Chapter 123: ** Love (12)

(12) A secret password from heaven

The reason I've been at Yahoo for five whole months, longer than anything I've ever done, is mainly because one day at the beginning I saw this quote on the Yahoo blog:

I think that's probably what a true poet is. They carry a secret password from heaven, in their arms

Hiding weapons, with fragile flowers to defend against reality.

In life, the image of a poet is generally like Gu Cheng, Haizi, and index finger, and Mr. Pei also thinks so, feeling that he has to be sent to a psychiatric hospital to wake up. I had to ask my teacher Zhang from Lu Xun Academy of Literature to tell him.

He asked: Is it normal to crawl on the ground and talk to a turtle?

Teacher Zhang said: Yes!

He asked: Is it normal to cry while writing, and to cry all night?

Teacher Zhang said: Yes!

He asked: Is it normal not to go out of the community once a month?

Teacher Zhang said: Yes! If you can't afford it, admit that you are incompetent!

Whose woman do I have to be???

If I must, I want him to think that my verses are secret passwords from heaven.

Mr. Pei thinks that my poems are innocent moaning, or arrogant and sick.

He leaned back on his bedside every night at half past eight and read the novels that depicted the wild union between men and women, and read them to me. I don't know why he was so interested in the depictions of animals in heat between picturesque landscapes. I still find these kinds of books.

If my son comes in on something, he will be very impatient and even say a few things to go back to your room. If my son's homework is delayed until ten o'clock, he will say that he will suffocate me, this paragraph is very funny, I want to read it to you!

I reckon he'd probably read it three times, and his mind couldn't seem to remember anything.

Just now he was looking for a stick to beat me, but in a blink of an eye, he took off the belt and showed me his belly, saying that he was angry again, and he had to help him shake his belly.

I looked at his eyes and felt that he was really looking for the wrong person! That was clearly the most coquettish woman on the Qinhuai River back then, playing the pipa and throwing her eyebrows to seduce every passing man to spoil her!

He fell asleep after ten o'clock, and the next morning he sent his children to school to buy groceries and came back early, and bought daily necessities and dried fruits and snacks on the way after work. Although there are no roses, there should be nothing to be faulty. Just like my hair young, classmate and colleague Hu Yuqi said that he is a husband who is very suitable for life.

It's just that he doesn't want to read a single paragraph of my article. Even though I've now degenerated into a writer, he can't imagine my straightforward idioms, such as the combination of rigidity and softness. Even if I have the audacity to write about the clouds and rain, sweating profusely, etc., it will not stimulate him at all, it will only make me ashamed of myself, so forget it, I will still write poetry.

Writing poetry, for me, is to tell everyone what my ancestors and my lover from 800 years ago said to me alone.

(Chapter 10: **'s Love, 2008.11.27-12.07, A Lan in Ciqikou, Beijing.) )