Recommended Essays

○鲍尔吉-原野

南风里有青草的香味

Black bushes sprout a layer of dark green buds, horizontal and vertical are in rows, like a letter, densely packed with letters written in the heart of the bush's hand.?

Leaf buds clutched in the bush's hand, breaking and breaking, unless the spring is really coming.?

Spring corresponds with the earth, and the writing is green. In the willows, the branches are dipped into the foggy pools of water as they write, or else the handwriting is not green enough.

There are also illustrations in this letter - scribbles by hand when the awakened land writes a letter so that its wrists are already sore.?

The illustrations are of flowers on trees.?

The apricot tree holds its blossoms high above its head, the sincerest expression of gratitude for the season and worship of the heavens.?

Heaven may only open its eyes to look down on the lower world in the spring, then the apricot tree hastens to lift up the blossoms, and does not dare to put them down for a spring. When spring sees the almond blossoms, it comes as it should, bees and butterflies alike.?

Then it is believed that heaven and earth are so honest.?

When the shrub writes a letter, spring will be moved to tears by this, and the tears will be drifted into rain by the wind, wetting the shrub's letterhead, and after the words are blotted, the whole letter will be green.?

Thus spring never read the shrub's letter, she consoled herself: next year can still see.?

The ants thought it had awakened Spring - under the ants' streaking tracks, blades of grass poked their heads out to watch, and for a moment, the blades of grass surrounded the anthill like a forest.?

The wind began to blow from the south, driving the chill back to the Northlands. And the Northlands had the gesture of almond blossoms and the rushing sound of the river. The south wind blew on the walls and turned away, and fluttered on the face like running water brushing by, filling the face and nostrils with the scent of grass.?

Clouds?

When I was a child, I envied the clouds the most, thinking that it had been to many places and had a full view of the river and mountains. At that time, it was thought that only the Air Force could fly in an airplane, and it was good enough for the average person to ride in a tractor.?

I saw the clouds and the mountain peaks every confrontation, completely intentional, recalling Chairman Mao's words "want to try with the sky than high". And the clouds are often in the distance, but also when I was a child a strange thing. Asked adults: why we do not have clouds ah? The adults stammered, not caring about it at all. After I read the provincial atlas, I thought that the clouds were also assigned by the central government, and there was a quota for a place. Obviously, my childhood thinking was characterized by a planned economy, i.e., the system. The clouds I saw were in fact from outside the country. So I changed to envy the outsiders, they looked up and saw the big clouds, how to enjoy.

Later, when I went to Huangshan Mountain, I saw the white clouds winding through the valley at my feet, and I really wanted to jump down. They have so many more clouds there than in my hometown. When a set of clouds swept past, and then look at the mountain peaks, look old and hard. The clouds, on the other hand, didn't even take a single leaf with them, breathless and ethereal.?

When I was young, I believed that clouds were divided into different families. They were constantly on the move, driving carts, taking children and livestock with them - naturally to a good place. How do clouds see the people on the ground? The people may be too small for them to see. Later, I once stood on a roof and waved a red flag at a cloud and believed it was touched.?

I love to sing a song, "White clouds in a blue sky," and really only like that one line; the words that follow are a last resort. Singing to the sky is especially meaningful, just tilt your neck and sing, a little short of breath, always want to swallow spittle. I've sung this song to the clouds so many times, it's like a dedication.

Sunshine Gold?

The sight of a sun shower is precious indeed. In the brilliant sunshine, the rain fell squanderingly, like someone standing on the roof of a building and sprinkling large gold coins.?

Children from school rushed home, fetched their umbrellas, and wiggled their little butts in the wonderfully bright rain.?

I'm reminded of a chorus, "It's raining gold coins in the casino" - from a biography of Kakuei Tanaka, who was attacked at a potluck for singing this Japanese operatic phrase. I read this book as a child, and I can't believe I still remember it.?

Rain awakens memories.?

Eagles' "Hotel California" is playing in the room, and the guitar is playing under strong hands to accompany the rain. Jean Eiffel of France drew many cartoons about rain, which is God wringing the water out of bedsheets in the sky, and God peeing on the cherubs in their dreams. Solar rain falls about into the latter category, because it stops quickly. Even angels don't pee too much. And God forgot to tug the clouds over to cover the sun when he peed for the angel.?

