The old film ‘Forbidden Planet’ was based on an even earlier film. One so old that it was made long before film or any kind of recording device was invented, and the actors had to do it all over again every night. That was called ‘The Tempest’ and was written by Shakespeare and no, I am not getting into the whole ‘did Shakespeare write the plays what he wrote or was it Ernie Wise?’ thing. It is irrelevant here.
In The Tempest, Prospero the magician is marooned on an island with his daughter Miranda, the twisted freak Caliban and the fairy spirit Ariel. Prospero just has to think up what he wants and the spirit Ariel makes it happen. Caliban is a sort of janitor, he cleans the toilets and sweeps the floor and tries to rape Miranda and would have got away with it if it wasn’t for those pesky kids. The parallels in Forbidden Planet are the robot (who went on to star in his own show which he wanted to call ‘Danger, Will Robinson’ but was overruled) as Caliban, the marooned professor and his daughter, and as Ariel, ah…
Incidentally, the robot doesn’t try to rape anyone. He’s not equipped for that.
Ariel is replaced in Forbidden Planet by several million tons of alien technology, capable of blasting an alien brain into super-intelligence and a human one into a pot of something easily spreadable. The marooned professor has been dabbling and does not realise that he is now capable of producing thought-forms (tulpas, if you want to get all Tibetan about it) which are invisible but real enough to kill. He produces them in his sleep.
They come from his subconscious, what Freud called the ‘id’. That snarling animal part of the brain which is leashed by the ego, and normally under control. Again, I am not getting all Freudian here. I do not fancy my mother at all but if you are aged 20-30 I’ll probably fancy yours.
Eventually the Professor realises what he is doing. The attacks, the dismemberments, all the fun parts of the film are his fault. He is the one sending the monsters. While he sleeps, his animal brain rages at perceived injustices and the alien machines he’s been playing with give it the power to make that rage solid. The professor is the one making the monsters. Monsters from the Id.
The monster cannot be seen. It isn’t really real. It’s just something someone thought up and set loose on the world. But it will kill you.
This is, of course, impossible.
Well, actually, no it isn’t. Through the power of psychosomatic total organ collapse, it is actually possible to get someone to believe themselves to death. The shamans of many old cultures knew how to do this. The people believed the shaman had the power to speak them to death and would obediently die when he told them to. He had no supernatural powers, needed none. All he needed were words, spoken with the right inflexion in the right order, and the utter gullibility of the people around him. He had no special powers but they believed he had, and that was enough to make the spells work.
You can cure some kinds of illness with a placebo. Really. Give someone a sugar pill and tell them it’s a miracle cure and they’ll get better, as long as their illness is stress- or worry- induced and there are a lot of those around, especially now.
I am not a placebo. I am a nocebo. I take stress and make it worse. I take the non-stressed and stress them. I do not do this for money nor for ideology. I do it for fun. And it is a lot of fun.
The gullibility of the loincloth-clad spear-wielding Stone Age man is still with us. They have suits instead of loincloths and iPads instead of spears but they are the same creature. They can be convinced of absolutely anything. I have yet to find an absurdity that is universally rejected.
I mean, if I told you that the cancer-charity idea of having someone on an exercise bike pedalling away in a shop was actually an excuse, because the manager forgot to pay the electricity bill and if that guy stops pedalling the lights go out… would you believe me? Local Shop has one of these bikes and the staff (not me, I am not suited to bikes) take turns pedalling all day. Three customers believed me. One more believed we were going Green and the girl (at that time) on the bike was powering my vacuum cleaner.
People are idiots, and the smarter they think they are, the more stupid they are. The smart ones realise that we know very little about the world, despite our massive libraries of knowledge. Remember, most of the old stuff in those libraries has subsequently been proved wrong. The libraries look impressive but there is a lot of obsolete stuff in there. Which should be kept, because if it is lost some idiot will write it again and more idiots will believe it..
If enough idiots believe it, it becomes real. A thought form. A tulpa. It becomes solid and malevolent and capable of killing.
Not really real, but belief-real is as deadly as real-real when the drone mind accepts it. As with the tulpas, the shamans, the monsters from the Id, if enough idiots believe it then it is capable of killing them. They will, just as in the days of shamans and Druids, die on command.
A thousand years ago I would have been a shaman or a Druid or a witch, and I would have been one of those for fun and probably profit. Give me a massive population of drones who believe they will die of something they cannot see, hear, taste touch or smell, give me drones who believe that the long-ago burned thing still haunts their homes, and I will delight in pushing their fears to, and beyond, the limits.
Not for money. Not for that shallow recourse of the soulless, no, I will do it for the hell of it. If I am handed the chance to kill with a word, why would I not take it? Would you reject Darth Vader powers (Luke, pull my finger) handed to you without question or cost? I might have to get a new hat.
The vapers on the Mail article are doing a Camra (Not us, them!), the drones pump out their usual ‘I don’t like it so ban it’ whines and soon it will be hard for a smoker to sell his house and that will cause smoking bans in your own home. That is the game here.
If third hand smoke gets deadlier with age and almost everyone smoked through the fifties, sixties and seventies, then every surface on the planet is now coated with death.
All those buying up seventeenth century barns or castles or mansions, you are buying death in the walls.All those buying antiques are stroking the edge of Death’s scythe because the older it is, the more deadly the residual tobacco smoker will be. You will all be at the doctor’s shouting ‘Lump!’ any day now.
You want to play this game, drones? I love this game. I now have a monster that is 80% undetectable in its pure form and can hide in your upholstery for months, if not years, killing you softly with his smoke.
Antismokers, did you really think pushing this was a good idea?
I have a feeling you did, you know.