Bibliography
Szczygieł, Mariusz. Nie ma. Dowody, 2018.Michal, Karel. Straszydła na co dzień. Translated by Dorota Dobrew, 2nd ed., Dowody, 2021.Fischerová, Viola. Afterword to Straszydła na co dzień, by Karel Michal. Translated by Dorota Dobrew, 2nd ed., Dowody, 2021.Fischerová, Viola. Babia godzina. Translated by Dorota Dobrew, Oficyna Wydawnicza ATUT, 2007.Ernaux, Annie. Lata. [The Years]. Wydawnictwo Czane, 2022.radiofranceinternationale, 40 rocznica antykoncepcji. [40th Anniversary of Contraception]. 2008.hellozdrowie, Annie Ernaux o aborcji w Polsce: „Nie brakuje ludzi, którzy wciąż, w XXI wieku, chcą kontrolować kobiety”. [Annie Ernaux on Abortion in Poland]. 2024.de Beauvoir, Simone. Pamiętnik statecznej panienki. [Memoirs of a Dutiful Daughter]. Państwowy Instytut Wydawniczy, 1960.de Beauvoir, Simone. Kobieta zawiedziona. [The Woman Destroyed]. Muza, 1989. PolskiNacjonalista. Wpływ feminizmu na kobiecość kobiety. [The Impact of Feminism of Female Feminity]. 2019.Hiob Dylan. Dziewczyna z filmu porno. [The Girl from a Porn Film]. Song lyrics, 2021.
Sunday, March 8th, 2026
Text by Maja Fiebig
Translation by Jagoda-Weronika O.
Visual by Milena Hübscher
Feminists, pills, and other ventures.
I am sitting on a train. A girl sitting in front of me. Our gaze meets from time to time. We could not look more different.
She has light, straightened hair — mine is dark, beaten into a messy bun. She wears high boots, I — green Crocs.
She wears a short skirt just below her knees, and I am in fabric overalls.
Eight o’clock strikes. We still look nothing alike, and yet, as if on cue, our phones begin to buzz, ring, and vibrate. Like in
a film, we both silence our alarms, we both reach for our bags, we both pull out a blister pack of pills, we both swallow them with water. Someone might call it an abstract matrix glitch. I would not, because I know exactly what has just happened. We smile at each other kindly, and at the next station she gets off. We are bound by a bitter secret.
We are bound together by a pill.
French women of the 60s dreamed of hormonal contraception. There was something sensual, something erotically charged in this dream. Each of them dreamed of that single chosen hour marked on the clock, when she — vulgar in her emancipation — takes out the pill; and it slowly slips from her hand to her mouth, settles gently on her tongue, and carried by a stream of water, reaches her stomach. The act itself reeked with sex. It was a prelude to intercourse;
now so non-binding, effortless, and yet… completely out of reach. First of all, hormonal contraception was, at the time, absolutely illegal. On July 30, 1920, manly men, strong defenders of the domestic hearth, fearless soldiers of traditional large families, decided that women would not be the ones to choose whether they wanted children or not. Because how can such a foolish little woman, such a fragile creature, possibly know what she was allowed to do? Sounds catastrophically familiar? For decades, French women were allowed only one thing, and it was to dream. Quietly. Preferably in secret, best of all in their own heads. They dreamed like this for forty-seven years. Then, in 1967, an unmanly man appeared. A troublemaker, a spoilsport, an enemy of smiles and good fun — Lucien Neuwirth. He bothered the ruling general of France, de Gaulle, so persistently that the ban was finally lifted, and the flower of womanhood was allowed to indulge in sexual debauchery. Except — not quite. Because how is an unmarried woman supposed to ask a doctor for contraception? She is not. She should not. Shame is meant to burn in her stomach, blushes are meant to erupt
on her cheeks, and, ideally, this very thought should never ever even cross her mind. Contraception is for married women. Unmarried women do not have sex.
“The thing most forbidden, the one
we’d never believed possible,
the contraceptive pill became legal.
We didn’t dare to ask the doctor for a prescription and the doctor didn’t offer, especially if one wasn’t married - that would be indecent. We strongly sensed that with the pill, life would never be the same again. We’d be so free in our bodies it was frightening.
Free as a man.”
I am reading Anne Ernaux’s The Years, and I come across the memories of
sex-starved youth, naked bodies pressed against naked bodies,
and I think that not much has changed. We still have a prudish part of society that will do everything in its power to make anyone interested in their own body, or someone else’s, feel ashamed. We still have kids who perceive sex as
a mystical act, with the difference that Ernaux’s youth had only imagination at their disposable, or if they were lucky, porn magazines hidden in a drawer behind their father’s hole-ridden socks. Today, sooner or later, every teenager will discover the magic of the internet and open a porn website. First, however, with a trembling hand, they will click “yes”, confirming they are over eighteen, even as a vague fear creeps in that the police might burst through their door at any moment.
Nothing has changed in the fact that we, as individuals, change as well. When we are young, we think that we do not have to listen to our parents, that we can take care of ourselves, forcibly looking for independence — unless the bicycle chain falls off and we have to call our father, or we catch a cold and our mother makes the best chicken broth. Then comes the painful collision with reality, and we have to slink in shame, because taxes will not file themselves, and our father has it all down to
a science. Sometimes we have to call our mother to ask whether that broccoli with black spots on it is still edible or if we should throw it away. Or better yet, to find out how to clean a carpet after
a jar of jam has shattered, and the dog has scattered it all over the entire house. Surely French young would-be adults sixty years ago also reassured one another that they would not lapse into old age, that they were more open,
freer, and more light-hearted; and then found themselves sitting at the table, thinking that perhaps it was better that de Gaulle won the election against that oddly named man, Mitterrand. They complained about the quality of meat, about the baby crying and how to calm
it down, about whether the loan money should go toward a refrigerator or a gas stove. Youth passed quickly, they got married and, finally, could obtain the pill from a doctor. Though by then, after the second child, there was hardly any strength left for it anyway.
One more thing has not changed either. At least for us Poles, who belong neither to the East nor to the West. What has not changed is the fact that women still do not get to decide about their own bodies. That the word “abortion” still inspires fear, lowers voices, and makes people look away. In France, it is legal. Annie Ernaux herself could not believe it, all the more so because years later,
she decided to write about her own experience of terminating pregnancy. She had words for Polish women:
“There are still people in the 21st century who want to control women. I will be keeping my fingers crossed for you,
for the success of legislation to legalise abortion.” These words referred to a parliamentary debate scheduled for April 11, 2024, in the Polish parliament.
And it did take place. A year ago.
And what came of it? Nothing.
I remember that in middle school I was obsessed with Simone de Beauvoir.
I devoured her autobiographical trilogy, thinking that I had swallowed all the wisdom in the world. I feel ashamed for that kid that longed to be like her,
to have an open relationship with some unattractive intellectual whose eyes looked like they might pop out their sockets. Ideally, he would not even touch me because I would be so liberated that I would love him platonically (what a beautiful word, platonic, when you were fourteen).
We would live separately, and satisfy our physical desires with someone else. Bullshit. Fourteen-year-old me would be gritting her teeth right now, because twenty-two-year old me lives with the love of her life, does not have an open relationship, and most importantly, not with an unattractive intellectual, but with one whose eyes stay firmly in their sockets. “No one would take me just as
I was, no one loved me; I shall love myself enough, I thought, to make up for this abandonment by everyone.” A quote in my personal copy of Memoirs Of A Dutiful Daughter underlined a thousand times in pencil. I probably wet myself with excitement when I read it for the first time. It is a good thing I was not allowed to get tattooed back then, because I would surely have had this quote etched across my back by now.
