I want to start this week out with a sincere apology for buying the red bowls. Last Sunday evening, we discovered our cereal bowl set was down to one. The other three had succumbed to various cracks, chips and shatters over the years. Thus, I purchased a new set – a red set – which arrived Tuesday.

While making the purchase, I recognized the danger. A part of me knew I was tempting fate ordering red bowls for arrival on election day – especially since I could have chosen blue bowls.

Did my red bowls portend the result of the election? Likely not. Yet I can’t shake the feeling that in some parallel universe, the Walker with blue bowls in his cupboard has been celebratorily toasting since Tuesday evening rather than drowning his sorrows like the Walker of this world.

So, again, I’m very sorry for buying the bowls.

Haunted

I’ve been asking myself a lot of questions this week. As I sat down to pen this, the top one on my mind was, “What’s the point?”

I began this project because I think it’s wise for creatives to have a space of their own – someplace where they’re their own boss, can do whatever they want and maybe even make a few bucks off it if they’re lucky. Additionally, if you’re in an industry where the ground is prone to shifting, like me, planting your flag in a spot where you can ensure there aren’t any earthquakes when the ground eventually falls out from under you elsewhere is a solid career move.

Of course, this means you need to create consistently, and I mulled over what I would write about for a long time. I thought maybe movies, but then I’d have to find the time and money to keep up with them all. I flirted with politics briefly, but didn’t want to have to worry about my car exploding each time I started it. Football was another option, but why extend my Bears fan misery to the other six days of the week?

Ultimately, I decided to go with the paranormal because of my long-standing interest in the area and because it combined several of my other interests – historical research, philosophy, storytelling, etc. But after Tuesday, with reality weighing down harder than it has in a long time, what’s the point in talking about ghosts or researching old UFO stories?

Even before Tuesday evening’s events, I sometimes asked myself what the point of this is. I approach this work with the occasional acknowledgment that, “None of this stuff is probably even real.” I don’t honestly believe that. I think there’s something to what people experience that we call the anomalous – but it’s basic math that there is a greater than 0% chance that none of it’s real and folks are merely delusional. I could just be wasting my time and should grow a pair, learn how to check for car bombs and write about something meaningful

Yet, I feel there is meaning to all of this.

I began this piece less than 24 hours after the election was called and was feeling extra pessimistic. I was worried for my LGBTQ friends and family members, the structure of my community and even my personal safety as a historically outspoken, pro-labor lefty.

Then, a few days passed, and the sun came out. The bleakest thoughts subsided, and I was reminded that maybe there is meaning in all this potential woo-woo nonsense.

Doing Numbers

For some years now, I’ve observed what I tongue-in-cheekily refer to as Walker Magic. It is borne out of the idea I encountered in middle school of making a wish at 10:10, 11:11 and/ or 12:12 should one spy them on a clock. It was then further reinforced in college when I learned about synchronicities from a coworker who would eventually sell me acid. He said those times were signposts from the universe that a person was on the right path. His DMT-gained knowledge meshed well with my middle school-aged magic, and I reasoned there, obviously, must be something to it all.

Walker Magic was refined over the pandemic and self-quarantine, when it acted as both a grounding agent and something to laugh about to myself. I treat it like Pascal’s Wager. If there is any truth to this middle school-based practice, neat. If not, it causes no harm. And so, when my eyes happen upon a clock at the correct minute, a small ritual is observed, and Walker Magic is performed.

For many years, these three times were the only ones recognized. The wisdom of the middle schoolers was firm in that the magic minutes were only 10:10, 11:11 and 12:12.

However, the entire founding principle of Walker Magic was challenged one afternoon while visiting my parents. I discovered my dear mother made notes of repeating clock numerals beyond my sacred three. Suddenly, I found myself conflicted. One of the greatest humans to walk this Earth was validating Walker Magic while at the same time upturning the sacred middle-school and college burnout knowledge. It was a right pickle.

Ultimately, I expanded my horizons to incorporate the additional minutes. “If they’re good enough for mom, they’re good enough for me,” I figured. Has this had any tangible effects on Walker Magic? Yes and no. The whole practice likely has no impact on reality, but at least now when it’s performed, there’s a familial connection to the magic. I think about my mom, and that added bit of positive, emotional energy can usually be relied upon to brighten at least one minute out of even the worst days.

And I believe that’s the point behind all this potential woo-woo nonsense – it forms connections. These experiences, whatever they are or are not, happen to people across time and culture. Almost everyone has some strange story about experiencing something they can’t explain or likes hearing about other people’s tales. And if ghosts, bigfoot, UFOs and all the rest aren’t real, but the stories about them bring people together, if even just for one night around a campfire, isn’t that a good thing?

I like to think so, and with nothing but uncertainty looming ahead, it’s probably a good time to start forging connections and building community, even if it’s just one weird story at a time.

Or maybe I just never should have bought those fucking bowls.