Electricity among the stacks

Walking up the grand staircases of the Library of Congress, you see marble columns with gilt edging. Important statuary panels line the walls – I like especially the one of a carved angel – shall we say a seraphim? – holding an old fashioned telephone, the kind which you hold the cupped earpiece in one hand and the desktop mouthpiece in the other. That cherub is called the Electrician "with a star of electric rays shining on his brow.” There’s a special viewing window from which one can see the main reading room from on high. The readers below, like so many worker ants, pore over their documents. The library staff moving books around like worker bees – collecting them from the centralized conveyor belt, organizing them by reader onto the main counter, pushing carts around collecting books from the readers’ desks that encircle the circulation center. Then one’s eyes lift above to the profound sayings etched in gold beneath the splendid dome. “Beauty is truth, truth beauty.” Really? As I mull over the reports emerging from North Korea on people’s degrees of starvation. “The history of the world is biography of great men.” Here, the library shows its age – all the names and portraits memorialized in the library are men, the women are representations of the abstract (Truth, Beauty, Electricity). But then, for those toiling away, uncertain of their knowledge, querulous in their grasp of wisdom, there speaks from the walls the words of a cheerleader past, “ The chief glory of every people arises from its authors.” Carry on, then. (Main Reading Room, Thomas Jefferson Building, Library of Congress, Washington, DC)

Yenching is not just a restaurant at Harvard Square

As a young student, I grew up reading in the Yenching Library, at 2 Divinity Avenue, in Cambridge. Its location on Divinity Avenue perhaps reminding us of the close connection between the early missionary zeal of American internationalists and the study of foreign regions. Yenching was always dusty, but as a college student, it seemed not dustier than usual film that covered the dorms, the dining halls, the ancient Yard itself, even. The reading room itself was quite workaday. A few long tables stretched out. Magazine stands lining the walls, newspapers in challenging scripts collected across them. And then to enter the stacks themselves, one passed through a small door into a back room, and perhaps down the stairs into the basement. The cornerstones of the Asian Studies literature were built here. (Asian Reading Room, Yenching Library, Harvard University, Cambridge, Massachusetts)

Cool books

At the time of my fellowship in Beijing, air conditioning in the summer time was the exclusive privilege of high end shopping malls, luxury hotels, and haute restaurants. None of the rooms at the CASS American Studies department seemed to be air conditioned; fortunately, they were housed in traditional style courtyards where most offices had a window, and breezes could pass through the halls and corridors. However, in the high rise building of the one of the CASS institutes, there was a library reading room, tucked away on one of the middle floors. It was non-descript in off-white walls, fluorescent lamps, tables, chairs, magazines, but exceptional in its climate-controlled status. I used to visit regularly to partake of the air, not just of the breezes of scholarly concentration. It also housed a good selection of serious magazines, perfect for whiling away the time, imagining how my work could transform the academy, the city, the country, the world, if only the sweat would stop dripping from my brow. (Chinese Academy of Social Sciences, Beijing)

How to borrow a library

Online I had seen that the Chinese University of Hong Kong had an excellent collection of the serials I was studying and some useful books referencing the field I was plunging into. What a good excuse to go to Hong Kong! I acquired from my professor the requisite letter of introduction to present to the librarian, to show I was indeed a student of good standing, and off I went. To get to CUHK one leaves behind the hustle of Hong Kong’s city streets and the bustle of its noodle shops and merchants. I hopped onto to the train, minding the gap, and headed into the mountains. The city falls away, trees appear. It was winter in Hong Kong, temperature mild by the standards I was used to, but humid. That combined with the general lack of central heating in many places, meant that a chill could creep past ones sweater into one’s bones. The librarian accepted my letter of introduction, I was issued a card, with not too bad a identification photo, and set about my work. (Chinese University of Hong Kong)

