I'm Taking A Short Break

Until I start CIRS treatment and find housing

I’m sorry to sound like a robot but:

“Due to the need to address my health in a way that will temporarily preclude me staying on top of all the wild news, I’m taking a hiatus.”

I’m not going to say too much, as I normally do.

I’m seeing the right medical CIRS experts, test results pending, treatments to commence soon. I am reading all the generous letters offering help and trying to do the right thing, but not too many things.

Meanwhile, I am back at the scene of the crime, temporarily. (NYC)

This morning I opened a plastic bin with top firmly latched that had water inside it and oozed black mold. Yes, I took photos, yes I called my super, I have been trying to get the management to deal with it for years, to no avail.

Lewis was in this particular closet since we got here.

He seems really lethargic and I am immobilized, and what Swedes call “helt knäckt.”

I realize now that mold has actual mental and emotional hijacking powers that occur the very instant you are in its presence. At the same time, it disables your executive function and makes fleeing difficult. Sort of like an abusive relationship.

On another note:

The Malone/Breggins war, and just as much, the "No Virus” war (because of the spiritual infection of mockery and hate) have, between them, caused me to feel uncertain how to proceed as a writer in this landscape. It feels like it’s all become a sterile, field, of, to quote my friend Mickey Z: '“…the narcissism of small differences.”

I posted on both sides, yet received angry mail, people were “disappointed” or worse… which made me want to write even angrier mail in return.

I don’t know what to say anymore.

For the record: I do not object to a critique of Robert Malone such as the poised and well documented one Diana West wrote in 2021, which I re-published—but all the wild bashing and demands of fidelity to either side are clear symptoms of Movement Death.

I have to figure out how to maintain voice and value, amidst all this fracturing.

In the apartment, I found files of letters my assailed father wrote in 1972 typed on thin paper, peak divorce hell, and these feelings found their root.

You can cry but nobody will care.

The war must be fed. Those who feel themselves in the right will tear arms off the children if they have to. And then the familiar feeling of something being too far gone, or betrayed. Tarkovsky’s burning house. What did he say about it, again?

Here’s all I have memorized from Louise Glück:

“In childhood, I thought that pain meant—

I was not loved.

It meant I loved.”

—Louise Glück