Illithics

(Author's note: This has nothing to do with Illithids, from Dungeons & Dragons. It is instead a combination of the words "ill", meaning bad, and "lith", meaning rock. "Illithic" = "Bad Stone".)

Ever wonder why there are so many haunted castles and so few haunted log cabins? Why caves are scarier than forests? Why "monsters" are more likely to lurk in basements instead of attics?

It's because of all that stone.

No, seriously. Bear with me a moment and I'll prove I'm not on crack.

I.
What would you say if I told you that there was a kind of stone that produced electricity when put under mechanical pressure? You'd call me crazy, right? That's the piezoelectric effect, bitches, and not only is it 100% provable it's also the basis for modern technologies involving transformers, sensors, motors, and clocks. Even zanier, the reverse is also true: apply an electric current to that rock and it will change shape, deforming up to 0.1% of its original dimensions. What's more, it's not just one type of rock that has piezoelectric qualities. There are several of them, and the largest group -- Quartz -- just happens to be the second most common mineral in the Earth's crust.

II.
The human brain produces electricity, and transmits measurable electrical signals at different frequencies. This has also been scientifically proven, and is the basis for the Electroencephalograph, aka the EEG machine.

Those of you who see where this is going may nod knowingly and mock those who don't.

III.
So that brings us to illithics -- bad rocks. Or, to be more technical, crystalline lattices which deform under psychic energy.

Odd, isn't it, how so many historically haunted locales have bloody histories attached to them? Perhaps not. I submit to you that these sites are strewn with -- or in the case of castles, may consist entirely of -- these piezopsychic rocks. They deform under the intense psychic energy that is produced when tragedy and bloodshed occur, distributing the load across their structures. Then, years or centuries later, as mechanical stresses are applied to them -- perhaps through renovation (how many hauntings begin with the new owners starting construction?), or perhaps through the simple repetitive stress of people living there -- the illithics compress, and discharge their stored psychic energy, usually to the detriment of those present.

Castles, of course, are the classic definition, with the entire structure serving as a piezopsychic lattice, but they are not the sole examples. Haunted caves, the monster in the basement under the stairs, old abandoned rock quarries... all have one element in common: they are surrounded by lots and lots of rock.

I admit I cannot prove any of this. But it makes a neat theory. And consider the following: If no one is there to be scared, is a house truly haunted? Or does it require a person to be there, to act as recipient of the psychic energy, for a haunting to take place?

Sure, it may be all in your head. That's where psychic energy originates.

WNW: Interviewing Leather

Goddammit, Other People, stop writing stuff that I want to write!

Especially when you're so fucking good at it.

As an aside, when I begin my career in costumed supervillany, I totally want Eric Burns to write my dialogue:

“Good. Now. Since this is a warning — let me give you that official warning, which I’ll be certain to send along to the Guild rep too.” She looked at each of them slowly. “If you ever, ever break my orders again… as God as my witness I will devote whatever time I have out of jail to making your lives living Hells. I will break your knees. I will beat up your wives and kids. I will make fun of your mothers and kill your fucking pets in front of your eyes. My wrath will be as extensive as it will be disproportionate, because I have no. Fucking. Sense. Of perspective. Do you idiots hear me?”

Read the whole series. You won't be disappointed.

Go Ask Eris

Sometimes my family asks me, "Erin, you talk about writing this blog but you never let us know where it is or what it's about. Why is that?" and I reply, "I'm taking a shower, dammit! Can't I get any privacy when I'm in the bathroom?" In the civilized world, going into the bathroom is cause for, oh I don't know, a pause in the daily interrogation that is family life. But at Chez Palette, it simply means one must talk that much louder so as to be heard through the door and over the sound of flushing toilets.

However, they do ask a valid question, and the answer is wickedly simple: if they knew the kind of shit I talked about, I'd never ever hear the end of it. But by keeping the details to myself, I am free to talk all kinds of smack about my metrosexual brother and crazy cat-lady sister. Not to mention that business with the shaved goat. Mostly, though, it's for my own sanity. If I had to defend every assertion I made on this blog, I'd snap like a wheat thin and then there'd be delicious multi-grain carnage all over the place.

