internal probabilities

we can treat our mind as a huge probability engine. everything we encounter shapes the probability that we will respond in some way. it's this vast expanse of measurements, meters, dials - all these things being toggled by the subtlest of things around us, ever since birth.

so when you're studying, or doing any activity by practice, you're really trying to sway your internal probabilities to behave in a particular way, hopefully to your benefit on the exam/performance. it's about shaping not only the captain of the ship - your conscious - but also the crew members - your subconscious.

everything has been a probability in this universe, too. the probability that a particular star burst and eventually formed particles here and there forming planets and eventually the stardust from who knows where becomes you after probability of probability of probability of events occurring.

then where does free will come in? in this model, there is no free will. we model the human and any other living or nonliving thing as the result of events, which each have probability. you raise your hand in the air, you claim to do it by free will. but no. your existence was a probabilistic occurrence, and the occurrence of a neuron firing an electric signal from your brain to cause your arm to raise a probabilistic thing. a roll of dice: the result something measurable by the probability of those physical phenomena that caused that dice to exist and your hand to toss it like so.

a bit depressing, then, to have no free will? not really. a recursive element comes in when we recognize what we are. as probability machines, we decide what kind of internal probabilities do we want to toggle within us? this decision itself is a result of some probability, but it triggers and we suddenly have this recursive understanding of ourselves. we have created a paradigm through which to view our thoughts.

when do probability machines become self-conscious? similar to when does nothing but circuitry in a robot give the robot self-awareness? when we can re-evaluate how we are doing. there is some threshold in reasoning that lets us recognize ourselves. some "level 1." but a level 2 would be diving into this paradigm, perhaps - seeing ourselves as probabilities.

but then again, this is just a paradigm. 'probability' is an invented notion. how will we ever cease inventing terms that define how we perceive reality? we have no way of knowing what reality is; we only approximate it by our definitions, which shape our views. this probability view of the mind is just another, but maybe there's something more to it. a model for ourselves that will maybe be correct in creating intelligence on our own.

what's the point? how do we live our lives - as just the results of probabilities? well it certainly creates a nice thing to blame screwing up an exam on. you just didn't sway your internal probabilities to do enough in the face of particular problems at a particular time and place.

if anything this creates a potential lens through which we may look at the world. it shapes how we behave, how we create. having multiple lens is good for viewing different situations. I don't know if there's a correct model, but this might help us do things we cannot yet articulate.

Improv on piano - how do you combine both hands and guarantee it sounds good?

Theory is amazing (in music, math, anything...): it lets you be lazy.

Know the key/basic chord progression, and play within it as the melody moves along. Simple as that.

The recipe for making up a piano rendition of a pop song:

Basic Chord/Key Progression + Ability to play melody by ear with few/0 mistakes + Creative movements within the current key

Basic music theory helps then - knowing your scales and chords and arpeggios and whatever.

Simple is good. Something that feels dead simple, like an arpeggio in the left hand while you play the melody in the right, sounds beautiful to most other listeners. And it should sound beautiful to you - when you realize how such a simple mechanism can yield such beautiful music.

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the Pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll.

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul. 

-William Ernest Henley

(Source: http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/invictus/)

a deep breath / the mid state

take a deep breath before you plunge back in...

--

you won't find anything here, just worn out tapestries with the masking tape peeling off the walls leaving sticky marks. why keep reading when this is an abandoned place already? just a ghost wanders around amusing himself.

--

ready. the air is still seeping in.

skip around on the periphery of the castle walls, hearing the politics echo faintly and die down by the whistle of leaves from the woods. enjoy the fruits of management without being exposed to the underlying superficiality, the concoctions of trophies and medals and certificates and praise - without stepping too close to the reality of emptiness, the driving inventions that push ourselves on in a tower of glass that is shattering everywhere (but we can't see the cracks as we walk up the spiral staircase). all in all, enjoying the small creations they create for legitimacy (which are indeed necessary to sustain the organization) and appreciating the thought that goes into this complex management. they are amazing and I can learn from them.

a faint member, something between an outcast and a homely chef tossing suggestions under the cooking wall partition. a pleasure to be in the mid state.

--

proceed.

sharpen

dry fig leaves chase each other in circles as we walk through the parking lot. nods of the head embody our silent approval of each word that passes between us. a splay tree rearranges itself with each thought we exchange. (our mind - so we can better access topics relevant to the other person faster.)

it's fun versus enjoyment: the spikes of silliness and the steady peaceful happiness that changes over the years. the latter begins to dominate the former. is fun an important thing to maintain? or is enjoyment fine - or better?

--

complacency is the enemy in times of minimal conflict. always strive to do better. but then again there's no need to stress out. this mindset

pensive twirls of the pen in hand, background rain generated from the computer, a void to fill or a chasm to empty - not sure what's happening. need to stay sharp - no, get sharper.