I reminisce about it all, with embarrassment, but I also wonder whether Simone was ever truly happy. Whether that France, which squelched her at every step, did not exert such pressure that she lived her life entirely in defiance. In The Woman Destroyed, Simone says that we never understand the love of others, however, I, perhaps, will try to accept that because women support women.
But wait. Enough of what I think, because people on the internet are much wiser, and they write about feminism better, more neatly, and more convincingly. Something a user named PolskiNacjonalista (PolishNationalist) has proven by spewing his opinion under a blog post by stupid feminist saying: “Feminists are a bit like porn actresses (yes, I happen to watch porn): at first they are fresh, natural girls who do not change much, and shortly afterwards they become unappetising vamps with tattoos.”
So, girls — if you want to appeal to
a man who likes fresh, natural girls from porn films (ideally, ones who work in
a shopping centre, Warsaw’s Wola district), do not get tattooed, do not look like vamps, and generally just ask such
a guy to show you his favourite porn film, maybe you will find some inspiration.
Long story short, it does not matter if you wear high boots or Crocs, if you like short skirts or fabric overalls, if you shave your armpits or not — it is best to decide for yourself. I think it is wonderful that we can look so different and still feel good in our own skin. As far as I know, even in that leftist France it was not always like this; women wore sweaters and skirts below the knee, bikinis were considered extravagant in the worst sense, and one had to impress men with usernames like FrenchNationalist or ILikeHowYouStayAtHomeAndBearMyChildren. And the only car anyone bought,
if they had the money, was, heaven forbid, some Citroën. That is why now, sitting on this train I smile at the girl with whom I swallow my pills bearing the beautiful name Jeanine. We do it at 8 PM, some other girls do it at 3 PM, others at 10 AM.
And that is great. And that is it.
Feminists, pills, and other ventures.
I am sitting on a train. A girl sitting in front of me. Our gaze meets from time to time. We could not look more different. She has light, straightened hair — mine is dark, beaten into a messy bun. She wears high boots, I — green Crocs. She wears a short skirt just below her knees, and I am in fabric overalls. Eight o’clock strikes. We still look nothing alike, and yet, as if on cue, our phones begin to buzz, ring, and vibrate. Like in a film, we both silence our alarms, we both reach for our bags, we both pull out a blister pack of pills, we both swallow them with water. Someone might call it an abstract matrix glitch. I would not, because I know exactly what has just happened. We smile at each other kindly, and at the next station she gets off. We are bound by a bitter secret. We are bound together by a pill.
French women of the 60s dreamed of hormonal contraception. There was something sensual, something erotically charged in this dream. Each of them dreamed of that single chosen hour marked on the clock, when she — vulgar in her emancipation — takes out the pill; and it slowly slips from her hand to her mouth, settles gently on her tongue, and carried by a stream of water, reaches her stomach. The act itself reeked with sex. It was a prelude to intercourse; now so non-binding, effortless, and yet… completely out of reach. First of all, hormonal contraception was, at the time, absolutely illegal. On July 30, 1920, manly men, strong defenders of the domestic hearth, fearless soldiers of traditional large families, decided that women would not be the ones to choose whether they wanted children or not. Because how can such a foolish little woman, such a fragile creature, possibly know what she was allowed to do? Sounds catastrophically familiar? For decades, French women were allowed only one thing, and it was to dream. Quietly. Preferably in secret, best of all in their own heads. They dreamed like this for forty-seven years. Then, in 1967, an unmanly man appeared. A troublemaker, a spoilsport, an enemy of smiles and good fun — Lucien Neuwirth. He bothered the ruling general of France, de Gaulle, so persistently that the ban was finally lifted, and the flower of womanhood was allowed to indulge in sexual debauchery. Except — not quite. Because how is an unmarried woman supposed to ask a doctor for contraception? She is not. She should not. Shame is meant to burn in her stomach, blushes are meant to erupt on her cheeks, and, ideally, this very thought should never ever even cross her mind. Contraception is for married women. Unmarried women do not have sex.
“The thing most forbidden, the one we’d never believed possible, the contraceptive pill became legal. We didn’t dare to ask the doctor for a prescription and the doctor didn’t offer, especially if one wasn’t married - that would be indecent. We strongly sensed that with the pill, life would never be the same again. We’d be so free in our bodies it was frightening. Free as a man.”
I am reading Anne Ernaux’s The Years, and I come across the memories of sex-starved youth, naked bodies pressed against naked bodies, and I think that not much has changed. We still have a prudish part of society that will do everything in its power to make anyone interested in their own body, or someone else’s, feel ashamed. We still have kids who perceive sex as a mystical act, with the difference that Ernaux’s youth had only imagination at their disposable, or if they were lucky, porn magazines hidden in a drawer behind their father’s hole-ridden socks. Today, sooner or later, every teenager will discover the magic of the internet and open a porn website. First, however, with a trembling hand, they will click “yes”, confirming they are over eighteen, even as a vague fear creeps in that the police might burst through their door at any moment.
Nothing has changed in the fact that we, as individuals, change as well. When we are young, we think that we do not have to listen to our parents, that we can take care of ourselves, forcibly looking for independence — unless the bicycle chain falls off and we have to call our father, or we catch a cold and our mother makes the best chicken broth. Then comes the painful collision with reality, and we have to slink in shame, because taxes will not file themselves, and our father has it all down to a science. Sometimes we have to call our mother to ask whether that broccoli with black spots on it is still edible or if we should throw it away. Or better yet, to find out how to clean a carpet after a jar of jam has shattered, and the dog has scattered it all over the entire house. Surely French young would-be adults sixty years ago also reassured one another that they would not lapse into old age, that they were more open, freer, and more light-hearted; and then found themselves sitting at the table, thinking that perhaps it was better that de Gaulle won the election against that oddly named man, Mitterrand. They complained about the quality of meat, about the baby crying and how to calm it down, about whether the loan money should go toward a refrigerator or a gas stove. Youth passed quickly, they got married and, finally, could obtain the pill from a doctor. Though by then, after the second child, there was hardly any strength left for it anyway.
One more thing has not changed either. At least for us Poles, who belong neither to the East nor to the West. What has not changed is the fact that women still do not get to decide about their own bodies. That the word “abortion” still inspires fear, lowers voices, and makes people look away. In France, it is legal. Annie Ernaux herself could not believe it, all the more so because years later, she decided to write about her own experience of terminating pregnancy. She had words for Polish women: “There are still people in the 21st century who want to control women. I will be keeping my fingers crossed for you, for the success of legislation to legalise abortion.” These words referred to a parliamentary debate scheduled for April 11, 2024, in the Polish parliament. And it did take place. A year ago. And what came of it? Nothing.
I remember that in middle school I was obsessed with Simone de Beauvoir. I devoured her autobiographical trilogy, thinking that I had swallowed all the wisdom in the world. I feel ashamed for that kid that longed to be like her, to have an open relationship with some unattractive intellectual whose eyes looked like they might pop out their sockets. Ideally, he would not even touch me because I would be so liberated that I would love him platonically (what a beautiful word, platonic, when you were fourteen). We would live separately, and satisfy our physical desires with someone else. Bullshit. Fourteen-year-old me would be gritting her teeth right now, because twenty-two-year old me lives with the love of her life, does not have an open relationship, and most importantly, not with an unattractive intellectual, but with one whose eyes stay firmly in their sockets. “No one would take me just as I was, no one loved me; I shall love myself enough, I thought, to make up for this abandonment by everyone.” A quote in my personal copy of Memoirs Of A Dutiful Daughter underlined a thousand times in pencil. I probably wet myself with excitement when I read it for the first time. It is a good thing I was not allowed to get tattooed back then, because I would surely have had this quote etched across my back by now. I reminisce about it all, with embarrassment, but I also wonder whether Simone was ever truly happy. Whether that France, which squelched her at every step, did not exert such pressure that she lived her life entirely in defiance. In The Woman Destroyed, Simone says that we never understand the love of others, however, I, perhaps, will try to accept that because women support women.
