Behind the house

Along the western slopes of the Oregon Coastal Range... come look: the hysterical crashing of tributaries as they merge into the Wakonda Auga River . . . The first little washes flashing like thick rushing <a style="color:#666666; text-decoration:none;" href="https://www.ndbeauty.com.hk/ND/NDollar/NDollarList">cosmetics
</a>　　winds through sheep sorrel and clover, ghost fern and nettle, sheering, cutting . . . forming branches.

Then, through bear-berry and salmonberry, blueberry and blackberry, the branches crashing into creeks, into streams. Finally, in the foothills, through tamarack and sugar pine, shittim bark and silver spruce—and the green and blue mosaic of Douglas fir—the actual river falls five hundred feet . . . and look: opens out upon the fields. Metallic at first, seen from the highway down through the trees, like an aluminum rainbow, like a slice of alloy moon. Closer, becoming organic, a vast smile of water with broken and rotting pilings jagged along both gums, foam clinging to the lips. Closer still, it flattens into　<a style="color:#666666; text-decoration:none;" href="http://hk.nec.com/en_HK/global/prod/express/">Express 5800 Server</a>　 a river, flat as a street, cement-gray with a texture of rain.

Flat as a rain-textured street even during flood season because of a channel so deep and a bed so smooth: no shallows to set up buckwater rapids, no rocks to rile the surface . . . nothing to indicate movement except the swirling clots of yellow foam skimming seaward with the wind, and the thrusting groves of flooded bam, bent taut and trembling by the pull of silent, dark momentum. A river smooth and seeming calm, hiding the cruel file-edge of its current beneath a smooth and calm-seeming surface. The highway follows its northern bank, the ridges follow its southern. No bridges span its first ten miles. And yet, across, on that southern shore, an ancient two-story wood-frame house rests on a structure of tangled steel, of wood and earth and sacks of sand, like a two-story bird　<a style="color:#666666; text-decoration:none;" href="https://www.cuniq.com/hk_en/data-card/europe/europe-15days-1gb.html
">uk data sim card</a>　 with split-shake feathers, sitting fierce in its tangled nest. Look . . . Rain drifts about the windows. Rain filters through a haze of yellow smoke issuing from a mossy-stoned chimney into slanting sky.

The sky runs gray, the smoke wet-yellow. Behind the house, up in the shaggy hem of mountainside, these colors mix in windy distance, making the hillside itself run a muddy green. On the naked bank between the yard and humming river’s edge, a pack of hounds pads back and forth, whimpering with cold and brute frustration, whimpering and barking at an object that dangles out of their reach, over the water, twisting and untwisting, swaying stiffly at the end of a line tied to the tip of a large fir pole...jutting out of a top-story window. Twisting and stopping and slowly untwisting in the gusting rain, eight or ten feet above the flood’s current, a human arm, tied at the wrist, ( just the arm; look) disappearing downward at the frayed shoulder where an invisible dancer performs twisting pirouettes for an enthralled audience ( just the arm, turning there, above the water) . . . for the dogs on the bank, for the blinking rain, for the smoke, the house, the trees, and the crowd calling angrily from across the river, “Stammmper! Hey, goddam you anyhow, Hank Stammmmmper!” And for anyone else who might care to look. East, back up the highway still in the mountain pass where the branches and creeks still crash and roar, the union president, Jonathan Bailey Draeger, drives from Eugene toward the coast.

He is in a strange mood—owing, largely, he knows, to a fever picked up with his touch of influenza—and feels at once oddly deranged and still quite clear-headed. Also, he looks forward to the day both with pleasure and dismay—pleasure because he will soon be leaving this waterlogged mud wallow, dismay because he has promised to have Thanksgiving dinner in Wakonda with the local representative, Floyd Evenwrite.

壹首經典的老歌

素裏滋生的美，透著自然的本真，落於指尖，開至純澈，生於心上，是壹剪關不住的春色。如植物壹樣的女子，染著花木的香息，即使素衣簡面，依然可以在眸裏綻放如蓮。如山水滋養的心境，任外界浮世喧塵，依然能在靜水流深裏安於初心。

安妮寶貝說，大自然的美，從來都是豐盛端莊的，鄭重自持，如同壹種秩序，壹種道理。

壹季梔子花開，潔白了意念，素染了時光，心，亦沈澱出壹份安靜的情愫。壹度執著的純澈，在這壹刻盛放，如初的堅韌，固守著素心。當時光，漸漸慢了下來，妳等來的，定是壹場無言的驚喜，熟稔於心的氣息，帶著溫存的暖意，不事修飾，在指尖舞動成聖潔的秘密，每壹瓣馨香裏，都流淌著老故事裏的青春，生動，歡喜。

素色光陰，心隨舞動，眸底的純，在溫情六月裏，釋放為壹份不加掩飾的真！

戀著舊的事物，壹首經典的老歌，壹本典藏許久的書，壹盞經年相守的茶緣.....其實，是回味著舊時光裏銘記於心的記憶，不去做深深淺淺的交集，只是想，時光可以在心上走的穩壹些，再穩壹些，如此，那些流年裏相生的小歡喜，都可以與慢時光相依而居。

素衣，不俗，棉質的裙袂，貼膚的質感，帶著幾分懷古的喜氣，無論是哪種色調，都可以觸摸到素衣女子，在盛夏裏綻放的壹絲隱媚的妖嬈，不驚於人，卻是無法抵禦的純，在眸裏相生的入骨的韻致。

