10. Posthumous: a sad song or a sweet drink for the men of Upper Ling Village
Later: a sad song for the men of Sakamura, or a sweet drink.
Singing
The Singing is finished, and I’ve been writing two years, and I’ve stopped the keyboard in the fall of the storm, and it’s like a heartbreaking play.
The grief of losing a father is still silt in my heart. He died before I finished the novel. His ashes are still in blue. There is no place for me to grieve until he enters the land. His spirit may have reached heaven and may still be with me. In any case, the father is in my heart forever. Now the more I can’t see him, the clearer his voice in my heart.
It’s like life goes on.
Not to mention my novel, Father almost witnessed the whole process. He was actually alive when the first draft was finished. But I have to change it. I have to change it. Father left before I finished the novel. He left in peace, perhaps because he met with all his children last, or because the hospital had given him tranquilizers. Who knows if he’s in pain? My father’s life was a man of strength and vision, even though he had been sick for most of his life, but I never saw him cry for pain. The man in the village is the greatest man in the village.
The Singing is for the men of the village, a sad song for the men of the village, or a glass of sweet wine. Even though there’s no father in the story, not even the real men in the village. The only real name in the story is Qin, and most of his story is fictional. But the posteriori of this novel, I must speak of the real and true men of the village. They’re actually part of the novel. Without them, the novel does not have the greatest meaning.
I’m talking about three men.
The first man is Qianjin. He’s my family. I can call him cousin. When I was a senior, he was a senior. That year high school was two years old. Zheng Jia Ning graduated from high school soon after he joined the army. That was in December 1978, when Qianjia became a member of the army and was the only one in our village. There are two other men with him, one named Romong and the other whose names I can’t remember. The three of them were at a party where I went. They wear large red flowers on their respective garments. And I put my eyes on the drummers, and I looked at them with envy, because they did look proud. In those years, only those who were qualified in politics and in body could have that honour. At that time, I also thought that if I signed up for the army a year later, the judge must have doubts because of my father and mother. So they can join the army, and my envy makes sense. I sent them away with joy and weight and went back to school. The snow came down to a school down the hill that we touched. And the snow of the past has remained on the top of the mountains, white and white, and we are just watching. I didn’t think it was a bad omen at the time, but on the contrary, I thought I’d get a school, at least a technical school, next year.
And shortly after that I was at home, suddenly I saw the road across the river, passing over a number of excisers. The car was full of people and everyone was excited to call. Then I knew it was the militia next door.
Soon, the war broke out. I look at newspapers every day, news of victory and heroism. I remember one of the deepest heroes, Iwaru, who was a common fighter, but a sharpshooter. He killed dozens of enemies at once. One day, however, he had a captured telescope on his chest, thought by the enemy to be the commander, and was unfortunately shot and killed. I started worrying about my cousin.
After a few days, the village sent teachers and students to a memorial service. In the playgrounds of the village government, I saw two relics, not my cousin, Jia Ning, but the other two who were with him at my great village high school. Their remains were still in civilian clothes, suggesting that they had not been able to film their military uniforms in time for the battle. I remember the name Romong, and most of all, he had a good voice, and I didn’t think his voice would match that of Liu Jian and Sun Nan. But he died. He was under 20.
A few days later, a number of liberators crossed the road across my river. It was the men from the Golden Village who had returned, silently and in fewer numbers than they had been. I’m still worried about my cousin.
After a while, my cousin’s family came back alive. He was wounded and cut off a piece of his buttocks and was demobilized and placed as a worker at a country sales agency. I saw him at work, he was selling alcohol. I went up and said hi, he didn’t talk to me. He had little to say to others. I think he’s still covered in the smoke of war. I asked him what he had been through on the battlefield. They said that he had not told anything but that he knew that his unit was a field ambulance convoy, and that he was a collection of corpses. I don’t want to see him again.
Then I went to college. I graduated from college and got back to high school. I’ve only met him once in a year in a great country. He’s so drunk. But I heard he was married and had a baby.
