The Wasp - Volume II Spring 2017 by The WASP

wasp /wɒsp/ AmE /wɑsp/ noun [C] 1 a black and yellow flying insect which can sting you: There’s a wasps’ nest in that old tree! 2 when translated into the language of the country where the weather is schizophrenic and where even refugees do not wish to go (see: Poland), it becomes an osa – a place where all meanings collapse: Yesterday, I spent an amazing day at OSA! (here: an abbreviation for Ośrodek Studiów Amerykańskich, English: American Studies Center)

LILLA ORLY Editor-in-chief ALEKSANDRA BARCISZEWSKA NATALIA OGÓREK ALEKSANDRA GRABOWSKA Associate editors KAMILA MARIA WYSZYŃSKA PAWEŁ PAŃCZYK DTP TERESA BAKALARSKA Illustrations: pages 13, 35 MAŁGORZATA DUDO Illustrations: pages 9, 17, 30, 34 PAULINA FRELEK Illustration: pages 14, 20, 27, 36 MAGDALENA KRZEMIŃSKA Front and back cover MARTA RAPACKA Caricatures: pages 39-40 NADIA BŁASZCZYK PR

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Love Wears Leopard Print Pants Aleksandra Barciszewska & Lilla Orly 4 ARTICLES FICTION From Liberalism to Trump(ism) Playthings Adam Radomski Aleksandra Barciszewska & Lilla Orly 8 20 Cultural Appropriation: A Peculiar Form of Love Ring, Ring, Mofo! Ada Rachfalska Mateusz Boczkiewicz 12 26 And the Oscar Goes to… The Case of a Light at the End of the Tunnel Joanna Nędzyńska Małgorzata Dudo 14 28 What is Love? Baby Don’t Hurt Me No More: A Short Commentary on POETRY Why I Do Not Like Carrie Bradshaw Nadia Błaszczyk Love Spell 16 Marta Anchim 34 Manna Teresa Baklarska 35 Touch Paulina Frelek 36

The next issue’s theme: Time is a Thing with Feathers We’re still recruiting! If you’re interested in writing for The Wasp, please contact us: thewaspjournal@gmail.com Facebook: facebook.com/thewaspjournal American Studies Center: asc.uw.edu.pl

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Love Wears Leopard-Print Pants When the subject of Love is presented, a never-ending stream of questions arises—usually founded in either indignation, incomprehensibility, or insecurity. As in writing, the questions often follow the l(x)=4Wx1H formula: Who am I to them? When will they text me back? Wherefore art thou Romeo? Why is marrying Tom Hardy such an unattainable dream? How could Jay-Z cheat on Beyoncé? What is Love? The 1993 dance single with the same title by possibly the epitome of a one-hit-wonder, Haddaway, employs the powerful tool of repetition to make us ponder the query until our ears bleed. The song in its entirety, while often drunkenly shouted in karaoke bars or ironically quoted when discussing relationships, disentangles the complicated sonnets and prose written over centuries, compressing them into two lines of pure poetry. Indeed, the song and the music video are the essence of the quest to discover the true meaning of “love”—a hunt filled with hysterical mating dance routines, cheap leather and leopard-print adult costumes, as well as epilepsy-evoking 90s’ light effects; ah, love. Yet this loop of ‘what’s and ‘how’s and ‘who’s—albeit philosophical—weaved into this mind-violating rhythm reminds us of a sage whose character in one of his novels pleaded: “Love me, because love doesn’t exist, and I have tried everything that does.” We have tried cocaine, champagne, and gasoline, but they pale in comparison to a something that is so fleeting, so abstract, so unrealistic that it actually hasn’t been properly defined since the very moment someone came up with the word “love.”

A gazillion fluid ounces of supposedly-waterproof mascara wasted on heartbreaks; a kazillion dollars spent on booze to drown the love blues; bazillions of novels and cheesy films watched to comprehend the enigma of love. Pain, hurt, suffering, heartache—a 5-minute search on YouTube makes you wonder whether love brings you anything else but trouble. Still, it would be boring and redundant to say that the exploitations of love and sex (especially the latter) in popular media are the perversions of human emotions. We seem to forget that it is a symbiotic relationship; the machine runs on our tweaking of tunes that numb the repercussions of one-night stands, cheating lovers, unrequited love, etc. Rather, it is the denial of this culture that is really perverted. Love, today, seems to be a topic of controversy. Who should Love who; how they should Love; when and where they can Love (refer to the formula: l(x)=4Wx1H). Society has perverted us into overthinking the concept of love instead of actually loving and being loved. Love is good for artists, lyricists, florists, and capitalists, and a quite nice concept to ponder over a tenth glass of wine. Pleasant enough if you don’t get overwhelmed with philosophical reflections and actually remember to love and let yourself be loved. This issue’s piece of the month, “Playthings,” is the lovechild of the minds belonging to the current and former editors-in-chief. The story—not for the faint-hearted—is an acid-trip through the boiling, paved streets of Los Angeles, the city of [devils-cum-]angels. With an existential undertone coupled by grotesque acts of affection, a mild feeling of violation may be a side-effect of the tale. We recommend a side-dish of heavy-duty painkillers.

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Aleksandra Barciszewska Editor–in–chief. ASC–survivor. Vampiric psychoanalyst by nature. Extracting the sexual from the mundane, rejecting reality for the sake of the very–tale of momentary satiation of the urges for creation.

Lilla Orly Newly-minted editor-in-chief. BA student at the ASC who finds catharsis in drumming. Dabbles in miscellaneous pastimes when not scribbling nonsense furiously into notebooks, on pavement or walls… any surface where writing is possible.

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ARTICLES

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From Liberalism to Trump(ism) Tess, a graphic designer and long-time Democratic voter did not unconditionally agree to being on record for this article. An accord was only reached after her prerequisite was met—at least partial anonymity. “The public can’t know my surname. The people in my circles, as cordial and outgoing as they appear, would not tolerate my viewpoints.” It struck me as bizarre, given that she was not a Republican. By now, it was well-known that various conservatives got their opinions muted by the liberal community’s reluctance to lending an ear to the voices of those who preach differently. But Tess pressed on: “There’s no telling what would happen to our relationship, or—as ridiculous as it may seem—to my very own safety.” The elements only began to merge once she described the intricacies of her situation. “I voted for Hillary,” Tess exclaimed, “however, I am not that distraught by Trump’s victory. As a matter of fact, his triumph oddly satisfies me. I’m rooting for him now. I’m glad that Hillary lost.” Tess claimed that it was the aftermath of Trump’s triumph that awakened in her the senses responsible for the nation’s well-being. After inquiring why that was the case, Tess proposed a cup of coffee, hinting that the conversation about to take place would be profound. It ended up becoming therapy for the speaker. Did Tess criticize the failures of the Democratic party? Yes, she did. In particular, Tess expressed her revulsion at the ideological fog Democrats fabricate to conceal those myriad fiascos. “But party failures are one thing,” Tess pronounced. The paramount reason for her gleeful reaction to the Trump administration taking the reins laid further down the road. “I read about these anarchist movements, the violent protests… It’s threatening to honestly speak with others about things that can potentially enhance this nation of ours.”