--

'carry your world.'
'sometimes the wire must tense for the note.'
'the wheel breaks the butterfly.'
behold: a faint emotional twist that sharpens your awareness of yourself. we live in an egg designed for us to be ready when it hatches. the whole point is to mature.

--

I wanted closure, but couldn't find any. someone steps out of the shadow and startles me - but it's just law, twig in mouth, blade sheathed in belt. we walk over to ev's where we find her reading a book to background music. 'some search for gold,' she tells us as we step through the door. 'what are you here for?' we say nothing and sit down - just to enjoy each other's company. the cool night air kisses the back of my neck through the window. law sits still with a calm smile as he watches her snap her book shut and raise her eyebrows back. 'others want a dragon to slay,' law says. 'but we don't really - because once we see one, we'd rather it not be there.' we decide to carry our conversation to the woods.

a masked hunter lurks in these woods. law and ev know he could get them, snipe them down with his lethal spear or whatever he throws, but they walk on, knowing they're invincible. because the pen is with them. the writer of the fight.

let the fight come as it may. when law and ev blink in the same moment, a dagger twirls like lighting from bushes far away. I watch as it comes closer, a slow moving metallic piece of art. law sees it - and lets it come. it hits him hard in the chest. but no penetration: the thrower had miscounted his steps. 'you're supposed to throw at an odd number of paces away, sir,' law grins. 'not even.' the dagger is his now, and the hunter is still in hiding, one weapon short. ev does that thing with her eyebrows again to see if law will hunt back. he doesn't. just stashes the blade in his ever growing collection, and we walk on.

'so what dragon are we talking about today?' asks ev. 'the one found in books,' I say, thinking about the billions of stories I'll never get to read. 'the one that builds invisible walls against totalitarianism in the real world by breathing fire through the pages.' law and ev both nod. we reach a cliffside and sit down. the hunter won't bother us here. in fact, he couldn't bother us anywhere.

the moon is above us; the city, below, taking long, long sips of the cool moon. the city, sleeping in its soft glow of lights in the valley, the fog a pillow to the peaceful inhabitants inside. a dragon could have swooped down and perched on a cliff ledge, wrapped its wings around itself for warmth. as I think this, it happens, and ev points and laughs, leans forward to watch the spectacle. law wraps his arm around her and they smile peacefully at the sight. 'maybe there could be a dragon, but no one needs to slay it.' pause. tilt my head upward. wispy clouds stroke the moon. 'suppose so.'

Improv Tips

the key: standards. we go into it with too high expectations of how great our improv should be.

strategy: restrict yourself to only play a few notes, say the notes of the dominant seventh. ex: F, A, C Eb.

improv doesn't have to be complex or fancy - the simple tunes, even using only a few notes, can be impressive without the performer even realizing it.

over time expand your range of notes.

standard jazz notes to improv on ex: Ab, Bb, C, D, Eb, F, G, Ab, Bb...

quick python/django/heroku reminders

heroku run python
heroku run python manage.py <some command>

e.g.

heroku run python manage.py sql polls
heroku run python manage.py syncdb

heroku run python manage.py shell

# shell stuff
d shell
>>> from polls.models import Poll, Choice

arise

the city sleeps

behind a sagging gate
taking cool sips of the moon

(or the official:)

Past a sagging gate
Of stars the city takes long
Sips of the cool moon

--

night has fallen
into itty-bitty pieces
we stoop down
to piece together the sky
the broken cookie of the moon

--

the creamy white light is pasted on the wall next to my bed, partitioned into a poisson distribution by the tilted blinds. soft sky drips through the window to stir me awake. the sky's delicate hum sinks into my still form, a whisper of the day to come.

echoes slip under my bed and bounce about my room; fall through the openings in the sky and dance about the earth.

soft sky drips

through the window

pasting light on the wall

heaven's whispers

sink into my ears

calling

--

hmm, the air has been very still each of these nights. I wonder if there's a storm coming. the sky has been quite a cycle.

capture the uncapturable: what do I do with all these melodies? I'm not sure how to reach an audience, what audience even, and what my message is. if I can finalize my message for the world, the one thing I want to communicate to the world, to help the world - what would this message be?

hearts and halos

the sharp twists of light in the alleyway as we walk with our jackets tightly wrapped around ourselves... it's a sharp flare inside us that churns our hearts' melodies into song, and we feel the emotion pouring out each note, even if we are out of breath and breathe in a vacuum. the universe is too beautiful to turn away from, to join herds of mundanity in supposed "fun"; I feel drawing closer to the restless pursuit, to the tying of my hearts and hands to the halo far, far above: to not be insane, but driven, and so driven that I may dim the lights to hear the silence; shut my eyes to taste the stillness; snipe the lying laughter through the window; climb this tree such that the clouds are but molten rock, and the stars are christmas lights to change the light bulbs for. 

my weaknesses are my ties to gravel.

