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�Socrates: Tell me, O Meno, whether pulp fiction is something good, or if not good,
can it be something worthwhile, or at least entertaining? And if any of these are true
is it something that comes to human beings by publication or some other way?
Meno: It is not hard to tell, Socrates. First we must know what the virtue of a pulp
story is. If it’s the virtue of hard boiled crime you want, it’s easiest to say that it’s this
you want: a detective who does well to his friends and manages the affairs of
dangerous dames and crimes, and a nemesis who does harm to his enemies, and
the detective who avoids the twists and turns of convoluted plot points. And if it’s
the virtue of a space opera you want, that’s not too hard. It is to manage well the
breaking of the laws of physics and to boldly go where no man has gone before.
And the virtue of horror, and of fantasy, and of parody, and light poetry, and there
are a great many other genres, so that there is no difficulty in knowing what the
virtue of pulp fiction is.
Socrates: I have asked you for a definition, and you have given me
The Swarm
Issue 8: The Pulp Fiction Magazine from Beyond the Grave
May 2015
Sueanna Keim, Editor In Chief
Lyra Meuer, Cover Art
Catherine White, Layout Editor
Contributors:
Stylus Marner
Kira Anderson
Jonathan Grauberd
Baranbas Holleran
Shannon McGovern
Grayson Mooney
John Farrell
Jamie Dunn
uorrecxion
While we at The Swarm are great fans of Ms. Jamie Dunn, director of career services, she is not in fact a
contributor to this issue. The author of The Thrilling Epic of Lady Pfarlington, Exquisite and Most
Excellent Bug Madame of Highest Repute in Space Aristocracy, Whom is Forced to Murder In Pursuit of
Regaining Her Husband's Attentions From the Licentiousness of Space Bordellos, which can and should
be found at the back of the magazine, is Mr. Jamie Carr, as we almost correctly noted on the title page
of said tale. With apologies to both Ms. Dunn and Mr. Carr, we regret the error.
Well, it’s back. After a year’s hiatus, and another almost-year’s inactivity. The
Swarm has returned in print! We’re very humbled to present a set of excellent
stories from wonderful, patient, brilliant, patient, imaginative, and patient
contributors—first in electronic form last spring, and now here on paper. Many
thanks to them, for letting The Swarm be a home for their work. Many thanks also
to those that came before us, particularly Lillie Franks and Esa Sclafani, without
whom this revival would not have been possible (and without whom The Swarm
would never have existed in the first place!).
Also, we are accepting submissions for our next issue, to be released before the
end of this semester! Please send your writing our way at
stjohnspulp@gmail.com!
And if you see Mr. Conway, please let us know. We’re pretty sure he owes us
money.
�The Monophysics of Mars, Part 4
Stylus Marner
Editor’s note: Parts 1-3 do not exist in our quantum reaiity. Due to a brief malfunction on the part
of Gmail’s universal resource locator, The Swarm’s e-mail account briefly received submissions
intended for a St. John’s in a parallel universe where, somehow, religion has taken the place of
science. This has led to a genre of fiction that is, to our knowledge, unprecedented in our
universe.
“What do you mean ‘The controls aren’t working’?’’ Peter, the ship’s theologian snapped.
“This ship is powered by the prayers of the twelve most pure-hearted monks in all of America,
and the controls are based directly on Aristotle’s lost treatise The Aeronautics, as reconciled with
the Christian faith by myself. It not working would be a clear violation of Matthew 17:20. ‘If ye
have faith as a mustard see’-’’
“We all know how the ship works,” said Mary. “I’m telling you that it’s not working now.”
“Are you doubting my craftsmanship?!”
“Now wait a minute here,” Matthew Matthias interceded, “Let’s not say anything that we’d
repent of. I’m sure there’s an explanation for this that’s in accordance with doctrine.”
Martin the robot did not contribute any ideas. Martin the robot was unensouled matter.
“Look. The only way I can think of to disable the engines would be to corrupt the monks
that... One second.” He hit a button on the control altar. “Is this the engine room?”
“Yes, sir,” said a voice from the other side, carried from one end of the ship to the other by
the power of a reliquary containing dirt touched by the archangel Gabriel, patron saint of
communication.
“Does Jesus have one nature, or two natures joined in hypostatic union?” “Well, it’s funny
you should ask that, actually,” the voice replied. “Last week, I would have said two natures, but
just yesterday I found this book in the engine room, and-”
Peter let go of the button. “It’s worse than I feared. We’ve been sabotaged. By
monophysites.”
Mary gasped. “Good heavens! Not monophysites!”
“Oh, come on,” Matthew said.
“Everyone knows monophysites are just scary stories for children. They’re pure reli-fi!”
Regular readers, of course, will recall that Matthew Matthias was nothing more than a
simple, ripplingly muscled, dazzlingly handsome sexton before he was asked to read an
untested, hyper-strong version of the Serenity Prayer, and fell asleep for two hundred years,
waking up in the strange world of tomorrow.
“Yesterday’s reli-fi is today’s reli-fact,” Peter replied. “They must have come from Mars.”
“From Mars? But isn’t the existence of other inhabited planets heretical?”
“Quite right, my boy. But Mars wasn’t always habited. The monophysites fled their in ships
much like ours.”
“But how could they have developed ships while praying to an improperly conceived
Jesus?”
“Exodus 7:11, good boy. ‘The magicians of Egypt did in like manner with their
enchantments’.”
“It’s said that on Mars, not only Jesus, but everything has to be made of one substance,”
Mary added. “Specifically corduroy. Everything they wear, drink or eat is made of corduroy.”
“How bizarre.”
“They also murder children for sport and feed their elderly to corduroy monsters.”
“And that’s not the worst part either,” Peter interjected.
“It’s not?”
“No. According to legend, they believe that communion wafers are only figuratively
transformed into the essence of Jesus.”
“Great stars!” Mary gasped. Matthew was too shocked to respond.
“I know. It’s horrible, isn’t it?”
“Well, that too. But I think we have a bigger problem.
“Of course we do,” said Peter. “Original sin. Why do you bring it up?”
“That’s not that what I meant,” Mary replied.
“What is it?” asked Matthew.
“According to our revelation based detectors, we’re just a few minutes from crashing into
something really big. And really solid...”
“You don’t mean...” Peter trailed off.
Everyone except Martin, who was not alive, ran up to the window to look out.
“Did
you have to make this out of stained glass?” Matthew said, squinting.
Peter ignored him.
“Just as I feared...”
At that moment, they realized the horrible truth: the ship was fast
running low on quintessence-filled space and was about to crash... into the Circle of Fixed
Stars!
How will Mary, Peter and Matthew survive this one? Will they find out who sabotaged the
ship with monophysitism? What was with that robot anyway? The Swarm regrets that not a
single one of these questions will be answered next issue. Our apologies.
�Kool Aid
By Kira Anderson
They told us there was a disease coming, a monstrous disease. Worse than the Avian Flu,
worse than the Spanish Influenza, worse than the Bubonic Plague. What were we to do?
I remember as shops closed in preparation for the incoming pandemic. Shelves were
cleared of merchandise and everything was halted. No incomes, no outcomes, just fear. The
local shop, run by Mrs Achinua was robbed half-way through the president’s speech about the
coming end. He was hopeful. He had a solution.
I remember watching his honest eyes as he delivered a beautiful, smooth reassurance to
the people on cable television. We all sat around the TV, my big brother, my mother and me. The
man seemed so honest that we all felt reassured for whatever reason. How could we not be?
We elected him half a year earlier, and he and Congress were still in their honeymoon phase.
Bills were being passed! Economy was growing! Until the announcement. And even then, we
were safe.
Poor Mrs Achinua, a widow of four years with no children, no family, and hardly a future,
was watching the speech from the ancient laptop that always whirred in the back of her check
out area, displaying Fox News updates. She was smiling, a crooked smile, showing her newly
capped teeth. This president had made sure that she got the medical aid she needed. She had
been suspicious of him at first, but now she loved this man.
She was ogling the president’s own pearly whites when the gun went off against the back
of her head, and the old laptop was still portraying the smiling politician as blood and brains
dragged sluggishly down the screen. Mrs Achinua no longer had her wisened grey eyes, but the
man who fired the gun got some cereal for his six children who lived in the apartments near
Twelfth Street. It was the last box, actually, since everyone had already stocked up on supplies,
th
I had always liked Mrs Achinua, so when the man was dragged into the streets and torn
apart by people hungry for something more than food and reassurance, I was a little happy. I hid
it, though. My mother was distressed and held me tight to her, so I said nothing about how he
deserved it. Only later did I learn about how his children starved, and no one would take care of
them, since the youngest contracted something, something possibly deadly.
After the citizens had cleaned the blood from the streets and returned to their homes to
disinfect, my mother held me by my shoulders and looked me in the eyes.
“Honey,” she told me, more scared than I had ever seen her. “I am so sorry.”
“What for?” I asked, confused.
“I don’t know what world you’ll have left after this,” she whispered, tears beading in the
corners of her fiery eyes.
“I’ll have something,” I said. I was so young, and I thought that this sickness would help
the world. People would die, and the population would decrease. We would restart, stronger as a
world than when we had entered this horror. I didn’t care if Suzy down the street choked to death
on her own blood. I didn’t care if Tom’s mother watched her whole family fall apart. I would have
a better life. Children always think like this before they see hell for themselves.
those that could afford it.
The next speech was given across the world in every language that I could think of and
some that I had never even heard of before. Leaders of every nation announced their solution to
fix the world—a drug had been manufactured, but everyone had to take it at the same time, so
the disease could not mutate. If one person took it, then a day later someone else did, the
disease could change, scientists across the world declared, looking nervous and tired. No one
had slept well since patient 0 entered a hospital in New York and infected an entire ward, before
infecting the rest of the world.
The drugs were free, a simple purple pill handed out at every pharmacy across the
country, across the world. Planes dropped boxes of them to areas in Africa or in mountains it
was hard to reach. Everyone had a special place in their homes for the drug to be held until
taken. My mom pulled out a tooth-holder I had used when I was five and still believed in the
tooth-fairy. She put the three pills in there.
There was a count down on every news station. In the right hand corner, there sat a
simple ticking clock. We watched it with anxiety, hoping we didn’t catch the disease before the
clock struck zero. There was a celebration planned in Time’s Square. The ball was going to drop,
like on New Year’s. My mother even got my brother a new computer to be opened after the
disease was stopped that he could take to college. I got a new set of games to play on the family
computer, but I opened them before the ball dropped, because I was impatient. They were
building games. I loved building games. Mom always said I should become an architect. I didn’t
really listen to her, because I just liked putting wires and blocks together to make things light up
and form buildings.
I didn’t go to school, since it was cancelled to slow the rate of infection, so I sat at home building
a little nation out of blocks on the computer, creating fictional wires and homes. I loved it.
My mom always came home from work, took off her face-mask, threw her jacket into the
laundry machine, turned it on to disinfect, and came to fetch me out of the office. I would hug her
listlessly, wanting to return to the world in front of me where disease didn’t exist. Where Suzy
didn’t end up in a mass grave and Tom wasn’t left an orphan on the streets to starve. It was too
sad to watch how far we had sunk.
Juliet Samora used to babysit for all of the kids on the street, and she was the nicest
person I knew. She had blonde hair, which was permanently pulled back into a braid, and white,
perfect teeth. When she came to my house before the plague, she made us cookies and would
tuck us in at night. When my brother and I were younger, she would bring colouring books and
crafts, and we would work on those for hours at a time. She was always so kind.
One day, when mom was gone at work, she came to the door. I let her in, wondering what
she was doing out in the streets. She came in with her perfect teeth and her hair in a loose braid,
saying that my mom had called her to check in on my brother and me. Without prelude, she
headed to the top of the stairs. I followed, curious. She got to Mom’s room and began grabbing
her necklaces from a jewellery box in the closet. She did not even seem to notice me as I stood
there in confusion.
That was when my brother showed up.
He knew more than I did. He walked up to Juliet and forced her head forward so that it hit the
wooden dresser the jewels sat upon with a loud crack. I could not move. I was transfixed as my
brother hauled the kind woman out of the room, pulled my mother’s belongings out of her
pockets, and then picked her up.
In her beautiful voice, she began pleading with him, with me, with us. She was only
stealing to help her family out. She was afraid that her parents would die if they didn’t get money.
She was scared. I was scared, too, and I yelled out to my brother.
“Stop! Let her go!”
But my brother only looked at me. His brown eyes met mine as he threw her down the stairs.
She fell with a yelp and when she hit the floor, she stared back at us with a mix of horror
and apprehension. Her pearly teeth were now pink and her hair was strawberry blonde with the
blood that was pouring from lacerations. She scrabbled to her feet and ran out of the house, not
a single tear in her eyes
I had stood there, staring out the door, wondering how the world could possibly return to
normal after we all had our pills. How could we just forget the horrible things we had done to
each other in our darkest moments? Would people have been able to forgive the man that killed
Mrs Achinua if they had not killed him?
�I wanted to forgive the generous, beautiful Juliet, but could we simply forget what happened
when the world became civilized again?
The ball dropped at 12:00 noon on September 11th. There was partying and the people in
the streets all swallowed their pills, delighting in the fact that they could help stop a rampant
disease. I could hear loud music from other people’s homes. There were even some firecrackers
going off. Everyone was so excited that it seemed to be tangible, floating in the air. These people
celebrated that the government could save them from a horrible fate, and why should they not
have? There was so much patriotism. My brother waved a small American flag up and down
after he swallowed the purple pill. His eyes were glued to the television, watching thousands of
other people do the same thing across the country.
I wanted a glass of water, though, more than I wanted to celebrate. The pill tasted a little like
Kool-Aid. Like the grape kind, which I didn’t like. My excited smile turned into a frown as I felt a
pressure growing behind my eyes. I brought my hand to my forehead, trying to urge the pain
away.
My brother fell first. The flag dropped from his fist and onto the ground. It rolled to my feet,
the red and white stripes blurring together in my eyes. Mom yelled at him, saying that he should
never let the flag touch the ground. I don’t know why she did that. He already knew not to let the
flag fall. I slowly let my hands drop away from my face to see my brother on the floor, face up,
staring back at me emptily, the whites of his eyes a deep burgundy. I heard a gasp and a loud
thud and soon Mom’s eyes were empty too. I sunk to my knees, clutching my head. Blood oozed
from my mouth. It hurt like nothing I had ever felt before.
But what did all the pain matter? The government had fixed all the world’s problems.
The Girl in the Lake
By Jonathan Grauberd
There was once a girl...
She lived in the city, or so the story goes. It had been told many times, and it always
starts the same...
I met that girl on an odd day. The sky was fine and pretty. The trees were green and
simple in their most noble of ways. Mothers and their children were running amok, oblivious to
the marvel that rose from the lake.
I didn’t remember a lake in the center of the city. But I had been gone for a long time, and
it had a habit of twisting our memories into mocking pictures. Whether it was the new wrinkle
that I had found on my forehead, joining many others in what was quickly becoming a cavalcade
of eternally smiling faces. To think it was once so smooth.
As she rose from the lake, every drop of water clinging to her porcelain skin with religious
devotion, all thoughts left my mind. Which was a wonder, and no small one at that. All of my
worries, the small and not-so-small qualms that gathered like devious dust mites in my mind as
the years had worn on vanished. The money, the family, and retirement; all had gone away like
my youth.
The late afternoon breeze blew back her dark hair that had somehow already dried. I got
up from my bench, rising slowly. After all no one else had noticed her, nor did they seem to
notice the lake that had appeared in the center of the city. Only I saw the girl with the crimson
lips that was watching me with eyes that shone like emeralds in the twilight sun.
My arms were heavy, and my legs were slow. It was not always this way. Once, long ago,
I could run. I was strong. For once my memory did not fail me, and I remembered that in an age
long forgotten I was loved.
Soft orange hues seemed to color everything as I drew near the girl in the lake. People
became ethereal forms, their words nothing but specks of violet light in the orange haze. I could
no longer hear the city, and in all honesty I did not care. Only the girl standing in the center of
the lake with the crimson lips and the emerald eyes mattered to me.
With every step I took towards her my will which had made me unstoppable returned,
and as it did I felt that wonderful fire light up in my gut once again. There was no mirror around
to be found, yet I did not need one to see that I was young again,that my back was straight
again and that my hair was once again full.
All at once I felt a cool autumn breeze. To my left I saw the moon. It mattered not that
that it was still light out to my right, and that she waited there. But I had a feeling that she was
very patient. She had been waiting for a long time. A little longer would not hurt.
The white eye in the sky was shinning bright, casting a pale silver light over the cold
desert. The stars were out in full force, and all of a sudden I was sixteen again. The entirety of
the desert lay before my feet. The cool desert night went through my jacket effortlessly, and all
reason told me to leave. I should have been getting warmer, my spine should have been
shuddering, but only a wonderful feeling of serenity and awe flooded my senses.
The whole world lay before and I had never felt more alive.
Waves of orange light come flooding in as the evening began to set on the city. Yet as it
did the twilight light of the lake only grew stronger.
I kept walking and as I did, so did she. The water rippled softly with every step that she
took. I neared the edge of the lake when the scent, that all too familiar scent assaulted me. It
was the smell of rain, falling off of pine trees and melting the snow that had fallen on the ground
only the night before. I was a child again and I remembered how the entire world seemed to
wake up as the sun hit the snow launching a dozen rainbows into the air.
�Then I was on the edge of the lake. Right before me she stood, her eyes kind, but so very
old. She reached out to me with a pale hand, and I was no longer tall and strong, I was but a
child before her. A child with his entire life stretched out before him.
Only then did she speak, her voice coming through a trillion echoes, from the sky and the
earth, and mostly from her radiant lake.
"Are you ready?"
I looked back and I saw a thousand snapshots of my life spread out. Each one becoming
vaguer and murkier until the end where an old man was sitting on a bench. His hair was gone
and his back hunched, but I saw something in him that seemed almost unnatural. It was not life
because that had been long gone, but on his impossibly old lips I saw a smile.
I turned back to her and watched those terribly kind eyes, and I asked as a child would,
"Where are we going?"
Not another word left her lips, she grabbed and my hand and led me into the lake as the
world dissolved into bright golden hues.
There was once a girl...
She lived in the city...
But it was not one of ours.
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Family
By Barnabas Holleran
“Hey, Brandon, it’s good to see you again. How are you doing this week?”
“Hi Dad, I’m doing fine, how are you?”
“Honestly, I’ve been better. I’ve had this damned crick in my back since Sunday. The
nurses can’t do anything about it. They say I have to just wait it out. You count your blessings.
Bran. You take your young body for granted, and then one day you wake up at three in the
morning, you have to piss like a racehorse, and you can’t move a damned inch.”
“Can’t the nurses do anything? This is robbery! Anne and I are spending a fortune to
make sure you’re cared for here.”
“Yeah, well, what’re ya gonna do.”
“Dad, can I talk to you?”
“Of course! Sit down! What’s the matter?”
“Dad, I saw him again. I know you don't believe me, but I saw him again. I don't know who else
to go to.”
“Saw him? Saw who? What happened? ”
“You know who. Don't pretend you don't remember that night. Alright, so this was two
nights ago, about three in the morning. I got up for a glass of water. I went downstairs to the
kitchen sink, and that’s when I saw the light on in the barn. Well, you know how we put the
switch for the lights back by the fridge, so we wouldn't have to come back through the dark? I
just figured Anne forgot to shut them off, so I flipped the switch and went back for a glass. But
when I got to the window, the lights were still on. I saw him, dad. Just for a second, but there he
was in the window, dark and still, and I nearly missed him. Then the lights went out. Dad, I
remember wiring that old barn. I remember handing you the screwdriver while you stood on that
big ladder, and I remember you telling me how 'One switch is damned complicated enough' and
that we’d put it right inside. Well the switch doesn’t work. He was standing in the barn and he
made the lights go out.”
“Brandon, I've got something to tell you. You're not the first one to see something wrong
with that barn. I'm sorry I never believed you before. I didn't want it to be true, I guess.
Your mother saw it the first time. She was out taking in the laundry this one night in early
August. It was the night before... You know. Well, she said she was taking the sheets off the line
when she happened to glance over at the barn. The lights were on, which was unusual, and she
could see the shadow of a ladder on the glass. She finished up the laundry and went to turn off
the light, but the ladder had another shadow on it, a young boy. She said she thought it was
you, or maybe your brother. She turned around just in time to see it fall off, backwards,
headfirst. I heard her scream and I ran outside to see her disappearing into the barn. I found her
there, sitting on a hay bale, crying. There wasn't any ladder, and there wasn't any kid. You were
in your bed, sleeping peacefully. It really got to your mother though. She told me what
happened, and we went to bed. She cried herself to sleep. Next morning, she was real
distracted. I found her when I got back from work. Well, you know the rest.”
“I'm sorry, dad. But what gives? You never believed me before! I knew there was
something to the shadow. I saw him, and now you know it. It wasn't just the storm, and it wasn't
just the wind. That night was more eerie than other storms. There's always a calm before a
storm, but not like that one. I told Jason not to go out there, but he just called me a sissy. And
what did I know? I was just the little brother who never knows anything. I knew he shouldn't
have gone out, and I know I saw the shadow out there that night. Even afterwards, you didn't
believe me. You said I was just scared. You said I was just seeing things. That it was just Jason.
Why are you suddenly ready to listen?”
�“Because I saw him too, dammit. I saw him too. If you're crazy, then I'm crazy too. I couldn't
sleep last week. Damned back. So I got up and went to the window. I saw it large as life. My
back may be going, but my eyes have always been sharp. He was sitting on the park bench
down below, legs crossed, arms draped over the back, like he owned the building and everyone
in it. Cool as a cucumber. He just looked like a shadow. Like there was nothing there, where
there should be something. You didn't say how big he was, though, before. I always thought you
described him more like Jason, your age, but he was just sitting there, large as life, a man. I'm
so sorry, Brandon, you were right all along. I should have listened to you. I'm so sorry.”
“It's alright. Dad, I forgive you.”
“I'm so sorry. Come here, come here. Take my hand. Forgive me for not listening to you.”
“Of course. Dad, I forgive you. Your hands are like ice! You're freezing! Dad, are you
alright? This isn't just your back. You’re not well.”
“Of course I'm not well! That thing's been following my family! First your mother, then
Jason, and now I’m gonna lose you! I’m too sick in here to do anything about it! I couldn’t take
care of your mom, I couldn’t take care of Jason, and I can’t save you. I’ve let everyone down.
Forgive me, son, forgive me!”
“Just hold on, dad. It’s not me I’m worried about. I’m going to get a doctor, just hold on.
Oh! There’s someone at the door. Nurse, thank god, call the doctor!”
“Excuse me sir, you can't be in here.”
“Don't be ridiculous, of course I can. This is my father's room!”
“Sir, this room has been empty all day. Are you alright? What's your name?”
“It's Brandon Henderson. That can't be right, the room-- wait, what happened to the bed?
Dad? Where are you?”
“Henderson? I'm sorry, Mr. Henderson passed away last week. The room has been
empty since.”
“He was right here! I was talking to him when you came in!”
“Are you alright, sir? Come on, follow me. It’s okay.”
The nurse held out her hand and I took it, holding a little tighter than necessary. I looked back
and saw the room, now dark and filled with shadows where my father had been. I didn’t
understand. I just wanted to leave. The nurse led me through an endless maze of long white
corridors, monotonously decorated with dusty fabric flowers on narrow shelves. The halls were
dimly lit but grew lighter as we reached the front of the hospital. I could tell we were almost at
the foyer, because as we turned down one corridor, I saw an ornate window at the end, letting
long shafts of light into the dusty air. We passed a sitting room, and I paused to look in. The
nurse gave me a gentle pull, but I didn’t move. She followed my eyes to the small TV on the
wall. Choppy subtitles poured across the screen as an immaculately combed man from the
town’s only TV station read us the news. I read the blocky white text as it obscured the news
desk and its timing mocked the anchor's lips. “The police are still looking for the homeowner and
primary suspect of this morning's fire.” it read. “First responders were able to recover remains of
a woman from the rubble. They were not able to confirm her identity, but she is likely Mrs. Anne
Henderson,” a beautiful photograph of my wife appeared on the screen, “the wife of Brandon
Henderson,” my own face appeared on the screen beside hers, smiling with her like we were
posing for a Christmas card. I felt my skin crawl.
The nurse jerked her hand out of mine, and I looked over at her to see only fear in her
eyes. She called out, and I found myself being pulled backwards through the hall out of which I
had just come by two large orderlies, walking firmly deeper into the hospital. As I watched the
window, in a panic to escape, I saw him one more time, the shadow of a man, this time stepping
out of a doorway into the shafts of light behind the woman, blocking them out, and though his
face was featureless, I could tell that he was grinning at me.
Exceedingly Messed Up Bedtime Stories
By Shannon McGovern
Once upon a time, there was a turtle named Henry and a hedgehog named Margot and they
were the best of friends. The reason that they were such good friends was because although
Margot was all prickly and pointy, Henry had a hard turtle shell, so Margot's prickles didn't bother
him, so they both could cuddle and be wonderful friends.
Everyday Henry and Margot would go down to the woods and visit the old oak tree where the
owl, Mr. Richardson, lived and throw pine cones at him, because Mr. Richardson was a mean
awry old bird and very racist.
One day, on their way down to the old oak tree, they came across a hermit crab.
“That's very odd,” said Margot, “hermit crabs usually live near the sea, or in tanks. The glass kind
not the driving and destruction kind.”
“You're right Margot,” said Henry, “this is a very odd turn of events. Perhaps this is the start of a
wonderful adventure for all three of us. Hello little hermit crab, what is your name?”
“None of your business, you wrinkly little shit,” said the hermit crab, “leave me the fuck alone. I
fucked your mother.” The hermit crab then tried to give them his middle finger, but as hermit
crabs don't have fingers, he just waved his claw at them. Margot and Henry looked at each other,
and then at the hermit crab.
“This hermit crab is an asshole,” said Margot.
“You're quite right,” said Henry. “Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”
“I think I am,” said Margot.
So Henry and Margot threw the asshole hermit crab at the racist owl, and the hermit crab
caught a bad case of Hepatitis B and died. The owl then decided enough was an enough and
that he was tired of all these motherfucking crabs in his motherfucking nest, so he retired to
Florida, where he could be as racist as he wanted without anyone really caring.
And Margot and Henry lived happily ever after. The end
rttiw
�A Story about Walking in the Woods
By Grayson Mooney
The tree sat back, low and hunched at the back of a little clearing. Looking back on everything, I
can’t believe it took me so long to notice them. I suppose that was because it was raining and I
was taking a shortcut. Normally I don’t go through the woods, they’re infested with ticks and
living where I do we have an epidemic of crazies setting up camps amongst the trees, little
assortments of second hand tents and plastic sheeting, all surrounded by a sprinkling of broken
glass and crushed beer cans.
But seeing how it was pouring down rain in hard little pellets of liquid that almost hurt to be hit by,
I decided that a shortcut was necessary. I wasn’t wearing shorts or exposing any skin that ticks
could get into and I was carrying around a little knife, mostly for cutting up boxes at work but I
supposed that it would have to do if someone decided to try to jump me as I was heading home.
I didn’t see anyone for the first few minutes as I traipsed through the foliage. The trees above me
blocked out the worst of the rain and it was oddly quiet as I continued. I was starting to amuse
myself by walking on a log when my foot slipped and I tumbled down into a perfectly placed bed
of stinging nettles.
Standing up, trying to figure out just how to combine profanities into a suitable expression of my
feelings, I saw a nice, straight stick that I could use to beat the nettles into a pulp. As I went for it,
venturing deeper into a little clearing, I saw that the grass and plants around me had been
tamped down, as if a crowd had walked over them not too long before. Standing up, I looked
before me and felt the breath catch in my throat.
Hanging, not ten feet in front of me, perfectly at eye level, were a pair of Italian penny loafers,
the leather scuffed, a clod of mud stuck stubbornly to the toe of one of them. I stepped
backwards, wondering exactly what I was seeing for a moment before realizing that the well
dressed man before me was hanging from his neck by a length of rope that was already dark
and soaked in rain from the storm.
Feeling numb I wondered why the guy had hung himself, why he had done it in his Sunday
best...and why he wasn’t alone. There were other corpses hanging silently in the tree, their faces
puffy and purple, hands hanging limply, clothes soaked with rain and feet pointed downwards.
There had to be a dozen of them and as I took another big step backwards I heard a noise
behind me, rising over the rattling of rain and the moaning of the wind.
On the other side of the clearing, beyond the log that I had fallen off of, there was a figure,
standing stock still, staring at me through the growing dimness. It was almost evening and the
sun set fast in the woods, why was I still here?
“Don’t come any closer!” I shouted, holding up my stick, hoping that it looked a lot more
substantial than it actually was. The figure didn’t respond, just kept staring before making an odd
shivering motion, like a dog shaking water from its fur. I looked at the woods behind me, past the
corpse laden tree, and wondered what my chances were if I made a run for it through there. It led
deeper into the woods but the path to my house, and the rest of civilization for that matter, meant
going closer to the figure, who I noticed was now starting to move forwards.
As he came closer, steadfastly ignoring my terrified threats. I saw that he was wearing a black
parka and holding a coiled length of rope.
Moving slowly, carefully, I edged my way past him, holding the stick before me in a defensive
motion. He didn’t even spare a glance my direction though, instead continuing onwards until he
was at the base of the tree. For a long moment he stared at the branches and then nodded with
obvious satisfaction. Taking the hood of his parka off he began to clamber into the tree, the
bodies shaking and swaying as he disturbed their natural equilibrium.
“What are you doing?” I asked weakly, already knowing the answer. The figure ignored me
though, instead picking a spot between two hanging bodies and carefully tying the rope to the
branch. He glanced up at me as he began to fashion a hangman’s knot and I saw that,
shockingly, he looked ordinary, not at all like whatever mental approximation of a cultist that I’d
had before.
“Get going,” he said, “you don’t want to be around for this.” He sounded perfectly at ease,
almost happy.
“If...If you’re in a cult I can help you,” I said, very aware that my voice was shaking and on the
verge of cracking, “you don’t need to do this.” He didn’t respond, just looked down at me sadly,
like I was missing some obvious and fundamental truth of the universe. As he finished his knot,
testing it with practiced hands, I drew the knife that I had in my pocket, flicking the blade out.
“Don’t do this,” I told him again, feeling slightly more confident now that I had at least a
temporary solution to what lay before me, “I’ll cut you down if you hang yourself. There’s no
point.” As I said this he sat bolt upright from where he was and stared at me, terror in his eyes.
“No!” He shouted, his voice ringing off of the surrounding trees, around us the rain continued to
fall, even harder if that was possible. He shook his head violently and tugged at the knot again,
his previous aura of calm was gone, now he seemed agitated and upset.
“Don’t-” I started to say but a rumble of thunder cut me off and the figure shook his head.
“I’m almost late,” he muttered, then looked at me, his face contorted with something that looked
like fear, “don’t cut me down, they’ll get angry if you do!” What the hell was he talking about?
“Who are they?” I asked, and watched him fit the noose around his neck, water dripped off of
the blade of my knife and I remembered that it was somewhat dull. Would it cut through the
rope that he was using? I hoped so.
“You don’t want to make them angry,” he smiled in a sickly manner and glanced at the other
corpses surrounding him, “it would be a pity...the harvest was good this year.” I blinked,
confusion and fear clouding my thoughts, then he tightened the noose with a convulsive jerk of
his arm and I saw something set in his face.
“No!” I shouted but he didn’t listen.
He jumped.
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�Her Name is Eve
By John Farrell
As moonlight shines on the discarded body parts that litter the forest around me, I hear him
singing. I’m breathing too heavily to be able to recognize the song, but whatever it is it’s slow
and methodical. He isn’t chasing me anymore. I can’t get away and he knows it. He’s enjoying
this. Letting the fear creep into me. Imagining what he’s going to do to me. The strange thing is
that none of this is what really disturbs me. The part that gets to me is the idea that this is what
was supposed to happen from the beginning. I am realizing that everything I did to avoid this
point only guaranteed that I would get here. I look at the Calvin stepping lightly over corpses
and smiling at me as he sings. I wonder if someone wanted this it to end this way.
I recognize the song now. It’s an old Kyrie he used to sing absentmindedly when he was
inputting data at the end of the day. Just something he would use to pass the time while his
mind was occupied. He reaches me and I fall to my knees. I don’t have the energy left to run,
and he knows it. He raises the scalpel and waits for a moment, looking down at me. For a
moment I don’t understand why, until I start listening closer. He wants to finish the song. I don’t
know what makes me want to speak. I know it won’t stop him. I know he decided to kill me long
ago. I do it anyway.
“You know. Cal, you don’t have to do this.”
The smile drops from his face and he narrows his eyes at me. “I’m not so sure.”
Closing my eyes, I wait for the blade to drop. And I think back to a few hours ago.
“I always hate it when they scream,” Abraham said next to me, wincing.
“They’re not screaming, Abe.” said Gottfried in his usual content, relaxed tone. “That sound is
just what happens when their vocal circuits get flooded with electricity.”
“Yeah, well...it’s painful, isn’t it?” Abraham asked, peering through the glass at the Alpha and
Beta models.
“Well...unpleasant is a more accurate word. They aren’t complicated enough to have the neural
processes for pain. But I guess the point stands that they don’t enjoy this. And I can tell from
the look on your face that you don’t either.”
Abraham shrugged, continuing to observe the models. “Yeah, well, it’s this or my job. What
choice do I have here?”
Gottfried just shrugged back, never taking his eyes off of his computer. He had enough faith in
the rigor of the experiment that he no longer felt the need to pay any real attention to it. He felt
that the results would end up the way they had the past twenty times, and so far he was always
right.
The five of us had a fairly simple task to perform. The science behind it was heavy and
incredibly expensive, but our job was pretty simple: watch the units and record their actions.
Alpha and Beta were the military’s attempt at rudimentary artificial intelligence. The fact that it
was military meant that it was secret, so everything we did was inside an underground complex
with only one way to the surface. The units we were given could think, communicate, and
interact with their surroundings. All of this they could perform with limited functionality at best,
but they were an important step on the way to proper computerized thought. I don’t know who
made the call to make them look so human. The units were five feet tall with basic humanoid
shapes and surprisingly expressive faces. Their skin was all uniform white and they didn’t have
any hair or clothes, but it was something about their faces that got me. Those things took real
craftsmanship. Looking at them you could almost forget you were seeing something that wasn’t
really a person. Sometimes when I looked into their eyes I would wonder why they’re so real
looking. I always found it creepy watching over something that reminded me so much of myself.
Looking back on it it makes me wonder about why 1 look the way I do.
The team was Calvin, Gottfried, Isaac, Abraham, and me, the only woman of the group. Our job
was to run the units through some simple scenarios, see how they react, and record it. All in all
it was pretty straightforward, and it didn’t take long to get bored with it. It wasn’t that anything we
had them doing was particularly routine; in fact some of the situations were pretty unique.
Sometimes they were as uninvolved as basic puzzles requiring the units to work together to find
the solution, although they often went much farther. We weren’t just testing their ability to think
their way out of situations; much of what we had them doing was meant to ascertain how well
they understood not only themselves but one another. They showed only rudimentary grasps of
qualities such as sentience and empathy.
At the moment we had Alpha and Beta in a large empty room together. In the center was a large
red button on a small table. If either of the units pressed the button, it was hit with a mild but
noticeable electric shock. Because of this, the way the units’, for lack of a better word,
“personalities” were programmed. Alpha was the one more likely to touch it first, and Beta upon
seeing this would be unable to overcome its natural curiosity and follow suit. The boredom
came not because this test was uninteresting in itself, but because we had to perform it at least
a hundred times before we could consider ourselves done. Once we were done, we’d erase
their memories and start again. “Good science is about repetition.” Calvin would always say. It
irked me to have to repeat the experiments so many damn times, but in the end he was right.
The other thing that made these trials so boring is that they always ended the same way. Every
time.
Isaac squinted his eyes through the one way glass as Alpha retreated from the button and Beta
approached. “I don’t get this. I don’t get it at all. They weren’t made to make the same exact
decisions every time...so why does every situation end the same way?”
Gottfried scribbled something absentmindedly and still didn’t feel it necessary to look up.
“Weren’t they though? All their choices are just based on set parameters. If the parameters are
the same every time, why would they act any differently?”
“Because if these things simulate intelligence as well as they’re supposed to, they should act the
same way as people.” Isaac said. “Are our actions really that simple? Can they just be boiled
down to set reactions?”
This finally got Gottfried’s attention. He lifted his eyes and stared off into thought for a moment.
The moment didn’t last very long. He shrugged and returned to his work, quipping
disinterestedly “Does it matter? We’ll never know the parameters so I don’t see that it makes a
difference.”
This seemed sufficient for him, but it only annoyed Isaac more. “Okay then, let’s change
something around. Put them in different positions in the room or something. Put some kind of
warning on the button. I don’t know.”
Abraham shifted uneasily. “We’re not supposed to do that. People in charge say this is how
they want this done.”
Isaac began tapping his foot impatiently. “Yeah, well maybe they don’t know what they’re doing
the way you think they do. I mean we’re here to learn, right? Isn’t that the point of all this?
What are we here for if they only want us to stand and watch the same thing happen over and
over? Isn’t there some greater point?” Abraham didn’t respond, keeping his eyes on the
experiment running and hoping Isaac would drop it. After a few seconds we heard the strange
electric sound that meant the experiment was done. Gottfried recorded the elapsed time (which
was of course the exact same at it had been every other time) and the rest of us entered the
room.
Upon seeing us Alpha’s eyes widened and it cowered back into the corner. Right, I told myself.
Every time they see us it’s for the first time. And they have no idea what they’re looking at.
Abraham takes out a remote and pressed a button, causing Alpha to shut down. He and Isaac
began inspection of Alpha and I took Beta. Its right arm was twitching strangely, jerking upwards
�Its right arm was twitching strangely, jerking upwards and hitting itself on the head, which
shouldn’t have happened if it were off. Something must have gotten hit as it fell; some kind of
circuit was going off that wasn’t supposed to.
“Guys” I said to the others, “something’s up with Beta. I’m going to go take it back to the shop.”
Isaac was in the process of lifting Alpha into a standing position and looked over to me. “Good. I
think we could all use a break. This one checks out fine. Oh and while you’re there tell Cal that
we’re going to need a full retune in a day or two. I want to be sure that the electricity isn’t going
to overload anything if we keep doing this.”
“You know he’s not going to like that.”
“Yeah I do. I also know he’s going to do it anyway. It’s part of the job.”
He was right. Whatever he thought of the work Calvin never complained. He just did his
duty diligently. I loaded Beta onto a cart and headed off towards the shop.
