I don't think the metaphor 'dancing between the eggs' is used often. Neither I use it, one of the reason being its evocative power. Ever since, I imagined an Odette, tulle skirt and white pointe shoes (you have to pay extra $10 for white at Gaynor Minden, peach is the default colour), finding her difficult way between white eggs, and somehow managing not to break any.
The research grants have to be spent. Entirely, to the last cent and fragment of a drilled cowrie shell. I asked what would happen if some money was left and the reply was The research grant has to be spent in its entirety or else there would be troubles. What troubles, I insisted, and was explained that unimaginably difficult troubles and that the research grant has to be spent all, no exceptions.
If I weren't an arsehole, I'd ask several questions about the rules earlier and I'd find more expensive lodging because now, in order to avoid Apocalypse, I have to spend around 10 000 SEK (around a thousand euros) on things like photocopying and office supplies and travelling. I'm leaving on Friday.
I gave it a massive bit of thinking and, well, it cannot be helped. Massive amount of photocopying, everybody will get Swedish notebooks and pencils for Christmas and I might make a hasty trip to somewhere like Uppsala because being aware of the upcoming possibility of the world ending, I just have to work on it hard.
Nope, can't be books. That would make the things much easier but... nope.
Next time: Whines and/or late Comnenian frescoes at Gotland, depending on my mood.
Monday, 26 October 2009
Friday, 23 October 2009
My inner anarchist
A few days ago, when I was hanging around in the lobby reading the internets, a late arriving girl materialized herself, I showed her the envelope with her name the reception guy left at the reception desk, we chatted a while and, well, since having a bit of company is never a bad idea, we hung around the town next day.
I was in Stockholm two years ago and I happened to see the changing of the royal guards. One bunch of soldiers arrived, another arrived, the leading ones said a few words ("Everything okay?" "Everything okay!" and both bunches left, one off-duty, one to take their positions. Passing the flag occured and maybe there was some fanfare. Apparently, this spectacle became popular so they improved it, throwing in a marching band and some new, exciting choreography. I noticed the marching band going around the Royal Castle on Sunday when I was hanging around the centre but it was Sunday and my first, last and only thought was that maybe some local garrison is keeping the citizens in a friendly mood, thus providing a Sunday promenade concert.
Nope.
So, I was wandering around with K. and we happened to the Royal Castle around midday so I thought it a good idea to go there and watch. The bunch of soldiers that was finishing their shift assembled and looked decorative. To my utmost surprise, some army guy stepped out with a paper, announcing into the loudspeakers: "Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm Captain Mikael Larsson (1) welcome to the changing of the Royal Guard, blah, blah, blah, and the Royal Castle is open to the public from twelve to three, as is the Royal Souvenir shop, where you can buy souvenirs from the Royal Castle." I started to laugh. I couldn't help recalling the Dontgonearthe Castle (2) where you could stay overnight, get a tasty meal and tasteful souvenirs, too.
The whole army messing around took an hour, including a few pieces played by the marching band for the pleasure of the tourists so it probably counts also as culture.
Lately, I've been thinking what it is like, to live in a monarchy. Surely, a monarch is trained from childhood to shake hands of fellow potentates in the most socially acceptable way, to get the right attire for the right occasions, to sit for being portrayed on postal stamps (if someone uses them) better than any elected official ever may be. After all, even the most degenerate nobleman manages a language or two and passable table manners with years of care and tutoring. Since in the modern democracies, the head of the state is important mainly for performing various ritual dances, good table manners and using the right fork for the right course are enough; maybe anything else even stands in the way (in places where the president, Commander-in-Chief or Supreme Priest need to sign government documents, it is obviously advisable to teach them how to write their own name). With elected officials, you never know. Maybe they can eat only sandwiches and the concept of silverware is beyond them, they are likely to have hidden agenda and they are rather hard to behead or dethrone otherwise when they are raving mad. Also, bare head looks much worse on stamps than a crowned one.
Of course that I have some vague idea about the functions of the state. After the last few years' political mess, when things worked best in those long months after the general election when there was no goverment, or in days of temporary officials in place of ministers after the government was deposed, it seems to me that the importance of state in general may be a bit overrated. And with the president close to raving mad... Ick.
