I Read Golden Whip Stream
I Read Golden Whip Stream by Li Wenfeng. Golden Whip Stream is a fleeting glance of Zhangjiajie, this peerless beauty. A hero told me he was conquered by Golden Whip Stream; a beauty told me she was enchanted by Golden Whip Stream. Should I write about heroes and beauties? No! In a wild dance of fine wine and coffee, I suddenly broke free from the rolling world of mortals and embraced Golden Whip Stream's icy purity, jade-like cleanliness, magnificence, and charm. —Preface. Golden Whip Stream is beautiful with charming eyes. Its beauty can no longer be described as...
Reading Golden Whip Stream
Li Wenfeng
Golden Whip Stream is a fleeting, flirtatious glance from Zhangjiajie, that peerless beauty. A hero told me he was conquered by Golden Whip Stream; a beauty told me she was utterly enchanted by it. Should I write about heroes and beauties? No! In a wild dance of fine wine and coffee, I suddenly broke free from the rolling dust of the mortal world and embraced the icy purity, jade-like cleanliness, magnificence, and amorous charm of Golden Whip Stream.
——Preface
Golden Whip Stream is lovely-eyed and charming. Its beauty can no longer be compared to the ancient beauties who made fish sink and geese fall, nor described as a feast for the eyes, nor proven by the theory that beauty is utility. Its beauty lies in intimacy, in seduction, in transparency, in enticement, in lingering, in the half-revealed affection, in the water that nears the horizon, in the call of dreams, in the frenzy of poetry, in the backward glance of dance, in the melodiousness of song, in the stillness of winter, in the stirring of spring.
After a stretch of quiet solitude, restlessness retreats here.
After a stretch of dark seclusion, love is filtered here.
After a stretch of transparency, life becomes eternal here.
At the entrance of Golden Whip Stream, there is a secluded bamboo grove. That must be the bamboo from the brush of Master Banqiao, like knives and spears. The stalks are jointed and straight, exuding a clear spirit within their hardness. The spreading, flowing bamboo speckles enact the myriad ways of the world's fickleness, display the countless forms of love between men and women, and depict the myriad faces of city and countryside. The bamboo joints are the score of music, a row of unpredictable changes, distinct in their segments, hollow yet hiding the spirit of heaven and earth. Do you wish to converse with someone close? This clear-toned bamboo flute. The bamboo leaves, green in the wind, expressive in the rain, like colors on a palette, like waists in song and dance, countless "个" characters propping open a free sky. The bamboo grove, with its distinctive singing, its very lyrical bowing welcome. Romantic yet not vulgar, plain yet not dull; jointed before emerging from the soil, still humble though towering to the clouds. The rhythm of life, leisurely and free, perfectly smooth. The intent of love, rich and full, with expression, acceptance, and dedication,饱满恣肆. A flock of small sparrows presses down from the sky, like seeds sown by the fingers of spring breeze into the bamboo leaves, chirping as they sprout.
Through the clear rhythm of the bamboo grove, a bamboo shoot that has grown for billions of years comes brightly into view—this is the legendary golden whip of Qin Shi Huang. The golden whip is fired, shooting toward the horizon, breaking through clouds and mist. Stars brighten, birds startle into flight, dawn opens its eyes, the rising sun starts, white clouds circle the bamboo, clear wind passes through. Thunder retreats, flying snow disappears. When rain comes, the golden whip shoots toward heaven; when the moon rises, the golden whip shoots into pupils shrunk ten-thousandfold.
Under the sun, purple light shines; in the call, time has settled into crystalline wing bones.
The golden whip is majestic and wondrous, piercing straight into the blue sky.
The golden whip is like a handle growing from the earth.
Golden Whip Stream coils around the golden whip day and night, guarding the golden whip.
Small bridge. Flowing water. Sunlight. Red hats. Rustic and elegant charm, passionate modern singing. The dense shade flowing under the small bridge tells of the deep feelings of dreams; under the red hats, a few happy fairy tales reflect red flames, forgetting the way here, hiding the way back. Sorrow and fatigue drift away with the water, and what drifts away is the flying boat that stems the waves; joy and ease flutter in the wind, and what flutters is the folk tune echoing off the cliffs. Take a photo with the small bridge, put the white water splashes into your eyes, let the sunlight gnaw at the grass in your heart, toss the red hat up, up, near the sky, near the sun.
The red hat is a colorful cloud in the sky.
The red hat is a wreath of flowers under the sun.
A stream of red hats, a stream of rosy clouds, a stream of flowers. That is flock after flock of dove flowers, patch after patch of lobster flowers, ridge after ridge of honeysuckle. A stream of flowers, a valley of flowers, a cliff of flowers, an ocean of flowers, birdsong of flowers, wine fragrance of flowers, shapes and colors of flowers, brightening the lips of flower-viewers, sticking to the eyebrows of leaves, standing on the backs of cliffs, telling stories of wandering. In the rain, red and black flowers and leaves bloom on both travelers and tree branches, and the flowers and leaves bring a very warm feeling to those who come to keep the appointment. The rain's visit comes unexpectedly, and travelers and rain suddenly become intimate. The stream water bears the footprints of rain, and red fish kiss them, reluctant to leave. The path bears the footprints of passersby—this is the translation of life's value. In the midst of dense longing, suddenly a bell and drum roar like thunder, and ten thousand golden rays leap with a sharp sting into this Golden Whip Stream valley. The sun's dancing girls spread out rainbow skirts, performing a wild dance and carnival of primal impulse. An hour and a half later, on a dolphin-like cliff beak, a fireball is held in its mouth—that is the dolphin's acrobatic performance. Travelers stand on tiptoe to watch, their hearts pounding with excitement.
