Xiao Zuo's Cake (Outer Part 2)
Wen 丨 Jia shallow
The first time I saw Xiao Zuo, in the tea house under the attic of Qiu Tao. It was a rare warm winter, and the midday sun was so bright that people could not open their eyes. Dressed in a red short-sleeved sweater, she stood on the doorstep, her exposed arms like shelled lychees.
At that time, I did not have children, and she sat in a circle chair, pouring tea in a posture like the dragon belt pot on the Bogu shelf behind her. I often want to go there to smell tea, smell her flower arrangements and agarwood, watch her fingers tip the short hair, and tell the story of her and her son's teacher becoming girlfriends.
In the mall, I met Xiao Zuo again, and she was picking out the flower pot. The same short hair and the same Chinese clothes, her calm and even flat, made me wonder, "My name is Dazuo, you may think of me as my sister." Then she smiled. Looking at the back of the big left turning left, I squeezed the towel I had just bought and turned over to see how its front and back were different.
Then I got pregnant, and like Big Left and Little Left, were twin sisters. When teaching children to divide into left and right, big and small, I miss Xiaozuo of Yongsong Road and her tea house. Her head was resting on her arms, across the table, looking carefully at the two children. So I took the Go game to teach them black and white, and taught them each other. The two children stuck to Xiaozuo like ears, and she smiled and sat down, her index finger lightly on her lips, teaching them the tea ceremony. As a reward before leaving, one person gave a large pomegranate.
Facing the child day after day, all the milk, energy and time are about to be squeezed dry. I'm also about to become the mosquito blood on the wall and the grains of rice on my clothes in White Roses and Red Roses. That night I was expecting a storm, lightning and thunder, and unfortunately the locust tree just trembled its leaves and stood there watching my jokes. The moment I picked up my phone and fell into the corner, the phone rang, and it was Xiao Zuo's voice. She was calm like a lake: "Back to the original intention, don't complain, think about how eager you were to have them." You can even give everything, why can't you do it now? I stood there stunned, she was a layman of Daxingshan Temple, but at this moment, what flashed in my mind was the appearance of her bald head and green robe. The locust tree is still a locust tree, and I have become a growing locust tree.
When I saw Xiao Zuo again, her tea house had moved to Furong South Road. With the seclusion of the front house and backyard. She bought a large vat and a manger with Dazuo, planted reed bamboo, water lilies, diamond horns and phoenix-eyed blue, with hanging butterfly hanging line next to the umbrella, golden laurel and horse stakes in the corner, dappled with sunlight. She still had short, curly hair, and a smile rested on every carefully placed utensil. "Smell the Zhengyan cinnamon I just went to Wuyi Mountain to get." She reached for the lid of the tea cup for me to smell, "Next time call your children for afternoon tea." She nunu mouthed out the window, and this season sat outside drinking not tea, but the weather.
Two pairs of twins, 38 years apart, share afternoon tea under umbrellas in April. They were looking at each other, looking at the time, and the luan tree and the five-pointed maple on the opposite side were also looking at us. Everything comes naturally, like a butterfly flapping its wings, sitting on a heating pot of Pu-erh tea, is the amber lake surface. We are on the canvas of the Barbizon School, with a long moment of signature adorned in the corners of the coat.
As soon as I opened my eyes this morning, last night's thunder and lightning and fierce winds, like folded book corners. The green outside the octagonal window is grooming, and XiaoZuo's text message is like a voiceover: the cake for the child will arrive in a moment.
"Mom!" Their excited voices jumped on the floor like ballet shoes, "Can those two winged little angels on the cake eat?" "Honey, before you can eat, they fly away."
Spring miscellaneous feelings
On the last day of the end of March, a rain fell, and the magnolia and begonia flowers in the yard were all discolored, leaving only the flower buds left in the spring. The next day, the weather was clear, everything was glorious, and the sun was sifting down from the trees, and you could smell the fragrance of the seeds in the soil. At this time, I was re-reading "Old Life" and "Yamamoto". Suddenly, such an association arises, and the advancement of the storyline and the fate of the characters in the narrative are like the petals of a flower, and the part that conveys the writer's metaphysical cognition and thinking about the world is like a flower bud, which is on the surface of each other. If the novel does not pay attention to language; does not pay attention to the combination and collocation of color, qi, and taste; does not pay attention to the laying out and rendering of the narrative; does not pay attention to the contrast and echo of the world of travel and the invisible world; does not pay attention to the ups and downs of the plot and the rhythm of high and low speed, it is bound to tell the story poorly, it is not wonderful, just like a flower, it does not strive to make the petals bloom its delicate and fragrant, there is no way to attract those readers who come to collect honey, and once there is no patronage of readers, who pollinates and spreads for him, and carries it forward? And vice versa, we rarely buy a novel to read as a philosophical work, we read a novel in pursuit of its taste, its immersion, its resonance resonance, its flowers and bodhi. In fact, the size of the flowers and the arrangement of the formation are also very exquisite, the writer himself once said: "Qin Cavity" and "Ancient Furnace" are written in a layered cave on a hillside in northern Shaanxi, or a flower chen paved with thousands of wild chrysanthemums in a mountain depression; and the writing method of "Happy" and "Polar Flower" is to only build a small tower and plant only one moon season, so that the bricks are built in order to let the petals bloom layer by layer; "The Classic of Mountains and Seas" is written by one mountain and one water, "Lao Sheng" is written by a village and an era, and "The Classic of Mountains and Seas" only writes about landscapes and "Old Life" Only writes about personnel; and "Yamamoto" writes the story of "Water Margin" and "Romance of the Three Kingdoms" in the tone of "Dream of the Red Chamber".
