宠辱不惊,笑看庭前花开花落;去留无意,漫随天外云卷云舒

去广州参加广交会,结束后就顺便去了趟深圳,见了小白猪，小白猪的BF小喜，叶颖，黄频和她的新生BB。
小白猪:真名熊玲林,因为皮肤白得银灿灿的,又可爱得像头小猪，故得名小白猪.性格热情得像九月里的阳光,没心没肺，人见人爱。喜欢打抱不平，对所有的事情都充满了好奇。生活快乐，丰富，却简单。对未来没有任何计划和打算。
小喜：油腔滑调的小滑头。呵呵。其实对于他不是很了解，只要他对小白好，就足够了。
叶颖：未来的大律师。聪明，活泼，善辩，逻辑思维巨强，最大的特征是充满自信，好强。不请她做律师肯定
是损失，但是娶来做老婆可能会有点怕怕。
黄频：宽容，知足。家有恶婆婆，却为爱为家庭默默忍受，付出。善于理财。
黄频的新生BB：是女儿，三个月。单眼皮，不像爸爸也不像妈妈。很COOL，很少哭，很少有表情。叫刘
韵熙。韵字是小白猪取的。
小白变化很大。本来就料到她会变漂亮，却没有想到会漂亮这么多。变化大得让我吓一大跳。所谓女大
十八变，大概就是这个意思。
叶颖老样子。还是充满了活力和自信。
大家性格都没有变，只是都各自有了另外一半而已。

医生给我开了些药,说是抗焦虑的.

 1.It's awefully east to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night it's another thing.--someone said. But, if I'm melting in the day, could you find out an explanation?
2.Belly ached once and again, heart ached once and again. called you once in a way.
3.hurt hm incautiously. sorry,in heart of hearts...not meant to do so.
4.blue sky, white wind, fresh air, leaves falls by ones and twos...no smog no fog after the downfall.Take some photos in your mind's eye.
5.tearing dish.

6.time for come around. Daisy in the sun.

林语堂说，老旧的，圆熟的东西都是美的。我说，老旧的，千疮百孔的东西也是美的。 
时光能把一切东西浸润得温润美丽。哪怕那东西已经破碎不堪。 
我是一个无可救药的怀旧狂热分子。连我喜欢的声音也是如此。 
有些声音，过耳不忘。一旦响起，艳惊四座。 
我非常喜欢louis armtrong的歌声。故事都在声音里。假若有人历经沧桑，他的声音必定有如张爱玲笔下那把破胡琴，滋滋哑哑，道不完的人间悲喜。louis的歌声是一把有故事的声音。历史给他的歌声以厚重的质感。但让我钦佩的是，他竟用这样一把歌声唱欢乐。 
因为沉重的生活，Louis的嗓子在老年时完全坏掉了。虽然如此，但老年的他依旧满心欢喜地歌颂世界,高呼what a wonderful world。歌声响起，西方的圣洁莲花，缓缓绽放。莲花从这老人金子样的心升起。 
与他同时代的，同样有一把破碎声音的是比里.菏里黛。任何喜欢爵士乐的人都不会不知道她。年轻时的她美貌如花，多少男人拜倒在她的石榴裙下。她年轻时的歌声妩媚而有情致,但是年老时的歌声，让听者无不寒心。那是一把浸淫了酒精与毒品的声音，那是一把饱受折磨的枯朽的声音.无需技巧，她就已发出断肠之音。歌曲里,我们听到,一个受尽人间苦难的灵魂在声嘶力竭拼尽最后一丝力量在呐喊。这样一把声音就是一出悲剧。 
无须解读，有些事物自身就揭示了本质。我欣赏louis的歌声，也欣赏billie的歌声.不管那歌声是欢乐的还是哀愁的，那都是发自灵魂的声音。 
只是，我更希望，世上会有更多人历经沧桑后，依然高唱wonderful world。无常的命运也不能点燃你的仇恨时，你已身处天堂

Can you still find this day, my dear, among your possessions?

Among the souvenirs of your trips to faraway lands, the textbooks from those halcyon days when you walked the hallowed portals of that engineering college, the cassettes whose covers were left behind after one of those bacchanalian sessions in the hostel, the photographs of those classmates whose names you can't remember? Or is it hidden in the darkness, put out of sight along with the book you bought but never read, the gift you never quite found a use for and the letters you never finished or sent.

I can still find it here, in the city, in the house which you have never visited, in the kitchen where I have imaginary conversations with you. It is here even when I am not, for I go out now, leaving the light on and the music playing, so I can return home to the illusion of company.

