three coffee day

This morning I sipped latté in a Newtown side street with Jessie. Neither of us could figure out today's 9-letter word.

I rode the bus past uni, got off in Randwick, got another coffee at Bar Coluzzi. This time espresso, with a muffin, while I continued reading Foucault's The Use of Pleasure. I'm taking my supervisor's advise and burying myself in a key text, so reading about the concept of enkrateia (self-mastery) in Greek antiquity. I make notes in purple ink, from a chewed pen that somehow fell into my possession.

I walk to uni and type up my notes, redrafting my sketchy beginnings of chapter two. I feel like things are happening. Construction is beginning. It's nice.

I chat with my study neighbour about being a disciplined reader, my instructions to stop slutting my way through secondary texts. She can relate to the joys (and frustrations) of losing yourself in multiple theories.

But now it's Foucault. All week. And probably next week too.

I meet with Paris (not his real name). He says he may have some research work for me. Just a little. I'm not keen on the project. However, I'm keen on him. So I have an urge to say yes. It's only a small role after all. And I could listen to his accent for days. We come from different academic pages though, and I feel that I shouldn't like him. A stupid fantasy tied to my dreams of that place. He kisses me hello and buys me coffee. He orders two soy lattés

Me: Do you have soy?
He: No, but I thought I would try it.

And so my crush remains.

On the way home I read from Jessie's copy of Strange Museums, by Fiona McGregor. I'm falling into the text with ease. It's a beautiful glide through stories from Poland - a Poland of her travels, and a Poland of her now (her memories, connections, and ongoing research). This is her Poland, and doesn't try to be anyone else's. But it's a place I can connect with nonetheless. It seems to be about violence, in a broad sense, both historical and personal. I got off the bus and bought my own copy. The woman in the bookshop scanned it, said it looked interesting, smiled and made eye contact, said goodbye.

The man in the next shop didn't know what I meant when I asked for the Bruce La Bruce box set in the window. He went and looked, recognised that it was kept behind the counter, emphatically said 'Bruce La Bruce!', and found me a copy. He told me that he'd now learnt something new today. He congratulated me on not needing a bag, gave a pleasant goodbye.

Shopkeepers are my friends today. Perhaps I'm giving off nice vibes.