Spyware goes cute: MARON-1, Fujitsu's "house-bot and handy in-home surveillance aid." (From Fujitsu.com)I admit I'm feeling a little rattled. This week I found a bug in my apartment. Not the ah-it's-spring-the-critters-are-returning kind—I mean the Mission Impossible (RIP, Peter Graves), Jason Bourne kind. And it turns out there's one in my car, too! I've been listening to hours of recordings of banal daily activities: phone calls, TV-watching, cat-feeding, etc., and between you and me, my life's sounding damn boring—but fascinating at the same time!
So how did I acquire these mysterious devices, and who is so interested in the mundanities of my existenz? Well, turns out I've been bugging myself, unwittingly conducting my own investigation into my pathetically unsuspicious activities. And I accomplished this without any sizable outlays for sensitive listening devices, hidden cameras, or costly installations. All I had to do was not notice that I had hit the "record" button on my little $39.99 digital voice recorder that I carry in my purse.
After listening to several of the new folders on the device, which it has created every time it was activated, I deduced that they seemed to coincide with car trips, and they also seemed to record cell phone calls I made during those trips. (Note: naturally, seeing as it is now illegal, I —ahem—no longer continue this practice.) I was a little creeped out, but the threads of the self-surveillance mystery began to unravel. I realized that I usually carry the recorder in the same "secondary" purse section as my cell phone (the "primary" section, of course, being the location of the most-frequently-rummaged-for items: wallet, change purse, debit card, pen). So apparently when I reach across to the passenger seat to dig in my purse for my phone, I've been activating the recorder.
So CSIS, in case you're interested in my potentially seditious activities, I can save you some trouble.
At first, I thought I would just delete all these hours and hours of files without listening to any of it. How could it be anything but boring, right? But I decided to listen to some of them, and I was instantly fascinated by the opportunity each recording offered for a little audio time-travelling. I found myself trying to guess when each recording had been made. Where was I going that day? Did it seem to be day or night? Who was I calling en route? There were usually enough clues in the phone calls to nail this down. I remembered many of the unheard responses to my half of the conversations. How did I seem to be feeling—anxious, tired, cheerful? I cannot drive a car without the radio blasting, so Boom 97.3 was a constant in all the car sessions, but I found it both embarrassing and a little endearing when my surveillance "subject" would suddenly burst into song in accompaniment of a favourite lyric or chorus. If I wasn't cheerful beforehand, I think that must have helped.
On one particular occasion, I heard myself arrive back home, likely from an out-of-town day trip to visit my parents. I heard the car beeping as I backed into the parking spot (I have a handy back-up camera), I heard myself unclick the seatbelt, get out, lock the door. I heard my footsteps as I headed toward my building. I could tell how far I'd parked down the side street as the sounds shifted at the corner. I heard myself stop at the convenience store and buy something—probably milk—and chat with the clerk. I had to wait for the light, I crossed and continued walking, I unlocked the door at my building. At this point I held my breath as I listened—would I/she stop to check her mail? The keys jingled. She did. I heard my steps scraping lightly as I climbed the stairs. (I try to climb quietly through our stairwell-slash-echo chamber to avoid disturbing my fellow tenants, and apparently it works!)
With a *snick* I unlocked my apartment and dropped my stuff. I heard myself coo to my cats, who came to greet me. At this point, the purse, where the "bug" is concealed, was dumped near the front door, but I was surprised that I was still able to hear a muffled version of the following events. I heard the living room light click on (ah, it's evening!), and the cat kibble rattle in its container as I topped up the dishes. Footsteps moved about, the TV thunked on, the answering machine was checked. Another evening began.
Listening to these recordings, I was transported. I could close my eyes and relive every action, every step. It was interesting only because I was completely unaware of the surveillance, and therefore completely myself. I felt tenderly toward this spied-upon creature, innocently moving through her day. It also reminded me slightly of listening to Python's "Adventures of Ralph Mellish" sketch, on the Matching Tie and Hankerchief album, which sends up blood-curdling detective tales by describing a character and situation crashingly boring and mundane.
Ralph Mellish, a file clerk at an insurance company, was on his way to work as usual when... (da dum!) Nothing happened! (dum dum da dum) Scarcely able to believe his eyes, Ralph Mellish looked down. But one glance confirmed his suspicions. Behind a bush, on the side of the road, there was *no* severed arm. No dismembered trunk of a man in his late fifties. No head in a bag. Nothing. Not a sausage.
This sketch also includes one of my favourite deadpan Python exchanges, uttered when Ralph greets the secretary at his insurance office in "Dulls-ells Street":
Enid: Morning, Mr. Mellish.
Ralph: Morning, Enid.
Inanity aside, it was this vulnerability, this peek at my unconscious behaviours and habits that I found so touching. After analyzing the evidence for a couple of hours, I grew to like the subject of my investigation; I was in danger of empathizing with my suspect—an instance of Reverse Stockholm Syndrome, perhaps? She seemed friendly, she loved her cats, she liked to laugh. But I knew that once she found out about the surveillance, that innocence would be lost. Knowing she'd been spied on, she could never again be completely unself-conscious as she belted out "Someone saved, someone saved, someone saved my life tonight" in the car, or crooned, "Who's my baby boy?" while snuggling the cat. Could the poor victimized creature ever learn to trust again?
Apparently, the answer is yes. I've already pretty much forgotten my adventures as a suspect. Despite these flagrant invasions of privacy, I'm back to performing sessions of unabashed car-karaoke and murmuring sweet nothings to the cat. I still climb my stairs as softly as I can, and frequently don't discover dismembered trunks of men in their late fifties in the bushes. When it comes to self-surveillance, it seems like ignorance is bliss.