There were some things about the shop that always unsettled me. Broken body parts dotted the
walls and work benches. I knew they weren’t real, but they were close enough to human that I
always tried to block them out whenever I came into the room. I kept my gaze on Beta in the cart
below me. It had stopped twitching by now, but there was probably still something wrong with it.
Calvin was the other thing that bothered me. At the moment he was bent over one of Beta’s
discarded arms through a magnifying glass. He was whistling a Kyrie under his breath as he
tinkered with the arm. Some sparks flew and it started to twitch. Calvin laughed. “Ha! Knew I
would figure it out!” I wheeled the cart around to him and he looked up to me.
“Got something weird going on with the power distributor. And Isaac says he wants some
diagnostics done to make sure they don’t start shorting out. Hope it’s not too much for you.”
He looked up at me, a strange smile still on his face. “Nothing’s too much work. I’ll make
sure to get it done.” There was something I didn’t like about the way he looked at me. There
was nothing sexual or threatening about it. It was more like he wasn’t seeing me at all. Calvin
just looked right through you with a light smile playing on his face.
Nervously I searched for something to say. “Yeah...great. I worry about them, you know.
Gottfried keeps saying they can’t feel pain, but I hate how they keep breaking down.”
At this he narrowed his eyes. The smile remained. “Would it make a difference if they did
feel pain?”
I was honestly dumbfounded by this. “Y-yes. Yes of course it would make a difference.
We’re trying to understand them, not hurt them.”
“But wouldn’t that be the best way to understand them? We see how they react under
some really trying circumstances and we’ll have a much better idea how they operate. Why
would we worry about their pain? They’re just objects that exist to serve a function. They’d just
be doing what they’re supposed to do. Filling in their role in the greater plan.”
That right there. That was why I never felt comfortable around him. This idea that no matter
what we did to the units it didn’t matter because it was all part of the experiment. The word from
the people in charge was enough justification for him. No complaints, no questions. He just did
the work while smiling all the time. “Calvin I need to be getting back now. Is there anything you
need from me?”
“Yes. Just help me move Beta from the cart to the table.” He walked over and hooked his hands
under Beta’s arms and I got the leg. We lifted it up and put it on the table next to where Calvin
had been working, and suddenly Beta started lashing out with its right arm again. I backed off
instinctively but Calvin held it down and began trying to inspect the shoulder. The unit’s left hand
caught him in the face and knocked him back onto the floor. Calvin’s hand went immediately to
where Beta hit him.
I went down to him to see if he was alright. “Damn, Cal that looked rough. Are you okay?”
He took his hand from his face and stared at it blankly. “What I am appears to be debatable.” I
didn’t understand until I saw it too. The liquid on his hand and pouring slowly out of the small
gash on his head. It wasn’t blood. It was oil.
*
*
*
Once we got everyone together we sat for hours in silence. At least it felt like hours.
Isaac was fuming, Abraham was afraid and Gottfried didn’t much seem to care. Calvin was off in
a corner by himself singing. I didn’t know what to think. I had hoped that it was just Calvin, but
Isaac insisted that we all check ourselves. He took a scalpel to his arm and looked inside. At all
of the circuitry. I could see by the look on his face that he regretted doing it. It must have hurt
him a lot. Hurt...I thought. Why did they give us pain? Isaac interrupted my thoughts through
gritted teeth. “Why the fuck are we here? What’s the point?”
Gottfried finished a yawn and looked up from his computer. “The point is no different than it ever
was: this is a test of new artificial intelligence. The only difference is that it looks like the people
in charge are a lot farther along than they told us at first.”
“So, what? We’re fucking machines? Everything we do dictated by some programming we have
no say in?” Isaac said, pacing furiously.
Gottfried sighed and sat up in his chair. “Is that really any different from the way you thought it
was before? What is the brain but an incredibly complicated computer? The choices I make feel
like choices whether they are or not, so what does it matter if they’re predetermined?”
This didn’t seem to work on Isaac. “The difference is that you’re wrong. Your ignorance doesn’t
make you free. I’m who I am because of the experiences I’ve been through in my life. I want
that to matter.”
Gottfried just shrugged and held up his hand, still dripping with oil from where he had cut it open.
“Evidently you need to rethink some of your assumptions. It may be that you never existed
before we all stepped into this lab.”
This stopped us all dead for a moment, but Isaac’s anger let him rally faster than the rest of us.
“So what are we? What do we do?”
“Me? I’m what I always was: a scientist,” Gottfried said. “And I intend to finish the experiment.”
Abraham started nodding in agreement. Or maybe shaking with fear. Now that I think of it I don’t
know for sure. “Yes. Yes, he’s right. It’s clear that we’re here for a purpose. We were told to
watch the units and record data. That’s exactly what we should do.”
I couldn’t agree, though. It all seemed so pointless suddenly. “But the units don’t matter
anymore. They aren’t the experiment. We are.”
“So what do we do, then? We were probably never supposed to figure this out. What if they just
come in and erase our memories and start again, just like with the units? If we keep going
everything will be fine. Nothing will happen to us if we just-”
everything will be fine. Nothing will happen to us if we just-”
“Will you fucking listen to yourself?” Isaac shouted. “You want to cower and beg like slaves? If
the point was to make machines with intelligence I’d say they have a damn success on their
hands, and I intend to show them just how well their ‘machines’ function.”
“You aren’t getting this, Isaac.” Gottfried said, rubbing his forehead in frustration. “We don’t
know if we’ve broken parameters. It’s entirely possible that Beta hitting Calvin and everything
that followed from it was on purpose...including this conversation.”
“Yes Isaac,” Calvin said, rising to meet us with another smile on the edge of his mouth, “we are
only doing as we are meant to. All part of the grand plan, don’t you think? You have no need to
worry.”
Isaac was clearly not accepting this. “No. No, this is wrong. I’m not going to be a part of this.
And if all of my responses are programmed then I’ll just do something unexpected. Something I
don’t even choose.”
�Calvin had his eyes locked on Isaac in an unsettling way. He was still smiling, but there was
something dark in his face. My back touched the wall before I realized that I was moving away
from him. “We can’t violate the will of those in charge, Isaac. They wouldn’t make us that way.”
“I don’t accept that. Cal.” said Isaac. “Whatever this is there’s a way out of it...and I think I know
what it is.”
I really would have liked to know what his plan was. Unfortunately the scalpel that Calvin shoved
through his throat made sure that I would never hear it.
★
*
★
It wasn’t until Isaac hit the floor that I realized what had happened. There was just this horrible
gurgling sound Isaac made as the oil rushed out of his throat onto the floor. Abraham knelt down
to try to help, but there was nothing he could do. I was frozen in terror and Gottfried was just
staring at Calvin, but he wasn’t afraid. He was resigned. Calvin reached down and pulled the
scalpel out of Isaac, keeping his eyes on Gottfried.
I heard myself say it before I realized I was speaking. “You’re a monster. Cal. A monster.”
He laughed at me. He actually laughed, but he never looked at me. “Girl, if I’m a monster then
I’m the monster they made me to be. Don’t you see? I don’t do this because I enjoy it or
because I want to or because I’m insane. It’s because it’s what I’m made to do. What they
wanted me for all along.” He raised the scalpel and pointed it at Gottfried, who shook his head.
“Wherever it comes from, you’re the one doing it, Calvin,” he said with a sound more of
disappointment than fear. “Don’t try to mask the choice in pointless philosophy.”
Calvin merely shrugged. “Believe what you need to,” he said right before he slashed Gottfried
across the throat. “The end is the same.”
At this point I was on the ground. I don’t remember how I got there, only that I was too afraid to
get up. Calvin was looking me in the eyes and stalking towards me across the room when a
shadow fell across me. I saw Abraham standing over me, quaking visibly, with his arms
outstretched. He had put himself directly between me and Calvin.
“I-I’m not g-g-g-oing to let you do this, Calvin.” he managed to squeeze out. Calvin’s smile only
widened.
“You’re going to move, Abraham. You’re going to do nothing as I cut this girl up and ignore you.
Do you know why? It’s because you’re afraid. And you’re afraid because they want me to do
this. You know that, don’t you? If we’re just experiments, we have to fulfill our duty. It’s my job to
kill her just as it’s yours to let me. Don’t you see? We have to finish the experiment.”
Abraham looked over his shoulder at me, slowly. I could see it in his eyes. He wanted a way out,
maybe a sign from god or maybe just another option, but one wasn’t coming. “I’m sorry, but
Calvin is right. We can’t decide for ourselves not to listen to the people in charge. This is the
way it has to be.” He closed his eyes and dropped his arms, and finally I found the strength to
move. Not just to move, but to run. I got up and bolted, never looking behind me. When I was
halfway down the hall I heard Abraham scream. It didn’t take much imagination to know what
had happened to him. I knew I only had one chance of getting out of this, and it was to get above
ground. He was behind me, I didn’t know how far, but I had a slight lead on him and nothing left
to lose.
It wasn’t a long distance to the door that led out, but I had to wonder what if there was no
outside? How much of what I knew was fabricated? Did the door even open? It was one of
those big vault doors that you could only open by turning a long handle. When I got to it I didn’t
know what to do, only that I had no other option. He was somewhere behind me, and going to be
here soon. I wasn’t making any effort to hide the sound of my movements, only make sure they
were as fast as possible. As I turned the handle I heard him singing. The same absent-minded
song as always, as if all he was doing was cleaning up the shop. A quick hiss of air and the door
was open. I pulled it open and looked at what was there to meet me.
I don’t know what I expected. A great, beaming sun? A rush of water? What I found was
darkness. At least, that’s what it looked like at first. I ran into it anyway, and once my eyes
adjusted I saw trees. Stars. Moonlight. It was night and I was somewhere in the forest. Not
the military base I remembered entering from when we started the experiment. Which was
good. It gave me a context to judge what was real. But that could wait until later, assuming
there was a later.
By now Calvin was far behind me. I was running as fast as possible, but he was walking
nonchalantly, probably certain he would find me. And all the time his song haunted me
throughout the forest. I tripped over a stick and quickly scanned my surroundings. I could hear
him but he was nowhere in view. What if he’s right? I thought to myself. What if he is supposed
to kill me? Then there was nothing I could do to get away. Anywhere I would run, he would go
and find me. Okay then, I needed to follow Isaac’s advice. Do something unexpected.
Something I couldn’t control. I reached down to the stick and flung it into the air. When it hit the
ground I saw the direction it pointed and picked up speed again.
I thought they could never possibly guess I would make that decision. That they could never
possibly calculate the strength and trajectory of my arm so accurately as to know exactly where
I would go. The body parts around me told me differently.
When I reached the tree I wanted to keep going, but I was totally out of energy. At this exact
point I could not keep running. And it was at this exact point that I found the discarded parts of
the previous models that had come before. My face. My arms. My legs. All dismembered and
scattered around the tree from the previous iterations of the experiment. I remembered
something Calvin had said earlier in the day. Good science was about repetition. I could
picture the smile he would have on his face when he saw this and found out he’s right. His
song was getting louder. He was going to find me and kill me and make me a data point for
someone in a lab somewhere.
At least that would have been the case if they were good scientists. Another thing about good
science is that the experiment had to be the same every time. The parameters had to be
exactly the same or the results could change. Which is exactly what I intended to do. Not only
in the present, but in the past. I noticed there was something strange about all of the arms
scattered on the ground. They were all pointed in the same direction. Whatever the position of
the rest of the bodies, one of the hands on one of the arms was always pointed at something. I
had figured something out in the past, but what?
*
*
*
He’s still holding the blade as I figure it out. An apple hanging just above his head, off of a
branch that is just about to break. At some point it must have been hit by lightning, and the
branch was split most of the way through. It was heavy, and with enough force it would fall on
him. Maybe it would stun him. Maybe if I was lucky it could wound him. Either way it was a
chance. If it didn’t work this time it would work next time. Or the time after that. Someday. And
then one of me would be free.
And after that? Who knows? I start to hit the tree with everything I have, and wonder why he
isn’t killing me yet. Then I hear it. Right, I think. He wants to finish the song.
But then he does. I’m hitting it as hard as I can and the branch is shaking. It’s loosening, and it
just might fall. If not now, sometime. He moves towards me. I only have a few hits left before
I’m done.
★
★
★
Far away, somtteone turns away from a screen in anticipation of what numerous trials have
proven is about to happen.
“Hey, you don’t want to watch? Climax is almost finished.”
“Nah, man. I hate it when they scream.”
�The Thrilling Epic of Lady Pfarlington, Exquisite and Most
Excellent Bug Madame of Highest Repute in Space Aristocracy,
Whom is Forced to Murder In Pursuit of Regaining Her Husband’s
Attentions From the Licentiousness Of Space Bordellos
By James Carr
(A story for [REDACTED] based on a delightful conversation of a few
days prior, and a writing prompt of this evening.)
“You need to stop leaving dead bodies in my kitchen.”
Not expecting to hear voices at that hour, Lady Pfarlington started, and lost her grip on Baron
Tilswaddle’s exoskeleton. Having no longer the capability for motive force, the Baron’s corpse
toppled with a distinct lack of decorum, to the kitchen floor.
“My dear. I have simply no idea what you mean.” Replied Lady Pfarlington, resisting the urge to
squint into the darkness to identify the speaker. A Lady did not squint after all. Fortunately, as
she often found was the case, the universe obliged and rewarded her adherence to decorum
and the plas-lamps flowed into life as her discoverer activated the kitchen access codes.
It was, of course. Matron Tabitha. For who else claimed dominion of the kitchen? She was a
round woman, befitting her station and species, but generally one of the more pleasant
members of the help. Her current expression therefore, one of tired irritation, was not one that
Lady Pfarlington approved of. The motherly ladybug glanced at the corpse, now visibly leaking
vital fluids onto the floor, and opened her mouth to speak when Lady Pfarlington cut her off.
“Matron Tabitha. I must say I am quite disappointed in you. Giving me such a scare like that.
Firstly, it reflects very poorly on the manners your parents must have tried so hard to instill within
you. One does not address another from behind as you did. Secondly, I do not approve of that
expression. I understand that we are currently in a very trying time, what with all these frightful
murders going on, but a woman’s charm is in her ability to maintain grace and beauty in the face
of adversary. As a faithful servant in the employ of the Pfarlington Family’s Bacchus Class
Pleasure Fleet, I expect from you the same standards that are expected of myself.”
Matron Tabitha’s face at this point had gone through a veritable rainbow of expressions, and
was now edging from bewilderment to the more unsavory emotions. Seeing this. Lady
Pfarlington softened her expression and continued speaking before Matron Tabitha regained
use of her tongue.
“But as I said, these are trying times. And I suppose some allowances may be permitted for
extreme circumstances. Please understand, I speak harshly only so that you may not commit a
grievous error. For while an unflavorful soup may be redone, an error in social performance is
not so easily fixed. While you are but an employee of my family, I like to think that I see you, in
fact all of you, the help as more. That we have more of a- well, certainly not familial bond- but
that special friendship that is so rare in crasser corners of this universe.
Now, if you will excuse me, it is very late and the Viscount has scheduled a badminton match for
the early hours in the morning and I must be well rested.”
As she spoke of her husband, a delicate glow came into the cheeks of Lady Pfarlington, a blush
of such modesty and gentle embarrassment that any who saw it must have believed the
Viscount to be in the possession of the most loving and virtuous woman of the world. Embraced
in thoughts of her beloved. Lady Pfarlington gave a small nod to the Matron and gracefully
exited the room.
Though she had seen the Lady’s tender blushing. Matron Tabitha’s heart was somehow
unmoved by that most perfect display of love. It was not, though homely as she was, a bitterness
of her temperament that left her so unimpressed, but rather the unignorable corpse that still lay
in front of her plasteel oven. Tabitha had some small knowledge of virtue, and she was fairly
certain that murder ran opposite to the path it taught.
She stood there for a moment contemplating in the way that simple folk do, before touching the
kitchen’s control panel and accessing the cleaning routines. This was not the first corpse she
had encountered in her workspace before, and not even the first corpse the Lady had left there.
(Though hopefully it would be the last.). But the sanitation routines were endlessly customizable
and the ship’s engines could always use unexpected surpluses of fuel. With a few practiced
swipes of the panel, the routine was set and a gentle humming filled the room. Tabitha returned
to the light controls and slid them off before exiting the room. It would be clean by the time she
needed it tomorrow and; a badminton match? Hmn, cucumber sandwiches perhaps. Those
would be easy to put together and the Viscount was such a fan. Mumbling to herself, the matron
returned to her room, idly making plans for appropriate soups and drinks to pair with the victuals
of the morrow.
�
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<em>The Swarm</em>
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The Swarm, Issue #8
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Annapolis, MD
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2015-05
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Swarm_issue08_2015-05
Student publication
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49fc87fbb650e314fd3a9c95a88ba185
PDF Text
Text
�WAYDOWNBELOWTHEOCEAN, WHEREIWANTTOBE,PART2
H. P. Legomenon
The first day was not so bad, for the water was lit well by the sun and one could see rather far out
Two days later, they touched down to the bottom of the Marianas trench. About half a mile away,
they could see a faint glow in the dark, and knew that had to be their quarry. As it happened, the bacteria's
phosphorescent glow ended up being useful.
"Well," Jules said. "Now what?"
into the blue. There was a slightly perilous moment in the bridge, when a large shark had floated mindlessly
past the big window, and other dark forms swarmed just beyond the limits of view. But the glass was thick
"I volunteer," said Dr. Solomon, without any prompting.
and the captain unflappable, and they pushed onward. Nevertheless, Amy and Isabelle, the only other people
in the bridge at the time, chose to sit elsewhere.
"It would be my pleasure to accept the position," said Dr. Solomon.
The mess was off-limits, generally speaking, because no one wanted to get that close to the abyss that
yawned beneath them. Jules, in particular, had taken to walking like a cat with bags on its feet, pulling her
knees up much too far to avoid even the pretense of stepping firmly on the glass.
The doctor spent a lot of time lying flat against the cargo glass, attempting to make friends with
passing fish.
"We'll need someone to go in the diving bell," Reynard said.
"It will need to be someone who stays cool under pressure," Jules said, unable to resist the pun but
simultaneously making herself a little light-headed with claustrophobia. The day before a truly hideous
example of undersea life had bumped against the glass bottom of the submarine and put her even more on
edge.
"For the good of the mission, I will go," said Dr. Solomon.
"Someone who can be trusted not to wander off," Amy said.
The days that followed began to wear on everyone's nerves. Jules, who had a particular affinity for
sunshine and open spaces, had taken to lying on her hammock and trying not to think about the heavy,
crushing darkness that surrounded her at every instant.
"The oxygen hose will make that an impossibili_ty, though I will restrain my curiosity for the time
being to efficiently complete the task," said Dr. Solomon.
"Someone who has experience with strange organisms," Isabelle said.
Charles was up to his elbows in work. Having never worked on a submarine, he did his best to keep
"What could be more suited to a doctor? I will be proficient in this capacity."
up with the pressure demands the ship was making, trying as best he could to keep the thing from imploding
on itself.
"We might be doomed," he cautioned Amy, who had come down to hold a wrench and press a
button in the capacity of his assistant.
"It is a hazard of the occupation," she said sagely, and she wasn't wrong.
Isabelle, unsurprisingly, was cross, though for a highly specific reason.
"The food is disappearing," she said at one meal. They'd not thrown a tarp over the mess floor, out
of deference to the captain and engineer's hard work, but no one looked down--except the doctor, whose
neck seemed stuck that way.
"I think Charles should do it," said Reynard decisively. Dr. Solomon looked like she was going to
cry.
Charles shuddered. "Really? Me? Why not Magihana?"
"I am more useful here," Mr. Magihana said, and
HYHU\RQH�kind
of avoided making a comment. Mr.
Magihana had been ... peculiar of late. Everyone had an instance of this peculiarity to recall--] ules thought she
saw him ducking every now and then in the hallway, unprompted. Amy would've sworn he'd sat in the same
position for six hours, a defiant look on his face, playing with a little sharp knife as he sat at the
mess. Isabelle was angry about the still-diminishing quota of food, and knew that it had to have something to
do with him.
"We're eating it," Charles observed.
"It is disappearing out of proportion with my cooking it. I keep a list." She consulted it now, as Mr.
Magihana performed the duty of serving. "Yesterday I had three bags of dried fruit. Even allowing for you
low, unscrupulous thieves and snackers, there's no reason that I should only have two bags today. Nor that I
should be out an entire smoked fish, nor, Mr. Magihana, one of your bottles of sake."
Mr. Magihana's back straightened and he did two very peculiar things. After a moment, everyone
"Right," said Reynard. "Suit up, Charles, you're the only man for the job."
Dr. Solomon gave the captain a final look of miserable betrayal and went to go commune with the
sand-dwelling creatures at the very bottom.
The diving bell was a pretty damn scary thing to be incased in, but Charles admitted that the only
reluctance he felt was based on the fact that he hadn't designed it. He was commenting on ways to improve it
realized that his eyes had narrowed and his smile had disappeared. It was something of a shock to the room
at large--the man had never done such a thing before.
all the way through, though no one could hear him.
"My sake?" he asked, his voice as quiet as it ever was. Everyone tensed, waiting for some type of
spring or catch to snap.
what a damn great lot of ocean was around and above you. Everything was blacker than pitch, outside of the
Part of what made the bell scary was that, you were finally forced to consider how tiny you were and
"Yes," said Isabelle.
cold glow from the Geryon's spotlights, and in that blackness Charles, not an imaginative man, began to think
"l see," he said. He looked carefully around the room, gazing particularly in the corners and the
he saw huge, aquatic shapes swimming dreamily past, just out of sight.
shadows of the area. After a moment, his meaningless little smile returned. "I shall make a note of it."
"...great," said Isabelle, and everyone began to eat, thoroughly unsettled.
.What could be seen was small and inoffensive, with the unearthly, horrid quality of all deep .sea
life. Here was nightmare, if ever it could be found on earth.
Every moment he expected the sea bed to sink beneath him, to reveal that it was all a clever trick, the
camouflage of some giant, hideous fish, over whose mouth he had been walking:
-1-
-2-
�AMYTH
Pseudonymous Bosch
Once, he nearly tripped over a large, iron ring buried in the sand. A tremor of sheer fright shook up
both his legs and, possibly in defiance of the laws of physics, he jumped. He pressed onward, trying not to
think about such a thing and why in the name of any sane and decent God it would be stuck on the bottom
of the deepest, darkest bit of the ocean.
Far and away, the bacteria oozed, moving like a swarm of glowing, tiny insects over the sea
floor. The doctor had explained with unbridled jealousy what would happen if any of the bacteria touched
his skin. First it would be a rash that would spread quickly, and then his skin would open up in boils,
revealing the tissue--probably within 72 hours. It would become extremely difficult for even a highly
advanced hospital to treat, let alone the doctor's cute little rig of medical supplies and pure medical
enthusiasm.
He was about to face one of the deadliest creatures on the planet.
And Charles was armed with what essentially amounted to a turkey baster.
He approached carefully. It wasn't an intelligent being, or even an intelligent swarm, after all. It
couldn't be suspicious of him. He'd do it quickly, finish the job fast. He had several inches of metal and
industrial rubber keeping him safe--of anyone, he was probably the most well-protected to encounter the
thing.
He stuck the opening of the baster into the thick of the bacteria swarm, sucking up a sample and
hardly believing it could be so easy.
Then he tried to sprint back to the ship. At it happened, he wound up trudging. He still made a
pretty JRRG�clip, he thought.
Once the world was nothing but one vast organism, and it was perfect. Blood bright and lucent with
the heat of life surged from core to extremity and back again, electrical impulses swirled in flocks and clouds
through intricately woven nerves in pursuit of near-divine thoughts, forests of muscle grew dense and
stretched again, impossibly long, as the parts of the body shuffled and re-ordered in its eternal dance; for no
energy was lost in the metabolic exchange of the perfect organism, the universal being, but its every vital
force rebounded to its spring to re-create and re-birth it new in every moment, reconfigured but always itselfin-itself, as ancient as forever and as young as a breath inhaled, a moving image of eternity.
Except it had a flaw. How LWgot there you'll have to ask the liars, because I don't know, but there it
was like a tiny grain of sand had worked its way into a nautilus shell, and it gave birth to friction, and
irritation, and the flaw grew, and now the parts of the organism no longer worked in harmony but what was
healthy and hale in one organ taken by itself now sometimes frustrated and harmed another organ. Still the
flaw grew, and the vitality of the organism no longer returned to it full and unadulterated but some was
diverted along entirely useless channels, feeding the flaw, as the flaw became a sickness and spread
throughout the organs of the body. Finally a greater part of the body was sickness than remained whole, and
the moribund organism for the first time in its ageless life thrashed and threw and then collapsed utterly, its
flesh putrefying and disintegrating into the inert and dead matter that forms our world.
But though it was itself lifeless, the broken residue of the organism remained fecund with its
The bacteria seemed pretty well contained, which was making this far and away the most efficient,
easiest job the Geryon had ever performed.
lingering vitality, and in time new life sprouted from it and grew in power and sophistication: first
"Nicely done, everyone," Reynard said, smiling with obvious pleasure. "Now then--how about a trip
to the surface."
lightning and the greater and lesser luminescences, and then simple plants feeding off the luminescences, and
"Yes, please," echoed everyone.
microscopic diggers, opportunists working in the universal carrion, and alongside them near-creatures like the
simple animals and parasites feeding off the others: the strange fungi infesting other creatures or living off
their byproducts, herbivores consuming the plants and fungi, carnivores consuming and assimilating even the
"Right. We'll just--"
herbivores. As life arose and continues to arise out of the earth, air, and rock all of these creatures struggle
The lights flickered, dimmed, and disappeared. The whirr of the engine slowed and stopped.
"Right," said Reynard. "Smashing."
against each other and against the remaining inert matter for expansion and dominance, for increased vitality,
Dr. Solomon held the jar of bacteria above her head, lightly the crew in a terribly faint glow.
ingenuity of warfare and the appropriation of greater and greater amounts of vitality have seen the present
"I have a confession to make," said Mr. Magihana.
"You.don't say," said Reynard, crossing his arms.
"I fear we may have been harboring ninjas,"
to make what is not them into a part of them and so become a greater portion of the whole world. The
organisms grow in size and complexity; man is the most developed example, though he certainly does not
recapture all the subtlety and diversity of the one-time universal being, with its organ systems unknown to
modern biologists. And the end and goal of all organisms, in their struggle and alliances of opportunity, is to
one day become or give rise to the new and final organism, the one that will dominate all else, consume or
symbiotize into itself all other substances whether living or dead, and out of this synthesis of the whole world
take its place as the new and eternal perfect organism.
-3-
-4-
�THE PEOPLE'S VOICE (MATCHES: PART II)
By Slaya Nemoy
''Yes, but Welton printed it. He is just as guilty as the writer, who will also need to answer for his
crimes."
Quilla took a deep breath. "Please! None of it his fault. Don't arrest him!"
"Bloody, fucking, stupid deadline." Quilla glanced out the window and glared. "Bloody, fucking,
stupid soldiers." She did a double take and jumped out of her chair. She raced out the door only just
remembering to grab an old sweater to cover up her indecent top. Outside in the hall, Jacques was peering
out of his room toward the stairs.
''What the hell is going on?"
"No fucking clue," Quilla replied in passing. She was down the hall and at the top of the stairs just in
time to hear the captain of the squad read out the arrest warrant.
"By order of his Royal Majesty King Compten IV, I hereby arrest Colin Welton for insulting his
Welt laid _a restraining hand on her arm. "The captain is right, it is still my paper. I will willingly go
with them."
"No! You can't." Quilla made to grab his shoulders but he pushed her away.
"Officer, I am ready to go," Welt said, standing tall. The captain nodded and ushered him over to
one of his men.
''We also have the arrest warrant for the writer, The Quill. If you will hand him over to us we will
just be on our way." This the captain directed at Quilla. She glowered.
''You will find no such man here."
Royal Majesty and denouncing his right to rule. The crime is high WUHDVRQ�and is punishable by either death or
life imprisonment." The captain, a rather handsome man in his early thirties, rolled up the warrant and turned
to Welt who looked dour.
"If you will just come with us, sir, the little fuss will be made the better for you," the captain sai_d.
Welt carefully removed his leather printing apron and took down his coat from the rack by the door.
"No!" Quilla yelled. She bounded down the stairs and stood in front of the captain. ''You have no
right!"
"Oh really? Search the place," the captain ordered. Soldiers started searching all over the building.
The captain looked at Quilla for a long moment. She glanced down at her stockinged feet and after a minute
the captain looked away and started to interrogate Welt who, like Quilla, insisted The Quill was not to be
found.
There was a slight commotion at the front door. The captain ·glanced up as a young lord walked in
his bright eyes sweeping over the room. The captain clicked his heels together and bowed slightly.
"Are you here to arrest the printer?" the lord asked. The captain nodded.
The captain looked at her exasperated. ''We have every right, young lady, the king has ordered the
arrest."
"My men are now searching for the writer of the offending piece, though the printer and his
daughter insist he is not in residence."
''What was his crime?" Quilla demanded.
Quilla looked up angrily. The lord turned to her and she stiffened.
"I have already read out the warrant," the captain explained patiently.
"Let it rest, Quill," Welt said so only she could hear, shrugging on his coat.
Quilla rounded on him. "No! They have no right. You have done nothing wrong."
"I am not Welt's daughter," she muttered. The captain shrugged but the lord glanced at Welt then at
Quilla.
"Then who are you?"
"He has committed high treason."
She said nothing. The lord walked over and she glared up at him.
"How!?" Quilla said fiercely.
"Is he not the editor of The People's Voice?" The captain asked.
"Aye," Welt admitted.
"The People's Voice is not treason; the king has already ruled on this matter," Quilla said glaring at
the captain.
"There is no reason to arrest Welt. He is not guilty of any part of this crime."
"He is the printer of The People's Voice, and he printed an offending article. That is enough of a
crime."
"He didn't print it," she said bristling. "I'm telling you he had nothing to do with this."
The lord leaned in slightly and a lock of his fine light brown hair fell loose from his queue.
"He ruled begrudgingly and only if certain conditions were met." The captain matched her gaze.
"We have met them." She raised her head stubbornly.
"Publishing a certain article is not meeting the conditions."
Quilla frowned. ''What article?"
The captain waved a hand and a week old paper was produced by one of the soldiers. Splashed
across the top was the title in plain, simple letters, The People's Voice. Underneath in eye catching bold font
was the article heading; The Hypocrisy of Kings and in smaller lettering the sub-heading, Is the King Really
Worthy of his Crown? _The captain read the offending title out loud. Quilla blanched.
"The king has tolerated your little penny rag because it gives the people a sense that they actually," he
grinned nastily, "have a voice. But this time you have gone too far."
Quilla bit her lip. ''Welt did not write that article. You have no right to take him into custody."
-5-
"Do you know what damage this article has done? In only a few words the city has been knocked off
its feet. It will take months to recover, if not years. Everyone is hounding for blood, nobles, bourgeoisie,
destitute, everyone. In one way or another this will end in blood, but we'd rather it not be a revolutionary
blood."
"So what do you want it to be?" she sneered.
"A public hanging of the offending persons. A simple death that will calm the nobles and frighten
the masses enough."
She paled. ''You're going to hang Welt?"
''We may very well have to."
"But he didn't do anything. I really mean that. We printed the article after he had retired for the
night. We knew he wouldn't allow'it, but the people need to speak. Without a voice, you do realize the people
-6-
�will be soundlessly yelling in their minds until one day they will not be able to stop themselves and the words
THE PERFECT SOLDIER
will burst forth in yells and-screams. And trust me, you do not want to have that happen."
The lord looked at her shrewdly. "You are awfully poetic," he noted. "But there are things that must
By Jack Farrell
One more kill and I will be able to feel again. I follow the child through the ruined streets of the city, and I begin
to wonder what it will be like to be myself again. My calculations tell me that it is tired and wounded, but also
be done for the greater good."
''Whose_greater good?"
that it is afraid. This is a weakness I do not have. The men who made me this way saw to that.
He said nothing.
"Please, you must believe me, Welt is not to blame. Hanging him would be a gross injustice and will
When the Iron Corps was created, my home country was deep in the throes of war. Old grudges we had held
do you no good." Without thinking she clutched at his arm and he, startled, pushed her away. The loose
with ancient enemies had been boiling under the surface for generations, and eventually the proper excuse
button on her sweater finally snapped off and her sweater gaped open. Furiously she pulled it close but not
was found to begin a conflict. The full ferocity of the war was more than expected, however, and it became
before he could see she wore little more then a chemise underneath. His eyes suddenly went wide and he
necessary to explore drastic alternatives. The casualties were in the millions as the fighting became domestic,
reached down toward her neck. She jerked back.
and desperation led to the creation of the Corps.
"Don't touch me."
''What is that around your neck?" he came forward and lifted up her necklace to get a better look at
the milky white crystal hanging at the end. She pulled it away from him and tucked it beneath her chemise. He
Blood. Fresh. The child is near. Its tracks take me into a dark building. There are few exits. The child will
not escape. In its fear it made a mistake and did not view all of its alternatives. Soon it will no longer matter.
was staring into her eyes intently and she felt confused and horrified.
''What do you want?" she demanded.
''Your necklace .. " He recovered himself and stood up straight. "If you say, what was his name? Welt?
Did not print the article then I assume you did?"
As the war raged the resolve of the citizens began to weaken, but the zeal of the leaders did not allow them to
forget the ethnic hatreds that began the conflict. But even they were startled at what began to become
necessary. As enemy refugees flooded our borders, the decision was made that they be eliminated. But our
She hesitated then nodded proudly.
soldiers often did not have the necessary determination to open fire on women and children as ordered. So
"And who wrote it?"
She looked up at him. There was still a strange look in his eye which was the only reason she
they created the Corps.
admitted the truth.
"I did."
He looked shocked, then slightly confused but also curious and proud. He turned suddenly.
It is weeping. The child knows what I am about to do. Its -fear once again ensures its destruction. Its cries
point out its position, and I find it all the faster. It is in the next room.
"Captain, release this man and order your soldiers to leave the premise."
The purpose of the Iron Corps was to create a unit of soldiers unaffected by the normal inhibitions and
The captain's mouth dropped open as did Quilla's.
weaknesses that were hindering the war effort. Free of empathy or fear we would be able to do anything and
"Sir?" the captain said tentatively.
everything needed to bring the war to an end. The program was an even greater success than they expected.
''You heard me, release this man."
They brought us in, and through a special combination of mental conditioning and chemical alterations, they
"But, sir, we have orders," the captain sputtered.
removed all our capacity for normal emotion and human empathy. Part of the programming ensured our
"I have made new ones. Do as I command this instant."
The captain struggled with himself briefly then clicked his heels again and bowed. He called his men
loyalty to our own country, and we were allowed to retain some of our feelings so that we might "revel in the
glory of our victory", or so the director said as we were being conditioned.
back and told them the change of plans and without further ado they marched off the premise. The lord gave
Quilla one last look and swept out after them.
The results were more drastic than they believed. We of the Corps determined that the most effective
method of ending the war was not through conventional methods. Biological toxins are wider reaching, less
expensive, and more efficient. Of course, the flu virus we modified also spread into our own country, but the
Corps considered these acceptable losses, of which there were a mere ten million. Our creators were
displeased with the proposed method of assault, but as this constituted a hindrance to the war effort, we
reclassified them as enemy combatants and they were quickly eliminated.
Over the years much interbreeding has occurred between our two peoples. Given that our standing orders
were the destruction·of all members of our ethnic enemies, it became necessary to cull many from our home
-7-
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�country in pursuit of this goal. The other members of the Corps are currently dealing with them. I am tasked
with the elimination of those with an immunity to the disease.
Protection. I supposed that that was about that than which nothing greater could be expected, coming
out of her.
It was expected that a certain portion of the enemy would be free from the weapon we engineered. These we
"I'm not an ellipse, Alyson. I only have one focus at a time. Why not go to someone who does that for a
job? Llke the police?"
rounded up and placed in a secure holding facility, and they quickly died due to dehydration - all but the child.
Soon, that will no longer be an issue.
"Because I've got a proposition for you."
"A proposition, eh? That would definitely be a common notion for you."
"Please, sir. Please," it cries. It is relying on a false assumption that I will be swayed by its plight. An
intriguing tactic. One we should consider for the Steel Corps, should it ever be necessary to recreate our
successes. The child is no threat, and use of ammunition on it would be a waste. Its eyes spread more tears
and its legs kick uselessly in the air as I strangle it. As its blood pools at my feet I turn and begin walking
EDFN�to the camps. Soon I shall be returned to my old self. I wonder what it will be like. Wonder. A sign of
curiosity, and thus returning emotion. This is going to be an interesting day.
THOMAS AQUINAS AND THE SILENCE OF THE IAMBS PART 2
By Leonard Franks
The name's Aquinas. Thomas Aquinas. I'm a private eye. And there I was, about to drive off to see
She rolled her eyes, making sure she was in the rear view so I could see it. "It's a worthwhile proposition,
Tommy. But I'm going to need you to accept some first principles first."
''Just get to the point already. I want to know what your line is."
"Don't be such a square. This is all very plane. Look, around here, half of being is an emanation from the
One. You're one of a very few people that I know absolutely I can trust. So I figure the two of us should
work together. You give me protection and I give you underground connections. It sounds like a perfectly
good friendship of utility to me."
"If you've got some annals, lay them out. I'm listening."
"Thank you. Look, you know that I'm perfectly nice, overall. I may have gotten lost in a dark wood at
the halfway point of my life, but I'm basically a good person." I motioned for her to skip it. I could never
stand a prologue that was longer than its tale. "Fine. Look. I get occasional communications from the upper
the latest victim of some killer going by the name of Heraclitus when I suddenly find that The Wife of Bath,
steps on the ladder about what I should and shouldn't do. Well, I decided that I might as well be a fine,
madame and most annoying woman on the planet, is sitting in the back of my created IntelLexus. I think you
upstanding citizen for once and turn in a criminal I was aware of-"
can understand that I wasn't exactly beatified.
"A competitor in your field?"
"All right, Alyson," I said. "Why don't you just make like a developing sea urchin and split? I don't have
time for you."
"There may have been a little bit of honey around some of the wormwood for me. Yes. A competitor. So
anyway, that gets certain parties a little bit upset with me. It ended up being the genesis of a few nasty things,
"I'll answer that question," she said. ''But first, I'd like you to drive for about five feet in any direction."
so I make a quick exodus and come here. I ask you: did I really do anything wrong?"
