Phantoms
Phantoms are about anxiety—both personal and political. They are made from secrets, stains and worries, stitched together tightly so they don’t fall apart. Homeless but fearless, my spiritual worrywarts live with a desperation familiar to anyone with half of a brain alive today. They know that we’re in big trouble. Phantoms let themselves show up to parties in dirty thongs and last weekend’s party dresses. They do it to remember the sweet smell of their lover’s sweaty neck—not for a selfie. Phantoms don’t know about Kendall Jenner, Malala or Drake but they know all about clenched jaws and bitten fingernails. They live between dimensions; behind the veil of the world as we know it and the veil hiding all that is dead.
Phantoms are about anxiety—both personal and political. They are made from secrets, stains and worries, stitched together tightly so they don’t fall apart. Homeless but fearless, my spiritual worrywarts live with a desperation familiar to anyone with half of a brain alive today. They know that we’re in big trouble. Phantoms let themselves show up to parties in dirty thongs and last weekend’s party dresses. They do it to remember the sweet smell of their lover’s sweaty neck—not for a selfie. Phantoms don’t know about Kendall Jenner, Malala or Drake but they know all about clenched jaws and bitten fingernails. They live between dimensions; behind the veil of the world as we know it and the veil hiding all that is dead.
