Exploration of the Stream of Consciousness

Alternative title: Excerpt of me brainstorming on Oct 08 at 16:02:32 because I couldn’t think of anything. (Incidentally, even this whole post is some kind of strange stream of thought!)

My initial location was Illyria. Not the actual location, but the fictional version in a book series revolving around a pig farmed named Blart (I didn’t know it sounds like Blood when said out loud). It’s basically some kind of communist country, but as an impressionable 7 year old with no awareness of economics it was a rather revolutionary idea. Here’s the description.

They continued along the road. Each time they passed a stall someone would dash out and give them something, be it some fresh fish or some wine or some elaborate jewellery. However much they protested they could not reject the goods they were given. If a stallholder couldn’t get them to take a gift directly then he just placed the object in one of Pig the Horse’s saddlebags. More and more things mounted up. In their pockets, in their hands and over their shoulders.

‘There’s going to be a terrible bill at the end of this street,’ warned Capablanca.

But they reached the end of the street and there was no bill. Nobody stopped them and nobody demanded payment.

‘Sure, we’ll be arrested as thieves,’ said Beo.

But they weren’t arrested as thieves. And the reason they weren’t can only be understood by understanding the nature of the Illyrian economy.

You see, most economies work on the “buy” idea. You want something. You go to someone who has it. You agree a price. And then you get it.

The Illyrian economy didn’t work like this. their economy, instead of being based on the idea of buying, was based on the idea of giving. Everybody gave a share of whatever he or she had to everybody else. So, a man who has grown a lot of oranges gave some to everybody he knew. A woman who made cheeses gave some to everybody she knew. And so on. Everybody ended up with all the oranges, apples, cheeses and everything else that they needed, which is all that an economy is there for the first place. And if, for example, the man with the oranges had something go wrong like his orange trees getting a disease and dying, then it didn’t mean that he had to starve because everybody carried on giving him things even though they didn’t get any oranges back. They had everything else so missing out on oranges wasn’t so terrible. And as soon as the man got some new orange trees he’d start growing oranges and giving them away again. This is why everybody was always trying to give Blart, Beo and Capablanca things.

Economists from all the other countries of the world had heard of this idea and said that it couldn’t work because people were naturally greedy and selfish and that they liked having more things than everybody else. But Illyrians continued to make it work in complete disregard of economic theory, which was very rude of them in the opinion of the economist. And because they weren’t always competing with each other and trying to make a profit, the Illyrians ended up being friendly and generous to one another and they were the happiest people in the world. It made all the economists mad.

Blart: The Boy Who Didn’t Want to Save the World (pp. 131-2) by Dominic Barker

It’s very light reading even for a 7 year old, but I recommend it just because it’s hilarious.

However, I decided I didn’t particularly want to do it by virtue of the fact that I can’t visualise it as anything but a children’s show animation (think Adventure Time), and while I like those plenty, what’s the point of being allowed to use any medium if I’m just going to make some boring expository animation with boring expository sounds?

Also, I like trying out a variety of things. I’ve already attempted the mundane and the quirky, so it’s probably about time to do the faux-psychological stuff, isn’t it?

What I hence want to focus on is the stream of consciousness. I first encountered it in literature (think James Joyce), but I think the fundamental idea still works, since it’s a narrative technique. It’s very fascinating to me that one can begin from somewhere, and through the most serendipitous development, end up somewhere seemingly unrelated through a chain of interlinked thoughts. For example:

I need to find my nail clipper
My nail clipper is silver in colour
Kind of like the colour of Pokemon SoulSilver
Thinking about it, Pokemon was a good game
I hope that the new Xenoblade game comes out soon too
And that the Xenoblade soundtrack is still composed by ACE+
I loved that song by ACE+
It reminded me a lot of…… (stream continues)

You wouldn’t think nail clippers and songs are related, but they can be.

I also know this might sound weird, but for inspiration I looked towards the things I recorded. I have a habit of recording my thoughts and dreams. And funnily enough, they are kind of what I’m aiming for.

