Tag: igb

Less Input [en]

In the spirit of shortening things, I’m taking a few moments during my lunch break to share some thoughts I’ve been having recently. Various things have contributed to these thoughts:

  • my permanent struggle with “too many ideas” and “too many things I want to do” (which predates my accident, but is now exacerbated given my reduced energy)
  • pondering on how to manage my energy (already underway since my accident, but now fed by the occupational therapy programme for energy management that I’m in the middle of)
  • my training at IGB, and the two-day course I just did in Paris (the recurring focus is “how something that works for the person at some point becomes the thing that feeds the problem”)
  • my exploration of AI and in particular the framework/project/took that was previously called PAI (now LifeOS) (output is cheap now: feed a genAI model a few lines and it can spit out thousands of words for you).

I’m not going to be able to reconstruct how my ideas around this have shifted in a chronological or well-organised way, but here’s more or less where I’m at: I’m somebody who believes that “knowledge is power”, that “more information is better”, that by learning and analysing and understanding, I can find answers.

That works a lot of the time, for me. It has worked very well for me. But I’m starting to see how this is part of what is trapping me, right now.

At some point in my struggles with my AI infrastructure (trying to get the PAI Digital Assistant up and running correctly, fixing bugs, making sure it learns correctly, setting up workflows for the things I want it to do for me) I realised that it had a built-in bias (the model, most probably) towards “producing more is better”. LLMs are verbose, we all know that by now. The more you feed them, the more words they spit out – but not necessarily the more useful information.

I kept giving instructions for concision. I would provide examples of how to write things up. I would set up guardrails, have it self-correct, hunt for fluff and filler content. At some point I realised that “the system” was just growing and growing in terms of content (the number of words and files that contained the instructions), and the output was not improving – more like the contrary. This is nothing new, right. We know that complex systems balloon up and lose efficiency. And I’ve seen more than once in my dealings with AI that I pretty much always end up spending more time “fixing the system” than actually using it. This, actually, is something I’d noticed about myself in general; but it’s easier for me to rein in when I don’t have an LLM at the other end of the keyboard. So here, it became even more visible.

So here it is. The mantra I keep repeating to people in all sorts of context: “less is more”; “better is the enemy of good” (that’s what we say in French). If I feed my AI system less input, I get less bloated output in the system. I read somewhere (can’t remember the source, probably have it stashed away somewhere) that in the age of generative AI, the bottleneck was shifting from content production to content consumption. What we can “ingest” is the limiting factor, now that we have machines that can spew out words and sentences and paragraphs and essays and reports like there’s no tomorrow. But it’s worthless unless we can read it and understand it and do something with it. Just feeding that AI output to another AI is just going to magnify errors and biases and produce more slop, unless there is a humain mind in charge that understands what it’s doing and what it’s asking.

Early on, in 2024, I remember reflecting at some point that the AI I was using seemed “more ADHD than me”. And what my more recent experiences have helped me understand about myself is this:

  1. My problem, my “slop/bloat” is ideas and things I want to do. I am somebody for whom ideas are cheap. I have ideas all the time. I can come up with stuff I’d like to do all day. My problem (bottleneck) lies in selecting what I run with, and that is a difficult exercise – even more difficult since my accident.
  2. The more “input” I get, the more – just like the LLM – I produce ideas and desires. I read an article, there are 5 more I want to read. I have a discussion on a topic, I want to read more stuff or write articles or create a community around it. I learn about something new, oooh it’s nice and shiny and I want to do it.

Having a large capacity for input and lots of ideas, followed by enough energy to take a handful of them and run with them (OK, frustrating to have to leave so many aside, but at least I’m busy doing something useful/interesting with some of them) has, as I said above, served me very well in life. But trees don’t grow to the sky. At some point, what has worked well becomes the source of the problem.

And I’m realising that the way out of this, at least now, is not better prioritising. First of all, it’s reducing input.

Less input, less ideas, less “oh I want to do this thing”, less slop to sort through, less frustration with everything I’m not doing.

Exactly how to achieve that is still a thought in progress. But that’s what I’ve been thinking of this last week or so.

Billet manuscrit, Paris toujours, un 4 juillet [en]

Je me demande si l’invasion de nos écrans par l’IA va redonner une place à l’écriture manuscrite.

