Bang or whimper

I've always loved Robert Frost's razor-sharp poem, written in 1920, called "Fire and Ice":

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

How the world will end has fascinated people for as long as we've been able to think about the question.  Various mythologies created their own pictures of the universe's swan song -- the best-known of which is the Norse tale of Ragnarök, when the forces of good (the Æsir, Vanir, and their allies) teamed up against the forces of evil (the Jötnar, trolls, and various Bad Guys like Surtr, the trolls, Midgard's Serpent, Níðhöggr, and, of course, Loki).  Interestingly, in the Norse conception of things, good and evil were pretty evenly matched, and they more or less destroyed each other; only a few on either side survived, along with enough humans to repopulate the devastated world.

Once we started to take a more rational view of things, scientists naturally brought their knowledge to bear on the same question.  After figuring out about stellar mechanics, we've become fairly certain that the Earth will meet its end when the Sun runs out of hydrogen fuel, swells up into a red giant -- at which point it's likely the Earth's orbit will be inside the radius of the Sun -- then ultimately jettisons its outer atmosphere to become a white dwarf.  

But what about the universe as a whole?

When I was in school, just about everyone (well, just about everyone who understood science, anyhow) accepted that the universe had begun at the Big Bang.  The mechanism for what caused it, and what (if anything) had come before it, was unknown then and is still unknown now; but once it occurred, space expanded dramatically, carrying matter and energy with it, an outward motion that is still discernible in the red shift of distant galaxies.  But would that expansion go on forever?  I think the first time I ran into a considered answer to the question was in Carl Sagan's Cosmos, where he explained that the ultimate fate of the universe depended on its mass.  If the overall mass of the universe was above a particular quantity, its gravity would be sufficient to halt the expansion, ultimately sending everything hurtling backward into a "Big Crunch."  Below that critical quantity -- the expansion would slow continuously but would nevertheless keep going, spreading everything out until it was a uniform, thin, cold gas, a fate that goes by the cheery name "the Heat Death of the Universe."

But it turned out the picture wasn't even that simple.  In 1998, Adam Riess and others discovered the baffling fact that the universe wasn't slowing at all, so neither of the above scenarios seemed to be right.  Data from distant galaxies showed -- and it has since been confirmed over and over -- that the universe's expansion is accelerating.  The existence of a repulsive force powering the expansion was proposed, and nicknamed dark energy, but how that could possibly work was (and is) unknown.

Then they found out that dark energy comprises just shy of three-quarters of the universe's total mass-energy.  Physicists had a huge conundrum to explain.

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons NASA/ESA, SN1994D, CC BY 3.0]

It also led to another possibility for the universe's fate, and one that's even more dire than the Heat Death.  If the amount of dark energy per unit volume of space is constant -- which it appeared to be -- then the relative proportion of dark energy will increase over time, because conventional matter and energy is thinning out as space expands (and dark energy is not).  As this happens, the relative strength of the dark energy repulsion will eventually increase to the point that it overwhelms all other forces, including electromagnetism and the nuclear forces -- tearing matter up into a soup of fundamental particles.

The "Big Rip."

Confused yet?  Because the reason all this comes up is that there's just been another discovery, this one by DESI (the Dark Energy Spectroscopic Instrument) indicating fairly strongly that the force of dark energy has been decreasing over time.  I say "fairly strongly" because at the moment the data sets this is based on range from 2.8 to 4.2 sigma (this is an indicator of how strongly the data supports the claim; for reference, 3 sigma represents a 0.3% possibility that the data is a statistical fluke, and 5 sigma is considered the threshold for breaking out the champagne).  So it appears that although the quantity of dark energy per unit volume of space is constant, the strength of the dark energy force is less now than it was in the early universe.

So what does this mean about the fate of the universe?  Will it be, in Frost's terms, fire or ice?  A bang or a whimper?  We don't know.  The first thing is to figure out what the hell dark energy actually is, and how it works, and -- if the DESI results hold up -- why it seems to be diminishing.

All I can say is the cosmologists have a lot of explaining to do.

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Walkabout

There's an ongoing war of words between people who consider themselves generalists and those who consider themselves specialists.

