CEP Newsletter - Orange & Spooky

Editor: Melinda Hall Designer: Madison Creech Staff Writers: Sarah Cramer, Melinda Hall Luca Molnar, Ben Phillis, Leila Roach, Morris Sullivan, Denise Yezbick

Dear Students, We think of you as always, and hope that you are well, safe, and healthy. We know the difficulties of this time cannot be overstated.

We are so glad to send you our sixth newsletter, with a Halloween-inspired spooky theme and a special focus on the color orange. The theme was collaboratively determined, as always; we discovered that we have a serious, shared love of scary stuff! This month, our group continued to support Luca and Ben’s planning of a Lantern course, which we now plan to start in January. Madison, Sarah, Denise, Leila, Luca, Ben, and Melinda all worked on this edition of the newsletter. We also have a guest writer, Chesya Burke, Assistant Professor of English and U.S. Literatures at Stetson University. We are lucky, as she is a noted horror author!

Thank you to Sarah for asking her permission to print her piece, “Please Momma” in this month’s edition ¬of the newsletter. As always, we invite your responses to the contents, including your ideas for future themes! Please send them in with the included stamped envelopes.

We have continued the following features: Artist Spotlight (thank you Luca), Student Spotlight (this month’s spotlight is on Marcus, thank you Denise), Sarah’s column, and Sacred Space with Sensei Morris. We also continue Community Conversation (thank you for your responses to the last newsletter’s set of prompts!), and have a special entry from Denise on Emily Dickinson’s poetry that is a terrific read.

Last time we included our Call for Papers (CFP) for the spring conference for each of you to review – and, there is still time to make substantial changes and to think about how you might want to contribute. The dates have been moved back to April 9 and 10, so we have flexibility. We welcome your feedback.

In other news, Melinda plans to offer Business Ethics for credit in the spring.

She’ll be collaborating with John Heald, a member of the Board of Trustees at Stetson who is interested in meeting you all. We include his bio in this present newsletter, and hope that our plans meet your desires for curriculum connected to entrepreneurship.

Please enjoy the material and know that you are always on our minds.

All best wishes,

The CEP Team, far and wide

PLease, Momma by Dr. Chesya Burke Dr. Chesya Burke is an Asst. Professor of English and U.S. Literatures here at Stetson. She is an award-winning writer, who has published nearly a hundred stories and articles, leading Grammy-nominated spoken word artist and poet, Nikki Giovanni, to call her work “stunning.” Her primary areas of interests are in African American literature, comics and fluid fiction. Dr. Burke’s short story collection, Let’s Play White, is being taught in universities around the world and her book on Storm from XMen is being published by Rutgers University Press in 2022. She is currently editing an issue on Jordan Peele for the journal of Supernatural Studies.

In her spare time, Dr. Burke likes to take selfies and write critical critiques of The Walking Dead, Lovecraft Country, and race, class and gender within pop culture.”

1989 In the car. On the way to see Her. She scares us. They say . . .

Why do you always do that? I hate when you do that.

Do what?

Narrate our story. Where we’re going. What we’re doing.

You know I can hear you. I hate it so much.

But they’ll want to know one day. She said they’ll need to know.

No one cares about you, girl. No one cares about us.

They will.

Cars never bounce around the way they make them appear in the movies. No, instead they glide, more like the lull of a boat on stale waters. And they’re just as loud as the boat’s engine, even with the windows rolled up there are always loud swooshing noises assaulting the senses. The sounds should be calming, like the ocean, but they never are. They are annoying and invading. Or at least it’s what the girls always imagined what the beach and ocean should sound like. They had never been farther than Kentucky Lake, a few hours away from where they were now. The water there was so muddy that you couldn’t see your hands in front of your face and everything that moved within its depths looked like invading, misshapen piranha out to devour your flesh. But the girls loved it so. Except when the motion threatened to make them sick.

The car swerved around a sharp corner, another wave

threatening to take over, and the girls swayed in the back, holding on to each other. Their tummies were not holding up well under the stress, though it probably had nothing to do with the car ride and everything to do with their destination. The girls looked at each other, their minds quiet for a moment. There was no need to speak, nothing to say.

In the driver’s seat, the girl’s aunt turned to stare at their mother. Auntie’s eyes, dark and weary, stared for so long that it was scary. As the car veered toward the middle of the street, the lines on the road before them slid by between the tires of the car. After what seemed like a long moment, the woman turned away and righted the car, putting them all back on track.

March 26th 6:30 p.m. on Sunday afternoon.

In the car with momma. She’s sad. Auntie’s driving us to see her, but if she’s not careful, she’s gonna kill us before we can even get there.

So, that’s what you’re worried about? Dying? The girl seemed insulted. Momma’s not sad, she fucking sick. She’s not getting better.

She’s not sick. Stop saying she’s sick.

She’s fucking sick. Stop pretending that you don’t see that.

You stop cussin’. I’m the oldest, so I said stop it! I mean it, Baby. Stop it.

Sissy reached out to nudge her little sister, reassuring her.

They didn’t fight often, but when they did, she always

pulled the “oldest” sister card to get her way. It had always worked in the past but it was beginning to get old — literally — and her sister, Baby, wasn’t going to be so easily controlled anymore. Baby avoided her touch, rolling her eyes. Why couldn’t she just get her sister to understand that she knew what was best for them, she just wanted to protect her? It was her job, to protect her sister.

Baby put her cold hand on her sister’s face. I do understand. But you can’t protect me. It’s not your job anymore. She smiled. Let me protect you sometimes.

“Sissy, Baby, stop it. Stop fooling around!” Momma turned toward the girls, her eyes fixed, moving between the two.

