"Spring Nostalgic" Zhang Xiaofeng
Spring must have been like this: from the green mountain top, a handful of snow could no longer hold it, and with a puff, the cold noodles Smiling like a flower, a melodious song is sung from the clouds to the foothills, from the foothills to the low deserted village, into the fence, into the yellow web of a duckling, into the soft spring mud - —Spring mud as soft as a newly turned quilt.
So delicate, so sensitive, yet so chaotic. A sound of thunder can cause the clouds in the sky to cry for no reason; a burst of cuckoo's cry can make a whole city of azaleas anxious; a burst of wind can make every willow sing out a white and fluttering song that is indescribable. , the flying catkins that can’t be heard clearly, each strand of flying catkins is the semicolon of a willow tree. Anyway, spring is so unreasonable and illogical, but it can still be so good that people feel calm.
Spring must have been like this: a pond full of dead leaves and dead flowers clung to an old root, and the roof beams of thousands of houses in the north were still gentle despite the wind and snow. Holding a small empty nest. Then, suddenly one day, Peach Blossom captured all the mountains, villages and rivers. The willow tree controlled both the royal ditch and the folk river head. Spring is like a king with a clear banner, which becomes beautiful because of long-term and devout prayers.
As for the name of spring, there must have been such a story: before the "Book of Songs", before "Shangshu", before Cangjie coined the word, a lamb suddenly felt the spring while gnawing grass. Juicy, the soaring feeling that a child suddenly feels when flying a kite, the sudden comfort that a pair of wind-stricken legs feel, the blood of water that thousands of pairs of bare hands suddenly feel when they are washing yarn by the stream... When they As they rushed to tell each other in surprise, they decided to name the season with a pleasant whisper: "Spring" by pouting their mouths into a whistle.
Birds can start measuring the sky again. Some are responsible for measuring the blueness of the sky, some are responsible for measuring the transparency of the sky, and some are responsible for measuring the height and depth of the sky with their wings. And all the birds are not good mathematicians. They chirped and calculated again and again, and checked again and again, but finally they still dared not announce the statistics.
As for all the flowers, they have been given to the butterflies to count. All pistils are given to bees to catalog. All trees are left to the wind to pamper them. As for the wind, leave it to the old wind chimes in front of the eaves to remember and consult one by one.
Spring must have been like this before, or is it still like this somewhere? Walking through the black forest of chimneys and chimneys, I want to visit the spring that wanders in the distant era.
And her "Rain Tune":
"Rain Lotus"
Once, I walked through the lotus pond in the rain, and a pond of green clouds stretched over it. , a single half-opened red lotus stands among them.
I was stunned by it for a moment, a red lotus that seemed to be unable to open and unable to speak, yet it was red but not yet fragrant!
The rain is falling all over the sky but indifferently, there is such a red lotus in the vast and unreachable gray! Like a fire about to light up, like a can of color about to be poured out! I stood by the pool. Although I didn't want to catch the moon, I almost lost my footing.
Isn’t life just like a rain? You once jumped for joy in it ignorantly, you once meditated in it obsessively - but more often than not, you had to endure the cold and damp, the helplessness and loneliness, and live with the fantasy of sunny days.
However, look at that lotus, how solitary and selfless it is in the rain. When there is no sunshine, it itself is the sunshine. When there is no joy, it itself is joy! There is such a perfect and self-sufficient world in a lotus!
A pool of green, a pool of silent songs, on an inconspicuous roadside in the countryside - is the truth only found in philosophy books? Doesn’t the answer only exist in the academy? How much beauty beyond the image can be drawn by a simple stroke of raindrops, and how many centuries of pride have been supported by a green leaf!
If there is a lotus in the pond, if there is a lotus in the heart, then why bother with the long rainy season?
"Along the River During the Qingming Festival"
In the rain, I went to the Palace Museum alone to see the "Along the River During the Qingming Festival".
The long scroll is spread out flat on the table, a piece of intact old Bianliang scenery. The administrator took away the ballpoint pen I used for taking notes and replaced it with a pencil, for fear that the ink would contaminate the painting - aren't they afraid of tears? Who can wander around in a lost place without bursting into tears?
You can feel the green earth, the warm willow breeze, and the gentle sunshine. The quiet and ancient river flows with a slow rhythm through the beautiful and happy land. The peaceful years are unbearable to watch. .
The so-called paintings are nothing more than some people, some cars, some donkeys, some monkey performers, some businessmen, some barking dogs and children - but how simple and harmonious it all is.
The sunshine of the Song Dynasty is as ancient as in a dream, and Bianjing is as distant as ancient times. Only the wheat green during the Qingming Festival is stained with the nostalgia of countless painters. What surprised me was that on this rainy and sentimental afternoon, there was actually a woman standing in a corner overseas, looking at the silk paintings in the palace of the previous dynasty, thinking about how many people had shed tears over the paintings in the past five hundred years, and thinking about the people inside. Many museums are displaying the peaceful and fertile Central Plains.
Out of the museum, the green mountains stood desolately in the rain. Where are the spring trees in Weibei now? Where are the dusk clouds in Jiangdong now? I murmured, walking down the gradually lowering stairs.