I recall being in the Graduate School of Oceanography at the University of Washington -- a placement that only lasted a semester, for a variety of reasons -- and my advisor sneeringly referring to generalists as "people who lack the focus, drive, and brains to stay with something long enough to learn it thoroughly."  Countering this is the quip that specialists are "learning more and more about less and less, until finally they'll know everything about nothing."

Although I am squarely in the generalist camp, I'm strongly of the opinion that we need both.  The specialists' depth and the generalists' breadth should be complementary, not in contention.  The focus of specialists has given us most of our detailed knowledge of science and technology; the wide-ranging interest of generalists -- who, in a kinder time, were called polymaths rather than dilettantes or dabblers -- allow them to draw connections between disparate fields, and bring that curiosity and wonder to others.

I'm hoping this doesn't come across as self-defensive, given my B.S. in physics, attempted/abortive M.S. in oceanography, final M.A. in historical linguistics, and teaching certification in biology.  Perhaps my long-ago advisor wasn't entirely incorrect; my "oh look something shiny!" approach to learning would likely have made a Ph.D. in anything unattainable.  But it does have the distinct advantage that I'm still unendingly curious about the world, and almost on a daily basis stumble on cool things in a vast array of disciplines that I didn't know about.

Take, for example, the fact that yesterday I learned about a language I'd never heard of before, belonging to an entire language family I'd never heard of before.  Illustrating, perhaps, that even at the master's degree level, my study of linguistics had already narrowed to the point of excluding all but a tiny fraction of what's out there (my study focused primarily on Scandinavian and Celtic languages; my only real work in a non-Indo-European language has been my recent attempts to learn some Japanese).  But this odd language I found out about has a curious history -- and a possible connection to another language family, on the opposite side of the world.

The language is called Ket, and is spoken by a small number -- estimates are between fifty and two hundred -- people in the remote region of Krasnoyarsk Krai in central Siberia.  It is the sole surviving member of the Yeniseian language family; the last speaker of the related language called Yugh died in 1970, and other members of the Yeniseian family, Kott, Arin, Assan, and Pumpokol, were all extinct by the mid-nineteenth century.

A Ket family, circa 1900 [Image is in the Public Domain]

Here's where it gets interesting, though.  There's some evidence that Ket and the other Yeniseian languages are related to the language spoken by the Xiongnu Confederation, a group of interrelated nomadic peoples who dominated the east Eurasian steppes -- what are now parts of Siberia, Mongolia, and northern China -- from the third century B.C.E. to the first century C.E.  And one hypothesis is that when the Xiongnu Confederation fell to pieces, in part because of a climatic shift that led to severe drought, they upped stakes and moved west, where they became known to history as...

... the Huns.

So an obscure language currently spoken by under two hundred people may be the closest surviving cousin of the language spoken by one of the most feared warrior people ever, who made it all the way to what is now eastern France before finally being defeated.

But it gets weirder still.  Because linguistic analysis has suggested one other possible relative of Ket -- the Na Dene languages of western North America, including Athabaskan, Tlingit, Eyak, and Navajo.  Linguist Bernard Comrie calls it "the first demonstration of a genealogical link between Old World and New World language families that meets the standards of traditional comparative historical linguistics."  Supporting this is a study by Edward Vajda of Western Washington University finding that the Q1 Y-chromosome haplogroup is extremely common in Na Dene speakers, and close to universal amongst the Ket -- but is found almost nowhere else in Eurasia.

How the Ket (and the other Yeniseian speakers) got where they are is a matter of conjecture.  One possibility is that the ancestors of the Yeniseians (including, possibly, the Xiongnu and the Huns) were left behind when the ancestors of today's North American Na Dene speakers crossed Beringia into Alaska during the last Ice Age.  Other anthropologists believe that the split occurred later, as some of the North American migrants crossed back into what is now Siberia, and got stranded there when the seas rose.  It's hard to imagine what evidence could settle this conclusively; but the relationship between the Yeniseian languages and the Na Dene languages, along with the highly suggestive DNA connection, seems to support a relationship between those two now-widely-separated groups.  However the walkabout happened, it's left its fingerprint in three different continents.

