Watching TV

I don't really watch TV, but a few nights ago I spent a couple of hours watching some late-night programming.  That TV has a unique power to draw the viewer in and not let go had been clear to me, but it was only then that I understood an important reason for that, at least for me.

<em>When we watch TV, we can judge.</em>

We judge everything, from kitchen shows to commercials.  We make instant decisions about what we like and what we don't like.  We judge without being judged, and, even better (thanks to TV's feedback-less nature), without ever figuring out (or needing to know) whether our judgments are right.  For example, I saw all but the very ending of a show titled "24 Hour Restaurant Battle" (not a particularly imaginative name) where two teams compete to create a restaurant in 24 hours.  The show makers gave me ample opportunity to make my judgments: this chef had a moment of panic here, that waiter tripped and fell, and so on.  I ended up turning the TV off just before the verdict was given, and I realized that I couldn't care less about the actual result.  In fact, I remembered, the show just before it, "Iron Chef", took nearly one hour to show me the competition and, subsequently, rushed through the conclusion in the last 7 seconds of the show.  I barely had time to review the scores given to both contestants.

We want an opportunity to judge without the <em>responsibility</em> to judge well; and so as such, TV creates this little bubble, my own instance of the world where I'm right and nobody can tell me otherwise.

 

Taxonomies

One of the most valuable abilities a person can boast, in my view, is the ability to classify.  It's very closely related to the ability to think in terms of layers of abstraction, since categories are just abstractions on top of the objects being classified.

Most people are really bad at any kind of categorization – they either simply don't do it (just look at people's desktops on their computers) or come up with very poor categorizations and as a result find it difficult to locate finds in a large set or synthesize properties of sets efficiently (which are the two operations that good classifications make trivial; and the two operations that are actually fairly commonly needed.  There is also a lot of money to be made on good categorization systems, for example, in systems that allow customers to search for products to purchase).

A friend of mine pointed out that taxonomies are dangerous.  I will agree with him: to create a classification system for the sake of it is not only wasteful, but also risks inaccurate generalizations being made.  But a good classification, supported with the goals of that classification, is invaluable.

Some principles that should guide a good taxonomy are:

  • Unique representation: everything should have a single, deterministic place in the hierarchy
  • Meaningful dimensions: ideally you should be able to express each dimension (or category) in as few words as possible.  Arbitrary divisions don't make it easy to find things and make for a weak hierarchy, even if they allow you to bifurcate your set of objects right down the middle
  • Reasonably sized dimensions: in a perfect classification, each added property halves the number of items in it.  This will, of course, never be true but there are good ways to split the set into by-and-large equivalently-sized sets.  This balances the categorization (it won't take a large number of dimensions to describe an object – for a perfect classification, you only need 12 bits of information to classify four thousand objects, which with a good category system, may mean three dimensions that each take one of sixteen values
  • Separable dimensions: ideally each dimension should be fully disjoint from all other – if shouldn't matter if you apply a condition first or last.  Unfortunately, most times, the further dimensions vary depending on the values of the prior dimensions.  For a good example, visit Amazon.com and see how the filters change based on what category of items you select.  If the dimensions are separable, you can more efficiently find things by picking the relevant dimension first

 

A Universal Language

One of the ideas behind Esperanto was supposed to be the abandonment of irregularities, especially the duality between sounds and glyphs.  Esperanto was supposed to be a perfectly phonetic language.

As it turns out, no language can stay perfectly phonetic and in popular use at the same time.  This is because as the language is used, we tend to optimize it, and the optimizations are not based on structure, because that's not how our brains work.  Think about the optimizations as a kind of cache – caches are not structured, they are simply a way to throw some hardware into a problem.

Which leads to an important question.  Can mankind use a single language?  Not the way English is used now – English is more of a code than a language – a default option that many people agree on, due to its prevalence in the world (for both historical and cultural reasons).

I think there is something about language and distance -- just like you can only naturally interact with about one hundred and fifty people, you can only share culture with people closest to you.  Despite globalization, the French have been, are, and will always be very different than the Chinese.  Language will reflect that culture (why? Does it have to do with differing natural circumstances in the early history of the nations?) and so it will diverge if the cultures are divergent.  It's clear even on a smaller scale, with various dialects being distinctly different, not just in sounds, but often in syntax and semantics.

Richness of experiences

The phase I'm going through now I'd characterize as one of absorbing the richness of experiences.  It's a corollary of the principle to <a href="http://blog.elevenseconds.com/deep-connection-for-goal-achievement/">feel</a> things rather than participate in them, and the desire to understand myself fundamentally.

For example, the other day my friend A.N. and I (to say that I <em>helped</em>, I guess, is a generous overstatement) were grilling steaks in his backyard.  A few years ago I would have found this to be incredibly boring; probably not so long ago, at least uneventful.  But as I let my inner self "settle" (which is, by the way, a useful visualization of what really helps me feel something rather than just participate), I felt this kind of deep satisfaction.  I couldn't put my finger on any specific part of the grilling that gave me this satisfaction, yet the overall experience definitely did.

This richness is very different from the kind of instant gratification one gets when one is, say, having a meal in a restaurant, or the kind of stable entertainment of drinking with your friends in a bar or watching a movie.  It's a richness that takes some patience (setting up a grill isn't the easiest of things to do), some distance (you have to be able to enjoy it as a half-player, half-spectator; you can't be too eager or too passive), and some reflection (while the goal of doing the grill was to have some tasty steaks, that's not the goal I'm talking about).

Another similar example is sailing -- going on a sail on a weeknight is one of the most satisfying things one can do with a friend.  It's not effortless -- one is busy pretty much all the time -- but nothing beats the enjoyment of watching setting sun with some beer in hand, on a boat (a safe haven) amidst the vast expanses of the sea.  I think of it as a better incarnation of going to a bar for a drink -- better, because it's more private, more peaceful.

 

Structured Thinking

I see this over and over again… the ability to think in a structured way provides a lot of value, yet it is incredibly rare.

At first I was shocked at how people at work made poor decisions all the time. They weren’t important decisions, ones that had to go through layers of double-verification and those that had good justification behind them. I mean about decisions one usually makes in a flash, such as what to name this file or this wiki page, or how to plan one’s vacation. I realized that people don’t think in terms of categories or hierarchies of ideas; everything is flat in their heads.

The problem with the lack of structure is that human brains can only store so much unstructured information (in my experience between ten and one-hundred items… for me it’s closer to 10), and, of course, unstructured information is not exportable. Which means that while it may be easier to call the file Template, the next person will have no idea what it means because they have no context. If you call it Finance.ReimbursementTemplate, nobody will be confused (namespaces, or naming things by ever-so-specialized sets of prefixes, are one of the most incredible ways to ensure structure).

