Flowers blooming on the stone

-------- Li Qiuyuan

(1)

Not long after I moved here, I I heard that there is a very special cafe deep in a nearby alley. The cafe is filled with oil paintings painted by the owner himself, making the entire cafe look like a gallery.

It was a rainy day, and I walked into the cafe holding a second-hand laptop I bought with my part-time job money. Sure enough, oil paintings, large and small, can be seen everywhere on the walls on both sides of the aisle in the cafe and on the four walls. Different versions of a piece of music are constantly playing in the museum, including female version, children's version, saxophone version, flute version... The consumption in the cafe is not high, just order a cup of caramel coffee for 15 yuan, and you can You can sit in a cafe all night, enjoy the air conditioning and listen to music all night. This kind of cafe is the best place for me.

A man has been sitting in the corner, drinking an AK47 alone. He was wearing a black Chinese-style blouse, with artificial embroidery uniquely added to the chest placket.

I noticed an oil painting above his head. The oil painting showed two musicians, one played the violin and the other played the saxophone. The lines on the painting were rough and free, and the colors were bold. . I asked the waiter: "Are these paintings really painted by the boss himself?

The waiter smiled and said, yes, yes, he painted them. He originally studied art.< /p>

She pointed at the man

Oh!

I walked over and said to him, "Man, your painting is beautiful! Well, I really like this one. "I pointed to the oil painting above his head.

"Yeah, it looks good. "He said vaguely. "Sit down, please. "

He raised his eyes to look at me, his eyes deep. A trace of contempt passed through his pupils, and he looked up at the paintings on the wall perfunctorily. He lowered his head to hide his contempt. He didn't seem to want to talk about painting with outsiders, so I had to turn the conversation to music in the cafe. He didn't want to talk to me about painting, but he was willing to talk about music, Debussy, rock, and pop electronics. I listened, mostly quietly.

He was drunk.

I dared to mention his painting again, but he asked me to pay attention to the wall opposite. A small painting on the top. Those are two old paintings. “Look, over there, those are paintings painted by geniuses. It was drawn by a six-year-old mountain child. "I saw the small painting on the wall, the pink sun, with curious eyes open and a slightly pouted mouth, charmingly casting chrysanthemum petals of light on the countryside. The countryside is criss-crossed, and under the children's pen, blue, Pink, ink, red...the colors are an unexpected and amazing combination.

"Does that kid still draw now?"

He doesn't. Answer, close your eyes, listen to the music, and hum softly to the music.

“The music is beautiful. "I sarcastically turned the topic to the music in the cafe.

"Well, "Flowers Blooming on the Stone". ”

“I’ve never heard of it before. ”

“It’s an old song. ”

“Go and sing the song of childhood. The song contains green mountains, green water, red sun, white color, gardenia, between the possible and the impossible, and flowers blooming on the stone< /p>

Go\singing the song of childhood\to the legendary Sunshine Coast\the mermaid\not the foam in the morning light\she smiles\dances\fly\between the possible and the impossible Time\Flowers bloom on the stone

Go\Sing that childhood song\To the end of the song\Sleep in time\Tenderness\Like water\In the possibility

He sang , quietly. I had never realized that his male voice was so pure and full of tenderness. The tune unexpectedly changes its key at "Between possibility and impossibility...flowers bloom on the stone...", as euphemistic as the last tears of a departed person.

After he finished singing, he drank the AK47 in one gulp and opened the buckle on his chest.

I clasped my hands together gently, looked at him, clapped my hands, and said, "It sounds great."

He stood up. He ordered another bottle of AK47, “Come on, let’s drink together.

"

"Oh no! So spicy! "

He stared at me with red eyes, looked at me for five minutes, and judged with certainty: "Ha! You are still a young student! Why aren't you going home now? ”

“No, I am not a student. "I shook my head.

"What about you? What to do? "

I am embarrassed. Are you saying that I am a bad boy who was kicked out by my parents?