So there you have it.  A link between the Huns, the Navajo, and a tiny and declining group of Siberians.  That's our excursion into linguistics for today.  Tomorrow it might be astronomy or geology or archaeology or meteorology or, perhaps, ghosts and Bigfoots or whatnot.  You never know.  I presume you must on some level enjoy my random musings, or you wouldn't be here.  Even if I might well "lack focus, drive, and brains," I still have more fun jumping from topic to topic than I would if I'd buckled down and focused on one cubic centimeter of the universe.

Here's to being a generalist!

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Antique ghosts

Once upon a time, there was a man who was looking for a house to buy.  He came upon a large home on a lovely piece of land, something that most would consider a mansion, at a very cheap price.  He was interested, but (understandably) suspicious -- at that price, there had to be something wrong with it.

"What's the catch?" he asked the seller.

The owner reluctantly admitted that it had a reputation for being haunted.  Everyone who had taken up residence in the house, he said, had been visited nightly by the horrifying specter of a man in chains, whose appearance was so ghastly that it made sleep pretty much impossible.  Not only that, but even when the ghost wasn't visible, there was a palpable miasma of fear around the house.  No one, the owner said, stayed there long; some had even fallen ill from the effects of the haunting.

The prospective buyer thanked the seller for his honesty, and (to the seller's shock) said he was interested in purchasing the home anyhow.  The owner, simultaneously giving thanks for his luck and questioning the buyer's sanity, sold him the house, and in due time, the transaction was completed and the new owner moved in.

Sure enough, on the first night, the man was awakened by the rattling of chains.  Soon a hideous ghost appeared, an old man dressed in ragged clothes, chains around his waist, his face pale and glowing with a sickly light.  Unmoved, the house's new owner stood his ground, and asked the spirit what he wanted.

The specter crooked one finger as if in summons, then turned away, leading the owner outside, to a place on the property.  The ghost met the owner's eyes, pointed downward -- then vanished.

The next day, the owner contacted the local magistrates, who gave the order to dig at the place the ghost had indicated.  After an hour's hard work, they uncovered a skeleton -- still bound by chains.  Who the man had been was unknown; it was obvious the body had been in the ground for a long while.  But the house's new owner made sure that the skeleton was respectfully unearthed, its fetters removed, and given a proper burial in a cemetery.

The spirit, satisfied, was never seen again.

Sound familiar?  The bare bones (pun intended) of this tale have formed the basis of hundreds, possibly thousands, of folk legends and tales-around-the-campfire.  But what may surprise you is this particular version's provenance.

It was related as a true story about the Greek philosopher Athenodorus Cananites (74 B.C.E. - 7 C.E.) by the famous author, lawyer, historian, and polymath Pliny the Younger (61 C.E. - 113 C.E.), and is one of the very first written examples of a ghost story.  Athenodorus himself was the home-buyer who allegedly sent the spirit to its eternal rest and scored a nice house and property at a bargain-basement price in the process.  (The source is Pliny's Letter LXXXIII - To Sura.)

Athenodorus Confronts the Spectre, by Henry Justice Ford (ca. 1900) [Image is in the Public Domain]

Athenodorus Cananites was neither ignorant nor superstitious; he was a prominent Stoic, learned in a variety of fields, and in fact was one of the tutors hired to teach Octavian (later Augustus Caesar).  I don't want to overstate the case, of course.  Even scholarly Greeks and Romans of his time were steeped in the legends of gods, demigods, and spirits, and mostly bought into a worldview that many of us today would consider unscientific nonsense.  But it's interesting that two prominent figures of the Classical intelligentsia are responsible for a story of with same flavor as countless other "restless spirit finds justice and is now at peace" tales told since.

It makes me wonder, though, how all of this got started.  Once the first few ghost stories are told, you can see how people would continue telling them; they're good scary fun, and also, humans are pretty suggestible.  Once your cousin tells you the house is haunted, it's easy enough afterward to interpret every creak and thump as the footsteps of a spectral resident.

