New Dawn – World's Most Unusual Magazine

Author: Herbie Brennan

  • The Evidence for Time Travel

    The Evidence for Time Travel

    This article was published in New Dawn 98 (Sept-Oct 2006)

    My first non-fiction book on time travel came about wholly by accident. I was interested in trying to discover whether or not there was much hard evidence for the sort of Ice Age civilisation mentioned by Plato in his account of Atlantis and also what level of technology such a civilisation might have achieved. I thought if there was something positive in this, it might make an interesting book.

    Since the postulate of an Ice Age civilisation is obviously linked to the evolutionary pattern of humanity, I began my research there – specifically attempting to find evidence of civilised activity prior to the establishment of the Sumarian state widely accepted as the starting point of modern culture. As civilisations take time to develop, I was also searching for evidence that humanity’s appearance on the planet might have been earlier than generally supposed.

    While conducting this research, I did indeed find archaeological evidence which suggested that Homo sapiens evolved earlier than the orthodox text books claim. At first these finds were manageable – they pushed back the appearance of humanity some tens of thousands of years. But then came the shock. There was a record of a find that suggested humanity was on the planet not thousands, but millions of years earlier than the time established by the orthodox scientific consensus.

    At first I thought this find might be a fake, or a misinterpretation. But as my research continued, it became clear the find was not unique. There were many, many archaeological discoveries that pointed to an early evolution of humanity. Individually, these seem to have been dismissed as oddities, or simply ignored, by the scientific establishment, but the sheer weight of evidence seemed to me to suggest the finds needed an explanation.

    At this point, I still thought I was looking at evidence for the early emergence of humanity. Then I came across records of discoveries that pointed to the appearance of humans at a ridiculously early period – contemporary with and even earlier than the dinosaurs. Since this was manifestly impossible (the mammalian line itself hadn’t evolved at this time) I suddenly realised the evidence had to point somewhere else. I considered the alternatives and the only half sensible explanation I could come up with was that the finds were litter left by time travellers.

    On the face of it, this seemed highly unlikely, but I was curious enough to want to know what modern physics said about the theoretical possibility of time travel. So I started research there and discovered that while Newtonian physics neither supported nor denied the possibility of time travel, both Relativity Theory and Quantum Mechanics seemed to say it was possible. One respected physicist had actually published plans for a (theoretical) time machine!

    At that point, I (temporarily) abandoned my book on the Ice Age civilisation and started seriously to move in a wholly different direction. Time Travel: A New Perspective was the result, a thorough study of the theme, published by Llewellyn in the United States. I returned to the theme in a second book aimed at a young adult audience and entitled simply Time Travel which has now been published in the UK by Faber and Faber as part of my Herbie Brennan’s Forbidden Truths series.

    So what was the evidence that started all this?

    The find that originally sparked my interest was the Transvaal spheres. Several hundred metal balls – some of them spookily like cricket balls – have been found by miners in the Western Transvaal, near the town of Ottosdal. They look manufactured and the metal seems to be toughened steel. But they’re still being unearthed from a Pre-Cambrian sediment, which means they have to be 2,800 million years old.

    Who dropped them? Not contemporary humans, that’s for sure. The earliest dinosaur hadn’t even appeared at that time. Manufactured objects in the Pre-Cambrian era are a glaring anachronism. And not the only one I came across.

    There was a polished concrete block wall found in the depths of an Oklahoma coal mine and estimated to be 286 million years old, a delicate gold chain of similar vintage found in Illinois, a carved stone found in Iowa that was dropped some 260 million years before humanity evolved on the planet, and many more, including a decorated metal vase from Massachusetts more than 600 million years old.

    There are very few possible explanations for finds of this type. One is that they are simply misdated – the dismissive ‘explanation’ put forward by orthodox archaeologists. But it’s difficult to see how you can misdate something like the Massachusetts vase that was actually discovered encased in solid rock.

