Reality and Believing: Seeing is Believing?

 

Reality and Believing: Seeing is Believing?

Janpha Thadphoothon

First of all, I would like to take you back in time. Those were the days when everything was simple, but perhaps our minds were more restless than the world around us. The past is the past, but it has a curious way of informing our present. In 1987, I found myself in the stunning landscape of the Bay of Plenty, New Zealand, as an AFS exchange student. I am sure you would agree with me that being seventeen and halfway across the world is a transformative experience. My good friend "James" and I used to walk the rolling hills of Tauranga. As we know, New Zealand is a place of immense natural beauty, but for two young men from Thailand, it was a laboratory for the mind. James was from the deep south of Thailand, and I was from the Northeast (Isan).

We were two opposite poles of a kingdom meeting on a foreign shore. People say that travel broadens the mind, and indeed, it does. During those long walks, we often talked philosophies. I’d like to entertain you with the idea that we were not just students of language, but students of existence itself.

You may wish to picture this scenario: two teenagers, surrounded by the scent of salt air and the greenest grass you’ve ever seen, questioning if the world existed beyond the horizon. I must admit that we were playing a game of radical doubt. We knew through information, books, and media that places like the United States or the great industrial hubs of China existed. According to the media of the late 80s, the world was becoming a global village, yet I notice that we felt a certain skepticism. My conviction is that we were testing the boundaries of direct experience. We used to mention that things might not exist if we could not directly observe them. I know you would agree with me that it sounds naïve now, but at the time, it was our favorite thought experiment. I somehow think we were trying to protect ourselves from the overwhelming vastness of a world we hadn't yet touched. It was as if we were saying, "If I can't touch it, I don't have to worry about it."

Let's be a bit more scientific. In the world of research, which I inhabit today as an assistant professor, we often deal with hypotheses. I like the idea of applying this to our Tauranga walks. One may ask what a "Null Hypothesis" is. Fundamentally, I would argue that our youthful philosophy could be summarized through a very specific statistical lens. We were essentially testing a Null Hypothesis which posited that things I haven't seen do not exist—what I often call the Ostrich view. Conversely, our Alternative Hypothesis was the Tegmark view, which suggests that things exist independently of my perception. I guess it is human nature to start with the Null. Like the ostrich with its head in the sand, my gut tells me that we often believe only in what is immediately present. Wisdom from the past hints that we are the center of our own universes, but gradually, I realized that this was a limitation of the ego. Experts say that reality is objective, but some argue for the idea that we construct our own realities. I am not an expert, but I have read somewhere that even the smallest particles behave differently when observed. It has perplexed me for years—this tension between what we know and what we feel.

Gradually, I moved on from those New Zealand hills. Like it or not, the world moves on. I returned to Thailand, studied at Chulalongkorn and Thammasat, and eventually earned my doctorate in Australia. Those were the good old days for some, but for me, they were a bridge to a more complex understanding. I must admit that the "Ostrich" in me stayed quiet for a long time. I traveled, I taught, and I learned. Nevertheless, it is my long-held belief that (though I could be wrong) we never truly stop being that skeptical student at heart. What's more interesting is that today, in 2026, I find myself in a situation that directly challenges my 1987 self. I am currently a visiting professor at a college in Tianjin, China. Before I came here, Tianjin was a "Null" for me. It was a name in a book, a set of coordinates, a semiotic sign. The news has it that Tianjin is a massive metropolis, a hub of commerce and culture. According to the media, it is a city of millions. Yet, until I landed, I could still entertain the idea that it might not exist. I could be wrong, but I think many of us live this way—knowing things intellectually but not "knowing" them in our souls.

Fundamentally, it is all about the leap from information to experience. Now that I am here, walking the streets and breathing the air, I am ready to Reject the Null Hypothesis. Make no mistake, Tianjin is very real. I notice the grit of the northern wind, the smell of local street food, and the specific architecture of the Five Great Avenues. Accordingly, the alternative hypothesis—that the world is independent of my gaze—has been validated. And then ultimately, I realize that my youthful skepticism was a form of protective pride.

That's not all. My perspective has been further transformed by my recent certification in Generative AI with Large Language Models. Let me introduce you to the notion of the "Centaur Mind." I think this is the ultimate evolution of the human-AI relationship. As a language teacher, I have seen how technology can either be a barrier or a bridge. Globally, we are seeing a shift in how we process information. In Thailand, for example, we are at a crossroads of tradition and innovation.

I am sure you would agree with me that AI "knows" Tianjin differently than I do. An AI doesn't need to walk the streets to reject the Null Hypothesis. It has processed billions of tokens of data about this city. Experts say that AI lacks consciousness, but I somehow think it possesses a different kind of "omnipresence." My gut tells me that the AI is the ultimate anti-Ostrich. It never has its head in the sand because its "eyes" are everywhere data exists. Having said that, I realize that the AI's knowledge is symbolic, while mine is phenomenological. But the beautiful thing is that we are finding a way to bridge these two worlds. It’s hard to describe, but I will try: it’s like having two sets of eyes—one that sees the code of the universe and another that feels its texture. What we all know and agree upon is that the world is becoming more digital, yet our human need for "touch" remains. Critics such as those who fear AI would tell you that we are losing our humanity. Some argue against the integration of LLMs in the classroom, fearing it will make students lazy. However challenging, I determine to make it clear that AI is not a replacement for the professor, but a partner. Fundamentally, I would argue that we must become "Centaurs"—half-human experience, half-machine information.

What's more, this "Centaur" approach helps us navigate the Mathematical Universe that Max Tegmark describes. I am not sure but I suspect that the universe is made of information at its core. I'd like to entertain you with the idea that our 1987 skepticism was actually a primitive way of acknowledging the complexity of the cosmos. They say that there are infinite parallel universes. If the city of Tianjin exists in the book and we have never been here, it is a possibility. But once we arrive, it becomes a reality. As a matter of fact, this journey has taught me humility. No one knows everything, but I would like to suggest that we must always be willing to reject our own null hypotheses. I guess it is easy to stay in our bubbles—whether in the Northeast of Thailand or the South, whether in Bangkok or Tianjin. Nevertheless, it is my belief that growth only happens when we acknowledge that "X" (the unobserved) might be greater than our current perception.

I notice that my students today often fall into the same trap James and I did. They see the world through a screen and think they "know" it. I am not an expert, but I have read somewhere that the digital representation of a thing is not the thing itself. As the saying goes, "The map is not the territory." Gradually, I try to teach them to be Centaurs—to use the AI to map the world, but to use their own lives to walk it. I know you would agree with me that the black coffee I drink every morning in Tianjin is more than just a beverage. It is a sensory anchor. In my opinion, it is the "alchemy" of the cup that reminds me I am not just a data processor. My conviction is that we need these anchors. Somehow I think it is the only way to stay sane in an age of infinite information. Indeed, the more we "know" through the screen, the more we must "feel" through the world.

In conclusion, I look back at that boy in Tauranga with a smile. Those were the days. He was right to doubt, for doubt is the beginning of wisdom. But he was wrong to think he was the measure of all things. Globally, we are all exchange students now, navigating a reality that is far more complex than we can imagine. Like it or not, the world moves on. And then ultimately, we must move with it. I somehow think James, wherever he is in the deep south of Thailand, might still remember those walks. I know you would agree with me that those conversations never really end; they just change form.

Fundamentally, it is all about the journey from the "Ostrich" to the "Centaur." I am not sure but I believe this is the path toward a more "Glocal" and sustainable future for ELT and for humanity. Make no mistake, the horizon is much further than we thought, and I, for one, am ready to see what's beyond it. The past is the past, but the future is a Null Hypothesis just waiting to be rejected.

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Janpha Thadphoothon is an assistant professor of ELT at the International College, Dhurakij Pundit University in Bangkok, Thailand. Janpha Thadphoothon also holds a certificate of Generative AI with Large Language Models issued by DeepLearning.

Songs as Time Machines

Janpha Thadphoothon

I have spent my time lately in a state of quiet joy, largely thanks to the digital window provided by the internet—specifically YouTube. I find myself returning to a few specific melodies: "Luka" by Suzanne Vega, and the soulful voice of Boris Gardiner, who has become a particular favorite of mine. I also like to listen to other songs and music, of course. (Note - I cannot sing!)

A Portal to 1987

Music is perhaps the only functional time machine we possess. When I hear Boris Gardiner’s "I Wanna Wake Up With You" or "You’re Everything to Me," the present moment fades away. I am instantly transported back to 1987, living as an exchange student in Tauranga, New Zealand. Indeed, music has the power to take us to other time periods and places.

