The Observing I Podcast

David Johnson
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  • PHILOSOPHY

Award winning podcast about philosophy, psychology, and the human experience. New episode every Tuesday. theobservingi.com

  1. 4D AGO

    Turn on, tune in, drop out: The life and ideas of Timothy Leary

    Timothy Leary is often remembered as a prophet of psychedelic liberation, but his story is more complicated than that. In this episode, we look beyond the slogans, the counterculture mythology, and the public spectacle to explore the deeper tension at the heart of his life. This is not just a story about psychedelics or the 1960s. It is a story about consciousness, ego, escape, and the uneasy line between revelation and performance. Along the way, we explore how Leary became such a powerful symbol, why his ideas still linger in the modern imagination, and what his life reveals about the human desire to break out of ourselves. Because beneath the cultural iconography is a more difficult question: when we say we want freedom, what is it that we actually mean? And at what point does the search for awakening become another way of avoiding the ordinary work of being human? If you enjoyed this episode, make sure you follow The Observing I on Spotify so you never miss a new release. And if this conversation gave you something to think about, share it with someone else who might find it meaningful. You can also leave a rating on Spotify, which really helps more people discover the podcast. Much love, David x

    51 min
  2. Emil Cioran and the Insomnia of Being

    MAR 24

    Emil Cioran and the Insomnia of Being

    Emil Cioran was the most honest philosopher of the twentieth century. He believed, with total intellectual sincerity and forensic rigour, that being born was a catastrophe nobody asked for, that consciousness was evolution's most unfortunate experiment, and that hope was a con dressed up in better lighting. He made this case in thirty-something books, over six decades, in a language that was not his own, from a small apartment in Paris, without a salary, without an institution, without a single day of pretending he thought things were going to be fine. He outlived almost everyone. Born in 1911 in Rășinari, a village in Transylvania, Cioran arrived in Bucharest to study philosophy, encountered Schopenhauer, stopped sleeping, and never fully recovered from any of those three things. By twenty-three he had written his first book, On the Heights of Despair, a work of such concentrated philosophical anguish that Romania gave it a prize. By twenty-five he had made a political error that would follow him for the rest of his life. By his late thirties he had voluntarily destroyed his mother tongue, abandoned Romanian permanently, and rebuilt himself from scratch in French. Not because it was easier, but because it was harder, and the difficulty was the point. What followed was five decades of the most precise, most formally beautiful, most genuinely useful pessimist philosophy in the Western tradition. And a life that, looked at honestly, was proof of something Cioran would never have been caught dead saying out loud: that the accurate description of the worst of it is not what destroys you. It is, improbably, stubbornly, with considerable dark wit, the thing that keeps the lights on. This is the season finale of Fire and Ice. Eleven philosophers. Eleven lives spent finding clarity by walking directly into the thing that was trying to destroy them. Cioran closes the season not because he suffered the most dramatically, but because he suffered the most philosophically, and came back with the best sentences. The Observing I is completely ad-free. You can find every episode in full, as audio and as written word, at theobservingi.com. New episodes on YouTube, Spotify, and wherever you listen. Follow us on TikTok, Instagram, and X at @theobservingi. Get full access to The Observing I at theobservingi.com/subscribe

    38 min
  3. Not Yet: The Philosophy of Ernst Bloch

    MAR 17

    Not Yet: The Philosophy of Ernst Bloch

    Not yet. Ernst Bloch was born in a factory town on the Rhine in 1885 and spent the next ninety-two years refusing to accept that the present tense was the final word on anything. He built an entire philosophy out of the gap between what is and what should be. He called it the not-yet. The Nazis called it incompatible. The East Germans called it a deviation. The students of 1968 called it exactly what they were looking for. This episode is about what happens when a man bets everything on a future he can’t prove, gets exiled, fired, suppressed, and walled out for doing it, and keeps betting anyway. It’s about hope as a philosophical structure rather than a feeling. It’s about the Vor-Schein, the pre-appearance, the light that the future casts backward into the present before it arrives. And it’s about the knock you hear at 3am when the rest of your brain has the good sense to be quiet, and what Bloch would tell you to do with it. Episode 143 of The Observing I is available now on Spotify, YouTube, Apple Podcasts. and wherever you listen. Subscribe at theobservingi.com to support the show and receive every episode directly. Ad-free. Always. Much love, David x Get full access to The Observing I at theobservingi.com/subscribe

