At the beginning of the editor of the high test reading hotspots, we received this comment:
The first, "the homeless."Times change“a total of seven articles, mr. Shu feilian's three, almost “half-mile mountain”, all of which are “travern thinking” and “home love”. They are certainly good works, but is the author more widely available? Good articles on similar topics, believe there's more in the pen, is it appropriate to have a variety of styles
Of course, there are good articles of this kind, but the first principle of the book's compilation is “the selection of local high school language papers”. The pen editor summarized the feedback received from authors and readers over the years and selected more than 30 articles for comment and guidelines. Teachers everywhere are staring at these writers, and naturally we're not avoiding relatives. There's a hong kong sentence, there's two more articles, cut off。
In the last 10 years, shu fei-cheng, a teacher at the college of arts, has returned to the countryside on a regular monthly basis. His records, his thoughts and his life are inextricably linked to those of the rural areas where he has lived, where he has moved his body and has reached a point of mind。
His township is located in the north of the jianghan plain, west of the mount of pygmy, in a location of only stamp size on the map. However, each and every one of us can touch the earth, look to the stars, listen to the water and the wilderness。
And here's the full text of village daunted — outside of the papers, hugging a more complete convulsion:
The country is awesome
Shu feilian
2021. 088. 26 articles, pen
I've been back in the country for a few years and i haven't had enough guts. The villages that are far and far from home, too, have dared to go, under the white trees of the marmalades, the earthlings, and the suspicious white geese in the alleys, staring at their necks and walking by. The fisherman with the electric pole is also heartless. I was tired of reading under the light at night, pushing the door out of the village, following the main road west of the village towards a dilapidated school, with stars in the sky, like the seven star hooks of the bei dynamite, hanging on the trees of shu's family, removing the entanglement of symbols, walking in frogs, paddy, starlight and the night fair, and my body was relaxed and happy。
I haven't dared to go out in the morning lately. It's not like the woman who left early in poetry, who left the country, “i'm tired of obnoxiousness, the night is too long,” who is afraid of wetting his shoes, causing trouble, but is afraid of snakes. Even though i've only met one or two times, and i don't know whether it's a water snake or a “flaming snake”, snakes may be more afraid of people, slip far into the artemisinins, and i'm a little bit like a bird of a bow, and i'm worried about a snake. You can't run in rain shoes, can you? The bamboo forest on the side of the road is very suspicious. And the desolation of the country that i long for is approaching, not only the wild boar elephants, but also the fished fish, will return to their homes. Where are the wolves? And the white tigers? The little river will welcome them, as will the people by the river? I saw the little ponture on the side of the road with the dog's tails, and i found it poetic. These years i saw the ears swirling over the dam, black iron over the branches in the deep autumn, throwing out the little mines with their hooks, and in the psalms, the picker's ears smelled poetic, and if it were to be replaced by the words “check for the ear”, it would upset our readers with their hands and feet. To the village of wang dynasty in the south, the road was a young tree. I went for a long walk. I had written "beautiful, good listening " , and a group of herds flew around the tree. Last winter, when i ran up the hill, i first found crows, hundreds of them standing on wires and dead branches, “with their sons, their friends”, and staring at me with my cell phone, like a car and horse. And we turned back and ran forward, and the back was dark。
I've been chased by dogs since i was a kid, and i've been getting a little bigger lately. Once upon a time, on our side, we were very pure chinese field dogs, snowing, white dogs, white dogs. Black dogs are rare because some say black dogs are the best. Compared to the popular firewood dogs, they rarely smile. Their “dog vision” is simple: bowing down to their families, being loyal, barking like leopards to strangers, turning their teeth, having a clear line between “we” and “others”, security can be guaranteed if they don't cross that line, and if they go after them and escape from it, they are the living. But these experiences, which i've exchanged with thousands of grams of adrenaline, have now become very suspicious. People in the nearby villages, like second-hand clothes and second-hand cars, accept “second-hand dogs” in the city. These unknown dogs then interacted with local dogs, their pleasures were melted, their