West, or eight o'clock

The water in the streams of Yanghugou was as pure as air, and the stones were visible. It's so clean that you can drink it, not to mention put it in your veins.

Sitting on a rock as big as a turtle's back at the water's edge, a thick cloud covers the area, and there is no sound. I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to get a good look at this, but I think I'm going to be able to get a good look at it.

This scene is fascinating. The tadpoles are all flying in one direction, southeast, north or west, and one tadpole is sure to call out, "West! In pilot's terms, it's called "eight o'clock". But the tadpole's slogan must be concise, as the stone enters the water, the slogan has already been sounded, otherwise how would they all go out in the same direction like arrows? It's a beautiful sight, with the tadpoles' tails straightening out like galloping horses. Can you also imagine this as the charge of a group of whales.?

The way animals and insects send messages will always remain a mystery. The ant, for example, which we think is so industrious as to be incomprehensible, is really just a carrier of nothingness. It uses its mandibles to store, receive and transmit information about its own kind, such as a tree.

Watching an ant walk, it stops after two or three steps, as if meeting with a companion; high-fiving on its face, like the Chinese women's volleyball team playing a good game, is actually exchanging information from its mandibles.

Sparrow Street?

Snow falls on towering piles of coal like hillsides crowded with magpies.?

Passing the coal pile every day, I didn't realize it looked so good after the snow.?

Snowflakes plopped plushly on the coals to keep them from getting any darker; and the black would still show, at angles where the snow couldn't fall, proving that they were still coal and couldn't fool anyone's eyes.?

The snow fell so heavily that the pile of coal had disappeared, so white that no one could guess that it was coal inside. After the snow stopped, sparrows danced on it, holding the Winter Olympics.?

The sparrows love to form a group, they do not fly leisurely, but also do not fly high, like a mouse that is frightened for no reason, left and right.

The sparrow's happiness is most evident after the snow, when the air is crisp and clean, they spread their wings and disperse the dullness that is usually hidden in their feathers; the ice under the eaves shines brightly, making them think that there are more good things than usual.

The sparrows, though scruffy, did not like too much dirt on the ground. When the snow came, it made the sparrows think that the snow cleaned everything up and worked harder than the neighborhood janitor.?

One of the things that made Sparrow happy was the fact that the coal pile in the backyard of the Mechanic's Office was gone, replaced by a snow pile. I can't imagine that the coal piles were removed overnight and everything is clean. At the same time, the open-air market no longer sold the fish, shrimp, fruit, and bacon butties, and there was no garbage after the market broke up. Sparrow thought it appropriate to sell only two things at the market: rice and goldfish. The goldfish was brightly colored in an aluminum tub of falling ice. After a while, when people thought it had frozen to death, the goldfish flicked its tail. On warm days, Sparrow gets more disappointed by the day: the market is more crowded, with as much fish and shrimp and pies as usual; the snow, pursued by the sun, gives up a little bit of everything it's hiding - the colorful floor tiles of the nursery, the empty paint buckets of the Bauhinia brand in the backyard, the old automobile tires, and the dead rats on its side. Sparrow didn't realize they were still here, hadn't even moved from their positions. Who had moved them back again?

Later, Sparrow found the lump of coal under the snowdrift. The lumps of coal were so shiny from the snow that they dirtied Sparrow's paws. The sparrow thought that Coal had done this intentionally and flew to a tree.?

In the tree, the sparrow saw the street full of thinning mud and leftover snow, and couldn't help but worry about what would happen to the street from now on. And the people cared nothing for it, hurrying to and fro over the muddy water. They are so tolerant, thought the sparrow.

Ice cream?

The eaves of the carport were sloped with green asbestos tiles. As the sun shone over the ridge of the building onto the snow on the roof of the shed, the green began to show through a little. The unmelted snow is silent in the shadows, while the wet green tiles, wantonly bright in the sunlight.? The melting water forms rows of ice on the shady eaves.?

