Hairdressing and Bagua

    My hair's been really unruly lately, with just one tuft sticking up, looking so defiant and infuriating. Actually, I've always liked rebellious things, and I don't mind unruly hair, but it can't be this arrogant! Look at you, you're even more stylish than me now, how am I supposed to stand it? So I decided to get a haircut.

    Walking into the barbershop, one glance was a stroke of luck—all handsome guys, a real feast for the eyes! But then, a second glance, and disaster struck. These handsome guys weren't brothers, they were younger brothers! Judging by their looks, they were probably around twenty. Even though I'm only in my early twenties, compared to them, I'm practically an old cow! Look how young they are, how fresh-faced they are! Looking at them even a couple more times would be an insult to my little brother, so I decided not to look. I won't be a pervert; I'll be a cultured person. My mom always says: "A person should be cultured; do not look at what is improper, do not speak what is improper." I'm here for a haircut, not to admire young women. Stay calm, stay calm.

    After washing my hair and sitting in the chair, while the hairdresser was waiting, I stole a glance at the girl getting her hair cut next to me. Listen up, the main character is here! Wow! Long hair cut short, impressive! I had long hair for about ten years, but in college, I impulsively rushed into a hair salon and chopped it all off. I've had this short, strong hair ever since. So much so that I can't take my eyes off girls with flowing long hair, especially when they walk towards me, the breeze gently blowing through their flowing locks, watching them dance gracefully in the wind—it's pure bliss! If I could touch it, it would be even better. No wonder most guys like their girlfriends with long hair; it's a great perk! Next to the girl getting her hair cut was a short-haired girl, probably her friend. She's a supporting character, so I won't say more; let's just call her the short-haired girl.

    A little while later, my hairdresser arrived. Choosing a hairdresser is like choosing a prostitute at an entertainment venue. Some people like good looks, some like good service, and some like good skills. I'm an exception. I always like new things, so I never stick to one particular person—no, I don't even try to choose. I usually just let them decide. Whether the haircut is good or bad, I don't care. It's just hair; it grows back quickly, so what's the big deal? This time was no different.

    The haircut started, and haircuts are actually quite boring. You can't move much while sitting there; only your eyes and ears can move freely.

    Not long after, I heard the girl next to me say, "Next time I can bring my boyfriend to get his hair done. Do you have men's haircuts?" I don't know if she was too loud or we were too close (about a meter apart), but I heard her clearly. I even imagined the expression on her face when she said that. I couldn't help it; it was just so boring. I didn't hear what her hairdresser said; it seems the girl was too loud. Okay, getting a haircut is a bit boring, and chatting with the hairdresser would be a good way to pass the time, but I don't like that, so I just listened quietly.

    After a while, I heard the hairdresser ask, "Where are you from?"

    "Shanxi."

    After a long pause, the hairdresser said, "Shanxi has coal mines." This was just a well-intentioned statement, I can vouch for that.

    Then I heard the girl raise her voice: "What does Shanxi having coal mines have to do with me!" Her tone was absolutely forceful. I was wondering why she was so agitated. The hairdresser fell silent, probably taken aback by her tone.

    Seeing the hairdresser's silence, the girl probably realized her tone was inappropriate and continued, "Actually, there are only a few rich people, they're all coal mine owners, I'm not a coal mine owner." Oh, I see. But they didn't even ask if she was rich, her reaction was way too extreme, I thought to myself.

    The hairdresser still didn't speak, and the girl stopped too. Okay, some peace and quiet.

    After a short rest, I heard the girl's voice again, "I called my mom today." Ugh, she had to tell her that? "I told my mom I wanted to get a haircut, and she said, 'Why do you need a haircut?'" Doesn't she have anyone else to confide in? Why tell a stranger about something as trivial as talking to her mom on the phone? "Then my mom said, 'Okay, whatever.'" That was it. But the hairdresser didn't seem to react much. I guess that's understandable; it's their family matter, what business is it of hers? This girl can't keep her mouth shut, I thought to myself.

    A while later, I heard the girl's voice again, "I got engaged this Chinese New Year." What's that? Is she so happy she wants to share it with everyone? I wondered. Still, I didn't hear the hairdresser. I thought the girl finally realized she'd made a fool of herself and would shut up.

