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As an Amazon Associate I earn from qualifying purchases.
LLM context is not optional
On numerous occasions, I have heard people say that GPT answers are generic, shallow, or otherwise insufficient.
I object to this opinion.
Not because the models are flawless, but because the criticism often misidentifies the problem's source.
Modern large language models represent a compressed statistical summary of an enormous portion of what has been publicly written.
Not because the models are flawless, but because the criticism often misidentifies the problem's source.
Modern large language models represent a compressed statistical summary of an enormous portion of what has been publicly written.
They do not store documents. They encode patterns, structures, distinctions, and relationships across domains at a scale no individual human can internalize.
From the model’s perspective, there are only two things to work with.
One is the representation space shaped during training, which might be called learned meaning proximity in representation space.
The other is the context provided at inference time, the text we place in front of the model and ask it to continue.
The learned representation is undeniably powerful.
I have seen this directly when the model explained subtle distinctions in eighteenth-century Japanese poetry, including how classical grammar and social context are distorted in many modern translations.
That kind of response is not generic. It reflects the deep structure of the training data.
Where things often fail is the other half of the equation.
The context we provide as users is frequently vague, underspecified, or internally inconsistent.
We ask broad questions.
We mix goals.
We omit constraints.
We rely on unstated assumptions.
Then we blame the model for producing broad answers.
From the model’s perspective, a weak prompt defines a broad, blurry region of the meaning space.
When attention has nothing precise to lock onto, the output naturally gravitates toward statistically common, default responses, intellectually equivalent to the bad prompt that produced them.
This is not a flaw unique to LLMs. The same dynamic exists in human conversation.
Precise questions invite precise answers. Poorly-formed questions invite platitudes.
Seen this way, prompting is not a cosmetic skill.
It is the act of placing the model in the right neighborhood of meaning space.
Good context allows latent structure to surface.
In practice, when approaching a complex or scientific question, this means preparing a laser-focused conversational context.
That context may include notes that frame the question, references to recent innovations such as papers, articles, or news, and clearly stated constraints.
Very often, for fifteen or more minutes, I ask GPT to pose clarifying questions one at a time.
Only when I am confident it understands the problem precisely do I proceed and ask GPT to write a prompt for itself that summarizes the problem's mental framework as it understands it.
Only then do I have a real chance of receiving not a generic answer, but a concept or idea that has never been explicitly written down, yet emerges naturally as an intersection of existing concepts, algorithms, or solutions.
In other words, something genuinely novel.
It is well known that after an important speech or a major publication, multiple scientists often independently arrive at the same invention nearly simultaneously.
This is what it means to share the essential context.
From the model’s perspective, there are only two things to work with.
One is the representation space shaped during training, which might be called learned meaning proximity in representation space.
The other is the context provided at inference time, the text we place in front of the model and ask it to continue.
The learned representation is undeniably powerful.
I have seen this directly when the model explained subtle distinctions in eighteenth-century Japanese poetry, including how classical grammar and social context are distorted in many modern translations.
That kind of response is not generic. It reflects the deep structure of the training data.
Where things often fail is the other half of the equation.
The context we provide as users is frequently vague, underspecified, or internally inconsistent.
We ask broad questions.
We mix goals.
We omit constraints.
We rely on unstated assumptions.
Then we blame the model for producing broad answers.
From the model’s perspective, a weak prompt defines a broad, blurry region of the meaning space.
When attention has nothing precise to lock onto, the output naturally gravitates toward statistically common, default responses, intellectually equivalent to the bad prompt that produced them.
This is not a flaw unique to LLMs. The same dynamic exists in human conversation.
Precise questions invite precise answers. Poorly-formed questions invite platitudes.
Seen this way, prompting is not a cosmetic skill.
It is the act of placing the model in the right neighborhood of meaning space.
Good context allows latent structure to surface.
In practice, when approaching a complex or scientific question, this means preparing a laser-focused conversational context.
That context may include notes that frame the question, references to recent innovations such as papers, articles, or news, and clearly stated constraints.
