​春雨

李商隐

怅卧新春白袷衣，白门寥落意多违。

红楼隔雨相望冷，珠箔飘灯独自归。

远路应悲春晼晚，残宵犹得梦依稀。

玉珰缄札何由达，万里云罗一雁飞。

曼陀铃到手后寓学于乐已经数日，从最初的一头雾水到如今的云里雾里，也仅仅是有一点点收获。

记录在此，不期作为后来者攀登的阶梯，仅希望这种记录也成为一种习惯，督促自己勤勉钻研、练习。

第一项工作是调音。

可以使用兼容小提琴的电子定音器。将之夹在琴头。调成小提琴模式，一般是显示为V。

曼陀铃有8条琴弦，但两两相同，所以共4种弦-与小提琴相同，调音的方法也与小提琴一致。

面对琴左边到右边编为1~4号。1号叫G，2号叫D，3号叫A，4号叫E。

首先拨弄G弦，定音器上会有显示，慢慢将第一根弦拧紧，过程中间或拨弄，会发现声音越发高亢。直到定音器上显示4G，而且指针指向正中，定音器显示绿色，即为调好。同理再调节与它相同的第二根G弦。而后DD/AA/EE弦依次按以上方法校准。

以上调音工作我用了一天时间研究实践完成。实际操作时间10分钟左右。

——–

调好后的曼陀铃：

G弦（不按任何格子）是低音嗦（简谱.5  点在下面），按第二格弹（第二品）是低音啦（.6），第三品是低音嘻（.7），第5品是哆（1）。

D弦来（2），第二品咪（3），第四品发（4），第五品嗦（5）

A弦啦（6），第二品嘻（7），第三品高音哆（1.），第五品高音来（2.）

E弦高音咪（3.），第一品高音发（4.），第三品高音嗦（5.），第五品高音啦（6.）。。。。。

以上探索工作我用了3天时间搞清楚。期间于天地混沌之中，靠试错练习了一闪一闪亮晶晶、欢乐颂、Moon River、茉莉花、Scarborough Fair几首乐曲。最终通过对比Scarborough Fair的简谱与自己的弹奏方法发现了之前弹奏的都是比实际的简谱低了一个音。so sad。

手指尖又麻又痛，希望尽快出茧子。

——–

儿童时，参加过许多兴趣班，有美术班，英语班，而且长时间致力于纸折模型的研究制作工作。不幸的是并没有一项学以致用，令我感到受用骄傲的。

尤其遗憾于没有熟练掌握一种乐器。

所谓乐器，我的理解是一种表达自我内心情感的工具，演奏某种乐器，也许是聚会中即兴的宣泄，又也许是自说自话的一人饮酒独醉。

曾经尝试过口琴，复音口琴、布鲁斯口琴，因其精致而便于携带。然而并没有坚持下来，自忖除了拖延症之外，也许是口琴演奏文雅不足，而且不便同时演唱。

包括精致的布鲁斯口琴在内，我最喜欢的乐器当属曼陀铃。没有之一。

曼陀铃在国内乏人问津，极为罕见。但对它的喜爱却并不是因为它的稀有和格调（逼格）。而是纯粹的对音色的喜爱。

考察对曼陀铃的执念起源，大约是由2张专辑引起。

确实的孰先孰后已经忘却了，推测也许是冷山原声带早些。大约都是高二或者高三时候在伊都锦旁的致尚中购买的。

冷山原声音乐中悠扬的美国小调，Jack White 灵动跳跃的琴声，令我眼花缭乱，沉醉其中。也许是查阅了资料后得知这种节奏轻快音色明亮的乐器是曼陀铃，而后又购买了遇到的仅有的一张曼陀铃专辑。

这张“意大利曼陀铃”的专辑是我最喜欢的专辑之一，可与《Breath》媲美。彼时将新买的Panasonic CD机装在绒布袋子里，拎在手上，上课日中午漫步在海边的沙滩上，跟着耳机中那“灿烂阳光下的浪漫”（这是我对这张专辑的一句话总结）的旋律，踩在洁白柔软的沙滩上，步伐轻快地仿佛要飞起来。那也是我最怀念的时光之一。

距今业已10年有余了。

今天终于有了学习它的勇气。希望能够克服教程资料稀少、毫无音乐基础的困难，熟练掌握它。也希望它能在繁芜丛杂的纷扰世界中，通过赐予我畅快表达的能力，拓展我自己小小的自留地吧。

