Interplace

• Misinformation Nation

  Hello Interactors,From election lies to climate denial, misinformation isn’t just about deception — it’s about making truth feel unknowable. Fact-checking can’t keep up, and trust in institutions is fading. If reality is up for debate, where does that leave us?I wanted to explore this idea of “post-truth” and ways to move beyond it — not by enforcing truth from the top down, but by engaging in inquiry and open dialogue. I examine how truth doesn’t have to be imposed but continually rediscovered — shaped through questioning, testing, and refining what we know. If nothing feels certain, how do we rebuild trust in the process of knowing something is true?THE SLOW SLIDE OF FACTUAL FOUNDATIONSThe term "post-truth" was first popularized in the 1990s but took off in 2016. That’s when Oxford Dictionaries named it their Word of the Year. Defined as “circumstances in which objective facts are less influential in shaping public opinion than appeals to emotion and personal belief”, the term reflects a shift in how truth functions in public discourse.Though the concept of truth manipulation is not new, post-truth represents a systemic weakening of shared standards for knowledge-making. Sadly, truth in the eyes of most of the public is no longer determined by factual verification but by ideological alignment and emotional resonance.The erosion of truth infrastructure — once upheld by journalism, education, and government — has destabilized knowledge credibility. Mid-20th-century institutions like The New York Times and the National Science Foundation ensured rigorous verification. But with rising political polarization, digital misinformation, and distrust in authority, these institutions have lost their stabilizing role, leaving truth increasingly contested rather than collectively affirmed.The mid-20th century exposed truth’s fragility as propaganda reshaped public perception. Nazi ideology co-opted esoteric myths like the Vril Society, a fictitious occult group inspired by the 1871 novel The Coming Race, which depicted a subterranean master race wielding a powerful life force called "Vril." This myth fed into Nazi racial ideology and SS occult research, prioritizing myth over fact. Later, as German aviation advanced, the Vril myth evolved into UFO conspiracies, claiming secret Nazi technologies stemmed from extraterrestrial contact and Vril energy, fueling rumors of hidden Antarctic bases and breakaway civilizations.Distorted truths have long justified extreme political action, demonstrating how knowledge control sustains authoritarianism. Theodor Adorno and Hannah Arendt, Jewish-German intellectuals who fled the Nazis, later warned that even democracies are vulnerable to propaganda. Adorno (1951) analyzed how mass media manufactures consent, while Arendt (1972) showed how totalitarian regimes rewrite reality to maintain control.Postwar skepticism, civil rights movements, and decolonization fueled academic critiques of traditional, biased historical narratives. By the late 20th century, universities embraced theories questioning the stability of truth, labeled postmodernist, critical, and constructivist.Once considered a pillar of civilization, truth was reframed by French postmodernist philosophers Michel Foucault and Jean Baudrillard as a construct of power. Foucault argued institutions define truth to reinforce authority, while Baudrillard claimed modern society had replaced reality with media-driven illusions. While these ideas exposed existing power dynamics in academic institutions, they also fueled skepticism about objective truth — paving the way for today’s post-truth crisis. Australian philosophy professor, Catherine (Cathy) Legg highlights how intellectual and cultural shifts led universities to question their neutrality, reinforcing postmodern critiques that foreground subjectivity, discourse, and power in shaping truth. Over time, this skepticism extended beyond academia, challenging whether any authority could claim objectivity without reinforcing existing power structures.These efforts to deconstruct dominant narratives unintentionally legitimized radical relativism — the idea that all truths hold equal weight, regardless of evidence or logic. This opened the door for "alternative facts", now weaponized by propaganda. What began as a challenge to authoritarian knowledge structures within academia escaped its origins, eroding shared standards of truth. In the post-truth era, misinformation, ideological mythmaking, and conspiracy theories thrive by rejecting objective verification altogether.Historian Naomi Oreskes describes "merchants of doubt" as corporate and political actors who manufacture uncertainty to obstruct policy and sustain truth relativism. By falsely equating expertise with opinion, they create the illusion of debate, delaying action on climate change, public health, and social inequities while eroding trust in science. In this landscape, any opinion can masquerade as fact, undermining those who dedicate their lives to truth-seeking.PIXELS AND MYTHOLOGY SHAPE THE GEOGRAPHYThe erosion of truth infrastructures has accelerated with digital media, which both globalizes misinformation and reinforces localized silos of belief. This was evident during COVID-19, where false claims — such as vaccine microchips — spread widely but took deeper root in communities with preexisting distrust in institutions. While research confirms that misinformation