Re-sounding Myself: on Plural Realities
Experimental Film/Sound/WritingFrom writing, plural realities sounds out in plural voices and language. I gaze internally into my consciousness, and let the mind inhabit the writing, narrate its own sound.
The tones layered, and formed dialogues through different states of consciousness.
碎片音轨 Fragmented Soundtracks
《毕加索送给牛顿的礼物》 The Gift from Picasso to Newton我想这应该是个梦，凌晨三点。I think this is a dream, it is 3am
一说英语我就变成了另一个人。 When I use English I become a different person in a different web
时间离我好远 time is so far from me
我希望我感受不到时间，这样我的感受可以永生 I wish i can't sense time, in this way, my senses can be immortal.
“Reality of the virtual instead of virtual reality”
可能梦就是这样的 This is how dream works I think
你在做梦的时候感受不到时间 You don’t feel time while dreaming
但是你的梦变成记忆的一部分然后影响你和你的现实，所以变成了多个现实。But your dream becomes part of your memory and affects you and your reality, so it becomes realities
我忘记抬头看天空了。I forgot to look at the sky
在梦里，天空是壁纸。The sky is wallpaper in my dreams
I don't know what made me decide to start drawing. It feels like the first time I truly sensed that painting could calm me down. I don't want to think—it's probably the first time in my life I've disliked thinking. If only my brain had a power button.
Countless times, I've started thinking without realizing it, then suddenly snapped back to needing to stop. I wish I could be a bit more clueless, so I wouldn't have the capacity to care about or ponder concepts that are so hard to grasp. If only I had fewer curious interests.
I think I haven't slept in three days. Combined, it might not even add up to five hours. I clearly have time to sleep, I'm clearly exhausted, but why can't I fall asleep even when I'm so tired? I miss that one night this year when I didn't have insomnia—when I felt sleepy early and drifted off instantly.
If every day is like this, I might as well take sleeping pills.
Getting dependent on sleeping pills probably wouldn't be a big deal, right?
Apart from nightmares, I actually love my sleeping brain. Some dreams are fascinating—more interesting than reality. Truthfully, I don't care whether it's a dream or reality, because they both flash back in my mind like memories.
我不知道我因为什么決定开始画画，好像第一次真的感受到画画可以calmdown吧。我不想思考，好像也是我人生也第一次不喜欢思考，如果大脑有个关机键就好了。
我无数次无意识地开始思考，又突然意识到我必须得停下来了。我希望我可以笨一点，这样就没能力去关心和思考一些很难被理解的概念。如果我好奇的兴趣少一些就好了吧。
我好像已经三天沒有睡了。加起来可能只有5个小时不到。我明明有时间睡觉，我明明很累，但为什么那么困就是睡不着？很怀念今年唯一一次不失眠，困的很早，一下就睡着的那个夜晚。
如果每天都这样的话，我还是吃安眠药吧。
安眠药依赖了应该也没事吧？
除了恶梦，我很喜欢睡着的大脑，有些梦很有趣，比现实还有趣。其实，我不在乎是梦还是现实因为他们都会像记忆一样回闪在大脑。
Chapter2: About Construction Site
The world within my dreams is one I build myself. I choose fragments and things I love from reality, omnipotent and free to do as I please. I needn't care what others think, nor society's standards and systems. There are no rules. My mind leads it wherever I wish to go. Everything there, and the place itself, belongs to me. Thankfully, thoughts aren't transparent. Because those are the real me.
I recall before my freshman year, I could construct within the dreamscape before falling asleep, ensuring I could enter that world in my dreams. It was a wholly personal space, yet as a social creature, certain elements within my private realm could surely allow others to dream their own dreams too.
Art should be like that too—omnipotent within its own cycle, yet still constructing spaces beyond itself, allowing it to exist in a perceptible physical world.
Why must even this sanctuary of art be bound by rules? All its different branches are pseudo-problems, aren't they? As The Life of Plants says, when philosophy becomes a discipline, it ceases to be philosophy.
I'm gradually convinced that art is dead. Our contemporary art operates within contexts; it no longer turns inward but outward, becoming an appendage to technology, politics, culture, and society. It should naturally reflect and subtly resonate with these forces—not become an accessory, a weapon, or a medium.
