Saturday, October 25, 2008

Shaving With Masers

I am being "stunned out" as to what to title this posting, and it would seem that it is all about having me start blogging first, and titling it later. This is the level of constant disruption I deal with. Even going to the correct cupboard for an item gets fucked with in this manner. I am not even allowed to look at the item I am after but get my attention redirected to something irrelevant, and then switched again after grasping the unintended item. It is fucking insane to treat anyone like this, never mind it being the culmination of six years of overt harassment, and 47 years of covert scripting and a stage managed existence.

The title reads correctly, as masers are my companions while using a razor blade to shave. The plasma and maser action has been nearly constant all morning; I constantly have them appearing in advance and over an object I am about to grasp, and then over the location of where it was after being picked up. I have masers consistently arising from me as I stand in front of the mirror shaving, mostly emanating as vertically oriented blackish wisps about 4" to 6" long, coming off me at the location I am about to shave, and then sitting just over top of the razor while making the shaving strokes. Then they dissipate into the ether, aka thin air, or the "vacuum" as some would call it. The most masered shaving areas are my right cheek (where I first start), my right neck, and then armpits (last location) which are shaved every day now, continuing the new "habit" that began just over a year ago. My armpits are also a perp obsession, especially with clothing color interaction, hence the recent number of gangstalking women wearing poncho style clothing. When at the supermarket two days ago, and grinding the coffee beans at the machine there, a multi-toned brown poncho wearing woman was walking around me, and back again, and then around me again, making at least three sorties so to be seen from each side more than once. And note, given the perps' preoccupation with the color of brown, and all things that have an association including the local sewer system (rebuilding some 400' of it with twin pipes), this was not entirely unexpected.

The vocational notions of the past month, most of them planted, have reached some "clarity", as in further planted thoughts, albeit with some rational "feel-goodness". (In these circumstances, anything can be made to be rational). The IT intentions are now nixed, following the notions of moving to Edmonton, Alberta, and also the heavy equipment operator training. I note that there was a plastics plant explosion in Edmonton (no links, the Blogger editor is still being defeatured), and that might be the extent of the recent Edmonton focus that came out of the blue in the form of a recruiter who has oddly stopped communication. I have never had a recruiter stop calling until the deal was either over or done, so it strikes me as odd that this has "happened" twice in one week.

On this topic of vocational aspirations, the perps have also introduced the notion of doing more temp work, and it is likely that this will be their chosen vocational harassment method for the next year I reckon. They couldn't handle me working for more than three days in succession on the daffodil bulb picking work this past summer, so I cannot envision them letting me go to an office location anytime soon. Temp work would seem to be the most likely way to keep me bouncing around an outdoor jobsite and around town. Which is what I knew all along, except that these absurd notions of greater vocational glory get planted for a few days at a time, and then are allowed to pass, often to another round of planted nonsense from the sickos. But, one can never say never. If there is one consistent general theme, is that they like me to revisit past arrangements, be it IT work (Oracle DBMS, GIS), office work, and other managed stunts of the long past. Though to be fair, the daffodil bulb picking work was a "never before", but the perps' obsession with bulb botany wasn't new, as they like to place garlic skins in my apartment and fridge (when I have garlic bulbs), and have encouraged recent garlic consumption, and even stole one bulb from the ones I bought during September's excursion to the Okanagan.

I had my regular Saturday national newspaper read this afternoon to the near continuous noise of loud mufflered vehicles, motorcycles and heavy vehicles. I have at least one hand busy holding the newspaper, and so it is a perfect time to lay on the extra noise as placing one's fingers in the ears is not that doable in those circumstances. The perps like me to read the obituaries, and had an excellent piece on Prof. Connie Rooke, someone I was not aware of until today. She had a seminal hand in promoting Canadian literature since the 1970's, ironically as an American. But whatever, and at the moment I wrote her name down on my nearby scratchpad, the overhead pounding noise started up. Regular readers will know that this is humanly infeasable as it is 12" of ceiling/floor steel reinforced concrete. What the perps seem to be looking for is some kind of connection to her via me reading the obituary to me writing her name down afterward. The story is here for cutting and pasting this address into your browser as this Blogger is still defeatured without any identifiable commands.

And while composing the above paragraph another round of noise started up. I don't get it; I never knew of her, though as it happens, or "happens", depending on the degree of conspiratorial belief one has, she taught at the University of Victoria when I attended one year ther before splitting to The University of British Columbia in Vancouver to go into the Forestry Faculty there. As far as I know, I never even saw her, and my first year English course was a midterm bail-out situation where I took a remedial writing course for the latter term. So while all the (current) faux water running noise sounds off, the faux neighbor clunking noise continues and the outside loud mufflered vehicle noise continues, I never met her, and had no further association with academic literature.

I have had written expression problems all my life, and slowly by about 30 y.o. I started getting better. It does lead me to wonder why I had the problem in the first place and how anyone's primative writing skills could change at that age. And of course I don't the answer to that one, as some covert agency has been conducting neurological sabotage on me since birth, and I cannot rightly claim to know what was normal development and what brain circuits got messed with. And the ongoing coordinated freakshow of gangstalkers suggests that the fuckers are still attempting to figure out that one for themselves, as there seems to be subconscious recollections that they are attempting to elicit, especially with respect to colors. Though, word processors have been a godsend for me in writing, even if it is descriptive like this blog. I did my first paper on a mainframe word processor in 1977, and have always attempted to use computers for that capability ever since.

The eveningtime tea and chocolate break is over, and the perps got me plenty riled up beforehand. And to the accompanyin sounds of varying faux neighbor water usage, I had my chocolate. But that wasn't good enough, so they put a chocolat crumb under my fingertip to then create the "response" of yelling at the assholes with my mouth full of chocolate and some in my hand. The fingertip jabbing and crumb sensations have increased of late, and they are getting very blatant about it. The soap bar in the shower magically erupts with sharp little crumbs on it to create the sensation and then to piss me off. Similarly, the bedding underneath the pillow has erupted in crumbs that get jabbed into my fingertips when lying down, though in this latter case I suspect it is all created by artificial sensation as there are no crumbs there. I get at least 50 to 100 fingertip jabbings in any given day, and at least another 100 to 200 fake touches elsewhere on my arms, hands, feet etc.

And I see one of my confreres is blogging again, Rachael O of On Gangstallking. her lament of not being able (or, allowed) to produce artwork brings back memories. I too have suffered from imposed creativity loss as I once was keen about drawing and then got sucked into some kind of morass later, to be followed by a certain indifference. All before 12 years of age, and my father won competions in drawing at that age, and here was I getting creativity sucked out of me. Or, at least, that is the way I read it, and it is clear in this hyper-harassment world that competence isn't allowed. Ever. Or, not until the assholes have finished their energetic decomposition of this facet of human capability. Similarly, my efforts to upgrade my learning about Oracle DBMS have been obstructed as noted in yesterday's blog posting. Here is the cut and paste link, as linking is still fucked with in this here Blogger.

More reading of Chasing Phantoms by Carissa Conti; she is very direct about mind controlling technology application to her at various junctures in dealing with the "Thems". Link below.

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