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“I want you to try something for a second. Like, right now, just look around the room you're in. Yeah, take a second to actually look at the space. Look at the distance between you and the wall, the depth of the space, the solid object sitting on your desk.”From the transcript
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ÆON imminent 🧬 🌀 — Bubblehead. Machine-transcribed; use the interactive transcript above to jump the player to any line.
I want you to try something for a second. Like, right now, just look around the room you're in. Yeah, take a second to actually look at the space. Exactly. Look at the distance between you and the wall, the depth of the space, the solid object sitting on your desk. Now, what if I told you that absolutely everything you are seeing, hearing, and touching at this exact moment is not out there at all? Right, it's not external. It's not. What if the entire physical universe you think you're interacting with is actually trapped inside a finite, brilliantly rendered bubble, sitting squarely inside your own skull? It is a deeply unsettling thought, honestly. I mean, the idea that you have never once directly seen the outside world. Never once. Yeah. It requires a complete dismantling of how we experience our own lives. Well, we are going to test the absolute limits of that idea today.
Welcome to the deep dive. Glad to be here. Our source material for this one is, frankly, a truly fascinating YouTube interview from the channel, CubeFlipper. It features Steven Lahar, who is a phenomenologist and vision researcher. A really brilliant guy. Yeah, and our mission today is to unpack Lahar's radical theories on human subjective experience, right? We want to break down how our brains might actually be constructing reality and explore why traditional neuroscience might be looking in completely the wrong place. Totally. Plus, we'll get into what altered states of consciousness can actually reveal about the rendering engine of our minds. Because here's where it gets really interesting. Right. And to set the table here, while this sounds like pure philosophical using, it's not. No, not at all. It is a deeply technical inquiry into the physical mechanics of perception. Like, Lahar is fundamentally rejecting something called naïve realism. Which is just the default assumption we all have, right? Exactly. The default human assumption that the world we see is the actual objective world.
He argues that clinging to this assumption has basically stalled our entire scientific understanding of the brain's mechanics. And he was obsessed with this stuff early on, like visual anomalies. As a kid, he'd trace crepuscular rays. Those beams of sunlight breaking through the clouds. Yeah, those. He'd trace them backward to a sun that appeared to be hovering, like, right above the atmosphere rather than millions of miles away. Or he'd slowly bring two fingers together and just study that weird optical blob that suddenly connects them just before they physically touch. Oh, yeah. That specific optical blob is a great example of a mechanical glitch in the system. Right. It's called optical diffraction. In physics, it's simply the physical bending of light waves around an obstacle. So in this case, the edges of the fingers makes sense. Yeah, which creates a tiny interference pattern before the objects actually meet. But to a child who obviously does know the physics of light, it looks like a profound error in the fabric of reality, like a glitch in the matrix.
Exactly. And that early hyperawareness of the visual system's quirks eventually led him into the early days of computer science and image processing where he was writing algorithms, right? Yeah, trying to get primitive computers to recognize basic shapes in a digital image. Which turned out to be a notoriously brutal computational problem. I mean, he's struggling to get a massive room-sized machine to just recognize a static square. A simple square. Right. And meanwhile, he's watching a tiny house fly. Uh, the house fly problem. Yes. A creature with a microscopic pin point of a brain. And it's effortlessly navigating through dappled sunlight and gusty crosswinds. The fly is instantaneously solving the three-dimensional vision problem without hitting a single branch. Right. And the mechanical difference between the computer and the fly is the core issue here. Digital computers suffer from what we call a combinatorial explosion. Okay, what does that mean in this context? So if you want a digital-turing machine to recognize a shape in a grid of pixels, it
has to calculate every pixel's relationship to every other pixel. Oh, wow. So it's just math. Just endless math. Checking every possible angle and edge step-by-step. It requires millions of calculations for one frame. The fly is clearly not crunching digital, true, or false code. No, it can't be. Right. It is using an entirely different physical mechanism to process the visual field all at once. But when Lahar looked at how a traditional neuroscience was trying to solve this house fly problem, he realized they were falling into the exact same digital trap. They really were. Specifically, if you look at the Nobel Prize-winning work of Hubel and Weasel. Right. So single-cell recordings in animal brains to show that the visual field is broken down by tiny local feature detectors. So wonder on fires when it detects a vertical edge and other fires for a horizontal edge, another for like a specific contrast. Okay, let's unpack this for a second because it's like taking a Lego set apart to understand what it is, but forgetting that the magic is entirely in how the pieces actually fit
