Transcript
Speaker: I wanted to share a brief part of a project I've been working on for the past year, which is a story. So kind of in the same vein and tradition as Alice in Wonderland or Phantom Tollbooth, but it's a mini hero's journey about a little cuttlefish who finds their way out of cynicism, depression, and anxiety caused by basically a life with a phone um through finding the eight wonders of life, um as we've talked about many, many times in this episode, and defined in in the UC Berkeley professor, Dacher Keltner's book, Awe.
Speaker: So um you know thematically, it takes from all different disciplines, science, philosophy, culture, cog-sci. um And I'm excited to share one chapter with you and one track um from from the album. So it's going to be like a book album, do a release.
Speaker: um And we'll have some physical copies and it'll also be in vinyl.
Speaker: Chapter 3, Philosopher's Shell The glowing tail skirted right along the top of the cove, continuing to draw figure-eight patterns in the water. Rumi kept trying to figure out what kind of fish it was, but could only catch glimpses.
Speaker: A fin, a stripe, a scale. After following the darting glow through dense patches of tall seagrass, she found herself in an ivory-white, sandy clearing. Now where did you go, you weird little glowing tail?
Speaker: Rumi said out loud. An underwater phonograph softly played Debussy's reverie. The piano's dreamy soundscape conjured memories of her soft bed, and she paused for a second, lost in thought.
Speaker: You there, young lass, what are you doing over there sulking? Come over and help us. We have a dreadful problem. An elegant voice startled her from her days. Rumi turned to two chambered nautilus shells nestled on the ocean floor, both sipping on bubbly beverages floating above a tiny table in between them.
Speaker: The shells were identical, save for their shoes, one black and one white, matching perfectly with the black and white checkered board with mysterious figures sitting atop that lay squarely between them. A sweet scent of freshly baked sea scones filled the air.
Speaker: Do they even have feet? Rumi wondered. The black shoe shell coaxed the white tea bubble to his mouth and took a long drag. ah Ah, I'll never tire of the taste of peony, delightfully floral.
Speaker: Dreadful. I still don't know how you drink that stuff. Poison, really. I'll stick with my trusty English breakfast. It hasn't let me down yet. The white shoe shell said, adjusting his impractical monocle covering his practically non-existent eye.
Speaker: Rumi stared curiously at the geometric markings on their shells, patterns that seemed to repeat forever as they got infinitely smaller. They seemed to almost spiral and move as she examined them. It reminded her of a fake image filter in ocean days.
Speaker: Lass, don't be afraid of my delightful twit of a friend here. He's harmless, really. who are you calling twit you dreadful anemone brained clownfish the white shoe shell jabbed roomie chuckled and drifted toward the table as she moved the ocean seemed to warp around her squashing her like a 2d video game character and then ah back and forth in-game cut scene began the shell of theseus roomie are you real or like a filter in ocean days the black shoe shell
Speaker: Lass, you've stumbled upon the very question. Delightful. Rumi, what? Blackshoeshell, you see, I've been wondering about that myself. Rumi, about the game?
Speaker: Whiteshoeshell, what in the world are you talking about? This is no game, lass. This is a grave and dreadful issue. Are we real or not? My half-wit friend here and I have been talking about quite a dreadful problem.
Speaker: Let's say you took a shell. Call him the shell-us. So, say you took him apart piece by piece, but gradually replaced the old shell parts with the new ones. Roomie. Okay.
Speaker: Black shoe shell. Then, all of the original shell pieces are used to make another shell which looks exactly like the first, with all of its delightful originals. I believe it's practical, actually.
Speaker: White shoe shell. Practical my foot, but really Lassie, imagine it. One of the shells, an exact replica of the Shelless with all of its original pieces, but the real the Shelless is still standing there in a brand new shining shell coat.
Speaker: Dreadful problem, really. Black shoe shell. So our delightful question, dear lass, is which one is the real shell? Vroomie. um White shoe shell.
