Judith Strand Industrial Design

When The Temple Fell

2005-10-04T13:56:00.000-07:00

H. has been patient with helping me train but I know I'll never feel quite ready. Seeing his obvious feelings for V. makes me question, too, how much he is willing to sacrifice. What binds us together? The time is soon coming when we'll find out. I will, in a strange way, miss this neighborhood. I spend a lot of time walking at night and only get a few inquisitive glances. All my communication conducted in smiles and hand signals in this city within a city.

One thing is certain. They are frightened, and impatient. They don't know their weaknesses and I'm learning my strength.

The Future Is Unwritten

2005-07-15T13:01:00.000-07:00

Another cafe. This one smells vaguely of garbage, has falling-apart furniture with stuffing poking through the holes. Two women, sitting together near the door to the alley, each talking on cellphones and clutching paper cups. A man blowing cigarette smoke through the open front door. I am aware that I am being followed. I accept this. I have my escape plan, for now. I can't leave this city yet. It is too important, this peace and sense of purpose we have together. When I'm alone I notice hunger and hurt, and disturbing headlines. Last night I could not sleep and wandered through the park, practically daring an attack. I rested on a bench, under the violet sky, thinking of the Gandhi quote: "Be the change you want to see in the world." That I cannot be. Perhaps a destructive nature can be good, if it re-establishes balance. If. What if I fail? I thought about the desert community, those children in the school room. Is that what I want? I lack a utopian imagination. My mind fixes on individuals. An individual. I am, essentially, a servant.

The cruelest assessment I ever made about myself is that I cannot change. Yet somehow it happened anyway. How is it then, that I can trust my own strength?

in the grid

2005-07-07T10:12:00.000-07:00

The city offers its own escapes... a different route to take home at night, a different coffeeshop to pause in in the morning. This one has a row of nearly full-length windows stretching along the front, and as I sit with my back to a brick wall, I can watch the business-suited passersby lose their money to a broken newspaper dispenser. They struggle for a moment, then go on their way, already forgetting. When I try to tell people the paper is mostly full of distractions, I encounter the kind of resistance reserved for evangelists. There are certain things one cannot "joke" about. Even though I am not joking. These distractions are very serious indeed.

I don't know if the man who came out of the basement stairwell last night and grabbed me wanted my laptop, or was some kind of untrained merc. But in the moment that I broke his arm and left him howling on the sidewalk I felt, in the fullest sense, the days of my illness were over. As much as I have longed to be free of my burdens I could not live happily as a defenseless person, without the exhilaration of combat.

Sometimes it is better to fight than to run... fighting to stay here, for example. Fighting to remain back among friends. And as for the complexity those friendships, I could write pages more...

This morning I stood outside an Eastern Orthodox church, as the old ladies in their bright summer suits clustered outside after mass. I wonder what their god would think of someone who can only show love by bringing death to those who would harm the one she's sworn to protect? Is there a space in between the circles of hell reserved just for me?

escape

2005-06-28T12:54:00.000-07:00

I suppose our exit went rather smoothly, considering. When I am grounded for too long and that fear overtakes me--fear of my monstrous former self--sometimes I ignore the real danger. The life of a citizen has a seductive quality I always underestimate. This too, is part of who I am. And although I am distracted by this split, the ones looking for us never will be.

But when I heard the car approach I was ready. I awoke V., and all she said was, "What have you done with Oscar?" I told her I let him go.

For a second I was afraid she wouldn't come with me without the cat, then we climbed out the kitchen window and I waited beside the road, cursing my leg while she walked the rest of the way to town through the fields for a car. Now we are in a cramped city hotel room, tiny faded flowers on the cheap bedspreads and the stale smell of old cigarettes on clinging to the khaki curtains. The sound of sirens outside is amost soothing. V. watches old black and white movies on television while I examine the exits and wait for an associate to bring a doctor to look at my leg.

I feel calm. Strong. In control. Decisions made smoothly. What was happening to me back there?

voices outside

2005-06-23T11:59:00.000-07:00

I am restless in this room. I have not heard from my friends in a while. I am not sure what to do. Without G. it's hard to keep our purpose in mind. That day on the beach seems like a dream. I think I imagined a meaning that wasn't there. It's like two worlds have converged. That moment when I thought V. disappeared I realized... it's not simply that this can't be done alone. I don't want to be alone.

