King Sorrow and His Paper Crown
Stay true. Used bookstores and their obscure sorrows. Ghost friend. Sad songs to make you cry. Voicemails from my mom.
I. Stay True
What does it mean to stay true to yourself? As a phrase, it’s always struck me as corny—the type of throwaway advice doled out during commencement speeches or imparted by your buzzed uncle at a family barbecue. But like any idiom, it is the kind of advice that acts as an anchor. A reminder to move through the world in a way that mirrors your values, beliefs, and desires. And what could be wrong with that?
From the start, this sentiment—stay true—has anchored my approach to Homesick. An amalgam of cultural criticism, memoir, and reportage, what I publish here is an ongoing reflection of that ethos. And today’s issue, which embraces my sad sack tendencies in all the best ways, is meant to expand the scope of what I write here.
II. The Obscure Sorrows of Used Bookstores
Used bookstores are some of my favorite places in the world. Not because I am big-brained and intellectual (I am not), or because I am well-read and wise (again, neither). I think what I like is the sense of possibility that these places represent. So many books, so many writers, so many things I don’t know, so many interpretations of the world I haven’t absorbed. A used bookstore often feels almost aspirational. In my dopamine-fueled bookstore mode, I sometimes buy books for the person I think I will become. Other times, I buy books that I think I will read or that I think other people would think I should read. I also buy books that I am genuinely curious about or excited to read. What I’m getting at is that there is always an undercurrent of
Being in a used bookstore also often puts me in a quiet, introspective mode. Sometimes that mode is peaceful. Other times it is somber. In The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows, an ongoing editorial project by author John Koenig that invents words for “feelings of existentialism” that lack names in the English language, he calls this experience vellichor, which he describes as:
the strange wistfulness of used bookstores, which are somehow infused with the passage of time—filled with thousands of old books you’ll never have time to read, each of which is itself locked in its own era, bound and dated and papered over like an old room the author abandoned years ago, a hidden annex littered with thoughts left just as they were on the day they were captured.
It turns out I’ve been experiencing vellichor most of my life. What’s more interesting, I think, is that I’m not alone.
III. Ghost Friend
Not long ago, I had the most lucid dream about a close friend of mine who died almost two decades ago. I was shopping in a small Italian grocery store in Chicago, picking out some things for lunch. Bean salad. Fresh mozzarella and tomato sandwiches. Kettle chips. Michelle and the boys were outside waiting for me in the car. I was trying to be quick. My arms were full, which happens all the time when I am awake in the world, and I was precariously juggling my deli items. As I rounded the corner, I saw my friend Mike, but he didn’t see me. When I followed him to the next aisle, I just missed him again.
“Mike?” I said, loud enough that the other customers looked at me. But my friend never turned around.
When the aisle opened up to the deli counter at the back of the store, and I finally caught up with him, Mike’s appearance had shifted. He was now a small boy, maybe eight years old, holding the hand of his mother, whom I didn’t recognize. As I stood there, arms full, the boy and his mother turned and saw me, looking confused but kind, like they were expecting me to say something.
“I’m sorry,” I told them. “Seeing your son reminded me of an old friend of mine.” The store went quiet as we looked at each other for a second, trance-like.
“I’ll let you get back to your shopping,” I said, feeling oddly like I might cry. As I turned to walk away, I heard a voice.
“Matt,” the mother said. “Look.” She was motioning toward the boy, who was waving at me. My heart dropped. I waved back. A second later, I woke up with a start. I never told the woman my name, I thought.
IV. Sad Songs to Make You Cry
Sad songs are my favorite songs. I never viewed myself as goth, but I think at heart I might be. Elliot Smith is my oracle when it comes to sad songs. I feel inextricably connected to Smith and his music because of all the terrible and wonderful times it has carried me through. “Last Call,” from Roman Candle, is my favorite. Some people will tell you “Twilight,” “A Fond Farewell,” or “Needle in the Hay” hold that honor, but I kindly disagree. “Last Call” is a devastatingly sad acoustic ballad sprinkled with just the right amount of electric guitar. Yet it somehow channels an odd, can-do kind of goosebump-inducing optimism.
I reach for sad songs all the time. Obviously, they are the most heart-wrenching when I am actually sad. An example of this that often comes to mind is the drive home from my weekly therapy sessions in the 2010s when I had my first panic attacks. Without fail, if I turned on classic rock radio for my ride home, I would dial in a handkerchief-clutching banger. Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here” destroyed me more than once. “Nights in White Satin” held similar sway, The Moody Blues reducing me to a tearful, head-on-the-steering-wheel puddle. It got to the point where I almost relied on classic rock ballads to tip me over the edge as a kind of purge before heading home to Michelle and the boys.
V. Voicemails from My Mom
Last night, while deleting tons of files to free up space in my Gmail account, I ran across several dozen emails from my mom, who has been on my mind a lot. Last week was her birthday, and this coming November marks four years since her death. The topics of the emails ranged from sharing articles she thought I might like or forwarding a funny video to words of encouragement when I lost my job in 2009, or photos of the boys helping her cook, or trim the Christmas tree, or shred documents in her home office. Reading these emails made me miss her voice. Sometimes I think about whether I will always remember the sound of her voice. Or as I get older, and the last time I heard her voice becomes further and further away, will I forget?
Last night, sitting on the couch in the living room, I opened my voicemails and scrolled to the bottom of the list, where three of her voicemails are saved. The message I listen to the most is from September 18, 2021, at 2:28 p.m.
”Hey Matt, it’s Mom,” she says. “It’s 2:30 on Saturday. I was just calling to see how you’re doing. I haven’t talked to you in over a month, so I’m sure we both have news to share—you probably more than me. Call me back when you get a chance. Bye.”
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