在雨中观景一颗缓慢的心 Rudimentary Knowledge

Something was leaking from the neighbor’s garage. I noticed it when I went out to smoke in the back parking lot. I only smoked in times of celebration or great stress, and all of it had to be done without my roommates seeing. At that present moment I was stressed, I had just sent a long text to Avanthi explaining why I kept taking her seltzer, I was going through a tough time, I thought it was communal, I was anxious and unstimulated all the time and the violence of the fizzy water had been really helpful, almost therapeutic. She hadn’t responded.

  It was coming out of the cracks between the roof and the wall: yellow, not quite solid and not quite liquid, it looked a bit like styrofoam was bursting from the room within. I wondered if I should do anything. It was a bad habit of mine to encounter a problem and then to jettison it from my brain, until it reached catastrophic levels of damage. But this didn’t seem like my problem. So I left it alone.

  I went out to smoke a few days later. Avanthi had been avoiding me, she said that she “needed some space.” I had gotten her a 16-pack of La Croix as an apology, but it had been sitting under the kitchen table completely untouched.

M told me that her aunt had found an injured squirrel on the road in front of her driveway, so she had picked it up, intending to move it to safety. But the squirrel had latched on fiercely to her aunt’s finger and could not be shaken off. So her aunt strangled the squirrel, and was sorry.

A great many things happened that fall. Kit, my older sister, had graduated from college in the spring and was now home all the time. I didn’t know what to do about this development, it was puzzling to me. There was an atmosphere of sourness in the house, of waiting. I imagined a great shimmering bubble between Kit and our mother. It could pop at any time. But every night at the dinner table Kit said grace with gusto, my mother nodding along to every word. She made lavish meals throughout summer and fall: we ate wobbly steamed egg, big scallops stuffed with garlic and glass noodles, hand-wrapped wontons floating among tiny salted shrimp. I couldn’t understand whether she wanted Kit to stay or leave.

Cold tonight. Cold every night. Feel it in the bones. Better not start at the light. Never matters anyhow. Dream soundly. Dream of lakes and tall blades of grass. Sinking elbows into clover. Jessa so large in view, smiling, blinking. Ache without reason. The park at night. Cars and cars going by.   

Bell, one time. Up with a groan.   

Not gone home. Not gone home in a long time. Back of lids thin and hostile. Can’t remember rising without the sun in the eyes.   

Seen it for a reason. Rise no morning in sight. Concept forgotten. Climb down steady without creak, Clyde still stirring below. Must have been a good dream.    

No water for teeth. Remember runningwater. Toothpaste powder goes in, spat out. The grime lingers. Not to be thought of.   

The long metal table. Shifts the tray over image. Face might as well not be owned. Can’t be helped. Clyde slides in, tray clatters. Breakfast is sparing. Never thought of it if can be helped. Could be coarse bread or potato, don’t think of it. No one speaks, just eats. Mornings stay for us, before we’re retrieved and delivered into bright abyss of day.   

Suits on, one long zipper. Emyko comes with a clipboard and a nod. Wagons loaded. Slide into the driver’s seat. Driving this week. Circuits check next cycle. Groan of doors. Bracing.   

I had not thought about Jinjin in many years. I told Big Du as much, when he showed me her Chang-gen profile. But it occurred to me immediately that this was a lie, since she appeared frequently in my mind—but so shrouded over with unease that any thoughts were quickly flattened, until it became reasonable to believe they had never existed at all.   

We were getting a late dinner in Ginza, after a company party. It was our custom to convene in the food court after staying late at work: I had a Japanese chicken curry, Big Du a fish stew with pickled mustard greens. I had the fizzy feeling I often had after these gatherings, I felt uniquely charmed, like someone had cracked life before me for the taking. Big Du was agreeable company, he had the quality of making you feel witty, when he was certainly always the funniest person in the room. Then, towards the end of our dinner, as I began to feel heavy and low-lidded, we wordlessly vacated our conversation towards our separate phones. Big Du absently pushed the greens around on his plate, gaped-mouth. I read the recent press on Chang-gen, and felt swollen with pride.   

“Boss,” Big Du said, interrupting my reverie, “Have you seen this?” He angled his phone towards me, looking serious.   

It was a Chang-gen profile. “What’s wrong? Everything looks normal.”   

Big Du shook his head, and stuck the phone more urgently in my face. “Look—it’s Jinjin.”   

“What?” I said, “What do you mean?” I took the phone from him—but it was Jinjin, I hadn’t recognized her short brown hair, or her somber expression. Below the photo—someone had purchased a ring of flowers that buzzed around her face—it detailed her top ranked grievers, and then her afterlife items.   

“I looked it up,” Big Du said, "and found the obituary. It said she died over a year ago, in her hometown. A car accident, she was on her way back from seeing her parents." 

我身体里也有一列火车

Original poem by 余秀华

My body also has a train

But I never show people. It’s not a secret

The moon could be round a hundred times: it couldn’t move me.

But there are those who get on

those who get off

those who drop fruit peels out the window

and hankerchiefs. Some say it has to do with spring

Passing through and not to stop

It’s that small plain, dew-dazed in the wind 

The low grass house, smoke wobbling

That little boy’s bent head, sitting backlit, tears undry

Flower big-eyed in hand 

Looking at him 

The train in my body, paint already mottled

Slowly, lets drunkards, beggars, peddlers, or some leader

On and off 

The train in my body never veers off course

我们都老了，你就没有一点点感动吗

Original poem by 余秀华

No longer games, no longer madly running to your building 

No longer the shock of the waterbird by riverbed, facing west slant of sun

And no longer winding talk of when the wind rose, we got used to pressing down skirts and thoughts at the same time 

Slower down stairs, slower to turn on the TV, tomorrow’s plans 

Small hearted & heavy 

Floating clouds passed, running water passed 

Of course, rumors have fallen 

Oh—you’ve rusted, you’ve been beautiful 

In the yard a tree with great sheets of shade 

So we’ve gotten old 

I still say I love you 

屋后几棵白杨树 (余秀华)

Wind or no wind, they look almost the same 

I like them better with wind 

A leaf collides with another 

A clump of leaves collide with another 

But like a fish, there’s no possibility of overturning 

In summer, a village’s sky bluer than another 

Standing under the poplars, they are so tall 

 Smoke drifts, almost like them 

Their greens let people feel life’s fortune 

will never run out of water in this lifetime