That struck me as a relatively humble request, and I like humility. So I geared the car and pulled out. I
I sighed. "Nothing outside the realm of natural reason, I suppose. If I decide to help you, what can you
offer?"
hadn't gotten much more than five feet when I heard a loud bang from behind us. I turned around to see
most of the parking space I had just been in falling back to the ground behind us.
"What in the appropriate name of-"
"Before you make too much commentary, you should probably know that that wasn't my bomb. It was,
however, attached to the bottom of your car. Interested in what I have to say yet?"
I knew a lot about .A,lyson, and one thing I knew was that bombs were not her mode. And even if she
had started going into that, I couldn't blame her too much for blowing that particular parking meter. I called
it the Eleatic philosopher, because it didn't accept change.
"Fine," I said. "You have my attention. What do you got?"
She smiled again. "Are you going to believe a word I say?"
"Alyson, the day I trust you will be the day all the moral precepts of the old law become irreducible to the
ten precepts of the decalogue."
"I'm glad to hear you missed me too. I
"Well, I can't give you the name or predicate much info on the person you're after. But if you need
someone to be your guide through the underworld, I'm your girl."
I considered this. It wasn't my favorite idea ever, but it had some advantages. I was going to have make it
to the very center of this mess if I was going to unravel it. It was going to be one hell of a summa, and it
couldn't hurt to have someone to help. After thinking for a little, I made up my mind. "Deal. But for now,
hide under the seat. I have to look at this crime scene.;'
"As you like it." With those words, she disappeared under the seat and I pulled up tangent to the curb. I
got out of the car and was immediately met by the person I was most hoping not to run into here.
Commissioner Rene Descartes.
He was standing by what was clearly the crime scene, though I couldn't see much of it other than all the
cops swarming the place. He gave a smile that made him look like he was pushing a kidney stone and
KaDU�that
you've been trying to track down The One."
"The ultimate beatitude of man consists in the use of his highest function, which is the operation of the
intellect."
someone was telling him he was about to become Thane of Cawdor.
"Mr. Aquinas!" he said. "I didn't expect to see you here."
"The fact that you didn't let me know that there was a crime here might contribute to your surprise."
''Yeah, well, see how you feel about that when your soul atoms are going out your mouth. But stupid as
this is going to sound, I'm asking for your protection."
-9-
The smile broadened. "Yes, well, I didn't want to take from you the pleasure of figuring it out yourself."
"Well, you'll be glad that I'm here to save your ass then."
-10-
�"I will have you know that my method of rightly conducting one's reason and seeking truth in the police
forces is doing spectacularly on this case! Already, we have made a very important deduction."
''Which is?"
"I exist."
"I do not want friendship, for I am not lonely. I do not want protection, because I am not afraid,
and I do not want food, for I am not hungry. Instead, I only want to find a better place." The man says.
The dog looks at the man. "Then I will not go with you."
The Man walks more. The World comes to him and asks him: ''Why did you not take the dog with
"Inspiring."
you?"
''We're working on the theory that a being more perfect than me exists too."
"I do not need friendship, protection, or food, for these things will not help me find a better
place." The Man replies. The World leaves. The man walks on more and finds a new place. He is now
"Hard to believe."
I pushed past him. He followed me.
"Admit it, Aquinas. You just can't stand that you're not needed on this case."
"You just keep telling yourself that, Renny."
I came in view of the body. Just like John Calvin had said, it was gruesome. There was a deep char-mark
lonely, afraid, and hungry. He goes back to look for the dog, but the dog is gone. He goes back to the new
place. The new place is not better, it is not worse. He is in a place where the floor is metal. He finds a chair
with an old man sitting in it. He walks past the old man.
''Where are you going?" The old man asks.
in the ground around the corpse, which, I presumed, was formed of remaining pieces of Dido. The fragment,
"I am going to a place better than here." The Man replies.
with all its confusing grammar, was written in·something red on the wall behind her.
"If you sit, I can ask you questions, and if you get them right, I will give you knowledge."
"Why would I want knowledge?"
Rene walked up to me. ''Not pretty, is it?"
"It's not exactly the Godhead, no."
"Knowledge can help you find a better SODaH���
"I'm afraid that I can't let you interfere with this investigation, Aquinas. My analytic method requires
focus."
"Of course."
I turned around and walked back towards the car. I hadn't expected to find clues on the scene. If there
"Then I guess I want knowledge."
He sits down, and listens to the old man asking him questions. After each question, the Man
provides an answer. The old man asks nine questions that are answered by the man's memory, the tenth
question is about the man's opinion.
was one thing the police were good at it, it was forensics. But I did need to be able to describe the scene more
"Why can't you answer the question?" The old man asks.
exactly. Because there was one person I knew who could solve this. Even though it meant that, between him,
"Because I do not know the right answer." The Man replies.
"There is no right answer, it is your opinion."
"I do not have an opinion."
Alyson, and Descartes I would have completed meeting all of my least favorite people in the world on one
day.
I climbed into the car and drove away. Alyson sat up in the back. "Where are we voyaging to now?"
''We're going to the mental asylum," I replied. "It takes a serial killer to track down a serial killer. And
we're going to talk to one."
"Then I cannot give you knowledge."
The man stands up and leaves. The World comes to him again and asks: ''Why did you not
take the knowledge?"
She looked genuinely shocked. ''You don't mean-"
"That's just who I mean," I said. ''William Harvey. The Hearthrob Killer."
"Because I don't have an opinion." The Man replies. The world leaves once more. The Man
walks and finds another place. Once he enters the place, he is confused, and wants knowledge. The Man
looks back but the old man is gone. He goes into the new place. The place is still not better and not worse.
THE MAN AND THE WORLD
The floor is wet. In the place he sees something far_away. He walks to it and sees it is money. Another man
walks to it. The Man says to the other: ''Will this money bring me to a better place?"
By Jack Berry
The World creates the Man. The World tells Man that he is to find a better place. The world tells
him that he is what man is and he must walk to find a better place. The World tells him that on his journey
he will find a dog, an old man, another man, and a woman.
replies.
''Yes, this money will bring you whatever you want, and that includes a better place." The other man
"Then I must have the money."
"I am going to a place better than here." The Man replies.
"But I need it as well, and if you take it, then I will never stop trying to get it back."
"If I give you the money, will you take me to a better place?"
"No." The other replies.
"If I become yours, will you take me?"
The Man kills the other, and takes the money.
The man walks and finds a dog.
"Man, where are you walking to?" The dog says.
''Why would I want you to be mine?"
"I can provide friendship by being in your company, I can also provide protection with my teeth,
The Man walks with the money to another place. The World comes to him a third time and
asks: "Why did you kill that man?"
"Because I need the money to find a better place." The Man replies. The World leaves. The Man
and I can provide food that I will hunt for you."
finds a new place. Again, the place is not better and not worse. The money did not bring him to a better
-11-
-12-
�place so he drops it. The floor is warm and soft. He walks and sees a woman lying down. The woman
stands up and looks at the Man.
"Where are you going?" The woman asks.
Chapter 3: Vaguely sauntering downwards
Morgan walked briskly through the town towards home, passing by the cold, stone apartment high rises of
"I am going to a better place." The Man replies.
the Payday neighborhood; the dome houses made from recycled wood and glass that marked the eco-friendly
"If I become yours, may I come with you?"
Mayday neighborhood; and even the bales of bundled straw and the barns painted flawlessly with brick red
''Why would I want you to be mine?"
"I can provide love with my kindness, passion with my body, and lineage with a child."
''Why would I want love, passion, and a child?"
"Love will make the place you are in feel better, as will passion, and a child."
"Then you can be mine."
The Man and Woman walk together more to new places. The floors are made of grass,
wood, and stone. The Woman gives him love, passion, and child. The places they go feel better with the
love, passion, and child to the Man. As they walk more, the Man starts to not feel that the places are better,
and the love, passion, and child are not helping him find a better place.
The Man says to the Child and Woman: "I cannot have you anymore, because you are not
making the places better, nor have you helped me find a better place." He leaves them, and walks more. The
World comes to him and asks: ''Why did you leave the Woman and Child?"
paint of the Heyday neighborhood, and walked up to what, in the crimson light, appeared to be an ordinary
cottage made of wooden logs and a thatched roof.
"This looks like a comfy place," Alpin said from Caron's arms.
"Don't believe the outside," Morgan told Alpin simply, reaching out to open the door and step inside.
''What do you-ooh," Alpin said, cutting himself short as Morgan entered the cottage.
There, lit by a brighter light that seemed to be offered from a lamp in the comer, which someone had
conveniently placed three mirrors placed behind to amplify its gleam, was a far larger house. The floor that
Morgan and Alpin stood on turned out to be a wraparound balcony, whose sole opening was to a staircase
that had steps that had been drilled into the wall, but were otherwise unsupported, which twisted and
descended past two floors onto the ground. In the space that marked each floor, Alpin could see what could
best be described as an organized explosion of papers, books, pillows, cushions, blankets, knick-knacks,
"Because the Woman and Child did not help me find a better place." The Man replies.
curios, souvenirs, bric-a-brac, and even a trinket or two, piled up into comers and onto tables.
"This ... this ... "
The World does not leave. It says to him: 'There are no more places, and you have not
"So the bedrooms are up here," Morgan said as he began to walk down the stairs, "but I'm thinking dinner
found the better one." The World removes the Man. The World goes to the Child and Woman, and removes
the Woman. The World makes the Child into the Man. The World tells the Man that he is to find a better
first. I mean, I'm hungry, and I didn't hop the world for years like you, so you definitely must be starving."
place. The world tells him that he is what man is and he must walk to find a better place. The World tells
"There's ... but ... how .. .it's ... " Alpin continued to stammer, his ears drooping down to the sides of his head
as the rabbit looked around.
him that on his journey he will find a d<?g, an old man, another man, and a woman.
"After dinner- I'm thinking a lot of carrots for you and, l dunno, whatever I can whip up for myself,"
THE SINDRI SAGA
Chronicled by Jason Abidan, Chief Librarian Magus of the Archive
By�Aki�O.
The fall has come to its natural and temporary end, dear reader, and ending with it the hours that I must
Morgan said, seemingly oblivious to the rabbit in his arms, "I'll get settle you inside my room. Don't worry, I
try to keep it pretty neat. I mean, I do have a lot of random stuff in there, but you'll be able to sleep pretty
well."
"IT'S BIGGER ON THE INSIDE!" Alpin finally snapped, the shout echoing around them twice before
fading away.
dedicate to helping others in our archive. Now, having blanketed myself in wool and fur, and having lit the
Morgan paused on the stairs. "Are ... you okay Alpin?"
candle that glows a halo far brighter than its own size, I RQFH�again return to my task in chronicling the life of
"It's so big," Alpin said, curling up into a ball in Morgan's arms, his ears wrapping around him. "It's- it's so-
Morgan Caron Sindri and Alpin von Lamis. I fear that this entry will be less exciting for those amongst you
who are awaiting the beginning of their famous quest, yet it is the duty of a chronicler to tell all that which
so big ... I could hop around in here forever and never be found, I'm never going to be found, we're gonna
die and nobody's gonna find us, I'm too pretty to die, and-"
happened in order. I could no sooner pass over this entry to reach the more rousing entries that follow them,
Morgan rolled his eyes. "Oh calm down you drama rabbit, it's not that big," Morgan said. "Besides, we can't
than I could will the sun to pass over a single zodiacal constellation on its ever-winding path. I hope, dear
get lost. You're basically in a big hole in the ground. The only way out is the way we came in. It's a finite
space.
reader, that you will thus be patient with me, knowing of this difficulty.
As you might well remember, we had left our dear boy and rabbit, the rabbit firmly nestled in Morgan's
house, on their way to the young man's house, with Morgan having completed his duty of reading the clock
of the Day and, in doing so, signal the change in shifts among the day workers.
"I'm gonna be fine," Alpin was muttering to himself. "I'm a good rabbit. I'm a brave rabbit."
"Seriously, this isn't some weird multidimensional thing that trftvels through space and time."
"-I'm with my buddy, I'm gonna be okay-"
"Alpin," Morgan said, turning the rabbit around to look him in the eyes. "Alpin."
''Ye-yes?" he stuttered, lifting one of his ears.
''We'i;e at the bottom of the stairs."
''We- we are? Really?"
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-14-
�,,
Morgan nodded his head. "Yes, Alpin, we are the bottom of the stairs," he said slowly, turning the rabbit
around to show him that they had, indeed, reached the ground floor. ''You looked and walked into the Abyss,
and you're totally safe."1
Alpin heaved a great sigh. "Oh yes," Alpin said.
''You were that scared?" Morgan asked while he began to walk from the base of the stairs towards a door in
the left-most corner of the floor.
"I don't like that big a height, okay? These paws were made for hopping, thumping, and nothing else."
"But you don't seem afraid when I carry you normally."
"Well, yeah, because you're under me and there's ground under you," Alpin replied. "But a space that big?
One false step and we'd be doomed."
"In that case, when we're going back up? Try looking at the thick stone wall next to us," Morgan told him,
pushing open the door to reveal a small kitchen, consisting of a table, chairs, refrigerator, microwave, cabinets
bearing all manner of kitchen utensils and dishes, sinks, and a dishwasher, all placed in the .appropriate
fashion for a lounge.
At the table sat a tall man, with salt-and-pepper hair, who had glanced. up at the sound of Morgan entering.
"Well, hello there kiddo," the man said.
"Hi, Dad," Morgan said to him, managing to wave a hand as Alpin, in the hopes of making a good
impression, shifted to sit more upright. "How was work?"
"Pretty decent," Morgan's father replied. "Helped out a few groups of people doing research for their next
latest and greatest, and finally managed to get the writer's corner back in order. You?"
Morgan shrugged. "Pretty much just hung around all day, watching people," he said flatly. "Oh, and my
designated-buddy here hopped onto my chest for the first time."
''Your designated buddy?"
''Yes sir," Alpin said politely. "Alpin von Lamis, reporting for duty, sir."
Morgan's father paused. "That was a very well-spoken response for an Elfin-Baladi rabbit that's at least a few
time zones away from home," he said at last.
Alpin's eyes widened. ''You know I'm an Elfin-Baladi?"
"Well, I wouldn't be one of the two head-librarians of the Subterranean Library if I couldn't identify at least 1
rabbit race," he replied.z
"So you're okay with the keeping of the rabbit?" Morgan asked.
Morgan's father nodded. "How about putting the rabbit on the table here and joining me for dinner?"
1
This was not technically true- unbeknownst to Morgan and his family, the Subterranean Library was very
much alive and aware of who was inside of it, and had no hesitation in transforming an irritating guest or two into a
bobble-head to add to the collection. However, it considered the Sindri's to be friendly entities, and found the rather
small and frightened furry thing not worth the effort.
2
This was true, as the job application required all head librarians to be able to identify, on sight, 40 types of
minerals and stone, 31 types of trees, 23 breeds of dog, 1? breeds of cat, 13 types of fish, 7 types of lizards and
insects, and 1 breed ofrabbit. It also required them to invent at least 1 form of scribbling that would confuse a
doctor, 3 forms of paperwork that could confuse a government agency, and to host at least 2 book "sales" a year.
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�
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The Swarm, Issue #6
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Winter 2019
�Energeia | St. John’s College Literary and Visual Arts Publication | Winter 2019
��Editor’s note
We have included a few blank pages in this edition for you
to use as you see fit. Write down a few notes or sketch your
friends. Perhaps you could add something that you felt this
edition was lacking. A blank page has limitless potential.
What does it mean to you?
�Contents
Sheba Delaney
Genesis and Exodus, Condensed
1
Elias Christian
Invocation to the Muse
3
Anna Seban
Seated Woman, 2019 ( watercolor)
4
Nortaute Grintalis
Voro Testamentas/ The Spider’s Testament, 2019, (translation)
5
Nortaute Grintalis
Voro Testamentas interpreted in four pieces, 2019 ( watercolor)
6
Jean Hogan
The Spatial Ambiguity of Forks, Washington, (poem)
7
Kesi Dremel
Nesting Dolls
8
Sheep Pluck Dissection, (poem)
Lysithia Page
9
Christopher Cohoon
10
Daryl Locke
Rockfish Scale Magnification No. 2
Eros in Bones, Blood Moon, Stargaze
11
Sophia Cote
12 four horses for mourning, 2019, (plastic bags, plastic safety eyes, alcohol ink)
Louis Petrich
13 What Keeps People Together?, (sonnet)
Keaton Jahn
14 20 homies, 2019, (ink on paper)
Nihya Davis
15 Scenes of Fall, (poem)
Cora Clark
16 Untitled, (quilt, cotton, scrap fabrics, 45 x 11’’)
Daryl Locke
17 I told most to fuck off, (poem)
Gabriela Sanchez
17 youth in form and content, 2019, (charcoal and pencil)
Anne Brong
18 it’s better than drinking alone, 2018,(acrylic on canvas)
N.A. Hale
19
Adam Schulman
20
Julia Cooper
23
Theo Martin
25
Elias Christian
27
28
Omnis, (poem)
Luminous Creature
24
William Braithwaite
Nicholas Thorp
a golden mess, 2019, (poem and drawing in ink on paper)
22
Tyler Mazur
The Yoke, 2019, (crayon)
Three cat drawings, (pencil)
21
Juana Melendez
HERON, (poem)
EUCLID’S BOOK I DEFINITIONS (essay)
Reading Jean Genet and
Nicholas Thorp, 2019, (oil on wood board, 11 x 14”)
�Reuben Morris
Ripple, (poem)
29
Soojin Lee
Untitiled, (photography)
30
Elaina Bowman
Elaina Bowman
To Mother (poem)
31
one mood: disorder, 2019, (pencil)
32
Amy Porter
Kesi Dremel
Marshmallow, Cinnamon (poems)
33
Catching Fireflies, 2019, (watercolor)
34
Jake E. Stief
Portrait of a Woman in Type 2019, (typewriter)
35
Nicholas Thorp
Jake, 2019, (oil on panel, 8 x 10”)
36
Liam Marshall-Butler
The Leibniz Machine (short story)
37
Theo Martin
poor robot is stuck in a spot of bother
37
Untitled, 2019, watercolor and ink on paper (two paintings)
Amalie Christensen
38
Amalie Christensen
39
Grace Phan Jones
40
that night in the city, (short story)
Kyla Murphy
42
A Story Without Using that Obnoxiously Common Fifth Symbol of Our ABC’s
Grace Calk
43
Marielle Morley
43
(painting)
Grace Calk
44
Lines by the Forest Window (poems)
Peter Kalkavage
45
Translation of Petrarch, Sparse rime (Scattered Rhymes)
Gabriela Sanchez
46
Anne Freeman
47
Yingzi Zhang
48
Glenn Burns
John Verdi
Brandon Wasicsko
49
50
51
9/22/19, (poetry)
The Ear, 2019, (plastilina)
Untitled, 2018, (ink and graphite on paper)
Of Course, I Understand, (short story)
EULOGY FOR THE VOYAGER, (poem)
Untitled, 2019, (photo)
“As I Give You to the Changing World” (poem and photo)
�Genesis and Exodus, Condensed
Nothingness was boring
So God created stuff,
Creation really wore him out
And then he said enough.
Look out Adam, here comes Eve
She’s gonna wreck your life,
The days of wine and roses
Will turn to toil and strife.
An apple was the problem,
They ate it to the core,
And had to leave the garden
And roam forevermore.
Cain brought God some taters
Which he knew how to grow
Abel brought a little lamb
Its fleece as white as snow.
Then there was a little town,
They used to call it Sodom
And if you went to visit there
You had to guard your bottom!
Lot’s poor wife just had to look
And ended up as salt
But all of us are curious
So why is that a fault?
Abram gave his wife to kings
And made a lot of money
Then he took her home again
To be his special honey.
When they both were very old
And rocking on the porch
Abel found approval
God told them it was time for kids
But Cain was turned away
Our world became a crime scene when To carry on the torch.
His brother he did slay.
Isaac almost bit the dust
On top of Mount Moriah
God was thinking to himself
But Abram killed a ram instead
Humanity’s a dud
And burned him in the fiah.
I think I’ll wash them all away
And turn the world to mud.
The animals were rescued
By Noah and his kin
They built a giant floaty boat
And stuffed the critters in.
1|
Sheba Delaney
Esau was so hungry
He had to have some stew
So Jacob stole his birthright
And took his blessing too.
�Judah slept with Tamar
He thought she was a whore
But when she had his baby
He bothered her no more.
Joseph was a dreamy boy,
But Jacob loved him best
His brothers couldn’t stand the fact
That he was better dressed.
They didn’t treat him very well
But still he rose to fame
And when the times were really bad
He saved them just the same.
The family stayed in Egypt
For several hundred years
And all the things they built there
Were watered with their tears.
Then when it was time to go
Old Pharoah didn’t get it
Oh yeah said Moses watch your back
I think you’ll soon regret it.
God sent Egypt awful things
That finally made them weep
Get out of here the Pharoah said,
You’re dangerous to keep.
Moses climbed a misty hill
To get some dos and don’ts
And bring them to a stubborn crowd
Inclined to wills and won’ts.
The people made a golden calf
But all it said was moo
When Moses saw it he was mad
And slaughtered quite a few.
So then they wandered all around
Until they got to Canaan
But Moses couldn’t enter in
Cause God said “You’re remainin.”
And then begats begat begats
And all the land did fill
The patriarchs became a horde
For Cecil B. Demille
The apple also has a tale
From Eve to Isaac Newton
And now it is a glowing brand.
For us to do computin.
When Moses led them to the sea
Continue on they couldn’t
The water made a path for them
By doing what it shouldn’t.
| 2
�Invocation to the Muse
I.
It is the aftershock of a violent dream
and the soul’s afterbearance
that stills me this morning, and it is the light,
bright and pale, that opens into me as though
I am some newborn thing, fresh to the world.
What question was posed to me last night
with such a -- such a clarity as to frighten me?
Wandering down the winding nighttime paths alone,
I came across two Sisters, standing hand-in-hand.
One was eyeless, and her name was Beauty.
The other mouthless, and her name was Truth.
Beauty spoke of her blindness
and Truth could not speak, nor did she need to.
These Sisters are the daughters of Life:
may they guide my hand.
II.
I write, sitting naked on a wind-worn bluff,
as in the beginning, with the wind and the spring sun against me,
waiting for that old dream to come to me,
for a god to speak, pen poised, thinking,
Oh, I could use a Muse,
I could use a Muse Muse, mary of the wind, take me, I beg you,
dance the invisible dance with me,
may I have this dance? may I kiss your hand?
what do you take me for? what do you see in me?
I am sick; the artifice of my own life and the life of
my people, my culture, my great illuminated world,
is eating at me.
I am made moth-cloth. I need to get all of this shit off me.
Muse: may I write, may you grace me with purity of purpose.
Bring me to madness at least, if nothing else. I would not mind
lunaticking for you if it is a performance you require of me.
Drive these crows from my shoulder. Blister my fingertips.
I want you to force my hand, make my stomach ache, my eyes dark.
I am desperate for grace. I am not magnificent when I pray.
I am desperate for grace. I let the breath spread thin out of my lips,
I lick my lips, I go back to my work.
3|
Elias Christian
�Anna Seban
| 4
�Voro Testamentas/ The Spider’s Testament
Grižtu namo. Ant mano stalo
Advokatas mėnulis
Rašo vorui testamentą.
Baltimore, 1970
Alfonsas Nyka-Niliūnas
I return home. On my table
the adovcate moon
writes the spider his testament.
Annapolis, 2019
5|
Nortaute Grintalis
�| 6
�The Spatial Ambiguity of Forks, Washington
[Reader, note: The supermassive black hole
guitar riff is of course blaring]
allows us to situate it in, say, a TGI Fridays parking lot I am of course
wearing the beanie Hayley wore in the “Decode” video
huddled in an atm nook an irrelevant detail - I won’t pay for
this summer for months
& between the front seat and the barstool we are three beers
in & my tongue is getting restless as usual
Behind the trees the camera sways like a voyeur behind our backs & sometimes I
wish everything you needed to know about me could be summed up
in a poorly edited research montage
It’s funny in it’s own way, get this:
I’m surprised a co-worker hasn’t found me on grindr so I open up all my
filters My throat is too ticklish to be bitten for long
so i bare what i
can Close up on my bio and the word “undead”
or a word which might as well read: “undead”,
read: a bio unto itself co-worker reads it out loud
and an eyebrow is raised
are” Okay but I’m kind of tired of having to
“I know what you
“Say
it”
Later A cigarette is lit and I almost forget to flinch
I’m doubly fucked – I never learned how to
inhale
breathe
& now I have to pretend even to
fluorescence”
when I got bit I let all the air in my lungs go free and I have been
trying to convince it to come back to me ever since
I overestimated – I thought that just because my body was a pretty home it was a good one
7|
Jean Hogan
“It’s the
�Babe once upon a time I glittered like a diamond very glam
every other morning i would flaunt myself in front of the
vatican I still get out there when I can
the problem with a body made out of diamonds you never do get used to others
sharpening their teeth on you
and they all will remark on the taste of it
– never agreeing on the particulars,
never realizing that the
taste Is just the echo of spit
Heads up, due to budgetary
reasons
I will be collapsing into dust at the end of the night
Kesi Dremel
| 8
�Sheep Pluck Dissection
To fall asleep beneath the knife
A heart that pumps its fill of life
The waterways that bear the read
Are flowing now with voiceless dead
Lungs that kissed the sweetest airs
Remember not the mortal wears
And time pulls back the fleshy pews
Inheriting pastoral views
Of sleep the scalpel plays the pipes
Which whistle tunes of many types
Motion fills the hollow parts
The melodies of broken hearts
Deduce the life this sheep once held
The fields and hills in which it dwelled
Breathe in and shepherd now the song
Night as dark as wool is long
9 |8
Lysithia Page
�Rockfish Scale Magnification No. 2
Christopher Cohoon 8
�Eros in Bones
Here he is, before me
Eros in bones, near the
Breakfast plate
North Star beautiful
Eyeing me like a cloud
Wondering what one does not know
I look at the sun and ask who he is
The sun looked back and said
Love
Stargaze
After the setting of Eros
Love has moved the clouds
And turned the moon off
As the roses of the night are seen
That are seemingly light years away
But still close to home
Blooming in the eyes of the romantic
11 |
Daryl Locke
Blood Moon
A great gore
Is on the horizon
Colossal
A rathe rose
A circle of bright wine
A uterus leaking of
Maroon
And that intense sun
Now a black heart
Dead in the sky
Warmth and shine gone
�Sophia Cote
| 12
�What Keeps People Together?
She asks me, “What keeps people together?”-her mother thrice wed, she hand-wrought by sperm
donation, driven fond by youth’s fair weather
to climb famed peaks of fun and sweet unburned—
‘til conversion. No wonder they become
run-down and Christian: fearless born to make
God’s children fatherless, soft eyes hearts strum
‘till shoulders curl and tongues of men forsake.
Oh, why’d God make His lords of all Creation
depend on dreamy play and kisses gone
for birthright, tending, and continuation?
Delights fast-fading be the Master’s pawns.
Her name is Kalysta, most beautiful:
Odysseus she’d wild, while dutiful.
13 |
Louis Petrich
�Keaton Jahn
| 14
�Scenes of Fall
Marigolds of morning
Ascend my sweet September’s
Honey hues mate magenta sunsets
Embers of October excite my wonders
With cinnamon sweet that suckles my pleasures
Susan’s of black-eyed encompass this entity
Lilacs comfort, Ivory oh cozy
A sweet alyssum
My asylum of protection
Nirvana nights next through November
Chrysanthemum cues
Grace of my awing Autumn
15 |
Nihya Davis
�Cora Clark
| 16
�I told most to fuck off
I’ve had a trillion men who couldn't fuck me
Not one could screw the pipe hole, at least correctly
Not one could put the cherry on the shake
I told most to fuck off
Only a few, a couple tens have given me
The tour of France, not on a trait du nord or catamaran
But I rode them as it was
Occasionally I told them to fuck off
Rarely has one ever gave me
An appealing excursion or cushty gallop
Once while reading
Twice in an art gallery
I didn’t tell them to fuck off
I put in picture for them to fuck me harder
I can’t bear a slow fucker
I want to be fucked fast
If you fuck me like a tortoise
Then you can fuck off
17 |
Daryl Locke
Gabriela Sanchez
�Anne Brong
| 18
�HERON
“Hello, Heron,” I might have whispered then
when I saw it sitting so still.
I might have looked at it twice, then
again, it was over my senses still
or I might have walked further when
I was pulled by one Autumn chill.
I could have said something too loud
or I might have been too quick to stay
when it speared into the water-soft quick
and flung unto the pier a fish
and looked at me with blood on its beak
and I could say no more
by the corpse on the pierfloor bloody
and was all still alluring, alluring still
and it might have told me in savage accents:
“goodbye”
19 |
N.A. Hale
�Adam Schulman
�21
Julia Cooper
�a golden mess
There were times on earth
when roaming colors in the wind
and waves coming slow
gently seduced my faith.
Those were times of naked madness,
pearl walls were built from the bottom of the sea
and all beauty was cursed for birds to crash;
amused and helpless.
Soon that unkind earth begun its careful wrapping,
for the leviathan to hide in shallow whispers
crawling like a hurt beast in my dreams
with its delicate dreadfulness, its magical sins.
Now to your eyes alone I offer
the door of this golden mess
for when you grow old and weary
here is all, your fingertips had put at rest.
Here is to the lost tender beauty
to the green upon your face.
Juana Melendez
| 22
22
�Omnis
The nicked-ear tabby cat napping white eyed On
the sun-bleached and wind-worn farmer’s porch A
forty-minute drive south of Auckland.
The grape shot shards of Hadean iron
Flashing into naught over Neptune’s
storms, Ending an eon-long narrowing
waltz.
The case of atrial Wenckebach
block Occasioning a flutter and a
skip In the pacific passage of your
heart.
Those little ghosts and Elysian dreams Can
all keep their vaporous realms and tombs
Were it that this and all the worlds unseen
Be mine to witness, breathe, and consume.
23
23|
Tyler Mazur
�Theo Martin
24
�EUCLID’S BOOK I DEFINITIONS
Euclid’s Elements begins with 23 definitions. Lists (such as this one), one of my teachers
remarked, are always interesting: they have a beginning, middle, and end—an order. Any order, if it is
an order, is a sign of intelligence at work. The order means something. The order of the Catalogue of
Ships in Iliad II (Odysseus’ is in the middle) is not likely to be just happenstance.
What is the principle of order of Euclid’s 23 definitions? “Principle,” from Latin princeps,
“first,” is here equivalent to Greek arche, “beginning,” or more precisely, ruling source. A beginning that
rules is one that points to the end (that which comes after the middle), and also somehow governs the
character of the end. Is this what prompted the thought that a good beginning is half the task? Does
understanding a beginning as a beginning mean we can at the start discern, even if dimly, the shape of
the end, and so of the whole?
Book I “begins” with the 23 definitions (along with the five Postulates and five Common Notions) in the sense that these are what’s presented first. It “ends” with Proposition 47 (and its converse,
P. 48), the theorem named after Pythagoras, in the sense that 47-48 are what appear in last place. But
what did Euclid think of first? Did thinking about what a point is lead him to P. 47? Or did the Pythagorean Theorem lead him to think of the geometrical point as that which alone among geometrical
objects has no part?
What would be a good geometrical image of Book I, of the movement of its argument (or inquiry)? A straight line would image a one-way trip, no looking back or return. A circle would suggest
return to the starting-point, on the same level (in the same plane).
I propose the cone; more precisely, the spiral path traced out by an ant crawling around and
around the cone surface until he reaches the apex. This image represents a motion that starts with the
point (Def. 1, what has no part) as the extremity of a line (the ant’s starting-point) and ends with a
particular point, the apex of the cone. As we ascend in understanding (continually changing planes), we
can look both backward at where we came from and forward to where we are going (P. 47).
At 47, we can look back (re-view, or re-collect) and try to see how we got here from Prop. 1.
At P. 1 (if we don’t chose to look ahead), are we likely to see the possibility of 47? We certainly won’t if
it doesn’t occur to us to ask the question.
But to ask, at the beginning, the foreseeability of the discoverable end is to ask what the governing
principle of order is. How Proposition 1 leads to Proposition 47 is same question (with different material) as asking how Definition 1 leads to Definition 23.
Can it be just happenstance that the middle definition is 14, a figure (Greek, schema) is what’s
contained by a boundary or boundaries? If the definitions are in some order, and if 14 is in the middle,
what can we say about the principle that governs the arrangement of the whole list? How are 1-13 (the
“beginning,” or if you like, the “first half ”) different from 15-22 (the “end,” or if you like, the “second
half ”)? [I’ll return to 23].
Definitions 15-22 classify the figures lying in a plane, according to increasing number of
boundary-lines: the circle (one “side” or “boundary”), 15-17; semi-circle (two sides), 17-18; and the
straight-sided figures, 19-22. The figures are also classified according to whether the boundary-line(s)
are curved (the circle), both straight and curved (the semi-circle), or only straight.
If 15-22 are a taxonomy of planar figures, what are 1-13? Might we say the “elements” of
figures? (What, for Euclid, is an “element”?). Again the ordering is from simple to complex—point,
25 |
William Braithwaite
�line (2-4), surface (5-7), angle (8-12), boundary (13)—from element to structure.
The singling out, among angles, of those made by straight lines (Def. 9) brings this particular
sub-set of angles to the foreground of attention while at the same time implying that there are angles
contained by lines that are not straight. The singling out, among rectilineal angles, of the right angle
(Def.10) marks it as of particular importance for the argument of Book I.
The right angle is special because it is the equal-to-itself angle (Def. 10, Post. 4) that lets us
compare all other angles as either obtuse or acute (Defs. 11-12); and because it is the ordering principle
of the taxonomy of rectilineal figures in Defs. 21-22; and because it is the apparatus for determining
whether two straight lines in the same plane could meet if produced indefinitely in both directions
(Def. 23; Post. 5).
What we’re looking for is the ruling beginning of the arrangement of the definitions. Noticing the terms that are not defined may provide a clue: “part,” “extremity,” “evenly,” “inclination,” “set
up on,” “adjacent,” “standing on,” “contained,” “falling on,” “bisect,” “direction” etc. And perhaps most
important of all, “equal.” What is Euclid assuming his students (us) bring to the book, before we even
open it to the Definitions?
I propose that he takes for granted his readers’ experience of the world, its shapes, sizes, places,
and motions (e.g., of the sun, moon, and stars), its samenesses and differences (spring comes every year,
but not always on the same day; spears are straight, shields round, the path of an arrow curved). He
takes for granted, that is, that we know, albeit imperfectly, not only that order is, but also what it is.
If this speculation is sound, we might say that Euclid’s principle of order in the Book I definitions, the source or starting-point that governs the subsequent direction of the inquiry, is order itself.
On this view, his project would be to give an ordered account of order—to show the bones of order, so
to speak, and therewith the reasons why the elements of order hold together as ordered in the Elements.
Is Book I the beginning of a logos of order itself?
| 26
�Reading Jean Genet and
As I slipped into further imagined degradation, I began to read and write in a new way. I
saw the dirt on my invisible soul and saw that it gave my soul form and I, being far gone as
one who is always doubting, flung upon it in ceremony more dirt and thus buried my soul as
I gave it form. In this day and hour, I am a student across the long wooden table; I have just
defeated myself. I saw myself as nothing, under my gaze, and where intersecting impossibilities collided, a second self was birthed from that nothing and I became again something
new. (If I continue to writhe in this shell of skin, I will be free from it and what tormented
me before will torment me no longer.) I am a student across the long wooden table, I am
reading the work of a French vagabond, I am realizing the weavings of self and language,
myth and double, real and imagined spectacle, long wordless in me: I have a word for the
grotesque holy shadow of implication that has haunted me:
the word is psychology.
At this point, I am just living at the speed of thought. Each poet writ what I could not but
craved to: post-verbal, enfevered, stuck dumb in my senses, leaning into each great wind that
came down around me. This cold finds you anywhere in all this wind: it’s straight bitter.
Things are not so sterilized by the cold now: long distances made shorter, sharp light made
somewhat softer. It’s odd that someone of such marmoreal beauty could eat with such ugliness. I had violent dreams last night but I can’t remember them.
My measurements are a half-smoked cigarette and a single sock sleepless. Too many bodies
on the high wall. Am I too grotesque for the world today?
I want to be shot dead. Shoot me dead. I said. I said. I
Knew how bad she wanted to fuck me, swear to josh.
The god-shaped space in your brain. The task of granting grace.
Self-portraits in a river’s ripple.
27 |
Elias Christian
�Nicholas Thorp
| 28
�Ripple
“Rhymes with Cripple”
Ripple’s gone past faster than a vessel
Struggle for to pace up with the
stream Missed the bus at six past two
another Hour til the next one comes
and Credit card says you must wait As
shrubs that grew before you thresh All
Timothy, Buckwheat and Wheat
The rain I speak fell not today but
Last year when the rain fell plenty
So much so the tomatoes were
Ravaged and the field slid
sideways
Bristle up against the earthwave
That hill moves but it moves
slowly And if ever it moves on
fully That will be just one more
ripple
When the bus comes no one pays The one who
gets on is not me Against the cold the window’s
rapped on We see that I am undressed under
dressed and so smile cus the winter falls this
day and not any other I am outside under black
sun, beneath cold sun, burning trash
Rippling heart when I leave his house
Nothing more than when I came
Southern Malus, prune, and dogwood
Lost their leaves unrecognized He artist
or a student who did art but hasn’t done
none art in two whole years he’s always
online
Now I was cold and one night homeless
Though I would never claim the
struggle We had pizza without wheat
And rapped the door outside Penn Station
A gambler who’d been at casino Made to
me humane complaint “Man, they would
not treat a dog Like this it’s too damn
cold We wait outside they cops inside
Why not open we won’t pay?”
29 |
Reuben Morris
�Bored as when small a man’s pleasure
Rippled as the ice outside had Jacked
up clover grass and such I packed up
found phone charger And returned to
class unconscious Gave my only coin
to Charon Never spent one more
night frozen Although outside grasses
brown On the outskirts of our town
High waves gather Small ones ripple
Soojin Lee
| 30
�To Mother
Not to my Mother, but to this, will I realize the binding I create for her and me:
Mother’s touch from her words. Wanting spine to spine that she might embrace me beyond imagination. Must her love practically be? In her deepness, her earnesty, she tries. And is it thought, or this
thinking of me, that she herself connects?
I want her to be different, Maybe revel beyond herself, maybe not the harshness of father and sister
against my throat, Maybe an “I understand” without eyesight.
Nevertheless, I defend. Because I know her so well, and she knows me so well, and that I, not, in any
changing vision, Forget this fact.