“You’re so loud. You’re so goddamn loud. In my head. All the time. Talkin’, talkin’, talkin’. Just stop it!”

Their aunt put her hand on Momma’s leg. “That’s enough, Mae. Stop it. She wasn’t saying anything. It’s the roots.

We’re gonna get it off ya. Just . . . calm down until we get there. Just . . . just stop it.” The woman looked at Sissy through the rear view mirror, tried to smile but failed, then looked away quickly.

In the silence, Momma burst out laughing. For a long time.

“Roots. Roots. Roots,” she mocked. “You think someone put roots on me? You’re gonna wish that’s it, by the time I’m done with her.”

Auntie pulled the car into a parking spot in a tiny little shopping plaza. The neon lights blinking PSYCHIC were the only visible signs of life inside. White curtains covered the storefront windows. Auntie switched the car off, dropped the keys in her purse, then turned to her sister.

“I’ve listened to the things you’ve said about your own children lately — the nasty, vile things you’ve said about them — and I’ve tried to understand, because I know you’re hurting, but if you think about putting a hand on her again, I will lay you flat. Do you understand me?”

Momma smiled. “Not her,” she placed a finger to her temple. “Her.” •••• Momma is not sad. She’s sick. It’s something in her mind.

Something really bad.

I can’t see it. I keep trying but I can’t see what’s wrong with her. I’m scared.

Me too. She don’t talk to me anymore. She seems scared to look at me. I think she hates me.

Baby shook her head. She don’t hate you. She just ain’t well. The Lady will help her, Iyaafin can help her, I’m sure of it.

I don’t like her and I don’t like it here.

She’s gonna help momma.

She’s not. I don’t think anyone can help momma anymore.

The sisters held each other standing in the dimly lit foyer of the PSYCHIC with the giant neon hand. They didn’t want to let go, didn’t want to move, didn’t want to have to be in that room, for that reason, with these women. Grownups are supposed to protect children, supposed to keep them safe, but they don’t. Not, the girls realize, because they don’t love their children, but because that is how things are.

The world is a very big place, and very big things happen and grownups are never big enough to stop them. Instead, Iyaafin had constantly reminded them, mommas, aunties, and grands have little girls and they want everything to be perfect, and pink and happy and it never ever happens that way; and daddies, uncles and papas just want little boys and are never ever happy if they don’t get them.

But their daddy had not wanted little boys. He had been happy to have his baby girls from the day that they had entered the world, one right after the other, within minutes of each other. He had held them and cared for them and protected them. But his heart wasn’t big enough for all the love that he held for them, so it gave out one day. It just stopped beating in his chest and he died. He took his big heart with him, and left only its weakness. The girls had been four years old, and now they were eight and a half. Almost big girls, their auntie told them. Almost big enough to understand things, big, grownup things, almost big enough to put away childish things, let go, accept what had happened. The twins did not want to let go. They did not want to accept what had happened. They wanted to stay like this, holding on to each other for as long as they could, until they were forced apart.

“I see that for as much as things change, they forever stay the same between you two, ômôbìnrins, eh?” The girls, as she’d called them, looked up as the woman walked from the back of the building, through a sheer curtain. She was wearing a long, one piece dress with drawings of eyes of all shapes and sizes. Auntie said that the woman did enjoy her comedic side, playing into what everyone expected of her. The Lady thought it was funny, but she always looked the same, spoke the same, behaved the same way, always.

They’d been coming to her since their father had died and the girls didn’t like the way she always wanted to separate them, wanted to force them to grow up too quickly, accept things that they weren’t ready to accept. Iyaafin had convinced their auntie so now she mimicked what the woman said. They all trusted her so. The whole town and the surrounding community trusted her.

The twins did not. “Ẹ ku abọ, all!” she welcomed the group, ignoring the girl’s

disdain for her. Suddenly the woman stopped for a moment, and slowly turned her neck to look at Momma. She squinted her eyes, cocked her head. Walking over to the woman, she placed her hand on her forehead for a long while. Nothing moved, no one spoke. They all knew to let the woman do whatever it was that she did. After what seemed like forever, she turned to look at Sissy. “Does it still hurt? Your eye. Your mother did that, right?”

Sissy shook her head. “No.” “She did. Don’t lie for her, ômôbìnrin.”

“I’m not lying. I mean . . . no, it doesn’t still hurt.” Beside her their auntie began to cry. Their mother just stood, quietly. Unblinking, unfeeling, emotionless. She had been that way lately. She only ever showed emotion anymore when she was angry. At Sissy. Always at Sissy. As if she blamed her for everything.

The Lady looked back at their Momma. “They do it to please you, you know. Always have.”

“Iyaafin . . . Lady — ” their Auntie started to interrupt, but the woman put up a finger to silence her.

“That’s why they can’t let go. Because you can’t let go.”

Momma acted as if she could not even hear the woman, as if she didn’t have a care in the world. As if she did not have children that depended on her.

“What the hell is wrong with her? What’s wrong with my sister? Did someone put roots on her? Can you fix it?

Please!”

The woman did not speak for a long while, as was her way. She spoke slowly, when she was good and ready. The others waited. Still there was silence. “No. No one could do this to her. This one she invited onto herself.”

“What? We thought it was roots. Nothing else can explain why she’s so angry all the damn time.”

“No. This is no magick. No trick of roots. No one person hates her this much. This is . . . much deeper. It’s big and wide and solid. It’s the world, it’s hate, it’s like a big boulder of centralized hurt and anger and rage and internalized hate, all balled up into one big bad thing riding her back like a clown on a unicycle. And your sister ain’t the clown.”

