The big good wolf

I'm currently reading James Burke and Robert Ornstein's book The Axemaker's Gift: Technology's Capture of Our Minds and Culture, about the rise of our technological society from the (on the whole) superstitious and non-scientific cultural milieu of the past, and one thing has struck me over and over.  Prior to the more rational, evidence-based view of the world that came out of the Enlightenment, people must have been continuously terrified.

I mean, think about it.  Epidemics happen, seemingly coming out of nowhere.  The cause is unknown, the treatments ineffective at best.  Some people survive, others die.  There are storms, lightning strikes, earthquakes, blizzards, volcanoes; the latter, such as the 1783 eruption of Laki and the 1815 eruption of Tambora, had global consequences, harming people who had no idea that a volcano erupted hundreds or thousands of miles away.  Here in the modern world, we have scientific explanations for at least the proximal causes of these events, even if (as I discussed in yesterday's post) the ultimate causes still leave people searching for answers.

But prior to modern science, they didn't even have proximal causes.  It's no wonder they fell back on demons and witches and evil spirits.  Put yourself in the place of someone who has no knowledge of microbiology during an outbreak of the bubonic plague.  Unsurprising they tried to find some explanation, even if to our modern sensibilities the explanations they landed on seem crazy.  I may not agree with C. S. Lewis's theology, but I have to admit he had a point in Mere Christianity:

Three hundred years ago people in England were putting witches to death...  But surely the reason we do not execute witches is that we do not believe there are such things.  If we did—if we really thought that there were people going about who had sold themselves to the devil and received supernatural powers from him in return and were using these powers to kill their neighbours or drive them mad or bring bad weather—surely we would all agree that if anyone deserved the death penalty, then these filthy quislings did?  There is no difference of moral principle here: the difference is simply about matter of fact.  It may be a great advance in knowledge not to believe in witches: there is no moral advance in not executing them when you do not think they are there.  You would not call a man humane for ceasing to set mousetraps if he did so because he believed there were no mice in the house.

To return to James Burke, in his mind-blowing series The Day the Universe Changed, he makes the point forcefully that we like to congratulate ourselves on how much more advanced our minds are now as compared to our ancestors, when in reality it's our model for understanding the universe that has changed.  Our minds themselves really haven't changed much.  We're still trapped in a conceptual framework, just like the people in the past were; it's just a different one.

Which brings us to the strange case of Theiss of Kaltenbrun.

In 1692, an octogenarian was brought into a court in the town of Jürgensberg, then ruled by Sweden, now Zaube, Latvia.  He was accused of robbing a church, but along the way, it came out that Theiss was "widely known in the area" for being a werewolf.

A German woodcut of a werewolf (1722) [Image is in the Public Domain]

Asked about this, Theiss kind of shrugged and said, "Yeah, I am.  So what?"  Well, "so what" turned out to be the wrong thing to say, because back then, werewolves (along with witches and demons and so on) were considered to be the minions of hell, and as such, merited the death penalty.  Questioned about this, he said that he'd been a werewolf for a while, but had given it up ten years earlier.

I find this kind of odd.  I'd always thought that once a werewolf, always a werewolf, at least until you meet up with a silver bullet.  But apparently Theiss decided to retire, and was getting along fine until the whole church robbery incident brought him back to the center of attention.

The judges were initially inclined to dismiss him as insane, but then it came out that he'd been involved in an altercation with a farmer from Lemburg (now Mālpils, Latvia).  Theiss said the farmer was a Satan-worshiping witch, and one night when the farmer was off doing Bad Stuff, Theiss had (in wolf form) followed the farmer down to hell.  The farmer attacked Theiss with a broomstick (of course), breaking Theiss's nose.

A local verified that Theiss had, indeed, had his nose broken, and that was considered sufficient evidence for believing the rest of his story.

So the judges inquired further, and some of the testimony is downright hilarious.  Theiss and the other members of his pack, Theiss told them, liked to roam around local farms and kill and devour any farm animals they found.  They always roasted it first, though.  When one of the judges asked how a wolf could roast meat, Theiss told them they returned to human form while cooking, and that "they always added salt to their meat, but never had any bread to go with it."

Which, to judge by the scientific documentary An American Werewolf In London, is pretty genteel behavior, as compared to your average werewolf.

Here's where the case took an interesting turn, because Theiss admitted freely he was a werewolf, but said that he and his friends used their powers to fight evil.  There was an entrance to hell in a swamp near Lemburg, he said, and the whole pack would enter hell and do battle with the demons and with any human witches they came across.  They were, Theiss said, "God's Hounds."  They'd more than once found food and livestock that the actual evil witches had carted off to hell in order to cause famine, and they'd brought it back and distributed it to the God-fearing farmers in the area.

And sure enough, the people in the area all corroborated that Theiss was known as a healer and a generous friend.

This put the judges in a serious quandary.  They couldn't exactly condone his behavior; getting naked, turning into a wolf, and eating other people's livestock (roasted, and with salt) weren't exactly on the List of Approved Christian Pastimes as set forth by the church fathers.  But still... could there be a good, God-recommended use for magical powers?

I'm reminded of the scene in Madeleine L'Engle's A Swiftly Tilting Planet where Pastor Mortmain is all set to hang Zylle Llawcae, whom he's declared to be a witch, and the Good Guys recite a spell that causes lightning to strike the gallows.  Zylle's husband, Ritchie, shouts, "Do you think all power is of the devil?  What we have just seen is the wrath of God!"  And amazingly enough, given how these things usually went, everyone realizes that Pastor Mortmain is really the Bad Guy here.