But if you go back far enough, someone has to have told the first ghost story.  What could have spurred that?  What occurrence led one of our distant ancestors to decide that Great-Aunt Bertha had come back from the dead, and was still stalking around the place?

Impossible to know, of course.  But what's certain is that just about every culture on Earth tells ghost stories.  True Believers use that as an argument for their veracity; if there was no such thing as an afterlife, they say, why the ubiquity (and commonality of themes) between ghostly tales the world over?  Me, I'm not convinced.  After all, I've written here before about the widespread occurrence of stories similar to "Little Red Riding Hood" -- and no one believes that's because there ever was a wolf dressed up like Grandma waiting to eat a little girl with a basket of goodies.

At least I hope they don't.

In any case, I thought it was an interesting story, not least because it involves two prominent historical figures.  Whether it, and others like it, have any basis in reality very much remains to be seen.  So think about this if you're ever purchasing a house, and the price is way lower than it should be.  Maybe there's a man in chains buried somewhere on the property, and you're about to be recruited by a long-dead specter to fulfill its quest for justice.

Or maybe the roof just needs replacing or something.

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Stone age

I've only got a few real obsessions.  My dogs.  Doctor Who.  Anything to do with astronomy.  Lost in Space.  The X Files.  Star Trek - The Next Generation.  The movie Contact.

I bet you're sensing a theme, here.  Other than my dogs, all of these have to do with the universe, space travel, and alien life.  And given how oddly my dogs act some days, I find myself wondering if they might not be alien spies as well.  Especially Rosie, who so often seems to be judging us.

"Unless I start getting steak for dinner, the report I'll be sending to the Mothership will be highly unflattering."

But even with that possible exception, it's evident that I have a bit of a fixation on the possibility of extraterrestrial life.  I'm well aware of the fact that with regards to life, we've still got a sample size of one; despite decades of looking, we have yet to find any unequivocal biosignatures, signs that life exists, anywhere else but here.  (Much less any signs of extraterrestrial intelligent life.  Much as I would love for some astronomer to become a real-life Ellie Arroway, no such luck... yet.)

In spite of all this, I still am very much of the opinion that life elsewhere in the universe is likely to be abundant.  I base this on the known facts that there are trillions of stars out there, in billions of galaxies, and that exoplanetary systems are common (i.e. the formation of the Solar System wasn't just a lucky fluke).  Optimistic estimates of some of the other variables in the Drake Equation are harder to defend, but I stand by my statement: a purely statistical argument suggests that many star systems have planets that support some kind of life.

One of the things that in my mind argues for life existing elsewhere in the universe -- even in environments that we might consider inhospitable -- is how many extreme habitats here on Earth turn out to host living things.  There's life in the desiccated, perpetual cold of the dry valleys of Antarctica, in highly alkaline (or highly acidic) hot springs, in boreholes miles deep, in hydrothermal vents in the oceanic abyss.  The odd little animals called tardigrades can survive extremes in temperature and pressure, radiation, and dehydration; they've even survived exposure to the vacuum of space.

And we're still finding new ones in unexpected places.  Take, for example, the microorganism -- or, rather, the traces of it -- that was the subject of a study this week in the journal Geomicrobiology.  A team out of Johannes Gutenberg Universität Mainz was studying samples of marble and limestone quarried in the parched deserts of Namibia, Oman, and Saudi Arabia, and found microscopic tunnels apparently excavated by some as-yet-unidentified microbe.

"We were surprised because these tubes are clearly not the result of a geological process," said Cees Passchier, who co-authored the paper.  "We were looking at the structure of the rocks to find out how continents came together to form the supercontinent Gondwana five hundred to six hundred million years ago.  At that time, carbonate deposits formed in the ancient oceans and turned into marble due to pressure and heat...  We noticed strange structures in this marble that were not the result of geological events.  These are old structures, perhaps one or two million years old...  What is so exciting about our discovery is that we do not know which endolithic microorganism this is.  Is it a known form of life or a completely unknown organism?  It must be an organism that can survive without light because the tubes have formed deep inside the rock.  We don't currently know whether this is a life form that has become extinct or is still alive somewhere."

Samples of marble with the "microburrows" [Image credit: C. Passchier et al.]