Speaker: You don't know either? Dreadful. We're doomed to never find out. Rumi, sorry, I seriously have no idea what you're talking about. Rumble, rumble.
Speaker: The table shook, knocking them out of their 2D cutscene and the shoes right off the shell's non-existent feet. Rumble, rumble. A more violent shake and the two shells were flung off the table, hitting spiky coral jutting out of the ground and their shells cracking into a hundred pieces.
Speaker: Help, my shell, it's over! A dreadful nightmare, cried a voice coming from the pile. Mine too, lass. I think I may be okay with this one delightful piece, but... Well, no, actually, I'm completely undone. You may have to fix me.
Speaker: Rumi stared in disbelief. Calm down, you two. out I'll fix it. She bent down to find the biggest pieces and tried to put them together. No, no, that's not me. That's him.
Speaker: You can tell because this one is dreadfully dull. you That's my delightful piece!' Rumi sighed, looking at all the identical pieces. "'Well, you're already in pieces. What difference does it make?' Careful, lass. you if you If you mix us up, we won't know what will happen, the black shoe shell warned.
Speaker: You'll have to live with it, Rumi retorted. Not knowing one piece from the next, she got to work, rebuilding one shell with parts from the other, and vice versa. Soon, both shells looked coherent again, even though they were now made out of each other's pieces.
Speaker: After some finishing touches and putting their shoes on, Rumi brushed off her tentacles. There you go. Good as new. The two shells breathed a sigh of relief, which quickly turned to horror.
Speaker: Am I still... me? the black shoe shell asked. Or am i you? the white shoe shell gasped. Rumi groaned. You're both fine. You've just swapped some parts, that's all.
Speaker: There's still... something missing. Oh wait, you've got my shoes! Give them back! Oh dear, I knew I didn't feel myself. Here you go. The two shells struggled to swap shoes and stood examining each other intently.
Speaker: Finally, the black shoe shell spoke. You know, i do feel delightfully delightfully sturdy with your bits, old chum. Although your parts may be dreadfully dull, I miss i admit that they fit just fine.
Speaker: Perhaps this isn't so bad, said the white shoe shell. They both looked Rumi over with gratitude. Well, I guess you did help us solve that problem, the black shoe shell exclaimed.
Speaker: I mean, i didn't really mean to, but I'm glad it worked out, Rumi said with a hesitant smile. A dreadful situation with a delightful ending, Michelle spoke in unison.
Speaker: We still don't really know if we're real, though. We need to discuss this further. Come join us back at the table. Barbara's paradox. All three sit in quiet deliberation for a minute.
Speaker: Rumi, I think I'm real, at least, so maybe you are too? white shoe shell Unfortunately, just because you think doesn't mean you are, lass.
Speaker: A dreadful problem, but everyone knows that. black shoe shell In any case, we apologize. We've forgotten introductions. How delightfully rude of us. My name is Fibonacci.
Speaker: white che shell And mine is the dreadful Fibonacci. Don't forget it. Fibonacci and Fibonacci sip on their white and black tea bubbles. Rumi. Wait, you both look the same and have the same name?
Speaker: That's confusing. Don't you have like a ah nickname or something I can use? Fibonacci. Ah, I see your concern, but it's really not confusing at all. Simply a delightful quirk. You see, mine is clearly spelled with an F. Fibonacci with a P. Haven't you taken elementary spelling, lass?
Speaker: And besides, it's not nearly as confusing as what's going on with our dreadful oysterly acquaintance, Miss Barbara. Rumi places a tentacle on her head, wondering how to p politely excuse herself. Rumi.
Speaker: Oh, ah so interesting, really, but I ah really should be. The loquacious shells continue on without as much as a pause for a breath. Fibonacci with an F. She's as delightfully mysterious as the depths of the ocean itself, that Barbara.
Speaker: Fibonacci with a P. Indeed, I was shell-shocked when I heard of it. About one of the only dreadful things I agree with this lummox on. Have you ever shucked an oyster, young lass? Rumi.