But, like a somber light, I fix a careful gaze, a punctious feeling that in our closeness, I barely understand, Like a memory I know exists, but cannot recall, Feel for us.
Yet, No one else would I adopt so fast. No
one else I would beg to be revealed to.
Is it wrong, is it awful, to want a different warmness Mother? One that perhaps I would receive and
cause me to flutter like a brand new human being?
Please, bring us back to what you had learned.
And face me as the woman you truly are.
Let me promise to hold you as I
learn.
When you were a child, would you think about me the way I think about
you? Not an itch, not an echo, but life.
31 |
Elaina Bowman
�Elaina Bowman
| 32
�Marshmallow
A sticky-soft suspended web,
Two cheeks chub-full of air and sweet
And ev’ry empty calorie.
My childhood, gone as quick as I
Can swallow down, just leaves a taste
To make remembering regret;
Then Dad says doing right takes time
And not too high a heat.
Cinnamon
You must think fragrance, warmth, and
A hint of apple-pie.
Mulled wine and a hug
From someone who you’ve missed.
It is the pleasure of their presence now,
And the hot pain of them gone again.
Spicy-sweet is our nostalgia,
or very much like Cinnamon.
33 |
Amy Porter
�Kesi Dremel
| 34
�Portrait of a Woman in Type
35
35|
Jake E. Stief
�Jake
Nicholas Thorp
36
�The Leibniz Machine
Jack was accustomed to drinking his coffee with cream, but when Emma, the
Leibniz technician, handed him his coffee black, he didn’t think to question it. The
coffee, like all things in John’s life had been predetermined by Leibniz, and Jack
had never thought to question Leibniz before.
“So, what’s the problem then?” Jack asked.
“Oh, there’s no problem, sir.” Sarah replied.
“No problem? It wants me to go to the Mars colony!”
“Oh, and how lucky you are!”
“I don’t want to go to the Mars colony.”
“Well, I don’t really see what that has to do with it. Leibniz is very sophisticated
and knows how to mold us into the best of all possible worlds whether we want it
to or not”
Jack sipped his coffee. It was was too bitter and hot to drink, so he put it back on
the table. “The best of all possible worlds?”
“Yes, that’s our job. We’ve built a machine that can process an inconceivable
amount of information and make highly accurate predictions. Why, I can’t imagine
that Leibniz didn’t predict this entire conversation. Now, whether you like it you
not, you are going to have to catch the next launch to Mars.”
“It’s just that the best of all possible worlds isn’t one with me in it. I see”
“Now sir, we have been experimenting with giving Leibniz more leniency, allowing it to give what may seem like more drastic commands. You are just one of the
lucky few who get to benefit from this as quickly as possible. I understand that you
might be upset, but the Mars colony isn’t bad and this really is in everyone’s best
interest”
“You don’t know what you are asking. I have a family here; you can’t just ask me to
leave them behind. You might as well ask me to kill myelf.”
“Now sir, you really aren’t being fair. We-”
He stood up quickly knocking the table, causing his hot coffee to spill onto the
Leibniz technician’s lab.
Jack laughed. It, the machine, knew what was going to happen; it knew that he was
going to be angry, to go to the technician, not drink the coffee and spill it on her,
burning her. It knew he was going to be forcibly strapped onto the rocket after being arrested for assault. It knew the schadenfreude he would feel. It knew he would
go to Mars whether he liked it or not.
37 |
Liam Marshall-Butler
Theo Martin
�Amalie Christensen
38
| | 38
�39 |
Amalie Christensen
�that night in the city
自暴者不可與有言也
With those who do violence to themselves, it is impossible to speak.
-Mencius
She shrieked within herself and imagined that she might return completely torn up and above
everyone else with sadness. They would all be forced to feel remorse for hurting her because they wouldn’t
understand what she had done and because they wouldn’t be able to see through her actions. Furious and
alone, she marched into a glossy department store. She then turned and went back outside, wondering for
a moment if she should stay out and enjoy the cold night. She might walk back to The Bund, but thought
to herself that if she did, she might cry forever and be lost until morning when the night would lift
and the light of the cityscape would dim. For now, everything felt intense, as though an vivid dream.
Come morning, people would hurry to work and the magic of the night would doze beneath the coverlet
of a grimy, grey sky. And she would go back to her group of fellow travelers to apologize saying, “I’m sorry, I wasn’t myself...” They would be so worried about her that she would be untouchable. They would fear
that she might go off and scare them again if they said the wrong thing or upset her. So she would get
off without being chastised in the least and without having to answer any questions at all. It was true that
she had not been “herself ”. That night in the city, she had not been the self that her peers had come to
know. But in those moments she had spent alone to “clear her head” after a long hectic day, she was more
the self she was accustomed to than she had been in a long while. This felt easy. This felt welcoming. The
only frightening thing was how unafraid she was to be back.
She savored her discomfort and basked in every second that her skin crawled and that her lungs
felt tight, ready to pop. She went back inside the department store decisively. She knew that the wind
from the avenue had tossed her hair and flushed her
cheeks and that she looked beautiful. A woman cannot not do things alone if she does not look proud
and beautiful. She rode the long, mirrored escalator upwards and pouted her lips as she felt people gaze
at her, and when she arrived at a café she graced the simple barista with a toothy, genuine smile. She
impressed him further by being a foreigner but ordering a tea in Mandarin. Her own arms filled with
shopping bags, the barista carried the lady’s steaming cup to a table, where she thanked him and gave
him another smile. She knew how radiant she was.
She sat down and worked to sort through the rage that pooled within her and it occurred to her
that in the midst of travel, she had not taken any medicine for several days. She doubted strongly that this
was of any influence on her demeanor and reasoned to take several capsules at once when she got back to
her hotel, to account for the doses she had missed. She sipped shyly at her tea, which smelled wonderful,
but was still quite hot.
She took a moment and muttered a scattered prayer. Thoughts pulsed fast and poked at her
mind, which was dense and murky. She concluded that she had acted immaturely in leaving her friends
and that when she returned to them, she would have collected herself and would be ready to apologize
to the necessary parties. She fought the urge to tear her hair out, and in the end did not do it because it
looked so feathery and windswept that night. Hours before, her eyes had sparkled with excitement and
discovery. They sparkled again now, too.
She finished her drink quietly and got up to ask the barista, whom she knew was now her friend,
if he had, perchance, any disposable cutlery. Eager to be of service, the young man handed her a little
package containing a thin napkin, a fork, a knife and spoon, and even a little straw for mixing coffee. She
Grace Phan Jones
| 40
�asked for the location of the 卫生间, which earned her even greater approval. She thanked him warmly
and made her way again through the bright department store that was beginning to empty out as the
hour wore on, and then found herself in the bathroom.
She was swift and fluid in her movements. Not a thought was necessary for their execution. She
closed herself inside a stall and crouched on the ground, hanging her handbag on a hook. Her mouth
opened to let her lips curl into a silent cry. From the stall next door, she heard a woman let out a fart and
blow her nose. She felt furious. “LEAVE!” she heard herself bellow, but knew she had said nothing. The
other occupant made no other noise; perhaps her command had nevertheless been received. Perhaps the
woman had not been there at all. No matter.
She discarded the napkin and spoon and fork and even the little mixing straw. She rocked on
her heels, feeling trapped by her thick jacket which she had purchased in recent response to Shanghai’s
unseasonable chill. She rolled up the sleeves with some difficulty. Sweating now, but her fingers were
frozen as they gripped the little plastic knife. She sawed wildly into the flesh of her forearms. Not a tear
escaped. Her face screwed up into 3 a wicked sneer. She felt clear and collected and longed for this clarity to persist. So she savagely raked at the skin, succeeding only in making shallow, reddened abrasions.
Angered, she attempted to bend the knife in two. She had once read an article about prisoners attacking
one another. The most effective way to shank someone was a broken toothbrush to the joint; the plastic
would splinter, and movement of the joint would work to aggravate the pain. Pain. She craved the pain
and she needed proof that she was alive because it was life that she craved, too.
She had felt happiness before, and although it had petrified her at the time, she had thought she
might never let it go. She was starving for more. But this felt good, too. The plastic knife was supple and
would not snap. It bent into a soft curve. She settled for stabbing herself repeatedly with the dull point
until she grew bored. The knife was then dropped into her handbag. The lady stood up, and left the stall.
She made her way to the mirror, where she decided she still looked beautiful. She touched up her eye
makeup and went back outside into the crisp night. Things seemed somehow less magical than when she
had left, but the lady found that the city was still bustling and alive and well.
She consulted her wristwatch and saw that she had long missed the time of rendezvous with her
friends. Alone, she took the tram back to their hostel. She engaged in lively conversation with a plump
teacher man who sat adjacent. She was glad that he seemed to understand what she wished to express.
They shared similar views on the education system. She quoted Mencius and felt pleased that he was
impressed, and even more pleased because she had not been trying to impress him. Across the aisle, two
young women kissed and laughed and saw little around them but one another. An elderly man dozed.
There were several hours left before daybreak.
41 |
�A Story Without Using that Obnoxiously Common Fifth Symbol of Our ABC’s
Two boys stood in front of a snarling gray building, its roof turning in
as a furrowing brow, and its windows sharp and hungry as if awaiting an opportunity for attack. Facing this monstrous labyrinth, Dallas’s firmly shut lips split,
displaying his worry against his will and taking in hot sour air clouding up from
dirty ground through iron grids. Francis was in too much shock to pay mind to
Dallas anyway. His right boot had lost its bottom too many blocks back to count,
and his foot was still so hot from its rhythmic, frantic pounding of city roads that
it didn’t hurt. His hands ran across its burning skin wiping away sand and dirt,
surfing its rough composition now donning bumps growing as drops of rain on a
window following a storm. His foot was now throbbing. Grimacing, Francis took
Dallas’s hand. It hadn’t got Dallas. That’s all that was important. Dallas, holding
Francis’s hand tightly, thought, Francis is okay. That’s all that is important. Hand in
hand, two boys stand in front of a snarling gray building.
Kyla Murhy| 42
�9/22/19
in times of wandering and weariness
I find myself by the evergreen forest
the trills of songbirds and thundering steps of the Spirit
alight here, in the soul, in the mind, in the ear
and I cannot help but wonder whether I was always here
I am surrounded by the dawning mist, the winter birth
the pale sun in even paler ocean
and I am struck
my canoe is broken, traveling through crooked waters
my eyes are clouded, my hair is dry, my skin is bruised blue
and yet I have wandered into the lake, not yet, still yet
I am violet before the emerald eyes
I am fractured before the fractured whole
and I am struck
all beautiful things are broken in their beginning
broken in living, in dying, yet not, yet still, in loving
43 |
Grace Calk
Marielle Morley
�Lines by the Forest Window
in the shadows of the evening trees
I find a holy massacre
of those whose silence could not be silent
of those whose pulse could not push
past the current of their sullied blood
and in the mud of the seeming goddess
I find
skin shivering
soul cold
what cuts deeper than the color blue
on a sunlit reddish morning
in eyes there is no respite
for she who does not love
in he who cannot move
in the thicket the dove has cowered
moaning in a mourning song
he treads the path of needles and moss
entrapped by grieving, weathered wings
I find myself shackled by a swirling mist
the soul in me cannot shake this boundary
or climb above the wall of brick
between the door in the sky
and the well in the sea
I am held, it seems
suspended by the exhale of the earth
sighs weigh more in silver than speech
glances more in gold than stares
and fingertips are more evident of reverence
than tongue on rosened lips
the sun may not slight all alike
but worship captures the soul
as love enlightens the eyes
and in love there is no hope
of assuaging the crimson
or curbing the blue
there is no withstanding the Siren
who invokes the melody of the soul's first resonant hymn
Grace Calk
| 44
�Translation of Petrarch, Sparse rime (Scattered Rhymes)
Voi ch’ascoltate in rime sparse il suono
Voi ch’ascoltate in rime sparse il suono
di quei sospiri ond’io nudriva ’l core
in sul mio primo giovenile errore
quand’era in parte altr’uom da quell ch’i’ sono:
del vario stile in ch’io piango e ragiono
fra le vane speranze e ’l van dolore,
ove sia chi per prova intenda amore
spero trovar pietà, non che perdono.
Ma ben veggio or sì come al popol tutto
favola fui gran tempo, onde sovente
di me medesmo meco mi vergogno;
e del mio vaneggiar vergogna è ’l frutto,
e ’l pentersi, e ’l concoscer chiaramente
che quanto piace al mondo è breve sogno.
All you who hear, in scattered rhymes, the sound
Of sighs, wherein I once did feed my heart
In youth’s first error, when I was in part
Another man from how I am now found:
For all the modes in which I weep and speak
In th’interval between vain hopes and woe,
From those who, having tasted love, love know,
Pity, not only pardon, do I seek.
But now full well I see how stood my suit,
That long was I the talk the crowd held dear,
For which I often shamed within do seem;
And of delusion shame is now the fruit,
Regret as well, and knowledge sharp and clear
That world-got pleasure’s but the briefest dream.
45 |
Peter Kalkavage
�Gabriela Sanchez | 46
�47 |
Anne Freeman
�Of Course, I Understand
The moment Emily caught her husband
kissing another man in their bedroom, she was
shocked. She did not know her husband was
capable of being so passionate. One side of his
lip curled up; moaning, whispering, he eagerly
pulled the man against his chest until their bodies became one. Desire, love, and fanatic brightened his eyes, but the passion vaporized when
Emily met his gaze. He panicked, trying to pick
up the clothes from the floor, murmuring some
words. But she did not hear anything, and ran
down to the kitchen.
It was a nice kitchen. She designed it
herself. A local magazine planned to feature it
on the next issue. The editor this morning said
on the phone that she would bring the photographer to take some pictures. The news excited her,
so she left Sarah’s house earlier. She used to enjoy
having afternoon tea with Sarah, but today she
only wanted to go home and clean the kitchen
one more time.
What a lovely kitchen. She said to herself. The women Bible study group came to her
house every Friday, and they could not stop marveling at it. The balance among multiple colors,
they said, was more than perfect. Her mother-inlaw praised the Sherwood green cabinets, insisting that she would love to have the same. Frank’s
Family liked her. She was educated but not overeducated to the extent that her brain was full of
progressive nonsense. As a pastor’s wife, she devoted most of her time to the community. When
Hill’s daughter came out of the closet, people
were terrified except her. Bring some cookies to
Hill’s house, she tried to persuade the young lady
not to walk towards the sin. Her effort was futile—the young lady threw angry comments on
her—but she thereby became a symbol of kindness in the neighborhood. No one, people asserted, was more caring than Emily was.
Would not this kitchen be the best
place in the world? Glaring at the oven, retro
style, bright orange color, she wondered. It reminded Emily of her parents’ house. Her father
rarely talked to her, but she could be sure he was
a great man. Her mother spent most of her time
in the kitchen. She was a quiet woman. The sadness in her eyes forbade her from uttering. The
similarities between Frank and her mother often
surprised her. He was taciturn. Certainly, Emily
would not doubt his love. She remembered the
smile he gave when she made him pan-fried
chicken with mashed potatoes. Unlike her mother, Frank could be talkative. Every Sunday, he
preached in the church, enlightened his audiences. Without him, the town would not see the sin
of homosexuality, the fall of feminine virtues, and
the tradition would burn down like an old tree in
the flame.
“Em—” a low voice interrupted her
thoughts. The voice continued. “It was nothing.
I just got confused. Confused, you know. Confused.”
The sound waves of his words traveled
through the kitchen, leaving footprints all over
the wall. Some were hidden under the sinks, but
she saw them.
“Em—” It was the voice. The footprints
worried her. They could ruin the kitchen. How
should she clean it? Would the editor notice anything tomorrow? Would it still be featured in the
magazine? Could it? The voice kept going, and
she knew she must act. “I—“
“Of course.” Before the sentence was
completed, she interrupted. “Of course, Frank.
Of course, I understand.”
Yingzi Zhang | 48
�EULOGY FOR THE VOYAGER
Who among us can walk with you?
Who has measured the weighted world
and found it more worthy of love since
Atlas himself? Who else can lay claim to
the body of the Midwestern Quotidian Dragon?
And who can raise a red barn to keep guard
against the gray waves of its million ghost-hungry children?
Lighthouse of Man, know that I hunt the
mosaic shores for sea glass beneath your shadow.
Though you are a single needle in the green-stained
cathedrals of the pine forests which dot my
childhood, with you I sew my clothes anew.
Traveling ever forward, you carry a golden pitcher With it you water the stars, and even now they still
bloom beneath my feet. Forgive that we might never
repay you, or that we should weakly stumble on this
mountain path you carve; at these heights the
paralyzing venom of desolation falls like snow
onto our tongue.
And for that, this Eulogy is made:
Hero that you are, your mother mourns the flight
of her little swift. Please, dream of her if
you can - hold tightly and let not the songs of your
youth be lost in the valley that marks the divorce
of ground and sky.Verily, forgetting is no small
death, and none can suffer to return your body
home. Hero of Man, you breathe in a skin of iron
but bleed with a heart of aluminum foil.
Do you fear the breath of the wrinkling wind?
Does your memory hold the sails on your
great wandering true? You have claimed all the
horizon as your holy frontier. Yet even now
you shut the door as I prepare a funeral in
my Appalachian mind for the wonder
you gave the world too long ago.
49 |
Glenn Burns
�John Verdi | 50
�As I Give You to the Changing World
by Flo Palmacci (1927-2007)
Submitted by her grandson, Brandon Wasicsko (AGI‘20); dedicated
to the memory of his parents, Dolores and Matthew.
How will you survive the sea of discontent
Or the wint'ry winds of worldly ways?
Can you overcome confusion and chaotic days
And fill your life with purpose and intent?
Do you dread the day of knowing disaster and defeat
And fear the force of fantasy and fact?
Will you be strong enough to hold your soul intact,
With strength enough to savor all that's sweet?
Are you equipped to understand the urging of desire
That surges forth, unbidden, unfulfilled?
Will there be a moment when your thoughts are stilled,
When you recall the hopes to which you still aspire?
Will you try to tame the torment of humanity
and conspire to conquer universal ills
By seeking truth, and speaking truth at will,
Suppressing lies, lamenting all profanity?
Can you realize the anguish that's harbored in my breast
As I give you to the changing world that waits?
No more am I the Master of your fate....
You are a man, my son, and I have done my best.
51 |
Brandon Wasicsko
�| 52
�53 |
�| 54
�Editors-in-Chief
Editors
Front Cover
Enkh-Od Batzorig
Sofe Cote
Adam Schulman
Grace Calk
Elias Christian
Kristina Dover
Jean Hogan
Levan Kiladze
Daryl Locke
Yifei Lu
Lysithia Page
Hengjia Zhang
Praying Mantis, 2019, (charcoal and ink on paper)
by Anton Kalmysh
Energeia is the literary and art publication
of St. John’s College, Annapolis.
St. John’s College
60 College Ave.
Annapolis, Maryland 21401
Submit to energeia@sjc.edu
��
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<em>Energeia</em>
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<em>Energeia</em> is a non-profit, student magazine, which is published once a year and distributed among students, faculty, alumni, and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis. Staff welcome submissions from all members of the community -- essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like.
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St. John's College
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Annapolis, MD
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St. John's College Greenfield Library
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energeia
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62 pages
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Title
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Energeia, Winter 2019
Description
An account of the resource
Issue of the Energeia, published in Winter 2019.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
St. John's College
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Annapolis, MD
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2019
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St. John's College owns the rights to this publication.
Type
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text
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pdf
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Arts--Periodicals
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English
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Energeia_2019Winter
Energeia
Student publication
-
https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/6ca0cbe21d9e57e38ce59a7ea8c96742.pdf
7ec9850663b6b393bf92b992fe984923
PDF Text
Text
Spring 2020
�Letter from the Editors
In the Decameron, seven young ladies and three young
men flee the plague-filled city of Florence in search of pleasure.
Their pleasure takes the form of lying in the shade and telling
stories, which, as one of the young ladies argues, “may afford
diversion to all the company who hearken, [as well as to the
storyteller]”. We as readers are no strangers to the solace stories
bring; we remember the advice our Don Quixote of La Mancha
gave to the canon: “read these books, and you will see how they
will banish any melancholy you may feel, and raise your spirits
should they be depressed.” We hope that this collection of your
stories, poems, paintings, and other works of art can provide
you with a moment in the shade, and a diversion from whatever
melancholy might ail you.
�Samuel Barrettini
32
sodomy is dead
33 Homo
Ives Williams
Natalie Walker
Anna Seban
Amy Porter
Natalie Walker
Tyler Mazur
Clare Collins
Brendan Reicherter
John Verdi
Julia Cooper
Anna Seban
Juana Melendez
Glenn Burns
Lysithia Page
Eric Baker
MegAnn
Sara Johnson
Elle Laabs
Sheba Delaney
Sophia Heimbrock
8 RoadKill
9
My Young Reflection...
10
Free Fall
11 Icharus
12
Antigone, Line 72
14 Hinterland
15 untitled
16
Deminished Blues
17
Good Fences
18 Icharus
19 Jess
20
the trip
21
ODE OF THE HORSEMAN
22
Yesternight..., If only...
23
The Sandelwood Kid
26
Forgive me Father, for I have been Sacrilegious
27 Sóller
28
At Least He’s Laughing
30
on parallels
31
big and little words all spelling out desire
Daryl Locke
34
New Years Morning
35 Twenty
Liam Marshall-Butler
36
The Innumerable Steps
Amalie Christensen
38
So I Yearn
Scott McCrae
39
Newton 1.3
Louis Petrich
40
Falstaff Riseth Up
Chris Musick
42
A Politician Amongst Philosopher...
Anne Brong
43
Welcome mattress
Nortaute Grintalis
44
Kajus’ Centripetal Force
45
A year’s archetype
46
Daily Heroin
Maya Sofia Lake
Nicholas Thorp
47 Untitled
Elias Christian
48
Variations on Sweetapple...
Sofe Cote
49
Self Portrait With Lump (#5)
Kristina Dover
50
Clutching Her Pearls, Unavailable
Rose Zhang
51
my favorite person
Jean Hogan
52
Content Warning
Martha Campbell
54
Sonnet for Cordelia: From France
55
A Poem for France: From Cordelia
56
Molly (for my love)
Sofe Cote
�If
I might but sit awhile
and
gaze upon the
heartbeat
finger
tap twitch
of
a wounded deer
by
the midnight gas station
antlers
akimbo,
thorny
palms raised to the sky
when
it saw those headlights
staring
back
did
it see the eyes of God?
8|
Ives Williams
RoadKill
anxious
to greet
the
indefinite creaturepetrol
pulse,
parly
on the weedy road
My Young Reflection (on two lines from Whitman)
Around my eyes does not stay crinkled yet.
My cheeks resist my smile. They will remain
Unsure for still a while that I’ll maintain,
As life’s response, laughter is valid and set.
My forehead too persistently forgets
Each riddle and duress my mind does deign
With momentary interest, real or feigned,
And smooths each crease left by the thought it had met.
I think my face misunderstands itself,
And what facing this sad, strange world ever meant—
As if experiences stay on some shelf,
As if most deeply I am indifferent.
My face does not yet look like Me Myself—
Aloof, amused, compassionate, complacent.
one
more innocent
self-sabotage
in
the desperate flight from
ignorance
Natalie Walker
|9
�Free Fall
10 | Anna Seban
Icharus
Amy Porter | 11
�12 | Natalie Walker
| 13
�Hinterland
untitled
A guest in a warm bed. The
cold outside, in the dark.
A windowsill between us,
Smothered with trinkets.
Euphemism for junk, shit.
How many windowsills
From here to the Fall
Line With trinkets strewn
about? Frame and photo
from when? Wedding china
going where? Appalachia
is a junk culture. A shit
culture, hoarding Bottles
long after the drink. Still,
better with than without In
the cold and dark, I guess.
14 | Tyler Mazur
Clare Collins
| 15
�Good Fences
Diminished Blues
Brendan Reicherter
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& b 4 ¢ ™™
F7
5
bœn œ
bœ ˙
&b œ
B¨7
bœnœ
B¨º7
C7
Cº7
B¨7
9
bœ nœ^
& b nœ bœ Ó
C7
17
2.
F7
Cº7
&b ˙
16 | Brendan Reicherter
F7
Œ ‰ bœbœnœ œ œ œnœ œnœ œbœ œnœ
J
bœ bœ nœ ˙
&b œ
13
F7
F7
b œ B¨º7
nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ bœ œn œ b œ bœ œ~
J
Œ ‰
Œ Ó
B¨7
Bº7
œ bœ bœ nœ ˙
C7
Cº7
Fº7
œ~ Œ ‰ œj œbœ
B¨7
Bº7
nœ bœ bœ nœ œ œ ‰ œJ œ bœ bœ nœ ˙
1.
John Verdi
ü
‰ nœJ bœbœ œbœ œ œ œbœbœnœ œj Œ nœj œbœ œnœ œbœbœnœ ™™ †
B¨7
B¨º7
bœ
F7
bœ
nœ
F©º
G‹7
C7
bw
3
John Verdi | 17
�Icharus
18 | Julia Cooper
Jess
Anna Seban | 19
�the trip
ODE OF THE HORSEMAN
In the dark,
I meet your skin.
Your veins run like hidden rivers
beneath you,
Carrying the spirit
of your immutable heart.
It pulses,
Like the light of the
stars above.
We run in pace with
its ancient rhythm For we’ll run far away from the
spying stars
(where their light can not divide us)And our skin will be together,
So that we are one
(much like the patchwork quilt
that lies in our barn).
And when you breathe,
Your lungs carry the stories
Of forgotten beaches
and snow-kissed mountains.
I hear in you
the wind that has passed your ears,
And filled your chest.
When we are together,
I never worry that a
merciless God should do us part,
For we are already
in His heaven
(but dear Lord,
When we’re together is not enough).
We climbed up to the top
to the comfort of this house
made a fire now worn out
after ripping all walls apart
took the remains and sailed away
on boats made of glass and iron.
20 | Juana Melendez
Glenn Burns | 21
�Yesternight the sky was dark
The Sandalwood Kid
By Eric Baker
I had only just arrived at Kineo Mount
Yesternight the sky was dark
Or so you would have thought
But stolen was its inkiness,
And in its place was nought.
Who slurped away the jet black broth
and left the stars behind,
Opaque like chunks of chicken breast,
with edges undefined?
But really it was colorless,
For contrast thus had ceased.
Now everything was everything,
I fell asleep apleased.
I had spotted eagles, brown, as I sailed to the island
“Mni Wiconi” I recite to myself
I’ve never seen water so clear
Nor the Milky Way so casually fixed- as if little more than some novelty
“Mni Wiconi”
As if my mantra would teach me something hidden
About the lake
When I was a boy
I had asked my mother about love
She tells me a story, that she had told once before
How as a child she had once had a bird, and loved him so
And kept him in a brass cage
Her father had made
Her grandmother goes up, and moves to open the cage
“Will you still love, if he had somewhere else to go?”
“No” she screams, but a little girl
My young mother slams the cage door shut, and puts it in its lock
If only we had seen the land
“Leave him alone”
Her grandmother turns, no anger in her soul
“When we play by the stream, and pass water down the line- from me to your father to youHow do I hold my hands?
Do I grip
If only we had seen the land
Before its skin was razed
Would we see ourselves the more
The wild had we gazed?
But lost ourselves in skies on fire,
We in bleeding wood,
Alas we’ll never see ourselves,
Maybe we never could
22 | Lysithia Page
With a fist?”
“No”
“Do I hold my hand flat?”
“No, you’d drop all the water!”
“Ah, so cup my hands I must, never gripping, otherwise neither your father nor you will ever get to sip?”
“Grandma, why are you asking me? Just leave the bird alone!”
“Fix your tone, and fix your attention to my words.
You cannot nourish your other, if you hold onto them tight. They are not for you to claim, but only for you
to let pass along. Open the cage door, for the bird is not yours.”
“But father-”
Eric Baker | 23
�“We’d call him mad if he kept his hands cupped with water, and ran away from all of us with it spilling
No beard in his way
from outside, it was only passing through. Do you think he’s angry?”
In Heaven’s Lake
over his shirt and down his head. You’d be angry, because you didn’t have your fill. The sparrow came
The grandmother moves towards the cage, and my mother relents her protest
The sparrow, wild, darts towards a wall
Her grandmother had neglected to open a window
It plops to the ground and my mother screams
A red round dot left on the wood board
My mother’s shriek then meant nothing
He just sat for a while
And had flown far, far away
Untethered, untouched
He had owned nothing
And like the tree, the finch and the stream
Nothing owned him after all.
Compared to her cries later
I find a tree, a white pine, though not sandalwood
But because her father had decided to stuff it the next morning
And breathe in the world
Not over the bird’s death
My mother walks into their living room
And avian eyes stare blank from the mantlepiece
I put my forefingers together
Crossing my third fingers over my forefingers
I exhale, I lose the world
Her grandmother knits as my mother writhes on the ground
“Mni Wiconi- water is life” my mother says
Until her grandmother places her half-finished shawl over the stuffed sparrow
“Water can’t be called life, if it’s kept to yourself
She bares her juvenile teeth and weeps
And takes my mother to bed
My mother pauses before me
She doesn’t know how to continue
“Like the water, it wasn’t mine to keep”
Though the saying is not from her part of the world
Nothing can be life, if it doesn’t pass you through.
Life can’t ever, ever, just stop with you,” she mumbles
With a cigarette between her teeth
And a lighter under her thumb
I stare, unsure of the lesson she’s gleamed
I breathe again
“Mni Wiconi”
I cross my fingers
I recite again
As I step onto the landing
And dock my boat
Up Kineo I head
The moon lighting my way
I exhale again
I cross my fingers once more
I gain the world
I lose the world
But still, the world doesn’t lose me
Or take me up with it
I recall another story
Again, I try, to no avail
Son of the Bear
I return to the world
Of the Sandalwood King
And first of our race
Who, after his reign,
Stepped under a sandalwood tree
At the top of a mountain peak
And found peace
I depart from the mount
And open up my sail
Still a boy, still a kid
Dreaming of the wind
Dreaming of riding the gale.
With no clothes on his back
24 |
| 25
�Forgive me Father, for I have been Sacrilegious
Sóller
I used to pray every night before bed
Now I sit and read Euclid instead
I used to play around with play-doh
Now I fuck about with Plato
Whatever happened to reality?
Now it’s just me and the Polity
Sorry Dad, I’m becoming secular
As the church no longer feels familiar
Now I know the true holy trinity:
Euclid, Plato, and the Polity
26 | MegAnn
Sara Johnson | 27
�At Least He’s Laughing
It has been raining for weeks.
I pull myself around like a dog
coerced outside for a piss.
I unfurl my umbrella just as the rain stops
and feel its extra weight in my hand.
Necessity does not talk to me anymore.
A telephone pole poster
for anger management
tells us to “find the virtuous mean”
in italicized helvetica neue.
“Use protection.” winks the condom wrapper
kicked about on the classroom floor.
Moderation is a kind of invited claustrophobia
to hold in, hold together—
bent umbrellas against rains already come.
We talk of fragility around cornered tables
and grin as though it might
disappear
with the hot air of speech.
There is no difference between cracking and
falling. We all leave
all the time for smoke breaks
and daydreams and trips to the restroom
to slap our cheeks until
our eyes decide to open again.
We’re always circumscribing some shape we never
take.
“I am my own phantom limb!” cries a man
28 | Ellie Laabs
out the third floor window.
Drops keep falling.
I have left my umbrella inside this time.
The universe and I form dissonances
whenever we touch.
I never care about it
until I get a glass of wine in my hands
and someone asks, with over-compassion:
“but how are you, really?”
I think often of summer—
of the early July day I discovered
a wet paint sign clinging to the beach,
as if to say “the creation is yet fresh.”
That’s the closest I’ve come to knowing God.
I think: at least He’s laughing.
Ellie Laabs | 29
�on parallels
big and little words all spelling out desire
every morning finds something missing:
the pause too long for comfort,
like cold curdled coffee dregs, like
letting the toast burn.
all the books stand at attention
(and underneath, little pieces of paper
with your words written on them).
i want to puncture the silence,
rip the wound open
over and over,
wider each time.
i want sugar in my tea today.
i want blueberries and milk
and you asleep in my bed.
30 | Sheba Delaney
Sophia Heimbrock | 31
�sodomy is dead
ive forgotten all the pornstars i used to know
flat figures with illusions of breast thigh tenderness
heartthrobs and other throbs mouldering in sub terranea
passing days like the ending routine of an old age home
listen the children have come to sing for you
never really a song only a plastic cup of jello stained purple with lipstick—
i apply it to my wrinkled mouth as if im hungry
small routines create us
a smear an earring
leather bondage
i gorge myself on myself and
when i get sick i look around wearing betrayal on my sticky face—
large eyes on an insufficient frame trembling for more
soaking drinking sputtering in scenes of coiled mouths
but they didnt gasp and pulse and lie in the dark alone
they didnt taste skin and shiver
and sigh yes louder
or softer perhaps when they knew what was coming
they only ever lay there silent with their extrusions
limp and tiresome days with the halfhearted scent of sweat
hanging dull and rancid over the room
a flaccid mind holding hands with a stale body
i watch my cut wires dangle like a magicians spoiled trick
one end cant thrash without the other
all the cables to my screens look so simple now
i cant remember how they played strings into flesh into solid damp hot words
troublesome that the words dried up and stuck around
when i didnt want them anymore i emptied them all out
32 | Samuel Barrettini
but the casings i couldnt let go
now that ive lost most of my teeth
i need something to roll around in my mouth and spit out
stick words on my shell and watch them calcify
build something new before the foundations give way
one last peep show under spotlights flickering flickering flickering—
Samuel Barrettini | 33
�New Years Morning
Twenty
I have never confused anything
Essentially
Especially two shifts
Plums and oranges I have never used in the same sentence
I woke up and it is a new day
I walk the dogs and there is a new sky
Just yesterday I was in panic
Just hours ago I was counting down the numbers
Today is a new day
A new year, a new lifetime
Everything else seems new too
The urine, the bagels, the unmade bed,
The honey on the counter, my black hair
the silverware seems a bit funny too
I grab my first breakfast in this lifetime
A plum and an orange
As I try and figure out what Eve met out of her New Years
I sit on the balcony
This cold air - new
And watch the sky
and wait for the next one to come
With twenty rowing years
and each a rowing lifetime
raving with life’s pulse
in the curl of its heart
in the depth of its spine
venturing through heaven
and hell, storms and rainbows
Time ages me generously
It is not me that places cracks
near the eyelid, but the body itself
I try and betray such insults
although a grey weed
sprouts from the cranium
With luck seemingly rooted in one
Mainly on the outskirts
Which makes me dote
in twenty years to come
I’ll be forty, ah! Time be jolly
I must stay beautiful
34 | Daryl Locke
Daryl Locke | 35
�The Innumerable Steps
Mark Stevenson must have gone mad. After inheriting a house from his
now late uncle, he had begun to
organize it. His uncle, who was notoriously messy and resistant to throwing
things out, had left the house
a mess. Somewhat by mistake he had realized that after counting the steps
to the attic multiple times, he
could not find any consistent number of steps. It was his habit to count the
steps as he walked up or down
any staircase, however, this staircase seemed to sometimes have twenty steps,
sometimes twenty one or
twenty two. Once he even counted it to have twenty five steps.
This discovery occupied Mark for quite a bit of time. He walked up and
down the steps again and again
for half an hour until he began to write the results down. Maybe there is
some pattern; it must have more
steps when going up then going down he thought.
When Mark’s brother, who had agreed to help organize the house, came and
saw that Mark had not
accomplished much in his time asked Mark how he was holding up with the
death of their uncle.
“I think I am having a break. I swear that the staircase to the attic has a
different number of steps every
time you count them.” Mark answered. After Mark’s brother was incapable
of comforting his distraught
brother tried to count the number of steps of the staircase twice in a row in
an endeavour to explain to
Mark that he was simply grief stricken and exhausted. However, he was
incapable of successfully
counting the number of steps twice in a row.
Mark and his brother found more and more people to test the seemingly
magical staircase. As word got
36 | Liam Marshall-Butler
around skeptics came to attempt to disprove the innumerable steps. The
staircase soon became famous
and quite a few scientists came to study the steps to no avail. At first Mark
let them come without
question, but he soon decided to charge people for the pleasure of seeing the
known laws of physics and
reason fell apart. Mark’s business was incredibly successful for a few months
until a local with no
particular religious affiliation burned the house to the ground under the
belief that Mark had made a deal
with the devil.
While, at first, the world was distressed to find that the newest maracle had
ceased to exist, a number of
theories explaining why the staircase must have been a hoax were
disseminated. Mark’s staircase was
soon all but completely forgotten and relegated to the footnotes of history.
| 37
�So I Yearn
There is something about the ebbing of our thoughts
The way you know me not.
See me sinking deeply, feel I’m floating lightly
Tears are falling freely.
I crashed and crashed again, still my tide continued
Blame it all on my moods.
Moving forward somehow, what I seek is needed
Remember what you said.
One drop builds to many, many will build a pond
Will you ever respond?
From glaciers to the rain, mist and frost included
You forgave what I did.
Where there is water, our stream of life will follow.
Spes mea in Deo
38 | Amalie Christensen
Newton 1.3
“Every body that, by a radius drawn to the center of a second body moving in any
way whatever, describes about that center areas that are proportional to the times is
urged by a force compounded of the centripetal force tending toward that second body
and of the whole accelerative force by which that second body it moved.”
- Principia Book I. Proposition 3.
Let T be a body, and L be a second body orbiting it.
When body T moves towards T1, L moves towards L’ and also towards A.
ΔT L A = ΔT1 L’
A’
A’ = ΔT1 A’
B (Principia 1.1)
ΔT1 L’
∴ ΔT1 A’
B = ΔT L A
...and also
B’ = ΔT2 B’ C
ΔT2 A’’
ΔT2 B’ C = ΔT3 B’’ C’
The actual path of body L is thus the curved line L A’B’C’
Scott McCrae | 39
�Falstaff Riseth Up
Let’s not fit into “friends”-suit shrunk by wash.
Your words out-stretched to me
as mine to you
have touched too much
our hearts and minds;
so this word “friends”
too little sounds,
and wraps not ‘round
embodied kinds
who want so much
to fit inside
intestined homes,
no room for pride—
love at high end leashing riots
love at lower on death diets
not to lose the fat
to keep the taste-outlasting passing
politic days,
to likes of ours
belongs the race!