The ice cream looked like the horns of an upside-down antelope. It goes round and round like a screw. It was a shame that the ice cream was so nice and shiny. I felt as if in less than five minutes some kid should come running with a bamboo pole in his hand, sparingly, breaking the ice cream with a sound as good as chimes.?

One can never look at something. There are weeping willows by the lake, if no swimmers pass by, or pass by the people who do not look, the lake and willow are a pity; moonlit night under the apricot tree, if there is not a pair of men and women wrangling, as if it is also a waste of flowers. There are many such examples. A person's hands busy drinking and shabu-shabu, sweating, you think his friends are not interesting enough, and even hate his friends, why don't you come to drink with each other? So much heat, sweat and words that should have been said but weren't. People love to involve their minds in irrelevant things, like little insects stuck in a spider's web for no reason. I can see these icicles melting. It is late afternoon and the sun is gradually shining on them. The children haven't yet come screaming to kill each other with their big bamboo poles of Chen Sheng and Wu Guang. At the moment they're in class learning insipid texts. After school, the ice cream is all gone, and there is another good thing in the world without a problem.?

The view from the car window?

The window of the train is a multi-volume art book page. In the south of the Yangtze River, there are ink-drenched landscapes of the Mi family; in the north of the country, there are prints engraved with a thin, strong hand.

Every time you travel, you can see a few paintings framed by windows. Sometimes do not pay attention to the so-called haste. Occasionally, I think about it, but the heart of a long time.

The train I took was sailing in the embrace of the mountains, and the twilight color was becoming blue. This time the line times, from where to where now have forgotten. The moon is on the east mountain, the projection of the mountain caresses a lonely small courtyard. The wall built with stone fragments is clear in the night, and the earthen house is lit. It was a kerosene lamp with a halo of light that flickered orange and yellow on the white papier-maché window panes. The train was traveling uphill, and it made a gentle turn around the small farmhouse, so I could see it with ease. There were two animals tied to wooden stakes in the yard, one donkey and one horse, judging by their size. The horse's fur is very white, in the moonlight, as dissolved, not moving, like a jade sculpture, I think it has been used to the sound of the train.

A few days ago, suddenly remembered this small courtyard, would like to further see what is in the courtyard. There is no broad-striding white geese, sharpened bluestone? The reminiscent of you in the orange window, lamp should have young peasant women mending clothes. Perhaps later, the master of the house will come out, cough and feed the animals. This kind of mountain life should be extremely peaceful and hard. This was the backwoods where electricity was not yet available. I vaguely remember that the house was thatched with dead grass and there were a few small trees in the backyard.

Not long ago, I went home to my family, and I couldn't sleep well, so I looked out the window. Before the sunrise did not float, the sky is undoubtedly a red haze of ten thousand, such as ten thousand silk spread in the sky, waiting for the sun to raise his feet to come. The first to awaken, I realized, was a patch of aspens, silhouetted against the horizon, thriving and straight, like sentinels waiting for parade, or believers on pilgrimage, holding hands. In winter, the poplars are clean of leaves, and their branches are like iron halberds, thin and solemn.

This is the scenery seen in the car window, usually, people do not have the opportunity, unless traveling.

Reaching for the pale?

I have a perhaps grotesque notion that the haze only appears in the evening on the western mountains, and on the western mountains of my old neighborhood. I've never seen a sunrise, and I haven't seen an evening sunrise in the decade I've been in Shenyang, perhaps because there are no western mountains, there is a lot of pollution, and I live on a short floor.

The sunset was part of my childhood. In the evening, my friends and I in the cooking smoke and the sound of mothers calling children do not move their asses, sitting in the hydrological station in the "Cultural Revolution" in the dilapidated and desolate office on the roof to watch the western sky. Colorful clouds such as mountains, such as the formation of soldiers and horses, such as flowers, such as ten thousand silk drying place, such as the furnace of molten gold, the weather is changing, magnificent clarity. We are silent, the evening sun to see the gray and blue annihilation. Some people say, the evening sun does not disappear, in the United States is still bright. In the "Cultural Revolution", this phrase has been reactionary. America is so bad, how can there be evening sunshine? The face of the big lock who said this was already white, we swore that no one would denounce, so he did not say. And he will certainly not dare to play foul when he flicks a glass ball in the future.?