    Sure enough, she kept quiet for a long time; it was quite a while before she spoke again.

    "I don't have any money to pay yet. My wallet is with my classmate, but she went out. She was called out by a guy. I guess they went off to chat. You guys always like to play little tricks." Gossip, absolute gossip, I shouted in my heart. There's no need to tell the hairdresser about this. What business is it of yours whether they're chatting or not? What business is it of the hairdresser's? The hairdresser only cares about how you're going to pay. Okay, I'm gossiping too, I know, but I'm just gossiping to myself.

    Finally, my hair was done. I stood up to pay, and I saw the short-haired girl who had just come in walk past. The hairdresser saw her and started chattering: "Were you chatting with someone? What's going on between you and that guy? Tell me!" I shuddered. Ugh! If I had a friend who was so clueless about social situations, I would never take her out to embarrass herself. It's one thing for her to embarrass herself, but to drag others down with her.

    After paying, I quickly pulled my friend out, glancing at her short haircut as we left—not great.

    Once outside the salon, I told her, "She's even more gossipy than you. She not only gossips about others, but also about herself; it's like she's stripped naked for everyone to see." I knew I'd been harsh; I felt bad about it. Speaking of which, my friend is a gossip herself.

    She got angry: "Am I the same as her? I gossip about others, I'm a reporter!" Ugh! So reporters are people who gossip about others, I see.

    On the way home, I thought: gossipy women are really annoying, especially those who gossip regardless of the situation. I need to learn from this! I'll never be that kind of woman again!

Wandering Thoughts

     Emerging from the subway station, a wave of heat washed over me, making me frown slightly as I swayed unsteadily along the roadside. I really enjoy this aimless, goalless wandering; the leisurely feeling lightens my mind. A setting sun hangs obliquely in the western sky, its hazy halo a testament to its waning heat. Distant mountain peaks are faintly visible, while nearby, a verdant expanse unfolds—a verdant tapestry of various unidentified trees.

    Across the street are newly built villas, their old-fashioned and austere style quite disliked. One day, I was passing by with A, and she said, "These villas cost 5 million each." I said, "So what?" She slyly replied, "If I could hook up with one of the men inside, I wouldn't have to worry about anything!" I was speechless! This girl really speaks without restraint, spouting nonsense. I said, "What if you hook up with one of the mistresses' kept gigolos?" She said, "That's fine too, they're richer than us anyway." I was speechless.

    Money is indeed a good thing; everyone likes it, and so do I. In this highly developed material society, it's practically impossible to get by without money, so everyone is focused on it. Some people risk everything for money, engaging in illegal mining and causing mine disasters, trampling on the lives of others; some become prostitutes for money, trampling on their own dignity; and even law enforcement officers knowingly break the law for money, colluding with criminals and betraying the people's trust. All of this stems from money. Yang Yuliang, the president of Fudan University, said: "The spirit of universities is somewhat lost now, with a relatively widespread spiritual exhaustion. Utilitarianism is rampant in society as a whole, including universities. Specifically, among ordinary people, it's about favoring the rich and despising the poor." Society as a whole is lost; we don't know what we're pursuing, let alone how to pursue it.

    I'm just an ordinary person; I don't want to pretend to be high-minded and consider money worthless. I simply love money, and there's nothing shameful about that. What's shameful is the means of accumulating wealth. The ancients told us: A gentleman loves wealth, but acquires it in a righteous way. The ancients also told us: ill-gotten gains should not be taken. When I earn a few hundred yuan in commission from a part-time sales job, I am happy because it's money I earned through hard work selling products. When I earn a fixed monthly income tutoring others, I am happy because it's what I earned with my knowledge. When I receive my internship salary, I am excited because it's a reward for my labor. Earning money is also a manifestation of ability. Honest and kind people should enjoy the process of earning money, while greedy people care about satisfying their desires.

    I hope to be an honest and kind person, but at the same time, I fear being dominated by desires. To maintain inner peace, I always quietly reflect in my spare time—reflecting on the past, the future, the meaning of life, and the meaning of existence. I don't know where my future will lead, but I know where my past came from, and that's enough. Confusion is also a stage of life; although it's not ideal, at least I still retain the purity I had at the beginning.