spreads faster than facts, it’s still unclear if algorithmic amplification or deeper socio-political distrust are root causes.This ideological shift is strongest in Eastern Europe and parts of the U.S., where institutional distrust and digital subcultures fuel esoteric nationalism. Post-Soviet propaganda, economic instability, and geopolitical tensions have revived alternative knowledge systems in Russia, Poland, and the Balkans, from Slavic paganism to the return of the Vril myth, now fused with the Save Europe movement — a digital blend of racial mysticism, ethnic nostalgia, and reactionary politics.Above ☝️is a compilation of TikTok videos currently being pushed to my 21 year old son. They fuse ordinary, common, and recognizable pop culture imagery with Vril imagery (like UFO’s and stealth bombers) and esoteric racist nationalism, religious fundamentalism, and hyper-masculine mythologies. A similar trend appears in post-industrial and rural America, where economic decline, government distrust, and cultural divides sustain conspiratorial thinking, religious fundamentalism, and hyper-masculine mythologies. The alt-right manosphere mirrors Eastern Europe’s Vril revival, with figures like Zyzz and Bronze Age Pervert offering visions of lost strength. Both Vril and Save Europe frame empowerment as a return to ethnic or esoteric power (Vril) or militant resistance to diversity (Save Europe), turning myth into a tool of political radicalization.Climate change denial follows these localized patterns, where scientific consensus clashes with economic and cultural narratives. While misinformation spreads globally, belief adoption varies, shaped by economic hardship, institutional trust, and political identity.In coal regions like Appalachia and Poland, skepticism stems from economic survival, with climate policies seen as elitist attacks on jobs. In rural Australia, extreme weather fuels conspiracies about government overreach rather than shifting attitudes toward climate action. Meanwhile, in coastal Louisiana and the Netherlands, where climate impacts are immediate and undeniable, denial is rarer, though myths persist, often deflecting blame from human causes.Just as Vril revivalism, Save Europe, and the MAGA manosphere thrive on post-industrial uncertainty, climate misinformation can also flourish in economically vulnerable regions. Digital platforms fuel a worldview skewed, where scrolling myths and beliefs are spatially glued — a twisted take on 'think globally, act locally,' where fantasy folklore becomes fervent ideology.FINDING TRUTH WITH FRACTURED FACTS…AND FRIENDSThe post-truth era has reshaped how we think about knowledge. The challenge isn’t just misinformation but growing distrust in expertise, institutions, and shared reality. In classrooms and research, traditional ways of proving truth often fail when personal belief outweighs evidence. Scholars and educators now seek new ways to communicate knowledge, moving beyond rigid certainty or radical relativism.Professor Legg has turned to the work of 19th-century American philosopher Charles Sanders Peirce, whose ideas about truth feel surprisingly relevant today. Peirce didn’t see truth as something fixed or final but as a process — something we work toward through questioning, testing, and refining our understanding over time.His approach, known as pragmatism, emphasizes collaborative inquiry, self-correction, and fallibilism — the idea that no belief is ever beyond revision. In a time when facts are constantly challenged, Peirce’s philosophy offers not just a theory of truth, but a process for rebuilding trust in knowledge itself.For those unfamiliar with Peirce and American pragmatism, a process that requires collaborating with truth deniers may seem not only unfun, but counterproductive. But research on deradicalization strategies suggests that confrontational debunking (a failed strategy Democrats continue to adhere to) often backfires. Lecturing skeptics only reinforces belief entrenchment.In the early 1700’s Britain was embroiled in the War of Spanish Succession. Political factions spread blatant falsehoods through partisan newspapers. It prompted Jonathan Swift, the author of Gulliver’s Travels, to observe in The Art of Political Lying (1710) that"Reasoning will never make a man correct an ill opinion, which by reasoning he never acquired."This is likely where we get the more familiar saying: you can't argue someone out of a belief they didn't reason themselves into. Swift’s critique of propaganda and public gullibility foreshadowed modern research on cognitive bias. People rarely abandon deeply held beliefs when confronted with facts.Traditionally, truth is seen as either objectively discoverable (classical empiricism) — like physics — or constructed by discourse and power (postmodernism) — like the Lost Cause myth, which recast the Confederacy as noble rather than pro-slavery. It should be noted that traditional truth also comes about by paying for it. Scientific funding from private sources often dictates which research is legitimized. As Legg observes,“Ironically, such epistemic assurance perhaps rendered educated folk in the modern era overly gullible to the written word as authority, and the resulting ‘fetishisation’ of texts in the education sector has arguably led to some of our current problems.”Peirce, however, offered a different path:truth is not a fixed thing, but an eventual process of consensus reached by a community of