Wow. For once I'm writing an entry when I'm not so tired there's a headache drumming behind my eyeballs. *big grin* I'm feeling quite good, actually, and I know exactly why. But let's go in chronological order, shall we?

This morning was made hectic by my lack of haste. Dawdling in front of the mirror, picking out my outfit. Dawdling in the bathroom, trimming my fingernails. Dawdling in my room, thinking I had all the time in the world. I ate a large breakfast and probably made my dad very impatient. We were late, the train was late, but we were later, so we saw it pull away as we pulled in. We picked up a slug (read more about slugging) at the train station and promptly drove into DC. Riding the 395 HOV in was a breeze - traffic was free-flowing the majority of the time, a phenomenon I found incredible.

We dropped the slug off at L'Enfant Plaza, and our attempt to get from the drop-off point to my dad's favourite parking spot consumed all the time we had saved on the easy ride in. I stopped in at my dad's office to figure out exactly where I wanted to go in DC and left after making up a list, glancing at a map, and fixing opening and closing times in my memory.

I had wanted to go to the Supreme Court first, but I saw an extremely long line outside, so I figured there were oral arguments this morning. I wasn't interested in waiting in those lines, but neither did I want to head into the building ahead of all those people, even if I wasn't there to try to observe the oral arguments. So I rubbernecked my past and headed on up to the Jefferson Building.

In between, I got caught up in a gaggle of small children. In fact, all day I noticed large groups of people traipsing around the Capitol area. I saw one group of Boy Scouts, lots of unidentifiables (presumably extended families or families friends with each other), and several groups including a definite proportion of boys in prep school uniforms. They looked like they were accompanied by their families - sisters and moms and dads, all smelling of money and privilege, even if they didn't perfume themselves with it. Large groups like those annoy me, because they ruin the cityscape, they get in my way, and individual behaviour in such groups deteriorates noticeably.

The Visitor's Center entrance (as I am not a researcher, I did not think I could use the main entrance) to the Jefferson Building was blocked a line also much too long for my taste, and I promptly continued heading up 1st St. in search of the Folger Shakespeare Library. I had misremembered the map, and so ended up wandering by a Roman Catholic church. It was a very attractive building from the outside, all rounded blocks of stone and castle turrets. I decided to go in, convincing myself that, since 1) I like churches 2) this church is pretty and 3) ostensibly, "visitors welcome!" I ought to go on in and take a looksee. I mounted the stairs, took a deep breath, opened the heavy door, and entered into instant calm. Awed by the quiet peace, I gawped at the clean, modern look of the church and the marble carvings scattered around. Most churches I visit are very old, very large cathedrals, used to the presence of tourists. So this more humble church, catering to the needs of its congregation rather than its role as a symbol of power and prestige, was new to my eyes.

When I left, I pushed the door open upon full, warm sunshine. I felt like God was smiling at me. For the first time I left my dad's office, I felt warm. But alas, that feeling was not to last. It was bloody cold the whole day, what with an unceasing wind and a sky overcast more often than not. I had made the strategic decision to wear my denim jacket, but my strategy turned out to be bad. The temperature is ostensibly 10ºC warmer here than up in Ithaca, but it sure as hell doesn't feel like it. I think the sun in Ithaca is stronger and I think I walk differently up there too. Probably dress warmer as well.

Eventually I found the Folger Shakespeare Library, and I was happy that this destination was not overriden with tourists. I spent a long time there, learning about the Folger, Elizabethan England, and the art of letterwriting in Renaissance England. In the video I watched about the Folger, I saw a couple of shots of the Reading Room, and I was shocked by its uncanny resemblance to the Memorial Room in Willard Straight Hall. So, if you've ever wondered about the odd-looking architecture, you have your answer now: it's Elizabethan.

The exhibit on letterwriting I enjoyed very much, and I felt fortunate to have caught an exhibit which actually interested me a great deal. I found the sections on handwriting, circulation, and love letters particularly interesting. The first two are natural interests of mine. In fact, I would've also found ink interesting, if I could figure out what any of the ingredients were. Ever heard of coperis? The secretary hand is difficult enough to read, without the added obstacle of words you've never seen before.

The last was only interesting because of how well I related to some of the exercepts. As I constantly point out to my dad, affairs of the heart are universal. When it comes to Chinese TV series, language poses no barrier when the topic at hand is love, or the lack thereof. And, correspondence being particularly relevant to me right now, I could not help but smile wryly at how my own mind echoed sentiments declared four hundred years ago, a continent away.

I headed back to have lunch with my dad, who dragged me to the National Geographic Museum, having now set his heart on the idea of teaching me the basics of cartography, since I've shown such a strong interest in learning GIS. He was very disappointed, however, when we finally got there, even though there was a most appropriately termed exhibit, "Mapping with Paper and Pixel". It was fun to play around with some of the thematic data (Las Vegas is a city in the middle of barren desert, and it and the farms lining the banks of the Colorado River suck the water dry before it hits Mexico), but there were no exhibits on the principles of cartography. My dad was extremely disappointed. At last the misunderstanding was brought to light. He had thought we were going to some kind of national museum of geography, whereas I knew that the place was actually the museum of the National Geographic Society. Ahh ... well, I enjoyed my visit anyway, because they didn't have that exhibit there last time I went.

