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daàPò is a writer slash a storyteller…

Pictorial prose or poetry is my way to document the supremacy of individual drive and the inexorable subsequent waves generating, our tongues as the first unit of measurement to communicate, cohabit, connect and/or affect and influence one another.

THE RANDOMS…  

KISS THE DUST |  LA MOTA & THE KINDAHUMANSAT THE CRACK OF DAWN |  MOONSHINERS |  SOME CRAZY DUDE DRINKS A CUP OF TEA |    

THE ORIGINAL SOUNDTRACKS…  

A PORTRAIT OF THE YOUNG MAN AS A ZOMBIE |  THE CASSAVA MONOLOGUEWELCOME TO EARTH: POPULATION 1 |  PRIMA FACIE |

PRIMA FACIE   /ˌpraɪmə ˈfeɪʃi /

Prima facie is a Latin expression meaning ‘on its first encounter’ or ‘at first sight’. The literal translation would be ‘at first face’ or ‘at first appearance’, from primus “first” and facies “face”. The term is used in modern legal English to signify that upon initial examination, sufficient corroborating evidence appears to exist to support a case. In modern, colloquial and conversational English, a common translation would be, ‘on the face of it’.

You cannot see me, can you?

Do not torment yourself with barren attempts, for shall your sight be sown into mine it would bear no fruits. Not that your eyeballs would have morphed into beige-colored worms and crawled out of your skull, leaving their sockets deserted. Not that both your eyes would have been swallowed in one gulp, as if they were a pair of final berries on a bunch of ripe grapes, swallowed, then tumbling, down the abysmal reds of a greedy monster’s throat.  

You still cannot see me, certainly not in those broad daylights populated by obvious things, from whiffs of flames to firetrucks. No more than you could, on that midnight, once, when you groped inside yourself for an inventory of fearful aliases to subtitle the world with; the leafage of an oak tree was a ‘shadow’, the unlit neighbor’s window was ‘gloom’... If only your eyes could have renounced their claim to lay on me, and your jaw come empty-handed, as if finally gone into mourning of its puppeteer. No more name giving. No inquisitive gazes. You would have recognized my invisibility as an autonomous territory from which I wish not to be rescued, not even if your soul was the Lighthouse of Alexandria itself and my soul was a ship in the tempest, for I am a tenant of obscurity and the span of my body has no fluids to sail across, bloodless, tearless, dry of bone marrow and piss. I live in a state of silence, and you walk through me in ignorance, your eyelashes ruffling in a ghost river as you trespass on antipodal regions. How the fuck would you see me? I remain an absentee from your field of vision, yet, our blindness to each other overlap, for I do not see you either. And I look not for you. I do not harvest rotten drupes sown into the rearview mirrors of a firetruck at twelve o’clock at night.

You shall not see me. However many shots in the dark, is how many instances of failing to catch sight. You see, let me tell you something you don’t know. I found out as a boy that I was my own hiding place, and that only a mystic incantation could make me come out from under my fingers when my face is buried in my hands. You cannot see me if I cannot see you.

“Peek-A-Boo”.