Observations Upon The Sunny Soybean Sidewalks

I was walking around Park Leftover Park a few days back. It was sunny. It was Soybean Island. There were sidewalks:

I often keep my head down as I walk, avoiding the sidelong glances of those I entertain by providing sidelong glances through my position as An Object of Curiosity . . . So, on I went.

And I saw some goose scat:

 I did not have my sometimes companion which is a shopping cart laden with plastic bags stuffed with scabby clothing and other odd detritus. No. It was just my ragged self stepping along, looking at the rough-smooth concrete.

And I saw dried dead worms:

What lovely little shapes they form in the aftermath of the throes of death . . .

I have heard of a new park--that is, a park I have yet to visit--and will try to visit said park and report back upon it. Yes. I also want to account for more of the "sculpture" here upon the island. Busy busy busy me.

Look!

More goose poop:

Always amazing . . .

And here is another of those strange items I come across quite often. These circular stone-ish objects--flat non-obelisks with a hole in the middle, un-carved runes--I believe--of the ancient Eye-Nye-Habs, left from the days when they ruled this island world. Or perhaps they were a form of currency and the Ancient Eye-Nye-Habs were very big and strong and had giant pockets in which these heavy stone-like coins fell out of. Hmmm hmmm hmmm . . . Or maybe it is but an inedible concrete bagel of some sort:

Half a bagel, anyway.

I do not know.

Many mysteries exist here on Soybean Island, and Goodbye from Soybean Island.

Where the Trees Go to Die

The killing of trees appears to be an important pastime here on Soybean Island.  Perhaps it is but sport, or maybe it is done out of a sense of duty, seeing how agriculture is (on the surface) the main occupation and money-maker on this island. Trees, no doubt, were an annoyance, something in the way of the plow and the growing of rutabagas. So, perhaps trees are still viewed in that manner. Or, perhaps, trees are killed off simply out boredom. They have killed off almost all other forms of prey (even human ones, I suspect) and therefore are now down to the trees.

Boredom is a common feeling here on the island--it is a point of pride, this boredom, it is a goal to be achieved (and it has been achieved mightily). Boredom rises every morning and stays risen every night of every day in every season, like a miasmic dome of torpor-sonambulistic-dull-pained atmosphere of which only The Apparatus and The Elite have measures to escape . . .

Anyway, the trees:

Dead ones. Many dead ones:

Dismembered and defiled and stacked up like so many corpses next to a tinny tiny cabin where no doubt the non-gravedigger lives:

Yes. On my many forced meandering pointless walks across what areas I have access to on the island, I have seen trees savagely cut or uprooted or lopped-of-limb. I have seen them chained and fenced and circled with metal bars. Yes.

It was very frightening for me to discover this place where huge old trees had been hauled to--in pieces, mind you--and left to rot or--and I hesitate to reveal this--to be ground up like so much pulpy sausage and used for who knows what!:

They even must suffer the ignominy of red plastic cones placed before their desiccated remnants!

My my my . . .

But there is more:

Look for yourself--a giant termite mound! Perhaps the giant termites have been put to work to mince the dead tree corpses into rubble? Perhaps. I admit I saw no giant termites at work--though most scientists agree that giant termites are nocturnal. I think.

Nonetheless, the greater horror, if you have the eye for it, is that surrounding this area of perpetual massacre are living trees! Yes, the poor living trees that are forced to hide and conceal this shameful death camp must also witness the horror that they engulf!

More my my my.

And look!:

Yes. Above and beyond the horrific horizon are only more horrors upon the horrific horizon.

How horrifying!

The towers and great globular machinery that is but the work of The Apparatus and the inner heartless heart of Soybean island itself!

Ah. It makes me quite sad to have discovered this, to have seen it with my own eyes . . . If only I could have used someone else's eyes!

But just as I was lost in my despair and disgust, I saw a thing which gave me hope, which jolted me out of my personal diaspora and filled me with great wonder . . . Well, perhaps not great, but a modicum of wonder, or made me wonder. 

It was this!:

Look closer:

Yes!

It is a great Tree God of some sort. Some rustic rough-hewn majestic wooden statuary. A Stump-The-Redeemer, if you will. It is an attempt to bring the dead trees back to life, to resurrect them--not in the form of a tree itself--but in the form of a giant man!

I believe that this has been constructed by the remaining descendants of the Eye-Nye-Hab race. I believe that they still exist and live in hiding amongst the local country-club insurance-salesmen-farmer-class-type inhabitants of this despicable place. And they have put this up for all to see!

May it be so. may it please be so.

