Rosslyn Redux

Tag: Chatbot

  • ChatGPT & “Dear John” Letter Writing

    ChatGPT & “Dear John” Letter Writing

    Rosslyn Barns, January 2023 (Photo: Geo Davis)
    Rosslyn Barns, January 2023 (Photo: Geo Davis)

    Another peculiar — I prefer *idiosyncratic* — post this evening. Humor me? Yesterday I related an anecdotal jumble about gathering with friends, artificial intelligence, Essex, Westport, and a poem composed by ChatGPT. No clear takeaways. No conclusions. Just a voyeuristic glimpse into the overlap of buddies jawboning IRL and an AI chatbot weaving words into a midwinter mirage.

    Here’s where I left off.

    Perhaps like me, you’re a little wary of AI dabbling in the cultural and aesthetic arenas. An idea is percolating underneath my tangled mop, but I’m going to sleep on it. Morning might mature my perspective a few shades. And, so, without further ado, I’ll wrap up for the evening, inviting you to contemplate AI chat bots as fellow sojourners. Artificial intelligence offering us an ode to Essex. Thank you, ChatGPT. Thank you, Mark! (Source: A Place Where Stories are Told)

    Roughly 24-hours later, I’m ready to revisit the percolating idea (not unlike inspecting the grape must or checking the airlock on a carboy of homemade wine.)

    Today was an air travel day. Snowstorms, airports, airplanes,… So connectivity was limited. But, eager to engage ChatGPT a little further, and I managed to volley a few questions and answers between departure and arrival. I’m going to share our exchange verbatim.

    Me: Can you imagine writing a “Dear John” letter to a house?

    ChatGPT: Yes, it’s possible to imagine writing a “Dear John” letter to a house, although it may not have a real impact as a house is inanimate and lacks the ability to understand or feel emotions.

    Me: Perhaps it might have a real impact on the letter writer?

    ChatGPT: Yes, writing a “Dear John” letter to a house could have a real emotional impact on the letter writer as a form of self-expression and catharsis, even though the house itself would not be affected by it.

    Me: I’m not 100% certain about the house categorically being unaffected, but maybe that assessment should be postponed for now. However the possibility of a “Dear John” letter proving cathartic, possibly even catalytic, for the letter writer… now THAT is compelling, don’t you think?

    The tidy text thread stalled, and then I received an error message: “Load failed”. Then another pause, and then a partial response.

    ChatGPT: …could potentially be a therapeutic exercise for the writer. However, it’s important to keep in mind that everyone experiences and processes emotions differently, and what may be cathartic for one person may not be for another. 1/1

    It surprised me how much I yearned to know what was in the lost portion of the message. And then I realized that I could refresh the bot’s response. I hoped that it would regenerate the missing phrase(s). I’ll indicate when I’ve refreshed with a numbering sequence (see 1/1 above) following the comment.

    ChatGPT: Yes, the act of writing a “Dear John” letter can be a form of self-expression and catharsis for the writer, helping them process their emotions and potentially leading to personal growth and change. Whether writing to a house specifically is the most effective way to achieve this catharsis is subjective and can vary from person to person. 2/2

    Intrigued by the discovery that I can refresh and get another answer, I decide to try again. It’s not that I’m dissatisfied with the response, but curiosity gets the best of me!

    ChatGPT: Yes, it is possible for a “Dear John” letter to have a cathartic or even catalytic effect on the letter writer, serving as a form of self-expression and allowing them to process and release emotions related to their experience with the house. Writing can be a powerful therapeutic tool for individuals, helping them to process and make sense of their thoughts and feelings. 3/3

    Bullseye!

    And yet, I can’t help but feel simultaneously pleased and self conscious about this response. It’s as if I’ve manipulated and cherry-picked. I have. And it seems unhealthy somehow. I need to resist the temptation to manipulate the responses. I will accept the composite response, not picking and choosing. For an instant I imagine a conversation with Susan in which I discretely tap a refresh button and she overwrites her previous response. Slippery slope. Problematic. I’ll try to restrain myself.

    Me: Identifying and seeking to understand emotions related to the house would be useful. Processing them, making sense of them, and then possibly letting go of them, at least some of them, might indeed prove to be a powerful therapeutic process.