“I don’t understand. What’s wrong with her? Can you fix her?”

For the first time Iyaafin could not meet the eyes of anyone in the room. She stared at the floor, seeming to think about what to say next, contemplating her words carefully. “Your sister is not in control of herself anymore. I suspect it has been like this for a long time. I . . . don’t know if I can help her.”

•••• Daddy used to lift the girls on his back, spin them around and pretend they were all helicopters, each a part of the machine that made it run safely. He was the engine and they were the propellers. Momma would stand and watch to make sure that everything was safe while they all played.

Every now and again he would pitch one of the girls to her and she was always waiting to catch them, arms out, trusting daddy to have good aim, while he trusted her to be there to receive them. When the girls were too big to carry them both, he would swing them one at a time. It was never quite as much fun that way. Perhaps it was because they were getting too old for this to be fun any longer or perhaps because daddy’s heart was no longer strong enough to propel the engine of their four-person machine. Perhaps, though, being apart was not as important as being together.

The girls had never really learned to let go. This, Iyaafin insisted, was part of the problem.

Iyaafin stood in front of Momma, the woman’s hands on Momma’s head. Momma’s eyes were closed and neither of the girls thought she was with them anymore. If the Lady were telling the truth, perhaps she had not been with them for a long time. Maybe even since that day. Auntie stood nearby in case something went wrong. She looked nervous and no doubt had no idea what she could do to help, but she was there and it made the girls feel better since they no longer trusted that Momma could catch.

The girls watched as Iyaafin, her left hand still on Momma’s head, rubbed her right hand down the woman’s back.

She stopped mid-way, her fingers tapping Momma’s spine like a drum. There was movement under Momma’s shirt. At first the girls thought that it had just been their imagination, but as they watched, it wiggled again, as if a hornet’s nest vibrated just under her shirt. Auntie gasped, jumped back, knocking a bottle off the table behind her. The glass clinked to the floor, bounced, then rolled toward the girls.

“Be still,” the woman warned.

Very carefully the woman reached out and laid her right hand on Momma’s back, right where the hornets lived.

She closed her eyes and held it there, unmoving. When she opened her eyes the whites were red, as if she had been drinking too much Whiskey, like uncle used to before he found the lord. “Help me get her shirt off.” Their auntie hesitated for only a moment, then she ran over and pulled Momma’s shirt over her head. Momma didn’t care. There was no way that if Momma had been well she could have showed her chest to anyone. Although she was wearing a bra, she always said that respectable women only bared their flesh to the lord and then only to clean any dirt and filth away.

Momma’s back was naked except for her bra strap and it looked wrong. It was much lighter than her dark brown skin and had large boils on it, clusters and clusters of them filling her back from her neck to the top of her pants. The boils bubbled just beneath the skin, threatening to burst.

Momma’s eyes were closed, and the girls thought for a moment that she had passed out.

The Lady grabbed Momma, holding her tight, sending a wave of power through her body. The woman’s body jumped, looking like all the people on TV who got shocked by electricity. Iyaafin shocked her again, and again and again. As the last bolt shot through her body, a small form appeared crouching on Momma’s shoulders, its claw-like nails digging into her flesh. The Lady stumbled backward, hands up as if she was afraid to touch the thing’s pale, moldy skin.

clear to the girls that it was aware of them all, watching, almost mocking them with its crooked smirk.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

The Lady stared at the thing. “It’s an Onírárà, a rider, a parasite. It hitches on to people who are . . . hopeless.

Suffering. It feeds from them. But that’s never enough, they always want more.”

“What? What did you say?” Momma was talking clearly.

She could understand what was going on. She was Momma again. The girls wanted to go to her, but the thing was still there, taunting them, daring them to come closer to it.

“How you feel?” Iyaafin asked her.

1989. Iyaafin’s place. Momma is sick. She’s very — deep breath — very sick.

“Strange. I’ve been so overwhelmed with . . . hopelessness and I had all these vile thoughts.” She looked over at the girls. “Oh, my god, Sissy, did I do that to you? Jesus.

I remember wanting to hurt you so bad, and I just could not stop thinking it. I wanted to, I knew it didn’t make any sense, I just could not stop the terrible thoughts from popping into my head. I just cannot believe that I actually did it. I don’t remember any of it.”

The girls did not take their eyes off the creature, who stared at them, smiling. It tilted its head, peculiar-like, seeing them, actually observing them.

“This Onírárà is really strong. It’s able to take completely over you. It feeds from you and the kids taking energy from your grief and fear and sadness. It’s a parasite, it feeds.”

What the #@&% is that?

“Feeds? Off what? What does it want?” Auntie had been quiet but she looked worried and scared.

Simultaneously the girls jumped to their feet. Sissy began to gasp for air. She tried to calm down the only way she knew how.

Did you say #@&%? How’d you do that? In my head. I just see a bunch of gibberish clouding my mind.

“It wants her soul.”

You told me not to curse. I didn’t curse.

“What? My soul?”

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” their Aunt asked. She moved closer but the Lady raised a hand to stay her.

“No. Not you, Mae. It wants the little girl.”

After getting her composure, Iyaafin walked up to Momma, placed her hands on the woman’s face and sent a powerful jolt through the tips of her fingers into Momma’s mind.

Momma jerked out of her seat and landed on the floor, sliding across the marble, her butt scraping the floorboards.

She sat up, crawled back toward the Lady. She looked up and suddenly her eyes were clearer than they had been in a long time. She looked around the room, as if just realizing where they were.

Momma stood completely still, her face filled with the emotion that she had been unable to express for the last few weeks. Sorrow, hurt, pain, anger. Her face screamed it all, at once. “It can’t have her. She’s all I got left.” Momma cried. Finally.

“Oh, god, Mae! Are you okay? Jesus!” Auntie was breathing hard, like she’d run all the way here, with the girls strapped to her back. She turned to Iyaafin, “You did it, Lady.”

The thing on Momma’s back continued to grin as Auntie walked toward Momma.

“Don’t,” Iyaafin yelled. “It’s not over. Is it?” She seemed to be talking to the thing, but it did not answer her. But it was

Everyone turned to look at Sissy. She looked frightened, alone.

Iyaafin shook her head. “Not her.” She turned to the ghost of the girl who once existed but could no longer hold her mother’s hand and yet could never lose her heart. “Her.” Then to the living daughter: “You see her, don’t you, girl.

You know she’s still here, among you. When I came into the room, I could sense you two. Both of you. The way you had been just after your father died, when your mother first came to seek my advice. Is your sister afraid of what’s beyond?” the Lady asked.

No. “No.” Sissy repeated her sister’s words. I’m scared for

you and momma. “She’s afraid to leave us. She said we need her. I’ve told her that’s not true. Lots of times, but she won’t listen.”

you give away?”

“Because it’s not you holding her here.” Iyaafin shook her head, angry. “I told you when you first came to me, Mae, that you would lose her. Her heart, like her father’s, just could not sustain her. You couldn’t accept it then, and you still refuse to let go now.”

“Do it, Mae! Let her go.” Auntie walked over, putting her hand on Sissy’s shoulder, reassuring the girl.

The woman shook her head. “My baby girl. I miss her so much.”

“It’s your sorrow, your pain that’s keeping her here. She’s trapped because you love her so much that you can’t, you won’t let her go.”

“But you said that thing wants her.”

“Yes. It wants her soul.”

“How can you expect me to do that? What do you expect me to do, hand my baby over to that, that thing, whatever it is?”

“It’s attached to you because it senses her. If you’d let her go in the beginning, then she would have already passed over. But she’s been stuck here for so long that she’s victim to them, they smell her innocence like fresh food. If you don’t let her go, you’ll lose them both.”

“What? I don’t understand.” Auntie seemed to barely follow the conversation. She kept looking around the room as if she expected to see the boogey man jump from behind a curtain.

“This thing is powerful. It’s not leaving until it gets what it wants. It will stay in you, or anyone protecting Baby, holding on to her, keeping her on this plane. It’ll consume you with impure thoughts, making you do things to yourself, to your daughter until nothing else is holding her here. If Sissy dies, it’ll consume them both. Their strength is in the fact that they have one soul, but two bodies. They’re twins. But if it can get ahold of one, it’ll be satisfied because it can’t sense living souls. So it’ll hold on to you, Mae, take control of your memories, your thoughts, make you . . . hurt and kill her, because she is attached to Sissy, but you are what’s keeping her here. It’ll take them both. Do you understand?

You have to let her go.”

“I want them both. Don’t make me choose.”

“Then what will I have? A dead husband? A dead daughter?”

“You’ll have a living, breathing little girl.” The Lady was angry. She seemed so sure that this was the right thing.

“And sacrifice one for the other?”

Tell her to let me go, Sissy.

You’re not scared of that thing? I’m scared. I don’t want it to get you.

I just want you to be safe. And I don’t want to be tired anymore.

If . . . if I die, and let it have me, then I can protect you. I can do what I couldn’t do when you died. I’m the oldest, I’m supposed to protect you.

You’d leave momma alone? She’d have no one. Not daddy.

Not me. Not you. ...

Tell her, Sissy. Tell her to let me go.

“She said to let her go, momma.”

The woman stared at Sissy’s scarred face, tears running down her cheeks. “I can’t.”

Please, momma. “She’s begging.” She was so strong for a little girl, her pain was on the inside, deep, deep down inside.

“Tell her that I would have died for her.” Tears streamed down Momma’s face.

Would you . . . “Kill me for her, she asked? Baby . . . she wants to die to save me.” Please, momma.

Momma mumbled her answer and only the Onírárà could hear.

“You keep saying that. Let her go. Let her go. I cannot do that!”

“She’s dead already. What do you want? A dead daughter whose soul you hold on to, or a live daughter whose soul

Originally published in Nightmare Magazine, © 2015 by Chesya Burke. Available at: http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/please-momma/

Meet John HeaLd John plans on participating in workshops and classes on entrepreneurship in 2021. He is a current Board member at Stetson University. Welcome to CEP, John!

A Rhyme for Halloween

BY MAURICE KILWEIN GUEVARA Tonight I light the candles of my eyes in the lee And swing down this branch full of red leaves.

Yellow moon, skull and spine of the hare, Arrow me to town on the neck of the air.

I hear the undertaker make love in the heather; The candy maker, poor fellow, is under the weather.

Skunk, moose, raccoon, they go to the doors in threes With a torch in their hands or pleas: “O, please . . .”

John attended Stetson University from 1964-68 where he majored in Philosophy and minored in Economics.

After graduating, from 1968 to 1972, John was a community organizer in rural Louisiana, received an MBA from Boston University, and served in the Marine Corps. While studying in Boston, he was also active in the Massachusetts Council on Crime and Corrections (pre-trial diversion), the Lifer’s Group at MCI Norfolk and served as an “ombudsman, independent observer” at MCI Walpole.

From 1972-2006 John worked in global paper, packaging and printing industries as a CEO, President and Business Unit General Manager.

Since retiring in 2006, he has concentrated his time and energy on supporting homeless individuals, innovative rural education solutions, and high-quality learning opportunities for underserved kids in Maine and New England.

