Interplace

• Trust in Flux, Power in Play

  Hello Interactors,In 2002, when I was at Microsoft, Bill Gates launched an initiative called Trustworthy Computing (TwC). The internet was fresh, ripe for malicious attacks, and Microsoft was a big target. Memos were issued, posters were printed, teams were formed, and code was fortified. And in the case of hidden Easter Eggs in Windows and Office — removed. Internal hacks weren’t a good look.Trust is everywhere these days — politicians vow to restore it, social scientists try to measure it, and brands continue to demand it. U.S. money says to trust God, and it seems we’re now asked to trust Musk. Clearly trust isn't universal; it's shaped by our views of and interactions with power, place, and institutions.Lately, trust feels harder to hold onto. It's not just social media, politics, or government failures — the spaces where trust once thrived are disappearing. Town squares, shops, and local newspapers are vanishing, replaced by fragmented digital alternatives. Trust may be declining; but it's mostly shifting, and not always for the better.Trust won't simply "return" with a memo from Bill. Nor from Trump, Zuck, Musk, or Jeff. Even if they did, they’d likely soon be tossed in the Trumpster Fire. These figures make us question who is gaining trust, who is losing it, and what these new patterns mean for democracy and social cohesion?SELF-TRUST LOST TO CIVIC COSTTrust begins with confidence in what we know and perceive. We rely on self-trust to navigate the world — to make decisions, assess risks, and interpret so-called reality. Self-trust relies on the brain’s ability to process uncertainty and predict outcomes. The prefrontal cortex (the brain’s decision-making hub) assesses risks based on past experiences, while the anterior cingulate cortex (a small but crucial center between hemispheres) detects conflicting information, signaling when to doubt or adjust beliefs. When these systems function well, self-trust remains stable. But in an era of conflicting information, the brain is flooded with competing signals, making it harder to form confident judgments. Chronic exposure to uncertainty and misinformation can overstimulate these networks, leading to decision paralysis or over-reliance on external authorities.Yet self-trust isn’t just a cognitive process — it is also shaped by social and epistemic (knowledge-related) factors. Prominent NYU philosopher Miranda Fricker, known for her work on epistemic injustice, argues that trust in one’s own knowledge isn’t formed in isolation but depends on social reinforcement and being recognized by others as a credible source of knowledge. When individuals experience repeated epistemic injustice — being dismissed, ignored, or denied access to authoritative knowledge — they internalize doubt, weakening their own cognitive autonomy. Without reliable social validation or consistent feedback from their surroundings, self-trust erodes. This is not just a psychological state, but a consequence of power structures that shape who gets to "trust" their own judgment and whose knowledge is devalued.In the past, people validated their understanding through direct experience and social reinforcement. I remember watching TV anchor Walter Cronkite as a kid with my family in Iowa. He was the source of authoritative knowledge for us all. We also learned from trusted local voices and community newspapers. The Des Moines Register was won of the most influential and trusted regional papers in the country. It won 16 Pulitzer Prices from 1924 to 2010 — the first being for the work of syndicated editorial cartoonist “Ding” Darling. Now, those anchors have weakened. These knowledge sources have been replaced by curated digital landscapes, where information is sorted not by credibility, but by engagement metrics and algorithmic amplification. One case study shows that this shift can lead to a growing public reliance on self-reinforcing information bubbles, where trust in knowledge is shaped more by network effects than by institutional credibility. This creates a paradox: people have more access to knowledge than ever before yet feel less certain in what they know and trust.This crisis of self-trust extends beyond information. It is not just about struggling to determine what is true, but also about uncertainty over how to act in response to a changing political and social landscape. Despite declining trust in political leaders, there is evidence public support for democracy remains strong. We may doubt the players, and even the game, but our faith in democracy mostly stays the same.This gap — between distrust in leadership and belief in the system — creates the sense of civic uncertainty we all feel. It’s not hard to find those who once trusted their ability to participate meaningfully in democracy but now feel disengaged, disoriented, or discombobulated. They’re unsure whether their actions can have any real impact. Voting, town halls, and community groups used to feel like meaningful ways to engage, but when institutions seem distant or unresponsive, they lose their impact. At the same time, digital activism and decentralized movements offer new ways to get involved, but they often lack clear legitimacy, accountability, or real influence on policy.Rising polarization, disinformation, and the decline of local journalism have made it harder for people to trust democratic institutions. Many still believe in democracy but doubt whether their actions make a difference. This uncertainty fuels disengagement, creating a cycle where institutions fail to respond, deepening distrust. The real crisis isn’t about rejecting democracy — it’s about struggling to find meaningful ways to participate in a system that feels increasingly unresponsive.STRANGERS ONLINE, NEIGHBORS OFFLINEIf trust in ourselves grounds what we know, trust in others helps it grow. We nurture it through everyday interactions — recognizing familiar faces, exchanging small favors, and feeling a shared connection to the places we live. But as communities change and people become more disconnected, those trust-building moments start to wither.Many neighborhoods once relied on deep social networks woven through personal relationships — longstanding ties between neighbors, trust built through shared spaces, and informal support systems that provided stability. Small businesses, community centers, and local institutions weren’t just places of commerce or service; they were gathering spots where people formed relationships, exchanged information, and reinforced a sense of belonging. But economic restructuring, gentrification, and urban development have disrupted these networks, dismantling the infrastructure that once sustained social trust.As housing costs rise, longtime residents are pushed out, taking with them the relationships and shared history that held communities together. Gentrification swaps deep local ties for a more transient crowd, while big corporations replace small businesses that once fostered real connections. Where shop owners knew customers by name, now it’s all about quick transactions, leaving fewer chances for meaningful interaction.Adding to this shift, the rise of online shopping and door-to-door delivery has further reduced the need for everyday in-person interactions. Where people once ran into neighbors at the local grocery store or chatted with shop owners, now packages arrive with a quick doorstep drop-off, and errands are handled with a few clicks. This convenience comes at a cost, replacing casual, trust-building encounters with isolated transactions, further weakening the social fabric of neighborhoods.Car dependency doesn’t help. Car dependence doesn’t just reduce social interactions — it reshapes them. As urban sprawl spreads people further apart, longer commutes and car-centric infrastructure leave less time for community engagement, weakening neighborhood ties. Public transit, one of the few remaining shared civic spaces where people of different backgrounds interact, has been deprioritized, reinforcing isolation.Yet, denser urban living isn’t necessarily the fix. While some advocate for more compact, walkable communities to counteract social fragmentation, there is research that shows density alone doesn’t guarantee stronger social bonds. High-rise developments and mixed-use neighborhoods may put people physically closer together, but without intentional social