Sunday, July 10, 2011

Week; July 05 to July 10

A 0700h work start with my strange dudes and acts on the city bus; I swore this same group was on the bus at 0715h when I started the same farm work at 0800h. There is this couple, now getting on at the same stop instead of one stop apart, and a jokey young male negro who somehow knows them and hangs around them standing up for a few minutes. The couple get off at the same mid-run stop as last year, and the negro stayed on, past my stop. Except this time the negro gets off his seat and hangs  behind me while I was standing at the rear door in preparation to get out. The bus proceeds through the intersection and as it is gliding into stop, why the negro walks to the back of the bus and sits ithe exact same seat as I was sitting. Like WTF; this is at least the fourth instance of this blatant seat poaching while it is still warm, and the most obvious as the negro walked the length of the bus to pull this off, along with a fake-out (read, closer proximal hanground time) to suggest he was getting off immediately behind me.

Picked strawbs until 1430h when it was shut down because they have too many unsold, so they say, and yet other days they will have us pick until 2000h. And the perps are increasing the number of times they are pulling strawberries from my fingers, getting to be at least 110x/day. It is extremely vexing to say the least, as the plant rows are like little jungles, and it is hard enough to find the ripe ones, to keep some in hand while continuing to pick, without the additonal fuckery of them being rolled or teleported from my fingers.

After strawberry picking I was weeding pumpkins with my fingers as the hoe deliverer failed to come. There was this prior performance of moving hoes, vehicles and personnel, a FUC clusterfuck, with the hoes to follow in another vehicle. There were two Mexicans with me, and after an inital communication problem/jerkaround in attempting to understand what to hoe with, they weeded by hand like me. Then at 1545h they suddenly got this silent call to both quit weeding and walk 150m back to the warehouse. I followed at 1600h to end the working day, and "happened" to get a ride fromt the farmer as he was stuck at a driveway with hordes of passing traffic. I got back to the warehouse to find the two Mexicans working with others to set up on the potato washing line. Somehow they "just knew" when to depart and "find" another job without any apparent conventional means of communiction or visual determination.

And what is with the other pickers or the box carrier support deliverers hanging around me all the time? That, along with stacking empty plywood and wood carriers beside me on all four sides? No one else gets this amount of proximal attention as I do?

Birthday, now age 57, and look about 32. I was even allowed to remember my birthday when at the bus stop outbound, and once in the afternoon. Otherwise it was a total blank and just another strawberry picking day.

Picking strawberries all day, and it was hot. the "usual" red color perception fuckery going on, especailly for the first two hours in the low sun conditions, 0640 to 0840h.

Paychecks delivered to the field for crissakes, this being a Wednesday, one day earlier after the prior Saturday cut-off than usual. Given the perps' ongoing pre-occupation with all my financial transactions, either recieving, purchasing, or returning, this wasn't too much of a surprise. It shows they need to increase the variability of the location of the activity, from the usual warehouse office to the field.

The usual preponderance of inexplicable picker support staff hovering around me at while picking, and casting their shadow over where I am working, especially in low azimuth sun conditions, as if they haven't delivered enough adversity at this time of day.

A pounding bass/stereo music has erupted as if from overhead, and it gets through the earmuffs readily. All to accompany me before, during and after tea and chocolate, as there had been limited noise before. Sometimes it is less like music and more like an aberrant fog horn.

A day of picking strawberries, with the perps making me uncharacteristically slack over applying sufficient sun block location. The winds got up and pushed my bucket hat off my head a few times, and so I packed it into the cargo pocket of my stretch cordura pants. Only later did the perps remind me I could of used the chin strap to keep it on. They screwed me out of applying more sunblock lotion at lunch, not even allowing my nose to be reapplied. The sunblock/suntan/Vitamin D games continue.

But they allowed me to tan last night in the tanning bed without the face lamp on me, having screwed me out of turning it off the first time round as the switch somehow "malfunctioned". Same bed, same switches and same instructions and lo, if it didn't work last night. Also not forgetting that I am lying on an acrylic surface the 8 minutes that I am on the tanning bed, for which the perps have an inordinate interest given the gangstalking attention I get afterwards.

And the fading babe returned to the strawberry fields, absent yesterday. She was working beside me for the first few hours, and then got dispatched to the opposite corner of the strawberry field after that. Similarly, two days ago, she and I were conversing in adjacent picking rows for the first three hours, and then it was set up after the morning break that she started beside me, showing off her cleavage while on all fours, and then her cell phone rang, and after a minute of chat, she was dispatched to the furthest corner of the strawberry picking section. So it would seem that someone wanted me to see her low cut top even more exposed when she was on all fours, and then immediately arranged a EMF disturbance, that is, the cell phone call.

I also get the superviror walking around nearby me, she on her cell phone and speaking Punjabi at length. More of these cell phone stalkers seem to want to cover me in every possible situation. Never mind that the Mt. Douglas cell phone tower sits in plain view some 500' away from the field.

Red color perception games were abated this morning, possibly related to the fact that it was overcast. The past four sunlit mornings, from 0700h to 1000h have been besiged by red/orange color perception problems, especially when viewed in the shade of the abundant strawberry plant foliage. Not the best kind of intrusion, fucking red/orange color perception when picking strawberries. I am uncertain if this is a set up to have the field supervisor come down on my ass for picking too orange colored strawberries.