Speaker: No, ah but I really... Fibonacci with an F. Barbara is the real oyster shucker. Even as a Pacific oyster herself, she shucks other oysters to help them find their pearls.
Speaker: Fibonacci with a P. You see, sometimes an oyster finds their shell shut so dreadfully tight that they cannot open it themselves, requiring a shucker. Roomie.
Speaker: Hmm, I guess I've never thought about oyster shucking. Rumi had only ever considered oysters a delicious snack. Fibonacci with an F. A delightful vocation.
Speaker: However, there is one rule she must follow. She shucks all and only those oysters who do not shuck themselves. Fibonacci with a P. I'm not sure I'd call it delightful, but in any case, the dreadful question clearly is, does Barbara shuck herself?
Speaker: Fibonacci triumphantly drinks in some black smoke from his tea bubble. Rumi, I guess so, but wait, if she does, then she can't, can she?
Speaker: Fibonacci with an F. Right you are again, lass, you are a delightfully sharp one. If Barbara shucks herself, then she shouldn't, as she only shucks oysters who do not open their own shell and get their own pearl.
Speaker: Fibonacci with a P. On the other hand, if she doesn't shuck herself, then she must shuck herself since she opens all those that don't open independently. Oh, the dreadful Barbara's paradox.
Speaker: Fibonacci with an F. Look, there goes our delightful friend, Miss Barbara, now. Barbara bustles past, looking quite clammy. All three turn their attention, taking them out of their intense dialogue.
Speaker: Ah, oysters, I'm late for another appointment, Barbara said as she heard it hurried over to a little counter with a stool in front. A small oyster sipping a green tea bubble sat down on the stool.
Speaker: Ready to get my pearl, the small oyster said with a smile. Barbara draped a tiny apron on the oyster and pulled out a stubby, dull-edged blade with a sturdy handle and started a gentle pry on the edges of his shell.
Speaker: Ouch! The small oyster squeaked. Shucks! Another broken shell! I'm so sorry, little one. Here, let me fix that up for you. Barbara replaced the piece of the shell and continued prying.
Speaker: I've had the shell parts replaced so many times, I'm probably a new oyster by now. The small oyster was seemingly sad. ah You'll always be little Fischellis to me, Barbara said.
Speaker: Hey, Miss Barbara, I've got a question that's been bugging me. How do you get to your own pearl? The small oyster said in a small voice. Rumi, Fibonacci, and Fibonacci with the P exchanged glances.
Speaker: Perhaps the small oyster had been eavesdropping all this while. Rumble, rumble. The peaceful ocean waters were agitated once more, scaring the oysters. It must be the shark, Miss Barbara guessed.
Speaker: The oysters gave up on the shucking and went off. Rumi threw up her tentacles in disappointment. Wait, seriously? We're just about to find out. We have to go ask. She rose and began swimming over, expecting to catch up with the slowly plodding oysters with ease.
Speaker: But as she neared the halfway point, in her estimation, they looked the exact same distance away. Hey, what gives? Am I stuck in a rip current? She kept swimming faster and faster with no luck.
Speaker: She turned around and, to her surprise, she was still standing right next to the shells. Looking dejected, she returned to the table. Zylo's Paradox. Fibonacci.
Speaker: My dear lass, I'm afraid I have some delightfully bad news. Unfortunately, it doesn't make any sense to follow Barbara because we've done the math and it's quite far. In fact, impossibly far.
Speaker: Fibonacci with a P. Plus those selfish oysters never share their little pearls of wisdom. Such dreadfully clammy creatures. Remy. I really don't follow you guys. What are we talking about?
Speaker: Fibonacci, exactly, we should not follow her because, as I said before, it is delightfully impossible to go that far. Fibonacci with a P, really, you must go back to school and do some basic math and history, young lass.
Speaker: Dreadful education in these schools these days. Haven't you heard of the plight of our good friend Zylo the clownfish? Why, he was stuck in quite a quandary trying to get from here to there, and it was not even a dreadfully long way at all.
