R Reference Card for Data Mining:
'via Blog this'
I am a noob R programmer now. This is going to be my lifeline. In addition to learning R, I am training myself to stand up at the computer while doing statistics, data mining, and visualization. It ain't a piece of cake, but it feels good.
17.7.12
4.5.12
Tech and the "eeeuw" factor.
My mouse was skipping a bit so I turned it over to see what gives. There were three skid pads, and they were cruddy with some kind of shit. I scraped it off with my fingernails and the mouse went back to smooth dancing with the formica that was its life partner.
What was that shit? It seemed like gum or glue or a combo of both, with some body stuff mixed in and all grey and eeeuw!y.
Then it occured to me. The mouse was my soul. It was designed to slip around on banal life surfaces, but as it was used in reality, it gummed up over time from really almost invisible detritii. (plural of detritus) (which means the crud that accumulates under a dentist chair after a serious bout of drill biting.)
Then it occurred to me that my mouse was all of technology for everyone in the whole world, and the shit on its skids was the fakery and delusion that built up over time under the best of polished formica intentions.
See, that is how metaphors are born and how dynasties of oppression blossom in the night soil of our dreams. I am busy mousing away thinking that my web browsing and celebrity-saturated voyeurism is my "work" when in fact my work, and the product of my work, is the snotcake defilement of my pristine mouseskids.
So now my mouseskids bore the burden of metaphorizing all of Christianity, in addition to all of technology. See, in Christian terms, the soul is pure but gets moldy and cracked due to the incompetence of our low natures. It needs the fingernail of Christ to scrape off its little teflon skiddies periodically, and once bloody for all at Easter.
Don't even get me started on my mouse metaphor for Nationalism, the IMF, paper currency in general, and Christmas presents.
What was that shit? It seemed like gum or glue or a combo of both, with some body stuff mixed in and all grey and eeeuw!y.
Then it occured to me. The mouse was my soul. It was designed to slip around on banal life surfaces, but as it was used in reality, it gummed up over time from really almost invisible detritii. (plural of detritus) (which means the crud that accumulates under a dentist chair after a serious bout of drill biting.)
Then it occurred to me that my mouse was all of technology for everyone in the whole world, and the shit on its skids was the fakery and delusion that built up over time under the best of polished formica intentions.
See, that is how metaphors are born and how dynasties of oppression blossom in the night soil of our dreams. I am busy mousing away thinking that my web browsing and celebrity-saturated voyeurism is my "work" when in fact my work, and the product of my work, is the snotcake defilement of my pristine mouseskids.
So now my mouseskids bore the burden of metaphorizing all of Christianity, in addition to all of technology. See, in Christian terms, the soul is pure but gets moldy and cracked due to the incompetence of our low natures. It needs the fingernail of Christ to scrape off its little teflon skiddies periodically, and once bloody for all at Easter.
Don't even get me started on my mouse metaphor for Nationalism, the IMF, paper currency in general, and Christmas presents.
19.4.12
Observations on using your cat's head as a mouse pad.
Having been home recuperating from surgery for the last 6 weeks, I have encountered several interesting challenges that are absent from the normal office routines. Primary among these are the challenges associated with integrating the needs of two large cats into my moment to moment activities.
In this post I will examine the challenge of using my cat's head as a mouse pad.
First, I must set forth the motivation for this challenge.
While I have several work areas around the house that address different interests, my primary location is the left end of the sofa in the living room. My attraction to this particular seat has some Sheldon-esque aspects. For example, the light is balanced with a slight bias to the Eastern windows, and the air flow is minimal, i.e. no drafts. While the cushions are compressed from use, the general vantage of the entire living room, entry and kitchen door, as well as the dining room and back deck gives me a strategic sense of what is going on the space. I suspect that some of these reasons also attract Sterling, my 20 lb brindle cat of no particular breed.
