《一件很小，很美的事》

既視感

法國生理學家艾米利．波拉克(Emile Bolirac)在1867年的著作《精神科學的未來》(The Future of Psychic Sciences)第一次定義了這種現象，並將其命名為「既視感」（déjà vu）。意旨對於未曾經歷過的事情或場景，彷彿在某時某地經歷過的似曾相識之感。

若將人的生命時間全景展開，所呈現的記憶圖像投影，究竟是環形的迴旋，還是線性的延伸？而我們對時間之於生活的樣貌，並不如同線性的軸線，往往是片段而破碎。這些有如時空隧道的碰撞或對夢的記憶招喚，彷彿平行世界在某一個吉光片羽中交錯了，被看見了，在夢中目睹場景的置換，而在現實的觀看中，究竟是我的一個夢，還是一個既視感般的意識?

紅牆

我想要分享一個謎。

這段大約在四十多年前的情景，當時的我約略4、5歲，是一個體弱又靜謐的孩子，也因為身體過於弱質，所以，母親總讓我一個人在家待著。

當時住在板橋林家花園附近一個叫「自強新村」的聚落公寓一樓，公寓前有一路巷，對面隔立了一排紅磚牆，牆後則是一大片氤氳的雜林荒地，林間還有幾幢已然頹敗的舊屋，更增添了一些不可言喻的幽密。

彼時住在二樓的雷驤老師一家，雷老師有兩個女兒，雷光夏與光涵，也是我幼時的玩伴。每天早上，我總是聽著樓上傳來光夏的重複而間斷的鋼琴音符；或是光涵溜著滑輪的滾輪在我家天花板來回滾動聲。她們都去上學後，整個下午天花板就不再有聲響了。

安安靜靜的下午。

在這些等待她們下課放學回家後才能一起玩的下午時光，我總是一個人在家，我已不記得我待在那漫漫無聲的客廳裡究竟都在做些什麼，但我到現在都很清晰地記得，我常常站在我家院子落地窗前，跟我家的那隻小黃狗，楞楞望著對面的那紅牆內的林子出神。我到現在都還記得，那逆著光的幾棵牆後的不知名的樹，變成灰撲撲的藍綠色，樹梢的葉片，隨著風輕輕搖晃的樣子。我到現在也還記得，那間破房子旁邊已經歪斜的電線桿，我總是不厭其煩地在細數著那垂彎的電線上停了幾隻麻雀。還有我也記得，紅牆側邊有只路燈，到了傍晚的狼狗時光，路燈一亮，就會聚集了密密麻麻的蛾蚊在燈泡下閃閃幢幢，我小時候很害怕那景象，總覺得它們正在吞噬著甚麼似的。

我總是百般聊賴，卻又津津有味地望著家對面這個空景，度過許多無聲的時光。

在那之後，我們都各自搬家了，分處在台北不同的居所生活，幾乎不再回到故居附近。後來幾年前我去林家花園探遊，那片荒林早已蓋成一整片的公寓，且公寓外觀皆已陳舊了。

有一回去拜訪雷老師，閒談間我不知為何提及在幼時的這段回憶景象，我描述那舊居公寓對面的那堵紅磚牆，那些林木荒地，那些廢墟破屋，那些輕輕搖晃的樹梢，如何在我幼時的記憶景觀裡，似乎象徵了某種自身在性格上的原型意涵，也說不定。

而雷驤老師聽完我的描述，定定地看著我，突然起身到書房櫃子裡不知翻找著甚麼，他從書房拿了一本相簿，翻開相本，裡面都是黑白照片。他取出其中一張相片，不可思議地跟我說：「這是我拍的照片，就是從以前那幢公寓二樓拍出去的景象，和你所描述的，是完全不一樣的啊……」

一件很小，很美的事

電影《羅馬》(Roma)的導演艾方索．柯朗(Alfonso Cuarón)：「我要說的不是事件的真實經過，而是我記得的模樣」。(「I'm not going to tell the story the way it happened. I'm going to tell it the way I remember it.」)

幼時這個我所凝視窗外景色的既視，是歷歷在目的記憶，還是夢中一再靜靜滑動的場景?