来自乌克兰电视剧《人民公仆》（Слуга Народа ）的主题曲-Дмитро Шуров。

福州三坊七巷附近

走在三坊七巷中

乌石山上

美丽的连登村

左海公园夜景

烹饪完成的龙虾

海鲜佛跳墙

龙虾与鱼翅

东星斑

贝类盅

鲍鱼

小型贝类

极为可口的芋泥，全场最佳。据说是白糖和猪油占大比例，牺牲了营养，故而美味难当。

去福州参加了弟弟的婚礼，婚礼分两个部分，男方在福州的五星酒店中进行，女方在连江县连登村的村舍中举行。

女方的婚宴让人大开眼界！留下了深刻的印象。

连江鱼丸与鸭蛋。女方家送亲及宴席必吃的小吃。送亲时一碗里有两个蛋，只许吃一个，剩下一个留作祝福只用（实际上我们由于不了解情况，吃掉了一个半）。

正在准备婚宴的人们，包括了连江县著名村宴厨师和他的团队及四邻八舍的亲友们。据说这条巷子里所有的人都是女方亲戚。

正在制作的拼盘，包含了本次婚宴唯一的肉食-荔枝肉

正在准备食物的厨师

备料中的海鲜

本场最佳-芋泥的制作过程

蒸鱼-品种不详

东星斑

鲍鱼

扇贝柱和里面不知道是什么的锅

正在处理螃蟹的妇女

鱼丸的烹饪

制作中的贝类盅

处理好的螃蟹，等待进入笼屉蒸

一种类似海肠的生物

肥壮新鲜的龙虾

鱼翅粥-我个人是反对鱼翅的，不过还是吃了

烹饪中的厨师

本场的主厨，水平之高教人折服，能用最简单的手段把大锅饭做的比所有吃过的饭店味道更好（个人忘记关门了，所以打了码）。

J. D. Salinger
The Heart of a Broken Story
Esquire XVI, September 1941, Page 32, 131-133
EVERY day Justin Horgenschlag, thirty-dollar-a-week printer’s assistant, saw at close quarters approximately sixty women whom he had never seen before. Thus in the few years he had lived in New York, Horgenschlag had seen at close quarters about 75,120 different women. Of these 75,120 women, roughly 25,000 were under thirty years of age and over fifteen years of age. Of the 25,000 only 5,000 weighed between one hundred five and one hundred twenty-five pounds. Of these 5,000 only 1,000 were not ugly. Only 500 were reasonably attractive; only 100 of these were quite attractive; only 25 could have inspired a long, slow whistle. And with only 1 did Horgenschlag fall in love at first sight.
Now, there are two kinds of femme fatale. There is the femme fatale who is a femme fatale in every sense of the word, and there is the femme fatale who is not a femme fatale in every sense of the word.
Her name was Shirley Lester. She was twenty years old (eleven years younger than Horgenschlag), was five-foot-four (bringing her head to the level of Horgenschlag’s eyes), weighed 117 pounds (light as a feather to carry). Shirley was a stenographer, lived with and supported her mother, Agnes Lester, an old Nelson Eddy fan. In reference to Shirley’s looks people often put it this way: “Shirley’s as pretty as a picture.”
And in the Third Avenue bus early one morning, Horgenschlag stood over Shirley Lester, and was a dead duck. All because Shirley’s mouth was open in a peculiar way. Shirley was reading a cosmetic advertisement in the wall panel of the bus; and when Shirley read, Shirley relaxed slightly at the jaw. And in that short moment while Shirley’s mouth was open, lips were parted, Shirley was probably the most fatal one in all Manhattan. Horgenschlag saw in her a positive cure-all for a gigantic monster of loneliness which had been stalking around his heart since he had come to New York. Oh, the agony of it! The agony of standing over Shirley Lester and not being able to bend down and kiss Shirley’s parted lips. The inexpressible agony of it!
* * *
That was the beginning of the story I started to write for Collier’s. I was going to write a lovely tender boy-meets-girl story. What could be finer, I thought. The world needs boy-meets-girl stories. But to write one, unfortunately, the writer must go about the business of having the boy meet the girl. I couldn’t do it with this one. Not and have it make sense. I couldn’t get Horgenschlag and Shirley together properly. And here are the reasons:
Certainly it was impossible for Horgenschlag to bend over and say in all sincerity:
“I beg your pardon. I love you very much. I’m nuts about you. I know it. I could love you all my life. I’m a printer’s assistant and I make thirty dollars a week. Gosh, how I love you. Are you busy tonight?”
This Horgenschlag may be a goof, but not that big a goof. He may have been born yesterday, but not today. You can’t expect Collier’s readers to swallow that kind of bilge. A nickel’s a nickel, after all.
I couldn’t, of course, all of a sudden give Horgenschlag a suave serum, mixed from William Powell’s old cigarette case and Fred Astaire’s old top hat.
“Please don’t misunderstand me, Miss. I’m a magazine illustrator. My card. I’d like to sketch you more than I’ve ever wanted to sketch anyone in my life. Perhaps such an undertaking would be to a mutual advantage. May I telephone you this evening, or in the very near future? (Short, debonair laugh.) I hope I don’t sound too desperate. (Another one.) I suppose I am, really.”
Oh, boy. Those lines delivered with a weary, yet gay, yet reckless smile. If only Horgenschlag had delivered them. Shirley, of course, was an old Nelson Eddy fan herself, and an active member of the Keystone Circulating Library.
