I hear things

Rumbling noise in the sky (Victoria)

Posted in the Victoria Forum
cessna turbo prop

Port Coquitlam, Canada
#73 Aug 18, 2011

Theres been a plane flying over port coquitlam and coquitlam area for several months now. When it gets dark out the plane does not turn on its navagation red and green lights or its strobe light. Its pitch black out and its 12: 17 am now and its still going in circles.It usually flys in circles for six or seven hours every day or second day. The people at the airports say its government surveilance and they cant talk about it.I phoned two different airports.I think it might be time to move out of populated areas if this is going on in so many cities.It cant be just for grow ops.The plane is a cessna 182 turbo prop.You would think its kind of unsafe flying with no warning lights on. Its an accident waiting to happen.

I hear things.

I hear hums. I hear buzzes. I hear pulsating things.

Whatever they are.

I can almost block it out. If I'm concentrating on something else, it almost goes away. But not quite.

Right now, this minute, at 2:58 p.m. on February 13, 2017, I hear something.

It's a low, monotone, hummy, buzzy - but no, not hummy OR buzzy, though it is on one note all the time, like the tone that would not stop resounding in Robert Schumann's head and eventually drove him insane.

I hear this same  monotone very late at night, only louder. And it has a different variation. It's definitely the grindy low noise of an aircraft, which at first I assumed was a helicopter because it got louder and softer, and,  just when you thought it was gone, louder again. I honestly did not think a plane could do that. They fly over, don't they? So it must be something else.

But it doesn't have the budda-budda-budda sound of a helicopter. It's a low, grinding engine-buzz. Really, it's like a plane out of the 1940s, or something from the TV series Sky King. Earrrrrrooooooo! But that doesn't describe it either.

When I finally dared to poke around the internet about this subject, I mainly got those end-of-the-world trumpet-blast videos. This isn't that. At all. This has a low, grindy, even doom-y mechanized sound.

My cat hates this. The other night, when he was all moon-eyed and lit up with cat-somnia, he jumped up on the windowsill and looked at me. There was panic in his eyes. "Do something," he seemed to be saying.

Oops, right now, this minute, I hear a plane, and I tell you it is NOTHING LIKE what I hear at night. This plane swoops in tone - in music, it would be a glissando - from high to low. What I hear is always monotone.

It sounds like hell.

It sounds like death.

"It's probably the police looking for drug dealers," my husband said. "Or criminals in general."

"But how would you SEE a drug dealer or a criminal from the air, and in the middle of the night? Why do they circle around and around for seemingly hours?"

"I don't know, but they do." He is a scientist and has an answer for everything, usually the opposite of my terrified, panic-stricken, paranoia-drenched explanation.

Someone. Is. Flying. Over. My. House. Late at night, like 12:30 a.m. And it goes on and on and makes the house vibrate. Ummmmmm. Eeeeeeeeeeemmm. Buzzzzzz. But none of these come close to describing the actual sound.

It sounds like death. It sounds like doom, it really does. It's a much louder version of the CONSTANT noise I hear during the day. The endless, almost fuzzy-edged, monotone boomy thrum in the background.

Woaaahhhhwwww. Woaaahhhwwww. Woaaahhhhwwww.

I can hear it right now, but I cannot begin to describe it. It's sort of a soft-edged, solid sound. It has a shape. It throbs, but only slightly. If I go outside, it's harder to hear because of all the ambient noise.

At night in our neighborhood, noise comes alive. We hear coyotes out there trilling and barking, and barred owls who scream so loud they sound like apes. Raccoons crash around, tipping things over to rummage for goodies. But these are the wild sounds.

This other. These are human sounds, or rather man-made, machine sounds. Someone is IN that plane, UP there, FLYING it! I keep seeing some Russian spy or someone like that.

I can't think of it as being anything friendly. I just can't. 

I have lived with this for, - how long? I tune it out. I really try to.

Someone is watching, and it is not comfortable. And it makes a hellish noise.

OK. Now I've got it! It's like THIS sound!:

It seems to go on most of the night. I might even be hearing it now.

Backyard beetles: apocalypse on the lawn

NEWS

Chafer beetle wreaks havoc on Rochester back yard





Mandy and Bob Harrison survey the chafer beetle damage in the back yard of their Rochester Avenue home.


— Image Credit: SARAH PAYNE/THE TRI-CITY NEWS

by Sarah Payne - The Tri-City News
posted Feb 5, 2015 at 1:00 PM

Bob Harrison and his wife, Mandy, have lived in their Rochester Avenue home for 30 years, having fallen in love with the view that stretches all the way to the Fraser River, the flat, expansive back yard and the creek flowing beside the house.

