Chi Zijian's essay 1 The paper on the windowsill was torn off. Open the window and fresh air will be poured into the house in the yard. Of course, the thawed pig manure will also release some smells and spread in the air. All over the mountains, all over the mountains are fragrant flowers, red and purple, like red sails inspired by fishing boats. Those chickens, dogs and the like are eating happily and having fun in the wetland of the garden field. The sun, which has been cold all winter, has finally warmed up.
Dad crossed his legs and walked out of the garden. He has a croissant onion in his left hand and a shovel in his right. The shovel just dug out the onion and covered it with a lot of wet mud. He went into the yard, put the shovel under the crib and sat under the window peeling onions. I let out a cry of joy, jumped out of the windowsill and fell at his feet. I hit him, he laughed and scolded the son of a bitch, and then peeled the onion. The sunshine crawled happily on his face and forehead like a group of tropical fish, and he wiped his face with the back of his hand from time to time.
This day is impossible, such a small onion has been dug up! Mother came out of the outhouse to pour dirty water and scolded him angrily. Her sleeves rolled up to her armpits, her hair was loose, and her arms were stained with rotten sauerkraut leaves. She is cleaning the pickle jar.
Just a few, mixed with tofu. Dad's square face is round with laughter.
Fuck grandma. I've been with you for eight generations. Mom came into the room to clean up the sauerkraut jar again. I could hear her tapping the edge of the jar with a spoon. Xiaofeng, don't look at your dead father, help me hold two pieces of firewood and light it! Mom is calling me. I know the war has shifted to me again.
Dad peeled the onion, put it on the windowsill and limped to get the dice. He only took two pieces, put them in my arms and motioned for me to take them to my mother. I walked into the outhouse with small steps and two pine trees across my arms. Mom just poked her head out of the jar, panting and blushing, and suddenly she lit my forehead with her thumb and said:
Ah, you are only seven years old, and all you know is to eat with your mouth open. Is this pestle enough to light a fire?
Didn't you just say take two bangzi? Dad came to defend himself seriously.
Two dollars? Hum, plus your two lame legs are not enough to burn. Mother rested on her hips and her lips turned purple with anger.
How can you insult my personality? Dad is jealous that others say that he is not agile.
Personality? You can't have personality if you drink! Mother finally sighed and cried. I panicked. I didn't expect my mother to be so angry about two bangzi. I didn't know that Sunday in spring would be a day of quarreling. But I know that if other children listen to their mother's crying, they will definitely come to watch the fun. So I quickly closed the window and door.
Dad lost interest, brought many bangzi, slammed them in front of the stove, and squatted down to make a fire. When he squatted down, I heard his knee click, and I was worried that he would not stand up. But when he lit the fire, he stood up with his hands on his knees. When he stood up, his face twitched, his knees clicked again, and he strode to get the tender croissants. I think there may be a hook in his knee joint, which will open when he squats down and close when he stands up. I tried to squat a few times, but my legs didn't make any noise.
Go to Maolou if you want to pee! Mother stopped crying when she saw that I was naughty. She knows it's no use crying. She has to work. It's time to make lunch. She added water to the pot, put alkali on the prepared corn flour, mixed some white flour, and rushed to chop sauerkraut. She wants to put a la carte stuffing in the tortillas.
Dad has been sitting under the window, drinking with a small handleless wine cup and two dollars. There is a plate of mixed tofu at his feet. As he eats it, he says to himself, It's clear that onions are mixed with tofu. Several chickens were tempted by the smell and stood on tiptoe to watch. Dad put a chopstick and threw tofu at them to grab food. As soon as he started drinking, his face became cheerful, his forehead was as fresh as a radish, and his eyes were full of warm sunshine. I want to see him drink.
The weather is getting warmer every day. At noon, my mother tied Ye Sheng to my back with a belt and let me stand in the yard with him in the sunshine. Ye Sheng is only eight months old and doesn't eat very well, but his small body is very heavy to me. Breathing heavily, I staggered on his back and felt the muscles on my skinny legs tighten. Every step requires a lot of effort. Mother won't let me carry him far, but let me walk around the yard. I'm not only tired of seeing the scenery in the yard, but also tired of watching it all night. He started crying and made money on my back. I was so tired that I sweated out and carried him out of the yard. At first, my mother stopped me and said that I was afraid that I would be trampled to death after hitting a horse and cow, and that I was afraid that I would catch a cold and have diarrhea at night. Later, she left it alone.
Out of the yard, there are many things to see. There is an alley in front of the gate. On both sides of the alley, piles of wooden sticks, firewood and small broken sticks are piled up. The alley is a garbage dump, which contains dirty things such as worn-out shoes and socks, smelly copper and iron filings, sour rice and rotten vegetables. An unpleasant smell emanated from there. Several crows don't know what they found on it, and they are eating happily. I hate crows because my mother says crows are bad. However, the warm sunshine shines on them, making their black feathers shine like a layer of wax. Plus they swagger around, I think they are very beautiful. I want to go to the alley. They looked at me and croaked and flew to the other side of the alley. Crows are afraid of people no matter how vicious they are. Although I am a nobody, Ye Sheng is also a nobody. At the corner of the alley, across the north and south is a road more than four meters wide. All the lanes are beside the road. Therefore, the most lively things often happen here. Carriages, oxcarts and trolleys run on this road. Mother-in-law uncles, uncles and aunts, and children who haven't grown up, big and small, old and young, are always on this road. First of all, I saw a handful of fragrant flowers in the arms of Jing Popo's family, eating while playing. The big purple fragrant flowers are sweet and delicious. However, I love those flowers. It's a pity that a big fool ate such delicate and beautiful flowers. But then I thought that when I grew up at night, it would be like two hairs, and my heart would be very uncomfortable. Seeing me holding Ye Sheng, he wiped Green's nose, wiped me, and then put a flower around Ye Sheng's neck. I'm angry, how hard the pedicel is, and Yesheng will be stabbed and cried. I looked back and saw Ye Sheng looking at two hairs with a silly smile, so I turned my back, pulled out the flowers and threw them away, and gave two hairs a hard white look. Otherwise, I'm afraid he will get sick. I must bend down and pick up some stones and throw them at him.
