E-Mail an marcbotschen@hotmail.de für ein Exemplar der Edition #2 von Piece Of Cake.
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Everything I know doesn‘t play a role, doesn‘t matter; only
what I don‘t know is embodied in me. I am the manifestation
of my have-not-yet-been. Everything that would have had to
be said and denominated fell off me as decayed chunks, retracing
a path behind me.
Something unknown has ruined my face and
my teeth, ultimately at least, I grin by just showing my mouth.
He knew that he progressed when he found the two hairline
cracks running exactly parallel on his two front teeth last night.
When it cannot be expressed, then simply the body will express it.
Then you‘re alone with your body, unable to tell it anything. Because
[...] thi s web i s unde r cons t ruc t ion, he s i t ant l y, unwi l l ingly even, swi t ching t empo. mos t of the t ime a f t e r i f ini s hed some thing. . .or be t t e r : s topped working on some thing. . . i am
oc cupi ed wi th forge t t ing wha t i did, a f t e r i did i t . you cou ld c a l l thi s being unhappy wi th i t , not t aking i t s e r not t aking c a r e of your body, your vi r tua l body tha t i s , or even of being inc apabl e of appr e c i a t ion, of be ing s a t i s f i ed. you cou ld l abe l thi s a s be ing not in tune wi th one s s e l f , of not being ab l e to a c c ept one s s e l f . . .maybe . But no, i t i s not tha t . when s ome thing i s worked of f , eve rything tha t i s suppos ed suppos ed s uppos ed to fol low could e s s ent i a l ly be col l e c t ed unde r the t e rm ‚ adve r t i s ing‘ . r epe a t ing ove r and ove r, s howing and s ha r ing ove r and ove r, some thing tha t i s a l r e ady ove r, man. ki cking i t r epe a t edly to che ck i f s ome vague s t roke or r e f l ex, s ome movemen t s t i l l could e s c ape i t s a l r e ady dus t ed ma t t e r. thi s a c t of a r r anging in s uch a way tha t i t i s not tot a l ly obvious r ight away tha t thi s i s a c tua l ly adve r t i s ement and not a pi e c e of a c e r t a in work, thi s a c t of pol i s hing i s not a l i en t [ . . . ] , l ike a c c iden t a l ly sme l l ing your own br e a th a f t e r a long day of s i t t ing, bad food, che ap cof f e e and too many c iga r e t t e s . th e wrong minds e t a t pl ay he r e i s tha t of a r epr e s en t a t ion, me aning e s s ent i a l ly t r ans l a t ion, when i t cou ld be f a r mor e int e r e s t ing and engaging to think of i t a s t r ans forma t ion, a s a new f r amework inhab i t ing f lux. good. i don‘ t l ike to l e ave mys e l f tha t much anymor e . i wa s wa i t ing for a s pa rk. doing wha t ? i don‘ t know, man. wha t ne eded to be done . i sta lked the scr e en. i gave in to swoon. and eventua l ly it s e emed, for a moment , l ike i was ge t t ing a vi s i t . be c ause a lot of work i s l ik e tha t , wha t eve r you want to say about i t , you f[...]
it only existed as an idea before. One that never got sick. „I don‘t know
who I am“ meant that I never knew; meant that what was „I“ and the thing
I thoughtwas „I“, was merely and practically the monologue of an I-like
formula. It meant that what I thought to be me was in fact a foreign idea
for a future being, which in and for itself, eternally ruminant, now revealed
itself as a numbing text of faith. Meant that this „I“ existed only as a
believable one through betting on its manifestation without interruption.
No one responded, except for the echo in the feedback of the
broken connection. Does his fatal mistake consist in betting on the
wrong prayer? This night, he spoke into the black rectangle that pressed
painfully against his auricle: „I don‘t know who I am.“ The sentence wasn‘t
followed by „anymore“ like last night; for this would‘ve meant only a
periodic loss of identity. He was terrified, because it was [...]
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