In lieu of improvising a world-changing five-page midterm paper on Johann Lukas von Hildebrandt, I've spent my evening running perpendicular to the task at hand. I've been lurking on my message boards, playing hangman, watching the Food Network, etc. etc. I've even started my final essay for the same course (which will be beautiful and candid, for sure).
In my tired hunt for distractions, and upset by the lack of options available for my hangman fix, my hunt through the internet has taken me to WordNet, Princeton's database of the English language. Now I'm excited; I put my paper away and started scribbling out some pre-gaming code that would begin to process through the database. I'd like to tinker with a few ideas regarding natural language processing at some point, though I suspect it won't happen for some time. So my evening was spent playing with words and playing hangman.
The paper never got finished.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Thursday, May 19, 2011
To Any Ready Reader
My primary source of output will be on tumblr henceforth. The interface is more enjoyable and the mode of output readily fits with my ramblings.
http://antiscias.tumblr.com
I'll still be on here from time to time to post my longer segments. There will always be a link through from my tumblr though.
http://antiscias.tumblr.com
I'll still be on here from time to time to post my longer segments. There will always be a link through from my tumblr though.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Between Pontiac and Detroit
I'm a little comfortable here; that is, I am a little comfortable in Auburn Hills, Michigan. Aside from the coastal mentality I'm used to (i.e.: pedestrian lanes, general accommodation in passing each other), I could see myself enjoying the strip mall mindset of the rust belt. That's what is bred here, right? I am somewhere between the old monoliths of the automobile monikers, and they were certainly built on the necessity of the vehicle.
Being conscious of the different industrial revolutions through which these regions came of age, it's easy to see why it is a two mile walk to be anywhere. New England became a global giant during the age of boating, and likewise again in the era of rail; from these growth spurts sprouted the metropolitan coast and the savory pockets of a distinct culture found in rail towns. Michigan however, was born from the ashes of these eras; it became the fertile plant moist and alive on the idea of sprawl; it characterizes how the last seven generations have known America.
I really think the problem with suburban sprawl is an issue of perspective. People are not as inclined to walk, and I think it's that these destinations people are actually willing to go to are too far away. What happens then? you can't really feel sprawl unless you walk through it, and sprawl begets cars which beget sprawl.
Admittedly, I enjoy walking, but it doesn't seem to be the norm. It's a little over a mile's walk to Trader Joe's (do I get hipster cred for buying organic?), and the path takes one by a number of beautiful watershed protected areas. It seems and is nice, but cutting through the middle of these supple young trees and streams is a highway. At some point, someone had come through this region, likely densely wooded and lush, and made the decision to tear down a forest for a quarter-mile strip plaza and highway to border the already-20-mile radius of the Detroit metropolitan area. We've made progress in recent years to return beautiful things to Earth, but we've only stunted the acceleration thus far.
My prescription for all of this is, like all things, to get outside and meditate on a walk. Some things in this world are unmanageable by any standard, but the things we can change are staring us in the face. I am guilty of contributing to the destruction of Earth, and I share that guilt with everyone else, but I don't want to be here for the ship to sink.
Being conscious of the different industrial revolutions through which these regions came of age, it's easy to see why it is a two mile walk to be anywhere. New England became a global giant during the age of boating, and likewise again in the era of rail; from these growth spurts sprouted the metropolitan coast and the savory pockets of a distinct culture found in rail towns. Michigan however, was born from the ashes of these eras; it became the fertile plant moist and alive on the idea of sprawl; it characterizes how the last seven generations have known America.
I really think the problem with suburban sprawl is an issue of perspective. People are not as inclined to walk, and I think it's that these destinations people are actually willing to go to are too far away. What happens then? you can't really feel sprawl unless you walk through it, and sprawl begets cars which beget sprawl.
Admittedly, I enjoy walking, but it doesn't seem to be the norm. It's a little over a mile's walk to Trader Joe's (do I get hipster cred for buying organic?), and the path takes one by a number of beautiful watershed protected areas. It seems and is nice, but cutting through the middle of these supple young trees and streams is a highway. At some point, someone had come through this region, likely densely wooded and lush, and made the decision to tear down a forest for a quarter-mile strip plaza and highway to border the already-20-mile radius of the Detroit metropolitan area. We've made progress in recent years to return beautiful things to Earth, but we've only stunted the acceleration thus far.
My prescription for all of this is, like all things, to get outside and meditate on a walk. Some things in this world are unmanageable by any standard, but the things we can change are staring us in the face. I am guilty of contributing to the destruction of Earth, and I share that guilt with everyone else, but I don't want to be here for the ship to sink.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
What not?
They're getting fatter and stupider you know. They're getting fatter and stupider by the minute. They breath and enervate. They breathe and eat the fat which clogs the brain. My, how they grow: guts stealing mass from brain.
Soon we won't be able to grow, you know. We'll have taken all the space up. Soon we won't be able to go any further than our doors, lest we walk through another's doors. Each half an ounce of mass in the brain is equivalent to limitless activity, yet only makes fifty pounds of fat and flesh. We'll be big we will! We'll fill in our door frames, expand our tubs we will, we'll will our influence on the bruised universe.
Soon we won't be able to grow, you know. We'll have taken all the space up. Soon we won't be able to go any further than our doors, lest we walk through another's doors. Each half an ounce of mass in the brain is equivalent to limitless activity, yet only makes fifty pounds of fat and flesh. We'll be big we will! We'll fill in our door frames, expand our tubs we will, we'll will our influence on the bruised universe.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
With Three Weeks Left
Before college, I ran an angsty Myspace blog which less than subtly described my laggard disposition. I like to believe the music I was listening to was the real epicenter of my writing, with a few sophomoric sentences thrown about to mask my boring days. College changed that habit of mine, albeit marginally; I shut down the first blog, started this one up, and appeared here as frequently as an eclipse masks the sun. I blame The Way of Heaven, for what can I possibly give you, reader, but only that which is communicable? I can't write love, I can't write l'oeuvre.
