Thumbs Up

Here I am. Here I am. Still breathing within the confines of Soybean Island. I remain a prisoner who has not committed a crime, who has been charged with no offense, who cannot face his accusers because he has not been accused of anything and who cannot confront his captors because they remain faceless and hidden within their corporate-controlled walls. I am "free" to wander, to eat and drink and even think, as long as I obey the code of silence and passivity they have placed upon me . . . Well, at least I was not hauled off to Stalag Ranville after illicitly visiting Stalag Ranville.

At least I have--so far--kept this modicum of independence, despite my transgression.

Is it a rainbow at the end of the trail? With a Pot-O'-Gold for lucky me?

Hardly. I'd be lucky if it was only an optical illusion in a shop window.

There still remains to be a green light--

--beckoning me to the true freedom that I crave. No. No such luck for me. I remain only tied to Soybean Island City with its bland and moribund culture and its obedient and complicit populace. Its despicable and duplicitous illusion of domestic pleasantries.

I am still here:

An un-person

in an un-person land

searching ugly doorways

and cracks in the surface

only to remain baffled, puzzled, obscure and opaque

in this contained space of detritus

with no view from the window of my soul.


Wow.


Yes. The Apparatus rules and controls my life, so much so that I still dare not reveal even the true architecture of their home office:

(Even this much sends cold tendril-like chills down my spine; like a half-frozen demonic octopus placing its authoritarian and suctioncuppy fish-fleshy octopus arm along your bare back in the middle of a night's sleep whilst you dreamt of sunshine and clover and lambs . . . Yes. Like that.)

Alas.

What else can I say?

What else can I show you?

Snails?

Snails and Flowery Flowers?

There. Have it. The Apparatus will be quite happy that that is all you want: Snails and Flowers.

They will give it a big thumbs up.

Don't believe me? Why just look at the statuary in downtown Soybean Island City:

Thumbs Up!

(Well, Thumb Up, if you want to be technical.)

Yes. To live or to die. Thumbs up or thumbs down. But knowing Soybean Island and its opposite-thinking ways, an upward opposable appendage no doubt means to let them die.


Until next time if there is a next time:

Goodbye from Soybean Island,

#OneNineFiveSeven

Stalag Ranville (Teil Zwei)

After walking and observing the scroungy streets of town, I made my way to what I feared to see most--the actual stalag part of Stalag Ranville:

Of course I made no attempt to enter any buildings. Made no attempt to inspect anything up close. I wandered about like a lost fool (which, in many ways, unfortunately, I am) and observed, discreetly taking photos as I ambled.

There was no one. Absolutely no one. But I knew I was being watched. I could feel the eyes of cameras, the eyes of humans, the sad eyes of prisoners and hopeful eyes of rats, upon me.

Yes.

It was a huge place. A seemingly empty place. Decrepit and forbidding at the same time. Scattered about amongst the many looming and imposing structures were small, cubicle-like buildings:

Whoa! I apologize for showing such images of captivity and torture and despair. No doubt inside these hot-box outhouse confinement structures, poor prisoners--(but only one-step down the ladder of prisondom from myself)--are housed. Possibly there are members of the aboriginal race--The Habs, they are sometimes called--trapped in those odd little claustrophobic and brightly numbered structures!

Scary.

More scary:

This I believe is the prisoners' Mess Hall . . . It is certainly a mess and was quite smelly, even from the distance I kept.

Here. Here! A watchtower! . . . True, it is not a tall watchtower, but then, what is there to watch in a hideous place like Stalag Ranville?

A closer look:

No doubt there are real or even robotic guards, resting their blood vessels or circuits, beneath the parapet-like walls within the structure . . .

Mas:

A taller watchtower, no doubt for taller people.

Can't you just see the machine guns? Pistols and whips? Bazookas? Robotic killer lasers, too, no doubt . . . Yes.

No wonder no one was about and there was only the bright and shiny emptiness of despair:

This last one appeared to be but a long bench in the middle of long nothingness . . . No doubt this is where they have the Handcuffed Picnics for the prisoners who are well-behaved.


And Stalag Ranville has a missile.

Did I say missile?

Indeed I did say missile:

Perhaps the missile is to blow up a building such as this:

Destroy it in one fell swoop, should the big building contain a great number of prisoners who were revolting . . . Not just because they found them revolting. No. I mean because they were rioting-revolting. Yes. But maybe the missile is for someone like me--to blow up and obliterate an intruder, a spy, an infiltrator with a camera and a blog post!

Onward: Look. Just look!

They appear to be quite fond of rust and numbers and shuttered windows, of blocked doorways and blacked-out insignias and ugly machinery here in Stalag Ranville.

Where do they get the energy? The power? The lack of human compassion to run such a place?

Here, perhaps:

That looks like a power station to me.