Several times a day Sterling and I compete for the seat. If he has the seat first, and he notices that I am coming toward him to claim it, he will make a show of looking away from me then tucking his head under his arm, which recalls the child like faith that if one covers one's eyes, one becomes invisible oneself. I think Sterling is too smart for that, so I suspect he is simply indicating a lack of fear or respect for my intentions. His affectation of casual ignorance of my need for the seat forces me to initiate the confrontational aspect of the encounter. "Get off." I say in a collegial voice. "Get off the couch, you." I reserve the use of his name for urgent situations where he really does need to pay attention to me, such as when I am trying to maneuver over his body at the top of the stairs, and I am balancing a tray which will include a large glass of something. When I say "Dammit Sterling" under controlled circumstances, he does make a nominal effort to at least take note of my concern.
The second phase of the encounter in the first days after my chest surgery involved me leaning down to him and imploring him to move, since I couldn't lift or push more than five pounds at the time. He sensed he had me at a major disadvantage and resisted me Ghandi style, with a sublime passivity, secure in his judgement of my weakness, and ultimate lack of resolve. He was correct at the time. The first time some four weeks after surgery that I actually picked him partially off the prime space and pivoted him away from my butt's worth of real estate, he was surprised, but not surprised enough to actually undertake any movement on his own.
Eventually I regained the natural and appropriate advantage of a 250 lb six foot human over a 20lb cat that stands a few inches high at the shoulder. At this point, I would pick Sterling up and move him a full cat's length down the sofa. This rarely woke him up, much less provoked him to any response or action.
Since I am inclined to peck away at the laptop here, I used the 6 square inches or so of the upholstery immediately to the right of my thigh as a mouse pad. The modern laser mouse loves the rich textures of the textile, and it was working fine.
Until Sterling decided he needed to launch a new intitative against the coveted seat. His subtlety and wisdom in the discomfiture of humans was expressed in a new move he designed for the situation. When I was seated, laptop atop lap, deep in the fantasy of self expression, mouse twiddling and keys clicking with the industry of a squadron of deranged insects, Sterling would suddenly thrust his skull under my palm and wedge his body tightly against the assembly of mouse, wrist, thigh and upholstery.
The first few times this happened I simply stopped working and took a break. I even appreciated Sterling's indifference to my self-stimulated intensity at these moments. After a few days, however, it reverted back to an annoyance. I tried pushing him further down the sofa, but in the aftermath of surgery I couldn't risk the force and leverage required to really get him away from me. I tried compromising, and continuing to mouse after getting my hand under his head, and the skid of the mouse back in contact with the upholstery. I presumed the irritation of my knuckles and fist undulating and twisting beneath his chin would motivate him to remove himself shortly.
In fact, the motion seemed to please him. I realized it constituted a variant on the "skritching" gesture that cats expect as their due homage from all humans, and particularly the ones to whom they hold deed. Since he was happy and intent on holding his ground, and I was minimally capable of achieving the full range of mouse movement required to manage my grandiloquence, I thought I would try things his way for a change. There is always a high price to pay for such appeasement, of course.
After a few days of playing Chamberlain to his Hitler, I realized this arrangement of cat's head and neck on top of my hand while mousing was causing unusual strains on the tendons of my hand. Sterling was sufficiently talented as an intuitive engineer to modulate his weight and angle of repose slightly over time. This gradually reduced the already diminutive space allotted my fine motor needs. He shifted slightly and inexorably, like a boa constrictor, until I was constrained to a space of a dime and unconsciously had taken to avoiding any mouse activity whatever.
Unlike the frog coming casually to a boil, I took action. I pulled my mouse out from under Sterling's head and put it on top. Why couldn't I mouse on top of his head, I wondered, given the fur should provide enough optical texture to insure the laser's continued function.
I found however that there is a distinct nap, or bias to the texture. If I moused down from the crown of his skull toward his shoulder blades, the cursor followed my motion proportionally. If I moved the other direction, pushing his fur up, the laser got confused and worked intermittently or not at all. Sideways or diagonal motions were unpredictable. Sterling remained indifferent to the direction or intensity of mouse gesture as long as he could keep his head, neck and shoulders directly over the spot I would otherwise have used.
