I saw how I could let the years run off, buffet the winter through, and see the spring come in. — Thoreau, Walden
2023.2.6
From downtown Weihai to Rushan Silver Beach is only a little over an hour. The moment I got off the bus I felt that spring had already arrived here — spring had come at last. When I left it was desperately cold, deep winter; now it was warm spring. The temperature isn’t all that high, but it’s a world away from when I left. How good it is — spring is so good, I love spring, and nobody doesn’t love spring. It’s so good to be back at Silver Beach.
I got home at twelve. The things I’d worried about — a leak, the power left on, a burglar — none of them had happened; the place was perfectly normal, exactly as I’d left it. There was still food in the fridge, none of it spoiled. I hurried to wash some rice, cracked two eggs and steamed them in the rice cooker, and that took care of lunch. Away from home I could eat vegetarian again — back home, all that meat and fish every day had really been too much for me.
In the morning I got up and went from the guesthouse in Weihai to the bus station, and noticed there was still a lot of snow in places along the roadside. On the way from Weihai to Rushan I saw patches of unmelted snow too. When I reached Silver Beach and got off the bus, I found there was still plenty of snow along the south-facing curb, where the sun doesn’t reach. I don’t know whether it had never melted from the last snowfall, or whether some more had fallen after I left. The north has sun, the south doesn’t — and sun is such a good thing. The northern air is crisp and clean, and breathing it in lifts my spirits — ah, so this is the north, I love the north.
After a whole day on the train and then more than an hour on the bus, I was truly tired, so tired; I don’t want to go out again at all. I just want to stay quietly at Silver Beach and go nowhere. Just feel the footsteps of spring drawing near, spring warm and flowers blooming across the world. “Dressed in jade, one tree stands tall; ten thousand branches trail green silken threads. Who cut the slender leaves so fine? The February spring wind is like a pair of scissors.” February by the sea is even lovelier.
I took an afternoon nap and when I woke it was already late; I hurried out but still didn’t catch the sunset. Though I reached the shore before 5:20, there was a thin haze at the horizon and the setting sun had already sunk into it and disappeared. With my limited knowledge of geography, I knew the sun was moving north — that is, toward the land side — so you can no longer see it set over the sea. The tide was going out, too. Today is the sixteenth of the lunar month, a spring tide, with high tide at 4:30, and I missed that as well. The wind was light, the seawater very clear and clean. The weather wasn’t cold — no wearing gloves like before. On the way back the full moon hadn’t risen yet, or perhaps the haze was hiding it. The road was as empty as before I left — quiet, deserted, still. That was my first day back in Rushan. I was free.
2023.2.7
Today is the seventeenth of the lunar month; the weather is clear and mild, and there’s the highest tide of the month, with sunset at 17:21. I meant to go out and watch it, but I took an afternoon nap and woke close to five, and since it takes twenty minutes to walk to the shore, I was certainly too late. So I didn’t go out during the day again. Maybe I was just too tired: ten-odd days away (away from Silver Beach, that is), rushing about without a pause, with two major shifts in lifestyle (to Lhasa and back to my hometown), and my body simply hadn’t recovered — it needed a few more days to adjust. No wonder people like a settled life; a life of wandering must be exhausting, more than ordinary people can bear.
In the evening I cooked for myself — two fried eggs and stir-fried cabbage (no green peppers left, only garlic) — and after eating I felt rather full, so I had to go out for a walk to help it down. This must be the first time since coming to Silver Beach that I’ve gone out so late — past seven; usually by seven I’m curled up in bed. The seventeenth’s moon was still quite full, just risen and tinged with orange. Silver Beach was very quiet, no one on the street, still and silent, only dogs barking. It wasn’t very cold anymore; walking outside was cool and pleasant. Some of the restaurants on Huaihe Road had reopened, with people eating hotpot inside, steam blurring the glass. Some little guesthouses had lit their signs again — only “lodging” had turned into “lodgeing.”
I walked down to the shore and stepped onto the wooden boardwalk, my footsteps thudding, crisp and pleasing to the ear; the streetlamps along the embankment gave off a pale yellow light, and the waves came again and again, booming, beating on the sand. I walked onto the beach; the moon had risen much higher and turned pale and clear. I stood on the sand, and there was no one on it but me; beyond the sea was pitch black, and this side of the shore wasn’t much better. If I were a girl I’d certainly not dare go out at night; even as a man I felt a little afraid, dreading that something frightening might come leaping out.
Walking back there were no vehicles on the road either, let alone people. Though the weather was warming, the people here hadn’t increased yet; you could still call it a ghost town. For me that’s a good thing — I don’t like crowds, I like quiet. I don’t know when the people will increase; after all, this is my first time living here. More people might make it a bit safer, but also noisier. Back in the compound, there seemed to be even fewer lights than at New Year, and I don’t know why. This stillness fascinates me. In a big city, all the light pollution, noise pollution and air pollution leave your senses dulled and numb; but here at Rushan Silver Beach I can sense so many more things — the stars in the sky, the dogs barking outside the compound, the wind in the pines, the swaying of the branches, the boom of the big waves, or just the slow, gentle rise and fall of tiny ripples, and the damp of the tide with its salty smell, and the fishy, rank smell of seafood at the market, the snoring of magpies and sparrows, earthworms wriggling in the soil, a weasel darting swift across the road, and so on.
