I wonder how it came into the head of a golden renowned Bulgarian sportsman to punch a paparazzo in the face for having spoilt his quiet in a restaurant on Easter, and why didn’t he just take a picture of the paparazzo and put it in his album.

The newspaper the paparazzo works for says he was taking an Easter souvenir from the foreign country with a countryman in the focus.

Maybe the famous footballer did feel like a star in the company of his wife in the environment of other people, and the snapshot shattered the atmosphere to make him feel like an ordinary guinea pig under observation, unaware of the fact that the paparazzo had been following him from the airport, and a newspaper had been creating a policy, through a star cluster, showing how each star celebrated a holy day for the worse-off fans to admire and accept the necessity of customs.

I wonder how it came into the head of the paparazzo to bother a celebrity with taking pictures of his dinner, and why will he say that a punch from the celebrity has shattered a myth if he went to photograph something completely different, it is a mystery as big as the mystery of how the souvenirs taken by the thousands of security cameras and the thousands of paparazzi in socialist and post-socialist Bulgaria as to the needs of capitalist and post-capitalist world, and vice versa, got in possession of the mass media and the publishing industry.

Maybe the paparazzo did not know what projects he was supporting with these pictures, there being at least two social projects and two technological one, maybe even more, maybe his camera is capable of recording more than the presence of people, maybe it can record the presence of security coverage, or even satellite coverage, maybe the paparazzo is not a simple photographer but a good player in a complex game.

What I know is that my premature aging, ever since September 1992 when I saw paparazzo pictures of me published, led to my spontaneous decision to end with my life, though I am not a suicider and would have done it to evade the necessity to enter a real war, but a wedding in the family changed my plans and I decided to get my body altogether hidden in poverty and simple observance of common decency, and my soul bare to the philosophers and the authorities who had paparazzi and cameras everywhere and could follow any of my moves.
However, I could not but retribute myself for my confinement in a set of publicly uninteresting routines, with a bit of intellectual work and some individual enrichment in the perspective in which I see the methods of teaching and social control, the following poem illustrating this:
Will Be Advertising Me
Advertisements protect or kill,
deprive or give with sponsoring hands
Decades are fatal to ads’ mill-
they have to pay for what they’ve spent
Too early it is for applause
Too late it’s for the old show
Time’s nettles grow, so does moss,
below song’s trees, where I go
The river is too small to cross
The past was staged to give time means
It’s time to rest, to plan the plots
which will be advertising me
V.P.T. 17.04.2004