Des mots sur un carnet à Paris [en]

C’est moche pour l’accessibilité, je sais.

Post-Accident Packing and Travel Anxiety [en]

I’m on the train to Paris. I’ll be coming back a week on Monday. It’s a comfortable, easy trip. The reason for my travel is I’m attending a two-day course on burnout – part of my training at the Gregory Bateson Institute. I’d planned on postponing this module until next year or the year after, given that my main priority now is building my working capacity back up following last year’s accident. But earlier this year, the whole curriculum was redesigned (it’s a good thing!), and the material on burnout will be incorporated into a longer module which is largely redundant with the courses I’ve already taken. So: now or never.

Following my relapse/brain crash earlier this year, I took the decision in March to pretty much clear out anything that was in my calendar. It was a tough decision, but it was the right one (people who have experience with chronic fatigue will know what I’m talking about). For those few plans I held on to, I « cleared the decks » around them to ensure they would not interfere with getting my work done, and that work would not jeopardise them. This means I took the whole week off for these two days of training, just like I took the whole week off a fortnight ago to go and see Mika live at the Caribana Festival. It worked.

In my pre-accident life, I might have travelled on Monday, attended the training on Tuesday and Wednesday, and travelled home Thursday. The « recovery » version of this is to add at least a day of padding in between training and travel, with nothing planned, so I can rest/stock up on « energy »/recover, and reduce the risk of (for example) travelling on a maxed out brain. I figured I might as well add on a few extra days (particularly as Oscar is not around anymore – something I’m really thankful for to be honest, with the awful heat wave that hit us over the last week), and catch up with a couple of people, if I’m in good enough shape.

This is my fourth « real trip » since my accident. I went to France twice for extended week-ends with family or friends last year. Each time was absolutely exhausting (but nice). Then after Christmas I went to spend some time at the chalet – first time I was going back since my accident – and we know what a disaster that turned out to be. This time, I think I’ve planned and organised things well enough and with a lot of caution.

As I was packing and preparing for departure yesterday, I realised I was really stressed out. More than usual. Packing and preparing to travel has always been stressful for me. It’s not the actual travel or being in a strange place or away from home. Or maybe just a little. What it is mainly is all the executive function acrobatics required in dealing with travel-related logistics:

  • making sure I do the things that need to be done before leaving
  • deciding what to bring with me (this is a huge one)
  • organising cat- and plant-sitting
  • inserting these « unusual activities » into my days at the right time, in the right order, and with enough time to carry them out
  • leaving wherever I’m at to go “somewhere else” – the transition itself.

Putting things in the suitcase is actually a part I like. It’s real-life Tetris: fun. Once I’ve locked the door behind me and am heading out with my luggage, I’m good. But before that, it’s complicated. I have got much better at dealing with it over the years, and with the clearer view on my executive function challenges that my ADHD diagnosis brought me a few years ago (and meds!) it’s even better.

I don’t have a very clear memory of how preparation for my two France trips went last year (only that I overpacked, a sign that making decisions regarding what to take or not was difficult, so in doubt, pack more). But I do know that packing for the chalet in December was a nightmare.

OK, I had already « crashed » during the previous week, but I’d taken rest to recover and felt functional enough to tackle it. And yes, it was also the first time back to the chalet since my accident, but I was really looking forward to heading back. I was aware there was maybe a little (normal) underlying apprehension that I might not be perceiving.

What apprehension I could feel was not about going to the chalet, but about the possibility of an unexpected emotional reaction to being there again. It was the same thing when I went back on the ski slopes: not scared of skiing, just worried I might have misjudged my readiness and have some kind of PTSD-like reaction to being back on my skis or where the accident took place. Nothing like that happened, by the way. Everything was fine.

This illustrates where most of my post-accident anxiety lies. I am normally pretty good, in general, in predicting how I’ll react, what will be challenging, what I can and can’t deal with. I know myself well, including my biases, and of course I know that when you expect something to do this way or that, it does have an influence on the outcome – I do my best to correct for that. Since my accident however, I have been blindsided by my brain more times than I can count. At times I feel like I do not know myself anymore, though of course I’m still me and very much feel me, but when it comes to “what I can take”, whether mentally, physically or emotionally, I’ve had a lot of bad surprises.