My dad and I parted ways at Union Station, him to head back to work and me to head off to the Supreme Court. I smiled to see the imposing marble portico and the vast stairs leading up to it. I was tempted to sit on one of the flat marble benches and call Adrian, but it was too damn cold outside and neither Adrian nor I have the luxury of randomly calling each other during the day.

The portico was composed of a double row of Corinthian columns, each row having 8 columns. I was in such a magnanimous mood (or perhaps I admire the Supreme Court so much that my personal biases were swept aside) that such extravagance did not grate on my senses. Into the pediment supported by the many columns was carved a relief of nine figures, only three of which are justices. The others are three allegorical figures, a senator, the architect of the building and the sculptor of the pediment.

This time the crowds were thankfully gone, and I could see that I would be able to catch the 3:30 courtroom lecture. I walked through the Grand Hall with suitable reverence, craning my neck to see the plaster blossoms covering the ceiling and the the plethora of marble around (more columns) and below. In short order I headed for the ground floor, but before I went down the stairs, I rang for the elevator, because the outside doors were simply too ornate not for me to satisfy my curiosity about the interior. It looked quite ordinary, not the least as spectacular as the outside.

The ground floor contained two exquisitely detailed models of the courtroom (the "Old Supreme Court Chamber" back when the Supreme Court was still borrowing unused space graciously lent by Congress, and over which John Marshall presided, as well as the current Court Chamber), and an exhibit on 19th century portraits with accompanying biographies of little-known associate justices. I dutifully read them all. I don't think I like 19th century US history very much. The ground floor also housed a rather grand exhibit of John Marshall's life. Lots of marble, lots of spot lighting. I didn't have time to get through it, because I had to go to courtroom lecture.

Courtroom lecture was a lecture held by a docent in the Court Chamber. Filing into the courtroom was a uinque experience. One doesn't normally see tourists (with whom I was) or college students (with whom I usually am) so well-behaved. We sat in the public gallery, on padded (both back and bottom) mahogany benches. Quietly excited, I looked for the various chairs I had seen in the model and a sight of the courtyards to either side, which were supposed to prevent the courtroom's having a cloistered, claustrophobic feel. From time to time, I glanced at the heavy clock hanging above the justices' bench, its clockface heavy gold Roman numerals against white.

The docent described the various zones of seating in the Court Chamber - for the public (first come, first serve), the press (who must take notes with paper and pen), the Supreme Court Bar (also first come, first serve), a recording console to the right of the justices, the sketch artist to the left of the justices (from the perspective of facing the justices), and guests of the justices (seated in order of the seniority of the justice who invited them). The justices sit at the bench, in high-backed seats of Honduran mahogany with studded black leather, ordered by seniority in alternating left-right seating from the centre. The attorneys give oral argument at a lectern with a white light (five-minute warning) and a red light (time's up - stop in the middle of a word, if you have to) on top, as well as two microphones, which should not be touched. Instead, the lectern should be raised or lowered as appropriate with a manual crank. Apparently, some attorneys arguing for the first time will crank the lectern a little even if the height is fine, just to show they know what they're doing.

To distinguish the Court Room from the rest of the building, all the materials were imported from abroad. The columns are of pink- and gold-veined Italian marble, the floor of pink Algerian marble. The walls and friezes are of Spanish marble and the wood furnishings are all of the Honduran mahogany I mentioned earlier. The carpet was recently redone in 1992, and it matches the blossoms of French plaster overhead (I'm sure the threads of the new carpet are from Peru, or something).

As I previously mentioned, the Supreme Court had no home when the capital was first moved to DC. It wasn't until former President Taft became a justice that the political influence to appropriate the necessary funds arrived, and the judicial branch was physically separated from the legislative, housed in a building signifying its equality with both Congress and the President. In a rare case of desired project completion, the building was completed both under-budget and early. In fact, there was enough money and time left that the architect, Cass Gilbert, was asked to what ends he would like to put the extra resources. Gilbert decided to arrange for the furniture that would harmonize with his architecture, and the new building was promptly furnished. Yet still, money allocated was left over, and the Supreme Court ended up returning $94,000 to the Treasury.

After the lecture - yes, I was reluctant to leave the Court Chamber - I went back down to the ground floor, to finish up, if I could. There are these amazing spiral staircases, two of marble, twining their way up through all the storeys of the building. They are elliptical in shape, marble in substance, and entirely self-supporting, with cantilever steps which are cut and fitted in such a way as to render unnecessary any support other than pinning at the ends. They are extraordinarily beautiful, and I could feast my eyes on them longer than any sculpture except those of the Italian Renaissance.

