Dear Vincent, This is a Hungry Ghost.

Dear Vincent,

This is a Hungry Ghost.

Dear H. Ghost

Hungry Ghosts crave more attention than is available. They mourn and wail and wallow more than is reasonable. Hungry ghosts are not happy for their friends, or for the bright-eyed shiny rich entrepreneurs on Facebook. Their feelings and cravings are more enormous and grotesque than what you would envision in your ideal picture of yourself. Starving your hungry ghosts does not exactly work. Somehow you still have to feed them.

I heard that every few weeks, Chinese monks escape over the monastery walls to get drunk on some disgusting vodka. And that the serene meditators of California go out for an obligatory burger and fries after their retreat. So they wouldn’t get too pure. So their hungry ghosts would not get too hungry. I love these stories.

My hungry ghosts are eating unwashed carrots out of the bag. They are not quitting coffee, or folding the hanging laundry within an acceptable amount of time. They are dreaming illusions of grandeur and longing to jump into bed with someone impossible. They have not forgiven my perfectly darling mother. They are naked and hungry and lonely and sad and still somehow beautiful. And somehow, you still have to feed them.

Love, Erica. 

Send your imaginary and un-imaginary emails to Vincent, or to me. The secret email address is ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com. Love to you and your Hungry Ghosts.

Compost and Me


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