Why I Argue With Ghosts

On the Fear That Hides Behind the Question: "What Do You Think?"

I want to be with those who know secret things or else alone. — Rainer Maria Rilke

The Ache

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I don’t much care for surface-level conversation. The weather, the traffic, the price of groceries; these are the scaffolding of interaction, not the substance. I can smile and nod with customers at my wife’s shop, play the game at a party, do my part in the social rituals of mingling. But my tolerance thins quickly, especially when the other person is a friend.

There’s a story I’ve told before, short version goes like this: I flew to New York to see my oldest and dearest friend. We hadn’t been face to face in years. I had visions, hopes, really, of a weekend steeped in old jokes, new questions, and deeper conversation. Over dinner on the first night, I tried to open something up. Something meaningful, something that might spiral into shared thought. What I got instead were slogans: “You didn’t build that.” “We just need to tax the rich.” “I know I’m a hypocrite.” CNN brainstems, delivered with a half-shrug. Not so much arguments as pre-recorded disclaimers.

I felt let down. Not because I expected agreement, but because I expected engagement.

More recently, a jeweler who’s a friendly acquaintance came into the store. She’s kind, well-meaning, warm, and politically left-leaning. We’d chatted before. On this particular day, she brought up tariffs and asked, “What do you think?” I gave her an honest answer. That was the mistake. Or maybe the invitation. Or both.

What followed was an hour-long tangle. Not a shouting match. She was polite, if not even eager. But I left feeling hollow. It wasn’t the disagreement. It was the pattern. Each time we touched on a broader point, she would retreat into pedantry. Facts, details, technicalities. I’d try to elevate the conversation to the level of values, frameworks, and assumptions, and she’d dive back into the weeds. Not to evade, exactly. More like a turtle retreating into the armor of minutiae.

And again: I was disappointed.

Because I had wanted something more.

Because I had expected something more.

This is the ache.

I want deep, values-driven conversations.

I want to know what you believe, not just what you think you know.

I want to wrestle, not win. To be sharpened, not affirmed.

But I keep reaching for it, and finding something else.

And I don’t know whether to blame the other, or the reach.

Every scarecrow I build was once a hope I buried in straw.

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