--

it's time to boil fire, stir guilt and shame into a mixed broth to tear down your throat, squelch the flames of smoke from fire breathing creatures, and snap fingers to the shadows cast on the walls. this time around, it feels like a tennis match, and I have lost the first set; so, we snap back, and hit harder. (a dry mindset, but one to have as I stamp the gravel beneath and march about the dried shrubs.)

--

ransom notes keep falling out your mouth

--

he tightens the straps of his pack
takes a final sip of frivolity
checks that his bottle is filled with solitude
enough to slake any yearning for peace

--

the memories drool out the corner of his mouth
each time he opens to speak
melting to nothing?

our words were like wisps of air, or thin smoke, startling the lungs but never reaching the blood cells. a cheery heart, at least, carried our smiles, however quickly the hope evaporated.

--

"we live on an island surrounded by a sea of ignorance. as our island of knowledge grows, so does the shore of our ignorance."

some people swing from tree to tree at the heart of the island, playing monkey bars with the branches, vines eagerly in hand. the island is a jungle, a playground. others hear the shore, the waves crashing by, and seek the sand between their toes, the water massaging their feet. they build sand castles on the edge, hoping to extend the island, to grow the mystery we were put on; but doesn't the shore occasionally bring a wave that crashes the castles? wipes them clean away?

two crafts

would you rather be the lone person crafting away at the stars with his chisel, or the accompanied person walking about the earth in plain shoes? what is the connection between impassive pursuit and grand realization?

--

don't you dare get on that escalator. ...and don't you dare get on that subsequent escalator.

--

soft oceanic words breathe with deep scars in the raspy tone we feel: it makes us tremble, shiver to the cold disregard. yet we feel ever warmer to the smile of those who truly mean it. cobwebs are cleared up by those bright happy emissions - and we experience this clearing, this catharsis, this explosive freedom because we had the luxury to be trapped, the luxury to have ourselves nebulized by the silvery glinting art of nature. law twirls the dagger in his left hand while his right brushes aside the cobwebs with his lance. he marches on through dark woods, light falling on tree gaps. a hermit sits on a stone clipping his nails with a thin blade... law, without hesitation, throws his lance far off, letting it scare a flock of birds and draw the hermit's attention. then law dashes, silent as a shadow, by the hermit's side and steals the blade right out of his hand - the hermit in all his distraction at the strange noise from the lance.

the thief slips away, twirling a new blade. satisfaction on his lips.

-- 

a shadow's embrace is enough to elicit warmth from the parts of you that you never feel touch see or think about. the subtle parts about you that exist only because others are there to observe it: it is the cloak you were born wearing and never took off; the scent of your heart that you've breathed so often, you filtered it out of consciousness. if you look in the mirror, you can't see it. but others can.

--

the spark of a howl sharpens the night rays immensely. law walks about with his sword, brushing aside branches to gaze into the sunlight. wood oak melts around him. it's an imaginary world I've put him in, and he prances around knowing his demise is the same as mine. we chain together our souls as I write and release and he walks and wields his weapon. the adventures are open doors before us.

strings. and the beginning.

chaining together the metal cuffs of art, language, creation: streams of music, threads of nightingale thoughts swooping in to bind each new link - bursts of sunrise in the reflection of the stream over solid stone brooks with water dashing along; breathless air condensing on soft grass in mornings as they walk that stoop to examine the standing puddles on structure. the infinity of chains that we can generate is so fascinating - so much to uncover, the raking garment soft and silky in a nightly piercing amid throngs of brooks dribbling along in woodlands. probably time to reanimate those silent characters bursting inside: law, aubury, troy - they wander about too, looking inside them for something more, searching around them to gather specks of inspiration. they're alive again, and they'll appear shortly.

--

incontinent of rage - the restless growl of ferocious eyes in a dark cave; that creature lurks there, the ring on its clenched fist reflecting the lack of light. much too chained and withheld in this state, this box, crossing and lying... it's not right. a place to hide with your instrument and play to your peace falls asleep the creature there, boiling dry its insides in its snores and masking the smooth smoke from its nostrils:

we meet in the parlor, shake hands, and agree to sit for a half-meal. we split an appetizer, and she claims to have the perfect portion - although she wolfs it down to the other's raised eyebrows. "you speak in everything you don't say," law mutters, and she shrugs, smiles a bit, and laughs back: "a fool-hearted gown you wear under your armor: what, are you the bride for a wedding?" the blade of his weapon lurks behind him, the rage boiling under callous skin. "what of it, ev?" law responds. the knife is behind his back, not for assassination, but not for her protection either. rather, for his own containment. "I am disappointed that my happiness may be nothing more than a series of chemical reactions; that my behavior is dictated by physical reactions, that I am trapped in a 'vesicle', that my most profound experiences can vanish by an electric missile fired through my brain. that I may be upset simply for not eating after some time, or that tiresome felt burst is nothing but lies in incandescent furies in soft-taken gushes of black." ev looks up. her plate is clean. a raised eyebrow, a murmur, a touch, a sigh. you speak in everything you don't say. "taste the air a moment, and enjoy it; you would be unable to otherwise. is that something you want to give up?" a toast to the air, earth, and soul then: a toast to this dungeon we're trapped in - because it gives us the ability to feel. law sheathes the blade, wraps his coat about himself, and departs. that fire is still burning and I can feel it warming my hands, but setting alight broiling night thoughts; angst crowds the clouds, and pours daggers to dodge. the puddles are the graveyard. meaningless. law approaches, picks up a blade, tosses it behind him. no one would be there to be harmed. we meet, silently walk together across puddles. ev watches us go, shakes her head. "what nonsense is this writer pulling out of the hat now?" she wonders - "what kind of dream space am I trapped in, that knives rain from the sky and law walks through with the author in dialogue?"

--

'tell me, please, about yourself: about the quibbles that have brought me here to assist you?' law turns to me and asks as we walk through the knife-fallen night. I breathe darts into the air, and they all miss the bullseye. 'if the universe holds truth to so many people through a book - an idea - and the mere belief in currency can drive economy, why should you not exist - an entity to believe in, another character like Above, so as to accompany my spirit?' 'makes sense,' he replies, and we plod on, kicking aside blades that stabbed the earth. 'people pray to the universe, to a grand creator; from belief comes value. don't pray for me, but certainly, we both understand that this existence... is valuable.' we pause briefly and look behind us: evelyn has decided to not follow - she has probably returned home. the clouds above look as though more knives will fall, but none do. a thrust of insanity, maybe, blending fiction and reality? 'nonsense.' Should I write publicly about those things, or do I have anything to fear? I may be misunderstood, but perhaps the world could benefit from some insight from what goes on in someone's mind... experimenting with language. law reads my thoughts, checks the knife at his belt, comparing it to some of the fallen ones. he decides his own is the best. 'lost entities, we're both real in some way... let me know if you need anything.' we split paths, and a troubling heartache begins pouring out snowy cold winters.

looming

that little voice, with the chord: its tonic note dipped into the past, its mediant and dominant taunting you in the present. it's the curse of competition, that feeling of self-worth hindered by the tonic. our roots, where we came from, where we learned to be competitive and win – only to see now that sharp disparity in ability and measurement, practical skill and particular enterprise: aware of my weakness, binding my knees and tying my hands behind my back - the knot rooted at the root of the chord.

vanquishing those looming clouds and trophy-white histories would be a good idea, but I'm much too immersed now; are these excuses I'm making, or reality of feeling? it's been embodied in the way the crew steers the ship. is this a flaw, is this a pit in my heart that should be filled with naiveté as fake fuel, or should it be something else? what changes now? a lack of maturity may be the source - too much affected by the weather, the looming past, that long-faded tonic chord. nothing is quite wrong: it's just too much caring about observances, respect.

taking drift wood by the waters and crafting them into a raft, soaking up the sand heat up through your toes, carving away at the earthy firm stone, blending water with sabotaged heat from slack in cold heart drifting boats, sipping the leaky spots that the boat endeavors to hide. we feel the boat sink slowly into the water until the wood is the crewmen taken down by the ship, while individual pieces could have floated along on top - it's being chopped and bound together that the whole thing sinks

--

is the enjoyment of creating proportional to the enjoyment of consuming? one is harder than the other by far... stories we love to consume, but creating them is quite a challenge. yet people do it - can I strive for a particular story? are there invisible characters I want to bring to life in writing, people who follow me wherever I go? an "imaginary friend" - but it must be someone very real, someone who's circumstance transcends time. or I revert back to coding, engineering things toward a more tangible result. but these are all areas I want to delve in. the characters: the team, really, it's the dynamic I want to carry with me in my journey, people to entertain and be with. what characters? humor is a must: a lonely male intellectual, a flagrant opinionated beauty, a modest normal lazy guy obsessed with war, conflict, battle; all friends, or also enemies?

--

language-based models are applied to graphics! think turtle graphics and tree grammars and generative rules: Koch curve, Koch snowslake, Hilbert curve, Sierpinski gasket
involved in the generation of trees - and why not the rest of nature too? by studying language closely, we uncover the truth of everything... and randomness/probability seems to be involved. this is remarkable.

Google Keep - are archived ideas still reminded?

Yes.

I just tested it with a dummy archived reminder, and yes, it reminds you.

The reminder pops up when you have the Keep tab open. If you have a reminder at 10:30am, and the tab is closed, but you open the tab at 11am, the reminder just pops up.