FALL LEAF BREATHING H OLD

Baruch Spinoza and the butcher are drunk: One is the tail and one is the trunk Of a beast who dances in circles for beer And doesn’t think twice to learn how to steer.

Our clock is blind, our clock is dumb.

Its hands are broken, its fingers numb.

No time for the martyr of our fair town Who wasn’t a witch because she could drown.

Now the dogs of the cemetery are starting to bark At the vision of her, bobbing up through the dark.

When she opens her mouth to gasp for air, A moth flies out and lands in her hair.

*

The apples are thumping, winter is coming.

The lips of the pumpkin soon will be humming.

By the caw of the crow on the first of the year, Something will die, something appear.

For Personal Use Only | And Next Comes L | https://www.andnextcomesL.com

EMILY DICKINSON’S LIVING DEAD Happy October, CEP Students! In the “spirit” of this season I wanted to share with you a unique trope used by Emily Dickinson in many of her poems. But first, let me give a little context.

Most female poets of the early nineteenth century wrote poems that were referred to as “mourning poetry.” The experience of the death of a loved one both then and now is a devastating event, but in the early 1800s people were much more directly involved. Funeral homes did not exist until later in the century, so the deceased were laid out in the home’s parlor and their bodies cared for by the family themselves.

Also, unexpected deaths were a much more common event than they are today, and sadly, the death of a child happened more frequently. It is no wonder, then, that women mainly wrote poetry lamenting the death of a loved one, often a child. The other significant reason is that women’s lives were centered around the home, which limited their experiences and narrowed society’s expectations of what was socially acceptable for them to write about.

Sometimes, a book of blank pages would be circulated among friends and family members who would add their own poetry and would become a keepsake of written memories of loved ones who had passed on. One such collaboration, titled Harriet Gould’s Book, after the original owner, contained a 15-stanza poem written by Gould herself upon the anniversary of her son’s death. Here is the first and fourteenth stanza of her poem: Oh can it be a year has fled Its scenes of grief and joy Since we were bending o’er the bed Of thow my sainted boy?

(I.1-4) ************** That when I’ve trod life’s journey o’er And at death’s portal stand My Warren at the opening door May wave his little hand.

(I.53-56) (qtd. by Kete)

It was not uncommon for these mourning poems to end with a vision of the deceased welcoming the narrator into heaven where they would be reunited.

This background information helps us to truly appreciate the groundbreaking content of Emily Dickinson’s poetry.

Dickinson certainly wrote poems about people who had died, but in her own defiant way. Dickinson’s narrators often were not those grieving the death of a loved one, but the dead person themselves.

Consider this poem: I often passed the village When going home from school – And wondered what they did there – And why it was so still – I did not know the year then – In which my call would come – Earlier, by the Dial, Than the rest have gone.

It’s stiller than the sundown.

It’s cooler than the dawn – The Daisies dare to come here – And birds can flutter down – So when you are tired – Or perplexed – or cold – Trust the loving promise Underneath the mould, Cry “it’s I,” “take Dollie,” And I will enfold! (41) The reference to “Dollie” which was the nickname for Dickinson’s sister-in-law and life-long friend, Susan Gilbert Dickinson, suggests that Dickinson saw herself as the speaker of the poem, removed from the fellowship of the living and inhabiting a “village” of the remotest sort. Instead of giving comfort to the living by suggesting a heavenly reward for this dead narrator and ultimately for the reader, the dead speaker offers an unsettling invitation to join her “Underneath the mould.” The matter of fact, emotionless diction contrasts with the poetry of Harriet Gould’s Book, which achieves a heightened sentiment through the use of emotional interjections.

Dickinson’s narrator, who is implied to be

of school age, utilizes no such sympathetic gestures common to mourning poetry in honor of deceased children.

Another poem that contests the common sentimentalization of mourning poetry is the following: ’Twas just this time, last year, I died.

I know I heard the Corn, When I was carried by the Farms – It had the Tassels on – I thought how yellow it would look – When Richard went to mill – And then, I wanted to get out, But something held my will.

I thought just how Red – Apples wedged The Stubble’s joints between – And the Carts stooping round the fields To take the Pumpkins in – I wondered which would miss me, least, And when Thanksgiving, came, If Father’d multiply the plates – To make an even Sum – And would it blur the Christmas glee My Stocking hang too high For any Santa Claus to reach The Altitude of me – But this sort, grieved myself, And so, I thought the other way, How just this time, some perfect year – Themselves, should come to me – (344) This poem is remarkable for the fact that the narrator isn’t happy to be rid of the cares of earthly life but is actually longing for the comforting images of home and the festivity of holidays, which stands in contrast to the typical sentimental view of the afterlife.

These are just a few of Dickinson’s “living dead” poems. These narrators, creepy though they may be, suggest that our limited time on earth should be embraced and lived fully while we have it.

- Denise

haunted grains (my term, not generally accepted toxicological jargon!), they can develop a deadly disease called “ergotism.”

Sarah’s SaLutations Like many complex, exploitative, and environmentally damaging systems, the food system can be downright spooky.

Also, because the food system (the vast, interconnected network of stakeholders and resources that transform sunlight into edible food, deliver that food to our plates, and dispose of it once we’re done) touches each and every one of us, we are all connected to its spookiness.