But structured thinking goes much further than some file naming conventions. I realized that I tend to use my structured thinking approach in conversations (In fact, I think it’s become visceral at this point): I would start with a high level discussion, and then progress to lower levels when necessary.

Personally I found structured thinking to be a great way to address my weakness of poor information retention. I can’t keep too many things in my scratchpad memory so I structure my thought to minimize the amount of information I need to memorize (as opposed to the information I can deduce from the right structure). Structured thinking also prevents one of the most common reasons of unsuccessful meetings — revisiting old points and going in circles: if you start with the right taxonomy, you will ensure that you talk about higher levels of things before you jump to the details. You can prune the tree significantly that way.

What would you ask an Oracle?

 It’s my favorite question. I could talk about this to anybody (from any background, of any age and level of intelligence) for hours.

Assume you met an Oracle, an entity capable of answering any question with factual correctness. What question would you ask it?

There are a couple of things worth nothing before we get to the answer. An Oracle does not have an opinion although it knows, for example, what opinions you have on everything so it can tell what you would like and dislike. Some questions may be undecidable — we live, after all (we think), in a world that’s nondeterministic at a micro scale (try asking the Oracle if the cat is dead), and thus probably also a macro scale.

Dealing with an Oracle isn’t as simple as one may think. On one hand, it’s unclear, once you have all the answers, what your goal should be (which is why I think people don’t really know their goals in life and why everyone should have a purpose in life). Is it to make a lot of money? Or do something good for the society?

Ah, the age-old notion of good. What does it mean to do something good? It’s easy to assess the merit of actions on a local scale, but what is good in a short-term may be disastrous in a long-term (like this charity that donates malaria nets to families in Africa — seemingly a good thing — that ended up driving a lot of local net manufacturers out of business).

Taking this to the very extreme (oh boy, I’m going to make some enemies now), what if Hitler’s contribution to mankind was net positive? Let me explain. Assuming that we consider the metric of “goodness” to be survival of mankind — a highly utilitarian view. What if, without Hitler and all of the atrocities committed by him, mankind had never been scarred and hadn’t put guardrails in place to avoid a similar disaster in the future; and as a result another insane dictator had come to power and caused a much greater devastation? Of course this does not at all excuse Hitler, but what would the Oracle say if you asked, all else being equal, if Hitler was a net positive? (or, to put it differently–not equivalently, if the hypothetical above was true, would you kill Hitler before he came to power?).

A lot of people fail to realize that for a large set of questions, we would probably beunable to understand the answer. A lot people would like to know (presumably out of curiosity and nothing else–nothing wrong with it, let’s just call a spade a spade), say, why the universe was created (or even how). The Oracle may have an answer but it’s possible that our brains are unable to grasp it, just like the brains of Homo Neanderthalus were probably unable to grasp quantum mechanism, even with a lifetime of education.

There are some variations on the Oracle question that in my view make for an interesting conversation. What if you forgot your encounter with the Oracle after you met it (that’s a cruel one)? Or what if you forgot everything but you could take away one letter-sized sheet of paper with stuff written on it (that’s my personal favorite).

In case you’re curious – here is what I would ask the Oracle:

Fill out this piece of paper with the most obvious things we humans haven’t discovered yet.

(By “obvious” I mean the things that when you hear them, you say “Of course! Why didn’t anybody think about it yet”). I would ask the Oracle to order them by obviousness (or the shock value to all of mankind when they find out). Why would I ask for that, specifically? I think it’s an elegant way to take advantage of an all-knowing entity in a way that doesn’t get me trapped in the difficulties described above.

If I could fill up another page, I would ask for the Oracle to explain how we can harness energy in a renewable (read: by harnessing the power of the Sun) and efficient way. Or maybe that would be the first thing I ask.

Scope Creep

Scope creep — the phenomenon of an ever-expanding surface area that your product needs to cover — happens when you don’t convey a vision, and don’t collect requirements correctly.

My variation on “the customer is always right” is a — in my view — more accurate “the product should always be right for your customer, but the customer never knows what this means”.

If you don’t collect requirements correctly, you will end up with a product that is not right for the customer, and this will lead to scope creep (if you don’t want to lose the customer you will have to implement the delta between what the product ended up doing and what the customer wants it to do). The customer won’t know that — a common beginner’s error is in assuming that the customer knows what they are talking about when they tell you what they want — so it’s your responsibility to make the need tangible and coherent. Poor business analysts simply listen to what the customer says and write down what they hear. Good BAs understand the requirements (which often means truly understanding the needs, and with them, the habits, behind the product). Great BAs drive the requirements, providing to the customer something he or she never knew he or she needed.

“But it’s hard to do,” you’ll probably remark. Of course it’s hard to do, and this is why good BAs are hard to come by! Don’t confine yourself to conventional methods of doing requirements analysis — i.e. talking to the customer and writing down notes. Mock something up for, or — even better — with your customer, come up prepared with theories for what the customer might actually need, or start with the anti-requirements.

Much more important — especially for a product past its infancy — is the vision you set for the product. It defines the universe of needs that the product will address, and, consequently, the universe of features the product will contain. The vision is what allows your product to be unique and remembered; the vision creates the brand. It also makes the product easier to develop for the majority of its lifecycle — you know which customers to talk to, you know what skills you’ll require your engineers and marketers to have, your product is easier to implement because all features have something in common.

The vision for all products is fluid — it has to respond to the Zeitgeist, new information, other products — and the features in your product will change based on that vision. However, vision brings about a certain inertia — it gets harder to add features if the vision changes — and this is why all products die. So just get used to it: don’t be afraid to kill products, knowing that you can bring new ones to life.

To part with, an anecdote. Imagine (in a weird future-in-the-past universe) that a group of Dutch settlers came to you and said “we want you to encode a map for our new city”. You ask, “what will the streets look like?”. “Oh, it’s a very simple system; we’ll pretty much have a grid, streets going east to west, and avenues going north to south”. “Trivial!,” you exclaim and encode every intersection as a set of two coordinates (x, y). For example, an intersection of 23rd Street and 5th Avenue would be encoded as (23, 5).

A little later you realize that there are avenues which aren’t numbered and fall in between numbered avenues. You scratch your head — your elegant system doesn’t quite capture this — but you realize that you can just map these names to non-integral coordinates. For example, (42, 3.5) would be the intersection of 42nd Street and a street that falls between the Third and Fourth avenues (which the settlers decided to call, oh I don’t know, say, Lexington Avenue). You also need non-positive coordinates because there are avenues to the West of First Avenue (which the settlers called Avenues A, B, C, …)

Then you realize that there is a special avenue that is diagonal, i.e. it intersects other avenues! Your elegant system certain does not capture all those intersections, so you implement a special set of coordinates (x, D) where x is the street that avenue intersects, and (D, y), where y is the avenue, knowing that that diagonal avenue — which the settlers called Broadway — can be represented as a piecewise curve of four straight lines, and with some clever mathematics you can still compute distances, and so on.

