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Who the Fuck Is Chet Chomsky?
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Ask Casey: A New Advice Column
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EXPLORE THE ARCHIVE: “Home Is a Hard Drive in My Brain” by Nuala Sanchez, “A DEBT” BY JAKE HARGROVE
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September 1987
There, at a local football match, their eyes met.
Vira, 23, narrow hazel eyes, seated in the stands. Doesn't know who she’s cheering for, but she’s having fun.
Jan, 30, seated on the bench under the stands. A paramedic for the Czechoslovak Sports Association of the Deaf. He hasn't opened his brown case of bandages yet, and the match is about to end—but it’s worth waiting, it’s worth it, since the beer is covered by the association.
The referee raises both hands, waving them furiously from left to right, using his whole body, because nobody would hear a whistle.
Vlado, a forward, runs up to Jan, his face red, his chest heaving. He points to the right side of the small, double-tiered stand. The girls turn around. He does it as if he thinks they won’t see him—but they do, of course they do. The stands are designed to provide a good view.
He says, “Shall we invite them?” and they see it—of course, they see it. The field isn’t so big that they wouldn’t notice the hands of a man standing just a few meters away.
May 1989
Vira asks the mother whether she should stay. She actually wants to stay. She doesn’t want to move to Slovakia. She doesn’t know the language, and it certainly won’t be easy to learn it.
The mother tells her, “Just go. Nothing good is waiting for you here.”
And so Vira packs and leaves on the night train from Lviv to Košice.
November 1989
Nobody hears the keys jingling, but the mother was right.
February 2022
Yes, the mother was right.
. . .
1:46 AM
Everything’s so unclear.
A red light shines down my face.
My personal night mode—I feel anxious, I feel sick.
I didn't use to suffer from anxiety that much before, but now, mostly in the middle of the night, I wake up feeling a violent heat under the bed sheets. I open my eyes, look into the darkness. I hear only silence, the creaking of the slats. Oh, if someone could breathe next to me…
I'm afraid of waking up the next morning.
I'm afraid of paper dragons that can suddenly burst into flames and burn all the dreams of a better world—amputated legs, the sound of explosions, smouldering flesh...
“Boys don't cry,” but if they do, then with a prayer on their lips and a wish for a peaceful morning.
“Good things take time,” but if not, then let’s symbolically set the constitution on fire, just like that, because we can, because it’s easy to forget about history after watching an online video titled “The New World Order Theory.” I’m afraid, but analyzing an angry world in therapy is a waste of time.
2:23 AM
Mid-20s…
You’re mostly concerned about centimeters of your waistline.
Your friends already have kids.
I mean, at this age, it’s probably natural. When—if not now. The body is mature and ready, flexible, able to handle a lot. I guess I’m just not that gradual.
I have a panic fear of loneliness, but I still believe in love, even though I’ve just broken up.
Just stop posting your love life on Instagram.
2:29 AM
They told me they like my texts.
They kept repeating: “Write more, really, you have talent, we'll support you.”
But firstly: about what!? Secondly: if it wasn't so hard to fall asleep... And thirdly: not everyone who writes has a perverse need to attract attention.
I’d rather take a first aid course, I really would. Right now, I don’t see any greater meaning in anything. The only good thing is the “European Union Citizenship” and the possibility of escaping wherever necessary.
2:51 AM
When they taught us “talking is important,” they definitely didn’t mean comments under a post.
I mean, I just don’t believe it’s possible to change someone’s mind without love.
For example, when I think about it from my own perspective, how can I change my mind because of someone who hates me… points a finger at me? You know what I mean?!
The Left needs more love, that’s all.
But I don’t want to preach. I understand it’s hard to love someone who convinces you that you’re wrong. But again, you know, they’re also afraid. When they go to sleep, they feel the same as you. They’re afraid. Just like you.
Sure, you’re afraid of something completely different—and that’s where the conflict begins and ends. But both sides are afraid. That’s why we need a loving vocabulary to promote loving values. Something you can’t disagree with. Something impossible to unhear.
. . .
January 1999
The mother gave birth to her during the snowstorm.
May 2020
“Mom, should I come back? Do you need me close to you?”
“No. Just go. Nothing good is waiting for you here.”
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Viktória Citráková is an artist and writer working at the intersection of literature and visual art, drawing on intimate, autobiographical material often framed within broader socio-political contexts. Slovak-born, she is currently based in Prague.