Even more astonishingly, that's kind of how the case of Theiss of Kaltenbrun went.  Well, almost.  The judges were desperate to find something to convict him of, because they were afraid that if they didn't, they'd have everybody and his brother running around being werewolves.  There was the matter of the church robbery, too, but what concerned them even more was the magical stuff.  Ultimately they found a guy who was willing to swear that he'd heard Theiss use a magical charm that went, "Sun and Moon go over the sea, fetch back the soul that the devil had taken to hell and give the cattle back life and health which was taken from them."  And although that was not an evil charm, per se, it didn't mention God, so it wasn't a prayer, and therefore was heretical.  So for that and the robbery, they ruled that Theiss should be flogged and then exiled from the town.

Which, considering what could have happened, was a pretty lenient sentence.

What's interesting about this case is not just that it's based on a belief we now consider silly superstition, but that you can see the judges edging, ever so slowly, toward, "But who is it hurting?"  Ironically, Theiss's trial was the same year as the Salem Witch Trials, which had a far more tragic outcome; but already you can see signs that the dogmatism of that time period was gradually eroding.  These kinds of attitudes are very resistant to change -- today's Christian evangelicals haven't moved all that far from their Puritan predecessors, honestly -- but that the judges in Jürgensberg even hesitated when they heard Theiss say "Sure, I'm a werewolf" is significant.

Social and cultural shifts don't happen overnight, and they always trigger a backlash -- which, sadly, is what we're living through right now.  But progress is real.  We can wish it to move a little faster while still acknowledging that things are better now than they were when I was a kid back in 1970, and far far better than when my grandparents were kids in 1910.  Our understanding of the natural world has helped, and just the fact of approaching the world through the lens of science and evidence means that we no longer have to fear what we don't understand.  There's no need for evil spirits and demons and werewolves anymore; we've outgrown them.

Onward and upward.

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The return of Fido

Recently we've dealt with such deep topics as quantum mechanics, the origins of the universe, archaeology, and evolutionary biology, not to mention controversial (and worrying) stuff like climate change and the current political situation.  So I'm sure what you're all thinking is: "yes, Gordon, but what about pet reincarnation?"

I know the subject is on at least one person's mind, because a couple of days ago a friend and former student sent me a Facebook reel showing an advertisement from "Master Reincarnationist" E. David Scott containing a 1-900 number you can call, where for the low-low-low price of $1.95 per minute you can "answer a few simple questions" and he will tell you who your pet used to be in a previous life.  The two dogs in the advertisement apparently were once George Washington and Napoleon Bonaparte, and the cat was Annie Oakley.

Which is wicked cool.  But it does leave me with a few questions:

1. What the actual fuck?
2. How do you become a "Master Reincarnationist?"  Do you have to get a Bachelors Degree in Reincarnation first, then go to graduate school?
3. He can do all of this over the phone?  I mean, he doesn't actually have to be near the pet, and sense the mystical quantum field frequency vibrations of their aura, or something?  It's pretty impressive if he can do all that remotely.
4. It's likely that the call would take at least ten minutes, so that'd cost me about twenty bucks.  I have better uses for twenty bucks, and that includes using it to start a fire in my wood stove.  (Okay, that one wasn't a question.)
5. Don't you think it's statistically unlikely that your pet was once a famous person?  Just by the law of averages, it's much more likely they were once Chinese peasants.
6. Speaking of statistics, why do you think your pet was once a person at all?  Given that they're now a pet, the contention is that it's possible to have a human reincarnate as an non-human animal, so other transmutations are probably allowed as well.  Since insects outnumber all other animals put together, wouldn't it be much more likely that Fido and Mr. Fluffums, not to mention you and I, were once bugs?  Odd that you often hear the past-life crowd saying things like, "I was once Cleopatra" and you rarely ever hear them say, "Life really was boring, when I was a bug."
7. At the risk of repeating myself, what the actual fuck?

I have to admit to wondering, however, what E. David Scott would tell me about our three dogs.  We have Guinness, who is headstrong, smart, temperamental, and a really natty dresser:

He might have been Oscar Wilde.

Then there's Rosie, who has the demeanor of an upper-crust lady and the judge-y attitude to match.  She even has her own throne:

I think Rosie was clearly Queen Victoria, who was also Not Amused.

Last, we have Jethro:

God alone knows who or what Jethro was.  In this incarnation he's basically an animated plush toy, and is very sweet but has the IQ of a peach pit.  Maybe he's a reincarnated Tribble, I dunno.

Anyhow, after watching the reel, I decided to look into the topic further, and almost immediately regretted that decision.  Pet reincarnation is a huge deal.  Apparently a lot of people, like the owner of this site, think that pets reincarnate so they can become your subsequent pets, which just considering the numbers involved seems even less likely than their having been bugs, or even people.  This individual tells us she "receives telepathic information directly from pets," and says you can ask your pet while they're still alive to be reincarnated as another of your pets in the future if you want.

Of course, she warns, the pet could say no.  Think about that the next time you sneakily buy the cheaper brand of cat food or say to your dog, "I've already given you three biscuits, you can't have any more."  Your pet might be keeping tally on all that, and when it comes time to decide where they want to reincarnate next time, they'll choose a better venue.

Then there's this site, which contradicts the first two -- it says that pets don't reincarnate as humans (or vice versa).  Once a dog, always a dog, apparently.  "We're on our own unique soul journey," she tells us.  In her opinion, going from dog or cat to human would be "taking a step backward in their soul's evolution."  Which, if I compare how my dogs act to how a great many people act, I have to admit actually makes a lot of sense.