inquirers.It turns out open-ended dialogue that challenges inconsistencies within a belief system is shown to be a more effective strategy.This process requires time, scrutiny, and open dialogue. None of which are very popular these days! It should be no surprise that in today’s fractured knowledge-making landscape of passive acceptance of authority or unchecked personal belief, ideological silos reinforce institutional dogma or blatant misinformation. But Peirce’s ‘community of inquiry’ model suggests that truth can’t be lectured or bought but strengthened through collective reasoning and self-correction.Legg embraces this model because it directly addresses why knowledge crises emerge and how they can be countered. The digital age has resulted in a world where beliefs are reinforced within isolated networks rather than tested against broader inquiry. Trump or Musk can tweet fake news and it spreads to millions around the world instantaneously.During Trump’s 2016 campaign, false claims that Pope Francis endorsed him spread faster than legitimate news. Misinformation, revisionist history, and esoteric nationalism thrive in these unchecked spaces.Legg’s approach to critical thinking education follows Peirce’s philosophy of inquiry. She helps students see knowledge not as fixed truths but as a network of interwoven, evolving understandings — what Peirce called an epistemic cable made up of many small but interconnected fibers. Rather than viewing the flood of online information as overwhelming or deceptive, she encourages students to see it as a resource to be navigated with the right tools and the right intent.To make this practical, she introduces fact-checking strategies used by professionals, teaching students to ask three key questions when evaluating an online source:* Who is behind this information? (Identifying the author’s credibility and possible biases)* What is the evidence for their claims? (Assessing whether their argument is supported by verifiable facts)* What do other sources say about these claims? (Cross-referencing to see if the information holds up in a broader context)By practicing these habits, students learn to engage critically with digital content. It strengthens their ability to distinguish reliable knowledge from misinformation rather than simply memorizing facts. It also meets them where they are without judgement of whatever beliefs they may hold at the time of inquiry.If post-truth misinformation reflects a shift in how we construct knowledge, can we ever return to a shared trust in truth — or even a shared reality? As institutional trust erodes, fueled by academic relativism, digital misinformation, and ideological silos, myths like climate denial and Vril revivalism take hold where skepticism runs deep. Digital platforms don’t just spread misinformation; they shape belief systems, reinforcing global echo chambers.But is truth lost, or just contested? Peirce saw truth as a process, built through inquiry and self-correction. Legg extends this, arguing that fact-checking alone won’t solve post-truth; instead, we need a culture of questioning — where people test their own beliefs rather than being told what’s right or wrong.I won’t pretend to have the answer. You can tell by my bibliography that I’m a fan of classical empiricism. But I’m also a pragmatic interactionist who believes knowledge is refined through collaborative inquiry. I believe, as Legg does, that to move beyond post-truth isn’t about the impossible mission of defeating misinformation — it’s about making truth-seeking more compelling than belief. Maybe even fun.What do you think? 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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  20:49
• Manufactured Mayhem Muzzles the Masses

  Hello Interactors,Since his return to office, Trump hasn’t just taken power — he’s trying to reshape the landscape. From border crackdowns and sick real estate fantasies to federal purges by strongman stooges, his policies don’t just enforce control — they seek to redraw the lines of democracy itself.Strongmen don’t wait for crises — they create them. They attempt to manipulate institutions, geographies, and public trust until there’s so much confusion it makes anything they do to ease it acceptable. I dug into how authoritarianism thrives on instability and contemplate some ways to alter it.DEMAND DOMINATION THROUGH DOUBT AND DISORDER I was once a strongman, or at least I could summon one when needed. I could override the part of my brain that protects me from injury and tap into something primal — something that made me feel invincible. A surge of adrenaline convinced my brain I could not only hurl myself into another person but through them, painlessly.I played rugby. What I experienced is known as Berserker State, or berserkergang—a shift in brain activity and hormone surges that cause extreme arousal and altered perception. Rugby is a sport where people spend over an hour pretending they’re not hurt. That’s in contrast to soccer, where people spend over an hour pretending they are. 