Never in those 30 years did they expect to be dealing with a pest the likes of the chafer beetle.

In the past few months the Harrisons have watched their carefully tended lawn turn into an apocalyptic battle scene — the crows pecking away at great chunks of grass, turning it into bubbled balls of turf, and the raccoons laying waste to entire swaths, nosing the sod up and rolling it back with nary a root in sight.

"We had a beautiful lawn here for years and years," Harrison said, shaking his head as he surveyed the damage in his back yard.

And after months of trying to battle the chafer beast, Harrison is throwing up his hands in defeat.

"What do we do with this? It's totally ruined," he said of the more than 6,000 sq. ft. yard.

The couple's grandson did a bit of online research for them and came up with coyote urine as a possible antidote, so Harrison picked up a small bottle from an outdoors store in Bellingham. He sprinkled some on a test patch of grass and tied a urine-soaked rag to a stake that he set out in another area.

"That night the raccoons came back, sniffed around — it didn't bother them at all," Harrison said. "The next night the crows came back as well."

In the meantime, they're also keeping an eye on the front yard, which has somehow escaped the chafer invasion; Mandy figures the large trees and longer grass out front prevent the flying beetles from landing to lay their eggs.

And they're also looking into alternative methods of engaging with the enemy, possibly saying good-bye to their grass and checking into clover, Mandy said, because "maybe the roots aren't as tasty?

BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE. . . 


Patience needed to deal with chafer beetle — Wim Vander Zalm





Wim Vander Zalm, owner of Art Knapp in Port Coquitlam, said with spring approaching in just a few months, gardeners are eager to get out into their yard, and many are appalled at what they see — lawns torn up by crows and raccoons searching for chafer beetle larvae to eat

— Image Credit: DIANE STRANDBERG/THE TRI-CITY NEWS

by Diane Strandberg - The Tri-City News

posted Feb 5, 2015 at 6:00 PM— updated Feb 6, 2015 at 12:24 PM

Owners of lawns decimated by chafer beetles and the crows and raccoons that love to eat them will need to be patient — revenge will come soon enough.

That’s the advice of Wim Vander Zalm, the owner of Art Knapp in Port Coquitlam, who has seen gardening trends and concerns come and go but admits he’s seen nothing like the chafer beetle infestation that has ruined lawns from Coquitlam to Port Coquitlam and caused thousands of dollars in damage to city property.

“It’s an epidemic, people can’t believe it,” said Vander Zalm in the store he’s owned for several years that is gradually switching over from winter stock to the brightly coloured flowers of spring, and where people are going to get the latest information about ridding their yards of chafer beetle grubs.

In fact, as many as two dozen people a day are either phoning or coming in personally to his store to get advice on what to do, and sadly, the best thing he can say for now is be patient.




“We don’t know if this will be passing, we don’t know what they are doing. We are trying to evaluate how these insects will evolve over time. Right now, we know they like it here.”

Some people are considering lawn alternatives such as creeping thyme, Dutch White Clover, salal and sedum, while others are ripping out lawns and replacing it with paving stones, gravel or bark mulch, river rock, a vegetable garden or even artificial turf.

What I love about these articles is the "we don't know why they're here" tone that echoes an old Godzilla movie:

In the past few months the Harrisons have watched their carefully tended lawn turn into an apocalyptic battle scene — the crows pecking away at great chunks of grass, turning it into bubbled balls of turf, and the raccoons laying waste to entire swaths, nosing the sod up and rolling it back with nary a root in sight.

Not only that, but people are going to drastic measures, such as paving their front yards or laying down astroturf to keep the critters away. Should cut down on mowing time, as well.

Only in dear old suburban British Columbia would an infestation of worms in the yard be described as an "apocalypse". One wonders if that reporter wasn't just a leetle bit jestful in her report.

  Visit Margaret's Amazon Author Page!

http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B001K7NGDA

The Resurrection of Peter

It wasn’t much of a day. She wasn’t even sure it was a day at all, since they had really cancelled days quite a long time ago and made everything One. Or was it that they had cancelled Night?

 Which means, you walk around in a half-state, sometimes jokingly known as Twilight. Twilight was the stuff of owls and demons and things that didn’t even really exist any more. But, she thought to herself, do any of us really exist any more?

