《青春斷代史：1987年5月9日，父親的擔架與夢裡的宇航員》

1987年5月9日，是個悲傷的日子。以下是四哥的原話：「那天我正好休息在家，下午老爸說要去廠裡洗個澡。我現在說起這事兒，眼前就出現父親出門時的情景，看到他關上腰門時的樣子。到了下午四點多鐘，忽然有陌生人急敲咱們的腰門。我開門後那人說：『你父親正在普陀醫院急診室裡搶救呢。』我謝過那人後，就往醫院趕。我在急診室轉了一圈，沒有找到父親，剛轉身就看見父親躺在一個擔架上，被好幾個人從二樓抬下來。父親一隻手下垂著，身邊沒有親人，我的心突然一陣酸痛。這些好心人看到老爸落難出手相救，有的還是從出事現場跟來的。他們又是掛號，又抬擔架上二樓拍片，還有人到咱們家送口信。感謝這群陌生好心人。當時家裡只有我一個人在，老媽在鄰居家打麻將，小H還沒有下班。」

那個年月家裡還沒有浴缸或淋浴間，都得去外面公共浴池洗澡。爸爸那天正好要去領取退休工資，便順便去廠裡的大浴池裡舒舒服服地泡個澡。

那天發生了一件事，讓我至今無比後悔。正因為這件事，我回家晚了。

那天下午，在蘇州河中山北路橋附近的鐵路橋邊，我和小W在絕交後第一次相遇。那是一條通火車的鋼架橋，橋面東側有一條窄窄的小道供行人通過，上上下下的人挺多的。兩個推自行車的人交錯時，其中一人必須停下來往邊上靠一靠，才能讓對方過去。如果此時有火車轟隆隆地通過，會感覺整個橋身都在震盪，蠻嚇人的。隨著火車（好像我見到過的都是貨車）「擦身而過」時帶出的勁風捲著塵土，迎頭撲面而來，每次我都要轉過身子，摀住鼻子和嘴巴屏住呼吸。

我看到小W正在橋上的人流中推著車往橋北端走來。與我同行的一位女友，比我小兩歲，性格開朗、純真、亮麗，人稱「嗲妹妹」。她與小W都住在校園一村，互相也很熟。等小W將車子推下橋北端的三四級鐵階梯，嗲妹妹便將他叫住，一把拽住小W的車龍頭，圓睜著美麗的大眼睛，嘟著嘴，嬌嗔地操著一口校園國語，勸我們和解，一笑泯恩仇。

「嗨，小W！好久不見。停下，快停下，我想跟你說話。」她帶著微笑說道。
「嗨。」他輕聲回應並停了下來。

小W和我就這樣尷尬地交換了一下眼神，臉上帶著一絲局促的微笑。

「我知道你們倆都想和對方說說話。哎呀，算了吧，你們心裡想的對不對？」嗲妹妹的話有些調皮。
「我讓你們兩個好好聊，我還有別的事要做，拜拜！」她跨上自行車就離開了。
「我們要不要找個地方談談？」小W禮貌地問。

我們騎車來到徐家匯一條叫肇嘉浜路的大馬路。在馬路中間寬闊的綠色隔離帶裡，我們在長條板凳上坐了很久。我們挨得很近，互相傾訴、嘆息，把積壓多年的滿腔委屈一股腦兒全倒了出來，直到夜幕降臨。也正因為這場未曾預料的重逢與長談，耽誤了時間，導致我回家晚了。

我晚上十點左右回到家，屋裡空無一人。五桶櫃上留著一張字條：「芬，你一到家，馬上來醫院，爸爸出事了。大嫂。」

看到字條，我趕緊跑到醫院。在簡陋、擠滿了病人和家屬的急診室大廳裡，我看到爸爸臉色蒼白，躺在牆角的一張病床上，鼻子上插著氧氣管，呼吸困難。邊上圍著悲傷的媽媽、哥哥和嫂嫂們。他們告訴我，爸爸去廠裡洗澡領退休工資，回家上公交車時被人推倒了，從車上摔了下來，摔斷了脖子。幾個陌生人攔住一輛小型貨車，把我爸送到了醫院。父親昏迷了幾個小時，醒來後，他脖子以下就沒了知覺。爸爸一個小時前還能說話，此時看到他想說卻發不出聲音的樣子，我的心都碎了。可憐的父親，他是我認識的最善良、最誠實、最勤奮的人，他從不大聲說話，我們小時候也從來沒挨過他的打。天哪！為什麼我親愛的爸爸要遭受這樣的痛苦？！我責怪自己沒有早點回家。