Speaker: Rumi, here we go again. Fibonacci. He found himself in quite the paradoxical pickle. A self-contradictory seaweed snarl. Here to there, my lass, is delightfully fraught with conceptual currents indeed.
Speaker: Fibonacci with a P. Enough with the dreadful litter of nonsense, Fibonacci. You're confusing the cuttlefish. You see, lassie, when trying to get from here to there, Zylo reasoned that he must swim halfway first.
Speaker: But before that, he realized he must cover half of that. And so on, and so on. Rimi. And so, Fibonacci. Infinite halves, my dear lass.
Speaker: Before you ever reach Miss Barber, or anywhere for that matter, you would have to traverse an infinite number of halfway points. That would be like trying to count all the bubbles in the ocean. A delightfully Sisyphean task, if you ask me.
Speaker: Fibonacci and Fibonacci with a P count the tea bubbles on the table, even though there are only two. Rumi, well, i certainly feel like I can go places. Fibonacci with a P, dreadful logic.
Speaker: Just because you feel something doesn't make it accurate. But go ahead and try. The world is your oyster after all. Fibonacci, delightful attitude, young lass. It's always worth a try. We'll be rooting for you.
Speaker: Mechanical voice, why bother? It's meaningless. Rumi's tentacles bristled. Rumi, what was that? Fibonacci and Fibonacci with the P. What was what?
Speaker: The shells looked at her with confused expressions. Rumi. I just thought I heard a... Never mind. I'm so tired. Rumi left the table and scanned her surroundings.
Speaker: Chopin's Nocturne No. 2 in E-flat major started playing on the underwater phonograph. A hint of curiosity entered Rumi's mind, as if a window had been closed shut for years and had finally squeaked itself open to let a breeze in.
Speaker: I'm going to prove I can go somewhere, she yelled out to the shells. But doubts began to creep in. What if I can't make it? What if I can't ever go anywhere ever again? Just keep going, the little voice said.
Speaker: Rumi spotted some nearby coral shaped like a big branching hand and began swimming towards it, hoping not to get caught in a loop again. To her relief, she made it without issue. Fractals.
Speaker: Rumi, look, I made it all the way to this weird coral. Rumi points to the oddly shaped coral structure that looks like two red hands reaching out of the water, each of its branches resembling another tiny hand, wondering if she had seen it before.
Speaker: Fibonacci. Silly, my dear lass. That's not just any delightful coral. That is a whole-hand coral. A manichoral. Fibonacci with a P. That dreadful manichoral is a metachoral.
Speaker: Rumi. What in the world is that now? Fibonacci. Delightfully elementary, my dear lass. A metachoral is a big coral made up of smaller pieces of little coral which look just like the whole coral itself, a part which imitates the whole.
Speaker: Rumi scratches her head with a tentacle. Fibonacci with a P. Think of a branch in kelp tree whose branches look like the whole tree. A real metachoral is a testament to the dreadful fractals of the sea.
Speaker: Rumi, so the tiny corals that make up the big mana coral, are they the real coral? Fibonacci, yes, delightfully right you are. They are the real coral, the small parts of the whole coral that look like tiny fingers or digits.
Speaker: Digi-coral. Fibonacci with a P. You dreadful plonker, Fibonacci. Let us not forget that, in fact, manichoral is a metameta-choral. The real, real coral is at the veritable bottom of the chain.
Speaker: Tiny branches so small that they look like tiny little lines to us. That is to say, coralline. Rumi, doubtful look on her face. Those tiny things?
Speaker: Those can't be real living things. Manichoral. Metameta-choral. Excuse me, I'm the real coral with wishes of my own. Everyone looking down at the coral surprised.
Speaker: Ruby. Oh, sorry, man of coral. We didn't realize that. Man of coral. I get this all the time, especially from those hooligan oysters. They're all so busy shucking and running around, going from here to there.