together. That's a perfect analogy. Because if the brain is just breaking the image down into millions of fragmented edge detectors, who is putting the Lego set back together? Where does it all recombine into the unified seamless picture you and I actually experience? Well, neuroscience, that missing recombination point was historically called the endgram. The endgram. Yeah. The theoretical, single, physical spot in the brain where all this fragmented information is finally unified into a coherent picture. Like a biological computer monitor. Exactly. It researchers in the mid-20th century, like Carl Ashley, literally tried to find it by selectively cutting away different parts of animal brains. Wow. Yeah. The mechanical assumption was that if you slice away the neurological picture screen, the animal loses its memory or perception of a specific shape. But let me guess they couldn't find the screen. They couldn't find it. The animals retained fragmented memories and whole perceptions, regardless of what specific tissue was removed.
Which implies the picture isn't localized in one specific spot at all. The entire premise of searching for this monitor in the brain was flawed. Completely flawed. And this leads us to the concept of distributed representation. Okay. The best mechanical analogy here is a hologram. A scientist named Paul Peach actually wrote a book called Shuffle Brain Exploring This. The way a holographic plate physically stores an image is totally different from a digital photograph. How so? In a digital photo, a pixel on the left side of the file only contains the left side of the image. But a hologram records the entire interference pattern of light across the whole medium. All right. So if you break a holographic plate showing an apple in half, you don't get half an apple. You get a whole apple. You get a whole slightly fuzzier apple in both halves. That is wild. Yeah. Every fragment contains the entire scene. Leihar realized traditional neuroscience was staring at the fragmented feature detectors
and entirely ignoring the holographic nature of the experience itself. So if traditional science couldn't explain the mechanics of this unified holographic hole, it makes sense that Lahar would start looking at what happens when the visual system misbehaves, right? Absolutely. He turned to altered states of consciousness, specifically LSD, to observe the rendering engine pushed to its absolute limits. Yeah, it was a deliberate method for him to observe the boundaries and the mechanical failures of the system. In his observations during those states were wild. He describes wandering around Boston by the river on LSD and noticing this massive geometric shift in his perception. As he walked down the street, the entire world seemed to grow out of a funnel right in front of him, expanding into a sphere around his body. And if he looked back, it contracted down to a single point behind him, which is such a vivid description. It is. He realized that his entire world of experience was fundamentally trapped inside this spherical finite screen. And that realization really forms the bedrock of what he calls the grand illusion.
The grand illusion. Yeah. He had another major breakthrough during a hike in a place called Meda Bell with his friend Peter. They're standing there looking out over this unimaginably vast sprawling valley. And Peter just jokes. Is that scenery way out there or is it way way out there? Right. They laughed, but Lahar realized his friend had hit on the exact geographical problem of consciousness. Because the scenery wasn't infinitely far away. It was literally a few inches behind their eyes. So what does this all mean? It's like we are basically wearing a biological VR headset from birth. And we've mistaken the internal screen sitting in intramarise for the actual physical universe. That is exactly it. And it requires a massive psychological shift to accept this. I bet. We construct a miniature three dimensional diorama inside our heads. The mechanics of it are fascinating because infinity, like the farthest stars or the horizon line, that infinity is mathematically mapped to the inside finite surface of your physical
skull. That's incredible. The real, unimaginably vast physical universe is out there. But you are hermetically sealed away from it. You only ever interact with the internal replica. It makes you question every single thing you touch. I mean, you're not touching the table. You're touching your brain's representation of the table. Right. It forces you to abandon naive realism entirely. And this changes how we understand the function of psychedelics or even just high doses of alcohol. Because people usually think of those as like expanding your mind, right? Exactly. People often assume these substances lift a veil and give you a magical, mystical view into true reality. But Leihar argues the exact opposite mechanically. Okay. So what are they doing? They don't show you the real world. They show you the rendering errors of the diorama. They expose the cracks and seams of the internal facade. Oh, wow. It's like sitting in a theater, right? Totally engrossed in a play and suddenly a lighting rig fails.
