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Oct. 28th, 2010 07:49 pmThis morning I walked from Vauxhall to Senate House Library, the imposing, massive, brutally art deco wings-like-white-elephants of a building which houses the resources shared by all constituent University of London colleges. I came in search of Bloody Heidegger's ...poetically man dwells... in Poetry, Language, Thought.
Every other goddamn article from this book appears to EXIST somewhere on das Interwebs. Hell it's been published centuries, you'd think someone would have gotten around to uploading it. But oooooh no. I checked google scholar, jstor, and every sad tributaty-flow of information in-between. No joy in mudville. I had to suck it up and physically go hunt the fucker.
...which proved useless. Two copies checked out, one MIA-no-not-the-rapper, and the RESERVE copy in the weird special Institute of Germanic Studies main library mysteriously absent. Even Foyles wanted 24 hours notice to move its two existing copies from whatever dark trove they keep them in to the Charring Cross Flagship proper--not that I would ever surreptitiously read an article in the bookstore because I couldn't be arsed to buy it. ...
Cut to: surreptitiously reading the article in the London Review of Books bookstore because I couldn't be arsed to buy it. An awkward process, much abetted by:
1) my careful and unwavering occupation of a chair behind a massive stack of books, preserved from Desk Girl's line of sight,
2) Desk Girl's epically long tea break (pretty much Odysseus got back from Troy more promptly than this chick), and
3) the polite incredible discomfort the English experience around strangers, which made her unwilling to ask me to stop doing what I was blatantly doing and fuck off to a lesser bookstore, like Waterstones/Bathrooms and Noble.
Good thing I did that, because the prof I asked to please direct me /anywhere/ the article could be found: still hasn't gotten back to me. Dude, I'm one of the five people who talks in your agonizing, peristalic two-hour-long discussion sessions--help me to help you, here.
To make up for it I bought some crap Darjeeling in their really lovely coffee shop/tea room. Darjeeling's just boring, not their fault. Service was EXCELLENT (I was actually brought things, /in a coffee room thing/, inc. free water that tasted nice! Staff v. helpful, conversations I shamelessly listened in on interesting--would loiter again!). Finished some reading I was behind on. Had good original fic idea in their bathroom: magic.
So as I was walking by the socialist bookstore next to the big uni library, what caught my eye from the boxes of sale items but MARY KATE AND ASHLEY OLSEN ADVENTURES!!
I had never suspected the poetry of their marxist feminist dialectic? Foolish me. A revolution without makeover parties is not a revolution I want to be part of...
I spent the afternoon walking what felt like the length of the city, mainly because I took a lot of circuitous routes. I got perfect terrible fabric at John Lewis, a WAY TOO LARGE yet still perfect head-bird at the stationary shop next door (texted Katy something along the lines of 'Choosing between TWO head birds: a life goal fulfilled.'), and then proceeded to uselessly search the entire fucking city for a simple bag of black craft feathers. Seriously, where the shit. JL was selling time bags of 5 for 1.50 a pop, and a feather boa one could dice for 14, but not like, a BAG. The art store sold NEON ones, but as I wasn't going as the RainbowDiscoHomoFabulous!! Guardian (GOD I'd listen to/watch/read it), I'd have to dye the fuckers and black-sharpie their spines--too expensive, and no guarantees of success.
Will try again tomorrow: costume is a sad shadow of itself without FEATHERS!!
BUT HARK--WHAT APPROACHES?!
THE BIRD!
THE FABRIC!
THE DREAM!
Every other goddamn article from this book appears to EXIST somewhere on das Interwebs. Hell it's been published centuries, you'd think someone would have gotten around to uploading it. But oooooh no. I checked google scholar, jstor, and every sad tributaty-flow of information in-between. No joy in mudville. I had to suck it up and physically go hunt the fucker.
...which proved useless. Two copies checked out, one MIA-no-not-the-rapper, and the RESERVE copy in the weird special Institute of Germanic Studies main library mysteriously absent. Even Foyles wanted 24 hours notice to move its two existing copies from whatever dark trove they keep them in to the Charring Cross Flagship proper--not that I would ever surreptitiously read an article in the bookstore because I couldn't be arsed to buy it. ...
Cut to: surreptitiously reading the article in the London Review of Books bookstore because I couldn't be arsed to buy it. An awkward process, much abetted by:
1) my careful and unwavering occupation of a chair behind a massive stack of books, preserved from Desk Girl's line of sight,
2) Desk Girl's epically long tea break (pretty much Odysseus got back from Troy more promptly than this chick), and
3) the polite incredible discomfort the English experience around strangers, which made her unwilling to ask me to stop doing what I was blatantly doing and fuck off to a lesser bookstore, like Waterstones/Bathrooms and Noble.
Good thing I did that, because the prof I asked to please direct me /anywhere/ the article could be found: still hasn't gotten back to me. Dude, I'm one of the five people who talks in your agonizing, peristalic two-hour-long discussion sessions--help me to help you, here.
To make up for it I bought some crap Darjeeling in their really lovely coffee shop/tea room. Darjeeling's just boring, not their fault. Service was EXCELLENT (I was actually brought things, /in a coffee room thing/, inc. free water that tasted nice! Staff v. helpful, conversations I shamelessly listened in on interesting--would loiter again!). Finished some reading I was behind on. Had good original fic idea in their bathroom: magic.
So as I was walking by the socialist bookstore next to the big uni library, what caught my eye from the boxes of sale items but MARY KATE AND ASHLEY OLSEN ADVENTURES!!
I had never suspected the poetry of their marxist feminist dialectic? Foolish me. A revolution without makeover parties is not a revolution I want to be part of...
I spent the afternoon walking what felt like the length of the city, mainly because I took a lot of circuitous routes. I got perfect terrible fabric at John Lewis, a WAY TOO LARGE yet still perfect head-bird at the stationary shop next door (texted Katy something along the lines of 'Choosing between TWO head birds: a life goal fulfilled.'), and then proceeded to uselessly search the entire fucking city for a simple bag of black craft feathers. Seriously, where the shit. JL was selling time bags of 5 for 1.50 a pop, and a feather boa one could dice for 14, but not like, a BAG. The art store sold NEON ones, but as I wasn't going as the RainbowDiscoHomoFabulous!! Guardian (GOD I'd listen to/watch/read it), I'd have to dye the fuckers and black-sharpie their spines--too expensive, and no guarantees of success.
Will try again tomorrow: costume is a sad shadow of itself without FEATHERS!!
BUT HARK--WHAT APPROACHES?!
THE BIRD!
THE FABRIC!
THE DREAM!