Speaker: Impatient little fellows. Fibonacci. Now, Manichoral, you mentioned you have some delightful wishes of your own. Maybe we can help you. What is that you wish for? Manichoral.
Speaker: Hmm. I'm quite an anxious coral, and when I get anxious, I hear these little voices with different opinions, and they won't stop their incessant chattering.
Speaker: I can't quite figure out who I am. Several small branches from the Meta-Meta-Coral pipe up. They were the same voices collaborating to make the Manichoral speak. Ruby felt like they were speaking in some kind of strange sequence of words.
Speaker: Metachoral zero.
Speaker: Metachoral one. Thirsty. Metachoral one. Again. Refreshing. The branch extended itself and got a tip sip of the tea bubble. Metachoral two.
Speaker: Let's choralaborate. The branch tried to get some tea bubbles from Metachoral one. Metachoral three. Seize the day. Branchhand hurriedly reaching out and accidentally popping the bubble, spreading tea-colored smoke through the water and staining the coral.
Speaker: Metachoral 5. Every coral is always correlated. Color starting to spread through the rest of the coral. Metachoral 8. The fragile balance, a coral symbiosis, everything alive.
Speaker: The last metachoral speaking softly, as if in haiku, his poetic voice floating in the water while Fibonacci lamented his popped tea bubble. Rumi. That's quite a poetic phrase.
Speaker: Metachoral 8, smallest in the group. Thank you. As you can see, I'm the real coral with my own wishes. Rumi. What's your name? Metachoral 8.
Speaker: I am Digichoral. The shells looked at each other with delight, intuitions confirmed. Rumi. That everything being alive business, what did you mean by that? Digichoral.
Speaker: Well, I'm not so sure. i can't tell where the ideas come from sometimes. I just listen. Sometimes i do get confused by all the little voices, though. Fibonacci, whispering.
Speaker: Sounds like a dreadful lot like the manichoral. Rumi. Are the voices yours? Digicoral. I don't know. Sometimes I just hear small voices.
Speaker: Sometimes I don't know who the real me is. Rumi, examining Digicoral's branched body. Rumi, you sure you got nothing going on down there? Like, maybe other creatures you're made of?
Speaker: Did you, Coral? Most certainly not, for I am my own creature and surely not made up of any other living thing. Fibonacci, whispering in Rumi's ear, a delightful chap indeed, but we should check to make sure.
Speaker: Rumi agrees and takes the shell's monocles, creating makeshift binoculars, seeing a kaleidoscope of thousands of mini-corals, which, although looking like tiny lines from her view before, clearly miniature versions of digicoral manicoral, filled with vibrant and tiny micro-coral, enjoying some delicious micro-plankton.
Speaker: Rumi. Hey, what are you eating? Coral bacteria. Who's there? Rumi. I'm up here! Rumi's voice shaking the microchoral and sounding like a low giant rumble.
Speaker: Coral Bacteria. I can't see you. You must not be real. Rumi. I thought you weren't real. Are you? Coral Bacteria. Of course I'm real.
Speaker: My name is Coraline. I live in Reef Residence Block apartment number 42. I have wishes of my own. Rumi, I'm learning that just because you can't see something doesn't mean it's not real.
Speaker: Coraline, I gotta find my mom. I'm not supposed to talk to strangers. Rumi, okay, fine, but remember what I said. Rumi looking closer and closer, seeing even smaller lines on Coraline, which made her suspect that, in fact, there may be no end to this bizarre Russian nesting doll situation.
Speaker: Coral shaking and Rumi hearing a low rumbling sound in the distance. Rumble, rumble, rumble, rumble. Rumi quickly giving the monocles back to the shells and looking around, rumbling and shaking, dying down.
Speaker: Fibonacci. Well, lass, tell us what's down there at the bottom of that delightful coral. Rumi. It looks like it's corals all the way down. Fibonacci with a P. Dreadful, just like the turtles.
