Year Anew

They follow the solar calendar here on Soybean Island. Which means they recognize a new year in but a few days. I, personally, do not expect much by such a recognition, by the demarcation that is purely one of man's own construction.

No.

I did, however, return to the nameless Tree River Park out within the Homesteads just to have a look before this imaginary shift to another year occurs.

Yes, it was sunny and not bitterly cold, much to my disappointment. So far the winter here has not lived up to what winter here should be. Here. In winter.

But I was alone. (I am always alone.) And was free to look about and photograph this small parcel of nature in all its wondrous banality:

Moss above . . . A smidgen of ice below . . .

These spots of greenery disturb me. I want Black. Gray. Brown. Blood Red.

Ah--here is some Red: yes, even out here there are rules and regulations and the ever-present need to control:

I guess No means No!

But onward I walked, making my way to the spot I had discovered on my last and first visit to this non-sacred place among the corn, soybean, rutabaga fields:

Such forlorn stark beauty (sort of); Yes! (?).

But this time I saw something very odd across the bank, on the other side of this slow moving shallow riverlike river.

Look!

Wow!

Can you see it? The red markings among the trees? Some kind of sign or ancient communication! I was happily perplexed. It makes me think that there are others out there who feel as I feel and wish to show those feelings in a hidden and sublime protesting way just as I do with this blog, this blog which goes out into the mystery and remains a mystery . . .

Anyway, there was also this:

Was this significant compilation of dead wood made by beavers? No! Because there are no beavers on Soybean Island. So maybe it was a construct by the same rebellious partisans who made the red markings. Maybe. Perhaps. Or possibly they are but dead trees that fell or washed up like that . . .

I had to make my way back in order to catch the intermittent TV that travels out into the fields. And as I walked I had to wonder what the markings and the pile of wood meant, indeed if it even meant anything or if it was only symbolic within my insane mind. It was depressing to consider . . .

But then. Then. THEN! I came across this scribbled in the pebbly gravel dirt:

What? What? WHAT! is this?

Could this be ancient writing from the Ancient Habs who once lived and thrived and killed each other on the island before they were killed in turn by The Apparatus and invading Soybean Islanders? Could it?

Yet, it looked fresh.

Could there still exist some remnants, some holdouts, of the Ancient Hab race out here in the woods? Could there be descendants of the original aboriginal native natives and they are trying to communicate to each other or to the prisoner souls like me? Could, possibly or impossibly, there be an attempt at revolution somewhere down the line in some year and maybe possibly impossibly in the very next one that comes in but a few days?

Could there?

I do not know. But I am happy to think so.

And that's the best I can do for now and now I must sign out, over and out:

Goodbye from Soybean Island,

# Oneninefiveseven