A life of contentment

     I like sitting in the car, watching the scenery rush by outside the window, watching people come and go, eventually disappearing with time. I think I'm one of those forgotten by Father Time, which is why I can so clearly see the many hidden burdens behind those acts of forbearance. Some unworthy things are still sitting cross-legged, not knowing when there will be an end. I keep telling myself that what I've lost isn't just time, but what else is more worthy of reaching out my hands?

    I've gotten used to turning my face to a corner where no one can see me, used to walking among people, my hands suddenly feeling superfluous, letting a crowd drown out all my emotions. I've gotten used to reversing day and night, using night after night to replace day, forgetting myself in a corner, then facing the rising sun expressionlessly. I've gotten used to the winter wind piercing my internal organs, listening to the relentless rush of time.

    How ridiculous this world is, and humanity is even more like a joke.

    Why does aging always bring a sense of sadness and loss? It's because there are too many regrets and remorse. Words left unsaid and deeds left unsaid linger in the heart, impossible to forget. We always thought we could move mountains, but spring's beauty fades too quickly. What can I exchange for a moment of joy? Those springtimes, those blossoming seasons, are but a fleeting instant. Everything changes, as if it never happened. How I wish some people had never existed. How hypocritical and pretentious I am, letting so many years slip by.

    Having witnessed the blooming and fading of every season, heard the sounds of wind

    and rain, I've realized that the things that flow gently and steadily are not something everyone can possess. Perhaps it's not that I enjoy standing still for long; perhaps I'm just used to this posture, used to thinking that everything around me is irrelevant. And those fictional characters, I think, may truly exist in this world, perhaps in the far distance, perhaps right beside me. These vibrant people are like a living person beside me, fragmented into many roles, enacting stories we thought would never happen in real life.

    If only I could remain ordinary and unassuming forever, without the dramatic ups and downs, the great joys and sorrows. In my world, where no one is allowed in, one day weeds will grow back, and I will pluck them from my life, one by one, until I discover that even weeds can regenerate—but by then it will be too late.

    Those desolate, tragic wastelands burned by wildfires can one day be transformed into tranquil estates by human footsteps.

    Then I can invite every kind soul to admire the endless sea of ​​flowers and flowing streams.

    Many times, I walk alone along the embankment, swaying slowly and deliberately, as if walking on and on, perhaps reaching the end of the Yangtze River, finding a bridge to rest on, and standing there, feeling the wind that will never be cold, gazing up at the river's surface, where waves will never rise. Boats drift on the water—big ones, small ones, long ones, square ones, some with sails unfurled, some setting sail—and I believe there will be one that will be my resting place.

    But one day, I suddenly became afraid of this feeling of being alone. I was afraid I would walk down a road from which I could never return, afraid I would forget that home was behind me, not ahead.

    I rarely looked up at the blue sky anymore, to imagine the migratory birds flying all over the country. Every migratory bird that flew overhead had a dream, a home. But I, I don't know when, began to have nothing left, except for a stranger to myself, and I didn't want to get to know anyone anymore.

    Now, standing on a very high rooftop, what I see is no longer migratory birds, but those airplanes with huge roars flying fiercely overhead. Sometimes, they fly very low, as if only a millimeter above my head, spiraling endlessly, never able to carry my dreams far away. In the end, I still stand still, like a tree that has stood for ten or twenty years without falling, nothing but old and mottled.

Journey of Life and Death

     This is a golden route traversing Shaanxi from north to south, especially after northern Shaanxi became an energy hub. The once magnificent Qin Chuan Plain has paled in comparison. Every day, vehicles from all over the country, laden with a dazzling array of goods, come here to trade on this prosperous road. Don't mistake it for a transit port; the eager end-users are using these goods to pursue even greater profits. The prosperous reputation and frequent trade have attracted even more gold diggers, along with vehicles passing through other provinces. The once wide road, with the increase in traffic, has almost lost its purpose as a highway, and traffic jams have become increasingly common on this thousand-mile-long dike.

    In the early morning of August 26, 2012, a sleeper bus carrying 39 people from Hohhot to Xi'an entered the Huaziping section of Yan'an and rear-ended a large truck carrying methanol, causing the bus to catch fire and resulting in 36 deaths.

    I don't know the specifics of the accident, only from today's news. I've traveled this main road more than once this year; the most recent time was yesterday noon when my colleague and I were driving from Xi'an to Jingbian County. The accident happened on our route. Just one night later, this tragedy struck; 36 vibrant lives vanished in the darkness, and this morning's glimmer of dawn became their final farewell. I have no interest in investigating the details of the accident or understanding the final outcome. I don't know the gender ratio of those 36 people, nor the age ratio, nor where they came from or where they were going. Perhaps Hohhot was their starting point, and Xi'an their destination, or perhaps both were transit points—we know nothing!

    For humans, hardship may prolong life, but in the face of natural disasters and man-made calamities, life is so fragile. Imagine if those 36 passengers had known such a tragedy would occur—would they still have taken the bus? I think not. Even if you killed them, they wouldn't embark on this journey. But there aren't many "what ifs" in life. At any given moment, our lives offer only one choice. When they embarked on this journey, they carried their own affairs, and with the hopes of ordinary people, they headed towards tomorrow. But what awaited them was eternal regret. Perhaps we can sense their composure as they boarded the bus, perhaps we can imagine their peaceful sleep in the sleeper bus, perhaps they were sound asleep in their own dreams, only to be swallowed by external nightmares. But we, as ordinary people like them, don't know what awaits us next.

    Out of respect for life, we don't care who they are, but when the two vehicles collided and the fire spread, it's not hard to picture the expressions of those who perished in the flames—panic, sorrow, and helplessness—all in their eyes at that moment. Perhaps only survivors of the Wenchuan earthquake can truly tell you the inner world they experienced at that moment, or perhaps the scenes depicted in the movie "Aftershock." For them, it was a life-or-death journey; fortune and misfortune both favored them and extinguished them in the unknown future. When this devastating news was made public, we could only offer our heartfelt blessings, hoping their souls could rest in peace, and wishing those of us who are still alive, and those survivors, peace and happiness on our future journeys!

The pleasant day

     It was a pleasant day. The sound of rain outside the window finally gave me an excuse not to go out on Sunday. My phone lay there silently, neither answering nor making calls. The tranquility of being alone, without the constraints of neighbors, felt exceptionally real and pleasant. The books

    on my table—*The Wisdom of Lao Tzu*, *The Red and the Black*, and *Zhou Guoping's Philosophical Reflections on Life*—hadn't been touched in a long time. I live on the fourth floor, and through the window I could see the thin curtain of rain swaying in the air before falling into a puddle on the ground, creating ripples. Further away was a main road, completely obscured by the buildings outside the window. Only the sound of speeding wheels rudely entered my ears, regardless of whether I agreed or not.

    I moved a chair to the window, letting the rain patter down, and opened Stendhal's *The Red and the Black*. I followed Julien, the protagonist often described as "more than human," into a foreign land, into that distant era…

    The sound of rain and the turning of pages mingled together. My mind was free of distractions; in that instant, I forgot myself and followed Julien, experiencing the indifference of his father and brothers, savoring the tenderness between him and Madame de Rênal, and walking with him through their theological studies, ultimately arriving at the Marquis de La Mole's house in Paris. This journey made me feel like Julien, not merely accompanying him through time, but truly experiencing it all firsthand. When Mademoiselle La Mole fell in love with him, when Julien's head lay in her arms, she showed no fear, but kissed it and buried him. What kind of era was that? In that era, human relationships were so cold that even the bond between father and son had vanished. Officials and nobles avoided politics, engaging only in empty talk and extravagance. You could hardly find anyone speaking the truth, yet these high-ranking officials still schemed and plotted for advancement. Ordinary young people, harboring dreams of joining high society, might not lack talent or manners, but their terrifying thoughts and fearless pursuits ultimately provided the inviolable ruler with an excuse to punish dissidents and uphold "justice."

    It was a hypocritical and corrupt era, where a person with a filthy soul could often present themselves as a social sage. It was an age where politics was avoided; people used extravagance to mask their unease in a senseless loneliness. It was also an era where family ties were severed; for the sake of profit and fame, wives and children were often abandoned. It was also an era of autocratic rule; if you acted independently based on the books of the previous dynasty or in the society of the time, using a particular doctrine or belief, you would be labeled a heretic and a dangerous individual. Those who once called you brothers have, without you even realizing it, become spies or informants. I was immersed in this endless world of words, following the plot of the novel. Those humorous yet witty words became remarkable under my pen.

