Fan Jinghua: Waking into the Noon

　　Waking into the Noon

Waking into the noon, into an expanse of blank stillness.
Nobody around. Brightness abound in sight,
Thinning everything into a translucent illusion.
A patch of paper clings to a water jar by a tiny tent on the table:
"Gone for a tea appointment and eye shopping.
Won’t be back till dinnertime.
Udon for your lunch under the food cover. Heat before eating."
For the signature, a line drawing bird is flying, with two hearts for eyes.
This is real, and I feel it between my right thumb and forefinger.

The post-it notepad is my favorite, of quality canary yellow paper
With preprinted patterns of orchids, with a touch
That reminds me of the touch in a dimly lit room, of weakly electrified thrill.
Upon a touch, Monteverdi’s Madrigals send me away
And away from my body;
I am a man from the CD Age, in love with the music
That comes with the tangible heaviness of casing and inserts.
Bare feet on bare floor, the cool from my soles
Say: You are still alive in your body, here!

On the door to my son’s room hangs a pinewood plate,
He carves out a helmeted head, similar to the I-Want-You poster,
Pointing at me: Fine upon Trespassing!
The plate is a tourist trash from a famous mountain in China.
In holidays, he does voluntary work, teaching Chinese calligraphy
To some barely literate elders in a center, where I went to visit, once.
Those finally can live as gregarious beings, happily,
Before they are transferred to the hospice for the terminally ill.
What hurts is not their shabby writing, but their knowledge,
Despite their non-Buddhist non-Taoist hold onto the everyday,
That one lives on and on to realize life is nothing but a transition.

Outside the window, sunshine hurts my eyes.
Deep down there in a garden, between these towers, children are playing
See-saw, and they rise and fall.
The trees closer to the wall look like dark green hassocks, in the refreshing breeze
Heaving, and I can’t help wondering
Whether they are springy enough to cushion a heavy fallen object.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　June 26, 2009


　　　　醒来，已是中午

醒来，已是中午，四下无人，中午融着中午
一片静寂，丰盛的明亮将一切都穿透得疏松，虚幻了
餐桌上有一顶小小的帐篷，旁边，冷水杯
腰上贴一片纸，微微翘起了边
“应约喝茶，顺便逛街，晚餐前回来
做了乌冬面，在罩子下，午餐热一下吃”
签名处，一只简笔画的小鸟，两眼瞪成了红心
这是实在的，我用拇指和食指捏着，轻轻地搓

这种兰花暗纹的记事贴，鹅绒黄的优质
书写纸，令人感到某种柔和光线下带电的抚摸
打开音响，蒙特威尔第的牧歌令我逐渐远离自己的身体
我还停留在CD时代，需要盒子包装的实在手感
赤脚，感受地面的裸，脚心冷冷地提醒我，此刻我还在我这儿

儿子半敞的房门上挂着一块松树牌子，一只钢盔人
如那张I Want You海报，喊道“私人领地，侵入必罚”
假期，他去做义工，教书法，我去过那儿一次
那些终于群居的老人，在转到临终关怀中心之前
愿意与任何外来的人做任何事，说任何话
令我难受的，不是他们的字写得哆哆嗦嗦
而是他们非佛非道，留恋生活
而必须认命，人，活着活着就活成了过渡

窗外，阳光令人眼疼；楼下，小花园陷在高塔的谷底
几个孩子在玩跷跷板，此起彼伏
最靠近墙壁的那一排树，像一只只墨绿的垫子，在微微的风中
它们轻轻地涌动，令我有点迷惑
它们是否有足够的弹性承受一件高楼坠下的重物
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　2009年6月26日