It’s near eleventythirty at night, and I’m in the kitchen cleaning my air conditioner filter (because I saw a CLR commercial… don’t ask. If you pay enough attention, you’ll figure out how my mind works all on your own…) when I see a weird flash of sparklies to my left. I look through my horrid hair curtain (as if I could hide behind it) at the general area in which the said sparklies seemed to appear, and my logical brain says “headlights from passing car”. However, my illogical brain says “kitchen demon – maybe Time Lord”. Logical brain says “don’t be childish” and illogical brain retorts “I didn’t hear no passing car!” To which I reply “No. No I didn’t…”
You’ll note at this point that none of me is considering ghosts. That’s because we don’t believe in spooks, we don’t we don’t we don’t. No Caspar. No Topper. No tortured soul going through my kitchen cabinets in the wee hours of the night, no matter what Mum says. (Seriously, what would a ghost possibly want with Corelle dinnerware and Singha beer glasses. Wait a minute. Just answered my own question there.) There are no deceased walking amongst us, unless they are of the zombie ilk and most likely part of an experiment in reanimation perpetrated by the military-industrial complex.
I don’t believe in these things so much that I often think that I should have one of those ghost hunting programs on the cable. You know – the ones where the guys incorrectly use EMF detectors and manhandle $250,000 infrared heat detection systems and go into spooky old buildings, former hospitals, and prisons, freak themselves out and prove nothing to the world or modern science. You can’t say a place is haunted just because you have an ookie feeling. The feeling is just that primal monkey part of you that remembers not to hang out in unfamiliar or dark places and startles at strange noises because usually they indicate that some beastie is going to eat you if you’re off your guard. It pokes at your fight or flight button just enough to make you feel ookie. It’s okay though, it’s natural, and it will pass.
My ghost hunting show will be awesome. It will star myself along with Thunderball and the Cyborg, maybe Laird Tom and a guest star – like Gaiman or Bill Nye the Science Guy (or both, we’ll just go with it). We’ll roll up on a purportedly haunted place and walk around all night, bored as all get the-the-frell-out. We’ll be sarcastic and snarky. If we hear something we’ll explain what it was, and show you. Explain how shit works. How your imagination works. We’ll do the dares they do on that one show where all the guys call out the ghosts but then in the end they run away screaming like little boys. You’ll see us lock ourselves up in the abandoned morgue only to cut to morning when we are waking up: with the opening strains of ‘The William Tell Overture’ playing in the background as we push ourselves out of our metal formerly refrigerated drawers, stretch and yawn, and head out to the Friendly Toast for breaky. Best ghost reality show EVER.
Unfortunately, as my logical brain, illogical brain, and the rest of me denies the existence of spooks, we all have this strange nagging wish that what we’re witnessing is really magic. It’s this sad holdover from when I was a little kid wishing my real family would show up, tell me that I’m a badass fairy princess and whisk me away to some dream world. And just let me note right here, that this is no Disney, bullshyte fairy princess. No. This is the ass kicking warrior fairy princess who makes folks bleed. Seriously. As a mere youth I would roam my inner city neighborhood, wielding a broken hockey stick (my sword) and jumping off shit (that’s called ‘flying’). My local library was a magical wizards lair; the books unending sources of absolute power (still are). My park had a giant metal Thunderdome set in concrete for all the kids to play on (this is true), and I would just rule that thing: climb to the very top and force my minions to do my bidding and fight to the death (or crack their heads open, whichever came first). My fairy princess true identity was badass. (Still is.)
This all came, of course, from reading too much and watching too many episodes of She-Ra.
So, the point is, tonight, I either saw headlights or had a hallucination or saw the little pre-migraine sparklies some people report (but I don’t get) but most of me was hoping it was magic. A doorway perhaps to a land we’re I’m skinny and when I announce that I’m the Queen folks don’t humour me. Because I’d kill them. Or maybe the pre-Tardis apparition one gets as that beautiful blue box phases in. Or maybe a great big blown up example of string theory that I was supposed to absorb and figure out and then use to solve the big mysteries and yadda yadda you.