This wouldn't do.
I quit typing and mousing, and took to staring at whatever happened to be on the screen at the time. I began to think about the existential nothingness of life, and the dour conviction of the great pessimists, the Kierkegaards and Schopenhauers.
I realized that in my condition of recuperation, I couldn't afford the downward death spiral of mood brought on by the failure to dominate, or even cooperatively compromise with my pet. What is a man to do? While my head drooped forward and my shoulders slumped, I suddenly noticed that my stomach provided an unused expanse of mousable surface area. With a bit of experimentation I learned to ignore the visual direction the mouse took over the t-shirted terrain, and concentrated on the screen until I had developed the necessary coordination.
So I was back in control, mousing happily over my abdomen, while Sterling licked himself with the feigned modesty of a true victor. Another challenge met in the uphill struggle to regain my health and retain the sovereignty of my suburban castle.
In this post I will examine the challenge of using my cat's head as a mouse pad.
First, I must set forth the motivation for this challenge.
While I have several work areas around the house that address different interests, my primary location is the left end of the sofa in the living room. My attraction to this particular seat has some Sheldon-esque aspects. For example, the light is balanced with a slight bias to the Eastern windows, and the air flow is minimal, i.e. no drafts. While the cushions are compressed from use, the general vantage of the entire living room, entry and kitchen door, as well as the dining room and back deck gives me a strategic sense of what is going on the space. I suspect that some of these reasons also attract Sterling, my 20 lb brindle cat of no particular breed.
Several times a day Sterling and I compete for the seat. If he has the seat first, and he notices that I am coming toward him to claim it, he will make a show of looking away from me then tucking his head under his arm, which recalls the child like faith that if one covers one's eyes, one becomes invisible oneself. I think Sterling is too smart for that, so I suspect he is simply indicating a lack of fear or respect for my intentions. His affectation of casual ignorance of my need for the seat forces me to initiate the confrontational aspect of the encounter. "Get off." I say in a collegial voice. "Get off the couch, you." I reserve the use of his name for urgent situations where he really does need to pay attention to me, such as when I am trying to maneuver over his body at the top of the stairs, and I am balancing a tray which will include a large glass of something. When I say "Dammit Sterling" under controlled circumstances, he does make a nominal effort to at least take note of my concern.
The second phase of the encounter in the first days after my chest surgery involved me leaning down to him and imploring him to move, since I couldn't lift or push more than five pounds at the time. He sensed he had me at a major disadvantage and resisted me Ghandi style, with a sublime passivity, secure in his judgement of my weakness, and ultimate lack of resolve. He was correct at the time. The first time some four weeks after surgery that I actually picked him partially off the prime space and pivoted him away from my butt's worth of real estate, he was surprised, but not surprised enough to actually undertake any movement on his own.
Eventually I regained the natural and appropriate advantage of a 250 lb six foot human over a 20lb cat that stands a few inches high at the shoulder. At this point, I would pick Sterling up and move him a full cat's length down the sofa. This rarely woke him up, much less provoked him to any response or action.
Since I am inclined to peck away at the laptop here, I used the 6 square inches or so of the upholstery immediately to the right of my thigh as a mouse pad. The modern laser mouse loves the rich textures of the textile, and it was working fine.
Until Sterling decided he needed to launch a new intitative against the coveted seat. His subtlety and wisdom in the discomfiture of humans was expressed in a new move he designed for the situation. When I was seated, laptop atop lap, deep in the fantasy of self expression, mouse twiddling and keys clicking with the industry of a squadron of deranged insects, Sterling would suddenly thrust his skull under my palm and wedge his body tightly against the assembly of mouse, wrist, thigh and upholstery.
The first few times this happened I simply stopped working and took a break. I even appreciated Sterling's indifference to my self-stimulated intensity at these moments. After a few days, however, it reverted back to an annoyance. I tried pushing him further down the sofa, but in the aftermath of surgery I couldn't risk the force and leverage required to really get him away from me. I tried compromising, and continuing to mouse after getting my hand under his head, and the skid of the mouse back in contact with the upholstery. I presumed the irritation of my knuckles and fist undulating and twisting beneath his chin would motivate him to remove himself shortly.
