Monday, February 04, 2008

A Live Wire Day

I didn't post yesterday, and am behind in detailing today's imposed chaos and other stunts. So this this will be brief and will skip the ususal style of providing background on the events.

On 02-03-2008 (yesterday), I was treated to two toilet overflows; the first flush backed up before anything solid had gone down, and then cleared itself on the next flush. Then one more flush, and it magically backed up again, over the top like the first time. These insane toilet and shit attacks go on all the time, but this had to be the worst, creating a 1/2" pond in the bathroom before I cleaned it up with towels.

A total mess, and another forced laundry event, all to deal with the perps' problems with the color brown and the trail of psychic wreckage they created when traumatizing me in my developmental years. Who could be that callous and stupid, and then turn around and fuck the victim 45 years later as to remediating the problem they created for themselves? Not only that, I am totally unaware of these traumatizations, and have long since recovered from them, and likely have recieved recall deleting irradiations and electroshocks in the process. (Which created more traumatizations). Not my problem, go fuck your own kind.

And it was the run up to a busy day helping at the carpet auction, the second Sunday in succession. This was in close to downtown, and didn't require the bus ride (and gangstalking) that went on last week. There were four of us selected for helping out at this carpet auction; one fellow from last week in his same army green fatigues with a mysterious in-fabric brown blotch on one leg, a negro, and a bald headed 55+ y.o. dude. The latter two belong to the freaks of the Unfavored demographic groups, so it was a method to plant these members in close and even have the odd "inadvertent" bump or skin contact arranged.

The carpet auction was the same sad-sack event as last weekend; very few bidders and a wholesale near giveaways. While hauling the carpets back and forth through the kitchen aisleway there were other Unfavored demographic groups members featured to loiter (aka gangstalk) as well; another skinhead, a fat woman, an Asian, a dude in kitchen whites, and a few others who generally hung about, timing their crossing the path just ahead or behind me. The auction was ended early, and I took the bus to my parent's place for dinner.

On the bus they put on a smaller freak show contingent, and the two Indians in turbans seemed to be the big deal, one in a light blue turban, the other in a yellow turban, the former also wearing the identical yellow in a jacket. This pair has been gangstalking before, and they got off at widely different locations than last time, this bus on its way to the suburbs.

My parents were up to their usual gangstalking behaviours, and my father's dementia act suffered another credibility blow when he hand delivered the teapot lid without me asking or mentioning it. Nor was I allowed to note that variance then, only sometime later. Normally, I notice nearly all discrepancies from their expectable behaviors, but not any more, (read, mind controlled attention and deletion of my knowledge).

The Superbowl isn't a big event for them, and nor for me; football is one of those "don't get it" sports, not unlike rugby; all that complexity, rules, and short term action. Instead, the usual Global News was on, and the volume was turned up for reasons that became apparent. The harassment rationale became clear when called to cut the roast while Kristy Gordon, the efferescent meteorologist and attractive blonde was delivering the TV weather forcast. This is the second recent incident where I was treated to a background of a blonde woman nattering away while my attention was directed to matters close at hand. And it should be noted that the perps nearly always have my gangstalking parents in close around me when I am cutting the roast; this activity of intense fascination to them for whatever reason. One could impute that the background blonde's nattering patter served the perps in some capacity, more than a brunette's for some reason best known to the perps. And it should be mentioned that I have been listening to this Sunday news broadcast for over 4 years, so the voice is highly familiar to me.

Other weirdness that came on yesterday was that my ex-wife phoned to tell me that my once-thought best friend's (since highschool) mother passed away, and that he was up-Island, some two hours north, as the funeral was the next day. Anyhow, there was some strangeness going on about the phone call, but she said she would later supply his phone number. It was most strange that my ex-wife would be even invited to the funeral as she met the woman only once at best, where my history goes back to countless visits.

Later, I phoned my friend, and the interaction seemed to be weird as he really didn't have anything to say except that her demise was merciful, and that I could come to the funeral by way of "catching a lift" with my ex-wife. I didn't make any commitment, and the call ended on that note, this from someone who was my best buddy until he moved to Ontario in 1986, but who I kept in touch with often. Ever since the harassment began, he visited once in the early stages, and I hadn't heard from him since. So, the perps decided for me that a late invitation wasn't really one at all, especially if there was no reason for the delay in notification, especially through a third party. (As in, why did he phone and tell my ex-wife all about this, who he never liked very much, and not phone me or my parents?)

02-04-2008 today
And lo, if my ex-wife didn't come by just before I got out of bed (at my parents place), and "stop over", before headed to the funeral. I call this a "surrogate gangstalking", where someone substitutes as a gobetween, where in this case, the perps want to keep me apart from my once-thought best buddy. Needless to say, all once-friends were involved in this harassment from the getgo, and friendships have been re-evaluated. My mother "happened" to have some sympathy cards on hand, and I filled one out and sent it on with my ex-wife. She also brought her new poodle puppy, only 8 weeks old, and it was a cute and playful diversion.