Then a large park is built in the center of the city, which removes some intersections but adds another irregular street. You’re visibly frustrated now, but with an additional mapping of which intersections don’t actually exist, and with an additional “special” road that connects two ends of the block taken up by the park, your system still supports the use cases. Of course, it’s pretty complicated now and it’s getting difficult to add features to it.

Finally the settlers tell you that actually, south of the 1st Street, there is a completely irregular grid of streets that are named, not numbered. That’s when you quit.

If only you had gathered requirements well in the first place…

Direct Humor versus Sarcasm

A lot of people enjoy sarcasm as means of humor.  Understandably so – humor in essence is the departure from the expected, and sarcasm – saying the opposite of what one means to convey – is a good way to achieve that.  However, I disagree with those who believe that sarcasm is superior to other forms of humor, most notably direct humor.

Why do I like direct humor so much?  There is no better feeling brought about from humor than that achieved with a rich, hearty laughter, directly from your gut.  It's a very fundamental kind of feeling, one that is rare (I may have literally "laughed out loud" maybe five times in my life) but incredibly satisfying.  This kind of laughter comes not from sarcasm, which is intellectual in nature, but from natural humor -- a punt that isn't forced, or deliberated upon.  In a way, what makes sarcasm so appealing to a lot of people – its complexity and sophistication – is its weakness when it comes to the real feeling of momentary happiness, blinding, paralyzing, disarming (all in a good way!) happiness stemming from direct humor.

The Surprising Origins of Things

China's one-child policy was influenced, more than anyone, by a computer expert inspired by a flawed model of population that was widely criticized since its publication.

 

The modern passport has its beginnings in World War I; it is an outcome of a heightened state of security that kind of stuck around:

The great watershed in the reestablishment of passport regimes among all the major countries of Europe and North America, however, was the First World War, under the declaration of "national emergency." In the political and economic nationalistic environment that followed the war in 1918, passport controls became an institutionalized feature of international travel, with governments reasserting the right to control exit from and entry into national territories under their control. (source)


Before the cash register was invented, retail businesses could only hire from within the family, because they needed to trust the people handling the cash. The invention of the cash register (two innovations, really: the bell ringing when the register is opened, and the tape that recorded every transaction for reconciliation) allowed retail to grow significantly into the massive industry is it today.

 

 Cats. People didn't consider owning pet cats until the nineteenth century, and at first it was a fairly niche thing to do – a lot of young writers, poets, painters would keep cats in their houses, as cats were considered artsy.  Then the custom spread to London, and New York where the fad really took off.  Everyone and their uncle had a cat.

 

The current iteration of the U.S. Flag has been designed by a high school student

 

While the common opinions seems to be that American English in its current form was a result of simplification of British English of the time, a lot of the differences today are due to changes that British English underwent in the past four hundred years.

 

I think that modern mass culturethe defining characteristic of the Twentieth Century, traces its beginnings to the Great Depression

 

Humans’ abandonment of the hunter-gatherer lifestyle — the invention of agriculture — is considered one of the most meaningful events in the history of mankind, giving rise of civilization and thus everything else. Specifically, agriculture increased the importance of land — suddenly the concept of ownership developed. Ownership necessitated the need to keep track of what belongs to whom, which led to accounting which led to writing which in turn led to higher, more abstract thought (and, yes, also poetry). But agriculture increased the importance of schedules which led to the idea of a calendar, which led to astronomy and then to mathematics. (However, the adoption of agriculture was not without its faults: there is some compelling archaeological evidence that we’re just now beginning to match our pre-agricultural ancestors’ average height and disease rate).

Finally, some claim that it is not the desire for efficiency that caused us to adopt agriculture, but the desire to brew alcohol. Beer, it is quite likely, may have led to human civilization.

 

A lot of Americans consider eating food very pleasurable, but — arguably — prior to Julia Child’s efforts, food had a much more utilitarian function in the American society.

 

We value financial success but that has not always been the case, as the pursuit of material comfort has its roots in Calvinism.

 

Evolution, Genetic Algorithms, and AI

I talked a lot about evolution before; I find it fascinating. There are many lessons to be drawn from the study of evolution as an epiphenomenon (i.e. I don’t want to study its effects; I want to study its emergence). Here is one interesting angle.

Photosynthesis is one of the most interesting forms of harnessing the energy of the Sun. There are good reasons why having such an efficient mechanism is beneficial to organisms (curiously, the animal kingdom has foregone this mechanism as it’s mostly only applicable to stationary organisms, or organisms with certain energy needs (or something else; I admit that I simply don’t know enough biology to be able to answer that)) — the organism that has evolved an ability to gather the energy from the sun is much less dependent on volatile scarce resources and instead can use what is essentially an infinite source of energy.

Similarly, fireflies have evolved the ability to emit light. The mechanism that makes it possible is a very efficient way of emitting light (if you ever touched one in flight I’m sure you were shocked at how unwarm it was).

It seems that evolution happens to come up with some pretty interesting solutions to problems. So why not use evolution to solve our problems for us, i.e. create artificial conditions where survival necessitates a development of a specific mechanism. For example, if we wanted Nature to help us come up with walls that withstand bomb blasts, we would create extremely harsh conditions that simulate bomb blasts (for example, create a chamber featuring extremely strong winds and extremely frequent earthquake-like conditions) and see what evolution does for us while trying to maximize the changes of survival of organisms that have the unfortunate luck of living in such a chamber.

If you studied computer science, you will no doubt tell me that we already do something like that — genetic algorithms are essentially a way to come up with solutions to problems by letting the strongest algorithms survive. This is true, but one crucial difference is that natural evolution has at its disposal two things that genetic algorithms don’t — the complexity of organisms already in existence, and the complexity of laws of physics. In other words, the reason evolution comes up with very impressive results is that it’s essentially an incredibly powerful computational system that operates on extremely complex systems (both the organisms and the conditions). Evolution comes up with designs only as strong as the conditions it operates under, or, in other words, the information content of the designs that are a result of evolution is significantly smaller than the information content of the models that evolution operates on. In the case of genetic algorithms, such models are usually fairly simple and in general, it’s not particularly useful to spend a lot of effort constructing an elaborate world for genetic algorithms to roam in–usually computer scientists use their own intelligence and solve the problem with pen and paper.