I'd better go and read something funny.
Added on Saturday, whatsthedate.
I bought a horse-shaped cookie cutter, talked to K. about our glorious traditions of cookies and decorated gingerbread and since K. was to meet W. at the royal castle after that army thing, we went there. We were a bit early so we had a chance to watch the marching band of Royal Navy. The glorious traditions of decorated gingerbread include decorated gingerbread soldier. Nothing said.
I didn't check whether in the Royal Gift Shop, one could get cookie cutters shaped like Princess Victoria but I'll be around for a few more days.
---------------------------
(1) Name obviously invented and if I got it right, it's by mistake.
(2) Terry Pratchett reference again, what would you expect? Check Carpe jugulum for more.
I was in Stockholm two years ago and I happened to see the changing of the royal guards. One bunch of soldiers arrived, another arrived, the leading ones said a few words ("Everything okay?" "Everything okay!" and both bunches left, one off-duty, one to take their positions. Passing the flag occured and maybe there was some fanfare. Apparently, this spectacle became popular so they improved it, throwing in a marching band and some new, exciting choreography. I noticed the marching band going around the Royal Castle on Sunday when I was hanging around the centre but it was Sunday and my first, last and only thought was that maybe some local garrison is keeping the citizens in a friendly mood, thus providing a Sunday promenade concert.
Nope.
So, I was wandering around with K. and we happened to the Royal Castle around midday so I thought it a good idea to go there and watch. The bunch of soldiers that was finishing their shift assembled and looked decorative. To my utmost surprise, some army guy stepped out with a paper, announcing into the loudspeakers: "Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm Captain Mikael Larsson (1) welcome to the changing of the Royal Guard, blah, blah, blah, and the Royal Castle is open to the public from twelve to three, as is the Royal Souvenir shop, where you can buy souvenirs from the Royal Castle." I started to laugh. I couldn't help recalling the Dontgonearthe Castle (2) where you could stay overnight, get a tasty meal and tasteful souvenirs, too.
The whole army messing around took an hour, including a few pieces played by the marching band for the pleasure of the tourists so it probably counts also as culture.
Lately, I've been thinking what it is like, to live in a monarchy. Surely, a monarch is trained from childhood to shake hands of fellow potentates in the most socially acceptable way, to get the right attire for the right occasions, to sit for being portrayed on postal stamps (if someone uses them) better than any elected official ever may be. After all, even the most degenerate nobleman manages a language or two and passable table manners with years of care and tutoring. Since in the modern democracies, the head of the state is important mainly for performing various ritual dances, good table manners and using the right fork for the right course are enough; maybe anything else even stands in the way (in places where the president, Commander-in-Chief or Supreme Priest need to sign government documents, it is obviously advisable to teach them how to write their own name). With elected officials, you never know. Maybe they can eat only sandwiches and the concept of silverware is beyond them, they are likely to have hidden agenda and they are rather hard to behead or dethrone otherwise when they are raving mad. Also, bare head looks much worse on stamps than a crowned one.
Of course that I have some vague idea about the functions of the state. After the last few years' political mess, when things worked best in those long months after the general election when there was no goverment, or in days of temporary officials in place of ministers after the government was deposed, it seems to me that the importance of state in general may be a bit overrated. And with the president close to raving mad... Ick.
I'd better go and read something funny.
Added on Saturday, whatsthedate.
I bought a horse-shaped cookie cutter, talked to K. about our glorious traditions of cookies and decorated gingerbread and since K. was to meet W. at the royal castle after that army thing, we went there. We were a bit early so we had a chance to watch the marching band of Royal Navy. The glorious traditions of decorated gingerbread include decorated gingerbread soldier. Nothing said.
I didn't check whether in the Royal Gift Shop, one could get cookie cutters shaped like Princess Victoria but I'll be around for a few more days.
---------------------------
(1) Name obviously invented and if I got it right, it's by mistake.
(2) Terry Pratchett reference again, what would you expect? Check Carpe jugulum for more.
