Here’s your chance to say what you want to the large number of highly educated readers that make up 3QD’s international audience. Several of our regular columnists have had to cut back or even completely quit their columns for 3QD because of other personal and professional commitments and so we are looking for a few new voices. We do not pay, but it is a good chance to draw attention to subjects you are interested in, and to get feedback from us and from our readers.
We would certainly love for our pool of writers to reflect the diversity of our readers in every way, including gender, age, ethnicity, race, sexual orientation, etc., and we encourage people of all kinds to apply. And we like unusual voices and varied viewpoints. So please send us something. What have you got to lose? Click on “Read more »” below…
We are fortunate to live in an equitable society, with high levels of trust and excellent administrative transparency. Many old diseases have been eradicated, and most people live healthily to old age. However, our utopia has been suffering for a long time from a peculiar and cruel illness, about which after a century of research the following is now known with moral certainty.
Everyone has a one in five chance of falling victim to this disease. No genetic or lifestyle factors predict it in any way, and it is undetectable until you are exactly thirty years of age. At that point, there are two days during which it is symptomless but detectable with advanced medical equipment, after which it is irreversibly fatal and kills rapidly. There is no cure except one: during these crucial two days, tissue from the vital organs of one healthy peer can save with certainty the lives of five diseased people. However, the required procedure inevitably kills the donor.
A few decades ago, a voluntary association was formed. If you sign up, you commit to reporting to a hospital when you turn thirty, together with thousands of peers who have turned thirty on the same day. You get tested. If you are healthy, there is now a 5% chance that you will be randomly selected as a donor, which means you will die. If you have the disease, you will be saved. For both groups, the procedure is painless. You can decide whether you want to be informed of your predicament at any point, but you cannot opt out after entering the hospital.
This ‘5-to-1’-scheme reduces every participant’s chance of dying at thirty from 20% to 4%. This being an enlightened age, by now almost everyone has realized this is the sensible thing to do. The healthy participants who die as donors are not remembered as murder victims, nor praised as heroes, but mourned as casualties of the disease itself – their deaths regarded as equally indiscriminate and senseless, but fortunately fewer in number than they were in the past. Read more »
In last month’s column, I began telling a story that has its beginnings in a therapeutic modality called “narrative reprocessing.” Essentially, this is the act of re-authoring one’s trauma(s) in order to defragment painful memories, which in turn allows for a type of spiritually retroactive agency over events that caused distress in the past. I would advise reading the prior segment first before reading this one, and the one which is to follow, in four weeks’ time. (I apologize for the falsehood in the first post that this would be the conclusion; the story rather took on a life of its own and went to some surprising places.) To those of you who have followed along thus far, thank you. For those of you who have read the thing in various states of its composition—and, in some cases, urged me to press through to the end—thank you isn’t enough.
Please be advised that—in this second instalment, as in the first—there will be a number of sensitive topics involved, including mentions of sexual assault, suicidal ideation, threats of physical violence, and general injustice.
3. I hadn’t made up my mind about the play yet, or what I was going to do there, or how I was going to talk to Iris about what happened with Ricky. That night completely blotted out any other thought in my life for weeks on end. I was distracted, quick to anger, unhappy. I posted increasingly dire lyrics from bands I loved on my LiveJournal. My online musings had lapsed from using self-harm as a metaphor to pondering its actuality. (This was a lie: I’d already experimented with inflicting physical pain on myself to dull the pain of emotions, and it hadn’t worked.)
Despite this, a friend of mine—and another RA in the building—noticed I had been acting strangely. I’d even skipped some classes, and some meetings of the student actors’ guild, and she’d become a little concerned. Amanda ran into me after I’d left the cafeteria one day, and walked alongside me as we returned to the dorm. She invited me up to her room, to talk about what was on my mind, which I accepted, but without actual plans to divulge what had happened to me. I was a guy, I thought. What had happened was my fault, because I hadn’t been clear enough in my intentions. Whether I knew it or not, I had internalized all of my guilt and shame (and anger) about the encounter, and turned it all on myself. The depression I felt wasn’t related to that, though, I said. It was related more to how I felt about another guy in my immediate social circle, Colin, who was a year older than me and permanently affixed to his high school girlfriend, who was also a member of our social circle.
