I suppose that it's only human to be optimistic. A 2009 study at the University of Kansas found that 89% of people predicted that the world was going to be as good or better than it is now in five years -- and this pattern held irrespective of ethnic, religious, and national identification. (Source)
Of course, what "better" means can differ fairly dramatically from person to person. Witness the recent pronouncement from the powers-that-be in Iran. (Source)
The whole thing started in 2000, when Turkish authorities broke up a gang that was involved in the illegal acquisition and sale of antiquities. Amongst the haul was a leather book written in Syriac, a dialect of Aramaic. Turkish scholars analyzed the book, and announced that it was a copy of the lost Gospel of Barnabas, one of the early Christian converts and a companion of St. Paul. The document, the Turkish linguists said, could date from the 5th or 6th century. Its value to the field of archeology was obvious, and the book was transferred under armed guard to Turkey's National Ethnography Museum in Ankara, where it has been under lock and key ever since.
All of this was well and good, and of interest only to religious historians, until the recent announcement that a line in Chapter 41 had been translated as follows: "God has hidden himself as Archangel Michael ran them (Adam and Eve) out of heaven, (and) when Adam turned, he noticed that at top of the gateway to heaven, it was written 'La elah ela Allah, Mohammad rasool Allah' (Allah is the only God and Mohammad his prophet)."
When I read this, I did an immediate facepalm, because I knew what was coming next.
The Turkish linguists lost no time at all in proclaiming that this manuscript predicted the rise of Islam and the role of Mohammad as its chief exponent, and that it proves that Islam is the One Correct Religion. Catholic authorities quickly responded, "Now, wait just a moment, here," or words to that effect, and demanded to see the book, a request that is being "considered." Prominent Catholics rushed to shrug the whole thing off as a non-issue -- Phil Lawler of Catholic Culture calling it a "laughable... challenge to Christianity." So, basically, all of the people who weighed in on the story reacted with optimism -- proclaiming that circumstances would vindicate whatever view of the world they already had. But no one had as inadvertently amusing a reaction as did Iran's Basij Press:
"The discovery of the original Barnabas Bible will now undermine the Christian Church and its authority and will revolutionize the religion in the world," a press release from Basij last week states. "The most significant fact, though, is that this Bible has predicted the coming of Prophet Mohammad and in itself has verified the religion of Islam."
Basij goes on to predict that the "Gospel of Barnabas" will result in the downfall of Christianity.
Okay. So, what do we actually have here? A book that only a few people have seen, and whose provenance has yet to be demonstrated conclusively. That book may have a line that seems to predict the coming of Mohammad, but this has only been verified by people who have a serious vested interest in its being true -- and in any case, the fact of its being a prediction is highly doubtful given that we don't know how old the book actually is. And now, a government that has shown itself to be relentlessly hostile to Christians throws the whole thing into a press release -- and seriously believes that their pronouncement is going to cause a worldwide exodus from Christianity.
I mean, really. Pollyanna is one thing, but those folks at Basij really have turned the whole Cockeyed Optimism thing into performance art. I have this highly amusing mental image of Fred and Vera Fuddle of Topeka, Kansas calling up their minister and saying, "Sorry, Brother Steve, we won't be in church this Sunday -- we read about those folks in Turkey who found a book that says that over the gateway to heaven, it said something about Allah and Mohammad. No offense, but I'm thinkin' that kind of undermines the church's authority, know what I mean? Give my regards to Sue Ellen and the kids. Oh, and one other thing... you know of a nice mosque in the area?"
So, anyway, I think that the Gospel of Barnabas will have little to no effect on anyone, even if the Vatican isn't allowed to send in their experts. And that's just what we should expect. 89% of people think that the world is going to be as good or better in five years than it is now -- so the Iranians will continue to predict the downfall of all the people they despise, and the rest of us will just go on believing what we've always believed.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Friday, May 25, 2012
Peopling the world with pyromaniac goblins
In many cases, the woo-woo view of the world seems to me to come from a sort of fantasy-land style wishful thinking. Wouldn't it be lovely if our lives were ruled by the stars? Isn't it a nice thought that our deceased loved ones could communicate comforting messages to us through the voice of a medium? Wouldn't it be grand if deep down, there was a pattern, that all of the craziness and chaos we see around us actually meant something?
It seems, however, that there are (at least) two other motivations for espousing a counterfactual view of the world. One comes from a kind of free-floating paranoia, and that's what gives rise to your conspiracy theorists, the sort of people who think that HAARP (the High-frequency Active Auroral Research Program) caused the Japanese tsunami last year. A third cause of woo-woo-ism, however, consists of jumping to a wild explanation because the rational, logical alternatives nearer at hand are simply too awful to contemplate.
Consider the recent goblin attacks in Zimbabwe. (Source)
The news outlet that reported the story, ZimDiaspora, tells of the homestead inhabited by the Sithole and Muyambo families, which had been plagued by "mysterious occurrences." Stones were thrown at family members by an unseen hand. Dirt was put into cooking pots, ruining the meals. And now, four buildings in the homestead have been burned to the ground, leaving the families "sleep(ing) in the open, while the few belongings they managed to salvage from the raging fire are heaped outside."