In fact, the motion seemed to please him. I realized it constituted a variant on the "skritching" gesture that cats expect as their due homage from all humans, and particularly the ones to whom they hold deed. Since he was happy and intent on holding his ground, and I was minimally capable of achieving the full range of mouse movement required to manage my grandiloquence, I thought I would try things his way for a change. There is always a high price to pay for such appeasement, of course.
After a few days of playing Chamberlain to his Hitler, I realized this arrangement of cat's head and neck on top of my hand while mousing was causing unusual strains on the tendons of my hand. Sterling was sufficiently talented as an intuitive engineer to modulate his weight and angle of repose slightly over time. This gradually reduced the already diminutive space allotted my fine motor needs. He shifted slightly and inexorably, like a boa constrictor, until I was constrained to a space of a dime and unconsciously had taken to avoiding any mouse activity whatever.
Unlike the frog coming casually to a boil, I took action. I pulled my mouse out from under Sterling's head and put it on top. Why couldn't I mouse on top of his head, I wondered, given the fur should provide enough optical texture to insure the laser's continued function.
I found however that there is a distinct nap, or bias to the texture. If I moused down from the crown of his skull toward his shoulder blades, the cursor followed my motion proportionally. If I moved the other direction, pushing his fur up, the laser got confused and worked intermittently or not at all. Sideways or diagonal motions were unpredictable. Sterling remained indifferent to the direction or intensity of mouse gesture as long as he could keep his head, neck and shoulders directly over the spot I would otherwise have used.
This wouldn't do.
I quit typing and mousing, and took to staring at whatever happened to be on the screen at the time. I began to think about the existential nothingness of life, and the dour conviction of the great pessimists, the Kierkegaards and Schopenhauers.
I realized that in my condition of recuperation, I couldn't afford the downward death spiral of mood brought on by the failure to dominate, or even cooperatively compromise with my pet. What is a man to do? While my head drooped forward and my shoulders slumped, I suddenly noticed that my stomach provided an unused expanse of mousable surface area. With a bit of experimentation I learned to ignore the visual direction the mouse took over the t-shirted terrain, and concentrated on the screen until I had developed the necessary coordination.
So I was back in control, mousing happily over my abdomen, while Sterling licked himself with the feigned modesty of a true victor. Another challenge met in the uphill struggle to regain my health and retain the sovereignty of my suburban castle.
25.3.12
Heart Surgery Pt. I -- emerging back into life, and notes on the prelude.
The first few car rides out of the hospital were agonizing. Every bump in the road seemed amplified by some neural perversity in my chest, and the insults to my spine and rib cage were raised from whispers to shouts...sharp stabbing shouts of inarticulate spite. The first ride out of the hospital was an hour and a half stretch up Highway 52 from Rochester, where St. Mary's held pride of place as the Mayo Brothers official hospital, to Bloomington, where our cats sulked and plotted revenge.
The cats got over our 8 day absence. It is almost three weeks since surgery, two weeks since discharge. We negotiate the Edina potholes and manhole cover sinks carefully, and I still wince but don't cry out. I have upped my time on the treadmill to an hour a day at 1.5 miles an hour, and the scar on my chest is healing with an unexpected smoothness and grace.
As we left the grocery store today, I was able to carry the two 10" bromeliads, one in each hand. None of the prosperous suburban Minnesotans we saw milling the aisles or scuttling across the parking lot could have guessed what a signal victory that was for me. I have learned from pain, the most resolute and impersonal teacher, to hold my ears over my shoulders and keep my chin in and down. The alternative slouch and cantilever of my massive head, neck nearly horizontal, quickly results in spasms in my lower trapezius muscle, the source, my massage therapist tells me, of mortgage-paying income for all massage therapists these days.