infrastructure — such as well-designed public spaces, accessible community hubs, and policies that foster local engagement — denser environments can be just as isolating as car-dependent sprawl.At the same time, digital life has transformed how we interact. Social media and online communities have expanded the scope of connection, but often at the cost of place-based relationships. Online, people tend to engage with those who already share their views, reinforcing ideological silos rather than broadening social trust. Meanwhile, interactions with strangers — once the foundation of civic life — become more fraught, as society sorts itself into parallel realities with fewer common reference points.Yet social trust is not entirely collapsing. While some forms of trust — particularly trust in strangers and diverse social networks — are declining, alternative forms of community trust are emerging. Digital spaces, local activism, and mutual aid networks offer new avenues for rebuilding trust, even as traditional community bonds weaken. The question is not whether trust exists, but what kinds of trust are flourishing, and at what cost?CONNECTED OR CONNEDAt the broadest scale, institutional trust is what binds societies together — it’s the belief that governments, media, and public institutions operate with some level of fairness, competence, and accountability. But in many places, that trust has been unraveling for decades.This isn’t just about political polarization or disinformation. Much of the erosion of trust in institutions comes from lived experience. Local governments used to be the most trusted level of governance, but years of budget cuts and privatization have left them struggling to provide basic services. To stay afloat, many cities have outsourced essential services to private companies, prioritizing short-term cost savings over long-term community needs. As a result, public services have become more uneven, with some neighborhoods getting what they need while others are left behind. Instead of feeling like a reliable support system, local government now often seems distant, underfunded, and unable to truly serve the people who rely on it most.In the United States, "austerity urbanism" has led to mass school closures in cities like Chicago and Philadelphia, cuts to public transportation in Detroit, and the deterioration of water infrastructure in places like Flint and Jackson. Public housing budgets have shrunk, forcing cities to rely on private-public partnerships that often lead to rising rents and displacement.Rather than being experienced as sources of support, local governments are increasingly perceived as punitive forces. In some cities, emergency financial managers — appointed to balance municipal budgets — have slashed services and sold public assets with little public input, reinforcing a sense that government is distant, unaccountable, and incapable of serving its residents. The result is a feedback loop of distrust: as public services decline, citizens disengage, reinforcing the very conditions that make institutions seem ineffective or absent.The decline of trust in representative institutions does not mean trust in governance itself has collapsed. Research shows that while trust in elected officials and legislatures is declining, trust in implementing institutions — such as courts, police, and civil services — has remained relatively stable in many democracies. This suggests that while citizens may distrust politicians and their decision-making, they still believe in the structural functions of governance itself, even if that trust is increasingly conditional and unevenly distributed.However, as local trust declines, people are looking elsewhere for authority. In some cases, this has meant turning to charismatic leaders who position themselves as restorers of stability in response to perceived governmental dysfunction. Right-wing populist movements like Trumpism — with authoritarian-leaning politicians funded by libertarian-leaning capitalists — have capitalized on this distrust, framing themselves as defenders of "the people" against an out-of-touch political elite.Meanwhile, others have sought alternative governance structures to fill the void left by failing institutions. For example, food policy expert Katie Morris highlights how some cities, fed up with national inaction on food insecurity, are taking matters into their own hands. She highlights how “Right to Food Cities” are stepping up to provide food assistance and support local food systems, proving that even when higher levels of government fall short, local action can still make a difference. Seattle’s Food Action Plan is one example.While these efforts demonstrate local governments’ ability to function as alternative governance models, they also highlight the fragmentation of trust — where some communities invest in grassroots action while others retreat into authoritarian appeals for order.It seems trust isn’t disappearing — it’s being redistributed. Some find security in bureaucratic institutions like the courts and civil service, while others seek top-down leadership in populist figures or create community-driven governance alternatives. Either way, this redistribution deepens political fragmentation, making it harder to achieve widespread institutional legitimacy.Each of these crises — self-trust, social trust, and institutional trust — feeds into the others. When people struggle to trust their own judgment, they become more hesitant to engage with their communities. When social networks weaken, people feel more isolated and disconnected from larger institutions. And when institutions fail, people turn inward, relying on personal networks or ideological affiliations over collective governance.But just as these crises reinforce each other, so too can their solutions. Restoring trust isn’t about recreating an idealized past — it’s about understanding how different visions of community shape trust today. Many people look to historical models of social cohesion, whether rooted in low-density suburban stability of the 1950s or high-density, transit-oriented neighborhoods of the late 1800s, as templates for rebuilding trust. These views, rooted in social capital theory — the idea that strong community ties build trust and cooperation — recognize that our surroundings shape how we connect. While social capital can foster civic engagement, it also has a darker side.Political analyst Adam Fefer, who studies democratic resilience, highlights how tight-knit networks have fueled anti-democratic movements in the U.S., spreading misinformation rather than broadening trust. The January 6th attack wasn’t spontaneous — it was driven by organized groups leveraging veteran organizations and faith communities to mobilize action. Historically, exclusionary civic groups have also reinforced segregation and voter suppression, showing that not all social capital strengthens democracy.However, these same civic networks can protect democracy, as seen in union-led economic shutdowns and business leaders opposing political extremism. This highlights a crucial fact: the impact of social capital on civic well-being varies based on its structure, who it empowers, and its intended purposes.Rather than looking backward, we need to build trust in ways that fit today’s world—both digital and physical. That means strengthening local knowledge networks, rethinking where and how we connect, and recognizing that much of life now happens online, from social interactions to doorstep deliveries. While shared public spaces still matter, we must also find ways to foster trust in a world where community, commerce, and governance are increasingly digital.And it means rethinking governance, not as a distant authority, but as something more active and responsive—an ongoing process that truly gives people a stake in shaping their communities. Perhaps the real challenge isn’t in longing for a past version of civic life, but in asking how we can create the conditions today that make people feel connected, capable, and truly invested in the future of their neighborhoods. How do we build a world where trust isn’t just a distant trace, but a tangible part of our daily interactions with people and place? This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit interplace.io

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  23:02
• Train the Bot, Rot the Brain?

