Flashback Series - Operation C19, The Early Days Part 28

CDC begins testing Americans for the Coronavirus—but how?

Dec 30, 2022

Flashback Series - Operation C19, The Early Days Parts 1 - 27 (links only)

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2 years ago · Joel Walbert

Source: No More Fake News

CDC begins testing Americans for the Coronavirus—but how?

by Jon Rappoport

Originally published on February 17, 2020

As my readers know, I’ve been presenting evidence AGAINST the idea that the China “epidemic” is caused by a new coronavirus. (archive here)

Of course, the World Health Organization and the US Centers for Disease Control are relentlessly pushing the idea that: this is a spreading epidemic, and it is caused by COV-19, a new human coronavirus.

Now, the US Centers for Disease Control is rolling out a program to test Americans (e.g., travelers who have been to China). As time passes, the program will likely pull larger numbers of Americans into that net.

The CDC program immediately raises two problems: why bother testing for a virus if it isn’t really causing human disease; and what kind of test is being done?

In this article, I’m focusing on the type of test, and whether it’s accurate, even if you assume the coronavirus is causing disease.

Reading through CDC literature (see also here), I believe the two most prevalent US testing methods are: antibody, and PCR.

Antibody tests are notorious for cross-reactions. This means factors in no way relevant to a given virus can make the test read positive. In that case, the patient would be falsely told he “has the coronavirus.” But it gets worse. Traditionally, antibody tests reading positive were taken as a good sign for the patient: his immune system had contacted a germ and defeated it. Then, starting in 1984, the science was turned upside down: a positive test was, astoundingly, taken to mean the patient was ill or would soon become ill.

The PCR test (which requires excellent technicians who will not make any number of possible mistakes) takes a tissue sample from a patient which might contain a tiny virus particle(s) much too small to be observed—and blows it up many times, so it can be seen. However, the test says nothing reliable about HOW MUCH virus is in the patient’s body. Why is that important? Because millions and millions of replicating virus in the body are necessary to even begin talking about actual illness. A positive PCR test, nevertheless, will be taken to mean the patient “has the epidemic disease.” —An even deeper issue: where is the PRIOR PROOF that the PCR is testing for a virus that actually causes disease?

The prospect of these two tests being done on Americans is not comforting, to say the least. People will be roped into believing they are “epidemic cases,” and therefore need to be isolated, and treated with highly toxic antiviral drugs.

In the event they become ill, from the drugs, they’ll be told “the coronavirus is doing the damage.” In some cases, this will result in even further dosing with the same drugs, at higher levels—a disaster.

A very small percentage of doctors are aware of the profound shortcomings of these two diagnostic tests. Most of them will shrug off their doubts and perform the tests anyway, because refusal would endanger their careers and medical licenses.

This is the sordid drama now unfolding in the American landscape.

It’s not just America. The same tests are being done all over the world.

Source: Outside The Reality Machine

VISIONS OF THE EMPIRE: A poem for the 21st century, (Excerpt 005)

December 29, 2022

Excerpt 005:

midtown Manhattan…my father walks from the haberdasher to the
barber shop with a new hat in a box
he sits in the chair and the barber winds it back and shaves him
with a straight razor that was lolling in a tall glass of alcohol
the barber wipes off the blade with a white linen towel and
moves the razor back and forth on his strop and shaves my father
and cuts his hair

the pool room on 14th Street, old men playing three-cushion slowly
with long tapered fingers, under a hanging lamp one face peeks in
and then it’s ripped away as the floor sweeper lifts the shades and the
sun comes streaming through the dust
ever deepening beauty,
there is a little garden behind our house
where vines grow over a wood shed

and purple bougainvillea and morning glory

in this idyll I can rest
I can dream of her while I hold her hand
we set the kettle boiling
and pour the steaming water
and drink a tea of the world

you sold me an empty room
I moved in and found you there

you waited in the rain for me
And I came to you

The home we built at the end of a street
Is becoming larger every day

The poet picks the street on which he will starve
and grow rich

I am painting on a sheet of sturdy paper
A small garden
The sky is on the bottom
The flowers are on top
There are window boxes

I am making the same proposal to you, my darling

I pray to prayer
I deliver myself to you
I say the night and I say down the stairs we go again

never the garden

ever the garden

we are always in between everything we thought

always

my darling,
I’ll go with you
into the garden
into the bedroom
into the living room
into the kitchen

on to the rust-colored couch after the sandstorm
when the evening is quiet
the stove is ticking

my dead father is again sitting in a metal chair playing pinochle with
his friends

my dead mother bounds down the stairs
she’s suddenly thirty again
grinning with the August of the Black Sea

my sister is holding a feral dog in her arms and he is wrapping his
mouth around her wrist and slowly quieting down

Not one god
not fewer gods
give me a proliferation of gods
gods in plantains and mangoes
gods in broken chairs in vague Arizona motels
gods in piles of gray wood at the back of a barn in Mississippi
gods in statues on broad plazas in Chicago
gods in lagoons festering with green mold in San Diego
gods on the foggy windows of diners in Western Massachusetts
gods on the graves of Vikings and accountants in New Jersey
gods in silverware and white napkins

one version of what the old Tibetans
called the Great Void:

everybody looks around and tries to figure out what to
do
because the long hustle of discovery is over
and all the explorers have been paid off

There is nothing left
except a few magicians
living in cold mountains
punching holes in the universe at will

In Lhasa they were faced with that Nothing
and they turned to it in the eastern sky hanging like a lamp in a long
vacated whorehouse
and bowed

that was the only ceremony in the original book
which they later
in quiet rooms
burned in wood bowls

before starting their exercises

Worship?
Decay?
Never heard of it.

And now think of something else, perfect automobiles
streaming down a tropical planet toward the
a mirror lake on which stands a demigod in green pantaloons
who holds all data everywhere in his outstretched arms

and freeze THAT in memory like a sword for sixteen hours
without moving
and finally see universe
is a product
of mind

this is what they were doing
before they wrote the books and ordered the prayer wheels from
sears catalog
and jingle jangled their way into a theocracy on a cold saturday
morning

they were the dim sum masters
never ordered the same breakfast twice in the holy rivers of
energy
took apart the river and the energy
too
down to Nothing
sat in Void for
indeterminate length of no-time
stopping all creating
because they could
and then emerged
those few
magicians in the cold wasted hills and

and said WELL
if you folks want to elect a billion reincarnated hopalong
cassidys
as your head chief go ahead it doesn’t matter
we’re out here on the edge
inventing and destroying dimensions