And what, pray tell, could wreak all of this havoc upon this poor family? The answer, of course, is: goblins.
Or a magic spell. Something like that. One of the household's members, 52-year-old Sarah Muyambo, said that magic was definitely a possibility, because a "traditional healer" had told her that her son, Enoch (29) had "laid his hands on some money-making magical charms and things are now backfiring." Of course, another member of the homestead said he had seen "snake-like creatures wearing sunglasses, a suit and a pair of shoes" near the houses, so maybe it could be that.
Or, maybe not.
Let's quote another bit of the news story: "Whenever one young male member of the family, Taso Sithole (16) entered each of the huts and as soon as he came out, that hut would unexpectedly go up in smoke and this happened on all the four structures that were burnt at the homestead."
So, what do you think is the most likely explanation here, for the tragic burning of the buildings in the homestead?
It can't be easy to realize that someone in your family is deranged. But it seems like, just for safety's sake, it is better to confront the painful truth than it is to make stuff up, peopling the world with pyromaniac goblins so that you don't have to face reality. To quote Carl Sagan: "Better the hard truth, I say, than the comforting fantasy."
It seems, however, that there are (at least) two other motivations for espousing a counterfactual view of the world. One comes from a kind of free-floating paranoia, and that's what gives rise to your conspiracy theorists, the sort of people who think that HAARP (the High-frequency Active Auroral Research Program) caused the Japanese tsunami last year. A third cause of woo-woo-ism, however, consists of jumping to a wild explanation because the rational, logical alternatives nearer at hand are simply too awful to contemplate.
Consider the recent goblin attacks in Zimbabwe. (Source)
The news outlet that reported the story, ZimDiaspora, tells of the homestead inhabited by the Sithole and Muyambo families, which had been plagued by "mysterious occurrences." Stones were thrown at family members by an unseen hand. Dirt was put into cooking pots, ruining the meals. And now, four buildings in the homestead have been burned to the ground, leaving the families "sleep(ing) in the open, while the few belongings they managed to salvage from the raging fire are heaped outside."
And what, pray tell, could wreak all of this havoc upon this poor family? The answer, of course, is: goblins.
Or a magic spell. Something like that. One of the household's members, 52-year-old Sarah Muyambo, said that magic was definitely a possibility, because a "traditional healer" had told her that her son, Enoch (29) had "laid his hands on some money-making magical charms and things are now backfiring." Of course, another member of the homestead said he had seen "snake-like creatures wearing sunglasses, a suit and a pair of shoes" near the houses, so maybe it could be that.
Or, maybe not.
Let's quote another bit of the news story: "Whenever one young male member of the family, Taso Sithole (16) entered each of the huts and as soon as he came out, that hut would unexpectedly go up in smoke and this happened on all the four structures that were burnt at the homestead."
So, what do you think is the most likely explanation here, for the tragic burning of the buildings in the homestead?
1) Goblins did it.Okay, I've been a teacher for 25 years, and I've known a lot of teenage boys -- I even helped to raise two of them. And one thing that seems universal is that teenage boys like to set things on fire. That a teenage boy would burn down four houses in his own homestead does seem pretty extreme, even by ordinary teenage-boy-standards -- honestly, it seems to point to a dangerous pyromania, something considerably beyond the ordinary enjoyment of watching stuff burn up. And I suppose that on some level you can understand why Taso Sithole's family isn't all that eager to consider this possibility. But seriously -- goblins? Snakes wearing shoes? Magic spells?
2) It was because a money-making magic charm backfired.
3) A snake-like creature wearing shoes and sunglasses set the fires.
4) It was a teenage boy, who amazingly enough was on the scene every time it happened.
It can't be easy to realize that someone in your family is deranged. But it seems like, just for safety's sake, it is better to confront the painful truth than it is to make stuff up, peopling the world with pyromaniac goblins so that you don't have to face reality. To quote Carl Sagan: "Better the hard truth, I say, than the comforting fantasy."
Thursday, May 24, 2012
The strange, fictional life and death of Dana Dirr
A friend of mine sent me a link yesterday to a story that almost defies belief -- that a person (at this point, it's unknown if the perpetrator was male or female) invented a family, complete with a loving mother and father, grandparents, and ten kids (one on the way). Not only that, but one of the kids, Eli, was suffering from a rare form of cancer, but was approaching it so valiantly that they had nicknamed him "Warrior Eli."
Apparently the whole thing started several months ago, when "Dana and J. S. Dirr" appeared on Facebook and in the blogosphere, telling their stories of how they were dealing with the specter of childhood cancer. "Dana" began to post daily, and included photographs of herself, Eli, and the rest of the family, and hundreds of people (eventually thousands) friended her on Facebook and subscribed to her blog. People began to ask where they could donate money to help this poor family, and the American Cancer Society and such grassroots family aid organizations as Alex's Lemonade Stand became involved. "Warrior Eli's Facebook Page" went viral, with people checking it every day to see how the brave little boy was doing.