    Another possibility is that the artifacts were dropped by visitors from space. The Ancient Astronauts Theory is no longer as popular as it once was, killed off by sensationalist claims and some blatant tweaking of the ‘evidence.’ All the same, most scientists are agreed that life must exist elsewhere in the universe and some of it may be intelligent. Which means that, long shot though it might be, the transport of some alien civilisation might have docked on Earth at the dawn of time and discharged metallic ballast in an area that eventually became the Transvaal.

    But even if the South African spheres turn out to be of alien manufacture (or some sort of weird natural phenomena, for that matter) several other anachronistic artifacts are undoubted human in origin. The carved stone from Iowa, for example, features multiple representations of an old man’s face. There was a fossilised human shoe print found in Utah shale some 500 million years old. A human footprint was discovered in Turkmenistan in Central Asia, next to that of a three-toed dinosaur.

    The dinosaurs disappeared from our planet, quite suddenly, some 65 million years ago. Until that happened, the most advanced mammal on the face of the globe was a little tree-dweller the size of a mouse. Humanity is supposed to have evolved in Africa some 100,000 years ago – and while there may be a case for adjusting this date backwards, nobody suggests we could have walked the Earth in the days of the dinosaurs.

    Finds like these got me thinking along the lines of time travel, but failed to convince me. At the time, I assumed modern scientific thought dismissed the possibility as nonsense. This assumption, however, turned out to be wrong.

    Surprisingly, Newtonian physics – the practical stuff that underlies almost every example of modern technology – doesn’t deny the possibility of time travel. Newton’s Second Law of motion states that ‘the time rate of change of the velocity or acceleration of a body is directly proportional to the force applied and inversely proportional to the mass of the body.’ In the mathematical expression of this Law, the value for time is squared. As you learned at school, if you multiply a negative number by another negative number, the result is always positive. This means that should you change ordinary time to negative time in Newton’s Second Law, it makes no difference to the outcome. In other words, time can flow backwards or forwards without influencing the outcome of the equations.

    Of course this only shows that, theoretically speaking, time travel does not contradict Newtonian physics. It gives no real clue as to whether time travel might actually happen. But Einstein’s Relativity Theory, on the other hand, clearly shows there are circumstances in which time travel can – indeed must – occur. Einstein spelled it out in his famous Twins Paradox.

    You begin with identical twins, one of whom joins the crew of a spaceship travelling close to the speed of light. The other twin stays home.

    Assume both twins were thirty years of age when they separated. Imagine the space voyage lasted five years. On the ship, the astronaut twin ages five years according to every measure he can apply.

    But if the spaceship is travelling at 99% the speed of light, Einstein’s Theory of Relativity shows that time is moving seven times slower on board than it is on the ground. That means the twin who stayed home has aged thirty-five years – he is now sixty-five years old.

    In other words, just because the astronaut raced at breakneck speed around the galaxy, he’s now thirty years younger than his twin brother. Or put another way, when he lands again, he discovers he has voyaged thirty years into the future so far as life on Earth is concerned. And that, by any reasonable criterion, is time travel.

    But it’s strictly a one-way trip.

    That was about as far as Einstein went with time travel, but the maverick American physicist Frank Tipler showed in 1974 that Relativity Theory allowed two-way time travel, back to the past and forward to the future. In fact he even published plans for a (theoretical) time machine in the prestigious Physical Review. They were contained in an article entitled ‘Rotating Cylinders and the Possibility of Global Causality Violation.’ Global causality violation was a weird a piece of geometry: a path that winds through space and turns around in time – something called a closed timelike line.

    Nobody is entirely sure whether closed timelike lines actually exist in nature, but Dr. Tipler’s basic idea was to create one by building a machine that would distort space and time. All that was needed, according to Relativity Theory, was a big enough rotating cylinder.

    But by big he meant really big– something far too large to build on Earth. It would also have to be very heavy, far more heavy than lead, for example, or any other substance used in current technology.