I am probably better off now. Without secrets to keep from my parents. Without someone to come between me and my friends, me and my pastimes, me and my work, me and my sensible, understandable, utilitarian life. The life that I keep trying, keep failing to bring in line with the expectations that I keep trying, keep failing to make my own.

It is not that I always feel like this, sometimes I yearn for those days when tears and laughter both came easy. Those easy and quick transitions from ecstasy to despair. When a compliment could keep my mind occupied for hours on end and a harsh word could prick like a pin the same skin which now seems dry and insensitive. Like probably millions around the world, I look outside the window of a crowded bus, lost in my own thoughts and wonder how it could happen to me.

Was I not supposed to be different from the rest? Not for the silly schoolgirl infatuation with the football team captain or the fascination with the good for nothing, pot-smoking aspiring poet. Ours was a mature friendship that had blossomed into more. How could I feel a pang of envy then, when you lent a helping hand to another girl, when you spoke about someone who's far away and about to be married, when you were so involved in the book you were reading that you did not notice that we never met all day?

When we decided that it had been too long and that we should meet, I carefully started preparing a package for you. A small poem, that book you always wanted but never found, an old photograph and a bar of chocolate for us to share. What would I wear and what would we talk about? The package still remains in my drawer waiting for the phone to ring again.

It was a rainy Sunday afternoon when we sat in my tiny hostel room, discussing capitalism and campus gossip with equal fervor. When it seemed as if those conversations could last forever and we would never tire of them. When Joni Mitchell sang "California" seven times on continuous play before we thought of getting out.Then one day suddenly we were looking for each other. You were always somewhere else, doing something else and strangely enough so was I. Those new people I met on that trip and that junior guy who loved the same movies I do. That girl next door who took math lessons from you. My room was almost always locked and yours was no different. We seemed to have discovered a whole world outside of ourselves all of a sudden. The tragedy was we had also lost the world we had before.

Then came the rescue mission. The loud fights in the hostel wing, the long silences and the desperate angry notes. Frustration, anxiety and even love revealing itself in the ugliest possible ways. Then indifference, complacency and resignation. Calm, dispassionate discussions on how we could stay friends. The decision that we should always let the other know when we would be around. That's when I started leaving those yellow post-its on the door. Those yellow post-its which by the time I came back would have your coordinates that I never used. If we had all of them now, they would be telling this tale a lot better than I am now.

Back home, I still continue leaving those post-its to this day, hoping that someone will write their whereabouts on them as well.

It is my birthday

Two weeks ago was my 45th birthday, but I wasn’t feeling too hot that morning anyway. I went to breakfast knowing my wife would be pleasant and say "Happy Birthday" and probably have a present for me. But, she didn’t even say "Good Morning," let alone any "Happy Birthday." I thought, well...that’s a wife for you. I guess, the children will remember. Then, the children came into breakfast, but, they didn’t say a word. When I started to the office, I was feeling pretty low and despondent. As I walked into my office, my secretary Janet said, "Good morning, Boss, happy birthday." And I felt a little better, someone had remembered. I worked until noon. Then, Janet knocked on my door and said, "You know, it’s such a beautiful day outside, and it’s your birthday, let’s go to lunch, just you and me." I said, "That’s the greatest thing I’ve heard all day. Let’s go." So, we went to lunch. We didn’t go where we normally go. We went out into the country to a little private place. We had two martinis and enjoyed lunch tremendously. On the way back to the office, Janet said,” You know, it’s such a beautiful day. We don’t need to go back to the office, do we?" I said, "No, I guess not." She said, "Let’s go to my apartment." After arriving at her apartment, she said,” Boss, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll go in to the bedroom, and slip into something more comfortable." "Sure," I excitedly replied. Janet went into the bedroom and, in about six minutes, she came out carrying a big birthday cake, followed by my wife, children and dozens of my friends. All were singing "Happy Birthday".. and there I sat on the couch ... naked.

