The joy of death
Coming to terms with weaponised mortality (in a very personal way)
That sex and death have a long cultural association is not news, and the title of this essay is a rather crude pun on the classic 1970s guide to getting backache. As a truth warrior, I like to be as transparent as I can about my own life and experiences. A few years ago I was diagnosed as HIV positive, and haven’t felt a need to say much about it since; healthcare is a private matter by default, just like our erotic lives are.
The impending uproar at the Covid bioweapon jabs and vaccine-induced AIDS makes it timely to share my observations of having a HIV diagnosis. My best understanding is that HIV is also a bioweapon from Dr Fauci and friends, although I cannot prove it at this point. It was also distributed via vaccines (smallpox in Africa and Hepatitis in USA) as part of a depopulation agenda. As a quick aside there is some context that involves someone else, and to respect that person’s privacy I have to omit a little of my own story.
I work hard and I play hard: as an “achiever-maximiser” personality I don’t do anything in small measures. While I am now enjoying a very peaceful time in the north of England, for most of the last 15 years I have been an active participant in the London “gay scene”. I am not a virgin — for that matter, not even a born-again virgin, at any level of iteration. Close physical encounters with others bring risk, and sometimes unwelcome pathogens. I have no regrets, but have had to learn some limits and improve my self-care over time.
In the summer of 2019 I became very ill on a camping trip with friends and family. I could hardly move from the tent and car, and it was all I could do to make it there and back from home. Most of the next week was spent in bed. I didn’t realise it at the time, but this was my HIV seroconversion illness. A few weeks later I went for a routine STD checkup, and the little test kit showed up with two dots. They rushed me over the road for a blood test, and that confirmed the diagnosis.
It was neither a great surprise nor a profound shock, although it clearly was a major life event. I have many friends who are HIV+ and on medication, some for decades. It can have some negative medical consequences, but for the most part it is a minor routine of daily pill swallowing combined with the occasional health check-up. The effect on longevity is, I am told, negligible at this point. It was more or less a case of shrugging my shoulders and moving on.
The main immediate effect on my life was to make a commitment to live more healthily. I got myself a food processor to chop up fresh veg and turn fruit into smoothies. I upped my game at breakfast, going from a basic pre-packed muesli to a custom superfood blend with fresh fruit (which I just ate this morning). As I now had to take pills as a daily routine, I consulted with a friend who is a nutrition expert, and added in all the recommended supplements (which are not cheap!).
I have spent quite a lot of time reflecting on the 1980s experience of HIV and AIDS, and its later impact on my life. The government at the time used it “full force” to (falsely) promote AIDS as a lethal risk to the whole population, and for a while turned gay males into modern lepers who were untouchable. In my juvenile mind there were no good role models of upstanding homosexual men, and all I saw were camp stereotypes on television. Same-sex intimacy was tarnished with a deadly curse. Detailing the consequences in my life would be another whole essay.
In the early 1990s I became aware of the controversy about the truth of the link of HIV with AIDS, but I dismissed it as a fringe concern. AIDS was inextricably linked to a painful and nasty end in life. Even when drug treatment arrived, it was dangerous and unpleasant. An HIV diagnosis wasn’t just a death sentence; it was also an expulsion from the sexual melee of the ordinary adult world. Will anyone ever want to hold, hug, and make love to me — once I am in a toxic body? It took someone of Princess Diana’s stature to break the taboo on even basic social touch for AIDS victims.
I warped my life in unhealthy ways in an attempt to fit myself into a respectable, safe, acceptable, ordinary, heterosexual relationship. It was a failure, for many reasons. To this day I wonder how much I was brainwashed into associating physical closeness to another human with death, and being a bit counter-dependent ended up not caring about the death bit — and doing rather a lot of physical closeness. This is not an essay about morality, and I am not justifying my actions, nor inviting judgement. Take it as plain reportage.
I have been open with friends, family, and colleagues on the matter of my HIV status. I haven’t discussed it with my elderly parents as it is unkind: they are very stuck in their ways and have little knowledge of the harder struggles I have faced in life. One of the funniest things is — as an attractive male — being chased (and not chaste) down by female admirers online. It’s not a boast, but a fact; I’ve even got one pestilent lady stalker. It can be quite disconcerting feeling “hunted” by those with no knowledge of my sexual history or health challenges.
While it may be amusing to tell my own tales to a large audience, there is a purpose beyond practising my essay writing skills in a pitiful self-promotion effort. The bridge into Covid (and coping with being a victim of pharma genocide) is my brief involvement with The Food Chain in London in early 2020. Right before the “pandemic” (lie) hit us, and lockdowns began, I had a few meals at a charity for HIV+ people on low income, and got to see the diversity of people living with the condition.
If I hadn’t told you those there were all HIV+, and fibbed that it was a team building offsite for primary school teachers using cookery as a shared activity, you would probably have bought my explanation. It’s not an “LGBTQXYZ+” thing, but an “H” one: our shared humanity is what matters. I have been through many humbling experiences, and this was one of them. Being fed in an HIV charity for the poor in London was a long way from “high table” at my Oxford college, yet both are part of my life story.
The first lockdown was the end of all my encounters with support groups, as well as terminal for my intentions to take up new social activities and reform the dysfunctional parts of my life that led me to get HIV in the first place. Those who were awake and aware knew that something dreadful and tyrannical was unfolding, but the details of the genetic genocide and nanotech nightmare had yet to present themselves. Nonetheless, the HIV diagnosis experience I had up to that point is something I cherish, as it puts me on a more equal footing as the horrific truth comes out.