😬 But while rugby is violent, it’s not played with violent intent. Players may be tough, but they don’t seek to hurt each other — at least, not permanently.That’s in stark contrast to figures like Trump or the new FBI deputy director, Dan Bongino — men who cultivate a different kind of "strongman" identity. They like to wield aggression not as a tool for sport, but as a weapon against others. Bongino is a tough guy on steroids — literally, or at least he acts like it. His wide-eyed rage on his online show suggests a performance of strength, a constant need to assert dominance. But people like Trump and Bongino weren’t born this way; they were molded by insecurity, myths, and a long history of toxic masculinity.Psychologist Brian Lowery challenges the idea that identity is something stable and fixed. Instead, in his 2023 book, Selfless, he argues that identity is socially constructed—shaped by interactions, cultural narratives, and institutions. In times of stability, people feel secure in who they are. But when faced with economic instability, cultural shifts, or political crises, identity becomes fragile and unstable. Some people lash out. Some, like myself on the rugby field, may go berserk. Others — like Trump and Bongino — build their entire personas around control. In the end, it’s just bluster, bravado, because they behave like a jerk.Sociologist Zygmunt Bauman takes this argument further, showing how growing inequality and precarity drive people toward authoritarianism and fundamentalism. When the world feels chaotic, strongman leaders and rigid ideologies provide the comforting illusion of order and control — even if they fail to address the root problems. Bauman warns that these leaders scapegoat the vulnerable, suppress truth, and mystify the real causes of inequality — all while presenting themselves as the only force capable of restoring stability.But authoritarianism isn’t just about psychology — it’s also shaped by real-world conditions. Geographer Ruth Wilson Gilmore argues that authoritarian rule isn’t just about individual strongmen — it’s embedded in systems that use violence and spatial control to uphold racial and class hierarchies. Identity insecurity isn’t just a feeling; it’s a reaction to real structural forces like economic displacement, aggressive policing, and militarized borders. Strongman leaders don’t just exploit insecurity — they thrive where instability is built into everyday life.In 2020 Journalist Shane Burley examined how white nationalist groups tap into these anxieties, embedding themselves in mainstream politics by offering disaffected individuals a sense of belonging through authoritarian ideologies. The Alt-Right doesn’t just recruit based on political beliefs — it recruits based on a fear of displacement and loss. Authoritarianism isn’t just ideological; it emerges from instability, reinforced by systems of control like aggressive policing and restrictive immigration policies.Strongmen don’t just seize on fear — they stoke, sculpt, and steer it, spinning crises into control. Through media manipulation and crisis narratives, they mold public perception and then mandate obedience.SPINNING STRIFE INTO SUPREMACYOnce fear is felt — it can be harnessed. Political elites capitalize on uncertainty, framing crises in ways that make authoritarian measures seem necessary. Feldman & Stenner, political psychologists specializing in the study of authoritarianism and ideological behavior, argue that authoritarian attitudes intensify when people perceive instability, whether real or exaggerated. Their research highlights how threat perception — not just personal ideology — activates authoritarian tendencies, leading individuals to prioritize conformity, obedience, and strong leadership in times of social or political uncertainty. By defining threats and controlling the narrative, leaders turn uncertainty into urgency, making repression feel not only justified but necessary.Crisis narratives work because they reshape reality. Right-wing populists blame immigrants, global elites, and cultural change, painting national identity as under siege. Meanwhile, progressive authoritarian movements often frame reactionary forces, corporate elites, and slow-moving institutions as existential threats, demanding immediate, drastic action. Mikhail Bakunin, a 19th-century anarchist and revolutionary who was both a friend and fierce critic of Karl Marx, warned that revolutionary leaders who claim to act in the people’s name often end up seeking power for themselves. He accused Marx and Engels of designing a system where they, not the workers, would ultimately rule. In 1873 he wrote, “The Marxists maintain that only a dictatorship—their dictatorship, of course—can create the will of the people, while our answer to them is: No dictatorship can have any other aim but to perpetuate itself.” Both right and left-wing authoritarianism use fear to rally supporters, silence opposition, and create a sense of emergency where only their leadership can restore order.Media control plays a key role in reinforcing these crisis narratives. In 2019, it was exposed how Trump advisor Stephen Miller deliberately inserted white nationalist rhetoric into U.S. policy. He used far-right media to amplify unverified crime statistics and frame immigration as a civilizational threat. This wasn’t just ideological posturing — it was a calculated effort to embed fear into governance, making xenophobia a political weapon.But crisis narratives don’t just shape perception; they translate into policy. ICE raids and the Muslim ban turned entire communities into symbols of danger, reinforcing the idea that certain groups are inherent threats. Militarized borders, aggressive policing, and detention centers didn’t just enforce laws — they reinforced the notion that outsiders must be feared. The state stands as fear’s fierce