Mysteries, Merriment, and the Macabre
| ||||||||||||||||||
| ||||||||||||||||||
| Previous Podcasts | ||||||||||||||||||
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
"Good Evening to everyone coast to coast, border to border, and all the ships at sea. I'd like to welcome you to Mysteries, Merriment, and the Macabre , where we delve into tales of wonder, sorrow, joy and pain, explore the liminal spaces where fiction meets reality, and delight in experiencing myths, legends, beliefs and practices both familiar and extraordinary. Greetings to my lovely listeners who have already guessed the hidden theme of the last ten episodes, which I've now properly titled "Route 666." For those still in the dark or just joining us, your hostess with the mostest is now calling out to you from the village of Yaangna, otherwise known as El Puebla de Nuestra Senora la Reina de Los Angeles. Otherwise known as Tinseltown, the Big Orange, City of Sun and Flowers, La-La Land. Los Angeles. Per tradition, and probably a law somewhere, now that I'm here there are a couple of topics I am required to cover.Very soon you will be joining me on an exploration into the Winchester Mystery House, and of course we'll dive into Hollywood Cults via the lens of Charles Manson, but tonight, tonight we talk about lost hopes, twisted narratives, and the many ways this town can kill a dream. Tonight, we tell the tale of Elizabeth Short. (Minerva goes on to summarize Elizabeth Short's life, her loving but broken family, her ill health, the repeated losses she experienced, her father's abandonment, the yearly separation from her family, the death of her fiance. She specifically does not describe her death or finding in any detail, save to say that it was clearly a crime of predation and sickness, not passion or personal wrath. And then how even the memory of Elizabeth Short was tainted by the lies told about her in the lurid stories after her death, the fake nickname, the way her mother was cruelly tricked by the press, the whole-cloth tales about her being a prostitute, a lesbian, frigid, and so on. "Because you see, these stories about Elizabeth Smart, they'r ea very special kind of mythology. They're the myths society tells you to make you feel safe. What happened to Elizabeth can't happen to you, or your sister, your daughter, your wife, because there was something wrong with Elizabeth. Something bad. That she made herself a target. That this doesn't happen to good people, smart people, clean people, 'normal' people. But all Elizabeth was was young, and pretty, and vulnerable. Maybe even strong, special in a way, because even after all she had gone through, all she had had taken away from her, her health, her security, her dreams, she still had hope. She still survived, still made friends, still smiled and laughed and danced. There's nothing we can do to save Elizabeth. No way now to even hold someone accountable for her end, not the lifetime small dashed dreams or the final violent death. But there's millions of Elizabeth's out there, you are surrounded by these flowers, these dahlias, so beautiful and so easily crushed. Maybe you even are one yourself. So do what you can for them, and for you. Feed dreams, accept difference, lend a hand, open a heart. Stand up for one another, watch out for each other, and know that you yourself are worthy of better than the world tries to give you. And most of all, tell their true tales, when others try to paint them with dirt and scandal and blame. My next episode will be a visit to the Echo Park Time Travel mart, and a discussion with staff about the 826A organization and its work with Los Angeles students. Until again, my friends."
Greetings friends and strangers, nobles and serfs. Welcome to Mysteries, Merriment, and the Macabre, where we delve into tales of wonder, sorrow, joy and pain, explore the liminal spaces where fiction meets reality, and delight in experiencing myths, legends, beliefs and practices both familiar and extraordinary. Time is elastic. No matter what the clocks tell you, it stretches and contracts like the elastic in Thanksgiving waistbands. As Albert Einstein said, "Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute." But one thing we know is that time always travels in one direction. Or does it? Today we're making a visit to Echo Park Time Travel Mart, the place you need to go before jumping timelines whether you're saving the Library of Alexandria or rescuing your great great great grandchildren from Morlocks. (Minerva has an audio tour of the shop, talking with one of the proprietors about the items available, then lead to the back to see the REAL time travel machine... which is where the interview switches to a discussion of the 826LA non profit organization and their mission teaching writing to under-served students in Los Angeles, as well as interviews with some of the students there talking about what the organization means to them). "So next time you need to pick up a dinosaur egg, robot milk, or your favorite Heisenberry slushy, remember to get it from the Echo Park Time Mart, where they not only teach kids how to travel through time, but also how to bring us all along with them through the power of words. If you'd like to see some of todays tour and interviews, video clips are available on my patreon. Next week, Subterranean Lizard People under L.A.? Stories abound, and I can't wait to tell them to you. My final words to you before we must part: Almost every time travel story cautions us that the tiniest change we make visiting the past can have huge repercussions in the present. Why is it so hard for us to believe that the small things we do today can make a real change in the future? (OOC note: Echo Park Time Mart and the 826LA organizations exist IRL and are pretty amazing, and worthy of support. Do check them out at 826LA.org)
Hello and welcome, to one and all, flora, fauna, and mineral. So glad you are joining us for Mysteries, Merriment, and the Macabre, where we delve into takes of wonder, sorrow, joy and pain, explore the liminal spaces where fiction meets reality, and delight in experiencing myths, legends, beliefs, and practices both familiar and extraordinary. No doubt you've heard of recent conspiracy theories that we are in fact ruled by an ancient race of lizard people, capable of masquerading as humans and inserting themselves into any power structure, to unknown but no doubt nefarious ends. But that's not the story I'm bringing you today. Today I want to tell you about a very different sort of Lizard People, who, the stories say, lived in tunnels underneath Los Angeles. Nineteen Thirty Four. The height of the depression. California was still being inundated with Dust Bowl migrants, tent cities sprung up throughout the state, and the workers of San Francisco had a General Strike. California's boom and bust roller coaster was in the midst of serious bust. And then on the morning of January 29, the people of Los Angeles opened the Times to read this headline: "Lizard people's catacomb city hunted." There had been a few articles about this before, but perhaps because of the accompanying illustrations, or perhaps just the luck of the draw, this is the article that became a sensation. No doubt, some of it was due to the exceedingly vibrant prose of the author. "Busy Los Angeles, although little realizing it in the hustle and bustle of modern existence, stands above a lost city of catacombs filled with incalculable treasure and imperishable records of a race of humans further advanced intellectually and scientifically than even the highest types of present day peoples, in the belief of G. Warren Shufelt, geophysical mining engineer now engaged in an attempt to wrest from the lost city deep in the earth below Fort Moore Hill the secrets of the Lizard People of legendary fame in the medicine lodges of the American Indian." Riveting words indeed, who wouldn't feel compelled to read on? People living through such hard times needed a story, and this story had everything. Hidden gold, newfangled "radio x-ray" science, exotic Native American legends, and the approval of the county board of supervisors." (Minerva goes into chronological detail about the history of 'hidden wealth on Fort Moore Hill', Shufelt's theories, shafts dug, etc. Debunking the most outrageous and frankly racist claims but appreciating the rollicking good tale.) Will we ever know if Shufelt was running a get-rich-quick grift, or was a true believer? Probably not, and either way he died without attaining his goal. But what he did attain was fame, the attention and admiration of the masses and isn't that what so many came to L.A. and failed to achieve? His other achievement? A story that helped distract the city from the grim reality of the depression, if only for a short while, gave them something to dream about, connect over, and inspire. And is there a treasure greater than that? Next week, a little trip away from the sunny shores of Southern California to tell the tale of little girls, the author of Sherlock Holmes, and the first worldwide viral Photoshop fake. Yes, it's the Cottingly Fairies. (The L.A. Lizard People Catacomb Search was a real thing in the world, to read the article quoted, go to this [1])
(Excerpts from the Podcast "Mysteries, Merriment, and Macabre with Minerva Michaelson" Episode 192: Victorian Deepfakes) Hello and welcome, to one and all, visions, gentles, and friends. So glad you are joining us for Mysteries, Merriment, and the Macabre, where we delve into tales of wonder, sorrow, joy and pain, explore the liminal spaces where fiction meets reality, and delight in experiencing myths, legends, beliefs, and practices both familiar and extraordinary. Tonight's tale is one of cultural upheaval, the end of empires, seismic changes in the world as it was known, science versus magic, belief versus reason, technology versus faith, and how two little girls fooled the greatest minds of a generation OR changed the nature of legend forever. To understand the context in which a pair of young girls could come to worldwide attention because of some photos they took out in the back garden, we have to understand the kind of upheaval the world was going through at the time. Nowadays we take breakneck technological change as a given, but in the years preceding 1917, the world had gone from primarily agrarian to increasingly industrialized, and rural to urban. In England, where we lay our scene, the country had not only gone from Victoria's steady rule of over 60 years to two monarchs in less than 20 years, plus the first modern world war. People were both excited at the onrush of science and all it could do and horrified with many of the results that had come to pass. Many turned to the church or to ancient lore as a respite from this chaos and uncertainty. Many looked at the many wonders science brought forth and made the connection that other wonders might also be real. (Minerva goes on to lay out the rise of Spiritism in England and the U.K., how early photography was very quickly used to fake images for both art and profit's sake, the chronological history of Elsie Wright and Frances Griffiths, as well as Arthur Conan Doyle's part in the whole story, culminating in the confession by Elsie that four of the photos had been faked and how they were done, as well as Frances' insistence that the fifth photo came from her thoughts.) And so we are not left with many questions, but hopefully with two very vital pieces of advice: First, don't believe everything you see. Second, and most importantly, never underestimate the power of young girls to change the world. Because not only have the interests and tastes of young girls been a deciding factor in cultural change, from language to novels to music even when their tastes are reviled and disregarded at every turn, but also because largely due to two young girls in Early 20th century England, the word Fairy brings to mind not the Shining Host, the Kindly Ones, the Good Neighbors, the People Under The Hill, but rather little creatures that sleep in flowers and bathe in back gardens and never, ever steal babies from the crib. But for a few years, the world, or at least England, believed in Fairies again. Next week, a story about wishes and bargains, chords and bars, and how some people will give anything for their dreams, even selling their souls. We'll meet again for episode one ninety three, The Devil Gives Music.
(Excerpts from the Podcast "Mysteries, Merriment, and Macabre with Minerva Michaelson" Episode 193: The Devil Gives Music). Hello and welcome, to one and all, angels and demons, djinn and ifrit, terrestrial and celestial. So glad you are joining us for Mysteries, Merriment, and the Macabre, where we delve into tales of wonder, sorrow, joy and pain, explore the liminal spaces where fiction meets reality, and delight in experiencing myths, legends, beliefs, and practices both familiar and extraordinary. Neil Gaiman, a favorite writer of mine and, quite possibly, the majority of my audience as well, wrote "Hell has all the best composers." I am, of course, taking this extremely out of context to make a point. Music has long been a favorite warring place between the sacred and the profane. The more theocratic the religion, the more likely it is to restrict music to a very limited canon or deny it altogether. Because music has power. It has the power to lift us up, to connect us to the divine. But it also has a very different power indeed... <The episode goes on to cover in short two different intersections of the devil and music. First, the concept of the Devil's Chord or the Devil's Tritone, and how discordancy in music, so common in popular music now, was seen as necessarily coming from a dark and dangerous place. Second, an overview of some of the musicians who were said to have sold their soul for talent, and in more detail the story of Robert Johnson and how one night in Clarksdale, Mississippi, at the crossroads of highways 49 and 61, he sold his soul to the devil to play blues guitar. Included are some snatches of the few recordings of Johnson still in existence.> Of course, the thing that music deemed of the devil so often has in common (outside, of course, of outright racism) is this. It's music that connects us to our humanity, that does not lift our spirits soaring to the ethereal, but instead repeats and hastens the beat of our hearts and the pace of our feet. That brings us together not in worship of that which is above and outside us, but to worship one another in joy, or in sorrow, or in desire. And what endangers power more than when we learn we can come together without them? Next week: Look forward to a little surprise, my lovelies. The topic next week is a little up in the air, but know this: Reports of unusual strigiform activity on UCLA campus have been confirmed... and your hostess with the mostest is holding an envelope full of mystery.