Then I moved away, and for more than a decade I didn’t return to my country, nor did I return to Hao Ling Village. Every year I go back to the village after 2007. Every time I went back to the village, I didn’t see Zhujia Ning, because he was in another camp, and the one in the mountains, I didn’t go up, he didn’t come down. I just knew he was laid off and his wife divorced him. It was only in 2014, when I went back to Beijing to see him. He came down from the mountain and jumped to death at the docks of our Upper Ridge Village.
I’ve suffered for years. Up until now, every time I cross the river, I think of him as if he had stood on the rock cliff by the dock and jumped down, and the water splattered huge waves, like a bomb. His life and destiny ended or sank in the river that waves. I want to write about this man’s life and fate.
The original intent, motive or inspiration of the Sing Sing was indeed linked to or came from him. I’ve been thinking of him alone for a long time, and I haven’t started writing. I think it is not enough to write about him alone, or the suffering of the author alone, and I have to give enough warmth to the novel.
Just in 2016, my uncle Bomin died. I am so sad that he is my dear friend who has died for 20 years. The man who died 20 years ago was my grandmother and my grandfather. Their deaths also grieved me, but after all these years, my grief has become thoughts. Now that uncle died, sorrow struck me again, and I couldn’t wait.
Uncle Bomin is the second man I’m going to talk to.
On the night of my uncle’s death, I wrote a text in my cell phone at the funeral home, reproduced below:
Uncle, at this late hour, at 308 State Road — where all the living are afraid to come. Valium 6, I watch and miss you. A few days later, I am still here to take you off to the land of heaven free from disease, poverty, bullying. You have been afflicted in the world by disease, poverty, and bullying, and you have finally escaped from those who continue to follow you, like cattle who have labored for a lifetime, and have removed their weights.
You’re my man, uncle. When I was 15 years old, five months after I unloaded concrete and removed bricks in construction, you found me, brought me to Nanning, where you were studying at the tertiary level.
For six months you lived with me, you were harsher than my father, but you loved me more than my father. The first time I ate apples, Sydney, you bought it for me, though only one a week. I’m sure I won’t be able to go to college without the six months. Without you, I must be another fate I don’t want.
You are the pride of our family, uncle. You’re not a bad person, you’re not going back to college, you’re the first and only college student in our family. University graduates are held in direct detention, with officers to the Director of Personnel. But your eldest son is still a farmer, and your youngest son is still laid off. They are now at your side, with no regrets, to wear piety.
You are not only the only member of the Communist Party in our family, but also the most loyal to the party I have ever known. At your farewell meeting, I would like to see the wreaths from your unit.
Eighty-four-year-old uncle, you’re now sure that your eighty-eight-year-old brother came to the 308th State Road. You two brothers have lost their mothers since they were children, and each of you lives alone. Now you go ahead and we haven’t dared to tell your brother — my father — because we don’t know if he’s had enough to lose you. If we decide to cheat him, forgive me, uncle.
It’s getting darker and quieter at night, and I’m not scared at 308 State Road. Many of your loved ones are watching over you, most of them from the top of the hill, where you were born and where you will live forever. “A soldier who does not die in battle will return to his homeland. * You’re not a soldier, you’re a cow, you have to go back home! and the green grass and the clean river, waiting for your return.
After his uncle cremated, we took his ashes back to the top of the mountain for burial. His grave is on the back of our ancestral house, half the hill. From there, it is possible to see the graves of their loved ones in their homes, fields and fields, as well as the long rivers and green bamboo forests on both sides of the river. People say it’s the best wind water in the village. I believe.
When I returned to Nanning to bury my uncle, it seemed like my father had a feeling of brotherhood and suddenly asked, “What about your uncle?” I couldn’t help but tell him about his death. But I didn’t. Next, the father’s behavior became strange – he used to pick up the microphone and dial, but he didn’t call, how could he not? My mother asked him what he was doing and he said I called Bomin. Mother says Boming is off at this hour. Leave him alone. Then my father asked me to send him to visit his uncle at the faculty, and I lied to him that he had taken him back to the Uppsian sanatorium, where the signal was bad and he could not call. After his death, his children came to visit my father, who had to ask him about his condition. The father seemed to believe that his brother was still alive and silent.