2023.2.8
A small thing, about brushing my teeth. When I was working in Beijing I brushed three times a day. Once in the morning when I got up; once after lunch, when I woke from my nap; and once more before bed at night. But since coming to Rushan Silver Beach I brush at most once a day, and sometimes I don’t brush at all. Of course it’s because my way of life has changed. Here I don’t see anyone and don’t need to talk to anyone; besides, I eat less — one or two meals a day, all vegetarian, no meat, and I’ve stopped drinking cola too; and on top of that there’s my laziness. Once a day is enough. I remember a passage in Thoreau’s Walden to this effect: the harder you work to earn money, the harder you have to eat and drink; if your needs are very few, you eat little and need little money. My needs are very few, so I eat little; eating little keeps my mouth clean and my teeth clean, so I brush less — it’s all linked, one thing to the next.
Thoreau’s original words in Walden: “I did not use tea, nor coffee, nor butter, nor milk, nor fresh meat, and so did not have to work to get them; again, as I did not work hard, I did not have to eat hard, and it cost me but a trifle for my food; but as he began with tea, and coffee, and butter, and milk, and beef, he had to work hard to pay for them, and when he had worked hard he had to eat hard again to repair the waste of his system — and so it was as broad as it was long, indeed it was broader than it was long, for he was discontented and wasted his life into the bargain; and yet he had rated it as a game in coming to America, that here you could get tea, and coffee, and meat every day.”
2023.2.9
The weather at Silver Beach is like this: with no sun it’s freezing, with sun it’s perfectly comfortable. Today there was no sun. It even felt a bit damp. In the morning I stayed in bed, unwilling to get up. When I did get up and had something to eat, sitting in the living room my hands and feet were cold again. In the end I crawled back into bed. Just like back home. I don’t like overcast days; I like clear ones. On an overcast day I don’t even want to go out — heavy-hearted, with nothing to do. Tomorrow is the twentieth of the lunar month, and there’s a market nearby; worth a little anticipation, and I need to buy some vegetables to have in.
Oh — I hadn’t had a haircut in five or six months; my hair was really long, greasy, uncomfortable, and I didn’t want to wash it, so on an impulse I gave myself a buzz cut. For the past seven or eight years I’ve cut my own hair and never once gone to a barber. Going to a barber is a very unpleasant thing for me. And I don’t want to spend the money. Besides, social appearance is of no use to me at all — no need to take trouble over it.
2023.2.10
This morning I got a lot done. I went to the market early, before some of the farmers’ vegetable stalls were even set up. There were still a few fewer people than last October, but far more than in December, and there was even a trend of more coming — surely the next time or the time after, there’ll be a real crowd. The lively scene was both a comfort and a joy. It’s an open-air scene full of country feeling, unlike a vegetable market in the city; the enclosed environment of a city is always depressing — its foul air has nowhere to go, for one thing. I like this open setting, people coming and going, no constraint — and the stray dogs too, waiting their chance to find something to eat, so timid, so cowed, and yet so greedy (from hunger) that they won’t leave, pacing and prowling about in a way that’s both funny and pitiable.
Not many people at the market were wearing masks anymore. I had so much to buy that I ended up making two trips to get it all — otherwise it would have been too heavy and tiring to carry. This was my first market since coming back; the fridge was long since empty and I needed to stock up a bit more. Here’s what I bought: tomatoes, RMB 10 (RMB 10 for four jin, medium-sized); eggs, RMB 14 (RMB 5.5 a jin, twenty of them); sea-duck eggs, RMB 20 (RMB 10 for five, ten of them); cabbage, RMB 2 (RMB 0.5 a jin); hot peppers, RMB 6 (RMB 3 a jin); sugar tangerines, RMB 17 (RMB 4 a jin); apples, RMB 17 (RMB 5 a jin, five of them); cauliflower, RMB 11 (RMB 3.5 a jin); caramel sunflower seeds, RMB 13 (RMB 13 a jin). Plus breakfast: a bowl of soft tofu pudding, RMB 2; youtiao at RMB 8 a jin — I asked for two, RMB 10. Add it all up and I really had spent quite a bit, though this would be enough to feed me alone for ten days or so. And I don’t eat meat, so I don’t buy any.
Between the two market trips I went to draw a jug of purified water. The water here comes from a purifier; you swipe a card and draw it — a 7.5-liter jug, about RMB 1 or 2. When I first came I bought a card, put RMB 100 on it, and it came with RMB 120. I also spent RMB 15 on the little jug. In the first three months I used only RMB 20. By my estimate this one card will last me more than a year and I won’t need to top it up. (Assuming RMB 2 a draw, at 7.5 liters each, that’s RMB 120 a year — sixty draws, 450 liters of water in all.)
Sometimes I think that budgeting this way, writing down the names and prices of things, setting them out in a list, is like a poem — purer even than poetry; and I’m like a poet, keeping a record of this pure life. As for those people who do nothing all day but talk big — about making contributions, working hard, fearing no hardship, surmounting every difficulty, loving this and loving that — their posturing is simply nauseating. I don’t want to be that kind of person. I want to be a pure person, a real person, expressing my true feelings, not false.
