I realize this isn't exactly the right thread for sharing lyrics—and I know I should probably stick to the topic at hand—but certain lines just drifted into my head, and I felt I couldn't really help myself...
Lisa Ortiz2 said:So, please, tell me—are you allowed to do everything you love?
After years of intense mental training, I think I can finally offer a proper answer.
Let’s take a look at what young William Gonzalez3 learned and how he applies it today: I am not allowed to do everything I love, but I love everything I am allowed to do.
Here is a tiny excerpt from my autobiography, which—if all goes well—should be released next year. That unpleasant little episode taught me that I shouldn't do everything I love. So... BEAR BUCKO
Mother Bear named her youngest son Bucko. He was as round as a ball, and—to be honest—he was quite lazy. Every morning, Mother Bear would send him out into the woods to get him used to navigating the wilderness, though he really didn't care for it.
Eventually, however, he had to learn his lesson. One morning, Mother Bear took him on a long trek and left him alone in the forest. He had to find his way back entirely on his own. Suddenly, Bucko started crying so loudly that his mother, genuinely startled, rushed over to see what happened. "I can't do this anymore!" Bucko wailed, and Mother Bear immediately scooped him up in her arms. He was still so small then, yet—believe it or not—he was quite heavy. They made their way back, and just as they were nearing home, Mother Bear set him back down on the ground. It was only then, as she watched Bucko sprint the final stretch toward the house laughing, that she realized he had been playing a prank on her. "Don't you ever do that again!" the Bear exclaimed angrily, and from that day on, Bucko could cry as much as he wanted, but Mother Bear never picked him up again.
Communication is a struggle for everyone, I suppose.
But honestly, you can’t exactly learn how to swim while standing in the shallow end.
Sure, you might swallow a little water here and there when you're starting out—it happens—but there's always going to be a kind soul looking out for you. maybe someone like this:
mistyfox812 said:Mostly, I’ve realized that some of my questions were just phrased poorly...
Like, for example?
Was it the uncertainty regarding what happens to the soul after death? Does a soul even exist?
Is the soul a material thing or not? And what exactly constitutes something immaterial? Does such a thing actually exist?
If so, how? And where? Is everything truly measurable? How would one go about measuring infinity? Is infinity even a number—or is it more of a state of being? If something infinite exists, how can finite things exist alongside it? Is knowledge necessarily tied to concepts and language—or can we know something without having any way to name it (for instance, that unnamed thing, or that round object, or simply that thing I saw yesterday)? Would a person without language still possess consciousness? Do infants fail to form memories because they lack words—meaning they have neither consciousness nor a way to retain information—or is there some other reason entirely?
Or was it something else altogether that was weighing on you?
nobody and nothing said:There are still so many unanswered questions left hanging—so I figured maybe some kind of cross-disciplinary approach involving physics, biology, or even psychology might actually offer an answer...
but what about the actual answers?
Did you happen to find them within philosophy?
Or perhaps you just stopped looking altogether—is that why philosophy feels more like a way to prepare for whatever future might come our way?
What’s the actual connection between being a science major and having a passion for philosophy?
To give some context—I once had a professor who, while working through his degree, was essentially juggling physics, math, and philosophy all at once. I also know quite a few young philosophers out there who insist that mathematics and philosophy are practically sister sciences, or something along those lines.
But why is that?
Why does someone who wants to dive into philosophy feel the need to master math and geometry first—not to mention physics, which seems just as relevant?
(I have my own theories on this, of course, but I’d love to hear some specific perspectives.)
So, what was it that drew you toward philosophy in the first place?
I suppose you'll have to teach me a thing or two about philosophy first—after all, I definitely took a bit of a beating from my professor back in college.
but that doesn’t mean it wouldn't be pretty convenient.
I guess you'll come up with just about any excuse to avoid taking that next big step.
The girl is just sitting there at home—totally worked up—waiting for the phone to ring. She's far too proud to reach out first. And the professor? Nothing...
Who would have thought people in that age group could be so incredibly shy?
When I talk about utility, I’m really referring to the practical application of knowledge.
Utility... well, it stems from the verb "to use"—using one thing as a means to achieve something else.
Philosophy isn't "useful" in that sense, mostly because it doesn't apply itself to any external practical task. It doesn't have a purpose outside of itself. Rather, it is its own end. One of my favorite ways to look at this is through the lens of friendship. A friendship is only truly deep, honest, and real if it exists for its own sake.
If we decide to become someone's friend just to take advantage of them, then that relationship is inherently limited by that initial, selfish motive. It won't be sincere, and it certainly won't be deep—it will only last as long as the benefit remains, and once that usefulness vanishes, so does the friendship.
