Our theme for the month of October is “haunt.”
I once wrote an embarrassing and very earnest poem about dancing with the skeletons in your closet. It was for The Craft of Writing, and I took it with Casey Nagle. I wrote it after a couple of light heartbreaks and after reading Pádraig Ó Tuama’s readings from the book of exile. Obviously, he wrote it better, and I think Professor Nagle probably hated it. But this poem was meant to depict a reckoning of sorts, a confrontation between the reader and their demons, heartbreaks, and secrets. Like all good reckonings, there’s got to be a soundtrack. Cinematically accompanying the two figures I imagined, I always see them swaying with a record player slowly dropping the needle and playing some sad but soulful track. Several albums that could play in the background of that experience come to mind, such as Sufjan Steven’s Javelin, Julien Baker’s Little Oblivions, and Frank Ocean’s Channel Orange. Omar Apollo’s new album, God Said No, has just made this list.
The poem was very queer and sad, in case that gets lost in subtext.
Apollo is an ‘ex’ and a performer who demands your attention. This whole album is about the grief that comes from a failed relationship. It conjures the ‘rip your eyelashes out kind of annoying‘ limbo of loving and hating this person. This breakup album is meant to be heard at the club, where you can use dance to heal the wounds caused by an ex-lover. This soulful bedroom R&B album drenched in pop glitter is honest, visceral, and genuinely haunting. It made me think of people I try hard to forget. Not to be dramatic, but I’d argue that Apollo is a ghost with vengeance, and sorrow anchors him to this realm. The visuals from his concerts only prove my point.
I had the opportunity to see him live in Raleigh, and I have been thinking about the performance for quite a while now. That’s what good art does, right? He forced the audience to engage with their own heartbreak to be able to understand him. The cinematic feel of his stage presence had us all entranced. His use of white scrims and backup dancers that followed him with this modern, lyrical dance made the night feel like we were at an art show at MoMa versus an amphitheater surrounded by parking garages in the South. He moved like water under the moonlight, demanding the cheers we were ready and eager to give him.
“You’re a gentleness my body just won’t forget
You’re a handprint on my heart I just can’t possess.”
Ghosts stick around to take care of unfinished business. We could all do well to admire their pause, their resistance to moving on. Sometimes, you need to sit and feel in order to process in a way that doesn’t rush healing. Apollo approaches unfinished business with sorrow. He holds space for wishes that couldn’t come true. He mourns when religion, duty, or timing gets in the way.
“The wait kept me from you
Your faith kept you from truth
When I, when I was kissing him, I was seeing you
I’m not sure what to do.”
In that same space, we hear an openness to the unknown. There is sadness for the unrealized futures we long for, but also an honesty about how moving forward is complex and the reality that the next step might be confusing and frustrating.
A dear friend of mine, Ezra Craker, once wrote, “To yearn—whether for human companionship or the presence of God—means to love across an impasse, to love in the shape of a question when you know the answer might be silence.” He was writing about Sufjan Stevens, but I think this applies here too. This album is for the yearners who are left both rageful and sad. Apollo’s words resonate with those who face the reality that sometimes love isn’t enough. You can do everything right; the connection can feel like a click in place. But sometimes, it doesn’t work out. That is devastating, especially for those who sometimes have to hurt in silence from across a room or church pew. Holding space for that pain and loss is important. Apollo’s music makes you want to hold space and dance until you can’t anymore.
The album and his concert end with the song “Glow.” He sings, “If grief could burn us out, we’d turn to coal. There’s someone in your life that heals your wounds.” This message of hope and healing pulls the listener into a spirit of optimism. A hope that what is meant to happen will happen and that our grief is a teacher, leaving us feeling raw and vulnerable but hopefully authentic. This is when our ghosts, skeletons, and remnants are supposed to leave us.
Izzy Nunez graduated from Calvin in 2022 after studying graphic design and sociology. Today she lives in Durham, North Carolina where she is a graphic designer for Duke University. She is growing to love Durham and all its southern charm even if she complains that its breakfast choices aren’t as good as they are in the Grand Rapids.
“Ghosts stick around to take care of unfinished business.”
So good.
And just because it clicks doesn’t mean it always works out?
So true.