Maybe you’re beginning to see what I was up against.
True, Horgenschlag might have said the following:
“Excuse me, but aren’t you Wilma Pritchard?”
To which Shirley would have replied coldly, and seeking a neutral point on the other side of the bus:
“No.”
“That’s funny,” Horgenschlag could have gone on, “I was willing to swear you were Wilma Pritchard. Uh. You don’t by any chance come from Seattle?”
“No.”—More ice where that came from.
“Seattle’s my home town.”
Neutral point.
“Great little town, Seattle. I mean it’s really a great little town. I’ve only been here—I mean in New York—four years. I’m a printer’s assistant. Justin Horgenschlag is my name.”
“I’m really not inter-ested.”
Oh, Horgenschlag wouldn’t have got anywhere with that kind of line. He had neither the looks, personality, or good clothes to gain Shirley’s interest under the circumstances. He didn’t have a chance. And, as I said before, to write a really good boy-meets-girl story it’s wise to have the boy meet the girl.
Maybe Horgenschlag might have fainted, and in doing so grabbed for support: the support being Shirley’s ankle. He could have torn the stocking that way, or succeeded in ornamenting it with a fine long run. People would have made room for the stricken Horgenschlag, and he would have got to his feet, mumbling: “I’m all right, thanks,” then, “Oh, say! I’m terribly sorry, Miss. I’ve torn your stocking. You must let me pay for it. I’m short of cash right now, but just give me your address.”
Shirley wouldn’t have given him her address. She just would have become embarrassed and inarticulate. “It’s all right,” she would have said, wishing Horgenschlag hadn’t been born. And besides, the whole idea is illogical. Horgenschlag, a Seattle boy, wouldn’t have dreamed of clutching at Shirley’s ankle. Not in the Third Avenue Bus.
But what is more logical is the possibility that Horgenschlag might have got desperate. There are still a few men who love desperately. Maybe Horgenschlag was one. He might have snatched Shirley’s handbag and run with it toward the rear exit door. Shirley would have screamed. Men would have heard her, and remembered the Alamo or something. Horgenschlag’s flight, let’s say, is now arrested. The bus is stopped. Patrolman Wilson, who hasn’t made a good arrest in a long time, reports on the scene. What’s going on here? Officer, this man tried to steal my purse.
Horgenschlag is hauled into court. Shirley, of course, must attend session. They both give their addresses; thereby Horgenschlag is informed of the location of Shirley’s divine abode.
Judge Perkins, who can’t even get a good, really good cup of coffee in his own house, sentences Horgenschlag to a year in jail. Shirley bites her lip, but Horgenschlag is marched away.
In prison, Horgenschlag writes the following letter to Shirley Lester:
“Dear Miss Lester:
“I did not really mean to steal your purse. I just took it because I love you. You see I only wanted to get to know you. Will you please write me a letter sometime when you get the time? It gets pretty lonely here and I love you very much and maybe even you would come to see me some time if you get the time.
Your friend,
Justin Horgenschlag”
Shirley shows the letter to all her friends. They say, “Ah, it’s cute, Shirley.” Shirley agrees that it’s kind of cute in a way. Maybe she’ll answer it. “Yes! Answer it. Give’m a break. What’ve ya got t’lose?” So Shirley answers Horgenschlag’s letter.
“Dear Mr. Horgenschlag:
“I received your letter and really feel very sorry about what has happened. Unfortunately there is very little we can do about it at this time, but I do feel abominable concerning the turn of events. However, your sentence is a short one and soon you will be out. The best of luck to you.
Sincerely yours,
Shirley Lester”
“Dear Miss Lester:
“You will never know how cheered up you made me feel when I received your letter. You should not feel abominable at all. It was all my fault for being so crazy so don’t feel that way at all. We get movies here once a week and it really is not so bad. I am 31 years of age and come from Seattle. I have been in New York 4 years and think it is a great town only once in a while you get pretty lonesome. You are the prettiest girl I have ever seen even in Seattle. I wish you would come to see me some Saturday afternoon during visiting hours 2 to 4 and I will pay your train fare.