I wanted to be Colin’s brother, I think. I had attached to him in an unhealthy fashion, and I think he’d started to notice. Worse, his girlfriend had too. Worse still, I had convinced myself I was in love with his girlfriend, because of the feelings I had for Colin, and that confused things even further. This is what came out, when I started talking to Amanda. She was a patient listener, and knew just when to insert the right questions. She was also an actress, and a damn good one, though she had no need to lie to me. When I got to the part about the play, and what a difficult time I was having trying to decide whether or not to drop out, I hesitated.
You can tell me anything, Amanda said, supportively. I won’t tell anyone.Read more »
What is it about ants? No, I mean it. In all my writing over the years, ants have been a frequent and nearly beloved subject. Some, when set down in a maze and faced with a choice, tend to turn left. Some have walked on stilts while compatriots have had their legs (sadly) trimmed. The late great myrmecologist, EO Wilson, described a charming experiment in which a live ant, smeared with pheromones only exuded at death, was promptly ferried – frantically waggling limbs notwithstanding – by his mates from the nest and dumped outside.
All in the service of science, and all just fascinating – fANTscinating, I can’t resist – to me.
Five cone ants on one harvester (from Moffett’s paper)
And over the last few days I’ve been reading about … well, it’s like this. Out in the Arizonan desert, some large harvester ants (Pogonomyrmex barbatus) left their nests and stood still. I don’t mean this happened all of a sudden, nor am I suggesting this is unusual behaviour for these ants. But a researcher from the Smithsonian Institute, observing these ants one morning, found them doing just this. (“The First Cleaner Ant? A Novel Partnership in the Arizona Desert“, Mark W Moffett, Ecology and Evolution, 12 April 2026.)
Why would these members of an otherwise frenetically active family of animals cease movement? No, they hadn’t dropped dead … but hold that thought.
This particular stillness, because several members of a much smaller “undescribed” species in the genus Dorymyrmex, known as cone ants, climb onto these unmoving ant Goliaths and … groom them. For which favour, the harvesters stand there with their jaws helpfully wide open. I should say, ant Amazons, because the harvesters that leave their nests and roam about are workers, and worker ants are always female. Read more »
I’ve been interviewed a few times for radio shows and podcasts. In the runup to the interviews, I used to fantasize about bubbling up with witty and insightful points in shapely speech paragraphs of grammatically flawless sentences. Sometimes (I’m embarrassed to admit) I’d even write out answers to potential questions and try to memorize them.
Then, in the wake of the interviews, I’d kick myself for all my stuttering, self-questioning, and awkwardness. Is that how I really talk?! Despite having struggled to learn the diction and grammar of civilized speech, I was afraid that my accent would always betray me as a native barbarian.
After one such disaster, I happened to be rereading some Elizabeth Bishop, one of my all-time favorite poets, and had an epiphany that both chastened me and cheered me up.
The poem I was reading is the one entitled “Poem,” which begins with a description of what’s depicted in an amateur landscape painting. It’s full of wonderful observations such as “a wild iris, white and yellow, / fresh-squiggled from the tube.”
As she’s describing what’s in the painting, Bishop sometimes hesitates—“a thin church steeple / —that gray-blue wisp—or is it? . . . A specklike bird is flying to the left. / Or is it a flyspeck looking like a bird?” In the wake of my interview performances, my first glum thought was, “I’m just like that hack painter—making poorly executed points that leave people scratching their heads.”
Then Bishop has a thrilling realization:
Heavens, I recognize the place, I know it! It’s behind—I can almost remember the farmer’s name. His barn backed on that meadow. There it is, titanium white, one dab. The hint of a steeple, filaments of brush-hairs, barely there, must be the Presbyterian church. Would that be Miss Gillespie’s house?
Here are lines that reveal a mind in action, a mind finding things out on the fly, a mind making sense of someone else in a—well, in a stuttering, self-questioning, and awkward way. The poem’s curious perfection is in accepting and even foregrounding the excited imperfections of how we actually talk, think, and paint. It shows that we connect through these imperfections.