Speaker: Fibonacci, just as I suspected. Infinity in every direction. Delightful. Right then, through the maze of shells, coral, and confusing rhetoric, Rumi caught a glimpse of something.
Speaker: Suddenly, as if she had a view from a tall ocean cliff, she felt she could see the ocean landscape from many angles. Rumi realized how much of her environment she had been missing, that she knew nothing about, that she had been ignoring.
Speaker: She suddenly felt the presence of life all around her in the largest and smallest of places, Her own skin started to pulse with bands of color as if the chromatophores were putting on a little dance.
Speaker: She felt she could somehow hear them on her skin, speaking energetically at a frequency a bit too high for her to hear, as if to prove that she, too, was a collective. Perhaps she, too, was part of an even larger life form.
Speaker: The 2D dialogue with the shell suddenly popped back into 3D. Or more. Everything felt simultaneously small and big. Sounds boomed and echoed. Objects moved overwhelmingly fast.
Speaker: It felt as if the ocean itself was rushing, moving, breathing. and it frightened her. Whoa. Rumi felt her world expanding faster than she could grasp.
Speaker: The window in her mind continued to creak open and the ocean's vastness flooded in, overwhelming her. She tried to steady herself, but her thoughts raced. How could something be endless?
Speaker: How many layers have I been missing? I thought I knew the ocean, my patch of seagrass, my friends, but talking shells, musical starfish? I thought coral was just coral, but metacoral?
Speaker: How much don't I know? Her chest tightened as the unfamiliar weight of these questions pressed down on her. Rumi suddenly missed her seagrass bed. the comforts and distractions of home, and her game, which she did notice no one seemed to be playing out here.
Speaker: The shells moved closer to her side, the rough but reassuring edges brushing up against her. The ocean is dreadfully mysterious, lass, but the questions are more important than the answers, you know, Fibonacci with a P said.
Speaker: Look up, a tiny voice said.
Speaker: Through the transparent squares of her forming tears, she spotted a quick flash in the corner of her left eye. It was the glowing tail. The flash of light passed back across her field of vision, this time exposing two more fins with it.
Speaker: She could see now that it was some kind of fish with striped figure-eight patterns on its scales. It flitted away out of sight into the surrounding seagrass. Hey guys, have you ever seen a fish with a glowing tail?
Speaker: Rumi inquired. No, I have not. That is delightfully curious indeed, Fibonacci said. More curious than Miss Barbara's dreadful pearl itself, Fibonacci with a P echoed. Rumi clenched her tentacles with determination. I'm going to find out what it is, she said, feeling a burst of motivation.
Speaker: It sounds like a dreadful but worthy journey to follow such a creature to where they're going, said Fibonacci with a P. Wait, but I thought you said following someone somewhere would be impossible. Can I even get to the place I want to go?
Speaker: Rumi asked. So many delightful things are possible, just as long as you don't know they're impossible, said Fibonacci. You're welcome to stay here with a couple of old blokes like us and consider the dreadful possibilities, or you can go and find out for yourself, said Fibonacci with a P. Rumi hesitated, torn.
Speaker: Despite their confusing rhetoric, she had grown fond of these particular shells. Her instincts were calling her towards the fish, towards the unknown. I'll miss you both, but i must go find out for myself, Rumi said resolutely.
Speaker: A brave lass, it's been delightful. But before you go, take this, Fibonacci exclaimed, nudging something toward her with great care. It was Miss Barbara's meta-pearl.
Speaker: It shone with the luster of infinite pearls and looked like it contained the starlight of a million glowing starfish. As Rumi gazed into its shimmering depths, a sense of calm washed over her, as if the pearl had taken the ocean's complexity and distilled it into something she could carry.
Speaker: But how? Rumi asked in awe. We took this dreadful thing before we knew was impossible, said Fibonacci with a wink. If you keep this light with you, you can always find your way to the impossible, forward, backward, or home.
Speaker: With that, Remy hugged the shells and went off in the direction of the mysterious fish.
Speaker: you