MSN成了现在这个样子，就算本来想上来一吐为快，也会嘎然而止。杂草丛生，惨不忍睹。

失眠了。

不知道是因为中午那罐咖啡，还是因为你。

好像还可以找出其它的理由。比如，想家了。

再比如，练琴的事。再再比如，仲夏夜之梦。

莎士比亚的个别戏，人物真多，名字好难记，比如仲夏夜之梦；我以后的BB，应该取个什么好听又好记的名字？小卉说她准备明年怀BB，不知道她会生个小男孩还是小女孩？ineffable，哇，有一个BB的感觉真的是ineffable的喜悦吧？单词，对了，哎，今天信手翻了翻原来学的英美文学，怎么第一页就看见无数不认识的单词？爸爸说让回家教书，英语专业，要教也就是教英语了，英语这个样子，要教的话真是怕要误人子弟；嗯，教英语，想起那部影片，叫什么名字来着，忘了，就是那个唱“do, a deer a female deer, ray, a drop of golden sun"的那部什么“do-re-mi"的影片，呵呵，那个老师真可爱，那部影片真有意思，哈哈，想起来了，叫“音乐之声”；电影？哎，最近的电影越拍越没意思；对了，那天看加勒比海盗，枪版碟，枪的真差劲，里面的翻译也是一踏糊涂，以后再也不买枪版碟了，还不如BT下载呢；BT，对了，迅雷也可以，迅雷有时候比BT还快呢；嗯，想起那天ALEX觉得我们国内女生居然会用BT而奇怪的口气，哼哼，太小看国内的人了吧？``````

