馋¹

Day went dark, out of the blue.

No rain.

Sultry wind clings to everything, lugging and pressing them into shrunken twisted shapes.

For a split second, the entire city sounded terrified.

Overlapping, urban noise replaces fear.


Of course.

Public expression of emotions has been forbidden by law for decades on every continent.

No exception for the city itself.


M drags their heavy, long shadow to an alley. 

In stark contrast to others rushing to certain places,

M wants only to wander through this deep, damp, dim road, heading to an unknown place.

Stepping into the puddle, muddy water sprays the bottom of their right trouser leg.

Without noticing anything, blankly gazing at the path, slowly walking.


疎外感.....a strange word M read somewhere, drifting around them for months.

Ponders its meaning in heart, tests their perspective as a newcomer.

It’s merely a term from another culture, exaggerated by this foreign land. They realize.

20-some years, they have lived with it for a long time.


As if living in the grey box built by the government along uninhabited streets for citizens to vent their feelings.

Thick, opaque, with sharp edges and corners.

Declaring a disconnected relationship with the normal, dignified, rational world everyone understands and worships.

Yet, M knows, looking out from the inside is like in a translucent plastic bag.

Vaguely ugly.

Almost beautiful.

“What is belongingness then? ” 

A gentle coral-coloured light.

By gradually moving down the alley, the light paints forward, one stroke at a time till M is veiled in gauzy red.


A ramen stall beside a riverside.

Thin fire glimmers within a red lantern.

Without any customers.

The owner is focusing on his steaming pot and broth.


Thunder erupts.

Opening the stall on an uncanny dark day seems a surprising move.

M doesn’t give much thought.

They just sit down and order Shio Ramen, medium soft, medium assari, medium clear and thin.

“What is belongingness? “


The owner put out ivory alkaline noodles, throw them into boiling water smoothly.

He sieves the softened one out and shakes them thoroughly.

Fills a bowl then serves over light and simmering broth.

As toppings, charsiu, shun kiku, half soft-boiled egg, and menma are placed in sequence.


Smiling back at the owner, M takes over the bowl and puts it in front of themselves.

A wave of unique scent of brine and sweetness flees to their nose and to the top of their head. Followed by a little itch and limp, unexpectedly but familiar.

M takes a chopstick and begins their meal.



Nature does not give a shit as usual.

Human law can never contain it anyway.

Pouring its discontent all into the rain vigorously.


M swallows their first bite of ramen.

Salty and 鲜味/umami, sea kelp and flesh fish, expanding from their mouth, to their throat, to their stomach.

A whole wallop of heat.

Permeates the spiciness of the black pepper.

Warm enough to forget the cold, pelting downpour behind.

Comfortable enough to ignore being called an "outsider".

"Belonging" murmurs inside M.


Rain roars, weaving into a water carpet.

The broth, the illegal impulse are all flowing into M’s core.


Exhales…

Slowly they bend, closer to the table.

Feeling the inner temperature rise and sudden strength in their shoulder.

“Belongingness”

A blocky figure of self.

A moment they are disengaging from a sick society, immersing inch by inch in the broth, in themselves.


In reviving the omitted past.

M’s hometown is a place that has its own temper, known for its soup, where boats sail and cross.

On its numerous stuffy and capricious afternoons, maa maa has been busy looking after the wear and tear pressure cooker, lid touched with the overflow of hearty homemade soup.

Lotus root soup is most often the soup of choice. Maa maa knows it is M’s favourite.

Simmered with cuttlefish, octopus, lean pork, Chinese yam and various medicinal herbs, this is maa maa’s special recipe.

The well-selected individual ingredients, each lay bare their own flavour in the water, and after several hours of cooking, they are intertwined into a light, clear soup.

It's the true omakase that no fancy restaurant can offer, inhabits in the tacit understanding of intimacy, that comes with savouring home culinary delights without words, wholeheartedly.


A reckless disregard for the law turns into long-held tears.

Stiffly gulp down with the rest of the cuisine.

The freshness of seafood, sweetness of shun kiku, and tender texture of noodles superimpose one upon another.

Finally unfolds the embedded belongingness inside M.


"How long will it last?” 

It evanesces once M tries to hold onto it.


Pitter, patter, pitter, patter.

Normalcy returns.

A slightly brighter, greyer blue.

疎外感 returns.

Softly and ruthlessly.


Warmth lingers.