Six months after his uncle ‘ s death, his father ‘ s body was suddenly very weak. He’s like a machine that’s been running for more than eight decades, and he can’t live a normal life. It was also able to walk with a cane at first, and soon it didn’t work, either on the bed or in a wheelchair. Then there was a partial loss of memory and confusion, often mistaking the person who looked at him. But the father was very clear about the memory of the last ridge, and when he mentioned the last ridge, many had not seen it for 40 or 60 years, yet he remembered and told his story.
I started writing this novel in the summer of 2017, after my father couldn’t sleep. The uncertainty of life and the passage of time give me a sense of urgency. And most of all, my idea is mature, like the well is filled with water or oil, and I’m gonna let it come out or spray it out.
In the course of my writing, the father ‘ s condition has become more serious and frequent. It’s a little stable. Then we’ll take him out and take care of him.
As the father ‘ s life approached its end, she often came from the port of siege to take care of him. My brothers, sisters-in-law and nephews in the United States returned to visit him in turn. Our brothers and sisters have spent the longest and more intimate days together since we were young because they were separated and worked, and because of caring for and seeing their fathers. The care and care of my brother and sister allow my writing to proceed intermittently.
Then I’m going to talk about the third man in the village. I’m actually talking about him as my father.
With regard to my father, the man who gave me life and whom I loved most in the world, in 1996 I wrote an article with the title of his name, reproduced below:
Zhengbao!
Now, I ask the distinguished editor not to delete the title of the article because it was named after my father. My father is 70 years old, he’s a prune, but his name has never been in the paper. Unlike his son, he was less than half his father’s age and had many vanity. I’ve written many characters over the years, but my father’s name never appeared in any of my articles. Now look at it, I’m so stupid. My father has been a teacher for his life, teaching thousands of students, and his reputation is far smaller than that of his students, his son, and less than his dedication and worth. For many people more than I have written, I should have or should have written an article under the name of my father to name him, even though my father had already passed the desire and age of his glory.
The father ‘ s life is heavy and noble, as he taught, and ordinary as a chalk or as his son ‘ s name.
Like my father’s flesh and blood, my name is my father’s. I had two names. Yiping — this is my father’s first name for me, and it’s like a stale, moist land for me until I graduate from high school.
The 1980 high exam was my father’s volunteering. He changed my name first, before he filled out his volunteer. What a brave father! He dared to change his ancestral name. And before that he changed my brother’s name to Van Ping. From the word “fun” to the word “fang”, the father has a deep heart, and his thoughts and wishes are clear. And the Riverpool Teacher Training College, my father’s choice, became the parent school I still remember. When I was 16 years old, I didn’t understand my father, yet my blood decided that I couldn’t despise the profession as many people did. I’m in this school, and it’s the school that gives me the truth. I have never felt so strongly the pride of a teacher in my mind.
I officially started publishing my work under my father’s new name. I remember when I sent to my father a virgin published in the Poetry, “The Death of a Primary School Teacher,” and I enclosed a letter saying, “Dad, I understand why you call me peace.”
I’ve been using it ever since. It’s like a light from an ordinary light. I don’t know how many people have been inciting me over the years, changing my name, changing it to a strange name, and probably getting famous in the literature. I said, I won’t, because my father gave me my name.
Now, when I wrote this short, my father was with me. But he couldn’t see what I wrote, because he was almost blind because he was so blind that his father couldn’t read students’ homework before leaving the primary school in Yamamura. He said goodbye to kerosene lights and flashlights, and I took him to Nanning. But no matter how bright the lights in the city are, it does not stimulate or affect the eyes of the father. He can’t read books and television. I was often visited by relatives and friends, who misjudged me and shook my hand. Now, even if I write his name as big as I can, he can’t see it. And that’s why I dared to publish my father’s name.
