Reverie

A Thought I Had About RFK Jr., At The End Of My Rope, In A Snowbank, In 2022

“Maybe," he said hesitantly, "maybe there is a beast." [...] "What I mean is, maybe it's only us.”
― William Golding, Lord of the Flies

I’m exhausted, as though I’ve swum the English channel. I got water on my phone so can’t answer it. Friends are calling me, and texting me.

A few hours ago: I was up in the loft area taking photos of Lewis’ incision for the vet, as I relented on the cone, after 5 days, and he tore out a few stitches. On the phone, my son said: “Good news. Looks like Bobby was confirmed.”

“Really?”

I went to my computer—posted the news.

Then I sat still on my sofa.

To my surprise, I began to cry.

I can’t express any feelings until I can locate some energy.

Where Is Everybody?

The bittersweet part is that most of my people are dead, and the ones who aren’t are permanently in sourpuss mode over the Virus-No Virus war that actually broke out in earnest in the mid 1990s, and began in 1993.

It has been the reason we can never be happy about anything, since then.

People need to begin to understand that ideologies, scientific “movements,” and even the most accurate positions within molecular biology can become—as a person can—possessed.

The curse:

We couldn't be happy. We were guilty by association. We had to condemn ourselves, ideally walk planks, off a cliff. Never have been born.

I can’t tell you how brutal and ugly it was. An unclean spirit got it-the portal was “science.” Everything was turned to a slum.

That’s what happened.

Peter Duesberg failed to acknowledge a set of papers, a scientific counter argument, 30 years ago and like in a Grimm’s fairy tale—a curse befell us.

The leaves on the trees turned black and fell off. There would be no recovering from this perceived sin of disagreement. There would be no having each other’s back, since then. All against all— betrayals, attacks, and vicious accusations of how the impurities of some had cost us the war.

These pogroms grew worse than the ones we got from our actual enemies. It happened as recently as one week ago, and I finally saw it for the evil it always was.

Somebody got thwarted, overlooked. And the nature of the curse was that it heard or heeded no compromise. Nobody was interested in meeting half way. Even though the difference was really, truly, fractional. (Doesn't matter what it was.)

The real war was on the ground—against every man, woman and child. Yet a scientific Sanhedrin lost sight of all that, and started a pogrom that lasts to this day, even against the dead.

They were not what the Spanish call buena gente.

The forest darkened, the trees shook, the wedding was called off, the women were barren, and the children cried until they lost their voices.

Idolatry.

Idolizing certain scientific positions, to the point of being perfectly willing to hurt and destroy people.

Accusation, bloomed itself out into a kind of new micro-religion, based on the sins and infractions of one Peter Duesberg—scapegoated from two directions.

What am I talking about? You may rightly ask.

I’m talking about the spirit of accusation. If I name names, even more forests will perish.

The curse landed then.

Nobody was good—not anymore, nor redemptive. Nobody was innocent. There was no kinship—after a point.

An ice cold front came in, with dark, hooded, cloaked as saviors of scientific accuracy. They made sure there would be no love, no solidarity, and no triumph.

People need to begin to understand that the Bible is correct.

Matthew 12:22-28

New King James Version

A House Divided Cannot Stand²² Then one was brought to Him who was demon-possessed, blind and mute; and He healed him, so that the ^[a]blind and mute man both spoke and saw. ²³ And all the multitudes were amazed and said, “Could this be the Son of David?”²⁴ Now when the Pharisees heard it they said, “This fellow does not cast out demons except by ^[b]Beelzebub, the ruler of the demons.”²⁵ But Jesus knew their thoughts, and said to them: “Every kingdom divided against itself is brought to desolation, and every city or house divided against itself will not stand. ²⁶ If Satan casts out Satan, he is divided against himself. How then will his kingdom stand? ²⁷ And if I cast out demons by Beelzebub, by whom do your sons cast them out? Therefore they shall be your judges.²⁸ But if I cast out demons by the Spirit of God, surely the kingdom of God has come upon you.

As I contemplate being happy about Bobby Kennedy’s triumph, I invite more of the same—mockery, disdain, misery, accusation.

But yes, (in my ghost heart,) I’m happy.

I’m supposed to say we’re still totally screwed, because he “believes in” viruses and “believes in” vaccines. I’ve tried to explain why there is reason to rejoice—here.

