Germs Cause Disease. But What Causes Germs?

While I was researching the infectious vectors of Blastocystis Hominis, I came across some interesting statistics. According to Wikipedia, the pathogen exists in four different states, only one of which results in symptomatic illness. In some parts of the world, infection rates with the benign form of the pathogen are as high as 100%.

The mere existence of the phrase “infection rates of 100% with the benign form of the pathogen” should make us all scratch our heads in unison and say: Hm. Maybe we do not understand the true nature of infectious disease.

Perhaps pathogenesis is not about the pathogen, but about the terrain. The context.

When I was getting a puppy, I was told: “All puppies have worms at birth.” Puppies need to be de-wormed because puppies, without exception, have worms.

But … why? What’s the universal infectious vector—where and how is the pathogen introduced? Where is the germ?

Birth is a dirty business, during which human beings often defecate. But infection rates of 100%?

Or, how about this: When dogs have fleas, we are told that if if the dog ingests a flea, she will get worms.

Well, that’s rather curious. Don’t you think?

Louis Pasteur is a giant in the history of chemistry and microbiology. But perhaps Louis Pasteur (born 1822) is not the end of the conversation on infectious disease.

Pasteur had a contemporary named Antoine Béchamp, who championed a different view, one that looks more and more compelling as we sink deeper and deeper in an infectious disease spiral.

Germs cause disease. But what causes germs? Could it be that pathogenesis is the result of changes in the core metabolic rate accompanied by changes in the pH? If the universe is proved to be fundamentally all one thing—like an inflating and collapsing balloon—our understanding of “germs” and “enemies” may need to be revisited.

The holographic principle was proposed by Nobel laureate Gerard ’t Hooft in the 1990s. If this is a holographic universe, we need to look at more than the surface image, but at the forces behind that image. Perhaps embryogenesis involves light moving backward in time. And so does oncogenesis. And pathogenesis.

If you are pregnant, a pre-existing tumor is more likely to grow more quickly. If you are pregnant, and, according to this hypothesis, you are maintaining a time signature (a pH spread) that is extra wide, you are more likely to lose homeostatic control—the ability to regulate blood sugar (diabetes), or blood pressure (pre-eclampsia).

Perhaps puppies all have worms because they’ve been backward-moving in time, and at birth, some part of their microbiome is still moving backward; it takes a moment for everything to switch gears. This gear-shift may also help to explain why newborns need vitamin K1 at birth. According to this paradigm, vitamin K1 facilitates time’s forward movement; vitamin K2 facilitates time’s backward movement.

This could also explain why ingesting fleas will result in a dog that has worms. The variety of microbe is less important than the direction of time. Light that warps backward on the fur will warp backward in the gut.

To “warp backward” (night, moon, melatonin) is to speed up and become more alkaline. To “warp forward” (day, sun, dimethyltryptamine) is to slow down and become more acidic.

About a fifth of human cancers are caused by infectious agents, and the relationship between oncogenesis and pathogenesis has been studied extensively.

What if pathogenesis and oncogenesis often appear side-by-side because they both involve the backward movement of time? Infectious microbes pull energy in from the host and over-replicate; cancerous cells pull in energy from the host and over-divide.

What if a cancerous cell is just a normal cell that’s cycling light at yesterday’s speed? What if a pathogen is just a healthy microbe from the past?

When my friend’s mother was dying of leukemia, my friend panicked about exposing her to germs. As her mother grew more and more frail, my friend grew more and more reluctant to visit her—until the oncologist took her aside. Even if you were to seal an end-stage cancer patient in a plastic bag, he said, it wouldn’t work. At a certain point, they auto-infect.

Auto-infection is an interesting concept.

Terrain theory is the idea that infectious disease is less about the pathogen and more about the terrain. An analogy would be to treat a pathogen as an ice sculpture. What makes it pathogenic has less to do with its size and shape and more to do with the fact that it is made of ice instead of water. (But would ice look like water to an observer who was also ice?) It is not the image that matters so much as the nature of the image.

Is what we call light frank light? Or is it light’s derivatives? What might be the difference between frank light and light that is emergent—meaning light that is, to borrow Plato’s analogy, akin to a shadow against a tapestry?

