Tuesday, 19 May 2020

End of Days: Rain Dept

Now see here Tó Neinilii, I know you have a reputation for being a trickster and your bailiwick may not extend beyond the Navaho homelands, but the rain (absence of) here is getting beyond a jesting matter.
At last Sunday's weekly family zoom-in, someone asked what our local weather was about. I was happy to report that, while it hadn't rained that morning, a great soggy cloud had hung about the garden for a couple of hours before breakfast. I'd danced out in me jim-jams to move the seedlings out of the tunnel and into some free water. Rain is really the best way to deliver water to plants, a watering can is a very crude substitute. I further asserted that we'd only had 2 days of rain in the last 60. That seemed an unlikely statistic for dear old green old damp old Ireland so I had to check Met Eireann for the cumulative rainfall totals for our nearest weather station [L].

That's  really informative once you twig how to read the diagrams. The bottom picture shows a series of horizontal steps [=no rain] interspersed with dumps of rain 09Mar, 11Mar, 03Apr and 29Apr (these are the vertical bars poking up from the horizontal axis; I've added the horizontal pink lines to emphasise the flat no-rain steps.

It was a really wet February 2020 in Ireland: 3x the 20 year average for the month. But that's really not good enough. In the East of the island we get about 1000mm precipitation a year. If Tó Neinilii wasn't intent on foolery, he'd see that we got 1000/365 = 3mm a night; or better still 10mm every 3rd night. That way the ground would get a good soaking, but there would be no destructive and wasteful run-off like from Storm Deirdre in December 2018. Thrifty me  does my best to capture rain when it falls, but my system of IBCs, herring-barrels, pipes and siphons cannot sequester thin air.

We had a dibble of rain last night. But the top diagram shows that we are really behind on rainfall 2/3s of the way through May 2020. The green diagonal line is the 20-year average for the month and this year's accumulation is barely wetting the bottom of the bucket. I tell ya, we'd better give up the ould sins because The End of Days approacheth.

Monday, 18 May 2020

Covoidance

Lord Harris of Micromanagement has started the unpacking of lockdown. From today, mixed doubles tennis or a golf-foursome may be played but not 5-a-side soccer AND only if you live within 5km of your golf club. If you live further out you will be allowed to pulverise the herbaceous borders with a #3 iron: helpless tears of frustration optional. DO NOT LEAVE COMB! Rutger "Ladyhawke" Hair we lookin' at you [R].

Eventually, our Overlords will let us leave our houses when we want; unless we turn 70 before that longed-for exit date and The Man insists on getting us all cocooned up in chokey. On your 70th birthday you'll experience a precipitous drop in your ability to withstand infection. Because USAians never mastered the metric system, they are allowed to be 8.5% [6ft/2m] closer before their risk goes exponential. These cut-offs / thresholds, which The Man gets shouty and in-yer-face about have less to do with minimising transmission and more to do with facilitating enforcement. The 100km/h speed limit applies to everyone - professional rally-drivers and N-plate beginners. The 50km/h city limit applies night and day; whether schools are in or out, at weekends, during lockdown when there's no other drivers and precious few pedestrians. It's just too difficult [and expensive?] to give these limits more nuance to reflect actual risk.

Anyway, and however gradually, we will at some time in the future will be allowed to make our own decisions about where to go and what to do and with whom. Many of you will be thinking, if not actually articulating, what you'll do when the prison doors fling open:
Okay then: put those in order according to each one's risk of you copping a dose of covid while executing  your post-lockdown plan PLP. And another list: how confident are you that each event is in that position w r t your safety. It's obvious (to me) that the numbers / probability matter but it's not obvious what the order should be. Am I too old for First Communion? If not, my face will be at a different height into the clear air to the other communicants and so it may be safer for me than my 8 y.o Gdaughter.