You realize the moon in the sky isn't a celestial body. It's just painted canvas hanging a few feet above the stage. The illusion breaks. But wait, if we are living inside this neurological VR headset, the obvious question is, what is the biological graphics card rendering this 3D diorama? That is the million dollar question. Because if it's not a digital touring machine flipping ones and zeros and there's no single N-gram pixel screen in the cortex, how is the physical tissue of the brain computing all this space and depth? Well, this is where Leihar introduces his theory of harmonic resonance. Okay. To understand it, we have to stop looking at brain tissue as the actual content of our thoughts. The physical neurons are not the picture. Right. The source material uses a TV screen analogy that clears this up beautifully. The glass and the physical pixels of a television monitor are completely stable. They just sit in your living room and don't move.
Exactly. But the experience, the car chase or the news broadcast, is the dynamic dancing energy moving across that stable screen. Yes. The true content of your subjective experience isn't the gray matter itself. It's the dynamic electrical waves moving through the medium of that gray matter. And modern neuroscience actually supports this analog wave model, right? It does. The interview highlights the work of Earl Miller at MIT, who uses multi-electrode arrays. When researchers zoom out from single cell recordings and look at the broader network, they see massive unifying wave-like patterns sweeping across the entire brain. So the brain computes using waves, not discrete digital logic. Exactly. Leihar actually spent a whole summer devouring a dense textbook on nonlinear optics by a physicist named Boyd, just to understand how this works mechanically. Which is no small feat. No. And he realized that waves in the brain don't just act like ripples on a pond that pass right through each other in a linear medium.
Brain tissue is a highly excitable nonlinear medium. Right. Under the right conditions, these waves collide. They couple together. They create massive standing waves. And they even reflect off one another as if they had hit a solid physical object. Which is crucial because mechanically, that solves some of the most difficult computational problems in vision. Like what? Well, let's look at binocular depth perception. How do you merge the flat image from your left eye and the flat image from your right eye to know exactly how far away a coffee cup is in 3D space? We talked about the combinatorial explosion earlier. If a digital computer tries to calculate that pixel by pixel, calculating every possible geometric angle to find the depth, it requires massive, exhausting computing power. But Leihar's facial computation model bypasses all of that. What if you simply project the visual wave from the left eye and the visual wave from the right eye into the three-dimensional spatial medium of the brain? OK. Because of the physics of waves, where those two waves intersect in that 3D medium, they
cause constructive interference. They physically spike in amplitude at that exact coordinate. So it just naturally maps it. Exactly. The depth plane is calculated instantaneously, not by digital math. It's simply by letting waves naturally collide in space. It's analog spatial computation. But wait, so if the individual neurons aren't the actual picture, but just the biological medium for these waves to travel through, how do they generate this incredibly detailed emotional symphony of everyday experience? Leihar deploys a brilliant analogy to explain the generation of the experience, the trumpet. The trumpet. Yeah. So into a trumpet, you might intuitively think the sound is being produced locally, right at your lips. But your lips are merely energizing the system. OK, I follow. Every sputter from your lips sends a physical pulse of air down the brass tube, it hits the bell, reflects backward, and triggers the exact timing of the next vibration of your lips. Oh, wow.