 They all made it seem as if it were “just her”, and that everyone else was normal. This was all part of the scheme, the huge heartwrenching scheme to take her life away. It was illustrated nearly every day now when she ran into the people she knew.

 They looked dissimilar, but all the same, with a strange hazy quality. Yet they laughed and were jolly in a way they never seemed to be before, as if they had discovered an amazing new Secret.

  

“Emma. Hi, Emma! Haven’t seen you in a long time!” Gretel was wearing the strangest outfit, bright paisley like she’d never worn, a sort of muumuu, with a straw tote bag.

“Hi, Gretel. I think.”

“Oh, it’s me all right. This is just my New Look.”

It’s hardly a look at all, thought Emma, wondering whatever happened to the Old Look, and what made her change it.

“You look the same,” Gretel said in a flat tone. Looking the same wasn’t quite “it”, she supposed.

“Haven’t gotten my instructions in the mail yet,” Emma said, trying to be ironic.

“Oh, that’s so funny! You’re such a funny person! Well, goodbye then!”

“Wait, Gretel. I need to ask you something.”

 “What is it now?” She was getting testy already.

“You know, Peter. . . “

“Yes, Peter.” They had both known Peter. His sudden death had been a wrench, for both of them she thought, but now she wasn’t so sure.

 “What about Peter?”

“Ever since he passed, you know. . . “

“Passed?” She began to titter. “Was he in school or something?”

“No! Don’t you remember? When he. . .”

 “What, when he went on vacation?”

The ultimate vacation, Emma thought.

“Look, I mean when he died.”

“Died?”

“Died.”

“Died?”

“For God’s sake, Gretel! You know what I’m talking about.”

“Oh, that.” She fumbled around in her straw bag for a minute. “I thought you’d heard about it.”

“Heard what?”

“He’s back alive again.”

Stunned silence. A sick feeling gathered in her stomach.

“Back alive again?”

“Of course. Haven’t you seen him? He’s walking around.”

“How, by remote control?” Her sarcasm seemed to be flying over Greta’s pointed little head.

“Sort of, but it’s better than that. He can go under his own steam by now.”

“But he’s dead!”

“Sort of. But not really. You can get renewed now, sort of like a library book. You must know that by now."

She stood there stunned, things whirling around, as Gretel just walked away without even saying goodbye.

She started to comprehend then why everything was different, why she was sort of seeing through some people, mostly really old people, but some of them children. They had a strange sort of translucent quality, but they were still walking around.

And they always seemed happy. Emma thought about Bible study a million years ago, before the Bible was universally banned, and how Jesus had raised Lazarus from the dead. She had always wondered if Lazarus really wanted to be raised, his body half-rotted. Would he have a new body, somehow, or walk around  like that forever?

 

But then that meant she could find Peter!

Peter wasn’t her lover, never had been, but he had been there during the blackest, the most despairing time in her life. He would just show up at Starbucks with his baseball cap and his smile, cheerful as Bugs Bunny. He was in worse shape than she was, but they joked about it, guffawed about how awful life was.

“I heard about a woman who committed suicide. But before she committed suicide she got out the vacuum cleaner and cleaned her whole house top to bottom so it was absolutely spotless. Then she hung herself.” They had both howled with laughter.

Then they just lost touch. Like a sick cat, he had crawled under the house somewhere. She had known he was deteriorating; one conversation they had wasn’t a conversation at all, but a monologue on her part. He’d start to say something, then dry up after a couple of words and look at her in bafflement.

What bothered her was the fact that it didn’t bother him.

She kept sending him emails long after she suspected he had passed (and NOT “in school”!). She couldn’t help it. She’d think she saw him in a crowd. But it wasn’t him. Because the emails didn’t bounce back to her, she assumed they were hitting the target and he was just too busy to reply (knowing full well he had kicked the bucket long ago).

Back alive again. Strange things had been happening lately. She had mentioned her grandfather to a friend of hers, how difficult it had been for him to let go.

“Is he still dead?” the friend asked.

 h, maybe they meant in her mind, in her memory! But somehow she didn’t think so. Death was the only thing more sure than birth. Wasn’t it?

Would she see Peter again? A wild stab of hope made her heart beat faster.

She became aware of how the light went right through people, and began to count them. It was an awful lot. She wondered just what had happened to everyone. Back alive again? Is he still dead? Did you will this, wish it, or did someone impose it on you like poor Lazarus wrapped in his rotten gravecloths?

It was too much to hope for, but in her next turn of mind, when she did not pass Go but began in the middle again, she saw him. She saw a ball cap bouncing up and down the street first, then a smile.