I am repeatedly finding myself in the situations where my brain does not deliver in the way I expect it to, and where I misjudge what I’m able to do. In my accident-recovery-life, the consequences of these prediction errors are swift: I crash. I don’t know if it hits everybody this hard, but for me in any case, it’s pretty traumatising to have my brain brutally and unexpectedly go on strike like that. Both the “brain not working” and the “didn’t see that coming” aspects are really scary.

So now, as time goes on and my recovery stretches out way longer than I initially imagined, as the clock of certain administrative deadlines regarding my return to full work capacity start audibly ticking, as I fail again and again to know my fluctuating limits, I can feel my underlying confidence in my abilities and self-awareness slowly erode, leaving place to self-doubt and increased anxiety about dealing with life and the world. It sucks: the anxiety is not crippling, it’s just a nuisance and an energy-drain at this stage, but I can see the process and the slope I’m on, and I do not like it one bit. Breathe. Relax. Deal with today. Be patient. Hang in there. Keep at it. Trust the recovery process. All this works, and I don’t feel in danger, but it’s more and more work to not let myself be dragged down.

Right. So there’s that. My trust in my ability to manage myself and deal with life is weaker than it was. So my baseline anxiety is higher, my executive function is struggling more, and I tire quickly. But as I was walking to my neighbourhood station to catch the local train a few hours ago, I understood that something else was probably coming into play in terms of post-accident travel and packing anxiety.

You see, my accident happened on the very day I travelled to the chalet for my holidays. I hadn’t been there for a while, I’d actually emptied the chalet of all my stuff and Oscar’s when I had last departed, so it was already an “increased stress” packing and travel operation. Nothing disastrous, still quite within the realm of ordinary, but not a walk in the park.

I got to the chalet (later than I had intended), got Oscar settled, dumped my unopened luggage in a corner and headed off immediately to get a couple of hours of skiing in on this first day. When I fell, I was heading back to unpack and enjoy the evening. I didn’t make it back: I spent the night at the hospital, in the haze and stress you can imagine, worried about my shoulder and my old diabetic cat who was alone at the chalet, trying to make decisions and organise logistics (How can I get back to the chalet? Should I go back to Lausanne? Who has a good shoulder specialist? Who can help me with my car as I can’t drive? That’s just the start of them). The next day a friend picked me up at the hospital and drove me back to the chalet, and another one came to help me empty the chalet and drive me back home. It was horribly stressful. I was in pain, I was freaked out, and instead of resting my concussed brain I was in full crisis management mode. It didn’t get better over the next two weeks.

I wouldn’t be surprised if my accident taking place just on the heels of travelling to the chalet didn’t add an extra layer of “negative association” to a transition that was never that easy for me to begin with.

Say you have a pet who always stressed out when heading to the vet’s. You do stuff to make it smoother: stay calm yourself, get your pet used to the carrier or the car, add treats, maybe a mild sedative, maintain usual routines as much as possible… It’s not great, but it’s not a disaster anymore, it’s manageable. And then, one fateful vet visit, something “bad” happens there. Not on purpose, of course. An exam that’s longer or more intrusive. A different vet. A loud noise at the wrong time. The pet freaks out, has a really bad experience.

Well, chances are that the next time you prepare to take your pet to the vet, it’s going to be more complicated.

That’s how I feel it’s playing out for me. I’m not actively scared of travelling or having an accident. But I’m clearly more stressed when preparing to travel, and some part of that could very well be the proximity of my accident to travel which has left a negative association. Not PTSD of course, but maybe on that continuum, probably closer to normal than pathological.

In 2019 I had a bad car accident (which resulted in surgery on my right wrist six months later). I was in a roundabout when a car entering it hit the back of my car right from the side. I didn’t see anything – there was a loud bang and choc and suddenly I was heading off the road right onto a big metal signpost solidly anchored in the ground. The car flattened it, ripped it out of the ground, and in turn it bent the car frame into a right angle. The car was totalled, we were lucky. I drove quickly afterwards with a rental, without issues. I’ve always liked driving and never been afraid at the wheel. But for months afterwards I felt a tiny surge of apprehension when going through roundabouts (it even still happens sometimes now when I’m on the precise spot of the accident). Nothing huge, but a clear signal – and this was on the backdrop of an activity (driving) that was very positive in terms of associations, compared to packing/traveling which was already fraught.