homelanded and their urine were used to try to divide their respective territories, rendering most of the former hide-and-seek maps ineffective. When you lose judgment about the force and range of a stranger's dog, the best way to do it is to take a detour. Dogs do the same, and cows do the same. The grass is flying on the banks of large and small rivers and has opened up pastures for cattle, as well as the traditional buffalo and buffalo, which have black and white cows of different colours whose main duty is not to take on the burden of farming and grow into a model of labour, but to eat and walk quietly into the luminous meat complex. They do not pass the rules of old farmers, do not vent into fields and face a tragic future. And every time we emptied them on a narrow embankment, we were in a state of panic. He who grows cattle, he who lays grass for the garden, he who grows little onions, he who lays bees, he who sets ducks, he who is not a native, but he who swims, he who speaks different dialects. I've known less and less of the old people in the village。
Fear of “ghosts” follows ... Each village is left with its own family graveyards, sometimes spilling over, unable to enter a post-filled graveyard, and the children bury their loved ones in the corners of the fields where they worked. The custom of our side was not very much devoted to building monuments, nor would there be a grave of bricks. On the day of the funeral, the graves would be built on earth, the rituals would be cleansed, weeds and seedlings would be uprooted from the graves, and a new earth would be added to the graves. The ages have passed, the graves have been levelled, and relatives have descended to the yellow springs, to the mountains, and it was also the wish of the ancients “to be buried in the wilderness, not in the trees”. Now that the people have made new houses, renovated the roads, moved to the graves of their ancestors in the fields, raised stones, and made good signs, with dragons sculpted, with bricks and concrete, and made new ones, as well as the building of an attic on the graves, with heavy beams. And those who are in a hurry, and know the manners, and feed themselves and benevolent to their parents, and those who desire to feed themselves, and those who are in their hearts, i understand. It is only in the fields outside the village that graves were once hidden in rivers, embankments, trees, earth mounds, low-profile, natural and migratory, and are now highlighted in a special rhetoric that reminds us of the presence of the dead, which is indeed a challenge for us, the citymen who have isolated the dead with hospital morgues and cemeteries in the remote suburbs. When i did not dare to walk out at night, and when i was bewitched by the evenings of the west and the stars of the sky, i drove out to be a god of the night, from the village of boguang to the village of kim, from the village of innovation to the village of our farmers and across the river. I'm not afraid of being in the car, like a strong engine, the industrial sense of a chair inside the car, the rocky wind of music, cutting through the dark lights, which makes me feel safe enough. I'm stuck on an island that's drifting out of the city, in a dark country. Sometimes i just die, trying to open the door or drop a window and smoke a smoke, because the shadow of death is as deep as graphite, and the stars are like needles, and it's as thin as a cow's hair, and the wind is so thick, it's like a spider entangled, and it's the protein that comes out of the dead's land, pounces on their faces, and it's full of skins. I'm so hairy, i'm scared, i'm losing my mind. I'm in a hurry to finish this body experiment and drive home. Films are seen with a projector before bedtime. Suspicion films are not possible. They come back to the bathroom, and energy-saving lights are lit in the stairs for one night。
When i was little, i was scared too. I am a little superstitious when i am three or five years old, and i am not very literate, and my grandfather's parents are in the country of voodoo, and my grandmother eats fast, and brings forth the karma. Do not dare to go to the waterside, fear the ghost; do not go out in july, because the door is closed; do people die in the village, and within 779 days, the fear is high; see a “swirling wind” on the ground, because grandma says it's in the "blower"; and when it thunders in the sky, it's time to think about whether or not they've made a waste of rice to kill ants. In the middle of the night, he wanted to pee and was afraid to go to his grandfather, who lived north of the house, to use his nightpot, because his coffin was on the west side of the house. Nor dared to open the door, went through the hall, peed on the door, and was dark outside. The way i came up with it was to put the wooden bed on the side of the wall, in the red brick stitches on the wall, with a small knife and a small hole. And then i read lee fee's "leave to love", and i found out that he had invented