For Now, A Snail Instead

Yes. #1957 here. I had the idea--

--to visit Ste Abattoir des Chevres Pres de la Mer.

And so I did.

But I confess that I am reluctant to post photos of that soulless and preternaturally moribund place. Frankly, I fear that the Elite--and thusly, The Apparatus--will not be amused.

I suppose I can show a little:

of this strange:

and mind bogglingly townless town:

but I am uncertain as to the sensibility of my revealing more.

As always, it is very dangerous to do so . . .


Therefore, for the time being, I thought I'd show a few images of a snail instead:

Forgive me.


Goodbye from Soybean Island,

#1957

Hodgepodge (of Courage)

Now that winter has--apparently--gone away, I'm working up the courage to get on a TV (Transport Vehicle) and go visit the little town of Ste Abattoir des Chevres Pres de la Mer.

So, I thought I would offer up a hodgepodge mishmash assortment of images whilst I build said courage.

The reason courage--or willfulness--is prescribed for a journey to Ste Abattoir des Chevres Pres de la Mer, is because it is a town of The Elite and therefore, heavily protected by The Apparatus.

That is to say, it is very dangerous for one of Prisoner Status--an Untouchable like me--to wander and loiter in such a town.

Ste Abattoir des Chevres Pres de la Mer is like a suburb or a country club (as they have in the United States). It is a place of privilege. As mentioned, more Country Club than town . . . Though only a few of the Elite of The Elite live there (the Elite of The Elite--the 1%ers, if you wish--mostly live in their Mansions in elite of the elite neighborhoods in Soybean island City or in Cornana, which is the oldest town on the island. I suppose they have stugas out among The Homesteads--possibly--and I suppose they could have secret homes out along the coast. I know nothing of the seaside [have not even seen a glimmer of its waters or sandy-rocky-weedy shores] but one can assume) . . .

For me to be seen in such a place like Ste Abattoir de Chevres Pre de la Mer is like finding a roach among the tulips. A lizard at a dog show. A broken stick among the lovely puff of clouds. A sea cucumber on a plate of boiled blue crayfish . . . Or some such thing like that.

That last photo is a quick shot of the Headquarters for The Apparatus. Very dangerous for me to post. But Danger is my middle name . . . Well, Nine Five is my middle name for all practical purposes, but hopefully you get my gist.


Here are two more very dangerous images. If you look closely there is some symbol being portrayed from a balcony. A flag, perhaps. It is not the flag of Soybean Island.

I know not what this means. It is highly unusal. Rare. Astonishing to see. I imagine whoever so lives in that abode quite quickly got a visit from The Apparatus. In fact, I went back the next day and the flag was gone. Disappeared. No doubt its fliers, the inhabitants of that little place, have also disappeared.

Again it makes me wonder, question, ponder: Could there be some opposition to The Apparatus' rule? Could there be some other souls within these unfriendly confines who are willing to act out in defiance to the Powers-That-Be?

It seems impossible. Es muy poco probable.

Yet, how did such a flag get smuggled onto the island? And who had the guts to actually fly it? Well, hang it.

Perhaps it is nothing. Perhaps but a imagining of my feverish imagining machine that is my hopeless brain.

But I will do it. I will travel to Ste Abattoir des Chevres Pres de la Mer. And I will take my necessarily inept photos. I shall make that forbidding and misbegotten and infinitely boring place exist within the ether of the Internet--even if no one ever sees it or understands it or does something about it.

I promise.

Arguably, until next time if there is a next time:

Goodbye from Soybean Island,

#1957

Where The Rutabaga River Comes To Die

The Rutabaga River is the only river and it is not even a river. It is a stream. It drains in, I believe, three tributaries from the north of the island into the single river which meanders its way across the flat terrain of Soybean Island. I also believe it is borne of spring-fed lakes. I do know that by the time it reaches Ste Abattoir des Chevres Pres de la Mer--and eventually the sea--it is called Acequia de Colinabos. But, when this iconic waterway (and I mean iconic in the most ironically demeaning way possible) reaches the metropolis (and I also mean this in a very deprecating manner) of Soybean island City, it disappears.

I do not know if the above moving image is viewable . . .


The spot chosen by the powers-that-be (The Apparatus) to devour said fresh water is not without its small-time charms:

Especially on a day with green grass and blue skies. (Sky, the singular, really should be used, unless you live on a planet with more than one sky--which I can't quite fathom how that would work.)

But there are--of course--also many images of abuse and control:

Yes.

Even the small trees are treated as prisoners here:

I do not know what the above sapling did, but it must have been quite unlawful.


Here is the most famous bridge in the city--on the whole island, most likely . . .

Ladies and gentlemen, The Bridge of Beans:

Indeed.

And The Tunnel Of The Unloved:

I know not the origin of its name.

But what views of Soybean Island City from atop the tunnel!:

And what a lovely life this barren and forcefully planted young tree must have living next to an actual manmade waterfall:

All day long it hears splash splash splash, gurgle gurgle gurgle, spill spill spill.

Exciting!

Nonetheless, the Rutabaga River comes in--

--pools in its pre-dug pool and then is sucked under--

To be drank and cooked and bathed and flushed with.

And you are left with this:

Ah yes. And this:

The wonders of nature . . .

Perhaps I'm being a bit unfair. Pessimistic. Glass a smidgin full and all empty. Let's have another quick look:

Perhaps, perhaps not.

Well, there's this anyway, if it gets past the myriad image censors of The Apparatus--

One never knows what you will find on Soybean Island. But one does know that it can find you.

Therefore, until next time, if there is a next time:

Goodbye from Soybean Island,

      #1957

Spring Sprung?

Well. It looks like Spring does exist after all. Amazing . . . # One Nine Five Seven here, with not much to report.

Other than the seasonal changes.

Yes, It was warm enough to enter the outside world sans scarf, coat, gloves, thermal underwear. And, so I did just that:

Greenery has reared its verdant head.

To some degree, that is:

Or no degree:

Sparse--

Or flowery and full--

And abundant:

                                                     Visit Soybean Island

Do not let the season fool you, as I promise not to let it fool me.

There is still the air of oppression. The odor of repression and control. There is still, among the green grass and flowering flowers, the chance for snow:

Beware of all things on Soybean Island.

Until next time, if there is a next time:

Goodbye from Soybean Island,

   #1957