越来越多的有关乡村记忆呈现在画作中，我不能肯定自己保存了多少诸如蟋蟀、知了、螳螂以及众多草虫的生存细节，或者它们因为环境的改变是否还有我熟视的模样。生活在远离蛙声或草虫鸣叫的都市，心有时离间得像飘浮的粉尘。
莫名地那些儿时爱捉弄的小生灵逐一来到了我的眼前，从画笔中跳跃起来，依旧像数十年前的活泼身段，我有些惊奇地发觉笔触是因它们而生的。知了傻傻的仍然是木呆呆地供人玩弄，它只活泼在被捕的一刹那，毫无意义地扑腾挣扎在网兜里，之后便再也无力像被驯服的玩物，固执地缓缓地永远朝前爬行，丛林中的一切风月便永远与它了无因缘，即便被放生，它也好像已然踏上了不归路。我在笔端怅然若失它依附在手指的乖巧，那羽翅好像并不长在它身上，它与蓝天白云近在咫尺，却永远坠落在人间。
京城的楼房越来越密集，透过楼与楼的缝隙永远看不见天的空阔，整日灰蒙蒙却了无云烟雾霭的迷离与诗意。《戏蝉》一画中有孤雀滑翔，仿佛枝摇叶落，以为看见了争食的蚂蚱；螳螂有些警觉地在幕后观望，它总是那般探头探脑的样子。因为它们，小小的一张餐桌被夸张成一个田野的世界，瓜果在鲜艳地腐朽。盛宴后的一切繁华和孤寂分属不同的族群，却在同一幕宣泄着快乐和忧伤。
我疑心自己的身所。
偶有机会回望那曾经熟悉的原野、山沟、浅壑，不再藏有儿时躲闪着的神秘。牧归的儿时伙伴渐渐有些迂腐老态，露着牙痴痴地笑，了无往昔的顽皮与嬉戏之态，天依旧泛着湛蓝，日光白闪闪地照耀着大地。
乡村的美在真正被遭遇的时刻却悄然褪色了。
有浮云的天空依旧静悄悄地守候着风月，时光流转在身与身外，画中人知晓画中的世界纯然是我荒诞和虚无的作为。他们的喜乐哀愁如同我看见蚂蚱争食的贪婪，螳螂本有的胆怯和警觉，以及孤雀低鸣的深邃，支离在一个混淆的视界中。
因此画面有了疑问，也因为疑问有了画面，关于疑问的种种非分之想犹如粉尘漫天飞舞，有时也澄明清亮。
城市阻隔了另一片天的湛蓝，与贪食的蚂蚱、警觉的螳螂在一起的人们，浑然不觉如同这个小生物世界的种种样态，蓦然又见是怎样的一种活泼呢？
遗忘了听风听雨不知道算不算好。
雷子人
2006年10月1日于望京海岸楼Cricket, Cicada and Mantis (as Forward)
By chance I revisited to the once familiar champaign, valley and ravine with no longer the mystery glittering in my childhood. On the back way, those childhood friends gradually looked already fatuous and old, and showed their ivories without the least naughty and frolic they used to be. Sky blue and clear as ever, dazzling white sun shines onto the earth.
More village memories appear in my paintings. I cannot assure how much live details I have reserved-cricket, cicada, mantis, etc. Do they still keep the familiar looking, or change with the environment? The urban life away from frog and grass insect mooing sometimes can alienate one's heart like as floating dust.
The insects I played in childhood reappear one after another-they reappeared under my brush, as alive and kicking as decades ago. Surprisingly I discover all these brushstrokes born for them. The plaything cicada was still slow-witted until the moment of being caught. It flounces meaninglessly in string bag, then with all the strength lost, it becomes gradually tame and docile, but still climbes forward slowly and persistently. Breeze and moon in jungle is no longer to do with it. Even set free, it can never return to a former time. For that I feel a lost on the cicada under my brush. As an appendage of my dexterous fingers, it wears a pair of verisimilitude wings. It is so close to the blue sky and white clouds, while destined to drop onto earth forever.
Through the space in between the increasingly crowded buildings in Beijing, one can never enjoy a broad view. The sky is forever grey, but the cloud and mist presents not the least blurred poetry. In <Cicada Game>, a sparrow glides through weaving branches and falling leaves to catch the food-scrambling locusts behind, without knowing a vigilant mantis watching afterwards. Because of them, a small dining table gets magnified into an open country, where melon and fruit ripe in bright color. The flourishing and loneliness behind the feast belongs to different communities, but jointly relieve their pleasure and gratification within the same scene.
I suspect where I am.
The beauty of village quietly fades out at the moment of real confrontation.
The sky with floating cloud silently watches the wind and moon as ever. Time flows in and out of one's body. The figures must know that world in paintings is nothing but traces from my ridiculous and visionary acts. Their joy and sorrow is fragmented in a confused vision together with the greedy of food-scrambling locust scrambling, the instinctive coward and vigilance of the mantis, and the profoundness of the twittering lonely sparrow.
So the scene bears question, and the question results scene. All inordinate assumptions on the question sometimes fly all over sky like ash, sometimes settle down to be clean and clear.
The city obstruct a piece of blue sky. People live with greedy locust and vigilant mantis knowing nothing about the various looking in this small ecosystem. What a surprise life if they see it by accident?
Good or not, I forget to hear wind and rain.
Lei ZirenHai An Lou, WangjingOct 1st, 2006