第二天早上，我去了父親出事的那個車站。車站附近有一排小商店，我找到了不少目擊者，很快得知了事發經過。公交車到站時，都是先下後上的。我父親等到擁擠的公交車上沒人下了，才上了車。但他還沒站穩，突然有三個農村婦女慌忙從裡面擠出來要下車。我爸就被她們撞倒，從車上重重地摔了下去，後腦勺著地，脖子磕到了馬路牙子。那三個女人隨後被目擊者送到了派出所。我們找到派出所，希望那三個女人能來探望我那奄奄一息的父親，向他道個歉。但是警察早就放走了她們，並對我們說：「她們第一次來上海不熟悉。你父親是個老人，洗了澡後可能很虛弱，他有高血壓嗎？」我爸爸沒有高血壓的。在這件事情上，我父親沒有得到法律的保護。

我們每天至少兩個人，輪流守在父親的床邊。5月10號我陪了一夜，11號回家睡覺。下午三點半左右，大哥的二閨女氣喘吁籲地衝進來，叫醒我們說父親病危。我們跳起來跑到醫院，大約花了十分鐘，但是晚了，父親已在下午3:22分去世。父親被抬走時，六哥悲痛地說:「咱爸的身體還是熱的！」在人們把他抬往太平間的路上，我俯下身子，在父親還溫熱的臉上吻了一下。這是我這輩子唯一的一次吻我的父親。不知道我小時候是否得到過父母的親吻，過去的人不善於表達感情。

我三哥和三嫂收到電報後，立即從貴陽趕來。我姑姑也從北京趕來，她是我父親這一代唯一還活著的直系親屬，比父親小四歲。準備葬禮的一周很忙，很多朋友和鄰居來弔唁，都會送一條絲綢被面。不知道是什麼時候開始的習俗，大家送被面而不是送花圈。五顏六色的絲綢被面和挽聯掛滿了屋子。我給J寫了一封信，告訴了他這裡發生的事情。5月21日，J從日本發來表達慰問的唁電，22日，家裡為父親舉行了葬禮。

我們以為醫院裡存放遺體的箱子一定是冰箱，這樣可以保持遺體新鮮。但我們錯了。我們太天真，太愚蠢，太無知了。我父親的遺體沒有被低溫保存下來，我們當時並不知道。我父親的遺體躺在那裡腐爛，而我們卻在外面奔走，想為可憐的父親伸張正義。我們沒有成功，因為我們什麼都不是。我們隨後被醫院告知，必須儘快將我父親的遺體火化。我們失去了見他最後一面的機會。到葬禮時，我們只能圍著他的骨灰盒……

1987年5月24日，星期天，全家人去了長風公園。這是一場沒有父親在場的家庭聚會。天氣很好，春光明媚。

第二天，我姑姑回了北京。這是她唯一一次來上海。

隨後，J又給我發了一封電報，讓我給他回電話。我沒辦法在學校打國際長途，是到上海電話總局去打的。當時的電話費很貴，J讓我打了對方付款的國際長途。

1987年5月27日，我給我的堂兄寫過一封信。他是我父親大哥最小的兒子，當時在北京的政府部門任職。我想他可能會幫我為父親討回公道。中國有句老話：「朝廷有人好辦事。」我堂哥當時在「朝廷」，我想試試他的小權力。我給他寫了一封長信，解釋了他叔叔死於事故的原因，寫下了那些證人以及我父親失去說話能力前的親口記錄。他被從公交車上推倒在路邊，雖然不是故意的，但我們需要一個道歉。我們對那些警察處理這個案件的草率態度感到不滿，案件甚至還沒有開始調查就結案了。我父親死得不公平。我告訴我的堂哥：「你不必借助某些重要人物的力量，只要用官方信紙寫一封信，這足以讓當地警察對待這件事有所敬畏。」

果然，兩周後，我大哥和三哥被叫到當地政府辦公室，他們得到了道歉。公交公司也給了200元（約合54.13美元）的賠償費。我父親生前的退休金是每月100元左右。就這樣，案子永遠了結了。據說人來到世上都背著許多債，吃苦就是還債，但願爸爸這次把他在人世間輪迴中所累積的債都還清了。

爸爸在我的夢中總共才出現過四、五次。

早在他出事前的十天，也就是1987年4月29日，我就做了一個極其反常的夢，夢見父親在公共浴室裡溺水。那是我這輩子頭一次夢見父母。

第二次的夢境是一個秋夜，風很大，爸爸躺在一道矮坡頂上唯一的一條公園長椅上，晚風呼嘯、夜幕淒涼，周圍很空曠，覺得他很冷。後來爸爸就向遠方隱去了。我當時在美國雪城大學（SU）讀書，專業是計算機圖形學，正在學習用電腦作畫。這便是我後來用Alice三維應用程序做的那張椅子。