For example, it turns out that photosynthesis is probably not possible without quantum effects (this is by itself quite a breathtaking thing, if it’s true). If I wanted to simulate a world in which the “algorithm” of photosynthesis would appear through evolution, I would have to ensure that the world my algorithms live in is as complex as our current knowledge of physics (and even that might not be enough!), as well as ensure that the “organisms” are complex enough so as to take advantage of photosynthesis.

This indirectly points to my belief that we are far away from any semblance of actual artificial intelligence (like one featured in countless movies). Intelligence evolved in organisms which were incredibly complex, in a world that was just as complex. It’s likely (though not certain — after all, evolution is not the most efficient problem-solver) that intelligence has a very large information content.

So we probably can’t emulate evolution effectively. But we can still take advantage of it, since many of mankind’s inventions are influenced by what we have observed in the natural world. One big problem to running any kind of experiments like this is that evolution is painfully slow: it takes thousands of generations to see any meaningful change. I think we can get around this in three ways:

  • Making it desirable in our constructed universe to a generation to be short-lived — that way mutations will happen more frequently
  • Parallelizing the problem by crossing populations or taking advantage of horizontal evolution — that way it will take fewer generations in the critical path of change that generates our desired outcome
  • (This one I’m less bullish on) Increasing the probability of mutations, through the introduction of radioactivity — that way mutations will happen faster, so the critical path of change will involve fewer generations

In the extreme, we are limited by the speed of cell division (because that’s when mutations happen) which becomes the clock speed of our genetic computers.

What is evolution

Evolution has fascinated me ever since I learned about it. I spent some time thinking about it, what it really is, what its purpose is, what its limitations are. As many people, initially I anthropomorphized evolution, almost making it into something by itself intelligent, purposeful. I quickly realized that evolution is nothing else than a statistical process related to survival bias — it’s a manifestation of the fact that over time, as species compete for resources, the random mutations that happen to improve the odds of one species surviving will become dominant. We, the outside observers, will see this as the betterment of species, but evolution is nothing more than an epiphenomenon.

Evolution becomes interesting when we consider the role humans play in it. People believe that the shape of our hands enabled us to create and use tools which had a tremendous evolutionary advantage (these tools were a de facto extension of our bodies; they could be produced, used and discarded well within the lifetime of an individual). This ability led to an emergence of intelligence, which ultimately obviated the need for mutations: instead of waiting for a random mutation to take place over many generations to adapt to changing conditions, humans can adapt much faster through being smart. If a new Ice Age hit the planet, instead of waiting for mutations to occur that would offer some protection from the cold (such as thick fur), humans can simply leverage their ability to use tools to build dwellings that protect them from the cold, or skin animals to wear their fur.

In a way, in an age of intelligent creatures, evolution is obsolete — i.e. humans will no longer need to evolve since the mutations no longer carry significant comparative advantage. At a risk of making evolution into something it’s not again, one can say that evolution made itself obsolete, since the emergence of intelligence happened through an evolutionary process (whether intelligence is a necessary step in the evolution of species is an entirely separate and fascinating question; I’ll probably come back to it at some point).

As the epiphenomenon of evolution has been replaced by the phenomenon of intelligence, the prerogative of survival has been replaced by the mission of betterment. This “betterment” is simply an extension of the work of our tool-building ancestors, who perceived problems and use the tools to solve them. The creation of more elaborate and abstract tools allowed humans to solve more and more fundamental problems that they face, an, in an extreme, also prevent future problems (so, in my view, string theory is no different than a sharpened stick that our ancestors used to kill animals). And as intelligent creatures attempt to achieve progress at an ever-increasingly faster rate, they begin to reach for more and more fundamental devices, eventually imitating nature itself. The next step for intelligent creates, in my view, will be the mastery of genetic engineering — the human body being the kind of ultimate tool at his disposal (at which point mutations will be replaced by direct changes to the human DNA in order to fulfill specific goals). Eventually humans will breach the final limitation, that of the biological medium. In that final breakthrough, what is natural will be replaced by what isconceivable (a very primitive example of this is artificial intelligence).

As we see, more primitive (and constrained) processes are replaced by more advanced ones (either those that take less time to effect a change, or those that break down more limitations). In a way, then, we’re dealing with an epiphenomenon of meta-evolution, the “survival” of large-scale processes observed in species.

It’s easy to misunderstand evolution. E.V., somebody I respect, said that evolution as the natural move toward better should be understood as the greatest single force in the universe. He also said that outcomes consistent with natural laws (“good” outcomes) will likely lead to rewards and this is why we should all be striving for achieving outcomes contributing to evolution (as the latter is the fundamental natural law). I think it’s a somewhat superficial understanding of evolution as something special — an instance of the aforementioned anthropomorphizing of evolution. There is nothing special about evolution other than it being an example of how some processes in the Universe that tend to increase entropy can exhibit patterns consistent with evolution.

 

Evolution as a greedy process

Evolution is a statistical process coupled with individuals’ mutation that, when viewed at a very high level, creates the impression of progress of species over time. Species evolve from one state to another that gives them immediately higher survival value. It is impossible to evolve to a state through an intermediate state that may be of lower value.

Hence, evolution is a greedy process, always aiming to incrementally provide value. This means that many “features” of species which could be extremely beneficial may never appear through evolution because they would necessitate going through an intermediate stage: in other words, evolution is susceptible to local maxima.

Arguably, this is why species never evolved to have wheels, which we now know to be the most efficient mode of transit. No incremental process can create a wheel (I should imagine that additional arguments may point to the fact that such a wheel would be difficult to maintain).

 

Invariants of evolution

Evolution has no “plan”, that is, the progress is rather random and depends on a number of conditions in nature. Still, are there any invariants of evolution? That is, are there features that evolution always produces (or produces provided that some criteria are met)? Is photosynthesis a necessary process for species to adopt (in other words, does evolution always produce green organisms?) Similarly (and this is of course a million dollar question) is intelligence an invariant?

I believe the answer to both questions is yes, not because there is some higher purpose to evolution but because, simply put, photosynthesis and intelligence are the most efficient mechanisms at particular modes of operation (vegetative state, and being a hunter-gatherer, respectively). Unlike wheels, they can appear through an incremental process. The only conditions are sufficient sophistication and competition. For photosynthesis–directly using a virtually unlimited energy–is a great solution to the problem of limited resources for immobile organisms; similarly, intelligence is an answer to species reaching physical limits of body construction (further mutations won’t make the species faster, or stronger). However, intelligence is an expensive feature to develop which is why I think it could only have been possible after increased competition between species made cooperation within a species beneficial, which allowed to specialization and thus easier mutations towards intelligence.

I am not an evolutionary biologist and so the above paragraph is simply my theory. It will be difficult to come with proof of it (or a proof to the contrary) because, as with all epiphenomena, the system that would need to be analyzed to gain the threshold level of understanding is too large for us to currently tackle.