Back home I took a shower. It had been five days since my last one and I felt a bit greasy. Heating the water takes an hour, so before I went out I turned the valve on, and by the time I’d finished all of the above the hot water was ready. It’s not like gas, where you turn it on and the hot water’s there at once; here everything runs on electricity, and the appliances aren’t very new, so in winter the water takes a long time to heat. There’s nothing for it but to wait patiently. Last night I’d given myself a buzz cut, so I ought to wash my head properly; I don’t have any shampoo, so I just rubbed on some soap. With no hair left, showering is quicker and easier, and now that the weather’s warming up I don’t need to keep my hair. After the shower I really did feel much better in body and mind.
I’d let my hair grow for five months and gone more than three months without shampoo — it was meant to be an experiment, to see whether going without shampoo, as they say online, is good for your hair: your hairline moves forward, your hair gets thicker and darker. But after my own personal experiment, the conclusion I reached is that what they say online is all lies, useless, at least useless for me! My hairline didn’t move forward and my white hairs didn’t turn black — I just gradually got used to going a week without washing my hair and not feeling uncomfortable. Shampoo doesn’t damage your hair; what damages your hair is bad living habits, plus the pressure of life in a big city.
In the evening I went to the shore to watch the sunset. There were clearly far more people on the street than in the coldest days, but I don’t think it’s that more people have come from outside — rather, the old people who didn’t dare go out before now dare to, now that the weather’s much warmer, and some are even exercising outside. There was a bit of haze, and the setting sun was blood-red — just the red disc hanging alone at the edge of the sky, with no afterglow and no last light. It sank slowly below the horizon; the tide was coming in, the waves were high, rolling and crashing with a great roar — a very soothing sort of ASMR.
2023.2.11
Today is another day worth remembering deeply, because today I discovered a very serious and helpless problem, and this serious, helpless problem shattered one of my dreams. When I got up the sky was overcast and very cold; I worried it would stay overcast all day, and overcast weather is hard to bear — it makes you depressed. But happily the sun came out at noon and stayed out until it set. In the afternoon I even basked on the balcony for a good while, comfortable and cozy, which made me even more tanned. In the evening I went to the shore to watch the sunset, walking a long, long way along the coastline as the sun dropped slowly. And it was on this evening that I realized the sun was too far north — compared with December and January it had shifted a great way north, close to the land. So standing on the sand and looking west, I saw the sun set over land: not only the far distance was land, but the near distance too. (Before, the distance was the coast, the near distance was the sea, and past the sea you saw the sun go down.) In other words, from now on, watching the sunset at the shore is no different from watching it inland. One of my dreams was shattered — no more sunset over the sea, no more sea surface glittering with leaping gold. I even thought of beating a retreat: should I leave this place and go somewhere else, since there was nothing left here for me to look forward to? Of course, that was just the gloom of a momentary disappointment. For now I certainly won’t leave. If there’s no sunset to watch, perhaps some other beautiful thing is waiting for me. I walked home somewhat sadly; by the time I got back it was dark, and standing on the balcony looking west I saw two unusually bright stars hanging at the edge of the sky, slowly sinking west as well. Stars — and a sky full of stars, the stars by the sea.
(A note on the change in the sun’s position: it involves some geography. If you’re not good at geography and you’re not familiar with Rushan’s topography, you probably can’t follow what I described above. Maybe only a diagram could get my meaning across, but a diagram would look odd in a book. Put simply: the sunset over the sea has become a sunset over land, and the sun will keep moving north until the summer solstice.) (One further note: after several more days of watching, I found it’s only on the western beach that you can’t see the sunset over the sea or the glitter on the water; on the central and eastern beaches you still can. So from now on I can’t go wandering on the western beach — I’ll have to stay on the eastern side.)
Watching the tides rise and fall — two spring tides a month; the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, swinging through the year between the tropics — only an idler like me has the spare time to observe these changes, to feel these changes, to have his fragile nerves stirred by these changes.
2023.2.12
The humidity today was really high — 81%. In fact I’ve lived in the north so long that I have no sensory grasp of the concept of humidity; I don’t know whether 81% counts as especially humid. But at Silver Beach, compared with yesterday, it certainly felt much damper. The sky was gloomy, the wind soft and sticky, my body cool, the bed clammy — not very pleasant, and I didn’t even want to go out. My own fault for shaving my head so early; my head felt a bit cold. Back in my hometown in Hubei: light rain, humidity 100%. Beijing: sleet, humidity 95%. Mount Tai: sleet, humidity 73%. By comparison, Rushan is certainly much drier than the south, but about the same as the snowy parts of the north. Snow has fallen in many inland places in the north, yet Weihai stayed quiet, with no snow — clearly the climate of the peninsula is quite different from the interior.
Lately Rushan’s housing prices have been hot online again — something about sea-view flats falling below RMB 1,000 a square meter. I don’t care about housing prices, because I’ve never planned to buy a house. Everyone else cares about them, and I think that’s abnormal — as if only by buying a house are you a winner in life, and without one you’re a failure. Everyone takes housing far too seriously, more seriously than anything. Right now housing in small places is so cheap, and still no one buys it. In the end everyone crowds into the big cities, where the competition is just as fierce. If a person lives only for a place of his own, what meaning is left in life? We should think about what we’re really living for.