  Hello Interactors,Artificial intelligence divides us. To some, it’s a miracle waiting to solve humanity’s greatest problems. To others, it’s a creeping force, stealing our skills, jobs, and even autonomy. The truth, as always, is more complicated.From sharpened sticks to smartphones, humans have always loved their tools — but at what cost? Plato feared writing would weaken memory; now we worry GPS dulls our sense of direction, calculators erode our math skills, and AI chips away at our ability to think creatively and critically. Are we creating marvels that strengthen us, or are we outsourcing so much that we’re making ourselves vulnerable?What if the answer isn’t rejection or blind adoption, but finding a smarter balance? Let’s dive into what we gain, what we lose, and how interdependence with technology might just be our greatest strength.DEPENDENCY WEAKENS COGNITIVE AGENCYLet’s start with Plato. He famously criticized writing for weakening human memory. His complaint, though seemingly dramatic today, nonetheless echoes across centuries. Modern tools like calculators, spellcheckers, and GPS extend our cognitive reach — a concept known as extended cognition, where tools function as external parts of our thought processes.These tools are marvels of convenience, but they come at a cost. As geographer Paul Torrens highlights in his work on behavioral geography, tools like GPS don’t just help us — they sideline us. By reducing direct interaction with our environment, they bypass processes like navigating landmarks or forming mental maps. Over time, the skills we’ve refined for millennia quietly wither under the glow of our devices.But there’s more to the story than atrophy. Torrens points out another subtle trap: the loss of what “small geographies” offer when we overly rely on tools like GPS and vehicles, both forms of extended cognition. “Small geographies” — our immediate, lived, day-to-day interactions with space — are rich in sensory details that inform navigation and spatial awareness. Walking through a neighborhood engages embodied perception, helping us notice landmarks, smells, textures, and even microclimates that shape our understanding of place.Yet, when we succumb to technologies that abstract these experiences into rationalized systems of larger geographies — like cities planned for efficiency rather than experience — we sacrifice this richness. GPS reduces navigation to turn-by-turn instructions, while vehicles reduce us to a brain in a box shielded from tactile, sensory feedback. This abstraction reshapes not only how we move through space but also how we sense and value it, distorting our relationship with our surroundings.History has plenty of warnings about over-reliance on rigid, top-down systems. During the Little Ice Age (c. 1300–1850), societies that had shifted to monoculture farming or depended on specific trade routes faced catastrophe when the weather turned erratic. Crops failed, rivers froze, and with them, the mills that powered daily life ground to a halt. Communities that had abandoned adaptive skills like crop diversification or local food storage found themselves particularly vulnerable, left scrambling to cope with nature’s prolonged unpredictability.Catastrophes are brutal. Especially when our capacities are brittle. It’s the same trap we risk falling into today, as natural disasters increase in intensity and sometimes duration. We are more dependent than ever on our systems, certainly more than the Little Ice Age. We depend on power, electrodes, and grids of digital nodes embedded in a global network of interdependent modes.Unlike in the 19th century, most of us don’t have a clue about growing food, let alone storing it. We’ve increasingly prioritized the efficiencies and abstractions of our institutionally driven lives over a more fundamental biological existence. Are we at risk of losing the cognitive and sensory richness that smaller, localized environments, or “small geographies”, uniquely offer? Would we survive an arid hell scape or another ice age?STRENGTH IN INTERDEPENDENCEDependency is not a weakness — it’s indistinguishable from life. Humans exist because we rely on mutually dependent organisms — our gut microbes help us digest food and produce vital nutrients, our skin microbiome protects us from harmful pathogens, and even the mitochondria powering our cells were once independent organisms that became integral to our survival. Together, these partnerships form the foundation of our health and life itself. Our very bodies are home to incredible systems that operate as internal biological technologies, silently and effortlessly aiding our survival and navigation.Take grid cells in the brain, for example. These specialized neurons, part of the brain’s spatial navigation system, act like an internal GPS. Grid cells encode distances and directions, enabling us to navigate our environment and construct mental maps of space without conscious effort.Recent studies demonstrate how these grid cells work together in a way that forms a torus-like (donut) structure. The patterns of cognitive activity match up with the animal's movements as its position in the environment gets mapped onto a toroidal shape. Imagine a rat navigating a flat surface. As it moves, this research show its 2D planar coordinates are being translated to and from a 3D toroidal surface mapped on the inside of a gridded donut in its mind. Our neurons interact with sensory inputs, seamlessly guiding us through environments through 3D biolelectric GPS wetware. Sensory modalities like kinesthetic and vestibular senses integrate with our neural systems to inform our perception of space and movement. In essence, our biological organs and limbs come equipped with intricate systems of extended cognition, working in coordinated harmony with the world around us. Just as our plastic and silicon devices extended our biological cognition, our cognition — our bioelectric calculators and wetware GPS — are extended forms of our environment.The study of bioelectromagnetics spans biophysics, cellular biology, neuroscience, and regenerative medicine. It explores how electrical signals within and between cells govern critical processes like neural communication, cell behavior, and tissue regeneration. Biophysics examines the principles of ion flow and membrane potentials, while cellular biology investigates how bioelectric signals guide growth and differentiation. Emerging areas like systems and synthetic biology expand its applications and bioelectricity is key to understanding and engineering life’s electrical foundations.These decentralized processes mirror key features of intelligence: sensing, processing information, and acting in a goal-directed manner. From resolving cellular disputes to coordinating regeneration, these bioelectric communication systems demonstrate how interdependence fosters adaptability.Research already shows how synthetic technology can mirror these biological processes. Software acts as an extension of human adaptability rather than an artificial facsimile. Can we depend on this tech to instruct, not corrupt, the systems that make us