Your friend,
Justin Horgenschlag”
Shirley would have shown this letter, too, to all her friends. But she would not answer this one. Anyone could see that this Horgenschlag was a goof. And after all. She had answered the first letter. If she answered this silly letter the thing might drag on for months and everything. She did all she could do for the man. And what a name. Horgenschlag.
Meanwhile, in prison Horgenschlag is having a terrible time, even though they have movies once a week. His cell-mates are Snipe Morgan and Slicer Burke, two boys from the back room, who see in Horgenschlag’s face a resemblance to a chap in Chicago who once ratted on them. They are convinced that Ratface Ferrero and Justin Horgenschlag are one and the same person.
“But I’m not Ratface Ferrero,” Horgenschlag tells them.
“Don’t gimme that,” says Slicer, knocking Horgenschlag’s meager food rations to the floor.
“Bash his head in,” says Snipe.
“I tell ya I’m just here because I stole a girl’s purse on the Third Avenue Bus,” pleads Horgenschlag. “Only I didn’t really steal it. I fell in love with her, and it was the only way I could get to know her.”
“Don’t gimme that,” says Slicer.
“Bash his head in,” says Snipe.
Then there is the day when seventeen prisoners try to make an escape. During play period in the recreation yard, Slicer Burke lures the warden’s niece, eight-year-old Lisbeth Sue, into his clutches. He puts his eight-by-twelve hands around the child’s waist and holds her up for the warden to see.
“Hey, warden!” yells Slicer. “Open up them gates or it’s curtains for the kid!”
“I’m not afraid, Uncle Bert!” calls out Lisbeth Sue.
“Put down that child, Slicer!” commands the warden, with all the impotence at his command.
But Slicer knows he has the warden just where he wants him. Seventeen men and a small blonde child walk out the gates. Sixteen men and a small blonde child walk out safely. A guard in the high tower thinks he sees a wonderful opportunity to shoot Slicer in the head, and thereby destroy the unity of the escaping group. But he misses, and succeeds only in shooting the small man walking nervously behind Slicer, killing him instantly.
Guess who?
And, thus, my plan to write a boy-meets-girl story for Collier’s, a tender, memorable love story, is thwarted by the death of my hero.
Now, Horgenschlag never would have been among those seventeen desperate men if only he had not been made desperate and panicky by Shirley’s failure to answer his second letter. But the fact remains that she did not answer his second letter. She never in a hundred years would have answered it. I can’t alter facts.
And what a shame. What a pity that Horgenschlag, in prison, was unable to write the following letter to Shirley Lester:
“Dear Miss Lester:
“I hope a few lines will not annoy or embarrass you. I’m writing, Miss Lester, because I’d like you to know that I am not a common thief. I stole your bag, I want you to know, because I fell in love with you the moment I saw you on the bus. I could think of no way to become acquainted with you except by acting rashly—foolishly, to be accurate. But then, one is a fool when one is in love.
“I loved the way your lips were so slightly parted. You represented the answer to everything to me. I haven’t been unhappy since I came to New York four years ago, but neither have I been happy. Rather, I can best describe myself as having been one of the thousands of young men in New York who simply exist.
“I came to New York from Seattle. I was going to become rich and famous and well-dressed and suave. But in four years I’ve learned that I am not going to become rich and famous and well-dressed and suave. I’m a good printer’s assistant, but that’s all I am. One day the printer got sick, and I had to take his place. What a mess I made of things, Miss Lester. No one would take my orders. The typesetters just sort of giggled when I would tell them to get to work. And I don’t blame them. I’m a fool when I give orders. I suppose I’m just one of the millions who was never meant to give orders. But I don’t mind anymore. There’s a twenty-three-year-old kid my boss just hired. He’s only twenty-three, and I am thirty-one and have worked at the same place for four years. But I know that one day he will become head printer, and I will be his assistant. But I don’t mind knowing this anymore.
