Cherubim: "a mountain range out of ever more sacred mountains"

Somehow I've gotten out of the habit of writing my chronicles. I think the angst went out of my existence when my boxes arrived, safely.

I should have taken a picture of them to go with a little elaboration on this last. The contents arrived safely, seemingly without any wear or tear. A few shirts had a few more wrinkles, and one or two books the same, but otherwise everything was intact. My ceramic and grass knicknacks might as well have been riding on cushions of state. The very boxes themselves, however, were in quite rough shape. I had hoped to reuse them in the coming summer (whether I have to store things or just move them to a new domicile on campus) but a substantial fraction of them will not see service again without liberal applications of duct tape; in fact would not have made it with their contents whole without liberal applications of duct tape. For all the bitterly bilious thoughts I've thought at them over the past two weeks, in the end the courier concern came through.

The delivery itself went smoother than planned. They were just plunked without ceremony outside the mail room. I got them from there. Since the mail room was closed that hour, I in fact have not yet signed for my boxes. This would trouble me if not for the "all's well" observation that cools the worry wort living in my heart. It was a bit of a walk. I tried to carry them two at a time, on the hypothesis that it would take forever otherwise and after all when packing them I tried to dilute the book boxes with lighter (less dense) articles. Thus I was never actually carrying three cubic feet of books. (I think my brother just shuddered. My cheeks are forming a grimace just thinking of it.) This was Monday night. I was feeling a little beat up.

Fortunately, another hobgoblin of these pages, Dining Services, finally did something in effort to make themselves merely goblins, namely, open the dining hall for dinner. One or two people have referred to said hall as a cafeteria. I made what must have seemed a pretentious correction. One day soon I will take a camera down with me and show you why 'cafeteria' is too unbecoming for, say, the huge stained glass window dominating the room. It depicts the Seven Liberal Arts (no correspondence to deadly sins to my knowledge) and has a Latin motto inscribed underneath. While we're on the subject, the food is fine. I sense a certain limit to the variety, and they have some rather uninspired dishes floating around. However so far they have had at least one stand-out each day; for example, yesterday's flounder Florentine. I know some of you were worrying about this, or maybe maligning the name of Princeton. (Tiger!-siss-boom-ahh! -- skyrocket cheer -- yes it does; sound it out.) Some more of you possibly feel chagrin that you weren't worrying. This is all right. I worry about myself and you so that you don't have to worry about me, although since I am unreliable you should continue to worry over yourselves as you see fit.

But, we have to go back in time a little bit to pick our story. When we last left our protagonist he was about to embark to a rite of becoming, the Math Department orientation lunch. This trial turned out to be somewhat less a firey Polynesian odyssey than a repetition of many things I already knew. (This seems to characterise every "orientation" I've been to this week, which constitutes, if you haven't been counting, a substantial sample size.) I did see Andrew Wiles. I didn't embarrass myself too badly, else he would have remembered me, and he didn't. Not surprising: I was at the very opposite end of a very long table, with multiple other students leaning forward to look down at his end, thereby obliterating my view.

You may rightly wonder how I know he didn't recall. You can ponder this mystery of the universe while I segue to -- pictures! ... of some buildings. From the top of Fine Hall, the forbidden Professors' Lounge. You need a key to make the elevator go to this floor.