up?TOWARD ETHICAL TECHNICAL INTEGRATIONElectrobiology and the synthetic merging of technology with biology may seem futuristic, but it’s here. Moreover, we humans have a long tradition of infusing technology into the biological systems to sustain life. From vaccines to pacemakers, humanity has a history of cautiously adopting innovations that enhance our biology. While these technologies have saved countless lives, their integration hasn’t come without apprehension.Take vaccines, for instance. While vaccines are now widely regarded as one of the greatest public health achievements in history, there have always been skeptics. Even now, after COVID-19 vaccines demonstrated the speed and efficacy of mRNA technology, new waves of fear and misinformation have followed.These concerns echo a broader unease about technological advancements, seen not only with vaccines but also with the rise of AI. Obviously, a system that mimics human cognition raises questions about control, autonomy, and unintended consequences. Especially as it becomes infused with our biology.But this dynamic mirrors the communication and deliberation found at the cellular level. Just as cells exchange bioelectric signals to coordinate action and solve problems, society deliberates at a larger scale, navigating conflicting viewpoints to determine whether and how to adopt new technologies.Scale Theory offers a lens by looking at how systems and processes shift when moving between different scales, from the cellular to the societal. At one scale, bioelectricity reveals cells working collaboratively to heal wounds or regenerate tissue, a process both decentralized and adaptive. At a larger scale, society’s responses to new technologies — vaccines, AI, or bioelectric tools — follow a similar pattern of negotiation, fear, and eventual coordination.The Eames Power of Ten explores how perspective shifts across scales—from the subatomic to the cosmic—reveal interconnected systems. Similarly, Scale Theory highlights how changes in scale reshape our understanding, ethics, and interactions, emphasizing the need to navigate complexity at every level. Together, they underscore the web of relationships that define our world.While the scale differs, the core idea remains: complex systems deliberate and act in ways that ripple across their networks, whether they’re composed of cells or people. How much of this is metaphorical versus empirical is the work of complexity science.I recently heard this sobering example of a synthetic creation rippling to cells: dating apps. These services use pair matching algorithms, made by an arbitrary human and influenced by networks of arbitrary people, actively manipulate our gene pool when certain biological pairings result in newborns. The same rippling occurs with zoning laws and the design and location of a bar or café…or even a town? My own biology came about when a decision to put a grain elevator in a small Iowa town rippled to my parents being paired resulting in three newborns.Despite fears of these integrations rippling at various scales, history shows they can succeed when grounded in careful research, ethical oversight, and good intentions. Not every actor has good intentions, and not every rippling action is cause for celebration. After all, we can see with X and now Meta how quickly social media algorithms can be weaponized…and let’s be honest, that grain elevator in Iowa, while well intentioned, was constructed on stolen land.Still, vaccines efforts can ripple to boost immune systems without fears of replacing or bypassing them; pacemakers can stabilize hearts without fear of replacing them; antibiotics can work with the body to fight infections and then disappear. These are rippling actions filled with good intentions and outcomes.Tools like calculators and devices equipped with AI can also act with good intentions. They extend our cognition, enhance our ability to solve problems, and process information without replacing our underlying cognitive systems. Could bioelectric technologies follow this same path, amplifying natural cellular intelligence without overriding it?Aristotle provides a counterpoint to Plato’s skepticism about writing. While Plato worried that writing would erode memory and internal knowledge, Aristotle saw value in external aids to thinking, such as writing and diagrams, as tools to organize and extend thought. In the same way, technologies like AI, GPS, and bioelectric tools have the potential to act as extensions of our cognition rather than replacements — but only if we integrate them thoughtfully.The challenge lies in designing technologies that enhance human intelligence without bypassing the lived, embodied experiences that make us who we are. And even though spell checkers make us lousy our lazy spellers, and GPS lousy or lazy navigators, we are able to regain these skills when need be. We’re also able to coexist and even be enhanced by these synthetic extensions.In nature and medicine, we find inspiring examples of how synthetic scaffolding can seamlessly integrate with natural systems. In regenerative medicine biodegradable scaffolds are used to repair damaged bones. These synthetic frameworks made of polylactic acid polymers provide a super structure for bone cells (osteoplasts) to grow into. As they guide the regeneration the scaffold gradually degrades, leaving behind only natural bone.In coral reef restoration, artificial structures made of eco-friendly substances like calcium carbonate attract coral larvae and coastal creatures. Over time, these synthetic reefs become living ecosystems, blending seamlessly with their natural surroundings. If synthetic scaffolds can usher tissue repair and issue biocoenosis, can we align technology with biology? Can we merge artificial minds with organic matter? Can we complement our natural abilities without negating sensibilities? I think we can, because we already are. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit interplace.io

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  17:23
• The Emotional Maps of Mandated Smiles