Excuse me, Ms. Curator

During a lull in my government work, I noticed the National Gallery was organizing small public seminars at lunchtime. There were never more than a dozen “students,” mostly retired ladies interested or already enrolled in the museum’s docent programs. I suppose this makes me a candidate for such work later on in my years. Homework was involved. There was a reading assignment in advance, and on the two occasions I enrolled, they were always from art books with lots of beautiful pictures inside. I had a lingering memory from my college days of an art history class I took which involved studying the heads of emperors on Roman coins. I had never before nor since formally studied art history, and here I was taking instruction from an eminent visiting professor. She expected us to look at the coin books and coin slides before her lecture; she would discuss in class; then we were expected to examine the images afterward, as they would appear on the exam. As I was a student of texts, I normally visited the library once to do the reading, take notes, hear lecture, then review my notes. Furthermore, my notes were always words, never imagine that sketching an image would be useful. I arrived at my exam, where images were flashed on the screen. I was expected to recognize and discuss them from memory, pictures I had glanced at once for a few seconds, months ago. I was lucky not to flunk. Haunted by this shadow, I headed to the National Gallery’s library to do my homework several days in advance of my lunch seminar. The library is in the East Wing, an edifice of triangular perfection by I.M. Pei and the library reflected this underlying motif. A panel of windows soared from ground to the sky, looking out onto the green Mall. As I signed in with the guard, I could see I was about the second or third person from the public visiting that day. I had been asked to call in advance that I would arrive. I was met by a librarian who asked what book I required. It was available, but in the hands of one of the museum staff; it would be fetched. Dumbfounded, I imagined the scenario. Mr. Junior Bookrunner is sent from the library circulation desk to Ms. Eminent Curator. What could the problem be? A Member of the Public requests a viewing of the Big Beautiful Book which you are using to prepare the Next Blockbuster Exhibit; could you release it to us? Yes! The Member of the Public is so Important, we must release the Big Beautiful Book to her so she can learn about Art and be enlightened Forever. The book was delivered to me; in awe I tried my best to read it, and particularly to look at the pictures, and all in all it was a very satisfactory lunch. (Library, National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC)

Lobster on E

Luke's Lobster just opened, and I can see that I will be a regular. The lobster roll is sweet with meat, toasty and buttered, with my favorite Ms. Vickie's chips and good root beer. At $17 the combo is not cheap, but the shrimp roll is also good, and a better buy at $10. It only means that I put aside for a moment my predilection for veggies and indulge in beachside picnic fare.

Crossing over, to the other side of the reading divide

Last year toward the end of May, I wandered into the Georgetown Law Library. Actually, I had several dozen books due June 1st, and the library system had begun its annual campaign against me to show up with the real-life books, prove I had not lost them, and then perhaps grant me permission to renew them for another year. Returning to the original subject…entering into the building where the library was housed, is a bit like walking into a mausoleum. There is grey stone receiving area staffed by an alert guard, who will not let me pass until I spend several minutes fumbling through my wallet to discover my university ID – an ID, mind you, that I mostly use in the virtual sense – typing in the numbers to access journals online and read obscure newspaper articles. Once security is satisfied, you pass through to an equally colorless lobby with a high-ceiling and staircases rising into nowhere. Where are the books? The dust? The detritus of scholarly work? Clearly, we are here focused on the rule of law, perhaps with an emphasis on RULE. I find there is yet another set of doors to pass through to find the reading room, and the world is transformed. Rows of tables and chairs, desk lamps, cushioned carpets, dark wood and rich textiles. Yet, there is something unique in the air. The frisson of panic, of adrenaline quietly pumping through the laptops and book spines. It is the exam season and the haggard, bagged eyes, the unwashed hair, the distressed wardrobes of the law students are in full evidence. I back away, lest the anxiety be contagious, grateful that my exam taking days are done and I have crossed over (as we so often do in life, until that final crossing) into my exam giving (and, mind you, exam grading) days. (Georgetown Law Library, Washington, DC)

Great leaps forward

We've leapt into summer without stopping for spring here in DC. My personal barometer is the yellow silk twinset which is not warm enough for winter but is too warm for Washington's summer humidity. I managed to wear it only once before the days turned to 80 degrees F, now I will put it away until the fall. The weather's also produced a string of heavy precipitation. My snapdragons on the balcony are bent over from taking the hail. Inevitably they spring back, the potential for destruction mixed with the elements of growth and creation.

Now on the mall - Coney Island Foot Longs

Just a brief hot dog update. The cherry blossoms have arrived and tourists are now pouring in. The hot dog buffet once at the Natural History museum has disappeared, but several new choices are starring at the snack kiosk near the carousel in front of the Smithsonian Castle. I had the Coney Island Foot Long hot dog, a bargain at $5, which is also the cost of a regular sized hot dog. Never been to Coney Island, but have heard stories from my parents and seen it on TV. Which is sufficient to conjure up images of board walks, salt water taffy, rickety roller coasters and brusque New Yorkers getting you through the food line. All this (for $5!) while sitting next to the Castle rose garden, taking in the twinkly Strauss waltz that makes the merry-go-round go 'round.