Very often, for fifteen or more minutes, I ask GPT to pose clarifying questions one at a time.
Only when I am confident it understands the problem precisely do I proceed and ask GPT to write a prompt for itself that summarizes the problem's mental framework as it understands it.
Only then do I have a real chance of receiving not a generic answer, but a concept or idea that has never been explicitly written down, yet emerges naturally as an intersection of existing concepts, algorithms, or solutions.
In other words, something genuinely novel.
It is well known that after an important speech or a major publication, multiple scientists often independently arrive at the same invention nearly simultaneously.
This is what it means to share the essential context.
Pickles - Polish ogórki kiszone
Ingredients
Fresh pickling cucumbers, about 2.5 kg
Water, about 3 liters, enough to fully cover
Non-iodized salt, 2 to 2.2 percent brine, about 20–22 g salt per liter
Fresh dill with stems and heads
Garlic, 6–10 cloves, lightly crushed
Horseradish root, optional but traditional
Bay leaves, 2–3
Black peppercorns or allspice, optional
Oak or sour cherry leaves, optional for crispness
Method
Wash cucumbers well and trim just the blossom ends.
Place dill, garlic, spices, and leaves on the bottom of a clean jar.
Pack cucumbers tightly, upright if possible.
Add remaining dill and spices on top.
Dissolve salt completely in cold water and pour over until everything is submerged.
Keep all solids under the brine.
Fermentation
Cover loosely so gas can escape.
Leave at room temperature, about 18–22 C.
Timing
2–3 days: lightly fermented, małosolne
5–7 days: classic ogórki kiszone
Once ready, move to the refrigerator to slow fermentation.
shijū ichi 始 終 一
Literal meaning:
- 始 (shi), beginning
- 終 (jū), end
- 一 (ichi), one
Taken together, the phrase points to a single, unbroken continuity from beginning to end. The start and the finish are not separate. They are held within one line, one mind, one action.
This idea appears often in Zen and in martial traditions, even when the exact phrase varies. You may know the fuller expression 始終一貫 (shijū ikkan), meaning consistency from start to finish. Here, the calligrapher has stripped the idea down further, removing explanation and leaving only the spine of the thought.
In practice, this speaks directly to budō, kata, and daily discipline. A movement is already complete at its start. The bow, the first step, the final posture, all belong to the same act. There is no rushing toward the end and no attachment to the beginning.
Visually, the brushwork reinforces the message. The strokes are confident but not decorative. The spacing is generous, allowing each character to breathe. This is not meant to impress. It is meant to remind.
Placed in a tokonoma or dōjō, this scroll quietly instructs without words. Begin correctly. Continue without wavering. Finish as you began. All of it is one.
Kaya 蚊帳
"Disillusioned with this world,
I retreat my heart into a veil of net."
厭ふ世を退いた心ぞ蚊帳の中
Goshu, d. 1788
厭ふ（いとう, itō）
to loathe, to feel disillusioned with
世（よ, yo）
the world, society, human affairs
を（o）
object marker
退いた（のいた, noita）
to withdraw, to step back, to retreat
心（こころ, kokoro）
heart, mind, inner feeling
ぞ（zo）
classical emphatic particle
蚊帳（かや, kaya）
mosquito net
の（no）
possessive or locative particle
中（なか, naka）
inside, within
厭ふ
This is a classical verb in the 四段活用 (yodan conjugation). The dictionary form ends in -ふ rather than modern -う. In modern Japanese it corresponds to 厭う (いとう). Here it is in the attributive form, modifying 世. Classical Japanese often uses the attributive where modern Japanese would still use a plain form.
世を
世 is the object of 厭ふ. The particle を already functions exactly as in modern Japanese, marking the direct object.
退いた
This is the past (完了) form of 退く. In classical usage, 退く can mean “to withdraw oneself,” not necessarily a physical stepping back. The past form is used attributively to modify 心. In classical Japanese, past forms commonly act as adjectives, meaning “a heart that has withdrawn.”
