This Is Not a Vacuum

In 1984, in Winchester, Massachusetts, there was a terrific biology teacher named Jerome Burdulis. Mr. Burdulis not only taught me to wonder at phagocytosis. He imprinted upon my 14-year-old consciousness a phrase 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 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 “strawberry” or “not-strawberry” (0 or 1)—see my next post,

To put it another way:

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

And what is the speed at which pure-nothing becomes pure-everything? The speed of light.

But the same speed, the same radius drawn perpendicular to two sphere-membranes, can be expressed in two different ways, “forward” or “backward” in time. The speed of light is a round-trip measurement; there are two radii (radiuses) in E=mc^2.

If pure-nothing is the null point at the center of the sphere, the speed of light is the rate at which it becomes the sphere.

If pure-everything is the surface area of the sphere, the speed of light is the rate at which it collapses to pure-nothing.

The same speed operates in opposite directions.

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

The same radius can be seen in different ways: as connecting the point at the center of a circle with the circle—or as connecting two spheres (two domes). The speed of light is seen in the pi ratio.


As of April 7th, 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 speed of light minus c. I am saying: Point of density that exists inside light, that has been drawn back behind light, the way we draw back a sling. When c is achieved, light has no more speed. When c is surpassed, light has reverse speed.

If my father has speed, if my father is moving forward in time, toward 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 a symptom, not the root cause. They are “too much moon.” They are precipitating out of solution.

Time is the membrane between light that has speed, and light that has reverse speed. Self and world share a lens: speed of light zero. If I am, in effect, exploding (too much intracellular sodium i.e. dark energy), I force the world to implode. If I am imploding (too much extracellular potassium i.e. dark matter), I force the world to explode. Both of these states are problematic in and of themselves, but there’s an additional problem: I cannot distinguish between them. When self explodes (when the observer is beneath the speed of light lens), the world implodes. When self implodes (when the observer is above the speed of light lens), the world explodes. 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, and so I can’t easily fix it.

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

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


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