Then, on the evening before Mother's Day, came a horrific announcement on Warrior Eli's page:
... the entire thing was made up.
There was no Dirr family, no Warrior Eli, no brave mother and father fighting for their kid. The photographs on the Facebook page and blog had been lifted from all over the internet, many of them from family pictures posted by a South African blogger, Tertia Loebenberg, who writes at So Close. (Here's her take on the affair.)
Within hours of the hoax becoming public, the perpetrator(s) had taken down the Warrior Eli Facebook page and Dana's blog page. And it seems like whoever engineered the whole thing is laying very, very low.
After getting over my simple, gut-level emotional reaction to all of this -- my main feeling being disgust -- I asked two questions. First, what on earth could motivate someone to do something like this? It is unclear to me if this was a simple attempt at internet fraud -- most of the money that was donated for Warrior Eli was given to charitable organizations, not directly to the family. It seems more likely that this is a case of Münchausen's By Proxy, where a disturbed individual creates the impression that his/her child is ill because of the attention and sympathy that it garners for the entire family. The elaborate nature of the Dirr hoax -- including dozens of apparently fictional family members and friends -- was only possible because of the anonymity conferred by the internet, and is now being called an excellent example of a new psychological disorder, Münchausen's By Internet.
My second question, which is why this whole story appears on my blog, is: how do we apply the principles of skepticism to what we read online? Most of us, myself included, are fairly trusting, assuming that the majority of humanity is honest the majority of the time. We all know that hoaxes and frauds occur, not to mention the fact that people can be delusional (witness the subjects of the majority of my blog posts). But when someone posts something online that seems plausible, and (especially) yanks on the heartstrings, we get sucked in. I suspect that if I had heard of "Warrior Eli" before the whole thing had been revealed as a fraud, I'd have been fooled just like thousands of others were.
The bottom line is: when you engage your emotions, don't disengage your brain. The Warrior Eli case was cracked by people who recognized when the inventor of the Dirr family pushed the whole thing a little too far, straining credulity to the point that it began to splinter. I'm not advising you to be suspicious -- heaven knows, we don't need any more cynics in the world. But do be careful, and in this and in all things -- keep thinking, and keep asking questions.
Apparently the whole thing started several months ago, when "Dana and J. S. Dirr" appeared on Facebook and in the blogosphere, telling their stories of how they were dealing with the specter of childhood cancer. "Dana" began to post daily, and included photographs of herself, Eli, and the rest of the family, and hundreds of people (eventually thousands) friended her on Facebook and subscribed to her blog. People began to ask where they could donate money to help this poor family, and the American Cancer Society and such grassroots family aid organizations as Alex's Lemonade Stand became involved. "Warrior Eli's Facebook Page" went viral, with people checking it every day to see how the brave little boy was doing.
Then, on the evening before Mother's Day, came a horrific announcement on Warrior Eli's page:
URGENT PRAYERS ARE NEEDED for Eli's mom Dana! She was hit head on by a driver who was driving way too fast and crossed the center line. She was flown to the hospital where she was supposed to be on duty tonight as a trauma surgeon. Dana is almost 35 weeks pregnant right now so please pray for her and the baby! Dane (Dana's dad/Eli's grandpa)Then, later that evening:
Dana just gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. J. and Dana had planned on naming her Evelyn and calling her Evie but they hadn't decided on a middle name yet. J. has decided to call her Evelyn Danika -- Danika after her beautiful mother who we have always called Dana. Dana is not doing well. She has severe bleeding in multiple parts of her brain, she has several skull fractures, her C1-C4 vertebrae are crushed, and she has complete severance of her spinal cord at the C1-C2 level. Please pray for comfort for Dana, J., Connor, and all 11 of Dana and J.'s beautiful babies. Dane (Dana's dad/Eli's grandpa)And on Mother's Day morning came the dreadful announcement, of which I excerpt only three lines:
Last night at 12:02 AM I lost the love of my life. I lost my wife, the mother of my children, and my best friend... She waited until two minutes past midnight on Mother's Day to leave us.The outpouring of grief from all of the people who had followed this family's ongoing struggle was overwhelming. But at this point, a few people smelled a rat. The fact that a grieving father with eleven children (and a new baby) would get onto Facebook to announce his wife's death, only a few hours after it had occurred, seemed a little hard to believe. So some people started digging, beginning with trying to find out if a pregnant mother of eleven had died from injuries received in a car accident on Mother's Day. When no such case could be found, they begin to question other details of the situation, and after some intensive research, they found...
... the entire thing was made up.
There was no Dirr family, no Warrior Eli, no brave mother and father fighting for their kid. The photographs on the Facebook page and blog had been lifted from all over the internet, many of them from family pictures posted by a South African blogger, Tertia Loebenberg, who writes at So Close. (Here's her take on the affair.)
Within hours of the hoax becoming public, the perpetrator(s) had taken down the Warrior Eli Facebook page and Dana's blog page. And it seems like whoever engineered the whole thing is laying very, very low.