We’ll see how things play out over the next months and years. But I think I’ve put my finger on something that wasn’t on my radar. You know how sometimes you have an insight that just feels like it’s the missing piece? That’s what this feels like. In my experience, it’s often enough for me to just understand this kind of mechanism to defuse it. Like when I understood that a huge amount of my anxiety over Oscar’s impending death was the possible consequences this loss would have on my recovery timeline, given the post-accident uncharted territory I described higher up when it comes to my ability to “deal with life” in these times.

I typed this on my phone, with an external keyboard. Pretty comfortable I have to say, but not quite enough that I feel like adding links (there would be a good handful to add). I’d also like to say more regarding continuums between normal and pathological, and also on the somewhat related question of normality: when it comes to living beings, normal/average is a mathematical abstraction (or a bell curve), which should make us think real hard about how we frame certain realities (e.g. “neurodiversity”).

Anyway, I’m going to leave things there. I’m starting to feel a bit of motion-sickness and I feel just about ready for a nap in my comfy train seat.

Taming the Dishes, 2021 Version [en]

If you know me just a little, you’ll know that doing my dishes is an everlasting challenge. It’s not that I hate doing it so much (I’d have got a dishwasher years ago). It’s just that… it never seems important to do it now, and then it piles up, and it’s the thing I constantly feel bad about not doing, so I tend to push it away.

My dishes have been under control for some time now and I thought I’d share how I did it. Worked for me, not sure it will work for you, but the underlying method is something you might find interesting.

Background

I was inspired by what I’m learning at my training at the IGB (it’s the brief therapy approach developed at the Palo Alto Mental Research Institute back in the days).

To sum things up (too) briefly, the general strategy is the following: when faced with a problem one is stuck with, trying and trying to solve one’s way out of it, the obvious conclusion is that what is being tried is not working – otherwise the problem would not be there anymore. Worse, what is being tried is actually keeping the problem alive or making it worse; if that were not the case, chances are the problem would go away at some point. If it remains despite all our efforts to get rid of it, then we are unwittingly participating in its persistance.

The “simple” solution is to identify what it is that we are doing which makes the problem worse, or at least maintains it, and stop doing it. It is not easy, firstly because we are generally unaware of our participation in the systems we are part of, and second, because if we are doing what we are doing, it is because on some level we firmly believe it is a solution to the problem at hand.

The “simplest” (again, not “easy”) way of not doing something is to head in a radically opposite direction, and do something that is incompatible with what we desire to stop. Think “U-turn”. This is very tricky to think through, and even trickier to implement (this is where the hundreds and hundreds of hours of training to become a therapist come in), and leads to these weird and counter-intuitive paradoxical prescriptions: instead of trying to stop doing x, do more of it!

Addictive/compulsive behaviours

So, to get back to our dishes, I had just come out of a couple of days of training where we had discussed some “typical” ways to deal with addiction/compulsion issues and – very much related though maybe not obvious at first glance – procrastination. Generally, in situations where excessive consumption (of all nature) is problematic, our attempts to get out of it take the shape of “stop it”, or “do less”. Like “I have to stop smoking”, or “I have to eat less chocolate”. Well, we all know how well that works, don’t we? So, how do we stop doing that? How do we stop telling ourselves to not smoke, drink less, etc., when our goal is precisely to stop smoking or excessive drinking?

Well, in this case, the prescriptions will have to go in the other direction: “smoke more”, “eat more chocolate” – but of course, not in any crazy way, because we do not want to abandon the goal of getting the excessive consumption under control. For example, one classic prescription is of the form “do it once, do it x times”: instead of trying to stop smoking, have a rule that each time you smoke one cigarette, you have to smoke 5. Or each time you drink a glass of wine, you finish the bottle. Of course all this needs to be tailored to the specific situation and the person, but the way it works is the following: it “breaks” the mechanism of fooling oneself that one can smoke/drink/eat “just one” (assuming that is the problem). “Oh, I’ll just eat one bowl of ice-cream!” And three bowls later: “Heck, I really need to stop eating ice-cream.” See the idea?

