Ghost(ed) Woman and the Electric Purple Pants (Preorder)

By Emilie Lindemann

Preorder your copy today! The book will be published on June 25, 2025.

Ghost(ed) Woman & the Electric Purple Pants is about the strange distortion of time during Covid and the time period after. The liberal arts college where Lindemann had taught for ten years closed its doors for good in 2020. In the months and years after, she felt stuck and frozen in time. These poems explore feelings of loneliness and uncertainty in the aftermath of job loss and other changes during the pandemic. In them, she finds refuge in nature, power in dreaming and creativity, magic in electric purple pants.

Praise for Ghost(ed) Woman & the Electric Purple Pants

Emilie Lindemann’s Ghost(ed) Woman & the Electric Purple Pants begins with the poet wondering if she’s a coconut oil, butter or lard kind of girl, then an image of caramels with cream centers & crinkle paper. This is our Ghost(ed) Woman on a journey through the pandemic of job loss, and isolation. In Lindemann’s sensual language, it’s rich with colors and tastes and mouthfeel, delivered in dreamscapes and lyrical missives: “a blue heron stands there, maybe in your suede boots.” From caesura to visual moments, she crafts connections, “tendril to tendril.”  – C. Kubasta, author of Under the Tented Skin and Abjectification

…jump in, right now (yes, quit reading this blurb), instead read Emilie’s poetry—time to enjoy this Ghost(ed) Woman and her parenthetical riffs on life — listen in: “… goodbye to the job that melted like coconut oil (or is she more of a butter girl? Has she ever used lard?).” Still here? OK. This is a lonely book, a happy book, a place to go to book— it’s more than poetry, more of a how to (come out alive) book: yes, and I must tell you, she has a peony mind, was once mistaken for clover, still lives in lilac time …. — CX Dillhunt, author of Nineteen, photographs by Byron R. Bennet (Hummingbird Press, 2023)

_________________________________________

Ghost(ed) Woman

Last seen wearing oversized sunglasses reminiscent of the mid aughts. Last seen waving a brisk goodbye to the job that melted like coconut oil (or is she more of a butter girl? Has she ever used lard?). She likes other people’s posts as if to leave croutons to the edge of some wooded area, her keystrokes hitting the screen in ghost time.

She extracts unrequited emails and lets them dry out in a cool, dark place. Herbs waiting, no expiration, no best by date. When Gmail says sent 7 days ago. Follow up?, she drifts under a pine tree, its branches extending over the sidewalk to the library. She finds a cart of philosophy books and feels the purple and deep blue spines and covers. Feels her toes, root-like, anchoring her to the tile floor of the library’s vestibule.

There is never a reply.