a wall-deeping technique for the night, but that his motivation was not fear of ghosts but lazy. I remember reading the first book of the drawing book, "tai yiji" , sitting on the slopes next to the house of paul at dusk, looking at the fields to the west, and thinking that i might never walk out of the border of our village again, and that the outside world was full of foxes and ghosts, foxes and spirits and ghosts. I was 1st grader, 14 years old, and i loved to go home, and on weekends on bicycles, and most feared was the part of the river river river, where the woods were full of monuments, and i was riding the bikes so fast as to make the fog go away, as if the sunwalkers had fallen into the firehouse set up by the children. It's about 14 years old, and an atheistic education, and we save ourselves without the gods and the emperor. After 14 years of age, the sun rises and the courage rises, and even the world is not afraid of ghosts and emperors. So, just like lu soon, who taught in tokyo back to shao xing, i'll kick you in the ass; even if there was a ghost, i'd learn from song ding-bak, go across the bridge and sell you a few words and flowers on golden temple street。
When did you turn back and come back? Last year, i met a teacher, jiang, in his 50s, who was in the middle of protecting me. He was at anhui's residence, where he talked about the "red tofu" that my mother and sister had done, and he lied to me. He also fell in love with his family because his eyes were as thick as a glass, and he could not drive, so he asked his wife to drive him back to his hometown around the mountains, to climb to paradise and swim and fish in maysan reservoir. But he was afraid to spend the night at home. One time after dinner, he went to talk to his old father in the old house, and when the countryman was tanned, he fell asleep, lying on the bed, snoring like thunder, and mr. Jiang's bed was in the new house. He was afraid to go back to sleep alone, thinking of the stars in the sky, the dogs on the ground, the snakes on the side of the road, the ghosts in the alley, and he snored in his father's snoring, in the crumbling night. Madam is playing cards in the county, so why don't you help us? You're more afraid of ghosts than you are. Knowing that there are no ghosts in the world and that even aliens are suspicious, why do you feel sweaty in the dark of the country? What's wrong with you? Where do you boys learn how to climb out of the country when you're little? What are you afraid of
So, it's not superficial fear, it's real fear. Solo went to lake walden in the summer of 1845, "if there are no undeveloped forests and grasses around our village, thenRural lifeIt'll get dead. We need the wilderness to nourish...” and the woodlands of the americas are the “fields” in their cities. “maybe nature will try again to make me the first settler, and the house i built last spring will be the oldest in this small village. I don't know if anyone ever built a house on my land before. Don't let me live in a city built on an old site in an older city, where the old city's materials have become ruins, gardens have become cemeteries, the land should be tanned and cursed and the earth itself must be destroyed before it is necessary to do so.” having found the canoe left behind by the indians on the lake, and having learned that the name of the lake came from the curse of an indian woman named walden, he must have understood that it was not a wilderness, but a land of the dead, filled with colonial blood and tears. As he moves into the forest, he will hear the “waldden curse” from the dark, undetectable lake of the mirrors, which makes it difficult for the middle-aged hermit to sleep, and will feel “daunted”. I'm guessing he left a little bit more than two years on the beautiful lake, and it's got something to do with the fear
Mr. Jiang and i had no luck to pretend to be in the wilderness, nor did we resolve to destroy the earth itself. We went back home, like a raindrop into a well, a grain fell into a mill's sleeping cabinet, like a mother's womb that knew the monkeys were on mau yang's roots. Because we are back to the beginning, and because we can no longer avoid it, we will face the call of the ancient spirits alone, the dawn of the awakening of the morning fields in our homeland, and the fear that comes to our hearts: “... Neither can the threat come near from a certain direction, and it is `here' — but it is so close to nowhere, so tight that it suffocates — yet there is nowhere else.”
If we know what we are afraid of, we may be fearless. As wang yang ming said, “when the night is clear, there is no hearing, no thought, no peace of mind. In peace, god is clear, mumu is the world of the peace”. Together with the country's wind and grass, with the desolation and new life, with joy and fear, with the utopian of the zorin and the industrial utopian, with song dingbur and lu, is this perhaps the prelude to beautiful, sober and fearful field life
2021, 06, 14, wuhan
