We want our land, get off our land, cried the two white coats, petulantly stomping their feet whilst wildly waving about their forceps, their retractors, and handfuls of sharpened instruments.
Ditto, said Tweedledum.
Ditto, ditto, cried Tweedledee.
Get off our land, get off, get out! No matter how you scream and shout, we’re still going to get you out, this is what we’re all about!
So said the scumbucket criminal speculators, and so it must be done down, down the rabbit hole and alongside the lakeside in this most nasty of neighborhoods ruled by the Nasty Neighborhood Watch and the nasty neighborhood watch lady of the northeast.
In spring of 2014, I became aware that I was being “mobbed,” real estate mobbed, that is. I didn’t know it as “real estate mobbing” or “property mobbing” at the time, but that’s when it began. Around that time when the mobbers got started, protected from apprehension by the collusion of the corrupt and anti-renter neighborhood watch of my northeast Seattle neighborhood as well as vacancy of numerous houses that were being built, sold, or remodeled, technologies of sound became an important feature of my existence here in this semi-rural enclave that some have said is the quietest place they have ever lived, this enclave that should have been a place of peace and, as stipulated by my lease contract, quiet enjoyment for me as well.
There are several key utterances that I recall in the weeks around the time when the final steps were taken to remove quiet and privacy—at least, what quiet and privacy I believed was still mine—from my existence in this, the neighborhood of the nasty neighborhood watch and its developer and speculator cronies.
The event that, for me, formally marks the onset of the mob, was the day when I was in my own bathroom with the window shut and heard the familiar voice of the single male owner of the house on the north side of me: “I turned down the mic. She’s in the john.” This event is documented in the entry “On being mobbed,” for which this blog is named. So far as events in a mobbing, this one is perhaps comparable to the moment in Louis Carroll’s Through the Looking Glass, when Alice climbs into the looking glass. This is the moment, in property-crazed northeast Seattle anyway, where not only is the world is turned on its head but you find yourself living betwixt the properties and property aspirations of Tweedledee and Tweedledum, be they agents in their own right or the assignees of some other scumbucket speculators.
Another keynote moment in the opening of the mob was the day I was outside my home within earshot of the nasty neighborhood watch lady when she swept her hand in my direction and proudly announced to a passerby, “We have very sensitive microphones in place to hear when she moves her cars.” I remember my disbelief at her words and the awkwardness of the man who heard them or, perhaps, the man she “used” to malignantly and backhandedly inform me that I was being watched. Within weeks, I came to understand that I was being “monitored,” a term describing a subset of stalking activities.
And there was the curious moment when the nasty neighborhood lady took to gardening along the margins of her parking strip closest to my own home, all the while talking loudly on her cell phone about how some “film people” would soon descend upon the neighborhood and how she liked “film people.” This was around the time the mobbing began and the microphones deployed, at least, it was around the time I became aware that I was being listened to, even in my own home. And it was about the time that the mobbers began projecting their voices into my house, remarking on my activities inside my home from the properties of Tweedledee and Tweedledum, to ensure that I knew it. This was the time when the hoaxes began, when I lost my contract at Microsoft after reporting to Microsoft Security that I believed my neighbors put an Internet “bot” on my laptop, and the time when I fell down, down, down, into the rabbit hole.
But no matter which side of the looking glass you’re on, the techniques and technologies of mobbing rely heavily on sound. So let’s talk about sound, and since the nasty neighborhood watch lady so likes “film people,” let’s talk in part 2 of Unmotivated sound and the narrative of mobbing about film sound.