  Hello Interactors,The weight of winter up north can have its cozy comforts, but cold, damp, and dark can take a toll. We also continue to face a convergence of daunting global challenges — climate change, inequality, political instability, and health crises — each amplifying the other straining our ability to find meaningful and sustainable solutions. So much for ‘Happy Holidays’.A recent article on avoiding despair turned to the concept of “tragic optimism.” This can sometimes be offered as a way to avoid our human tendency to seek “doom and gloom” while also not succumbing to “toxic positivity.” These topics struck me as a decent lens to kick off this winter’s focus: human behavior. Let’s unpack the emotional geographies that shape us. How do spaces and norms influence how we feel, process, and express emotions? SPACES, SMILES, AND SOCIAL SCRIPTSWhen I was in seventh grade, I was the lead in our middle school musical, Bye Bye Birdy. It featured the song, Put on a Happy Face that employed this cheery, but pushy, line: “Spread sunshine, all over the place…just put on a happy face.”Dick van Dyke played the starring role on Broadway from 1960-61 earning him an Tony award. He then appeared in the movie in 1963, launching him to stardom. In that role, many other roles, and in real life, he is a man who appears perpetually happy. Even now at age 98!But under that smile, lurks a darker side. Soon after his early success, Van Dyke became an alcoholic. The alcohol may have helped him put on a happy face society expected, but it came at a price. This insistence on relentless optimism regardless of circumstances is called “toxic positivity” — and it’s more than a personal behavior. It reflects societal norms that prioritize surface-level harmony over emotional complexity. These norms shape how we navigate feelings and influence our individual well-being. But shared spaces, like our workplaces or homes also influence these emotional dynamics. Have you ever walked into a place knowing how you were expected to act? At work, you might slap on a smile and say “I’m fine” even when you’re not. At home, you might feel the pressure to play the part of the cheerful parent, partner, or roommate. These emotional scripts don’t come out of nowhere — they’re baked into our cultural expectations about what different spaces are “for”.Geographer Yi-Fu Tuan explains that spaces acquire “moral properties” through societal norms, values, and cultural narratives. Workplaces, seen as sites of productivity, often suppress emotions like frustration, while homes, idealized as places of comfort, pressure individuals to adopt roles like nurturing parent or cheerful partner. These norms shape how people are expected to behave and feel within these spaces.America itself, as a cultural and geographic entity, carries its own "moral properties." These are reinforced by media narratives that frame the nation as a land of optimism, resilience, and emotional stability, projecting these expectations onto its citizens and then exported to the world to consume.Take one of the most-watched television programs in America from 1962 to 1992, Johnny Carson’s The Tonight Show. His late-night TV persona was examined in a recent New York Times piece by Jason Zinoman. He described Carson as America’s calm, neutral host, soothing the nation with his polite humor. He wasn’t just a TV personality; he was part of a larger cultural push for emotional stability, especially during times of uncertainty. His show became a space where people could escape the messiness of real emotions.But these expectations aren’t just about comfort — they’re about control. By promoting harmony and cheer, society nudges us toward emotional conformity, discouraging anything that might feel too “messy” or unpredictable.This pressure doesn’t fall on everyone equally. Women often bear the brunt of emotional labor, expected to keep things “pleasant” for others. Cultural geographer Linda McDowell highlights how professional women are frequently required to maintain an upbeat attitude at work, regardless of personal circumstances. This expectation extends beyond the workplace, shaping how women are perceived and allowed to express themselves.On The Tonight Show, Joan Rivers, a trailblazing comedian, faced this constraint. Despite her sharp, satirical wit, Rivers was often limited to lighthearted banter and self-deprecating humor to align with Johnny Carson’s carefully neutral persona. Similarly, Carol Wayne, as the flirtatious “Matinee Lady,” reinforced the idea that women on the show were there to amuse or adorn, not disrupt. These portrayals reflected societal norms that confined women to roles as caretakers or decorative figures, both publicly and privately.SUPPRESSING SORROW WITH A SMILE SUCKSPutting on a happy face might seem harmless, but it can take a toll. When we suppress feelings like sadness, frustration, or anger, they don’t just disappear — they build up, creating stress. They can even impact our physical health. Neuroscientists have shown that suppressing emotions can increase activity in the brain’s fear center (the amygdala) while dampening the rational, problem-solving parts (like the prefrontal cortex). Basically, pretending you’re okay when you’re not can mess with your head and your body.James J. Gross, a psychologist and leading researcher in emotion regulation, has shown that suppressing emotions can heighten stress levels, activate the brain’s fear center (the amygdala), and disrupt cognitive processes critical for resilience and problem-solving. Recent brain imaging studies by Wang and Zhang (2023) support this, demonstrating that expressive suppression, where feelings are actively withheld, triggers heightened amygdala activity and diminished prefrontal regulation. These findings highlight the significant physiological toll of emotional suppression, further validating Gross's work.Viktor Frankl, a Holocaust survivor and existential psychologist, offers a valuable framework for regulating these emotions with his concept of “tragic optimism.” Frankl introduced tragic heroism in his 1978 book, The Unheard Cry for Meaning, drawing on the existential and Greek tragic tradition of resilience in the face of suffering. He later expanded this with tragic optimism in a 1984 essay, emphasizing hope and meaning-making even amidst life’s inevitable hardships. Drawing on his experiences from the Holocaust, he explores the human ability to confront inevitable suffering while maintaining hope and finding meaning. For Frankl, this approach was not about denying pain but about embracing life’s full spectrum — its joys and its tragedies — as integral to human existence.But his view of suffering has been criticized as overly universal and idealistic, assuming that all individuals can derive purpose from adversity. His emphasis on personal responsibility may inadvertently shift blame onto individuals for not overcoming circumstances beyond their control. Constant pressure by systemic oppression can exist even in a society that claims to be free. Migrant women in caregiving roles, as McDowell highlights, often lack the freedom to balance suffering and hope on their own terms. Instead, they are required to project resilience and positivity, even under exploitative conditions, effectively masking systemic inequities. Similarly, Joan Rivers and Carol Wayne were cast into narrow roles that demanded cheerfulness, ensuring they complemented rather than challenged societal norms. These portrayals reflected the broader expectation that women embody emotional steadiness, regardless of personal circumstances.Frankl’s insights remind us that the ability to engage with hardship meaningfully is a privilege that societal expectations often deny to those at the margins. Understanding the toll of suppression and the uneven distribution of emotional freedom is crucial in challenging the norms that perpetuate these dynamics.COMBATING CONFORMITY WITH COMMUNITYThankfully, norms aren’t set in stone — they can be, and have been, resisted and redefined. Sara Ahmed, a feminist scholar, critiques what she calls the “happiness duty.” She shows how this duty pressures marginalized groups to appear cheerful, suppressing feelings like anger or pain to uphold the status quo. Movements like Black Lives Matter reject this demand, openly expressing grief and frustration to confront systemic injustice. Through “collective effervescence”, as sociologist Émile Durkheim describes, collective emotions in protests turn individual pain into powerful demands for change. Ahmed and Durkheim offer examples of how breaking free from the pressure to "stay positive" transforms emotions into tools for meaningful resistance.But even this kind of resistance can make those in power uncomfortable, so they demand order, calm, and happiness. When collective effervescence calls people to, as Public Enemy’s song decries, ‘fight the powers that be’, another collective encourages everyone to spread ‘sunshine all over the place, and just put on a happy face.’ But in the face of this “toxic positivity” that Public Enemy mocks as, “'People, people we are the same'”, they respond ‘No, we're not the same / 'Cause we don't know the game’. They can’t justify putting on a happy face when most of America refuses to wrestle with poverty and race. Summoning an inner Johnny Carson can be seen by some as not a neutral, but as just another way to paternally placate — to pat down incivility. It can be seen more like Jack Nicholson’s infamous “Here’s Johnny!” in The Shining — a menacing veneer of cheer masking a deep, dark, and discomforting societal reality.Ananya Roy, a geographer and urban theorist, takes a hard look at this in her work on the “rescue industry.” In Poverty Capital, she critiques how even well-intentioned aid organizations often portray marginalized communities as helpless and in need of saving, while ignoring the structural problems that keep them oppressed. These narratives don’t just undermine real change — they also place emotional expectations on those being "rescued." They demand gratitude and resilience while leaving the bigger systems of inequality intact.Roy’s work shows how this approach reflects a long history of paternalism and American exceptionalism, where those in power maintain control by shaping how others should act and feel.Geography plays a big part in how these expectations are enforced. Relief camps, aid programs, and even microfinance initiatives often create spaces where people are expected to behave a certain way — thankful, hopeful, and compliant. In the U.S., similar patterns show up in low-income neighborhoods, where anger or frustration is often punished, reinforcing norms that demand harmony and silence over real emotional expression.If we want to resist these dynamics, we need to rethink the spaces where care and support happen. Instead of controlling emotions or enforcing positivity, these spaces should allow for shared agency and the full range of human feelings. By rejecting savior narratives and making room for emotions like grief and anger, communities can start to challenge the systems that hold them back and move toward real change.From Johnny Carson’s seemingly cheerful neutrality to the "happiness duty" imposed on marginalized groups, societal norms can slowly prioritize control over connection, faux harmony over brutal honesty. But resistance is possible. Movements like Black Lives Matter, the Women's March, Chile's protests for constitutional reform, and Hong Kong’s pro-democracy demonstrations highlight how group effervescence can channel collective emotions into impactful resistance. However, these movements also reveal the limits of protest alone in achieving enduring change. Systemic barriers to change require sustained efforts beyond the initial wave of mobilization.As Ananya Roy reminds us, breaking free from narratives of saviorism and exceptionalism requires not just challenging these norms but rethinking the spaces where they take root. How can we build geographies of care that empower, rather than constrain? Perhaps the answer lies in acknowledging that resistance begins with feeling — and making space for emotions, no matter how “messy” they might seem. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit interplace.io

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• Shape-Shifting Systems of Survival

  Hello Interactors,As the year ends, I reflect on 2024’s top five essays and a shared theme emerges: the systems that define our lives. These systems intertwine nature and nurture, machines and morality, and markets and minds.From evolution’s harmony to the moral balance of economic power, the co-opting of language to the divides between prosperity and precarity, our journey has revealed deep connections between people, place, and power.Let’s rewind and reweave these connections into a broader narrative that sets us on our way to another trip around the sun.NATURE, NURTURE, AND NODAL NETWORKSIn “DEVO, Darwin, and the Evo-Devo Dance,” we explored how evolution reflects the eternal interplay between biology and environment, progress and adaptation. The evolution of synthesizers — as my daughter’s playful experiments with sound reminded me — offers a metaphor for humanity’s relationship with technology.This relationship echoes the broader theme of systems and evolution. Iterative changes and interactions between tools and users offer the potential to create new possibilities. As noted in the essay,"DEVO’s fusion of human and machine echoes these evolutionary dynamics, where both biological and technological systems evolve through reconfiguration and integration, creating emergent complexity that Darwin could not have imagined."Just as synthesizers blend natural sound waves with human creativity, humanity’s interaction with technology evolves in cycles of adaptation and transformation, shaping both the tools we use and the societies we build. We shape our tools, and they shape us in return.The blend of nature’s design and our technological imprint creates an ecosystem of mutual influence, much like the Evo-Devo theories of biology, where small tweaks in developmental genes lead to dramatic evolutionary outcomes.This interplay of creation and transformation mirrors the cycles of human progress. Just as Hox genes orchestrate body plans, societal changes—spurred by technology or ideology—reshape our collective body. Whether it’s the mechanistic choreography of DEVO’s performances or the emergence of Evo-Devo in biology, the boundaries between human and machine blur.Are we programming nature, or is nature programming us? Perhaps the answer lies not in drawing distinctions but in understanding common patterns. These questions highlight the complexities of how we, and other organisms and systems, grow, adapt, and evolve in a world increasingly interwoven with introduced technology.From the mechanized rhythms of industrialization to the organic flow of natural systems, human -- and nonhuman -- there exists a tension and balance between stability and change. The teleonomic goal-directed behavior of living systems together with society’s driving pulse of technology has fused into an unrecognizable but somehow familiar new existence. Even as we invent tools to navigate this existence, we become part of the systems we create—both shapers