Some Scenes From A Small Island

Which way does one go?

Out into the wastelands:

Or into the wastes of Soybean Island City:

?

My options are quite limited here on this poor little island. (And I do not mean poor in an economic sense.) They are also limited by my pariah status, my prisoner and exile status. The longer I am here, the crazier I become.

Really, the only thing that allows me to keep my sanity, allows me to retain the memory of who I really am, is this blog. This attempt to reach someone in the outside world. Anyone. Even a computer-using mynah bird would suffice at this point.

But, again, country or city?

(The above is "country", in case one is fooled by the bleak similarities. The following is "city".)

Life here is a tolerated intolerable. I think the long winter--something I have not, had not, been used to for almost two decades--is what brought me to my proverbial knees. Lately the sun has shown. Small greenery peeks their greenery heads above the grim soils. My lips sometimes feel moist. This helps. As does the therapy and pipe-dream-aspirations of these postings--just knowing that they, possibly, are going out into the world like a beacon, like the dying light of a star which may not reach a human eye for a hundred years, a millennium, a millennium of millenniums, knowing of this remote and foolish possibility lets me carry onward.

So . . .

Land of dirt and dust and desiccated plant detritus, with its frightening processing machinery:

?

Or the city, with its concrete and soul-draining propensities:

?

I chose the city:

'Twas the easier choice, out of the trifling, nugatory, bijou choices that avail me.

The above appears to be some attempt at artwork. I do not know what it represents, depicts, resembles. Merged cannonballs? An iron maiden dressmaker's dummy? Or a Venus de Soybean Island City?

Let's move on:

This is the Mysterious Building; it is in the heart of downtown. I'm not certain I should photograph it. I trust that it belongs to The Apparatus, erected for their ever-expanding needs.

I cannot end this post with such a--potentially--nefarious image. With such sadness.

Let's look further. Let us smile in the face of adversity, among such calamity and desperation. Such overwhelming odds against a happy outcome:

Look! A painted flower! . . . Well . . . A painted weed!

Look again! A Gift Shop Snail!

How lovely . . .

In conclusion, until next time, if there is a next time:

Goodbye from Soybean Island,

                                                         #1957