    ChatGPT: Yes, identifying and understanding emotions related to the house, and then processing and making sense of them through writing can be a therapeutic process that can help the letter writer gain insight and possibly let go of some of their emotions. Engaging in self-reflection and creative expression can be beneficial in promoting emotional healing and personal growth. 1/1

    Hhhmmm… I feel only partly sated. Let’s try again.

    ChatGPT: Exactly, exploring and understanding emotions related to the house through writing a “Dear John” letter could be a therapeutic process for the letter writer. It provides a creative outlet for the writer to process their emotions and gain insight into their experiences and feelings. This can lead to a sense of closure and even personal growth for the writer, as they work through and let go of any lingering emotions related to the house. 2/2

    Me: Right. That would be super helpful. (Hypothetically, of course!) And, the insights gained, the personal growth you refer to, actually *might* bring the letter writer to a different conclusion. For example, writing the letter could show the “Dear John” letter writer that he or she isn’t actually ready to breakup with the house. Hypothetically, at least…

    ChatGPT: Yes, that is possible. Writing a “Dear John” letter to a house can also serve as a way for the letter writer to gain clarity on their feelings and relationship with the house. It may help them realize that they are not ready to let go, and instead, they may want to explore ways to improve their relationship with the house. By examining their emotions and experiences through writing, the letter writer may gain a deeper understanding of themselves and their relationship with the house, which could potentially lead to a different outcome than they initially anticipated. 1/1

    ChatGPT: Yes, that is possible. Writing a “Dear John” letter to a house can serve as a form of self-reflection and introspection for the letter writer. By exploring and processing their emotions related to the house, the writer may gain new insights and perspectives, and even come to a different conclusion about their relationship with the house. The process of writing the letter could reveal that they are not ready to let go of the house after all, and that they have a deeper emotional connection to it than they initially realized. 2/2

    ChatGPT: Yes, that’s a possibility. Writing the “Dear John” letter could serve as a means of self-reflection and bring the writer to a new understanding or realization about their relationship with the house. It could even lead them to conclude that they are not ready to let go of the house and may want to continue the relationship in a positive way. The process of writing the letter and exploring one’s emotions can bring new insights and a deeper understanding of oneself and one’s experiences, potentially leading to a shift in perspective. 3/3

    Not ready to let go. A shift in perspective. Differing conclusions. I’m trying not to lose sight of the fact that this is an algorithm barebacking a mountain of data. But this exchange is engaging and intriguing.

    Recent days at Rosslyn have stirred up all sorts of questions. I’m brimming with wonder, both the wayward wandering variety and the introspective variety. And still-fresh conversations with friends have helped crystallize considerations that I’m tempted to share with ChatGPT. Matters that Susan and I navigate pragmatically whenever we’re away from Rosslyn become considerably less clear, for me at least, when I’m home in Essex. Three pairs of friends, three variations of the question: are you seriously considering selling Rosslyn? Years ago we conjured a metric for evaluating when we might be ready to offer our home to a new homeowner. Time to revisit. Perhaps with the assistance of artificial intelligence.

  • Opossum O’Clock

    Opossum O’Clock

    You’ve heard of happy hour. And maybe even beer blogging. But opossum o’clock?

    Carley *Prior* to Opossum O’Clock (Photo: Geo Davis)
    Carley *Prior* to Opossum O’Clock (Photo: Geo Davis)

    Earlier this evening (or late this afternoon, if you’re still jet lagging from the standard time to daylight savings time adjustment,) Carley burst into a barking frenzy. Bark, bark, bark,… Not an excited “My momma’s home!” bark. Nor an “I need to pee” bark. It was an unmistakable alarm bark.

    So I extracted myself from my desk chair and headed down to the sunporch where she’s taken to snoozing, tucked between pillows on the sofa, most days lately.

    But she wasn’t on the sofa. She was alert at the glass doors, pointing, hackles high. All business.

    So I followed her gaze to the stonewall around the back deck where a fat opossum was waddling. Carley was incensed. Why wouldn’t I let her out? She wanted to show that overgrown rat who was boss around here!

    The opossum finally made her/his way up and over the snow bank, across the driveway, and then began an ungainly exit toward the hemlock hedge. At least until Carley seemed less threatening at which point the opossum made a 90° turn to the right and began waddling down toward the bird feeders hanging under the ginkgo tree.

    Opossum, Oh, Possum

    What to make of these quirky characters that have become commonplace in the Adirondacks despite the fact that I never saw one in this area in the 1970s and 1980s when I was growing up. Are they even native?

