Via translation, the "ism" is denied. Reality is left. The index of self perpetuated as medium. I am the conductor, performance initiator, sign imprinter...relational. I have arrived at living, not without the art of course. The verb and I intertwined. Humor is the catalyst and main function...something like religion in essence; the division between man an animal. Is the work now a substitute for self? for the agent? Is evidence enough? Am I talking out my ass...or is it the diethylene glycol I brushed my teeth with during this morning's ritual? You decide.
