The Perceptron/SVM prayer - written by yours truly during a sleepless night in grad school.
Our perceptrons that art learning,
Hallowed be thy name.
Thy support vectors come,
Thy classification be done,
In practice as in theory.
Give us this day a decent margin,
And forgive all data
That’s not linearly separable
As we run iteration after iteration.
Lead us not unto frustration
And help us deliver this assignment submission.
p.s. When I was an undergrad I wrote something called ‘I Killed the Kernel’ - in the style of ‘I Shot the Sheriff’. In the future you can expect the likes of ‘Cluster in the Name Of’ (in the style of ‘Killing in the Name Of’) and ‘Un-factorizable’ (in the style of ‘Unforgettable’).
I’ve been reading six books at the same time:
- 'Moby Dick' by Herman Melville
- 'What I Talk About When I Talk About Running' by Haruki Murakami
- 'Northanger Abbey' by Jane Austen
- 'The Grand Inquisitor' by Fyodor Dostoyevsky (technically I'm re-reading this excerpt from 'The Brothers Karamazov' but it still counts)
- 'Light on the Yoga Sutras of Patanjali' by B.K.S. Iyengar
- 'Mahout in Action' by Sean Owen, Robin Anil, Ted Dunning, and Ellen Friedman
I apologize in advance if I seem somewhat incoherent.
Ladies, if we want to rule the world — or even just gain an equitable share of leadership positions — we need to stop leaning in. It’s killing us.
We need to fight for our right to lean back and put our feet up.
Here’s the thing: We’ve managed to create a world in which ubiquity is valued above all. If you’re not at your desk every night until nine, your commitment to the job is questioned. If you’re not checking email 24/7, you’re not a reliable colleague.
But in a world in which leaning in at work has come to mean doing more work, more often, for longer hours, women will disproportionately drop out or be eased out.
A very sane and grounded perspective on what
'leaning in' is actually doing to people.
Yesterday, I spent 60 dollars on groceries,
took the bus home,
carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment
and cooked myself dinner.
You and I may have different definitions of a good day.
This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill,
worked 60 hours between my two jobs,
only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks
and slept like a rock.
Flossed in the morning,
locked my door,
and remembered to buy eggs.
My mother is proud of me.
It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course.
She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale”
with, ”Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs”
But she is proud.
See, she remembers what came before this.
The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles,
how I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks.
She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide.
These were the bad days.
My life was a gift that I wanted to return.
My head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs.
Depression, is a good lover.
So attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you.
And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world,
That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting.
It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created.
Today, I slept in until 10,
cleaned every dish I own,
fought with the bank,
took care of paperwork.
You and I might have different definitions of adulthood.
I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college,
but I don’t speak for others anymore,
and I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for.
And my mother is proud of me.
I burned down a house of depression,
I painted over murals of greyscale,
and it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live
But today, I want to live.
I didn’t salivate over sharp knives,
or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge.
I just cleaned my bathroom,
did the laundry,
called my brother.
Told him, “it was a good day.
Bengali culture has always confounded me. I’ve shared a weird love hate relationship with it for as long as I can remember. Growing up, I was a hardcore meat eater (as all Bengalis are expected to be). If a meal had vegetables in it, I’d avoid it like the plague. I survived on a diet of fast food, pasta, fried foods and the occasional vegetable curry (only because my mom excelled at emotional blackmail). I was 20 pounds heavier but I thought I was doing the ‘Bengali’ thing. Bengalis have a tendency to berate vegetarians for ‘not getting enough protein’. There are exceptions though. The uber religious are vegetarian because the’ve taken the oath of austerity (like my late grandparents). The other group of vegetarians are widowed women. Widowhood ,for a woman,is a curse. It is a sign that she did something nasty in a previous life and has accumulated enough bad karma to suffer so much. Widows are forced to withdraw from society, they’re only allowed to wear white (you’ll never see a Hindu bride in white), and they’re forced to give up meat, eggs, fish, onions and garlic. (My mom was on the verge of throwing out her colored clothes, but a family friend and I talked her out of it. )
When I started running and doing yoga, I found it a lot easier to thrive on veggies (all that twisting and jumping does things to make your gut uncomfortably efficient). So when I became vegetarian it was as though I was running an illegal sex racket in my apartment. The questions I got sounded like a cross between a Buzzfeed list and a doomsday prediction. I even had the pleasure of having my diet and exercise choices mansplained to me by a rather concerned ‘prospective groom’. It took me a while to figure out that people were calling me out for what they perceived as self imposed widowhood!