All I have are my most private thoughts, which never saw the light of day, because we’re never allowed to appreciate anybody who doesn't adhere to to the exacting party lines on molecular biology, drawn in the 90s and re-drawn after 2020.

But nevertheless, here they are:

The Phone Call, 13 Years After We Lost The War

My phone rang one morning, in 2021, as I awoke on a pile of pillows on the floor of my stepmother’s nursing home room. I had one cleaning job and no other income at the time. I was very lost.

It was Robert F. Kennedy Jr.

He said:

“Vera Sharav said if I want to understand AIDS I must talk to you.”

What a strange life, I thought, and tried to wake up fast, and tell him 36 years of history as succinctly as I could.

That first phone call, we spoke for maybe 50 minutes, and at no point did he make me feel stupid.

I remember the high quality of his listening.

He was kind, like a mentor or coach—he seemed to really get it, and really care.

He said not to worry, that for all I had been put through, I would soon be in a position to finally punch back, that things were changing.

And he offered me a job at The Defender. (Didn’t work out—I was not the editor’s cup of tea.)

Since that time, I collected several anecdotes of his surprisingly good manners, including the time he called me to explain that he could not write the foreword to my book but would write me a great blurb. This call came the same day as my email, which my publisher had asked me to dispatch, asking him to write the foreword.

“A blurb would be wonderful,” I told him. He also invited me to join a falcon excursion.

He could have had somebody email me, but instead he called me, himself.

As he did when he heard I was deathly ill in 2021 with mystery pains in my arms and extreme weight loss, and vomiting. He wanted to reassure me that the team would buy me time, to finish my chapters of The Real Anthony Fauci. And he wanted to know how I was.

He suspected I was the target of a directed energy weapon, possibly due to my participation on the book, and gave me the number of a woman who had also been targeted, and could help me.

Every time I’ve interacted with Robert F. Kennedy Jr. he’s been serious, well mannered, and considerate. In 2023, I told him Robert Crumb had lost his wife and he immediately wrote him a long letter of condolence, that spoke of grief and loss.

He treated me like a legit person. A historian, whose condemned findings were suddenly important. This was what we all believed would deliver us in 2000, when former South African President Thabo Mbeki took on the AIDS “debate.”

I remember going to my storage unit and loading my car with boxes of AIDS history documents toward the Fauci book, the mere sight of which filled me with anxiety.

Some of it got destroyed on my porch, but mostly I managed to dry what was damaged and photograph it.

Those boxes were full of real people, who gave their all, whose names are not known. Here are some of their names. You would have loved them.

It was Bobby who called to tell me Peter Duesberg had had a stroke, in 2021.

David Crowe died that year, Kary Mullis died in 2019, Roberto Giraldo died before Kary; John Lauritsen died in 2022 —it was very unsettling, though we were used to death.

Bobby was not remote, or full of airs, at all. Down to earth and laser focused. He knew what he was going to do, and why. I wound up being his historical consultant on AIDS chiefly because most everybody else who knew the history was dead.

He often called when I was driving, and asked a very exacting question, about AIDS history—the different petitions, who signed what, what got published where and when.

Always I was negotiating with the question of how all this was happening, or if it was happening, or if I was hallucinating.

On Jan 6, I was in DC, at the ill fated march, and looking at the reflector pool, where Ethel Kennedy was once famously photographed, in the 60s, when my phone rang. It was Bobby. It was the coldest day in memory, and moments before the planned chaos broke out. He had a question. I remember being nervous to tell him I was in DC, and wondering if I should even tell him. How ironic.

Reverie

I can hear my late friend Rob saying: “You wouldn’t interupt a woman in the middle of a reverie, would you?” And then I hear his laugh. He’d be alive today, and I’d call be able to call him, if he’d never booked Peter Duesberg on his network TV show, in 1992. I want to bring all these people back to life, but above all, I want to call them, tonight.

All we ever knew was a harrowing, howling cloud of rage that hunted us down, while we hung on to branches, certain the liberation was just around the corner. That and being flogged by scientific Stasi on “our side,” telling us what utter scientifically “atrocious”crap we were.

I was never of the impression I was writing about science.