I, for one, find widespread distribution of listeria-contaminated cantaloupes or E. coli-covered romaine lettuce to be downright terrifying! The former outbreak, traced to a farm in Colorado, occurred in the summer of 2011 and sickened 147 people in 28 states, killing 33 of them. Listeria monocytogenes is a particularly scary bacterium because, unlike most foodborne bacteria, it can grow at refrigerator temperatures. As a researcher committed to building more sustainable food systems, I am also haunted by how far those cantaloupes traveled…what does it say about our food system that a cantaloupe from Colorado can sicken someone in West Virginia or Indiana? Why do we insist on shipping food so far from its source?

E. coli, perhaps a more well-known bacterium, somehow ended up on at least three separate large harvests of romaine lettuce in California from 2018-2019, sickening hundreds of people across the country during the various outbreaks. What’s particularly unsettling about E. coli outbreaks is that E. coli originates in the intestines of certain animals or sick humans… yuck.

Foodborne illnesses have also shaped the very history and development of our country. It is now a widely accepted hypothesis among historians, psychologists, and toxicologists

Left to right - ergot on barley, wheat, and rye (source: www.microbiologysociety.org)

(researchers who study the safety and biological effects of drugs, chemicals, and other potentially harmful substances on living organisms) that a common grain fungus may have caused the terrible events in Salem, Massachusetts in 1692, and led to what we know as the Salem witch trials.

Linnda Caporael, a researcher in the 1970s, noticed a connection between the strange symptoms experienced by eight young women in Salem that year, as described by their accusers, and the hallucinogenic effects of ingesting certain dangerous fungi. Ergot is a fungal disease that can affect cereal grain crops such as rye and wheat (the specific fungus’ scientific name is Claviceps purpurea). When infected with the fungus, the flowering head of grain will spew out a yellow-colored mucus called “honey dew,” which contains millions of fungal spores that spread the disease. As the plant continues to grow and the grain kernels (the plant’s seeds) develop, the grains become a creepy purplish-black, as if possessed by an evil, fungal spirit.

When a human or animal ingests the

Toxicologists now describe ergotism as a convulsive disorder, characterized by violent muscle spasms, vomiting, delusions, hallucinations, and crawling sensations on the skin. During her research, Caporael found that descriptions of each one of these symptoms are present in the records of the Salem witch trials. Ergot thrives when cereal grain crops are grown during warm, rainy springs and summers – the exact weather conditions documented in the growing season of 1691. Caporeal also found that nearly all of the accusers lived in the western region of Salem village, which contained swampy meadows and prime breeding ground for Claviceps purpurea. Rye was the foundation of the Salem village food system, and regular consumption of this staple grain in breads and porridges sustained the villagers. The rye crop that was grown during the damp spring and summer of 1691 was consumed during the winter of 1691-1692, which was also when the first accusations of witchcraft began.

These grains could have easily been contaminated by ergot.

During the Salem witch trials, more than 200 people were accused of witchcraft, thirty were found guilty, and nineteen (fourteen women and five men) were executed by hanging.

Much to the relief of the frenzied villagers, peace was restored and the “bewitchments” ended abruptly in the summer of 1692.

The summer of 1692 was exceptionally dry.

“The witch no. 1” is a lithograph representation of the trials, created by Joseph E. Baker, circa 1837-1914 (source: https://www.smithsonianmag. com/history/a-brief-history-of-the-salem-witch-trials-175162489/)

Student SpotLight Wheel of Samsara Photo taken by Leila Roach, Jigme Dorji Wangchuck National Referral Hospital (JDWNRH), Thimphu, Bhutan, October 2013.

Life After You

by MARCUS Tell me how to make the pain stop I’m ruminating as I take shots Hallucinating seeing flames drop So illuminating what the change brought I’m through Sometimes we lose.

Living life after you.

This is life after you.

Picking up the pieces from this broken dream shattered into reasons seeing what it means bunch of fallacies Hope you’re getting my analogy Found the truth and now you’re mad at me Polidori shooting tragedy Photographing all the empty space Capturing memories that we can’t erase Harsh realities we have to face History’s shown we can be replaced.

Sacred Space Feeding the hungry ghosts

By Sensei Morris Most people think of spiritual practice in terms of meditation, church, and things like that. But in my tradition, spiritual practice actually starts with kindness. If you can’t be kind, there’s not much point in being devout, righteous, or any of those things.

There are few kinder acts than to give food to someone who’s hungry. So every Sunday, I lead a service that includes offering food to some quite ravenous beings—the hungry ghosts.

In some Asian cultures, people believe that those who allow their lives to be ruled by cravings—by addictions, by selfishness, by greed, and so on—may be reborn as hungry ghosts. These spirits have cavernous bellies, but they have long, skinny necks and tiny beak-like mouths. It’s almost impossible

for them to fill those big bellies. To make matters even worse, whatever they try to eat turns to hot coals or something fowl as soon as they put it in their mouth.

It’s a lot like an addiction. It’s impossible for the addict to get enough of the subject they crave. As appealing as it seems, trying to satisfy the craving inevitably leads to suffering.

Fortunately for the hungry ghosts, they can accept kindness. Food offered by someone who cares about them won’t turn to embers or rotten garbage when they try to eat it. It will sustain them, and even help them work their way out of the realm of the hungry ghosts.

People will ask me, “Do you believe in hungry ghosts?” And I tell them to look around and tell me what they see. There are many examples of people around us whose lives are ruled by craving—for drugs, for drink, for status, for wealth. We might even see a hungry ghost looking back at us from the mirror while we brush our teeth.

Here’s a way to practice feeding the hungry ghosts:

1. Notice wants, desires, and cravings that arise in your mind.

2. Before you react to the craving, take a deep breath or two. Now that you have some space between the desire and your response to it, see if you still need it.

3. Be kind to yourself. Accept yourself, with your craving. Just disconnect the link between craving and consumption. If you fail, that’s okay. Be compassionate to yourself, and then try again.