Tess took a pause, sipped her coffee, then gently placed the cup of joe back on the table. An aura of tranquility encompassed us; Tess felt she was not being judged in this environment. It was her house after all. But out of the blue, the calm atmosphere suddenly shattered due to Tess’ thundering wrath. “It was when a crowd cheered over Nordstrom’s decision to drop the Ivanka Trump brand from their stores that total rage got the better of me. What was there to cheer about? Did the liberals score some major political victory? Or is Nordstrom now suddenly a safe-space because the Trump name is not visible to clients? It’s embarrassing. It does nothing in terms of policy. It only changes the nation for the worse.” It wasn’t difficult to empathize with these emotions. What changed Tess’ mind as to Mr. Trump was the nasty ideological war that erupted following Trump’s victory. The rivalry in the arena of a healthy democracy used to be between two human beings boxing for what will improve their nation. In 2017, the match is between reptiles hell-bent on tearing themselves apart, over which party’s ideology is the only legitimate one; a truly devastating cause for bloodshed. Tess turned against her left-wing base and cast a strong spotlight on the liberal community. “Inclusiveness is their motto, right? Well, they’re destroying free-speech and focusing on the fate of Ivanka Trump shoes more than on the concerns of conservatives.” What Tess referred to is something that has been pointed out time and time again. “Sure, liberals accept different ethnic or religious backgrounds, but if you dare have different morals, values, a divergent ideology—go to hell, man.” The notion of ethnic/religious diversity discourse overshadowing policy discourse is worrisome indeed.

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“And that is why I’m supporting Mr. Trump. The fury between the left and right is now more visible than ever, and it manifests how the focus on our nations prosperity is faltering,” Tess concluded. Multiple examples prove that Tess, despite her outrage, actually only scratches the surface with her remarks. Few journalists and lawmakers claim that the political landscape of today is tantamount to the secession of 1860. And, while California is considering becoming a separate nation through campaigns such as Yes California, such a comparison remains a tad extreme. But the wildfire combusting our political environment is serious enough, and we must address it before it evolves into an unstoppable inferno. Assaulting the unwillingness of people to cooperate with the Trump administration would be immature this early in the president’s tenure. However, the seemingly unilateral, absolute, and unquestioning opposition to Mr. Trump—as well as to everything connected with him—is something that needs to be assailed pronto. When Senator Elizabeth Warren cast a vote in support of Ben Carson’s nomination as the new secretary of HUD, Sen. Warren’s constituents and liberal fanbase briefly turned against her. That reaction was displayed in a way that suggested no interest for Mr. Carson’s capabilities or dedication to his new responsibility in the president’s cabinet. In fact, a natural concern for the president’s cabinet, a crucial organ to the functionality of the White House, was inexistent. In contrast, what surfaced was a fierce devotion to combat Mr. Trump’s cabinet appointees despite their credentials.

A similar situation occurred with the CEO of the ride-sharing service Uber, Travis Kalanick. Mr. Kalanick was granted a seat on the presidential advisory board, another role with the capacity to set the course of the White House. After facing pressure from the liberal users of his service to step down from the board, Mr. Kalanick complied. What did his clients gain? The question should be what they lost—Mr. Kalanick’s ability to influence the president. A wiser maneuver was taken by the CEO of Tesla Motors, Elon Musk, who, despite the same kind of pressure from his clients, decided to stay on the advisory board. As a consequence, Mr. Musk was able to express his disapproval of Mr. Trump’s controversial travel ban for predominantly Muslim countries. Mr. Musk understood that Mr. Trump’s administration is responsible for the United States of America, and whether Mr. Musk is a fan of the president or not, his responsibility as a citizen is to cooperate with the administration through debating what is best for the nation. There was also the case of Supreme Court nominee Neil Gorsuch. A highly educated originalist with an impressive record, Mr. Gorsuch was met with opposition from the liberal community. However, when Mr. Gorsuch called Mr. Trump’s defiance of the Court “disheartening,” Mr. Gorsuch became admired by the liberal community. The feelings towards Mr. Gorsuch’s intelligence and qualifications turned on a dime.

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Lastly, an example worth bringing up is the case of the Electoral College—one of the most solid institutions of American government. Its workings were especially prominent during the 2016 election by giving a voice to the commonly neglected people residing in small and/ or rural states. Due to the popular vote being lost by Mr. Trump by nearly 3 million votes, the Electoral College lost credibility in the liberal lens. It was considered a burden of the past; a barricade on the road towards a truly modern democracy. Fast forward to December 2016, when the Electoral College gathered to cast their final vote for the nation’s 45th president. Suddenly, it regained its legitimacy and became promoted as a prized institution developed to prevent an uneducated public from choosing a demagogue, tyrant, etc. Much more democratic, no? Then, there is the total opposition of the liberal community to conservative voices, the feeling that theirs is the only right way forwards. It’s something that a New York Times article reported as ‘moral Bolshevism,’—a term coined by conservatives—“the belief that the liberal vision for the country was the only right one.” Conservatives make up half of America’s population. Yes, they are people, and yes, the necessity of pointing these things out is morally demoralizing—a low I thought I’d never have to sink to in this ‘advanced’ society. Yet, here we are. Due to these movements, the Democratic party has found itself in a hazardous vortex it must abandon via shifting their direction and rebranding themselves. However, another New York Times piece stated that, “senior Democratic officials concede that the blueprint has already been chosen for them—by an incensed army of liberals demanding no less than total war against President Trump.” It is of the essence to note that the absence of solid support from the Democratic Party’s liberal base will render the adoption of a fresh strategy impossible.

As proved by numerous protests in town hall meetings between Republican members of congress and their constituents, the ground is fertile enough to sprout fruitful debates regarding the anxiety and concern about Mr. Trump’s administration. And there is an emphasis placed on concern in order to distinguish it from hysteria; an outburst of emotion that clouds lucid thought. The havoc erupting due to someone’s exercise of free speech can shut that window of opportunity for bipartisan, or simply natural, discourse amid citizens sharing an interest for the well-being of their nation. It may only be the first month of President Trump’s tenure, but it has to be made clear at this very moment that a total enclosure of the liberal community in their own bubble, and a unified opposition to Mr. Trump’s presidency, will significantly damage the United States of America. It is also crucial to highlight that ignorance, violent protests, and hateful words directed at people who vote differently than you are not signs of courage. Courage is sitting face to face with someone with a different opinion and listening to them, accepting what they have to say. It’s their country too, and they also have a say as to its fate. Yes, hard questions must be answered, difficult topics debated, and nauseating phrases must be used, but most importantly, they must also be heard. Real courage is being able to carry out one’s duty as a citizen to face the issues dividing his or her fellow citizens, to retreat from one’s enclave and have his or her views challenged. It is that courage which founded this great country, and it is the strength to find and manifest that courage that will truly make America great again. This message goes to conservatives and liberals alike. A great French philosopher in the Renaissance named Michel de Montaigne penned a fine little essay aptly titled “De L’Art De Conferer” (The Art of the Conference). In it he wrote that, “[w]e avoid being corrected; we ought to come forward and accept it… When I am contradicted it arouses my attention, not my wrath. I move towards the man who contradicts me; he is instructing me. The cause of truth ought to be common to us both.” We shall accept how lethargic that pursuit of truth really is. However, we shall also distinguish what Montaigne writes, that this pursuit is also common, meaning that we have a choice—wear ourselves out by undertaking it in solitude, or collaborating through a meaningful, functional and productive force composed of an abundance of caring voices.

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Bibliography: Martin, J., & Burns, A. (2017, February 23). Weakened Democrats Bow to Voters, Opting for Total War on Trump. The New York Times. Retrieved from https://www.nytimes. com/2017/02/23/us/democrats-dnc-chairmantrump-keith-ellison-tom-perez.html Tavernise, S. (2017, February 18). Are Liberals Helping Trump? The New York Times. Retrieved from https://www.nytimes.com/2017/02/18/ opinion/sunday/are-liberals-helping-trump. html?smid=fb-nytopinion&smtyp=cur&_r=0

Adam Radomski “If I had eight hours to chop down a tree, I’d spend six hours sharpening my axe” – Abraham Lincoln.