But wait. Enough of what I think, because people on the internet are much wiser, and they write about feminism better, more neatly, and more convincingly. Something a user named PolskiNacjonalista (PolishNationalist) has proven by spewing his opinion under a blog post by stupid feminist saying: “Feminists are a bit like porn actresses (yes, I happen to watch porn): at first they are fresh, natural girls who do not change much, and shortly afterwards they become unappetising vamps with tattoos.”
So, girls — if you want to appeal to a man who likes fresh, natural girls from porn films (ideally, ones who work in a shopping centre, Warsaw’s Wola district), do not get tattooed, do not look like vamps, and generally just ask such a guy to show you his favourite porn film, maybe you will find some inspiration.
Long story short, it does not matter if you wear high boots or Crocs, if you like short skirts or fabric overalls, if you shave your armpits or not — it is best to decide for yourself. I think it is wonderful that we can look so different and still feel good in our own skin. As far as I know, even in that leftist France it was not always like this; women wore sweaters and skirts below the knee, bikinis were considered extravagant in the worst sense, and one had to impress men with usernames like FrenchNationalist or ILikeHowYouStayAtHomeAndBearMyChildren. And the only car anyone bought, if they had the money, was, heaven forbid, some Citroën. That is why now, sitting on this train I smile at the girl with whom I swallow my pills bearing the beautiful name Jeanine. We do it at 8 PM, some other girls do it at 3 PM, others at 10 AM.
And that is great. And that is it.
Friday, February 27th, 2026
Text by Amanda Gao
Visual by Wiktor Drozynski
Over the course of this past month, I’ve tried to start writing this article called “Why the Rush?” several times. I first wrote about the concept of time in
a more philosophical analysis. I thought that maybe time is an independent entity, separate from our existence,
even though its powers influence each and every one of us deeply. It seems that time is always moving ahead with
or without our consent. Then I moved towards a more spiritual angle and thought I could suggest activities to people who rush. I thought of all the times I felt I transcended time and existed in an alternate dimension where it didn’t matter, where it felt like time didn’t exist, like when I would peel an orange entirely, stripping it of its pith,
or when I would start a fire and watch the flames on a single log crackle and devour the wood, or sit next to a source of moving water to listen and watch it flow in and out of crevices.
Then I even wrote an entire story about an interaction I had with an elderly woman in front of a closed bank.
We briefly talked about the bank, then about technology, then the potential liberation of the women of Iran.
Even though it was unexpected, that
tiny interaction made me appreciate the interruptions of life that opened me
up to connections that I’d never be
able to predict.
However, each time I kept on writing, what I wrote seemed to be just slightly off topic. After a month of scrutiny and trial and error, with only two days left before the submission deadline,
I finally understood something I hadn’t before. And I guess I was able to spot the issue because I was finally, truly
and unfortunately in a rush myself. I was running out of time to finish this text
and two other projects. And that’s when it hit me. No one ever chooses to be in
a rush. Now you might think that this is an obvious assumption… It is.
But it seems that when we ask the question why the rush and all the other possible formulations of this question
(Why didn’t I do this earlier?
What are you rushing for?
Yo, calm down. What’s the rush?),
we are automatically blaming the subject for the state of rush that they are in and being in a rush is a state that I think everyone and I mean everyone desperately want to escape from. Therefore, the question “Why” the rush is really a simple one: because I don’t have any other choice. So, I would like to propose an alternate question:
“How do I always end up here,
in the middle of a fucking mess being rushed to finish some shit?”
For one, I would like to blame society for the standards of productivity and the normalization of overstimulation.
Ever since the industrial revolution,
time has been used as a means of control to push people to continuously produce on a set schedule. The 9 to 5, Monday to Friday workday was made for factory workers in which people worked to the beat of machines. So, when we are rushing to work or school at 8:59 AM, are we working on the optimal schedule for ourselves or are we rushing on the time of a machine that was made to work for us? Maybe through the grueling process of fine-tuning machines, we have lost something preciously human and natural. We lost our own scheduling of time that was determined by the nature of our basic needs rather than a 24-hour day,
a 7-day week and a 365-day year.
We no longer rise and sleep with the sun, and we don’t eat with the seasons. Most people probably don’t even know how long it takes for a coffee tree to bear fruit even though they drink a beverage made from its beans daily. Some people probably don’t even know that coffee came from trees. Chased by the ticks of a clock, we want to make more money, we want to be healthier, prettier, happier. We want to live more during our limited lifetime, but doesn’t this mentality of more, faster, better, sound a bit machine-like?
Did we ourselves become the machines that were supposed to replace us?
In a society rooted in nature, growth takes time. Time is essential and something natural that cannot be rushed. In a society of machines,
time is of the essence, it needs to be saved and efficiency is key.
The performance of a machine is measured not only by the quality of its products but also by its execution time. In a sense, machines are what allow humans to bypass time. But by gaining more time, we have become more conscious of the opportunities of having time and this knowledge has turned on us and made humans more afraid of the time that we could lose. In that fear,
we developed coping habits to forget time, a string of constant stimulation to keep us going and feeling like we have done something with every second of our lives without seeing them pass.
I feel that we have become freaks of nature. Think of us like the genetically modified watermelons that would be considered aliens to their ancestry
(if you don’t know what they looked like in the 1600s, you should look it up). Despite growing bigger, faster and better tasting, they’ve lost a bit of their watermelon-ness, of their swirly style. By gaining time, we have lost the ability to live with the tempo of the world which might’ve been the thing that made us human. We removed ourselves from nature, like we’re above it all but really, we just forced ourselves to be so conscious of time that we are scared to be a part of it and, in turn,
part of our own nature of living,
aging and moving on.
Then again, maybe this concept of time has only been invented by humans to witness and keep track of our own existence. Maybe we would feel time differently if our lives weren’t defined by a conscious starting point, birth, and
a conscious ending point, death.
Even though most of the time we aren’t conscious of these crucial points of beginning and end, we view and define our existence through the view of others who witness these points. So maybe
we only understand time as a linear construct because of our collective perception of it, but it could be a loop or a spiral, a superposed three-dimensional structure that feeds back into itself. Maybe the past, the present and the future are all condensed together and exist all at once in the present. Our understanding and interpretation of time is very limited which makes it ridiculous and impossible to even try to control or surpass it. So despite being aware of time, there is not much that we can do other than flow with its currents. I think our society has become too accustomed to praise chasing and being constantly on the move. We often blame unfortunate circumstances on being at the wrong place at the wrong time, which amounts to an idea of urgency that pushes people to move forward to chase after a better future. However, to be running after a specific point in time seems to be impossible if we take into account the possibility that all time exists simultaneously as mentioned previously. This means that any time could be the right time so there would be no point in running around. In order for an opportunity to develop, a person has to be somewhere in the present physically, mentally, and emotionally receptive. Thus, if we’re always on the move, we’ll always be at the wrong place at the wrong time because we don’t allow time for an opportunity to develop. If we always keep up with a pace that society has determined and never stop moving, we will never know what we could gain without the frenzy.
So next time when you’re in a rush to meet someone else’s time, remember that our collective relationship with time has been influenced by the need for productivity. And if you find yourself always pushed to act, remember that stillness might bring you more opportunities than movement. Sometimes it’s best to let time do its work to influence and move us instead of chasing it around.
