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I have no doubt that if you’re reading this editorial, you are one of us Halloween People. Well, congratulations. You’ve made it through summer and now October shines ahead of you with only the sweet-smelling barrier of school supply sales separating you from all things dark and pumpkin-y.
This story put me deep in the doo-wop and R&B sounds of the ’40s, ’50s and ’60s. The Ink Spots. The Penguins. The Dells. I had The Platters on loop. Revisiting classics like “Only You” and “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” In 2006, I wrote a feature story for Boston Globe Magazine about Herb Reed.
Michael J. Seidlinger is the Filipino-American author of The Body Harvest, Anybody Home?, Tekken 5 (Boss Fight Books), and other books. He has written for, among others, Wired, Buzzfeed, Polygon, The Believer, and Publishers Weekly. He teaches at Portland State University.
Americans love to think they reinvent everything they touch, which gives us license to make the same universal mistakes. But we do add a uniquely belligerent gusto to our observances that feels like misplaced pagan bloodlust, mistaken for patriotism.
Mark 5:1-20 tells the story of a man who lived among the tombs of the dead. This strange figure wandered through the hills and burial caves of Gerasa day and night, screaming ceaselessly and cutting himself with stones. The man, we are told, “had an evil spirit in him.”
There are no holidays in the month of August, and everyone is glad to see its back. But not this year, damn it. This year, we’re making August fun! We’ve rounded up the most electric work, the kinds of stories and poetry that can keep your swamp cooler going.
I love a mystery, and cosmic horror is a place where the mysteries are never fully solved. The persistence of our curiosity about monstrous cosmic indifference, or malice, is part of the thrill. Writing this story, I fixated on Carcosa, on the challenge of making it into a compelling character.
I don’t like “The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe. This is what I’m thinking while I am helping my daughter through the last bits of her Gothic Literature class. She doesn’t actually need my help, she just wants it. The class was taught by a woman who was clearly passionate about the Gothic.
I first visited Haw Par Villa as a kid. Weirdly, I was most afraid of the exhibit that shows the “good souls” standing on the silver and gold bridges to cross into paradise. For some reason I interpreted that exhibit to mean that the good souls would be standing on that bridge forever.
There is no working, thinking creature that does not have their thoughts, their life, their whole essence, alienated from them. Whether you work as a labourer, a gardener, a chef, a cleaner, a brickie, a middle-manager, an assistant, you have your very life purchased from you (if you’re lucky enough to be paid). When I worked in grounds maintenance for the council, I certainly sold my inability to feel what is now a continual ache in my hips
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