giving up the ghost

hello again

I’m envious of other people’s ability to just launch into whatever they want to say right away, without feeling the need to preface it with an explanation, an excuse, or an apology of some sort. I have a tendency to overexplain myself.

One of the reasons it took me so long to update this newsletter was that every time I sat down to write something, I always started with an apology, a long-winded explanation for my months-long absence, that, when read back, felt tiresome and unnecessary. It made me cringe and yet I couldn’t stop myself from doing it. All I could think was: “shut up, shut up, shut up—no one cares.”

I used to have this recurring dream where I’m talking to somebody but can’t seem to get the words out. I try to enunciate the words slowly but something’s in the way. The person I’m speaking to looks puzzled. That’s when I realize I have a retainer in (I used to wear one as a teen). It feels awkward in my mouth, like I haven’t worn it in a while, so it no longer fits the contours of my mouth comfortably. There’s no resolution to the dream; it just ends with frustration.

*

I’ve been reading up on Chiron’s significance in astrology. A minor planet situated between Jupiter and Saturn, Chiron is supposed to represent deep wounds in a person’s life and how you can overcome them. Mine’s in Gemini, which means my wounds relate to communication and expression. According to astrologer Cara Ivana, “Individuals with this placement may feel misunderstood or struggle with articulating their thoughts. The path to healing lies in embracing one’s voice and finding confidence in sharing one’s ideas with the world.”

Another reading of Chiron that resonates with me is

Cameron Steele

’s, whose newsletter I find myself returning to often, especially when I feel lost or need a soft place to land. For her, Chiron “represents tender spots where rage, envy, self-pity, grief, and a sense of helplessness surface before much of anything else.” She believes it “encompasses aspects of our selves that reveal how our lives never quite operate in accordance with what we think we do or do not deserve.”

I haven’t had the retainer dream in years, but I do remember thinking, even then, how it was a bit too on the nose. Dreams like that make me laugh, the symbolism hitting you over the head with a frying pan. If it were a film I’d say it was heavy-handed. But I suppose I prefer those dreams. These days mine are a lot less legible, more prone to misinterpretation.

*

Last week, I received a message from someone I hadn’t spoken to in five years. A ghost, as far as I was concerned. Immediately I consulted two friends who also knew them about what to do. One friend said they’d received a similar message. We theorized about what it could mean, like we were trying to decipher a dream. I stressed over what to say and whether to even reply at all. My other friend said I should hear them out. I told them I’d sleep on it.

The next day I awoke to news that my mother’s sister had passed. We were only two weeks into January, and we’d already lost two loved ones, my dad’s brother leaving us the week before. Death felt like it was closing in on us. My brother texted, “Can people please stop dying?”

I thought about the family vacation we took two years ago—the last time I would see M. Even though it had been years since we’d seen each other, the affection in her voice made it feel like no time had passed. It was always easy being around her, even growing up. I thought about how young she still was, how she hadn’t told anyone she was sick.

I thought about the ghost again; all the wounds their message had reopened. Maybe I’d finally get some closure. Later that day, I sent them my reply. I was honest and direct. So much of our relationship had hinged on the unspoken. I decided if I was going to let this person back into my life, I wasn’t going to prop up a fantasy. I told them I didn’t know what to make of their message or why they were reaching out after all these years. I left it open-ended. Surely they would have something ready, I thought.

It’s been ten days and I still haven’t heard back. When I told the friend who encouraged me to respond, he joked, “It might take them another five years to reply.” Another unresolved dream ending in frustration.

*

Last Friday, I woke up to a message from my friend Amanda that David Lynch had died. She sent me a link to a news article with the caption, ‘Time for a retrospective.’ I felt numb to the news. At this point, it would be more surprising if the rest of January played out without incident.

Despair would be the emotion I’d typically reach for. Most of my 2024 felt marked by it. Watching what was happening in Gaza—the horrific brutality of the genocide against the Palestinian people—put me in a perpetual cycle of rage and helplessness. Another reason I couldn’t write: I didn’t feel like I deserved to. The world was burning. The last thing people needed was my shitty art.

I realize now that the point is to keep going, to keep writing, to keep making my/your (shitty) art precisely because the world is burning. And who cares if it’s shitty? It’s mine—one of the few things left in my life that hasn’t been sullied by capitalism.

Still from I Saw the TV Glow

When I turned 40 last year, I realized that so much of what getting older is about is doing the same things over and over, repeating the same mistakes, learning and re-learning, forgetting and then remembering the same lessons you thought you’d already learned the last time, doing all of it, over and over until you finally arrive at some sentimental platitude you first heard when you were a child, or saw on some bumper sticker, or heard in some song. Like time heals all wounds. Like life is short. To paraphrase Tavi Gevinson in her recent newsletter, say what you have to say and make what you have to make while you still have time.