第三次是2007年12月3日，我看到爸爸在一棟廢墟樓的二層，靠牆坐著，顯得孤單。我問他是否要去我那裡。他問我：「你過得好嗎？」其實他也知道我過得不咋樣。然後他就隱去了。這是他對這片曾經工作過的地方——江西蓮花縣的國營712廠遺址留戀而回訪嗎？這真是片夢魂繚繞的地方，我的夢，他的魂。

第四次夢裡，是他有家了，房屋乾淨簡潔，爸爸的臉上還帶著笑容。

第五次是2011年9月29日：在我們家朝北的後涼台上，父親正在低頭忙活著瑣事。我們住在底樓。忽然看到天上有兩道不斷翻滾著的、濃濃的白色雲柱，急匆匆地從右上方俯衝下來。前面是兩個小黑點，各自拖著長長的一綹密集得像花菜一樣的、略微擴散的雲尾巴。不好，像是宇宙飛船出事！「爸爸您看，快看！出事兒了！」父親還沒來得及抬頭，那兩個小黑點已經劃過天際，在遠處的左下方著陸，並發出沉悶的爆炸聲。

天色有點昏暗，馬上就看到有兩個圓形、暗色的大降落傘先後迅速由小變大朝我們這兒飄過來，在頭頂上空飛速越過樓頂。第三個飛過來的是一個沒有降落傘的宇航員，他身上有一個三四寸厚的充氣橡皮墊子。只聽到「砰！」的一聲，他就撞到了涼台內。我迅速跑過去，口中卻對父親說：「別碰他，別碰他，我去打救急電話。」一怕動了他反而造成或加重骨傷，二是擔心他身上帶有來自外太空需要專人處理的物質。

從宇航員身邊急速走過，我進了屋子。五哥正靠在床上看書，「快快快！打911電話！」我說著拿起像皮質鑰匙包一樣的手機，翻開兩側，但找不著裡面的按鍵。五哥撥的電話通了，我聽到裡面的錄音：「因為這裡是免費電話，打的人多，請稍等……」

我急忙抓起被子，衝出門去想給宇航員蓋上。來到後面，看到已經有一個西方女人躺在宇航員旁邊給他保溫取暖，父親也躺在地上，隔著那個西方女人，也試著用自己的身體再加一層體溫。好像宇航員沒有受致命傷，見他抬起手，說了句什麼，我沒聽清。但我蓋到他身上的卻是一條浴巾，不夠，我馬上折回屋子去取那床藍色厚被子。那西方女人嫌我慢，大叫道：「Action！」（行動！）

醒來時，時間是早上5:55 AM。

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Chronicles of Youth: May 9, 1987—My Father's Stretcher and the Astronaut in My Dreams

May 9, 1987, was a day of sorrow. The following are my fourth brother’s exact words:

"That day happened to be my day off, and I was at home. In the afternoon, my father said he was going to the factory to take a bath. Even now as I speak of this, the scene of my father leaving the house appears before my eyes, the way he closed the waist gate. Around four in the afternoon, a stranger suddenly knocked hard on our gate. I opened it, and the man said, 'Your father is in the emergency room at Putuo Hospital being resuscitated.' I thanked the man and rushed to the hospital. I walked through the emergency room but could not find my father. As I turned around, I saw him lying on a stretcher, being carried down from the second floor by several people. One of his arms was hanging down, and no relatives were by his side. A sudden ache hit my heart. These kind strangers saw my father in distress and stepped in to help; some had even followed him from the scene of the accident. They registered him, carried the stretcher to the second floor for X-rays, and someone even came to our house to deliver the message. My gratitude goes to this group of anonymous, kind people. At the time, I was the only one at home; our mother was playing mahjong at a neighbor's house, and Little H had not finished work yet."

In those years, our home had no bathtub or shower; everyone had to go to external public bathhouses to bathe. My father was heading out to collect his retirement pension that afternoon, and planned to take a comfortable soak in the factory’s large bathhouse along the way.

Something occurred that day which I regret deeply to this very day; it was because of this event that I returned home late.

That afternoon, near the railway bridge close to the Zhongshan North Road Bridge over the Suzhou Creek, I encountered Little W for the first time since our break-up. It was a steel-framed bridge built for trains, with a narrow path on the eastern side for pedestrians. People constantly moved up and down the span; if two pedestrians pushing bicycles crossed paths, one had to stop and lean against the edge to let the other pass. If a train roared through at that moment, the entire bridge structure vibrated, which was quite frightening. As the trains—mostly cargo trains from what I recall—brushed past, the powerful wind they generated whirled dust directly into our faces. Every time, I had to turn my body away, cover my nose and mouth, and hold my breath.

