Tex River’s prose “Chains” it’s a chain the size of an arm and it goes round and round

2022-06-10 0 By

The chain/Ma Zhijun It was a gloomy and overcast sky of fog, containing many unhappy childhood, sad, foolish and ignorant, but still just easy to happy, curious and growth, so that after a long time, passed through hardships, bitterness, the past still emerge clearly, in the background.That’s a long time ago.It was the city of Wushi in the late 1960s, huge, noisy and mixed, bearing the joy and innocence of two teenagers….”, the younger brother has been in the water channel of the wall below, pouted buttocks, revealing two bright open-backed pants at the meat knot, and I looked in the eyes, ready to go into the drill.And I, carefully took out five cents, passed to the window, and then there is a hand and a rectangular small color paper sent out, I stood on tiptoe to take it to the city is called the people’s park gate.We went in both ways, and we spent the whole day there.Every animal was named, your tiger, my lion, sika deer, owl, ponies, if they had grown a little taller. Then we sat down by the lake under the pavilion, and from a big sack my brother carried, we took out some little oil-pot helmets and ate them.What was in the pocket was unknown, but on one quiet day, my father opened it curiously and found a kang full of screws, stone coins (sheep crutches), glass beads, rubber bands, steamed buns, and a small copper hammer two or three inches long with a handle as thick as chopsticks.It was a bag sewn together with a white towel, probably used as a pillow, but he took it, tied a string, and hung it day and night around his neck.When he slept, he held it tightly in his arms, and at the slightest sign of movement, he rolled up and stared at everyone with frightened, vicious, hateful eyes.And it was often me who took my mother to the bathroom in the morning, jumped on the board and stood on tiptoe to grab a few pieces of food from a large porcelain pot, and my brother would meet me and put them into his bag.It’s the only place that’s safe.Then we slipped out of the house.And then a whole day of wandering around town.We also went to the Grand Cross, the South Gate, the People’s Square, the Second road Bridge, or stood at the gate of our courtyard, 21 Xinhuanan Road, and watched the black trucks rumbling past with anti-slip chains.More along the side of the street, looking down, those are much lower than the street of the concession stands, candy stores, smashed tin.I used to go down, or slide down, and buy matches, candles, twirls, and oil there.Food is not for sale.Everything is ticketed, even the soap.Then we wandered around, an unchanging and fixed route, until we came to the Grand Cross.That’s the heart of the city, the heart of the city.In the middle of the cross was a round barrel, on which stood a policeman dressed in white, with a red and white stick in his hand.The stick pointed in one direction, and then a few cars passed, more yellow canvas jeeps.At each of the four corners of the cross stood a circle of stakes, also red and white, joined by two arm-thick chains in a great arc, from which lay the shops.I often touched the chain and lifted it, feeling heavy, wondering how the thick chain was made and how the rings fit together.Then we go to the south gate, to the Second road Bridge.And a few times I would see my father coming toward us from a distance, his head raised high and his face moving in the distance against the dark waves.And this time, we quickly turned into a small alley, hold your breath, squatting zang somewhere, see colorful trouser legs from the past.It was the only thing my father wore, a signature outfit that separated him from millions of people in the city, summer and winter.That dress stayed with him most of his life.It wasn’t religious clothing, but it was also what was traditionally seen in religious clothing of the time: a black fluzzle-shaped round cap, rimless like an split, also called a “bowl hat,” which fit snugly into his head, with his peaceful, calm face underneath.It was a face I had never seen in my life laugh wildly, sigh, scowl, or scowl.It was black and striped, wide and with four pockets, like a MAO suit.The trousers were black striped velvet, also wide, and black textured cloth shoes.He walked in the crowd, steady and dignified, with a sure step.And mother also often asked him to change clothes, hat into “fan fan”, which is similar to the kind of cap.That’s what I’m looking forward to, no more being laughed at by my peers.He promised, but he never did.Besides some of his senior brothers, also filled my house every time that ten square meters of small room.They brought a lot of things, including wrenches and screwdrivers wrapped in linoleum, and said they would leave them with father.I don’t think it came from anywhere.At that time, all the religious people changed careers, some to overhaul factories, some as workers.They also brought dark gray caps, zipper clamps over the father’s head to try size on the body.I advised my father to change his clothes completely, saying that it was a new era, a new society, the world had changed, and you were the only one.The father bowed his head, nodded his consent, and hung the hat on a nail on the wall, and there it hung forever, the dust a foot thick, and he remained exactly the same.Once his mother put a hat on his head and laughed so hard that she said she looked like a spy.In fact, I also secretly sad, the heart is looking forward to my father one day like a cadre of people holding my hand.And I never did.My mother then began to hang out with ten of the courtyard