enforcer, embedding oppression in order and power in place.This dual strategy — controlling the narrative and enforcing it through space — creates a self-reinforcing cycle. When people see more policing in "dangerous" areas, they assume the danger was real all along. When borders become militarized, they don’t just frame outsiders as threats — they enforce state power over Indigenous lands. The U.S. foundation stands on the reservation system, the suppression of the American Indian Movement, and the crackdown on Standing Rock from 1890 to 2016. This is how authoritarianism isn’t just imposed — it’s sustained. Fear becomes a governing principle, and governance becomes a system of control. Crises are never solved — only maligned, magnified, or momentarily managed.BREAKING THE CYCLE OF CRISIS AND CONTROLAuthoritarianism feeds on instability. It thrives in moments of crisis, when people feel insecure about their place in society, fearful of rapid change, and unsure of who to trust. As historian Alexandra Minna Stern shows in Proud Boys and the White Ethnostate, far-right groups have mainstreamed authoritarian rhetoric, repackaging extremism as populist conservatism and framing strongman rule as the only defense against societal collapse. But authoritarianism is not confined to one ideology. Different movements, across the political spectrum, use crisis narratives to justify coercion.Some frame threats as coming from the outside, while others see danger emerging from within. But the burden of these crisis narratives is not evenly distributed — the historically marginalized powerless pay the price when panic fuels policy.* Nationalist movements depict outsiders — immigrants, racial minorities, queer communities, and religious groups — as existential threats. Border militarization, mass surveillance, and authoritarian crackdowns are justified as necessary to preserve “national security” and maintain cultural homogeneity. These policies disproportionately harm those already marginalized. They deepen structural inequalities through exclusion, criminalization, and violence.* Radical movements on the left often focus on reactionary forces — corporations, conservative institutions, or privileged elites — as dangers to progress. While calls for justice are vital, ideological purity tests and coercion can sometimes alienate marginalized activists. People of color, queer individuals, and various other members the poor working class are forced to navigate rigid expectations. They’re not always accepted or embraced for their own lived experience and material struggles.While both reactionary nationalism and ideological rigidity can rely on crisis-driven politics to justify control, the scale, methods, and impact differ. Authoritarianism, in any form, thrives by exploiting social fractures — especially those along lines of race, class, and identity. Resisting this requires dismantling not just strongmen but the very conditions that allow these crisis narratives to justify exclusion and repression in the first place.Instead of centering political resistance around individual leaders, what if democratic societies addressed the root causes that make authoritarianism attractive or inevitable. That would require focusing on solutions that break the cycle of crisis-driven politics.We need pluralistic national identities that aren’t rooted in exclusionary fears.I can imagine a stable democracy that creates belonging without requiring an enemy. But too often, we’ve seen reactionary nationalism frame identity through exclusion —out-groups are viewed as threats to be feared. At the same time, skewed ideological purity tests along a spectrum of progressive movements can create new kinds of exclusion, pushing aside marginalized activists who don’t perfectly conform to rigid political expectations — a fate and flaw of America’s binary governmental system. What if, instead, national identity was rooted in civic participation, shared democratic values, and social trust? Imagine a society where people feel secure in their belonging — where they are less susceptible to politicians or movements that demand fear-based loyalty.The weakening of democratic institutions allows more authoritarianism to creep in under the guise of stability. Like DOGE. We’ve seen it happen elsewhere: courts stacked with political loyalists, journalists jailed or silenced, maps gerrymandered, or elections rigged under the pretense of "security." When institutions are compromised, strongmen don’t need to overthrow democracy outright with tanks in the streets and MAGA banners unfurled at the White House — they dismantle it from within. Hitler’s rise in 1933 didn’t begin with a coup but with the erosion of institutional checks — using crises like the Reichstag Fire to justify emergency powers, purging opposition, and bending the judiciary to his will. Strengthening judicial independence, free media, and election protections ensures that bad political actors — and their enablers — can’t weaponize fear to dismantle democratic norms.Economic insecurity is one of authoritarianism’s most powerful recruiting tools. When people can’t afford rent, healthcare, or basic necessities, the appeal of a leader who promises order — no matter the belief or the cost — grows stronger. But anyone who’s ever tried to grow a plant knows that real long term security for growth comes not from repression but from investment. Here are a few examples:* Denmark’s “flexicurity” model protects workers by ensuring job loss doesn’t mean desperation, balancing labor rights with economic adaptability.