​​​In these series of writings, I contemplate on my multiple perceptions and thoughts on water (with many of them autoethnographic) and reflect on my  practice and creative works  in underwater listening and documentary. I incorporated some keywords and quotes on ecologies as prompts that came up from the Artist-Scholars and Book Writing seminar in Spring, 2025 at Harvard University. The discussions involved the presence of Fadil Cantave, Marisse Cato, Michele Cheng, Jessie Cox, Xavier Emmanuel, Christian Gines, Micah Huang, and Effy Yao.

​​It carries memories and breeds a future

​​​​​​​

I have a complicated relationship with water. As a daughter of an island with multiple identities, water makes histories and symbolizes the fierceness of our ancestors.

​

Located in a complex tectonic area, the island was born out of plates collision underneath the Pacific Ocean. The collision created steep mountains, gave the island a wide range of sceneries from Tropical rainforests to Polar climates. The waters enjoyed all forms— from solid ice, liquid water, to gas vapor, which births many local species that make the water environments their home.

The island has many names, given by visitors, settlers, and immigrants. Most of us on the island lost trace of our lineage. When a small island has hosted Pacific Islanders since 3000 BC [1], witnessed the conflicts between Hoklo and Hakka immigrants [2], endured colonizers including the Dutch, Spanish, and Japanese [3], as well as navigated forces from Mainlander immigrants and US Military Assistance Advisory Group [4], there are too many DNAs that are mixed in the conversation. It creates linguistic landscapes with 46 languages (and their own dialects) currently living on the island [5].

It is difficult to keep track of all the names that people use to try to make sense of this place. The reality I grew up with is that this is a place called Taiwan, with a nickname “Formosa,” meaning "beautiful island" in Portuguese. And I identify as Taiwanese, whose ancestors migrated the mesmerizingly charming yet dangerous waters to breed a future.

​

​

How do we listen to water? [6]

…the multiplicity of what we are interacting with, and we are not practiced enough to identify the difference. [7]

​

I take water for granted growing up. Water is everywhere. The quantity is so humongous that it interacts with us in multiple forms. There are specific sounds when it comes to typhoons. Monsoon has its own iconic soundscape. And ditches right next to the roads tickles pedestrians’ ears without being too noticeable. How would I describe the sound of water? I realize it is a concept I also took for granted. I mean, it’s just water. People I grew up with would know exactly what water sounds like. But what does it mean?

​

Typhoons often mean destruction. But they also mean families being at home listening to the whistle of wind sneaking through windows together. Afternoon monsoons mean thunder and sticky weather. But they also symbolize the circle of life and the calling of egrets when the sun comes out again. And ditches? They mean stinky smell for my generation, but a longing for the good old days when ditches were clean and lively for the older generations.

​

​

What makes the sounds sound? [8]

Ecology as a colonial idea: European field recordists considered some people as “part of the nature.” [9]

​​

We often look at water as noise, sounds, frequencies, or ambience. Rather than quantifying it into a measurement, what if water is a language? And just like music, water is not a universal language. There are different cultures of approaching water, different histories surrounding water, and different philosophies came out of water. So how can I learn the language?

​

To learn, I need to immerse myself. That was how I started to listen to the underwater worlds. Things are filtered through the linguistic logics of water. In this world, ideas communicate faster. Thoughts travel further. This world could be deceiving too. Like clear water, you do not know how deep it is until you step into one.

With a pair of headphones, some hydrophones, and a recorder, I heard the mumbles of ocean creatures from afar in the dark (Fig. 1) at the Santa Barbara’s pier. During sunset at the Orgden Point, I listened to the world right beneath heavy waves. (Fig. 2-5) I observed the biodiverse tidepools that connect the Pacific Ocean at Little Corona Del Mar. (Fig. 6) And I explored the micro world of tiny streams flowing into the ocean on the sand. (Fig. 7-9)​​​​​​​​