Of Trees and Drainage

There are not that many trees here on Soybean Island. Oh, there are pockets of protected woods spotted about--though even those are culled patches of nondescript arbors. Certainly within the cities of Soybean island City and Cornana there are boring stately trees growing tall along the concrete curbs and walks and tended lawns. But over all? No. Not that many trees.

Lake Bellobruto, it seems, is my go-to place for solitude-infested walks of corrupted contemplation. And so I found myself there once and yet again while digesting my hatred of this place. It's stagnant waters still covered by opaque ice:

And octopus-like holes:

And alien-landing cracks:

But trees. I was thinking of trees: lonely forlorn punished trees along the frozen banks of a fake lake . . .

Yes. Lets look what they have done to the trees in this sampling:

Can you see?

They have caged the poor plants in. Oh how Soybean Islanders love their cages. These trees shall go nowhere. They are not free range trees!

And here--this tree has been cemented in place. Take that, you freedom-loving maple!

But that is only part of the torturous and malevolent treatment that they feel these poor trees deserve. If they can't be contained by wire or concrete, why, let's just cut them down!:

Chop Chop . . .

But here, at least, is a nice home for a Soybean Island Snail:

Or Fighting Snail. Or Transcendental Snail . . .

Aye.

And here Be Dragons!!:

Or perhaps and more likely but another dead and murdered tree.

So, felled and killed, mutilated and caged, hemmed and haunted, defaced and defiled trees are one thing, but another great pastime of the locals (besides poles and posts and sticks with plastic ribbons and flags on them) is drainage.

The flow of water also appears to disturb the powers that control everything here on the island. That too must be captured and funneled and made a mockery of:

The Rutabaga River and its many odd-numbered tributaries are quite taken care of. One wouldn't want a drop of water going where one wouldn't want it to now would one. No, one would not. No wonder then that one finds many spouts and tubes and washboards and sewage-like tunnelings on this wayward worthless island.

These giant water tunnels are quite mysterious. In my dreamless dreams I think of them as hiding places or perhaps the opening of burrows where the great Hab race still lives in secret colonies, uncontrolled by The Apparatus and the current local denizens . . .

This, however, I do not find so mysterious:

So much for drainage and the grand draining of all hope, draining of the soul like the empty sinus of a sleeping ogre, that is metaphorical of this very island where I am a captive of my own undesire.

Now, back to trees:

yes, I think what draws me to Lake Bellobrutto is not just the abject ugliness of the place, but also this:

Yes, these graffiti covered trunks close to the little fake lake. I cannot decipher what is being said here but what interests me is that the Habs (and yes, I do believe that the Habs still live--or at least descendants of the Habs--live in small numbers here on the island and that they are trying to fight back and to one day reclaim the island for themselves; yes) have chosen to write on the living trees! So that their message and their protest will live on like, yes, a tree!

Unless, of course, The Apparatus comes and cuts them down . . . (Sad face).

But here, for the least and last of this very dangerous and seditious post, I chose the most alarming and horrific of images. (If you are squeamish or if you are a young and impressionable child, do not look at these images or read what I have to say any further):

What do you see here?

A circle among the trees. A circle made of felled and dismembered trees among the trees.

A circle of dismembered trees where the remains of other trees are burned among the trees.

Yes!

This is where humans come to sit upon the body parts of trees while they burn the entrails and other body parts of trees while forcing the still-living trees to watch them, to listen to their laughter and inane yelling and smell their beery-breath, their marshmallows and chocolate and graham crackers, all while the disembodied remains of the tree-compatriots burn and burn and burn into fiery cinders and smoke and ash! Right before the standing trees's eyes!

How horrific indeed! Good god cannot something be done? It makes my plight seem nothing more than a pony ride in a circus of smelly clowns!

Alas . . .

Okay. Please help me drain myself away from here. Over and out and out of luck. Until next time if there is a next time:

Goodbye from Soybean island,

#1957