Why do I post any of this? Because I can. Maybe I am addicted to it. Mostly I like looking to see if anyone's thoughts match mine. If anyone else is struggling against the world as its been constructed. Looking for something else to believe in.

It's time to move soon. If you are out there, send me some sign.

disappearance

2005-06-21T07:31:00.000-07:00

How long did I think it could go on, the two of us, living here, undetected? If it were just me I could hide forever, but I think I have been expecting too much from V. I had only gone for a walk. Actually walking outside is like a gift in itself... V. had found an oddly-shaped piece of driftwood to help me get around. It looks like something that ought to be owned by a mountain man with a wild beard but it works much better than depending on the few corners and counters in our house to prop me up. When I returned to the house, V. was gone. (The cat betrayed its intelligence by promptly slinking under her bed). At sunset she had not returned and I took my sword and circled the house, not sure I'd return. No sign of her in any direction. I settled down to wait, away from the house, not knowing whether to be angry with her or not. What if she had been caught? How could I save her? I heard her approach before I saw her. She was sort of singing to herself. She looked ashamed when she saw me and said she'd gone into town. Did you talk to anyone? Did anyone notice you? Were you followed back? She looked ready to cry. "I'm going crazy with you out here!" she said, and ran inside. Of course she was noticed. Of course she was followed. I sat outside watching and waiting long past nightfall.

in the meantime

2005-06-13T01:14:00.000-07:00

I do see your point... sometimes a cat is just a cat, and sometimes a cigar is just a cigar... let me put it this way: I'd rather not be sharing my living space with this creature. I would have preferred if V. had not lured it in the house while I was sleeping and I'd feel a good deal better if her new pet were not staring at me right now, all wounded eyes and patchy, mottled brown fur. To V. it is just another hurt creature, one more appreciative of her kindess than I appear to be. I hate the cat because I can't look at it without seeing its potential as a surveillance device, but I know that I am not an insane person, even after everything. Someone, sometime, has to lead them back to G.

"You must be feeling better," V. said last night. "You're getting paranoid again."

Do I detect a trace of bitterness? I suspect we have been driving ourselves slightly crazy in this sweltering heat, and our tacit understanding that silence is the best policy. I stare at my leg, white and bandaged as if it does not belong to me. I feel almost perfectly well, until I stand and try to move and then I realize how slowly I am recovering.

Without the luxury of my usual habits, I've been spending more time on the internet, searching for some sign, some hidden clue, and sometimes just losing myself in the chatter.

visitor

2005-06-06T07:30:00.000-07:00

Something woke me from a deep sleep early this morning and the first thing I saw was a pair of yellow eyes staring in through the window. I yelled for V. It was rather embarrassing once I heard my voice, like a child having a nightmare. V. peered out the window and laughed. "It's a cat," she said. She went to the door but the creature ran away. I lay back but didn't sleep. I was thinking about the splicers. I wonder if they've created new creatures for spying. If they know we are here.

Geography

2005-05-31T13:16:00.000-07:00

What can be done to help me? I don't know how to answer but I am grateful for the question. I like to lie here and think that something can be done, I just don't want to do anything. There's been no word from my "friends" for quite a while. Presumably there are good reasons, but it leads me to think how quickly one is discarded, etc. The truth is I don't want to be rescued. If I don't heal completely I don't want to keep going, and let G. think I abandoned him. I won't be trapped inside a useless body in this damned house. The house, if you're interested, is a one-room shack with a pitched roof and exposed beams strung with spiderwebs, and narrow windows with bumpy glass looking out on the ocean. My narrow, musty smelling bed is sectioned off by a sheet. V. is here, chopping something up for lunch. There is a small town not too nearby, and she has arranged with a friend of L. the delivery of necessities. I don't worry about these things anymore. I don't care. I feel sorry for V., shamed by all she must do for me, and yet I'm growing sick of her kindly patience, which fairly reeks of her religious fervor. She must see that I don't deserve it, or maybe she thinks all her sacrifices will lead to some great reward.