Thursday, 22 October 2009
The Byredo Quest
The other day I ranted about Bal d'Afrique, yet another day I tried Pulp... and since I happen to be in Stockholm, I wanted to get me a souvenir and actually buy Pulp.
Since I'm a smart girl, I checked the Byredo website, found their address and somehow supposed that they have a shop. The address was an office building, with Byredo placed in the 8th floor in the building directory. I asked the Mabel or Caroline in the reception whether they have a shop up there or whether it's only offices, she said Only offices, sorry... and off I went.
Later, I checked the website again, found a 'how to shop' file and they offered only the internet shop.
Serves them right, I'll get it on eBay.
I bought yarn instead at Yllet store, because Yllet has an actual store where you can walk in, ask Will six skeins be enough for a sweater?, and get the yarn packed in a neat paper bag.
Tee hee.
Since I'm a smart girl, I checked the Byredo website, found their address and somehow supposed that they have a shop. The address was an office building, with Byredo placed in the 8th floor in the building directory. I asked the Mabel or Caroline in the reception whether they have a shop up there or whether it's only offices, she said Only offices, sorry... and off I went.
Later, I checked the website again, found a 'how to shop' file and they offered only the internet shop.
Serves them right, I'll get it on eBay.
I bought yarn instead at Yllet store, because Yllet has an actual store where you can walk in, ask Will six skeins be enough for a sweater?, and get the yarn packed in a neat paper bag.
Tee hee.
Monday, 19 October 2009
Random observations
It rained in the morning and generally, it was very close to that weather that says Go and jump under the metro train. It was probably the 'very close' thing that made a difference, I felt fine. The weather changed later on, and then again and again and again.
The issue of Scriptores rerum suecicarum was resolved. Nope, the work is not in the catalog. Why should it be, it's on the shelf in the reference section. Only in the main reading room, there are by sheer guess 100 shelf metres of books, how the hell am I supposed to find something without physically going through that? Sigh. The librarian was however helpful. After reassuring that I had checked the catalogs and that the book actually exists and that there are good reasons why it should also exist in this library, he let me have a form filled, said that it may take a few days, "you know, this is one of the difficult searches", and half an hour later, the three volumes of SRS landed on my table. I wonder whether the difficult search was like this:
Librarian, let's call him Bengt: Hey, Lasse, someone wants this Scriptores wtf thing and we should have it here.
Lasse: Well?
Bengt: It's not in the catalogs.
Lasse: And what it is, then?
Bengt: Scriptores Rerum Suecicarum
Lasse: Gee, it's in the reference library there and there, why should it be in the catalog when it's on the shelves. Them studip readers.
Bengt: goes away
I found what I needed and asked the photocopy service to pretty please copy around 150 A3 pages of that. Later on, I dropped at the copy counter again and they had An Issue. Like, to keep it A3 or to shrink the two A3+ pages to one A3. I don't have that bad eyesight but I spend way too much time reading and I want to read, not to labour over the text. I was politely explained that it's gonna be expensive, you know, said My research grant covers it, want pay beforehand? and made a long sigh. I mean, I don't blame the librarians for asking, I wonder what made them ask. In this polite and careful and neat and nice Sweden, someone actually had ordered a heap of copies and never came to pick them, moving away without leaving the address? What about my general trust in humanity?
The other day, I went down the street (Sveagatan, namely, but it's not that important) and sniffed something extremely familiar. Tauleto, damn, I decided after a while. Nope, can't be that one unless someone poured half a bottle on themselves a minute ago. Gotta be this one... well, I lead such internal dialogue deciding that it's extremely unlikely that the smell would be actually Tauleto, it seemed to be filling the entire street. I bitterly regretted then and regret it now that it doesn't have any staying power or it would be a wonderful gourmet-fruity fragrance.
The solution presented itself some time later. I had bought a Lindt and Sprungli chocolate with blueberries that smelled so intensively of blueberries... I carried the gnawed-on bar in the front pocket of my bag. Sigh. Want the smell bottled.