“Loving you is the important thing, Miss Lester. There are some people who think love is sex and marriage and six o’clock-kisses and children, and perhaps it is, Miss Lester. But do you know what I think? I think love is a touch and yet not a touch.
“I suppose it’s important to a woman that other people think of her as the wife of a man who is either rich, handsome, witty or popular. I’m not even popular. I’m not even hated. I’m just—I’m just—Justin Horgenschlag. I never make people gay, sad, angry, or even disgusted. I think people regard me as a nice guy, but that’s all.
“When I was a child no one pointed me out as being cute or bright or good-looking. If they had to say something they said I had sturdy little legs.
“I don’t expect an answer to this letter, Miss Lester. I would like an answer more than anything else in the world, but truthfully I don’t expect one. I merely wanted you to know the truth. If my love for you has only led me to a new and great sorrow, only I am to blame.
“Perhaps one day you will understand and forgive your blundering admirer,
Justin Horgenschlag”
Such a letter would be no more unlikely than the following:
“Dear Mr. Horgenschlag:
“I got your letter and loved it. I feel guilty and miserable that events have taken the turn they have. If only you had spoken to me instead of taking my purse! But then, I suppose I should have turned the conversational chill on you.
“It’s lunch hour at the office, and I’m alone here writing to you. I felt that I wanted to be alone today at lunch hour. I felt that if I had to go have lunch with the girls at the Automat and they jabbered through the meal as usual, I’d suddenly scream.
“I don’t care if you’re not a success, or that you’re not handsome, or rich, or famous or suave. Once upon a time I would have cared. When I was in high school I was always in love with the Joe Glamor boys. Donald Nicolson, the boy who walked in the rain and knew all Shakespeare’s sonnets backwards. Bob Lacey, the handsome gink who could shoot a basket from the middle of the floor, with the score tied and the chukker almost over. Harry Miller, who was so shy and had such nice, durable brown eyes.
“But that crazy part of my life is over.
“The people in your office who giggled when you gave them orders are on my black list. I hate them as I’ve never hated anybody.
“You saw me when I had all my make-up on. Without it, believe me, I’m no raving beauty. Please write me when you’re allowed to have visitors. I’d like you to take a second look at me. I’d like to be sure that you didn’t catch me at a phony best.
“Oh, how I wish you’d told the judge why you stole my purse! We might be together and able to talk over all the many things I think we have in common.
“Please let me know when I may come to see you.
Yours sincerely,
Shirley Lester”
But Justin Horgenschlag never got to know Shirley Lester. She got off at Fifty-Sixth Street, and he got off at Thirty-Second Street. That night Shirley Lester went to the movies with Howard Lawrence with whom she was in love. Howard thought Shirley was a darn good sport, but that was as far as it went. And Justin Horgenschlag that night stayed home and listened to the Lux Toilet Soap radio play. He thought about Shirley all night, all the next day, and very often during that month. Then all of a sudden he was introduced to Doris Hillman who was beginning to be afraid she wasn’t going to get a husband. And then before Justin Horgenschlag knew it, Doris Hillman and things were filing away Shirley Lester in the back of his mind. And Shirley Lester, the thought of her, no longer was available.
And that’s why I never wrote a boy-meets-girl story for Collier’s. In a boy-meets-girl story the boy should always meet the girl.

 —–

There are some people who think love is sex and marriage and six o’clock-kisses and children, and perhaps it is, Miss Lester. But do you know what I think? I think love is a touch and yet not a touch.
有些人觉得爱是性和婚姻，还有6点钟的吻和一堆孩子，也许是吧，莱斯特小姐。但是你知道我咋想么？我觉得爱是想要触碰又收回的手。

—–

And that’s why I never wrote a boy-meets-girl story for Collier’s. In a boy-meets-girl story the boy should always meet the girl.

这就是我为何一直没有给克莱尔写一篇萍水相逢的故事的原因。在一个萍水相逢的故事里，为什么男孩和女孩一定要相识呢？

本来想去久负盛名的 mao livehouse 可是因为临近年关，也许各种乐队都回家忙年了。mao并没有演出，要到3月份才有，只能作罢。经上海本地非主流音乐爱好者“当当”推荐，转而去“育音堂”。

2017年1月10日，是夜乘地铁前往育音堂。

当夜有2个乐队在此演唱，分别是荷马先生和李锐。演唱效果平平。一杯白啤酒熬了2个小时。

只有荷马先生演唱的《海边渔夫》的歌词差强人意。

演出结束后租了一辆电动车径去。