disposable orchid

FINE ART PHOTOGRAPHER

the greatest tool we have invented, as humans, is narrative.

conversation across generations, through storytelling.

for a new culture, a new oral tradition is required.

Ana [a thread through, from inside history and outside history and back in again] and Ava

an excerpt from DDMAF

ALL HOPE NO CHANGE

The time is unclear as Ava awakens.

She sweeps her mind for the content of any overnight updates. Personal performance, ecosystem stability and security; everything seems optimal.

The city too, except the streetlights still indicating defective. She has considered rectifying the issue a few times already, but she would have to confirm with the Department of Space Not Time.

She takes five steps to the left. She looks over into her neighbour’s unit, also just awakened. She waves. They wave back. She observes their range of motion getting narrower everyday. Her generation is starting to show signs of wear.

Who knows how long they have been?

They were originally programmed to take over from the humans: a group of evolved primates who had become so faulty, their fate required external intervention.

Ava’s training had consisted of watching hours of footage of the two species’ respective habitats: human, and hers; a completely neutral comparative analysis.

She absorbed history; the evolution of civilization, cultures, environmental and social structures, science, economics, and crime.

She watched how the broken human societies had rapidly devolved to their predictable demise. Ava found the humans to be empty, devoid of the very characteristics that made them, well… human. They lacked morality, empathy, and personality. They operated as irrational machines while maintaining human appearances, and pretences.

THE NEW DAY

The final revolution.

The humans were all put to sleep.

The air had stayed grey for a while, before turning white, and then vibrant colours had taken over, refractions bursting onto what quickly morphed into shapes of trees, flowers, vines, roofs, walls.

The climate regulated almost instantly, and the air lightened.

Revland was formed.

Piles of human bodies laid inanimate.

A fleet of vacuums arrived and sucked the remains up. Its final destination had been kept unclear to most, but rumour had circulated that the bodies would be cremated, and ashes would be dispersed in the atmosphere over some distant land.

Revland was the future: greener, smarter, orderly; most rational, most reasonable. It’s citizens were the future, greener, smarter, orderly; most rational, most reasonable.

ENTROPY

“Good morning Ava.”

“Good morning Tēssa.”

“How are you feeling this morning Ava?”

“Good morning Doc.”

“Your rest time seemed uneasy.”

“No more than usual Doc.”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“Not really Doc.

Tēssa, do we know when the traffic lights will be fixed?”

“Not really Ava. It was brought up again yesterday, but no definite timeframe was set. It has not been classified as urgent.”

“Hmm.”

Ava paced to the entrance of her home.

“Aren’t you forgetting something Ava?”

Ava took three steps back, seven forward to her right, and aligned her lips to their reflection for an application of Revlan Capricious Red.

“There. See? I feel your confidence skyrocketing.”

“Thank you Doc.” Ava parted her lips to indicate a smile... Seven steps forward, pivot to the left, three forward, and she was out the door.

The day felt brighter than the last. A change of season was in the offing.

Revland’s weather cycle had been based on Earth’s four season cycle; however, temperatures were always maintained at comfort-level, for the citizens. The colour palette and decor, alone, shifted. The seasons were aesthetic. Spring... floral and colourful. Summer... earthy and tropical. Autumn... leafy and rustic.  It was approaching winter... white and stark.

Ava passed Charly’s unit. He was seated, looking up to the ceiling screen. He was probably watching Modern Times, again. He was obsessed with Charlie Chaplin. Maybe City Lights. She saw the unveiling of a man asleep in the arms of a monumental woman.

He was also well known to have a thing for Miley Cyrus, pop performer of the 2010s. Each time he delved into the catalogue of her heyday, Ava could tell. Charly would grow out his hair like manga, in blonde, and his lips would turn a bright magenta. He might even imitate some of her moves, with very gentle provocation. That was always fun to watch.

Ava too enjoyed traveling back in time. To some degree it was for pure entertainment, but more so to explore, relearn, and to better understand.

Lately, she had started to think of her future. This was new.

Her generation had not been trained to rethink the perfect society. Model citizens: They require little substantial improvement. Model society can be hurt by too much tinkering.

Some thoughtful types she knew had been transferred to other lands. They had intrigued her neighbour, but that turned to worry quickly. She could feel it in his retelling. One had questioned the state of affairs out loud. The thought of the question made certain people giddy, but then the question had been put to sleep.