I spotted Little W amid the crowd on the bridge, pushing his bicycle toward the north bank. A female friend traveling with me, two years my junior, was cheerful, innocent, and bright; people called her "Dia Meimei" (the sweet-talking girl). She lived in the same Campus No. 1 Village as Little W, and they knew each other well. Once Little W pushed his bicycle down the three or four iron steps at the north end of the bridge, Dia Meimei called out to stop him. She grabbed the handlebars of his bicycle, widened her eyes, pouted, and spoke in a playful, coaxing school Mandarin, urging us to reconcile and let bygones be bygones.

"Hi, Little W! Long time no see. Stop, stop right there, I want to talk to you," she said with a smile.
"Hi," he responded quietly and came to a halt.
Little W and I exchanged an awkward glance, small, uneasy smiles appearing on our faces.
"I know both of you want to talk to each other. Oh, come on, let it go. That’s what you both want inside, right?" Dia Meimei said mischievously.
"I’ll leave the two of you to have a good talk. I have other things to do, bye!" She mounted her bicycle and rode away.
"Should we find a place to talk?" Little W asked politely.

We bicycled over to a major thoroughfare in Xujiahui named Zhaojiabang Road. Sitting on a long wooden bench inside the wide green median strip of the road, we remained for a long time. We sat close together, confiding in one another and sighing, pouring out all the years of grievances completely until darkness fell. It was precisely this unexpected encounter and long conversation that delayed me, causing me to return home late.

I returned home around ten that evening to find the house completely empty. On top of the five-drawer chest lay a note: "Fen, as soon as you get home, come to the hospital immediately. Something happened to Father. Eldest Sister-in-Law."

Seeing the note, I ran to the hospital. Inside the primitive emergency room lobby, packed with patients and families, I saw my father. His face was pale, and he lay on a hospital bed in a corner, an oxygen tube inserted into his nose, breathing with difficulty. Surrounded by my mother, brothers, and sisters-in-law, they told me that my father had gone to the factory to take a bath and collect his pension. While boarding the bus to return home, he was pushed, fell from the vehicle, and broke his neck. A few strangers intercepted a small cargo truck and transported my father to the hospital. He remained unconscious for several hours; upon waking, he lost all sensation below his neck. He could still speak an hour before, and seeing him try to speak but fail to emit a sound, my heart broke. My poor father—the kindest, most honest, and most hardworking man I have ever known. He never raised his voice, and we were never once struck by him when we were children. Oh God! Why must my dear father suffer like this? I blame myself for not coming home sooner.

The next morning, I went to the station where the accident occurred. There was a row of small shops nearby, and I located several eyewitnesses to learn exactly what had happened. When the bus arrived at the station, passengers were supposed to exit before others boarded. My father waited until no one else was disembarking from the crowded bus before he stepped on. But before he could steady his footing, three women from the countryside suddenly squeezed out from inside to disembark. My father was knocked down by them, falling heavily from the bus, the back of his head striking the ground, and his neck hitting the stone curb of the road. Those three women were later taken to the police station by eyewitness. We went to the station, hoping they would visit my dying father and offer an apology. But the police had already released them, telling us: "It was their first time in Shanghai and they were unfamiliar with the city. Your father is an old man and might have been weak after his bath; did he have high blood pressure?" My father did not have high blood pressure. In this matter, my father received no protection from the law.

At least two of us took turns watching by my father’s bedside every day. On May 10, I stayed through the night, returning home on the 11th to sleep. Around three-thirty in the afternoon, my eldest brother’s second daughter rushed in out of breath, waking us to say father was critical. We jumped up and ran to the hospital, taking about ten minutes, but it was too late; father had passed away at 3:22 PM. As his body was moved, my sixth brother said sorrowfully, "Father’s body is still warm!" On the way they carried him to the mortuary, I leaned down and kissed his warm face. It was the only time in my life I ever kissed my father. I do not know if I ever received a kiss from my parents during my childhood; people of that generation were not accustomed to expressing their emotions.

Upon receiving the telegram, my third brother and his wife came immediately from Guiyang. My aunt also arrived from Beijing; she was the sole surviving immediate relative of my father’s generation and was four years his junior. The week preparing for the funeral was busy. Many friends and neighbors came to offer condolences, and they brought silk quilt covers. I do not know when the custom began, but people brought quilt covers instead of wreaths. Brightly colored silk quilt covers and funeral couplets hung all over the room. I wrote a letter to J, telling him what had occurred. On May 21, J sent a condolence telegram from Japan, and on the 22nd, the funeral was held.