Oh, and for only $447, you can take her "Soul Level Animal Communication" online course, and learn how to telepathically communicate with animals, too.  Tempting offer, but I'm declining that one as well, since my dogs' thoughts are easy enough to discern.  Respectively:

1. Play with me!  Play with me!  Now!
2. I disapprove of your refusal to serve me a second dinner.  And also the fact that you are sitting in my chair.
3. *gentle static noise*

So there you have it.  Maybe your pet, too, can be Born Again.  Anyhow, I have to wrap this up, because Oscar, Her Most Gracious Majesty the Queen, and Fluffy McTribble want their breakfast.  Can't keep them waiting, or once they've gone on to the Great Beyond they may say bad things to the other Spirit Animals and my next dog will be the reincarnation of Attila the Hun or something.

  

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The riddle of the sun stones

When you think about it, it's unsurprising that our ancestors invented "the gods" as an explanation for anything they didn't understand.

They were constantly bombarded by stuff that was outside of the science of their time.  Diseases caused by the unseen action of either genes or microorganisms.  Weather patterns, driven by forces that even in the twenty-first century we are only beginning to understand deeply, and which controlled the all-important supply of food and water.  Earthquakes and volcanoes, whose root cause only began to come clear sixty years ago.

Back then, everything must have seemed as mysterious as it was precarious.  For most of our history, we've been at the mercy of forces we didn't understand and couldn't control, where they were one bad harvest or failed rainy season or sudden plague from dying en masse.

No wonder they attributed it all to gods and sub-gods -- and devils and demons and witches and evil spirits.

As much as we raise an eyebrow at the superstition and seeming credulity of the ancients, it's important to recognize that they were no less intelligent, on average, than we are.  They were trying to make sense of their world with the information they had at the time, just like we do.  That we have a greater knowledge base to draw upon -- and most importantly, the scientific method as a protocol -- is why we've been more successful.  But honestly, it's no wonder that they landed on supernatural, unscientific explanations; the natural and scientific ones were out of their reach.

The reason this comes up is a recent discovery that lies at the intersection of archaeology and geology, which (as regular readers of Skeptophilia know) are two enduring fascinations for me.  Researchers excavating sites at Vasagård and Rispebjerg, on the island of Bornholm, Denmark, have uncovered hundreds of flat stone disks with intricate patterns of engraving, dating from something on the order of five thousand years ago.  Because many of the disks have designs of circles with branching radial rays extending outward, they've been nicknamed "sun stones."  Why, in around 2,900 B.C.E., people were suddenly motivated to create, and then bury, hundreds of these stones, has been a mystery.

Until now.

[Image credit: John Lee, Nationalmuseet, Copenhagen, Denmark]

Data from Greenland ice cores has shown a sudden spike in sulfates and in dust and ash from right around the time the sun stones were buried -- both hallmarks of a massive volcanic eruption.  The location of the volcano has yet to be determined, but what is clear is that it would have had an enormous effect on the climate.  "It was a major eruption of a great magnitude, comparable to the well-documented eruption of Alaska’s Okmok volcano in 43 B.C.E. that cooled the climate by about seven degrees Celsius," said study lead author Rune Iversen, of the Saxo Institute at the University of Copenhagen.  "The climate event must have been devastating for them."

The idea that the volcanic eruption in 2,900 B.C.E. altered the climate worldwide got a substantial boost with the analysis of tree rings from wood in Europe and North America.  Right around the time of the sulfate spike in the Greenland ice cores, there's a series of narrow tree rings -- indicative of short growing seasons and cool temperatures.  Wherever this eruption took place, it wrought havoc with the weather, with all of the results that has on human survival.

While the connection between the eruption and the sun stones is an inference, it certainly has some sense to it.  How else would you expect a pre-technological culture to respond to a sudden, seemingly inexplicable dimming of the sun, cooler summers and bitter winters with resultant probable crop failures, and even the onset of wildly fiery sunrises and sunsets?  It bears keeping in mind that our own usual fallback of "there must be a scientific explanation even if I don't know what it is" is a relatively recent development. 

So while burying engraved rocks might seem like a strange response to a climatic change, it is understandable that the ancients looked to a supernatural solution for what must have been a mystifying natural disaster.  And we're perhaps not so very much further along, ourselves, given the way a substantial fraction of people in the United States are responding to climate change even though the models have been predicting this for decades, and the evidence is right in front of our faces.  We still have plenty of areas we don't understand, and are saddled with unavoidable cognitive biases even if we do our best to fight them.  As the eminent science historian James Burke put it, in his brilliant and provocative essay "Worlds Without End":

Science produces a cosmogony as a general structure to explain the major questions of existence.  So do the Edda and Gilgamesh epics, and the belief in Creation and the garden of Eden.  Myths provide structures which give cause-and effect reasons for the existence of phenomena.  So does science.  Rituals use secret languages known only to the initiates who have passed ritual tests and who follow the strictest rules of procedure which are essential if the magic is to work.  Science operates in the same way.  Myths confer stability and certainty because they explain why things happen or fail to happen, as does science.  The aim of the myth is to explain existence, to provide a means of control over nature, and to give to us all comfort and a sense of place in the apparent chaos of the universe.  This is precisely the aim of science.