    What was needed was a super-dense material, the sort that has enormous mass, but takes up very little room. But this sort of matter actually exists – in neutron stars.

    Neutron stars are stars that collapse under their own weight, but don’t go all the way to becoming a Black Hole. The electrons inside their atoms are plunged into the nucleus where they fuse with protons to become neutrons (hence the name). The atoms themselves are fused together so that the whole star becomes one great atomic nucleus. It’s the densest substance in the universe. If you could extract enough to fill a teaspoon, it would weigh more than 1,000,000,000 tons.

    But even at that weight, a teaspoonful would be nothing like enough to create a Tipler cylinder. Physicist Fred Alan Wolf has estimated that such a cylinder would have to be about 40 kilometres across and more than 4,000 kilometres long. To make something that size, you would need about a hundred neutron stars.

    It’s clear that building a Tipler cylinder would be far beyond our present technology. But most scientists agree that if something is theoretically possible – which a Tipler Cylinder certainly is – technology will learn how to do it sooner or later.

    In the case of the Tipler Cylinder, we have only to imagine that some form of advanced technology will eventually be found, in a thousand years or ten thousand years, that will allow us to push a hundred neutron stars together. To work as planned, the cylinder needs to spin at about 10,000 revs per second. Fortunately most neutron stars are revolving in that range anyway. Put them together and you have a cylinder that, on its surface, is spinning at about three quarters the speed of light.

    Once the stars are in place, space and time will distort around them, in clearly defined zones. Immediately surrounding the cylinder would be a 20 kilometre wide zone where the fabric of space-time is changed in an almost unimaginable way. Physicists call this the ‘Deadly Zone’. There’s no way you could exist in such a zone. In fact, you probably couldn’t get into it in the first place – you would be repelled by the very nature of spacetime at its outer boundary.

    Surrounding the Deadly Zone is the Zone Of Time Reversal. This is the area of space in which time runs backwards. Get yourself into that zone and you’re a time traveller.

    The time travel zone is surrounded by a Null Time Zone where time stands still. This zone is surrounded by a Positive Time Zone – one, that is, where time runs in the familiar past-to-future direction. Get yourself a nice little space ship, head it for the zone of your choice, and you’re on your way through time.

    This sort of scientific speculation is fascinating, but it still falls short of hard evidence for time travel. Far more immediately exciting were the case studies that suggested time travel has actually happened, is actually happening now and might, potentially actually happen to you. I came across several cases of this type, of which the Kersey incident is a striking example.

    Kersey is a charming little English village, nestling in the Suffolk countryside. You can see the church tower for miles and the church itself – first built in Saxon times – is visible from just about everywhere in the village.

    When I visited the place, I found a well-made tarmacadam road running through the village and admired its picturesque stream – locals call it the Water-Splash – spanned by an ornamental footbridge (see photo on previous page). Several of the houses have been painted pink and, like so many English villages, many have well-kept gardens. There is a scattering of thatched cottages, a couple of pleasant pubs – the Bell and the White Horse – a pottery, a restaurant, a general store and a post office. It’s one of those places that changes very slowly and the way it looks today isn’t all that different to the way it looked in 1957 when three teenage cadets with HMS Ganges, a Royal Navy shore training establishment at Shotley, were sent off to survey it as part of an orienteering exercise.

    Kersey, an English village nestling in the Suffolk countryside, is the site of what was possibly a time-slip incident in 1957. In the photo’s foreground is the Water-Splash, and in the background the Church can be seen.

    But what I saw in Kersey was a far cry from what the boys experienced.

    The survival exercise was carried out over a cold weekend in October. The boys, Cadets William Lang, Michael Crowley and Ray Baker (all 15 years old) were assigned to find the village and report back on everything they saw.

    They followed a road for a time, then cut across some fields. Shortly afterwards, they came across a grey stone cottage surrounded by large oak trees. A farm labourer pointed them in the direction of Kersey. Ten minutes later, they came in sight of the village. From their vantage point, they could see the roofs of the houses and the high tower of Kersey Church. They also clearly heard the sound of church bells as they left the fields to take the laneway down into the village. But as they approached within a hundred yards of the church itself, the bells abruptly stopped.

