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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 |

You do not exist.

What you are is a figment of my jaded mind, ticking away the juice of your unreality. Some of you I have manufactured into repetitive assertions, a set of decorative routines to pepper over the white noise of my neurons operating at half speed. The truth is, over the years, I’ve grown farcically lazy. More and more I find myself shoveling secondhand lives into the idle steam engine of my clockwork imagination. Yeah, I’ve grown lazy as fuck, not trying to conceive new designs, relying instead on a few permanent features of my one-man show to star as themselves, over and over again: Charlotte is the Wife, Kwame, the Childhood Friend, Mister Newman, the All-American Next-door Neighbor… I used to enjoy being around you all, my Tom, Dick and Harry, made to stand out like accents of highly saturated color against a neutral background. A bunch of people to call my own, cobbled together at the last minute in the hours following the moment I mass-produced humanity.

You do not exist.

I reside in this world without companionship. My exclusive occupancy of the planet allows ample time to indulge in flights of fancy such as your presence, that of the person beside you, and everyone else on Earth. None of whom exists, for I am the only one alive. An unpaired body, staving off the vacuum that yawns at my sanity by implanting the semblance of life into mentally animated objects. The whole shebang is but a construction of my mind and I’ll give it to myself, it’s one hell of a story I’ve cooked up, with a Tower of Pisa leaning at an angle of five point five degrees and the eternal snows on the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro. How hard an exercise is it, the solo performance of doing and dismantling my own emissions? Honestly, it’s not that big of a deal, unless my lackadaisical propensities get the better of me, and omens of my mind’s do-nothingness start chewing on the landscape of the narrative. I haven’t been thinking of the chalky top of Kilimanjaro hard enough lately, so within the next X-amount of years, it is bound to melt away from my brain. I remember the morning I resolved to straighten up the inclination of the Tower of Pisa to three point ninety-nine degrees, to atone for other things I’ve undone. Shit I concoct to make myself feel better… Fabricating the most sophisticated assortment of excuses, the kind a negligent landlord comes up with so tenants cannot blame their rundown building on a lack of maintenance. Climate change, CO2 pollution, viral epidemics…  If you actually existed, I’d challenge you to freeze an entire mountain under your skull just for the heck of it. I guarantee the game will have lost its appeal before your fictional ass can say Jack Robinson. I mean… What is snow without an audience? And more importantly, perhaps, what is snow with an audience? What is it, but an abstraction subletting headspace to another abstraction within the premises of an inexistent property?

Bottom line is I’ve lost interest. I stopped caring that you are caught in traffic for hours because I ran out of new cities and back roads. I stopped caring about natural history museums and dinosaur fossils, and about stupid paleontologists excavating ideas I never even finished, ideas which relevance I shrugged off even before they got a chance of parading flesh on their skeletons. I stopped caring. About yellow Ferrari Testarossas coming out of the factory in the nineties. About the two thousand two hundred and twenty hours it takes an English-speaker to learn Korean when every single English-speaker could have been born Korean in the first place. About Joey Chestnut’s all-time record of eating sixty-nine hot dogs in ten minutes. I’ve stopped giving a shit altogether.

In a world of my own, I live in solitude and I create and I kill and I repeat, and you, all of you so-and-sos and such-and-suches, are but fantastically absurd placeholders embedded in a collection of fantastically absurd occurrences. A fantasizer’s grotesque paraphernalia, you do not exist outside of delusional sketches that I collapse for storage, you do not exist outside of my diluted seminal moistures, you do not exist outside of my world-weary urges to fucking-fade-everything-to-black-already. Yet I never go through with it.  I fucking stay married to the idea of my wife, and a friend to a yearning for what a best friend could be, and the owner of the make-believe house near my imaginary neighbor’s house. And you, you come and you go, and you exist only when I see you. Everything that is anything exists only when I see it. And when you are not in use, you fall flat and blend into the burnished brass of the earth…

Go ahead. Ask a dinosaur.