SUBMIT YOUR LIT ︎︎︎
EXPLORE THE ARCHIVE: “Home Is a Hard Drive in My Brain” by Nuala Sanchez, “A DEBT” BY JAKE HARGROVE
FOCUSING ON THE EMERGING, UNTRADITIONAL, AND INDEPENDENT.
NOW SHOWING:
“She’s so, so, so, so” by VIKTORIA CITRAKOVA
All images courtesy of the author.
September 1987
There, at a local football match, their eyes met.
Vira, 23, narrow hazel eyes, seated in the stands. Doesn't know who she’s cheering for, but she’s having fun.
Jan, 30, seated on the bench under the stands. A paramedic for the Czechoslovak Sports Association of the Deaf. He hasn't opened his brown case of bandages yet, and the match is about to end—but it’s worth waiting, it’s worth it, since the beer is covered by the association.
The referee raises both hands, waving them furiously from left to right, using his whole body, because nobody would hear a whistle.
Vlado, a forward, runs up to Jan, his face red, his chest heaving. He points to the right side of the small, double-tiered stand. The girls turn around. He does it as if he thinks they won’t see him—but they do, of course they do. The stands are designed to provide a good view.
He says, “Shall we invite them?” and they see it—of course, they see it. The field isn’t so big that they wouldn’t notice the hands of a man standing just a few meters away.
May 1989
Vira asks the mother whether she should stay. She actually wants to stay. She doesn’t want to move to Slovakia. She doesn’t know the language, and it certainly won’t be easy to learn it.
The mother tells her, “Just go. Nothing good is waiting for you here.”
And so Vira packs and leaves on the night train from Lviv to Košice.
November 1989
Nobody hears the keys jingling, but the mother was right.
February 2022
Yes, the mother was right.
. . .
1:46 AM
Everything’s so unclear.
A red light shines down my face.
My personal night mode—I feel anxious, I feel sick.
I didn't use to suffer from anxiety that much before, but now, mostly in the middle of the night, I wake up feeling a violent heat under the bed sheets. I open my eyes, look into the darkness. I hear only silence, the creaking of the slats. Oh, if someone could breathe next to me…
I'm afraid of waking up the next morning.
I'm afraid of paper dragons that can suddenly burst into flames and burn all the dreams of a better world—amputated legs, the sound of explosions, smouldering flesh...
“Boys don't cry,” but if they do, then with a prayer on their lips and a wish for a peaceful morning.
“Good things take time,” but if not, then let’s symbolically set the constitution on fire, just like that, because we can, because it’s easy to forget about history after watching an online video titled “The New World Order Theory.” I’m afraid, but analyzing an angry world in therapy is a waste of time.
2:23 AM
Mid-20s…
You’re mostly concerned about centimeters of your waistline.
Your friends already have kids.
I mean, at this age, it’s probably natural. When—if not now. The body is mature and ready, flexible, able to handle a lot. I guess I’m just not that gradual.
I have a panic fear of loneliness, but I still believe in love, even though I’ve just broken up.
Just stop posting your love life on Instagram.
2:29 AM
They told me they like my texts.
They kept repeating: “Write more, really, you have talent, we'll support you.”
But firstly: about what!? Secondly: if it wasn't so hard to fall asleep... And thirdly: not everyone who writes has a perverse need to attract attention.
I’d rather take a first aid course, I really would. Right now, I don’t see any greater meaning in anything. The only good thing is the “European Union Citizenship” and the possibility of escaping wherever necessary.
2:51 AM
When they taught us “talking is important,” they definitely didn’t mean comments under a post.
I mean, I just don’t believe it’s possible to change someone’s mind without love.
For example, when I think about it from my own perspective, how can I change my mind because of someone who hates me… points a finger at me? You know what I mean?!
The Left needs more love, that’s all.
But I don’t want to preach. I understand it’s hard to love someone who convinces you that you’re wrong. But again, you know, they’re also afraid. When they go to sleep, they feel the same as you. They’re afraid. Just like you.
Sure, you’re afraid of something completely different—and that’s where the conflict begins and ends. But both sides are afraid. That’s why we need a loving vocabulary to promote loving values. Something you can’t disagree with. Something impossible to unhear.
. . .
January 1999
The mother gave birth to her during the snowstorm.
May 2020
“Mom, should I come back? Do you need me close to you?”
“No. Just go. Nothing good is waiting for you here.”
Viktória Citráková is an artist and writer working at the intersection of literature and visual art, drawing on intimate, autobiographical material often framed within broader socio-political contexts. Slovak-born, she is currently based in Prague.