violet
Who walked between
The various ranks of varied green
Going in white and blue, in Mary’s colour,
Talking of trivial things
In ignorance and knowledge of eternal dolour
Who moved among the others as they walked,
Who then made strong the fountains and made fresh the springs

Made cool the dry rock and made firm the sand
In blue of larkspur, blue of Mary’s colour,
Sovegna vos

Here are the years that walk between, bearing
Away the fiddles and the flutes, restoring
One who moves in the time between sleep and waking, wearing

White light folded, sheathing about her, folded.
The new years walk, restoring
Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring
With a new verse the ancient rhyme. Redeem
The time. Redeem
The unread vision in the higher dream
While jewelled unicorns draw by the gilded hearse.

The silent sister veiled in white and blue
Between the yews, behind the garden god,
Whose flute is breathless, bent her head and signed but spoke no word

But the fountain sprang up and the bird sang down
Redeem the time, redeem the dream
The token of the word unheard, unspoken

Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew

And after this our exile

 

V

If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent
If the unheard, unspoken
Word is unspoken, unheard;
Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard,
The Word without a word, the Word within
The world and for the world;
And the light shone in darkness and
Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About the centre of the silent Word.

O my people, what have I done unto thee.

Where shall the word be found, where will the word
Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence
Not on the sea or on the islands, not
On the mainland, in the desert or the rain land,
For those who walk in darkness
Both in the day time and in the night time
The right time and the right place are not here
No place of grace for those who avoid the face
No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny the voice

Will the veiled sister pray for
Those who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose thee,
Those who are torn on the horn between season and season, time and time, between
Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait
In darkness? Will the veiled sister pray
For children at the gate
Who will not go away and cannot pray:
Pray for those who chose and oppose

O my people, what have I done unto thee.

Will the veiled sister between the slender
Yew trees pray for those who offend her
And are terrified and cannot surrender
And affirm before the world and deny between the rocks
In the last desert before the last blue rocks
The desert in the garden the garden in the desert
Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple-seed.

O my people.

VI

Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn

Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying
(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings

And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth This is the time of tension between dying and birth The place of solitude where three dreams cross Between blue rocks But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away Let the other yew be shaken and reply.

Blessed sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated

And let my cry come unto Thee.

我的老师

我研究身份認同多年,一直跟進香港國民身份的演變。回歸後,港人愈來愈關心國事,對中國、對香港,愛之深,責之切。我認為,身處大時代,香港學子必須努力尋根究底,思考自己的國民身份,肯定公民的權益與義務,這是回應時代挑戰必經之路。多認識中國文化與歷史,是香港學生的責任。我並不反對國民教育;我所抗議者,在於目前教材不足、官方文件黨國模糊、評核愛國情懷的機制不清不楚、官方大額資助的偏頗教材流通,而官員竟不肯退讓半步,還說是擇善固執,如此自以為是,結果只會脫離社會,受到市民大眾的抵制。擇善,就要格物致知、慎思明辨。權在官方,迴旋討論的雅量與勇氣,在乎官員的一念之間。現在香港所需要的,是政府官員從善如流的勇氣。我要求:政府撤消國民教育科,寓國民教育於歷史等現有科目。我不想多言,只想靜坐廣場一角,表明立場,並對學生致敬。

馬傑偉
大學老師
2012年9月4日

四季歌──送给刚出生的夏暖时小朋友,带了很多的爱

词:林夕
曲:郑雨贤
编曲:蔡德才

红日微风催幼苗
云外归鸟知春晓
哪个爱做梦 一觉醒来
床畔蝴蝶飞走了

船在桥底轻快摇
桥上风雨知多少
半唱半和 一首歌谣
湖上荷花初开了

四季似歌有冷暖
来又复去争分秒
又似风车 转到停不了
令你的心在跳

桥下流水赶退潮
黄叶风里轻轻跳
快快抱月睡 星星闪耀
凝望谁家偷偷笑

何地神仙把扇摇
留下霜雪知多少
蚂蚁有洞穴 家有一扇门
门外狂风呼呼叫

小故事

Lost love letter finds recipient 53 years later

www.telegraphindia.com – 14 hours ago

California (Pennsylvania), July 15 (AP): Much has happened in the 53 years since Vonnie sent Clark the letter, wondering why he had not called before going back to college.

They married later that year. He graduated. They had four children. They divorced. And he changed his name.

And, at last, the letter is wending its way to Clark ‘ that is, Muhammad Siddeeq ‘ who awaits its arrival with mixed emotions. “I’m curious, but I’m not sure I’d put it under the category of ‘looking forward to it’,” Siddeeq told the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review.

The letter, bearing four one-cent stamps postmarked February 1958 and addressed to Clark C. Moore, arrived in the mailroom at California University of Pennsylvania last week. School officials checked their files but could not figure out who Clark Moore was.