i dreamt that i walked to the MRT with them regardless, but ended up sidetracked as we went into Vallaha. We went into the boss map where Nagasakihime, an extremely large (we were only as tall as the width of her thigh!) was sitting on a royal wooden plate, wearing a white royal kimono with her long black hair (her face was out of the screen) as she began to rain hail down on us: i cast protective barrier spells but also decided to just run for it. outside, there were many mobs summoned by her and i took care of some of them but ended up dying so i revived myself there, and tried to kill them by seeing the next move they would make (which didnt make things any easier). in the end i just switched over to my Buccaneer, who could just trash them by sending nukes down from platform above. there was a lot of loot: red/gray crabs, bees, stingers… i collected them from right beside a conversation between Lucifer and a crab: the crab was shortsighted but somehow I knew Lucifer would not say anything about me. After i went back i was reprimanded, while they told me about how Nagasakihime boss fight allows 1 person to sleep and gain ores in the dream while the others fight, and i handed over the stuff i looted from killing everything, which also involved ores. at the same time, Lucifer‘s servant encountered the Demon King, and suggested for him to visit his son’s room, which was currently in terrible shape as his son seemed to have killed everything. The King went in and remarked the lack of mobs, but when Lucifer said he no longer wished to be attacked by the mobs, the King coaxed him by showing the number of injuries each Demon King had to have, with his grandfather clocking in the most at 1842 fatal ones, 1536 with medical attention and 182 minor ones. it was inevitable, and Lucifer had to get used to it. which he did not, and so he plotted to escape, remembering a story he once read of a Demon Queen to be who desired not the position, and so when she brought her horse back in after training and as the stable doors were about to close, she ordered the sun to rise instead, as the tendrils of trees ripped the doors open and she flew off on her horse, free.

74% of dream 030916 (edited typos to allow for basic comprehension)

the skin of my eyes feel heavy but even if it close then i cant stop thinking. what else must i do. what else can i finish doing. i want to work on the lyrics i want to write i want to produce keep producing something if its the only way i can get this turmoil into some shape someway or the other if i draw what should i draw maybe another 2 col piece black and white positive and negative space but ive been doing that a lot recently its an apt style for my mood but i must keep progressing, im bored i want to do something else. ive watercoloured too much for work. maybe acrylic again i liked the effect with luna. or matcha paint thatd be interesting or a silver/gold toned work whenever i find my brush pen. who has it? who can i blame? this is why i hate giving anything. even though i tried to no one appreciated it no one seemed to like it no one cared and in the end why did i do it? i hate giving anything. loaning anything. of course you shouldnt be expecting gifts back but i always feel so underwhelmed. i gave this gift which i worked so hard on and no one cares. maybe im succumbing to a superiority complex again, remember when i mentioned this and all i got was the suggestion that i seem to think im the only one whos “unique”? any element of not liking others must mean some form of egoism. “theyre bad” “theyre inefficient” to be able to say that must mean in some form that you think youre better. “theyre bad and i am too”? what does bad even mean what right do i have to define that word, i dont have jurisdiction what must i do to gain that right
my heart skips a beat when my phone drops. it also skips many beats when i have to say nothing ive thought through a lot, i cant breathe it hurts, my heads dizzy, i can focus on nothing but the rapid beating of my heart and i have to struggle to control my breathing, is that what it means to “be anxious” or to “have anxiety” ill never know because ill never work up the courage to believe that i have a “right” to having a mental illness, thats so incorrect to say and that just makes me sound like an asshole, but honestly im just normal norm normal all the way i wont ever be outstanding or dysfunctional in any way

29% of sleeptalk 290717 (edited typos to allow for basic comprehension)

What I enjoy is the fact that they don’t seem like they make sense, but at the same time they kind of do, especially dreams. Once you write it down it becomes truly apparent how bizarre it is, but when you’re still experiencing it, it all makes logical sense to you. The challenge, of course, is to make it make sense beyond just me.

For the dream I find it bizarre that new characters can be introduced so easily without it seemingly weird, and sometimes order is maintained just by the same character appearing again even if in the most different scenarios (and even if you have no awareness of their appearance you can still tell it’s them). Also, how incredibly weird it is that you can have the most detailed information even with the most vague descriptions. And how very different things are happening, but with an adequate explanation you can convince people that it’s all interlinked.

For the sleeptalk it’s also interesting to see how it’s a lot about the person themself. For the me of then, when I think of what I can do, I think of drawing, and that leads to me exploring different mediums. Then the fact that I’ve recently lost my brushpen helps to lead from the subject of drawing to general angst at other people. The real world interrupting the stream of thought and starting a new one is also an interesting concept.

So far I’ve only talked about visuals when the emphasis should be on sound, so let’s try looking at a childhood favourite of mine, hanamushi (花蟲)! Hanamushi has a very distinctive, surreal and eerie style, and I think the idea of reverie was nicely shown in this work:

Short Animation 「Daydream Girl」

I opted against doing the full video analysis since that’s kind of long, but I’d say there are 4 very evident categories of sound.

