Hollow Bone

A Hunger for Writing that Carries the Shape of Human Life

There is nothing profound that led me here. It was a series of disappointments, a crowded space, and a desire for the eccentric, the individuated, the sovereign.

Substack seems to be another channel for AI slop. There is a part of me that hates this term; it feels so inelegant, so crass. The other part of me knows this is exactly true. Absolute slop. I see friends – smart friends! emotionally aware friends! – subscribed to channels of flatness. Intellectual deflation. I am concerned for humanity, more so when those I hold in higher regard don’t see what I see. Send me an essay, and I will tell you right away. Why does it matter to you so much, Zivar? Live a little. I’ve always been a devotee of the truth, of the source, of honoring where “it” came from.

Perhaps it is an orthodox upbringing where the rabbis often said plagiarizing someone is like killing them. Perhaps it is because my own shadow fears being found out for not being smart enough, resourced enough, or grammatically sound. I can just hear my mom screaming, “Well, weblet. You are not good, you are well.” Somehow she captured the sound from across the house, through the bathroom door where she took a bath with a bag of Cape Cod chips and a Tab. Well.

I joined this space with excitement, a place of frontier and also a return to long-form conversations. When I visited Prague, I have a distinct memory of sitting in one of their magnificent old tea houses. At every table there seemed to be an elder, maybe two or three, with a huge stack of newspapers. How are we to draw our own conclusions without noting all angles and views?

I was listening to a podcast yesterday, hosted by The RealReal, and Kristin Naiman was speaking to the idea of dress code, how we find our people, and who we discover through the pieces we wear or don’t wear. Uniform can be a place of hiding or exploration; it’s the intention and curiosity behind it. I wore a navy blue jumper, then skirt with a white button-down oxford, from elementary school through the first two years of high school. At the time, Newsweek was sort of pop intellectualism, and I liked it. There was an article written by a senior at a boarding school about his relationship to uniform and how it might seem restrictive, but it actually allowed him the space to explore other parts of his personality without worrying too much about the costumes of life. I always loved that article.

Perhaps because it spoke to the ease of dressing each day and the energy accumulated for other things, perhaps because I was trying to rationalize how out of rhythm I felt with my peers. I love fashion. I have always loved fashion, and I could probably be a stylist myself if I wasn’t so devoted to comfort. I was medically what one might call obese at 13. At my heaviest, I was 210 pounds, maybe more. Nothing fit. Very few things fit. I was forced to wear doudy women’s clothing; no teen brand was offering modest clothes in my size. My friends went to Macy’s, and I sat in the dressing room with them as they stole Rampage, Bulldog, and Esprit. I never stole anything. I am from the Midwest. We don’t do such things, or at least not in groups.

In my adult life, I am always seeking the one who stands outside of the dress code, even slightly. Better if it’s just slightly; too much and it’s signaling a ravenous desire to belong. When I lived in San Francisco, I wore little dresses and tights almost every day; in New York, leggings from H&M. We live upstate now, and the new-age hippie, shave-half-your-head look doesn’t do it for me, nor does the trad wife, spin-your-own-wool-to-make-frocks-of-hemp aesthetic. Clothing says a lot about who we are and nothing at all. I am a bit of a chameleon. One day I am in shorts and a T-shirt and the next in a flowy dress and beads. I am moody, my Mars is in Cancer, and I am the middle child. The middle of two girls.

I like being seen in my clothes, and upstate there are fewer eyes, which offers less motivation. I like seeing how people get dressed. I like sitting at the edge of their bed and witnessing their decision process. The unique way they come after their day. Maybe pulling from a pile in the corner, same old, same old. Maybe the walk-in closet that whispers to them, pick me.

I sometimes think about death. I actually think about death a lot. Having kids doesn’t make it easier, but it’s been a lifelong fear. My father dying when I was turning 19 brought it all front and center, and it was way worse than I had envisioned. His departure was brutal. I think about death and the embarrassment I would feel when friends and sisters descend on my messy closet. She was so particular, her home so clean, even her car. She vacuumed it every week and had a strict no-snack rule. How could this be? Her closet is a disaster.

I love clothes, I love adornments, I love words that feel specifically true to me or you. My friend often says, “allll the things,” and it’s so charming coming from her because it is her language, her way. Zach writes a letter to his community each week. He is one of the people who can seem so normal, running around in his ripped-off jean shorts and Nike tank, but just below the surface is a roaring river of intellectual rigor and curiosity. His writing reflects this, somehow both digestible and wildly complex.

When we first met, Zach said, “You should work on your grammar. Your writing is beautiful, but your grammar is preposterous.” For the first years, I felt defensive and even allowed him to edit, but the words never felt like me run through his brain. I write like I think, tentacles stretched far, somehow finding their way toward some truth or conversation worth exploring.

AI slop, dress codes, messy closets, and the feng shui of it all. For years I have heard people speak of the “Aquarian Age” of self-led, sovereign, and true-to-you paths. They will be rewarded. They will be recognized and appreciated over willful blindness and sheep mentality. I had hoped this would be true. I wish for this to be true.

I come here and see influencers and “writers” using AI to craft essays that sound like no one. A race to the bottom. Our friend Rudy, an Indigenous jeweler and maker of magic, says that channeling requires “hollow bones.” I see so many people inflated and proud of themselves. I “wrote” this essay, it’s so smart. But really it’s stupid. It’s a dirty river. A toxic dump. What nurtures a hollow bone? How have we become so polluted and lazy in spirit?

Do I stay here and continue speaking into the void, or do I find another way? I don’t know. But it has kept me quiet and listening. I want so much for us to sit together in a gaudy tea room, surrounded by stacks of essays written with your whimsy and your knowing. I want to drink your waters, pure and mineral rich. I want that for myself, too.