Field Season Two: September–October 2025

October 9, 2026

I cannot believe it but I am going to spend the next few minutes typing out a very limited, special Dispatch even though all I want to do is leave this infernal Coffee Sheep. I can’t tell if the waitresses are exasperated by my presence or if they feel sorry for this guy who wears an orange jacket and seems to spend an inordinate period of time here; although I am starting to see the other regulars: there’s I think an Indian or perhaps Goan guy who visits probably more than me, every night he’s accompanied with his tennis rackets and cup of black coffee and he chats on the phone in maybe Urdu and Portuguese; he says “exactly” a lot. If he’s not talking, he’s texting. I am fascinated by him because obviously he has a stringent routine and, I presume, no friends in Trenčín. This leads me to the conclusion that he must be some kind of athlete. Actually, I will say former athlete because he has a little paunch; a bit too overweight to be any serious threat on the court. However, maybe he is an absolute beast off the court! Yes, I am calling the pot black, I recognize my own fallibilities. Maybe he’s a coach, training some rich kids? There’s just something that feels… temporary. I remember him from May, except instead of Coffee Sheep he frequented Paddock, just down the way from here. Same routine: drink, tennis bag, phone, “exactly.”

Then there’s another woman who I see at Coffee Sheep and I have seen her on the street almost everyday since I’ve here. I recognize the face: cat’s eye glasses, dark hair, small nose, like Tinkerbell, except by the time I recall her face, she is already a few places beyond me; I spin around and want shout — I see you everyday I know who you are! But I don’t. Next time, I rue, next time… but of course I can never remember.

Lately, there have been three guys tucking into a corner table in the window ordering beers. They are like matryoshka dolls. There’s a big guy with a beard who could easily swallow up the other two, with the final doll looking a tiny little elven man whose ears look like they could cut flesh.

There’s a new waitress who started here and at first I found her charming but now I don’t. Maybe it’s the bosses daughter, I don’t know, but I always slink down in my seat and pray that the other waitress will take my order. But it’s always the new one. She makes me think she might have studied in the Netherlands because at times it’s like she’s a champion of the Dutch Serving Awards, which is basically tossing solid mugs at your forehead with perfect target. I regret ordering from her.

Oh. My. God. The three guys… I think they’re a… throuplle!!!! Matryoshka Big just kissed Matryoshka One! And Matryoshka One is holding Matryoshka Two’s hand! This is amazing; I never would’ve anticipated that. Also, while Slovakia is not exactly Saudi Arabia, there are certain limitations, especially with the current government, with LGBTQ+ rights, so to be so bold and kiss in the middle of a cafe is, to me, an astonishing move.

Tennis man didn’t notice. He’s chatting on his phone — exactly.

Over at the bar area, my not-favourite dropped a glass and it shattered. She hollered, in English, “Oh Shit!” It disturbed the cozy ambience for our throuple, who have now gone back to platonic drinking.

But I got a little lost.

I was just going to say that last week I went to the exhibition at FOR MAAT of an artist named Filip Bielak, whose work I kind of dug; while not everything was to my taste, there were a few pieces there that I quite admired. I learned that he is a set designer at the Bratislava theatre company, which I imagine is just an amazing place to be. I picture people working there for forty plus years, weird fiefdoms that no management could ever curtail, utter kingdoms of styrofoam modelling or plank chipping or whatever. A cabal of seniority that will never crack, reminding me of the police officers (well, traffic cops, the worst) in Ukraine who used to “pass down” the famous baton that would be used to flag down drivers and “ticket” them but that could miraculously be paid on the spot in cash and then you’re good to go. A dynasty of set design… anyway, Filip works there, and his work is about the architectural fringes of Bratislava, the weird and wonderful.

There was one sculpture in particular that, frankly, I lust after. It’s red plexiglass of some ČSSR-era building, picture say a chemistry department at the university or something or a medical centre in the suburbs. It’s not big, but still sizeable. I can hold it in my hands, I can fit in my house (I have a perfect spot), but still has sone heft to it that screams ‘object’ in all the good ways, I love it. This is so rare for me. In general I appreciate art, but I’ve never really wanted to buy something. What’s this compulsion with this particular sculpture? I’m not even sure he made it, I think he claimed it out of Janek’s back shed without anyone noticing and placed it in the middle of a concrete exhibition space. But Duchamp also turned a urinal upside down, so there’s that.

I am sure a lot has to do with being here in Trenčín which has just absolutely supercharged my architecture background and interest, clarifying my utter love for all things kind of dismal and secondary. To some degree it is manifesting into semi-translucency everything I am thinking about now: its not permanent, it’s of an old, castaway building, it was exhibited in an abandoned factory, the strange history of the Bratislava theatre set designers has me dreaming each night of possible scenarios for death and mayhem amidst themselves, it has volume but not really, and, well, perhaps its a marker of my time here.

Anyway, I sent Filip a message. Would you be interested in selling that plastic building?

No answer.

Tried again: no answer.

The throuple are leaving. Bad waitress is snarling at me. It’s time to go, exactly.