Voraciously, though for no particular reason, learning about decision stumps, Ada-Boosting, Gradient Trees, LPBoost, Brown and XGBoost. What will become the path in 5, 10 years?
A tiger was shot on a Paris street today. It had escaped from a circus ~ the Borman-Moreno. A tragedy soon to be ignored, all too soon; it averted other tragedies, very possibly. It breaks my heart a little, or should I say a lot. I feel very sympathetic to it, in a way I cannot explain. It is this man-beast affinity that exists at a very deep, primeval level. Something mysterious unites us with strange affection for these large felines which occasionally prey on us. Hemingway saw it in the leopard, inexplicably high up there, wandering in the snows of Kilimanjaro. And Borges saw fit to leave us the story of the writing of the god… in it, in his timeless imprisonment by the Spaniard conquistadores, a Maya priest experiences a single mystical revelation from his cell window in the spots of a captured jaguar. It is a flash, this secret of uncanny proportions. Yet in all his newly acquired wisdom, the priest chooses to keep, rather than use, the fourteen-word formula that summons all divine forces which could free him. For he has accepted his own destiny and the futility of human design against fate. Fortunately, we have love, and that is all we need.
Il tempo vorace oltre a noi distrugge ogni cosa.
Two fragments evoking the once legendary, now nearly forgotten Irish maiden Deirdre of the Sorrows:
Last night sad and pining as I lay reclining,
Sleep at last came twining bands around my soul.
Then a maiden slender, azure-eyed and tender,
Came, me dreamt, to render lighter my sad dole.
~ from ‘Slainte Righ Searlas’, 1783 by Eoghan Ruadh O’Sullivan, and converted to English verse by Clarence Mangan.
[…] With crimson gleaming, the dawn rose beaming,
On branchy oaks, nigh the golden shore.
Above me rustled their leaves, and dreaming,
Methought a nimph rose the blue waves o’er.
Her brow was brighter than stars that light our
Dim, dewy earth, ere the summer dawn.
But she spoke in mourning—’My heart of sorrow,
Ne’er brings a morrow—Mo Buachaill Ban.’
Her teeth were pearlets, her curling tresses,
All golden flowed to the sparkling sea.
Soft hands, and spray-white, such brow as traces,
The artists’ pen with most grace, had she.
Like crimson rays of the sunset streaming,
O’er snowy lilies, her bright cheeks shone—
But tears down fell from her eyes once beaming,
Once queenly seeming, for Buachaill Ban!
~ By Seaghan O’Coilea
Tomorrow, at last, the final cache will be released. Or not.
Surrounded by mist and glowing bridges, I live and love and hope and wait.
Exploring some potentially delicious gastro options in Brooklyn ~ hunting for a dazzling, quiet unicorn, and ridiculous heaps of Bearnaise… but let us get ahead of ourselves. Anticipatory armchair travels ~ you always end much too soon!
Could not find that documentary on Hilbert’s Tenth, Julia Robinson and the Diophantine e’s. Simply not available for streaming – anywhere, not anymore. Hmm. Therefore, until a copy is purveyed from the next source, contemplating a living room projection of an English b&w drama on such a bleaky afternoon ~ perhaps something Brontë-ish; as for the tolerant audience, being 66.6% canine, they will likely not raise any issues.
Past experienced vs past experienced by others… through my entire life I have so often been drawn to nostalgia on memories that were not mine, lived or dreamt by strangers. Good memories, though.
Courtesy of Rutgers, here they are.