A new thing I've just learned

How often do you find out that something you've been doing for 20 years of your life, something so natural that you don't even think about it even though you do it four times a day, you've been doing wrong -- and, even more curiously, that a lot of other people have been doing it wrong too?

It happened to me last week.  The thing was... tying my shoelaces.

I was browsing the usual blogs and I discovered an instructional video that explained that you can tie your shoelaces well, or poorly, depending on one subtlety in the procedure.  The way to tell is to look at the shoelaces – if they are not perpendicular to the direction in which your feet point (i.e. they are slightly crooked), you've been tying them wrong and as a result they are likely to get untied.  This is in fact what I've been doing (and subsequently what I've been frustrated by whenever I went running).  It turns out that I just need to tie the second loop in a reverse direction to create a loop that strengthens with every step.

More than the actual lesson (and the solution to the problem I've had to solve in poor ways (such as tucking the ends of my shoelaces into my shoes), I was fascinated by the idea that I've had to relearn something so fundamental like tying my shoelaces.  I feel like I'm four years old again -- it takes me considerably more time to put on my shoes.  I'd like to have more such experiences in life.

Rapid feedback systems

There is a class of systems that offer rapid feedback to the operator, that is, an adjustment in the way they are controlled is very quickly reflected in the output of the system.

Take driving, for example.  You press the accelerator pedal (for good reasons I've stopped calling it the "gas" pedal) and the car goes faster.  You turn the steering wheel a little and the car turns.  For safety reasons, such a rapid feedback system is so natural that it's necessary – it needs to be as natural to our instincts as possible (so that, when, say, a cat jumps out on the road, you can swerve and not hit it).  But safety reasons aside, it's also a great way to allow people to become good drivers quickly (you could imagine an alternative way to control a car, for example one in which you point to where you want the car to go.  While terrible for many reasons, such a mechanism would probably take much longer to master).

I think this explains why people find it relatively hard to play golf well – the feedback is painfully slow (in fact, it's so slow that special vehicles were invented to try to make it faster – or maybe it's because those playing golf hate to walk – another reason why golf isn't really a sport).

This also explains why an RC helicopter is more difficult to master than an RC car (I think more so than the fact that a helicopter involves more complex controls).

It's useful to use this principle when designing really any kind of system.  For example, wouldn't kids find it much easier to learn to play the piano if the correct next key were a little easier to press (or, if that's too easy – i.e. would make people lazy and therefore prevent them from learning – at least all notes of a particular musical key, like B flat, were a little easier to press).

Note that it such a system doesn't necessarily have to be natural in the sense of being an extension of our muscles or senses.  Cooking (I mean preparing the entire dish, not figuring out that you've burnt a steak) doesn't offer a particularly quick feedback.  Fortunately, its quality is fairly insensitive to the inputs (it takes a lot of mistakes--or a big one mistake – to make a dish taste awful) but we'd be much better cooks if ingredients changed color based on the amount of salt we added.

Deep Connection for Goal Achievement

I had one of those rare “aha” moments over the holidays. Whenever I get a large collection of music, I sift through it and keep the music that I like. For a long time I used a method that helped me extract the useful characteristics of a song without actually listening to the whole song–say, I’d listen to the first 10 seconds, then 5 seconds starting one minute in, and fast-forwarded to the chorus. This would give me an idea about the song; hopefully enough of an idea for me to make a decision whether I want to keep it.

The problem with this approach is that it’s too sensitive to how I feel and what state of mind I’m in. Sometimes the song doesn’t have an interesting chorus at which point I may reject some songs that I should keep.

So that one day over the holidays, I was listening to one of the songs and suddenly, out of nowhere, the song instantaneously felt familiar. I felt at that instant that I know exactly what song it is. I felt that I knew everything about it. It was an unexpected revelation. I happened to fast-forward to some part about 30 seconds from the end of the song. There wasn’t even anything particular about those few seconds that I had listened to. But I knew instantaneously whether I like the song or not. Even better, I knew exactly in what moods I’d like it the most. I felt a deep connection with the song. My old way of understanding songs suddenly felt silly. How superficial my algorithm has been!

I realized how many things that I was doing had only a superficial connection to whatever goal I was trying to achieve. Take reading, for example. It’s easy to think that you’re reading “well” — after all, your eyes fall on every word, you comprehend the plot and maybe you can even predict what’s going to happen next. But are you really reading the book? Are you getting something meaningful out of the activity? Reading poems is probably an even more apparent example… many of us have read poems and we think we understand them. We can talk about them, about how they make us feel. We think we crossed a kind of magical threshold–we’re now in the inner circle of those who know.

The truth is that we don’t know half of it. We haven’t connected with the book, or with the poem deeply. It’s one thing to know how the poem makes you feel; it’s another to feelthe poem permeate our bodies. It’s almost as if the poem fused with us, we’re now richer by a miniscule, infinitesimal amount, but this speck is also infinitely rich.

It’s difficult to describe the kind of feeling you get if you connect with something at a true, deep level. In fact, almost by definition there is no way to grasp this moment with any kind of scientific approach; it’s pure art. And while it usually manifests itself with works of art, I realized that any goal can be internalized in such a way. In fact, this is the only way that guarantees that you truly achieve your goal. Of course, the difficulty is precisely this lack of preciseness that characterizes the feeling–there’s no prescription for how to achieve this clarity. Sometimes the feeling comes after you experience something for 5 seconds. Sometimes you can experience it in its entirety over and over again and the feeling will not come.

It should come to no surprise that we form this superficial connection with goals all the time. We do this when we work out, when we communicate with others, when we cook. It’s definitely easier to do because we’re all great imitators. Mechanistic things are what the more fundamental parts of our brain react to, and–let’s face it–those parts have been with us for much longer.

But if you realize that taking a different, imprecise, unscientific approach to achieving goals results in a much more complete and meaningful goal achievement, you will open your mind to the possibility of true enlightenment.

Europe

As someone who spent his childhood in Europe, I am drawn to this continent. There’s something intangible, ethereal that makes all European countries I go to all alike in a way, and each different from the U.S.

Part of it is the architecture; overwhelming dominance of bauhaus in Eastern Europe and Germany as well as the utilitarian communist blocks that one can see all over the place. But that’s not all: the layouts of towns are unique; dating back to the feudal era (which never existed in the U.S.) with a square in the center (paved with brick, usually), with three-story buildings on all sides of the square. The omnipresent churches–the tallest structures in the towns. There are roundabouts everywhere (the traffic control mechanism of choice for pretty much all of Europe) and the streets are usually pretty hard to navigate (like in Boston, probably the most European of all U.S. cities). Forget about the grid, or about the suburban structure–there are no suburbs in Europe.