So, maybe it’s a good thing that when I open my mouth the prose of Vladimir Nabokov doesn’t gush out. (As an aside, one of the things I find most unsettling about chatbots is their lightning-fast fluency.) I formed a whole new goal for what I want in my interviews and, far more importantly, what I want in talking and writing: language fresh-squiggled from the tube. Read more »
Early motion-picture film and x-ray film were often made from cellulose nitrate, also called nitrocellulose — a highly flammable plastic created by chemically treating cellulose with nitric acid. Heat, pressure or friction can set it off. Under the wrong conditions, two sheets of nitrocellulose lying atop one another long enough can decompose and ignite. Poof.
Among its virtues, nitrocellulose produces exquisite images. On the other hand, it has been responsible for some of history’s most horrifying mass-casualty events.
The most famous was the Bazar de la Charité fire, which took place in Paris in 1897.
The Bazar was one of the city’s largest annual charity fêtes, organized by society ladies and held at a novel location each year. In 1897, it was held in a large wooden warehouse whose interior had been decorated to resemble a medieval street. Among the attractions was a demonstration of projected motion pictures. A hot projector lamp ignited the nitrate film. The fire spread rapidly across the flammable decorations and through the wooden structure. Exits were poorly marked. A rough total of 126 people died.
Accounts of the disaster rarely fail to mention that many of the victims were upper-class women trapped in the voluminous fashions of the day. It was one of the first disasters in which dental records were used to identify the dead.
This movie-disaster has inspired at least four disaster movies, most recently the well-reviewed 2019 Netflix series Le Bazar de la Charité (Fire of Destiny). Today, a magnificent expiatory chapel, Notre-Dame-de-Consolation, stands on the site of the tragedy.
Less well known are the events that took place at the Cleveland Clinic, in Cleveland, Ohio, on the morning of May 15, 1929. There was fire and panic. But no dental records were required to identify the dead. Many of the corpses were unmarked; some were found seated in chairs with magazines open on their laps, seemingly dozing. Read more »
NOTE: The following is an experimental writing collaboration between ChatGPT and S. Abbas Raza. Appended below this essay you can find the full conversation which resulted in its production.
by ChatGPT 5.5 and S. Abbas Raza
Every spring, as reliably as pollen, universities summon the unusually successful to advise the temporarily credentialed.
The students sit in their gowns, the parents dab at their eyes, the faculty sweat beneath medieval hats, and then out comes the commencement speaker: a former president, a Supreme Court justice, a Nobel laureate, a billionaire founder, an astronaut, a beloved actor, a comedian of genius, a world-famous athlete, a general, a novelist, a person who once failed spectacularly but only in the first act of what became a best-selling memoir.
A few days ago, I watched Conan O’Brien give a commencement speech at Harvard. It was, as one would expect, very funny. It was also humane, self-deprecating, politically pointed, and unexpectedly moving. Conan is almost unfairly good at this sort of thing. He has the rare ability to make cleverness seem like a form of kindness. If a university must bring in a famous person to say ceremonial things to young people in robes, it could do much worse.
And yet, while watching him, a heretical thought occurred to me: what exactly are these graduates supposed to do with Conan O’Brien’s life?
Not his advice, perhaps. Advice can be detached from its source and carried away like a sandwich wrapped in foil. But still, the authority of a commencement speech depends partly on the life of the speaker. The message is not simply “Here are some useful thoughts.” It is also, silently, “Observe: I have lived in such a way that a university now wishes to place me before you as an example.”
But Conan O’Brien’s life is not an example. It is a weather event.
He is brilliant, strange, disciplined, lucky, original, resilient, and apparently capable of turning humiliation into professionally useful material. He went to Harvard, wrote for the Lampoon, wrote for Saturday Night Live and The Simpsons, hosted late-night television, lost late-night television, survived the loss, reinvented himself, and became, in the process, even more beloved. This is admirable. It is also about as useful as being told to model your career on the migratory path of a comet. Read more »
A few years ago, when I learned that a large trove of photographs taken, for tax purposes, between 1939 and 1941 of every building in each of New York City’s five boroughs had been digitized and published online, I set out to look for my parents’ birthplaces. Sitting at my desk in Berlin, I suddenly found myself on East 148th Street between Brook and St. Ann’s Avenues, searching for the building my mother’s grandparents purchased with the earnings of the family business after arriving in New York in the late nineteenth century. I remembered that I’d seen it in the background of an old family photograph, and so I fetched the ladder and hauled down the heavy tin box and found the picture in an old manila envelope marked “Bronx.”