    Perhaps this is the characteristic of masterpieces: in your reading, those words that once perplexed you but you couldn't put into words are perfectly interpreted in their straightforward narration and understated descriptions. And upon closer examination, you realize they are seamlessly integrated into the events and characters. If you forcibly extract them, it seems the flavor is lost! This is perhaps the brilliance of masters—finding the extraordinary in the ordinary. Reading their works is a pleasure, not in your immersion, but in the extraordinary plots within ordinary stories, the complexities of human nature, and the unexpected endings. I love such works for their artistic techniques, their portrayal of the characters' inner world, and their incisive and vivid depiction of human nature. I know I'm not capable of that yet, I'm still miles away. But it's precisely because of this gap that I'm improving my insight while also practicing calligraphy. When I'm no longer enslaved by material things, when I'm no longer confined to managing a mere few thousand words, when I can draw on the strengths of many and develop my own style, perhaps then my writing will be readable and thought-provoking, perhaps then I can become a disciple of the masters.

    The rain outside the window is becoming increasingly uncontrollable. Today, I'm simply enjoying the tranquility of spiritual freedom, and the stories in the book have made me forget time and the noise outside. All my thoughts are churning deep within me—oh, what a rare and pleasant day…

Two days of water play

     On the first day, the focus was on the fishing itself, rather than catching fish.

    My friend made a fishing rod and invited me to go fishing. I don't know how to fish, and neither does he. But we both enjoy the feeling of fishing, a pleasure that surpasses the fish itself. There are no rivers north of the Wei River, and even the largest rivers are few and far between. Perhaps the gully-ridden landscape of the Loess Plateau extends northward from here. My hometown, situated on a plain, lies here.

    The formation of these gullies is unknown; you might not even know if they were formed by floods or earthquakes, because even now, you can hardly see any floods or earthquakes that could have created them, and the older generation never mentions them. Most of these gullies had springs, almost their source, but with the drying up, childhood memories, without the flowing water, are impossible to verify. The gullies I visited today were ones I'd never been to before; I hoped to rediscover the joys of my childhood. The path was narrow and winding, and the fields of wild jujube trees were laden with unripe fruit. On the steep downhill slope, countless sheep droppings were left behind, and the earthen steps followed the path. No one went uphill, and no one went downhill; only a few of us measured the distance step by step under the sweltering afternoon sun.

    Before long, we reached the bottom of the ravine. Broken stones, seemingly fallen naturally, were scattered everywhere, some abruptly ending halfway down the slope, some stopping at the stream's bank, and some submerged in the deep pool. Even the stones in the shallower areas, over time, shrank in size. Willows, poplars, and locust trees, like guardians, protected the true essence of nature in this secluded place. Dense reeds seemed to seal off the riverbed, yet the stream flowed silently past its roots. We used needles as fishing hooks, tied lines to a found stick, and went to the depths of the grass to find a few grasshoppers. Once everything was ready, we cast our lines and sat by the pool, a gentle breeze carried by the water. A grasshopper bait was eaten by a fish, then another grasshopper, and the rod was pulled up empty.

    Just like that, all the grasshopper baits ended up in the fish's bellies, while the fish continued to watch us with teasing eyes, still swimming freely and leisurely in the water. My friend repeatedly checked the empty rod, finally discovering that the hook was a bit too big. It seemed we wouldn't catch any fish, but even an empty rod wasn't any less fun than catching one. "Come on, let's go catch crabs!" my friend said. We rolled up our trousers, went barefoot, and waded into the water. We waded through the dense reeds, turned over rocks, and explored the deep, muddy burrows. One by one, the plump, large crabs were easily caught, while the smaller, immature crabs were released back into the water.

    Suddenly, a gust of wind arose out of nowhere, and the dark clouds in the sky swept away the little coolness in the ravine, leaving behind an even more oppressive atmosphere. "It's going to rain, we have to get out of here." The words had barely left his lips when raindrops the size of coins began to fall. Luckily, we had come by motorcycle, and the group fled in a panic...