"I write. "Compared to doing odd jobs here and there, writing seems to be a serious matter.

"What to write? "

"Written nothing. Just write some garbage. ”

“If you want to write, you must write those stories that you really want to tell others...” He was drunk and looked at me with straight eyes. Something pierced my heart.

“Oh no, don’t write that. My fingers were cold, "What I write only needs to make money."

I keep moving. The rental housing is shabby and messy. I didn’t plan to clean it up either. I looked at my cabin and the stains from the instant coffee I drank yesterday were still stuck on the desk. Drinking coffee is to refresh yourself. Although in my articles, coffee becomes a prop, the protagonists always drink coffee so elegantly. They taste coffee as if they taste the smile of God. I'm not. I drink coffee because I use it to stop falling asleep and make money writing crap articles. Listening to music is also for writing articles. I listen to music to stimulate my numb nerves. Stimulate it, let it reset a poetic illusion, so that my words seem more like it. I downloaded a bunch of music, including Liszt, Debussy, Chopin, and Mozart, mixed with death metal, gothic rock, experimental metal, and psychedelic metal. When writing articles, I picked music like ingredients, in order to make Those salads made of characters look prettier.

I must write. Writing no longer brings the excitement that it once gave me. I watched gorgeous fields flow out from my fingertips, and words like a mold printed with sunshine and sweet coffee fragrance flew on the paper, but I was extremely bored. I could write several of these in an evening. When writing is linked to livelihood, and when I keep counting words using tools on the computer, I don’t feel that I am nobler than a pig that is eating feed.

I regret it.

Actually, I regretted it from the beginning. I miss the red-flowered Poinciana tree on campus. In my last look back when I left the school, the Phoenix flower was as red as fire, burning from the inside of the campus wall to the outside. That burning red burned in my eyes for so long. My mother once found me and tried to take me back, but I refused every time.

Can I go back?

(3)

My mind is filled with the song in the cafe. It kept chanting in my mind: Between the possible and the impossible\Flowers blooming on the stone\Between the possible and the impossible\Flowers blooming on the stone\Between the possible and the impossible\Flowers blooming on the stone.... .."

I changed my online name to "花开 on the stone", so a bunch of "花开 on the stone" appeared in the chat room, in every corner, like beads scattered on the ground

I closed the chat room window, took a long breath, closed the document, and closed the computer with a snap. I suddenly remembered that when I was a child, I was so sure that I could. Become a great man and win the world. But now, I just want the story of the child in the mountains. It must be a good story and can be exchanged for coffee and money.

I went to the cafe again. /p>

"Kid, you're here again..." He recognized me and greeted me proactively.

"You're welcome. Don't call me a kid. . . . . . I'm not a child. "I felt a little guilty, swallowed my saliva, and rubbed my hands.

He pursed his lips, slightly turned up the corners of his mouth with a smile, and looked at me tolerantly.

" This time, you promised me that you would finish telling the story of the child in the mountains. "I slowed down my speech and raised my voice. My voice sounded mature and calm, and I was very satisfied with it.

"Oh..." He tried to search from his memory After the drunken conversation that day, he nodded awkwardly and motioned for me to sit down.

He looked at me, smiled and said, "You are so young...tell me, are you 16? 17." ? ”

“I am 17 years old. "I blushed and corrected solemnly.

My performance wasn't as perfect as I thought it would be.

“Not a student anymore?”

“Well, I didn’t go to high school.”

“Why not?”

Me Speechless, silent.

“I don’t want to read anymore. My father wants me to go abroad. I won’t go. Why should I go? To a place full of foreign devils, washing dishes and reading at the same time? I can’t live well now. Very good. No one cares about me, and I won't die of hunger."

He looked at me quietly and listened to me politely, with an unreadable expression on his face.

"Uncle, um, tell me that story, that..." I pointed at the sun painting, "the story of the boy who painted."