Diegetic: Could be further divided into real sound and “fantasy” sound, but let’s leave it as is. Sound like the mouse’s squeaking, frog’s clapping, page’s flipping, all fall under here.
Non-Diegetic long-term: The closest to mood music there will be, things like the sounds of chimes and xylophones and bongos which transition from each other as per parts of the video. It helps to define changes in the landscape, with things like the frog getting the deeper sound of drums versus the lighter chime sounds of things like flies.
Non-Diegetic short-term: Like long-term in defining movement, only that rather than characterising whole chunks of areas it provides context as to occurrences, such as a scale ascension when the skeleton unfurls.
Non-Diegetic permanent: The consistent sound throughout everything, the static. I think this is more an accident of sound mixing than actual intention, though, because it’s present whenever there’s sound, but absent whenever no sound track is being played.

I think what helps to keep the sounds remaining united even with different instruments is the common time signature, and what helps to separate is the deviation from that, sometimes with increasing tempo too. There’s a purposeful use of tempo, so fluctuations or off beat sound effects stand out.

I came up with this narrative ordering by myself, but I think it’s a fairly obvious chain of effect which was also shown in hanamushi’s work.

Something of the real world acts as a trigger
The trigger leads onto another thought and another, and another
The chain is broken when something of the real world snaps you back to reality

There are very few examples I could find, but I thought this was good too:

Good Books – Metamorphosis (Buck) (nice variation of sounds, with appropriate animations)

Regardless, the point of the reverie style is to allow a mixture of different types of sounds and mediums. I don’t want to be limited to anything, because it’s all about your head and where your thoughts lead you, so it could go anywhere.

Again, though, it’s about trying to make it relatable to everyone, which is hard because the ways people think are different from each other, so things that have an obvious correlation to me might not link up as well for another. At the very least, though, the location I’m working on is

? THE MIND WHEN YOU’RE STONING ON A BUS ON THE WAY HOME AT 11PM ?

It’s very specific, but necessary I suppose. I’m still working on the sequence of images and sounds, trying not to focus too much on images as opposed to linking sounds. The trigger I’m thinking of is the bus halting sound, so I suppose I’d try to find sounds which sound similar, or which are commonly associated with that.

Or maybe I can try the Good Books thing, in having a sort of monologue, although I don’t think that’d be as effective simply because people DON’T monologue in their head (as far as I know, which I wouldn’t because I only know I don’t).

(Excerpt) In Search of Lost Time

Many years had elapsed during which nothing of Combray, save what was comprised in the theatre and the drama of my going to bed there, had any existence for me, when one day in winter, on my return home, my mother, seeing that I was cold, offered me some tea, a thing I did not ordinarily take. I declined at first, and then, for no particular reason, changed my mind. She sent for one of those squat, plump little cakes called “petites madeleines,” which look as though they had been moulded in the fluted valve of a scallop shell. And soon, mechanically, dispirited after a dreary day with the prospect of a depressing morrow, I raised to my lips a spoonful of the tea in which I had soaked a morsel of the cake. No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, something isolated, detached, with no suggestion of its origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory – this new sensation having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence was not in me it was me. I had ceased now to feel mediocre, contingent, mortal. Whence could it have come to me, this all-powerful joy? I sensed that it was connected with the taste of the tea and the cake, but that it infinitely transcended those savours, could, no, indeed, be of the same nature. Whence did it come? What did it mean? How could I seize and apprehend it?

I drink a second mouthful, in which I find nothing more than in the first, then a third, which gives me rather less than the second. It is time to stop; the potion is losing it magic. It is plain that the truth I am seeking lies not in the cup but in myself. The drink has called it into being, but does not know it, and can only repeat indefinitely, with a progressive diminution of strength, the same message which I cannot interpret, though I hope at least to be able to call it forth again and to find it there presently, intact and at my disposal, for my final enlightenment. I put down the cup and examine my own mind. It alone can discover the truth. But how: What an abyss of uncertainty, whenever the mind feels overtaken by itself; when it, the seeker, is at the same time the dark region through which it must go seeking and where all its equipment will avail it nothing. Seek? More than that: create. It is face to face with something which does not yet exist, to which it alone can give reality and substance, which it alone can bring into the light of day.