If you have some google device - like a nexus 7 - it just shows up as a notification.

empire

big things of interest to you these days:
-accessibility for the blind
-natural language parsing, decipherment/probability
-improving government/financial systems, transparent processes and laws

--

turn things alive: animate!

perhaps the repetition of terms is not sharpening your mind. create novel stories, characters

--

a strange dream of hallucinations in mirrors and an imaginary house that seems like a familiar face: stairs that wind down, a grand 2nd floor with bedrooms going north, soggy white carpet by the foot of the stairs, a room with a maroon lay-back couch, the adorned white wall partition
the familiar people seated about the house: why were they all there?

--

the blae snowflakes crumble to rice grains at their feet, voicing concerns in government. should we consign those nutrients to the soil there, or sap woodwork from the floor to taste minuscule breadths of thread dripping ink onto floorboards and whisking knives out of air - captioned lyrics in a sunday song. agonizing over wheat bread that was distributed the wrong way. we mirror what drives ourselves and suppose greed runs in the veins of the invisible hand. maybe just put our hands to work building that old tree house - promised, a nice idea, never realized. it's that soaking feeling in the morning that collapses our heart sinew into pieces that freeze up and become those blae snowflakes that drift and drift, fallen leaves in autumn until they place themselves on the ground, to vanish without support, or grow into a civilization if others follow suit. invented value - if you believe in it, it will work: the currency of snow. gathering to construct an empire out of the lonely shards scattered from the sky - only to melt into puddles by time. a meager earning of purity sapping out wonders of spoken parses, tongues tickling at the frozen sharp edges wanting to be cut, the flow of sucre fattening the artist's whim as he tries to search for construction, not destruction, of worlds in the head. not enough - can't explode out the nightingale that swoops about in my head; can't find prey to dive for, in those lonely woods.

a fork in the road

the ivory tower, the ground at your feet;
talking to stars, marching down streets;
lying back on a boat, drifting – musing with the wind and clouds,
grabbing the rhino by the horns and steering it across the earth;

truthful yearning, mindless matter.

do you search for it, or stumble across it?

soft detachments

the captain is the conscious; the crewmen, the subconscious. sometimes the crewmen don't obey the captain. and your mind (the ship) is out at sea, drifting along as usual.

--

silence is soft when touched, at least in this area of the woods, this nightwalk by the ocean; a cloth draped as light silk streams from the sky. others peer through, and their eyes happen on you, but they don't see you. everyone holds a dark flower inside in obscurity.

it has become quite apparent - it is apparent - (why chain this way, drawing it out, vs brevity? there must be a reason, some information theoretic urging the mind inclines) that this budding plant has roots drawing water from a different river, not this gamely one that your peers seep from. absorb alone, as usual: the melodies speak.

--

to draw out tense and use language that supplants I and You for disembodied entities, ghost replicas, cracked mirrors that cast zis projection onto those walls. Zi need a new tense to express these detachments; perhaps prefix with Z?

--

the g# minor scale makes me think of a green frog leaping from e to g. synaesthetic tingling like this carves out an abode in this mind there, a niche to sleep in, on occasion awakening to bounce off the walls and stir a boiling broth. maybe play with a toy shotgun to shoot at mundane thoughts

--

quiet and driven. eras of your life, pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. we piece them together with passing hours and tastes of days, snapping our fingers to the rhythm of muses and treading water to the poseidic waves, streaming thoughts rolling over pebble-crumbled skittles, sand sprinkled amid a fresh spring scent in our nostrils, casting pi-light alight in grisly walls glazed with petal honey. bursts of flavor stream air through the calm caverns of your mind as nutrients replenish the charred paths; the stream whittles away the brook bend, carving out meanders as we grow up. what next era of life awaits? what unthinkable transformation will come next?

--

the poor lady who walked by: I'm so sorry. the pain isn't from lack of food; it's lack of prospect. lack of respect, even, in a deceitful world: 'if you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken / twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools...'

--

the fire inside does not burn from

lighter fluid dripping from your spirit; 

hydrocarbons bond from the tossing of words when we meet, and explosions of ideas in our exchanges; and that is what stirs the boiling pot, lights the crevices under the doors we consider, snaps sparks on bomb cords; melds inspiration with activity. to meet with you is quite necessary, then.

how nice it would be to dive on a whim deeply into some vast expanse and to thrash about the waters and sink into the sand with no restrictions on time - only the vast energy bursting, plunging you deeper as the earth's crust thins and you melt to join it, plumbing its depths with curiosity

temple

sometimes our hearts are vacuums, yet we still try to pump out silk and fabric - weave them together so blithely so, molecules of strings vibrating in a space of air; tranquilize that organ, steal that masterpiece: sweeter things are when lost, as dust they turn to when you hold it in your hand, while in your head they rise to the heavens when vaporized. it's enough to split the dust and examine it, wondering where the love went. it's still there. it's a trick of the head, the trick of false firings and waving white flags. a kind of dazed state of mind, a kind of heat. perspicuous arguments magnetize sweat from the forehead, perspicacious and penetrating judgement generates truths that "knaves may twist to make a trap for fools"; no shadows of talk can trick the child who fearfully hides under the blanket, yet fear is there nonetheless.