A few days ago, I called him "brother", so naturally, but now, I can't help but call him "uncle". He didn't drink today. When he was sober, he had a unique quiet and deep temperament. When I was talking to him, I suddenly felt that pretending was a silly behavior.

"Oh, where did I say it?" He smiled like a big boy and rubbed his hands, "That day, that day I drank too much..."

"Five yuan, Gouwa won five yuan..."

"Oh," he smiled slightly, and continued, "Five yuan..." .. People in the mountains work every day for food, and five yuan is a lot of money." He looked at me and sighed, "I saw Gouwa wearing clothes made from his father's old coat, and his shoes were so tattered that they were tied with ropes. , My chest was so tight.

"Gouwa used the five yuan to pay his tuition and finally became the ninth student in the school. The remaining money bought medicine for my mother..."

"Children in the mountains have never had drawing classes. I discussed with Teacher Li that I would give some temporary lessons to the children. Drawing class, open your eyes. "

"I brought some painting supplies with me. Although they are not many, they are more than enough to handle nine children. When I placed the crayons and drawings in front of them, their eyes widened and they were reluctant to even touch them. Gouwa returned the drawing paper and crayons to me. He said, "Teacher, we can just use stones to draw on the ground." He picked up a small stone, walked out of the temple gate, squatted down, and drew on the yellow mud outside. got up. Other students followed suit and followed suit, drawing on the dirt outside the temple gate. The first drawing class I took in my life was on the yellow clay outside the temple gate for these children in the mountains. I will never forget the way they squatted on the yellow mud ground, wearing clothes so shabby that the color could not be seen clearly, and carefully learned to paint stroke by stroke with branches and stones. Gou Wa's paintings are very clever. When I squatted next to him and praised him for his good painting, he smiled, showing a simple and shy smile.

He paused and looked into my eyes, "You have never seen that child's smile. Standing next to his own clay painting, his smile made me feel sour in my heart." "

"I asked Gouwa if he wanted to learn painting, and he said, yes. "

"I asked him to stay and study after school, but he shook his head and said that he had to go home immediately after school to help his father work. "

"I chose a few paintings for him, and then put the drawing paper and crayons into his hands again. Let him practice drawing by himself at home, just draw on white paper, and then color it with crayons. ”

“I stayed with this group of children for three months. In addition to teaching painting, I also teach them singing. If you treat them well, these children will want to give you their hearts. In front of them, those false words cannot be said at all. They are re-teaching me how to be sincere and an upright person. ”

“After three months, I have to go back to school. ”

“I taught them to sing the last song, which is this song “Flowers Blooming on the Stone”:

“Go and sing that childhood song Yao. There are \Green hills, green water, red sun\White\Gardenia\Between possibility and impossibility\Flowers blooming on the stone

Go\sing that childhood song\to the legendary sunshine The coast\the mermaid\is not the foam in the morning light\she smiles\dances\fly\between the possible and the impossible\flowers blooming on the stone

Go\singing the song of childhood\ To the end of the song\time sleeps\tenderness\like water\between possibility and impossibility\flowers bloom on the stone"

"I kept all the painting tools, books, emergency medicine, and extra clothes Down for the kids.

I left them my address and said to them: 'You must study hard. When you grow up, when you leave the mountains, just follow this address and find the teacher! ’”

“Gouwa lowered his head and was silent for a long time. Suddenly, he raised his eyes and stared at me and said, Teacher, you won’t come again, will you? I looked into his eyes, not knowing how to answer. I don't know if I will come back again. I had made too many promises that I couldn't fulfill, but when I faced his eyes, I really couldn't say anything. "

" Gouwa's eyes have always been there, ten years ago, and they are still there. I took away one of his last studies, No, that one..." He raised his eyes and looked at the small painting with the pink sun."

"You will do it again later. Not going back?"

"No..."

"Why"

"I'm not ready..."

"How do you think you are ready?"

