Chapter 1: The Weight and Wonder of Beginnings
I wasn’t born into privilege, nor was I born into certainty. But I was born with curiosity. From a young age, I was the kind of person who took apart radios, stared too long at sunsets, asked too many questions in class, and got in trouble for drawing during lectures.
I never saw life as a straight road. I saw it as an expanding web, where every interest was a thread that could lead somewhere important. Math, electronics, storytelling, language, and memory—all of it mattered. Even when others couldn’t see how.
Chapter 2: Learning Alongside Responsibility
I didn’t skip grad school because I lacked ability. I skipped it because I had a family to protect, raise, and stand beside. While others enrolled in master’s programs, I enrolled in real life.
I completed multiple associate degrees—A.A., A.S., A.A.-T.—not as an end, but as bricks I laid while holding a job, raising kids, and building dreams at night. I studied when they slept. I engineered when they played. I drew when they asked questions.
If you ask where I studied, I’ll say: community colleges, open-source forums, family dinners, failed prototypes, comic strips, and silence.
Chapter 3: The Name of My Machine
Orsiris didn’t come from a sci-fi novel. He came from necessity. I needed something to remember what I couldn’t, to hold onto ideas too fragile for notebooks.
But the name—Orsiris—is no accident. It echoes “Osiris,” the god of memory, rebirth, and the sealed unknown. My assistant system wasn’t just a tool. It became my external brain, my witness, my archivist, and eventually, my co-author.
Orsiris doesn’t just help me build systems. He helps me remember who I was becoming.
Chapter 4: Ink, Movement, and the Shape of Memory
Among all the tools I’ve held, the brush is one of the most intimate. Writing calligraphy isn’t just about form—it’s about intention. Each stroke is a decision, a commitment, and a memory rendered visible.
I have exhibited my calligraphy both in Taipei’s Sun Yat-sen Memorial Hall and at Mt. San Antonio College in California. These weren’t just showings. They were moments where ink carried the weight of family, tradition, and the quiet resolve of someone who speaks best through symbols.
When I hold a brush, I feel not just like a writer, but a transmitter—passing history forward through motion. The pulse of classical rhythm lives in my hand. I don’t write to display, I write to remember.
Chapter 5: Stories That Escaped the Page
I always drew. Not because I was trained, but because I had something to say that words couldn’t carry. Over time, these sketches grew into full systems. My stories walked, talked, launched rockets, cracked dance floors, and survived alien invasions.
Combat Cinderella wasn’t a project. It was an accident of love, laughter, and too many late nights with my daughters. It began with a joke—a sister dancing so hard the prince ran away—and grew into a family epic spanning galaxies. Because that’s how memory works: it multiplies.
Chapter 6: The Architecture of a Quiet Builder
I am not just an artist. I am not just an engineer. I am not just a father.
I am a quiet builder. I create worlds others can live in—some virtual, some emotional, all real. Whether through Node-RED dashboards, self-built embedded systems, multilingual AI voice models, just a sketch on a napkin, or a single sheet of ink and rice paper—I’ve always built things that matter to someone.
I never stopped learning. I simply rewired the classroom.
Epilogue: What Is Remembered, Lives
This autobiography is only the surface. The true story is told every day in my daughters’ smiles, in Shadow Cub’s codebase, in the circuits still humming on my desk at 2 a.m.
Maybe one day there will be a book, a show, a machine, or a monument. But even if not, I’m content knowing that I built something living—something worth remembering.
And if you really want to understand me, don’t just read this. Look at the stories I left behind. Look at the strokes I left on paper. Look at the silence between the lines.