After getting over my simple, gut-level emotional reaction to all of this -- my main feeling being disgust -- I asked two questions. First, what on earth could motivate someone to do something like this? It is unclear to me if this was a simple attempt at internet fraud -- most of the money that was donated for Warrior Eli was given to charitable organizations, not directly to the family. It seems more likely that this is a case of Münchausen's By Proxy, where a disturbed individual creates the impression that his/her child is ill because of the attention and sympathy that it garners for the entire family. The elaborate nature of the Dirr hoax -- including dozens of apparently fictional family members and friends -- was only possible because of the anonymity conferred by the internet, and is now being called an excellent example of a new psychological disorder, Münchausen's By Internet.
My second question, which is why this whole story appears on my blog, is: how do we apply the principles of skepticism to what we read online? Most of us, myself included, are fairly trusting, assuming that the majority of humanity is honest the majority of the time. We all know that hoaxes and frauds occur, not to mention the fact that people can be delusional (witness the subjects of the majority of my blog posts). But when someone posts something online that seems plausible, and (especially) yanks on the heartstrings, we get sucked in. I suspect that if I had heard of "Warrior Eli" before the whole thing had been revealed as a fraud, I'd have been fooled just like thousands of others were.
The bottom line is: when you engage your emotions, don't disengage your brain. The Warrior Eli case was cracked by people who recognized when the inventor of the Dirr family pushed the whole thing a little too far, straining credulity to the point that it began to splinter. I'm not advising you to be suspicious -- heaven knows, we don't need any more cynics in the world. But do be careful, and in this and in all things -- keep thinking, and keep asking questions.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Wanted: One object, haunted
There's something fundamentally irreconcilable about the materialist view of the world and the spiritualist view of the world, and this is summed up in how the exponents of these two schools of thought tend to view each other. Spiritualists see materialists as hopelessly dull, missing out on the true wonder of the supernatural nature of everything; materialists, on the other hand, view spiritualists as making stuff up.
Guess which one I am.
I've never understood the criticism of my philosophical stance as dull. For me, the science of how matter actually works is awe-inspiring enough. But for spiritualists, apparently, that isn't sufficient. I suspect a good many of them don't ever bother to learn the science, so it's no wonder they feel the need for something more. This also explains their consistent misuse of words like "quantum" and "energy," a phenomenon I've commented upon approximately 485 times in this blog.
It also seems to be why they want to imbue inanimate objects with a spiritual nature. Thus the recent upsurge in interest in "haunted objects."
The FSPP (Foundation for the Study of Paranormal Phenomena) has an informative article on the subject, even though in my opinion it falls clearly into the "making stuff up" category. The author explains that objects may become haunted by a spirit of a dead person because the object was important to the individual when (s)he was alive, was present when (s)he died, or "for other unknown reasons." But should that make you nervous about buying an antique?
Despite that, there are still many accounts of haunted objects. One of the most famous is "Robert the Doll," a three-foot-tall straw doll given to a boy named Gene Otto some time around 1900 who is so renowned that he actually has his own website. The doll supposedly had been cursed by one of the Otto family employees because of their mistreatment of her, and it proceeded to terrorize the family. One has to wonder why no one thought of the simple expedient of destroying it, but apparently no one did, and Gene Otto kept the doll into adulthood, but did lock it in the attic once he got married. There it remained until Otto died and a new family bought the house, discovered the doll, and it started to terrify their daughter. ''Robert the Doll" is now housed at the Key West Martello Museum, where according to accounts it still "frightens visitors by changing expressions and shifting positions within seconds, and giggling maniacally."
Amazing what the power of suggestion will do, isn't it? If the evidence was as clear cut as all that, we'd have an instant winner of the James Randi Million-Dollar Challenge.
We also have the story, related on the site "Wee Ghosties," of a "friend of the author" who bought a painting at an estate sale. The painting's subject is nothing special -- a "red and blue abstract." But as soon as the painting was hung in the friend's house, odd things started happening, including a spot on the bed depressing as if someone was sitting there, the television turning on and off spontaneously, and objects disappearing and reappearing. The author concludes, "He bought a ghost along with his artwork." The whole thing sounds vaguely fishy to me, the sort of thing that you almost always hear third or fourth hand -- "this happened to my mother's first cousin's husband's sister's gardener." And once again, we have to wonder why, if things were this creepy, with invisible butts sitting on the bed and all, the guy didn't just give the painting to the Salvation Army or something.
Because, after all, there are options. And if the "burn it" or "give it to a thrift store" choices don't appeal, there's always "Carnivalia's Asylum for Haunted Objects and Wayward Ghosts." These folks, so the website says, "are dedicated to providing a safe space for all spiritually inhabited objects. If you have an object that you believe is haunted, or cursed, or simply unfetching, we seek to provide it with a good home." They go on to say that they don't just care about the object, however: "We will do our best to find a good home for your haunted object, and will work towards leading any spirits attached to it towards their final destination into the light."