I love how Europe is more crowded. The cars are smaller. The city blocks are closer together. I get a sense of warmth emanating from European towns.

Then there is the smell in the air; maybe it’s the continental climate but somehow Europe smells differently. The sky looks different, too (it’s almost always cloudy in the winter which is probably why I tend to dress lighter in the winter than I should–I tend to equate sunny sky with warm temperatures–but the clouds are also of different shapes and the sky is whiter).

It’s the presence of rail and trolley lines, so heavily relied upon in Europe.

It’s the trees. Lots of pine trees. The trees are skinnier, taller.

It’s what people wear. Their dress is more uniform, more gray. It’s the crazy hats.

It’s how everyone seems less rushed.

Somehow hundreds of years of tradition, change, progress (and regression) show in the most subtle of ways.

 

Title Translations

Translating creative works is no small feat.  By far the most difficult are translations of poems but some masterpieces of prose can be just as challenging.  The task is not as crucial in case of movies, but, having just spent the past week watching English-language movies with Polish voice-overs, I can see that movie translations are given much less thought (likely due to lesser budget) because a lot gets lost in translation.

One thing in movie translations that I have been fairly impressed by are movie title translations.  Movie titles are similar to book titles but I feel that there's a lot less pressure to maintain a literal translation; the translator can allow him(her)self more creative input.

There are some good translations; a classic horror movie "The Lawnmower Man" has been translated in Polish into what literally means "The Mind Mower" which I think is a far better title.  "Alien" was given a curious alternate version "Alien: the 8th Passenger of Nostromo" which I think is a perfect teaser (unlike the many video teasers these days that make the movie no longer worth watching).  "Finding Neverland" became "A Dreamer" which is an aesthetically-pleasing sound to it in Polish.  "Goodfellas" has a great translation (the literal "Boys from a gang" doesn't do it justice though).  "Catch 22" is translated into "Paragraph no. 22" which is a good save.  "Birdy" becomes a Polish word Ptasiek which is a made-up (nonexistent) diminutive of "Bird".

Sometimes movie translations lose some of their magic because the literal translation doesn't make much sense and the translator decides to play it safe; and so "Million Dollar Baby" was translated into "At All Costs" and "Cinderella Man" became "The Man from the Ring".

I've seen, of course, some bad translations.  "Crank" was translated into "Adrenaline" which is unfortunate because "Crank 2" has very little to do with adrenaline and the translation forced the sequel's name.  "Slumdog Millionaire" was translated into "Slumdog. Millionaire from the street" which is a terrible name because "slumdog" was just inserted literally (there is no such word in Polish) and why would titles consist of two sentences anyway?  "American History X" was translated into "A Prisoner of Hate".  "Bowling for Columbine" became "Playing with guns".  Sometimes titles are translated literally which sounds fine in English but terrible in Polish (for example, "Sweeney Todd: the Demon Barber of Fleet Street" was translated word by word).

I encourage you to look through imdb and reading some "alternate" (in other languages) titles given to movies.

Making Ginger Beer

I decided to brew ginger beer the other weekend. For one, it’s an easy way to debut in brewing (ginger beer has a negligible amount of alcohol — 0.5% — which makes it easier to brew) and establishing one’s presence in the kitchen in general. Ginger beer also happens to be one of my favorite drinks (if you think you’ve tried ginger beer before, try Fentimans Ginger Beer and prepare to be gobsmacked).

I found very helpful recipes online and adapted them slightly to make the beer taste a little more like Fentiman’s: ensure a distinctive “kick” of ginger with hints of juniper. I did two batches — I wanted to try the first, then improve my process for the second one. The first batch took forever and the beer was too lemonade-y and not ginger-y enough. I improve my recipe and the second batch turned out to be a success.

The Recipe for 5 bottles (16 oz each)

  • 10 cups of water — I used Poland Spring
  • 1/2 cup of ginger juice
  • 4/3 cup of cane sugar
  • 2 tbsp of lemon juice
  • 1 tsp of yeast — I used Fleischmanns Instant baking yeast
  • A pinch of cream of tartar
  • A couple of handfuls of juniper berries

I bought some fresh ginger root, peeled it and juiced it with a garlic press, chunk by chunk (each chunk was big enough to fit in the press).

I brought the water to a boil, added the ginger juice, the sugar, the lemon juice, cream of tartar and the juniper berries. I let the water boil for 10 minutes.

At the same time I reconstructed the yeast — I put it in a cup of lukewarm water with a teaspoon of sugar and let sit for 10 minutes.

I let the compote cool down, added yeast and poured into a large bottle (I used two large orange juice bottles). I covered the bottles with cloth and let sit for 16 hours, undisturbed in a dark, warm place.

Finally I poured the mixture into bottles (I used those flip-top bottles, they are great), sealed the bottles and let them sit in a dark, warm place for 36 hours.

I was very pleased with the result — the beer had the kick I was looking for, and the lemon wasn’t overpowering. Mind you, I was probably biased since I wanted the beer to work out, but overall it was a fun experiment. I think what would make it even better would be to use actual ginger beer plant.

I encourage everyone to try and do something in the kitchen. Brewing is an interesting offshoot of cooking — it teaches patience; but it’s still relatively easy to make. Even a poorly brewed ginger beer will no doubt taste excellent in a Dark and Stormy…

Uncharted Territory

I have several recurring dreams. One such dream places me back at home, in my home town. I am on a routine trip, say to the grocery store. Suddenly I deviate from the path I always take and find myself taking one I’ve never taken. It is that path that reveals mystical, magical areas of my town to me, areas that clearly exist only in my imagination–for example, suddenly a path I take to the grocery story becomes a narrow passage on the side of the mountain that suddenly appears next to my house. My imagination goes wild, conjuring up places taken from some kind of fable, splicing them into my dream. While such fantastic places clearly are fake, I can’t be sure in the dream because technically I’ve never taken that path.

I think this recurring dream highlights my fascination with unchartered territory, especially places in close proximity to well-known and frequently-visited areas. It’s almost as if my mind wanted these areas to be full of mystery.

I think it’s a natrual response to the world getting smaller. It’s now easy for me to fly all over the world; any two places on Earth are at most twenty-four hours apart, yet there is still so much I haven’t explored, even five hundred yards from my childhood home.

I go back home every year and sometimes am tempted by following one of those alternative paths from my dreams. But I quickly stop, knowing deep inside that I’ll be disppointed if I do so. If I prove to myself that there is nothing out-of-the-ordinary there, where will the mystery, the magic go? With nowhere to go, it will disappear. And life without magic is an uninspiring life.