'this is an internal dialogue between you and me. something between a cry for help and a prayer of peace.'

the skull becomes more porous at night, even more so when you clasp your hands together and bow down to think to the universe (think 'to', the preposition, yes, because we are sending thoughts there, like the french 'y penser'). drums also slow their beat - esp. the one inside you, rims need tightening in sleep so the rim shot can sparkle tomorrow; narrow time and black words are plastered by the drumbeats and rhythms, and we read the words by feeling with our breath.

a gift of productivity - I am grateful, and you should be too, each time I think to you at night. unfortunately the feeling of the black words plastered across the heart string rhythms is one-way, non polynomial time, so one of us never knows if the other has felt the tune, tasted the rhythm, tapped the beat. all the more reason to continue singing, tapping, playing, so that silk and fabric might become a garment for the porous skull that thoughts keep dripping out of.

--

thinking too much of myself recently, imagining and dreaming; need to cloak my identity from my conscious, listen for the sound of brooks despite the waterfall.

--

poets search for humdingers in their works, to spellbound the audience; incantation in writing is a sin, but colored truths are acceptable.

--

trills and vocals
why not mark our feelings with verbs? run, fall, dash, crumble. categorize your life into the slow directory and the fast trajectory. cd .. && rm -r destroy && mkdir destroy && cd destroy && cmake .. && make && ./destroy and rinse and repeat. sharpen your tongue with dialects only written, never spoken.

room number TBA

where narcissists meet, dripping tongues turning poetry into grease, saliva drenching the page with wholesale slaughter, red ink turning blue. crass undergarments toss and turn beneath silky fabric. the air is hot with humid words as they sit with their perfect posture and imperfect tense; with the implied tea on the table - as shallow as the ink on the page, depths plumbed nought. eyes glued to their own work alone; the egotistical disregard numbs their already callous hands, hands spent twiddling the pen and patting their own backs as they dabble words onto the page and stand back and smile. and now they meet, trilling to their inaudible tunes and hearing but not listening to the noise of others. symphonies lost in the chasm.

locks put on their hearts and veils over their eyes and ears and dented chests (punched by some ravage of the past), they throw away the key into the cups of tea and drink them to their veins and absorb the key into blood that spills on the page. quite chilling - the words they say, filling up their bosoms with triumph while disaster is the dew settling on the leftover glass, the previous day. slivers of ocean hearts and starfish wheels pillowed on moments of trinket-trades and glinted laughter.

a crazed spiral can be seen in their eyes, a worm wiggling its way around the brain, wrapping up thoughts and leaving trails of gush and gore on the membranes, the creases, the cracks; electricity is zapped out of it by then. frail and dry, ideas parched of rain water, puddles form at their feet as rain soaks them through the skull into dreadful locks. and they've swallowed the key, and so continue to wallow about in a foggy pride shadowed by shame, touching at the toes (they bow their heads to look). meaningless release of vehement despair and electric tunnel fraught with self-indulgence and blanket stares and a cataclysm of shouts and nightwalks alone, an earth-shaken peace that freezes the tongue that still drips with solipsist pride and suspicion and scorn of the paper slip ideas that glaze across their eyes. still trapped yet free in their vocal objectives and questionable merit. in the room, they meet and continue to drawl the slaughtered words they dug out of a pit and shined and hyped. but the words are still corpses, and they (the writers too) are shells.

try and try we might; it's a fluid war with slimed language ripped from dark corners of your head, visible if you beam through the gaps in your eyes. 'is someone there?' no. 'anything there?' no. fake tarnished ideals sullied by the self.

Benefits of learning to code

it teaches...

• patience
• persistence
• precision
• e.g., asking precise questions, being meticulous with what you write
• ability to play detective
• debugging
• creativity
• skill in filtering information
• deciding what's important as you scavenge the web for answers
• curiosity
• wondering, why does that work? as you scavenge the web
• ability to think high level and low level
• the little details versus the big picture
• prioritizing
• focus
• and once you're at it for a while, when and how to take breaks. how to keep your mind fresh.

Overloading << in C++

This error was pretty annoying in the linking stage as I was compiling my C++:

duplicate symbol __ZlsRNSt3__113basic_ostreamIcNS_11char_traitsIcEEEERK10Notation in:
    CMakeFiles/project1.dir/TwoTagExample.cc.o
    lib_notation_lib.a(Notation.cc.o)

I thought I was following all the rules and even thought maybe I was using a name already defined in some deep C++ library... I mean I was compiling with

clang++ -std=c++11 -stdlib=libc++ -g TwoTagExample.cc Helper.cc Notation.cc

(extra options for things like initializer_list and such).

