Jiang Xu / Picture, text
Every time I travel, I put a book in my bag, and I don't necessarily read it when I bring it, but I feel safe and secure. One scholar said that every book is a quiet room that shelters you. On the road, in the crowd of strangers, thinking that you have a book next to you, you know that you have the freedom to escape and dive into other seas.
This time, I brought a selection of poems from YuanHaoqing. One day, I found it in the row near the floor in the corner of the bookstore, the only one. Its neighbor was the Portuguese poet Peasso. After buying it back, I have no time to taste it. Doing something, reading a book, sometimes requires a state of mind and chance.
Occasionally, in boredom, I picked it up and turned it over, leaving such an impression: in the chaotic world of Song and Jin, the Great Northwest, Yuan Haoqing often walked on the road, sometimes wind, sometimes rain, sometimes countryside, sometimes mountains and rivers, and sometimes listened to strangers share a poignant story about geese. He wrote down in plain language what he saw and heard on the way.
I usually like to read some ancient poems, which gives me the feeling that poetry is a classicist diary, a minimalist prose, and sometimes an abstract travelogue. Bringing a copy of Yuan Haoqing on the road, it is as if you are walking with a fellow traveler with a suitable mood.
Under the bed, someone put a stainless steel plate like a window frame that had already entered, and two-thirds of it was exposed outside.
"This, can you step on it?" Be careful, I asked.
"It's all right, you can step on it." The plate owner responded. "You can step on it, you can step on it." A man on the side added.
They should look like migrant workers, and they are much cleaner than migrant workers, maybe they are dry decoration. How do I step on it? And how can you step on it? Not wanting to say more, I was silent and asked two questions in my heart.
Opposite is a family of three, the boy should be in college, wearing gold wire glasses, eyebrows are clear, very well-behaved.
People who meet in Pingshui are like fish of various colors that have gathered together by chance, and after a short swing, they dive into their own spiritual seas.
The silence of a carriage, the occasional whisper.
When taking the train, the scenery outside the window is not called a scenery, and it is the most natural scenery in the nature of heaven and earth. These landscapes are not another form of book scrolls - one page, writing Tao Yuanming's Yiyi Ruins smoke, one page, writing Xie Lingyun's sunset mountain Zhaoyao, and another page, writing Su Dongpo's heavy paintings, ququ like relying...
This scroll, brewing in the distant mountains and near the water, rhymes among a village, a field, and a small group of birds, turning the page, causing reverie, without a word, doing its best, making people gaze at it with a soft gaze.
The car window becomes a flowing window, sitting on the window, looking into the distance, looking endlessly, the eyes are like two pools of water, any projection on it, the geese pass without a trace. The eyes are silent, and the heart is racing behind the window. At such times, it is easy for people to obtain a rich silence, and reflection and understanding will also arise.
"What is this?" From behind came a silly child's voice.
"Mountains."
"What is this?" Or that squealing voice.
"Water."
"What is this?" It's still that silly child's voice.
"Stone."
I didn't look back, I looked out the window at the mountains, rivers, and stones that flashed by, and listened to this question and answer, almost dumbfounded. Mountains are also stones, and stones are also mountains. How could she not know that it was a mountain or a river or a stone? Perhaps, this monotonous and repetitive little game seems really fun to her, talking, asking questions, and all kinds of things outside the window, in her opinion, it is quite interesting.
When she asked again, "What is this?", the adult became impatient and refused to answer in a gentle tone. This is a young father who has lost his childhood. A thought flashed in my mind — come and ask me, I want to play with you — this is the mountain, this is the water, this is the boat, this is the bridge, this is the train, this is the train track, this is the hillside, this is the house, this is the field, this is the bird, this is the forest, this is the tunnel, this is the window glass, this is the telephone pole, this is the sunset, this is the sunset... Until it doesn't feel fun.
Every time I see young children, I feel that children are another species that is different from adults. This cute little girl, one eye looks a little problematic. It was later discovered that he was not her father, and that the woman accompanying him was not her mother. She called out to both of them uncles and aunts. This time out, it is to take her to Shanghai to see her eyes.
What about her mom and dad?
I don't want to ask too much.
When the dining car was pushed over, the husband and wife bought two box lunches, one for the husband and one for the son, and the woman took a bag of tea eggs from the bag, peeled one, handed it to the husband, peeled one, and handed it to the son sitting at the aisle window. From time to time, the man brought vegetables to the woman's mouth, and she opened her mouth naturally. Halfway through, he lied (presumably) that he couldn't eat it, and stood up to give way to his own woman.