one can still be deadly

2005-05-24T17:12:00.000-07:00

I am out of danger? The thought shakes me with silent laughter. I don't even remember how I got here. I only remember refusing any doctor. Even in my state I would have killed any doctor who approached me with a bag large enough to conceal a handsaw. I suppose out here we would resort to common tools. I dreamed of my father, spinning circles around me in his wheelchair and laughing (he never laughed in life): "Daughter! You still have one good leg!" I awoke frightened, but somehow bandaged and whole. V. says the infection is better.

as it happens

2003-10-04T18:42:00.000-07:00

Evening is fast approaching and there's not much time to say anything, except that I don't want to have been entirely misunderstood. That's why I'm posting all of this. You can do what you want with it as I know you will. You can ignore it entirely because I'm sure you already have it all thought out, one way or another. I suppose it may not matter much to me after tonight.

Highway thoughts

2003-10-04T17:42:00.000-07:00

I am grateful for the companionship of H., his easy going manner. I cannot think why anyone would be so loyal, but I cannot voice my thanks. The money is a helpful way to avoid this acknowledgement. As long as I pay him I owe him nothing, yes? I am grateful for the music he plays at full blast that adds the unreal air of a vacation to our journey. I am glad for the beautiful landscape rolling past, for speed and open highway and cool wind pouring in through the windows. Boredom is not possible, even when the landscape is flat and unchanging—all is beautiful. Ignore all the ugly signs, the bulky freight trucks carrying chopped-down trees, petrol, animals for slaughter. Forget who I am and the decisions that must be made. Once I wanted freedom. I think that’s what I wanted. But the most joyous moments come when I am pulled along by the current. I have been puzzling about this since the sun went down, and there is nothing to see but a spot of road illuminated by headlights. I must sleep soon, but tomorrow I will come back to this.

television

2003-10-04T16:42:00.000-07:00

...the stakes are high, the plot races along, throw in some international travel and high speed chases that our star handles decisively and gracefully. G thinks he's the star, but I bet I photograph better.

Actually, there’s been quite a lot of sitting around, leaving our heroine vulnerable to random and intrusive thoughts that sway her mind unpredictably, pushing her ever further out of the present moment. We needed that money but now everything's gone horribly wrong—it is my fault. Because I listened to what HE said. Since when do I ascribe to him the judgement to know what’s right? Am I really so awed by his abilities? Do I really want him to like me so much that I would be swayed by his untrained appraisal of a situation, his childish pride in his new powers? The truth is, I did not do what was automatic. I was acting.

All day I’ve been trying to keep calm and really it would be a relief to just sit down and bawl—some warrior!

"what now?"

2003-10-04T15:42:00.000-07:00

Is there someplace in this world that is really safe for us? I am consumed with finding money and allies and means for travel, and G. stares moodily out the window, thinking of distant realms. I wouldn’t mind being in another world, far from my tired body, and the eternal next step. We are on different planes now, he and I. This is how it must be. And so the suicide mission has a worthy purpose. But, looking at him, I feel more alone than I ever have.

In answer to your question

2003-10-04T14:42:00.000-07:00

You must understand. Now that we know what you are capable of, I also know you are capable of doing great harm in this world. I can’t believe that you would, but if you were to turn cold, I would destroy you, just as I would give my life for you now. You don’t grasp yet how much you are capable of and what this means for me. I had given all this up before, because I thought there were none like you. I am sworn to protect you now, but we must remain farther apart than ever. I didn’t say all that of course. “Yes, of course I’d kill you,” was more like it.

Return

2003-10-04T13:42:00.000-07:00

My training, or far lack of a better word, gifts—make me impatient and mistrustful with others. I don't know what to do with these fears that you've been captured, or have done something foolish and injured yourself. By now our fates have been decided and all I can think about is the awful moment of arrival, and seeing your face.