We assumed the storage units for bodies in the hospital were refrigeration units to keep the remains fresh. But we were wrong. We were naive, foolish, and ignorant. My father’s body was not preserved under low temperatures, and we did not know. His body lay there decaying while we were outside exerting our efforts to seek justice for him. We did not succeed because we were nothing. We were subsequently informed by the hospital that we had to cremate his remains immediately. We lost the chance to view him one last time. By the time of the funeral, we could only gather around his urn...

On Sunday, May 24, 1987, the entire family went to Changfeng Park. It was a family gathering without my father present. The weather was fine and the spring sunshine was bright. The next day, my aunt returned to Beijing. This was her only visit to Shanghai.

Later, J sent another telegram, asking me to call him back. I could not make international long-distance calls from the university, so I went to the public telephone office. Phone rates were expensive back then, and J instructed me to make a collect call.

On May 27, 1987, I wrote a letter to my cousin. He was the youngest son of my father’s older brother, serving within a government department in Beijing at the time. I thought he might assist me in seeking justice for my father. An old Chinese proverb states: "Having someone in the court makes matters easy." My cousin was now in the administration, so I wanted to try his official influence. I wrote him a long letter explaining the cause of his uncle's death, listing the witnesses and the firsthand accounts my father gave before losing his ability to speak. He was pushed from the bus onto the roadside; though it was unintentional, we required an apology. We were dissatisfied with the careless attitude of the police handling the case; it was closed before an investigation even commenced. My father died unjustly. I told my cousin: "You do not need to rely on some grand figures there; simply write a letter on official stationery. That will be enough to make the local police treat this matter with proper respect."

Sure enough, two weeks later, my eldest brother and third brother were summoned to the local government office, and they received an apology. The bus company also provided 200 RMB (approximately 54.13 USD) in compensation. My father’s pension before his death was around 100 RMB per month. With that, the case was permanently closed. It is said that when people come into this world, they all carry a heavy burden of debt, and to suffer is to repay that debt. I only hope that this time, my father has completely settled all the debts accumulated through his rounds of worldly reincarnation. 

My father appeared in my dreams only four or five times in total.

Ten days before his accident, on April 29, 1987, I experienced a highly unusual dream, dreaming that my father was drowning in a public bathhouse. That was the first time in my life I had ever dreamed of my parents.

The second dream occurred on an autumn night. The wind was fierce, and Father was lying on the only park bench atop a low slope in an open, empty space. I felt he was cold. Later, he receded into the distance. I was studying at Syracuse University (SU) at the time, majoring in computer graphics, learning to paint via computers. This was the bench I subsequently modeled using the Alice 3D application.

The third time was on December 3, 2007. I saw my father on the second floor of a ruined building, sitting against a wall, appearing lonely. I asked if he wanted to come to my place. He asked me, "Are you doing well?" In truth, he knew I was not doing well. Then he receded. Was this a return visit out of nostalgia for the place where he once worked—the site of the State-Run 712 Factory in Lianhua County, Jiangxi Province? This is a place that haunts my dreams; my dream, his soul.

In the fourth dream, he had a home; the rooms were clean and simple, and there was a smile on his face.

The fifth dream occurred on September 29, 2011:
On the north-facing rear balcony of our home, my father was leaning down, busy with small chores. We lived on the ground floor.
Suddenly, I saw two thick, rolling columns of white cloud rushing down from the upper right of the sky. In front of them were two small black dots, each trailing a long, dense plume of cloud that looked slightly expanded, like cauliflower. Something was wrong; it looked like a spaceship accident! "Father look, look quickly! An accident!" Before my father could look up, the two small black dots swept across the sky, landing in the distance to the lower left, emitting a dull explosion.

The sky turned dim, and soon two large, dark, circular parachutes expanded rapidly from small dots, floating toward us and swiftly passing over our roof.
The third to fly over was an astronaut without a parachute, wearing an inflatable rubber cushion about three or four inches thick. With a sudden loud "bang," he crashed onto our balcony. I ran over quickly, but said to my father, "Don't touch him, don't touch him, I am going to call for emergency help." First, I feared moving him might cause or worsen bone injuries; second, I worried he might carry substances from outer space that required specialist handling.

Walking rapidly past the astronaut, I entered the house. My fifth brother was leaning on the bed reading a book. "Quick, quick, quick! Dial 911!" As I spoke, I picked up my cell phone, which resembled a leather key case, flipping open both sides, but could not find the keypad inside. The phone my fifth brother dialed went through, and I heard a recorded message inside: "Because this is a toll-free number, lines are busy, please hold..."

I hurriedly grabbed a blanket and rushed outside, intending to cover the astronaut. Arriving at the back, I saw a Western woman already lying beside him to keep him warm with her body heat. My father was also lying on the ground, on the other side of the Western woman, attempting to add another layer of body warmth. The astronaut did not appear fatally injured; I saw him raise his hand and mutter something, though I could not hear it clearly. But what I threw over him was only a bath towel, which was insufficient, so I immediately turned back inside to fetch that thick blue blanket. The Western woman grew frustrated with my slowness and shouted loudly, "Action!"