But his friends and family still lived in the area and saw media reports about the letter. They called Siddeeq, now 74 and living in Indianapolis, who had changed his name after converting to Islam.

“I never dreamed of anything like this,” Siddeeq told the Washington Observer-Reporter. The letter, its stamps turned upside down as sign of love, arrived at California University of Pennsylvania on July 8, tucked inside some magazines.

大学火车站

乍一看,我觉得这原本虽不惊艳,但也平淡得恰好的火车站出口是变了模样了。哪怕是一年前,我还坐在这一排半雕塑半公共设施的凳子上,晒着五月的小太阳,脱了凉鞋,看来来往往从火车站出入的年轻人。

但今年,我却自觉地走不过去。阳光灿烂的、接近六月的下午,一个虽不十分伟岸,但也无法回避的青铜雕塑,兀自地站在这必须扫过的视野里。即便大部分的学生都会习惯性地往右边的校车站走,但这位硬朗的少女,却是无法忽略的存在。毕竟,她对着大学站并不宽阔的出口,迎面而立。

去年邮件中反复讨论的这件事情,该不该,要不要,好不好的问题。最后,学生中的热情分子,还是决意要这么做。一番同政府、同校方的争夺之后,她终于站定了这里。何庆基说”要擺民主女神,但不是這個”(香港独立媒体),因为从艺术上和精神上讲,这个女神不符历史原意,也不解今日诉求。

当日,我并不完全以为校方关于大学应该政治中立的看法是纯粹的扯淡。但如果所谓的中立是对滋事和反动感的恐惧,那也不过是一句苟且的声明。我也并非不担心这种对敏感位置的抢占会给那沉默的大多数学生以精神上的压力──一个正确而且坚固的象征性形象的树立,多少会引人怀疑(哪怕对这个象征的解释还是可以适度敞开的)。然而,这个如何讲也不好看的、粗糙的少女,比那在中国无数大学门口招手或背手而立的主席,要渺小、羸弱得太多。

对于89年的记忆的抢救与争夺,在香港一面而言,确实同那明明留下了更多亲身亲历者的大陆不同。这不同,再继续下去,将会越走越遥远。如何庆基所说的、这个同所谓原版的女神已经有了重大差别的雕塑,这差别恰就是我们对那一年事端的已经无法弥合的记忆裂痕。这里是一股反复拉扯、不肯放手、大胆言说的努力;那头却是从内到外,从上至下,或不得已或有意的──暗度陈仓。

这样在一所偏远大学山脚下的小小努力,虽然不美,甚至不叫人习惯,但至少在这个时候给了这边的年轻人一个送花的基座。残缺的记忆总好过毫无记忆吧。

CUHK Train Station Plaza, May 28 2011, Photo by Rhyme
New Asia College Ch'ien Mu Library, CUHK, May 28 2011, Photo by Rhyme

活得更长

京都的某个晚上,我从东横旅馆距离床沿不到1米的小屏幕里看到一则新闻:日本人活得又更长了,并且代表人类突破了新的纪录。日本女性的平均寿命将近86岁,男性则超过83岁。被访问的日本学者说:“我们以前总以为人的寿命的增长是有限度的,但现在看起来,这个限度仍然可以不断突破。”

听罢,我感到一股久违了的“小振奋”。似乎有这样的一个国家,经济虽然十年都“起不来”,但每个人所能创造的财富已经巨大到叫人无法苛责了,于是他们专注于如何让国民活得更长这件事情。可能全世界和平地带经济发展的人,多数都在活得越来越长,但并不是每种活法的“更长”都让人感到“小振奋”的。

不知在东京或大阪的高峰时刻,地铁里是否真如听闻的那样人流汹涌而紧张。磨磨蹭蹭的我们每天出门都很晚。京都10点以后的公交车上只有两种人:日本老年人和外国游客。甚至,来日本旅游的外国人年龄也有一种老龄化的趋势,通常都是家庭出游,譬如四五十岁的父母带着十几岁的孩子来接受文化教育——从没见过如布拉格夏日街头那种成群的美国小孩嬉戏打闹的场面。甚至,连游客小孩的操守都显得“老化”,表现为沉默、听话、不怎么开口而只是偷偷观察。同上海地铁里趁着周围人的嬉闹而高声谈笑的放松老外们,相当不同。日本对外来者在处事、行为和作风上能如此迅速地“改造”以使得他们可以尽快地成为这个社会中的一分子,是我在任何一个国家里都没有见过的。

如果一个社会的性情使得老年人越活越有滋味,这究竟说明了什么呢?是老龄化拖慢了社会的节奏;还是因为一个社会本身就蕴含着那种缓慢节奏的空间,使得老年人永远可以从容地穿行其间而不敢紧张?