Over the course of this past month, I’ve tried to start writing this article called “Why the Rush?” several times. I first wrote about the concept of time in a more philosophical analysis. I thought that maybe time is an independent entity, separate from our existence, even though its powers influence each and every one of us deeply. It seems that time is always moving ahead with or without our consent. Then I moved towards a more spiritual angle and thought I could suggest activities to people who rush. I thought of all the times I felt I transcended time and existed in an alternate dimension where it didn’t matter, where it felt like time didn’t exist, like when I would peel an orange entirely, stripping it of its pith, or when I would start a fire and watch the flames on a single log crackle and devour the wood, or sit next to a source of moving water to listen and watch it flow in and out of crevices. Then I even wrote an entire story about an interaction I had with an elderly woman in front of a closed bank. We briefly talked about the bank, then about technology, then the potential liberation of the women of Iran. Even though it was unexpected, that tiny interaction made me appreciate the interruptions of life that opened me up to connections that I’d never be able to predict.
However, each time I kept on writing, what I wrote seemed to be just slightly off topic. After a month of scrutiny and trial and error, with only two days left before the submission deadline, I finally understood something I hadn’t before. And I guess I was able to spot the issue because I was finally, truly and unfortunately in a rush myself. I was running out of time to finish this text and two other projects.
And that’s when it hit me.
No one ever chooses to be in a rush.
Now you might think that this is an obvious assumption… It is. But it seems that when we ask the question why the rush and all the other possible formulations of this question (Why didn’t I do this earlier? What are you rushing for? Yo, calm down. What’s the rush?), we are automatically blaming the subject for the state of rush that they are in and being in a rush is a state that I think everyone and
I mean everyone desperately want to escape from. Therefore, the question “Why” the rush is really
a simple one: because I don’t have any other choice. So, I would like to propose an alternate question: “How do I always end up here, in the middle of a fucking mess being rushed to finish some shit?”
For one, I would like to blame society for the standards of productivity and the normalization of overstimulation. Ever since the industrial revolution, time has been used as a means of control to push people to continuously produce on a set schedule. The 9 to 5, Monday to Friday workday was made for factory workers in which people worked to the beat of machines. So, when we are rushing to work or school at 8:59 AM, are we working on the optimal schedule for ourselves or are we rushing on the time of a machine that was made to work for us? Maybe through the grueling process of fine-tuning machines, we have lost something preciously human and natural. We lost our own scheduling of time that was determined by the nature of our basic needs rather than a 24-hour day, a 7-day week and
a 365-day year. We no longer rise and sleep with the sun, and we don’t eat with the seasons. Most people probably don’t even know how long it takes for a coffee tree to bear fruit even though they drink a beverage made from its beans daily. Some people probably don’t even know that coffee came from trees. Chased by the ticks of a clock, we want to make more money, we want to be healthier, prettier, happier. We want to live more during our limited lifetime, but doesn’t this mentality of more, faster, better, sound a bit machine-like? Did we ourselves become the machines that were
supposed to replace us?
In a society rooted in nature, growth takes time. Time is essential and something natural that cannot be rushed. In a society of machines, time is of the essence, it needs to be saved and efficiency is key.
The performance of a machine is measured not only by the quality of its products but also by its execution time. In a sense, machines are what allow humans to bypass time. But by gaining more time, we have become more conscious of the opportunities of having time and this knowledge has turned on us and made humans more afraid of the time that we could lose. In that fear, we developed coping habits to forget time, a string of constant stimulation to keep us going and feeling like we have done something with every second of our lives without seeing them pass. I feel that we have become freaks of nature. Think of us like the genetically modified watermelons that would be considered aliens to their ancestry (if you don’t know what they looked like in the 1600s, you should look it up). Despite growing bigger, faster and better tasting, they’ve lost a bit of their watermelon-ness, of their swirly style. By gaining time, we have lost the ability to live with the tempo of the world which might’ve been the thing that made us human. We removed ourselves from nature, like we’re above it all but really, we just forced ourselves to be so conscious of time that we are scared to be a part of it and, in turn, part of our own nature of living, aging and moving on.
Then again, maybe this concept of time has only been invented by humans to witness and keep track of our own existence. Maybe we would feel time differently if our lives weren’t defined by a conscious starting point, birth, and a conscious ending point, death. Even though most of the time we aren’t conscious of these crucial points of beginning and end, we view and define our existence through the view of others who witness these points. So maybe we only understand time as a linear construct because of our collective perception of it, but it could be a loop or a spiral, a superposed
three-dimensional structure that feeds back into itself. Maybe the past, the present and the future
are all condensed together and exist all at once in the present. Our understanding and interpretation of time is very limited which makes it ridiculous and impossible to even try to control or surpass it.
So despite being aware of time, there is not much that we can do other than flow with its currents.
I think our society has become too accustomed to praise chasing and being constantly on the move.
We often blame unfortunate circumstances on being at the wrong place at the wrong time, which amounts to an idea of urgency that pushes people to move forward to chase after a better future. However, to be running after a specific point in time seems to be impossible if we take into account the possibility that all time exists simultaneously as mentioned previously. This means that any time could be the right time so there would be no point in running around. In order for an opportunity to develop,
a person has to be somewhere in the present physically, mentally, and emotionally receptive. Thus,
if we’re always on the move, we’ll always be at the wrong place at the wrong time because we don’t allow time for an opportunity to develop. If we always keep up with a pace that society has determined and never stop moving, we will never know what we could gain without the frenzy.
So next time when you’re in a rush to meet someone else’s time, remember that our collective relationship with time has been influenced by the need for productivity. And if you find yourself always pushed to act, remember that stillness might bring you more opportunities than movement. Sometimes it’s best to let time do its work to influence and move us instead of chasing it around.
Work of artist can be found under @tribal_baby_ink
Text by Magdalena Wierzbicka, "Tattoo"
Visual by Julia Walusiak
Monday, February 16th, 2026
“It is sad, but as an artist, the best work you do in life is usually at worst times, normal people would think that creativity is born from happiness -
but no, that’s usually not the case.” - Ola
Dear journal and its collective readership,
After talking to Ola, I finally understood why I had struggled to write this piece,
I was writing it at the wrong time.
My creativity didn’t flow well from my happiness. Now at a stressful time, under intense pressure of deadlines,
I find myself inspired to tell you about
a time I met a tattoo artist - OLA,
from whom I have stolen that quote,
an artist who’s sadness turned into passion.
“It started when I was depressed, I was 17 and didn’t have a will to function. Tattooing suddenly became the only activity that would get me out of bed.
It was the only moment I would forget about all my problems, run away from everything. It became a ritual, I would put on music and practice - my mind would soak up the tattoo gun, the ink, everything… I noticed it relaxed me and drove me to improve. Once I started
I couldn’t stop because it brought me, and still does, so much joy.”
She tattoos to techno music and sees clients as walking moldable canvases. After our 2.5-hour talk I feel entitled to say, she brings creative nuance to how tattoos can shape the body.
While looking at her clients her vision unravels, an idea that will later outline, magnify and strengthen the desired parts of their physique.
“I love to decorate the silhouette, extract shapes, enhance the butt or draw out a pretty waist. [...] I always knew I wanted to create abstract tattoos - I call them Baby Tribal”
Her art is abstract - a combination of
a ‘Tribal” style from the 90s heavily taken over by men, while her vision completely transforms the tone of that tired genre, amplified by outstanding detail and an individual take on figure.
Shaping bodies is her poison, while skin is her medium.
How is it that it has become one?
She started from pure passion, tattooing friends for free and a constant drive to improve. To this day her work is all about commitment, it consumes her with perfectionism, vision and patterns. While peeking at an open picture of her tattoo on my computer, neighboring my tab with our Video call, I tried to understand how decorating a body visualises for her with such ease - my skin suddenly demanding a pattern.
“...you know when you go to sleep and you see dark when you close your eyes,
I always saw these patterns, like the Ratatouille chef experiencing flavours, except instead of tasting it, I draw it”
But Ola’s inspiration is not fully internal, through observation and her socially thriving nature, she draws from the world. Her style stands at an intersection of her intricate visions and an observation of other tattoo artists’ work, making her constantly evolve.