1996
Later in 2009, I wrote another poem about my father, which, to be precise, was a set of poems about my family, as the whole poem wrote:
Family
Everyone in my family.
It’s all a poem.
If it wasn’t poetry,
It’s my spring.
— Title
Shining light
I’ve never seen a man like my grandfather.
You can live without a woman.
He’s a boatman on the Red River.
Look at my father and uncle.
When they were young.
I don’t know.
Between 1928 and 1932
Two stars crumbling down.
Take their huts.
It shines in vain.
And Grandma left her and Grandpa’s work together.
To heaven.
Thirty-two-year-old grandfather.
Until the day he died when he was 81.
There’s no scandal.
What a poor man.
With a balder.
Raise two little men.
They can’t go up to the mountains and chop wood.
I sent them to school.
It’s over 70 years ago.
It’s so stupid. There’s no one.
Not even my grandfather.
He owned two stocks that year.
It’s rising every year until now.
It’s already very, very valuable.
Grandfather doesn’t know either.
He used to roll the rest of the books.
It’s in my grandson’s hand.
Like a pair of wings or a thousand eyes.
I fly in the world I imagine.
Look at life.
Thanks to the development and enlightenment of this book.
That’s half a book of Red Rock.
Grandfather, the night before your death,
If you don’t drink kerosene as a bottle,
I won’t die.
I’ll continue to use half of the Red Rocks as a cigarette roll.
Tore to the last page.
Your grandson won’t get your inheritance.
Grandpa did something stupid again.
Last time for my son.
And then for grandson.
Zhengbao!
A strange man.
I saw me when I was 14.
He’s in public.
“Does it look like you’re the son of your son?” I’m sorry.
I picked up a rock in anger because
How dare he call my father’s name?
My father is like a king.
His name. No son.
I thought people couldn’t scream.
My father was a teacher at Spring School.
He wrote the message in chalk.
With a red pen.
He’s respected and admired.
His territory is just as big as Spring School.
He was king there.
I can’t be more blind.
The medicine the sick father took.
One ton more.
I’ve crushed a family.
But it didn’t collapse.
Because there’s a woman holding on.
That’s my mother.
Since 1996, a miracle.
Like an iron tree.
Father is no longer a regular in the hospital.
Father, 81 years old.
Living happily
Climbing once a day to the seventh floor twice a day.
Most interested in weather forecasting
My biggest concern is my obesity.
I bow to my sick mother.
In turn, take care of her.
Their marriage has been gilded with gold.
It’s making it hard for many people.
Pan Li-chul.
I found my genes.
Mother’s more.
The woman who entered the family.
It’s all about art.
When I was sure of that,
Mother is almost 80 years old.
She started writing novels and essays.
Use the IBM computer I’m out of.
Three thousand words a day.
I’ve published one of my novels so far.
Shorter.
I’m a writer for nearly 80 years.
80 Post Author
She’s got a beautiful pen and a vivid picture.
So much that something suspects all my work.
From my mother.
Mother values the cost of her work.
Because she’s been poor forever.
I lost a card game with a friend once.
My mother’s draft money is in my pocket.
After that, my mother has a very long speech.
I’m afraid I can’t write it.
The story is made up of something, but it is.
Mother’s wish.
It’s my mother’s work.
The secret of a mother and father’s union.
She’s the landowner’s daughter.
The only thing you enjoy is reading to middle school.
It was before liberation.
Mother after liberation.
It’s like a weed in a stone.
Mother’s grass.
Married to the father of the farmer.
Protection
Mother’s at home.
She served her family like a girl.
To serve my father, who has long been ill.
He’s raising his daughter.
Mother wrote a good word.
It corrosived in the age of deep water.
But mother loves her husband.
I love her children more.
Her love is silent and profound.
Like a river.
