there are ghosts
Nov. 11th, 2025 03:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
f0rrestI'm writing this from my dad’s basement, where I used to do my homework, where I used to play Final Fantasy X and Vanguard Bandits and Klonoa on a massive gray CRT television set that was once in the corner over there, where I used to write embarrassing LiveJournal entries about the love of my life, hoping she would swoon when she read them. I used to live here twenty years ago, and now, sitting here in this basement, I see visions of two young lovers sitting on the couch just over there, holding hands under a blanket, whispering sweet forevers. There are ghosts.
This is the land of soccer moms and junior sports leagues and electric cars and three-story houses and church groups and ghosts. This is the place where I grew up, the place where I fell in love, the place where most problems are first-world and money solves those that are not. People low-key compete over who can have the most extravagant holiday decorations on their lawn. American flags are flown high with weird, menacing purpose. The trees are deciduous and leaves fall in real time as if in a scene from a movie. Brick retaining walls hold back lawns full of sculpted hedges dotted with pink and white flowers. I have fuzzy recollections of these houses. Craig used to live in that one. Brett’s burned down. Mandy would let us sneak into her basement through the sliding glass door after her parents went to bed. Lexi dropped out and joined Greenpeace. Hayden just disappeared one day. Aaron the Anarchist’s parents kicked him out, now he works as a sushi chef down the road. Em used to live down that road, in a brick house on a hill with a winding driveway and a garage that was always open. I drove by there once, the last time I visited, about a year ago, just to see what would happen. I thought maybe she’d be out there. Maybe she’d see me. The garage was open. Her mom’s old Mini Cooper was still in there. I saw a young man with crazy hair placing a bundle of baby’s breath at her front door. There are ghosts.
Around here, people pick up their dog’s shit in little baggies. There is something subservient about this. People jog down the side paths wearing expensive health-monitoring technology, as if logging heart rates and oxygen levels makes them feel more real, more alive somehow. Kids here used to hide cigarettes and Ziplocs full of weed nugs, now they just vape. Family pets are instantly replaced upon death and no one even bothers to stop and analyze this for a second. She loved cats, one of them was named Pickles. Pickles used to hang out with us in her basement. We used to watch anime. Cowboy Bebop, Elfen Lied, Rurouni Kenshin. We’d just sit there on her big tan couch, holding each other, watching anime, whispering forevers. This was love. The butterflies. The queasiness. The whole “Is she going to make a move, or should I?” thing. The romantic suspense. Sometimes it returns, but only a shadow. There are ghosts.
There is no police presence here whatsoever. I have never once seen a cop car or heard a siren. Any crime happening goes unnoticed. When little Tommy gets in trouble, Daddy pulls some strings. The number of BLUE LIVES MATTER bumper stickers is too high to count for obvious reasons. Cars don't honk, those that do are reported for noise violations. Beers are cracked midday. Lawn-care equipment is wielded like Excalibur. Refrigerators are covered in sons and daughters wearing various sports uniforms and smiling forced smiles. Children are trophies, bragging rights, tickets to vicarious living. Dads congregate in cliques of baseball, basketball, football, and tennis. Soccer is considered faggy. Dads wear baseball caps with symbols on them. They love their symbols. They argue about these symbols. You are considered strange if you do not have a symbol. Moms do yoga and Pilates and vote Republican. Dean Koontz is a highly lauded author around these parts. Movies such as Forrest Gump are considered the absolute peak of cinematic achievement. Everyone is in real estate. They do foreclosures in the bad parts of town. They renovate haunted houses, flip mansions full of ghosts. This is how they make their money. Two-car garages often have three, sometimes four cars in them, many unused. They complain about government waste and vote to cut welfare benefits. The strip malls are multi-storied. There are shops for everything imaginable. We used to walk around the Media Play holding hands and saying very little. There are ghosts.
That Media Play is a Trader Joe’s now. All the soccer moms love Trader Joe’s. Chinese restaurants and Mexican restaurants and Italian restaurants are all owned and managed by Caucasian individuals. Ethnic people exist here, but not on their own terms. They play multicultural pretend. Chiropractic is considered a legitimate medical practice with no harmful long-term consequences. These people live happy, sheltered lives, informed by gossip and Fox News. Chick-fil-A is the only fast food they’ll eat. Everyone waves and smiles from a distance, yet they are unapproachable somehow. There is a fakeness here unlike anywhere else. People look at you weird if your clothes aren’t from American Eagle or Aeropostale. We used to haunt the mall downtown and laugh at the people who shopped in those stores. We wore dark clothing and scowls on our faces. We would shop at Hot Topic and think we were cool and unique and above it all. Last time I went to that mall, I saw two young lovers in a linoleum alley, kissing in secret. There are ghosts.
Whenever I return here, to my dad’s old house, I dream about her. My unconscious mind comes up with all sorts of wonderful situations, often taking place in some Picasso version of her home, and when I wake from these dreams, my whole day is tinged by what-ifs and how-comes, and I become full of regret, and I question all the choices I’ve made up to this point in my life, and I pine. I sulk and I pine. And when I leave the house to go shopping or to the park or whatever, she haunts the corner of my eye. I look for her in each passing car. My stomach flutters with the possibility of catching just a single glimpse of her. I fantasize about running into her at the Half-Price Books, striking up a conversation, getting to know her again, showing her how I’ve changed, how I’ve matured, how I didn’t have to ask what her favorite flower was this time, how I’m not an asshole anymore. I sulk and I pine and I look for her. There are ghosts.
