18:02
His home is in the countryside, about an hour and a half drive from the city. Earlier that day, we were sitting in the backyard. Behind us, a vast rice field stretched into the distance, reflecting the sky above. It was around sunset. Everything seemed edged with gold. Tiny points of light shimmered in the droplets inside plastic bottles. Hair and leaves swayed together in the breeze. Sometimes the kitten wandered between us, her tail held high, catching the golden light.
Looking back now, I see my memory of that day is rimmed with gold as well, I remember him saying,
“You will never know exactly what you want.
What you can do is immerse yourself in a moment.”
Then gradually, the gold became an expanse of blue, violet, pink, and a hint of orange. In the middle of that vastness stood a farmer, no more than a tiny dot, knee-deep in the water, his sleeves rolled up, a bundle of rice seedlings in his arms. Above and beneath, before and behind, there was nothing but the same sky.
Leaning against the railing, I felt the wind rush toward me, carrying the colors of the sunset. Together, they became something like a giant octopus swimming through the sky—gentle, yet powerful—as it drifted toward me, with its suckers outstretched, brush against every pore of my skin. Even today, my body still reminds me of that sunset.
By the time darkness finally fell, the sky and field had disappeared from sight. Having grown up in cities, I had never really understood what people meant by a dark, quiet night. That night I finally caught a glimpse of it.
The only light came from the small area where we sat. I couldn’t see anything beyond that, yet every now and then, bats emerged from one patch of darkness, only to vanish into another. They see a completely different world from mine, don't they?
I sat on the staircase nearby, only aware that they were talking. Their voices blended with the steady cicadas, forming a rhythm that carried me back to the summers of my childhood again.
I remember every summer, my mom would send me to my grandma’s house. During those summer days and evenings, I would spend hours in the courtyard with people who were nearly half a century older than me. We sat together, just like we did that night. Most of the time, I played alone with whatever I could find in the garden, yet of course had to be somewhere within their sight. The only thing I knew was that they were always talking. Their voices drifted in and out of my ears like background noise. I existed both within and without—I wasn't truly curious about what they were talking about, and they never expected me to understand.
Years later, this memory had become a mechanism of mine. Facing the reality in front of me, this memory would appear from time to time, like an emergency brake. “Stop.” For a brief moment, I wanted to step back. I wanted to see everything around me freeze. I wanted to say, “Hold on, let me have another look.”
Being half-present as a method.
So I stood up and left the staircase, with the excuse of going to the toilet. I walked very fast through the corridors, turning this way and that, until I finally returned to the bedroom he had shown us earlier that day—a room filled with his paintings.
With a quiet sense of satisfaction and pride, he had told me that he fell asleep surrounded by his paintings and woke up to them every morning.
Now I came back alone. I looked at the walls, shelves, tables, floor, corners, even the bed, trying to take in their sizes, colors, materials, frames, and every detail, as if I were a panoramic scanner.
Yet somehow, it still didn't feel enough. I stepped back into the corridors, wandering up and down, with all his paintings surrounding me. M told me that houses here were never really finished—they were built little by little, with new staircases and rooms added wherever they became necessary. There was no orderly route. Sometimes I got lost. I moved up and down staircases without knowing which floor I was on. Eventually, I learned to find my way through the paintings. I saw dried-out brushes, pencils, sticky notes, and sketchbooks on the table. Newspapers, magazines, fiction, and history books on the shelves. Clothes hanging on the backs of chairs. Easels and unfinished drawings tucked into the corners and with paintings scattered and mixed among everything else.
In the midst of all that confusion, I found myself in the basement. The voices from upstairs had disappeared, and so had the cicadas. Only a dim light remained. I was a little afraid. Yet, driven by curiosity, I couldn't help but step further, until I saw a painting standing before me.
"This one isn't finished yet," I remembered him saying earlier. "I'll keep painting until it feels enough."
What is enough?
Professor,
what is enough?
What is good?
On the way back, sat in the car, looking out of the window. About ten steps away, he was standing there. A mottled yellow-green leaf peeked out from the pocket of his shirt.
I had picked it up under a tree earlier that day. During dinner, I took out my pen and wrote on it instinctively,
“Thank you for the wonderful time at your home today. I guess it will take me a long time to understand what you meant. But I'll try.”
LIU