Yet if you would compel
God’s kingdom come
by disemboweling
this noisome one-storming and fouling-I know an old man tried
who ended howling,
distilling questions from despair:
love’s cause? . . . life’s cause?
nothing . . . nothing there . . .
dwindling air
40 | Louis Petrich
broken down to barest words
ever spoken, ever heard—
arms holding cold
his excellent never come more daughter.
Enter Falstaff,
old man through with storms,
now lads his lusty cue
to question honor thoroughly:
merely air . . . tongue’s deadly fare.
Him missing dear we would,
if plump-veined world
unchurled could be good . . .
but Falstaff Riseth Up,
double-backed with sup and hotly spurred by sack to sleep and snore through knocks of law
that would arrest the mountain depths and make all even bored, but life that’s wet and ever
spicy mines he up in hoards to share ‘mongst thieving mates racked all in laughter wielding
swords, self-hacked self-bloodied, shameless glad to last reopen flaming gates of Paradise
and tempt the honey Prince, never never turncoat back!
Oh yes, it’s true: Paradise.
All the same, put this to store:
it’s not for everyone—
life, I mean—
fat, drunk, elevated,
and loved
of all the rest
more.
| 41
�A Politician Amongst Philosophers: A Sonnet
Welcome mattress
And never had there such a sadness been
As he, a man who walks with head so low.
How those who pass him scrutinize his sin!
But if he tried to hide it still would show
To bring them wealth was all that he desired,
Yet they would never surely understand
Just how much this man was truly tired
Much like a member of a marching band
Whose arms are weak as if they would fall off,
But marches on despite terrific pain.
So does this man march on though he’s distraught,
And never will he hold his head in shame.
But if you call him by this name he stirs:
A Politician Amongst Philosophers
42 | Chris Musick
Anne Brong | 43
�Kajus’ Centripetal Force
A year’s archetype
Dressed in dyed poppy,
I entered the forest
Led deeper by a trail of
Pomegranate seeds I left
Myself last year.
Bare teeth,
Annihilate the fruit’s bone
Encouraged to go
To the underground of force,
Where promised years abandon seeds
To bitter themselves.
Thus, I leave Persephone behind
My sweat, drops of pomegranate.
I will see her red shawl soon,
Woven of poppy and
The forgetful secrets of spring,
For to fall again
By the sun’s drifts into
New damnation
Is my allotment.
44 | Nortaute Grintalis
Nortaute Grintalis | 45
�Daily Heroin
Untitled
The harder the breath, the thicker the air
The bigger the push, the heavier it gets
The louder the scream, the softer the hush
The clearer the sky, the foggier the mind
The taller one grows, the more one shrinks inside
The smarter one gets, the dumber one feels
The longer one stays, the harder to leave
The stronger one gets, the weaker the high
The slower I live, the faster I die
46 | Maya Sofia Lake
Nicholas Thorp | 47
�Variations on Sweetapple: A Fragment of Sappho
Self Portrait With Lump (#5)
Οἶον τὸ γλυκύμαλον ἐρεύθεται ἄκρῳ ἐπ᾽ ὔσδῳ
ἄκρον ἐπ᾽ ἀκροτάτῳ λελάθοντο δὲ μαλοδρόπνεσ,
οὐ μὰν ἐκλελάθοντ᾽, ἀλλ᾽ οὐκ ἐδύναντ᾽ ἐπίκεσθαι.
Solitary sweetapple red-dabbled on the high branch,
on the highest branch, which the gatherers neglected no, not truly neglected:
were incapable of grasping.
Exposed on the high bough,
the highest bough, sweetapple
ripens, uncollected by the harvest not uncollected for lack of appeal:
in faith, unable to be collected.
A single sweetapple blushing on the high branch,
on the highest branch, remains hidden from
the hands of applepickers.
No, in fact, not hidden but
unattainable.
Even as sweetapple ripens on the upper bough,
on the uppermost bough, she goes untouched
by industry: not precisely forgotten,
but untouchable.
Apple flushes sweetly in autumn light
on the bough’s foremost end, its very end,
and retains herself, unseen by harvesters No, in truth not unseen,
simply beyond reach.
When sweetapple stains red on the high branch, on the highest branch, she is not stained
by farmer’s hands because those are not well-fitted to grasp.
48 | Elias Christian
Sofe Cote| 49
�my favorite person
Clutching Her Pearls
And her eye whites were egg shells,
With broken porcelain plates made
Out to be the pearls on her
Neck, her neck, where my nails have been.
But what I have learned is that
Pain is a thoughtless thing,
Minding nothing at all,
Only doing, doing, doing.
So leave me here where the
Morning screams out my name, and
The stars die before they can
Catch me. I've committed
to nothing and everything
Unavailable
all at once, I'm sorry mom
That I ever touched you.
I woke up to something breaking
In the kitchen. Mom stood there
Emptying an hourglass
Onto her face. She took a
Stick and drew a smile, now
It's night and I watch waves of
Depression leave her expressionless.
She whispers, "It's time."
50 | Kristina Dover
Rose Zhang | 51
�Content Warning
A Translation of Baudelaire’s Au Lecteur
(x) Hurt/Comfort (x) Not safe for work
(x) Pining (x) Yearning (x) Anatomy
(x) Wish-Fulfillment (x) Introspection
(x) Homelessness (x) Rodents
(x) Fixit Fic (x) Doomed Ship
(x) Not Beta Read (x) Confessions
(x) Fluff (x) Non-Canon
(x ) Tear-Jerker (x) Redemption arc
(x) Satan (Catholicism) (x) Trimegustus (Hermeticism)
(x) Resolved Romantic Tension (x) Smut
(x) Body Modification (x) Brain Bleach
(x) Occult (x) Vaping
(x) Devil (Lucifer) (x) Manipulation
(x) Enemies to Lovers (x) Giantess
(x) Corruption (x) Fall from Grace (x) Evil Protag
(x) Optimism (x) Revolt
(x) Sexual Content (x) Kisses (x) Biting
(x) Sex Work (x) Age Difference
(x) Voyeurism (x) POV: First Person
(x)Fingerfucking (x) Fruit
(x) Drugs (x) Insects (x) No Longer Taking Feedback
(x) Community:Demons (x) Beach Party
(x) Implied/Offscreen Character Death
(x) Hiccups (x) Moaning
(x) Rape (x) Poison (x) Stabbing (x) Arson
(x) Everyone Lives (x) Protectiveness
(x) Slice of Life (x) Tragedy
(x) No Self Insert this time (x) Please be nice
52 | Jean Hogan
(x) Jackals, (x) Mythical Beings and Creatures
(x) Scorpions (x) Vultures (x) Snakes
(x) Language (x) I don’t even know
(x) In Public (x) Not Safe for Work
(x) Big Bad (x) Unhygenic
(x) Plot what Plot
(x) This author regrets everything
(x) This author regrets nothing
(x) Angst (x) Tearjerker
(x) Dream Fic (x) Smoking (x) Modern Era
(x) Reunion (x) Fashion
(x)Family (x) Reader insert
This work could have adult content. If you proceed you have agreed that you
are willing
to see such content.
[Proceed] [Go Back]
| 53
�Sonnet for Cordelia: From France
A Poem for France: From Cordelia
The crashing waves betwixt our passing ships
Push thistles in my side, sea salt to cheek,
But what I want is roses on my lip;
A blush sail blown all out make my knees weak.
Say but wind and thus carry me away,
Or say just light and guide my eyes forth.
You shall give me the world if you stay,
But if you turn, only pain henceforth.
My affections hang in your loft sail,
Yet I see a storm approaching our wake,
So be like the breeze, not howl or wail,
And carry my ship across this calm lake.
Simply call out, my love, a tender word,
And heal the wounds which I have incurred.
There is a silent heartbreak which is common
To the world.
With hair curled,
And dazzling jewels and gowns all put on.
The jewelry, well fascinated,
And the costumes, well fabricated,
Carry only an air to the eye and not
One to the heart.
I can only promise no such heartbreak.
I am poor,
Yet no more
Would I need than a quiet home to make.
My love, not distant,
And my love, still constant.
I will be your fool so long as
You will be mine.
54 | Martha Campbell
Martha Campbell| 55
�Molly (for my love)
56 | Sofe Cote
| 57
�Editors In Chief Enkh-Od Batzorig
Sofe Cote
Adam Schulman
Editors Grace Calk
Elias Peregrine Christian
Kristina Dover
Jean Hogan
Levan Kiladze
Daryl Locke
Yifei Lu
Lysithia Page
Cover laundry by Yunju Park
Energeia
Energeia is the Literary and Art Publication of St. John’s College, Annapolis...
...
St. John’s College
60 College Ave.
Annapolis, Maryland 21401
Thank you to all who contributed to this issue of Energeia, and a thousand thanks to
our wonderful team of editors. Your dedication and effort means the world to us.
�
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Text
�Energeia
Spring 2019
����There once was a man from the Pitt
Who wrote poems under his lover’s tit
His rhymes would all buckle
His lover would chuckle
Saying “you never could rhyme for shit”
Untitled, by Anonymous
�Editor's Note
ince spring is a time for new beginnings, we
S
encourage our readers to try something new:
approach this edition of Energeia as if it were
a seminar reading. Part of our job as editors is
to publish the art we receive from the polity
in a way that is engaging and cohesive. Look
deeply at the art and how it all works together
as a unified publication. We hope that in doing
so you will come to understand something new
about the common connection that we, here, at
St. John’s share through the arts.
�Audrey Bryant
1
to again hold
Cole Caudle
2
Dialectic motion
Samuel Berrettini
3
all things turning as one
Kristina Dover
4
Bible Belt Bruises; Blue Green Yellow Dress
Anna Seban
5
Room Study ft. Prada Ad
Anonymous
6 Spirals
Zihan Mei
7
The Swan/ 天鹅
Will van Engen
8
The long way back
Reuben Morris
9 Untitled
Amy Porter
10
If They Remain Silent..
Grace Phan Jones
11
Emerveille, ou l’homme au demi-sourire
Jean Hogan
12
Story in which everything is read through a shitty night vision filter
Falon Findley
13 Untitled
Elizabeth Janthey
14
Library of Celsus Ephesus, Turkey
Bowman
15
Flatlands Are Gold (Bonus Track)
Anonymous
16
St. John's Gothic
Luke Cartrite
17 Intertwined
Gabriela Sanchez
18
springtime hustle
Louis Petrich
19
Obituary For a Tutor
Ayushma Thapa
20 Lines
Adam Hurwitz
21
Moon Graph: Light
Sofe Cote
22
Bodies diptych
�Julia Cooper
24 Untitled
Grace Villmow
25
Carex sedges
R.M. Goad
26
Ode to Strange and Delicate Men
Isabella Williams
Dohyun Song
27 Cousin
28 Untitled
Amalie Christensen
28
Golden Hour
Nicholas Thorp
29
Self Portrait
Tianqi (Simon) Gao
30
Holy Iron
Tatum
Liam Marshall-Butler
Zac Cohen
Enkh-Od Batzorig
Grace Calk
Ben Haas
Theo Martin
31 72
32
Ancient Curse
33 Spheroids
34 dead
35 dandelion
36
Relics of an Unknown War
37 Droplets
Mark Wittmer
38
Being Beheld
Karlena Haase
39
Pound 5
Sera Johnson
40
Fool’s Day; March
Mackenzie Daffner
41 Untitled
Keaton Jahn
42
Too young for memoirs
Sheba Delaney
43
Existential Pronouns
Aisha Shahbaz
44
The beginning
��In the beginning, there were beings. Beings with an exceptional faculty; the ability to measure. The
beings measured with their hands, and these hands measured with webbing connecting their parts.
With these webbed appendages, and minds that worked in harmony with their hands, the beings
measure was their nature. Their hands were measuring cups, and with these cups so integral to their
identity, they measured to understand their environment and to understand themselves. Now as the
beings grew and matured through the generations, they reoriented their nature. The beings soon
valued a different sort of measurement, one impaired by the connection of their fingers. They sought
both to leave their measured paths and the choice to sieve through what would be measured. With
the being’s hands unrestricted, the beings began to build, create, and discern without their natural
measurements, and instead distanced their knowledge from the source to calculate and rely on their
surroundings. The beings, after generations of measurement-desire-departure, began to once again
desire what had been taken away from their nature. They yearned to fulfill this great desire, to be
connected where they once were. And like young saplings learning the consequences of sprouting out
of the ground, their hands and limbs began to feel the air around them in the nakedness of uncloaked
branches. Reaching out, sprawling in the air, grasping at necessities for growth, light and water.
The Beings stretched their un-webbed hands and feet, measuring the length of their surroundings
with straightened fingers, measuring the warmth of their loved with a cupped hand, measuring the
knowledge grasped by inscribing thoughts and ideas communicating by the moving of independent
fingers. The movement yearns for unity, for the webbing the beings once had. Moving side-to-side,
almost hoping motion will be the successor to the natural stillness of flesh already there. They strive
for something lost, for the knowledge held by a sieve is incomparable to the knowledge held by a cup.
The straining and disunity of the former cups enable deception and discord. For the tree grows its
leaves to connect sunlight and water through itself, producing the being and the fruit of the tree. One
outstretched stem is no tree; neither are the twigs and branches that fall unneeded to the ground. The
webbing of leaves necessitates almost constant connection, as even trees that wither their leaves away
in winter recognize in their state of being that they must return, and so their webbing returns. So like
the trees, the beings yearn to return to what they once knew and held knowledge in. The beings strive
for the measure of the innate, to once have connection to the measurement. The beings long to hold
and to have the measured once more with the measurer. The part is held without the whole, and the
whole falls through the part. The beings, as they once were, measured and discerned and held the part
within the whole. But the scales themselves morphed, and so, humanity formed on an unbalanced
scale, broken and desirous of to once again hold.
Audrey Bryant
|1
�Dilectic Motion
2|
Cole Caudle
�all things turning as one
-first
the garish sunlight splatters
on the wall
broken and fragmented
by ugly blinds
the last jumbled utterances
of what once ruled
the heavens have traveled
through infinity
the cacophonic news for my
unenlightened eyes
-Last
The Radiance gone with
Solitary witness,
Wistful knowing nothing–
The Cosmos sings,
But I hear weeping
In the Eternal Joy,
The Sound of All:
‘We once could stretch
Our hands toward stars
Which were not ours to touch.’
Samuel Berrettini
|3
�Bible Belt Bruises
Righteously wrong women rip
Their wrists on dirty holy
Handkerchiefs,
Their daughters, poppy girls with
Ponytails, are pulled and punished
By the neck,
Blinded with blurry bloody blots
With black and blue piss, I cry
Out Amen.
Blue Green Yellow Dress
Mother Blue blazed the moon
then wrapped it up in
fleece. Covering me in her hands,
large, puddy palms, Mother Blue fed
me arugula, mint. Praised life
before her wrist rang out urea,
rags of clouds carrying Mother Blue's
piss. Yellow
dripping
down calm cottonmouths
as Mother Blue tyes thyme in and out of time
with basil leaves and my bleeding liver
(blaming lovers for believing in love but
leaving when blood levels out), into a crown
of pomegranate shells I place
on my head. I drink
from her golden blessing in bliss.
4|
Kristina Dover
�Anna Seban
|5
�6|
Anonymous
�天鹅
THE SWAN
薄雾里,有只天鹅时常出没
我知道,发颤的羽毛
从那些遥远的冬夜,还在向我
发出责备,就像有一双眼睛
曾经让黑暗羞愧,就像那脖子:
是流水、是大雪、是冰…
曾经让一匹小马
忽然垂下头,迟疑地
陷入沼泽,最终认出了这场预谋
Deep in the mist, the swan
appears again. I know, those feathers
through the distant winter nights quivering, still
blame me, as the eyes once
the darkness humbled, as the nape
(it is a water without ending, it is snow swirling, it is ice)
once made a colt drop his head, hesitantly
into a bog sink, eventually realize
the snare premeditated.
Zihan Mei
|7
�Untitled
8|
Will van Engen
�Untitled
On the tipping orange Night he’d
already well rehearsed Spit a grime on
overtime (click-clack-uh-yeah man’s got
eject-ed) Milwaukee hand proud
lunaticked (the moon is big as shit) On
that dock-angle this was right Missed
lock-pop so my dance slid worst
Wished his chance at empty mind (You
seem Hellboy? That’s all true) If eyes
not drunk then sad and tired He’d viced
seen those scaly goobers Real demons
not slick similes night we passed
windows he smashed Enemies whose
warpaint faces guaranteed he won’t be
laid Round the table each man liked me
so each woman saw his seeth tooth I
asked if his rasp ever could pass
Because his life seemed scary (Used to
drink...hang...with she was 40) Now
How would he not be a lifer My best
new Buddy starred and ill Now he’s at
Buddy’s bar and grill Tell me if you saw
him
Reuben Morris
|9
�If They Remain Silent..
Museum: a temple of the arts packed with the warm, sticky tourists that dash in and out from the too-hot
streets. Through the tall windows, the blinding light from outside reflects off of polished marble limbs and angel wings.
Beauty, guarded by guns and crystal glass because of the hunger in every face. Slavering and lusting, the crowds
come in and, panting, look at pictures of water, at statues of Love. Longing, longing for absolution, for the knowledge
that there, on those pedestals, stand the true human race.
They come to worship with vacant eyes, unseeing, afraid to see, because if they did they would know that it was
all too bright. The lofty thoughts that man imagines themselves condemn him as dust.
They are silent, their mouths hanging open. The only noise is the rustle of clothing and bodies as they roam in
herds, gently nudging in closer to drink more deeply at the sights. Their hot stink spreads through the air as their living
breath brushes silently against the masterpieces. Their tiny hearts pound with false illumination and misunderstanding.
A huddle of them surrounds a bronze man caught in the act of dying. They gnaw at him with their eyes.
Despairingly, his face reaches upward to the white light filling the room.
An enormous shadow blocks the blinding rays, as if some great Being has stooped low to look in at the
windows, eclipsing the sun. In the darkness, a sound like cannon-fire cracks.
The dying man lives and begins to move.
Splitting and breaking with every effort, now all of the statues are writhing and leaping from their pedestals.
They wrest their sculpted lips apart and begin loudly to sing, their stony voices low and rumbling, like an oncoming
avalanche. The sound fills every crevice of space, thrusting away the thick and silent stench of the crowd.
The pillars of the hall tremble at it.
With lurching, crumbling steps they knock paintings from the walls and tear at the tapestries. All the while,
every colorful scene they destroy begins to add its voice to the cacophony. Portraits and idyllic scenes sing their colors
loudly, egging on the statues that continue to desecrate their canvasses. Many harmonies mix into one strain.
The crowds, with horror at seeing their fixations move, run madly in every direction. The guns from terrified
security guards fire into the air and shatter the crystal cases, behind which hordes of tiny figurines are dancing wildly to
the song.
Chaos, chaos, and utter harmony reigns.
They struggle to get out of the revolving doors, which spin like tops because so many people are pushing in at
once. No one gets out. Like so many hamsters crammed into one wheel, they keep turning in crazy circles to get away,
get away.
Someone falls inward and vomits on the marble floor.
The statues continue to break into pieces, singing as they go. The pillars are crumbling,
the temple falling, the idols themselves destroying it.
10 | Amy Porter
�Untitled
Grace PhanJones | 11
�Story in which everything is read through a shitty night vision filter
I
I am trying to write a ghost story
Rather: I am trying to write the ghost of a story
Rather: I am scrambling through secret passages the hallways behind the hallways
trying to convince you that I am a ghost
close up on my eyes prying from the painting
zoom on the painthing prying from behind my eyes
It too knows what bookshelves will slide open for it what lamps it can knock over
{cut to commercial}
Note to Editing: Post ad break montage [a hollow doll, a discarded bottle, an exterior
shot of the tinder-wood house, further cliches, the growing realization that the only full
thing tonight is the moon, etc]
II
It’s 2019 anyone can be a ghostbuster
or at least anyone can try
and oh, how they line up to try
Crossing our streams
lighting each other up into new dimensions
the only place you can find a tear in space time muscle tissue
and then i am taking breaths
so numerous and so shallow i think that one of these days
there just might not be enough air in this town to fill me up
Sarah thinks that being a ghostbuster is her favorite tv show job bc it is so rare to find
people who put that much work into listening
Being a ghost myself
I can neither confirm nor deny this
12 | Jean Hogan
�III
& now the theories
One thinks I’m just like that
Five mention spirits; three even mean by this – ghosts
One, and he doesn’t know how right he is, thinks something snuck out of someone else’s
mouth mid-scream and got stuck in mine
Notice how all these theories tend toward the corporeal, they would never admit it but
everyone surveyed has a stake in my remaining something they can touch hold
IV
Anne Carson says if prose is a house, poetry is a man on fire running through it
Probably she means to express urgency, consumption, the way it licks at certain prosaic
structures, etc
(We should pause to acknowledge that not all poems have houses)
Babe I have seen too many men walk out
not knowing they’re on fire
and light up so many beautiful things
Remember, I only ever called this a story
In this piece you and I lock the man inside the house
Falon Findley | 13
�Library of Celsus Ephesus, Turkey
"Then I looked on all the works that my hands had made, and on the labor that I had expended on it: and,
behold, all was vanity"- Ecclesiasties 3:11
14 | Elizabeth Janthey
�Flatlands Are Gold (Bonus Track)
Look at your heart.
Watch it unravel the image of her, in front of your chest.
In it you know and
Out of it you will grow to know.
In your room that is under the sea now,
Imagine the salt enter your skin.
You sink and all around, the beating of the water
Surrounds you.
Spinning forward becoming total life.
Becoming the only life.
Grief of the living unloved is chain upon chain upon chain.
Grief of the living loved is Unknown freedom.
When she reaches her flatlands, answer to me why that is.
Bowman | 15
�St. John's Gothic
You hear footsteps in the hall approaching your room. They never change position, always right outside your door.
There are old lighters on the quad - all of them white. You daren’t pick them up.
You dream of ghosts and drowning in college creek. You mention this to your friends. They only stare at you. You don’t
go near the docks, just in case.
People disappear for half an hour during class and return glassy-eyed. You wonder where they go.
You zone out during seminar. You tune back in. You’re talking about Odysseus. You are always talking about Odysseus.
You complain of writer’s block. You overcome the writer’s block. You drown in words.
You write a three-page paper. You double space it. You have written a three and a half page paper.
The rune exists on the underside of the circular stone.
You drink with friends and call it a symposium. You all have a problem with alcohol.
You tell yourself you’ll do better this week. You skip class Monday morning.
People keep withdrawing. What strength do they have that you don’t? What do they see on the other side?
“Any couple that gets together before Thanksgiving doesn’t make it long,” they say, threateningly.
You draw a line. You erase it. You draw a line. You erase it. You draw a line.
Hearing the voices in the stairwell, you peek in. Three hunched figures stand in the dark. One peers at you curiously.
There is no sound. You return to the warm light of the hallway.
There was a person-sized bloodstain on the ground. They redid the carpet.
Buckets sit on the steps in case the rain comes. The rain always comes.
You don’t remember the last time you cried. You touch your cheeks. They are wet. Was it the rain?
You sleep eight hours a night. You take a nap in the afternoon. You are exhausted.
You unlock the door and turn on the light, calling out a polite hello to whatever shifts in the back corner of the room.
You always make sure to say goodbye, too, so that it knows not to follow you home.
You are alone in a building. You hear someone sniffing. You always hear someone sniffing.
You look down and see blood on your paper. How does that keep happening?
The bells ring on the 15, the 30, the 45, and the hour. Ther ring 10 minutes before class, when it starts, and when it ends.
There are always bells ringing. You are unable to ignore the passage of time. The bell tolls.
Someone takes your hand. You realize this is the first time someone has touched you in
months. You begin to cry.
You trip on a brick. You trip on a brick. You trip on a brick. You trip on a brick. You trip on a brick. You trip on a brick.
You trip on a brick. You trip on a brick. You trip on a brick. You trip on a brick. You trip on a brick. You trip on a brick.
You trip on
16 | Anonymous
�You compliment someone. ‘Thanks, it's not mine!’ Nobody seems to own anything around here.
You write only with found writing utensils. You don’t worry when you lose one because you know another will be coming your way soon.
There’s hardwood flooring under this thick blue carpet and decades-old linoleum. You start to claw at the floor with
your fingernails. Your RA approaches. “Are you alright, my dude?”
The lights flicker in the wind. An eclipse occurs overhead. You are huddled with your classmates under borrowed blankets in ten-degree weather. You can’t feel your ankles or your nose so you tilt your head back further to see the red glow
of all of the sunsets on Earth on the surface of the moon. At least it isn’t pain.
This Monday night seminar has gone on for hours. You put your chin in your hand and blink.
You are sitting in Lecture.
You raise one eyebrow. You raise the other. Your eyebrows have escaped into your hairline.
How did you do that?
You google “how to gently bring up occult ritual to your friend group”. You sigh. They don’t even believe in ghosts.
“Have you heard of Genji?” You smile and nod. All you do is nod and smile. You don’t know anything or anyone but
Odysseus.
The quietest person in seminar speaks. Everyone collectively shifts in their chairs, drowning out all other sound. Everyone moves on.
‘Be careful. He has a Title IX.’
The food is rotting. Go get it.
It is April. You ask for someone’s last name.
You miss home. You think of the last time you visited.
You miss who you once were.
“Why?” you ask; a child again.
Seminar is over. One of them has still not yet returned.
You know not to think about it too much or else you will
be the next empty seat.
They say that The Program makes you a better conversationalist. You stutter and blush. The
Program has failed you. Or have you failed The Program?
Luke Cartrite | 17
�18 | Gabriela Sanchez
springtime hustle
walnut ink on paper
�Obituary For a Tutor
He spent his whole life reading books,
the kind containing truths ne’er done,
and teaching students how to look
for questions. Side-by-side they run.
He showed us life goes good that way.
But late he lost internal text,
not even his Spinoza stayed
to introduce him to what’s next
of things provided reason for.
He kept up outwardly himself,
still copied pages, followed score
of conversation, losing health,
but not his affability.
Too awful fitting, lacking hard
the answers, soft in brain to be.
So ended mind before the heart.
Sure death’s not proud of his conquest-the city was abandoned first
and slowly left to burn, detest
of body hitched no more to nurse.
I lost my way to funeral site.
I heard it lasted long past noon,
as rabbi talked about his light
of learning . . . hope . . . th’all-keeping tune.
I wonder if we get it back,
not what death takes, but life can’t keep.
I wonder if death sides with Jack
and Jill crowned, ‘gainst the crack runs deep.
I wonder if Montaigne is right:
that we do what he did to move,
to exercise our mental sight,
that getting lost is to improve
the short way, bare, and late to class.
I should have writ his last address,
like answers finely versed, to pass
the time that’s left me with the best.
Louis Petrich | 19
�Lines
Coarse palms infused with lines
All of them crossing each other’s paths,
We were told those lines can speak
And if this is true
Those coarse palms tell a story
Of hills climbed and long summer days
In the field.
My father’s palms are softer
They tell different stories
Of rough days in the field
Holding metallic objects.
Those Palms are recognizable to me.
Yet he says,
They are not the same palms he used to have
They have morphed into something else
So now the lines do not tell the stories of
clutching the dirt
Instead they tell stories of caressing the soil.
Winter has left my palms rougher than they
were,
I cannot feel certain textures
But they still tell their own stories
Neither of clutching nor caressing the soil
But of faraway lands.
20 | Ayushma Thapa
�Adam Hurwitz | 21
�22 | Sofe Cote
�| 23
�24 | Julia Cooper
�Grace Villmow | 25
�Ode to Strange
Untitled
and Delicate Men
This is an ode to strange and delicate men,
men sincerely deeming sights and moments
lovely; with cambering brows, with relish
gleaming from between their lashes.
Readily bewildered, the delicate man
treats truth like charity; he seeks what
lurks behind predictions but puts no
stock in prophecy. His charitable truth
eludes,
ducks behind widthy oaks and willows,
clasps palm over chuckle-packed
mouth; she hides because the seeker
hunts, but for him, she’s no peddler of
delusions.
This is an ode to strange and delicate men,
housing rampant hearts in unpuffed chests;
men for whom reverie inevitably comes,
whose time enraptured spent is time
embraced.
26 | R.M. Goad
Freely enthralled, the strange man in love
beholds; he concludes his beauty’s intrigue
quite detectable by every rod and cone; he
detests the yellow tape of esoterica.
His beauty sings, and all ears
scramble for vicinity; his beauty
laughs, and mirth swarms under
every sternum.
And here he has no instinct to brandish
corks and trunks, his rampant heart
untempted by memento.
�Ives Williams | 27
�Golden Hour
Here our golden hours last only minutes,
and we all take the time to bathe in it.
The beauty before us, our eyes shut tight,
since senses are idle to see the light.
At the end the gold sinks into our skin,
a confusion of clarity sets in,
and fiction gives birth to our convictions.
28 |
Amalie Christensen
Dohyun Song
�Nicholas Thorp | 29
�Holy Iron
30 | Tianqi (Simon) Gao
�72
Having time in dark, quiet
places warm with peace,
having warmth in thoughts, pliant
minutes pass that gladly cease
strife and trouble, troubling on
I warm turn to me
lonesome guest in paradise
of trouble lacking me:
"Me, have we lacking trouble
stumbled blessedly
upon our rest, here to stay
us and happily?"
Here in me and all about
the gentle staying shade,
I trouble me with answer, not
to trouble but to rest, lay:
"I, happy we remain the
'lotted time we feel the sameand troubles not the troubleless
the times troubled we regress
to thinking here, lack of strifefor here and then our moving life
can move, trouble back again
if peace be our trouble's end;
endevor us (or stay in being)
then to this the peace we're seeing
by peace's rest, the struggles stop,
so our thoughts fight not
to know strife, but know rest,
And by these know peace best."
I, my heart beated these
and churned mind churning pleas
to keep close calming words,
I listened and I gladly heard
what I and trouble said, hoping
now and then heart growing
for such a council in quiet.
Tatum | 31
�Ancient Curse
The archeologist stood before the monument to Death. They had spent their entire life studying
the Plastic Age Collapse, which had become as mysterious as that of the bronze age.
The ancients had abandoned writing by the time the plague came. They burned many of
their cities to ash, in riots. Pestilence and famine had left them deranged. They waged wars over
the remaining food. Although, many of the cities had maintained civility; now, they remained,
monuments to a former greatness, filled with bodily remains. The doctors of the Plastic Age
were ineffective. Lacking proper medicine, they poisoned their patients in the hope the sickness
would die before the patient.
The Ancients abandoned their religious practices. Their churches and temples were
replaced with bunkers to hide from the Angel, who they believed could shed a single tear on a
city and turn it to dust.
The archeologist had discovered the first temple of the Angel. On its walls was inscribed
a warning to all who entered, of a great illness. However, the archeologist knew better than to
lend the primitive Ancients credence. The substance they thought caused this illness must have
been nothing more than a trick to scare thieves. This substance they called plutonium.
32 | Liam Marshall-Butler
�the
Pictured are roughly 10000 cancer cells, split evenly into two spheroids. A spheroid is a tightly compacted grouping of cells,
formed in the case by spinning cells in a centrifuge. These spheroids were then injected into collagen, and allowed to invade
their surroundings 3 dimensionally. This mimics a metastatic tumor spreading. The above picture was take 72 hours after the
spheroids were introduced to the collagen.
The image was captured with a laser scanning confocal microscope. The cells are labeled with fluorescent proteins that release
light when struck by a laser. The released light is of a different wavelength, which allows the emitted light to be filtered from
the original laser light. The color indicates where the cells are in the cell cycle. This specific protocol is called FUCCI. Green
cells are S, G2, or M phase, while the red cells are in G1. For a brief period between G1 and S, cells will appear yellow.
Lasers of differing wavelength are needed to excite each type of protein (2in this case). In addition, images are taken at any
different heights, because of the incredibly short focus length of the lasers. In total, 15 different heights were imaged, each 10
m above the last. Each height, or slice, must be imaged with both lasers, as well as ambient light (omitted), for a total of 45
images over the course of 10 minutes, all to form the single image above, which is unusable for research because the spheroids
were erroneously placed in the same dish, and have interacted.
Zac Cohen | 33
�dead
34 | Enkh-Od Batzorig
�What will I do
when love has left me?
Will I remain the same
unchanged and bright?
Will I fall and shimmer
fractured and unpraying?
dandelion
What will I do
when life has vanished?
when in my stomach a fire grows
And burns me whole from the inside out?
Will I cease to breathe
when the cold water drowns me?
Will I cease to touch
when my skin crumbles, ashen and grey?
Will you refuse to love me
when Babylon has visited my tongue?
Will you arrest your stare
when the moon is no longer behind my eyes?
I don’t believe the earth will stay the same
I have no faith in the current of the stars
The red will not bleed
when I cut the sky open
Isolation will not submerge
under the raging crest of the open ocean
And I do not believe that shadows will stay hidden
Or that scars will remain unopened
All must run wild
just as the eight year old in a dandelion field
lopes through the milky bleeding sea of flowers
Grace Calk | 35
�36 | Ben Haas
�Droplets
When imagining the mind, I see thoughts that cascade like water does, one leading to the next, to
the next, to the next, until they collide and form oceans from pools. And I suppose the mind functions rather like all that water does, with its expansiveness and storms and waves. Both have cycles.
Saltwater droplets rise as one, then fall as one, then combine as one, crashing deep into unspoken
depths of the seafloor as naught but the gentlest of energy. We recede into our minds with a similar
tentativeness, unearthing old memories again. At the surface, we remember—and it feels like the
cresting of waves.
But I am getting ahead of myself. I am no oceanographer nor a psychologist; the motions of our
earth and moon and seas are a mystery to me. But I have studied sediments and seen how they fall,
read books on time and light and the dance of the heavens and the ground. Our minds are filled
with energy, yes? Zaps! and collisions of information gathered from whatever we see or touch or
hear. Those connections cross space and time like wormholes do, losing the "here and now" insisting
on occupying some imagined "could they be––?" Energy is the force which makes shells and bones
and rocks crumble into one: a sediment made of muck, that watery ooze which animals then eat,
and die in, and live in, and mate in. Everything becomes something else, eventually, and everything
becomes something new. Like the sea, this cycle lives within us. It is a life-bringing brew. And as we
wonder about the universe, this too we seek to understand.
Theo Martin | 37
�Being Beheld
38 | Mark Wittmer
�Karlena Haase | 39
�Fool's Day
The flowers are the heralds of Spring,
Trumpeting daffodils and trilling tulips,
Push forth from the dark dirt and call out in color
to be ready— to prepare—
The trees are waking from their long sentential.
If you stand still on the stone, the wind will whisper weightless words
For you— only you—
and the birds— and the foxes— and the squirrels— and the beetles—
to hear.
The clouds rush back forth across the sky scrubbing the rusted iron blue of winter from
the stars.
The pale young sun casts commands upon each and every green blade, unsheathing
arms freshly sharpened.
Young blossoms look out shyly as buds line branches in neat rows,
anticipating the charge.
The rolling green hills of Summer will soon be conquered—
Hark, for the kingdom of God is among us!
40 | Sera Johnson
40 |
�Mackenzie Daffner | 41
�42 | Keaton Jahn
�Sheba Delaney | 43
�TheUntitled
Beginning
Cars stand still on a bridge rushing by them.
At 5:15 footsteps were silenced by the wind and,
Disoriented by a cacophony of honks,
The river down below moved in the opposite direction
Away from the frost of the winter air vainly
Inflicting itself upon the skin of the water,
And holding frozen streams of thought, which
The sun meekly acknowledged.
But the frost slips away from its grasp
As the river slips too...
As Disquietude maps onto itself,
The wind changed course midway
And the sun disappeared behind the horizon.
A story yanked the one thinking
Back to a Night
When rivers, feet, cars and wind
Effaced the beginning into a series of accidents.
44 | Aisha Shahbaz
The sun rose around a different hemisphere,
Molding gold on concave waves
On days that burn brightly when the solstice
Swings by, and similarly, when the equinox
Follows closely behind.
And it always breaches through the mist that hides it.
Lingering on long,
The golden sands of this desert
Escape the time that attempts to confine it–
An eternal beauty which the Atlantic envies and admires
In its attempts to meet it,
While the sand seas undulate on the surface of the Namib.
A story yanked the one thinking
Back to a Day
When sun, oceans, seasons and deserts
Rescued the beginning from a series of accidents.
��Editors-in-Chief
Enkh-Od Batzorig
Sofe Cote
Patrick Ensslin
Adam Schulman
Editors
Dorothy Bowerfind
Jean Hogan
Dahye Kim
Gabriela Sanchez
Anna Seban
Front Cover
Green Multiverse Seascape by Adam Hurwitz
Energeia is the literary and art publication
of St. John’s College, Annapolis.
St. John’s College
60 College Ave.
Annapolis, Maryland 21401
energeiasjc.com
Submit to energeia@sjc.edu
��
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Text
�Amy Porter
1
Invitation, We Are Togehter
2
Home, The Hollow Dark
3
Eye Contact, 2am Bleakness
4
Me and the Bugs
Anonymous
5
Untitled
Louis Petrich
6
Yanked, Over Here, Over There
Natalie Walker
7
Untitled
Louis Petrich
8
To Those Commencing Young
Ellie Laabs
8
a slight embrace of time
Lysithia Page
9
Ode to the Stroll
Elizabeth Dowdy
Raphael Rose 11
Heron on the Dock
Daryl Locke 12
Can you see me?/ Deep in the Red Sea
13
Self Portrait 2020, The Unnameable’s
Sera Johnson 14
Bedford
Samuel Berrettini 15
An End
16
Sofe Cote 17
Seal Attacked by Polar Bears
restless
Raphael Rose 18
Red Light Sunset
Eric Baker 19
The Dry Cleaner
20
Han XVII: Back Home in Isolation
�Zeinep Kyzy
20
Untitled
Jay Tram
21
Undersell
Clare Collins
21
Untitled
Avery Laur
22
trapped
John Verdi
23
The End Is Nigh
�Editor’s note
This fall we have endured the stagnant and fought against a common enemy. The enemy
is not a body, but is microscopic — almost non-physical. It is an enemy we can unite against in
isolation. We have stood in a tableau, we have seen each other framed in vignettes. Temporality has
descended to the forefront of general consciousness. The collective sentiment reflects variations of
confusion and despair. Finally, we can openly share our anxiety, our solitude. This sharing liberates
and we present our tools of liberation. As we retreat, we lose touch; we could easily forget about the
world beyond the confines of our four walls. We sometimes find comfort in our undisturbed solitude.
Yet, we unite in a far more profound way as we share the experience of the present time in this undefined space. Energeia hopes to be that space as we push forward to new grounds. Our long-discussed
experimental issue has come to realization under the theme “Isolation”. With this issue, we hope to
give voice to our collective consciousness, and find comfort and connection in our shared loneliness.
