Notes From Baoshan Road
Time in Guiyang flows relentlessly. What seemed to be the tangible reality yesterday becomes but a mere dream today. Places and people are in a state of flux: new entities made of the city texture and flesh are born, only to be dismantled seconds after. Their memories fade.
The humming of the construction machines never ceases, I can hear it well even now, somewhere in the distance; it is only a crow of a rooster that can break their rhythm.
The smell of chilli and sewage in the winding alleys augurs rain. Dongshan will flood again.
The rim of the luoguo hot plate brings pain. The pat on a stray cat’s little head - joy.
The taste of bean hotpot is never quite the same without putting exactly two pieces of fermented bean curd in the sauce bowl.
To see Guiyang from the top of Huancui Pavilion is to see her look so small and frail, lost in the mountains. Detached from the world.
If this is the way to solve her great mystery, then it must be done. The city must be dissected.