I also watched a documentary on the Supreme Court, and enjoyed it very much despite having seen it before. I tell you, I really am in love with the Supreme Court. I would like to go back tomorrow for oral argument, but the weather looks to be pretty terrible. I wish I had gone out today, but I didn't know it was going to be so sunny and warm. Wunderground gave me a most misleading forecast, and I still have to visit the Baltimore Aquarium. The TJ visit won't be happening because FCPS are on Spring Break (just like I, and almost none of my other friends are! - oh, the unfairness...), and I just couldn't be bothered with the DMV visit. I don't like Springfield Mall and I don't like lines, so it's natural that I'm going to try to conduct everything online, despite the complications of my forgetting to update my address.

This entry was too long for me write last night, so I'm continuing it this afternoon; hence, the possibly confusing references to the time of writing.

Not long after my Supreme Court visit, I and my dad headed home. I told him I was fine with just hanging out in his office for a bit while he finished up, but he shook his head and said he coulnd't seem to accomplish much that day aynway. I hope his lack of productivity wasn't due to my distracting presence.

We picked up another slug on the way back, and the maneuvering my way from our parking spot to the slug line and onto 395 HOV was quite an adventure. But traffic flowed relatively well, if not as briskly as in the morning. After dropping the slug off, we picked up my dad's new license plates.

We had a late dinner, owing mostly to an obstinate duck which refused to rise to an internal temperature of more than 146ºF. At last, we gave up on it, began consuming our meal, and cut it open to find - raw meat. Disgusted, we stuck back into the oven, and for whatever this time the internal temperature hit the necessary 185ºF. The meat on its belly was absolutely delicious, as I could tell immediately on sight. It was of the perfect texture and taste, feathery and tender, and I savoured a few pieces before putting it aside, as I had already overeaten (once again).

After such a full meal, I had to engage in some kind of physical activity, and so I chose piano-playing, which requires an intensity and concentration which I no longer exhibit anywhere but in Cornell. I miss piano practice for that - the all-consuming focus, the tight discipline, the tension wound closely in one's mind, lashing out quickly with each drop of each finger, then recoiling almost instantly, to keep the playing organs as tension-free as possible. Even the attention to posture, inculcated at the very beginning, is something dear. As I began to play, I remembered the details of how to play - the movement of the wrists, the caressing of the keys, the lines of force from back to shoulder to elbow through forearm to knuckles flicking down firm into a single point on the meat of my fingers, just short of the nails.

I enjoyed, too, the pieces I played. For some reason, I did not need to stay in Baroque music to feel safe in my musical bubble. I could, and wanted to, play Beethoven. In fact, I played the Moonlight, wanting to hear its sombre tones in affirmation that I could still create music, still knew what it was. Adrian had made me itch to play it with his rendition. In my head was a movement of another Classical piece which I also wanted to play very badly, but I couldn't remember from whence it came. I thought perhaps Mozart, perhaps my 8th grade repertoire album. So I was most surprised when it turned out that the tune I heard in my head was none other than the second movement of the Moonlight. So I played that, vowed to practice it and play it fluently, then moved onto the third movement, which had been the bane of my existence during the time I was with one particular teacher. I could never play it fast enough, well enough, or with enough comprehension of its emotions. My teacher resignedly decided that I was too young for it, not having been through the trials of tribulations of love and life that would give me the necessary emotional experience to really feel the music and let the music be felt. I remembered feeling sickened if I heard it on the radio or our stereo or the thousand other places from which one can hear music. But this time I enjoyed every leap and twirl of the melody, every harmony and exclamatory chord. Maybe I've grown up, or maybe I just needed to get away from it and let it become fresh again, but I like it now, more than I ever did before.

After I finished with the Beethoven, I proceeded onto other works, flipping through old piano books and picking pieces out for my mood (Classical sonatas), for curiosity, and for fond remembrance. I had a most wonderful time playing. It was unexpectedly fun. Hence, my good mood at the very start of the entry.

The night did not end so well, though (yes, I saw the pun potential and no, you can see I decided not to exploit it and lower myself to such levels), there being some difficulty in conducting the long distance relationship between Adrian and me. I think the problem was exacerbated by the inertia of distressed mood, among other factors. But the one that just occurred to me is that placating me when I'm upset is rather difficult, as once I become distressed, I don't really want to be removed from the mood until a proper level of catharsis has been reached. So that's my take, but I'm not entirely sure it's right.

Wow, and to think, I'm going to write an even longer entry later on. Eaugh, if I spend this much time on my regular, daily entries, how am I ever going to have time to write soul-searching, heart-wrenching introspective entries?

goodbye for real - 2006-04-10

women not in engineering - 2005-12-27

another day turned sour - 2005-03-23

you just didn't know when it was coming - 2005-03-23

one free trip to washington, dc - 2005-03-22