We would like to thank all our members of Energeia for their hard work and the undying creative
spirit that holds us together.
�Invitation
Welcome, welcome to my mind.
Don’t be afraid, come in!
They only attack if I’m alone.
Come in! Come in!
I’ve put my monsters in cages,
And labeled them nicely for you.
We Are Together
We are together in being alone.
We are together in loving the lonely.
(I hear the blunt taps of water on leaves.
I feel, in the quiet, a peace which comes in
An unobserved expansion of my old catacombs,
For once unfolding, stretched wide without pain.)
We are together when company’s not a cage,
And the silent distance brings us closer
To where presence is not perspective,
And nearness not a threat.
Amy Porter
1
�Home
I have kept your hearthfire in a jar
On my cold and barren mantelpiece.
It has lit and warmed the room, while I struggle
With damp matches and clumsy fingers.
If I stop and wrap my hands around this kind, kind gift,
I hear your voice, your home, and promise still to live.
The Hollow Dark
At midnight, here, I find myself
To wander after long-lost stars;
For any small guide lights my way
‘Tween twisting thoughts of time and me,
Reflection of the hollow dark.
2
Amy Porter
�
Eye Contact,
2am Bleakness
Elizabeth Dowdy
3
�Me and the Bugs
I like to sit outside in the summer and pretend that I am sitting there with someone
and as the sun sets and it gets darker
I watch the sky change,
listening to the bugs come out of hiding.
I like to imagine the feeling of an arm on my back or lips on my lips.
It’s hot outside already, but I welcome the extra heat.
I like to think that I wouldn’t get so many mosquito bites,
because someone would be there to share them with me.
I like to realize how the darkness wouldn’t scare me as much if I wasn’t alone,
how the bugs wouldn’t be my only company,
how comfort in the dark would be good,
how a companion in the light would be too.
But here I am, another summer passing and nearing its end, sitting outside.
I’m wearing a dress and my hair is wavy, everything is in place for my fantasy,
except I am alone.
4
Elizabeth Dowdy
�Anonymous
5
�Yanked, Over Here, Over There
(After William James, George Cohan, and a Cypriot Crier)
Feeling conscripted?
Under authority?
Whose--all together now--is this?-knock the childishness out of you
give you standings to weigh proud of
more than college privilege gone nostalgia trip
this pan of nature mostly pawns off you-so wipe that whining, get to work
show your grit, do your bit
and tell your sweetheart not to pine
keep stead your faces shined on screen
for me to see youth all the time on tap—
no blacking out for beers or naps—
I know your tricks and counterfeits!
Maggots! take one for the old home team-whoe’er they are that would count more-you’re the cream of isolation corps
who save, of country, burning poor,
last beds for those breath-ridden toward,
you heard them say but one’s too dear,
so brave full hospitality--to fear!
Until it’s over here and over there
don’t think of norming back ‘till all our care
has overcome the rum-tum drummed beware!
But yet the pity of it, how it goes!
A piteous pearl unsaved—O sweet ago!
See sky, how’t caves! See how we make behave!
6
Louis Petrich
�Natalie Walker
7
�To Those Commencing Young
When first rehearsed, this character
of evil worked so strong the actors,
our venturing story lurched and heeled
like dog-
then dervish, tranced and keeled
by curving skirting caving fears—
their center spread--sky disappeared . . .
Here let us not mistake the signs,
You handed me your plate to stir:
taste-tested dust—e’en this it dures-all questions faced all readiness
as house lights invite black.
Bereft,
but staged for life, you feed my want
of sun to break the chains and burn.
Warm freckles—come! Chaste moon--return!
for time would modesty confine
Like this, to tan well always went.
good tangling threesome—worth a try.
to tongues in proof, so earn kiss meant
this to, and efforts honest kind--
All bulge from teeming information.
It muscles darkness—fashions creeds
to falter springs of laughter free.
Disaster’s peelings, caffeine stares
addict to disaffection’s bit
love’s horsing jawbones, chafing lips
of fasting shades that long to sip
past fleshed out masking asking holes,
untimely ripped for doctored roles,
disbanded Adams, Eves dispatched-gone!—
save for face that gyps and laps
in vacuumed webs.
We must rematch.
Remember would that friendship can.
8
Louis Petrich
Like this--up late to keep bent true
for great--none better knows than you.
�
Ode to the Stroll
When I am weary of the world,
I walk about my town,
And try to notice hidden things,
The splendor all around.
Here are buried memories,
Beneath the bricks and stones,
The stories that have given rise
To lullabies and bones.
Marvel at the dignity
The redwood tree commands,
A beacon from the world before,
Enduring Fortune’s plans.
Note weeds that punch the sidewalk cracks
And force their spindles through
With will to live and taste the air,
Charisma fair and true.
A man bemasked with downcast eyes
Trails back behind his hound;
I wonder who is walking whom,
And where the pair is bound.
Presently my thoughts contortThe future gapes its maw;
Malevolence below our feet
From sleep has come to thaw.
Lysithia Page
9
�Alone together shall we trudge,
All wandering fallow land;
Though cataclysm comes to call,
I cannot hold your hand.
Ruin has a bitter taste,
How shall we wash it down?
What does it take to build an arc,
Or will we simply drown?
I take these thoughts and smother them,
I scrape my mind of fear;
In several months, the ball will drop,
And end this lonesome year.
To break the spell of loneliness,
I stroll, behold, and muse;
While breathing in the sweet salt air,
I pay the Bay my dues.
Old-sea swells tell a secret,
With words that hush and lull,
That all returns unto its depths
In love unshakeable.
All buildings were but dreams before,
So was this well-worn street.
Then someone blessed them into life,
As when old friends first meet.
10
�A child picks a dandelion,
Blows its tufts away.
I wonder what the child wished,
And hope her dreams will stay.
Indeed I dream of dancing
On nights that fizz with joy;
Though isolation stings my soul,
This song no fears destroy.
When I can’t remember who I am,
And living seems a chore,
I gather all my spirits up
And step outside the door.
11
11
�Can you see me?/ Deep in the Red Sea
12
Daryl Locke
�Self Portrait 2020
The Unnameable’s
Objection toward color is just one’s own insecurity. Insecurity because of color is just
one’s own folly. Folly due to another’s exquisiteness is an unnameable objection.
13
�Bedford
14
Sera Johnson
�An End
Indigo sunset. Salt smell, dull wave hum
in a night that hides the jungle and reveals stars.
I am awake. I think about the sweetness of the fruit that used to fall from trees–
dripping, bursting, overripe. Then.
Now: brown mush underfoot. Worm food.
I stand up. I look down the empty beach. Just past a breeze
stands a stone wall that stretches into the jungle and dismantles
itself in ivy and moss. Something cries
far off beneath the shadow of the wet trees. I follow.
The air is clinging close under the palms; the water
wants to enter my nose and mouth and clog them. Clouds cover the sky. Mud covers the ground.
I peel something off in hushed darkness, becoming more naked–
sweet, fresh, fat. Once.
Now: bony. Rancid with spit and sweat and ugly dreams.
Somewhere shrouded, the moon sets. I breathe. I sit down. Rot
loves me.
Blind patches of ooze stretch out moldy fingers toward my
lips and eyes. I close. Brown mush underfoot. Worm food.
Samuel Berrettini
15
�Seal Attacked by Polar Bears
16
Samuel Berrettini
�restless
Sofe Cote
17
�Red Light Sunset
18
Raphael Rose
�
The Dry Cleaner
My mother and I walk home.
It is dark out.
Wind is cool and soft.
Lampposts dirty and yellow.
The street is empty and clear,
Except for outside
The Korean dry cleaners.
Mr. Yi is clutching his wrist.
He does not wince.
Red stain down tan trousers.
Pool of blood
At his feet.
My mother asks
If he is okay.
He replies he was just
Trying to bring down the gate.
My mother asks if there is an ambulance coming.
He nods. He says yes. He smiles.
We walk on.
I look back.
He stands there alone.
I am nervous.
We shut the door to the building.
Muffled sirens.
Late evening
Blood drip
Clenched wrist
Gentle breeze
On the corner
Bleeding calmly
We greet the cleaner
He nods
Pants soaked red
As blood pools
Distant sirens
A steady heart
Eric Baker
19
�Han XVII: Back Home in Isolation
Oma paces,
Then turns on the stove to light her Dunhill.
She’s been up all night smoking, too.
20
Zeinep Kyzy
�Undersell
Lazy sun
UnderSelling new religion
Of self love
Sets upon me, my nose
Fragility
Is telling the truth
Of the unheard, aspired
Overseen:
In fragile places lies floating and captivating
Sterilized molecules of beauty and being
In the haze of darkening
I see my light from below
In the haze gettin’ lost
I see my heart beautified.
Jay Tram
Clare Collins
21
�
i feel trapped.
dispel the liquid on my tongue
and let it leave the slight
tingle on my lips,
like frostbite on the lungs.
a revolving door heart,
never stopping, always
letting in new and letting out
old, wanting to know
even a glimpse of their souls.
i tear at the bags
underneath my eyes,
set upon my fragile
frame from sleepless
dreaming and nightmarish
evenings; they’re all spent
inside my mind.
maybe if i stretch the bags
down far enough i can
wrap them around myself
and cocoon for a thousand
winter solcistices.
i feel trapped.
dispel my tongue on the liquid
like frostbite on the lips,
and let my lungs feel the
slight tingle it leaves.
22
Avery Laur
trapped
�The End Is Nigh
John Verdi
23
��Co-Editors
Assistant Editors
Cover Illustrations
Sophia Cote
Adam Schulman
Grace Calk
Elias Christian
Lysithia Page
Zeinep Kyzy
Special thanks to Enkh-Od Batzorig
Energeia
Energeia is the Literary and Art Publication of St. John’s College, Annapolis...
...
St. John’s College
60 College Ave.
Annapolis, Maryland 21401
�Fall 2020
�
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Text
Energeia
Spring 2018
�Letter from the editors
�Sasha Grand
1 Name
Stephanie Liu
Mary Quinn
Sofe Cote
Jaeyon Jo
Anonymous
Ree Jones
Annie Brong
Rachel Goad
Chance Hogan
Anna Seban
Sera Johnson
update
Logan Zimmerman
2 Untitled
Ben Haas
Cora Clark
Isabella Williams
3
Confused-yet-Open Book
4
The Dunes
6 Stuart
7 Untitled
8 Untitled
9 Haunted
10
Plucked Petals
12 Untitled
13
lessons in hospitality
14
Blowjob Pantoum
15
No Name
16 Untitled
17 Franklin
Seeks Understanding Re
ader
18
To Be Determined
19 Untitled
Anonymous
21
the moon is blinking
Mary Turner
22
Tsornin Proposition
Sophia Kiang
24 Untitled
Sam Berrettini
Amalie Christensen
25
13 failed drafts of an apology
26 Universal
Margaret O’Hare
27 Flower
Weiouqing Chen
28 Untitled
Arthur Kohn
29
Elemental Genesis
Kidus Kebede
30
01.01.18 2.45
Gabriela Sanchez
31
Between the Blue
Yaxuan Tang
Jonah Piscetelli
32 Untitled
33
For Fall
�Name
my name guides my body.
my shins quiver at the
cascade of syllables lovingly
spoken. They tear up become slick,
and attempt to hide
from the welts of falsehoods cuffed
around their trotting ankles.
my name was spoken
(as a lullaby) when my eyes first
twitched.
They whispered it and
left an empty nest.
The twigs were crooked, the leaves burdened
with mud - river willow tried to fix
the mess, but fell out of fashion.
Silk was used instead,
but nothing geometric could be achieved. Nests
are messy in nature.
I see a name whose skin
has blushed waiting in the river too long it could not pan out an identity of gold nor silt.
I see ankles chained to bloodhounds, dragging
my name away from what I intended.
They sniff out the thoughts of strangers instead of my own.
Sasha Grand
|1
�Untitled
Confused-yet-Open Book Seeks Understanding Reader
“I am not what the kids call
Inscrutable
If easily read people wear their hearts on their sleeves, mine is hovering ten feet from me, flashing neon red
It’s not like I’m trying to hide it I just
Can’t say it out loud
What if it’s weird? What if it’s wrong?
I’ve always had a hard time telling between romance and friendship
Even intimacy doesn’t seem to shift
I’ve slept with people I didn’t love and love people I haven’t slept with
Not that romance has to be sexual, but that’s not really the point right now
The point is that I like you but (nearly) every inch of me is (pretty) sure that everyone else but me can tell the
difference
Long story short, I value you as a person and as a friend
But also you’re very cute
Help”
2|
Stephanie Liu
Ben Haas
|3
�The Dunes
On any day like this the old curtain opens
And out of my memory I come walking,
As I did once, down
The dune-lined deserted highways of Barnstable
That all lead to the beach
Or nowhere through iridescent swamps.
I’d never felt so alone
For the birds there knew how to bury themselves
And wait out the hot sun till the evening,
chilly with sea murmurs
To shadow the stars with their wings.
I could hear the gas pumps crooning from a station
That stuck out of the sand like a silver photograph.
I’d never known so well my shoes.
There were paths that straight from the concrete
Disappeared into the sand and purple shrubs.
They made me tired with their ancientness,
their slow life in grass roots and salt consumption,
Ensnared with blueberries, coins of sunlight tumbling in
And cool droplets of everlasting dew
Of rain from weeks ago, unevaporated.
I recall no sign of anyone, no footprints nor car.
It was gray and worn and diminutive, banked
Halfway into the slope by blown sand
That reached the window box of shriveled roses.
A single window with four panes and white cotton curtains.
And its windowsill, reverent in its arm of sunlight,
The way all windowsills are reverent.
Holding a few solitary objects, silver bits, thimbles or coins,
Leaves in half states of dryness. This ethereal vision
Of what I felt was one person’s secretive importance,
Here in huge expanse of lonely weariness, in the golden weather
Became what I become when I’m in a room of vacancy.
Void, emptiness, and I fill it with ruby ragged grass.
I see my body like a mirage where the air wavered,
Like the tracks dragonflies’ wings leave behind, too quick to see.
On a shelf, something mysterious matters. Something elusive,
Imaginative, becomes true. Collecting the gentle dust.
This movelessness what my whole life is.
I stood, a marble person when I saw the ocean, finally, like a wet
tongue, and felt nothing.
This was the kind of wildness
Where I knew the lost things went,
bottle caps and sunhats, kite string, swallow feathers.
And somewhere there, where the road blurred in memory,
Sat a cabin halfway up the incline to the sea,
Throttled in sage and glossy leaves.
4|
Cora Clark
|5
�Stuart
Untitled
It is too early
For your sleepy eyes to open.
You are not mine
Though I wanted you to be.
Your little hands
Are too small for the day ahead.
You are not mine
Yet, I cannot fathom being apart from you.
We walk together
To the end of the gravel drive.
You are not mine
But in moments like these you belong to nobody.
I am too scared
To let go of your little hand.
You are not mine
Nevertheless, I love you all the same.
The great horned owl calls
Reminding me it’s far too early,
Your hands are far too little,
And you are not mine.
In his holler I find solace
For your grace,
Like the omniscient raptor’s,
Cannot be claimed by simple souls like mine.
6|
Mary Quinn
Sofe Cote
|7
�Untitled
Haunted
Lying still, I watch the clock dwindling down,
Marking that time for rest that never comes;
Coalescing αρχή and terminus into one.
The moon’s soft light supplanted by the sun,
And six o’clock startles me–
I had dreamt of faraway rooms and lamps,
Holding their memory:
Itself bereft of me.
That self I thought – no – imagined knew,
Now becomes one form: You.
Disrobing pride, Love seeks the other:
Striving, searching, converging to one.
For through love, does not the other’s
Kiss explode one’s heart into
A moment stretched past eternity?
I am at Time’s slow mercy.
Do I dwell in Limbo
Or Paradise or Hell? I do not know.
Or–do the different not differ,
And difference entangles with same
Now that sweet torment yokes me to life,
Allowing no reprieve in a heart so aflame?
As a god from Olympus looks down on Sisyphus,
His fashioned pawn,
You orchestrated me in your clever games.
Yet, with my soul you did abscond,
And left with all the Rights: wronged.
8|
Jaeyon Jo
Anonymous
|9
�Plucked Petals
i.
you love her.
her soft body,
the way her skin smells
like cocoa and mango,
the way her hair curls
along with the corners of her mouth,
the way her lips melt upwards
when she graces you with a smile.
she demands eye contact
and forces you to put your phone down.
she bathes in your attentionstripping herself naked,
before hiding behind your eyelids.
she peeks out from behind velvet eyelashes,
marvelling at the masterpiece
she knows that she could be beautiful
(if only she had another set of eyes.)
ii.
you love her not.
she is meltdown after meltdown after meltdown,
and you are forced to make space in your bed
not just for her,
but for every mistake she has safety pinned to her pajamas
you wish she’d clean up her mess.
(she wishes you’d clean up yours.)
v.
you love her.
she is beautiful,
she is sexy,
and sometimes she walks like she believes it.
she wears an all-black outfit like a second skin,
and puts your hands on her body while stealing a kissshe’ll steal kisses often if she’s tall enough.
(she’ll wear heels often so she’s tall enough)
she manages those stilts
like a harlequin drunk on confidence.
iii.
you love her.
she is yours.
your camera roll exists for her like a shrineeach smile she captured, saved, and sent to you,
each time she loved herself enough to say,
“for god’s sake.
look at me.”
iv.
you love her not.
10 |
vi.
you love her not.
she cannot hold her liquor.
she cries sometimes,
and you know all too well that once she begins to cry,
she cannot bring herself to stop.
she just cries and cries and cries and creates monsoons
that threaten to wash everything away.
You stand like a sand castle,
You close your hermit eyes,
and wait for the silence.
vii.
you love her.
no one else knows how to quiet the noise in your head,
or sing lullabies into the ether.
she wraps herself around you from behind youyou didn’t like being the small spoon until you met her.
she is warm, like sunbeams of salvation.
you thaw under her touch.
viii.
you love her not.
she never learned how to keep her hands to herself.
she has a hard time grasping how much you have to hold,
how your hands have calloused and frozen around her,
how protecting her is a full-time job.
You count the spots on her butterfly wings multiple
times a day,
you check her for signs of self-destruction,
you are a gentle lepidopterist.
Always on guard, second guessing the way you touch her,
you caress her with bubble wrapped hands.
you are always on-call on the other side of her glasses.
all of you.
x.
you love her not.
she sees the stars in your eyes,
but she does not see how she drains you.
x.
you love her not.
she is a supernova of sadness,
but you can’t even wrap your mind around
gravity.
x.
you love her not.
but she loves you too much.
ix.
you love her.
she sees you-
Ree Jones | 11
�Untitled
lessons in hospitality
love does not abide decorum:
should you welcome her, she will not
reside in the guest room
she will not look for subtones,
she is not American courtesy
she will not muffle her laughter,
will not meeken her chews
she will sprawl over the tidy couch
of your reason, all spent limbs
and tousled hair
sweet relief, you think, in the stammer
of the screen door
her lithe contour being swallowed
by the sunset
your home is yours again,
but sweet inconsideration
sighed too soon—
when she leaves, it is only
a trip to the hardware store
12 | Annie Brong
Rachel Goad | 13
�Blowjob Pantoum
No Name
You took me into your bed
The silence remained undiminished
I took you into my head
Only one of us left when you finished
The silence remained undiminished
I went first and you came forth
Only one of us left when you finished
a joke about it pointing magnetic north
I went first and you came forth
I took you in and less in
A joke about it pointing magnetic north
For once I kept the mess in
I took you in and less in
Not that I needed someone to teach me
For once I kept the mess in
I elected, you impeached me
Not that I needed someone to teach me
You took me into your bed
I elected, you impeached me
I took you into my head
14 | Chance Hogan
Anna Seban | 15
�Untitled
Franklin
Franklin dipped the pad of his forefinger into his reflection; smooth circles wrinkled the
surface, pushing his nose into his eyebrows. The seamless rippling seemed to Franklin like
the motion of the Pasco wave machine in his lab. When will those circles reach the end of
their string, and rejoin the centre, he wondered. Eight moments of chilled silence answered
his query: there is no return.
Franklin considered all of the motions he’d caused that day. The bread in the toaster popped
down, and then back up. The faucet on, and off. The plate was lathered in perfect circular
patterns. The compost went into the garden, where it would one day grow ripe, red tomatoes
blooming in cycles of rain and sunshine. On his morning walk to the lake, Franklin knew he,
too, would have to return to the place from whence he’d departed (an idyllic yellow house
with white trim-- this thought, with the others, also rolled around Franklin’s head). Surely,
the rings in the water must also find balance? Or perhaps, he thought, they continue moving
forever-- until the water dries up completely with the return of the sun.
When his nose rested under his eyes once more, Franklin recalled his cottage, and its garden,
again. And his walk to the front door, where he would open the screen to find more of the
same. A wife with thin lips and hazelnut eyes, who, like Franklin, revolves around the yellow
house. She’d be knitting, he knew, behind the screen (today, a small set of green socks).
But what of a world where eyebrows are noses?
Precisely on that note, Franklin made a distinctly linear decision, and walked into the lake.
Sera Johnson
| 16
17 |
update
�To Be Determined
Untitled
Why compare the mirrored unknown
To the spoken civility, half-known pity,
Of knowing oneselfTo insipid gray?
You are violet, blood-red, quicksilverLicorice lips, dripping with ink
Of thoughts yet unsaid
You are breath before a cup
Of unpoured coffeeThe breadth of undiscovered land
Plaintive and presumptuous with
Unfulfilled action, ripening fruition
Unsatisfied, unceasing,
Undeterred, unfetteredYou are midnight on an altar
As the clocks scream goodnight,
Goodnight, goodnight....
18 | Isabella Williams
Logan Zimmerman | 19
�the moon is blinking
pure
perfect
i’ve never had
pure
perfect
before.
i clutch you and you moan
three
short
syllables
{into my ear}
and her name is
pure
perfect
{in my mind}
i wish i could be
everything or anything
that you need
but you sit beside me
and she sits beside you
and i am not worth
the trouble
and you see that in me
and the moon blinks
and you wink
and i sink into the hole
left behind by your
pure
perfect
picking
fingers.
20 |
Anonymous | 21
�Tsornin Proposition
If a hyperbola is constructed in a cone by a cutting plane which is parallel
to the axis of the cone, and an axial triangle is cut parallel to the cutting
plane of the hyperbola, then the axial triangle is equiangular to the triangle
formed by the asyptotes of they hyperbola and the line drawn tangent to
the section at the vertex.
For let there be a cone with vertex A and axis AK, with the circle on BC as
the base. Let it be cut by a plane through the axis creating an axial triangle
ABC. Let the cone be cut by another plane parallel to the axis so that
its intersection with the base is perpendicular to the diameter BC and it
will make section DFE so that when the diameter of the section, FG, is
extended it will meet the side of the axial triangle AC above the vertex at
point H. This section, DFE, is a hyperbola (I.12). Draw a line through the
vertex A, falling on the diameter BC which is parallel to the diameter FG. I
say it will be the axis AK, for the cutting plane of section DFE is parallel to
AK, so AK is parallel to FG. It goes through the vertex, and it falls on the
center of the circle, so it will lie on the diameter BC. Let straight line FL
be taken so that sq. KA : rec. BK,KC :: FH : FL, which is the contrivance
from I.12. Let the cone be cut by a plane parallel to the plane of the
hyperbola DFE through the axis, creating the axial triangle MAN. Draw a
line tangent to the section DFE at the vertex F in the plane DFE. Cut off
the tangent line on either side of the section PF and SF so that sq. PF = sq.
SF = 1/4 rec. HF,FL. Take the midpoint Q of the transverse side FH and
join QP and QS. They are the asymptotes of the hyperbola DFE (II.1).
4 sq. PF = rec. HF,FL (by construction)
Draw the straight line R such that R = 2PF
sq. R=4sq. PF
sq. R = rec. HF,FL
HF:R:: R:FL(EuclidVI.17)
HF : FL duplicate HF : R (Euclid V.def 9)
sq. KA : rec. BK,KC :: HF : FL
BK = KC = MK = NK
sq. KA:sq. MK:: HF:FL
sq. KA : sq. MK duplicate KA : MK (Euclid VIII.11)
and HF : FL duplicate HF : R
and sq. KA : sq. MK :: HF : FL
KA : MK :: HF : R
HF = 2QF
and R = 2PF
HF:R:: QF:PF
KA:MK:: QF:PF
AK HG and DE MN
MKA=DGH (Euclid XI.10)
DE PS and they are cut by HG DGH=PFQ
MKA=PFQ
andKA:MK:: QF:PF
Q PFQ is equiangular to Q MKA (Euclid VI.6)
and PQF=MAK and AMK=QPF
Similarly Q SFQ is equiangular to Q NKA
and SQF=NAK and QSF=ANK
PQF=MAK and SQF=NAK PQS=MAN
(Euclid C.N. 2) Q PQS is equiangular to Q MAN
I say that Q MAN is equiangular to Q PQS.
22 |
Mary Turner | 23
�Untitled
13 failed drafts of an apology
I didn’t know, and I’m sorry.
I didn’t know, but I would have fixed it if I had.
I didn’t know, and don’t we all make mistakes?
I didn’t know, but you could have told me.
I didn’t know, and I’ll be better now, I promise.
I didn’t know, but now I do.
I didn’t know, and I’m sorry.
I didn’t know, but that’s no excuse.
I didn’t know, and it’s still my fault.
I didn’t know, but in the end, that doesn’t matter.
And you know why.
Maybe I didn’t know why the distance was growing.
Maybe I didn’t know things were falling apart.
Maybe I didn’t know I was the problem.
But I should have.
24 | Sophia Kiang
Sam Berrettini | 25
�Universal
Flower
Enumerating lights long elapsed,
named it something of the past.
Extant no more, the glamor’s gone,
our endeavor to explain is lifelong.
irreligious iridescenceconsternated constellationsmacrocosmic malevolence-
Observing the enormous expansion,
our inclusion is the mission.
Disregard your omnipresencedesolate in the inhuman distance.
26 | Amalie Christensen
Margaret O’Hare | 27
�Untitled
Elemental Genesis
As a mathematician, as a Geometer, I am a God.
My word is the Word. My thoughts become Reality,
And I see them as they are, as Good.
I wonder what God’s Axioms were,
When He made Man, when he made me.
What things did He beg?
And to Whom?
Did He ask them of Himself ? As I do?
Making them clear and distinct in His mind?
He conceived of Darkness and Light,
Then begged that they were Good and Evil
Then defined his terms.
I’ve always thought Good was something
Outside God,
As the sphere is something
Outside Me.
More perfect,
Divine (er?)
Can such a thing be conceived?
What Proofs do you need?
What Axioms?
I have none.
And I have no God
But when I set my pen to paper,
And enunciate
The Truth
Weiouqing Chen
| 28
29 | Arthur Kohn
I
Am He.
Elements
My Genesis
And My Adam and Eve
More Perfect
They
Will never Fall,
Fail.
�01.01.18 2.45
Between the Blue
Sprinted into the world at the speed
of silence.
And still they followed, the hollow
figures that resided very firmly in the
depths of my bedroom mirror.
We lay together often.
30 | Kidus Kebede
Gabriela Sanchez | 31
�Untitled
For Fall
I want to say which fall I mean.
It’s not the maple-blushing fall,
The season that flings out a wash
Of bronzy on the atmosphere,
A row of geese-and-hearts-soar days.
It is not that, although I praise
The late tomatoes, pumpkins, squash,
Smeared apple pie for sunset, and
A candy-apple of a sun.
When I say fall is the best good
In me, let others understand
By which fall I have understood
Myself by standing under sky,
Either too cloudy or too clear:
Frost fall, thanksgiving fall, a dry
Wind-kicked November at the door,
The fall that tells me, singing, sore,
To jig, to leap, at last to crawl
Across a white and yellow green.
Fall-on-your-knees––Yes,
that’s the one.
32 | Yaxuan Tang
Jonah Piscetelli | 33
�Editors-in-Chief
Editors
Front Cover
Dorothea Bowerfind
Dahye Kim
Arthur Kohn
Anna Seban
Adam Schulman
Enkh-Od Batzorig
Devin Van Gorden
Mary Hommel
Table of Contents & Inside
Cover
Energeia is the literary and art publication
of St. John’s College, Annapolis.
St. John’s College
60 College Ave.
Annapolis, Maryland 21401
energeiasjc.com
Submit to energeia@sjc.edu
�
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Energeia
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St. John’s College
Annapolis, MD 21401
The St. John’s Review
THE
THE ST. JOHN’S REVIEW 61.1-2 DOUBLE ISSUE (FALL 2019-SPRING 2020)
Non-Profit Org.
U.S. Postage
PAID
Annapolis , MD
Permit No. 120
000 SJR 61.1-2 2019-20 Cover.qxp_Cover—Back 10/18/19 1:57 PM Page 1
St. John’s Review
The St. John’s Review is going online!
See the Editor’s Note for instructions to subscribers.
Volume 61, Numbers 1 and 2
Double Issue (Fall 2019-Spring 2020)
�The St. John’s Review
Volume 61.1-2 (Fall 2019-Spring 2020)
Double Issue
Editor
William Pastille
Editorial Board
Eva T. H. Brann
Frank Hunt
Joe Sachs
Robert B. Williamson
The St. John’s Review is published by the Office of the Dean,
St. John’s College, Annapolis: Panayiotis Kanelos, President; Joseph
Macfarland, Dean. All manuscripts are subject to blind review. Address correspondence to The St. John’s Review, St. John’s College,
60 College Avenue, Annapolis, MD 21401 or to Review@sjc.edu.
© 2019 St. John’s College. All rights reserved. Reproduction in
whole or in part without permission is prohibited.
ISSN 0277-4720
��Contents
Editor’s Note
The Future of The St. John’s Review
with Instructions for Current Subscribers...........................................v
Essays
Charlotte’s Web for Grownups..................................................1
Mera J. Flaumenhaft
More than Human: On Human Divinity in
Aristotle’s Nichomachean Ethics .................................................34
Jason Menzin
Constructing the World: The Kantian Origin of the Very Idea .........49
Raoni Padui
Please Note:
This is a special double issue containing both
numbers 1 and 2 of volume 61.
A separate number will not be published
in the spring of 2020.
���������������������������������������������������������������������������������
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<em>The St. John's Review</em><span> is published by the Office of the Dean, St. John's College. All manuscripts are subject to blind review. Address correspondence to </span><em>The St. John's Review</em><span>, St. John's College, 60 College Avenue, Annapolis, MD 21401 or via e-mail at </span><a class="obfuscated_link" href="mailto:review@sjc.edu"><span class="obfuscated_link_text">review@sjc.edu</span></a><span>.</span><br /><br /><em>The St. John's Review</em> exemplifies, encourages, and enhances the disciplined reflection that is nurtured by the St. John's Program. It does so both through the character most in common among its contributors — their familiarity with the Program and their respect for it — and through the style and content of their contributions. As it represents the St. John's Program, The St. John's Review espouses no philosophical, religious, or political doctrine beyond a dedication to liberal learning, and its readers may expect to find diversity of thought represented in its pages.<br /><br /><em>The St. John's Review</em> was first published in 1974. It merged with <em>The College </em>beginning with the July 1980 issue. From that date forward, the numbering of <em>The St. John's Review</em> continues that of <em>The College</em>. <br /><br />Click on <a title="The St. John's Review" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=13"><strong>Items in the The St. John's Review Collection</strong></a> to view and sort all items in the collection.
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thestjohnsreview
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84 pages
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The St. John's Review, Fall 2019-Spring 2020
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Volume 61, Numbers 1 and 2 of The St. John's Review. Published in Fall 2019-Spring 2020.
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Office of the Dean
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Annapolis, MD
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text
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Pastille, William Alfred, 1954-
Brann, Eva T. H.
Hunt, Frank
Sachs, Joe, 1946-
Williamson, Robert, 1934-
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SJC_PUB_StJReview_v60n1-2_2019-2020
St. John's Review
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ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE
Santa Fe, New Mexico
COMMUNITY EVENTS
APRIL 1995
A Public Conference on
THE CRISIS OF CITIZENSHIP IN
CONTEMPORARY AMERICAN LIFE .
Plenary address by }AMES
Q. WILSON
University of California, Los Angeles
and author of The Moral Sense
8 p.m. Friday, March 31 in the Great Hall
Conference: 8:30 a.m. - 5:30 p.m . Saturday, April 1
Panelists include:
SUZANNE GOLDSMITH, Director of the Community Service
Project at the American Alliance for Rights and Responsibilities
and author of A City Year
DANIEL KEMMIS, Mayor of Missoula, Montana and author of
Community and the Politics of Place
JOHN WALTERS, President of the New Citizenship Project,
Washington, D. C.
JOHN FUND, Wal/ Street Journal
MARC LANDY, Professor of Political Science, Boston College
STEVEN RATHGEB SMITH, Assistant Professor of Public Policy
and Political Science, Dulw University
WILSON CAREY MCWILLIAMS, Professor of Political Science,
Rutgers University
WILLIAM GALSTON, The White I louse
Admission to the plenary address is /ree . Limited seating for the entire
conference is available with a pre-registration fee of $10/person .
Please call (505) 984-6024 to register or for more information .
�Admission is free for a// lectures
MEMORIES OF PASSION:
EVAGRIUS AND CAVAFY
Bruce Venable
8 p.m. Friday, April 7 in the Great Hall
PANINI'S SANSKRIT GRAMMAR
Bruce Perry
4 p . m. Wednesday, April
19
in the Junior Common Room
ARISTOTLE AND ADAM SMITH ON JUSTICE:
COOPERATIO
BETWEEN THE ANCIENTS AND MODERNS?
Laurence Berns
St. John's College, Annapolis
8 p . m. Friday, April 28 in the Great Hall
ASPECTS OF PHILOSOPHY
Charles Bell
8 p.m. every Tues., April 4 - April 25 in the Junior Common Room
RE TAB LOS
Mike Rodriguez
Gallery Opening 4 - 5 p.m. Thurs., March 30 in the Fireside Lounge
Exhibit: March 27 - April 1
Director of Financial Aid at St. John's College, Michael Rodriguez
also is an acco1nplished artist. His retablos have been exhibited al Lhe
New Mexico State Fair where one of his pieces received honorable
mention, the St. John's College Art Gallery, Studio de Colores in Taos and at
the Martinez Hacienda Flory Canto Festival.
STUDENT ART EXHIBIT
Gallery Opening 5 - 7 p.m. Friday, April 7 in the Fireside Lounge
Show continues through April 28
GALLERY HOU RS: Friday 4:30-8:30 p.m. / Saturday 4-7 p . m. / Sunday
And by prior arrangement with Ginger Roherty at
984-6099.
The Art
Gallery is located on the second floor of the Peterson Student Center.
s
J
c
A
u
L
.9°'R ANCIS Y coTT ..o/bEY, author,
.._ ~ HMET g'RTEGUN ,
f
under, ATLA TIC RE
.913AY Z7AVE , editorial director, TIME,
N
M
ATIONAL
TIIEM
RDS
IN
~ EBECCA o//fEBE , OE ERAL SURGEON
J?'A CK
3"'H N , editor,
ffH ERESA :J!JACA . N
BU UERQ E TRTB NE
W MEXI
DISTRICT COURT JUDGE
I
1-5
�Films are shown in the Great Hall of Peterson Student Center.
Admission is $2 per feature or $3 for both. Refreshments are available, including freshly ground, freshly brewed coffee, popcorn with
real butter, cookies, natural sodas and herbal teas. The Film Society
is an independent organization run entirely by students.
For information or to receive a mailing of the films being shown,
please call the Film Society at 984-6158.
APRIL
8
7 p.m. THE LAST PICTURE SHOW
9:15 p.m. BLUE VELVET
APRIL 15
7 p.m. IT HAPPENED 0
APRIL
E NIGHT
22
9: 15
7 p.m. OUR DAILY BREAD
APRIL
9:15 p.m. STROSZEK
p.m. THE SEARCHERS
29
9: 15
7 p.m. HAIRSPRAY
p.m. SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER
4:30 - 6:30 p.m. Tuesday, April 4
COMMUNITY
SEMINAR
DAY
Followed by a reception in the Great I Iall
An afternoon of seminars for the Santa Fe community. Join
hundreds of friends and neighbors to read and discuss some of the
greatest literature, philosophy and music of all time. Admission is
/ree but seating is limited.
Los
Call 984-
104 for further details.
ANGELES DOCTORS' SYMPHONY
3 p.m. Sunday, April 2 in the Great Ilall
Evidence for the relation between music and medicine can be found as
far back as Grecian times. This relation will bring the Los Angeles
Doctors' Symphony Orchestra to Santa Fe for the first time. Its
members are primarily physicians, dentists and allied health
professionals. The concert
will
be conducted by Ivan Shulman, the
orchestra's music director, who is a surgeon and part-time Santa Fe resident.
Special appearance by St. John's tutor Peter Pesic. Admission is free.
DIETER
W
LFIIORST, CELLO A
D LANDO
YOUNG, PIANO
3 p.m. Sunday, April 9 in the Great Hall
Cellist Dieter Wulfhorst and pianist Landon Young will perform works by
Bach, Franck, Beethoven and Ginastera. Mr. Wulfhorst currently is assistant
professor of music at Fort Lewis College and principal cellist of the San Juan
Symphony
rchestra. Mr. Young is an award-winning musician who has per-
formed widely in Europe and the United Stales. Admission is /ree.
ST. }OH
's
LLEGE
H
RUS
8 p.m. Friday, April 21 in the Great IIall
�U. S. Postage
PAID
Non-Profit
Organization
Permit No. 231
Santa Fe, NM
ST. JOHN'S COILEGE
1160 Camino Cruz Blanca
Santa Fe, New Mexico 87501-4599
Address Correction Requested
.... St.
s
dohn~s
holds fast to the
111~·11ieval notion
. that all kno,vledge
is one ..• and that
a fl•uly edueated
l•~·rson k1u1,vs
a lot about a lot]
~~
L
·'•.111•ri1-c111 \\·a.~ · 111a;,lfa:1:i111• •
•Ja1111;1r~ · I !t!t:i
~
··-
., ___
~~•011;'11'~!<-~
Published eleven times each year by the
Public Relations Office .
Please call 984-6104 to be placed on the
mailing list.
1•• 1.1 ... 11.1 .. 111 •••• 1.. 11.1 •• 1.1 .... 11 ... 1.1.11 .. 1
�
Text
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paper
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4 pages
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Santa Fe Community Calendar, April 1995
Description
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Event calendar for the Santa Fe campus community, April 1995.