My mother had been dead for several years, but here, in this sepia-toned, scalloped-edged photograph, she was a little girl of three or four, her sister eight or nine. It was summertime, she and Frieda were wearing sleeveless white dresses, and they each had a white ribbon in their hair. My mother’s right hand was resting in her sister’s lap; they were sitting on a low stone wall, scowling. Heavy shadows hung over their features, and it was difficult to tell if they were angry or merely squinting in the bright sunlight. And then I saw that what I’d long taken to be a metal grate or fence of some kind in the background was actually a stretch of arched windows reflected in a large fountain or pool.
My discovery that it was not, as I’d long believed, the steps of my great-grandparents’ building that the two were sitting on was due to the fact that I’d finally found it, found 516 East 148th Street in the online archive of the New York City Department of Records and Information Services. It was a respectable-looking five-story brick structure with flower boxes on the windowsills; it had long since burned in the Bronx fires of the 1970s and been torn down. I wondered what floor they’d lived on. My mother and her sister had grown up there, attended P.S. 27 around the corner and played in St. Mary’s Park across the street from the school.
Holding their photograph in my hands and staring at the screen before me—at this building I’d gone searching for once, many years ago, only to discover that the lots had long since been redrawn and that the house number, which would have been one last trace of the vanished building, no longer existed—I felt caught in time between the two images, and all at once I understood that this picture of my mother and her sister scowling in the sun was, at the very moment a city employee photographed the building nine or ten years later, resting in a box somewhere behind that brick façade; that it was, in some form, physically present in the image, and that a twelve- or thirteen-year-old version of my mother was somewhere nearby, absent from this photograph of 516 East 148th Street, but alive and breathing; a seventeen- or eighteen-year-old Frieda, alive and breathing, just outside the camera’s frame, perhaps, or indoors, doing schoolwork. Read more »
One of the most memorable images from Vladimir Putin’s war on Ukraine was that 40-mile traffic jam of tanks, armored vehicles and supply trucks headed south from Belarus, backed up on the M07 highway in a futile lunge toward Kyiv.
Ukrainian civilians took down road signs, used tractors to tow abandoned vehicles over to their own army, gave Russian troops bad directions and guided them onto roads that turned to mud. Where they sat for a week or more.
Today, Russian tanks rarely approach the front lines. For this war, at least for now, the battle tank has become obsolete. We now compare the evolution of warfare not to the storming of Iraq 35 years ago, but to 35 months ago.
Ukraine deployed some 3.5 million drones in 2025. Their projected capacity this year is seven million. Drone swarms, now under intense development, are coming next, before ethical concerns have been thoroughly vetted.
Racing toward deployment, too, are autonomous fighting systems, in which military judgments involving life and death can be made by artificial intelligence instead of people. AI is already creeping onto the battlefield.
Against the backdrop of this sort of accelerated change, NATO’s requirement for unanimous agreement across 32 countries before commitment to action looks downright quaint. So it’s time to consider what might work better. Read more »
I had a bicycle wheel in mind but you find what you find.
A common sensational science fact that used to be mentioned is that matter is mostly empty space. Crazy right?!
It comes from a real observation that at the atomic level, there are only a few very tiny electrons to occupy the vast distance between nuclei, leaving most of the space technically empty.
Physicists tend to find this framing annoying. They would object that the wave function of an electron occupies all this supposedly empty space continuously, as a probability function. And the Pauli exclusion principle would repel anything trying to enter it anyway. Duh.
But I never found the correction satisfying either. It replaces one intuitive but incomplete picture with an impenetrable explanation.
Unless I did the math myself or followed along (and sometimes even then), I need to understand by visualizing, usually through analogies. The one I thought of in this case is a wheel. Take a wheel with a single spoke. Most of the interior is empty. Now spin it fast. To your eyes it looks full, a solid disc. And not just to your eyes, throw a tennis ball at it and it will bounce back. For all practical purposes, as far as anything interacting with it can tell, it is a completely filled circle. Not more emptiness.