Science, therefore for all the reasons above, is not what it appears to be.  It is not objectively impartial, since every observation it makes of nature is impregnated with theory.  Nature is so complex, and sometimes so seemingly random, that it can only be approached with a systematic tool that presupposes certain facts about it.  Without such a pattern it would be impossible to find an answer to questions even as simple as "What am I looking at?"

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Curses! Foiled again!

Never say "How much weirder can things get?"

Ordinarily I'm the least superstitious person in the room, but I make an exception in this case.  When you say this kind of shit -- like I did when I was working out with my athletic trainer yesterday -- the universe is listening.

What spurred me to open my big mouth was, of course, all of the bizarre cabinet appointments by President-elect Donald Trump.  We had accused pedophile and sex trafficker Matt Gaetz for Attorney General; I say "had" with a smile on my face because he just withdrew, apparently sensing correctly that his accusers have the goods on him and he would be fucked sideways if he did his usual chest-thumping, I'm So Tough And Belligerent Act.  (What's amusing is that he's already resigned from Congress; I wonder if he's going to try to tell them, "Oh, wait, never mind about my resignation"?  The majority of his colleagues hate him, so my guess is they'll say "Sorry, buddy, no takesy-backsies," resulting in Gaetz doing something my grandma used to call "falling between two chairs.")  We have a WWE executive for Education Secretary and a Fox News host for Defense; both of them have also been implicated in sex scandals, which is more and more seeming like a qualification for being a Trump nominee rather than a disqualification.  We have a dangerously wacko anti-vaxxer for Health and Human Services Secretary and a loony alt-med personality to run Medicare and Medicaid.

So in an unguarded moment, I said to my trainer, "Well, at least the world can't get much weirder than it already is."

Ha.  A lot I know.

I got home from training, showered and dressed, then got a snack and sat down for a quick check of the interwebz.  And the very first thing I saw was that there is now a service on Etsy where you can pay $7.99 to have a witch put a curse on Elon Musk.

The whole thing became internet-famous because of a woman named Riley Wenckus, who apparently found out about "Etsy Witches" who will do spells for you, and she hired one of them to curse Musk -- then went on TikTok and bragged about it.  "Elon motherfucking Musk!" she shouted.  "I just paid an Etsy witch $7.99 to make your life a living hell!"

This video has been viewed five million times.

"The Three Witches from Macbeth" by Morton Cavendish (1909) [Image is in the Public Domain]

Wenckus explained her actions by saying "I was feeling really existential about what I can do," to which I respond, "Um... yay?  I think?  Or maybe 'I'm so sorry?'"  Because I have no idea what she means by "feeling existential."  But I'm happy that she's taken a concrete step toward feeling either more or less existential by cursing Musk, depending on whether she thinks it's a good or a bad thing.

I dunno.  I'm as confused as you are.

In any case, we also learn that the recipe for an anti-Musk curse involves a white candle, cayenne pepper, lavender, salt, and bay leaves.  So at least it'll make your house smell nice.

Wenckus herself says she's not sure it'll work, but is hopeful that if she's started a trend, maybe it'll accomplish something.  "I am a person grounded in reality who believes in science," she said.  "But I still think there's something to be said for having millions upon millions of people wishing for your downfall."

Now, mind you, I'm not saying that ill-wishing a horrible human being like Elon Musk isn't completely understandable.  He is one of the most genuinely loathsome people I can think of, and deserves every last one of the hexes that are thrown his way.  I'm just doubtful that it'll work.  But by all means, if you want to follow suit and add your own curse to Wenckus's (and, I'm sure, many others), knock yourself out.  You can find out how in the link provided.

As for me, I'm gonna save my $7.99, but I'm also formally announcing my abandonment of any expectations that the world will undergo some sort of normalizing regression to the mean.  Whatever the cause of how insane things have been lately -- if, for example, my suspicion is correct, and the aliens who are running the computer simulation we're all trapped in have gotten drunk and/or stoned, and now they're just fucking with us -- I give up.  Y'all win.  I'm embracing the weirdness.

I guess this is what they mean by "living in interesting times."

So go ahead, universe.  I'm ready.  Have at it.  If things are going to be terrible, at least keep making them entertaining.

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Fiction come to life

Regular readers of this blog know that besides my obvious hat of Skepticism Blogger, I also wear a second one, which is Fiction Writer.  And we fiction writers are, almost without exception, a strange breed.  Discussions with other authors has turned up a commonality, a psychic oddity that I thought for a time was unique to me: our fictional characters sometimes take on a life of their own, to the point that they seem...

... real.

The result is that there are times that I feel like I'm not inventing, but recounting, stories.  The plot takes turns I never intended, the characters do things that surprise me for reasons that only later become apparent.  In my current work-in-progress, a quirky novel called The Accidental Magician that follows Stephen King's dictum to "create sympathy for your characters, then turn the monsters loose," I've "discovered" that (1) a character who I thought was nice but rather bland has turned out to be scrappy and edgy, (2) a character who started out as a bit of a puffed-up, arrogant git unexpectedly became a serious badass, and most surprisingly, (3) a character I thought was dead is still alive.  

I honestly had no knowledge of any of this when I started the story.

Be that as it may, I really do (truly) know that it's me inventing the whole thing.  My books are, after all, on the "Fiction" aisle in the bookstore.  Which makes the claims of a few authors even more peculiar than the Who's-Driving-The-Car sensation I sometimes get; because these authors claim that they've actually met their characters.

Like, in real life, in flesh and blood.  According to an article in The Daily Grail, more than one writer has said that (s)he has been out and about, and there, large as life, has been someone from one of their stories.