Strawberry picking all day, and in nearly full sunlight. A mini tornado (dust devil?) struck at the afternoon break time, blowing boxes around, timed to when I was applying sunblock. That meant that at least thirty brown cardboard boxes went flying, many some 30' into the strawberry field, and one flattened box went 60' up and stayed there for at least five minutes before it blew out of sight.I haven't seen anything quite so strange weather-wise, but as always, there is often a new bound to extremes of conventional physics and weather events being defined in this extra-conventional existence/abuse rampage.

The strawberry negro (from his jacket color) showed up after four days absence, with none of the usual supervisor carping about having a dependable labor force that she normally unloads on intermittent pickers. This, seeming in lieu of a negro woman who I was informed would show today, but didn't. One ex-picker colleague mentioned by email that a friend of hers, a negro woman whom I had met at another farm three years ago, would be arriving today. And so it goes; last week the same colleague said that the strawberry negro was going to catch a ride with her, along with me, and for some reason, and by some peculiar communication means, he got a ride from someone else. It seems that the Unfavoreds (negroes in this case, male and female) are getting mentions, and then the statement (subconscious threat maybe?) is then withdrawn.

social leper now, the friendlies' going elsewhere, or else standing 6' from me and h aving their break in this posture. Fucking bizarre.

picking in the filed we picked extensively last year, flat and in the fen/bottomland organic soils instead of the glacial till of the former block we picked for three weeks.

negro sandwich on the street.

After my taninng session, I did a 20 minute in-twon walk to take the Felcos secaturs back, only to find that the store is no longer open on Friday nights as it once was. And too, the perps made a show of it by purposely blocking my web access to find out what the store hours were.I suppose anyone who exits a tanning salon has a different EMF signature, and for whatever reason, the perps wanted me to go on a long pointless walk in the "just tanned" state. The usual confluence of gangstalking of course, ambulatory and vehicular.

A 12 hour work day, picking strawberries all day. The babe returned, and lo, if she doesn't seem to be a coke-head, making three 30 min. trips to the crapper. during the 9 hour work day. She also told me that she didn't get any sleep last night as she went to a party. Not sure about her, as she artfully touches so many perp themes and my related personal experiences. Usually it is perps who do the more brazen stunts and acting jobs, so it remains to be seen if she is legit as she makes out. There are already some holes in her story, like being born and raised in Nova Scotia, but clearly without any accent. The field supervisor claimed that the babe had a bottle of vodka in her coat. Said coat was red and was tossed ahead or behind her picking, a seeming portable red color reference that fits the harassment theme to a "T".

The negro dude (strawberry picker, now in a black and grey rugby sweater and not his usual strawberry red jacket) was back again, now befriending the babe. She is also putting on the distance between me and her when it started out so friendly four days ago. A mother-daughter picker pair is also putting out the unfriendly vibe after being very conversational a week ago. They now sit in their silver grey van for all breaks, attempting to get some kind of vehicle color reference established from a distance. The silver-grey color for vehicles is a perp favorite, making up nearly 40% of all gangstalking vehicle parades sometimes, and being the same color of the last vehicle I owned from 1992 to 2006 when I had to give it up.

A rare Sunday off in berry picking season as I am awaiting a call from visiting  family, brother, sister-in-law and neice from Kamloops for two days. I am sure there is much perp arrangement in all this, the sister-in-law being E. Indian, same as four of the regular farm workers. I am a second class picker I sense, getting the drift as "you people" also reserved for the seven Mexican workers on farmworker visas.

I did get to make a second run at taking the Felco secateurs back, successfully this time, as I was allowed to find the opening hours of the business. This bullshit would of never happened if it weren't for mind-fuck games of making me purchase an item at nearly twice the price of a competitor. And as I have been lusting (read, planted notion) for this item for over three years, I suppose this culminates the perp agenda, whatever it is related to financial transactions (reversed too), aquisition and returning them. And too, having me purchase the replacement ones online for personal pick-up before I took the first pair back, seems to be a big deal for the perps too. Technically, I owned two pairs for five days or so, overlapping ownership of two identical items, though only one on  hand. And too, whatever energetic differences there maybe, from having the Felcos sit in a navy blue recycle shopping bag on the grey carpet for the intervening time since the first return event. All too exciting for sick minds.

And while walking there and back, some 15 min. of in-town walking each way, at least 12 different motorcyle parties, some in clusters of four differing motorcycles to make a unique sonic signature combination. They even put on a 1950's spoked wheel sidecar act for crissakes. And too, a few parked motorcycles as props. I have yet to get any inclination of what this is about, and my generalized response is that it relates to subconscious traumatizations inflicted during the years they wiped my recall clean, aged two to five, 1956 to 1959. What they did to me then must of been bad enough that they figured I was better off not recalling, though it seems it backfired if 50 years later they are now hounding me for over 9 years of unstinting abuse to elicit these particular abreactions. Not my problem, so why in the fuck am I being subjected to this depraved nonstop litany of insane abuse with cooperation from all authorities and too, the quisling so-called family assholes? Fucking sick.

And as part of the Unfavored demographic representation, I get the same redheaded woman for handling the refund as well as the initial purchase of the Felco secateurs. And lo, if she didn't add an orange ribbon to her hair as some kind of color reference, as I am sure they make the ribbon by the thousands of feet at the factory. I cannot recall if she had the same ribbon in her hair for the intial purchase.

And time to get this posted, as it seems this is a respite before the visiting family bullshit erupts.

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