The best way to view the Xia is at the top of the mountain, as I did when I was pulling sheep dung in the Ulaan Tork brigade. Climbed to the top of the mountains, around the golden, the setting sun such as Zen old man, covered with a full body of splendor slowly recede. I hugged my knees to face the western sky and watch. The sun's every sunset, the clouds are incomparably complex rituals to send, the scene is laid out, such as in the sea above. In the mountain project to watch the summer, chest times gradually open, in the reach of the pale, everything is yours, and even a little.?

At this point, I realized that the most wonderful scenery in the sky, the world is not something to see. The mountains, rivers, grasses and trees are silent and cannot reach the light and cloud changes. This is also a Zen Buddhist saying that "emptiness" is not "nothing", just like the picture of the sky. There is nothing in the sky, but we see a multitude of weather. Therefore, the existence in the sky is a marvelous existence, not nothing. However, this is a long way from the point.

Yesterday I saw the evening sun above the grassy area of City Hall Plaza, where the buildings gave way, revealing a distant patch of sky that allowed pedestrians to see the dance of the sun. At the time, I was accompanying my daughter back from a tutoring session on Second Meridian Street. I said to my child, "Look. She looked out and resumed riding her bike, probably still thinking about her lessons.

Running water?

The sound of running water is beautiful, from the sound of a stream running over cobblestones to the sound of water running down a person's throat and into their stomach. After a run, thirsty as a weak grain, leaning back to drink, I heard the "thud" of water, extremely admirable. What kind of sound is that? Water hitting the intestines, or throat contracting like a piston?

After a summer run, I drink about 1,246 milliliters of water, some of which leaks out and turns into sweat. At the end of a workout, one's skin is like a funnel. After drinking water, you stare at your chest, and a spring emerges from every sweaty eye, throwing itself at each other and turning into big drops of sweat down the drain, and abducting some of the salt from my body. Just go back and eat an extra salted duck egg...?

Drinking the water, I imagine its mysterious travels inside my body, through my stomach, emptying in my small intestine, and into my bloodstream. I pat my thighs and arms and say hello to all that water: arrived? All have arrived. The most active of those waters have run into the microvessels, the surface layer of the body, the so-called skin.?

I have drunk water from Longjing, Coke, carbonated drinks disguised as apple-colored flavors, mineral water, tap water. They run in the blood, and if you put a stethoscope on your pulse, all you hear is the sound of running water, thud, similar to the sound of drinking water.?

The sound of water is the shouting and poetry of water. When water flows, the slightest obstruction, unevenness, or gyration must make a sound. If you listen to the shout of a waterfall from three miles away, the sharp cry changes to a low, slow throaty sound, like the cello part of a string instrument. And the sound of dripping water is a child's soliloquy, crisp and innocent, like reading a text. The cascade of water from the eaves is a woman's rambling, long and lacking in precise meaning. And the rain on the wind, like a whip with a splash of ink writing, is the voice of a man's heart, heard especially grimly at night.?

In the northern winter, the riverbed under the ice will be the sound of running water, like laughter, can not help but let a person want to lie on the ice to look for a while. The water under the ice flow Qian black, floating white mist, sheltering the black ridge of swimming fish. If the hearing range of the human ear is a little wider, you will also hear the sound of water flowing in the trees, in the flower pots of the soil penetration sound: whirring, clattering, like in the Dragon Palace.

Comments: the tranquil and natural scenery, let a person's soul for one of the warmth, even if it is as plain as water life is also so beautiful and rich in substance.

The girl's flower

Tang Min

Lore has it that the daffodil is changed by a couple. The husband's name was Marigold and the wife's name was Hyakuba. Therefore there are two kinds of daffodil flowers, the single-petaled ones are called marigolds and the heavy-petaled ones are called lily pads.

The "lily pad" has four petals, two large white petals sandwiched between two short yellow petals. Look past both simple and complex, like a woman in southern Fujian good at silence, half-lowered head, eyes looking down. Sorrow is also silent, joy is also silent.

