Ghosts in My Machines?
Ghosts in My Machines?
Since my wife passed just over a year ago, strange things have been happening. These events are all tied to music—a constant presence in our lives. Music was more than just something in the background; it was the soundtrack to our inner dialogue, the movie of our life together. It set the tempo for the milestones we shared, from the electric charge of youth to the quiet moments of reflection in our darker times. It was our language when words failed us, a medium transcending the usual boundaries of expression. Even now, certain songs bring me to tears, and I suspect they always will, until I, too, leave this mortal coil, hopefully, to be greeted by Shilo’s crooked half-grin.
When Shilo passed, my daughters and I planned an anti-funeral—more of a celebration of her life—at our favorite local dive bar. It was a place where we spent countless weekend nights. She would dance in the back corner, just off from the dartboard, alone at first, but having preloaded the jukebox with a playlist, she knew I would eventually be unable to resist and would join her, two souls dancing alone in the corner of a crowded mountain-town dive bar, lost in our own little world. This was our escape, where we could forget the hardships for a few hours, lost in conversation with new friends who had become old ones over the years.
In the days leading up to the memorial, we gathered in the same living room where Shilo had passed just days before. It was Mother’s Day weekend, I believe. I pulled out a rolling whiteboard from my writing room, and we began to share memories tied to songs that reminded us of her. What started as a few hours of reminiscing turned into over 18 hours of music, a playlist that became the soundtrack for the solemn event.
Since then, strange things have happened—things that mundane reasons might easily explain away. But as a writer and an artist, my mind naturally wanders to more fantastical explanations.
It has happened four times now. I was in the living room the first time, listening to the morning news. Something crept into the edges of my consciousness—at first, I thought it was just background noise from the TV, but it grew louder. Instinctively, I pulled out my phone and started recording, as any journalist would. I checked my youngest daughter’s room, thinking she might have left her Alexa playing music while getting ready for school, but no—the sound was coming from my room. From my old laptop, still in sleep mode, the screen blacked out and locked. The song playing was Weezer’s “Sweater Song,” a track we listened to occasionally but not all that much.
The third time it happened was the Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ “Maps.” By then, I was questioning my sanity.
I considered that maybe my kids were messing with me, hijacking my iTunes through the network, but they both use Spotify, just as Shilo did. They swear they aren’t involved, leaving me to wonder if I’m simply losing my mind. Maybe it’s hackers, but that seems an elaborate long game to play just a few songs.
So, I find myself wondering if there’s a message in the lyrics. These are certainly songs Shilo would have listened to—perhaps not the most significant ones, but the bands held meaning for her. Could it be a form of communication? Or am I simply slipping into madness, worn down by the relentless pace of writing seven days a week and the isolation of intellectual pursuits? It’s easy to lose one’s tenuous grip on reality under such conditions, and the trope of the isolated, mad artist is a familiar one.
The songs that have been played all seem to carry messages that resonate with my current state. Weezer's "Sweater Song" reflects the unraveling of life’s simple joys and the fragility of stability. It’s a song about the small actions that lead to a complete breakdown, much like how I sometimes feel my life is slowly coming undone. The lyrics speak to my isolation and loneliness despite the upbeat tempo. The irony and humor in the song don’t mask the deeper sadness—it’s a reminder of how easily things can fall apart.
The Yeah Yeah Yeahs' "Maps" is another song that touches me deeply. At its core, it’s about love and heartache, themes that are now ever-present in my life. The line “They don’t love you like I love you” feels like a desperate plea, a longing to hold onto something slipping away. The song’s vulnerability and raw emotion resonate with me in a way that’s almost too real. It captures the tension of trying to balance love with the other demands of life, and loss, a struggle I’m all too familiar with.
And then there’s Silversun Pickups' "Melatonin." The song’s themes of escapism and disconnection hit close to home. Since Shilo’s passing, I’ve often felt like I’m drifting, caught between reality and dreams. The song’s lyrics blur the line between what’s real and what’s imagined, much like my own life these days. The music has a dreamlike quality, as if it’s inviting me to escape into sleep, where perhaps I might find some semblance of peace if not for the constant haunting bad dreams.
I’m not saying it’s a ghost in my machines reaching out to me. But I can’t help feeling haunted—both in my dreams and waking moments. I just don’t know what to make of it.
I have included the videos I took when these events took place below:
