Flashback Series - Operation C19, The Early Days Part 44

Coronavirus: the definition of “cases” is producing a new level of illusion

Feb 11, 2023

Flashback Series - Operation C19, The Early Days Parts 1 - 43 (links only)

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2 years ago · Joel Walbert

Source: No More Fake News

Coronavirus: the definition of “cases” is producing a new level of illusion

by Jon Rappoport

Originally published on March 5, 2020

Buckle up. We’re not riding on a smooth superhighway. These roads are extremely bumpy and rough.

Public health agencies and the press are casting out a blizzard of confusing terms:

presumptive cases, infected persons, asymptomatic persons, confirmed cases, containment measures, persons connected to persons who are infected…

It is my understanding that, now, the CDC is lumping together presumptive cases and confirmed cases, and calling them: CASES.

Certainly, that strategy would immediately multiply the total number of CASES and also multiply fear among the uninformed population.

A presumptive case would be a person who has not been tested for the coronavirus; or he has been tested, but the results are not yet in.

Why is he a presumptive case in the first place? There could be several reasons. He has ordinary flu-like symptoms, and his doctor suspects he might be infected by the coronavirus, for no particular reason. He might have come in contact with a person who has been diagnosed as an epidemic case. He might have recently traveled to China—and has or doesn’t have flu-like symptoms. Maybe he has a slight cough…

You can see that “presumptive” is a quite shaky status. It means next to nothing. Nevertheless, in order to “contain the spread of the virus,” he is pinned with that label—and added to the total of CASES.

The press, looking for the next piece of click-bait, sees that, in a particular state or city, there are “25 CASES.” A reporter writes an article. The public is led to sense that, in that locale, a “spread” is occurring. No distinction is made between confirmed case and presumptive case.

Suppose, in a nursing home, where a hundred residents have all sorts of long-term health problems—including flu-like symptoms and respiratory difficulties—two people have been labeled “presumptive cases,” because they were visited by a person who recently returned from China. Now, there is an opportunity to label more residents of the nursing home “presumptive,” because they’re in daily contact with the two “presumptive residents.” Result? There are 13 “presumptive cases,” and when the press discovers this, they characterize the 13 as CASES.

But it gets a lot worse than that. As I’ve been detailing in these pages, the basic test for the coronavirus is called the PCR. A positive result is taken to mean the patient “has the virus.” He is now a confirmed case. However, the PCR has many problems.

The procedure itself is tricky, and unless done perfectly, with great care to avoid contamination, the result is useless. But even when the test is perfect, it says nothing about whether the patient is ill or will ever become ill. Why? Because the PCR never comes to a valid conclusion about how much virus is in the patient’s body actively replicating. And in order to start talking about illness and disease, millions and millions of virus must be at work replicating inside the patient.

Going even further down the rabbit hole, how was the PCR test for the coronavirus developed in the first place? We seem to have an answer from the CDC, offered up to reporters in a February 28 press briefing. A Dr. Messonnier, representing the CDC, said this in reply to a question:

“…please remember that our laboratories developed this [PCR] test kit before there were US cases. We developed it based on the posted genetic sequencing, and it was this test kit that allowed us, to identify the first cases in the United States.”

What does this mean? It seems to means that the CDC accepted the genetic sequence of the “new virus” without having an actual isolated specimen of the virus itself. Is that a problem?

If the police receive a description of a car wreck on a local highway (the sequence), should they travel to the scene and actually look at the wreck (obtain an isolated specimen of the virus)? Should they decide who was at fault (diagnose the first US cases) without investigating (having the actual virus itself in their possession)?

Researchers claiming they’ve laid out the genetic sequence of a virus, and passing the information along to colleagues, is not what you would call proof of anything. Those original researchers could have sequenced another virus. They could have made mistakes. Did THEY ever have an isolated specimen of the virus?

Developing and using a diagnostic PCR test on humans, and then telling them whether they are “victims of the epidemic,” based on received genetic sequences alone, is more than irresponsible. It’s entirely reckless.

If you’ve come this far in the article, and you’re beginning to feel that the whole system of diagnosing people with THE VIRUS is madness, I would agree with you.

Categories of cases are being deceptively juggled and merged, in order to inflate numbers.

The “gold standard” diagnostic test is fraught with difficulties, and is inherently useless.

And lurking behind all this is the question: who discovered the coronavirus in the first place, and did they ever have an actual specimen of it, a biological reality; or, working from indirect “markers,” were THEY the PRESUMPTIVES, blithely assuming their genetic sequences pointed to an entity that actually exists?

If you think a fraud on this level has never occurred before, read my piece on the 2009 Swine Flu “epidemic,” and consider its potential implications.