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Cultural Appropriation: A Peculiar Form of Love The ‘n-word.’ Why do people say it? Why do they still use it? And am I, as a white person, allowed to ask these questions at all? Does the fact that I do it out of the need to be fair and tactful justify my interest? How about if it’s my sheer curiosity? Are white people even allowed in the discourse? And if not, then why? People have always been fascinated by things different from what they already knew. The feeling of familiarity, however comforting, can be boring. We search for unexplored themes and ideas or patterns varying from the one that we have learned so far. The encounter of the otherness (using bell hooks’ nomenclature here) seems refreshing, enriching and ever-changing to us. That’s why we like to meet people from all over the world, immerse ourselves in distinct cultures and taste what they’re like. But be careful not to fall into the trap of primitivism. The fascination can be both good and bad. It can even lead to the fetishization of certain elements of the minority culture, which is nothing good either. Notice that I’m using “us,” “we,” “I” because it is important to recognize how the majority (here, the white people) is adapting the culture of the minorities for its own purpose. What does it mean to be in love with a culture that you weren’t born into? Is it somehow similar to loving another person? The feeling of love brings about so much ambiguity, because there is not one way of appropriately loving something or someone, nor is there one general pattern to follow in that case. Strong feelings make our lives chaotic, but also interesting. On the other hand, and as with loving other people, not knowing how to love can be harmful to the object of our affection, however unintentional that would be. Being appreciative towards a distinct culture can be done in a way that is either uplifting or detrimental to that culture and their members.

Why do I write about this? Because cultural appropriation—or cultural borrowing—is a tricky thing. Extremely ambiguous in its character, difficult to judge, at times controversial. This is precisely why it is interesting (at least to the author of this article and quite a few academics). It happens when a member of one culture takes some part of the other culture and uses or reestablishes it, often on their own terms. It can be Kylie Jenner wearing dreadlocks; it can be Polish producers creating a music genre that was invented in Chicago by African Americans; it can be white people saying the ‘n-word.’ Using the ‘n-word’ by non-blacks is a very special example of cultural borrowing. It is also pretty complex, as it is not seen as obvious a cultural appropriation as the other examples that were mentioned above. In the U.S., it is primarily seen as a huge insult and a harsh reminder of the times when some people were counted as only 3/5 of a person or subject to the title of ‘property’—just because of what they looked like. The difference in physical characteristics that is nowadays being outwardly praised was (and still is) the reason for discrimination of some individuals as well. But the ‘n-word’ is also a word of endearment to many. Highly popularized by hip-hop culture, it has gained a strange reputation and acceptance as such too. People use it effortlessly, as if it means ‘brother.’ And, in fact, for many it is so. However important is it to navigate between the meanders of cultural codes, why do people assume that those who often didn’t have much contact with other cultures—except for whatever they have seen in the media—will know every nuance surrounding it?

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The inspiration for this article came from some social experiences of mine; also, as a huge fan of a culture that is not my own, I feel that I have much to say in the conversation. Non-black people are sometimes using the ‘n-word’ having the best possible intentions. I know whites who use it who are actually in love with hip-hop culture. Some of the most tolerant and open people I know are sometimes using it. Are these people blind to the importance of cultural codes, or people’s feelings? Or are we facing a huge shift in the perception of the ‘n-word’? Whatever the answer is, it says a lot about the media and their impaired depiction of black people or other minorities. The question remains, do they have to use it, knowing how it is perceived by the black people? Can’t we be more considerate? You may think that this is yet another attempt of a white person to take over the conversation that should center around black people; it is precisely the opposite, though. The fact that the subject generates more questions than it does answers is great proof that race is a social construct. The same issues or acts are being perceived differently in different parts of the world or, rather, in different cultures. The fact that we have to navigate these meanders of cultural codes is precisely why I bring up this issue. How are we to do it right if we don’t ask, or talk about it? Most importantly though, who are we to judge who passes and who doesn’t with saying it? I say: listen to what your black friends are saying. Once and for all, let’s put minority voices in the center of the discourse.

Bibliography: Collins, C. (2013, Dec 2). Exporting the N-word. ESPN. Retrieved from http://www.espn.com/blog/truehoop/ post/_/id/64299/exporting-the-n-word hooks, b. (1992). Eating the Other: Desire and Resistance. In Black Looks: Race and Representation (chapter 2). Retrieved from https://genius.com/Bell-hooks-eating-the-other-desireand-resistance-annotated Kennedy, R. (2002) Nigger: The Strange Career of a Troublesome Word. New York: Pantheon Books.

And the Oscar Goes to… Moonlight. Definitely Moonlight. We called the Academy, and they have confirmed that the award for best picture goes to Moonlight. Why is it so important to clear this issue up? For those of you who do not know (although you must have been living under a rock not to know), THE biggest mix up in the history of Oscars occurred at the 89th successive year of the event. Before I talk about that, I would like to tackle some issues that are worth mentioning. First of all, despite the predictions, the Oscars were not as political as they probably could have been. Of course, Jimmy Kimmel (who did very well as a host) did refer to President Trump’s statements and tweets (some of them were actually read by actors on the red carpet in a pretty funny, over-dramatic manner). For instance, at the very beginning, Kimmel referred to the fact that American society is extremely divided—his recipe was to just start talking to each other but “not as liberals or conservatives but as Americans we can really make America great again—it starts with us.” Kimmel also joked about Meryl Streep being too overrated according to the President; that is why Kimmel asked Streep to stand up and get a “totally undeserved round of applause” for her “mediocre work.” And… that’s pretty much it. Perhaps Hollywood has had enough of presidential politics and the producers of the show decided to just focus on the movies. Nevertheless, the decisions of President Trump did have a slight impact on the award show. One of the winners Asghar Farhadi, an Iranian director, who won an Oscar for The Salesman (best foreign language film) boycotted the gala due to the recently issued presidential traveling ban for the citizens of Muslim countries. Since Iran was also on the list, in a way of solidarity with the citizens of his country, the director decided not to attend the show.

Kimmel also referred to the fact that the 88th Hunger G---, I mean Oscars, were accused of being too white, claiming that—unlike the President—the Oscars are not racist anymore. As the night unfolded, it turned out that this time the gala was definitely not white. For the first time in the history of the Oscars, a Muslim actor won. Mahershala Ali got the award for best supporting actor in Moonlight. He is known for his roles in House of Cards and The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. The already mentioned Moonlight was not only directed by an Afro-American, Barry Jenkins, but it also told the story of a black boy who tries to face life’s problems and finds himself in a world filled with drugs and violence. Another movie, Hidden Figures (that did not win, but was also nominated for best picture) tells the story of three Afro-American women who worked for NASA and, despite many obstacles, manage to help in sending the first man into space. The next film, Fences, also presents a story of an Afro-American who tries to fight with racial discrimination. Thanks to her appearance in this movie, Viola Davis, known for her roles in The Help or Doubt, won the award for best supporting actress. She is now the first black actress who won an Oscar, an Emmy, and a Tony.