The issue of Scriptores rerum suecicarum was resolved. Nope, the work is not in the catalog. Why should it be, it's on the shelf in the reference section. Only in the main reading room, there are by sheer guess 100 shelf metres of books, how the hell am I supposed to find something without physically going through that? Sigh. The librarian was however helpful. After reassuring that I had checked the catalogs and that the book actually exists and that there are good reasons why it should also exist in this library, he let me have a form filled, said that it may take a few days, "you know, this is one of the difficult searches", and half an hour later, the three volumes of SRS landed on my table. I wonder whether the difficult search was like this:
Librarian, let's call him Bengt: Hey, Lasse, someone wants this Scriptores wtf thing and we should have it here.
Lasse: Well?
Bengt: It's not in the catalogs.
Lasse: And what it is, then?
Bengt: Scriptores Rerum Suecicarum
Lasse: Gee, it's in the reference library there and there, why should it be in the catalog when it's on the shelves. Them studip readers.
Bengt: goes away
I found what I needed and asked the photocopy service to pretty please copy around 150 A3 pages of that. Later on, I dropped at the copy counter again and they had An Issue. Like, to keep it A3 or to shrink the two A3+ pages to one A3. I don't have that bad eyesight but I spend way too much time reading and I want to read, not to labour over the text. I was politely explained that it's gonna be expensive, you know, said My research grant covers it, want pay beforehand? and made a long sigh. I mean, I don't blame the librarians for asking, I wonder what made them ask. In this polite and careful and neat and nice Sweden, someone actually had ordered a heap of copies and never came to pick them, moving away without leaving the address? What about my general trust in humanity?
The other day, I went down the street (Sveagatan, namely, but it's not that important) and sniffed something extremely familiar. Tauleto, damn, I decided after a while. Nope, can't be that one unless someone poured half a bottle on themselves a minute ago. Gotta be this one... well, I lead such internal dialogue deciding that it's extremely unlikely that the smell would be actually Tauleto, it seemed to be filling the entire street. I bitterly regretted then and regret it now that it doesn't have any staying power or it would be a wonderful gourmet-fruity fragrance.
The solution presented itself some time later. I had bought a Lindt and Sprungli chocolate with blueberries that smelled so intensively of blueberries... I carried the gnawed-on bar in the front pocket of my bag. Sigh. Want the smell bottled.
Random observations
It rained in the morning and generally, it was very close to that weather that says Go and jump under the metro train. It was probably the 'very close' thing that made a difference, I felt fine. The weather changed later on, and then again and again and again.
The issue of Scriptores rerum suecicarum was resolved. Nope, the work is not in the catalog. Why should it be, it's on the shelf in the reference section. Only in the main reading room, there are by sheer guess 100 shelf metres of books, how the hell am I supposed to find something without physically going through that? Sigh. The librarian was however helpful. After reassuring that I had checked the catalogs and that the book actually exists and that there are good reasons why it should also exist in this library, he let me have a form filled, said that it may take a few days, "you know, this is one of the difficult searches", and half an hour later, the three volumes of SRS landed on my table. I wonder whether the difficult search was like this:
Librarian, let's call him Bengt: Hey, Lasse, someone wants this Scriptores wtf thing and we should have it here.
Lasse: Well?
Bengt: It's not in the catalogs.
Lasse: And what it is, then?
Bengt: Scriptores Rerum Suecicarum
Lasse: Gee, it's in the reference library there and there, why should it be in the catalog when it's on the shelves. Them studip readers.
Bengt: goes away
I mentioned it at Ravelry where several librarians live. They headdesked, passed it on to their colleagues and I'm afraid that Royal Library became a bit of laughing stock. Eh.
The issue of Scriptores rerum suecicarum was resolved. Nope, the work is not in the catalog. Why should it be, it's on the shelf in the reference section. Only in the main reading room, there are by sheer guess 100 shelf metres of books, how the hell am I supposed to find something without physically going through that? Sigh. The librarian was however helpful. After reassuring that I had checked the catalogs and that the book actually exists and that there are good reasons why it should also exist in this library, he let me have a form filled, said that it may take a few days, "you know, this is one of the difficult searches", and half an hour later, the three volumes of SRS landed on my table. I wonder whether the difficult search was like this:
Librarian, let's call him Bengt: Hey, Lasse, someone wants this Scriptores wtf thing and we should have it here.