We have read "Journey to the West" since we were young, and we are familiar with tang Sanzang's three apprentices, one is called Wujing, one is called Wuneng, and the other is called Wukong, which is exactly the triple realm of life. Enlightenment: The antonym of purity is turbidity. It shows that the ancients could perceive the microorganisms in the wind, the small insects in the water, and the tangible material level; enlightenment: energy is the thing behind the matter, that is to say, with energy to promote the operation of matter, which rises to the level of qi; and the highest realm of life is Goku: the opposite of emptiness is reality, seeing is believing, it really belongs to the tangible world, and the emptiness behind the qi is the invisible world. The Six Ancestors Huineng's enlightened son was: "Originally there was nothing, where did it stir up dust?" This is as the Diamond Sutra says, "All appearances are illusory." "Life is like a dream bubble, like dew and like electricity." The current holographic universe projection theory is also proving that when you look at the holographic image, it comes to life in front of you, but when you try to touch it with your hand, you find that the hand can pass through it, and it is just a light wave of an object, as if we see a mirage in a long distance, but when we approach, we can pass through it very casually - the mirage is just an illusion! Because everything in reality is made up of these "phantom particles," the entire universe is basically a holographic illusion. The phenomenal world in which we live every day is actually an "illusion", and everything in the universe is just a holographic projection of a larger super universe. If the universe is like a "dream bubble", then life is also an infinite number of miniature holographic projections. Thinking like this, all the anxieties, worries, and complaints of life are dissipated by the nothingness of life, and the emptiness is clear and thorough. For me, every day will still be serious washing, eating, cleaning the house, no longer for food, clothing, housing and travel and others to compare, produce a sense of separation; will also work hard for work, children to forge ahead, to create more superior material conditions and family atmosphere, but will no longer for the evaluation of titles, promotions, children's academic achievements and hobbies, and bother to hurt, rack their brains, everything is the same as before, because let go of the obsession to go forward lightly, just like looking at the mountain or the third realm of the mountain, there is the joy of rebirth and the breeze. The universe is so, life is like this, so is the novel, but also a flower and a world, a sand and a bodhi "like a dream shadow". Suddenly I felt that the changes and differences in the first, second, and third drafts of the Yamamoto manuscripts that I had been studying these days were finally at the level of "art", and I could not help but be a little discouraged, but when I thought about it, everything was an illusion, and what should be done would continue, and I would be calm again. From this level, the petals and flower buds just metaphorically belong to the tangible and palpable material world, and most writers are still in the stage of "enlightenment" throughout their lives, like the five stages of go professionalism, and the stage of being able to achieve the seven stages of professionalism, that is, the stage of "enlightenment", also need to continue to be enlightened and enlightened, and to the highest level of the nine stages of the profession, that is, the stage of "Wukong", that is, very few people, and these people can usually be psychic, demigods and half-people, like the ancient "witches", connecting the heavens and the earth, the gods and the world. Immediately I thought of the Buddha statues in my father's study, large and small, large and small, and I guessed that he hoped that when he concentrated on writing, the gods could rely on his body to pour the mysteries and perceptions of the universe and life into the tip of the pen and flow in the novel. This is the so-called "from nothing" and "from virtual to real", so I have always believed that all the people who have made outstanding contributions in all walks of life throughout the ages have been witches, psychics, and people who have pushed the world forward and developed, such as Newton, Einstein, such as Darwin, Edison, such as Lao Tzu, Zhuangzi, Shakyamuni, Confucius, Mozi, such as Li Bai, Su Shi, Rumi, Borges, Calvino and so on. Although they are in different eras, different cultures, different fields, and different religions, "through the clouds is the sunshine" Think of those novels that are also called great, and they all show an "empty" word, such as the red "Golden Plum Bottle", "Dream of the Red Chamber", "One Hundred Years of Solitude", "The Great Gatsby", "Snow Country", "Wasteland", "Watchman in the Wheat Field", "Disillusionment", including "Waste Capital" and "Yamamoto".
One more day
My first impulse to write was one winter, when the children were asleep at night and the house was quiet. I twisted the light to the minimum, and sat in the living room, alone in a daze, looking at the walls and ceiling, and suddenly I had the urge to grab a pen.
