June the 8th

I turned them in.

I don’t know what for, or why. They did nothing wrong that I saw, but the organization will find a reason.

But here’s the thing.

The organization could send in planes, helicopters, even drones. But where we are, those things would be seen miles off. Someone is always here, watching. The news and the feeling of strangers would spread through the small towns we got our food from. They would tell us someone new was coming. Drylab would arm up. Or leave.

So, despite their power, they must come like we did. In a nondescript van filled to the brim with strangers, the driver apparently normal for any that might see her. They must come in quietly, and leave quietly. The small desert towns have their followers and if people were stolen while they watched, they would speak. If someone came after them, they would filter through the cracks in society. It would be small, insidious, rumors on the internet. But if it happened enough times, and enough people talked to each other, and the discomfort and dissatisfaction with the government and the state of the world was high enough, change would happen.

The organization does not want to be a cog in its downfall. It wants to be a tiny, but important wheel in the machine of our lives.

The organization was not certain what the exact location of Drylab was. I had to move on the land to find it. Nadira and Kirsten are unsure how they found it. The organization had no record of it and even through my satellite communications, the position was indeterminate. So they asked me for it.

Here’s the other thing.

I gave them the wrong location.

June the 6th

I am sad. And tired. So tired. I had come into this filled with a sense of duty and the desire to commit shameful acts for the benefit of many.

They are shameful because I am a betrayer. I know that. I secreted myself among them, picking them up from the roadside with the intent of destroying their lives.

I like to think I have found friends, but none of them know me. They know a different me.

I lost my mind for a while. I saw things that couldn’t possibly exist. I saw words and people and stars and while those are the elements that make up a well-lived life, I know that what I saw wasn’t real. My words, my people, my stars are those of a trickster. I have no true understanding of those things because my intent was to break them, to vilify that which defined them.

They are my friends.

June the 3rd

 

These women are infuriating. They speak of companionship and community, but they are blind to the tragedies of themselves.

Skip is silent and does not speak. She might have a glorious inner life, but who would know? Jack mourns someone who will never come and is beginning to delight in the loneliness. BCC: spends all day on a typewriter, a ridiculously ancient device, writing many letters and receiving only a few in return. Moso is strange, secretive but aware of herself and is a lesson in quiet regard. Nadira holds strength and compassion in equal measure, a contradiction to the truly strong. Nayara betrays knowledge that does not come from a peaceful life, but finds humor in its absurdity. Kirsten speaks of happiness and the happiness of others when she is sad, not considering that caring about the chaos that exists within other humans is the root of unhappiness, clear to those who have never been happy.

And what of me? What is my tragedy?

June the 1st

Someone has done this to me. I will find them. They will pay.

The security here is abysmal. Moso has begun locking her room and I wonder why.

None of the windows lock, however, so I climbed in. As I stood in her room, about to investigate, I heard someone clear their throat behind me. Moso stood on the other side of her wall, looking at me through her open window.

I don’t know if it was the cloud in my head or simply the flustered state I was in, but as she stared at me, I said, “I’m doing my hair.” For a while, I had been climbing in my own bathroom window to access the hair products I’d put there before the bathroom door locked me out. It made sense when I spoke it, but as the words left my mouth, I recognized the insanity in that statement.

She was silent, looking at me with an expressionless face. I skinned my knee climbing back out while she observed me, her arms crossed, head slightly back, lips together, and eyebrows up.

I don’t know what she thinks of me, whether I am a thief or someone driven to explore by insatiable curiosity.

I may have to kill her simply on principle.

May the 29th

flames roar down the road

tractor seated stationary

little white houses all in a row

tree in a field of dirt

ladder against cement

cafe sign bright

orange mountains, blue shadows

ravens on the roof

barbed wire tea

green spotted cinder block home

May the 27th

 

There is something more in the box, I think. I see things at the corner of my eyes and when I turn my head to look, nothing is there.

I was sent here because the organization I work for had heard of strange accounts in the desert. There have always been UFO nuts that congregate at the latest spot. Radios with signals that don’t make sense, voices on the wind, figures and shapes in the dust, strange mechanics on the ground, trash pits that are invisible ten yards away.

These things don’t make sense in an ordered society. Why have they been allowed to stay? They are nothing but remnants of civilization no one has bothered to destroy.

I saw the lights again last night and my thoughts are no longer making sense.

orange.      blue.      five.      star.

I think I’m going crazy.

May the 24th

 

We had visitors today.

They spoke of such illegal activities. Crossing the border, carrying food. They even said they did not bring their technological devices just so they would not be searched.

I feel I should report them, but they brought gifts just for the purpose of carrying them to those who could use them. They were kind and we ate their food. And therein lies the danger. Gifts and eating together builds companionship. I never understood how people could be so taken in by wrongful actions. Now I realize, it’s not the actions they are taken in by, it’s the people. After all, if the people who commit those actions are so kind in person, their actions must not be so harmful to society, right? I will report them in my next correspondence.

 

The strangest thing was that despite all the wonderful foods they brought, salmon, cheese, chocolate, it was our own strawberries I took the most delight in eating.

Just strawberries. So simple. Just strawberries. But strawberries.

 

May the 23rd

Words. The box was filled with words. Long, twisted strips of paper forming tangled sentences. I took the box back with me and in the privacy of my room, sorted through the contents. I was missing for hours and no one came looking for me. I take this to mean they don’t truly care about me.

The words were written by a man when went by the name John Smith, in the year 2020. He was a scientist who saw what was happening. He had tried to warn people the direction we were headed in. He left the cities and ghettos for the desert. The Mojave was as dry as it had ever been, but life remained. Snakes, birds, mice, toads, grasshoppers, ants. They continued their lives much as they had for thousands of years, humans a frequent deadly annoyance, but ultimately something to ignore.

I felt sorry for the poor man. He had such ideas and it is clear from his writings that he was a brilliant man. But absolutely delusional.

The state of the world we live in is not our fault. There might have been some predictions, but no one with a right mind and common sense believed them. And the world is not as terrible as he made it out to be. We created structures and materials that will last thousands of years. The footprints of our efforts cover the globe and our children’s grand-children will know it was us that created their world.

 

May the 21st

I ventured into the desert today.

I have not walked in it much, out of fear of being alone with the wind and myself.

I saw a woman, walking in the distance.

 

She had hair blowing in the wind and across her face.

She wore clothes the color of the sky and earth.

She was peace and power and burnt sun.

 

I tried to follow, but she ever moved away.

I saw a box on the ground.

I opened it.

 

May the 18th

 

I am now aware of the danger of these people. And the other day, two more arrived. They weren’t willing to say how they knew of this place.

When the strange women came, we discussed allowing them to enter our cabal (it is not mine, of course). It will mean more work, more people to watch, but that means more information gathered. I took notes under the table and might have gotten forceful than necessary when it was suggested I might no longer be the cook. I hope I have established that I make the food without threatening my facade.

What came before was written the previous day and events have occurred that change my role in the group.

Now I am worried. I thought being the main cook would be easy, but it is much harder than I thought to cook for so many people. The others over-ruled me and dispersed the cooking duty. I think I will hang around the kitchen being helpful. I feel much more relaxed now that the duty is not all on me, but I am worried this is a ploy. I don’t know what is real here. The desert is so strange and glorious, with its own mysteries. The ground on which I walk and the air in my lungs is unfamiliar, dry and heady.

I do not know if what I saw that night was a dream. That might have been all it was. A waking fantasy. Or it might have been something real.