Chapter 52 Dog skin.8

When the Second Mistress was buried, everyone covered their mouths with sheep's belly handkerchiefs soaked in sorghum wine. I fled my hometown for ten years, with the hypocrisy and hypocrisy that the witty upper class infected me, and with the body soaked in the filthy urban life so that every pore exudes a pungent stench, I once again stood in the position of the second grandma. In front of the grave of the second grandma, I came to visit the grave of the second grandmother after visiting many graves.The short and colorful life of Second Mistress has marked the history of "the most heroic and most bastard" in my hometown.With her strange and extraordinary death process, she evokes a certain sleeping mysterious feeling in the hearts of us Northeast Gaomi villagers. This kind of mysterious feeling can only be recalled by the old people in their hometown, like sweet and sticky dark red beet syrup. Only in the slow river of thoughts can germination, growth, and growth become a powerful ideological weapon to grasp the unknown world.Every time I go back to my hometown, I can be enlightened by this mysterious power from the old drunken eyes of the people in my hometown.At such times, I am often unwilling to compare and contrast, but the strong inertia of logical thinking forces me into the vortex of comparison and contrast.In the vortex of my thoughts, I discovered with horror that most of the beautiful eyes I have been familiar with during the ten years away from my hometown are installed on the small and exquisite rabbit heads, and the endless desire makes these eyes like hawthorn fruit Bright red with some black spots.I even think that by comparing and contrasting, two different races are in a sense demonstrated.Everyone is evolving in their own way, and they are all heading towards the perfect state determined in their own value system.I'm afraid that my eyes will also have that kind of cleverness, I'm afraid that my mouth will repeat the language copied from other people's books, and I'm afraid that I will become a best-selling "Reader's Digest".

The second grandma jumped out of the grave, holding a golden bronze mirror in her hand, with two deep lines of sarcasm standing on both sides of her thick lips, she said: "I am not my grandson, let's take care of your face!" The second grandma’s dress is elegant, just like the scene when she was buried. Her actual appearance is younger and more beautiful than I imagined; the information revealed in her voice shows that her thoughts are infinitely deeper than mine; Thoughts are generous, dignified, elastic, yet serene and solid. My thoughts tremble in the air like a transparent flute membrane.

I saw myself in Second Grandma's bronze mirror.There is indeed a clever rabbit in my eyes.My mouth is indeed making a sound that does not belong to me, just like the sound that Second Grandma made before she died does not belong to her.I have celebrity stamps all over my body. I was scared to death. The second grandmother said generously: "Grandson, come back! If you don't come back, you will be hopeless. I know you don't want to come back. You are afraid of flies overwhelming the sky, you are afraid of mosquitoes like dark clouds, and you are afraid of having no legs in the wet sorghum field." You adore heroes, but you hate bastards, but who is not "the most heroic and the most bastard"? You stand in front of me now, and I can smell the rabbit smell you brought from the city, you Hurry up and jump into the Black Water River. Soak it for three days and three nights—I’m afraid that the catfish in the river will grow a pair of rabbit ears on their heads after drinking the stinky water you wash off!"

The second grandmother suddenly entered the tomb.The sorghum stood silently, the sun was hot and humid, and there was no wind.Weeds are luxuriant on the second grandmother's grave, and the grass smells fragrant.It was as if nothing had happened.In the distance came the high-pitched singing of farmers who hoeed the land. At this time, the sorghum that surrounded the grave of the second grandmother was already a hybrid sorghum that had been bred from Hainan Island. At this time, the sorghum that was luxuriantly covering the black soil of Northeast Gaomi Township was also a hybrid sorghum.The red sorghum that I have repeatedly praised and praised, as red as a sea of ​​blood, has been washed away by the flood of revolution. They have been replaced by this kind of short stalks, thick stems, dense leaves, covered with white powder frost, and tassels. Hybrid sorghum as long as a dog's tail.Their high yield and bitter taste have caused constipation in countless people.At that time, except for cadres above the branch secretary, all the people in my hometown were as rusty as iron.

I hate hybrid sorghum. Hybrid sorghum never seems to mature.It keeps those gray-green eyes half-closed forever.I stood in front of the second grandma's grave, watching these ugly bastards occupying the territory of red sorghum.They have the name of sorghum, but they do not have the tall and straight stalks of sorghum; they have the name of sorghum, but they do not have the brilliant color of sorghum.What they really lack is the soul and demeanor of sorghum.They pollute the pure air of Northeast Gaomi Township with their dark and ambiguous long and narrow faces. Surrounded by hybrid sorghum, I was disappointed.

I stood in the tight camp of hybrid sorghum, thinking about the magnificent scene that no longer existed: late August, autumn, the sky was high and the air was crisp, and the sorghum in the field was red like a sea of ​​blood in the ocean.If the autumn water floods, the sorghum field will become a vast ocean, and the dark red sorghum head will hang in the muddy yellow water, calling out to the sky tenaciously.If the sun comes out and shines on the vast waters, the sky and the earth will be filled with extremely rich and magnificent colors. This is what I yearn for, and I will always yearn for, the extreme state of people and the extreme state of beauty.

But I was surrounded by hybrid sorghum, their snake-like leaves wrapped around my body, and the dark green poison they circulated poisoned my mind, and I was panting in an inescapable bond, and I couldn't get rid of this pain And plunged into the abyss of sorrow. At this time, a desolate voice came from the depths of the vast land. This voice was both familiar and unfamiliar, like my grandfather's voice, my father's voice, Uncle Arhat's voice, grandma, second grandma, The third grandma's singing voice is trembling.The ghosts of my whole family have sent me a revelation to guide the maze:

Poor, frail, suspicious, paranoid child whose soul has been deluded by poisoned wine, you go to the Black Water River and soak for three days and three nights—remember, not more than one day, not less than one day. After leaving your body and soul, you return to your world.In the yang of Baima Mountain and the yin of Mohe River, there is also a purebred red sorghum, you must spare no effort to find it.You hold it high to venture into your world where thorns and hazels are overgrown and tigers and wolves are rampant. It is your amulet, and it is also a glorious totem of our family and a symbol of the traditional spirit of Northeast Gaomi Township!