導演艾方索．柯朗自己形容，《羅馬》這部片的目光是現在的他回到過去，去觀看自己的童年。因此在「旁觀」的鏡頭之下，成就了某種故事的抽離，而「我們」看著場景內的人際情節，去意識到自己是毫無聲息的闖入者。

而正是這股目光，緩緩陳述了「這是我記得的故事」的距離感。

回到我自己。

我像一個失語的說書人，我無法再編織故事，只能在日常的流水帳中尋覓那微光。

我們這個世代是經驗匱乏的一代，(作家駱以軍形容)是懸空走棋盤而無倒影之人。藝術家同樣撿拾與汲取生命的種種樣貌轉化為感知圖像，也透過鏡像的反影，拼貼時光的無聲敘事。但這也意味著，整個經驗匱乏世代所投影出來的景觀，很可能呈現出一種集體的既視感，一個似曾相識的夢境。

美國作家瑞蒙．卡佛(Raymond Carver)的一篇作品《一件很小，很美的事》（A Small, Good Thing），在故事的結尾中，有一段非常動人的描繪，那就像鉛筆速寫般淡淡的筆觸，卻能將人溫柔地托起，並輕輕地撫平心中的皺褶。

而我在幼時所「記憶」中的那些樹影婆娑，那些被布簾所遮蔽的時間，那些陌路迷芳的蝶影，那些封存的標本壓花般的片段，那些現實與虛構的霧中風景，那些破碎迷離的傷害，均是如實存在的生命樣態。

我想要透過這些很小，很美的風景和事物，給我的孩子，也是給自己的一個備忘錄。

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A Small, Beautiful Thing

Déjà Vu

Déjà vu was first used by a French philosopher Émile Boirac, in a l876 letter to the editor of Revue Philosophique, when he described his experience as "the sensation of déjà vu”: literally “already seen”. In this meaning, it shows the impression of familiarity with somewhere and sometime when encountering what one believes is actually a new experience or scene.

As if the vast panorama of human lifetime was unfolded, to reflect the images of our memories, would it be like a circular ring, or a linear extension? Yet the manifestation of time in our life is simply not like a linear axis, which is often fragmented and broken. All of these interpretations above are like the collision taking place in a time tunnel, or calling on memories of dreams. Also, the parallel universes interlaced in between the fragments of some rare and precious piece, being seen, and being gazed at, in the change of the scene in the dream. Nevertheless, to observe them in reality, one asks was it a dream of mine, or a consciousness feeling of déjà vu?

The Red Wall

I’d like to share a mystery.

There was a scene in my memory, more than 40 years ago, when I was about 4 or 5 years old: then, a frail and quiet child. Having been in fragile health, unfortunately, my mother usually left me all alone at home. At that time, we lived on the first floor of a settlement apartment complex called Zi-qiang New Village, which was near The Lin Family Mansion and Garden in Banqiao. There was a sole lane in front of the building, with a row of red-bricked walls standing on the opposite side, with a large area of densely-overgrown wood wasteland behind the wall. Back behind those woods were also a few old shabby houses, that had made this recalled landscape more inexpressibly secluded.

At the time, second floor was inhabited by my art teacher, Mr. Lei Xiang and family. Mr. Lei has two daughters, Summer Lei and Kwang-han, who were my childhood friends. Every morning there were special sounds coming from up above that I had always listened to: the repeating and intermittent notes from Summer’s piano practice, and Kwang-han’s roller-skating back and forth, penetrating my ceiling. After they went to school, no more commotion from the ceiling was to be spoken, for the entire afternoon.

A tranquil afternoon.