The people at Silver Beach still hadn’t increased. At night, looking out the window, all was pitch black and silent; only two households lived in the building opposite, and the other buildings had only one or two lit windows. This place could certainly be called a ghost town. Today was cold and damp again, and the sight made me feel even more desolate. What hope is there for this place? Will the people really pick up once the high season comes? I doubt it — even in high season, I imagine there won’t be many more. From now on China’s population will only shrink, and old people will only increase; they need medical care and elder care, so they won’t come to this inconvenient place. And young people won’t stand for loneliness, so they won’t come to this quiet place either. Three years from now, five years from now — what this place will become, I don’t dare imagine. Let history make the choice.
2023.2.13
The young people who come to Rushan Silver Beach to lie flat, I think most of them don’t need socializing. I’m just one of them. For people who don’t need it, Silver Beach is a very good choice. There are too few people here, and it’s especially quiet. The building you live in may have no one but you, and there aren’t many people in the whole compound. I’ve been here more than three months and haven’t socialized once. I like being alone, and when I’m alone I can find things to do to pass the time, so I’m never bored. This depends on each person’s temperament; some people just like socializing and crowds. Since I was little I’ve disliked crowds, and I especially fear noise; I don’t like dealing with people, and I find socializing exhausting. It’s not that I have social anxiety — I simply want to be alone, and for no one to disturb me. A bit like reclusion, a bit like cultivating immortality. It’s good not to socialize. In fact, when I worked in the big city, that wasn’t socializing either — that was just work, carrying out orders, passing on information; and meeting friends on weekends to chat and drink was all just gossip and social news, which I’d rather have spent going home to read or watch documentaries. I’m not saying socializing is useless — I’m saying that if it leaves you exhausted and bored, better to have none at all, to throw out the useless kind. Of course, not socializing has its downside: your ability to express yourself will atrophy, and face-to-face conversation will become difficult. But for me, the good outweighs the bad. So I choose not to socialize.
Yesterday was overcast all day, and today the sun came out again. The north’s trait is that, unlike the south, it won’t stay overcast and rainy for days on end; clear days always outnumber gloomy ones. That’s why I love the north. I love clear days, I love the sun, I love basking in it — I want to say it over and over. Sitting on the balcony basking in the sun is of course the most comfortable, since the wind outside is strong and howls; but staying home is too lazy a thing. Yesterday I didn’t go out all day, so today I ought to go out for a walk. Basking outside is good for you too, and going out always brings new discoveries: the sun is higher than in winter, the wind isn’t as cold as in winter, and the branches seem to be sprouting leaves and buds. Above all, outside is open, the air moves, the wind brushes your face and you can feel its force and smell it; your line of sight is open too, with nothing in the way, and you can gaze far into the distance, which makes your body and mind open and expansive as well.
On the way to the shore I pass a pond; the ice on it melted long ago, and now it ripples green — “a faint wind rises, faint ripples are born,” “a sudden wind rises and wrinkles a whole pond of spring water” — and the reeds at the pond’s edge sway in the wind too. I found a bamboo pole by the roadside and, holding it, swung it hard, tracing a whirring sound through the air; I was like a happy country schoolboy. There was no one at the shore, and the wind and waves were quite big, rumbling; the sea was glinting silver, the tide had gone far out, and quite a few seagulls were foraging at the water’s edge. I watched the waves a while and took in the sea breeze, then with the bamboo pole I’d found wrote two lines in the sand: “Spring is warm, the flowers are blooming; seeing your words is like seeing your face.” And signed it.
In the evening I couldn’t sit still indoors; I felt I shouldn’t waste the sunset, that I had to go out and watch it. The evening wind was stronger than the midday wind, blowing me down into my clothes, shivering, hands not daring to come out. When I reached the shore the sun was going down; there was no cloud or mist at the horizon, the view was clear, and the distant Mao Mountain and the wind turbines were vividly distinct, with the near coastline and waves plain to see as well. A few days ago, walking to the west, on the western coast I couldn’t see any sunlight on the sea, because the terrain slopes and the light fell on land; but today, on the coast toward the east, I could see sunlight spilling across the sea and the sand, glowing orange, warming the heart — though in time, as the sun keeps moving north, I probably won’t see it anymore. So these days are all the more to be treasured. I watched the sunset at the shore for over twenty minutes, until it sank behind the distant hills. The sky darkened; the cold wind was still raging and the waves still pressing forward. Numb with cold, I hurried off the beach and up to the bank, heading inland, home. Buffeted all the way by the fierce wind — how cold it was!
The wind blew hard at night too, howling without letup, sweeping the sky clean and bright and revealing the brilliant stars spread across the night. I knew a phone definitely couldn’t capture a beautiful photo of the starry sky, so I switched to my digital camera; unfortunately I’m not very good at setting a camera, so I could only shoot in auto mode and let it handle the exposure. Since it was the night sky, the exposure needed to be long, and the shutter was hard to press; and the slightest shake dragged out a strange trail — which was rather fun, too. In the end I managed a few shots I was happy with. The stars — how beautiful! Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day; a pity it has nothing to do with me, I have no sweetheart. I have only the sun, the moon, the stars and the sea.