    The next day, we had to settle for something else

    . Perhaps it was due to insufficient preparation the previous day, or perhaps it was because of the hasty escape. Early the next morning, another friend and I borrowed a car, and my wife, his wife, and our three children accompanied us.

    This time, we weren't going to revisit the same place as yesterday, but rather to a place called Shibaochuan Reservoir. That reservoir is located at the junction of three counties and is the only water source for irrigating our land. I had been there once before, and because it was on the first day of the Lunar New Year, I had a fairly good experience, hence the choice.

    The car bumped along for about two hours, and the terraced fields deep in the summer ravine were covered with corn. A river flowed back to where we had come from. Beneath the verdant green mountains, several striking large trees stand out from time to time. Cicadas chirp there, birds sing there, butterflies and dragonflies flit about on the water's surface or among the flowers, crickets and grasshoppers hop about in and out of sight in the fields... Suddenly, a large dam standing between two mountains blocks my view. A rugged dirt road climbs up to the right of the spillway.

    Reaching the dam, the view opens up wide. In the depths of the deep canyon, water and sky converge. The parking lot is packed with cars and motorcycles. Looking down at the reservoir, you can see men and women fishing, taking photos, and even swimmers who are confident in their skills. At the end of the two elevated covered bridges are two symmetrical yurt-like houses, inside which are sluice gates.

    On both banks of the water, if you look down at the lush willows, you'll find rows of withered, mature willows on each bank. Asking around, we learned that the symmetrical rows of willow trees were submerged in deep water when the reservoir level rose.

    Following the stone steps to the water's edge, we saw finger-length fish everywhere in the shallows, but we, being a group of landlubbers, could only admire them from afar. Two boys who had come with us, shirtless and wearing only trousers, waded into the shallows, where the water was almost knee-deep. It was less like swimming and more like playing or bathing, as they dared not cross the next concrete marker, for that was a danger zone.

    After a while, they pulled down their trousers, tied the legs in a tight knot, and zipped them up. Then, holding up their waistbands, they slowly moved forward, waiting for the fish to swim into their nets. This was perhaps an unprecedented fishing method, perhaps the most primitive and unique. After about an hour of this, they had caught eighteen fish the size of loaches, enough to fill two mineral water bottles. During this process, I didn't go into the water, but my friend couldn't resist joining in the fishing.

    Those anglers further away, under the shade of the trees, continued fishing undisturbed and leisurely. Another group of people arrived at the dam and began walking towards us along the stone steps. A gentle breeze blew; the strong sunlight might tan your skin, but you wouldn't feel the stuffiness, perhaps due to the water itself!

    My friend said, "You'll probably be disappointed again today! But you'll definitely see a big fish today." I asked, "How so?" He said, "Go to town and buy a live fish; we'll make pickled fish with sauerkraut tonight." Hehe, okay!

    The car slowly moved forward in the evening glow, winding through the deep, secluded woods; the scenery on both banks was truly breathtaking. But the live fish I was longing for and that bowl of fragrant pickled fish with sauerkraut stirred my malice, and my mouth watered!

Warm a pot of wine under the moonlight

     Since Du Kang invented wine, many may be able to drink, but few truly understand it. Drinking is a psychological need, and so is drinking alcohol. However, the two are not comparable; it's not about the scene, but about the state of mind.

    Wine is both nectar and soda. Perhaps Lin Daiyu could savor the exquisite taste and aroma of nectar, while Jiao Da could drink soda in a fit of joy or sorrow! People with different temperaments cannot comprehend the nuances, just as Lin Daiyu would hardly engage in drinking games with Jiao Da. Cao Cao's "What can dispel sorrow? Only Du Kang's wine" reflects a state of mind; Liu Ling's three years of drunkenness is a beautiful story; Li Bai's hundred poems after a drinking bout are a testament to his talent; while Su Shi's "Raising a cup to the blue sky" expresses a longing, a hidden sorrow.

    Wine is a cup of water, when you are drunk and oblivious, when you are completely intoxicated. Wine is also a cup of water, when you warm a pot of wine under the moonlight, when you understand the exquisite taste and aroma.