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So, the gala was going perfectly fine. You know, just another award show. Towards the end the tension started to rise… Everybody was silent… Each and every person at the Dolby Theatre (and around the globe) was asking himself/herself the same question—who will win the Oscar for best picture? That was when Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway (Bonnie and Clyde) announced to the world that, “the Oscar goes to… La La Land.” Nobody was surprised, actually; most film critics were betting on this movie. Everyone involved in producing it came to the stage thanking God, their parents and friends, saying that dreams really do come true. Emma Stone was practically already crying and… poof—the fairy tale was gone. As it turned out, Beatty received the wrong envelope which said that the already mentioned Emma Stone won an Oscar for leading actress in La La Land. The problem was that in all the confusion, Faye Dunaway only read the title of the movie. Another issue was that when Emma Stone was talking to journalists at the press conference, she claimed that she still had the ‘Best Actress’ card with her… So how did it occur that the famous Bonnie and Clyde made such a mistake? Maybe it was SUPPOSED to happen so that everyone would talk about it (or maybe I am just too into conspiracy theories)? Anyway, someone finally told the La La Land cast that they did not win, and that Moonlight got the Oscar for best picture. The word ‘consternation’ was not enough to describe everybody’s reaction. The only thing that can compare to this predicament would be mixing up your future wife’s/husband’s name at the altar.

To sum up, with 14 nominations and only 6 Oscars won (director, original score, song, leading actress, cinematography, production design), La La Land can be considered as the loser rather than the winner of the 89th Academy Awards. Other movies which have won the prize that every filmmaker dreams of were for instance Hacksaw Ridge (film editing, sound mixing), Manchester by the Sea (leading actor, original screenplay), Moonlight (picture, adapted screenplay), Zootopia (animated feature), The Jungle Book (visual effects), and Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (costumes). Basically, this Oscars gala was really diverse and, practically, almost every nominated movie was honored with the most precious award in the film industry. In most cases the ‘sure winners’ did not win. Nevertheless, only a minority will be talking about the winners—everyone else will be talking about the biggest failure of all time. So if you ever get the chance to read this magical envelope containing the names of The Lucky Ones, read it properly first and then announce the winner to the world…

Joanna Nędzyńska Graduated with a distinction from the ASC this June. Currently employed at an international law firm. But she has not said “goodbye” to studying yet. Right now she is in the middle of one-year postgraduate studies in political science. In her free time, Joanna likes to play guitar, sing or… read Harry Potter. The WASP | Volume II | Spring 2017

What is Love? Baby Don’t Hurt Me, No More: A Short Commentary On Why I Do Not Like Carrie Bradshaw You probably know the iconic American TV series Sex and the City, which later on lived to see two movie continuations. You might have never watched it, but you must have heard of it. Does the name ring a bell? Perfect. I thought so. No doubt, it is impossible to talk about this series without mentioning the topic of love. The show presents the lives of four best friends living in NYC who are successful and independent women. Even though they are best friends, they represent completely different characters. Consequently, next to their career and posh NYC lives, the four friends have various attitudes to the concept of love as well as relationships. While Sex and the City illustrates both the privileges and struggles of a young independent woman in New York City, it also shows how aspirations and preferences determine our life— or rather love—choices. The main character of the show is Carrie Bradshaw— loved by thousands of real women who follow and admire the shoe-loving successful writer and heartbreaker. Unfortunately, I am not one of them because I find Carrie’s character very annoying. Of course, she seems to have a perfect life—she has her column in The New York Times, she has wonderful best friends who she spends her nights out with, she lives in Manhattan, and she has one of the most amazing closets in the entire TV series world. Nevertheless, Carrie misses one thing. A thing that, for some people, might be considered the most crucial in their lives. Throughout the show, Carrie does not find true love. Even though she writes in her column about relationships, she is on a constant search for her significant other. She dates numerous men who either only seem to be a perfect match, or turn out to be a total disaster.

Oh, Carrie, what is love? What is it that you are looking for? Albeit, she gets older with every season of the show, she seems not to learn anything from her mistakes. She falls for different guys, but only one of them always comes back—or rather reappears in her life to break her heart again—the infamous Mr. Big; the love of her life who is not a perfect guy, for sure. Entering and leaving her life, he does not let her live the way she wants, and is constantly messing with her emotions. He contributes to Carrie’s emotional instability and lets the viewer see how she is not able to create a healthy relationship with anyone else because, deep in her heart, she dreams about him and loves him; she loves the one who has already broken her heart many times and is definitely going to do it again. Mr. Big, please don’t hurt me, no more. Carrie who is supposed to be, or rather who is considered to be a role model for numerous women around the world, does not really know what she wants from life, or from love. While her friends become either happy wives, or decide to remain single forever, Carrie is somewhere in between. On the one hand, she feels that she is looking for the right one, but on the other, she keeps making bad choices. I know it is easy to criticize—and I rarely do it so openly—however, Carrie Bradshaw is a TV series character, so I feel less guilty pointing out her mistakes. How is she going to find the love of her life while she is still emotionally attached to Mr. Big? This lack of confidence and the uncertainty make Carrie act foolishly, and I think this annoys me the most; or, maybe the fact that she is the embodiment of many contemporary women whose lives are similar to Carrie’s. While being a grown up, working, writing about love and relationships, and having a “perfect life,” she is not able to help herself. And this is the case of many women in real life as well. Ugh.

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And you know what? *Spoiler alert* Guess who Carrie is going to marry? Yes. Mr. Big. And guess who gets cold feet and bails just before the wedding? Yes. Mr. Big. And even though he has hurt Carrie so many times, eventually, they end up together. Why did she choose him? Doesn’t he seem like a jerk to you? Here probably comes the answer for the question of what love is. There is no precise definition of love and there certainly will never be; it is a feeling truly exceptional for each person. There were various reasons why Carrie should not have chosen, or trusted, Mr. Big again. Nonetheless, she made her own decision, and let him into her life again. And I guess we can’t really judge why she did that. Love has neither a specific form nor rules. It manifests itself differently each time and it means something different for each person. Maybe my resentment towards Carrie’s character should be a starting point both for myself and for others to rethink the approach towards the definition of love. I have never expected that Carrie Bradshaw will give me an inspiration to focus on my attitude and acceptance to different perspectives on love and will encourage me to wonder what love actually means. Moreover, I realized that I shouldn’t judge anyone, even— or especially—if I might not see the love one says they are experiencing. Maybe Carrie made the wrong choice by marrying Mr. Big. Perhaps. Her lack of confidence in what she wanted may be annoying, but in the long run she did her best to find happiness in love, even though she had to suffer to get to that point. It is hard to admit, but Carrie has taught me a lesson: Love is what we choose it to be.

