- Zhang Ailing's "Love"
remembers a quirk of "Dancer in the Dark" Shaman, every time the movie was about to end, she would leave early, I was reluctant to destroy my imagination with the grand finale singing and dancing. She left her seat, and no one knew that this light-footed woman had been blind for a long time. Yu Yongyuan's life is also about to go blind, and the early death makes people's eyes go black. He is sitting under a tree in the playground of the elementary school. The slender cicadas make this summer extraordinarily short. After this season, He didn't know if there was another chance. Death seems to start from the eyes, the sight that slowly cools, the hardest part cracks all at once, crying, fearing, mourning, just because it can't bear this suddenness.
"When I was a kid, all my classmates left, I was still sitting on the playground alone, missing my mother who had passed away, and I suddenly realized that we will all disappear eventually..."
Every day many people leave my side, they go to work Go to school, or go downstairs to the supermarket to buy a bar of soap. These were all purposeful departures, and some of them, when I heard the news again, were already dead. A classmate in junior high school, he left me with the impression that he was always on the track in the playground. He won countless long-distance running championships in sports games. This time he died of a myocardial infarction, which was the sequelae of the wild running. That day, we went to the funeral home and walked slowly up the mountain without the ramp. Some wind was blowing on our bare skin, as if it was a very shady August. I didn't hear a loud cry, all the people stood silently, and he lay there, unable to see his face, but I knew that it must be lifelike after passing the makeup artist's hands.
I suddenly hated the description of lifelike, a living person's perspective, a scalpel with shining steel, cut a line on the thin and tough skin, the blood hesitated for a moment, and then poured out. An unknown benzoin was burning in the memorial hall, a soul was floating around, someone was talking in a low voice, and another was hiding outside talking on a cell phone. I stood in the sun, sweating in bouts, but not feeling hot at all. There was a bang on the side door, someone ran out to the bathroom, and I heard a tenor reading a eulogy on the megaphone, a propositional essay completed in a class, and I don't think he would like such a compliment.
Yu Yongyuan was not like this. He knew that he was going to die, and he counted down every day to measure the temperature of his death. That small photo studio was his palace that was the calmest in August. Passing by many people outside the window, related and unrelated, he remembered their appearance, hanging upside down in the viewfinder, and one day, he will see himself here too. Sometimes he would choose the old way to develop the photos, pour developer agent in the developing plate, insert the photos diagonally, and flip them gently with a pair of bamboo chopsticks. A person's appearance will appear little by little in his gaze, but he can't. Love her. Photos are the only traceable evidence of our memory. Repeated perjury for the dead years, gradually you will forget the ugliness of death, leaving behind the shy and sweet inexplicable smile.
That year, my grandmother was only in her sixties, but all the relatives were guessing that she was about to die. They were secretly talking in the aisle in the kitchen, looking weird. I don't know how they made such a judgment, maybe the dull gaze of my grandmother showed a cloud of death obscuring her breath. She was lying on the bed, her eyes wide open, and she was still chewing a fresh red date in her mouth. The family invited a photographer, who was in his thirties, with compact features and shrewd eyes. My grandmother was so coy that day, she insisted on changing another dress and combing her hair constantly, but she just didn't look in the mirror. She sat on the edge of the bed, looked at the foldable mirror box uneasily, and adjusted her collar subconsciously. She seemed a little timid and didn't dare to smile like she used to. For the next few days, she kept asking the photographer, for fear that he would be gone forever.
That photo studio has a lot of fame in the local area. Couples are partners, and there are always several couples going to take wedding photos every day. When I took the photos, I walked around the alley called Kangle Lane for a long time, only to realize that the photo studio was a private residence, and there was a dog with an indifferent expression squatting at the door. I didn't see the couple, just an old master sitting on the ground floor, repairing a yellowed old end-of-the-year film. Beside his desk are bottled paints, a scraper made from the clockwork of the alarm clock, water cups, toothpicks, writing brushes, palettes, and he is using a piece of cotton dipped in tooth powder to wipe off the oil stains on the film.
I fell in love with that photo studio with amazement, where our memories can be modified and patched. The old master told me that his most common job is to color black and white photos. In spring, he uses bright green, pink, pink, purple, light yellow and light green. In autumn, he uses sky blue, golden yellow, brown, red, purple, red, grass, green and dark green. Rose red brown red dark green indigo. Men's chins should be slightly lighter blue, women's cheeks should be lightly blush, children's ears should be outlined with rose red, and the nose of the elderly should be added with a little black to the brown and red. I saw that my grandmother's photo was gradually getting out of shape in his hands, her brows and eyes were soothed, and a slight smile appeared on the corners of her lips. He finally said that she didn't want to die. I was walking fast down the street with a huge picture of my grandmother in my arms. Pedestrians looked at me, for some reason, I stopped, stood in the middle of the road, and started crying.
"The feeling of love fades, just like the old photos, but you will always be in my heart, forever beautiful, until the last moment of my life. Thank you, goodbye."
How I wish I could one day be at my own funeral, for you again Reading this monologue by back, life is about to end, and love has not really had time to start. Before leaving, Yu Yongyuan wrote a letter to Delin, and then put it in a cardboard box and sealed it. This letter was a farewell to death that he couldn't say in person. He wanted to sit in that coffee shop all the time, through the glass, lightly touch his lover with his fingers, and in the future, she could only use this way to commemorate someone who left him without saying goodbye. In 1997, the young Korean singer Jin Guangshi committed suicide suddenly. His smiling portrait made Xu Qinhao feel a lot. A year later, there was this "August Photo Studio" about love and death.
Except for a few movies like "August Photo Studio", "Spring Die", "Love Letter", and "Love in the Wind and Dust", the love I saw was too noisy, just like the Saturday hot pot restaurant across an alley, No matter how deep the night is, there are drunk men and women hugging and shouting to break up. They vomited violently, stood on the wall to urinate, slapped each other, smashed their mobile phones with all their might, and a middle-aged man with a stomach belly sarcastically scolded her for being ruthless to Miss Yi Ye who didn't look back, and then knocked down an entire row of them. bicycle. Perhaps, it is time to use death to calm our love. At the end of love, we hope to be able to watch each other go away in peace, the warmth still exists, and we have never lost our minds.
This summer, a classmate went to Australia without revealing the slightest bit of wind. I don't know if someone went to the airport to drop him off and they would say to him, that's great, you can spend Christmas in the summer.
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