“I still kind of don’t do what I am aiming for, the bar is constantly raised, I am very self-critical. I always want it to be better, more detailed, I am constantly aware that I can make better designs.“
While we further converse of her inspirations, she mentions the techno culture, electronic music and techno parties she attends that energise her:
“(during raves) People get excited about my tattoos, and I can observe other tattooed people there, which fuels me, helps me create those weird things in
my head.“
Ola’s Baby Tribals are big scale designs, they require large areas of skin and long tattooing sessions. She admits that the job is physically, mentally, and creatively brutal. “that is why people who do this (tattooing) for money, quickly quit” Intense 8-hour sessions in one tense position, never resting hands, maintaining a hyper focus while dealing with a stranger’s body, blood, sweat
and skin, all requiring patience and
self-discipline. From an outsider’s perspective the job is mainly creative,
in reality the body is removed from its usual social context, people find a newfound trust for strangers and their art, all while pain becomes ever-present.
“I don’t have time to step outside for some fresh air, the whole day I sit in disinfection, in the odour of sweat, skin, blood and ink, the whole day in the same room.”
What comes in aid during long exhausting days is conversations with clients, Ola has a refreshingly chill approach to people (radiating even through my laptop screen). In her space there are no taboo topics. While setting boundaries, She establishes comfort to listen and talk about anything the client desires, often leading to long conversations and clients staying after her work is finished.
“... once I had a client who walked me home, waited for me while I did grocery shopping and bought me a gluten free cake on the way, remembering I’ve mentioned it before”.
Ola’s tattoos that often extend to hidden parts of the body, demand making clients feel comfortable even in intimate situations. “I know my Instagram is controversial, I know there are naked boobs there, but I like sexuality, it is just who I am. I love girls who are not afraid and we can work on posing for my pictures. The ones that are, I tell to pose in a certain way, guide them, to fully show off the tattoo. I think Instagram is 50% of the success, when a silhouette is at play with the tattoo, it grabs attention”. One would think that her long straining sessions and motivated by the pressure of time, in reality they’re scheduled due to her need to see the completed work on the spot. “I cannot wait to see the finished product, I need to take a picture and see how it looks, that is why, I sometimes do tattoos in one day sessions instead of two, even though I could earn more money by splitting it. I simply cannot wait”.
Her relationship with clients is what
I was mostly eager to interrogate her on. Working with someone’s body is not easy, but working with someone’s character is even harder. She encounters strange situations - some she laughs about or forgets, while others she still recalls today. “I once had a client that asked me a day before a tattoo if instead of paying me he could give me his adidas tracksuit, he was so funny”. While clients cross boundaries, Ola’s need for honesty, in today’s world stripped of communication, is refreshing. “Even though these are my designs,
I love people who will tell me straight up what we could change or what they dislike”.
Recently Ola’s designs have gained an international following. When asked about tattoo exchanges she said she always receives both Polish and international clients in her studio, expressing her gratitude for those who travel to get her tattoos.
“It is incredible that someone from abroad comes solely to get a tattoo from me, paying for flights and staying in Poland for a few days, it feels abstract to me. I am still shocked… even though
I believe in myself and my skills, that for some people it is worth that money.”
With that sweet accent on self-worth and confidence I conclude tattooless but with a buzzing skin for patterns, in awe of what Ola can do on living canvas.
To everyone from the reading collective whose skin feels suddenly empty,
I recommend opening Instagram to find Ola’s creative journal.
“It is sad, but as an artist, the best work you do in life is usually at worst times, normal people would think that creativity is born from happiness - but no, that’s usually not the case.” - Ola
Dear journal and its collective readership,
After talking to Ola, I finally understood why I had struggled to write this piece, I was writing it at the wrong time. My creativity didn’t flow well from my happiness. Now at a stressful time, under intense pressure of deadlines, I find myself inspired to tell you about a time I met a tattoo artist - OLA, from whom I have stolen that quote, an artist who’s sadness turned into passion.
“It started when I was depressed, I was 17 and didn’t have a will to function. Tattooing suddenly became the only activity that would get me out of bed. It was the only moment I would forget about all my problems, run away from everything. It became a ritual, I would put on music and practice - my mind would soak up the tattoo gun, the ink, everything… I noticed it relaxed me and drove me to improve. Once I started I couldn’t stop because it brought me, and still does, so much joy.”
She tattoos to techno music and sees clients as walking moldable canvases. After our 2.5-hour talk I feel entitled to say, she brings creative nuance to how tattoos can shape the body. While looking at her clients her vision unravels, an idea that will later outline, magnify and strengthen the desired parts of their physique.
“I love to decorate the silhouette, extract shapes, enhance the butt or draw out a pretty waist. [...] I always knew I wanted to create abstract tattoos - I call them Baby Tribal”
Her art is abstract - a combination of a ‘Tribal” style from the 90s heavily taken over by men, while her vision completely transforms the tone of that tired genre, amplified by outstanding detail and an individual take on figure.
Shaping bodies is her poison, while skin is her medium. How is it that it has become one?
She started from pure passion, tattooing friends for free and a constant drive to improve. To this day her work is all about commitment, it consumes her with perfectionism, vision and patterns. While peeking at an open picture of her tattoo on my computer, neighboring my tab with our Video call, I tried to understand how decorating a body visualises for her with such ease - my skin suddenly demanding a pattern.
“...you know when you go to sleep and you see dark when you close your eyes, I always saw these patterns, like the Ratatouille chef experiencing flavours, except instead of tasting, it I draw it”
But Ola’s inspiration is not fully internal, through observation and her socially thriving nature, she draws from the world. Her style stands at an intersection of her intricate visions and an observation of other tattoo artists’ work, making her constantly evolve.
“I still kind of don’t do what I am aiming for, the bar is constantly raised, I am very self-critical. I always want it to be better, more detailed, I am constantly aware that I can make better designs.“
While we further converse of her inspirations, she mentions the techno culture, electronic music and techno parties she attends that energise her:
“(during raves) People get excited about my tattoos, and I can observe other tattooed people there, which fuels me, helps me create those weird things in my head.“
Ola’s Baby Tribals are big scale designs, they require large areas of skin and long tattooing sessions. She admits that the job is physically, mentally, and creatively brutal. “that is why people who do this (tattooing) for money, quickly quit” Intense 8-hour sessions in one tense position, never resting hands, maintaining a hyper focus while dealing with a stranger’s body, blood, sweat and skin, all requiring patience and self-discipline. From an outsider’s perspective the job is mainly creative, in reality the body is removed from its usual social context, people find a newfound trust for strangers and their art, all while pain becomes ever-present.
“I don’t have time to step outside for some fresh air, the whole day I sit in disinfection, in the odour of sweat, skin, blood and ink, the whole day in the same room.”
What comes in aid during long exhausting days is conversations with clients, Ola has a refreshingly chill approach to people (radiating even through my laptop screen). In her space there are no taboo topics. While setting boundaries, She establishes comfort to listen and talk about anything the client desires, often leading to long conversations and clients staying after her work is finished. “... once I had a client who walked me home, waited for me while I did grocery shopping and bought me a gluten free cake on the way, remembering I’ve mentioned it before”.
Ola’s tattoos that often extend to hidden parts of the body, demand making clients feel comfortable even in intimate situations. “I know my Instagram is controversial, I know there are naked boobs there, but I like sexuality, it is just who I am. I love girls who are not afraid and we can work on posing for my pictures. The ones that are, I tell to pose in a certain way, guide them, to fully show off the tattoo. I think Instagram is 50% of the success, when a silhouette is at play with the tattoo, it grabs attention”. One would think that her long straining sessions and motivated by the pressure of time, in reality they’re scheduled due to her need to see the completed work on the spot. “I cannot wait to see the finished product, I need to take a picture and see how it looks, that is why, I sometimes do tattoos in one day sessions instead of two, even though I could earn more money by splitting it. I simply cannot wait”.