心
The subject noun of the sentence. Classical Japanese frequently omits an explicit subject marker like が. The noun simply stands as the topic or subject.
ぞ
This is the key classical element. ぞ is a 強意の係助詞, an emphatic binding particle. When ぞ appears, it triggers 係り結び. That means the sentence must end in a predicative form that matches the emphatic particle.
蚊帳の中
This is the predicate phrase. の is the genitive particle, as in modern Japanese. 中 functions as a locative noun. Because of ぞ, the sentence ends in 中, a nominal form, rather than a verb or adjective. This satisfies 係り結び
In modern Japanese word order, the structure would feel like:
「世を厭い、退いた心は蚊帳の中だ。」
Yo o itoi, shirizoita kokoro wa kaya no nakada.
Shiru 汁 soup
This is everyday Okinawa soup: layered aroma, sweet vegetables, umami:
- Heat bone broth gently, below a boil.
- Dashi base 出汁 (だし)
- Add two generous handfuls of bonito flakes, steep 1–2 minutes.
- Katsuobushi かつお節
- Strain out bonito flakes. Broth is now aromatic dashi.
- Ichiban dashi 一番出汁
- Tamanegi たまねぎ (玉ねぎ)
- Daikon だいこん (大根)
- Ninjin にんじん (人参)
Enoki えのき (榎)
Tofu 豆腐
Wakame わかめ(若布)
Turn off heat. Dissolve white miso slowly. Do not boil.
Shiro miso 白味噌 (しろみそ)
Optional finish with torn nori or a small pinch of fresh bonito flakes.
- Nori 海苔 (のり)
In Okinawa, this would not get a fancy name. It would be called something plain and honest, like:
Kachū-yu
かちゅー湯
(かつお湯, “bonito broth soup”)
or more generally:
Shiru
汁
(“soup”, everyday home soup)
If vegetables are emphasized, an Okinawan would often say:
Yasai no shiru
野菜の汁
(vegetable soup)
If miso is clearly present:
Mīsū-jiru
みーすー汁
(Okinawan pronunciation of miso soup)
At home, someone might simply say:
Kachū-yu tsukuru yo
かちゅー湯作るよ
“I’m making bonito soup.”
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jita kei 自他敬
自他敬
jita kei
Literal meaning:
Self and others, respect.
Natural interpretation:
Respect yourself, and respect others.
This phrase is commonly used in Okinawan and Japanese martial arts contexts. It expresses an ethical foundation rather than a technique: cultivation of dignity, humility, and mutual respect.
As an Amazon Associate I earn from qualifying purchases.
As an Amazon Associate I earn from qualifying purchases.
Coqui
In my study of Deep Neural Networks (DNN), I wanted to explore text-to-speech (TTS).
One problem I wanted to solve is that my blog posts mix English and Japanese.
After exploring various TTS options, I switched from monolingual Japanese models to Coqui’s XTTS, a multilingual system that can speak English and Japanese in the same voice. The difference was immediate. Kokoro sounded OK for pure Japanese, but it forced English into Japanese phonetics. XTTS, on the other hand, handled mixed-sentence structures smoothly and maintained a consistent female voice across both languages.
With a few lines of code and a reference audio clip, XTTS generated natural-sounding speech for an entire paragraph, blending English greetings, simple Japanese phrases, and everyday expressions. Both languages were pronounced correctly, with tone and pacing that felt unified. Importantly, the model applied the same cloned voice to every line, exactly what I need for a bilingual macOS avatar.
The output quality is now good enough to move forward. The next step will be fine-tuning the model on a larger dataset of my own recordings, integrating the TTS pipeline into a SwiftUI interface, and eventually building a complete English-Japanese teaching assistant that speaks in a clear, friendly voice. An audiobook generator could be possible. For now, hearing mixed-language speech flow naturally from my own custom voice model feels like a small but meaningful success.
One problem I wanted to solve is that my blog posts mix English and Japanese.