(Excerpts from the Podcast "Mysteries, Merriment, and Macabre with Minverva Michaelson" Episode 194: The Mummy House) Hello and welcome to one and all, stars and starlets, producers and directors, dancers and choreographers. Thank you for joining me for Mysteries, Merriment and the Macabre, where we delve into tales of wonder, sorrow, joy and pain, explore the liminal spaces where fiction meets reality, and delight in experiencing myths, legends, beliefs and practices both familiar and extraordinary. Today I bring you another L A story. I've brought you horror. I've brought you folly. Now I lay before your feet a mystery. I don't have all the answers, my darlings. I have only the ones I want to hear. But let me tell you a tale of greed and cunning. Or perhaps of horror and madness. Or maybe, in the end, of love and devotion unwilling to give way in the face of society and even death itself. Let me tell you the tale of the Mummy House. (Following is an in depth story of early Hollywood leading man Clyde Winters, his early fame, his waning years. How unlike so many of his generation how he eschewed smaller parts or the switch to the small screen. No disaster movies or guest spots on the Love Boat for him. How he bought a home in Laurel Canyon, closed the gates behind him and, essentially, disappeared. The rumors that followed, of scandalous parties, drug fueled weekends, decadence .. and how those rumors too faded, just like his stardom. Then the official story, with pictures from the papers. How thirty years ago, the mail stopped being signed for, the grounds became in disrepair, and then the police finally made their way in to find the dead body of an older man... but he wasn't Clyde Winter. No, he was the butler, Mr. Winter's long time assistant, the only other person who lived on the property, dead of natural causes. Mr. Winter was found as well though... a mummified body, long since dead. Years gone. The press went wild again at the scandal, the sensationalism, but with no one to inherit, and no one to speak.. it all faded once again once the assets and debts were dealt with in the courts, left only to neighborhood gossips and internet rumor in the dustiest corners.) So what was it, my darlings? Was the butler a grifter, cheating studios and the draining the lost star's riches? Was it a long-term murder suicide? Who is to truly say, those who could are gone from us now. But. Ah yes, there's a but. But your hostess with the mostest was able to wrangle an invite from the current owner of the house, properly and truly named "Winter's Retreat" and take a tour, for which endless thanks will never be enough. And I learned this. Mr Winters' body was not mummified by the dry air and sun of Southern California. No, it was an act of great intention and care. And when those bodies were found, they were not far apart. The last act of the butler was one of embrace, for the bodies were found together, in each other's arms. Madness? Or love? Or somewhere on that fine, fine line that sometimes separates the two. Was this an act of fevered mind and morbid greed? Or lasting devotion that survived the Hollywood machine, the slow decay of stardom, anonymity, and finally death? I have no answers, but I know the one I believe. Select pictures of my tour are available for my Patreon subscribers. I look forward to bringing you more of the wonders of the world. Next week: The long strange tale of a medical miracle from a faraway land, a lost people, and a lifesaving medication that almost disappeared forever. Until then.
The most recent patreon extra material has come out for the Mysteries, Merriment, and the Macabre podcast, and this time it's a doozie! The larger part of the upload is a video, with accompanying material thereafter, including stills from the video of research materials in better, high quality images. The video starts with the sound of rhythmic ocean waves and the wind on the beach, then Minerva's voice comes in, definitely in storyteller mode. "Not too long ago, one of my Patreon subscribers contacted me to let me know about a ghost sighting they had early one morning while out surfing at a remote, little known cove." fade in: the image appears of the ocean on a bright, cloudless day, panning to take in the huge waves rolling in to a sandy cove between cliffs, a giant, treacherous outcropping of rocks off to the side. "Today, I return to look into the story of a surfer who was one with the waves and then suddenly, tragically, one with the rocks, and whose final moments have replayed here on this beach for over sixty years. Today, the death, the afterlife, and the release of Georgie Frink." Scene fade back to the beach, though this is clearly from a phone, the camera facing Minerva now in portrait mode, and it's clear that this video will not be entirely on the serious side (which is frequent for her Patreon posts), as she starts filming herself from head to toe, first her giant black sunhat, her huge sunglasses, her bright red lipstick. "We're serving glamour. We're serving Breakfast at Tiffany's. We're serving retro." then a 50's style red and white polka dot bathing suit with a black sarong around her waist. "We're serving beach blanket bingo. We're serving... really bad shoe game." Because dirty old black Chuck Taylors? The shame! The video shifts to a more expected 'talking head' video, with Minerval slightly off to one side, behind her a bookcase filled with books and a mix of spooky and cute art and tchotchkes, also doubling as a space where stills are edited in as she tells the tale of George Frink who at the age of 19 in 1959 disappeared while out surviving. The tragedy for the Frink family continued, with his older brother dying in the military the year after, his father dying of a heart attack soon after that, and his mother going into treatment for depression and never really leaving the hospital again and dying in the early 1970s. As far as the family knew, George was never seen again. Segue to an interview with a grizzled old surfer, who tells the tale of one quiet night seeing a ghostly surfer going up for a wave crest and a back spin on waves that weren't there and then soundlessly crashing in to the rock outcropping. Minerva returns to confirm that this is the exact same story that she was told by her Patreon informer. The rest of the day research was done <insert LIBRARY MONTAGE> where the tale of George Frinkle was found, including pictures of his family and shots of their obituaries, and then a return was made late that night. It's clear from the images and videos that there must have been someone else there with her, but no one is directly referenced. That night at the beach, a fire is built and drinks and food procured, with intent to watch out for the ghost of George Frink. <insert video of campfire shining through bottles of beer and rum while "Twilight Time" by The Flying Platters plays for a few seconds>. But in a stunning turn of events, a chunk of George's surfboard was ejected from the rock outcropping <insert video of a sodden wet Minerva in a giant hoodie that falls to her mid-thighs running up from the water with a log-size chunk of wood in her arm and a huge smile on her face>. Once the wood dried, it was added to the fire and blessings were sent to George's soul. <Video insert of Minerva standing in front of the fire: "Georgie Frink! The tide rolls out and the fire lights your way! You've been one with the ocean, and one with the rocks, it's time to come in and be one with the universe, to drink in Valhalla, trod the stair to heaven, or move to the next level of your being. Your surfing will be legend. Your memory shall not fade! Come back to the beach, Georgie, and while we celebrate your life, go to your long awaited and well deserved reward." And with that she GLUGS most of her rum and coke and then turns and tosses the dried chunk of patterned wood onto the fire and tosses in the last of her drink in with it calling out "To Georgie Frink!"> "I can't tell you whether or not he found peace, but I do know this. There have been no known reports of sightings of George Frink since that night. And when I left before sunrise, the beach felt like a calmer, quieter place. Was the ghost real? Who is to say. But the tragedy was, and a life unmourned deserves mourning. Thank you for joining me for this Patreon special." <insert, this picture with the third person highlighted; link is [2]> Credits roll. Along the bottom of the Patreon page, there's a feed of recent social media posts related to the podcast, probably boosted by likes and reshares. One of the current top posts is a reshared Instagram post by one @Darren_STAR364 showing a picture of Minerva slow-dancing in the arms or a taller, African American man with 'locs (recognizable to those who know him as Ezekiel), her head on his chest, face turned towards the camera, eyes closed. His face is dipped towards the top of her head, eyes also closed. The OP has tagged it: @Minerva_M & @Darkling_king Painfully cute! And it was reshared by @Minerva_M with #instaofficial. A second somewhat-less popular but more recent image is a table full of Ziploc bags, packs of wet wipes and athletic socks and feminine supplies spread out on it with the caption by @Minerva_M: Prepping to shadow Father Hobbes on his street ministry tomorrow morning!
The entirety of Episode #195 of Mystery, Merriment, and the Macabre with Minerva Michaelson "Hello my lovelies and darlings. I know, my voice has been quiet for far too long. This truly has been the August and September of our discontent. I promise, life will spring anew, and plans are being made for a special event. But this episode is but a burst in the quiet so that I can amplify another voice. I know that a tale of green fog and mysterious explosions and random weather changes might seem like something I should be delving into, but this time it is decidedly not. Mine are tales of wonder and speculation and intrigue... this is a story of pain and danger and it is all too real and immediate. And so today I turn over my podcast and my audience to David Marcus, a fellow podcaster I've had the pleasure of meeting in the past. What he has to say is vitally important, especially to those Angelinos in my audience. Remember, we are all connected.. what touches the least of us will grab us all in turn. Do what you can, help where you might, speak truth to power. <Insert audio of bbpost 8/27> #GetOutENDRON
Minerva: Greetings left brains and right brains, neurons and synapses. Welcome to Episode #196 of Mysteries, Merriment, and the Macabre, where we delve into tales of wonder, sorrow, joy and pain, explore the liminal spaces where fiction meets reality, and delight in experiencing myths, legends, beliefs and practices both familiar and extraordinary. I am happy to return from hiatus with an episode literally months in the making. As long time listeners know, sometimes topics aren't enough for a full episode on their own but still worthy of love and attention, so I bundle them together in a loose theme. Today the theme is “Weird brain stuff” and other than having a weird brain, I am no expert in the field, but I am VERY lucky to be joined today by Doctor Frank Wolfe. Frank, please introduce yourself to my audience along with your cv, because I know I won't remember it all.
WOLFE: (Sounding extremely at ease. His voice is a mello baritone that is one part your favorite uncle, one part that guy in college you never got over, one part news anchor.) “Is this where I start talking? I’m so nervous. I’ve never done this before. Am I supposed to wait for a cue? What’s my motivation? Line? Line? My name is Dr. Frank Wolfe. I have a PhD in clinical psychology with a specialty in how technology interfaces, enhances, or alters the human psyche, and therefore, the human experience. I am an adjunct professor at UCLA. I teach courses on Psychology and the Psychology-Technology crossover. I am President of a start-up media production company called Bad Wolf Media, LLC. I love exploring and tinkering with ideas. So, of course, I’m really excited to be here, and I’m honored that you asked me to join you today on your show. I’m a big fan.”
Minerva: “And I am super excited to have you here today too, it certainly has been a wild path from that day in July that I literally snuck into Frank's office to press gang him into appearing. A story that you will get to hear about if you listen through to the last act of our show today. But to get us started with our first act, Frank, can you tell me what happens in your mind when I ask you to think about an apple?”
WOLFE: “Ah, well, what a perfectly perfect question, Minerva. Let me pull out my worst possible Jeff Goldblum impersonation for this one. You see, when you ask me to think of an apple, there are several biochemical and electrical processes taking place in my mind. We could go on and on about what those are, what they are called and so on, but the functional result is that I am forming an image in my head. I am seeing an apple. The shape, the color, the imperfections, the way the light glints off the skin at a certain angle. Obviously, the apple I’m thinking of is a common store bought apple, which means it’s been polished, possibly waxed, to give it that shine. I’m thinking about how heavy it feels to hold in my hand, the smell of it as I bite down through the skin, the crisp feel of it, and the sweetness of the juice running over my tongue. I can see it, taste it, smell it, even hear the crunch of it. All in my mind’s eye, so to speak.”
Minerva: “And I’m much the same way, though I tend to see different representations of apples, imagine the taste, think about the stories involved. But in point of fact not everyone has the same response. This is Aphantasia, the inability to picture things with ones mind. As far back as 1880, a scientist named Francis Galton did a survey of his peers about mental imagery and found that a fairly large number of them reported not having any experience of seeing something ‘in their minds eye’ and in fact thought that others could do so to be a ridiculous concept. It went fairly unstudied until the mid 2000’s, when the concept returned to the popular consciousness.”