During those afternoon moments of waiting for them to return and hang out together, only when they got home from school, I was always home, by myself. I don’t remember what I was doing in the silent living room through the endless afternoons, but now I do recall how I often stood in front of the French window facing my yard, with my golden puppy dog, staring at the woods beyond the red wall. Zoning out. Even to this day, I still can envision those mysterious trees against the sunlight, turned to colors of teal and dust grey, and the leaves of the treetops swaying gently with the wind. I also remember that, just next to that dilapidated house was a crooked utility pole. I was always patiently numbering the sparrows standing on it, recounting the tally over and over again. Similarly, I also remember there was this one street light by the red wall: when the twilight hours arrived, as soon as the street lights signed on, there were moths fluttering under the light bulbs, all so densely packed together, flickering it all. I was so scared of this image when I was little, like they were simply out devouring something.

Always countering sheer boredom with imagination, I kept staring, but again and again relishing a gaze at this emptiness letting so much silent time pass by.

Later in life, both our families moved away, separately, having been living in different places around Taipei, and rarely ending up back in the neighborhood of older residences. A few years ago, I went to explore The Lin Family Mansion and Garden, and found that the wasteland had already been replaced with a whole set of apartment buildings, long standing, and the exterior appearance of these apartments reflected an old tone too.

There was this one particular occasion I paid a visit to Mr. Lei, and I had no clue why I had brought up such the following thing in casual conversation. I described my memory in vivid detail of the red brick wall, opposite the old apartment, the woods wasteland, those dilapidated old houses, and the gently swaying treetops: how they all were in the landscape of my childhood memory. You never know, but it seems to symbolize some certain tinkering type of my personality.

After listening to my description, Mr. Lei looked at me steadily and intently, then suddenly stood up to go fetch something in his cabinet of study. Holding a photograph album he retrieved, he flipped through the album pages, full of aging black and white photos. “This is the photo I took,” he said, as he took out one photo from the album, and continued with a look of disbelief, “It was taken from the second floor of the apartment. A completely different rendition from what you just described…”

A Small, Beautiful Thing

“I'm not going to tell the story the way it happened. I'm going to tell it the way I remember it.” Alfonso Cuarón, the director of the film “Roma”, said. This makes me ponder if my deja vu scene outside of the window, as I gazed from childhood, was memories still wondering in my mind, or the scenes sliding quietly, repeating over and over again?

The director Alfonso Cuarón depicted his vision of “Roma”, so that it reflected on his own childhood through his present self, returning to the past. Consequently, in wide shots (as seen through the eyes of an observer), a certain story has been drawn away, while it is “we” are watching the scenario of an interpersonal feature. We realize we ourselves are a fully silent intruder. Thus, it is the gaze that tells the sense of distance, of “this is the story I remember”.

Let’s get to the point, I say.

I’m a storyteller with aphasia: I am simply enjoying telling no crafted story, but looking for the glimmer in my daily journal of life.

Our generation is one being in search of lost time, as described by the author Luo Yijun, “One moving on the chessboard by floating in the air, with no reflection [or shadow].” Similarly, the artist picks and absorbs the various features of life and attributes them to perceived images, to the collage of a silent narrative of time. Nevertheless, it is to imply that the projected view by the whole ‘in-search-of-lost-time’ generation is likely to be a performing of a mutual sense of déjà vu - a dream with the impression of familiarity.

In American writer Raymond Carver’s short story “A Small, Good Thing,” there was an exceedingly-touching description at the end of the story. It was simply like giving off a light shading from a pencil sketch, but gently lifting people up, and smoothing the wrinkles in one’s heart.

In summary, the “recollections” from my childhood included those shady groves of trees, the time covered by the curtains, inadvertently met with a swarm of butterflies, in the journey of the unknown path, those flattened scraps of memories seem trapped in art like flowers pressed in a frame, the real and fictional foggy landscapes, and those broken blur of wounds, are all accurately existing life patterns.

I offer this personal reflection, through these small, beautiful sceneries and memories, not only for my children, but also for myself.

Hsu Pei-Chung