From other parts of their webpage, you have to wonder if these people are entirely serious, though: "We are not that picky, really, and will likely accept the following haunted objects: thingamajigs, doodads, gizmos, whatsits, thingumabobs, widgets, jiggers. However, our standards prevent us from accepting possessed doohickeys, and we would appreciate you not asking us to do so."
So, okay. Once again, we have that central problem, which is that we have a group of people who want to ascribe spiritual properties to plain old inanimate objects, resulting in further accusations from us materialists that they're just making stuff up. And the result, of course, is that I would love to own a haunted object, and obtain first-hand data (or, more likely, not) about what its spirit companion can do. So I'll match Carnivalia's offer from the website linked above; if anyone has a haunted object and would like to get rid of it, I'd be glad to take it off your hands. I'll report back here of any disappearing objects, electrical appliance malfunctions, or mysterious ass-divots appearing on beds. You'll be the first to know.
Guess which one I am.
I've never understood the criticism of my philosophical stance as dull. For me, the science of how matter actually works is awe-inspiring enough. But for spiritualists, apparently, that isn't sufficient. I suspect a good many of them don't ever bother to learn the science, so it's no wonder they feel the need for something more. This also explains their consistent misuse of words like "quantum" and "energy," a phenomenon I've commented upon approximately 485 times in this blog.
It also seems to be why they want to imbue inanimate objects with a spiritual nature. Thus the recent upsurge in interest in "haunted objects."
The FSPP (Foundation for the Study of Paranormal Phenomena) has an informative article on the subject, even though in my opinion it falls clearly into the "making stuff up" category. The author explains that objects may become haunted by a spirit of a dead person because the object was important to the individual when (s)he was alive, was present when (s)he died, or "for other unknown reasons." But should that make you nervous about buying an antique?
Absolutely not. I personally love old things, be they furniture or trinkets. There is something about holding something that has been around much longer than I have. You can almost feel a powerful energy when you touch something old. What you are feeling is the vibrations of the object or of the person that owned it. Psychometry is the ability to interpret those vibrations. Unfortunately, I do not possess that particular gift to any usable degree. Even so, I still love old things and I would never abstain from buying something I liked simply out of the fear that a deceased someone may come with the object. Let common sense rule here.My feeling is that if common sense ruled, you wouldn't believe in haunted objects in the first place.
Despite that, there are still many accounts of haunted objects. One of the most famous is "Robert the Doll," a three-foot-tall straw doll given to a boy named Gene Otto some time around 1900 who is so renowned that he actually has his own website. The doll supposedly had been cursed by one of the Otto family employees because of their mistreatment of her, and it proceeded to terrorize the family. One has to wonder why no one thought of the simple expedient of destroying it, but apparently no one did, and Gene Otto kept the doll into adulthood, but did lock it in the attic once he got married. There it remained until Otto died and a new family bought the house, discovered the doll, and it started to terrify their daughter. ''Robert the Doll" is now housed at the Key West Martello Museum, where according to accounts it still "frightens visitors by changing expressions and shifting positions within seconds, and giggling maniacally."
Amazing what the power of suggestion will do, isn't it? If the evidence was as clear cut as all that, we'd have an instant winner of the James Randi Million-Dollar Challenge.
We also have the story, related on the site "Wee Ghosties," of a "friend of the author" who bought a painting at an estate sale. The painting's subject is nothing special -- a "red and blue abstract." But as soon as the painting was hung in the friend's house, odd things started happening, including a spot on the bed depressing as if someone was sitting there, the television turning on and off spontaneously, and objects disappearing and reappearing. The author concludes, "He bought a ghost along with his artwork." The whole thing sounds vaguely fishy to me, the sort of thing that you almost always hear third or fourth hand -- "this happened to my mother's first cousin's husband's sister's gardener." And once again, we have to wonder why, if things were this creepy, with invisible butts sitting on the bed and all, the guy didn't just give the painting to the Salvation Army or something.
Because, after all, there are options. And if the "burn it" or "give it to a thrift store" choices don't appeal, there's always "Carnivalia's Asylum for Haunted Objects and Wayward Ghosts." These folks, so the website says, "are dedicated to providing a safe space for all spiritually inhabited objects. If you have an object that you believe is haunted, or cursed, or simply unfetching, we seek to provide it with a good home." They go on to say that they don't just care about the object, however: "We will do our best to find a good home for your haunted object, and will work towards leading any spirits attached to it towards their final destination into the light."
From other parts of their webpage, you have to wonder if these people are entirely serious, though: "We are not that picky, really, and will likely accept the following haunted objects: thingamajigs, doodads, gizmos, whatsits, thingumabobs, widgets, jiggers. However, our standards prevent us from accepting possessed doohickeys, and we would appreciate you not asking us to do so."
