Which VAX is safe?

When the Pfizer and Moderna vaccines were first offered for vax agin Covid, this old man declined, protesting that “my DNA has been in our family for a long time...”

Suggesting my fear that the mRNA product just MIGHT screw up my jeans.  Uh, genes.  Whatever.

I endured the ongoing rebuke of the experts. They proclaimed that such incursion was impossible  —  providing an intimidating detailed explanation of the mechanism by which the mRNA vaccine is utilized in our tender bodies.

This presentation was intended to reassure, and to denigrate doubters like me.

I persisted —  waiting until the J&J vaccine was introduced.  Only THEN did this old man submit to the needle.  Frequent ongoing statements by EXPERTS continued to attempt to convey that the mRNA vax was safe —  and that the J&J was inferior.

 Now comes this:

Findings conflict with CDC’s claim that vaccine never enters nucleus

WND News Center

Contrary to the CDC’s claim that the mRNA COVID-19 vaccines do not “change or interact with your DNA in any way,” a new Swedish study finds Pfizer’s shot goes into liver cells and converts to DNA. It’s the first time that researchers have shown in vitro – or inside a petri dish – how an mRNA vaccine is converted into DNA on a human liver cell line, It’s precisely what health experts and fact-checkers said for more than a year could not occur. Dr. Peter McCullough, an internist, cardiologist and epidemiologist who is one of the leading critics of the COVID vaccines, said the findings have “enormous implications of permanent chromosomal change” that could drive a “whole new genre of chronic disease.”

This is a single excerpt from one of the many such articles.  A search on  

“New study from Sweden suggests, Pfizer mRNA does indeed integrate into our DNA”

will return a plethora of similar articles. Followed by indignant protestations and refutations.  My perception is that there may be some attempts to persuade us by gross distortion and outright lies. I don't know who to trust.  Do You???

On the Head of a Pin

I awake. . .

It is two o'clock in the afternoon of Tuesday, March the eighth of the year of Our Lord two thousand and twenty two.

Which may be, in the final analysis, a meaningless assignment of precise designation of specificity for the moment in an endless and infinite stream of moments.

As my emerging consciousness grasps the reality of my circumstance I find that the YouTube video that I was viewing when I fell asleep at dawn has yielded to a successor, in which learned scholars debate the relative worth of the prognostications of a long gone scientist named Darwin in comparison and contrast to a cultist belief that the current state of biological development is surely the result of the decisions and desires of an intellectual entity with absolute, infinite and purposeful intent.

After a lengthy and somewhat circular discussion around the search for a “Prime Mover” with a side topic regarding the incomprehensible nature of the force we call Gravity the speaker opened the floor to questions from the audience.

A gentleman whose faded hair proved his aged state rambled about philosophers named Aristotle and Socrates, then dismissed them as irrelevant. He then plucked a pin from his tunic —  and regarded it as significant to the discussion at hand. He wondered aloud whether it had been crafted by hand in the plodding efforts of an individual who made them one at a time, or if it was the product of a mechanized facility which produced them by the thousands — and then suspiciously speculated that the source might have been in a far off land, across the seas, where a strange language deified communications with present company … then held he it high and regarded its head.

“I wonder how many angels ...”

A minion of the presenters of the lecture snatched the microphone from the old man, and restored order to the proceedings.

Yet his point had been made . . .  for in the end, what was the benefit of the verbose investigation into the reality of being, when outside in the real world there were those lacking shelter, in need of medical care, and in some cases hungry for their daily bread?

There arises an awareness of priorities and importance.

Are we losing focus?

Wears WHAT ?

"Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy; But not expressed in fancy - rich, not gaudy. For the apparel oft proclaims the man."

William Shakespeare, 'Hamlet,' Act I, Scene iii 

So, tell me — what, then, proclaims the dress of one who wears blue jeans and a suit coat ? ?

Hygge

 Fear of the Covid Pandemic compels isolation. Hygge renders isolation tolerable.

I survive in my cozy nook by meditating and relaxing. In my hygge.

“ … hygge is about chocolate, it is about alcohol, it is about sinful pleasures ... a quality of coziness and comfortable conviviality that engenders a feeling of contentment or well being.” 

 In my apartment I have created for myself an atmosphere of hygge. I work at making my abode pleasingly comfortable.

Admittedly my attention to housekeeping lags … but I manage. My physical limitations have reduced my efforts … but I still vacuum regularly. Twice a year. In the Fall I vacuum the open areas — but in the Spring I move the furniture, to vacuum under everything.

My hygge nook is centered on my recliner, facing my TV (which provides both music, and visual diversion), with the requisite textile ambiance of quilts and pillows on my nearby bed.

I have a salt lamp — a gift from a dear friend, long gone. Its soft orange glow  provides a mood, an atmosphere, that is relaxing.

Beside me is my morning cuppa, a tradition of mine for many years. It usually is coffee with cream — frequently augmented with either chocolate syrup, or a shot of vodka. Or both. On random occasions I”ll have a cup of Earl Grey. Sans sugar or other contaminants.

The aroma of my slow cooker, working all morning to create for me the pot roast that will feed me for several days, evokes memories of life in my parents' home, and Mom's cooking. Nostalgia is an essential component of my hygge. Therefore the photos on the walls, and the mementoes scattered about.

I have my books. Many that I have read, and re-read. And a whole row of new books waiting to be read — when I get around to getting new glasses.

Music completes the scene. I am grateful for YouTube. It augments my personal collection of music, providing such otherwise inaccessible selections as Vivaldi's Oboe concerti that are now back-grounding my morning.

The weather outside is cold and miserable — but beautiful. Every day is beautiful, because it begins in and flows from my hygge and into the totality of my existence.

I am content.