Chapter 24 orchard

Haizi has a poem, the wind in the distance is farther than the distance, and Lang Shuai also has a poem, the urine on the yellow is yellower than the yellow.This line of poem roughly embodies Lang Shuai's style, taking pleasure in nonsense, and always shining like an electric eel haunting the vast sea.That was 17 years ago.Now, in Beijing, sometimes we can be honored to meet Lang Shuai again and have a nostalgic dinner in the Northeast style with him.He got this name because he once thought he was handsome (look at my dimples like Wan Ziliang), and sometimes he was called "Langsi" because he boasted of being romantic while being a wandering poet (you See if my eyelids look like Hölderlin).We were 20 at the time and admired each other's unconventional mannerisms.But now these two titles are inappropriate.We were born in China in the early 1970s, and have experienced some strange changes. What was most admired in the previous era will definitely be deprecated in the latter era.The era of Lang Shuai and Lang Silly is over, now we call him Mr. Lang.

Like many former poets, Lang Shuai is now a president.I think this is even better than turning a bench into a threshold.Sometimes I feel like I've lived too long, that 30-plus years have been too much and too dizzying.I will recall the atmosphere and images of those years with great interest, such as the poem written by Lang Shuai when he was a freshman, the old man who claimed to be the garden guard, sitting desolately in the orchard, with long white hair draped over his shoulders. Of course, this is nothing important, just a young man with a little romantic imagination.But I also feel that there is a mystery in it.

You can always see subtle changes in people's hearts in some details.In Beijing, similar dramas are playing out every moment.For example, if two elderly people meet on a street corner, they will talk, spit out a series of modal particles, gesture, and sway their bodies. Well, this kind of "street ballet" that Jacobs calls and Mumford's The folk rituals of "urban drama" are very different from the past, right?I also find it interesting how intellectual elites behave in terms of how they shape the nation's psyche.For example, in the Buddhist hall of Tanzhe Temple, what did Feng Xiaogang do and what expression did he have?The Beijing compound group, the children of the former privileged class, could see internal movies and movies as early as the 1970s. According to Wang Shuo, they were originally "soldier eggs", but they became the first batch of rebels. After the changes of the times came, they lost a lot, so you can see that the tide of sensual beauty and poetry has receded, and what is exposed is still the stubborn stone of leftist genes.So, how do they drink a glass of wine in a bastion of a free economy, such as a nightclub in Chaoyang District?Another example is Chen Danqing, who always has ejaculatory eyes.Zhang Yimou always attacks "intellectuals" with a stance of disdain.Those are portraits of the times that everyone can see, but there are subtleties in them.In this country, however quivering and restless the soul may be, one thing remains the same—that sooner or later people are bound by the past and reveal where they came from.

At first glance, nothing has changed more dramatically than this era.It's a chemical reaction, it's an explosion, it's a flame crackling in a small furnace that will eventually spread and burn the world.It's exciting, of course, but on the other hand, it's also tiring. Sometimes I feel like I'm falling asleep on a roller coaster without real interest in the turbulent times.Occasionally I will look back and think of Lang Shuai's "Orchard", which is a romantic original intention.I'll also think of another orchard where I can mark where I came from. It was a vineyard I visited one fall in high school.That day, a classmate and I walked for an hour to a low and flat hill.The horizon is slightly shining, making us feel how small we are, and the concrete pillars of the vineyard on the slope are dazzlingly white, where the grapes have aged and there are still fine green spots.We saw the gray stream like a bright muddy soup, gliding over stones and wading across fields, wrinkling the edges of the culverts under the bridge, which was rough and small.We hear all the silence on the hills, and the breeze blows through the void, but it is filled with true peace.Later we walked down the hillside and passed the endless vineyards. This classmate suddenly pointed to one of the water tanks and said that it was in that water tank that the hostess of the vineyard, a family of three, were all thrown by the male owner. Go in and drown.You know, I didn't expect this to happen.The water tank is as big as the one in the Forbidden City.

Generally speaking, similar cruelty, mixed with beauty, can symbolize my past memory, which was the 1970s.I also come from the 90s, when Lang Shuai was a poet and everything around him was quite naive.This year after year is exactly the course of our generation. I'm just very, very curious, what does the old days mean for our generation?Is it really a poem, a beautiful day, or a little hurt, infinite forgiveness?Occasionally, I saw some people write about the events of the year, and they wrote tens of thousands of words, but they just repeated a sentence of Mr. Shen Congwen: "I have walked bridges in many places, seen clouds many times, and drank many kinds of wine. Wine, but only loved a man of a good age." This is certainly a model of good times, but I don't think he can explain many strange stories in people's hearts.In the end, on the night after dinner with Lang Shuai, the weight of the past time weighed down my eyelids, making me feel like a gray old submarine sluggishly in my light sleep, searching for the truth of the lost time .