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St. John's College
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Santa Fe, NM
Date
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1995-04
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St. John's College owns the rights to this publication.
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text
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pdf
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English
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SF_Community_Calendar_1995-04
Calendar
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Text
ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE
Santa Fe, New Mexico
co
EVENTS
MAY A D JU E 1995
GALLERY OPENING
BARBARA OLINS ALPERT
Acrylic and Oils
Friday, May 5
7 p.m. in the Fireside Lounge
Exhibit continues through May 25
Gallery Hours:
Friday, 4:30-8:30 p.m. ; Saturday, 4-7 p.m.; Sun., 1-5 p.m.;
and by appointment with
inger Roherty at 984-6099 .
The Art
allery is localed on Ll1.e second floor of the Pelerson
Student
enler.
�ALBUQUERQUE BOY CHOIR
3 p.m . Sunday, May 7, Great Hall
Admission is $5 for adults, $3 for seniors & chJdren under 12.
"Founded in 1938, the Albuquerque .Boy Choir is one of the
oldest arts organizations in New Mexico. The choir celebrates
that brief but magical time in a boy's life when his voice is
clear, simple and pure. The performance
wJl
include music ranging
from Vivaldi to choreographed selections from Oliver."
APRIL
29:
7 p.m.
HAIRSPRAY,
9: 15 p.m.
SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER
MAY 6:
7 p.m.
HAROLD AND MA.UDE, 9: 15 THE GRADUATE
FJms are shown in the Great Hall of Peterson Student Center.
Admission is $2 per feature or $3 for both. Refreshments are
available, including freshly ground, freshly brewed coffee, popcorn with real butter, cool<ies, natural sodas and herbal teas. The FJm
Society is an independent organization run entirely by students. For
any information or to receive a maJing of the films being shown,
please call the Film Society at 984-6158.
St. John's College
S
A N T A
F E
N
E W
MEXICO
66
LEAR [ G [§ K[NJD OlF
99
TUR L lFOOJD lFOR THEM[ JD
- Cicero
And Summer Classics is the intellectual equivalent of a Thanksgiving
feast. ow in its fifth season, Summer Classics is a one- to three-week
residential program for adults of all ages and backgrounds. Participants
come from around the country to study the classics of literature, philosophy and opera. Non-residential races for local residents also are available
and we invite you co join us this summer.
JULY l 6 - 221 Homer - Iliad • Oostoevski - Crime & Punishment
Sophocles - Oedipus Rex, Oedipus ar Colonus, Anrigone
Opera - Fanciulla and Salome • Virgil - The Aeneid
Abraham Lincoln and Selected F ounding D ocuments
JULY 30-
GUST 5:
Opera- Fanciulla&Salome
O ld Test.Ament - Genesis, Exodus, Deureronomy
ie{zsche - Thus Spake Zarachusrra
TUITION FROM $650/WEEK.
WRITE TO : SUMMER CLASSICS·CC. ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE
SANTA FE. NM 87501 · 4599 (505) 984·6104
�SYMBOLIC HISTORY AND DISCUSSIONS IN
PHILOSOPHY
Charles Bell
8 p.m. Every Tues., May 2 - June 27, Junior Common Room
MAY 2: The Gothic Wave: the spread of Gothic over Europe
MAY 9: Dante: Threshold of 1300: Gothic Synthesis; revolt
of the new man
MAY 16: Ars Nova (14th Century): Heroes in Hell, against the
quietest East
MAY 23: 1400: Pilgrims All (Chaucer's World): "in the temple
playing"
MAY 30: 15th Century: Early Renaissance: Gothic grace;
humanist wedge
JU E 6: 1500: Explosive Balance: Renaissance, Protestantism, the
New World
Ju E 13: Giants in the Earth: 16th century, titanic enactments
Ju E 20: Michelangelo Storm Center: rnan, style, culture, world-soul
JUNE 27: A Revie-w of Period Styles: phases of the Western incarnation
Dear Friends,
Though you know about the semi-annual Seminar Day,
and about the Spring and Fall Community Seminar Series
which are offered by St. John's, you may not be familiar with
our recently begun program in Eastern Classics. It is a oneyear master's program with late afternoon and evening classes,
and which includes, in addition to twice-weekly seminars on
many of the great books of A.sia, a component of language study:
Students choose between Sanskrit and Classical Chinese. The third
element of the program is the preceptorial, small classes of eight to ten
students which focus more closely on one particular text for two meetings a week through eight week sessions.
Many of you already are famJiar with the seminar format in which
the classes are conducted; and you might find the combination of an
ancient, deeply coherent, but foreign tradition with the distinctively
Western pedagogical approach of seminar discussion highly stimulating. We are without a doubt the only place in the United States, and
possibly in the world, where such an opportunity exists within an organized academic community.
I would be happy to address any questions you may have about the
Graduate Program in Eastern Classics, just give us a call at 984-6082.
"With Best Wishes,
Cary Stickney
Director Graduate Institute
�~
ST. JOHN'S COILEGE
1160 Camino Cruz Blanca
Santa Fe, New Mexico 87501-4599
"Only !he
educaled
a ..r·e free. ''
C,
•
-( f)JC/elus
Please call 984-6104 to be placed on the
mailing list. Published ten times each year
by the Public Relations Office. Printed by
and with generous support from Academy
Printers, Albuquerque, New Mexico.
ADDRESS CORRECTION R EQUESTED
U. S. Postage
PAID
Non-Profit
Organization
Permit No. 231
Santa Fe, NM
�
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Original Format
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paper
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4 pages
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Title
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Santa Fe Community Calendar, May 1995 - June 1995
Description
An account of the resource
Event calendar for the Santa Fe campus community, May 1995 - June 1995.
Publisher
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St. John's College
Coverage
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Santa Fe, NM
Date
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1995-05
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St. John's College owns the rights to this publication.
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text
Format
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pdf
Language
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English
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SF_Community_Calendar_1995-05
Calendar
-
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e6c7f39f2bad9004bbd82846ec59a1cc
PDF Text
Text
ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE
Santa F e, New Mexico
COMMUNITY EVENTS
T HE C OMEDY O F E RRORS
Friday, Saturday and Sunday Nights
July 7 - August
13
Come early and enjoy savory gourmet picnic
dinners by WJd Oats Dining along with
Renaissance enlertain1nent starling al 6 p.m.
Performances begin at 7:30 p.m. in the SL John's College
Meem Library Courtyard
General admission is
/ree.
. . ..•..•....••..
Preferred seats may be
reserved in advance with a donation of $15 per
SHAKESPEARE
di!tN~
person. For more information call 982-2910
SANTA FE
�GALLERY OPENING
Society of Layerists in Multi-Media
"CROSSINGS" - TIIE CROSS AS A CONCEPTUAL THEME
Friday, July 7, 5 - 7 p .m. in the Fireside Lounge
Exhibit continues through July 30
GALLERY IIOURS
Friday, 4:30 - 8:30 p.m., Saturday, 4 - 7 p.m., Sunday, 1 - 5 p.m.
And by appointment with Ginger Roherty at 984-6099. The Art
Gallery is located on the second floor of the Peterson Student Center
PETER PESIC, PIANO
Beethoven, Variations Op. 34 /Webern, Variations, Op. 27 /
Bach, French Suite 1
12:30 - 1 :20 p.m. Friday, July 7, in the Great Hall
PETER PESIC, PIANO
Works by Chopin
12:30 - 1:20 p.m. Friday, July 28, in the Junior Common Room
The Santa Fe Opera and St. John's College present
The Modern Painters Symposium
JOHN RUSKIN: HIS LIFE AND TIMES
A prelude to The Santa Fe Opera's premiere of Modern Painters
July 29 - 30. The fee for the entire conference including Sunday
brunch at the Eldorado Hotel is $35 per person. Sealing is limited. For further information and pre-registration materials contact: The Modern Painters Symposium, P.O. Box 2408, Santa Fe,
M 87504-2408, (505) 986-5968
ROBERT HUNT
AS SEEN THROUGH
HIS BOOK COLLECTION
C
0
L
L
E
L
I
B
R
A
Lecture by Carl Sheppard, Ph.D.
3 p.m. Sunday, July 23. Reception to follow.
Meem Lihrar , Ault Ever Room
Carl Sheppard believe a per on' book
collection may reveal much about his life. In a
lecture based on the St. John's College Hunt
Collection , Dr. Sheppard will give the
audience an intimate glimp e into the life of New
Mexico poet Robert Hunt.
&
G
Hunt wa a long-time re ident of Santa Fe and
devoted friend of Witter Bynner.
The lecture i being ponsored by the
College Library & Fine Arts Guild.
t.
John'
�HUSSERL AND THE CRISIS OF EUROPEAN SCIENCES
Frank Hunt
3 p.m. Wed., July 5, in tb.e Junior Common Room
!SAA
THE SYRIAN: TEACHER OF DOSTOEVSKI
Bruce Venable
3 p.m. Wed., July 19, in the Junior Common Room
AMERICAN POLITICS: ls IT EVERYTHING THE FOUNDING
FATHERS ENVISIONED IT WOULD BE?
Thomas Mann, The Brookings lnslitution
8:30 p.m. Sunday, July 23, in d-ie Great Hall
DISCUSSIONS ON TH
William Ney, Publish.er, The
STATE OF BOSNIA
ew Combat
7 p.m. Tuesday, July 25, in tb.e Junior Common Room
NEWTON ON THE BEACH:
THE DIVINE ENCRYPTION AND TIIE MISSING SPIRIT
Peter Pesic
3 p.m. Wednesday, July 26, in the Junior Common Room
AN
ENNOBLING INNOCENCE:
THE FOUNDING OF SOCRATES' REPUBLIC
David Levine
3 p.m. Wed., August 2, in the Junior Common Room
CHARLES BELL
8:30 p.m. every Tuesday in tb.e Dining Hall
1600: THE TRAGIC DIVIDE
(SHAKESPEARE): vortex of transformation
JULY 4:
J LY 11: BAROQUE FORMULATION:
Quixotic rebirth,
Cartesian consciousness
JULY 18: MILTON:
MIND'S DARK GLORY: Tenebrist and
Classical Baroque
J
LY 25: THE LARGER DECLARATION:
America against the
ferment of Europe
AUGUST 1: PAS :A.L'S REVERSAL:
Baroque antinomies of reason
and faith
WATCH FOR THE SEPTEMBER ISSUE OF THE COMMUNITY EVENTS CALENDAR FOR
EXCITING NEWS ABOUT THE NEW St. JOHN'S COLLEGE LIBRARY
'
& flNE
ARTS GUILD
�U.S. Postage
PAID
Non-Profit
Organization
Permit No. 231
Santa Fe, NM
ST. JOHN'S COI1EGE
1160 Camino Cruz Blanca
Santa Fe, New Mexico 87501-4599
Please call 984-6104 to be placed on the
mailing list. Published ten times each year
by the Public Relations Office. Printed by
and with generous support from Academy
Printers, Albuquerque, New Mexico.
ADDRESS CORRECTION REQUESTED
"!Jar nimble
lhou!Jhl can
;ump bo!h sea
andland''
-
-( "ihake\peare
:
�
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Original Format
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paper
Page numeration
Number of pages in the original item.
4 pages
Dublin Core
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Title
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Santa Fe Community Calendar, July 1995
Description
An account of the resource
Event calendar for the Santa Fe campus community, July 1995.
Publisher
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St. John's College
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Santa Fe, NM
Date
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1995-07
Rights
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St. John's College owns the rights to this publication.
Type
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text
Format
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pdf
Language
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English
Identifier
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SF_Community_Calendar_1995-07
Calendar
-
https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/3928a28be1e392526c61e9b35fd673d2.pdf
4b3c79c73784841e5af75e1573651474
PDF Text
Text
S
A
N
T
A
EW
M
EX
I
CO
COMMUNITY EVENTS CALENDAR
December 1994
and
January 1995
11 60 Camino Cruz Blanca · Santa Fe,
ew Mexico 87501-4599
505/ 984-6104
Happy HoLiJayc1 I
�MOTIVES FOR TREASON
Tutor: William Darkey
Shakespeare's three Roman plays, Coriolanus,jrdius Caesar, Antony and
Cleopatra.Sessions: Six Tuesdays, 4-6 p.m.
Begins: February 7 (no class during spring break: March 14 and 21.)
Fee: $90
Text: Any edition.
Room: Santa Fe Hall 106
ERAZIM KOHAK, THE EMBERS AND THE STARS
(A PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO THE MORAL SENSE OF NATURE)
Tutor: James Forkin
"In our daily lived experience, the starry heaven above and the moral law
within have been heavily overlaid by artifacts and constructs. The quest of
this volume is one of recalling what we have hidden from ourselves. It is a
philosopher's book, deeply indebted to the cultural herirage of three millennia of Western thought" (from the authors introduction). Besides referring
to his own experiences of nature, Kohak refers constantly to the thoughts
and terminology of other philosophers. Sessions: Six Tuesdays, 7-9 p.m.
Begins: February 14 (No class during spring break: March 14 and 21.)
Fee: $90
Text: As Above. University of Chicago Press may be the only edition.
Room: Santa Fe Hall 209
First Assignment: Prolegomenon, Chapter 1 (Theoria)
THE NOT SO BASIC WRITINGS OF KARL JUNG
Tutor: George Iannacone
The class will further explore Jung's concept of the soul in its several
aspects of persona, anima(us) and the unconscious, as well as the place of the
divine in psychology.
Sessions: Five Wednesdays, 7-9 p.m.
Begins: February 8
Fee: $75
Text: The Portable Jung, Joseph Campbell, editor (Penguin).
Room: Santa Fe Hall 106
First Assignment: "Two Essays on Analytical Psychology" photocopy available in the bookstore.
�HOMER, THE ODYSSEY
Tutor: Torrance Kirby
Homer sings of the homecoming of the "much-wandering" Odysseus.
Sessions: Six Wednesdays, 7-9 p.m.
Begins: February 8
Fee: 90
Text: As above; any edition.
Room: Santa Fe Hall 105
First Assignment: Books 1-4
WRITI GS 0
EDUCATION
Tutor: Cary Stickney
What does it mean to educate or become educated? We will look at a variety of literary and philosophical texts: Plato's Meno, Sophocles' Philoctetes,
St. Augustine's On the Teacher, Montaigne's On the Education of Children,
Shakespeare's The Tempest, Descartes' Rules for the Direction of the Mind,
Cervantes' Tale of Ill Advised Curiosity and Vico's On the Study Methods of
Our Time.
Sessions: Eight Tuesdays, 4-6 p.m.
Begins: February 7 (No class during Spring Break: March 14 and 21)
Fee: 120 (A discount is available for teachers.)
Text: As above; any edition.
Room: Santa Fe Hall 210
First Assignment: Meno
�REGISTRATION
Detach and mail completed form with enrollment fee to:
Spring Community Seminar Series
Public Relations
St. John's College
1160 Camino Cruz Blanca
Santa Fe, New Mexico 87501-4599
For information call 984-6104
Office will be closed December 24-January 1, 1995
Please make check payable to St. John's College
Deadline to enroll is January 24, 1995.
_ Please enroll me in the following Community Seminar Series.
Indicate First and Second choice in space next to tutor's name. If
registering for more than one seminar put initials next to each one.
1. Carey
2. Darkey
3. Forkin _ _ _ __
5. Kirby
4. Iannacone
6. Stickney
Name \s)
Address
City _ _
State
Work Phone
Home Phone
�FILM
SOCIETY
Films are shown in the Grear Hall of Peterson Student Center. Admission is $2 per
feature or 3 for both. Refreshments are available, including freshly ground, freshly
brewed coffee, popcorn with real burrer, cookies, natural sodas and herbal teas. The
Film ociety is an independent organization run entirely by students. For any information or co receive a mailing of the films being shown, please call the Film
iery at 984-6158.
DECEMBER 10
7 p .m. Bugsy Malone
9:15 p .m. My Life as a Dog
CONCERTS
Friday, December 9
Friday, January 27
Wednesday, February 1
PETER PESIC, PIANO
Part three of a five part
series on "Mcxlern Masters"
Schonberg: Piano Pieces,
op. 33a, b (1929, 1932)
Schonberg: Suite, op. 25
(1925)
12: 10-1 p.m. in the Junior
Common Room
PETER PESIC, PIANO
Part four of the "Mcxlern
Masters" series
Stravinsky: Four erodes, op.
7 (1908)
Stravinsky: Chez Petrushka
(1911-1921)
Stravinsky: Sonata ( 1924)
12:10-1 p.m. in the Junior
Common Room
] ACK CHAIKIN, PIANO
Music by David Diamond,
J.S. Bach, Haydn,
Chopin and
Samuel Barber
8 p.m. in the Great Hall
Admission is free
Admission is free
Admission is free
ART
GALLERY
MR . LYNN LOWN
Photo Show
Friday, November 11 Wednesday, December 7
10,000 PLUS:
ALUMNI EXHIBIT OF THE
l STITUTE
January 16-27
"10,000 Plus," is an exhibition of alumni work from the chool
of the Art Institute of Chicago. Over 10,000 alumni were asked ro
donate work for this show, which is traveling across the country.
SCHOOL OF THE CHICAGO ART
GAIJ.ERY H OURS:
Friday, l:J0-8:30 p.m.; Saturday, 4-7 p.m.; Sunday 1-5 p.m.; and by prior arrangement with Ginger ·
5051984-6099. The Arr Gallery is located on the second floor of Peterson wdent C,.·
�St. John's College
U. S. Postage
PAID
1160 Camino Cruz Blanca
Santa Fe, New Mexico 87501-4599
Address Correction Requested
THE 1994-1 995
CONCLUDING
LECTURES
CHARLES BELL, TUTOR EMERITUS
Symbolic History through Sig ht and Sound
Tuesday, December 6-0mega (of World)
Tuesday, D ecember 13-The Rooted World
Beginning at 8 p .m.
in the] unior Common Room
Published eleven rimes each year by che Public Relacions Office . Please call 984-6104 co be placed on the mai li ng list,
Non-Profit
Organization
Permit No. 231
Santa Fe, NM
�
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
paper
Page numeration
Number of pages in the original item.
6 pages
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Santa Fe Community Calendar, December 1994 - January 1995
Description
An account of the resource
Event calendar for the Santa Fe campus community, December 1994 - January 1995.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
St. John's College
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Santa Fe, NM
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1994-12
Rights
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St. John's College owns the rights to this publication.
Type
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text
Format
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pdf
Language
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English
Identifier
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SF_Community_Calendar_1994-12
Calendar
-
https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/694d878efe0e5866c611df912cd29f7e.pdf
26896bb9a9ca7715daa57f481f7e8cc2
PDF Text
Text
St. John's College
Santa Fe,
ew Mexico
COMMUNITY EVENTS CALENDAR
October 1994
11 60 Camino Cruz Blanca · Santa Fe,
ew Mexico 87501-4599
505/ 984-6104
ART
GALLERY
GALLERY OPENING
3 - 5 p. m. Sunday, October 9, in the Fireside Lounge
Gallery Opening for
JUAN DE LA CRUZ MACHICADO
Exhibit runs from Sunday, October 9 Tuesday, October 25
GALLERY HOURS :
Friday, 4:30-8:30 p.m.; Sacurday, 4-7 p.m.; Sunday 1-5 p.m. and by prior arrangemenc wich Ginger Rohercy ac
505/984-6099. The Arc Gallery is locaced on rhe second floor of Pecerson Scudenc Cencer.
�SYMBOLIC
HISTORY
SYMBOLIC HISTORY THROUGH SIGHT AND Sou D
Charles Bell, tutor emeritus
Admission is free Beginning at 8 p.m. in the Junior Common Room
Every Tuesday from October 4 - October 25
For further information or for a listing· of the lecture tides
call the Public Relations Office at 984-6104
LECTURES
Admission is free to all lectures.
"A DARWINIAN CASE FOR
ED CATI G FATHER ABRAHAM:
SKEPTICISM"
Paul Thomson
John Carroll University
Friday, October 14
8 p.m . in the Great Hall
THE MEA I G OF WIFE
Leon Kass
University of Chicago
Friday, October 28
8 p.m. in the Great Hall
"THE DRAMA OF PLATO'
To be announced
REED KROLOFF
Arizona State University
Friday, November 4
8 p.m. in the Great Hall
GORGIAS"
Barry Goldfarb
Friday, October 21
8 p.m. in the Great Hall
SPECIAL
EVENT
1YNNE CHENEY
Former Chairman of the National Endowment for the Humanities
will speak in honor of the 30th anniversary of the
Santa Fe campus
5 p.m. Saturday, October 22, in the Great Hall
�,
FILM
SOCIETY
'
Films are shown in the Great Hall of Peterson Student Center. Admission is $2 per
feature or 3 for both. Refreshments are available, including freshly ground, freshly
brewed coffee, popcorn wich real butter, cookies, natural sodas and herbal teas. The
Film ociety is an independent organization run entirely by students.
OCTOBER
1
OCTOBER
7:00 p .m. The Man Who Knew
Too Much
9: 15 p.m. The Conversation
OCTOBER
15
7:00 p.m. The Bicycle Thief
OCTOBER
29
7:00 p.m. Night of the Living Dead
9: 15 p.m. Halloween
8
7:00 p.m. L'Acalante
9: 15 p.m. Miracle in Milan
NOVEMBER
5
7:00 p.m. Olympia, Parts I and II
CONCERTS
Dear Friends,
For che past several years, St. John's College has offered free admission co all of its
concerts. In order to continue bringing high-quality performances co Santa Fe,
beginning chis year the college will charge a 10 admission fee to select concerts.
The majority of concerts in the St. John's College Concert Series will remain free of
admission. Thank you for your support.
]OAQLJI
FERN
DEZ, PIA 0
"The History of Mexican and Latin
American Music"
Wednesday, Occober 12
8 p.m. in the Great Hall
Ad111ission is free
DAI
y BACCA, PIANO
"Music From Around Lake Geneva"
Wednesday, October 19
8 p .m. in the Great Hall
Ad111ission is free
PETER PESIC, PIANO
Brahms: Intermezzi, op. 117 (1892)
Berg: Sonata, op 1 (1908)
Schonberg: 3 Piano pieces, op 11 ( 1908)
Friday October 28
12:10 - 1 p.m. in the Junior Common
Room
Admission is free
THE FRANCE CO TRIO
Piano, Violin and Cello
Friday, November 11
8 p.m. in the Great Hall
Ad111ission $10 per person
�St. John's College
1160 Camino Cruz Blanca
Santa Fe, New Mexico 87501-4599
Address Correction Requested
Meem Library Book Sale
October 15, 1994
984-6042
~ia( 0oent!
LYNNE CHENEY
Former Chairman of the National
Endowment for the Humanities
will speak in honor of the 30th
anniversary of the
Santa Fe campus
of St. John's College
5 p.m. Saturday, October 22
in the Great Hall
Published eleven times each year by the Public Relations Office. Please call 984-6104 co be placed on the mailing list.
U. S. Postage
PAID
Non-Profit
Organization
Permit No. 231
Santa Fe, NM
�
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
paper
Page numeration
Number of pages in the original item.
4 pages
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Santa Fe Community Calendar, October 1994
Description
An account of the resource
Event calendar for the Santa Fe campus community, October 1994.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
St. John's College
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Santa Fe, NM
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1994-10
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
St. John's College owns the rights to this publication.
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
text
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
pdf
Language
A language of the resource
English
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
SF_Community_Calendar_1994-10
Calendar
-
https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/7c4a77758dd34dd5f8437d5330b7a384.pdf
d604770936c949a04cc27dbd5e744a80
PDF Text
Text
St. John's College
anta Fe, New Mexico
COMMUNITY EVENTS CALENDAR
November 1994
1160 Camino Cruz Blanca · Santa Fe,
ew Mexico 87501-4599
505/ 984-6104
ART
GALLERY
GALLERY OPENING
5-7 p.m. Friday, November 11 in the Fireside Lounge
Gallery Opening for
MR. LYNN LOWN
Exhibit runs from Friday, November 11
through Wednesday, December 7
GAll.ERY HOURS:
Friday, 4:30-8:30 p.m.; Saturday, 4-7 p.m.; Sunday 1-5 p.m.; and by prior arrangement with Ging<r Rohercy at
505/984-6099. The Arr Gallery is located on the second floor of Peterson Srudent Center.
�SYMBOLIC
HISTORY
SYMBOLIC HISTORY TI !ROUGH SIGHT A D So
D
Charles Bell, ruror emeritus
Admission is free
Every Tuesday from November 1- November 29
November 1, 8 and 29 in the Junior Common Room
November 15 and 22 in the Dining Hall
All begin at 8 p.m.
For further information or for a listing of rhe lecture titles
call the Public Relations Office at 984-6104
LECTURES
Admission is free to all !ectttres.
THE LI E FROM HERE TO THERE: MATHEMATICS AND METAPHYSICS I
ARCHITECTURE
Reed Kroloff
Arizona State Universiry
Friday, November 4
8 p.m. in the Great Hall
WHEN 'OMER SMOTE 'rs BLOOMI 'LYRE PARODY PASTICHE A D PARO OMASIA RE]OYCI G
Stuart Boyd, tutor emeritus
St. John's College
Friday, November 18
8 p.m. in the Great Hall
SPECIAL
EVENT
TOCQUEVILLE LECTURE SERIES
CIVIL RIGHTS VS. CIVIC DUTIES:
AN UNFAIR FIGHT
Robert A. Goldwin
American Enterprise Institute
Wednesday, November 9
7:30 p.m. in the Great Hall
�FILM
SOCIETY
Films are shown in the Great Hall of Peterson Student Center. Admission is $2 per
feature or $3 for both. Refreshments are available, including freshly ground, freshly
brewed coffee, popcorn with real burrer, cookies, natural sodas and herbal teas. The
Film Society is an independent organization run entirely by students. For any information or to receive a mailing of the films being shown please call the Film Society
at 984-6158.
NOVEMBER 5
7 p.m . Olympia, Part I
9:15 p.m. Olympia, Part II
NOVEMBER
12
DECEMBER
7 p.m. Pumping Iron
9:15 p.m. All That Jazz
10
7 p.m . Bugsy Malone
9:15 p .m. My Life as a
Dog
THEATER
AESCHYLUS, "AGAMEMNON"
9 p.m . Sunday, November 13
8 p .m. Tuesday and Wednesday, November 15 and 16
8 p.m. Saturday and Sunday, November 19 and 20
8 p.m. Tuesday, November 22
All performances are in the Great Hall.
Admission is $3.
CONCERTS
Dear Friends,
For the past several years, St. John's College has offered free admission to all of its
concerts. In order ro continue bringing high-quality performances to Santa Fe,
beginning this year the college will charge a $10 admission fee to select concerts.
The majority of concerts in the Sc. John 's College Concert Series will remain free of
admission. Thank you for your support.
THE FRANCESCO TRIO
PETER PESIC, PIANO
Piano, Violin and Cello
Music by Beethoven, Schuller, Powell,
Ravel
Friday, November 11
8 p.m. in the Great Hall
Admission $10 per person
Part two of a five part series, "Modern
Masters"
Schonberg: Six Little Piano Pieces,
op. 19 (1911)
Schonberg: Five Piano Pieces,
op. 23 (1923)
Webern: Variations, op. 27 (1936)
Friday, November 18, 12:10 to 1 p.m.
in the Junior Common Room
Admission is free
�St. John's College
1160 Camino Cruz Blanca
Santa Fe, New Mexico 87501-4599
Address Correction Requested
v;
TOCQUEVILLE LECTURE SERIES
CIVIL RIGHTS VS. CIVIC DUTIES:
AN UNFAIR FIGHT
Robert A. Goldwin
American Enterprise Institute
Wednesday, November 9
7: 30 p.m. in the Great Hall
Published eleven times each year by the Public Relations Office. Please call 984-6104 to be placed on the mailing list.
U. S. Postage
PAID
Non-Profit
Organization
Permit No. 231
Santa Fe, NM
�
Text
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Original Format
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paper
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4 pages
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Title
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Santa Fe Community Calendar, November 1994
Description
An account of the resource
Event calendar for the Santa Fe campus community, November 1994.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
St. John's College
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Santa Fe, NM
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1994-11
Rights
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St. John's College owns the right to this publication.
Type
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text
Format
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pdf
Language
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English
Identifier
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SF_Community_Calendar_1994-11
Calendar
-
https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/740941be6a58e03668620088f4429823.pdf
35f2cf6d7364c79235329024ab9ce9b4
PDF Text
Text
COMMUNITY EVENTS CALENDAR
July 1994
1160 Camino Cruz Blanca• Santa Fe, New Mexico 87501-4599
505/984-6104
SHAKESPEARE IN SANTA FE
Presentec!
6y
...•..•... ,.
SHAKESPEARE
£@IN~
SANTA
FE$
••••••••••
�SYMBOLIC HISTORY
SYMBOLIC HISTORY THROUGH SIGHT AND SOUND
Charles Bell, tutor emeritus
Admission is free - Beginning at 8 p.m. in the Junior Common Room
Every Tuesday from July 5 - August 30
For further information or for a listing of lecture titles
call the Public Relations Office at 984-6014
CONCERTS
Admission is free to all concerts
Thursdays, June through August
Peter Pesic will discuss and play Beethoven piano sonatas
12:30 -1:20 p.m. in the Fine Arts Building 109
June 23, 1994
Opp. 49 No. 2 and 31 No. 2 ("Tempest")
June 30, 1994
Opp. 49 No. 1 and 31, No. 3
July 7, 1994
Opp. 79 and 53 ('Waldstein") and the Andante, WoO 57
July 14, 1994
Opp. 54 and 57 ("Appassionata")
July 21, 1994
Opp. 78, 81a ("Les Adieux"), and 90
July 28, 1994
Opp. 101 and 109
August 4, 1994
Op. 106 ("Hammerklavier")
Summer Classics
An educational retreat for adults
Join people from around the country in seminars on the classics of literature,
philosophy and opera. Two-hour discussion classes meet 10 a.m. - noon,
Monday-Saturday. From $650/week non-residential (includes lunches,
special events) and $950/ week residential (includes accommodation, meals).
Choose ONE seminar per week only.
July 17 - July 23
Death of Socrates - American Founding Documents - Shakespeare
July 24 - July 30
Arthurian Legends
July 31 - August 6
Opera - Homer
Opera -
For further information call 505/984-6104
�LECTURES
Admission is free
All lectures are on Wednesdays at 3 p.m. in the junior Common Roam
Wednesday, July 6
Cary Stickney, Bacon and Moses: New Science and Old Law
Wednesday, July 20
James Carey
Vedic Orthodoxi; and the Emergence of Philosophy in Ancient India:
An Introduction
Wednesday, July 27
Peter Pesic, The Origins of Modern Algebra
Wednesday, August 3
Joe Sachs, Aristotle's Poetics
Sunday, July 10 at 8 p.m., in the Great Hall, Admission is free
An Introduction to Biomedical Ethics
David A. Bennahum, professor of medicine; director, Medicine and the
Humanities Program; long-time chair, Biomedical Ethics Committee,
University of New Mexico
- - - SHAKESPEARE IN SANTA FE
"The Tefft.pes-t''
Friday, Saturday and Sunday
July 8th - August 14th
Come early and enjoy Renaissance entertainment at 6 p.m., along with
delicious food and drink sold at the "Bard's Fare" concession booth.
Play begins at 7 p.m., ends around 9:30 p.m.
St. John's College, Meem Library Courtyard
General Admission is Free
Preferred seats may be reserved in advance with a donation of $15 per person.
Businesses and groups of ten or more may reserve seats with a donation of $10 per person .
For more information call 982-2910
�St. John's College
1160 Camino Cruz Blanca
Santa Fe, New Mexico 87501-4599
Address Correction Requested
U. S. Postage
PAID
Non-Profit
Organization
Permit No. 231
Santa Fe, NM
COMING IN SEPTEMBER
St. John's
College
.9 ti 4
Anniversary Celebration
Published eleven times each year by the Public Relations Office. Please call 984-6104 to be placed on the mailing list.
�
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
paper
Page numeration
Number of pages in the original item.
4 pages
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Santa Fe Community Calendar, July 1994
Description
An account of the resource
Event calendar for the Santa Fe campus community, July 1994.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
St. John's College
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Santa Fe, NM
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1994-07
Rights
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St. John's College owns the rights to this publication.
Type
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text
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
pdf
Language
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English
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
SF_Community_Calendar_1994-07
Calendar
-
https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/f5f462ea360703b1c973086880d0dc3f.pdf
e67df1e797d74f2023fb54607cb399ad
PDF Text
Text
COMMUNITY EVENTS CALENDAR
May & June 1994
1160 Camino Cruz Blanca • Santa Fe, New Mexico 87501-4599
505/984-6104
ART GALLERY
Gallery Opening
5 - 7 p .m. Friday, June 3
N ita Schwartz
Figure - Form
Symbol
works in clay
(reception in the
Placita area )
Dennis Fiedler
The Appearing Object
paintings
(reception in the
Fireside Lounge)
Gallery hours:
Friday, 4:30-8:30 p.m.; Saturday, 4-7 p.m.; Sunday, 1-5 p.m. and by prior appoinhnent with Ginger Roherty
at 505/984-6099. The Art Gallery is located on the second floor of Peterson Student Center.
�SYMBOLIC HISTORY
SYMBOLIC HISTORY THROUGH SIGHT AND SOUND
Charles Bell, tutor emeritus
Admission is free - Beginning at 8 p.m. in the Junior Common Room
Tuesday, April 26
Gothic Ground and Vault: raising the sacred roof, Thomas Aquinas
Tuesday, May 3
The Gothic Wave: the spread of gothic over Europe
Tuesday, May 10
Dante: Threshold of 1300: Gothic Synthesis; revolt of the new man
Tuesday, May 17
Ars Nova (14th Century): Heroes in Hell, against the quietest East
F
•
Tuesday, May 24
15th Century: Early Renaissance: Gothic grace; humanist wedge
Tuesday, June 14
1500: Explosive Balance: Renaissance, Protestantism, the New World
Tuesday, June 21
Giants in the Earth: 16th Century, titanic enactments
Tuesday, June 28
Michelangelo - Storm Center: man, style, culture, world-soul
LECTURES
Admission is free to all lectures
Friday, April 29
Janet Dougherty
Sophocles' Oedipus at Colonus
8 p.m. in the Great Hall
Wednesday, June 22
President John Agresto
The Proust of the Papuans
3 p.m. in the Junior Common Room
�CONCERTS
Admission is free to all concerts
Friday, May 6
Music of the High Baroque
Sarah Weiner, Baroque oboe
Alyssa Pava, baroque cello and Kathleen Mcintosh, harpsichord
8 p.m. in the Great Hall
Informal Lunch Concerts
from 12:30 -1:20 p.m. in the Fine Arts Building, Room 109
Beethoven Piano Sonatas:
Thursday, June 23:
Opp. 49 No. 2 and 31, No. 2 ("Tempest")
Thursday, June 30:
Opp. 49 No. 1 and 31, No. 3
performances and discussions by Peter Pesic
Summer Classics
Adult residential seminars:
1-3 weeks of study in the classics of literature, philosophy and opera.
Two-hour discussion classes meet mornings only.
From $900/week, includes room and board.
Write to:
Summer Classics-CC
St. John's College
Santa Fe, New Mexico 87501-4599
505/984-6104
FILM SOCIETY
Films are shown in the Great Hall of Peterson Student Center. Admission is $4.00 per feature or $5.00
for both. Refreshments are available, including freshly ground, freshly-brewed Ohori's coffee, popcorn
with real butter, cookies, natural sodas and herbal teas. The Film Society is an independent organization
run entirely by students.
Saturday, April 30
7 p.m.
Eight Men Out
9:15 p.m. Field of Dreams
Saturday, May 7
7 p.m.
9:15 p.m.
Excaliber
The Princess Bride
�St. John's College
1160 Camino Cruz Blanca
Santa Fe, New Mexico 87501-4599
Address Correction Requested
U. S. Postage
PAID
Non-Profit
Organization
Permit No. 231
Santa Fe, NM
Coming Soon!
Shakespeare in Santa Fe
Experience Shakespeare under the stars!
The Tempest
Directed by Jay Raphael
Opening Friday, July 8 at 7 p.m.
The Meem Library Courtyard, St. John's College
Performances every
Friday, Saturday and Sunday
July 8-August14.
Admission is free
For more information contact
Shakespeare in Santa Fe at 982-2910.
Published eleven times each year by the Public Relations Office. Please call 984-6104 to be placed on the mailing list.
�
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
paper
Page numeration
Number of pages in the original item.
4 pages
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Santa Fe Community Calendar, May 1994 - June 1994
Description
An account of the resource
Event calendar for the Santa Fe campus community, May 1994 - June 1994.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
St. John's College
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Santa Fe, NM
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1994-05
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
St. John's College owns the rights to this publication.
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
text
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
pdf
Language
A language of the resource
English
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
SF_Community_Calendar_1994-05
Calendar
-
https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/b9cf79208e27c1d4ee9930a16cfa3932.pdf
f0cb31bfb91f5dad52e8eb7d02b460d9
PDF Text
Text
COMMUNITY EVENTS CALENDAR
August 1994
1160 Camino Cruz Blanca • Santa Fe, New Mexico 87501-4599
505/984-6104
SPECIAL EVENT
St. John's
College
/ .9.9 4
�SYMBOLIC HISTORY
SYMBOLIC HISTORY THROUGH SIGHT AND SOUND
Charles Bell, tutor emeritus
Admiss:on is free - Beginning at 8 p.m. in the Junior Common Room
Every Tuesday from August 2 - August 30
For further information or for a listing of lecture titles
call the Public Relations Office at 984-6104
CONCERTS
Admission is free to all concerts
Thursdays, June through August
Peter Pesic will discuss and play Beethoven piano sonatas
12:30 - 1:20 p.m. in the Fine Arts Building 109
August 4, 1994
Op. 106 ("Hammerklavier")
August 11, 1994
Opp. 110 and 11
LECTURES
Admission is free to all lectures
Wednesday, August 3
Joe Sachs
Aristotle's Poetics
3 p.m. in the Junior Common Room
Wednesday, August 10
Bruce Venable
To be announced
3 p.m. in the Junior Common Room
SPECIAL EVENT - - - - Friday, July 29
Martha Jordon
Wrestling with the Angel: An Introduction to Contemporary Mexican Poetry
1 p.m. in the Junior Common Room
�St. John's College
Fall 1994
Community
Seminar Series
Starting
October 5 - 11 - 12
�The Seminars
1. The Sonnet's Narrow Room. The sonnet is the most wide pread verse form
in Western literature. I propose, however, to read a very few of the best
English and American examples, perhaps three or four for each session,
though I shall be happy if sometimes we find enough to talk about in only
one or two. One needs leisure to consider poetry, and we hall be reading
them, first, because they are very good poems, but also to experience the
power and range of this most restricting yet mo t ver atile form.