梦里的世界是我自己构建的，我选择现实中我喜欢的的片段和事物，无所不能随心所欲。我不用在乎別人怎么想，社会的标准和体系。没有准则。我的脑子带领它去到我想去的地方。那里的一切和那里都是我的。幸好思维不是透明的。因为那些才是我自己。
我记得在大一之前我曾可以在睡着之前在梦的场域施工，并且确定我可以在梦中进入那个世界。那是完全个人的空间，但因为我是社会中的群居动物，个人的世界中的一些东西肯定也可以让别人做他们想做的梦吧。
艺术应该也是这样的，在自己的循环中可以无所不能，但还是要建构自己以外的空间，让它存在可感知的物理世界。
为什么艺术这片净土都要有条条框框？所有的不同分支都是伪命题吧。就像The Life of Plant中所说的，如果哲学成为一个学科的时候，哲学已不是哲学了。
我逐渐相信艺术已死这件事。我们现在的艺术有了语境，它不再向内了，成为了向外的，成了科技，政治，文化，社会的附属。它应该自然的反应和隐性的corry这些。而不是成为附属和武器还有介质。
Chapter3: Dreaming about Dreaming
That day I had a dream, dreaming of myself, so I told her my present story. I couldn't tell if this story was real or just a story. But now I'll tell you this story. One day my friend and I left the cinema after watching “There’s Still Tomorrow”, and I felt utterly miserable, as if my soul were being crushed by the ending projected on the screen until I couldn't breathe. I was so overwhelmed I couldn't speak, my throat constricted by a lump of emotion. I felt deeply disappointed by that ending—though perhaps it wasn't disappointment, just a longing for her personal redemption rather than the sense that political triumph had granted it. I knew I was naively hoping for revenge. All the anger in the film seemed trapped, its suppression seeping from the projector and characters into my memory.
My friend told me to pull those vivid memories out frame by frame onto a piece of paper, then crumple them up in my mind. I couldn't crumple it at all. She'd studied some psychoanalysis and psychology, so she guided me to try placing that paper farther away. I strained to make it drift gradually, but in the process it fragmented into several sheets of inconsistent transparency. That paper suffocated me. Not just this memory, but certain sounds too—after that, I became hypersensitive to similar noises, as if every pore opened wide, fearfully open.
As I recounted this, I spoke to my dream self again: You know what I'm learning at school now, the scholarly papers I read, the books written by those deeply knowledgeable people, the videos I come across—they all talk about feminism, gender discrimination. I know deep down that I, too, am a feminist. And I know some people will never understand the world women experience; they'll never grasp it, never see it. The more I learn, the more powerless I feel—how utterly helpless and incapable I am, unable to do anything. I can't even change my father, my mother, or myself. I feel like I don't want to know any more...
I said again, “It feels like I'm in a dream. It's just the two of us here, right?”
那天我做了一个梦，梦到我自己，于是我和她讲了我现在的故事。后来我分不清这个故事是真的还是只是一个故事。但现在我和你讲讲这个故事吧。有一天我和我的朋友从电影院出来，我们刚看完《还有明天》，我内心十分难受，像是灵魂被荧幕放映的结尾压迫的要窒息一样。我难受的不知道说什么，难受的喉咙被一股气卡住。我对那个结尾很是失望，好像也不是失望，只是我更希望她得到个人的救赎，而不是那种代表政治的胜利使她得到的救赎。我知道我在无知的期待一个复仇。影片中的所有愤怒好像都没有被释放出来，那种压抑从录像机和角色渗透到我的记忆。
我的朋友让我把那些具象的记忆抽出来一帧放在一片纸上，在脑子里把它揉成一团。我怎么都揉不成一团。她学过一些精神分析和心理学，所以她又引导我尝试把这张纸放远，我努力的让那张纸一点一点变远，可在这个过程中它变成了透明度不一致的好几张纸，那张纸让我窒息。不仅这个记忆，还有一些声音，我在那之后对类似的声音十分敏感，好像每个毛孔都张开，恐惧般的张开。
在讲这件事的时候，我又和梦里的自己说，你知道我现在在学校学的东西，看的学者的论文，那些学识渊博的人写的书，刷到的视频，都在说女性主义，性别歧视，我深深的知道我自己的也是一名女性主义者，我也知道有些人永远没有体会过女性经历过的世界，他们永远听不懂也看不懂。我了解的越多我就越觉得我很无能，我是多么一个无能有无奈的，什么都做不了的人啊。我连我的父亲，我的妈妈，和我自己都拯救不了。我好像不想再知道更多了…
我又说，我好像在梦里，这里只有我们两个对不对？
“Language is the house of Being. In its home man dwells.” -Martin Heidegger