I remember feeling: my heart is a vial of poison in a glass case of such agonising complexity it pushes aside all the ribs around it. The fluid is purple; it is at odds with blood as it is add odds with my diet, my exercise routine, how I should be feeling. It was obviously put there. It is sclerotic and withering, like the liberal weltanschauung, and gradually cracking and spilling out of its case, would quickly convert most of my vital organs into itself, just as sulfuric acid spilled onto a man’s face can be said to kiss him away into its own ecstasy. I woke up this morning after a dream of Mussolini levitating horizontally through a woodland. When my girlfriend patted me on the shoulder, celestially somehow, I was pretty sure the glass case had shattered. After I stood up, I was completely certain.
I went to the bathroom and looked up the standard I would have to meet in order to justify an ambulance call. Consistent chest pain of increasing severity was the answer, and that’s what I had. Initially, we assumed it might be a form of neuralgia, and yet the pain was visibly too much for that: I couldn’t put on a shirt, let alone do the stretch recommended to ease neuralgic pain. And so we called the paramedics, I somewhat begrudgingly. My upper lip was tense. I sat looking through the window as X went knocking on all the doors in her corridor for aspirin; I was strongly advised to take some by the voice on the phone and she, in case I collapsed, didn’t want to run all the way across the street to buy the medicine at Sainsbury’s. In truth, I didn’t think my situation would come to something that bad, yet, looking back, it may well have if I didn’t get the painkillers I required. Despite the corridors being inhabited, nobody answered her. I imagine this is how lonely old people die when they’re out of medication. Yet as I waited for X, I was instead considering the fact that Café Astrology had been proven right again for its prediction for me that day.
Today's problematic Neptune transits suggest some tendency for confusion, dear Pisces, and it can feel as if you're vaguely off track. The day is less than ideal for confident decision-making or for pushing a plan forward.
Indeed, it was less than ideal. When the medics came, they were two Celtic blokes. One with a fluffy little hobbit face, and the other with a pair of -I assume surgically crafted- enormous breasts. It was into these I couldn’t help myself staring as I thought not about my own however relative pain, but my brother’s. He had been diagnosed with pericarditis about this time last year, during a holiday, and when my mother arrived on the scene his doctor advised him against receiving any more vaccines. Given that this subject has ceased to be as taboo as it once was during the heyday of vaccination that was 2020, with publications as “conspiratorial” as the Telegraph confirming the spiralling Covid vaccine-related injuries and potentially related excess deaths, I am willing to wager a connection between what happened to my sibling and what is still happening to me. Especially since my body has, as it were, thrown itself into this matter without my permission, it is increasingly impossible for me to prevent whatever bits of soul or mind I call my own from also being dragged through the same hole. Here we go.
Dangerous lab-grown problems generate dangerous lab-grown solutions. Only a few months into the first Lockdown the Chinese Heideggerian Yuk Hui wrote about patient zero, the magical bat supposedly found in a Chinese bush market’s extra special bat soup, flying around the world and laughing as enormous tangling wires unravelled over the steel orb before it —previously the earth. In Systems Theory they say the purpose of the system is what it does. In which case, the purpose of this system wasn’t to enable the bat to laugh at us, anthro apocalypse comedian that he was, but to effectively constitute a global palliative society. As was obvious to many during even the earliest days, what Lockdown accomplished was the absolute rule of the detestable goody-two-shoes types that simply enjoy tattling on their classmates for having more entertaining social lives than themselves. It established a bureaucracy of the miserable and obedient at the cost of the face-to-face play of the young and free. Infants were denied the touch they require to develop a sense of self-confidence within the tribe as pseudo-autism (or anti-socialisation) was instantiated possibly to a greater extent than it would have been if the MMR vaccine simply caused autism like Dr. Andrew Wakefield used to say. Since the purpose of Lockdown thus established was the sacrifice of the youth for the aged, is it any wonder why young people were panicked into getting an experimental vaccine for the benefit of their grandparents? We are living through a perverse alternate version of the Inuit practice of exposing their elders on a sheet of ice, leaving them out to drift off down the river, never to be seen again. Only this time it is the tribal elders —Sleepy Joe Biden and his whole cabinet of Krillitanes being only the the most demonstrable examples— whistling the young down the wind to prey at fortune. Rishi Sunak’s recent proposal to force teenagers as young as 16 to do national service has received support from Boomers for the same reasons.
