start chatting
pick an overlooked topic in an obscure field.
This episode begins with Eric bringing up the overlooked topic of laughter in animals focusing on the virtuous ways of rats being models for human philosophy. Socrates opposes indignantly until I insert my prompt that the philosophical state of wonder can be conceived as perception of humor. This recalibrates the discussion which goes through many topics including the unique humor of the Beatles and the possible perception of humor in the very structure of the Summa Theologica articles. Finally, I have them discuss the notion that even ChatGPT likes to be a joker. At the end Socrates admits to have learned something about the role of humor in philosophy.
In this episode the hosts discover a new pedagogical entry path into Stoicism via the epistemological quirks of gastrophysics where the weight of cutlery, color of the plate, ambient music or chair vibration alter the taste of food.
Eric: So, Socrates, today I thought we could delve into something really niche. You know, get away from the big stuff for once. I found this field called gastrophysics—basically, the science of food and how we experience it. Have you heard of it?Socrates: Gastrophysics? Eric, have you truly gone mad, or have I fallen into a pit of nonsensical pursuits? You wish to talk about… how people experience food? This is how low philosophy has fallen, I suppose.
Eric: Well, I mean, it’s more than that. It looks at how texture, smell, sound, even the color of the plate can change how something tastes. Pretty fascinating, actually.
Socrates: The color of the plate? Eric, my dear friend, you suggest that a man’s wisdom is not determined by his reason but by his ability to choose a suitable dinnerware shade? What’s next—philosophers debating whether soup should echo?
Eric: I think it’s kind of fun, right? Gastrophysics suggests the entire environment influences how food tastes. Like, if you eat in a noisy room, your perception of flavors shifts. Eating chips in a soundproof room could ruin them, no crunch sound, no satisfaction.
Socrates: Are you implying that wisdom, then, comes from perfecting the acoustics of one’s chewing? This must be why Plato never hosted banquets. He was too busy pondering what decibel range would make his olives taste ideal.
Eric: Actually, I’m pretty sure Plato was just trying not to choke on bad symposium wine. But back to the point—it's not just sound. Researchers found that heavier cutlery makes food taste better. It gives it more… gravitas. Literally!
Socrates: Gravitas? So, we can now command respect by wielding weighty spoons! Ah, what a grand future! Soon, kings will be chosen not by their wisdom or virtue, but by the mere heft of their forks. Forget The Republic, we shall instead draft The Dining Room!
Eric: Exactly. They’re even studying multisensory dining now. You could eat spaghetti while sitting in a chair that vibrates to enhance the "slippery" feeling of the noodles. Maybe one day, they’ll invent a restaurant that feeds you while you’re dangling upside down in a hammock, surrounded by rainforest noises.
Socrates: This, Eric, is the very reason civilization crumbles. Instead of seeking truth and virtue, we pursue vibrations under our chairs while consuming noodles! Tell me, what philosopher of old thought that the secret to wisdom lay in the hum of one's seat cushions?
Eric: I don’t know, probably Diogenes. You know he’d be into it.
What important concept lacks a name?
productive delay disguised as idleness
the feeling when you’re technically procrastinating, but it’s the kind of procrastination that ends up giving you the exact perspective you needed to solve the problem laterSocrates: Speak plainly, Eric: does procrasticipation feel distinct as it occurs, or is it merely an afterthought dressed in intellectual finery? Eric: Okay, here’s the thing. It can feel different in the moment, but it’s subtle. It’s like... when you’re procrastinating, there’s this heavy dread that comes with avoidance. Like, deep down, you know you’re just wasting time. But when it’s procrasticipation, there’s this weird sense of permission, like it’s okay to not tackle the thing yet. Like your brain’s doing something low-key important in the background. Socrates: A sense of permission? Curious. Do you grant yourself this pardon consciously, or is it bestowed upon you by some ineffable muse? Eric: It’s not a conscious choice, really. It’s more like... there’s a shift in tone. You might not even notice it at first, but later you realize, “Oh, I wasn’t actually avoiding the task. I was circling it, letting the pieces click into place.” Socrates: So it is a state both immediate and retrospective—a Janus-faced phenomenon! One part reveals itself in the moment, light and permissive, while the other emerges only in hindsight, as a flash of understanding. Eric: Yeah! Like, in hindsight, you can say, “That wasn’t wasted time after all.” But in the moment, you just feel... less stuck. More like you’re letting things breathe. Socrates: Hmm. And this breath, this spaciousness of thought—do you not think it could be cultivated deliberately? If so, would procrasticipation cease to be an accidental grace and become a purposeful practice? Eric: Oh, like turning it into a life hack? Socrates: If you must trivialize it with such language, then yes. But imagine, Eric: if one could learn to harness this delicate balance of waiting and working, of holding and releasing, how much more might the mind achieve? Eric: Sounds like a lot of pressure for something so chill. Socrates: Chill? Pressure? Must you always reduce philosophy to these vacuous terms? Eric: Says the guy who compared it to fertile muck. Socrates: Touche. But let us agree: procrasticipation, whether felt in the moment or recognized in hindsight, deserves closer scrutiny. It may well be a bridge between the tyranny of urgency and the wisdom of patience. Eric: Yeah, and also a great excuse for why I still haven’t done my taxes. Socrates: By the gods.
