The Home of Her Mind
When she secures home to her back,
and moves from red desert to blue mountain,
she will find comfort in what was left behind.
For through mobility comes the discovery,
that home is not a place
but a state of mind.
Ensemble Learning and the Lord of the Flies
An intense application of feature engineering, genetic programming, and proposed ensemble learning applied to LIGO glitch classification leads to an email exchange in which an imaginary beach harbors a pile of shells assembled by a greedy fitness function. The lines are drawn in the sand. The decision tree vies for position while the binary classifier stands its ground.
The conch? Well, it was an outlier whose incorrect classification initiated a war amongst otherwise solid researchers, upstanding men and boys. I fear Sam-n-Eric are endangered once more …
Truphena in Rwanda
This in from my son Bernard, about his experience in receiving his significant other Truphena in Rwanda where he is conducting an internship with Partners in Health (PIH). A moving, beautifully described wording of the elation of a first flight, of a sense of safety in the streets of a city, and the realisation of the capacity for humans to both love and hate in the genocide museum.
I am so delighted for what you the family did in seeing Truphena visit me in Rwanda. My heart felt with joy on seeing her and hearing from her in person. She could not hold her joy.
[This] was a biggest miracle on her side using the flight for the fast time ever and she could always tell me “… in my life using a flight was just but a dream that I was not even sure of and to repeat it again. [This] is my biggest surprise ever and my story now begins a fresh…”
[Truphena’s] coming [to Rwanda] was a life changing experience on her way of looking [at] things and on how people socialize. She has met my very many new friends from all corners of the world, some of whom are interns in PIH and others working as Doctors at PIH hospital for Cancer treatment and even the Rwandan friends. We have spent time with our new Indian friend who is in her medical school to become a Doctor and on her internship with PIH. [H]er name is Sonya who was championing for visiting us in Kenya together with her boyfriend who is now finishing [his] PhD studies in India.
We have tried different but very simple foods here as well, including having our dinner in one of the Chinese restaurant here in Rwanda. [This] was full with fun, walking at Kigali city at night is very safe and these would saw as walk together as twins. A few bodaboda guys could greet us in Kinyarwanda and as I quickly responded to them as I pose a joke in Kiswahili, they even moved closer to where we were standing, asking me are you from Tanzania or Kenya? Teach us your very nice Swahili language and some could ask where are you taking our beautiful Rwandan girl. They all thought Truphena is from Rwanda so they could tell me, Are you ready to bring us the Kenya’s cows as a dowry so that we may allow you to take her with you? I jovially asked them, Yes how many cows do you need from me? They answered many cows since our girls are beautiful, don’t you see?
Believe me Kai, if you happened to one time visit here you will really admire it. The beautiful hills and valleys that connect one estate to the other with well lit roads and not forgetting the very smart side ways pavements that are well maintained would see you tempted to start [an] either morning or evening run that at the end will see your feet very healthy as one might say no to chronic diseases.
Our tour to Kigali Genocide Memorial site was another place that saw our sharp and very slender tears rolled down our by then helpless faces. We spent many hours at the site, visiting place by place, reading word by word as pinned in the walls. The photos of the 1994 genocide victims could tell a lot. We felt so sorry on how [this] country was in [the] hands of people inhuman. [This] was history and a movie as we used to watch in Kenya. But [in] our presence, [they] marked it all with realities, and its true. Hundreds of thousands people died, not even an innocent child could be spared, very smart and talented kids lost their lives. The skulls, the blunt tools used during the genocide was all evidence that people were not people but animals that would view others as the wild prey, demand[ing] their death.
The graves where over 250,000 bodies were laid was all an evidence for what happened. We underwent a moment of silence with Truphena and we really thought of these in wider perspective. If the rest of the world could learn a lesson from what happened in Rwanda then we do no think if you can hear of killings or loss of lives in favor of political leaders or parties, race, tribe or religion and the world could be the best and better place for humanity … may God forbid.
Once again I feel so glad that Truphena is already [returned to] Kenya [for] I have received her text messages. Our lovely Grand Parents Linda and Dick Staats. Our Papa Kai and Jae, with great love we say thank YOU SOO much. May you live long on Earth to see us prosper in greater heights. May you find joy and happiness in all that you do.
With lots of love always,
Bernard
The Call to Serve
I grew up a PK, a preacher’s kid. Saturday nights my father sat at the kitchen table with one, two, sometimes three consecutive bowls of ice cream to fuel the hand writing of his sermons for the next morning. Draft after draft on a yellow note pad, his crisp printing of a style I yet wish I could mimic. Drawing from the unfolding events of the prior week, in our own community or across the nation, my father told stories which captivated those who attended the service, bringing them to focused place and time where ancient history found relevance in our modern world.
The simplicity of the connections he drew were easy to understand. The characters he brought to life, both biblical and modern, were memorable. He never hid behind the pulpit, but walked among those who came to listen, engaging in a kind of two-way interaction that was both subtle and meaningful, even if his audience was mostly silent. The stories carried messages easily interwoven in our every-day lives.