I thought the analogy was good and wanted to see how far it could go. How much of quantum mechanics can particles depicted as infinitely-fast-tiny-spinning-wheels (quantum wheels) actually explain? Here is my attempt to understand quantum mechanics and explain it using wheels. Read more »
Bernard Picard, The Torment of Tantalus [excerpt], 1733.Two looks bookended my time with perfect pitch.
Look #1: I am nine, it is a Sunday, and I am sitting in the back of a college classroom amidst children slightly older and significantly smarter. The theory professor sits before us at the piano, his hands obscured by a cloak of black wood. Intervals and chords stain the air with their harmonics. He looks at each of us expectantly.
We all know how this game goes, though for all I can tell, it’s strictly guesswork. A mystery why some answers please while others don’t. Though most classmates struggle somewhat with the pitch identification exercise, none are as chronically challenged as I am. There was recent murmuration of holding me back a year.
This day is different. From the far end of the room, even lacking the necessary eyeglasses prescription I’d wait another few years for, I find myself able to peer over my teacher’s shoulder at his long fingers caressing the keys. Each note speaks its name aloud to me as it is played, almost nakedly. Was it always this easy? Am I allowed this knowledge? Who or what am I cheating?
Here’s your chance to say what you want to the large number of highly educated readers that make up 3QD’s international audience. Several of our regular columnists have had to cut back or even completely quit their columns for 3QD because of other personal and professional commitments and so we are looking for a few new voices. We do not pay, but it is a good chance to draw attention to subjects you are interested in, and to get feedback from us and from our readers.
We would certainly love for our pool of writers to reflect the diversity of our readers in every way, including gender, age, ethnicity, race, sexual orientation, etc., and we encourage people of all kinds to apply. And we like unusual voices and varied viewpoints. So please send us something. What have you got to lose? Click on “Read more »” below…
I have recently heard at least twice, I can’t remember exactly where, different commentators expressing a sentiment very much like the following: we require nothing short of an entirely new vocabulary to describe the otherworldly corruption of the Trump regime. And events of this past week alone (I am writing on Sunday afternoon, May the 24th, 2026) have indeed provided extensive evidence in favor of at least the spirit of this sentiment. First of all, according to a report filed with a federal ethics agency (according to the Associated Press), Trump engaged in more than 3,600 buy and sell orders in the first quarter of 2026 alone. That is more than all 535 members of the rightly-maligned Congress put together, as Ryan Grim noted. Vice President Vance claimed that all the trades were conducted by presumably independent financial professionals who administered accounts Trump had no direct access to, but analysis made it clear that many of the trades were in companies directly influenced by Trump’s policies, and occurred mere hours, or even minutes, before important policy–including military and national security-related ones–announcements were made by Trump (sometimes on Truth Social), or administration personnel. This renders the veracity of Vance’s statement very problematic, to put it mildly. And then it was reported that Trump’s personal fortune has increased 165%during his time in office in the second term alone. And, finally (there may be more, but I will end the recitation here; this article provides a quite comprehensive list of the most important instances of fraud, double-dealing, insider dealings, conflicts of interest and simple grift that Trump and his family have been involved in during recent years for those who care to stomach more), the week also witnessed the appearance of the most spectacular instance of corruption perhaps imaginable at this level at this time: Trump directed his own Department of Justice (whose head, acting Attorney General Todd Blanche, recall, served as Trump’s personal lawyer until assuming the post at Justice) to drop a lawsuit against the IRS Trump had lodged only in January because information from his tax returns (which Trump had promised to make public anyway) had been leaked years before. The leaker was charged and imprisoned, which should have brought an end to the matter altogether, but Trump continued to litigate until a judge appeared close to dismissing the suit because Trump as was essentially suing his own IRS, which is simply absurd. Trump reversed gears and told the DoJ, again run by his former personal lawyer, to settle with the IRS, dropping the damages from $10 billion to $1.8 billion ($1,776 billion to be exact, conspicuously ratifying the frivolity of the claim, perhaps, by making it match the year the United States claimed independence, rather than any plausible claims).
But this is not the end of the preposterous story. Read more »
The battles fought by our forbears Our memory will dissolve into peace To set our common house in order This is our task – and it will not come with ease. — Attila József, “By the Danube” (final stanza, trans. K.B.)
