Thoughts on Stalag Ranville Whilst Walking Lake Bellobrutto in Summer

Number One Nine Five Seven here. And though I hoped not to return to Lake Bellobrutto, I did nonetheless. This time mid-summer, not early spring.

With its algae-green, algae-infested waters . . . How beautiful it is:

But I wanted to walk somewhere relatively quiet, some place with at least the facade of nature. My mind, lately and what's left of it, has been upon Stalag Ranville. I have a great urge--a righteous need, perhaps--to visit the place. Some here, in SIC (Soybean Island City), believe that the place is a myth, that there is no prison town upon this prison island (though they do not believe it is a prison island either). But I know it is a real place . . .

But, for now, more lake (I must keep The Apparatus distracted--they love pictures!):

(Well--more flowers, not lake . . .)

(A glorious woodpile.)


Look!

Visit Soybean Island

And a snail: !!!

See The Snails!

Ah, now that The Apparatus is appeased . . . Not only do I know Stalag Ranville exists, I believe I have found a way to get there. You see, through my careful and droll observations of this horrid place, I have seen with my own eyes a special TV (Transport Vehicle) that goes north of the city.

This is not your usual TV and it does not contain your usual riders of TVs. No. It appears to carry either workers (and not your usual workers that often work the fields of The Homesteads) or visitors. Or both. Workers? To keep the prisoners of Stalag Ranville incarcerated and in-line! Visitors? To visit and bring cigarettes and little sweet snacks to the prisoners!

But, more frivolous photos:

 (Do not enter.)

(A snailfish?)

(Such lovely murky vomit-green waters!)


Back to what I want to be back to: Stalag Ranville:

I have watched and listened to what happens at the loading station for this special TV. I have seen people board and present a special pass. This special pass at this special station for the special TV is only a blank square of paper. That is, a white square made of paper. I have heard some riders say: "No tengo El Blanco." They did not produce the paper yet the authorities in charge let them on anyway. In and off, to the north and to, I am certain, Stalag Ranville . . .

Photos:

(Home to a Soybean Island Snail: Bean Snail, Fighting Snail, Transcendental Snail?)

( A birdhouse? Snailhouse? . . . A birdhouse. Yes. Yet, they forgot to put a doorway for the potential bird. This is a result of the captive-mindset of those in charge on Soybean island.)

(And the obligatory and ubiquitous plastic yellow ribbon on a bland stick, so loved by Soybean Islanders.)


Back: So, my plan is to simply either fashion an El Blanco pass or simply say "No tengo El Blanco," and board the special TV and be on my merryless way to the mirthless Stalag Ranville! It will take great courage and daring with just a hint of stupidity to do it, yet I feel compelled that I must do it. I must!

. . . Oh . . . Bellabrutto . . . Here is what I really came to see, the true reason I returned to this wonderland of non-wonder:

In the guise of illegible graffiti are the markings of some tribe. I viewed these before and they are, remarkably, still here. I believe they are the markings of Aboriginal Soybean Islanders--The Habs--a race of people who the Apparatus and the locals have tried to eradicate. No doubt there are a number of these people, these original inhabitants, in Stalag Ranville.

I do not have the knowledge to decipher what is being said here--"Down With The Apparatus"? "Freedom For The Habs"? "Free Smells"? "Help!"? . . .

I am very curious as to why they are still here and why the creators of these cryptic messages chose living trees to post their communiques of despair and defiance or differential despondence . . .

Alas.
A mystery.
For now.

So, now at least you--you, you non-existence reader of my travails and cries--know of my plans. At least you--you ghost-human from the real and free world--can acknowledge my absence should I not return.

If this blog goes blank, will anyone know?

If I go down this trail and never return . . . Who will know?

Who?

Goodbye from Soybean Island,

Number 1957