"Marigold" consists of six white petals forming a plate, on which is placed a yellow petal made of wine marigold. The flower is easy to see, and has the enthusiasm of a man who is dry and simple. In particular, the marigold-shaped core of the flower reminds us of a man's passion for drinking even after his death.

If they had not been married before they became flowers, the lily pads would have been pure white, and the marigolds would not have had white trays. There is no other flower in the world that embodies the mutual penetration of husband and wife like the daffodil, is there? Often imagine Jinzhan drunk to intimate his wife Momoha, the liquor in the Momoha body, so that her flowers have a short yellow petals. When Baiba was angry, Jinzhan held a glass of wine, wanted to drink but did not dare, and came over in a low voice to please Baiba. At times like these, the daffodils give off an extremely sweet fragrance, the fragrance of conjugal harmony on earth, permeating the home that welcomes the New Year.

Just married, it doesn't matter if there are children or not. Whenever one traveled, the other found a way to follow. When the stove is out and the door is locked, it's fun no matter how uninteresting the place is. When you go to a place where you have friends, you have fun for a few days and make happy memories. A life without burdens, wandering around the land, was called "the song of the guerrillas". Everywhere you go, you go to see the scenery, drill alleys and walk down the street, attacking the flavorful snacks as far as the eye can see.

But suddenly, very suddenly, I wanted to get the only "only child".

When winter came, it was time to start raising daffodils.

From that moment on, I saw the daffodil as a symbol of my child.

Chose one of the highest-priced flower bulbs in a pile like a lottery.

If the marigold blooms, I will have a son;

If the lily blooms, I will have a daughter.

Splitting the bulb with a knife, I carefully carved the leaf stems. A **** there are six outer buds. Looked at the leaf membrane wrapped in like fat baby-like buds, heart so nervous. In the end, is it a son or a daughter?

I hope to be able to open "marigold" flowers.

From the bottom of my heart, I want a boy.

It is not that I despise girls. Rather, I love them indescribably.

Loves her so much that she simply cannot bear to let her come into the world.

Because I can't guarantee her a lifetime of happiness, can't make her the most beautiful love in her short life. I am especially worried that she will be despised for her unattractive figure and appearance, and if she is strangely ugly but on the other hand intelligent and kind, how miserable her life will be doomed to be.

It is not so with boys. Men are made of clay, and suffering makes them tight and strong.

God made man out of clay, but made woman out of man's rib. The ribs have fresh blood and flesh on them, and the slightest touch can be excruciatingly painful. Therefore, a woman cannot bear even the smallest injury.

In this sense, women are an extremely sharp and delicate insect. Their antennae, their eyes, their soft, boneless bodies, and their voluptuous wings are created simply to feel love, receive love, and attract love. They are the first to anticipate disaster and the first to die prematurely when it strikes.

One day I was having a drink with a friend at a coffee shop. This friend, who has nearly a decade more experience than me, said:

"A man is happy in loving the woman he loves. He feels fulfilled because the other person accepts everything he does for her. A woman is the complete opposite; she is happy just by accepting love. If a woman loves and pursues the man she likes, it is the most painful thing, and the man she loves has no happiness. It is a very marvelous feeling."

In the hazy twilight, looking down from the window beside the seat, the street was filled with pedestrians, and many men and women of all sorts of births were hurrying about.

"Generally speaking, a man's love lasts longer than a woman's. Whenever a woman he has put his trust in for a period of time comes to him for help after many years, he will always do his best to help her. A man does not think much of how the woman treated him before."

In that moment I was even more determined to have a son. Boys are not only naturally better able to adapt to society and endure hardship than girls, but they are also a source of happiness for women. I wanted my son to at least treat the women in his life with kindness and give them a sense of permanent happiness in their short lives.

"The greatest disadvantage of being a man is that there is no way of cherishing the affection of a woman he does not like for him. This revulsion from the heart is not at all hypocritical, and they can't help but show their contempt for that daughter. The frivolous teenager goes even further, hurting a girl like that in public. It's the evil side of men."