He smiled, rubbed his cheeks with both hands, and looked up at the cafe, "I don't know either." Coffee A couple came in outside the hotel, sat down at the table next to us, lowered their heads and whispered. He glanced at the couple blankly and said, "Maybe, when I make enough money, I will leave again."

Hehehehe, I couldn't help laughing loudly. You will never make enough money. He was startled for a moment, and then burst into laughter.

After the laughter, we both suddenly fell silent.

"Oh, by the way," he suddenly spoke up, breaking the silence, "Thank you for returning the photo to me that day. The photo was just sent by Teacher Li. It shows him and his students. A reporter took the photo for them. The reporter reported that there is still a shortage of teachers there... Let her continue studying." He said calmly, with a slight smile on his lips but sadness in his eyes.

He lowered his head and pressed his joints so hard that they crackled, "For the past ten years, I have been thinking about whether I should go back to the mountains... I have been undecided, maybe because I am afraid of the eyes of those children, afraid that I will not be able to bear the expectations of those eyes..." I tried to talk to him about other topics, and he did. He responded to me politely, but it was obvious that he was distracted.

"I want to write the story of you and Gouwa." I said softly.

He suddenly came back to his senses, crossed his arms across his chest, and looked at me thoughtfully, "Child, I seem to have read your article in the "Sixth Night" magazine. You are ? 'Two Life Flowers'? Hehe, it's a girl's name. I just saw you writing about my cafe a few days ago, and you mentioned that you like the music "Flowers on the Stone" very much. ”

I was a little embarrassed, "I...I like "Flowers on the Stone" very much"

"Next time I come over, I will burn a CD of "Flowers on the Stone" for you. Remember to come and get it ."

"Oh, thank you, thank you!" I sat up straight and said thank you.

“It wasn’t until I saw you writing about the music in the library that I connected the pen name ‘Two Life Flowers’ with you. I’ve seen you talk about your parents and your alternative wandering life before. .....You are very talented." He said softly and looked at me deeply, "Why don't you go home?"

I turned away. "Hey, I'm too lazy to care about them. I live by myself and it's pretty good."

He was silent and looked into my eyes. His eyes were sharp, like needles that seemed to penetrate my heart. I slammed the computer shut, stood up and left the cafe without saying a word.

He also stood up, reached out and patted my shoulder, and said softly: "Parents are your parents after all. No matter how wrong you are, they are the people you are closest to..."

Go\sing that childhood song\to the end of the song\sleep in time\tenderness\like water\between the possible and the impossible\flowers blooming on the stone

The night breeze is cool A cool feeling crossed my cheek. Behind him, the music in the cafe was lost in the night wind, as ethereal as a dream.

"Between the possible and the impossible\Flowers bloom on the stone" "Between the possible and the impossible\Flowers bloom on the stone" "Between the possible and the impossible\Flowers bloom on the stone"

Something cold dripped quietly on my face.

Oh, how is it possible, how could I cry? Those weren't my tears, they were because of the wind, because the cold wind made me blind...

(4)

When I got home, I didn't turn on the light, Sitting on the sofa, I took out a half-eaten can of potato chips from the coffee table in the dark, and started to gnaw the chips. The room was dark, and the familiar tables, chairs, and coffee tables seemed so strange and distant in the darkness.

They were the first to deny me as their son.

I have a respectable family. Their figures and their smiles often appear in newspapers and on TV... On camera, they are always so polite, gentle and calm. The cousins ??in the family are all top students. My sister is equally outstanding. Five years ago, she was admitted to Tsinghua University with the top score in the city. Reporters from the TV station came to my home specifically to interview me. The father faced the camera and said in his usual calm tone: "Su Wen is our only daughter..."

"You three, please take a photo together." The reporter misunderstood.

"Oh, no..." Just as my sister was about to explain, her father pressed her shoulder, pulled her mother to sit next to her, and calmly made a POS gesture, smiling. . The three of them appeared in front of the camera beautifully, such a harmonious and beautiful family!

