An Automatic writing with John Cage’s sound works

Linda Lai / March 12, 2002
Context: “Fluxus in Germany” / 5th floor, Hong Kong Arts Centre

Automatic writing with John Cage’s sound works:

John Cage (1) Music for Carillon No. 1 (1952) and Williams Mix (1952).  Concert for Piano and orchestra (1957-1958) recorded in the Town Hall, New York City on May 15, 1958. (2) Song Books I + II (1970-1972) (3) Empty Words III (1974-1975)

往前再往前。拍拍打打雨灑一地的冰涼。踏步無人重量婀娜的鑽進來。向上爬。扭開一個樽蓋。破一個缺口。鑽一個洞。溫氣徐來，卻打了一個冷震。蛇在水中蠕動。她拿著一瓶香油，無論如何灑、如何潑，頂多是惹來一陣暈眩。

沙沙沙嘩啦去吧去了那兒那個角落那種態度。我在極有限的空間裏三百六十度的扭動，自由在我的每一根肌肉顫抖。
嘩啦嘩啦，四壁倒下。我不過是一台戲。你。她。蛇。
然後超然的聲音說著人不人、鬼不鬼的囈語。叫我安睡。叫他安息。著她安眠。Minimalist 簡約的切音換調，抗衡著東邊的銅鐘鏤語和西邊的鋼琴二重奏。
我懂得你的詩，雖然 – 一字一語都是虛無。右邊的耳鼓顫著古老人手操作打字機鍵盤被敲打的滴滴嗒嗒。左邊也來，她在遠處嘶叫，她在對話，也是有感無意的發聲。你打的是甚麼的文字？我很想閱讀。他和她在繼續。我忽然明白 gibberish 是怎樣一回事。我很想譜出你們的對唱對暢。我很想用符號 -- 實物是無中生有的 – 去記取一點已發的聲。
Notation.  Notational system.  Can gibberish be contained by notation?  Is it still improvisation if it’s notated?

啊 – 呀！是千萬裏和一二毫米的比拼。
那超然的聲音，依然故我的在十六部混聲樂譜的最底層緩行，一寸一寸的吐露著超越意義。
還有第十七層的聲，是打瞌睡，是沉睡。
老父的咳嗽聲。不，我爸是不會咳嗽的。多痛多病，他也無語，只用他七十二歲仍百份百烏黑的頭髮去回答所有的質疑，尤其媽的埋怨。…

這是怎樣的新天地？每個人都要找著她或他獨特的動作、叫聲，然後漫不經意地重覆、變調。
我不明白雀鳥的語言。你是雀鳥還是機械嘈音？
鑽進來，流淌著出去。穿過一道又一道看不見的牆。樹林是一幢又一幢的絨綠纖維回聲板。
古典的詠唱和浪漫派的挑情，都落在光脫的白楊樹幹上，折射著鋼琴奏鳴的斷碎骸跡。這邊借來莎士比亞一句，那邊攪進哲學經典的核子。不是反調，不是反唱，也非毫不相關。再沒有從上而來的聲音可以再主宰我聽見看見明白想像關注甚麼。

Tackle.  Tick.  Find an apple and last as long as you like.  Cracking are the diamonds on the wall.  Rolling in.  Sit and clap.  What kind of water makes you sing and scream?  Too many.  Uncontrollable.  I want to join your dance.  Walker walks not but sound finds its way through the wall.  Water.  Fading away.  Whatever is there dissolves into the mist.  And you murmur.  You murmur and murmur and murmur until…... the table collapses and she comes forth to blah-blah-blah…material forum – taking at least one hour……hee-hee –dee-dee.  If you want to come.  Distorted is not voice, but sensation.  Finding what is not there.  Seeing what can only be heard.  Yelling is a game.  It hides.  You can eat up your tongue and still voice out.  Why do women scream?  Men ask.  It’s a total mis-recognition.  Blue eats up all the ants.  The ring of bell tells no one to dance – but speak, speak while you still can.  Crackers.  Pot.  Sound.  Fast.  Moving.  Mourning is a form of music, isn’t it? Except it doesn’t sooth.  I can hear you.  Speak up.  The many voices in my mind – one in the disguise of many.  Truth is what?  So what?  Enter, he said.  What makes you think you may?  Find the tree and where the ducklings mate with the ants.  Green rain.  Fade out.  Violence comes like a clown.  He abuses lonely hearts and fills the air with gestural rhetoric  and spectacular tonality.  A passive voice he speaks.  Finds no rest.  Rest.  Dies down.  Sun rises.  Or the moon does.

世界的世界。世界裏有細世界。Walk.  Stalk.  Pot on the hot wok, ah – wok.  Knot. Knot.  Knock.  A punch that ties a dream to a thin line of cream.  Dimdimdimdim upon a very slimy Ha! Barbaric evening survive unto the tide of irony bidding no fine line to die…