    39 min
  4. Leszek Kolakowski, the man who autopsied his god

    MAR 10

    Leszek Kolakowski, the man who autopsied his god

    What do you do when the thing you used to explain everything stops explaining anything? Leszek Kołakowski was born in Poland in 1927. He grew up under Nazi occupation, educated in secret because the occupiers had made learning illegal. After the war he was handed a blueprint for a new world and he took it with both hands. He joined the Polish United Workers’ Party at eighteen, rose fast, became one of the most gifted Marxist philosophers in Poland, and believed, not as performance, not as career strategy, but as a man who had found the only answer that made sense of the rubble around him. Then he started looking too closely. What followed was thirty years of intellectual honesty so rigorous and so costly that it reshaped the political landscape of the twentieth century. Expelled from the Party in 1966. Expelled from Warsaw University in 1968. Exiled from Poland. And from his study at All Souls College, Oxford, he sat down and wrote Main Currents of Marxism. Three volumes published between 1976 and 1978 that traced the entire intellectual genealogy of the ideology he had given his youth to, and proved, systematically, that Stalinism was not a betrayal of Marx’s ideas. It was their logical conclusion. He wrote the death certificate thirteen years before the burial. But this episode is not about Marxism. It is about what Kołakowski found on the other side of the autopsy. Not a new faith. Not comfortable atheism. Something stranger and more honest than either. The argument that human beings cannot live without myth, that the need for transcendence is not a weakness to be overcome, and that a life lived entirely without reference to the sacred has amputated something essential from itself. This is the episode about what intellectual honesty actually costs. About the version of courage nobody puts on posters. About following the logic past the point where it still flatters you, all the way to the end, and then keeping going. He knew too much. The question is whether you do too. Much love, David x The Observing I is available on all major podcast platforms. Listen on Substack for more in depth articles and to get everything ad-free. Get full access to The Observing I at theobservingi.com/subscribe

    37 min
  5. Vladimir Solovyov and the Philosophy of the World Soul

    MAR 3

    Vladimir Solovyov and the Philosophy of the World Soul

    Three times in his life, Vladimir Solovyov saw her. Once at nine years old in a Moscow church. Once in a lecture hall mid-sentence. Once face down in the Egyptian desert alone at night. He called her Sophia, the soul of the world, the principle that holds everything together instead of letting it fly apart. He spent the next twenty-five years building a philosophy around what he saw. He died at forty-seven in a borrowed house with almost nothing he could call his own. This episode is about what it costs to organise your entire life around a single true perception. About a man who believed that love is not a private comfort but the structural engine of the universe. About the gap between what we know to be true and what we are able to actually live. Vladimir Solovyov was Russia's most important religious philosopher. He was banned from academic life for telling the Tsar to forgive his father's assassins. He argued for the unity of all Christian churches when both sides were excommunicating each other. He influenced Berdyaev, the Russian Symbolists, Florensky, and a dozen Western thinkers who never gave him credit. He was also a man who could not sustain a single ordinary human relationship long enough to call it home. This is his story. This is yours too. The Observing I is a philosophy podcast that makes ideas bleed. No academics. No lectures. Just the raw confrontation with what it means to be alive and thinking and trying to figure out what any of it is for. New episodes every week. Ad free, always, at theobservingi.com. Subscribe. Leave a comment. Tell us what broke open. Get full access to The Observing I at theobservingi.com/subscribe

    41 min
  6. Nikolai Federov: The Librarian who declared war on Death

    FEB 24

    Nikolai Federov: The Librarian who declared war on Death

    What if your acceptance of death isn't wisdom? What if it's surrender with better branding? What if the most dangerous idea humanity ever had wasn't pride or violence or the will to power, but the quiet, civilized, deeply respectable decision that death deserves our peace rather than our resistance? Nikolai Fedorov, illegitimate son of a Russian prince, ascetic librarian, and the most demanding philosopher you've never heard of, spent his entire life arguing exactly that. He called our acceptance of death the original moral failure. He called the project of reversing it the Common Task. And he meant every word of both. This episode traces Fedorov's life from his birth as an unnamed, illegitimate child to his death in a Moscow hospital having refused a coat, and everything in between: the library that became his cathedral, the philosophy that shook Tolstoy and shaped the Soviet space program, the theology that turned the resurrection of Christ into an engineering assignment rather than a gift, and the transhumanist movement he predicted a century early and would have found morally catastrophic. If something in this episode makes your peace with death harder to keep, that's not a side effect. That's the whole point. Much love, David x Get full access to The Observing I at theobservingi.com/subscribe