and shaped.The orchestration of evolution — like the many-layered songs of a many-player band — shows a world of many, connected, but not always planned.MARKETS, MACHINES, AND MORALITYThe Industrial Revolution brought unparalleled progress but also profound moral dilemmas. In “Markets, Machines, and Morality,” we reflected on Adam Smith’s dual identity as both an economist and a moral philosopher. For Smith, markets were not just mechanisms of exchange but reflections of human nature. His “Theory of Moral Sentiments” reminds us that sympathy, justice, and prudence are vital governors of economic power — like James Watt’s centrifugal governor, which balanced the speed of steam engines.But history shows us that unchecked systems, whether economic or mechanical, often prioritize efficiency over empathy. From Bentham’s utilitarian calculus to the exploitative practices of modern capitalism, we’ve seen how the quest for profit can erode the moral underpinnings of society. Today’s tech-driven economies, much like the Industrial Age’s steam engines, require careful regulation to prevent runaway consequences. Smith’s ideals of community benevolence and fair markets resonate more than ever.The unchecked growth of industrial power also highlights the tensions between human ingenuity and ethical responsibility. The centrifugal governor’s simple elegance stands as a metaphor for our need to impose limits on excess, whether in economic policies, technological innovation, or social systems. Without these balancing mechanisms, we risk spiraling into inequity, instability, and dehumanization — a lesson as relevant today as it was in Smith’s time.Moreover, the moral fabric underpinning economic actions — sympathy, justice, prudence — often fades in the shadow of profit-driven systems. Yet, these values remain the quiet governors ensuring that society’s engines run not just efficiently but equitably.Smith’s vision was never limited to wealth accumulation; it was about creating a society where individual pursuits align with collective well-being. Unlike today’s economic practices, which often prioritize short-term profit over long-term societal health, Smith emphasized the importance of moral virtues such as sympathy and justice in guiding market dynamics.His insights are less about the "invisible hand" and more reminders to steer not only by the metrics of progress but also by the compass of morality. Like a finely tuned machine, morality should govern the obscene, in a more steady and fair routine.LANGUAGE, LANDSCAPE, AND LOSSLanguage has the power to shape identities and wield influence. These were the themes in “Woke and Wealth” and “Molding Minds Through the Markets of Material Worlds.” Words like “woke” and “decolonize”—once rooted in justice—have been distorted, co-opted by power to serve as tools of division. Similarly, capitalism’s framing of “Homo Economicus”—the rational, self-interested individual—has reshaped not just our identities but the very landscapes we inhabit.These constructed identities reflect the power dynamics embedded in economic and geographic systems. The urban centers that thrive on globalized knowledge economies are mirrored by rural regions left to grapple with stagnation and decline, as explored in “Main Street to Metropolis.” As noted in that essay,“Rural areas have become Republican strongholds, drawn to promises of reversing globalization, reshaping economic policies, and making their communities great again.”These places — shaped by policies, demographics, and technology — become symbols of our collective divisions. Yet even amidst these fractures, alternative identities emerge. “Homo Ecologicus,” focused on environmental stewardship, and “Homo Absurdum,” embracing creativity and imagination, remind us of humanity’s potential for resilience, community, and connection.The co-opting of language — turning tools of empowerment into instruments of division — illustrates the ongoing struggle for control over cultural and political narratives. When words like “woke” are weaponized, the original call for awareness and justice is lost in a haze of ideological conflict.Meanwhile, the landscapes shaped by economic systems mirror these distortions, transforming places of shared community into arenas of exclusion and competition. Consider, for example, the gentrification of urban neighborhoods. Once vibrant hubs of diverse community life, these areas often transform into exclusive enclaves where rising costs push out long-time residents, replacing shared culture with economic segregation.Yet, within these landscapes of loss lies the potential for renewal. Rural areas, often overshadowed by urban centers, remain spaces where alternative identities thrive. These identities, rooted in stewardship, creativity, and resilience, offer glimpses of a world where humanity’s diversity can flourish.The challenge lies in amplifying these voices, reclaiming the power of language, and reshaping the spaces we inhabit to reflect our shared values. Language shapes, landscapes mold — our shifting sense of self is an ancient story retold.CLOSING THE LOOPLooking back at these essays, a recurring theme emerges: the interplay of systems that define our lives is not a one-way street. Nature and nurture, markets and morality, language and identity are all intertwined, multi- referencial, and dynamic webs with mirroring interdependencies. Progress is not linear; it’s a cycle of creation, transformation, and sometimes regression where changes to one aspect ripple through the entire system.This echoes the recurring themes explored earlier — from the evolving interplay between nature and technology to the moral balance necessary in markets and machines. Together, these cycles reveal how change, though uneven, can guide us toward resilience and renewal when approached with awareness and intention. Herein lies hope. We all possess the potential, and these systems the possibility, to recalibrate the systems we control to balance human progress with equity, efficiency with empathy, and innovation with ethics.These systems remind us that resilience lies in adaptability. Fire, when controlled, can foster growth and create fertile soil. Uncontrolled fire destroys. Water can unite by sustaining life, connect ecosystems, and enable communication and trade through rivers and oceans. But it can also erode, rot, create barriers, or flood habitats and communities.As we humans innovate and advance, we can pause to reflect on the systems we create. We can ensure they serve not just the few but the many. Like water and fire, the narratives we construct, whether through language, policy, or technology, have the power to unite or divide.Our collective task is to craft stories that inspire connection and foster growth built on shared values. As we step into a new year, what questions should we ask about the systems we create? How can we ensure they unite rather than divide? What would it take to build systems rooted in equity, empathy, and sustainability? Perhaps, most importantly, how do these systems reflect who we are—and who we aspire to be? This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit interplace.io

