Reminiscences for Oblivion

　　　　When I am trying to pen the bitter-tasting words down, my mind is in a whirl. You do not know. How could you know? You must be somewhere on this planet, far or near. You must be around a corner. The corner two blocks away? Or the remotest coner of the earth? I should have written to you, right after your departure in that early spring, only if I knew where to send it.

　　　　San Salvador? San Juan? San Mateo? Santa Fe? Santa Monica? Santa Cruz? Definitely not San Francisco, nor San FairyAnn. I remember the San FairyAnn story that you told me, and I know it was your favorite bed-time story. Nevertheless, one thing that I know for sure: it must be a place with an angelical prebase, San or Santa something, or at least a mysterious precinct of saints and angelets, de la orilla.

　　　　The moments suddenly pop out of my mind, and then quickly flee beyond the touch of my consciousness into the fathomless void. Through the veil of night, I see your wistful look, your pensive smile, and your glinting but evasive eyes. Como la primavera. Y luego pasan los meses frios, llega el sol, y el dulce rostro sonrie suave como la primavera.

　　　　You could turn the dreary lecture notes into music. You could turn the wind in the trees into music. I hear you singing. Therefore I write.

　　　　All on a sudden, the long, slow winter that year turned into a spring of vibrant en. Every one was alerted by the stealthy invasion of azury flowers and en grasses.

　　　　We were summoned by the spring. And simultaneously, the boys and girls, all in en, came en masse. The air was tonic and cool, but not cool enough to agitate you. You just wanted to be alone, enjoying the tranquilsolitude of spring. The Bible says, "You will leave Me all alone. Yet I am not alone." Solitude is by no means loneliness. You said. Let's go. To Puget Sound. Let's enjoy the solitude together. The togetherness was devoid of no solitude, cause I was part of you.

　　　　Do you remember, my dear? We pack a picnic lunch, champagne and fruit, and we leave early. We drive at dawn, right into the sun. You put your right arm and I put my left arm out the car windows, and it feels so good. And now feel the sun. How it warms us inside and out! Illuminating are the first morning rays. El mar! El Oceano Pcifico ....Las arenas .... Las arenas blancas ..., las arenas doradas .... The sunshine envelops you in a web of golden threads. The star-spangled splendor infuses you with a vigor that I have never ever seen. We are being caressed by waves and light. The breeze rustles through the leaves, rushing towards us. You are shuddering with pleasure. So am I, but for the chill of the lingering winter. On the beach, the water is so sparkly clear and blue. We are being caressed by waves and light.

　　　　The Puget Sound of yours and mine! With the sun on your back, will your heart be unchained? On the mossy bank of the river, in the humid air of early spring, the meadow is dotted with dancing music, and dazzling wildflowers. The night falls. You smell like jasmine and lily, like Mecca myrrh, like honey, and mushrooms of early spring. Your eyes are black tulips, something beautiful and strange, something so rare, so unlikely.

　　　　Since then, a beautiful and painful truth has been revealed to me. Bit by bit. Over the years. In the dark I see a ray piercing the sky. It is an irradiating magic difficult to qualify. Your kindness, compassion, and mercy. Illuminating. What enlightens me, hurts me as well. You are an incessantstimulus to my inspiration and aspiration. It suffices.

　　　　Now I hear your music. I hear you breathing. I hear your breath. Your breath is with me still. The night has been lighted up. The night is still, still in its pervasive stillness, just as that spring night. La poesia sirena estrellaba la noche del jardin.

　　　　The sea flows and ebbs. But the moments will never ebb away. They remain. On the beach, our favorite resort, like the footless seashells，innocently stubborn or stubbornly innocent. I doubt if I really merit your grace to inherit such valuable treasures. Therefore I write. Only for oblivion.

　　　　无痕之忆

　　　　我在写这些苦味文字时，脑子里一片浑沌。你并不知道。你如何能知道？这时你一定在这个星球上的某个地方，或远或近。你一定在某个角落。是对面那个街角？还是天涯海角？我早该给你写信的，在那个初春，你一走我就该写的，若我知道该寄往何处。

　　　　是圣萨尔瓦多？圣胡安？圣马特奥？圣塔菲？圣塔莫尼卡？圣塔克鲁斯？一定不是圣法朗西斯科，也不是"千万别怕"。我还记得你讲给我的"千万别怕"的故事，我知道那是你小时候睡觉以前最喜欢读的一个故事。无论如何，我唯一确信无疑的是，你所在之处的地名一定有一个天使般的前缀，要么，至少也该是圣徒和小天使聚居的一个神秘领地，沿着海岸线。

　　　　那些瞬间突然从我脑海里跳出来，然后迅速逃逸，超越我的知觉所及，遁入无法测度的虚空。透过夜的面纱，我看到你热切的面容，你忧郁沉静的笑，还有你熠熠生辉，却又惘然逃避的眼神。像春天一样。于是寒冷的日子逝去，阳光来临，那甜美的面容露出微笑，一如春天。

　　　　你能把枯燥的讲义变为音乐。你能把掠过树梢的风变为音乐。我听见你在唱歌，所以我写。

　　　　忽然之间，那个漫长的冬天便生出一个生机勃勃的绿色的春来。人人都被浅蓝色花朵和青青绿草那隐秘的入侵所惊起。在春的召唤下，男孩们和女孩们不约而同地来了，都身着绿衫，齐齐到来。那空气令人精神振奋，无比爽朗。但你不为所动。你只想独处，享受春天那远离纷扰的孤单。《圣经》说，"留下我独自一人。其实我不是独自一人。"孤单绝非寂寞。你说。走吧，我们去普捷湾。一同享受孤单。一同并不会破坏孤单，只因为我是你的一部分。

　　　　还记得吗？我们备好午餐，带上香槟和水果，早早就起身。清晨，向太阳驶去。你把右手，我把左手伸到车窗外，那感觉真好！第一缕阳光的光华。那海！太平洋....。那沙，那白色的沙，金色的沙。阳光用金线的网围住了你。那星光闪烁的辉煌为你注入一种我从未见过的生命力。微风穿过树叶，飒飒作响，向我们袭来。你因快乐而颤抖，我因徘徊不去的残冬余寒而颤抖。走向海滩，清澈的海水在蓝色地跳跃。感受波光的爱抚。

　　　　你我的普捷湾！有阳光在你背上，你的心是否已得解放？在长满青苔的河岸，在初春潮湿的空气里，草地缀上了跳舞的音乐，还有令人眼花缭乱的野花。入夜，你的气息如茉莉和百合。如阿拉伯的没药，如蜂蜜，和初春的蘑菇。你的眼睛是黑郁金香，某种美丽又陌生的东西，如此稀奇，恍若隔世。

　　　　从那时开始，一个美丽又痛苦的真实就逐渐向我显现。一点一点，一年一年。暗夜里我看见一线光刺破天空。那是一种光华四散的魔法，难以言状。你的善良、怜悯和仁慈。放光。照亮我的，同时也灼伤我。你是我灵感与热望的无尽的来源。这就够了。

　　　　现在我听见了你的音乐。我听见你在呼吸。我听见你的呼吸。你的呼吸犹在。夜空已被照亮。夜仍沉静，渗透一切，一如那个春夜。美人鱼之纷纷散落在夜的花园。

　　　　潮起潮落。但那些瞬间永远不会退潮。它们留下来。在我们最爱光顾的那片海滩，留下来如无足的海贝，天真地固执，固执地天真。自己何德何能，竟承受得起如此恩典，保有这份财富？因此我写。仅为忘却。