Alan Moore, for example, author of the Hellblazer series, said that he ran into his character John Constantine in a London sandwich bar.  "All of a sudden, up the stairs came John Constantine," Moore said in an interview.  "He looked exactly like John Constantine.  He looked at me, stared me straight in the eyes, smiled, nodded almost conspiratorially, and then just walked off around the corner to the other part of the snack bar."

Moore considered following him, but then decided not to.  "I thought it was the safest," he said.

Graphic novel artist Dave McKean has also met a fictional character, but not one of his own; he says he's run into the character Death from Neil Gaiman's series Sandman.  Which has to have been pretty alarming, considering.

Of course, most people, myself included, chalk this up to the overactive imagination that we writers tend to have.  We picture our characters vividly, imagine the scenes in full Technicolor and Sensurround, so it's not really that surprising that sometimes we see things that make us wonder if maybe our fictional worlds have come to life.  But some people believe that this isn't a coincidence -- some chance resemblance of a person to a character in one of our stories -- but a real, literal manifestation of a fictional being into the waking world.

The (fictional) Japanese evil spirit Oiwa, as depicted by Utagawa Kuniyoshi in the story Yotsuya Kaidan (1825) [Image is in the Public Domain]

Such fiction-become-real beings even have a name.  They're called tulpas, from a Sanskrit word meaning "conjured thing."  In the western occult tradition, the idea is that through the sheer force of will, through the power that the imagined being has in our minds, it becomes real.

And not just to its creator; believers claim that a tulpa has an independent reality.  Graphic novel writer Doug Moench, in fact, says he met one face to face.  The story is recounted in Jeffrey Kripal's book Mutants and Mystics: Science Fiction, Superhero Comics, and the Paranormal, and is excerpted in The Daily Grail link I included above; but suffice it to say that Moench was writing a scene in one of his Planet of the Apes comics about a black-hooded bad guy holding a gun to the head of a character, and heard his wife call him -- and he went into the room to find a black-hooded intruder holding a gun to his wife's head.

Understandably shaken by this experience, Moench apparently went through a period where he was uncertain if he should continue writing, because he was afraid that it would become real.

Predictably, I think what we have going on here isn't anything paranormal.  Moench's experience was almost certainly nothing more than a bizarre, and very upsetting, coincidence, and a fine example of dart-thrower's bias (think about all the millions of scenes writers have created that haven't come true).  But there's something about the tulpa thing that still gives me a bit of a shiver, even so.  There are plenty of characters I've created that I'd just as soon stay fictional, thank you very much.  (The amoral domestic terrorist Jeff Landry in my novel In the Midst of Lions is a good example; that sonofabitch was awful enough on the printed page.)

But there are a few characters from stories I've written that I wouldn't mind meeting.  Tyler Vaughan from Signal to Noise comes to mind, because more than one person has told me that Tyler is actually a younger version of me, and I'd like to apologize to him for saddling him with my various neuroses.  And I'd like to meet Leandre Naquin from The Communion of Shadows just so I can give him a big hug.  But the majority of 'em -- yeah, they can stay fictional.

So I'll take a pass on the whole tulpa thing.  For one thing, I see no possible way it could work.  For another, all the accounts of authors meeting their characters are way too easily explained by the fact that writers' skulls tend to be filled with things that I can only call waking dreams, so we're to be excused if sometimes we blur the edges of reality and fiction.

And third: I'd rather not have some of the scenes I've written come to life.  I had a hard enough time putting my characters through some of that stuff.  No way in the world would I want to live through it myself.

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Word association

There's an odd claim circulating social media these days.  This is the form of it I've seen most frequently:

First, just to get this out of the way: there is no luciferase in vaccines.  Luciferase is a bioluminescent protein found in a variety of organisms, from dinoflagellates to fireflies, and was named not for Lucifer but because the root word of luciferase (and Lucifer as well, of course) is a Latin word meaning "light bearer."  Luciferase isn't used for "tracking" people (how the hell would that even work?  Would you be trackable because you'd glow in the dark?), but it is used as a fluorescent marker in antibody assays in vitro.

As easy as it is to laugh at Emerald for her obvious ignorance of (1) how vaccines work, (2) how bioluminescent markers are used, and (3) basic linguistics, what interests me more is how odd a claim this really is.  Because the idea here is that the name of the enzyme somehow creates a link between it and Satan, and this marks you -- in the sense used in the Book of Revelation.  

You know, the "Mark of the Beast."

I ran into another example of this kind of thinking a few weeks ago, with someone who recounts being in line at a convenience store, and the woman ahead of him had her total rung up, and it came out $6.66.  She got a scared look on her face, and said, "Oh, no, I don't like that total.  Better throw in a corndog."

The man who posted about it marveled at what a badass she is -- going into battle with the Forces of Darkness, armed with a corndog.

How do people come to believe so fervently in associations like this?  Clearly they were both taught in a religious context, since both of them made reference to the End Times, but how do you get to the point where any association with words or numbers connected with the Bad Place -- even an obviously accidental or circumstantial one -- causes an immediate and powerful fear response?

A study by Fatik Mandal (of Bankura College, India) found an interesting pattern:

Superstitious beliefs help to decrease [people's] environmentally-induced stress.  Superstition produces a false sense of having control over outer conditions, reduces anxieties, and is prevalent in conditions of absence of confidence, insecurity, fear and threat, stress, and anxiety.  When the events are interpretable, environment is transparent, and conditions are less ambiguous, individuals become less superstitious.