Apparently I was overloading the << operator wrong. I thought I could put the implementation right in the .h file, but you have to implement it in the associated .cc/.cpp.

Bad Notation.h file:

class Notation {
  static const string GIVEN_DELIM;
  ...
};
ostream& operator<<(ostream& out, const Notation& n) {  // NO.
  return out << n.repr();
}

(The thing is this overloading works fine if you put the class and overloading function in a .cc/.cpp file, which was what I had in this hack of a project initially. But once I moved to a .h – nope.)

Good Notation.h file:

class Notation {
  static const string GIVEN_DELIM;
  ...
};
ostream& operator<<(ostream& out, const Notation& n);  // Yes.

(Good) Corresponding Notation.cc/.cpp file:

#include "Notation.h"

const string Notation::GIVEN_DELIM = "|";
...

ostream& operator<<(ostream& out, const Notation& n) { // Yes.
    return out << n.repr();
}

no one likes uninformative errors... but at least they make you play a good detective game.

Other reasons you might be getting the "duplicate symbol" error: more likely than this, you reused a method or variable name somewhere in the .h (shouldn't be defined twice) or across header files. Or you forgot your header guards (those #ifndef #define things that should be in header files but I left out for brevity here).

torn

things are tearing at each other, as usual: a fuse lit there, a dreary walk under the moonlight, soft sounds to your ears; music doesn't burn but it does set on fire, in some calm way, sparks bouncing about; occasionally one flies out and stings and the water begins running, but other times it's the soft nothingness that suffocates the air dry of beauty. so you have to make an effort to paint the walls green and the floors flowery colors while you dance about with that silver in your hand, each breath a musical sigh, even the inhaling a rhythm that snaps together deaf colors around you; a spitting mess of walking about alone, crumpling seams – the ground doesn't shake when you play, but you feel the earthquake with each thunderous thought, spontaneity popping out of your fingers and grilled dry napkins left to clean up the mess; we are too much shaped by that tunneling sound of planes overhead and walls pushing in, but you hide in the corner with your book or instrument or pen and paper and express the hell out of that nightmare wound imploding everywhere inside and everywhere invisible too; "don't make thoughts your aim" as you scribble about knowing the paper will vanish just as each musical note vanishes with ...

your breath. my breath. it's all the same, recycled about in the waste of expression – to capture that taste again and feel it yank all the life out of you so you are dead but your work is alive; "to be great is to be misunderstood"; no more boundaries, no more soft light pilfering the darkness, a droplet of thoughts in an ocean; what does it take to boil it all and shoot it up to the sky to rain upon the billions who miss all the beauty here – fireworks

Flute piece position to reduce wrist pain

I found that my left wrist had been hurting more and more after holding the flute for a while. It turns out (according to http://www.jennifercluff.com/lineup.htm#align) a good number of professional flute players recommend aligning the flute mouth piece in this manner:

"align the far side of the embouchure hole (the striking edge, where the air splits) with the center of the flute's keys."

In my case, my flute has a little arrow/notch indicating the center of the flute keys (highlighted in yellow here):

This is new to me: my mouth piece used to be tilted farther away from my mouth, making my left wrist strain uncomfortably. I had no idea for so long =/. This way, the wrist doesn't have to bend as much.

(Also I feel like I can hit lower notes better now...)

Keep in my mind, as the article linked above says, that this is recommended for most flute players, but doesn't apply to all; it depends on "the formation of the lips, chin, hands, arms and the level of the player's development."

But it works for me.

chains and mountains

the soft mellow tones of my surroundings, the patient air that seeps into and out my lungs. thankful, absolutely, for the new research opportunity: script deciphering with math. "Write for yourself..." this model of peace and quiet churning out thoughts and meditations of the heart, blithely scrapping away thoughts and melting together ideas that were nothing but electricity to begin with; I wonder what will become of thotdrop, really. so many memories to analyze, to search for meaning through.

command-chaining: a novel idea, applied to human habits: could I pull that off? Map our behaviors statistically and provide patterns that easily let us grow and improve – chaining together thoughts infinitely until our physical limits, the jail bars that we stretch our arms through, imprison higher orders of thought: nope, still trying to escape. a hundred years to reach, hundred years of happiness to continue spreading before the vice (virtue?) of life rains upon the imprisoned; when the jail bars melt, the door opens, the chaining of infinite thoughts becomes possible.

mountains upon mountains of silence: a search for utility, shadows in a land with no light: those mountains should be dug up, or buried, or shredded.

but those mountains are right here, growing with every word.

meditations of mind and matter

"To the mind that is still, the whole universe surrenders."

or sleeps, perhaps: in a wistful, rocking-chair sort of way – the grandmother knitting quilts of reality, the fabric of the intangible noumenal world we'll never see, hear, taste, touch, smell;

but maybe we can feel it.

eyes closed, ears plugged, mouth shut, skin cloaked, smell diluted, striving to be as independent of our physical selves as possible - don't think, feel.