素衣女子，在文字裏寫意豐富的單純，於音樂裏追憶平淡的回味 ，茶是知己，書為伴侶，六月的清荷，滋養著內心高不可攀的寂寞。崇尚自由，隨性，且執著於初衷，才可以在心上走出屬於自己的獨特風景。

林清玄說，總有無價的東西，在我們沒有到過、永遠不會去、不會遇到的人那裏，這是創作者不斷探索、不斷寫作的理由。 故而深信，心中有山水，便會擁有智慧的源泉，獨居芳華，亦能在靜默如詩裏綻放生動的優雅！

我的尋常香

舊時王謝堂前燕，飛入尋常百姓家。”第壹次頗為正式接觸“尋常”二字，便是在唐代詩人劉禹錫的這首《烏衣巷》裏。那時候不懂詩中蘊含的曲曲折折，單單看中“尋常”二字。以為尋常最為妥帖，沾滿了濃濃的煙火味，以至於能夠棲息回歸的燕子。 尋常，簡單而通透。沒有多少遮掩便可以看到底部，讓人心裏明澈。尋常，似乎是臉部下垂壹件貼身的純棉衣物，不搶眼，卻穩妥舒適；它不像絲綢，是高貴而冰涼的，只能遠觀；也不像其他纖維那些粗糙又結實，登不得大雅之堂。所以，我喜歡這貼心的感覺，恰如尋常。

飛入尋常百姓家”，尋常的家，壹定是院墻不夠高深，草木不夠蔥蘢，紅木格子窗戶，墻壁下漫出來壹些春草，燕子在屋檐下唧唧喳喳壘著窩，壹會兒銜來壹絲幹草，壹會兒叼來壹些濕泥，這樣悠哉悠哉半晌。想那尋常的木格子窗下，也會坐著壹位小家碧玉似的人物，壹塊錦帕，幾根絲線，針針迂回，繡幾朵桃花開，當真尋常極了！ 尋常真美！渴望有壹處尋常的屋檐，渡我如絲如花的心，定然會是嫣然如三月的桃花風吹過的腮邊，不似嬌羞勝似嬌羞。 晨起讀到雪小禪的句子：“穿行於那些老胡同，我常常被壹些煙火氣打動得體無完膚——那麽美的老槐樹，四合院裏紛蕪雜亂，仿佛光陰在那些破舊的四合院裏穿行，都斑駁了，老樹上搭了鳥籠，鐵絲上晾的衣服——女人的內衣、孩子的尿布、花棉單……”多麽尋常的風景，恍若就在昨天的記憶裏，壹眨西安旅遊眼又不見了。這尋常何嘗不是我們舊時光裏的所見？它同家裏扔掉的那些舊家具壹樣，老得少色卻總令人懷念。 尋常的胡同，去了主人，斑駁了時光。那些殘留的味道似乎還散發著舊香，摸壹摸，溫暖如初。尋常啊？讓人想得太多太久…… 相比鱗次櫛比的現代建築，我更願意停留在小門小院內。

壹家又壹家的並不整齊的屋舍，各自悠閑著，隨意栽種的向日葵或者水仙花甚至爬山虎不需修剪，長成自己喜歡的模樣。院內，木制家具，桌凳擺放井然，主人家穿著樸素的衣裳，可以編竹筐也可以擇青菜，該是多麽愜意？偶爾有人串門，嘻嘻哈哈壹陣子，走了給妳帶上壹撮她家剛剛從地裏割下的韭菜，鮮著呢！ 尋常百姓家大抵都如此，不扭捏，不生動，卻能領妳走入骨子裏。燕子來了，小草發芽了，桃花開了，親人回來了，任它時光再個性，都脫離不了煙火味。倘若去掉尋常，覓得高樓大廈，鬧市繁華，慢慢的燕子飛了，桃花謝了，親人很少來往了，孤獨越來越濃郁了。誰不尋常？我亦尋常，妳呢？ 尋常散發著清香，就在妳的衣服領子上，在妳的床單邊，在妳的廚房裏，在妳熟睡的臉頰。是洗衣粉的清香，是棉花的柔軟，是愛人親手做的紅燒排骨味，是媽媽在妳臉頰親吻的癢癢感……太多的尋常，不需要銘刻，壹招壹式，腳踏實地，和歲月攜手前行。

尋常的東西，必然是民間的，不珍奇，就如鄰居阿姨向媽媽借壹打淚溝 枚頂針，借了就借了，沒打算讓她還，因為家裏多著呢。怕是阿姨家裏也很多，只暫時沒找到而已。 鍋臺上，有媽媽烙餅的香味；院子裏，有誰家晾曬的孩子尿布；老街上，有糖葫蘆的叫賣聲；桌上的書堆裏，藏著兒時的連環畫；妳的故事裏，還能看到我們紅著臉的樣子嗎？——只道尋常香！在這樣壹個午間，大家都忙著小年的采購，我卻尋思起久違的樸素香。 五月份，喜歡到山野去采摘槐花，回來做菜疙瘩，隨便妳采摘，這尋常的東西在農村是隨處可見，不需要花錢購買。然而，到了大城市因為稀有，反而有了價格，尋常也不見了。尋常，樸素中有質感，透著篤定的生活氣息。 最尋常不過舊歷年。妳看，遠在外的遊子回家心切，在家的老人翹首盼望，老老少少在壹起吃吃飯，最尋常不過。而今，對於壹些人卻成了奢望。我們總把自己安排在路上，以為這樣的拼搏就是對生活的熱愛，對家人的摯愛，恰恰忘記了家是壹個尋常的地方，不需要太多轟轟烈烈，平淡穩妥才是根本。