Playing Tourist

2003-10-04T12:42:00.000-07:00

I’ve always loved disguises. I can separate completely from what I aim to accomplish and stay in the pleasurable moment of transition. The increased confidence in my voice and manner stems directly from this moment when I realize my appearance has been obliterated. I am hidden in plain daylight from the Vast Machine and from the attentions of men who call me beautiful. It would really be much better, in my position, to be plain. This time I shall be an aging alcoholic mother, a strayed wife out on the town.

My thoughts return to those commune children, and why exactly I was welcomed with such malice. How vulnerable it makes you, to be a parent. I wonder if it changed my father at all. Maybe all that training for my own good was just a way for him to avoid that pain.

be not afraid

2003-10-04T11:42:00.000-07:00

You ask, what is it like? Is that not a horrible way to live? I know it is my source of strength. Your enemy may seem insurmountable but if he can take nothing from you he can never control you. There is nothing that I hold dear, so there is nothing horrible in death, so long as it's an honorable death. Fear is instructive. Survival is automatic. When we started out, my father and I, I would just prretend that death did not phase me. Sometimes pretending is enough to get you by...

third way

2003-10-04T10:42:00.000-07:00

I wonder if it would be possible to live apart from the Vast Machine, quietly, self-sufficiently, creating a physical reality from one’s own inner wants and needs, free from the shaping effects of society. Perhaps one could not survive alone. But as soon as you form a group, even in the smallest numbers, the usual problems arise. Greed. Jealousy. A hunger for control. Hatred. Even in this godforsaken place my occupation results in a welcome worthy of a walking scourge. It is a welcome nonetheless because it would be dangerous to make an enemy of me (this does give me some small satisfaction). But still, if I cannot live alone for fear of going mad, and if I can't live amongst people, for fear of the same, suppose I could live with one other… would it be possible to be happy that way? If it were possible, would I risk my life so freely?

Harlequin Eyes

2003-10-04T09:42:00.000-07:00

G. is a fool, and put us in danger with his swaggering ways. I can just imagine the unnecessary trouble that will come our way if he can’t exercise some amount of common sense. It was nothing I could not handle but I am angry at having to prove myself before him. At seeing myself reflected in his eyes. A killer. A machine. This he knew, but actually seeing blood spurting from a wound is another matter. Disgusting, isn't it? If only I had the luxury of his repulsion. Who can forgive the things I’ve done? Our kind is despised everywhere. I’ve been fooling myself with this hope of being understood—another classic means of manipulation. I should know better.

scapegoat

2003-10-04T08:42:00.000-07:00

My father seemed to be certain that G.’s father was very powerful. Whether these qualities were passed down remains to be seen. If he is gifted, I am sworn to protect him until the end. If he is “just a normal guy,” I am free--the contract is broken and we have no obligation to each other. These are the facts.

My father did not train me for the fact that these beings are people. They want to talk, to interact, to look into your eyes. My father taught me to fight. To hide. To die for something. He did not prepare me for G. I don’t know how I should act, and now there’s no one I can ask.

Motel thoughts

2003-10-04T07:42:00.000-07:00

My assumptions about G. were incorrect. He’s led nothing like a normal existence, and when he was talking last night, I realized, sickeningly, that we may even have some things in common. One is never as unique as one thinks. Mostly I was impressed by his need to tell me about his childhood. This is what happens, I thought, when two people share a motel room, and cannot sleep. I lay awake long after he was snoring, listening to every sound outside. When the sun rose I went outside and meditated, grateful to spend a few hours alone.

…Still Travelling

2003-10-04T06:42:00.000-07:00

It is sinking in that I am stuck with G., and spending time with him is uncomfortable work for both of is. He is rather impulsive, and a show-off, and I fear these tendencies will work to our disadvantage. Despite his attempts to understand what I have told him, he is really just a normal “guy.” And I find myself talking too much about myself in answer to his questions—a dangerous and unexpected side-effect of a solitary existence. Still it dedges up unpleasantness, and since there can be closeness between us I am left alone with the dedged-up unpleasantness. As soon as I decide that is enough, I cannot say more, he asks another question. And I keep talking, to fill the silence.