天毫无预兆地变黑。无雨。

热风粘着着所有，拖扯挤压，直至其变形。

有那么一刻，整个城市都在害怕。

随即各种噪音交错，瞬间掩盖了恐惧。


理所当然。

每片土地都早已明文禁止公然的情感表现数十载。

这个城市本身都无可避免。


M拖着祂消瘦而笨重的影子走进了一条深巷。

如果有人可以俯瞰整个城市，可以看到他人都在赶路，每位都像有某个目的地般。

只有祂想要继续漫游，随着这条昏暗潮湿的深巷走下去。

祂踩到一个小水氹，泥水随即弹湿了祂的右脚裤脚。

M没有留意到任何不妥，只是继续呆望着脚下的路悠悠地走。


疎外感.....一个M在某处读到，奇妙的词语，已经在祂身边漂浮了数月。

看到后的M悄然将其放在心头思索，测试着自己作为新居民的视角。

祂很快意识到这个词不过是换了一个语言的旧概念，被这个陌生的土地放大。

20几年来，祂在这个概念里生活了很久。


好似政府设置在鲜有人经过的街道里，供人们发泄情绪的灰色盒子里住着。

厚重而不透明，有着尖锐鲜明的轮廓。

宣告着它与世界的脱离。

那一个既为人熟知，又奉体面，理智为日常与敬仰的世界。

但是祂知道，在里面向外看，便像在一个半透明的的塑料袋。

隐约地丑陋。

接近美丽。


“咁归属感係点？”

一束柔柔的珊瑚色的光。随着祂慢慢地走下去，这束光便继续向前涂画，一笔又一笔，直至M身上也铺上了淡淡红色。


一间在河边的拉面店。微光透出的红灯笼。店里空无一人，店主专注在他冒着烟的锅子同汤中。


突然阵阵闷雷。选在这个时候开店都可以说是令人惊讶。M没有多想，祂坐下点餐。

“Shio Ramen, medium soft, medium assari, medium clear and thin.”


店主拿出淡黄色的碱水面，熟练地将其放入了滚着的水。

几分钟后他捞出软化了的面，又尽力将水揈下。

装碗后，慢慢倒上带浓郁香味的清汤。

最后干净的手依次摆上叉烧，艾菜，半颗溏心蛋，还有笋干。


M对店主回笑，拿过拉面放在面前。

特有的咸味和丝丝鲜甜的味道逃窜进祂的鼻子然后到头顶。

随之而来的是头部感到稍许酥麻，出乎意料却又熟悉无比。

终于祂拿起筷子开始用餐。


自然从来都东急阿雪。

反正人类的法律无可能遏制它。

所有的不满顿时倾盆而下。


M吃了祂第一口的拉面。

海盐和鲜味，海草和鲜鱼从祂嘴里蔓延开去，经过喉咙又再达胃部。

汹涌如浪的温暖。

渗透着黑胡椒的辣。

足够暖到带祂忘记身后的滂沱冷雨。

包裹着M令祂可以忽略被叱骂“outsider”。

归属感像开始在祂体内喃喃自语。


暴雨嘶吼着，在外织成水毯。

清汤和非法的冲动一齐流向了M的核心。


M长呼了一口气......

慢慢彎腰靠近餐台。

感觉着体温的上升和肩膀忽如其来的气力。

“归属感”——

一个坚固的自我。

这从冷酷社会中抽离的一刻，M一寸一寸地没入这汤，投入祂的自我。


In reviving the omitted past.

在M的故乡，那个有脾气，以汤料理为傲，千帆往来的地方。

在多不胜数的，故乡那闷热又任性的傍晚，嫲嫲总忙着照顾那破旧的高压煲，

煲盖上常常有老火靓汤的痕迹。

莲藕汤是这家中的例牌自家汤。嫲嫲知道那是M的最爱。 

连同墨鱼，章鱼，瘦肉，淮山，还有红枣，杞子等数种中药熬制，是嫲嫲的独门配方。

精挑细选过后的食材从水中挥发各自，几个钟后便由个体一体化为一煲清而有层次的汤。

这是无任何奢华宴席或食肆可以提供的，真正的お任せ。

这是了然于心，无需一丝舍身的觉悟的完全信赖。

每一口都可默然细品背后用心和鼓舞的至亲料理。


无视法律的肆无忌惮变成了久违的泪水。

M僵硬地将它和剩余的拉面一起吞下。

海鲜的鲜美，艾菜的香甜，和面条的顺滑层层叠叠，

最终在祂内心深处展开。


“你估可以维持几耐”

当M想着要如何保留其时归属感已然不在。


Pitter, patter, pitter, patter.

雨点出来谢幕。

日常又重回这里。

天略微光些的灰蓝。

疎外感也回来了。

悄然无情地。


几许暖意萦绕。