    The church, which had been visible from the fields above the village, was now hidden behind trees growing on the mound on which the building stands. The boys walked in an eerie silence until, turning a corner of their laneway, they had their first sight of the village itself. What they saw was quite different to the Kersey of modern times.

    The stream was still there, running down the centre of the village, but the tarmacadam road was gone, as were most of the houses. In their place was a dirt track with two or three miserable-looking dwellings widely scattered on its left hand side. There were no houses or cottages at all on the right, just tall forest trees.

    The track ran down to the stream, then rose beyond it to the northern end of the village where there were a few more houses, all of them dirty, small and old. The stream was crossed by a bridge, but nothing like the bridge that’s there today: it was no more than two wooden planks with four posts and a handrail. The only living things in the place were some motionless ducks on the waters of the stream. There were no parked cars, no telephone lines, no radio aerials – nothing at all, in fact, to suggest a modern lifestyle.

    The boys felt uneasy and curiously depressed. The whole place had a horribly unpleasant feel about it, without wind, sounds or even shadows. But the flat and lifeless look wasn’t the only problem. The boys grew increasingly uneasy when they examined the trees. They were green with spring buds. Yet this was October – well into autumn.

    Both village pubs and all but one of Kersey’s shops had disappeared. The boys jumped the stream and went to examine the one shop remaining, a butcher’s in which skinned ox carcases were hanging. But the meat was green with age and the whole place covered in filthy cobwebs as if it had been left derelict for months. Other buildings were equally strange. Not one seemed to have furniture, or even curtains.

    The boys had the eerie feeling of being watched, although there was not so much as a dog on the street, and their unease increased. Their slow progress up the village street got faster and faster until suddenly they were running for their lives. They turned a corner at the top of the street and stopped, breathless, to look back. Suddenly the church bells chimed, the church itself was clearly visible, the village was repopulated. Normality had returned.

    The boys’ story was thoroughly investigated by the Vice President of the Society for Psychical Research, London, Andrew MacKenzie. He concluded that the three boys had somehow travelled back to medieval times when Kersey was hurriedly abandoned after an outbreak of the Black Death.

    Strange though it might seem, this was no isolated incident. There is sound evidence to suggest that many more people, including one scientist and a world-famous historian, have experienced time-slips of this type that took them physically into a distant past.

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  • How to Make a Ghost: Magic and Mysticism in Tibet

    How to Make a Ghost: Magic and Mysticism in Tibet

    This article was published in New Dawn 96 (May-June 2006)

    Authors note that fictional characters have a tendency to take on a life of their own. But few readers realise just how literally they mean it. A friend of mine, engaged in writing a romantic novel, called me in a panic just a year ago to complain that two of her characters had just run off and got married… thus ruining her carefully-crafted plot.

    In theory this should not have been a problem. From her god-like perspective, the writer could surely have deleted the relevant passage and written a new one that put her creation back on track. In practice, any attempt to rein in characters like that will produce an almost unreadable novel, full of wooden dialogue and contrived situations. The only viable answer is to let them go their own way, abandon any preconceived plot notions, and see what ‘really’ happens.

    The popular American science-fiction writer, Ray Bradbury, was so intrigued by the phenomenon that he wrote it into one of his own books. The Martian Chronicles describes how visitors to the red planet are confronted by characters from classical fiction who had somehow taken on corporeal existence in the alien environment.

    Curiously, Bradbury’s idea – that fictional characters might, in certain circumstances, take on solid form – had widespread currency in Tibet. Such creatures were known as tulpas and at least one European traveller claimed to have seen them.