大一的时候，小白问我，你有没有失眠？

我摇了摇头。基本上不大懂什么叫失眠。虽然也曾经眼睁睁瞪大眼睛等天亮，但是睁着眼睛的原因仅仅是因为好奇的想要知道人晚上是如何睡着的。不是失眠，是为了研究。

小白说，我经常会因为一件很小的事，然后不断的跳到与这件事相关的事，然后不断的跳跳跳，后来就跳失眠了。

我还是不明白。

不过，今天总算发明了一个专用名词，叫联想失眠法。和小白的跳跳失眠如出一辙。

没有尝试过失眠的人，不妨尝试一下，将会得到意外的惊喜。

不知道联想集团看到我的联想失眠，能不能得出一点什么启示或灵感，又或者他们会不会告我侵权``````

``````辗转反侧，依旧夜不能寐。

数到第367只羊的时候，终于恍然大悟，找出了失眠的理由。

原来其实仅仅是因为那罐咖啡。

明天会怎么样？

黑眼圈，大眼袋，痘痘，粗粗的毛孔，黄黄的脸色```

似乎这些症状都应该归罪于这一罐小小的咖啡```

然而，咖啡本是无情物，只是为加班人振作精神，或者为满足人口感而用。又怎么能因此而加罪于咖啡？

可怜的咖啡。

欲加之罪，何患无辞？

不管怎样，能找出失眠的理由，还是让人兴奋的。

可不？有什么事情是比花了一整个晚上，最终终于修成正果更让人CHEER UP的呢？

最好，花五分钟的时间，仔细回忆一个美国朋友告诉我的摇篮诗：

good night

sleep tight

wake up bright in the morning light

to do what's right

with all your might

嗯，好像就是这样的了。

晚安，DAISY````SLEEP TIGHT！

 

 

 

小白说，她要Be smart, sensible and smiling.... 

愚人节过后，突然就被朋友问，愚人节有没有被人愚。
每年的愚人节，我都喜欢玩上点小花样，骗骗人，以图一乐。
今年的愚人节，我在乌镇。
是中午临时才决定要去的。上班时，随口问同事附近哪里有比较近的田园风光，他推荐了乌镇，于是，便立马决定坐当晚的火车赶往乌镇。
听他说，乌镇是个古色古香的古镇，是水乡。
一直很固执的以为，凡是沾上“田园”一字的，必定是风光迤逦，草香沁人，而凡是沾上一个”古“字的，必然表情凝重，意义深远，引人遐思。宝玉说，女儿都是水做的。身为女儿的我，当然对水乡更有别样的偏爱，尤其是传说“古”色“古”香的水乡。
到达乌镇时，已经是凌晨一点左右了。我站在牌楼下等待乌镇的主人来迎接我。那是一个年过半百的奶奶，本应该在九点左右就伴随虫鸣草动卧席而睡，却因了我的迟到而在静夜的灯光下一直守候，等待着我这个素未谋面的陌生女子。
奶奶一步步蹒跚而来，把我带进乌镇。
因为是在夜里，我看不清楚乌镇的脸。只感到微风拂面而过，吹在脸上，清凉清凉的。刚下过一场大雨，微风中透出一点青草的芳香和湿润的水气，把平时由于长期对着电脑而变得干涩的眼睛清润了起来，顿时晶亮晶亮。我轻轻的闭上眼，抚摩着巷子的墙壁，一路走过。
乌镇真的老了。
那些被我触摸到的石砖，已经凸凹不平、坑坑洼洼，像是百年老者额头上的深纹，沟沟都刻出岁月的痕迹，一圈一圈的年轮。我的手指轻轻的在上面划过。心疼不已。
乌镇，这个古朴恬静，而海纳百川的女子。我的爱人。我应该把眼睛和耳朵都闭上，用心来聆听她，懂她。这个站在我面前犹抱琵琶半遮脸，正含羞而立的爱人。
当手指再次从吱呀作响的木门上划过，我听见心里颤抖的声音。
到了栖身的屋子，推开暗红色的木窗，看见被云层挡住的弯月，从云层里透出微微的光亮。月光柔柔的，洒在青黛色的山上。青黛色的山和微微光亮的夜空，柔和的接连着，向远方无限延伸。房屋是建在水上的，倚着窗往下望去，楼下便能看到静静流淌着的河水。而几座小桥，正不动声色的横倚在河流上。
过了一会儿，天空开始淅淅沥沥的下起小雨来。我听见水滴打落在窗台上滴哒滴哒的声音，想冲出门外，凭栏而立，看水珠落在河水上荡起的涟漪。可惜，这是在夜里，不是白天。
我想像着在白天，一个穿着白衣素裙的长发女子站在小桥边，细密的雨帘星星洒洒的落在她的睫毛上，发丝上。她仰着头，雨水顺着她的脸颊流下。小桥旁的流水里，正荡起圈圈涟漪。而乌镇，正微笑着，看着这个女子。
可惜，这只是想像。这是夜里，不是白天。而我，也不是白衣素裙的女子。
屋外的小雨依然在滴落着。很轻很轻的掉下，像是怕打扰了这个静夜，惊醒了正沉睡中的乌镇。
李义府在他的一首诗中说”留得残荷听雨声“，在百叶凋零的时候，他搬走所有的残花败柳，却唯独不肯移去池塘里的残荷，大概就是为着这样的意境吧。
“春慵恰似春塘水，一片縠纹愁。溶溶曳曳，东风无力。欲避还休。”我轻轻的合上眼，微笑着，听着这个女子絮絮的诉说着几百年来的故事。
“安睡吧！”乌镇对我说。
在她和雨滴合奏的摇篮曲下，我安然入梦。

白天的乌镇，因为有了晚上雨水的沐浴，神清气爽，落落大方的脱落出来。我终于得以清清楚楚的看见她的脸。

夜里走过的，青石板交叠而成的小路，正弯弯曲曲的向前延绵着；抚摸过的那片墙壁，斑驳陆离，正坦露着她历经沧桑的身体；小河边的石阶，正长着滑滑的绿色的青苔。因为是白天，人开始多起了。满镇走着的，都是游客。

一如我，匆匆而来，匆匆而去，不做多刻停留。

我踩在青石板上，想起三毛的“母亲踩着的青石板，是一颗破碎又破碎的心”，凝视着我足下的青石板。每一片青石板，都刻着不同的印迹。我们不经意的走过，而乌镇，默默的为我们记录着。

我走着，听到细细的高跟鞋踩在石板上发出的“砰砰”的响声。开始后悔不应该穿了高跟鞋去。那饱经磨难的青石板，竟然还要承受我这细细的高跟？这石板上的断痕，也因了我们一步步的步伐罢。我们无视她无声的呻吟，只是一昧践踏，蹂躏着她芳如兰蕙的身体。而她，经历百年后，终于从默默的坚忍，到只是凝眸、用她恬静的表情深邃的眸子，静如处子般注视着我们。她知道，即使她的身体已经被践踏，她依然留有一颗高贵纯洁的心灵。而那斑驳的小巷石砖和残缺破损却矗立的墙壁，无一不展示着她的坚强。

她因为岁月，而变得恬淡从容。

出太阳了，阳光把影子斜斜的投射下来，印在青石板上。我低头轻轻的浅笑。

坐在河边的青石砖上，面对河水，用手轻抚着旁边长满的青苔，看见河面上不断有人摇橹而过。小船里坐着或笑或闹或摆着各种姿态让人拍照的人们。而船头的摇橹的船夫，只是专注的摇着她手上的橹。背后，一批一批人走过，行色匆匆，或打量或评论着乌镇。而乌镇，只是安静的微笑着，看着这人来人往。

我浅浅的笑着，和乌镇对视着。我不知道我是不是已经懂了她，但是我知道，她是懂我的。

起身离开时，我看见河对面的房屋，和打开的窗户。窗边的吊兰正郁郁葱葱的生长着，而窗里的奶奶正慢悠悠，气定神闲的搓着麻将。看云外山河，还老尽、桂花影。

外面的喧嚣，与她们丝毫无关。