Current Events

Yes:

Not much going on in Soybean Island City upon the prisoner isle of Soybean Island.

Of course, not everyone here knows they are a prisoner and some are not prisoners, and yet, they are. Anyone and everyone who resides here and abides by its authority is a prisoner of some sort. And those who mete out the rules and punishments are prisoners of those rules and discipline. And those at the top who chase money and power as if the world was made of money and power--they too are prisoners, prisoners of the endless chase, prisoners of the worry and pleasure.

Ah, but I digress . . .

Let's look at some architecture:

A wall of brick, two buildings and a wall of fencing. Stunning! And on such a gray day! Ho ho ho, always something to look at here in SIC.

Of course, such prisons are often of their own making. My prison is of The Apparatus' making and that is why I seek escape. I want to be free to make my own prison, to go about my own circled routine, to have my own self-made delusions and live my days in peace and solitude in an apolitical jail cell of trees and rocks and rivers (or some such).

But here

is where I am.

X marks the spot:

Or, perhaps, K marks the spot:

Nonetheless, I feel I can tell you that the power structure here is a corporate one. That the whole island is run by a corporation with the local government serving only as shadow theater for those who need it. No, the real rulers are the ruthless capitalists--nay, oligarchs--who own and run Soybean Island part and parcel. Government, education, freedom are but shams. Money is the ruler of the rulers and if a thing cannot turn a profit, why then, there is no profit in the thing. Breath, Thought, Heart are pointless if there be no financial gain.  Elan vital? Pneuma? Please . . .

Money is real. Profundity is but smoke:

I only live--breath, eat, defecate, think--because there is a profit. The authority--The Apparatus--makes money on me and my fellow exile/prisoners/rendered-human-flesh, paid for by some respective government or government agency or some other oligarch out there in the world . . . So, you wonder, why do I want to return to that world if it is what has sent me to this prisoner island?

A fair question.

Certainly when it is all added up when the sum of life is put together it all comes down to hopelessness. That is the answer to all human equations. Yes.

But how big a cage? What kind of cage do you want your dose of hopelessness served in?

Not this one, I would surmise:

Even within penultimate hopelessness, hope still resides.

Or is it the other way around . . .

What's this?

More fenced in power, ugly as a newborn gila monster yet not as empathetic.

Indeed, these are the current events of SIC, of Soybean Island, where the individual is fenced out of power and where profit--that absurd and abstract notion--that soulless seraphic chimera mirage--phantasm, delusion, hallucinatory ignis fatuus of the mind--is what runs everything.

Yes.


There is no more to report.

Goodbye from Soybean Island,

# Oneninefiveseven