Upon waking, the time was 5:55 AM.

特別感謝 Gemini AI 提供充滿活力的翻譯和文本潤色。

Special thanks to Gemini AI for providing the spirited translation and text refinement.

第三百八十四篇

《1975·農場歲月：兩隻飛鳥與落選的青春》

我最早開始記錄夢境是在1975年前後，那時我正在農場偏遠的漁業隊工作。那一年，有三個夢在記憶裡歷歷在目、經久不散：

一、百花樓

1975年12月下旬一日夜夢，孤身一人走進了一個去處：到處秀水異石，百花吐艷，群卉爭芳。吾間於林蔭道上漫步，四周粉蝶飛舞，燕鳥歌唱，充滿著生機，興奮、歡樂與喜悅。大自然給予吾異常甜蜜的情感，使吾心曠神怡，邊走邊觀風賞景。

忽一座大氣磅礴的高樓聳立，造型簡練方正，看起來沒框沒架，卻有多層。透過晶瑩剔透的玻璃牆，隱約可見裡面的萬紫千紅。門牌上赫然寫著「百花樓」幾個大字。往裡一視，琳琅滿目，繁花似錦，真是可愛之極，但欲進而未至。真沒福氣！

時隔一年之久，復而想起，配詩一首：

《百花樓》
行過百花樓，萬紫千紅稠。
芬芳沁肺腑，進住必消愁。
—— 1977年7月14日於農場漁業隊。

二、落燕亭

1975年12月下旬一日夜夢，身去一處，花木亭台幽幽靜靜，蒼枝艷朵，爭輝奪目，異香誘人。荷花池上有一亭閣，牌曰「落燕亭」。

那落燕亭坐落在清澈的水邊，頂上柳連連。斜依清風的依依楊柳，垂到水面的柳條隨風蕩起輕波漣漪，弄皺了自身的倒影。夕陽餘暉裡，飛燕穿梁柱，低飛啼鳴之聲悅耳動聽，真可謂美哉！仍是欲進而未至。 如今配詩一首：

《落燕亭賦》

坐落荷花間，頂上柳連连。
飛燕穿梁柱，故名為「落燕」。
—— 1977年7月14日於農場漁業隊。（附有手繪插圖）

落燕亭賦1977年

1982年7月我們出差去了江心嶼，這個亭子讓我想起了夢中的落燕亭

三、1975年春。夢中看到兩隻漂亮的鳥在空中翱翔，我伸手輕輕一撩，竟一把將牠們抓到了手裡，展開手心一看，飛鳥卻變成了兩顆包裝精美的糖果。剝開糖紙把糖送進嘴裡，雙眼微閉，雙唇一抿，正想去捕捉那份期待中的甜蜜。呃～呸！呸！我馬上又吐了出來。那糖是苦澀的，還在嘴裡碎成了沙子，吐也吐不乾淨。惊醒。

那年春天，聽說有上影廠的導演來農場招演員，去了好幾個連隊踅摸人，卻唯獨沒來我們這個地處偏遠、人煙稀少的漁業隊。我心有不甘，又帶著幾分初生牛犢的自不量力，便跟著另一個女生一起去了老場部，希望能製造一場與導演擦肩而過的機會。

果然，在擁擠喧鬧的小賣部裡，遠遠地看到了演員陳述等人的身影。稍後路過場部大禮堂，裡面正準備面試考生，我們在門口張望，沒想到他們看見了，也讓我進去參加了面試。那時大概有二十來個人接受考核。我緊張忐忑地朗誦了一首當時《小說月報》上刊登的詩，開頭是：「好高的樹啊好高的稍，白羊肚手巾紅袖標。」

落選是注定的，但關鍵是我去了，便無怨無悔。後來我報名參軍，卻因為母親歷史上曾被打成反革命的政治原因，政審最終沒能通過，連體檢都沒讓我參加。命運無常，其實這場人生突圍的最終結局，早在那場「兩隻漂亮飛鳥」的苦澀夢境裡，便已精準地向我的元神揭示了謎底。

連體檢也沒上網參加。其實結果在這「兩隻漂亮的鳥夢」裡早有揭示。

**********************************

1975: The Farm Years — Two Flying Birds and a Defiant Youtho

I began recording my dreams around 1975, while working at a remote fishery team on a state farm. That year, three dreams left an indelible impression on my memory:

I. The Hundred-Flower Pavilion

In a night’s dream in late December 1975, I walked entirely alone into a certain place: everywhere lay elegant waters and exotic rocks, with a hundred flowers bursting into blossom and clusters of plants competing in splendor. I strolled along a shaded avenue; all around, pink butterflies fluttered and swallows sang, filling the air with vitality, excitement, joy, and delight. Nature granted me an exceptionally sweet emotion, leaving me thoroughly refreshed as I walked along, taking in the scenery.