    Madame Alexandra David-Neel, a distinguished French academic and explorer who died in 1969, reported that while camped in the Tibetan highlands, she was visited by a young painter she knew vaguely from a previous stay in Lhasa. The man had a particular obsession with one of the many Tibetan gods. For years he had meditated daily on the deity and painted its image many times. As he entered the camp, Madame David-Neel claimed she saw a misty representation of the god hovering behind him.

    She was so intrigued by this phenomenon that she studied Tibetan teachings about tulpas and eventually decided to create one for herself. To this end, she visualised a cheerful brown-robed monk, based loosely on Friar Tuck in the Robin Hood legends. After weeks of effort, the imaginary monk became so vivid that he appeared to her as if he were physically present – an induced hallucination.

    But then, says Madame David-Neel, the monk began to turn up when she was not trying to visualise him. Furthermore, his appearance was changing: he grew thinner and developed a sly expression. When other members of her camp asked about the ‘strange little lama’ she decided the time had come to destroy her creation… and battled for weeks before finally managing to do so.

    Could such a thing really be possible?

    During the early 1970s, a group from the Toronto Society for Psychical Research set out to see if they could make a ghost. First they dreamed up a fictional character, then invented a background to go with him. The character was named Philip and lived at the time of Cromwell, in a house called Diddington Manor. He fell in love with a beautiful Gypsy woman named Margo and subsequently had an affair with her. When his wife found out, she took her revenge by accusing Margo of witchcraft. Margo was tried, convicted and burned at the stake. Philip, mad with grief, committed suicide.

    There actually was a Diddington Manor and pictures of it were obtained by the group. The rest of the story was fiction. Philip never really existed. But that didn’t stop him haunting.
    The group held a series of séances with photographs of the manor placed around the room while they concentrated on the fictional Philip. For several months nothing happened. Then a rap was heard. The group set up a code and communication was established. Sure enough, the communicating ‘spirit’ turned out to be Philip, claiming the life history they had invented for him.

    As the séances continued, the fictional Philip continued to behave exactly as séance room spirits have always behaved. He caused raps and brought through such a richly detailed description of the Cromwellian period that the group actually double checked to make sure they’d not somehow based Philip on a real life character. (They hadn’t.) Later, the Toronto experiment was duplicated by other groups. One of them dispelled any lingering doubts about the fictional nature of the spirit by communicating with a talking dolphin.

    Although Philip was a step removed from the sort of visible ‘spirit’ appearance reported by Alexandra David-Neel, he did manage to produce physical phenomena like raps and table turning, which suggests the psychological mechanics of the two experiments may not have been all that different. But if certain persistent accounts are to be believed, the techniques used for creating ghosts went far further in Tibet than they ever did in Canada – and generated a valuable spiritual lesson in the process.

    One of the most fascinating stories involves a mythic creature called a Yidam, a tutelary deity in the Tibetan pantheon.

    In Tibet, many young men (and some young women) suffering from a spiritual itch, apprenticed themselves to a single guru rather than follow the traditional monastic route. A few of them who showed real spiritual promise would eventually reach the point where their guru would admit he had nothing more to teach them. If they wanted to go further, they would need a far more advanced guide. To that end, the guru would advise them to meditate on the Yidam and study pictures of it in the sacred scriptures. These showed the creature to have a fearful, almost demonic aspect.

    When the student was saturated in Yidam lore, he would typically be advised to find a remote cave and there create a magic circle (known as a kylkhor) using powdered chalk. The purpose of the circle was to encourage the visible appearance of the Yidam.

    In order to achieve this, the pupil was instructed to visualise the Yidam within the circle. Over a period of weeks, or months, the pupil had to continue the exercise until a full-scale hallucination resulted and the Yidam appeared. At this point, the pupil would be told he was obviously favoured by the god.

    But for his next step, he would have to persuade it to leave the circle.

    The process might take several more months, but eventually the pupil would report that the god had stepped out of the kylkhor. He would be congratulated, then told to see if he could manage to get the Yidam to speak to him.

    Once this was achieved, the goal-posts were moved again. The pupil was required to receive the Yidam’s blessing, a process that, in Tibet, involved the laying of hands on the pupil’s head.