Travelling

2003-10-04T05:42:00.000-07:00

I was relieved to drive out of the city, and past the outlying freeway towns, so artificial-looking, with their wide paved streets lined with identical houses. Strange to think at one time I wanted to be like everyone else, functioning within the Vast Machine. If I’m functioning within, I thought, I should give little thought to it—it would be like it doesn’t exist. I wanted to feel like I belonged somewhere. If only it were so easy. For a split second today, though, driving by, I could forget my anxiety about this journey. I was content to not be settled into a routine, to be moving toward an unknown destination. I wish we could just keep driving. Keep moving—they can’t find you as long as you keep moving.

Damned by the…

2003-10-04T04:42:00.000-07:00

Disappointing news of the missing brother. Now it seems I will be bound up in G.’s spiritual journey as well as assuring his physical well-being. I just have to convince him to come with me, which should not be difficult, except that we clearly make each other uncomfortable. Still, I no longer fear him as a threat in terms of betrayal. He is more confused, more frightened than I, but seems resolved to fight... and I don’t see anyone else swooping in to rescue him. Well this should be a deliriously happy journey.

Das Wunderkind

2003-10-04T03:42:00.000-07:00

I’ve travelled a long way, and used my sword more than once. You could even make the case that I spent nearly my entire life preparing to meet the man I’m guarding now. I’m not sure what I expected, but when I look at G. I don’t see any indication of extraordinary ability. He seems like a normal citizen in every way, if somewhat more attractive than average. I’ve given little thought to what sort of life I’d have if I survive, but now I wonder what the sense is of risking it on someone who’s power is so uncertain? Someone who has not yet done the work of self-awareness? Surely my life, short as it may be, is worth more?

Still Kicking

2003-10-04T02:42:00.000-07:00

It's one thing to make a mistake out of ignorance, but it's quite another thing to suspect one is making a mistake, and to continue because of a perceived lack of options. I should have known that I would be betrayed. I know I am alive only because of my colleague's general stupidity and ineptitude, things that I expected to work against me. I cannot make such a mistake again. I must find some quiet somewhere. I think I'm disoriented, being here--I've grown unused to travel.

Awake

2003-10-04T01:42:00.000-07:00

I’ve cleansed my life of all unnecessary human interaction. Suddenly I find myself needing to eat less, needing to sleep less. The more time I've spent awake the closer I've come to hyper-awareness... remembering the recent past as I anticipate the future. A peripheral view. The few times I’ve dreamed, I’ve seen my father’s face. Not as it was when we had our last awful conversation but after.

The only way to cope is to exist in the moment. To have a clear objective, to be moving, to be travelling. Some days I feel as though I’m clinging to a dying religion, speaking in a dead language, yet I see evidence of our struggle everywhere. This is who I am. So be it. At this moment, I care little for the fate of humanity, of duty or final wishes. My motives are personal. The mission is to have a mission. And then I will disappear.

Vater

2003-10-04T00:42:00.000-07:00

My father taught me that everything I saw was an illusion. History, the news, and the very structure of society were constructed by a larger power that sought total control. It was this force he was struggling against, and someday I might join him. He taught me to question everything, and he taught me all the answers. I thought this secret knowledge made me superior to the citizens surrounding us, who blindly accepted the lie, and satiated themselves with materialism. Only later did I notice how much happier they seemed, and how unhappy my father seemed.

My father told me I was free to do whatever I wanted with my life. Since I'd been so strictly trained from such a young age, this ‘freedom of choice’ was just another type of manipulation particular to our kind--he never expected me to choose another life once he disappeared. The point is, he was an exceptional man, and he had little need for me. I realized that he could do anything, but he could not love. If he could have, even in the smallest way, Judith Strand never would have existed.

I realize now what a dangerous trap love is. Whether he could not, or would not allow himself any emotional weakness, his ties to me still led to his destruction. I felt alone before, but this is a new and strange and horrible emptiness.

Love notes

2003-09-29T08:40:00.000-07:00

It’s funny, isn’t it, when once your heart has finally healed from the wounds someone’s inflicted and they find you again. I have, however, been expecting "something" ever since the kendo class. I am frightened but cannot show any weakness. I am ready for this meeting which must take place. I feel as though I’m walking into battle with my oldest mortal enemy.