WOLFE: “Right. That was about the same time that we learned that the lizard people disguised as humans were among us, and it was that difference in mental processing that outed them. And that, folks, is how the great lizard war of 2008 began, praise be to our ophidian overlords.”
Minerva: “Frank.”
WOLFE: “Sorry. I thought we were on the <<robotic voice inserts “a competing podcast”>> for a minute. No, but the fascinating thing about this difference, in addition to all the science that we can learn from it, are some of the larger societal implications. There’s nothing wrong with someone with aphantasia. They simply have, to a certain extent, a different way of thinking, and that difference would never have been realized without someone poking around and asking questions. Our experience as people is more widely and deeply varied than we ever could have imagined. As if we are each universes of possibilities all on our own. But there’s me waxing on. Sorry, Minerva. It’s your show. You should wax on. And then I will wax off. And then we can learn the crane kick.”
Minerva: “When I first heard about aphantasia, I very much thought it must be a great tragedy for those people. But, as so often turns out, my assumptions based on only my own feelings were wrong when they were about other people. There are some differences between aphantasists and those who do create mental imagery. For instance, their fear response when listening to or reading horror stories is significantly lower than the baseline, unless those stories are illustrated, at which point it becomes the same. People who are Aphantasic.. Is that the right term?”
WOLFE: “If it’s not correct, it’s such a close approximation that I couldn’t tell the difference. Keep going.”
Minerva: “English, where if someone understands a sound you made, you’ve created a new word. People who are Aphantasic are just as creative as anyone else, numbering among their numbers animators, artists, writers in science fiction and fantasy fields. Also, oddly enough, it’s been found that both people with acquired Aphantasia and congenital Aphantasia do have visual aspects to their dreams. So their brains aren’t wholely incapable of creating images.. Just their conscious minds.”
WOLFE: “Which actually makes perfect sense since when you’re unconscious your brain lights up in completely different ways than when you’re awake. There are sections of the brain people don’t use when they’re conscious.”
Minerva: “So the essential take away here to me is that different people's brains work differently, often in ways that we ourselves cannot comprehend. Every day, other people around you have magnificently different brainscapes, and yet not only are they the same as you in so many ways, that diversity of thought and nature is important, necessary even.”
WOLFE: “Because without the diversity of thought, the lizard people will win the war. Isn’t that right, Alex Jones?”
Minerva: “I am so very much editing that bit out.”
WOLFE: “Yeah. That’s probably for the best, but you’re absolutely right. These notions that societies have fostered throughout history that reality, or our perceptions of the world around us, are somehow uniform simply aren’t true. Not just on a philosophical or cultural level, but on the biological level as well. We are different. We are constantly changing, and there’s nothing wrong with any of that.”
Minerva: “Dr. Wolfe. You are a fine, upstanding member of Academia. So perhaps this is outside of your personal experience, but.. Have you ever been to a busy bar?”
WOLFE: (laughing) “I feel like that’s a loaded question, but I’ll go with…yes. Why, yes. I have been to a busy bar before, or a bar that is busy. Why do you ask?”
Minerva: “Dr. Wolfe. I am _shocked_. While in these dens of iniquity, have you ever noticed how the servers are able to take orders, leave the area, get the orders, and then return them all to the correct patrons with a minimum of errors, even though the amount of short term memory required for this level of operations far outstrips the commonly accepted human limit of seven items?”
WOLFE: “Of course! I just assumed all the best ones were undercover alien robots biding their time until the global takeover of our species arrives. We’ll make great pets. But in all seriousness, yes. The capacity of their short term memory has always been astounding. I’m assuming you have something amazing to tell me about that. Is it from years of mentat training like in the Dune series by Frank Herbert?”
Minerva: “Amazing to me, but maybe not to you? Because the short answer is, we don’t know. We absolutely know that they can do it, study after study shows servers, as well as other people who work in jobs that require the same sort of constant quick information turn around regularly can blow past expected memory limits while doing their jobs or similar tasks. But when they’re tested in other formats, like memorizing series of words or numbers? They test at the same levels as everyone else.”
WOLFE: “Well, it is amazing. I can barely hold one, but we don’t really know how it is that these people can blow past these limits. There have been guesses about mental tool usage, like pneumonic devices. Code association to group certain data points together. It tricks the brain into thinking that a list of 36 items to remember is only 8 items. We see that this does happen to a certain extent, but the problem here is that there is no way that we can physically track brain activity that conclusively shows this is happening. It is true that people use such mnemonic devices all the time. Kids who are really good at crunching large numbers in their head in mathematical equations learn some of these tricks as well. What we do know is the Donald Rumsfeld theory. You know. There are things we know that are known, and things that we know that we don’t know, and there are things that we don’t know that we don’t know. We know that there is SO much we don’t know about the brain, and how it works. It’s quite possible, even likely, that we are not loading information into our brains in the best way possible, nor are we giving it the correct commands to access that information in the most efficient way. And on top of all of that, going back to our previous topic, we also are only just beginning to understand that not all brains are the same.”
Minerva: “This phenomenon, and the studies that looked into it, are covered in a book called “The Barmaid’s Brain” by Jay Ingram, which by the way I highly suggest even though it is somewhat out of date by now. One thing of interest is that a few of the servers did describe a process not unlike the well known Memory Palace technique, though that’s something that normally shifts memory from short term to long term storage in the brain. Over and over, the servers state that they ‘get in the zone’ and it just happens without thinking about it, and in fact that the busier they get, the better they are. I’ve researched and haven’t found out any further answers.. Which is the part I always love, because that means there are still questions out there to explore and discover. But most of all what I love is the fact that we are all so much more capable than any rubric tells us we are. Also… tip your server.
WOLFE: “My personal technique is more of a mind out-house, but yes. Something that’s interesting about that study, Minerva, is the discussion about being more efficient the busier they are. There’s an implication there that we are not using our brains even at minimum efficiency, that our brains’ capacity and efficient functionality doesn’t kick in until we are doing much, much more with it. In other words, your brain is a muscle, and we’re not exercising it nearly enough. Also, tip your server.”
Minerva: “In our third act, I want to talk about proprioception. I am contractually obligated to make a joke about the ‘sixth sense’ here, but in reality, we really do have more than the five senses we are taught in school, right?”
WOLFE: “I see…myself. Yes, we do kind of have a sixth sense. It’s the ability to sense our own bodies in relation to itself and in space. I said kind of because I’m being a little circumspect here. Not too long ago, there was the belief that our ability to sense ourselves wasn’t even really considered. Of course we’re aware of our own bodies, right? We are what we are. Meat and bone and blood. But HOW do we actually feel or know where we reside in space? Even less time ago, some folks thought it was just part of our sense of touch aided by our other senses, but no. It is its own thing.”
Minerva: “And it’s a thing that we all take for granted, even though we all very much went through the process of gaining it over time. After all, babies don’t know that their hand is their hand at first, or how to grasp or even touch things with it. And yet, it is something that can be taken away from us. For instance, the unfortunate Ian Waterman, whose full story I’ll link to on the podcast page. A gentleman who got what he thought was a very bad cold, and within a day, had entirely lost his sense of proprioception.”
WOLFE: “It’s not just a matter of, oh hey, I’m not sure where my hand is. At first, he had very little motor control at all. Closing his eyes in a sitting position for more than a few seconds would mean that he would fall over. In order to walk properly, he needs to actually look at his feet to see where they land. It’s like people learning to dance. Eventually, you learn the steps and don’t have to look at your feet anymore, but Mr. Waterman always has to look at his feet, for everything.”
Minerva: “And yet he does it. Even drives a car! He has to consciously focus on every move he makes, command each muscle in the proper order and with the proper timing and strength. Seriously, listeners. I want you to pause for a few seconds right now… unless of course you’re driving! And change position, or grasp and lift an object, and don’t just do it thoughtfully, do it with intent, with a focus on actually not only thinking through every step of the process but consciously making the movements. Now, imagine that being something you have to do, every movement all day, every day. It’s exhausting. Utterly incomprehensible and yet Mr. Waterman taught himself to do this.”
WOLFE: “It says something very striking, in my opinion, about our relationships with our bodies. We assume that we are our bodies, and our bodies are us. Right? This kind of whole. When we talk about ourselves, we always talk about mind and body. Some people like to add in the heart too, but you get what I’m talking about. But, see, when I look at cases like Mr. Waterman, it says to me that consciousness and body are two very different things. Our bodies are almost like encounter suits, allowing our consciousness to exist in and explore this hostile environment we call our home, planet Earth. And just like with any other piece of equipment or gear, it can malfunction. It can go wrong, and we’re forced to work harder to continue to exist. That’s what Mr. Waterman does. He works harder. Godspeed to you, sir.”
Minerva: “Which is where we differ, because for me where I would go is how important it is, if one is to be whole, to function fully and completely, to be in touch between mind and body, to function as one, to not live in a way that’s unbalanced between the two but remember that our wholeness is informed by both those aspects, as well as many others. But it is amazing to me what the mind is capable of when put to such an ultimate test. And… in an imperfect and forced segue… speaking of Mind and Body. I want to take you back to another time, a place far back in history, nearly lost in the fog of memory… The day I first walked into your office on the UCLA campus.”
WOLFE: “Hey, I like Mind and Body connections. I do /yoga/. Anyway, yes, I remember that day. I remember that day rather well, actually, because it had a profound change upon my life. It was the day I first met a real life superhero. It’s true, folks. Minerva’s superpower is nuclear powered adorableness. Am I allowed to say that on your show, oh she who makes my life glow in the dark with cuteness?”
Minerva: “That sounds vaguely insidious. I seem to remember you not thinking it was so cute when I basically lied my way into your office pretending to be a student. You see, I had read an interesting article about the connection between simple spatial video games and trauma management, and when I did further looking, I found to my great luck that one of the experts doing research in the field was working right here in Los Angeles. So, this obviously being fate, I tracked down Dr. Wolfe to ask him… does playing TETRIS really help alleviate PTSD?”
WOLFE: “I only pretended to be annoyed with your audacity, because my annoyance with your audacity was being nullified by super cuteness. But, now that you mention it, yes. Yes, TETRIS really does help to alleviate PTSD. It’s not the game itself, though to date it appears to be the best application of the concept. The idea is that PTSD occurs when the mind cannot let go of a trauma. It fails to process it, and therefore pass through it. Instead, it keeps reviewing the event, locking a person into an experience loop that causes the onset. What a game like TETRIS does, is it engages the brain just enough to distract it from getting locked into that loop. Processes move from fully active in the conscious mind, and gets shunted back into secondary systems where it can’t wear too much of a groove into the record, so to speak. But, the full benefits of this kind of treatment has a time limit on it.”
WOLFE: (There is a short pause, which always feels longer on an audio program.) “Yes,” says Wolfe, and now that voice of his moves from informatively happy to something more somber, weightier. His feelings on the matter of Minerva getting hurt will be somewhat obvious to the audience. “You got shot, and I brought you a TETRIS, and hovered about to make sure you played it. At least 20 minutes of focused play at a time. Actually, for you, I recommend that you just keep playing it. You need distractions.” And then he laughs, because that’s just so not true. “Actually, you just need safer distractions. Don’t get me started about the time you stopped Russian agents from taking over UCLA. Or that time you stopped a bank robbery in progress by asking the robber if the gun made him feel more powerful. Then there was the time that you invited a snarling bigfoot over for tea….yes. TETRIS. Definitely.”
Minerva: “I had a lot of very lovely distractions during my recuperation, and then of course ever since, life is just a series of events that don’t allow me to dwell. Anecdotes are not data, and so we’ll never know if it was the game that helped me specifically, but I seem to have been saved the carved neural pathways from that particular traumatic incident. I know research is still being done, but about how effective is this therapy?”