Erin Bromage of U.Mass Dartmouth , immunologist and epidemiologist, has scavenged up some data and analysed it to help you focus on where the red zones should be for you. Go read! Still here? too busy to take 7 minutes out of your busy browsing schedule? Okay Exec Summary:
  • Go somewhere quiet!
    • Best is a Quaker meeting house or zen-do where people are breathing but not speaking
    • Speaking ups the droplet ejection by 10x
    • If people around you are shouting or si♫gi♫g, their transmission rate goes up
    • A single cough will huck up many more deep-lung viruses
    • A single >!sneeze!< will disperse 10x droplets, with 4x the velocity
  • Keep physical distance
    • the further you are from the sneeze the less likely a virus laden floater will alight on your wet epithelia
  • Keep outside
    • Even if you're not in the I felt that firing line, spittle aerosol will circulate for some time before settling to the surface. Outside is more dilute
  • Keep your legs crossed
    • Public toilets have so many fomite surfaces; are used by so many different people; are "cleaned" by people on the minimum wage
    • Aerosol!!!!
  • Avoid birthdays, funerals, weddings
    • Lots of people, gathered from all over, shared food, shared air, shared spittle [even if you adopt a <no tongues> policy.
  • Avoid concerts, sports stadia
    • 2 hours up close and personal with A Lot of strangers. It's like a wedding on crack.
  • Leave home!
    • A very large proportion of cases have caught it from their housemates. 23/7 indoors with your teenage children is a lot more infective than an hour in church or 2 hours at the theatre.
    • 23?/7 For one hour a day you allow the teens out to 'meet their friends' and they [duh, teens!] get a lot more up-close-and-personal than the minister of health would feel comfortable about.
Dr Bromage is reasonable in his advice. It is nuanced and quantitative if not pointlessly precise.  It shd help you weigh the good things to do that first weekend against the likelihood that, 6-8 days later,  you'll have a week of mild-to-moderate symptoms. And believe me mild-to-moderate may be everything and anything up to, but not including, oxygen mask and intubation: Anecdote "‘I have had 14 surgeries. I have had two children. And honestly, my mild case (of COVID-19), I would do any of those over. I can’t imagine being any worse than I was’"
All these streng verbotene Diktate bring to "mind" a limerick, which like the best of them, breaks the rules:
There once was a lady from Bude
Who went for a swim in the lake.
A man in a punt
Stuck his pole up her nose
And said “You can’t swim here, it’s too dangerous.”

Sunday, 17 May 2020

Sweet Sunday seventeen

And the winner (scarey enough) of the Tiff Taylor Evolve a Monster competition is . . .

Saturday, 16 May 2020

Decamerfor

I promised large and delivered small on my project to convert bored to bawd each Saturday during the lockdown. I have only covered <fnarr> 3 of Bocaccio's 100 tales of life imagined during the pandemic on 1347: DecamerOne -- DecamerTwo -- DecamerThr.

Exec Summary: Her husband returning home, Peronella bestows her lover in a tun; which, being sold by her husband, she avers to have been already sold by herself to one that is inside examining it to see if it be sound. Whereupon the lover jumps out, and causes the husband to scour the tun for him, and afterwards to carry it to his house.
Peronella and the Tun
'Tis no long time since at Naples a poor man, a mason by craft, took to wife a fair and amorous maiden - Peronella was her name - who eked out by spinning what her husband made by his craft; and so the pair managed as best they might on very slender means. And as chance would have it, one of the gallants of the city, taking note of this Peronella one day, and being mightily pleased with her, fell in love with her, and by this means and that so prevailed that he won her to accord him her intimacy. Their times of forgathering they concerted as follows:--to wit, that, her husband being wont to rise betimes of a morning to go to work or seek for work, the gallant was to be where he might see him go forth, and, the street where she dwelt, which is called Avorio, being scarce inhabited, was to come into the house as soon as her husband was well out of it; and so times not a few they did. But on one of these occasions it befell that, the good man being gone forth, and Giannello Sirignario--such was the gallant's name--being come into the house, and being with Peronella, after a while, back came the good man, though 'twas not his wont to return until the day was done; and finding the door locked, he knocked, and after knocking, he fell a saying to himself: "O God, praised be Thy name forever; for that, albeit Thou hast ordained that I be poor, at least Thou hast accorded me the consolation of a good and honest girl for wife. Mark what haste she made to shut the door when I was gone forth, that none else might enter to give her trouble".