How about this: If the rest of the world is made of water, in being made of ice, the pathogen now has spin. If the universe is holographic, the pathogen is not light qua light (light as light). It is light qua matter qua light (light as matter as light). Or light qua matter qua light qua matter qua light (light as matter as light as matter as light)—a “new variant” or new iteration of the same thing.

Aside from end-stage cancer patients (and end-stage AIDS patients), and their ability to “auto-infect” without being introduced to a pathogen, we have another set of data that provides interesting information about the fundamental nature of infectious disease, and points to the importance of terrain: the well-documented phenomenon of viruses re-activating during spaceflight. Astronauts experience time differently then we do. Could the reason their viruses are re-activating have something to do with time?

During spaceflight—during any kind of acceleration—the size of our Now increases. I am arguing that when time changes, light changes in tandem.

If the speed of time (the metabolic rate) eclipses the speed of light, this is a violation. Nothing can eclipse the speed of light. When the metabolic rate surpasses the brain’s understanding of the pH limit, the Krebs cycle spins in reverse.

When I am spinning right–>left and the basal cells in my shoulder are spinning left–>right, I have cancer. When I am spinning right–>left and the H. pylori in my gut are spinning left–>right, I have an H. pylori “infection,” and perhaps an ulcer. When I am spinning right–>left and the DNA in my womb is spinning left–>right, I am pregnant. But the infant will likely need some vitamin K1 at birth, to help her change directions.

When my Krebs cycle spins backward, I endogenously (internally) produce oxalate, a crystal found in plants capable of photosynthesis. Instead of using my energy cycle to make energy (light), I am using my energy cycle to make matter. I think I am making energy, but my understanding of light’s speed is incorrect. Every cell in our bodies is capable of this metabolic shift, known as the Warburg Effect.

Every cell in our body … and perhaps every microbe in our microbiome? Could infectious disease be a kind of microbial Coriolis Effect or Warburg Effect?

What if the Coriolis Effect and the Warburg Effect involve a similar principle? What if the Coriolis Effect, the Warburg Effect, and the Dzhanibekov Effect are all fundamentally the same thing?

The Dzhanibekov Effect, seen in the video below, is a phenomenon where the direction of spin changes vis-à-vis an observer. According to the model I am presenting, direction of spin is R->L above the speed of light (e.g. the equator), and L->R below the speed of light. But why should water change direction of spin, and not light? Moreover, and more importantly, in a holographic universe, isn’t water—like the rest of the images our eyes see—comprised of light?

Also in this video, you will witness with your own eyes the emergence of the centrifugal and centripetal forces. “Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain,” Derek Muller says (sorry, Derek). But what if Derek, and the rest of mainstream science, in assuming this is an inertial field, is all wrong? (Actual quote: “Normally I don’t like talking about centrifugal forces, because if you analyze things in inertial frames of reference, you never have to deal with them.”)

What if this is an inertial field only because there is net inertia—meaning the centrifugal and centripetal forces are present, but balanced?

At the speed of light, the two forces are in equilibrium. But slip too far forward in time, and the centripetal (collapsing) force becomes too high (ALS?). Or slip too far backward in time, and the centrifugal (exploding) force becomes too high (Parkinson’s?).

To put it another way: What if, in a holographic universe, the *proper* background is light. If the background is too cold, light has to be too fast. If the background is too hot, light has to be too slow.

Remove the incorrect assumption that this is a simple inertial field (as opposed to a net inertial field), remove the incorrect assumption that the behavior of small pixels and large pixels is the same (i.e. Weyl invariance, the idea that scale doesn’t matter), and suddenly we have a whole new playing field.

But perhaps Muller is partly correct. We “don’t have to deal with” the centrifugal and the centripetal forces because, ideally, in good health, they hold each other in check. Although they may comprise “hidden variables”—invisible because they cancel each other out—they could still influence our health.

Elsewhere in the Dzhanibekov film, Muller asks: “Is the earth actually going to flip over?” No. Because the earth is something our eyes see, an image our brains create. Is the perspective of the observer capable of flipping? Yes, and perhaps that flip is evinced in embryogenesis, oncogenesis, and pathogenesis.

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