This superb video and poetry by the excellent Joy Buolamwini calls attention to the ongoing deeply problematic issues of racial biases in automated facial recognition systems. The associated site: http://www.notflawless.ai/ is very much worth visiting (and sharing!) too.
Seasons seem to turn
like the slow ebb of a tide.
Drained then renewed.
Grey quilts thick with rain,
sunshine scatters asunder.
webbed in quilts of spiders silk.
Spun to call forth seasons.
Flickering birch leaves
froth against skies of skim’d milk,
Ensign of high Spring.
Motorway bass line
‘neath windblown birdsong descant.
Prelude to summer.
Worry displaces relief,
Half-term empties roads.
Tough being ‘grown-up’,
Palliative praise revives,
Northerly wind bites.
Here’s some haikus that I tweeted yesterday that sort of summed up how I was feeling as I commuted down and back to Exeter and went about a day’s work… The earliest tweet/haiku is the furthest down, the last is the one at the top. Make of them what you will.
A sea of screens and headphones,
Syllables take flight.
Stale coffee, tired seats,
The clocks go back soon.
Head cloudy as Devon sky,
Term flows like tweets.
(A) subject to change,
Tired of worrying.
Autumn sun, cold air,
At school, Will wore shorts all year,
Students wear thick coats.
Devon morning frost,
Train bisects freshly ploughed fields,
Low sun on full beam.
I would like to note, as a good friend (better read than I) argued:
“All masterful authority is an imposition/imposture (Badiou on Rancière); every claim to verification of the Real is imposture (Baudrillard). So, yeah, in our social and scientific lives we are all habitual imposters! Whether or not we accept or admit it is another matter.”
Cold room but warm seat,
Starting week reading Haiku,
Badly need coffee
Feeble I know, but here’s Keith Harris’ – he’s been writing them on his blog and I’ve enjoyed reading them… plus, we always need more coffee!
Here amongst this darkened room
a fork could compose a tune,
an ice cream float parade for lunch,
a boxer collapse drunk on punch.
Playing across this inky pitch
teaming dreams compete for thought, which
hang in gloom on hooks of ideas
stimulating both hopes and fears.
And yet I sit alone, unmoving,
the blank of dark obscure but soothing.
Round about my thoughts are strewn,
here amongst this darkened room.