I pleaded, in the face of these ruthless attacks, that my subject was the tyranny, the un-freedom, the abuse—the (USAID funded) murders. I never said I was a sharp tack on the “science,” mastered by our very own Antifa.

People ask me if I would do it over again, if I knew the cost.

No!

The enemy, I could handle, but our side? No way. One couldn't even leap into Lake Superior and explain that one didn’t know if HIV existed, one could never escape the debt, the accusation. One could never be let out, even if one did agree to one’s utter erasure and failure. One envied the dead, when they died.

It was a diabolical possession that overtook us, never recognized as such. I know who stitched it together, he goes by many names, including Beelzebub.

Learn to feel the spirit behind anything anybody argues or states. Is it warm or cold? is the holy spirit present? Is good will present, or ill will and spite? Destructive or constructive?

Valentine’s Day, 2022, I was at my stepmother’s nursing home in Torrington, CT, with a bag of gifts from CVS. It was dark, with a few feet of snow on the ground, and howling wind.

Peak Covid misery.

I couldn’t go in, but we could have a “window visit,” and I trudged around looking for Sara’s window. I was plowing through the snow banks, had clearly made a wrong turn, had no idea which was her window, her room, and masked nurses were looking at me from the windows, scowling. Everybody’s always mad in Connecticut.

One of them opened a window and told me scoldingly I was in the wrong place. Then I heard my stepmother hollering at one of them, calling out to me. Then another nurse said my gifts were not permitted. The whole scene was so bleak, I finally stopped in the snow, and just stood there. A reverie came to me in that snow bank, as I disassociated, and stopped struggling with the bags, the snow, the angry nurses, the windows, the rules.

It was short, but clear and vivid. It was like a painting, in which the object was coming into focus, however briefly. I stood stock still, with snow up over my knees, and a great fatigue overtook me. It seems, thinking back, as though a voice spoke to me. Maybe it was my own voice.

It was just one line:

”He stood with the despised.”

I’ll repeat it:

“He stood with the despised.”

And he stayed with them. He didn’t walk away, when they started taking his stuff from him—money, reputation, family—

Tears came into my eyes, and an engulfing feeling of loneliness. How would I ever convey this, what I felt it meant, as I understood it then, in that snow drift?

“That’s hard,” I silently said to the voice. “Do you know how hard that is? That’s why hardly anybody does it.”

As long as I have been in this grisly war (since 1987) this was always the thing that broke down first—nobody wanted to be identified with the despised. They fled, and made excuses. They turned on us, and blamed us for shadows cast on their careers just for having known us. (AIDS denialists.)

There is a vast, vast army around Robert F. Kennedy Jr. and I don’t think a day goes by when he forgets it, forgets them, even now. I don’t care what anybody says. This is my belief.

The victims, the fallen, the autistic, the sick, and their shell shocked parents, battling to be heard and seen— an army of living proof. Stark, painful human living evidence of this immeasurable crime against humanity.

He is their voice.

In that moment, I wasn’t thinking of anything except this one fact, that he stood with the despised, and stayed put.

That’s how I painted him in my mind, in that snow bank, leaving everything else out of the picture.

It was more than enough, for me, but not nearly enough, for many. And for these people, nothing will ever be enough.

Last week I got an audio message from Reiner Fuellmich, for Bobby, and sent it to him. He wrote back: “Give him my love.”

You can listen to it here. (Password is “Humanity.”)

Due to my damaged phone, I can’t call anybody.

So I’m just here alone, sitting quietly, feeling an overwhelming wish to get the dense history out of my mind. There is no arriving, no returning.

I don’t drink anymore but maybe I’ll go out and order myself a glass of Prosecco.

And raise my glass to Bobby Kennedy, and all the good hearted fighters, alive and dead, whose day this is.

Clip here.

Soon enough, the crowds of nay sayers (from our side) will arrive like bailiffs , to take it away from them. They won’t even acknowledge what it is they are taking, or from whom.

We are the people who can’t have anything, but tonight we have something very unexpected and precious: Nobody will say it, but we’re vindicated, and the murders will not be denied forever. Bobby’s position means the murderers are now seen and recognized as such.

But there’s a problem deeper than all these murders. We lack fidelity—that which we need and crave most. To be able to call something your family, or “home.”

I learned—as early as age 3—that nothing is as dangerous as being found with love in your heart.