Some time ago in the middle of the night between dreams I received a clear message:
It was an almost-dead project, the kind that no one is assigned to unless being punished.
It is here where a story of sorts begins.
The instructor had been instructed to instruct the trainees using methods that minimized their knowledge of the project. The project was stifling them all, based as it was in a stuffy underground bunker buried in the middle of the desert (exact location classified). The instructor struggled under these conditions to engage the trainees in the instruction. He began to keep a journal as a way to make sense of the madness that had become his life (or had perhaps always been his life and he’d been ignoring it until now, when it suddenly began to poke him in the eye).
The following entries have been excerpted from that journal. Each entry is preceded by a 3-digit date code representing the month and day, followed by the location where the entry was recorded and certain significant birthdays attached to the specific date. I have no idea why. Maybe it was to remind himself that everybody had to start somewhere.
9.26. In the meager shade of a saguaro cactus. Birthday of Darby Crash duly noted (‘What we do is secret, secret’). The instruction progresses at a slow pace. I’m not sure if it’s me unraveling or if this group of trainees is an even worse group of dullards than the last one. I wake every morning with nausea. It subsides around mid-day and returns with force in the evening. The air is so dry.
9.30. My quarters. Rumi was born this day in 1207. A security officer discovered peyote buttons in one of the trainees’ quarters. When confronted, the trainee explained that he’d gathered them earlier that day and intended to use them in a religious ceremony. The peyote was confiscated and handed over to me. I’m considering consuming it, although given my fragile state of mind this may not be such a good idea. Maybe later?