The rain stops. The rain curtain is drawn back, and the long, deep Golden Whip Stream valley reveals a stream of bony pebbles and a stream of boneless flowing water. The pebbles are arranged unevenly, and the flowing water is uneven, and in the unevenness there are life's ups and downs. The pebbles squeeze the flowing water, and the water takes shape according to the stones, twisting its myriad soft limbs, posing in coquettishness, in heroic posture, in a journey of reverie and frivolity. A cluster of white,
the ultimate of blue water, a dynamic color; a thread of green, the brilliance of white water, a static color. The fine white roots of water plants sway in the water, small shrimp float lightly above them, like artistic sculptures in crystal. The stream water is arranged pool by pool, collecting the shadows of flying birds, receiving the urgency and confusion of flowing water. A cluster of fish in the pool, at a light call, follow the sound to seek food, coming close, opening and closing their small round mouths, fanning their thin pink-like bright fins up and down—truly water sprites of the pool, adorable to the extreme. Involuntarily squatting down, as if squatting by a goldfish tank beside a TV at home, teasing with infatuation. The stream water is like a spring, trickling along, not violent in spring, not dry in winter, not overflowing in summer and autumn, just flowing day and night with clear mellow purity, flowing with an ordinary heart, flowing with a Buddha's heart, flowing eastward, flowing to the sea, flowing to the sky. There are no waterfalls; that thread of flying spring is a silk scarf separated from the most beautiful waterfall in the world. Approaching the flying spring, one approaches passion; approaching the flying spring, one approaches the most beautiful waterfall in the world.
By the Purple Grass Pool below the flying spring, purple grass squanders emotion in patches. Standing on the stone slab bridge, watching the dance of the flying spring above the pool, it is truly like the wonder of a young girl's ballet—layer upon layer of spray, bit by bit of vigorous steps,丝丝入扣, soft dancing hands, waves like swaying waists, lingering and tender. Then look at the reflection—white clouds embracing the reflection of water plants, suspected to be a heavenly song and dance in full bloom. Branches reach over from the stone bridge, wanting to grab the hair of those crossing the bridge, but only tug lightly, then spring back, meeting and parting with intent and unintent. Go to the poolside, reach out to scoop water like mercury, fingers near the pool edge, then stop. Afraid to disturb this quiet longing, afraid to wake this lake of secluded dreams, afraid to break this lake full of nature, philosophy, and childlike innocence.
In the dark seclusion, the moon rises, and fine water flows with a gorge's melody. Lines are disordered, shadows are affectionate. Leaves are like flying wings, flying wings like embroidered silk thrown by heavenly maidens. The pounding drumbeats fade, the hoofbeats of gunpowder smoke still. The sound of water flows with the sound of the moon, like the intangible stirring of a girl's first love. Suspecting Tang poetry is materialized here, guessing Song ci is shaped here. Bamboo-shoot peaks split countless fragmented moonbeams, and the moonbeams deeply kiss the upward desire of the bamboo-shoot peaks. The moon hides in the inner chamber, the stream water hides in the inner chamber, the window stars of the stream valley wait for the inner chamber to light up a patch of purple clouds.
Along the way, the spray bites the tip of a girl's heart.
Along the way, the echoes grind a young man's tears.
The surprise of love, meeting in golden autumn. A stream of red leaves, a stream of autumn. Autumn is as deep as the cliff valley, and the water grows thin, the trees grow thin, passion hides in maturity. Autumn in the cliff valley is like early spring in February, with a light elegant flavor, a clear sorrowful beauty, a musical spirit. Then the stream leaves are stream flowers, stream leaves red as flowers, beautiful little flags fluttering on the cliff walls. Cut them down, hide them in book pages, read the veins of red leaves, read the secrets of the season, read the brilliance of life. Some leaves fall in the wind like rain, fly like doves, fall into water and become sails, sending messages afar. The iron-like fine branches stand still like deer antlers, remembering the life of leaves, calling for the return of leaves. The affection between branch and leaf, with the change of seasons, grows deeper and deeper, warming yesterday for each other, entrusting tomorrow to each other.
Red leaves bring the season of bone, the season of strength, the season of experiencing life's small achievements. On winter's stage, the dance of whiteness begins to be performed—props, music, and the sound of gongs and drums are all white. The cliff walls of the stream valley are covered with icicles, like inverted combs, like resting white swans, like narrow door curtains trailing on the ground. Monkeys climb over the ice blocks, begging for food from ice-players, then after the fun, sit in quiet thought, gazing at the distant ice blocks where the footprints of ancestors remain. In the footprints are the trends of mountains and rivers, flowing water and households, seasonal changes, the swaying of five grains, ethnic migrations, golden spears and iron horses, emperors and generals, male thieves and female prostitutes, fox friends and dog parties, life and death partings, chaos and confusion. Ice is the mirror of birds and beasts, the cradle of quiet energy, the hometown of stream water. Tenderness has already slipped into the ice cliffs, true love has already stood at the edge of spring. On the long roadbed, crystal clear and transparent, covering the bumps, slippery and calling one not to forget hardship, not to forget the other side of joy.
Under the ice blocks, the news of spring flows with a roar.
Ice-players are in good spirits, breaking the ice to fetch water, putting it into bottles. One leads, several follow. I asked a wandering monk why. He answered: To take the source of spring.