--

Is it a skill to find every task interesting? To not be bored by whatever you face... yes.

need to magnify differences so the model carries more decision-making power

mandarin audiobooks would be a good idea. sound is enough

singing techniques: word painting, overtone singing (octave, perfect 5th, then 4th - oscillates, hard to control, like wind chimes)

Is entropy occurring in language? Is language, with its underlyingly precise rules, becoming more chaotic? Or are we approaching equilibrium?

a living response

I feel like a living response to the clockwork that set the universe ticking; a fleeting result of the butterfly effect;

As though everything I do is based on a response to a deterministic set of events. Every breath, every scratch, every thought - a chemical reaction activating physical behavior and certain neural nets in the brain, dominoes toppling over in precise sequence -

Underlying reality

...the ultimate test for how much you put in and the value you get out for eternity; the structure of the human mind as elegant as a tree in the forest, branches swaying with the universe's wind, leaves drifting off with the seasons to be replaced by newfound veins with time.

If you were a god – a creator – you would want the world to be structured. Precise.

(When I write computer programs, I want the code to be structured. Precise. However, I also have an objective in mind, and often, that goal outweighs code cleanliness; so maybe the universe has bugs in it, and we silly creatures are fighting wars as a result, as the ultimate creator threw pointers around and incremented i by one here and there, trying to achieve some bigger purpose that we are slowly crawling toward in the execution of time. I taste the idea but don't swallow it.)

At the same time – even with the grand value you create with tremendous effort, the world may not appreciate that value; it may not reap material rewards. Which is why you must maintain a balance, as usual, for the extant world and the underlying reality you are curious about.

what seething winds shatter this burnt heartfelt menace of liquor that curls the intestines... making you arch forward, in pain, aching inside

There is no meaning to this, yet it is interesting to read. Why?

...

I think humans are hardwired to attach meaning to things; to find meaning everywhere.

Feeling words

Can we measure understanding?
It's one thing to memorize a formula or quote or poem; it's entirely another to internalize it, to feel it, and to act habitually – unthinkingly – based on those principles you feel deep down.

"If you are depressed you are living in the past.
If you are anxious you are living in the future.
If you are at peace you are living in the present."

"You are the music while the music lasts."

These are ideas I feel that I have internalized and am able to apply appropriately to my state of mind – and yet, others I know who are aware of these principles, these simple words, cannot feel the same overflowing happiness inside me. I wish I could radiate the depth of what I feel so they could experience this endless well of joy, calm, peace...

"To the mind that is still, the whole universe surrenders."

If – by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you   

    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,   

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

    But make allowance for their doubting too;   

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;   

    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;   

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

    And treat those two impostors just the same;   

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

    And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

    To serve your turn long after they are gone,   

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,   

    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

    If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,   

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,   

    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

– A poem by Rudyard Kipling

Exploration and discovery.

Words aren't enough to describe; they just trivialize. If we could escape the body at some point and become an electrical signal traveling from physical entity to physical entity; to travel as an unencumbered entity among the stars...

I wonder behind the magic of stringing together words to capture the invisible - the imaginary.

Slivers of inspiration

 - that's what I need to embrace from other people, those who amaze me with their polymathic natures.
Yet at the same time, I need to maintain the intrinsic route I aim for, in improving myself day by day, moment by moment, thought by thought.

Invention - not discovery

I am starting to realize and accept that research is about inventing models that capture the world in some useful way to us. It is not necessarily discovery of anything. It's all invention.

Modeling the world. Inventing things that are useful for more and more cases. Accept it - time is an invention, our whole modes of thought with LANGUAGE is an invention. We only perceive the world in the way that we are cognitively set up to see the world (spacially, temporally, causally). We have no way of knowing if the true world is structured that way. So, we can only invent things that better capture and model our experience.

It's all invention.

Why think that there is discovery, as we have, for instance, "discovered" fire? Sure, we encounter this strange dancing substance that emits heat, but we give it a name - we attach our own coined word, "fire," to it, and let that sit in our minds to satisfy our cognition. Neologisms capture the world for us, and sure, fire has existed before our discovery, so we certainly did not "invent" it... but who says that it was ever to be given a name - something to think of it by? The same with time. We invent a word to allow our cognitions to grapple it as a concept, and so we can wrestle it into our own models of understanding, and so we can manipulate these invented names to further invent.

Is the real world really ever named?

Setting up gtest with cmake

All discussed in the README here: https://github.com/dmonopoly/gtest-cmake-example