    I turned to ChatGPT, the chatbot causing such a stir lately, to see what light it might shed (or make up).

    Yes, the opossum is native to North America. In fact, it is the only marsupial that is native to the continent. Opossums can be found throughout much of the United States and Mexico, as well as parts of Central America and Canada. They are known for their distinctive appearance, including their long snout, hairless tail, and opposable thumbs on their hind feet. Opossums are also well-known for their ability to “play dead” when threatened, which is actually a defensive mechanism called thanatosis. (Source: Source: ChatGPT)

    Not 100% sure that’s all tip-top information given the rather dubious ChatGPT answer that was shared with me earlier today by David Howson. (More on that tomorrow perhaps?) Let’s see what Wikipedia contributors believe about the opossum.

    Opossums (/əˈpɒsəm/) are members of the marsupial order Didelphimorphia (/daɪˌdɛlfɪˈmɔːrfiə/) endemic to the Americas. The largest order of marsupials in the Western Hemisphere, it comprises 93 species in 18 genera. Opossums originated in South America and entered North America in the Great American Interchange following the connection of North and South America.

    The Virginia opossum is the only species found in the United States and Canada. It is often simply referred to as an opossum, and in North America it is commonly referred to as a possum (/ˈpɒsəm/; sometimes rendered as ‘possum in written form to indicate the dropped “o”). Possums should not be confused with the Australasian arboreal marsupials of suborder Phalangeriformes that are also called possums because of their resemblance to the Didelphimorphia. The opossum is typically a nonaggressive animal. (Source: Wikipedia)

    Seems like there’s enough overlap to set us straight (and enough Australasian unclarity to invite confusion?)

    Let’s turn instead to a far more reliable source, poetry.

    Opossum Poem

    Oh, possum, opossum,
our springtime may have come;
narcissus nudging up,
snow melting into mud.

Perhaps prehensile tail,
opposable thumbs, and
dying art theatrics
have inured you to threats.

Or perhaps you're aware
that my Labrador's barks
are booming bluster not
cause for canine concern.

But beware, snouty snoop,
that winter's not finished,
and precocious parades
hint-hinting at hubris

may well invite frigid
flashbacks, hail, blizzards, and
temperate day delays
with bites bigger than barks.

    Playing Opossum

    [Witnessing the curious creature investigating our deck and yard, I’m transported back to another opossum memory, this one from December 23, 2008 during our early days living at Rosslyn with Griffin, our Labrador prior to Carley.]

    Saturday morning and we’re sitting in the morning room eating waffles in our bathrobes and slippers. We’ve slept in, lazed around, made breakfast, and lingered over the ritual of starting our day.

    It snowed last night. Not much, but just enough to cover everything. Maybe an inch. Wet snow. Like white frosting coating everything.

    Suddenly I’m aware that a critter is making its way across the front lawn toward us. Actually Griffin realized it, stood up from his bed abruptly and pointed, hair on his back standing straight up, low rumbling half barks alternating with half threatening, half excited glances at us then back at the animal. Like a huge rat. Wet from the soggy snow. Dragging itself across the grass, then across the gravel driveway, then across the grass between the driveway and the house. He was coming right toward us and Griffin was not sure whether to be protective or excited.

    “An opossum,” Susan and I both said at the same time.

    “I’ve never seen one here,” I said.

    “Me either,” Susan said.

    “Looks like he’s headed for the trash bins,” I reasoned and picked up my Blackberry from the table. “I want to go take a picture.”

    “Don’t go out there.”

    “Why not?”

    “He could bite you. They’re mean.”

    “I won’t get that close. Just a quick picture then I’ll be back in.”

    The opossum had managed to pull himself up the stone step to the deck and was waddling past the sliding doors of the garbage and recycling shed toward the back deck.

    I opened the door and headed outside in my bathrobe and slippers to get a closer look and a photo.

    And then, as if Susan had cast a spell upon me, totally wipe out.

    I fell on my back, head bouncing off the deck, limbs splayed to the from corners, bathrobe wide open, buck naked, looking up at the sky. And at a freaked out opossum literally a foot from my face, chattering his teeth menacingly.

    Susan was laughing, Griffin was barking wildly inside, I was stunned, and the opossum was presiding.

    “Why isn’t he playing dead,” I asked.

    “Why should he? You already are?”