4. Notice the hungry ghosts around you. See if you can offer them some form of spiritual nourishment. You don’t have to tell them what you’re doing or do something overtly religious. Just see if you can recognize them as suffering from their craving and be kind to them in some way.

NOEL CARROLL Distinguished Professor of Philosophy at CUNY; author of The Philosophy of Horror

THE PHILOSOPHY OF HORROR: WHY DO AUDIENCES CRAVE HORROR? Horror, like action-thrillers, comedy and the tear-jerker, is one of those genres that takes its name from the emotional state is designed to arouse. Consequently, the key to understanding the genre of horror is to grasp the nature of the emotion that it is intended to engender. This is how Aristotle proceeded in his analysis of tragedy, whose function he contended was to elicit pity and fear. But to consider the philosophy of horror, we should begin by asking: what is the emotion that works of horror are supposed to provoke?

Perhaps the most straightforward approach to answering this question is to attempt to identify the object of the emotion of horror. That is, what is horror directed at — what horrifies us in our response to works of horror? An obvious answer is the monster: a creature of supernatural or scientific provenance, whether that’s a demon, an alien, dinosaur, or even a haunted house or a malevolent car.

As a first approximation, we might define “a monster” as a being whose existence is denied by contemporary science.

This is a good start; it distinguishes the kind of characters in which we are interested from various other sorts of villains, like the Scorpio Killer in Dirty Harry. But, it is too broad, since it includes Superman and Peter Pan in the same category as Dracula and Pennywise the Clown. And even if we are willing to label such benign creatures as monsters, they are not the sort of monsters that inhabit the genre of horror.

So, what does it take to be a horrifying monster? For, if we could identify the properties of those particular monsters, the horrific ones, we would be on our way to discovering the emotions they are meant to elicit. What are the salient features of the monsters that lurk in the stories and images of the horror genre? Perhaps their most salient attribute is that they are (above all else) dangerous. They have certain powers and advantages and they are hostile to humans, or, at least, to a subset of human beings; usually innocent human beings, people who do not deserve to be victimized.

The relevant monsters are dangerous or threatening because they are very powerful—either mentally and/or physically—or they have special abilities that they wield with lethal effect. Frankenstein’s monster possesses superhuman strength, while Dracula can hypnotize his prey. Zombies,

although pretty ineffective when faced one at a time, are very dangerous in encircling groups; and velociraptors are powerful, fast, and smart. In short, horrific monsters are threatening to people like us.

"FOR ARISTOTLE, TRAGEDY WAS DEFINED, IN PART, IN TERMS OF THE AROUSAL OF PITY AND FEAR. HORROR, IN CONTRAST, IS IN THE BUSINESS OF AROUSING FEAR AND DISGUST." Although we humans are now the most dominant life form on earth, for most of our career on this planet, we have been prey. This is, of course, a major theme in horror fiction and undoubtedly part of our fascination with the genre. For, in horror stories, we are typically being relentlessly stalked, often by our hungry conspecifics, as we are in The Night of the Living Dead. Horror rekindles one of our most primitive emotions as prey: fear.

Admittedly, this is pretty obvious. But can anything else be said that might say something more specific than that horrific monsters are fearsome? I think there is. In particular, they tend to be impure. They are not the sorts of things we want to touch. We not only recoil from the zombies in The Night of the Living Dead for fear of being bitten, but also because their suppurating wounds appear so unclean, unwholesome, and sickening. Indeed, this feature is even more pronounced in the escalating gruesomeness of the make-up on the contemporary zombies in TV shows like The Walking Dead. Their lacerations and amputations are repulsive. The prospect of being kissed by a zombie is downright revolting, like imagining eating rotten meat.

Moreover, the theme of impurity recurs throughout the bestiary of horrific monsters.

The anthropologist Mary Douglas has proposed that there are four leading sources of impurity. Categorical interstitiality, categorical contradictoriness, incompleteness, and formlessness. This list may not be exclusive nor are the items on it necessarily mutually exclusive. But they provide useful pointers for isolating the crucial properties of horrific beings. By categorical interstitiality, Douglas has in mind things that cross categorical boundaries. Werewolves

are clearcut examples of this—part human, part wolf. Jeff Goldbum’s protaganist in The Fly is categorically interstitial, being an amalgam of man and insect. Alien monsters are frequently interstitial—The Thing from Another World in the classic film of the same name is an intelligent, twolegged, bloodsucking carrot. That’s interstitial.

Many horrific monsters are categorically contradictory.

That is, their essential, ontological features are incompatible. So many monsters are both living and dead. Some prime examples of this include ghosts, vampires, mummies, Frankenstein’s monster, and zombies, especially those in the lineage of The Night of the Living Dead whose morbidity is etched upon their flesh. Other categorically contradictory horrific beings include those that conflate the animate and the inanimate, such as haunted houses, willful objects, and Stephen King’s possessed Plymouth Fury, ‘’Christine’’.

Quite a few horrific monsters are incomplete. Zombies, again, are an excellent example. Parts are always being detached from their bodies. Sometimes they are only heads with no bodies. Some monsters are only body parts, usually just hands as in William Harvey’s “The Beast with Five Fingers.” In Donovan’s Brain the monster is a brain in a vat. In Fiend without a Face, the monsters are brains that use their spinal cords as tails – all the better to choke you with.

Lastly, Douglas correlates impurity with formlessness.

