GTalk conversation wrote:Pseudonym: No one on match replyed to me [frown] It seems mean
Me: Don't worry, it takes time
If they don't reply they're not worth expecting a reply from
P: lol what? O_o
M: Well basically anyone that doesn't respond is a bad potential gf
So therefore it's a good outcome
If they do respond then they're a good potential gf
A good outcome
P: But isn't it in a quantum superposition?
That they may always be about to reply?
So I can only no a positive or an undecisive?
M: Well basically the relationship suitability index S(R) decreases logarithmically with time
P: Oh okay
So at what point does it cross the accepted sutability threshold?
M: If there are several conversations then the longest unexplained gap is used to determine S(R)
Well the threshold for rejection, S(Rrej), is defined from factors of person P, time since last relationship t, and attractiveness of subject X
P: Is "awesomeness of profile" a variable?
M: Therefore it is worth waiting infinite time for a person of infinite attractiveness
That's built into the X variable
It's a subcorrelate
P: like for instance:me: I do that twoMatch profile wrote:I spend an unusual amount of time pondering the deeper meanings of zombie movies. Two bands have credited me in their album sleeve notes, although I can't be certain what for. I guess I'm just a good person to have around. I like to type the words for numbers, instead of just typing the number, because I just like words better.
S(Rrej) and other matters
-
Savia
- Chocolate teapot
- Joined: Wed Apr 02, 2003 3:40 pm
- Location: Reading, UK
S(Rrej) and other matters
So a light sobriquet of random internet chatter for you all to enjoy, or otherwise:
"A creator needs only one enthusiast to justify him." - Man Ray
"Restrictions breed creativity." - Mark Rosewater
A Freudian slip is where you say one thing, but mean your mother.
"Restrictions breed creativity." - Mark Rosewater
A Freudian slip is where you say one thing, but mean your mother.
-
Orwell
- godx, Son of godix
- Joined: Tue Jan 06, 2004 5:14 am
- Location: Frying Pan. Destination: Fire.
The panther paces.
Waiting reminds him that clarity is painful
but his pain is unreadable,
obscure, chiaroscuro to their human senses.
In time they will misread his gait,
his moon mad eyes,
the almost gentle way his tail caresses the bars.
In time they will mistake him
for something else-
without history,
without the shadow of being,
a creature without the penance of living.
They will read only his name.
They will be unable to perceive
what strangeness
lies beneath his patience.
Patience is the darkest side of power.
He is dark.
He is black.
He is exquisitely powerful.
He has made pain his lover
and hidden her completely.
Now he will never forget.
She will give birth to memories
they believe he has been broken of.
He smells the new rain,
tastes its change.
His claw skates along
the cold floor.
Love curled up and died
on such a floor.
He blinks.
Clarity improves.
He hears other creatures scream and fade.
But silence is his.
He knows.
In time the gates will open.
In time his heart will open.
Then the shadows will bleed
and the locks will break.
Waiting reminds him that clarity is painful
but his pain is unreadable,
obscure, chiaroscuro to their human senses.
In time they will misread his gait,
his moon mad eyes,
the almost gentle way his tail caresses the bars.
In time they will mistake him
for something else-
without history,
without the shadow of being,
a creature without the penance of living.
They will read only his name.
They will be unable to perceive
what strangeness
lies beneath his patience.
Patience is the darkest side of power.
He is dark.
He is black.
He is exquisitely powerful.
He has made pain his lover
and hidden her completely.
Now he will never forget.
She will give birth to memories
they believe he has been broken of.
He smells the new rain,
tastes its change.
His claw skates along
the cold floor.
Love curled up and died
on such a floor.
He blinks.
Clarity improves.
He hears other creatures scream and fade.
But silence is his.
He knows.
In time the gates will open.
In time his heart will open.
Then the shadows will bleed
and the locks will break.
Latest
[Kristyrat]: Vote for Orwell
[Kristyrat]: because train conducters are dicks.
Otohiko: whereas Germans are like "god we are all so horrible, we're going to die a pointless death now."
[Kristyrat]: Vote for Orwell
[Kristyrat]: because train conducters are dicks.
Otohiko: whereas Germans are like "god we are all so horrible, we're going to die a pointless death now."
-
inthesto
- Beef Basket
- Joined: Sat Mar 13, 2004 10:27 am
- Status: PARTIES
- Location: PARTIES
-
ZephyrStar
- Master of Science
- Joined: Fri Sep 17, 2004 3:04 am
- Status: 3D
- Location: The Laboratory
- Contact:
-
Fall_Child42
- has a rock
- Joined: Wed Aug 11, 2004 6:32 pm
- Status: Veloci-tossin' to the max!
- Location: Jurassic Park
S'io credessi che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza più scosse.
Ma per ciò che giammai di questo fondo
Non tornò viva alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo. *
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question . . .
Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?'
Let us go and make out visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, 'Do I dare?' and, 'Do I dare?
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair -
(They will say: 'How his hair is growing thin!'}
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin -
(They will say, 'But how his legs and arms are thin!')
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse
For I have known them all already, known them all -
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all -
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume
And how should I begin?
. . . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet - and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: 'I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all' -
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: 'That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.'
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor -
And this, and so much more? -
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow toward the window, should say:
'That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.'
. . . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendent lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous -
Almost, at times, the Fool.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza più scosse.
Ma per ciò che giammai di questo fondo
Non tornò viva alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo. *
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question . . .
Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?'
Let us go and make out visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, 'Do I dare?' and, 'Do I dare?
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair -
(They will say: 'How his hair is growing thin!'}
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin -
(They will say, 'But how his legs and arms are thin!')
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse
For I have known them all already, known them all -
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all -
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume
And how should I begin?
. . . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet - and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: 'I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all' -
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: 'That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.'
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor -
And this, and so much more? -
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow toward the window, should say:
'That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.'
. . . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendent lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous -
Almost, at times, the Fool.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
-
Savia
- Chocolate teapot
- Joined: Wed Apr 02, 2003 3:40 pm
- Location: Reading, UK
Yes.godix wrote:Savia way over-analyzes online dating services and orwell posts a rather boring poem about black man who's into S&M. What exactly is this thread about, the best methods to guarantee you won't get laid?
FC: Great poem
"A creator needs only one enthusiast to justify him." - Man Ray
"Restrictions breed creativity." - Mark Rosewater
A Freudian slip is where you say one thing, but mean your mother.
"Restrictions breed creativity." - Mark Rosewater
A Freudian slip is where you say one thing, but mean your mother.
-
CorpseGoddess
- Joined: Mon Jan 30, 2006 9:23 pm
- Status: HEY GUYS
- Location: Vancouver, BC
Re: S(Rrej) and other matters
"Sobriquet" means an affectionate nickname. I don't understand the application of the word here.Savia wrote:So a light sobriquet of random internet chatter for you all to enjoy, or otherwise:
Were you thinking of "briquette", like with charcoal? Maybe this is a light roasting of internet chatter?
-
Savia
- Chocolate teapot
- Joined: Wed Apr 02, 2003 3:40 pm
- Location: Reading, UK