Approach
My work focuses on the viability of living systems — in the broad sense: biological, psychic, social, economic. What interests me is the common grammar that crosses these scales: how a system maintains itself, reconfigures, absorbs shocks, displaces its costs, and sometimes shifts to another regime.
I develop the ORI-C framework (Organisation, Resilience, Integration — Coherence) and the PALM observation framework (Plasticity, Adaptation, Mètis Logic) as minimalist, non-metaphysical tools to describe these dynamics.
Contact
For any questions about the ORI-C and PALM frameworks, research collaboration, or discussion on systemic viability topics.
Links
Works
My Story
From an early age, I felt a deep incoherence in the world presented to me: not a rebellion, not a posture, but a persistent impression that the narratives were too clean, the structures too solid, while reality told a different story.
One question triggered everything: how could the most powerful, most secure, most controlled system be caught off guard so spectacularly? I then stopped focusing solely on events to question the structures that made them possible.
I separately explored geopolitics, conflict history, psychology, spirituality, energy, belief systems, official narratives. Each field brought useful fragments, but also its own contradictions. No single discipline held up; each illuminated a piece without dispelling the overall unease.
I eventually saw that the problem wasn't the lack of information, but the lack of overall coherence. Systems seemed to function, but through an endless accumulation of justifications, compensations, and denials. Tensions weren't resolved, they were managed; not integrated, but neutralized.
The real shift came when I stopped looking for who was lying to ask a more radical question: what allows a living system to hold together without self-destructing? By observing mechanisms rather than intentions, an invariant appeared: viable systems don't eliminate instability, they integrate it. Where it's denied, they rigidify, accumulate internal incoherences, and eventually disorganize.
I found this logic everywhere: in living organisms, in the psyche, in groups, in ecosystems, and even in the progression of science through paradigm shifts. What I call the principle of living coherence isn't a speculative theory, but the only framework that connects what I observed without fragmenting reality.
Understanding intellectually isn't enough. You can function on the surface while carrying a deeper incoherence that manifests as chronic fatigue, dissociation, loss of meaning. The real difference lies between "functioning" and "being coherent."
I didn't go to prestigious schools. I'm neither a fortune-teller nor a guru. I don't come from a path "that explains everything," nor from a trajectory that's easy to tell. My knowledge wasn't built in a clean, progressive framework, validated by diplomas or external authority. It comes from another source, less comfortable but more insistent: a succession of incoherences I sought to understand, because they kept returning, because they resisted simple explanations, and because they ended up costing too much when I left them unread.
At first, I wasn't looking for a life philosophy. I was mainly trying not to dissolve in confusion. When you grow up in an incoherent family structure, things don't align. Not just events, but logics. Rules that change according to the moment. Implicit expectations impossible to satisfy. Contradictory messages. Disproportionate reactions. A persistent impression that reality depends more on the system's mood than on any stable principle.
For a long time, I found myself moving forward without a map. I had fragments: very clear sensations at certain moments, then periods where everything became blurry. Episodes that seemed to repeat in other forms. And yet, something persisted: the idea that if it returns, it's not just chance; that if certain contradictions return, it's not just "me being dramatic"; that if I keep falling into the same kind of disconnect, there's a mechanism behind it.
The path wasn't always easy. Not "difficult" in the romantic sense, but costly in the concrete sense: fatigue, loss of bearings, periods of overload, decisions made too quickly or too late. But despite that, I regret nothing. Not because everything was "necessary," but because I refuse to disguise my journey to make it acceptable.
What I hadn't understood is that my development wasn't happening in a straight line. It was happening in stages. And these stages, when you go through them, don't look like a "plan." They look like a series of attempts: you adapt, you adjust, you make mistakes, you start over. You create reference points, then discover they don't hold everywhere. It's not clean, it's not elegant, and it's not fast.
Looking back, I can now name this process: I wasn't looking for perfect coherence, I was looking for possible coherence. A coherence that doesn't depend on a stable setting, nor on an external promise, nor on a narrative that arranges everything. A coherence that holds when life gets complicated.
This is where the idea of "coherence of incoherence" makes sense. For years, I thought incoherence was a defect to eliminate. In reality, I realized that incoherence was my raw material, my starting point, my terrain. And instead of trying to deny it, I could learn to read it: to see its repetitions, its forms, its cycles, its effects. To understand what triggers it, what aggravates it, what tips it over, what calms it. Not as a moral story, but as a life mechanism.
For a long time, I couldn't connect all the pieces. I knew I was learning, but I couldn't see the pattern. I felt like I was building something without seeing its final form, as if collecting pieces of a puzzle without having the picture on the box.
And then, very recently, something changed. A recent, clear decision acted as an assembly point. Not a mystical revelation. Not an illumination. A concrete, structuring decision that suddenly aligned things accumulated over a long time. And that's when I understood: this puzzle, I didn't build it in one day. I built it over twenty years.
From that moment, my past didn't "justify itself": it organized itself. Events didn't take on a magical meaning; they found a place. And this readability changes everything: it doesn't eliminate difficulty, but it transforms confusion into structure. It transforms repetition into information. It transforms scattering into trajectory.