It seems like everywhere we look on Earth, we find life, which strengthens the hope of those of us who'd like to find life out there amongst the stars as well.  That microorganisms can live by tunneling their way through solid rock certainly suggests we should expand the parameters of the phrase "capable of supporting life."

Although most of it may not be at the point of sending out messages that could be picked up by our radio telescopes, my surmise is that most even remotely hospitable locales in the universe will turn out to be inhabited.  And just judging by the diversity of our terrestrial organisms, I also strongly suspect that what is out there will indeed turn out to be, in Darwin's immortal words, "endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful."

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Up, down, round and round

I recall seeing a comic strip a while back making fun of one of the features of Star Trek that doesn't seem ridiculous until you think about it a little.  Have you noticed that whenever two starships are near each other -- whether it's the Enterprise and other Federation ships, or they're being threatened by the Romulans or Klingons or whatnot -- the ships are almost always oriented the same way?  The only time this is not the case is when the showrunner wanted to make it clear that the other ship was disabled and drifting.  Then it was shown at some odd angle relative to the Enterprise.  In the comic strip, it showed what it would look like if all the ships were at random orientations -- how ridiculous it appeared -- but really, isn't that what you'd expect?  In the Star Trek universe, each ship is supposed to come with its own artificial gravity, so within any ship, up is "toward the ceiling" and down is "toward the floor."  It wouldn't need to line up with any other ship's artificial gravity, so except for an occasional coincidence, they should all be at various angles.

In space, there's no preferred direction, no "up" or "down."  You always have to describe position relative to something else -- to the axis of the Earth's rotation, or the plane of the Solar System, or the plane of revolution of the Milky Way.  But even those aren't some kind of universal orientation; as I described in a recent post, the universe is largely isotropic (the same in every direction).  Just like the starships in Star Trek, there shouldn't be any preferred directionality.

Well, that's what we thought.

A new paper this week in the journal Monthly Notices of the Royal Astronomical Society describes a set of data from the James Webb Space Telescope that is absolutely astonishing.  Here's how the authors describe it:

JWST provides a view of the Universe never seen before, and specifically fine details of galaxies in deep space.  JWST Advanced Deep Extragalactic Survey (JADES) is a deep field survey, providing unprecedentedly detailed view of galaxies in the early Universe.  The field is also in relatively close proximity to the Galactic pole.  Analysis of spiral galaxies by their direction of rotation in JADES shows that the number of galaxies in that field that rotate in the opposite direction relative to the Milky Way galaxy is ∼50 per cent higher than the number of galaxies that rotate in the same direction relative to the Milky Way.  The analysis is done using a computer-aided quantitative method, but the difference is so extreme that it can be noticed and inspected even by the unaided human eye.  These observations are in excellent agreement with deep fields taken at around the same footprint by Hubble Space Telescope and JWST.

This adds a whole new twist (*rimshot*) to the horizon problem and the isotropy of the universe as a whole.  Not only do we have the issue that causally-disconnected regions of the cosmic microwave background radiation, that are too far apart to have ever influenced each other (something I describe more fully in the above-linked post), are way more similar in temperature than you'd expect -- now we have to figure out how causally-disconnected galaxies on opposite sides of the universe could possibly have ended up with correlated rotational axes.

The authors admit it's possible that this measurement is due to something about the Milky Way's own rotation that we're not compensating for in the data, but there's a more out-there explanation that the paper's authors are seriously considering.

"It is not clear what causes this to happen," said study co-author Lior Shamir, of Kansas State University, in an interview with Independent.  "[But] one explanation is that the universe was born rotating.  That explanation agrees with theories such as black hole cosmology, which postulates that the entire universe is the interior of a black hole."

Black holes are defined by three properties -- mass, electric charge, and... angular momentum.  That we're inside a rotating black hole would explain the anomaly JWST just observed.  Since -- at least as far as our current understanding goes -- anything inside a black hole's event horizon is forever inaccessible, perhaps this means that event horizons are boundaries between universes.  As bizarre as that sounds, there is nothing about what we know of the laws of physics and cosmology that rules that out.  Which would mean that...