3 November 2009
This poem, “The Shining Shining” is my grandfather, and “Pan Lee” is my mother. Speaking of my mother, her union with my father was expressed in the poem. Because of the high composition of the mother, marriage to the father was the best option. It is also because the father married a wife of high composition who, at his age of good fortune, has not been reused or even beaten. In 1969, the mother and father were transferred back to the village, where they were teachers in front of the production team. Our brothers and sisters are treated differently from others during school hours because of their mother ‘ s component. In 1977, my brother’s admission to Wuhan University arrived in the countryside and was detained by the Secretary of the Village Party, who almost missed his chance to advance. My strong application to join the Red Guards in secondary school was not approved, and even when I went to college, I was the only one in the class who was not allowed to join the YCL. Perhaps because of her guilt, the mother took special care of her children and her husband, especially in the case of husbands who had chronic illnesses since they were 30 years old.
I now remember very well every time a father was taken to hospital as a child. He was brought down from another teaching point, often late at night, when I woke up from my sleep and the sound of father’s asthma filled the house. The mother then went to the ferryman. The father needs to cross the river before he can be taken to a commune hospital. The boatman was finally brought by his mother, and his father was taken to the river and boarded. On a cold night, when the wind blows, I stand on the dark side of the shore, staring at the swirling shipfire, listening to the sound of oars, and sending my father across the shore…
The father was cared for by his mother for 60 years, until he died when he was 90.
At 10.29 p.m. on November 1, 2018, this is bound to be a sad moment for our family. At the hospital ICU in the medical bed, the father stopped breathing. Half an hour before he stopped breathing, our brother-in-law was gathered by the bedside to tell the father that his brother, our uncle, had died two years earlier. My father must have heard him. His throat moved hard, and again. My tears were raging at that moment, just as I wrote it at this moment. Father, I’m sorry!
In the bed where the father died, our brother-in-law wiped his body, put on clothes, shoes and socks and covered his life. His father left clean, just as he was clean and clean on earth.
In the late stages of the father ‘ s severe illness, he was no longer able to speak out. We gave him a bell tied to his hand so he could hear when he needed convenience at night. Fathers keep ringing bells, sometimes for convenience. More often than not, I hear the bell passing when I write, nothing, and I’m a little impatient. I know now that the father wants someone with him. But now it’s too late. I can’t hear my father’s ringing bells anymore and I can’t be with him anymore.
The father was taken to the funeral home. We have a temple at the funeral home. The news of the death of his father came to the top of the hill, and the people of the village came to mourn, either from the top or from a different land, and stood up with our relatives. In two days and two nights of the wake-up call, I saw the respect and respect of my father by the people of the village, which I did not expect. The father left the village for 28 years and never returned. But there were so many people who didn’t forget him and missed him. What I didn’t expect was the farewell meeting, which came up with more than 200 people. They’re fathers, at least in their 40s. And, of course, there are my friends, who have come to pay tribute to a respected primary schoolteacher rather than to me.
Before and after his father cremated, we burned paper for him, burned villas, Mahjonggs, poker, because that was the last thing he needed before he died, so we wanted him to have it when he died. The father spent his whole life on medical care and gave it to the hospital. Father, burn him enough money to spend anything, because there is no pain in heaven and no hospital.
Also, my father’s favorite watch, which I bought for him in northern Europe, was worn even if he could not see. Father’s heart stopped. This watch is still moving. When the watch was in the urn, the watch was still walking.
Father died one day later than Kim. He’s not too late to catch up. Even though he did not know Kim, he did not recognize him. May the father be in heaven to join the mediocre, for he will be taken in by the mediocre of his life.
Father and Uncle, the two brothers finally meet in heaven and continue to be brothers.
A few days ago, I drew a picture of two cranes flying over the mountains to heaven. That’s the mountains of the upper mountains. The two brothers, the father and uncle, had lived together there, and now they have gone from there.
I don’t know.
The story of the three men from Upper Ling Village, the most important part of the post-Sing, is a supplement to and explanation of the novel. For me, it’s really enough to have this posthumous piece, because it was my father, uncle, the man who went to the village like this, who had the Singing.
17 November 2018
I don’t know.
Keep your eyes on the road.