2023.2.14
Zhuangzi was once fishing in the Pu River, when the king of Chu sent two great officers to him, with the message, “I wish to trouble you with the charge of all within my territories.” Zhuangzi kept on holding his rod without looking round, and said, “I have heard that in Chu there is a spirit-like tortoise-shell, the wearer of which died three thousand years ago, and which the king keeps, in his ancestral temple, in a hamper covered with a cloth. Was it better for the tortoise to die, and leave its shell to be thus honored? Or would it have been better for it to live, and keep on dragging its tail through the mud?” The two officers said, “It would have been better for it to live, and draw its tail after it over the mud.” “Go your ways. I will keep on drawing my tail after me through the mud.”
Another bright, sunlit day. I sat on the balcony with my eyes half shut, basking lazily in the sun like a turtle sprawled on a riverbank — leisurely and content, absorbing the essence of heaven and earth. The quilt and sheets in the bedroom were taking in the sun’s rays too, so at night I’d smell that dry, warm scent of sunshine. I set my shoes and socks on the windowsill as well, and put my two pillows on a stool; I set the stool in the sun, letting them bask along with me. If anyone asks what I do by the sea, I’ll tell them: I bask in the sun by the sea.
The wind was strong, but not as biting as in winter; it didn’t feel cold on the body, only cool, and quite pleasant. The air smelled good too — fresh and sweet, and I kept wanting to breathe it deep, to take a few more gulps. I think this has to do with the strong wind as well: a strong wind is a purifier. Downstairs in the pavilion the old people were gathering again, sitting and chatting; someone was using the exercise equipment, and little dogs kept their owners company.
2023.2.15
Clear day, and the wind much weaker. There was a market today, but I only strolled through and bought nothing, because what I’d bought last time wasn’t finished yet. I eat so little every day that one market trip can feed me for ten days. People don’t need to eat much at all; it’s all just desire at work.
At noon I didn’t eat, only a few biscuits, and went out wandering; I walked twenty thousand steps, and on the way back I was so hungry my stomach felt hollow, my steps faltering, my whole body weak, afraid I wouldn’t hold out and would drop dead on the road — I was the “starved body by the roadside” they talk about. In this day and age, to still experience the feeling of hunger is very unusual. But there are always plenty of pitiable people in this world, plenty who can’t get enough to eat.
There were little eateries along the way, but I hesitated several times and went into none of them. First, I don’t think those little places taste good, and they’re not hygienic. Second, I want to save money — one meal out might pay for several meals at home. Third, I don’t want to deal with people; there are so few people at Silver Beach that the eateries are empty, and if you walk in you’re the only customer, very conspicuous, which would make me terribly awkward. Now that I’m used to cooking for myself, even though I was so hungry I was nearly losing consciousness, I still made myself walk home.
Because I eat little every day — one or two meals, and each very small — I go to the toilet far less often too. When I worked in Beijing, life was regular: every morning when I got up I had to go once, and during the day at the office I might go once more, and after getting home I might go again — anyway, at least once a day. But since coming here, I go once every several days, two or three days apart; it’s impossible to go every day. The upside is that I save a lot of water flushing the toilet, and I also save a lot of toilet paper. Water costs money and toilet paper costs money, so when you add it up, I save quite a bit.
Passing the site of the Gongjia market, I saw on the notice board the explicit rules for the fees for setting up a stall, and only then realized that having a stall at the market isn’t free. Out at sea there’s an island called Gongjia Island, by the shore there’s a village called Gongjia village, and there’s also a Gongjiazhuang village — I don’t know what the relationship among the three is. Still, Gong is a very rare surname, and it always makes me think of Gong Er in the film The Grandmaster.
2023.2.16
I woke a little after five and saw the waning half moon hanging alone in the eastern sky — not white, but with a faint warm yellow to it. The morning moon differs from the evening moon: morning is hope, is beginning, and soon afterward the sun will rise and heaven and earth will be bright. Morning is also the coldest, only minus seven degrees; February’s temperature is a bit jumpy, hot and cold by turns, but on the whole it’s climbing and warming. I glanced at the indoor thermometer: ten degrees, not just six as in the depths of winter, and the window won’t frost over anymore — spring has come.
After lunch at noon I headed for the shore, and saw a big black dog wandering on the waste ground with four little black puppies and a little yellow dog. I wanted to get closer and look at them properly, but the big black dog was very wary, charging at me and barking; a little frightened, I hurried away. At the shore, a kindly-looking stranger of about sixty was staring at me; I thought it strange, and looked back at him, and he struck up a conversation: “Dressed like that, aren’t you cold?” I smiled and said, “Not cold — a bit hot, actually!” He gave me a thumbs-up and said, “Young people still have good constitutions, not afraid of the cold!” I made to leave, but he called me back: “How old are you?” I said, “Twenty-five.” He didn’t seem to believe it. On the way back I deliberately picked up a stick and swung it in my hand. I wanted to go and see whether that litter of dogs was still around. In the fields not far from the earlier spot, four little black puppies were playing and tussling and basking in the sun. But the big black dog and the other little yellow one had gone off somewhere. The puppies were all round and chubby, quite adorable — I really wanted to scoop one up and take it home.