From then on, every night, I sat in the living room and waited for the walls to surround me, and grass and cuckoos grew in my heart.
I know it's a kind of self-consolation to cushion the troubling, frightening floodgates of time. Once this second has passed, there is no going back, no longer a reality that can be changed. As soon as I thought about it, my heart was blocked. People describe time, always putting it in years, in space, in stories. And I prefer to put it in my eyes, in my ears, in my mouth, in my body, in my life. If my body is a temple, I would like to offer it every day. From this association: If I am a flying immortal in the Dunhuang murals, then time is a leisurely incense in front of me. I watched it rise in the air, light and fluttering, like a girl's thin waist twisting the neon dress, and suddenly it was disturbed by the breeze, turning into a lotus flower that spread out and disappeared in front of me.
Time grows in my body, not hurriedly, not slowly, with spring, summer, autumn and winter as the horizontal axis, and joy and sorrow as the vertical axis. Entrenched and possessed of my life and soul!
I am both the sacrifice of time and the sacrifice of time. This led to my first collection of poems, The Hundredth Night.
When I first started writing poetry, it was passion that pushed me, and my heart turned upside down, and the only words that fell on the paper in a hurry may be only one or two sentences, or one or two words that appeared in the flash, and I didn't know how to end it, and the words and sentences that stopped there had to hesitate to warm each other. It wasn't until the second episode, "The Walking Sea," that I felt that it had truly become a sacrifice to my inner time. Whenever I touch it, I feel the return to the inner secret realm again. I thank it for being erected there as a boundary pillar, documenting the edge of my exploration and the direction in which I am going.
From this collection of poems I started typing a Miss Z. Initially she came into my sight unconsciously. She just recorded my life, but wrote that I found her a point in my perspective on the world around me, and I suddenly became interested in being a director. Before, it was just me who was in contact with the world, and now I'm in her or her, and I'm involved in their relationship with the world, and everything is different from usual.
Since this year's sting, the trees on campus have grown more densely. Every day I would sit under the plane tree, watch the sunlight filter down from the trees, the shadows on the ground, and then look up to see how the magpies on the treetops flew out of the nest and turned into dotted lines, and finally looked back at a crow.
Not long ago, when I was watching "Yamamoto", one night I was walking on campus, and suddenly tears came out of my eyes. I am excited to realize that many children's parents feel the body temperature of their lives by touching the details of the daily life, and these are fragmented presentations, at most relying on the paraphrasing of relatives and friends and the words of the parents' diaries, trying to piece together an idealized parental portrait, and sometimes only getting a very different, or even diametrically opposed, face. Few of me have been so fortunate that, in addition to my daily life, there are millions of novels, essays, essays, and biographies that have made me know my father and understand his understanding and understanding of history, nature of heaven and earth, and life. When he first wrote, he did not preset a reader like me, but each reading brought me one step closer to him, and the superposition of reality and thoughts and spiritual feelings made his silhouette rich and three-dimensional and chaotic and blurry, like Picasso's later paintings. Sometimes time makes a person clear, and as you get older, it's like a mirage. In my reading and my sister's reading, as well as my child's sunny reading and the future sister's child's reading, there will be a hidden chain in a huge reading team, and we will be both spectators and participants, commentators and silencers. We could follow the rope to approach the colostrum he had eaten, look at the first clouds floating over the Qinling Mountains in his eyes, contain the first tears that accumulated in his eyes when he was frustrated, and listen to his first lament away from the crowd. Whether looking up or down, bystander or back, our hearts rejoice in His joy and suffer from His wounds. In him, in his world, there is a mirror, and standing before the mirror we are both children and parents, friends and lovers, and we hold in our hands both the blessed scepter and the sword that cut off the serpent. Like Sisyphus, I was always pushing a boulder up the mountain, but I could never reach the god he wrote about.
So there is my Mr. J series, I am both a researcher and a daughter intervener, this dual identity of the perspective to bring Mr. J closer to my life, but also to push the father to my life, this complex emotions and perspectives, sometimes presented in the poems are also true and illusory, true and false is difficult to distinguish. I will keep writing, it is a beam of light that I have played for my father's side.
Poetry is the "extra day" in a poet's life. Therefore we completely need this "extra day" to express the part of the soul that is coherent and the most free and joyful. Finally bless my pen, the wrong way and the road are calmly walked.
Associate Professor of the School of Literature of Northwest University, Associate Professor of the School of Literature of Lu Xun College, student of the 32nd Advanced Research Class of Lu Xun College of Literature, participated in the 35th Youth Poetry Conference, attended the Eighth National Youth Creation Association, and his works were scattered in "Poetry Journal", "Writer", "October", "Zhong Shan", "Stars", "Mountain Flowers", etc., and published poetry collections "The Hundredth Night", "Walking Sea", "Inland Lake in coconuts".