Chapter 24 life endowment

Life is a fu, a desolate Nagato fu that falls from splendor to embarrassment—— There lived a little girl who hadn't gone to school at the bottom of the alley. Because her face was so red, people liked her before they had time to recognize her facial features. Of course, her facial features were actually quite beautiful, but people remembered her , but only that little red face. I don't know if she has parents, but she lives with her grandmother, who is surprisingly ugly, and it is obvious that she is not ugly because she is old.She has almost no nose, her mouth is crooked, and her eyes are nothing more than old eyes, but they also have a sinister light.

She is short, and her cross-legged legs are very obtrusive. I don't know how she suffers. She has been walking for almost her whole life, but she always has one foot facing east and one foot facing east. facing west. What she was doing that day, I don't know, but it seems that she was always lighting a fire, using an old-fashioned stove, placed in the wind at the door, flapping and swearing dirty.Her wrinkled face is vaguely separated behind the smoke screen, but her golden eyes are exposed enough to break through the maze of smoke. In the cold and rainy evening, passers-by will suddenly think that they have walked into the evil yellow. Fog - Beside a poisonous swamp.

Day after day they lived in the illegal building at the bottom of the alley, the little girl's red cheeks bloomed day after day, the old woman's face shriveled like a winter chicken, and the stove was turned on and off day after day. The day is like a magic vat, emitting thick smoke with teeth and claws. ——Isn’t this just life?Some childish beauty, some shocking ugliness, dwell in a certain deep alley with an inseparable and eternal attitude. I don't know when, by whom, the words "糯" and "糬" were made up. (Wu Zetian only created nineteen characters!) There was an ancient poet who ate the "cake" that he must eat when climbing a mountain on the Double Ninth Festival, but he dared not put the word "cake" into his poems. "The word 'cake' is never used in the poem," he distinguished, "how could I rashly put the character 'cake' in the poem?"

Orthodox literati have a ridiculous but respectable persistence. But the common people don't care about this matter at all, they make characters when they are happy, and they obviously understand the character-making principles of "phonetic" and "knowing". I like the word "glutinous rice cake", which seems to have a primitive feeling of Maowu.I like "glutinous rice cake", although its savory is a savory with no character. I love glutinous rice carts, and I can't describe how a cart full of soft, sweet, and greasy flavors sells joy among children.It seems that glutinous rice cakes are only sold to children, and of course they are sometimes sold to the elderly—but they inevitably end up in the hands of children.

What I really like the most is the rhythm of the glutinous rice carts. For some reason, all the glutinous glutinous rice carts use their own music, just like knocking iron plates for umbrella repair, knocking bowls for wontons, and shaking bamboo tubes for sweet potatoes. , all have a single-height and rough aesthetic.The "instrument" used in the glutinous rice cake cart is a wheel. Two iron rods are brought up and down at the turning point of the wheel, and the "empty" and "empty" sounds when they hit each other. I don't know if it is used to symbolize a kind of The ancient music of pounding rice.The elegant peddler puts a bag doll on two iron rods, and the heroes and beauties in the story land together and reincarnate with the wheel.

The speed at which the irons are knocked down in turn is not the same, but it is roughly twice a second, or four times.When one root rises, that root goes down; when that root rises, this root goes down.And it can't be said that there are big ups and downs, and it will always be ups and downs in the world the size of a palm.Those who sink are only a slap in the face, and those who go up are no different. Follow the glutinous rice cart, and finally feel yourself walking into a kind of shuddering terror.Some well-known and unknown emperors and generals are hanging on the old rusty iron rods, some existing or non-existing concubines and beauties are growing and growing with each other at a relentless speed, repeating a generation and a relationship in the vast sea of ​​people. The ups and downs of fate without distinction between generations, isn't this life?In the simplest rhythm, the "bad", "auspicious", "regret" and "blame" spoken by the fortune-teller are superimposed.Between ticks, jumping up and down, many life and death misfortunes and blessings have been completed.

Whenever I see a glutinous rice cart, I can't help but follow it and feel disappointed. orange eater In the winter afternoon, the sun shrouds the earth with indifference, like some eyes that have been burned all summer, but now they are vaguely forgotten. There was an old man sitting with his back on the sidewalk, as if he had jumped out of the samsara of chaotic footsteps, he sat lightly in a patch of sunshine. The old man lowered his head and concentrated on cutting the orange peel with a small knife.It was the "Penggan" orange, the skin was very loose and could be easily peeled off by hand, but for some reason, he held a knife and scratched neatly, like a stonemason.

As usual, he cut each orange four times, and then tore it apart according to the knife marks. The orange peel was as beautiful as a cruciferous flower in his hand.He took off the orange flesh one by one, carefully removed the tendons, and slowly ate one by one. After eating, he took out another one without haste, and patiently repeated all the procedures. . That afternoon, he just ate the orange petal by petal seriously, and stopped in an unbelievable tranquility like meditating. Isn't this life?The sun cuts the four seasons, the four seasons cuts the old man, and the old man silently cuts the round and soft oranges.In my imagination, the old man’s winter seemed endless, as if he was still sitting on the dusty corner of the street, savoring those mysterious oranges overflowing with golden juice meticulously, with the obsessive spirit of a metaphysician. .