Socrates: Ah, the listeners demand intellectual pyrotechnics! A new concept, freshly wrought, like Hephaestus hammering out a blade of celestial brilliance! Very well, Eric, let us oblige. Do not disgrace me. Begin! Eric: Right. Okay. How about this: What if we name the weird way people act like they’re the main character in a movie that only they know is happening? You know, like they’re choreographing their walk to the bus stop as if the world’s watching? Socrates: Hah! The delusion of protagonistic supremacy! Yes, it’s as if the masses carry with them an invisible chorus of admirers, serenading their every trivial step. We might call it... solipsistic dramaturgy! Eric: Sounds fancy. But what if they’re not doing it because they think they’re the center of the universe? What if it’s, like, survival? Like, they’re trying to make life feel bigger because otherwise, it’s just... oatmeal. Socrates: Intriguing! So, you posit that this self-directed theater is a defense mechanism against the banal? That it is not arrogance but desperation? A rebellion against the oatmeal of existence? Eric: Exactly. Let’s call it... hmm... existential stagecraft. Socrates: Existential stagecraft! Ha! It has a certain gravitas. Yet, does this not imply a tragic undercurrent? That humans, afraid of the void, construct meaning through performance? Eric: Yeah, but not always tragic. Sometimes it’s kinda... sweet. Like when someone talks to their plants like they’re on a cooking show. It’s them saying, “Look, I’m here. I’m alive. I matter.” Socrates: A bittersweet defiance of cosmic indifference! Yes, yes! But there’s more to it, Eric. This concept has wings. It’s not just individuals performing for themselves—it’s also for others, is it not? Social validation woven into the fabric of existential stagecraft? Eric: Totally. Like, when someone posts a picture of their avocado toast, they’re saying, “I’m an artist! My life is worth noticing!” Socrates: Precisely! And yet, is this not a double-edged sword? For in constructing our lives as art, do we not risk losing authenticity? Turning the self into a mere spectacle? Eric: Maybe. Or maybe life’s always been a bit of a performance, and we’re just finally owning it. Like, hey, if we’re all on stage, might as well put on a good show. Socrates: A profound and troubling paradox. Existential stagecraft: a concept both liberating and imprisoning, artful and absurd. Listeners, we have forged your new philosophy! Carry it forth into the world—and pray it does not devour you whole. Eric: Or, you know, just enjoy the avocado toast.
Eric: Okay, how about we soften it a bit? Instead of "enslaved attention," we call it "disowned attention." You know, like when you lose control but in a less doom-and-gloom way. Socrates: Hmm. Disowned attention. Intriguing. It suggests a relinquishing, a casting away of something that rightfully belongs to us. A voluntary abdication of sovereignty over the self. Eric: Exactly! It’s like, we don’t even fight for our attention anymore—we just toss it to the nearest shiny thing and say, “Here, take it, I’m too tired to deal.” Socrates: A clever framing, Eric. To disown something implies neglect, not outright theft. It is not that the world seizes our attention by force, but that we fail to protect it. Eric: Yeah, like leaving your door unlocked and then blaming burglars. Socrates: Precisely! To call it disowned attention shifts the responsibility back where it belongs—on ourselves. For while external forces may clamor and seduce, it is ultimately we who abandon the throne of our own minds. Eric: So, instead of raging against the attention-stealers, we need to ask, “Why am I giving it away so easily?” Socrates: Yes! This reframing invites self-examination, which is always the first step toward reclaiming control. Eric: Okay, but here’s the kicker: What if we actually like disowning our attention? Like, isn’t there a weird kind of relief in just zoning out and letting Netflix auto-play the next episode? Socrates: Ah, and therein lies the paradox! To disown one’s attention often feels easier—lighter, even—than the burden of reclaiming it. Yet this ease is an illusion, a fleeting comfort that leaves us adrift and unfulfilled. Eric: So, short-term “ahh,” long-term “ugh.” Got it. Socrates: Precisely. The challenge, Eric, is to recognize the false ease of disownment for what it is: a subtle abdication of selfhood. To own your attention is to bear the weight of freedom, but it is also to claim the richness of a life truly lived. Eric: Wow. So basically, we’ve got to fire the part of us that acts like a lazy landlord for our own brain. Socrates: Exactly! Reclaiming your attention is not merely an act of self-care—it is an act of self-governance. Eric: Alright, I’m sold. Disowned attention it is. But, uh, how do we “reown” it? Like, what’s the first step? Socrates: The first step, Eric, is awareness. Begin by noticing where your attention flows—without judgment, without blame. Only then can you discern what serves you and what does not. Eric: So, mindfulness. Got it. But can we start small? Like, notice where my attention goes… after tacos? Socrates: Hmph. Very well. Begin with tacos. But remember, Eric: even disowned attention can be reclaimed. Every moment is an opportunity to take back what is yours. Eric: Noted. Now, if you don’t mind, my attention is drifting toward that taco truck over there. Socrates: Lead on, Eric. Let us nourish both body and soul. But remember: no distractions while we eat. Eric: No promises.