* Finland’s universal basic income pilot tested how direct financial support can reduce crisis-driven populism.* Portugal’s harm reduction approach to drug policy shows that community-driven safety programs reduce crime more effectively than militarized policing.We can’t afford to keep fighting authoritarianism after it takes hold — we must build a society where it has no room to grow. The best barrier to crisis-fueled control is building a world where crisis takes no toll. When fear isn’t fed and panic isn’t planned, strongmen lose their grip on the land.Rugby, like any sport, taught me that rules aren’t just constraints — they’re what make the game possible. Without them, it’s not a sport, just a free-for-all where the strongest dominate. But rules alone aren’t enough. The game works because players believe in them, because they trust that everyone is playing under the same conditions, that power has limits, and that fairness is enforced.Democracy isn’t so different. It’s not just laws or institutions that hold it together — it’s the shared belief that the system works well enough to be worth preserving. But what happens when people stop believing that? We can see what happens when people think (or know) the game is rigged, that the rules only serve the powerful, or that breaking them is the only way to win.That’s when authoritarianism thrives. It doesn’t rise because people love oppression — it rises because people fear disorder more than they fear control. When strongmen present themselves as the only ones who can restore stability, they’re assuming we’re willing to sacrifice a few freedoms along the way.The strongman’s power isn’t just enforced by words — it’s mapped onto other countries, cities, borders, and institutions. As Indigenous and Black resistance scholars reminds us, control isn’t only about who governs — it’s about who is allowed to move, who is confined, and whose communities are turned into sites of surveillance and fear. When authoritarian leaders redraw the boundaries of belonging, they don’t just control laws; they control the ground people stand on.So, the real question isn’t just how to resist authoritarianism. It’s how to ensure people don’t give up on the game altogether. How do we build a society where order doesn’t require coercion, and freedom doesn’t lead to chaos?There’s obviously no single answer, but maybe it starts with refusing to let fear dictate our choices. Democracy shouldn't be about choosing between control and collapse — it should be about maintaining the fragile, necessary balance between them. And that balance isn’t automatic. It’s something we have to constantly prminnotect, defend, and — when needed — rebuild, brick by brick, border by border, rule by rule…without being a jerk or going berserk. 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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  23:13
• Where You Stand Shapes Where You Stand

  Hello Interactors,The land on which we stand can demand where we politically stand. But what happens when that land shifts, shakes, burns or blows away? Recent Southern U.S. floods displaced thousands. Disasters don’t just destroy — they can redraw political lines. With second round of Trumpster fires deepening divides, geography and ideology matter more than ever. As climate crises, economic upheaval, and political struggles intensify, the question isn’t just where people live — but what they’ll fight for. History shows that when the ground shifts, so does power.SHIFTING LANDS AND LOYALTIESFrom fertile fields to frenzied financial hubs, geography molds the mindset of the masses. Where people live shapes what they fear, fight for, and find familiar. Farmers in the Great Plains worry about wheat yields and water rights, while coastal city dwellers debate rent control and rising tides.But political geography isn’t just about climate and crops — it’s about power, privilege, and the collective making of place. No space is neutral; as evidenced by the abrupt renaming of an entire gulf. History and the present are filled with examples of territories being carved and controlled, gerrymandered, and gentrified.The recent floods in the South serve as a stark reminder of how geography has historically upended political identity. Especially during Black History Month. The Mississippi River Flood of 1927 was a devastating deluge that displaced thousands of Black sharecroppers, washing away not only homes but also old political loyalties. The Republican-controlled federal government, led by President Calvin Coolidge, took a hands-off approach, refusing to allocate federal aid and instead relying on Secretary of Commerce Herbert Hoover to coordinate relief efforts through the Red Cross.However, aid distribution was dominated by white Southern landowners, who withheld resources from Black communities. They forced many into quasi-forced labor camps under the guise of relief. Hoover, later touting his role in disaster response to win the 1928 presidency, was ultimately seen by many Black voters as complicit in their mistreatment. This failure accelerated Black voters’ gradual shift away from the Republican Party, a realignment that would deepen under FDR’s New Deal in the 1930s. The flood was not just a natural disaster — it was a political reckoning. Who received help and who was abandoned shaped party loyalties