Jedrt Maležič, 2012: A True Animist in a True Dilemma "You know when you meet someone on the street and they »recognize you« and say: omg, is that you??! And you lower your head and say: I don't think it's me". Boštjan Narat, philosopher, musician, songwriter An SMS on my pink mobile saying: »Who are you?« appears suddenly, its demanding vibrato shakes me to the bone. I begin to erase the teyt of a sender unknown to me a cosmic error, like dividing time catching me at a bad bad bad moment, driving a car foreign to me borrowed, not rented, a gift from an absent friend foe friend foe giving me the chills and a thrill in my spine making me sick and demanding of me actually know – shit oh shit, how could I even begin to meet its orders satisfactorily? I – it's all about the EYE – would love to belong, to respond to an actual name and an address, to feel and to put in a song the sameness of my people to let it get under my skin and crawl into my limbs and sigh across my chest and cry and bye and bye – it's all about this crazy fucking EYE – devour what was left of my Why and How and Who and Where my pussy riot claws I think I'll spare for days on end, just leave them there Am striving to reach for the answer and catch it somewhere in the slimy abyss of the When and the Now – using so many capital letters no one is actually going to take me seriously Someone asking me who I was, most likely a kid playing boss aiming for friendship the more the better perfect value inflation It's all about the answers and I – it's all about the I, the aself, all seing Eye of fucking Saruman Illuminati Gotham city bets and jokes– don't seem to know to grow to flow across the issue of Who knowing only who claims me as theirs as ours and not some other's piece of art. Fart. thing is, I could go anywhere and just dillute change the color of my hair and salute the obvious choice the never-ending, ever-mending shrill nightmare of butchery in the name of belonging in the name of belongings in a society that uses thong-pins and S&M sms's dresses up as people when all it is is a beast with a dollar sign for an eye – It's truly all about the I – beholders or not we are sickening slippery beings and if there is a choice we made then we're consiously chosing condescension in the name of the superior breed of flesh of dress of mess of less than a poppy seed sprouting into the big H. that's how big of an ego eagle you are, I keep telling myself so as not to go bonkers in Yonkers so as to truly be – it's all about the I and the BE – worth the question the sms question the S&M question the unanswerable question of some whimpy kid BE – it's all about the bee, the flower and the tree – free and see and just claim the We and the teeny tiny Bee A tribe of so many devoured entities that we are that we admit ourselves to be keeps naming and taming the nature of Me keeps wining and dining in the bowels of mother-father earth – Please, help yourselves to a drilling of a hole in your mother-father's chest! pull them by the hair and never let them rest! – but truthfully I don't think my tribe wants my eyes to see that being a human is shameful to me. I pick up the phone and answer the kid I write down my name in reply and utter a slight imperceptible sigh as the poppy seed bursts and the answer is clear: in capital letters of my first and last name I type the weird words: "I don't think it's me."
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