Not Oakey-fenokee

Dumbarton Oaks, just beautiful enough in memory to register every spring, just far enough out of the way that it had been over five years since I last visited. The beginning of warm means tulips, the advent of hot means roses. A friend and I visited last weekend, the yellow budded forsythia are out, the cherry blossoms were bursting forth, there was a romantic field of ground-close violet flowers, and the hope of azaleas to come. An added bonus is the pre-Colombian artifact exhibition in a series of glass cylindrical galleries so positioned that from the air would look like a perfect crystal daisy set in the garden's green hills. From the galleries, one is cleverly seeing the art within, the garden without, and being seen as if through a terrarium glass.

Model T's still on the road

At the National Archives (where the Declaration of Independence) is kept, I had lunch with a fellow from Social Security. (In Washington, when we say this, we mean he works for Social Security, not that he's drawing social security...) He had colleagues who worked on mainframe computers running on Cobalt and C. He was new to the government and was shocked. Actually, in my office, I discovered a team of engineers working on a system written in Fortran. My mother learned Fortran when she was in graduate school. There is another system, that manages data I rely on, which is written in Pascal. I studied Pascal in high school. The Cobalt system seems stuck in the mud, no movement to change it up. The Pascal system is now in transition, soon to emerge into the 21st century. The Fortran system is now recently listed for updating. Fingers crossed.

Counterdosing the fashion ads

Blue-smocked, riding a bicycle, Bill Cunningham is the guy I rely on for a counterdose of street fashion when I have been overly inundated with the sleek ad shots of the fashion houses in magazines. Most inspiring is the confidence of his subjects. Tall and short, fat and thin, elegant and nutty, hip and square, they all show off their outfits. Like my friend who pitched a book lately, it's not necessarily what you say (although maybe it shouldn't be discounted too much) but how you say it, with authority. Braver with style, courageous with color, I hope I am, but I still don't quite have the guts to cycle hellbent through Manhattan without a helmet. And, I'm not approaching 80 yet.

Sharks on Pennsylvania Avenue

Typical was this morning's meeting at the Commerce Department. On the white board, the chair scrawled an agenda. The goal is to persuade a group of countries to agree to a set of principled actions. First, we had to agree amongst ourselves, US government agencies. Remember, that the units within my agency have yet to discuss and reach consensus. We plan on doing that tomorrow. But the interagency meeting was today. A little reverse engineering is in order, I suppose. At the table, we reached a plan on how to plan next. Cookies and chocolates greased the oily wheels of bureaucracy. And as I left, rounding the corner, balanced in mid-air, impaled on a steel shaft, the model of a hammerhead shark hangs at an entrance to the Hoover building, an homage to the aquarium which occupies the lower floor. Dali could not have made a better statement.

Shadows in the light

The shadows in Grand Central Station #2 walk in the light. The yellow stone floor reflects the sun beaming through the windows. These, not the shadows of death. They, like in Haroun's Ocean of Notions, separate from the figures for which they provide perspective. Rolling along the glossy plane, elbows softened, footsteps muffled, tallness shrunk, sharpness smudged, what fear of darkness have we? When shadows are so bright?

(Grand Central Station #2 by Jim Campbell hangs on the third floor of the American Art Museum)

Computer literacy

I learned SAS and then forgot it. Ditto for SPSS. My friend's data collection still runs on a TurboPascal, the programmer just retired after 40 years of service. I have Stata envy, will I every knuckle down and learn it? One friend of mine complained Matematica was far too complicated; another said it was his professional lifeblood. Maybe I should sign up for a Drupal class. And then twice last week I coached colleagues through how to do sums in Excel. Literacy, numeracy, computeracy.....

Street parlor

The big woman and the small woman embraced at the corner where Starbucks stands. It's cold, but neither has a coat. One has on a sweatshirt, the other a double layer of old flannel. A suit walks by. Some pumps sway by. A woolly cap and scarf stroll by. The two cross the street. Talking loudly, as if in their own parlor, almost singing, almost dancing, in their old shoes. A trench rushes by. Leggings and flats saunter by. The gloves and earmuffs amble by. The two nearly trip stepping up to the curb, a dizzying five inches off the ground. The fat one sits down on the bench under the bus shelter. The small one, still swaying, chanting takes her leave. The sidewalk is front and center for them, their stage, their receiving hall.