	We begin our tour with the view south-south-east. I know this because I know in which direction the sun moves during the day. Guildenstern would be proud. (Or maybe Rosencrantz.) The large colloseum-like thing on the left is an actual stadium. Otherwise unremarkable. As always, click through for a bigger view.
	Here is an actual sporting field. (It is a jock school, or so I've heard. uhh, tiger-siss-boom-ahh?) The trees are entirely characteristic: you can see them in every direction. It seems that we are in the midst of a clearing in the forest. The railing here runs along the outside of the suite, but these pictures were taken from behind glass -- it was not possible to get outside. It seems there is some concern about depressed mathematicians. I appreciate their consideration. Or perhaps it's just very windy on the twelfth floor.
	The view west. The buildings directly in front are labs (not sure what kind). The double row of trees overlooks a very efficient Graduate College-Fine Hall walk path which I found using the aid of a backward searching algorithm. In the distance you can see Cleveland Tower, where the Graduate College is. (By the way, it turns out it's named after Grover Cleveland, former American President, and was paid for by donations. You can go up to the top of it, too, if you borrow a key to get in.) The thing to notice here is how much smaller this mighty vallation is than the math building.
	The building on the left is Frist Campus Center. It's a nice building in its own right. If it looks "not too small" by comparison, keep in mind it's sitting on a sizeable hill. I know the size of the department's endowment isn't everything, but it's especially delicious when you remember that --
	-- Princeton is a jock school. This behemoth is Princeton Stadium. Yes, directly east of Fine Hall. All it's missing are some pendants, eagles, and an Imperial box.
	This has nothing to do with the previous series. It's the exterior of Alexander Hall, where Tuesday morning's orientation was held. The inside, Richardson Auditorium, is quite striking, but unfortunately my batteries died. That's why this doesn't constitute a separate series. However, since I will doubtless be back here (they have myriad performances throughout the year) we will just have to be patient.

This brings us to Tuesday night in our story and the resolution of a cliffhanger. This was the Math Department reception, a key opportunity to schmooze and eat more cheese than I'll see for the next three months. Since my boxes had arrived I even had something to wear. Things were looking up.

Unfortunately, the flaw so difficult to avoid I feel with respect to it almost fatalistic emerged. This party was far too crowded, being confined to two and a half rooms, not small rooms, but not with few guests, either -- all the faculty, graduate students, some graduate school officials, and associated hangers-on were invited. Consequently it was hot, noisy, and without room to maneuver: my bête noire. I made a valiant try to keep up but somewhere in the second hour my strength started to sap, revitalised only by such nuances as the John F. Nash, Jr. being less than a metre away from time to time.

There was a quite accidental happy ending, whereby a lady who I presume is Andrew Wiles' wife notices me sitting on a couch in the hall as they're leaving and asks if I'm all right. I can think of better ways to get introduced, but considering I fobbed the ball all evening long, I'll take what I can get. Anyway, I spoke with them for a few seconds. Very pleasant people. He is quite soft-spoken but confident. When asked after my interests (the fourth question everyone asks, behind (1) what program; (2) what year; (3) where from) he even suggested a course I should look into this term. If I understood him correctly, he meant something entitled The Langlands Correspondence in the Bad Characteristic. I have no reason to believe that I misheard him other than the obvious -- that title is all the more intimidating to me than to you because I "know of" the Langlands correspondence.

That, by the way, is due to Robert Langlands, member of the Institute for Advanced Study, proponent of the system of conjectures called the Langlands program, and, incidently, formerly of Vancouver.

Suddenly I'm thinking of going to bed. Certainly I've left out some things which I will get to anon. (Somehow this story ended two days ago?!) But I should explain that skyrocket thing before you think I'm just batty. (Batty-plus-something-else, now --) Here's the exegesis, lifted shamelessly from this page on Princeton iconography.

This Princeton cherub is calling out the Princeton skyrocket cheer, which was adapted from the cheer of the New York City’s Seventh Regiment in the Civil War. As those troops traveled through Princeton on their way to Washington in 1861, they captivated the College’s students with their cheer, which was supposed to imitate the sound of fireworks: “sis,” the rocket zoomed into the sky; “boom,” the explosion; and “ah,” the crowd expressed its pleasure for the resulting light show. “Tiger” was a frequently used word in cheers of that era and soon caught hold at Princeton College, where athletic teams often wore orange and black. By the 1890s, the skyrocket cheer was transformed into the “locomotive,” a chant whose word repetition and increasing speed emulated the sound of a train pulling out from a station: “Rah, rah, rah; tiger, tiger, tiger; sis, sis, sis; boom, boom, boom; ah!” [followed by three shouts of “Princeton!” or class numerals]. The unknown artist of this 1909 postcard incorporated Princeton iconography with more generic, spirit-evoking images of the day—cherubim and football.

It almost makes me want to go to one of these sporting occasions, just to see if it's real. And then leave promptly, of course. Especially if it's basketball. I don't know if they play baseball here.