见证一：站台
Witness is not memorial, not judgment — it is sitting beside an ordinary life as it appears, quietly watching it show itself. Ten pieces for the decade inside Jia Zhangke's Platform: a train that never comes, a radio's first note from the outside world, an old city wall that outlives everyone who leaned against it. History rarely arrives as event. More often it is a rerouted line, a wall left standing, one person gone, another who stays.
时空迁移
One marimba loop, played twice simultaneously. One copy held back by exactly 1.7% of its tempo. For ten minutes, the two voices drift apart, reach maximum displacement, then slowly converge again. One complete phase cycle. Steve Reich phasing — one source, two tempos, one arc.
美丽的境界
A fire at midnight. A lake so still it carries the moon undisturbed. A window, long after everyone has gone to sleep. Seven nocturnes for piano. The melody, each time, reaches upward — arrives at a note that doesn't quite belong — waits — then descends, one step at a time. Seven rooms. One sound.
步履不停
Six pieces for multi-instrument ensemble. An ordinary day, already becoming memory even as it happens — 物の哀れ, the beauty of impermanence. To feel it is not to grieve. It is to be awake. Life is not a destination. The harvest is not the point. The path moves forward — and the walking itself is the whole answer. Still walking.
The White Road Ahead
He rode his Harley-Davidson alone on Highway 5 in a snowstorm — Seattle to Portland. Cold, wind, snow, the road entirely his own. He said it felt like happiness. Joyful. A West Coast Cool Jazz trumpet on the white road ahead.
树
Seven observations from a walk through old-growth forest. A tree that has been standing for two hundred years. The water rising through the wood. The light breaking through the canopy. The presence in ancient trees that has no name. Seven complete moments — a footstep, a color, a silence, a small wry recognition at the end.
寂静的朋友 (I)
Seven pieces for nylon-string guitar, voice, and strings. A ginkgo tree in a German university garden, witnessed across three lifetimes: 1908, 1972, 2020. The music does not retell those stories. It inhabits the same silence.
滚动
Something starts rolling and doesn't stop. Not urgency — more like a river that knows where it's going without being in a hurry. Piano and archtop guitar, mostly without drums. A rolling left-hand feel, continuous and forward. Eleven pieces for working hours and quiet afternoons.
面对人群
Eight pieces about the face you keep while walking through a crowd. Two voices alternate: a dark trumpet (the inner — lonely, unwilling to be seen) and a suave alto sax (the surface — composed, pretending nothing's wrong). The mask goes down, and back up. By the fifth piece it comes all the way off; then, slowly, you stand and walk on. In homage to Chet Baker and Paul Desmond.