Dispatch from Purgatory

2003-09-26T20:15:00.000-07:00

The peace from the kendo class has not faded. But with this sense of freedom my urge to travel has awakened. I crave movement. I am afraid of thoughts that start to consume me when they have a chance to sprout roots and grow. Mostly since I have no one to tell them to. I hate when I sense any sort of need within myself for someone to know me intimately. I feel that this is impossible. Have I given in to hopelessness? I tell myself I have not, but then, what am I doing here? I’m not silly enough to expect happiness, but complacency seems to be beyond my grasp.

Movement

2003-09-24T23:36:00.000-07:00

I am refreshed. I stepped into an advanced kendo class at a martial arts school. I was met with skepticism but soon won their respect. No more questions were asked. All matters of sex, size, and status were disregarded. I have a need that nothing in civilian life can satisfy. Nothing compares to the intense pure and meditative state of simple combat. No thinking. Just action.

Career moves

2003-09-23T22:19:00.000-07:00

My design for the perfume bottle was accepted. It’s my first success with the company and a huge relief. Even though I was ultimately disappointed with my proposal, this news came at a time when I sorely needed it. I was beginning to doubt my ability to adapt to this life and feared having to start all over again.

In celebration I even allowed myself to be convinced to go out with a group from the office and get a little drunk. They kept ordering me vodka tonics and soon I was thinking, how easy it was to drop my mental checklists, my vigilance in this unfamiliar room. How easy it was to chat and laugh at unfunny jokes. Perhaps I should cultivate a few bad habits.

I soon excused myself, explaining I don’t often drink and didn’t want to make a fool of myself. There were a few stares but they were too concerned with their own enjoyment to question me. I feel I’ve achieved something—the appearance of being (almost) normal.

Asleep

2003-09-22T08:25:00.000-07:00

Somehow it’s weeks later. I’ve been merely existing. I get home from work late and turn on the television. It’s a strange sort of reality, but no less real those who know no other. How can I possibly tell anyone that all they see is an illusion? That they are slaves to the Vast Machine? That there is a larger truth? I'd be ostracized, fired, medicated. They think I’m strange enough for refusing to date. My broken heart is but a flimsy excuse. These men bore me. Kierkegaard said “Boredom is the root of all evil—the despairing refusal to be onesself.”

He also said, “There is nothing with which every man is so afraid as getting to know how overwhelmingly much he is capable of doing and becoming.”

It's just that I convinced myself that anything would be better than being alone. So far the results have been disappointing.

Smile.

2003-08-20T19:10:00.000-07:00

Today my boss took me by surprise. He summoned me into his office and after much tip-toeing around the subject, said that I did not seem happy with my job. I was certain from his tone that I was about to be fired and was surprised by a surge of guilt, that somehow I've disappointed this person, who knows nothing about me. He was reluctant to mention specifics, as if I'm supposed to understand. It seems his problem is that I “never smile” and I “avoid interaction with others.” And since this is a “tight knit place” and “office morale is very important” this is negatively impacting the group. I stammered out something about a difficult breakup. He seemed appeased and offered a few consoling words.

I still feel stunned by the realization that all I'm doing to change is not enough. I'm expected to be cheerful as well. What could I possibly say to him? Sorry for infecting the others, sir…

You are not anonymous.

2003-08-17T01:01:00.000-07:00

This is usually how trouble starts. Not long ago a coworker discovered that we live quite close and one night we walked home together. I wasn’t sure what to talk about besides work. I suppose I should have asked her about her something about herself or related some piece of gossip. I suppose that is what one does but I didn't think of it then. Instead I mentioned that the average person living in London is photographed by 300 different surveillance cameras every day. I began pointing out the cameras as we passed, in ATMs, on traffic lights. She seemed concerned, but not as I'd expected. She asked me if I were “one of those paranoid people.” I joked that I have mild OCD. This she seemed to understand. She recommended the name of a “brilliant” therapist.

Is a person who acknowledges the facts of existence paranoid? I suppose I have much to learn about passing as a citizen. Lesson 1—when not sure what to say, keep silent.