Downward Spiral

In this piece, Kate Evans explains just how unique and magical nautiluses are. Be prepared to find yourself fascinated by an animal that has often been labeled a “dumb snail.”

Number 3 was the teacher’s pet. Number 13 was always trying to break out of her car seat. Number 9 lived the longest in captivity, 10 years, and he was Basil’s favorite: “Oh, he was a prince.” He would curl his tentacles around her finger when she reached into the water, and when he got old, Basil gave him a “retirement tank” and his favorite food—lobster carapaces she scrounged from fancy New York restaurants.

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Living With Wolves

This is a lovely essay exploring the writer’s bond with some sanctuary wolves. They keep calling to her over great distances, and for many years, displaying the importance of the connection she found. Eventually, she finds peace with where she is, but the wolves remain unforgotten.

I found my stride when the cool spring winds blew during long summer days. Somewhere between the crunch of earth beneath my feet; the sun on my cheeks; the fur in my hands; the labor, stillness, and isolation; the caw of ravens; the march of tarantulas; and the lock of golden wolf eyes, I was forged into someone new.

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Real Magic

Transcendental meditation: is it the key to world peace or corporate hokum? For The Baffler, Lauren Collee learns the practice and explores some of TM’s curious history to find out for herself.

Previously, the Maharishi had claimed that for quality of life to improve, at least one percent of the population had to practice TM; an equation that was known as the “Maharishi effect.” After the introduction of the TM-Sidhi program, he proposed that if the square root of one percent of the population practiced Yogic flying at the same time, noticeable benefits would be seen in society. This was known as the “extended Maharishi effect.” Doug Henning did the math and incorporated it into his 1993 federal election campaign in Canada. “Seven thousand yogic flyers can create a perfect government with the ability to satisfy everyone,” he explained to his would-be voters. “All of our national problems are basically caused by stress. And the best antidote is Transcendental Meditation and seven thousand yogic flyers.”

Is TM extracting money via false promises to potentially vulnerable people? Most certainly yes. But is the whole enterprise one big sham? It depends on how you look at it. Over the years, TM has grown and splintered. Some of its branches are undoubtedly rotten. Others perhaps remain well-intentioned. All things considered, I regret giving money to the organization, and wish that I had trained with teachers who situate themselves outside of the official TM umbrella, as some of my friends have done. At the same time, I do not regret learning TM. I’ve spent a lot of my life feeling that my mind and I weren’t the best of friends. The central principle of TM—that every person’s mind has a natural tendency towards a state of happiness and tranquillity, and need not be viewed as an enemy to be subdued—is deeply reassuring to me.

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How Danhausen Became Professional Wrestling’s Strangest Star

Yes, this is the second story about professional wrestling appearing on Longreads in a single month week day. But Dan Brooks’ story — about an upstart character in an upstart league who upends everything you thought you knew about the sport — is also one of the best explications of kayfabe’s meta-fineries I’ve ever read, and accomplishes the nearly impossible task of making me wish I followed the sport.

Danhausen’s dubious command of occult forces is only one aspect of his absurd presentation, which blurs the line between what is supposed to be real in the fictive world of pro wrestling and what is supposed to be his character’s own delusion. He is not “6-foot-7, probably,” as his self-reported measurements claim, nor does he weigh in at “over 300 pounds.” At 5-foot-10 and roughly 175 pounds, the real Danhausen is physically unimposing. It was this final element — active denial of his own limitations as a wrestler — that turned his whole gimmick into a kind of commentary on wrestling itself. And he has found that this commentary resonates deeply with the class of obsessive fans who attend indie shows and watch videos of indie wrestling on the internet.

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Barry Horowitz Pats Himself on the Back

Professional wrestling’s enduring grip on pop culture might baffle me, but I always enjoy reading smart stories about the people behind the spandex — and Jay Deitcher’s profile of Horowitz, a Jewish everyman who became a Jewish quasi-star, qualifies beautifully. Someone’s gotta lose in the ring; why not be the person who elevates it to a fine art?

If you watched pro wrestling during the late ’80s and ’90s, you knew Horowitz as the enhancement talent who loved patting himself on the back. He was clotheslined. He was body-slammed. He was pile-driven through the mat, often getting pinned in less than three minutes and making his opponents look like Greek gods. He also was professional wrestling’s most outwardly Jewish performer, never afraid to hide his heritage, parading to the ring to “Hava Nagilah” and rocking a Star of David on his trunks.

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Trying to Stay Awake

The late Jenny Diski explores sleep and the childhood pleasure she took in prolonging the precipice of sleep, that liminal space between wakefulness and coveted slumber.

Actually, my speciality is not sleep itself, but the hinterland of sleep, the point of entry to unconsciousness.

One of my earliest memories of sensual pleasure (though there must have been earlier, watery ones) is of lying on my stomach in bed, the bedtime story told, lights out (not the hall, leave the door open, no, more than that), the eiderdown heavy and over my head, my face in the pillow, adjusted so that I had just enough air to breathe. I recall how acutely aware I was of being perfectly physically comfortable, as heimlich as I ever had been or ever would be, and no small part of the comfort was the delicious prospect of falling slowly into sleep. Drifting off. Moving off, away, out of mindfulness. Leaving behind.

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Space to Breathe

When Krista Lee Hanson’s son Lucas was born, he couldn’t breathe on his own. At 2 months old, his doctors inserted a permanent tracheostomy tube. He has needed breathing support ever since, including the constant suctioning of saliva and mucus to clear his airway. Hanson weaves her reflections on the challenges of raising Lucas with an account of an experience at the symphony with him, and the whispers and raised eyebrows that came with it. Hanson’s essay on parenting and caring for a disabled child, and being seen, is at once tender and powerful.

The Seattle Symphony conductor enters from stage right, bows to polite applause, then lifts his arms to begin. I try to wait for the loudest crescendos to do the suctioning, but sometimes Lucas can’t wait. I feel smug disdain scratching at the back of my neck from the people behind us. I can’t hear them, but seated at our angle, I see them out of the corner of my eye. They point at us and whisper. I summon all my powers of meditation, of focus, to try to ignore them. I remind myself: We have the right to be here. The symphony donated these tickets to an organization for disabled people, so they knew who they were inviting.

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