This was supported by a study in 2022 by Hoffmann et al., which suggested that holding superstitions -- especially ones that have the backing of authority figures (e.g. church leaders) -- gives you a sense of control over circumstances that are actually uncertain, random, or inherently uncontrollable.

But what still strikes me as odd is that the reason these people were fearful in the first place was because the church leaders had convinced them that the Antichrist and the Four Apocalyptic Horsepersons and other assorted special offers were on their way, so they'd better get ready to fight.  The superstitions about avoiding vaccines and convenience store bills totaling $6.66 were incidental, and only occurred because the people holding them had already been convinced that the Book of Revelation was actually true.

So this can be summed up as, "Here's how not to be afraid about this thing that I just now made you afraid of."  Which strikes me as just plain weird.

What's certain, though, is how far back in our history this sort of thinking goes.  A study in 2023 by Amar Annus of the University of Chicago looked at the origins of superstitions in the Middle East, and found that the associations between certain words and (usually bad) outcomes has a deep history, and no more rational that the ones people hold today.  In the literature of ancient Mesopotamia, we see ample evidence of detailed superstitions, but:

Only exceptionally are we able to detect any logical relationship between portent and prediction...  In many cases, subconscious association seems to have been at work, provoked by certain words whose specific connotations imparted to them a favorable or an unfavorable character, which in turn determined the general nature of the prediction.

Because those connotations aren't logical, they have to be learned -- transmitted orally or in written form from one generation to another, and undoubtedly embellished as time goes on.  At that point, in just about every culture, you end up with adepts who claim that they know better than anyone else how to interpret the omens, and avoid the unpleasant outcome that would pertain if you get it wrong.  Annus writes about a Mandaean priest in Iraq who spoke with the anthropologist Ethel Drower in the 1920s, and who boasted,

If a raven croaks in a certain burj (= astrological house), I understand what it says, also the meaning when the fire crackles or the door creaks.  When the sky is cloudy and there are shapes in the sky resembling a mare or a sheep, I can read their significance and message.  When the moon is darkened by an eclipse, I understand the portent; when a dust-cloud arises, black, red, or white, I read these signs, and all this according to the hours and the aspects.

So it seems like part of it has to do with powerful or charismatic people saying, "Look, I understand everything way better than you do, and you'd damn well better listen to what I'm saying."  

If you can hook in strong emotions like fear, so much the better.  At that point it turns into a Pascal's Wager sort of thing; what if the scary stuff this guy is saying actually turns out to be true?  What if getting the vaccine does mark me as one of Satan's own?

Better not take the chance.

Of course, the solution to all this is knowledge and rationality, but I'm not sure how well that'd work with someone who already has accepted the fundamentally irrational premises of superstition.  As has been so often commented before, you can't logic your way out of a belief you didn't logic your way into.

So I'm not sure how helpful all this is in the bigger picture.  Superstition has always been with us, and probably always will be.  The best you can do is arm yourself against it in whatever way you can.

Here.  Have a corndog.

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The descendants of Dr. Dee

One of the difficulties with establishing paranormal claims is that there are so many ways of getting the wrong answer.

There are the inevitable battles with confirmation bias and dart-thrower's bias, and even when there's actual numerical data to work with, you have to contend with the subtler problem of cherry-picking and p-hacking (something that has plagued experiments designed to detect telepathy, clairvoyance, and precognition).  The difficulty becomes even worse when you have the additional problems that sometimes people honestly believe what they're claiming even though it's false (i.e. they're delusional) or that they don't believe what they're saying but say it anyhow for their own reasons, often having to do with personal gain (i.e. they're lying).

Those last two can be hard to tell apart.  Our memories are plastic enough that if you tell the same lie often enough, you're in danger of falling for it yourself.  Take, for example, the strange figure of John Dee, who was in his heyday during the reign of Queen Elizabeth I of England.

Portrait of John Dee (ca. 1594, artist unknown) [Image is in the Public Domain]

Dee was of Welsh ancestry but was born and raised in London.  His father was one of Henry VIII's courtiers; John had access to a good education, and got a degree at Cambridge University (something that was as prestigious then as it is now).  He studied in Belgium, France, and Italy, ultimately returning to England with an excellent background in mathematics, astronomy... and divination.

It was this last-mentioned that got him in trouble for the first (but not the only) time.  He was arrested and charged with the crime of "calculating" -- casting horoscopes -- in particular doing one for Queen Mary, who was a bit on the superstitious and paranoid side herself and looked upon anything like that as tantamount to wishing her dead.  He ultimately cleared his name through what appears to have been mere luck; "don't shoot the messenger" didn't carry a lot of weight with monarchs back then.  But when Elizabeth succeeded to the throne in 1558, he found a much more willing ear, and in short order really saw his star in ascendancy.  (*rimshot*)

Where things get interesting -- and where the question of "did he really believe what he was saying?" comes up -- is when he fell in with one Edward Kelley.  Kelley is a mysterious figure, probably by choice.  It is thought he was born in Worcester in 1555, but what he was doing between childhood and ending up in the Elizabethan court in his twenties is pure conjecture.  Kelley was obviously educated -- he knew Greek and Latin -- and in 1582 he approached Dee with the idea of a partnership.

