<< Echo of the silence >>, Performance, 2022
Galerie du Génie de la Bastille
I feel like when I'm speaking it's not my language My real language is silence It's not trapped unspeakable It's a real silence When I'm in that I'm me state (though most of the time not ) I feel like I am the silence itself. To return to silence is to return to myself. The freedom that does not have to be the freedom to express is just the freedom to exist.
Language is a very "human" thing
It includes the "possession" of the humain, the "arrogance" of the humain, the determination of myself, the determination of the human, rather than connecting with strangers to establish communication, I think it contains more "disengagement" from the community in the initial state. Disengagement from the unconscious It Going to isolation first, looking for another isolation, to build something, the naming and definition of things have the same meaning as God created man, so I think it also reflects the arrogance of man. This is the creator rather than the created.
In this way, it is even possible to use language (artificial objects) to suspend reality (the world created by God)
In a sense, language can make people better exist in human form
Silence It has its quiet divinity, mystery and piety, but the perspective of social people actually includes obedience
Language is also individual, ego, taking my language also takes me
From the birth of a baby, there is a beginning of domestication, and there is a beginning before it is even born
Under the deep red light and shadow, hysterical hands whispers of the arms
When I first saw the word 'organic', I first thought that it refers to a disease that occurs in an organ or tissue system caused by a variety of reasons, and causes permanent damage. Silence expresses a state of silence, so I think more of negative emotions.
If language can exist in another form, I think what I feel recently is that it stays in my mind in the form of memory, and silence is like a refusal to communicate, unwilling to reconcile. Then it is transformed into a sad memory and stored in your mind. Although it has no sound and no symbols, you will be immersed in this sad emotion all the time and cannot escape.
Everyone is standing on the road
looking for a place to meet others
The sudden arrival of language
Bring a flash of consonance
It is also a prelude to falling into the abyss
I am imagining a future language (or a language of the past) that is not writings and words. It comes from the innate senses and the application of this language is a process of tracing back the most primitive inherent instincts. It has subconscious freedom, so that the speaker cannot manipulate it as if he were in control of existing words and utterances. The relationship between humain and language is no longer one-way domination. It is a language of images, which enables human beings to get rid of the conceptual thinking of words and transform them into the sensory thinking of images. It discards the traditions of existing languages so as not to compromise for any purpose. Humans communicate no longer for mutual understanding but for inward revelation as a writer waits for his readers to surprise them. Even, the communication that abandons understanding completely succumbs to inner construction. It stands at the height achieved by the literal goal as the starting point, and all rhetoric loses the meaning of existence. It integrates multiple layers of poetic logic into one, and its simplicity can summarize infinite possibilities. Under the centralization of the senses, pour inward. It is a fleeting language, used only for expressive purposes and not suitable for recording. The quest to become familiar with and master language is a return to the source. The source flows and changes, and the senseless attempt, like its fleeting nature, reveals the abyss of nothingness. In the process of applying this language, no one understands your words, but you understand everyone's thoughts.
I thought of a poem "born in language, chattering, and learning to keep silent..."
I think the word language is something that must be spoken, or written down. If it is expressed in other forms, such as pictures or eyes, people should still translate it in their brains into a language they can understand. Therefore, in the case where the concept of language is not used or completely abandoned, what can carry the function of conveying information is the primitive emotions and desires in the collective subconscious, that is, telepathy, and habits. Getting used to the way a person behaves can also play a role in understanding. And telepathy is more like a common understanding and response to the consensus in the collective subconscious.
I think language is not just to express a certain point of view. When I feel language, I feel that it creates an atmosphere, something similar to qi.
In fact, I don't seem to be in this state, and I can't describe it in words.
We learned the Whole of Love —
We learned the Whole of Love —
The Alphabet — the Words —
A Chapter — then the mighty Book —
Then — Revelation closed —
But in Each Other's eyes
An Ignorance beheld —
Diviner than the Childhood's —
And each to each, a Child —
Attempted to expound
What neither — understood —
Alas, that Wisdom is so large —
And Truth — so manifold!
上千条难以理解的静脉骨骼 ” <<银河猎人-6 >>
“ Lui, il se parle à lui-même, il se moque du corps et de la nature devant lui-même. ” — Chasseur Galactique 8
“Chaque peur disparue est reconstruite,
La chair qui peut être touchée est reconstruite, elle aussi,
Par des milliers d'os dans des artères vénales incompréhensibles. ” —Chasseur Galactique 5
Scarred placenta enwrap
Above the womb that separates life and death
you ? me ?
. Se battre dans le vide
. Désormais, je n'entends plus guère au fond de la rosée, les révoltes anonymes qui se mouvaient dans la brume.
Tapis dans les dernières ombres qu'abandonnait la nuit, elles bruissaient en silence dans l'air frais du matin.
Désormais, je ne vois plus guère, perchées aux sommets des érables, les promesses insatiables qui murmuraient dans le vent. Ondulant, des pieds à la pointe, sous un souffle vorace, elles se débattent puis s'envolent dans des gestes indistincts.
Ici demeurent tes cris systémiques devenus la proie de chasses sanguinaires, en amont le noir, en aval le reste du vide.
Toi l'intervalle qui chute dans les verticales où scintillent, parfois encore, les ruines de couleurs tro- picales, par delà les nuits de misère qui tremblent en ton séant.
Ici demeurent tes cris systémiques devenus la proie de chasses sanguinaires, par delà les pluies de lumière qui troublent le néant.
Écoute-moi encore, bien que mon nom soit Personne. Ici les étendues sereines désormais se vallonnent.
La lune tourne. L'air s’épaissit, il s'englue.
Je t'appartiens mais je tremble pourtant à ta venue.
J'ai cherché dans le ru boueux de ma mémoire,
un frémissement familier, une clairvoyance,
y plongeant mes mains vivement, trouvant son eau glacée
et parmi les sombres racines, les reflets écarlates de ta présence.
L'été a flétri ta pierre et tes tourments,
le soleil y a martelé ses rayons des mois durant.
Les herbes hautes se sont recroquevillées, tordues sous le poids de l'air, Toi, demeurant au dessous, impassible, sens-tu l'odeur de la lumière?
À l’intérieur de la terre, nos enfants regardent narquois
les dernières volutes de rêve s'évaporer,
sombrant dans le même inconnu qui nous dévore désormais tel des oiseaux d'ombres fonçant sur leur proies.
fluent interaction with the bodies
There’s no eternity also silence ends
No moments just repeating