Public number: Old Song has words
The works of Song Ci, a reader who rode a bicycle for thousands of miles in the 1980s, wrote "Walking Around" (Oriental Publishing House).
The author remembers a lot like this shot
Walking alone on the great desert south of Guyang Pass, the extremely dense sunlight fell unobstructed, like the hazy yellow smoke rising from the scorched sand, and there was no one in the field of vision, like Sun Wukong being thrown into the Laojun furnace.
I remember that the contradiction was described in one of his "Landscape Talks": "The four looks are just a vast expanse, so pure and colorful." Even if there were occasionally some dead bones of the camel horse, its tiny white light dissolved into the surrounding vastness. It was so silent again, it seemed that only the air was making a whirring fire. However, the "landscape" of the contradictory pen, at this time, is a critical area between life and death, and if I don't know, I will alarm the sentry of the god of death.
The temperature is as high as 40 degrees. As soon as the sweat came out, it quickly condensed into salt crystals on the body. Every time you go out of the way for a mile or two, the saliva in your mouth is dried up into hard pieces along with your tongue, your throat becomes a chimney, the water in the plastic bucket is burned hot, how to drink it does not quench your thirst, your stomach has been swollen and bulging, and the water is looking less and less...
It was past noon, and although I felt hungry, I couldn't eat. A man walked and thought wildly, suddenly remembering the melon, remembering the "Oriental Chilovar" refrigerator advertisement on tv - a refrigerator in the desert with fresh watermelons in it, a traveler who was as thirsty as me pounced on it - how good it would be if there was really a melon, and it was worth it to quench thirst and hunger at such a moment, and it was worth it to fall in this desert after eating.
It was a semi-abandoned sand road, not even a vehicle or a road shift, only I walked wildly, feeling that death was getting closer and closer, as long as I fell down from heat stroke...
Can a certain sincere desire of man really touch Providence when it reaches its extreme? I hadn't walked a single car for most of the day, when a truck was speeding up from behind. Listen to the sound to know how hard it drives (travel exercises my auditory judgment of the vehicle behind me). I quickly ducked to the side of the road and watched it fly by with a burst of yellow dust. The car was covered with canvas, but from the corner that was lifted by the wind, I was pleasantly surprised to find that it was a cart of white melons. Damn it, if I had known beforehand, I would have stopped it and asked for one. But now, the truck has run away with a wisp of yellow dust, leaving me with regret and despair: I am an unlucky egg, I deserve to die in this vast yellow sand.
"Will it drop one down?" When I suddenly thought about it, it was like catching a life-saving straw. But then I thought: "Impossible, obviously covered with canvas." "But what if it really drops one?" This strange thought lingered stubbornly. Thought about it for about a kilometer – my God, what do you see that is? My eyes suddenly lit up: just in the middle of the road, just a few meters away from me, a white melon that had fallen off the size of a fist was just right there, as if someone had deliberately let it wait for me. Pale golden skin, emerald green, illuminated by the brilliant sun, as if still spinning...
Saying what the Queen Mother Niangniang Peach Will, saying what jade emperor Qiong Pulp Feast, at this time I think there is no more beautiful delicacy in the world than this white orchid melon. I almost fell off my bike and pounced on the melon. By coincidence, this road, which was originally missing vehicles, was just at this time when another truck flew in front of them. I just stared at the melon and almost got under the car. I stopped in horror, closed my eyes, and painfully imagined the sight of the white melon turning into a pool of mud after the car passed, and waited for the driver to curse.
However, the driver must have spotted the melon in the last moment and immediately understood how much I needed it. Because when I opened my eyes, I found that the car had turned the rudder violently, and at the risk of overturning, let the wheels drive half against the soft sand on the side of the ditch, and left the melon intact in the middle of the road. By the time I picked up the white melon and looked up at the car, it had turned into a distant "little beetle" in the desert. I only said softly, "People are so nice," and my vision blurred.
White langua (net image))
Brandua refilled my life all over my body, and as I pedaled on the road, I thought of the word "marginal man."
In the great desert in the northwest, if someone brought a watermelon, it was not broken when eating, but cut it from one end and dug into it to eat. Those who can't eat will not be thrown away casually, they will hold it upside down on the side of the road to prevent it from being damaged by the sun. If there are pedestrians passing by in the next one or two days, you can turn over and eat again when you are thirsty to avoid dying of thirst.
In the deep mountains and old forests of our northeast, we often encounter the kind of people who go into the mountains to hunt or do other livelihoods to live in the ground (a kind of shack that is half buried in the ground). They do not have a fixed owner, who comes and who lives. If there is no dry food, look for it in the house, there will be grain in it, and you will find salt and matches, and this person can eat it. If this person also has it with him, after eating, living and using it, he will also put down some when he leaves, just in case the people who come later need it. They don't have to know who the people who come after them are, and they don't want to repay and be grateful, they just think of people who need to "live" like themselves.
During my journey in the Great Desert, I occasionally met road builders, drivers or pedestrians who stopped and rested, and they often beckoned me to come down and rest. When they saw me coming down, they always took out the water first, and then found the dry food they had brought with them and said, "Come, there is water here, and there is steamed bread, eat it!" Then he asked where he came from, what he did, and sat and talked about gossip. When they meet, they are directly concerned, first of all, "water" and "buns", which are the first things needed in life, rather than saying "hello" or shaking hands first, as urbanites do when they meet.
I call these people "marginal people." As I walked, the word became clearer and firmer into my consciousness. Geographically, these people are on the margins; It is precisely because of the sparse population of the "periphery" and the harshness of natural and living conditions that they maintain the most sincere and pure emotions and spirits of human beings, and convey them in their form.
At this point, I have decided that the "marginal people" are always the "hometown people" of human beings. In those places where human beings once left, they have always watched over an emotional and spiritual "home" for us, waiting for one day when we are tired and can go back to rest. We, on the other hand, always "flow out of the West Lake to carry songs and dances, and turn back is not in the mountains." ”
The next day, we arrived in Aksai County, on the northern slope of the Golden Mountain, and took a group photo with Mongolian wrestlers. The left author Song Ci
"Walking Around" Song Ci/Author, Oriental Publishing House.
Episode 52 of the series – Trip to Tibet
Author's curriculum vitae
Song Ci was born in Mishan City, Heilongjiang Province. His original surname was Zhao, the 33rd grandson of Zhao Kuangyin, the grandfather of the Song Dynasty. In 1979, he was admitted to the Chinese Department of Heilongjiang University, and after graduation, he was assigned to Mudanjiang Daily as a literary supplement editor.
He began to write poetry in middle school and entered the "campus poets" and "third generation poets" group in China in the 1980s and 1990s.
In 1989, he spent a year traveling the country by bicycle alone. He is the author of the travel culture essay collection "Walking Around" and "Selected Short Poems of Song Ci".
In 1993, he was transferred to Zhuhai, Guangdong Province, and served as deputy editor-in-chief of Pearl River Evening News and secretary general of Zhuhai Journalists Association.