Of course, people derive benefits from friendship, just as they might from philosophy, but that benefit shouldn't be the primary reason we engage with a person or an idea. If it is, the connection becomes artificial and forced.
I apologize if my wording was a bit clumsy; I suspect that's likely what caused your confusion.
I didn't say that philosophy contains good and bad intentions. What I meant was—and this is important—that any intention whatsoever within philosophy is inherently flawed.
Philosophy is, at its core, a theoretical science.
The word "theory" actually stems from the Greek verb *theorein*, which essentially means pure, disinterested observation.
When you introduce an intention to a science that is supposed to be observing thought itself, you end up imposing constraints. And those constraints—well, they dictate the very scope of one's perspective. Eventually, the "house we are building" ends up conforming to those initial foundations—to that specific intention. In doing so, we lose sight of certain truths because our own eyes are effectively being framed by those limitations.
That is why any philosophy constructed with a preconceived agenda isn't truly "good," regardless of how logically sound it might seem or how strictly it follows the rules of the game.
My architect analogy is just that—an analogy. It’s imperfect, much like anyone who would use it.
The point is that philosophy does possess elements of a formal science.
It has its own dedicated field of study, its own specialized vocabulary, specific research methodologies, academic literature, and even established experts within this—let's call it—scientific discipline.
So, while anyone can offer observations, that doesn't mean everyone can claim to be a philosopher. That is really all I am trying to get across.
You mentioned earlier that anyone pursuing knowledge could be considered some kind of philosopher.
But I don't think that's quite right.
To me, it sounds a bit like saying anyone who picks up a hammer to build a house is an architect.
Sure, they’re building something, but only true architects can design structures that actually resemble real architecture—everyone else is just putting together little weekend cabins out in the suburbs.
It’s the same deal with philosophy.
There are certainly different types of philosophers, I suppose, but they are all tied together by their subject matter.
And the actual subject of philosophy is that part of existence that isn't practical or immediately applicable.
Once you've mastered the practical side of things, whatever is left over to study falls into the domain of philosophy.
The big, abstract questions—what time actually is and how we perceive it, the nature of space, what essence means, what being is, or even the essence of humanity itself...
I don't really need to know why any specific person decided to get into philosophy.
Their work tells you everything you need to know about their intentions. Usually, the branch of philosophy that gets dismissed most often—perhaps unfairly—is scholasticism. That's because the great minds behind scholasticism entered the field specifically intending to bend philosophy toward religious faith.
Because of that, those massive scholastic works are essentially attempts to reconcile the teachings of Plato or Aristotle with faith. And the result? Most of the time, they only stick to that one specific slice of philosophy, and that whole area ends up being labeled as merely a servant to faith. I guess that's just what happens when you approach philosophy with a pre-existing agenda.
I'd argue that philosophy is essentially a non-functional component of any science.
Think about it—an architect organizes physical space, whereas a philosopher spends their time questioning what "space" actually even is.
Philosophy attempts to study the whole picture. But, I suppose we can't truly grasp a non-functional part of the whole if we haven't first mastered the functional parts.
If nothing else, we need that distinction just to tell them apart.
In that sense, philosophy does involve studying the material world too. Even the earliest thinkers were known as natural philosophers.
They studied the physical world in an attempt to find universal truths within it—searching for prime causes and things of that nature.
Philosophy isn't really about craving any kind of knowledge.
It’s more of a hunger for the most useless information imaginable.
The kind of knowledge that lacks even the slightest bit of practical application.
I suppose being a philosopher requires more than just having a curious mind or seeking out facts.
People who chase knowledge specifically because they can apply it—well, they aren't philosophers.
They want to know things so they can actually *do* something with that information. If someone like that wanders into philosophy, I think they'll end up feeling pretty disappointed.
If someone approaches philosophy just to seem smarter, to feel superior to others, to find some grand purpose in life, or to prove something—to themselves or anyone else (like the existence of God, for instance)—then they're essentially missing the entire point from the very start.
There probably aren't as many true philosophers as it seems.
A lot of people calling themselves philosophers are really just pragmatists who have somehow lost their way.
Even if you haven't quite nailed down your definition of an idiot philosopher, so what?
My point was more about how the average person perceives a philosopher—you know, that split second of thought when someone mentions they actually study philosophy.
The reason I even brought this up was because you asked about relativity. I was trying to address why there’s this lingering assumption that philosophers have more profound experiences or deeper thoughts than everyone else.
So, just to be clear, I'm not talking about MY specific take on philosophy, nor am I suggesting it should actually be that way. I'm talking about the stereotype itself—because that stereotype is essentially how people visualize what a philosopher is meant to be.
And honestly, it’s that very stereotype that sparked the question and led to this whole discussion in the first place.
p.s. Where exactly did I claim to be a philosopher?