Suddenly, a tall, magnificent pavilion rose before me. Its design was sleek and square, appearing to have no visible frame, yet spanning multiple tiers. Through the crystal-clear glass walls, a rich tapestry of blooming blossoms was half-revealed within. Its plaque bore the grand words "Hundred-Flower Pavilion." Glancing inside, it was a dazzling jumble, exceedingly lovely to the absolute limit; yet, though I wished to enter, I did not reach it. What poor fortune!

A full year later, the memory resurfaced, and I composed a poem to accompany it:
Passing by the Hundred-Flower Pavilion,
A thick profusion of purple and crimson grows.
The sweet fragrance permeates the lungs and breast,
To enter and dwell would surely banish all woes.
— July 14, 1977, at the Farm Fishery Team.

II. The Falling-Swallow Arbor

In a night’s dream in late December 1975, my body traveled to a place where flowers, trees, pavilions, and terraces lay in absolute quiet and tranquility. Weathered branches and vibrant blossoms competed in splendor, catching the eye with an inviting, exotic fragrance. Upon a lotus pond stood an arbor, its plaque reading "Falling-Swallow Arbor."

That arbor sat nestled tightly amidst the clear waters, with cascading willows draping in rows upon its roof. Brushing against the top of the arbor in the gentle breeze, the willow fronds sent delicate ripples across the water's surface, wrinkling their own reflections. In the lingering glow of twilight, swallows darted through the beams and pillars, their low-flying chirps thoroughly pleasing to the ear—it could truly be called magnificent! Yet, once again, I wished to enter but did not reach it. Today, I compose a poem to accompany it:
Nestled tightly amidst the lotus flowers,
Upon its roof, the willows drape in rows.
Flying swallows dart through beams and pillars,
And thus, the name of "Falling-Swallow" arose.
— July 14, 1977, at the Farm Fishery Team. (Accompanied by an original hand-drawn illustration)

III. The spring of 1975. In my dream, I witnessed two exquisite birds soaring through the sky. With a casual sweep of my hand, I reached out and scooped them right out of the air. Opening my palm, the birds had transformed into two beautifully wrapped candies. I peeled away the tinsel and popped them into my mouth, closing my eyes slightly and pursing my lips, eager to savor the anticipated sweetness. Ugh—ptui! Ptui! I instantly spat them out in disgust. The sweets were intensely bitter, crumbling into dry sand inside my mouth that could never be completely rinsed away. Awakened.

That very spring, whispers rippled through the farm that directors from the Shanghai Film Studio had arrived to scout for actors. They combed through several companies looking for talent, but bypassed our small, remote fishery outpost entirely. Refusing to succumb to resignation, and fueled by a reckless youthful audacity, I paired up with another girl and trekked to the old farm headquarters, hoping to manufacture a chance encounter with the directors.

Sure enough, inside the swarming general store, I caught a distant glimpse of the famous actor Chen Shu and his entourage. Later, as we passed the main auditorium where auditions were actively being prepared, we peered eagerly through the doorway. To our shock, they spotted us and invited me inside to audition alongside roughly twenty other candidates. Stricken with trembling nerves, I recited a contemporary poem published in the Fiction Monthly journal. It opened with the lines: "How tall the trees grow, how high their crests rise; white sheep-skin headscarves and red armbands against the skies."

Failure was an absolute mathematical certainty, yet the triumph lay in the fact that I threw myself into the arena—leaving me with zero regrets. Later on, when I attempted to enlist in the military, I failed the political background check due to my mother’s historical status as a designated counter-revolutionary; I was barred from even participating in the physical examination. The cruelty of destiny had already unreeled its blueprint; the bitter outcome of this entire youthful gamble had been laid bare to my soul long before, precisely decoded within that fleeting illusion of the two beautiful birds.

特別感謝 Gemini AI 提供充滿活力的翻譯和文本潤色。

Special thanks to Gemini AI for providing the spirited translation and text refinement.