... black holes are bigger on the inside.

The Doctor tried to tell us.

Of course, the more prosaic explanation -- that the data were somehow influenced by our own motion through space -- has yet to be decisively ruled out.  I can't help but feel, though, that if the authors thought that was likely, they (or their reviewers) would have suggested waiting and re-analyzing before publishing in a prestigious journal like MNRAS.  The greater likelihood is that this is a real signal, and if so, it's mighty odd.

As far as what it would mean if we found out we are inside a black hole, well -- I'm hardly qualified to weigh in.  It probably wouldn't affect our day-to-day life any.  After all, it's not like we were going to find a way out of the universe anyhow, much as recent events here on Earth have made many of us wish we could.  All I can say is stay alert for further developments, and keep looking up.

Whatever direction that actually is.

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Bootstraps

Yesterday's post, about the strange resurgence of a fifty-year-old claim that the Dogon tribe of west Africa found out about Sirius's invisible-to-the-naked-eye white dwarf companion star from space-traveling aliens, spurred a conversation with a friend about the nature of the internet.

As useful as it is -- many of us spend a significant fraction of our waking hours connected to it -- it has its downsides.  I had made the point in yesterday's post that stuff like "E.T. Visits the Dogon People" would never gain the traction, spread, and longevity that it does without the internet.  The web is a fantastic conduit for knowledge, an amazing repository for factual information -- and a dreadfully efficient facilitator for the distribution of bullshit.

My friend, though, went one step further.

"The way the internet is set up," he said, "it not only acts as a conductor for bullshit, but it actually creates it.  There's a self-referential quality to the internet that makes the generation of loony nonsense inevitable.  It's why I wasn't surprised when generative A.I. started 'hallucinating' -- basically, making shit up that sounded so plausible that people believed it, like the A.I. mushroom foraging guide that recommended eating Amanita mushrooms with your t-bone steak.  It takes almost nothing to get the ball rolling, and pretty soon you've got some serious craziness to deal with.  Then, once it starts, how do you get people to stop believing?  Their belief expands the craziness, and around and around it goes.  It's the snowball effect on steroids."

I asked him if he could give me some examples, and he said he'd send me some links.

The result sent me down a rabbit hole, which I'll share a bit of with you here.

One of the most persistent and long-lived examples of this phenomenon is one I had never heard of before.  It's called Markovian Parallax Denigrate, after the subject line of hundreds of messages posted to Usenet all the way back in 1996.  The message texts were a random list of words, such as the following real example:

jitterbugging McKinley Abe break Newtonian inferring caw update Cohen air collaborate rue sportswriting rococo invocate tousle shadflower Debby Stirling pathogenesis escritoire adventitious novo ITT most chairperson Dwight Hertzog different pinpoint dunk McKinley pendant firelight Uranus episodic medicine ditty craggy flogging variac brotherhood Webb impromptu file countenance inheritance cohesion refrigerate morphine napkin inland Janeiro nameable yearbook hark

Well, it's a seemingly random list.  *raises one eyebrow in a meaningful manner*  Even though most people believe that the MPD messages are nonsense and were either produced by an early experimental text generator or chatbot, or else someone trying to troll everyone and get their fifteen minutes of fame, there are people who are still trying to "decode" the messages and figure out what they "really mean."  After everyone got all stirred up, it seemed so damned anticlimactic to say they were just a list of words.  Interestingly, no one has ever claimed responsibility; an article on The Daily Dot called it "the internet's oldest and weirdest mystery."

Then there's Cicada 3301, a set of seven puzzles posted between 2012 and 2014 on the weird, conspiracy-ish site 4chan.  The first two puzzles were solved; the others remain unsolved (and there are still people working on them today).  The stated purpose of the puzzles was to "recruit intelligent individuals," but for whom or what?  Various people suggested the source of the puzzles (and therefore the recruiting agency) could be the CIA, the NSA, M16, Mossad, a free-agent mercenary group, or a "Masonic conspiracy." 

One person who successfully solved the first puzzle was invited to join a private forum, where he was questioned about his knowledge of cryptography and his attitudes toward online freedom and censorship.  He played along for a while, but eventually got spooked and quit the forum -- and later inquiries found that the site itself had been deleted.