WOLFE: “Well, like you said, research is still being done. However, the effective of the therapy is being tested over a number of different parameters and in several contextual relationships. If treatment is offered within the first 24 hours, it is remarkably more effective than all the standard treatments and timelines. Over the course of 72 hours, the efficacy drops, but is still above the curve in relation to other treatments, and that’s just for the onset of PTSD. When the treatment is applied to people suffering from anxiety over a longer period, say 4 to 6 weeks, it’s considered to be highly effective in relation to other treatments for anxiety. Where its efficacy falls is in the treatment of depression, and while that feels like a loss on the surface, we really made that measurement as a contrasting placeholder. Depression is a much different disorder than PTSD or anxiety. Depression can onset from prolonged case of the either two, but it isn’t a straight shot progression. It is an animal unto itself, with different strengths and weaknesses.”
Minerva: “So, I think what is important is that people remember that we’re not saying that this is a magic bullet that will stop PTSD, but that it is a tool that has shown useful in lessening some of the aspects of trauma response.. And it is cheap, and easy, and accessible anywhere at any time. That’s a win win in my book. This whole story is also a reminder that sometimes it’s important to look at common things in an uncommon way. You never know when you could find something that could really change someone’s life right in your pocket.”
WOLFE: “As much as we would like there to be magic bullets in the world…well…maybe one day. But you know what’s interesting, Minerva? It’s that no matter how advanced we become, there is always a root basis of ancient wisdom in the techniques and procedures and gadgets we make that make our lives better or healthier or more pleasant. It turns out that there is solid evidence that one of the better treatments to help stave off PTSD is…distraction. Simple distraction. Just the right kind, and the right amount. But there it is. Perhaps, something for your listeners to do today would be to try to take note of the fancy things they use in their life today that boil down to simple principles.”
Minerva: “And that’s it for this episode of the podcast. I want to thank Dr. Wolfe for coming out and spending this time with me… and also providing me a well timed game of Tetris. If you’re looking to hear more from the good doctor, keep your eye on his new company Bad Wolf Media… co-producing our show today … and maybe attend one of his classes at UCLA but don’t say I sent you. Now that my hiatus is over, episodes will probably not be coming out quite as frequently as they once did, however I do have two awesome episodes lined up, one about the worlds most mysterious lake, where theories go to die, and the other, tales of old Hollywood with a very special insider guest who I hope you’ll all find as intriguing as I do. My last little thought as I bid you farewell. Remember, your mind is capable of incredible things. Full of potential, electricity, and wonder. Feed it well, exercise it often, and let it explore to the furthest reaches.”
"Hello my darlings, my protagonists, antagonists, my author inserts and audience surrogates. Welcome to Mystery, Merriment and the Macabre with Minerva Michaelson, Episode 197.. A Hollywood Story. Today I want to welcome you to a very special show because once again, I have managed to find you release from my constant nattering. Variety, the spice of life. Today, I'm joined by a guest I think will surprise and delight you, in fact.. I look forward to hearing the gasps once you hear who it is. So without further ado, would you introduce yourself to the audience and tell them a little bit about yourself?"
His voice is steady, as if inspired by some hidden confidence. "My name is Royce K. Mint, the owner and lead for Mint Studios," he says with a smile in his voice. "For the duration of the interview, I've asked to be referred to as 'Mint', because even my parents use it." There's a soft, mirthful chuckle. "I have the rare distinction of a silver Hugo award, courtesy of the Chicago Film Festival in 2002, a lifetime ban from the Canberra Yacht Club as of 2000, and an open invitation to re-shoot one of my feature films at the correctional institution of my choice, thanks to the good people at the California Bureau of Prisons." Another chuckle follows this. He then drinks from some beverage, swallowing softly. "My bona fides thus established, today, I'll be speaking about Hollywood folklore. It's in the DNA for the entirety of the industry, after all, and I've paid it homage from time to time. This, well, it'll be a much deeper dive than usual."
Minerva's voice slides into the pause naturally, even after the light nudge to his heel with her toe at the name. "Indeed, I can hear those gasps even now. Now, I know that my audience is wondering, has Minerva's podcast become the next popular entertainment show? I assure you all, it has not, and I want to remind you that at its heart, at my heart, this show is about stories. Ancient stories, deep stories, fun stories... and there can be no argument that modern American culture, even World culture, is in part woven of Hollywood tales. Over a hundred years, my friends, and the tales of Zeus and Hera to the ancients are as the tales of Elizabeth and Richard, Natalie and Robert. Marilyn. James. They are of the same fabric, our dreams and our mysteries. So Mint, what thread are you tugging out and weaving for us?"
"Loyal listeners," Mint says with obvious mirth, "You may not know it, yet our adorable hostess is nudging my foot, because she'd rather we use my first name instead of my last, as it must be sort of impersonal." Then he pauses, taking another drink of whatever it is he's drinking. "So, against my usual protocol, back to the first name I go, and I'll stave off the rush of memories for high school once more." A small chuckle ensues. "The story today, though, it's one near and dear to me. Namely, it's the story of a missing woman, nine minutes of absent film, and the memory of both, and if that's not tantalizing enough, it takes place when America was geared up for war and aiming its sights on Germany and Japan." Another pause for a drink. "Also, if you want to have some real fun, re-watch, or simply enjoy for the first time ever, the Coen Brothers' classic, 'O Brother, Where Art Thou?' with an eye on the legendary exploits of 'Homer's Odyssey'. You'll find references everywhere, and it's a treat for the soul."
Banter is apparently going to be a thing. "Oh no no no, never let it be said that I didn't heed my guests wishes, Mint. I'm just going to have a little bit extra time in the editing room, I predict. That does sound tantalizing. We like a good mystery here, and endings that lead to even more questions. Please, set our scene and lead us in."
Undaunted as well, Mint speaks. "Our story begins in three pieces: first, with the appearance of the woman - blonde, petite, and possessing a special kind of smile," he says, "Secondly, with her chosen profession - actress, and just starting the heroine's journey through the earliest years of the wartime propaganda-slash-film industry, all on her lonesome. And, of course, what seals the deal: she was able to fluently speak five languages and nobody could quite place the how nor the why of it, and this fresh-faced Iowan refugee was a stunner." There he pauses. "Multilingual actresses under forty were, as a rule, largely mythical in Hollywood, if it extended beyond Spanish or French. In her case?" A pause, then a wistful sigh. "English, German, French, Norwegian and Russian, all like a native-born daughter."
Minerva clears her throat and leans in towards the microphone. "So, what you're telling me, Mint, is that she was on her way towards becoming a Polyglot Prima Donna? I'm... Im sorry, it popped into my head and I truly could not hold myself back. One has to question why the War Department hadn't already pressed her into service, but please, tell us more about our main character."
"Aha," Mint says, as if to carry a point. "The US military had its fill of translators, all of them proud males, and women who knew multiple languages, well." There's a mirthful chuckle. "One hoped that they could act, at least, or sing well." He sips from his beverage again. "Also, that joke was awful and I feel awful for hearing it, my sweet hostess, because I know you have better jokes in you." Then he gives a proud, happy laugh. "Or leading lady, her name is Sadie Marne, and judging from what was said to her roommate, in the Culver City bungalow overlooking Centinela Avenue, she was, indeed, from Iowa, though never specified as to which city therein." A pregnant pause ensues. "Next, her roommate - Clarine Sedge, born in Riverside, California, and destined for a little radio work, mostly in announcing bigger acts, such a then-middle-aged George Burns. Our dear Sadie Marne, though, she worked part-time as a diner waitress, struggled with basic math, and loved any sort of performers who worked along the Sunset Strip, whether they juggled or did card tricks."
"I am indeed a font of both wisdom and wit. I can see why a young woman of the day might not have wanted to say where exactly she was from. Part of the story of the starlet is that she's as much running from somewhere as running to Tinseltown."
There's a vaguely sympathetic noise which follows, courtesy of Mint. "Quite true," he says, "Which is why the issue, to my understanding, wasn't pressed much nor often. So, this poor, struggling waitress-turned-actress, she's making it to appointment after appointment, trying to get a good, steady gig - and she did get two gigs, neither of which were more than casting couch walk-on roles for two productions: one for 'The Mad Doctor of Market Street', courtesy of Universal Pictures, and the other for John Brahm's film, 'The Undying Monster'." A sigh, soft and mournful follows this. "Neither would capitalize on her talents, simply her looks, and frankly, even then, she was undervalued."
"But for a young starlet, such starts can provide a chance, some hope, still... it doesn't seem to be the path her story would take. "
"That would be, to our sorrow, correct," Mint says, his tone solemn. "Rather, remember I said 'absent film', during my bona fides introduction?" A tsk'ing sound ensues. "Her entire filmography fit into the space of eighteen commercials, all condensed together, and exist only as negatives stored in the coolers of a very specific film archive." He takes a healthy swallow of his beverage. "She's not in the feature-length version of those films. Edited out of existence, as if she never was. Now, that's not the mystery - that's just biasing. All it took in those days, and even today, was the slightest hint of an improper lifestyle and one could be, and often was, erased, if one wasn't of value enough to become a cautionary tale of a headline in some trade magazine or newspaper." Another soft chuckle, this one mirthless. "Yet, she does reappear, and in a most unusual locale. A question is sitting there - please, ask it."
Minerva pauses for a second and then responds. "This is me, of course, I find so many questions sitting there, but I suppose first of all.. what caused her to disappear in the first place?"
A soft chuckle is audible from Mint. "Ah," he says, "There's the fun part. See, in those days, two women who lived together, both hard-working types, with one living half of her life at the airfields north of Culver City, building bombers and such, the other, waiting hand and foot on the good patrons of the Spoke-Easy Dinette Lounge on Sepulveda, tongues will wag, because tongues love to wag." Another tsk'ing sound follows this. "The word around the campfire was, some deep and improper things took place in a tiny little studio, just off of La Cienega, close to their shared bungalow, wherein two close friends.. got a lot closer. A student film, you could say, except the wardrobe was.. largely optional." A new chuckle ensues. "An absolute fabrication, of course, because the studio in question was in Santa Monica, and there were two leading men involved, as well, and the dialogue, though sparse, was.. demonstrative."
Minerva aah's softly. "So word got out that she had taken part in films of a more adult nature? Stag films, I think, was the going slang at the time."
"Exactly," Mint says, sounding sublimely proud, "And the given morals of the era were: good enough to watch, bad enough to endure, too far to allow as employees." With a smug-sound chuckle, he continues. "Oh, how times have changed, hmm? We've certainly advanced. Yet, not our focus. Tonight, it's about Sadie Marne and her deepening mystery." A pause as he drinks again. "Now, she abruptly vanished one night, apparently, in the middle of June, 1942. From there, it's all speculation for a bit, with no real leads.. just tantalizing clues!" He makes the last few words sound theatrically ominous, even adding a brief thematic laugh. "Seriously, though, there's a police report of not one, but two, attempted break-ins by her roommate, Clarine Sedge, who says that in the first case, three men with, and this is my absolute favorite part, 'deeply foreign accents' waltzed in, and gave her a warning and or explanation - 'Sadie Marne never lived here' and left her with the princely sum of roughly a thousand dollars in small bills, nothing bigger than a fifty." Here he pauses once more. "Translated into currency of today's value, it'd be at or around $16,623.94. To pretend someone didn't exist as a roommate. Remembering college, honestly, I'd have settled for extra sauce with my McNuggets to forget some of them." He chuckles. "Also, if you're hearing this, Bryce Cadwell, yes, I am referring to you, and the state you left our kitchen in repeatedly. Cooking school, my ***."
