Bilingual Park

Good dog how I hate this place!

I suffer in its maddening blandness, its kingdom of cultivated boredom, its populace of smiling self-salesmen and polite non-politics and consumer consumer consumer of all that truly makes us human. Duplicity hangs like an invisible smog above the squat towns and flat fields of agriculture, blatant willful ignorance like radon or some inert gas that gasses all who go about their daily dailyness upon this truncated island in an un-viewable sea . . .

Good Dog!


There.

Now I feel slightly, smidgenly, better.

Okay--I went to see a new park--new to me, at least--which for unfathomable reasons is named Bilingual Park.

I saw no attempt at bilingualism during my walk.

What I did see was the usual usual for a park here on Soybean Island:

Yes, the same old same old and more of the same old same old--that is, trees, open spaces, mowed grass, a hint of water in manmade drainage controlled fake ponds. Yes.

How lovely.

There was also one duck:

I do not know if this was a real duck or a mechanical duck. There are more geese than ducks in this place--that is, upon the island as a whole--and at times there are more robins than geese. I suspect that some of them are not avians at all but rather are mechanisms in the employ of The Apparatus in order to spy upon everything because that is what The Apparatus does. Feathered drones . . .

I kept walking (what else did I have to do in this linear park of open spaces?) and came across a number of the old standbys:

Of course a post--metal--with a strap of plastic.

And a fence to hold back the weeds from getting to other weeds:

And--behind yet another fence--mysterious doors in a mysterious squat building:

Wow.

And no stroll on Soybean Island would be complete without seeing some nice drainage:

Phantasmagorical!


Well, I kept at it, despite my disappointment in Bilingual Park. Really only one--well, two--things brought a nugget of cheer to my depressed iron soul and it was this (these):

A tree, like me, trying to escape its hideous environs!

And:

The escape hatch in the soil the tree is attempting to reach (albeit very very slowly)!

The hatch, I believe, leads to some underground railroad for escaped arbors . . . If only I were a tree.


Onward through the park. No one was around--not even a stray mower or weed trimmer or parole officer.

I could sense a change come over the landscape as I made my way deeper into the bland triviality of the place. Quite quickly quiet it was darker and there was a soft trickle of Rutabaga River Tributary water . . .

Hmm and more hummus. This was unusual--to me, to most, to the habitat of Soybean Island.

Then I saw this!
Look!

Ancient scribbling from the Ancient Eye-Nye-Habs!

And then I was in the darkness. The darkness was in me. We were one. Or I was one and it was two or it was at least a shadow and more and I saw quite the eyeful of activity--well, not activity, but evidence of activity:

Oh my dog! The defacing and edifying of Apparatus material! I was stupefied! Pleased! Hot and sweaty!

Just what was going on? . . . Well, I was going on . . . And this is what I found next:

A tunnel . . .

And at the end of the tunnel, I saw this!:

Look at it for a while. What do you see?

I don't know either. But it is equivalent to Lascaux! It is a stupendous work of primitive genius! A work so resplendent it appears to be foolish on the surface . . . If only, if only I could decode and decipher and comprehend what and why and who and and and . . .

Alas.

I had to leave.

I was quite frightened that I would be discovered for discovering this place.

I will have to return. I must cogitate and meditate upon what I have seen.

This is oneninefiveseven reporting . . .

Goodbye from Soybean Island