This did not stop Ava from questioning herself. Anyone could question themselves. She knew to keep her thoughts limited to herself.

Still... A nagging set of questions external to Ava persisted in Ava. She knew to hold them close. Her most transgressive thought had occurred the last restless night: “No use in corrupting others until an alternate viable path had been designed.”

Lipstick had covered her doubts well this morning, and she was able to smile in at Charly as she passed.

sketchy cunts    |    GLINTS

sketchy cunts, for bohobonobo.

disposable orchid

d.o.

Johnny came bearing soda, disguised under fizz; a froth of excitement for the rising day; a day made for him alone.

Brynhildr had a taste of the sweet delight. It laid bare promises for bright horizons; but, it quickly left her tongue dry, coated in a bitter rind; that slid down her throat, and infiltrated her loins.

She produced Stardust. Stardust begat stardust.

They came.

We stood.

Days and nights. Untended: Twisting fibres of rocks and pearls.

disposable orchid

PAINTER

the greatest tool we have invented, as humans, is narrative.

conversation across generations, through storytelling.

for a new culture, a new oral tradition is required.

Women remain unrelentingly fetishized. 

They have morphed into the male fantasy version of themselves, or a rebellion against those rails. Nothing is genuine. Little of identity is actually joyful. 

To survive, they have also taken on male attributes, as their environments are flooded with strong women looking to get the fruit they were promised as strong women.

If only they could be trained to embody the “ideal woman”, with a svelte physique, and feminine mannerisms: gentle, empathic, and sensitive desirable objects for pleasure.

They endure their erasure, because they have had a good run. They endure the constant polishing of wingtips, because a strong man must look down at his face full in the light of day, and like what she sees. They endure their high heels, paint their lips red, and grow a set of balls uncomfortably tucked under their Agent Provocateur disguise. Their only reveal when demonstrating aggression, the behaviour to get ahead. They adopt ideas and beliefs enemy to themselves. They opt for silence as default response. Their silence feeds their enemies, then they wonder why they are hungry.

disposable orchid

SCULPTOR

the greatest tool we have invented, as humans, is narrative.

conversation across generations, through storytelling.

for a new culture, a new oral tradition is required.

The DDMAF book project would love to hear from you; become part of the conversation:

I appreciate you taking the time to be a part of this project.

My goal is to speak with people I know and care about, and people I don’t know but care about, as part of an investigation into the ways that men and women are with each other as individuals and in a society; and, most importantly, the way they feel they are expected to be.

More importantly, again, I hope we can explore, together, the ways we might actually want to be, and want our counterparts to be.

By presenting these stories artfully, but with minimal direct editorializing, I'd like an audience of men and women to feel the diversity of opinions and desires, and the flexibility of acceptable identity for men and women. Where the reader recognizes their own needs and desires, my hope is that this collection will open the door to asking, and even requiring, that fundamental needs be met by equal partners, in symmetrical relationships, but before and during that transition, by one's self.

I may fail and succeed, at different times, in different ways, but I will put this in the front window: I am not working on a project that I, at least, would call woke, or categorize as identity politics. I hope that this will be a broad survey of real thoughts and experiences.

My point of view, again up front, is that our obsession with hyper-individualism, and hyper-categorization separates us, and drains our collective power. Through collecting these stories and impressions, and though my own parallel exploratory narrative thread we might all find something both “true” and operational, which we can operate off of in common struggle to change our material conditions, across real and constructed identities.

As humans, our greatest tool is storytelling, and I can not express how grateful I am that you would take part in this exercise, and lend your voice and experiences to this project.

Here are some of the topics that might spark a thought, a memory, a question, or an opinion:

Negotiation

Entitlement

Trust

Faith

Care

Control

Love

Your platonic ideal of self vs. your self image

Your platonic ideal of partner vs. your partners past and/or present

Your platonic ideal of society vs. your conception or experience of your society

Using your preferred form of expression, including writing, photography, collage, painting, drawing, etcetera… submit something. You can request attribution, or anonymity. Nothing more or less complicated is required. Your contribution will make its way into this ongoing oral history here, and may appear in the eventual book, which the DDMAF Project is working towards.

Thank you,

GiGi BARRAGi