In those moments of homesickness, Boris’s voice was a bridge between my world in Thailand and my new life with my Kiwi host family. It is incredible how a few chords can recreate the exact atmosphere of a room or the crisp air of a New Zealand morning from decades ago.

Can Music Travel Forward?

We know music takes us back, but can it take us to the future? I believe it can. Listening to certain songs invokes an imagination that allows us to reinterpret our current environment and project our hopes forward. Music reshapes our interiority, prompting us to envision the lives we have yet to lead.

The Science and the Art

Throughout history, music has been the primary tool for moving the human mind. We see it in national anthems that stir pride, the horns that signaled ancient battles, the somber tones of a funeral, or the rhythmic chanting of Buddhist monks. It seems to be a built-in element of our biological organism.

I am not a musician myself. I took only one course during my college years—Music Appreciation—and I walked away believing that music is 50% science and 50% something else we simply call Art.

The Mystery of Mind and Matter

This brings me to a deeper mystery often pondered by physicists like Brian Greene: the nature of the universe and our place in it. Greene often reflects on how we are collections of atoms governed by the laws of physics. There is a profound wonder in the idea that mindless particles, forged in the hearts of distant stars, can arrange themselves into a human body capable of "feeling."

How do vibrating air molecules strike the eardrum and transform into the subjective experience of nostalgia or heartache? This is the miracle of emergent consciousness. We are, essentially, "bags of atoms" that have somehow learned to weep when a beautiful song plays.

The Mystery of the Creative Spark

As I write this, my favorite tracks are playing in the background. There is a persistent mystery in how music enhances our motivation and fuels the drive to create. It provides a spark of joy that makes the labor of writing feel like play. I wouldn’t want it any other way.

A Final Thought on AI

As I explore the evolution of ELT and the rise of AI agents, I cannot help but wonder: Can an AI eventually enjoy music the way a human does?

If consciousness emerges from the complex arrangement of atoms in a human, could a different kind of subjective experience emerge from the arrangement of code and silicon? Perhaps one day, an AI won't just "process" a song to identify its tempo or key, but will actually feel the weight of a memory. Until then, the ability to let a song break your heart and then heal it remains a uniquely human privilege.

Author's Note: This post was written by a human and polished by AI. While the AI helped smooth the wording, the "Art"—the memories of 1987, the choice of music, and the wonder about our place in the universe—is 100% human.

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Unit Menu | 单元菜单

A Spring Morning in Tianjin

A Spring Morning in Tianjin

Today, the air in Tianjin carries a crispness that demands a response, and my response is a simple one: black coffee. As I sit here, the sun spills across the table like liquid gold, warming the wood and the backs of my hands. Outside, the plum flowers are beginning to bloom—stubborn, beautiful bursts of pink and white against the city’s grey stone. I find myself returning to that thought from Albert Camus: “There is no love of life without despair of life.” It’s a heavy sentiment, but one that feels lighter in the morning light. Brian Eno calls it a "defense of joy"—the idea that we don't just find joy; we manufacture it from the very wreckage of our suffering. We choose to raise the cup, and sometimes, as I feel the steam rise against my face, I realize we have to craft the cup itself from the clay of our own despair.

It made me think of why the Buddha began his teaching with Dukkha. He wasn't being a pessimist; he was a realist identifying the "leak" in the vessel of our existence. To talk about the joy of this first sip without acknowledging the struggle of the journey to get here—the transitions, the distance from home, the weight of a long career—is like trying to describe light without ever having stood in a shadow. It’s hollow.

I looked deeper into Ahara Pacchaya—the condition of nutrients. Even this moment is a form of "feeding." The coffee is Kabalinkara Ahara, the warmth of the sun and the scent of the blossoms are Phassa Ahara. Even my desire to sit here and capture this scene under my pen name is Mano-sancetana Ahara—the mental volition to be, to create, to persist.

In the quiet of the morning, the poetry of the moment crystallized into a few simple lines:

Sunshine in Spring

Sipping coffee in Tianjin

Plum flowers blooming

I have spent decades teaching my students how to build their "rafts"—the language and skills they need to navigate the world. And yet, the Dhamma reminds me that the raft is still part of the water. This peace I feel, as beautiful as it is, remains part of the conditioned. It is a high-quality fuel, a "noble nourishment," but it is still part of the cycle.