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FICTION

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Piece of the month

The WASP | Volume II | Spring 2017

Playthings As he walked down the scalding pavement, Eddie’s hands were pressed flat against his temples. His head was throbbing so violently he feared releasing any pressure would cause it to soar straight from its place on his neck. He kept his eyes open to the minimum amount necessary to avoid the glare of the vibrant plastic flamingos impaled into the bright green lawns he passed. Every so often, he would cross the path of a busty blonde on a jog or a jagged-jawed Don Juan. Even the sight of these figures caused his headache to worsen as their skin would always glisten with that same ‘L.A. Life’ brilliance. When Eddie first moved there, his own complexion was just as radiant; what he suspected was a symptom of the hopeful candor which every newcomer was infected with. Everyone believed they had taken the leap towards their big break. They all truly had faith in their rigidity in the face of rejection, their ability to learn lines verbatim, and, always most importantly, their sincerity in a city of deception. Eddie clung to those traits as long as The Biz™ had allowed him to, but he learned that it consistently severed people by some sick process of meiosis to create a marketable half to brand as a whole. Now, Eddie hung out around the same X-listers as himself (not bothering to study the alphabetical hierarchy, he assumed the unloved consonant and mathematical variable would suffice to both represent his relevance and protect his withering ego). Only the day before he had been at a gathering of this nearly-made-it bunch. Drinking a considerable amount, the last thing Eddie could clearly remember was sitting on a fake-leather couch and moaning some self-pitying monologue to a cheery brunette sitting cross-legged. “And it’s like, I’m still in my youth, you know, but, on the inside, I’ve turned into a bitter, old geezer. I’ve been here for… fuck… for four years now and just thought I’d have done something of… substance by now, you know?” he slurred to the girl who looked more and more crestfallen by the minute. “I mean, look at all these girls at this party,” he motioned with his hand clinging to his drink cup, “they’re fighting every day trying to stay on this side of the valley. They don’t want to admit to themselves that they might just have to give in and opt for infamy in San Fernando.” “You’re kind of a bummer,” the doe-eyed girl said in a sorry tone before rising and leaving. Those words echoed in Eddie’s mind now as he stood in a 7/11 bathroom and gaped at his ghoulish expression in the mirror. Reaching into his pocket for the Aspirin he bought, he first pulled out a kazoo, a strange keepsake from the previous night, causing him to feel second-hand embarrassment for himself. He put three painkillers in his mouth and washed them down with tap water, feeling them plummet down into his stomach. Unplanned as it seemed at first, yet completely understandable at second, his body started trembling in ecstatic convulsions. The sequence of impulses wrapped his left hand around the kazoo as if it had always known how and why to do it. “What the…” The second his lips tightly and securely sealed around the mouthpiece, a mint bubble-like bulge surfaced right underneath the skin, right next to his Adam’s apple that he never meant to return. Subtly, as if being developed in a low-budget darkroom of some enthusiast of the good ol’ days, an “A,” an “S,” and a “P” started appearing on the sheet of Eddie’s skin, step-by-step, letter-by-letter, the pain reminding him of that one time he had swollen glands. The letters carried an acidity that began eating away the bulge right along with the memory of the event that would haunt Eddie for at least some five more drinks, but, luckily, it dissolved as quickly as he started to grasp the essence of this occurrence.

The WASP | Volume II | Spring 2017

*** FADE IN: WILSHIRE/CURSON BUS STOP The odor coming from La Brea Tar Pits and Museum was making everyone at the bus stop dizzily nauseated so the human wave that flooded the bus made it rock dangerously from left to right, from right to wrong. DISSOLVE TO: LINE 20, 3RD-ROW SEATS EDDIE (anxiously on the phone) Mr. President, I know that you might have assumed… yes, I’m aware of that… no, how could I forget, never… how’s Billy? I’m not trying to avoid answering your marvelously posed question. EDDIE (looking at some vinyl with a prism spectrum on the cover; Answers, answers—give me answers! – he inaudibly whispered to the vinyl) I will do my best and Hon, just remember that I’ve missed you. The bus stops and MOLLY comes in. Played by a 20-something girl with hysterically dark blue eyes, carrying a bundle of starfish glued to each other. She sits right behind a man whose greasy hair reminds MOLLY of wet poison ivy. She takes off her left shoe, slides her foot into the pocket of the man’s backpack lying on the bus floor. MOLLY (singing to herself with scissors in her palm) I've heard there was a secret chord That Molly played, and it pleased the Lord Her beauty and her moonlight overthrew you She tied you to a kitchen chair She broke your throne, and she cut your hair And from your lips she drew the … (whispers in the right ear of the man) Hallelujah MOLLY smiles to herself as she gently and silently cuts off a tiny lock of hair from the halo of ivy hair limbs, hiding it among the dried starfish. Swaying in a sexual trance, she pulls out her moist foot and curls her toes around the strap of the backpack, vociferously moaning as the last toe finds its way to embrace the material. EDDIE is staring at her, fascinated more by the COCKROACH climbing her calf. EDDIE I salute you.

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COCKROACH (winks at EDDIE) *** Eddie somehow found himself sitting on a bench somewhere between some things that he had seen before, but forgot to remember. An incurable ray of hope appeared every five seconds, lending him a promise of a brighter day, but it was never meant to last. The sun was an intruder thrusting its luminous debris right into his eyes, so he lowered his head to avoid the defilement. “Hi,” he heard from somewhere above the place he had placed himself in a manner so serene and rewarding that tracing the sound sounded like a truly unsound decision. “I said ‘hi.’ I’ve seen you. You were watching me? Can you look up, please?” Oh, the cockroach girl—Eddie thought to himself; he definitely remembered her. “Yes, I saw you on the—” “Shhhh,” she put her palm over his mouth. She opened her bag where she had hidden a bottle of Evian, and found a small clay vessel where she poured the watermelon-smelling, water-looking water. She removed Eddie’s shoes, positioned his feet right inside the vessel, and untied her hair. Her angelically fair hair was used to thoroughly wash each millimeter of Eddie’s skin, under his toenails, around his calloused heels. When I saw it, I was utterly, deeply, piercingly touched. Mostly because a group of guys took turns raping me around the corner from the Eddie-Molly tableau, and when one was choking me with his penis shoved down my throat, my eyes spotted the angel, on her knees, washing some guy’s feet. Molly was the most tender caregiver Eddie ever seemed to have encountered. He caressed her hand while she was giving him exactly what she needed. Eddies outstretched arms along the backrest of the bench, his head thrown back in euphoria, and Molly, her soaked strands of hair intertwined between his toes—an exquisite nymph in her own rite—were the last things my eyes saw before fading out. *** FADE IN: SOME BACK ALLEY IN PANORAMA CITY Molly and Eddie walking side by side with a generous gap between them. Eddie stopping every few meters to press his bare feet into the clumps of warm, softened asphalt. Molly looking dazed into the darkening sky, halting as Eddie does so. Molly repeatedly raises her left arm before her face, examining the area just above it with a wrinkled brow, then lowers it looking increasingly anxious. EDDIE (ignoring the incessant buzz that pierces his chest being emitted from the phone in his pocket) Uh, so where did you say this party was at? MOLLY (drowsily and somewhat disgruntled) I haven’t figured it out yet.

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EDDIE (chuckling in disbelief, begins walking forward again) Right, I don’t know what I expected. MOLLY (begins skipping and twirling, raising her arms) EDDIE (notices the gladiola tattoo on her upper right thigh, hesitates, recalling his conversation with the president) MOLLY (falters before a garage door, whispering) I’ve figured it out. MOLLY pulls up the garage door with tremendous force revealing a dwarf with outstretched palm standing before a wall of mist. MOLLY reaches up her skirt, between her legs, and pulls out the COCKROACH placing it into the hand of the dwarf. The dwarf pulls out two pairs of sandals from behind his back and staples them to MOLLY and EDDIE’s feet. The couple enter and evaporate into the cloud. *** The crowd moved as one unstoppable force. The entire chamber was packed-tight with bodies swaying in a rippling effect. It could not be called dancing as there was hardly enough room for such a wide range of movement; it was simply minute jolts of motion. On the farthest wall in hasty, dripping scrawl was the title of the performance, ‘Euthanasia.’ Eddie and Molly stuck close together beside a stage that, instead of being raised above the throng, was lowered. An octet chorus stood in the pit at the base of which crawled hundreds of cockroaches. In Eddie’s mind a flickering thought: I thought this shit only happened on the East Coast. In an attempt to demonstrate his open-mindedness, Eddie began to roll his body, matching the rhythm of the shrieking melody. Molly only peered at him curiously before grabbing his hand and dragging him through the entangled limbs. They reached an exit door at the back that led to a luminous hallway lined on either side with busts of sordid celebrities. Molly approached one and violently tore the wig from its head then placed it on her own, not bothering to tuck her hair beneath the false tresses. She marched down the remainder of the corridor and waited for Eddie at the end, tapping her foot impatiently. Eddie slowly stepped forward, side-eyeing the odd clones decorating the otherwise contour-less room. Behind the last door behind the penultimate door (….) behind the first door that shouted incomprehensible slurs at the newly acquainted couple was an oval-shaped claustrophobic room that reminded Eddie of a place: FADE IN: The steady stump of the heartbeat—thump thump, thump thump—the whooshing of blood through the blood vessels, the tones of the voice filtered through tissues. The stimuli swarming around the gospel of birth. The smell of a safety net that was to soon dissolve into nothingness. Breathe in, breathe out; scream in, scream out; drumroll, please. FADE OUT.