Eventually, my fear got the best of me and I began looking for a way to escape.

I thought I should get back to town. I was so perturbed and dizzy with contempt and fear that I could not get my bearings. I could not recall the proper direction either to town or to the Transport Vehicle Station from whence I came, from where I was dropped off in this odious, abhorrent, nauseous, shockingly repellent compendium of horror. (Though it was a nice day: sunny, warm, low humidity.)

All I saw was more of this:

Finally I sighted what looked like a possible TV Stop and made my way towards it:

Yes, here I rested. Alone. Confused. Frightened. Because I realized that my problems were only beginning--potentially, at least. My dilemma was more than wondering if this was an actual Transport Vehicle Stop/Station, one that would transport me safely back to the somewhat-less-disgusting confines of Soybean Island City, but rather how did I get back? What secret code words or secret Special Pass did I need to return and not be found out as a wayward spy?

I did not know.

And I waited.

Alone.
In the empty shade.
Waited. Waited.
Waited.

And then a TV came.
There was no one else on board.
The driver did not ask me where I was going. Did not ask for a special pass. Did not respond when I simply said "No tengo El Blanco. (Though I had a fake El Blanco in my pocket.)

But I did step willingly through its open doors and let the silent man take me back to the city. I got only one final shot of Stalag Ranville as I left its borders:

What rubbish.



As you no doubt can surmise--you, who probably does not even exist--I did make it back to Soybean Island City. I have returned to my normal abnormal duties as An Object of Curiosity.

Yes.

But now I live with even a greater fear than before. A fear that The Apparatus will come knocking on my thin door in the thick of night and haul me away.

And where do I fear they will haul me away to?

To Stalag Ranville, of course.



Goodbye from Soybean Island,

#OneNineFiveSeven

Stalag Ranville (Teil Eins)

I was so frightened. Yes. But I went. I got in line at The Special Building. I presented my false Special Pass--El Blanco. I boarded the Special Transport Vehicle. And I travelled the Special Road to Stalag Ranville!

Yes. I went. And I was astounded to find what I found. So much so that I must unveil this in two parts. It could be much longer but I know how short the attention span of the English Speaking World is, so it will not be as long as it should.

Anyway: Stalag Ranville.

One of the first things that surprised me was that it was an actual town. Or, rather, used to be:

Desolation meets deterioration.

True, there were some signs of activity, proof that the town of Stalag Ranville still contains humanoid islander inhabitants. But this was few and far between. More evidence proved that there once was a somewhat vibrant town here, a community now reduced to dusty almost-abandon.

From the flea-bitten TV stop, the few others who rode with me dispersed towards the prison part of town. I being I, I went in the opposite direction. As I walked I felt quite vulnerable, fragile, watched. Like a lost and lonely astronaut in the depths of cold outer space on You Tube. Yes. Like that. I was as conspicuous as a clam on a plate of oysters. Yet no one bothered me. In fact, I saw nary a soul in this strange used-to-be-town.

Hay Caramba . . .

Stalag Ranville:

Ran-Zero is more like it . . .

In truth, I wished I had not come. But what could I do? I could not turn around and go back to my safe little non-existence back in Soybean Island City. No. I had to see the day through. And of course I made one potentially fatal error in my plans:

I did not know how to get back.

Could I use the same El Blanco Pass? Would I need an El Negro Pass instead? Was there even a TV that returned to civilization (be that as it may) or was I stuck?

Nothing to do but sally forward forthwith (forever?).

Whats this?

A miniature 'Big Rig'!

Perhaps a race of pygmies once roamed and drove and transported goods in this area.

And look!

Perhaps this is a loading platform from which the poor entrepreneurial pygmies were forced onto (perhaps very small) rail cars to meet their deaths . . . Hmmm. Perhaps but not likely.

More:

Scary!

There were abandoned storefronts galore:

With many a strange item seemingly abandoned in haste, like Pompeii or Detroit:

No coffee for you.

Someone needs to clean up around here.

A modern manger made of Styrofoam.

This fish has holes in it--wouldn't it sink?

I am uncertain as to of who this rather un-artistically rendered portrait is supposed to be:

Benedict Arnold or George Washington?

Haile Selassie or Vidal Sassoon?

Perhaps it is Margaret Thatcher. Yes.

But of course no town--even abandoned towns--on Soybean Island would be complete without the presence of you-know-who:

Alas. They--The Apparatus, but of course--are everywhere.

This is all I dare to reveal at this juncture. This is only the town side of Stalag Ranville. I will try, ASAP (as they say), to divulge, disclose, uncover and exhibit more. But it will be of the prison side of town--and I use the term town with some trepidation of accuracy.

Until next time if, indeed, there ever is a next time:

Goodbye from Soybean Island,

                    #OneNineFiveSeven