    Once the pupil reported positively on this latest task, the guru would typically tell him he had only one more step to take. He had achieved conversation with and blessing from the Yidam, but it was still confined to the cave. In order to establish the deity as his personal guru, the pupil had to persuade the Yidam to leave its circle and accompany him wherever he went. Off went the pupil to his Himalayan cave again.

    With the benefit of our tulpa studies, we might suspect that the pupil was creating a fictional character, albeit one based on scriptural authority. While the appearance of the Yidam is a matter of visualisation, any conversations must require essentially the same creative input as an author writing dialogue.

    The gurus who developed the exercise clearly recognised its tulpa aspect as well, for the whole experience was actually a test. If the pupil succeeded in creating a Yidam that would walk and talk with him, his teacher would tell him his studies were ended since he now had the wisest and most powerful teacher possible. But the pupil who accepted this evaluation was deemed to be a failure – and sent off to spend the rest of his life locked into a comforting hallucination.

    There were, however, a few pupils who expressed doubts. They might begin to wonder if the Yidam was the god they believed it to be, or an aberration of their own perceptions. Often the guru would feign anger and send them back to the cave to redouble their efforts. But if the doubts persisted, then came the crunch.

    “Do you not see the god? Do you not hear the god? Do you not feel the god when he lays his hands upon your head to impart his blessing? Is not the Yidam as real as the mighty Himalayas?” asks the guru.

    The pupil agrees that he sees, hears and feels. He agrees that the Yidam seems as real and solid as the Himalayas. And yet he doubts.

    At which point the guru springs his trap. The experience of the Yidam is not simply a lesson in tulpa creation. According to the insights of Tibetan spirituality, human perception of the ‘real’ world is fundamentally flawed. Not just its politics and values, not just its preconceptions and ideas, but its very structure is something other than what it appears. The world as we know it – from our friends to ourselves to the mountains above and the valleys below – ismaya, a word imported from India that translates as ‘illusion.’ What happens in the creation of a Yidam proves that absolutely.

    An eerily similar theme underlay a popular Hollywood movie called The Matrix. The premise of The Matrix was that at some point in the distant future, humanity fought an apocalyptic battle against intelligent machines… and lost. With commendable efficiency, the machines decided to use captive humans as a power source. (The human body generates a measurable amount of electricity.)

    To avoid any possibility of a resistance, the machines wired their captives’ brains into a central computer running a complex program that created the illusion of day-to-day reality. Although actually stored neatly in nourishment tanks, the population of our defeated planet slept on, convinced that the world of offices and jet planes functioned exactly as it always had.

    The idea is not a new one, even in our materialistic West:

    “And then…?” the Emperor Claudius asks of the Sibyl in Robert Graves’ I Claudius, on discovering he is dead.

    “Then you shall dream a very different dream,” the Oracle replies, referring to Claudius’s next life.

    Among spiritually-enlightened Tibetans, the notion that we all live in aMatrix-style illusion is widespread. But the illusion is not maintained by rogue machines – it is generated by our own minds. When I first came across the doctrine, I was forcibly reminded of a saying you hear every day in Haiti: What you see… it’s not what you think.

    At least one (American) Buddhist attempted to convince me the Tibetan doctrine was purely philosophical. She believed it to be essentially a question of emphasis, in the way that a handful of American deaths might seem more real (to Americans) than a million famine victims in distant China.

    Her stance was sophisticated, her arguments psychologically enlightened, but even our own Western physicists know better. Investigations of the quantum world of sub-atomic particles reveals a universe founded on no more than statistical probabilities and built with little bits of something that appear out of nowhere, exist momentarily before vanishing again… and are profoundly influenced by human observation.

    Physicists have now become accustomed to thinking mathematically about an 11-dimensional space-time continuum that looks nothing like the world we live in.

    The only difference is Tibetan mystics seem to experience it directly.
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