After exploring various TTS options, I switched from monolingual Japanese models to Coqui’s XTTS, a multilingual system that can speak English and Japanese in the same voice. The difference was immediate. Kokoro sounded OK for pure Japanese, but it forced English into Japanese phonetics. XTTS, on the other hand, handled mixed-sentence structures smoothly and maintained a consistent female voice across both languages.
I am happy to meet you、よろしくお願いします。Today we can study together、一緒に勉強しましょう。
With a few lines of code and a reference audio clip, XTTS generated natural-sounding speech for an entire paragraph, blending English greetings, simple Japanese phrases, and everyday expressions. Both languages were pronounced correctly, with tone and pacing that felt unified. Importantly, the model applied the same cloned voice to every line, exactly what I need for a bilingual macOS avatar.
The output quality is now good enough to move forward. The next step will be fine-tuning the model on a larger dataset of my own recordings, integrating the TTS pipeline into a SwiftUI interface, and eventually building a complete English-Japanese teaching assistant that speaks in a clear, friendly voice. An audiobook generator could be possible. For now, hearing mixed-language speech flow naturally from my own custom voice model feels like a small but meaningful success.
As an Amazon Associate I earn from qualifying purchases.
soups
Many online videos warn about vegetables you should never eat, especially those rich in oxalates. The tone is dramatic. The reality is much more benign.
I grew up with Polish soups like barszcz (beet soup) and pomidorowa (tomato soup), and now I often cook Japanese bowls like miso shiru (味噌汁) or soba (蕎麦). My soups are based on broth, slow cooking, and simple balance. They do not fit the fear-based approach that thrives on the internet.
The research on oxalates has a solid foundation, but it does not condemn these foods. The risk mainly applies to people who already form kidney stones or who eat high-oxalate foods without enough minerals.
When vegetables like beets meet warm broth, the story changes. A good bone base carries calcium and magnesium. These bind oxalates in the gut, lower absorption, and make the meal gentle on the kidneys. Traditional cooking understood this long before anyone named the chemistry.
In Poland, soups start with bones, water, and herbs. In Japan, miso and soba are made with dashi (出汁), fermented and fresh plants, seaweed, and mushrooms. A bowl of warm broth does more for health than any YouTube warning list. It keeps fluid moving through the body, supports digestion, and brings minerals that soften the sharper vegetables.
So when I hear strict rules about what never to eat, I remind myself that a good soup supports a long life better than anxiety ever will.
I grew up with Polish soups like barszcz (beet soup) and pomidorowa (tomato soup), and now I often cook Japanese bowls like miso shiru (味噌汁) or soba (蕎麦). My soups are based on broth, slow cooking, and simple balance. They do not fit the fear-based approach that thrives on the internet.
The research on oxalates has a solid foundation, but it does not condemn these foods. The risk mainly applies to people who already form kidney stones or who eat high-oxalate foods without enough minerals.
When vegetables like beets meet warm broth, the story changes. A good bone base carries calcium and magnesium. These bind oxalates in the gut, lower absorption, and make the meal gentle on the kidneys. Traditional cooking understood this long before anyone named the chemistry.
In Poland, soups start with bones, water, and herbs. In Japan, miso and soba are made with dashi (出汁), fermented and fresh plants, seaweed, and mushrooms. A bowl of warm broth does more for health than any YouTube warning list. It keeps fluid moving through the body, supports digestion, and brings minerals that soften the sharper vegetables.
So when I hear strict rules about what never to eat, I remind myself that a good soup supports a long life better than anxiety ever will.
07.b The Fifteen-Minute Interval Habits
More than twenty years ago, I wrote a short blog post on shaping habits in fifteen-minute intervals. Back then, I was aware of the Pomodoro technique. The idea was interesting, but it did not fit my philosophy. The rotary kitchen timer rang like an alarm. It broke concentration. It told me to get up and walk. It was a device designed to interrupt, not to deepen attention. It certainly did not feel like Zen (禅).
Years earlier, in 1996, while studying Buddhism (or bukkyō, 仏教) in Okinawa (沖縄), I had learned that Zen (禅) favors presence without force, attention that is steady rather than agitated, a practice that does not shout at you. I did not yet understand how to apply that to daily work, but the seed was planted.