    48 min
  7. Jan Patočka and the Philosophy of Living in Truth

    FEB 17

    Jan Patočka and the Philosophy of Living in Truth

    Jan Patočka was a Czech philosopher who spent thirty years banned from teaching, running illegal philosophy seminars in private apartments, passing hand-typed manuscripts through networks of people who understood that ideas could get you arrested. In 1977, at sixty-nine years old, he co-signed Charter 77. A document simply asking the Czechoslovak government to honor the human rights commitments it had already made on paper. The secret police interrogated him for eleven hours. He suffered a brain hemorrhage and died ten days later. In today's episode, we go deep into Patočka's three movements of existence, his concept of living in truth, his influence on Václav Havel and the Velvet Revolution, and his most quietly explosive idea - the solidarity of the shaken. The bond that forms not between people who agree, but between people who have all had their certainties destroyed and refused to rebuild the comfortable lie over the rubble. The shaking is not the enemy. That is what he knew. This episode is about what that costs, what it makes possible, and what it is asking you right now. Much love, David x Get full access to The Observing I at theobservingi.com/subscribe

    53 min
  8. Mikhail Bakhtin and the Unfinished Self

    FEB 10

    Mikhail Bakhtin and the Unfinished Self

    You are not one person. You never were. This is not a metaphor about complexity or depth. This is not inspirational content about containing multitudes. This is a structural diagnosis of how consciousness actually works, and the moment you understand it, the monologue you call your identity starts to crack. Mikhail Bakhtin understood something so fundamentally destabilizing about human consciousness that Stalin’s regime tried to bury it. He understood that the self is not a singular, coherent narrative. The self is a dialogue. A conversation with no final word. A collision of voices that never resolves into one clean answer. And every day you spend performing coherence, curating a finished identity, optimizing yourself into a brand, you are committing a small act of violence against the most alive thing about you. We live in a culture obsessed with the finished self. The optimized self. The self that has figured it out, that posts the proof, that performs completion like a product launch. LinkedIn is a graveyard of finished selves. Instagram is a museum of people who have already arrived. And every single one of those selves is a lie. Not because people are dishonest. Because the self was never meant to be finished. The Dialogue That Makes You Real Bakhtin called it polyphony. Multiple voices. Not the inspiring kind where everyone gets heard and we all feel validated. The uncomfortable kind where voices contradict, compete, refuse to resolve. You think you have one voice, one coherent position, one true self. But you contain multitudes. You are the person who wants to be good and the person tired of being good. The person who loves your life and the person who wants to burn it down and start over. These are not phases. These are not glitches. These are voices. And the more you silence them, the louder they scream from the basement. You did not build your self alone. Every opinion you hold, every value you defend, every fear that keeps you awake at night was given to you by someone else first. Your mother’s voice. Your teacher’s expectation. Your friend’s judgment. The stranger who looked at you a certain way when you were seventeen and something inside you shifted forever. You are not a monologue. You are the echo chamber of a thousand voices that spoke to you before you even knew you were listening. This is what Bakhtin called addressivity. Every thought you have is addressed to someone. Even when you are alone. Especially when you are alone. You are always speaking to an imagined listener. You are always performing for an invisible audience. And that audience shapes what you say before you say it. Your internal monologue is not a monologue at all. It is a dialogue where you play both parts and pretend you are in control. The Authoritative Word vs. The Internally Persuasive Word There are two kinds of voices living inside you. The authoritative word arrives with credentials, with institutional backing, with the collected wisdom of everyone who came before you and decided how things should be. It does not negotiate. It announces itself and waits for you to comply. Your parents spoke it. Your religion spoke it. Your culture spoke it. And you absorbed it so completely that by the time you were old enough to question it, you could not tell where the voice ended and you began. The internally persuasive word is different. It emerges from dialogue. From the messy, uncertain process of testing ideas against experience. It is the thought that keeps coming back even when you try to ignore it. The question that will not let you sleep. The feeling that something is wrong even though you cannot articulate what or why. The internally persuasive word does not give you answers. It gives you better questions. You change through dialogue. Through conversation where neither person walks away the same. Where words move between you and transform in transit and come back different than they left. But most people never make it past the authoritative word. Because the internally persuasive word is uncomfortable. It says maybe everything you were told was wrong. Maybe the life you built is not the life you want. Maybe the person you have been performing is not the person you are. The Threshold: Where You Actually Exist Bakhtin had a word for the place where you are actually alive. He called it the threshold. Not the self you perform or the identity you curate. The threshold is the space between. The edge of one thing becoming another. The