So, okay. Once again, we have that central problem, which is that we have a group of people who want to ascribe spiritual properties to plain old inanimate objects, resulting in further accusations from us materialists that they're just making stuff up. And the result, of course, is that I would love to own a haunted object, and obtain first-hand data (or, more likely, not) about what its spirit companion can do. So I'll match Carnivalia's offer from the website linked above; if anyone has a haunted object and would like to get rid of it, I'd be glad to take it off your hands. I'll report back here of any disappearing objects, electrical appliance malfunctions, or mysterious ass-divots appearing on beds. You'll be the first to know.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Dream weavers
All my life, I've been plagued with vivid dreams. I use the word "plagued" deliberately, because more often than not my dreams are disturbing, chaotic, and odd, leaving me unsettled upon waking. I remember more than once thrashing about so violently during a dream that I've found myself in the morning on the floor in a heap of blankets; I've also had the residuum of unease from a bad dream stay with me through much of the following day. And given that I've also spent most of my adult life fighting chronic insomnia, it's a wonder I get any sleep at all.
Of course, I've also had good dreams. A series of flying dreams I had as a child were so realistic, and so cool, that for a while I was convinced that they were true; that I could go into my parents' front yard, angle my body to the wind, and be caught up and thrown into the air like a kite. I've had dreams of running effortlessly, dreams of winning the lottery, and the inevitable (but admittedly pleasant) dreams of the non-PG-13-rated variety.
Through it all, though, I've never had a lucid dream. Lucid dreams are dreams in which you are aware you're dreaming -- and apparently, with some people, dreams in which you are able to control what happens. If such a thing were commonplace, who would need virtual reality or computer games, when every night you could create your own reality and then interact with it as if it were real?
The first step toward making such a thing possible for ordinary schmoes like myself, who dream frequently but never lucidly, may just have hit the market. Called "Remee," the product looks like a sleep mask, but on the inside of the mask are six red LED lights. Even with your eyelids closed, your eyes receive enough light to remain aware of your surroundings, and when the lights activate -- late in the sleep cycle, when you are most likely to be in REM (Rapid Eye Movement, the stage of sleep in which you dream) -- your brain becomes aware of them. At that point (so the theory goes), your perception of the red lights becomes a signal, alerting you to the fact that you're dreaming. From there, the lucid dream is initiated.
So, the lights act a little like the totem objects in Inception -- giving you an anchor, something that clues you in with regards to what is going on. But unlike the totem objects, whose purpose was to check to see if you were dreaming so you could get out, if need be, here the purpose is to let you know that the fun is about to begin.
The inventors of Remee, Duncan Frazier and Steven McGuigan, told The Daily Mail (read the story here) that their tests have indicated that the lights are unlikely to cause seizures or any other ill effects. If they fire during non-REM sleep, for example, the brain simply ignores them -- as it does if a faint light (say the distant headlights of a car) shine briefly into your bedroom window at night.
Remee masks are priced at $95 each, and are available here. Frazier and McGuigan report that since Remee masks first came on the market, they've received over 7,000 orders.
Me, I find this intriguing, but I do wonder about what long-term (possibly psychological) effects such a thing might have, as we still don't have much of an idea what dreaming actually does. That dreams are important seems obvious, given their ubiquity amongst mammal species -- both of my dogs clearly dream, apparently about chasing squirrels judging by how their feet move and the little muffled woofing noises they make. Features that are widespread amongst many different, distantly-related species are called evolutionarily conserved features, and the usual interpretation is that they have been maintained through evolutionary history because they serve some sort of essential purpose. As such, you have to question the wisdom of monkeying around with something like dreaming until we know more about it.
Be that as it may, if I had a Remee mask, I'd definitely try it. Whatever harm it might do, I would guess, is unlikely to happen from occasional use. And if you decide to get one, do let me know by posting here what your results are. Given the unsettling nature of many of my nightly forays into the dream world, it might be nice to have a strategy for taking charge and having a little fun.
Of course, I've also had good dreams. A series of flying dreams I had as a child were so realistic, and so cool, that for a while I was convinced that they were true; that I could go into my parents' front yard, angle my body to the wind, and be caught up and thrown into the air like a kite. I've had dreams of running effortlessly, dreams of winning the lottery, and the inevitable (but admittedly pleasant) dreams of the non-PG-13-rated variety.
Through it all, though, I've never had a lucid dream. Lucid dreams are dreams in which you are aware you're dreaming -- and apparently, with some people, dreams in which you are able to control what happens. If such a thing were commonplace, who would need virtual reality or computer games, when every night you could create your own reality and then interact with it as if it were real?
The first step toward making such a thing possible for ordinary schmoes like myself, who dream frequently but never lucidly, may just have hit the market. Called "Remee," the product looks like a sleep mask, but on the inside of the mask are six red LED lights. Even with your eyelids closed, your eyes receive enough light to remain aware of your surroundings, and when the lights activate -- late in the sleep cycle, when you are most likely to be in REM (Rapid Eye Movement, the stage of sleep in which you dream) -- your brain becomes aware of them. At that point (so the theory goes), your perception of the red lights becomes a signal, alerting you to the fact that you're dreaming. From there, the lucid dream is initiated.