最简单地,以公车为例。京都的公车是下车付钱,而且他们至今仍然在使用机械式的自动兑换零钱机,依旧如此准确地执行着日币的兑换。基本上每站为了下车,都要经过好几分钟的依次付款,因为票价也往往不是整数,譬如210,420这样,换钱的人不在少数。有时候还有游客会向司机购买当日的天票等等,这些都是在靠站的时候做的事情。所有的人都耐心等待,从这一站到下一站,从停下到启动;全然不会有中国公交车上那种晚下去半秒钟就要遭到司机诅咒的压力。

在日本,时间并不是不重要。否则的话,我们就不会在《标准日本语》第一册的一开始就学到“下一班巴士几点来?”这句日常会话了。他们的每一班巴士在每一个站点都有时刻表,更不用提铁路了。但是重要的是对集体性的时间的遵守,为此,个人的时间是可以根据原则进行让度的。耐心首先是人性中的天性(同时也是美德),这一点在日本体现得尤为充分。

在中国,我们觉得时间是有限的。不仅是每个人自己的时间是有限的,而且我们好像还共享了同一个池子的时间(A single pool of time),或可称为“中国人的时间”。因此,我们要争,争的是有限的这个池子里的时间。你多了,我就少了。就像我们观念里的金钱一样。因此,耐心变成了一种牺牲,且是一种不被赞赏的牺牲。A对B耐心,是A对B的牺牲。A在这个过程中损失了他自己的时间,损失了占据更多那个池子里的时间的机会,也因此损失了无数再也追不回来的利益。这就是今天中国人的时间观。

所以中国人是只能匆忙地争抢地活着。我们看不到耐心中的效率,体会不到耐心中的美好。或者说,我们对“耐心”是不相信的。日本人还生活在对自我的克制中,在中国人看来是反常的;而日本人自己却是将时间控制得好好地,适当的时候就拿出来慢慢地用。

他们每天花很多时间在彼此点头和鞠躬中;他们告别的时候要在路上站好久,可能是要把所有告别的客套都讲一遍;他们吃饭的时候要搞得很细腻精致,器皿一大堆,摆放和收拾起来都很费时间,每样其实只有一点点。但是他们不去省下这些时间,或许同古代相比,这些时间已经大大缩短了,但在从来自今日中国的我看来,他们对待时间却是相当的慷慨的。

有一次,我们在旧皇宫周围过马路,远远地看到有一个骑自行车的男人似乎被另一个骑自行车的女人迎面撞到了,但她却没有花(充分的)时间向他道歉。于是他掉转车头,大叫着追上去,一定要她用(充分的)时间把刚才的碰撞表述清楚。这是我八天里唯一的一次听到日本人在路上大叫,以至于我流露出了同日本路人一样的吃惊。他大概是要把那个本就该属于道歉的时间追回来,该花的时间一定要认真地花掉吧。

究竟有什么东西是钱买不到的呢?作为一个没有什么钱的中国人,我总是在想这个问题。时间是钱买不到的。那么什么是对一个人最大的好呢?不是给他钱,而是给他时间。把时间给他,多说几句礼貌的话,多点几下头,把笑的时间延长几秒钟,这是多么大的慰藉啊;而在中国,却又是多么大的奢侈,连父母密友都不能,更何况一个邻居,一个路人呢?

在从清水寺下来的路上有许多古老但散发着新鲜气息的街道,依着山势而下,鳞次栉比的小店铺。我在一个小路口拍照,为了琢磨一个镜头大概站了很久。这时,我感到身后悄悄地有了什么东西,如果是在热带草原上,我会以为是一匹斑马。我下意识地一回头,原来是一辆黑色的轿车。它就这样轻轻地开来,等着那个挡住去路的游客,没有叫出声来。喇叭在日本是极其粗鲁的声音,不在万不得已马上要车毁人亡的时刻,是断断不会有人想去按喇叭的,那种极大的失礼,好像会玷污整条街道的清白;即便是一定要按,也是五分之一地往下轻按,极其短促而腼腆,好像同时要避免惊扰一头鹿。

显然,不是上帝要让日本人活得更长,而是日本人自己实在没有中国人那种“速来速去”的意愿。他们让度自己的时间的同时,也在增长着自己的时间。他们并没有因为点头、鞠躬、客套寒暄或把礼物再多包一层而“浪费”了生命,相反,他们的生命获得了某种由内而外地延展出去的力量,这种力量对中国人已经变得完全陌生。

活着并不是天然被赋予意义的过程。如果老者不被因为一生对时间的慷慨让度而赢得其作为长者的尊重(如同日本社会中那样),那么每一个“上帝为人人,人人为自己”的个体将只能守着比肉体的衰老还要速朽的精神,宁可孤苦而脆弱,也要这样退出生命的舞台。中国的现实就是这后者,谁都以现实性的价值审判着别人,而怀揣着“没有最后的审判”的唯一信念,枯萎而死,不论长短。