The WASP | Volume II | Spring 2017

The pillar in the center of the room-like place they found themselves in was embroidered with gigantic rose- and white-gold plated lilies of the valley, and in the front at the very base of it was a 5-foot statue of a Komodo dragon. Its tongue welcomed Molly and Eddie. “Welcome, my children,” the statue spoke. “I’ve summoned both of you for there exists an immediate need for a certain ceremony to be performed.” Only then Eddie noticed thousands of petite figurines of people he had seen, encountered, talked to, on various occasions in his life. They were trapped inside transparent statuettes placed on the many shelves on the one wall that embraced them so tightly. “Yes, Master. I’ve brought him as you communicated to me. And I cannot stress enough how deeply honored I am to finally see you, my Liege,” Molly said. “My dear child, nothing can make up for your previous disobedience, but I appreciate the effort. Now, you may.” Eddie didn’t grasp what the ‘may’ was about until he saw her light a fire from all the hair she had ever collected, at the dragon’s feet. And as she ejected the most despicable words she had ever heard in his entire life, she singed her palms over the flames, finger by finger. Once each inch of her hands was covered in black filter, she slid her hands into her pocket where she found the starfish assemblage. She chose one of them and with its dried arm she cut a cross on her left palm. “Son,” the dragon spoke to Eddie, “now you may sip the blood that is about to drip from her palm. That’s how the betrothal can become official.” Molly moved closer with her offering palm, and Eddie sucked the metallic-tasting fluid oozing from her flesh. He sucked her hand till it started to resemble the drained bodies of the starfish she had kept with her for so long. He absorbed the life-giving force till sensualistic mirth flooded his guts. “Enough,” the lizard said. “Now, repeat after me.” The words unknown to all human kind and the force which drove the incessant flow of brutally sharp consonants and moderately erotic vowels astounded me. The first row on the shelf granted me—the tiny glass figurine—the possibility of seeing how Eddie and Molly needed no instruction to follow the humongous lizard’s orders; they just knew what they were doing. “The incorporeal potential you have been scarred with will now be kneaded into a worthy image of me,” the dragon said. “So God created man in his own image,” whispered Eddie. The up-till-now motionless statue broke free from the material confinement. The curse of tangibility locked his entire potential—while immaterialized, his body filled the entire room, making it harder to breathe. But air was not needed in that exact moment. “Now, you may,” Eddie and Molly said simultaneously; it was just demanded of them. Once they did, the dragon moved his claw up in the air, hovering over these trembling human marionettes, and violently crushed them to the ground. He spit on whatever was left of them, gathered it into its claws, and started molding his precious figurines. Once he was done, he retired to the pillar to wait for all the other fortunates. Now, fortunately, as for the place on the shelf for Molly and Eddie, He chose the spot right next to me and my lover. So, Molly, say ‘hi’ to everyone. “Hi,” rivers of joy streamed down her cheeks when she said that. Actually no, they didn’t—she’s still figuring out a way to exist now as a part of God’s private playground. But she will understand how it all works, soon. And now, you may.

The WASP | Volume II | Spring 2017

Ring, Ring, Mofo! Oh, she looks so beautiful, beyond my imagination. Everything in her look reached a level of perfection that I wouldn’t even dare to think it might exist—the kind of greatness you only recognize when you see it. Indescribable. Has everything around bent and blurred or did I want it to, so nothing would disturb the show of her magnificence in this moment. That, I don’t know for sure. I’m looking without a single blink of an eye, to not miss a second, because every one of them is worth a lifetime to me right now. I’m lying in this very nice, comfortable bed, in the middle of a slightly darkened room since the only light is focused around her. I feel high. I’m stoned with her beauty. And even worse, I’m getting more and more hooked with every step she takes, as she approaches me slowly. I know that she enjoys it. She takes her time; oh, I love how she makes it last longer than it should be, artificially, to make me lust her even more. And she is very, VERY successful in doing that. The distance is long. She is far away, farther than I thought she was, and that is why it takes even longer. The show continues and she is doing great, she wants to be great, that’s why. She always gets what she wants, and now, she wants me, and even more importantly—she wants me to want her. I’m shivering all over my body. I know it’s the shiver of excitement, sexual excitement that I’ve already experienced, during these few seconds, and the excitement of what is coming, what I will get in a few moments, maybe seconds. I want to reach for her, but my hands are tied. My smile is cynical and brutal, the pain reminds me of that, but I’m glad. She did this on purpose. It is her show, her night. I’m hers. So if she wishes me to be tied down, I’ll take it. With a gentle move of her slim hand, she takes off her shirt, the buttons were probably already undone, but I couldn’t focus enough to see that. Nevertheless, I can see her body now and, believe me, she is pure perfection I CANNOT FIND FUCKING WORDS TO DESCRIBE HER! She’s just too much. There is no other word, except perfection. I could try to differentiate adjectives in an attempt to describe her, but why would I? No word can say anything more about her other than perfection. She is nothing else but perfection. God, I love her. I’m taking another look. I see her face, her smile; unfortunately, I can’t see her eyes, concealed by dancing shadows. But I see her neck, her shoulders—all perfect. It is this kind of beauty, this kind of love, where you prefer to look at her shoulders, rather than the breasts or asses of other women, even the really beautiful ones, because you find YOUR and HER beauty in every single piece of her body, even in the places you don’t seek it and miss in other people, so she becomes OUR beauty, because of your love towards her… What the fuck am I talking about; I don’t even know, everything is so unclear and doesn’t matter at all when I look at her. When her knee touches the edge of the bed, I get this thought. Why would such a woman, beautiful, attractive, and sexy, want such a loser that I am? How did I get on with her? What does she see in me? A woman, who could have any guy she wants, with a perfect body and this charming smile. I think about it just for a second, until she bends over me. I can’t stand her so close but still not within my grasp. I try to kiss her, but she punches me in the chest, to lay me back down. I can’t breathe, but I don’t even want to or need to; when she starts to move her hips and touch her breasts, gently and mysteriously. She looks deeply into my eyes, I know it, but I can’t fucking see it, because of the bending light, those shadows, which are denying me the ultimate beauty of her eyes. And so, in this darkness, I look at the most impressive female body, in black, lace panties only; legs, tits, and shoulders so perfect, but all I want is to look in her eyes. What is the lust of the body, when you can’t satisfy lusts of your soul, and the soul always wants more—and it wants the untouchable, the concealed. Why can’t I speak? I want to tell her that I love her. Although she knows it, I still want to SAY IT OUT LOUD, WHY CAN’T I!? She makes her move rapidly. I feel her lips on my chest, feel her body all over mine. I’m burning; I feel like I’m just going to embarrass myself and blow up before we even get started. She goes higher with these kisses. She says: “I love you.” This is an absolute absurdity. I’ve never felt better and this bliss that I could never dream of… Well, I could. Thank you, alarm clock; thank you so fucking much… 26

The WASP | Volume II | Spring 2017

Mateusz Boczkiewicz Interested in human emotions and relations. Greedy for knowledge of everything around us. Constantly pushing himself forward. Besides that sublime stuff: animal fancier, beginning writer, art amateur, TV series maniac, fit life and health enthusiast, but also a cookie lover. The WASP | Volume II | Spring 2017

The Case of a Light at the End of the Tunnel San Admisura Una città sotto la città. Un labirinto composto da più di un cento di camere e tunnel sotto il centro della città.