They thought I had not returned home from school, but they did not expect that I secretly skipped class that afternoon. At that time, I was hiding in the cloakroom next to the hall playing handheld video games. When I was surprised to hear the conversation between them and reporters in the living room outside, I felt like a spike of ice had been stabbed in my heart.

I remember that day, I smiled coldly, swaggered out of the cloakroom, walked out of the hall door under the embarrassed and surprised eyes of my parents, slammed the door, and left. That night was my first night out. I played video games all night with some of my buddies. The next morning, when I got home, my father raised his hand and slapped me. When I looked at my father's eyes which were red from not sleeping all night, and when I looked at my mother's face that was haggard due to worry, I tasted the joy of revenge on my parents for the first time.

I am not worthy, I am not worthy to be their son. I have no excellent grades, no outstanding looks, no sports or musical talents that I am proud of. They lamented more than once: Why does Xiaowen look like someone else, but Xiaokai can’t? Xiaokai doesn’t look like anyone in our family at all. I was the outlier in this family, alone among the disappointed and suspicious looks they cast on me. I was anxious and lonely. Only writing could temporarily escape me from it all and feel relieved. I used words as a shield to shield them from their gaze. Hiding behind words, I felt safe and comfortable. Since the second grade of junior high school, I have had a group of close friends around me. I have never felt more important with them. We smoked together, skipped classes together, got into group fights together, and went to Internet cafes together... I was a bad boy, but I was no longer lonely, and there was laughter all around me. I don’t care if they like me! No matter when the song "Flowers Bloom on the Stone" is played, it always takes my breath away. I slowly opened his letter.

Little brother:

I decided to go back to the mountains. I've read your novel. Your novel brought me back to the past. This time, I didn't hesitate anymore. To the customers in the cafe, I am just a dispensable businessman, but to the children in the mountains, I am a teacher who can bring them color and hope. They need me.

I haven’t finished telling Gouwa’s story. He came to see me later. He did not become an excellent painter like the "dog boy" in your novel. He dropped out of school early and wandered around doing small jobs at a young age. He accumulated his hard-earned money and came all the way to find me. I gave him money and clothes, but he didn't want anything. He said that he just wanted to see me, and he would be satisfied when he saw me. He would never forget the days when he went to school and learned painting. Those were the happiest days in his life...I will never forget, he The look in his eyes when leaving.

I have wasted too much of my life on meaningless things. Climbing between the blocks, his whole body smelled fishy. This city is noisy and lively, and it will not fade away because I leave. I should go to the mountains, where there are so many children who need me. They need me, they need a childhood with light, color and knowledge.

I know that I am not alone. There are many volunteers who are continuing to do this. Can we really change the fate of those children? I have no idea. But I'll try my best.

I went and never gave myself any excuses to leave any regrets in my life.

Little brother, don’t give yourself any excuses anymore. Go back, go home, go back to campus, that’s where you should be. In your articles, I have seen you mention the beef and potato soup made by your mother many times, and you wrote about the red phoenix flowers on campus... You want to go back, don't you? Your family loves you. They feel guilty and upset about unintentionally hurting you in the past. I have met your parents. When I mentioned you, your father, who was strong and resolute in front of others, suddenly became discouraged as if his spine had been ripped out. He said that he was willing to use everything he had in exchange for your return. And your mother often suffers from insomnia and heart palpitations. She can no longer withstand more wind and rain.

Little brother, reconcile. Human life is so short, don't waste it hurting each other between loved ones who love each other deeply.

I believe you will go back.

Wish you:

Peace!

Tang Ming

August 2, 2009

"Go back, go back... home..." I muttered to myself and stared blankly. Write the letter. Inside the house, the music was like water, flowing through my heart.

"Go\sing that childhood song Yao\in the song\green mountains, green water, red sun\white\gardenia\between the possible and the impossible\flowers blooming on the stone

p>

In a trance, I saw phoenix flowers blooming all over the sky, like burning flames, and the fragrance left in my memory was refreshing. .