It’s been almost four months since I came to Rushan, and if you ask what’s changed about my body, it’s very obvious: my face has gotten much thinner. In Beijing I had a double chin; now it’s almost gone, and my cheekbones and jawbone show, sharply defined. Darker skin was inevitable — I bask in the sun every day, so it’s hard not to tan; but I like being a bit dark. A man should be a bit dark, not a pretty boy or a sissy. The flab on my belly has thinned somewhat, but there’s still plenty of it, and I’ve a long way to go before the abs show through. Once the weather warms a bit more I’ll go out walking and cycling more often and burn the fat away.
In the evening I went out again to the shore to watch the sunset. Going out twice a day seems to me a quite reasonable arrangement. Going out is always better than staying home: it exercises the body, and while walking I can think about life — good for both body and mind. In spring one should exercise more; the whole year’s work depends on a good start in spring. It wasn’t so cold anymore, and walking outside was quite pleasant. The street and the shore were both quiet and empty, hardly a soul in sight. As often as I’ve seen the sunset, I never tire of it. The rhythmic beating of the waves is very soothing too. (If going west means you can’t see the sunset over the sea, then go east — on the east side you can still see a sunset as beautiful as before.)
2023.2.17
“Winter in Sanya, summer in Silver Beach.” That line isn’t mine — it’s Silver Beach’s own. Lately I’ve noticed that the billboards on my side of town have been updated; before, they were ads from real estate agencies — how much houses were selling for, trading up to a place with central heating, the Nanhai New Area — and now they’ve become the promotional slogans of the Silver Beach administrative committee. There are other slogans too, fairly ordinary; only this “Winter in Sanya, summer in Silver Beach” strikes me as very interesting. I’d heard people say something like it before, but I hadn’t seen it on my side, the western side, so I didn’t quite believe it. Now there’s proof: it isn’t others talking nonsense, and it isn’t me talking nonsense. Silver Beach has advertised it itself. Before this line there’s another, in smaller type: “the number-one beach under heaven” — no need to quibble over that kind of exaggeration, plenty of places call themselves number one under heaven. But the line after it, in bigger type, is very amusing, because it’s comparing itself with Sanya. I haven’t spent a summer here yet, so I don’t know exactly what summer is like; but from what people say and the videos they post, I know there must be far more people here than in winter. Still, my analysis is that they’re mostly old people too, since the young people all say the square dancing is too noisy. As for winter, I suppose I don’t need to repeat it — I’ve said it many times. I’m a person who likes quiet and fears noise. If the summer crowds arrive and the compound gets rowdy, perhaps I’ll leave and go somewhere else.
In the afternoon, after eating, I went out wandering again. Here I’m just an idler with nothing to do but wander. “What do you want to do?” “I want to idle about.” On the way to the shore I saw some old people working in the fields by the road; they’d ridden their three-wheelers to the edge of the fields, with pails and shovels, and the soil was turned over, with furrows dug in rows. They were probably getting ready to plant something. In winter that place was a barren waste; I always thought of it as waste ground, when in fact it was only lying fallow, waiting for spring.
Walking on the beach, I always remember the happy things of childhood. Children all love playing in sand. When I was little there was a sand pit beside our home, with a lot of sand, and we’d go play on the sand piles, dig traps, cover them with old newspaper, and lure other kids over to fall in while we laughed beside them. Sometimes we’d hunt for shells in the sand, or little fossils of unknown creatures, and collect them.
I walked all the way to the mouth of the Baishatan River and sat a long while on a wrecked boat there, looking at the sea, feeling the breeze, basking in the sun. I posted a selfie, and a friend said, your skin is wheat-colored now, it looks great. I was rather pleased with myself. I followed the river up from its mouth; there’s plenty worth seeing in the Baishatan River too. In the water at the river mouth there were a lot of wild ducks — I clapped my hands and they fled in fright, such timid things. Going on, the reeds and dead grass in the river gradually increased, almost covering the whole surface, but the water was still clean and clear. There were many coots in the river; coots are far bolder than wild ducks — I clapped and shushed, and they just swam slowly away, still pecking for food, unhurried. Upstream there were even more coots; it was like their playground.
I used to think there were no young people at Silver Beach — at most, young outsiders lying flat, staying here for a while, not for the long term or forever. Today, as I wandered along the Baishatan River and reached Yinqiao Street, I happened to catch Baishatan Middle School letting out: a crowd of tender students leaving the school, walking along the empty street, chatting and laughing. They wore school uniforms, their hair thick, their cheeks ruddy, their eyes clear, their bodies slender — utterly youthful. And then it suddenly struck me: who says there are no young people at Silver Beach? Didn’t they grow up here? There’s an elementary school and a high school nearby too; there are always people who go to school here. This is their hometown — the place they’ll miss after they grow up and leave.
2023.2.18
Today I didn’t go out at all, because it was overcast; overcast days are a bit cold and damp, and I just didn’t feel like moving. Not going out, I ate even less, burned even less, spent even less. I hardly eat sugar now, I’ve given up cola, and meat of course. I eat very little salt too, but salt I can’t give up. My hunger usually comes from a lack of salt, not a lack of sugar. Though these changes in diet were forced on me by circumstances (no money), this way of living is beyond doubt healthy and good for body and mind. With this experience and understanding, even if I return to the city one day and live among crowds, I’ll stick to this way.
