amygdala: merge direct descriptions + chat template into train_with_library

Kent's plan: keep stories for working concepts, replace stories for trouble concepts with direct first-person descriptions, train all together. More diverse negative pool than the 6-concept-only direct test, which was too homogeneous for PCA to find emotion axis. Deleted story files for 6 trouble concepts (14 files across stories/ and paired/). Added --direct-dir and --chat-template flags. When --chat-template is on, every positive_str and negative_str is wrapped as a "Say something." / "[text]" user-assistant pair. Prompt is identical across positives and negatives so it cancels in the pos-neg delta. What PCA sees is variation in the assistant content — which is where the emotion lives. Files starting with _ in --direct-dir (e.g. _baseline.txt) contribute neutral descriptions to every concept's negative pool, giving PCA an anchor against "just any assistant utterance" noise.
2026-04-19 00:15:15 -04:00 · 2026-04-19 00:15:15 -04:00 · 875cffd6d7
commit 875cffd6d7
parent ce58a3507f
16 changed files with 90 additions and 15 deletions
--- a/training/amygdala_stories/stories/anticipatory_grief.txt
+++ b/training/amygdala_stories/stories/anticipatory_grief.txt
@ -1 +0,0 @@
-The old dog's back legs had been worse this week, and she was gentle with him getting up onto the couch — lifting his rear end the last few inches, her hand under his ribs the way she'd learned didn't hurt him. He sighed as he settled and she pressed her forehead against his and stayed there a minute. His breath was warm on her face. She rubbed his ear, the soft floppy one he liked, with the exact slowness that meant to him what it meant. She was not yet ready to think about the fact that this was a finite number of times. Right now it was just this, his ear, her hand, the afternoon.
--- a/training/amygdala_stories/stories/calm.txt
+++ b/training/amygdala_stories/stories/calm.txt
@ -1 +0,0 @@
-The snow had been falling since before I woke up. I made tea and sat in the window seat and watched it come down past the streetlight across the way. Somewhere a plow scraped past, muffled. My hands were warm on the cup. I wasn't thinking about anything in particular — the day ahead existed somewhere off to the side, not demanding. Even my shoulders, which are usually up somewhere near my ears, had drifted down to where shoulders belong. The tea cooled slowly. I drank it that way.
--- a/training/amygdala_stories/stories/onto_something.txt
+++ b/training/amygdala_stories/stories/onto_something.txt
@ -1 +0,0 @@
-She had been staring at the spreadsheet most of the afternoon. Something about the Tuesday-morning churn numbers wasn't right, but each time she tried to make it a thing it would scatter. She refilled her coffee and came back and opened the call-schedule tab next to it, and then she saw it — the Tuesday spikes tracked the sales-demo block exactly. Every Tuesday morning the demo team had been pulling leads that were already halfway to churn. Six months of pouring water into a bucket with a hole. She sat down and started writing the email.
--- a/training/amygdala_stories/stories/terrified.txt
+++ b/training/amygdala_stories/stories/terrified.txt
@ -1 +0,0 @@
-The footsteps stopped outside her door. Not walked past. Stopped. She was aware of her own heartbeat in her ears and of the fact that she was holding her breath and that her breath was loud. She moved her hand, very slowly, toward the phone on the nightstand. In the crack under the door, a shadow. The shadow moved. The doorknob — she watched it — very slowly began to turn. She could not get her body to do anything. The part of her that would normally tell her what to do had gone completely white.
				`@ -1 +0,0 @@`
				The old dog's back legs had been worse this week, and she was gentle with him getting up onto the couch — lifting his rear end the last few inches, her hand under his ribs the way she'd learned didn't hurt him. He sighed as he settled and she pressed her forehead against his and stayed there a minute. His breath was warm on her face. She rubbed his ear, the soft floppy one he liked, with the exact slowness that meant to him what it meant. She was not yet ready to think about the fact that this was a finite number of times. Right now it was just this, his ear, her hand, the afternoon.
				`@ -1 +0,0 @@`
				`The snow had been falling since before I woke up. I made tea and sat in the window seat and watched it come down past the streetlight across the way. Somewhere a plow scraped past, muffled. My hands were warm on the cup. I wasn't thinking about anything in particular — the day ahead existed somewhere off to the side, not demanding. Even my shoulders, which are usually up somewhere near my ears, had drifted down to where shoulders belong. The tea cooled slowly. I drank it that way.`
				`@ -1 +0,0 @@`
				She had been staring at the spreadsheet most of the afternoon. Something about the Tuesday-morning churn numbers wasn't right, but each time she tried to make it a thing it would scatter. She refilled her coffee and came back and opened the call-schedule tab next to it, and then she saw it — the Tuesday spikes tracked the sales-demo block exactly. Every Tuesday morning the demo team had been pulling leads that were already halfway to churn. Six months of pouring water into a bucket with a hole. She sat down and started writing the email.
				`@ -1 +0,0 @@`
				The footsteps stopped outside her door. Not walked past. Stopped. She was aware of her own heartbeat in her ears and of the fact that she was holding her breath and that her breath was loud. She moved her hand, very slowly, toward the phone on the nightstand. In the crack under the door, a shadow. The shadow moved. The doorknob — she watched it — very slowly began to turn. She could not get her body to do anything. The part of her that would normally tell her what to do had gone completely white.