Her relationship with clients is what I was mostly eager to interrogate her on. Working with someone’s body is not easy, but working with someone’s character is even harder. She encounters strange situations - some she laughs about or forgets, while others she still recalls today. “I once had a client that asked me a day before a tattoo if instead of paying me he could give me his adidas tracksuit, he was so funny”. While clients cross boundaries, Ola’s need for honesty, in today’s world stripped of communication, is refreshing. “Even though these are my designs, I love people who will tell me straight up what we could change or what they dislike”.
Recently Ola’s designs have gained an international following. When asked about tattoo exchanges she said she always receives both Polish and international clients in her studio, expressing her gratitude for those who travel to get her tattoos.
“It is incredible that someone from abroad comes solely to get a tattoo from me, paying for flights and staying in Poland for a few days, it feels abstract to me. I am still shocked… even though I believe in myself and my skills, that for some people it is worth that money.”
With that sweet accent on self-worth and confidence I conclude tattooless but with a buzzing skin for patterns, in awe of what Ola can do on living canvas. To everyone from the reading collective whose skin feels suddenly empty, I recommend opening Instagram to find Ola’s creative journal.
Text by Klaudia Felicja
Visual by Julia Walusiak
I promised myself not to think about them, not to write about them, not to speak about them.
I choose silence—perhaps out of respect for myself—and continue the disciplined process of
repressing it all.
To utter even a single word, I have to return to the mental landscape where I buried every
memory. I stare into the darkness behind my eyelids, searching for scenes I still haven’t
managed to get rid of. I open those heavy doors whose rust seems to suggest I shouldn’t
step through them. In the fog, I walk toward the plots. Silence fills me; it feels like standing
over someone’s grave, overwhelmed with grief towards myself and the world because the
story never had a chance to unfold the way we had planned. The silence tightens my
stomach, but it no longer twists my face into a grimace.
There’s that first, puppy-love time. To be honest, I don’t remember it.
Here lies the first one that truly mattered. My lesson—the one that splits life into everything
before and everything after. The soul goes into a night so dark and so deep that every flame
breaking through the darkness seems like a world being born anew. My process of
repression worked, so now I have to tidy up; the candles burned out long ago. I understand
now why this love lies here. It lasted a long time, but I did not love the way one should—if
I loved at all.
Here is my favourite one. I needed somewhere to place the fact that I did, once, love before.
I told her: I fell in love with you, maybe in the very same hour I heard your name for the first
time. My endless reserves of love wandered like a homeless person longing for relief from
the cold. Once, I brought her artificial flowers. They remain here, because they fulfilled their
purpose—from the irresponsible choice, to the trembling eyelids in the morning,
oversensitive to the light. She did exactly what she was needed for.
I watched her back and the way she raised her hands, so sure of her answer. Her braids,
her shirt, her ambition, her laughter. The ordinary things that make us grow feelings for
someone. Already then, the most important thing in the world was to know her fully, just as
she would know me.
That look happened—and with every following one, I became more certain that tiny new
worlds were being born. And up to that moment, it seemed she was the world itself, the only
world. Nothing she said felt new, even though I was hearing it for the first time. I kept
thinking: I know this from somewhere… It felt less like getting to know her and more like
remembering her. But I could not figure out from where.
This place, I especially forbade myself to visit. I am not really here, yet the candles keep
lighting themselves. I blow them out—and again, as if it were completely independent of
anything I do, say, or think, they reignite. Here, silence is absolute. Not the “it’s not worth
wasting words” kind. No. I simply cannot speak of it well. In her case, the silence is different.
When one experiences infinity, it can only be described through silence.
It struck me like lightning out of a clear sky. I carry the memory of that gaze in me against my
own will. I no longer remember the color of her eyes, but I cannot free myself from the fact
that I saw everything in them—not just her, not just myself, though I did not see my reflection
there at all, but a portal to infinity. The entire mystery of existence revealed itself in those
moments when I looked into her eyes.
Eventually, I went mad, starved of answers to the one question that tormented me. I decided
that the lack of an answer was the answer I had needed all along, and a bucket of cold,
refreshing water poured over me. I gasped—and with the exhale, all the mysticism I had
assigned to the situation dissolved. It had all been my own creation, something to help me
survive. I learned new words to describe what had happened inside me—this time taken
from rigid psychological terminology. Planning the new year without shame, I drew a
crossed-out heart on a piece of paper and labelled it: the time of reason. And honestly,
it even worked a little. I’m not nobody this year.
And well, the candle lit itself again.
With all my heart, I wish more graves would appear in this plot, but no one is worth anything
if I try to grasp them only through reason. My point of reference, after all, reaches into
infinity.
I promised myself not to think about them, not to write about them, not to speak about them. I choose silence—perhaps out of respect for myself—
and continue the disciplined process of
repressing it all.
To utter even a single word, I have to return to the mental landscape where
I buried every memory. I stare into the darkness behind my eyelids, searching for scenes I still haven’t managed to get rid of. I open those heavy doors whose rust seems to suggest I shouldn’t
step through them. In the fog, I walk toward the plots. Silence fills me; it feels like standing over someone’s grave, overwhelmed with grief towards myself and the world because the story never had a chance to unfold the way we had planned. The silence tightens my stomach, but it no longer twists my
face into a grimace.
There’s that first, puppy-love time.
To be honest, I don’t remember it.
Here lies the first one that truly mattered. My lesson—the one that
splits life into everything before and everything after. The soul goes into
a night so dark and so deep that every flame breaking through the darkness seems like a world being born anew.
My process of repression worked,
so now I have to tidy up; the candles burned out long ago. I understand now why this love lies here. It lasted a long time, but I did not love the way one should—if I loved at all.
Here is my favourite one. I needed somewhere to place the fact that I did, once, love before. I told her: I fell in love with you, maybe in the very same hour
I heard your name for the first
time. My endless reserves of love wandered like a homeless person longing for relief from the cold.
Once, I brought her artificial flowers.
They remain here, because they fulfilled their purpose—from the irresponsible choice, to the trembling eyelids in the morning,oversensitive to the light. She did exactly what she was needed for.
I watched her back and the way she raised her hands, so sure of her answer. Her braids, her shirt, her ambition,
her laughter. The ordinary things that make us grow feelings for someone.
Already then, the most important thing in the world was to know her fully,
just as she would know me.
That look happened—and with every following one, I became more certain that tiny new worlds were being born. And up to that moment, it seemed she was the world itself, the only world. Nothing she said felt new, even though
I was hearing it for the first time.
I kept thinking: I know this from somewhere… It felt less like getting to know her and more like remembering her. But I could not figure out from where.
This place, I especially forbade myself to visit. I am not really here, yet the candles keep lighting themselves. I blow them out—and again, as if it were completely independent of anything
I do, say, or think, they reignite.
Here, silence is absolute. Not the
“it’s not worth wasting words” kind. No.
I simply cannot speak of it well.
In her case, the silence is different.
When one experiences infinity, it can only be described through silence.
It struck me like lightning out of a clear sky. I carry the memory of that gaze in me against my own will. I no longer remember the color of her eyes, but
I cannot free myself from the fact
that I saw everything in them—not just her, not just myself, though I did not see my reflection there at all, but a portal to infinity. The entire mystery of existence revealed itself in those moments when
I looked into her eyes.
Eventually, I went mad, starved of answers to the one question that tormented me. I decided that the lack of an answer was the answer I had needed all along, and a bucket of cold, refreshing water poured over me.