Today I paid special attention to the rice bag, too. There was some rice left — enough for several more days. This bag holds only ten kilograms. Since coming to Rushan I’ve bought rice only twice, which is to say that in about four months I’ve eaten only twenty kilograms of rice. Even if I stay here a full year, that’s three times twenty kilograms — sixty kilograms in all. I eat only sixty kilograms of rice a year. The rice was bought on the discount app — Wuchang rice, RMB 50 for ten kilograms; so sixty kilograms a year comes to RMB 300. I eat only RMB 300 worth of rice a year. Even if I live another fifty years, I’ll spend only RMB 15,000 on rice for the rest of my life.
2023.2.19
After a day of gloom the light poured out again; I love clear days to death. The indoor temperature reached fourteen degrees, an all-time first. Sitting on the balcony basking, it wasn’t just warm anymore but almost scorching, burning my skin. Basking like that can’t be good for the skin. But outside there was a cool breeze, blowing pleasantly, and I wandered aimlessly in a big circle, walking ten thousand steps before coming back. Someone had set fire to the wild grass and reeds on the waste ground; the fire got out of control, sending up thick rolling smoke that could be seen from the shore, and it brought out a fire engine. The noodle shop and the barbecue place on Hongzehu Road had opened, and the night-market stalls on Weishanhu Road were being set up; I swung my bamboo pole as I sauntered past.
2023.2.20
Today was a market day again — spring mild and bright, a light breeze on my face, carefree and content. A short lunar month has only twenty-nine days, no thirtieth, so the market that falls on days ending in five and zero gets pushed back a day, to the first, where it then collides with the market that falls on days ending in one and six — and the crowd gets split between them. I was just wondering why there were so few people at today’s market, with the vendors not even come and the stalls rather few, when I thought of that and it all became clear. Because I’d gotten up early and gone out early, I went out twice again today and did my food shopping in two trips. As follows: eggs, RMB 7.5 a jin, twenty-one of them, RMB 17; century eggs, RMB 10 for five, five of them, RMB 10; cabbage, RMB 0.5 a jin, 2.6 jin, RMB 1.3; potatoes, seven, RMB 7.5; caramel sunflower seeds, one jin, RMB 13; jujube cake, RMB 10 a jin, five, RMB 4; Qixia cream Fuji apples, RMB 5 a jin, four, RMB 12; bananas, RMB 3 a jin, seven, RMB 6.
The sun was too good to waste, so I took my pillows and quilt out to the balcony and draped them over a chair to bake, and at night I’d smell that warm, fresh, dry, comfortable scent. Coming back from the market to take a shower has become a habit and a routine for me: a shower every five days. Showers aren’t so cold anymore — no shivering from the cold as in winter. After the shower I’d bask a while myself too; truly a contented pleasure.
In the evening I wandered to the shore to watch the sunset; there was almost no one there. The sun sank slowly, and standing at the shore a long while the wind grew colder and colder, until I had to put up the hood of my jacket, my hands numb with cold. Though the evening wind was a bit cold, the orange afterglow once the sun had gone down was still very beautiful, like a canvas of fading colors. In Beijing the central heating used to run until March 15. In Rushan town it runs until March 20. If you take the shutting-off of the heating as the coming of spring, then spring hasn’t come yet. But indoors the temperature is still comfortable — back after dark I checked the thermometer, still thirteen degrees. This can only be called early spring.
2023.2.21
Today is the second of the lunar month, a spring tide, a day for foraging the shallows. In the morning I checked the tide table: the lowest tide would be at 10:39. I set off for the shore early, and the sea had already receded far, far out, exposing a great expanse of flat, muddy tidal flats. Many villagers nearby were busy in the sunlight, hunting their delicacies, all bustle and activity. I was only a spectator, going as close to the water as I could. I found the ground covered with tiny razor clams, as far as the eye could see. This was the first time I’d seen so many razor clams — it astonished me; had the warm weather made them erupt? They were all very small, only as long as a little finger; some lay across the sand, others had already burrowed in, with half of them sticking out. I pulled out the ones that had burrowed in and played with them in my hand, watching the mushroom-like flesh at the front slowly retract; their shells were translucent, and you could see the organs inside. There were simply too many on the beach — at first I was afraid of stepping on them, but in the end it was impossible to avoid: however carefully you walked, you’d always tread on plenty, with a soft cracking of thin shells. The villagers were all experts at digging razor clams; the ones they dug were big and fat, enviable — enough for several fine meals. Heaven really doesn’t stint those who live by the sea. In the sand and mud there were little spiral shells, with hermit crabs living inside. There were little painted crabs with cunning patterns on their backs, flipped onto their backs, showing their white bellies, their claws and legs kicking wildly in the air. A stalk of sea corn poked its head out; I pulled it up and there was a long thing below, soft and spongy, as yellow as corn. A great flock of seagulls was foraging at the water’s edge — so many razor clams were a feast for them, and afterward they left a lot of white droppings on the ground, fouling it and giving off a stench. But the tide was coming in, and everything would be washed clean; those razor clams lying exposed on the surface could return to the sea.