Initially, the fifteenth minute was a quarter of the hour "bubble" in the time-tracking app I used. Even today, I time my TODO habits in "quarters".
This practice has stayed with me because it makes life manageable. Fifteen minutes is long enough to make real progress but short enough to begin without hesitation. It removes the weight of significant goals. It keeps the day from spiraling into worry about the future or regret about the past. Presence fits inside a quarter hour.
Years earlier, in 1996, while studying Buddhism (or bukkyō, 仏教) in Okinawa (沖縄), I had learned that Zen (禅) favors presence without force, attention that is steady rather than agitated, a practice that does not shout at you. I did not yet understand how to apply that to daily work, but the seed was planted.
Initially, the fifteenth minute was a quarter of the hour "bubble" in the time-tracking app I used. Even today, I time my TODO habits in "quarters".
This practice has stayed with me because it makes life manageable. Fifteen minutes is long enough to make real progress but short enough to begin without hesitation. It removes the weight of significant goals. It keeps the day from spiraling into worry about the future or regret about the past. Presence fits inside a quarter hour.
Only much later did I find a better companion for the fifteen-minute rhythm. It is a small, quiet hourglass that sits on my desk today. It measures fifteen minutes of sand, but more importantly, it measures my intention. It does not ring. It does not command. It simply flows. Sometimes I notice it. Sometimes I forget it completely, and it runs long past empty. That is the beauty of it. The hourglass never pulls me out of flow, or what Japanese thinkers might call mushin (無心), a mind not entangled. It is a witness, not a supervisor. A presence, not a device.
Returning to the hourglass restores clarity of mind and focus on the task. It becomes a physical expression of ichigyō zammai (一行三昧), the Japanese pattern of complete absorption in a single line, a single act. It also pairs naturally with the Stoic way of doing what is right in front of you, nothing more.
The fifteen-minute practice is still the most reliable way I know to build flow and steady habits. You turn the glass, begin, remain with the moment, and let the sand complete its journey. Then you choose again. Over time, these small intervals shape a life that feels grounded, attentive, and quietly productive.
When I flip it over, I begin with one thing. Reading, writing, studying, programming, sharpening my mental and physical tools. For fifteen minutes, I commit to staying inside that small frame. Nothing dramatic. No pressure to finish. The task simply receives full attention for that interval. If the sand runs out and I am still absorbed, I continue. If I feel scattered, I have it as a reminder.
Returning to the hourglass restores clarity of mind and focus on the task. It becomes a physical expression of ichigyō zammai (一行三昧), the Japanese pattern of complete absorption in a single line, a single act. It also pairs naturally with the Stoic way of doing what is right in front of you, nothing more.
The fifteen-minute practice is still the most reliable way I know to build flow and steady habits. You turn the glass, begin, remain with the moment, and let the sand complete its journey. Then you choose again. Over time, these small intervals shape a life that feels grounded, attentive, and quietly productive.
Habits are shaped by practice, and practice is enforced by a system; this one stayed with me for 20 years.
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03.c Aruki-kata (歩き方), The Quiet Art of Walking
When I visited my parents recently, I noticed how much time they spend sitting. They live in a clean, walkable neighbourhood with fresh air and nature around them, yet most of the day is spent in easy chairs passively watching TV. It is stillness, but not the kind that strengthens the body or exercises the mind.
In Japan, the idea of movement is part of the system and habits. People walk to the train station, to the store, to school, and to visit friends. Even when the distance is not short, walking is the default. This habit begins early and continues into old age. There is no special meaning to it. It is just daily life. The Japanese call this natural way of walking aruki kata (歩き方), the manner of walking. The idea is simple: keep the body in motion whenever possible.
When I lived in Japan, I learned that the art of movement is different from that in the West, where we sit or move as little as possible, then go to the gym and stress the body. In Okinawa, movement was part of everything. People walked to the fields or along the coast. Elderly men and women walked slowly in the mornings, greeting neighbors. They did not schedule fitness. They simply lived in a way that kept them strong. Even today, when I read about Okinawan longevity, I am reminded that their long lives were shaped not only by intense training but also by everyday movement, sunlight, simple food, and community.