To this day no one knows for sure who Cicada 3301 is or what the website's purpose was -- but there's still an online community of people discussing it, over a decade later.

The best example of something on the internet taking on a life of its own, though, is "This Man."  Back in 2008, a website popped up called "Ever Dreamed Of This Man?"  It was accompanied by a sketch:

Along with the image was a story about a "well-known New York City psychiatrist" whose patient reported seeing "This Man" repeatedly in his dreams; when a second patient came to him with a similar tale, the psychiatrist forwarded the sketch to colleagues, and found that a number of them had patients with recurring dreams about the guy -- some neutral, some sexual, some violent.  In some dreams he was the dreamer's father; in others, a teacher; in many of them, he was a stranger.  The one common thread was his appearance -- and the extreme vividness with which people recalled him.

Well, responses started pouring in.  Thousands of people reported dreaming about him, and posted lengthy descriptions of what they'd experienced.  How could this be -- how could people from all over the world suddenly find themselves dreaming about the same man?  Who was the mysterious man, and what could it mean that he was appearing in dreaming minds worldwide?

As you might already be suspecting, the whole tale had been a lie right from the get-go.  There was no "well-known New York City psychiatrist," and the entire set-up of the story was a hoax.  It had all been the brainchild of an Italian online marketer named Andrea Natella to get clicks on his website, and to drum up notoriety for a marketing campaign.  

The responses, however, were very real.  Even when Natella more or less got caught at his game and confessed in 2008, people kept saying they'd dreamed about This Man, and No he's real really he is.  Natella was interviewed by Vice in 2015, and described the whole thing -- how he'd gotten the idea, how he'd been found out, and so on -- and despite that, he is still receiving hundreds of emails and letters every week from people who claim to have dreamed about This Man -- or, weirder still, to have seen him in real life.  A few claim to know who he actually is.  (And we reach weirdvana with an Indian guru named Arud Kannan Ayya, who contacted Natella to tell him that he is This Man and that's why he has magical guru powers.)

So even shouting "HEY Y'ALL I ADMIT IT I MADE THE WHOLE THING UP" isn't enough to put the quietus on this phenomenon. Once it starts up, it's like these online claims lift themselves by their own bootstraps, and at that point they're unstoppable.  And I have to admit that my friend has a point; without the internet, it's hard to imagine how any of these could have gotten the traction they did.

In any case, we're pretty well stuck with the internet, for good or bad, at least until the next Miyake Event comes along and blows the whole thing to smithereens.  Myself, I'll put up with stuff like This Man, Cicada 3301, and Markovian Parallax Denigrate rather than having to deal with the aftermath of that.

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The zombie claim

One of the fundamental principles of woo-woo-ism is never to let a popular idea die.

You can refute them, you can debunk them, you can show them hard cold facts that what they're saying can't be true, and they will never give up.  It's a little like Donald "It's Only Rigged When I Lose" Trump, isn't it?  The world has to be how they see it, so any evidence to the contrary has to be suppressed, rationalized away, or simply ignored.

This is undoubtedly why I am once again running across references to a claim that I first saw way back in the 1970s -- that the Dogon tribe of Africa had prior knowledge, through contact with "ancient astronauts" from another planet, that the star Sirius has a companion star that is too small to see with the naked eye.  According to this story, they even got the orbital period of this star correct (fifty years, give or take).  Aficionados of UFOs and aliens and so on just love this story, because if true, it would seem to be evidence that a relatively primitive tribe had information that they could only have gotten from an advanced society.

Of course, that last statement is literally true; the advanced society they got it from is France.  The anthropologist who first made the claim of the Dogon's knowledge, Marcel Griaule, is thought to be the one who "contaminated" the Dogon with outside information in the first place.  The discovery that Sirius's companion star ("Sirius B") is a bizarre condensed stellar core called a white dwarf was all over the news in the 1920s, when Griaule was working with the Dogon, and the Dogon themselves are peculiarly fascinated with the stars.  It doesn't take much of a reach to guess that Griaule was the source of the information, especially given that subsequent researchers into the Dogon culture found that the only ones who had actually heard of "po tolo," as they called Sirius B, were the people in the village Griaule had visited.