The first time I willed the courage to look at my naked torso after surgery, I saw a startling sight in the mirror. It wasn't the scar from my collar bone down and slightly right of the center of my sternum that alarmed me. It was the atrophy of my upper frame, the bony, listing shoulders and flattened shaved pink leather of my chest sunk to the depth of a pizza box. I couldn't hold my head up, or lower my right shoulder. I had no deltoid muscles left in my shoulders and my arms were thin as chicken shanks. The confidence of the surgical team pushed me through a week-long ordeal of diuresis that resulted in losing over 35 lbs of fluid weight -- almost 6 lbs a day. You would expect shock to the kidneys or some kind of revolt of the whole system subject to such a relentless drain.
But it was fluid retention that had me in the hospital in the first place. Fluids, waters and plasmas and leaked vital elixirs of bowel, had ballooned my gut and ankles over months. I couldn't bend to put on socks, or take a whole breath, or sleep for more than 30 minutes at a time. I couldn't eat, as I felt like a forced goose prepped for a gourmand's pate all the time, and I didn't have the energy to get off the sofa most of the day the last few weeks before surgery. Couldn't eat, sleep, move. Couldn't love or be loved, or care about anything except the desperate need for a diagnosis and a cure for whatever was turning me into a creature out of a Hieronymous Bosch depiction of living hell.
The cats got over our 8 day absence. It is almost three weeks since surgery, two weeks since discharge. We negotiate the Edina potholes and manhole cover sinks carefully, and I still wince but don't cry out. I have upped my time on the treadmill to an hour a day at 1.5 miles an hour, and the scar on my chest is healing with an unexpected smoothness and grace.
As we left the grocery store today, I was able to carry the two 10" bromeliads, one in each hand. None of the prosperous suburban Minnesotans we saw milling the aisles or scuttling across the parking lot could have guessed what a signal victory that was for me. I have learned from pain, the most resolute and impersonal teacher, to hold my ears over my shoulders and keep my chin in and down. The alternative slouch and cantilever of my massive head, neck nearly horizontal, quickly results in spasms in my lower trapezius muscle, the source, my massage therapist tells me, of mortgage-paying income for all massage therapists these days.
The first time I willed the courage to look at my naked torso after surgery, I saw a startling sight in the mirror. It wasn't the scar from my collar bone down and slightly right of the center of my sternum that alarmed me. It was the atrophy of my upper frame, the bony, listing shoulders and flattened shaved pink leather of my chest sunk to the depth of a pizza box. I couldn't hold my head up, or lower my right shoulder. I had no deltoid muscles left in my shoulders and my arms were thin as chicken shanks. The confidence of the surgical team pushed me through a week-long ordeal of diuresis that resulted in losing over 35 lbs of fluid weight -- almost 6 lbs a day. You would expect shock to the kidneys or some kind of revolt of the whole system subject to such a relentless drain.
But it was fluid retention that had me in the hospital in the first place. Fluids, waters and plasmas and leaked vital elixirs of bowel, had ballooned my gut and ankles over months. I couldn't bend to put on socks, or take a whole breath, or sleep for more than 30 minutes at a time. I couldn't eat, as I felt like a forced goose prepped for a gourmand's pate all the time, and I didn't have the energy to get off the sofa most of the day the last few weeks before surgery. Couldn't eat, sleep, move. Couldn't love or be loved, or care about anything except the desperate need for a diagnosis and a cure for whatever was turning me into a creature out of a Hieronymous Bosch depiction of living hell.
26.5.11
25.5.11
Zombie Mall - Long Shot
This is the Hektor 135 mm f.4 lens. I liked the staggered reflection inside the arcade doubled by the water on the walkway. Arcades are a favorite theme of mine too. They originated with sacred architecture...they offered an ambulatory around the inner sanctum of the basilica. The deserted mall is like an abandoned scene of faith. It was a tawdry faith, perhaps. One of the storefronts on this mall had been a dry cleaners, then a video rental franchise, and when that closed, it was a massage parlor. There is a progression there.
7.8.10
Bridge to Shrine Island Color
This photo is in honor of my mother, Ruth Ann Beddow, on her birthday.
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