Kelley told Dee he was in contact with angels, and they spoke to him in a language called "Enochian."  As the angels dictated, Kelley said, he'd transmit what they told him to Dee, who would then write it all down.  And they did... resulting in numerous diary entries and two books, the Liber Loagaeth and the Claves Angelicae.  Linguists have analyzed Enochian to a fare-thee-well, and found that it's in that odd shadowland between a conlang (i.e. an invented language with actual syntax, morphology, and phonology) and glossolalia, the random noisemaking that occurs during "speaking with tongues."  What syntax it does have is remarkably like English; this is a tipoff that it's not even an authentic conlang, but a simple one-to-one substitution code.  (As someone who has tried his hand at writing a conlang, I can verify that it ain't easy to come up with a language that has its own distinctive structure, and not merely to copycat the languages you know.)

Kelley's "Enochian alphabet" [Image licensed under the Creative Commons Obankston, Enochian alphabet, CC BY-SA 3.0]

Now, I hasten to reassure you that I don't think Kelley actually was in communication with angels.  But you have to wonder if he thought he was.  A lot of the portrayals of Dee and Kelley in historical fiction have painted Kelley as a cunning liar and charlatan and Dee as a dupe, but from the extant records they both seem awfully earnest.  Both of them ended their lives still clinging to the claim that they were capable of magic -- they traveled all over Europe trying to convince people of their angelic communications, eventually ending up at the court of King Stephen Báthory of Poland and Hungary (interestingly, the uncle of the infamous serial killer Elizabeth Báthory).  The king, though, was a devout Catholic and told Dee and Kelley to shove off, that any claims of that sort had to get the approval of the Pope before they'd get his imprimatur.  Little chance of that; Dee and Kelley were both Protestants, and had worked in the court of the much-detested-at-the-Vatican Queen Elizabeth I of England.

Their case was not helped when Kelley told Dee to relay the message that the archangel Uriel had told him that men were now commanded to share all their possessions freely, including their wives.

You can only imagine how that went over.

Kelley, in fact, never made it back to England.  He and Dee parted ways in the 1590s, and Kelley ended up in the court of Holy Roman Emperor Rudolf II, whom he had convinced that he could transmute lead into gold.  He couldn't.  Kelley died in prison in 1598 -- by one account, from injuries incurred while trying to escape, by another from poison at his own hand.  His end is as mysterious as his origins.

Dee didn't fare much better.  He got back to England to find his huge library had been burglarized, his home damaged by vandals, and his reputation sullied by his association with Kelley.  When James I succeeded Elizabeth in 1603, Dee found his presence at the royal court was no longer welcome -- James was deeply religious and hated anything that smacked of occultism or witchcraft.  Dee died in poverty and obscurity in Mortlake, Richmond upon Thames, in 1608 or 1609.

Dee's name, however, was still revered centuries later by the Spiritualists, Hermeticists, and Rosicrucians.  (Kelley's, not so much, which is odd; it's hard to imagine an explanation for the whole thing where Dee was speaking revealed truth but Kelley was a liar.)  Aleister Crowley (and many other members of The Golden Dawn) thought Enochian especially was the cat's pajamas, and claimed it was the "Adamic language" -- i.e., the language spoken by humans prior to getting their phonemes blenderized by the Almighty during the whole Tower of Babel incident.  Others have claimed that Kelley was in touch with a spiritual power, all right -- but an evil one.  In other words, a demon.

It's a curious story.  Like I said, whatever spin you put on this, both Kelley and Dee were claiming stuff that was objectively false.  But you have to wonder if they thought they were telling the truth.  And it's tempting to think that in our scientific, high-tech world, we're immune to falling for people like this -- either delusional fanatics or else cunning and persuasive liars.  I don't think I need to name names for you to come up with a few modern examples that prove we're still all too susceptible.  They may not be trying to persuade us that they can turn base metals into gold any more, but the falsehoods they're promulgating are perhaps even more dangerous.  The descendants of Dr. Dee, it seems, are still with us -- and now, as then, the only cure for their poison is a combination draught of facts, evidence, and critical thinking.

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Hell's gate

As a diversion from less cheerful subjects like what is currently happening in politics in the United States, today we will consider: the Gates of Hell.

The interesting thing about the whole concept of hell is that it's connected to Christianity, and yet there's not much of a mention of it in the Bible.  The Old Testament version of the Bad Place, Sheol, was not really the traditional flaming inferno; it was more of a gray, dreary spot cut off from hope and light, sort of like Newark but with less traffic.  The concept of a fire-and-brimstone version of hell doesn't seem to come up until the New Testament, for example Matthew 10:28 and Mark 9:43, where we are introduced to such fun notions as "the fiery furnace" and "unquenchable fire" into which you get pitched if you break the Ten Commandments and commit the Seven Deadly Sins, unless you're also a deranged, doubly-impeached, multiply-indicted con man, in which case you get tens of thousands of self-proclaimed Christians supporting your re-election as president of the United States instead.

Wait, I said I was going to keep this post apolitical.  Oops.  My bad.

Because of the mention of fire, there's been a picture developed that hell is a hot place underground, which has of course connected it in some people's mind with volcanoes and other subterranean phenomena.  There are a variety of places on Earth that have been considered possible candidates for the gates to hell, three of which I describe below.

First, we have the Batagaika Crater in Siberia, which locals have nickname the "Hellmouth."  It's a pretty impressive feature, to be sure:

At its widest, it's a kilometer across and 87 meters deep, and is getting bigger. The crater has nothing to do with hell, though, unless you're talking about the manmade hell we're creating by ignoring the human causes of climate change; it's something geologists call a megaslump, when removal of groundwater and thawing of permafrost cause massive subsidence.  So it's pretty awful, but doesn't have much to do with the punishment of the damned.