This brings to mind horror novels like The Fog and horror movies like The Blob as well as the dark clouds that constitute the essence of demon in the TV series Supernatural. In these cases, the shapelessness of these malevolents appears impure insofar as, in defying stable boundaries, they seem to exceed categorization altogether. Thus, in addition to being dangerous, horrific monsters are also impure. And, just as fear is the appropriate emotional state to raise with respect to the dangerous or the threatening, disgust is the appropriate affect to mobilize in regard to the impure. We not only find Frankenstein’s monster frightening, but, being stitched together from the parts of dead bodies, it is also loathsome, unclean, and even nauseating.

"WHY DO WE OPEN THE NEXT BOOK BY STEPHEN KING OR HEAD TO THE CINEMA TO SEE AN ADAPTATION OF IT? BECAUSE BY IMAGINING SOMETHING BEYOND SCIENCE, IT PROMISES A GLIMPSE OF SOMETHING UNKNOWN THAT WHETS OUR CURIOSITY." In certain other cases, the pertinent monstrous creature (or creatures) is something that within our culture we already regard as disgusting, which is then magnified and massified for horrific effect. By “magnified”, I mean antecedently-repulsive beings like spiders, scorpions, or anaconda snakes

are made larger, which makes them more dangerous whilst still retaining their gross-out potential. By “massified,” I have in mind setting huge swarms of killer bees or army ants being pitted against unwitting humanity for a final showdown.

Not only may horrific beings be disgusting in themselves.

They are often surrounded by revolting things—as vampire lairs are infested with vermin and spider webs—or they do things that are stomach churning—like tearing off the heads of mortals and sending great gouts of blood flying in every direction as well as eating or otherwise wallowing in body parts. Call this horrific metonymy.

Thus, disgust, along with fear, is a central feature of horror.

For Aristotle, tragedy was defined, in part, in terms of the arousal of pity and fear. Horror, in contrast, is in the business of arousing fear and disgust. Fear is aroused in virtue of the threat the monster poses; disgust is engendered in virtue of the monster’s interstitiality, contradictoriness, incompleteness and/or formlessness and/or the magnification or massification of the creature’s antecedent repugnance, often augmented by horrific metonymy. What we call horror with reference to the fictional genre of that name is an emotional compound of fear and disgust in response to design of the monsters that define horrific narratives and/or images.

One objection to this account that is often made is that horror fictions do not always contain monsters in my sense— that is, creatures whose existence is denied by contemporary science. In some horror fictions, it may be argued, the antagonists are just psychotic human beings, while in others the threat comes from existing animals like sharks.

However, I think that a closer look at these examples reveals that the most famous horrific psychotics have something supernatural about them. Michael Myers can’t be killed in addition to his uncanny ability to appear and disappear seemingly at will, not to mention his superhuman strength and durability. Hannibal Lector, on the other hand, is unlike any existing psychotic. He is to all intents and purposes omniscient. He is more like Mephistopheles than like any mental patient you will ever encounter. Moreover, the sharks in the Jaws cycle are way too smart to be an actual fish. In Jaws: The Revenge the eponymous shark seeking vengeance follows a family to the Bahamas in search of retribution!

I want to stress the importance of the monsters in horror fictions being outside the ken of contemporary science not only to defend my account of the nature of horror fiction, but because I think it also suggests a large part of the allure of the genre. Why do we open the next book by Stephen King or head to the cinema to see an adaptation of it? Because by imagining something beyond science, it promises a glimpse of something unknown that whets our curiosity.

The result is not always as fascinating as advertised. So the contract is fulfilled often enough that many of us are willing to renew it.

Image credit: Shelley Duvall in Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining (Warner, 1980).

Noël Carroll - 31st October 2018

ON THE NEXT BOOK CLUB SELECTION

Responses How can we reconnect?

John K. “When we meet, we eat!”

… “I am most hopeful when I think about the prospects for Dr. Cramer’s community garden project, and the sense of engaged discourse we may yet share again in ‘Hatter Hall.’”

John K. “I would like to suggest

that future selections be a little farther ‘off the beaten path’, as most of us are already voracious readers and so may have encountered this book before. Also, if any readers’ guides or other aids to provide context are available, that they be sent ahead of or concurrently with the books.”

WHAT WORK SHOULD WE BE DOING ON RE-ENTRY? John K. “I hope that serious

thought has been given to the need for transformative psychological praxis with a support network for returning citizens (God bless you, Stan Van Gundy, for that bon mot) to overcome the deep institutionalization and individual malformations of which in my personal experience are the surest sources of recidivism and relapse.”

SUBMIT YOUR TWO-SENTENCE SPOOKY STORY.

Community Coversations We want this newsletter to belong to you, the CEP students. So, we are setting aside this space for community conversation. Mail in your answers to the prompts if you can, and we will print them here as we receive them, with your first name.

Prompt 1:

What interests you about entrepreneurship? If you could start just one business, what would it be?

Prompt 2:

Share a holiday memory, good or bad, recent or long ago. Think of the scents of holidays, the excitement, but also the difficulties and expectations.

Caption This!

MARCUS But it shall come to pass, if thou wilt not

harken unto the voice of YHVH thy God, to serve to do all his instructions and his statutes which I instruct thee this day; that all these curses shall come upon thee: cursed shalt thou be in the city and cursed shalt thou be in the field. And it shall come to pass, when all these things are come upon thee, the blessing and the curse, which I have set before thee, and thou shalt call them to mind among all the nations, whither YHVH thy God hath driven thee, and shalt return unto YHVH thy God, and shalt obey his voice according to all that I instruct thee this day, thou and thy children, with all thy heart, and with all thy soul; that YHVH thy God will turn thy captivity, and have compassion upon thee, and will return and gather thee from all the nations, whither YHVH thy God hath scattered thee.