Minerva gasps a little theatrically. "Mint, _language_." comes in a teasing voice. "And yst she reported it, which means she must have cared more for Sadie than what could honestly have been a life changing amount of money for a woman of that time."
There's a pause before Mint replies. "Well, that's accurate," he says, "Yet, it wasn't her motive. Of course, yes, the money could change lives, both hers and, should she prove successful in finding her, Sadie's own, she was much more interested in something akin to revenge for the /second/ break-in I made mention of a moment ago." There's a soft chuckle. "Wherein Clarine experienced an event Angelenos have known for generations prior and since: someone stole her furniture. Like, all of it. A pair of matched couches, three end tables, two full-sized beds, a slew of planters, and a.." Here he pauses again. "..vanity mirror. Alas, she'd left her money, split in two portions, half of which was in said vanity mirror, and the rest, she'd stashed in a much more.. hmmm.. secure?" A pause follows. "Secure locale. Namely, the hot little hands of a cunning thief, local Chicago Mob asset and all-around wonderful guy, Guy Porchello. He was, however, notorious, good and bad, for keeping to his word."
The audience can no doubt hear the intrigued smile in Minerva's voice. "And so, as some would say, the plot thickens."
"Oh, yes, it does," Mint says with satisfaction. "Now, this is our /second/ twist. That second burglary report? Our fella, Guy Porchello, he pays a few ducats to get a copy, uses it as a fake warrant, rousts some of Clarine's neighbors, harasses Sadie's old boss, a couple of frisky customers, and then proceeds to basically punch his way through the south Hollywood underworld until he arrives at a conclusion." There is a quiet, conspiratorial tone as he continues at this point. "He finds out those 'deeply foreign accents' are Norwegian, and woo, it's off to the races." He chuckles. "He beelines to the nearby-ish Merchant Marines outfit, and at him waving around that ultra-fake 'warrant', his story almost concludes, as the local yokels proceed to kick him up several flights of stairs." A pause, slightly mirthful tone added after, ensues. "It's like being kicked down a flight of stairs, except it takes a lot longer."
Minerva mmm's thoughtfully. "And gravity being what it is, you probably also end up kicked back down at the end."
After he finishes a drink, Mint says, "That summarizes it, yes." There's a soft chuckle. "So, Clarine takes over as the investigating body, and from there, she hits the spaces and places that *she* can, because despite the bluster of it, the Merchant Marines isn't the best way to find what was, in the mind of Guy Porchello, what absolutely had to be sailors from a foreign port." If eye-rolling was audible, it'd be at that moment loud and clear. "So, she finds the nearest deli and bakery which sell Norwegian foods. Within about an hour, she's got a good lead, finds the three men, and of all things, they're apologetic - and explain she's not to look further, or someone much, much meaner will be tasked with silencing her." Here he pauses. "Apparently, by her interview notes, the three men, as-yet-unnamed, agreed to both pay off Clarine and shuffle away the entirety of the furniture, although they missed several items.. because they were being repainted at the neighbor's place." Here he chuckles. "The dressers which contained their entire wardrobes, because in those days, the closets weren't what we would call 'acceptable' as far as storage spaces for clothes you wanna keep, you know?"
Minerva aah's softly. "Yes, I checked out several older apartments when I first moved to Los Angeles and.. closet space was definitely at a minimum. I think Clarine should have decided to go into private investigations, she sounds pretty canny."
"Never underestimate a woman with a mission, I've always said," Mint says, once more giving a brief laugh. "My first ex-wife, she could have given Columbo and Sherlock Holmes a run for their money - once she caught a thread, it all unraveled." Then he pauses. "For those listening at home, Royce K. Mint, in his twenties, and some say, thirties, was a notorious philanderer, and has been married three times as a result. Fun fact: alimony is less painful than explanations." Then he chuckles again, continuing. "So, with the newest warning in place, Clarine decides: time to get a professional, and although at first blush an investigator sounds like a good idea, for her, by her notes, it would be a disaster from the start." A pause ensues. "A single woman in her twenties shows up, says she is missing money, foreigners are involved, and her roommate, already tarred with the L-word brush and a porn rep, let's just say, if Clarine was lucky, all she'd get would be robbed."
Minerva says, "As unfair as the world is now, it has at least become fairer since then."
"Hopefully, that's true," he says, then brightens a little. "This professional she reaches out to, it's a deeply unconventional kind of guy, because.. well, this isn't the conventional kind of story, is it?" He chuckles. "A man named 'Barry Galleck', reputedly a former bounty hunter, living on a tiny little slice of the then-beautiful Venice canals' housing district, and reportedly affordable, if the cause was just. So, she pleads her case, pays him a hundred bucks, and he gets to work. A day later, a new name is given to Clarine - and oooh, Nelly, is it a humdinger, because our man Barry Galleck is already halfway out of town, with most of his possessions left in his place and even his car. Keep in mind, if someone booked a trip abroad in the same era, there was a full-on global war, and nobody was as neutral as they claimed. Thus, nowhere was safe."
Minerva lets out a low whistle. "Okay, first off, I'm impressed that you got the word humdinger wedged in there. Absolute bravo. And what did Clarine do with said name?"
"I have several more twenty-three cent words, Minerva, just you wait." There's a chuckle again. "The name, it wasn't one which made much sense, considering the framework - Leon Lewis. The then-ruling Nazi party called him, and this is a fun quote, 'the most dangerous Jew in Los Angeles', which just continues to knock me out every time I read it or say it aloud." His chuckle grows louder and stronger. "His favorite spy-catcher, that was technically the name, although nobody who knew anything was confused - because our girl, Clarine, she was an observant Jew, after all, and had heard the word around her version of the campfire a few times. The spy-catcher, Capt. John Schmidt, along with his wife, their code-name was what was dropped: 'Sadan', or 'anvil', in Hebrew. One simply does not accrue a clever pirate nickname like 'anvil' by being a polite member of society, so." Another laugh follows. "She goes to ground, our Clarine, and waits, because the war, it's eating people, civilians and uniformed alike, at an alarming pace. And so it goes, until.. well, April 28th, 1945. Namely, at her favorite place in the city: Wilshire Boulevard Temple, the longest-serving Jewish congregation in Los Angeles history."
Minerva mmm's thoughtfully, "Though considering Clarine and Sadie's close relationship, you'd think that Clarine would be aware if Sadie were working for the other side?"
Another mirthful chuckle from Mint. "Very true, and quite perceptive," he says, "Yet, all the same, she was picked up by the very same spy-hunters who thwarted plot after plot by the 'other side', in a number of surprising places." He drinks again, giving a soft 'ahhh' sound before continuing. "At this synagogue, there's a sort of film club, no official name or sanctioning, just.. enthusiasts. So, they have a fun, engaging little film and want to share it, and of course, Clarine, being long-since bitten by the cinema bug, signs up to watch." A soft clucking sound follows this. "Keep well in mind, the victory over the Nazis, it's a rising tide of joy, so celebratory moods are the minimum and everyone, even those who have rotten news from abroad, they're sharing in this.. although, yes, some subdued reactions to the tragedies unfolding overseas and at people's respective ancestral homelands, it does keep it.. well, somber, all things considered." He clears his throat. "This film, it's only nineteen minutes, although there's a two-minute 'B' reel added in, and during the playing of it, that B-roll, it gets some airtime." And here, he pauses, taking another drink, obviously awaiting a further prompting from the hostess.
Minerva lightly clears her throat "Definitely a time of monumental change. Are you actually making me ask what gets some air time? Tenterhooks, Mint. You have me hanging on tenterhooks here."
"Tenterhooks," Mint says, "What a delightful, twenty-three cent word." He pauses and there's a rummaging about, and he announces, "New drink time. Lemonade, as a delicious afternoon delight." A soft chuckle follows this. "So, this film, it's footage from the last days of Berlin, namely around the area of the bunker owned by the Fuhrer himself, and wooo, it is not well-received." A low whistle follows this. "Suffice to say, people are throwing food, drinks, whatever is handy, all of it at the screen and it's getting loud. So, the guy working the projector, he throws on the second reel, and.. well, the untimeliest of errors has happened, long before he touched it." Another slow sip of his beverage, presumably lemonade. "It's not even close to a cartoon or propaganda reel. It's, well.. a surgical gallery's 'notebook'. Namely, it's from some unnamed aesthetic workshop-slash-clinic in Bremen, and woof, two guesses who it is on the table, getting her eyebrows and cheekbones 'done'."
"Okay, first, no one is vetting these reels before they show them? And secondly... I cannot imagine what Clarine must have been going through at that moment."
With a cough, he begins. "Keep in mind, nobody expected a feature-length film," he says, his tone patient and jovial, "Those short little clip-style movies, they were usually cobbled together by a guy who knows a guy who worked in film editing, and from military-grade cameras, and some of those, well, they weren't the best in the first place." Here he chuckles. "So, the girl being 'upgraded', it's none other than Gretl Braun, sister to one /Eva Braun/. Now, that's the delivery of the second twist in full." There's a full breath-length pause. "What really freaked out our Clarine was.. she was three-quarters done being made-up to look /exactly/ like Sadie Marne. A body-double!" And at this point, apparently, Mint has a cued-up sound effect which announces, 'dunn, dunn, dunnnn!' in a fast horn section followed by a drum-roll.
"Wait.. what.. wait. Okay. When was this film made then? Was the Sadie Clarine always knew actually possibly Gretl Braun?" Minerva asks. "I have so many more questions now!"
A soft chuckle precedes his next words. "Ah, there's the rub," he says, "On account that Gretl's whereabouts were, at that time, more or less public knowledge to the US military in Germany. In time, she'd settle down, have a quiet life, remarry from her original husband, Heinrich Himmler's liaison officer, one Hermann Fegelein, who was arrested for desertion, being caught with Himmler's 'we surrender' paperwork in his home, drunk as a skunk." Another laugh, this one less jovial. "He survived the journey and later offed himself, ironically on the 28th of April, 1945. Eerie, isn't it?"
"That is quite the coincidence. But any number of episodes show the power of coincidence. So, we still don't know what actually happened to Sadie Marne, or have any documents come up in the ensuing decades?"
"We don't 'know' much," he admits, his tone conciliatory, "Although there's some deep suspicions. Namely, that within the last year of the war, a very-much film-friendly career officer in the inner circle to the Nazi Party may have tasked someone with finding exactly the right girl who matched his wife, the then-current spouse's sister of none other than the Fuhrer, then smuggled her into Germany for some plastic surgery." A soft clucking sound ensues, then he continues. "If so, it speaks of a plot to survive the war, leaving a body double behind, as the master plan, such as it was, was always for a group suicide pact, and Himmler's sidekick, Hermann Fegelein, would have more than known about this notion." And he takes a new drink of his beverage. "It's also notable that Eva Braun's sister was pregnant, severely-so, delivering on May 5th, and she named her daughter after her late, great departed sister. So, here's a fun question to ask.." There's some rustling of papers audible. "Our girl, Sadie Marne, never filled out a change of address form, and thus, that special little missive arrived on time for Christmas of 1945."
Minerva takes the paper, old enough to cause an audible rattle, describing it. "This is an old record from the University of New Mexico Medical Hospital, with a date of June 1st, 1943 .. I would note that that's almost a year after Sadie disappeared. And it reads Sadie Marne gave birth to Eva Marie Marne." She intones the information with the weight it affords and then "Did Clarine ever look further into this, for instance, contacting Leon Lewis after the war? Because I still count an extra woman. How about records for this baby? Like I said, so many questions.. which is generally how I know the story has been a success for me."