women, often in dishevelled clothes, and imitatingly sat barefoot in the middle of the yard laughing, eating melon seeds and swearing.And the father, still unchanged from the public test at the back of the compound, with one hand always tucked in his crotch, walked impassive past the women.Inevitably, there was a great laugh.”Why does your man have his hands in his pants all year round?”In fact, the father was afraid of dirty urine on his pants, which is against religious law, must change clothes, small clean (wash).A woman who grew up to 16 years old in a remote village and then married a religious person, and never went out of the temple, suddenly moved to the metropolis, in fact, there are some inexpressible changes.Mother is greatly changed, and there is a rift with father, and this rift is bit by bit, puzzling, fundamental.Like me, a boy who grew up in a temple and peered out through the door of a red-painted wooden door, and then stepped into the capital city, the streets and alleys were indeed filled with some endless curiosity and temptation.My father, who had been sent to the temple to learn classics and culture at the age of four and five months, took charge of the church at the age of twenty-nine and was promoted to the head of the church. He had never had any social contact. It was indeed a difficult choice to change himself suddenly.We had moved from Suiding County (today’s Huocheng County) to Yanqi Hui Autonomous County when my father, as a young scholar, became famous throughout Xinjiang and became the youngest cleric.Because of the Reformation, the temple closed, and we had to move our hukou back to our hometown.On the way to Wushi, he was a bunch of brothers, and a mentor blocked down, just help to fall hukou.I remember that day my father came back excitedly and said that our family had become the last one million households in Urumqi. He said that this was the woman who was in charge of the household registration.It was a chain as thick as a black arm, hanging in silence from the great cross, and sometimes giving me a strange fear and weight.I thought of the less and less mother and father spoke to each other and stared at each other, and on dark nights, listening to the rumble of trucks and remembering the many strange things that happened in the streets, tears trickled down my pillow.I also think of the red Mountain below the New South China Road, which can be seen in the distance, the stone pagoda above, and the bright creamy red mountain bathing pool below.In my childhood dream, I thought that there were fish in the bath (fish pond), and I thought how to go in to have a look, but I never dared to step beyond the 119 wooden towers under the New South China Road.The rift between mother and father is deadly, petty, and seemingly hierarchical, fundamental, and ideological.Father, daytime work, loading cars, anti cement package, digging pipes, night, eat a meal, a little nap, worship, he opened his scriptures, it seems.”Look here,” he said, pointing to the words, as if to us, as if to himself, “Listen: Ah, my poor servant, I have come home at last. Do you know how my mother is?”And the man in the scriptures is the equivalent of Aristotle.”Your mother she’s dead.” “Oh, I’m relieved.And do you know how my father is? ‘”Your father, he’s dead, too.” “Oh, I’ve lost my patron.And my son, is he all right? “” He’s dead, too.” “Oh, my heart and lungs are bursting.And my daughter, how is she?””She’s dead, too.” “Oh, my joy is gone.””There you go, there you go, there you go,” said the father, as if sipping nectar: “The mother is the son’s duty;The father is the patron of his son;The son is his father’s heart and heart;Daughters are the joy of fathers, ah…”Sometimes it was more quiet, and he had to turn over several large books of scripture, like wooden covers, as thick as two bricks, covered with black or red cloth, as if it had been pasted with paste, and the paper inside had turned yellow.The letters on the cover are lumpy and quaint.Some are said to be the 1660s version.He sometimes sought out text to verify a proposition.He would often get so lost in the words that he would burn candle after candle.At such times, I lie on my back and look at his lonely face in the lamplight, the tall, slender bridge of his nose, the sunken eye sockets, the tight lips, and want to go somewhere and cry.He was a handsome man of his time and was secretly loved by his mentor’s mother.He reluctantly chose that path, and walked through his life, like a chain.Decades later, he was buried with great honors, including leading cadres, colleagues of the Economic school, and ordinary people from Gansu, Ningxia and Qinghai. He was buried in a remote village in Huocheng where he lived as a recluse by a sea of people.He was recognized by the government as a model of national unity, lifelong commitment to the Sinicization of religion, taking the road of China’s independent religion.”Deeply mourned for The elder Brother Guizhen,” “knowledgeable and respected,” “…”Etc., etc.After that, after that distant city life, after a lot of torture, mother finally found her happiness, and I had two wonderful new sisters.Mother struggled free from the chains in her own way, happy and free, though not, as at that time, honoured, flattered, and respected as a teacher.She suffers from that.She had a new life of integration into society.And father, he didn’t seem to care about women, family.He has a temple, hundreds of disciples, culture, respected!And I, always with a heavy shackles, the chains of the heart, sanctimoniously mixed in this world, since childhood, childhood.– Yining, 2021