Lasse: Well?
Bengt: It's not in the catalogs.
Lasse: And what it is, then?
Bengt: Scriptores Rerum Suecicarum
Lasse: Gee, it's in the reference library there and there, why should it be in the catalog when it's on the shelves. Them studip readers.
Bengt: goes away
I mentioned it at Ravelry where several librarians live. They headdesked, passed it on to their colleagues and I'm afraid that Royal Library became a bit of laughing stock. Eh.
Sunday, 18 October 2009
Random observations
I wandered around the town and nothing particular happened. The low sun causes light to reflect in weird ways and swells my eyes, helped by the wind.
I got melancholic (in fact, I was first pissed by the lack of exhibits in the Ostasiatiska Museet and then freaked out by too many people at the Fridrich exhibition in the National Museum) and since the hostel room is otherwise empty and I found a socket there, I connected the lappy and let some music play. A random list of things I find pretty stayed in Winamp since mom wanted 'to listen to something' in Cyprus and then asked me to turn the howling off. Including some selection from Goran Bregovic.
I'm synesthetic ever since. I must have been a difficult child. I don't think I was annoying in the sense of running around, knocking things over and screaming, but just saying weird things. Like, explaining that I like this and that song. And described it in colours and spatial characteristics, not even shape. "Eh, see the kid's creativity, how cute, but, dear, everybody knows that music doesn't have colour." Same about numbers, letters, words, ideas. They don't have shapes, colours, sounds... I don't have early memories of connecting something with smells or tastes but it does work the other way, scents and tastes have their colours.
In winter, among other charity gifts, I got that Best Of of Goran Bregovic and I became aware that without having it formulated, Death gives me an intense feeling of scent.
Forget the pictures, they totally don't go with that, although under the impression of the Caspar David Friedrich exhibition I saw today, I won't make guesses what goes with it better. But... it's cedar and cade, very smoky, and something mineral, I don't know how are the mineral notes rendered in perfumes but imagine Olivier Durbano mineral. Limettes - the candy sweet citrus, and other citruses, pungently sour ones, and something bitter and cruelly adstringent like falling leaves. All of that thrown on the snow - whatever Luca Turin may say, snow does smell... of snow. Or it's my synaesthetic perception of cold, I don't know.
The song recalls me of another thing. Fifteen years ago, on a school skiing trip (someone decided that sports and socializing are good for kids, let they may suffer in any hell of their choice), in January, I got sulky because of what the other gals said or just because, I think that then, my nerves were already on the go, and I just went out to the snow. I was sitting on a tree stump and meditating and being aware of people left behind and the night forest. Thinking of it, it was a perfect time, place and mood to kill myself. I did not so that I could go through all those wonderful arguments with parents, depressions, a neat pneumonia two years later (not related to sitting in the snow and watching the starry sky) and the world may be enriched by my sarcastic remarks.
I got melancholic (in fact, I was first pissed by the lack of exhibits in the Ostasiatiska Museet and then freaked out by too many people at the Fridrich exhibition in the National Museum) and since the hostel room is otherwise empty and I found a socket there, I connected the lappy and let some music play. A random list of things I find pretty stayed in Winamp since mom wanted 'to listen to something' in Cyprus and then asked me to turn the howling off. Including some selection from Goran Bregovic.
I'm synesthetic ever since. I must have been a difficult child. I don't think I was annoying in the sense of running around, knocking things over and screaming, but just saying weird things. Like, explaining that I like this and that song. And described it in colours and spatial characteristics, not even shape. "Eh, see the kid's creativity, how cute, but, dear, everybody knows that music doesn't have colour." Same about numbers, letters, words, ideas. They don't have shapes, colours, sounds... I don't have early memories of connecting something with smells or tastes but it does work the other way, scents and tastes have their colours.
In winter, among other charity gifts, I got that Best Of of Goran Bregovic and I became aware that without having it formulated, Death gives me an intense feeling of scent.