Then they were sitting in Starbucks, but she noticed he was sitting two inches above the chair. He didn’t seem to really drink the coffee, but the eyes were the same.

 They could always be blunt and honest with each other, so Emma waded right into it.

“So, Peter. I hear you’re back alive again.”

“It would seem to be so.”

“How does that happen?”

“I don’t know that, any more than cells know how to multiply or the earth knows how to turn.”

“But is it. . . beyond your will or something?”

"This is a place beyond will."

"Her head was whirling. She hated the idea of not being able to die. Death was one of the things she looked forward to the most.

“Peter, I’m sorry, but it sounds as if you’re a fucking zombie or something. The Undead.”

“Hey, I like that! Undead, but not really alive.”

“Look, Peter, there are only TWO states: dead and alive! Which one are you?”

“No. There is the dream state. There is the hypnotic state. There is the hypnogogic state. There is the catatonic state. There is the trance state. There is the transcendent state. There is the resurrected state. I could go on and on.”

“But those are only in your mind, Peter.”

“Tell me this.” He leaned forward and looked at her with his old intensity, and for one moment she really believed this was Peter. “If I were just a body, I mean lying over there with my heart beating but no consciousness, would that be ‘me’?”

“I don’t. . . “

“So what is it that makes me me?”

“I don’t know, your brain?”

“The brain is just half a pound of juice with some wires running through it. Dissect it, and you see some curls and buds and bulges like normal internal organs. There’s nothing there.”

“So where. . . “

“Ah. You’re about to ask me where Consciousness resides.”

“I guess so. Peter, why aren’t you drinking your coffee?”

"I've evolved beyond coffee, I guess." He chuckled to himself.

“You’re not alive. Get away from me! You’re not really Peter. Are you a ghost?”

"Beyond ghost. We've been refined. We don't have to go around haunting old buildings and Civil War battle sites any more."

“But who DOES this? It has to come from somewhere!”

“Haven’t you noticed you don’t have any privacy any more?”

“Oh, Jesus, Peter.”

 “Haven’t you noticed all the electronic jims and jams that everyone seems to carry now?”

“Oh, so you’re saying your Smart Phone turned you into a ghost.”

“Everything is changed, changed utterly.”

“So what if it all just shuts down, the power grid and that?”

“Yes! Smart girl. THAT is what it is all about.”

“What?” 

"Bodies that need no sustenance when the Time comes. That time when the whole ecosystem collapses, gives way in a great Biblical flood and rips apart the rest of the world with an all-consuming fire."

“You’re scaring me.”

 “Haven’t you ever worried about it?"

“Of course. But I never knew that. . . “

“Now we can live under any conditions.”

“BUT YOU AREN’T REALLY ALIVE! You died of AIDS two years ago!”

 “But I’m not really dead.” He grinned, looking as cheerful as when he told me the suicide joke.

“You must be dead, Peter. You MUST be.”

 “No, my good friend.” He lifted his mug and pretended to drink from it. “I’m back alive again.”

Dark night: thoughts on the Colorado massacre

Like a lot of people, I find I can't live - can't go about my day-to-day activities and try to enjoy life - if I'm paralyzed with grief, horror and fear. At the same time, how can I NOT feel this, and feel deeply for the survivors who are reeling with shock and disbelief?

It COULD happen to me, or to you. We don't have special protection, even if we believe in "God" or "the angels".  It's NOT "a movie" or "part of the show". Those AREN'T "firecrackers", but gunshots! Gunshots that kill people.


Do you still think everything happens for a reason? Then tell me, explain to me: what was the reason for this?

I get sad and melancholy and I don’t know how else to feel when the news is so horrendous. In a sense, you have to just push it away. It’s not good mental health to practice so much denial, and it’s not honest either, but what else can you do, not go out because you’re afraid you’ll be gunned down? I don’t care about me, though I’d rather be cleanly killed than be like Gabby Gifford who is now reduced to a bewildered, childlike state.

It’s my loved ones I worry about. All the time, really. I worry about apocalypse of some sort. The weather, world climate, which is already deteriorating alarmingly, fire and flood, drought and snowstorm occurring where/when they shouldn't be, and I wonder what I am leaving for my grandchildren and their children, if they even have a chance to exist. And/or terrorism spreading like an evil ugly cancer, ultimate weapons, what they used to call “germ warfare” that would knock out so many people, there’d be no one left to try to cure it.