Then on with the real games this morning, that being my mother's PC and the ongoing games with renewing the Norton Antivirus software. Then, after all the fugly Symantec yellow Windows boxes were tucked out of sight, I then went to the Shaw site, the ISP, to attempt to download their antivirus solutions, as they were at no cost. My mother did her usual waving of fingers and hands in front of the CRT display, absurdly to the point of over obviousness. But as it so "happened", I could not log into the Shaw site, and it seemed that there was a problem with the PC handling encrypted information, hence her earlier problems with paying for the Symantec subscription. Then, with more of her story telling, it seemed that the PC had a problem, and the operative gangstalked concept was for me to mention the "word du jour" being "encryption" and like terms relating to "secure" internet communications. As mentioned once, I don't have conversations, I get elicitations. With all the pissing around with Shaw's technical support being uncharacteristically slow, the perps had me sitting in front of the CRT (read ring magnet) for nearly an hour. Only later did I find out that they had forced a small face bleed while I was sitting there, as my shaving was long over. And lo, if there wasn't a black vehicle, then a white vehicle, and then a black pickup with a white canopy going past my parents place while I was waiting for my mother to get off the phone. (All headed the same direction and no intervening vehicle colors). There were only three parked vehicles visible outside; a black vehicle, a white vehicle and a mid-grey vehicle. Funny how that happens. Behind the black vehicle was another white vehicle as I later found out when driving past.

As always, there was a light rain shower when we set off, the windshield wipers of my parent's vehicle were in their usual atrocious state, and a host of gangstalking vehicles were arranged for the 10 minute trip to the PC repair shop that I usually use. At one location, the perps had arranged three lanes wide of white, black, silver grey and mid-grey vehicles, about 15 to 20 of then in a cluster, all starting off together at the green light. I got my lead-ahead stalker when pulling into the parking lot of the PC repair shop, a red-headed dude in a white vehicle giving me some kind of grin as he "happened" to be immediately outside the vehicle when I got out. This appears to be a prime gangstalking moment, just when I exit the vehicle; hence the large numbers of vehicles on the street where the gangstalkers are egressing them in some way; looking into their trunks, leaving the doors open and the rest of the loitering they do to obvious excess.

And the usual game in conveying the nature of the PC repair is that my mother goes on about a number of irrelevancies while "I" (in the collective mind controlled sense), form what would be a whole lot more concise explanation. Then after a number of interuptions, something the perps have planted on me my whole life, I finally get to convey what the repair is about, using the "word du jour" again, "ecryption". Then there was a whole lot more babbling from my mother about her credit card and how it was "screwed up" in attempting to pay for her Symantec subscription, and more about "encryption" again, and the deed was finally done. The perps like me to go on about "memory", in reference to the computer, as this is what happened last time with my mother's PC, even if my diagnosis was flat wrong. That word was also noisestalked by a loud throat clearing when talking to the system tech at the office I helped out a month ago.

Then afterward, she asks about where we can go for lunch, and lo, if we don't go to a location where we have been a few times before, only a block away from my apartment building. The food is good, and the service is excellent, and there are many dishy waitresses abounding. Today, we got a waiter, and he was friendly and attentive in every normal context, no complaints. The perps kept the attractive dishy babes at the periphery of the resturant this time, save one who came by with milk for my mother's coffee. Closer in, the less attractive blonde women were customers, being served and they made the odd cell phone call, one at the corner of the storefront windows. This was the first time we were seated at a table, the past three instances were booths. By dint of fuckery, my mother's Ford Escape was in view from the table, the stunt being that it was parked closer to the restaurant by way of modifying the parking meter rates so only the cheaper ones were closer, and the more expensive short term parking meters were oddly located in mid-block.

And to no surprise, especially as the meal progressed, there were more and more individuals wearing red and brown, some cruising 10' away, and then eventually finding a table close by. There were two dudes at a table 6' away, and behind a potted plant, who spent and inordinate amout of time with their head turned in our direction, either looking at us, or looking past us. I have never seen anyone expend so much time looking 90 degrees from their seated orientation. That one had his mouth hanging open often was not too surprising from the gangstalker behavior perspective, it is entirely "normal" for them to do this in my proximity. It is all part of the ongoing curse of having a stalking posse of fanatical abusers who are attempting to redress the reckless ambitions of their psychotic forebears. The perps cannot yet model the neural color energetic interactions in my mouth with respect to my food, and possibly my mouth physiology. By having their shills and operatives clustered around me with their mouths open, and having them eat the same menu items as I do, they hope to be able to master this particular vexing conunumdrum. Now, 5.5 years of attempting to determine my mouth color energetics, here they are, clustering me with blondes as the "auric goodness" leveraged in some way to that of the dudes, putting on the open mouth stupid act. One couldn't pay me enough to look that gormless.