Forget the pictures, they totally don't go with that, although under the impression of the Caspar David Friedrich exhibition I saw today, I won't make guesses what goes with it better. But... it's cedar and cade, very smoky, and something mineral, I don't know how are the mineral notes rendered in perfumes but imagine Olivier Durbano mineral. Limettes - the candy sweet citrus, and other citruses, pungently sour ones, and something bitter and cruelly adstringent like falling leaves. All of that thrown on the snow - whatever Luca Turin may say, snow does smell... of snow. Or it's my synaesthetic perception of cold, I don't know.
The song recalls me of another thing. Fifteen years ago, on a school skiing trip (someone decided that sports and socializing are good for kids, let they may suffer in any hell of their choice), in January, I got sulky because of what the other gals said or just because, I think that then, my nerves were already on the go, and I just went out to the snow. I was sitting on a tree stump and meditating and being aware of people left behind and the night forest. Thinking of it, it was a perfect time, place and mood to kill myself. I did not so that I could go through all those wonderful arguments with parents, depressions, a neat pneumonia two years later (not related to sitting in the snow and watching the starry sky) and the world may be enriched by my sarcastic remarks.
Friday, 16 October 2009
Some more
There was another knit café (or stitch'n'bitch if you may please) at Marias Garn in Södermalm. That was the first time I didn't get lost while getting up to the surface from the metro.
I found Maria's shop rather easily, first, I checked very well the location on Google Maps, then I made a cross into the mediocre map provided by Stockholmska Something (dunno what exactly L in SL stands for, linjer?) and quite importantly, there was a huge purple and blue skein hanging in place of a banner. I had been told on Thursday that Maria stocks Wood Harmony by Knitpicks and I had wanted to get a set of interchangeables in Florence but didn't manage so today was The Day. I got some yarn, too, and cast on for Laura's scarf. It's a birthday gift, no pictures, she follows the blog.
The weather got lousy and I have a mild suspicion that my last year's SAD may be back. At least when I got off at Gamla Stan to change the metro lines and a train whizzed next to the metro line and I recalled how I had been to Elisabeth's to Linköping and how I'm too much of a chickenshit to even mess around Stockholm itself and even less to go to Vadstena where I'd like to go and where I actually should go... well, within ten minutes, I felt like sitting down to the curb and crying bitterly. The only thing that prevented me from doing it was... the social phobia. People would look funny at me and it would feel too uneasy, you know. Apparently, the whole thing got Uroboros qualities and started biting its own rear.
Knitting apparently has some sort of calming properties, after two hours of messing with the scarf - one day I won't improvise the designs... one distant day, and then I won't be ripping things constantly - I felt just fine. My mood shifts are annoying even to myself.
I found Maria's shop rather easily, first, I checked very well the location on Google Maps, then I made a cross into the mediocre map provided by Stockholmska Something (dunno what exactly L in SL stands for, linjer?) and quite importantly, there was a huge purple and blue skein hanging in place of a banner. I had been told on Thursday that Maria stocks Wood Harmony by Knitpicks and I had wanted to get a set of interchangeables in Florence but didn't manage so today was The Day. I got some yarn, too, and cast on for Laura's scarf. It's a birthday gift, no pictures, she follows the blog.
The weather got lousy and I have a mild suspicion that my last year's SAD may be back. At least when I got off at Gamla Stan to change the metro lines and a train whizzed next to the metro line and I recalled how I had been to Elisabeth's to Linköping and how I'm too much of a chickenshit to even mess around Stockholm itself and even less to go to Vadstena where I'd like to go and where I actually should go... well, within ten minutes, I felt like sitting down to the curb and crying bitterly. The only thing that prevented me from doing it was... the social phobia. People would look funny at me and it would feel too uneasy, you know. Apparently, the whole thing got Uroboros qualities and started biting its own rear.
Knitting apparently has some sort of calming properties, after two hours of messing with the scarf - one day I won't improvise the designs... one distant day, and then I won't be ripping things constantly - I felt just fine. My mood shifts are annoying even to myself.
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