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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 01 | volume I | March, 1998



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SLOVOKULT.DE
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                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 01March, 1998
Reviews

Pain and an Apostrophe

- para-essay -


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p. 1
Elizabeta Šeleva

    Warm, windy day, in a café in our city, just across the building of the Italian Embassy. The feeling I get when I enter is a bit strange and I slowly realize that it is a result of the new, stylish image of the staff, perfectly matched, adapted, an image that corresponds to the color, the bearing of those hyper designed bodyguards, sentries and administrators from across, dressed in black, white, red and hypermodern outfit.
    And when they enter as on stage or in a movie, in an extremely cool manner, a clash with the rival clique is to begin; their glossy brilliantine hairdos, perfectly macho sunglasses (regardless of its momentary presence and intensity up on the horizon) together with the arrogant, untouchable look, they create an impression of a theatre. When we encounter these figures an imagological duel takes place, and the winners are, with no exception – the Other ones, seemingly the sleeker, the more stylish, the more elegant.
    Why, since they can authorize their looks (exterior) to the maximum, and contently favor their well-off, western identity, my fellow-citizen and myself will mainly direct ourselves towards self-justifying and self-observing our dubious interior, lavishly filled with a bunch of unaccomplished and untouchable dreams of the beautiful, careless, authentic easy living.
    With constant efforts to await for and comprehend our identity, unable to decide who we really are? Are we the ones who are recognized and valued on the outside according to some countable qualities and indexes of the modern cultural and life style or are we the ones the exist on the inside, that strive, grieve, forced to act out the identity compelled by the society, remaining in schism with our undoubted spiritual, in touch with the circumstances of time and space, but still painful qualities.
    While the woman lector of a rich, almost neighboring country, sometimes picks up her kid from school in a car whose built-in car alarm is fascinating, I still “drive” mainly through magazines, overdosing myself with texts and ideas, crucial for surviving these glamorous times of status symbols and icons of power.
    


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