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Hands as the Language of Thought: Correcting a Kant Attribution

There is a line about hands that travels well. It reads cleanly, carries an air of philosophical dignity, and arrives in print wearing the name of Immanuel Kant. “The hand is the visible part of the brain,” runs the most common English form, or, in an older rendering, “the hand is the outer brain of man.” The phrase appears in publishing copy, in teaching materials, on Goodreads quotation pages, in popular psychology, in surgical textbooks, in neurology lectures, and in essays on sign language and gesture. It has the shape of something Kant should have said. The difficulty is that no reliable evidence supports treating it as a verified Kant statement.

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The Charge and the Curriculum: How the Dark Arts Replaced Black Magic

Two phrases arrive from different centuries and now sit on the same shelf: “black magic” and “the Dark Arts.” Modern speakers treat them as synonyms. Older readers would have disagreed, and the disagreement matters, because the collapse of the two terms shows how our language for forbidden knowledge has migrated from the judicial to the aesthetic, from accusation to ambience.

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Sontag’s Two Doors, Campbell’s Underworld

In a television interview that has circulated for years, Susan Sontag offers a small theory of storytelling. She points out that the English word “story” carries a double valence. We say “tell me the real story” to demand truth, and we say “that’s only a story” to dismiss invention. Stories, she argues, face two directions at once, toward fact and toward fantasy, and this doubleness sits at the center of what stories do.

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The Area Code Comes Home

When Scott Frost took over at Nebraska in 2018, he brought with him from UCF a small equipment decision that ran directly against what the phone system had been doing for fifteen years. Frost let Husker players wear their three-digit home area code on the helmet bumper above the face mask. A Peyton Newell on the defensive line, a Mike Williams at wide receiver, an Andre Hunt lining up outside, each wore the digits of where they came from in black on red. The helmet bumper is a small piece of real estate, two inches by four, just large enough to carry three numbers. Frost had started the practice at UCF in late 2016 before the USF rivalry game, and he said at Nebraska that the guys took a lot of pride in it. Where you come from, he said, still counts.

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Seeing Around Corners

The phrase “seeing around corners” gets tossed around boardrooms and strategy meetings as though it were a compliment, a kind of secular beatification for the executive or thinker who got there first. But the phrase deserves closer scrutiny, because what it actually describes is a discipline, and one that most people refuse to practice because the conclusions it produces are uncomfortable.

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The Cooperator’s Dilemma: How Martin Nowak’s Mathematics of Kindness Became a Blueprint for Control

Martin Nowak wanted to prove that cooperation is the animating force of evolution. He succeeded. His mathematical models, published across decades of work at Oxford, Princeton, and Harvard, demonstrate with formal rigor that cooperation is not an anomaly in a competitive world but a fundamental mechanism by which biological complexity arises. Genomes cooperate. Cells cooperate. Organisms cooperate. Societies cooperate. Without cooperation, there are no multicellular bodies, no ant colonies, no languages, no civilizations. This is not sentiment. It is mathematics. And it is precisely because the mathematics are correct that they are dangerous.

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The Conceit of the Clock: Aristotle, Time, and the Hunger That Devours Us

Aristotle opens his investigation of time in Book IV of the Physics with a question so destabilizing it threatens to collapse the inquiry before it begins: does time even exist? His reasoning is not coy. The past has ceased to be. The future has not yet arrived. The present, the “now,” is not a duration but a limit, a dimensionless boundary between what was and what will be. If the parts of time do not exist, and the one element that does exist is not itself a part of time, then time appears to be nothing at all. This is not a classroom riddle. It is a genuine ontological crisis, and Aristotle treats it as one.

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Memory in the Meme

We live in an age of disposable context. We scroll through the infinite ribbon of the glass screen, pausing only for a microsecond to register a flicker of recognition before sliding our thumb upward, condemning the moment to the digital abyss. We have been trained by the Technocrats, those right-brained architects of our algorithmic prisons, to view this behavior as consumption. They tell us we are “consuming content.” But they are wrong. When we pause on a meme, that pixelated artifact of cultural shorthand, we are not consuming. We are remembering.

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The Weight of the Digital Attic

Sorting through a box of family photos in Nebraska last year, the physical weight of them stopped me. It wasn’t just the heavy cardboard. It was the specific gravity of each print. I held a single, fading photograph of folks I did not know, captured on their wedding day. Just one. It wasn’t one of twenty-seven burst-mode variations kept “just in case.”

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Wilma’s Boy

My mother, Wilma Jean Boles, died on June 24, 2024. She was 85-years-old. Her death was unfortunate, and unnecessarily gruesome in that, in the end, she chose not to walk, or eat, or take her medication after a major surgery; the only thing she desired was a quick death. My mother always fought for what she wanted, and sometimes what she wanted is what nobody else wanted, including her death. Wilma never really recovered from elective surgery she had on May 23, 2024 to fix a perforated diaphragm where half of her stomach and part of her colon were stuck in her chest cavity, placing pressure on her left lung. Her surgeon believed she’d been living with that condition for more than 25 years; and he also believed there was “no good reason” for her not to recover and get better. As I have worked to come to terms with Wilma’s death, and the first 23 years of our life together, I am surrounded by — and often hunted with — the memories of my mother’s life, her successes, her disappointments, and her ability to continually confound the unwary. I have also realized, but not quite yet accepted, that no matter how hard I try, or how fast I may run, I will always be “Wilma’s Boy.”

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