We moved frequently, a half dozen times in twenty odd years. My brother and I embraced a father whose time and attention was most often devoted to serving those in need. Growing up I was sometimes asked if I would follow in my father’s footsteps, embracing a life in the church. My answer was, “Most PKs either rebel or yes, follow suit. I find myself in the middle.” But now, my response would be that I cherish what I have gained from being the son of a minister, for I have learned what it means to be selfless, at times putting others’ needs before my own.
Therein lies the real blessing of a life of servitude–putting others’ needs before your own, devoting your life to causes which challenge the political, economic, and social norms. My father protested the Vietnam war, worked with the Sanctuary movement in the 1980s, and within the City of Phoenix to better understand the homeless and the poor. He is a regular contributor to the Arizona Republic newspaper on issues of human rights and political arenas, and has worked tirelessly to improve his own neighborhood through research and planning for improved street safety and sense of community.
With two masters degrees and eight years experience as a social worker, my father has seen a diversity of humanity. He has performed countless marriages and funerals, welcoming those new to life on this planet and helping find closure for the families and friends of those who have departed. He managed an adoption agency for a half dozen years and has been witness to the pain and suffering of an often confusing world, in an era when suicide took the lives of farmers who lost their land. My father has helped many to celebrate the cherished moments in life, to learn to communicate when it seemed relationships were destined to fall apart.
But his lasting legacy is his nearly 30 years dedication to giving a safe haven for the LGBT community. When in 2014 Joe Connolly and Terry Pochert filed law suit against the State of Arizona, and won, they credited my father for having given them support, for accepting them in the church family, and for encouraging them to pursue their legal acceptance as a married couple.
Fifty years ago today my father was ordained a Lutheran minister. He walked away from a likely career as a PGA golfer and his university education in mathematics to pursue a life of serving others. While his skills are many, including carpentry, writing, cooking and baking, it is his relentless pursuit of finding justice, acceptance, and peace for those within his reach that I cherish as the most valuable asset to carry with me.
Karoo GP is nearly ready for the world!
Nearly 18 months after I began working on my Python-based genetic programming platform Karoo GP, and 9 months since any real code development, I have returned to revise, update, and improve what served me well while conducting my research at the Square Kilometre Array (SKA) in Cape Town, South Africa.
The data sort and normalisation tools are fully revised, each with a simple yet effective text-based interface. The Quick Start Tutorial is fully rewritten and now available for download. And with 2-3 fairly substantial fixes and improvements, I hope to launch Karoo GP by GECCO 2016, Denver, Colorado.
Karoo GP has it’s own page and will soon be made available from github.
When Wilderness is Again Found
When we are again made to feel small, insignificant, and vulnerable.
When we take steps forward without looking behind.
When we disconnect with the virtual and reconnect with the physical and lose track of time.
Then we know we have returned to the wilderness of our heart, body, and mind.
When Wilderness is Nearly Forgotten
Something happened to me in my two years in South Africa, and subsequent past seven months in Phoenix, Arizona—I became accustomed to living in a city. For the first time in my adult life, I was losing a connection to wilderness.
Since I was 16 years of age and went on my first solo backpacking trip in the Superstition wilderness, there has been this place inside of me that remembers what it means to feel at peace, to truly be at home.
That place has for thirty years connected me to wilderness, the last remaining places on this crowded planet which have no power lines overhead, no pipelines underground, no human crafted water ways or walk ways or roads. Places where the otter and beaver, deer and elk, fox and coyote, wolf, bear and mountain lion yet maintain their domain. Places where the birds nest not on man-made structures but in their original, natural habitat.
I often wondered how those who are born and raised in a city, those who venture to national parks as temporary relief but long to return to the concrete do look to the open spaces and natural places that remain. In my time in Cape Town I longed for the time I enjoyed at Sutherland, home of the South African Astronomical Observatory. The land that surrounds the 6,000 foot observatory is open range, criss-crossed by roads and fences, yet vast, mostly untrodden, and incredibly quiet. It was as close to wilderness as I was able to enjoy during my time in South Africa, and a welcomed respite.
Slowly, I gained an appreciation for living in a country where friends were but a phone call away, arriving with a bottle of wine on a moment’s notice. In time, the conditions of the surf determined how I spent my mornings and I grew accustomed to the clockwork of the city, from the train schedule to the hours of the local restaurants and hangouts. There, I built some of the deepest friendships of my life.
Upon my return to Phoenix I longed for those connections, for those walks on the beach and intellectual discussions over home made bread and South African wine. While I grew up investigating the far reaches of the American Southwest, exploring mountain tops and canyons, river ways and caves, the wilderness had, for me, retreated to somewhere, out there, beyond my reach. I no longer believed the wild places existed, for the news, the media, nothing spoke to me of where I could go to be removed from the overwhelming human condition, to be alone with my own challenges and not those of the entire planet.