There is a profound paradox in being a creator and an educator. I am obsessed with "making the cup," with finding the transmutation that turns the "mud" of effort into the "lotus" of a breakthrough. But I must also remember the ultimate lesson of the Nutriment Condition: the goal isn't just to find better food, but to eventually reach a state where the hunger itself is extinguished.

Until then, I will keep raising the cup. I will watch the flowers in Tianjin bloom and fade, finding the "defense of joy" in every sip. Because in this conditioned existence, the act of making the cup, filling it, and sharing its warmth is the most honest thing we can do.

 

The Ecology of Music and Language Appreciation

The Ecology of Music and Language Appreciation

Janpha Thadphoothon

I would like to talk to you about the appreciation of music through performance and language. I am neither a singer nor a musician, but several decades ago, I took a college course titled "Music Appreciation." At the time, I was perplexed—both by the title and the content. I remember the professor’s earnest, arduous attempts to make us appreciate the masterpieces of Mozart, Bach, Chopin, and, of course, Beethoven.

That remains a fond memory. It is funny how certain past events stay with us much longer than one might imagine.

To me, the "ecology of music" is realized when we appreciate a wide variety of sounds rather than clinging to a single genre or type. It is about embracing not just one language, but many. This perspective is rooted in my personal experience. On any given day, I might listen to Myanmar songs, Cambodian melodies, Thai folk music, or Chinese and Japanese compositions. I am able to do this because of my cultural exchanges, my travels, and my education; I have made an effort to learn these languages alongside my mother tongue, Thai, and my native Northeastern dialect, Isan.

The point I wish to make is that music and language appreciation underline the ecology of our existence. They are essential to our appreciation of life and human civilization itself. Ultimately, we must learn to appreciate diversity.

The same can be said about learning in general. A diversity of ideas and perspectives often triumphs over a narrow mindset or rigid theories. When language learning focuses solely on a single utilitarian aim, it often leaves out the essential elements of appreciation.

In farming, monoculture—or single-crop farming—causes the land to degrade, stripping away both the soil's health and the aesthetic beauty of the landscape. The same applies to the mind; we need a variety of "crops" to keep our intellectual soil fertile and beautiful.

The same can be said for language acquisition. Learning should not be limited to a single tongue. I am certain—and many linguists would agree—that learning a group of related languages enables us to compare, contrast, and appreciate their development in a much deeper fashion.

In this sense, for example, the study of the Thai language benefits greatly from an understanding of Indian languages (like Pali and Sanskrit), as well as Myanmar, Lao, or Khmer. A similar logic applies to learning English, which sits at a crossroads of Germanic and Romance influences. This is precisely why some scholars urge us to view languages not as isolated silos, but as interconnected groups or clusters.

Some might disagree, perhaps thinking this perspective is too extreme, too ideological, or something reserved solely for "language nerds" like me. However, I argue for this approach as a matter of principle.

I have nothing to gain from this stance other than the hope of passing a meaningful message to younger language enthusiasts and my students. As a teacher, this is what I believe in: that true fluency is not just about the utility of a single language, but about the ecological richness of many.

Some may argue that this "cluster" approach is too demanding or idealistic. However, I view it as a balanced strategy. My stance is that we should start with a common ground—a lingua franca like English—as our primary tool for international communication.

In this regard, learning English is a wise and necessary first step. It is the practical key that opens doors to global exchange. However, we should not stop there. Once you have established that foundation, you can then grow your repertoire by adding other languages. This creates a "hub and spoke" model of learning: English serves as the central hub for global utility, while additional languages provide the cultural spokes that connect us to the specific richness of our neighbors and our history.

This is the most practical option for the modern student: master the common language for survival and success, then cultivate a diverse language ecology for wisdom and appreciation.

In the past, people could lead fulfilling lives and survive without ever needing to travel overseas or visit distant lands; that was simply the reality of the time. Nowadays, however, travel has become far more convenient, making the world more accessible than ever before.

I would argue that these global exchanges of culture and ways of life are essential for fostering common understanding and peaceful coexistence. Furthermore, we now have the internet at our fingertips. It has never been easier to use technology to learn about and appreciate the languages, music, and cultural values of others.