So, the lights act a little like the totem objects in Inception -- giving you an anchor, something that clues you in with regards to what is going on. But unlike the totem objects, whose purpose was to check to see if you were dreaming so you could get out, if need be, here the purpose is to let you know that the fun is about to begin.
The inventors of Remee, Duncan Frazier and Steven McGuigan, told The Daily Mail (read the story here) that their tests have indicated that the lights are unlikely to cause seizures or any other ill effects. If they fire during non-REM sleep, for example, the brain simply ignores them -- as it does if a faint light (say the distant headlights of a car) shine briefly into your bedroom window at night.
Remee masks are priced at $95 each, and are available here. Frazier and McGuigan report that since Remee masks first came on the market, they've received over 7,000 orders.
Me, I find this intriguing, but I do wonder about what long-term (possibly psychological) effects such a thing might have, as we still don't have much of an idea what dreaming actually does. That dreams are important seems obvious, given their ubiquity amongst mammal species -- both of my dogs clearly dream, apparently about chasing squirrels judging by how their feet move and the little muffled woofing noises they make. Features that are widespread amongst many different, distantly-related species are called evolutionarily conserved features, and the usual interpretation is that they have been maintained through evolutionary history because they serve some sort of essential purpose. As such, you have to question the wisdom of monkeying around with something like dreaming until we know more about it.
Be that as it may, if I had a Remee mask, I'd definitely try it. Whatever harm it might do, I would guess, is unlikely to happen from occasional use. And if you decide to get one, do let me know by posting here what your results are. Given the unsettling nature of many of my nightly forays into the dream world, it might be nice to have a strategy for taking charge and having a little fun.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Aural hygiene
Are you feeling grumpy lately? Not sleeping well? Irritable and nervous? Forget stress as the cause of your problems; it also isn't insomnia, problems at home, or a crazy work schedule.
No, the problem is that your aura is dirty. (Source)
Now, you may be asking yourself: given that auras don't exist, how did mine get dirty? And however will I get it clean again?
Like with many things, the key to both is diligence. According to the author of the above-linked article, there are many ways your aura can get dirty, to wit:
But I digress.
So, we've established that it's all too easy, even if you have no tattoos, to get schmutz on your aura. This can result in a variety of bad things happening, including:
And that's the problem with all of this, isn't it? All it requires is that you have a good enough imagination, and the whole thing works like a charm. You don't have to make any real changes in your life, or (heaven forfend) get medical attention or help from a counselor; all you have to do is click your heels together three times and say, "There's no place like home," and you're all set.
No, the problem is that your aura is dirty. (Source)
Now, you may be asking yourself: given that auras don't exist, how did mine get dirty? And however will I get it clean again?
Like with many things, the key to both is diligence. According to the author of the above-linked article, there are many ways your aura can get dirty, to wit:
- Entering a room in which an argument had just taken place.
- Being shouted at by your boss.
- Accidentally poking someone on the street.
- Having someone wish that you were dead.
- Being cursed by an old lady because you have a tattoo.
But I digress.
So, we've established that it's all too easy, even if you have no tattoos, to get schmutz on your aura. This can result in a variety of bad things happening, including:
- Your will could become weaker.
- You could become less sensitive to "energies." Whatever that means.
- You could become a target for "astral attacks." Whatever that means.
- You could be a source of contagious aura-schmutz for others.
And that's the problem with all of this, isn't it? All it requires is that you have a good enough imagination, and the whole thing works like a charm. You don't have to make any real changes in your life, or (heaven forfend) get medical attention or help from a counselor; all you have to do is click your heels together three times and say, "There's no place like home," and you're all set.
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Elf awareness
I should know better, by now. I shouldn't describe someone's woo-woo belief, and then exaggerate it for humorous effect, and say something to the effect of, "well, at least no one believes this." It always seems to backfire, somehow.
You may recall that in yesterday's post, we had the story of Arní Johnson, an Icelandic member of parliament who became convinced that he had been saved from dying in an automobile accident by a family of elves living in a rock. To express his gratitude, he had the rock moved to his front yard, and an "elf expert," Ragnhildur Jónsdóttir, said that was fine as long as the rock was placed in grass (the elves wanted some sheep, apparently) and that it was moved in such a way that the elves were "comfortable" during the journey.
And hoping for a laugh, I quipped, "How do you become an elf expert? Do Icelandic universities offer a major in elfology?"
Well. Like I said before, such comments often come back to bite me on the ass. To wit: today in Iceland Review Online we have a response to Arní Johnson's actions in moving the elves' house, from a guy named Magnús Skarphéðinsson, saying that Johnson was acting foolishly in moving the elves, and in fact may have jeopardized his health in so doing. And who is Magnús Skarphéðinsson, you may ask?
He is principal of the "Icelandic Elf School." (Read about it here.)