There's a soft chuckle. "Almost the same questions that I asked," Mint says, his tone one of vague approval. "To my knowledge, no, she never dug back into the story - because at this point, *I* began to dig into the story, off and on, up until January of 2008. At that point, there was no more trail to follow without using a Ouija board, so.. I kept my notes, updated when and where I could, and have brought them here, to share with you and your audience." A satisfied sigh ensues. "Now, consider this - either the 'most dangerous Jew in Los Angeles' by the metrics of the Nazy Party in Germany was somehow involved in producing not just an heir-apparent to the sister-in-law of Hitler himself.. or that a safeguard was being prepared for the eventual demise of Hitler, with the intent of rescuing young master Fegelein and his wife, leaving behind the body double for Gretl.." And another pause follows. "Or, and this is my favorite theory." The microphone is obviously much closer to his mouth as he speaks. "Leon Lewis built an assassin, fueled her up with a useful prop of a baby, and she was readied and prepared to enter the Fuhrer's bunker.. to kill Hitler herself. Motivation?" He gives a soft, low whistle. "How about.. leverage in the form of a certain series of 'stag films', or the love of her erstwhile roomie, Clarine? Or, of course, straight-up American-bred warrior spirit? There's no bad answers, is there?" And he laughs, quite enjoying himself.
Minerva hands back the papers. "You are, of course, allowing me to put these images up on the Patreon page for our subscribers?" she asks confidently. "Well, I do tend to try and think the best of people, until they prove me otherwise. Maybe it was a little of all of it. Or maybe she was just a scared girl who went with the only options she had before her. I would also make a strongly educated guess that considering the length of time Gretl lived from your notes here, there was plenty of time for genetic materials to be taken by any number of ah.. interested parties of the second baby to prove her parentage?"
There's a soft tsk'ing sound. "Oh, absolutely. Also, in those days, the idea of genetic testing, it wasn't even the science fiction of science fiction," he says, "Blood tests, certainly, and used quite often. However, blood types, those can be simply discovered in useful assets, which are then focused accordingly. Say, for example, Sadie Marne had a sister, and she was a close-enough match on her blood type, well.. if hers was different from Gretl Braun's, it's useless or worse, for the purposes of carrying a child to term." A soft chuckle follows. "Now, it's worth noting that Gretl's daughter, Eva, does not resemble her father, Herman Fegelein, although that could just be.. y'know.. normal infidelity." A pause follows this. "Against one of the inner circle member's chief of staff, during the war, with everyone living with ten minutes' walk to the bunker, and being a living celebrity akin to a pop diva, minus the singing talent." And he coughs politely.
Minerva mmm's a bit. "And all of them drugged out of their gourds too though. You can't forget that. But the baby's age of course doesn't match up.. Sadie's baby was born in 1943, and Gretl's, 1945. Well, you know, you might have more answers pretty soon if you keep track of my audience chatter on Patreon and Discord... quite a lot of them do very much like sleuthing. Have we reached the end of the known surprises?"
"Just the last one, Minerva, and I think it'll be a solid hit," Mint says. There's another rustling of papers. "This is a photo of Sadie Marne, with her height, weight and body dimensions recorded, after running three of her stag films through what my studio, Mint Studios calls 'Traveling Matte', because I name-drop my own gear like a shameless, shameless person." And he chuckles. "You'll note that those measurements are pretty damned close to that of Eva Barbara Braun, daughter of Gretl, at the same age, courtesy of similar body-mapping software and a walk-through she did in 1968, at a fashion show she was spectating at, caught on camera by someone from the BBC, unaware of her identity." There's a pause. "I also spoke with, and have affirmed, that that degree of coincidence, on a genetic level, is downright improbable. Thus, to my satisfaction, Eva Barbara Braun is none other than the daughter of Sadie Marne, although I will absolutely allow room for argument, because.. well, you can't have a conspiracy built on absolutes, can you?" And he chuckles, proud and loud.
She asks, "But isn't this all posited ont he fact that Sadie Marne was close enough to Gretl Braun that one could be made over into the other?"
With a chuckle, he replies. "Well, yes," he says, "And those intriguing chains of events, all linked to some.. indecipherable.. end-game. A Jewish spy-hunter hiring cats-paws from Norway, a slew of stag films which could have, and remarkably didn't, surface long enough to poison two careers, and the baffling degrees of secrecy to what works out to be.. an out-of-wedlock birth, out of state, no less." And here he sighs. "Added together, with the clues about anatomy and possible linkage, it's.. a tantalizing recipe. Maybe there was, at some point, an earlier-than-scheduled pregnancy by Gretl and the baby would have been of value... or perhaps she was gifted the child as compensation for the spy-hunter's assassin failing to save her husband, Fegelein, from the depredations of Hitler's wrath for desertion. A lot of good questions, not much for answers, beyond what I bring to the table."
"Which makes it, essentially, a perfect story for this podcast. Far more questions at the end than answers, and yet we've all learned something. My takeaway? Starlets, always more interesting than society gave them credit for. Just like most people. Before we say adieu to the audience, do you have any upcoming that would be interesting for people to hear... not that my audience is anywhere near what you'd probably get from just sticking your head out the window at Mint Studios." Minerva says with a warmly amused tone.
"Well, with a segue and close like that, I'll take my cue," he says with a laugh. "I'd like to say a special 'thank you' to someone special, Ms. Stone, for sharing some part of her world with me, and I hope she knows how special that I think she is." Another chuckle follows this. "Cue the Reddit threads about who *that* is, of course." A sigh. "Also, there's a little film I've been working on, and the release date is just around the corner - it's called 'A33', and from what the hopefully-unbiased test audiences have to say, it's the best that I've ever done as far as feature-length films, and the premise should roll right up your audience's collective alleys: a conspiracy, hidden beneath the city of Los Angeles, being unwound by a group of dedicated women, all professionals, on a special night." He chuckles. "So, buy your tickets, tip your podcaster, and remember: we're all in this together, folks." And thus, he concludes his portion of the broadcast.
Minerva says, "And there you have Episode 197 of Mysteries, Merriment, and the Macabre. Our next episode? The long awaited trip to the worlds most mysterious lake. I look forward to your coming with me. Until then, dig deeper, look closer, and write your own stories. Never disappear."
“Salutations my lovelies, one and all, lovers and fighters, gods and mortals, korai and kouroi. Welcome to Mystery, Merriment and the Macabre with Minerva Michaelson, Episode 198.. Greek Life. Before we begin, I’d like to take a moment to apologize to my listeners for the wait… as I am sure most of my listeners are aware, shortly after the publication of Episode 197, my guest, Royce K. Mint was murdered. There is more to the story he told us that day, but I am not currently at liberty to share it until his killers are processed through the justice system. His loss has been devastating, not only to the world of Cinema, but also personally. The grieving process goes on, but so does life. His story will not go unfinished, but there are still more stories that need to be told.” "We will be taking a journey back in time today, to look into secret societies, arcane rituals, and religious zeal among the ancient Greeks, with help from today’s guest, Dr. Lawrence Stern. Lawrence, please, introduce yourself and clarify your bona fides to the audience!” "Let's just hope that didn't set a precedent..." "Right! I am Dr. Lawrence Stern, independent scholar with a PhD in art history from right here at home, the Los Angeles Academy of Art. My general area of expertise is on ancient Greek mythology, with a particular focus on Dionysus and the cultural impact the deity had on the civilization of the era. Not as impressive a list as some of your other guests, to be sure, but I like to think that just makes me a specialist. Master of one, to use the jack-of-trades phrasing." "Which brings us to today's topic. There are several known mystery cults from the era of Olympus, and the one that's caught my recent interest is also the one we know the least about." “I would bet that a very large contingent of my audience just pricked their ears up. We have a lot of people who are very interested in both mythology and archaeology, as you might imagine. But for those who haven’t made studying Ancient Greek culture part of their live’s work, could you give the audience a quick definition of what a Mystery Cult is, and the place they held in their society?” "Certainly. First off, the term 'mystery cult' itself is most often used specifically to refer to the Greco-Roman religious cults of antiquity, within the broader umbrella of Western esotericism. These mystery cults in particular were effectively secret societies within more publicly-established religious worship of Olympic and other deities, not entirely unlike the relationship between Gnosticism and Christianity." "Now to understand what role these mysteries held within greater Greco-Roman society, it's important to know how theology was viewed during those times. There were three components back then - civil theology, how the church or temple supported the state and kept society stable; natural theology, the domain of philosophers inquiring about what the divine really is; and mythical theology, which is most akin to what might come to mind when you think of 'worship'. Myth and ritual, for the academic terminology. The mystery cults sat squarely in the domain of mythical theology, allowing them to peacefully coexist with the more public festivals and act as a means to preserve ancient rites without interfering with day to day life. Before Christianity at least, there was nothing heretical about them." “Interesting. The first thing that comes to my mind with this description is modern day groups such as the Shriners or the Freemasons. No doubt you’ll tell me that I’m far off in the weeds on that. In Greek society, who would be part of these Mystery Cults? Was this only for the higher echelons of society, or would people from all walks of life take part?” <<Lawrence chuckles>> "I could go on about the differences between the Freemasons and - say - the Eleusinian Mysteries - but you're not as far off as you might expect. The Masonics provided civic stability for its members, so even with the relative lack of a religious component it still fits into the tripartite concept of theology I mentioned. Now, as for who participated in these mystery cults, that is still in debate. Easy answer, we don't know. Longer answer, it's very likely that candidates for initiation into the more secretive echelons were taken from practitioners of the corresponding public worship. At least that's the stance I and some of my colleagues have. Ask around and you'll get different answers there." “I’d be hard-pressed to believe a senator or someone similarly prominent would have been able to disappear long enough to participate in these initiations.” “I mean, these days we have governors slipping away for almost a week, so I don’t know how true that would be? I just think that when you look at groups like the Shriners, the Masons, or going into upper echelons, the Skull and Bones and the like, what you see are groups built to sort of protect and ossify class, race, and faith cohesion and hierarchy within a culture that ideally has none. But when you look at the Greeks, the society is already very hierarchical and rigid and maybe in that different sort of milieu, possibly these societies were doing the opposite, bringing together people from different walks of life to find and practice a commonality they otherwise couldn’t have. For instance, isn’t there evidence that women took part in Mystery Cults?” <<Lawrence chuckles>> "Sure, if you want to take all the cults in aggregate. And I get what you're saying, it wasn't all fraternities, I just don't like considering them all as one. The Dianic Wiccans, for example, have wildly different requirements for membership than say... the cults of Cybele. More to the point though, yes, Dionysus tended to have a great many women following him, and it is no stretch of the imagination that some of them were initiated into the Mysteries. In fact... if you're familiar with the tragedy The Bacchae by Euripides, the entire plot of that play is Dionysus himself introducing his rites to Thebes after its king, Pentheus, denied Dionysus' divinity. In the end, the women of Thebes end up tearing Pentheus to pieces with their bare hands, driven to madness by the intoxicating rituals." <<Pause, for effect.