The sound you hear isn't localized to the mouthpiece. The sound is a harmonic resonance defined by the entire physical cavity of the instrument, singing everywhere inside the brass, all at once. The whole trumpet is singing. Yes. The brain computes by singing together. The electrical waves resonate back and forth across the physical architecture of the brain, bouncing and reflecting until they settle into a unified harmonic chord. And that chord is the stable 3D diorama you are experiencing right now. Exactly. Man, if the brain is essentially a wave resonance engine, it makes you wonder what happens when you start hacking the frequency. Like, can you alter the refresh rate or the tuning of those waves? You definitely can. And it produces some profoundly bizarre mechanical side effects. Yeah, the interview dives into Lahar's experiences with different chemical catalysts that alter those waves. He talks about these communal LSD trips used to take as a young PhD student up at a cottage in Middleton.
They'd sit around deeply intoxicated and something would emerge that he called group thought. Group thought? Yeah, someone would try to suggest making dinner, but their individual brain was so completely befuddled, they could only get out three or four words. But then someone else would seamlessly pick up the thread, add a few words and pass it on. Individually, they were entirely disjointed, but collectively they functioned as a hive mind, cooking food and holding coherent conversations. It's a fascinating sociological observation that maps perfectly onto the resonance model. So if it's all waves, does that mean our brains are basically just broad-cut? Like casting radio signals to each other during that group thought experiment like telepathy? Not quite broadcasting external radio signals through the air. It's more about synchronizing internal harmonic states through subtle external cues. Okay, so like reading the room. More profound than that. If human consciousness is a resonance phenomenon, it suggests that under highly sensitive conditions, you can synchronize your internal trumpet with the trumpets of the people around you.
Oh, I see. In body language, tone and shared context, you're essentially coupling your internal wave equations to create a larger, multi-person harmonic system. He also experimented with combining dissociatives like ketamine with psychedelics, which gives us a really great look at how these waves isolate and combine. Mechanically, a dissociative fundamentally isolates your sensory systems. It disconnects the visual wave from the somatosensory wave, which is the spatial representation of your body's physical feeling. You end up suspended in a dark, isolated mental space, where the waves can no longer phase lock. But when he added the psychedelic on top of the dissociative, it injected massive energy and color into that isolated visual wave. He described experiencing these rapid, free-wheeling hallucinations. Because the visual wave was untethered from the physical body wave. Exactly. He could control reality like a god.
He could be slightly cycling through scenes, but eventually the drugs would begin to wear off. And he described hearing a distinct Bing sound. A Bing. A Bing. And suddenly, the fragmented puzzle pieces of his normal reality would instantaneously snap back together into a coherent room. That Bing sound and the subsequent snap is the physical mechanism of phase locking. If the auditory representation of the visual wave and the somatosensory wave, finally finding their shared frequency again and locking back into a stable phase. Like tuning an instrument. Very much so. Much like two swinging pendulums on a wall, eventually sinking up to swing together. Our normal waking state is just all of these independent sensory waves lock together in a very specific, stable phase. If our waking state is just independent sensory waves locking into phase, there must be moments where we can actually perceive that phase locking process happening in real time, right? Did Leihar ever observe the engine at work?
He did actually in a phenomenon he called the crickets. Audio engineers refer to the mechanical sound as flanging. So Leihar is coming down from a deep LSD trip, right? Staring at the tufts of a carpet. And he starts hearing crickets in the background. But he quickly realizes the cyclic chirping of the crickets is perfectly synchronized with the carpet, visually flashing in his vision. He isn't hearing real bugs. He is hearing the internal sound of his own visual system painting the 3D space of the room. He is literally listening to his visual cortex refreshing. That is insane. Because the waves were slightly out of normal phase, he can actually hear the cycle scanning from the center of his vision out to the corners, painting the three-dimensional visual experience in space through time. So that's the flanging sound. Yeah, flanging is a sweeping, echoing cyclic sound that happens when two identical audio signals are played together, but one is delayed by a tiny changing amount. He was literally hearing the refresh rate of his own diorama.