The most shocking example of unchartered territory is probably my apartment block itself. I live on the eighth floor of a Communist-era block: back in the ’50s, a marvel of engineering and a perfect example of socialism manifesting itself through homogenization and utilitarian mass production; now a dark, ugly reminder of the depressing times that’s way past its effective lifetime and thus unsafe; then–the Burj’s (al-Buruuj) of their times; now–embarrassing pimples in the skyline that desperately wants to be innocent enough.

I have lived in the building for most of my adolescent life, yet I have never taken the elevator past my floor. Not once. The top floor–one I’ve never been to–with its access to the roof, and the terminal stop for the elevator, has only (but prominently) featured in my dreams. For instance, I would frequently dream of mistakenly taking the elevator to the tenth floor. Every time I did, something fantastic happened–for example, the elevator wouldn’t stop and simply blew through the roof (in a puzzling, rather than scary, kind of way); or I’d never actually get to the tenth floor, yet always get closer and closer to it. Or the elevator would suddenly start moving sideways. There were dozens of variations, one for each recurrence of the dream. They weren’t frightening; I remember being intrigued and overwhelmed, like Alice in Wonderland.

They were, however, respectful of the Magic. The tension in the elevator cables made a distinctive set of sounds as the elevator crawled from the ground floor to the eighth (in a kind of signature unique to this elevator). Obviously, the symphony is unfinished; I don’t know the last two bars of it. None of the dreams ever dared complete it for me; the sounds are like a key to the unchartered territory that I never obtained.

There is an animated short that reflects the spirit of my feeling like nothing else; it is one of the shorts of Animatrix, called Beyond. In it, a child discovers a “bug” (the whole world is a computer simulation–there, I spoiled Matrix for you) in his neighborhood that causes the laws of physics to cease to apply momentarily, warps time and space, and allows cause and effect relationship to be violated. It’s a clever way to describe magic. In the short, the bug is corrected; everything goes back to norm. But we can’t stop feeling disappointed, even though we knew it was all unreal.

Will I ever ride to the top floor of my building? Never. Not because I’m afraid, but because if I do, there will be no unchartered territory. The magic will be gone; hefty reality will set in instead. And I find it rather convenient to have an infinite repository of magic two floors above my apartment.

The Evolution of the Todo list

Being somewhat OCD, I keep the concept of a todo list close to my heart. I’ve gone through several dozen iterations of an excellent todo list and what I have arrived at works very well for me; I want to share some of the design decisions I’ve made in the past, since I’m sure that if you’re just as passionate about keeping track of things to do, you probably came across the same problems as I did.

I wrote my first todo list when I was in fourth grade (I was about 10 years old). I found the concept really useful in staying organized and keeping on top of tasks. I think the perfectionist in me hated forgetting things (most of us have a dislike of forgetting things–this is related to our irrational preference for the preservation of options) so I added a safety net for my memory early on in my life (also, as a youngster, I would tend to forget things really easily).

The todo list started as a collection of subjects for which the teach assigned homework. I would write three-letter abbreviations out on a small 2.5″ by 2.5″ of paper, squeezing Monday through Wednesday on one page and the rest of the week on another. The first lesson I learned was to write in a small, regular type so that things could fit on a small piece of paper that I could take with me anywhere.

Soon I realized that it’s better to attach the tasks to the day they are due (or the day before, to be precise) rather than the day they were assigned. This pushed Monday through Thursday on one page and the weekend on another (since I ended up doing most of the task on weekends).

At some point the list was enhanced to include items not related to homework: for example, I wanted to find a new wallpaper for my computer’s desktop, or finish a particular computer program or a game I was working on. Most of the things I had listed at this point were tasks–they were specific and achievable in the frame of one week. When I added longer-term items (for example, books that

I was supposed to read over a semester), I’d separate them visually from all other items with a different color. Finally, I started using icons to represent frequently-listed tasks, partly for increased efficiency, partly because I liked having a system that only I understood.

When I was 16, I went to high school in London. My tasks slowly amalgamated into goals, small and big; particularly as I started listing things I wanted to achieve for self-improvement. This was also the first time that I separated short-term things from long-term things: the latter was one large sheet of paper that I kept in my drawer; the former became post-it notes (yes! I discovered post-it notes!). This was mostly also due to efficiency — I didn’t want to keep copying the same items over and over again from one week’s post-it note to the other.

The move to post-it notes also forced me to keep everything on one page. This ended up being a good thing: I was realizing that I’m a hypervisual person–being able to grasp the entire week at once allowed me to get things done more efficiently (this is also why I prefer restaurants that display all the entrees on one page).

At some point in my senior year in college I finally moved to have an electronic form of my todo list. I held out for quite a long time, because the act of writing out my tasks seemed to make a longer lasting impression on me than typing them out. But through behavioral change I slowly got used to referring to my todo list on a computer. I worked out a few rules that made such a system possible: having the list open at all times (so that I would never lose sight of what I was doing–this also forced me to keep the list small), using simple formatting (I stuck with plain text notes formatted with tabs; simple formatting allowed me not to lose sight of the tasks, allowed me to edit the list very quickly, and made the list very compact). I worked out very efficient (“cryptic” to some) terms to denote tasks.

It was then that I started to think about the effectiveness of my strategy to get things done (mind you, that was back in the day, before someone decided to write a book about these commonsensical things and made a lot of money) as opposed to just the efficiency of the representation. It became more important to have a system that helped me achieve the things rather than a system that allowed me to write them down quickly. This is where a lot of the experimentation happened. I thought a lot about what makes me motivated and while most of the motivation is independent of the protocol for keeping track of goals and tasks, I found a fairly significant variability between which system I used and how effective I was at getting things done.

I toyed with an idea of a kind of game I’d play with myself, a kind of system where I’d reward myself for getting stuff done. I didn’t really need any exogenous incentive–earning virtual “points” was all that I needed (perhaps it’s because I’m a conceptual thinker, or perhaps because I’m a nerd). I’d assign myself points for every task, and the number of points was proportional to how “important” the task was. I would set goals for, say, a month. I went even more crazy than that, coming up with a number of point thresholds, exceeding each of which would give me a different “rank” (it’s incredible how much fun a kid can have with nothing but pen and paper). Recently I dropped any kind of scoring system because I noticed that I by and large knew how well I was doing and keeping track of my score became less of a factor in motivating me — in other words I realized that the desire to get things done had to come from something else than how many points I got for the day.

I also experimented with the timeframe for my short-term todo list. At that point I still had two lists: a short-term one and a long-term one, and every time I came up with a new instance of the former one I’d consult the latter. For about a year I changed the frequency of the short-term list to be biweekly but I found that a frequency of one week is optimal — the list needed to include at least one weekend (otherwise it wouldn’t be all that useful since I do get a lot of the stuff done over the weekend–the weekend is also a “buffer” for overflow work); but if it included more than one I would end up feel too complacent on the first weekend and postpone everything to the second one.

