Wednesday, September 03, 2008

Sweating Buckets

A day of daffodil bulb sorting off the conveyor was expected, under cover and out of the sun. And with the recent chilly weather, even if sunny, it was decidedly cool in the shade, and near shivering temperature. But then, after lunch, I was given the task of loading the hopper on the other side of the wall, in the sun. This activity feeds the conveyor for the bulb sorters, and the feed rate cannot be mechanically controlled, it all depends on how much one loads the hopper up. It took a while to digest this particular tribal knowledge and calibrate the visual nature of the correct amount of daffodil bulbs to load and keep the sorting personnel busy. I was sweating like a pig in the sun, and having dressed for the shade, I was woefully overdressed. All part of the plan I find, these "unexpected events" that disrupt my planned activity. As far as I can tell I did well, and who knows, this might be the perp focus, keeping me in the sun on these rapidly shortening daytime hours. Regular readers will know the perps are obsessed over how much sunlight that falls on me, and what clothes I am wearing at the time. They have been regularly parading "coworkers" in and out of the shade, especially those wearing reds and orange colors. One even stayed part in the shade, part out, while standing talking to me some 3' away. Most TI's know this as gangstalking, as do I, but the context was social, and I continued to natter to this batty Australian woman, craftily doing her handler's bidding by this partial shade sentry activity.

Like yesterday, I got more of the waving fingers over my work area on the conveyor line; the two males either side of me moved in at differing times to get their hands in my way to see what I was viewing on the moving conveyor line, and it pisses me off. They backed off after 10 minutes or so, and they both disappeared after the 1000h break. One was the tipsy guy from yesterday, still tipsy AGAIN today with that odiferous alchohol smell off the skin and breath. Thankfully, not a full day of the smell like yesterday. I was left with the vague impression that he met with the timekeeper before he left, and he may not be back again, ever.

Back to the personal encroachment fuckery games, having "coworkers" (read, shills, quislings and operatives) waving their hands in front of me over the conveyor belt with the excuse that they are picking daffodil bulbs; doing their job at the exclusion of me doing mine. So it would seem that the perps have been diligent in staging this particular fuckery over the past four weeks, and haven't given up yet. Which then begs the question; is there a subconscious aversion I have to hands being over or around my face, and how did I come by such, as there is no conscious recall? I don't have an answer, but it may well be an extension of the Unfavored that I didn't know about until after I wrote up that much referenced thesis on what the perps are doing by staging freaks and colors around me; it is theorized that they are engaging in subconscious recall elictations, and want to know the bioenergetics of my adverse reactions. Invariably it seems that much of what they are doing is to remediate the psychic damage they once inflicted, not that they ask me, or even care to solicit my opinion. Basic life rape, and they take the position they are allowed to do this to any they choose. One can be sure that it isn't really for me, but for them, though what the objectives are is unknown to me.

My out-of-town brother, sister-in-law and my neice have arrived tonight for a four day stay in town at my parents place. I call these First Feral Family get togethers, as it will doubtless be scripted with some red wine spillings and other feints to spread the perp's most refractory colors about; red, yellow and brown. Just to think, for two years at the local amateur winemakers club I was the sommelier, the one that pours the wine out to all the members while the speaker makes his presentation. Many hundreds of bottles of wine of varying provenance passed through my hands, from bottle to glass, making a bottle last some 20 to 30 pourings. Then I took all the used glasses home and ran them through my dishwasher to clean them in readiness for the next monthly meeting. And here we are, intensively harassed over various colors and my subconscious aversions to them, now six years later, the First Feral Family routinely puts on purposeful wine spillings for the remotely stationed sick assholes trashing my life for their problem related to nonconsensual human experimentation.

Here is an interesting aside, not the dulldom of nonstop harassment; it is titled, Does Memory Reside Outside the Brain?, and I think it has some relevance to what the perps are up to. They know better than me what my subconscious memory contains, and presumably it has traumatization associations, and this presents a problem for them, again, not knowing why, and only the consistent themes of the stunts they arrange around me. What I do know, is that the perps will often create a light momentary spasm (~five seconds or so) in my back or shoulders immediately following remembering something they didn't control or plant into mind. I would seem to corroborate the Rupert Sheldrake link (above), that memory resides elsewhere, and it could even be in various organs, muscle and other corporeal structures, the so called "cellular memory". There are many fascinating tales of heart transplant patients taking on the memories and habits of the donor.

Back from a short shopping trip; ten males on me (gangstalking) for the first 40' from elevator lobby to the sidewalk, including a sided by side pair on skateboards on the street, each with an LED light on the front.

And more males in red clothing in various lighting conditions; outside in the dinge of the streetlights, in the store under flourescents, and then the fucker repeating outside under the external lighting. Everywhere I went I had gangstalkers loitering, and it was a six item shopping trip. I even got a fugly male hippie type with some way weird hairnet like hat pimping himself as I looked for blueberries in vain. I got the fugly tattoos again, this time on both exposed arms of the large young woman cashier, and the perps kept redirecting my attention there when clearly I did not want to see them again. It is fucking outrageous why they keep staging these Unfavoreds and control my attention to gaze at them more when I don't want to.

Time to call this one done and post; short and without all the details; perhaps a managed "trend".

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