Winter rhythms

In the winter the sun falls quickly. Not too late in the afternoon, from the street you can see the office lights blink in the gloom and the street lamps switch on as the darkness rises. As I move along the sidewalk, the lamps keep rhythm like a double bass, punctuating space and time predictably, ever beautiful in regularity. Peeking through the intervals are the lit windows. This of the Castle. That of the Capitol. Dorothy Height’s pink turreted building along Pennsylvania. Then the shops, hotels, and restaurants. Tall and narrow, short and wide, square and round are the windows. And the things that cast shadows – the trees, the bushes, the newspaper boxes and trash cans, the parking sign posts that annoy the eye and soul during the day, become trills and turns, accessories to the melody, that decorate the beat of time passing, blink-blink, click-click, whoosh-swoosh into the spring.

B&P between U&V

There’s no cure for middle age like heading to the hipsters’ hangout. Twice now I have journeyed (a few stops on the Green line) to Busboys and Poets – the branch along the U Street corridor, home to jazz clubs, night spots, and coolness all around. Once I went for the launch of a nifty new news channel on cable television. They wanted to demonstrate their stylish street cred and picked B&P to show it off. The second time I went to hear a friend play in a band. It sounds so groupie-ish, I know. But I am middle aged, and my friend – Music Minister by evening – is chief so-and-so of the inspector general’s office by day. Both times I arrived and there were lines out the door. The young people knew you had to arrive early (wear the right look, and so on) to get in. Twice I got turned away. Still, the chicken pizza there is good, even if you miss the TV show launch and the jazz session.

Snow song

When the snow falls,
When the walks freeze,
When I'm feeling chilled,
I whip up some cocoa,
and roast some popcorn,
and then I don't feel so cold.

Hot cocoa recipe
4 spoons powdered chocolate, preferably Parisian
0.5 spoon cinnamon, Vietnamese is good
a dash of chili powder, Mexican is best
2 spoons honey, from bees who fly in clover
a dash of salt from the sea
2 cups of water, from a fresh spring

Dal in a Jar

Dal Mahkhani, better known to as my favorite lentil dish, I think is largely vegetarian. Perhaps there is a good bit of cream or butter in the one I love at Rasika. That, rice, and perhaps some curried cauliflower make a complete meal. Last year’s new year’s resolution was to learn to cook lentils. I managed to cook them in water and douse them with the Makhani sauce marketed by Rasika in local groceries. It is tomato-based with herbs and spices. The bottle is far better than anything I can do on my own, but a mere shadow of the restaurant version.

Electrocuted in the elevator

The number "6" had the life punched out of it. You could see the "6" hanging crooked, back to the circuit board, funny-colored wires sticking out like Medusa hairs. I work on floor 6. When I scan my security pass, I find my index finger can't index anything - fleetingly I fear electrocution. Hah! on the elevator on the way to work, what a way to go. My co-workers laugh and quickly hit "6" on the right hand panel of the elevator. Fortunately, that digit still sat courteously punchable in its proper spot on the wall. Watch out for some angry guy, they said, I stepped out into the hallway.

Look, look at the moving picture

The talking portraits of Harry Potter's castle-cum-art gallery are one step closer to reality at the Sackler's exihibit, the Rise and Fall of Fiona Tan. Encased in picture frames, she's filmed her subjects - a nephew, a mother-in-law, a grocer and his son. We see their faces, the signifiers of their lives - bags of dry goods, toys, pieces of art collected on mantlepieces. The style is distinctive, sharp black and white video, a contemplative stillness while moving (how is that possible), the signature of the portraitist. They are on the verge of conversing with us, perhaps in the next genre.

Poste haste to Poste Brasserie

French toast by now is almost old-fashioned - the coffee shops are full of granola and yogurt (in a plastic cup), or perhaps oatmeal (in a thermal bowl), or an egg sandwich (in a wax paper sack), or even the breakfast burrito (wrapped in alum foil). I guess it's the sit-down-with-a-knife-and-fork aspect of it that makes it seem particularly slow food. The best in the neighborhood is Poste Brasserie at the Hotel Monaco. They coffee good, the green tea is even better. For the toast, they use challah bread - doubling, tripling, nay quadrupling the eggy sweet goodness of it all. Life is better, poste haste.

We're just full of water

Shopping at Friendship Heights, at Bloomingdales, actually, I stop for coffee. There's a banner light stuck vertically in the public square. In Times Square it would have lit up messages advertizing the latest play, the latest fashion. In LA, it would carry promotions for the latest movie, the latest sports news. But here, in the nation's capital, in this prime spot, there are letters slowly moving across the banner - "...most of your body is made of various waters, water lubricates and eases chemical reactions..." Would be more exciting to note that we need air to breathe, or that the grass should be green, or that fire is hot? Or shall I stop drinking the coffee?