I know these are worst-case scenarios and the stuff of science fiction and  movies/books about the horror of dystopia, but still, did anyone anticipate 9-11? I don’t see how anyone could have, and that's what alarms the shit out of me. It was just a taste of what terrorists might do to us. If it happens again on a mass scale, of course it would be all-out nuclear war and the end of everything.

We can’t think about this, of course, but there is a cost to repressing it all the time. If you talk about it and openly express fear about it, you’re seen as a sort of party-pooper who doesn’t know how to have a good time (text-text-text, tweet-tweet-tweet!). I asked Bill once, “what’s IN all these texts? What are people texting about?” Bill said, “NOTHING.” And I think he’s right. They have no content, so all they are is a sort of mutual narcissism and a smokescreen insulating people from their feelings.  

Myself, I lasted about two seconds on Facebook because every time I tried to post anything serious, all I got was dead silence, or a nasty jibe meant to send up my comment or minimize it with a joke. I felt like I was eight years old and being ostracized on the playground once again.

I'm not in a personal crisis now, my life is stable if a little dull, and in many ways I am blessed beyond measure.  But that doesn’t mean I have no problems. Is it normal to have problems? People pretend they don’t. But all these sick evil people are emerging who think it’s OK to randomly murder strangers, even children. Meanwhile people say things like, “I thought it was part of the show.” During 9-11, people repeatedly said, “It looked like a movie.” Do we know the difference any more?

With all this emphasis on "social networking", we're increasingly wearing masks and becoming anyone we want to be. It's fun for a while, then an awful barrenness steals in and begins to eat away at the core, the very foundation of your soul. And for the most part, you're not even consciously aware of it. Everyone's doing it, after all, so it must be OK.

Constant shallow tweeting, texting and phoning about nothing drowns out the drone of horror in the background, the sound of those awful air-raid sirens I used to hear as a kid (supposedly, just being tested out, but tested out far more often during the Cuban Missile Crisis and at other points when the nuclear clock stood at a few seconds to midnight).

I never used to hear about random shooters when I was younger: did you? Did you hear about events like this, or Columbine, or people just randomly opening fire in mall food fairs?

Why is this happening now, when it never used to happen before? Though there is a tremendous amount of denial about this subject, in many ways our world teeters on the brink. Brink of what? Climate meltdown, terrorism on a scale so massive it's beyond our capacity to grasp - and, the thing no one talks about any more, vast, even grotesque overpopulation.

Being crowded together far beyond the carrying capacity of the planet, a planet we have poisoned grievously and choked with vast islands of dead computers and other forms of plastic that will never degrade, has done something to us. It's cooking up a huge vat of collective stress, the kind of stress that can explode alarmingly in a susceptible person. I have a theory about why so many people are becoming grossly obese: it goes beyond the ubiquity of junk food in seemingly every store. Cramming a chocolate bar in your mouth helps you push down that low-grade vibration of anxiety about our survival as a species.

Try to project all the problems we have in the world to fifty years from now. I am afraid to. I just don't see how we will be able to stop the juggernaut, the relentless progression of a destruction we set in motion ourselves, mostly through thoughtlessness and greed.

We treat these horrendous fires and floods as if they came out of nowhere, but I see it as the planet hitting back, finally unable to stand any more abuse. We HAVE changed the world climate, folks - irrevocably, and not for the better. I am afraid that these feeble attempts to reduce our "carbon footprint" is too little, too late.

But we are awfully good at numbing ourselves to the truth, whether with drugs, food, or an obsession with technology you can hold in one hand like an ice cream cone.

If a lonely, isolated, socially-deprived person with a fascination with weaponry begins to entertain an idea - an awful idea - what will stop him? He won't talk to a friend about it because he doesn't have any friends. ("He kept mostly to himself" has become almost a cliche in these situations.)  Friends aren't people any more - they're Facebook pages and "tweets". (And I think it's no accident that the inventor of this strange form of non-communication named it after the sound a silly, superficial, bird-brained creature.)

Every time something like this happens, authorities are quick to tell the public that it was an "isolated case", just one disturbed nut case whose mental illness had nothing to do with the rest of us or the alienated, anxiety-ridden, sick world we live in. That makes everyone feel better for a while. Doesn't it?

I don't know what to do about all this. It's as if I'm expected to care, but not care, or at least not care very much. I can't prevent another dark night, have no idea how to start. But the profound social isolation and alienation that gave rise to this horrific act affects all of us, without exception. 

So we don't know how to feel. We don't know how to go on. "We thought it was part of the show," the survivors said.

And in an awful kind of way, maybe it was.