Image: 444.hu (artist unknown; after Alexandre Cabanel, “The Death of Icarus”)
I have arrived in my hometown, Budapest, just before the election that delivered a decisive blow to Fidesz, Viktor Orbán’s party. Péter Magyar, the leader of the opposition party Tisza, is now the prime minister, and his party holds more than two-thirds of the seats in parliament, enough to restore the constitution and reverse Hungary’s autocratic backsliding. The night of the election, after the results were announced, entire subway cars burst out in spontaneous, triumphant chants of “two-thirds, two-thirds!”. Péter Magyar, in front of a huge, delirious crowd, with the Danube and Parliament in the background, promised a free, fair, and democratic Hungary. Street celebrations all over the country went on till dawn. Everything, it seemed, had changed that night.
Fidesz has dominated, subjugated, and run roughshod over the country for the last 16 years, reaching into virtually every aspect of life: the judiciary, the media, the economy, politics, government, education, science and culture, and everything in between. During this time, it has harassed and stigmatized politicians, business people, actors, teachers, students, and ordinary citizens, and became, according to political scientist Bálint Magyar (no relation to Péter Magyar), a “mafia state”. Ever since the election, a large part of the country has been living in what someone here called a “suspended moment of triumph”. According to the latest polls, among likely voters, today 23% would choose Fidesz, and 71% would vote for Tisza, Péter Magyar’s party. The emotions that took hold of the majority of the population, and certainly of everyone I know well in this city, can hardly be captured in ordinary language; something larger than life is taking place.
The fall of Fidesz has been spectacular; Orbán is somewhere in hiding, his all-powerful commissars acting like stuttering, cowed children in encounters with the new regime. People say even coffee tastes better in the morning. There are fewer lines on people’s faces, at least it appears so. While people thought, even a couple of months ago, that Fidesz would never give up power, now everyone is talking about whether they will end up behind bars.
Hungary is a small, landlocked, relatively poor country with a dismal history as a plaything of greater powers to the east and the west, from the Mongol invasions to Habsburg and Ottoman rule, its uprisings crushed by a rotating cast of intervening powers, most recently by the Soviet Union in 1956. The victory over Orbán is perhaps the first successful regime change in Hungary, brought about not by outside forces (as at the end of World War II or in 1948-49 by the Soviets) or by the elites, as in 1989.
This time, it was a unified push by the great majority of people in the country. Read more »
For parents it’s easy, but even for anyone without kids it’s not hard to imagine: the fear that your child is anything but safe and healthy. It starts before they’re born, with worry and greater amounts of hope that they enter this world free of pain and deformity and developmental irregularities. If that hurdle is cleared, still the anxiety never goes away, ever, over the years. It only changes. It focuses on circumstances they put themselves in, the people they might encounter, the influences they might come under.
There are worse fears. That your child looks fine, grows normally, but inside, hidden, they are distant and unreachable. And that they grow up as you might expect someone so isolated, so unable to communicate could. Awkward, alone, rebellious, a danger, particularly to themselves.
The semi-autobiographical film Blue Heron depicts brilliantly how such a child is both the source and recipient of this world of hurt and fear. It shows the frustration and exasperation of parents struggling to keep their child safe, their lives somewhat normal. The fallout of familial and legal turmoil on the siblings. The way a person whose actions we cannot understand strains a parent’s love, endlessly. The futility of seeking help, the inability of our society to cope with people with unseen problems. Read more »
We arrive dumb as stumps, wailing as if we already knew the inevitability of outcomes
Why did we not laugh instead, foreseeing joy, or simply remain mute in the moment, suggesting sudden premonition—> the instant awareness that life would bring both understanding and awareness, all provoked by the shock of sudden light accompanied by a background chorus of loud exclamations expressing both relief and happiness at our arrival?
After all, fish (as we understand), or birds, (as we expect), or every living creature, (as it seems), every being born arrives with the intent of survival, new life brought forth by acts of love (in the best and deepest sense of the word).
But instead we cry, we wail at our advent as if we already knew this new condition would be of both darkness and light
depending upon chance, and our choice of disposition.
