There was a Child went Forth

(From Leaves of Grass, Walt Whitman )

There was a child went forth every day;
And the first object he look’d upon, that object he became;
And that object became part of him for the day, or a certain part of the day,
or for many years, or stretching cycles of years.

The early lilacs became part of this child,
And grass, and white and red morning-glories, and white and red clover,
and the song of the phoebe-bird,
And the Third-month lambs, and the sow’s pink-faint litter, and the mare’s foal,and the cow’s calf,
And the noisy brood of the barn-yard, or by the mire of the pond-side,
And the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there—and the beautiful curious liquid,
And the water-plants with their graceful flat heads—all became part of him.

The field-sprouts of Fourth-month and Fifth-month became part of him;
Winter-grain sprouts, and those of the light-yellow corn, and the esculent roots of the garden,
And the apple-trees cover’d with blossoms, and the fruit afterward,
and wood-berries, and the commonest weeds by the road;
And the old drunkard staggering home from the out-house of the tavern, whence he had lately risen,
And the school-mistress that pass’d on her way to the school,
And the friendly boys that pass’d—and the quarrelsome boys,
And the tidy and fresh-cheek’d girls—and the barefoot negro boy and girl,
And all the changes of city and country, wherever he went.

His own parents,
He that had father’d him, and she that had conceiv’d him in her womb, and birth’d him,
They gave this child more of themselves than that;
They gave him afterward every day—they became part of him.

The mother at home, quietly placing the dishes on the supper-table;
The mother with mild words—clean her cap and gown,
a wholesome odor falling off her person and clothes as she walks by;
The father, strong, self-sufficient, manly, mean, anger’d, unjust;
The blow, the quick loud word, the tight bargain, the crafty lure,
The family usages, the language, the company, the furniture—the yearning and swelling heart,
Affection that will not be gainsay’d—the sense of what is real—the thought if,
after all, it should prove unreal,
The doubts of day-time and the doubts of night-time—the curious whether and how,
Whether that which appears so is so, or is it all flashes and specks?
Men and women crowding fast in the streets—if they are not flashes and specks, what are they?
The streets themselves, and the façades of houses, and goods in the windows,
Vehicles, teams, the heavy-plank’d wharves—the huge crossing at the ferries,
The village on the highland, seen from afar at sunset—the river between,
Shadows, aureola and mist, the light falling on roofs and gables of white or brown, three miles off,
The schooner near by, sleepily dropping down the tide—the little boat slack-tow’d astern,
The hurrying tumbling waves, quick-broken crests, slapping,
The strata of color’d clouds, the long bar of maroon-tint, away solitary by itself—the spread of purity it lies motionless in,
The horizon’s edge, the flying sea-crow, the fragrance of salt marsh and shore mud;
These became part of that child who went forth every day, and who now goes,
and will always go forth every day.

河濱公園與其他

今天跟表弟楊楊去基隆河濱公園騎車。伴我長大的河濱公園，卻是久違了，久違地用卡踏車巡禮，並且是在晚上。風好涼，天空好乾淨，掛著幾抹低低的雲，河水在發亮，城市在河畔邊。夜晚的河啊天空啊草地啊燈光都那麼溫柔，迎面來的風，帶著河水的濕潤。

關於飛機的記憶。住在民生社區尾巴的我，躺在床上，偶然看見飛機的倒影，飛過房間牆壁的畫框。我也記得，撫遠街底的小房間，夏天窗子底榕樹蔭織得那麼陰涼，遮蔽地像個秘密。那裡總是可以聽見隆隆的飛機起降聲音，聽成習慣。幾次夜間搭美國國內線飛機，夜空藍的那麼純粹，我在其中航行。當飛機斜斜飛進夜空，眺望城市，燈光，方格，小車排一條條彎彎的線。降落的時候掩不住興奮，因為底下的燈光照亮了轉動的大螺旋槳，坐第三排，看的特別清晰。(下了飛機要忍不住跟來接我的振新仔細描述。) 還有還有，從LA飛Baltimore，一個早晨，告別簡停雲，告別還帶著綠意的加州，幾座山脈，飛機底下的幾朵薄薄的雲。飛進美國西部，黃沙佈滿的平原，那麼遼闊又貧脊。乾乾的沙土上刻出幾條縱橫(或曲線)，偶爾地，才有幾輛車子駛在那些土線上，很孤單也很自由。

現在飛機的記憶又多了一樣。