>> "That was kind of a tangent." “Ah, but it is an interesting tangent. I’m of course familiar with the Maenads and their tendency to tear people up in the stories and dramatics of the time. Where my mind goes with a story like that is that there’s anywhere from on writer to a whole strata of society who have something to say about women getting involved in public and religious life … life outside the home, intellectual pursuits, and how that’s going to violently destroy society. Which, essentially, means that either women were starting to do those things, or they suspected women /were/ going to start to do those things and were trying to keep it from happening. Would you say that that’s a safe read considering that in most of the Greek city states women were either meant for hearth and home, or for male entertainment?” "Mmmm sure. That's one safe read. Let me answer that with another: the Maenads, along with so many other depictions of feminine aggression in Greek mythology, were the writers' recognition of just how much power a woman held, even while primarily serving in hearth and home. The Furies of righteous vengeance. Hera, the jealous wife of Zeus. The Gorgons, who I yield I don't know nearly as much about as I should. However. Let us not forget Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom -- and your counterpart. Artemis, the huntswoman. Persephone and Demeter, goddesses of the harvest. It's entirely possible the negative depictions were less about trying to maintain control, and more a warning about the terrors of a woman scorned. Even today a common saying is 'happy wife, happy life'." “Though Hera’s jealousy is often treated as irrational and evil. Which, I suppose Zeus was never actually out there saying he was going to be monogamous. She should have gotten out of that relationship and found someone she’d be happier with." "So, three questions I think. First, what do we know for certain about these cults. Second, what lessons can we learn from them, and the most interesting.. Third, if you could find out any one fact about them that is currently or forever hidden, what would it be?” "What do we know for certain? We do have information on a couple of these mysteries. The most famous, and the one we have the most information on, are the Eleusinian Mysteries. Initiation into these mysteries followed the story of Persephone's kidnapping into the Underworld by Hades, and then her subsequent escape; with the initiate playing the role of Persephone. Presumably metaphorically. This descent and return echoes earlier versions of Dionysus, where a lot more focus was placed on his death and rebirth, and driving followers to madness, rather than the drunken party dude we all know today. We know the Dionysian and Orphic Mysteries are closely related, in terms of who was worshipped, but lack details on the initiation. Then we have the Samothracian Mysteries, who never specified who they followed, so we /only/ know what the initiations were like -- at least, the vague framework. “I can only speak to my own takeaways regarding what lessons we can learn from them. I note that these mystery cults weren't even remotely taboo until well after the advent of Christianity; they were effectively just an inner circle for those who truly revered the gods their respective cults served. They were not mutually exclusive either - Emperor Julian of Rome is believed to have been initiated into no fewer than three separate cults. That reflects the wider practice at the time of making offerings to this god or that depending on the desired gift... an experience that I feel the monotheistic religions have flattened with their one-stop-shopping for prayers." “As for what one fact I’d want to know? …this is going to sound really silly and unscientific, but I’d like to know what the gods thought of all this. Was Dionysus entertained by the re-enactment of his journey? Did Orpheus take affront to his audience being offered a VIP section? Were the other gods upset that they didn’t have their own little bitty secret societies in their name?” <<There’s a bit of dead space before he appends,>> “Told you it was kinda silly.” “Well, my general opinion of gods, if they exist, is that they’re just like humans but with flaws that are as magnified as their powers. At least in the polytheistic religions. So they were probably equal parts amused and affronted. Amused, because they allowed it to keep going… affronted, in that they perhaps made sure that they left so little trace, and just enough to keep us thinking of them.” “Lawrence, thank you so much for being on my podcast. Before I close us out, is there anything going on at the Getty Villa that you’d like the audience to know about now or in the near future?” "One upcoming project I'm personally excited about is the reproduction of plays by Euripides, Sophocles, and Aeschylus. We're still in the planning stages, so no real details to highlight as of yet, but keep an ear out for the official announcement in a couple months! And until then we of course have our usual offerings." “It’s been a pleasure being here, Minerva. You’ve given me food for thought with some of your questions, and I hope we’ll be able to dive deeper into those topics in the future.” “I’m sure that my audience would be very much interested in those plays, I know I will be! And I’m sure that you’ll be on again, as you are now required to be my local expert on all things Ancient Greek and Rome." "And there you have episode 198 of Mysteries, Merriment, and the Macabre. Thank you everyone for listening. Make sure to share and rate the podcast. Our next episode will be the long awaited, much touted Lake of Death episode! I am looking forward to it almost as much as you are, I assure you. And remember, before you paint anything on your walls, consider how archeologists and art historians will be trying to figure it out two thousand years from now. Make it weirder. Freak someone out. Cause someone to have to write a book. Future academics will thank you.”
Hello and welcome, to one and all, deities and spirits, elementals and angels. So glad you are joining us for Mysteries, Merriment, and the Macabre, where we delve into tales of wonder, sorrow, joy and pain, explore the liminal spaces where fiction meets reality, and delight in experiencing myths, legends, beliefs, and practices both familiar and extraordinary. The time has come for the long promised, long awaited one hundred and ninety ninth episode, The Lake of Death. I know that title sounds morbid, and in some ways… on the surface.. You could see this story this way, but I promise, continue along, and you will find that beneath that surface, under these old bones, there lies great wonder, and mystery, and new ways of seeing the world. Or at least a reminder to never take any answer as the final truth. *sound of wind whipping over a landscape, you can hear the cold and barren and desolation* I want to begin by setting a scene. Close your eyes, and come with me to the high Himalayas, above the treeline, in a crevice of a valley between two peaks. Imagine a landscape of grey and white, the sharp edges of mountains softened by the rocks and pebbles they have shed over the eons. Where even in the Spring, the only green is what little scrub grass can grow up between the rocks, but we’re not here in spring. It’s Winter. The path hasn’t been as hard as you would imagine, there is a road that leads here, and a road that leads out, one that has been trod for centuries but never paved, that goes from where the people are to where they hope to speak to the gods. But this is a between place, what the terminally online youth might call a liminal space. A desolate place that people move through, but no one stays. Quiet except for the howling wind, the occasional scrape of gravity pulling pebbles downward. And the creaking of ice. Oh yes. There’s a lake. Anywhere else, this would be a pond at best. There are, in other parts of the world, poorly drained parking lots that would give this lake a run for its money. The confines of the valley have given it a roughly triangular shape, or perhaps, if you are the sort to be sentimental, a teardrop. < p>*the sound of feet crunching over loose rocks and ice*As you move closer, take in the smooth perfection of the ice. The glacial waters here are pure, with no fish, no plants, no agricultural run off to make them murky. Just the drip of melting snow from high above and the ancient waters left here when the glaciers moved on. It’s hard to tell how deep the water is, the clarity making distance impossible to divine. But as you grow closer, there is one thing that you can see very clearly at the bottom.. And at the shore. And beneath your feet. The bones. Just. So many bones. And all of them human. *all sounds stop, and we are clearly back in the studio* Lake Roopkund lies in the Nanda Devi National Park, in the Uttarakhand state of India. It is in the lap of the Trishul massif, the base of three mountains dedicated to Shiva, and along the Nanda Devi Raj Jat, or pilgrimage trail for the worship of Nanda Devi, a religious festival that occurs every twelve years, even to this day. It is a glacial water lake in the center of a funnel shaped valley completely blanketed in shards and pebbles of grey mountain rock. Its size varies with the seasons and precipitation, but is about one hundred and thirty feet in diameter and at most reaches a depth of ten feet. During the Winter, it freezes solid all the way to the bottom. And it is full of human skeletons. As the story goes, the bones were discovered by a park ranger in 1942. From the beginning, it was clear to those that viewed the remains, numbering well over three hundred and perhaps even twice that or more, that at some point there had been a great battle here, and many had died. British authorities worried that these bodies might have been an invading Japanese force, but the evidence in the area made it clear that the bones were all much older, and besides, some of those skeletons where women and children, who certainly wouldn’t have been on such a trek, and there were no modern weapons or artifacts. Of course, ‘discovery’ is a bit of a misnomer. The park ranger didn’t know that this lake and its populace were there, but this route was on a pilgrimage, and there are people who live in the Himalayas who certainly knew about Roopkund and what it held in its shallow waters. And indeed, when someone finally bothered to ask them, they had a tale to tell. You see, in their tale, long long ago, over a thousand years before, Raja Jasdhaval, the King of Kunauj, decided to go on the Nanda Devi Raj Jat Yatra. He gathered his pregnant wife, his officials, his servants, his entertainers, his dancers, his concubines and courtiers, and went on pilgrimage. Many warned the king that he should be more respectful and solemn on such a holy pilgrimage, but instead he and his court made a celebration of it, and when they camped at Roopkund, Nanda Devi became enraged at their licentious and unseemly behavior, and she brought her wrath down upon them. And indeed, there was some evidence behind this story, since there were remains of musical instruments and some jewelry and the like among the artifacts. For those who told the tale, the case was open and shut. Nanda Devi had brought a hard lesson down upon those who would treat her festival shallowly. And to the researchers who heard this tale, and looked at broken bones and cracked skulls, the answer was clear enough. There had been a pilgrimage party, and they had been caught in a hailstorm or avalanche, and the survivors had made up this tale of gods and vengeance. In 2004, a genetic study was done on some of the remains, which found them to be genetically related, and from the Indian subcontinent. With the lack of weaponry or armor artifacts at the site, it was decided that these must have been pilgrims, and that was that. The end of the story. This is when it’s time to remember that there is always more to a story, my dears. In 2010, genetic science took a leap forward, and ancient genomes began to be sequenced. With this new ability, it was decided that further study should be applied to the remains at Roopkund, and the remains of 38 of the long dead travelers would be sent to laboratories across the world to do an in depth analysis of their genes and the ages of the bones. Everyone expected for the results to further back up the obvious truth that a lot of religious pilgrims died in a single terrible weather event at Lake Roopkund. Expectations, my friends, often exist solely to be shattered. These expectations exploded into microscopic shards of bone. Of the thirty eight remains tested, 23 are of South Asian background, but not from one single family or even local group… they are from a variety of areas in the Indian subcontinent, and they all died over a range of time around one thousand years ago. Not in one single cataclysmic event, but over a period of time. Fourteen of the bodies studied were traced genetically to the Mediterranean, modern day Greece or Crete, and would have perished at Roopkund sometime in the 18th to late 19th centuries. The final body tested would have died around the same time as those from the Mediterranean. But was Southeast Asian, with genetics that appear to be from the Onge of the Andaman Islands, and Han Chinese. Lake Roopkund has been gathering bodies for a very, very long time, and from some very interesting places. With no trace of useful artifacts or records to tell us who, or why, or how. This can’t be just hailstorms. Plenty of the remains are found to have none of the damage you would expect from that kind of violent death. It’s not just soldiers, there are many women and children, few weapons at all, what few there are very old. The people who died here ranged from poor and starving to rich and well fed, and we know from early reports that quite a few of them were taller than were expected from a group of Hindu pilgrims of the time. It’s not just pilgrims, because no one is coming from Greece in the 1700’s to worship Nanda Devi. And we’ve only looked at a very small percentage of the remains. The truth, the real truth, is that we may never know the secret of Lake Roopkund. Over seventy years have passed since its quote-unquote discovery, and for decades of that time there was no security or restriction on the site. And humans have done what humans so often do.. Muddled things. Bones have been moved, made into sculptures, redistributed, and simply stolen. Artifacts have been destroyed, shifted out of their proper place, buried, removed. Taken out of the water and left in the air to fall to dust. No one is allowed there without park staff and experts anymore, but the damage has been done. It would be nearly impossible to put a single set of remains together without draining the lake and starting at the bottom of it, let alone get an idea of the placement and order of the remains to visualize the order and timing of their deaths. We will never know for sure why those bones lay in Roopkund Lake. Still, there are lessons to be learned. Respect Nanda Devi, who may decide to lay you low for your hubris. Respect Mother Nature, because hailstorms and avalanches are deadly, and gravity is not always your friend. Respect the dead, because when you act disrespectfully to them, so much can be lost, not only their sanctity, but also your history. And you too may someday lie at the shores of a quiet glacial lake in a desolate valley, and you wouldn’t want it to happen to you. But most of all this. Be suspect of any question that it is claimed has been answered beyond a doubt. Because what you know for sure? May at any moment be shattered at your feet. Or a fairytale about gods and vengeance may turn out to be true. Never, ever let your questions stop, and never cease being curious. Interrogate your certainties. Be open to new information. Revel in knowing that there is always more to find out. You may think the water is clear, but it is deeper than you know. Next episode will be the mighty number two hundred. I look forward to telling you a story worthy of that height. Until then, be blessed with curiosity, my friends, rather than cursed with conviction. *theme music plays out*