Now Peronella knew by his knock that 'twas her husband; wherefore:--"Alas, Giannello mine," quoth she, "I am a dead woman, for lo, here is my husband, foul fall him! come back! What it may import, I know not, for he is never wont to come back at this hour; perchance he caught sight of thee as thou camest in. However, for the love of God, be it as it may, get thee into this tun that thou seest here, and I will go open to him, and we shall see what is the occasion of this sudden return this morning." So Giannello forthwith got into the tun, and Peronella went to the door, and let in her husband, and gave him black looks, saying:--"This is indeed a surprise that thou art back so soon this morning! By what I see thou hast a mind to make this a holiday, that thou returnest tools in hand; if so, what are we to live on? whence shall we get bread to eat? Thinkest thou I will let thee pawn my gown and other bits of clothes? Day and night I do nought else but spin, insomuch that the flesh is fallen away from my nails, that at least I may have oil enough to keep our lamp alight. Husband, husband, there is never a woman in the neighbourhood but marvels and mocks at me, that I am at such labour and pains; and thou comest home to me with thy hands hanging idle, when thou shouldst be at work."
Which said, she fell a weeping and repeating:--"Alas, alas, woe 's me, in what evil hour was I born? in what luckless moment came I hither, I, that might have had so goodly a young man, and I would not, to take up with one that bestows never a thought on her whom he has made his wife? Other women have a good time with their lovers, and never a one have we here but has two or three; they take their pleasure, and make their husbands believe that the moon is the sun; and I, alas! for that I am an honest woman, and have no such casual amours, I suffer, and am hard bested. I know not why I provide not myself with one of these lovers, as others do. Give good heed, husband, to what I say: were I disposed to dishonour thee, I were at no loss to find the man: for here are gallants enough, that love me, and court me, and have sent me many an offer of money--no stint--or dresses or jewels, should I prefer them; but my pride would never suffer it, because I was not born of a woman of that sort: and now thou comest home to me when thou oughtest to be at work."

Whereto the husband:--"Wife, wife, for God's sake distress not thyself: thou shouldst give me credit for knowing what manner of woman thou art, as indeed I have partly seen this morning. True it is that I went out to work; but 'tis plain that thou knowest not, as indeed I knew not, that to-day 'tis the feast of San Galeone, and a holiday, and that is why I am come home at this hour; but nevertheless I have found means to provide us with bread for more than a month; for I have sold to this gentleman, whom thou seest with me, the tun, thou wottest of, seeing that it has encumbered the house so long, and he will give me five gigliats for it." Quoth then Peronella:--"And all this but adds to my trouble: thou, that art a man, and goest abroad, and shouldst know affairs, hast sold for five gigliats a tun, which I, that am but a woman, and was scarce ever out of doors, have, for that it took up so much room in the house, sold for seven gigliats to a good man, that but now, as thou cam'st back, got therein, to see if 'twere sound." So hearing, the husband was overjoyed, and said to the man that was come to take it away:--"Good man, I wish thee Godspeed; for, as thou hearest, my wife has sold the tun for seven gigliats, whereas thou gavest me only five." Whereupon:--"So be it," said the good man, and took himself off. Then said Peronella to her husband:--"Now, as thou art here, come up, and arrange the matter with the good man."

Now Giannello, who, meanwhile, had been all on the alert to discover if there were aught he had to fear or be on his guard against, no sooner heard Peronella's last words, than he sprang out of the tun, and feigning to know nought of her husband's return, began thus:--"Where art thou, good dame?" Whereto the husband, coming up, answered:--"Here am I: what wouldst thou of me?" Quoth Giannello:--"And who art thou? I would speak with the lady with whom I struck the bargain for this tun." Then said the good man:--"Have no fear, you can deal with me; for I am her husband." Quoth then Giannello:--"The tun seems to me sound enough; but I think you must have let the lees remain in it; for 'tis all encrusted with I know not what that is so dry, that I cannot raise it with the nail; wherefore I am not minded to take it unless I first see it scoured." Whereupon Peronella:--"To be sure: that shall not hinder the bargain; my husband will scour it clean." And:--"Well and good," said the husband.