第三百六十一篇

《困於繁花深處的青澀之蛇》

在風華正茂的年代，我的夢境經常被蛇所困。

那時，大約有半數的夢裡都爬滿了無數的蛇。有時，夢見自己走在一片美不勝收的幽林里，四下里卻到處都是盤踞游移的蛇，嚇得我渾身僵硬，怎麼也邁不開步子。更有甚者，那蛇會侵入我的居室，在牆角邊、地上、甚至在床上和蓋着的被子底下冷不防地蠕動。那是一種鋪天蓋地、令人窒息的恐怖。

後來聽聞弗洛伊德的心理學解釋，說夢中的蛇往往是男性生殖器的象徵。可諷刺的是，在那個乾涸而保守的年代，我對男性的認識幾乎是一片冰冷的空白。我估計，這無處安放的夜間恐懼，多半和小時候學校組織看過的那部科教片《蛇島的秘密》有關。那真是一部毀人一生的科教片，小孩子根本就不該被組織去觀看！當時一同觀看的還有1965年的科教片《泥石流》，同樣恐怖至極，留下了伴隨前半生的精神創傷（Traumatizing）。這層恐懼一直如影隨形。

直到1989年2月27日上午，我從香港的泰領館順利拿到過境簽證，立刻啟程前往泰國。3月1日下午，在當地的鱷魚潭動物園裡，觀賞完驚險的鬥鱷魚與耍蛇表演後，耍蛇人竟扛出一條又粗又長、淺色有花紋的大蛇，邀請觀眾上前合抱。看著十多個各國遊客踴躍排成一遛去抱，我也不知怎的抖著膽子上前去——出於好奇，更帶著幾分討好般的企盼，我伸手摸了一下那光溜的蛇身。 剎那間，那種怪怪的、麻絲絲、滑溜溜、帶有肌肉強烈扭動的未知觸感，在我的指掌間持久不散。我最怕蛇了，它們常在夢中驚嚇我；那一刻我的潛意識在暗暗祈盼：我這一摸，它們能從此在夢裡放過我。這或許真的成了一個轉折點。

後來我逐漸明白「正能壓邪」的道理，在平日子裡不斷累積浩然正氣，才真正從這層童年的陰影裡走了出來。不成想，命運好巧不巧，後來與我朝夕相伴、攜手一起過日子的這位，竟然是屬蛇的！這難道也是一場跨越時間的預知夢嗎？

**********************************

Scroll I. The Coils of Youth: Snake Dreams

During the prime years of my youth, my dreams were frequently besieged and trapped by snakes.

In those days, roughly half of my nighttime journeys were swarming with them. Sometimes, I would find myself walking through a breathtakingly beautiful forest, only to discover that the lush ground was crawling with coiling, slithering serpents, leaving me so utterly paralyzed with terror that I couldn't take a single step. Even worse, they would invade my sanctuary—lurking in corners, sliding across the floor, over my bed, and cold against my skin beneath the blankets. It was a suffocating, omnipotent horror.Later in life, I encountered Sigmund Freud’s psychoanalysis, which famously interprets snakes in dreams as phallic symbols. The cosmic irony was that in that parched, fiercely conservative era, my actual understanding of men was almost an absolute zero. In all likelihood, this unplaceable nightmare grew from a childhood seed, when our school organized a screening of the science education film The Secret of Snake Island. It was a bone-chilling, soul-crushing film that ruined a child's peace of mind; children should never have been forced to witness it! Alongside it, we were shown the 1965 documentary Mudslide, another deeply traumatizing spectacle of horror.

This shadow shadowed me for decades, until a singular convergence in reality took place. On the morning of February 27, 1989, after securing my transit visa from the Thai Consulate in Hong Kong, I immediately embarked on my journey to Thailand. On the afternoon of March 1, at the local Crocodile Farm and Zoo, I found myself watching a thrilling exhibition of crocodile wrestling and snake charming. At the climax, the charmer hauled out an immense, thick, light-colored patterned serpent, inviting the audience to step forward and hold it. Watching a dozen tourists from various nations eagerly queue up, a sudden surge of trembling courage propelled me forward. Driven by curiosity, and perhaps a desperate desire to appease my lifelong tormentor, I reached out and stroked that slick, bare serpentine skin. Instantly, a bizarre, tingling, slithering sensation of raw, rippling muscle seared into my palm, lingering stubbornly for a long time afterward. I feared snakes above all else; they had besieged my sleep for a lifetime. In that fleeting contact, my subconscious was whispering a silent plea for peace: I hoped that with this single touch, they might finally grant me sanctuary and release me from the nightmares forever. Perhaps that day truly marked the turning point.

Later in life, I finally realized that pure, upright energy eventually conquers the shadows. By consciously cultivating a resilient inner light, I gradually stepped out of that childhood darkness. Yet, by some surreal twist of cosmic irony, the life partner with whom I eventually settled down and shared my years happened to be born in the Year of the Snake! Was that entire wilderness of nightmares, after all, a vast premonition dream waiting across the river of time?

特別感謝 Gemini AI 提供充滿活力的翻譯和文本潤色。

Special thanks to Gemini AI for providing the spirited translation and text refinement.

第三百六十篇