    Wine is also a pair of eyes. Some see the magnanimity of "I alone am sober while everyone else is drunk," some see the boldness of "drinking from large bowls," some see the composure of "wine and meat passing through the intestines," and some see the vanity of "no feast is complete without wine." What is seen is transformed into action through the mind, resulting in Liu Bang slaying the white snake, Xiang Yu's Feast at Hongmen, Zhao Kuangyin's "releasing military power over a cup of wine," and Wu Song's tiger-fighting on Jingyang Ridge.

    Wine is also a confidant, a beauty. In that moment when the pipa is half-concealed, in the captivating eyes of the drunken concubine, there is a restrained reserve, a captivating charm. It is both spirit and desire!

    At this moment, the wine is the finest nectar! Drink heartily, not in the competition of superiority, not in perfunctory formalities. The sound of flowing water echoes in the ears, the osmanthus blossoms are still before the eyes, and the reunion is in the heart. The scene is there, the atmosphere is there; past lives and present lives intertwine in this moment, like an old dream rekindled. There's no passionate lovemaking, only the gentle strumming of strings...

    This kind of wine, I don't know when, has become an indispensable embellishment in social interactions, a form of hospitality, a formality. Perfunctory treatment has robbed you of the sincerity of "I urge you to drink another cup, for beyond Yangguan there are no old friends." Insincerity is shrouded in politeness, and politeness in turn is shrouded in insincerity. A large table of people, outwardly friendly but inwardly distant, openly share their innermost thoughts. There are no true friends here, yet a thousand cups are never enough. The ruddy faces, the large heads and bellies of the smug, wealthy figures give onlookers the impression of either cunning, greedy, or simply good-for-nothings.

    This kind of wine, I don't know when, has become a defining element of the atmosphere at the dinner table. Wine for relationships is here, wine for favors is here, wine for promotions is here, wine for the powerful is here, wine for sorrow is here, wine for courage is here, wine for madness is here, and wine for flattery is also here. As for leisurely drinking, literary drinking, martial drinking, and sacrificial drinking, these belong to another category, another realm! All the factors of skill are settled the moment the seating arrangement is made, in the three rounds of drinks and five courses of food where no banquet is complete without wine. Drinking from large bowls and eating large chunks of meat is one thing, singing while drinking is another, and acting recklessly after drinking is yet another. Because the purpose is the meal, but the demands are made at the drinking party.

    Drinking and drinking are different. Drinking is about the pleasure or displeasure; as long as there is wine, it's enough, it's about the drinking party and the ability to drink. Drinking is different; it's about the drinking vessels, the drinking etiquette, and the drinking games. Drinking requires dice games and rock-paper-scissors, while drinking requires relay games (i.e., a relay race of idioms), and the accompaniment of passing the drum. People who drink are not bound by drinking vessels, drinking games, or drinking etiquette, nor do they care about their ability to drink, because they are all in the drinking party. A drinker, just considering the drinking vessels, could list them off from the earliest pottery vessels, then bronze, lacquered wood, porcelain, gold, silver, jade, crystal, agate, ivory, and now the ubiquitous glass and metal vessels.

    For drinkers, drinking is often a competition, or even a social obligation to curry favor. Many accompany them, and the so-called honored guests are merely the main targets in this endless cycle of drinking. In the end, the heavy drinkers are full but not satisfied, while the light drinkers make a spectacle of themselves. That lavish feast, barely touched, becomes untouched food waste. For the drinker, drinking isn't about a large, welcoming party, a dazzling array of snacks, or even the quality of the wine itself; it's about the state of mind, the atmosphere, and the friends. Silently drinking, in the unspoken understanding of exchanging cups, in the solitary savoring of wine, the accompaniment can be poetry or a pot of warmed moonlight.

    Warming a pot of moonlight to accompany wine is the highest realm of drinking. Moonlight is like wine, in the hazy self-admiration, in the carefree intoxication, in the serene composure. A cup of wine under the flowers and moon is one, as is a cup of wine amidst the wind, flowers, snow, and moonlight; if accompanied by poetry, it becomes even more beautiful and exquisite. Warming a pot of moonlight to accompany wine, in the reunion of old friends amidst the falling snowflakes, in the fishing from a covered boat. Intoxicated even before drinking, under the cool moonlight, old friends face each other, confidants accompany each other, joyful and carefree, peaceful and serene!