Case in point: Eris. You see, my sister is one of those nigh-fanatical Christians who wields church doctrine like a bludgeoning weapon, and I really don't feel like having to justify to her why I am apparently involved in some kind of "heathen-pagan witchcraft cult thing".

(Fun fact: certain radical Protestant sects, who will remain nameless, are fond of describing anything they don't care to understand as witchcraft. It doesn't even have to be occultic; I was once told, in complete earnestness, that "rebelling against God's will is witchcraft." It's rather a blanket term, much like sin. Oh, wait, it's exactly like sin, it just sounds punchier. So if they don't get it, if it doesn't fit neatly into doctrine, it must be sinful and therefore evil and occult.)

Sorry, I seem to have spilled a little digression on you. Beg your pardon. Where was I? Right, Eris. Essentially, I started praying to Eris because quite frankly I got tired of being ignored.

I'm pretty sure this is the point where both the Christians and the Atheists go "Awww" in disappointment, the former because I've turned away from the One True Way and the latter because I've failed to be swayed by the rational and taken a joke religion as literal truth.

As I'm fond of saying to my family: Get used to disappointment.

When I was very little, a family friend asked me the typical adult-to-small-child question, What do you want to be when you grow up? My response was incredibly straightforward: I want to be an Erin!

I want to be an Erin when I grow up.

Isn't that a great answer? I love it. Such a wonderful sense of nonconformist self-identity I had back then, and I've tried my best to hang on to it. Which is why it baffles me so that it takes people by surprise when I demonstrate that I'm my own person. Look, just because I'm inherently conservative in a lot of things doesn't mean that I fall into lockstep with Traditional Republican Values. I can be both a goth and a conservative (we tend toward the Victorian end of the fashion spectrum). I can like guns and frilly dresses. I can believe in God and pray to Eris.

But why, Erin? Why pray to a goddess you don't believe exists?

Because I got tired of being ignored or told "no" whenever I prayed to God.

No, really, it's that simple. Let's say that every day, you ask me out on a date, and every day, I say "no" or ignore you entirely. How long will it take before you give up? Granted, it may take years for more of you stubborn folks, but I guarantee that eventually you'd all stop trying, either because you realized that I wouldn't change my answer or because you found someone better.

Now, I'm just too inherently mystical/spiritual/ooky to stop believing in higher powers altogether, so the Atheist road isn't for me. (And honestly -- no offense to you guys, but I feel you ultra-rational folks miss out on a lot of the really cool and artistic parts of the human soul.) And I'm sure it's an artifact of my cultural upbringing, but even though I'm convinced God really doesn't care about me I can't really bring myself to believe in other religions.

So I find a third option, and pray to something nonexistent. This fulfills my need for spirituality and keeps me from disappointment, because I bloody well know Eris won't answer my prayers. She doesn't answer, she doesn't care, she doesn't even exist! See, problem solved.

Then why are you into Discordianism in the first place, if you know Eris isn't real?

Because not existing isn't a barrier for worthy emulation. Santa Claus isn't real either, but people pretend to be him at Christmastime, and isn't the holiday a better time for it? Superman isn't real, but embodies all that good and decent about humanity. If you were to live your life according to "What Superman Would Do," you'd be a sterling example of humanity.

I like Eris because she keeps me from getting too serious about this ridiculous game we call life. I like Discordianism because it helps me keep my OCD tendencies in check. I like its philosophy because it is absurd the way life is absurd, and it's really the only worldview that has helped me cope with modern life.

What Would Eris Do?

She'd be an Erin when she grew up, that's what she'd do.

Lt. Helen Troy, Raptor Gunship Pilot

In High School they called her "The face that barfed a thousand lips." That is, until the ringleader found a live rattlesnake in his locker one day. After that, they all called her "Snake." She seemed to prefer it.

She also seemed to prefer being left alone. Not liking to talk much, she perfected what she called her "killing stare," a withering gaze delivered by her large, pale green eyes. She had few friends, choosing to spend her time deep in books or with her pet snakes. When pressed, she simply said "At least they don't lie to me and pretend not to be poisonous."