I think of my daughter, and if she is lucky enough to be spared public humiliation and meets a man who fully understands the importance of respecting her feelings, but treats that respect as if he loves her, isn't that sadness deeper? In a man, a failed pursuit does not destroy the beauty of the pursuit; in a woman it becomes a lifelong shame.

How about thinking, or not wanting a girl.

The daffodils used for divination are slow to open.

The daffodils have never grown stronger, and they are green and vibrant without ever having been exposed to the sun.

Later, the buds broke through the wrapped leaf membrane and opened up like peacock's tails, with six green peacocks resting on one piece.

Each of the flower bones was swollen to overflowing, but it refused to open.

Is it "marigold" or "lily pad"?

Floyd's doctrine is frightening enough, that the infant is in love from the time it is fed. And a lifetime of behavior is governed by lust.

It happened to me that I was listening to a class of Buddhist students who were talking about the Buddhist doctrine of karma. The twelve karmas are the laws of cause and effect that govern life from conception to death, and the force that governs all tangible and intangible life and spiritual change is lust. Not only the living person is governed by lust for his or her own feelings about things, but also the soul, which has not yet attained the form of life, is also governed by the same.

If a daughter is born, it is because a female soul fell in love with the man who was the father, threw herself into his arms, and became his daughter;

if a son is born, it is because a male soul fell in love with the woman who was the mother, threw herself into her arms, and became her son.

If I hadn't heard this argument until I died, it wouldn't have been burned into my brain with such a lurid mark of fire. Now it is impossible to forget.

Going home, I asked my groom, "A boy or a girl?"

"A girl!" He answered without hesitation.

"Boy!" I was furious!

"Why?" He wondered.

And I had no answer.

And so it was that I saw my daffodils open in my dream.

Incredibly lush, it was a girl's flower, and it filled the pot.

I was disappointed beyond words.

The two flowers that bloomed side by side at the highest point said,

"Mommy doesn't love us, so go to hell!"

They both fell downward and dipped into a pot of boiling water in a rolling soup.

By the time I hurriedly scooped them up and offered to take them, they were as hot as boiled cabbage leaves.

A few days later, sure enough, the girls' flowers opened.

In a few short days they let go of all their blossoms in a desperate fury. There was also a stem that drew the tallest of the flowers, and in this cluster, two of the largest flowers opened side by side. Unlike in the dream, they did not hold their heads up, but all of them were lowered, as if blown by the wind, and the flowers were tilted in one direction. The longest stem suddenly stopped standing straight and fell limply to the ground. Tied with a rope, with a pencil, can not support. If I wasn't careful, the stem snapped down.

I don't know how sorry I am, how sad I am. All day long I looked at this pot of blooming flowers.

It emits a sharp burst of fragrance, the aroma drilling right into the heart. They ignored my concerns, struggling to express their beauty entirely for their own sake.

Each flower was so white that it floated and hung in the air, resting like a cloud. The yellow petals of them were sunshine in the clouds. Their brief flowering period ticks away by the minute.

Their hearts despised me.

My groom was so busy with his official duties every day that he didn't care once about the flowers from the time they bloomed to the time they died, much less talked about them. He did not know my ghostly mind.

And so it became even more apparent how unfortunate the girls' flowers were.

Their flowers bloomed and faded, but they were still beautiful.

One day when the power went out, I lit a candle and left it on the table. When I came up from downstairs, I noticed that the candle was out and the house was dark. I struck a match. It was the daffodils that had poured over the candle and put out the fire. It was the stem of the highest drawn flower that poured over the candle. Like the flowers in the dream, they killed themselves. The candle burned two daffodils, half of each. The remaining half was still as watery and open as ever, with a dark, shiny ink line where the half-flowers had been.

I was shocked for a long time.

This was the girl's flower, knife-like.

There are many wrong things you can do in the world, but never do anything to hurt a girl.

Only the pot with the daffodils is left.

I don't want either boys or girls, and I don't do the dreaded divination anymore.

But the daughter of my destiny will never come.

(From Fujian Literature, No.7, 1986)

Remembering Xiao Shan Bajin

Rationale: It expresses the strong love and remembrance of his wife, touching and warm