So he laid down his tools, stripped himself to his vest, sent for a light and a rasp, and was in the tun, and scraping away, in a trice. Whereupon Peronella, as if she were curious to see what he did, thrust her head into the vent of the tun, which was of no great size, and therewithal one of her arms up to the shoulder, and fell a saying:--"Scrape here, and here, and there too, and look, there is a bit left here." So, she being in this posture, directing and admonishing her husband, Giannello, who had not, that morning, fully satisfied his desire, when the husband arrived, now seeing that as he would, he might not, brought his mind to his circumstances, and resolved to take his pleasure as he might: wherefore he made up to the lady, who completely blocked the vent of the tun; and even on such wise as on the open champaign the wild and lusty horses do amorously assail the mares of Parthia, he sated his youthful appetite; and so it was that almost at the same moment that he did so, and was off, the tun was scoured, the husband came forth of it, and Peronella withdrew her head from the vent, and turning to Giannello, said:--"Take this light, good man, and see if 'tis scoured to thy mind." Whereupon Giannello, looking into the tun, said that 'twas in good trim, and that he was well content, and paid the husband the seven gigliats, and caused him carry the tun to his house.

Friday, 15 May 2020

Go counter Go

During my very expensive education in England, I learnt an absurd variety of games. - bezique; billiards; boxing; canasta; chequers; chess; contract bridge; cribbage; cricket (of course); croquet; fencing; field hockey; water-polo; rowing; rugger; soccer; squash; tennis; whist. With hindsight, I can only surmise that the plan was to help build a gentleman who could lose gracefully; because I was pretty much crap at all of them. Unless you are Lionel Messi, the only reliable way to be good at anything is to put in hours and hours of deliberate practice. Butterfly me was too lazy and easily distracted to put in 10,000 minutes of anything, let alone 10K hours [which theory is nonsense]. If this inventory sounds like Thomas Beecham's quip In this life try everything once, except morris-dancing and incest it may be the way I tell it. And there's a gazillion things I haven't tried and one of them is the ancient strategy game of Go [How to Go in 4 mins].

I was thinking of this when I watched AlphaGo - The Movie:  a documentary about the 2016 match between a computer called DeepMind and its coders vs 이세돌 Lee Sedol a Korean who is the reigning World champ at the game. The film is 90 minutes long. No bonking, no car-chases, no fist-fights but really exciting nevertheless. You can keep your "Exciting? Bob you really should get out more" until after you've seen it. I enjoyed it so much that I e-mailed an old acquaintance of mine from TCD, who happens to be Korean "I'm guessing; willing or not, good or not, and unlike me, you played Go when you were a nipper.  You'll get more than most out of it because about 20% of the dialogue is in Korean w/o subtitles." Which, on the face of it, is really quite racist. I'd be bemused or annoyed if one of my American pals wrote "I saw this great movie about road-bowling in rural Waterford, you live in Ireland, you'll love it". Er, nope!

But my pal Ken O'Korea, was delighted to hear from me, not least because, by coincidence, he'd just finished watching the same documentary with his family. He remembered the hoopla of the [Korean] man vs machine match back in 2016; at the time everyone he knew back home was wearing the green jersey or its Korean equivalent whether they could play Go or No. I replied I don't think it's such a coincidence. It looks like the Masters of the Go Universe had paid Google to have AlphaGo the Movie bubble to the top of everyone's recommended views. I think the lesson that "AI is teaching the Go world new Ways of Seeing" can be given a wider application. Science is a very conventional world where funding is directed at the edges of the known and we all lock-step to follow the money down quite rigid channels. Something, AI or whatever, could with advantage shift us out of the rut to do something really novel. We have had quite enough papers about TLR4! Let's see what minority interest TLR5 does for us (maybe a cure for next pandemic?).
Lee Sedol World Champ retired from Go this year ostensibly because there was no point in competing in a sport which he could never win again. Which should put pretty much all female athletes off their game because they can never be better than the best man . . . because testosterone. But it doesn't . . . because bottle.

Thursday, 14 May 2020

Who shall be saved?