One particularly fugly setup was the young blonde woman "working" by the visible wood fueled oven flames who had plentiful streaks of red in her hair. It was too much to look at more than once, but as always, I don't have any say in what I look at. There were at least another 10 forced sightings of this grotesque hair color when I had no intention of looking that direction again. Per J. K. Harms, links to the right, flames are a "space time ripper", and have been consistently used in past perp events to up the ante for surveilling my deep neural reactions to anything unsightly or odious.

And of course, one never knows who any person/gangstalker really is, as they like to use past stalkers known to me, but change their form and appearance to appear to be someone else. That dude looking my direction at great length could of been my in-town brother for example, as a restaurant situation in morphover would allow him to sit further away while eating than at a family function. (And where did that insightful notion come from?).

Then a strange conversationa tack at the restaraunt, though not if one understand's the perps motives; my mother asked me for the name of Ms. C in the story, asking if I communicate with her. She pretended not to know her name, and when I said it, she asked me to repeat it, making out that she did not hear or understand. This bullshit went four rounds before she "got it", making me wonder why she keeps this fucking act up. In the past, she has purposely mispronounced it. Anyhow, she made out that she was mildly interested in her travails, though no insights as to what she thought of Ms. C, who visited my parents once, and came to visit in 2003 for my extended incarceration in hospital. As Ms. C was a planted operative, I suspect that she has had many morphover forms, and I have likely met her many more times since, and possibly beforehand.

The restaurant meal seemed to be the lead up to having me walk by the street rip-up when I walked back to my place; there was plenty of excavator and gravel slinging action with plenty of "workers" buzzing around after last week's big concrete pour where they put down some 2.5' of concrete, for some 150' at a road width, 30' or so. The plastic tarps over the weekend had been lifted off, and this was the gravel overlay operation. No wonder there were at least three redi-mix trucks on gangstalking duty today, one trolling by the window of the aforementioned restaurant.

Later, I updated my Quicken records and reconciled them with the online bank statement. The perps get no end of mileage by enraging me for the entire time of doing this task, and have turned it into an extreme form of advanced abuse. They have blocked my bank statement web display so I cannot reverse the displayed order of transactions, making it read chronologically from bottom to top, while Quicken reads oppositely. But this isn't enough adversity for the sick minds that turn this into a nonstop rage show; they constantly screw with my cognition so I lose track of where I am in the list, have me "misread" across a horizontal line of text, change the data on the page between views, change the color and boldness of the lines and colored areas, change the Quicken account on me, add extra transactions that I did not enter, and otherwise screw with everything I do in this exercise. All the while, extra outside noise, overhead pounding, hallway hacking and typo sabotage is scripted. It is a totally ugly scene, and it is no surprise it was scheduled for a Monday, the day I return from my parent's place, when they pour on the abuse. Like most Mondays, I expect not to get to sleep for at least an hour after going to bed.

The post meal digestion noisestalking games are now featuring; the on-offing of the "neighbor" water use noise, the timed coughings from the hallway at web page changes, and then there are the other phenomenon as well; the extra flashing of Windows boxes that make no sense (never happened before), and the maser and plasma action over and around the LCD display.

I got another odd event during the dusk onset. At the height of the pitched battle with the perps over updating my Quicken records for January, a woman knocked on the door and introduced herself as a filmaker who will be making a film about the residents of this apartment building, the "Chelsea", to be loosely fashioned after Andy Warhol's experimental film, titled the "Chelsea Girls". And she had auburn hair, so I can only assume this was part of the schtick, as the perps have been busy presenting a subset of gangstalkers of this hair color, a near-red hair color. The assumption is that it is to bait my subconscious loathing of red hair, as per the Unfavored demographic groups. This is the third such person with this unusual hair color in a week, when it was rarely seen before. As the intended film is to portray the lives of the characters who live in the Chelsea, I was duly controlled to convey my state of extra-conventional abuse and harassment, and tell her that if she finds that my story won't skew her film to the way weird, I would be happy to tell her about it. And the perps made sure I noticed her beautiful angle chin and jaw, proportionately and attractively formed. Again, chin and jawline seem to be a big factor in determining the Favored from the Unfavored.

Haven't we been here before; a film maker, interested in the TI scene, and then is never heard from again? That may have been a "warm up" for the avowed film maker who claims that she will be temporarily staying in this apartment building to undertake the production and filming. And of course, it is all the more ironic if it is true that there are no neighbors living in this apartment building as it seems, consistent with the last two residence locations, who then is going to be the real subject of this film? Too early to tell, and of course there are many layered games going on, of which I am the last to know.

One layered them is the Warhol angle that the perps have long lined me up on; not that I followed his carreer very much, and only when I found Bob Colacello's autobiography (Holy Terror) from the Warhol years did I ever form a complete picture about what really transpired in those heady days. And it "so happened" at the carpet auction yesterday, the auctioneer brought in artwork as well, and lo, if one of them wasn't a Warhol reprint. It is all too convenient, and strange that this angle is getting perp attention in the past two days. I makes me wonder what the perps had on him and his entire scene.

Time to call this done, no matter how mny strange pings I am getting in my ear tonight, the latest escalation of NOC, No Ostensible Cause, harassment games.

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