She wasn't an ugly girl growing up, not by any means; she simply wasn't pretty. That was mostly due to her refusal to wear makeup of any kind, and her insistence upon wearing her hair tightly pulled back and braided into submission. This, combined with those large and expressive eyes, gave her face the unpleasant illusion of skin being stretched taut across her skull.

She wasn't sure if being named after a famously beautiful woman was her parents' idea of wishful thinking or a cruel joke. What she did know, however, was that she refused to take any shit about it. Her father beat the hell out of her for the rattlesnake incident, of course (even though the school could prove nothing), but she didn't care. For once she had been on the giving side of venom, and found she enjoyed it.

She developed a slightly cruel, almost sadistic sense of humor after that. People leave alone that which they fear. She studied psychology, learned to read people, to deduce what they feared. A poisonous word here, a killing glance there, and a reputation as a girl crazy enough to play with serpents all but guaranteed her freedom from reprisals.

She could have had a career as a psychologist, but instead chose to join the Colonial Forces. When asked by the recruiting officer why she wanted to join, she simply stated "I want a job where I can kill people and not go to jail for it." She had the qualities of an assassin: cold, patient, methodical. The rush of power she felt when observing a target from a distance was addictive; putting a round through it made her feel like a god.

If she'd been stronger or tougher -- i.e., a man -- she'd have been made a Marine sniper. But she was perceptive, and fast, and best of all smart. She was pegged for Officer Candidate School and Flight Training. Most of the nuggets there wanted to be Viper jocks; she wanted to be a Raptor pilot because "no one expects them to be trouble, and their missile pods carry one hell of a sting."

She stung a lot. A more than capable recon pilot, her true strength lay in ambush. She could lie in wait for hours on counter-piracy operations, floating silently in space on minimal power while waiting for her prey to take the bait and attack the slow-moving, unarmed freighter. She permitted herself a wicked grin before unleashing her full complement of Javelin missiles.

She was "The face that smashed a thousand ships."

Callsign: Medusa.

I'm not dead (yet)

Ack, sorry about that. Between Christmas preparations, my siblings coming to visit, and generally trying to enjoy the holiday instead of simply survive it, I had to let a few things drop by the wayside. This blog was one of them.

Not that I'm apologizing for taking the time off; no, that was a good and necessary thing. But I really should have said something about before a week went past.

So, to that end: I hope everyone had /is having /will have a happy seasonal festivity of their choice. Mine was good, and Lurking Rhythmically will return in January (hopefully with new content).

Have a wonderfully Khaotic New Year!

WNW: Submitted Without Comment, Part 2

I apologize for missing the last few days... things have been so hectic and tense for me (despite my best Khaotica efforts) that a chipped nail will result in a killing spree.

And on that note, I give you this movie.



I know I have a few Finnish readers... can anyone tell me what the hunters are saying?


Expect a new Khaotica post either tonight or tomorrow.

Executive Summary Movie Reviews

Blargh.

I've been meaning to do these reviews since last weekend, but... well, middles of the month are hard for me. I'm tired all the time, cranky, frequently depressed... sucks all around.

But I owe you guys a blog entry. Therefore, you get my patented Executive Summaries for two movies. Yarr, here there be spoilers and suchlike.

The Mist: A tersely-plotted story of survival horror which ends with a gigantic "Fuck you!" to both the main character and the entire audience. If you are depressive, do not see this movie. The ending acted as a trigger for me. I didn't want to drive home feeling like shit, so I went into another theater and saw...

The Golden Compass: I wanted to like this movie, but it is pure marzipan: all surface and no substance. It's exceptionally pretty, and the fight scenes are excellent, but not even the presence of Sam Elliott as a balloonist cowboy and Sir Ian McKellen as a talking, armor-clad polar bear can save this movie. It's not bad; it's just "meh". It's also obvious that the book it was based upon was gutted by Hollywood to make it more accessible to the general public.

Executive Summary: Don't bother seeing either of these.