I was aware of this, and spoke of it to family and friends. I knew I needed to be reminded of what it was to be in a place outside of the human domain. Last week I returned to Buffalo Peak Ranch. For the summer and into the fall, this will be my home once again. It took no more than the hour drive from the nearest town, into the valley where the buffalo do roam, to remember what it means to be free.
No, this is not wilderness, but in a ten minutes drive or thirty minutes run I can be in wilderness again. It’s just over there, on the visible horizon. Once again I am reminded of what it means to be free of the sound of engines, sirens, alarms and talking, talking, talking. Once again, my body is flooded with the embrace of silence and solitude.
Every hour of every day is my own. I wake to the sun on my face. I swim in the cold pond following my workout. I go for long hikes with camera in hand between longer sessions of email and programming. I make time for making food. And sometimes, I just sit and do nothing.
Into the Forest
Once again, I have moved into the forest.
The place where I am most at home, where each hour of each day is mine to own.
Into the forest and the distant, chaotic heart beat of the city is but a fading memory.
Here, the only sounds are those over which humans have no control.
We cannot stop the aspen from quaking, the thunder from shaking, nor the rain from falling.
Into the forest and I feel I am once again … home.
Our Full Potential
(2016 04/??)
Today I gathered my parents for a review of the code I produce for my MSc research, a Genetic Programming platform designed to work with any prepared .csv file, no matter the user’s level of experience in Python or Machine Learning.
Over the course of an hour I successfully explained how so much of the world, even the greater cosmos can be explained through mathematical functions. Some simple. Some extremely complicated. But all of them, that is, the ones that truly express the inner workings of the cosmos are elegant in form and function. They are beautiful.
When it came to my code, 3000+ lines of Object Oriented Python, there was a moment’s hesitation when I recall that very first line of code, the very first hesitant definition of a variable and function when I thought I’d have the basic code running in a few hundred lines, not thousands; over the course of six weeks, not six months.
In the telling of that story, in the explanation of what I had accomplished, there was very little ego or expression, rather a pure joy for the process of discovery. I was proud not of what may hands accomplished, for I did not invent Genetic Programming, but for the means by which I can now explore the world around me with the vehicle I had built.
I imagine the joy of a geologist is similar, seeing rock layers through the eyes of time and pressure. In the same way, on a much smaller scale, I was challenged to bring this code to life, to allow me to see patterns that tell their own story much as solidified layers of drifting sand, quartz, calcite, and igneous flows tell the story of what happened hundreds of millions of years ago.
I can say that six months of programming was the most mentally challenging thing I have ever done. While the mathematics were relatively simple, the implementation was often arduous. I discovered a new capacity for problem solving that goes beyond my former work in designing supercomputers or a 2000 package operating system, beyond the intrinsic risk / reward of running a for-profit enterprise when every large contract presents a do-or-die situation.
Now, I wonder, have I short-changed my own potential? Not in some kind of ego stroke, but in a very real, “What else am I capable of? What more can I do that I would have otherwise thought impossible?” How many of us truly engage our full potential? With concern for funding, bills, relationships, family, and physical well being, the times in our modern lives in which we are enabled to just think, brainstorm, and solve problems is truly but a minor fraction of our waking hours.
What a shame. What a waste of resources when so much of our world, so much of all our daily, living, breathing, working hours are spent on the day-to-day operations of just getting by. Who out there, who among the myriad humans on this planet has ever been given the challenge and reward of fully using his or her innate ability to solve problems … and indulge in the total bliss of discovery?
A return to musical storytelling
A few days ago, I visited a neighborhood yard sale on the return leg of my morning run. I rummaged through a few boxes, looked past the kitchen appliances, and found an old milk crate packed with vinyl LPs, long play records if you are unfamiliar. I was thrilled to find some of my favourites: Spyro Gyra, YES, Hiroshima, a recording of Gershwin, Kenny Loggins, and a few more.
Ten dollars and I walked away with twenty albums. But more than this, I was transported to a time when listening to music was an experience, not an effort in instant, muzak gratification. I pulled my father’s portable LP player from the closet, carefully removed the first LP from its jacket, cleaned one side at a time, then set it to spinning and lowered the needle.
There is something about watching a record spin, about seeing how and where the sound is generated that is engaging as a CD or digital stream can never be. The bass will never be as deep, but the mid tones and highs are dynamic, vocals metallic but present.
Global LP sales are at a high since the mid 1990s, US sales far above sales for the same period. Some call it retro, others the vinyl revival. I believe there is something more, a desire to experience music again. An album is not to be randomly selected, played in fragments, nor listened to as a background YouTube video lost to a broken connection. An album is a kind of story told, from beginning to end.
Perhaps there is a new generation that has had enough of attention deficit, a new generation which craves something a little more … contiguous.