I've been promising, but I finally settled in to re-read John  Wyndham's The Day of the Triffids [exec summ plot] after a gap of at least 50 years. I borrowed the copy in Dau.I's bedroom here and it had my Da's name in the front, so I felt generationally duveted. When I read Triffids at the age of 12, I was delighted with the idea of free-stuff [beans, ammo, DIY books] in a post-apocalyptic world. I still get a frisson about that now but the book is more interesting / challenging in its address of "what to do when The System is overwhelmed with deeply damaged people who cannot survive w/o help". It is therefore resonant as the indignant cries of triage ring out from outside the ICU in Bergamo and echo the chamber of health policy people in Ireland and round the World.

Triffids is not toooo much of a polemic; it's a story that came out of the Cold War (publ 1951 and blaming the Russians for starting the crisis) that imagines the future in a world turned upside down. Although the issue, 70 years ago, was nowhere near as urgent as now; one sub-text in Triffids is that humanity has been a devastating stressor on the natural world and the author takes a certain grim pleasure in describing the return of the native in and over the built environment. Houses turn to seed-beds if you won't clear the gutters, lads!  But it's not without hope in painting an expectation that, if needs must, you can overcome ignorance and make some sort of a fist of shifting for yourself. "Looking back at the shape of things then, the amount we did not know and did not care to know about our daily lives is not only astonishing, but somehow a bit shocking. I knew practically nothing, for instance, of such ordinary things as how food reached me, where fresh water came from, how the clothes I wore were woven and made, how the drainage of cities kept them healthy".
Two years later, following the Precepts of Heinlein, the Triffid survivalists are "able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, and they have seen very many people  die gallantly".  The casualness with which people get offed, often by triffids but also by people [including the narrator] and accidents [so easy when you're struck blind], is a deck-clearing signature of the first part of the book. It's as bad as The Towering Inferno, where extras are shovelled out of the burning building to fall on the pavements like rain. So to the nearest whole %, <spoiler> everybody dies </spoiler> . . . who gets saved is largely accidental.

There are some black hats but the general tenor of the survivors is that they will do their best to help [blind] people, so long as they have agency in the choice of whom to save. They bridle if compelled to be the 👁👁 of a group of randomers but will pitch in to help if asked nicely . . . and the ratios are not clearly unsustainable. Robert Sapolsky's treatise on human psychology Behave, has a central chunk on Them and Us and how our hormones and neurotransmitters make us define and then react to these two classes of people. Most people are kinder to their own dog than any person outside the immediately household. As a naive utilitarian with blunted affect, I am on the same page as Wyndham: if you try to save everyone then everyone dies. But no person, no too-small group, can survive alone in a hostile world: if you share the Brexit Bunker flour with (or make scones for) the neighbours then reciprocity kicks in and everyone does better, through trade.

Dau.I shared the dilemma of Josiah Hawthorn a prepper who had amassed a sufficient store of flour and beans [and toilet paper, I guess] against Armageddon. When Hurricane Sandy slapped in and inundated New York and the Jersey Shore, Mrs Hawthorn just broke open the bunker and started cooking for folks who had been flooded out . . . and Josiah delivered it; having been shown how to be a Mensch. "What would I do with the money? Eat more??" Aaron Feuerstein.
Three years after The Day of the Triffids, William Golding, another member of the British patriarchy, published Lord of the Flies which offers a very bleak assessment of the capacity for kindness and kinship among a group of British proto-patriarchs boys. Poor Golding had been an oppressed schoolboy and later a teacher of schoolboys and had seen so many examples of casual cruelty that he took the law of the jungle to be embedded in the human condition. Rutger Bregman's [prev] antidote [Lord of the Lifes?] has been widely circulated this last week. By cooperation and kindness, including set a bone! six teenagers survived / thrived for 15 months in an actual jungle on an uninhabited tropical island. Extrapolation and commentary on MeFi.

And triage? Deciding who gets saved? We do that all the time with our tax-dollars, through our elected reps. By separating Health and Welfare into separate domains run by different ministers fighting for a bigger share of the tax-pot, we allow all kinds of "extras" to fall between the cracks. You're better served for prostate cancer than for suicidal ideation. We approve enormous amounts on quite rare conditions like haemophilia, Down's Syndrome and cystic fibrosis. Much less on boring background stuff like  urinary incontinence, alcoholism, mental health and sex education.

