on C.L.P.A.C. or

(bed when taipei)

"In what concerns you much, do not think that you have companions: know that you are alone in the world."
-Henry David Thoreau

A disappointing aspect about the art I conceive is that it remains
overly cryptic to those who mustn't be me. The stutter, the words, the
muted stories I write; the with the the with is that it comes from a
distant and egocentrically absolute perspective, a lone view of the
world that cannot be shared with others.

Say pal, I will notice/choose exhibit-A, trying to describe the various purposes and attributes,
physical traits relatedunrelated, perhaps phonetics, say whimsy, or possibly
curious reverse meanings or static opposites of. And then I
will think exhibit-A to B to 1-2- which reminds me of you back to the
newA3. I would be fool to expect understanding when my use of language
is specific, personal and 4/5ths internally modified. So I don't
expect understanding, but I will not lie, I wish understanding.

The beauty of art, poetry being no exception, is the
beyond-linguistic-truth that it reveals, the essential character and
universality of infallible, precise symbolism, or paradoxically,
reality. But my poetry/conceptions are the opposite of universal and
while they might reveal a certain natural simplicity and revelation to
my own mind, a cathartic clarification, they are not the type of revelations
that are often shared, felt. The color and life that surrounds,
baffles me. I can describe size and strength but I can only use the
referential tool of personal experience to relatively decode or encode
it.

With this selfish mind I create. and with that overwhelmingly
intimate perspective I ruin and puzzle those who attempt to consider,
or less likely, appreciate, my egocentrism. I want to reveal what I
think and feel, not merely what we our us mudsensually reiterate.