The Remains of Winter Remain Like the Bitter Remains of Albino Coffee Grounds

I'm going quite insane here on Soybean Island, here in the still-non-death-grip of the remaining winter.

I'm not sure what else to tell you. I know I should say nothing if I have nothing to say, yet I live in a big bowl of nothing. Being boring and living in boredom and for boredom is considered an admirable trait among the native Islanders.

Perhaps they, too, enjoy the long boring winters with their boring monochromes of white and gray and more white and gray.

No doubt: But look here! Some color to perk up the blasé snowfields. Yes a bit of orange stripe upon their barricades and oh how they love barricades here on Soybean Island! Barricades and poles and sticks with colored plastic tied to them!

There are plastic flag sticks down there in the snow:

Yes!



But, back to my sanity.

Maybe I like this season (if you can say I like anything in this soul-crushing diphthong of a place) is because it makes my mind escape its confines and lets it travel to places that don't require a firm grip on reality . . . Yes. Maybe. Probably not. But what do I care. Here I am and there I am as well:

Wow!


I wander the streets and roads and towns and fields and I wander through my mind to more places than actually exist. But what else am I to do?

You--you who do not communicate, who do not read or contemplate, you who do not even exist except in the mindful or mindless wanderings here--you do not care if I make sense or what I show or what I fail to show and I've really lost the train of thought here so I'll just remind you that that's exactly why I like the long cold frosty tail-end of winter--or at least tell myself I like it.


Life is a fence and snow pile and a pole:

It is a useless gazebo covered in snow against a boring snow-colored house:

Life is yet another photo of a cinnamon roll-looking bush with thick frosting that I don't advise you eat:

Or it is, or also is, another pointless pole in front of some rather elitist-looking homes all bleak and dark in the gray lifeless light:

Yes. That's what life is or is not . . . is . . .



And then there are these little snow-covered China hats of tin confounded with many wires carrying electricity to the very non-electric populace:

I assume these are but mighty storage bins filled with the husks or corn or the dried beads of soybeans or the bulbous blobs of stinking rutabagas.

Or perhaps this where they store the great reams of paper money that the powerful-who-are-in-power make off of subjugated human beings like me . . .

But of course I do not know because, after all, I know nothing.



Until next time if there is a next time:

Goodbye from Soybean Island

Smoking Cold

The bitterness remains in a month that is supposed to be about the release of such bitterness.

It remains smoking cold on Soybean Island and for what little I have to be thankful for I am at least thankful for that. For the bitterness and cold and the smoke.

I have so little to report because I am so little of a person.

I am reduced to a non-entity-entity.

It didn't used to be this way. I was once a productive human; one could even say I was a man of consequence. Back in my old life. Back in the United States and other places. Back when I was an investigative . . . Well, it's best I say no more . . . But let it suffice that, despite my prisoner status, I have done what research I can here in this spit of a spitball land and hopefully will have more to report in the future concerning how this mad non-nation is run and what happened to the indigenous Habs race of humans who once almost flourished, pre-soybeans and corn and rutabagas, upon this island.

Anyway, more pleasing photos please:

Stunning, I'm sure . . .

Yes, old habits die hard and though I do wander the streets and desolate landscapes in my ratty rattan clothes and my shopping cart and bags of non-goods, I'm still thinking and observing and critical-thinking and watching and asking oblique questions.

I am a fool who has yet to be fooled.

Now--look at these muffin shrubs!:

Delectable.

I shall continue my work here. I will reveal what I can reveal behind the curtain of normalcy and staid safety and comely facade. I will.

I give you one last photo. The best photo. The most revealing photo:

Yes. That about captures life on Soybean Island. A picture tells a thousand words!

Except when it doesn't . . .


Goodbye from Soybean Island

Bitter Winter Unsplintered and Bitter Still

Perhaps where you live Spring is a palpable thing. Maybe there are flowers and sunshine and birds doing random bird things. Maybe--where you live--there are palm trees and a warm ocean and lizards turning their scaly backs to an obtrusive sun.

Maybe.

But not here on Soybean Island:

No, I'm afraid that here in this windswept irregular and secretive real-estate landscape it is still numbingly cold and numbingly insipid.

Indeed, there are no bright avian creatures or multi-colored flora littered about among green shoots and under blue skies holding warm rains. No earthworms come out from the earth.

Things here remain quite frozen. Frozen in time and space and within the mind--as well as out of doors. Yes, here icebergs float among the parking lots:

I am forced to live among this blind blank bland white worldlylessness . . . And yet, I find comfort in the cold, in the dire existence and frigid appearance, frigid feel, frigid frigidness of everything here on this frigid island. It makes me somewhat happy in my abject unhappiness to know that it is not warm and sunny and that the industrious birds of spring have yet to arrive.

But then I see how, even in the black-heart of winter, in the end-heart of winter, even in this wonderfully bleak part of the year, even now, even with snow, the powers try to corral and control:

Alas.


Oneninefiveseven over and out--Goodbye from Soybean Island

Foodstuffs

Many of you nonexistent readers have been wondering what it is I eat, here on this repressed isle of the damned.

Well, the answer to that is: Not Much!

I have no money and live in an Apparatus Approved apartment and work at an Apparatus Approved Job (An Object of Curiosity) and receive Apparatus Approved Foodstuffs. And the foodstuffs are meager items consisting mainly of soybeans and corn and rutabagas as well as extracts from soybeans and corn and rutabagas.

However, in my position as a wandering Object of Curiosity, I do now and then come across some food, or discover decently edible things which have been mistakenly (or non-mistakenly) discarded and then I end up with stuff like this:

Visit Soybean Island

Ho (ho hah hah heeteehee) ha ha ha ha ha . . . Yes, I eat this as it is quite healthy (other than the obvious rotten areas) and keeps me from obtaining scurvy and rickets and other malnutrition diseases.

Sometimes I'm even able to throw something of this edible nature together:

Looks pretty good, does it not?

Yes, it does.

In general, I do not get stuffs like this:

Much too fresh and fruity for The Apparatus to allow it wasted on the likes of me . . .

No. I must make do with what I can muster without mustard. Most often I end up with a longstanding, ribsticking, heartlessharty meal that resembles thick gruel:

How yummy!

Meat? Do I eat meat you, you who are speechless and who do not even exist, ask?

Yes.

If I can get it.

Sometimes, out in The Homesteads, I see opportunities for a meat dish:

I am uncertain as to what the cooked creature is in the above photo, but I do know that I made it with oil and sliced moldy rutabagas and these wonderful Apparatus Approved and Supplied Spices, also known as Salt and Pepper!

Ah, but we can not all eat such splendor-glorious meals. No, we can not. And in truth I am much luckier than a good many, a great many, probably the majority, of humans on earth. I have food. I can eat. I have a measure of freedom in this freedom-starved land.


And even when I am hungry, I can always pretend. I can always see some idealized food lit up in lights:

Or see great and gigantic muffins topped with thick icing growing along the streets of this (un)fair city!:

Yes.

I can always pretend.

Except when I can't . . .


Oneninefiveseven over and out--Goodbye from Soybean Island