Source: Outside The Reality Machine

VISIONS OF THE EMPIRE: A poem for the 21st century, (Excerpt 007)

Febuary 7, 2023

Excerpt 007:

knowing the past was dead
I walked out of the house of melting shadows

I bathed in clear water

I sat down by an old stream and waited for the fish to speak
I sat inside a reflection of lunar decay for thirty incarnations
and nothing happened

I walked out of the house of melting shadows

not a closed night or a fearful night or a weeping night or a
money night or a political night or an atomic night

the herds of stars are breaking out of their corral

I’m sitting at a cafe
on the beach in Cardiff
blue January afternoon
my mind unwrinkles
the restaurant’s empty
a huge whitewashed gull with a red beak
stands on a rock a few feet away
he waits, he looks

mouthless cash/samurai governments in twinkling skyscrapers

I try on soft hats in a phantasmagorical haberdasher on 5th Avenue
in a jar the size of Des Moines I pickle brains of ancient Sinatras

sand in the engine, empty canteens, thirsty in the desert, I climb the
next set of dunes and stagger down into a level-B resort, artificial
lake restaurants women in bikinis fat men children sliding into blue
pools waiters delivering drinks, robot Adam&Eve standing under a
palm tree eating a bowl of fruit, Machine God sitting at a huge
poolside table with a few cronies, he waves me over, the sun sets and
the moon comes up, I watch old skulls of mob defectors rolling like
tumbleweed in the desert….

hollow planets ring like gongs, shepherds bring in their animals,
ghosts in the arbor pick the grapes and feel the warm wind, we’re
walking through a forest, the yellow-horned flowers are weeping
with fog, chrome-edged clouds are dropping sheets of loneliness

the universe said goodbye
the universe was going away
there was no JFK assassination
it was a mirage in Texas
Allen Dulles was sitting in the back of the limo
his brains were splashed all over an unknown woman
she was fighting to breathe and squirming
she was wearing a little pillbox hat and a polkadot dress
she jumped out of the car and ran up the street
and no one ever saw her again

the Virgin Mary
the Virgin Mary of Texas

the lilies of the valley are growing in the back yard again
splashed in the Buick majesty of steady spring rain
and the snow is gone
the branches of crystalline ice are giving out little green buds
and worms are crawling in the mud around the porch sniffing roses

Caravaggio talks to Raphael and Raphael talks to Piero and a leg
takes shape
Michelangelo talks to Titian and half a face emerges
Durer talks to Velasquez and Goya walks out of a cave ready to go to
work

we return to the Bronx and visit my grandmother sitting in her
pudding chair in the middle of the living room, she slowly moves her
head and trembles and mumbles something in Yiddish and I kiss her
on the cheek, the mirror sits on the heavy bureau above candles
flickering for the dead in the middle of the afternoon, someone is
always dying, they were dying in Russia and they are dying in the
Bronx, there was a daughter who died a few weeks after she was
born and my grandfather died when I was three, and the candy store
across the street died when bubble gum was outlawed during WW2,
and my father’s father is dead, he owned a clothing store and his
partner ran off with the cash and now the partner is dead too, and the
books on the shelves in my grandmother’s house are dead, and the
plates behind glass are dead, the forks and knives and spoons are
dead, the rugs in the living room are dead, and my father’s mother
will soon be dead in the dining room on the floor at our house late in
the afternoon in January, but no one is supposed to make a move to
stop the dying in the way the dying is happening, we are all
supposed to stand by, centurions at a gateless city, the rivers shallow
and frozen, kiss your grandmother, stand back, smile, go over to the
table, sit down, play cards, eat honey cake, listen, listen, listen

Hermes is circling the brick house and tearing tiles off the roof, he’s
coming down into the living room and breaking into the glass cases
and stealing the silverware, he’s crawling under the piano and
ripping out the pedals, he’s moving the laundry room between the
living room and the kitchen, he’s going next door to the psychiatrist’s
house and laying down the names of 297 mental disorders that will
be invented out of wholecloth in the next 50 years

I’m lying back in a leather chair in Grand Central Station and an old
man is cutting my hair
he puts a hot white towel on my face

I enter St. Pat’s, it’s a huge bookie joint, crowds standing in the
aisles, betting on anti-Lucifer
I take a seat at the end of a long pew and fold my hands in prayer to
Piero della Francesca, silver painter of Solomon & Sheba
and Henry Miller of the Rosy Crucifixion and Kenneth Patchen in
his bed of pain and Gregory Corso roaming the streets of Rotterdam
blessings of wine and bread and skeletons growing new flesh and
father Walt sitting in the middle of Times Square his voice a violet
thunder

the President is on television and the Pope is drunk on ceremonial
wine cursing the Church fathers as he floats naked near the Sistine
ceiling

O dream garden of the ancient flower…

/END

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