This Is Not a Vacuum

In 1984, at my public high school in Winchester, Massachusetts, there was a world-class biology teacher named Jerome Burdulis. Mr. Burdulis not only taught me to wonder at phagocytosis. He imprinted upon my 14-year-old consciousness a jingle that has stayed with me through the years: Don’t assume. When you assume, you make an ass out of u and me.

Have we made an assumption in our foundational calculations about the world that could be incorrect?

What is a vacuum? Pure nothing. Pure nothing, according to whom? When we call this a vacuum, do we assign a value to the observer making this claim?

Here’s an idea. This is not a vacuum. This is either (to make an analogy) “strawberry” or “not-strawberry” (0 or 1).

To put it another way:

Vacuum, not-vacuum.
Pure-nothing, pure-everything.
Null point, sphere.
Sphere, null point.

What is the speed at which pure-nothing becomes pure-everything? Perhaps it is the speed of light.

In these models, if pure-nothing is the null point at the center of the sphere, the speed of light is the rate at which it becomes (via expansion) the sphere. Once it is the sphere, the speed of light is the rate at which it becomes (via contraction) the null point.

The same speed can operate in opposite directions.

What if we are not inside a vast expanse of nothingness called space. We are inside a dome called the speed of light.

If we call the speed of light the 2D circle the point and the sphere share, the same speed can be expressed in two different ways: as connecting a point on the circle with the center of the circle (and back) (light’s speed is a round-trip measurement). Or as circumscribing the circle. Is the speed of light seen in the pi ratio?


As of April 7th, 2022, some people have been asking whether the standard model of physics may be broken.

I have two peer-review papers that look at the universe in a new way. They suggest that the background against which we make our calculations should not be that of a vacuum. It should be the speed of light. They are an extension of the idea that the material world we perceive with our senses is emerging from light, i.e. that this is a holographic universe.

The first, in Science & Philosophy, has already been published. “Holographic Universe: Implications for Cancer, Parkinson’s, ALS, Autism, ME/CFS” DOI:

The second, in The Journal of Social & Psychological Sciences, is forthcoming. “What We Call the Moon: Cognitive Science Meets Human Health.”

My friend, a classically trained physicist, could not wrap her head around what I am saying until I said it like this:

You are saying vacuum. I am saying: Point of density that exists inside light, that has been drawn back behind light, the way we draw back a sling.

If my father has speed, if my father is moving forward in time, approaching the speed of light, but some squamous cells at the base of his tongue have reverse speed—if they have eclipsed the speed of light and are effectively moving backward in time—then my father has cancer. My father’s light is moving forward in time, like the sun. The cells of his tongue are moving backward in time, like the moon. They are likely to be “melatonin deficient,” true. But I believe this melatonin deficiency is just a symptom. They are “too much moon.” Their light is precipitating out of solution.

What if time is the membrane between light that has speed and light that has reverse speed? Self and world share a lens: the speed of light. If I am, in effect, exploding (too much intracellular sodium or dark energy), the light of the world will implode. (ALS?) If I am imploding (too much extracellular potassium or dark matter), the light of the world will explode. (Parkinson’s?)

Both of these are problematic in and of themselves, but there’s an additional problem: I cannot distinguish between them. When self implodes (when the observer is beneath the speed of light lens), the world explodes. When self explodes (when the observer is above the speed of light lens), the world implodes. Either way, the impression is the same. When light seems too bright, sounds too loud, and fragrance—especially chemical fragrance—especially potent and toxic, is it because the world is exploding toward me or imploding toward me? I can’t tell, so I can’t fix it.

But, at least, after many years of sub-optimum health, it feels as if I am finally beginning to ask the right questions.

Mr. Burdulis—Jerome Burdulis, biology teacher extraordinaire—across the chasm of time, I thank you.


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