1957 over and out,

Goodbye from Soybean island

Today's Look at Control and Destruction

Just another day out and about and doing my job as An Object of Curiosity. And this is what I saw:

Though I have few reservations--or, perhaps, too many--I went ahead and entered, as I saw no one about and, as I know The Apparatus sees me anyway, anywhere, anytime anyway. And with that logic in mind, I entered and saw this:

Why, it was only another exercise in control and containment.

Certainly nothing new or exclusive to this place.

But perhaps this was a special containment/control display for the enjoyment of The Elites only . . . Oh well, I guess I should consider myself fortunate . . .


So, I left that spot and on I went, ignoring the side-eyed stares of the locals and the non-stares of those who drive on by and perhaps the knowing glances of my fellow renditioned prisoners.

And I saw this:

Destruction.

Which is another form of control, if not exactly containment. (Though the destruction is being contained by metal fencing!)

Perhaps this was a dwelling belonging to--or rather, used as housing for--one of the prisoner class, the disappeared and dispossessed (like myself) and he, her, they fell afoul of The Apparatus and this was the result: destruction!

I do not know.

All I know is that I had to keep moving, have to, must continue to circle and circle and go back, forth, back, jump around like a knight on a chessboard and circle vulturelike some more (but on the ground). It makes no sense, I know. I make no sense. I know that too . . . But I kept going until nightfall and then I photographed this:

And this:

Illuminated metallic statuary that depicts a cage-like metal net on twisted metal poles--WOW!--and secretive poorly lit tunnels leading to some mentally dangerous area within the limits of this mentally dangerous city.

Make of it what you will--or--of what you dare!


1957, no more to report,

Goodbye from Soybean Island

Good Drainage Makes Good Neighbors

That--"Good drainage makes good neighbors"--is a much used saying here on Soybean Island. I think, originally, the statement speaks for itself, but it has taken on further meaning among the locals, as idioms will. So, if, let's say, you had a fender bender with a stranger, they might get out, look at the damage and say, "Good drainage makes good neighbors."

Why?

I have no idea.

But here are a few photos of drainage which are sure to stir your heart (if you are a Soybean Islander):

Exciting.

Of course I do not have fender benders (I am not allowed to drive and, besides, certainly could never afford the luxury of a vehicle) nor do I utter Soybean Island idioms, but I can see their concern for drainage.

It appears to me that, geologically, this island is bowl shaped. That is, its edges rise up out of the sea and then begin to slope downward, very very gently, towards the center. I have never seen the sea here--I am not allowed; no one is allowed as far as I can tell--but I have seen plenty of drainage. And if you go out into The Homesteads, you can plainly see how flat and plain the plainly plains are, yet they slope inward ever so slightly as if the island is volcanic in nature. That is, that this island is an extinct (hopefully) volcano whose wide sunken cinder cone has filled up with rich muck, so rich that corn, soybeans and rutabagas grow like weeds in such soil.

Or like chives, perhaps . . .


Anyway, this is all supposition on my part as I have no training in geology, or in plumbing for that matter. Nonetheless, such things do not prevent me from espousing on such things. I mean, what else do I have to do?

Look at the sky?

Yes . . . And even the sky shows signs of drainage--a thin line of cloud-matter is being routed down and controlled and repurposed so that all is well and safe and tidy and shipshape and suppressed, repressed, oppressed, steam-pressed here on Soybean Island and Goodbye from Soybean Island.

They Are Here

Yes. They have been here for quite a while now. At first in the early spring, you see one or two or three of them as they hop about in the bare fields or upon the frozen pavement, jumping into the stiff still-cold wind searching for unfrozen worms or unhatched insects or leftover seeds, berries, french fry scraps . . . Then they come in droves. They head for large patches of grass: parks, the lawns of mega-churches, mowed fields. And there they sit, blank sinister eyes, pointed beaks, their demonic red breasts puffed out, all of them, tens, twenties, hundreds, a thousand or more, all in the grass watching, watching, watching . . .

Yes, I am talking about robins!

Then their numbers--thankfully--winnow. They must move on to other parts of the island, or to other islands or perhaps continents, yet many--many!--remain here until the cold cold frosty winter winds gratefully sweep them away for that most wonderful season of the year.

Here, look for yourself:

I realize they look small and innocent in these fuzzy photos, but I did not dare get any closer. I often wonder if these birds do not work for The Apparatus--they spy, they are spying birds, they watch and record all things at all times. I just know it.


I did, however, work up enough courage to get the next shot to reveal how horrid and demonic these puffy little birds really are:

How repugnantly frightening!




Goodbye from Soybean Island