[Phoenix PEN] Tintin: Change

[Phoenix PEN] Tintin: Change Phoenix City Tintin Like many people, such hurried footsteps, but they will always be just stranger passers-by, in San Francisco M...

Phoenix Tintin

Like many people, such hurried footsteps, but they will always be just stranger passers-by, passing you on Market Street in San Francisco. It's far more noisy than Phoenix. I wonder if it's just me who's been in a quiet place for too long. If you closed your eyes and listened on Market Street, you would think all you heard was madness.

Ambulances or firetrucks screamed sharply, the bells of trams pierced the ears, all the vehicles whistled and roared, and the street dancers played dance music from the inferior speakers. Coupled with the footsteps and voices of countless people, all these converged into a sound wave that made the guts of every building on the street tremble.

But I can still distinguish the arrogant and painful drum sound. The incomprehensible and familiar drumbeat came again with my footsteps. But this time, I couldn't hear the classic "Welcome to San Francisco!"

" He changed the words."

This was the first thought in my mind. I stood there and listened blankly for a long time, but apart from the random and crazy drum beats, I didn't understand a single word.

The gray hair was shaved. The black clothes are as shabby as ever, but they are definitely not the same outfit as before. His drums, or more accurately, his Chinese restaurant soy sauce buckets, are still pretty much the same. Some of the barrels still had pots upside down. If you just see his photo, it's hard to tell whether he is playing the drums or cooking. But in this situation, even if you said you were cooking, I couldn't laugh at all.

When he took a breath, he raised his eyes and looked at me along with his deep forehead wrinkles. There was still that suspicious and cold look in his eyes - I didn't think he would recognize me at all. The person who once stood in front of him and tried to read him was still a stranger in front of him this time. He was probably just wondering if I would throw some money at him.

I don’t remember which book I read in. Street performers are beautiful buttons on urban clothes and gorgeous illustrations in urban books. Some of them have dreams, are simple, young and talented. Like Kiana, whom I met in Wakiki, Hawaii. She played the exact same guitar as me (a Breedlove model). After hearing that the guitar I used was exactly the same as hers, she let me play for her for a while without hesitation. Then she let me choose from her entire set of CDs. She and I discussed Open Tune on the guitar, folk songs and acoustics. She believed that she would become famous, write more good songs, and have more listeners.

I also hope she can become famous. For this, I have been looking forward to it.

But he is anything but. I know it, and he knows it too. He is even more difficult to understand than the obscure Ulysses. In his dull and stiff face, in his suspicious and cold eyes, I couldn't read him at all. His drums and the music that I define in my mind are like the two railroad tracks of a tram, there is no intersection at all. Naturally, I didn’t expect to understand his newly revised words. I believe he never thought about becoming famous, nor did he think about a larger audience. When people walk past him, they are always in a hurry. After staying like this for a long time without paying me, I knew that while he was knocking wildly, he must be thinking, "What does this guy want to do?"

I walked away and took a picture of him from a distance. The sun dispersed the early morning rain, but steam still rose from the ground.