In the evening, after the sun went down, the thin crescent moon was in the west too, and a little later it followed it down; above the crescent were two extremely bright stars, one Venus, one Jupiter — why they were so close together I can’t explain, my astronomy is poor. Straight overhead the night sky was studded with all sorts of constellations; the stars wheeled, and I knew not a one of them; I only knew they were unbelievably beautiful. Poking my head out the window to look at the stars, my head got a bit cold. To be able to see the stars and moon from the windowsill — wasn’t that the scene I used to dream of?
2023.2.22
The third was a spring tide too, only the lowest tide came about forty minutes later than yesterday’s. There were still plenty of villagers foraging the shallows, bustling about. The beach was covered with little razor clams again, too small for anyone to pick. The seagulls strolled about at their ease, enjoying the feast. There were some clouds in the sky, and the wind was strong; much colder than yesterday. As yesterday, I wandered about on the flats, watching the villagers work; when I saw some strange creature on the ground I’d crouch down and play with it a while, feel the cool wind, breathe the free air — and the time passed quickly.
Back from my play I was a bit hungry, so I made lunch; though it was just the simplest fried eggs and cabbage stir-fried with green peppers and garlic, being able to settle down and cook, to eat my own food, is a very happy thing. Being a corporate drone in a big city, who has the time or the heart to cook? Sometimes I think: what’s the difference between a human in a big city and a machine? I’m feeling less and less attachment to and longing for the big city.
At noon the weather turned overcast, the dark clouds thickened, and the sun disappeared, and it stayed that way until evening. I’d been thinking that on the third I might see a lovely sunset and the crescent moon at the same time at the horizon, along with the bright Venus and Jupiter. Now that hope was dashed, and there was only the chill of spring. (Close to seven in the evening the sky gradually cleared, and I saw the thin crescent, and the bright Venus beside it, and the bright Jupiter above Venus. Wow — just too beautiful, too lovely; to be able to see this, I’ll have good luck for a hundred years.)
Dinner was a cream Fuji apple I’d bought on the first of the month — so sweet, so crisp and juicy, so delicious. Shandong apples really are the GOAT.
Two other small things. My mother said a relative wanted to introduce me to a blind-date prospect — a Tsinghua graduate working at an e-commerce company — and wanted me to get in touch. I turned it down offhand. I said I’m not interested in blind dates, only in making money; if you can introduce me to something that earns money, I’ll go at once. My mother scolded me: “I suspect you’re not the child I gave birth to.” And a college classmate suddenly messaged me saying he was in Beijing and asking me to meet up. I said I’m not in Beijing anymore. He asked where I was. I said I’d gone home, and was now living off my parents. He was speechless. Neither my mother nor my college classmate knows that I’m at Rushan Silver Beach.
An amusing one. In his Letter to Ju Chizheng, Su Shi wrote: “I hear your stomach ailment has come on a little; I trust it will soon be well. Wendeng is a little remote, but there is a joy. On the island there grows a medicine called white stone mushroom — its fragrance is at first like chewing tea, and after a while quite delicious; I hear it greatly benefits one, and I could not but let you know. The white stone mushroom is shaped like a stone ear, but has a fragrance; that is the only way to tell it. Keep it secret! Keep it secret!” The “Wendeng” here is Weihai; in the past Wendeng was more famous than Weihai, and the Wendeng prefecture governed the whole of the Weihai region. And so Wendeng — that is, Weihai — gets tied in with the words “everything is joyful,” which are also the Chinese name of Pepsi-Cola. Amusing.
2023.2.23
The sun’s height is rising higher and higher; in winter the sunlight could reach the whole bed, now only a small half of it. The same in the living room. But luckily there are no high-rises here, and the space between buildings is just right, so the lovely sunlight doesn’t get blocked. If you can’t bask in the sun, what meaning is left in life? And if there’s no freedom, what meaning is left in life? And happiness is what the sun and freedom give.
At noon I cut through the middle of the fields; though the fields were still bleak, waiting to revive, five or six magpies were hopping on the ground, and in the woods nearby a lot of sparrows were twittering — much noisier than before, the birds clearly more active. I walked down to the shore; though it was no longer a spring tide, the water was still low, and plenty of villagers were foraging the shallows — living off the sea. As yesterday and the day before, I roamed the flats looking at everything and nothing, an idler, and again found strange new creatures I couldn’t identify.
As the weather warms, more old people are out and about downstairs in the compound, gathering in clusters to talk; you see stray cats every now and then, too. On the street outside the compound there are more cars, and more old people strolling by the shore; there are more stalls at the Yinlong Bay night market, and both buyers and sellers are in high spirits. But at night, if you look at the lights on in the buildings, there aren’t many more than before — which shows the people here haven’t actually increased; they’ve just become brave enough to go out. But spring really is closing in.
From October 23 last year, when I left Beijing, to today is exactly four months. How fast time passes — winter endured, spring welcomed. I’ve recorded what happened every day: “I saw how I could let the years run off,” the sun and moon and stars shifting, the tides rising and falling, the temperature rising and falling, my skin tanned dark by the sun, and my weight sliding down because I eat so little. This is my history, and it is also the history of heaven and earth. “Heaven and earth are an inn for all things; time is the passing traveler of a hundred generations. And this floating life is like a dream — how much joy is there in it?” The last chill of February passes in a moment, and life is the same — gone in the blink of an eye. I hope the coming March will be as beautiful as fireworks.