moment before the decision. The second after the mask cracks. The threshold is where you stand when you do not know who you are anymore and you have not yet figured out who you are going to become. Dostoevsky’s characters live on thresholds. In doorways. In stairwells. In prison cells and streets at midnight. They exist in spaces where the normal rules of social performance collapse and something raw breaks through. Raskolnikov does not confess in a church. He confesses in a crowded square because the threshold is where your internal dialogue becomes external. Where the voices you have been suppressing suddenly have witnesses. You cannot see your own face. You cannot know your own expression. You need other people to reflect you back to yourself. Not the polite reflections. Not the version your friends confirm and your family recognizes. You need the uncomfortable reflections. The moments when someone reacts to you in a way that does not match your self-image and you feel that spike of panic because they are seeing something real and you are not in control of what it means. This is why isolation destroys people. Not because humans are social animals who need companionship. Isolation destroys people because the self only exists in relation. Put someone in solitary confinement and watch what happens. The voices do not stop. They multiply. They become louder, stranger, more hostile. The self, deprived of real dialogue, starts creating imaginary dialogue just to keep existing. Because a self without an other is not a self at all. It is a ghost haunting an empty room. The Great Time: Ideas That Refuse to Die Bakhtin wrote his most important work under Stalin. Under a regime that demanded singular truth, official narratives, one voice speaking for the entire nation. And Bakhtin wrote about polyphony. About dialogue. About the fundamental impossibility of a single authoritative voice ever capturing the full truth of human consciousness. He watched his books get pulped. Watched his name disappear from the academic record like he never existed. But the ideas did not die. They went underground. They survived in fragments. In student notes. In conversations people had in private where the walls might be listening but the ideas were too important to kill with silence. And then, decades later, after Bakhtin was already exiled, already forgotten, someone rediscovered his work. Someone recognized that these ideas were answers to questions the culture was finally ready to ask. Bakhtin called this the great time. The time of ideas that outlive their authors. Ideas that get buried and forgotten and declared irrelevant and then, decades or centuries later, come roaring back because someone finally understands what they were trying to say. You live in a culture with no concept of the great time. You live in the time of the algorithm. The news cycle. Planned obsolescence where ideas are designed to expire as soon as the next quarter starts. You consume content made to be forgotten. You build your identity around references that will be incomprehensible in five years. You have been taught that relevance is the highest value. That if something is not trending it does not matter. But the great time does not care about relevance. Bakhtin died in 1975, largely forgotten, his work still suppressed. He did not live to see the explosion of interest in his ideas. He did not live to see his concepts become foundational to how we understand narrative and consciousness and the structure of the self. He wrote into the void and the void wrote back but he was already dead by the time the reply arrived. Stalin is dead. The Soviet Union is dead. The regime that tried to silence Bakhtin is a historical footnote. But the ideas survived. The ideas are in the great time now. And that means they are beyond the reach of any authority that tries to kill them. What You Do With This You stop trying to finish yourself. You stop treating your identity like a project with a deadline. You stop performing coherence for an audience that is not even watching. You acknowledge that you are multiple. That you contain voices. That some of those voices contradict each other and this is not a bug. This is the structure of consciousness. This is what it means to be alive. You start listening to the internally persuasive word. Not the voice that arrives with authority and demands obedience. The voice that arrives as a question. As a possibility. As something that keeps coming back even when you try to ignore it. You let that voice speak. You let it argue with the other voices. You let the dialogue happen inside you instead of pretending there is only one true self that needs to win. You stand on the threshold. You let people see you before you are ready. You stop editing yourself into acceptability and you risk the encounter. The real encounter. Where someone might see something you did not want them to see and you do not immediately retreat back into performance. You stay there. Exposed. Unfinished. You let the other person complete you in ways you cannot complete yourself. And you think in the great time. You stop measuring your worth by what trends today. You stop shaping your thoughts to fit the algorithm. You trust that if you are saying something true, something real, something that touches the actual structure of human experience, then it will find the people who need it. Maybe not today. Maybe not in your lifetime. But the great time is p

    44 min
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About

Award winning podcast about philosophy, psychology, and the human experience. New episode every Tuesday. theobservingi.com

Information

  • Creator
    David Johnson
  • Years Active
    2025 - 2026
  • Episodes
    145
  • Rating
    Explicit
  • Copyright
    © David Johnson
  • Show Website
    The Observing I Podcast

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