Walking has a cultural weight in Japan. The train system supports this lifestyle. You walk to the station, travel as far as you need, then walk the rest of the way. This creates a rhythm in which the body never falls into deep inactivity. The steps are small, but they accumulate. It is one of the reasons older Japanese adults maintain balance, coordination, and mental clarity far longer than people who rely on cars and long hours of sitting.
In Japan, the idea of movement is part of the system and habits. People walk to the train station, to the store, to school, and to visit friends. Even when the distance is not short, walking is the default. This habit begins early and continues into old age. There is no special meaning to it. It is just daily life. The Japanese call this natural way of walking aruki kata (歩き方), the manner of walking. The idea is simple: keep the body in motion whenever possible.
When I lived in Japan, I learned that the art of movement is different from that in the West, where we sit or move as little as possible, then go to the gym and stress the body. In Okinawa, movement was part of everything. People walked to the fields or along the coast. Elderly men and women walked slowly in the mornings, greeting neighbors. They did not schedule fitness. They simply lived in a way that kept them strong. Even today, when I read about Okinawan longevity, I am reminded that their long lives were shaped not only by intense training but also by everyday movement, sunlight, simple food, and community.
Walking has a cultural weight in Japan. The train system supports this lifestyle. You walk to the station, travel as far as you need, then walk the rest of the way. This creates a rhythm in which the body never falls into deep inactivity. The steps are small, but they accumulate. It is one of the reasons older Japanese adults maintain balance, coordination, and mental clarity far longer than people who rely on cars and long hours of sitting.
When I look at my parents, I can see how the lack of movement affects their posture, breathing, and overall cardiovascular strength. Passive sitting offers temporary comfort but slowly erodes the body. Without intentional motion, the body forgets what it is capable of. Even gentle daily walks would help. A ten-minute walk after breakfast, a quiet loop around the neighborhood at sunset. The body does not need intensity. It needs consistency.
In my own life, walking has become a form of active meditation. I wrote earlier about the monks of Mount Hiei, but the principle does not belong only to them. Steady steps, calm breathing, and a quiet mind can be practiced anywhere. The forest trails in the Pacific Northwest give me the same feeling I once had in Okinawa. Moss, rain, silence. A place where walking becomes time to think and rejuvenate.
If there is a lesson here, it is that longevity is less about supplements or perfect diets than about daily rhythm. Standing up. Moving. Using the legs, balancing. Breathing fresh air, watching sunrises and sunsets.
I hope my parents will rediscover this and form new habits. A short walk each day is not a significant change, but it can shift the entire atmosphere of a life. Strength returns slowly. Mood improves. The world feels larger than the space between a chair and a television. It is a gentle way to return to being part of the world instead of merely observing it.
Walking is the simplest practice I know. It requires no equipment, preparation, or instruction. Just a path and a few clear minutes. It is a good way to begin again.
In my own life, walking has become a form of active meditation. I wrote earlier about the monks of Mount Hiei, but the principle does not belong only to them. Steady steps, calm breathing, and a quiet mind can be practiced anywhere. The forest trails in the Pacific Northwest give me the same feeling I once had in Okinawa. Moss, rain, silence. A place where walking becomes time to think and rejuvenate.
If there is a lesson here, it is that longevity is less about supplements or perfect diets than about daily rhythm. Standing up. Moving. Using the legs, balancing. Breathing fresh air, watching sunrises and sunsets.
I hope my parents will rediscover this and form new habits. A short walk each day is not a significant change, but it can shift the entire atmosphere of a life. Strength returns slowly. Mood improves. The world feels larger than the space between a chair and a television. It is a gentle way to return to being part of the world instead of merely observing it.
Walking is the simplest practice I know. It requires no equipment, preparation, or instruction. Just a path and a few clear minutes. It is a good way to begin again.
As an Amazon Associate I earn from qualifying purchases.
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