San Admisura A city under the city. An underground labyrinth composed of more than a hundred interconnected chambers and tunnels under the town center. Guided tours: English: every day at 3 p.m. Italian: noon

Visite guidate: Italiano: ogni giorno alle ore 12 Inglese: h 15

They were taking a photo with a brick. A brick! Seriously? And it was just an ordinary brick, one of hundreds that were a part of the tunnel. Except this brick’s color was a little different from the other ones, because of the huge number of fingers that had touched it. Why did so many people make a pilgrimage to this place? If you’re asking this question, you haven’t watched McIntosh. It was a trendy TV series about the titular British spy spying all over the world with his faithful (although mostly useless) friend, Reinette. Not that I’ve watched it. But I’ve… heard about it. So, I’ve heard that in one of the episodes McIntosh magically ended up in this tunnel and pushed the brick, which opened a very secret door to the villain’s hiding place. And now, many people (though mostly women aged 16 to 25) come to this place and touch the brick that has been touched by the lead actor. Weirdos. I never understood it; didn’t they notice that some people were making a lot of money off their “love?” And that all of it was just about buying stuff (“special” editions of DVDs, tickets to this place, probably some expensive meet-and-greets at fan conventions)? Anyway, here I was, stuck with them on a guided tour. The guide was taking a picture of all fifteen girls, touching the brick at the same time. Finally they succeeded and then the guide started to fulfill his real duty, which was to tell, in an overexcited tone, a boring story about the history of the place. I stopped listening the moment he said something about a dragon. Instead, I moved slowly towards the next chamber, trying to be as inconspicuous as I could. He noticed me and yelled for me to wait, because nobody could go there without supervision, as we could get lost in the labyrinth. So, as he was droning on and on, I viewed all the photos on the walls (it was an exhibition about the city), then I examined the chamber (around three by twenty meters, two and a half meters high), and then I pulled out my phone. As I was standing near the chamber’s exit, a few other girls came to see the photos on the walls, while the guide and the rest of the fan club were still standing near the entrance. I pushed my back against the empty doorway. Then I heard the guide’s voice once more. “Stay where you are!” he yelled. And he turned to the fan club and said, “One last thing…” And then BOOM. Suddenly the middle of the chamber collapsed with a loud thumping sound and we became surrounded by darkness. As a true Millennial, the first thing I realized was that I didn’t have my phone. I crouched down and started to feel around the floor with my hands. I found it after a few nervous seconds. I pushed the button, but it wouldn’t turn on. Then I touched the screen and realized that it was severely broken. Click-click. Then I noticed a few voices surrounding me. One of them was sobbing, another one was cursing, a squeaky voice was repeating like a mantra, “This is just a dream, this is just a dream…” while a warm voice shouted, “Can you hear us?!” As nobody answered, it became quite clear that our way back was blocked and that we were separated from the rest of the group. Something had to be done. Click-click. I collected myself and yelled: “Shut up everyone! I’m going to rescue us all! I’m an architect!” *** 28

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“You’re an architect, eh?” the cursing one said. “Are you, like, the architect of this place?” “No,” I said. “But I had to learn the plan of this place by heart. History of architecture class. So I know where the other exit is and I’m going to take us there.” I paused. “Anyway, it would be nice to have some light. Do you have a mobile phone?” “Yes we do!” said the squeaky one. “No, we don’t. Cortland had the phone, but she’s not here. Gosh, I hope she’s okay…” said the warm voice. “The phone? Don’t you have another one?” I asked. “No, we don’t use phones. In episode five, season one, McIntosh said to Reinette, quote, “Phones are not cool,” so we don’t use them. We only had one to take the photo. Don’t you have one?” “Mine’s broken,” I said. Click-click. “Okay,” I said. “We don’t need a phone. We don’t need light. I know the way.” So we started moving. There were five of us: me, the warm voice, the squeaky voice, the cursing one, and the sobbing one. (They said what their names were, but I forgot them that very moment.) The warm one volunteered to lead the way, with her arms in front of her, in order not to walk into a wall. I was right behind her, telling her directions as well as I could remember them. The squeaky one (who behaved as if getting stuck there had always been a part of the itinerary) had to hold the sobbing one (who wasn’t sobbing anymore, but she also didn’t talk) because the latter didn’t want to go. The cursing one was swearing at the back. After a while in the dark, my senses became heightened. I felt the cool air on my face, I sensed the smell of the ground. And I started to notice how the echo of our steps changed in different shapes of chambers. “So,” the warm voice said casually some time later, “what do you think caused the destruction of the construction?” “I don’t know,” I answered. “But you’re an architect. Haven’t you learned about this stuff at university?” “No, not really.” “So what did you learn about?” the cursing one asked. “Well, we learned how to memorize plans and sections of old buildings… And how to get criticized daily. But, to be fair, I wasn’t the best student. In fact, I barely passed…” “You barely passed and you’re saying you’re good enough to rescue us,” the cursing one grunted. “Yes,” I said. “Yes, I am. The fact that I’ve taken the history class twice and studied for the exam four times means that I’ve memorized the plan of this place four times better than those who had passed the first time. Anyway, let’s change the subject. McIntosh. Such a great series…” Click-click. *** An hour or so later we realized something was wrong. I told the warm voice to go straight, but she said: “There’s no doorway here. Just a wall.” “Are you sure?” the squeaky voice asked. “If she says there’s a door here, there has to be a door here,” she squeaked. There was a soft thumping sound and an “Ouch!” from the cursing one. She must have kicked the wall. “I mean, maybe I’m wrong. I’ll look for it, maybe it is somewhere near…” The warm one said. The sobbing one started crying again. Click-click. And then it clicked for me; they were behaving as if they were going through the five stages of grief. Now, if you don’t know what that is, it’s a theory in psychology, which says that after something bad happens, you go through five stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. The squeaky one was Denial—she didn’t accept that something bad had happened. The cursing one was Anger, expressing negative emotions even though it wasn’t productive. The warm

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one was Bargaining—she believed that if she made an effort, everything would be alright. The sobbing one was Depression—she just cried and/or didn’t care. It was so odd that I thought that it had to be a dream. I must have been reading a book about psychology and fallen asleep. I tried opening my eyes in the real world. It didn’t work. Then I thought, why the hell had I come here?! Such a stupid idea to get out of the house and expose myself to danger. Anyway, maybe I deserved it. Was I such a bad person? Too sarcastic? Too critical? Too negative? Maybe if I behaved nicely from now on, we would get out of this place? And then I thought, whatever. I didn’t care. My life wasn’t so great anyway. But then I realized that it was egoistic to think that these people were just figments of my imagination. Maybe I was a stage of grief too. Maybe I was Acceptance? It kind of made sense. Click-click. “Oh, so that’s why I didn’t pass the exam the first time,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “I was quite sure there was a door here, but there isn’t.” Depression started sobbing again. “Thankfully,” I said, “we also had to memorize the cross section of this place. So I know a way around. We only have to go back four chambers, then turn left, and go down the stairs. Let’s go.”