Procrastination

Now, what does this have to do with procrastination, you will ask me? Procrastination is actually very similar in its underlying mechanism. But instead of “I’ll do it just once” it’s “I’ll not do it just once”. “I’ll do it tomorrow” is in fact “I’ll just skip doing it today.” Procrastination is telling ourselves that it doesn’t matter if we don’t do the thing just now, because we will (for sure!) do it later. So we apply a similar but opposite prescription: “if you don’t do it once, don’t do it x times.” Or, in positive terms: “skip it once, skip it x times”.

Let’s take an example. Say I’m trying to write my dissertation or prepare a class. I’ve decided I was going to work on it each day for 2 hours. What usually happens is that I don’t manage to get to work on it today, I get sidetracked, or I feel off, and I think “oh well, I’ll skip today and do it tomorrow.” And tomorrow, the same thing happens, and it gets worse and worse. Sound familiar? Now, if I have a rule that if I skip one day, then I am not allowed to get back to work on it for another 4 (e.g.) days, how will that make me feel? Can you feel the tension increasing?

Applying this to my dishes

This is very much what happens with my dishes. It’s the evening, I’m tired, I look at the sink and think “meh, I’ll do this tomorrow”. But then, as we all know, tomorrow brings more dishes and even less desire to deal with them and even more “meh, I can’t deal with this now, I’ll do it tomorrow, for real.”

This is what I came up with:

If I don’t do the dishes, I can’t do them for the next three days.

I came up with three days because it’s scary enough for me to be a deterrent, but not so much that it makes things impossible. For example, if I’d said “10 days”, that would not work for me because it’s just not tenable to not do the dishes for 10 days. Three days works for me because I know I have no desire whatsoever to have to deal with three days of dishes. Your mileage may vary, if you try this.

More than once, I have found myself in the evening in front of the days dishes thinking “meh, I really don’t want to do this” – but right after, I picture the three days of dishes that not doing it tonight will imply, and I get to work.

Soon after I started with this, I found myself in the evening thinking “oh, the dishes!” only to realise I had already done them. Now that I’ve been at this for a few months, I can feel it’s turning into a habit like brushing my teeth before bed is. I “don’t feel right” if I haven’t done it.

Some concrete details:

  • “do the dishes” means I wash everything that needs washing at that moment and see the bottom of the sink
  • I don’t dry things, and haven’t got a system in place for putting clean dishes away yet (thinking about it)
  • because “things happen”, I have built some flexibility into the system (because it works for me without endangering the system): I am allowed an “exception” every now and again (imagine: guests or a lot of cooking in the evening so really too tired to deal with it) but the condition is that I must catch up  the next day. I’m aware that with this system I could end up doing dishes every other day, but it’s not the case, and if it were, I would change this “exception clause”
  • I’m now starting to think it would be nice to do dishes earlier in the day too, so there is less in the evening. This is not a “goal”, but more of a drive, I’m starting to want to do dishes during the day.

So there we are. My dishes seem tamed. What is there in your life that you might try applying this approach to? Let me know in the comments!

Implicite [fr]

Il y a deux couches au langage. L’explicite et l’implicite. L’indice, et l’ordre. L’indice, c’est l’information que contient ce qu’on dit. L’ordre, c’est ce qui est dessous, et qui touche à la dimension relationnelle de l’acte de communication.

Quand je dis “j’ai faim”, à la surface je donne une information, mais il y a aussi une dimension qui touche ma relation avec la personne à qui je dis ça: peut-être que je lui signifie ainsi qu’elle doit faire à manger, ou m’apporter une pomme. C’est “l’ordre”.

Cet implicite, on le comprend dans le contexte de la relation à l’autre. Et on ne va pas tous “recevoir” ces implicites de la même façon. Certaines personnes vont ne pas entendre l’implicite, ou passer à côté, alors que d’autres sont sursensibles aux implicites et vont en entendre là où il n’y en avait pas.

Par exemple, la personne à qui je dirais “j’ai faim” (“j’ai faim, je vais partir manger dans quelques minutes”) mais qui comprendrait que j’attends qu’elle me prépare un petit plat (si c’est une collègue, elle pourrait trouver ma “demande” déplacée…).

C’est toujours utile de garder en tête qu’il y a ces deux couches dans ce qu’on dit, et que le relationnel se joue dans la couche la plus propice aux malentendus.