I'm a college senior now, and in spite of the advising and direction and inspiration and... I come back to November: Father's birthday, Thanksgiving, the semester closing darkly. I am again drawn to dualism and weigh my thoughts heavily on consciousness and existentialism. It's all hypersensitivity, really: I can look out in the murk, see Oneonta shining like a power grid, and despite its flaccid streets I am enamored, in love with nothing at all.
Perhaps its the notion of the heart of an arctic crystal, which I wrote about approximately the same time two years ago. My how so little changes; I am enervated again, awakened to the teetering equilibrium of failure.
I'm a college senior now, and in spite of the advising and direction and inspiration and... I come back to November: Father's birthday, Thanksgiving, the semester closing darkly. I am again drawn to dualism and weigh my thoughts heavily on consciousness and existentialism. It's all hypersensitivity, really: I can look out in the murk, see Oneonta shining like a power grid, and despite its flaccid streets I am enamored, in love with nothing at all.
Perhaps its the notion of the heart of an arctic crystal, which I wrote about approximately the same time two years ago. My how so little changes; I am enervated again, awakened to the teetering equilibrium of failure.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Il y a quatre jours...
As of this publishing, I can safely say that the conscious among our western world has embraced the start of a new year. January first, despite being one of the coldest and darkest days of the year, cruxes the holidays, relinquishing within us the arcane anxieties that well up within humanity during our tribulation. Though I can't speak for everyone, I sense a sort of reverence or austerity in today. Despite the noise and nature of our gathering, watching the snows swirl in a menagerie of light wuthering in the capital region reassured a good end and beginning to the years.
Honestly, a lot has happened this year, and retrospection keeps popping in and out of perspective. I tried to push myself this year, and succeeded, from skipping classes to read a poem, to periodically changing the language of my keyboard to force myself to relearn to type. My grades were mediocre, and more the representative of my inability to focus on even the hedonist pleasures. Christmas was pleasant this year, though I think this might have only been in comparison to everyone else's subdued nature.
It's interesting that in this decade we embraced the rise and fall of multiple sectors of the economy, continued to murder across the globe for the health of the state, and lived in a time of incoherence in art and literature. I lost my childhood, had my adolescence; lost my adolescence, and stuck myself between ages. Music continues on a downward spiral of productivity and sales, and the merchants of cool have a tighter grip on the world than the forces that bind it.
Life may very well be a tragic, inevitably dead existence, that much I've learned from this decade, and from the microcosms that continue to unfold; but as I sit spaced from riding home, daydreaming of cryptographs and protractors, death feels further away than the columns of the Sahara. Four days ago, my sky darkened, and was still alive to the lights and sounds of the great final civilization. So here we are, hurtling toward the darkness as a great comet bowing closer to the sun, and back again into the darker three quarters. May we grow our tastes, and appreciate not the watery blathering of bureaucrats. Enjoy your year!
Honestly, a lot has happened this year, and retrospection keeps popping in and out of perspective. I tried to push myself this year, and succeeded, from skipping classes to read a poem, to periodically changing the language of my keyboard to force myself to relearn to type. My grades were mediocre, and more the representative of my inability to focus on even the hedonist pleasures. Christmas was pleasant this year, though I think this might have only been in comparison to everyone else's subdued nature.
It's interesting that in this decade we embraced the rise and fall of multiple sectors of the economy, continued to murder across the globe for the health of the state, and lived in a time of incoherence in art and literature. I lost my childhood, had my adolescence; lost my adolescence, and stuck myself between ages. Music continues on a downward spiral of productivity and sales, and the merchants of cool have a tighter grip on the world than the forces that bind it.
Life may very well be a tragic, inevitably dead existence, that much I've learned from this decade, and from the microcosms that continue to unfold; but as I sit spaced from riding home, daydreaming of cryptographs and protractors, death feels further away than the columns of the Sahara. Four days ago, my sky darkened, and was still alive to the lights and sounds of the great final civilization. So here we are, hurtling toward the darkness as a great comet bowing closer to the sun, and back again into the darker three quarters. May we grow our tastes, and appreciate not the watery blathering of bureaucrats. Enjoy your year!
Monday, August 3, 2009
Good ol' Oneonta.
Historic Downtown Oneonta, as a title, hits a nerve. It perpetuates the same reacationary mentality you typically find in these small, dead towns, while managing to be the most pompous statement in the area. I do not need to point out that, while Oneonta may have had a history, any town has had a significant history, if it's around to-day. Need I point out Norwich, whose history touts a criminal organization and an aspirin factory, or a real city like Boston, whose countless events have throughout America's history impacted her for better or worse?
Suffice to say, I don't get mad when I hear Boston claiming to have a history; but it's weathered itself long enough to be able to boast such claims, while Oneonta, not so much (and Norwich is even more of a joke).
Like Sun Tzu said in his treatise on war, you cannot hope to win after you've already declared war, you must win before going. Maybe the Oneonta officials could be doing more to create and promote a functional Oneonta, one where oppressive taxes didn't destroy the industrial park.
Suffice to say, I don't get mad when I hear Boston claiming to have a history; but it's weathered itself long enough to be able to boast such claims, while Oneonta, not so much (and Norwich is even more of a joke).
Like Sun Tzu said in his treatise on war, you cannot hope to win after you've already declared war, you must win before going. Maybe the Oneonta officials could be doing more to create and promote a functional Oneonta, one where oppressive taxes didn't destroy the industrial park.
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