One of my own HIV experiences is being advised by a medic to take (pointless or lethal) pneumonia, flu, and Covid vaccines; begin (useless and risky) statins for raised cholesterol; and who had never heard of quercetin despite being a specialist in the immune system. I have come to realise that even the most experienced medics in London’s top public GUM clinic have only a limited mechanistic understanding of the body, nearly no understanding of actual health and nutrition (only symptoms of sickness), and a negligible awareness of the power structures in play around their own discipline.
The deeply unpleasant reality is that the pharmaceutical industry is part of a system of well-hidden enslavement. Vaccines generate income for the pill pushers, who then profit tenfold dealing with the endless chronic injuries and illnesses due to damage to the immune system. Diseases like cancer are actively promoted via allied industries owned by the same supermafia (like processed food, chemical-laden body lotions plus sunscreen, and toxic cleaning products). Cures like ivermectin, hydroxychloroquine, and fenbendazole are ruthlessly suppressed in favour of barbaric and profitable “cut, burn, poison” interventions.
There are credible allegations that AIDS is an umbrella term for a collection of immune system failure modes, and the HIV/AIDS hypothesis is unproven. All I know is that there is strong circumstantial evidence that I have been — and excuse the language — “fucked by Fauci” (too) with a bioweapon. Just that when you are screwed by this hooker for harm, it is death, not sex, that he deals in. For now I keep taking my prescribed pills, as I don’t have the energy to fully research the subject, and I am hoping the truth (and any cures) are on offer sooner rather than later. Given the fraud on Covid tests, I have no idea if I really even suffer from any medical condition.
Sadly, the Covid “vaccine” injections seem to contain a long list of horrible ingredients: graphene shards to lacerate your arteries, mRNA code to reprogram your body to make toxic spike proteins that you shed on others and cause clots, lipid nanoparticles that encapsulate other deadly pathogens to be burst open on demand, antibodies that induce a hyper response to Covid (i.e. VAIDS), reverse transcription to turn on and off key genes that may cause damage to your frontal lobes and sever your conscience and spiritual connection, prion disease precursors, self-assembling nanotech for external identification and control, sterilising chemicals, and who knows what else. It’s the worst horror movie ever, turned from fiction into fact.
If you are reading this as someone who was tricked into getting “the jab”, and are in shock and upset from what you have now learned, then I can offer some small consolations as someone who has already walked a little of this path. I was programmed with fear in the 1980s; you in the 2020s; we both made poor choices as a result. Even as a notorious commentator who (I assert) saw it coming and has been lauded for my work, I am no better than you: I got “done” too by the pharma conmen, and with something that is potentially just as deadly. It was my own risky behaviour that led to it, so I own it.
At one level, nothing has changed in your (or my) life: you are still alive as you read this, it is a lovely world we live in, and some day you will leave your body behind in it — as the worms need feeding too. The job of living each day to the full, being grateful for what we have, and leaving a better place for those who come after us… none of this has altered. You have the same choice as you had every morning when you got up: take ownership of your life and spiral upwards, or become a helpless victim of circumstance and spiral downwards.
A colleague once was diagnosed with brain cancer late in the work week, and was dead by the next Monday. Just the shock of the diagnosis can kill, so be gentle on yourself. Whether you took the jab out of fear for your own safety, or love for your fellow man, it doesn’t matter now — just like how getting HIV could be from a wild drugged-up orgy through to a contaminated blood product. Whatever the cause, we’re all in “the food chain” together, and the junkie hookers and humbled bankers are on the same footing. (Although the bankers may be more likely to be coked-up junkies, and the hookers prone to humility.)
If you want to get through this difficult rite of passage in life with the least distress, then you have to master skills of letting go of what cannot be changed (and not indulging in self-reproach or what-if scenarios); self-compassion so you accept and forgive yourself for your real failure, while not absolving yourself of hurts to others that need resolution; and rejection of those who would take a “one up” position, as they have not walked an inch in your shoes. Yes, you “fucked around and found out”, but it’s done now. Me too. Let go.
What very few knew (until now) is that my photo art is partly a reaction to my HIV diagnosis experience, and having to come to terms with having a mortal condition. I use creativity to process my feelings, and to leave behind something of beauty and worth. Being diagnosed HIV+ was the beginning of a different journey, and I aim to celebrate the force of life as much as possible with each piece I make. The essay title — “joy of death” — is really a reference to how I have “flipped the script” on having my own immune system damaged, and having to face a possibly early end.
I am a free and loving human, and I now reject all restrictive labels, including “gay” or “straight”. I am not defined by my own past, and I am not delineated by my membership of any class or collective. You may have been “jabbed” as an activity, but you are not “jabbed” as an identity. I am “diagnosed HIV+” (a historical fact) but am not really “an HIV+ person” (an identity that may have no biological reality). Labels are just a source of division and disunity, so avoid them, especially derogatory ones.
It may be a surprise and a shock to find yourself in the company of people you previously looked down upon — the reckless injectors — but as Oscar Wilde noted, the view from the gutter of the stars one one of the best. It is only by confronting the inevitability of death that we can paradoxically fully experience the joy of life.
We had to fall so that we could learn to stand up again, change direction, and walk away from how we were living before.
Me — and you, too.
Future of Communications is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.