And I begin to ask myself what it could have been, this unremembered state which brought with it no logical proof, but the indisputable evidence, of its felicity, its reality, and in whose presence other states of consciousness melted and vanished. I decide to attempt to make it reappear. I retrace my thoughts to the moment at which I drank the first spoonful of tea. I rediscover the same state, illuminated by no fresh light. I ask my mind to make one further effort, to bring back once more the fleeting sensation. And so that nothing may interrupt it in its course I shut out every obstacle, every extraneous idea, I stop my ears and inhibit all attention against the sound from the next room. And then, feeling that my mind is tiring itself without having any success to report, I compel it for a change to enjoy the distraction which I have just denied it, to think of other things, to rest refresh itself before making a final effort. And then for the second time I clear an empty space in front of it; I place in position before my mind’s eye the still recent taste of that first mouthful, and I feel something start within me, something that leaves its resting-place and attempts to rise, something that has been embedded like an anchor at a great depth; I do not know yet what it is, but I can feel it mounting slowly; I can measure the resistance, I can hear the echo of great spaces traversed.

Undoubtedly what is thus palpitating in the depths of my being must be the image, the visual memory which, being linked to that taste, is trying to follow it into my conscious mind. But its struggles are too far off, too confused and chaotic; scarcely can I perceive the neutral glow into which the elusive whirling medley of stirred-up colours is fused, and I cannot distinguish its form, cannot invite it, as the one possible interpreter, to translate for me the evidence of its contemporary, its inseparable paramour, the taste, cannot ask it to inform me what special circumstance is in question, from what period in my past life.

Will it ultimately reach the clear surface of my consciousness, this memory, this old, dead moment which the magnetism of an identical moment has traveled so far to importune, to disturb, to raise up out of the very depths of my being? I cannot tell. Now I feel nothing; it has stopped, has perhaps sunk back into its darkness, from which who can say whether it will ever rise again? Ten times over I must essay the task, must lean down over the abyss. And each time the cowardice that deters us from every difficult task, every important enterprise, has urged me to leave the thing alone, to drink my tea and to think merely of the worries of to-day and my hopes for to-morrow, which can be brooded over painlessly.

And suddenly the memory revealed itself. The taste was that of the little piece of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray (because on those mornings I did not go out before mass), when I went to say good morning to her in her bedroom , my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of tea or tisane. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it; perhaps because I had so often seen such things in the meantime, without tasting them, on the trays in pastry-cooks’ windows, that their image had dissociated itself from those Combray days to take its place among others more recent; perhaps because of those memories, so long abandoned and put out of mind, nothing now survived, everything was scattered; the shapes of things, including that of the little scallop-shell of pastry, so richly sensual under its severe, religious folds, were either obliterated or had been so long dormant as to have lost the power of expansion which would have allowed them to resume their place in my consciousness. But when from a long-distant past nothing subsists, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, taste and smell alone, more fragile but more enduring, more unsubstantial, more persistent, more faithful, remain poised a long time, like souls, remembering, waiting, hoping, amid the ruins of all the rest; and bear unflinchingly, in the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of recollection.

And as soon as I had recognized the taste of the piece of madeleine soaked in her decoction of lime-blossom which my aunt used to give me (although I did not yet know and must long postpone the discovery of why this memory made me so happy) immediately the old grey house upon the street, where her room was, rose up like a stage set to attach itself to the little pavilion opening on to the garden which had been built out behind it for my parents (the isolated segment which until that moment had been all that I could see); and with the house the town, from morning to night and in all weathers, the Square where I used to be sent before lunch, the streets along which I used to run errands, the country roads we took when it was fine. And as in the game wherein the Japanese amuse themselves by filling a porcelain bowl with water and steeping in it little pieces of paper which until then are without character or form, but, the moment they become wet, stretch and twist and take on colour and distinctive shape, become flowers or houses or people, solid and recognizable, so in that moment all the flowers in our garden and in M. Swann’s park, and the water-lilies on the Vivonne and the good folk of the village and their little dwellings and the parish church and the whole of Combray and its surroundings, taking shape and solidity, sprang into being, town and gardens alike, from my cup of tea.

À la recherche du temps perdu (ENG: In Search of Lost Time) by Marcel Proust

The “Episode of the Madeleine”, extracted from here

It’s a long novel which may be vaguely boring if you’re not into literary modernism, but nevertheless I enjoyed this excerpt, which I first saw in the menu of a random cafe I wandered into.

The entire book, and especially this segment, is focused on the theme of involuntary (Proustian) memory. Though it’s not really related to the task at hand, thinking of food and memory reminded me of this passage. Having a memorable scent is somewhat related to Proustian memory, since it’s about being able to evoke a memory without conscious effort. In fact, allegedly, the ‘expression “Proust’s madeleine” is still used today to refer to a sensory cue that triggers a memory’ (The Guardian). It’s not as related to actually translating the scent to a shape, though.

There’s also another copy of the excerpt here, this time with 2 extra paragraphs in front. I find it more charming without, but those 2 paragraphs provide a brief summary of sorts.