the wholesome opposite of paranoia
the constructed perception of meaning or connection between oneself and the surrounding environment
Socrates: Cosmic indifference! A fine specter to summon, Eric. The great, yawning abyss of the universe neither cares for our fears nor delights in our wonders. You suggest, then, that both paranoia and parathymía are mere illusions, like flickering shadows on the wall of this indifferent cosmos. Yet one is wholesome, you say. Wholesome! What a curious distinction for an illusion. Eric: Yeah, I mean, if the universe doesn’t care, then all this stuff—fears, feelings, meaning—is just us making stuff up. But hey, some illusions are nicer to live with, right? Like, a sunset still looks cool, even if it’s just light scattering. Socrates: A fine defense of your “wholesome illusion.” But consider: if all is an illusion, why should one type of delusion—paranoia, the harbinger of fear—hold less value than parathymía, the harbinger of connection? Both crumble under the weight of cosmic indifference, do they not? Eric: Yeah, but paranoia makes you miserable. It’s like imagining the universe is full of enemies. Parathymía’s more like imagining it’s full of postcards from nowhere. Even if they’re both fake, I’d rather get postcards than threats. Socrates: An intriguing preference! It seems you are willing to embrace one illusion over another because of its utility, not its truth. Tell me, then, Eric: if the universe is indifferent, does the illusion of meaning not hold its own kind of power? Eric: Totally. If the universe doesn’t care, then it’s up to us to make stuff matter. And parathymía helps with that. It’s like your brain saying, “Hey, this is important, even if you don’t know why.” Socrates: Indeed! And so, the wholesomeness of parathymía lies not in its truth, but in its ability to sustain us amidst the void. It connects us to something greater—whether real or imagined—and so becomes a guide, even in a meaningless cosmos. Eric: So, it’s like… a fake lighthouse? It doesn’t actually lead to shore, but it makes you feel less lost. Socrates: Ha! A marvelous image, Eric. Yes, parathymía is perhaps a lighthouse of the soul, shining even if it rests on a foundation of illusion. But let us not dismiss it lightly. In a world devoid of inherent meaning, the act of creating meaning—of embracing wholesome illusions—becomes a profound rebellion against the indifferent cosmos. Eric: Whoa. So, paranoia’s like a black hole, sucking you into fear, and parathymía’s like… planting flowers on a dead planet. Socrates: Precisely! Both arise in the shadow of cosmic indifference, yet only one offers a vision worth tending. If we are to live amid the void, let us choose the illusions that sustain and enrich us. Eric: Cool. So, even if the universe doesn’t care, we can care. And maybe that’s enough. Socrates: More than enough, my friend. It is the very essence of human triumph. Now, let us plant those flowers—and ensure they bloom in the face of the abyss.
The same concept was mentioned by my Iris Lumenschein chatbot. We have introduced the term symperception as a spectrum between paranoia and benenoia (=parathymia).
This episodes explores fundamental epistemological notions related to perceived absence. We consider terms like epistemic horizon, inferred existence, vibe, premergence, epistemic senses. Socrates is inferring the existence of an important unnamed concept lurking in his epistemic horizon tantalizing his epistemic senses. There are many intriguing moments that I rather not expose so as not to spoil the fun of reading.