About three years ago I came up with a framework for a high-level structure of the todo lists that I had by and large accepted and tried to follow: I listed things which I wanted to do every day (for example, get up to speed on the blogs that I was following; or go jogging) in a kind of “checklist”. Generic todo items would follow, at first scattered arbitrarily throughout the week. Specific events had dates attached to them. I had a separate file that listed events happening on a particular date if they were more than a week away, to not litter my todo list too much.

I went back and forth on whether I should explicitly include the daily tasks on my list or not. At first I thought that by including them I would be more incentivized to do them every day. At the end updating them ended up just wasting my time so instead, my short-term list now has a list of these things to remind me what I have to do every day, but I don’t keep track of whether I actually do.

Finally came the iPhone and for the first time since I switched to a computer-based todo list I could carry the lists with me at all times. It was great as I no longer had to email myself notes (or keep them in some separate
container and then get them out of my iPhone). I’m still pretty adamant on keeping the notes as simple and unformatted as possible and accessible from anywhere so I wanted to stick to text files. Fortunately I found an app called SyncBook which did exactly what I wanted it to do — it allowed me to sync a folder of text files between my computer and the iPhone and–most importantly–it allowed me to edit the text files on the iPhone (there are several good apps that work in a similar fashion — take a look at Evernote if you don’t need the notes to be text files and don’t mind slightly bigger overhead, or just sync native Notes if you don’t mind Marker Felt. There are also apps that allow you to edit richer documents if you do care about the formatting).

About three months ago I settled on a final design for my todo lists. I like it because

  • It’s simple–there is minimal overhead; I only need to update pretty much one word when I complete a task (or want to add a new one)
  • The important information, and only the important information is with me at all times–I have the todo list open on my computer, and when I’m away from my computer I have it on my iPhone. Syncing is as easy as pressing one button in SyncBook, and I can sync over the local network, which is great (I can do it anywhere around the house)
  • My todo list is organized in a three-tier structure: day, week, month, which is a natural structure to think about tasks
    • week (a short term list) enumerates all days of the week with things which I have to do that day. It also has a general “grab bag” of items which I simply have to do at some point in the week. Finally it has a list of items which are my daily tasks (I don’t repeat them for every day) and a list of items which are my weekly tasks. All the daily and weekly tasks derive from my goals. Finally, it contains a list of problems in my life that I want to solve in order of how anxious they make me.
    • thisMonth enumerates all items which I’m supposed to do at some point in the month. I also include longer term periodic things such as what books to read and what miniprojects to do. Every week I take some items from this list and put them in the week list.
    • nextMonth enumerates all items which I’m supposed to do next month. Every month I move them to the thisMonth list.
    • calendar which contains all events with dates attached to them. I tried to use something like iCal but I like the flexibility of specifying indeterminate times (e.g. some time in the latter half of January) and I found the existing interfaces of iCal insufficient
  • All the items are available offline — I hate not being to access something because it’s online, or having to deal with slow web-based interfaces. Changing a status of an item takes me a couple of seconds at most
  • It’s short–the short term list consists is a text file measuring 20 rows and at most 50 characters in a row (so it can fit on one page on my iPhone). All thanks to efficient representation of todo items — there’s no need to be verbose since I remember most things that I’m supposed to do given a short prompt. For example, I know that “nprAlarm” is a task to set my computer up so that it wakes me up every morning by playing the live podcast of WNYC.
  • It’s fast–syncing is fast, editing is fast, viewing is fast. Moving items from one list to another is fast.
  • All my goals are represented in one form or another on the short term list. That way I’m constantly reminded of what I’m supposed to be doing and how it connects to my goals.

Of course, this framework is just one of many and which framework works for you depends very much on your personality and what makes you tick. I do, however, encourage you to follow a few principles:

  • Have a list. Some people say that having a list is bad because you stop relying on your memory. I solve this problem by training my memory in other ways (e.g. with Brain Challenge). Don’t conflate training with work
  • Experiment. Switch things around. A kind of “evolutionary” process–an informed random walk–allows you to find the most effective system
  • Keep it simple. Complicated lists end up wasting time and detract from actually getting stuff done
  • Keep it available. You never know when you have some time to knock something off the list, and you never know when you want to add something to the list
  • Keep it flexible. After all, we think in free-form way, not in a highly structured way, especially when we go about our daily activities and let our mind wander

 

The Math of Sunrise and Sunset

I knew since I was ten (we had quite a comprehensive curriculum at school) that the shortest day of the year falls on December 22nd. What I didn’t ponder until very recently was whether it was also the day of the latest sunrise (and, consequently, the earliest sunset).

While it may seem like a natural consequence of December 22nd being the shortest day, it doesn’t necessarily have to be true. If we model the time of sunrise and of sunset as two sine waves, \(a(t) = A \text{sin}(t+α)+K\) and \(b(t) = B \text{sin}(t+β)+L\) such that \(t_0\) minimizes the difference (we can drop the constants):

\[B \text{sin}(t+β) - A \text{sin}(t+α)\]

This means that

\[\frac{d(b(t)-a(t)}{dt} = 0 \text{at} t_0 \Rightarrow B \text{cos}(t_0+β) - A \text{cos}(t_0+α) = 0\]

We need to show that this equality may hold (for some values of \(α\), \(β\), \(A\) and \(B\)) even if one of the waves is not minimized at \(t_0\). Let

\[\begin{align}\frac{da(t)}{dt} = P \neq 0 \text{at} t_0 \Rightarrow A \text{cos}(t_0+α) &amp; = P\\ B \text{cos}(t_0+β) = A \text{cos}(t_0+α) &amp;= P\\ \text{cos}(t_0+β) = \frac{P}{B}, \text{where} \frac{A}{B} \leq \frac{P}{B} \leq \frac{A}{B}\end{align}\]

We can always find some values of \(A\) and \(B\) such that \(\frac{P}{B}\) is between -1 and 1, and hence the equation will be satisfied for some values of \(t_0\) and \(β\).

We can also take a short route and recall that a linear combination of two sine waves of the same frequency but not necessarily the same phase is still a sine wave. Its phase is a function of the difference in phases of the two waves. The value of \(t_0\) that minimizes the resulting wave is not necessarily going to minimize any of the two input waves because the three phases are different (and not different by a multiple of π).

In fact, if you look at the sunrise and sunset times in Connecticut around this December, the shortest day, unsurprisingly, falls on December 22nd, but the latest sunrise is on January 4th 2010 and the earliest sunset is on December 8th.

This is great news–it means that starting on December 8th (and not the 22nd), it will finally start getting darker later and later!