I gasped—and with the exhale, all the mysticism I had assigned to the situation dissolved. It had all been my own creation, something to help me survive.
I learned new words to describe what had happened inside me—this time taken from rigid psychological terminology. Planning the new year without shame, I drew a crossed-out heart on a piece of paper and labelled it: the time of reason. And honestly,
it even worked a little. I’m not nobody this year.
And well, the candle lit itself again.
With all my heart, I wish more graves would appear in this plot, but no one is worth anything if I try to grasp them only through reason. My point of reference, after all, reaches into infinity.
Saturday, February 7th, 2026
Tuesday, January 27th, 2026
Bibliography
Szczygieł, Mariusz. Nie ma. Dowody, 2018. Michal, Karel. Straszydła na co dzień. Translated by Dorota Dobrew,
2nd ed., Dowody, 2021. Fischerová, Viola. Afterword to Straszydła na co dzień, by Karel Michal. Translated by Dorota Dobrew, 2nd ed., Dowody, 2021. Fischerová, Viola. Babia godzina. Translated by Dorota Dobrew, Oficyna Wydawnicza ATUT, 2007.
Text by Maja Fiebig
Bibliography
Szczygieł, Mariusz. Nie ma. Dowody, 2018. Michal, Karel. Straszydła na co dzień. Translated by Dorota Dobrew, 2nd ed., Dowody, 2021. Fischerová, Viola. Afterword to Straszydła na co dzień, by Karel Michal. Translated by Dorota Dobrew, 2nd ed., Dowody, 2021. Fischerová, Viola. Babia godzina. Translated by Dorota Dobrew, Oficyna Wydawnicza ATUT, 2007.
Text by Maja Fiebig
Viola Fischerová knew how to love. She loved - in Czech and in Swiss. That was, however, not enough to save her husband from death. Pavel Buksa, known also as Karel Michal, shot himself in his own bed. “Willingly escaped life.” The Czech - with all their humor - are extremely poetic. Pavel shot himself under the influence. That night, the beer, that Viola would meticulously spill or drink not to end up in his hands, reached his mouth. When the doctor arrived, he was still alive. Mr Buksa, are you unhappy? - he asked.
*
Láska in Czech means love. I often laugh at Czech words. That is just a Polish fashion. We laugh at what we do not understand. Láska is, however, a beautiful term. There is no love without our Polish łaska. Łaska in Polish means grace but it is also forgiveness. I am thinking of a film I saw a few years ago.
It was a discussion club screening. The topic caused a stir. A couple faces the difficulties of a disease – dementia. The ill one wants to die, the healthy one does not agree. The ill one wants to live on their own terms, the healthy one says it is selfish. The ill one wants to leave with memory; the healthy one does not want them to leave. I cried. Love is kind and it forgives. The healthy one lets the other go. Noise in the audience. A couple nearby debates loudly. I would not let you commit suicide; I would look after you until the end. But I would suffer. You would not suffer; I would be right next to you. But I would not remember you.
What is important is that I would not forget you.
That is selfish. Suicide is selfish.
Láska - Viola knew both of its meanings.
*
I wish I could talk to the widow of Pavel Buksa. She died when I was eight. I would like to ask her if she was angry.
*
I cannot get to you
you are not here
Not dead
Nor alive
And by the kitchen window
on a stool
remains silence with its hands down
and blank stare
and drinks
*
Pavel Buksa did not have dementia. He did not ask for permission to die. This occurrence was astonishing. Sad. Sad but astonishing. It was also groundbreaking. After over 30 years of poetic silence, Viola found the words. Her poetry book was published in 1993. “Requiem for Pavel Buksa.” It was her first release. A way to come to terms with the loss. There is no anger in these poems. There is emptiness. Peace. Why is there no anger?
I will wake up in the morning to brace the walls
Today everything is going to be normal
I will clean up the bottles and newspapers as if they were
not here before
I will sweep the corners
I will breathe on the walls
You will sit in the kitchen
talkative and glowing
It will not make me mad
Today everything is going to be normal
I will become different
so you will be
with a different one
*
Writing about love is tough. I find it challenging. The topic I cannot write beautifully about. Viola Fischerová’s poems hit me and láska hits me. I think that is because they are so simple. I dislike fireworks. And it is not that I do not like them in love, I just do not like them at all. I cover my ears on the New Year’s Eve not to hear the explosions and howling of dogs. I like silence. I live the peacefulness of Czech mountains. They remind me of love.
*
I fell in love with the Czech Republic when I was in high school. I reached for Mariusz Szczygieł’s reportages and I fully devoured them. That is also how I came across Viola Fischerová, Pavel Buksa, or rather Karel Michal, and his short story about a dead cat. Thanks to the dead cat they also met each other. At that time, Viola worked at a radio station and decided to create a radio play based on Buksa’s text. Fischerová says she had come to his apartment, and so it remained. The story about a dead pet is part of his collection of short stories “Everyday scarecrows,” released in Poland with the publishing house Dowody and annotated by Fischerová. There, I found a passage about sadness: "I am all your loves and never your loathing because you do not feed it where you should. But since you have already met me, you will always, whether in standing waters or those that flow rapidly, see my deficient reflection." What I would also like to ask the widow of Pavel Buksa is the color of her sadness. Mine is red. Although it is not my sadness that is how I imagine Viola Fischerová’s sadness. I see her sadness as red as blood and lava idly flowing down the slope. I check the symbolism of the color red in different parts of the world.
Sadness is red like love and lust in western cultures. Sadness is red like mourning and pain in South Africa.
The door to our house
gates to an open wound
The stairs shine
Not a drop of blood
Nor a single speck
Our whole life
lasted sixteen years
and was performed in three rooms
*
I do not know if Viola felt anger. Maybe I do not even want to know. I know she felt love because I can also feel it. Reading “Requiem for Pavel Buksa,” in every word, I feel love, grace, and something I am unable to name.
Maybe forgiveness?
I will never get to ask her.
We will never find out. Láska in Czech means love. As simple as that.
Viola Fischerová knew how to love.
She loved - in Czech and in Swiss.
That was, however, not enough to save her husband from death. Pavel Buksa, known also as Karel Michal, shot himself in his own bed. “Willingly escaped life.” The Czech - with all their humor - are extremely poetic. Pavel shot himself under the influence. That night, the beer, that Viola would meticulously
spill or drink not to end up in his hands, reached his mouth. When the doctor arrived, he was still alive.
Mr Buksa, are you unhappy? - he asked.
*
Láska in Czech means love. I often laugh at Czech words. That is just a Polish fashion. We laugh at what we do not understand. Láska is, however,
a beautiful term. There is no love without our Polish łaska. Łaska in Polish means grace but it is also forgiveness.
I am thinking of a film I saw a few years ago. It was a discussion club screening. The topic caused a stir. A couple faces the difficulties of a disease – dementia. The ill one wants to die, the healthy one does not agree. The ill one wants to live on their own terms, the healthy one says it is selfish. The ill one wants to leave with memory; the healthy one does not want them to leave. I cried. Love is kind and it forgives. The healthy one lets the other go. Noise in the audience.
A couple nearby debates loudly.
I would not let you commit suicide;
I would look after you until the end.
But I would suffer. You would not suffer; I would be right next to you.
But I would not remember you.
What is important is that I would not forget you.
That is selfish. Suicide is selfish.
Láska - Viola knew both of its meanings.
*
I wish I could talk to the widow of Pavel Buksa. She died when I was eight.
I would like to ask her if she was angry.
*
I cannot get to you
you are not here
Not dead
Nor alive
And by the kitchen window
on a stool
remains silence with its hands down
and blank stare
and drinks
*
Pavel Buksa did not have dementia.
He did not ask for permission to die. This occurrence was astonishing.