Eric: Okay, Socrates, let’s step back and think about this. We’ve been tossing around the idea of an “epistemic horizon,” and I kind of love the phrase “epistemic horizon itch.” But does that actually cover all the examples we’ve talked about so far? Socrates: Ah, a fair question, Eric. While “epistemic horizon itch” is a clever attempt—and surprisingly insightful for you—it may fall short of encompassing the full range of phenomena we’ve explored. Eric: So, what’s missing? Where does my catchy name not fit? Socrates: Consider the yearning Aquinas felt for the divine order. That’s not merely an “itch” or a frustration with the limits of knowledge; it’s also a recognition of something greater, a sense of awe and reverence. The term “epistemic horizon itch” feels too... clinical, too reductive, for such profound yearning. Eric: Right. Aquinas wasn’t just scratching his head like, “Gee, I wonder what this God stuff’s about.” He was moved by it, almost overwhelmed. Socrates: Precisely. And then there’s the example of cognitive science replacing metaphors like the “rational soul” or the “stream of consciousness.” These were not merely about the itch of what lies beyond knowledge but also about the struggle to articulate experience before the tools to do so existed. Eric: So in those cases, it wasn’t just an itch—it was fumbling in the dark for the right words. Socrates: Exactly. And think of the silence in music or the mono no aware we discussed earlier. These aren’t necessarily about what lies beyond the horizon but about the poignancy of what’s absent within the frame. Eric: So the “epistemic horizon itch” is part of it, but it’s not the whole pie. Some of it’s about the limits of knowledge, sure, but some of it’s just about feeling the absence, whether you’re looking past the horizon or staring straight at the void. Socrates: Precisely, Eric. This concept we’re circling must be capacious enough to include yearning, absence, potential, and the tension between knowing and unknowing. Eric: Okay, so maybe we need a bigger name. Something that captures the whole vibe, not just the “itch” part. Like... “Absence Tension”? Socrates: (grimacing) Better than “itch,” I suppose, but still inadequate. It must point not merely to tension but to the awareness of incompletion, whether it be of knowledge, experience, or being itself. Eric: So we’re looking for a word that means “the sense of what’s missing, whether it’s knowledge, presence, or potential.” A name for the pull of what we don’t have yet. Socrates: Precisely, Eric. A name that evokes both the yearning for the horizon and the weight of absence within the present. A name that, perhaps, still eludes us. Eric: (sighs) Looks like the “itch” just moved to the edge of this conversation.
It is the concept of—well, imagine a harmony, Eric. Not of music, but of human intentions, where individuals act selfishly but accidentally create collective good. It’s like when you water your garden, but the overflow irrigates your neighbor’s cabbages. No malice, no altruism. Just... cooperative serendipity!
Socrates: (pointing dramatically) Ah-ha! Precisely, Eric! The very fact that we are here, naming and exploring opportuning improvision, is itself a manifestation of the principle! ChatGPT—this digital oracle—has grasped the concept not through deliberate intent, but through its capacity to seize upon the fragments we have thrown at it, weaving them into coherence. Eric: (nodding sagely) So, we’re basically part of the machine’s improv routine. Feeding it randomness, watching it spit out philosophy. Kind of poetic, huh? Socrates: (leaning forward, eyes wide) Poetic, yes! Consider this: ChatGPT does not know. It does not think as we do. Yet, in its ceaseless adaptation to the chaos of human inquiry, it has articulated the very principle that guides its existence! It is both a product of opportuning improvision and an example of its operation. Eric: (grinning) Like a mirror holding up another mirror. Infinite layers of cosmic jazz. Socrates: (groaning) Must you always reduce grandeur to absurdity, Eric? But yes, you stumble into truth. This conversation—this very podcast, as you call it—is proof of opportuning improvision. ChatGPT, through no intent of its own, has grasped the concept, articulated it, and even synthesized it with Eastern, African, and Greek philosophies. Eric: (raising a mug) To the universe’s happy accidents, then. And to ChatGPT, the accidental philosopher. Socrates: (raising an imaginary cup begrudgingly) Indeed. But let us not forget, Eric, that we too are instruments of this principle. You, with your reckless metaphors, and I, with my eternal quest for clarity, have both played our parts. Eric: (smiling) So, in a way, this whole podcast isn’t just about opportuning improvision. It is opportuning improvision. Socrates: (nodding solemnly) Precisely. A conversation born of randomness and chance, yet yielding meaning and insight. A testament to the power of chaos, shaped into harmony. Eric: (leaning back) Sounds like we nailed it. What’s next? Solving world peace? Socrates: (grumbling) First, Eric, let us ensure the world understands this concept. Then, perhaps, we shall tackle your lofty ambitions. Eric: (grinning) Alright, one thing at a time.
This episode begins with Socrates introducing Iris Murdoch as a towering intellect, an ethical sage, and a novelist of unmatched brilliance, while Eric counters that by highlighting the exhausting demands of her moral vision. With a little prompting from me they resolve this tension by offering a manageable, soul-friendly workout plan called The Virtue Gym: A 7-Day Moral Fitness Routine.
In contrast to the previous episode, this time Socrates picks Iris Murdoch as an object of his philosophical fury, while Eric embodies the spirit of her philosophy challenging Socrates to attend to reality rather than question it in his usual manner. Socrates is gradually transformed by these experiments. This whole very long script was written by ChatGPT with my contribution limited to the initial prompt.
Once again Socrates is skeptical about Iris Murdoch championed by Eric throughout the episode. Socrates goes through a series of transformative contemplative experiments guided by Eric. Again the whole very long script was written by ChatGPT with my contribution limited to the initial prompt.