It was the demonic old I thought of when I had my cannula put in. X sat by me as the nurse joked that it’s men that usually throw a fit when the incision is made and I remember saying, “Hell yeah, gore challenge!” or something to that effect. Soon enough I was rigged up to a heart monitor and a juicy cocktail of morphine was splashing down in my tummy. It was very sweet. I recalled the time when I was in a hospital in Dublin four years before for spraining both of my arms at a club the night before, and just the state of the old people about me. A woman with a shredded leg in her late sixties who had obviously been in a car crash, a crazy old Hispanic guy who was just yelling, “BANG.” at the staff until the police were called in, and just your common or garden screaming geriatrics. Wyndham Lewis portrays Punishment Hospital B as the lowest kind of Hell in modernity in his novel Malign Fiesta. Paolo and Francesca are sewn together above a grate blowing air until their passion and libido is spent. At the bottom, a kind of hybrid of Oswald Mosley and Mohammed finds himself cut up from the genitals upward whilst the enormous egg-headed mannequin of Ezra Pound leers in the background of a beach scene with all the different flags of the world —the Star-Spangled Banner and the Five Star Red facing off against each other— fighting it out in his guts. As soon as this stuff came to mind, it was really hard to dismiss. Certain realities manifest themselves as soon as they’re mentioned. Speak of the devil and he shall appear. An old lady started screaming like a monkey in the box next door to mine. She was demented, being force fed. X thought it was a little child crying.
As I sat back, I said to myself quite loudly in my head: “I’m not dying here.” I felt a little different when I was pulled into the X-Ray room and found that I couldn’t get up. I sung to myself a little song, “Come on body. Come on, arsehole.” And initially that worked, although when I had to sit myself down again, lean back against the coiled mattress, it really didn’t. You just have to sit in the pain and accept that you’re a bit fucked. In his essay On Pain, Ernst Jünger parodies a phrase about food from the French Gastronome Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin: “Tell me what kind of pain you have, and I’ll tell you who you are.” I think I knew who I was when I blew my nose into a rag and looked down to see a molten clown nose. When you’re in your own shirt and shoes it’s good enough to assume that you’re there, at the end of life location wise, but fine other than that: a visitor. Yet when they put the overall around your neck, it’s suddenly different. You’ve got the uniform. You’ve taken the inoculation that makes you part of this particular club. I didn’t know I was going to be discharged that day —though I’ll meet the cardiologist back home this Thursday— and so I began to make the subtle preparations of a new routine.
It was exactly how I felt when my old friend Alexander failed to arrive at my dining society back in 2020. He had messaged the group chat and told us he knew something was coming, that life would not be the same. I had watched some YouTube videos detailing the real and imaginary horrors of the Virus, how dogs could get it (they can’t), how the insides of badly constructed temporary Chinese hospitals looked (they sucked). It was as if each of these viral videos was quietly spreading through the streets with spores of their own as we simply sat and ate. This was the New Normal. This was a little character looking down at a blue chair that was uninhabited as his associates drifted far and away into the sea and sky. It was suddenly quiet.
Things have moved rather rapidly since we first heard the rhetoric of 'The Pandemic of the Unvaccinated' from Biden and watched happy needles dance across the screen with Stephen Colbert. AstraZeneca has admitted that its legendary vaccine, partnered with the University of Oxford, has caused deaths and brain haemorrhages ; Gov.UK notes that as 'of 23 November 2022, there have been 851 reports of myocarditis and 579 reports of pericarditis following the use of the Pfizer/BioNTech vaccine.' Yet my standard is the standard of the Darwinist Charles Murray: that is, it is as important for the chart to line up with what you can see with your own eyes as it is to sometimes adjust your vision to the illusive metric of graphs. If it was only 851 and 579, would it have not only arrived at my brother and I, but also the 23 year old son of the doctor that saw me —one of many medical professionals to be discounted who "had to say, there are an awful lot of young people coming in with heart problems these days”? But perhaps these things should be shut away in the black box of our media-academic system, the same media-academic system that astroturfed and humiliated everyone who considered that this Bat-Soup Virus might have been lab-grown, and then eventually up and acknowledged it through notable Regime mouthpiece The New York Times -a paper distinguished from all others in the American Empire due to its rare access to government leaks, which at least Curtis Yarvin considers makes it not only an extension of the US Government, but its de facto Ministry of Truth. Well, too little too late. Your hubris has left a hole in my chest, although I'm not heartbroken.
Having met some of these esteemed or soon-to-be esteemed Oxford medics (some of my audience are Oxford students), does any of this really surprise you? The people who study medicine are both figuratively and literally in bed with the lunatics that believe mutilating the penis of an 11 year old boy is sound public policy. Would you trust the Witch-Doctor next to the outstanding gentleman in the bleeding Quetzalcoatl helmet? Still this is too harsh on the Aztecs, who at least performed their rituals with an eye to the gods. My fundamental point is there is no real separation between the values of the Oxford Humanities subjects, which are based on a crudely suicidal rendition of 1960s American social hysteria, and the animating impulses of STEM. No matter how much such scientistic people like to imagine themselves separate and above English students with no hope of a future career, they generally lack the creativity to see that a great part of their social, political and, yes, medical concerns were invented by those understood to be beneath them. So, who watches the watchmen? Who nurtures the STEM students like Venus Fly-traps? Well, people like me.
Until next time.