Wednesday, 13 May 2020

Calatrava

Science is A way of knowing, so it doesn't have all the answers. If you're not at the very pin of your collar trying to survive [food, clear water, shelter] it's only human to want to exercise your mind on what's it all about? Science, and scientists, want a big spoonful of humility if they characterise Arts Block research as kinda useless because it doesn't achieve anything "useful". My years of research in synonymous codon usage SCU wasn't more useful than tracing the evolution of Chaucerian manuscripts . . . until SCU was found to be key to making more insulin and later where SARS-CoV2 came from. Let us, accordingly, give a small hat-tip to art historians, like me niecie, as they try to understand their finite universe. How big is that universe world [none of them have Art data from Mars]? Fermi Problem!! There are 55,000 museums in the World. The Louvre has 35,000 'works of art' on display [and at least as many in the cellars?]. The National Gallery of Ireland a mid-range gallery has about 3,000 paintings in its inventory. The Victoria Art Gallery in Bath has about 1,000. I'll bet you €5 that, within a factor of 10x, there are 50 million paintings available to scholars in the field. That's a lot, and nobody aspires to internalise all that data, so Art Historians specialise to focus on a subset of the global inventory [Op Art, Breugal 'n' pals, Icons of Андре́й Рублёв, Les Fauves, Mannerists, Cubists, PreRaphaelites . . .]. Here's a couple:
One question you might ask is Couple? Because I've stuck them together as a panorama.jpg despite the fact that the Madonna is now in Gemäldegalerie, Berlin while the contemplative bloke is now 6,700 km West in the National Gallery of Art, Washington.

Dude on the right is Don Diego de Guevara, a magnate in the Court of Burgundy in the late 1400s who ended his career as Chamberlain to Carlos V, the Holy Roman Emperor who made lithping a Cathtillian linguistic convention [prev]. Don Diego was a great collector of Art and this portrait was painted by Master Michel Sittow aka Melchior Alemán aka Mychel Flamenco (although he was just passing through Germany and Flanders having been born in Estonia). Sittow was a court painter and friend of Don Diego. Actually, "we" are not completely certain that the DC art is the same piece as one painted 503 (!) years ago in Burgundy. We require the labour of Art Historians to work that out by tracking fragmentary records through testaments, bills of sale and inventories scattered through the libraries, palaces and stately homes of Europe.

One of these scholars notice that a) Don Diego's portrait is exactly the same size as the Madonna from Berlin [bigger pic] b) the carpet on the plinth in each picture has the same design! It's like one of those spot-the-difference puzzles you get in the Kid's Section of the Sunday papers: the divil is in the detail. Who she? History is not written by, for or about women, but she is surely a real woman painted from life rather than an idealised version of femininity. The dates are right that it could (even) be Katherine of Aragon the future wife of England's Henry VIII. If that's the case, the child is defo not hers, but presumably borrowed from one of the women downstairs. The bird clutched by the boy is claimed to be a goldfinch Carduelis carduelis but I don't buy it. Certainly not a male goldfinch, they are really distinctive and have a black cap. In my experience, this week, with my own eyes, goldfinches eat the seeds of dandelions. They swallow the seed and the fluffy bits fall out the side of the mouth. Later in the season they switch to thistle-down and so there is a metaphorical association of the bird with the Crown of Thorns. My twitcher pals Dave and Des have scotched the goldfinch ID. "maybe a siskin?  Carduelis Spinus" Paintings are often richly allegorical: full of puzzles put there to add meaning . . . and pose a challenge to the artist's pals and patrons? Art historians love fossicking through this sort of stuff to identify sitters from the heraldic paraphernalia that clutters the corners of the picture.

And that flags (almost literally) another textual textile conundrum in Don Diego's portrait which I've zoomed in for the picture [L prev para]. Underneath his fancy fur collar, the Don is fingering [preening?] his Order of Calatrava [as seen in its full functional capacity R] which he was awarded for loyal service to the Habsburgs in 1517. X-ray analysis reveals that the Order was added later and it's not impossible that it was added by a different hand after Michel Sittow returned to The Baltics, also in 1517. I tell ya, there are plenty of flies to swat in Art History.