Greetings my lovelies, each and every one of you, new and old, near and far. Welcome to Mysteries, Merriment, and the Macabre, where we delve into tales of wonder, sorrow, joy and pain, explore the liminal spaces where fiction meets reality, and delight in experiencing myths, legends, beliefs and practices both familiar and extraordinary. Welcome especially to the 200th episode, titled Snow, Birch, Kitten, Pillow. Bear with me on this one.. We will find ourselves off our usual road of the spooky, weird, and unusual. I have four stories on a theme that might be a little difficult to parse, but I promise that it will be all tied up at the end. While all of my episodes have extra images and research materials available through my Patreon site, this one is particularly heavy on images that will deepen the material and certainly be enlightening and even in some cases entertaining, so I’ve added them to the public page of the site and urge you to check them out, though of course, not while driving. (link to visual media) <<Interstitial sound: sleigh-bells ringing rhythmically>> There are few things made by people quite as ephemeral as a snowball. Scooped up by hurried hands that are jubilant or angry, tossed away vehemently, bursting into pieces when they make connection or simply left to melt when the weather changes. No archeologist will ever dig a snowball up. No ancient fossilized snowball will tell us about ancient Roman winters. That snowball you made in the fifth grade and carefully preserved in saran wrap and shoved at the back of mom’s freezer sure you would remember to take it out in July and really surprise someone has long since shrunken to ice and then dissipated. But we do have art, because that is what people do. In 1400’s France, a translation of a Latin manuscript includes an illustration of a fine lady in a blue gown swinging her arm back to lob a snowball at a handsome young man in bright red trousers clearly teasing her. A Book of Hours made for the Duchess of Bougoigne around 1460 shows a December scene of a town square where adults and children alike toss them at each other. 1524, an Italian Book of Hours also heads December with a snowball fight, this time four young and mischievous boys. Neither is it just Northern Europe. All over the world, there are images of snowball fights… Japanese prints show both adults and children taking part, including two very stately women really going at it in a rain of exploded snowball. When snow fell on the Dome of the Rock in 1942, Australian soldiers and Palestinian civilians had fun in the streets flinging snow at one another even though they were both from places where snow was a novelty, and in the middle of a war. No one has to be taught, we just know.. When there is snow, and people, you pick some up and you start throwing. Imagine when you had a snowball fight. If you safely can while you listen to this, close your eyes. Remember the feeling of the chill in the air, the way sounds seem very clear and faraway at the same time, the shuff shuff shuffle of the snow beneath your feet. The fog of your breath, the heat of your cheeks. The weight of the snow in your hands that tells you whether it’s good packing for a stinging slushy impact or it’s going to immediately combust into a corona of fluffy flakes. The careful shaping, the frantic aiming, the fling. The falling when you dodge the return that’s coming at you. And know that every time there has been snow, and people, and just a little bit of time, hundreds and even thousands of years ago, someone felt exactly the same way. <<Interstitial sound : a pen scratching across paper>> Once upon a time, more specifically, between 1220 and 1260, a little boy named Onfin lived in the city of Novgorod. We know this, because the people of the city of Novgorod were very literate, and tended to do a lot of their day to day writing by scratching on pieces of birch bark from the birch trees that surrounded their town, and birch bark lasts a lot longer than paper, especially when it is gathered up and buried in cold, damp clay and used for the foundation of a road. Hundreds upon hundreds of such pieces have been found and cataloged by archeologists, and 17 of them were by a young boy, doing schoolwork, who liked to sign his art. Much of what he did was what you would expect of a first or second grade student, writing out grammar and letters, copying texts… psalms in this case. But just like any child, he could not help but doodle, and dream, and send notes to his friend Danilo whose name is also preserved. Onfim imagined himself as a brave knight on a horse. He drew a picture of himself with his father. He fought dragons, played chasing games, and absolutely could not get the hang of drawing fingers. For anyone who has had a child, or been around children, or themselves been a child, these drawings are deeply familiar. Right now, this very moment, a child has a crayon and is making a picture just like these. Thousands of years before Onfin, some little girl took a stick on a wet beach and did the same. We don’t know anything else about Onfin. Like the vast majority of people in the world, he passed through it without leaving a huge mark. No great masterpiece, no heroic battle won, no amazing invention. He did not change the world. He lived, he played, he dreamed, eventually he probably loved and worked and won and lost. Worried about how to pay his bills, laughed at jokes with friends over drinks, kissed his children goodnight. But for the fact that he lived surrounded by a birch forest, and that damp cold clay is good for making things last, we would never have known of him. But we Know him. You know him. <<Interstitial sound: cats meowing>> There is a wall in Egypt, in the tomb of Puimre, a priest of Amun, that was carved over three thousand years ago during the reign of King Thutmose the Third. On one chipped corner of it, there is the image of a cat, and nearby, close enough that it can refer to nothing else but the cat, are hieroglyphs that read “Nedjem” which translates to “That which is sweet.” or, because this is the first cat we have a name for, Sweetie. We make much of the fact that the ancient Egyptians ‘worshipped’ cats, which is.. We shall say a simplification of the matter. But it is important in this moment to also remember that they lived among cats, lived with cats. Loved cats. And dogs, and birds, and no doubt other animals. If you had not before, I think you are starting to catch the theme. Sweetie. A pet so beloved they were remembered, written for all of time on the wall of the sacred tomb. We know a great deal about Puimre from these carvings and paintings.. That he was the second priest of Amun, that he was an architect. That his parents were Puia and Lady Nefer-iah. That he had two wives, Tanafert and Sensonb. But we don’t know any more about Sweetie. It is human nature to name cats either for what they are, or for what they aren’t. We will never know if Sweetie liked to curl up and purr on its owner’s feet, if it nudged gently with its forehead for little bits of fish, purred beside their heads in the moonlight.. Or if they tore up papyrus, peed on the laundry, or ran roughshod over Puimre’s head at three in the morning. A cat named Sweetie could very much go either way. We do know a great deal about the nature of another cat. On what translates to March 11, 889, Emperor Uda of Japan wrote a diary entry about his beloved cat, the first known record of a cat in Japan. Ironically, he did not give this cat's name, but we know so much else about this feline I think of as Inky. The emperor who gifted him, his size, what he liked to eat, and in great detail the color of his fur. Here is just a small quote from his diary entry on that day, the first recorded description of a cat-loaf: “My cat is a foot and a half in length and about six inches in height. When he curls up he is very small, looking like a black millet berry, but when he stretches out he is long, resembling a drawn bow. The pupils of his eyes sparkle, dazzlingly bright like shiny needles flashing with light, while the points of his ears stick straight up, unwaveringly, looking like the bowl of a spoon. When he crouches he becomes a ball without feet, resembling a round jade taken from the depths of a cave. My cat moves silently, making not a single sound, like a black dragon above the clouds.” Anyone who has ever held a cat dear knows exactly how Uda felt, marveling at such feline beauty. Not very long after that, in fact within the same century, on the other side of the world, an Irish priest writing in his own diary recorded a poem for his pet. And in a fitting historical coincidence, we know that his cat was as white as Uda’s was black. The cat’s name was Pangur Ban, which is the word for fuller’s earth, a powdery substance that was used as part of preparing parchment and which is a very light grey. This nameless monk’s poem tells us about watching his cat hunt mice as he works copying and learning texts, each having their own job to do, and the joy that he gets in the quiet companionship and witnessing the antics of his feline friend. We also know that such pets were not uncommon in monasteries, as there are several manuscripts that have been found with cat paw prints on them, some with just dirt but others with inky paw prints that necessitated losing a whole half page of precious parchment. And at least one where a cat showed much greater displeasure in the way that cats always have, and continue to do. <<Interstitial music: A short clip of a lullaby. >> Mtoto was a little boy who died at the age of about two and a half years old. His community carefully dug a grave, and his family laid him to rest, wrapped him up in his shroud like a blanket, curled up like a baby. Beneath his head a pillow was placed, stuffed with leaves and moss for that was all they had, no doubt by his mother who needed to make her little one comfortable even if she knew that he was beyond discomfort now. You can imagine the scene, can’t you? The loss and grief, the quiet sadness, the tears of the parents. The love reflected in the hard work and care went into his burial. Seek inside you, you can understand it, can’t you? Perhaps some of you can feel it. If you are listening while looking at the extra content, you can see an artist’s rendition of Mtoto and, if you are like me and I know many of you are, you might even shed some tears. Mtoto died seventy eight thousand years ago. The name we have for him was given by archeologists and means ‘the boy’. His grave is in a cave in Kenya, and it is the oldest known human burial in Africa. But you know him. And you know his mother’s pain, you know why that pillow was put so carefully, and lovingly, under his head. Vedbaek, Denmark. Another burial, this one a baby and his mother. The woman is young, perhaps no more than eighteen. The child is possibly premature, or stillborn. It's an old story, one we don’t much have to tell now with forceps and surgeons and antibiotics.. She probably died in childbirth or shortly thereafter. It happened so much, that we are tempted to believe that people were harder then, used to it, less bothered than we might be. But no. She was buried with beautiful jewelry, placed upon a cushion whose existence is only known by the beads scattered beneath her and the way it shaped her skeleton. And her son cradled beside her on the soft, outstretched wing of a swan. We know he was her son because a small knife was placed on him, as other adult men in the same cemetery are buried with their daggers and swords placed on their chest. Both of them were dusted with ochre, a red mineral that has been found as part of early human burials around the world. You can see it, can’t you? The young father, weeping by the grave, making sure his son was remembered as the man he should have gotten to become, that his beloved was graced with all the gifts he had given her in life. A life lived over six thousand years ago. <<Interstitial: the sound of wind in a forest>> We imagine a past that is so remote, so alien. Lives we cannot possibly have lived. Minds we can never understand. But these imaginings are faulty. People, you see, have always been people. You know the delight in a pouncing cat… just like Uda. You know the laughter of a snowball fight.. Just like a medieval duchess, a Japanese geisha, a Victorian child, an Australian soldier. You know the desperate need to cut through the boredom of homework by doodling your dreams, just like Onfin. You know the joy of love and the pain of loss like the families of Mtoto and the swan mother. You can feel the connection, the sameness, the intrinsic ties of life lived and shared experiences. And here, 200 episodes in, I want you to go beyond. I am going to ask you for something other than likes and subscribes and Patreon memberships (though you should certainly still do those things), something easier, and harder, and so much more important. Every day, I want you to think on these stories. If you can feel for a moment that connection to Puimre the priest and Emperor Uda, to Onfin the schoolboy, to Mtoto’s mother and the endless number of people since the beginning of human experience who picked up crystalized water and made it into a game? Then you can feel that same intrinsic connection to the barista handing you your coffee tomorrow morning who got the order not quite right. To the homeless person asking for a buck that you are about to walk past. To the guy who cut you off in traffic who you imagine crashing through a guardrail and over a cliff. To your loved ones, to your coworkers, to every stranger you intersect with, even to your enemies should you have them. Because that same deep connection you felt just a moment ago for the long ago and faraway souls you can never meet or ever truly know, exists in the here and now with the people around you who make up your own life, and your experiences, and your story. Remind yourself to feel that. Thank you, lovelies, for listening to my tales and taking time for my meanderings on life and its meaning over the last few years. Thank you for going with me on this journey over time and through stories, both today and over the previous one hundred and ninety nine episodes. I promise when next we meet, a return to the spooky and fantastical. Until again. LogsNo logs found! |
![[2]](https://www.abc.net.au/reslib/201301/r1060200_12410541.jpg%7Chere){kind=link}