Skarphéðinsson says that there are thirteen kinds of elves in Iceland, and that they aren't the same thing as the hidden folk; the hidden folk "are just the same size and look exactly like human beings, the only difference is that they are invisible to most of us. Elves, on the other hand, aren’t entirely human, they’re humanoid, starting at around eight centimeters." His school offers certificate-earning programs on the subject of elves, but also "delves into the study of dwarves, gnomes, and trolls." Because heaven knows we don't want to be ignorant about trolls, or we might get eaten by one while carelessly trip-trapping across a bridge.
Skarphéðinsson also says that there are gay and lesbian elves. I'm probably indulging in unfounded speculation, here, but I bet that most of them are refugees from North Carolina.
I should mention at this point that Skarphéðinsson also offers courses in "auras and past-life regression."
Okay. My first question was, is Skarphéðinsson kidding? Or what? There's part of all of this that sounds like he's pulling our leg a little. But according to the article I read on Skarphéðinsson and his school, supposedly 54% of Icelanders believe in elves and the rest, and in fact public works projects are frequently altered, put on hold, or scrapped entirely if the proposed work looks like it's going to piss off the "invisible folk." Construction of a big stretch of the Ring Road -- Iceland's main highway -- had to be halted temporarily while workers moved a big rock that supposedly housed a family of dwarves.
And honestly, who am I to criticize? It's kind of a charming tradition, really. Given the number of Icelanders who claim to have had encounters with the "shadow people," maybe there's something more to it than I realize. I have a friend, also a writer, who swears she had some inexplicable experiences in a house that was reputed to be occupied by fairies -- and fictionalized the whole thing into a wonderful novel, called Away With the Fairies (which you can buy here). The author, Vivienne Tuffnell, is in other respects a thoroughgoing skeptic, so maybe there's more to this legend than I'm seeing.
In fact, I can say with some certainty that if I ever return to Iceland, I will definitely take a class at the Icelandic Elf School. It would be a proud day for me to hang up a certificate above my desk saying that I had successfully completed a course of study in elfology. And I have, finally, learned my lesson, namely never to suggest that a particular belief is so silly that no one could ever consider it.
You may recall that in yesterday's post, we had the story of Arní Johnson, an Icelandic member of parliament who became convinced that he had been saved from dying in an automobile accident by a family of elves living in a rock. To express his gratitude, he had the rock moved to his front yard, and an "elf expert," Ragnhildur Jónsdóttir, said that was fine as long as the rock was placed in grass (the elves wanted some sheep, apparently) and that it was moved in such a way that the elves were "comfortable" during the journey.
And hoping for a laugh, I quipped, "How do you become an elf expert? Do Icelandic universities offer a major in elfology?"
Well. Like I said before, such comments often come back to bite me on the ass. To wit: today in Iceland Review Online we have a response to Arní Johnson's actions in moving the elves' house, from a guy named Magnús Skarphéðinsson, saying that Johnson was acting foolishly in moving the elves, and in fact may have jeopardized his health in so doing. And who is Magnús Skarphéðinsson, you may ask?
He is principal of the "Icelandic Elf School." (Read about it here.)
Skarphéðinsson says that there are thirteen kinds of elves in Iceland, and that they aren't the same thing as the hidden folk; the hidden folk "are just the same size and look exactly like human beings, the only difference is that they are invisible to most of us. Elves, on the other hand, aren’t entirely human, they’re humanoid, starting at around eight centimeters." His school offers certificate-earning programs on the subject of elves, but also "delves into the study of dwarves, gnomes, and trolls." Because heaven knows we don't want to be ignorant about trolls, or we might get eaten by one while carelessly trip-trapping across a bridge.
Skarphéðinsson also says that there are gay and lesbian elves. I'm probably indulging in unfounded speculation, here, but I bet that most of them are refugees from North Carolina.
I should mention at this point that Skarphéðinsson also offers courses in "auras and past-life regression."
Okay. My first question was, is Skarphéðinsson kidding? Or what? There's part of all of this that sounds like he's pulling our leg a little. But according to the article I read on Skarphéðinsson and his school, supposedly 54% of Icelanders believe in elves and the rest, and in fact public works projects are frequently altered, put on hold, or scrapped entirely if the proposed work looks like it's going to piss off the "invisible folk." Construction of a big stretch of the Ring Road -- Iceland's main highway -- had to be halted temporarily while workers moved a big rock that supposedly housed a family of dwarves.
And honestly, who am I to criticize? It's kind of a charming tradition, really. Given the number of Icelanders who claim to have had encounters with the "shadow people," maybe there's something more to it than I realize. I have a friend, also a writer, who swears she had some inexplicable experiences in a house that was reputed to be occupied by fairies -- and fictionalized the whole thing into a wonderful novel, called Away With the Fairies (which you can buy here). The author, Vivienne Tuffnell, is in other respects a thoroughgoing skeptic, so maybe there's more to this legend than I'm seeing.
In fact, I can say with some certainty that if I ever return to Iceland, I will definitely take a class at the Icelandic Elf School. It would be a proud day for me to hang up a certificate above my desk saying that I had successfully completed a course of study in elfology. And I have, finally, learned my lesson, namely never to suggest that a particular belief is so silly that no one could ever consider it.
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