Sirius A and Sirius B [Image is in the Public Domain courtesy of NASA]

Griaule's claim probably would never have gotten much notice if it hadn't been for a 1977 book by Robert Temple called The Sirius Mystery, which rode on the then-recent hype surrounding Erich von Däniken's 1968 smash bestseller Chariots of the Gods, followed by his equally popular books Gold of the Gods, Odyssey of the Gods, Signs of the Gods, Return of the Gods, Retirement Planning Advice of the Gods, and Favorite Easy Recipes of the Gods.  Temple's book covers much of the same sort of ground, and garnered highly dubious responses by Carl Sagan, Jason Colavito, James Oberg, and Ian Ridpath, the latter of whom wrote a thorough takedown of the claim in The Skeptical Inquirer in 1978.  Ridpath shows that to accept that the Dogon somehow knew about Sirius B requires taking their vague, ambiguous, and mythologized accounts (as related by Griaule) and forcing them to conform to the data.  It's more likely -- vastly more likely -- that the Dogon heard bits and pieces about the discovery of the double star from Griaule or one of his staff and incorporated them into their own legends in a piecemeal fashion, than that they somehow got the information from space travelers who'd actually been there.

Ridpath writes:

The point is that there are any number of channels by which the Dogon could have received Western knowledge long before they were visited by Griaule and [Germaine] Dieterlen [an anthropologist who worked with Griaule].  We may never be able to reconstruct the exact route by which the Dogon received their current knowledge, but out of the confusion at least one thing is clear: they were not told by beings from the star Sirius.

Nonetheless, almost fifty years after Ridpath's authoritative takedown, this story is still circulating.  A search for the keywords "Sirius" and "Dogon" garners thousands of hits, and a quick perusal of the first three pages is enough to demonstrate that almost all of them buy Griaule's idea wholesale.  And this points to another, and more depressing conclusion; skeptical thought seems to travel slower than bullshit does.  Ridiculous ideas, like Griaule's claim that ancient astronauts had visited the Dogon, have more of a cachet than do prosaic statements such as "Griaule told 'em himself, and then claimed he'd discovered something amazing."  Who would be motivated to tell a friend something like the latter?  While the former... well, you can see how that story might have a little more tendency to get passed along.

As far as why these things go in cycles, and why there's been a recent resurgence of interest in Sirius and the Dogon -- I have no idea.  The claim this time seems to have been picked up by the Harmonic Convergence people, who think that our current turbulent political situation is an indication that we're about to "ascend" and meet up with Cosmic Masters from another star system.  "Pain and anguish always precede profound change for the better," I saw on one of their websites.  To which I say: cool beans.  All I can add is that y'all Cosmic Masters need to get your ascended celestial asses here pronto, because our current so-called leaders seem to be fucking things up royally.  At this point, I'd look upon an invasion by aliens as an improvement.  I mean, I'm not asking for the Daleks or the Vashta Nerada to show up -- I do have some standards -- but there are a lot of other options.  Even the Borg have their positive aspects, you know?

But since the Borg are a collective interconnected hive-mind, this brings up the question of what would happen if some of these MAGA types got assimilated.  Suppose they Borg-ified Marjorie Taylor Greene.  Would the Collective all of a sudden become way stupider?  After assimilating Mike Johnson they'd probably stop trying to take over new planets and focus on taking away the rights of the ones they'd already assimilated, and then they'd hold a prayer meeting.  Or how about J. D. Vance?  Would they all suddenly develop a strange affinity for sofas?

But I digress.

Anyhow, if you do see the whole Dogon/Sirius B thing popping up, like some undead zombie claim we all thought was long buried, you might want to mention that it was thoroughly debunked all the way back in 1978.  There aren't any Ancient Astronauts, so claiming that they visited a tribe in Africa is even further removed from the truth.

It's time to let this one go, at least for now.  I'm not enough of an optimist to believe it'll ever go away completely, but for now, let's give it a rest, okay?

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