for generations to come.Yet, history proves that political realignments are rarely one-sided or uniform. While Black voters were shifting toward the Democratic Party, another Southern political identity crisis was brewing. Southern white conservatives — longtime Democrats due to the party’s historical ties to segregation — began their own political migration in the mid-to-late 20th century.The Civil Rights Movement and desegregation led many white Southerners to feel alienated from the Democratic Party, pushing them toward what was once unthinkable — the Republican Party. This shift cemented a racialized realignment, with Black voters backing Democrats and Southern white conservatives reshaping the GOP into today’s right-wing stronghold.Both political shifts were responses to crisis — one to environmental disaster and racial exclusion, the other to social change and perceived status loss. The fact that geography remained constant but political identities flipped highlights a crucial truth: where people live matters, but how they respond to change depends on identity, history, and power.The political path of any place isn’t just shaped by its space — it’s who claims the land, who crafts the law, and who casts a crisis as chaos or cause.SORTED, SEPARATED, AND STUCKGeography shapes political identity but doesn’t dictate it. Human agency, economics, and psychology influence where people live and how they vote. Over time, self-sorting creates ideological enclaves, deepening polarization instead of fostering realignment.Psychologists Henri Tajfel and John Turner’s Social Identity Theory explains why people align with in-groups and see out-groups as threats, as identity shapes self-esteem and belonging. This leads to in-group favoritism, out-group bias, and polarization, especially when power or resources feel like a zero-sum game.But Optimal Distinctiveness Theory (ODT) adds another layer to this understanding. Developed by Marilynn Brewer, building on Social Identity Theory, ODT proposes that people need to feel a sense of belonging to a group while also maintaining individuality within it. This balancing act between assimilation and uniqueness explains why political identities are not just about partisanship — they encompass culture, lifestyle, and even geography. Individuals self-sort both by community and distinction within their chosen political and social environments.Modern political sorting has made partisanship an all-encompassing identity. It aligns with race, religion, and even consumer habits. This process has been amplified by geography, as people increasingly move to communities where they feel they “fit in” while also distinguishing themselves within their political faction. ODT helps explain why urban progressives might distinguish themselves through niche ideological positions (e.g., Socialists in Brooklyn vs. Tech libertarians in San Francisco), while rural conservatives in swing states may lean into Christian nationalism or libertarianism (e.g. Christian nationalists in rural Pennsylvania vs. Tea Party libertarians in rural Wisconsin).American political power is unevenly distributed. The Senate majority can be won with just 17% of the population, and the Electoral College inflates rural influence. The 10 smallest states hold 3% of the population but 20% of Senate seats and 6% of electoral votes. This imbalance amplifies rural conservative power, giving certain regions outsized political sway.ODT also helps explain why political polarization has deepened over time rather than softened with economic shifts. Historically, political realignments occurred when crisis moments forced cross-cutting alliances — like when poor white and Black farmers joined forces during the Populist Movement of the 1890s to challenge banking and railroad monopolies.However, these coalitions often fell apart due to racial and regional pressures. The Populist Party was ultimately absorbed into the Democratic Party’s white Southern wing, leaving Black farmers politically stranded. They still are. Around 1890 Black farmers made up an estimated 14% of farmers in America, now it’s fewer than 2% due to racist lending practices, discriminatory federal policies, land dispossession, and systemic barriers to credit and resources.Today, realignments are rare because identity-based partisanship satisfies both belonging and distinctiveness (ODT). Rural conservatives see themselves not just as Republicans but as defenders of a distinct way of life, reinforcing identity through regional pride, gun rights, and religion. Urban liberals, meanwhile, develop sub-identities — progressives, moderates, democratic socialists — within the broader Democratic Party. This illusion of uniformity masks deep internal ideological divides.This sorting shapes where people live, what they watch, and which policies they support. The false consensus effect deepens political silos, as rural conservatives and urban progressives assume their views are widely shared. When elections defy expectations, the result is shock, anger, and further retreat into ideological camps.This explains why U.S. political alignments resist economic and geographic shifts that once drove realignments. Where hardship once built coalitions, modern partisanship acts as a psychological refuge. The question is whether climate change, automation, or mass migration will disrupt these patterns — or cement them. Will today’s anxieties redraw party lines, or will political sorting