This is the land of soccer moms and junior sports leagues and electric cars and three-story houses and church groups and ghosts. This is the place where I grew up, the place where I fell in love, the place where most problems are first-world and money solves those that are not. People low-key compete over who can have the most extravagant holiday decorations on their lawn. American flags are flown high with weird, menacing purpose. The trees are deciduous and leaves fall in real time as if in a scene from a movie. Brick retaining walls hold back lawns full of sculpted hedges dotted with pink and white flowers. I have fuzzy recollections of these houses. Craig used to live in that one. Brett’s burned down. Mandy would let us sneak into her basement through the sliding glass door after her parents went to bed. Lexi dropped out and joined Greenpeace. Hayden just disappeared one day. Aaron the Anarchist’s parents kicked him out, now he works as a sushi chef down the road. Em used to live down that road, in a brick house on a hill with a winding driveway and a garage that was always open. I drove by there once, the last time I visited, about a year ago, just to see what would happen. I thought maybe she’d be out there. Maybe she’d see me. The garage was open. Her mom’s old Mini Cooper was still in there. I saw a young man with crazy hair placing a bundle of baby’s breath at her front door. There are ghosts.
Around here, people pick up their dog’s shit in little baggies. There is something subservient about this. People jog down the side paths wearing expensive health-monitoring technology, as if logging heart rates and oxygen levels makes them feel more real, more alive somehow. Kids here used to hide cigarettes and Ziplocs full of weed nugs, now they just vape. Family pets are instantly replaced upon death and no one even bothers to stop and analyze this for a second. She loved cats, one of them was named Pickles. Pickles used to hang out with us in her basement. We used to watch anime. Cowboy Bebop, Elfen Lied, Rurouni Kenshin. We’d just sit there on her big tan couch, holding each other, watching anime, whispering forevers. This was love. The butterflies. The queasiness. The whole “Is she going to make a move, or should I?” thing. The romantic suspense. Sometimes it returns, but only a shadow. There are ghosts.
There is no police presence here whatsoever. I have never once seen a cop car or heard a siren. Any crime happening goes unnoticed. When little Tommy gets in trouble, Daddy pulls some strings. The number of BLUE LIVES MATTER bumper stickers is too high to count for obvious reasons. Cars don't honk, those that do are reported for noise violations. Beers are cracked midday. Lawn-care equipment is wielded like Excalibur. Refrigerators are covered in sons and daughters wearing various sports uniforms and smiling forced smiles. Children are trophies, bragging rights, tickets to vicarious living. Dads congregate in cliques of baseball, basketball, football, and tennis. Soccer is considered faggy. Dads wear baseball caps with symbols on them. They love their symbols. They argue about these symbols. You are considered strange if you do not have a symbol. Moms do yoga and Pilates and vote Republican. Dean Koontz is a highly lauded author around these parts. Movies such as Forrest Gump are considered the absolute peak of cinematic achievement. Everyone is in real estate. They do foreclosures in the bad parts of town. They renovate haunted houses, flip mansions full of ghosts. This is how they make their money. Two-car garages often have three, sometimes four cars in them, many unused. They complain about government waste and vote to cut welfare benefits. The strip malls are multi-storied. There are shops for everything imaginable. We used to walk around the Media Play holding hands and saying very little. There are ghosts.
That Media Play is a Trader Joe’s now. All the soccer moms love Trader Joe’s. Chinese restaurants and Mexican restaurants and Italian restaurants are all owned and managed by Caucasian individuals. Ethnic people exist here, but not on their own terms. They play multicultural pretend. Chiropractic is considered a legitimate medical practice with no harmful long-term consequences. These people live happy, sheltered lives, informed by gossip and Fox News. Chick-fil-A is the only fast food they’ll eat. Everyone waves and smiles from a distance, yet they are unapproachable somehow. There is a fakeness here unlike anywhere else. People look at you weird if your clothes aren’t from American Eagle or Aeropostale. We used to haunt the mall downtown and laugh at the people who shopped in those stores. We wore dark clothing and scowls on our faces. We would shop at Hot Topic and think we were cool and unique and above it all. Last time I went to that mall, I saw two young lovers in a linoleum alley, kissing in secret. There are ghosts.
Whenever I return here, to my dad’s old house, I dream about her. My unconscious mind comes up with all sorts of wonderful situations, often taking place in some Picasso version of her home, and when I wake from these dreams, my whole day is tinged by what-ifs and how-comes, and I become full of regret, and I question all the choices I’ve made up to this point in my life, and I pine. I sulk and I pine. And when I leave the house to go shopping or to the park or whatever, she haunts the corner of my eye. I look for her in each passing car. My stomach flutters with the possibility of catching just a single glimpse of her. I fantasize about running into her at the Half-Price Books, striking up a conversation, getting to know her again, showing her how I’ve changed, how I’ve matured, how I didn’t have to ask what her favorite flower was this time, how I’m not an asshole anymore. I sulk and I pine and I look for her. There are ghosts.
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Date: 2025-11-13 11:47 pm (UTC)