A second candidate is the Necromanteion of Baiae, a tunnel system near the city of Naples which apparently hosted a magical oracle who was supposed to be able to communicate with the spirits of the dead.  She would enter the tunnel, breath the magical vapors, and come back and tell the locals what the dead had to say for themselves, which mostly was confusing, garbled nonsense, that the oracle's handlers then got to interpret whatever way they wanted.

What the dead probably should have told the oracle was "it's a stupid idea to breathe magical vapors in an area of high volcanic activity," because the gases coming out of the tunnel are high in sulfur dioxide and hydrogen sulfide, both of which are quite toxic, and explain her confusion without any magical explanation needed.  Baiae is near the Campi Flegrei, or burning fields, an area of fumaroles and boiling mud pits that illustrate that Mount Vesuvius didn't exhaust its capacity for violence when it destroyed Pompeii in 79 C. E.

Last, we have Darvaza, in the Karakum Desert of Turkmenistan.  Like Batagaika, Darvaza is due to the actions of people -- in this case, a natural gas drilling facility that went very, very wrong.  At some time in the 1960s -- given that we're talking about the Soviets, here, there's no certain information about precisely what happened when -- the ground collapsed underneath a gas-drilling rig, and during the collapse the methane seeping from the walls of the crater ignited.  People expected that it'd burn itself out quickly.

It didn't.

Darvaza is still burning today, and has become a tourist attraction for travelers who don't mind the fact that (1) it reeks of sulfur, (2) if you stay there long enough, the fumes will make you violently ill, and (3) there are no amenities for miles around.  But if you're an adventurous sort, it's certainly something you won't see anywhere else on Earth.

So that's a trio of candidates for being the doorway to hell. If none of these float your boat, however, there are actually dozens of others.

And that's not even counting Newark.

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Different strokes

So once again, a member of the extreme evangelical fringe of Christianity has launched a campaign against our taking pleasure in something which we are biologically hard-wired to find pleasant.

Yesterday a loyal reader of Skeptophilia alerted me to the fact that Mack Major, a Christian writer from Philadelphia, has written a book called Sex Magic: Flirting With the Demonic in which he claims we shouldn't masturbate because masturbation can "summon a sex demon."

Here's a direct quote, in case you think I am making this up:

There are such things are sex demons.  And the danger in masturbating is that one could inadvertently summon a sex demon to attach itself to you through the act of masturbating.  And once that demon attaches, it is difficult to get it to leave.  It will drive you to masturbate, even when you don’t want to.  You’ll be hit with urges to play with yourself so powerful that only an orgasm will allow you some temporary relief.

Notwithstanding the fact that if this were true, the millions of teenage boys worldwide would be keeping the sex demons busy 24/7, Major seems convinced that by engaging in what my dad referred to as "shaking hands with the unemployed" you are writing yourself a one-way express ticket to hell.

Presumably with the other hand.

Major is also vehemently against any use of gadgets for increasing your enjoyment, even if those are used with a partner.  Erotic toys provide yet another means of ingress for those pesky sex demons:

Many of you who are reading this have sex toys in your possession right now.  And whether you want to accept it as fact or not: those sex toys are an open portal between the demonic realm and your own life.  As long as you have those sex toys in your home, you have a doorway that can allow demons to not only access your life at will, but also to torment you, hinder and destroy certain parts of your life as it relates to sex and your relationships.

Which highlights yet again my disagreement with the devoutly religious over the definition of the word "fact."

Besides the scary sex demons, it turns out that pleasuring yourself can also cause volcanic eruptions, and he's not using that in its justifiable metaphorical sense.  He means literal volcanic eruptions.  He tells us all about the pornographic scenes found on the walls of Pompeii, many of which involved the god Priapus, who was depicted as a naked dude with an enormous hard-on.  And he links that directly to what happened:

He [Priapus] was really popular in the ancient city of Pompeii…  The walls of many of the homes and palaces were painted with detailed frescos of very graphic pornographic sexual scenes…  Keep in mind that Pompeii was suddenly destroyed and thousands of lives were wiped out in an instant.

So yeah, that was a really unhappy ending.  Be that as it may, it's hard to see the pyroclastic flow from Vesuvius as having anything to do with jacking off, or there'd be a major explosion underneath every adult theater in the United States every single night.  And the headquarters of PornHub would right now simply be a giant smoking crater.

My main reaction to all this is that I feel cheated.  I have never once been visited by a sex demon.  I mean, what the hell, sex demons?  What's the problem, here?  Am I not good enough?  I'm giving it my all, over here.  It's enough to make a guy feel a little inadequate.

The exasperating thing about all this is that masturbation is 100% normal, nearly everyone does it, it relieves stress, helps you sleep, and (for men) decreases the risk of prostate cancer.  What we have here is simply another way for the extremely religious to make everyone feel guilty, uptight, and anxious over something entirely harmless, and to maintain their control by convincing their followers that they're hellbound if they don't follow the leader's advice to the letter.

Major ends with one last cautionary note:

When we imagine having sex with another via masturbation, we are actually summoning the power of the spirit realm to manifest the thing we are imagining.

Don't I wish.  Manifest away, spirit realm.  Hey, I'm bi, so there's twice the manifestations I'd be perfectly happy with.  Either Jenna Coleman or Liam Hemsworth, for example, would do just fine.

So anyway.  My advice is: in the privacy of your own home, do what comes naturally, enjoy it, and find something else to fret about.  I'm guessing that even if there is a supreme deity, he/she/it has much better things to do in Universe Management than keeping track of what you do in your "Alone Time."

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