I am a very superstitious person. Of course you don’t step on cracks, under the ladder, cross the path of black cats. Whenever I pass an abandoned playing card in the street, I contemplate its tarot equivalent. The only one of the Major Arcana that was permitted into general use was the Fool, the Joker. Of course there is a bizarre and illogical list of things that are ‘lucky,’ vaguely related to my personal syncretism and other items. Invoking the random has worked for me in the past.

Examples: do not return opened containers to the refrigerator. Whenever possible, empty them, then discard.

Never leave a nail pairing in a public place.

Water is lucky. One of my Oracles says so. Be malleable, have a mutability of identity, move around obstacles, erode them gradually, infect with mildew to rot, permeate to patiently destroy. But I am a tsunami.

Blue is lucky. Blue becalms.

Finns are lucky. A certain group of things have become lucky through obscurity and persistence.

Jews are lucky, although they may beg to differ. This association is doubtless just due to some neighbors who were nice to me as a kid. I was kind of a weird kid, and apparently decided that ‘the candelabra people’ were OK.

Prime numbers are lucky.

Hats on beds are unlucky.

Comets are omens.

Four-leaf clovers are lucky. Throw salt over your shoulder. Don’t break mirrors.


Erika Mikkalo