Gardening for the Noise

2125h
Some late day attempts to get software downloaded from the Oracle site to aid my coursework, but no deal. Stymied by login and password problems, so perhaps another round of this is in order later. One never knows; two years ago I attempted to load the Oracle DBMS download and it failed on unzipping. So, like so often, the perps have decided to govern this aspect of my existence with the usual halting and failure-prone progress they routinely impose on so many new activities.

I did gardening at my mother's place today, she being away in the UK for two weeks. It was the raised garden beds that needed to be attended to, removing the near expired vegetable plants and putting them into a new compost pile. And also, have me attend to watering the compost pile I have been nurturing for the past six months, watering it again, likely for the last time this year. I expect I will be putting it through the sieve in the next few months to make way for the backlog of recent trimmings and vegetative matter that has accumulated. It is one of my obsessive projects, and no doubt due to the perps' ongoing interest in composting that even incurred Ms. C of the story to get her Master's Composter training for crissakes, back in the days of the pre-overt harassment. She had this Earth Mother side to her, and that was part of the schtick, though I was done with the farming thing by then, as I had sold my acreage at a considerable loss some months before I met her in 05-2000 on the public commute bus from Everett to Seattle and reversed.

But as it SO HAPPENS, here I am in overt repressive hell for 7.5 years, and am now allowed to work again, and it is on a farm no less. There are no coincidences in my life that I have come to know, and it seems the perps have this substantial theme of objectives that relate to geographic location (provenance), soil, the food grown on particular soils (e.g. backyards by way of parental gardening for two decades), the color of the vegetables and the soil that it grew in, the related irrigation water source and methods of its delivery (e.g. plastic drip hose, aluminum pipes and brass sprinkler heads, garden hose, and even the big 8' high, 4' wide reels of 2" poly hose used on some farms). And of course, the related gangstalking and noisestalking plus other concurrent phenomenon is duly arranged whenever such irrigation devices are arranged in my proximity. If a particular item is not on the farm I work at, why, a tractor from another nearby farm will be towing irrigation equipment past me and my coworkers when waiting at the bus stop to head home. And it does make me wonder if those typical French and Belgian protesting farmers driving their tractors into their respective capital cities aren't unknowingly acting out some kind of perp interaction study of tractors jutaposed with pavement. And I suspect the perp's long running interest in having me make wine from local and other vineyards of the Pacific Northwest might also be related to these ongoing provenance/energetics/color games, also with the added variables of food/beverage handling containers, stainless steel tanks, conveyor lines, glass and bottling methods and the like. It is all very complicated, right down to the submolecular level they tell me, but that didn't stop the assholes from ripping up my life while they try and figure it all out. Fucking insane the perps, and they know it.

Anyhow, enough grumping; I had my usual coterie of noise while doing the gardening, especially notable when I was pulling plants out of the soil. There was the aircraft noise, the throaty gurgling hot rods, the power washing pump, ladder banging (don't ask, I only heard it for most of the four hours), lawn mowers, children screaming, ripping motorcycles, bad mufflered vehicles etc. And on a Thankgiving weekend Sunday, I had my troupe of Fuckwits at the bus stop and on board. These strange agglomerations of dudes taking the bus, sometimes decades apart in age, and SOMEHOW, they manage to coalesce in these public places. And after being surrounded by some 20 or more, they bring in the blonde babe to sit some 6' to 8' away, a visual relief to be sure, and in keeping with the perps' ongoing need to add "blonde auric goodness" into the dude field. Go figure, it is consistent as it is familiar.

And my all-time Fuckwit with the most appearances, from an well heeled exec on the commuting helicopter to Seattle to a faux mental case in hospital as well as street bum, Mr. Passport Tosser made what might have been his 15th appearance on the bus today, wearing both a headbanded bandana and a fedora hat, and putting on his trademark hang-dog (slumped over) look. This fucker was the one who tossed his passport at the feet of the INS inspector who thought it was really funny as well as the said Fuckwit. They were immediately in front of me in the line, and I had a good view of the Fuckwit's hand, and he deliberately threw it on the ground. I didn't see anything funny about it, and if I was the INS inspector I would of sent him packing back on the next return flight. What that was all about is unkown to me even now, though the perps do like to noisestalk me over matters related to crossing borders, acquiring and showing passports and the like. Not that I have crossed any borders since they went stupid and wouldn't let me into the US, even to retrrieve my belongings in 2003.

2220h
Another forced pee immediately following posting this blog, and now some added extra ponderings to undoubted repeat the event for the assholes.

Last evening I had just finished grocery shopping after visiting the LD store, about 2030h, and was exiting the local supermarket when three dudes in a cluster, ethicity unkown apart from Whats-it-stan, were walking in a triangular formation, each without a jacket, and each wearing a similar shirt; one white, one black, and the olive green on in the center. Their timing was such that they were leading ahead of me by some 6' for some 60' of storefront until I could duck through the parking lot. This triad of pals/brothers or whatever the fuck they were, was then met by an oncoming blonde woman on her cell phone, presumably as another case of "blonde auric goodness" reference comparison. Just another gangstalking moment, with an ethnic twist, and I didn't think anything more about it until today. As it SO HAPPENS, I ordered three new shirts last week, and laundered them anew tonight, and lo, if they aren't also in the colors of off-white, black and dark olive green. The shirts look to be extra large when they are large, just as I ordered them. And it might be such that the perps want me to alter the shirts to make them smaller and snag the remnants for their own continued fuckery.

The same thing happened with the black acrylic underwear last year; I had 2" taken off the waist of each of six new pairs to make them fit better across my hips instead of around my belly button. And lo, if the seamstress didn't run out of black thread and sustituted olive green thread on one pair. And I see that the said underwear is begining to look ratty with recent accelerated pilling, so no doubt I will have to sort that one out in the near future. This also had a geographic sourcing angle, ordered from Nevada from Sierra Trading Post, same as the above mentioned shirts. Gotta love the uncertainly and fuck-up proneness of online clothing sourcing if one is a perp. As in FUD, or FUDE, the latter being an extension of Fear, Uncertainty and Doubt, adding in Error.

2245h
Or even FUDEO, adding O for obstruction. I entered my personal details to sign up for Newegg.ca, and lo, if the assholes didn't obstruct me from submitting the information. The submit button does nothing, and if there is an error, there is no error message. The little I know about Newegg, is that they don't have flakey web pages or linking, so it must be the insane ones again, going extra stupid tonight. It is very common that this Blogspot page jumps back to the View Postings page when I Save, thereby incurring extra effort in bringing up this edit page again just to publish this posting.

Time to call this one done for the day.