I observed this with afterglow. Holding a pocket-sized version of the Diamond Sutra in his hand, his eyes are like anchored boats, thrown in the "Why should the clouds live?" How does the cloud subdue its heart? These two sentences above. I want to see if I can understand this more in an environment that is different from everyday life.
Always coming and going, where there is no "more".
It was dark, I lay down, and finally took out the book I had brought with me. I found that strangers who had been reading books were actually reading books, and it was actually Yuan haoqing who was looking at them. Is there such a coincidence under the heavens!? Of course not. Because this is purely a glimmer of reverie floating in my heart, the truth is: the passengers who have passed by are curled up in the bed, and the love pie is pasted on the face, immersed in the movie world.
I read my poetry. Yuan Haoqing set off from his hometown of Xinzhou, walked through Chuyun Xiangyu, walked through the bamboo hedge hut people's homes, met hunters who could tell stories, and saw a thousand twilight scenes, stratus clouds, and temple bell breaks. My gaze, mud feet between the lines, could not keep up with the horseshoe in the white paper and black words.
Put the book on your face – the scent of a new book – the smell of a new book when you are a student, on the first day of school, when a new book is issued – fresh, cool, refreshing.
Look at the passenger who passed by, no longer looking at the love pie, lying down in a disciplined manner, closing his eyes, folding his hands on his chest. When lying in the crystal coffin, it is also such a cramped space, and it is also such a regular posture.
Tiredness, drowsiness, like a tidal wave, gradually pouring in in the quiet carriage...
A bird-finches whistling, with a straight tail and a straight pen, cocked high. Empty inside, can be filled with water, a blow, grunting. When I blew this whistle, half-dreaming and half-waking, I remembered that there were two such whistles in the kitchen drawer of my grandmother's house, which I had never played with, and then I didn't know where to go.
As soon as the scene turned, I dreamed of the dirty cat downstairs, and its eyes seemed to say: You are back.
The scene turns again, a bug buzzes, and the moment it flies into the ear, there is a narration injected into the subconscious, which is a virus called Duro. Reaching out and clapping, he slapped his face in the face, and suddenly woke up, strange in his ears, as if there were really bugs flying in.
A short sleep, but enough. This long-lost feeling of being refreshed after waking up was relived on the road.
Outside the window, the night is going on. A large darkness in the night. The window glass reflects his own face. A fine wind blows on the ankles in the ventilation ducts.
Closer, his face disappeared, and he saw the lines of the mountains, the outlines of the trees, the black whiteness of the endless, like an ink painting scroll, constantly unfolding. Stick the tip of your nose to the glass and look greedily. Two or three cold lights fell in the continuous darkness, like dandelions, silver, golden, and sometimes blue dandelions.
"Female!"
Shocked, sitting by the window silently watching the night view, who will hinder you?
Immediately reacted, it was someone talking about the dream, the tone was like saying meat to the co-workers in the dream, making a bet on a man and a woman, huh.
Night takes place outside the window.
The train sails towards dawn in the night.
Turn on the bedside lamp, chin down the "reading mode" on the wall, only to find that Yuan Haoqing is not in the bag. He, was left on the train. I dropped a cool book that I hadn't read closely and landed on the train! It just wandered by like this, and it could never be retrieved.
There was a voice in my heart that comforted: it doesn't matter, you can buy a new copy from the Internet, exactly the same. Another voice retorted: That's not the original one, and that doesn't change the fact that the book was lost on the train. Because of my carelessness, I am sorry for this poetry selection and for the yuanhaoqing. At this moment, a book seems to become a living and emotional being.
Contemplating the previous details: Before going to sleep, I took the book from my face and casually threw it on the inside of the bed. Surprised from my dream in the early morning, when I got up, I forgot that it was still under the futon, and when I got out of the car, I didn't open the futon to check.
I can recall two sentences in the first poem, because of the rain, because of the smell of autumn, because I read it several times at that time, and because of the mood that the poem carried. This Yoshimitsu Kataba floating on the sea of memories made my guilt about the book seem to weaken a little. So I confirmed word for word in my heart, and silently recited it with the speed of Yi Qiang:
"The mountains and rivers are simple, and the chickens and dogs see Shengping." The rain and sand are still soft, and the autumn is biased. ”
Who will pick it up? Or will the flight attendant be picked up along with other garbage, put into sacks, and returned to the garbage collection station for a new round of reincarnation?
Losing a favorite book is inevitably frustrating. He immediately reminded himself plainly: Sooner or later, he will lose. In the end, what will not be lost? Anything more desirable than a book will be lost, as I step off the train of life.
Realizing this, I was relieved and seemed more pessimistic.
Life is like a journey, in the end, what things will not be lost?
However, yet.