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  14:46
• Light, Land, and Lessons of Equity

  Hello Interactors,Happy winter solstice!Today, the northern hemisphere experiences its shortest day and longest night, a celestial event rooted in the planet's axial tilt. This seemingly simple astronomical fact has profound implications for economic geography. It influences everything from agricultural productivity to social traditions of sharing and reciprocity.SOLSTICE AND SHARINGI recently visited the Squamish Lil’wat Cultural Centre at Whistler. These two tribes are part of the Squamish River watershed that flows into Howe Sound, a fjord located just around the corner from Vancouver, British Columbia. This watershed is central to their traditional territories and plays a vital role in their culture and economy.From an economic geography perspective, the tilt of the earth underpins the seasons and, by extension, patterns of production and scarcity that shape human economies. In regions where winter brought agricultural dormancy, societies had to develop systems to store, preserve, and share resources to survive until the next growing season.The winter solstice symbolizes the end of this scarcity. It promises returning light, a pivotal moment in the annual cycle for societies historically reliant on natural rhythms. For the Squamish and Lil’wat peoples, this period was a time of reflection, gratitude, and redistribution. Ceremonial gatherings and potlatches reinforced community bonds by ensuring that the resources harvested in times of plenty were shared equitably during the lean winter months.I saw evidence of these community bonds at the cultural center. The five visitors from West Virginia and myself, were the only white folks in the place. I was happy to see and hear a group of teen Squamish or Lil’wat boys gathered, talking, and giggling. There was a table of older Indigenous women sharing tea and treats. I asked one of our guides if she was doing anything special for the upcoming holiday. She said, “Well, I have presents for my mom’s side, but not my dad’s. And I have presents for half my siblings, but not the other half! So, it looks like that’s what I’ll be doing!”Practices of reinforced social cohesion and mitigating disparities can be seen in both Indigenous and early European traditions. These lessons of reciprocity and redistribution remain vital amidst the gulf between extreme wealth and pervasive poverty. That too became apparent during my visit.As I was browsing the gift shop, I overheard an Indigenous employee ask a friend, “How has work been?” Her friend responded, “It’s ok. This time of year comes with a lot of Christmas clean ups, people getting their Whistler places ready…it’s hard work, but good money.”As we mark the winter solstice and conclude this fall series on economic geography, it is worth considering how the natural cycles dictated by the earth’s tilt continue to influence modern economies. Even in an age of surplus for some, the rhythms of scarcity and abundance persist, challenging us to find equitable ways to share resources.The traditions of the Squamish, Lil’wat, and countless other cultures remind us that sustainability and justice are not just matters of economic policy but also of values deeply connected to the natural world. This solstice invites us to honor those lessons, seeking balance and light amid the darkest days.The widespread, worldwide post-harvest behavior — like the Squamish and Lil’wat spiritual renewal through prayer and ceremonies; the community bonding with feasts, potlaches, and storytelling; the observance or celestial cycles and gratitude for earth’s gifts; and the artistic creations for ceremonial dances and rituals — has been happening for millennia.SATURN AND THE GREEK SAINTI thought I’d reshare a relevant excerpt from a post I did a few years ago that explores the roots of Christmas. It started with a communal approach to abundance with celestial-triggered ancient traditions like Saturnalia in Rome. Saturn, the god of agriculture, inspired events where feasts, gift-giving, and the symbolic inversion of roles served to address the inherent inequalities of agrarian economies.“It was so baked into the fabric of society that even the church began painting it with Christian imagery and metaphor. Because the celebrations occurred on or around the end of November and into December there were many elements of Christianity to which they could attach the events.During Roman times, December 17th marked the day of the Saturnalia – a festival honoring the god of agriculture, Saturn. All work halted for a week as people decorated their homes with wreaths. They shed their togas to dawn festive clothes, and they drank, gambled, sang, played music, socialized and exchanged gifts. It was a celebration of their agrarian bounty and the return of light at Winter solstice. It was also a time to invite their slaves to dinner where their masters would serve them food.One Christian Saint affiliated with early December – and the one most honored today in the form of a plump jolly man wearing a red velvet suit – is Saint Nicholas. December 6th is St. Nicholas Day. For many European countries this marked the official end of the harvest season. And even today it’s recognized in some countries as a kind of warm-up act to the more official and accepted Christmas day, December 25th.Nicholas of Bari was a Greek Christian bishop from modern day Turkey. Also known as Nicholas the Wonderworker, he earned a reputation during the Roman Empire for many miracles; all of which, were written centuries after his death and thus prone to exaggeration. But he was most famous for his generosity, charity, and kindness to children, the poor, and the disadvantaged. He was said to have sold his own belongings to get gold coins that he’d then put in the shoes outside people’s homes. This is the origin of the tradition of putting shoes or stockings out on Christmas Eve.They say he also saved the lives of three innocent men from execution. He chastised the corrupted judge for accepting a bribe to execute them. And he certainly would have been watching over the peasant farmers and slaves to insure they were treated fairly. He seemed to always have an eye out for inequities and justice for common people. Maybe that’s what made him a saint. Or maybe he was just born that way. After all, Nicholas in Greek means “people’s victory.”The Puritans obviously lost at their attempts to ban Christmas. Lacking any evidence from the Bible, the Christian powers that be eventually settled on the 25th of December as the day Jesus was born. They most likely picked the 25th because that was the day winter solstice landed on the Roman calendar.”Happy solstice, everyone. Whether from St. Nick or the Squamish ways,let’s remember through these darkest days: sustainability and justice aren’t just decree, they’re rooted in values that connect you and me. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit interplace.io

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  10:38

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