Which leads him to a really bold mechanical claim. That synesthesia, where people hear colors or taste shapes, isn't a rare neurological disorder. Synesthesia is the absolute baseline of human experience. Because of all senses are just different expressions of wave resonance inside the same physical medium. They all share the exact same underlying language. A wave is a wave, whether it's processing light or processing sound. So if you are listening to this deep dive on headphones right now, pay attention to the space the sound seems to occupy. Your brain is taking a flat digital stereo file and mapping it into an analog three-dimensional location inside your head. You are doing wave-based spatial computation right the second. Everyone is a synestheten at regard. They heart-points out that we all naturally translate across senses. Bank buildings are historically built with heavy stone and massive geometric pillars to look visually solid and reliable. Or how in a movie, a tense scene is always paired with a specific staccato musical rhythm.
Right, no one has to teach you that. Exactly. No one has to teach you that the audio rhythm matches the visual tension. Your brain intuitively maps the auditory wave equation directly onto the visual wave equation. It's a universal language. Okay, I understand how a fast musical rhythm maps to a fast visual cut. But how does this wave model explain aesthetics? Why does looking at a jagged sharp square feel fundamentally emotionally different from looking at a smooth flowing circle? To answer that, we have to look at the mechanics of what psychologists call valence. Valence. Yeah, the inherent pleasantness or unpleasantness of an experience. Leihar Leans on Gestalt Psychology to explain this mechanically. Think of the famous psychological test called the boobah kiki effect. Oh, I've heard of this. Yeah. If I show you a jagged, spiky star shape in a soft rounded cloud shape and tell you one is named booba and one is named kiki, everyone says the spiky one is kiki. Almost universally across all cultures. People say the spiky one is kiki and the soft one is booba.
The spiky shape just feels like a kiki, but why? It's about how the external geometry of the object interacts with the internal resonant standing waves in your brain. A smooth symmetrical shape creates a clean, easily sustained harmonic resonance within the physical tissue. Oh, wow. It physically feels pleasant to compute because the waves align. Fractals, patterns that repeat it smaller and smaller scales like a fern leaf or a snowflake, they are deeply satisfying to us because they provide a rich nested symmetry that perfectly harmonizes with our brain's natural wave structures. It's like playing a perfectly tuned major chord on a piano versus just smashing your forearms onto the keys. That's exactly it. And to take that a step further, if a visual shape is too complex, sharply jagged or entirely random, it overwhelms the resonance. The computational waves crash into each other erratically creating destructive interference.
So it feels bad. You lose the hedonic pleasant component. So our appreciation of art or architecture or even just looking at a beautiful tree is quite literally our brain enjoying the harmonic music of its own wave processing. That fundamentally changes how you interact with your own senses. I mean, next time you walk outside, I want you to remember this, you aren't actually looking out at the trees and the sky. You are looking in. You are standing at the exact center of a masterfully rendered finite diorama painted dynamically by waves of electricity singing in harmony inside the dark theater of your own skull. That's beautiful. And if we pull back and look at the broader implications, this theory poses a massive challenge to where technology is heading right now. Oh, definitely. Specifically, the quest to build artificial general intelligence and the whole sci-fi concept of uploading human consciousness to a computer. Because if LaHare is right about the mechanics of perception.
We are trying to build consciousness with the completely wrong tools, modern computers, and the artificial neural networks running on them are fundamentally touring machines. They operate on digital logic, discrete steps, true and false, ones and zeros. But if human subjective experience is an analog, continuous spatial computation reliant on physical wave resonance, a true Gestalt phenomenon, then you simply cannot upload a human mind to a digital microchip. The mechanics are just incompatible. Completely incompatible. It would be like trying to experience the emotional weight of a live symphony orchestra by like reading the binary code of the MP3 file out loud. Exactly. The digital file contains the raw data points, but it entirely lacks the physical resonance. It likes the music. Right. To recreate true human consciousness or to ever upload our minds, we don't just need a faster digital processor with more parameters. We would need to engineer an entirely new kind of analog architecture that functions like
a spatial cavity. Hello. As LaHare beautifully puts it at the end of the interview, we don't need a better calculator. We need to build a machine that knows how to sing and dance. A machine that sings and dances. Man. So, the next time you marvel at the vast infinite night sky, just remember, you're actually marveling at the incredible acoustics of your own mind. Thanks for joining us on the Steep Dive.
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