Twenty cents is gone. I walked along the avenue to the expressway. I know there are mouse flowers on the grass beside the road. I want to choose some and play some songs for the night school students with leaves. I walked to the door of Ermao's house and saw the coffin lying at the door, and I got goose bumps all over. Uncle Jing was going to die last year, and the coffin has been placed for more than half a year. It is said that I got well again this spring, and I can go to the garden to dig the ground. However, when I saw Uncle Jing, I felt that he smelled like a coffin. I wish he would die early, so as not to scare people here like a ghost.
Chi Zijian's Short Film Prose 2 Modern people often despise the word sadness. It seems that material civilization is highly developed, and sorrow will pack up and leave like a long-term worker in the old society. Therefore, what we see is a picture of life that publicizes all kinds of secular desires. It seems that people have just released the shackles that have imprisoned them for thousands of years, jumping and shouting selflessly, as if they have set foot on the paradise of human freedom, and they are so excited.
Sadness recedes like a tide. Without sadness, people even have no dreams. The night without dreams is so chaotic, and the dawn without dreams is so pale.
Maybe it's because of my special life experience that I like sadness so much. I have never regarded sadness as a synonym for decadence and decay. On the contrary, true sadness is a feeling of pity, which can increase people's wisdom and strength.
The growth of sadness needs soil, and my soil is the vast frozen soil. It is a few wisps of cock crow in a lonely place, and a beam of moonlight in a snowy area. In such an environment, sadness quietly drifted into my heart.
I am familiar with an old man who is good at telling ghost stories. When he said no, he was gone, but the cigarette pot he smoked was still there. How can it not make people sad? Lightning and strong winds destroyed a birch forest as bright as a candle, and there were fewer wild flowers there, so it was not difficult to live; I look forward to the fruits and vegetables in the garden all summer. When they were about to mature, they were destroyed by early frost. How can it not make people sad? Snow came, the river was closed and the boat stopped. I can't see the ship entering the dock for half a year. How can you not be sad!
The folklore I have heard and witnessed, the desolate world and the changeable nature are like three strings. They twisted together and played a sad melody. So at the beginning of my creation, my brush strokes naturally extended to this sad sky, and I especially appreciated those works that exude sadness. I found that sadness especially likes to stay in Russia, where the forests and grasslands smell like yeast, which can ferment a mediocre life and present a poetic luster, thus penetrating people's spiritual world. Their art, music and literature are full of sadness. For example, Lie Bin's Volga Tracker, Tchaikovsky's Pathetic Symphony, Aytomatov's White Boat, Turgenev's White Grassland, Astafyev's The Fish King, etc. They are deep and desolate, like ancient pastoral, cold and warm. So when I heard the news of the disintegration of the Soviet Union, when many people all over the world were worried about the future of this nation, I once told people that Russia would never perish, and it would recover! The reason is: this is a grieving nation.
Human sympathy is wrapped in sorrow, and art without compassion will not have vitality. Sorrow is the dew on the flower, the wet and brilliant sunset scattered on the water, and a sigh of satisfaction in the depths of love. But in this era, life is either full of the howl of desire expansion or indifference. Sadness is wandering around like a SangGuQuan at this time. Life seems to change with each passing day, and new information emerges one after another, almost to the point of explosion. People are afraid of being labeled as outdated and old-fashioned, and are tired of learning new things and coping with new trends. It is that our steps become mechanical and slow between the glass curtain walls of skyscrapers that are constantly being pulled up, our eyes become dry and poor in the fireworks of various celebrations, and our hearts become vacant and thirsty when they learn the news that happened in any corner of the world at the first time.
In such an era, we no longer seem to be sad. Intensive life squeezes our dreams, and dogs looking for new things drive us away. We have realized our material dreams and gained so-called spiritual enjoyment, but our hearts are like floating fruits in the autumn wind, gradually losing moisture and sweet fragrance, drying up and shrinking. We fell into a mental dilemma because of blind obedience, lost ourselves, imprisoned ourselves in cages and tied to corpse beds. The sad artistic life has left us.
Who killed sadness? Is it the street cries or the flashing neon lights that darken the stars? Is it the psychedelic spirit emitted by more and more dazzling high-tech products, or is it the rolling dust produced by the hardships of nature?
We are isolated from the green mountains and green waters, we can't smell the breeze and birds, we can't see the bright moon and colorful clouds, and the sad soil is lost inch by inch. The works we create that are advertised as art are either boring or confusing and pretentious. Those seemingly full things that claim to be close to hooligans exude a strong and vulgar spirit. There is no sadness in our hearts, so although we are lively, our hearts are empty; We seem to live a rich life, but we only have an empty bowl in our hands.