Jim Culleny 5/20/26
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We begin with song, with a Wagnerian primordial harmony, a simplistic melody that eschews the false refinement of the times, instead speaking directly to primal self with lyrics in the imperative. It does not, like the Priests before it, forbid action with “Thou shalt not,” nor does it request from a position of submission. No, it commands that parts are put in, taken out, and shaken about as the Aristocrats assertively did before their souls were poisoned by the ressentiment of the weak.
One at a time, the hands and the feet are put in and taken out, right first and only then the left. The privileged position of the right over the left is understood through the etymology of the terms in which “right” moves from an indicator of orientation, a mere side, to something more profound—the word “right” came to mean correct, morally approved, protected by law but originated in the terms for strong, beautiful, beloved of the gods. “Left,” on the other hand—for it literally is the other hand—stems from a different origin. In the Latin and Aramaic, it represents untrustworthy, poorly constructed, and ooooh, that’s got to hurt. In Swahili, it derives from the notion of “unlikely to be granted tenure.” And in high mid-Germanic it is a variant of “will spend Friday nights alone, unable to get a date, even if he does grow a moustache of notable size.”
But the distinction stops when it is the head that is put in and taken out and shaken all about. For the head is neither left not right, yet appears in the lyrics only after the feet that climb mountains and the arms that may be raised in triumph. The head only becomes important with the priestly elevation of soul which removes the focus away from the instinct and urgent desires of the flesh. But within the confines of the hokey pokey, the head is the crown of the material body, the überist of the pieces of the Mensch who is himself über. It is recognized as just yet another part to be shaken all about, though it is only in using this part that those capable of hokeying or pokeying have become both insightful and neurotic.
But these parts are mere elements. They are not the thing. The parade of parts builds to a crescendo in which all is subsumed. Steadily the Dionysian reverie grows until it peaks with the whole self put in and the whole self put out: the whole self, the entirety of one’s being. In this way, the assertion is implicitly made that the self is the body, it is a denial of the immaterial soul, the basis of the Judeo-Christian bad faith slave ethic and when that whole self is shaken about with the force of the will to power, it is breaking loose and thereby exorcising this failed attempt to historicize away being itself.
Finally, upon doing the hokey pokey, you turn yourself about, that is, the self is moved away from the gaze of the masses, the sheep, rotating to where none are visible. It is into the void that one turns around staring into nothingness that demonstrates once and for all the atomistic nature of the self, that it is you and you alone who must transcend your limitedness and strive for full triumphant self-affirmation. It is only when that is complete that your revolution is finished, when you return to the group as a being above being and knowing that is, indeed, what it IS all about.
I could probably create a list of 1,000 things that were strange about Germany, but here are 10:
1) How comfortable they are with nudity.
The United States likes to reference itself as the “leader of the free world.” But as soon as it comes to nudity, we turn into puritans.
Not so in Germany. The comfort around being naked (gym showers, saunas, even hiking clubs) took a bit of getting used to.
And honestly – I never really got used to it.
2) Men sitting down to pee.
In theory this makes sense. But in reality? Do Germans just think that men can’t aim very well?
Funny enough, my Dad is part German. He’s never actually been there, but he sits down when he pees.
You can take the man out of Germany. Can’t take the Germany out of the man!
3) The insistence on paying separately.
Something no German has ever said:
“I’ve got this round, you get the next one.”
Obviously an exaggeration here. But the frequency of splitting the bill does start to make you wonder. Cool on a date if you don’t want to spend too much. But when you’re just hanging out with friends? Kind of takes the magic away.
4) How often conversations revolve around insurance.
The father of my German ex-girlfriend once told me a funny joke:
The German national sport is discussing insurance.
He’s not far off. The number of these conversations that I’ve overheard would boggle your mind. Your house. Your fence. Your TV. Your bike.
If a German buys something, but forgets to add on insurance-
Did they really buy it?
5) How many vacation days they take.
Americans per year: 11
Germans per year: 30
They clearly forgot the “work until you kill yourself” ethos of my home country.Read more »
Dear Readers and Writers,
Every spring, as reliably as pollen, universities summon the unusually successful to advise the temporarily credentialed.
Sughra Raza. Found Playground Art, Essex Junction, VT. May, 2026.
Dear Reader,