persist, turning geography into a fortress for the familiar, deepening division and partisan pride?FROM REALITY TV TO ALTERNATE REALITYIf geography and identity sketch borders of polarization, then media is the Sharpie darkening the divide. The digital age hardens these political divides, where confirmation bias runs rampant and algorithms push people to one side of the ideological line or the other.In a recent interview, political psychologist and polarization expert Liliana Hall Mason, known for her research on identity-based partisanship and rising affective polarization, recalled a 2012 TiVO study that analyzed TV viewing habits of Democrats and Republicans. The study found that among the top 10 most-watched TV shows for each party, there was zero overlap — Democrats and Republicans were consuming completely separate entertainment. Cultural, and presumably geographical, divergence was already well underway in the 2010s.Republicans favored shows like Duck Dynasty while Democrats gravitated toward satirical cartoons like Family Guy​. While it predates TiVO, I was more of a King of Hill fan, myself. I thought Hank Hill humanized conservative rural life without glorifying extremism while critiquing aspects of modernity without being elitist. Hulu has announced its return sometime this year. But Republicans and Democrats today don’t even consume the same reality — they don’t watch the same news, follow the same influencers, trust the same institutions, or even shop at the same grocery stores. Will both tune into watch Hank Hill walk the tight rope of a pluralistic suburban American existence?This media-driven fragmentation fuels geographic sorting, as political preferences influence where people choose to live. A person might leave a liberal city for a conservative suburb, or vice versa, based on what media tells them about their “kind of people.” Over time, partisan enclaves harden, reducing exposure to opposing viewpoints and making political shifts less likely.When political identities are so deeply entrenched that losing an election feels like an existential crisis, the risk of political violence rises. Mason’s research on rising authoritarian attitudes and partisan animosity shows that political opponents aren’t just seen as rivals anymore — they’re seen as enemies.January 6th, 2021, wasn’t an anomaly — it was the inevitable explosion of years of identity-based sorting and status-threat rhetoric. The rioters who stormed the Capitol weren’t just protesting an election loss; they saw themselves as defenders of a nation slipping from their grasp, fueled by a deep-seated fear of demographic change, progressive policies, and shifting cultural power.Studies show that people who feel their group is losing influence are more likely to justify violence, particularly when they perceive existential threats to their way of life. Right-wing media reinforced these fears, political leaders legitimized them, and geographic and social sorting further entrenched them. In an era where partisan identity feels like destiny, and grievance is turned into a rallying cry, the potential for future political violence remains dangerously real.History teaches us that political geography isn’t destiny — alignments shift when necessity forces cooperation. As the world faces climate crises, economic instability, and mass migration, new political realignments will emerge. The question is whether they will lead to solidarity or further strife.At the end of the Mason interview, she mentions the role anger and enthusiasm play in political motivations. This concept is part of the Norwegian philosopher and social theorist, Jon Elster, who is best known for his work on rational choice theory, emotions in politics, and historical institutionalism. He has written extensively on how emotions like anger, enthusiasm, resentment, and hope shape political behavior and social movements, especially in historical contexts like the French Revolution and modern populist movements.Anger mobilizes movements, making people willing to fight for change or push back against it. The Populist farmers of the 1890s, the labor activists of apartheid South Africa, and the displaced communities of Partition-era India all channeled rage into resistance. At the same time, enthusiasm — a belief in the possibility of transformation — is what sustains coalitions beyond crisis moments. The formation of the EU, the Good Friday Agreement in Northern Ireland, and Brazil’s leftist labor movement all survived because hope outlasted grievance.Political movements often begin with anger, but only survive through enthusiasm. This is why some burn out quickly (Occupy Wall Street, the Tea Party) while others reshape history (the Civil Rights Movement, Brexit, Trump’s populism). Looking ahead, the political geography of the future will be shaped by whichever emotion proves stronger. Will fear and resentment deepen polarization, or will shared enthusiasm for economic justice, environmental sustainability, and democratic resilience create new cross-cutting alliances? The past suggests both are possible. But if history has one lesson, it’s that the lines on the map are never as fixed as they seem — and neither are the people who live within them.Bibliography 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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  18:59
• 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

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