Sad. Sad but astonishing. It was also groundbreaking. After over 30 years
of poetic silence, Viola found the words. Her poetry book was published in 1993. “Requiem for Pavel Buksa.” It was her first release. A way to come to terms with the loss. There is no anger in these poems. There is emptiness. Peace.
Why is there no anger?
I will wake up in the morning to brace the walls
Today everything is going to be normal
I will clean up the bottles and newspapers as if they were
not here before
I will sweep the corners
I will breathe on the walls
You will sit in the kitchen
talkative and glowing
It will not make me mad
Today everything is going to be normal
I will become different
so you will be
with a different one
*
Writing about love is tough. I find it challenging. The topic I cannot write beautifully about. Viola Fischerová’s poems hit me and láska hits me. I think that is because they are so simple.
I dislike fireworks. And it is not that I do not like them in love, I just do not like them at all. I cover my ears on the New Year’s Eve not to hear the explosions and howling of dogs. I like silence.
I live the peacefulness of Czech mountains. They remind me of love.
*
I fell in love with the Czech Republic when I was in high school. I reached for Mariusz Szczygieł’s reportages and
I fully devoured them. That is also how
I came across Viola Fischerová, Pavel Buksa, or rather Karel Michal, and his short story about a dead cat. Thanks
to the dead cat they also met each other. At that time, Viola worked at
a radio station and decided to create
a radio play based on Buksa’s text. Fischerová says she had come to his apartment, and so it remained. The story about a dead pet is part of his collection of short stories “Everyday scarecrows,” released in Poland with
the publishing house Dowody and annotated by Fischerová. There, I found a passage about sadness: "I am all your loves and never your loathing because you do not feed it where you should. But since you have already met me, you will always, whether in standing waters or those that flow rapidly, see my deficient reflection." What I would also like to ask the widow of Pavel Buksa is the color of her sadness. Mine is red. Although it is not my sadness that is how I imagine Viola Fischerová’s sadness. I see her sadness as red as blood and lava idly flowing down the slope. I check the symbolism of the color red in different parts of the world.
Sadness is red like love and lust in western cultures. Sadness is red like mourning and pain in South Africa.
The door to our house
gates to an open wound
The stairs shine
Not a drop of blood
Nor a single speck
Our whole life
lasted sixteen years
and was performed in three rooms
*
I do not know if Viola felt anger. Maybe
I do not even want to know. I know she felt love because I can also feel it. Reading “Requiem for Pavel Buksa,”
in every word, I feel love, grace, and something I am unable to name.
Maybe forgiveness?
I will never get to ask her.
We will never find out. Láska in Czech means love. As simple as that.
Text by Jagoda-Weronika O.
Visual by Michał Gliszczyński
Monday, January 19th, 2026
I should have learned how to swim in the sea that bears her name. But I drown each time it fills my lungs and steals my breath away. Every attempt to draw air pulls me deeper, until there is nothing left of me.
I live in the past, yet the past outlives me. How many times can one return to a place where no one remains? Through the mist of memory, I search for the last traces of comfort — in vain.
I hold her hand tightly, because if I tried to let go, even for a second, who would I be without her?
I would have to stop thinking about what it could have been, stop reopening old wounds, stop longing.
I would have to see for myself that there is still hope; that time cannot be stopped, and the past will always linger behind me, forever out of my reach.
Nostalgia has its own scenery. It is a colourless landscape, where meadows and fields are covered in dense fog. The forest grows still, there are no birds singing, only the soft and monotonous rustling of moss. She is winter in her full power with snowy valleys and frost-laden trees. There is no sun, only greyness and cold, where everything hangs in suspension.
In this landscape, there is a sharp tightening in the heart, a mixture of sweetness, bitterness and sorrow, a feeling born of an ineffable longing, soppiness for which no words seem right. There are many ways to describe nostalgia but the mark that she leaves behind can be spoken with only one word: persistent. Her mark is persistent.
It is a state that persists. It does not wither, it does not burn away, it does not let itself pass unnoticed. We can sense it in the old letters, faded photographs, films and music, which carry their own symbolism and take us back to the times when everything seemed simpler. Nostalgia is not just longing, it is the way we remember. We tend to romanticise the past and summon memories that never truly happened. Sometimes we miss things we never lived, moments we only imagined, tucked away in the cabinets of our deepest dreams.
There is something paradoxical in her, however. Pain and solace. Stillness and movement. Emptiness that gives a sense of fulfilment.
I taste her sweet and bitter on my tongue. An emotional memory of old stages of life — people, places and experiences, all that has shaped and made the person I am today. It stirs the inner notes, makes me stop with absent gaze, as if my soul had been severed from my body and left somewhere far away. Regardless, I silently believe that there is a way to swim in this sea differently: not to let it drown me but to let the memories lift me gently without pain or desire to go back. Perhaps only then, when I finally let go of her hand, the sea in which I have been drowning will allow me to take my first easy breath.
P.S.
Remember: letting go of her hand will not stop you from going hand in hand. It will not betray your former self, nor will it erase your memories. There is no way to stop feeling and longing. But you already know that there is no other way. Sometimes, the path from awareness to action is long and winding. And painful. There will be no other way. Whatever happened, only you can accept it and only you can forgive it.
Text by Emma Kanafani
Visual by Julia Walusiak
Saturday, January 10th, 2026
For some reason, the collective tends to visualize love as a tangible contract between two or more people. Wherever this unspoken definition stemmed from, romanticized media, half-true stories, unconscious beliefs, love as a concept has far more depth than any tangible definition. In fact, you never truly know what it is until you experience it... And then you experience it again and know more than you did before... And then you experience it in a different form, and what you thought you knew changes drastically from the first time you believed you’d felt it. Before you know it, you’re four years older, traumatized, and either happy or unhappy with your life. It’s funny how time influences one’s definition of love. You look back at your past experiences and realize how little you knew about the world, yourself, or what was right or wrong. The collective idealization of a “first love” tends to be true in most cases, actually. It’s like a prophecy that eventually fulfills itself, usually when you start learning how to think for yourself outside of what you’ve been taught, the coming-of-age drama. You meet someone and it either feels like peace or hell. Peaceful hell at first sight. Long story short, you end up committing your entire being to a person who seems to hold the missing part of your soul. You feel bound to them because of this. You have no way of verbally defining your feelings, but they become so intense that they consume all boundaries of the 3D world, so you call it love. “I love you with all of my heart and soul” is a common phrase, but when you try to truly understand it, only those who have experienced this peaceful hell will understand what it means to “die for love.” It makes you illogical, because the concept of love isn’t materialistic. The funniest thing about love is how it can erase itself. This is when you start questioning everything you know, usually followed by an existential crisis that slips casually into your life as you grow older. Time is a blessing in disguise. The best part about a relationship is the learning. You look back at the person you once imagined yourself “dying for in the name of love,” and you laugh a little because it feels like a distant memory. The intensity of that commitment vanishes two years later.
And then you ask yourself: Did I really love this person? Did they really love me? But the answer is something you already know and still can’t verbalize. Something the collective fails to disclose is that feeling is truth. Just like it’s a fact that I'm sitting in my uncomfortable chair writing this now, it’s a fact that my ass hurts and my hand is cramping. The feeling is real, but I won’t feel it as soon as I finish. And even if I look back on this moment and think that I could have typed on my computer instead, it doesn’t matter because I didn’t. I wrote with a pencil. When you’re seventeen and tangled up with a man who feeds you alcohol and contradicting statements about how he would die for you and kill you at the same time, you can thank God for loving him and moving on because the timeline forced you to. And if you’re smart enough, you’ll know that you can consciously choose to forget while still knowing that the feeling served its time. Then, you’ll meet someone who completely changes the trajectory of what you once thought you knew, and you’ll repeat the cycle.
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