"Ode to the Sound of Autumn"
One night, under the lamp, I was preparing for the lesson to be taught the next day. After reading only two lines, I felt choked.
That is Ouyang Xiu's "Ode to the Sound of Autumn". Many years ago, in middle school, I was enthusiastically obsessed with those old books, and I secretly recited it!
The funny thing is that young people are ignorant and never understand the sadness of autumn sounds. They only want to learn a few beautiful sentences and show off in their composition books!
But tonight, the sound of rain is knocking from the four windows, and the small building is filled with scattered autumn mood. The lights are like rain, and sorrow is like rain. They all fall on "Ode to the Sound of Autumn", and the words are illusory. Heavy waves covered up the familiar words.
Every November, I always buy a copy of Idea magazine, not for the poems, but for the glorious but gloomy autumn scenery in a foreign country. The desert wilderness and the large red leaves suitable for brewing wine make people suddenly feel like they are in another world. It's a pity that the autumn colors of my hometown can still be recognized in the New World at the same latitude, but what about the sounds of autumn? Where is this sad consignment?
What is the difference between the sadness of hearing the sound of autumn and the sadness of not hearing the sound of autumn?
In the Ming Dynasty, walking through the shiny rain path on campus and facing the eyes of a room full of childish freshmen, how should we interpret "Ode to the Sound of Autumn"?
The autumn lights are fading, the sound of rain continues, and the unbearable sadness is chanted all night long.
"Yu Lou Ji"
Sitting in front of the window of Fu Sinian Library, there was a stream of rain falling from far and near.
There was a copy of "Collection of Brothels" that had been eaten by silverfish on the table. From the burnt and broken title page, I lowered my head to identify the burnt and broken past events of the Yuan Dynasty.
While I was copying this book, my unbearable nostalgia for the past suddenly came to me like a wave in a river surging from the sky. How many bitter fates are contained in those weak names: Zhu Lianxiu, Wang Lianlian, Cui'exiu, Li Jiaoer... Suddenly, Yuan people's string strings and Yuan people's Xiao Guan came to my ears. What floats in the music are those pale, tragically smart faces on top of the brocade.
While other girls are sitting quietly on soft mattresses, weaving dreams with colorful silk threads, why is there only one group of girls singing about the joys and sorrows of the world amidst the ridicule of everyone? And if fate wants them to be abandoned, why should they have such ice-snow intelligence to endure such cruelty?
"Dadu", the glorious Yuan Empire, the glorious dynasty, why are there those gloomy faces rising and falling in silence? Of course, they are not the only ones who have fallen to the end of the world, and they are not the only ones who are making love to others. But eight hundred years later in Nangang, on a rainy autumn day, only their life experiences weighed heavily on my data card, that ancient yet modern sadness.
The rain is in the eyes, the rain is in the ears, and the rain is in the thousands of mountains. The dusk in Nangang is infinitely desolate in the ancient books that fill the building! Depression is a different generation, who can forgive this hatred! Almost a thousand years apart, their sorrow and humiliation still shock me so strongly.
The rain is still falling, as if it has been falling helplessly for many centuries. The mountains are gradually sinking, the trees are gradually sinking, and the books are gradually sinking. Only the moth marks of silverfish are stubbornly biting through eight hundred years of bitterness.
"Oil Umbrella"
Leaving my friend's country house, the strings of rain were playing far and near, and the path was suddenly illuminated by large clean green patches in the rain. I originally wanted to just melt into the rain and go all the way back, but I couldn't resist his kindness, so I walked away holding a half-used oil umbrella.
As we walked, we walked, as dusk rolled around, an indescribable vastness spread out, and I didn’t know if it was really an illusion. More than twenty years ago, in the early morning in the mountain city, wasn't this the same trail? Isn't it also so dark? At the halfway point of my wandering, I found an elementary school that was too beautiful to be forgotten. The sky was dim, and the little girl walked to school with an oil umbrella on her head. In order to see a patch of spinach that everyone was planting together behind the classroom, in order to maintain the record of being the earliest to arrive at school in a row in order to win an exercise book with poor paper quality, she hurriedly walked with her head down.
Twenty years later, it was still raining, still mountains, and still a half-old oil umbrella, but her steps could no longer hurry. She couldn't help but think of the tired willows and sorrows in her hometown that became more and more real due to the blur.
She finally left without eating the spinach that season; and she never got the exercise book because there was always a hateful boy who accidentally arrived earlier than her to destroy her. A record that is about to be completed. She gained nothing - and more than twenty years later, she accidentally read the landscapes written by Liuzhou in a fragrant ancient book, and she regretted why those mornings were wasted on useless running? Why doesn't she understand the fate of life? Why didn't she understand the value of that glimpse? Why didn't she let the last spring of her hometown leave the most painful and beautiful mark on that omentum? But I was only thinking about that worthless exercise book.
After the oil umbrella, there is no more childhood. Life on the island is like a ball of dough that is too loose and cannot be grasped.
But the island is still an island, and when I accidentally discovered from a closer look that the oil umbrella was just a plastic imitation, the illusion of dusk slowly disappeared. There are cars and lights, and the city's rainy season is unfolding in front of the wanderers' eyes.