Tutor: William Darkey
Sessions: Eight Tuesdays, 4-6 p.m. Begins: Tuesday, October 11
Fee: $120 Room: SFH 210
Text: Photocopies will be distributed. Almost all selections will be found in
any standard anthology of English verse. A supplementary standard anthology
may be desirable.
First Assignment: Photocopy in book tore
2. Carl Jung, Basic Writings. The class will explore Jung' conception of the soul
in its several aspects as persona, anima(u ), unconscious, and the place of the
divine in psychology.
Tutor: George Iannacone
Sessions: Eight Wednesdays, 7-9 p.m. Begins: Wednesday, October 12
Fee: $120 Room: SFH-105
Text: Only one is available: Y. de Laszlo, ed., Princeton University Press.
First Assignment: "011 the Nature of the Psyche," pp. 37-49
3. Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heigllts. Emily Bronte's depiction of evil in the
north of England raises que tions about art, evil and the human soul.
Tutor: Joshua Kate
Sessions: Six Wednesdays, 7-9 p.m. Begins: Wednesday, October 5
Fee: $90 Room: FAB-109
Text: Any edition
First assignment: Chapter 1-7
4. Virgil, TJ1e Aeneid. "To Rome I et no limit in world or time,/ But make the
gift of empire without end." Virgil sings the foundation of the eternal city.
Tutor: Torrance Kirby
Sessions: Six Wednesdays, 7-9 p.m. Begins: Wednesday, October 12
Fee: $90 Room: SFH-110
Text: Any edition
First assignment: Books 1 & 2
�Anniversary
(Celebration
�30th
Anniversary
Community Day
Saturday, September 24, 1994
12:30 - 6:30 p.m.
12:30 - 3 p.m.
Campus Open House and Tours
Live Music
Retrospective Exhibit: St. John's College 1964 -1994
1-3 p.m.
Book Signing, St. John's College Bookstore
Poetry Reading, Meem Library
3-5 p.m.
Search and Rescue Workshop for Kids (ages 7 -17)
What do you do if you get lost in the woods? How does a Search and
Rescue operation work? Demonstrations, video and group exercises.
3- 5p.m.
Community Seminar Day
Seminars on classic and contemporary works of literature, philosophy,
music and art. Seminars are led by members of the St. John's faculty.
No previous knowledge is necessary. Attendance is free but advance
registration is required. Please see next page for listings.
5 - 6:30 p.m.
Free Cookout/Reception with music and games
Everyone Welcome!
All of the events listed above are free and open to the public.
Look for more details in September!
�The Seminars
1.
Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra. Isn't the love of Cleopatra worth an
empire?
Tutor: Robert Bart Text: Any edition Room: ESL-109
2.
Edith Wharton, Etlian Frome. Quite different from her later Age of Innocence,
Wharton here draws on the cold winters of ew England to color her austere tory of love and loss.
Tutor: Basia Miller Text: Any edition Room: TBA
3.
Alexander Solzhenitsyn, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovicli.
This brilliant novella catapulted Solzhenitsyn into fame by its careful and
insightful description of one man's day in a Soviet labor camp.
Tutor: James Cohn Text: Any edition Room: SFH-209
4.
Plato, Meno. Can virtue-or human excellence-be taught? If so, who
teaches it, and how? One might suppose that this is as burning a question in
our current public discourse as it was in that of Plato's Athens. It is the
central question of the dialogue, Meno. And of the St. John's curriculum.
Tutor: William Darkey Text: Any edition Room: ESL-211
5.
iccolo Machiavelli, Mandragola. This is a comedy by the noted political
theorist. A young man seduces a young woman from her old husband and
her old-fashioned morals.
Tutor: Janet Dougherty Text: Any edition Room: SFH-109
6.
Sophocles, Oedipus tlie King. Possibly the greatest of the ancient Greek
tragedies. A play with many levels of meaning besides the psycho-analytic.
Tutor: Barry Goldfarb Text: Any edition Room: FAB-105
7.
Paul Valery, "Le Cimetiere Marin." A 144-Iine poem, perhaps the most
beautifully assonant in the French language, which is part pagan, part
Christian, part answer to both.
Tutor: George Iannacone Text: Photocopy in bookstore Room: ESL-122
8.
J.F. Lyotard, The Avant-garde and tlie Sublime. France's leading philosopher
of the "post-modern" explores ways of discussing 20th century visual art. It
is a thought-provoking, insightful essay.
Tutor: Joshua Kates Text: Any edition Room: SFH-206
9.
Jane Austen, Emma. Jane Austen's last novel describes the education of a
heroine "handsome, clever, and rich" but spoiled by the "power of having
too much her own way and a disposition to think a little too well of herself."
Tutor: Margaret Kirby Text: Any edition Room: ESL-215
continued next page
�10. Anonymous, The Song of Roland. The earliest, most famous French chanson
de geste recounts the glorious deeds of the knights of Charlemagne at
Roncesvalles.
Tutor: Torrance Kirby Text: Penguin, required Room: SFH-210
11. Martin Heidegger, What Is That-Philosophy?
Tutor: David Levine
Text: Eva Brann translation in bookstore Room: SFH-110
12. Martin Heidegger, "The Age of the World Picture." Heidegger's
description of the characteristics of the modern age.
Tutor: Frank Pagano
Text: from The Question Concerning Technology and Other Essays, any edition
Room: SFH-106
13. Bertrand Russell,Principles of Mathematics. This is a seminal work concerning
the relationship of mathematics to language and logic. We will discuss Part
I only (The Indefinables of Mathematics).
Tutor: Michael Rawn Text: Any edition Room: SFH-105
14. Mikhail Bulgakov, "The Fatal Eggs," in Diaboliad. Satirical fantasy from
the 1920's by a much-censored and finally suppressed Soviet novelist.
Unexpurgated text.
Tutor: David Starr
Text: Ardis Russian Literature series edition required (distributed by
Vintage Books)
Room: SFH-205
15. The Bhagavad Gita. The first century Indian classic
Tutor: Cary Stickney
Text: Bantam Edition, translated by Barbara Stoler Miller, recommended.
Room: ESL-126
16. Chopin, "Nocturnes," Opus 9, Number 1 and Opus 72, Number 1. Two
haunting romantic pieces (to be performed by Nicole Van Luchene).
Musical beginners and musicians are welcome.
Tutor: Stephen Van Luchene
Text: The piano music for both pieces available free in the bookstore.
Room: FAB-109
17.
Kalidasa, "Shakuntala. " The greatest play written by India's greatest
dramatic poet.
Tutor: James Carey
Text: Penguin edition recommended.
Room: TBA
�REGISTRATION
Seminars are free, but space is limited - Please register by September 16.
Your enrollment will be confirmed.
Ushers will direct you to your classroom.
Texts are available in the St. John's College Bookstore Open Monday - Friday 8:45 a.m. - 8 p.m. (Closed 4 - 4:45 p.m.)
Open Saturday 1 - 7 p.m.
Mail completed form to: Community Seminar Day, Public Relations Office
St. John's College, 1160 Camino Cruz Blanca, Santa Fe, NM 87501-4599
For information call 984-6104
Registration is on a first-come, first-served basis.
Deadline to enroll is Friday, September 16, 1994.
Please be sure to notify us immediately if you need to cancel.
Community Seminar Day- Saturday, September 24, 1994
Please be sure to indicate a first and second choice.
l. Bart
9. M. Kirby
2. Miller
10. T. Kirby
3. Cohn
11. Levine
4. Darkey
12.Pagano
5. Dougherty
13. Rawn
6. Goldfarb
14. Starr
7. Iannacone
15. Stickney
8. Kates
16. Van Luchene
17. Carey
ame (s)
Address
City
Work phone
Home phone
State
Zip
�The Santa Fe Campus of St. John's College
1964 -1994
Founded in Annapolis, Maryland, in 1696
as King William's School, and chartered under its present name
in 1784, St. John's College is the third oldest institution of
higher learning in the United States. The current "great books"
curriculum of the college was adopted in 1937.
One of the principal objectives of St. John's College
is to sustain a small, integral community of learners. Therefore, in the
late 1950s, when an increasing number of students began applying for
enrollment, the college elected to establish a new campus
rather than expand the student body at Annapoli .
The Santa Fe campus was opened in 1964.
The Annapolis and Santa Fe campuses share a virtually
identical curriculum and are governed by a single board of directors.
Located on 250 acres donated to the college by local citizens, the Santa Fe
campus houses a student population of about 400. The Graduate Institute
was added to the undergraduate program in the summer of 1967 and the
Graduate Program in Eastern Classics opened this fall.
St. John's College is proud to be a member of the Santa Fe
community and we invite you to join us in celebrating
our 30th anniversary.
�Profile
Program of Study: A traditional liberal arts curriculum including
all-required study in the areas of philosophy, literature,
mathematics, science, music, politics, ancient Greek, modem
French, English composition, history, theology, economics and
history.
Degrees offered:
B.A. and M.A. in Liberal Arts
M.A. in Eastern Classics
Undergraduate Tuition 1994-95: $17,430
63% of all students receive financial aid. St. John's spends
more than $2 million of its own funds on financial aid each
year.
10% of all undergraduate students and 30% of all graduate
students are from New Mexico.
Special scholarship programs are available for students from
the Southwest.
The college has an economic impact on Santa Fe of more than
$30 million annually.
St. John's is one of the area's largest employers with more than
140 employees.
Community services include: adult education; seminars; concerts;
lectures; theater performances; art exhibits; public access to
the Meem Library, the tennis courts and campus hiking trails;
community volunteer services; search and rescue; special events;
and teacher education programs.
�MAP TO ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE
1160 CAMINO CRUZ BLANCA
984-6000
t
285 NORTH
(TO TAOS)
St. Michael's Drive
Take Old Pecos Trail
Rodeo Road
-
INTERSTATE 25 (TO ALBUQUERQUE)
Old Las Vegas Hwy.
t
3rd Santa Fe
Ex~
Ex~.
off 1-25
Turn right on Armenta,
third light after
Ex ~
on 1-25
(1st light, Rodeo Rd.,
2nd light, Zia Rd)
lnd1eares traffic stgnal
�5. Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote of La Mancha.
Tutor: Joan Silver
Sessions: Eight Wednesdays, 7-9 p.m. Begins: Wednesday, October 12
Fee: $120 Room: SFH-106
Text: Any edition
First assignment: Dedication, Prologue, Prefatory Verses, and Chapters 1-17
6. Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes From the Dead House (or House of tlie Dead) and
Notes From tire Underground. Two early works-one autobiographical, the
other atirical-by Russia's greatest novelist.
Tutor: David Starr
Sessions: Six Tuesdays, 7-9 p.m. Begins: Tuesday, October 11
Fee: $90 Room: SFH-109
Text: Any edition
First Assignment: Dead House, Chapters 1-5
Seminars will begin October 5 -11 - 12
REGISTRATION DEADLINE JS September 26, 1994
Please register early.
Be sure to give us your first and second choice
and enclose your check.
Seminars not registering a
minimum number will be cancelled.
Your enrollment will be confirmed before the seminar begins.
Texts are available in the St. John's College Bookstore
Open Monday - Friday, 8:45a.m. - 8 p.m. (Closed 4 - 4:45 p.m.)
Open Saturday 1 - 7 p.m.
�REGISTRATION
Detach and mail completed form with enrollment fee to:
Fall Community Seminar Series
The Graduate Institute
St. John's College
1160 Camino Cruz Blanca
Santa Fe, New Mexico 87501-4599
For information call 984-6082
Please make check payable to St. John's College
Deadline to enroll is Monday, September 26, 1994.
Please enroll me in the following Community Seminar.
Indicate FIRST AND SECOND CHOICE in space next to tutor's name.
If registering for more than one person, put initials next to each one.
1. Darkey _ _ _ _ _ _ __
2. Iannacone _ _ _ _ _ _ __
5. Silver _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __
3. Kates- - - - - - - - - -
6. Starr
----------~
First Choice_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ Second Choice_ _ _ _ _ _ _ __
Name(s) _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __
Address_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __
City_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _State_ _ _ _ Zip_ _ _ _ _ __
VVorkphone_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __
Home phone_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __
�"Tfie Tetnpest."
Friday, Saturday and Sunday
July 8th - August 14th
Come early and enjoy Renaissance entertainment at 6 p.m., along with
delicious food and drink sold at the "Bard's Fare" concession booth.
Play begins at 7 p.m., ends around 9:30 p.m.
St. John's College, Meem Library Courtyard
General Admission is Free
Preferred seats may be reserved in advance with a donation of $15 per person.
Businesses and groups of ten or more may reserve seats
with a donation of $10 per person
For more information call 982-2910
SPECIAL EVENT
-----------------------------------------------------------,
Fisher/Shaull Presents:
Santa Fe Art and
Fine Print Fair
Peterson Student Center
Preview - $25*, Saturday, August 13, noon - 2 p .m .
Door Admission - $5*, good for all three d ays
Saturday, Aug. 13, 2 - 7 p.m.
Sunday, Aug. 14, 11 a.m. - 7 p.m.
Monday, Aug. 15 11 a.m. - 5 p.m.
"20% off with this "ticket" to holders and their guests. Featuring a silent
auction of quality art, the proceeds to go to the St. John's College scholarship fund.
I
I
I
I
I
I
I
-----------------------------------------------------------~
�St. John's College
U. S. Postage
PAID
Non-Profit
Organization
Permit No. 231
Santa Fe, NM
1160 Camino Cruz Blanca
Santa Fe, New Mexico 87501-4599
Address Correction Requested
30th
Anniversary
Seminar Day
Saturday, September 24
3-5 p.m.
Fall Community
Seminar Series
Starting October 5 - 11 - 12
register now!
Published eleven times each year by the Public Relations Office. Please call 984-6104 to be placed on the mailing list.
•
�
Text
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Original Format
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paper
Page numeration
Number of pages in the original item.
16 pages
Dublin Core
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Title
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Santa Fe Community Calendar, August 1994
Description
An account of the resource
Event calendar for the Santa Fe campus community, August 1994.
Publisher
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St. John's College
Coverage
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Santa Fe, NM
Date
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1994-08
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St. John's College owns to the rights to this publication.
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text
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pdf
Language
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English
Identifier
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SF_Community_Calendar_1994-08
Calendar
-
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937741152649196f56f545311341526e
PDF Text
Text
COMMUNITY EVENTS CALENDAR
February 1994
1160 Camino Cruz Blanca • Santa Fe, New Mexico 87501-4599
505 I 984-6104
ART GALLERY
Gallery Opening and Reception
3-5 p.rn. Sunday, February 6
Sam Abell Photographic
Workshop Exhibit
Santa Fe Photographic Workshops '93
Photograph by Bobbie Crosby
Showing through February 28
Gallery hours:
Friday, 4:30-8:30 p.m.; Saturday, 4-7 p.m.; Sunday 1-5 p.m. and by prior appointment with Ginger Roherty
at 505/984-6099. The Art Gallery is located on the second floor of Peterson Student Center.
�SYMBOLIC HISTORY
SYMBOLIC HISTORY THROUGH SIGHT AND SOUND
Charles Bell, tutor emeritus
Admission is free - Beginning at 8 p.m. in the Junior Common Room
Tuesday, February 1
Now: Omega (of World)
Tuesday, February 8
Now: The Rooted Future
Tuesday, February 15
Nature: A St. John's fantasy on philosophy and science
Tuesday, February 22
1400: Pilgrims All (Chaucer's World):
"in the temple playing"
Tuesday, March 1
Reading from his second book of poems, Delta Return (with slides)
CONCERTS - - - - - Admission is free to all concerts
Saturday, February 12
The Lark String Quartet
Mozart: Quartet K. 589; Alfred Schnittke: Quartet No. 2
Beethoven: Quartet Op. 59 No. 3
8 p.m. in the Great Hall
Friday, February 25
The Baltimore Consort
The French Muse (music of the French Renaissance)
8 p.m. in the Great Hall
Informal Lunch Concerts
Beethoven Piano Sonatas: performances and discussions by Peter Pesic
12:10 - 1 p.m. in the Junior Common Room
Thursday, February 17
Opp. 101 and 109
�St. John's College
Spring 1994
Community
Seminar Series
Starting
February 2 - 8- 9
�The Seminars
Seminars will begin
Februan; 2 - 8 - 9
REGISTRATION DEADUNE IS January 25, 1994
Please register early.
Be sure to give us your first and second choice
and enclose your check.
Seminars not registering a
minimum number will be cancelled.
Your enrollment will be confirmed before the seminar begins.
Texts are available in the St. John's College BookstoreOpen Monday - Friday, 8:45 a.m. - 8 p.m. (Closed 4 - 4:45 p.m.)
Open Saturday 1 - 7 p.m.
1. Soren Kierkegaard, The Concept of Anxiety and The Sickness unto
Death
Kierkegaard 's expressly psychological works that radicalize the
meanings of Christianity.
Tutor: John Cornell
Sessions: Six Wednesdays, 7:30-9:30 p.m.
Begins: Wednesday, February 2
Fee: $90 Text: Any edition
Room: SFH 106
First Assign m en t: Concept of Anxiety, Introduction and all of
Chapter I
2. Simone de Beauvoir, The Second Sex
The classic philosophical investigation of the questions raised by
gender and gender relations.
�Tutor: Dana Densmore
Sessions: Eight Tuesdays, 4:15-6:15 p.m.
Begins: Tuesday, February 8 (no class March 15 or March 22)
Fee:$120
Text: Any edition
Room: SFH 105
First assignment: Author's Introduction plus Part I, chapter 1, ''The
Data of Biology"
3. Charlotte Bronte, lane Eyre
Proto-feminist? High romantic? A literature of evil? We will explore
as many possibilities as we can in this classic work.
Tutor: Joshua Kates
Sessions: Seven Wednesdays, 7-9 p.m.
Begins: Wednesday, February 9
Fee:$105
Text: Any edition
Room: FAB 104
First assignment: Chapters 1-6, through p.99 in Penguin edition, Q.D.
Leavis, ed.
4. Dante, The Divine Comedy
"Never have passionate flesh and passionate intellect been fused
together in such a furnace of the passionate spirit." - Dorothy Sayers
Tutor: Torrance Kirby
Sessions: Nine Wednesdays, 7-9 p.m.
Begins: Wednesday, February 2
Fee:$135
Text: Singelton translation, Princeton Univ. Press preferred, but other
editions are acceptable.
Room: SFH 109
First assignment: First twelve cantos of "Inferno"
5. Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Idiot
Who (or what) is Prince Myshkin? Saint, Narcissist? Fool? Why does
he attract such passions?
Tutor: David Starr
Sessions: Eight Tuesdays, 7-9 p.m. (no class March 15 or March 22)
Begins: Tuesday, February 8
Fee:$120
Text: Any edition
Room: SFH 110
First assignment: Part I
�REGISTRATION
Detach and mail completed form with enrollment fee to:
Spring Community Seminar Series
The Graduate Institute
St. John's College
1160 Camino Cruz Blanca
Santa Fe, New Mexico 87501-4599
For information call 984-6082
Office will be closed December 24 - January 3, 1994
Please make check payable to St. John's College
Deadline to enroll jc; Tuesday, January 25, 1994
Please enroll me in the following Community Seminar Series.
Indicate FIRST AND SECOND CHOICE in space next to tutor's name.
If registering for more than one Seminar put initials next to each one.
1. Cornell _ _ _ _ _ __
4. T. Kirby _ _ _ _ _ __
2. Densmore - - - - - -
5. Starr _ _ _ _ _ _ __
3. Kates _ _ _ _ _ _ __
First Choice _ _ _ _ __
Second Choice _ _ _ _ __
Name(s) _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _~
Address _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __
City_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _~
State_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ Zip _ _ _ _ _ _ __
\t\Torkphone _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __
Home phone _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _~
�Admission is free
Friday, February 4
Olivia Delgado de Torres, tutor
The Assembly of Women :
Why did Praxagora Change her Assembly Speech?
8 p.m. in the Great Hall
Friday, February 18
Christopher Bruell
On Plato's Political Philosophy
8 p.m. in the Great Hall
Friday, March 4
Joshua Kates, tutor
Sappho I: An Ontological Approach
8 p.m. in the Great Hall
FILM SOCIETY
Films are shown in the Great Hall of Peterson Student Center. Admission is $4.00 per feature or $5.00
1 for both. Refreshments are available, including freshly ground, freshly-brewed Ohori's coffee, popcorn
with real butter, cookies, natural sodas and herbal teas. The Film Society is an independent organization
, nm entirely by students.
Please note that this listing for the Film Society is a tentative schedule.
Please call 984-6000 to confirm show dates.
Saturday, February 5
7p.m.
9:15 p.m.
Captain Blood
The Adventures of Robin Hood
7 p.m.
9:15 p.m.
Out of Africa
The Mission
7 p.m.
Saturday, February 19
La Strada
Padre Padrone
Friday, February 11
9:15 p.m.
Saturday, February 26
No Films
Saturday, March 5
7p.m.
9:15 p.m.
Diner
Angel Heart
�St. John's College
1160 Camino Cruz Blanca
Santa Fe, New Mexico 87501-4599
Address Correction Requested
U. S. Postage
PAID
Non-Profit
Organization
Permit No. 231
Santa Fe , NM
Inside
Spring 1994
Community
Seminar Series
Register Now
Published eleven times each year by the Public Relations Office. Please call 984-6104 to be placed on the mailing list.
�
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
paper
Page numeration
Number of pages in the original item.
8 pages
Dublin Core
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Title
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Santa Fe Community Calendar, February 1994
Description
An account of the resource
Event calendar for the Santa Fe campus community, February 1994.
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Santa Fe, NM
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1994-02
Rights
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St. John's College owns the rights to this publication.
Type
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text
Format
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pdf
Language
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English
Identifier
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SF_Community_Calendar_1994-02
Publisher
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St. John's College
Calendar
-
https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/5b269b4231781d86d05918ca3a305759.pdf
66f4d4d97537b858073ce7fab6464615
PDF Text
Text
COMMUNITY EVENTS CALENDAR
March 1994
1160 Camino Cruz Blanca• Santa Fe, New Mexico 87501-4599
505/984-6104
THE DEAN'S WINTER FILM SERIES
Films are shown in the Great Hall, Wednesdays at 7 p.m.
Sponsored by the dean, admission is free.
Wednesday, February 23
Harold Lloyd Comedies
ti()t Wate.-/Safeb' Last
1923/24, U.S., Fred Newmayer & Sam Taylor
The r=-.-eshman
1925, U.S., Fred Newmayer & Sam Taylor
Wednesday, March 2
The
~ibelunaen
Part One: Siegfried
1924, Germany, Fritz Lang
Part Two: Kriemhild's Revenge
1924, Germany, Fritz Lang
Wednesday, March 9
Sun.-ise
1927, U.S., F. W. Murnau
�Tuesday, February 22
Dinesh D'Souza
Author of Illiberal Education
The Challenge of Diversity and Political Correctness on Campuses
8 p.m. in the Great Hall
LECTURES
~~~~~-
Admission is free to all lectures
Friday, March 4
Joshua Kates, tutor
Sappho I: An Ontological Approach
8 p.m. in the Great Hall
Friday, April 8
Jonathan Tuck, St. John's College, Annapolis
A Ramble on Fern Hill
8 p.m. in the Great Hall
CONCERTS - - - - - Admission is free to all concerts
Friday, February 25
The Baltimore Consort
The French Muse
(Music of the French Renaissance)
8 p.m. in the Great Hall
Wednesday, April 6
Christopher Berg, piano
Works by: John Cage, Terry Jennings, Christopher Berg,
Joseph Hannan, Bill Conti, William Flanagan, Serge Prokofiev
8 p.m. in the Great Hall
Informal Lunch Concerts
from 12:10-1:00 p.m. in the Senior Common Room
Beethoven Piano Sonatas: performances and discussions by Peter Pesic
Thursday, March 31
Op. 106 ("Hammerklavier")
�St. John's College
Spring 1994
Community
Seminar Day
Tuesday, April 5
4:30 - 6:30 p.m.
A reception will follow in the Great Hall,
second floor, Peterson Student Center.
Seminars are free, but space is limited.
Please register by Tirursday, March 31, 1994.
Your enrollment will be confirmed.
Ushers will direct you to your classroom.
Please call 984-6104 if you must cancel your registration.
Texts are available in the St. John's College BookstoreOpen 8:45 a.m. - 8 p.m. Monday- Friday
(closed 4 - 4:45 p.m.)
Open 1 - 7 p.m. Saturday
�Community Seminar Day
4:30 - 6:30 p.m.Tuesday, April 5
REGISTRATION
FORM
Detach and mail completed form to:
Spring Community Seminar Day, Public Relations
St. John's College
1160 Camino Cruz Blanca
Santa Fe, New Mexico 87501-4599
For information call 984-6104
Registration is on a first come, first served basis.
Deadline to enroll is Thursday, March 31, 1994
Please be sure to notify us immediately if you need to cancel.
Please enroll me in the following Community Seminar.
Indicate FIRST AND SECOND CHOICE in space next to tutor's name.
~I!_r~~!~~e~~~~-f~~_~-o~~_~~a-~ ~~-e-~~~~~~ ~~~ ~~i~~a!~ -~~~t-~o-~~~~ _c~-~i~~~ _.
Community Seminar Day-Tuesday, April 5, 1994
Please be sure to indicate a first and second choice.
1. Carey
7. Kates _ _ _ _ _ _ __
2. Cohn
8. Knight _ _ _ _ _ _ __
3. Torres
9. Scally _ _ _ _ _ _ __
4. Dar key
10. Slakey _ _ _ _ _ _ __
5. Densmore
11. Stickney _ _ _ _ _ __
6. Forkin
12. Taylor_ _ _ _ _ _ __
Name(s) _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __
Address _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __
City_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __
State_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ Zip _ _ _ _ _ _ __
VVorkphone _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __
Home phone _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __
�1. James Carey, As You Like It, by William Shakespeare.
A romantic comedy - quintessential Shakespeare.
Text: Any edition.
Room: SFH 106
2. James Cohn, "A Man and His Dog," by Thomas Mann.
A charming and deceptively simple short story about human and animal
nature, by one of the master storytellers.
Text: Thomas Mann, Death in Venice and Seven Other Stories. KnopfVintage International edition preferred.
Room: SFH 209
3. Olivia Delgado de Torres, The Kreutzer Sonata, by Leo Tolstoy.
After listening to Beethoven's composition of the same name, Leo Tolstoy
wrote this novella which poses the question: What is the goal of art and
its moral?
Text: Leo Tolstoy, The Kreutzer Sonata, in The Death of Ivan Ilych, New
American Library edition preferred.
Room: SFH 206
4. William Darkey, Howards End, by E.M. Forster.
Probably Forster's best novel and much more interesting than the movie.
Text: Any edition.
Room: SFH 205
5. Dana Densmore, "The Diver," by Isak Dinesen.
A strange magical, multi-layered parable of transcendence and immanence
by master storyteller Isak Dinesen, the heroine of Out of Africa.
Text: Anecdotes of Destiny, Vintage paperback edition preferred.
Room: SFH 210
(seminars continued on next page)
�6. Jim Forkin, "Mrs. Caliban," by Rachel Ingalls.
A funny and sad story about a housewife, her imagination and reality.
Text: Any edition.
Room: ESL 122
7. Joshua Kates, "Self Portrait in a Convex Mirror," by John Ashbery.
John Ashbery is, in my opinion, America's greatest living poet. We will
discuss one of his major poems and look at the painting that figures in it.
Text: Penguin paperback preferred.
Room: ESL 209
8. Georgia Knight, Camera Lucida, by Roland Barthes.
A short provocative essay on the medium of photography and the unsettling
relationship we have to its images.
Text: Noonday Press edition preferred.
Room: ESL 109
9. Thomas Scally, "Education of Children," by Montaigne.
An examination of the proper aims of education from a man who may yet
be re-channeled onto the Santa Fe school board.
Text: from Montaigne's Essays, photocopy in bookstore.
Room: ESL 215
10. Thomas J. Slakey, The Warden, by Anthony Trollope.
Trollope's first novel and one of his best.
Text: Any edition.
Room: ESL 123
11. Cary Stickney, "A Gentle Creature," by Dostoevsky.
A husband-and with him the reader-tries to understand the suicide of
his young wife.
Text: Great Stories of Dostoevsky, Harper Collins paperback edition
preferred.
Room: ESL 126
12. Kent Taylor, "Walking," by Thoreau.
In this important essay Thoreau uses walking-as act and image-to
explore parts of our nature we are rarely awake to.
Text: Dover Thrift edition preferred.
Room: ESL 211
r
�- - - - SPECIAL EVENT - - - - Friday, March 11
Public talk and question period with
Zen Master Bobby Rhodes
Providence, Rhode Island; Student of Korean Master Seung Sahn
7:30 p.m. in the Junior Common Room, admission is free
ill
SYMBOLIC HISTORY
SYMBOLIC HISTORY THROUGH SIGHT AND SOUND
Charles Bell, tutor emeritus
g
It
Admission is free - Beginning at 8 p.m. in the Junior Common Room
Tuesday, March 1
Reading from his second book of poems Delta Returns
with accompanying slides
Tuesday, March 8
Beginning the sequence of Symbolic History with Cycles:
patterns of history, early civilizations; where are we now?
Tuesday, March 15
Greece: The Tragic Myth and Deed: Homer to Plato, fruit of the fall
Tuesday, March 22
The Alexandrian Melt: East and West, backgrounds and convergence
Tuesday, March 29
The Search for Rome: outward vault, inner deepening
Tuesday, April 5
Early Christianity: from the origins to the fall of Rome
FILM SOCIETY
Films are shown in the Great Hall of Peterson Student Center. Admission is $4.00 per feature or $5.00
for both. Refreshments are available, including freshly ground, freshly-brewed Ohori's coffee, popcorn
with real butter, cookies, natural sodas and herbal teas. The Film Society is an independent organization
nm entirely by students.
Saturday, March 5
7p.m.
Diner
9:15 p.m. Angel Heart
Saturday, April 2
7 p.m.
The Wizard of Oz
9:15 p.m. Chitty Chith; Bang Bang
�St. John's College
1160 Camino Cruz Blanca
Santa Fe, New Mexico 87501-4599
Address Correction Requested
~~
U.S. Postage
PAID
Non-Profit
Organization
Permit No. 231
Santa Fe , NM
Inside
«.~ Spring 1994
Community
Seminar Day
Tuesday, April 5
Register Now
Published eleven times each year by the Public Relations Office. Please call 984-6104 to be placed on the mailing list.
�
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
paper
Page numeration
Number of pages in the original item.
8 pages
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Santa Fe Community Calendar, March 1994
Description
An account of the resource
Event calendar for the Santa Fe campus community, March 1994.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
St. John's College
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Santa Fe, NM
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1994-03
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
St. John's College owns the rights to this publication.
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
text
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
pdf
Language
A language of the resource
English
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
SF_Community_Calendar_1994-03
Calendar
-
https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/8c8aaf0c78ecd52742c4548d699d6594.pdf
3ff274ebca895d22d35b3aab58de5dc7
PDF Text
Text
COMMUNITY EVENTS CALENDAR
April 1994
1160 Camino Cruz Blanca• Santa Fe, New Mexico 87501-4599
505/984-6104
COMMUNITY SEMINAR DAY
f
R°£"£
Tuesday, April 5 from 4:30 - 6:30 p.m.
Space still available. To register call 984-6104
William Shakespeare's As You Like It ; Thomas Mann's A Man and His Dog; Leo Tolstoy's
The Kre11tzer Sonata; E.M. Forester's Howard's End; Isak Dinesen's "The Diver";
John Ashbery's "Self Portrait in a Convex Mirror"; Roland Barthes' Camera Lucida;
Montaigne's "Education of Children"; Anthony Trollope's Tire Warden;
Dostoevsky's" A Gentle Creature"; and Thoreau's "Walking."
�SYMBOLIC HISTORY
SYMBOLIC HISTORY THROUGH SIGHT AND SOUND
Charles Bell, tutor emeritus
Admission is free - Beginning at 8 p.m. in the Junior Common Room
Tuesday, April 5
Early Christianity: from the origins to the fall of Rome
Tuesday, April 12
The Dark Ages: Luminous! the world scene, birth of a culture
Tuesday, April 19
Gothic Prelude: The New Light: Romanesque to Gothic, Suger,
Abelard
Tuesday, April 26
Gothic Ground and Vault: raising the sacred roof, Thomas Aquinas
Tuesday, May 3
The Gothic Wave: the spread of gothic over Europe
LECTURES
Admission is free to all lectures
Friday, April 8
Jonathan Tuck
St. John's College, Annapolis
A Ramble on Fern Hill
8 p.m. in the Great Hall
Friday, April 15
Frank Pagano
Xenophon's Symposium
8 p.m. in the Great Hall
Friday, April 29
Janet Dougherty
Sophocles' Oedipus at Co/onus
8 p.m. in the Great Hall
�St. John's College
announces
The Master of Arts in
Eastern Classics
A three-term course of
study in the great books of
*
..
India
China
Japan
Introductory language study in
classical Chinese
and Sanskrit
~
~
m
~
*~
Application deadline: April 15
(late applications accepted on a space available basis)
Contact:
The Graduate Institute
St. John's College
Santa Fe, New Mexico 87501-4599
(505) 984-6083
�Dear Friends,
As director of communications at St. John's College, I am
frequently asked what our graduates do with a degree in
the liberal arts. The answer is they do many things. I include
the following information about St. John's College alumni
here for your interest.
Business
Teaching
20%
of all St. John's
alumni are in business
and finance-related
occupations. These
include management ,
systems design, banking,
marketing, accounting,
non-profit management,
consulting, real estate,
retail business, manufacturing and entrepreneurial activity.
18.5%
are engaged
in teaching or in educational administration.
Half of these alumni are
teachers or administrators
in colleges and universities, and the other half
are teachers or administrators in elementary
and secondary schools.
Communications
14.5%
are involved
in arts or communica·
lion. These professions
include journalism,
publishing, performing,
visual arts, TV broadcasting, film, architecture, advertising and arts
administration.
20%
Law
8%
are attorneys,
judges and other law
enforcement officials.
Medicine
6.4%
are in the
health and medical
service professions; 4%
of which are physicians.
Counseling
5.5%
work in social
services, including 3%
who are active counselors
or therapists and 1.5%
who are in the ministry.
Other
27.1 3Choose other
fields, including scientific
and academic research,
politics and government,
computer science, engineering, museum and
library administration,
public affairs and conservation/ ecology.
�Recently, the Higher Education Data Sharing Consortium
conducted a study of undergraduate sources for Ph.D.
degrees granted between 1981 and 1990. After adjusting for
institutional size, the study ranked one or the other of St.
John's campuses among the top 20 colleges and universities
in the country in five major categories:
• Humanities • Non-Science Disciplines • Psychology • Math
and Computer Sciences • Business Management
This same study also rated St. John's as an undergraduate
source of doctoral degrees in comparison to 144 leading
liberal arts colleges. St. John's was ranked as follows:
Rank
Percent Rank
Top 10%
Humanities
#15
# 2
Math and Computer Science
# 3
Top 5%
All Disciplines
on-Science Discipline
Top 5%
# 8
Top 10%
Business and Management
#10
Top 10%
Psychology
#13
Top 10%
Social Sciences
#19
Top 15%
Sciences and Engineering
#22
Top 15%
Geosciences
#32
Top25%
Physical Sciences
#38
Top30%
Life Sciences
#42
Top30%
Theology and Religion
#49
Top40%
If you would like to know more about our academic or
community programs, please call us at 984-6104 or stop by
for a visit.
Sincerely,
--;( ~ ·
Lesli Allison,
Director of Communications
�The Graduate Institute in
Liberal Education
offering the
Master of Arts in Liberal Arts
LITERATURE
POLITICS & SOCIETY
MATHEMATICS & NATURAL SCIENCE
PHILOSOPHY & THEOLOGY
HISTORY
Faculty and students together explore great works of the
Western tradition in small discussion classes that emphasize
free and open exchange.
Approved for teacher re-certification by the New Mexico State
Board of Education. Evening and summer classes compatible
with part-time and, in some cases, full-time employment.
Financial aid is available.
Contact the Graduate Institute at 984-6082
�CONCERTS
Admission is free to all concerts
Wednesday, April 6
Christopher Berg, piano
Works by: John Cage, Terry Jennings
Christopher Berg, Joseph Hanna, Bill Conti
William Flanagan, Serge Prokofiev
8 p.m. in the Great Hall
Wednesday, April 27
June DeToth, piano
all Bart6k program
8 p.m. in the Great Hall
Informal Lunch Concerts
from 12:10-1 p.m. in the Senior Common Room
Beethoven Piano Sonatas: performances and discussions by Peter Pesic
Thursday, April 21
Opp.110and 111
FILM SOCIETY
Films are shown in the Great Hall of Peterson Student Center. Admission is $4.00 per feature or $5.00
for both. Refreshments are available, including freshly ground, freshly-brewed Ohori's coffee, popcorn
with real butter, cookies, natural sodas and herbal teas. The Film Society is an independent organization
run entirely by students.
Saturday, April 2
7 p.m.
The Wizard of Oz
9:15 p.m. Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
Saturday, April 23
7 p.m.
The Woman In the Dunes
9:15 p.m. In the Realm of the Senses
Saturday, April 9
7p.m.
The Great Escape
Saturday, April 30
7 p.m.
Eight Men Out
9:15 p.m. Field of Dreams
Saturday, April 16
7p.m.
Cry Thy Beloved Country
9:15 p.m. The Milagro Beanfield War
Saturday, May 7
7 p.m.
Excaliber
9:15 p.m. The Princess Bride
�St. John's College
1160 Camino Cruz Blanca
Santa Fe, New Mexico 87501-4599
Address Correction Requested
U.S. Postage
PAID
Non-Profit
Organization
Permit No. 231
Santa Fe, NM
Published eleven times each year by the Public Relations Office. Please call 984-6104 to be placed on the mailing list.
�
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
paper
Page numeration
Number of pages in the original item.
8 pages
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Santa Fe Community Calendar, April 1994
Description
An account of the resource
Event calendar for the Santa Fe campus community, April 1994.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
St. John's College
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Santa Fe, NM
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1994-04
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
St. John's College owns the rights to this publication.
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
text
Format
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pdf
Language
A language of the resource
English
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
SF_Community_Calendar_1994-04
Calendar
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