*** After some time of walking, Bargaining asked: “Hey, what was that clicking sound?” “What sound?” “Click-click. I’ve heard it a few times.” “This?” I asked. Click-click. “Mhm,” she said. “It’s my medicine. I take these pills for my anxiety disorder.” “Oh, ok…” She went quiet. ***

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Finally, we reached the place where the exit was supposed to be. “I feel something,” Bargaining said. “It’s a door! A steel door! Yes!” she cried. “There’s a door handle,” she said, “but it doesn’t work. Wait a minute…” We waited. “There’s something else here… It’s some kind of a lock, I think. It has twelve buttons with engraved digits.” “Are you sure it’s a lock?” Denial mumbled. “Who closes a public facility with a lock that opens only from the inside?! We’re going to die here, trying out combinations that we can’t even see!” Anger yelled. “Maybe there’s another way,” Bargaining said. “Is there another exit from this place?” There wasn’t. I felt my heart beating. Click-click. We were going to get out of here safely, that was the plan. I’d had control. The door had to be open. It had to be. But it wasn’t. Click-click. Click-click. I started sweating. How come I hadn’t realized it was so hot there? Too little oxygen. I felt uneasy. I reached for a wall and leant against it. But it wasn’t enough. I had to lie on the ground. Click-click. Click-click. Click-click. “Wait, what’s that?” Bargaining said. “Nothing…” I whispered from the ground. “It’s just an anxiety attack, it will pass,” Bargaining said and kneeled next to me. “How can I help you?” Others also kneeled beside me. There was a long silence. “I think she’s dead,” Depression said. “She’s not breathing.” “Wait—“ Bargaining said. “I found something. A telephone. It was in her pocket.” Suddenly the place was illuminated by the light from the phone screen. “She had a working telephone the whole time and she didn’t say anything?!” Anger reproached. “It only has 15% of battery, so maybe it didn’t work when she checked, but by now it has been charged,” Denial said. “You know, like when a battery is dead in a cold place, but it starts working when you get to a warmer one?” “Whatever. What do we do now?” Anger asked. “We direct the light onto the door,” Bargaining said. She stood up and brought the light to the lock. It was indeed closed. But next to it there was a small poster that said “Emergency exit. To open the door, use the code 8316.” And so they did.

Małgorzata Dudo ASC overstayer. Trivia collector. Author of many unfunny jokes.

The WASP | Volume II | Spring 2017

POETRY

The WASP | Volume II | Spring 2017

Love Spell On one eerie night, a young man entered a bar, Cried 'oh how full of sorrow for me the days are’ Then came a bartender proposing a potion, A taste believed to fill the soul with emotion, 'Here I may have something to lift your rending ache, A vibrant drink called “love” for your pain to forsake’ He passed a mystic glass with a smirk on his face, Knowing secretly what was about to take place, The gentleman inquired for how much he owed As this heavenly liquid he instantly loved, 'Nothing' the reply was 'This one’s always for free, But of what now I tell you, beware you should be, Keeping the glass gently, don’t you hurry to drink, For this nectar is more than what they always think, Everyone craves it for the sweetness of honey, It makes their piteous thoughts so bright and so sunny, Yet once the sugar taste comes down your throat, A flaring, salty punch your tongue will tote, Bitter and sour the spirit will turn, It’s all the components making you burn: To give you shivers - a tall pile of ice, A cold, rigid soul will be a surprise, Sweet jealousy juice in viciously red, To miserable pieces your heart will shred, Zest of trembling fear for making you sweat, So all the nightmares you’ll never forget, Lastly on top – a bit of sparkling pain, This cocktail will be the source of your bane’ 'This nonsense,' thought the man, 'I don’t believe, Love will wipe away my persisting grief’ And so he devoured the drink at once, With the torment it caused - he stood no chance, Yet not long have passed when his mouth came sore, In stammering voice he uttered 'one more!'

The WASP | Volume II | Spring 2017

Marta Anchim Completely mental about cooking, but if she ever leaves the kitchen, she spends time watching movies, reading Agatha Christie novels, and complaining about life. Works in fashion industry and tries not to feel guilty about eating pizza so often.

Manna I am not poor so how dare I ask for the bread just to feel other hand touching my fingers with merciful alms surely, when god created man he did not think to make us starve for love are we privileged chosen ones or hungry kind which cannot eat manna's pure grain too feeble to appease our greed

Teresa Bakalarska A human, a crisp, a professional whiner. Writes everything from poetry through prose to god–awful rap lyrics. Thinks that Buffy The Vampire Slayer is the greatest achievement of humanity. The WASP | Volume II | Spring 2017

Touch “Do you like it? You love it. You want it.” Take what you want I don’t care My mind takes me higher Where I am what I am I am not what you see It’s just a senseless shell So you can grab me anywhere But you won’t reach me there.

Paulina Frelek Graphic designer, too lazy for existence. Addicted to coffee, TV shows, games, and chicken nuggets. A proud mom of two cats. 36

The WASP | Volume II | Spring 2017

Contributors

The WASP | Volume II | Spring 2017

Małgorzata Dudo ASC overstayer. Trivia collector. Author of many unfunny jokes.

Nadia Błaszczyk Her biggest passion is travelling, so she tries to travel as much as possible. She hates to sit in one place for too long so in her spare time she plans new trips and explores new places (even if they are just around the corner). Addicted to drinking tea, even in summer. Her favorite piece of clothing is a smile. Paulina Frelek Graphic designer, too lazy for existence. Addicted to coffee, TV shows, games, and chicken nuggets. A proud mom of two cats. 38

The WASP | Volume II | Spring 2017

Natalia Ogórek Singing is her biggest passion, but she does not connect her future with it. Lover of TV series and Marvel. 70% funny, 50% weird, 100% organized. Joanna Nędzyńska Graduated with a distinction from the ASC this June. Currently employed at an international law firm. But she has not said “goodbye” to studying yet. Right now she is in the middle of one-year postgraduate studies in political science. In her free time, Joanna likes to play guitar, sing or… read Harry Potter.

Ada Rachfalska Music enthusiast—addicted to live shows, mostly travels to see her favorite acts. Loves to take pictures with analog cameras. Engaged in social justice matters. An economist-to-be-turnedhumanist, she is finishing her bachelor's at OSA and figuring out how to stay in the academic circle. Always has her third eye open. Lilla Orly BA student at the ASC who finds catharsis in drumming. Dabbles in music production when not scribbling nonsense furiously into notebooks, on pavement or walls… any surface where writing is possible.

Marta Rapacka First year BA student. Apart from being utterly in love with TV series, she loves spending her free time discovering mysteries of Adobe Photoshop. Coerced into accepting the new goal of her existence, namely being The Very First Caricaturist of The Wasp – an honorable title she proudly bears and exploits (see: above and below). Adam Radomski “If I had eight hours to chop down a tree, I’d spend six hours sharpening my axe” – Abraham Lincoln.

Kamila Maria Wyszyńska Studies Graphic Arts at the Academy of Fine Arts in Warsaw. American Studies is her second faculty. Loves to travel. Wants to live and create across the world. The WASP | Volume II | Spring 2017

The WASP | Volume II | Spring 2017