Tiled With Pentagons

(Epistemic status: A vital question people don't seem to have asked themselves. A thought experiment run in public, though the credences are soft enough to spread on toast and the butter is closer to butterfly. Roughly a third of me suspects the central question below is malformed; that mass is doing honest work in every paragraph, and I won't pretend otherwise. Published while I'm at a conference: if you have errata, quibbles, or improvements for me, bring them.) Suppose you woke up tomorrow to find, there on your desk, an elegant but battered tome: a three-hundred-page brick titled "A Theory of Agent Foundations". Suppose it fell out of the sky: the perfect solution to correctly paradigmatize agent foundations.  What an agent is; what a goal is; what values are, and what human values are and should be; how to detect all of those; measure them; taxonomize and typify and employ them. Suppose all of that were simply there, neither requiring or offering any explan...

(Epistemic status: Believe in the me that believes in you, you had the power within you the whole time, the real treasure is the meals you made along the way, etc etc. For everyone who's ever claimed they can't cook while holding a sandwich they made, and everyone whose life would be improved by a move away from girldinner and boyslop and gender-inclusive Huel.)    Learned helplessness is a strange thing. Have you ever met someone who didn't even realize that they were lying to you, who claimed incapacity in one breath and in the next, undercut their own statement with an object-level display of competence? Possibly you've overheard someone singing serviceable counterpoint with their shower speaker and then, clad in terrycloth and embarrassment, express hope that they didn't bother you with their awful singing voice; or sat patiently tutoring someone who claimed they can't code or do math and then, as you return from getting a glass of water, quickly tab away fr...

(With thanks to JM, who kicked off this discussion on the summer solstice, and some apologies to MC-M.)     This is a picture of an oak tree, or at least it would be if the artist, MC-M, weren't a coward. In 1973, he created one of the foundational pieces of conceptual art:  an oak tree. Not a picture of an oak tree, but an oak tree. It consists of metal brackets, a glass shelf, a glass of water, and the ineffable act of having transformed a glass of water into an oak tree. "How long will it continue to be an oak tree?" an interviewer once asked him. "Until I change it," he replied. Tread carefully before you reject the whole premise as nonsense. I ask: would you be just as pleased to march into your nearest cathedral one fine Sunday morning, stroll down the aisle as the choir boys sing Mass, and unceremoniously knock the wafers and wine out of the bishop's hands as bullshit? If you'll bite that bullet, that transubstantiation is actually completely fake...

There is a place in Brooklyn, in New York State just outside Manhattan; a little plot of land deep in a Jewish neighborhood.  I know it, because a piece of me is buried there; a piece that existed long before I was born. There is a bit of mythology in my family, you see: I share most of my name with my great-grandfather - the one in my direct paternal line, the Jewish side of my family. Because I resemble him so closely in temperament - an aesthete, an epicure, an ideologue, a traveller, a polyglot - the story goes that I am his reincarnation, giving this whole "living" thing a second crack. I've traded an MD in internal medicine for a PhD in math, and I can't enjoy pistachio ice cream anymore, but I'm in better health and don't have to contend with a world war. So once a decade, I join my father in a visit to the buried part of me whose nameplate I share and thus inherited, right down to the "Dr.".   I visited it on a fine Saturday much like this on...

(More prescriptive than my usual. With thanks to N and JM among others; the cultural victory must continue and intensify; thanks as well to those friends who are willing to humor me.) Kissing is overrated and I don't really understand why people like and value it so much. Who, exactly, decided that the best way to show affection for someone was to put one of the dirtiest parts of your body on them without particularly asking and without even causing much of a sensation in the process? Kissing isn't a human universal, either - only about half of all human cultures on Earth treat lip contact as romantic or affectionate as the Indo-European world does. From the Maori of New Zealand to the rest of Polynesia, parts of Southeast Asia, and the Inuit cultures of the Arctic (who, delightfully, call it a "kunik" - a term I might well steal for it), sharing breath is the order of the day; nuzzling faces against each other and pressing noses together to share breath is the deepes...

(Epistemic status: A hill I'll happily die on, but also will own as the kind of subjective hot take where my own taste is load-bearing for its validity. For everyone with a sweet tooth I've split a bottle of something nice with, and everyone embarrassed of liking fruity drinks.) How can you tell an eternal aesthetic truth from the vagaries of fashion and signaling? One of them holds up under comparative historical analysis, and the other has a start date. Alcoholic drinks - especially wine - have been getting drier for the last century, and prestige taste has shamed us into calling this progress. It's not: it's fashion masquerading as quality, and the slightest bit of modern archaeology wears that facade away like cheap  gold plating from copper. And just as with such faked gold, to be beholden to modern fashions is to spend more money than you should spend on less enjoyment than you might secure.   In 1916,  a Swedish schooner named  the Jönköping was transporting a...

(Epistemic status: project idea that I am reasonably confident is actually achievable. Feedback, independent experimentation with shared results, and especially alpha-testers all decidedly welcome. There's someone who this post would have been for, in a brighter kinder universe, but this is not that possible world and he will never read this. It's not for him and he will never get to eat anything I make. So it's for MEG, IL, and TT instead, and all my other friends who appreciate good experimental desserts. And also the Philly Pies. Go birds; eat your batteries; third championship fornever.)    I can't remember quite when I first came up with this idea. Maybe it was after reading up on the Tree of 40 Fruits pictured above. Maybe it was after reading that passage about kitchen trees producing different kind of snackable fruit year-round in Too Like The Lightning. Maybe the seed of it was planted in me while wandering through a farmer's market one afternoon.  I had a ...